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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/209/46470/SHarriganD[Ser -DoB]v370002.mp3
4ae5d4fa0c612b005db71b0077bfe8d1
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Bell, John Richard
John Richard Bell
John R Bell
John Bell
J R Bell
J Bell
Description
An account of the resource
Two oral history interviews with Wing Commander John Richard Bell DFC (-2024). He was a bomb aimer with 619 and 617 Squadrons in Flying Officer Bob Knights’ crew.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-07-27
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Bell, JR-UK
Transcribed audio recording
A resource consisting primarily of recorded human voice.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Interviewer: Well, good morning, John.
JB: Good morning.
Interviewer: Thank you very much for agreeing to do this interview for the Aviation Heritage Project from Lincolnshire here.
JB: My pleasure.
Interviewer: As you know we’re going to be collecting this information and it will go into an Archive and will be of future use for whoever is going to follow us.
JB: Excellent.
Interviewer: I wonder if you could just start by just telling us a little bit about how you came to serve with 617 Squadron.
JB: Yes, I, well I first of all the crew and I started our operational career with 619 Squadron at Woodhall Spa in June of 1943 and we proceeded to operate throughout the rest of 1943 until we moved to Coningsby around about December I think to allow 617 Squadron to come from Coningsby into Woodhall and have the airfield to themselves. And we were approaching the end of our tour, rather our pilot was approaching because he’d done two second dickie trips at the beginning which we hadn’t done and I missed a couple through illness so at some point we, we would have been split up as was the normal situation and sent off to other parts instructing at OTUs. But as a well-knit crew a family organisation as you might say we felt we didn’t want to be split up and we’d like to continue flying which seems a bit silly now when you look back. But we thought we’d volunteer to fly with 617 Squadron and we did and we were welcomed by Wing Commander Cheshire, had an interview and all went well. He said yes, ok. We were an experienced crew by then. So he was looking for experienced crews and we were very fortunate with our survival through to almost the end of our tour and that’s how we came to join 617 Squadron.
Interviewer: You must have been aware of the reputation of 617 Squadron. Did you feel that you really were joining an elite or was it a sense of concern?
JB: We knew we were joining an elite Squadron. We weren’t quite sure exactly what they were doing. In fact, at our interview we were asked why we wanted to join 617 Squadron. We said, well we were fed up with flying at twenty thousand feet and we rather liked this idea of flying low level and he promptly said, ‘Well, we’re not doing low level flying anymore.’ Which as you probably realise that was they attempted to do this after the dams raid and they lost a lot of aircraft.
Interviewer: Yes.
JB: So it wasn’t a good idea and when Cheshire took over I think in about November of ’43 he started a different programme of operating which proved very successful. Operating at night over France and with little opposition most of the time at that time during the first few months of 1944. So we knew that the chances of survival were greater or at least we thought they were rather than with the main force. Perhaps with hindsight you’d wonder why you would want to volunteer to continue to fly on operations.
Interviewer: Well, they do say never volunteer but please tell us about your impressions of Wing Commander Cheshire. He’s such an important person in this.
JB: Yes. He was very approachable. Quiet. But he had that quality you knew you were going to follow that man and he would, there was no bombast with him and no sort of dictatorial attitude. He was very quietly unassuming but nevertheless he laid down what he wanted us to do and he was prepared to lead us in this. History shows that he did lead from the front. And he was just a nice man and well respected as a commanding officer with a great deal of experience as a bomber pilot.
Interviewer: Did he give you full regard? You said you had a lot of experience as a crew. Were you encouraged to put your views and experiences into the, into the Squadron melting pot so to speak?
JB: Well, I’m sure the pilot, the pilots really were the people who put the information in actually and they carried the forward the views of the crew but I suppose that when the pilots got together and he was with the pilots discussing tactics and so on took into account what the crews felt. We didn’t directly speak to him about it.
Interviewer: No.
JB: But through the, through the pilot we would. Yes.
Interviewer: Yes.
JB: Yeah.
Interviewer: Would you be able to tell us a little bit about what it was like to be on operations with 617? Could you perhaps describe the run up to and the activities that were involved in preparing for an operation and what actually happened?
JB: Yes. It is pretty much the same as, as all preparations for, for an operational flight and we would be told in the morning that the, there was the likelihood of an operation that evening and we would assemble. Well, we’d go through the process of getting kit ready and so forth and assemble for a briefing in the afternoon and after the briefing we would then get our kit from, you know the parachute and dinghy, Mae West and stuff like that. In the morning of course we would have checked the aircraft out thoroughly so there would be an air test and that was absolutely mandatory to make sure everything worked in the air. And then the bomb load would be checked out. I as the bomb aimer would be responsible for making sure that we had the right bomb load and seeing it put on perhaps, loaded on to the aeroplane. A navigator would also have his own maps and so forth to gather and the gunners would also collect their guns from the armoury. The armoury normally was received, the guns from the turrets and they would check them over and then the gunners would go and collect them and make sure they got the right ones back into the aircraft. So all this went on and checking everything thoroughly and then the, having drawn all the maps and made sure we knew where we were going and the briefing of course would spell out the exact timing of the operation and how many, who were to bomb first. And the particular operations that we were doing with 617 Squadron were, Leonard Cheshire managed to persuade the AOC that he should do the marking because we had, I think they had some experience with poor marking by Pathfinder at the time and so he marked. And that was the first one I think on Albert. I remember that raid where he marked the target with flares from extremely low level with the Lancaster and that was the type of operation that we did throughout the four months. I think up to May. Yeah.
Interviewer: Right.
JB: When we stood down. Yes.
Interviewer: Right. Did you have any experience of dropping any of the heavy weapons that 617 Squadron was equipped with? The Tallboy or –
JB: Well, yes. The, well, during that four months we were not only dropping one thousand pounders but also the twelve thousand pounds light cased [pause] what were they called? It was a blast weapon. So we were used to carrying a twelve thousand pounder but of course the problem with that was yes it was a blast weapon against buildings, normal type buildings and but also had some inaccuracy in it because of its shape and small fins that were necessary to get to enable it to be carried in the bomb bay. Then from, after June the 6th three days later we were equipped with a Tallboy and that’s when we got into the Tallboy era and it was a much finer weapon.
Interviewer: Yes. If I may I’d like to ask you a technical question about that which comes from a question that was put to me recently at the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. What was it like? How did you actually ensure that the Tallboy was released very quickly? Was it an electronic or a mechanical release mechanism?
JB: It was an electronic –
Interviewer: Right.
JB: Yeah.
Interviewer: So there was no time delay in that because you needed extreme accuracy didn’t you?
JB: Yes. You did and I cannot remember any detail of, of problems with the release. Since then many years later I discovered that there were. Why? Why for example there were wide misses with the Tallboy landing somewhere else and there was a problem with the release mechanism. This was a strap.
Interviewer: Yes.
JB: And the straps were taken off the aeroplane on return and they were checked over to make sure they were serviceable and then put back. But there was a problem I understand with them for maybe releasing two or three seconds late which of course affected —
Interviewer: I can see you were —
JB: Yes, it was. Trial and error.
Interviewer: Thank you.
JB: Yes.
Interviewer: That’s very helpful.
JB: Yes. I didn’t, I didn’t experience any problems. No. No. Whilst I didn’t hit exactly where I’d aimed the, it was close enough so they were all in the target area.
Interviewer: You were a bomb aimer.
JB: Yes.
Interviewer: And from the point of view of the Archive for people visiting this in years to come a question must be asked and that is really to ask your, your feelings about the nature of the job you were doing because you were looking down at the target.
JB: Yes.
Interviewer: And you were releasing heavy weapons against that target.
JB: That’s right. Yes.
Interviewer: With respect may I ask how you felt about that please.
JB: When I was operating with, with main force with 619 Squadron there were occasions when I realised, well obviously one realised that we were aiming at a part of the city where the industry was or the docks area or whatever it was. And hopefully the spot, the spot flares that were dropped by the Pathfinder Force hopefully were in the right area and so you were aiming at that. Nevertheless, you saw a city in flames throughout not just in that one area that you’re aiming at so the thought occasionally was you know that there is some sort of sympathy perhaps for the people who were on the receiving end. Having been through some of the London Blitz I could well understand that. But it didn’t put me off doing the job that I was trained to do. Then following on when we got to 617 Squadron of course not only were we dropping on a specific target, whatever it was, an engine manufacturing plant or but it was a single target which we were aiming at. Therefore, we hoped there were no civilians in the area. In fact, we made quite a lot of, went to a lot of trouble to make sure that the French workers in there got out before we dropped our bombs. So there was a great deal more of more satisfaction because you could see where your bombs were aiming at and where they exploded and you knew that you were taking out a specific target. So the operations were quite different and more satisfactory from, from the expert view of the –
Interviewer: Some military view.
JB: Military view. Yes.
Interviewer: Yes. Thank you.
JB: Yes.
Interviewer: That’s a very full answer. Could I ask you also about how you disciplined yourself? You were lying in the nose, you were, you were responsible for, really for directing the aircraft in those last few seconds of flight towards the target.
JB: Yeah.
Interviewer: Most important that you hit the target and yet around you there would have been anti-aircraft fire, possibly the risk of fighter attack. Can you tell us what it was like to to do that part of the operation.
JB: Yes, the, pretty well all the flight to the target and perhaps we’re talking about operating with 619 Squadron in Main Force where you’ve got several hundred aeroplanes. You’re keeping a look out for other aeroplanes to make sure that you don’t collide with them and that was one of the problems of collision and other, and night fighters. But then approaching the target then the adrenaline in started to rise because you could see ahead a flaming city way up, way ahead and the sky would be filled with thousands of shell bursts. Now, this is impinged on my memory I can see this now and thinking how are we going to get through all those shell bursts? But when you, when you get to the point where now you take over and the bomb doors are open and you are guiding with the pilot to keep him on track towards it you are concentrating on the job. You don’t think about anything else and everything else is taken out of your mind. You’re not worrying about the flack bursts. If one hits you well that’s tough. You can’t avoid them so you got on and do the job. Once you’ve dropped the bombs and taken the photograph then you can get out of the area as quickly as possibly and usually there’s a shout from the crew when I said, ‘Bombs gone.’ ‘Right. Let’s get out of here.’ And so it was [pause] if I, I was not, I was never afraid except in coming up to it wondering how we were going to get through. So there was no fear involved. A lot of apprehension. I’m sure we shall be alright and that was really our attitude throughout.
Interviewer: That is a remarkable story. I mean we who have obviously not done it but read a little bit about it —
JB: Yes.
Interviewer: Can understand something of what you’re saying there. It’s a remarkable story, John.
JB: Yes, it’s a bit, it’s akin to the Army coming out of the trenches in the First World War and going en masse across open ground and bullets were flying around. Some of them got hit. Some of them were missed and I think in that respect we were going through all this hail of flak. Somebody got hit, somebody didn’t and we were very fortunate and there was no way you could miss it.
Interviewer: No. And of course, you all lived this strange existence whereby between operations you’d be living a normal life in so far as it could be normal. How did you cope with those ups and downs of feelings and tensions and things?
JB: Well, yes. We’d use our relaxation in the usual way by going to the pub in the evening or into Boston. There was a weekly trip into Boston on the buses and so there would be big relaxation there. But it was just a matter of going to a different pub you know and the crew normally went. Crews went together. They lived together and they drank together and they flew together and so you went with your, with your, the crew were your mates, your friends and it was that sort of thing. Yes. You just, you were thankful when you got to the, to the reported to the flights in the morning to see what was going on for the rest of the day. If there was no operation planned well that was a great relief. You could get on with something else. Go and clean the aeroplane or check it over or take somebody for a flight somewhere. There was always somebody going on leave and it was a fairly easy business flying people around to, you know on a jolly. Well, not a jolly but you know taking them to where they wanted to go for leave or something like that. Or visit another, another airfield. So yeah, we relaxed as much as possible and then got hyped up when it was due for operational flight.
Interviewer: Yeah. Could you, I mean I think I could talk to you all day here, sir. I really could but I appreciate the time is passing. Your time in particular. But I must ask you could you tell us something about some of the other characters that you remember from 617?
JB: 617. Yes. There’s a thing about remembering the crews on the Squadron. I always found it difficult to remember their names mainly because the only names that appeared on the operations board were the pilots. So we knew all the names of the pilots but I didn’t know the names of most of the crews. I might know the names of two or three bomb aimers because the bomb aimers used to go to a briefing together and each member of the crew had his own briefing section. So gunners would know other gunners and I would know two or three other bomb aimers but generally you didn’t know too much about the other crews. You didn’t mix with them obviously for, you know, recreational purposes. But I remember several of the pilots. I can’t remember any particular episodes but they obviously occurred when I was commissioned. I then moved in to the Petwood Hotel and what was the Petwood Hotel then and there were several incidents of people letting off revolvers late at night and behaving in an unseemly manner but being allowed to get away with it with an admonition from the CO. ‘Don’t do it again.’ There wasn’t much he could do about it if you, if you, you know went over the line. But I kept myself to myself because I was, I was escorting a WAAF who later became my wife and so I was otherwise engaged.
Interviewer: As it were. Yeah. Again, I feel I must ask this question. I don’t wish to intrude too much in to your privacy but you know if if you have a strong personal relationship like that and you’re going off on operations was it something that you just accepted?
JB: Yes.
Interviewer: Or did you talk it through with your fiancé as she would have been?
JB: Yes, we did talk it through. She was, she was actually employed in the map section so I had to visit the map section every day and of course I visited more often than most [laughs] naturally and so I went to the Intelligence Section for details of the targets and so forth and she knew as all the ladies did that were engaged to be married to aircrew that they were in a great deal of danger. When I got to the point of approaching my fiftieth operation because you could, you could retire after thirty and we didn’t. We continued flying. When you got to fifty you had another, another stage point where you could say ok. She said, ‘I think we ought to think about the future because –’ and I knew the odds were becoming shorter. They certainly were. And this was proved to me after I left the Squadron because I went back to visit the Squadron in November and I had a chat with my pilot and he said, ‘Oh you retired just in time.’ Apparently, they were shot up on the next operation coming back from Brest and flak actually went through the bomb aimers compartment. Missed the bomb aimer because he was standing up in the turret. Now, I didn’t normally stand up in the turret. I was usually lying down. So was it fate? I don’t know. But I retired at the right time.
Interviewer: I think at that point with regret I must ask that we terminate this. It’s been a total pleasure and total privilege to conduct this interview. For the record I should say that I have been conducting this interview with John Bell, bomb aimer of 617 Squadron and the interview was conducted at Thorpe Camp on the 12th of May 2012.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Interview with John Bell
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SHarriganD[Ser#-DoB]v37
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
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Sound
Format
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00:19:37 audio recording
Conforms To
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Pending revision of OH transcription
Pending OH summary
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Julian Maslin
This Interview was recorded by Aviation Heritage Lincolnshire.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Description
An account of the resource
John Bell completed a tour as a bomb aimer with 619 Squadron. The crew decided they would like to continue flying and so volunteered to join 617 Squadron. They were interviewed by Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire and accepted on to the squadron. When John was approaching his fiftieth operation his fiancé asked him to consider retiring from operation flying. He knew his luck was running low and so he did indeed retire. When he visited the squadron later his pilot told him he had retired just at the right time. The next flight after John stopped flying with his crew a piece of flak entered the bomb aimer’s compartment who survived because he was standing in the turret.
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-06
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Julie Williams
617 Squadron
619 Squadron
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
bomb aimer
bombing
Cheshire, Geoffrey Leonard (1917-1992)
coping mechanism
ground personnel
Lancaster
military ethos
perception of bombing war
RAF Coningsby
RAF Woodhall Spa
Tallboy
training
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1447/43097/SCosgroveAE968259v10010-18.1.pdf
8e20e7655ab3872cc276faeef00f5ccf
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Cosgrove, Teddy
Alfred Edward Cosgrove
A E Cosgrove
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-10-02
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Cosgrove, AE
Description
An account of the resource
16 items. The collection concerns Sergeant Alfred Edward "Teddy" Cosgrove (1921 - 1941, 968259 Royal Air Force) and contains a biography and a scrapbook. He flew operations as a navigator with 12 Squadron and was killed 11 October 1941. <br /><br />The collection was loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Pat Applegarth and catalogued by Barry Hunter. <br /><br />Additional information on Alfred Edward "Teddy" Cosgrove is available via the <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/104960/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Teddy's Career in the RAFVR 9th September 1939 - 11th October 1941
Description
An account of the resource
A detailed account of Teddy's service in the RAFVR.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Leeds
England--Devon
England--Yorkshire
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Vegesack
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Augsburg
Germany--Dessau (Dessau)
Germany--Bremen
France
Germany
France--Bordeaux (Nouvelle-Aquitaine)
France--Lorient
France--Saint-Nazaire
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Rhineland
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Stuttgart
England--Lincolnshire
England--Bexhill
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Personal research
Format
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Nine printed sheets
Identifier
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SCosgroveAE968259v10010, SCosgroveAE968259v10011, SCosgroveAE968259v10012, SCosgroveAE968259v10013, SCosgroveAE968259v10014, SCosgroveAE968259v10015, SCosgroveAE968259v10016, SCosgroveAE968259v10017, SCosgroveAE968259v10018
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending text-based transcription
Is Part Of
A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included.
Cosgrove, Teddy. Album
1 Group
11 OTU
12 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
aerial photograph
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
Battle
Blenheim
bomb aimer
bombing
Bombing and Gunnery School
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
crash
crewing up
Defiant
ditching
flight engineer
Flying Training School
ground personnel
Halifax
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Heavy Conversion Unit
Initial Training Wing
Lancaster
meteorological officer
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
Morse-keyed wireless telegraphy
navigator
observer
Operational Training Unit
pilot
propaganda
RAF Bassingbourn
RAF Binbrook
RAF Evanton
RAF Kinloss
RAF Odiham
RAF Padgate
RAF St Athan
RAF Wickenby
recruitment
sport
Stirling
take-off crash
training
Wallis, Barnes Neville (1887-1979)
Wellington
Whitley
wireless operator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1982/41557/EHopeADClarkeC440503-0001.2.jpg
20efb9067721fc946c2cedddb67d67d1
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1982/41557/EHopeADClarkeC440503-0002.2.jpg
a4117f69aaef3d3e4c6d1fee4bf8a671
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Hope, Arthur Denis
A D Hope
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-11-12
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Hope, AD
Description
An account of the resource
26 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Arthur Denis Hope (169139 Royal Air Force) and contains his log books, correspondence, documents, newspaper cuttings and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 62 Squadron before becoming a prisoner of war.
The collection was loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Bruce Neill-Gourlay and Pat Hoy and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Lettergram to Mrs C Clarke from Arthur Hope
Description
An account of the resource
The letter to Clara from Arthur is written from a prisoner of war camp. He writes emotionally about his regrets.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Arthur Hope
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1944-05-03
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One double sided handwritten sheet
Identifier
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EHopeADClarkeC440503-0001, EHopeADClarkeC440503-0002
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending text-based transcription
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-05
aircrew
military ethos
prisoner of war
Stalag Luft 3
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/2255/40602/ADaviesPO221105-AV.2.mp3
24c21d41f52c2fb363f1a02d61a5a2d5
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Davies, Peter Offord
P O Davies
Description
An account of the resource
Two oral history interviews with Captain Peter Orfford Davies (b. 1922). He served with a Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment of the Royal Artillery at various RAF stations. He later retrained as a glider pilot and flew during the Rhine Crossing.
The collection was catalogued by IBCC Digital Archive staff.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2022-11-06
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Davies, PO
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TO: Good morning, good afternoon or good evening whatever the case may be. My name is Thomas Ozel and the gentleman we’re interviewing is Mr Peter Davies and we’re recording this interview on the 5th of November 2022. So, could you tell me a bit about where you were born, please?
PO: My home town is Coventry. The city of Coventry in Warwickshire. I was born in a company house. My father worked for a company and we lived on the company’s estate. I went to a normal sort of school. I was never brilliant as a student. I failed my Eleven Plus but I did manage to get through an art examination and I went to the city’s Art College for two years prior to joining the forces at sixteen.
TO: And when you were growing up were you interested in the Army?
PO: No. Not at all. I mean okay you know we were children. All our fathers invariably of course had been in the First World War and there were First World War relics knocking about. I mean in a garden, one of the back gardens on the company estate one person had the fuselage of an aircraft. Steel helmets were commonplace. We used to fight battles and things like that but as for a military my first brush I suppose with the military would have been I was taken by an aunt of mine who lived in South London and we went to Woolwich on a Sunday morning and on the Parade Ground there there were the horses and all the troops lined up and one thing and another. But I can’t honestly say that the military appealed to me at that time. I suppose like most children I didn’t know really what I wanted to do and I lived in a fantasy world. It really, yeah.
TO: And was your father in the First World War?
PO: Oh, yes. My father was. My father actually joined the volunteers before the Territorial Army was formed before the First World War and he served. He was in the Royal Army Medical Corps in actual fact and he served throughout the war you know. I think he came out of the forces in 1919. But after that there was no [pause] nothing. I mean he didn’t talk a lot about it. He had, you know a normal traumatic experience like most people in the First World War which was absolute carnage you know. I mean he talked about tying people to tree stumps to stop them harming themselves and that sort of thing. You know, it really was a terrible war that the First World War. Oh yes. The Second World War was nothing like the first. Although having said that before the war we were all our training because I joined the Army in ’38 it was second, it was First World War based. You know, we were digging trenches and doing things which were ludicrous really for the age that we were in at that time. There we are.
TO: And when you were at school were you taught about the First World War?
PO: No. No. All that I know is one of my masters at school was, he had been in the forces and I I quite admired him but I mean absolute childish way, you know. He’d been in. He’d been in the war and he was a big man and he was, he was a kind guy and as such I took to him and, yeah. But no. Really the First World War wasn’t talked about. I think it was too raw really.
TO: And were you taught any other military history though?
PO: The usual thing about the Romans and stuff like that but it, it went over our heads you know. It, it was, it was just, I mean my schooling, a lot of my schooling was learned by rote. There was no discussions and things like that. It was this is it and that’s it. You absorb it or you don’t sort of thing, you know. I mean the funny thing is that, you know sort of you look back and you think gosh, you know what a load of rubbish we were being taught at times. I mean the Empire was the great thing you know. We were great believers that Britain was the greatest country on earth and that we were kind to all these people who we ruled over and in actual fact of course we were anything but. We were taskmasters and slave masters. Yeah. Oh gosh, yes. No. Funny old life. Funny old life. Looking back you realise what. what was true and what isn’t true and I don’t know. Life just goes on.
TO: And were you interested in aircraft at all?
PO: We were. In Coventry there was a company called Armstrong Whitworth and we had an aerodrome called Bagington which is now Coventry. I don’t know what they call it now. But there, from there private aircraft flew and when I say private aircraft we used to get lots of, well no, not lots but an Autogyro or helicopter come over and we used to shout to them sort of thing as children you know. And then the first time I flew Alan Cobham’s Air Circus came to town and I emptied my money box and paid five shillings for a flight. So I was, my first flight would be, I’d be ten maybe. So that was my first flight. Okay. Looking back I suppose I sort of boasted about I’d flown as it were because that was unusual and five shillings was a hell of a lot of money in those days. It was to me anyhow. But that was the first time I flew. But after that I can’t say I hankered to fly, you know. It wasn’t, it didn’t grab me as such.
TO: And what do you remember from being in the air?
PO: The thing that I remember actually was that we, the aircraft we flew in would be, we’d got about eight seats in and there were just cane chairs bolted to the floor sort of thing you know and you just got in and I sat on the what I now know as the starboard side. But, and as we flew around the city we banked and the people on the port side could look down at the town and the city and I was on, all I was looking at was sky. So I did get up to have a look and I got screamed at by two old ladies who said I’d turn the plane upside down and made me sit down again. So it was rather disappointing in some ways. But that’s the first time I flew but after that I can’t say I hankered to fly as such you know. I mean we’re talking in the days of the R100 and the R101 airships which of course the R101 I think it was flew over our school one day. That was, that was quite something to see this leviathan of the air floating by almost silently as it were you know. I mean it really was ginormous. Yeah. Oh yeah. But no, flying I can’t say particularly was to the fore of my thinking as a child.
TO: And did you hear about when the R1, was it the R101 had crashed?
PO: Oh gosh, yeah. That, that crashed at Beauvais in France. Yes, oh yes. A friend of ours was an artist and he actually did a painting of it which he sent off to London hoping it would be included in an exhibition. It didn’t make it but it still went to London this. But I remember this painting of the R101 in its crashed state as it were. Oh yeah. Gosh. Yeah. A long time ago that. Everything is a long time ago with me.
TO: Do you remember what kind of plane you were in on your first flight?
PO: All that I know it was a biplane. I mean the, the Air Circus that came had various I presume, it is a presumption that they were Bristol fighters and stuff like that. Maybe the odd Fokker. I don’t remember. I mean all that I know is that it was magnificent. These guys flying around and throwing the things about but you know. It was. It was just exciting. Yeah. But as for type. No. No. The first type I remember is I used to scrounge flights in Whitley bombers and in Wellington aircraft on night flying tests and stuff like this. Although I was in the Army I was, at the time I was stationed on RAF airfields and you know I used to sneak off and go and scrounge flights. Why I did it I don’t know. It was I suppose it was, A it was something different and B, I was fed up anyhow. But yeah, but I can’t say it ever really grabbed me as such. It wasn’t the apogee of my sort of, it wasn’t that important to me. I did it and that was just fun. God knows what would have happened if we’d of crashed because everybody else would have been on the, on the documentation but my, my remains would be a mystery to somebody or other. Oh yeah. Because regularly these aircraft regularly came to the ground in the wrong place. Oh yes. Yeah. I suppose looking back it was dicey but you know, so what?
TO: And when you were, how was it you arranged with the crew to be aboard these bombers?
PO: Sorry?
TO: How, how did you arrange with the crew for them to allow you on the bombers?
PO: Well, I would just go up and say, ‘Hey,’ you know. I was sort of, ‘Could I have a flight with you?’ And so I suppose I did get rejected on occasions and others they said, ‘Yeah. Go on. Get in.’ Sort of. It was I mean it was just so casual. I mean it really was casual but it was, it was good. It was good. Yeah. Yeah, the old Whitley bomber. Gosh. Made in Coventry and there I am flying in the damned thing. Yeah. Oh, it was good. Yeah. That was my first sort of well that was my first war time flying shall I say. Oh yeah.
TO: And can you tell me about when you joined the Army?
PO: I, well I joined the Army. I originally joined the [pause] the county Infantry Regiment, the Royal Warwickshire Regiment and when the, we’d just come back actually from annual camp when the war broke out and my battalion went to France. But I was at that time I’d just become a private. I had been a boy soldier up until my birthday, my seventeenth birthday. So at seventeen I became a private but I was still considered too young to go to France so I got put into another battalion and we were doing guarding vulnerable points and things all over the UK. And then that battalion I don’t know quite why but I then got transferred into the Royal Artillery and so I became a gunner and that was considered by the War Office as my parent regiment. God knows why because my parent regiment really was the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. But I, we guarded airfields and power stations and stuff like this. I had twelve guys. I mean I became an NCO in promotion sort of thing and I just had twelve or fourteen guys and a forty millimetre Bofors gun. I was part of the defence of various radar stations and stuff like that from the north of Scotland down to the south of Devon. And one day I saw a thing on Orders about the Army Air Corps and I think the real come on as far as I was concerned was there was flying pay on top of my meagre normal salary as it were as a, as a bombardier which is equal to a corporal. And so I applied to join the Army Air Corps. I went to London and did my aircrew medical and all the educational stuff and whatnot which I duly passed and found myself on Salisbury Plain as part of the Army Air Corps which it was then. My cap badge is an Army Air Corps cap badge. But I was in the glider pilot regiment and so that was the beginning of my sort of wartime flying shall I say such as it was. My wartime flying. I mean I went to EFTS of course and learned to fly powered aircraft first because they’re easier to fly than a glider which flies like a brick and then eventually I found myself in a squadron. We had, they were Horsas. The, you know the one everybody thinks was the wartime glider and then I found myself posted or attached to the 9th US Air Force on liaison work and I was flying, flying in Dakotas and whatnot all over the country one way and another. And then after Arnhem when we lost so many people I went back to squadron and I found myself flying Hamilcars which we had one squadron, C Squadron which was a heavy lift squadron and so I flew a Hamilcar glider. And then when the war finished we found ourselves at Fairford and we were converting on to the American Waco CG-4As to go to the Far East. Then lo and behold they dropped the atomic bomb and we all cheered and knew we were going to live as it were. But it was a very free and easy life in so many ways. Highly disciplined I can tell you but boy it was, it was good. Yeah. We were a happy lot, you know. The Army you know was just sort of an average sort of guy’s experience I suppose. I mean [laughs] and that’s how it went. I’m sorry. It’s not very interesting really is it you know? Yeah.
TO: And in the late 1930s did you hear about Hitler in the papers?
PO: Oh yeah. I I remember as a child hearing my father talking to somebody who said that they thought that war was inevitable. I know my father before the war he was in the ARP. He joined the ARP and he used to go once a week for training as it were and he became an ARP warden. But that’s the only, I mean it meant nothing to us as children you know. That was life I suppose like life out there today is you know. I mean the kids out there today you know they’re all nipping around with their I-pads and one thing and another and their thumbs are going like nobody’s business on their phones. It’s all, all strange to me but it’s their world and that was our world, you know. We were, we were very innocent really. I mean we relied entirely on really as much as anything on newspapers for information whether it was slanted one way and another by the government or political parties just that was it that was life. Yeah. Yeah.
TO: And do you remember the Munich Agreement?
PO: Oh yes. I remember Chamberlain coming back and waving his bit, piece of paper about saying, ‘Peace in our time.’ I mean in 1938 there were I remember them digging trenches and covering them over and making, you know air raid shelters of sorts. I mean in my home town I remember them building a huge shadow factory for producing you know, well aircraft and bits you know sort of thing. It was everything was pointing towards war but I mean it sounds silly but that was just how it was. You know. We were very subservient I think looking back. We didn’t question as the young people today would question the authorities shall I say. Oh yeah. Yeah. As I say to me it’s just how it went.
TO: And what do you think of Chamberlain?
PO: Well really, I looking back I think in some ways he was weak but you know I suppose he did, with the aid of the civil servants who really run this country he did the best he could do to try and placate Hitler and you know keep a peaceful world as it were because the alternative was pretty grim as it turned out. Yeah. He did his best and failed I suppose in some. Well, no. Perhaps he didn’t fail. I don’t know. I really have no great opinion of him one way or another. You know, as I say I just roll over and accept it.[laughs]
TO: And what do you think of Churchill?
PO: The right man at the right time. He could have been full of bluster and everything else but he he came on to the scene. I mean when you look at Churchill’s background I mean gosh there’s a man who changed sides so often one way and another. He was very astute in that respect but as a wartime leader I think he appealed to the populace, the general populace and you know he really sort of put a bit of fire into the belly of the nation and said you know this is it. We’re going to beat these guys and we all fell in line behind him and did what we did. Oh yeah. He was okay. I just wish he hadn’t have put his name forward and got beaten at an election. He should have left when he was at the top of the heap sort of thing. But yeah, I mean some of the things that have come out since I don’t know. They don’t do him any service I think but he was, he was a man of the time without doubt. Oh yeah.
TO: And can you remember the day the war started?
PO: Oh yes. I was blancoing my equipment at the time and polishing my brasses [laughs] yes. I remember that. The sort of, it was I think it was 11 o’clock in the morning on a, I think it was a Sunday morning. I think it was a Sunday morning and yeah I was actually blancoing my equipment. So yeah I remember that but again there was no great panic or anything. It was just, ‘Right. This is it.’ You know, sort of thing. Because we honestly thought when we came back from camp that you know war was inevitable. That all the, all the signs were there you know. You didn’t have to read the runes to a great degree to realise that you know we were going to fight these guys who wouldn’t behave themselves so to speak. Yeah. Oh yes. I remember that Sunday well and truly. Yeah. Yeah.
TO: And were you in the Army already when the Munich Agreement —
PO: Yes.
TO: Happened?
PO: Yeah. The Munich Agreement.
TO: Yeah. When the Munich Agreement was signed were you already in the Army then?
PO: I joined the Army in October 1938. Now, when the Munich Agreement was signed I don’t know.
TO: Around about that time I think.
PO: Yeah. It was. It must have been fairly close. A month either way. September or November so to speak. Yeah. Yeah. Oh yes. But you know it [pause] we just obeyed the rules. I mean I lived in a regimented sort of environment and did as I was told and kept my nose clean. Or did my best to keep my nose clean. Yeah.
TO: And do you remember was the Army making preparations for war when you joined?
PO: Our training basically was for the First World War. Okay, I mean when I think about it they said aircraft would be doing reconnaissance flights and attacking us and things like this and that we were to sort of budge together as if we were shrubbery sort of thing. But what a load of rubbish, you know [laughs] The thing to do as if you were being attacked from the air is to scatter. You stand more chance of living instead of being in one lump as it were. Oh yeah. I mean digging trenches and stuff like that okay they have their place. And scrapes and fox holes and stuff like this you know became the thing but you know looking back we were being taught to fight the last, the First World War and, you know it didn’t work out. I mean when you think of the speed of the Blitzkrieg across France I mean, and Dunkirk I mean we really got our backsides kicked. Well and truly. We weren’t, we weren’t really ready for war I don’t think. I mean okay everybody knew it was coming but nobody sort of we’re not I don’t think as a nation we’re aggressive in that sort of way or we get that worked up about things. I think we, we tend to sort of be very resilient to how things are and just accept them. I could be wrong of course. Well and truly wrong. I so often am.
TO: And did you do any training with tanks?
PO: No. Oh no. Good gracious me. No. We, in my battalion we had two Bren gun carriers. That was our armour. Yeah. That was it. I mean we were chuffed to billy-o when we got two, two Bren carriers. Things with tracks on you know. Oh yeah. This was the latest thing. But yeah, pathetic when you think about it. No. No. Tanks were, well of course the cavalry regiments turned over to tanks and became the Royal Tank Corps or the Armoured Corps but we didn’t see any signs of them. Oh no. Very sort of us and them in a way I suppose. Yeah. There was no sort of cooperation in any. We were in it and they were that and never the twain shall meet sort of thing. No. Looking back I mean what a different world we live in today militarily. Yeah. No. No. Funny old life. As I say it was good. I mean it suited me and you know I was happy and I had an easy war really and here I am an old man.
TO: And did you do, did the Army do any training with aircraft at all?
PO: No. No. None whatsoever. Not prewar. No way. Oh gosh no. Whether the budget wouldn’t allow it or what I don’t know. It was as I say the thinking of the War Office as it would be I suppose and the politicians didn’t sort of, I don’t know. I mean you know you’ve got to remember I was a teenager and as such you know I was malleable and obedient and did what I was told and didn’t do an awful lot of thinking I suppose. We were living day to day and you know today is the important day and tomorrow will look after itself sort of thing. Oh yeah. No.
TO: And what was the process for you joining the Army when you were sixteen?
PO: I saw an advert and I thought hey that’s great. And that was it. Yeah. That just fired me. I thought that sounds good. So, you know as simple simple as that. I remember I had a piece of paper that on it said that the Army won’t make you rich in monetary terms but in terms of friendships and whatnot you’ll be one of the richest people going. And it’s true. It’s true. The Forces, the pay is, it’s different today but in my day I mean I started out on what was it? Eight shillings a week I think it was, you know. But the friendships I’ve got I mean as I say when the turn out that I got on my hundredth birthday from the Army Air Corps really makes you realise that you know you belong to a big family. Yeah. Oh yes.
TO: And did the Army know you were under sixteen?
PO: Oh yes. I had to get permission from my parents to, to join at sixteen. I couldn’t just walk in and say to a recruiting office and say I wanted to join. I had to go home with a piece of paper to get my parent’s permission to join at sixteen as a boy soldier. Yeah. Oh yes. My, my mum I don’t think it was, in retrospect I don’t think she was very happy about it but my father eventually signed my papers for me. So you know but it, I as I say I couldn’t just walk in to a recruiting office and say, ‘I want to join.’ And they say, ‘Right. Welcome. Here’s a shilling. You’re now a member of the Armed Forces.’ Sort of thing. Oh no.
TO: And were you the youngest soldier who was there when you joined?
PO: I would say I was. Yeah. Yeah. I was. I don’t remember any other boy soldiers. I mean I just got thrown into C-Company and was, that was it. I became a runner. In other words, I became a guy who sort of was at the beck and call of the headquarters office sort of thing. Take this message here. Take that message there. Do this. Do that. That was my life originally until such time as when the war broke out of course things changed then. Suddenly as I say I was by then I was a private anyhow. I mean I went on to fourteen shillings a week then. But my life as a boy soldier was very much I mean there was no I wasn’t allowed into the licensed bar shall I say. When we were in camp for example down in Arundel just before the war there was what then knew as a dry canteen and a wet canteen. The wet canteen they sold beer and spirits and stuff. I wasn’t allowed in there. I could drink tea and cocoa or coffee but I couldn’t drink ale as it were. I couldn’t gamble whereas all the others were gambling like billy-o on housey housey and what’s known as bingo today and or poker and all these games they were playing for money. Oh no. But then I hadn’t got any money so [laughs]
TO: How did the other soldiers treat you with you being younger?
PO: Just, just the same as anybody else. Just the same. They obviously in retrospect I mean I’ve written about it but in retrospect I mean when we went to camp for example there were I don’t know how many of us in, in a bell tent. You know a pointed tent with a pole in the middle and you slept with your feet to the pole and there were panels in the making of the bell tent and you got a panel and a half or two panels if you were lucky depending how many were in the tent. But the old soldiers of course got furthest away from the, from the opening of the tent but muggins here [laughs] where was his bedspace? Right where the opening was. So anybody coming in at night or a lot would put their feet on me or if it rained I was the one who was going to get wet sort of thing. But I don’t know. They just treated me as, maybe they treated me [pause] I don’t know. I mean, they were a rough tough old lot. They weren’t, they weren’t sort of how can I put it, parental in any way shape or form or [pause] I don’t think they made any sort of difference to them. I was just another squaddie. Yeah. Yeah. I mean you know I used to get into all sorts of mischief one way and another and they’d say, ‘Oh it’s PO.’ Because my initials were PO and they’d say, ‘It’s young PO’s done that.’ And I, you know I’d get away with murder at times obviously doing daft things but the guys in the platoon just treated me as one of themselves. Oh yeah. Oh, it’s [laughs] it was a happy life as far as I was concerned.
TO: And how did the officers treat you?
PO: Cor that’s a good question. [pause] Well, the officers in the battalion I suppose would treat me just as a private soldier. No demarcation. ‘Oh, he’s young so we’ll make allowances for him.’ There was none of that. But after, when the war was on I mean our officers were mainly people who had been in the Territorial Army or came in from and were created officers for all their Army experience was zilch. And then I mean on one occasion I went to sleep on guard. I should have gone on guard and I said to the, it’s so casual they gave me the rifle because we had one rifle and five rounds of ammunition and nothing else sort of thing. And the guy who came off guard came to me, woke me upon and said, ‘Right. Your turn now.’ So I said, ‘Okay. Put it down there and I’ll get up.’ And I went to sleep and it was 6 o’clock in the morning when I woke up and said, and we were, the whole unit were moving that day and the officers discussed whether they could put me on a charge and they said they couldn’t put me on a charge because it was a Sunday. And you know I knew more about the Army than they did. That they were fielding. I suppose these so-called officers would be grammar school guys and not even university guys. Just guys who had done well at school or got the right connections and they became officers. No. I really had little to do with officers. No. Not until much later on. Then I was instructing officers then. Sandhurst guys and one thing and another. Oh yeah.
TO: And can you tell me about when you first starting working on gliders?
PO: Yeah. I went to a place called Stoke Orchard where there were Hotspur gliders. Now they carried nine guys but they were never used operationally. They were considered a waste of time I suppose and I [pause] our instructors were RAF pilots. Presumably either they’d done a tour of operations and were resting or, but I mean my instructor was a Sergeant McCain. I remember him. He was mad. And we were being towed by, off the ground by a Miles Master aircraft and I don’t know how long it was before I soloed on the gliders. But one day I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t grab it one day and I picked my parachute up because we all wore parachutes when we were flying the Hotspur and I picked my parachute up and got up, left and went and laid down on the grass and told them I wasn’t doing any more. I’d had enough. And I really blotted my copy book there but nothing was ever said. The following day I went back to McCain and we got on with the job as it were. But it that was my first experience of when you come off tow there’s no sound of course and it’s a bit like the Hotspur had got a wingspan big enough that you could use thermals and stuff like this. So it was a bit like being a bird. It was quite something. So that was my introduction and when I left GTS then went to Horsas which were far bigger and being towed off the ground by Dakotas and I mean the Hamilcar of course could only be towed off the ground by a four engine bomber. Halifaxes of 38 Group. They were our towing squadron. But you know the hardest work I suppose of flying a military glider is making certain that you’re in the right position in respect of the towing aircraft because you could get the towing aircraft if you went too high on tow you’d pull the nose of the towing aircraft down you know. And if you went too low you’d stall the, unless they chopped the connection of course. But yeah, it was, well it was just different I suppose. It was, it was just flying and, you know we were doing circuits and bumps day in and day out during the night night flying and stuff like this. Night flying was good because you got a night flying supper which amounted to bacon and eggs and that was great. I’ll tell you there’s a profit in everything if you look for it. Yeah. But yeah. Flying as I say the minute you came off tow there’s only one thing and it’s down. And I mean we never flew a Hamilcar without nine thousand pounds of ballast in it you know because the wingspan was so great that you’d just float and float and float, you know with that. But the Hotspur was as I say was very malleable. The Horsa you could do, put the big flaps down and do dive approaches and things like that but the, the Hamilcar was I mean it was bigger than the towing aircraft so you know they were, they were big. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a picture of a Hamilcar. I’m sure you must have done. But yeah. Yeah. Now, if you’ve got a tank underneath you you know you weigh quite something. I know that we were overloaded on the Rhine crossing that’s for sure. On the Rhine crossing of course like so many others we got we lost all our flying controls as we were being hit by anti-aircraft fire. That was interesting but all that we were left with was the tail trimmer and we were lucky actually because we’d just come off tow and got into sort of our optimum gliding speed and then we lost a great chunk of wing and all our flying controls got severed with the exception of the tail trimmer. So we were already at the right attitude but direction you know we had no control over which way we were going and we were going the wrong way. We weren’t going towards friendly territory. We were going into the enemy territory [laughs] big time but we could do nothing about it. But there you go. When we hit the ground eventually it was, it went to stand on its nose and I got thrown through the Perspex canopy. And I remember I got out, I picked myself up, shouted for a Bren gun which I’d, was my weapon of choice. And one of the gunners I’d got a seventeen pounder gun and truck in the glider and I remember the guy saying, ‘The sergeant’s trapped.’ And I said, ‘Never mind the sergeant being trapped throw me down my Bren gun.’ And I found myself sitting under a dyke with some angry people one side the dyke and me the other trying to eat a Mars bar. [laughs] I mean it’s crazy isn’t it? Talk about adrenaline flowing you know. I just sat there eating a Mars bar. We were getting mortared of course. Oh yeah. It was, I spent the rest of that day running away. How’s that for a big bad soldier [laughs] running away. No. Where was I? It was, it was a good life you know. I was happy in the Army. Yeah.
TO: And what else do you remember about the Rhine crossing?
PO: Well, the first thing I recall we were third in the, in the stream, in the Hamilcar stream and the glider on my port side carried a tank. And to load the tank they would back it in to and shackle it down. And I remember seeing the back end of the glider break open and the tank come out backwards with the guys, the crew a couple or three other crew sitting on the outside of the tank falling off and the tank turning over and going and crashing to the ground or into the Rhine. I don’t know where it went. It made a bloody big hole wherever it went because it was, it was at three thousand feet so you know a tank at three thousand feet wouldn’t bounce. That would really make a good hole when it hit the floor. So that was my first memory of it. Then the smoke which was being generated on the west bank to cover the invasion by, or the incursion by troops on the ground obscured an awful lot of what we were trying to look for to get ourselves, make certain we were landing in the right place and as I say then getting hit. And getting hit was that was funny because I remember looking at the port wing and thinking ‘My God that’s a bloody big hole’ because we lost a great chunk of port wing. We really did. How we kept flying God only knows but you know, we did. As I say we lost all our controls and got hit again well and truly and that was it and then as I say we had no choice in our direction. That was being dictated by where the controls were set and the whims of the wind or what have we. I don’t know. Yeah. I’m sorry but it’s so, you know in retrospect I look back and think how lucky I was but you know I can’t say at the time there was I suppose the adrenalin is flying like the clappers you know. Let’s face it. You know, you don’t think you’re going to die. No way did you think that you were going to die. You just thought, ‘Hell’s bells, that shouldn’t have happened,’ sort of thing. That was it. I’m sorry to disappoint you but you know that was how life went.
TO: And were you badly hurt when the plane landed?
PO: No. Not at all. Not at all. No. No. As I say I got flung. As the aircraft, as the glider tipped up it threw, the cockpit as you know is on the top and it flipped up on to its nose. I thought it was going to turn over and that happened more than once with others where they and the pilots just got crushed. You know, because the load would be on top of them. But it flipped up and I went through the Perspex canopy onto the ground as I say. Then I must have shaken myself and shouted for a Bren gun and then went and scurried very quickly on to the shelter of this dyke and got my Mars bar out [laughs] I’d have given pounds for a drink of water at that stage I can tell you. Oh dear. But oh. I don’t know that I can tell you any more about how I felt you know. I mean I don’t know about your bomber guys but I mean they they thundered on for hours and hours and hours the, on an operation. The real exciting bit if you can call it exciting is when you get there and that lasts what two minutes maybe you know sort of thing maximum you know off tow and you’re going down you know. Oh yeah.
TO: When you were in the cockpit —
PO: Yeah.
TO: When you were coming in to land were you wearing a helmet?
PO: Do you know I don’t know if I’d got a steel helmet on or not. I know I very very quickly put my red beret on. That, that [laughs] sounds daft doesn’t it? But yeah. Yeah. I must have done. I must have done. If I hadn’t had, if I hadn’t had a steel helmet on I’d have really hurt my head. Yeah. So I must have done. Yeah. I’m fairly certain I did thinking about it. But as I say I quickly discarded it and put my red beret on and there I was a big bad airborne soldier so be careful because you’re dealing with the crème de la crème of the British Army so to speak. Yeah.
TO: Did German soldiers attack your glider?
PO: Oh yeah. They mortared it. They obviously they could see the tail of the aircraft sticking up like a signpost so they knew and they’d see it come down. I mean without a doubt they’d know. I mean it’s big enough to see it isn’t it if it’s a little thing and we were getting mortared straightaway. I mean the earth was jumping up and down all around the place like nobody’s business. Of course, we left. We moved from there and joined up with some Irish guys and some of the Ox and Bucks thing and we decided they weren’t the best people to go with. Beauman and I the other pilot in the glider. It was a question of somebody an officer say sergeant so and so sergeant so and so is dead sir. Sergeant so and so. Corporal so and so. Corporal so and so is dead sir. We thought we don’t want to be with this lot. This sounds a bit iffy. So we left them and ran ran away somewhere else and joined up with some others and then eventually we sort of fought our way back to where we should be as it were which was quite some distance actually. We were quite a way from the Hamilcar. Yeah. But oh no. I mean the, I remember the Americans coming in as we were I’ll call it retreating [laughs] and a glider landed twenty or thirty feet from where we were and not a soul got out. The Schmeissers just ripped the glider apart and not not one person got out. So that would be what? Twenty two guys just dead before they’d even had a chance to get out of the glider. I mean it was. It was quite hairy in the initial stages. Then we obviously had total control of the area and that was it. Yeah. Just hid in German foxholes and stuff like that.
TO: Had the Germans installed anti glider obstacles?
PO: I can’t say I saw any. I can’t say. Well, you see we we landed in the wrong place. We landed where we shouldn’t have been so to speak. We, our, the aircraft I was in lost total directional control so we went probably I don’t know probably way past where we should have been as I say. We were out on a limb you know. So, so no, I can’t say I saw any, any anti-aircraft landing posts and stuff like that that they seeded the grounds within some areas because obviously I mean the first German I took prisoner he demanded to know where we’d been. He said to me in good English, ‘Where have you been?’ and I said, ‘What do you mean where have we been?’ He said, ‘They tell us English flying troops come and we hide in the woods and wait for you. You not come. Where have you been?’ [laughs] Yeah. So we weren’t unexpected. But no but that’s it as I said. Very sort of ordinary experience I suppose.
TO: And the I think you said there was a seventeen pounder gun in the Hamilcar.
PO: Yeah.
TO: Did they manage to get it out?
PO: God knows. I never [laughs] I don’t even know what happened to the gun crew. I really don’t. Presumably they’d get their sergeant out who was trapped. How he was trapped I haven’t a clue, you know. It’s, I don’t recall seeing any of the gun detachment that was there. You know, getting out. I mean how many of them would get injured God only knows. You know. Whether the quad truck that was the towing vehicle whether that set forward I mean it would have been chained down but you know when you hit the ground at a fair old rate of knots and you know, the shackles and stuff would probably get pulled out of the strong points anyhow. So, but I mean I never saw any signs of the, as I recall of the gunners or I mean certainly the seventeen pounder no that never as far as I know never came out. Never came out.
TO: And how long was it before you met up with other allied soldiers?
PO: I suppose it would be maybe twenty minutes. Something like that. I mean we were skulking along and trying to keep out of the way of these angry people. I mean two guys [laughs] Two guys and a Bren gun and a rifle I wasn’t going to take on the Wehrmacht.
TO: So was it only mortars landing it at you or soldiers shooting at you as well?
PO: Yes. It was my memory is of mortars. Yeah. Being mortared. Yeah. Yeah. And certainly there was certainly plenty of that. Yeah. And as I say it wasn’t until we got with some other troops that we as I say the guys in the American glider they just got, I mean we were sort of trying to keep out of the way and these guys with their Schmeissers and MG 42s boy they really ripped into these Americans. I mean they were landing all over the place. But the one that really did I remember vividly is this thing came skidding to a halt. Made a beautiful landing he made but nobody got out. Nobody got out. They all got killed before they got out. Yeah.
TO: How far away from you was that glider when it came in to land?
PO: Twenty feet. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. That’s all. I mean we were shouting. We shouted at them daft as it sounds, ‘Get out. Get out.’ But it was too late. The Germans were there just the other side of where these Americans were landing. Again obviously in the wrong place really and yeah they just got killed. Yeah. Oh yeah. And my I suppose my other memory is the first night I went to find some tea. Find something to drink and I found a field hospital sort of. Not a posh place by any means. It was just a house that had been taken over as a field hospital and I was outside and a surgeon came out. He was covered in, in blood and one thing and another and there were all these dead guys lying lined up outside and he said to me, ‘Have you ever seen [pause] have you ever seen a man’s brains, sergeant?’ And I said, ‘No.’ And he said, and he lifted the helmet of one soldier and his whole of his cranium was in the helmet and in the bowl of his head was his brains. Yeah. I mean it could have been it looked just like meat to me because I didn’t know the guy or anything you know. But it was there must have been thirty or forty bodies all laid out by this field hospital sort of thing. But yeah, funny old [pause] God. Yeah.
TO: And as a sergeant what were your responsibilities once you were on the ground?
PO: We were supposed, supposed to get to Hamminkeln where the headquarters was. That was our, I mean you know sort of the basically of course we were quite valuable in the time and money that had spent on training us as Special Forces in a way. That’s gilding the lily a bit but you know sort of thing. I mean at D-Day for example. Guys who landed on D-Day they were back in the UK within twelve hours. Glider pilots, you know. Arnhem of course was a very different ball game. They didn’t come back until well the battle was over basically. The guys from Arnhem because we were planned to go to the Far East you know. Oh yeah. So that’s it. I’m sorry. It’s so mundane really. There’s no great heroics or anything like that in it whatsoever. I was just doing a job that I was trained for and you know it was my memories are good. The only thing is all the guys I knew have all fallen off the log. I think I’m one of the last ones. I don’t know of any others at the moment I must admit. There must be the odd one somewhere or other.
TO: What was your unit’s objective for the Rhine crossing?
PO: Basically to get this seventeen pounder gun and whatnot in the, to the right place so they could take part in the battle order or whatever. And we failed miserably because we wrecked it. Yeah. Nothing more that. Nothing more than that. To get it there safely. I mean the hard work really was the tow, you know. It was a long tow and you know if you’re fighting the aircraft all the way. The glider all the way it just doesn’t, it just didn’t sail along on its own. You know, you’re working all the time to keep the thing in the right position and you know talking to the tug crew as it were. Yeah. I mean it’s like your bomber boys. I mean the minute they take off Lancasters haven’t got automatic pilots and stuff like that. They’re working all the time and their objective is to get to the target and get back. As for the bombing and all the rest of the navigation and whatnot that’s not their responsibility. The pilot’s job is to the get the aircraft there safely and get it back safely if they can. And that was, that was it. Yeah. No, there’s some very brave men and I can’t say I’m one of them [laughs] I just knew some very brave men. Believe you me.
TO: Do you remember anything about the briefing for the Rhine crossing?
PO: About the —?
TO: Briefing before you left.
PO: Yes. We were promised total aircover which didn’t appear. We had some air cover because I remember talking to the guys down below. They couldn’t see anything and I remember telling them what I could see. And I could see aircraft either getting shot up or parachuting down and I sort of gave them a bit of a running commentary of what was going on as it were. But other than that the flight was pretty uneventful you know sort of thing. You could see an awful lot of the ground. We were at three thousand feet. Just over three thousand feet and of course at three thousand feet you see an awful lot of the ground so I could tell them, you know, ‘We’re just wide of Calais at the moment.’ Because of course Calais was still in German hands so we sort of went around Calais and whatnot and then like I say I could see four Thunderbolt aircraft on our port side or whatever and sort of its whether whether they listened or not I don’t know.
TO: And did you talk much with the co-pilot?
PO: Oh, well I suppose we must have. Bert and I must have sort of talked to one another but I don’t recall it to be honest with you. I really don’t. We were just flying you know.
TO: And what did you say to the tug crew on the radio?
PO: Well, the thing I do remember is we thanked them for the tow. That was, that was about the size of it sort of. When we got to the other end I mean we probably had a couple of words with them during the tow you know sort of thing because there was a sort of a telephone wire inside the tow rope which was a damned big rope I can tell you [pause] But yeah. No, that’s about it I’m afraid.
TO: Looking back how do you feel about the airborne operation on the Rhine?
PO: Well, it was the biggest operation there was without doubt. I mean I’m glad I was there. As I say it was part of my education [laughs] as it were. No. I was just proud to be a member of a regiment that covered itself in a reasonable amount of glory and my real feeling I suppose is that I felt privileged to have known so many brave men and I really did do you know. And I mean as I say the friendships that resulted from being in I mean I know I knew more people after the war who were in the regiment than the Royal Artillery Regiment I was in or the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, you know. And now as I say the Army Air Corps have, you know taken over the modern Army Air Corps and they’re very shall I say friendly towards me sort of thing. Yeah. Oh yes.
TO: And when did you hear about Operation Market Garden?
PO: I was with the American 9th Troop Carrier Command at the time and my boss was one of the original parachutists that went to Bruneval and he was a sergeant at the time of Bruneval and his name was Luton. And I remember Luton saying to me he was, he was very upset about the losses at Arnhem. He knew there was a battle going on. We knew there was a battle going on but he was very upset because of course he was, they were mainly paras at Arnhem and you know he was sort of, as I say quite upset at the thought of all his mates fighting there and A he wasn’t there or B he was you know sort of feeling sorry for them losing their lives. I don’t know. But that’s my memory of Arnhem. As I say the minute Arnhem was over I found myself very quickly back into a fighting unit as opposed to living high off the hog in the, with the American Air Force. Oh yeah.
TO: And were you worried that the Rhine crossing would end like Arnhem?
PO: No. No. Oh no. No. No. We couldn’t lose. That was the attitude. We couldn’t lose. I don’t know if that’s the time that we were told two of us out of three would probably die but you look at the other two guys either side of you and think oh I’m sorry for you. But no. I don’t recall it. No. I think the briefing probably took an hour. Maybe a bit more than an hour and of course we talked to the tug crews you know and that sort of thing but [pause] funny old life.
TO: And do you think the Rhine crossing could have gone any better or do you think it was that was just how it would have gone regardless?
PO: I, the first thing that happens to any battle plan is it‘s going to go wrong. Now I can’t say that it went really wrong. It went wrong as far as I personally was concerned because of what happened but I think in the main it was to a large degree I think an awful lot of the Germans knew the writing was on the wall. I think, you know they could see that the amount of, of forces against them were totally overwhelming and where we’d got everything I think they’d got very very little. I think it was, yeah. I think you’d put it down as a success. I don’t think the losses were anything as great as they thought they were going to be. I mean I don’t honestly know what the percentage of losses was but yeah I think it was, you know a success. Especially after, after Arnhem. I mean that really was carnage that. Yeah. The battle for the bridge was well it was hopeless wasn’t it?
TO: And what did you think of the airborne generals like Gale or Urquhart?
PO: I actually saw Urquhart at one of the big, as I saw Eisenhower at one of the big demonstrations or practice jumps and stuff like that when I was with the 9th Air Force and they came across as being very very competent guys. I mean Windy Gale and, you know [pause] I think that this sounds silly in a way but I think we had the best officers that you could possibly have. They were. They were really all, they weren’t that gung-ho that they’d walk into the Valley of Death willingly. But they’d make bloody certain that if they had to walk into the Valley of Death you got the impression that they were going to take an awful lot of people with them. Yeah. I mean Gale yeah. Yes. Our leadership was good. Our leadership was. I think we had the crème de la crème of officers without a shadow of a doubt. Very very strict but very human and skilled in what they were doing. They really were. I mean a lot of them of course never went to Sandhurst or anything like that. They were wartime people but boy they were the right guys in the right place. Yeah. I mean when you think when I joined the glider pilot regiment in my intake there were a hundred and thirty of us got through the selection. I mean we lost a hell of a lot in the selection in London on academic or physical capabilities you know and then as I say a hundred successful candidates from that. From the aircrew medical and all the rest of it thirty of us finished up and out of the thirty of us I think probably eighteen, twenty of us actually went flying you know. They couldn’t hack the basic training. You know I mean all that you’d got to do if you didn’t, if you couldn’t do it you could just say, ‘I’m leaving.’ And they’d give you a railway warrant back to your parent regiment. There was you know if you can’t do it we don’t want you. And they made it very very obvious. I mean you’d just got to be very very determined to stay in the regiment and and meet their qualification requirements as it were. So yeah. I mean it was, it was a regiment full of course of people from all regiments in the British Army. I mean I’ve made great friends with a guy who had been a schoolteacher but he was Armoured Corps driver operator and when we were doing exams he’d sit next to me and I’d help him with, with my answers and he’d help me with his answers. So we got through that way sort of thing. But it’s I mean some guys as I say got flying and just couldn’t fly. I mean it sounds silly but they just hadn’t got the aptitude. Others managed to kill themselves. You know, it’s [pause] No, it was a super super regiment. A super regiment. Of course, it got disbanded after the war. No, no requirement. Yeah. So that’s it. I’m sorry but you know it‘s probably not what you wanted but that’s what you’ve got.
TO: This is amazing. Thank you for telling me.
PO: Pardon?
TO: This is amazing. Thank you for telling me.
PO: Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s just that it was just how life was I’m afraid. Yeah. Yeah.
TO: And what did you think of General Montgomery?
PO: Never had anything to do with him. Again, I think when he went to the 8th Army after Auchinleck and those failed miserably in the desert that he was again the right man at the right time. He was, he’d got sufficient common sense that he could despite what he might feel internally he appealed as one of them to the troops under his command and sort of said, ‘Right. This is it. This is what we’re going to do.’ And do it. And I mean good God with the desert Army. I mean they’d been battered by losing Tobruk and even, I mean good God Rommel even got into Egypt and along comes this guy with his old peculiar ways and attitudes and one thing and another but as far as the troops were concerned this guy knows what he’s doing and we’re going to you know we can do this and we’re all together you know. He’s with us and we’re with him. So his PR was extremely good. But I mean I never met the man or he never impinged as far as I know on my, my military life as it were. Oh no. No.
TO: And did you have any popular songs in the Army?
PO: Oh gosh. Yeah. Before the war we used to march and sing songs. One was about a boxing match. “Have you heard of the big strong man who lives in a caravan?” I mean crazy words but not, not popular songs. Not not popular. Very, very much sort of Army songs and of course an awful lot before the war. Of course an awful lot of the soldiers were, had been up on the North-West Frontier you know. In Afghanistan and places like this so they were all hardened. Quite a lot of the real hardened tough thick soul guys you know. What is said in the book was absolute and you didn’t query anything and they were just tough guys. I mean when I think about it at sixteen I got thrown in with guys old enough to be my father and life just, that was I just accepted it you know. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end but I mean I look at some of the young people today at sixteen and good God it would kill him. Whereas with me it just that was my life. Oh yeah.
TO: Did you have any favourite wartime entertainers?
PO: Wartime?
TO: Entertainers.
PO: I only ever once saw an ENSA concert. My biggest regret is that I was at the time at Exeter and Glenn Miller came and I didn’t go. I wish to God I’d gone because he was at, he came to Exeter with the US Air Force Band. Yeah. But other than that I saw one ENSA. No, I did see an American entertainment once. Yeah. So I saw one ENSA concert and one American one but my biggest regret is I should have gone, why I don’t know but Glenn Miller. Yeah. But there you go. What’s past is past. You can’t alter the past.
TO: So what happened after you’d met up with Allied troops at the Rhine? Did you start advancing with them?
PO: No. We got we were, the glider pilots got taken out of the line. We went back to a transit camp and two days or three days later we were flown back from [unclear] to in actual fact we went back to Brize Norton. We landed at Brize Norton and then from there we dissipated to our various squadrons. So, oh no. We didn’t. We didn’t do an awful lot of fighting believe you me. As I say I did more running away than fighting.
TO: Did you ever actually use the Bren gun in combat?
PO: Oh yeah. Yeah. Yeah. A bit. Yeah, it was. I mean on one occasion we were with a group of about eight or nine troops. What regiment they were I haven’t got a clue but they were there were two young officers with them. I remember that and we were there in this wood and lo and behold about forty Germans went across and these guys stood up, put their binoculars up to their, and said, one said to the other, ‘Jeremy, there are some Jerries over here.’ And I thought you don’t need [laughs] I’m on the floor I can tell you keeping my head down. I could see them. Didn’t need to stand up with binoculars to look at these Germans but we we let them go. You know it was over. We knew it was over. You know. No point in killing them. We’d done our fighting. As I say we were on our way back to the transit camp to be flown home. Yeah. So as I say I had a very easy war. I really did.
TO: Was the Bren gun a good weapon?
PO: Yes. I was happy with it for all it [pause] I mean when we were running away around my waist I had got a lanyard and the barrel catch would occasionally catch on to this and the guts of the Bren gun would fall out and I’d have to stop. Now, I was in a, there were about I don’t know about fifteen or twenty of us sort of sneaking away and I’d stop and put the Bren gun together again very quickly. But every time I stopped somebody would pass me and I think I nearly finished up at the tail end of this little, little group who were running away. Yeah. Talk about, but it was, it was a good weapon. It was a good weapon. Very slow rate of fire when you consider that like the Germans I mean their weapons, automatic weapons were, were like sewing machines you know. Zzzz zzzz zzzzz where as ours went bang bang bang sort of thing. Yeah. Oh yes. Very. I mean, I forget what the rate of fire of a Bren is at the moment. Something like a hundred and twenty a minute or something. But yeah, it‘s, it was a good, a good weapon. It lasted throughout well. Lasted well throughout the war and beyond. Yeah. Yeah.
TO: And can you tell me about the training you did in gliders? Like when you were practicing landings.
PO: Well, yeah. I mean the skill in flying basically is landing. Taking off is pretty straightforward and easy really as long as you obeyed the rules. Landing is, is always the problem but you know the more you do I mean we would do maybe with a Hamilcar for example we would do if we were flying we’d probably fly for ten minutes on a circuit and then land and roll to a stop. The tug wagon would come out and pull us back to the start and we would, and we just did circuits and landings. I mean the clever bit is landing it in one piece and well that was it, that was it you know. I mean landing a Tiger Moth is far harder. I found far harder because you basically do a three point landing you know. You’re virtually at a stall whereas with the glider you flew in at whatever the airspeed was and plonked it on the floor and it was a very, very forgiving aircraft really. I mean okay you could have some hard landings but in the main you know you just fly them straight on to the floor.
TO: When you were heading towards the landing site —
PO: Yeah.
TO: Did you have to be on the look out for things like tall trees or power lines?
PO: On transit no because we were flying above any possible obstructions. Our landing sites were usually I mean operationally our landing sites were fairly open land. I don’t honestly recall being warned of any. The only obstructions I think we were ever talk about was sort of hedges or barbed wire fences type of thing. Other than that pylons and stuff where we were I don’t think anything like that existed to be honest with you. No. No. Oh no. If there were I don’t recall it I must admit. I can’t even recall seeing a pylon. Okay. You’d get the telephone wires and poles like that but you know they were on, on the road as it were as opposed to being in the fields. Yeah. I mean there were some big fields in Germany believe you me.
TO: And was it a field you landed in in Germany then?
PO: Well, it was we actually landed in a very small field I can tell you [laughs] yeah. It was without doubt we were running out of space big time but once it dug into the ground you know as I say we had no control so once we hit the ground the ground was very soft and we pulled up a bit smartly and as I say then it stood on its nose. Yeah. Yeah. But [pause] yeah.
TO: And before the Hamilcar crash landed in Germany did you, were you telling the, everybody on board to brace for impact or —
PO: No. I didn’t. I doubt, once we were hit I think we were a bit too busy to talk to anybody down below. I mean we were already in in free flight when we were hit so we were you know looking for where we ought to be and then we were hit and it was just a question of fighting the aircraft. I mean when you think the tail trimmer was only about that size on a Hamilcar. That’s the only control we’d got and that only altered attitude. Directional. We were just sitting tight and you know our buttocks were very tight together [laughs] and hold on. We’re going to hit the ground boys. What they thought down below I haven’t got a clue. In fact, I don’t honestly know whether the actual fuselage where the load was I don’t even know if that was ever hit with ack ack fire or small arms fire or anything. I really don’t. I just know that we lost this great big chunk of port wing and then all our controls. We got hit in the fuselage and all our controls went out the window. And that was it.
TO: And do you know which, what kind of guns were shooting at you?
PO: Just about everything. I mean when we got on the ground there was an immediate resupply by a Liberator aircraft and they came over at about two hundred and fifty feet. That was all. With their bomb doors wide open dropping all the resupply kit and near us there was, must have been an anti-aircraft battery. They were good. They shot down about four of these Liberators just like that. Bang bang bang you know. Lots of noise and whatnot but whether they were eighty eights or forty mil or thirty mil Oerlikons or what I haven’t got a clue. But lots, there was lots of ack ack fire believe you me. Oh yes. I mean, you know what a lovely target. A great big glider flying along slowly. I mean if you can’t hit that you shouldn’t be in the shooting game. Oh dear.
TO: And did the, you, did you or any of your men manage to pick up any of those resupplies?
PO: I didn’t personally. No. No. In fact, I lost quite a bit of kit. I mean I came out of that with my Bren gun and one magazine. That was all I’d got. A Bren gun and a magazine and that was all I came away from that aircraft and as I say as for the gunners I don’t know what they did. I mean whether they, whether they got mortared and you know were sort of damaged or what I don’t know. I really don’t know. I should have. Not that I say I should. I know an armoured regiment spoke to me about this tank falling out of the glider but as for the seventeen pounder guys I don’t know what happened to those gunners. I really don’t know. Yeah.
TO: So did you only have one clip of ammunition when you took the gun away.
PO: Yeah, I just I just had one. One magazine in the Bren gun and believe you me if the rabbit had have popped it’s head up near me it would have got the lot I can tell you [laughs] yeah.
TO: So did you use the ammunition at all or did you not?
PO: I used some of it. Not all of it because you know targets don’t stand still sort of thing. You know what I mean. I mean it’s so easy. You see some of these things on television these days where they’re letting off their AK47s and they seem to rattle it out and its cost is no no consequence to them. They’re not bothered. No. There was no resupply as far as I was concerned at the time. Oh no. I mean we went to clear a wood and as I say it’s [pause] I don’t know.
TO: So did you join up with a group of other soldiers and eventually met up with other allied soldiers?
PO: Yes. Eventually yeah. We, yeah we, we met. Now, again I don’t know if they were Irish Fusiliers or whether they were Ox and Bucks. I know that we were, we were told or asked to go and clear a path to a wood across these open fields and all the way across. Beauman and I joined these guys and I I think they must have been Irish guys because all the way across these other guys were saying, you know, the effing Ox and Bucks. We’ve got two effing glider pilots here but none of the effing Ox and Bucks want to come with us so to speak. But we hared across these fields and got to the wood as luckily there was nothing in the wood which was just as well. But all, and I just remember going across a barbed wire fence and dashing across this field in the open and I thought this is a bit dicey but, you know. Oh yeah. All part of life’s gay pattern.
TO: Did you feel relieved though when you met up with the allies who’d crossed the Rhine?
PO: I must have done. Must have done. Yeah. The first troops I think I met that I can recall were a Canadian armoured regiment and they, they were quite happy. And then we met some troops that had come over the Rhine and they couldn’t believe that we’d left the UK only the day before and that we’d be back in the UK within a week because they’d been there since D-Day. Yeah. I mean some guys had a really rough war. They really did. I mean you know gosh just as well I didn’t stay in an infantry regiment.
TO: Do you happen to hear, be familiar with the name Koppenhof Farm at all?
PO: No.
TO: Okay. Just asking because there was a soldier I interviewed ten years ago who had been in the Royal Ulster Rifles. He landed in the Rhine crossing.
PO: Yeah.
TO: In a place called Koppenhof Farm and because he well it must have been relatively close to Hamminkeln.
PO: Yeah.
TO: Because he said his commanding officer died when his glider, when their glider crashed near there but I just wondered if maybe you had been in a similar area but —
PO: Well, I might have been. I mean I know we crossed the railway line a couple of times to get where we wanted. Well we got back to Hamminkeln. That’s where we, I finished up. In Hamminkeln.
TO: Yeah.
PO: But of course on the railway station there there was two wrecked gliders. They’d landed right on the blooming railway line. Right on Hamminkeln itself.
TO: That was one of the gliders though that this man was talking about because he said his commanding officer was a chap called Major Vickery who was in one of the gliders that crashed into the railway station and he was killed.
PO: Ah well there you go. Yeah. Yeah. I mean I remember seeing that glider. Yeah. Equally I saw a Horsa fly in to a tree and just break up like a box of matches being thrown everywhere. Yeah. Yeah. Exciting times at the time. Yeah.
TO: And did you happen to see any German civilians when you were there?
PO: Oh yes. Yeah. Actually, I met children rather than adults because one lad he was part of the Todt [?] Labour Association and he said that the Germans had lined them all up and more or less said, ‘What are you?’ And if you said German Jew they shot them. Terrible as it sounds this is what he said to me. But I remember we, I’d got some soap. Don’t ask where it came from. I really don’t know. I must have looted it out of somebody else’s stuff and I gave him this soap. Well, you’d think I’d given him a bar of gold. I mean he put it to his nose and of course the smell of Lux soap as it were. Yeah. I don’t know what happened to that kid. He stayed with us for quite a few hours and then disappeared. Whether he was being street wise or what I don’t know. No. I didn’t of course there was a non-fraternisation ban on so you weren’t supposed to talk to any German civilians but where we were there was only the odd farmhouse and stuff like that you know outside of Hamminkeln itself there was nothing. I mean I went to Goch to look at Goch. By jingo that was, that had been fought over a couple of times. That was a total wreck that town. But no. Yeah. So then we got on. I’m sorry, that’s, that’s me such as it is.
TO: Did you get to talk with any other German prisoners?
PO: No. No. I, I was sent to guard some prisoners. There must have been I don’t know a couple of hundred of them and all I’d got at the time was a fighting knife. That’s all I’d got. My fighting knife. And they were all standing there and sitting there and one thing and another and one of our officers came up or an officer came up. I don’t know if he was one of our officers and spoke to one of the German officers and this German officer spit at him. And I thought he’s going to kill him. I really did. But believe you me there I was with all these prisoners so called all very happy I think to be prisoners but just as well because if they’d have raised up and started to make any trouble I’d have, I’d have been off like a rocket I can tell you on my own with all these guys. Yeah. No. Yeah. That’s it. All little sort of vignettes of memory coming up here one way or the other.
TO: And what happened when you got back to Britain? What were your responsibilities then?
PO: Well, the first thing was when we got to Brize Norton the Customs and Excise people wanted to know what, what we’d brought back with us and of course we’d got nothing basically. We were just us. And then I went back to to Tarrant Rushton which was down near Bournemouth. It was, that’s where my squadron was based so I went back there in the hut. Got in the hut and I think there were only two of us left out of the hut who came back. So we lost, out of, out of the hut we must have lost I don’t know about ten guys I suppose. Yeah. Because we then sorted out all their kit. I remember sorting out their kit. Yeah. I had enough handkerchiefs to see me through the rest of my service career I think out of these guys kits. I wasn’t, wasn’t sending those home to their wives and daughters. Handkerchiefs. They were like gold. Yeah.
TO: And did your co-pilot come back with you?
PO: Yeah. Oh yes. Bert and I came. Yeah. Yeah. Oh yes. Yeah. And, and also Bert wasn’t in my, wasn’t in my hut funnily enough. Who was with me? Was it Geoff Higgins? There were two of us in our hut. That was all out of the ones that left only a week before sort of thing. Yeah. Yeah.
TO: And do you remember the day the war ended?
PO: Oh, very much so. I was at Fairford the actual day the war ended when, because we were converting then onto Wacos to go to the Far East. Being lectured about Bushido and all the rest of it. What a load of rubbish. How to behave if we were taken prisoner by the Japanese. Good God. The Japanese would have just killed us the way it seemed they were inclined to treat their prisoners. But yeah, that was it. We all cheered. We really did and then of course we started getting parties you know. The Australians would be going home so we’d have a party in the mess for them and then the Canadians were going home. You know. And these were RAF people not glider pilots. RAF people out of 38 Group towing. Halifax pilots and stuff like that, you know. Tow pilots. Yeah. Yes. Happy days that was. Yeah.
TO: Do you remember what you did to celebrate?
PO: Yes. Now, let me think. VE Day. VE Day what I’ve just been saying was VJ Day thinking about it. VE Day I was on leave. I was in London with my, my future wife. Yeah. We had a great day. That was a great day dancing like idiots around Trafalgar Square and one thing and another. That was really a super day that. But the whole world was you know celebrating. The fact that there was still fighting going on in the Far East didn’t mean anything. It was, you know the European war had finished. Great. We were going to have a great time and it was [pause] It was. Yeah. Yeah. Oh God. Yeah. Yeah. Then I got married and was married for seventy two years. That’s a long time.
TO: And what are your thoughts on how warfare has changed in the time since?
PO: Oh, it has totalled. I mean the first war if you like was in Northern Ireland and that was terrible. You know. You didn’t know who, who your enemy was. I mean, I was still in the Forces but I wasn’t involved in any way, shape or form in Northern Ireland. I’d have hated to go to Northern Ireland from what I’ve been told by Royal Marines as much as anything. But I mean the war in Afghanistan that was a waste of time and money in so many ways. If the Russians couldn’t do them I mean the Russians had a go at Afghanistan and failed miserably and the Americans and ourselves what have we achieved? Nothing. It’s as far as I’m concerned I might be very uneducated in that sort of respect but I I think that the shape of warfare is so different. I mean I got a letter from a lieutenant general the other day saying that his daughter was currently in the Royal Artillery but she was just flying drones. Now, I mean you know drones. Good God in my day something like a drone would have been [pause] just imagine a drone being over the battlefield in the Second World War. But here now of course young people are sitting in a hut in Lincolnshire flying drones out over the Far East. Warfare has changed just so much. In many ways its frightening. As long as we, these little wars I mean the war that’s taking place at the moment in, you know with Russia and with, what’s the [pause] come on what’s the name of the country? I’ve lost it.
TO: Ukraine.
PO: Ukraine. I mean we’re supplying them with weapons and what are we doing? I wouldn’t mind betting it’s just a proving ground for our latest technologies to see how well it works you know. As long as we keep away from the atomic business. That’s the frightener. That really is the frightener. I mean I remember after the war when I was at a conference and they said the Russians are only two hours flying time away and we were on about going nuclear after, after forty eight hours. We would have gone nuclear and stuff like this. That was frightening at the time. I mean since then, I’m now talking of 1950s and now, now things have got even worse. No. As long as Putin doesn’t go over the top because that could be, really could be terrible. Terrible. What do you think about it?
TO: I just think it’s probably the most as it were filmed, media televised war we’ve seen. It’s almost every action is being filmed on either a phone, a drone or a camera somewhere. It’s probably the first war where you’re almost watching it in real time if you like.
PO: Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. True. Very true. Yeah. I hadn’t thought of it quite like that. Yes. It’s so immediate isn’t it today? Yeah.
TO: Have you watched any of the things like the footage that’s been almost live from the front line?
PO: Oh yeah. I, I’ve seen what everybody else sees on on the box you know. Some of these war reporters I mean good God. Talk about putting themselves in to danger but of course it’s such a big country isn’t it? It’s huge. I mean it’s the size of France and Germany I understand. Well, France is a damned big country on its own let alone tack Germany on to it. And here you’ve got to so I don’t know. I mean I can’t see the Russians winning that war. The West won’t let them win it. But the ramifications of it affect everybody. I mean like these grain convoys and stuff like this and taking out power supplies for the civilians and terrible you know. It’s diplomacy failed totally. You know. We can’t talk to you so we’ll fight you. No good.
TO: I’m afraid I’m out of battery on my camera at the moment. Would you mind if we stop there?
PO: Yeah. [unclear] yeah.
TO: Thank you very much for speaking to us. It’s been wonderful.
PO: No, well, I as I say when I think when you, when you screen through that you’ll be very disappointed that my war was a totally different war to almost everybody else’s I think. It doesn’t, there was no great heroics in it. It was just the way it was. Yeah. Well great. Well, that’s very kind of you to be so generous with your comment and I wish you well with your project.
TO: Thank you. Thank you.
Dublin Core
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Title
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Interview with Peter Offord Davies. Part One
Creator
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Tom Ozel
Date
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2022-11-05
Type
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Sound
Format
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01:57:18 audio recording
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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ADaviesPO221105-AV
Coverage
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British Army
Royal Air Force
Language
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eng
Description
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Peter was born in Coventry. Although in the army, Peter was stationed on RAF airfields and joined the Royal Warwickshire Regiment in October 1938, aged 16, transferring to the Royal Artillery. He then joined the Army Air Corps (AAC) and was part of the Glider Pilot Regiment.
Peter first learnt to fly powered aircraft at Elementary Flying Training School and was then attached to the 9th United States Air Force. He flew in C-47s, then went back to C squadron, flying Hamilcars. When the war finished, Peter went to Fairford and converted onto Waco CG-4As to go to the Far East.
Peter discusses the time leading up to the Second World War, his views on Chamberlain and Churchill, and how prepared the country was for war. He describes his training and time as a boy soldier.
He trained at RAF Stoke Orchard on Hotspur gliders, towed off the ground by Master aircraft. When he left Glider Training School he went on Horsas, towed by C-47s. Hamilcars needed four-engined bombers: 38 Squadron Halifaxes. Peter describes flying these different gliders.
Peter recounts in some detail the Rhine crossing in which they were hit by anti aircraft fire and landed nose down before escaping to Hamminkeln and ultimately returning to RAF Brize Norton and then to his squadron at RAF Tarrant Rushton. He talks about his Bren gun.
Peter expresses his pride and the many friendships made. He also praises several generals for their roles in the war.
Peter discusses the VJ and VE Day celebrations and how warfare has since changed.
Temporal Coverage
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1938
1945-05-08
1945-08-15
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--Dorset
England--Oxfordshire
Germany
Rhine River
Germany--Hamminkeln
Contributor
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Sally Coulter
Julie Williams
Carolyn Emery
38 Squadron
anti-aircraft fire
C-47
Chamberlain, Neville (1869-1940)
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
crash
Halifax
Hamilcar
Horsa
military ethos
RAF Brize Norton
RAF Tarrant Rushton
training
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1406/36701/MRosserLV745193-190517-11.1.pdf
d07880981e8578bc459201d5acb13bd3
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Rosser, Lewis Victor
L V Rosser
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2019-05-17
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Rosser, LV
Description
An account of the resource
154 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Lewis Victor Rosser (b. 1919, 745193 Royal Air Force) and contains his log books, a diary of his operations, notebooks, documents, correspondence and an album. He flew operations as a pilot with 35, 58, 51 and 115 Squadrons. <br /><br />The collection includes a <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/2133">Photograph album</a> with photographs of people and aircraft, artwork cards, newspaper cuttings and documents. <br /><br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Ann Godard and Joy Shirley and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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Rosser
745193 SGT. ROSSER
[underlined] Form 407. [underlined]
ROYAL AIR FORCE
LARGE NOTE BOOK
T.4821. Wt. 331 140,000 Bks. 5/39. W. & S. Ld. (212476F.)
[Page Break]
[Blank Page]
[Page Break]
[inserted][missing letters] istration [/inserted]
1/. [underlined] Air Force Act [/underlined] – [underlined] General [/underlined]
2/. [underlined] Air Force Act [/underlined] – Sess. 4-44
3/. [underlined] Air Force Act [/underlined] – evidence
4/. [underlined] Air Force Act [/underlined] Rules of
5/. [underlined] Air Force Act [/underlined] Powers of C/O
6/. [underlined] Air Force Act [/underlined] – Explanation of following paras KR 1070 – 1073
1075 – 1078
1080 – 1083
1085 – 1088-9
1092 – 1094-7
1099 – 1103
[underlined] K/R’s [/underlined] A.C.1.
Are a collection of administrative regulations and instructions laid down with authority of the King, issued by the Air Council and amended from time to time. K.R’s are for the guidance of all R.A.F. personnel in regard to the A.F.A. A copy is available for reference in connection therewith it is advisable to see that the particular copy is properly amended.
[underlined] Par 1020. [/underlined] [deleted] Digit [/deleted] [underlined] Acquaintance with regulations. [/underlined]
1/. [underlined] Every Officer [/underlined] will make himself acquainted with and obey as far as he is able enforces the K.R.’s A.C.I for RAF. All other regulations instruction & orders which may from time to time be issued. He will also conform to established customs and practices of the services.
2/. [underlined] Every Airman [/underlined] will be held personally responsible for making himself acquainted with (a) Station [inserted] standing [/inserted or local orders & instructions which are necessary for the performance of the duties apertaining [sic] to his service employment. (b) such orders and details of duties in barracks. (c) he will further be required to perform the customs and practices of the service.
Applicable to both – ignorance of daily duties and orders will not be permitted as excuse for non-observance.
[Page Break]
1071 [underlined] Official Secrets Act. [/underlined]
1/. It is the C/O’s responsibility to ensure that all persons under his employ are acquainted with the provision of the official secrets act, 1911 & 1920. The poster form 520 relating to the official secrets act will be displayed prominently throughout the stations and headquarter offices.
1022 [underlined] Disclosure of Information[/underlined]
[underlined] Sect. 1A.[/underlined] R.A.F. personnel will exercise greatest care to avoid disclosing any information relating to official matter to anyone outside the service in such circumstances as to insur [sic] any risk of such information being made public or otherwise reading unauthorized persons. 1B/. Officers seconded for service under the Foreign Office or any other Government dept. likewise must not disclose information relating to official matters with express permission of the official concerned.
[underlined] Sect. 2. [/underlined] Personnel are forbidden to communicate any service information which might directly or indirectly assist an enemy to any person other than a/. the person to whom he is authorized b/. one to who, it is his duty to communicate it.
[underlined] Sect 3. [/underlined] Personnel are forbidden to rubbish any form whatever or communicate directly or indirectly to the press any service information or views of any service subject with special authority; also he will be held responsible for any statements contained in communications which may subsequently find their way to the press, he will not pre-judge questions which are under the consideration of superior authority either anonymously or otherwise of his opinion and he will not take part in pubic in any discussion relating to orders, regulations or instructions issued by this superiors.
[underlined]Sect. 4. [/underlined] Any information of a professional or technical
[Page Break]
nature which a person may require in the performance of the duties well be regarded as the property of the Air Council and will not be published or communicated either or orally or in writing to any person not directly employed in the service of the Air Ministry without the previous sanction of the Air Council.
[underlined] Sect. 5. [/underlined] Officers Retired. Clauses 1-4 concern an officer or airman retired or has ceased to be an officer or airman no longer on the active service list or no longer in regular Air Force service.
[underlined] Sect. 6. [/underlined] In dealing with commercial firms performing work for the Air Ministry care will be taken to ensure that particular trends of development on any given matter which should be left secret are not made known to the firm.
[underlined] Sect. 7. [/underlined] Personnel are forbidden without permission from the Air Ministry to publish any article whether pertaining to be fiction or fact which in any way deals with Naval, Military or Air Force subjects. This also cover broadcasting of talks.
[underlined] Sect. 8. [/underlined] Process whereby permission to publish or broadcast service information. When permission is sought under the above sect.7 – either to publish or broadcast the matter intended with either be typewriter or in proof form and will be submitted in duplicate through the usual channels in the Air Ministry accompanied by a statement from the authority under whom the subject is serving to the effect that there is no objection for permission to be applied for. One copy of document submitted will be kept at the Air Ministry for future reference. The permission will apply only to the proof submitted and
[Page Break]
no alternation therein will not be made except of a rarely editorial nature. Permission if given will not convey endorsement of the contents of the documents and no statement tending to imply official endorsement will be included in any part of the published article nor will any reference [deleted] [indecipherable word] [/deleted] be made to the fact that the A/M sanction has been obtained. The individual concerned in regard to same will take particular care that no information of the nature referred to in Sect. 3 or 4 is communicated to the publishing or broadcast it authorities until the A/M permissions has been granted.
[underlined] Sect 9. [/underlined] Official report or correspondence or copies thereof will not be furnished without the special sanction of the A.O.C. or C.O. communicating.
[underlined] Sect 10[/underlined] Press reporters or photographers will not be permitted to attend the trials of any aircraft.
[underlined] Sect 11. [/underlined] Allowing admission to stations by means of passes which are provided to restrict authorised persons from entering and for identification purposes. Disclosure within the service of information concerned is secret or confidential publications.
[underlined] 1073 Communication to the Press[/underlined] Sect. 1. Any communication affecting the service generally or any branch of service which it may be considered desirable to be made known to the press will be made by the A/M communications will be made to the press only where they obey affect the command concerned and then they will be made by command H.Q. exactly as provided in the following clause. Sect 2. Article or notice containing non professional or non technical subjects which do not contravene 1072 and nominal or athletic matter may be communicated to the masses
[Page break]
by an officer or an airman but a C/O will be responsible for taking disciplinary action should any personnel under his command publish matter in the press which is objectionable either in form or imbalance that is likely to reflect disdain on the service.
[deleted] 10 [/deleted] Sect. 3. Communications to the Press. Press representations (including reports or photographs) visiting air force stations are received by officer- preferably [indecipherable word] C/O. will ensure that regulations in correction with such visits will be obscured.
Fly facilities for the press by A/M Authority.
1075. Definition of a C/O – Generally the station commander. On large stations unit commanders may be granted disciplinary powers of a C/O but only on authority if the A/C. Such authority being published in orders.
Every officer however temporary or cancel his command may be in the [indecipherable word]
Of an accused person [inserted] K.R’s or H.C.I.S or confirm of service member time [/inserted] he is responsible for listing disciplinary action against the accused.
1076 [deleted] Prof [/deleted] Prevention of Crime
A C/O will exact every effort to prevent crime and to prevent any tendency to [indecipherable word] its existence. There is a tendency sometimes on the hurt of weak officers and N.C.O.S to pass over offences. This is most subversive of discipline and generally leads to the more serious offence. Whilst not encouraging charging more with offences that are merely incidents steps should be taken to avoid the screen of offences.
1077. Responsibilities in General. 1. An officer is responsible at all time for maintenance of good order and discipline. 2. An officer is to afford utmost aid to his C/O. It is his duty to notice, suppress and instantly report any negligence or impropriety of any airman either in or off duty and whether the officers do or do not belong to his particular unit.
1078 Treatment of subordination – An officer will at any time adopt towards his
[Page Break]
no alteration there in will not be made except of a purely editorial nature. Permission if given will not convey endorsement of the contents of the document and no statement tending to imply official endorsement will be included in any part of the published article nor will any reference [deleted] [indecipherable word] [/deleted] be made is the fact that the A/M sanction has been obtained. The individual concerned in regard to same will take particular care that no information of the nation referred to in Sect 3 or 4 is communicated to the publishing or broadcasting authorities until the A/M permission has been granted.
[underlined]Sect 9. [/underlined] Official reports or correspondence or copies thereof will not be furnished without the special sanction of the A.O.C or C.O Commanding.
[underlined]Sect 10. [/underlined] Press reporters or photographers will not be permitted to attend the trial of any aircraft.
[underlined]Sect 11. [/underlined] Allowing admission to stations by means of passes which are forwarded to restrict unauthorised persons from entering and for identification purposes. Disclosure within the service of information concerned is secret or confidential publication.
[underlined]1073 Communication to the Press [/underlined] Sect 1. Any communication affecting the service generally or any branch of the service which it may be considered desirable to be made known to the press will be made by the A/M. Communication will be made to the press only when they solely affect the command concerned and then they will be made by command H.Q. except as provided in the following clause. Sect 2. Articles or notice containing non professional or non technical subjects which do not contravene 1072 and could or athletic matters may be communicated to the press
[Page Break]
by an officer or an airman but a C/O. will be responsible for taking disciplinary action should any personnel under his command publish matter in the press which is objectionable either in form or substance that is likely to reflect disdain on the service.
[deleted] 10 [/deleted] Sect. 3. Communications to the Press. Press responsibility (including reports of photographs) visiting Air Force station are received by officer preferably [indecipherable word] C//O. will ensure that regulations in connection with such visits will be observed. Flying facilities for the press by A/M authority.
1075 Definition of a C/O – Generally the station commander. On larger stations unit commanders may be granted disciplinary powers of a C/O but only as authority of the AS/C. Such authority being published in orders.
Every officer however temporary or [indecipherable word] his command may be in the C/O of an accused person [inserted] if N.R or H.C.I.S or action of service makes him [/inserted] he is responsible for listing disciplinary action against the accused.
1076. [deleted] Pre [/deleted] Prevention of crime. A C/O will exert every effort to prevent crime and to prevent any tendency to service its existence. There is a tendency sometimes on the part of weak officers and N.C.O.S. to pass over offences. This is most subversive of discipline and generally leads to the more serious offence. Whilst not encouraging charging men with offences that are merely incidents steps should be taken to avoid the screen of offences.
1077 Responsibilities in Guard. 1. An officer is responsible at all times for maintenance of good order and discipline. 2. An officer is to afford utmost aid to his C/O. It is his duty to notice, supress and instantly report any negligence or impropriety of any airmen wither on or off duty and whether the offender do or do not belong to his particular unit.
1078 Treatment of subordination – An officer will at any time adopt towards his
[Page Break]
subordination such treatment as will not only ensure desirable but ensure self respect and personal honour essential to efficiency. For obvious reasons an officer will not refuse an [inserted] W.O. [/inserted] officer or N.C.O. in the presence of other airmen unless it is necessary for the benefit of examples.
W.O.’s or N.C.O’s will be guided with the foregoing principals in dealing with each other and airmen. They will [deleted] [indecipherable word][/deleted] [inserted] avoid [/insert] offensive language or manner.
[underlined] 1080 Criticism of subversive [/underlined] An officer will refrain from remarking or passing criticism on orders of his superiors which may tend to bring them into contempt and will avoid replying if doing anything which seen or heard by or reported to that under him might discourage them or lead them to be dissatisfied with the conditions or with the service on which they are or may be employed.
[underlined] 1081 Complaints or grievance [/underlined] Complaints submitted to C.O. in writing =. It should not be offensive or indicative of insubordination. Officers are compelled by law to thoroughly investigate all complaints. False accusation must be avoided as they constitute as offences; there is no such charge as fictious complaint, but backless complaints constantly repeated may involve charges “conduct & prejudices”. Complaints are to be fully and distinctly stated. Anonymous complaints are forbidden as are collected ones.
[underlined] 1082. Conflicting Orders[/underlined] If received officer should represent orally the contrariety in correcting if time permits if order is still to be obeyed there must be no hesitation doing so.
[underlined] 1083 Testimonials and [indecipherable word] [/underlined] Forbidden in any form – particularly from public parties or [inserted] private individuals for services rendered in deformation of duty
[underlined] 1085 Communication an interview with A/M officials [/underlined]. An officer is forbidden to write private letters to officials at the A/M on official or personal matters such as promotion or postings etc.
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Such attempts by a personal to obtain favourable communication of my application by the use of outside influence are forbidden and if reported to will be regarded as an admission on the part of the applicant that the case in not good on its merits and will be dealt with accordingly. Likewise, if an interviewer is asked for on behalf of an officer by any person other than himself such communication will be deemed to have been made at his suggestion unless he can [deleted] [indecipherable word] [/deleted] disprove it.
[underlined]1088 Officers character impinged. [/underlined] When an officers character or conduct as a gentleman is impinged he must submit his case within reasonable times to his C/O for investigation. Pending investigation the officer may be suspended from duty where he will be under the same restrictions as an officer under open arrest, he will remain on effective strength return.
[underlined] 1089 Bankruptcy [/underlined]
If an officer finds himself seriously embarrassed financially either by bankruptcy, liquidation or legal proceedings & unable to meet his engagements he will at once notify full fact to his C/O. The C/O will report the circumstances to the C/O in counsil [sic] who will decide whether the officer may continue to hold His Majesty’s Commission.
[underlined] 1092 Political Meetings and Candidates for Parliament[/underlined]
Regular officers and airmen are not permitted to take part in the affairs of Government – even local. An officer [underlined] may [/underlined] be permitted to resign and an airman allowed his discharge or transfer to the reserve.
[underlined] 1093. Smoking [/underlined] – Forbidden on duty except by authority. Motor transport drivers must not smoke because of the risk of fire and because their attention may be distracted from the traffic – forbidden in aircraft except flying boars with metal hulls but not when refuelling
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and until all petrol is cleared away.
[underlined]1095. Gambling [/underlined] (or acting as bookmakers or agent to [indecipherable word]
Prohibited in stations, camps or barracks. A notice regarding this appears in order every 3 months.
[underlined] 1095 Intoxicants [/underlined] Forbidden in barrack rooms and other places specified in standing orders. Cpls. Or airman may have 1pt. of beer with dinner but only on dining hall
[underlined] 1096 Civil employment etc. [/underlined] An officer or airman on full pay is not permitted without sanction of the A/M to belong to the directorate or to take part in the officers of any Company. Nor is he allowed to accept any [underlined] continuous [/underlined] employment for profit.
An airman about to be discharged may accept invitation employment but if he’s [deleted] employ [/deleted] employed by a government department he must decide which pay to accept.
In case of civilian employment being permitted the A/M will not accept any responsibility to any damage, accident etc, while engage.
[underlined] 1097. Confidential reports [/underlined] – Officers. (In obeyance in wartime) Normally rendered annually on the 1st August. The privilleged [sic] reports never shown to the public but must be shown to the officer concerned.
If the views of the C/O or higher authority conflict the nest higher authority will investigate & communicate his decision. C/O’s or any other higher commander may if they consider necessary report at any time of an officer, but if the report is unfavourable the officer must use an initial name.
[underlined] 1099 Proceeding at inquest [/underlined] Officer to attend and watch proceedings. He should be prepared to give court particulars of [indecipherable word]
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nature of duties – care being taken not to act as advocate.
[underlined] 1100. Proceeding under ordinary law. [/underlined]
1./ Officers not subject to legal proceeding as individual whilst not carrying out A. Force duties – except that he is liable to flagrant offences.
2./ If proceedings instructed – must be immediately reports to A/M.
3./ Officers against ordinary criminal code of a person subject to the Air Force Act should be reported at once by the C/O. [deleted] for [/deleted] to the local police for civil action.
4./ In any criminal use where legally considered necessary full date to A/M.
5./ [underlined] Solicitor [/underlined] not to be employed on behalf of public either from proceedings or merely advice. [deleted] In very [/deleted] without reference to treasury solicitor. In very urgent cases one may be engaged but if possible [inserted] the treasury [/inserted] solicitor is to be engaged if none available an ordinary solicitor’s agent may be engage but a report send [sic] immediately to the treasury solicitor. Preliminaries only should be undertaken, remand asked for them treasury is to take over the caser. When legal advise [sic] is required full statement should be sent to A/M by C/O.
6. [underlined]Personnel made defendant in civil or criminal proceedings [/underlined] are responsible for their own defence unless the A/C rules otherwise/ If cases occur where [deleted] [indecipherable word] [/deleted] reimbursement of expenses are necessary full particulars are to be forwarded through the usual channels to the A/M and statement showing act complained of was one sanctioned of by competent authority and was within prescribed course of duty of defendant.
[underlined] 1101. Acquaintance with Air Force Act[/underlined]
C/O is responsible that every airmen under his command is
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acquainted with report of section 4-44 Air Force Act, they will from time to time be explained particularly to recruits so as to preclude possibility of ignorance on their part of the additional offenses and punishment to which they render themselves liable by becoming subject to air force law. A copy of the act is normally kept available at permanent stations. Every 3 months the C/O will ensure that the following notice is read out to the personnel under his command. Under the existing law any person who shall maliciously and advisedly endeavour to reduce any person or persons serving in H.M. Forces by Sccc, saved or Air from his irk her duty and allegiance to H.M. or to incite or stir up any such person or persons to commit any act of meeting or to make or endeavour to make any mutinous assembly or to commit any treacherous or mutinous practice whatsoever may, on being convicted of such an offence be sentenced to moral servitude for the natural life of such person.
[underlined]1102. Concealment of Venereal Disease. [/underlined]
In every unit there is to be a standing order that any airman suffering from V.D. is to report himself sick without delay, this standing order will be read to the unit on parade at interval not exceeding 3 months, care being taken to see that new recruits are to be informed on joining. Concealment of V.D. will be dealt with under sec.11 nor under 18 (3) or 40.
[underlined] 110. Witnesses in private law suits[/underlined] Application for the attendance of R.A.F. personnel as witnesses in private law suits to be reported through the usual channels to A/M. Direct if urgent. No evidence given.
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except on suppenna [sic]. A/M may claim privilege on grounds of currency or otherwise. On special occasions only will an officer or airman be granted permission to give evidence as expert witnesses.
[underlined]Air Force Law [/underlined]
[underlined] Air Force Act.[/underlined]
[underlined] Sect. 1. [/underlined] By the law of England a man who joins the Air Force as an officer or airman does not cease to be a citizen, with few exceptions his position under the ordinary law of the land is unaffected. If he commits and offence under the civil law he may be tried and punished for it as an ordinary civilian. Similarly civil rights and responsibilities although few privileges are given him and a few restrictions informed on him the ordinary law applies to him. Whilst however remaining subject to these qualification of the ordinary law of England he has become subject also to an entirely distinct code know as ‘Air Force Law’ which governs the members of the Air Force and regulates the conduct of officers and airmen at all times and all pleas in peace & in war, at home & abroad. Air Force Law is contained in the Air Force Constitution act of 1917.
The Air Force Act and the Air Force Annual Act supplemented by the realm of procedure by K.R. A.C.I. for the R.A.F which contains regulations as promotion etc. & by A.M.O’s & Regulations.
The Air Force Consultation Act established the Air Force, provides code for R.A.F.
The Air Force Act (in effect Army Act amended) & adapted to meet the needs of Air Force is a standard code dealing with discipline, court, martial, enlistment and other
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Air Force Act has no continuous operation for it contains only a Parliament from time to time derides. It is part of statute law of England & with considerable difference that it is administered by Air Force court & not by civil judges. It is constrained in same manner, and carried into effect under the same conditions as to evidence & otherwise as the ordinary criminal law of England. Purpose of these codes of Law:- [underlined] 1. [/underlined] discipline [underlined] 2.[/underlined]
Administration [underlined]1- [/underlined]To provide to the maintenance of discipline of other person part of or following the forces for this purposes acts & omission which in civil life are mere incidents namely desertion must, if committed by soldiers or airmen even in times of peace be made punishable offence whilst in war every act or omission which impairs a man’s fighting efficiency must be dealt with severely [underlined]2 [/underlined] To provide for administration i.e terms of service, billeting, enlistment etc. The term ‘Miliary Law & Air Force Law’ may therefore be used properly as including provision of both the above terms but in practice they are more often used with reference to the disciplinary provision only.
[underlined]Section 4-44 A.F.A [/underlined] Dealing with discipline i.e Crime & Punishments
a). [underlined]Offences in respect of Air Force Service [/underlined] (4.5.6)
Some of these offences carry punishment of [underlined] death [/underlined] such as treachery in the face of the enemy. Offences such as destruction of property or active service., holding correspondence with enemy, cowardice, are punishable with [underlined] penal servitude [/underlined]. Others carry more severe penalties in war than in peace. A sentinel sleeping or drunk at his post, or leaving it
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before relief, is liable to imprisonment in peacetime, penal servitude in war.
b.) [underlined]Mutiny and Insubordination [/underlined] (7.8.9.10.11)
Besides usual interpretation of these, neglect to obey general, local, and other orders can be proceeded with under this heading.
c) [underlined] Desertion. Fraudulent Enlistment & Absence without leave [/underlined] (12.13.14.15)
d) [underlined]Disgraceful Conduct [/underlined] (16.17.18)
Including embezzlement, Fraud and Malingering
e) [underlined]Drunkenness [/underlined] (19.)
f) [underlined] Offences in relation to Persons in Custody. [/underlined] (20.21. & 22)
Including releasing prisoners without proper authority, allowing prisoners to escape, unnecessary arrest, and wilful delay in furnishing an account of the offence, and when under arrest or confinement, escaping or attempting escape.
g) [underlined]Offences in relation to Property [/underlined] (23.24.25)
Including stealing, ill-treating, pawning, or losing by neglect any service equipment.
j) [underlined]Offences in relation to False Documents & Statements [/underlined] (25.27.28)
i) [underlined] Offences relating to Court-Martial. [/underlined] (28-29)
Including neglect to attend, refusal to take the oath, refusal to produce relevant documents, contempt of Court, false evidence etc.
j) [underlined]Offences in Relation to Billeting [/underlined] (30)
[underlined] Impressment of Carriages[/underlined] (31)
[underlined]Enlistment (32.33.34) [/underlined]
Making false statements in alteration papers.
[underlined] 35.36.37.38.39 Miscellaneous. [/underlined]
Concerns ill treatment of subordination – retention of pay due to others – fighting duels – attempting to commit suicide.
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Page 10
[underlined]39.a Aircraft [/underlined]
Neglectfully leaving or damaging AC low flying offences.
[underlined]40. Conduct prejudicial to discipline [/underlined]
[underlined] 41. Offences punishable by Civil Law [/underlined]
Personnel no way absolved from conforming to Civil Law.
[underlined] 4 + L43 Redress of Wrongs[/underlined]
[underlined] 44 Punishment for offences against aforesaid reactions.[/underlined]
For Officers/ For Airman
1) Death / 1) Death
2) Penal Servitude (Over 3 years) / 2) Penial Servitude
3) Imprisonment (Up to 2 years) / 3) Imprisonment
4) Cashiering / 4) Detention
5) Dismissal / 5) Discharge
6) Forfeiture of Seniority / 6) Reduction of Rank (N.C.O)
7) Reprimand / 7) Reprimand (N.C.O)
8) Stoppages/ 8) Forfeiture, fines & stoppages
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[underlined] Rules of Procedures [/underlined]
[underlined] Selection [/underlined]
[underlined]The Charge [/underlined]. Every C/O shall see that any charge against a person must be investigated within 24 hrs in presence of accused who may cross examine any witness against him and call witness in his defence, he may also demand that evidence be taken on oath.
The C/O may at end of hearing of charge – if accused is an airman, a) dispose of case [indecipherable word] b) refer it to the proper superior Air Force Authority c) Adjourn case to have evidence submitted in writing – accused however has the right to be tried by district court martial If he wished. Sentence up to seven days must be given f hours and over that in days.
[underlined]Powers of C/O [/underlined] A C/O if of rank above F/LT may award following [punishments to airmen A0 Detention up to 28 days [inserted] * nots. Forfeiture of pay [/inserted] b) fines for drunkenness only up to £2’s c) on active service field punishment up to 28 days d) in certain circumstances deduction of pay. A C/O below of Sqd/Lr. May award detention up to 168hrs dentation only and fines up to 16/- only for drunkenness.
[underlined] Court Martial. [/underlined]
3 types. If a court martial has been ordered- accused must be allowed free communication with his witnesses, with any friend, officer or
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Legal adviser & he must be given a copy of charge is order to prepare his defence. Rules of evidence present the prosecution from offering any evidence not directly bearing on the charge, a cop of summary of evidence must also be provided for the accused at least 24 hours prior to court. An officer must if at all possible be tried by his equals and in no case may an officer below rank of F/LT sit in court which is trying an officer of or above Rank of S/LR. Court proceedings are same as in the civil court. Officers making up court take their seats in order of seniority. President of court is responsible to see that all proceeding are in order. List of documents to be made immediately available.
1. K.R. & A.C.I. A.F.A 2. Rules of procedure 3. Bible
[underlined] On Active Service & Field General Court Martial [/underlined] may be held which if considering of these or more numbers has power to award any punishment a G.C.M. may award
[underlined]Court of Inquiry [/underlined] An inquiry may be made by Air Council, any officer in command & any officer in the Air Force. It is an assembly of officers to collect evidence and to make a declaration on any matter which may be referred to them such as cause of assistant, loss of service equipment etc.
[underlined] Evidence [/underlined] In court of Law judge laws down law & jury has to decide from fact. In majority of cases this is decided by evidence with oral or documentary. Evidence may also be direct or indirect, 1st eye-witness 2nd From persons who can supply fact enabling an inference to be drawn as to what really happened there often comes & point where indirect evidence has so little bearing upon the matter issue.
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that it becomes non-admissible. This is divided by judge or members of court martial.
Rules of evidence in court martial are same as in civil courts of criminal jurisdiction.
[underlined] Evidence [/underlined] a) What must be proved 1) only charge brough against prisoner or one differing only in degree, namely murder – manslaughter or unlawful wounding.
b) What facts are known 1) These are in law considered to be fact so well known it is unnecessary to prove them ex-c country at war. Concerns part of the British Commonwealth.
c) By which proof must be given. 1) Every person is assumed innocent until proved guilty and any person who alleges a fact must prove it. Prosecution for ex. Must establish rather fussy evidence of guilt but if prisoners’ defence is alibi he must endeavour to prove it.
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[Blank Page]
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[inserted] Airmanship] [/inserted]
[underlined]Accordance Procedure [/underlined] – A.P. 129 Par. 106-115 & A.P 129 App.7 & A.R 129 App1
[underlined] Care of Aeroplane[/underlined] – A.P 129 Chap. 2 Par. 10 & 11 & 15-23
[underlined] Engine Starting & Airservices [/underlined] Swing ring – A.P 129 Chap 2. Para. 47
[underlined]Action if the event of fire [/underlined] – AP.129 Chap 3 Par. 101 & 102
[underlined] Forced Landing Procedure [/underlined] – Chap 3 Par 157-170 Chap.2. Par 95-105
[underlined] Flaps & Flying Controls [/underlined] – Flaps AP 129 Chap.6. Par. 34 & 37
[underlined] Engines – 4 stroke internal [/underlined] combustion – chap 7 Par 2-7 A.P. 129
[underlined]Running faults [/underlined] AP.129 Chap 2 Par 88.
[underlined] Safety Precautions before flight [/underlined] A.P 129. Chap 2. Par 7.
[underlined] Regulations delivery with ballast [sic] [/underlined]
Must be of correct weight & Type securely fixed in proper position.
[underlined] Regulations dealing with safety harness [/underlined]
Must be used on all flights. Pilots responsible to all that both are securely fixed. Must be aware of quick release operation.
[underlined]Action of Pilot before flight [/underlined]
1/. Pilot must be fully acquainted with fuel & oil systems and endurance of plane.
2/. Pilot is personally responsible to see fuel is sufficient for flight. No rely on gauges.
3/. Pilot must ascertain how long & plane has flown [deleted]before [/deleted] since last flight.
4/. No Pilot must fly solo unless familiar of action to be taken in case of fire.
[underlined]Low flying [/underlined] Low flying practices may only be carried out with instruction over approved area. When forced to fly low by weather – report in low flying book giving Name Time Date Reason
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[underlined]Cross Country Fights. [/underlined]
1/ To be carried out at a minimum height of 2000’.
2./ No Flight to the attempted unless 2,000’ can be kept up.
3./ [underlined] Before setting off. [/underlined]
1./ Obtain favourable weather report.
2./ Obtain correct maps & route cards & 1415 (signed)
3./ Aircraft must have correctly working compass & serviceable watch.
4./ Aircraft is [underlined] filled [/underlined] with fuel & oil.
5./ Must report destination to the time keeper.
6./ No unauthorised landing.
4./ [underlined] Action before take-off[/underlined]
1./ Test controls & ensure free movement in correct direction throughout their entire range.
2./ That engine controls move freely but with sufficient resistance to ensure them checking set in correct positions.
3./ Run up engine with chocks properly placed.
4./ Use full length of ‘drome for take off
5./ Take off into wind
5./ [underlined]Regulations regarding aerobatics. [/underlined]
1/. Not to be carried out over populated areas.
2/. At sufficient height for manoeuvres to be carried out above 3,000’.
6./ [underlined] Flights over populated area [/underlined] – must be carried out at sufficient height to enable a glide to open country. Must not be below 2,000.
7./ No matches other than safety matches or firing lights are prohibited or potassium chlorate tablets.
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[underlined] Notes of the air. [/underlined]
In the case of two aeroplanes meeting head on both shall alter course to the starboard.
When on paths which cross the one that has the other one on its starboard side must alter course to starboard and go behind the other.
Fast aircraft overtaking slower must alter course to starboard.
Aircraft on surface of water obey regulations for prevention of collision at use.
Flying boat must give way to vessels. Power driven craft must give way to non power driven craft.
[underlined]Flying in cloud or fog. [/underlined] Shall fly at reduced speed & take all precautions having regard to circumstances. Must not fly immediately above or below cloud. Distance to be allowed for observations – to be seen and to see yourself.
[underlined] Take off [/underlined] ‘Plane must not turn from take off until at least 500 yds away from ‘drome boundary.
[underlined]Circuit Law [/underlined] must conform to this law when inside 2.500’ & below 6.500’
Circuit always left handed unless sign is placed for opposite. Left hand at night always.
[underlined] Procedure adopted approaching storage ‘drone[/underlined]
Approach [deleted] less than [/deleted] not above 120mph & above signal area at 2,000’ than circuit at 1,000’ to note bad ground w/s & direction & keep sharp lookout for other planes.
Climbing turns below 500’ not to be accrued out. Parachutes must be worn on all flights. Responsibility of pilot to see all passengers follow procedure.
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[underlined] Air endurance and Radius of Action. [/underlined]
1./ Air endurance must be measured in time.
2./ Total endurance – total time it stays in air on full tanks but fuel consumption will vary.
3./ Safe endurance is total endurance less 10%
1/. [sic] Radius of action is total distance in still air.
[calculation]
Generally defined as half range in still air.
[underlined] Aerodrome Procedure. [/underlined]
1./ Marking of aerodrome boundaries and bad ground.
2./ The Duty Flight is marked by a yellow hollow disc on a white standard.
3./ Circuit Rules.
4./ Visual recall signs for aircraft. See App VII
[underlined]Care of the Aeroplane [/underlined]
An aircraft which is dirty must be booked [indecipherable word] as unserviceable.
Petrol & paraffin must not be used to remove grease – only [indecipherable word] & hot wate.
Picketing – look up & draw diagram.
[underlined]Action in the event of fire [/underlined]
[underlined]Engine fire in air [/underlined]
1./ Turn off petrol
2/ Open throttle wide
3/ Switch off engine
4/ Use fire extinguisher if poss.
5/ Side slip away from flames
6./ If fire gains greater hold – head ‘plane for open country and jump.
7./ If fire exhausted under no circumstances start engine again – carry on with forced landing.
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[underlined] Forced Landing Procedure [/underlined]
In case of engine breakdown instantly start to glide.
Select suitable field – when field in selected do not change from that field.
How to select field.
1/ Of firm level surface with sufficient room to execute an up-wind landing.
2./ A clear up-wind approach.
3./ Proximity to some means of communication.
4./ Opportunity for goof take off.
General causes of engine failure
1./ Ignition switch accidentally switched off.
2./ Petrol accidently turned off.
3./ Mixture accidently changed.
4./ Loss of air pressure in tanks.
[underlined] Procedure after forced landing. [/underlined]
1./ Safe-guarding of ‘plane
2./ Estimation of damage to private property.
3./ Examination of ‘plan
4./ Communication to R.A.F. nearest unit.
5./ [indecipherable word] of ‘ plane
6./ Information to be given – No. Rank Name
No. & type of plane
Home aerodrome & destination
Position as grid or bearing and distance
Amount of fuel left.
Damage to private property – if any.
State of aeroplane – give particulars of any damage.
Description of field – size – surface etc.
Detailed description of obstructions.
If room for up-wind take off.
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[underlined] Procedures to be adopted on leaving for cross country flights.[/underlined]
Report to duty pilot giving following information:-
1./ Name & Rank 1./ Unit
3./ Type and No of aeroplane 4./ No. of crew
5./ Destination 6./ E.T.A
[underlined] Procedure on arrival at destination after cross country flight[/underlined]
1./ Taxy to duty flight 2./ Switch off
3./ Give instructions as to fuel etc
4./ Report to duty pilot giving 1./ Rank and Name
2./ Unit
3./ No. of passengers
4. Where from
5./ Destination
6./E.T.A.
7./ If weather doubtful; obtain permission to leave from C/O.
[underlined]Moving of aeroplane in and out of hanger [/underlined]
Use correct lifting places only.
Do not push on trailing edges of wings or any other weak part of structure.
A competent person must be in charge of operations/
[underlined]Moving of aeroplane over bad ground [/underlined]
Inspect ground thoroughly before commencing movement. Ise wooden planks as support for wheels.
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[underlined] The duties of a duty pilot [/underlined]
1./ Responsible for control of aerodrome traffic.
2./ Responsible for despatch and receipt of aircraft and any signals concerning them.
3./ The signal area is under his control and he is responsible for the laying of the landing ‘T’. changing the circuit if and when necessary etc.
4./ To report bad flying and obtaining and supplying a weather report.
5./He must arrange that any special equipment such as for signalling or night flying etc. is on order and ready for use.
[underlined] The duty flights [/underlined]
The duty flight is indicated by a large hollow disc on a white standard and is detailed to attend to any visiting aircraft.
[underlined] The Watch Office [/underlined]
The watch office is situated in front of hangers on the tarmac. At stations with a variable circuit the roof of same is panted yellow.
[underlined]Circuit Rules [/underlined]
Circuits are left handed at all R.A.F stations except training stations and statin laid down in A.P. 129 App. 1 Para. 14. At these circuits are variable.
[underlined] Night Flying [/underlined] – At all R.A.F. stations when night flying is in progress – circuits left hand.
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[underlined] FLAPS [/underlined]
Flaps are fitted to the wings as a means if altering their effective camber and angle of attach in flight. Similar to ailerons the whole trailing edge of the planes between the ailerons and the wing root being hinged to form a flap coupled so that they move up and down together.
The best gliding angle of a plane is increased by the use of flaps enabling a steeper glide. They are useful on high speck aeroplanes for making the gliding angle steeper and so clearing obstacles that might otherwise have prevented them from landing.
When flattened out for landing flaps reduce the landing speed, on the ground they act as an air brake and reduce the run.
Certain types when slightly depressed increase the lift of the wings without appreciably increasing the drag therefore reducing the take off run.
SEE DRAINGS OVER PAGE
[underlined] Circuit Indication. [/underlined]
a) From the Air. At normal left hand circuits no ground sign at all. When circuits are variable a red right handed arrow will be displayed on corner of signal area to indicate right hand circuit is in force. Note – signal area situated near watch office, in it are displayed all ground signals.
b) From the ground. At normal left hand circuits no signal. Variable or [deleted] right [/deleted] [/inserted] left [/inserted] hand circuits – red flag hoisted.
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on watch office mast. A green flag is hoisted on same for a right hand circuit.
[underlined] Ground Signals[/underlined]. Ref. A.P. 129 App 1
[underlined]Red Square [/underlined] indicated that a special rule applying to civilians are not in use.
[diagram]
[underlined]Red Right-handed Arrow [/underlined] – Right handed circuit
[Diagram]
[underlined] Red Square with two yellow diagonals [/underlined] indicated total prohibition of landing
[Diagram]
[underlined] Red Square with one yellow diagonal [/underlined] bar – temporary obstructions – aerodrome parity unserviceable. Special care to be taken on landing.
[Diagram]
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[underlined]Ground Signals Contd. [/underlined]
[underlined] A white hollow square of ground strip[/underlined] indicates bombing practice in progress. Sharp look-out to be kept for aeroplane bombing or diving. Land well away from target.
[Diagram]
[underlined] A red “G” on a triangular background[/underlined] indicated that aerodrome bas been subject to gas attack. Landing permitted but must taxi to upwind edge of aerodrome and wait till further orders.
[Diagram]
[underlined]A red “G” with a red strip underneath on a triangular base [/underlined]
Indicates that aerodrome has been subjected to gas attack and aircraft are not to land.
[Diagram]
[underlined]A yellow triangular equilateral pyramid hoisted on duty pilot’s mast [/underlined]
Indicated Lorenz beams in action. This is to warn pilots to avoid taxying across the beam.
[Diagram]
[underlined] A red ball 2’ in diameter, hoisted on mast and a white cross made by ground stripes [/underlined] Indicates parachute dropping in progress. Pilots are not to taxy, take -off or land. Tose in the air to fly to distance of not less that 2 miles from centre of ‘drome and not below 1.500ft.
[Diagram]
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[underlined]A white ‘dumbell’ [sic] [/underlined] indicates that runways only are to be used for landing and take off.
[Diagram]
[underlined] FLAPS [/underlined] – continued from over page.
[Diagram] THE PLAIN LANDING FLAP
[Diagram] THE SPLIT FLAP
[Diagram] THE ZAP FLAP
[Diagram] THE HANDLEY PAGE SLOTTED FLAP
[underlined] Landing ‘T’ [/underlined] & black ball on watch office mast. Land in direction of ‘T’.
[Diagram]
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[underlined] Navigation lights on single engine aircraft. [/underlined]
[Diagram]
[underlined] Starboard side[/underlined]:- Green light – constant to show unbroken light between two vertical planes when dihedral angle is 100 degrees – measured to the right from dead ahead. TO be visible for at least 5 miles.
[underlined]Port side [/underlined]:- Red light – constructed as starboard light. From dead ahead to the left. Visible for at least 5 miles.
[underlined] Rear [/underlined]:- White light – visible in a dihedral angle of 140 degrees bisected by a vertical plane through the line of flight, and visible for distance of at least 3 miles.
[underlined] Note [/underlined]:- The green and red side lights should be fitted so that green light should not be seen from the port side, nor the red light from starboard side.
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[underlined] PICKETING OF AEROPLANE IN OPEN [/underlined]
NOTE. This is a temporary measure to be adopted when no hanger space is available (To be carried out however settled the weather may appear to be).
[Diagram]
1./ Place aeroplane with head to wind in most sheltered position available.
2./ Control column to be lashed to neutral position
3./ Wheel brakes firmly applied.
4./ Chocks placed behind wheels – and in front if sufficient number available. (wheels may alternatively be placed in channels dug in ground.)
5./ Lashings to be fixed to mooring rings on [inserted] each [/inserted] wing tip, one leading forward and one to the rear.
6./ [inserted] x [/inserted] Lashings to be fixed from end of fuselage, away to each side from the tail skid or tail wheel bracket. (x- of wire or rope)
[Page Break]
[Diagram]
[underlined]PLAN OF VIEW OF MAGISTER RUDDER CONTROLS [/underlined]
1. RUDDER BARS
2. ADJUSTABLE RUDDER PEDALS
3. LINK PIVOTS
4. RUDDER BAR CONNECTING ROD
5. CONTROL CABLES
6. FAIR LEADS ON ELEVATOR COUNTER SHAFT BRACKETS
7. FIN
8. RUDDER
9. RUDDER LEVERS 9KING POSTS0
10. ADJESTABLE TURNBUCKLES
[Page Break]
[Diagram]
[underlined]ELEVATOR CONTROLS. MILES MAGISTER (SIDE VIEW) [/underlined]
1. Control columns
2. Torque tube.
3. Connecting rod.
4. Ball-race pivots
5. Elevator lever
6. Control Cables
7. Elevator Connector shaft
8. Connecting rod
9. Elevation lever
10. Tail Plane
11. Elevator
12. Rear torque shaft bearing.
[Page Break]
[Diagram]
[underlined]AILERON CONTROLS [/underlined]
[Page Break]
[underlined]Flying Controls [/underlined]
On modern small aircraft it is general practice to use cables throughout except at those points where the cables are greatly deflected out of their run. In such positions chains and sprocket wheels are used as the wear on a cable rounding a plain pulley wheel would be very great. Where the wire is only slightly deflected (less than 5°) fibre fair leads are used – split to facilitate the renewal of cables. If the deflection is more than five degrees a plain pulley is introduced to obviate unnecessary friction.
Turnbuckles are usually provided for the adjustment of cable. Controls in the cockpit are usually connected by means of bill plank levers.
[Page Break]
[underlined] RUNNING FAULTS [/underlined]
[a] SYMPTOMS [b] IGNITION DEFECTS [c] CARBORATION DEFECTS [d] LUBRICATIONSYSTEM DEFECTS [e] MECHANICAL DEFECTS [f] COOLING SYSTEM DEFECTS
[a] Engine will not start [b] Intermittent spark – defective magneto [c] No fuel [d] – [e] Loss of Compression – spark or valves loose [f] –
[a] Engine stalls [b] Sparks plugs oiled up [c] Defective fuel feed [d] – [e] Loss of compression – valves not seated properly [f] –
[a] Low oil pressure [b] – [c] – [d] Dirty oil filters [f] –
[a] High oil pressure [b] – [c] – [d] oil too cold – insufficient time to warm up [e] - [f] –
[a] Rough Running [b] Intermittent sparking. Requires adjusting [c] insufficient fuel supply – piping system obstructed. [d] [deleted] insufficient oil – tanks empty [/deleted] [e] Loss of compression valve not seated properly. [f] Engine too cold – insufficient time to warm up.
[a]Loss of power [b] no park – plugs oiled up [c] insufficient fuel supply – piping system obstructed [d] insufficient oil – tanks empty [e] loss of compression- valves not seated properly [f] insufficient cooling – air lock in system.
[a] Misfire [b] Spark plugs oiled up [c] water in fuel [d] excessive oil – badly fitted piston rings [e] loss of compression – valves not seated properly [f] –
[a] Popping back [b] wires disconnected [c] water or dirt in fuel [d] – [e] loss of compression valve springs broken [ Engine too cold – insufficient time to warm up.
[a] Black exhaust smoke [b] wires disconnected [c] unsuitable fuel [d] – [e] loss of compression - valve springs broken [f] Engine too cold – insufficient time to warm up
[a] Pre-ignition [b] Mags requires correct adjusting [c] unsuitable fuel [d] insufficient oil – tank empty [e] – [f] Insufficient cooling – air locks in systems.
[a] Overheating [b] Mags requires correct adjusting [c] unsuitable fuel [d] insufficient oil [e] loss of compression – valves not seated properly[f] Insufficient cooling – air locks in systems.
[a] Abnormal noises [b] Mags requires correct adjusting [c] unsuitable fuel [d] insufficient oil [e] loss of compression – valve springs broken Insufficient oil [f] –
[Page Break]
FOUR STROKE CYCLE
1.) [underlined]Induction [/underlined] Inlet valve open – piston moving downwards sucks in mixture.
[Diagram]
2.) [underlined] Compression [/underlined] Both valves closed – piston rising compressed mixture
[Diagram]
3) [underlined] Power [/underlined] Both valves closed. Spark fires mixture – mixture expands rapidly – forcing piston downwards.
[Diagram]
[underlined]Exhaust [/underlined] Exhaust valve open – upward movement of piston expels [indecipherable word] gases.
[Diagram]
[Page Break]
[underlined]THE FOUR STROKE ENGINE [/underlined]
[Diagram]
The power is produced by the explosion of air when heated by the burning of fuel in it. The heat causes a rise in pressure which drives the piston down towards the crankshaft.
During the four strokes the crank shaft will have travelled through two revolutions i.e. 270°
[Page Break]
[Blank Page]
[Page Berak]
[underlined] ARMAMENT [/underlined]
[underlined] STRIPPING AND ASSEMBLING[/underlined]
[underlined] POINTS TO BE OBSERVED [/underlined]
Ensure gun is unloaded & block closed i.e.. Breach block forward.
Always use correct tool.
Do not use force.
Test each part, and the complete gun, for correct functioning whilst assembling.
[underlined] STRIPPING[/underlined]
[underlined] REMOVE FLASH ELIMINATOR [/underlined] Take out split pin and unscrew ante-clockwise.
[underlined] REMOVE BACKPLATE [/underlined] Disengage catch and slide upwards.
[underlined]REMOVE RETURN SPRING ROD AND SPRING [/underlined] Push forward the rod, disengage and remove rod and spring.
[underlined] REMOVE BREACH BLOCK [/underlined] Raise cover. Pull back cocking stud and remove.
[underlined] REMOVE LOCK FRAME [/underlined] Hold barrel in left hand and lock frame in right, press forward excelarator [sic] claw and disengage from barrel extension.
[underlined]REMOVE BARREL [/underlined] Raise barrel locking spring and support it on side of barrel extension, unscrew and remove barrel. Take out pin and remove breach block locking piece from barrel extension. Remove barrel locking spring.
[underlined]TO REASSEMBLE – REVERSE PROCESS [/underlined]
{Page Break]
[underlined]STRIPPING OF THE BREACH BLOCK [/underlined]
1./ Pull cocking lever to the rear and release sear to ease firing pin spring.
2./ Hold switchplate [sic], raise transponder and remove it. Take switchplate [sic] plunger and spring.
3./Pull out axis pin and remove cocking lever.
4./ Place rear spring retainer keeper in central position and push out from underneath.
5./ Remove rear spring retainer taking care rear spring does not fly out. Remove rear spring.
6./ Remove rear retainer and rear.
7./ Take out firing pin and spring.
[underlined]POINTS TO WATCH WHILST ASSEMBLING THE GUN. [/underlined]
Ensure that the chamfered edge of the locking piece id at the top and towards the front. Engage ‘T’ projection of barrel extension between ramps of exceleration [sic] and end of barrel return spring plunger and push home the lock frame.
When inserting components into breach casing depress rear sear to clear rear sear [inserted] lever [/inserted] from bottom plate, and fit rear sear release unit before group is right home. Depress plunger of lock frame retainer to clear side plate. When replacing breach block, firing pin must be contact and cocking lever forward.
Rear sear must be disengaged to allow breach block to go forward
[Page Break]
Breach cover must not be closed until barrel and breach block are fully home.
[underlined] Ring Sight[/underlined]
Data Required:-
Target speed = 100m.p.h = [calculation]
Range = 200 yds
Sight Base = 36”
Bullet Speed = 24440 ft. per. sec
[Diagram]
Assuming A/C’s speed to be 100 m.p.h. across line of sight and bullet speed 2440 ft. per sec. it will be necessary to aim approx. 40 ft in front of target at 200yds. This distance is arrived at by converting target speed to ft. per. Sec. (22/15) and as bullet will only take approx. 1/4 of sec. to travel 200 yds, the target must travel for that same period of time only. If sight base is fixed at 36” size of ring required can be found by simple proportion sum. Target speed in 1/4 sec. = 40 ft. deflection. Range 600 ft. Sight base 36” [symbol] [calculation].
[Page Break]
[underlined] Browning Gun – General Description [/underlined]
[underlined] Details [/underlined]:-
Length of gun with flash elimination 44 1/2”.
Length of barrel – 24”
Weight of gun – 21lbs 14oz.
Weight of gun with firing and landing mechanism – 22lbs 12 ozs
Rifting – Enfield system – 1 in 10” – left handed
No. of grooves – 5
Ammunition – all types of S.S.A. .303” Mark VII
Method of fuel – belt
Rate of fire approx. – 1150 rounds per min.
Mountings. Fixed position. Wing or cockpit Free position Turrets installation.
Gun divided into 2 portions – for description only – recoiling and Non – recoiling portions.
[underlined]Non – recoiling portions [/underlined]:-
1) Barrel casing, which included muzzle attachment & flash elimination
2) Ternion block
3) Blast tube adapter
4) Breach casing; which included right and left side plates a& their fitting, - back plate – top & bottom plates – breach grooves and fuel mechanism.
5) Lock frame – which included the acceleration – barrel return spring – rear sear and their components.
[Page Break]
[underlined] MECHANISM [/underlined]
[underlined] ACTION OF RECOIL[/underlined]
At moment of explosion, breach, barrel extension and breach block, recoil as a single unit for almost 5/16”. This ensures that bullet has left muzzle before breach block is unlocked from barrel extension. The locking pins hides cam, positive action being assured through the prongs of the lock frame, engaging with the locking piece pin, thus the breach block is freed from barrel extension and is enabled to continue it recoil movement independently of the barrel portion.
The recoil of the barrel causes the T-shaped projection on the barrel extension to engage the plunger and compress the barrel returning spring, the movement totalling about 5/8” is arrested when the barrel extension butts against the lock frame. At the same time the barrel extension pushes the accelerator upwards, backwards and over centre, until its two ramps are interlocked with the front face of the T piece projection of the barrel extension. This locks barrel extension to lock frame against the pressure of the barrel return spring. As the accelerator rotates backwards its sorns strike against the bent of the breach block thus accelerating the moving block sharply to the rear.
The breach block is moving backwards compresses the return spring and cancels the cockling lever, through the engagement with its cocking lever bracket – to [indecipherable word] forward and draw back the firing pin. The rear sear under the action of its spring engages the bent of the firing pin and holds it in the rear position. At the same time the round which is gripped between the claws of the transporter and ejector is withdrawn from the
[Page Break]
and carried by the transporter to the rear. The breach block [deleted] and [/deleted] as it moved away from the barrel extracts the empty case from the chamber. On reaching the end of the rear cam on the side plate the transporter plunger is compressed and forced down by the tamp on the breach cover. This action brings the live round its position in the cartridge guides of the breach block face – thus forcing out the empty cartridge case through the opening for ejection.
[underlined] RETURN ACTION [/underlined]
The recoil of the breach block is arrested when the breach block strikes the buffer on back plate. Provided that rear sear release unit is being operated, thus depressing the sear, the block flies forward in the rebound, its movement being assisted by the return spring. During the forward movement the live round is fed into the chamber, and when transporter plunger meets the front cam on the side plate the transporter is raised and ejector is lifted clear of the round.
When the bent on the breach block strikes the horns of the accelerator, it rotates forwards, allowing the barrel return spring to re-assert itself and return the barrel, barrel extension with the breach block altogether into the firing position. As the barrel piece pin is dis-engaged from the prop of the lock-frame and the locking piece riding up its incline and the locking piece cam engages the recess in the breach block & locks it to the barrel extension. Whilst the last movement is taking place the claw of the transporter engaged the next round in the belt under the action of the spring in the breech cover and the ejector embraces the next round to support it.
[Page Break]
[underlined] FEED MECHANISAM [/underlined]
As the breach block travels backwards and forwards the feed lever is caused to oscilate [sic] by the sliding of its stud in the cam grove in the breach block. During the backwards movement of the breach block the feed lever moves the feed slide across the belt until the feed pawl under the action of its spring engages behind the round which is held on the feed opening by the return pawl. When the breach block moves forwards the feed slide moving back and feeds in the belt. Double feed being presented by the feed pawl leg. At the same time a second round is brought in and held by the return pawl.
[underlined] REER [SIC] SEAR MECHANISM [/underlined]
When the firing control is operated the plunger of the rear release unit engages the rear sear lever causing it to rotate and depress the rear sear, until the bent is below the level of the lock frame plates, thus allowing the breach block to fly freely forwards. When the firing control plunger is released the plunger of the rear sear unit is withdrawn and the compressed rear sear spring raises the sear rear, as the breach block recoils its rear end strikes and depresses and overrides the rear sear which again [deleted] raises[/deleted] rises and engages the bent of the breach block as the rebounds off the buffer. As the two bents engage, the rear sear rotates forward which causes the rear sear cradle to rotate and compress the rear buffer spring, so absorbing the blow.
[underlined] FIRING MECHANISM [/underlined]
At the end of the forward movement of the recoiling portion the sear meets the projecting plunger of the fire and safe unit.
CONTD. OVER PAGE
[Page Break]
[underlined] Loading and Unloading [/underlined]
[underlined] Points to be observed before loading [/underlined]
1./ Ensue that cartridge and bullet stops are free and feed & retaining pawls react smartly.
2./ Cock the gun by means of loading handle and replace the loading handle forward, operate rear sear release unit by hand, and if breach block does not go fully home look for following :-
a./ Friction due to burns on breach block guides.
b./Incorrect adjustment of – or burrs on – locking pins cam.
c./ Bent return spring rod or weak return spring.
d./ Weak barrel return spring
e./ Fouling in muzzle attachment
f./ Dirt on brass clips in tension block.
[underlined]To load gun [/underlined]
1./ Ensure that firing control mechanism is set to [underlined] ‘SAFE’[/underlined]
2./ When feed is from right, single end of link must be towards gun, when from left, double end must be towards gun.
3./ Ensure breach cover is closed and cockling stud fully forward.
4./ Insert the belt and ensure first round is held by retaining pawl.
5./Lock the gun and depress rear sear release unit.
6./ Lock the gun and depress rear sear release unit.
7./ Set firing control mechanism to [underlined]’fire’. [/underlined]
8/. [underlined]Fixed installation only [/underlined] – gun is now loaded.
N.B. If, after cocking the gun there is no round in the breach block look for following: - defective transporter or ejector.
[Page Break]
[underlined] To unload the gun. [/underlined]
1./ Ensure the firing control mechanism is set to [underlined]’Safe’ [/underlined]
2./ Open breach cover and remove belt from feedway.
3./ Pull back loading handle, and whilst holding it in this position, vary the pressure, so that transporter may be raised, remove cartridge from guides on breach block, lower transporter and replace loading handle in the forward position.
4./Operate rear sear release unit and close breach cover.
5./ Cock gun, operate rear sear release unit and ease firing pin spring. (F.C.M TO [underlined] ‘FIRE’ [/underlined])
6./Gun is now unloaded.
[underlined] FIRING MECHANISM CONT’D [/underlined]
and is forced out of engagement with the firing pin. The firing pin spring thus released reasserts itself and forces the firing pin forward to strike the cartridge in the chamber and fore the round.
[Page Break]
[underlined] STOPPAGES [/underlined]
[a] POSITION [b] IMMEDIATE ACTION [c] RESULT [d] CAUSE [e] REMEDY
[a] FIRST [b] Cock the gun. Fre and watch feed [c] Gun Fires [d] Misfire [e] Nil
[a] – [b] – [c] Feed takes place but gun does not fire [d] I) Defective firing pin or spring II) Dirt, congealed oil or brass chips in firing pin way. III) Defective firing control or insufficient pressure. [e] [underlined] Unload [/underlined] (1) Change B.B reload and fire. II) Remove and clean B.B III) Examine and test F.C.M
[a] – [b] - [c] Feed does not take place. Gun does not fire. [d] I) Defective transporter on ejector II) Defective feed pawl spring III) Defective retaining pawl spring [e] I) II) & III)- change defective part, reload and fire.
[a] SECOND [b] Cock the gun and fire [c] Gun repeats stoppage [d] 1) Transporter fails to lift due to defective plunger II)loose link jammed in feedway. III) Cross feed due to cartridge journey in the feedway. IV)Separated case
[inserted] [underlined] Note [/underlined] [/inserted] (III) May also cause a stoppage in the first position. [e] [underlined] Unload [/underlined] I) Change transporter, reload and fire. II) Clear link, ensure that fuel pawl extension is in correct position, Reload and fire. III) Adjust belt. Reload and fire. (IV) If inspection indicates stoppage not due to above use cleaning plug to remove separated case unless brought out by sound on breach face. Reload and fire.
[a] THIRD [b] Cock the gun. Raise breach cover. Clear gun operate rear sear release unit. Close breach cover. Cock the gun. Fire. [c] 1) Gun fires 2) Gun separate stoppage [d] 1) Defective ammunition empty case not extracted from chamber or ejected from breach chock 2) Defective breach block, defective ejection [e] 1) Nil 2) [underlined] Unload [/underlined] 1) Change Breach block 2) change transponder reload and fire
[a] IMMEDIATE ACTION – The immediate application of a probable remedy for a stoppage based on the position of the cocking stud. It must not be considered to be complete until gun is again functioning satisfactorily.
POSITION OF COCKING STUD – 1st Position – At forward end of slot
2nd Position – from nearly right forward to half way back slot
3rd Position – More than half way back in slot.
[diagram]
[underlined] Notes [/underlined] Excessive fouling in muzzle attachment, defective barrel return firing on displaced barrel return spring or displaced barrel locking spring will cause stoppage in 2nd position.
Faulty breaching up of gun will cause a stoppage due to a separated case or to the recoiling portions not going fully forward (2nd position)
Broken transporter guide spring or bent or damaged return spring rod may cause stoppages in various positions.
[Page Break]
[underlined] CARE OF THE BROWNING GUN [/underlined]
Operation when gun is to be fired (Before each days flying)
1. Inspect gun, attachment or mounting for security.
2. Ensure that flash eliminator and muzzle attachment are clean and secure. Shift pin to be in good condition and opened.
3. Gun to function correctly – fit few links and drill cartridges, operate loading handle and rear sear release.
4. Clean and dry before using cleaning rod or Flannelette. 4” x2”
5. Clean and oil moving parts and working surfaces of casing.
6. Test fire & safe and rear sear release units for efficiency.
7. Inspect ammunition base and empty cartridge case chute for security and alignment.
8. Check the right for security, and in case of reflector sight, for continuity of circuit.
Operations at inspections between flight when firing is taking place.
1. Ensure gun is unloaded.
2. Check security of gun, its attachments and mounting.
3. Obtain firers report and if necessary make any exchanges.
4. If exchanges are made check functioning of gun.
5. Clean the bore, using single pull through, with gauze and flannelette which must be pulled through six times.
6. Remove flash eliminator and clear any fouling.
7. Remove fouling from muzzle attachment with [indecipherable word] which must enter up to the shoulder.
8. Inspect ammunition, from entry cartridge case chute and link chute for security & alignment.
9. Empty spent cartridge containers if fitted.
10. Check empty card and remove misfired rounds.
11. Examine the sight for damage and security.
Operation at end of days firing.
1. Unsure gun is unloaded. 2. Remove gun from aeroplane as soon as possible after firing and take to the armoury for cleaning. 3. Dismantle the gun.
[underlined]Barrel [/underlined] 4. Boil and dry 5. Inspect bore for chemical corrosion and metallic fouling which, if present, must be removed. 6. Try gauge, plug 303, if gauge does not run, repeat deshelling process. 7. Oil the bore. 8. Wipe exterior of barrel with oily rag. Ensure that chromium plating is clean, but no abrasive material or metal polish may be used for purpose.
[underlined]Breach and barrel casing. [/underlined] 9. Wipe the exterior with an oily rag. [underlined]Lock frame [/underlined] 10. Do not remove barrel return spring socket or rear sear cradle unless there are signs of rust. Wash in oil anti-freezing and then oil thoroughly. [underlined] Breech blocks, barrel extension or flash eliminator [/underlined] 11. Boil, dry and oil, except firing pin, which must be washed in oil anti-freezing. 12. Flash eliminator to be [indecipherable word] to remove fouling. [underlined]Feed mechanism. [/underlined] 13. Clean with an oily rag, dry and oil. [underlined] Return spring[/underlined] 14. Wash in oil anti freezing and wash with oil.
[underlined]Muzzle attachment. [/underlined] 15. To be cleaned in situ, with tool provided to remove fouling. 16. Examine parts for damage and exchange if necessary. 17. Remove all burns 18. By use of scratch card or N0.00 emery cloth, ensure that all signs of fouling are removed from following parts:- (I) Inside breach casing near breach of gun (II) Underside of breach cover (III) front face of breech block. (IV) The firing pin and its housing in the breech block. (V) The ejector (VI) The barrel extension (VII) Breech and muzzle faces of barrel. 19. Adjust cartridge head space when reassembling gun (breaching up) 20. Enter any firing, breakages and any exchange of parts in the gun history shoot.
[Page Break]
[underlined]THE VICKERS GAS OPERATED GUN. [/underlined]
[underlined]General Details [/underlined]
Length of gun including flash eliminator 40”
Length of barrel 20”
Weight of gun 19 to 20 lbs
Rifling -infield system – one turn in 10”.
No. of grooves – 5.
Ammunition used – all types of Mark 7.S.A.A. 30D.
[underlined] Method of feed. [/underlined] – Magazine – capacity of magazine No.1. Mark 1.60 rounds
No.2. Mark 1 100 rounds. [underlined] Rate of fire[/underlined] 950 rounds per minute.
[underlined]Mountings [/underlined]- air [deleted] surface [/deleted] [inserted]service, [/inserted] turret or free insulation, ground service – tripod
[underlined]Description of Gun. [/underlined] Gun is divided into two parts for discrimination purposes.
1./ Stationary portions 2./ Moving portion.
[underlined]Stationary portion consists of following groups: - [/underlined]
1./ Barrel with gas block, flash eliminator, right brackets & front magazine catch.
2./ Body with rear magazine catch, ejector, gas cylinder and barrel returning strap.
3./ Cocking handle with slide, catch and lug.
4./ Body extension with buffer, trigger mechanism and spade grip with safety catch.
[underlined] Moving portion consist of [/underlined]
1./ Piston with return springs and rod.
2./ Breach block with firing pin, feed piece & extractor
[Page Break]
[underlined]STRIPPING AND ASSEMBLING. [/underlined]
1. Ensure gun is unloaded.
2. Remove sights (if fitted).
3. Drive out securing pins to their fullest extent and remove body extension.
4. Withdraw return springs and return spring rod.
5. Pull back cocking handle and remove piston rod and breach block. Replace cocking handle in forward position.
6. Unscrew barrel strap bolt nut and remove washer bolt and barrel retaining straps & gun pivot.
7. Disengage barrel and gas cylinder from body.
8. Remove split pin and unscrew flash eliminator
TO REASSEMBLE – REVERSE PROCESS
[underlined] MECHANISM [/underlined]
[underlined] Cocking by hand. [/underlined] When cocking handle is pulled to rear, catch is released and allows cocking handle to move backwards. Cocking handle lug engaging to piston, causes it to be driven to the rear, unlocking and carrying with it, the breach block, compressing the return springs. If trigger us released, piston bent will ride over sear and depress it, but the rear spring will force rear up and engage it with bent of piston, holding it to the sear in the cocked position.
[Page Break]
[Blank Page]
[Page Break]
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[Page Break]
63360” in one mile. [symbol] Water Aerodrome
[symbol] Seaplane Mooring 908-2730 – Geographical ref. point. Univ. System
[symbol] Danger Area. X= explosives L Mooring mast for airships
[symbol] Air Corridor [symbol] Aerodrome Controlled Zone
[symbol] Wireless station – Ordinary broadcasting station
[symbol] Wireless & Non directional Wireless beacon
[symbol] Lightship [symbol] Danger Area
[symbol]General ground sign X Explosives
[symbol] Airship Hanger [symbol] Prohibited Area
6080’ = 1 Nautical Mile 0 Landing ground
1’087’ = Geographical Mile = 1 minute of Lang at the Equator
[symbol] Balloon obstruction beacon.
[symbol]Landing Ground for Gliders
[symbol] 400 Unlighted obstruction – 400’ above sea level
[symbol] 400 Unlighted obstruction - 400' above sea level (Centre of base highest point of obstruction)
[symbol] Not aeronautical but possibly of use to aircraft} Radioelectric Station
[symbol] Communication with aircraft} Radioelectric Station
[symbol] Sending Met. Information} Radioelectric Station
[symbol] Non directional} Navigational radio beacons} Radioelectric Station
[symbol]Track indicating} Navigational radio beacons} Radioelectric Station
[symbol] Landing approach radio beacon} Radioelectric Station
[symbol] Goniometric} Radioelectric Station
[symbol]Air Navigation Light
[symbol]Track – indicating light
[Symbol] Marine light, light house or light buoy.
[Page Break]
[underlined]Navigation [/underlined]
[underlined] Principle of C.S.E.[/underlined]
Given:- Track = 240°. A/S 120K – W/V 300° 30 K.
[Diagram]
By [symbol] of velocities
By C.S.C.
[Diagram]
[underlined] C.S.C [/underlined]
[underlined]To find Track or G/S. [/underlined]
a) Set A/S on A/S scale (knots or MKK)
b) Turn wind plate to wind direction & set wind pin to wind speed.
c) Put slot of drift bar over wind pin and turn bearing plate until course is on course pointer.
d)Read of Track from Track pointer & G/S against wind pin.
[underlined] To find course and G/S[/underlined]
a) Set A/S on A/S scale & W/V as before
b) Turn bearing plate until track is against track pointer (T)
c) Read of G/S against wind pin.
[underlined] To find wind velocity [/underlined]
a) Set A/S on A/S scale
b) Turn bearing plate for course to register on course pointer.
c) Lift drift bar off pin & move it until track pointer in
d) against track. Make a pencil mark in slot of drift bar against G/S.
e) Set wind pin in centre. Drop drift bar over wind pin.
f) Turn bearing plate until pencil mark appears between wind pin and course pointer.
g) Read off [deleted] course [/deleted] [inserted] W/D [/inserted] against [deleted] W/D course [/deleted] [inserted] course [/inserted] pointer and W/S on scale from pencil mark to wind pin.
[Page Break]
[Diagram]
See Chapter 13 Para 1,2,3,4.
[inserted] Notes SEE NOTES OVER PAGE [/inserted]
[underlined] COURSE OF PROCEEDURE[/underlined]
1. Set Ground pressure
2. Set temperature
3. Set indicated height
4. Put indicated height at ‘I’
5. Read correct height at ‘C’
6. Put indicated A/S at ‘I’. read correct A/S at ‘C’.
[Diagram]
[inserted] Notes [/inserted]
[Page Break]
[underlined] The P.4. Compass[/underlined]
The P.4 is the standard pilots compass in the Royal Air Force. It is grid steering. A oslating [sic] grid ring is fitted above the bowl and can be locked in any position by means of a locking arm on the left side of the bowl. Two parallel grid wires are placed across the grid ring and the inner edge of the grid ring is graduated every 20.
[underlined] To [indecipherable word] course of aircraft.[/underlined] Turn grid ring until grid wires are parallel to the N. & S. wires magnet system & “N” on the grid ring registers with “N” wire. Then read course as indicated by lubber line against grid ring.
[underlined]To set a course. [/underlined] Turn grid ring until desired course is registered against lubber lines. Then turn aircraft until grid wires are parallel to N. & S. wires and the ‘N’ wire registers with ‘N’ on the grid ring.
[underlined]Advantages to P.$. Compass. [/underlined]
1/. Design permits compass to be mounted in positions other than directly in front of pilot without the effect of parallax becoming serious when given course is steered.
2/. Accurate course may be set and steered without concentrating on a small lubber line registering on a scale.
3/. Steering on a course at night is facilitated.
[underlined]Type P.6. compass. [/underlined] In all essentialities similar to P.4. Diameter is 2 inches smaller and weight is less than half. The magnet system has only 2 magnets while the p.4. has 4.
[Page Break]
[underlined]Acceleration and deceleration error. [/underlined]
[underlined]Acceleration error. [/underlined]
Suppose an aircraft to be flying in an easterly course in the northern hemisphere increases speed. To cause a body to accelerate, a force must be applied to it in the direction of motion. Thus a force ‘F’ is an easterly direction is applied to the magnet system at the pivot ‘P’, which is its sole point of attachment to the aircraft (see illus.) Owing to its inertia, the magnet system tends to lag behind. Hence a force due to the inertia, equal and opposite to that applied to the pivot, will act through the centre of gravity G. A clockwise rotation of the magnet system, i.e. an easterly deviation, results.
Acceleration on a westerly course causes westerly deviation, while [underlined] deceleration [/underlined] cause deviation in the opposite direction.
[Diagram]
[Page Break]
[underlined] Magnetic Dip[/underlined] – correction of
[Diagram]
For the correction of dip the suppression methos is used.
The system is supported (at P) above its centre of gravity (G). The system will alt, when dip takes place, in the vertical plane about the N & S axis therefore displacing the centre of gravity so G is no longer directly below P- this displacement results in a couple which is equal to and directly opposes the couple caused be the dip – the whole system has a pendulum effect.
[underlined]The angle of the Dip. [/underlined] -At North Pole – 90°. Equator 0° Sthn. Lat. (England approx. 66°)
[underlined] Residential Dip.[/underlined] – or dip after correction.
[Diagrams]
1/. Magnetic needle with no dip
2/. Magnetic needle with considerable dip.
[underlined]Northerly turning error [/underlined] – Magnetic element moves in same direction as a/c. Indicates a) slower rate of turn than actual b) no turn at all c) Opposite turn.
A compass, owing to the fact that Earth’s Total Magnetic force is inclined. (In England) at an angle of 67° to the horizontal, is pivoted above its centre of gravity. This causes a pendulum effect compensating the effect of the magnetic dip.
Continued over page.
[Page Break]
[underlined] The Altimeter [/underlined]
The [underlined]Isothermal convention [/underlined] ensures that the ground pressure is 1032 millibars, and ground [deleted] pressure [/deleted] [inserted] temperature [/inserted] is 10° cont. and temp remains constant all the way up.
The I.C.A.N. convention assumes that the ground pressure is 1013 millibars and the ground temp is 15° cont. and decreases at the rate of [inserted] 1.98° cont. [/inserted] cent per thousand feet up to 36.090’feet where the temp. should be -56.5 ° cont. Above that is supposed to be constant.
[underlined] The instruments under each convention[/underlined]
[underlined] ISOTHERMAL[/underlined]- ALL altimeters except sensitive altimeters and computers.
[underlined] ICAN [/underlined] – Sentitive altimeters, computer and special testing instruments.
[underlined] Causes of errors with altimeters. [/underlined]
a/. Atmosphere condition different from those of conventions. (This may be corrected with computer)
b/. Lag – due to mechanical friction.
[Diagram]
[Page Break]
[underlined]Dip – Turning error contd. [/underlined]
This has no effect on a course as long as the compass is horizontal, but when it is inclined about its N/S axis, it immediately obeys the force of dip and will swing towards this angle.
When on a Northerly course and the plane is banked to turn to the East the needle will immediately turn with the plane, while the plane is banked, but when the plane resumes the horizontal the needle will show the correct turn. Thus it can be seen that on a N. course the compass is sluggish.
On a Southerly course the needle will be very sensitive.
THE AIR SPEED INDICATOR
[Diagram]
[underlined] The Air Speed Indicator [/underlined]
Air is forced into the pitot tube and forms pressure in same which is transferred to the diaphram [sic] or capsule in the instrument. The higher the pressure the further does the capsule push the connecting arms which in turn rotate the lever attached is the needle registering the air speed. The calibration of the dial s not regular as the pressure in the pitot tube increases quicker than actual air speed and alowance [sic] is made for this. The hair spring behind the wheel attached to the pointer is to stop any backlash as the cogs are loosely corrected to prevent friction.
The Static Pressure head is not open at the end like the pitot tube but is perforated with small holes. A correcting tube leads to the actual casing of the instrument ensuring that the pressure of air in the instrument is roughly the same as the surrounding outside air. If this were not so the difference in pressure would influence the capsule or diaphram [sic].
[underlined]THE ELECTRICALY HEATED PITOT HEAD [/underlined]
This is very useful for high altitude flying when the whole pressure head may be heated at the pilot’s will should any moisture, which may have collected in the pitot.
[underlined] THE TRAPPED PITOT HEAD[/underlined]
This is used chiefly in the tropics to prevent insects clogging the pitot head. The filter inserted at the mouth of the pitot head ensure that no foreign substances passes in its cam.
[Page Break]
A.P. 1234 Chap. 5 Para 3.4.5.
Chap. 13. Para 1-5
Chap 11. Para 2-6. 8 &9
[underlined] THE A.S.I. CONTD.[/underlined]
[underlined]Positioning of the pressure head [/underlined]
The pressure head must be placed so that it is clear of airscrew slipstream or eddies, there is however always some eddy affecting the pressure of air in the pitot head and no causing a slight error in the reading of altitude. This is called ‘position’ error.’ In aircraft of similar type this should always be the same.
[underlined]A.S.I. Faults [/underlined]
A Slight amount of lag when changing air speed is caused by friction in the mechanism. The pressure head tubes should be parallel to the line of flight, if this is not so the air will not blow directly into the pitot tube and at the same time will blow into the holes of the static tube. To avoid this the angle between the pressure head and line of flight must not be more than 10° or the error will be so large as to render the instrument useless.
When the airspeed indicator is calibrated it should be accurate with the limit of + or – 2m.p.h. (1.75% of indicated w/s for 1,000ft to he added)
Stoppage of static or pitot tubes, darts, fruits in same or leaks etc, will cause serious errors.
[Page Break]
[underlined] THE COMPASS CONTD.[/underlined]
[underlined]THE APERIODIC TYPE. [/underlined]
The characteristics of the aperiodic compass are heavy damping and a large magnetic field moment compared to the [indecipherable word] of the system, which must be small. The damping is secured by fitting damping filaments- which are thin metal rods or glass tubes – to the magnet system, they project units of liquid, and, by reason of the resistance offered by the liquid, exercise the damping effect. The further the filaments project, the greater is the damping produced. A large magnetic moment is necessary in order that the compass shall not be sluggish in action. Usually four to six short, powerful magnetic needles are used instead of the two longer needles in the older type A. Small inertia is essential so the weight of the system as much as is practicable is reduced and by concentrating its mass as close to the centre as possible. The weight is usually 1/10th ounce in air. It is not feasible to fit a card of anything like the usual size without increasing the inertia too greatly. This has led to the special method of indication the chouse as in the P.4 and 0.3 types.
Such a heavily dampened system will never compete on oscillation after deflection, it follows that it cannot have a paradox time, accordingly it is described as aperiodic.
Advantages of the aperiodic system.
a/. After being disturbed it quickly returns to the meridian because of its strong magnetic moment and stops promptly on rearing its seating position by reason of its heavy damping.
b/. The magnet system is carefully balanced and is mounted on a suspension almost frictionless, consisting of a pivot, of german
[Page Break]
silver tipped with iridium, bearing in a cup of sapphire mounted on a stem attached to the bottom of the compass bowl in such a manner as will prevent the system from becoming unstripped. All parts of a compass other than the magnets themselves are made of non-magnetic material. For the bowl and container, brass is generally used, and the magnet systems are of german silver.
[underlined]LIQUID USED IN COMPASS [/underlined]
[underlined] Requirements[/underlined]:- Transparency and cheapness.
Low freezing point (for high altitude)
Small coefficient of expansion to prevent unduly large difference of volume of the liquid may not result from temperature changes.
ALCOHOL is found to be the most satisfactory liquid. Small viscosity.
[underlined]LIQUID SWIRL [/underlined]
A disadvantage of filling the compass with liquid is effect called ‘liquid swirl). As the bowl is turned the viscosity of the liquid causes some to be dragged round with the bowl, eddies are set up which tend to set up rotations of the magnet system; an efficient compass cannot therefore be made very small. Alcohol, through it small viscosity together with the cylindrical bowl minimises this effect but liquid swirl is still a noticeable cause of error during change of course.
[underlined]TO ENSURE COMPASS FIXED IN AREOPLANE FIT FOR USE [/underlined]
1/. Test for Pivot-stick
2/. Draw off magnetic system to one side – allow it to settle – do same to opposite side – difference should not be more than 1°
3/. Loko for bubble in liquid. Liquid should be clear.
4/. Grid ring to work properly.
5/. Move compass in all directions to test suspension system.
[Page Break]
[underlined] Cross Country Flight[/underlined] – standard procedure.
1/. Lay down intended track on map and study the whole of the track carefully, especially the first and last 15 or 20 miles.
2/. From available meteorological information select suitable height for flight. (Compute A/S for selected height)
3/. Calculate course, G/S, & E.T.A., enter these on route card or form 433.
4./ Mark off along track a distance scale at suitable intervals, say 10 miles.
5/. Draw 10° lines to the track at the aerodrome of dep. & arriv.
6/. Set calculated course on compass – note direction in which aerodrome should be left before taking off.
7/. Climb to selected height and trim A/C
8/. Fly over centre of aerodrome at the correct height and A/S and on calculated course.
9/. Note exact time of departure when over centre of aerodrome.
10/. Maintain accurate course until position of a/c can be checked in relation to a land mark, the check should generally be from 5-10 mins. After time of departure.
11/. If not on desired track – estimate number of degrees error.
12/. Alter course towards track by amount of error and note corrected course, then make small additional corrections to course to bring A/C gradually over track.
13/. When over track steer corrected course as noted.
14/. Take all available opportunities of calculating/S and mentally checking E.T.A
[Page Break]
[underlined]Cap.9. Paras 8 &9. [/underlined]
[underlined] The two point method for locating position[/underlined]
[Diagram]
A = Starting point B = Destination
X = Landmark y = Landmark
2.3. 4.5. = Set at equal distances – equal to distance between X & Y
The landmarks X & Y should be in sight of aerodrome so that method of finding curse to steer may be carried out [symbol].
[underlined] Method of use. [/underlined]
a./ Distance between X & Y is measured out along track.
b./ Time taken to travel from X – Y is worked out.
c./ Pilot checks each pint as he passes over it and notes time.
d./ Should he get lost before reaching next point he notes time and checks distance for that time on the track.
e./ He is then fairly certain not to be far away from estimated position. ([symbol])
[Page Break]
[underlined]The 10 ° line method of locating position [/underlined]
(if after 60 miles A/C is found to be 1 mile off track error is 1°)
[Diagram]
Double the error to return to track – then take off half to continue along it. [symbol] Finding course to steer when doubtful of wind (the two landmarks (X&Y) are reached and – looking back set in line with aerodrome – this gives course to steer x W/V.
[underlined] METHOD OF USE. [/underlined]
a) Pilot discovers he is off track and over landmark X.
b) Pilot finds landmark X is approximately half of 10°
c) He alters his course accordingly.
[Page Break]
[underlined]SCALES [/underlined]
Two types – Fully divided and Open Divided.
[underlined] The [deleted] open [/deleted] [inserted] Fully [/inserted] Divided Scale. [/underlined]
[Diagram]
In this scale the secondary divisions are marked all along the scale.
[underlined]The Open Divided Scale [/underlined]
[Diagram]
In this scale only one of the primary divisions is divided into secondary divisions, and the zero mark is the 2nd primary divisions from the left.
[underlined]To Construct a Scale [/underlined]
Example:- To construct a scale of 2” to 1 mile to show hundreds of yards.
The representation fraction [calculations]
To show 5.000 yds. The length of the scale line must be [calculation]
A line 5.68” in length must be drawn divided into 5 primary.
[Page Break]
divisions, and subdivided into 10 secondary divisions.
[Diagram]
[Page Break]
[underlined] TIME SCALES[/underlined]
Time scales are made with reference to the scale of the particular map being used and to the ground speed.
Example: - G/S 100-200 m.p.h. on 1/4” to 1 mile map.
[Diagram]
[Page Break]
[Blank Page]
Dublin Core
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Title
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RAF notebook
Description
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Includes notes on the air force act, Kings regulations and air council instructions, the official secrets act, disclosure of information, communications to the press, complaints and grievances, testimonials, communication with officials, officers character impugned, bankruptcy, political meetings and candidates for parliament, smoking, gambling, intoxicants, civil employment, confidential reports, proceedings at inquest and other legal procedures as well as procedures following incidents/accidents. Continues with principles of flight and airmanship notes with text and diagrams.
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Royal Air Force
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
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Forty page notebook with handwritten notes
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MRosserLV745193-190517-11
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Pending text-based transcription. Under review
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Claire Monk
military discipline
military ethos
military service conditions
training
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1406/36698/MRosserLV745193-190517-05.2.pdf
0b16a192ae3992a625105e17a53d16b4
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Title
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Rosser, Lewis Victor
L V Rosser
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IBCC Digital Archive
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2019-05-17
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Rosser, LV
Description
An account of the resource
154 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Lewis Victor Rosser (b. 1919, 745193 Royal Air Force) and contains his log books, a diary of his operations, notebooks, documents, correspondence and an album. He flew operations as a pilot with 35, 58, 51 and 115 Squadrons. <br /><br />The collection includes a <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/2133">Photograph album</a> with photographs of people and aircraft, artwork cards, newspaper cuttings and documents. <br /><br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Ann Godard and Joy Shirley and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
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Title
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The responsibilities of a prisoner of war
Air Publication 1543
Description
An account of the resource
Covers general responsibilities, name rank and number, behaviour under interrogation, what the enemy will try to find out, how information is obtained by enemy (sources and methods), do's and don'ts, and rights of a prisoner.
Date
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1944-04
Temporal Coverage
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1944-04
Spatial Coverage
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Europe
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Service material
Format
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One booklet
Identifier
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MRosserLV745193-190517-05
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Great Britain. Air Ministry
military ethos
military service conditions
prisoner of war
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1560/35619/MWestonF126909-161113-060001.1.jpg
5039ec17a7ab9b4fc67ada563a5bfba7
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1560/35619/MWestonF126909-161113-060002.1.jpg
8a157060fade4d00e37645e838bfe1dd
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1560/35619/MWestonF126909-161113-060003.1.jpg
b1cdd8bd0a4b2fbef90a25e22d069c1a
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1560/35619/MWestonF126909-161113-060004.1.jpg
6183c15135579209ea7492a45b3bee72
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03c8471b61a542badeec8830f034f353
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Weston, Fred
F Weston
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IBCC Digital Archive
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2016-11-13
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Weston, F
Description
An account of the resource
20 items. The collection concerns Fred Weston DFC (1916 - 2012, 126909 Royal Air Force) and contains documents and photographs. He flew operations as an air gunner with 101 and 620 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Catherine Millington and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
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Title
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"Fred" by Sylvia White (his cousin)
Description
An account of the resource
Fred's life story from early days sneaking downstairs to drink the dregs at his parent's public house, playing rugby and studying hard, becoming an accountant, learning to be an accurate rifle shooter then joining the RAF as a an air gunner. He survived a tour of 30 operations. After the war he studied for a B.Sc in Forestry and worked for the Forestry Commission.
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Sylvia White
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--Runcorn
England--Widnes
Wales--Penrhos
England--Cambridge
Germany--Hamburg
Netherlands--Arnhem
Wales--Bangor
England--Winchester
England--Helmsley
England--Hambleton (North Yorkshire)
England--Pickering
Germany
Netherlands
England--Cambridgeshire
England--Cheshire
England--Hampshire
England--Yorkshire
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Civilian
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Personal research
Format
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Four printed sheets and one handwritten note
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MWestonF126909-161113-060001, MWestonF126909-161113-060002, MWestonF126909-161113-060003, MWestonF126909-161113-060004,
MWestonF126909-161113-060005
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IBCC Digital Archive
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
101 Squadron
620 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
animal
anti-aircraft fire
bale out
Blenheim
Bombing and Gunnery School
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
crash
Distinguished Flying Cross
entertainment
faith
George VI, King of Great Britain (1895-1952)
Gneisenau
killed in action
mid-air collision
military ethos
RAF Penrhos
Scharnhorst
Stirling
training
Wellington
Whitley
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1858/33473/BDavyHDavyHv1.1.pdf
c0d8b39f8730f4a4159c30d53ea11917
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Title
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Davy, H
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2017-06-01
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Davy, H
Description
An account of the resource
18 items. The collection concerns H Davy (1852721 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, memoir and photographs. He flew operations as an air gunner with 626 Squadron.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Nancy Davy and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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General memories
I volunteered for Aircrew aged 18 and after examinations and Medical reported for duty in March 1943.
RAF Number 1852721 (only the last three numbers were used)
Ops as detailed but not counted as part of tour 3
Number of ops 31
Therefore apart from training total number of ops was 34
I trained for 12 to 15 months in different places. As civilians we reported to Air Crew Reception Centre, at Lord's Cricket Ground in "The Long Room" London for three weeks. (6.98.A) We ate in the Zoo restaurant. Then to Initial Training Wing (ITW) Bridlington, Morpeth for Gunnery school where I was the course leader. Final exams had 98% Loved what I was doing. A Martinet towed a drogue for the rest of us to practise our gunnery skills above the North Sea. Wymeswold for "crewing-up", then Castle Donington to start training as a crew (Operational Training Unit); Lindholme Heavy conversion unit (HCU) to train on 4 engine bombers (Halifaxes); Hemswell Lancaster finishing school where we converted to Lancasters before going on to the Squadron in May 1944.
At ACRC I remember John Newbegin from Alnwick. I was in the bunk above him. He asked my name, I replied "Spike" and thereafter he called me Spike.
At the medical line up I was called in early. The MO said "Mr. Davy meet Mrs Davy". She was Thelma the wife of my cousin from Calstock. We had never met but she recognised my name on the list.
A lot of men were killed during training.
At Bridlington I got Scarlet Fever & confined to isolation hospital for six weeks. Plus two weeks recuperation leave which put me eight weeks behind those I joined up with.
When I went to Uxbridge for final Demob two others from that original intake said to me "We thought you were dead" They had accounted for only nine out of the sixty still alive. So perhaps scarlet fever saved my life.
To Wymeswold for 3 weeks Operation Training Unit (OTU).
At Wymeswold 200 or 300 crew were put into a hut and told to make up crews. Before this we were marching from place to place (perhaps to a lecture) and I was next to Sam Collens and we talked about our training experiences. I had passed out as 2nd out of 60 as a gunner. Sam said to me Harry Merry will join me as Flight Engineer, will you join us and I said yes can I be Rear Gunner and he replied yes you are my first crew member. After that the whole 626 aircrew intake was taken to a hut and instructed to form crews. All the men mingled and talked and somehow Sam collected his crew together. Tommy Birch BA, Joe Slack MUG, Ron Rainbird WO. Harry Merry would not join us until we had completed our initial training on twin-engined Wellingtons, the reason being that only 4 engine bombers carries a Flight Engineer. Harry joined us at Lindholme, a heavy conversion unit for 4 engine Halifaxes. Sam had met a Navigator Ted Davies, a pharmacist from Northhampton [sic]. A Welshman, short stature, handlebar moustache, super chap. I gelled with him from the beginning & were great pals. His wife was running the business during his absence.
[page break]
After Wymeswold half the contingent stayed there & half including us went to Castle Donnington for OTU.
We used ex-operational, clapped out Wellingtons for 6 weeks training. Very happy there. The Sword of Damacles hung over us as the culmination of this course was a series of decoy flights across the North Sea to draw German fighters away from the main Bomber stream. Also to carry out leaflet raids over Europe, in our case Paris. (called ops as detailed but not counted as operational). Bear in mind the Wellington had two engines & if one failed the plane could not get back on one engine. This meant they either crashed or ditched in the sea. Some crashed on take-off, one into the woods at the end of the run-way & all crew lost.
From Castle Donnington to Lindholme near Doncaster for Heavy Conversion Unit (HCU) & onto 4 engine heavy Halifaxes. Here Harry Merry joined us. A few weeks doing practice flights.
From there to Lancaster finishing school at Hemswell nr Gainsborough, Lincolnshire for final training in Lancs. End of training. Then posted to Operational Squadron, One Group Bomber Command, 626 Squadron at Wickenby near Lincoln.
Throughout the time of training as a crew we were warned on numerous occasions that if we withdrew from training no action would be taken, but if we withdrew after completion of training we would be reduced to ranks, loose [sic] our wings, & all documents would have Lack of Moral Fibre written across them. (Cowardice in the face of the enemy). We would then be sent to a correction establishment at Sheffield before being posted into the Army.
At OTU the final chance was given. On this occasion the Navigator Ted Davies left the crew as his wife was bordering on a nervous breakdown due to his flying career. He wanted to go on but withdrew.
Immediately navigator Jack Leuty joined us. He was an "odd bod" waiting to join a crew. He had spent time training navigators in Canada and his experiences meant he had flown cross country from brightly lit city to city whereas in Britain we had had blackouts for four years.
Most of our operations were at night in the dark.
When we were on the Squadron Joe Slack left us and was replaced by an Irishman Paddy Fulton.
At the end of our own tour of 30 ops (31 actually) we went on 6 months rest from operational duty. Paddy had not completed 30 ops so was posted to another crew. He begged to stay with us, even cried, but was not allowed to. He was killed on his next op with the new crew.
At Wickenby
Pilot – Pilot Officer B.A. (Sam) Collens
Flight Engineer – Sergeant Harry Merry
Navigator – Flight Lieutenant Jack Leuty
Mid Upper Gunner – Sergeant John (Paddy) Fulton
Bomb Aimer – Sergeant Tommy Birch
Wireless Operator – Sergeant Ron (Ronald Thomas) Rainbird
Rear Gunner – Sergeant Herbert Davy (then k/a Bert now k/a Herb or Herbie)
Crews became closer than brothers. Age 19 I was the youngest of our crew. We spent leisure time together, drank together, spent leave together (Sam & Tommy came to Saltash). Relied on each other in the aircraft. We knew we might die together.
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Accommodation was it [sic] huts. Officers had separate accommodation so Sam slept apart from us. We would wake some mornings and find 6 (or 7) empty beds in our hut. It was a fact of life that promotion was rapid because of the high rate of casualties and turnover of Aircrew.
Take off --- us from Wickenby
Up to 1 hour to climb to 10,000ft
500 planes all circling
Congregate over Mablethorpe, Lincs
9p.m. all navigation lights out
All to go in one direction across North Sea
Sometimes collisions in the dark
Could get caught up in the slipstream of the aircraft ahead and crash
Over the targets bombs dropping all around from other planes, from above.
Look up and see gaping open bomb doors in plane above
One fell between our wing and tail
Interrogation after each operation. (Now called de-briefing)
Model -- Lanc III manufactured in Canada
Didn't use the same plane each time because we had 7 days leave every 6 weeks and they were used by other crews. The one we used last may have been shot down.
I remember three in particular:
Sugar 2 S2
Victor 2 V2
Roger 2 R2 Also known as Bennets Beavers
Each Squadron had letters 12 was PH 626 was UM
Each plane in each squadron had a letter – 12 just the letter, 626 the letter plus 2
Station code name/call sign was GRATEFUL
e.g. our plane would be UM O R2
Also V2 H2 Y2 U2 T2 Z2 L2
When R2 (known as Bennetts Beavers after a previous pilot) became available Sam asked to use it because he knew it was a faster aircraft than others.
We now know PA990 R2 Bennetts Beavers was a "ton-up" Lanc. One of few that went out on and survived 100 operations or more. (105; some didn't even come back from one).
Roger 2 was the plane we used when we flew down across Kit Hill and Liskeard (where I could see our milkman delivering), the Lizard, 300 miles out into the Atlantic by daylight & under 1000ft to keep below the German RADAR & into Pauillac (near Bordeaux) to bomb
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the oil tank farm. (I now know I flew across Coombe Park, a farm where Luke held Nancy (age 5) in his arms to see the planes passing overhead, August 4th 1944).
We used R2 for Westkapelle.
Westkapelle was our last op. In 2005 I read that our Navigator was F/O L. Andrews. I have no recollection whatsoever of this substitute or why Jack Leuty wasn't with us. I remember the day well and it is recorded for the Polderhuis Museum at Westkapelle.
Again in 2005 I was asked if the crew ever swapped places. Some records showed that crews did, or flew with substitutes, but then records may not be correct. They were sometimes based on the planes that crews usually flew, not the ones they actually did fly.
The only time we did swap was when we returned from one op with a bomb still on board. We could not land (for fear of blowing up on the runway) so had to dispose of the bomb in the North Sea as was usual practice. Sam asked Tommy if he would like to pilot the plane, (he certainly would and did) and I went to bomb aimer's position and directed the bomb down to a wave I had my eye on. I cannot remember who covered my position.
Corkscrewing to avoid German air attack. The responsibility of the Rear Gunner was the protection of the plane and crew. He was required to give 100% concentration on continually scanning the sky – especially the dark side – to give adequate warning and instruction to the Pilot on what evasive action to take. Highly trained in aircraft recognition.
Majority of enemy fighter attacks were from dark side of the sky so that we were silhouetted against the light. The RG had to concentrate his search on the dark side when the tendency would be to look to the light. (Instructions said never look at lights) e.g. if the attack came from port side the RG would instruct Pilot to corkscrew port – first a 1000ft dive to port followed by 1000ft climb to starboard, then 1000ft dive to starboard followed by 1000ft climb to port which would bring the plane back to it's normal flight path. This procedure was repeated until the fighter abandoned his chase or either of us was shot down. (We now know that some German pilots gave up when they saw that we were alert and ready, and went in search of an easier target.) During a corkscrew anything loose and moveable inside the plane would speedily fly round and cause damage. Especially stomach contents!!
We used T2 for Frankfurt when we were badly shot up. We went via Mannheim in error (Don't know the reason why – navigational, wind, what? I do not know why we should be separated from the others by 50 miles or so.) Approaching what we thought was the target Frankfurt, B/A Tommy offered to help Navigator Jack by describing the ground scene. It was clear moonlight and he described the railway lines and river. "We're following the rail line now the river now the river divides" It obviously differed from the map because Jack said "Did you say the river divides? Christ we're over Mannheim!" That's when the blue searchlight came up. We were coned in searchlights, Sam called up "what shall I do Bert?" I replied "dive to port at top speed & get the hell out of here". I remember seeing the wings flapping. Speed was registered 400mph. by Harry Merry. (normal operating speed was between 180 – 210mph) dropped 18,000ft to 14,000ft. We were badly attacked by anti-aircraft guns, anything they could throw at us. After recovery, Sam said "navigator give me a course for Frankfurt". I can remember my thoughts-they are unprintable. I thought we'd had it. We were way after the main attack so we were a lone aircraft, vulnerable again but apparently not noticed/recognised by ground defences. Perhaps because we approached from the South instead of North. The target marker was still visible so dropped the bombs &
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returned for home. Sam said "course for Woodbridge" The port side engine had to be feathered because the fuel tank had been punctured. I saw what I thought was smoke and reported one engine on fire, but it was fuel. Wireless operator went back through plane & felt what he thought was blood on mid-upper gunner. "He's had it" Minutes later crackle on line & MUG said "what's the matter with you lot. I can't get any reply". He was covered in hydraulic fluid. Tommy reported bomb bay doors would not close. At some stage I know I opened my door to get back into the plane and to my parachute if were possible.
We had to land at Woodbridge an emergency airfield in Suffolk with a 5000yd runway, on three engines & bomb doors open. No radio & not knowing if undercarriage was down. The next day when we inspected the plane and talked this is what we found:
Each member of the crew had evidence of his position being damaged by missiles. I had a hold 2 inches in diameter where the doors joined (centre of backrest) behind my seat and in the gunmounting in front of me. The pilot and flight engineer sat side by side on the flight deck. There were holes in the Perspex either side of the flight deck where their heads would normally be. Tommy lying on his stomach in the bombing position had shrapnel in his harness over his heart. There were holes at all crew positions. Did we all lean sideways to look at something at the same time? There was a hole in the bomb door and a dent in the top of the bomb bay obviously caused before the bomb was dropped. Why didn't the 4000lb bomb explode inside the plane?
The thoughts that went through my mind when we were over Mannheim:
If I get out of the plane where would I land? On buildings, trees, water, forest?
On our second trip to Stettin
Did all the crew fall asleep returning over the North Sea? It was a crime. Crossed North Sea, crossed Denmark, across Sweden over Malmo, across the Baltic then to Stettin. Returned the same route. After crossing Danish coast into the North Sea I heard Bomb Aimer say to Navigator "We are just crossing the Danish coast" The Navigator replied "our ETA on English coast one hour" The next thing I can remember is hearing the Bomb Aimer's voice "hello Navigator, just crossing the English coast". Two or three nights later we were in the Adam & Eve (pub) Wragby. It was my turn to buy the drinks. Harry Merry helped me. He said "You were asleep in your turret, I saw you when I went to the Elsan". He passed the Wireless operator who was asleep at his table, no reaction from Mid Upper Gunner, climbed over Elsan slid down to rear turret looked through window & saw me slouched over guns. Retraced his steps shone torch down into Bomb Aimer & saw Tommy asleep. Thought to himself I will keep watch. Pilot asleep in his seat & next thing Harry knew was when Tommy said "just cross English coast". Meaning that at one point the whole crew had been asleep. Reasoning --- on this long trip we were issued with two wakey-wakey pills to be taken at regular intervals (4 hourly periods). Perhaps we took them too early & when the effect wore off they left you feeling very drowsy.
The lights of Malmo – memorable after the darkness of Britain.
Premonitions
One day the rear turret was leaking oil. I told Pilot we could not or should not fly. He agreed. Terrible losses that night. The next day the leak had cleared up. Afterwards other crew asked did I have a premonition. Yes. They all did too. Harry Merry said "Why didn't you want to fly in that raid?" I replied "Because if we had we would not be here now". He said he agreed & that other crew had felt the same without mentioning names.
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Over Stettin, over target, a voice from the cockpit said "crumbs, there's a bloody fighter coming straight for us!" They envisaged a head-on collision. I saw it as it passed over and above us. I was sure it was an Me262 the first true jet fighter.
Over 50 years later I met Dave Wellard, another Rear Gunner from 626 Squadron who lived in Saltash and he told me the same story. (We had never met before.) His plane was on the same mission. Were we side by side? Was there only the one fighter or two? He also recognised it as an Me262.
After we finished flying Sam was posted to RAF Whitchurch, Bristol. Harry Merry came down from Weeton, Lancs where he was stationed. I came from Avonmouth where I was stationed & met at pub at Whitchurch. When I walked in the door Harry shook my hand and said "Here's old Cat's Eyes. If it hadn't been for you, you bugger, we wouldn't be here now". He always called me Cat's Eyes.
Jack Leuty always asking for a fag, but when someone asked him for one he said "I'll sell you ten" I can remember being absolutely disgusted with his attitude. He was the only crew member who kept aloof from any of the others.
Mrs Lane a customer said to me when she heard I was joining the RAF "you might meet my son Pat" We didn't know each other. One day in the dispersal someone was using my cleaning rods without asking permission. I said to him "Next time ask". He had a Cornish accent. Told me he was from Saltash so I said to him "I suppose you are Pat Lane" He nearly fell over in surprise. "how the hell do you know that?"
Clothes:
Aircrew: I think only the gunners were issued with mustard-yellow coloured buoyancy suits but they proved to be far too bulky especially for Rear gunners because although it was possible to squeeze into the turret with them on it was virtually impossible to escape quickly. I never saw anyone wear one on operations!!! Consider temperature in the rear turret could be as low as -40° C. The main fuselage of the Lanc had hot air ducted from the engines hence the rest of the crew did not need to dress like rear gunners. Also rear gunners removed the Perspex window to get better vision. See photo of HD standing beside turret.
Order of dressing:
1. Long johns – made of wool plated with silk. 2 pieces long sleeved vest and full length pants.
2. RAF issue socks
3. Shirt and tie
4. RAF uniform trousers
5. "SUB" socks. Socks from toe to crotch Naval issue, thick knit (Submarine)
6. "SUB" sweater as above. Full length sleeves and hip length.
7. Thin cotton type electrically heated suit
8. Battle dress top
9. Electrically heated slippers
10. Fur lined leather boots (Escape variety, cut the tops off with the knife in an inside little pocket and they looked like shoes)
11. Silk gloves
12. Woollen mittens and small woollen scarf
13. Padded heated gauntlets
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14. Leather gauntlets with zips and elasticated top
15. MAE West floatation waistcoat filled with kapok
16. Parachute harness
17. Leather helmet with oxygen mask, microphone and earphones
We would take half an hour to dress, especially in summer. It was important not to get sweaty because it would freeze when we were airborne in cold temperatures.
It was impossible to use bodily functions in the rear turret. Sometimes for up to 10 or 11 hours. I drank little during the day before an op. The other crew could use the Elsan toilet situated in the aircraft behind the rear turret. I was only once airsick. I used one of my gauntlets and then threw it out the window. The gauntlet was replaced.
My parachute had to be stored in the aircraft behind the rear turret. If I needed it in a hurry it would have been impossible to get at it.
Personal Survival kit: (for all Bomber Crews) called Escape Kit.
Waterproof flat pouch approx 6x5 inches containing maps of European countries printed on silk each about 7 inches square, together with currency of European countries for use as necessary if shot down, could be used either to "pay" helpers or bribe people.
Celluloid flat box approx 5x4 inches containing 1 razor, 1 blade, 1 tube condensed milk, Horlicks tablets, aspirins, adhesive plasters, amongst other things now forgotten.
Compasses: small compasses were hidden on the uniform. E.g. a uniform button which unscrewed with a left-hand thread (to fox the Germans). A navigator's pencil which when broken in half revealed a bar compass on a piece of thread. Another small compass was sewn behind the brevet (flying wing badge).
Two metal trouser fly buttons when balanced one on top of the other had a white spot which indicated North
We were told that some crews who miraculously escaped their plane complained that the tube of shaving soap was useless. Of course it was an unlabelled tube of condensed milk.
Flying Rations for each operation consisited [sic] of 1 x two ounce bar of Fry's chocolate cream, 1 x two ounce bar of milk chocolate, one packet of chewing gum, and 1 x 4 fluid ounce can of orange juice. One Benzadrine (wakey-wakey pill) which once taken kept you awake for four hours.
To open my small tin of orange juice in the turret I pierced it with a bullet held sharp end down which I hit with my other hand.
Pair of fleece lined shoes attached to gaiters. One gaiter had a small knife concealed inside. On crash landing gaiters were to be cut off so that shoes would look like normal ones.
The Rear Gunner in his turret was not inside the plane but on a "platform" at the rear. To clamber into the turret was a time consuming and awkward business. The Elsam toilet at the rear of the fuselage had a hinged lid secured by an elastic rope. This was the RG's step onto a plywood shute. Partway down the shute was a hinged door secured by another elastic rope which closed automatically after passing through. Once through that door you placed your parachute pack in stowage on the port side of the aircraft, on hooks and again secured by elastic rope. Then still sliding, through two small sliding doors which were closed behind you after entry, forming a backrest. The gunner sat on a small lightly upholstered shelf-like seat for the duration of the operation with no room to move around. One door had a small porthole window. Plug in intercom & oxygen mask and check guns, sights etc. Equipped with 4x
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.303 Browning machine guns. The windows were Perspex which after cleaning became scratched, difficult to see through and susceptible to glare from searchlights & suchlike. Most RG's cut a panel 3ft high x 1ft wide out of the main window between the guns. The temperature could be up to -40°C. If the engines failed there was no power to the rear turret so I could do nothing.
If I needed to escape from my turret, or had the opportunity to bale out, I had to open the small doors behind me (my backrest), & manoeuvre back up the shute to pick up my parachute, then through the first door back into the fuselage proper. In theory in an emergency it should have been possible to turn the turret around and fall backwards out of the "backrest" doors. If the engines failed, no power so I could do nothing other than laboriously hand-crank the turret using two handles, one in each hand and each turning opposite to the other.
I was facing backwards in my turret so had to remember when giving observations and instructions to the other crew that "port was starboard".
I used to regularly mentally practice how I would get out if I had the opportunity. I never wore my cumbersome buoyancy suit. I removed my Perspex window for better vision and I decided I would rather die of cold than being shot down in flames. On the trip which took us to Mannheim in error I can remember I opened my "backrest" doors ready for evacuation if that were to be possible.
Rear Gunners were usually the first target for German fighter planes, and they were often the worst casualties of other attacks or crash landings. A Lanc could land at home base minus the R.G. There were stories of turrets being hosed out.
I am sometimes asked if I was afraid. Of course most of us were scared before take-off, but once airborne training took over and we all did our jobs. Anyone who professed to no fear often took stupid chances and made mistakes. Over the targets and when under attack we just had to get on with it, took evasive action when possible and hoped to survive. Once the bombs had gone there was a sense of relief but also easy to drop your guard. After leaving the target many planes were shot down by the following German fighters. I always said a prayer before take-off and heaved a sigh of relief and thanks each time my turret touched down at Wickenby. I know that our crew was among the lucky ones.
Many Aircrew carried a lucky charm or item on every op. and most carried out small rituals before take-off. When I was training my sister Peggy gave me a Cornish Piskie (Joan the Wad) bronze lapel brooch which I wore on my battle dress jacket all the time.
Sam carried a whole cashew nut. The others did not say if they carried such things.
Before briefing we usually had a shrewd idea of the sort of destination. The ground crew could tell from the fuel load and bomb load whether it was to be a long trip or short one thus guessing it would be Germany or Occupied Territories.
Briefing.
Pubs:
When at Bridlington the "Dun'cow" near Newcastle.
When at Castle Donnington the "Turk's Head". (with Sam & crew)
When at Lindholme the pub at Hatfield Woodhouse. (with Sam & crew)
When at Wickenby the "Adam & Eve" at Wragby (with Sam & crew) because the pub at
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Wickenby was a long way from our billets and a long way to walk. Mainly No. 12 Squadron used it.
Once or twice when in London on leave Sam, Harry & I, went to the "Queens" in Leicester Square til closing time 2p.m. Then to the Hong Kong Chinese Restaurant Shaftsbury Avenue. Then back to the "Queens" at 6p.m. Nearly all Aircrew there.
If we weren't on the battle order for that night we would all go down to the pub. The exception was Jack Leuty Navigator who seemed to keep himself to himself off duty. We made the most of each day because none of us knew if we would return from our operations. We did not go to the pub when we were on battle order.
I can remember one incident. Montgomery was held up at Caen the most heavily defended city in Normandy. He asked Bomber Command to destroy the German front lines so that 2nd Army could advance towards Germany. We had to bomb in daylight because the Allied Force was only 1200yds from the bombing area. Unfortunately the weather was bad so we were told to stand by in camp until it cleared. After three days there was no let up in the weather so most crews went down to the "Adam & Eve" for a few beers. At around 9p.m. the Wing Commander walked in. He very quietly said "I think you chaps should be back in bed, not down here". We knew what that meant so we all duly returned to billets.
We were woken at about 2a.m. to prepare for ops. (breakfast, dress, briefing etc) The briefing was to bomb the target short of the Allied lines. We were told the Americans had bombed the previous day and hit the Allied lines. En route I wanted to vomit probably because of the beer the previous night – the only time I ever felt sick. That's when I was sick in my gauntlet & tossed it out through the clear vision panel. As we approached the target area we saw "box barrage" of flak put up by the Germans. We were flying at approx. 12000ft, and the barrage was approx 1000ft above and below us. Like a curtain or a lethal Commando boarding net hanging in the sky. We had to fly straight through it. I personally witnessed seven Lancs go down. I have since met members of the Expediency Force who were on the ground who told me in words to the effect "your bombing was wonderful-not like those Americans yesterday. Not one of your bombs landed on our lines".
Coming home after one operation with landing lights on we were attacked by USA planes.
Sam to W/O "send up colour of the day"
Did they mistake us for Doodlebugs which had a red tail?
After the tour of operations all Aircrew were given a six months rest job before going back to another tour of flying operations. I was posted to report to an Aircrew Allocation Centre on a small disused airfield called Bracla near Nairn in North of Scotland. (Moray Firth). October. It seemed the coldest place on earth. The others were sent to different places. Don't know why and don't know why I was sent to Bracla. We were interviewed for three weeks for a choice of "Rest Jobs". Harry Merry was at Weeton, Lancashire. Can't remember where Sam and the others went. Tommy did Instructing.
Given three choices:
1. Embarkation Assistant, Movement Control, Ships in Ports in ports anywhere in the UK being responsible for meeting personnel and families on leave from abroad and checking RAF cargoes mostly from America and Canada (supplies for Armed Forces).
2. Transport.
3. To be an Instructor of Aircrews.
At the end of the three weeks we were allowed to choose. I was allowed my first choice
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Embarkation Control because I was interested in ships. Also someone had told me it was a nice job. Posted to a Service Camp at Kirkham near Preston, Lancashire for three weeks training for my new job. Discovered that Harry Merry was only twelve miles away but unable to meet because of the vagaries of transport in those days.
Then to Port of Bristol Authority – Avonmouth Docks where I was billeted with a civilian family the Bentleys. (Their son later played soccer for England team). Many happy weeks in that area. Among my duties there I was involved with unloading a ship carrying 128 wives and families returning from the West Indies on a banana boat which brought the first consignment of Fyffes bananas to England since 1939. Wonderful to taste this delicacy after so many years (1945). Had a good time in the docks boarding ships and receiving hospitality. Whilst I was there V.E. Day was celebrated with street parties. During my time there met up with Sam & Harry in a pub.
After that I was posted to Newhaven, Sussex, checking RAF personnel coming ashore on the cross-channel ferries from France. Again billeted with a civilian family Mrs. Bishop.
Another happy time.
At Newhaven I was expecting to be recalled to flying duties to Burma when V.J. Day was announced. Shortly afterwards my father without my knowledge managed to obtain a compassionate discharge for me to return to the family butchery business in Saltash. I was furious. Later I understood that all ranks except officers were demoted and sent to other jobs. Many of course continued flying.
Afterwards.
At the completion of flying operations crews would part with a handshake and promise to keep in touch. Of course many did, some went on to illustrious careers and many have kept up contact with various Squadron and Aircrew Associations but strange as it may seem now a large number lost contact. Some were traumatised, some just wanted to forget. Some wanted nothing more to do with Service life. We all got on with our lives and some like me suffered no post-war trauma but never forgot those years. It was my impression that Jack Leuty and Ron Rainbird did not want to continue the bond we had made.
Sam, Harry & I met up a couple of times. Sam married Brenda and came to Cornwall for their honeymoon.at [sic] Looe. They & Harry returned to the West Indies.
I married Nancy in 1959 and she will tell you that it doesn't take much to trigger a story or on meeting a stranger soon find I was stationed in their part of the country.
In 1959 Sam, Brenda and their four young boys came to Plymouth on a liner, stayed in a bed and breakfast in Saltash for a couple of nights and spent time with us. Then we lost touch again. One day (date not known) Tommy and Jenny came to Saltash from Leigh-on-Sea and looked me up in the shop. I was another of our depots, and left instructions not to forward telephone calls. However, Nancy phoned and said "a call for you". Tommy's voice came over the line "Bomb Aimer to Rear Gunner". The start of a renewed and lifelong friendship.
Nancy remarked how eerie it was to hear the same stories and memories from a complete stranger.
I knew a Merchant Navy Captain who was going to Trinidad and asked him to find Harry Merry for me. He came back with an address.
As a surprise for our 25th Wedding Anniversary Nancy wrote to Harry and asked him to telephone on a certain day, certain time, and if he knew where Sam was to ask him to phone too. Sam & Brenda by now living in Canada.
Tommy & Jenny stayed with us for the anniversary (a party for family and friends) and lo and behold at the designated hour the phone rang & it was Harry, then Sam. What a reunion
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down the line. Sam & Brenda came to stay with us on a visit to England and we had a most wonderful time. Harry died before Nancy could meet him. After Sam's untimely death Brenda came again and we to Missasauga. Tommy died having a heart attack whilst driving, but we keep up with Jenny.
On leave Sam came to Saltash once or twice with me.
Tommy came twice. On one occasion we put my motor bike on the train at Wickenby to London, somehow got across London then by train to Bristol. We had come straight from an op with no sleep so were very tired. I said I know a place in Weston Super Mare that might be able to put us up so we rode there. It was a sort of hotel/retirement home (so-called in those days for retired gentle folk) where my father used to stay on his Ministerial visits. Mr. Cottle the owner recognised me and said of course he could find us beds. After a good breakfast the next morning he would not let us pay anything. The dear old ladies there were very excited to see us. We then took the train to Plymouth. Got fed up with the slow start/stop journey so got off at a place called Bittaford near Plymouth and rode the bike the rest of the way and across the river to Saltash on the vehicle ferry. Because there were railings and a swing gate at Bittaford we had to manoeuvre the bike over them to the road. I had not told my parents that I had started flying on ops, and on one visit Tommy said "Isn't it time you told them?" We were at the "Notter Bridge" pub at the time. Father was very proud and after that when I was on leave in the shop he would say "This is my son who is . . . . . . . . . . ."
Now. A note from Nancy 2005
Herb is now 81 years old, (going on 65) still energetic with a vivid and accurate memory and I have been recording it all on the computer. Still adding to it. What started off as little memory joggers has grown into a full story. These are not the ramblings of an old man!!!!! All his life he has remembered his experiences of those RAF days as vividly as though they were yesterday. His interest in planes and ships and that training has stayed with him and his observations are as acute as ever. Over the years he has often been asked to give talks and his Rear Gunner reminiscences are always popular. Especially one entitled "When Port Was Starboard". He has only recently told me he still repeats his little mental flying rituals whenever he takes to the air --- on holiday or any flight. Amongst his photographs and memorabilia is his lucky Piskie charm.
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In 2009 during an interview he was asked what he thought about when on operations --- mother & sister perhaps? He replied once airborne all his thoughts were directed to being alert and scanning the sky and doing his job. But afterwards he told me that yes, he and Tommy had thought of their mothers and how devasted they would have been if anything had happened to them.
Heard that crews were very happy when they saw Lincoln Cathedral in sight on approaching base. How did I feel? "Well I never saw it because I was in the rear facing backwards."
Very relieved when the rear wheel touched down.
Between 1st day or [sic] war September 1939 and May 1945
Of every 100 Aircrew
Killed 51 51%
Crashes in England 9 )
Seriously injured 3 )
Prisoners of war 12 ) 25%
Evaded capture 1 )
Survived unharmed 24 24%
Of that 24% none were actually unscathed. All have stories of near-misses, lucky escapes etc. etc.
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55,000 Bomber Command aircrew lost their lives out of a total of 110,000. Rate of loss never before borne by a Military Force of comparable size in the history of the world.
Entitled to Defence Medal (ARP Messenger 1940-1941), & Part-time National Fire Service. 1942-1943 (No. Had to be in for 3 years)
39/45 Star
France and Germany Medal
Victory Medal (War Medal)
Apparently not eligible for Aircrew Europe Medal because I did not fly on operations prior to D-Day (6th June 1944), but I was on Squadron 5th June 1944 and detailed to act as Rear gunner because of illness of another crew member. Unfortunately he heard there was something momentous going to happen that night and pronounced himself fit so I did not fly. But in Feb & March our crew had flown 3 "operations as detailed" over Europe which didn't count. (See logbook)
Harris asked Churchill for a Bomber Command Campaign Medal, but Churchill refused. Montgomery & Tedder etc were all given Earldoms. They only made Harris a Knight. A lot of Bomber Command Aircrew took it as a personal insult but apparently it was his wish that he be given no higher award unless his Bomber crews were given recognition.
I was not alone by any means in refusing to apply for my campaign medals. They knew where we were when they needed us, but if we wanted our medals we had to apply for them.
We supported Harris.
After the War Churchill omitted to include and thank Bomber Command for their involvement.
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July 18th 2012 We went to London to see the new Bomber Command Memorial.
2013 Bomber Command "veterans" were awarded a "clasp". He was not going to apply for it.
During and after the War new regulations. Medals were presented to serving crew but if they had already left the service they had to apply for them. Was that in 1948 or before? We now know they had to ask for a buff postcard at the Post Office in order to apply.
July 2013 Applied for all medals
Applied for Membership of Bomber Command
August 2013 Nancy trying to find proof he was in the Fire Service
Memories of being in the National Fire Service, Saltash 1942 (previously Auxiliary Fire Service)
Must have had a number. Cannot remember having a photo taken.
Had to give up uniform (overalls) but kept the axe. Is it in this house somewhere?
David Coles, George Rees, Douglas Vosper, Colin Squires father.
The London Fire Brigade were given a rest from the London Blitz by being sent to the country i.e. Saltash. One called himself Flicker because his name was really Fricker.
One was an architect from Maida Vale.
From David Coles -- Two were husband & wife, there is a photo at Heritage. Sidney and Hilda Basset.
There appear to be no records or photos of NFS 1942, presumably because none were taken or had been destroyed during destruction.
2nd Sept 2013
Andrew found the axe in the roof along with some flying "souvenirs".
Axe No. 553 758 (or it could be 555 758).
[page break]
Leggings part of rear runner flying boots with inner little pocket (no knife).
Floating tablet for dying the water yellow/orange to be trailed from a dinghy in the event of being shot down over the sea.
Floating torch from the Mae-West.
Compound and cloth from service respirator to clear and coat lenses of goggles and respirators.
December 2013. Great niece Stephanie Pender asked for details as she is determined to get the Medals. She is in the British Army.
Medals received Feb 2014
War Medal 1939-1945
1939-1945 Star with Bomber Command Clasp
France and Germany Star
2014 French awarded Legion d'Honneur to all surviving veterans who helped liberate France
1944/45. 2015 Nancy applied.
September 2016
Legion d'Honneur arrived
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
General Memories
Description
An account of the resource
Herbert's service life in an autobiography.
He describes training in London, Bridlington, Morpeth and Wymeswold. Later training as a crew was at Castle Donington, Lindholme and Hemswell. He describes in detail his crew, aircraft and operations. After the war he returned to his job in Cornwall and made contact with some of his old crew. His wife concludes his story, writing in 2005.
Creator
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Herbert Davy
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2005
Format
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15 typewritten sheets
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
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BDavyHDavyHv1
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--London
England--Alnwick
England--Sheffield
England--Mablethorpe
England--Liskeard
England--The Lizard
France--Bordeaux (Nouvelle-Aquitaine)
Netherlands--Walcheren
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Mannheim
Poland--Szczecin
Sweden--Malmö
England--Wragby (Lincolnshire)
England--Saltash
France--Caen
England--Lincoln
England--Newhaven
England--Leigh-on-Sea
England--Bristol
Canada
Ontario
Poland
Trinidad and Tobago--Trinidad
France
Germany
Netherlands
Sweden
Trinidad and Tobago
England--Essex
England--Gloucestershire
England--Lancashire
England--Lincolnshire
England--Northumberland
England--Yorkshire
France--Pauillac (Gironde)
England--Preston (Lancashire)
England--Bristol
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944
1945
Contributor
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Sue Smith
12 Squadron
626 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
bomb aimer
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
crewing up
escaping
flight engineer
Halifax
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Heavy Conversion Unit
Initial Training Wing
lack of moral fibre
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Martinet
Me 262
military ethos
navigator
Operational Training Unit
pilot
RAF Brackla
RAF Bridlington
RAF Castle Donington
RAF Hemswell
RAF Kirkham
RAF Lindholme
RAF Morpeth
RAF Tilstock
RAF Wickenby
RAF Woodbridge
RAF Wymeswold
searchlight
superstition
target indicator
training
V-1
V-weapon
Wellington
wireless operator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/2047/33328/ABiltonGHA960623-0001.1.pdf
68edbe099b5e26f2922404b2fb056c11
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/2047/33328/ABiltonGHA960623.1.mp3
3f3f5cac621761fcd3088cee74a5d0fd
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Bilton, George Henry Albert
G H A Bilton
Description
An account of the resource
Nineteen items. The collection concerns George Henry Albert Bilton (b. 1923, 175723 Royal Air Force) and contains an oral history interview, his log book, correspondence and photographs. He flew operations as a flight engineer with 428 and 434 Squadron.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Anthony Bilton and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018-09-14
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Bilton, GHA
Transcribed audio recording
A resource consisting primarily of recorded human voice.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Music]
I: Were you born in Hull?
GB: Well, outside of Hull at Anlaby.
I: Which year were you born?
GB: 1923. October.
I: And what did your father do for a living?
GB: He was a coach builder for, well it’s now British Railway but first of all Hull and Barnsley. Then it was taken over by the London Northeastern and he built the coaches and the waggons. He was with them all his life.
I: Did you go to school in Anlaby?
GB: Anlaby Church of England School. And then the last two years I was at Hessle School when they closed the Church of England one down. I left school 1938.
I: So you were fourteen.
GB: Fourteen. Yeah.
I: Did you get a job?
GB: Yes. I went and got a job as an apprentice furniture salesman.
I: In Hull.
GB: In Hull. At Harry Jacobs Furniture.
I: Were you doing that when war broke out?
GB: Oh, I was still with them when war broke out. I was with them until I went into the Forces in 1942.
I: What was your reaction when you heard Chamberlain make the declaration that we were at war with Germany?
GB: Well, I think it was a bit too young and didn’t know anything about it but I volunteered for an ARP messenger boy and I was accepted and that kept us busy on a night time. Even with practices.
I: Where did you volunteer for it?
GB: Anlaby House which became the Central Headquarters for the ARP in Haltemprice. It is now the headquarters of Beverley Borough Council. The same house.
I: What kind of work did you have to do as an ARP messenger boy?
GB: Well, if any of the telephone lines were broken in a raid we had to go out and take messages from one post to another.
I: By foot?
GB: No. On our bikes.
I: Did you have a uniform?
GB: No. Just a steel helmet and an extra special gas mask. That’s all.
I: What was extra special about it?
GB: Well, it was more like the Services one. Not like the ordinary civilian gas mask.
I: What was the difference between the two?
GB: Well, it was heavier and, well and you just, you didn’t have the mask at the face. You had a small canister at the side.
I: So you didn’t have the protuberance.
GB: No. That’s right.
I: Did you have an arm band to show who you were?
GB: Yes. ARP messenger, that was all and the steel helmet with M on.
I: What did M mean? For messenger.
GB: For messenger.
I: Did you get paid for it?
GB: No. It was all voluntary. No. Nothing at all. You, you, when the sirens went you reported to Anlaby House and you stayed there until the siren all clear and then you went back home.
I: Whereabouts did you do this work?
GB: In Anlaby. The farthest we ever had to bring a message was from Anlaby to Cottingham when the lines were down.
I: Did you enjoy doing it?
GB: Oh yes. I did.
I: Could you have thrown it up any time you liked?
GB: Any time you wanted you could decide to finish and that was it.
I: Was there competition to get these jobs?
GB: Well, there was about four of us and that’s all they needed. They all went in the Forces and of the four there was one killed.
I: How did that happen?
[pause]
GB: It was a lad called John Harding. He was killed in Italy about a month after the war. He went all through the desert, all through Italy and he was killed about a month after the war moving shells from the artillery.
I: Were there any incidents that happened to you after you had done the messenger work?
GB: Not really.
I: That you can recount.
GB: No, there was, it was very very quiet in the area of Haltemprice. All the damage that was done was done in Hull. I think we had what five bombs dropped in the village of Anlaby and they were unexploded.
I: Whereabouts did they drop?
GB: At the, two or three hundred yards from Anlaby House down Woodlands Drive in a snicket.
I: A snicket being a cut through.
GB: A cut through. Yes. They did no damage. The Army came, found them and exploded them.
I: Was anybody injured?
GB: No. There was no injuries whatsoever.
I: When did the bombs drop on Anlaby? Which year would that have been?
GB: That was in the big raid of 1940. May the 8th 1941.
I: ’41. Any others that you remember that dropped in Anlaby?
GB: None at all. There was only the five.
I: Did you ever see the damage in Hull?
GB: Yes. I used to work in Hull. The place where I was employed in Jameson Street was completely gutted during the 1941 raid.
I: What was the name again?
GB: Harry Jacobs Furniture, Jameson Street.
I: What else did you see of the damage in Hull?
GB: All of Jameson Street were moved. Our offices were down Osbourne Street and that was severely damaged. You could see all of Paragon Square which was Hammonds at the time was gutted. There was a terrific amount of damage done and especially in the Stoneferry District where the oil mills were and the flour mills around it.
I: Did people come out of Hull to Anlaby to get away from the bombing?
GB: Yes, they did. They built a camp down Lowfield Road in Anlaby for displaced personnel from the raids and there was one built on Priory Road just outside Cottingham which was taken up by people who had been bombed out. Those two camps after the war housed the young couples who got married and they had no housing. When I got married in ’51 I finished up in one of those converted accommodations for a year before I got a house.
I: What were they like?
GB: Alright.
I: Just describe them.
GB: Well, they were two little bedroom. You had a small bedroom, small living room and there was a small like kitchen for cooking and doing your washing. In Priory Road where the camp is we spent a year in there didn’t we before we came to Cottingham. There were no housing at all and they were in use for about ten years before they were finally closed down.
I: What was the standard of accommodation like?
GB: Poor. Single bricks. Very damp. Corrugated roof.
I: Wasn’t it later used to house Poles?
GB: That’s correct. Yes.
I: Now, can you tell me how you came to be in the Air Force?
GB: I volunteered for air crew in, when I was eighteen in what we called a Selection Board. And I was accepted as a wireless operator air gunner.
I: When you, which year would this have been?
GB: That was 1941. I was eighteen in October ‘41 and I volunteered then and went down for an interview at Padgate. I went through the examinations. Then my medical and then the Aircrew Selection Board and I was accepted for training as a w/op a g.
I: Why did you volunteer for it?
GB: I was, I should have made a very very poor sailor and my father always said, ‘Don’t go in the Army.’ He’d had enough.
I: So you wanted to exercise a choice before you were directed.
GB: Before I was directed.
I: But you were. Did you become a w/op air gunner?
GB: No. There was, they had a tremendous influx of people wanting to be w/op a g’s and I think I’d been waiting about four months to go in and they were short of flight engineers for training so they asked me if I would like to take a test board and become a flight engineer for training. And I accepted that instead of waiting. So I was called up in August ’42. Went to Blackpool. Did my initial training footslogging and I stayed in Blackpool then for about ten months doing a flight mechanic and a fitter’s course. Passed out AC1 flight mechanic and AC1 fitter and I went down to St Athans for six weeks to do the Halifax course and I waited then in August ’43 and I was posted from St Athans up to Number 6 Group, a Heavy Conversion Unit 1664 which was then at Croft and I crewed up with a Canadian and English mixed crew on August 1943.
I: In that training did you run into any problems?
GB: None at all. The only time I got jankers was for failing to carry a bayonet whilst on duty [laughs] and I got seven days CB for it and I swore never again to do any punishment.
I: What happened to you on the CB?
GB: CB? Well, you reported at 6 o’clock after you’d done all your schoolwork for three hours of square bashing. Fifty five minutes square bashing, five minutes off with full kit. Saturday you scrubbed the NAAFI out at Squire’s Gate and it was a huge one. Sunday you reported after Church Parade on the hour every hour until 10 o’clock at night. That was enough. No more. So I kept my shoes clean after that.
I: Did you resent the punishment?
GB: Not really. It taught you to behave yourself.
I: What did you think of the quality of training that you got?
GB: Very good. The instructors were very good. I had no complaints whatsoever against any of the instructors. They were always fair and they helped you whenever. All the way through the course.
I: Were you taught what you had to know or did they miss any?
GB: Well, I think the original entries for flight engineers were given far too much training on engines. You didn’t have to become a fitter to become a flight engineer as they found out later. They shortened the course to about a twelve week course where it took me nearly a year. You didn’t have to be a qualified flight fitter engine to become a flight engineer.
I: What did a flight engineer have to do in a bomber?
GB: Look after chiefly the control of the engines, the petrol consumption, know the hydraulic systems and all the emergencies. Assist in take-off and landing.
I: If the pilot had been hit would you have been able to pilot it?
GB: It would have been a struggle. As a Halifax flight engineer you didn’t have any pilot training. You were never on the controls whereas in a Lancaster you were. You acted as a second pilot for take-off and landing but on a Halifax bomber the bomb aimer assisted in take-off and landing.
I: Now, you said that you were posted to 6 Group. Can you tell me about what 6 Group was?
GB: 6 Group was the Halifax group financed by the Royal Canadian Government. They provided all the aircraft and the crews were mixed. I had three English and four Canadians in the crew. The pilot was, pilot, navigator and the two gunners Canadians. The wireless operator, the bomb aimer and myself were the English members of the crew.
I: How was the crew formed?
GB: Well, I met the crew. They’d done their Operational Training Unit course and they were posted up to Croft and ten crews and ten flight engineers were told, ‘Sort yourselves out.’ And they picked me and I accepted them and I went with them. You weren’t allocated. You weren’t told, ‘You fly with that man.’ Or, ‘You fly with them.’ You were left to individually sort yourself out which crew you wanted to go with. So if you met a sergeant in the mess, you know you knew him and you had a drink or two before you crewed up you went to him.
I: How did you like serving with Canadians?
GB: Oh, they were very good. Very friendly. They didn’t have the bull. The discipline wasn’t as severe on the Canadian group as it was on the English groups.
I: Can you give an example?
GB: Well, I mean you mixed freely with the, when I was an NCO you mixed freely with the two officers. The Canadian officers. No trouble at all calling you by your Christian names.
I: Now, what was your first operational squadron?
GB: My first operational squadron? Well. I lost my first pilot. We went to 427 squadron and Sergeant Dresser went on his second second dickie trip and never came back.
I: 427 was your first.
GB: First squadron at Leeming. So we were a crew without a captain.
I: When did you join that squadron do you think?
GB: We joined 427 Squadron 4th of September and we left on the 23rd of September. We were posted back to 1659 Conversion Unit Topcliffe where there was another pilot waiting for us.
I: So did you do any operations —
GB: None at all.
I: At that base?
GB: No. None whatsoever there. As I say the pilot never came back from his second, second dickie to Frankfurt.
I: So you were posted to a new squadron.
GB: No. A new Conversion Unit for a new pilot. A new pilot by the name of Watkins, a flying officer who had been instructing in Canada for nearly two years. He’d been, come over and we crewed up with him on the 24th of September with Flying Officer Watkins at 1659 Conversion Unit Topcliffe and we went through our month training with him again until the 7th of October ’43 where we were posted to 428 Squadron, Middleton St George.
I: And it was then you started operations.
GB: Operations. Yes. The first operation we did was the 3rd of November.
I: Can you describe what you remember of it?
GB: Very very little. It was Dusseldorf and everything seemed to be on top of you at the first you know. You didn’t take it all in. All I seem to remember is a little bit of flak and the flares going down for target indicators for bombing. Everything happened so fast on your first two or three trips that you hadn’t adjusted to operational flying. I learned more on my second op. We went to Ludwigshafen on the 18th of November.
I: What happened then?
GB: Well, first of all we got coned over the target. We got the master searchlight on us which was a bluey colour and he followed us and we got out of him after a lot of evasive action and as soon as we got out a fighter opened up on us and we got a good hiding. The rear gunner was severely wounded. The IFF that we had was damaged. Monica, which we had was damaged. All the trimming wires for elevator and rudders were cut. We had petrol tank wires cut from one, two and four tanks. All hydraulic pipes were cut. We couldn’t close the bomb doors. They were fully opened. We were in a mess and we got hit about twenty one thousand feet and by the time the pilot got control we were down to fifteen thousand. We had no navigational aids and the navigator brought us back by straight navigation of the Pole Star. We were off track coming back when we crossed over Ostend at fifteen thousand feet and they hit us with everything.
I: They what?
GB: Hit us with everything. They opened up with everything they had and we couldn’t take any evasive action. We just had to go through it.
I: This was the flak.
GB: Yeah. There was flaming onions coming up in between the tail plane and the main plane. It was rough. And then we crossed the coast and we still didn’t know exactly where we were so the skipper called up. The emergency call sign then was Darkie and Woodbridge accepted the call and we did a full emergency landing there.
I: What was the emergency landing like?
GB: It was very rough. We couldn’t get the undercarriage, it came down but I couldn’t lock it down. We tried everything. Put in to a shallow dive, pulling out to see if we could just pulling into a shallow dive, pulling out to see if we could just jerk it that two or three inches to make it lock and we couldn’t do that. We were all in the emergency positions coming in to land and just as they pulled up to do a belly landing it just threw it that little bit forward, the wheels, and they locked. So we were alright. We came out. The rear gunner we, we’d patched him up. We’d pumped morphine into him and he went to Norwich Hospital. We never saw him again. He was very badly wounded in the head. And we spent the night there and then an aircraft flew us back the next morning to our base at Middleton St George.
I: What was the date of that?
GB: 18th of November.
I: And which Halifax was it? What was it called?
GB: NA O-Oboe. We were just off on a night operation at 16.45 on a trip which lasted seven hours and five minutes.
I: Did that put you off wanting to go on operations after that experience?
GB: Not really. We were in operations again on the 26th of November. We took two spare gunners and we went to Stuttgart and we had a reasonable trip. We had no fighter trouble but when we went to a diversionary raid being done on Frankfurt and the Germans had laid what they called you know the fighter flares, the path the Mosquitoes were taking oh and it looked rough. We bypassed it and Stuttgart was quite you know quite a normal trip. A bit of flak. No fighters. But I think that got the confidence of the crew back.
I: When you went on these trips to Stuttgart and Ludwigshafen could you see other planes being hit?
GB: Not on those two. No. I never saw anything anyone shot down over Ludwigshafen, Stuttgart or the first trip Dusseldorf.
I: How did your next operations go?
GB: Well, the next operation was January the 20th 1944, Berlin and that was a rough one.
I: Can you describe it?
GB: Well, at one part the Germans had laid a flare path for fighter flares and they were among the bomber stream and we were going down. You could see the fire from the German aircraft and a small amount coming from our aircraft. The Allied aircraft and then you’d just see a ball of fire and it would hold steady for a minute or two then it would just go in to a dive. That was quite an experience to see it. When we got to Berlin we were in the first wave and the target indicators were a few seconds late and we got caught in predictive flak because we were the first wave. We had no cover from the metal strips. The tin foil that we threw out. It didn’t affect, it didn’t help you it helped the people behind you and we were a little bit off. [pause]
I: Which was the worse? This Berlin one or the Ludwigshafen?
GB: Ludwigshaven. Ludwigshaven was the worst. I mean we got a lot of shell, a lot of holes, a lot of damage. This Berlin it was just that you were in the predicted flak. We didn’t get hit. We didn’t have any fighter trouble. Berlin, Ludwigshafen I’ll never forget it. Never.
I: Was Berlin a particularly dreaded place to go to?
GB: It was, yes. It was such a long, it was such a long stooge. It took us eight hours fifteen minutes. It was very tiring and it was overpowering on the target area because it was so heavily defended. There were so many searchlights. I think on the first one we lost about forty odd aircraft that night.
I: You said which particular Halifax you had. Did you always have the same one?
GB: No. That was Halifax NA U-Uncle on that Berlin trip.
I: Was there any competition to get the best aircraft?
GB: No. It was just what you were allocated. Our pilot later became a flight commander and he took any aircraft. I mean I think we were nearly always in a B flight when we flew aircraft.
I: What does that mean?
GB: Well, you had A flights and B flights.
I: As part of the squadron. To make up the squadron.
GB: The mark up the squadron. Yes. And the A flights were the first half of the alphabet and so the second B was the second half. We were either V-Victor, Q-Queenie, or O-Oboe later on that we flew in.
I: But was there any, ever any feeling that the more senior people were getting the best aircraft?
GB: No. No.
I: Or the best ground crews?
GB: No. The best ground crews were on operational squadrons. I thought so anyhow.
I: But was there any difference between the different ground crews that you had in your squadron?
GB: No. They were all first class. They all did a first-class job. The aircraft were always in good condition. We never turned back from thirty four trips from any trouble whatsoever.
I: What was the next operations that you had to do?
GB: Well, the next two I did were two mine laying stooges. One was to Kiel which was a quiet trip and the other one was down to la Rochelle which was a very long stooge. Eight hours ten minutes. That was the fourth of February ’44. Then we went to Berlin again on the 15th of February.
I: Was mine laying usually a quiet job?
GB: Yes. Well, it was a very hard job because you were by yourself. There would probably be about twenty aircraft you know to lay mines and you were on your own. You had no cover whatsoever. I mean the tin foil that you threw out didn’t help you. It more or less showed the Germans where you were because you were always ahead of the tin foil you were throwing out. There would be about twenty. Probably twenty two twenty three aircraft would go down to La Rochelle and lay two mines a piece. In between the island of la Rochelle and the mainland.
I: Did you ever call those gardening operations?
GB: They are gardening operations. I did the La Rochelle. I did two La Rochelles in February. One on the 4th and one on the 21st and then on the 25th I did a mine laying stooge to Copenhagen Sound.
I: Well, what was your next Berlin operation like? Was it any different from the first?
GB: It was the same as the first. A lot of flak. A lot of fighter activity but we never had an attack. That day, night we were diverted to Shipdham which was an American base and we were there for three days for bad weather. Our base was closed down and we stayed with the Americans. Had their hospitality.
I: What was the date of your second Berlin raid?
GB: 15th of February. We took off in NA Q-Queenie. We took off at 17.20. We were airborne for six hours fifty minutes.
I: What did you fear most over Berlin? Was it the night fighters or the flak?
GB: The night fighters. The flak no. It was the fighters. We were always looking out for fighters. You didn’t want, you didn’t want to battle with them you wanted to get out of their way because the armaments that we had was four 303s were just like peashooters to their cannons if you could see them and get out of their way. That was the main thing.
I: And then after Berlin? That second Berlin operation.
GB: After Berlin we did as I say two mine laying stooges to la Rochelle and Copenhagen Sound in February. Then March we started with another gardening operation mine laying to the mouth of the Gironde River which was seven hours fifty minutes. Then we started the pre-D-Day marshalling yards in the March of ’44 and it was the marshalling yard at Trappes. Now that one we had an absolute full bomb load, I’ll never forget it of eleven thousand five hundred pounders. We had eleven thousand five hundred and fourteen hundred gallons of petrol and it was made up of seven five hundred pounders and six one thousand pounders. That was the heaviest bomb load we’d ever taken and after the operation the marshalling yard at Trappes was never used again. It was, it was quite an easy trip. There was very very little flak. It was very light. No fighter trouble. We came, we did five hours forty minutes and there was bad weather at the aerodrome and we were diverted to Harwell. And we spent the night at Harwell and we left the next day back to base.
I: Now here you’ve given me a sheet headed “Target Token” relating to this Trappes raid on the 6th of March 1944. Can you tell me what this sheet signifies?
GB: Well, that is the marshalling yards there. Those are early flares, the photograph flares that we dropped to illuminate the target so we could take the photograph. Well, from that they could photograph from the headings that we were on. They could tell you exactly where those bombs straddled the target and the whole load went right across the marshalling yards.
I: So you’ve got the copy of the photograph.
GB: Of the photograph. Every crew member was presented with a copy of the photograph.
I: As a means of congratulating.
GB: Congratulating. More or less that you’d got the whole fifteen bombs right across the marshalling yard.
I: Any other marshalling yard operations that you did?
GB: Well, I know the next one we went to was, the next operation I did was another gardening trip to Kiel. We did the mining to the entrance to Kiel harbour. The next one was on the 25th of March. We went to Aulnoye. That was quite an easy trip. A marshalling yard. No trouble. Then on April our skipper had been promoted to squadron leader and we were posted 434 Squadron where he became B Flight commander.
I: Where was 434 Squadron?
GB: At Croft. It was a satellite aerodrome of Middleton St George. It was one that was built during the wartime use whereas Middleton St George was a peacetime aerodrome. The next marshalling yard we went to was Lisle. That was a quiet trip. That was on the 9th of April. We went on the 26th of April to Villeneuve St Georges. A French target. On the 29th we had a short gardening trip to the Frisian Islands. The mines we were laying were supposed to be for a convoy that was coming through. We laid the mines and the convoy was coming through. There was quite a bit of flak from the flak ships. That was then —
I: Were you hit?
GB: No. It was, we had no trouble. We seemed to be lucky again. There was a lot of flak from the flak ships but we had nothing. No holes whatsoever. Come to May, the 1st of May we went St Ghislian. And then on the 27th we went to Le Crepiet. They were quiet trips. Five hours and four and a half hours we did. On June the 15th we flew in J-Jig on a daylight to Boulogne and you could see the flak there. When we were going in there was one aircraft coming out with the whole of his starboard wing in flames. We never knew what happened to him.
I: Was that the first daylight raid?
GB: That was the first daylight I’d done. Yes.
I: How did you feel about that compared with the night raids?
GB: Well, you’re more confident because you could see what was happening and you knew you had fighter cover. It was just the flak but then flak you got used to. It never really bothered people unless you got hit with it badly.
I: What was the date of that bombing operation?
GB: 15th of June.
I: So this was after D-Day.
GB: After D-Day. I was on leave on D-Day. We were. And the next operation was to Disemont on the 21st of June.
I: What was the target in the Boulogne raid?
GB: On the Boulogne raid we were dropping bombs that exploded as soon as it hit the water to cause waves to go into the fence to destroy their MTB boats and that.
I: Do you think it worked?
GB: By all accounts yes. The reports we received afterwards it had been a successful raid and the docks got a good pasting as well. In July, we started off the 1st of July we went to a place called [Benayes or Beugnies] and when we got there there were no PFF markings so we bombed on Gee. There was quite a bit of flak and we lost all hydraulics and had to, we had to land using emergency undercarriage but I could never close the bomb doors. They were open all the way back and all the way for landing. And we had to use full emergency for getting the undercarriage down and the use of the flaps.
I: When was that?
GB: That was the 1st of June. We went in Q-Queenie that night.
I: 1st of July.
GB: 1st of July, sorry. They sent us back to the same target on the 6th of July. To [Benayes or Beugnies]. We went on G-George that time and it was a quiet trip.
I: Where is [Benayes or Beugnies]?
GB: It’s in France. All I can —
[recording paused]
GB: And after that I went to Caen on a daylight and on a night operation on the 18th of the 7th took off at 3.30 in the morning. That was when they started the big push and their breakthrough at Caen.
I: Was that a particularly big raid? A mass raid.
GB: Yes, it was a mass raid. They practically destroyed Caen that night and the Army moved forwards and they never stopped moving after that.
I: Do you have any memories of that raid?
GB: Yes, all I can remember was it was a dead easy raid. Flak not bothered. No fighters. No nothing. Just like a cross country.
I: Were you aware of all the other planes?
GB: Yes. They were all, they were all so close together. All bombing on one area. You could see them even though it was that time. Just two hours. It would be about 5.30. just dusk coming on.
I: So you didn’t have any opposition.
GB: Nothing at all. Nothing whatsoever. It was just like flying from here to Jersey on your holidays. No opposition whatsoever.
I: Do you think you hit your target?
GB: Well, we must have done because the Army never stopped moving. They took Caen. The next job after that it was a rough one. It was Hamburg. That was the 28th.
I: What happened then?
GB: Well, we were in the second wave and we were a bit late and we were at the scheduled height of bombing at seventeen thousand feet. There was somebody else above us and they dropped their bombs and we had, on our bombing run we just had to dive starboard to get out of the way of his bombs or we should have got the lot because they always had separate heights for bombing and we were late. Two minutes late. We were at seventeen and the next wave was at seventeen five. That was it. There was quite a bit of flak at Hamburg. That was the most terrifying thing. A full bomb load up there. And the skipper just dived starboard and we were on the bombing run. Where our bombs went we don’t know.
I: Was it common for planes to be hit by bombers above them?
GB: I don’t think so. I think it occasionally happened but this was too close.
I: What about collisions between bombers?
GB: I never saw any. Never saw any at all. I think they did happen but they were very few and far between.
I: And then —
GB: And then after that August was a very busy month. Our skipper had been promoted because our original wing commander, Wing Commander Bartlett had been lost. He’d been shot down and killed in action and our skipper was promoted and became wing commander of 434 Squadron. On the 1st of August we took J-Jig to Acquet in France. There was no PFF markings so the full bomb load was brought back. We brought the whole load back. On the 3rd of —
I: How dangerous was it to bring bombs back?
GB: Well, they weren’t fused. I mean they weren’t fused until you were bombing. Didn’t press the selector switches so they would be alright. It was just that we would have a heavy load for landing. After that on the 3rd we took J-Jig again to le Foret de Nieppe which was for fuel dumps. On the 4th of August again in J-Jig again we went to caves that were just outside Paris where the V-2 rockets were assembled and that was heavily defended with a daylight op and we were hit by flak. We got a few holes. We were caught in predictive flak. We were diverted on the 4th to Dalton.
I: Was this a V-2 place or a V-1 place?
GB: No. A V-2 place where they were assembling the, where they assembled where they assembled the rockets.
I: And where was it?
GB: Just outside Paris. Some from what we could understand from the briefing they were more or less mushroom caves and that. And then on the 5th we went to St Leu d’Esserent. On the 8th we went to a fuel dump just outside at Foret de Chantilly and that was hit and there was black smoke when we left up to fifteen thousand feet.
I: What do you think you hit there at Chantilly?
GB: It was a fuel dump. And on the 9th we went to Le Breteque. On the 12th of August we went to Brunswick. To Germany. On that raid according to recent record was a complete failure as everyone bombed on H2S as there were no markers went down so we bombed individually and there was no concentration.
I: Did you feel at the time that it was a failure?
GB: Well, it seemed to be a failure because there was no concentration of fires or anything. Then on the 14th we did the Army coop where the German divisions were trapped at Falaise. Now that was a very easy trip. There was no opposition whatsoever. The only thing wrong was that the Canadian group bombed their own troops. The Canadian Army had advanced past the markers and of course there was a few killed.
I: Was yours one of the bombers that dropped on the Canadians do you think?
GB: Hmmn.
I: Right.
GB: It wasn’t the Air Forces fault. It was the Army had advanced past the markers. And the last trip I did—
I: And that was what? That was the 14th was it?
GB: That was the 14th of August. We took off at 12.40. It was a five hour ten minute job. And the last trip I did was the 25th of August. We went to Brest to soften it up so the Yanks could take it. And that was quite easy. There was no trouble at all. I think they were more or less giving in. And that was on the 25th of August. There was bad weather back at base and we got diverted to Thorney Island. We spent the night at Thorney Island and then came back the next day and we were told that was it. We had finished our tour.
I: Had you done thirty?
GB: We’d done thirty four and one sea sweep. The skipper, the navigator and the bomb aimer were each awarded a DFC and myself, the wireless operator Jackie Bennett from Newcastle and Jimmy Silverman the rear gunner were granted a commission. That was our reward.
I: What happened to you then?
GB: Well, after that I was posted down to Bruntingthorpe which was 29 OTU and I was instructing on engine handling. I did very little flying. And a week at Blackpool on an Air Sea Rescue course which I thoroughly enjoyed. I only flew twice in the six months I was at OTU. I was never keen on Wellingtons.
I: Why not?
GB: Well, the Wellingtons were clapped out [laughs]
[pause]
GB: Then I went, I volunteered to go back on a second tour and I went in April ’45 with a Flight Lieutenant Kennedy. He made a crew up from 29 OTU and we went to 1651 Conversion Unit at Woolfox Lodge.
I: Why did you volunteer for a second tour?
GB: I didn’t like 29 OTU and I didn’t like what bit of flying I did do.
I: Why didn’t you like that OTU?
GB: Well, there was a little bit of too much bull. The group captain in charge was an ex-Cranwell boy and I think he thought it was still 1938 and not 1944.
I: So you preferred to risk your life.
GB: Yes.
I: Than have the bull?
GB: Have the bull. Yes.
I: Did you go back on ops in the end?
GB: Well, we did our conversion unit on to Lancasters and we were picked out unfortunately to go to Warboys for PFF training so by the time we’d finished the PFF training the war had finished. They had special training at Warboys and then we had to go through another course of automatic gun laying turret which was new to the gunners. By the time we’d finished those courses the war had finished. We finished up at 156 Squadron at Upwood and that was quite enjoyable because we did [pause] took ground crew on what was called a Cook’s Tour. We used to fly them over Germany up the Ruhr and show them all the damage that they’d helped to do in maintaining the aircraft. I did two of those Cook’s Tours in in June and we did a little bit of flying. I did an air test for the Royal Aeronautical Establishment. Another Cook’s Tour. We did a postmortem to Denmark where they did an actual like on operation to Denmark to see how the German radar system worked and that was on the 29th of June ’45. That was a five and a half hour.
I: Testing the radar defences.
GB: Yes. Of the, that the Germans had. Then we just did local flying and then for three days we were dumping. The 21st, the 24th and the 27th of July was dumping incendiaries in to the North Sea that were no good. And in the August of ’44 we, the 1st of August we did a passenger trip to Frankfurt and Nuremberg taking crew, ground crew in and bringing ground crew out. And we had a trip which made me want to go back to Italy when I got married but on the 15th of August ’45 we went to Bari in Italy and we had three days. Well, we crammed twenty of the 8th Army boys into a Lancaster fuselage, gave the a sick bag and put their kit in the bomb bays and flew them home. That was thoroughly enjoyable to see Italy.
I: Can I ask you about the difference between Lancasters and the Halifaxes. What did you feel about flying in the two?
GB: Well, on a Lancaster the flight engineer did the work of a second pilot. He did the throttles, looked after the undercarriage controls, flaps and everything. But as regards flying I still like the Halifax. Especially the Halifax Mark 3 with the Hercules Centaurus engines. It was a marvellous aircraft. There was more room in it. It could carry a bombload of twelve thousand pounds but it couldn’t carry the big bombs because they hadn’t the depth of the bomb bays. But I still liked the Halifax. I think it was because I did all my operations in them and I got through a tour with them.
I: Did the Halifax have any disadvantages?
GB: I don’t think so. Not the later ones. The one of the first lots, the first ones had a tendency to stall but they altered that by doing, altering the rudder system.
I: What did you learn in the Pathfinder course?
GB: I took a bomb aimer’s course and learned how to drop bombs [laughs] That’s the only difference.
I: How did you do that?
GB: Well, they give you a concentrated course on dropping practice bombs and that was the only difference.
I: Now, can I ask you some general questions about operations in the war. what was morale like amongst the bomber crews as far as you personally experienced it?
GB: Very good. Very high indeed. I only ever knew one person who went LMF and he was a member of our crew but everyone else that I knew enjoyed the life. It was a good life. I mean admittedly it was very very dangerous but it was a clean life. You came back to a clean bed and you came back to good food and you were treated well. You were given leave every six weeks. You were. You had extra rations when you came home. It was a dangerous job but they looked after you and discipline wasn’t severe on bomber squadrons. That was on the Canadian group anyhow. But aircrew was quite relaxed.
I: Could you see signs of LMF in this chap?
GB: No. No, we couldn’t. It was only the second trip after we got a good hiding and he never said anything on the night when we did the emergency landing at Woodbridge. When we came back the next day I met him in the Sergeant’s Mess in the afternoon and he said what had happened and I never saw him again. He was off the squadron as quick as that.
I: So you couldn’t think of any reason why he should have gone LMF.
GB: No. None at all. He was the mid-upper gunner and that was just it. He just threw the sponge in.
I: What did the rest of the crew think about him going LMF? Did you have sympathy or did you look down on him?
GB: I don’t think they looked down on him. They were just pleased that he’d gone so quick and nobody could dwell on the subject. And when we got two new gunners and as I say we were away within seven days of that operation on Stuttgart 18th to the 26th and we got two spare gunners. And after that we got two permanent gunners.
I: Were the aircrew superstitious? Did they have any lucky charms or anything like that?
GB: Yes, I’ve still got my little St Christopher cross and three us was always emptied our bladder on the starboard wheel before we took off. Myself, the rear gunner and the wireless operator.
I: This was a superstition was it?
GB: Always did it. Always, whether it was a daylight or a night op. Whether the groupie was there or anybody it was always emptied against the starboard wheel.
I: And did other crews do that?
GB: I think other crews always went in in certain order. Pilot first and like that.
I: What were the briefings like? Can you describe the scene when you got the briefings?
GB: Well, when it was the Berlin and you looked up and everyone said, ‘Berlin,’ everyone, ‘Oh.’ That was it. Then you just stepped back in silence and let them all give you the information. The German targets when you saw them when you saw the red lines leading you knew you were in for a warm night. The French targets everyone [clap] was happy.
I: They clapped.
GB: Well, there was that and a cheer when they said Caen or St Leu d’Esserent like that. I mean compared to the German targets they were easy. The only targets that we didn’t really like, the whole crew, was the mine laying duty because they, the majority of them were so long and there were so few of you you felt so exposed. I mean the Germans would probably leave you alone but then the next time they’d probably lose four five aircraft out of twenty odd. They would really come down on you like a tonne of bricks than leave you alone. When they hit you they hit you.
I: What do you feel about the criticism that has been lodged against Bomber Command since the war?
GB: I think its people who have got no idea about a war. They have no idea what the targets were like. Bombing had to be done. It was the only way of offensive against the Germans and I don’t think they take in to fact the amount of damage that we did do. The amount of people that were tied down. There was over a million people tied down in German defence. There was thirty thousand anti-aircraft guns and over, nearly ten thousand of those were eighty eight millimetre. Now if those eighty eight ten thousand millimetres had been used on the beaches of Normandy the Channel would have been blood red. They had, the German defences had all the ammunition they wanted up to within six weeks of the war. They were never short. They rationed the Army but they never rationed the local defence. And after all we did reduce production and if you reduced production by twelve and a half percent of the Tiger tanks it’s a heck of a lot because there was nothing could touch a Tiger. So I think the criticism has been very unfair because the boys went through hell.
I: When you were at these stations how and where did you spend your spare time?
GB: Well, at Middleton St George and Croft we used to go into Darlington and we all had one particular pub. The Fleece. And that’s where we spent our time. At the Fleece. But I was up there about eight or nine years ago and it’s been knocked down. The Old Fleece pub.
I: Did you put any kind of trophies or anything like that up in the bar?
GB: No. No, we just went there to drink and sing and other things.
I: Were there any breaches of security with people telling girlfriends about —
GB: Not to my knowledge.
I: Ops.
GB: No. No. If you were going up there for a night out you didn’t know anything because the station would be closed if there was a full ops on. There would only be probably only a few ground crew but the aircrew wouldn’t go, be allowed out. So most of the telephone lines were shut down. Were closed. You couldn’t make outside calls if there was ops on.
I: Did the German Air Force ever attack these airfields.
GB: No. Not to my knowledge. Not whilst ours.
Now, I think after the war had ended you went out to Burma.
Burma, yes. On 267 Squadron at Mingaladon. The squadron was keeping the airways open taking mail and passengers flying from Mingaladon in Burma up to Dum Dum at Calcutta. And then from, back again and then from Mingaladon to Bangkok. Bangkok, Saigon. Saigon to Kai Tak which is the aerodrome for Hong Kong on the mainland of Kowloon and they used to fly down to Singapore.
I: This is Dakotas.
GB: On Dakotas. Yes. And the flight engineers were all remustered as air quarter masters on those trips looking after the baggage and the passengers and I had about fifteen of the lads under me. We used to take them out on these trips which they thoroughly enjoyed going up to Calcutta. Spending a day in Calcutta and then coming back going down to Hong Kong. We had a thoroughly enjoyable time.
I: What kind of passengers were you moving?
GB: Well, RAF and Burmese and if you were coming from India you used to bring down the Indians who were coming down on business trips or anything like that. Used to bring our own people down to [unclear] and look after the stores. Generally taking mail across to Bangkok, Saigon.
I: So you were a bit like an airline.
GB: A bit like an airline. Yes. A bit rough and ready. I did one or two. I went to Saigon and worked with Saigon. Wanted to look around during the night time but we were informed that all personnel were on curfew and had to be in by 9 o’clock. And the biggest shock I ever had was walking into the hotel where we were billeted to be given a salute by a Jap prisoner of war with a rifle and fixed bayonets.
I: When was this that you were in Saigon?
GB: 12th of February ’46. Then from Saigon we’d go to Kai Tak which was the aerodrome for Hong Kong on the mainland and the people of the mainland which was a British colony I’ve never known people so friendly to see us. We were taken into cafes and restaurants and you could have everything you wanted.
I: In Hong Kong.
GB: In Hong Kong. But what I was surprised about Hong Kong is that they had everything on show and sale and the war had only been over for five months. You could go in and buy a Rolex Oyster watch. You couldn’t see them in Europe but they found them. They could. You could buy anything you wanted.
I: Were these Chinese who were —
GB: Yes. The —
I: You in Hong Kong.
GB: In Hong Kong where they were first class.
I: Coming back to Saigon did the Japanese soldiers do their job well?
GB: Yes, as far as I know they had no complaints. They guarded us well. But the trouble was just beginning to start then. There was just a bit of discontent amongst the Saigon people I think. It was just beginning to start with the Viet Cong. Just beginning to get unruly.
I: What did you see of disorder there?
GB: Nothing at the night time. That’s when it happened. During the day everything was normal. It was on a night time when they used to come and try and interfere on the aerodrome but we were in the town itself so we saw nothing.
I: So they were trying to attack the aerodrome.
GB: Trying to you know disrupt it more or less.
I: Did you see any French military presence there?
GB: Well, last I was there the only French presence was two Corvettes in the harbour. There was no French troops whatsoever. If the French had spent a little more time in French Indo China as it was then instead of parading around Europe they might have been in a bit better position out there.
I: Did you feel in much danger in Saigon?
GB: No. Not really. I wasn’t there long enough and the short time where the trouble was we were in the hotel out of the way.
I: You were telling me about 29 OTU at Bruntingthorpe was it called?
GB: Bruntingthorpe.
I: Where is that?
GB: Just outside Leicester.
I: And you were telling me about the excessive bull there that drove you to apply for a second tour. Can you give any examples of not —
GB: Well —
I: Without mentioning the group captain’s name any examples of the kind of bull that went on there?
GB: Well, we had once a month we had an officer’s dining in night where all the tables were put in the shape of a horseshoe with the group captain in the centre and then going left to right from squadron leader. From wing commander, squadron leader, flight lieutenant, flying officer down to pilot officer which was pre-war bull. Not wartime discipline. And then he would hold a full parade of the whole OTU and every officer and every airman would parade on the main runway and would march past the rostrum as though they were the guards which again goes back to pre-war. It should never have been done in wartime RAF. But the Australians didn’t like it because we had a lot of Australians go through there and they objected strongly. And in the Officer’s Mess we had a very big organ by a very well known organist. The organ, keyboard and the sound box system was flooded with beer. The Mess notice board all the Mess board notices were burned down by the Australians. The group captain had his own hook for his hat and coat with a bolt right through the wall. The peg was pulled out. Also, part of the wall [laughs] In fact they did so much damage the group captain closed the Officer’s Mess bar for a week. All because of bull.
I: Did you approve?
GB: No.
I: Of what the Aussies did?
GB: Yes. I did. But no one was allowed in the Officer’s Mess after 5.30 unless they were in full dress. No battle dress. I came back and I’ll tell you the exact day. We’d, I’d been out a cross country to check the pilot for engine handling on the 19th of February ‘45 and we took off at 12 o’clock and we’d been diverted to Husband Bosworth. And by the time we got back it was 16.35. I was pulled up for entering the Mess in battle dress and not allowed to have a meal, my evening meal until I had changed. And the evening meal finished at 19.00 hours which is 7 o’clock and I didn’t get in as I say until 16 —
I: Twenty five you said.
GB: That’s how bad, that’s how bad the bull was.
I: You also were telling me about another job you had I think in ’46 of having to deal with airmen’s possessions who had been killed.
GB: Yes.
I: In accidents.
GB: That was the, I did that at 29 OTU. The last job I had was on for in the July 1946 was Dakota KN585 was hit by lightning and crashed in to the Irrawaddy Delta at Bassein. The death roll was twenty two. By the time we got the bodies they were four days old and I had to [pause] another flight lieutenant and the local police identified the bodies and arranged burial which was a very distressing thing to do especially as five days later I was on my home.
I: How were the possessions dealt with?
GB: Well, most of the possessions that they had I had to burn because they’d been on the bodies and they had been five days in the swamp and they smelled terribly and there was very very little went home. And of the twenty two they had no identification. They were all just interred with no headstone. No one knew who they were. They were interred at the European Cemetery at that time in Bassein. They would later be moved to the War Graves.
I: But you were telling me about your special problem you had with the possessions of Australians.
GB: When I was at 29 OTU. Yes. With the letters I mean the Aussie boys would have two or three girlfriends and the trouble was sorting out the letters to make sure that the right ones went home and the other ones were destroyed. Of the, we had two crews killed whilst I was there. Eleven men died.
I: Would any of them leave wills?
GB: No. There was no wills. I never found a will in the, any of the airmen who I buried. I went through their personal effects.
[Music]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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War Memoir - George Bilton
Description
An account of the resource
Talks of early life at school and work in Hull. Volunteered as ARP messenger and described duties and air raid damage in Hull. Volunteered as aircrew and initially selected for wireless operator/air gunner but later asked to change to air engineer. Trained in Blackpool and RAF St Athan. Crewed up with mixed Canadian British crew on Halifax HCU before being posted to 6 Group 427 Squadron. His pilot did not return from a second dickie orientation sorties so crew went back to conversion unit to crew up and train with new pilot. Then posted to 428 Squadron. Subsequently transferred to 434 Squadron when pilot promoted. Completed tout of 34 operations on Halifax. Gives detailed description of individual operations, experiences and activities. Describes flying in Halifax and discusses moral, discipline issues, operating with Canadians and other general comments. Did instructional tour after completing operational tour, offered commission, did not enjoy it and volunteered for second tour but curtailed by end of war. Comments on tours after war including one in Burma including dealing with casualties in from a Dakota crash in Egypt.
Creator
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G H A Bilton
Format
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Oral history
Language
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eng
Type
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Sound
Identifier
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ABiltonGHA960623
Coverage
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Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Canadian Air Force
Conforms To
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Pending revision of OH transcription
Pending review
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--Yorkshire
England--Hull
England--Lancashire
England--Blackpool
Wales--Vale of Glamorgan
England--Durham (County)
England--Leicestershire
Burma
Germany
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Stuttgart
England--Berkshire
France
France--La Rochelle
France--Lille
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Caen
Germany--Hamburg
France--Paris
France--Creil
France--Falaise
Germany--Braunschweig
France--Brest
England--Sussex
England--Huntingdonshire
Italy
Italy--Bari
Denmark
Denmark--Copenhagen
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
France--Chantilly Forest
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
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Julie Williams
427 Squadron
428 Squadron
434 Squadron
6 Group
aerial photograph
Air Raid Precautions
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
bomb aimer
bombing
C-47
civil defence
Cook’s tour
crewing up
flight engineer
Halifax
Heavy Conversion Unit
lack of moral fibre
Lancaster
military discipline
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
mine laying
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
Pathfinders
RAF Bruntingthorpe
RAF Croft
RAF Harwell
RAF Middleton St George
RAF St Athan
RAF Thorney Island
RAF Topcliffe
RAF Warboys
RAF Woodbridge
target indicator
target photograph
training
V-2
V-weapon
Wellington
Window
wireless operator / air gunner
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/2044/33128/PProbynEA17010017.2.jpg
76ef7463789edf93d945e4d397380091
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Probyn, Ernest. Scrapbook
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-04-23
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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Probyn, EA
Description
An account of the resource
42 items. Scrapbook containing photographs and clippings.
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EXTRACTS FROM LETTER FROM AIR CHIEF MARSHAL
[underlined] SIR ARTHUR HARRIS, KCB., OBE., AFC. [/underlined]
“I have always considered that the strain imposed by sustained Bomber operations requires that aircrew personnel should enjoy the maximum amount of freedom from restraint and should be relieved, as far as can be done without loss of efficiency, of routine Station duties. This policy, and I can see no reason for changing it, places on Station, Squadron and Flight Commanders the responsibility for ensuring that such privileges are not abused.”
“Unfortunately, my attention is continually drawn to the lack of discipline prevalent amongst operational aircrew, and to causes of complaint such as irregularities of dress, lack of smartness in bearing and appearance, slackness in saluting and a degree of untidiness in some of their living quarters which practically amounts to squalor. Apart from the bad impression created both inside and outside the Service, such symptoms cannot help but have an adverse effect on the behaviour in the air of the personnel concerned, as conditions of modern warfare, and in particular the gruelling task of Bomber crews, demand instantaneous and unhesitating obedience to orders, combined with a degree of physical and moral stamina which can only result from a high standard of self-discipline.”
“The junior aircrew members of today are the Flight and Squadron Commanders of tomorrow, and the Station and Base Commanders of the future, and unless they grow up with an understanding of, and a sincere regard for, the right ideals and best traditions of the Service, our efficiency and our prestige will inevitably decline. The conduct of our aircrews on operations has won, and continues to win, the admiration of the world. It is particularly undesirable, therefore, that their conduct on the ground should fall short of this magnificent standard, and should excite unfavourable comment by the other members of the Royal Air Force, by other Services, or by the general public.”
“Constant steps must be taken to see that aircrew personnel take sufficient physical exercise to keep them fit, particularly during lulls in operations. They must be educated in matters of general, as well as Service knowledge. They must be made aware of the achievements, both past and present, of the Royal Air Foce, [sic] and thus gain pride in their membership of our Service. Finally, they must be reminded that, as aircrews of Bomber Command, they form the spearhead of the national offensive, and as such can lay claims to be called a “crack Corps”, but that every “crack Corps” which has ever existed in any arm of the Services in any country, has been distinguished for its all-round efficiency, smartness and esprit-de-corps, just as much as for its valour and fighting skill. Let us see to it that Bomber Command aircrews do not forfeit in the eyes of the world, through ignorance fostered by poor leadership, their full claim to that title.”
[black and white head and shoulders photograph of Ernest Probyn in cadet uniform]
Self as Cadet Aircrew.
[black and white photograph of Ernest Probyn in Sergeant’s uniform, standing in front of trees next to a fence]
Self as Sgt. A/G at No. 17 O.T.U. R.A.F. Silverstone
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Title
A name given to the resource
Ernest Probyn and Letter from Sir Arthur Harris
Description
An account of the resource
Two photographs of Ernest, the first as a cadet, the second captioned 'Self as Sgt A/G at No 17 OTU RAF Silverstone'.
The letter is a morale booster to encourage his airmen.
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Two b/w photographs and one typewritten sheet on an album page
Language
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eng
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Photograph
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
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PProbynEA17010017
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Conforms To
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Pending text-based transcription. Under review
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
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Tricia Marshall
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--Northamptonshire
17 OTU
aircrew
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
military discipline
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
Operational Training Unit
RAF Silverstone
training
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/612/32129/BMorrisWMorrisWv1.1.pdf
9f201c25d99b744766e20e799676569a
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Morris, Walter
W Morris
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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Morris, W
Description
An account of the resource
Two items. An oral history interview with Walter Morris (b. 1923, 1623898 Royal Air Force). and his memoir. He flew operations with 630 Squadron.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Walter Morris and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
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217-02-18
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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[typewritten]
[centred] Walter Morris – 1939/45 War Record. [/centred]
My story begins in 1923 when I was born in Kettering the elder son of Charles & Ethel Morris. My father served in the Army during the 1914/18 war, although he rarely talked about it, so I do not know any details of her service, except that he had a very hard time serving in the trenches, in terrible conditions. When he returned to Kettering he worked in a Boot & Shoe factory where I believe he met my mother Ethel May Smith who also worked there, & they married in 1922mat[sic] Carey Baptist Chapel. I was born in 1923 & my brother Peter followed two years later. I attended Park Road Infants school. When the family moved to the other end of Kettering Peter & I went to Hawthorn Road Junior School. In 1935 I moved on to the Central School (& Peter followed 2 years later). It was here that I first met Pauline in 1938. For a while we walked out together, & although we drifted apart, we were both in the same circle of friends, & I was still greatly attracted to her.
After 4 years I left School & obtained employment as a junior Clerk at Stewarts & Lloyds, Corby. I started to work there on the 26th August 1939, just 7 days before the war began. I don’t think that many people at the time thought of war starting, & it was quite a shock on the 1st September when without notice a black out was imposed. All street lighting in the Country was switched off, householders were ordered to black out their windows etc, no lights should be visible. These orders were put in place because of the probability of German aircraft making bombing raids over Britain. At 11 am on 3rd September the Prime Minister (Neville Chamberlain) broadcast to the nation to advise that Germany had ignored our ultimatum regarding their plans to invade Poland, & consequently a state of war existed with Germany. That day I recall my father, brother & I spent the afternoon digging a large hole in the garden so that an air raid shelter could be erected, & where we could go if Kettering was ever bombed. In fact we never did get an ARP shelter, & in Kettering only one or two bombs were dropped.
Conscription to the forces was quickly introduced, & men between the ages of 18 & 40 had to register, & were soon allocated to serve in either the army, navy or air force. The only exceptions, other than ill health or disability were men employed in essential work. Later women were also required to enlist, to join one ATS (army_ WAAF (air force) or WRNS (navy). Being just 16 this did not concern me at the time – many people said that the war would be over by Christmas, there was little enemy activity around this country in 1939, & life for me life went on as normal. How wrong we were – there were some food shortages, but rationing was still some time ahead. It was soon to alter, in the Spring of 1940, Hitler’s armies swept through Europe culminating with British troops being evacuated from Dunkirk. In preparation to invade Britain Germany launched ceaseless bombing raids on airfields etc in England in an effort to decimate the RAF fighter strength. However the Spitfires & Hurricanes of the RAF defeated the German bombers & in September 1940, Germany cancelled the plans to invade & instead turned their attention towards Russia, although their Air force commenced bombing raids on many cities & towns in this Country. Earlier Chamberlain resigned as Prime Minister, & was succeeded by Winston Churchill, many believe that he was the man who won the war for our country.
For me 1941 was rather decisive. At the beginning of the year the Government announced the formation of the Air Training Corps, which would train lads between the ages of 16 to 18, for enlistment in to the RAF. The response was overwhelming towns & cities all over the country formed squadrons. Volunteer instructors were enrolled from local people including School teachers, who would train the lads in basic requirements when the cadets reached the RAF. By this time I was 17 years of age – I knew that as the war dragged on, I would have to enlist & I desperately wanted to join the Air Force, so I was one of the first to enlist for the Kettering Squadron. In all over 200 boys enrolled at Kettering initially, & I was fortunate to be appointed to be a sergeant. It was a great adventure. We paraded at Stamford Road School two nights a week, & went through our routines & lessons, everything from drill, marching, to Aircraft recognition learning morse code, & much more &
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which was to hold me in good stead when I eventually joined the RAF. We also played at sports, including having a football team in the local youth league. A big thrill that year was a week end camp at RAF Wittering which included a flight in Dragon Rapide an old bi-plane, which at the time was a great thrill. At the end of the year having reached 18 years I volunteered for the RAF & was accepted for aircrew training – at that time I wanted to be a pilot. On February 12th 1942 I received my “Calling up” papers, & told to report to the Aircrew Receiving Centre at Lords Cricket Ground London on the 23rd. I was in fact the first cadet from the Kettering ATC to be called up. At the time I was still working at Stewarts & Lloyds in the Traffic Department, & was give immediate permission to leave, with an assurance that I could return after the war ended.
So for me, AC2 Morris W. 1623898, my war service started when I left Kettering for London on a cold February morning. I duly reported & registered at Lords Cricket Ground. There were many new arrivals & after signing in we were marched to billets about a quarter of a mile away. The billets were one time luxury flats which overlooked London Zoo. About 20 of us were allocated to each flat, which was to be our billet for the next 2 to 3 weeks. We were issued with mattresses & blankets, & had to make our beds up on the floor. For our meals we were assembled & marched to the Zoo Restaurant for our meals. During the next days we were issued with Air Force uniforms & clothing, & each given a Medical & received inoculations etc. Also we had lectures about life in the RAF, & what was expected of us as Airmen. We also took tests to ascertain our education etc. It was all very exciting. In mid-March I along with 40 or so others were posted & sent to the Grand Hotel, Scarborough Yorkshire which was an Initial Training Unit (for Aircrew training). At this time I & all the other new recruits held the rank of AC2 (the lowest of the low) & we were all at that time being accepted as trainee pilots. The course was hard, discipline was strict, we marched, & subjected to a great deal of physical exercise, as well as attending lectures daily in our quests to finally become fliers. Most of us cadets on the course were about the same age, 18 & 19 year olds, & it was really a great adventure. Graduating in June, we were then posted to a civilian air field, at Brough near to Hull, where we were given some instructions how to fly Tiger Moth aircraft, delightful old bi-planes. My instructor was a first world war pilot, & although he never allowed me to fly solo in a plane, did recommend that I should receive pilot training. So after 6 weeks at Brough, those of us who were selected to continue in our quest to be pilots, were sent to Heaton Park, Manchester to await our next step. Most of the aircrew training was overseas, either in the USA, Canada, South Africa or Rhodesia, & in late September 1942, I with several hundred others, received inoculations, further medicals, & sent to Glasgow to be shipped to Canada. What a thrill as the train pulled up on the dock, where the SS Queen Mary was waiting to embark us, a pre-war luxury liner it was a beautiful vessel, weighing in at over 70000 tons. The vessel had retained much of it’s pre-war glory, & after the austerity of war time Britain, it was like living in a wonderland. There were only a few hundred airmen on board, cabins had extra bunks built in, but it was never crowded. The catering arrangements were excellent, & the food was great, no worries about rationing, as the vessel was stocked up by the USA, who had joined with Britain to fight Germany & Japan in December 1941 after Japan attacked Pearl Harbour. Ships to & from the war zones at this time sailed in convoy, protected by the Royal Navy, but the Queen Mary was too fast for convoys, & indeed could outrun & out manoeuvre German U-boats, as it zig-zagged it’s was across the Atlantic. So she slipped out of port quietly on her own. For 5 days we airmen lived in this seemingly unreal world, bags of lovely food, cinema shows, lounging on the decks as the ship took a southerly & warm weather course. All too soon we arrived in Boston USA, to a great welcome by the locals who treated us as heroes. But we had a shock as we marched by the front of the ship when we saw a massive great gash of some 12 feet in the bow just at the waterline. On enquiry we were told that in fact the Queen Mary had sliced a British Destroyer in two, on a previous journey back to Britain, being unable to cancel the pre-set zig-zag course in time, such was the force of the great ship. However, we were told that the hole had been filled with concrete to enable her to get to the States for repair. From Boston we went by train through the New England states to Canada, & it was one of the most unforgettable journeys of my life before or after. In beautiful warm autumnal weather the magnificence of the
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scenery was unbelievable, the trees with their red & brown leaves on the tree lined the route, small lakes with blue waters, neat & well manicured houses. Even for a nineteen year old it was a truly memorable experience. After a 15 hour journey we arrived in the Canadian state of New Brunswick shortly after reached RCAF Moncton – this was a “Holding” station, where groups of cadets were selected for various courses, being run in Canada & USA. I cannot recall how many training Centres there were in the USA Canada, they were situated mainly to the west of the Continent, & guessing I would think about ten in Canada & the USA for pilot training, whilst in Eastern Canada navigators & Air Bombers were trained. I spent some three weeks here waiting for a posting, with little to do, except walk to nearby Moncton or go to the camp cinema, write home etc. I was anxious to get on with my training. By the end of October, I with 40 or so other cadets received our posting to RCAF Bowden, in Alberta. After kitting up with winter clothing, we left Moncton early one morning, on our way to the other side of Canada, a journey which would take 5 days. We stopped for a few hours in Montreal, to change trains before proceeding on to Alberta a journey that took us alongside Lake Superior, & on to Winnipeg, where we [were] given a lovely welcome by a Ladies organisation, who supplied refreshments, magazines etc – you would think that we had just won the war, not raw recruits. Eventually we arrived at Calgary, on a sunny but cool November day, & already the first of the winter snow had arrived. A further 100 miles of train travel followed, as we made our way north to Bowden, which is near to Innisfail, midway between Calgary & Edmonton, & some miles to the west the mountain ranges of the Rockies could be seen stretching into the sky. Bowden was a small airfield with one runway. The billets were very good & well heated, but we did make the mistake of opening some of the windows because it was so stuffy, & did we regret it in the morning when we were nearly frozen. I recall that the days generally in Alberta were sunny but there was a dryness, which somehow made the below freezing temperatures bearable. Snow already covered the countryside when I arrived at Bowden, & more snow followed, to give a deep frozen surface, which lasted throughout the winter. To cope with the conditions, some of the aircraft were fitted with skis. It was not long before flying lessons started, but I was soon to be disappointed, as both I & my instructor, soon realised that I was pretty useless handling an aeroplane, & not surprisingly I was taken off the course. Whilst I loved flying in the old Tiger Moths, I just could not handle the controls, or land the aircraft without a lot of bouncing & bumping about, on reflection it was the right decision, although I was very upset at the time. I had been at Bowden for about 6 weeks, & loved it out there. This all happened about Christmas 1942, & two weeks later I & another 4 or 5 “failures” were posted to RCAF Trenton, Ontario, for Aircrew re-selection. The journey back east lasted some 3 or 4 days, as we travelled via Lake Superior & Toronto to our destination. Trenton was a huge station, seemingly full of Aircrew cadets, many like me for re-selection or waiting to be trained as navigators, wireless operators or Air Bombers. It was so different from Bowden, even the weather. The cold was more penetrating, as the wind picked up moisture off the nearby Lake Ontario & it was most unpleasant. It was a waiting game at Trenton, I was interviewed & decided to re-muster for training as an Air Bomber, & (I think) about a month later was seconded on to a Bombing & Gunnery course, at RCAF Picton, a small aerodrome nearly 100 miles further east. Arriving there I saw that Picton was an island in Lake Ontario joined to the mainland by a causeway, & the aerodrome was built on the top of a hill. It was a nice friendly station, & my course members were a good bunch of lads, mainly about my age. The course was a Bombing & Gunnery course, which commenced in March 1943. We were taught the theory of bombing, & of air gunnery, the composition & fusing of bombs etc. & later I flew some 50 hours in Ansons & Bolingbroke aircraft dropping countless 4lb practice bombs & firing guns. It was I[sic] most enjoyable, for a 19 year old. As Spring arrived the weather changed, everywhere was white when I arrived & it seemed that overnight during April the weather became sunny & warm for the rest of my stay. I was to be with many of my course mates until I got back to England 6 months later, & I made a number of good friends. We had some delightful evenings out, in the small town of Picton, or swimming in the lake. The population were very friendly & hospitable, & we were well looked after. The course lasted until early June, & looking at my log book see that I passed both the bombing & gunnery elements each
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with a 73% grading. I had passed this part of my conversion to an Air Bombers role & then I with rest of the course members moved on to an Air Navigation Course at RCAF Mount Hope. This station was to the west, near to Hamilton Ontario, & nearly halfway between Toronto & Niagra Falls (which luckily I was able to visit, together with a trip into USA.) During my six week course I learnt a little about navigation & air photography, both in the lecture rooms & by flying, some 45 hours all told, the flying was quite excellent as flights were of about 3 hours duration flying the length & breadth of Ontario. There followed a final examination, which I passed, classed as an Air Bomber & promoted to the rank of Sergeant. How proud I was as I sewed the stripes on to my tunic. What a celebration we all had that night in Hamilton, a city I enjoyed greatly.. But time was not on our side, & all too soon we were on our way back to Moncton, to be sent home to complete our training & to fight our war. How different to 10 months earlier, then an untrained airman, & on my return a fully fledged Sergeant. By this time America was sending thousands of servicemen to Britain, so space on the troop ships was full & consequently we had to wait a month before we could be accommodated. Eventually, at the end of September 1943 I & several hundred newly trained aircrew personnel were sent to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to embark once again on the “Queen Mary” en-route for England. Unlike my trip out it was very crowded with some 19000 troops (mainly Americans) aboard. This meant that we had a bed bunk for 24 hours & then 24 hours we had to sleep on the deck floor. Luckily the journey lasted only 6 days, before the vessel docked at Birkenhead. I was given two weeks home leave, to be re-united with family & friends. It was during this time, that I met up again with Pauline, & our romance commenced.
After my two weeks leave I reported to Harrogate before being posted to Whitley Bay, near to Newcastle, for a (Commando type) fitness course, before being sent to Scotland for further flying training, & on completion was sent to Silverstone, here in Northamptonshire, at the end of 1943, an Operational Training Unit where Pilots, Navigators, Air Bombers, Wireless Operators, & Air gunners were present. Here we had to form crews, who would later go on to the Squadrons. It was all rather haphazard, as some 200 of us wandered round a large hangar, trying to form crews. I didn’t know anyone else, other than Air Bombers, but eventually found a Pilot, a Navigator, a Wireless Operator, & two Air Gunners, (we would get a Flight Engineer at a later stage). Actually as a crew, we quickly became firm friends, & apart from one of the gunners dropping out, we completed our tour of operations together, with enormous respect for each other, & really we became as close as family. At Silverstone we trained in two engine Wellingtons as well as attending loads of lectures as we trained for the fight ahead. From Silverstone we were posted to RAF station Swinderby near Lincoln, for our first taste of flying in four engined aircraft. It was here that we met our Flight Engineer. The aircraft were Stirlings, big & ungainly machines, which proved to be a failure operationally – they could not fly any higher than 12-14000 feet, & easy prey for the enemy, but they were ideal for training purposes. Our next step was to convert to Lancasters at another station RAF Syerston, some 30 miles away. Our first experience of flying in a Lancaster was hardly encouraging, for as we took off with an instructor in charge, a tyre punctured & the aircraft swerved off the runway with one wing tip embedded in the grass. We made a very quick escape from the wrecked plane. But that apart, we soon appreciated the Lancaster bomber. 15 hours flying followed, & we were adjudged to be ready to go to a Squadron. On 5th June 1944, we were posted to East Kirkby, 10 miles north of Boston to join 630 Squadron. My first memory of East Kirkby, was the next morning, which was D.Day, 6th June 1944 when Britain & America & their Allies invaded France. The aircrews who had flown to support the ground troops were so excited by the scale of the invasion forces, the number of ships involved – it all seemed so impressive. The station was built only a year or two earlier, & was quite primitive, spread over a large area, our billets were nissen huts nearly a mile away from the airfield, the Sergeants & Officers’ Messes half a mile away, but strangely we soon loved the place. For the next few days as we settled in, we were introduced to the Squadron C.O. Wing Commander Bill Deas, a South African & a great character – sadly he & his crew were killed on a raid a few weeks later. At this time we met our replacement Rear gunner, Flying Officer Geoff Bate who still had half a dozen missions to complete his second tour of operations, we were well pleased. Our
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first mission was a night raid to Normandy, & was supposed to be in support of the Ground forces in the invasion area near to Caen. However on arrival over the target, we were ordered not to drop our bombs, as the ground armies had made a quick advance, & the target was now in their hands. So all the aircraft had to turn about & go back to base. When we did arrive over East Kirkby, we were then sent off over the North Sea, where I had to drop our bombs because it would be unsafe to try to land the aircraft because the overall weight was over the permitted limit. So out we flew to the dropping zone, & naively I dropped the lot, some 12000 lbs of high explosives, & back we went to base, where we were debriefed, given breakfast, which included a fried egg & bacon (a real treat, eggs were very scarce in war time Britain, but aircrews were always given one after an op.) But that was not quite the end of my mission – the next morning I was called to the Bombing Leaders Office, & given a telling off for dropping all the bomb load when I or the Flight Engineer should have calculated what weight of bombs to drop, to get the aircraft down to the safe landing weight, but on one had ever told me that. However I never heard any more about my “faux pas”. After our first mission others followed in quick succession & by the end of June we had notched up 4 more raids, including a rather hair raising trip to Germany, where some 37 Lancasters were shot down out of a total of 133 sent out, but luckily we were. Geoff, our Rear gunner had by the end of June completed his second tour, we valued his experience in those first few trips & were so pleased when we heard later that he had been rewarded with a DFC. During July we flew 10 further missions, including our first daylight raid – but only three over Germany. With the Allies invading Europe in June the role of Bomber Command changed, & support of the Armies was the first priority, by bombing Railways, Marshalling yards, Oil depots, to hamper the Germans. Also with the threat of Flying bomb attacks on England, a number of raids were against the launching sites, hence missions against German targets were reduced. July 18th was to prove the most horrendous trip we were to face, when we were hit by a German night fighter on our way home. Fortunately we escaped into cloud. & the attack was discontinued. However with the help of the Flight Engineer, Alec & Doug managed to pull the aircraft out of the dive, to regain control. A relieved crew were on their way home, thankful of the skill & calmness of our skipper, Alec Swain. When we saw the damage sustained by our Lancaster, with part of the wing missing & a hole just behind the Wireless Operators position, we wondered how we had survived. It said something for the skill of our pilot, & for the mighty Lancaster. But we had little time to feel sorry for ourselves, 12 hours later we were off on mission no 10 – our first day operation, thankfully a quiet trip. At the end of July we were allocated our own Lancaster, NN702J(Jig), in which we would end our tour. Nine more missions followed during August, three of them by daylight – it was much the same pattern as we supported the land armies, or raided Flying Bomb sites, attacked U-boat installations on the coast, & bombing an enemy fighter based aerodrome, to put it out of action, prior to a bombing raid t[to] be made that same night. Sad part of this daylight raid, when I witnessed a Lancaster bomber being hit by bombs dropped from another Lancaster flying above – particularly gruesome when we learned later that the doomed pilot, was a Dutchman, on the last mission of his tour, & the aerodrome under attack was in Holland. Sadly I saw no parachutes from the stricken plane. We were given two weeks leave on the 18th August with 26 trips completed. Returning to base, we still had 9 missions to fly to complete our tour of operations, & during the rest of September we completed a further 8 mainly against German industry, & one of those found me over Germany on my 21st birthday, thankfully it was an incident free journey. It was a bit of a change on raid number 33, when with 6 other Lancasters we dropped mines in the German sea-lanes outside of Heligoland, I recall it was quite boring flying for 4 hours over the North Sea. We flew our last mission on the 5th October a daylight raid to Wilhemshaven, although at the time we did not know we had reached the end, & until the next day when we were air testing an aircraft, & Alec, our pilot, told us that Bomber Command had reduced the number of operations from 35 to 34 with immediate effect, so our battle was over. I remember that when he told us there was a great rush about the aircraft, as we all donned parachutes – we were not taking any unnecessary risks.
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That night our crew, & the ground staff who looked after the plane, & were wonderful caring guys, all made our way to a pub in nearby Boston, where we had a whale of a party I’m afraid I do not remember too much about it, but that was excusable. A day or two later our crew left East Kirkby for good, & sent on leave, the seven of us boarded a train from Boston to Peterborough, & it all seemed so casual, we exchanged addresses, promised to keep in touch, but in an instant we went our separate ways. For nearly a year we had been together, living & flying & truthfully had become closed than family, as we supported each other during that period, & in a few seconds on the railway station it all ended & we all went our separate ways. Over the years Alec, Donovan, Dough & I met up a few times but some of the crew I would never see again. Now in 2010 as far as I know just Doug & I survive, although neither he nor I have any knowledge of what happened to Smithy our navigator or our first rear gunner, Geoff. Alec, Donovan & Jock (mid-upper gunner) have all died, but we remember them with great affection, & wonder about the others.
To sum up my tour I flew 34 missions from 12th June to the 5th October 1942 – 26 night & 8 daylight missions, flying 200 hundred hours. During that time we attacked industrial sites in Germany, Submarine depots, Oil terminals, Marshalling Yards & Railway Junctions, flying bomb sites & supported the Army by attacking enemy lines. On two missions we were instructed not to bomb on arrival in the target area. I do not have a complete record of bombing loads carried but estimate that in all we dropped over 150 tons – the average bomb carried was between 9000 & 12500 lbs (depending on the distance flown to the target) & the range of bombs dropped were 4lb incendiaries, 500lb, 1000lb, 2000lb & 4000lb. I would describe y tour as fairly quiet, twice the aircraft came under fire by night fighters, (the most serious I have detailed), & we did sustain slight flak damage. I have been asked whether or not I was scared, I don’t think I was, apprehensive – yes, but there was little time to think about those things, there was so much to do all the time. I was thrilled some weeks later when I heard that our skipper, Alec had been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross – so well deserved.
After completing a first tour Aircrew were expected to have a 6 month break from operations before being recalled for a second tour & so three weeks after leaving East Kirkby, I was posted to RAF Westcott, near to Aylesbury, to await training as an Air Bomber instructor, but there was little to do as there were a number of men in the same category as me, & there was little to do. Whilst at Westcott, I received the most harrowing news, going home on a day off, my father handed me a telegram which had arrived earlier in the day, advising the death of my brother Peter. Returning from a raid on Dusseldorf, his aircraft was coming into land when it crashed just short of the runway, & tragically all the crew were killed. Peter had joined the RAF just a few months earlier; he had been selected for training as a Flight Engineer, & after qualifying was posted to 166 Squadron at Kirmington, Lincolnshire near to Grimsby. He was killed on 4th December 1944, & was just 19 years of age. We were all devastated, particularly my Mother & Father, who had no idea that he had started his operational tour – he had told me that he had, but being only a few weeks after the end of my tour, didn’t want our parents to know to cause them any concern or worry, - instead it was a more profound shock to them when it happened. I do know why the aircraft crashed, had it been attacked to cause damage or loss of fuel I don’t know, the Squadron records the crash with the remarks “cause unknown”. He was a cheerful lad, good sense of humour, & liked the girls. Unlike me he was mechanically minded, & a[sic] after leaving school, was training to be an Engineer. I often wonder if he wanted to follow me into the Air Force, because I think the job he was doing might have exempted him from joining up. We shall never know. He was buried in Kettering Cemetery, with the local Air Training Corps (of which he had been a member) in attendance. Peter’s crew were all Canadians & are buried near to RAF Kirmington. So very very sad. My parents were devastated, & it was something my father particularly never recovered from. To try to give them some comfort, I was able to get a compassionate posting to RAF Desborough, like Westcott an Operational Training Unit, & served there for about 6 months, although I was sent to a Air Bombers’ instruction Course at RAF Manby in Lincolnshire for three weeks early in 1945, & graduated from their[sic] as a fully fledged
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instructor. I stayed at Desborough for a few weeks, not much to do, but it was nice living with my parents, & biking or going by bus, to the base. In May the war against Germany had been won, & there were great celebrations, & we wondered what would happen next. I was soon to find out, aircrew were supposed to fly two tours of duty, the second after a 6 month rest period, so I was not surprised when I was included in a crew made up of instructors who like me were eligible to fly operationally. I do not remember much about my fellow crew members the pilot was from Edinburgh – a Flight Lieutenant Christie DFC, & that’s about all. We were posted to RAF Luffenham, near Stamford, arriving there in mid-June. The war in Europe was finished, but Japan was still fighting, so I & countless other aircrew were being retrained & refreshed for service in the Far East. The course lasted a month & after just 36 hours flying training we were judged to have passed, & then sent home on leave to await a posting to the Pacific war zone. Again fate was to take a hand, when early in August, the Americans unleashed two atom bombs on cities in Japan, catastrophic damage they to[sic] surrendered. My second tour would not happen, & my “career” in aircrew was over. Two days later I was sent to a unit near to Gainsborough, for re-mustering to a ground trade, for the rest of time. I was not alone many more ex-aircrew where[sic] there, but no one I knew. During my week there I was interviewed & given lists of various Ground staff vacancies, nothing really interested me, but having to make a decision, I opted for a RAF postal course, preferably near to home. I was given 7 days leave, after which I was posted to an Aircrew Holding Unit, near to Elgin, in Scotland, this was in fact a RAF Coastal Command Station, & no one knew why I, a Bomber Command person was there, & after 2 weeks doing nothing, I was sent to Haverfordwest in, over 400 miles from Elgin, in the South west of Wales. The date was 22nd September 1945, & by then Pauline & I had set the date of our wedding for October 6th, so after just a week in Wales, I was on my way back home for the big day. Despite the war, with food rationing etc we had a lovely wedding, the service was at Fuller Baptist Church, followed by a reception at a Traders Union hall in Club Street. I think there were about 60 people there. Pauline’s father had plenty of contacts, & despite all the shortages & rationing managed to provide lots of food & refreshment. Pauline had resigned as a nurse at Kettering General Hospital, when her mother was seriously ill 2 months previously. We left the reception in the early evening, spent the first night in London, & on to Bournemouth for a week, & we recall how unseasonably warm & sunny that second week was, we had a lovely time. Alas by the 18th I was on my travels again, this time to RAF Kirkham, Preston for my course to convert to a Postal Officer. It was a short & intensive course & I qualified early in November. During my service to date I had acquired the rank of Warrant Officer & although now a postal Officer I still retained that rate of pay. Like most wartime servicemen, with the war over I was thinking only of demobilisation – the Government had worked out a scheme for the constructive release of personnel & I learned that I would have to serve for nearly another year. When I agreed to train as a Postal Officer, I was asked where I would prefer to serve, & I specified either RAF Desborough or RAF Luffenham, & wasn’t too pleased at Kirkham when I was informed that I was to be posted to India!!!. Accordingly I was given embarkation leave, & at the end of November sent to Blackpool, to await shipment. After 12 days I was one of a train load of airmen, many just raw recruits, who were despatched to Plymouth, where we embarked on to HMS Devonshire, a destroyer, converted to troop carrier – we were on our way to the Far East. On the 15th we set sail. It was quite pleasant, the ship was manned by the Royal Navy, there was a Warrant Officer’s mess for the RAF, & we had little to do on the 15 days journey. In the traditional Navy way, a daily rum ration was served to us, although this stopped in a few days when it was discovered that some of the younger RAF personnel, were selling their ration to the Sailors. I was very seasick as the ship ploughed through the Bay of Biscay, & as I laid on my bunk felt even worse, when the radio announced that the Sunday service was being broadcast from Fuller Baptist Church Kettering, where 2 months earlier Pauline & I were [inserted] married [/inserted]. Since 1939 all servicemen going to the Far East were transported round South Africa, but the Devonshire was sent through the Suez Canal, & what a thrill that was, as we stood on the deck to see he[sic] ship negotiate a water way that appeared to be only just wide enough. By this time the weather had become warm, & did not really change for my time in India. We arrived in Bombay on New Year’s Eve & all of the airmen were transported by road to a Reception Camp a few miles away, called BRD Worli. A few days later, I was
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posted the Base Post Office in Bombay, where for 3 months, I was in charge of sorting incoming mail for RAF personnel stationed in India. ^ then arranging despatch of post bags to the various destinations. It was not a very demanding duty, & I recall sitting around in the rest room, drinking countless cups of tea, or minerals, to quench my thirst in the hot & sticky conditions in the [missing word?] to await the sea, & well looked after the Indian staff. May/June I was transferred to the Base Post Office at Calcutta, where I was still overseeing the redirection of mail etc. The Office was a large detached house, on the outskirts of the city, & in which the twenty of us lived with our own mess. The food was supplied by the nearby American garrison, & was very good. To get to the canteen we often hired rickshaws, rather than walk a mile or so, & it was good fun chasing along the roads, urging our drivers to race each other. I also had to escort lorries to carry mail to or from the Calcutta Airport, I recall being issued with a revolver for this duty, but cannot remember being given any ammunition!!!! In June I received notice of my demobilisation & was sent back to RAF Worli to await shipment back home. It was not a long wait, & I was soon on my way to Bombay, where I boarded a troop carrier, the SS Georgic a pre-1939 vessel but it was a pleasant 14 days voyage, as we returned via Suez (which we navigated at night with the ship’s spot lights trained on the sides of the xcaal [canal] – quite a thrill) to Liverpool. I didn’t really want to go to India, but having spent a few months there, I am pleased I had that experience – there is a certain fascination with the country, which as a young man I enjoyed. From Liverpool we were sent to RAF Kirkham, near Preston for demobilisation. I suppose it was quite clinical when the following day an endless file of separating airmen a[sic] made their way into an old hangar, where we were given choice of civilian clothing, ration books, six weeks pay, & a travel warrant, & out we come – I don’t recall anyone in authority thanking us or wishing us well, we just went in one door as airmen & out the other side into vehicles to take us to the local Railway station. But it was all forgotten a few hours later, I caught a train to Northampton, & hitch hiked to Kettering – my war service was over.
Pauline’s parents had provided rooms for us in their house in Charles Street, & for the next few weeks, it was a period of adjustment, gone was the routine of the RAF, after nearly 5 years, it was a new experience for me, but together Pauline & I got used to it. I had received 6 weeks termination pay from the RAF, so took advantage of that before returning to my former employment at Stewarts & Lloyds on the 26th August 1946, just 3 weeks before my 23rd birthday. After serving in some 40 different locations in the RAF it took a long time to settle in to work, not helped when received my first pay advice from S. & L. which equated at the princely sum of three pounds seventeen shillings (£3.75) per week – my Air Force pay was equivalent to approximately £11 per week plus my food. I was shocked & on querying this, I was told that under the rules of the Company, until I reached my 25th birthday, I was on the “junior scale”, but as my birthday was in September I would get a birthday rise. I did get an increase of just six shillings & three pence a week.
December 2010.
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Dublin Core
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Title
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Walter Morris - 1939/45 War Record
Description
An account of the resource
A memoir covering Walter Morris’ early life before moving into his service in the Air Training Corps from 1941 and his entry into the Royal Air Force in February 1942 (as the first Air Training Corps Cadet from Kettering to be called up). The account continues through his service in the Royal Air Force, which started with his cohort being sent to RCAF Bowden in Alberta, Canada (via RCAF Moncton) aboard the “SS Queen Mary” for training. Following the completion of his training, the account continues with an overview of his service in the Royal Air Force in which he was a Flight Engineer on 34 combat operations, after which Walter transferred to an instructor’s position (which he retained rather than return to combat following the death of his brother in an aircraft crash). Following the end of the war he got married in October before being posted to Bombay and later Calcutta as a member of the Royal Air Force’s post office. He was demobilised in June 1946 and returned to England where he returned to his pre-war position at Stewarts and Lloyds.)
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W Morris
Date
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2010-12
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Eight page printed document
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eng
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Text
Text. Memoir
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BMorrisWMorrisWv1
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
England--Northamptonshire
England--Kettering
England--Cambridgeshire
England--London
England--Manchester
England--Yorkshire
England--Scarborough
United States
Massachusetts--Boston
Canada
New Brunswick--Moncton
Alberta--Innisfail
Ontario--Trenton
Ontario--Picton
Ontario--Hamilton
Germany
Germany--Helgoland
France
France--Normandy
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Massachusetts
Ontario
New Brunswick
Alberta
England--Lancashire
Temporal Coverage
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1941
1942-02-12
1943-03
1943-09
1944-06-05
1944-10-05
1944-08-18
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Sue Smith
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IBCC Digital Archive
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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Pending review
166 Squadron
630 Squadron
aircrew
Anson
Bolingbroke
bomb aimer
bomb struck
crash
crewing up
demobilisation
Distinguished Flying Cross
final resting place
flight engineer
killed in action
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
love and romance
military ethos
military living conditions
mine laying
Nissen hut
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
RAF East Kirkby
RAF Kirkham
RAF Kirmington
RAF Manby
RAF North Luffenham
RAF Silverstone
RAF Swinderby
RAF Syerston
RAF Wittering
RCAF Bowden
Stirling
Tiger Moth
training
V-1
V-weapon
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/584/31587/BHookingsEWHookingsEWv2.2.pdf
8d8e27c985230f5dc8df178d0b0cb3fa
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Hookings, Eric
E Hookings
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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Hookings, E
Description
An account of the resource
Three items. An oral history interview with Eric Hookings (184315, Royal Air Force) and two memoirs. He flew operations as a pilot with 619 Squadron.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Eric Hookings and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
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2015-10-24
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
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Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
ERIC’S MEMOIRS BOOK TWO Chapter One Dortmund The next morning the disconcerting words of the lovely girl whom I really intended to see Again were soon forgotten as my crew and I tucked into our afternoon breakfast of bacon And eggs. We were due for briefing and, although the afternoon was cold, dark and miserable, the Laughter instigated as usual by upper and rear gunners Alex Norris and Ted Woods our Brummie boys, made light of the seriousness of our operation. It was November 6th 1944 and our destination on that fateful night was to be the Dortmund Em’s canal, a known lock on a tributary of the Rhine, through which ships of The German merchant navy had to pass, carrying their supplies to the factories situated along the Ruhr. As we made our way to our Lancaster bomber PG S I looked at the tense but still smiling faces of the crew I had come to love, Alex and Ted, Tasmanian Radio Operator Rex Temperman, Engineer John Tait, Bomb Aimer Ron Waters and my Navigator ‘Butch’ Croney - we were not just a crew but were really good pals. The first two and a half hours into or flight were purely routine, we were on course, the weather was predicted as clear over our target and the seven of us were vigilant in our observations. Suddenly from 20 year old rear gunner Alex Norris, came the shout “Port Go Skipper, PORT GO!” And I knew we had an unwelcome visitor. My immediate reaction was to put the ‘plane into an evasive corkscrew. There was a Focke Wulf on our tail. 2 The staccato of guns firing from our rear and upper turrets ceased when Alex called some three minutes later “I’ve got him Skipper. I’ve got him”. The relief was unmistakable as we were able to resume our planned course, for the fear of collision whilst flying in such tight formation was as extensive as being shot down. Our relief was very short lived for, shortly after making the routine checks for everyone’s safety and that no major damage had occurred, our world was shattered by high explosive cannon shells ripping through the underside of the Lancaster - obviously an attack from a second ‘plane. How had it slipped my mind that German Fighter ‘planes fought in pairs ? I was tortured with this thought when I realized the port engine was on fire and, in spite of our attempts to extinguish the flames, we were helpless. The centre of the aircraft was now well ablaze and the port aerlion was badly damaged Which made the Lancaster very difficult to control and we slowly began to dive to port. I had no option other than to abort the ‘plane and I gave the order to the whole crew “JUMP - JUMP - JUMP” Mindful of my crew’s safety and the gravity of the situation which primarily was explosion, I knew I had to get my boys out immediately but, with the centre of the ‘plane now an inferno there was no way out for us four members at the front of the ‘plane, the engineer, bomb aimer, navigator and myself, other than through a tiny escape hatch situated down in front of the engineer’s seat. 3 Frantic efforts to open the hatch were hampered by the slipstream and I yelled to John Tait “Get the axe and smash the hatch” before I turned and tried to regain some control to hold up the nose of the ‘plane to give those extra seconds to my crew who were trying so desperately to battle their way out. Suddenly and miraculously the hatch flew out and my boys plunged out into oblivion but, for me it was more difficult I wore my parachute on the seat of my pants and to get through this tiny space was nigh impossible. I do not to this day know how I did it but suddenly I felt myself falling and I reached for that beloved rip cord. Whether it was the stench of cordite, fear, the tumbling action of falling or those wonderful bacon and eggs I do not know but I was so sick on that way down, a fact I did not register until coming to an abrupt halt in a tree ! It was some time before I realized that my feet were not on the ground and although I had stopped falling, in the intense blackness I had little idea as to where or how I was. Was I sideways, feet down or even upside down ? But I very gradually came to my senses and realized that I was hanging from some sort of a tree. Training eventually came to the fore throughout my intense fear and worry for the rest of my crew. Had they all got out? Had I acted correctly? How would my parents know I was still alive when they were told my ’plane had not returned and, what was I going to do next ? I remained quite still and inactive trying to collate my thoughts. I knew that we had not been far from our target so I must be somewhere in Germany, but where ? I began to shiver - not as much through fear, but with downright cold and shock - I was freezing, hanging from a tree in the middle of a German forest and then I realized I had lost my beautiful Irvine fur jacket in my haste to escape that burning inferno. Chapter Two Get me out of here! 4 I was twenty four years old, I did not want to die, I knew I would probably be captured, would I be shot - no they did not shoot officers - DID THEY ? My mind became confused and I felt my morale slip to what I thought was its lowest ebb and depression hit me. All that money it had taken to train me, my wonderful training in America only to find myself in this lonely terrifying void. I had to get down and get home. The silence was broken by a faint whistling. Was it Germans? Could it possibly be one of my crew ? Could I get down before they reached me? My mind in a complete turmoil I listened and suddenly realized to my great relief that it was an English tune and that tune was the one that John Tate, my engineer was always whistling and he was approaching the tree that held me fast. Relief gushed through my whole body and I called out to him “John, John, I’m up here” He helped me down from the tree and to my amazement he seemed to be fine whilst I was shaking with traumatic tension. Until then I had not realized just what a state I was in, the stench of the cordite had made me so sick and my uniform was stained with vomit. Shivering with cold we sat down to assess our situation. Realizing we could not stay where we were we had to walk and, armed with the small compass from our survival pack we set off. Railway stations were out, they would be too heavily guarded and to walk at night would be just too obvious. We knew that we had to get away from our landing point, for patrols would soon be out looking for us so we, after finishing the burial of our parachutes, removed all epaulettes from our uniforms and the tops of our boots that would give away our identity, for without those tops they looked like ordinary boots. 5 We remembered to keep our Brevet wings so that in case of being captured we would not be deemed as spies. Aware that overhead our planes were returning to base we wished with all our hearts that we were with them, but nevertheless as we set out our spirits were comparatively high. John’s Joie de Vivre inspired me and we walked and continued to do so for two hours. The rain came down and, what started as a slight drizzle became an incessant downpour and we knew that we had to find shelter. Ahead of us we saw a small hut and decided that this must be our bed for the night. We went in, cold, tired and wet through, huddled into a corner and promptly fell asleep. How long I had been asleep I do not know but suddenly I was aware that the door to the hut was slowly opening. I put my hand over John’s mouth so that if he should suddenly cry out, we would be discovered and, breathing into his ear not to move we watched with horror as a figure stood outlined in the doorway and slowly entered the hut. Such was the blackness of the night in that hut that we could not make out what was happening, but then we realized that the human figure had gone into the other corner opposite and was doing exactly as we had done - curling up and going to sleep. We waited for half an hour until the steady breathing from the shapeless bundle told us that he was sleeping deeply then we both crept silently out of the hut and began to walk again. From that day to this we have never discovered who that person was, it could have been a tramp or it could have even been one of our crew following the same course as ourselves. 6 We walked until it was daylight through the continuing rain until utter exhaustion led us to realize we had to sleep so, finding a thick hedgerow we curled up and slept again. Awaking and feeling a little refreshed we decided upon a plan of action for we could not just wander aimlessly. We found a plank of wood and realized that with so much foreign labour in the area all wearing uniforms of a similar color to ours which we had stripped of all insignia, we might just get away with not being recognized. It worked ! And our aimless, dejected ambulation allowed us to travel slowly but freely. We even crossed an autobahn which was so dangerous because of the fast travelling traffic but, we then became stuck in a bog and whichever way we walked we seemed to get stuck even deeper. It took ages for us to extricate ourselves but eventually with the help of our plank of wood we managed and that night we slept in the open under the trees. John had managed to retain his rations but, somehow in the fall from the plane, I had lost mine, consequently we shared what he had and a breakfast of Horlicks tablets had never tasted so good. Again we walked, arriving eventually at a river - which one was it we wondered, we followed its course and eventually came to a bridge and, still carrying our plank of wood we crossed. About 3.45 in the then darkness of the third evening we came to a small village and knowing that the pangs of hunger would overcome us if we did not eat we decided to enter the village to see what we could forage or steal 7 Carrying our plank, we walked down the main street then, to our horror the doors of what must have been the village hall suddenly opened and out poured German troops. We were surrounded by them, for there had been some sort of meeting in the hall and these military personal, stumbling out of the light into the darkness did not notice two dirty laborers less than an arm’s length away from them. We just kept dejectedly walking and still carrying that plank we trudged through the midst of them all ! This unnerving episode made us decide to change our tactics and, after resting for the remainder of the day we decided to abandon the plank of wood and continue our journey at night. This was to be our downfall, for about 03.00 am whilst walking along a country lane, I suddenly heard German voices and realized there was a patrol ahead. I panicked and dragged John with me onto the grass verge and into the bushes. The combination of the gravel on the road and the crackling winter hedgerow made enough noise to alert the German soldiers on foot patrol who had gone behind the hedge to have a cigarette, and we found ourselves looking down the barrels of two rifles. Their shout of “Hands up” made us realize our freedom was over and we were to become Prisoners of War. We were marched to a German Field Unit nearby that was used as a rest area for Troops. It contained 3 wire cages that were used as prison cells for errant troops who had disobeyed commands, stolen, or not conformed in many other ways to their soldiering duties. John and I were put into one of these cages that was lined with straw. I was angry, angry with myself for being the cause of our capture, angry at the indignity of being incarcerated and angry because I could not get back to England to continue fighting the war. CHAPTER 3 CAPTURE That anger was exacerbated even further when we were told that we had actually walked into Holland and we had been captured on the outskirts on Enschede, the town on the Dutch/German border. Just one more day and we could have been in the hands of the Resistance who may even have got us back to England - God Willing. The officer in charge of this fighting front line unit, was most courteous and we could not have been more civilly treated. He offered us black bread and that dreadful Ersatz coffee which I, again angrily and somewhat foolishly refused, thinking in my ignorance that to not touch it would insult the Germans. Here I was cold tired and hungry and still finding room for my principles ! Next day we were transported to a chalet bungalow where we were confronted by the dreaded SS. John was dragged to the upper storey of the chalet and I was thrown into a room on the lower floor and set upon by two, what I can only describe as SS thugs. It was to be one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. They beat me, accused me of being a spy and held guns to my head and threatened to kill me if I did not tell them about myself. My ’dog tags’ saved me and I convinced them I was a British airman to which they then proceeded to thrash and torture me, trying to find out where I was from, what was my squadron, what was my target and where were the rest of my crew ? We were there for two days. Two days of pure hell with perhaps the worst part being that they threatened to kill John, who I could hear upstairs being shouted at because I was not giving them the information they wanted. I was convinced that I was about to die, for their continual switching between English and German and making threatening gestures, I knew they were in control of my life. 9. On the third morning we were marched from that chalet to a huge warehouse on the outskirts of Enschede, we were bruised and battered, dirty and exhausted but what seemed to be worst was the shame we felt at being tied together with manacles around our ankles. Our depression was most severe when suddenly, we became aware that the doors of the houses on each side of the road were slowly opening - word had got around that two Royal Air Force boys had been captured and tortured. Unaware of the danger that these citizens were exposing themselves to, our spirits were lifted by their murmured words of encouragement, their hand waves and that well acknowledged V for Victory hand sign, made famous by Winston Churchill. Hurled into a massive, freezing cold warehouse, having had nothing to drink or eat for three days we were joined by two American aircrew who had also been shot down and who were as dejected as we were. There was no escape for we were heavily guarded and we just had to accept what was to be our fate. Held for two or more days in that bitterly cold warehouse John and I were eventually moved, I went to Dulagluft Interrogation Centre near Frankfurt but I did not know what happened to John until 1946 when we met again. I was in Dulagluft for ten days, held in a icy cold, windowless 7ft x 5ft cell with just a straw palliase, the only light came from what appeared to be a 25 watt bulb high in the ceiling which gave just enough light for the guards to see me through the spy hole in the door. On the second day of imprisonment I was taken to a warm comfortable office where I was greeted with a friendly handshake from a German Luftwaffe Officer - the equivalent of a British Wing Commander. 10 This officer informed me that it was his duty to obtain certain information from me and he proceeded to ask questions about my squadron, the names of my crew and our targets. But, from his initial attitude I was aware that there would be a lot more questions to come and, when my only reply to all his questions was my name, rank and number he then told me go away and re think about the information that he wanted. During my incarceration here I was never subjected to any form of physical torture, the mental torment was enough but what I did learn quickly was that the only form of communication with the other prisoners was possibly in the toilets where we were constantly under the scrutiny of the guards. They spoke little English and although we were not allowed to speak, those muttered phrases to each other conveyed the latest news and happenings. My trips to the toilets became very frequent; I had use of the communal razor which did little to remove my weeks of stubble but my trips were mainly to relieve the boredom and trying to update any information. The fear of the unknown was horrendous - was I going to be fed - could I stand up to further interrogation - could I survive the hours and hours of loneliness and solitude ? I was fed eventually. A bowl of luke warm watery soup and some black bread, but there was considerably more interrogation to follow. My interrogation was at irregular intervals, sometimes I would spend up to four hours during the day being questioned and at other times I would be woken from my fitful sleep to be taken to the interrogation room for further cross examination. This continued for ten days but each day was becoming harder for me for I would not divulge any of the information that he insisted upon obtaining and my answers were always obtuse. 11 My stubbornness evoked his anger and his change of tactics and method of questioning became - him making suggestions to me and awaiting my agreement or dissent. Eventually he became so exasperated with me that he changed from Mr. Nice Guy to the SS Officer he really was and my refusal to tell him what was meant by H2S or the code name Village Inn finally broke him and not me. To his question “What was the Village Inn?” I replied “Which one do you mean, The Horse and Groom or the Royal Oak?” He jumped up, smashed his fist onto the table and shouted “ Hookings, the R A F must be scraping the bottom of the barrel using people like you, but we have found your ‘plane and all your crew have been killed” This was the termination of my ten day spell at Dulagluft. Next day I was taken from my cell and escorted by guards to Dortmund railway station. There were three of us prisoners accompanied by two guards, carrying rifles but we were all too cold, hungry and exhausted to try to attempt any form of escape. We had been told that we were to be taken to Stalagluft III in upper Silesia ,Poland, which was the German prisoner of war camp for officers. Dortmund railway station had been very badly damaged by the RAF, and we were ushered into a corner where we squatted for nearly six hours awaiting our transport To sit for such a long period on a stone floor was most uncomfortable and very tedious. Suddenly the sirens sounded and we knew that another raid by the RAF was imminent and, out of the blue masses of women children and poured down the steps into the station into what they considered to be a possible place of safety. 12 Abruptly the crowd halted - they had seen us and the abject hatred in their faces became apparent. We were in mortal danger of being attacked by this ugly throng of females all hell bent upon reprisal. We were bombarded with God knows what and the tension made us very aware of the serious danger we were facing. The guards also realising this, fixed their bayonets and stood in front of us warning off the mob who were obviously hell bent on tearing us limb from limb. Eventually the all clear sounded and the horde dispersed but not before spitting at us and shouting swearing and raising clench fists at us. No bombs had fallen in Dortmund that night so obviously the target had been another city situated in the Ruhr valley. Our train arrived and we were ushered aboard into a specially secure compartment and set off on what was to be a slow, lengthy and grueling journey continually being shunted off into sidings to let other - probably troop carrying trains, pass. Arriving at the outskirts of Leipzig we suddenly stopped and through the slatted windows we saw above us hundreds of B17 (Flying Fortress) American bombers whose target must have been the oil installations nearby. We were on that train for three days, freezing cold and with only crusts of black bread and water to sustain us but eventually we arrived at Sagan station where a lorry awaited us to take us to Stalagluft. CHAPTER 4 Stalagluft III Filled with apprehension as to what would happen next, I was dragged off the lorry and marched to the gates where to my delight we were greeted by hundreds of RAF prisoners of war, all clapping, cheering and giving us the V sign and within minutes I had recognised Peter Attwood who had trained as a pilot with me in Ponca City, Oklahoma ! Peter had been shot down on Saturday 4th November whilst bound for the same target as me. It was so good to see a familiar face. The first few days in Stalagluft 3 were very confusing. There were aircrew members who has been incarcerated there for as much as four years and their attitude and thinking was far different from that of us recent arrivals. Some had not even seen a four engine bomber and they were all so desperate for information and news from home. I was directed to what was to be my home for the next few months - a long wooden hut divided up into separate rooms each containing many officers. In my hut I was greeted by a Squadron Leader Mitchell a Canadian officer who was in charge of the fourteen fellow inmates who were all very interested in what I had to say. I was allocated to my bunk - the bottom of three - where I found a straw palliase and a thin blanket but, to my concern I noted that the base of the bunk had several slats missing - I later discovered these had been used to shaw up the various escape tunnels that led from our hut. The shock of my surroundings, the accommodation, the nonexistent ‘facilities ‘ was a profound jolt of disbelief to me, there was the constant awareness of security and stilted conversation, for we were constantly being watched and listened to. 14. After seven days I was summoned to a meeting with three fellow officers of superior rank, I was introduced to each member and who in turn ‘interrogated’ me. Their objective was to find out if I was a genuine English officer and not a ‘plant’ by the Germans, which unfortunately was commonplace. There was no doubt about my credulity to them but, my one concern was that my parents knew I was safe. I was therefore much relieved when they told me that it was the norm that the Germans told the Red Cross of my situation and whereabouts who, in turn advised your next of kin. It was not however until the end of the war that I learned my parents had received a telegram on Christmas Day 1944, telling them that I was alive and unhurt but, I was a Prisoner of War. However I had injured my leg when I became entangled with the branches of that tree that I parachuted into and the injuries that I sustained had been exacerbated by three days walking and the rough treatment I had received from certain individuals in their enthusiasm to extricate information from me. My leg had become inflamed and was quite painful when I reached Stalagluft III and after a few days, I approached the senior officer, Squadron Leader Mitchell (Mitch) to ask if there were my forms of medical assistance for us. He confirmed that this was so and sent me to see an Army Captain who was a doctor but, Mitch advised me “You must be firm with this doctor for he is inclined to be quite nonchalant and will dismiss your injuries as inconsequential“. I duly saw the doctor and taking the advice of Mitch I firmly told him I wanted my leg attended to and, that his being a doctor it was his duty to do so. 15 BAM !!! The answers that I received from that doctor are unprintable but, basically what he told me was that HE was a Prisoner of War too and as such he was only giving a very limited medical service gratuitously - and he had restricted supplies of medicines and equipment to treat the hundreds of prisoners encamped there ! With my tail between my legs after such a ticking off I slunk back to the hut where Mitch and my fellow ‘kreigies’ stood - all laughing their heads off - The sods had set me up knowing full well the character of the doctor. It was a lesson that I learned the hard way. The leg - it healed naturally! By the middle of November the weather changed and the cold set in and, having to stand twice a day on the parade ground to be counted I knew that I was in dire need of extra clothing, for all I had was my blouson battledress and trousers. I sought out the officer who was in charge of Red Cross supplies and asked if there was any chance of some warmer clothing. My luck was in, for he had a heavy Army overcoat and a pair of ‘Long John’ woolen underpants. Not quite my style after the natty dressing of my younger days but - being so cold, I was willing to accept anything. These items, were to become my only clothing for the next six months throughout that bitter winter of 1944/45 and the pants were only washed once in all that time. Being so heavy and thick it was impossible to get them dry and they hung on the line, frozen stiff and looking like some poor anemic body for many a day. I eventually got them dry by putting them under my palliasse and sleeping on them! The cold I overcame to a certain degree, but I had to next face a more serious and painful problem - hunger, for I was becoming weak from lack of food. 16. The rations distributed by the Germans were totally insufficient for survival. We had to exist on a daily ration of three slices of very thin stale black bread, two potatoes and a bowl of very watery cabbage soup. Our savior was the Red Cross parcels that were delivered to the camp every two or three weeks. However I never had a complete parcel - as was the intention of the Red Cross. Instead one parcel was shared between two or three of us - the German’s retaining the rest for their own consumption, for their food was also in short supply at the end of 1944. Consequently it was mutually agreed that any parcels received into our hut would be pooled and distributed equally between all fourteen of us and a daily Rota was devised that enabled each one of us to take his turn as ‘chef of the day’ which really meant that you had the opportunity of licking out the bowls of any food that had been prepared ! We were all very very hungry and I knew that I was losing weight rapidly by the way my clothing hung on me. My weight which had been around 10 ½ stone when I was shot down had dropped to 8 stone when I eventually saw England again and, being six feet tall I was pretty skeletal! The cold - bitter - but you could get warm with exercise and huddling round a tiny stove in the hut. The hunger - aching - but we grew accustomed to the gnawing pains but, for me, the worst disconcertion was the total lack of hygiene, privacy and the deprivation of keeping my body clean. The only washing facilities were one single cold water tap by the latrines which was invariably frozen solid. The latrines consisted of a row of ten wooden seats - no cubicles, for the guards wanted us under observation at all times. The seats were over holes in the ground into which everything dropped into the most foul smelling open trench which was cleared at intervals by Polish or Russian prisoners. 17. Depression and melancholy exacerbated by boredom did little for my self esteem and I tortured myself each night, questioning “ what I had done wrong to get myself shot down and possibly cause injury to my crew”. Our Senior British Officer realized that boredom was a major issue that could lead to mental illness if not dealt with and we were all allocated menial tasks such as guarding the windows as look outs when any secret meeting was taking place, for there were always plans afoot to conjure up differing ways to outwit and out maneuver and cause as much inconvenience as possible to the Germans. I was offered the opportunity to take classes such as learning the German language or bridge lessons: art classes: English language or math’s, for there were many teachers who were incarcerated who were willing to teach not only to relieve their boredom but to practice their skills. My choice was accountancy - a decision I have never regretted and a skill which throughout my life, has been invaluable. If the weather was good we were able to get out and play football or rounders or baseball with the Americans, but most of my time spent there was during the bitterly cold winter of 1944/45 consequently we were huddled inside the huts trying to keep warm. There were lectures given by POWs who had knowledge and experience such as the stock market, architecture, history and many other subjects so I should not have felt the boredom and depression which was exacerbated by my total lack of freedom. Then one day we were told to expect a ‘special visitor ‘to the camp! It was to be Max Schnelling the World Heavyweight Champion boxer who was revered by the Germans and greatly respected by the English - before the war. !8. We were told in no uncertain terms by the camp Commandant that we would fall in, line up and be smartly on parade in the prison quadrangle and that we would give a cheering welcome to the great man when he arrived. Our Senior British Officer agreed that we must do as we were ordered to avoid reprisals and we stood for hours on parade, awaiting his appearance. He finally arrived and went straight into the German Officers accommodation where he spent another hour, before reappearing to carry out the intended ‘inspection’ of the rows and rows of multi national Prisoners of War who had been standing in the bitter cold for hours. We were called to attention by our SBO and then, before Max Schnelling could move forward, we were ordered by our S B O “ Right Turn and Quick March” - which we all did, leading the boxer quite bewildered and confused. Disrespectful? No, not to the boxer, but to our captors who considered themselves to be so superior to us that they could demean us in this way. The camp Commandant was furious and threatened severe reprisals to us all, but our composed, clever and tactful SBO calmed the situation without too much punishment to us meager Prisoners of War. The weather was atrocious, cold, wet, windy and snow like I had never seen before but the news which by now I gleaned like all other inmates had not been too bad. Then came news that General von Runstead had made a counter offensive in the Battle of the Bulge and our expectations of all being released before Christmas were dashed. We prepared for Christmas - with me not being able to contribute very much but those men who had been imprisoned for - some as long as four years - had stored and saved what little they could from Red Cross parcels - there were no extra rations from our captors. 19 Being locked into our huts every day at four o clock gave us time to prepare games, create card games and write new words for the songs we recalled. Anything to help create the Christmas spirit. My job was to make paper chains to decorate our hut and I scavenged bits of paper from every Tom, Dick or Harry’s mail and parcels. The heartbreaking fact was that during the whole time of being incarcerated in P O W camps I did not receive one piece of mail and I was unaware of what was happening to my parents and brother and sister. This caused me extra depression and melancholy for I had no knowledge as to whether they were still alive and, having lost their homes twice to enemy bombs I spent many a long hour worrying about them and also my brother Dennis who was serving with the R A F. If I had only known the joy and happiness that was in my family on Christmas Day in 1944 for, having been told by the War Ministry that I was ‘Missing in Action‘in November, they had no knowledge as to whether I was alive or dead until the telegram arrived on Christmas morning telling them I was alive and was a Prisoner of War somewhere in Germany. New Year’s Day and the dawning of 1945 - would I still be here next January 1st? We knew nothing of what was happening to the advance of our troops or was it defeat? We thought the weather could get no colder - but it did. Bitter, bitter winds, temperatures 20 degrees below zero and very little to keep us warm. But I considered myself to be privileged when I saw Polish and Russian prisoners who were slowly freezing to death. Chapter 5 The March There were four ‘compounds’ in Stalagluft 3 - North, South, East and West, all identical and each housing about 2, 000 men. I was in the north compound before being transferred to Bavaria - Stalagluft 3a, some 5 miles away but exactly the same. It was from Stalagluft 3 that many attempts were made by prisoners to escape their confines by tunneling under the huts and attempting to reach points beyond the perimeters of the wire. These frantic, courageous, endeavors, fuelled by frustration and desperation to get back home to continue the fight against Hitler’s tyranny were costly, with the most famed attempt to break out later being depicted in the film ’The Great Escape’ where those men who had escaped were recaptured and upon the orders of the Fuhrer and to the revulsion of the Geneva Convention, shot in cold blood. By the end of January we had heard that Russian forces were advancing from the east but we had no idea where they were or how soon we would be released. However, we were to soon discover that our repatriation was not the intention of our captors when, in the middle of the night we were awoken from fitful slumber by shouts of “Achtung, Achtung, Raus, Raus, Schnell, Schnell” and we were forced from our bunks at bayonet point. We were told to collect our belongings and assemble outside the huts. Belongings - I had so very little, a few scraps of food, my malodorous long johns that I was wearing, my greatcoat my invaluable flying boots which, fortunately had been a new issue and a bundle of newspaper that was left over from my attempts to make those Christmas trimmings. How little did I realize when gathering these pieces of old German newsprint that these would probably save my life ! 21 We assembled shivering, outside the huts with our meager belongings and I was handed a red cross parcel - one of the many that had been hoarded by the Germans - possibly for their own use ? Considered to be quite a newcomer by my fellow inmates, some of whom had been incarcerated since 1940, I had assembled very little, but they had made sledges upon which they placed their motley collection of what they considered to be their valued treasures. Where were we going? We knew we were marched off in a south westerly direction. What was the reason for our sudden departure? To escape advancing Russian armies. Why were we being forced to leave the camps? So that we could be used by the Germans as protective shields and bargaining assets, for the Germans, in early 1945 were becoming desperate to save their own individual lives. We two thousand or so souls from Stalagluft 3A trudged aimlessly for what seemed ages through deep snow and biting winds and before too long, realized that we had been joined by prisoners from the other camps. Thousands and thousands of men of all ages, states of poor health and from far flung corners of the world - British, Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, Americans, Polish and many other nationalities were herded into long columns, slowly and silently trudging through that terrible wasteland of frozen white expanse not knowing where we were going, or even if we could survive another day, let alone to see the and of the war. At around three o’clock in the following afternoon with temperatures dropping even lower and with darkness falling we stopped trudging and were herded into a farm that offered some form of shelter in its great barns. 22 I had become separated from some of my fellow hut companions but along with 500 or so others I was put into a large one storey barn where the farmer, under forced directions of our guards, had thrown in some straw bales which we instantly spread around to curl up upon. Our only food was that which was in the treasured Red Cross parcels - but- much of that was in tins and we had no means of opening these ! We ate raisins, a little chocolate and biscuits. There was nothing to drink but, it was food - we were very hungry and exhausted and before long trying to sleep, curing up together for what little warmth we could make. I was woken from a fitful sleep next morning by lowing cattle, I was cold, hungry, thirsty and filled with trepidation as to what was going to happen. The doors burst open, our guards marched in and ordered us at gun point to reform those long columns and once again start marching. For the next eight hours we trudged through that ever deepening snow, we dare not stop for to do so would encounter the wrath of a guards or even to our own detriment - to slowly freeze and be totally unable to get up and start walking again. We had a small handcart and along with my fellow prisoners, I helped to pull it along. Those men who were sick, injured, frostbitten or plain exhausted took turns to rest and fitfully doze, whist we pulled them along. One of my companions helping to pull a cart laden with fellow prisoners was a Wing Commander Stanford Tuck, later renowned for his bravery. Escapism and literary skills. Unbeknown to me he was planning his escape and as a fluent Russian linguist he and his Polish friend were the only men who could do so safely. 23 At about three o’clock on that second day we again were herded into more barns, this time I discovered one housing cows and I knew I had to get near to those animals for my own survival - they offered warmth and although very smelly I was at a point beyond caring. Day three dawned and depression was rife, we had very little sleep because of the cold. We were bitterly cold, hungry and very thirsty, some of us suffering from frost bite. For indeterminate hours we trudged without stopping, through blinding snowstorms, not knowing where we were nor where we were going. Again around three o’clock in the falling darkness, we arrived at another barn and made toward the animals - only this time they were pigs. The pigs were moved out to make way for us to be accommodated and the stench was sickening, but who cared. Wing Commander Tuck was near to me that night and he asked a small group of us close by, to pile the straw into a corner to ensure he and his Polish companion were fully covered . It was their intention to try their escape. Along with my fellow prisoners we were herded from our barns early next day, leaving our two hidden fellow prisoners behind. It was not until the war ended that we learned they had got out of the barn unseen and had made their way across Poland to meet up with the Russians who were advancing fast from the east. They eventually reached Odessa and thence back to the UK Chapter 5 The lowest ebb 24 For days we trudged mile after mile through the bitterest winter weather I had ever known, carrying the sick and wounded, scavenging for whatever was edible, huddling together at nights for warmth and doing our best to help the sick.. One day whilst passing some isolated cottages, an elderly Polish woman appeared carrying a tray with what looked to be cups of coffee, she was handing these to the nearest prisoners one of whom was me. As I reached out to gratefully accept her generosity a German guard ran up, shoved me aside and knocked the tray from her hands with his rifle. She cried out in fear of being shot but the guard, realizing the anger he had evoked from his prisoners who, although weak with fatigue and hunger were massing around him, attached his bayonet to his rifle and prepared to defend himself. Suddenly we were surrounded by German guards and we had no option other than to recommence our lumbering trudge across the frozen slush and snow. By this time I was beginning to feel really ill, my body was so weak and exhausted I just wanted to lie down. My abdomen was racked with pain and I knew that I had to get somewhere to relieve myself. As we approached a barn where we knew we were to spend another night, there was a rush across the farmyard to try to get inside the cowsheds. The middle of the farmyard was thick with mud and cow’s muck and, as I tried to reach one of the cowsheds I slipped into the mire and, griped with excruciating pains, to my horror I had a violent attack of uncontrollable diarrhea. I had no means of cleaning myself apart from some straw and nothing to change into and for the rest of that tortuous, seemingly never ending march through torment, I was compelled to remain covered with not only cows muck but my own excrement as well. This was possibly the lowest point of degradation in my life. 25 I lost track of the hours, days and nights that we journeyed across Poland and into Germany but, eventually we reached what I thought to be a small town. It turned out to be the city of Spenbergh wherein were the biggest marshalling yards in Germany. The columns of men that had marched with me congregated in these marshalling yards of the German railway, there were thousands of us, all dirty, unkempt and hungry but, we were not alone, for also there were German soldiers of the Panzer Divisions who had returned from the Russian front, the majority of whom were wounded and in a terrible state. They, like us were in a state of limbo, not knowing where we were going or what was to happen to us. They also had been fighting for their country and we all had now one common aim - to get back home to our families - if we still had them ! We soon realized that these men had no fight left in them, for like us they were not only sick and injured but utterly demoralized and homesick too - but - they did have one thing that we did not have - FOOD. They had food, but we had still some cigarettes and before long there was bartering and exchanges that lead to talking, swapping experiences and a strange feeling of similarity. These men were not the cruel Gestapo or those in charge of P O W camps or their goons, they were like us, ordinary men who were just serving their country and who wanted to go home. The horrors that they had experienced fighting in the bitter cold of the Russian front and the total waste of life they had seen had left them traumatized beyond understanding. 26. The German Commander of the area a bloated arrogant man, had two geese that were kept in a cage - obviously for his and his fellow officers dinner, but of course, one night the inevitable happened - the geese disappeared. Where to, only those who had committed the mysterious robbery knew but, there were 10,000 or so prisoners in those marshalling yards who were crowded together and whosoever had taken them, did not offer to share the meal ! The commander was needless to say absolutely furious and he demanded compensation and retribution, threatening to shoot us individually until he was satisfied. Our Senior British Officer called us to assemble and told us that compensation was being demanded. What did we have to compensate those geese? We would all have loved to enjoyed a taste. Our only bargaining power were the cigarettes that some of us still had. Consequently collections were made for all to give as many as possible to appease the Commander and I being a non smoker had to contribute what I had. Eventually we were marched down to the goods trains that were waiting in a nearby railway sidings and were herded into cattle trucks. Forty five to fifty of us were pushed and crammed into a small truck, where the only ventilation was that of the small grille high in a corner. Also in that corner near to the doors was a slop bucket. Ten days I spent in that foul smelling hell hole, it was deprivation at its very worst. Dysentery was rife, we were unable to lie down and sleep was nigh impossible. The journey was full of stops and starts to let German troop trains go by, giving us the opportunity to at least have the doors open although we were never allowed outside, being constantly guarded by armed guards who looked only too keen to shoot us. 27 The only blessing was that here the engines would be refilled with the required water and sometimes a little would be given to us. It was a terrible journey, we were bitterly cold, starving and completely despondent. I never thought I would be pleased to see another POW camp, but we eventually arrived at Luchenvald, south of Berlin and, as we trudged from the railway I had my first glimmer of hope that I could sleep, eat and clean myself, although not necessarily in that order. The camp at Luchenvald was basic although dry and quite clean, it consisted of long dormitories each filled with three tiered bunks into which we fell exhausted. We were soon to discover there were no facilities for toilets and washing and it was very much down to the basics building our own latrines. I had to wash my clothes which by now were pretty rancid. Eventually, finding a cold water tap I proceeded to strip off and rinse myself down and scrub at those green long johns. As I have previously said I did my best and hung them out on a hastily prepared line but - in those sub zero temperatures it took many days to get them dry, eventually after hanging them around the stove in the centre of the hut I was forced to put them under my straw palliase mattress in the hope that one day I could wear them again. To this day I still envisage those pale, ghostly green long johns hanging stiffly on the line. I befriended a fellow POW - Alan Tustin, who shared the billet, he was a Flight Lieutenant engineer who’s Lancaster had been strafed whilst on the Peider Mundy rocket Factory raid, in the Baltic. His Lancaster had exploded and he was the only survivor. Alan was suffering badly from yellow jaundice and was completely incapacitated. The Only food that he could eat was rice and potatoes and I scrounged and bartered all I had to keep him alive. We became very good friends - a friendship that lasted for years to come. Chapter 6 Starvation and consequences 28 Rumors were rife that we were winning the war but, in a camp that now contained over 40,000 men of different nationalities - who could ever know what, was the truth? The camp was attacked by German fighters who flew low over the camp shooting at anything that moved. One day we realized that out hut was in the firing line and, jumping down from my top bunk I caught my leg on a protruding nail and ripped it open it took some time to heal, probably due to my unhealthy body and the lack of any medication. We were imprisoned in that camp for four months, February until the end of May 1945 but we did not accept our incarceration lightly. Many officers tried to escape - myself and Alan included. We became aware of the agitation and insecurity of our guards who were edgy and threatening and, fearing that we would suffer the same fate as the 50 officers who were shot in Stalagluft III we decided to make a break for freedom. Discovering a break in the wire fencing - probably cut by other escapees, late one night after stashing what little food we could carry and wrapping ourselves in the warmest things we could find we made our way pretty stealthily across the camp to that hole in the wire. The tension of knowing that we would be shot if we were caught in those probing searchlights brought us out in a cold sweat but we were desperate and fear drove us on. We got through the wire and, guided by the little compass that Alan had hoarded throughout his incarceration we made our way westward from where we knew the Allies would be approaching. We could see the flash of guns and could hear the explosions in the far distance and knew that must be our goal, hence we trudged throughout that night. Dawn eventually broke and we saw in the distance an old farm house and knew that we must make our way there for our own safety. 29 We were in the wilds of Germany; there were no roads, only fields and narrow lanes and no sign of life whatsoever but that farmhouse could mean food and our spirits rose with the thought. We approached the farm very cautiously for we were aware that armed troops may be inside watching us, but our fears were soon allayed when we discovered the place was deserted - or so we thought. The doors of the derelict hovel were open and as we moved in I saw a movement in a corner but, to my amazement it was not soldiers, but a frail, elderly, terrified couple who were cringing there with their hands in the air babbling for mercy. Without really thinking straight I put my hand into the pocket of my greatcoat and pretending I had a gun I shouted at them “Essen .Essen ” I must have looked like Jimmy Cagney standing there threatening those poor souls, they had nothing - but I had obviously seen too many gangster films to have acted as I did. We searched their house but there really was nothing to eat and those poor souls were starving but - we heard chickens cackling in the centre of the farmyard. Running toward the noise we discovered the biggest dung heap steaming in the middle of the yard atop which were dozens of real live chickens ! Food at last ! We ran toward the stinking heap not caring where we trod but those wily old birds were too smart for us, we chased them up the heap, round the heap and eventually through the heap but I - being me - fell over right into the muck and emerged not quite smelling of Evening in Paris. I was covered in dung once again and stank to high heaven BUT I had caught a chicken ! Now all we had to do was kill it and cook it. 30. I handed the scrawny old bird to Alan who looked at me in amazement “I can’t kill it” he said “But neither can I” I replied and staring at each other looking and feeling quite flummoxed I tucked the chicken into my greatcoat and we set off to seek food elsewhere and to find our way to God knew where. We started walking again an eventually found our way onto a small lane when suddenly we heard and saw a type of jeep racing toward us. Thinking they were Germans we knew our time was up, for we would have been shot on sight but, the Gods were watching over us and we discovered they were high ranking Russian officers and, they spoke English. They told us if we had continued along this lane we would certainly have been re captured and shot but, they explained, our safest bet was to get into their vehicle and they would return us to the Luchenvald camp which was had fallen into Russian hands. Realising our lives must be blessed we did just that and were returned to the place that we had so hopefully escaped from two or three nights before, only to find our German guards had fled and the whole camp of forty thousand men of mixed nationalities, were all being held prisoners by the Russians. For the Poles, Slavs, Czechoslovakians and other eastern European countries this was terrifying and probably meant a certain death, but for the British prisoners, our main fear was that we were to be transported to the salt mines of Siberia. Our arrival at the camp was greeted with cheers and hugs from our dormitory pals but suddenly we seemed to have acquired lots more friends - word had got out that I had a chicken and volunteers to kill, pluck and cook that poor old bird that had been inside my coat for 48 hours were extensive. I think Alan and I finished up with half a wing and the wishbone ! 31 The change in our captors, from Germans to Russians led everyone to assume we would soon be repatriated and to the delight of all prisoners ninety three large American lorries appeared outside the gates. But it was not be, for the idea was not to repatriate but to feed the starving inmates. Groups of prisoners were selected to form foraging parties and it was they that boarded the lorries. They travelled miles searching for anything that was edible from sheep and cows to vegetables which were bought back to the camp to be turned into soup, which was the only way to feed the forty or so thousand desperately hungry souls. Food in our belly’s brought much comfort but any feelings of elation were soon dispelled into despair when we saw those lorries disappearing with no prisoners on board. What was to become of us? Would we be sent to Siberia? Was a salt mine our destination? Would another long forced march be our fate. Depression was widespread. Should we just walk out of the camp? The sight of those heavily armed Russian soldiers put paid to that ideas , but, if we staged a mass break out then surely some must survive ? The calm composure of our Senior British Officer put paid to such ideas and we were told to remain calm for the Russian army were our allies and he felt certain that repatriation was imminent. For us to break out of the camp whilst there were still pockets of Germans who were fighting for their lives would be totally foolhardy. We remained in that state of limbo for two or more weeks before we suddenly realized that a huge fleet of empty lorries emblazoned with the Red Star was outside the camp. They had come to take us away - but to where - east to Russia or west for home? We did not know. We thanked when God, when we were told it west! 32. Those who had possessions grabbed them quickly, but for me - I had nothing except the clothes on my back and along with my comrades I joined the queues ready to board one of those now most welcome lorries. We were taken to the eastern banks of the river Elbe, the demarcation line between Russian and American armies. Told to get off the lorries, we were then marched across a ‘pontoon’ bridge to the other side of the Elbe where we were welcomed by the Americans. I have never been greeted so enthusiastically as I was by those American troops but, we respectfully bade farewell to our Russian comrades. The Americans had assembled many trucks into which we gladly climbed and from that base we were taken to Halle airbase to then flown to Brussels in a DC3. For me the experience was traumatic, for my last flight had been pretty horrendous. That flight brought home to me the reality of war, my flights had always been at night and I had not seen the damage that was widespread throughout the Ruhr valley. There were no buildings that were not touched; the majority was just ruins and rubble and as we were flying at only 1,000 feet and the day was clear and bright, I was filled with a sense of anguish and remorse. I had been part of this carnage and destruction - but I dreaded to think what I might find when I got home to London. There were thousands of us prisoners of war who were transported over the next few weeks and for me it was pure euphoria, I was free, I had no guard watching my every move, there was food - wonderful food. The mixture of people who were there for us, the Royal Air Force and Belgians were so kind and comforting to us all. We were fed - fresh tasty food that I had almost forgotten, I was in heaven. 33. The next item on the agenda was a programme of intense personal cleaning. We were de loused (we were pretty flea bitten) we showered, letting the hot water cascade over our emaciated bodies and then given new uniforms which for me consisted of an RAF Battledress and trousers. Our old rags which we had worn for so much time were then burnt I had to say goodbye to my long johns ! Chapter 7 Home 34 We were kept in Brussels for three or four days and eventually transported to a local air base where there were lines of Lancaster bombers, all waiting for us. For me it was pretty harrowing for here were the identical ‘planes from which I had jumped months before. My mind was transported back to November 6th. Where were my crew? Were they still alive? Would I ever see them again? These memories were Exacerbated by the realization that I now had to get on board if I wanted to get back to England. The last Lancaster bomber in which I had flown was with me, upfront in the cockpit and at the controls, this flight was somewhat different. There were 15 to 20 men who boarded the Lancaster, but there were in seats, of course no safety belts and men just sat on the floor above the bomb bay. For me that was taking a high risk - who knew if these doors could accidentally be opened. I had a far more safe seat, although a little uncomfortable, All the way home I sat on the Elsan getting up, only to let a fellow passenger use my chemical toilet. We landed safely - much to the relief of all those now ex P O W’s, at Cosford near Wolverhampton and, as we disembarked we literally kissed the ground. We were home, we were in England. The huge hanger at Cosford was decorated with bunting and banners welcoming us home, there were tables all laden with food the likes of which we had not seen for months. We were surrounded by fellow officers, pretty WAAF’s the Red Cross and the Salvation Army, What a welcome. Another de lousing was incurred, for we still had the little blighters on our bodies but eventually we were free to go home and I was given six weeks leave and a travel pass to my home in Morden.
Dublin Core
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Title
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Eric Hookings's life story book 2
Description
An account of the resource
Describes operations as Lancaster pilot. Detailed description of last sortie to attack Dortmund-Ems canal on 6 November 1944. His aircraft was attacked by FW 190 which was driven of and then set on fire by another fighter attack. Describes bailing out, evading along with his flight engineer. John Tate. Goes on to describe capture, incarceration and interrogation at Dulag Luft and transfer to Staklag Luft 3. Provides detail account of life in prisoner of war camp and long march by foot and train back to Germany. Covers liberation and repatriation.
Creator
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E Hookings
Format
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Thirty-two page printed document
Language
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eng
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Text. Memoir
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BHookingsEWHookingsEWv2
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Germany
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Poland
Poland--Żagań
Germany--Halle an der Saale
Belgium
Belgium--Brussels
England--Shropshire
Great Britain
Temporal Coverage
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1944
1944-11-06
1945
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IBCC Digital Archive
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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David Bloomfield
aircrew
bale out
C-47
Dulag Luft
escaping
evading
fear
flight engineer
Fw 190
Lancaster
military ethos
pilot
prisoner of war
RAF Cosford
Red Cross
shot down
Stalag 3A
Stalag Luft 3
the long march
Waffen-SS
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30990/BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1-01.1.pdf
8262794404d2ef0dfee19a3f5bd97a8e
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30990/BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1-02.2.pdf
7e6e96679a1915a0c9b98fb636e9cf11
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Yeoman, Harold
Harold Yeoman
Harold T Yeoman
H T Yeoman
Description
An account of the resource
31 items. Collection concerns Harold Yeoman (b. 1921 1059846 and 104405 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a pilot with 12 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, a memoir, pilot's flying log book, 26 poems, a photograph and details of trail of Malayan collaborator.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Christopher E. Potts and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-10-28
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Yeoman, HT
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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Start of transcription
[underlined] LOOSE ON THE WIND [/underlined]
Harold Yeoman
[page break]
To those who never came back.
[page break]
Their voices, dying as they fly,
Loose on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows’ and my own.
A.E. Houseman,
“A Shropshire Lad”, XXXVIII.
“And how can a life be loved that hath so may embitterments, [sic] and is subject to so many calamities and miseries? How too can it be called a life, that begetteth [sic] so many deaths and plagues?”
Thomas a Kempis,
“The Imitation of Christ”.
[page break]
[underlined] LOOSE ON THE WIND [/underlined]
Author’s foreword
Never no more
We would never fly like that
Lennie
It makes you think
‘Yes, my darling daughter’
Crewing-up
Images of mortality
Tony
Mind you don’t scratch the paint
Rabbie
Letter home
Low-level
A boxful of broken china
The end of Harry
Silver spoon boy
Intermezzo
Overshoot
First solo
The pepper pot
Approach and landing
Knight’s move
A different kind of love
Sun on a chequered tea-cosy
Photograph in a book
Glossary
[page break]
[underlined] AUTHOR’S FOREWORD [/underlined]
During the years of the Second World War, some 90,000 men, from the British Isles, from the great Dominions overseas and from the countries of Europe overrun by the German enemy, volunteered as aircrew in Bomber Command of the Royal Air Force. Of these men, over 55,000 were to lose their lives and, to this day, more than 20,000 of that total have no known graves. In one particular operation there were more Bomber Command aircrew killed than there were casualties during the entire Battle of Britain.
There were many men whose names will bear for ever an aura of unfading brilliance, men such as Leonard Cheshire, (whom for a brief time I was privileged to know) such as Guy Gibson, or John Searby. There were also the thousands who could not aspire to the greatness of those remarkable men, to their almost unbelievable heights of courage and achievement. To attempt to assess what we in Bomber Command did achieve is no part of my aim. Much greater minds and more highly skilled pens than mine have already done this. This small piece of writing is solely an attempt, through the window of personal recollection, to tell of a few of the incidents which affected me and of a few of the splendid young men whom I was fortunate enough to know and to call my friends. Many, all too many of them, alas, gave their lives as part of the price of our freedom, the freedom from an unspeakable tyranny, that freedom which we now so casually enjoy and take so easily for granted. If, in this small book, I have planted their names like seeds in the garden of future years for even a few eyes other than my own to read, for a few other minds to remember, then I shall have done what I set out to do.
An eminent air historian has recently quoted some words which I wrote to him, words which I now venture to repeat. I said, “We simply had our jobs to do and we tried to do them as best we could.” I believe that sums it up.
Harold Yeoman
November 1994
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] Never no more [/underlined] [/inserted]
“….. And through the glasse [sic] wyndow [sic]
Shines the sone. [sic]
How should I love, and I so young? …..”
(Anon.)
[page break]
[underlined] NEVER NO MORE [/underlined]
There was something icy cold running down my face and a brilliant light was shining into my eyes.
“What on earth?” I heard myself mutter.
I came to rapidly out of a deep sleep and tried to wriggle away from the cold wetness which was finding its way down my pyjama collar, but I could not escape it, nor the blinding glare.
“What’s going on?” I half-shouted, then I saw her hand holding the dripping sponge. Bright sunshine was pouring through my window that winter morning.
A pale, laughing face framed in jet-black hair behind the hand. She was sitting on the side of my bed.
“Betty!” I shouted, “Stop it! What the heck are you doing?”
“Saturday,” she answered brightly, twisting the sponge away from my hand, “Saturday, and it’s your day off. We were going for a walk, do you remember?”
Her dark, lustrous eyes shone with mischief. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my pyjama jacket and shuddered with the cold. I tried to pull the blankets back around me, but she pulled them firmly down again to chest level. What on earth would my parents think, I wondered, a young girl coming into my bedroom – they’d have a fit. It was almost too much for them when I’d insisted on volunteering for aircrew when I was nineteen, but this - !
“I’ve brought you a cup of tea; now hurry up and drink it, ‘cos it’s breakfast time.”
Betty got off the bed, handed me the cup and made for the door.
“Don’t be long now, and if you don’t take me for that walk, I’ll never speak to you again, never no more.”
“What, never, never no more?” I mimicked.
“No, never no more.”
She grinned, but pretended to be in a huff and flounced out, tossing her shiny black hair which gleamed like coal in the morning sunlight. It became a silly, affectionate catch-phrase between us.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
We had arrived at the Knight’s home at almost the same time; Betty from Coventry, after the air-raid, I from Initial Training Wing, to start my flying training at Sywell, a few miles from the centre of Northampton. We had seen the bombing from a safe distance, out of the train windows, on the way up from our I.T.W. at Torquay overnight. We had stopped, miles from anywhere, for hours, it seemed, while the raid progressed. We could hear the Jerries droning overhead and saw the fire on the horizon.
“Someone’s getting a hell of a pasting,” we had said.
Betty, then, was a refugee. Near misses from H.E.s had decided her parents to evacuate her from the shattered and blazing city to the safer home of her aunt and uncle; the R.A.F. billeting authorities had decided to send me to the Knights at the same time. So we quickly became friends; we were both of an age and of similar dispositions, light-hearted, fun-loving, undemanding and contented by nature. Two of a kind, I thought.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
We walked in Abington Park. It was brilliantly sunny but bitterly cold, a wonderful December day. There was snow on the ground, the bare trees were black and stark against the clear winter sky. With my white u/t pilot’s flash in the front of my forage cap I swaggered a little. Why not? I was very proud of it. My buttons gleamed, my boots shone like glass.
“Bags of swank!” our drill Corporal used to shout at us as we marched through Torquay, and we obeyed that command, always. I was proud of myself and I was proud to be walking out with Betty. She was a lovely girl, her face in repose calm and radiant as some Italian Renaissance Madonna in a painting.
“No, I haven’t gone solo yet,” I was saying as we walked, “but I’ve only done nine hours up to now, you know”
“How long will it take you, do you think?”
“Oh, any minute now, but my instructor puts me off a bit, he is rather bad-tempered.”
(‘Can you see that other aircraft?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then, are you going to fly round it or through it?’)
“That’s not very nice, is it?”
“No, not very, but I try not to let him put me off.”
[page break]
“Will you be getting any leave at Christmas?”
“Don’t suppose so, Betty; I mean to say, I’ve only been in three months altogether and we did get a 48 hour pass from Torquay, you know.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Knights had a radiogram in the lounge of their comfortable semi-detached house.
“Look what I got for Christmas,” Betty exclaimed, holding out a blue-labelled record in its cardboard envelop, “would you like to hear it?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hutch.”
I had little or no idea who or what Hutch was, then.
“Yes, please,” I said.
She put the record on and straightened up, standing before me in her simple, grey dress. The creamy, brown voice came out of the loudspeaker and I was immediately seized by some emotion which I had never before experienced.
“That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air,” sang Hutch, and Betty was humming the tune along with him.
“There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
To this day, when I play that on my hi-fi and hear Hutch’s lovely velvet voice and perfect diction, I am back with Betty at Mrs. Knight’s, falling beautifully and adolescently in love with her from the exact moment that she played me that song. I find it, still, an unbearably moving experience, one which brings a lump into my throat and tears to my eyes.
“Did you like that? Do you want to hear the other side?”
“Oh, yes, please, I’d like to.”
On the other side was “All the things you are,” and it couldn’t have fitted my mood better, either. She was all the things which Hutch was singing about.
“That’s a wizard record, Betty,” I said. She smiled happily.
. . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
“Gosh, I’ve never had champagne before, Mr. Knight,” I said.
“Well, you went solo on Christmas Eve, when we were away and now you’ve done your first solo cross-country today, so you can try some, to celebrate, apart from the fact that it’s New Year’s Day, of course.”
“Well, thanks very much, and – cheers!”
“Cheers,” from Mr. Knight, “and happy landings.”
“Chocks away,” Betty said. Now where had she learned that?
“Would you like to hear another new record?”
“Oh, yes, I would, very much. What is it?”
“’You’d be so nice to come home to’, it’s called,” she said, “do you know it?”
“No, I’ve never heard that one.”
She put the record on and I listened as I sipped the unfamiliar but strangely disappointing wine. I thought, “Yes, you would be so nice to come home to, Betty darling.” Maybe it was the wine after all.
But I really didn’t know how to say that sort of thing to her. How did one start? Besides, my mind was still full of the voice of Flying Officer Lines from earlier that wonderful day.
“You don’t need me, do you? I am going to have a sleep. Wake me up if anything goes wrong.”
And pulling out his speaking tube he had wriggled down into the front cockpit, out of the slipstream, that New Year’s morning, as I set course, droning over snowy Sywell in the bitterly cold sunshine. He was a Battle of Britain Hurricane pilot, instructing for a so-called rest, and trusting me, with only thirty hours in my log-book, to fly from Sywell to unknown Cambridge, land, and come back again. If you did the trip without assistance from your instructor it counted as solo time, and I had done that. My cup of happiness was full, that day.
“You’d be paradise to come home to and love”, went the song as the record ended.
I sighed.
“Yes, she would be,” I thought, “but how on earth do you go about actually saying things like that to Betty?”
There were all manner of things I undoubtedly wanted to say to
[page break]
her. But I hadn’t even kissed her yet, and you couldn’t say some things without kissing somebody first, could you? Besides, she might not want me to. So how, and when, did, or could, one start? It was very difficult, rather like trying to do a perfect three-point landing.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Every other Friday we were paid. I was rich beyond my wildest imaginings. From the two shillings a day at Torquay I had progressed to no less than five pounds four shillings each fortnight. That was as a mere Leading Aircraftman. What I would be paid if ever I became a Sergeant pilot the imagination simply couldn’t tell me. I used to split the money carefully into equal parts and with one half burning a hole in my pocket and the Friday evening feeling joyously pervading my system my little world was at my feet until Monday morning. I would go into Northampton, to the “Black Boy” in the main square, for a mixed grill and a pint of black-and-tan, sometimes with Len or Eric, sometimes alone. It became the high point of my week.
We would sit and talk flying to our hearts’ content, comparing notes on our experiences. In retrospect how limited they were and how naive we were, and yet how miraculous and other-worldly it seemed to me to know the unutterable thrill of open-cockpit flying in the freezing winter air, strapped tightly into the fragile machine whose engine purred bravely in front of me; the wonder of the view of the blue-green and white hazy landscape spread out below, the icy slipstream on my numbed face, the thrill of the response, under my hands and feet, of the aircraft to small, smooth movements of the controls. There was the magic of the rising, tilting and falling of the snow-covered, mottled, dim countryside, blotched with the smoke of towns, the dazzling red disc of the sun as it set in the haze, the ecstasy of sideslipping [sic] in over the hedge and of smoothly straightening out the glide to set her down for a perfect three-pointer on to the frosty grass near the other Tigers, while a few fellow-pupils watched critically, and while over at the Vickers shed the engines of a great black Wellington rumbled ominously.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
“Are you coming down to the Y.M. tonight, Harold?”
My head was down over my books, in the dining room. I wasn’t finding the theory of flight too easy.
“Oh. Yes, I’ll be along; are you going to be there?”
“Well, I work there there [sic] three nights a week now, you know. Auntie thought I should do something to help the war effort until I’m called up.”
(Called up? I hadn’t thought of that; somehow I couldn’t imagine Betty in uniform.)
“O.K., I’ll see you down there later, then, I’ve got just about an hour’s work to do. Keep a chocolate biscuit for me, will you?”
She waggled her fingers, crinkled her nose smilingly, and went out.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I landed for the last time at Sywell in a Tiger Moth, sideslipping [sic] off the height and greasing her down on to the grass. I let the aircraft rumble to a halt, then I taxied carefully to the dispersal tents, faced her into wind and switched off. The prop juddered to a stop. An erk ducked down to chock the wheels. Dusk was beginning to fall; I could see Alex Henshaw, Vickers’ Chief Test Pilot, on the circuit in his Spitfire. Everyone always stopped whatever they were doing to watch him fly, it was part of our education. But my eyes always returned to the huge black bulk of the Wellington by their hangar. I pulled out my harness pin and released the straps carefully, so as not to damage the aircraft’s fabric. I sighed and reluctantly, as one would part from a girl, I climbed out of the cockpit. A chapter had ended.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“I don’t know exactly where, Betty, except that it’s overseas. The lads are all saying Canada, but no-one ever tells us much. I suppose we’ll not know until we get there. There’s a few posted to S.F.T.S.s in England, Hullavington, Cranfield, places like that, but ten of us are definitely on the boat.”
She looked down at her cup of tea. We were sitting together in
[page break]
the Y.M.C.A.; she had an hour off duty. The place was full of uniforms, but I scarcely notice them, I only had eyes for her.
“Will it be soon?”
“Next week, they think.”
“Harold - ?”
“Yes, what?”
“Oh, well, nothing. You will write, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Betty, yes, I’ll write to you as often as I can.”
“What will you be flying?”
“Harvards or Oxfords, I suppose, I’m not really sure.”
“What do you want to go on to, fighters or bombers?”
(Strange, how civilians thought there were only those two categories of pilot, but I suppose the news the press and radio gave concerned mainly those two. After all, they were the types mostly at the sharp end of things. But I thought of Betty, huddled fearfully in the shelter, that night of the Coventry raid and I felt a sudden and great anger that she should have had to endure that. And I thought of the Wellington over at the Vickers hangar at the aerodrome, sinister, powerful, black, and from then on I was never in any doubt.)
“Bombers,” I said firmly, “definitely bombers.”
. . . . . . . . . . .
It is strange that I don’t remember saying goodbye to Betty, nor to the Knights, if it comes to that. I must have done so, of course, but sadly, I cannot bring the occasions to mind.
I did go to Canada. Once we got out west we worked hard and we flew hard, by day and by night. We got no leave, very little time off. We didn’t particularly want any. Things were getting rather urgent back home. Besides, I wanted to hurry back to Betty, and to my parents, too, of course.
I wrote to her as often as I could. She sent me her photograph, smiling and lovely in that grey dress, but I’m afraid I haven’t got it now. I got my wings a few days before my twentieth birthday. In the late summer, after a stopover in Iceland, I was back in England, and with a couple of Canadian chaps, splendid fellows whom I had
[page break]
met on the boat, I was posted to a Wellington Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourne, not too far from Northampton. Most of my buddies went on to fighters. As it happened, they had a little more future than us bomber boys. Not much, but a little. Of course, I was longing to see Betty again.
As soon as I had settled in I phoned the Knights one evening. It was an interminable business, repeating their number to different operators, waiting while the line buzzed and crackled, while disembodied and unreal voices spoke unintelligibly to one another in hasty, clipped syllables. In the end, a man’s voice spoke up.
“Is that Mr. Knight?”
“Yes, who is that?”
“It’s Harold.”
“Harold! How are you? Where are you speaking from?”
I told him Bassingbourn. We were allowed to do that so long as we didn’t give the name of our unit.
“How’s Mrs. Knight?”
“Oh, she’s fine, she’s down at the Y.M. this evening, on duty.”
“I see. And Betty, is she still with you?”
There was a slight pause. I thought we must have been cut off. Then he said, “No, she went back home a little while ago. Things are a bit quieter now, you know.”
“Yes, I understand. But how is she? I’d love to see her again.”
“Well, actually, Harold, she’s fine. But look, did you know – did she mention that she’s getting engaged?”
I felt as though I’d flown slap into a mountainside in the dark. I swallowed with difficulty, the perspiration had broken out on my forehead and my hand holding the receiver was trembling.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Yes; he’s quite a nice chap, a bit older than she is, works in a car factory, I believe.”
We didn’t talk long after that; I was too stunned to think very straight. I’m afraid I never saw the Knights again, and I am truly sorry, for they were good, nice people and they were extremely kind to me. I made a mess of my flying during the next few days.
[page break]
I still think about Betty. I have quite a substantial record collection and after years of fruitless searching I finally got the record of Hutch singing what has become for me a poignant song, that song about the nightingale. And when I play it I can see Betty’s lovely face, pale and calm, like the Madonna, and I can visualise the gleam of the firelight on her jet-black hair, that winter afternoon in Northampton.
I wonder, often I wonder, what became of her. Dear Betty, I shall never forget you for you were my first love. What happened? Where did I go wrong? I don’t know why I should feel so very sad when I think of those days, for they were truly among the happiest of my life.
Sometimes, too, I think of the way she used to laugh, and of her words; I can almost hear her voice speaking to me, as though she were in the room here. But I know I shall never see her again and now, the touching little phrase sounds only like a cry of despair in the night – “Never no more, never no more.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] We would never fly like that. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] WE WOULD NEVER FLY LIKE THAT [/underlined]
After I had described the incident to him, with inevitable, automatic use of a pilot’s illustrative gestures of the hands, he thought briefly about it, then looking directly at me, “You ought to write about it,” he said, “Why don’t you put it on paper?”
The following day I awoke early in the morning, earlier than usual, even for me, with his words still sounding in my ears. And remembering the words with which I had described the events of almost sixty years previously still fresh and vivid in my mind, I took up pencil and paper.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Now, in the dying days of the twentieth century, almost every summer week-end, all over the land, you may buy your ticket for some air display. You may sit in your car with the doors open to admit the pleasant breeze, the warm air, the chatter of the crowd, the over-emphatic loudspeaker announcements, or you may lounge upon your hired camp-chair, your sunglasses shading your eyes as you look upwards into the limitless blue clarity of the sky, and watch, to the accompaniment of the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the hundreds of spectators, the improbable antics of the ugly, purpose-built, monstrously-powered aircraft, meretriciously decorated with advertisements, performing their violent and ugly aerial manoeuvres. To me, the vicious use by their pilots of stick and rudder palls after only a few seconds, and I think, perhaps nostalgically, that I would much rather watch fewer and simpler aerobatics performed by pilots in standard military aircraft. And as I ponder this my thoughts are led back to a day on a Northamptonshire aerodrome when I was beginning my elementary pilot training in the R.A.F.
The time was the sever winter of 1940-41. The Battle of Britain had just been won; Coventry had only very recently been devastated by the Luftwaffe in one catastrophic night raid. I was one of twenty or so young men on our course. Most of us had never seen an aircraft at close quarters until we arrived at No. 6 Elementary Flying Training School. Here, there
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were Tiger Moths – biplanes, gentlemen’s aeroplanes, as I heard them many times described. They were docile, forgiving, vice-less, sensitive to both hands and feet, a sheer joy to handle once the initial strangeness of the sensation of controlling an aircraft in three dimensions had worn off. Most of us, I fancy, could see ahead no further than going solo on them, then completing the course with the required fifty or so flying hours before we went on to the next stage in our training, a Service Flying Training School. But we did not look far into the future; we did not know nor could we imagine what was coming to us. Perhaps, in many cases, this was just as well. All we knew was that we were, each one of us, filled with an unquenchable desire and zeal to qualify eventually as pilots in the finest Air Force in the world, to become – and we thought this and spoke of it without embarrassment or apology to any man – the elite of all the armed forces, an opinion which I will hold with pride today.
So we flew and we studied flying and talked of little else but the theory and practice of flying. We questioned one another. We pored [sic] over pilots’ notes and airmanship notes and navigation books and the Morse Code. We questioned our instructors and our peers on the senior course. And we kept our eyes and ears open, sensitive and receptive to anything, however small, which would assist us in any way to obtain those wings which we longed to be able to wear on our uniforms.
Here at Sywell, the Tiger Moths were, during the day, dispersed around the perimeter of the grass aerodrome, standing in their training yellow and earth-camouflage paint, their R.A.F. roundels standing out bravely, awaiting their next pupils to take them up on whichever exercise they would carry out. We were divided into three Flights, six or seven of the boys on my course in each, with six or seven of the senior course. Each Flight had its ‘office’ in a camouflage-painted bell tent near the hedge. But what drew my eye almost hypnotically when I was standing there, not flying, perhaps watching other pupils performing their ‘circuits and bumps’ until it was my own turn, was the occasional sight of a Wellington, a twin-engined bomber, at that time the biggest we had, standing outside a hangar on the far side of the aerodrome – the Vickers shed, as it was called. It fascinated me constantly and unfailingly, massive in its matt-black dope with its very tall single rudder, standing squat, silent and menacing outside its hangar, contrasting against the snow-covered ground,
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never approached by anyone except the Vickers personnel. What was taking place there I have never known, but all of us well knew who flew it.
He would arrive in his Spitfire, considerately keeping a respectable distance outside the circuit while we pupils took off or landed in our tiger Moths. Then he would slip into a vacant place in the circuit and make his approach and landing, his aircraft, pencil-slim, perfect and graceful in its flight, the focus of all eyes from the ground, its appearance possessed of something of the beauty and poetry of a Bach fugue or a Mozart andante, a Shakespearian sonnet of flowing aerial beauty. The pilot, we learned from some of the senior course who were comparatively old hands on the aerodrome, was Alex Henshaw, Vickers’ Chief Test Pilot, a fact which reduced us tyros, with probably less than thirty flying hours in any of our logbooks, to awestricken silence.
He it would be who would take the Wellington from its place at the Vickers shed, taxi it, ponderously, it seemed to us, into take-off position when all Tiger Moths were well clear, and without fuss send it charging with engines howling at full boost over the bumpy grass field and into the air, leaving traces of oily smoke in its wake from the two Pegasus engines as he eased it over the trees fringing the aerodrome and climbed away. Later, he would return to land, once again showing meticulous consideration of us pupils, and would taxy the bomber to its position by the Vickers shed. I would have not believed them had someone told me that less than a year later I would land and take off here in a more powerful Mark of Wellington on the strength of having seen Alex Henshaw’s performances; I am sure that my audience, if indeed I had one, would have been quite unimpressed by the sight. I know that my own crew, in the tense silence as I scraped over the trees on take-off, were wishing themselves anywhere but with me in my inexperienced disregard for their safety. But it was watching Alex Henshaw that first sowed the seed of an idea in my head that, whereas almost all of the chaps on my course wanted to fly fighters, I thought that I would try my utmost to get on to a bomber Squadron, if only to hit back at those who had so terrified Betty, the niece of the couple on whom
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I was billeted in Northampton, and whom I was beginning to regard as someone more than a friend. A year later I would be wearing my pilot’s wings, having been half way across the world and back to earn them, having joined a Wellington Squadron in Lincolnshire and having survived a fire in the air followed by a barely controllable night descent in the darkness and the final crash-landing on my first operation against the enemy. I would also have gained, then lost, a love.
One afternoon, at Sywell, I was not flying, standing outside the dispersal tent with two or three others of my course, no doubt talking flying, and watching critically the take-offs and landings of a few pupils on circuits and bumps. (How readily I could point out their faults – a slight swing on take-off, a ropey turn, a bumpy landing, or a too-high hold-off; how slow I was to recognise my own failings and correct them, except on the sometimes caustic promptings of Flying Officer J - -, my instructor).
At this stage in our training we could detect instantly any appearance or movement of an aircraft in the sky, no matter how far distant it was – an attribute I have never lost – and we could also quickly and correctly identify it, an ability which, for obvious reasons, was essential by day or by night. But on that bright, very cold afternoon, first there was the distinctive note of the Merlin engine. Our heads turned. Here was the Spitfire with Alex Henshaw, assessing the position of the Tigers on the circuit. He would have been at about 800 feet; I had a splendid view as he cruised gently along, well outside the aerodrome boundary. Then there was a flash of sunlight off the wing as, quite unexpectedly, he rolled the aircraft on to its back and flew, straight and level, but inverted, into wind. We turned our heads and grinned at one another. This was good. This was very good. Exciting stuff. Soon he would roll back and finish his circuit normally. We were wrong. He turned crosswind, still inverted, his rudder pointing grotesquely earthwards. This was becoming quite amazing, an incredible sight. Then, still inverted, he turned again, on to the downwind leg and put his wheels down – or rather, put them up, as we saw them, rising like a snail’s antennae from the duck-egg blue under surface of the Spitfire. Then he turned
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on to the final crosswind leg, still inverted, undercarriage held high, flaps now out, and finally into wind, on to his landing approach.
Spellbound and speechless we watched as he lost height smoothly in the inverted position. What was he going to do? Open her up and roll her out, then go round again on a normal circuit? But no, he continued on his inverted final approach. I hardly dared breathe; the tension in our small group could be felt. Down and down he slipped until we were prepared to see simply anything – but surely not a crash? I could not truly estimate at what height he was, but finally, effortlessly and smoothly, he rolled her out, the engine popping characteristically as he held off at a few feet and set the Spitfire down for a perfect landing on the grass. We exhaled in unison, the tension gone, wonderment taking over.
I have never seen any piece of flying anywhere to approach the silken, wonderful skill of this, and I would be astonished if anyone else has; it was sheer unadulterated Henshaw genius, a sight that I have always remembered with awe, one I shall never forget.
There is a very fine novel, long since out of print, written by an R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant pilot who was killed in 1940. The action takes place at a civilian flying school; in one particular chapter some pupils are watching an instructor putting an aircraft through its paces on a rigorous test flight and one of them speaks some words which precisely matched my thoughts as I watched that incredible inverted circuit – “We’ll none of us ever fly like that.”
I am sure that none of us standing there on that wartime winter day ever did and I would be astounded if anyone else did, or could. It was flying by a genius; even the gods must have smiled to see it.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Lennie [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LENNIE [/underlined]
In those days, full-backs wore number 1, right wing threequarters threw into lineouts and wore number 2, and so on, down to number 15 at wing forward. Lennie wore number 2 in my local rugby club’s first team, and also in the County side. As an aspiring wing threequarter [sic] myself, although just into my teens, Lennie, when I watched the team’s every home game, wide-eyed on the open side of the exposed pitch, in whatever weather, Lennie became one of my boyhood heroes.
He was not by any means one of your greyhound-type hard-running winger, for he carried, in retrospect, perhaps a pound or two too much weight to be numbered with them. But he was as elusive as a well-greased eel. Although in defence, and in particular, his rather feeble kicking, he was slightly suspect, with ball in hand every spectator, whether at club or County match, unconsciously sat up or stood straighter, in anticipation of his jinking, sidestepping runs up the touchline, soldier-erect, dark head thrown back, mouth slightly open. I wonder how often in his career he heard the encouraging shouts of the crowd, “Come on, Lennie!”
The recollection of a particular incident in one particular match, against the strongest club side in the county still remains vividly with me. In all but the highest grade of rugby, receiving the ball as a wing threequarter [sic] within ten or fifteen yards of one’s own corner flag meant that there was no choice. One kicked for touch, hoping to gain at least twenty or so yards. Especially so when one was pitted against the most efficient and successful team for miles around, and even more so when one was faced by the opposing winger, who in this case was an English international. But on this occasion Lennie eschewed the safe option. Perhaps it was that he himself knew that his kicking was rather weak.
About a hundred yards from his opponent’s line and faced by a rapidly advancing and grimly competent opponent, he set off to run, up the appreciable slope of his home ground. With a jink and a sidestep he evaded the oncoming International, who skidded and was left floundering. Urged on by the home crowd, myself included, he ran, sidestepped, swerved and tricked his way through the opponents’ entire team, his lately evaded marker in breathless and fruitless pursuit. He finally rounded the fullback and scored wide out to the left, after a solo effort of more than 120 yards. It brought the house down, especially as the England ‘cap’
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was finally left prone and exhausted in his wake. I have watched and played rugby for very many years and I honestly believe that I have rarely seen a finer individual try scored.
Came the war. Players and spectators alike of the necessary ages were scattered all over the world, many never again to see or handle a rugby ball. Very early in 1941, my elementary flying training – and Betty – left behind, the latter with some heartache, I and several other LACs from Sywell found ourselves en route for we knew not where to continue our training, gathered like so many shepherdless sheep in midwinter in a large and bleak Nissen hut at RAF Wilmslow, an overseas embarkation depot. There must have been fifty or so of us in the hut, sitting upon our respective beds, while a Corporal at one end lectured us on some topic relevant to our impending departure, then called us forward, alphabetically, of course – I was used to being the last in any roll-call – to hand us some sheet of instructions. Awaiting my turn I watched idly while others hurried forward to the Corporal’s desk, then about-turned and went back to their places. Watched idly, that is, until a name I only half-heard was called, and a well-built dark man trotted, on his toes, up the aisle to the Corporal. I started up with a stifled exclamation, recognising the way he ran. It was Lennie, Lennie C - - of W - - R.F.C. I could scarcely believe my eyes. For a second or two the forage cap with the white flash of u/t aircrew almost deceived me.
As soon as we were left to our own devices I walked along the hut and across to his bed-space.
“Excuse me, but you are Lennie C - -, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked curiously at me.
“I thought so, I’ve often watched you play, at W - -.”
He looked surprised and pleased. I mentioned my cousin, who played in the same team. To meet someone from one’s own home town in the Service was a reasonably infrequent happening, and because of that, all the more welcome. He told me he was under training as a Navigator. We stuck together, despite the disparity in our ages – he was about ten years my senior – through our dismal stay at Wilmslow, then via Gourock and a ridiculously small ship to Iceland where we trans-shipped
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to an armed Merchant Cruiser. This was more of a morale-boosting title than anything else; the ship was a medium-sized passenger cruise vessel with two quite small guns which, at a guess, might have just about managed to sink an empty wooden barrel, but not much else. The news finally filtered down to us that we were heading for Canada. On setting out from Reykjavik we looked around for our convoy. There was none. We were to cross the Atlantic alone, with two paltry guns to defend ourselves against whatever there might be in the way of U-boats, pocket battleships or a combination of both. This was a very real threat. The ‘Bismarck’ was later to sink ‘Hood’ and itself to be sunk in the North Atlantic. We slept and lived, about 150 of us, I suppose, on the floor of what had been the Recreation Room with about twelve inches of so-called bed-space between mattresses. Half way across the Atlantic, in a February storm, the engines packed up and we tossed, helpless, for twenty four hours, a sitting target for the Kriegsmarine. Then at last we heard the welcome rumbling from the bowels of the ship.
An LAC whose bed-space was near to Lennie’s and mine then reported that he felt unwell. Chickenpox was diagnosed, and the M.O., looking for all the world like an S.S. man selecting victims for the concentration camp, ordered that several of us, including Lennie, Brian S - , who had been on my course at Sywell, and myself, were to be sent into quarantine when we arrived in Canada. Brian, as it happened, was also a rugby man, having played for Broughton Park.
We duly and thankfully docked in Halifax, Nova Scotia and after, I’m afraid, gorging ourselves on steaks and chocolate, which we had never seen since before September 1939, about twenty of us, including two or three Fleet Air Arm airmen, to our eyes bizarre in their bell-bottomed trousers and flapping collars, were put on the train for Cape Breton Island, in particular for the small R.C.A.F. Station of North Sydney.
Our quarantine turned out to be farcical. After twenty four hours on the camp we were informed, amazingly, that we could please ourselves where we went and whom we met, until further notice. We looked at one another in astonishment – then proceeded to enjoy ourselves while we could. Our duties, such as they were, consisted of one night duty in six when three of us were left in charge of the kitchen and served meals to the RCAF airmen
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who were on guard duty and fire picquet. The civilian cooks, who had never met anyone from the U.K., ensure that we were fed like fighting cocks, providing us with quantities of steaks, eggs and milk. Out of camp, the streets, cafes and cinemas of North Sydney and of Sydney itself were open to us. Lifts in cars belonging to the local people were there for the asking, and the friendly Nova Scotians, learning of our arrival, took us to their hearts and into their homes. They were astonished that despite the deep snow on the ground, we seldom, if ever, wore our great coats. The cold was so dry compared with that in England, and we were physically in such prime condition that we felt no discomfort, whereas our Canadian hosts went about muffled up in greatcoats and fur hats with ear-flaps. Our stay there was as good as an extended leave.
Off the pitch, most rugby players are determined to do their utmost to ensure that breweries never go out of business. Lennie was no exception. When a group of us were out together he drank his beer slowly but steadily, became more and more relaxed and laughed a good deal, sometimes uncontrollably. He never became objectionable or aggressive, never used bad language and was always amenable to our advice that perhaps he had had sufficient and it was time to return to camp. Being a mere tyro, at the age on [sic] nineteen I drank sparingly and with considerable discretion, my mental sights being fixed over the horizon, on the next stage of my flying training and the eventual gaining of my wings. So I took it upon myself, on several occasions, to steer Lennie, muscular but curiously boneless, laughing at only he knew what, safely into our barrack hut and on to his bed, where I covered him, still in uniform, with his blankets, where he would fall peacefully asleep. Lennie, even with several beers inside him, never did the slightest harm to anyone.
Of course, the idyll had to come to an end. After several very pleasant weeks, our posting came through. Brian and I and some others were destined for Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, No. 32 S.F.T.S., while Lennie was posted to Goodrich, Ontario, a Navigational Training School. I remember how we shook hands when we said ‘cheerio’. His smile was as broad as ever, and his hand, I recall vividly, was large and surprisingly soft.
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It must have been on one of my leaves from Moreton-in-the-Marsh towards the end of 1942 when my father, who was on the committee of the local rugby club, gave me the news. Lennie had been shot down and was missing. He believed that it had happened off the Norwegian coast. It was yet another blow to me following the loss of my own crew. I had recently had a reply from the Commanding Officer of my Squadron in response to a letter I had written him, that my crew must now all be presumed dead. I felt that the bottom had dropped out of my life and I was nearing the end of my tether. I was suffering deeply, as was my flying, and I sensed that my forthcoming Medical Board would be the end of a chapter. I went about cocooned in silent grief so intense that it amounted to permanent depression, which was only temporarily assuaged by drinking far more than I ever saw Lennie drink. From what little my father had gleaned from his informant at the clubhouse I surmised that Lennie must have been on some squadron in Coastal Command. For some reason I visualised him on Whitleys.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Years passed. I will not say that I had forgotten Lennie; occasionally some memory of those days would float unbidden into my mind and I would visualise him as I had last known him on Cape Breton Island, always smiling, playfully light-hearted, completely harmless. Then a friend gave me a cutting from a local newspaper with a photograph of the successful rugby team of the immediate pre-war years. Lennie smiled up at me from the middle of the front row of players, next to another young man who had been shot down into the sea off the Dutch coast as a wireless operator in a Blenheim on a daylight shipping strike. I was impelled to ask the friend whether any information could be obtained from the Internet as to what had happened to Lennie, and when it was he had died. Within days I knew enough to be able to consult a series of volumes of casualties of Bomber Command. For Lennie had not been on a Coastal Command Squadron as I had surmised, and he had not been shot down off Norway.
He was the Navigator of one of six Wellingtons from a Bomber Squadron at Mildenhall, (where much later, J – ended her career in the W.A.A.F. as a Base Watchkeeper), detailed to attack shipping, in daylight, on the Dortmund-Ems Canal in North-west Germany on a September afternoon in 1942.
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On reading this, I could hardly believe that Wellingtons were being used on daylight operations at that time; I had thought that the crippling loses [sic] that they suffered on such attacks in the early days of the war had meant their transfer solely to night bombing. (On my telling M – about these circumstances, she said ‘Suicide raid’. That was about the size of it.) Mr. Chorley’s painstakingly collated and amazingly detailed book gives the bare bones of the tragic story. Four and a half hours after taking off, presumably on their way back to Mildenhall, and within sight of the Dutch coast and the comparative safety of the North Sea, his aircraft was attacked by a Luftwaffe Focke-Wulfe 190, a formidable fighter aircraft. The wireless operator was killed in the attack and the aircraft was set on fire. The two gunners managed to bale out and became prisoners of war. The account says that Lennie was last seen using a fire extinguisher, bravely trying to put out the fire which was raging inside the fuselage of the Wellington.
The blazing aircraft crashed into what was then the Zuider Zee; the bodies of the wireless operator and the pilot were recovered and subsequently interred in a cemetery in Amsterdam, but Lennie’s body was never found and, having no known grave, his name is recorded on the Runnymede Memorial along with twenty thousand others whose remains were never recovered.
So died a hero who for a brief time was my friend.
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[inserted] [underlined] It makes you think [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] IT MAKES YOU THINK [/underlined]
“Mail up!”
We jumped off our beds and hurried towards the door at the end of the barrack hut. At least, some of us did. The majority stayed where they were, on their beds, pretending to read, cleaning buttons, pottering about. There could be almost no chance of mail for them, for they were Norwegian, and their homeland was under German occupation. They accepted this lack of mail, as they did much else, with considerable stoicism.
We who were the fortunate ones gathered around the R.C.A.F. airman who called out the names on the envelopes, and who, while looking down at the handful of letters he held, handed us our mail without a glance. There was one for me. I looked at the postmark. Coventry. My heart bounded when I saw that. There was two-thirds of the width of Canada and all the Atlantic Ocean between us; she was back in devastated Coventry, I in smaller and completely peaceful Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, under training as a fighter pilot.
I walked slowly back to my bed, savouring the sight of her handwriting, feeling the texture of the envelope smooth under my fingers. I sat down quietly, as far as one could be quiet in a hut with twenty-nine other blokes. In deference to us, the Norwegian lads did keep quiet as we read our mail. I held the unopened letter a long time in my hand, gazing at her rounded, shapely writing. I wanted this moment of pleasure to last as long as possible.
At the time I was with her, under the same roof, being so caught up in the novelty and the thrill of flying, I didn’t realise what was happening to me, or to her, and it was all too foolishly late that I had become slowly aware of it. After we had parted, when I was at the Embarkation Depot en route for Canada, and when I had time to take stock of myself, it was only then that it dawned slowly upon me that I had fallen in love with her, and that I wouldn’t see her again for the best, or the worst part of six months at least. Oh, Betty, I thought, the time I so stupidly wasted. Would I ever have the chance again?
I sighed, and looked at her photograph on my locker. She was
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smiling at me enigmatically, her mouth curving slightly up at the corners, her dark eyes holding more than a hint of mischief, the gleaming mass of her ebony hair framing the soft pallor of her calm face. Slowly and carefully I opened the envelope. I turned to the last sheet, looked at the end of the letter first, fearful that it might say only “yours sincerely” or some such. It did not. The words were there that I wanted to read. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and luxuriously, and started from the beginning.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Tim spoke up from across the gangway between the beds, his English idiomatic and only very faintly accented.
“I hope she still loves you, but come on, we have flying to do.”
“O.K., Tim, I’ll be right with you.”
I tucked the letter into my top left-hand tunic pocket, carefully buttoning the flap. Soren and Aage, next to Tim, both stood up. What opposites they were, I thought, Soren cheerful, muscular, blond, extrovert, while Aage was gaunt and rather silent, and toothy, with melancholy eyes which flickered nervously around him. We made our way up to the flights; it was going to be another hot day. Already the air was filled with the tearing rasp of the Harvards’ Wasp engines as the fitters ran them up in preparation for a long day’s flying.
We turned into ‘F’ Flight crewroom at the front of one of the hangars and looked at the flying detail pinned up on the board, next to the Coke machine. Aage was due off on a cross-country to Swift Current and back at 0900, while Tim, Soren and I had an hour’s formation flying at 1000. Lower down the list I saw that I was due on the Link Trainer at 1500 for blind-flying simulation, and to round off the day, or rather, the night, one and a half solo night-flying hours at 2100. It was going to be a long day, as well as a hot one. Aage, now bent over a map, pencilling careful lines, was to take over my aircraft, I saw, when I landed after night-flying.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
After the snowy, tree-fringed grass field at Sywell it was a novelty to have these sun-baked runways, even more so when there were two parallel ones with a narrow grass strip in between, the whole field being patterned by this double triangle of concrete strips.
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We took it in turns to lead our formation of three. Station-changing, as we had no R/T, was indicated by hand-signals from the leader. Soren was to lead first with me as his number two and Tim, three. Then I would take over the lead, and finally, Tim. I followed Soren’s bright yellow Harvard out as he taxied on to the perimeter and turned towards the end of the runways in use. He took the right-hand runway of the pair and edged across to the left of it, braked and stopped. I gave him ten yards clearance and took the right-hand edge of the same runway. Tim stopped level with me, alone on the left-hand runway. I saw Soren slide the canopy shut and start rolling, and I followed, pushing the throttle firmly up to the stop. I never got used to the tremendous feeling of exhilaration as the power surged on. I lifted the tail and kept straight with small pushes of my feet on the rudder-bar. As I chased after Soren I could see Tim out of the corner of my eye, keeping abreast of me.
Suddenly Soren was airborne, then I followed, climbing into the summer sky. To maintain station, the rules of tidy and correct flying were suspended. You used no bank on your small turns to get into position, but skidded gently across on rudder only. It felt all wrong, it was like being told deliberately to mis-spell a word one had known and used for years. When I had first practised formation with F/O Sparks in the front cockpit I had been frightened out of my wits to see two other aircraft each within ten yards of me. But one was soon conditioned to accept this, and very quickly one learned the gentle art of close formation flying, when your own wing was actually tucked in to the space between the leader’s wing and his tailplane, so that any forward or backward relative movement meant a collision. But provided you watched him like a hawk, and kept station by means of constant throttle and rudder juggling, you got by. It became great fun, and the early thoughts of comprehensive and devastating collisions were soon forgotten.
So I tucked myself right in on Soren’s starboard side and stayed there while he climbed, turned or glided. We flew four basic formations, vic, echelon starboard, echelon port and line astern. The echelons looked great and the line astern gave you a bit of relaxation, for numbers two and three were slightly lower than the aircraft in front,
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to keep out of the turbulence of his slipstream. Where we were heading was not my worry, nor Tim’s. Soren was in charge of that side of things while he was leading. He gave the signal to change leaders. I skidded away from him and opened the throttle to draw ahead. He skated in to my left and Tim crossed to my right, as number two. Back to cruising revs as they snuggled themselves in tightly against me. I looked down at the baked prairie landscape and saw that Soren had headed us back towards Moose Jaw to make it easy for me. I grinned and mentally thanked him. I started to sing loudly to myself as we flew, running through the repertoire of the popular songs we were always playing on the juke box at Smoky Joe’s cafe, just outside the camp gates, I felt on top of the world – a letter from Betty, a great day for flying and the formation going like a dream. I led them around until my time was up and signalled Tim to take it from there, over Regina Beach on Last Mountain Lake, at four thousand feet.
I slid into number three position in the vic and tucked myself in tightly into Tim’s port side. He led us around in a turn to port, back towards base. We never did steepish turns in vic formation, it was too difficult for the man low down on the inside to keep station as he had to cut his airspeed back so much. Tim tightened the turn and climbed a bit as he did so. Watch it, Tim, I thought. Still tighter; I dared not look at my airspeed. Still tighter, and my controls were starting to feel sloppy, approaching the stall; I dared not throttle back any further or I would stall off the turn and go into a spin, and a Harvard lost nine hundred feet per turn once they did spin. Out of it! I shoved throttle on as I winged over and dived out of the formation, swearing to myself as I did so. The wretch! Playing silly buggers like that!
All on my own in the bright morning sky I screamed round in a steep turn to port, with plenty of power on, nearly blacking myself out in the process. I yanked the seat tighter against the straps to bind my stomach firmly in and keep the blood in my head, stopping the grey-out. I eased out of the turn. Five thousand feet. Now, where the hell were they? Then I saw them, now about six miles away, orbiting innocently. I flew over to them and sat just off
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Tim’s port wingtip, shaking my fist at him, which only made him throw back his head and laugh as he made come-in motions with his hand. I went in, tight. We formed up again into a sedate vic and finished the detail, as usual, in echelon port, about two miles from the field, when we did our line-shoot party piece – a swift wing-over to port in rapid succession and a dive on each other’s tails into the circuit, making sure we were well clear of the more sedate pupils going about their quiet business.
When we had landed, taxied in and switched off, I collared Tim.
“Damn you!” I said, pretending to be about to sling a punch at him, “What the hell do you think you were playing at? Trying to make me spin in, were you?”
“No danger,” he replied, laughing, “you had bags of height – can’t take it, eh?”
Soren chimed in, smiling broadly.
“We thought you’d just decided to go home.”
“Wait till I’m leader, next time, you two mad so-and-so’s,” I said threateningly, “I’ll turn you both inside out!”
All the same, I threw Tim a Sweet Cap; Soren didn’t smoke. We strolled back to ‘F’ Flight crew-room where I’m glad to say that Tim bought the cold Cokes. It was a hot morning.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Link Trainer Sergeant was a stocky little R.C.A.F. man who looked like a middleweight boxer.
“Don’t forget to reset your gyro-compass every ten minutes or so or you’ll be way to hell out at the end. Got your flight card? Do all your turns at Rate two and let’s have a nice neat pattern on my chart at the finish. Give me the O.K. when you’re ready and I’ll tell you when I’m switching on so you can punch the clock.”
“Right oh, Sergeant,” I said.
I climbed into the little dummy aeroplane on its concertina-like base. I pulled over the hood, plugged in the intercom in the darkness and propped up the flight card near the small lamp on the instrument panel. I felt the lurch as he energised the system; the instruments
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came to life with a sigh.
“I’ve put you at a thousand feet,” he said, “do you read that?”
“Check,” I replied, “turning on to 045 Magnetic, now.”
“Got you. Just watch your height as well as your timings, won’t you, bud?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I was flying the awkward Maltese Cross pattern, the idea being to finish exactly where you started, after the completion of the twelve legs. The instructor had a wheeled “crab” which inked in the line of your track on his chart. At the end, you should have drawn a perfect Maltese Cross, but it took forty minutes, approximately, of solid, grinding concentration on your instruments alone.
“Switching on – now!” came his voice, and I hit the stop-watch.
After what seemed like hours I did my final Rate 2 turn on to my original course. I straightened it up, timed a careful one minute, then called out, “Finish – now!”
He acknowledged and switched me off. The needles sagged to their stops. I took off my headphones and opened the hood and side door.
“O.K.,” the Sergeant said, “come right over here and have a look-see. Not bad at all.”
I went over to his glass-topped table. My pattern was about ten inches across and I had finished about an eighth of an inch from where I had started. It looked pretty damn good to me, and for an instant I thought about Tink’s brother in his Hampden.
“Yes,” I said, feeling rather pleased, “just a bit out, Sergeant.”
He grinned.
“You’re doing O.K., buddy,” he said agreeably, “now how’s about seeing if L.A.C. Briggs is outside, eh?”
“O.K., Sergeant,” I said.
He had just made my day.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I lay back on my bed after the evening meal and read the letter once again. The hut was quiet. Those who weren’t night flying had gone to Smoky Joe’s or into town for an evening meal. The few of
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us on the night flying detail were reading, writing letters or dozing on our beds, waiting for the darkness. There was no sign of either Tim or Soren, while Aage was actually sound asleep.
She wrote, “I miss you here, I miss our walks in the park. I wonder if you will be posted somewhere near when you come back, where we can meet? Do you still want to go on to bombers, like you told me? Will it be very dangerous? Whatever happens, I shall pray for you, as I do now, that God will keep you. I have always said what has to be, will be, but I feel he will keep you safe…..” She went on to say she would be spending some time with her Aunt and Uncle in Northampton, as her parents still felt happier with her over there.
I folded the letter slowly and thought about Betty and the simple, almost idyllic happiness of life in those days six months ago. Tink, on the bed next to me, motioned to me and across at Aage, grinning, imitating his open mouth and his posture, his ungainly sprawl. Tink, the single-minded, I thought, hero-worshipping his brother flying his Hampden over Germany, and who could hardly wait to get on to the same Squadron. A faraway look would come into his eyes when he spoke about it; “When I get on Hampdens,” he would always be saying, and his broad, boyish face would be raised to the sky, “When I get on Hampdens with my brother –“
But looking at Aage had made me feel tired, too. I yawned, then lit a cigarette and grinned at him. Tink was from Coalville in Leicestershire; I wonder often what became of him.
An hour later I was taxying my Harvard out in the darkness, the flarepath away to my right looking very long and very far away. Night flying without a navigator and entirely without radio consisted, at Moose Jaw, of circuits and bumps – and of not getting lost. There was no blackout and you could see the town for miles, no bother at all. But if the visibility went, you got down out of it, quick. So far, it never had; the prairie nights were wonderfully clear.
I got my green from the A.C.P. and, nicely central between the flares, opened her up. We charged down the runway and floated off
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easily. I had done quite a few of these night flying stints before, and found I had taken to it naturally, much more so than I did to aerobatics, for example. Undercart up, throttle back to climbing power, keep the gyro on 0, shut the canopy, and up to 1000 feet. Level off, throttle back to cruising, turn port to 270. There’s the flarepath down over my left shoulder. Keep the wings level, watch the artificial horizon. Rate one turn downwind, heading 180, throttle back a bit, then wheels down when we’re opposite the middle of the flarepath. Greens on the panel as the wheels lock. There’s the A.C.P. giving me a green on the Alldis lamp. Crosswind on to 090. Bit of flap. Drop the nose and turn in. Watch the airspeed, open the canopy. Engine noise surges in. Switch on the landing light and hold her there. Nice approach, I think. Now, hold off and let her sink the last four feet. The flares merge into a line. Hold it there. A bump and a rumble. We’re down.
Keep her straight, flaps up, headlamp off. Touch of brake, not too much. Fine, now turn off the runway along the glim-lit perimeter track and back to the take-off position again. There’s someone else up, I can see his nav. lights. Wonder who it is? I rumble along the peri. track to head back for the end of the runway. Must say, I can see Tink’s point, I’d rather like a bash on Hampdens myself. After all, they’re what I wanted when I first thought about joining up, except that my ambitions were no higher than to be a gunner.
“Will it be very dangerous?”
God knows, Betty, but as you say, what has to be will be, and there is no turning back, one must simply live for and through the minute, even the second, and do what has to be done, enduring what has to be endured with fortitude.
Something’s irritating me, and I can’t think what, except there’s something here which shouldn’t be. My God! Yes! The cockpit is full of red light, now it’s flashing off and on, urgently. Stop. Tread on the brakes. She creaks and jerks to an abrupt halt. The red light stops flashing at me and someone taxies past me in the opposite direction. Wow! So that’s what the red was all about?
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Must stop this day-dreaming. Only two more circuits and I can pack it in, hand over to Aage and hit the sack. I’ll be about ready for it, too.
There’s my green. Hope he doesn’t report me for taxying through a red. It was only a dozen yards – I think. Oh, well, can’t do a thing about it now. No harm done, so here goes, back to my take-off point. Turn on to the runway, uncage the gyro on 0, open her up. We’re off again.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Turn on to 180, see the stars sliding around. Between the field and the town, now. Nice and easy, purring along, last landing coming up, then into the pit.
“I miss you here, I miss our walks in the park.”
I wish I were meeting you after this, Betty, ‘you’d be so nice to come home to’ – I wonder if you still play that record? ‘To come home to and love.’
Coming home – the lights of home – lights – lights – lights! What the hell’s going on? All those lights, ahead, and coming straight for me? Hell! Get the stick back, you’re in a dive, heading straight for the town! You’ve been asleep, you bloody fool. Come on, come on, ease out. The lights slide below me. Thank God for that. I risk a look at the altimeter – 500 feet. God. Another few seconds, and that would have been it, smack into the town centre, curtains. I reach up and slam the canopy open, letting the cold night air flood in, taking deep breaths to wake myself up. I climb cautiously back to circuit height, select wheels down and duly get my green from the A.C.P., as though nothing at all had happened. I turn across wind, edging towards the flarepath. Shove the nose down, turn port, full flap, headlamp on, heading straight in. I land, thankfully, and exhale with relief. Aage is ready and waiting to take over the kite as I dump my ‘chute, blinking in the bright light of the crewroom, and fill in the Authorisation Book.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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The murmur of voices nearby awoke me. I pulled the bedclothes around my ears, but it was no good. I was awake, back to life again. I sat up, yawned, looked at my watch – 0820. Still in time for breakfast, if I hurried. Brian, Tim, Tink and Soren were in a huddle across the other side of the hut, talking in hushed voices, looking solemn. Two strange erks were standing near Aage’s bed. I was puzzled.
“Hey, Tink!” I called, sitting on the edge of my bed and yawning again, “Tink!”
He looked over his shoulder and came across to me. I nodded towards the strangers.
“What’s cooking?” I asked.
“It’s Aage.”
“Aage? What about him?”
“He’s dead. He crashed, night flying, last night.”
“He what?” I gasped, fully awake in an instant, “He crashed? How the hell did it happen?”
Tink shrugged.
“No-one knows, he just went in, about four miles away, that’s all we know.”
“Christ,” I whispered, “poor old Aage. He’s definitely - ?”
“Oh, yes,” Tink said, “no doubt about it, I’m afraid.”
I said, quietly, “He took over my kite, last night, you know.”
Tink said, “Was it O.K. when you had it?”
“Of course, no trouble at all.”
I didn’t want to mention my falling asleep, not even to Tink. He sighed.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered, remembering the lights rushing towards me, “it certainly makes you think.”
(‘What has to be, will be.’)
“Mail up!” someone shouted, and there was a clatter of feet hurrying down the hut. There would be no mail for Aage. Another day had begun.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] “Yes, my darling daughter” [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] “YES, MY DARLING DAUGHTER” [/underlined]
“What was it you did yesterday?” Flying Officer Sparks asked, “advanced formation, am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering what was in store for me that morning. He pinched his lower lip between thumb and finger and frowned with silent concentration, his black moustache looking more luxuriant than ever.
“Well now, I think you’d better do some steep turns, climbing turns and a forced landing. An hour, solo. Take 2614. Don’t do all your turns to port, you don’t want to give yourself a left-handed bias, and watch you don’t black yourself out in your steep turns. Now. Forced landings. Don’t touch down anywhere, you only do that with an instructor. Don’t go below a hundred feet, and thirdly, don’t cheat and have a field picked ready, close your throttle at random when you’re doing something else. If you do ever have an engine failure you won’t be able to pick and choose the time or the place. All right? Any questions?”
“I take it I keep my undercarriage up, sir?”
“Yes, better a belly landing and a bent prop than a somersault if you try a wheels down landing on an unknown surface. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Right, off you go, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I came to attention, about-turned smartly and went out of the Instructors’ Office into the pupils’ crewroom of ‘F’ Flight, No. 32 Service Flying Training School, Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, on the Canadian prairies.
I felt buoyant that morning; I was feeling very fit and happy and I knew I was flying well. It was a beautiful early summer day with a few puffs of fair-weather cumulus at about five thousand feet, with a light breeze to temper the already growing heat. The constant drone of Harvards filled the air, punctuated by the fierce, ear-splitting howl and crackle of the high-speed propeller tips as one fled down the runway like a scalded cat, tail up, and took off, flashing yellow in the sunlight and tucking its wheels neatly up as it left
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the runway.
Tim and Soren, two of the twenty or so Norwegians on our course – in fact, the R.A.F. were in the minority on Course 32 – were sitting in the crewroom. They completed my formation of three when we flew, and we were great buddies. Tim looked up and grinned.
“No formation for us this morning, eh?”
“No, not this morning, Tim. I hear that you’re grounded, anyhow, for trying to make me spin in off a turn!”
I was joking, of course, and Tim knew it; on’s [sic] loyalty to one’s formation was absolute. Tim laughed hugely, his lean, brown face, normally rather grave, was transformed.
“Anyhow,” I said, “he’s not fit to fly with a face like that,” and I pointed to Soren, who was feeding a nickel into the juke box. There was a thud, and out came the seductive voice of Dinah Shore.
“Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Mother, may I try romancing?
Yes, my darling daughter – “
It was practically our course signature tune at Moose Jaw, everybody sang, whistled or hummed it and selected it on whatever juke box was handiest, whether here in the crewroom or out at Smoky Joe’s, the cafe at the camp gates, on the dust road which led to town. Soren looked up. He had a bottle of coke in one hand, a split lip and a discoloured right eye. He grinned at me.
“Ah, but it was just a friendly little fight with a couple of Canadians, nothing serious at all.”
Soren’s favourite occupation on his evenings out was to have several drinks then find someone to fight. Strangely enough, he never fought with any R.A.F. bloke.
“See you later, then,” I said to them. Tim gave a vague wave, Sorne’s eyes were already shut as he lay full length on a convenient bench, arms crossed on his chest, his mop of incredibly blond hair gleaming in the sun which poured in through the window.
“What if there’s a moon, mother darling, and it’s shining on the water?” I sang to myself as I crossed the expanse of concrete
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in front of the hangars, under the blazing sun, my parachute bumping against the backs of my knees, the morning breeze finding its way pleasantly inside my unbuckled helmet. It was so hot that we were able to fly in shirtsleeves. Up at eight or ten thousand feet it was delightfully cool, but at ground level the temperature could climb to the 120’s in the sun by afternoon.
I found 2614 among the half dozen kites parked in line facing the hangar. Someone had thoughtfully left the canopy open to minimise the heat in the cockpit. I checked that the pitot-head cover was off, I didn’t want to get airborne and find that the airspeed indicator was out of action. Then I climbed in off the port wing-root, clicking the leg-straps of my ‘chute into the quick-release box as I did so. An erk was standing by with the starter trolley. I did up my safety harness while I was busy with the pre-start cockpit check. I operated the priming pump and shouted “Contact!”, switching on the ignition, and with the stick held firmly back into my stomach I pressed the starter switch. The propeller staggered, jumped, staggered again, then caught as the engine roared into life. the prop-tips became a yellow semi-circular blur in front of my eyes. The erk wheeled away the trolley, parking it to one side where I could see it.
I tested the controls for the full movement and ran up the engine, buckled my helmet securely and pulled the seat up hard against the straps, waving away the chocks. The erk gave me the thumbs-up. I toed the brakes off, opened the throttle a little, and we rolled. I taxied with exaggerated care, knowing that F/O Sparks was probably watching me. I had been told off by him once or twice for taxying carelessly. So I ruddered the nose meticulously, each way in turn, at 45 degrees to my direction of travel, which enabled me to see ahead, to the sides of the big 450 horse-power radial engine. A taxying accident was a very serious matter indeed, and a Court Martial was the automatic sequel.
I arrived at the end of the twin runways in use and squinted up into the flare; no-one was on his approach. A final check on the windsock and on the cockpit settings, then I turned on to the runway, pushing on a little rudder to ensure I was absolutely in
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line and central. I set the gyro to ‘0’ and uncaged it, then glanced up to make doubly certain that the canopy was fully back, just in case anything went wrong on take-off and I had to get out in a hurry. Then a final deep breath and we were off. I eased open the throttle to its fullest extent. We rolled, rumbling over the runway, keeping straight with small pushes on the rudder. The engine note rose to a deafening howl and the pressure on the stick increased as we gathered speed and as I eased the stick central. We were in a flying attitude, tail up and charging down the runway which was vanishing with amazing rapidity under the nose of the aircraft. At 65, a slight backward pressure on the stick – not quite ready. At 70, a bump or two, then the incredibly smoothness of being airborne.
I whipped up the wheels, holding the nose just above the horizon to pick up speed, then I throttled back to climbing boost and revs, and reaching up, slid the canopy shut. It was a bit quieter then, and I could relax a little. I adjusted the climbing angle to give me 100 m.p.h., saw with satisfaction that the gyro was still on ‘0’, and did a quick check on all the instrument readings, going swiftly round the cockpit in a clockwise direction. The altimeter slowly wound around its way towards the cotton-wool cumulus.
“Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter,” I sang loudly to myself.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“How right he was,” I thought as I brought her smoothly out of a steep turn, “you can black yourself out in one of these.”
I had tightened the turn gradually, to the left, which I could do without conscious effort, toeing on top rudder to keep the nose pushing around the horizon, the stick fairly tightly into my stomach to tighten the turn in on itself. As the rate-of-turn indicator hovered around the 3 1/2 mark I could feel myself being crushed down into the seat, my cheeks were being pulled downwards, and the instruments had become rather fuzzy as the ‘g’ took hold of the blood in my brain, sucking it down out of my head. Then, as I came out of the turn and the ‘g’ decreased, I stretched myself against the straps as the pressure slackened, and bared my teeth in a mirthless grin
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to restore my features to their correct shape.
“Forced landing next,” I said to myself as I slowly but firmly closed the throttle, stopping it just before the place where the undercarriage warning horn would sound. I was at about six thousand feet, to the west of Moose Jaw. Several miles away, to the north-east, I could see another Harvard stooging along, probably on a cross-country, and away to the north a civil DC3 was flying the beam from Regina to Swift Current. I gently pushed the nose down into the quietness, selected flaps down and hand-pumped on 15 degrees. In a real engine failure you would have to do it this way, the hard way. I slid the canopy open and was all set to pick what would laughingly be called my ‘field’; in this part of the world what passed for a field was rather rare.
The prairie lay below in its muted colours, the occasional yellow dust road straight as a string, the sun flashing briefly on some watercourse. About thirty miles to starboard there seemed to be some line-squalls building up already above the low hills which marked the border of Canada with the neutral U.S.A. I put the kite into a shallow glide. Then I saw my field, a green, squarish paddock with two white buildings in one corner, a dirt road leading up to them. I settled the airspeed on 80 and turned towards the paddock, losing height slowly but steadily in a succession of well-banked turns like the descending hairpins of a mountain road. The green postage stamp of the paddock grew larger. From the smoke of a small fire somewhere on the prairie I saw I would be roughly into wind on my final approach. The white buildings grew into the size of matchboxes.
“What a God-forsaken place,” I thought, “imagine being stuck out here, miles from anywhere, no town, no trees, lots of damn-all connected by roads.”
Then I notice a movement near the house. One figure was standing just outside it, then it was joined by another. Still I glided down, mentally noting airspeed and altimeter readings with quick glances, checking and assessing my position in relation to the paddock. I used to sideslip Tigers with contemptuous ease to get them into the
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field at Sywell, it became my trademark before I left there, but I’d never tried to sideslip a Harvard. Come to think, perhaps this wasn’t the time to start. The horizon had lifted quite a lot. I was going to make it all right, I thought. The prop windmilled ahead of me and I had the urge to open the throttle to make sure that the engine was still functioning; it seemed an age since I had cut the power off. I dropped the nose and did a final turn to port. Airspeed back to 80, pump down full flap, line up, into wind, on to the paddock.
It was a man and a girl standing there watching me, the sun gleaming on their upturned faces. The man was pointing upwards, towards me, he had put his arm protectively around the girl’s shoulders. His daughter, I thought. I imagined them speaking to one another in their slightly harsh Canadian voices, anxious as to what was going to happen next to the aircraft, to me – and to them and their home. I saw the girl give a small wave of the hand, nervously, encouragingly, almost as though she were trying to placate some force, to stave off a possible disaster, and I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that they would be thinking that I was in trouble. Two ordinary people, the tenor of their lonely lives disturbed as never before, by my so casual and uncaring intrusion.
Altitude 150 feet. Airspeed 80. It was, if I said it myself, a honey of an approach, I could have put her down with no trouble at all. They were both waving now and I could distinguish their features. I had them firmly fixed in my mind as father and daughter. Perhaps he was a widower, living out his hard life on the land which his ancestors had farmed since the Indians had left, perhaps his pretty daughter had sacrificed her youth, her prospects and hopes of marriage, to look after her father and help on their farm, burying herself in their lonely world. They were remote there from everything of violence, receiving news of the war over the radio from professionally cheerful and brash newsreaders, couched in terms that they could merely imperfectly comprehend: Europe was far away, dominated by some tyrant of whom they knew little, opposed only by distant and defiant English cousins whom they had never seen, and whose ways were as strange and unknown to them as those of the biblical characters of whom perhaps they read daily at the end of their quiet evenings together.
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I saw him clasp her to himself protectively, and I saw also that I was now below 100 feet. Firmly, I opened the throttle fully. The engine surged with power, its roar doubly deafening after the long glide down. I eased the nose up and gently started to milk off the flap. The house slid beneath my port wing. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the two figures. He was greying, slightly stooped, in brown bib-and-brace overalls, she a slim girl in a vivid blue frock, her dark hair like a halo round her face. I suddenly thought of Betty. They stood, their arms around each other, as I flew over them.
Then I had the strange and unaccountably peaceful feeling that in those few minutes I had known them all my life. It was as though time itself had become distorted, elongated, to envelop the three of us in some temporal vacuum in a cul-de-sac off the normal path of consciousness, where the clock of the world stood still and where we had, in some mysterious way, experienced a fragment chipped off the endless expanse of eternity, wherein the three of us had been united as one.
The horizon sank away below the Harvard’s nose. I was back again in my element after those eerie few seconds. I looked down at them for the last time. She was standing with both hands pressed to her face. Then her father slowly raised his right hand, as though in benediction. I climbed away into the summer sunshine. And I sang, to no-one but myself, but thinking of the girl down there –
“Mother, must I keep on dancing?
“Yes, my darling daughter!”
I turned the Harvard’s nose for home.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Crewing-up [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] CREWING-UP [/underlined]
Although there are many things which happened at that time when we looked directly into “the bright face of danger”, there are some, and regrettably, some of the most important, the recollection of which steadfastly eludes me. This of course pains me greatly, as the men I was about to meet were destined in those six all too short months to leave an indelible and now poignant impression upon my memory.
My recurring faint recollection is somehow associated with being in a group of other pilots, pupils at 11 O.T.U., Bassingbourne, not far from Cambridge, quite near to the place of execution of Dick Turpin at Caxton Gibbet, and later to become an American Flying Fortress base. We were gathered at the end of one of the hangars in the morning sunshine, practising what little skills we had acquired on the use of the sextant, taking sun-sights and from them plotting the latitude of our position, which was, of course, easily checked by our, at that stage in our training, benign instructors. Perhaps their thoughts were couched in similar terms to those which Connie was to use in conversation with me a year or more later, and in totally different circumstances and surroundings – “They don’t know what’s coming to them, poor sods, do they, Yoicks?”
None of us knew what was coming, for better or for worse, to us, and I was certainly not to know that within the hour I was to meet, and for the next six months – (was it really as little as that?) – become associated with and know intimately five of the finest men, in my opinion, who ever walked the earth. Men who became closer to me, closer to each other, than brothers, than my and their own flesh and blood, men who were mutually supportive in the intangible but unyielding bond which perhaps only aircrew or ex-aircrew can comprehend, men, four of whom had already entered the last six months of their short lives.
We put away our sextants, thankfully, in most cases. There were about twenty of us pilots on the course, both from the United
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Kingdom and the Dominions. My own particular friends were Charlie from Newcastle, Hi-lo, a rugged, rangy Canadian and the man who was to become his Observer, a cheerful Australian named Laurie, and also Roddy, another Canadian, smiling and lively, whom I often addressed, attempting, not unkindly, to imitate his accent, as Raddy. He, Hi-lo and Laurie were soon to be posted with me to 12 Squadron. All three were also soon to die.
We had completed our introduction to the Wellington under the tutelage of ‘screened’ ex-operational pilots, on somewhat battle-weary ex-Squadron aircraft. The inevitable ‘circuits and bumps’ – a few of the bumps quite heavy – had been the order of the day, and of the night, a fortnight of them. I astonished myself by going solo on what were in my eyes monstrously large twin-engined aircraft, having gained my wings on single engined Harvards, in less than three hours. Perhaps it was due not so much to skill and ability as to confidence, or perhaps over-confidence. Looking back on it now it never ceases to astound me and I have to consult my log book to verify the figure of a mere two hours and forty five minutes instruction.
One interesting feature of this fortnight was that before we flew at night we practised what were known as ‘day-night’ landings. Flying in broad daylight with an instructor as safety pilot, we wore specially tinted goggles which gave the impression of surrounding darkness, while the runway was marked by sodium lights which showed up brightly and gave us the line of approach and landing. It was a novel and rather weird experience, but a very useful one, preparing us for the real thing, flying at night in much-reduced visibility, our eyes fixed almost exclusively on the blind-flying panel of A.S.I., altimeter, turn and bank indicator, gyro compass, artificial horizon, and rate of climb and dive indicator.
And so, to one degree or another proficient enough pilots of the Wellington, we were ready to be crewed up.
‘George’, as automatic pilots were universally known, were rare pieces of equipment in late 1941, so every Wellington was crewed by
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two pilots who shared the manual flying (of anything up to 7 1/2 hours on some operations) and one of whom was designated as captain of the aircraft, almost invariably addressed as ‘skipper’ or more usually ‘skip’. Once in the air, however, the pilot was virtually under the orders of his Observer, a misnomer if ever there was one, as he was in no position, huddled in his tiny compartment with his plotting chart and maps, his parallel ruler and sharpened pencils, constantly reading his super-accurate navigation watch, his ‘slave’ altimeter and airspeed indicator, to observe anything outside the aircraft. No pilot, however privately doubtful he might be of the Observer’s statement of the aircraft’s position relative to the earth, or of his instructions to alter course on to a given heading at a certain time, ever had the temerity to question him as to these matters except in the mildest and most oblique of terms. To do otherwise was to risk a most sarcastic reply, usually culminating in the curt riposte, “You just do the flying and let me do the navigating.” Later, on the Squadron I was to learn that Observers as a clan – and a Freemasonlike clan they were, dabbling in the impenetrable mysteries of running fixes, square searches, back-bearings, drifts and suchlike – were sometimes irreverently known as the Two-Seventy Boys, after their alleged persistent habit of, having bombed some German target and being urgently asked by the pilot for a course “to get the Hell out of here”, would airily answer, “Just steer two-seventy,” that being West. The Observer was also the crew member who released the bombs, his bomb selector panel down in the starboard side of the aircraft’s nose being somewhat inappropriately known as the Mickey Mouse, for a reason I never discovered, directing the pilot from his prone position between the front turret and the pilot’s feet on the rudder pedals with what was usually a breathless series of instructions, “Left, left”, “Right” or “Steady”, the word “left” always being repeated so as not to be confused with “right” against the various external and internal noises of a bomber aircraft. Current at the time was a somewhat school-boyish joke that one Observer had so far forgotten himself in the excitement of the bombing run to call urgently to the pilot, “Back a bit!”
The remaining three crew members each wore the air gunner’s ‘AG’ half-wing on his chest. But one, in addition, had the cluster of
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lightning flashes of a wireless operator on his sleeve and was invariably referred to, not by the official designation of wireless operator/air gunner but with the racy and succinct abbreviation ‘WopAG’. His was the task of obtaining as many bearings on radio stations, both R.A.F. and, if he was able, B.B.C. and German civilian stations such as Hamburg or Deutschlandsender and pass the information to the Observer in the next compartment. He must also, at designated times, listen out to messages from his base aerodrome and also his Group Headquarters. In addition, in emergency, he could attempt to obtain a course to steer to any given bomber station by requesting from them a QDM, the code for that information. But this was regarded as being rather infra dig.
The two ‘straight AGs’, as the other gunners were known, occupied their respective gun turrets with a few inches to spare, one at the front and one at the rear of the aircraft, the coldest positions, despite their electrically heated leather Irvin suits. In the ‘tail-end Charlie’s’ case it was the loneliest position in the aircraft and the most hazardous if attacked by a Luftwaffe night-fighter, but the safest if a sudden crash-landing became necessary, or if the order to bale out was given in some dire emergency, when he simply rotated his turret through ninety degrees, clipped on his parachute, jettisoned the turret doors and fell out backwards. Each turret was equipped with two .303 inch Browning guns, lovingly maintained and cared for by their users, pitifully inadequate when compared to the cannon of the German night-fighters.
To be in the firing line of these Luftwaffe cannon was not at all pleasant. Although never, fortunately, experiencing it in the air, Charlie, my room-mate, and I, billeted in Kneesworth Hall close to the aerodrome, on the old Roman road of Ermine Street, were quietly writing letters one evening in our first-floor room when we heard, and ignored, the noise of the air-raid siren from the village. Bassingbourn was one of the nearest training aerodromes, and certainly the nearest bomber O.T.U., to the east coast, although a fair distance from it. But this fact must have been well known to the enemy, who paid us periodic visits. One aircraft, in fact – I believe it was a Junkers 88 – either by design or mischance actually landed at
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Steeple Morden, our satellite aerodrome and became the property of H.M. Government and the Air Ministry, subsequently appearing as part of the circus of captured German aircraft in flying condition which we once saw flying out of Duxford, a nearby fighter station, where they were based, and heavily escorted by a squadron of Spitfires indulging in some plain and fancy flying around them to discourage curious onlookers such as we, who might have gone so far as to try to shoot them down, if in sufficiently rash a mood. However, to return to Kneesworth Hall and the air raid warning. Charlie and I carried on with our respective writing until we were suddenly aware of a strange aircraft engine noise becoming rapidly louder, accompanied by the loud and staccato banging of cannon-fire as the German intruder shot-up the road, the village and approaches to the aerodrome. Our letters were swiftly thrown aside as we, with violent expletives, flung ourselves under our respective beds. My future rear gunner also had a tale to tell concerning an attack by an intruder.
The taking of sun-sights over, we were instructed to gather in one of the hangars to be crewed up. There was, as I recall, no formal procedure attached to this important and far-reaching event. One of two instructors acted somewhat like shepherds directing straggling sheep to make up a group of six which was to be a crew. There must have been a hundred or more aircrew of all categories milling around rather haphazardly until, perhaps, a beckoning hand, a lifted eyebrow or a resigned grin bonded one man to another or to a group as yet incomplete. The whole procedure, if indeed it could be graced by that term, seemed to be quite without organisation, the complete antithesis of all previous group activities I had experienced since putting on my uniform eleven months before. Here, there was no falling-in in threes, or lining up alphabetically. (And how I used to long for anyone named Young who would replace me, the invariable and forlorn last man in any line for whatever was to be received or done.)
“You lookin’ f’r ‘n Observer?”
He was tallish, rather sallow and thin-faced, in Australian dark blue uniform with its black buttons, Sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, the winged ‘0’ above his breast pocket.
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“Sure. Glad to have you,” I said.
This was Colin, more often than not simply ‘Col’. He was to guide us unfailingly through the skies, friendly skies by day and night, then through the hostile moonlit spaces over Germany and Occupied Europe. Col, from Randwick, near Sydney, with his baritone voice which quite often suddenly creaked, almost breaking as he spoke, with his wry sense of humour, his sudden, almost apologetic half-stifled laughter, his strange, colourful vocabulary – “Take five!” His term, sometimes sarcastically uttered, of approval. And when he suspected that I or some other member of the crew was trying to kid him – “Aw, don’t come the raw prawn!” A single man, his father working for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.
Later, one night on ops with the Squadron to Kiel where the Gneisenau was skulking after its dash up the Channel from Brest with the Scharnhorst and Prinz Eugen, Col performed a wonderfully accurate piece of navigation. It was on an occasion, of which there were several, when the Met. forecast was completely inaccurate, which we feared when we entered cloud at 600 feet after take-off. We climbed slowly until we could climb no more in the thin air and reached 20,500 feet, still in cloud, a faint blur of moonlight showing above us. We bombed the centre of the flak concentration in the target area, completely blind, but saw several large explosions which we duly reported on our interrogation back at base. Losing height slowly on the way back and with an unwelcome passenger in the shape of the 1000 pound bomb which had hung-up, I broke cloud at something around 1000 feet on return, a mere four miles south of our intended position, to see the welcome finger of Spurn Head down to starboard and the four red obstruction lights of a radar station near Cleethorpes gleaming ahead. Over seven hours in cloud and an error of only four miles, thanks to Col’s abilities. It was on this raid, by Wellingtons, 68 in total, of our No. 1 Group, that the Gneisenau was so badly damaged that she never sailed again from her berth. Many of her crew were killed. Perhaps it was our bombs that had done the damage, who knows.
I once found Col, on an op, being quietly sick into a tin at the side of his plotting-table, his face ashen, but carrying on despite that.
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Such was his dauntless spirit. He had my unspoken sympathy as a fellow-sufferer.
A pale, poker-faced and very quiet Royal Canadian Air Force sergeant pilot attached himself to us. Elmer, as the rest of the crew came to christen him, was silent to a degree, but despite that somehow exuded a quiet if somewhat forlorn determination. When we reached the Squadron in October he joined Mike Duder’s crew. Five of the six of them were killed when, damaged by flak over Essen on Mike’s 29th trip, his last but one of his tour had he completed it, they were finished off by a night-fighter and crashed in Holland. It was not until many years later that I learned a little more about Elmer. Although in the R.C.A.F., he was not, in fact, a Canadian, but a citizen of the United States of American, from St. Paul, Minnesota. Before Pearl Harbor [sic] he had an urge to fly against the Germans, possibly because of his Central European forbears. He volunteered for the U.S. Air Force as a pilot and underwent his initial training. Unfortunately, like many others, he had trouble with his landings and was failed. He returned home undeterred, with his desire to become a pilot undimmed. To raise money for the course of action upon which he had decided, he took a job in a sweet factory and augmented his wages by working as a petrol pump attendant. He then travelled to Canada and enlisted in the R.C.A.F. This time he successfully completed his training and got his long-desired wings. All this I learned years later when I was able to trace his sister-in-law and with a residual sense of guilt over my at times impatient, if not downright snappy instructions to him in the air, I have attempted to salve my conscience by having several times visited his grave, and those of his crew, in a war cemetery in a small, neat town in the Netherlands.
The ‘father’ of our crew was Mick, our Wop/AG, the only married man amongst us. In peacetime – or ‘civvy street’ as it was invariably known – he had worked at Lucas’ in Birmingham and was knowledgeable on most things electrical and mechanical, owning a small Ford car as well as a motor cycle. The former was later well used on stand-down nights on the Squadron for trips into G.Y. (as Grimsby was known) and I once had the doubtful pleasure of a hair-raising pillion ride
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over snow-covered skating rink minor roads, on his motor cycle, also into Grimsby, which was almost as nerve-wracking to me as a trip to Essen. Mick (this was not his given name) was tallish, fairly well-built, with a high forehead, a studious manner, a slight ‘Brummy’ accent and an unconsciously querulous voice. It was he, I think, who christened me ‘Harry’, by which name I became known by the rest of the crew, and the use of which, after their loss, I have strongly discouraged. Mick had done part of his training somewhere in Lincolnshire and had frequented, and knew the landlady, Edna, of the Market Hotel on Yarborough Road in G.Y., which became a home from home for us on stand-down nights. He had a habit concerning which Col and I wryly complained on several occasions, of, on being asked over the intercom. for some information, would testily reply, “Hey, shut up, I’m listening out to Group.” We met his wife once, in the ‘Market’, Mick proudly introducing her to us all, a shy, rather self-effacing girl, soon to become a widow.
Our gunners were a wonderfully contrasted pair. Johnnie, from a small Suffolk town – and again, not his given name – in the front turret, was slim, neat in appearance, quiet of speech and demeanour, moderate in his choice of words and apparently completely without fear. No matter what the circumstances, his voice over the intercom. was as calm and measured as though he were indulging in casual conversation over a glass of beer. On the way to Essen one night we were suddenly coned in a dozen or more searchlights and the German flak gunners got to work on us. Cookie was hurling the aircraft all over the sky in his attempts to get us out of the mess, and I was being hurled all over the interior of the aircraft, which was lit up as bright as day. In a steep dive, attempting to escape from the combined attack of searchlights and flak bursts, Johnnie, without being told, opened fire with several short bursts from his twin Brownings on the searchlight batteries, and immediately we were freed from them as they snapped out as though all controlled by a single switch. Johnnie bought himself no beer the next time we went to the ‘Market’.
In contrast to Johnnie’s urbanity there was Tommy, our cockney rear gunner. I am still looking for Tommy, still seeking to discover what became of him after he was admitted to hospital after a few ops with us, whether even today, somewhere, he is alive. J – would have
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described him, had she, like me, had the good fortune to know him, as being like Tigger, a very bouncy animal. Although not tall, he was built like a boxer or a rugby prop forward, solid, chunky – even more so when kitted up in his Irvin suit – with a gleaming broad red face, scarred in one place, topped by rather long and slightly untidy Brylcreemed hair, his face almost always split in a broad grin. He was cheerful, cocky, good-humoured, never short of a quip, lively and effervescent, and he was a tonic to us all when things were going against us.
He laughingly described to us one incident in which he was involved while in his training Flight in the weeks before coming into the crew. He had been on a night cross-country involving an air-to-sea firing exercise, aiming, presumably, at a flame float which they dropped in the English Channel. Several other gunners were taken along on the trip and after Tommy had fired his allotted number of rounds he retired to the rest bed half way down the Wellington’s fuselage, unplugged his intercom., closed his eyes and fell asleep, the padded earpieces of his helmet dulling the noise of the engines and of the rattle of the Brownings fired by his fellow-pupils. He awoke with a start, someone shaking him violently and yelling in his ear, “Bale out! Bale out!” The aircraft was being jinked around the sky in evasive action from the attack of a German fighter. By the time Tommy had collected his wits, found and clipped on his parachute and jumped through the open escape hatch, the aircraft was down to approximately 600 feet, the lowest safe altitude to allow a parachute to open. No sooner had it done so than he was down to earth, to the softest of all possible landings – in a haystack.
He had no idea where he was, nor what had happened to the aircraft or to the others in it, and certainly no idea of the planned route of the cross-country flight.
“I hadn’t a bloody clue where the hell I was,” he told us, “could’ve been in France, Germany England, any bloody where.”
So he collected his deployed parachute into his arms and in the darkness plodded away from the scene of his sudden and fortuitous landing upon the earth. The unfamiliar countryside was silent and
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dark. He came upon a ditch under a hedge and rightly decided to spend the night there. In the morning he would take stock of his position. In the ditch, he rolled himself into his parachute, comfortably warm inside his leather Irvin suit and once more slept.
In the morning, at daylight, he cautiously emerged to size up the situation. On the other side of the hedge was a narrow road. Keeping well hidden, he awaited developments. Presently, the distant sound of voices alerted him and two men dressed in farm-workers’ clothes came walking along the lane. Tommy strained his ears to catch their conversation, to determine what language they were speaking. To his relief he heard familiar English words. Tommy emerged and, perhaps too quickly, confronted them. But startled as they were by his sudden appearance and flying clothing, they were soon convinced of his nationality when he employed his colourful vocabulary to some effect. They directed him to the nearest house where he received some much-needed refreshment and telephoned his flight Commander at Bassingbourn.
On our evenings out at the ‘Market’ in G.Y. he always made a point of collecting small empty ginger ale bottles after one or other of us – often it was I – had added the contents to our gin. These he would take along on our next op., storing them handily in his already cramped rear turret ready for use. We had heard it said that if caught in searchlights, a couple of empty bottles thrown out would, during their descent, scream like falling bombs and cause the searchlight crew to douse their light, and one night on the approach to the Happy Valley, as the Ruhr, with the somewhat black humour of bomber crews, was known, when we were trapped in searchlights he proved, by throwing out a few bottles, that this was no old wives’ tale. It worked like a charm and we slipped through the defences and on to Essen.
(Soon afterwards, on leave, I was relating this to an elderly and very unworldly female relation, who, to my amazement and vast amusement was alarmed and scandalised, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “Oh! But you might have killed somebody!” she exclaimed.)
I have made several attempts to find out whether Tommy survived the war. In correspondence with a contemporary Squadron member, he
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wrote to say that he had a copy of a Squadron Battle Order in which Tommy’s name appeared in relation to an operation, as rear gunner in some crew whose names were unfamiliar to me, but that Tommy’s name had been crossed out in pencil and another substituted. Whatever the significance of that, neither he nor I could tell after the lapse of time. A message on the Internet, placed by my Dutch friends, has produced no result.
Are you out there somewhere, Tommy? If so, you and I are the only two survivors of the six who came together on that sunny August day in the echoing hangar at Bassingbourn those years ago. I miss you all, more than words can express; I think of you every day that passes, and I never cease to grieve for you, nor ever shall.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[underlined] Enemy coast [/underlined]
Through cockpit window now,
The lemon-slice of moon,
Some random stars
Pricked in a hemisphere of indigo.
Ahead, the coastline waits –
Pale, wavering beams
As innocent as death
Rehearse the adagio ballet
Which will transfix us
On pinnacles of light
For ravening guns.
But for a space
In this brief, breathless safety,
Poised high above the metal
Of the neutral sea,
We hang in vacuum,
Scattered like moths,
Mute castaways in sky.
Until, inevitable, we penetrate
The charnel-house of dreams,
That swift unveiling of Apocalypse
Familiar to us
As the routine holocaust
Which other men call night.
H.Y.
June 1991
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[inserted] [underlined] Images of mortality [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] IMAGES OF MORTALITY [/underlined]
Someone, once, to whom I had been talking – perhaps, it must be admitted, at rather too great length – of my time at Binbrook, cut across my words impatiently with, “Ah, yes, but you were at an impressionable age then.”
Not being by nature argumentative I let the comment pass, and the subject was rapidly changed. But the memory of that remark has remained with me. Broadly, I would not dispute its accuracy, for surely, at whatever age one is, one should be, and should remain, impressionable. But here, the implication seemed to be that the events I had been speaking of were not of such importance to have remained so strongly in my memory as they had done. I was then, and still find myself now, a little annoyed by that viewpoint. The happenings of that period of time were of considerable importance to us participants, and the young men, or youths, as some of us were who were involved, were all, in their own individual ways remarkable to one extent or another, by any standards of unbiased judgement. But perhaps my bias is showing.
Be that as it may, when I think of Binbrook now, there comes into my mind a cascade of kaleidoscopic impressions of scenes, small scenes maybe, and of faces and voices, images of places and of people fixed into my memory like the black and white snapshots secured in an album of photographs.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
It was a shock to me when I saw it for the first time, walking up the road from the Mess towards the hangars. Being a peacetime Station – only just – Binbrook was equipped with the standard pattern of permanent buildings, including a row of what had been married quarters – a few semi-detached, two-storied houses. For some seconds I couldn’t think what had happened over there when I saw that most of the top storey of one of the houses had been shattered and was broken off. I halted in my stride, quite appalled at the unexpected and shocking sight. My first thought, an almost instinctive reaction in those days, was “enemy action”, then it slowly dawned on me that
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this was not so, that the building had, horrifyingly, been struck by one of our own aircraft, either on taking off or on landing, using the short runway. Who it had been, and what casualties had resulted, I never knew. I was too shaken to ask and no-one, certainly, ever volunteered the information. It was not a topic of conversation one indulged in or dwelled upon. But similar incidents were to involve my room-mate, Johnny Stickings, and I was to escape the same fate by only a few scant feet, and by the grace of God.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Johnny had been somewhat longer on the Squadron than I, an Observer in Sergeant O’Connell’s crew. He was short, rather chunky and pale, with straight hair the colour of dark sand. I think we were both much of a type, for while we never went around together, we were perfectly pleasant towards one another and quite happy to be sharing a room, never getting in each other’s way or on each other’s nerves.
One winter’s morning I woke to find his bed still neatly made up and unslept in. At breakfast I heard that his aircraft had crashed the previous night, coming back from an op., on Wilhelmshaven, I believe. As far as anyone could tell me there had been both casualties and survivors. It was later that day when I returned to the room, and found Johnny in bed.
As I recall, he seemed rather dazed and quiet, as well he might have been. He went into few details of the incident; possibly his conscious mind was shying away from the harrowing experience, or perhaps he had been given a sedative. What he did tell me was that when the aircraft crashed he remembered being thrown clear. He had been flung bodily into a small wooden hut on some farmland in Lincolnshire. The hut had collapsed around him and he was only discovered lying in its wreckage by chance, when one of the rescue party noticed the demolished building.
For several years, on the anniversary of the crash, there was an entry in the memorials in the “Daily Telegraph”, to Sergeants O’Connell, Parsons, Laing and Delaney, signed “Johnny”. Then one year the entry no longer appeared.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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Life on the Squadron produced, naturally, shocks to one’s nervous system. Shocks which one could reasonably expect as part and parcel of the normal run of operational flying, and which to one extent or another were predictable. It was the unexpected ones which shook one more violently than the rest; the dazzling blue of a searchlight out of nowhere which flicked unerringly and tenaciously on to one’s aircraft, the long uneventful silence of flying through a black winter’s night being suddenly shattered by a flakburst just off the wingtip. These were things which could set the pulse, in an instant, racing to twice its normal speed.
But there was an incident which occurred in, of all places, the ablutions of the Officers’ Mess, an incident which was so completely unexpected and, at the time, heaven forgive me, so utterly shocking, that it froze me into complete immobility, open-mouthed, horrified, and, for an instant, uncomprehending.
Apart from, as they are termed, the usual offices, in the dimly-lit stone-floored rooms, there were, naturally, a row of washbasins. I was washing my hands at one end of this row one evening when I heard a soft footstep nearby and I distinguished a figure in the feeble blue light which served to illuminate the place. What was so shocking was the face, a random patchwork of different shades of vivid red, white and pink, two long vertical cuts from the ends of the mouth to the chin, the eyelids unnaturally lifeless and mis-shapen, the hair of the head in isolated tufts falling at random on the skull over the brow.
As he moved, I recovered myself and muttered some vague greeting as I went hurriedly out, back to the normality of the well-lit, noisy anteroom. It was a while before I recovered from this un-nerving encounter. Someone subsequently told me about Eddie. He was a burn case, one of McIndoe’s ‘guinea pigs’. A pilot, he had crashed, taking off in a Hampden. The aircraft had burst into flames. The Hampden’s cockpit was notoriously difficult to get out of in a hurry and he had fried in his own greases until he was rescued. Richard Hillary, in his well-known book ‘The Last Enemy’, described Eddie as the worst-burned man in the R.A.F. He was now a pilot in the Target Towing
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Flight, flying drogue-towing Lysanders on gunnery practices.
Possibly because we both frequented the games room a fair amount, he and I slowly drifted together. No-one made any sympathetic noises towards Eddie, that was definitely not done, and no-one made the slightest concession towards him either. He played against me often at table-tennis, with a controlled ferocity which could have only have been born of the desire to live his spared life completely to the full. Frequently, a clump of his dark auburn hair would flop uncontrollably down over his eyes, to expose an area of shiny red scalp, upon which hair would never again grow, one of the numerous grafts on his head and face, the skin having been taken, he told me, mostly from his thighs. He would damn it cheerfully and push it roughly back again with his sudden slash of a broad grin, which never reached his lashless and expressionless eyes.
I had detected some accent which I could not place. One day while we were sitting together in the anteroom, chatting, he mentioned that he was a South African.
“Oh?” I said, “Where from? I’ve got relations out there.”
“Where do they live?”
I named the town.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, “that’s where I’m from; what’s their name?”
I told him.
“Have you a cousin called Edna?”
“Why, yes,” I said, astonishment growing every second.
“I used to go around with her,” he laughed, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
Eddie, I am glad to say, survived the war. There is a photograph of him, among others of McIndoe’s ‘Army’, in a book named ‘Churchill’s Few.’
. . . . . . . . . . . .
What can one say of Teddy Bairstow? Only that, had he lived fifty years before his time he would have been described, I am sure, as ‘A Card’ or as ‘A Character’.
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Unlike Tony Payne or Jim Heyworth, for example, he was physically unimpressive; very thin-faced and pale, sparse hair brushed sideways across his head, but with eyes as bright as those of the fox’s head of our mascot. It was his voice, however, which one remembers best, grating, strident and penetrative in its broad Yorkshire accents. When he was in the room, everyone knew it, and the place seemed filled with his jovial, but somehow, rueful, almost apprehensive presence.
Teddy had a stock phrase which he used whenever anyone asked him, for example, what sort of a trip he had had. He would lift his voice in both pitch and volume and exclaim to the world at large, “Ee! ‘twere a shaky do!” He had, to everyone’s knowledge, at least one very shaky do. Coming back from some op, he found, for one reason or another, that he wasn’t going to make it back to Binbrook. But he was reasonably close, he had crossed the Lincolnshire coast, and decided he would force-land his aircraft. But no wheels-up-belly-landing, as he should have done, for Teddy. Incredibly, he did a normal landing, if it could be described in those terms, undercarriage down, in the darkness, into a field near Louth, and got away with it without nosing over into a disastrous cartwheel. Few would have survived to tell the tale – Sergeant O’Connell certainly had not done so – but everyone agreed with Teddy’s usual comment. ‘Twere indeed a shaky do.
Towards the end of February Teddy’s luck ran out. We went after the German pocket-battleship Gneisenau in Kiel Docks, where it was holed up after escaping up the Channel. Teddy did not come back.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Somehow, it happened that Eric and I tended to gravitate together to play billiards or table tennis in the Mess games room, and for the odd glass of beer. It was, I think, possibly because like me, he was the only one of commissioned rank in his crew, apart from Abey, that is, who was his pilot and our Flight Commander, a Squadron Leader, very much senior in rank to both of us. Eric was Abey’s Observer, tall, well built, unfailingly polite, his manner polished and urbane, yet by no means superior. We got along very well; I enjoyed his company, and I like to think he enjoyed mine.
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It was one afternoon when we had a stand-down. Frequently, my crew and I would go in to Grimsby, to the cinema, then to the “Market” for a meal with Edna, the landlady, possibly stay the night, and come back in time to report to the Flights next morning. We usually managed to cram ourselves into Mick’s, our wireless operator’s, Ford. However, on this particular afternoon, possibly because we were broke, there were no such arrangements. I happened to bump into Eric in a corridor, in the Mess. We said “hello”, then he stopped suddenly and said, “I say, are you interested in music?”
“Yes, I am, rather,” I said, not knowing what to expect.
“Well, look, I’m just going along to old Doug’s room, he’s going to play some records – would you like to come along? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
So I went. Doug was pleased to see us both. He wound up his portable gramophone and put on Tchaikovsky’s ‘Valse des Fleurs’. I can never hear that lovely, lilting piece without thinking of that afternoon in Doug Langley’s room, lost in the beauty of discovery of orchestral music, and remembering Doug himself, with his light-ginger hair and luxuriant moustache, sitting, eyes closed, head thrown back, as Eric and I listened attentively. From there, on a subsequent stand-down night we went to a real symphony concert, my first ever, in Grimsby, and a whole new and wonderful world had opened up for me, thanks to Eric and Doug.
Abey’s crew went missing on Kiel, the same night as Teddy Bairstow. It was years later that I knew that Eric, and indeed, the rest of the crew, had survived. Desperate for contacts after J – ‘s death, I hunted through telephone directories until I found his name, and contacted him. After a few phone calls, and the exchange of several long letters, I met him in London. Being the men we are, it was an affectionate but undemonstrative greeting, a handshake and smiles rather than arms around shoulders and tears.
His was a simple story. With quite typical frankness he told me, and M – who was with me, that it was all his fault that they had got shot down. There had, he said, been some fault in his navigation, a very common thing in those days when navigational aids were almost nil, when such things as Gee and H2S had never been heard of. On the way to Kiel they had strayed over Sylt, a notorious hot spot of an island off the Danish-German coast.
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They were hit be flak in their starboard engine, which put it out of action. After a discussion as to the alternatives open to them, Abey had turned for home, in the fond hope that one good engine would be sufficient to carry them to the English coast. It was not to be; they were losing too much height to be able to make it back across the wide and inhospitable North Sea. The next option was to turn round again, fly across enemy-occupied Denmark and try to get to Sweden, where they would bale out and be interned for the duration. Again, their loss of height eventually ruled this out, they would never have a hope of reaching any Swedish territory. The third and final option was to bale out over Denmark. This they did, one after the other, successfully, over the island of Funen. They were all immediately taken prisoner. Eric and Abey finished up in the notorious prison campo Stalag Luft III, Sagan, the scene of the “Wooden Horse” tunnel – and of the murder of fifty aircrew officer prisoners by the Germans.
Eric, to my and to M – ‘s fascination, produced an album of pencil sketches he had made on odd scraps of paper, of prison-camp life. I asked him how he had been treated as a P.o.W., those three and more years that he spent behind the wire. Typically, again, he said, “Oh, I didn’t have too bad a time, really, you know.”
What could one say in reply to that? I simply shook my head in wonder. Of course, among others, we mentioned Teddy Bairstow. He and his crew had not been so fortunate. Nor had Doug Langley, whose grave I found, quite by accident, in a quiet cemetery in norther Holland a short time afterwards.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I returned to Binbrook after many years. But only to the village. I had already found the Market Hotel in Grimsby where I went so often with my crew. I had stood for several minutes, looking up at the windows of the rooms we used to have, and remembering kindly Edna, who treated us like sons. Remembering Col, and Mick, and Johnnie, of my original crew. Remembering Cookie, our skipper, and Mac, our rear gunner, the Canadians among us. Thinking of the man I never knew, Rae, the man who had taken my place, the man who had died instead of me.
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When I arrived at Binbrook, I found I could barely contain my emotion. I recovered myself to some extent while I drank a cup of coffee in the Marquis of Granby, the well-remembered pub in the village. I stood for a long time at the top of the hill, on the road which led down into the valley and up again to the now deserted and silent aerodrome. I stood, remembering again, seeing, across the distance, visions of the Wellingtons I and my friends had flown, parked in their dispersals, the movement of men around them, and their faces, hearing their long-stilled voices. But I could go no closer to them than that. There were too many memories, too many ghosts.
On that fine morning the images of mortality were too real to be borne.
. . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Tony [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] TONY [/underlined]
At the time when I subscribed to ‘Readers’ Digest’ there would appear in each issue a short article entitled ‘The Most Unforgettable Character I Have Ever Met’. I find that this description could fittingly apply to Tony Payne.
When I had the privilege of knowing him, Tony, at the age of 21, was already a veteran in terms of ability and experience, looked up to almost in reverence as one of the elite pilots on the Squadron.
And whenever I recall the Officers’ Mess at Binbrook with its high-ceilinged anteroom just across the main corridor from the dining room, with the eternal, homely smell of coffee from the big urn near to the door, I can visualise Tony as he was so often, standing slightly to one side of the fire, pewter tankard in hand, holding court, as it were, the focal point of all eyes and conversation, eternally smiling and cheerful, his crisp, clear voice sounding above the music from the worn record on the radiogram which would be softly playing a catchy little tune, a favourite of his, called ‘The Cuckoo’. I have never heard it, or heard of it, even, since that time, but I could never forget it, as it was almost Tony’s signature tune. But Tony was entering the last six months of his life.
He had the gift of holding everyone’s attention by his witty observations on most things operational – and non-operational, his words rolling brightly and optimistically off his tongue, his eyes shining with the pleasure of living for the moment, and that moment alone, of good company and comradeship.
Once we were discussing a particular trip. (They were always ‘trips’, occasionally ‘ops’ but never ‘sorties’ or ‘missions’). Someone was describing our attempts to locate some target in Germany one night recently. There had been only sporadic gunfire aimed at us whn [sic] we arrived at about 20,000 feet, and that gunfire, we knew, was not necessarily from the immediate area of the target.
“What did you think about it, Tony?” someone asked. Tony beamed at the question, leaned slightly forward and declaimed with mock solemnity and a judicial air, “Ah! Then I knew that something was afoot!” he said.
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Among his many friends, or ‘familiars’ as they might have once been known, (a description singularly appropriate), was the Senior Flying Control Officer (or ‘Regional Control Officer’ in the terminology then in force) Flight Lieutenant Bradshaw, “Bradders” to everyone. He was old enough to be Tony’s and our father, a World War I pilot beribboned with the ‘Pip, Squeak and Wilfred’ campaign ribbons of that conflict, slightly portly, fairly short in stature, of equable temperament and genial in manner, his iron-grey to white hair meticulously trimmed. A great deal of repartee was invariably exchanged by the two, doubtless born of their mutual affection despite the disparity in their ages.
To our delight one day, Tony hurried into the anteroom in a state of high glee, carrying a small, brown-paper wrapped parcel the size of a large book.
“Wait till you see this, you types!” he crowed to his audience, which included Bradders, who was as intrigued as the rest of us. Tony slowly, tantalisingly slowly, unwrapped his mysterious parcel then dramatically held up its contents for all to see. It was a gilt-framed oil painting of a side-whiskered old man in a country churchyard, his foot upon the shoulder of a spade, a battered old felt hat on his head. The frame bore the title – ‘Old Bradshaw, the village sexton’. It brought the house down and it was ceremoniously hung on the anteroom wall near to the portrait of Flying Officer Donald Garland, one of the Squadron’s two posthumous Victoria Cross recipients, and near also to the mounted fox’s head, our Squadron badge, which had been presented to ‘Abey’, Squadron Leader Abraham, our Flight Commander, on his posting from a Polish O.T.U. where he had been instructing, to 12 Squadron.
At about this time the Air Ministry commissioned Eric Kennington, a noted war artist, to make portraits of outstanding aircrew members, many in Bomber Command, and Tony was one of those selected to sit for him. He sat in his usual place at one end of the anteroom fireplace while Kennington went about his work. The Mess kept a respectful silence while this was proceeding, conversing only in whispers and never attempting to peer over the artist’s shoulder. Some time later, the finished portrait was hung in a place of honour on the wall, to Tony’s laughing embarrassment.
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It was only within these last few years that during a telephone conversation with Eric, my friend, fellow-survivor and table tennis and billiards opponent of those days, who had been Squadron Leader Abraham’s Observer when they were shot down over Denmark, that he asked me if I remembered Tony’s portrait, and whether I knew what happened to it. I confessed that I had almost forgotten about it and did not have any idea what had become of it. But his question touched off in me a desire to find out. It seemed logical that in the first instance I should consult my local Library to see whether they might possibly have any book of the Kennington portraits. It did have such a book, and they brought it out to me. Unfortunately, Tony’s likeness was not among the hundred or so reproduced, but he was mentioned in the index of all the portraits which the artist had undertaken. Where next? I decided that the obvious next step was to contact the R.A.F. Museum at Hendon. There I struck gold. They had the original portrait in storage and swiftly sent me a photo-copy. I obtained two copies, one of which I sent to Eric. Today, a sizeable and well-produced copy of Tony’s portrait hang on my wall where I can look on it with a mixture of affection, pleasure and great sadness, as well as a sense of honour that such a fine man and such a fine pilot could have wanted me to join his crew. I was more than a little surprised when he did so and have often wondered what prompted him to approach me. It was prior to his finishing his first tour, and I have described the incident and its calamitous sequel in the next chapter.
His crew, on his first tour with us, must truly have been quite exceptional. To have completed their tour made them exceptional enough. The chances of that were a considerable way short of evens. There was an example of their ‘press on regardless’ spirit and of the brilliant navigation of Tony’s Observer, Sergeant Dooley, a dapper, smiling little Englishman, on one of our trips to Kiel to bomb the pocket-battleship Gneisenau.
We rarely had an accurate Met. forecast on the trips we did in that winter of 1941-42, and on this night the conditions turned out to be worse than even the Met. Officer had forecast. We took off in the darkness and gloom and entered heavy cloud at 600 feet We climbed
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steadily out over the North Sea but at 20,500 feet we had still not reached clear air. With our bomb load we could climb no higher. We were somewhere in the top of the cloud mass, the moon a faint blur of light on our starboard bow. Below and around us were numerous gun-flashes from the flak defences of Kiel, and as obtaining a visual pinpoint was obviously impossible we bombed the centre of the flak concentration. We turned for home, still in cloud. After over three hours of manual flying, concentrating solely on the instrument panel in front of me, and losing height slowly down to 1,000 feet, I became aware that we had finally reached the cloudbase. Then to my relief and delight I pinpointed Spurn Head, our crossing-in point, about four miles to starboard, and saw the four red obstruction lights of the radar station near Cleethorpes dead ahead. We heartily congratulated Col on his navigation – seven hours plus in cloud and only four miles off track at the end of it.
But Sergeant Dooley and Tony had outshone us. Like us, finding the target in Kiel docks completely cloud-covered he had refused the opportunity to bomb blind as most of us had done. They set course for the Baltic Sea, topped the cloud and found moonlight – and stars. Flying straight and level, which one had to do to take astro-shots of the various stars on the astrograph chart, and which one could safely do over the sea, but which was a most unhealthy undertaking over hostile territory, Sergeant Dooley obtained an astro fix of their exact position. He then plotted a dead-reckoning track and course to the target, some distance away, and when their E.T.A. was up, bombed on that. The Squadron Navigation Officer subsequently re-plotted his whole log and found that they had been ‘spot-on’ the target. Such was the ability and experience of Tony and his crew.
When his tour was finally over and he had a well-deserved D.F.C. to his credit he was posted away to some hush-hush job at an aerodrome on Salisbury Plain, and both the Mess and B Flight Office were the poorer and less colourful for his going.
My final meeting with him before my posting and his shockingly unexpected and untimely death was a few weeks after he had left the Squadron at the end of his tour. He appeared one day, cheerful and unchanged as ever, in the anteroom one lunchtime. He had flown up,
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unofficially, one guessed, in a small, twin-engined trainer. He was, he told us, flying all sorts of kites, at all sorts of heights, mostly over the Channel. He alleged that ‘they’, whoever they might be, and he did nothing to enlighten us on that, even wanted him to fly inverted on occasions. Beyond that he said nothing, and we did not ask him too many questions. He mentioned that although he had flown up to see us in the Oxford, one of the several aircraft at the secret establishment, he would have preferred something else – “I wanted to come in the Walrus”, he chuckled, naming an antiquated and noisy single-pusher-engined flying boat, usually operated by the Fleet Air Arm.
“I’d love to have taxied up to the Watch Office and chucked the anchor out!”
He left us after a cheerful lunch and went for ever out of my life, for which I am greatly the poorer.
It seems that he came back to 12, without a crew, for a second tour and was insistent on taking part in the first 1,000 bomber raid, that on Cologne, with a completely new crew. His was the first aircraft to be shot down that night. It happened over the outskirts of Amsterdam. How he came to be there will always remain a mystery to me, as the route planned for that night to Cologne lay over the estuary of the Scheldt, mush [sic] further south, its numerous islands providing invaluable pinpoints.
He and all his crew are buried in beautifully tended graves in a shady part of Amsterdam’s New Eastern Cemetery, which I have several times visited.
On one visit to Amsterdam I had contacted a Dutchman who had formed part of the team of volunteers who had excavated the remains of C-Charlie, Tony’s aircraft on that fatal night in May 1942. I was able to visit the crash site in the suburb of Badhoevedorp. A small museum of remembrance had been created in some old underground fortifications on the outskirts of the city where were reverently displayed several small identifiable components of the aircraft, as well as one or two pathetic personal belongings of the crew. I was offered, and accepted, a small section of the geodetic construction of the Wellington and this now has a place of honour in my living room, where Tony, from his portrait, appears to be looking down upon it.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Mind you don’t scratch the paint [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] MIND YOU DON’T SCRATCH THE PAINT [/underlined]
After what happened that night to his beloved Z-Zebra when we, for the first and only time, were being allowed to fly it on ops, I could have quite understood if Tony had never wanted to have anything to do with me, or with any of the crew, again.
But instead, after it was all over, for some time afterwards, whenever he happened to see me in the anteroom there would come into his eyes a gleam of what I could only interpret as amusement, but something more besides; this was a look of amusement mingled with a knowledge and appreciation of our good fortune, the look which perhaps a proud parent gives to his offspring as he sees him emerge from the last obstacle of a tricky course in the school sports and run triumphantly towards the finishing line, a “by-God-you’ve-done-it” look. A fanciful idea maybe, but the more I look back on it, the more I am sure that was what it was.
It was when we had already done a handful of ops, I remember, and when he himself must have been well on towards finishing his tour – remarkable enough in itself – and quite some while after the events which led to his, and our, final trip in ‘Z’ that he caught my eye and beckoned me over, one day when there was no flying, in the mess at Binbrook. He and I were both standing among the small crowd of aircrew officers near the fireplace, tankards in our hands, nearly all of us smoking, under the gaze of the portrait of Donald Garland, V.C., and of the fox’s mask mounted on its wooden shield.
And when I had made my way towards him he paid me a great and surprising compliment, he who was without doubt one of the finest of the many fine pilots on the Squadron.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
But the story, of course, starts some time before that, when we were very much the new boys, before I and the rest of the crew had been blooded on ops. When we had arrived on the Squadron from our Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourn, Elmer, my co-pilot,
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had been allocated to Mike Duder’s crew, while the rest of us had been taken over, as it were, by Ralph, a pilot who had a few ops already to his credit. We settled down comfortably enough with him and went through the final stages of our familiarisation and training on the Mark II Wellington in preparation for our first operation together. This landmark in one’s flying career was something which I, at any rate, had looked forward to – if that is the correct form of words – with a mixture of curiosity, awe and a certain degree of apprehension tinged with excitement; I regarded it as a large step into a completely unknown world. Just how hazardous a step it would turn out to be I was soon to discover.
At that time, my logbook tells me, we had no aircraft which we could really regard as our own, perhaps because we were a fresher crew, I don’t know. However, we had flown seven different aircraft since joining ‘B’ Flight. One morning we reported as usual, to the Flights. I had the privilege of using, along with others, Abey’s, our Flight Commander’s, office as a sort of mini-crewroom. It was late November and we sat around talking, shop mostly, until about ten o’clock, when Abey’s phone rang. All conversation stopped. We knew what it would be – either another stand-down, or a target. It was a target, for freshers only. It would not be named until briefing that afternoon, of course, but I was fairly certain it would be one of the French Channel ports.
Abey nodded to me pleasantly and said, “Let the rest of your crew know, will you?” Then he looked quickly at the blackboard fixed to the wall facing him and said, “Look, I think you’d better take Z-Zebra, Tony’s aircraft – he’s off to Buck House tomorrow to collect his gong from the King.”
Tony Payne wasn’t in the Flight Office at the time, I suppose he had been told by Abey that he wouldn’t be required in any case; an appointment with His Majesty would naturally take priority over anything. So it was lunchtime when we’d done our quite uneventful night flying test on ‘Z’, that I saw him in the Mess. Or rather, that he saw me, and made a bee-line for me.
“What’s this I hear, then?” he asked.
I grinned at him.
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“You mean about Z-Zebra?”
“Yes, I mean about Z-Zebra. My Z-Zebra. You’re not actually going to fly my kite, are you? On ops? God!”
There was a look of mock-horror on his face.
“Well, that’s what Abey said, so that’s what we’re doing. Don’t worry, Tony, we won’t bend it, or anything.”
“Bend it? You’d better not! If you so much as scratch the paint I shall deal with you all personally, one at a time, when you come back, you mark my words!”
We both knew he was kidding, but I knew, too, that ‘Z’ was the apple of Tony’s eye and that it had served him well. I hoped that it would serve as [sic] well, too.
Briefing was in the early afternoon. I cannot recall that there were many of us there, three crews at most is my recollection. The target was Cherbourg docks, time on target 2100 to 2130, bomb-load seven five hundred pounders, high explosive, route Base – Reading – Bognor Regis – target and return the same way. I felt nothing other than curious anticipation, once the time of take-off drew nearer. I think the thought that we were in ‘Z’ boosted my morale. Tony’s aircraft must be good, for he was good, the best. That followed; ‘Z’ wouldn’t let us down. The trip was going to be, if not the proverbial piece of cake, then quite O.K., quite straightforward, a nice one to start us off, of that I was confident.
It was a Saturday evening and dusk was falling as I went up to the Flights and opened my locker in Abey’s office. He was there, of course, looking quietly on at the small handful of us putting on our kit for the op. I started to struggle into my flying kit. Roll-necked sweater under my tunic, brown padded inner suit from neck to ankle, like a tightly fitting eiderdown, old school scarf, which, while I would never have admitted it, was my good-luck talisman. Pale green, slightly faded canvas outer flying suit with fur collar, wool-lined leather flying boots, parachute harness, Mae West and, lastly, ‘chute and helmet, which I carried. I checked that I had the issued silk handkerchief, printed very finely with a map of France, just in case, and I touched the reassuring small miniature compass,
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sewn into my brevet, another aid to evasion if forced to bale out.
I joined Ralph and the lads in the hangar. There was a continuous buzz of conversation, the odd burst of laughter. Ralph was smiling with rather forced cheerfulness, no doubt wondering how his new crew would cope. Col, our Aussie Observer, looked more sallow than usual and was chewing gum rapidly. His Australian twang, when he spoke, was more pronounced, it seemed to me. Mick, the wireless op., looked worried, as usual, and said nothing, while Tommy, our rear gunner, was completely unconcerned and grinning from ear to ear. Johnnie, who would occupy the front turret, was his calm and quite imperturbable self, almost, I realised, the complete antithesis of Tommy.
Ralph said quickly, “Let’s go, then,” and we strolled out of the chilly, pale blue lighting of the hangar into the darkness. We climbed awkwardly into the waiting crew-bus parked on the perimeter track. A half moon was beginning to show, flitting in and out of the scattered clouds which were drifting out to sea from off the Lincolnshire Wolds. It was cold, and despite my flying kit, I shivered a little. Col was still chewing stolidly, his face expressionless. There was a little desultory conversation as the bus rolled towards the dispersals, but the night’s op was not mentioned.
“Z-Zebra,” called the W.A.A.F. driver through the little window at the front of the bus. We started to clamber stiffly down the back steps, reluctant to leave the companionable shelter of the vehicle.
“Have a good trip!”
Someone from another crew shouted the conventional but oddly reassuring words, which were invariably used to send a crew on their way.
“You too,” one of us replied.
Z-Zebra loomed over us in the semi-darkness. The crew bus rumbled away. The silence was intense, almost tangible. The ground-crew stood around, blowing on their hands and beating their arms around their bodies against the cold. There were muted greetings. Col and I walked several yards away from the kite, lit cigarettes from my case and took a dozen or so quick draws before stamping them out.
“Come on, let’s get started,” I muttered, and we clambered up the red ladder which jutted down from Z’s nose. Johnnie was handing
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the pigeon in its ventilated box carefully up to Mick.
We struggled in, heavily and clumsily, each to his position. I hoisted myself over the main spar and stood in the astrodome, reaching down to plug in my intercom lead, and I found the hot-air hose, aiming it to blow on to my body once the engines had been started. The port engine suddenly stammered and roared into life, then the starboard. We heard Ralph blow twice into his mike to test the intercom, then he spoke.
“Everyone O.K? Harry?”
“O.K., skip,” I said.
“Col?”
“Yeah, skip.”
“Mick?”
O.K.”
“Johnnie?”
“O.K., skipper.” Johnnie was always punctilious and correct.
“Tommy? All right at the back there?”
“Yes, fine, skip.”
“Right, I’ll take it there and do the bombing run, Harry, you can bring us back.”
“O.K., skip,” I said.
Ralph’s mike clicked off. There was an increased roar from the port enging, [sic] shaking the whole kite, then from the starboard, as Ralph ran them up, checking the power, the magnetos, the oil pressure and the engine temperatures. The kite was shivering like a nervous racehorse at the starting gate, waiting for the off. A lull, then I felt a lurch as we moved slowly out of dispersal. The hangars, topped by their red obstruction lights, slid by, then we were at the end of the runway in use. Behind us I could see the nav. lights of the other aircraft which were to share the night sky with us over Cherbourg. A green Alldis light flashed directly on to us – dah, dah, di-di, - Z.
“You’ve got your green, skipper,” I said. We were on our way.
“O.K., here we go, hold on to your hats.”
Johnnie appeared alongside me and grinned rather wolfishly; the front
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gunner went into his turret only when we were safely airborne. Ralph opened up the throttles against the brakes to lift the tail a little. Z-Zebra jerked and strained, then suddenly we surged forward, the engines howling. The Drem lighting of the flarepath smudged past, faster and faster as we charged down the runway. The bar of lights with the two goose-neck flares at the far end slid towards us, then suddenly all vibration ceased; we were airborne, we were on our way.
Johnnie gave me the thumbs-up and vanished up front to go into his turret. In a few seconds he called up to say he was in position. I felt and heard Ralph throttling back to settle into the long climb to operational height; we would aim to be at 20,000 feet over the target. He began a turn to port to bring us back over the centre of the aerodrome to set course accurately for Reading.
The night was clear, some cloud showing vaguely out to sea, a blaze of stars everywhere, with the half moon as yet low on the port beam. There were several flashing red beacons to be seen, scattered over the dim landscape like lurid and sinister fireflies, but no-one bothered to read their Morse letters on the way out; coming home, it would be another matter, they would be looked for and read as eagerly as one used to read the familiar names on railway stations on the way back from a holiday. From the astrodome the mainplanes were pale in the faint moonlight, the exhaust stubs glowed redly. The rudder was a tall finger behind us, under which sat Tommy in his turret, a lonely place. I could see the guns rotating from side to side as he kept watch. There was little sensation of height or speed as the engines roared steadily under climbing power, the passage of time seemed suspended and there was a sense of complete detachment from the earth and from all things on it. Conversation was limited to the essential minimum.
Ralph came up, eventually, on the intercom.
“Oxygen on, please, Harry, ten thousand feet.”
I acknowledged, unplugged my intercom and left my position, going forward over the main spar to where just behind the Observer’s compartment the oxygen bottles were in racks up on the port side of the
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fuselage. I screwed open the valves on each one and returned to the astrodome.
“Oxygen on, skipper.”
I plugged in the bayonet fitting of my oxygen tube to the nearest socket and clipped the mask on my helmet securely to cover my nose and mouth. After a while, “Glow on the deck, dead ahead, skipper,” Johnnie said. I went forward quickly to stand beside Ralph.
“Looks like Reading,” I said, “they always did have a lousy blackout. See those two lines of lights? The railway station. Wouldn’t that slay you? I don’t know how they don’t get bombed to hell.”
“Useful for us, anyhow,” Ralph replied, “we’re dead on track and two minutes to E.T.A., too. Good for you, Col,” he called.
The faint glow of Reading vanished under the nose. The moon was a bit higher now. Col gave the new course for Bognor. I took a deep breath of oxygen and holding it in my lungs as long as I could, went back to the astrodome. Tommy spoke up, rather fractiously.
“Bloody cold back here.”
“Shut up a minute, Tommy,” I heard Mick say, “I’m listening out to Group.”
No-one spoke for a while. Then I caught a glimpse of a white flashing beacon to starboard. These were very useful; Observers kept a list of them coded with their actual Latitude and Longitude positions. I switched on my mike.
“Occult flashing R Robert about five miles to starboard, Col,” I said.
Then, “That’s peculiar,” I thought, “I didn’t hear my own voice saying that.”
I checked my intercom switch and repeated what I’d said. Still nothing. I moved over to the intercom point at the flarechute and plugged in. I blew into my mike – dead as mutton. Taking a gulp of oxygen I went forward to Col’s desk and banged him on the shoulder. He looked up in surprise. I undid his helmet and shouted in his ear.
“Is your intercom working?”
He thumbed the switch and I saw his lips moving. Then he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Bloody thing’s crook,” he shouted.
After another gulp of oxygen I went forward to yell in Ralph’s ear.
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“Intercom’s u/s!”
I saw Ralph check his mike, then he nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down ruefully.
“Not a sausage,” he shouted, “see if Mick can fix it.”
I pushed through the door into Mick’s compartment. He beat me to it.
“Intercom’s u/s, R/T, too.”
“See if you can fix it!”
Mick nodded.
I went forward again to Ralph, who had scribbled a note on a message pad.
‘If no joy in 15 min. we jettison and abort.’
Without the intercom we would be completely cut off from one another, an impossible situation. I settled into the second pilot’s position alongside Ralph, thinking that I might as well stay up front for a while. Ralph was writing something again, letting the trimmers fly the aircraft while he did so.
‘Tell the gunners,’ I read, and gave him the thumbs-up. More oxygen, then I ducked under the instrument panel, past the bomb-sight, treading gingerly on the bottom escape hatch, and quickly opened the front turret doors.
My God, I thought, it’s freezing cold in here.
Johnnie twisted himself round and looked at me questioningly.
“Intercom’s gone for a Burton,” I shouted, “we may have to scrub it.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Half way back down the fuselage I saw the rear turret doors opening and Tommy emerged, slightly red in the face.
“My bloody intercom’s u/s,” he shouted, looking aggrieved.
I told him the situation quickly and he went back into his turret. I bent over Mick, who was fiddling with the intricacies of the radio equipment.
“Any joy?” I shouted.
Mick grimaced and shook his head.
“Keep trying, Mick.”
When I went back to Ralph he leaned over and shouted, “If Mick can’t fix it by Bognor, we’ll jettison ten miles out to sea and go home.”
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I wrote a note for Col and passed it to him. I was already hoarse with shouting and tired from moving around the aircraft on scanty oxygen.
Still we climbed. Bognor was now below us, I could distinguish the shape of the south coast, the Isle of Wight. Col came forward and made book-opening movements of his hands to Ralph who nodded and selected the bomb-door switch to ‘open’. Col ducked down to the bombsight. I wondered idly whether there were any convoys below; even though the bombs would be dropped ‘safe’ they wouldn’t like five hundred pounds of solid metal from this height. There was a slight shudder as the bombs went. Col came back.
“Bloody waste,” he shouted.
Ralph nodded as he closed the bomb-doors.
He shouted to me, “We might as well get down lower where we can come off oxygen. Get a course from Col, will you?”
I did so and set it on the compass for Ralph, who did a wide turn to port, losing height steadily. The altimeter slowly unwound.
When we passed through ten thousand feet I turned off the bottles and went the rounds of the crew, telling each one we were on the way home. Their reactions were muted, impassive. Soon we were down to two thousand feet, droning over the dim November landscape. There were no beacons to be seen anywhere in this area. I stood alongside Ralph, wondering if I would get a chance to fly ‘Z’ soon, but perhaps he didn’t like the thought of passing messages himself; the journey from front turret to rear, for example, was a bit of an obstacle race.
Quite suddenly, I noticed that the starboard engine temperature was up. I tapped Ralph on the arm and pointed to it. He nodded slowly, we droned onwards. I looked out of my side window, through the arc of the propeller, mere inches away, at the starboard engine. Was it my imagination, or was there a whitish mist streaming back from it? Ralph had levelled off at a thousand feet. Col came in and handed him a note of E.TA. Reading. The starboard engine temperature was higher, and now the oil pressure was decidedly down, too.
We’ve got trouble, damn it, I thought, and I saw there was now
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no doubt at all about the trail of vapour from the engine.
“Looks like a glycol leak,” I told Ralph, who stared grimly ahead and nodded. Then he turned to me.
“Get Mick on the W/T to base, returning early, intercom and R/T u/s, glycol leak starboard engine.”
I gave him the thumbs-up, seized a message pad and wrote it down, then went aft and handed it to Mick, who was sitting glumly at his table. He looked at the note, raised his eyebrows and frowned, then started to tap out the message on the Morse key.
Up front again I saw that the vapour leak from the engine was now streaked with red, and angry looking sparks were flying back over the engine nacelle and the trailing edge of the mainplane. I nudged Ralph, who leaned over to look, then grimaced. Now, the engine temperature was very high and the oil pressure had slumped even further. Z-Zebra was in real trouble. As is the way in flying, events thereafter moved in a downward spiral from bad to desperate with sickening rapidity. A lick of flame spat out of the engine, over the starboard mainplane, then horrifyingly, like the tail of a rocket, the flame shot back towards the rear turret.
“Fire!” I yelled in Ralph’s ear.
I pressed the extinguisher button on the instrument panel. Ralph chopped the starboard throttle back and hauled the wheel over to counteract the lurch and swing. I looked at the flames which were now pouring out of the duff engine, over the cowling and the trailing edge of the mainplane. Suddenly Tommy appeared at my side.
“Hey! There’s a hell of a lot of sparks flying past my turret!”
“Yes, we’re on fire, but we’re trying to get it out,” I shouted back at him.
Tommy’s eyes opened wide when he saw the blazing engine.
“Jesus bloody Christ,” he said, in awe.
We were now below 1000 feet. Ralph had opened up the port engine to try to maintain height, but we were turning slowly to starboard the whole time. I thought about the best part of 375 gallons of petrol in the starboard wing-tank, then about the western edge of London and its balloon barrage, somewhere very close to us. We
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were in one hell of a mess, I thought, and it began to dawn on me that the situation could well kill us all. I tried not to think too hard about that. Ralph was wrestling with Z-Zebra, trying to keep it on some sort of a course, but it appeared to be useless.
“Poop off some reds,” he yelled, “and look out for a flarepath!”
I hurried aft.
“Put the I.F.F. on Stud 3,” I shouted to Mick, above the howl of the good engine, and nodding glumly, Mick switched to this distress frequency which would show up as a distinctively shaped trace on all ground radar sets. I quickly found some double-red Verey cartridges and got the signal pistol down from its fixture in the roof of the fuselage. I loaded the cartridges and shot them off one at a time.
“Can’t do much more now,” I said to myself, and hoped for the sight of a flarepath, a directing searchlight, or anything that would help us. I went forward again. We were still losing height and I realised that we were too low to bale out. But the fire had died down and I sighed with relief at that. The prop windmilled slowly and uselessly. I wished that Z-Zebra had been fitted with propeller feathering devices, but it was useless wishing thoughts like that. I peered intently at the starboard wing; there didn’t seem to be any fire there, thank God, otherwise we would simply blow up in mid-air and that would be that. Now, the immediate problem was how we were going to get back on to the ground in approximately one piece; there wasn’t a flarepath or a beacon to be seen anywhere.
I felt completely helpless and at the mercy of a capricious and malignant fate which I could do nothing to influence. It was like being in a paper bag going down a waterfall. Ralph’s face was grim as he struggled to keep straight and to maintain altitude. I heaved a length of wrapped elastic from my parachute stowage and tied the wheel fully over to the left, to take the load off Ralph a little. He nodded his thanks. Another length of elastic; I tied the rudder bar over to the geodetics. That was all I could do.
I looked out again. Still no sign of friendly lights and the treetops were looking damned close now. The port engine exhaust stubs were bright red due to the punishment the engine was taking and I knew it was just a matter of minutes before we hit something. I thought, “This is a hell of a shaky do.” Then, ahead, I saw an interruption in the dark skyline and I was puzzled as to what it
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could be. I took a glance as [sic] the A.S.I., just under 100 m.p.h., much too near stalling speed for comfort. I hardly dared look at the altimeter, it showed a mere 200 feet now. The curious, dim outlines on the skyline grew slowly larger as we staggered on. That was about it, Z-Zebra was simply staggering along and sinking through the air, almost on the point of stalling, when we would drop like a stone. I was holding the wheel over to port, helping Ralph all I could. Keep height and we lost speed; keep speed and we lost height. That was the quite hopeless situation.
The jagged skyline, which was now beginning to fill the windscreen, resolved itself horrifyingly, in the dim moonlight, into buildings. A town, and worst of all, a town with a tall, thick chimney, dead ahead.
“Jesus Christ,” I thought, “we’ve bloody well had it now, we’re going to hit that bloody chimney.”
100 feet on the altimeter. Now we were over the town, churning over the roofs at 90 miles an hour. The streets looked so close that I could have put out a hand to touch them. The chimney loomed nearer, the black roofs skated away behind us, apparently just below the floor of the fuselage. I thought of the people in those houses, cringing as they heard the hideous noise just above their heads, praying that the aircraft wouldn’t hit them in a cataclysm of bricks, rubble and blazing petrol. I was sweating as I frantically heaved at the wheel to try to help Ralph. His eyes were staring as though he were hypnotised by the sight of the chimney. With agonising slowness it slid towards us, slightly to starboard now, it seemed, then just beyond the starboard wingtip, a handful of yards away. I shut my eyes for a second, hardly daring to believe that we had missed it.
“Thank Christ for that!” I yelled at Ralph. We were over open fields again. Ralph shouted desperately, “I’ll have to put it down soon, get them into crash positions!”
I hurried to the front turret, collected Johnnie, who was as pleasant and imperturbable as though he was sitting in an armchair in the Mess. he would have had a grandstand view of the whole thing, up to now. Together, we grabbed Mick and Col. The three of them lay on the floor of the fuselage, hands clasped behind their necks.
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I hurried, stumbling, to the rear turret and wrenched open the doors.
“Crash landing, any minute now!” I yelled at Tommy. He would sit tight, his was the safest place in the kite in this situation. I almost envied him. I rushed forward again and took a final glance out of the windscreen. We were at treetop level. Then I went back to join Mick, Col and Johnnie. There was not enough room for me to lie down, so I stood sideways on, taking a firm grip on the geodetics, and hoped for the best.
Suddenly the port engine was throttled right back. This was it, I thought. A few seconds’ silence, which seemed like a month, then a tremendous impact. A cool smell of newly-torn earth filled the aircraft. I hear, unbelievably, a long burst of machine gun fire and could see red tracer flying ahead of us. I couldn’t think what was going on; surely we weren’t being shot at? The kite bucketed along, everything twisting and grinding, the deceleration fantastic. I could hardly stay upright. The smell of ploughed earth was beautiful, almost intoxicating. I hung on grimly, and after what seemed an age, we finally lurched to a halt. For an instant there was total, blissful silence.
“Everyone out, quick!” I shouted.
The three of them hurried forward where I could see Ralph’s legs vanishing through the escape hatch above the pilot’s seat. Tommy came staggering from the rear of the fuselage, clutching his forehead.
“You O.K.?” I asked him.
“Hit me bloody head on some broken sodding geodetics,” he said angrily.
“Hurry up and get out in case the bloody kite goes up,” I said urgently, and I pushed him forward, ahead of me. He climbed out of the top hatch via the pilot’s seat; I was hard on his heels. I could hear Johnnie telling someone, in his clear, modulated voice, that he had forgotten to put the safety-catch of his guns on to ‘safe’, the impact of the crash had set them firing. I hoped vaguely that no-one had been hurt. It was years later that I learned that one bullet had gone through a child’s bedroom window as her mother was putting her to bed; the bullet had embedded itself in the mattress without harming the little girl.
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I followed Tommy up and out. I was swinging my legs over the edge of the escape hatch, on to the top of Z-Zebra, when I saw a spurt of flame from the port engine. The strain had been too much for it.
“Port engine’s on fire!” I shouted to them, “get to hell out of it!”
I jumped back inside the cockpit, quickly found the port fire-extinguisher button and jabbed my thumb hard on it, swearing softly under my breath. Then I clambered out again, found the port mainplane under my feet and walked down it on to the field.
The aircraft looked like a landed whale, its props bent grotesquely backwards, its back dismally broken, with the rudder towering up at an odd angle, its wings now spread uselessly across the stubble and the broad rut which we had gouged out of the field trailing back towards the hedge, between some tall trees. The crew were grouped together twenty yards away.
“Come on, Harry!” someone shouted.
A man was running over the field towards us, I could see the steam of his panting breaths in the moonlight as he got nearer and heard him excitedly saying something about ‘the biggest field in the district’. The moon shone palely through the trees which we had missed and the air was sweet as wine. I lit a cigarette and joined the others.
“Are you O.K.?” Col asked. I nodded.
“Bloody fine landing, Ralph,” I said, “damn good show.”
We followed the man over the stubble, towards the broken hedge, then to an Auxiliary Fire Station on the outskirts of St. Albans, where we had come down.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Look,” Tony said confidentially, “you know I’ve got …… as my co-pilot?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming next.
“Well, between you and me, I’m really not all that happy with him. Would you like to come into my crew? I can fix it with Abey, if you would.”
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When I recovered from my astonishment it didn’t take me long to decide. I shook my head.
“No, thanks, Tony, no, really, I wouldn’t want to leave my own crew, you know.”
“Oh, well, I can quite understand that. I just thought - . But if you do change your mind, there’s a place for you with me, any time.”
I thanked him. I have never forgotten the honour he did me.
As I have said, Tony took the wrecking of Z-Zebra quite well, all things being considered. Shortly afterwards, he finished his tour. His crew were posted away, while he himself went on to some hush-hush flying, somewhere on Salisbury Plain, we heard, involving several different types of aircraft. It was something, we guessed, in connection with the development of radar and its applications. He paid us a visit once, in an Anson.
“I wanted to come up in a Walrus,” he said, naming a slow, noisy and out-of-date small flying-boat, “and throw out the anchor in front of the Watch Office!”
We had a jocular half hour with him in front of the ante-room fire.
Tony Payne came back to the Squadron for his second tour of ops. He took a new crew, on their first trip, on the Thousand Bomber raid on Cologne. His was the first aircraft to be shot down that night. He was hit by flak over Ijmuiden, on the Dutch Coast and the aircraft blew up over Badhoevedorp, on the outskirts of Amsterdam, killing him and the whole crew. They are buried together in a beautiful shady spot in Amsterdam East Cemetery, their graves lovingly kept and cared for. I have visited the place where they fell; I have seen the place where they now lie at peace. Most of the aircraft was salvaged recently by some caring Dutch people, and I have a fragment of it on my bookshelf, to remind me of the man that was Tony. Not that I need much reminding.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Rabbie [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] RABBIE [/underlined]
He was the sort of bloke one took to automatically if one was of a fairly quiet disposition, for he himself was quiet almost to the point of being self-effacing. On the ground, that is. But in the air – well, that was another matter. On the evidence that I had, at least, it seemed that another side of his nature took over.
In build, he was perhaps an inch or so taller than me, well made, with rather thick, limp, fairish hair, quite piercingly blue eyes and a mobile mouth which always carried the trace of a smile, as though he were laughing inwardly at some secret joke. His manner of speaking was strange until you got used to it; he would start a sentence then lower his eyes almost apologetically, as though he were afraid you were becoming bored with what he was saying. His voice was quite deep, very quiet, and his utterances were staccato, like short bursts of machine-gun fire, punctuated by little nervous laughs, almost sniggers. Now and again he would stammer slightly, and now and again a trace of his native soft Scots accent would ripple the surface of his halting, quietly spoken sentences.
It was I who first called him Rabbie, on account of this inflexion of voice, which, when he became animated, would show more prominently. I think he secretly rather liked the name; there weren’t many Scotsmen on the Squadron as far as I knew, and certainly, there weren’t many in ‘B’ Flight. We became friendly, and although on stand-down trips to G.Y., as we invariably called Grimsby, crews usually went as crews, on nights when we stayed in the Mess he and I, more often than not, would gravitate together, along with Eric. Possible because the three of us where a shade quieter types than, say, Tony or Teddy Bairstow.
I don’t know how it came about that I flew to Pershore with him – he had done his O.T.U. there, it seemed, and on a stand-down day he got permission from Abey to do a cross-country there. He must have asked me if I would like a ride; anyhow, I went along with him. He had his own co-pilot, Sandy, with him, and his crew. It was then I discovered the other side of Rabbie. I had only been on the Squadron a fortnight and everything was new and a bit strange.
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Rabbie and most of the others were comparatively old hands, and whereas I was a strictly-by-the-book pilot, I soon found that there were others who weren’t. Like that day, when I flew with Rabbie. One normally did cross-countries at a sober and sedate height, say between two and six thousand feet. Perhaps for a few minutes, now and again, one might have a crazy fit and beat up a train or something or other, but unauthorised low flying was a Court Martial offence, and all pilots had been repeatedly warned of that fact ever since they started flying at E.F.T.S.
We went off in Barred C, Abey’s own aircraft, and once we’d cleared the circuit, quite simply, it was a hundred feet maximum all the way. To begin with, I was shaken rigid, I’d never known anything quite like it; such sustained, hair-raising excitement, spiced with the occasional bad fright. Trees, villages, hills, hedges, they all streamed by; very little was said among the crew. When I’d collected my scattered wits and realised that this was second nature to all of them, I began to enjoy it a little more. We landed at Pershore, Rabbie said hello to one or two old friends, we lunched, took off again and came back at the same height, all the way. I was getting used to it by this time, but I still swallowed hard once or twice.
When we had landed and taxied in I came down the ladder after most of them. Rabbie and the crew were doing what we usually did then, taking off helmets, sorting out the navigation stuff, looking for some transport back to the Flights. As we lit cigarettes, and with his little secret smile, Rabbie said to me, “Enjoy it?”
“Rabbie,” I said to him, “excuse me for asking, but do you always do your cross-countries at nought feet?”
He gave his little sniggering laugh and looked down.
“Well, no,” he said softly, “but you have to let your hair down now and again.”
Some of it must have rubbed off on Sandy, too, except that he gave himself a bad fright. It really could have been quite a shaky do. Several of us were in ‘B’ Flight office one afternoon, doing nothing in particular. We had a couple of kites on, that night,
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but most of us had been stood down too late to go into G.Y. The phone rang and Abey answered it, his face, as usual, giving nothing away. He looked across at the blackboard as he listened and our eyes followed his, wondering.
“That’s right, E-Edward,” he said, and rang off.
The board said, ‘E’ – Sgt. Sanders – Local flying – airborne 1420.’
“We’d better go and see this,” Abey said calmly, straightening a few things on his desk, “Sandy may be in a bit of bother, it appears that he’s hit something south of here. He’s coming in now.”
We piled into the Flight van and hared out to dispersal. Just then, we saw ‘E’ land, quite a reasonable one, too. We breathed again. Then, as we waited, he taxied in and we could see that where the port half of his windscreen had been there was just a jagged hole. The air-intake on his port engine looked peculiar, too, it was half bunged up with something greyish. Sandy stopped in his dispersal and cut the engines. The ladder came down and he climbed down it a bit tentatively, looking decidedly sheepish when he saw the reception committee.
He and Abey talked rather quietly together while the crew climbed down and stood around, fiddling with their ‘chutes and navigation stuff, surreptitiously brushing what looked very like feathers from off themselves and trying to look unconcerned. Someone who had overheard the conversation muttered, “Been low-flying over the Wash and hit a bunch of seagulls.” We grinned at [sic] bit at that, once we knew they were all O.K. Abey’s poker face said nothing as he turned away from Sandy. Then someone nearby said, “Hey, Sandy, what’s wrong with your face?” and when we looked closely we could see a piece of pink seagull flesh sticking to his cheek. Sandy put a hand up to his face, then had a look at what he had collected. Slowly, his eyes rolled up, his knees buckled and he fell at our feet in a dead faint. Abey, good type that he was, hushed it all up.
Not long afterwards, a handful of our kites went as part of a smallish force to attack one of the north German ports. It might have been Emden. Rabbie was on it; I wasn’t. Next morning, after breakfast, Teddy put his head around the door of the ante-room, his eyes starting out of his thin, pale face.
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“Hey!” he exclaimed, “You want to have a look at Rabbie’s kite, he’s had a right shaky do!”
He tore off out, to tell someone else. Quickly, we made our way up to the Flights. ‘E’ was parked right outside ‘B’ Flight hangar, and most of the starboard mainplane out board of the engine just wasn’t there. The wing finished in a ragged, twisted jumble of geodetics. Obviously, they had had a very narrow escape indeed from a burst of flak. I climbed aboard. The wheel was tied over to port with a chunk of rope. I found Rabbie, poking idly about at this and that.
“Dodging the photographic bod,” he said with an apologetic grin. There was one of the photographic section erks outside now, fussing about with a camera, taking pictures of ‘E’. Rabbie looked paler than usual, thoughtful.
“How the hell did you manage to get it back like this?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, with his nervous little snigger, “it wasn’t too b-bad, Sandy and I tied the wheel over a bit,” and nodded towards it.
The photo erk had gone and the sightseers had thinned out to two or three. I climbed out, chatting to Rabbie, but as we talked, I could see something different. There was something in his eyes that I’d never seen there before, a distant, almost other-worldly expression.
When I left the Squadron I lost touch with everyone, including, at times, myself. It was a long time afterwards, and I was talking to Eric on the telephone. We had reached the “Do you remember” and “What happened to” stage.
“By the way,” I asked him, “what ever happened to Rabbie?”
“Rabbie?” Eric replied, “Oh, I’m afraid he was shot down, you know.”
It had happened near the Dutch town of Beverwijk. Rabbie had finished up as a P.o.W with Eric and Abey, then had been repatriated on account of injuries to his hands, Eric said. Some of his crew had been killed.
In June 1989 a Dutch air-war historian took me to a beautifully-kept cemetery in the small town of Bergen, near Alkmaar, to visit the graves of a contemporary crew of ‘B’ Flight whom I had known.
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As I was turning to leave, my eye, quite by chance, noticed another name on a nearby tombstone, one which I immediately recognised, that of our Commanding Officer, who had gone missing while I was with the Squadron. Very near to him and to the others was yet another familiar name, that of Sandy.
Each name of all the aircrew, some 200 of them, who are buried there, is inscribed upon the bells of the local church, just across the way. One of the bells is perpetually silent, representing those who could not be identified. And one bell bears the inscription – “I sound for those who fell for freedom.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Letter home [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LETTER HOME [/underlined]
I wonder how many premonitions the average person has during his or her lifetime. It’s not the sort of topic which crops up very much in normal conversation, so I don’t think it can happen all that often. But when it does, and you believe you are being given a glimpse of the future, it can be quite weird and rather frightening. So far, I can recall three instances personally. One was at a very long interval of time, one was just the opposite, while the third - . That is what the letter home was about.
A week or two ago I was watching a debate from the House of Commons on television. There was a fairly sparse attendance, the subject became rather mundane and my attention, frankly, was beginning to wander. I looked along the green leather seats where the numerous absentees would normally have sat. Surely, I thought, surely seats like those had played some part in my life at some time?
Then I had it – they were the colour of the wooden-framed armchairs in the anteroom of the Mess at Binbrook. And I was immediately reminded of the first, and very strong, premonition I had had there, and was coping with, as I sat in one of those chairs, almost alone in the quiet room on that winter’s night, waiting to take off on a raid over Germany – and not expecting to come back.
Looking into my logbook now, I can narrow it down to one of four dates, but the actual date is of no importance. The premonition I had, though, was important, very important to me, very gradual, but extremely strong.
Abey, our Flight Commander in ‘B’ Flight was, in every sense of the word, a gentleman. He was then in charge of eight or ten crews of six men each which comprised ‘B’ Flight, and he had, among many other things, the responsibility of selecting crews under his command for any operations on any particular night, or day. Fortunately, the latter were scarce enough. Sometimes the choice was simple, if a maximum effort was called for by Command or Group, he simple sent everyone whose aircraft was serviceable. But sometimes
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he had to choose, and no-one envied him that, nor ever queried his choice. Querying things like that is something that happens in films, usually bad ones. If a “fresher” target was specified for the night’s operations then novice crews, who had done up to four of five ops were selected to go. If he had any choice at all, any crew due for leave went on leave, that same morning. He did his job well and fairly; he was a very considerate man.
On the day of which I write, our crew had done three trips, one of which had had an abrupt and near-catastrophic ending. A “fresher” was called for that night, so we were “on”, in S for Sugar. I have been wondering, recounting this, trying to remember what my reactions were during the time of an op, from the first knowledge that I was going, that night, to some unknown target, whose location and identity would not be known until briefing that afternoon, until the moment after one’s return, sitting down thankfully, tired and strained, into a chair, with a mug of coffee and rum in one hand and a cigarette in the other, for interrogation after the trip. When we would look around the room to see who was seated at the other tables with the Intelligence Officers, recounting their stories of the night’s experiences. However, although I readily confess that not a single trip went by when I was not to some extent frightened, quite often very frightened indeed, my first reaction on being told that I was among those who were on that night’s operations was one of intense excitement, of being immediately strung up to a very high pitch, reactions accelerated beyond their normal speed, like those of a sprinter on his starting blocks, alert for the sound of the pistol which will launch him on his rapid way.
We did our night flying test in S for Sugar as soon as we knew we were operating that night. It was winter, but not too bad a winter until then. This particular morning was cold and cloudy with a breeze from the south-west, the odd spot of rain in the wind, a typical winter’s morning in Lincolnshire, in fact. We flew around for a while to test that everything in the aircraft was working properly, except for the bomb-release mechanism and the guns. We weren’t bombed up yet, of course, and we would test the guns over the sea once we were on our way that night. I was still quite strung up with excitement
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and anticipation. None of us thought or said very much about the target, it was bound to be one of the French Channel ports, the docks, or course, and they were reckoned to be a piece of cake – straight in from the sea, open the bomb doors, press the tit and then home, James.
Briefing was at 1430 hours. By that time the weather wasn’t so good. The cloudbase was down, the wind was getting up and it was colder. At briefing there was ourselves and a handful of others. The target wasn’t one of the Channel ports, it was Wilhelmshaven, on the north German coast, not what we had expected, and quite a tough target. Weather prospects were moderate to fairly poor, with a front coming across which we would have to contend with, a risk of icing. It didn’t sound all that funny. But there it was.
The excitement of the morning had worn off and I was beginning to feel a bit deflated when I went back to the Mess after briefing. There was nothing to be done until teatime, and takeoff was fairly late, to catch the late moon. About five hours to kill. As I thought about it like that I realised that the expression could be taken more than one way, and I didn’t like one way very much. I went back to my room with the sense of deflation sliding quickly downwards towards a feeling of depressive foreboding. It was not as though the target was the toughest one in the book, tough enough by any standards, but no long stretch of enemy territory to be crossed there and back. Not exactly, as we had thought, the reasonably easy one we had expected, but not as bad as it might have been. Or so I tried to tell myself.
The foreboding grew inside me the longer I sat in my room. I was alone; Frank Coles, my room-mate, was Squadron Signals Leader and usually had things to do even when the rest of us were free. Out of the window I could see that the weather was steadily worsening, which added to my unease. I sat there, smoking, and trying to read. It was useless. I became more and more certain that this trip was the one I wasn’t coming back from, that we were going to be shot down. Once I had arrived at that realisation I found I was almost able to visualise it happening; I had already seen it happen to others nearby. But tonight it was going to happen to us, and that would be the end of me.
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There was nothing I could do about it; I had to go through with it, it had to be faced. The only practical thing I should now see to was to write a letter home, to my parents. The trouble was that I had very little idea what I wanted to say to them. For several reasons, I felt they hadn’t had the time to get to know very much about me, as an individual. But still, I felt I owed them this letter.
So I wrote to them. It was a very short letter, I remember, but its exact contents I cannot recall. I know I started in the conventional way – “by the time you read this you will know I have been reported missing,” and so on, and I know that after I had addressed the envelope I added, “To be forwarded only in the event of my failing to return from an operation.”
By the time I had stewed over this wretched little piece of writing it was teatime. There was still no sign of Frank. I was glad of some company in the Mess, although there weren’t all that many in, with only the freshers operating. So I had tea. It was usually a high tea if there were ops on. On this evening, as on many others, there were kippers, toast and tea. Surprisingly, I found I was very hungry. I think I was determined to enjoy what was going to be my last meal. So I savoured every morsel. As dusk fell I stretched myself out in front of the roaring fire in an armchair in the anteroom to await the time to go up to the Flights to get dressed for the trip. The armchair had wooden arms and sides with a green leather padded seat and back.
Every time the tannoy went with some commonplace announcement that someone was wanted at his Flight or Section I would jump a little and stiffen when the W.A.A.F. said, “Attention, please, attention, please,” and then slump down again when I heard that it wasn’t ops being scrubbed. There weren’t many people in the anteroom, and as the fireplace was at one end and I was very close to it, I couldn’t really see who was in the room with me. I was concentrating on absorbing, I think, every scrap of physical comfort I could from the heat of the fire, in what I now firmly believed to be the last few dwindling hours of my life. I could hear sleet or snow spitting as it dropped down the chimney on to the fire.
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I was seeing all sorts of strange pictures in the glowing coals. What they were I didn’t know, faces mostly, it seemed, but whose, I couldn’t distinguish. I started as one of the Mess waiters drew the big curtains across the blacked-out windows. Seeing me in battledress and roll-necked sweater and knowing that I was “on”, he gave me a half-smile as he piled some more coal on to the fire. The heat on my legs died as he did so.
“Is it still sleeting?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered quietly, “still sleeting.”
Tactfully, he didn’t add “It’s a rotten night to be on ops,” or anything like that, but I knew that was what he was thinking. I nodded. He walked quietly away about his business and we left it at that. The wind was starting to get up quite a lot now. I could hear the slap of the sleet hitting the window like a wet cloth in the gusts. Surely they would scrub it? In an hour or so we were due to take off for Wilhelmshaven. I wondered what the weather was like over there, whether they were thinking that it was such a bad night that they were safe from R.A.F. raids. Then I thought about the letter. Was I being stupid? Was this all a lot of childish, hysterical nonsense, over-dramatising oneself? I still thought not; I was still convinced in my own mind.
Why did one write such things? I mused. It made no difference, really, to the outcome, someone would die, someone would be bereaved, that was all there was to it. I wondered how many people I knew actually wrote them, too. I suppose one reason for writing a last letter was to say a final goodbye to someone who was dear to one, but I think also it was to prove to oneself that one was ready and spiritually prepared to leave this life, to give up all those things regarded hitherto as important and to enter a new existence, to meet again one’s friends who were already there, like going from one room of a house to another via the dark passage which we call death. There was a Sergeant pilot in ‘B’ Flight, whom I knew quite well, Norman Spray. He left a letter for his mother. He went missing on a raid the following spring and his words of parting from his mother were so memorable that they found their way on to the page of a national newspaper which I happened to read. I am sure he was an exceptional person to have written in the way he did.
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The minutes ticked slowly by. Hypnotised by the heat from the fire and, I suppose, subconsciously withdrawing from what I believed were my final hours, I think I must have dozed for a few minutes. The tannoy announcement jerked me back to complete wakefulness. The W.A.A.F. said, “All night flying is cancelled, repeat, all night flying is cancelled.”
I immediately started to shiver uncontrollably, despite the fire’s heat. I moved my body around in the chair to try to stop the shakes, to try to hide them in case someone should see. I fidgeted around, stretched, blew my nose, then looked around the ante-room to see whether anyone was watching me. There were one or two ground staff Officers, and Teddy, Eric and Doug, the first two talking quietly over their beer, Doug reading a book, absently stroking his luxuriant ginger moustache with the back of his hand, an unconscious gesture which we all knew well. Outside, the wind moaned, the sleet was still tapping on the window, as though someone were asking quietly to be let in, perhaps like the messenger of Death itself. For not long afterwards, He would claim two of those three.
I took something of a grip on myself and pressed the bell at the side of the fireplace. When the steward came I ordered a beer. I could hardly believe this was happening. He was the man who had drawn the curtains earlier. He took my order, then hesitated and said, not looking directly at me, “You’ll not be sorry, sir, about the scrub, not on a night like this?”
“No, I’m not,” I said, “not on a night like this.”
The shakes had just about stopped by then. I went across to Eric and had a chat and another beer. Neither of us said much about the scrub, he hadn’t been on, anyhow, being in Abey’s crew. I certainly didn’t complain about it. Eventually I went up to my room and furtively tore up the letter into small pieces. I don’t think Frank noticed anything, if he guessed what I was doing he was too tactful to mention it. Then I undressed and got into bed. I was probably going to live for another twenty-four hours.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Low-level [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LOW-LEVEL [/underlined]
By the third day, those of us who were in the know were getting a little twitchy.
When you are briefed no less than three days in a row for the same target, when you are told it is to be a low-level night attack, when you learn that the whole thing is so hush-hush that only pilots and Observers are to know what the target is until after you are airborne, you only need one scrub to make you jump a bit at loud noises.
After the second briefing, when there was another scrub, and the following day, when there was a third identical briefing, you could have almost cut slices of the tension out of the air with a knife. To begin with, nothing in that city had ever been bombed before. When we knew where it was to be, we looked at each other with eyebrows raised. For very good reasons, we had to go in low and make one hundred per cent certain that we were going to hit the target when the Observer pressed the bomb-release. If we were not certain, then, ‘dummy run’ and round again. No trouble in that, we were told, there were no defences worth speaking of, only a couple of light flak guns at the airport some distance away. Just avoid that, and we shouldn’t have any bother.
So we were told at the briefings, all three of them. Did we believe it could possibly be true? We made ourselves believe it, I think, but it took some doing. Weren’t we used to the Channel Ports, to Kiel, to Essen and the Ruhr, where, in all conscience it was deadly enough at twenty thousand feet at night, let alone at – what was to be our bombing height? – two thousand five hundred feet, straight and level down a corridor of flares?
We would have liked to believe it, certainly. It sounded so – different, so well organised. 235 aircraft, which to us was one hell of a lot, including some Manchesters and four-engined Stirlings and Halifaxes. The first wave was going to drop flares, and keep dropping them so that the whole place would be well lit up, and once
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they'd done that and let go some incendiaries and cookies to start the ball rolling, then the second wave, which was us, would come in and stoke the place up with high explosive, as low as the safety height, 1,000 feet per 1,000 pounds of the heaviest bomb, permitted. If there hadn’t been some Manchesters carrying 2,000 pounders, in our wave, we would have been down around 1,000 feet, I suppose.
What was going through the minds of Mick, our wireless op. in S-Sugar, and Johnnie and Bill, the gunners, being completely in the dark as to what it was all about, I could only guess. But they accepted the situation stoically, and never asked one question. Except when we were clambering out of the transport at dispersal, really on our way, on the third evening, then Mick, who was a married man, said quietly to Cookie, “Is this a suicide effort, skip?” I believe he was recalling those two posthumous V.C.s our Squadron had won less then [sic] two years before, when we had lost five out of five Fairey Battles trying to stop the German advance through the Low Countries. Anyhow, Cookie shook his head.
“No, Mick, it’s not a suicide effort, at least not if I can help it!”
I’m afraid I couldn’t resist mischievously chipping in then, just as we were sorting ourselves out in the dusk of that early March evening under the shadow of S-Sugar’s nose in the quietness of our dispersal.
“You won’t be needing your oxygen mask, though,” I said.
Mick’s eyes widened. It was a bit cruel of me.
“You’re kidding, Harry, aren’t you?”
“No, pukka gen,” I laughed.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Mick said, his Brummy accent very pronounced.
Col, our Aussie Observer, came to the rescue.
“Don’t let it worry yer, Mick,” he said, “it’s going to be a piece of cake. Or so they say, anyhow.”
I was hoping this didn’t fall into the category of famous last words, as we climbed aboard. I found I was yawning quite a lot, while a muscle in my back was trying to do something all on its own.
We took up our positions in the kite. As co-pilot, mine was in the Wimpy’s astrodome until Cookie wanted me to fly it, or needed
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a hand with something up front. I checked the intercom point, saw we had a flare handy in case we had to do a bit of target-finding ourselves, and I groaned inwardly when I saw the stack of nickels, as our propaganda leaflets were known, which I was going to have to shove out over northern France. I took one out of the nearest bundle and saw a cartoon of a depraved and vicious-looking S.S. man, headed, ‘Personalité de l’ordre nouveau.’ I hoped I didn’t meet him later that night in some French gaol.
Faintly through my helmet I heard someone shout “Contact port!” and the engine shuddered into life with a roar, bluish flames spitting out of the exhausts. Then that tune, which remained obsessively with me throughout that night, and which, ever since, has evoked such vivid memories of it, started going through my head – ‘The last time I saw Paris’. Now we were rumbling around the perimeter track. The black shapes of the hangars, topped by their red obstruction lights, came and went. A little group of four or five W.A.A.F.s near the end of the runway waved to us as we passed them. A dazzling green light flashed three dots, our aircraft letter, at us, Cookie opened the throttles and the tail lifted. Then we were charging down the runway, the Drem lighting whipping past the wingtips as the Merlins’ roar rose to a howl at full throttle.
When we had turned on to the course for Reading, our first pinpoint, Cookie checked that everyone was O.K. Then he said, calmly over the intercom, “Now I can tell you where we’re going. It’s the Renault factory in Paris and it’s a low-level do, two to three thousand feet, and there’ll be bags of flares so we can bomb spot on.” There was stunned silence, then Johnnie said coolly, “Paris? That sounds like fun.”
The tension was released and we all laughed immoderately. Cookie told them about the lack of defences, how the crossing-in point had been carefully chosen at the mouth of the Somme, near Abbeville, and how we had to be very sure not to drop anything outside the target area, in case of casualties to the French population.
“I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower,” Mick said.
From the rear turret Bill, our Canadian gunner, drawled, “Don’t worry, at our height you’ll be able to count the bloody rivets!”
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The evening was clear as our home beacon slowly fell away behind us. It seemed strange to be cruising easily along at about five thousand feet; usually we climbed steadily all the way to whichever target we were bound for. There wasn’t much talk over the intercom, I think the boys were busy digesting the news about the target – and the bombing height. Then the moon came up, huge, brilliant and impersonal, a beautiful sight, away to port. Reading was, as always, easy to find, the railway station was like a dimly-lit flarepath, but it gave us a good pinpoint, however much it might have helped the Luftwaffe. We crossed the south coast dead on track and E.T.A. and headed out over the Channel. Cookie switched off the navigation lights. Shortly afterwards, Mick reported that he had switched off the I.F.F. We were on our own now.
In only a few minutes it seemed, Johnnie said, “Enemy coast ahead, skipper.” I peered forward from the astrodome. The pewter colour of the Channel showed a faint line of dirty white a few miles ahead of us. A few degrees to starboard some light flak was going up, and I reported it for Col to log.
“Probably Le Tréport”, I said, “they always put on a firework display for us.”
Johnnie said, “I can see a big estuary dead ahead.”
“O.K., Johnnie,” Col replied, “let’s know when we cross the coast. Next course one seven two magnetic, skip.”
Then Johnnie said calmly, “Anyone see an exhaust almost dead ahead, same height?”
I hurried forward to stand beside Cookie, and we both saw it at once, a point of orange light, straight ahead of us, and nastily at our own height.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Cookie said, “I don’t want to be formating [sic] on a goddam 109.”
“Nickels due out in five minutes, Harry,” Col told me.
“O.K., Col, thanks,”
I went aft again, to the flare chute. I heard Cookie say, “That fighter’s still going our way, we must be bloody close to him. I’m going to alter course a bit to try to lose him, then fly parallel to our proper track. Turning ten degrees starboard now, Col.”
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In the darkness of the fuselage I unlocked and extended the flare chute and started pushing the bundles of leaflets out. Once free of the aircraft the slipstream would release each bundle from its elastic band and spread them all over the countryside below. In a little while I heard Cookie say, “That bloody fighter’s still there, damn him to hell.”
Johnnie said, “We’re catching him up a bit, too, skipper.”
“That’s bloody impossible,” Cookie exclaimed angrily. He sounded rather exasperated.
I finished the nickelling, stuffed a couple into my pockets for souvenirs, brought the flare chute in and went forward again, past Mick, who gave me a thumbs-up, and Col. Johnnie had been quite right, that glowing point of red light was definitely larger now. The countryside under the rising moon was a leaden blur, now and again shot with a vein of silver as the moonlight reflected off a river.
“How long to the target, Col?” Cookie asked.
“E.T.A. eighteen minutes.”
The light was really getting quite a bit bigger now and we were still heading straight towards it. Suddenly, it all became clear to me.
“Hey, Cookie!” I exclaimed, “that’s no fighter exhaust, it’s the bloody target!”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “Jesus!” Cookie said in awe, “You could be right, Harry, you could just be right, at that. Check our course, Col, one seven two magnetic, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s it skip, one seven two.”
Now we could see it. It was a fire on the ground, like a huge, glowing ember alone in the darkness. I went back to the astrodome. A pinpoint of white light hung above the glow, like a star, then a second, a third, a fourth. The flares were going down, dropped by the markers, for us. Cookie called out, “O.K., fellers, this looks like it, but we want to be good and sure where we bomb.” As we flew towards the blaze Johnnie said, “I can see the Seine, the fire’s right on it.”
Col said, “Part of the works is on a sort of banana-shaped island
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in the river, we’ve got to fly slap over it.”
We could see almost a dozen flares now, brilliant, whitish-yellow, and trailing rope-like white smoke as they slowly sank towards the ground, suspended from their parachutes. I could dimly see buildings below us. Cookie was turning S-Sugar gently to come in from the south-west; all the action was now on our port beam, then on our port bow.
Suddenly, away to starboard, two light flak guns pumped a few rounds of coloured tracer upwards, but there could have been no aircraft anywhere near them.
“Light flak away to starboard, skip,” I said, “only a few rounds, I think they’ve gone down to the stores to get some more ammo.”
“Just keep an eye on it, Harry.”
I was humming the words of that song to myself,
“The last time I saw Paris,
I saw her in the Spring….”
We were heading straight in now, flares on either side of our nose. The ground was almost invisible against the glare ahead from the fire and the lines of flares hanging in the sky. Col said, “Coming forward, skip.”
A few more rounds of tracer hosed up, away to starboard, but I didn’t even bother to report it. The lack of opposition near at hand was quite uncanny; we certainly weren’t used to this sort of thing. I was searching the sky for fighters, tracer, heavy flak-bursts, but there was nothing. Just the flares, dozens of them now. We were right among them, flying straight and level down a well-lit avenue.
I saw a dim shape loom up, dead ahead, growing rapidly and menacingly larger every second.
“Turn port, skip, quick!” I shouted.
Cookie yanked her nose round. A Hampden, bomb-doors open, hurtled past us on a reciprocal course, obviously completely disobeying briefing instructions as to the direction of the bombing run. He was almost close enough to read his identification letters.
“The stupid bastard,” said Cookie, “what the hell’s he doing?”
“Bomb doors open, skip,” Col said tightly.
“Bomb doors open, Col!”
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The inferno had vanished under our nose. There was a long silence while Col directed our track up to the target. I peered down, but I could only see a jumble of city buildings; I was trying to find the Arc de Triomphe.
“I’ve got that island coming up,” Col said, his excitement showing in his voice, “left, left, steady, right a bit, steady, steady – bombs gone!”
I felt the rumbling jolt as we dropped our load on the Renault factory.
“Bomb doors closed,” Cookie called.
“Oh, bloody marvellous!” Bill almost shouted from the rear turret, “spot on, Col, you got the first one bang on the island and the rest of the stick went right across the factory, I saw them bursting!”
Some distance ahead there was a sudden flash from the ground, a yellowish fire which turned redder and spread out, in a bend of the Seine.
“Some poor sod’s bought it, about one o’clock, five miles,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Cookie, I can see it. Don’t know what the hell he was doing up there.”
I looked back at the target, now a sea of flame beneath the brilliance of the unearthly light of the flares and the moon. A sudden eruption of flame shot up from the factory as I watched.
“Christ! Did you see that?” Bill called, “someone’s hit a goddam petrol tank or something.” We learned later that one of our Flight Commanders, Squadron Leader Jackson, had scored a direct hit on a large gas holder; it was that we had seen.
But the other fire, the burning kite on the ground in the bend of the river, drew our eyes to it as I took over the controls from Cookie.
“Poor sods,” Johnnie said quietly, “I hope they got out of it.”
We droned on over northern France, heading for Abbeville and home. But the excitements of the evening were not over yet. Half way to the French coast Johnnie reported a light flashing from the ground, to starboard of our track. I looked across between the nose and the mainplane and saw it, a square of yellow light, bravely flashing
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di-di-di-dah, “V for Victory”. Col came up to look.
“Good on yer, mate,” he said laconically. Those people down there in Beauvais were risking their lives by signalling to us their appreciation and encouragement, and I felt a strong bond had been forged between them, whoever they were, and us, in S-Sugar.
We flew on towards the mouth of the Somme. Bill said he could still see the target burning, many miles behind us now, and we were riding on the crest of a wave at the obvious success of the attack. We’d never known anything like it before and we hoped we would know many like it again. And as the Renault factory burned in Paris and the V’s flashed out from Beauvais I became aware that perhaps, after many disappointments, we were now beginning to win.
There was much elation as we flew homewards in “S”. We were a cheerful and buoyant crew, that night of all nights. I never dreamed that five short weeks hence I alone, of the six of us in the crew, would be the only one left alive.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] A boxful of broken china [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] A BOXFUL OF BROKEN CHINA [/underlined]
It had happened to Abey’s crew already (although I was not to know this until some years later), and no doubt it had happened to others whom I had known.
It was a common enough occurrence in those days, when we had simply to rely upon dead reckoning navigation with a bit of astro thrown in – there was nothing else to rely on, then – that at one time or another you would stray off track, fly unwittingly over a defended area, and get thoroughly well shot at. I use the words ‘thoroughly well’ advisedly, in the full knowledge that I shall be treading on many corns when I say that the German flak and searchlights left our own standing at the post when it came to accuracy and effectiveness. On several nights while at Binbrook, after our own air-raid sirens had sounded, we would troop out of the Mess to watch the progress of a raid on Hull and, so to speak, compare notes on the Luftwaffe’s reception with what we received, over Germany. We were all left in no doubt as to which target we would have chosen to be over, and would retire to the anteroom when the all-clear sounded, shaking our heads sadly and making rueful and derisive comments concerning the lack of effectiveness of our ack-ack gunners and searchlight crews compared to their German counterparts.
There were well-known hot spots over the other side, places whose names sent a slight chill up one’s spine when they were mentioned. Places such as Essen, or anywhere in the Ruhr, if it came to that, Hamburg, Heligoland, Sylt or Kiel. The list was a long one and the toll taken by those guns of unwitting tresspassers [sic] over their territory was heavy.
But no such reputation attached itself to a town called Lübeck, which we, among 2345 aircraft, were to attack one night late in March 1942.
“Lübeck?” we whispered to one another at briefing that day, “Lübeck? Never heard of it.”
We had it pointed out to us by our Intelligence Officer at the briefing, a bit beyond Kiel, a bit beyond Hamburg and between the two, almost on the Baltic coast. The defences, we were told, were
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believed to be negligible. Oh, yes? Well, we’d heard that about the Renault factory in Paris and that turned out to be true, so why shouldn’t this one be the same? Our confidence was very high after that Renault attack and this one was beginning to sound quite good. It was going to be largely a fire-raising raid. There were a lot of wooden buildings in the town, apparently. This really was beginning to sound very interesting, the chance to do to a German city what they had done on fifty-odd nights in succession to London. However, we were to carry an all-high explosive load in S for Sugar. We were warned, of course, of the proximity to our route of the defences, which we all knew about, of Kiel and Hamburg, but no-one really needed telling about those. We had experienced the Kiel defences twice before recently, once when 64 of us Wellingtons of 1 Group had put the battle-cruiser Gneisenau out of action for the rest of the war. I often wonder which of us it was that hit it, for I remember seeing some quite big explosions that night.
So, as far as the trip to Lübeck was concerned our crew, at least, were in a fairly happy mood. Looking back, I am sure that on that night, while not one of the six of us would have admitted it for fear of tempting whatever fates might be looking down upon us, we were each secretly thinking that this trip, this particular, and possibly only trip we would do, was going to go some way towards approaching the proverbial ‘piece of cake’. One could describe a trip in those terms while drinking, in a post-operational flood of euphoria, one’s mug of rum-laced coffee, waiting for interrogation, bacon and egg, and then bed, but no-one ever had the temerity to voice those words about any target before take-off. Not at any price. Fate was not there to be tempted in such a careless and impertinent manner.
The buoyant mood of the crew of S for Sugar was not in any way diminished when we gathered in B Flight hangar, all kitted up and ready – almost eager – to go. Mick, Johnnie and Col were standing near the crewroom door, looking amused about something, and with a fairly large cardboard carton half-hidden by their flying-booted legs. They had obviously said something to Cookie, now commissioned and doing his first op. as a P/O, for he was showing a lot of very white teeth in his amusement.
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“What’s going on?” I asked, puzzled. Such levity was very unusual before an op., we were invariably rather silent and very tense. Mick nodded towards the box.
“Present for the Jerries, from the Sergeants’ Mess,” he said in his Brummy accent, a broad grin splitting his face.
“What the hell have you got there?” I asked.
“Boxful of broken china,” Col said, “we’re going to chuck it out over the target. It’s all got the R.A.F. crest on, too.”
“Christ, you’re a mad lot of so-and-so’s,” I said through my laughter. Had I known it, I wasn’t going to laugh again for some time after that.
Recalling it now, although I cannot obviously tell where or how the navigation went wrong, it must have done so, somewhere along the line. Perhaps the reason was simply plain fatigue which led to our being off track and flying into trouble. Fatigue which, even as young, fit men, was inevitable when one realises that while the Lübeck raid took place on 28th March, this was our third operation in four nights. It almost alarms me now, to think of it as I write. We had taken off late on the evening of the 25th, the target being Essen, never any picnic. We had bombed what we believed to be Essen, but we had seen, remarked upon among ourselves at the time, and reported at our interrogation, that many aircraft seemed to be bombing much too far west, at Duisburg, we believed. But there were those among the Squadron aircrews who laughingly insisted that we had bombed too far east, perhaps Bochum, or even Dortmund. We still didn’t think so; we believed we had been in the right place and that the main force of the attack had hit Duisburg.
Apparently ‘Butch’ Harris thought so too, for after a few hours’ sleep we were awakened, fully awakened, with the news that ops were on again that night, the 26th. At briefing we learned the target. Essen again, time on target before midnight. It was a sticky trip, and we lost two of our crews, making three lost in the two nights. I have often wondered how many ex-aircrew are alive today who can say, “I was twice over Essen within twenty-four hours, and live to tell the tale.”
So, after the double attack on Essen, twenty-four hours’ rest
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and we were off to Lübeck, the piece-of-cake target compared to Essen, the wooden town which would burn like Hell itself. Provided we got there to see it, which, in the event, we didn’t.
It seemed that no sooner had we crossed the enemy coast, somewhere in Schleswig-Holstein, that a huge, bluish searchlight suddenly snapped on, and pinned us as surely as a dart hitting the bullseye. And not only one, but about a dozen followed. Then the flak started. Cookie was flying S for Sugar, I was in the astrodome. What use I was I don’t really know, except to try to see if there were any fighters about to attack us. Which was ridiculous, with all the flak they were throwing up at us. In any case, I couldn’t see a thing for the dazzling and horrifying glare of all those lights.
Cookie threw the Wellington about as though it were a Spitfire. The sensation was like that of being on a high-speed roller-coaster which had gone mad. And all the time, the intense, bluish flood of light which lit up the interior of the fuselage like day and the thumping of the flak-bursts around us. We had the sky all to ourselves, and, it seemed, all the defences of northern Germany were telling us that this time we weren’t going to make it back home. I was hanging on to whatever I could to stay standing upright in the astrodome, striving to see beyond the lights, to see whether there was a gap anywhere which Cookie could aim for. One second I would be pressed down on to the floor as he pulled out of a steep dive, the next, I would be hanging in mid-air, fighting against the negative ‘g’ and clutching wildly at the geodetics as he topped a climbing turn then put S for Sugar into another screaming dive. We carried one flare, heavy and cylindrical, four of five feet long. This suddenly left its stowage with the violent manoeuvres and hit me flush in the chest, almost knocking me to the floor. I managed to grab it before it damaged the aircraft and somehow secured it again.
I was, of course, frightened, but not uncontrollably so. As the shellbursts thudded around us my fear was climbing steadily, like the mercury in a thermometer on a hot day. I felt I was useless in the astrodome and longed to be doing something active. Quickly I unplugged my intercom and oxygen and clawed my way forward, to see if I could do anything to help Cookie, perhaps to take over
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if he was hit. Col was sitting with both hands clutching at the navigation table, looking rather sick and staring straight ahead of him, while Mick was fiddling with his radio, doing goodness knows what, I thought. I reached the cockpit, where Cookie was wrestling with the controls, his face shiny with sweat, his jaw tightly clamped. He glanced down at me as I plugged in my intercom. Dive, turn, climb, turn, dive – we were corkscrewing all over the sky, losing height all the time. Then Cookie snapped on his intercom switch.
“Col, get rid of the bloody bombs.”
Col came forward, his face looking ashen in the awesome light. A few seconds later I felt the bombs go with a thud. I thought, “I hope they kill somebody, destroy something down there, after what they’re doing to us.”
My fear had now risen to such a pitch it amounted almost to ecstasy.
“Get your chutes on everybody,” Cookie half-shouted over the intercom, “stand by to bale out.”
I obeyed, gladly, and wrenched open the escape hatch near to where I was standing. As I did so, a hole appeared in the aircraft’s fabric skin at my side and I wondered how much damage we had taken. It seemed it was merely a question of a second or two before we were hit and blown to pieces or set on fire, before I and the rest of the lads were torn apart by an exploding shell. They could not go on missing us for ever. I was impatient for the order to bale out; I felt I had had enough of this experience. At the same time I felt a deep sadness that I might be going to die without having led a complete life, a life in which I had not experienced many things. I had never known the love of a woman; I had never even had a steady girl friend.
Through the open escape hatch I could see the earth, a huge forest, stretching away under the moonlight. Still the lights and the flakbursts hammering at us, the smell of cordite. At that moment I came to accept that I was going to die, and at the same time, I now realise that I lost altogether, and for ever, the fear of death. Not the fear of pain, of great pain, which I still possess, but the fear of dying, of the flight into the unknown world of
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the hereafter. I am convinced that in those seconds, a corner of the veil was lifted and I was granted a glimpse of the boundless quietude of eternity. A great and mysterious calm flooded over me, enfolded me in a sensation of complete and deep peace. I now understand what the prayer means when it speaks of ‘the peace which passeth all understanding’. I could not then and cannot now understand it, but I am certain that at that moment, when I felt I was standing poised on the brink of death, the Almighty reached out His hand to me and I responded and touched it with mine. The memory of the incredible sensation of smoothly passing, as it were, through the fear barrier to another dimension, one of all-embracing calm, is one which has remained with me all my life.
Then suddenly it was quiet. Utter quiet – and darkness. We were through it, we had got away. There was the forest below us, and a stretch of water. The Baltic? It could only be. Cookie was almost drooping over the controls now, physically spent, nearly, I knew, at the point of exhaustion. He had saved all our lives.
“Take over, Harry, for Christ’s sake,” he said, and almost dropped out of the left-hand seat. I climbed quickly up into it and took the controls. Someone slammed shut the escape hatch and I inhaled deeply, very, very deeply, hardly able to believe we were still alive, still flying.
We were at a mere 2,0000 feet. Cautiously but quickly I tested the controls for movement and response. Satisfactory. Almost incredible, I thought.
“Col, where d’you reckon we are?” I asked.
“I know where we’ve been, right enough, Harry,” he said, “slap over Kiel.”
“Look, then, I think we’re a bit east or south-east of it now,” I told him, “I’ll steer three-one-five for the time being if you’ll give me a course to take us to that big point of land on the Danish North Sea Coast – you know the one I mean? Near Esbjerg?”
He knew it. He gave me the course and I started to climb; the more height we had, the better for us, in case of further trouble. We had lost thirteen thousand feet in all that evasive action but we needed to get at least some of it back. I had everyone make a check around the aircraft, but apart from a few minor holes we were intact, and there were no injuries of any sort. It seemed
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unbelievable that we could have survived the pounding we had taken with such negligible damage.
In the brilliant moonlight I saw the Danish coast creeping towards us, with the glint of the welcoming North Sea beyond. Esbjerg harbour was sliding beneath our nose; about eight ships were anchored there – and we hadn’t one single bomb left for them. I cursed aloud; they would have been sitting ducks for us. Not a shot was fired at us as I dived S for Sugar gently out to sea.
On the way back I discussed with Col where he thought we had been caught at first; he reckoned we had been trapped over Flensburg and then handed on, from cone to cone of searchlights until we were firmly into the Kiel defences, like a fly in a spider’s web. I was sure his assessment was correct as we had arrived over Esbjerg exactly as we had planned. I settled down to the long, thoughtful flight home. As usual, there was almost complete silence all the way. I am certain that there was not one among us who was not offering up a silent prayer of thanks.
After we had landed, switched off the engines and climbed stiffly down the ladder, we gathered in a group to congratulate Cookie. He was quite matter-of-fact about his marvellous effort. Then Mick said, in that edgy voice of his, “But listen here, Cookie, we used to have decent trips when you were a Sergeant, I hope all your trips as a P/O aren’t going to be like this one.”
He little knew that two short weeks and three trips later, he, Cookie and the rest of them, apart from me, would be dead, in unknown graves.
Then, inconsequentially, I remembered something.
“Hey! What happened to that boxful of china?” I asked.
The tension was easing.
“Oh, that?” Col said, “don’t worry, Harry, we’ll drop it on the blighters on our next trip, get our own back for tonight. Anyhow,” he added, “I’ll bet it’s the first time Kiel’s been dive-bombed by a single kite!”
I recall, with crystal clarity, waling down to interrogation. Col and I were together, he on my right, the others a few paces behind
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us. The moonlight was intensely bright and the hangars and the buildings of the Station stood out sharp and grey under its flood of cold light. There was not another soul to be seen and there was only the sound of our footsteps on the roads which led down from the hangars to the Headquarters buildings. I felt that I did not want to speak now, I did not want to break the spell of the feeling of that great “peace, from the wild heart of clamour” which was pervading my whole being, enfolding me in the purity of its white light, like that of the moon, shining down from God’s heaven on those whom he had spared that night, the night of the Lübeck raid.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] The end of Harry [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] THE END OF HARRY [/underlined]
“And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!”
II Samuel 18, v.33.
“Crews were given a forecast of clear weather over Essen but cloud was met instead. The bombing force became scattered and suffered heavily from the Ruhr Flak defences….. 7 Wellingtons, 5 Hampdens, 1 Halifax, 1 Manchester lost ….”
Martin Middlebrook and Chris Everitt,
The Bomber Command War Diaries.
I open my log-book to refresh my memory of that trip. The entry lies there in red ink, under my fingers, as clear as the day on which it was written, as is now my recollection of the night, which comes flooding back to me.
The date. We were in M for Mother. “Operations, Cologne. Diesel engine factory attacked with 4000 lb. bomb. Moderate heavy flak and searchlights in area, mostly on west side of town. Good weather.” A pencilled note, “263 aircraft in attack; 179 Wellingtons, 44 Hampdens, 11 Manchesters, 29 Stirlings. A new record for a force to a single target. 4 Wellingtons and 1 Hampden lost.” We got off lightly that night. Sometimes, like one we did to Essen, it was ten per cent. It was the last night I ever flew as one of Cookie’s crew.
We approached Bonn from the north-west at about twenty thousand feet, into the brilliant light of the moon, dead ahead. The sight was fantastic, beyond all imagining. We were just off the edge of a solid sheet of strato-cumulus at about ten thousand feet, stretching as far south and east as the eye could see, lit brilliantly white by the moon, and with its north edge, nearest us, as well-defined as the edge of an immense shelf. Out of this layer there towered
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a huge cumulo-nimbus, rearing up, its north side jet black, like a gigantic tombstone, to about 15 or 16 thousand feet and casting a tremendous shadow over the Rhineland. To the north of this cloud-shelf it was crystal-clear, hundreds of stars shone brightly and the Rhine writhed and gleamed like a thread of silver below us. We turned north, to track along it, the fifteen or so miles to Cologne.
We could see it ahead. There were six or eight searchlight cones, with a dozen to twenty lights in each, probing, leaning, searching the sky for a victim to pin like a sliver moth in the beams. Every now and again the cones would re-form to close the inviting gaps between them. Each cone would split in half, the lights from one half leaning one way, and the other half the other way, to join the neighbouring cones, which performed the same manoeuvre, to form new cones. It was hideously fascinating, almost hypnotic, to watch. There would seem to be no way through. The dozens of red flashes of the flakbursts, seen distantly, grew larger and more menacing as we approached. Light flak was hosing up, strings of red, green, orange and white, and below everything, the fires, three or four smallish ones, growing larger all the time. Big, bright, slow flashes as cookies exploded among the flames. We were tensed up as we carried ours in. M-Mother had been specially modified to carry the two-ton bomb which protruded some way below the belly of the kite, the bomb-doors of which had been removed. A single hit from a piece of shrapnel on the cookie’s thin, exposed casing and – the mind shied away from it.
So we felt naked with this inches beneath us as we edged through the searchlights, to the right of the Rhine, weaving constantly through the flak, which we could hear, thumping around us over the roar of the engines. We could see it flashing close to us on all sides. In our imaginations the cookie was growing in size; they could hardly miss it, I thought. More fires started below, a stick of bombs rippled redly across the darkened city, then another. Some incendiaries went down in a yellow splash. Or was it an aircraft going in? Still, the slow, bright flashes of the cookies going down on to Cologne. Col went forward. We could hear his harsh breathing over the intercom as he directed us into the bombing run, guiding M-Mother so that the target slid down between the wires of the bomb-sight.
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“Bomb gone!”
The kite thumped upwards as the cookie left us on its journey of destruction. A tight turn to starboard and we were heading back the way we had come, towards the surrealist cloudscape, the enormous, abrupt shelf with the grotesque tower looming up out of it.
On the way back Cookie called me up on the intercom.
“Will you take over, Harry?”
Someone else said, “come on, Harry, get us home.”
It sounded like Mick, the wireless op. Up to now I had always got them home. I had never in my life been called “Harry” by anyone until we were crewed up at O.T.U. But from them I would have happily accepted any nickname they cared to bestow on me. So we flew on through the night, and I got them home.
When we landed I found the M.O. waiting. He was usually to be seen somewhere in the background. This time, he singled me out and detached me from the weary crews who were standing around, clutching their helmets, drinking their rum-laced coffee, rubbing their faces and eyes to clear their fatigue before they were interrogated.
“How did it go?”
“O.K., Doc.”
“Any trouble?”
“The trip, or me?”
“You.”
“No more than usual.”
“Take your pill?”
“Yes.”
“No effect?”
“No.”
“Take this one, now. Get some sleep and see me in the morning after breakfast.”
“O.K., Doc.”
He slapped my shoulder and trudged off. I went into interrogation with the crew, lighting another cigarette as I did so. Ewart Davies was the Int. Officer at our table. We liked him. He didn’t push us too hard for answers, he was quick, quiet, and had some idea what it was like. He knew we wanted our egg and bacon – and bed. As we walked towards the table, Johnnie, our front gunner, gave me a
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quizzical look. Mac, now our rear gunner since Tommy had gone into hospital, was telling him how he’d chucked some empty bottles out over the target to fox the searchlights; it had worked, too. Gunners were a special breed, and had a special bond.
Next morning, I saw the Doc. He made no bones about it and came straight to the point.
“Come in, sit down. Now then, your grounded until you can have a Medical Board, and as soon as you can pack you’re going on six days’ sick leave.”
I felt as though someone had slammed a brick on to the back of my head. I had flown and lived with my crew for eight months. We had shared much together; more than that perhaps. We had shared everything from hilarious evenings in the “Market” to staring into the face of imminent death, where our expectation of life seemed to be measured in seconds. They had become indispensable to me, we were part of one another, our relationship uniquely deep. We knew one another’s strengths, and weaknesses. Where there was a weakness, and there were few, strength was drawn from the others. Where there was strength, we each drew from it fortitude and endurance. We were closer to each other than brothers and there was an unspoken-of bond of the deepest affection between us all which was greater in its way than anything else in the world of human experience. I was stunned to think I was being parted from them; it was something I had never imagined could possibly happen. Our lives were so much intermingled and we were so completely unified and interdependent that I couldn’t imagine life without Cookie, Col, Mick, Johnnie and Mac.
In a daze, I collected some kit together, saw the Adj. about my travel warrant and found Johnnie. He, of all the crew, was closest to me. We would always sit next to one another on our sessions in the “Market”; he was very quiet, absolutely imperturbable, the personification of steadfastness and quiet courage. Somehow I got to Grimsby, then to Doncaster. On Doncaster station I was surprised to meet Ewart, who had so many times gently interrogated us. Normally so ebullient, he too was now subdued.
“Posted to Northern Ireland,” he said ruefully, in his harsh Welsh
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voice, “Hell’s bells, I never wanted to leave 1 Group, but you’ll be back, don’t you worry.”
Nearly three years later I was to meet him in Malaya. We had much to tell each other then. But now, we were both thoroughly depressed. He saw me on to my train, we shook hands, wished each other “Happy landings” and I looked back at him as the train pulled out, a slight figure, smoking the inevitable cigarette in its long holder, hunched miserably on the end of the platform.
The sick leave was anything but cheerful. I was tired, moody and tense. I developed some new and unpleasant symptoms which I kept to myself. I slept fitfully, ate little, snapped at my parents and listened avidly to every news bulleting on the radio for word of bomber operations. There was a raid on Hamburg, five missing. I drank in the local pub, alone, more than I was accustomed to, lay in bed late, walked alone on the cliffs where I used to go with Ivor on his leaves from the R.A.F. Three of my friends were on the verge of call-up for aircrew and Ivor and another school friend, Connie, had already gone to Stirling squadrons which were being formed and expanded. Of these five, four were soon to die, but there was no knowing that at the time. I looked out the first three and let them eagerly pick my brains, it gave me some relief to be able to talk flying and it filled some of the dreadful blanks in the leave.
I was working it all out. I would apply to go on to night fighters, to get some of my own back, or on to Coastal Command Whitleys. The morning before I was due back off leave I heard the B.B.C. news bulletin.
“Last night, strong forces of Bomber Command attacked the Krupp’s works in Essen and other targets in Western Germany and Occupied France. Much damage was done and large fires were caused. From all these operations sixteen of our aircraft failed to return.”
I found my hands were clenched tightly. Essen. That was an old enemy; we had been twice in and out of its massive and savage defences inside twenty-four hours not so long ago, and it had cost us three of our crews, including our Commanding Officer, in the process. To this day I cannot say or hear that evil name, Essen, without a shiver going down my spine.
My parents saw me off at the station. I was glad to go back;
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I felt like a fish out of water away from a bomber station, it was my life. I was anxious to hear the latest gen., and to get my medical board over and done with, to know what was to become of me. The local train crawled from Doncaster to Grimsby; I found transport there to take me to Binbrook.
My room-mate Johnny Stickings had crashed in January when one engine had failed on the way back from Wilhelmshaven, and he and the only other survivor had been taken to hospital. A little later, another Observer and a good friend, Eric, had gone missing with Abey, our Flight Commander, on Kiel, along with Teddy Bairstow and his crew. I had been moved in with Eric’s room-mate Frank, to keep up our morale, I supposed.
I walked along the empty corridor in the Mess. Someone came out of the ante-room and passed me, a pilot whom I didn’t know. I wondered about him, who he was, who he was replacing. We said “hello”. I went up the stairs and turned left to my room. I opened the door and there was Frank, with his fresh complexion and almost Grecian good looks, putting away his laundry.
“Hiya, Frank,” I said, “what’s the gen?”
“Oh, hello, Harry,” he replied, looking up, “how do you feel? Did you have a good leave?”
“So-so,” I said, “but what’s the gen?”
He cleared his throat.
“Look, Harry,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Cookie, your crew, they went missing on Essen two nights ago.”
“Oh, Christ, Frank, no,” I said, dropping on to my bed, “Oh, God, they didn’t. Is there any news of them?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No, I’m afraid not. They went to Hamburg the other night and got back O.K. with everybody else, then they were on Essen and they didn’t come back, I’m afraid. They were in H-Harry, there was nothing heard from them after they took off. I’m terribly sorry.”
I put my head down into my hands; I was beyond speech. I heard Frank go out of the room very quietly. I thought, “I’ve let them down. I’ve failed them completely. I wasn’t with them to get them back home this one time when they needed me more than ever. I wish
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to God I had gone with them.”
And I wondered who had taken my place. Whoever you were, I thought, I would have you heavy on my conscience for the rest of my life, I would forever walk with your ghost at my side. I knew it was the end of something unique and very wonderful in my life, as though a great light had suddenly failed. It was the end of being called “Harry”. To this day I have never permitted anyone else to call me by that name, their name for me. H-Harry was gone for ever, taking them all with it to their eternity, and their own Harry had died with it, and with them.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Silver spoon boy [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] SILVER SPOON BOY [/underlined]
It’s not a part of the city I’m in very often, but a short while ago, after a lunch engagement, I found myself passing the narrow-fronted shop in the busy street which once was the cafe where I had met him for the last time.
I stopped for a minute or so, oblivious to the intense, grim-faced pedestrians brushing past me, and to the traffic as it roared by. And I remembered that day more clearly, it seemed to me, for in that area, while the occupants of the shops and offices have obviously changed many times, the upper facades of the Victorian buildings have remained virtually unaltered – as have my recollections of Jack.
So indeed has the mystery surrounding him, how he came to be in the R.A.F., what happened to him then, and why the man who might have answered my questions would not do so.
There seems to have been no actual beginning to our friendship, it was simply one of those things which developed out of nothing. Since we were merely children at the time I suppose we must have seen each other in the road, probably each of us with a parent, perhaps eventually spoken a few casual words, but looking back now I cannot put any sort of a date upon it. I suppose friendships are like that. My memories of the house we lived in then are intermingled, woven like the coloured threads of a tapestry, with the recollections of the lads I knew at that time – of Alan, of Norman and Peter, and of Jack himself, who lived nearest to me of them all.
He was an only child of quite well-to-do parents. His father was a tall, big-boned, genial man, fond of country pursuits. Jack’s mother was a pleasantly relaxed, comfortably built lady with shrewd eyes, a good amateur pianist who also had rather a fine contralto voice. Jack was very much the son of his parents, cheerful, almost jaunty in manner, generous to a degree and quite undemanding – this last perhaps because he had most things that an only child of fairly well-off parents could wish for. But although he was a boy whom I had heard described, somewhat jealously perhaps, as having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he was not by any means a spoiled child.
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Like most other boys of my age I lived an intensely active life, physically in top gear from morning till night. But there appeared to be a shadow across Jack’s life. He was frequently absent from school, and on those occasions when I called at his house I would be told by his mother that he was in bed, unwell. These vague illnesses were, more often than not, described as ‘overgrowing his strength’, but eventually there were hints of a weak heart. He began to be excused games at school and their doctor’s car appeared fairly regularly at their front door. Yet he was never anything else but buoyant and cheerful and I never remember seeing him look or behave very differently from a normal, healthy lad. My own parents, at those times when I told them that Jack was poorly, would give each other meaning looks and would now and again make veiled and half-audible remarks about some doctors who knew when they were on to a good thing. These bouts of malaise never seemed to alter in their frequency, and it became accepted, gradually but inevitably, in the small coterie of friends I had as a young teenager, that Jack was perhaps a little less fit than the rest of us.
Jack’s father, as I have mentioned,. Was interested in country life, and in particular, in shooting; he owned a beautiful and gentle-natured black Labrador, by name Prince. Jack’s uncle was a farmer near to the small country town of B - , some sixty miles away, and close to some good shooting. It was only natural that Jack’s family should spend most of their holidays there. One summer it happened that my parents were going through a period of considerable financial stringency; there had never been any luxuries in my life, but now, even the necessities were scarce.
Then Jack’s father, perhaps being aware of our circumstances, and being the generous man he was, casually asked me if I would like to spend two weeks of the summer holidays with them on the farm. My parents readily and gratefully agreed; I was in the seventh heaven of delight. It was an idyllic fortnight, the car drive there and back were memorable adventures enough, to me, at any rate, without anything further. We had the run of the marginal land on which Jack’s uncle grazed his stock, the scenery was very agreeable, there was impromptu cricket to be played, drives in the country and to
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wonderful, deserted beaches nearby. The discordant note, as far as I was concerned at any rate, was sounded by the early-morning shoot which I attended, crouched unhappily in the butts near the sea’s edge in the half-light of a chilly dawn, while Jack’s father blazed away at the beautiful and harmless ducks and we regaled ourselves with bottles of cold tea, which were regarded by the others, at least, as something of both ritual and delicacy. A little while ago I found, at the bottom of a drawer, a photograph, startlingly clear, of Jack and me standing against a haystack during that holiday, two gawky youths grinning into the camera, with me holding Jack’s cricket bat. I was to visit the farm once again.
When the war came, the little crowd of my friends and I, apart from Jack, went our various ways. It is difficult now to place the events of that time in their correct sequence, the constantly recurring pain of many recollections has tended to blur the outlines, but never to soften the impacts of those tragic times. The two events connected with Jack, I am now astonished to realise, were separated by almost three years of war – in my mind they seemed to be telescoped together, their perspective foreshortened by the passage of time.
Strangely enough, my own family’s ancestors had some connections with B - , and my father, who was always much more interested in the family tree than I ever was, had paid one or two visits to the place over the years to search the parish register for reference to our name and to contemplate the inscriptions on our forebears’ tombstones in the shady churchyard on the side of the hill.
My father was quite obviously under considerable stress during the war; the office where he worked was constantly understaffed as more and more men were called up into the Forces. There were also frequent Air Raid Precautions duties which he could not neglect, nor would ever have dreamed of doing so. In addition, my mother’s health was beginning to fail, and they had two sons in the forces, one of whom was engaged in duties where the chances of eventual survival were rated as about two in five.
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Early in 1942 my own crew, in my absence on sick leave, were reported missing on a raid over the Ruhr. I think my parents must have noticed the effect this had upon me, for they decided that on my next leave we could go to B – for a few days, staying at the hotel in the small market place, if I was agreeable. I thanked them, and thought it might be a good idea. It was late spring when we went, with blue and white quiet skies and sunlight pleasantly shining on the grey stone buildings. The hotel was almost empty; B - , while on the main road, was also between two county-towns which drew the local people like the twin poles of a magnet.
Released from operational flying I embarked upon what was to be several months of drinking far more than was good for me, in an attempt to dull the agony of mind and self-recrimination I was undergoing. This must have been painfully apparent to my parents, and must have caused them considerable heartache, but – and I shall always be grateful to their memories for this – they uttered no word of reproach.
How we spent our time there I cannot remember, perhaps I was in a constant alcoholic haze. The only event I can recall with any clarity was the afternoon we visited Jack’s uncle’s farm and I introduced my parents to Mr. Brown, his wife and his two daughters. I remember it as having the appearance and atmosphere of a scene in a stage play. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, gestures seemed limp and exaggerated and we sat like figures in a tableau against the backdrop of the scarcely-remembered living room of the farmhouse, small-windowed, lit by an oil-lamp, a heavy, dark red tasselled tablecloth draped over the massive dining table. Outside, I could see the shelter-belt of firs waving lazily in the breeze, hypnotic in their motion. My parents and the Brown family sat stiffly in their best clothes. What they talked about, I have no recollection; I said not more than perhaps a dozen words. I remember that one of Jack’s cousins kept looking curiously in my direction from time to time. Jack, now working in a branch of the same bank as his father, was, naturally, mentioned. I hadn’t seen him for quite some time, but someone said he would like to meet me when we went back home, before I returned to my unit.
The arrangements were made. My parents and I got off the bus at its city terminus in the Haymarket. They would make their way to the railway station and so home, I would join them later, to pack my kit at the end of my leave, as that day was my last.
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I remember feeling released and lighter in spirit when I left them, and guilty because I did so, but the sense of freedom was pleasant after a week when it had been necessary to cork down my feelings tightly and be on my best behaviour. Yet I almost dreaded going back to my unit, a Bomber Group Headquarters, where I had been given a sinecure of a job while I waited for a medical board, for the news that I might receive of the fate of the crew of H-Harry. As I walked through the grey city streets it seemed as though I were treading the razor-edged ridge of a mountain in a high wind.
We had arranged to meet at a little cafe on one of the main streets. Jack was standing outside, smartly dressed, tall, looking well and, as usual, cheerful. We shook hands.
“Hello,” he said, “nice to see you again. How are you?”
I lit a cigarette as we walked into the quiet cafe.
“So-so,” I replied, “a lot has happened since I saw you last.”
We sat at a small table, ordered coffee and biscuits. I looked at him and said, “You’ll have heard about my crew, have you?”
He looked down at his cup and nodded. I thought he appeared more adult than I’d ever noticed before.
“Yes,” he replied, “I had heard. How do I tell you how sorry I am?”
“Don’t try,” I said, “it’s O.K., I know.”
He asked, uncomfortably, “Do you think they could be prisoners?”
“I don’t know; it’s nearly two months now, no-one’s heard anything?”
We sat silently for a few minutes, traffic noise falling on our ears. Then he said tentatively, looking at the wings on my chest, “Are you finished flying, for good, I mean?”
I shrugged.
“Not as far as I know. I’ve got six months off then I’ll be having another medical board and we’ll see what they say then. I’ll probably go back on ops, I should think; after all, I’ve only done half a tour, I think I owe somebody something.”
“Do you think they’ll send you back again?” he asked, surprised.
“Oh, yes, they can do anything, you know,” I said, “there’s a bloke on the Squadron who’s completely flak-happy and he’s still operating.”
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He looked at me.
“What do you mean, ‘flak-happy’?”
“He’s round the bend,” I said shortly, “got the twitch, call it what you like.”
Jack shook his head wonderingly.
“But they let him go on flying?”
“Sure they do; he’s a damn good gunner and an experienced one, too. He’s not afraid of man or beast. Of course,“ I said, “there is another side to it – he could be dead by now. It’s a while since I saw him, and anything could have happened in that time. It depends on the targets you get. It depends on a hell of a lot of things.”
Jack swallowed hard.
I asked him if he’d seen anything of Alan or Peter.
“They’ve both volunteered for aircrew,” he said. I thought he sounded a bit wistful and I could tell what he was thinking.
“Listen,” I said firmly, “when I went and stuck my neck out I didn’t do it as a dare to the rest of you, you know, there are other ways of getting yourselves into trouble. And don’t you go losing any sleep about not being fit, it’s not your fault, and when the time comes you’ll be shoved into something which will be useful to the war effort, I’ve no doubt at all.”
He looked at my wings again.
“I hope so,” he replied, “it’s not a great deal of fun feeling left out of things.”
We finished our coffee. He insisted on paying for them, saying that he was a rich war-profiteer. He was probably getting a lot less than me, but it was no use arguing, I didn’t have a lot of time, and neither did he. I suddenly thought of that and said to him, “Anyhow, what are you doing here, skiving off during working hours? Shouldn’t you be drawing up balance sheets or something?”
He looked at me a bit sheepishly, squinting into the sunshine as we stood on the pavement with the pedestrians hurrying by around us.
“Oh, I asked the Manager for an hour off,” he said airily, “told him I was meeting a pilot on leave from the R.A.F. He said to tell you to drop one for him.”
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We shook hands.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, “and I hope you’ll have some good news soon.”
“Thanks, so do I.” I could hear the pessimism in my own voice. I looked at my watch. “Well, it’s been great seeing you; until next time, then, so long, Jack.”
It was some time later when I learned, with feelings of complete astonishment, almost disbelief, that not only was Jack now in the R.A.F., but that he had been accepted for aircrew training. I had to read my parents’ letter several times before I could begin to grasp what they were telling me.
Many months went by. I had been stationed at Tuddenham, in Suffolk, for a year, watching the almost nightly operations of, originally, the Squadron’s Stirlings, then their Lancasters; by day seeing the vast fleets of American Fortresses and Liberators forming up overhead to carry on the round-the-clock bombing of German cities. Late on a February afternoon I stepped out of the Tuddenham mail van, on which I had hitched a lift, at the aerodrome gates of Mildenhall, our parent station. The daylight was already fading and there was comparative silence; the Fortresses were back at their East Anglian bases and our Lancasters were waiting, poised to go that night.
I stood watching the roadway which led up to the barrier at the guardroom, chatting to the Service Policeman on duty. I recognised J – ‘s walk when she was far away. The S.P., who knew her, wished us a good leave, saluted and turned away. J – and I had met and worked together in the Operations Room of a bomber station in east Yorkshire, around the time of the Battle of Hamburg. But after a blissful few months I had been posted to Tuddenham, then, quite amazingly, following a bleak interval without her, she had been posted to the Base Operations Room at Mildenhall, a small handful of miles away. Everyone who knew us thought that one or other of us had somehow wangled things; in point of fact it was simply unbelievably good luck. In addition, it was a considerable feather in her cap as Mildenhall was one of the key stations in Bomber Command.
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Consequently, we saw one another several times a week when she, of course, should have been catching up on her sleep after long and hectic hours of night duty when operations were on. Now we were going on leave together; three days at my home then three at hers.
A lorry, known to all as the Liberty Wagon, took us to the nearest railway station at Shippea Hill, along with a dozen or so others, then we caught a local train to Ely. We had a meal there and took the overnight train home. We arrived before breakfast the following morning. When we had freshened up and had breakfast, my mother, who looked paler and more drawn than when I had last seen her three months before, looked at me across the table and said quietly, “I hardly know how to tell you this; it’s so awful, when you and J – have just started your leave.”
I couldn’t guess what was coming, but I steeled myself for whatever it might be.
“What is it, mother?”
She bit her lip then said, eyes averted, “I’m afraid it’s bad news, it’s Jack, he was killed two days ago.”
I felt my mouth open and close, then I reached slowly for a cigarette.
“But – was he on ops? I didn’t know he’d got as far as that, I thought he was still training.”
Mother nodded.
“As far as I know, he was killed training, night flying.”
She paused.
“You will go and see his parents, won’t you? They’re terribly upset, naturally.”
“Of course I’ll go,” I said, “of course I will.”
I went to see them that afternoon, after I had screwed up my courage to the limit for what I knew would be an ordeal for all of us. The tension in their house was almost tangible, their grief hung on the air like a cloud. They knew little about it except that Jack was dead; he had been a Navigator on Wellingtons at an Operational Training Unit in the Midlands whose name, Husband’s Bosworth, rang a bell with me when they told me. His pilot was also from our area;
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they had flown into a hill near a village in Northamptonshire. His funeral was here, tomorrow, would I come? It was unthinkable, of course, that I would not. His father paced the room incessantly, never meeting my eyes, Jack’s mother, her face bloated with weeping, tore at a handkerchief in her deep armchair in the corner. Their beautiful piano, black and shining, would remain unplayed for a long time, I knew, and her voice, which I had so often heard in Schumann lieder, would be silent now. The dog lay across the hearthrug, his eyes following first one speaker, then the other; I felt he knew what had happened to his beloved young master.
I met the cortege at the massive stone and iron gateway of the cemetery the following afternoon. The late winter sun was sinking and it was bitterly cold under the fading colour of an almost cloudless sky. I was the only non-relation there; as the hearse came slowly up to the gates through an avenue of trees I gave it the finest salute I had ever given to any senior officer. When I went home in the deepening dusk J – was alone in the living room, sitting in the firelight. I kissed her gently, holding her to me.
That evening, as I felt I must, I went to see Jack’s parents again. They were sitting alone, quieter than before, and with the calm of resignation beginning to possess them. Prince’s tail thumped the hearthrug twice as I walked into the room, his eyebrows lifted and fell as he looked at me, his chin across his folded paws. Jack’s photograph smiled cheerfully down from the mantelpiece. I told them I had come to say au revoir. His father thanked me for being there that afternoon, then, “Do you think you could possibly do something for us?”
“If I can, of course,” I said, glad to be moving on to practicalities.
“You know Jack was stationed at Husband’s Bosworth when – it happened, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know at the time,” I said, a bit uncomfortably, thinking that I should have done. We had seldom written to one another; one didn’t have much time nor the mental quietude in Bomber Command to do very much in the way of letter-writing, except to one’s girlfriend.
He went on.
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“Do you know anyone there? In your job I thought perhaps you might know someone who could tell us just what happened. We know so little, just what his C.O.’s letter told us, not very much at all. But if you could, perhaps, speak to someone?”
Jack’s mother dabbed at her eyes.
“Actually, I do know someone there, as it happens,” I said, “a chap I worked with at Tuddenham until recently was posted there as Adjutant; I’m sure he’ll be able to tell me something.”
He brightened slightly.
“That’s good,” he said, “really quite a coincidence. What sort of chap is he? You really think he would be able to help?”
I described George, avuncular, knowledgeable, but on occasions fiery and quite outspoken.
“I’ll phone him as soon as I can after I get back to Tuddenham, and get in touch with you.”
“I’ll be glad to pay any expense involved, if there is any,” he said, “and don’t get yourself into trouble on our account, will you? But – we would like to know something, of course.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I told him, “there’ll be no expense, and no trouble at all.”
I said goodbye to them. I was not to know that I would never see them again.
The first day back from leave I rang George quite confidently. He sounded his usual self, brisk, affable as ever, but perhaps slightly fussed. Had he trodden on a few toes already, I wondered? After the conventional greetings were over, I came to the point.
“George, I’ll tell you why I’m ringing you – it’s about a crash you had a week or so ago, the pilot was Sergeant - - . Well, I was a friend of the Navigator. I’ve just come back from his funeral at home and his parents were wondering If you could give them, through me, any further details of how it happened.”
There was an abrupt and surprising change in his manner.
“Is that why you rang me? To ask me that? I can’t tell them any more than was in the letter to them. I’m surprised at them asking you to do this.”
“O.K., then, George,” I said calmly, “if that’s how it is then I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”
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I rang off. I was extremely puzzled and quite troubled by his unexpected reaction; we had always been, and still are, good friends and our working relationship was never anything less than co-operative and mutually accommodating. That evening I wrote to Jack’s father, telling him briefly that I had been unable to obtain any further facts about the crash. He did not reply.
For various reasons, and to my lasting shame, I did not visit the graves of Jack, and of Peter, Connie and Roly, another classmate, all Bomber Command aircrew casualties, for several years. But after having stood in that busy street, gazing at what had been the cafe, and remembering Jack and I as we had been then, both of us in the prime of youth, an inner compulsion drove me to do so. I could find the graves of all of those who were buried there except one – Jack. I visited and revisited the place where I thought I had stood at his funeral, searching the tombstones round about for his name, but to no avail. I had heard that his parents had moved to B – on Mr. Henderson’s retirement and I was almost on the point of becoming convinced that they had had Jack re-interred there.
Eventually, after several fruitless searches, and as a last resort, I decided to go to the cemetery office to make enquiries. In a few minutes I had found it, about a hundred yards away from the place where I had been looking. There was a solid, low grey headstone with a substantial curb. There was the name, Flying Officer John Henderson, ‘killed in a flying accident 3rd February 1945.’ So very near to the end of the war, I thought sadly. The lettering was now so faded as to be almost illegible. Underneath his name were those of both his parents. The grave itself was completely bare, not a flower, not a blade of grass, not even a weed, only the cold, wet earth under the leaden sky.
I stood for several minutes in the silence, remembering them, but especially remembering Jack, incidents from our friendship returning vividly to mind. And I wondered about many things, the questions now long unanswered. Was he really the semi-invalid he had always been made out to be? How then had he passed his aircrew medical? Why did they crash that night? Had he – God forbid – made a navigational
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error? Why had George been so brusque and annoyed at my question?
There were no answers to be found in the rustling of the cold breeze among the fallen, russet leaves, and I thought that there never would be, that I would never know. But worse, I wondered would there be anyone left to remember Jack when I was no longer able to remember, or would his name disappear completely, both from his gravestone and from the memories of everyone who might have known him on earth?
I took the Remembrance Day poppy out of my lapel and pressed it into the sodden, bare earth below his name. Then on that grey afternoon I spoke a few words to him, very quietly, but knowing that somewhere, he would hear. And as the winter dusk was falling I turned away.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I did not expect that I should be writing a sequel to this, but a sequel there is, one long-delayed…
Obviously, I have thought very many times about Jack since his fatal crash and I have visited his grave very many times also. But rarely, if ever, have I dreamed about him. Until a few nights ago, that is, more than fifty-one years since he was killed. It was a dream which was so vivid and so poignant – that realisation was with me even as I was dreaming it – that it has stayed with me, haunted me and disturbed me ever since the early morning when, in this heartbreaking dream, I recognised Jack, from a great distance, walking towards me on a riverside path. There were iron railings on my right, a river was nearby, at my left hand, the path curving slightly from my left to the right. For some reason I was quite sure I was on the riverside at Stratford-upon-Avon. I have been there twice, once during the war, with Connie and Shep, when we were at Moreton-in-the-Marsh together, and once on a brief visit when I was on holiday at Malvern. Yes, this was Stratford, I was positive. And I knew it was Jack approaching, I could distinguish his
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features, his walk, his tall, upright figure. He was as I never saw him in life, in uniform, his peaked cap at a slight angle on his head, the Navigator’s half-wing above his breast pocket. There he was, coming briskly towards me, smiling, the Jack I knew of old. And he was with a girl. Her features I could not distinguish as she approached me with him; they were walking close together, arm in arm. Even in my dream I could feel a lump in my throat as I watched them. They stopped in front of me. I heard Jack say, “This is Janet”, and I could see now that she was smiling, a radiant, pure smile, full of utter delight and joy.
They turned together and walked slowly in the direction that I was going. It had turned slightly misty. I was fascinated by Jack’s girl Janet, wondering what sort of person she was; I could not take my eyes off her. She wore a small, round hat of the pillbox type, and a brownish, quite long, heavy coat. Her lips were full, I saw, and pink; here eyes shone with a wonderful radiance, such as I have rarely seen. I had the overwhelming sensation of their happiness with one another. Then the girl, Janet, looked at me directly, her arm still through Jack’s, and gave me her wonderful smile, so full of bliss.
“We are going to be married,” she said, “next year.”
At that moment she looked as lovely as anyone I have ever seen. But immediately, as though I had been submerged by a wave from the sea, I felt an immense sorrow engulf me, because, as I awoke slowly, with the vision of that lovely, loving couple in my brain, even in my dream I knew that their marriage could never, never be. For Jack was to die; Jack was dead.
It is a dream I shall have in my mind until the day of my own death, until Jack and I meet once more and – God alone knows whether there ever was a girl named Janet – perhaps I might meet that girl who I dreamed was going to marry my oldest and closest friend, The Silver Spoon Boy, the boy who gave everything he ever possessed. ‘Too full already is the grave, Of fellows who were young and brave, And died because they were.’
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Intermezzo [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] INTERMEZZO [/underlined]
“Sign here? And here? That it? O.K., Sergeant. Now, what have I signed for? Oh, I see, one brand-new Wimpy in mint condition with full certificate of airworthiness and rarin’ to go. HD 966, isn’t it? Where do I find her? That it, over there by the dispersal hut? O.K., thanks. Probably be back tomorrow for another. Cheerio.”
“Here we are, on this beautiful morning. HD 966. Plenty of juice, Corporal? Well, I’m not going as far as John o’ Groats, thanks, just to Moreton-in-the-Marsh. Pitot head cover off? Fine.”
“There’s only me. Up the ladder. God, it’s hot in here. Haul the ladder up, stow it next to the bomb-sight. Slam the escape-hatch door. Stamp it down firmly, to be sure. Hell, the heat. Slide open the windows, that’s better. Shove my chute into the stowage. Into the driver’s seat, check brakes on. Push and pull the controls about to test for full movement. Shove the rudder to and fro with my feet. All free. Fine. Check the petrol gauges. Enough.”
“Undercart lever down and locked. Flaps neutral. Bomb doors closed. Switch on the undercart lights. There we are, three greens. Undercart warning horn? God, that’s loud. Never mind. Main petrol cock on, balance cock down.”
“Now. Throttles closed, boost override normal, mixture rich, pitch levers fully fine, superchargers medium. O.K. So – ignition on, open throttle an inch. There we are. Now, yell out of the window. Contact port! Press the starter button. That’s it, got her! Hell! What a row, wish I’d brought my helmet after all. Shut the window. No, damn, not yet. Contact starboard! Press the button. There she goes. Come on, come on. Now shut the window. It’s a bit cooler now, anyhow.”
“Oil pressure O.K., all temperatures O.K. So, what’re you waiting for? Run them up. Port engine first. What a bloody noise. Pitch controls O.K., revs down and up again. Give her plus four boost. This is going to be damn noisy. Here goes. Throttle back, boost override in. Now for it. Open right up. Hell, it’s awful. Plus
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nine and threequarters. Fair enough. Throttle back smoothly. Not too quick. Override out. Now the starboard engine. Stick my fingers in that ear. Pitch control O.K. Plus four boost. Mag drop? ……”
“All O.K., then. Brake pressure? Right up. Try each wheel. O.K. So it should be, too, brand new kite. There goes the Anson with those A.T.A. girls. God, shook me when that blonde brought the Halifax in. Cool as you please, all five foot nothing of her. Damn good landing, too. Smashing blonde, like to see her again. Like to – hey, steady on! Back to business. Test the flaps. Right down. Now up again. Fine. Where’s he taken the starter trolley? Oh. Over there, well away from me. See they haven’t got that bloody Whitley moved yet. Bit off-putting, that, finding a pranged Whitley over a hump in the runway, just after you’ve landed. Plenty of room, though, at least it’s on the grass. Well, come on, let’s get back to Moreton, might have half a can if there’s no more flying today.”
“Chocks away. Wave hands across each other where the erk can see. There he goes with the port chock. Now the starboard. Thumbs up from him. And from me. Little bit of throttle, hold the yoke well back. Here we go. Taxy out over the grass. Bumpy. Wish they’d get another runway put in, too. The one they have got isn’t even into the prevailing wind. Using it today, though, I see. Not much wind at all, but the Anson used it. Lovely sunny day. Swing the nose about a bit, never know what’s ahead. Would hate to prang a Spit or something. What’s that Oxford doing? Coming in. Trundle up to the end of the runway, opposite the line of trees. Bit off-putting they are, too, when you’re approaching to land. Park, crosswind. Brakes on. Relax and watch him come in. Wheels down, crosswind, losing height. Bit bumpy over the trees, of course. Flaps down, now he’s turning in. Nice steady approach. Oh, Christ, here’s a Spit coming in next, what a bind. I’ll have to wait a bit. Yes, he’s put his undercart down. Damn!”
”Float her down, boy, float her down. Now, watch it. Not bad, not bad at all. Over-correcting a bit on his rudder on the runway. Never mind, nice landing, though. Open up my throttles to clear the plugs of oil. Yoke hard back. What a row. There we are, sounds
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O.K. Now throttle back and wait for the Spit. Quick check round the dials again. Set the altimeter to zero. Gyro to zero and leave it caged. Where is he? Oh, here he comes, hellish fast. God! That was a split-arse turn and no mistake. Full flap. Well, he is heading in approximately the right direction. Whoof! He’s down. A bit wheel-y, but never mind, he’s in one piece and still rolling. Now beat it, chum, and let a real kite take off. No-one else in the circuit? Thank bloody goodness. Wait a tick, where’s my friend in that Spit? Oh, there he goes, taxying to the Watch Office. Fighter boys – I don’t know!”
Here we go then. Flap fifteen degrees. Brakes off. Port throttle to turn on to the runway. Hope the far end’s clear. Suppose they would poop off a red if it wasn’t. Nice and central Brakes on. Uncage gyro on 0. Now hold your hat. Open both throttles steadily against the brakes. What a bloody row. Yoke back, now let it go to central. Not too far, not too far. More throttle. Hold the brakes on. She’s shuddering like hell, wants to jump off the runway. Lift the tail just a bit more. Now. Full throttle and brakes off. Here we go – and how! We’re really rolling. Shove those throttles forward against the stops. Touch of rudder against the swing. Fine. Hold it there.”
“Feels great. Love take-offs, tremendous sense of power. Hellish noise, too. Airspeed? 50. Nice and straight, shove the tail well up, a real 3 Group takeoff. Touch of rudder again. 65. Over the hump. Gi-doying! Nearly airborne then! Plus nine and threequarters on both, 3000 revs. Wizard. 75. Runway clear and pouring back underneath. There’s that Whitley. Plenty of room. 80. Almost ready. Still bags of room. Come on, come on. Ease back a bit. Trying hard to go, almost a bounce then. Now? Now she’s off. Airborne. Keep her straight, wheels up. Pick your field in case an engine cuts. Right, got one. Lights out as the wheels come up. Then red, red, red. All up and locked. Throttle back to climbing boost. Revs back to 2600. Airspeed 120. Overrides out. 200 feet. Gyro still on 0. Take half the flap off. Watch it, now. 300 feet. All flap off. Slight sink there, feels horrible. Keep climbing. Everything sounds good. Quick look around the panel. All O.K.
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“1000 feet. Level off. Cruising boost and revs. Select weak mixture on both. Rate 2 turn to port. There’s the Oxford just taking off. Spit’s parked at the Watch Office, next to the Hali. The Hali – God! That girl was a smasher. Cirencester just below the port wing. Now the railway. And there’s the Fosse Way. Follow it home, no bother. The Romans knew how to build roads. Excuse me, Centurion, but there’s an enemy chariot on your tail! Weave left, Lucius Quintus – now! Weather’s wizard, just a few puffs of cloud at 1500 feet. No hurry. Throttle back to economical cruising boost and revs. Try the trimmers. Feet off the rudder. Nice, keeps straight. Feet on again. Hands off. Bit nose heavy. Just a touch on the trimmer. Try again. There we are, perfect, no wing-drop, no pitching, no yawing. Flies herself and purrs like a sewing machine, she’s a beaut. Check the magnetic compass. Heading 037. Cage the gyro, set to 037, uncage. Check around the panel. Zero boost, 1850 revs, airspeed 150, altimeter 1000 feet, temps. and pressures O.K. and steady. Fosse Way sliding along under the port wing. Vis thirty to forty miles, 2/10 cumulus at 1500 feet. God’s in his heaven and all that.”
“What a view, all greens and hazy blues. Fields, trees, hedges, pale little villages. Lovely country. Must really explore it soon. Good as being on leave. I’m lucky. Bit lonely in these kites all on your own, though. Used to five other bods nattering. Nearly four months now. I wonder if there’s any news yet. Write to the Squadron tonight, see if there’s anything come through from the Red Cross.”
“Kite at 10 o’clock, slightly higher. Twin. Oxford, heading for Little Rissington, I’ll bet. Wonder who’ll take this Wimpy over. Couple of weeks and it could be bombing Tobruk or somewhere. Long stooge out there. Portreath – Gib – Malta – Canal Zone. Blow their luck. Wonder what the chop rate is out there. Better than we had, I’ll bet. Spit. at nine o’clock, high, heading East. Going like a bat out of hell. Clipped-wing job. Boy! Is he pouring on the coal. Wonder if he’s a P.R.U. type. Climbing hard, too. There he goes. Berlin by lunchtime at 40 thousand plus, I’ll bet. Nothing to touch him. Take his pictures, stuff the nose down and come home with 450 on the clock. Not a thing near him. That’s the life.”
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“Stow-on-the-Wold coming up below. Must go back to that pub some time. Wonder if I’ll hear anything from the police. No rear light. Jam had no front light. Both tight as newts. Tried to tell the flattie we were a tandem which had just come apart, wouldn’t believe us. Hell, couldn’t even pronounce it, I called it a damned ‘un, could hardly talk for laughing. We’d had a few that night! Blasted nuisance, though, expect we’ll be fined ten bob each. Shan’t go to court, though, write them a pitiful letter. Got no ident letters yet, how about doing a beat-up at nought feet? Oh, hell, can’t be bothered. Too hot, anyhow, slide the window open a bit more. Wouldn’t want to drop off to sleep like I did that night at Moose Jaw. Shaky do, that. Never mind, still alive and kicking.”
“Should write home tonight, really. Can’t be bothered to do that, either. Write to Betty? Oh, Christ, what’s the use? She’s hooked up to that other bloke, whoever he is. Don’t even know his name. Hell and damnation, why didn’t I - ? What’s the bloody use of moaning about it? But, God, she was nice. Wizard girl. There were angels dining at the Ritz - . Oh, for God’s sake, stop it. She’s gone, she’s gone, you’ve bloody had it, you missed your chance. Just stop thinking about her. Forget it. Oh, hell, why didn’t - ? Christ! Forget it, can’t you? Think of something else. Yes. Yes. What? I know. Let’s have a song.”
“Ops in a Wimpy, ops in a Wimpy,
Who’ll come on ops in a Wimpy with me?
And the rear gunner laughed as they pranged it on the hangar roof,
Who’ll come on ops in a Wimpy with me?”
“There we are, Moreton dead ahead. Long runway end on to me. Two kites on the circuit. God, I’m ready for a bite of lunch. Wonder what it is? I’ll do this right, otherwise the Boss will chew me off.”
“Into wind over the runway in use. Good look-see at the Signals Area, then a copybook circuit. Here we go. Signal for transport by pushing the revs up and down again. Makes a nice howl, hear it for miles. Oh, hell, I expect I’ll get chewed off for that, though.”
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Blast him, why does he hate my guts? Those other two Wimpies have gone, must have landed. Yes, can see one taxying. Reduce airspeed to 140. No signals out except the landing-T and that’s O.K. Crosswind leg. There’s the van leaving the Flight Office, good-oh, he’s heard it. Turn port, downwind. Throttle back to 120. 120 it is. Lock off, select wheels down. Red lights out. Green, green, green. Down and locked. Ready for crosswind.”
“Rate 1 1/2 turn to port, now. Nice. Select flap 15 degrees. Stop. Lever to neutral. Push a bit to compensate for the flap. Now the approach. Full flap. Shove the nose down. Rate 1 1/2 turn to port again. Watch the airspeed. Back to 95. Pitch fully fine. The van’s heading for dispersal down there. Keep the speed at 95. Dead in line with the runway, height just nice. Carry on, carry on. Losing height nicely, speed dead on 95. Trees rushing by. Lower and lower. Throttle right back. Push the nose down a bit more. Ten feet, now level off. Lovely, sinking down beautifully. Airspeed falling off as the runway comes up. Clunk! We’re down, what a beaut. Have we landed, my good man? I didn’t feel a bloody thing. Keep straight with the rudder. No brake, plenty of room. Slowing down now. Flaps up. Turn right at the peri. track. There we are.”
“Van’s waiting for me. Good-oh. Follow it round to whichever dispersal. Go on, then, after you, I’m waiting. That’s better. Get well ahead, where I can see you. That’s it. Weave the nose a bit. Not too rough with the throttles. Bit of brake now. O.K., I see which dispersal. Bit more brake. Slow right down. Turn into dispersal and swing round into wind in one go, with the starboard throttle. Flashy! Throttle back, straighten her up. There’s an erk with the chocks. Roll to a stop. Brakes on and locked. Pull up the cut-outs to stop the engines. That’s it, piece of cake.”
“Ain’t it gone quiet? Out of the seat. Where’s my chute? Yank open the escape hatch and shove the ladder down. Just nice time for lunch. Wotcher, Loopy, thanks for the lift. Did you witness my absolutely superb landing? No? Well, you missed a treat. How’s the Boss? What was that? Do what to him? Not me, old boy, it’s
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a Court Martial offence, and besides, it’s immoral. Come on, let’s go for lunch. What about the White Hart tonight? By the way, you missed a treat at Kemble this morning. I was just standing there, waiting until this kite was ready, when a Hali. comes into the circuit. Lovely approach and landing, taxies in, stops, and what do you think, out steps this A.T.A. pilot. Wait a minute, wait a minute, this one was a dame, and a wizard blonde at that. Now just let me describe her to you in some detail, you lascivious, drooling Australian, while I permit you to drive me to the Mess. Well, now, she was about five foot six, and her figure…..”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Overshoot [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] OVERSHOOT [/underlined]
In that glorious summer they had decided that I could do some non-operational flying, so they posted me away from Group Headquarters at Bawtry Hall, where I’d been playing about with a bit of admin. work, a lot of cricket, and, between drinking sessions, flirting with a couple of W.A.A.F.s.
Bawtry had been very pleasant but it was distinctly stuffy after the Squadron. I was the only recently operational aircrew there and I always had the feeling that they were waiting uneasily and suspiciously for me to start swinging from the chandelier, or to come rushing up to someone very senior and snip his tie off at the knot. What really made it for me was the brief moment when I happened to look across the anteroom one day – where Group Captains and other wingless wonders were two a penny, with bags of fruit salad to be seen on their chests, though – I looked across and saw him standing there, quite quietly. It was “Babe” Learoyd, and he had only one medal ribbon, that of the Victoria Cross.
It was a bit strange when I found myself back on a Wellington Station again, even more so because this one, an O.T.U. at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, was set in lovely pastoral countryside, a complete contrast to my Squadron’s base on top of the Lincolnshire Wolds. As I was back on flying, I decided that instead of getting drunk every night I’d better cut it down a bit, to every other night, if I wanted to survive, of course, which was debatable. I suppose that was oversimplifying it, because if I misjudged something and pranged, I would possibly write myself off, but I might take a few quite innocent people with me, which wasn’t by any means O.K.
However, I needed something to knock me senseless at night, because I was still getting nightmares. In the end, I would usually fight myself awake, distressed and sweating, and lie wide-eyed, until the summer dawn at last came palely to my window and I heard the distant whistle of the first train as it wound its way through the trees and by the little brooks down to Adlestrop and Oxford.
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That train and the railway station in the small market town gradually became to me symbols of ordinary, carefree life, of freedom and safety from sudden death, symbols I was desperate to hang on to. Eventually, the station became so central and vital a part of these imaginings that I lived in considerable and constant anxiety lest one of our aircraft while using the short runway which pointed directly towards it, should crash on to it and destroy my only link with the sanity of the outside world.
I wasn’t posted to the actual O.T.U. in Moreton, but to No. 1446 Ferry Flight. Basically, the idea was that we picked up brand-new Wimpies from Kemble, about half an hour’s flying time away, flew them solo, following the Fosse Way, back to Moreton, then handed them over to pupil crews from the O.T.U. who would do one or two cross-countries in them and then fly them out to the Middle East, in hops, of course, to reinforce the Squadrons in the Western Desert. Sometimes they were straight bombers, nevertheless looking strange in their sand-coloured camouflage, sometimes “T.B.s”, torpedo-bombers, with the front turret area faired in by fabric and the torpedo firing-button on the control yoke, and sometimes they were pure white Mark VIII “sticklebacks”, bristling with A.S.V. radar aerials, low-level radar altimeters and the like.
One morning I had collected a T.B. from Kemble and was bringing it in to Moreton. No bother at all. Except on my approach to land I seemed to be coming in a bit steeply, I thought. I checked the airspeed, 95, correct. I checked the flap-setting – yes, I had full flap on, and wheels down. Looked at the A.S.I. again. Still 95. But, hell, I thought suddenly, it’s graduated in knots. Frantic mental calculations to convert knots to m.p.h. Ease back on the control column a bit. Multiply by five, divide by six, I concluded. Say, 80. So, bring the speed back to 80 indicated. I should have checked before take-off, of course. After all, this was a T.B., a nautical job. Looks right now, I thought, except that I’m floating a bit while the airspeed drops off, using a bit more runway to get her in. No panic, though. I got her down quite nicely and didn’t go anywhere near the far hedge. Quite a good landing, too, though I says it as shouldn’t.
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But, just my luck, Squadron Leader --- had noticed it.
“That’s not a bloody Spit you just brought in, you know, Junior,” was his greeting as I walked into the Flight Office. I sighed inwardly. Here we go again, I thought.
“No, sir.”
What the hell were you doing? Trying to land at Little Rissington?”
“Just came in a bit fast, sir, that’s all.”
“You should’ve gone round again, done an overshoot.”
“Well, sir, I don’t much like overshoots on Wimpies.”
He grunted.
“Don’t like overshoots,” he said acidly, “Are you a competent pilot, or not?”
“Yes, sir, I am, but I don’t like taking unnecessary risks.”
To tell the truth, I hated overshoots completely. You had to shove on full throttle when you decided you weren’t going to make it, and with the full flap you already had on, the nose tried to come up and stall you at fifty feet. So you pushed the nose down with all your strength and some frantic adjustment of the elevator trimmer – three hands would have been useful about then – to pick up some speed before you even thought of climbing away to have another shot at a landing. Then, while keeping straight you had to milk off seventy degrees of flap a little at a time – and she wasn’t at all fond of that process. She wanted to give up the whole idea and just sit down hard into a field, to sink wearily on to the deck and spread herself, and you, around the county. You had to be damn careful not to take off too much flap in too much of a hurry when those big trees came nearer, or when those hills started to look rather adjacent. At night, of course, you couldn’t see them at all, but you knew they were lurking somewhere handy. If you were in a hurry about taking the flap off, then, you went down like a grand piano from a fourth-storey window, and you’d had it. No, overshoots were definitely not for me, thank you very much, not unless they were absolutely essential, and I knew that I knew, to the foot, when they were. I’d never been wrong yet.
“Well, watch it in future, Junior, and don’t set the pupils a bad example.”
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I could quite understand why Loopy had been within an ace of punching him in the face, a few days previously. It wasn’t only the things he said, it was the way in which he said them. Before I could reply he went on, “You might be interested to know that we’ve got the S.I.O.’s son taking a kite out to Gib. soon, he’s done his circuits and bumps and he’s crewed up. His father had a word with me at lunchtime yesterday.”
As I only knew the Senior Intelligence Officer vaguely by sight I merely murmured something non-commital [sic] and asked if there was anything else. I was told, reluctantly, no, there wasn’t, so I saluted and drifted out to have a word or two with Dim and Loopy.
A few days later there was a gap in the flow of kites from Kemble, and as Loopy and I had done all the compass and loop-swinging on those we’d recently collected I took myself off to the Intelligence Library. I was standing at one of the high, sloping library desks, reading one of the magazines, when out of the corner of my eye I saw someone come in and stand at a desk about six feet to my left. I took no notice of him but carried on reading Tee Emm or whatever it was. When I had finished, I turned to go – and recognised him.
“Christ! It’s Connie, isn’t it?” I exclaimed.
I had last seen him in the Sixth Form at school, five years ago. Five thousand years ago.
“Yoicks!” he said, greeting me by the nickname I’d almost forgotten. Connie wasn’t his real name, either, but he’d always been called that at school because, it was said, he had a sister of that name who was more beautiful than the moon and all the stars. A shame I never met her. We shook hands vigorously.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Been posted to something called a Ferry Flight,” he replied.
“Bloody marvellous! I’m in that, too; come into the madhouse!”
“Well, blow me,” Connie said, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
We celebrated that night, in traditional fashion, with several pints apiece. It was great to have him with me, he was jaunty, carefree, entertaining and likeable. I had noticed, of course, that he had the ribbon of the D.F.M. One day, as we walked through some nearby town on a half-day off, I noticed too that his battledress was ripped,
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just below his ribs, on one side.
“By the way,” I said, “do you know you’ve torn your battledress?”
I pointed to the damage. He laughed heartily.
“That’s my line-shoot, I’m not repairing that, Yoicks – got that over Turin from a cannon-shell. Never felt a thing!”
It was about this time that I discovered the poems of A.E. Housman and, on free afternoons, I would lie on the unkempt lawn of the little cottage where I had my room, out beyond the Four Shires Stone, and would read his poems long into the drowsy, high-summer afternoons, their words tinged with the sadness that I had learned. And as I lay there, the supple, vivid wasps would tunnel and plunder the ripe plums I had picked off the little tree under whose shade I rested. There was constantly to be heard, with the persistence of a Purcell ground, the noise of the Wellingtons on the circuit, two miles away, over the lush green Gloucestershire landscape, hazy with heat, the sound rising and falling on the consciousness like the breathing of some sleeping giant.
At length I would pick myself up, stiffly, feeling the skin of my face taut with the sun, and put the poetry away. Then in the incipient twilight I would stroll down the road towards the sinking sun to meet Connie, to have dinner in the Mess and to slip easily into the comfortable routine of an evening’s drinking with him, and perhaps with Dim, Loopy, Pants or Mervyn, in the anteroom, or down at the White Hart in the village. I would see Connie’s dark hair fall across his forehead, his heavy black brows lift and lower expressively over his mischievous eyes as he told some humorous story of his days and nights on his Squadron at Downham Market. Sometimes, when we were flush, he and I would catch a train to one of the neighbouring market towns, to embark on an evening’s pub crawl, laughing at each other and at ourselves as the beer took effect, and as the darkness slowly fell, un-noticed; each of us drowning our private memories.
Once, a bunch of O.T.U. pupil crews came into a pub where we were sitting – was it in Evesham? – obviously on an end-of-course party before they went their various ways to join their bomber Squadrons. They joked a lot, sang a bit and indulged in some mild, laughing horseplay. Connie, who like me had been watching them, suddenly
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grew solemn.
“Poor sods,” he said gravely, “they don’t know what’s coming to them, do they, Yoicks?”
Poor Connie, too. He himself had not long to go. Just over a year later he was killed, at the controls of his Stirling, where, had he known that he must die, he would have wished to be, I think.
Eventually, wherever I had been, I would fall into bed, my brain dulled by the alcohol, but neverthless [sic] conscious enough to dread what the night might hold for me, waiting for the nightmares to come again.
There was one kite in the circuit, wheels down, as I strolled towards the Mess for dinner as twilight was beginning to fall. It was yet another lovely evening, and what with the idyllic existence and Connie’s new-found friendship, I was feeling that as far as I was concerned, I could stay here until further notice, despite Squadron Leader --- and his unpleasant little ways.
I was quite near to the Four Shires Stone when I heard the sudden howl as the kite’s engines were opened up to full throttle. Should we go to the White Hart with Loopy and Dim tonight, I wondered, or have a bit of a session in the Mess? Just then there was a loud thump and a silence, another thump, and I saw a telltale column of black smoke erupting over the hedges and treetops ahead and slightly to my left, a mile or so away, I guessed. The kite had overshot and gone in.
“Jesus!” I said, and broke into a run down the road. I was panting and sweating along when suddenly the Flight van screeched to a halt beside me, going the same way. Squadron Leader --- was driving.
“Get in, Junior,” he yelled, “We’ve got to get them out!”
He let in the clutch and drove fiercely down the empty road. The pillar of smoke grew bigger as we got nearer. Then I saw the gap in the hedge and the smashed tree where it had hit. At the far edge of the field the shattered Wimpy burned savagely. We skidded to a stop and flung our doors open. As I ran through the gap in the hedge and across the field, --- raced around the front of the van to join me. I could feel the heat on the surface of my eyes from
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the wall of leaping flame. The kite’s geodetics were like smashed and twisted bones stripped of their flesh. I ran on, over the cratered and churned earth. There was a reek of petrol, of ploughed earth, and of something else, sweetish, sickly, burned. An engine lay to one side, the prop grotesquely curled back.
Suddenly there was a ‘whumph!’ and I found myself on the ground. A petrol tank had exploded. I got up again and went towards the inferno that was raging under the smoke-pall. I splashed through a pool of something. I could hear Squadron Leader --- cursing somewhere nearby; I was gasping and sobbing for breath.. [sic] Then the oxygen bottles started to explode and bits of metal went screaming viciously past me. I tripped and fell heavily. And I saw I had fallen over something smoothly cylindrical, like an oversize sausage, bright brown, and with a smouldering flying boot at the end of it. A few feet away lay an untidy, horribly incomplete bundle of something in what looked like Air Force blue, lying terribly still under the stinking glare. I was retching, on all fours, unable to move further. I dimly heard another explosion nearby, sounding curiously soft, there was a blast of hot air on my face, and then there were the bells of the approaching fire-tender and ambulance.
I was being dragged by my shoulder. It was ---.
“Come on,” he panted, “we’ll never get near it. They’ve had it, poor bastards.”
We must have made our way back to the van as the rescue vehicles arrived; I don’t remember much about that part. I was leaning up against the side of the van and wiping my face with a shaking hand when I heard --- say, “Now I’ve got to go and tell the S.I.O. that his son was flying – that.”
“Oh, Christ,” I groaned.
“Let’s go,” he said, “Let’s get to hell out of here.”
He switched on the engine of the Utility as the black funeral pall of smoke spread over the sky, and thinning, smudged the sunset dirtily.
I read an article in a magazine recently. The writer had been visiting some place which had impressed her. She concluded with
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the words, “But you never lose an experience like that. You carry it around with you.”
Yes. And sometimes you feel you need just a little help to carry it just a little further.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] First Solo [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] FIRST SOLO [/underlined]
I drank some more beer and said to Connie, “The trouble with Shep is that he’s far too damned opinionated, and what’s much worse, he’s far too often right. You just can’t knock him down, can you?”
Afetr [sic] several pints in the White Hart I was feeling less in control than I might have been, but having given vent to that penetrating observation I felt quite foolishly and inordinately pleased with myself. Connie, who had also had several, perhaps for different reasons, looked at me a trifle owlishly.
“I say, Yoicks,” he said, slurring just a little, “that’s rather good. You’re dead right.”
“If you don’t mind, Connie,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t use that word.”
“What word? What have I said?”
“Dead,” I replied.
At the time, Connie and I were busy settling into our new routine in ‘X’ Flight of the O.T.U. at Moreton-in-the-Marsh. The powers-that-be had decided that there were too many pilots in Ferry Flight just across the way, and not enough utility pilots in ‘X’ Flight. Squadron Leader ---, with barely disguised joy, had promptly nominated me for transfer. And perhaps because he knew Connie and I were close friends, he had selected him to accompany me.
“Utility” was the word for it. We flew Wellingtons on fighter affiliation exercises and on air-to-air gunnery, one pilot and a kite full of A.G.s who took it in turns to man the turrets. Fighter affiliation was by common accord reckoned to be gen stuff, that is, approximating to the real thing – mock attacks by the ‘X’ Flight Defiant, convincingly hurled around the sky by Cliff, at which the gunners “fired” their camera-guns. But the air-to-air lark, I always thought, was of very doubtful value. Our Lysander flew straight and level, towing on a cautiously long cable, a canvas drogue, at which the gunners fired live ammo. with prodigal enthusiasm. Doubtful value? I might have said “pointless” instead. How many Me109s or 110s obligingly flew alongside you at a convenient distance and invited
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you to have a shot at them? It was damn noisy, too, with both your turrets blazing away, and the smell of cordite lingered on your battledress for days.
Most of the time the Defiant or the Lysander, whichever was in action, was flown by Cliff. He was tallish, lean, dark-haired and casual, a Canadian Flight Sergeant, but a man who might have stepped straight out of a Western film. Like Connie, he too was entering the last few months of his life. Cliff, the casual, was soon to be killed over Hamburg in his Pathfinder Lancaster.
The other occasional pilot on the two single-engined kites was Hank, an American, a Flying Officer in the R.A.F., also casual and easy-going, but suave, where Cliff was slightly flinty. The two were inseparable, if only as inveterate gamblers. I learned a lot about the gentle art of shooting craps from Cliff and Hank. On days when there was no flying, when Bill, Connie and I would be lecturing the O.T.U. pupils on Flying Control systems, emergency procedures, dinghy drill and airfield lighting and also, in my case, on the layout of the multifarious internal fittings of the Wellington, Cliff and Hank would retire to a quiet corner of the hangar. Gambling was strictly prohibited by the R.A.F., of course, but the rattle of dice would faintly be heard, punctuated by urgent cries of “Box cars!” “Baby needs new shoes!” or “Two little rows of rabbit-shit!” Money was never seen to change hands, but now and again it was apparent, from the obvious tension which was building up between them, that the stakes were high.
Our happy little Flight was genially run by an Irish Flight Lieutenant named Bill. Bill was the very antithises [sic] of Squadron Leader --- whom I’d just left behind. He was a tall, gangling, rather awkward-looking pilot who affected a slightly vague nonchalance about life in general. One of his endearing little foibles was that he seldom, if ever, referred to an aircraft by its proper name. It was commonplace that all Wellingtons were Wimpies, and fairly common that Lysanders were Lizzies, but he extended these nicknames by referring to our Defiant as a Deefy.
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I sat in on his introductory lecture to a new Course, a dummy run for me before I took over the conducting of the wedding ceremony of sprog crews to the Wimpy. They had all come off Oxfords and it was a bit awe-inspiring at first to be confronted by the size and complexity of the Wellington at close quarters. Bill’s opening remarks were memorable. He lurched up on to the dais, which was, in our hangar, alongside a complete Wellington fuselage, stripped of its fabric, and also near a separate cockpit taken from another kite. He looked slowly around the faces in front of him, as though surprised to find himself there at all, then lit a cigarette, exhaled, beamed happily at our new charges, coughed softly, and in an unbelievably broad Ulster accent uttered the following pearl of wisdom and deep scientific truth.
“Well, now. This here – this here is a Wimpy, and –“ patting a mainplane as one would a favourite dog, and lowering his voice confidentially as he leaned forward earnestly towards them – “these are the wings. Now you’ll be wondering what keeps them on. But don’t you be worrying yourselves about that, ‘cos it’s ahll [sic] ahrganised.” [sic]
After that, he had our pupils in the hollow of his hand; they adored him, as we all did. Dear old Bill. Old? He was about twenty three.
Bill, Hank, Cliff, Connie and me. A nice mixture; one Northern Irishman, one American, a Canadian and two Englishmen. Then into our happy little world stepped a newcomer. Shep. Correction – he did not step, he never stepped. He would barge, blunder, or he would push, but step? No. However, he arrived, all right. That was the system all over. ‘X’ Flight had needed two pilots, so it got three. Shep was a stocky, powerful little Yorkshireman, darkish hair thinning a bit, snub-nosed, built like a prop forward and always with a challenging look shining from his eyes, as though to tell the world, “I’m only five foot six but don’t let that fool you, I’m little and good and I’m worth two of you.” In his manner of speaking he was blunt and earthy to the point of rudeness, but almost everything he said was accompanied by that challenging look and a grin, which took the edge off most of his outrageous remarks. While none of us, except perhaps Bill, were saints as regards our language, which was, when circumstances demanded it, bespattered with words we wouldn’t normally use in mixed
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company, not to mention the odd spot of blasphemy, Shep’s outpourings were liberally garnished with a single oath, namely, “bloody”, which, at times, he rather over-used, I’m afraid.
Like Connie, he had been on Stirlings in 3 Group, or rather, “them bloody Stirlin’s” and, of course, when he realised that he and Connie had that in common he attached himself firmly to the two of us. So our placid little duo became a slightly turbulent trio. Express an opinion which didn’t match Shep’s and, “Ah’m tellin’ you, you’re bloody wrong. Now listen ‘ere – “ and one would be corrected in no uncertain way.
On an occasion when flying was scrubbed for a couple of days due to bad weather, we found ourselves in the city of Oxford. We had a meal, and we also had several beers. When it came to the time to go for the train back to Moreton it was growing dusk and it became necessary to find our slightly alcoholic way from an unfamiliar side street to the railway station. There developed a slight divergence of opinion as to the correct course to steer; Connie and I were all for heading in a certain direction, but not so Shep. Oh, no.
“It’s not that bloody way, Ah’m tellin’ you, Ah’m bloody sure we passed that big buildin’ over there when we came in.”
Meekly, we followed him. And arrived at the railway station in a few minutes. That was Shep all over. A trip to Stratford-on-Avon followed, one Sunday, and we were regaled with a lecture on bloody Shakespeare, and also bloody Ann Hathaway. The trouble was that Connie and I were both reasonably ignorant about Shakespeare and all his works and couldn’t contradict, or even argue with Shep. It was a trifle frustrating, to say the least, at times.
I seem to recall that it was my idea in the first instance, to have a bash at the single-engined kites which we owned. I had been up with a crowd of gunners on fighter affil., no evasive action, of course, to give them practice in getting the Defiant in their sights long enough to get a picture of it. It was simply a question of flying a straight-line track along the line of the range for about forty miles and back again, while all the gunners had a shot. To be honest, it was pretty damn boring, except when one of the pupils,
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despite all my previous entreaties and warnings, would clumsily heave himself in or out of the rear turret and give the undoubtedly adjacent and awkwardly placed main elevator control shaft a hearty push or shove, whereupon we were all hurled up to the roof or on to the floor amid a torrent of curses, depending on whether the kite was forced suddenly into a climb or a dive. It broke the grinding monotony of straight and level flight, though, and once back into the correct attitude everyone had a good laugh about it, including me. Needless to say, the exercise was conducted at a very respectable altitude to allow for such eventualities, and also to give Cliff free rein to throw the Deefy around with considerable abandon.
I was stooging along at about six thousand feet on a day of pleasant sunshine while all this was going on around me, watching Cliff out of the corner of my eye as he screamed across and down beyond my starboard wingtip in a near-vertical bank which he would then convert into a steep turn and a rocket-like climb, before coming in at me again from some new angle. I was thinking that it was pretty to watch, and that he should have been a fighter boy. I thought also that I might well have been one, too, had I not had two early love-affairs, a distant one with the Wellington across the field at Sywell, the other with Betty who had suffered under the German bombing of her home town. But the germ of an idea was growing as the morning progressed and as I day-dreamed, holding the Wimpy on course over the placid Gloucestershire landscape while the white puffs of cumulus drifted lazily by on their summer way.
When I’d finally finished the detail and landed back at Moreton I disgorged my crew of gunners and wandered into Bill’s office. He was sitting there doing his best to look like Lon Chaney on one of his off-days.
“Hello, Bill,” I said, “have you got a minute?”
“Sure, Junior, me boy,” he replied, “and what would be on your mind, now?”
“Well, it’s like this,” I said thoughtfully, “I’ve been watching Hank and Cliff having all the fun chucking the Deefy and the Lizzie about –“ he had me doing it by this time – “ – and I was thinking I’d like to have a bash on them, too. I did my S.F.T.S. on Harvards,
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you know.”
“Did you now?” he answered thoughtfully, “well, well, let’s see.”
He lowered his voice confidentially and looked around conspiratorially. He pretended to be watching a Wimpy on the circuit.
“As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “a little bird tells me that Hank might be leaving us soon.”
“Oh?” I said, not wanting to appear to be too inquisitive, and waited for him to go on.
“Yes,” he said, “apparently the Chief Instructor came across him and Cliffy rolling the bones in a quiet corner, and poor old Hank, him being the senior and an Officer and all, is going to be sent to the place where they send naughty boys.”
“But what a bloody stupid waste,” I exclaimed, “Hank’s a damn fine pilot. He goes and sticks his neck right out, volunteers for the R.A.F. when he had no need to, being a Yank, and just because he rolls a couple of dice they’re going to kick him up the backside. It seems damned childish to me.”
“Oh, he won’t be grounded for good, or anything like that, he’ll just do drill and P.T. and parades and so forth for a couple of weeks, then they’ll send him back on flying, somewhere. Anyhow, the point is, I could use another pilot or two for the Deefy and the Lizzie, so you and Connie and Shep might as well have a go. It wouldn’t be fair on them if I said O.K. to you and not to the other two.”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“There’s no dual controls, you realise that, don’t you, Junior? You’ll have to pick it up from a ride or two in the back seat and read up the Pilot’s Notes a bit.”
“I’ve already been genning up on them,” I grinned, “I think I know where all the taps are, it’s just a question of getting the feel of the things.”
“You crafty so-and-so,” Bill said, smiling. “O.K., then, you fix it all up with Cliffy and I’ll have a word with the other two. H’m. Is that the time? Neither of us are flying this afternoon, so how about a quick noggin before lunch?”
“Sound suggestion, Bill,” I said.
We walked up to the Mess together; I was feeling slightly excited at the thought of getting a couple of new types in my log-book. I suppose I liked the challenge.
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It was strange to be sitting jammed into the four-gun turret of the Defiant while Cliff flew it around the circuit and gave me the gen.
“She’s a bit of a heavy sonofabitch,” he drawled, “but she’s got no vices if you treat her right.”
To be honest, I couldn’t see anything of what went on in the cockpit in front of me, all I could do was to form some idea of the distances on the circuit, where to start reducing speed and where to put the wheels and flaps down, and to watch the landing attitude, of course. He did a couple of circuits and bumps for me and that was all we had time for on that session.
Soon afterwards, he gave me a ride in the Lysander. That was quite an entertaining experience. It was an ugly-looking parasol-wing kite with a big, chattery radial engine, wonderful visibility due to the high wing, a fixed undercart and ultra-short take-off and landing runs. It was fitted with God knows what in the way of trick slots and flaps. Take-off was incredible, it made me want to laugh out loud.
“The important thing,” said Cliff as we stood ticking over, ready to roll, “is to make sure you’ve got your elevator trim central for take-off – this wheel right here.”
I leaned over his shoulder and looked at the aluminium wheel down below his left elbow. It was the size of a small, thick dinner-plate, with a bright red mark painted across the rim as a datum.
“If you don’t have that centralised, like it is now, you’ll try to loop as soon as she gets airborne, then we’ll be having a whip-round for a goddam wreath for you. So watch it, bud.”
“O.K., Cliff,” I said, “I’ve got you.”
“Let’s go, then, eh?” he said, and opened the throttle. We seemed to be airborne in about fifty yards and climbed like a lift in a hurry. The runway simply dropped away below us. Compared to the Wellington’s take-off it was simply unbelievable.
“Hell’s teeth!” I said, “She really wants to go, doesn’t she?”
“Sure does,” he replied happily.
Landing was equally impressive. It seemed you just closed the throttle and the Lizzie did the rest. She was designed for Army
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co-operation duties, to land in any small, flat field. And, of course, they were used extensively for the cloak-and-dagger stuff, putting in our agents to western Europe by night and picking up others, all by the light of the moon and a couple of hand torches: that must have been quite something.
Cliff turned into wind.
“No undercart to worry about,” he called.
Suddenly there was an almighty ‘clonk’ and I almost snapped the safety harness as I jumped involuntarily.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“No danger, just the slots popping out at low speed. Now see, I’ve got the elevator trim wound right back. Get it?”
“O.K.,” I said, “Got it.”
We lowered ourselves down on to the runway and rumbled to a halt in a few yards.
“Bloody marvellous!” I exclaimed, “some kite, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” said Cliff as we taxied in, “I wouldn’t mind one of these babies for myself, to take back home.”
“No trouble at all,” I replied, “they’ll be two a penny after the war, and with all the cash you’ve won at craps you’ll be able to afford a fleet of them.”
He laughed.
“Aw, well, we’ll have to see, when the time comes,” he said.
The time never came, of course.
You can guess who organised himself the first solo. You’re right, it was Shep.
“Ah’m flyin’ the bloody Lizzie in ten minutes,” he announced loudly, one day soon after, bustling into the hangar and crashing open his locker door.
“How’d you fix that?” Connie asked.
“Ah, well, Ah’m the best bloody pilot around here so Bill said it was only right Ah should have first bloody crack before either of you clumsy buggers bent it.”
“Get the Line-Book out!” I shouted, “Just listen to that – best pilot? You’re just a ham-fisted bus driver, you four-engined types are all alike!”
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“Steady on, Yoicks,” Connie said, “don’t include us all in that.”
“Well, some of you are ham-fisted,” I said. “Anyhow, let’s go and witness this demonstration of immaculate, text-book flying by our modest friend here.”
Shep grinned and slung his chute over his shoulder, then the three of us wandered down to the peri. track where our Lizzie was standing on the grass, looking quite docile and waiting for her pilot. Shep buckled his chute straps into the harness quick-release box, pulled on his helmet and heaved himself into the cockpit. Connie and I lit cigarettes while he started her up, ran up the engine and taxied out for take-off.
“When are you going to have a shot?” Connie asked.
“Tomorrow, in the Lizzie,” I replied, “I’m quite looking forward to it.”
Shep was ready for take-off. He opened her up and the bright yellow Lysander quivered and tolled, then she was airborne, climbing steeply and joyously. He took her nicely around the circuit, a much smaller one than the Wellington’s, of course. Connie and I watched critically, smoking and chatting. As he was on his landing approach Bill drifted along.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“Bang on,” I said, “just coming in now.”
Shep landed and taxied round to the start of the runway again. He had done all right, we agreed. No reason why I shouldn’t, too, I thought. Hurry up, tomorrow.
He stopped to let a Wimpy take off. The contrast was grotesque, the bomber using most of the runway and climbing very shallowly away over the trees as it tucked its wheels up, leaving behind it a blur of oily, brownish-black smoke.
Shep moved on to the runway into position for takeoff. It was a lovely afternoon, hardly any wind, a few puffs of cumulus at about four thousand feet. There was a slight haze over the low hills beyond the railway station. We heard him open her up and she rolled. He’d hardly got the tail up before he was airborne, nose-high. Then he was climbing steeply, the engine howling, the kite hanging on its prop.
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“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Bill said, very distinctly, next to me. I simply stopped breathing and watched. We were going to see Shep die in front of our eyes and were completely unable to do a thing to help him. Then, at the moment when it seemed he would inevitably stall and crash into the middle of the aerodrome from less than a hundred feet, he somehow got the nose down, and as he did so, painfully raised the starboard wing. The crazy, fatal climb changed slowly, so terribly slowly, into a steep turn to port. Shep was in a series of tight turns, at full throttle, right over the centre of the runway at about fifty feet. Gradually, the turns slackened, the note of the screaming engine eased. He flew over us, very low, still turning to port, but now more or less in control, obviously winding the trimmer frantically forward.
“Bloody hell!” Connie gasped, “I thought he’d had it that time.” I could only gulp and nod. I felt for a cigarette with hands which were shaking so much I could hardly open the case. My knees felt like water. Bill sighed and said quietly, “I’m afraid he didn’t do his cockpit drill. He forgot the elevator trim.”
We said nothing, but watched as Shep came in to land.
“Let’s go,” Bill said.
We went back to the Flight Office. Five minutes later Shep bustled in, a bit red in the face. He dumped his chute and helmet on to a chair.
“Bloody Lizzies!” he exploded wrathfully, “that bloody trimmer wants modifying, it’s a bloody menace!”
We could only look at one another in silence and amazement. Surely he would admit to being in the wrong, just this once?
Next day, Bill called for Connie and I and silently handed us a memo from the Chief Instructor.
“With immediate effect,” it said, “Lysander and Defiant aircraft of ‘X’ Flight will be flown only by the following personnel.
F/L W. McCaughan,
F/O H. Ross,
F/Sgt C. Shnier.”
Bill, Hank and Cliff. I handed the memo back to Bill.
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“Yes, Bill,” I said, “O.K., fair enough.”
So we flew Wimpies up and down the range and liked it, and we watched Cliff hurling the Defiant into gloriously abandoned manoeuvres in the late summer sky while we flew straight and level. And we gritted our teeth, and we liked it. But now and again I had a sneaking little thought – I wondered what would have happened if that had been me up there instead of Shep. Would I still be bouncing around, like he still was, or …..?
I know, of course, what became of poor Connie, and every year on the anniversary of the day it happened, I visit him where he lies. What happened to Shep, I don’t know, but I’m prepared to bet that whatever it was, he would have had the last word, or, as he would put it, the last bloody word. But really, he wasn’t such a bad bloke. As I said to Connie, you just couldn’t knock him down, that was all.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] The pepper pot [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] THE PEPPER POT [/underlined]
It must have been a surprise to Connie as, just when we were about to climb up the ladder into the Wimpy one fine morning, he saw me fold into a heap at his feet. I can’t say it was much of a surprise to me, I hadn’t been feeling too brilliant for some time before that.
Things then moved very quickly. The M.O. saw me and whipped me off to London for a medical board, where I was told quite pleasantly that my flying days were over as far as the Royal Air Force was concerned, and I was asked what I would like to do. No promises, of course. I said, “Intelligence, in Bomber Command.” That seemed to them a reasonable idea, as far as I could make out.
Then followed several completely idle weeks in Brighton in mid-winter, waiting to see what was going to happen to me. My days’ work consisted of reporting to the Adjutant in the Metropole at nine a.m., asking, “Anything for me?” being told, “No”, and that was it until next morning, when the routine was repeated. I was billeted in a little hotel on King’s Road, facing the sea, with three or four other R.A.F. types and one or two R.A.A.F types. There were a few civilians there, too, among them the comedian Max Miller, who, off-stage seemed to me to be distinctly un-funny, if not downright anti-social.
I made friends with a couple of other pilots, Aussies, John Alexander and Don Benn, who were on their way home. Don had crashed in a Beaufighter and injured his legs – his M.O. had said he should play some golf to strengthen them. As he had been a stockman in outback Queensland, the idea of his playing golf was rather amusing both to him and to me. But, as an utter tyro myself, I agreed to go around the lovely course, up on the Downs near Rottingdean, with him. At night, John and I would paint the town red in a mild sort of way, sometimes exercising the legs of the local police force. I caught a glimpse, one day, of Hank Ross, doing penance, marching in a squad of aircrew types along the front. It depressed me greatly. Hank looked desperately unhappy. I waved to him and he acknowledged
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me with only a sad little smile. I thought that if he had waved back, he would probably have been sent to the Tower. It still seemed desperately unjust. I never saw Hank again.
Eventually my course came through, to an Intelligence training centre in a big old house in Highgate. Some fairly hush-hush stuff went on there and we were forbidden to talk to anyone who wasn’t on our own course of about twenty. But one evening, in the anteroom, I was delighted and amazed to see dear old Tim, and made a bee-line for him, rules or no rules. We chatted for a few minutes until someone intervened. Next day I was kept behind after a lecture and given a severe reprimand, and although I saw Tim several times after that, I never spoke to him again while we were there. Not until we met, at Niagara Falls, almost fifty years later – two survivors.
During this time, Alan was called up for training amd [sic] I discovered he had reported to an Aircrew Reception Centre at St. John’s Wood. We met for half a day, had a long talk, a visit to the flicks and a meal at a strange and deserted Greek restaurant somewhere near Covent Garden.
The end of March found me posted as an Intelligence Officer to Linton-on-Ouse, where there were two Halifax Squadrons, one commanded, as I discovered when I arrived, by Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire. Soon afterwards, the Canadians were about to take over Linton and I accompanied one of the Squadrons to Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, in east Yorkshire. After a couple of weeks there, the S.I.O. decided that they were rather short-handed at the satellite Station, Breighton, where the other Squadron from Linton had settled in. So there, among the farm buildings of the nondescript but not unpleasant hamlet of Breighton, I put down roots for a few months. And there I met J - .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I was pinning up the bombing photos of the previous night’s raid when I noticed he was there again. the Intelligence Library, no matter how we tried to dress it up, was never all that well-populated, and that morning was no exception. The photos usually drew a few
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interested crew members, Tee Emm was invariably popular, but the other stuff was really a bit on the dull side. There wasn’t, for example, a tremendous rush for the Bomber Command Intelligence Digest. Most of the crews, anyhow, were sleeping off last night’s trip, or last night’s session in the local, whichever was applicable.
This little gunner, though, I had seen him in there several times before, always at the same table near the door. It made me wonder. I suppose it was rather obtuse of me not to have cottoned, especially in view of my own feelings about J - . Anyhow, when I had put up the photos I went over to him, more out of curiosity than anything.
“Hello,” I said to him, “did you want something?”
He hesitated, then said, “I suppose – “
“Yes?”
“I suppose Sergeant S – isn’t on duty, is she?
I saw it all, then. One of our W.A.A.F. Watchkeepers, Billie S – was very much sought after for dates, and, it must be admitted, slightly blasé about the whole business. Rumour had it she was the daughter of a fairly high-ranking Army Officer in the Middle East. She was an extremely pleasant girl, blue-eyed, blonde and very nicely shaped, with a calm, almost angelic manner and a vibrant, husky voice which could send the odd shiver up your spine when she used it in conjunction with those big blue eyes of hers. But not my type. Now J - , one of the other two Watchkeepers, she was a different matter entirely. I had the feeling I was going to like Breighton very much indeed, even though I’d only been there just over a week.
“Sergeant S - ?” I said to him, “do you want to see her?”
(Bloody silly question, I thought, of course he did.)
“Well, if I could, just for a minute, if it’s no trouble.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I went back into the Ops. Room. Billie was purring at someone on the telephone and even then, unconsciously using her china-blue eyes expressively. Apart from her, there was only Margaret, one of the Int. Clerks, writing industriously. Billie hung up finally. I said, “Billie, there’s a gunner in the Int. Library would like
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a word with you.”
She wrinkled her nose just a little and said, “who is it, sir? Not that Sergeant P - ?”
“Don’t know his name,” I replied, “smallish chap, though, in Sergeant – ‘s crew, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes, that sounds like him, Johnny P - ,” she answered, with a faint sigh. She shrugged her shoulders and with a lift of her immaculately plucked eyebrows she said, “Would you mind, very much, sir?”
She sounded resigned.
“No, you go right ahead,” I said with a grin, “mind he doesn’t chew your ears off, though.”
She laughed quietly and went out, smoothing down her skirt over her hips as she went. Margaret was smiling quietly to herself and I cleared my throat rather noisily and started to sort out a pile of new target maps, mostly of Hamburg, I noticed. My tea had gone cold and I cursed it. Margaret looked up and laughed.
“Shall I get you some more, sir?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Margaret, there’s a dear.”
She went out into the little store-room-cum-kitchen between the Ops. Room and the Int. Library, which we had been told recently to empty as far as possible. This had intrigued us greatly, but we asked no questions.
Billie came back, patting her blonde hair and looking a little flushed.
“Well,” I said, “have you been fighting like a tigress for your honour?”
“Oh, nothing like that, sir,” she replied with a smile, and left it at that, which was fair enough. Nothing at all to do with me, really. Margaret came back with teas all round. The war could continue. Billie got behind her switchboard, handed me a cigarette and did her usual pocket-emptying routine in search of a comb or a lipstick or something, as I lit her cigarette. The stuff that girl carried around with her.
The moon period came around and there weren’t any ops for a few days. Funny to think that when I had been operating a full moon was popularly known as a “bombers’ moon”. Now it was shunned as
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being too helpful to the German night-fighters. We more or less caught up with the outstanding stuff; the Watchkeepers got the S.D. 300 slap up to date and Pam spent a bit of time in the Library putting up some new stuff on the notice boards and going over some bomb-plots with the crews from the photos they had come back with. She mentioned casually that one of the gunners seemed to be spending a lot of time in there. I merely said “Oh, yes?” and looked blankly at her.
I got to know J – a little better during this time, and I knew that this was it. I was very pleased to see that she didn’t have an engagement ring on her finger. Our conversations progressed imperceptibly from one hundred per cent “shop” to a slightly more personal level. I found I was looking forward more and more to the times when she would be on duty, and I tried to fiddle it so that I was on at the same times. I also found that I was looking forward less than usual to my next leave, which would take me away from her for a week.
One afternoon, when things were quiet, I asked J – how Billie was coping with Johnny.
“Well, he’s very persistent,” she said, “he wants a date with her, but she’s doing her best to stall him off. Poor kid, what he really wants is his mother, you know.”
I nodded thoughtfully; I hadn’t seen it quite like that.
“So is Billie going to date him?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know what she’ll decide,” J – said, “she’s tried her best to head him off, and all that, but he just shakes his head and keeps asking her to go out with him just once; what can she do?”
“Knowing Billie, I’m sure she’ll think of something,” I said, and we smiled at one another. I little suspected what in fact she was thinking of. Had I known, I would have slept less at nights than I was already doing, for various reasons.
Of course, I was thinking along the lines of asking J – for a date, too, but I was worried about rushing things. I had to pick my moment and I wasn’t sure just how to recognise when it had come. I would lie awake thinking it over, and thinking about J - , which just shows you what sort of state I was in.
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Two or three nights later I was on duty with Freda, the third of the Watchkeepers. Our aircraft had just gone off and we were relaxing a bit and wondering if we’d get any early returns. Freda had just finished phoning the captains’ names and take-off times through to Base at Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, along the road about eight miles, when the phone rang.
“It’s Billie, for you, sir,” Freda said.
“For me, Freda?”
“Yes, sir, she asked for you.”
I thought Billie must have forgotten to finish something on her last shift and wanted to square it with me, or get Freda to do it while she was on duty.
“Hello, Billie,” I said into the phone, “what’s the gen?”
“Oh, hello, sir,” came her creamy, purring voice, “can I ask you a favour?”
I still thought it was going to be something to do with work.
“Of course,” I answered blithely, little knowing that my whole life was in the process of being changed from that very second.
“Well, sir, I’ve got a date with someone tomorrow night, and to be perfectly honest about it, I’d rather make it into a foursome. So would you be willing to come along?”
“Hell’s teeth, Billie,” I said, “this is a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? But never mind, yes, O.K., you can count me in on it.”
“Oh, thank you very much, I knew you wouldn’t let me down, it’s such a load off my mind. You’re sure you’ve no objections?”
“No, of course I don’t mind, I’m game for anything,” I said brightly. “It isn’t Johnny, by any chance, is it?”
“Well, sir, as a matter of fact, it is,” she said confidentially. “I couldn’t very well get out of it and I thought it would be best if I tried to organise a foursome – the Londesborough Arms in Selby, if that’s all right with you. By the way, I’ve got some transport laid on from the W.A.A.F. guardroom to get us there, seven o’clock, assuming there’s a stand-down, of course, but we’ll have to make our own way back, so it’s bikes all round. We can push them on to the lorry to go to Selby.”
“Sounds bang-on,” I said.
Billie started to make end-of-conversation noises and was obviously about to hang up on me.
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“Just hold on a sec., Billie,” I chipped in quickly, “there’s just one small detail I’d like to get clear – who am I taking along?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, sir,” she said airily, “I’m sure I can find someone nice for you. Thank you very much indeed.”
She put the phone down.
I lit a cigarette and drank a mug of tea thoughtfully, letting my imagination give me a pleasant few minutes until we got a call from Flying Control that we had an early return coming back. So, for the time being, at any rate, I put the thought of my blind date aside. When the main body of our aircraft came back, one of the crews I interrogated happened to be that of Johnny P - . His pilot was a chunky bloke with a staccato manner. Johnny just sat there quietly smoking and saying nothing, but looking silently into infinity, as though he’d never seen me, or his crew, before. It was a bit weird. Finally, Pam, Derek and I got the Raid Report completed and bunged it off to Holme by D.R. I got to bed about 0400.
I was awake again with just about enough time to cycle down to breakfast. It was a miserable morning, ten-tenths low cloud and raining like the clappers. But J – was on duty and the day seemed to brighten when I saw here. Pam was photo-plotting as hard as she could and I got my head down, alongside her, over the mosaic photograph, about four feet by three, of last night’s target. No-one said very much. The blackboard had been cleaned off, in readiness for the next one. The photo-plotting took a long time, there was so little ground detail on the crews’ pictures due to cloud-cover over the target. About ten-thirty we got a stand-down through; J – phoned it around to those who were concerned. Buy lunch time we’d only plotted about half a dozen photos. One thing about the Ruhr – if you missed the aiming-point you usually hit something or other in the way of a built-up area. It was a consolation.
At lunchtime the rain had eased and there were even a few breaks in the cloud to the west. Derek took over from me about two-thirty and promptly plotted one of the photos to within a couple of hundred yards of the A.P., from a sliver of ground detail you could hardly see.
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“Beginner’s luck,” I said laughingly, and went off for a sleep. I hit the mattress and knew no more for a couple of hours. When I awoke, it took me a few seconds to remember that I was going on a blind date that evening, but suddenly I felt unreasonably, unaccountably happy, swept along by a wave of well-being which had me whistling “Tuxedo Junction” and singing snatches of “Sally Brown” as I got myself spruced up and into my best blue. I don’t know why I should have felt like that; possibly as someone once said, the mood of flying men changes with the weather, and outside, I saw that the sky had cleared to a beautiful evening.
“Sally Brown is a bright mulatto,” I sang,
“Way, hey, we roll and go –
“She drinks rum and chews tobacco,
“Spend my money on Sally Brown!”
Which started me wondering, again, who my date would be. I honestly hadn’t a clue, Billie had given me no inkling whatsoever, but I trusted her implicitly not to saddle me with some worthy but plain girl who would spend the evening painfully tongue-tied and twisting her fingers together. Never mind, I thought, it’s quite a change for me and at least we might all have one or two laughs together and try to forget about ops and casualties for a couple of hours. At five to seven I was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, twenty yards or so from the W.A.A.F. guardroom, and trying also to think up a convincing story to tell the W.A.A.F. (G) Officer if she should appear and want to know what I was doing. As I was looking at my watch for the third or fourth time I heard a soft, musical voice say, “Hello, are we each other’s date?” and there she was, there was J - , looking quite wonderful.
My heart skipped a couple of beats, I could feel myself blushing scarlet and I found I was grinning foolishly. I managed to stammer something trite, or perhaps merely stupid. Anyhow, J – laughed, and I laughed with her, more or less in relief. I felt a bridge had been crossed, or at least, built.
Everything happened pretty swiftly after that. Billie and Johnny P – cycled breathlessly up, a fifteen-hundredweight lorry with several
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assorted aircrew on board screeched to a halt, and accompanied by a chorus of piercing wolf-whistles, Johnny and I loaded the four cycles on to the lorry, helped the girls up and scrambled aboard ourselves. Loud cries of “Let’s get airborne!” and “Chocks away!” and we were off, racing over the wet roads under the trees, through the village, being thrown companionably and tightly against one another as the driver took corners at some speed, and away to Selby, the nearest town of any size.
It turned out to be rather a dingy little place, I thought, but the pub itself was clean and surprisingly quiet, no Breighton types, or indeed no uniforms at all, apart from ours, to be seen. The evening went by in a blur which was only partly due to the intake of alcohol. Billie was her usual polished and poised self and Johnny never took his eyes off her. He looked like a thirsty man approaching an oasis. Such an unremarkable little chap to look at, a mere five feet six or seven, mousy, rather untidy brown hair, slim built like we all were on wartime rations and high levels of stress, but with an infectious grin which would suddenly light up his plain features.
What J – and I talked about I cannot for the life of me remember; I was completely bowled over by the simple fact of listening to her cool, musical voice. I think we talked about books and cricket, but had we simply sat in silence, that would have ensured my complete happiness, merely to be at her side, in her charming company. Considering the rationing position, we had a very good meal in the small, half-empty dining room. I remember how spotlessly white the tablecloth was. Johnny demonstrated his talents as an amateur conjuror, palming small objects and plucking them out of our ears, and so on. We had all had two or three drinks by then and our laughter came fairly freely. He did one small, silly trick with the chromium pepper pot, holding it between his fingers and rushing it down towards the table in the representation of a bomb’s rushing it down towards the table in the representation of a bomb’s trajectory, with the accompanying piercing whistle. We all duly made “boom” noises when it hit the cloth – except that it didn’t, it was no longer to be seen.
Eventually it was time to go. We undid the locks on our cycles in the twilight of the summer evening, and by tacit agreement, split
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up into two couples. J – and I didn’t hurry, tomorrow could take care of itself and we never saw Billie and Johnny again that evening. On the way back we stopped at a field-gate by the edge of a copse and leaned our elbows on the top bar, side by side, to watch the sickle moon slowly rise. One or two aircraft droned distantly in the starry vault of the darkening sky and we followed the nav. lights of one of them until they vanished into the haze and all was silent again, except for some small animal rustling his nocturnal way through the undergrowth. We didn’t talk much, I think we were both content with the magic of the still night and with each other’s presence and new-found companionship.
As we stood there, I tentatively put my arm around her shoulders and that small overture was not repulsed. We talked about Johnny.
“Do you know any of his crew?” I asked J - .
“Some of them,” she answered, “they seem nice lads. Johnny’s lucky to have a crew like that.”
“Yes,” I said, “he is. It’s a very special sort of relationship, there’s nothing quite like it.”
She turned to look at me.
“Your own crew, do you keep in touch with them?”
So I told her. She put a hand on my arm.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, I really had no idea that had happened.”
We cycled back to Breighton. I felt a great peace stealing over me. We stopped at the now deserted road by the W.A.A.F. guardroom.
“It’s been a lovely evening,” J – said, “thank you so much for it.”
“I’m the one who should thank you,” I said, “for putting up with me.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t say that, please. Anyhow, I must go now.”
She hesitated. Her lips, when I kissed her, were cool and sweet, like dew on a rosebud.
The next morning Base Ops., in the shape of Flight Lieutenant Smith, came on the phone.
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“Is that you, Breighton?” he asked in his dried-up schoolmaster’s voice. He would seldom, if ever, call you by your own name, you were only “Breighton” to him. I sometimes wondered what he called his pupils and more especially, whether he called his wife by her surname. So I was always deliberately and exaggeratedly casual in reply to him, just to irritate him.
“Yeah, Smithy, this is the Acting Unpaid Senior Int./Ops Officer, at your service. What can I do you for?”
Smithy was not amused. He sniffed loudly.
“We’re sending you some parcels. Store them in your little kitchen place, or whatever you call it. Don’t open them. That’s important, but keep them under lock and key until you’re told what to do with them, and keep the key on your person at all times. Is that understood?”
“Cloak and dagger stuff, eh, Smithy?”
He sniffed again and went on.
“Expect them in about half an hour. They go under the name “Window.” Is that quite clear, Breighton?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
He rang off and I mused a little, wondering what on earth it could be that was so secret and new.
A sheeted-over lorry arrived from Holme and we started to unload the innocent-looking brown-paper parcels, the size of shoe boxes, and quite heavy, too. We all pitched in and got the lorry emptied eventually. By this time you could just about squeeze up to the sink in there to make the tea. Which one of the girls did, as we needed some by then. I dutifully locked the door on the bundles but I could see this was going to be a real bind, so we laid on tea-making facilities with the W.A.A.F.s in the telephone exchange, next to the Ops Room, and moved our few mugs and kettle and so on in with them.
When things had quietened down and I thought no-one would notice particularly, I slipped quietly in to the Window Store, as I was now mentally calling it, locked the door carefully behind me and took down one of the parcels. Very carefully I made a small slit in one corner of the wrapping paper so that it would look like accidental damage. I looked inside. There were hundreds, or perhaps thousands,
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of what seemed to be paper strips, about an inch wide and a foot or so long, matt black on one side, silvered on the other. My first thought was that they were some new form of incendiary device. I sniffed them – no smell. What on earth could they be? Was it something to dazzle the searchlights, then? In that case, why weren’t both sides shiny? I could get no further with my theorising, but as it happened I was somewhere on approximately the right lines. I carefully replaced the bundle and went back into the Ops Room, not forgetting to lock the door behind me as I left the thousands of bundles of Window. I put on an innocent expression and started to whistle “Sally Brown”.
“Quite a nice day out there,” I said. I wonder if I fooled them.
The mysterious Window wasn’t a mystery for much longer. A couple of days later we got a target through, quite early on, which was a sign that the weather was going to be settled. Hamburg. Hence all those new target maps. And when the operational gen came through, bomb load, route and timings and so on, right at the end was the magic word Window. It was to be carried by all aircraft. The number of bundles per aircraft was stated, as were the points on the route where dropping was to start and finish. The dropping height and the rate of dropping was stated, everything was laid down. Then we guessed it. It was a radar-foxing thing.
“Let’s hope it works,” we said to one another.
Derek did the briefing and I went along to listen, sensing that this might be an historic occasion. The Station Commander stood up on the platform first, and conversation stopped abruptly. He looked slowly around the blacked out briefing room in the Nissen hut. You could have heard a pin drop.
“Gentlemen,” he said, very slowly and quietly, “the intention of tonight’s operation is to destroy the city of Hamburg.”
The silence was so intense you could almost feel it. He went on to say that they would be carrying a new device which would save us many casualties if it was used strictly in accordance with instructions, and he told them about Window, which was designed to swamp the enemy radar screens with hundreds of false echoes, each one looking like a four-engined bomber.
Well, as far as Breighton was concerned, it worked like a charm that night. When the crews came back, and the Squadron’s all did,
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they were highly elated about the results of the attack and the lack of opposition. Few fighters had been sighted, flak was wildly inaccurate and spasmodic and the searchlights were completely disorganised and erratic. The photographs proved their elation was well-founded.
Three days later it was Hamburg again, and my turn to brief them. I caught a glimpse of Johnny, sitting about three rows back, still with that distant look on his face, as though this had nothing to do with him. I mentioned this to J – when we met on night duty, the first time I had seen her since the night we had gone to Selby.
“I’ve noticed it, too,” she said, “I don’t know what it is with him. Maybe it’s because of Billie, of course, he’s absolutely overboard for her. She’s changed too, she’s gone much quieter than she was.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that,” I said, “funny what love does to you, isn’t it?”
I gave J – a sideways look. She had coloured just a little, but smiled and said nothing. We were in the lull before take-off time. We talked about the possible effects of Window on this second raid on Hamburg. We did not know it at the time, of course, but this night was to be known as the night of the fire-storm, when hurricane-force winds, caused by the immense uprush of air from the fires, were to sweep their flame-saturated way through the city, even uprooting trees which had stood in their path. And there were still two further raids to come in the next week, plus an American daylight attack thrown in for good measure.
“Did you notice the bomb-load was almost all incendiaries?” I asked J - .
“Yes, I did,” she replied, “I wouldn’t be in Hamburg tonight for all the tea in China; imagine, almost eight hundred aircraft with full loads of incendiaries.”
“Make them think a bit,” I said. “You know, J - , what I can’t understand is why they just don’t give in now, surrender while they’ve still got some towns which are fit to live in; it’s quite obvious that we’re just going to work our way through the list one by one and flatten all his cities – I can’t think why he will just allow this to happen.”
We talked, smoked and drank tea far into the night. When they came back, the crews’ elation was now tinged with awe. No-one had
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ever seen such tremendous fires, “a sea of flame” was a common description by the crews, with a smoke pall towering to above twenty thousand feet; you could smell it in the aircraft, some said.
It was either on one of the big Hamburg raids or very soon afterwards that Johnny P – ‘s crew did not come back. I have to admit, in shame, that they were, as far as my feelings were concerned, just one of the many that we lost – all good, brave lads, but now almost anonymous in their terrible numbers, like the headstones in a war-graves cemetery seen from a distance. I knew only few of them personally; when it happened, I felt the pang of the loss, but the impact was not so great, God forgive me, as that of the loss of a crew on my own Squadron, of men whom I had been flying alongside, or with. Perhaps there is a limit to the sorrow one can truly absorb and bear, perhaps a saturation point is reached when the loss of men becomes a ghastly normality, where the mind begins to accept it as part of the natural order of things. But later – then it will suddenly all strike home in some unguarded moment, with full savage impact, as it has done, many times since.
When the last crew had been interrogated the night that Johnny went missing I saw Billie standing to one side, pale as chalk, gazing wordlessly at the faces around her, waiting for Johnny, who would never bother her again. I went over to her and touched her shoulder.
“Try to get some sleep, Billie,” I said, “he may have landed away, you know.”
It was all I could say. She nodded miserably.
She was on duty next morning, when we started the photo-plotting, tense, deadly pale, her eyes haunted by heaven knows what dreadful visions. I had given her a cigarette and taken one myself when the clerk handed me something or other and distracted my efforts to produce my lighter. Billie said quietly, “I’ll get mine,” and, typically, dumped a load of stuff from her pocket on to the desk. It wasn’t a lighter which she’d got out, though, it was a chromium pepper pot. I froze. She clapped a handkerchief to her mouth and rushed blindly out of the Ops Room as we sat silent and motionless.
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Later that day I met J – outside the village church.
“Shall we go inside?” she said.
We stepped into the dimness of the nave. My mind was still on Johnny.
“The way he looked,” I said softly to J - , “do you think perhaps he knew?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps he did.”
It was cool and quiet in there. J – knelt in a pew and bowed her head; I knelt alongside her so that our sleeves touched. Somehow, I felt I needed that nearness of her. A Prayer Book was at each place; there was just enough light left to read. I opened the book and came upon Psalm 91.
“Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”
J – ‘s face was calm, next to me, as I thought of Johnny, and of all the others. After a while I closed the book and slowly stood up. I took J – gently by the hand and we walked out, shutting the heavy oak door behind us, into the dim, evening green-ness of the churchyard and the faraway sound of engines in the summer twilight, as the first stars were beginning to appear.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Approach and Landing. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] APPROACH AND LANDING [/underlined]
With the inevitablity [sic] of an experience of déja vu, it unrolled itself with preordained certainty in my dream, as completely familiar as the action of a film one has seen often before, slowly remembering it in all its detail, and on waking and thinking afresh about it, I realised with some surprise that I had never written about, or even spoken to anyone about this particular event – since the time that J – and I talked about it, that is – one which both at the time it happened and since that time, I had always privately marvelled – and shuddered at what might have been.
At night in the Ops. Room at Breighton, once 78 Squadron’s Halifaxes had taken off there was little to do for whoever was on duty. Normally there was one Int./Ops. Officer – that is, Pam, Derek or myself – one duty Watchkeeper, a W.A.A.F. Sergeant, Billie, Freda or J - , and an Ops. Clerk. There was time to catch up on all sorts of things which of necessity had to be shelved during the process of assisting perhaps twenty or so aircraft to take off, adequately prepared and correctly informed, to bomb some target in the Third Reich. There was, naturally, time to chat, time to drink tea and to smoke endless cigarettes while the hours crawled by until the tension of the time of the first aircraft due into the circuit approached. And when J – and I were on duty together (and I took some pains to ensure that we often were) the conversations were naturally more relaxed, more personal.
It was on one such occasion, when the names of people one had known in the Service were casually dropped into the talk like snowflakes on to a pond, to exist for an instant and then to vanish and to be almost forgotten, that one name struck a chord between us.
I mentioned F – ‘s name quite casually, as that of someone I had known well by sight but not personally, a pilot on our sister Squadron at Binbrook eighteen months before, and who was the central character in a very highly skilled but very high-risk piece of flying which I had witnessed from, literally, a grandstand seat, and which, these many years later, was the subject of my dream.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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At Binbrook, when operations were on, it was necessary to have what was termed a Despatching Officer, one who was not flying on that operation. He was provided with a light van and a driver, and was to ensure that in this van there was contained every conceivable piece of necessary equipment which any member of any crew flying on the operation was likely to find to be unserviceable or to have forgotten prior to takeoff – articles such as flying helmet, goggles, oxygen mask, intercom. leads, the various essential maps and charts, and so on. In the event of a sudden radio call from an aircraft to the Flying Control Officer on duty in the Watch Office that some such was required. The Despatching Officer would be driven rapidly to the relevant aircraft’s dispersal to deliver the required piece of equipment.
On one particular late winter’s afternoon, although both Squadrons were operating, my own crew was not among those detailed. And I was designated on the Battle Order as Despatching Officer. There was, as it happened, no call for my services and the Wellingtons started to take off, using one of the shorter runs, roughly north-west to south-east and passing within two or three hundred yards of the Watch Office. Once that I was certain that nothing was required, I went into the Watch Office and up on to the balcony to watch the aircraft taking off, bound for some target – I cannot recall which – across the North Sea.. All had left the ground and were on their way, vanishing into the evening sky to the east, when there was a call over the R/T from one of them which had just crossed the English coast. It was that piloted by F - .
One of his main undercarriage wheels, the port wheel, could not be retracted. He was climbing away with one wheel locked into the ‘up’ position and one which would not join it. Apparently he could neither retract the wheel which was locked down nor lower again the wheel that was retracted. He was carrying a 4000 lb. High Capacity blast bomb, irreverently and casually known to us as a ‘Cookie’. His Commanding Officer, watching take-off from the Watch Office, called him up on the R/T and ordered him to jettison the Cookie into the North Sea, then to return to the aerodrome to attempt what would have been, in any case, a fairly hazardous
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landing with a full petrol load. But it was the only possible and sensible procedure in these unfortunate and unhappy circumstances.
But F – was very much his own man. I knew him, from a distance, almost as the reincarnation of a cavalier of King Charles’ day, dark, good looking, dashing, individualistic, the complete extrovert. He might well have served as the model for Frans Hals’ “The Laughing Cavalier”. He replied – to his C.O., mark you – that he intended to bring his bomb back with him. Then, apparently, Wing Commander K - , his C.O. and he exchanged words and observations of some sort. But F - , literally in the driving seat, was adamant and persuasive enough to have his way. We waited rather breathlessly for what might transpire, as well as what his C.O. might say to him, should he, in fact manage to return safely.
After a short while, all the aircraft operating having cleared the area, we heard the note of F – ‘s Twin Wasp engines, as noisy as four Harvards, which is saying something. He appeared on the circuit, a grotesque and unsettling sight. To those of us who have flown aircraft, especially Wellingtons, it is an almost unconscious reaction on seeing any aircraft in the air, to project oneself, as it were, into the cockpit, holding the controls, glancing at the blind-flying panel’s telltale instruments, and in this case, in F – ‘s case, seeing the wretched sight of one green light and two reds in the trio of small undercarriage warning light on the dashboard.
There were now five or six of us on the Watch Office balcony and we watched tensely as F – steadily made his circuit and, throttling back, commenced his final approach. His particular aircraft, in common with a few on both Squadrons’ strengths, had been modified to carry a ‘cookie’, which was essentially a railway locomotive boiler, thin-skinned and packed with high explosive. The bomb was too deep to be accommodated in the normal Wellington bomb-bay, so the modification consisted in suspending it in a rectangular hole like an upturned, lidless coffin without bomb-doors, in the underside of the aircraft. And the bomb was by no means flush with the aircraft’s belly, it protruded, throughout its entire length, by several inches, horrifyingly open to flak, machine gun bullets, cannon-shells – or a belly landing. The sensitivity of the weapon was legendary, the name “blockbuster” applied
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to it by the press was completely apposite.
So F – made his approach, one wheel up, one down, a grotesque and unpleasant sight, the cookie protruding ominously. Why we stood there watching, goodness only knows. Perhaps we were simply too fascinated to move or perhaps we were quite unthinking as to what the outcome might be, should there be an accident, a bad landing, and the cookie were to explode. If that had been the case, I would not be writing this. Or perhaps we were just plain stupid or reckless not to have sought cover.
The aircraft slowly slid down its final approach in the quickly-fading daylight. We watched and waited, almost holding our breath. I remember lighting a cigarette with a hand which was not altogether steady. Then, holding the starboard wing over the ‘missing’ wheel well up, F – touched down, it must have been lightly, on the port wheel only, the engines throttled back to a tick-over. Miraculously, he kept the aircraft straight. We hardly dared look at the protruding cookie. As the Wellington slowed the starboard wing slowly drooped, and finally, at the end of the aircraft’s run, the wing finally scraped the runway, the Wellington slewed around through ninety degrees to starboard and came to a lopsided rest. The fire tender and ‘blood wagon’ raced up, but neither, thankfully, were needed.
It would be trite to say that we breathed again but I am sure that there were some of us who in the final seconds of the touch-down and landing run were actually holding our breath. We stood there, the small group of us, on the balcony, potentially exposed to what would have been a blast-wave of killing proportions not only for us, but for many quite far distant from the runway. Perhaps the fact that we stayed to watch was even due a degree of professional interest in the expertise of one of our peers. But the visual memory of F – ‘s landing that evening has remained with me as something at which to marvel.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Oh! Did you know F - , then?” J – asked, that night in the quiet Ops. Room at Breighton.
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“Only by sight” I replied, then I told her about the landing.
“I will never forget that, I assure you. You knew him, too, then?” I added. J – nodded.
“Oh yes, who didn’t? He was quite a character, wasn’t he?”
“’Was’?”
“Yes. Perhaps you didn’t know he had been killed at --- .” She named an aerodrome not too far distant.
Apparently F – had taken off on a non-operational flight. On board was also an A.T.A. girl pilot and the aircraft had, for some unknown reason, crashed, killing everyone on board. J – mentioned that there was a certain theory concerning something which might have been a contributory factor to the tragedy. I will not set down here what that theory was. But I shall continue to remember F – as I knew him at Binbrook, debonair, dashing, cavalier-like and above all, just that bit larger than life, and possessed of flying skills to which few of us could ever hope to aspire.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Knight’s move [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] KNIGHT’S MOVE [/underlined]
“One sang in the evening
Before the light was gone:
And the earth was lush with plenty
Where the sun shone.
The sound in the twilight
Went: and the earth all thin
Leans to a wind of winter,
The sun gone in.
One song the less to sing
And a singer less
Who sleeps all in the lush of plenty
And summer dress.”
“Casualty”
from “Selected Poems” by
Squadron Leader John Pudney.
Once I had seen the hangar, intact, black and huge, just over the hedge as I rounded the bend of the lane, everything seemed to fall into place, even after so many years.
Everything, except, of course, that J – was gone. I shut my eyes for a moment and forced my thoughts away from her. God knew what became of Pam, and as for Derek, I never heard of him for years after I left Breighton. But now I had, for the first time, come back. Seeking what? I could find no answer to that in my mind, except that I had obeyed some inner compulsion to revisit the place and that somehow it seemed to bring me some peace and calm of spirit to be back there amid the quiet hedges, the ruined buildings, the memories, and the silent, empty sky, where among so many losses I had, with deep feelings of the unique guilt of the survivor, found
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my personal happiness when so many had lost everything, for ever.
I walked down the empty road in the warm October sunshine, past what remained of the East-West runway, and marvelled at the utter silence. The little river at the edge of the road slipped silently over its green weeds and I remembered Gerry, how he had aborted a takeoff one night, smashed through the hedge and across the road and had finished up with the aircraft’s nose almost in that river. Amazingly, they had missed everything solid and had all walked away from it. I smiled to myself as I recalled how everyone in the Mess had kidded him about it the following morning.
The Mess itself was till there, pretty well intact. One or two broken panes in the windows, the buff-coloured walls reflecting the warmth of the sun, the porch by now overgrown with tall weeds around which a bee idly buzzed. Now, no bicycles leaned against its walls, there was no C.O.’s car parked, no battledressed figures walked in and out, calling to one another – there was just the brilliant sunshine and the utter silence. And then, as I visualised the inside of the Mess, its layout, its half-remembered faces; I thought of the events of such another day of sunshine all that time ago. I saw the interior of the anteroom, the small table with the chessmen on their board, the young bomb-aimer sitting opposite me, frowning with concentration as we played, then looking at his watch and standing up reluctantly, the cracked record, “I’ve gotta gal, in Kalamazoo”. “Shall we finish it tomorrow?” I had said to him.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
My part of the briefing came second, as usual, after the Wingco had told them the target and shown them over the route on the wall-map. Most of the crews weren’t really interested in the industries, population or the other standard Intelligence gen which I served up to them, and I didn’t blame them; their main concern was what the defences were like – and, privately, whether they would get back. They were silent when I pointed out the flak and searchlight belt around the target, and a few night-fighter aerodromes near to their route. There were one or two whistles when I told them
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how many aircraft were on that night; it was quite a big effort and craftily organised so that there were two targets, the stream of kites splitting up abreast of and between the two towns, then turning away from each other to attack their respective targets some sixty miles apart. There were also elaborate Mosquito spoof attacks to draw off the enemy fighters from the main force.
“We hope that will fox the defences,” I concluded.
When briefing was over I left the hubbub and snatches of nervous laughter from the crews and cycled down to the Ops Room in the summer afternoon to try to finish plotting last night’s bombing photos. One of our Halifaxes was on his landing approach, another was on the downwind leg with his undercart lowered. One of their engines was slightly desynchronised and it made a throbbing note above the steady roar. The sun was very bright, the trees were a deep green above the huts and the houses of the village and it was warm.
One of the bombing photos was holding us up. There was only a small fragment of ground detail, more or less one block of houses, visible in the usual mess of smoke, cloud, bomb bursts, flak and fires. Pam was having a go at it when I arrived.
“Any luck?” I asked, throwing my cap on the table.
“Not yet,” she said, “but it must be somewhere near the aiming point because there’s so much going on in the photograph.”
We stewed over the mosaic for a time, trying to fit the photo in, which would enable us to discover where the aircraft had dropped his load of bombs. Pam looked along the approach side to the A.P., I took the exit side. Finally, I had it placed.
“Oh, good,” Pam said rather wearily, and stretched.
I measured the distance carefully.
“Can you give him a ring in the Mess, Freda?” I asked the duty Watchkeeper, “he’ll be wanting to know. Tell whoever you speak to that they were about a thousand yards from the A.P., would you?”
After that, we generally tidied up from last night’s effort, and as far as we could, from tonight’s preparations. I did a last minute check that the Pundit was in the right place and set to flash the correct letters, and that the resin lights on the aircraft were the correct colour combination. About six o’clock I went down to the Mess, put my feet up and relaxed. There were several battledressed and white sweatered chaps clumping about in their heavy, soft-soled flying boots, trying not to smoke too much, mostly a bit pale and rather quiet.
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Dinner was much as usual, no-one had very much to say to anyone else, at least among the crews who were on. Derek came in and said he was going up to relieve Pam on duty.
“See you before take-off,” I told him.
“What the heck for?” Derek asked, “there’s no need – why don’t you get some sleeping hours in till they come back?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I might as well be up there,” I said, not wanting him to know that J – and I had a sort of thing starting. I hoped so, anyhow. She would be taking over from Freda about now. I’d taken her out a couple of times and I thought she was pretty wizard; we seemed to speak the same language. Had to be a bit careful, though, the R.A.F. was touchy about male Officer – W.A.A.F. N.C.O. relationships. You could easily find that one of you was suddenly posted to Sullom Voe or somewhere like that, and the other to Portreath, or worse still, overseas.
I went into the anteroom. Someone had the radiogram going. It was Glenn Miller and the Chattanooga choo-choo on Track 29. I settled down with Tee Emm at a table where someone had left the chess board and pieces, and was chuckling over P/O Prune’s latest effort when a voice said, “Do you play?”
I looked up. He was a P/O Bomb-aimer, rather stocky, darkish, with his name on the small brown leather patch sewn above the top right-hand pocket of his battledress, his white, roll-necked sweater and half-wing looked rather new, I thought.
“Sure,” I said, “but not very well, I’m afraid. I’ll give you a game, though, if you like.”
“I’m not very good myself,” he said.
As we were setting out the pieces, “Who are you with?” I asked. He named his skipper.
“He’s good; flies these Hallies like Spits!” he said, laughing. For an instant, the lines of stress on his face were smoothed out in the snatched and fleeting relaxation of the moment, so that instead of looking like a young man, he looked like a very young one.
“Yes, I know the name,” I said, “I think I’ve plotted one or two of your photos recently. How many have you done?”
“Six”, he answered.
There was nothing I could say to that. Thirty trips was a hell
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of a way off when you’d done six.
He chose white from the two pawns I held in my closed fists.
“Off you go, then,” I said.
He opened conventionally enough, pawn to king’s fourth, pawn to queen’s third, and so on, and as we played I could tell we were both about the same calibre, on the poor side of indifferent. After a while, he started looking at his watch a lot and I could see his concentration was beginning to fade, but his knight was going to have my bishop and rook neatly forked, so I knew I was in for a bit of trouble. He sighed and said, “That’s about it for now, I’m afraid, I’ll have to get weaving up to the Flights.”
I said, “O.K., then, shall we finish it tomorrow? I’ll make a note of the positions, if you like.”
“Yes,” he said, “fine,” and got to his feet. “Thanks for the game.”
“Enjoyed it,” I said, and gave him the usual and universal Bomber Command envoi, “Have a good trip.”
“Sure, thanks,” he said, gave a half-wave and went out.
I watched him go. He looked rather like a schoolboy who had been sent for by the Head. A slightly cracked record on the radiogram was now telling us that someone liked her looks when he carried her books in Kalamazoo. I wondered idly where that was. I made a copy of the position on the chessboard and went out of the Mess. It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun was starting to dip now and there were some streaks of altostratus in the north-west. A faint breeze brought the twittering of sparrows; a blackbird nearer at hand was giving a few clarinet notes, intent on practising the first bar of his eventual good-night song. A Halifax droned over, to the east, high, probably setting off on a night cross-country or a Bullseye. His engines made a hollow, booming roar in the clear evening air. Then the Tannoy came to life with a hum and with a leap of the heart I heard J – ‘s voice come over, telling someone he was wanted at his Flight Office.
I cycled up the quiet road through the hamlet, which was companionably and inextricably mixed up with the Station’s huts, and turned right at the tall gable-end of a house on to the narrow concrete road which, in a few hundred yards beyond the W.A.A.F. site, came to the Ops Room.
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The sentry gave me a cheery “Good evening, sir,” and I went inside to the strip-lighting, the huge wall-blackboard, the central plotting table and the long desk with the telephones. Derek, J – and little Edith, one of the Int. Clerks, were on duty. I saluted and said, “Hiya, folks, everything under control?” It was. Edith was finishing writing up the captains and aircraft letters on the big blackboard and it looked impressive. You started to imagine the bomb-load from that lot going down on to a built-up area, and what it would do. Then you stopped imagining. I got busy with some paper-work, tying up loose ends and amending some S.D.s, then the clerk made some tea. J – ‘s phone was pretty quiet – it usually was a couple of hours or so before take-off – she was writing a letter, I think, and Derek was sorting out the mosaics alphabetically and sliding them back into the big drawer below the table.
“Time we had a new one for Hamburg,” he said, “this one’s about had it.”
“So’s Hamburg,” I said, “if it come to that,” and we grinned.
We drank tea, smoked and chatted a bit, mostly about our next leave. Derek was whistling “Room 504” off and on, and rather badly. There wasn’t a lot to do now except wait for a scrub, which we knew wouldn’t happen when there was a big summer high over western Europe. Odd calls came in to J – requesting Tannoy messages; she put them out and logged them all.
I went outside for a while to look at the sky. The Ops Room was windowless and the lighting and general fug got you down rather after a time, especially as we all smoked like chimneys. It was about nine o’clock. I looked over the cornfield which was just outside the Ops Room door. The corn was ripe, grown high, ready for harvest; the sky was very beautiful, pale green almost in one place, some stars showing, complete stillness.
“Calm before the storm,” I thought, rather tritely. I breathed the cooling air gratefully. Somewhere in the distance the blackbird was firing his short bursts of evening song. It was all very peaceful and the war seemed a hell of a long way off.
The sentry seemed fidgety, he was probably wishing I would hurry up and go in again so that he could have a quiet smoke himself.
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“Nice night,” I said to him.
Back in the Ops Room I felt we were completely insulated from the outside world. Until the phone rang.
“Ops, Breighton,” J – said. She listened, then put the phone down.
“Flying Control,” she said to me, “they’re taxying out. First off should be any minute now.”
“O.K.,” I said, “I might as well chalk them up.”
I was feeling a little strung-up; it would give me something to do. In a little while the phone rang again.
“Ops, Breighton….. right, sir, thank you.”
J – turned to me.
“B – Baker airborne 2149.”
I chalked up the time opposite ‘B’. After that, the phone went at very short intervals, until they had all gone. In the Ops Room we never heard a thing, only the hum of the air-conditioning and the buzz of the strip-lighting.
I imagined them doing their gentle climbing turns to port and setting course over the centre of the aerodrome, the Navigators carefully logging the time, the gunners in their turrets watchful for other aircraft, then climbing steadily away towards Southwold where they crossed out for the North Sea, the enemy coast and whatever lay in wait for them beyond, on the other side.
When they’d all gone, the Wingco came in for a chat. He was a good type and we all liked him. He and Derek shared an interest in painting, and after a while he took Derek off to the Mess for a drink. There wouldn’t have been much for Derek to do behind his desk, anyhow.
“Can you cope?” Derek asked, as he went.
“Of course,” I said, hiding my elation that J – and I would be able to have a talk. The clerk slipped off into the Int. Library, I think she sensed that three was a crowd. After a while, the phone rang again.
“Ops, Breighton….. yes, thank you, I’ve got that.”
She turned to me again.
“Flying Control. Early return, F – Fox, starboard inner u/s. I’ll phone the Wingco in the Mess.”
While she was doing so, I went outside again. It was quite dark now, and countless stars were showing. They had put the Sandra Lights on for
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F – Fox. In a little while I heard him coming from the south, then he came into the circuit with his nav. lights on, flashed ‘F’ on his downward ident. light and slid down on to the runway behind the H.Q. huts, his three engines popping as he throttled back. In the stillness I heard the screech of his tyres as they bit the runway, then his engine-note faded into silence. In a minute or two I heard his bursts of throttle as he taxied into dispersal. He would have jettisoned his load, and most of his petrol, into the sea. J – had logged his time of landing on the board.
“I’ve told the Wingco,” she said.
We swopped childhoods, parents and early Service days for a while, then I decided to go and have a sleep in the Window Store, on the bench. I must have been tired and slept very soundly, because I was awakened by knocking on the door and Edith’s timid voice calling, “First aircraft overhead, sir.”
I shivered as I swung my legs down off the bench and on to the stone floor; I always shivered when I heard those words, wondering how it had gone. Had they had much opposition? That was always my first thought. Had there been much fighter activity? What had the flak been like, and the searchlights? I never thought much about the target; what seemed to matter to me was whether they were all back.
I went into the Ops Room and lit a cigarette, passing my case around. Derek was back.
“Here’s Rip van Winkle,” he said, “come to muck things up for us.”
“Get knotted,” I grinned, “and let’s have my fags back.”
He threw my case back at me and I disappointed him by catching it. The phone rang; J – answered it. The first one had landed safely. Derek said, “I’ll get along and start the interrogations, Pam’s on, too.”
“O.K., Derek,” I told him, “I’ll be down later,” and he left.
He still had “Room 504” on his mind and it still sounded no better. The phone rang again, it was another one landed. They kept coming in steadily and whoever was nearest the blackboard chalked them up. By quarter to six we had them all back but two. I took a quick
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look around. The clerk was in the far corner collecting empty cups. I said to J - , quietly, “Can you meet me tonight? Seven o’clock? We’ll go to the Plough, if you like.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she breathed, and smiled briefly. She still looked wizard, I thought, even at six o’clock in the morning after a long night duty. For a while we let our thoughts take possession of us. Then the phone broke the silence again. One of the two had landed away, in 3 Group. That left just one outstanding.
The minutes ticked by. Then I said the usual thing, one of us always said it at times like this.
“He could have landed away, too, and they haven’t told us yet.”
But there was actually only fifteen minutes left before his endurance, on the night’s petrol load, ran out. I went outside, restlessly. The Sandra Lights looked desolate in a vivid and rigid cone above the aerodrome, waiting in the silence which had now enveloped everything. Dawn was starting to break. It looked like being another perfect summer morning. Far away, a door slammed and someone whistled, loudly and jauntily. Probably one of the returned crews, just off to bed. The sky, lightening, seemed immense, the stars had faded and the trees were motionless. In a little while I went back inside.
“Anything, J - ?”
She shook her head. I looked at my watch. Time was up, and more. We were quite quiet for a long while. Then I said, “I was playing chess with his bomb-aimer just before they went. Let’s hope to God they are P.o.W.s”. We still sat, waiting. When I knew it was quite hopeless I said to J – “You’d better phone the Wingco and the Padre. I’m going to see about the photographs. See you this evening, then, goodnight, J - .”
“Goodnight, or rather, good morning,” she said.
I walked out of the Ops Room into the early morning with a feeling of weariness and desolation. What was it all about? I thought. It was quite cool outside; I reached for a cigarette and my hand found a piece of paper in my pocket. It was the sketch of the chess board. I looked at if for a minute or so, then I said,
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“Good luck, wherever you are.”
I screwed the paper into a ball and dropped it into the waist-high corn, and I thought of the seven men who might be lying amidst the wreckage of their aircraft somewhere across the sea. It was growing light now and a faint breeze stirred the ripened heads of the wheat. Somewhere, the blackbird was starting to sing. The Sandra lights had been put out. There was nothing left for me to do. I shivered, and turned away.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
With an effort I dragged my thoughts back to the reality of the present, and I realised it was already time to go. The sun was dazzlingly low, but its warmth still lingered and there was a faint scent of late roses as I walked up through the hamlet, towards the gable-end and the road to the Ops Room. An old man was stiffly tending his patch of front garden, and looked up as I said “Good evening.”
“Been a fine day,” he said. He saw my rucksack. “Have you come far?” he added.
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve come a very long way,” and I walked on, into the silence and the shadows of the gathering twilight.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] A different kind of love. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] A DIFFERENT KIND OF LOVE [/underlined
“’Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still”
(A.E. Housman)
Temporization, delaying tactics, putting-off. Call it what you will. I try to justify it be telling myself that whatever one calls it – and I am fairly certain we have all of us been guilty of it at some time – it is a human failing, and the guilt one feels, if one should feel guilt at some action or lack of action if it affects only oneself, has been felt by many another person. And should one indeed experience feelings of guilt if whatever the reason for the “putting-off” it affects only oneself? But I am afraid that in the circumstances which I have finally decided and brought myself to the point of describing, at least one other person must have felt some hurt, almost certainly deep hurt, and this is what has concerned me for a very long time. The thought and the concern I have felt is something which comes into my mind for no apparent reason at intervals of time, like the aching of a doubtful tooth which one knows will prove difficult and extremely painful of extraction. The moral points having been made, it is time for me to elaborate, sparing, I hope, no detail, least of all sparing nothing of the sad story of my own actions which undoubtedly started the whole business. These events, I know, will be re-lived in my mind, as they have been over the years, for days on end, producing invariably feelings of deep sadness and of ineradicable guilt.
I think it is worthy of mention that in the closing months of my career in the R.A.F. I was successively Adjutant of two units. The first of these was the unhappiest unit I had encountered, and the second, which followed immediately afterwards was without doubt the happiest one; one where I felt that those around me were like-minded. I went, at the behest of the powers-that-were in South East Asia Command, from one to the other on receipt of the appropriate signal, teleprinted on to paper, simply by walking from one tent to
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another on a crowded-to-capacity aerodrome near Rangoon, the Japanese surrender having thankfully taken place a few hours before. I met some of my new fellow-Officers and took to them immediately. First impressions were confirmed over the next days, weeks and months. On the final posting of my R.A.F. career I had arrived on a unit which was the most agreeable I had experienced in six years. I think that was understandable when one considers that I would wake in the mornings knowing that there was no war being fought, that no-one was going to be killed among those around me, no-one was going to go missing on operations and that one would not find an empty bed across one’s room in the morning, no empty chair in the Mess, no letters to be written to next-of-kin.
From the tented camp, where conditions were, to put it mildly, primitive, we were, after a few days, put on board a small paddle-steamer and left Rangoon for where we knew not. On this small ship I was to meet people with whom I was to work and play very happily for almost the last year of my service in the R.A.F. and with a few of whom I was to form enduring friendships, now alas, terminated by the inevitable and merciless passage of time.
It was on this ship too, where I first became acquainted with the music of Elgar. One morning as we were steaming southwards – we knew that much! – I was coming down a short flight of stairs leading to what, in terms of a house in England, would be described as a hallway or lobby. Some music was being played on a gramophone there and I was so struck by its grave beauty that I stood stock still on the stairway until it had ended. Then, moved by it and marvelling at its beauty I went up to the Equipment Officer who was playing it on his wind-up gramophone. This was at the time of 78 r.p.m. shellac records, of course. I asked him what he had just been playing and he was more than pleased to tell me that it was a movement from Elgar’s Enigma Variations, called Nimrod and explained the significance of that title. Little did I know that I was to hear the same music, in vastly different circumstances very soon, the recollection of which would have the power to move me deeply for years afterwards, not only because of the music itself, but because of the player of it and what the player meant – and still means – to me.
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We soon learned that we were heading for the island of Penang, of which most of us had heard, but that was all, as part of Operation Zipper, the British occupation, or rather re-occupation, of what was then Malaya, after the Japanese surrender and withdrawal. We were to be, in fact, the first R.A.F. unit to land in Malaya. And so it was. We arrived at the quayside of Georgetown, the principal town, under the massive shadow of the battleship H.M.S. Nelson, anchored next to us. Over the next few days we found our quarters in an old army cantonment on a wooded hillside, at Sungei Glugor, and took possession of the small aerodrome at Bayan Lepas in readiness for the arrival of a Spitfire squadron and a detachment of two Beaufighters from Burma. We hunted for furniture for the empty and deserted cantonment and found ample in the abandoned dwelling houses on the island. We readily imagined what must have happened to the original occupants during the Japanese occupation.
Within days we had the Station operating and thanks to the Royal Signals, in contact with our parent formations at Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. The Spitfires and Beaufighters duly arrived. We were an operational formation.
Now that I was settled into a permanent location I had the time and facilities to write a letter to J – every day, as she did to me. We had been engaged to be married for just under two years and there was a clear agreement between us that we would not be married until after we were both settled into civilian life again. Never did either of us doubt the promises made to one another and despite the time and distance which separated us, neither of us doubted the fidelity or behaviour of the other. J – was a W.A.A.F. Sergeant on an operational bomber station, now thankfully converted to peaceful purposes, and she was surrounded by some hundreds of both W.A.A.F. and R.A.F. personnel. As for me, my surroundings were peopled exclusively by men. The relationship between J – and I was firmly founded on mutual trust.
It had been decided that we should participate in a Service of Thanksgiving in one of the churches in Georgetown, and the arrangements were soon made, as were the arrangements for a victory march-past of all the armed services in Georgetown’s Victoria Park.
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I suppose there were over 100 of us to attend the service, which was held in the Chinese Methodist Church on a pleasant evening. A sizeable Chinese contingent were also present, men and women, all beautifully dressed in white. I was near to the right hand end of a pew fairly near to the front of the church, and as I took my place the organ was being played. To my amazement and delight I immediately recognised the tune as none other but ‘Nimrod’, which I had only recently come to know and which had made such an impression on me on the boat coming down from Rangoon. Smiling to myself, I looked up and to my right to see if it was one of our number who was the organist. My further surprise was that it was not anyone that I knew, but someone I took to be a Chinese youth in a white surplice. And then I saw that I was again mistaken; the organist was a Chinese girl in a long white dress. As she finished ‘Nimrod’ she moved almost seamlessly into a Chopin E Minor Prelude whose tune, full of yearning, almost brought tears into my eyes.
The service itself was jointly conducted by a Chinese clergyman about 50 years old and of almost ascetic appearance, and our own Methodist Padre. During the service an announcement was made that light refreshments would be served in the church hall afterwards and I determined to be there, partly from personal preference and partly because as Wing Adjutant it would obviously be my duty not to return immediately to the cantonment at Glugor but to show a degree of sociability towards the local people who were our hosts.
It dawned on me that since I had left England more than six months previously I had never seen a member of the opposite sex in that time, nor even heard a female voice. My mother, on my embarkation leave and J – immediately prior to my going on leave, had been the last two women to whom I had spoken.
I wondered, as, the service over, I went into the fairly crowded church hall, whether the girl organist would be there so that I could tell her how I had enjoyed and been moved by her choice of music. She was indeed there, one of those serving refreshments at a line of tables at one side of the hall. I was extremely pleased, went straight across to her, and smiling, spoke to her, complimenting
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her on her playing.
She smiled depracatingly [sic] and brushed away with her hand one side of the curtain of her collar-length black hair from her face, a gesture which, so characteristic of her, I have recalled very many times since. Her voice was soft, musical and charmingly accented, reminding me forcibly of J – ‘s own voice. She apologised for not having played well; she said she was out of practice. These few seconds were the start of an utterly delightful, all-too-brief, but quite unforgettable friendship. It became a friendship, and only that. Nothing more. During the time that I knew her I never once touched her, not even to shake hands when eventually I left Malaya for good. (‘For good’? I was in two minds about that. I felt I was being torn apart). My promises to J – were unbreakable and at no time did I think even of the possibility of breaking them. We were engaged to be married; we would be married as soon as it could be managed when I returned to the U.K. Strangely, I have only just discovered some poignantly applicable words in a chanson by the 14th century Guillaume de Machaut –
‘…. in a foreign land,
You who bear sweetness and beauty
White and red like a rose or lily ….
The radiance of your virtue
Shines brighter than the Pole Star ….
Fair one, elegant, frank and comely,
Imbued with all modesty of demeanour.’
I was not alone in making a friend in the local community; there were at least two other Officers to my knowledge who formed attachments of one sort or the other while we were on the island.
And at home? J - , in her daily letters to me occasionally mentioned going to dances on the aerodrome where she was stationed and I presumed that obviously she danced in the arms of men. But I trusted her as implicitly as I hope she trusted me. She mentioned two men, both Australian pilots, by their nicknames. One of them was killed, with all his crew, when they crashed within sight of the aerodrome on returning from an op. No reason for the crash was ever
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established. But to my discredit I could not help feeling a twinge - - perhaps more than that – of jealousy whenever I read their names in her letters. And some time after J – and I were married, while we were once talking about wartime days and nights, quite out of the blue she said, only half-jokingly, “If I hadn’t married you I would have married an Australian”. I remember that I smiled but said nothing. What could I say?
I find it difficult now to describe Chiau Yong adequately as I saw her then and as I think of her now, without using trite phrases or words which in this age of cynicism would be sneered at or greeted with unbelieving or sarcastic laughter. But then, and over the weeks which followed I was charmed by her placid nature, her smiling, childlike innocence, her undoubted beauty and her impish sense of humour.
That evening in the church hall, as I chatted to her, standing as we were at opposite sides of the table of refreshments, I felt a growing happiness which I had not known for a long time stealing over me and calming me, as though the war, with all the tragedies which I had seen and experienced, had never taken place.
When, regretfully, it was time for me to go I had learned her name and that she was the daughter of the clergyman whose church this was. I had also, hesitantly and tentatively, expecting nothing except possibly a polite rebuff, asked if I might see her again by coming to hear her organ practice, whenever that might be. She shyly consented and I felt, as I left the hall, that my feet were hardly touching the ground. I think I must have been smiling foolishly, but fortunately no-one commented as we boarded the gharries to return to Glugor.
As often as I possibly could I went to the church and sat in a pew near to the front, where I could see her sitting at the organ console, while she practised, content to listen to the music she made and to watch her as she played, quite unperturbed that I was there, a few feet away from her, listening and watching. Sometimes I went with her into her home, where she played the piano for me. And often we talked. Her English was truly excellent, somewhat reminiscent in her use of words and phrases of the Victorian era, but none the less lucid and charming to hear spoken
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in her soft, lilting voice. We talked about the music she played; she asked what sort of music I liked. We talked a little about our respective backgrounds. She was keen to learn anything about England. I mentioned one or two of my wartime experiences but asked for no details of hers or of her family’s under the Japanese occupation. I developed an interest to scratch the surface of knowledge of the Chinese language. Her own dialect, and that of her mother, who spoke no English, unlike her father and her sister, was Hokkien. She and her sister, who joined us on one occasion when we sat talking, amused themselves and entertained me by translating my name into written Chinese ideographs, which they pronounced as ‘Yo-min’. Whenever Chiau Yong wished to draw my attention to something or ask me a question, it was always prefaced by her saying ‘Mister Yo-min….’ . I suppose in her strict upbringing, which I assumed she had had, the use of my Christian name would have been seen as unduly familiar.
She taught me the numerals from one to ten and chuckled delightfully behind her small hand at my unavailing efforts to pronounce the words for ‘one’ and ‘seven’ correctly. To my ears they sounded identical; I am afraid that I was an obtuse pupil. I asked her about her own name; she told me that it meant ‘shining countenance’ which, I thought, could not have been more appropriate. As to her age, I never enquired. I would have put her as being slightly younger than I. I was 24 at the time, she would be possibly around 20, I thought.
I met her parents on at least one occasion. They very kindly invited me to come to their home for an evening meal, which I was glad and honoured to do. Two things stand out clearly in my mind about that occasion: the number of different languages spoken around the table and the sense of peacefulness which surrounded us. Her mother, a quiet middle-aged lady, simply dressed in black, spoke only Hokkien which, if she addressed me, was translated by Chiau Yong, as was my reply to her mother. Her father, the minister, spoke excellent English in a calm and measured manner. Her sister, Chiau Gian and her rather quiet younger brother spoke English too, for my benefit. Chiau Yong, who had told me that she was learning Mandarin, the classical Chinese tongue, spoke in English, of course, to me, in Hokkien to her mother and in Malay to the houseboy who appeared from time to time on his domestic errands.
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After I had visited their home on several occasions to see Chiau Yong and to hear her play, I was slightly surprised when one afternoon, as we were talking together, a pilot from the Spitfire squadron which had arrived came into the room. I knew D – P – well enough to talk to, but I thought, in my limited understanding of such things, he did not fit into my preconceived idea of what a fighter pilot should be like. He was, from what I had seen of him in the Mess, not only slightly older-looking than the other pilots, with somewhat thinning hair, but also of a quieter disposition than most of the others. However, a Spitfire pilot he was, whatever ideas I had formed about the differences between them and bomber pilots such as I had been. I gathered he had come to see Chiau Yong’s father, and not being interested in the reason for his visit I promptly forgot about him after we had exchanged polite enough greetings on this and on one or two further occasions when he came to the house to see Mr. Ng.
I knew that my time on the island and indeed in the R.A.F. must shortly come to an end. Being an administrative officer, as Adjutant, I could almost forecast when my time would come to ‘get on the boat’ and while others around me were obviously in a fever of impatience to get back to ‘civvy street’, as it was always called, I found my own state of mind to be more in the nature of calm acceptance, knowing that while I would be returning to J - , whom I loved and to whom I would be married, somehow, somewhere and at some time, I had spent a quarter of my life and almost all my adult life in R.A.F. uniform and would find things difficult or indeed incomprehensible.
At about this time our unit, 185 Wing, received orders to move across to the mainland, into Province Wellesley, to become R.A.F. Station Butterworth, leaving very good and well-appointed accommodation for something not quite so commodious. But there was a very good ferry service between Butterworth (which local people knew as Mata Kuching) and Georgetown, so I was still within easy reach of the town, its cafes, good sports facilities which were well used by us all, and above all, still within easy reach of Chiau Yong.
Towards the end of my service at Butterworth, on one visit to her, she suggested that we take a cycle ride to see some nearby parts
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of the island which were strange to me, and this we did for a couple of hours, along deserted roads, up hillsides, almost always under the cover of trees with their blossoms, so exotic to my eyes, with their birdsong, and the chattering and calling of monkeys and chipmunks.
The idyll had to end. I think my unconscious mind has, as a defence mechanism, obliterated the recollection of our goodbyes, for I can remember not one single thing about it. It is as though it had never happened. But it must have done, of course. I returned to England, a stranger to a strange land. Standards had changed, attitudes had changed, there was no longer the feeling of one-ness, of co-operation and togetherness which the war had engendered. It seemed now as though it were ‘every man for himself and damn the others’. I let a decent interval of two or three days pass as I settled in at home with my parents then I travelled south to be with J - . It was a happy but strange reunion. Strange to see her in civilian clothes, strange to see her leave to catch an early train to Brighton to work for the South Eastern Gas Board. All our talk was of when, where and how we were going to be married and where we would live. In the end, with the willing help of my parents, I found very basic accommodation in my home town, as I had agreed with J – that I needed to return to my old occupation and to obtain a necessary qualification as soon as possible.
J – and I were married in the autumn from her aunt’s home in Surrey and after our honeymoon in Edinburgh we were thrust into the realities of married life in cramped surroundings, comprehensive rationing, with a shared kitchen, and where even the basics of living necessitated stringent saving on my salary, with all of which J – coped amazingly well. I had to study hard in the evenings in the same small living room where J – was usually reading or knitting, deprived of the radio so as not to disturb me. Settling down at work was none too easy. My superiors were a man who had somehow missed the first World War and who was too old for the Second, his deputy, who had tried hard to dissuade me from volunteering for aircrew on the grounds that I would be probably be instrumental in killing people and who himself, had he not been reserved from military service as a key employee would have been compelled to describe himself as a conscientious objector. There were also two ex-R.A.F. men, who in six years of service had attained the respective ranks of Corporal
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and of Leading Aircraftman. Perhaps because I had outranked them it became apparent that any particularly physically dirty or awkward job was allocated to me. I accepted the situation as a continuation of military discipline, as I did when the office clerk, a lady of mature years, when I politely declined to do part of her far less than arduous work for her (so that she would have more time for gossiping, I suspected), told me rather angrily and unimaginatively that since “I’d been away” I had changed, which I thought was something of an understatement. I never talked of my wartime experiences and no-one asked me a single question. All they knew was that I had flown aeroplanes, been over Germany and finished my career in the Far East. The rest was silence.
Having neither a telephone nor a car I kept in touch with friends I had made in the R.A.F. by letter and rarely did a week go by without news from someone, either in the U.K. or some other part of the globe. My correspondents, of course, included Chiau Yong, whom I had told in a letter that I was finally married, and had given her my address. I certainly had not forgotten her and whenever I thought of her I smiled mentally at the remembrance of her charming company and her music-making.
At this time, although of course there was no means of knowing it, J – was sickening for a serious, potentially fatal illness, which within months was to take her into sanatoria for more than a year of her young life. Whether this slow decline in her health, coupled with the novelty of her surroundings and circumstances contributed to the short and low-key breakfast table conversation which took place between us I do not know, but I suspect it might have done so.
I remember vividly that it was a Saturday morning. There were two letters for us, one for J – and one for me, which, to my delight I saw was from Chiau Yong. We opened our respective mail at the breakfast table. The letter was typical of Chiau Yong’s nature – pleasant, equable, written in beautiful English and containing some mildly jocular reference to something I must have once said to her about settling down into civilian life. It contained no word of love; it ended without those conventional little crosses which were the well-known signs for kisses. I would have been astonished beyond measure if it had done so. J – had finished reading her own letter. I smiled across the table and said “From Chiau Yong. Read it, darling”.
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She took it without a word and read it expressionlessly. I had no inkling of what was to come as she handed the letter unsmilingly back to me. Looking directly at me, she said “I don’t think it’s right that she should be writing to a married man like that and I think you should tell her so”.
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I was completely taken aback with shock and surprise. I had known J – for more than three years during which time we had seen eye-to-eye on almost everything and no word of disagreement had ever passed between us. But I recovered my composure quickly and knowing that one’s wife must come first in everything, I said “All right”.
I immediately left the table, got the writing pad and sitting down again in front of J – I wrote the cruellest words that I have ever in my whole life composed. My opening words are to this day burned into my memory.
“Dear Chiau Yong”, I wrote, “In England, a married man does not write letters to another girl”. And I continued briefly that the correspondence between us must now stop. It took about three minutes. I handed the letter wordlessly to J – who read it and gave it back to me with a nod. “Yes,” she said.
Chiau Yong’s name was never again mentioned during our married life, but I cannot and would not pretend that, happily married as we were for almost 40 years, I never thought of Chiau Yong. For I have thought of her often and I have been deeply and bitterly troubled that I must have been the cause of her suffering so much shock and pain so unexpectedly and, in my eyes, without any reason, and certainly not by any misdeed of hers, intentional or otherwise. I have prayed again and again over the years, and still do, that she might have eventually forgiven me. I never saw her again; I never heard from her again. Whether she is alive or dead, was or is happy or unhappy, I do not know, but I do know that she brought light and sweetness in unbelievable measure into my life and that our short and beautiful friendship was as innocent in every respect as any relationship could be.
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There is a curious and disturbingly bitter postscript to this unhappy episode in my life. J –‘s parents lived in Worthing and naturally she wanted to see them and her unmarried younger sister whenever she could. We had not much money, but by dint of hard saving we were able to spend two or three weeks every summer, usually during the Worthing Cricket Week, with her parents. One summer’s day, not all that many years before she died, J – and I were walking through the park near to the Worthing sea front. We left the park and crossed the road, going towards Lancing, still near to the sea. On the corner stood a church whose denomination I did not know – until I read on a notice board erected near to the church door, “Minister – D. P. –“ I looked away quickly before my shock and astonishment became too obvious. It could only have been the Spitfire pilot from Penang who used to visit Chiau Yong’s father, presumably for some sort of guidance or instruction as to his post war vocation. If things had been other than they were I would have gone immediately with J – to seek him out, to talk over the times when we first met, but of course Chiau Yong’s name would have come into our conversation. I walked on in silence, as though nothing untoward had happened, but with my mind in a turmoil. So J – never knew about D – P – , about his nearness and of the memories I still had of sunlit afternoons in the church hall in Georgetown where I would sit talking with that beautiful young girl in her long white dress.
Was I in love with Chiau Yong? Can one be in love with two people at once? Was that possible when I never stopped loving J - ? These are questions I have many times asked myself. The only self-convincing conclusion to which I can reasonably arrive is while there was no element whatsoever of the physical aspect of love in my relationship with her, yet I feel that the affection which I held and hold for her, whatever her feelings might have been for me, was more than mere friendship, that this was a different kind of love. Christ exhorted us to love one another. We were both Christians and I think that this is what He meant us to feel for one another.
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And so now, very often, while I have been writing this belated account of something which has haunted me for a very long time, and very often since I wrote that terrible, wounding letter, I remember with a sort of poignant gratitude and happiness, bitter-sweet happiness, the beauty of her nature and her innocent sweetness and I thank God for the gift of happiness which she gave me. But at the same time I feel a profound and bitter guilt and sadness, knowing that the dreadful hurt which she must have suffered and perhaps for years remembered was due to no fault of hers but was entirely due to me.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Mi querer tanto vos quiere,
muy graciosa donzella,
que por vos mi vida muere
y de vos no tiene querella.
Tanto sois de mi querida
con amor i lealtad,
que de vos non se que diga
viendo vestra onestad.
Si mi querer tanto vos quiere,
causalo que sois tan bella,
que por vos mi vida muere
y de vos no tiene querella.
(Enrique, d. 1488)
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[inserted] [underlined] Sun on a chequered tea-cosy [/underlined] [/inserted]
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O where are you going, Sir Rollo and Sir Tabarie,
Sir Duffy and Sir Dinadan, you four proud men,
With your battlecries [sic] and banners,
Your high and haughty manners,
O tell me, tell me, tell me,
Will you ride this way again?
(School Speech Day song, 1936.)
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[underlined] SUN ON A CHEQUERED TEA-COSY [/undelrined]
It was Zhejian green tea. I poured the water on, placed the lid carefully on the pot and took the tea-cosy in my left hand. The sun through the kitchen window shone brightly across its red and green checks. And stirred some memory, deep down in the recesses of my mind. Those checks had some significance, somewhere from a long way back. I stood there, looking down at the covered teapot and let myself relax until the realisation slowly dawned. I was looking again at the band around Ivor’s R.A.F. peaked cap when he was an apprentice at Halton, before the war, and I found myself thinking back to the times I had walked with him along the cliffs, hearing the gulls screaming overhead and wheeling in the sunlight, laughing with him as he sang “Shaibah Blues”, with the waves crashing on to the rocks below.
I never thought I would find myself in the position of trying to do a small thing to defend Ivor, after all this time, but, of course, there’s no one else left to do it now. Looking back over it, although so many years have passed since H – wrote what he did, it still seems to me that they were very cruel words to use, especially as Ivor had no means of defending himself, no right of reply nor of appeal. It was something so barbed that it eventually acquired, through its re-telling, the significance and nature of a legend, and in the perverse way of things it elevated Ivor to the status of a minor hero. But all the same, at the time it took place I could see it had made a deep and lasting impression on him, young and resilient as he was. And now, to me, at any rate, H – ‘s words about Ivor have acquired a poignancy which can never to expunged.
Ivor need not, of course, have let anyone into the secret; one didn’t do that sort of thing, very often, at school, in case it was thought that one was being sissy or trying to attract attention and sympathy, but it was sufficient to indicate to me, and to John, I believe, who was there at the time, how deeply it had struck home, when Ivor approached us one day on the Second Field, before school went in.
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It was the beginning of the Autumn term. The field behind the woodwork room looked bare and open without the cricket nets; the marks of the bowlers’ run-ups and of the batting block-holes could still be seen. The rugby pitch, away down the slight slope, looked very green and inviting with its newly painted posts and flawlessly straight white lines. During the winter months I lived for rugby and thought of little else; scholastic subjects took a poor second place.
As was the custom, about half the school were engaged in punting a single rugger ball around, more or less at random, before lessons started, competing with one another to catch it then punt it as far as one could again. It sounds, and looked, I suppose, pointless. But it was rare that anyone in any match missed catching a kick by the opposition, and no-one at all would dream of letting the ball bounce before he attempted to take it. I was squinting up into the sun at the flight of the ball when I heard someone call, “Hey! Yoicks!”
I turned to see Ivor. John, who was nearby, grinned when he saw him and came over, with his rather stiff-legged, rocking walk. Ivor and I exchanged the usual new-term greetings and repartee – where had we been, had we seen the latest laurel and Hardy picture, and so on. Then, surprisingly, for the old term was now but a hazy memory, Ivor said, “What was your report like?”
“My report?” I repeated in astonishment.
“Yeah, what was it like?” Ivor repeated, attempting a casual nonchalance.
I was surprised at his interest in that, because Ivor, more so than I, perhaps, was not particularly scholastically minded. He had the build of an athlete, taller than me by four or five inches, heavier by almost a stone, with dark, short-cropped hair, a freckled face and a pugnacious jaw. He moved with the natural athlete’s springy lope. He was a more than adequate boxer, a hard-working and aggressive lock forward and, during the summer, a forthright, attacking middle order batsman, as well as being a bowler of fearsome pace and hostility, if rather lacking in accuracy.
“What was it like, then, your report?” he repeated insistently.
To be truthful, I could hardly remember much about it; I took little interest in it, apart from my French result and the comments opposite “Games”. My parents rarely commented on it either, except to tell me, with some regularity, that I would have to pull my socks up.
“Oh, all right, I suppose,“ I said off-handedly to Ivor. “I was top in French,” I added rather smugly. He ignored that.
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“What did H – have to say – about your Speech Training?”
I looked at him in amazement. Speech Training? It just didn’t count; there was no exam., no placings, just remarks on the term’s progress, or lack of it.
For a short while around this period of time, the powers-that-were quite rightly decided that we should be put on the path towards becoming at least partly comprehensible in our speech to someone who might live more than half-a-dozen miles away. And Mr. H - , as a recent graduate from Oxbridge, was deputed to perform this function. It must be said that he did so with rather bitter sarcasm, delivered under a thin veil of feigned jocularity, which did little to impart in us either the ability, or indeed the desire to speak our mother tongue in a widely acceptable form. In fact, it had, in some cases, where the pupil concerned was either of a rebellious or strongly independent nature, quite the reverse effect, as toes were, metaphorically speaking, firmly dug in.
Into this category Ivor fell; he took very personally and very much to heart the barbed remarks directed at him during the rather tedious classes in Speech Training, and in the end, it was obvious to everyone that he was adopting an attitude verging on passive resistance to H – ‘s instruction. It seemed that Ivor’s was the proverbial duck’s back off which the pure water of H – ‘s tuition flowed unheeded.
Ivor seized me, in mock anger, by the lapels of my blazer.
“C’mon, c’mon!” he exclaimed in his best Humphrey Bogart accents, “Come clean, y’rat!”
“Well,” I said, rather tired of the subject by now, “if you must know, I think he said something like ‘fairly good’. I didn’t get myself told off by my parents, anyhow, so it can’t have been too bad. But why, anyhow? What’s all the fuss about?”
Ivor’s eyes narrowed and he looked around him before, dropping his voice, he said to John and me, “Do you know what the rotter put on mine?”
“No,” I said, somewhat obviously.
“Well, on mine, he said, ‘Seems incapable of sustained effort’, the so-and-so. My Dad played merry hell about it, threatened to
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stop my pocket-money and goodness knows what.”
“I say, it is a bit thick, though, isn’t it, H – saying a rotten thing like that? I mean to say – “
I left the sentence unfinished; I felt that H – ‘s remark was a bit much. Surely he could have simply said ‘fairly good’ or ‘could do better’? They were the customary form of words. But this, well, it was rather damning. Both John and I made sympathetic noises, then John passed around his wine gums. I let Ivor have the black one and we chewed them in thoughtful silence, each of us meditating on the rat-ishness of H - . The next time I caught the ball I passed it hard to Ivor and he gave vent to his feelings with a tremendous punt which almost cleared the fence by the Art School.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
At that age, memories are short, and mine was no exception. I cannot speak for Ivor, of course; I suppose that somewhere inside that stubborn, defiant head of his a resentment still burned, and as far as H – was concerned, while it would be quite unfair to say that he had it in for Ivor, it was apparent that he singled him out with some slight relish as the object of any cutting remarks he felt inclined to make concerning our defective pronunciation. But it was something which, to be honest about it, did not loom very large in my life. Perhaps twice a week, during the Speech Training lessons I would look covertly, with mingled anticipation and apprehension, at the scornfully sarcastic H – and at a reddening Ivor, his lower lip jutting stubbornly, as the temperature of the atmosphere rose between them. But my Autumn term was dominated by the fact that I was picked to play for the Junior House fifteen.
I knew, of course, that Ivor’s eldest brother was in the Royal Air Force; from time to time he mentioned him, proudly, and looking back, I realise that I never knew his first name, he was to Ivor, simply ‘my brother’. Somehow, it lent them both a great deal of dignity, I think. Ivor would also tell us the latest Station his brother was on, their romantic-sounding names supplying, as it were, a coloured backdrop to the anonymity of ‘my brother’ in his coarse, high-necked airman’s tunic and peaked cap pulled down on his brow,
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as I saw him in my imagination, marching in a squad of men – I did not yet know they were called ‘flights’ – across a vast parade ground.
“He’s on a course at St. Athan, just now,” Ivor would tell us, or, “My brother’s been posted to Drem,” or again, “He’s at Scampton.”
What his brother did, exactly, we never knew, nor thought to ask, it was sufficient that he inhabited and was part of a picturesque, far-off and dashing world, greatly removed in every way from our monotonous and rather dreary provincial town.
One day, Ivor came up to John and me and said, proudly, “My brother’s been posted overseas, he’s gone to Aden.”
John said, mischievously, “Will he be wearing a fez?” and had to dodge the powerful left swing which Ivor pretended to aim with serious intent at him. On the strength of that news, John and I took to calling Ivor “Ali”, but we could tell he didn’t much like it, and as he was still the target of H – ‘s jibes we thought he had sufficient to contend with, so we eventually dropped it.
It was during the Christmas holidays when I was, for want of something better to do, in our sitting room playing the piano rather loudly and very inaccurately, that my mother put her head around the door.
“You’re not concentrating,” she said, “I can tell, you know. But there’s someone here for you, do you want me to bring him in?”
“Who is it?” I asked, glad of the interruption.
“I think he said his name was Bradley,” she replied.
“Oh, it must be Ivor, then,” I said, feeling much less bored and getting up from the piano. I went to the front door. Ivor was standing there with an expression of elaborate unconcern on his face.
“Hello, Yoicks,” he greeted me.
“Hiya,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
I thought perhaps he might want to borrow a book, or something.
“I was just going for a walk along the cliffs – want to come?”
This surprised me slightly as he wasn’t by any means a regular friend of mine away from school; there were a group of five or six of us who lived near to one another and who tended to congregate
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on our bikes in our immediate neighbourhood; Ivor lived all of three-quarters of a mile away in quite another part of the town, separated from our district by a railway line.
“Sure,” I said, glad of the distraction, “just hang on, I’ll shove my coat on.”
As I was doing so, “Mother!” I called, “I’m just going along the cliffs with Ivor.”
“Mind you don’t get cold,” she said, “Have you got your coat on?”
I rolled my eyes at Ivor, who grinned understandingly.
“Yes, Mam,” I said, in a long-suffering voice, and shut the door quickly behind me. We strode away.
When we arrived at the cliff-tops, the cold easterly wind was smashing the rollers against the rocks below and tugged at our overcoats as we walked. Until then we had talked of the usual things, what we had had for Christmas presents, the “flicks”, as Ivor always called them – a word learned from his brother, perhaps? – and how we had been passing the time during the holidays.
“My brother’s in Aden,” Ivor said, “did I tell you?”
I said yes, he had told us, how was he getting along?
“Great,” he said, “but it’s bloody hot out there. They’re all wondering what this bloke Mussolini’s going to do, he keeps talking about – what’s its name? – Abyssinia, or some place?”
I wasn’t greatly interested in the comical figure of the Italian dictator, comical, that is, as he appeared to us, or as he was portrayed to us. So I merely grunted something non-committal.
Ivor said abruptly, “I’m leaving. I thought I’d tell you.”
“You’re what?” I shouted above the noise of the sea, “You’re leaving? Leaving school? But you can’t!”
“Oh, yes I can, though,” he replied with a grin of triumph, “my Dad’s been to the Town Hall to check up.”
“But what are you going to do?” I asked, now all agog. He used an expression I heard then for the first time, on that cold and windswept cliff path, one which, when I hear it, inevitably brings to mind Ivor, his freckled face pink with the cold, as he proudly said, “I’m going to join the Raf.”
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The penny didn’t drop. It must have been the cold.
“The what?” I said, “What’s the Raf?”
He punched my shoulder playfully. Fortunately he was nearer the cliff-edge than I.
“C’mon, yer mug, it’s the R.A.F., of course. What else did you think?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I replied, recovering my balance. “When’re you going, then?”
“Soon as I can. End of next term, prob’ly. I’m going to be a Boy Apprentice at Halton!”
He squared his broad shoulders. A vision of Oliver Twist with his empty porridge bowl held out in front of him floated into my head. ‘Boy Apprentice’ sounded rather like someone who was being exploited, ill-treated. I am sure I was wrong, but the picture remained. But I grinned and said, “You might get out to Aden with your brother.”
“Hope so,” he said wistfully, “but he’ll prob’ly be posted again before that. Anyhow, that’s what I’m doing. I’m leaving as soon as I can. No more speech training for me!”
We laughed. Two gulls wheeled noisily overhead, their screaming cut across the noise of the sea and of the wind. Ivor aimed his fingers, pointed like a pistol, at them and clicked his tongue very loudly, twice. He was good at that.
“Gotcher!” he exclaimed.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Spring term came and went. Ivor, as they would put it nowadays, kept a low profile as far as H – was concerned, and worked assiduously at every subject, even Speech Training. At the end of term he quietly left us. I don’t even remember saying ‘cheerio’ to him. We were young, you see, and quite without sentiment. Then it was summer, and the nets went up again. To my surprise I was elected Junior House cricket captain and became rather insufferably swollen-headed about it. It was on a Saturday afternoon that summer when I saw him again. I was sitting at home, reading, when a shadow passed the window, there was the sound of heavy footsteps and someone knocked at the door. I heard the door-knocker flap loosely as my mother answered it, then the sound of conversation.
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“It’s your friend,” mother said, “the one in the Air Force.”
I hurried to the door. Ivor stood there, smiling broadly, resplendent in his uniform, heavy boots shining brilliantly, his cap carrying the chequered band of the Halton Cadet.
“Hiya, Ivor!” I said. (I almost called him ‘Ali’ and only just corrected myself in time.)
“Hiya, Yoicks! How about comin’ for a walk? I’m on a forty-eight.”
I had no idea what that was but I went to tell my mother where I was going.
“Isn’t he smart?” she smiled quietly, “he looks well in his uniform.”
We set off for the cliffs, in the sunshine. I noticed he did not lope along now, he marched. He seemed taller than I remembered him, bronzed and deep-chested, harder. We exchanged news. In one way he seemed to be very grown-up but in another, he was still my form-mate, furrowing his brow at some problem of Algebra.
“What’s a forty-eight, by the way?” I asked.
“Just a forty-eight hour pass.”
“You haven’t got much time at home, then, have you? All that way from Halton and you’ll have to be back again inside two days?”
“Sure,” he said, airily and confidently, “it’s a piece of cake.”
That was another new expression; I stored it for future use.
“Where’s your brother just now? Still in Aden?”
“No, he’s been posted to Shaibah; bet you don’t know where that is.”
I shook my head.
“never heard of it before,” I said.
“Middle East,” Ivor said proudly, “Iraq – getting his knees brown good and proper.”
He started to sing joyfully what I later knew to be the anthem of all overseas R.A.F. men, “Shaibah Blues”. Then he ripped into several verses of “Charlotte the Harlot”, and while, having been very strictly brought up, I didn’t know the meaning of some of the expressions, I gathered from their anatomical connections that it was not the sort of thing one would sing at home. At least not at my home. But I smiled rather sheepishly when he’d finished.
I said, “Do you like it, in the Raf?”
(I hadn’t forgotten.)
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“It’s great,” he said decisively, “bloody great.”
He slapped me hard on the shoulder.
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken, Yoicks!”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, square-bashing, P.T., lectures – I’m going to be a Flight Mechanic.”
I could see he was as happy as a sandboy, it shone out of him. He was alert, confident, buoyant, a complete contrast to the rebellious and scowling youth who had reluctantly forced himself to stand and, red-faced, chant, “the rain in Spain.”
“that’s fine, then,” I said, “but we don’t half miss you in the scrum.”
He never mentioned H – ‘s name.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Then, of course, the fuse which had been smouldering in Europe for six years finally detonated the bomb, and everything blew up in our faces. Not many of us were at all surprised. Although I and nearly all our little crowd who lived nearby had left school and were settling into our various jobs, as soon as Munich had come along I pushed my studying to one side. I knew there was no point in it now. It was going to be, at the very least, somewhat interrupted. So I, and my friends, played a lot of games, went to a lot of flicks, cycled a lot, and, out of working hours, lived our lives to the full, as far as we could. I started to take a girl out. Her name was Lilian, and she was extremely beautiful.
When the Battle of Britain was on I went into the R.A.F. One of my leaves, much later, coincided with one of Ivor’s, and he called at hour house, out of the blue. This time, as we were men, we shook hands firmly. He looked me up and down.
“I’m bloody well not going to call you ‘sir’,” he said.
“You’d bloody well better not try,, either,” I replied, “or I’ll stick you on a fizzer!”
He swung a playful punch at me, which, knowing Ivor, I was half-expecting. I dodged it and clouted him in the midriff, hard enough to make him wince.
“You rotten sod!” he gasped, “come on, let’s have a walk on the
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cliffs!”
I handed him a Players’, we lit up and strode away. The cliffs were partly wired off as an anti-invasion measure but we managed to get near enough to hear the same waves crashing on to the same rocks, and to smell the salt air as we walked. Until I looked at us, I felt nothing had changed; then I knew it had, really, and that you could never, ever, put the clock back to what had been.
It was about this time that the inevitable, impersonal and cruelly clinical process of the dissection of our little crowd began.
Norman was unfit for military service because of his deplorable eyesight. He was working for one of the Government Departments in London when a German bomb killed him. Peter, who lived in the next house down the street, and whose father had been drowned at sea a couple of years before, went into the R.A.F., became a Navigator, and was killed when his Wellington, from Finningley, crashed one night. I visited his mother on my first leave after it happened.
She was in a state of near-hysteria at mention of his name, and bitter, it must be said, that everything seemed to be going well for me. She did not know, of course, about my crew. I left her staring into the small fire, locked in her private world of abject misery. Then there was Jack, who was also an only son, strangely enough, also a Navigator on Wellingtons, also killed in a night crash.
By the time Alan, whom I had met in London while I was on my Intelligence course, had qualified as a Radar Operator on Beaufighters, the Germans had ceased flying over England at nights and he was transferred to non-operational flying. George also went into the R.A.F.., qualified as a pilot, then, almost immediately, the war ended. He emigrated to the U.S.A., where he had been trained.
Connie and I had a few months together at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, until I was grounded for good. I left him there, bumped into him once more, on leave, then learned of his death. He had crashed his Stirling, towing a glider, over England.
When it was all over, I asked Alan to be my best man. I would have done so anyhow, but in practical terms I had no choice – there was no-one left in our crowd now but he and I.
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So much had happened since I had last seen Ivor that he rarely had entered my thoughts. There was little reason for him to have done so, as he was a Fitter, in a pretty safe ground job in the R.A.F. Like thousands of other friends, we had been separated by the war and we would either bump into each other on some R.A.F. station, or in some outlandish place in the Far East, or eventually, we’d see each other back in the U.K. When he did enter my head occasionally, I thought perhaps he might have met and married a girl from some other part of the country, or, like George, had seen service in foreign parts and emigrated. I visualised him in a fez, thought about John’s remark about his brother, and smiled to myself at the happy recollection. But gradually, Ivor faded out of my mind.
Until I bumped into a chap who owned a shop, and who had been in our form at school. He had lived within a few hundred yards of Ivor. He, also, had served in the wartime R.A.F., as an armourer, and strangely enough, he told me he had been on the nearest Station to Breighton, at the same time as I had met J – there. I don’t know how he managed it, but he was a mine of information as to what happened to the chaps in our form. Ivor’s name did not come up immediately, as, of course, he had left school before we had done so. But in a pause during his cataloguing of old friends and acquaintances I asked him, “Where’s Ivor got himself these days? I haven’t seen him for years.”
P – was solemn, bespectacled and deliberate in manner and speech. He looked earnestly at me through his thick lenses for a moment or two, as though sorting through some mental card-index and trying to decide whether I could be trusted to hear the information which he had in store there.
“Ivor,” he said slowly, “Ivor Bradley. Yes. he went into the Raf, of course – you knew that?”
“yes,” I said, “He was a Boy Entrant, a Halton Brat, as they were known.”
A smile flicked on to and off his face, like the headlights of a car signalling ‘come on’.
“That’s right,” he continued, then paused. “Yes, well he went missing, you know.”
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For a moment I could not think what he meant. Rather obtusely I said, “You mean he left town? Went off somewhere suddenly?”
“No, no, he was aircrew, he went missing on a raid over Germany,” P – said, looking more owlish than ever.
“But – he was a fitter, surely?” I exclaimed, with an awful feeling, which I had hoped never again to experience, beginning to overtake me. Then, as the light dawned, I said, “Did he remuster to aircrew?”
P – nodded.
“Yes, that’s what happened. I saw him just after he volunteered for aircrew – you remember we lived near to one another? – and he said he wanted to do something a bit more active. So he became a Flight Engineer.”
“Good God,” I said softly, I’d no idea at all. I never dreamed that Ivor would go – like that.”
He nodded again, solemnly.
“Well, he did, I’m afraid,” he said.
He shuffled through a few more cards.
“How long were you at Breighton, by the way? I saw your name in the Visitors’ Book in the Church there, on the day after you’d been in.”
“That’s remarkable,” I said, “what a small world, isn’t it?”
I remembered very vividly going into the church with J - , the day after Johnny P – went missing.
P – said, “You must call in again sometime. I’ll shut the shop and we’ll have a cup of tea and a proper chat.”
I said yes, I would do that, and I felt I should really have made more of an effort to do so. But I was a bit of a coward about the rest of his card index, I’m afraid.
It was several more years before I learned what had happened to Ivor. Searching through a volume of aircrew losses I finally found his name. He was lost without trace, with his crew, during a raid in a Pathfinder Lancaster in the summer of 1943.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I poured myself a cup of the green tea and took a sip as I looked out of the window. But it was terribly tepid, so I threw it all away
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and found I wasn’t really thirsty after all. The sun had long since moved off the chequered tea-cosy, and it was starting to get dusk. I shivered suddenly and found I was feeling extremely lonely and extremely depressed. I looked across at the white telephone and wished to hell that someone would ring, anyone at all, even a wrong number would have done, just so that I could have heard a voice. I sat for a while, waiting, but I knew it was a stupid thing to do. Nobody did ring, so I put on my anorak and went out quickly.
I walked around for a bit. I passed a lighted pub which looked very inviting and cheerful with people smiling at one another and chatting while they drank their beer. I wished I could go in and have a few beers, with Connie, like I used to. I stopped and thought about it, but I knew it would be no good, and as M – had said, it wouldn’t solve anything. So I kept on walking and feeling bloody miserable when I thought about Ivor and Connie, and about Jack and Peter and Norman, and all my crew. And about J - . Her especially. Then I had a strong craving for a cigarette, but I knew that would be a stupid thing to do, too.
It started to rain, so finally, I made my way back to the flat. It felt empty and cold, like somewhere someone had once lived, but didn’t any more. If no-one rings before nine o’clock, I told myself, I will ring M - , just so that I can talk to someone, for Christ’s sake. I sat and looked at the telephone again for a bit and thought about it. But nine o’clock came and I didn’t do anything about it in the end, because I knew it wouldn’t be very cheerful or very much fun for her, and as I was tired and cold I swallowed a couple of aspirin and got into bed.
While I was taking them it occurred to me that there was a stack left in the bottle which could be put to very effective use, but then I thought that wasn’t exactly any part of a pressing-on-regardless effort, so I shoved the bottle firmly to one side.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to go off to sleep after all this business, and I was damned right. I kept thinking about Ivor, then I started thinking about the crowed and how much I realised I was missing them. And about J - ; her, most of all. Then I thought,
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“My God, there’s only me left now, and I’m not much damn good to anyone like this, even if there were anyone,” which made things worse. I would have given a great deal if I could have turned the clock back, to have gone back to Breighton, to that lovely summer, to have started all over again, to be meeting J – for the first time, that wonderful morning when I saw her walk into the Ops Room, when she came to attention smartly and saluted and said, “Good morning, sir.” Little did I know, little did we both know what was to happen to us.
But this was getting me nowhere, so in the end I said aloud, “Oh, Christ, I just don’t want to wake up in the morning.” Then I said goodnight to J – ‘s photograph, in our own very special way, like I always had done, to her, once upon a time, when we were together, when we were happy.
And then I put out the light.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Photograph in a book. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] PHOTOGRAPH IN A BOOK [/underlined]
“Frankie, do you remember me?”
(Late 20th century pop song.)
I realise it is very trite to say that the unexpected is always happening. Nevertheless I have to say that something completely unexpected happened recently to me, which produced, out of the blue, a violent cocktail-shaking of emotions which I thought were firmly and peacefully laid to rest.
I flatter myself that usually I am among the first to obtain, or at least to see, newly-published books on the subject of Bomber Command in the second world war, but for one reason or another, this was not the case in relation to a recently-published history of No. 4 Bomber Group.
4 Group included the aerodromes at Linton-on-Ouse, (my initial posting as an Int/Ops Officer), Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, to which I was moved when the Canadians were about to take over the northernmost aerodromes of 4 Group to form their own 6 Group, and Breighton, the satellite of Holme, where I was to meet, fall in love with and become engaged to J - , who, when the war was over became my wife.
I should have, to have been true to form, snapped up the book on its first appearing, but for various reasons, I did not. Instead, I heard reports – all good – of it from D - , an Ex-W.A.A.F., who features on a whole page of it, complete with her charming photograph, and with whom I had been corresponding. And I heard of it from Alan, a friend who was instrumental in having a memorial installed on the village green close to the place where Pilot Officer Cyril Barton, V.C., of 578 Squadron in 4 Group, sacrificed his life in bringing back his crippled and half-crewed Halifax after the disastrous Nuremberg raid. Alan was a schoolboy at the time and was among the first on the scene of Cyril Barton’s crash. He has, most worthily, devoted a considerable amount of his time and energy to ensuring
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that Cyril’s sacrifice will never be forgotten. It was as a result of this that, just before J – died, I met Alan, a very caring man, a man who has become a true friend to me. He was given the book as a birthday present.
He and I live in neighbouring towns. We speak on the telephone quite often; we meet whenever we are able and always find much to talk about, as Alan was also in the Royal Air Force. He was thrilled to receive the book, which, naturally, contains material concerning Cyril Barton. I had been searching bookshops for it, but without success; I had been waiting for the local Library to obtain it for me.
Early one evening there was a ring at my doorbell. Alan was standing there, cheerful as ever, a welcome sight indeed. He was carrying something flat in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. With typical generosity he said that as he and his wife were shortly going on holiday, I might as well have the benefit of the book while he was away. I was grateful to him, and leafed through it while we chatted for a while before he had to leave to go to work. He showed me a picture in the book of Cyril’s wrecked aircraft and of Alan himself, as a schoolboy, standing near to it, very soon after the crash occurred.
When Alan had gone, impressed by the high quality of the book and by the photographs in particular, many of them amateur pictures taken by wartime aircrew members, I leafed through its pages, then worked through them systematically.
There were many poignant, familiar scenes. Of aircraft and their crews, of aerodromes and their buildings, targets in Germany and the occupied countries, pictures of people I had known of by reputation, people I had known personally, many I had never known. I found myself wondering how many of those young faces smiling at me from the pages were now, like myself, turning these same pages thinking, as I was thinking, “Oh, yes, I remember a scene like that”, or how many if them were no longer able to do this. A lump was gathering in my throat as I turned to a particular page and saw, among a group of captions, one which read ‘Interrogation for 78 Squadron crews as others await their turn, following the raid
[page break]
on Berlin on 31st August/1st September 1943.’
Reading it, I thought, “Well – I was an Intelligence Officer to 78n Squadron at that time.” Then I looked at the photograph and saw myself pictured there, in the far corner of the room, writing down the replies to my questions to the crew – heaven only knows who they were – at my table.
“My God,” I exclaimed.
I could not help it and I am not ashamed to admit that my eyes flooded with tears. I had no idea that the photograph had been taken; the author’s credit was to Gerry C - , who was a pilot on the Squadron at that time, whom I knew, and with whom I am still in contact.
I felt as though I had been wrenched back in time to that night, almost fifty years ago, as though the intervening years had never been, as though I were still at Breighton, working those long and irregular hours in the windowless Operations Room alongside Derek and Pam, with one or other of the W.A.A.F. Watchkeepers – Freda, or the attractive and much sought after Billie, or with J - . I felt, strangely, that all I needed to do was to walk out of the door of this cottage and I would find myself, miraculously, back on the narrow concrete road leading from that house in the hamlet of Breighton with its tall gable-end, along past the W.A.A.F. site to the Nissen huts of the Intelligence Library, the Window Store and the Ops. Room, where the armed sentry would be on duty, where the cornfield would be stretching away to my left, up towards the perimeter track and the runways of the aerodrome. I would return the sentry’s salute and his greeting and I would open the heavy door of the Ops. Room to see, on my left, the huge blackboard with the captains’ names and their aircraft letters already entered for the night’s operation. At the top, the target for tonight, perhaps Duisburg or Mannheim or Essen – or Berlin. The route written underneath that – Base – Southwold – Point A, with Lat. and Long. positions for the route-marking flares to guide the bomber stream to the target. The time of briefing, of the operational meals, of transport out to the aircraft, of starting engines, and of take-off. Of ‘H-Hour’, the time on target. On the wall facing me I would see the huge map of the British Isles, the S.D. 300, blotched in red with gun-defended areas, stuck with broad-headed pins and coloured threads carrying information
[page break]
about navigational hazards.
In the middle of the room the big map table where, after the raid, we spread the mosaic photograph of the German town which had been the target and would plot the crews’ bombing photos. And, to the right, the place where I shall sit, near to the telephones and next to J – who is there behind her switchboard and Tannoy microphone, ready for the night’s operation. If she had been born a man she would, I know, have been a member of a bomber crew, for she thought and talked of little else but bombing operations.
Except on stand-down evenings, in the twilight, when we met secretly in the village at a quiet angle of buildings on the main road, near to the bus stop, then cycled to the ‘Plough’ at Spaldington, the nearest village to the bombing range, where, amazingly, there were no other uniforms to be seen in its homely bar. Where we would spend the long, warm evenings over two or three beers, sitting in the high-backed, high-sided wooden seats made for two, made for people like we were then, people who were young and who had met and who loved each other deeply and desperately. And sitting there, talking gently together, we would hear, above the murmur of the farm workers’ talk, the drone of some aircraft, perhaps on a night cross-country flight, perhaps heading for the other side on a raid. Then we would both sit silently, listening, not saying anything, but I know we were both praying for its safe return to base.
Sometimes, when our own aircraft had gone on a raid and we were not due on duty until they returned, we would steal a precious hour together, sitting with our arms around one another in the darkness, on a low grassy bank under some trees, not far from the unmanned railway level crossing at Gunby, the Sandra lights from the aerodrome shining distantly through the trees, heavy with their summer foliage. For some reason, whenever I hear Delius’ ‘The Walk to the Paradise Garden’ I invariably and inevitable think of J – and I at that place and those wonderful, warm summer nights we shared in the countryside of East Yorkshire, around Breighton.
The tears which came to my eyes when I saw my photograph, and the sadness which overwhelmed me, were because now, that Interrogation Room, whose walls, had they been possessed of ears, would have heard
[page break]
small, unemotionally told tales, couched in the understated phrases of flying men, of achievement, of failure, of heroism, of desperation, triumph and tragedy, that Interrogation Room is now an unoccupied ruin, and the Ops. Room is no more, now part of an isolated dwelling house. I know, for I have been back there, where among so much tragedy, I was so happy.
And J - , now, is no more, except in my memory. I sat with her, taking her cold and unfeeling hand in mine, one beautiful summer morning, such as we used to have at Breighton, and I watched her life slip away from the loveliness that had been her. But we shall meet again, I know, she and I, and all the many crew members who came into our lives and went again, and were forgotten by us, like the many dawns and the many sunsets which we shared.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[underlined] GLOSSARY [/underlined]
Abort – to abandon an operation and return to base.
A.C.P. – Aerodrome Control Pilot, a ‘traffic policeman’ for those aircraft within visual distance.
A.G. – Air Gunner.
Alldis lamp – high-powered lamp capable of flashing Morse letters.
A.P. – Air Publication, usually a book; Aiming Point.
A.S.I. – Airspeed indicator.
Astrodome – transparent blister half way back along the fuselage of the Wellington.
A.S.V. – Anti-surface vessel.
A.T.A. – Air Transport Auxiliary, civilian aircraft delivery service.
Base – parent Station of one or more satellite aerodromes. Three, four, or even five Bases and their satellites constituted a Group.
base – one’s home aerodrome.
Best blue – best uniform.
Bind – (noun) nuisance, annoyance. (verb) to complain, tiresomely.
Bomb plot – plan of the target area annotated with the positions of each of the Squadron aircraft’s bombing photos.
Bombing Leader – senior Bomb-Aimer on a Squadron, responsible for instruction and training of other Bomb-Aimers.
Bombing photo – vertical photo taken automatically on release of an aircraft’s bombs, thus showing the point of impact.
Boost – petrol/air mixture pressure at the engine inlet manifold.
Buck House – Buckingham Palace.
Bullseye – bomber exercise in conjunction with friendly searchlights.
Circuits and bumps – take offs, circuits and landing, the staple diet of training pilots.
C.O. – Commanding Officer.
Cookie – 4000 pound High Capacity blast bomb, nicknamed by the press and B.B.C. ‘blockbuster’.
DC3 – Douglas Dakota twin-engined transport aircraft. Also known as a C-47.
Defiant – Boulton Paul single-engined fighter/night fighter. Two-seater, the rear seat being in a rotatable 4-gun turret.
[page break]
D.R. – Dispatch rider.
Drem lighting – aerodrome runway and perimeter track lighting, protected by metal dish-shaped hoods so as to be invisible from above. First used at R.A.F. Drem, Scotland.
Early return – (later knows as ‘boomerang’) aircraft returning from an abortive sortie.
E.F.T.S. – Elementary Flying Training School.
Erk – Aircraftman.
E.T.A. – Estimated time of arrival.
Feathering – device which enabled the pilot to turn the blades of a propeller edge-on to the direction of flight, thus minimising the drag on the aircraft in the event of an engine failure.
Flak – German anti-aircraft fire.
Flights – Flight Offices and crewroom.
Flying the beam – flying from A to B by means of an aural signal transmitted by B.
Fresher – a new crew; such a crew’s early operational flights; the target for such a crew.
Fizzer, stick (or put) on a – charge with an offence.
Gee – radar navigational aid which enabled an aircraft to fix its position. Had a limited range which just covered the Ruhr and was susceptible to jamming.
Gen – information, news, divided into ‘pukka’ (true) and ‘duff’ (false). (Meteorological Officers were invariably known as Duff Gen Men.)
Geodetics – aluminium girders formed into spiral basket-work construction which made up the fuselage and mainplanes of the Wellington.
Get weaving – get going, get started.
Glim lamps/lights – low-powered lights which formed the flarepath of an aerodrome.
Glycol – Ethylene glycol, liquid coolant.
Gong – medal.
Goose-necks – paraffin flares housed in watering-can-shaped containers. Supplemented Drem lighting.
G.Y. – Grimsby.
Gyro – gyroscopic compass.
[page break]
1 Group – Bomber Group in north Lincolnshire consisting of, originally, 4 R.A.F., 3 Polish and 2 Australian Wellington Squadrons, latterly, of Lancaster Squadrons.
3 Group – Bomber Group in East Anglia consisting of, originally, Wellington Squadrons. Converted to Stirlings, latterly to Lancasters.
Halifax – Four-engined Handley Page bombers with crew of seven. Nicknamed Hali or Halibag.
Hampden – Twin-engined Handley Page medium bombers, crew of three.
Harvard – single-engined North American Aviation Co. advanced fighter trainers. Also know as Texan or AT – 6.
“Have a good trip” – Between close friends on a Squadron this parting remark was occasionally varied by the addition of “Can I have your egg if you don’t come back?” This was part of the grim humour current among bomber aircrew.
H.E. – High explosive.
High – anticyclone, high-pressure weather system.
H2S – Radar device which showed a ground plan of the earth below an aircraft.
Ident. light – identification light, a small nose-light used for flashing Morse.
I.F.F. – Identification friend or foe. Radar set carried on an aircraft to identify it as friendly to British ground defences. Set to ‘Stud 3’ it gave a specially-shaped distress trace on ground radar screens.
Int. – Intelligence.
Intercom – internal ‘telephone system’ in an aircraft.
Interrogation – now known, in view of the current overtones of ill-treatment which have become implicit in the term, as ‘de-briefing’.
I.T.W. – Initial Training Wing.
Juice – petrol
Kite – aircraft.
[page break]
L.A.C. – Leading Aircraftman.
L.A.C.W. – Leading Aircraftwoman.
Line-shoot – boast.
Link Trainer – a simulator which gave practice in instrument flying.
Lysander – Single-engined Westland Aviation Army co-operation (originally) aircraft.
Mag drop – the reduction in r.p.m. of an engine when one of its two magnetos was switched out.
Mae West – Inflatable life-jacket which gave to its wearer the contours of the famous film actress.
Mosaic – collage of aerial photographs, taken probably at different times, but from the same height, making up a complete picture of a German town, and used to plot bombing photos.
Nav. – navigator, navigation.
N.F.T. – night-flying test.
Nickels – British propaganda leaflets dropped over enemy territory. To drop the leaflets was known as nickelling.
Observer – Navigator/Bomb-aimer in twin-engined bombers prior to the establishment of these as separate categories.
Occult – white flashing beacon showing one Morse letter whose latitude and longitude was carried by Observers or Navigators (in code).
On the boat – posted overseas, or, when overseas, posted to the U.K.
One o’clock – slightly to the right of dead ahead (twelve o’clock). Dead astern was six o’clock.
Ops – operations.
O.T.U. – Operational Training Unit.
Oxford – twin-engined advanced bomber-trainer, made by Airspeed Ltd.
Peri. track – perimeter track, a taxying track connecting the ends of the runways on an aerodrome, and having aircraft dispersal points leading off it.
Pigeon – homing pigeon carried in bomber aircraft to carry a message back to base giving the aircraft’s position in the event of ‘ditching’ (landing in the sea), when the aircraft would be too low for its radio transmissions to be heard.
[page break]
Pit – bed.
Pitch controls – varied the angle of the propeller blades and consequently controlled the r.p.m. of the engine.
Pitot head – (pronounced pea-toe) fine-bore tube facing forward which supplied air pressure from the movement of the aircraft through the air and showed this pressure as airspeed on a ‘clock’ in the cockpit.
P/O – Pilot Officer (not necessarily a pilot!)
Poop off – shoot off.
P/O Prune – a cartoon character in Tee Emm (q.v.), an inept pilot forever involved in accidents of his own making.
Portreath – R.A.F. Station in Cornwall
Prang – crash, wreck, break.
Press the tit – press the button.
Prop – propeller, more properly, airscrew.
P.R.U. – Photographic Reconnaissance Unit.
Pundit – aerodrome beacon, flashing two red Morse letters which were changed at irregular intervals. The beacons were always within two miles of the parent aerodrome, although their position was changed nightly.
R.A.A.F. – Royal Australian Air Force.
R.C.A.F. – Royal Canadian Air Force.
Resin lights – low-powered lights at the rear of an aircraft’s wingtips, illuminated over this country as a warning to friendly night-fighters. Colours were changed at irregular intervals.
Revs – revolutions.
Rolling the bones – gambling with dice.
R/T – radio telephone (speech).
Sandra lights – cone of three searchlights stationary over an aerodrome, to assist returning aircraft.
Scrub – cancel.
Second dickey – second pilot.
S.D. – secret document.
S.D.300 – wall-map of the U.K., kept in the Ops Room and maintained by the Watchkeepers, showing positions of all gun-defended areas, navigational hazards and convoys.
[page break]
S.F.T.S. – Service Flying Training School. (Stage following E.F.T.S.)
Spit – Spitfire.
Spoof. – feint.
Sprog – newly arrived, newly joined, raw, inexperienced.
Square-bashing – drill.
Stall – lose flying speed.
Stirling – four-engined bomber manufactured by Short Bros.
Stooge – boring, casual or haphazard flying.
Stud 3 – Distress frequency setting on I.F.F. (q.v.)
Sullom Voe – R.A.F. Station in the Shetlands.
Sweet Caps – Sweet Caporal cigarettes, a popular Canadian brand.
Tee Emm – Air Ministry Training Magazine. Humorously written and comically illustrated aid to safe flying and good navigation and gunnery. It was extremely popular with all aircrew.
Trailing edge – rear edge of mainplane or elevators.
Trimmers – (or ‘trimming tabs’). Small adjustable sections of the aircraft’s control surfaces, enabling it to be flown, when they were carefully adjusted, without undue pressure on the controls by the hands and feet.
Undercart – undercarriage.
u/s – unserviceable.
u/t – under training.
Vic – V.
W.A.A.F. – Women’s Auxiliary Air Force; a member of same.
W.A.A.F. (G) – Officer responsible for the discipline and well-being of all W.A.A.F. on a Station.
Watchkeeper – W.A.A.F. Sergeant who acted as a clearing house for all telephoned outgoing and incoming secret operational and other information, and who was responsible for its prompt and correct transmission to the appropriate person(s).
Wellington – twin-engined Vickers bomber with a crew of six.
Wimpy – Nickname for the above. Derived from the character in a ‘Daily Mirror’ cartoon – J. Wellington Wimpy, a friend of Popeye.
[page break]
Wingco – Wing Commander. (C.O. of a bomber Squadron).
W/T – wireless telegraphy (Morse code).
Y.M. – Y.M.C.A.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Loose on the wind
Description
An account of the resource
Starts with a poem and then a series of stories which together form the memoirs of Harold Yeoman, an officer who served in Bomber Command during the war, initially as a pilot on Wellingtons and then as an Intelligence Officer. He relates his activities both professionally and personally during this time and recounts the many friends and colleagues he lost whilst on operations. He recalls his flying training on the Tiger Moths at Sywell, then on to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada for further training. He was then posted to Bassingbourne O.T.U. to train to fly Wellingtons, before going to Binbrook on operational flying duties. Harold flew a number of operations before being grounded due to medical reasons. It was whilst he was grounded that his crew were reported as missing and subsequently recorded as killed in action. While waiting for his Medical Board, Harold was stationed at the Operational Training Unit at Moreton-in-the-Marsh ferrying brand new Wellingtons from Kemble and flying them to Moreton to hand over to pupil crews. He was then moved to ‘X’ Flight of the O.T.U and trained new pilots before being grounded again for medical reasons when he transferred into Intelligence for Bomber Command. He completed his R.A.F. career in Penang as an Adjutant.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
H Yeoman
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-11
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Multipage printed document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Text. Poetry
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Canadian Air Force
Royal Australian Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Northamptonshire
England--Northampton
England--Devon
England--Torquay
England--Cheshire
England--Wilmslow
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
Canada
Nova Scotia--Halifax
Nova Scotia--Cape Breton Island
Saskatchewan--Moose Jaw
England--Suffolk
Germany
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Netherlands
Netherlands--IJssel Lake
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Essen
England--Lincolnshire
England--Grimsby
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Cologne
England--Berkshire
England--Reading
Netherlands
Netherlands--IJmuiden
Germany--Essen
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Sylt
Germany
Germany--Helgoland
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Germany--Lübeck
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Bochum
England--Gloucestershire
England--Yorkshire
Burma
Burma--Rangoon
Malaysia
Malaysia--Kampong Sungai Gelugor (Pinang)
Malaysia--George Town (Pulau Pinang)
Malaysia--Butterworth (Pulau Pinang)
England--Buckinghamshire
Wales--Vale of Glamorgan
Germany--Nuremberg
Saskatchewan
Nova Scotia
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942-09
1942-05
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
1 Group
12 Squadron
4 Group
578 Squadron
78 Squadron
air gunner
Air Transport Auxiliary
aircrew
animal
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
arts and crafts
B-17
B-24
bale out
bombing
bombing of Hamburg (24-31 July 1943)
bombing of Nuremberg (30 / 31 March 1944)
control tower
crash
crewing up
Defiant
faith
fear
final resting place
flight engineer
flight mechanic
forced landing
Fw 190
Gee
Gneisenau
grief
ground crew
ground personnel
Guinea Pig Club
H2S
Halifax
Hampden
Harvard
In the event of my death letter
Ju 88
killed in action
Lancaster
love and romance
Lysander
Manchester
McIndoe, Archibald (1900-1960)
medical officer
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
navigator
observer
operations room
Oxford
pilot
prisoner of war
RAF Bassingbourn
RAF Bawtry
RAF Binbrook
RAF Breighton
RAF Finningley
RAF Halton
RAF Holme-on-Spalding Moor
RAF Kemble
RAF Linton on Ouse
RAF Little Rissington
RAF Mildenhall
RAF Moreton in the Marsh
RAF St Athan
RAF Sywell
RAF Torquay
RAF Tuddenham
Scharnhorst
searchlight
shot down
Spitfire
sport
Stalag Luft 3
Stirling
Tiger Moth
training
Victoria Cross
Wellington
Window
wireless operator
wireless operator / air gunner
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30988/SYeomanHT104405v10025.1.jpg
d057d241a829cc5a2ca74b3ce31fa26b
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Yeoman, Harold
Harold Yeoman
Harold T Yeoman
H T Yeoman
Description
An account of the resource
31 items. Collection concerns Harold Yeoman (b. 1921 1059846 and 104405 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a pilot with 12 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, a memoir, pilot's flying log book, 26 poems, a photograph and details of trail of Malayan collaborator.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Christopher E. Potts and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-10-28
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Yeoman, HT
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[underlined]POEM – “I ABANDON NOW [/underlined]
I abandon now my sight
And blur in melting eyes
The grim woods
And the words of winter
The creaking stubble
Mottled with black-veined stones
To freeze my hand.
I close my senses to
The thrust and surge
Of throatward blood
Nor move to tissues’ impulse
And the bleak hill
Is silence.
But I am waiting
Beyond the bound of fear
And calm
Past all my crying:
I do not tremble though
The cold steals to numb
This body
To ultimate subjection
Resigned in the dispassionate veil
Of winter’s unreasoned
Despair.
21 Dec 44
Cosford - Tuddenham
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
I abandon now
Description
An account of the resource
Three verses poem about fear, despair and resulution.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1944-12-21
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One page typewritten document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Poetry
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SYeomanHT104405v10025
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Shropshire
England--Sussex
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-12-21
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Bloomfield
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
arts and crafts
fear
military ethos
RAF Cosford
RAF Tuddenham
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30905/MPotterPL1878961-150914-30.2.jpg
2d18daaf6d9ccf27738e4c959ad31365
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Potter, Peter
P Potter
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Potter, P
Description
An account of the resource
39 items. Collection concerns Peter Potter, (1925 - 2019, 1876961 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a rear gunner with 626 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, his logbook, memoirs and photographs
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Peter Potter and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-09-14
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[anonymous poem]
Empty your pockets, Tom, Dick and Harry. Strip your
identity, leave it behind.
Lawyer, Farmhand, Mechanic, don’t tarry with your
own country with your own kind.
Leave all your letters, suburb and township.
Green Fen and grocery, slip-way and bay.
Hot spring and prairie, smoke stack and coal tip.
Leave in our keeping while you’re away.
Tom, Dick and Harry, plain names and numbers,
Pilot, Observer and Gunner depart
Their personal litter only encumbers
Somebody’s head, somebody’s heart.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
RAF Poem
Description
An account of the resource
Untitled poem on joining up to fight. Men leave behind their identities to become aircrew. Submitted with caption; 'RAF Poem'.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One page printed document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Poetry
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MPotterPL1878961-150914-30
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Bloomfield
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
aircrew
arts and crafts
military ethos
recruitment
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30898/MPotterPL1878961-150914-22.2.jpg
e2eeba4d1af504d8eca58181780e4bed
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Potter, Peter
P Potter
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Potter, P
Description
An account of the resource
39 items. Collection concerns Peter Potter, (1925 - 2019, 1876961 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a rear gunner with 626 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, his logbook, memoirs and photographs
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Peter Potter and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-09-14
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
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On TakeOff
Run up to warm engine - all final checks - intercom check to all crew
members, one to the other. Ground crew would make their way to the
end of the runway in use. We were lucky as the M.T. truck that delivered
us, took our ground crew to wave us off. They were always there,
together with other ground crew, girlfriends and others wanting to wish
us a good trip.
At the end of the runway, on our turn, we would run up the engines with
brakes full on, the tail would rise until the nose became lower than the
tail, then the brakes would be released and we were on our way.
On one very dark night, the aircraft ahead of us slewed when a tyre burst
just over halfway down the longest runway, luckily F2 had already
started to lift and Tom had been holding her down. We took off and
c1eared the other with plenty of space to spare, had we had some of the
other aircraft we had flown in, I have reservations in their ability to have
made it, as some needed much more distance to take off.
Every op. saw people alongside the perimeter track to wave us on, no
matter how harsh the weather they would brave it to wish us luck.
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Title
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On take off
Description
An account of the resource
Account of crew actions during take off and one particular time when aircraft ahead slewed when tire burst half way down the runway. Luckily they were able to get airborne and avoid the other aircraft.
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One page printed document
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eng
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MPotterPL1878961-150914-22
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Creator
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P Potter
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David Bloomfield
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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IBCC Digital Archive
aircrew
crash
ground crew
ground personnel
military ethos
perimeter track
pilot
runway
service vehicle
take-off crash
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30882/MPotterPL1878961-150914-06.2.pdf
84b52218f1a5776654ee80a871e15669
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The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Potter, Peter
P Potter
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IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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Potter, P
Description
An account of the resource
39 items. Collection concerns Peter Potter, (1925 - 2019, 1876961 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a rear gunner with 626 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, his logbook, memoirs and photographs
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Peter Potter and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
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2015-09-14
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
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[inserted][underlined] Bire etc [/underlined] For Boxted 24-2 [/inserted]
[inserted][missing letter][underlined] A [/underlined][/inserted]
FLYING LOG BOOK
The following are Photostats of pages from my flying log book. They are a record of the operations made by me over enemy-occupied territory in 1944.
Although the completed missions were obviously very dangerous, those we were unable to complete (abortive) nevertheless remain the clearest in my memory. There were two.
The first, on the 8th August, was an op to Aire, a short trip which meant we had a bomb load of 12,000 lbs. However, shortly after take off we were faced with a massive thunderstorm. We attempted to fly above it, but it built and rose as fast as we did. Eventually we entered the cloud, and almost immediately flew into the downdraft. We fell from our ceiling approximately 24,000ft like a stone. At approximately 12,000ft we began to pull out of the dive and the controls began to respond. Our impetus took us down to 4,000ft before we pulled out and climbed to 12,000ft. At this time we realised we were losing height again even with the [deleted] two [/deleted] engines at full power. We decided to return to base as it was obvious we could not complete the op. as we were above the North Sea it was decided to jettison the bombs. This proved to be impossible as we were unable to open the bomb bay doors. The maximum speed we could maintain was about 140 mph and we were gradually losing height. We found out later that both the outboard engines had torn away from their side mountings and they were pointing down about 15 degrees, pulling us down even though we were at full power.
We reached Wickenby with a few hundred feet to spare and made a perfect landing. We had to. We could not have gained height again for another attempt. As we touched down on the runway the photo flash, equivalent to a 500lb bomb, fell out and came bouncing down the runway behind us, sparks flying everywhere. Luckily it didn’t explode. We were directed to the most remote area of the airfield and evacuated the aircraft in record time.
During the descent in the cloud we were entertained by a most brilliant display of St. Elmo’s Fire. The whole aircraft was covered with balls of fire running about. We took photographs but none showed the fire. However, parts of the plane showed as clear as if the photographs had been taken in sunlight.
[page break]
[eighteen pages of log book]
[page break]
27-2
The plane had been almost torn apart in the encounter. The rivets had been torn from the leading edge of the wings and tail-plane. The wings were twisted as was the body. The engineers from AVRO said they could not understand how the plane had remained airborne as long as it had. In their report after tests we received a letter from them stating that to sustain such damage the plane had to exceed 570 mph. if that was the case I believe we flew the fastest bomber in World War II. The tests on UMH2 were carried out under the supervision of Roy Chadwick and the letter to our Navigator was written in long hand, not typed and the original was kept by Jimmy. We all had copies unfortunately mine was lost when moving.
The second abortive was on 5th October 1944, Saarbrucken, when we hit icy conditions so bad that we lost two engines and all suffered some degree of frostbite.
We were routed over the edge of the mountains so were unable to lose height for some time. We were unable to climb and so aborted. We all suffered, also in later life. One engine re-started once we descended.
My most memorable successful operation was when dropping mines in the Kiel Canal from 500ft. We flew straight along the canal dropping one mine at a time in what was one of the most heavily defended targets of the war. There was so much firing along the canal that we could see almost as clearly as in daylight.
We all felt fear at times, but it affects people differently. For me it was a stimulant and when a civilian I was unable to settle until I became a fireman.
I flew on two other ops to cover for bods who could not get back to the station in time and their crews asked me to help out to save the absentees getting into trouble. On one op the C.O. knew what was going on as that morning he called me to his office to offer me a commission (which I had to refuse owing to putting my age up to join the RAF). He recognised me at briefing and knew I was with the wrong crew. However he did nothing except to say that he needed to know if I did it again.
After surviving a few trips we were given our own aircraft, UMF2, already a veteran of many ops. She proved to be a most dependable aircraft. Apart from the number of bombs painted on the side we also had the nude lady which I understand was repainted by the next crew after we completed our tour. The lady was no longer reclining but standing partly clothed. At a reunion a chap said it had been ordered to be removed, which it was, but repainted standing and captioned ‘Frigger of the fighting sixes’ instead of ‘Friga of -----. Whoever gave the order must have got the message as it survived. It was a special aircraft in that for some reason it had a much better performance than the vast majority of Lancs. She flew faster than others on
[page break]
28-2
the same revs and boost and it didn’t make any difference when engines were changed. Fuel consumption was better, a lovely plane. We never found her ceiling and she performed well in all weather conditions. Only once when on an op to Saarbrucken on 5th October 1944 did we have real problems with icing and engine failure with loss of all heating. We all suffered from frostbite and had to abort.
However, on 12th September 1944 target Frankfurt, when evading a fighter JU88 I smashed my lower jaw and was placed sick. The rest of the crew then had two abortives and became convinced I was their luck and pleaded with me to sign myself off which I did and flew with my jaw strapped up, hardly able to talk and still living on liquids. Wearing my oxygen mask I was in agony, but at least the pain kept me awake. Bone splinters from the jaw were still working their way out 40 years later. I was still unable to eat properly for many years and on occasions my jaw would lock solid for weeks at a time. Jaw and Larynx damage caused speech to be impaired and loss of voice if projected for more than a short period. Damage also caused a loss in inflexion ability.
Once the bombs had gone we either flew high or very low on our way home, preferably very high and as on the outward journey, weaving about all the time to allow us the greatest chance of seeing anyone underneath us, a method that stood us in good stead twice. On a moonlit night we flew high, on dark nights low, avoiding lit up areas. We used cloud cover at times, but not if our shadow was thrown.
UMF2 survived the war. I was told she completed over one hundred ops, but have not confirmed it. She was one of the only two aircraft to fly from beginning to and of Squadron Ops period and had been on C Flight 12 Squadron before C Flight became 626 Squadron.
Like many other crews we all learnt as much as possible about each others jobs and agreed amongst ourselves who was the best substitute for who. It was decided that Stu Tween W/OP was best gunner, Jim Jackson, N, was best B/A, Johnny Payne B/A, best F/E. Johnny Moore, MU/G best W/OP. I was best Pilot and also Nav, but every one of us practised at all other positions. I was the only one to land the aircraft which I only did 3 times with a very nervous skipper hovering and the rest on tenterhooks too. What would have happened if I had needed to do it with a dodgy aircraft I have no idea. Landing occasions were on August 1st, V2 on return from Rufforth, August 21st F2 and 29th F2, September 9th Navigated whole trip, September 27th, Navigated whole trip.
I had been taught to fly and navigate by a First World War[deleted]t[/deleted] pilot, my father also and tried to keep up-to-date as I grew older.
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Format
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One photocopied booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
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MPotterPL1878961-150914-06
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-05-03
1944-05-04
1944-08-04
1944-08-07
1944-08-08
1944-08-10
1944-08-14
1944-08-15
1944-08-18
1944-08-26
1944-08-27
1944-08-29
1944-08-30
1944-09-03
1944-09-05
1944-09-08
1944-09-10
1944-09-11
1944-09-12
1944-09-13
1944-09-26
1944-10-03
1944-10-05
1944-10-06
1944-10-07
1944-10-14
1944-10-15
1944-10-19
1944-10-20
1944-10-23
1944-10-24
1944-11-06
1944-11-11
1944-11-12
1944-11-16
1944-11-21
1944-11-22
1944-11-29
1944-12-06
1944-12-07
1944-12-12
1944-12-13
1944-12-15
1944-12-16
1944-12-17
1944-12-18
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium
France
Germany
Great Britain
Netherlands
Poland
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Belgium--Ghent
England--Lincolnshire
England--Staffordshire
France--Caen Region
France--Calais
France--Falaise
France--Le Havre
France--Paris
France--Pauillac (Gironde)
Germany--Aschaffenburg
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Düren (Cologne)
Germany--Emmerich
Germany--Essen
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Kiel Canal
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Merseburg
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Ulm
Netherlands--Eindhoven
Netherlands--Uden
Netherlands--Veere
Poland--Szczecin
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
France--Fontenay
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Steve Baldwin
Mike Connock
Description
An account of the resource
Flying log book excerpts from P L Potter’s log book, covering the period from 3 May 1944 to 17 December 1944. Detailing his flying training and operations flown. He was stationed at RAF Hixon and RAF Wickenby. Aircraft flown in were Wellington and Lancaster. He flew a total of 33 operations, one night operation with 30 Operational Training Unit and 17 daylight and 15 night operations with 626 Squadron. His pilot on operations was Flying Officer Ford. Targets were Paris, Pauillac, Fontenay de Marmion, Ferme de Forestal, Falaise, Volkel, Ghent, Kiel, Stettin, Eindhoven, le Havre, Frankfurt, Calais, West kapelle, Saarbrucken, Emmerich, Duisburg, Stuttgart, Essen, Gelsenkirchen, Kiel Canal, Duren, Aschaffenburg, Dortmund, Merseburg, Ludwigshafen and Ulm. The log book also contains type written details of two aborted operations and their causes.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Title
A name given to the resource
Copy of Peter Potter's flying log book
30 OTU
626 Squadron
air gunner
Air Gunnery School
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
bombing
bombing of Luftwaffe night-fighter airfields (15 August 1944)
bombing of the Normandy coastal batteries (5/6 June 1944)
Chadwick, Roy (1893-1947)
fear
Ju 88
Lancaster
Me 109
Me 262
military ethos
mine laying
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
nose art
Operational Training Unit
RAF Hixon
RAF Pembrey
RAF Wickenby
tactical support for Normandy troops
target indicator
training
V-1
V-weapon
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30879/BPotterPLPotterPLv5.2.pdf
74c5a13dfc72d89e4d5af84233f0c38e
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Potter, Peter
P Potter
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Potter, P
Description
An account of the resource
39 items. Collection concerns Peter Potter, (1925 - 2019, 1876961 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a rear gunner with 626 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, his logbook, memoirs and photographs
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Peter Potter and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-09-14
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Description of operational flying – Potter]
So, after surviving a few trips we were given our own aircraft, UMF2, already a
veteran of many ops. She proved to be the most dependable aircraft. Apart
from the increasing number of bombs painted on the side we also had the
nude lady which I understand was repainted by the next crew after we
completed our tour. The lady was no longer reclining but standing and partly
clothed. At a reunion a chap said it had been ordered to be removed, which it
was, but repainted standing and captioned 'Frigger of the fighting sixes'
instead of 'Frigga of -----. Whoever gave the order must have got the
message as it survived. It was a special aircraft in that for some reason it had
a much better performance than the vast majority of Lancs. She flew faster
than others on the same revs and boost and it didn't make any difference
when engines were changed. Fuel consumption was better. A lovely plane. We
never found her ceiling and she performed well in all weather conditions.
Only once when on an op to Saarbrucken on 5th October 1944 did we have real
problems with icing and engine failure, with loss of all heating. We all
suffered from frostbite and had to abort.
However, on 12th September 1944, target Frankfurt, when evading a fighter
JU88. I smashed my lower jaw and was placed sick. The rest of the crew then
had two abortives and became convinced I was their luck and pleaded with me
to sign myself off which I did and flew with my jaw strapped up, hardly able to
talk, and still living on liquids. Wearing an oxygen mask I was in agony but at
least the pain kept me awake. Bone splinters from the jaw were still working
their way out 40 years later. I was still unable to eat properly for many years
and on occasions my jaw would lock solid for weeks at a time.
Once the bombs had gone we either flew high or very low on our way home,
preferably very high, and, as on the outward journey, weaving about all the
time to allow us the greatest chance of seeing anyone underneath us, a method
that stood us in good stead twice. On a moonlit night we flew high, on dark
nights low, avoiding lit up areas. We used cloud cover at times but not if our
shadow was thrown.
UMF2 survived the war. I was told she completed over one hundred ops but
have not confirmed it. She was one of only two aircraft to fly from beginning
to end of Squadron Ops period and had been on C Flight 12 Squadron before C
Flight became 626 Squadron.
Like many other crews we all learnt as much as possible about each others
jobs and agreed amongst ourselves who was the best substitute for who. It
was decided that Stu Tween W lOP was best gunner, Jim Jackson, N, was best
B/A, Johnny Payne B/A, best F/E, Johnny Moore, MU/G best W/OP. I was
best Pilot and also Nav, but every one of us practised at all other positions. I
was the only one to land the aircraft which I only did 3 times with a very
nervous skipper hovering and the rest on tenterhooks too. What would have
happened if I had needed to do it with a dodgy aircraft I have no idea.
Landing occasions were on August 1st, V2 on return from Rufforth, August 21st
F2 and 29th F2, September 9th Navigated whole trip, September 2nd,
Navigated whole trip.
I had been taught to fly and navigate by a First World War pilot, my father
also, and tried to keep up-to-date as I grew older.
Of all my ops the ones I remember more than the others were: Kiel Canal,
Aire (abortive) when we hit down draft of a cu-nim cloud and the plane was
almost torn to pieces and Frankfurt and Saarbrucken when we landed with
full load of 62,0001bs with 3 engines. We also had a second dickie on board.
(Aire Abortive is reported separately).
When we flew it was necessary to keep a sharp eye out for enemy aircraft,
mostly at take-off and landing. Many of our aircraft were shot down for not
being alert at an times. There was never a time you could relax, even in
England. We were all concerned about the possibility of becoming Prisoners
of War and found out as much as possible from evaders and escapees who
came to give us such information as they had, e.g. no labels or names,
numbers on clothing. I had a Swiss knife with a German inscription on it and
some German matches and watch I believe had been taken from a Prisoner of
War or perhaps a dead German. I also had a French pipe and pouch of French
tobacco which I did not use as .I could not replace it and which by the time I
finished flying was nearly all dust.
Flying an aircraft which is open to the elements requires plenty of clothing. In
most bombers the wind could get into the fuselage from several points. To try
to keep warm was impossible and so we wore many layers of clothing, i.e. one
pair of silk socks, 2 pairs of wool, 1 pair sea boot socks thigh length, silk Long
Johns and vest, silk balaclava and a wool one, 1 wool and 1 cotton vest, 1 RAF
shirt, wool Long Johns, I roll neck sweater, 1 8ft long silk scarf, 1 tunic,
trousers, flying inner suit, electric heating suit, Irving trousers and jacket or
Kapok electric buoyancy suit, silk gloves, wool mittens, electric inner gloves,
leather gauntlets, leather lined flying helmet, fur lined flying boots, Mae West
Parachute Harness. In our pockets we had a torch, all the personal items
mentioned, the escape kit which would have maps of the area, several
currencies, concentrated Horlicks tablets, water purifying tablets etc. In our
clothing were hidden knives, films, maps, compasses etc. There was also a
Thermos, sweets, concentrated caffeine tablets (Wakey,Wakey) which caused
eyes to become dry and sore on a long Op. We also had a parachute to carry.
Despite all the clothing and heating by the time we reached our operating
height the cold would be creeping in and within half-an-hour we would be
freezing. When the temperature was below minus 30 degrees or more the
pain began to penetrate every part of the body. It was not uncommon to suffer
frostbite even with the heating still on. In F2 we also had hot air pipes from
the engine exhausts which were pushed into the flies........ to give extra
warmth to the legs, but still could not dispel the cold.
Before an Op. every piece of equipment was checked. Nothing was left to
chance. We and our ground crew would be crawling all over the plane making
sure nothing was missed. The ground crew of F2 were, 1 believe, the best on
the station (Wickenby). Proof I believe is the fact that F2 was one of only 2
Lancaster's on the Squadron to survive the war.
To increase our chances, we spent time in the sections to keep up-to-date and
also in the Intelligence section, often helping there.
Briefing was conducted before each Op when we were given all information
known at the time about the target and defences and weather en route. Very
often both would be wrong but we expected that and took things as they came.
Winds, cloud cover etc were never left to chance.
Interrogation on our return was more intense and I am afraid here we were less co-operative. After long hours frozen to the marrow all we wanted to do[?]
Interrogation on our return was more intense and I am afraid here we were
less co-operative. After long hours frozen to the marrow all we wanted to do
was get into bed to warm up after a hot meal (egg, chips and beans) and so we
had nothing of note to report wherever possible, even if we had had a brush
with a fighter. Any report unusual would mean an interminable questioning
of every member of the crew when we were dead beat and just wanted to rest
and relax. Only if something was completely new would we bother.
I flew with 3 other crews on Ops, one officially and the other 2 unofficially,
due to chaps being unable to get back to the station, as previously mentioned.
The official Op was with F/O Oram who was on his last Op and had lost both
gunners when he had to ditch. The first was to Kiel and the others to the
Ruhr.
Our ground crew were a grand bunch of chaps. The electrician, George Grant,
lived not far from my parents. On every Op he would bring a 3/4 inch steel
plate, heavily padded, for me to sit on 'for special protection'. Whenever there
was a stand down we would take the ones with nothing to do to a show,
cinema, dance or just a drink. There would sometimes be a dance on the
station and so we would lend or procure SNCO or Officer's uniform for them if
the dance was at one of those messes. Nobody, to my knowledge, ever
complained as most crews did this. We always made sure to get all drinks
when on the station and gave each one a pound to spend as he wished when
off the station. Also when any of them went on leave they were given a pound
a day if single and if married double this with an extra pound for each child.
Each of us shared the cost but the Canucks insisted on paying twice the
amount of us natives. The Canadians also bought two rounds to our one, etc.
Three of us gave local farmers a hand when we could and in return we were
given any farm produce they had. Over our time at Wickenby we were given
chickens, ducks, beef, pork, eggs, milk, cheese, butter, bread, dripping, etc.,
and twice when we couldn't leave the station for a while a delivery was
brought in by the local policeman.
Taking off from the station on a summer or autumn evening, turning towards
the continent, meant I was often presented with some of the most beautiful
sunsets I have ever seen and climbing often prolonged them. We flew into
darkness with bright skies behind, night below and daylight above and the
only real danger from the dark areas, which meant there was no time to linger.
on the exquisite sight behind us.
On each Op I took note of the route and times etc. of different dog legs so that
I would be able to estimate a course to be taken if the Navigator and
navigational equipment were damaged. My hope was that I could give the
Skipper a course to the centre of the British landmass from wherever we might
be at that time and that one of us would be able to check drift, wind speed and
direction and knowing aircraft speed, roughly work out ETA over Britain. All
details had to be kept in my head. We put it into practice only once as an
experiment and arrived over Cromer instead of Lincs. From Kiel. I did
navigate sometimes when on cross-countries and was OK but had all the aids
which I could not rely on in an emergency.
On night ops we flew on the outside of the stream until 30 or 40 miles from
the target when we moved to the right track for bombing, trying to find a spot
with nobody above us. There is nothing more unsettling than being on the
point of dropping the bombs and seeing an aircraft immediately above you
with its bomb doors open with bombs still to be dropped. This happened
three times early in our tour. To see bombs falling in front and behind your
wing and tail tends to make you more cautious and think of a solution. We
flew on the edge and higher than the main stream which allowed us to dive
into the stream if attacked, which in fact got rid of the attacker every time.
On a cross country a Flying Fortress came close to us and indicated a race.
Tom opened up and we moved steadily ahead of him. After about 5 minutes
Tom throttled back. It came alongside again and to our surprise the pilot gave
us the 'V' sign and waved, then moved away. Two days later a jeep called at
the guardroom and left a 40 oz bottle of Bourbon 'for the guys who were flying
the Lancaster UMF with the naked babe on' three days before. How they
found out our station I have no idea. We never found where they were based.
Tom and I collected the bottle and gave each hod in the guardhouse a tot
before leaving. For several days we had personnel who didn't normally travel
around the station coming to look at the 'Babe' and the C.O. commented it was
probably in need of modification but as nobody had complained about it there
was no hurry. Later when there was a stand down, our crew and the ground
crew got together to finish the bottle off with a toast to all USA Forces,
especially USAAF.
On one other occasion, on our way home over the Kattegat, a twin engine
aircraft flew alongside us for 20 minutes, quite close, possibly a Mosquito but
no recognition was possible due to bad visibility. No attempt was made by it
that could have been considered hostile and we thought it was one of ours or
Swedish. One thing we did not do was fire, except in defence, which would
give away our position. I am convinced that some chaps fired at imaginary
aircraft and made themselves targets.
Getting caught in searchlights was always bad. If this happened the usual
evasive action was taken, plus Johnny Payne and I would throw out 'window'!
We had no idea if it helped but we evaded almost immediately every time.
Luck or not it seemed to work.
Air pressure at height reduces the higher you go and can cause some unusual
effects. Nitrogen bubbles in the blood can cause a sensation similar to
intoxication. Also releasing the ground pressure in a flask, particularly hot
beverages, causing the contents to expand and boil.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Description of operational flying
Description
An account of the resource
Writes of being given their own aircraft with nude lady nose art which survived the war. Mentions icing problem on operation to Saarbrücken. Describes operation to Frankfurt where engaged by Ju-88 where he injured his jaw. Writes that they learn as much about each others jobs as possible and mentions that he had to land his aircrfat three times and navigating for a whole trip. Recounts other operations to Kiel Canal and Aire when they hit downdraft which damaged their aircraft as well as landing back with bombs from Frankfurt and Saarbrücken. Continues with description of keeping lookout for enemy aircraft, flying clothing , escape equipment and crew activities on operations. Writes about ground crew and their activities and more about his actions and incidents during operations, including an airborne encounter with a B-17 and subsequent arrival of a bottle of Bourbon from the American crew. Concludes with other incidents and comments about operations.
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Five page printed document
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
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BPotterPLPotterPLv5
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
United States Army Air Force
Spatial Coverage
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Germany
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Kiel Canal
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1944-10-05
1944-09-12
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David Bloomfield
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
aircrew
bombing
briefing
debriefing
Ju 88
Lancaster
military ethos
military service conditions
Mosquito
nose art
Window
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30871/BPotterPLPotterPLv30001.1.jpg
803b7bc1508d33a36cefbd94cc134c1e
Dublin Core
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Title
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Potter, Peter
P Potter
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Potter, P
Description
An account of the resource
39 items. Collection concerns Peter Potter, (1925 - 2019, 1876961 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a rear gunner with 626 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, his logbook, memoirs and photographs
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Peter Potter and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
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2015-09-14
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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AIRCREW
Air crew were treated differently from probably any other branch of the services
during the war. Training was extremely demanding but once qualified it was up to
the individual to discipline oneself and to keep up-to-date. Only when new
equipment became available was more training compulsory. However, if refusing
to fly then that airman would be humiliated. To be put on a charge meant you
would not be able to fly. On Bombers that would have meant one less crew.
Therefore, no-one was charged, if at all possible. Crews were so closely reliant on
one another that they would often not accept a stranger.
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Air crew
Description
An account of the resource
States aircrew were different and explains why he though this. Mentions training, attitude to discipline and that they were reliant on each other. Numbered '9-2'.
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One page printed document
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eng
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Text
Text. Memoir
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BPotterPLPotterPLv30001
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Creator
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P Potter
Contributor
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David Bloomfield
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
aircrew
military discipline
military ethos
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30870/BPotterPLPotterPLv40003.1.jpg
ed2ae20db9ce1d9ece01d82b8be769a2
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30870/BPotterPLPotterPLv40001.1.jpg
7ac63ca589c661fd55eee32c210fe53c
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/630/30870/BPotterPLPotterPLv40002.1.jpg
a3e069c8efadc65715f6e6f5747a91f4
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Potter, Peter
P Potter
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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Potter, P
Description
An account of the resource
39 items. Collection concerns Peter Potter, (1925 - 2019, 1876961 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a rear gunner with 626 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, his logbook, memoirs and photographs
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Peter Potter and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-09-14
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[underlined] Account of operations[/underlined]
Getting caught in searchlights was always bad. If this happened the usual evasive action was taken, plus Johnny Payne and I would throw out 'window'!
We had no idea if it helped but we evaded almost immediately every time.
Luck or not it seemed to work.
Air pressure at height reduces the higher you go and can cause some unusual
effects. Nitrogen bubbles in the blood can cause a sensation similar to
intoxication. Also releasing the ground pressure in a flask, particularly hot
beverages, causing the contents to expand and boil.
For example one thing I remember was a chap who had never flown at height
trying to eat a sandwich, breaking a tooth, and then to make matters worse
opening a flask at height and the contents (tea) boiling out scalding his hands
aud then freezing his gloves and hands solid. Frostbite caused him to drop
out sick for a time.
On night Ops we flew on the outside of the stream until 30 or 40 miles from
the target when we moved to the right track for bombing, trying to find a spot
with nobody above us. There is nothing more unsettling than being on the
point of dropping the bombs and seeing an aircraft immediately above you
with its bomb doors open with bombs still to be dropped. This happened
three times early in our tour. To see bombs falling in front and behind your
wing and tail tends to make you more cautious and think of a solution. We
flew on the edge and higher than the main stream which allowed us to dive
into the stream if attacked, which in fact got rid of the attacker every time.
On a cross country a Flying Fortress came close to us and indicated a race.
Tom opened up and we moved steadily ahead of him; After about 5 minutes
Tom throttled back. It came alongside again and to our surprise the pilot gave
us the ‘V’ sign and waved, then moved away. Two days later a jeep called at
the guardroom and left a 40 oz bottle of Bourbon 'for the guys who were flying
the Lancaster UMF with the naked babe on' three days before. How they
found out our station I have no idea. We never found where they were based.
Tom and I collected the bottle and gave each bod in the guardhouse a tot
before leaving. For several days we had personnel who didn't normally travel
around the station coming to look at the 'Babe' and the c.o. commented it was
probably in need of modification but as nobody had complained about it there
was no hurry. Later when there was a stand down, our crew and the ground
crew got together to finish the bottle off with a toast to all USA Forces,
especially USAAF.
On one other occasion, on our way home over the Kattegat, a twin engine
aircraft flew alongside us for 20 minutes, quite close, possibly a Mosquito but
no recognition was possible due to bad visibility. No attempt was made by it
that could have been considered hostile and we thought it was one of ours or
Swedish. One thing we did not do was fire, except in defence, which would
give away our position. I am convinced that some chaps fired at imaginary
aircraft and made themselves targets.
[page break]
Of all my ops the ones I remember more than the others were: Kiel Canal, Aire (abortive) when we hit downdraft of a cu-nim cloud and the plane was almost torn to pieces and Frankfurt and Saarbrucken when we landed with fun load of 62,000lbs with 3 engines. e also had a second dickie on board) (Aire Abortive is reported separately).
When we flew it was necessary to keep a sharp eye out for enemy aircraft, mostly at take-off and landing. Many of our aircraft were shot down for not being alert at an times. There was never a time you could relax, even in
England. We were an concerned about the possibility of becoming Prisoners
of War and found out as much as possible from evaders and escapees who
came to give us such information as they had, e.g. no labels or names.
numbers on clothing. I had a Swiss knife with a German inscription on it and
some German matches and watch I believe had been taken from a Prisoner of
War or perhaps a dead German. I also had a French pipe and pouch of French
tobacco which I did not use as I could not replace it and which by the time I
finished flying was nearly all dust.
Flying an aircraft which is open to the elements requires plenty of clothing. In
most bombers the wind could get into the fuselage from several points. To try
to keep warm was impossible and so we wore many layers of clothing, Le. one
pair of silk socks, 2 pairs of wool, 1 pair sea boot socks thigh length, silk Long
Johns and vest, silk balaclava and a wool one, 1 wool and 1 cotton vest, 1 RAF
shirt, wool Long Johns, I roll neck sweater, 1 8ft long silk scarf, 1 tunic,
trousers, flying inner suit, electric heating suit, Irving trousers and jacket or
Kapok electric buoyancy suit, silk gloves, wool mittens, electric inner gloves,
leather gauntlets, leather lined flying helmet, fur lined flying boots, Mae West
Parachute Harness. In our pockets we had a torch, all the personal items
mentioned, the escape kit which would have maps of the area, several
currencies, concentrated Horlicks tablets, water purifying tablets etc. in our
clothing were hidden knives, films, maps, compasses etc. There was also a
Thermos, sweets, concentrated caffeine tablets (Wakey, Wakey) which caused
eyes to become dry and sore on a long Op. We also had a parachute to carry.
Despite all the clothing and heating by the time we reached our operating
height the cold would be creeping in and within half-an-hour we would be
freezing. When the temperature was below minus 30 degrees or more the
pain began to penetrate every part of the body. It was not uncommon to suffer
frostbite even with the heating still on. In F2 we also had hot air pipes from
the engine exhausts which were pushed into the flies to give extra
warmth to the legs, but still could not dispel the cold.
Before an Op. every piece of equipment was checked. Nothing was left to
chance. We and our ground crew would be crawling all over the plane making
sure nothing was missed. The ground crew of F2 were, 1 believe, the best on
the station (Wickenby). Proof I believe is the fact that F2 was one of only 2
Lancaster's on the Squadron to survive the war.
To increase our chances, we spent time in the sections to keep up-to-date and
also in the Intelligence section, often helping there.
Briefing was conducted before each Op when we were given all information
known at the time about the target and defences and weather en route. Very
often both would be wrong but we expected that and took things as they came.
Winds, cloud cover etc were never left to chance.
[page break]
Interrogation on our return was more intense and I am afraid here we were less co-operative. After long hours frozen to the marrow all we wanted to do was get into bed to warm up after a hot meal (egg, chips and beans) and so we had nothing of note to report wherever possible, even if we had had a brush with a fighter. Any report unusual would mean an interminable questioning of every member of the crew when we were dead beat and just wanted to rest and relax. Only if something was completely new would we bother.
I flew with 3 other crews on Ops, one officially and the other 2 unofficially, due to chaps being unable to get back to the station, as previously mentioned. The official Op was with F/O Oram who was on his last Op and had lost both gunners when he had to ditch. The first was to Kiel and the others to the Ruhr.
Our ground crew were a grand bunch of chaps. The electrician, George Gant, lived not far from my parents. On every Op he would bring a 3/4 inch steel plate, heavily padded, for me to sit on 'for special protection'. Whenever there was a stand down we would take the ones 'with nothing to do to a show, cinema, dance or just a drink. There would sometimes be a dance on the station and so we would lend or procure SNCO or Officer's uniform for them if the dance was at one of those messes. Nobody, to my knowledge, ever complained as most crews did this. We always made sure to get all drinks when on the station and gave each one a pound to spend as he wished when off the station. Also, when any of them went on leave they were given a pound a day if single and if married double this with an extra pound for each child.
Each of us shared the cost but the Canucks insisted on paying twice the
amount of us natives. The Canadians also bought two rounds to our one, etc. Three of Us gave local farmers a hand when we could and in return we were given any farm produce they had. Over our time at Wickenby we were given chickens, ducks, beef, pork, eggs, milk, cheese, butter, bread, dripping, etc., and twice when we couldn't leave the station for a while a delivery was brought in by the local policeman.
Taking off from the station on a summer or autumn evening, turning towards the continent, meant I was often presented with some of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen and climbing often prolonged them. We flew into darkness with bright skies behind, night below and daylight above and the only real danger from the dark areas, which meant there was no time to linger on the exquisite sight behind us.
On each Op I took note of the route and times etc. of different dog legs so that I would be able to estimate a course to be taken if the Navigator and navigational equipment were damaged. My hope was that I could give the Skipper a course to the centre of the British landmass from wherever we might be at that time and that one of us would be able to check drift, wind speed and direction and knowing aircraft speed, roughly work out ETA over Britain. All details had to be kept in my head. We put it into practice only once as an experiment and arrived over Cromer instead of Lincs. From Kiel. I did navigate sometimes when on cross-countries and was OK but had all the aids which I could not rely on in an emergency.
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The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Account of operations
Description
An account of the resource
Mention action on getting caught in searchlights, effects of altitude on aircrew, avoiding bombs from above, encounters with B-17 while on operations and getting a bottle of Bourbon from the American crew later. Mentions encounter with probable Mosquito, operation to Kiel Canal, friendly aircraft being attacked on return to base, conditions while flying, clothing, operating procedures, briefing and post flight debrief. Describes ground crew and work they did. Concludes with comments on summer operations and that he took notes on each operation of routes and times. Pages numbered. 29, 30, 31 and 2,3 and 4.
Format
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Three page printed document
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
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BPotterPLPotterPLv4
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Germany
Germany--Kiel Canal
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Saarbrücken
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Creator
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P Potter
Contributor
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David Bloomfield
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
aircrew
B-17
bombing
briefing
debriefing
ground crew
Lancaster
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
Mosquito
nose art
RAF Wickenby
searchlight
Window
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/619/30853/BPageTJPageTJv2.1.pdf
e763e258dcdf30dc9b67e983d434d1a1
Dublin Core
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Title
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Page, Thomas James
T J Page
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Page, TJ
Description
An account of the resource
Fifteen items. An oral history interview with Squadron Leader Thomas Page DFM (1922 - 2017, 922297, 183427 Royal Air Force), his log book, two autobiographies and photographs. He flew operations as a flight engineer with 49 Squadron.
The collection was The collection was loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Thomas Page and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Date
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2016-07-02
Transcribed document
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Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
MY LIFE IN THE ROYAL AIR FORCE BOMBER COMMAND
BY
SQN LDR T J PAGE DFM. RAF
[black and white photograph]
[page break]
An extract of my RAF service from my Autobiography by
SQN LDR T J PAGE DFM, RAF (Retired)
The years slowly passed and the storm clouds of war were gathering over Europe again. This was something that youth and many others in the countryside were unaware of because news was very limited, wireless was in its infancy and newspapers were few; in fact, many of the older people could not read. The young did not see newspapers because some parents considered them a corrupting influence. On reflection, perhaps this was a good thing. Now seventeen and on the first Sunday in September 1939, and not required to work I decided to visit my grandmother at Coleswood near Ramsgate. I cycled the thirty miles there through the lovely countryside, past myoid schools and my birthplace and on along the road that passed through Manston aerodrome. Already there was greater activity at the air station and once more, my boyhood ambitions came to the fore.
Soon after arriving there the air raid siren sounded, it was eleven o'clock the 3rd
September. The government had declared war with Germany. Being apprehensive, and, like many others, thinking there would be an immediate invasion as the place was near to the South East Coast of England, I decided to return home straight away. History relates that nothing much happened until the following springtime. As spring approached, the aerial activity over Southern England increased. Fighting Aircraft appeared overhead, their long condensation trails making patterns in the sky. There were sounds of machine gun fire. At times aeroplanes would streak fast and low across the farm further kindling my love of flying machines and the air.
In January 1940 I became eighteen years of age I began to feel more independent and
assertive. I left my employment and cycled fifteen miles to the recruiting office at
Canterbury and volunteered for the Royal Air Force and was immediately accepted and placed on reserve service until called for duty. I had accepted the ‘Kings Shilling' signed the Oath of Allegiance and proudly travelled home wearing the badge of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. The first part of my dream had come true.
2
Overhead the air fighting continued with Fairy Battles streaking low over the Kent
countryside. They had taken great losses over these early days of the war. Three months past and on the 19th July 1940, the time came to leave home. My dream was coming true.
This was a day of apprehension; I was now committed to whatever lay ahead. Where
would life lead me? RAF service could be worldwide as the Empire still existed and now there was a war on. My dreams of being an Airman did not include war. There was nothing to take with me other than the clothes I wore and a little money. Walking away down the lane there was a last look at the cluster of Dignash cottages of Westwell nestling at the foot of the wooded downs before they disappeared from view
On the Monday afternoon the 19th July 1940, I arrived at the sand bagged and barbed wire protected gate of the RAF Depot at Royal Air Force Uxbridge, entered the restricted doorway into the guardroom and reported for duty.
There were many Volunteer Reservists from all parts of the country joining for duty that day. We wondered what was before us. Each barrack room contained about twenty beds and a certain amount of overcrowding was necessary because large numbers of new recruits. The iron beds were rather unusual in that the foot
part slid under the head part. The mattress was in three parts named 'biscuits'. When
not in use the whole bed was neatly stacked away. This provided extra space in the
barrack room for day use and was in accordance with the spick and span neatness of
service life with a place for everything and everything in its place, a form of discipline.
The staff NCOs explained the routine of the barracks.
Next was the first and foremost of the induction formalities. This was the 'Swearing In'
to become legally bound by the Air Force Act and allegiance to the Crown. This made
one legally bound by the Air Force Act and to ones allegiance to the Crown. There was a roll call of Names, Initials and Religion. Each airman received a service number. Mine
was 922297.Afterwards we were officially Airmen of the rank of Aircraftsman 2nd Class. Each Airman received an Identity Card RAF Form 1250 and Identity Discs; called 'Dog Tags', both to be carried on the person at all times, uniform, kit and accoutrements. The kit was such items as shaving brush, button stick, cleaning brushes, knife, fork, spoon, mug, kit bag, and mess tin. The button stick is still in my possession. The accoutrements were, webbing belt and harness to support a haversack, water bottle and bayonet, finally there was a gas mask. In the evening, the new recruits were off duty. I went to the cinema in Uxbridge town.
3
The new intake of Airman were mustered for training as Airframe Mechanics and on the Wednesday, we travelled by troop train to the training school at Morecambe in
Lancashire. On the way to the railway, station at Uxbridge small local boys offered to
carry the heavy kitbags for a few pennies, an offer taken up by many of the new Airmen. It was obvious that the lads were well versed in the routines of the RAF and were showing enterprise. Each group carried food rations for the long slow journey and at various stops on the way urns of tea appeared.
Towards evening, the train arrived at Morecambe. The Airmen then were marched round the streets and given accommodation in private houses known as billets. Billets were private houses where the occupants with space to spare were required by law to accommodate Service Personnel. Compulsory billeting is only authorised by Parliament in wartime. Three of us found ourselves in rather a poor billet whereas some other Airmen found relative luxury, a home from home atmosphere. The
billeting was rather unexpected as everyone thought we would be in Royal Air Force
Station barracks.
The technical training took place in various commandeered large garages and factories. Tuition was by lectures and practical work amongst a collection of Aircraft and Aircraft parts, workbenches, tables and chairs completed the layout of what was a large classroom. Here I was in my element and enthusiasm made it easy to learn and the practical work was most satisfying. A Fairy Battle was in the classroom. It was the first aircraft that I was able to inspect and sit in.
Near the end of December, the course was finished and we became qualified Flight Mechanics 'A' (for Airframe) and were promoted to Aircraftsman 1st Class. Over the Christmas, I went home to Dignash in uniform for the first time. I carried posting instructions for a new unit. On this leave, there was a shot down German
Me 109 fighter Aircraft at Park Farm. Later I would be required to dismantle crashed
German Aircraft.
4
The new unit was No.257 Hurricane Fighter Squadron whose Commanding Officer was Squadron Leader Stanford- Tuck, one of The Few of the Battle of Britain. Soon my new skills were tested. This was a fighter squadron.
After three months on No.257 Fighter Squadron, it was time for more training at RAF
Innsworth near Gloucester for a three-month course to increase my skills to that of a Fitter. The course finished in July, 1941 and I was remustered to a Fitter HA in the rank of Leading Aircraftsman after being in the Royal Air Force for the happiest year of my life, so far, despite the fact that there was a war on.
The new posting was to No.71 Maintenance Unit at Slough in Buckinghamshire.
Arriving there, I found that the unit was in a commandeered garage close to the Hawker Aircraft factory at Langley. The factory was manufacturing Hurricane aircraft.
At Slough, one of my billets was in the suburb of Wrexham with a gentle old couple in a tiny cottage near to the hospital. They were charming and gracious and treated me like a son. At one stage, there was a month's detachment to the RAF Station at Cosford in Shropshire to do a Junior Non Commissioned Officers course to learn the disciplinary aspects of service life and leadership. The course member's
accommodation was in Fulton block, a barrack that was a byword in the service for its extremely high standard. Here we taught the art of commanding Airmen on parade and of Air Force Law. I returned to Slough as a Corporal and given charge of a servicing party.
Not long afterwards I was sent to RAF Burtonwood in Lancashire to study the American Boston aircraft. It was not long before my party went to service a Boston Aircraft at Royal Air Force Manston in Kent. This was the airfield of my boyhood dreams when living close by with my grandparents. The work was in a hanger that had escaped the German bombing; it still stands today, and is close beside the road that goes through the centre of the aerodrome. I have such memories of travelling that road in the years before. One morning there was a damaged Short Stirling bomber standing outside the hanger.
5
It was very impressive, long and tall and the biggest we had seen. This type of Aircraft
was new to the Royal Air Force. The basic wing and engine were of the Short
Sunderland Seaplanes design. The sight of the Stirling was very impressive.
This was the day the 2nd of May 1942 when I flew on my first ever flight. The Station
Commander had come to the hanger to fly a small tandem two-seat aircraft and I ask
him if I could fly with him. He replied by saying, "Go and get a parachute". We flew
over Canterbury to see the damaged caused by the German raid during the night. This day would trigger a drastic change in my service career.
After the servicing of the Boston Aircraft at Manston, the party returned to Slough
travelling once more by train with heavy toolboxes. A few days later there appeared on the Daily Routine Orders an appeal for Aircraft: Fitters to volunteer for flying duties as Flight Engineers to assist Pilots in flying the new four engine bombers that were rapidly coming into service; the Stirling's, Halifax's and Lancaster's. The experiences at Manston made me volunteer.
My next servicing party duty was at RAF West Malling to repair a Hurricane where the Squadron there were flying Boston's. Here I was able to get a flight in the back cockpit with the Radar Operator. The aircraft was practicing radar interception and we were flying along the South Coast. Fortunately, we encountered no German aircraft.
The next serving job was another Boston at Hunsdon in Essex where I was informed that was required to report to the Aircrew Selection Centre in Euston Road, London for a medical examination to see if I was fit enough for Aircrew duties. I passed the examination and went to RAF St Athan in South Wales for aircrew training as a Flight Engineer.
It was October 1942 when training commenced. (Photograph - Thomas, back row third from right)
Being an Airframe Fitter, the first part of the course was on the theory of Aircraft engines and their construction, working, servicing requirements and finally on how to operate them for maximum efficiency particularly in relation to range flying.
After engine theory, it was instruction on the airframe side of the Lancaster airframe.
The flying controls, the fuel system, and the hydraulics that operated the undercarriage and the flaps and other miscellaneous services. There were vacuum and air pressure systems to drive instruments, automatic pilots, wheel brakes and other emergency apparatus. The aim of the course was to understand the whole Aircraft. Part of the course included a week's visit to the Rolls Royce Engine factory at Derby and a week's visit to the Aircraft factory of A. V. Roe at Chadderton.
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Finally, there was a short course at Stormy Down in South Wales on air gunnery and
gun turrets. For the Flight Engineer to know something of gun turrets and gunnery was to not only complete the knowledge of the Aircraft but also so that an Engineer could operate a gun turret especially during low level, mine laying when the Bomb Aimer was busy.
The course was finished at the end of December and the successful course members
promoted to the rank of Sergeant Aircrew and awarded the coveted Flight Engineers
flying badge. It was time to leave Wales where it seemed to be always raining.
Lancaster Aircraft - Flying Training
My new unit was No.l661 Heavy Conversion Unit at the Royal Air Force Station at
Winthorpe just outside the town of Newark in Nottinghamshire. Here I joined the
following aircrew to form a seven man crew to fly Lancaster's.
Around the 20th February 1943 the all sergeant aircrew assembled at the Aircraft dispersal point with a Flight Sergeant Staff Pilot Instructor to fly on their first flight together as a crew. This was to familiarise themselves with a new type of Aircraft. Disappointedly we found that the Aircraft was an Avro Manchester and not a
Lancaster. The Manchester was a two engine aircraft and was unsuitable for Squadron operational service. The shortage of Lancaster aircraft had made it necessary to use them for the initial training of new crews at the Heavy Conversion Units. This particular Manchester was No.L7398, which had seen operational service on Nos.49, 97 and 106 Squadrons. It was in poor condition and did not inspire confidence.
Now it was my job as the engineer to see that all external protective covers had been removed from the aircraft and the inspection panels checked for security as they could cause a great hazard if they came off in flight. That the flying control locks and undercarriage safety struts on the aircraft were removed. The caps of the petrol tank filler had to be checked for security before priming the engines with petrol ready for the start up. With pre-flight checks done I would secure the entrance door, stow the entrance ladder and go to my position beside the pilot to start the engines and assist with the preparations for take-off.
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On this first familiarisation flight, the FIt Sgt Hamilton said to me "Watch what I do". This was to be only my third time in the air, an event in its own right. Now I was to be instructed how to assist the pilot in flying the Aircraft. The Instructor did the take-off, talking and demonstrating as he did so to both the Pilot and me. Away from the airfield, he showed the handling characteristics of the Aircraft, its flying and stalling speed in various configurations. Jock my Pilot would then try the various manoeuvres himself to get the feel of the Aircraft. The duration of this first flight was 1. 55hrs. We did a total of six hours with the Instructor mostly on circuits of the airfield with landings and overshoots of the runway.
On the 26th February we did our first flight in the Manchester without an instructor and went on to fly a total of eleven hours mostly on circuits and landings with some
bombing and air firing exercises.
On the 6th March 1943, the day came for conversion to the Lancaster and after three hours flying with an Instructor we took off in Lancaster No. W 4190 for a further period of practising circuits and landings. On the 13th March, we flew Lancaster No.R5541 on a six-hour cross-country flight followed by periods of flying by night with the emphasis on taking off and landing in the dark. After a total of 53 hours, flying on the 24th March the crew became proficient and ready for full operational flying.
On the 26th March 1943, we went to No.49 Bomber Squadron at RAF Fiskerton, an
airfield about five miles east of Lincoln. Lincoln Cathedral was to become very
prominent to us in the next few months for on most take offs the runway use was East to West which took the aircraft directly over the cathedral.
On the 31 SI March, we flew our first flight on an operational squadron with some local flying in Lancaster Mark III No. ED 452, followed during the next two weeks, with practice bombing sorties, air firing and cross-country flying. On the ground, there were practices drills for emergencies and explanations as to what to do in a crash landing and how to escape from the aircraft by parachute. In addition survival if forced down into the sea.
By the 12th April Jock the pilot had already flown on two operational bombing flights
over Germany as second Pilot with other crews to gain experience of flying amongst
enemy defences before taking his own crew as Captain of an Aircraft.
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On the 13th, our names appeared on the Battle Order for operations that night to fly
Lancaster Mark III No. ED 620. The decisive moment had come for us, the
apprehension before each bombing operation was to start. These feelings were relieved to some extent by doing all the preparations necessary before us take off.
The first thing to do was to fly the Aircraft on a Night Flying Test (an NFT). This was
to ensure that everything was working satisfactorily before the bombs and the correct fuel load for the flight were loaded on the Aircraft. Afterwards the time was with things personal, this included having a meal, and resting.
Later we would dress in the clothes suitable to withstand the cold of the
particular aircrew position in the Aircraft. Air from the two inboard engines warmed
the main cockpit.
The flying kit included:
A helmet with a microphone, earphones and an Oxygen mask
A Mae West Life jacket
An observer type parachute harness
A parachute pack
Flying boots
Gloves, these were both silk and leather.
Woollen underwear
Soon it was time for the briefing. There was a buzz of excitement as we trooped into the briefing room. There was a gasp as the route map on the wall was uncovered and the Target shown as the docks at La Spezia in the north of Italy. This would be a very long flight requiring full petrol tanks and flying for maximum range. Two hundred and eight Lancaster's and three Halifax's were to attack. A good point about this operation was that the route was out and back over the South Coast of England and the South of France where the defences were relatively light.
The next thing was to go to the Locker Room to collected flying kit, helmet, parachute and flying boots. I also carried a toolkit. During the flight, I completed a log of engine conditions every twenty minutes. The other crewmembers would also collect their flying kit together with those things necessary to their particular duty; maps and charts, target details, radio frequencies, a sextant for the Navigator a carrier pigeon for the
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Wireless Operator. Each crewmember would also have received in flight rations of sandwiches, a tin of orange juice and a bar of chocolate.
Now came the worst part of the preparations, waiting outside the locker room for the buses to take each crew to their Aircraft. It was at these times that the stomach would churn needing a call to the latrines as one thought of what lay ahead. This could be a nuisance when all dressed up and ready to go. There would be banter for some, quietness for others at this time and during the drive out to the Aircraft dispersed around the airfield.
At the Aircraft, the Pilot and Engineer reported to the dispersal Flight Office to check
the Aircraft loading and talk to the ground staff and the Pilot would sign the Aircraft
logbook. Before flight, as the Engineer, I inspected the aircraft both inside and out.
This was to see that everything was in order and that a battery trolley was plugged in for starting the engine and there was ground crew standing by to prime the engines with fuel before it was time for the crew to board. Each crew member would do his check of his particular part of the aircraft.
I would now secure the entrance door and stow the ladder. Moving forward up the
fuselage I would see that the oxygen supply under the rest bed was turned on and the electrics were connected to the external battery trolley would then take my place on the right hand side of the cockpit beside the pilot. Here we would start the engines and do the pre-flight checks.
On seeing a green Verey light from the control tower, it was time to taxiing to the
runway for take-off. I was checking engine temperatures and oil pressure, as it was easy for engines to overheat at this stage. The Pilot called up each member at his crew position to see if all was ready for take-off.
At the threshold of the runway, we would do our last minute take off checks before the Pilot turned ED620 onto the runway to await the green light to go.. Each Aircraft took off at 30-second intervals after a signal from the Control Tower. Our take off time was 20.50hrs.
On seeing the green light from the runway controller, the Pilot eased the throttles
forward leading and when the Aircraft was running straight, he called for full power and I pushed the throttle levers fully forward. The Aircraft gathered speed down the runway and this was one of the most anxious times as the loss of an engine when fully loaded with fuel and bombs would be disastrous.
It took the entire 6000ft runway to gain flying speed. The loss of an engine on take-off when fully loaded with bombs and fuel would be disastrous. When safely clear of the runway, the Pilot said undercarriage and I lifted the undercarriage lever, secured it into position, checked to see that the undercarriage was fully up and locked.
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When safely airborne I reduced the engine power to complete the initial climb to a safe altitude and closed the flaps from their one-third take-off position. The Aircraft then flew over the airfield for the Navigator to set the correct time of departure and to set the first course. I reduced engine speed to the climbing power.
At this time, it was still daylight. The rendezvous point was on the South Coast of
England and we could see the other aircraft around us.
We settled down to our individual routines for the long flight with me monitoring and recorded at twenty-minute intervals the engine speeds, their temperatures and pressures of the oil and coolant, whilst keeping a check on fuel flow and other things and keeping a look out for other Aircraft. 1 was fortunate to have a view from the cockpit of the full 360 degrees around the Aircraft. I had engine and ancillary controls on the right further. There were engine and fuel controls and instruments on the right side of the cockpit.
Darkness closed in as the coast of France was crossed. All went well as the flight
progressed. Occasionally we would get a glimpse of a silhouetted aircraft below.
Eventually the Navigator gave an estimated time of arrival (ETA) at the Target at
Spezia. The ETA time came and passed and so did the H-Hour time of attack but there
was no sign of a raid anywhere. Raids could normally be seen from many miles away
especially from altitude. The Aircraft was over the sea and it was soon realised that it
was off course and the correct position not known. With the bombs still on and over
half of the petrol gone I said to the Pilot "If we don't get rid of these bombs we shall not get back to base". We released the bombs into the sea. We turned for home with an intended landfall on the South Coast of France at an intended time but the coast at Montpellier was not reached until 30 minutes after that time. It was not until a series of course changes that we eventually we crossed the French coast at 4000ft. Some light opposition (anti-Aircraft fire) came up from the sand dunes but fortunately no damage occurred to the Aircraft. It is a long story of flying alone across hostile France.
Over the channel, there was very little fuel left and it was necessary to find an airfield
for landing. Throughout this time there were anxious moments watching for any
engine to cut out for want of fuel. After getting no reply to emergency calls for
identification and landing, the misty coast was crossed and by chance, we saw an
airfield. Without contact with the control tower, we landed the aircraft. The airfield
was Dunsfold. The time was 07.40hrs and the flying time had been 10.50hrs. The
aircraft had flown alone across the hostile territory of France expecting opposition at any
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time. After a meal, we flew back to Fiskerton who had posted the Aircraft and crew as missing.
An examination of the navigation chart, and a check of the two compasses, revealed that the main one was under reading by thirty degrees and that the courses flown had always taken the Aircraft to the right of the required track. This meant that on the outward flight the true track had been down into the Mediterranean whereas the return brought the Aircraft back on track to the south coast of France. Afterwards the track had been northwards around Paris before the turn westwards. This very long first operational bombing flight at maximum range had been quite a lesson.
The Battle of the Ruhr started in March 1943. The aircrew, because of the intensity of
the defence's searchlights, fighters and anti-Aircraft fire, knew the Ruhr area as Happy Valley.
On the 26th April, we attacked Duisberg with five hundred and sixty other aircraft. The Ruhr area was visible for miles away, a solid ring of searchlights surrounded it. Inside the ring, it was a fireworks display of rising shells, shell bursts, tracer gunfire and marker flares. Seeing the Ruhr for the first time made me gasp and I said, "How do we get through there" no one answered, each had his own thoughts, the Navigator in his blacked out compartment declined to look.
Soon we passed through the searchlight belt and were amongst the anti-aircraft bursts and tracer fire, the Pilot, the two Gunners and me, keeping a sharp lookout for other Aircraft to avoid collision and for enemy fighters. We saw Aircraft exploding, some catching fire and going down, others in searchlights. I was standing up at this time being required to move about to operate controls and to be able to read and to make a record of the instruments. The run up to the Target flying straight and level seemed to take a very long time although in reality it was only minutes. When the bombs left the aircraft, I would feel the movement of the cockpit floor. This was a relief. The Aircraft would rise up from the sudden loss of weight and the aircraft remained on course until the photoflash had gone off and the camera had recorded the bomb strike Only then was the Aircraft turned and dived away to get out of the target area. To look down from 20,OOOft and see the great area of fire and the bombs bursting was a sight I would never forget. The explosions of the heavy 4000lb bombs affected the Aircraft. This flight took five hours and was without mishap but 17 other Aircraft were lost that night.
On the 28th April, we tried to drop magnetic mines off the coast of Juist in the Fresian
Islands together with two hundred and six other aircraft. The weather was bad in the
area, dark, rain and low cloud. At 500ft in cloud and bad visibility, the target area could not be located. Because the position of mines in the sea had to be known, they were returned to base. One hundred and sixty seven of the Aircraft laid 593 mines in the area of the islands that night. Twenty-two Aircraft failed to return. This was the greatest loss on any mining during the war. It was the only mining sortie undertaken by us.
The bombing operations continued. What was I doing in these frequent infernos? What had made me volunteer for aircrew duties in the year before not expecting this? It was not my knowledge of the German tyranny; so much of that had been, and still was, unknown or knowing that Germany had unlawfully invaded and conquered the countries
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of Europe, had bombed England and would have subjugated the British Isle as well if
they had not been stopped in 1940. Fate had decreed I would be here because of my
love for aeroplanes, and, if I was destined to be a combatant, what better way was there than to do this. The results of bombs dropped on German military Targets gave me no qualms of conscience, even if they fell on houses and killed civilians. All Germans had participated in the Nazi fanaticism of world domination and their excesses, these and the Italian had to be stopped.
It is not practicable to describe each raid but some are worthy of note especially the first two raids on Hamburg that started those great firestorms.
13th May Aircraft Lancaster ED 452 Target Pilsen in Czechoslovakia
There was the instance where the target was the Skoda factory at Pilsen a place deep in the east of Europe. Out over the North Sea, the starboard inner engine shed its exhaust flame cover and some of the cylinder exhausts. In the dark a long sheet of flame curled back over the leading edge of the wing, this would have been a fire risk and a beacon to enemy night fighters. The engine was shut down and the airscrew feathered. The Aircraft now lost air speed and was no longer able to keep up with the rest of the force; it would become a sitting duck to the opposing fighters. It was time to return to base to live to fight another day. It was dangerous to land with a 4000lb bomb on the Aircraft. It was dropped into the North Sea.
Arriving back at base still heavily laden with 6 x 500lb bombs and a large quantity of
fuel on board the Flying Control gave instructions to land on the short South West/North East runway. This was to avoid any obstruction on the main East/West runway in case of mishap and with the subsequent need to divert the other returning squadron Aircraft to another airfield. The approach to the runway was faster than normal because of the high landing weight and with a gusty side wind blowing the aircraft floated before touchdown. With the heavy load and poor braking the pilot realised he could not stop before the end of the runway and shouted a warning to his crew to brace. ED452 plunged off the end of the runway into a field and the undercarriage collapsed. With fear of immediate fire and explosion, I quickly had the escape hatch in the roof of the cockpit off and dived straight out ignoring the drop from the top of the fuselage to the ground. The rest of the crew quickly followed and all ran as fast as possible across the field to get away. Fortunately, neither fire nor explosion occurred and the crash crews were soon on the scene. Taffy the Rear Gunner suffered a severe shake-up in the crash and was not able to fly again. We went to the sick quarters for a medical check.
At one time, we flew a total of 22.15hrs on 4 nights in 7 days in stressful conditions and were very tired. In May, the darkness of night was quite short. Take offs were always late in the evenings. By the time, aircraft had landed and crews had been collected from dispersal, removed their flying clothing at the locker room and then been de-briefed at the Intelligence Section it would be daylight. Sleep was difficult before returning to the airfield by 11.00hrs to carry out a Night Flying Test (NFT) in readiness for the next flight.
On the 12th July, we flew to Turin in Italy. Two hundred and ninety five Lancaster's took part on this raid in clear weather conditions. The view of the snow-covered Alps was
14
fantastic. To see the twinkling lights of neutral Switzerland and Sweden was quite
something. Once again, it had been a long flight at maximum range. LM 306 was short of fuel when nearing the South Coast of England and the aircraft landed at Exeter. We returned to base later in the day.
On the 12th August, we flew to Italy again to attack Milan. This was another long flight. Over the Alps, there were storms and flying in cloud, St.Elmos Fire danced across the windscreen and ice formed on the airframe resulting in a lower bombing height of 17,700ft because of the extra weight. It was a successful raid with only three Aircraft lost. The Alfa Romeo motor works, the railway station and the La Scala opera house suffered substantial damage.
LM 306 had now completed three operations in four days with a total of 22.30hrs flying. It is not surprising that we had little sleep over those four days. It was a great relief to have leave. After debriefing, a meal and a change of uniform we travelled into Lincoln on the bus to catch a train to our respective homes. Two of us were travelling to London on the first part of our journey and after changing to a very full train at Grantham we both fell asleep exhausted in the corridor all the way to London and other passengers just walked over us.
There was relief, as always, as the enemy coast was crossed but no one could relax
because of possible dangers ahead. The North Sea was very wide, wet and cold.
Mechanical failures could occur from various causes not least from unsuspected enemy damage. The chances of survival if forced down into the North Sea were minimal. There was always the chance of bad weather over the base and collisions with other circling aircraft waiting to land. The circuits of other adjacent airfields were very close. It was easy to approach the wrong runway. There was also the possibility of enemy intruder aircraft in the airfield circuit.
One night we were returning below cloud at 3,000ft just off Cromer with other aircraft. Navigation lights were on. Suddenly cannon fire hit the aircraft. It was from the British Navy. Also attacked was Aircraft JB 235 of the squadron. The noise was uncanny as red-hot shrapnel passed through the fuselage close beside us. We waited to see if any faults developed but things so far, appeared normal. The Pilot called for reports and the Navigator said "Ralph's been hit." Ralph was the Wireless Operator and sat in the centre of the aircraft with his back against the hefty main spar; this no doubt had shielded him from injury that is more serious. Squeezing past the Navigator I went to Ralph's aid to see that he had received wounds in his legs and shoulder area but the most serious at the time was a hole through one of his hands. Getting the first aid, I applied bandages and put a tourniquet on the wrist before going back to my duties in the front cockpit leaving the Navigator to watch Ralph later returning at intervals to release the tourniquet to prevent gangrene setting in.
At Dunholme Lodge, the weather was foul with low cloud and driving rain. The
aircraft was required to circle for some time before getting position six for landing. Air Traffic Control had been informed that on board was a wounded aircrew member. Eventually the turn came to land but on the downwind leg of the landing circuit it was found that the undercarriage would not come down; it was obvious that the hydraulic
15
fluid from the system had been lost. There was damage in the bomb bay area where the pipes were located. Fortunately, the emergency air system was working and I was able to lower the undercarriage and flaps. The landing was very heavy.
At dispersal, when the engines were shut down, the levers that operated the fuel cocks failed to work and hung loosely down. The control cables in the bomb bay had been severed. Fortunately, no petrol lines to the engines had been damage. There were shattered bomb doors, broken pipes and cables, holes in the tail plane and flying control rods shot through, luckily they held to keep control of the rudders and elevator. This new aircraft was taken out of service after one bombing trip. The original crew was now down to five having lost Ralph and Taffy and spare aircrew were to fill the rear gun turret and the wireless position on subsequent operations.
Jock, the Pilot, had been a Warrant Officer since the 6th of June and was now commissioned to the rank of Pilot Officer. Jimmy the Navigator, Hugh the Bomb Aimer and I were Flight Sergeants.
2nd October. Lancaster ED 426. Take off 18.36. Target Munich. 03.15 hundred and ninety-three Lancaster has attacked the target. Eight were lost. ED 426 bombed at 22.41 from 19,000ft. On the 20th
October after a raid on Leipzig Jock, the Pilot completed his tour of 30
operations and afterwards we sadly broke up leaving the others to complete their tours flying as spares with different crews. I still had four more to do. No longer would we men experience the close friendship and respect that had built up over the last ten months flying, living and working together and going out on the town. The memory of the bond that bound us, especially in periods of great danger, would never fade. Such a depth of comradeship would not be experienced again.
Jock left the service in 1948.
Hugh the Bomb Aimer became a Flying Officer. On No. 97 he killed on 11 November 1944 whilst on a second tour. His name is on the RAF Memorial at Runnymede and the Lincoln Memorial.
Ralph the Wireless Operator settled in Bournemouth and suffered in his later
years from the wounds received.
Commission was granted to Jimmy the Navigator. He left the Service in
1946. Sergeant G Green was demobilised in 1945. Since those days, there has been no
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contact with them but I was proud to have served with them.
I stayed on in the squadron as the Flight Engineer Leader. During the next
five months I flew as a spare Engineer. To Berlin with PIt Off Rowntree on the 21st
January 1944. To Leipzig on the 19th February with PIt off Dickinson. To Stuttgart with
the Sqn CO Wing Commander Adams.
My last one was on the 15th March to Stuttgart again with Pilot Officer Lett.
906 Aircrew of No. 49 Squadron failed to return. This was a loss rate of 33 of the
Aircrew who flew with the Squadron.
Years later, on the 24th April 1994 a Roll of Honour showing their Number, Rank and Name, date of death and place of burial in a foreign field was dedicated in the Fiskerton village Church of St. Clement of Rome.
In May 1995, a memorial was placed in the centre of the old airfield at Fiskerton to all those who were lost and those who served on the Station during the two and a half years from January 1943 to mid-1945.
I flew 211.50hrs by night on 30 sorties over enemy territory plus 2 almost to the enemy coast. Seventeen of the sorties had been in one Lancaster Aircraft No. LM 306 with the Squadron letters EA-F (F for Freddie). The Targets were The Ruhr = 11, Berlin = four, Italy = three, Hamburg = 2, 11 other German Targets and one Mining operation. I remember the stress, the tiredness, fear, and the pride in belonging to Bomber Command
My next posting was in April 1944 to RAF Winthorpe near Newark where I had done
my flying training, there to be a Staff Flight Engineer Flying Instructor. This was not
much fun, as we had to fly old Stirling aircraft to teach new crews. This was to save new Lancaster's for the operational squadrons.
After a few weeks and 32 hours of flying, 13 of them at night, I was sent out to all the
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Stations in Number Five Group Bomber Command to lecture on the new Airborne
Lifeboat that was being introduced to the Air Sea Rescue Squadrons. When this was
finished, I returned to my base at RAF Scampton and on the 19th July 1944 I was
commissioned as a Pilot Officer.
Whilst visiting RAF Strubby Commanding Officer informed me that I had been decorated. The London Gazette had promulgated the award of the Distinguished Flying Medal. (L.G Volume II 1944 Page T. J Entry 3090) The public Record Office reference is ZJl 985. The Pilot "Jock" Morrison was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.
Shortly afterwards I was posted to RAF St. Athan in South Wales to train Flight
Engineers. The introduction to the Officers Mess and its customs was a great
experience; other Officers were most charming and helpful. It was an agreeable task
teaching new aircrew the duties of a Flight Engineer. Occasionally the Maintenance Unit on the other side of the airfield called for a Flight Engineer to assist the Test Pilots to fly Lancaster's to and from the factory at Baginton. This became a pleasant task. Just the two of us, the pilot and engineer, flying the Lancaster's on these flights. I can well remember flying low over the Malvern Hills. During my posting at St Athan, I did the Flight Engineer Leaders Course from 20th June to 25th July 1945 despite the fact that I had been a Flight Engineer Leader on an Operation Bomber Squadron in 1943. I spent two happy years at St. Athan.
On Tuesday the 16th February 1947 I was posted to No.44 (Rhodesia) Squadron at Royal Air Force Wyton in Huntingdonshire. On the Wednesday, I was once again in the air flying as a Flight Engineer in Avro Lincoln aircraft a larger version of the Lancaster. The Squadron routines and with a comfortable room and pleasant facilities in the
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Officers Mess life was very enjoyable. The comradeship of colleagues was enjoyed and one particular Flight Engineer; Flt.Lt. Jimmy Hudson became a great friend for many years.
Months of 1947 passed with plenty of flying, it was different and relaxed after the hectic and dangerous wartime operations. On the 12th November, there was a pleasant flight out to Egypt to deliver spare parts to some of the squadron's aircraft. They were on detachment to RAF Shallufa in the Canal Zone. The Pilot was FIt. Lt. Cumber and the aircraft Lancaster No.TW 909, this being my first flight with a landing outside England in a foreign country.
First part of the flight was to RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire for custom clearance. At 23.05hrs, we took off to fly by night to RAF Castel Benito in Tripolitania on the North Coast of Africa. Prior to World War II Castel Benito had been an Italian airfield and during the war the German Luftwaffe had used it. Later the airfield was renamed Castel Idris and in years after it became the International Airport for Tripoli.
The next day it was a 5hr flight along the North African coast to Shallufa in Egypt
passing over the great battle areas of Sollum, El Alamein and Knightsbridge. On this
flight, I flew the aircraft for two hours. RAF Shallufa was beside the Suez Canal and it
was quite a sight to see large ships appearing to be travelling across the sand and to
experience an RAF airfield in a hot desert.
After three days, we took off for the return flight to the UK via Castel Benito making a detour to flyover the Pyramids and the Sphinx. On the 20th November, we arrived back at Wyton after a total flying time of 25.40hrs.
On the I" March 1948, the Squadron flew out to RAF Shallufa in Egypt for a month's
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stay on exercises. I flew as the Flight Engineer to FIt. Lt. Bristow in Lincoln No. RF
426. On the 24th March with FIt. Lt. West in Lincoln RF 514, we flew to Khartoum in the Sudan for an overnight stay returning to Shallufa the next day. This round trip took 11.20hrs. On the 31 st March, the whole Squadron return to Wyton via an overnight stop at Castel Benito.
In May 1948, the whole Squadron was engaged in preparations for Operation
"Chessboard". This was to be a goodwill visit to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe)
at the invitation of the Government. It was in recognition by the Royal Air Force to the people of Southern Rhodesia for the Rhodesians, who had served, and those who had been lost, with the Royal Air Force during the war.
On the 3rd June 1948, the six Lincolns took off for a practice in formation flying in preparation for the displays in Southern Rhodesia. These are the preparations on the 9th June 1948 before the squadron of six Aircraft took off on the first leg of the flight to Southern Rhodesia with an 8hr45min flight to Castel Benito in North Africa. I was flying as Engineer to Flying Officer Barnes in the lead Aircraft KM-L No, RF417. He is the officer at the foot of the entrance ladder about to board with before him the navigator the Squadron Commander, Squadron Leader Moody was to fly with us. If you look closely at the photograph in the distance on the perimeter the two figures are the CO and me his Adjutant completing the inspection before take-off. On the following day, the Squadron flew on to RAF Shallufa in the Canal Zone of Egypt for a three-day rest and for servicing of the aircraft. This flight took 6 and half hours.
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The journey continued from Shallufa on the 14th flying along the Nile Valley to Khartoum in the Sudan for an overnight stop. From Khartoum it was on to Nairobi in Kenya the next day for another overnight stop.
On the 16th it was on to the Belvedere airport at Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia. The
outward flight took 38hrs 25mins. This was to be the base for the Squadrons stay in the Country. The aircraft arrived over Belvedere in formation and after landing the personnel paraded for a reception by the Prime Minister Sir Godfrey Huggins. In the evening the Officers and Airmen attended a Government banquet and a highlight for me at this function was to sit next to, and talk with, the Prime Minister, Sir Godfrey.
There was now a two day rest for the Squadron. On the 18th Bamey and I with the rest of our crew took off to take mosaic photographs of the area of Salisbury for the local authority. We think it was for a proposed building of a Dam on Lake Kariba. It was a flight of over five hours.
On the 19th and 20th, the Squadron did formation flying over Rhodesia to be seen. On the second of the flights we had on board a passenger Mr Catsicas the Mayor of Umtali a Town in the NE of the country.
The Squadron now had a two stand down. The Squadron personnel were split up into groups of six to be the guests of prominent Rhodesians. Bamey and I with two of our aircrew and of the two of our ground staff were to be the guests of the Mayor of Umtali. This involved a long overnight sleeper journey in a rather antiquated colonial train to Umtali there and back. This was an experience. Bamey and I were the guests of the Mayor and we were rather surprised with the low standard of the accommodation.
However, this did not detract from the entertainment of Sun downer Parties of good food and drink in comparison to conditions at home. There were visits to the Vumba
Mountains and an upmarket Hotel the Leopards Rock. We were also taken to Gold Mine and an orange orchard. What lovely orange juice it was.
On the 26th June the squadron flew from Belvedere to Kamala Airport Bulawayo flying over the Victoria Falls on the way. Here was another Sun downer Party and an overnight stay as guests of the locals. Bamey and I stayed with a lady Doctor
We returned to Salisbury on the 28th• On the 29th we took off to return home via the way we had flown out. We arrived back at RAF Wyton on the 5th July having flown for over 80 hours on a good will trip. What an experience. On the way home we flew low over the African Veldt.
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On return to Wyton the Squadron, members went on leave. There was a break in flying until August. I then flew regularly as the Flight Engineer to the Squadron C.O. and served as his Adjutant until the end of the year. On the 29th October 1948 came an appointment to a Permanent Commission in the Secretarial Branch. I was now a Flying Officer. The need for Flight Engineers was ending with the introduction of the new jet Aircraft and so, after nearly one thousand hours of flying my General Duties flying career was ending. It was two very happy years on 44 Sqn.
In January 1949 I was posted to Headquarters No. 3 Group Bomber Command for three months before being moved on to Headquarters Bomber Command at High Wycombe for further Intelligence duties. The post was for a junior in the Intelligence Section of four Officers. A few years before my wartime flying destiny had been under the command of Air Chief Marshall Sir Arthur Harris (Bomber Harris). My feelings when working in the underground Operations Room from where my wartime flying operations had been ordered and controlled cannot be described. My new Commander in Chief was Air Chief Marshall Sir Hugh P Lloyd. One day in the Officers Mess there was the pleasure of meeting and talking to Marshall of the Royal Air Force Sir Hugh Trenchard the Father of the RAF.
Posting to High Wycombe was made even more enjoyable by being able to participate at weekends in the ATC gliding at Booker Airfield. In December 1949, the Air Officer in charge of Administration detailed me to represent Bomber Command at a meeting in the Air Ministry. The subject was the formation of the Royal Air Force Gliding and Soaring Association. Members left the meeting charged with organising and encouraging gliding in their respective Commands.
Duties, mess life and atmosphere at Headquarters Bomber Command continued to be very pleasant with the weekends spent gliding at RAF Booker. On the 4th July 1950, the 'C' Gliding Certificate was gained with a modest soaring flight of 15 minutes in a Grunua Baby Intermediate Sailplane No. VD 182. This was repeated a week later with a gain of height of 1250ft.
22
On a visit to the London Gliding Club at Dunstable on the 24th June produced my first hill-soaring flight of 30 minutes in a Sedbergh T21 b with Mr Lawrence Wright.
In October 1950 there was a week's gliding course at RAF Detling in Kent with experienced instructors, which was to be repeated again in October 1951."Jock" Forbes" was the Chief Flying Instructor at RAF Detling in Kent. He and I were two of the six Founder Members of the Royal Air Force Gliding and Soaring Association that was formed at the Air Ministry on the 15th December 1949. There was also another weeks gliding course at RAF Detling in October 1951. On the 13th January 1951, I flew my first solo hill soaring flight of I hr 50min in a Slingsby Tutor at the London Gliding Club on Dunstable Downs.
23
Duty at Headquarters Bomber Command ended for as a Secretarial Officer I was required to do accounting duties so it was necessary to attend an Accounting Course. After the course, I was a posting to No.9 School of Recruit Training at RAF Bridgnorth in Shropshire to be an Accountant Officer. This involved collecting cash from the local Bank, the payment of bills, the accounting for the cash transactions and the conducting of pay parades for the Airman.
It was here at Bridgnorth that I became the Chief Flying Instructor of the RAF Cosford Gliding Club, which was nearby. Two happy years followed with much gliding and soaring at Cosford and the civilian Midland Gliding Club on the Long Mynd, that lovely hill site on the Welsh border.
In July 1952 came promotion to the rank of Flight Lieutenant. My next unit was at RAF Padgate near Warrington in Lancashire. It was another recruit training school. This urban area was a contrast to the lovely Shropshire countryside. I was still able to get to RAF Cosford for gliding from time to time.
I joined the nearby civilian Derbyshire, and Lancashire Gliding Club at Camphill in the Peak District; this was another marvellous hill site. At Camphill, I was able to do my first cross-country soaring flight of over 50km towards
24
my Silver "C" badge by flying from Camphill to Lindholme in Yorkshire. The flight took place the 17th May 1953 in an Olympia Sailplane named "Speedwell" flying over Sheffield at 5850ft above sea level and looking down the large scar across the countryside near Doncaster, which was the first part of the A 1 road, was being made into a Motorway.
From the 25th July to the 3rd August 1953, I flew the RAF Cosford Gliding Club Gull IV Sailplane in the British National Gliding Championships at Camphill. In a total of 8 hours, only two cross-country flights were possible landing in fields, one at Staveley and one at Renishaw, both in Derbyshire. Landing at Renishaw was quite eventful. The field had cows in it and cows are partial to licking the Aircraft fabric, and standing on the wing surfaces and causing damage. A lorry driver in the field kindly offered to keep the cows from the sailplane whilst I went to find a telephone to report the landing back to Camphill for the information of the retrieving crew.
The nearest house was in fact a country mansion set in its own grounds and after knocking on the large ornate door, a trim maid, dressed in black and white, came to the door. In answer to my request to use the telephone, she offered to fetch the Master. The maid disappeared through the large marble hall with its suits of armour around the walls and then a tall-distinguished gentleman appeared to say that he was not the Master but a companion to the Master. Just then, a short rather deformed person limped into view followed by an introduction to Sir Osbert Sitwell the renowned author. The place was Renishaw Hall. His first words were "Are you all right?" to the affirmative he said "Have you had lunch?" I said "No". He then called out "Cook, lunch in five minutes". Politely declining lunch because of the need to return to the sailplane to release the lorry driver from his good deed, Sir Osbert said "Don't worry I will get my agent to go down and safeguard the sailplane".
Then came a fine lunch of Venison and salad followed by strawberries and cream all supported by a carafe of wine. Now this was the life and gliding. Afterwards all walked down to see the sailplane and to have the details of the Gliding Championships explained to them whilst awaiting the retrieving crew.
Accounting duties continued at RAF Padgate. The New Year came. Within a few weeks came a posting overseas in April.
25
On the 9th April 1954 came a flight by Hastings Aircraft of RAF Transport Command from RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire to RAF Station Habbanyia. The unit was situated between the Rivers Euphrates and Tigris near Baghdad in Iraq and was the Headquarters for all of the RAF stations in the Near East The posting was to be the Station Accountant Officer at the far away unit of RAF Mauripur in Pakistan.
There was an overnight stop at RAF Castel Benito now named, Castel Idris. It brought back happy memories of flying with No.44 (Rhodesia) Squadron. I waited three days at Habbanyia for onward transport. I remember seeing the clear star lit nights and hearing the loud croaking of frogs on the two rivers Tigris and Euphrates.
RAF Mauripur was a staging post for aircraft flying the long route to the Far East. At this time in 1954, air transport was relatively slow and was before the introduction of jet powered transport aircraft into the RAF. The unit was on a Pakistan Air Force Station near to the Capital of Karachi. All services received from the Pakistanis had to be accounted for and this was to be a large part of my work. In addition, I had to pay and account for the twelve Officers and three hundred Airmen of the unit and those RAF personnel seconded to the Pakistan Air Force. There were also the Services staffs at the High Commission in Karachi to look after which included the Air Attaché, Group Captain Sands who had been my Senior Intelligence Officer at Headquarters Bomber Command in 1949.
Mauripur was on a flat, barren, desert plain with the hills of Baluchistan away in the distance to the Northwest. The Station, together with Drigh Road at the other side of Karachi, had been RAF during the days of the Indian Raj before the independence and partition of that great country in 1947 with its great loss of life and the making of two States. The effects of that period were still very evident in the refugee camps around Karachi where the people lived in appalling filth and squalor.
The small RAF unit was the only British one left on the whole of the Sub-Continent of India; this became very evident when I had to account for all of the petrol use by the British from 1947 to 1954. After protracted negotiations with the Pakistan Air Force Ministry, which fortunately was based at Mauripur, the time came for the bill of around ten million Rupees to be paid; this was the equivalent of about one million pounds sterling. In 1954, at today's values, this would be about £15-20 million. This would be the largest cheque that I would ever sign but finally the Pakistanis wanted the credit in £'s in London for International trade so the bill was passed on to the Air Ministry. The special nature of the unit required me to deal direct with the Air Ministry and not through Air Headquarters Levant.
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Mauripur was a two-year posting and in some ways difficult to bear especially when bouts of dysentery confirmed one to the Sick Quarters. The climate was always hot and humid and the khaki uniform of shorts required daily 'dhobi' (washing) by the Bearer (Batman) - these were the servants employed to do the domestic chores. Because of the hot, humid climate, duty was from 7am to 1 pm for those personnel who were not required to meet and service incoming and outgoing Aircraft.
Afternoon siestas were needed There was always a daily coach to Hawks Bay on the Arabian seashore about three miles away for swimming and this was a favourite facility.
There was one highlight. At the Pakistan Air Force Station of Drigh Road was a Gliding School for training cadets and a Squadron Leader Jan Mikulski commanded this. Jan had been in the RAF during the war flying fighter aircraft. He came from a high-class Polish family. He and his wife Mary had been pre-war gliding champions.
Jan escaped to England but his wife Tula (Mary) and their daughter became prisoners of the Russians. The daughter died in a Russian camp. After the war, Jan who was stateless enlisted into the PAF for the gliding post and Mary was able to join him. They became great friends and were charming hosts.
This friendship led to me being able to fly the PAF gliders. A total of 35 hours were flown over and around Drigh Road and Karachi in circumstances quite different from those in England. It was not wise to flyaway from this area for any landing would be in remote and inaccessible countryside.
Thermals over Drigh Road were usually twirling 'Dust Devils' they were very rough and restricted in height by the cooler sea breezes drifting in above the hot air over the land. When soaring, Kite Hawks, Buzzards and Vultures would take advantage of the thermal uplift and surround the sailplane. If, when flying and searching for lift the sailplane pilot saw circling birds he flew in to join them. At over 7000ft, I circled with the birds of prey. This was a fascinating experience. It was certainly fascinating to fly with them and watch their flight feathers and manoeuvres although to see an ugly vulture peering into the cockpit from just above could be unnerving.
There was another pleasure at Mauripur. The Administration Officer was a Service pilot who was required at the time to keep in flying practice and so to do this a P AF Harvard two-seater-training aircraft was used. I went with him and had great fun flying a powered Aircraft. All went well until the PAF started to send in bills for its use. The Headquarters Levant stopped the flying. Looking back on the two-year stay at Mauripur it was a great adventure.
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August 1954, during the tour at Mauripur, there was a detachment back into Iraq to take over the Accounting at RAF Shaibar in the desert. Shaibar was near to the town of Basra on the Shatt el Arab the river mouth of the Tigris and Euphrates, which led into the Gulf of Aden. The detachment was for six weeks to relieve the Accountant there who was going home to England to get married. Shaibah had a bad reputation in the RAF as one of the worst overseas posting.
Many are the songs 'Shaibah Blues' sung in the home messes, especially by old sweats who had served there in the inter-war years. I contracted some uncomfortable infections whilst there. I think it was from the swimming pool. This required me to do my work in the more comfortable air-conditioned Officers Mess. It was a relief to return to Mauripur.
April 1956 came and it was the time to hand over to my relief although the staging post was to close in the following December. Longer-range Aircraft were now coming into service that could now over fly the area. It took a week to fly home to England because of having to wait for available seats on the various aircraft flying between the homeward staging posts. Two days were spent at Habbanyia and two days at Nicosia in Cyprus.
I was now to study at RAF Bircham Newton in Norfolk.
My next duty was at RAF Jurby on the Isle of Man to train Officer Cadets .. I lectured mostly on Accounting and Administration.
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Jurby held many memories; the stay there ended with promotion to the Senior Rank of Squadron Leader on 1st April 1958.
The next posting was to RAF Wellesbourne Mountford near Stratford upon Avon, which was the base for the RAF Airfield Construction Branch. The detailed was to command Squadron of Administrative personnel to accompany an Airfield Construction Squadron on a Task Force to construct a Rocket Tracking Station on the Island of St.Kilda. The island was in the Atlantic, forty miles west of the Outer Hebrides.
The passage to St. Kilda involved a long train journey to Cairn Ryan on the shores of Loch Ryan near to Stranraer in Scotland. Cairn Ryan was the mainland depot for the stores and personnel to be shipped to the Island by Tank Landing Craft of the Army; it was also the base for radio contact for administrative and emergency purposes. The twenty-four hour sea crossing took place during a most unpleasant and ill making storm. Landing Craft were the only ships that could transport the heavy vehicles, stores and building materials and are able to beach and unload on the only small sandy cove. The rest of the Islands shoreline rose shear out of the water to heights of up to five hundred feet above sea level.
The Island was about two miles long and half a mile wide and very rugged. A hardy Scottish people had inhabited it up to 1930 until they became so impoverished they had to be evacuated to the mainland. The Island was now a sanctuary for many types of seabird and a few Soya sheep and was overseen by the Scottish National Trust. The few stone houses that had formed a line near the seashore were now roofless and in collapsed piles although the more substantial Factor's house and the Manse had been rehabilitated to house the Officers and provided a recreation area for the Airmen. The Airmen lived under canvas and the messing was in a Nissen hut erected for the purpose. The construction of the Tracking Station continued throughout the summer months.
29
The office was a mobile caravan and from there I was able to keep in radio contact with Cairn Ryan on the mainland. Finally, the summer ended and it was time to withdraw before bad weather prevented the Landing Craft from getting to the Island. Everyone was glad to be going back to Wellesbourne for leave and to see his or her families. A small unenviable maintenance party came out to look after the installation during the winter months. At Wellesbourne I completed the work necessary to close down the operation.
Now it was to Royal Air Force Uxbridge to be the Senior Accountant Officer. Entering
the gates and passing the parade ground my thoughts were of those far off days in 1940 when first reporting for duty on joining the Service. I had come a long way since then and had advanced to a remarkable degree never thought possible when lying down to sleep on that first night in the barracks beside the square. Now it was to be the Senior Officer responsible for the financial affairs of the Station. I had been out of England for five years.
On weekends, it was gliding with the Chilterns Gliding Club at RAF Benson, which was not very far away. Evenings, using an available building on the Station, I was able to carry out repairs to the Club gliders, work that gave me great pleasure since my early days in the RAF as a Mechanic, Fitter and Engineer. Life was quite full and rewarding at Uxbridge.
The Unit Drama Group put on a Nativity Play one Christmas time with me as a Wise Man giving performances in the Station Theatre and the RAF Church of St. Clement Danes in the Strand in London.
30
Another Royal duty occurred at one stage acting as an usher in the Central Nave of St. Pauls Cathedral when Her Majesty attended the dedication of a Memorial to the
Americans whom served and died in World War Il.
One of the Units at RAF Uxbridge was the RAF Regiment whose duties, amongst others, were ceremonial and it was the Custodian of the Queens Colour for the Royal Air Force. The Borough Council of Uxbridge granted the Freedom of the town to the Royal Air Force Station, which entitled the unit to march through the town with drawn swords, bayonets fixed and colours flying. The station personnel had been practising for the ceremony for some time and the parade was to be under the Command of the RAF Regiment C.O. A week before the ceremony the Officer became ill and was in hospital. The Station Commander detailed me to command the parade. This was a great Honour to troop the Queens Colour on the hallowed parade ground. Throughout the ceremony, my thoughts were back in 1940 when walking out of the station in uniform for the first time as an Aircraftman 2nd Class to go to the cinema.
The Contingent then marched the through the streets of Uxbridge with bands playing, colours flying, swords draw and bayonets fixed. At this time I was remembering the day eighteen years ago when marching the same route as a new recruit with a heavy kit bag on the way to the railway station to go to Morecambe for training.
After the parade, there was a reception in the Officers Mess for the Civic Party, Members of the Air Council and other honoured guests. The sick Commander of the RAF Regiment was the President of the Officers Mess Committee and being Vice President it fell to me to take the Chair at the Formal Dinner.
The three years served at RAF Uxbridge were very rewarding.
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Two notable soaring flights occurred whilst serving at Uxbridge. The first was on the 7th May 1960. This was from RAF Booker to a field at Finmere in, Buckinghamshire. I reached a height of 5600ft. The flight time was 2hrs.5min. The second flight took place on Monday the 13th March 1961. All over the weekend, gliding had taken place at RAF Benson in Oxfordshire but the weather conditions prevented any soaring and the flights were restricted to circuits round the airfield.
On the Monday morning the weather forecast reported a steady west wind blowing, a condition that would allow hill soaring on the ridge of Dunstable Downs the home of the London Gliding Club. Taking a chance, I telephoned the club for permission to attempt a five-hour duration flight to complete the conditions for my Silver C Badge, something waited for over eleven years. Afterwards another telephone call was made to RAF Benson to see if the gliding club could have the Olympia Sailplane and a Tug Aircraft ready. All was now set for an attempt to complete the final leg of the Silver "C" Badge.
Take off by aero tow from Benson was at 11.10hrs to fly along the Chiltern Hills to Dunstable. At 11.35hrs, the Olympia was towed into the hill lift over the London Club grounds the time being taken for certification purposes by the Club Chief Flying Instructor. For an hour, all went well then, a lull in the wind made it necessary to land. Very quickly, the Chief Instructor of the club organised a quick re-launch by winch at 13.04hrs.
For the next 5 hours and 4 minutes, the Olympia scraped back and forth in the narrow band of lift along the ridge at a very low height to complete the flight by landing at 18.10hr as dusk approached. The full flying time for that day was 6 hours and 30 minutes. A very happy Thomas travelled back to Benson with the trailer and sailplane and then on back to Uxbridge.
My next duty was at the Ministry of Defence in London was with the Personnel Department, in the section that dealt with the forecasting of the number of recruits that would be required in the various trades in the coming years based on the expected wastage and the Defence Budget. As the defence requirements changed from year to year, the task was not an exact science and the tool of the trade needed to be a crystal ball. It was interesting work and it gave an insight into how a Government Department worked. It also involved on occasions to be the Duty MOD Personnel Staff Officer overnight and at weekends and being one of the Bowler Hat and Umbrella Brigade commuting up to London from Oxhey where I had bought a house every working day.
There is little to relate regarding the work at the Ministry of Defence. Much time was spent attending conferences while the two civilian staff in the Mla office did the
32
calculations for the assessment of the numbers of RAF tradesmen for the future.
The posting to the Ministry of Defence was to last three years and during this time gliding continued with the Chilterns Club at RAF Benson and the RAFGSA Centre at RAF Bicester. During this time, I was also the Treasurer of the Royal Air Force Gliding and Soaring Association. My dealings with the RAF Sports Board were with a retired Group Captain who was my Wing Commander at RAF Padgate.
On the 4th May 1963 flying from RAF Bicester in a Skylark IV Sailplane, r was able to make a lOO-mile cross-country goal flight to RAF Swanton Morley in Norfolk. The flight took two hours and thirty-five minutes. The landing was in the late afternoon of a Saturday and it was after midnight when the crew arrived from Bicester with a trailer for the return journey by road.
In the early hours of Sunday morning, driving through the streets of Cambridge, a wheel came off the trailer because of a broken axle. Fortunately, there was another RAF Gliding club at nearby RAF Waterbeach. They had a suitable trailer and this was borrowed so that the journey could be continued.
1964, the National Gliding Championships were at Lasham in Hampshire and a number of the RAFGSA clubs were competing. As the Treasurer, I was required to attend the meet. The RAFGSA Centre at Bicester was providing a two- seater sailplane to enable important guests to be given flights. It was my pleasure to fly this Bocian sailplane the 50 miles to Lasham behind a towing Aircraft and whilst there to give flights to some very Senior Officers and MOD Officials.
Duty at the Ministry of Defence was an experience and finally ended in June 1964 and I moved to RAF Wildenrath, Germany. it was another adventure and a challenge driving off to Dover to catch the boat to Ostende and then across unfamiliar Holland and Belgium and into Germany. Driving on the right and then through the centre of Brussels and going the wrong way down a one-way street in another town was quite hair raising.
RAF Wildenrath was just inside North West Germany over the border from the Dutch Town of Roermond, a town handy for shopping. > At Wildenrath I was the Officer Commanding the Personnel Services Squadron, responsible for about three thousand personnel including many German civilian employees, all the financial services of pay and allowances including the auditing of the non-public funds of the messes and all disciplinary matters including Court Martial, accidents and deaths. It was a full-time
33
job, back in uniform and living in the Officers Mess. There was one pleasing aspect of the posting and that was it was a flying station, so much previous service had been on backup and training units.
Wildenrath was on the western edge of the Ruhr area and had been heavily defended during the intense bombing by the RAF during 1943. The memories of that time twenty years before were still fresh in my mind especially when visiting some of the towns that I had helped to bomb. There was one visit with other Officers whilst attending a course in Hamburg that a call was made on the Burgomaster (Mayor) of Hamburg at the Rasthaus (Town Hall) and the Burgomaster was talking about, and showing, large photographs of the destruction of the city caused by the wartime bombing and the subsequent rebuilding. I hovered in the background; conscience of the nights in 1943 when taking part in those devastating raids and looked down on the inferno from the storms above. Whilst in Germany I was the Chairman of the Phoenix Gliding Club at the neighbouring RAF Station Bruggen and was able to continue gliding.
In the early spring of 1967 the tour of duty in Germany was over and I moved to RAF Swinderby in Lincolnshire to fill the same post as at Wildenrath i.e. O.C. Personnel Services Squadron. It was No. 9 School of Recruit Training. This unit had been at Bridgnorth when I was there in 1951/2.
Now age 45, my RAF service was ending. It was obvious that there would be no more promotion from Squadron Leader to Wing Commander. This would have taken me on to the age of 55; I decided to take retirement, think of the future, On the 6th May 1968, with much regret I left the Royal Air Force. I was very sad to leave what had been my chosen career, It had filled my boyhood dreams. I obtained a position in the National Provincial Bank in Lincoln.
34
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
My life in the Royal Air Force Bomber Command
An extract of my RS service from my autobiography by Sqn Ldr T J Page DFM, RAF (ret'd)
Description
An account of the resource
Includes several b/w photographs of people and aircraft. Writes of early life and mentions beginning of the war and volunteering for the air force in January 1940. Continues with account of initial training and mustering as an airframe mechanic and subsequent technical training. Describes first posting to 257 Hurricane Squadron, advance training and subsequent postings as fitter IIA including travelling around the country to fix aircraft. Continues with account of aircrew selection and training as a flight engineer which included visit to A V Roe factory at Chadderton. Followed by account of aircrew training and his roll as a flight engineer on Lancaster and Manchester and crewing up. Includes list and photographs of crew. Posted to 49 Squadron at RAF Fiskerton. He then provides a detailed description of duties of each crew member and the interior of a Lancaster and lists flying kit used. Goes on to describe all activities concerned with preparation for and flying an operation and includes very detailed account of first operation to La Spezia. Continues by describing highlights of a number of operations and mentions battle of the Ruhr, weather, aircraft damage and , being shot at and diverting to RAF Dunholme Lodge with casualties. List the subsequent history of all his crew after completing their tour. Continues with account of staying on the squadron as flight engineer leader and flying on several more operations. Summarises his operational flying and gives account of subsequent postings as a staff flight engineer instructor. Goes on with detailed account account of post war postings and activities including flying Lancaster to Egypt and Lincoln to Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe). He was posted to HQ Bomber Command at High Wycombe where he was able to partake in gliding activities which he describes in detail. Continues with account of journey to posting at RAF Mauripur in Pakistan. Continues with account of the rest of his RAF career and left the RAF on 6 May 1968.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
T J Page
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Thirty-five page printed document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BPageTJPageTJv2
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Air Force. Fighter Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Kent
England--Ramsgate
England--Middlesex
England--Lancashire
England--Buckinghamshire
England--Slough
Wales--Vale of Glamorgan
England--Greater Manchester
England--Oldham
Wales--Bridgend
England--Nottinghamshire
England--Lincolnshire
Italy
Italy--La Spezia
Germany
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Friesland
Czech Republic
Czech Republic--Plzeň
Italy--Turin
Italy--Milan
Germany--Munich
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Stuttgart
England--Huntingdonshire
Egypt
Zimbabwe
Pakistan
England--Morecambe
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Middle East--Euphrates River
Middle East--Tigris River
Germany--Juist Island
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1939-09
1940-01
1940-07-19
1940-12
1941-07
1942-05-02
1942-10
1943-02-20
1943-02-26
1943-03-06
1943-03-26
1943-03-31
1943-04-12
1943-04-13
1943-03
1943-04-26
1943-04-28
1943-05-13
1943-07-12
1943-08-12
1943-10-02
1943-10-20
1944-04
1944-07-19
1947-02-16
1948-06-03
1940-01
1954-04-09
1956
1958-04-01
1968-05-06
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Bloomfield
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
1661 HCU
44 Squadron
49 Squadron
Air Gunnery School
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
Battle
bombing
Boston
briefing
crash
crewing up
Distinguished Flying Medal
fitter airframe
flight engineer
flight mechanic
ground crew
Halifax
Heavy Conversion Unit
Hurricane
Initial Training Wing
Lancaster
Lincoln
Manchester
Me 109
memorial
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
mine laying
perception of bombing war
promotion
RAF Benson
RAF Bridgnorth
RAF Burtonwood
RAF Cosford
RAF Dunholme Lodge
RAF Fiskerton
RAF High Wycombe
RAF Manston
Raf Mauripur
RAF Padgate
RAF Scampton
RAF Shallufa
RAF St Athan
RAF Stormy Down
RAF Uxbridge
RAF Winthorpe
RAF Wyton
recruitment
searchlight
shot down
Stirling
training
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/619/30852/BPageTJPageTJv1.2.pdf
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Title
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Page, Thomas James
T J Page
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Page, TJ
Description
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Fifteen items. An oral history interview with Squadron Leader Thomas Page DFM (1922 - 2017, 922297, 183427 Royal Air Force), his log book, two autobiographies and photographs. He flew operations as a flight engineer with 49 Squadron.
The collection was The collection was loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Thomas Page and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
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2016-07-02
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MY LIFE IN THE ROYAL AIR FORCE BOMBER COMMAND
By
SQN LDR T J PAGE. DFM. RAF
[page break]
MV LIFE IN THE ROYAL AIR FORCE BOMBER COMMAND
As a young man the years were slowly passing and the storm clouds of war were gathering over Europe again. This was something that youth and many others in the countryside were unaware of because news was very limited, wireless was in its infancy and newspapers were few; in fact, many of the older people could not read. The young did not see newspapers because some parents considered them a corrupting influence. On reflection, perhaps this was a good thing. Now seventeen and on the first Sunday in September 1939, I decided to visit my grandmother at Ramsgate and cycled the thirty miles there through the lovely countryside, past myoid schools and my birthplace and on along the road that passed through Manston aerodrome. Already there was greater activity at the air station and once more, my boyhood ambitions came to the fore.
Soon after arriving there the air raid siren sounded, it was eleven o'clock the 3rd. September. The government had declared war with Germany. Being apprehensive, and, like many others, thinking there would be an immediate invasion as the place was near to the South East Coast of England, I decided to return home straight away. History relates that nothing much happened until the following springtime. The winter of the year 1939-40 was very severe with frost and snow. Overhead Aircraft were making long contrails that made patterns in the sky. There were sounds of machine gun fire. At times aeroplanes would streak fast and low across the countryside further kindling my love of flying machines and the air.
In January 1940 I became eighteen years of age I began to feel more independent and
assertive. One day in April I cycled the fifteen miles to Canterbury Recruiting Office at
Canterbury and volunteered for the Royal Air Force and was immediately accepted and
placed on reserve service until called for duty. I had accepted the 'Kings Shilling' signed the Oath of Allegiance and proudly travelled home wearing the badge of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. The first part of my dream had come true. Overhead the air fighting continued with Fairy Battles streaking low over the Kent countryside. They had taken great losses over these early days of the war.
On the 19th July 1940, the time came to leave home. My dream was coming true. This was a day of apprehension; I was now committed to whatever lay ahead. Where would life lead me? RAF service could be worldwide as the Empire still existed and now there was a war on. My dreams of being an Airman did not include war. There was nothing to take with me other than the clothes I wore and a little money. Walking away down the lane there was a last look back at the cluster of cottages nestling at the foot of the wooded downs before they disappeared from view. Looking back there was a mist in my eyes; was this because of the traumas of the past.
On the Monday afternoon the 19th July 1940. I arrived at the sand bagged and barbed wire protected gate of the RAF Depot at Royal Air Force Uxbridge, entered the restricted doorway into the guardroom and reported for duty.
There were many Volunteer Reservists from all parts of the country joining for duty that day. We wondered what was before us. Each barrack room contained about twenty beds and a certain amount of overcrowding was necessary because large numbers of new recruits. The iron beds were rather unusual in that the toot part slid under the head part. The mattress was in three parts named 'biscuits'. When not in use the whole bed was neatly stacked away. This provided extra space in the barrack room for day use and was in accordance with the spick and span neatness of service life with a place for everything and everything in its place. a form of discipline. The staff NCOs explained the routine of the barracks.
[page break]
Next was the first and foremost ofthe induction formalities. This was the 'Swearing In' to become legally bound by the Air Force Act and allegiance to the Crown. This made one legally bound by the Air Force Act and to ones allegiance to the Crown. There was a roll call of Names, Initials and Religion. Each airman received a service number. Mine was 922297.Afterwards we were officially Airmen of the rank of Aircraftsman 2nd Class. Each Airman received an Identity Card RAF Form 1250 and Identity Discs; called 'Dog Tags', both to be carried on the person at all times, uniform, kit and accoutrements. The kit was
such items as shaving brush, button stick, cleaning brushes, knife, fork, spoon, mug, kit bag. and mess tin. The button stick is still in my possession. The accoutrements were, webbing belt and harness to support a haversack, water bottle and bayonet, finally there was a gas mask. In the evening. the new recruits were off duty. I went to the cinema in Uxbridge town.
The new intake of Airman were mustered for training as Airframe Mechanics and on the
Wednesday. we travelled by troop train to the training school at Morecambe in Lancashire, On the way to the railway, station at Uxbridge small local boys offered to carry the heavy kitbags for a few pennies, an offer taken up by many of the new Airmen. It was obvious that the lads were well versed in the routines of the RAF and were showing enterprise. Each group carried food rations for the long slow journey and at various stops on the way urns of tea appeared. Some of the recruits passed the time by playing cards. This was wartime and the trains were steam driven, Rail traffic was heavy with troops and war material on the move.
Towards evening, the train arrived at Morecambe. The Airmen
then were marched round the streets and given accommodation in private houses known as billets. Billets were private houses where the occupants with space to spare were required by law to accommodate Service Personnel. Compulsory billeting is only authorised by Parliament in wartime, Three of us found ourselves in rather a poor billet whereas some other Airmen found relative luxury, a home from home atmosphere, The billeting was rather unexpected as everyone thought we would be in Royal Air Force Station barracks.
The technical training took place in various commandeered large garages and factories,
Tuition was by lectures and practical work amongst a collection of Aircraft and Aircraft parts, workbenches, tables and chairs completed the layout of what was a large classroom. Here I was in my element and enthusiasm made it easy to learn and the practical work was most satisfying. A Fairy Battle was in the classroom. It was the first aircraft that I was able to inspect and sit in.
[page break]
Towards the end of December the course was finished and we became
qualified Flight Mechanics . A' (for Airframe) and were promoted to
Aircraftsman 1 SI Class. Over the Christmas, I went home in uniform for the
first time, I carried posting instructions [or a new unit. On this leave, there
was a shot down German Me 109 fighter Aircraft at Park Farm. Later 1 would
be required to dismantle crashed German Aircraft.
The new unit was No.2S7 Hurricane Fighter Squadron whose Commanding Officer was
Squadron' Leader Stanford-Tuck, one of The Few of the Battle of Britain. Soon my new skills were tested. This was a fighter squadron. The Aircraft took off to repel approaching enemy Aircraft. The term used was "scrambled" When the alarm sounded, the mechanics would rush to their allotted aircraft to assist the pilot into their parachute harness and strap them in the cockpit seat. When the engine was started and the Aircraft ready to go the wheel chocks would be removed before positioning oneself at a wing tip to help turn the aircraft if necessary and then salute to the pilot before he took of It was then a wait, hoping that all aircraft would return. Sometimes they did not return and everyone waited for any news of what had happened.
After three months on No.2S7 Fighter Squadron, it was time for more training at RAF
Innsworth near Gloucester for a three-month course to increase my skills to that of a Fitter. The course finished in July, 1941 and I was re-mustered to a Fitter HA in the rank of
Leading Aircraftsman after being in the Royal Air Force for the happiest year of my life, so
far, despite the fact that there was a war on.
The new posting was to No.71 Maintenance Unit at Slough in Buckinghamshire. Arriving
there, I found that the unit was in a commandeered garage close to the Hawker Aircraft
factory at Langley. The factory was manufacturing Hurricane aircraft.
At Slough, one of my billets was in the suburb of Wrexham with a gentle old couple in a tiny cottage near to the hospital. They were charming and gracious and treated me like a son. At one stage, there was a month's detachment to the RAF Station at Cosford in Shropshire to do a Junior Non Commissioned Officers course to learn the disciplinary aspects of service life and leadership. The course member's accommodation was in Fulton block, a barrack that was a byword in the service for its extremely high standard. Here we were taught the art of commanding Airmen on parade and of Air Force Law. I returned to Slough as a Corporal and given charge of a servicing patty.
Not long afterwards I was sent to RAF Burtonwood in Lancashire to study the American
Boston aircraft. It was not long before my part)' went to service a Boston Aircraft at Royal Air Force Manston in Kent. This was the airfield of my boyhood dreams when living close by with my grandparents. The work was in a hanger that had escaped the German bombing; it still stands today, and is close beside the road that goes through the centre of the aerodrome. 1 have such memories of travelling that road in the years before. .
One morning there was a damaged Short Stirling bomber standing outside the hanger. It
was very impressive, long and tall and the biggest we had seen. This type of Aircraft was
new to the Royal Air Force. The basic wing and engine were of the Short Sunderland
Seaplanes design. The sight of the Stirling was very impressive.
This was the day the 2nd of May 1942 when I flew on my first ever flight. The Station
Commander had come to the hanger to fly a small tandem two-seat aircraft and I ask him if I could fly with him. He replied by saying, "Go and get a parachute", We flew over
Canterbury to see the damaged caused by the German raid during the night. This day would trigger a drastic change in my service career.
After the servicing of the Boston Aircraft at Manston, the party returned to Slough travelling once more by train with heavy toolboxes. A few days later there appeared on the Daily Routine Orders an appeal for Aircraft Fitters to volunteer for Hying duties as Flight Engineers to assist Pilots in flying the new four engine bombers that were rapidly coming into service; the Stirling's, Halifax's and Lancaster's. The experiences at Manston made me volunteer.
My next servicing party duty was at RAF West Mailing to repair a Hurricane where the
Squadron' there were flying Boston's. Here I was able to get a flight in the back cockpit with the Radar Operator. The aircraft was practising radar interception and we were flying along the South Coast. Fortunately, we encountered no German aircraft.
The next serving job was another Boston at Hunsden in Essex where I was informed that I was required to report to the Aircrew Selection Centre in Euston Road. London for a
medical examination to see if I was tit enough for Aircrew duties. I passed the examination and went to RAF St Athan in South Wales for aircrew training as a Flight Engineer. It was October 1942 when training commenced.
Being an Airframe Fitter the first part of the course was 011 the theory of Aircraft engines and their construction, working, servicing requirements and finally on how to operate them for maximum efficiency particularly in relation to range flying.
After engine theory, it was instruction on the airframe side of the Lancaster airframe. The flying controls, the fuel system, and the hydraulics that operated the undercarriage and the flaps and other miscellaneous services. There were vacuum and air pressure systems to drive instruments, automatic pilots, wheel brakes and other emergency apparatus. The aim of the course was to understand the whole Aircraft. Part of the course included a week's visit to the Rolls Royce Engine factory at Derby and a week's visit to the Aircraft factory of A.V. Roe at Chadderton.
Finally, there was a short course at Stormy Down in South Wales on air gunnery and gun
turrets. For the Flight Engineer to know something of gun turrets and gunnery was to not only complete the knowledge of the Aircraft but also so that an Engineer could operate a gun turret especially during low level, mine laying when the Bomb Aimer was busy.
The course was finished at the end of December and the successful course members
promoted to the rank of Sergeant Aircrew and awarded the coveted Flight Engineers flying badge. It was time to leave Wales where it seemed to be always raining.
Lancaster Aircraft - Flying Training
My new unit was No.1661 Heavy Conversion Unit at the Royal Air Force Station at
Winthorpe just outside the town of Newark in Nottinghamshire. Here I joined my aircrew to form a seven man crew to fly Lancaster's.
On the 20th February 1943 the all sergeant aircrew assembled at the Aircraft dispersal point with a Flight Sergeant Staff Pilot Instructor to fly on their first flight together as a crew. This was to familiarise themselves with a new type of Aircraft. Disappointedly we found that the Aircraft was an Avro Manchester and not a Lancaster. The Manchester was a two engine aircraft and was unsuitable for Squadron operational service. The shortage of Lancaster aircraft had made it necessary to use them for the initial training of new crews at the Heavy Conversion Units. This particular Manchester was No.L7398. which had seen operational service on Nos.49, 97 and 106 Squadrons. It was in poor condition and did not inspire confidence.
Now it was my job as the engineer to see that all external protective covers had been
removed from the aircraft and the inspection panels checked for security as they could cause a great hazard if they came oft' in flight. That the flying control locks and undercarriage safety struts on the aircraft were removed. The caps of the petrol tank filler had to be checked for security before priming the engines with petrol ready for the start up. With pre- flight checks done I would secure the entrance door, stow the entrance ladder and go to my position beside the pilot to start the engines and assist with the preparations for take-off.
On this first familiarisation flight, the Instructor F/Sgt Hamilton said to me "Watch what I do". This was to be only my third time in the air. an event in its own right. Now I was to be instructed how to assist the pilot in flying the Aircraft. The Instructor did the take-off.
talking and demonstrating as he did so to both the Pilot and me. Away from the airfield he showed the handling characteristics of the Aircraft, its flying and stalling speed in various configurations. Jock my Pilot would then try the various manoeuvres himself to get the feel of the Aircraft. The duration of this first flight was 1.55hrs. We did a total of six hours with the Instructor mostly on circuits of the airfield with landings and overshoots of the runway.
On the 26th February we did our first flight in the Manchester without an instructor and went on to fly a total of eleven hours mostly on circuits and landings with some bombing and air firing exercises.
On the 6th March 1943. the day came for conversion to the Lancaster and after three hours flying with an Instructor we took off in Lancaster No.W4190 for a further period of
practising circuits and landings. On the 13th March, we flew Lancaster NO.R5541 on a six-
hour cross-country flight followed by periods of flying by night with the emphasis on taking
[page break]
off and landing in the dark. After a total of 53 hours, flying on the 24'h March the crew
became proficient and ready for full operational flying.
On the 26'h March 1943, we went to No.49 Bomber Squadron at RAF Fiskerton, an airfield about five miles east of Lincoln. Lincoln Cathedral was to become very prominent to us in the next few months for on most take offs the runway use was East to West which took the aircraft directly over the cathedral.
On the 31st March, we flew our first flight on an operational squadron with some local flying in Lancaster Mark III No. EO 452, followed during the next two weeks, with practice bombing sorties, air firing and cross-country flying. On the ground, there were practices drills tor emergencies and explanations as to what to do in a crash landing and how to escape from the aircraft by parachute. In addition survival if forced down into the sea.
By the 12'h April Jock the pilot had already flown on two operational bombing flights over Germany as second Pilot with other crews to gain experience of flying amongst enemy defences before taking his own crew as Captain of an Aircraft.
Before we commence serious bombing, operations let us look inside the Lancaster to give you some idea of the duties and conditions under which the crew work. As the Engineer I would be the last crewman to board after I had checked that all flying services were free to operate and that all inspection panels and fuel tank filler caps were closed and secure.
Starting at the entrance door note the red tops of the entrance ladder, immediately inside the fuselage there is a flare chute. This carries a high velocity flare that is dropped at the same time as the bombs to photograph and record the bomb strike. To the left are two stowage's one for the Rear Gunners parachute and one for a portable oxygen bottle. We then see into the rear gun turret.
Above the entrance door is stowage for the entrance ladder. It was my duty as the engineer to see that the ladder was in the stowage and the door locked and to inform the pilot. Close by the door to the front is suspended a remote recording compass positioned here away from all radio and electrical interference: the readings were Shown on instruments in the pilots and navigator’s positions.
Going forward up the fuselage we pass under the Mid Upper Gun Turret. On the port side is a rest bed for use if a crew member is injured. Underneath it are 16 bottles for the supply of oxygen to the crew at altitude. Here I would see that the master cock was on and I would monitor the supply to all the aircrew positions from my controls in the cockpit.
Now we come to the front cockpit with the Pilots control column with his flight instruments on the left. On the right are the Engineers engine controls and instruments. There are further engineer's fuel controls and instruments on the right side of the cockpit. I did have a drop down seat but most of the time I stood up as I was required to move about.
On the 13th, our names appeared on the Battle Order tor operations that night to fly
Lancaster Mark III No. EO 620. The decisive moment had come for us, the apprehension
before each bombing operation was to start. These feelings were relieved to some extent by doing all the preparations necessary before take off.
The first thing to do was to fly the Aircraft on a Night Flying Test (an NFT). This was to
ensure that everything was working satisfactorily before the bombs and the correct fuel load for the flight were loaded on the Aircraft. Afterwards the time was with things personal, this included having a meal, and resting.
Later we would dress in the clothes suitable to withstand the cold of the particular aircrew position in the Aircraft. Air from the two inboard engines warmed the main cockpit.
Soon it was time for the briefing. There
There was a buzz of excitement as we trooped into the briefing room. There was a gasp as the route map on the wall was uncovered and the Target shown as the docks at La Spezia in the north of Italy. This would be a very long flight requiring full petrol tanks and flying for maximum range. Two hundred and eight Lancaster's and three Halifax's were to attack. A good point about this operation was that the route was out and back over the South Coast of England and the South of France where the defences were relatively light.
The next thing was to go to the Locker Room to collected flying kit helmet, parachute and flying boots. I also carried a toolkit. During the flight. I had to complete a log of engine conditions every twenty minutes. The other crew members would also collect their flying kit together with those things necessary to their particular duty: maps and charts, target details, radio frequencies, a sextant for the Navigator a carrier pigeon for the Wireless Operator. Each crew member would also have received in flight rations of sandwiches, a tin of orange juice and a bar of chocolate.
Now came the worst part of the preparations, waiting outside the locker room for the buses to take each crew to their Aircraft. It was at these times that the stomach would churn needed a call to the latrines as one thought of what lay ahead. This could be a nuisance when all dressed up and ready to go. There would be banter for some, quietness for others at this time and during the drive out to the Aircraft dispersed around the airfield.
At the Aircraft, the Pilot and Engineer reported to the dispersal Flight Office to check the
Aircraft loading and talk to the ground staff and the Pilot would sign the Aircraft logbook.
Before flight. as the Engineer, I inspected the aircraft both inside and out. This was to see
that everything was in order and that a battery trolley was plugged in for starting the engine and there was ground crew standing by to prime the engines with fuel before i1 was time for the crew to board. Each crew member would do his check of his particular part or the aircraft.
I would now secure the entrance door and stow the ladder. Moving forward up the fuselage I would see that the oxygen supply under the rest bed was turned on and the electrics were connected to the external battery trolley I would then take my place on the right hand side of the cockpit beside the pilot. Here we would start the engines and do the pre-flight checks.
The flying kit included:
A helmet with a microphone, earphones and an
Oxygen mask
A Mae West Life jacket
An observer type parachute harness
A parachute pack
Flying boots
Gloves, these were both silk and leather.
Woollen underwear.
On seeing a green Verey light from the control tower, it was time to taxiing to the runway for take-off. I was checking engine temperatures and oil pressure, as it was easy for engines to overheat at this stage. The Pilot called up each member at his crew position to see if all was ready for take-off.
Before the turn westwards. This very long first operational bombing flight at maximum
range had been quite a lesson. The Battle of the Ruhr started in March 1943. The aircrew, because of the intensity of the defence's searchlights, fighters and anti- Aircraft fire, knew the Ruhr area as Happy Valley.
On the 261h April, we attacked Duisburg with five hundred and sixty other aircraft. The Ruhr area was visible for miles away, a solid ring of searchlights surrounded it. Inside the ring. it was a fireworks display of rising shells. shell bursts, tracer gunfire and marker flares. Seeing the Ruhr for the first time made me gasp and I said, "How do we get through there" no one answered, each had his own thoughts. the Navigator in his blacked out compartment declined to look.
Soon we passed through the searchlight belt and were amongst the anti-aircraft bursts and tracer fire, the Pilot, the two Gunners and me, keeping a sharp lookout for other Aircraft to avoid collision and for enemy fighters. We saw Aircraft exploding, some catching fire and going down. others in searchlights. I was standing up at this time being required to move about to operate controls and to be able to read and to make a record of the instruments. The run up to the Target flying straight and level seemed to take a very long time although in reality it was only minutes. When the bombs left the aircraft, I would feel the movement of the cockpit t1oor. This was a relief. The Aircraft would rise up from the sudden loss of weight and the aircraft remained on course until the photo flash had gone off and the camera had recorded the bomb strike Only then was the Aircraft turned and dived away to get out of the target area. To look down from 20.000ft and see the great area of fire and the bombs bursting was a sight I would never forget. The explosions of the heavy 4000Ib bombs affected the Aircraft. This t1ight took five hours and was without mishap but 17 other Aircraft were lost that night.
On the 281h April, we tried to drop magnetic mines off the coast of Juist in the Fresian
Islands together with two hundred and six other aircraft. The weather was bad in the area, dark, rain and low cloud. At 500ft in cloud and bad visibility. the target area could not be located. Because the position of mines in the sea had to be known. they were returned to base. One hundred and sixty seven of the Aircraft laid 593 mines in the area of the islands that night. Twenty-two Aircraft failed to return. This was the greatest loss on any mining during the war. It was the only mining sortie undertaken by us.
The bombing operations continued. What was I doing in these frequent infernos? What had made me volunteer for aircrew duties in the year before not expecting this? It was not my knowledge of the German tyranny: so much of that had been, and still was, unknown or knowing that Germany had unlawfully invaded and conquered the countries of Europe, had bombed England and would have subjugated the British Isle as well if they had not been stopped in 1940. Fate had decreed I would be here because of my love for aeroplanes, and, if I was destined to be a combatant. what better way was there than to do this. The results of bombs dropped on German military Targets gave me no qualms of conscience, even if they fell on houses and killed civilians. All Germans had participated in the Nazi fanaticism of world domination and their excesses, these and the Italian had to be stopped.
It is not practicable to describe each raid but some are worthy of note especially the first two raids on Hamburg that started those great fire storms.
13'h May Aircraft Lancaster EO 452 Target Pilsen in Czechoslovakia. There was the instance where the target was the Skoda factory at Pilsen a place deep in the cast of Europe. Out over the North Sea, the starboard inner engine shed its exhaust flame
cover and some of the cylinder exhausts. In the dark a long sheet of flame curled back over the leading edge of the wing, this would have been a fire risk and a beacon to enemy night
[page break]
fighters. The engine was shut down and the airscrew feathered. The Aircraft now lost air
speed and was no longer able to keep up with the rest of the force; it would become a sitting duck to the opposing fighters. It was time to return to base to live to fight another day. It was dangerous to land with a 4000lb bomb on the Aircraft. It was dropped into the North Sea.
Arriving back at base still heavily laden with 6 x 500lb bombs and a large quantity of fuel
on board the Flying Control gave instructions to land on the short South West/North East
runway. This was to avoid any obstruction on the main East/West runway in case of mishap and with the subsequent need to divert the other returning squadron Aircraft to another airfield. The approach to the runway was faster than normal because of the high landing weight and with a gusty side wind blowing the aircraft floated before touchdown. With the heavy load and poor braking the pilot realised he could not stop before the end of the runway and shouted a warning to his crew to brace. ED452 plunged off the end of the runway into a field and the undercarriage collapsed. With fear of immediate fire and explosion. I quickly had the escape hatch in the roof of the cockpit off and dived straight out ignoring the drop from the top of the fuselage to the ground. The rest of the crew quickly followed and all ran as fast as possible across the field to get away. Fortunately, neither tire nor explosion occurred and the crash crews were soon on the scene. Taffy the Rear Gunner suffered a severe shake-up in the crash and was not able to fly again. We went to the sick quarters for a medical check.
At one time, we flew a total of 22.15hrs on 4 nights in 7 days in stressful conditions and
were very tired. In May. the darkness of night was quite short. Take off was always late in the evenings. By the time, aircraft had landed and crews had been collected from dispersal, removed their flying clothing at the locker room and then been de-briefed at the Intelligence Section it would be daylight. Sleep was difficult before returning to the airfield by 11.00hrs to carry out a Night Flying Test (NFT) in readiness for the next flight.
On the 121h July. we flew to Turin in Italy. Two hundred and ninety five Lancaster's took part on this raid in clear weather conditions. The view of the snow-covered Alps was fantastic. To see the twinkling lights of neutral Switzerland and later Sweden when leaving Berlin, was quite something. Once again. it had been a long flight at maximum range. LM 306 was short of fuel when nearing the South Coast of England and the aircraft landed at Exeter. We returned to base later in the day.
On the 121h August, we flew to Italy again to attack Milan. This was another long night.
Over the Alps, there were storms and flying in cloud. St. Elmos Fire danced across the
windscreen and ice formed on the airframe resulting in a lower bombing height of 17.700ft because of the extra weight. It was a successful raid with only three Aircraft lost. The Alfa Romeo motor works, the railway station and the La Scala opera house suffered substantial damage.
LM 306 had now completed three operations in four days with a total of22.30h1's flying. It is not surprising that we had little sleep over those four days. It was a great relief to have leave. After debriefing, a meal and a change of uniform we travelled into Lincoln on the bus to catch a train to our respective homes. Two of us were travelling to London on the first part of our journey and after changing to a very full train at Grantham we both fell asleep exhausted in the corridor all the way to London and other passengers just walked over us.
There was relief, as always, as the enemy coast was crossed but no one could relax because of possible dangers ahead. The North Sea was very wide, wet and cold. Mechanical failures could occur from various causes not least from unsuspected enemy damage. The chances of survival jf forced down into the North Sea were minimal. There was always the chance of bad weather over the base and collisions with other circling aircraft waiting to land. The circuits of other adjacent airfields were very close. It was easy to approach the
[page break]
wrong runway. There was also the possibility of enemy intruder aircraft in the airfield circuit.
One night we were returning below cloud at 3.000ft just off Cromer with other aircraft. Navigation lights were on. Suddenly cannon fire hit the aircraft. It was from the British Navy. Also attacked was Aircraft JB 235 of the squadron. The noise was uncanny as red-hot shrapnel passed through the fuselage close beside us. We waited to see if any faults developed but things. so far, appeared normal. The Pilot called for reports and the Navigator said "Ralph's been hit." Ralph was the Wireless Operator and sat in the centre of the aircraft with his back against the hefty main spar; this no doubt had shielded him from more serious injury. Squeezing past the Navigator I went to Ralphs aid to see that he had received wounds in his legs and shoulder area but the most serious at the time was a hole through one of his hands. Getting the first aid, J applied bandages and put a tourniquet on the wrist before going back to my duties in the front cockpit leaving the Navigator to watch
Ralph. I returned later to release the tourniquet to prevent gangrene setting in.
At Dunholme Lodge, the weather was foul with low cloud and driving rain. The aircraft was required to circle for some time before getting position six for landing. Air Traffic Control had been informed that on board was a wounded aircrew member. Eventually the turn came to land but on the downwind leg of the landing circuit it was found that the undercarriage would not come down; it was obvious that the hydraulic fluid from the system had been lost. There was damage in the bomb bay area where the pipes were located. Fortunately, the emergency air system was working and r was able to lower the undercarriage and flaps. The landing was very heavy.
At dispersal, when the engines were shut down. the levers that operated the fuel cocks tailed to work and hung loosely down. The control cables in the bomb bay had been severed. Fortunately, no petrol lines to the engines had been damage. There were shattered bomb doors. broken pipes and cables, holes in the tail plane and flying control rods shot through, luckily they held to keep control of the rudders and elevator. This new aircraft was taken out of service after one bombing trip. The original crew was now down to five having lost Ralph and Taffy and spare aircrew were to fill the rear gun turret and the wireless position on subsequent operations. Jock, the Pilot, had been a Warrant Officer since the 61h of June and was now commissioned to the rank of Pilot Officer. Jimmy the Navigator, Hugh the
Bomb Aimer and I were Flight Sergeants.
2nd October. Lancaster EO 426. Take off 18.36. Target Munich. 03.15
Two hundred and ninety-three Lancaster has attacked the target. Eight were .lost.
EO 426 bombed at 22.41 from 19,000ft.
On the 20lh October after a raid on Leipzig Jock, the Pilot completed his tour of
30 operations and afterwards we sadly broke up leaving the others to complete
their tours flying as spares with different crews. I still had four more to do. No
longer would we men experience the close friendship and respect that had built up over the last ten months flying, living and working together and going out on the town. This would not be experienced again.
A commission was granted to Jimmy the Navigator. He left the Service in 1946.
Sergeant G Green was demobilised in 1945. Since those days. there has been no
contact with them but I was proud to have served with them.
· "
I stayed on in the squadron as the Flight Engineer Leader. During the next five
months I flew as a spare Engineer. To Berlin with P/O Rowntree on the 21" January 1944.
To Leipzig on the 191h February with Pit off Dickinson. To Stuttgart with the Sqn CO Wing Commander Adams.
My last one was on the 151h March to Stuttgart again with Pilot Officer Lett.
906 Aircrew of No. 49 Squadron failed to return. This was a loss rate of 33 of the Aircrew who flew with the Squadron. Fifty years later, on the 241h April 1994 a Roll of Honour showing their Number. Rank and Name, date of death and place of burial in a foreign field was dedicated in the Fiskerton village Church of St. Clement of Rome.
In May 1995, a memorial was placed in the centre of the old airfield at Fiskerton to all those who were lost and those who served on the Station during the two and a half years from January 1943 to mid-1945.
I flew 211.50hrs by night on 30 sorties over enemy territory plus 2 almost to the enemy
coast. Seventeen of the sorties had been in one Lancaster Aircraft No. LM 306 with the
Squadron letters EA-F (F for Freddie). The Targets were The Ruhr = 11. Berlin = tour. Italy
= three. Hamburg = 2. 11 other German Targets and one Mining operation. I remember the stress, the tiredness. fear, and the pride in belonging to Bomber Command.
My next posting was in April 1944 to RAF Winthorpe near Newark where I had done my
flying training, there to be a Staff Flight Engineer Flying Instructor. This was not much fun, as we had to fly old Stirling aircraft to teach new crews. This was to save new Lancaster's for the operational squadrons.
Soon after my arrival there, I saw a Stirling approaching the airfield at about 1500 feet. The port outer engine caught tire and within minutes, it dived into the airfield and exploded. The new crew of seven, a Staff Pilot and a Staff Engineer died.
On one flight. I had an engine doing 3800 revolutions when the maximum was 2800. There was every risk of the airscrew shearing off and hitting the cockpit. Fortunately. we got it under control.
After a few weeks and 32 hours of flying, 13 of them at night. I was sent out to all the
Stations in Number Five Group Bomber Command to lecture on the new Airborne Lifeboat that was being introduced to the Air Sea Rescue Squadrons. When this was finished. I returned to my base at RAF Scampton and on the \91h July 1944 I was commissioned as a Pilot Officer
Whilst visiting RAF Strubby the Commanding Officer informed me that I had been
decorated. The London Gazette had promulgated the award of the Distinguished Flying
Medal. (L.G Volume 11 1944 Page T. J Entry 3090) The public Record Office reference is
ZJ1 985.' The Pilot "Jock" Morrison was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.
On Tuesday the 161h February 1947 I was posted to No.44 (Rhodesia) Squadron' at Royal Air Force Wyton in
Huntingdonshire. On the Wednesday, I was once again in the air
flying as a Flight Engineer in Avro Lincoln aircraft a larger
version of the Lancaster. Now back where [ belonged there
began the happiest two years of my RAF life.
The months of 1947 passed with plenty of flying, it was different and relaxed after the hectic and dangerous wartime operations. On the 121h November, there was a pleasant flight out to Egypt to deliver spare parts to some of the squadron's aircraft. They were on detachment to RAF Shallufa in the Canal Zone. The Pilot was FIt. Lt. Cumber and the aircraft Lancaster No.TW 909. this being my first flight with a landing outside England in a foreign country.
The first part of the flight was to RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire for custom clearance. At
23.05hrs, we took off to fly by night to RAF Castel Benito in Tripolitania on the North
Coast of Africa. Prior to World War II Caste I Benito had been an Italian airfield and during the war the German Luftwaffe had used it. Later the airfield was renamed Castel Idris and in years after it became the International Airport for Tripoli.
The next day it was a short flight along the North African coast to Shaliufa in Egypt passing over the great battle areas of Sollum, El Alamein and Knightsbridge. On this flight, I flew the aircraft for two hours. RAF Shallufa was beside the Suez Canal and it was quite a sight to see large ships appearing to be travelling across the sand and to experience an RAF airfield in a hot desert.
After three days. we took off for the return flight to the UK via Castel Benito making a
detour to flyover the Pyramids and the Sphinx. On the 20lh November. we arrived back at Wyton after a total flying time of 25.40hrs.
On the 1st March 1948, the Squadron flew out to RAF Shallufa in Egypt for a month' s stay on exercises. I f1ewas the Flight Engineer to FIt. Lt. Bristow in Lincoln No. RF 426.
On the 241h March with Fit. Lt. West in Lincoln RF 514, we flew to Khartoum in the Sudan for an overnight stay returning to Shallufa the next day. This round trip took 11.20hrs. On the 31" March. the whole Squadron return to Wyton via an overnight stop at Caste! Benito.
In May 1948, the whole Squadron was engaged in preparations for Operation "Chessboard". This was to be a goodwill visit to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) at the invitation or the Government. It was in recognition by the Royal Air Force to the people of Southern Rhodesia for the Rhodesians. who had served, and those who had been lost, with the Royal Air Force during the war.
\ ,..
On the following day. the Squadron flew on to R.A.F Shallufa 'in the Canal Zone of Egypt for a three-day rest and for servicing of the aircraft. This flight took 6 and half hours.
The journey continued from Shallufa on the 14th flying along the Nile Valley to Khartoum in the Sudan for an overnight stop. From Khartoum it was on to Nairobi in Kenya the next day for another overnight stop.
On the 16th it was on to the Belvedere airport at Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia. The outward flight took 38hrs 2Smins. This was to be the base for the Squadrons stay in the Country. The aircraft arrived over Belvedere in formation and after landing the personnel paraded for a reception by the Prime Minister Sir Godfrey Huggins.
In the evening the Officers and Airmen attended a Government banquet and a highlight for me at this function was to sit next to, and talk with, the Prime Minister, Sir Godfrey,
There was now a two day rest for the Squadron. On the 181h Barney and I with the rest of our crew took off to take mosaic photographs of the area of Salisbury tor the local authority. We think it was tor a proposed building of a Dam on Lake Kariba. It was a flight of over five hours.
On the 19th and 20th the Squadron did formation flying over Rhodesia to be seen. On the
second of the flights we had on board a passenger Mr Catsicas the Mayor of Umtali a Town in the NE of the country.
The Squadron now had a two stand down. The Squadron personnel were split up into groups of six to be the guests of prominent Rhodesians. Barney and .1 with two of our aircrew and or the two of our ground staff were to be the guests of the Mayor of Umtali. This involved a long overnight sleeper journey in a rather antiquated colonial train to Umtali there and back. This was an experience. Barney and I were the guests of the Mayor. The entertainment of Sun downer Parties of good food and drink in comparison to conditions at home was appreciated' There were visits to the Vumba Mountains and an upmarket Hotel the Leopards Rock. We were also taken to Gold Mine and an orange orchard. What lovely orange juice it was.
On the 26'h June the squadron flew from Belvedere to Kamala Airport Bulawayo flying over the Victoria Falls on the way. Here was another Sun downer Party and an overnight stay as guests of the locals. Barney and I stayed with a lady Doctor.
We returned to Salisbury on the 281h. On the 29th we took off to return home via the way we had flown out. We arrived back at RAF Wyton on the 5th July having flown for over 80 hours.
t .~
•
nearly one thousand hours of flying my General Duties flying career was ending. It was two
very happy years on 44 Squadron.
This was not the end of my duties in Bomber Command. In January 1949 I was posted to
Headquarters No. 3 Group Bomber Command for Intelligence duties for while on 44
Squadron I had attended Intelligence and PR Courses. After Three months I was
moved on to Headquarters Bomber Command at High Wycombe for Intelligence duties.
The post was for a junior in the Intelligence Section of four Officers. A few years before my
wartime flying destiny had been under the command of Air Chief Marshal! Sir Arthur Harris
(Bomber Harris), My feelings when working in the underground Operations Room from
where my wartime flying operations had been ordered and controlled cannot be described.
My new Commander in Chief was Air Chief Marshall Sir Hugh P Lloyd. One day in the
Officers Mess there was the pleasure of meeting and talking to Marshall of the Royal Air
Force Sir Hugh Trenchard the Father of the RAF.
The posting to High Wycombe was ended in January 1951, when as a Secretarial Officer I
was required to attend an Accountant Officers Course. After the course. 1 was posted to
No.9 School of Recruit Training at RAF Bridgnorth in Shropshire to be an Accountant
Officer. This involved collecting cash from the local Bank, the payment of bills, the
accounting for the cash transactions and the conducting of pay parades for the Airman.
So ended my service in Bomber Command.
Dublin Core
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Title
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My life in the Royal Air Force Bomber Command
Description
An account of the resource
Writes of early life and mentions beginning of the war and volunteering for the air force in January 1940. Continues with account of initial training and mustering as an airframe mechanic and subsequent technical training. Describes first posting to 257 Hurricane Squadron, advance training and subsequent postings as fitter IIA including travelling around the country to fix aircraft. Continues with account of aircrew selection and training as a flight engineer which included visit to A V Roe factory at Chadderton. Followed by account of aircrew training and his roll as a flight engineer on Lancaster and Manchester and crewing up. Includes list and photographs of crew. Posted to 49 Squadron at RAF Fiskerton. He then provides a detailed description of duties of each crew member and the interior of a Lancaster and lists flying kit used. Goes on to describe all activities concerned with preparation for and flying an operation. Continues by describing highlights of a number of operations and mentions battle of the Ruhr, weather, aircraft damage and , being shot at and diverting to RAF Dunholme Lodge with casualties. List the subsequent history of all his crew after completing their tour. Continues with account of staying on the squadron as flight engineer leader and flying on several more operations. Summarises his operational flying and gives account of subsequent postings as a staff flight engineer instructor. Concludes with account of post war postings and activities.
Creator
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T J Page
Format
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Seventeen page printed document with b/w photographs
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
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BPageTJPageTJv1
Coverage
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Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Fighter Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Kent
England--Canterbury
England--Ramsgate
England--Middlesex
England--Buckinghamshire
England--Slough
England--Shropshire
Wales--Vale of Glamorgan
England--Derbyshire
England--Derby
England--Greater Manchester
England--Oldham
Wales--Bridgend
England--Lincolnshire
Germany
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Friesland
Czech Republic
Czech Republic--Plzeň
Italy
Italy--Turin
Italy--Milan
Germany--Munich
Germany--Leipzig
England--Nottinghamshire
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Lancashire
Germany--Juist Island
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1939-09-03
1940-01
1940-07-19
1941-07
1942-05-02
1943-02-26
1943-03-06
1943-03-26
1943-04-26
1943-05-13
1943-07-12
1943-08-12
1943-10-02
1943-10-20
1944-04
1944-07-19
1947-02-16
Contributor
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David Bloomfield
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
1661 HCU
44 Squadron
49 Squadron
Air Gunnery School
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
Battle
bombing
Boston
briefing
crash
crewing up
Distinguished Flying Medal
fitter airframe
flight engineer
flight mechanic
ground crew
Halifax
Heavy Conversion Unit
Hurricane
Initial Training Wing
Lancaster
Lincoln
Manchester
Me 109
memorial
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
mine laying
perception of bombing war
promotion
RAF Benson
RAF Bridgnorth
RAF Burtonwood
RAF Cosford
RAF Dunholme Lodge
RAF Fiskerton
RAF High Wycombe
RAF Manston
Raf Mauripur
RAF Padgate
RAF Scampton
RAF Shallufa
RAF St Athan
RAF Stormy Down
RAF Uxbridge
RAF Winthorpe
RAF Wyton
recruitment
searchlight
shot down
Stirling
training
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1181/30735/BWagnerHWWagnerHWv1-01.1.pdf
e0571529641f83a364bcf25b44a796ff
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Title
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Wagner, Henry Wolfe
H W Wagner
Description
An account of the resource
15 items. Two oral history interviews with Sergeant Henry Wolfe Wagner (1923 - 2020, 1604744 Royal Air Force), his memoirs, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a navigator with 51 Squadron from RAF Snaith and became a prisoner of war. He was demobbed in 1946 and returned to education where he remained until his retirement.
The collection was catalogued by Trevor Hardcastle.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-05-04
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Wagner, HW
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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[front cover]
“…. we need someone with integrity, distinction and honour …
We need someone like H W Wagner”
[/front cover]
[page break]
Extract from “Those Who Fall”, by John Muirhead, a Flying Fortress pilot. Published b Transworld Publishers Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA.
“Everything happened that I have said happened, but it’s memory now, the shadow of things. The truth lives in its own time, recall is not the reality of the past. When friends depart, one remembers them but they are changed; we hold only the fragment of them that touched us and our idea of them, which is now a part of us. Their reality is gone, intact but irretrievable, in another place through which we passed and can never enter again. I cannot go back nor can I bring them to me; so I must pursue the shadows to some middle ground, for I am strangely bound to all that happened then.”
[page break]
2
[centred] Your life is waiting for you, H W Wagner. [/centred]
[centred and underlined] CARPE DIEM. [/centred and underlined]
The title is, of course, from the Latin poet Horace, of if you prefer his full name, Quintus Horatius Flacus [sic], in his book of Odes, and I will translate it for those of you who have not had the benefit of a classical education. It means “Catch hold of the day”, with the implication “and squeeze every drop of value you can out of it.” The quotation continues Quam minimum credula postero (trusting[?] the next day as little as possible) – because it might never come. While on the subject of Horace, another quotation of his seems to me to be suitable, although you may well not agree, except possibly insofar as it applies to your good self – Integer vitae scelerisque purus (a man of upright life and pure from guilt.)
Having been always interested in flying, it seems to me that life is like a take-off, circuit and landing, and I have divided this account accordingly.
[underlined] UPWIND LEG [/underlined]
The upwind leg has two parts – rolling along the runway to reach flying speed, then climbing to circuit height.
[underlined] Take-off. [/underlined]
[photograph of two young children with their mother]
I was born on 24 March 1923. In the photograph, I am the little chap in the middle. My mother on the left, of course, and my elder brother John on the right. There were destined to be two other
[page break]
3
brothers after me, Richard and Brian. Richard was only a year younger than me, and due mainly to the similarity in our ages he was the one who was always closest to me, although I never had anything against the others.
[newspaper cutting]
[centred and underlined] Henry Stanhope [centred and underlined]
[centred] Henry the Seventh hits the charts [/centred]
One of the more engaging trends last year was the elevation of “Henry” to the top ten of first names, as disclosed by Mrs Margaret Brown and Mr Thomas Brown in The Times last week. It now occupies seventh place, enjoying – without the benefit of royal patronage – its most significant renaissance since the early Tudors.
To the 47 boys whose parents proclaimed their choice in the columns of this newspaper, I say “Welcome” – before adding a short introduction to the life that lies ahead of them. They should not be deceived for instance by those dictionaries of surnames which one thumbs through in W. H. Smith’s but never actually buys. These will tell you that it means “head of the house” and no doubt to the Plantaganet kings it seemed peculiarly apposite.
“Henry!” to the modern cartoonist, however, is a little man with a toothbrush moustache and half-moon glasses, washing up in a frilly apron while his virago of a wife slumbers next door in their surburban sitting room. The best portrait to be hoped for is that of an elderly Tory in hairy tweeds unloading his Scotch in the gunroom while his equally hairy wife is bullying the vicar at the village fete. The image is rarely swinging.
Nor is it a name which lends itself to some comfortable sobriquet or short-form – which, of course, is one reason why mothers like it. At school they solved it by calling me Stanhope, at college by switching to “H”. During National Service, fellow gunners, nonplussed by having a Henry in their midst toyed with “Harry” but settled for “Stan”, which struck a more agreeably percussive note in the barrack room. My first editor, on being introduced, scratched his head doubtfully and said he had a cocker spaniel called Henry. “What should we actually call you?” he asked.
At school I would gladly have swopped the dynamo on my bike for a name like Bob, or Bill or – as it was in Wales, Glyn, Gwyn, Bryn or even Geraint. Boys see safety in numbers and being called Henry was only one up on being Christopher Robin. Survival had to be fought for.
It is however a name one grows into and, in middle age, can offer some interesting advantages. It is, for instance, not easily forgotten and one which acquires a life of its own. Who would think of referring to Irving, Cooper, Kelly, Jackson, Kissinger or the fictitious Higgins (“Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins”) without their given name (“Christian” now being considered ethnically discriminatory)? An invisible hyphen welds them together like bacon and eggs.
There are also, as yet anyway, not enough of us in the English-speaking world to cause confusion. Having said that, it is arguable that when two Henrys do appear in the same office, battalion or school, the mix-ups are almost embarrassing.
They can also at times be quite flattering. In the elitist circles of East Coast America in the 1970s, to be called Henry was almost a passport to any dinner party in town. “There’s no disputing that Henry has a really first-class mind”, I once heard a Harvard professor say, unaware of the warm glow of pleasure he was causing six feet behind during that brief moment of self-delusion. I have never been confused with Henry Cooper, but that is perhaps because he is really called ‘Enery – though I would never do so to his face.
My “hooray!” for the 1982 Henrys is not therefore unmuted. Our image needs polishing. When someone calls “Henry” I still want to turn round – not just carry on walking like the Toms, Dicks and Harrys (no doubt corruptions of the original) who can always assume that it’s not meant for them. Back to the sink ….
[/newspaper cutting]
My mother and father were both Irish, which of course makes me Irish by birth, although later in life I took out naturalisation papers to become a
[page break]
4
British citizen. Of my father’s family I know nothing, but my mother came from an upper-class county family, the Strongs. I still have a salver with their family crest in the centre. We lived in a big house on the shores of a bay at Strand Hill, in County Sligo. The only person I can remember there is my grandfather, a grand old man with a white spade-shaped beard, who smoked a pipe. There being no such things as pipe-cleaners in those days, Richard and I brought in feathers for him, saying: “A fedder for Pa’s pike.” Regrettably, I knew little of my father; it was obviously not a happy marriage, and my parents separated when I was above five. I do know, however, that he was a man of many parts – he had a degree in theology from Trinity College, Dublin, a qualification in dentistry, and he was a well-known sporting shot, contributing to a magazine called The Shooting Times and British Sportsman. For my mother’s part, she was a keen hockey player, and also an Irish county golfer.
When I was three or so, we moved to England, for reasons unknown to me, and our first home was in a village called Sonning Common, near Reading. We lived in quite a large house called The Laurels, with a large orchard (apples, pears, plums, greengages, damsons and cherries) and a one-acre field at the back. There being no refuse-collection in those days, there was a big hole at the far end of the orchard, known as the ashpit. When it was full, another one had to be dug. In the field, my father had a clay-pigeon trap, and used to gather cronies there from time to time for shooting parties. He had a gun-room in the house, with possibly about thirty guns of various calibres, and several hundred cartridges, and Richard and I used to go in there and play – what madness to let two little boys loose among so much lethal apparatus. An old chap used to come and cut the front lawn with a scythe, and one day we threw cartridges at him out of the window, which pleased him not at all. Another room was the dental surgery, which terrified us when we were called in for treatment, as dental surgery was in its infancy in those days, and equipment was primitive. You could be sure of a painful session there. I remember seeing in one of the magazines a picture of
[page break]
5
a set of false teeth, and I thought to myself: “They don't just take out the teeth, they take out the whole top of your mouth as well.”
Two years after arriving there, my father left, and I never saw him again. My mother was left to bring up four boys on her own, with occasional financial contributions from my father, and a hard time she had of it. Heating was by means of coal fires, cooking was done on an old-fashioned range, lighting was an Aladdin pressure lamp and candles, and there was no hot water. Monday was washing-day, using a coal-fired copper, so Monday dinner was always cold meat, the remnants of the Sunday joint. Other days, it might be stew, hash, or corned beef, with rice or macaroni pudding. Breakfasts were always porridge, and tea was bread and jam, with cake on Sundays. Shopping was done at Plumb’s stores, down the road, where there were no packed foods – everything was weighed up and served separately, and there were chairs for people to sit down and gossip to the shopkeeper while the order was being made up. Biscuits came out of big tins with glass tops, butter was cut off the block. A jug was left out for Mr. Saunders, the milkman, who came round with a horse and trap and carried a small pail of milk up to the door, replenished from a big churn in the trap. An old biddy, Mrs. McCallum used to deliver paraffin from cans hanging on the handlebars of her bicycle. Sweets were a rarity, but now and again we got a halfpenny to spend, with which we usually bought a Chicago Bar, a bar of evil-looking (and tasting) toffee, but which had the merit of being very long-lasting.
One Christmas, Richard and I got a small bicycle each, known as fairy-cycles, with hard tyres, and we could safely be released to ride round the village, there being hardly any traffic on the roads. Once a week, we used to go into Reading by Thames Valley bus, for bigger shopping, and used to finish up with tea and toast in the Lyons Corner Shop.
Such was the way of life in those days, and although my mother had plenty of worries, it was no hardship to us boys. We went to the village school, presided over by “Gaffer” Forder. I did two years
[page break]
6
there, the first year in Miss Cobb’s class, and the second year moved up with the dreaded Mrs. Clayton. While at Sonning Common school, I made the acquaintance of Geoffrey Dolphin, who remained a lifelong friend.
At the age of seven, then, we moved to Henley-on-Thames, to quite a nice house in a quiet road, St. Mark’s Road. This even had the benefit of gas-lighting downstairs, otherwise illumination was still by candle. There was a large walnut – tree in the back garden, which we were always climbing. John was sent off as a boarder to the Bluecoat School in Reading, and Richard and I started attending the National School, a grim fortress-like granite building very different from a village school and peopled by hard urban nuts of a type that we were not accustomed to, so we quite often had a rough time. The Avery’s, Blackall’s and the Fowler’s come to mind. Richard went into Mrs. Plumb’s class, I being a year older went into Mrs. Piper’s class, and she was much addicted to frequent use of the cane. In fact, I got it on my first day there. Lessons in those days tended to be of the repetitive rather than the interesting variety; this particular geography lesson consisted of repeating the names of mountains in Britain, from north to south. Of course, the names meant nothing to me, nor did they, I suppose, to anyone else in the class, but those who could not remember them were lined up in front and received a stroke of the cane. The most feared teacher in the school was Mr. Ackroyd, who was even more liberal than Mrs. Piper in his dispensation of correction; at the end of “playtime”, he blew a whistle, whereupon everyone stood stock-still. At a second blast, everyone moved to a place where their number of class was painted on the playground. Then he would shout “Classed, right and left turn”, and you turned in the direction of your classroom. One day, I turned in the wrong direction, and received a stroke of the cane for “disobedience”. Physical education consisted of what was known as “drill”, and this meant standing in lines on the playground and obeying order such as “touching the toes”, “clapping hands above the head”, and “running on the spot”. What strides have been made since, in the way of gymnastic exercises with proper equipment!
After two years at the National School, when I was nine, the
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educational system was reorganised, and Richard and I went to a junior school, called Trinity School, run under the auspices of Trinity Church, where I was married twenty-seven years later. This was presided over by Mrs. Billingham, known as Governess, and under whose instruction I first started taking a real interest in learning. At the age of eleven, there was an examination to determine who would go to Henley Grammar School and who would return to the dreaded National School, and I was relieved to be one of the successful 23%. By this time, we had moved to a council house in Western Avenue, the family circumstances having become even more [indecipherable word]. It must have been something of a strain for my mother, having to buy uniform, games kit and P.W. kit, but there was a small grant from the Grammar School foundation Trust to help those who found the going difficult. At Trinity School, I became friends with Jim Clark, who is still a good friend, and especially of Jim Davies, who lived just down the road from us. Jim Davies was a Fleet Air Arm fighter pilot, on Corsairs, during the war. Afterwards, he took a degree in law at Oxford, then worked in the Attorney-General’s office. He was killed in a Douglas DC 10 crash after taking off from Paris; a baggage-door had not been properly fastened, and it opened in flight. The ensuing decompression buckled the floor, which jammed the controls, and all aboard were killed.
This concludes the runway section, then. The aircraft is nicely on the move, has flying speed, and the way ahead, barring accidents, is clear, and there is plenty of room for manoeuvre. The next section of the circuit is the climb-out, gaining height, looking round and feeling the air.
[underlined] Climb-out. [/underlined]
The climb-out begins with the commencement of education proper at Henley Grammar School. I arrived there in September 1934, with Jim Clark. Education was undertaken seriously before the war – you had to work hard in order to qualify for a good job. I had no idea what sort of work I would eventually do, there being no careers guidance in those days. But part from
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the underlying seriousness, there was no worry attached to the whole business, and it was an enjoyable time. This is the little lad who started at the Grammar School at the age of eleven.
[photograph]
In the 1930’s, competitiveness was encouraged in both sport and games. Nowadays, it is actively discouraged – no sense of inferiority must be allowed to develop, even among those who know they are inferior. Any attempt to be better than the rest is frowned upon, because it would tend towards divisiveness and the creation of an elite, so everyone must conform to a lower level. But in those times, prizes were awarded for academic achievement and medals and cups given for sporting excellence – there was every encouragement to do better. So everyone worked to the best of their ability, and I do not think anyone suffered for that reason.
About the time that I started at the Grammar School, I took my first tentative steps in the world of golf. Richard was the moving spirit behind this, and we bought ourselves a putter each from
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Woolworths, price six denarii, and we used to take them up to a field about a mile away and just hack about. Jim Davies joined us too, and nearly all our spare time was spent in that pursuit. Balls were obtained by looking for them in hedges adjoining the gold course. Finding more than enough for our needs, we thought about how we might turn them to profit. We used to make the occasional cycle journey into Reading and sell them at a sports shop. A dozen would bring in three shillings or so (about 15 pence in modern money); later, we developed contacts among local golfers, notably Tom Luker and Bert Butler, which saved the trip to Reading. Most of the money was saved with the intention of buying a bag of clubs each, but 3d. a week was spent on the Saturday afternoon visit to the cinema and 1d. on sweets. When enough money was saved, we went into Reading and went round the Junk-shops, obtaining a bag each (and scruffy old things they were), and a motley selection of old rusty wooden-shafted clubs. And so we were in business. There was no way of joining Henley Gold Club, golf being the preserve of the upper crust, but there was a nine-hole course on a public common at Peppard, some four miles distant, where one could play for 10/6d. a year. We cycled there whenever time and weather permitted, clubs over the shoulder, sandwiches in saddle-bags. Jim Davis was with us in this venture, and you couldn’t have found a happier lot, day in, day out, through holidays. Through a good deal of my life, I have had enormous pleasure from golf, and met so many friends. Golf is a great leveller, and when a man is on the course, his wealth and social status matter not a scrap. What is important is his attitude to the game. A young American golfer of great promise, Tony Lema, who was regrettably killed in a light aeroplane crash on his way to a tournament, wrote in his book “Champagne Golf” – “Golf is the one game that really gives a man the opportunity to play the gentleman.” One does occasionally come across the other sort on a golf course, but they are not true golfers, and may
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be disregarded.
Another activity which took up some of our time, mainly in summer, was kite-flying. The materials were inexpensive, as we made our own. My mother would cut up old curtains into large octagons, about two feet across, hem them, and stitch a pocket in each corner. All that was needed was 3d ball of string and a fishing - net. Fishing net? Yes. The net itself was discarded, the bamboo split down the middle and used to make four struts. Many an afternoon we spent sitting on the grass gazing up at the kites and giving an occasional twitch on the string. Threepenny gliders, launched by catapult, also provided a lot of entertainment while the kite string was tied to a fence.
Next - door to Jim Davies lived a young lad with the reputation of being something of a crazy inventor. His name was Reggie Cripps. One scheme he thought up was that if old armchair springs were attached to the bottom of an orange-box, it would, if dropped from a few feet with him aboard, bounce ever higher and higher. Where he thought it would all end I don’t know. A preliminary trial resulted in a dull thud. He suggested attaching a multiplicity of springs and dropping him from the roof of his shed, but we declined to participate. Another idea was that he should jump out of his bedroom window, using his mother’s umbrellas as a parachute, but his mother enters a firm nolle prosequi.
Throughout my time at the Grammar School, staff wore academic gowns, which was a novelty for me. In my first year, I made the acquaintance of Mr. Clifford, who taught me my first words of French. Boys sat on one side of the classroom, girls on the other. Next to me sat Anthony Griffiths, son of the local Baptist minister. I met him again in May 1945, in Germany. Part of the camp I was in was being moved by train, and the train was in sidings at Luckenwalde station. Walking along beside the track, I saw an officer who looked familiar, and asked if his name was Griffiths. He had been a Spitfire pilot, and was shot down on a sweep over France. Also in the same class was Dougie Blows. We used to stay behind after school, until quite late, playing Fives, and indulging in practical jokes with bicycles in the sheds. One
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trick was to slacken off the nut, turn the saddle round and tighten the nut again. Another was to suspend bicycles up the trees, another to weave thin wire in and out of the links of the chain. A further member of the class was Nelson Swinney, who had the enviable reputation of being the only boy able to spit over the fives-court wall. In this class too I renewed the acquaintance of Geoff Dolphin, and we remained together throughout our Grammar School career.
Early on, I was given the nickname Otto, which remained with me while I was at school.
At the end of the first year, I was presented with the Form Prize, a copy of “Captains Courageous”, which I still have.
Physical education was in the hands of Mr. Clifford, and although in the gymnasium where there was some apparatus, it was not very imaginative. Sport was rugby football, which I considered a rough game and to be avoided if possible, if not possible, keep as far from the ball as you could - if caught in possession of the ball, you were likely to be done over. This attitude persisted for a couple of years, then I did get caught in possession of the ball and realised that the only thing to do was to make a run for it. Having got away with it unscathed once, I did not mind so much having a go a second time, and gradually began to enjoy the rough and tumble of the game. So much so that for my last three years at school I was a regular member of the First XV, and received rugby colours. This entitled one to wear a special cap, dark blue velvet with gold piping and tassel, when going to play in matches. I played rugby for many years thereafter, and derived as much enjoyment from it as I did from golf. I still enjoy seeing a good rugby match on television. Summer sports were cricket and tennis, but I never made much of these. I liked watching cricket, and found my niche when I was appointed first-team scorer.
In the second year, the study of Latin was introduced, taught by the somewhat austere Mr. “Fuzzy” Phillips, and I soon realised that the languages were my strong point, not the sciences. I found science interesting but did not excel at it. Mathematics I found
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very difficult, and spent many hours poring over problems on the nights when there was Maths homework. I used to retreat to the front room to do my two hours or so of homework in the evenings, illumination was provided by a guttering candle, as it was in all the bedrooms - there was only gaslight in the dining room, and that was none too brilliant. There was no temptation to skimp homework, as there was no television or any other distraction.
And so the years passed until I entered the Fifth Form, the year of the school certificate. To pass this, to get a certificate at all, one had to pass in a certain range of subjects - English language and maths were obligatory, also a language, then a choice of history or geography, then a practical subject, where I just scraped a pass in art, having minimal ability in that subject. If you did not get a School Certificate, you stayed in the Fifth Form for another year to have another rack at it. If you passed, you moved into the Sixth Form for a two-year course leading to the Higher School Certificate. The work was of a different dimension altogether, far more advanced. To get a certificate, you had to pass in two subjects at Main level and two at Subsidiary level. I took English and French at Main level, and Geography and Latin at Subsidiary level. At least, that was my intention, but the Headmaster, “Sammy” Barnes enquired why I was not also taking mathematics, having passed therein in School Certificate. “I’m no good at maths, sir”, I said. “Wagner, you’re taking maths,” he said. “Yes sir”, I replied, and I was unwillingly plunged into the calculus, co-ordinate geometry, the binomial theorem, and the like. English was in the hands of Miss Smith, a lively young thing; French was taught by the deputy head, Miss “Misery” Hunter, Latin by Mr. Darling, who also took P.E., maths by Mr. Potter, and Geography by Mr. Bryant, who was later killed in the war. I passed in all these subjects, which qualified me for University entrance.
At the beginning of the Lower Sixth year, I was made a prefect, and a year later captain of Periam House. Meanwhile, the
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golf had gone on pace. We played at Peppard until the end of 1937, with the occasional day on Henley golf course when we had 2:6d to spare (12 1/2 pence in modern parlance.) We knocked up the Henley professional, Bill Pedler, at 8 a.m. to pay the green fee (which pleased him not at all), played one round, then another half a round, had the sandwiches which we brought with us, finished that round, played another round, went home for tea, and played another round in the evening - 72 holes in one day - good value for 12 1/2 pence. At the beginning of 1938, we enquired about joining the junior section of the club, but this was beyond our means. However, they would admit us to the Artisan section for £1, which we gratefully accepted. A full 18-hole golf course and no more bike-rides over to Peppard. And we made good use of the course, being on it at every possible opportunity.
September 1939 and the war came. It was not unexpected, but to us boys it did not mean a great deal. We expected it to be over quite quickly, never dreaming that we would become embroiled in it ourselves in the fulness of time. Preparations had been going on for some time in the past - gas-masks had been issued, evacuees came from London (and to our horror stooped so low as to dig in the bunkers on the golf course as if they were on the beach.) This was the beginning of my second year in the Sixth Form, working for the Higher School Certificate. To pass this you had to get six units (two for a subject at Ordinary level, one for a subject at Subsidiary level, get them any way you liked.) I took an extra one, Mathematics, at the instigation of the Headmaster (I see I got this slightly wrong on the previous page, but now have the certificate for your kindly perusal.) Studies were somewhat interrupted by the fact that we had to share our school premises with a school evacuated from London, Archbishop Tennyson’s School. We worked in the mornings, they had the place in the afternoons, leaving me free in the afternoons to sneak off occasionally for a game of golf. Also, Richard and I bought a folding two-seater canoe, on instalments, paid for with money we earned finding golf-balls, and we often
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took it out on the Thames when weather permitted.
To go back to the day war was declared, Sunday 3 September. We listened to the sad announcement by the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, on the radio (or wireless, as it was called then), at 11 a.m. Shortly afterwards, the air-raid sirens sounded, and gas-masks were brought to the ready - nobody knew what to expect. It was a false alarm though, and soon afterwards we settled down for our Sunday dinner. Then Richard and I set off over the golf-course. It was completely deserted except for us two. At one tee, adjoining the road, we were taken to task and heartily condemned by a passer-by for indulging in a frivolous pursuit at a time of national catastrophe, but it is difficult to see how we could have helped by staying at home. With the departure into the Services of most of the greenkeepers, labour was short, and Richard and I volunteered to go over on Fridays and mow a few of the greens for week-end play, as did other members of the Artisans. Big shots among the Artisans in those days were Bill Steptoe, Cyril Moss (handicap 1), Alf Smith, Percy Clayton, and George Piggott (“I can’t never ketch ‘old o them shots, I can’t, no, not them shots”, speaking of the lofted chip.) I understand his feelings, because I am not much of a dab at them either.
My elder brother, John, went into the Army, the rest of us were still at school. Rationing began to bite; breakfasts were usually scrambled dried egg, dinners either sausage-meat or fish, and tea was bread and jam. We each had our own pot of jam (1 lb. / month), and we would sit miserably at teatime wondering whether or not to have another slice and keeping an eye on the level in other people’s pots. There was also some very dubious meat or fish paste about.
And so we made our way into 1940 and the end of my school career. I had by this time made up my mind to go to University and subsequently into teaching. There was no careers guidance in those times - you had to make up your own mind what you would like to do. I was accepted for Reading University, travelling in each day by bicycle (7 miles), and home in the evening, in all
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weathers. At this time I made the acquaintance of Ken Ablewhite, who had gone to the University the year before, and we used to do the journey together.
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[university shielf]
UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
LOCAL EXAMINATIONS SYNDICATE
HIGHER SCHOOL CERTIFICATE
This is to certify that HENRY W WAGNER of Henley Grammar School
Passed the Higher School Certificate Examination in July 1940 having satisfied the general requirements of the examination and having reached the standards shown (Advanced, Ordinary, or Subsidiary) in the following five subjects:
French Ordinary
Geography Ordinary
English Subsidiary
Latin Subsidiary
Mathematics Subsidiary
Index number 570
Place of examination Henley
Date of birth 24 March 1923
[signature]
Vice-Chancellor
THE BOARD OF EDUCATION accept the examination as reaching the approved standard.
Signed on behalf of the Board of Education
[signature]
Assistant Secretary
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We used to leave home at 8 a.m. in order to arrive for the 9 o’clock lecture, work till 12.30, have lunch in the Buttery, work again in the afternoon (usually in the library, as there were no afternoon lectures), have tea in St. David’s Hall (tea, toast and jam, and a lardy cake), then work in the evening until about 8 o’clock. It called for a good deal of self-discipline – you could waste an awful lot of time if you were so minded. Geoff Dolphin, whom I have mentioned before, also joined us at the University. In the first year, I had to study four subjects, two of which would be subsequently dropped. I took French (Professor Dessignet[sic], Dr. Bowen, Miss Paton, Miss Dale), Latin (Mr. Cormack), Geography (Professor Miller and Miss Campbell) and Logic (Professor Hodges). This first year course was called Intermediate Arts. In the sporting line, I played rugby, and even did a bit of rowing.
In the summer of 1940, before going to the University, I worked on a farm with Ken Ablewhite. Labour was scarce, and farmers were glad of anyone who could help them out. The days were long and tiring, but the work was very satisfying, especially as there were a couple of lively land-girls working there as well – Pat Pepper (as hot as her name suggests), and Mary Kew. We indulged in turnip-hoeing, sheep-dipping, silage-making, and harvesting until it got too dark to work any more. Dick Green, the farmer, used to lend me a 12-bore when the corn was being cut, and I supplemented the meat-ration at home with quite a few rabbits.
At the University, the men all enrolled in the Officers’ Training Corps with a view to joining the Army. This was not at all to my liking, but I did it because everybody else did. Wednesday afternoons were given over to training, wearing Army uniform, and consisted of drill, weapon-training, tactical exercises, etc., under the supervision of Captain Gillett and Sgt. Major Warwick. After a few months, an Air Training Corps was started, and I thankfully transferred to that. Flying had always been a great interest of mine, and the A.T.C. was much more to my liking. The Commanding
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Officer was Professor Miller, with the rank of Squadron Leader, but he knew little about the Air Force. All the administration was done by a regular R.A.F. Officer, Flt. Lt. Jordan. He had been shot down in a Hurricane and was badly burned about the face. He was assisted by Sgt. Linton, a W/Op Air Gunner, who had been shot down in the desert and had walked back to our own lines. He mounted a Vickers Gas-operated machine-gun in the grounds, and always manned it when the sirens went, hoping for a crack at a low-flying German aircraft.
As I said, flying had always interested me, and I had my first flight five years before the war began. It was just a matter of good luck, as paying for a flight was obviously not on. Sir Alan Cobham’s air circus was due to come to Henley in 1934, and by way of publicity coupons were printed in the Henley Standard, the first to be drawn out to be awarded a free flight. I went round all the hours in the neighbourhood asking if I could have their coupons, and sent in a whole batch. One of them brought home the bacon. The flight was in an Armstrong-Whitworth biplane which seated about 12 people, and lasted for some 20 minutes, over and around Henley. The next flights were undertaken when I was in the University Air Squadron; Flt. Lt. Jordan used to put up a list in the week of those wanting to fly on Sunday afternoon. He allocated the flights as equally as possible. We flew in various 2-seater Miles aircraft from Woodley aerodrome.
After working at Dick Green’s farm in the summer of 1940, Ken Ablewhite and I bought a motorcycle each. I got a 150c.c. Royal Enfield two-stroke for £15 and Ken got a 150c.c. Excelsior for £17.10.0d. Neither of us had ever ridden a motorcycle before, so the dealer that we got them from took us into an alley that ran behind his yard and explained the process and let us have a go for a few minutes, then he turned us loose to ride them back to Henley, without any tax, insurance or driving licence. Now and again we used them to go in to the University, but not often, as there was not much petrol allowed on the ration. Before long,
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I changed my Royal Enfield for a 250c.c. O.K. Supreme, a 4-stroke, which was a great improvement.
[photograph of Henry]
Photograph taken for identification purposes on joining Reading University Air Squadron.
[photograph of Geoff Dolphin]
Re the photo of me taken for Air Squadron purposes:- a pupil at the Queen’s Girls’ School, Wisbech, saw it and said: “Cor, I wish I’d ‘a knowed you in them days, Mr Wagner.” I said: “What’s the matter with me now, then?”, and she said “Well, it aint the same, is it.” I signed, and said: “No”.
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[photograph] Family photograph taken in 1940. Me in the blazer, next to my brother John. Brian on the right and Richard on the left. [/photograph]
And so we move on into 1941, in the summer of which I took, and passed, the Intermediate Examination of Arts. I started keeping diaries about this time, and some of them are still to hand, so I have many reminders of details which I would otherwise have forgotten. I note, for instance, that the air-raid siren was a frequent occurrence, even in the daytime, but there was never anything near Henley. The nearest bombs, and they were only small ones, fell at Doble’s farm, Shiplake, about three miles away. In this second year at the University, I took up cross-country running, and was a regular member of the team. Matches took place on Saturday afternoons, usually with two other teams from other universities taking part. The distance was 8-9 miles, and I noted, on one occasion “going was easy at first, but rather hard after halfway, mainly over soaking boggy ploughed fields and wet muddy lanes.” The 1941 diary is remarkable to me now for the amount that I managed to cram into each day. While actually at the University, every possible moment was spent working, often until 9 p.m. or later. And yet I seemed to go to the cinema at least twice a week and play golf at least twice, with swimming canoeing and a multitude of other activities
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thrown in, particularly at week-ends and in the vacations. In the summer, I worked again with Ken Ablewhite on Dick Green’s farm.
In September, having passed the Intermediate Arts examination, I returned to the university for one more academic year, to take First Year Finals in the summer of 1942 – call-up into the Air Force was deferred until after that examination.
On 8 December 1941, the Japanese attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbour, and thereafter a state of war existed between Japan on the one hand and America and Britain on the other.
After the Christmas term ended, I worked in the Post Office at Henley, sorting letters and parcels. Extra staff were always taken on in the run-up to Christmas, and the pay was very welcome.
In June 1942 I took First Year finals and reached an acceptable standard, studying French with subsidiary Latin. This left one more year to complete the degree course, but there I had to leave it. For me, that completed the upwind leg. The circuit had been planned out reasonably well and everything seemed to be in working order. I knew where I was going, barring accidents, attacks by Gremlins, and that sort of thing, but there was the matter of the war to be dealt with first, and this constituted for me the
[underlined] CROSSWIND LEG. [/underlined]
Towards the end of August 1942 (the month in which I got the only hole-in-one I have ever had, playing a friendly game on Henley Golf Course with one David Mitchell), my call-up papers arrived and I duly reported to the Aircrew Reception Centre (ACRC, known as Arsy-tarsy) at St. Johns Wood in London. After a medical along with other members of the University Air Squadron, we were moved to a big block of what were before the war luxury flats (although there was not much luxurious about them then) called Viceroy Court, at Regents Park, to await events. It was the normal practice for prospective aircrew to be sent to an Initial Training Wing (there was one at Ilfracombe), but since we had done our initial training in the University Air Squadron, we were spared that, and went to a holding unit at Brighton, billeted in the Metropole Hotel, right on the front,
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which had been taken over by the Air Force for the duration. While there, I had this photograph taken. They must have done a brisk trade at Empire Studies because all the Air Force personnel seemed to patronise them.
[photograph]
People say to me sometimes: “Why did you join up? You were of Irish nationality and therefore not under any obligation.” But I felt that this was now my country, and that the obligation did exist. Then they say: “Well, why volunteer for aircrew then?” But the adventure of flying always enticed me; I felt that that was a job I could do as well as the next man, and that therefore there was no excuse for chickening out. Admittedly, there was not much chance of coming safely out at the other end, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
After a fortnight or so, postings came through to various Grading Schools. These were elementary flying training schools where prospective pilots or navigators were given a 12-hour course on Tiger Moths. Most were hoping to be pilots, of course, but instructors decided on suitability. I went to Brough, near Hull, and came under the instruction of Flying Officer Rothbone (later killed when a pupil landed a Tiger Moth on top of the one he
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was taking off in.) I went solo after 9¾ hours, about the average time, and was graded as a pupil pilot.
From Brough, I went on leave, and then back to Brighton again, this time billeted in the Grand Hotel. The time there was spent in drill, P.T., signals, aircraft recognition, navigation, armament, and clay-pigeon shooting. After some three weeks there, we were warned for posting, and one night, left Brighton on a special train which drew out at 2.30 a.m., arriving at Heaton Park, Manchester, at 11 a.m. Heaton Park was where those on overseas posting awaited their draft to a ship, and was a miserable hanging-about restless sort of place. Manchester is a rainy place anyway, and this was in January 1943. It was usually fog-bound and gloomy, and I was in a billet in Salford, some miles from the camp, a damp dingy tenement. Thankfully, I was not there long before my draft came through, and proceeded by train to Blackpool. All those on draft were dispersed round boarding-houses with typical seaside landladies. Tropical kit was issued, so we knew we were off somewhere warm. Three kit-bags had to have numbers and names put on in Indian ink – ordinary, flying, and tropical. That evening, Lee was one of the first away for the evening’s drinking; Bassingthwaite never got away at all. The time at Blackpool was spent just hanging about waiting – attending lectures, drill, route marches, going to the cinema, and that sort of thing. Finally, after about three weeks, towards the end of February, orders came to move. We went by train to Liverpool, marched to the docks, and embarked on a troopship, the S.S. Strathmore, 23,000 tons, and got organised on board, initiated into the process of slinging hammocks. These were slung from bars in the ceiling, and were difficult to get into because they were inclined to throw you out again. Also, the bars were too close together, with the result that you head was looking directly across at your feet. I soon gave up hammock-slinging, and laid mine out on the floor, but I was on the lowest deck of all, below the waterline; one of the propeller shafts ran just under the floor and thumped – thumped away all night, so sleeping was not the rest it should have been. The next day, the ship set sail from the Mersey and headed out round the north of Ireland.
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The sea was green and rough; almost everyone was seasick, and the evening meal was tripe and onions swimming in milk. There were not many takers. Life on board was pretty leisurely – there were a few lectures, frequent action-stations practice, but most of the time was spent reading and talking, and just sitting in the sun as the weather got progressively hotter. The ship was not in convoy, but sailing alone with one destroyer escort. It went far out into the Atlantic, then turned east, and ten days later land was sighted, and we entered harbour at Freetown, where the heat was stifling. There were many other ships in the harbour. The destroyer released depth-charges outside the harbour, having presumably detected a submarine. Three days later, the ship put to sea again, and in another fortnight arrived in Durban, South Africa. We then went by train to the Imperial Forces Transhipment Camp at Clairwood, just outside Durban. South Africa was a new world to all of us, far removed from the austerity of England. There was no black-out, and the shops were full of things unobtainable at home. The first things I bought were a big slab of chocolate and a tin of sweetened condensed milk, both of which I consumed as soon as I got back to camp. I used to go to the cinema every day in Durban with Peter Taylor and Maurice Gregson, and often we went swimming. Only one other thing stands out in my mind about that time, which was an organised visit to the Lever Brothers soap factory. I have always enjoyed visits to factories – Huntley and Palmers biscuit factory in Reading, Fry’s chocolate factory in Bristol, the Tusker Brewery in Nairobi.
After some ten days at Durban, we entrained for a two-day journey up through the Drakensberg mountains to the high veldt, to get another holding unit at Nigel. This was on an aerodrome, on Advanced Flying Training School where pupil pilots trained on Oxfords. A week later, postings came through, and we were dispersed to various Elementary Flying Training Schools to train on Tiger Moths. I came under the instruction of a South Africa officer, Lt. Goddard, not the easiest of men to get on with and somewhat anti-British. Circuits and landings was the first part of the programme, for which
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We flew about 20 miles to Rietgat, [sic] a small auxiliary aerodrome, just a part of the Veldt fenced in by barbed wire. Apart from circuits, the flying was done from the main aerodrome at Kroonstad, Orange Free State. Eventually, I had a solo test with Lt. Hooper, and did two solo circuits, going on later to solo steep turns, spins and loops. Three thousand feet was the statutory minimum for loops, but I always went up to four, being a great believer in plenty of height. They always say that the two most useless things in flying are height above you and runway behind you.
When I had done 10 1/2 hours solo, an incident occurred with Lt. Goddard which put paid to my aspirations to becoming a pilot. We flew to Rietgat [sic] and carried out various exercises, then Lt. Goddard said: “Just do one solo circuit, Wagner, then we'll go back to Kroonstad. Don't take long over it, because I'll have another pupil waiting.” He took out his control-column, secured the straps, and off I went. As I said, it was a very small field, and as I came in over the wire, I could see I was too high, so I opened up and went round again. This time also I could see I was too high, and opened up again. I saw Lt. Goddard standing in one corner of the field waving his control-column in the air and obviously in a rage. The third time, I was on the high side again, but I thought to myself that I had to get down at all costs. The Tiger Moth ran and ran – having no brakes, I could not arrest its progress, and it stopped about two yards from the wire, too close to turn it under power. So I undid my straps, got out, caught it by the tail-skid, pulled it back a few yards, turned it, got back in, and taxied back to where Lt. Goddard was waiting. “Right, Wagner,” he said, “fly me back to Kroonstad and make a good job of it because it is the last time you'll be at the controls.” And regretfully that was the end of my pilot training. I was “washed out”, as the saying went, and was, of course, very disappointed. Within three days, I was on my way to Roberts Heights, Pretoria, where I was re-graded as a Navigator. The three weeks I spent there were just time-wasting, doing odd jobs and often going into Pretoria to the cinema, waiting for a vacancy at a Navigational Training School. Eventually, a posting
[picture of Tiger Moth “I could fly one of these before I could drive a car”.]
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came through to 43 Air School, East London, which was quite a long way off. The train journey was through some spectacular scenery, down through the mountains to the coast. This was an Initial Training School where the rudiments of navigation were taught. I was, in fact starting again from scratch. Here, I met Graham Walker, who had been at the University Air Squadron with me, and who had been graded as a navigator from the start, and we kept together. For the first three weeks, nothing much happened, and Graham and I spent most of our time in town, going to the cinema, or swimming in the Indian Ocean from Orient Beach. We did quite a lot of P.T., had a few rugby games and had a lot of rifle and ordinary drill. While doing rifle-drill one day, the Station Warrant Officer, W/O Barnett came out to watch. He was a big fat man with piggy little eyes, a most unpleasant character. Observing the manoeuvre “Put down-arms”, when the rifle had to be laid on the ground, he remarked: “you bloody lot remind me of a lot of Waafs getting down on a jerry”, and I thought to myself: “What a common man, what a low lad.” Eventually, the course proper started, with lectures on DR navigation, plotting, meteorology, armament, signals, radio-navigation, aircraft recognition, compasses, and astro-navigation. This was all very concentrated stuff, and lasted for ten weeks, ending with an examination.
At the end of the course, postings came through, and I went with two friends, Graham Walker and Dave Wright, on an overnight train journey down the coast to Port Alfred, a small town miles from anywhere. This was where the practical navigation was done, interspersed with lectures. We were billeted in tents. There was a beautiful beach, almost deserted, where huge rollers came in from the Indian Ocean, picked you up and tumbled you along through the surf. There were sharks outside the line of breakers, so you had to be wary about going any further out.
the Flying Training was done in Ansons, with South African Air Force pilots. Their Ansons did not have hydraulics on the undercarriage, and it had to be wound up by hand, which was an awful chore. All right letting it down though. On alternate flights,
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one was either first or second navigator; the first navigator was responsible for plotting, wind-finding, working out courses, ground-speed and time of arrival, while the second navigator did photography and obtained fixes and bearings using the Astro Compass (which was not a magnetic compass but more of a bearing-plate) – all very well in the clear daylight skies of South Africa, but not likely to be much use in Europe where the ground was mostly obscured by cloud and everything was blacked-out at night. Also the second navigator took sights on stars, using a sextant, but astro fixes were far from reliable. Sights had to be taken on two stars and the readings converted into position-lines, using the Air Almanac. It took about 20 minutes to get a fix plotted, by which time you were about 40 miles further on.
And so the course went on until the middle of December. There were written examinations in all subjects. The last flight was a long navigational exercise, from the eastern side of the country to the western, and was by way of being a celebration. Base – Uitenhage – out to sea – George – Oudtshoorn, - Youngsfield (just outside Capetown). We stayed two days at a hotel in Capetown, and were disappointed not to be able to go up Table Mountain, as the weather closed in. We flew back to Port Alfred, and that was the end of the course.
[Picture of The Lagoon, Port Alfred]
On 23 December 1943, the passing-out parade took place, and brevets were pinned on with all due formality.
[Navigators Brevet]
Sergeant’s stripes were sewn on later onto best blue, battle-dress and greatcoat. That evening, there was a flight dinner at the Bathurst Hotel in Port Alfred. The traditional services Christmas dinner took place on the 25th, all serving being done by the officers.
[Air School logo on menu]
43 AIR SCHOOL
PORT ALFRED, South Africa
Christmas, 1943
DINNER
Fried Stock Fish and Butter Sauce
Roast Turkey and Boiled Ham
Roast Potatoes
Boiled Potatoes
Green peas
Cauliflower and White Sauce
Christmas Pudding and Brandy Sauce
Fruit, Nuts, Sweets, Mince pies,
Beer
Toast: Absent Friends
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We left Port Alfred on Boxing Day, for the 2½ - day journey back to Clairwood Camp, Durban. There was the usual splitting-up of friends on posting, but by this time I was in company with Leslie Shawcross. This Shawcross had crashed on a low-level map-reading exercise, when the pilot flew too low and the aircraft skated across the countryside, so he had had a narrow escape, very nearly being yet another of the many thousands killed in training.
[photograph] ‘No. 5 Air Navigators Course’ [/photograph]
And so we move on into 1944. At Clairwood, we were members of the Sergeants’ Mess, and this was quite a luxurious place, with very good food and a bar. There was plenty of free time and no harassment, as we were just waiting for a ship back to England. We were not waiting long – on 6 January we embarked in Durban Harbour on the S.S. Arundel Castle, 19,000 tons. We were on an upper deck this time, sleeping in bunks instead of hammocks. Unfortunately for me, mine was the top of a stack of four, right under an emergency light which had to be left on all night and shone directly onto my face. Furthermore, a card-school gathered below and played all night, with frequent calls of “Twist”, “Bust”, “I’ll see you,” so sleep was intermittent. Life aboard was generally very leisurely, with the
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occasional gun-crew, look-out or messing duties, and most of the time was spent reading, talking or seeing cinema shows.
On 7 January, we were tugged out of Durban Harbour, and steamed around waiting for the convoy to assemble. On 12 January, we entered Mombasa Harbour; little did I know I would be there again 23 years later. We left that same day, headed out to sea and then turned north. On 17 January we entered harbour at Aden, left the next day and steamed into the Red Sea, and thence to the Gulf of Suez, where we anchored. Aircrew destined for the Middle East disembarked here, mostly South Africans.
A pilot, Flt. Sgt. Fillmore, lent me a book of Tennyson’s poems, which I enjoyed reading over and over again. My favourite was The Song of the Lotos-Eaters, and the most poignant is Crossing the Bar, which you will find at the end of this book. I have always liked reading poetry (proper poetry, that is, not what passes for poetry these days), and am quite happy reading again through old friends in An Anthology of Modern Verse. Think of all the philosophy of life wrapped up in this one:-
[centred and underlined] IF [/centred and underlined]
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors[sic] just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
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Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling
Back to Port Suez – no, that wasn’t its name, it was Tewfik. Although the ship was anchored some two miles off-shore, an all pervading smell of burning tar and sulphur wafted out over us, its purpose being, so we were told, to counteract an outbreak of bubonic plague on shore. The ship steadily filled up with naval and R.A.F. personnel heading for home, and there was little room to move about. On 2 February, we entered the Suez Canal. About half-way along the Canal, it passes through the wide expanse of the Bitter Lakes, and it was the practice for north and south-bound convoys to pass each other at this point. There was a lot to be seen there – ex-Italian warships, submarines, flak-ships, army camps, gun-positions. All those aboard the troopship were able to indulge in the luxury of
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shouting abuse and obscenities at Military Police on guard at the gate of an army camp, about twenty yards away. The Canal is very narrow, and there was only about ten yards to spare on either side of the ship. At Port Said, after passage through the Canal, we took on oil and water from tankers, joined a convoy of four other troopships and three destroyers, and moved out into the Mediterranean. Torches and emergency rations were issued, as the northern coasts of the Med. were still in German hands and there was still enemy activity, although by this time the North African coast was in our hands. This coast was plainly visible to port, between Tobruk and Benghazi. Four days later, the coast of Sicily was sighted. The rest of the convoy went off to Italy, and the Arundel Castle was Stirling Castle entered harbour at Port Augusta. We left next day, joined a new convoy, and headed west, the next stop being at Algiers for one day. This was the last stop on the way home. We passed the lights of Tangier to port, went through the Straits of Gibraltar, round the north of Ireland and into the Mersey. Disembarked immediately, and proceeded by train to Harrogate. There was not much to be done there – kit inspection, medical, documentation – and at the end of February I went home to Henley on leave, for three weeks, returning to Harrogate thereafter.
After a few days at Harrogate, a posting came through to Whitley Bay, Northumberland. This was yet another holding unit. Aircrew were churned out from the training schools, then gradually moved up the line as vacancies occurred, heading inevitably for the squadrons – there was always an ample pool of trained men to draw upon. In Whitley Bay, we were billeted in ex seaside boarding houses, run by typical seaside landladies, and very sparsely furnished, food to match. There was much hanging about, parades, kit inspections, route marches, drill and lectures. On one occasion, even, I was detailed to dig the front garden of the boarding-house. I was not sorry to leave Whitley Bay.
The next posting was to an Advanced Flying Unit at West
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Freugh, near Stranraer, in Scotland. There was, of course, more waiting about while things got organised – lectures on the Browning gun, firing it on the range, dinghy drill, hydraulic systems of aircraft, flying control, night-vision, beacons and occults, radio procedures, astro, parachute drill, and “airmanship” (which covered just about everything). Here, I made the acquaintance of “Biff” Brewer, so-called because he was a keen golfer. Fortunately, the Sports Officer was also a keen golfer, and he often gathered together a few officionados and took us to Portpatrick Golf Club, where the professional had sets of clubs which he loaned out. It was a good course, along the cliff-tops, from where you could see Ireland across the water. There was a flying-boat base at Stranraer, and Sunderlands could be seen taking-off and alighting in the lough.
At West Freugh, these photographs were taken. They were intended to be handed to resistance groups in the event of being shot down, to aid in the preparation of false papers. These were known as [indecipherable word] photos.
[three facial photographs]
Flying training was done on Ansons on this course, an extension of the work done in South Africa, but under more difficult conditions. The weather was much worse, and on night-flying there were no lights to be seen, only the beacons and occults, and more use had to be made of radio bearings. The routes were generally N.W., over the Irish Sea, where there would be less traffic, a typical one being Base – Ayr - Rathlin Island (N. Ireland), - Dungannon – Peel (Isle of Man) – Base.
This course lasted six weeks or so, then the next posting was to an Operational Training Unit at Abingdon. There were talks
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on new aspects of navigation, such as navigating on the climb and descent, and on Gee, a radar device which enabled the navigator to get an instant and very accurate fix – no more need for getting position-lines and transferring them as necessary. There was much practice in plotting in the navigational trainer. There were also talks on the German Air Force, and other Intelligence matters, and on Escaping and Evasion.
At Abingdon, crewing-up took place. Twenty pilots, twenty navigators, twenty bomb-aimers, twenty wireless-operators and forty gunners were assembled in a hall and left to their own devices. It was up to each one to slot himself in, and in the end twenty crews emerged. My own crew consisted of :-
Warrant-officer Wilfred Bates – pilot (Newcastle)
Myself as navigator. (Henley-on -Thames)
Sgt. Leslie Roberts – bomb-aimer (Liverpool)
Sgt. Jack Jones – wireless-operator. (Lampeter, Wales)
Sgt. Thomas Worthington – mid-upper gunner. (Liverpool)
Sgt. Robert Thomas – rear-gunner. (Whitehaven)
There was no need for a Flight-engineer at this stage, as training was carried out on Armstrong – Whitworth Whitleys, which only had two engines. Later, on Heavy Conversion Unit, we were joined by Sgt. Eric Berry (Sale, Cheshire).
The Whitley was a heavy bomber in service at the beginning of the war, but since superseded. It was not a pleasant aircraft to fly in, being very cramped, cold, lumbering, and having no radar navigational equipment. Also it was very difficult to get out of in an emergency. The wing chord was very thick, the two wings being joined by a narrow tunnel across the fuselage, through which one had to crawl to reach the escape-hatch, encumbered by heavy flying-gear and a parachute-pack. It was engined by two Rolls-Royce Merlins. The Whitleys we trained on were tired and worn-out, and would not get above 12,000 feet.
As runways were being laid at Abingdon, we moved to Stanton Harcourt, a satellite for Abingdon, and flew from there.
[picture of Armstrong – Whitworth Whitley.]
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[photograph] Warrant-officer W.A. Bates. Pilot.
[photograph] Sgt. L.G. Roberts. Bomb-aimer.
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[photograph] Sgt. T.W. Worthington. Mid-upper gunner.
[photograph] Sgt. E. Berry. Flight-engineer.
The flights in the Whitley were, of course, longer than those in the Anson, a typical one being Stanton Harcourt, Newquay, Milford Haven, Stanton Harcourt, about 4 1/2 hours, including an hour or so on the bombing-range. One trip I have noted shows some of the difficulties that could be encountered : “Took off in fine weather 10.30, but ran into cloud half-way to Newquay. Started to descend, but the
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cloud got lower and thicker. Climbed to 12,000 feet, but icing started, so went down to 7,000 feet, still in cloud. Spotted a hole in the clouds, and went down through it to have a look. Identified position as Falmouth. Headed north, homed along the St. Eval beam, landed, and had dinner. Took off again 1500, and flew low along the coast, looking upwards at the cliffs of Hartland Point as we passed. Cut inland at Burnham and flew eastwards via Swindon through low cloud and bad weather, back to Stanton Harcourt.”
Apart from the long trips, there were many shorter ones, such as practice on the bombing-range and fighter affiliation, and quite a few navigational trips in Ansons while pilots were on familiarisation on the Whitleys.
The OTU course finished early in August; we returned to Abingdon, and a couple of days later went on leave. After leave, the next posting was to 4 Group Aircrew Training School, Acaster Malbis, near York. Being now in 4 Group meant that we would be operating on Halifaxes. Training School it might have been, but it was in fact yet another holding unit. Nevertheless, there were lectures on many diverse topics, such as broadcast wind velocities for bombing, pathfinder techniques, pyrotechnics, oscilloscopes, dinghy radios, hydraulic systems, German targets, flak, H2S, air-position indicator, homing on Gee, airborne lifeboat, - all good stuff.
The next move was to 1652 Heavy Conversion Unit, Marston Moor, near York. Here, we were introduced to the Handley Page Halifax, Mark III, on which we would be operating. Pilots had to learn the technique of flying a large four-engined aircraft, and the rest of the crew had to familiarise themselves with their positions in the aircraft and new equipment, as well as the general layout of the aircraft, such as flare-chutes, escape-hatches, oxygen equipment etc. The Halifax was engined with 4 Bristol Hercules sleeve-valve engines, and its all-up weight was some 30 tons. It did not quite match up to the Lancaster in performance and weight-lifting, but it was a good airman’s aircraft, solid, robust, and very dependable – it could take more knocking about than a Lancaster. It cruised at about 230 knots indicated airspeed when light, 210 when loaded. Fuel consumption was .9 air
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miles per gallon, and could carry about 5 tons of bombs, depending on the distance of the target. The bomb-load was usually mixed - perhaps one 2000 pounder, two thousand-pounders, four 500 pounders, and the rest made up of incendiaries, either 30-pounders or canisters of 4-pounders. The aim being to knock the target about and then set fire to it.
Here, we were joined by Sgt. Eri Berry, flight - engineer, and were now a complete crew of seven.
[photograph]
The first few Halifax flights were for W/O Bates to learn how to handle the Halifax and get used to doing so, including 3-engined flying, and for the bomb-aimer to drop practice-bombs on the range, so there was not much for me to do - just keep tabs on where we were. Even if lost, it was easy enough to get a Gee Fix and give a course for base. Air - to - air firing, for the benefit of the gunners, took place out to sea, beyond Flamborough Head. Flying was often cancelled through bad weather, or because of unserviceability of aircraft, since these were rather tired ex-operational aircraft, or ones
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which had been damaged by accidents. After about a fortnight of this sort of thing, the time came to venture further afield. The first attempt was a failure - Base S/C climbing to 16,00 feet - March - then the port inner engine packed up, so the propellor was feathered and we returned to base. It was another fortnight before we did a navigational trip again, the only flying in the meantime being night circuits. Much of the time in between was spent going into York to the pictures with one or more of the crew, or drinking in the Boot and Shoe or Spotted Ox at Tockwith, the nearest village.
A typical cross-country was Base - Darlington - Goole - Bury St. Edmunds - Market Harborough - Coventry - Nottingham - Base, but equipment of some sort often went wrong - one of the engines, Gee, H2S, DR compass - involving an early return. Sometimes we did not even get off the ground , as equipment proved unserviceable on being tested, or flying was cancelled at the last moment. If anything went wrong with the flying of the aircraft, there was a very efficient service known as Darkie (you couldn’t get away with that name nowadays.) The procedure was to call Darkie, and on enquiring the nature of the emergency , type of aircraft, whether heavy or light (i.e. bombs on or not), they would give a course to fly to the nearest aerodrome which could accept the aircraft, and monitor your progress to it. One such occasion reads “after 20 minutes, port inner packed up. Called Darkie, and landed 2125 at Bottesford, near Nottingham, a Lancaster Conversion Unit. Reported in at Flying Control, drew blankets, had supper, and turned in. Left 1340 the next day and flew back to base.”
At the end of the Heavy Conversion Unit course, the sausage-machine churned out the next, and final, posting, which was to 51 Squadron at Snaith, not far from Doncaster. We were now a fully trained crew, ready to be let loose on the Germans. All the crew were billeted together in a Nissen hut, which was shared with one other crew. Most of the daytime was spent in the Navigation Section or in the Bombing Section with Robbie, doing nothing in particular, playing draughts perhaps, or Chinese Checkers. The radio was always playing, a popular tune at that time being “Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar…..” I became heartily sick of that tune, and still dislike it even now. Another
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popular tune was “I hate to see that evening sun go down” (true enough), and, prophetically, “Don’t fence me in.”
The first few flights were familiarisation of various sorts - practice bombing, air-to-air firing, fighter affiliation. On the first flight, we did 3 circuits, then a tyre burst, so that was the end of that. On the first cross-country, which was up to Scotland, down to the Isle of Man and back to base, bad weather prevented us landing there, and we were diverted to Melbourne, returning to Snaith the next day. The next cross-country was Base - York - Belfast - Liverpool - Sheffield - Base, and was for practice in using the navigational aid H2S. If you will look back to the picture of the Halifax, you will see a bulge under the fuselage back towards the tail. This contained a rotating scanner. When radio waves were transmitted from it and hit something vertical, they were reflected back and showed as white patches on the appropriate receiver at the navigator’s position. Thus towns showed up extremely well and could be identified from a special map. Open ground showed up quite well; from water, there was no return. Controls on the set enabled the navigator to get his bearing and distance once the pinpoint was identified. Here is a photo of the H2S screen taken on a cross-country, while heading out over the Irish Sea. It says on the reverse “29.10.44 // 14,000 feet. 282˚ T. ISLE OF MAN. Range marker 10 miles. Sgt. Wagner.”
[photograph]
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The white patch towards the bottom is the northern tip of the Isle of Man. The white line going towards the left is the aircraft’s heading 282˚ True. The black line in the centre was over the northern tip of the Isle of Man when I took the bearing, which was shown on a rotating ring round the outside of the screen. The large circle was the range-marker, which I had set at 10 miles - 10 nautical miles, that is - we never worked in m.p.h. and statute miles, but knots and nautical miles.
Here is an example of a navigator’s log, and it gives some idea of how unremitting a navigator’s job was. An X means that the fix was obtained from H2S. The first fix is shown as X 173 YORK 13, which means that the aircraft was on a bearing of 173˚ from York, and 13 miles from the centre.
[missing photograph]
For the benefit of those of you who know nothing of the navigator’s craft, I will give a very brief description of the bare essentials. If you pointed a car at a destination on a limitless extent of tarmac, and proceeded at a set speed, you would arrive at that destination,
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and you would know how long the journey would take. Not so in an aircraft. The aircraft is suspended in a moving body of air, and where that air is going, the aircraft also goes, in the same direction and at the same speed, as when you have a goldfish in a bowl of water, so due allowance has to be made for wind speed and direction. “Well, once you know the wind speed and direction - - - - .” All very well, but first you have to find out what it is; then, it keeps changing, so you have to go on finding out what it is. Why does it keep changing? Imagine flying from A to B across an area of low pressure (see digram.) The wind-pattern in areas of low pressure is as shown by the arrows.
[diagram]
A comparison between where the aircraft actually is and where it would be if there was no wind gives the wind speed and direction, but it constantly needs updating.
Furthermore, the speed of the aircraft varied considerably through the air (and so over the ground), depending on height. Air becomes less dense the higher you, so there is less resistance to the aircraft flying through it. And density, of course, varies with the temperature - the warmer it is, the less dense, so temperature had to be taken into account as well. To complicate matters even further, aircraft on operations did not maintain a steady height for long; if they did, it would make matters easier for the Germans - they could inform their night-fighters of the height of the stream, and also fuse all their anti-aircraft shells for that height. So almost all navigating had
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to be done on the climb or descent. This meant that not only was the wind changing because of the particular weather pattern but was also different at different heights, as was the airspeed. So the navigator had to calculate and estimate what was likely to happen, without much hard information to go on.
Of course, on an operational sortie, the bomber-stream approached the target by a roundabout route, never heading towards it till the last few minutes, to keep the Germans guessing. Even then, it might divide say ten minutes before H-hour, and attack two different targets simultaneously, to divide the night-fighter force. There might be five or six different ‘legs’ to fly before reaching the target. Supposing the distance “out” was 600 miles, if you did not arrive within three minutes (early or late) of your allotted time, the Station Navigation Officer would want to know all about it. He would likewise be none too happy if at any time, “out” or “home”, you had strayed more than three miles off track. It was, of course, in your own interest to stay exactly on track – safety in numbers – night-fighters would prefer to catch solitary stragglers out of the main stream.
Pilots had a small route-map with the turning-points lettered, and I often got the query: “Pilot to navigator. Where are we, Wag?” and I would answer, for instance: “Leg[?] C to D, about 1/3 of the way along, on track, half a minute late.” It must have been monotonous for him sitting up there looking out into the darkness, turning as directed, but not having the faintest idea of how it was going or where we were. Although the bomber-stream contained several hundred aircraft, you never saw another one until in the vicinity of the target. You know all about navigation now, do you? Well done. As you appreciate, navigation was not on exact science, but more of an approximation. The art of the craft, if I may so put it, was to reduce the uncertainty and keep it within tolerable limits. Overleaf, you will find a letter taken from Picture Post, a popular magazine of the time, written by a member of a bomber crew, appreciating the navigator’s work.
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[newspaper cutting] The Key Man of a Bomber Crew
I am an American serving with the Royal Air Force, and have been serving since the outbreak of the war. Being a member of a bomber crew, and really knowing what goes on, I’m amazed at the way the British Press, including yourselves (“The Last Hour in a Lancaster,” May 15), refer to certain members of the crew as the “key man.” There is a “key man” in a bomber, but it isn’t the flight engineer, pilot, rear gunner, or wireless operator – it is the man whom Bomber Command refer to as the “key man”, namely, the navigator.
When we are flying over enemy territory, I often look at the other members of the crew (who, by comparison, are having an easy time), and then look at the navigator, who is working from take-off to landing. I realise then that it is from that map-strewn table that my destiny is controlled. The control column may be the nerve centre, but it is the navigation table that is the brain of an aircraft.
An Ally, R.A.F. Station, Somewhere in England. [/newspaper cutting]
To return to Smith, 16 November 1944. Woken 0740 by an airman and navigators were told to report to the Navigation Department for preliminary briefing for operations. This was so that navigators would know the target in advance (being warned to keep their mouths shut about it), and be able to get part of their work done beforehand. This consisted of marking turning-points, drawing in tracks on the charts, measuring the compass bearing of each and the distance, and seeing that everyone was in agreement. Then we had breakfast, at 0920, and went to the Briefing Room at 1000, with complete crews, for the main briefing, attended by the Commanding Officer (Wing-Commander Holford), Navigation Officer, Bombing Leader, Met. Officer, Intelligence Officer and Armament Officer. Afterwards everyone repaired[?] to the locker-room and put on flying gear. This consisted of inner quilted flying-suit, outer gaberdine suit, flying boots lined with lambswool, and parachute-harness. Contents of pockets were handed in, helmet, goggles and oxygen-mask picked up, as well as three pairs of gloves (woollen, silk, and leather gauntlets), microphone and intercomm[sic] lead. I carried the gloves only for use in emergency, in case of fire, and goggles for the same reason. If so desired, one could draw a revolver and six rounds, which I always did. You never knew when it might be needed; one of the great fears was coming down in the target area, where the natives would be vicious, and five rounds could be used on the Germans, the last one being kept for personal use. * So, with all this gear and parachute-pack and navigation bag containing all the necessary equipment (pencils, rubber, ruler, charts, Douglas protractor, dividers, Dalton computer), I repaired to the aircraft (C6A) together with the rest of the crew. We took off at 1250 and did a Radius
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Extract from “The Bomber Battle for Berlin”, by Air Commodore John Searby DSO DFC, published by Airlife Publishing Ltd, 101 Longden Road, Shrewsbury. [inserted in red] COPYRIGHT? [/inserted in red] [inserted] Applied for and granted. [/inserted]
Confidence in the skill of the navigator came only second to that placed in the captain: This aspect of the work of the crew has not always received the prominence it deserves, though somewhat earlier in this narrative I have made the statement that Bomber Command stood or fell by the quality of its navigators; and this is true. To be ‘lost’ over enemy territory was a frequent occurrence in the early days of the bomber offensive, as we have seen, but the consequences were nothing like so frightening as later on when the night sky was stiff with opposition. With a multiplicity of aids available after 1942 and in the context of a streamlined technique with Pathfinders to light the way there and back such incidents were few. However, on some occasions, when windspeed at altitude was unusually high, it could happen and could be damaging in the sense that security of the crew was impaired – seemingly – and those not in the know, such as the gunners, were entitled to feel anxious. We all took the navigator for granted – both captains and the remainder of the crew alike – he had the answers and was expected to produce them at the drop of a hat. A competent and confident navigator was a powerful factor for morale from first to last – courage, determination and the will to press on in the face of flak and fighters was one thing; but only the skill of the navigator could ensure that the effort was taken to the [indecipherable word] spot. The demands on his services were frequent, and we all heard with relief the familiar voice over the intercom on the way home: “Dead on track, Skipper – you should see the coastline in a few minutes – you can start letting down any time now.” A shaky navigator could be an uncomfortable thought in the minds of the rest of the crew – so much depended on him, and whatever the situation he must remain cool and capable of using his head quickly to calculate the new course to get us out of trouble. With punctured tanks, and the fuel running low, a single mistake on his
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part could result in a ‘ditching’ on a winter’s night with a rough sea below: likewise, he could run us over heavily massed defences such as the Ruhr perimeter by miscalculation. When the unexpected arose he was the first to be asked if we were still on the correct track and if not, then why not? Like the policeman – his lot was not a happy one.
And another reference later on:-
Navigators bore a heavy responsibility in getting aircraft to the target. Theirs was an unenviable task, subjected to a constant barrage of noise, working in the worst possible conditions, interrupted occasionally by enemy action and ‘nagged’ not infrequently by requests for information; they were expected to remain oblivious to all external alarms.[?]
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of action. This was necessary so that the whole squadron could set course over base at the same time. In order not to have a lot of aircraft milling about in the circuit at the same time, each navigator was given a track outward from base, towards the NW, each a few degrees different from one another so that aircraft coming back did not collide with any still outward bound. It was up to each navigator to determine his course to fly to maintain that track, and how long to fly it before turning to arrive over base at the appointed time of departure. In this case it was 1340, and the target was Julich, a small town not far from Aachen, only just inside Germany, being used as a supply and transit centre for the front-line forces, so we were not long over hostile territory. Bombing height was low, 10,000 feet. There was a little flak and no fighters. At the same time, a force of Lancasters was attacking Duren, a similar town a few miles to the south. It was an uneventful trip, but very effective, as this clipping from next day’s Daily Telegraph shows:-
[newspaper cutting] Two Rhine Towns Written Off
Photographs of Duren and Julich taken two days after they were attacked by very forces of R.A.F. bombers on November 16 show a close concentration of bomb craters almost without parallel in any previous attack by the R.A.F.
The centres of both these recently fortified towns, which were among the main defences of the Rhine, have been completely destroyed. [/newspaper cutting]
The following day, bombing photographs were on the board in the Intelligence Room. A camera was always operated a certain number of seconds after the bomb-release was pressed and took a photo of the point of impact. Our photo was in the centre, and enlarged, and showed the best strikes of the squadron, 200 yards from the centre of the town.
The second operation took place on 18 November, and was another daylight trip. The target was Munster. Navigators’ briefing was before breakfast, main briefing after. Took off 1245, radius of action, and set course 1325. Flak was light, no fighters were seen. Munster was covered by cloud. Concentration appeared poor on this attack. A word here about target-marking. There were two methods, Newhaven and Wanganui. Newhaven was used when the target was clear of cloud.
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Pathfinder “illuminators” would go in first and drop white flares, by whose light the second lot of pathfinders could identify the aiming-point. As near to this as possible they dropped the appropriate marker-flares. There were several different sorts – red shooting yellow stars, green shooting red stars etc. - and bomb-aimers knew which to look for. This did not give the Germans time to confuse the issue with their own flares some distance away. Most large German targets had decoy sites a few miles away where fires were often lit to simulate and attack, and these did a [sic] times attract a number of bombs. Wanganui marking was used when the target was obscured. Pathfinders dropped parachute flares upwind of the aiming-point, or rather upwind of the centre of the town. These burned for two minutes or so, and bomb-aimers aimed at them. This method was obviously not so precise as Newhaven, but it ensured a good spread of bombs, hopefully in the target area. Flares had to be continuously renewed throughout the attack. Always, some pathfinders were Wanganui-equipped, just in case the target could not be seen. So, after, at briefing, the instruction was: “Newhaven, with emergency Wanganui,” If all else failed, and nothing could be seen, bombs could be dropped by making use of the navigational device Gee. This was accurate to within 1/4 mile or so, and was therefore acceptable for this purpose. The bombsight was not used, and bombs were released on instructions from the navigator. Gee, however, could not be used on distant targets; it depended on signals sent out from England, and was susceptible to jamming. As one proceeded further away from the transmitting stations, the signals became weaker, and more difficult to identify, and on the cathode-ray tube gradually disappeared among all the clutter provided by the Germans. On some raids, a Master Bomber would orbit higher up, watching progress and giving instructions. There was a natural tendency for bomb-aimers to release the load a few seconds early, and this progression led to a “creep-back”, so that the Master Bomber had to advise a change of aiming-point. I heard once an instruction from
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him: “Apple Pie to main force. Bomb upwind edge of smoke.” And then later, when we were on our way home:” Well done, chaps. Now get off home and have your breakfast.”
On return from the Munster attack, Warrant Officer Bruce crashed in collision while waiting to land. After putting all the gear away, crews were de-briefed by specialist officers who took notes on how things had gone, and anything unusual that might have happened, and while this was going on, mugs of thick cocoa were provided, and tots of rum. I always took the rum neat, but there were some who tipped it into their cocoa, and almost unbelievably some who refused it altogether. After this second operation, we went on leave for ten days, during which Bob Thomas, our rear-gunner, got married.
Two days after return, operations were notified, the target being Essen, in the Ruhr. Navigators' briefing took place at 8 p.m., main briefing at 11. Took off 0226, radius of action, set course 0311. Usual route, base - Reading, - Beachy Head – over to France. Arrived over target 2 minutes late, bombed Wanganui flares 0539, arrived base 0823. De-briefing, breakfast, went to bed and slept till 5 o'clock. Heavy flak, some fighters in the target area, and this would be a suitable juncture to digress for a few words on flak. Intelligence knew where the heaviest concentrations of flak were, and aircraft were routed to avoid them, but there was no dodging it on the approach to, and over, the target. Bombing heights usually varied from 21,000 to 18,000 feet, different waves being allocated different heights. The Germans, knowing this, could only spread their shells about, barrage fashion, filling the sky with as much explosive as possible, in the hope of catching someone at random. The greatest concentrations were naturally north, west and south of the target, and it was not possible to avoid them. You could not go over the top because the aircraft, loaded, would not go high enough; you could not go round the outside because fighters lurked there, and anyway everybody would be coming in at different angles, causing collisions galore; you could not go underneath because of the risk of “friendly” bombs falling on you. So the only thing you could do was get your head down and run the gauntlet hell for leather through the middle, hoping that nothing
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had got your name on it. I only looked out twice over the target; it was like a fairground on Saturday night – target indicators, fires burning, photo flashes going off, anti-aircraft shells bursting, searchlights. After that, I just didn't want to know, preferring the scholarly calm of the “office.”
Here, I attach an account of the briefing for the Essen raid; you will see how much intricate organisation went into planning an attack. [account missing]
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Following the briefing and report on the operation, there are notes on some of the many devices used to outwit the Germans. References to “Window” may need some explanation. These were strips of metallised paper, cut to the wavelength on which German radar operated; each strip gave off briefly an echo on their cathode-ray tubes, the same as an aircraft did, with the result that their screens were hopelessly confused and it was impossible to pick out individual aircraft. It was first used in the fire-storm attacks on Hamburg, and vastly reduced flak casualties. There were two sorts, the broad and the narrow, the second working on night-fighter frequencies. Here is a strip of the narrow. [inserted]
The following night, there was an operation on Duisburg (docks and transport.) It was an uneventful trip. Took off 1640, radius of action, set course 1714. Base – Reading – Beachy Head – France – Duisburg. Surprisingly, flak negligible, no fighters. Bombed 2006 on Wanganui flares, arrived back at base 2340, supper, and into bed 0100.
The next operation was two nights later, on Hagen, in the Ruhr. Set course 1814. Over Reading, the port inner engine failed, so we went NE and jettisoned the bombs in the North Sea beyond Flamborough Head, and returned to base.
On Monday 4 December, there was a short local trip, down to Derby, followed by a blind bombing run on York, using H2S. A further word about H2S here. It was quite accurate on a fairly large target (provided it had been positively identified first – not much use though in a large conurbation such as the Ruhr.) The bombs were released on instructions from the navigator. I did not like using H2S for any purpose, and steered clear of it except in case of necessity. German fighters were known to home onto its transmissions, so I left it switched off as far as possible.
At this juncture, it would be appropriate to digress for a while (with your kind permission, of course), and describe briefly the modus operandi
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of the German night-fighter force. The ever-increasing activities of Bomber Command forced the Germans to withdraw large numbers of fighters from other fronts, so there were plenty of them about, mostly in Holland, northern France and western Germany. The single-engined types were Me 109’s and FW 190’s; the twin-engined were Me 110’s, Me 210’s, a small number of the later Me 410’s and most effective of all, Ju. 88’s which started out early in the war as bombers but were later converted largely to night-fighting. The single-engined aircraft operated on a system which the Germans called “Wild Boar”; they were vectored onto the bomber-stream and left to their own devices, to find and attack as best they could. The twin-engined operated on the “Tame Boar” system and came under close control from the ground; they were also equipped with radar, so that once they latched onto a target they were hard to shake off. The two standard methods of evasion were a violent “corkscrew” or a violent diving turn to port or starboard. Knowing that its presence had been detected, a fighter would often go and try its luck elsewhere, trying for a more unwary victim.
Now, if you had taken the trouble to read that list of various devices in the plastic envelope a couple of pages back, you would have noticed the one called Mandrel. Aircraft of 100 Group (Counter Measures), usually Stirlings (which were not fit for bomber operations because they could not get up very high), flew a “race-course” pattern out in the Channel, jamming the German Wurzburgs, which were long-range radar detectors. The Germans therefore knew that a raid was pending, but did not know where the main force would emerge from behind the screen. So they had two radio beacons a long way from each other, called Otto and Ida, and fighters orbited these beacons waiting for the main force to manifest itself, and when It did, half of them anyway were in the vicinity. It became the practice for the R.A.F. to insert a Mosquito among those orbiting these beacons, and he might be lucky enough to get a couple before they rumbled what was going on, and dispersed. At any rate, it made them nervous and threw them out of gear. This operation was known as a Mahmoud. There were many other operations designed to
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deceive and disrupt - a Mosquito would lurk near every fighter aerodrome, and catch fighters taking off or returning to refuel. “Spoof” raids would be taking place by smaller forces on widely-separated targets, or just several aircraft dropping target-indicators and then nothing else happened.
In the second half of 1944, the Germans hit upon the most effective way of dealing with a bomber once it was found and identified, so simple that it is amazing it was never thought of before, and it was a long time before anyone twigged what was happening. Early in the war, more aircraft, notably Wellingtons, had a turret underneath, but the fitting of these was discontinued, so there was no protection from below. Two tail-warning and downward-looking radars, Monica and Fishpond, were fitted, but these were removed when it was found that the Germans were homing onto them. Realising that they had a clear field from underneath, the German Fighter, invisible against the dark background below, would gradually increase its height until it was some 150 to 200 feet below the bomber, with the bomber silhouetted against the lighter sky above and its exhaust flames clearly visible. On the same course and at the same speed, the bomber was a sitting duck. German twin-engined fighters had a cannon sticking out through the roof, and the gunner could let rip with a no-deflection shot. They always aimed for the starboard wing-tanks, not the fuselage where there would be a risk of detonating explosives on board. Having thus set the aircraft on fire, they departed in reach of other prey. They carried no tracer among their ammunition, so that there was no give-away, and a bomber seemed to others round about just to catch fire for no apparent reason.
To return to Snaith. On Tuesday 5 December, the warning was given at 1130 for operations that night, the target being Soest, on the eastern edge of the Ruhr, which meant flying all the way round the industrial and heavily-defended complex. Main briefing 1415, out to aircraft, back for alterations to the flight plan, out to aircraft again, took off 1700 and set course 1800. Arrived over target 2 minutes late. Bombed on Gee, as the bombsight was unserviceable. Flak heavy over Hamm on the way in, light over the target. Arrived back at base 0200, a nine hour trip. Four
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aircraft went missing on this attack.
The following night, operations were laid on against Osnabruck. Took off 1600, set course 1625. Down to Reading at 2,000 feet, and saw Henley on the port side on the way. Passed over Reading bridge when workers were on their way home and the lights of vehicles were clearly visible. The sky was full of aircraft heading S.E. Climbed through icing cloud, proceeded on time over France and so to the target, one of the first aircraft in. Bombed on Gee. Out north over Holland, arriving back at base 2210, a six-hour trip. Flak very heavy over target. Eight aircraft missing from this attack.
The next day we did dinghy-drill in a reservoir, very cold, wet and muddy. On the 9th we did a practice flight, three simulated bombing runs of York, followed by practice-bombs on the range. On the 10th, roused at 0245 for operations, but cancellation came through after main briefing, the target being Bielefeld (presumably the viaduct.) This was laid on again next day, but cancelled again when everybody had got their flying-kit on. On the 12th, an operation was laid on against Essen. Flight-planning 1200, main briefing 1330. Took off 1600, set course 1620, bombed on Wanganui flares 1939, and arrived back at base 2200. Heavy flak in target area, as was to be expected over the Ruhr. Six aircraft failed to return. On the 15th, an operation was laid on against Dortmund, but later cancelled.
On the evening of the 17th December, briefing took place for an attack on Duisburg at 2230, then we had supper. Took off 0300 on the usual route via Reading and Beachy Head, and out over France. The weather deteriorated rapidly, wind velocity rose to over 100 knots, and the meteorological forecast was very wrong, so that the main force became widely scattered. Tried to make up a bit of time by cutting corners, but nevertheless arrived over the target seven minutes late. No marker flares were seen - with that wind velocity they would not have been much use, so we bombed using Gee. Soon after turning for home, we were set upon by a twin-engined fighter, which was driven off three times by our gunners. There followed a short interval when he seemed
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to have gone elsewhere, but such was not the case.
Here, I will digress once more (“what, again? Oh, all right then, if you must.”), and consider the possibility of surviving a tour of operations, I have already indicated that they were not very great. A tour consisted of 30 trips; average losses about 4%, therefore after 25 trips, a man was statistically dead, and therefore again the average man could expect to last 12 or 13. Some of course went on their first and some on their thirtieth, and obviously you needed a lot of luck on your side - it was not so much a matter of skill as of luck - a flak shell could catch any crew, no matter how skilful. As to the attitude of aircrews in general, there was a certain amount of fatalism involved, induced by the perithanatic situation in which they found themselves. I hope you will bear with me while I explain perithanatic for the benefit of lesser mortals than yourself. It comes, of course, from the Greek “peri” meaning ‘around’ (perimeter, peripatetic, periscope), and ‘thanatos’ meaning ‘death’ (euthanasia), and psychologists say that when in this situation there is an acceptance of what is going to happen and it ceases to worry. Personally, I never saw in others any evidence of fear - apprehension, yes, but not fear. When I say that the average man could expect to last 12 or 13 trips (i.e. rather less than half a tour,) this is borne out by the overall statistics of Bomber Command for the whole of the war - some 100,000 men flew with Bomber Command, and 57,000 were killed (i.e. rather more than half.) Today being Remembrance Sunday, I am reminded of a remark by Richard Dimbleby, commenting on the service at the Cenotaph: “Those that took the wings of the morning, or set their course by the stars into unimaginable dangers - - -.” The hazards were well enough known, though, “and their name was legion, for they were many.” - flak, fighters, mechanical malfunction, icing, cumulo - nimbus clouds and lightening, base fogged in on return, shortage of petrol, collision, fire, to name a few. In church the preacher, Canon [deleted] one indecipherable word [/deleted] [inserted] Hartley, [/inserted] an ex-prisoner of the Japanese, said: “I wonder how long Remembrance Day will go on. Until, I suppose, there is nobody left who remembers.”
To return to the situation in which we found ourselves. After
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three or four minutes there was a series of rapid thumps from the starboard wing, and almost immediately the Flight Engineer said: “Wilf, we’re on fire.” I looked back from my position down in the nose, and could see that there was a roaring mass of flame where the wing-root joined the fuselage and that the situation was obviously beyond control - burning petrol swilling in from the tanks, round the oxygen bottles, which would explode in due course. There was only one thing to do, which was to get out, and that right speedily, because one of two things was going to happen in a very short time - either the tanks would explode or the main-spar would melt and the wing would fall off. So even before the order came to abandon the aircraft, I was already buckling my parachute pack onto the harness. My seat, on springs, folded itself against the starboard wall when I stood up; I kicked away the legs of the navigation table, which folded itself down onto the port wall, leaving an open space on the floor with the escape-hatch in the middle. This was the way out for the three of us in the nose - myself, bomb-aimer and radio-operator. The mid-upper gunner would use the entrance - door half-way back down the fuselage, but the turret was difficult to get out of, and it took time. The rear-gunner would swivel his turret and drop out over the end, but again the turret was not easy to get out of, and furthermore his parachute pack was stored in the fuselage outside the turret. The pilot and flight-engineer would use whichever exit they could get at most quickly. I opened the hatch, raised it above the vertical, lifted it off its hinges, and dropped it through the hole. I then sat on the forward edge of the hatch and dropped through. A few words of explanation about how the parachute harness was designed. The pack was clipped onto two buckles on separate straps which came down from the shoulders and were attached to the main harness-straps by two pieces of string. The intention was that when the parachute opened, the string would snap, the pack would swing upwards, and you were left suspended from the shoulders. As I dropped through the hole, though, the pack
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caught on the rear edge, snapping the string, so that by the time I was in free fall, the pack was way up above my head, and to make matters worse the release-ring was facing backwards, so that I had to scrabble about to find the release-ring behind the back of my head. It was a relief, therefore, when there was a violent jerk as the parachute opened, and I was safely on the way down. The aircraft had been at a height of 14,000 feet, and the descent would take about 1/4 hour. After a few seconds, there was a whoomph as the tanks blew up, and I did not know whether anybody else had got clear. There were flashes of light and a rumbling in the distance, which I took to be thunder, but realised later were anti-aircraft fire, also, it was raining hard. As a factual observation, and with no intent to blow my own trumpet, there was no feeling of fear or panic in me - fear only comes when one has an alternative, and in this case there was not one, there was only one thing to do - rather a feeling of annoyance that when I got down I was going to be caught and stuck inside for the rest of the war. One of the advantages of being the navigator was that I had a pretty good idea of where we were; I knew we were over the British side of the lines, but knew also that there was a strong westerly wind which would probably carry me back inside Germany. If you take an average wind-speed on the way down of 80 m.p.h., I was going to drift some 20 miles. It was about 6.30 a.m., and still dark - perhaps just a hint of daylight - “dawn’s left hand was in the sky” (Omar Khayyam) - so I could not see where I was going to land, and in fact plunged down through branches of a tree and hit the ground. The advice was that when you landed, you were supposed to roll your parachute up and hide it. I realised that this was not on, as it was draped over the tree; furthermore, it was an apple - tree in the back garden of a house, and the curtains in one of the bedroom windows parted and a face peered out. So I took off my life - jacket, dumped it, and went down the side path and out of the front gate. Turning left, I heard the sound of marching feet approaching, so I turned right, and in a few minutes was out of the village and in open country. It was now getting light, and the thing to do was to find concealment wherein to [deleted] ly [/deleted] lie up for the day. Soon I found a wood of fir trees, and took
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refuge. First, judging by the sound of gunfire from the west, I knew I was in fact inside Germany. Then I examined the contents of my evasion-pack. This was a flattish plastic box, slightly curved to fit inside the thigh-pocket of a flying suit. It contained a map on silk, razor, rubber water-bottle with a packet of Halazone water-purifying tablets, energy tablets, Horlicks tablets, barley-sugar and chewing-gum, also a small compass of about 1” diameter. And there was a small slab of nut toffee.
My clothes were by this time wet through, and it was cold as well, so I did not have a comfortable day. Set off walking south, as soon as it was dark, keeping clear of the roads and going across country, over ditches full of water, through fences. The intention was to walk into France where I might make contact with the Resistance, and knowing the language would be a help. At daybreak, heavy rain came on again. Hid in a small fir plantation, after taking off wet flying-suit and boots, but could not sleep due to cold and general discomfort. Children with their mother and a couple of dogs passed within a few yards of me, but apparently did not see me. I ate three Horlicks tablets, one piece of toffee and a piece of barley-sugar, which I planned to be my ration for two weeks. It was a bad time of the year for evasion, there being nothing in the fields in the way of berries, fruit or vegetables. I drank from streams or troughs, using the water-bottle and purifying tablets. Set off again at dusk and walked till about 4 a.m., then came across a barn and stepped inside. As soon as it was properly light, I saw that there was a loft full of hay, with a ladder leading up to it, so I went up there, took off wet flying-suit and boots, stuffed them with hay, burrowed well down, and went to sleep. Not that stuffing them with hay did any good – they were still wet and cold when I put them on again. Pushed on again when it was dark, over the waterlogged fields. At daybreak I saw what appeared to be a dilapidated farmhouse, and I approached it with the intention of sleeping therein. It was occupied though; a middle-aged woman came out, and must have recognised me for
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what I was. Obviously, though, she was not in any position to cause trouble; I followed her inside and made sure there was nobody else in residence. She indicated I was to sit at the table, and gave me a few small apples, two slices of bread and two cups of coffee. It was by now broad daylight, so after leaving, there was not time to look for a good place of concealment[?]; the best I could do was a copse with wet brambles in it, so I hid up there for the day, although it was only half a mile or so from the farmhouse and one could expect the German woman to alert the authorities. There was not much sleep that day because I kept waking up with severe cramp, induced no doubt by wearing wet clothes for so long. I decided it was no use going on south, the distance being too great, so I turned back north towards Holland. The reasoning was this :-
[diagram]
There was no way of getting through the lines by going due west – anyway, the River Rhine was in the way, and that would be well-guarded. However, the British advance northwards into Holland had been very rapid, and looked like continuing, so I thought I would head NW round the corner in the lines and either hide up or maybe fall in with the Dutch resistance until the fighting moved on further north. An outside chance, but any chance is better than none.
That night, 21 December, it rained hard again. Towards dawn, I wandered about looking for somewhere dry to sleep. Stayed for a while in a shed beside the road, then it stopped raining so I carried on for another three miles. Found a stack of loose straw, so I dug some out and made a cubby-hole in the side, climbed in and went to
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sleep for the day. Got out at dark, put on flying suit and set out again. That night, it froze, and my flying-suit, being wet, froze stiff and the zips would not work so I could not get at my ration-pack. Suffered pains from cramp again. Walked all night, breaking ice on puddles to drink from. By this time, for various reasons all added together, I was getting light in the head and not thinking very clearly. I came to a railway embankment and climbed up. When I got onto the track, I thought: “This is stupid, all I have to do is walk along till I come to a station and get a train home.” So I turned left and walked along the track for about 20 minutes; seeing the lights of a station ahead, and hearing voices, brough me to my senses, so I got down off the track and pushed on. At daylight, bedded down in a partly-cut wood of fir trees. American bombers passed overhead. Pressed on again at night, and without thinking what I was doing, went through a village instead of skirting round it, as usual. At the far end, there was the click of a rifle-bolt, and a voice: “Halt, wer da?”, so I knew that was the end of my run. “Englische flieger,” I said, and the reply came: “Hande loch[?]”. I had run into a sentry-post. The soldier approached and indicated with his rifle that I should go into the post, which was a dug-out about ten feet square, entered by going down some steps. In it, there was a table, a chair, a bench, and it was heated by a wood-burning stove and lit by a pressure-lamp. The sentry was an oldish chap, well-meaning and obviously not one to make life difficult – he didn’t want any trouble, and I was in no state to give him any anyway. I patted the chest of my flying-suit and said: [five foreign words] and he indicated I should put it on the table, meanwhile keeping me closely covered with his rifle. He indicated also that anything else in my pockets should be put on the table. After that, the atmosphere became less strained, and he provided me with a bowl of soup. Then, seeing my clothes were wet, he told me to take them off and he hung them in front of the stove to dry, giving me his
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blanket to wrap round myself, and indicating that I should lie down on the bench and go to sleep. In the morning he permitted me to shave, using the razor from my evasion-pack, and then gave me a slice of bread and some of his meat-paste. As I said, not a bad old chap at all. By this time, his relief had arrived, and being apprised of the state of affairs, went to fetch another man. With this new man and the old original guard, I walked 8 km. to a fighter aerodrome at Alpen. This was on Christmas Eve. I was taken into the Officers Mess and subjected to all sorts of questions (but not of an operational nature) by those gathered therein. None, as it happened, could speak English, but one spoke French, and he translated for the rest. He asked how many times I had been over Germany, and when I said “eight”, he said that was nothing, he had been over London 66 times. They were interested in my flying gear, and also in the contents of my evasion pack. They gave me some of their dinner, which was a sort of spaghetti bolognese, but I was shunted aside into an alcove to eat it on my own. I was then handed over to their Service Police and made to sit on a stool in the middle of the room, watched over by a surly individual with a rifle. After several hours of this, my back ached, so I moved the stool against the wall, but an outburst and rifle-waving indicated I should stay where I was put. That night, I slept down in a warm cellar, locked in.
The next morning, that is on Christmas Day, I left Alpen with one guard; we walked five kilometres, then got a lift in a car to the nearest station and went by electric train to Dusseldorf. This was one of the R.A.F.’s main targets, and was much knocked about. On the platform I noticed a rat-faced little man going from person to person, talking to them and indicating me with a nod of the head. A few started drifting in my direction, and I didn’t like the look of things at all, but the guard saw what was happening as well and unshouldered his rifle, which caused them to lose interest. Bomber-crews were known throughout Germany as terrorflieger – (terror-flyers), which
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I used to think was unfair, as we were only going about our lawful business, and I don’t suppose German Airmen considered themselves as terrorflieger when they were bombing English towns. On the other hand, one can understand the attitude of civilians. The carpet-bombing of German towns was aimed at breaking the will of the nation as a whole to continue the war, by means of terror and destruction – any factories, military installations or transport facilities were a bonus unless they had been specially pinpointed for attack.
We waited for an hour in the waiting-room, then got a train to Frankfurt-am-Main, via Hagen and Giesen; Giesen had at one time been subject to attack, as the sidings were littered with smashed goods-wagons. It had started to snow by this time, and it was bitterly cold in the train. Civilians sitting opposite were much interested in the nature and qualify of my flying-gear, especially the boots. On detraining at Frankfurt, we walked a few km. to the Aircrew Interrogation Centre at Oberursel and I was handed in to official custody. My flying-gear was all taken away, except for the boots, and I was shoved into a cell in solitary confinement. The cell measured about eight feet by four; there was a bench along one wall with a blanket, a small barred window high up, and a light which never went out. There was a radiator below the window which came on at times during the day, but was off at night, so that it was hard to sleep because of the cold, and to make matters worse, footwear was taken away at night. There was a spyhole in the door, and beside the door, a handle. To go to the toilet, one pulled this handle, which caused a signal-arm to clang down in the corridor outside; this brough along a guard who escorted one back and forth. Outside each cell was a box containing sheets of toilet-paper; the first time, I took two sheets, but it was made very plain to me that the standard ration was just one. Hard luck on anyone who happened to be suffering from a common prisoner-of-war complaint known as the squitters or
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screamers. The daily allowance of food was four slices of bread, one plate of soup and two cups of warm weak coffee without sugar or milk. I presume the object of this solitary confinement, without seeing any one else and with absolutely nothing to do was a sort of weakening-up process, to make one more willing to talk when the time came for interrogation. It didn't bother me a lot, though, as I have always been somewhat solitary by nature.
After two days, I was taken out in the evening and up to a comfortably-furnished softly-lit room, smelling richly of cigar smoke, where an officer started off with general small-talk, then came to Air Force matters. The Geneva Convention states that all a prisoner is obliged to do is give his number, rank and name, which I did. He asked how long it was since I was shot down, and I saw no harm in answering that correctly, but when he said “That would be the night of an attack on Duisburg”, I thought I had said quite enough, and when he asked about squadron number and type of aircraft, I said: “You know I can't give details such as that, sir.” He persisted for a while with other questions, then gave up, and I was taken back to the cell for another couple of days, returning to the same interrogation room and interrogating-officer as before. This time, the approach was somewhat different. He began by remarking on the fact that I wore no identification discs. There were two of these, one round red one and one oblong green one with the corners clipped off. The were made of some sort of fibre, and the red one was fireproof. They were normally worn round the neck, but the string on mine had broken the day before the last flight, and I was intending to renew it when I got back. The dialogue went something like this:-
“There are two things that worry me about you, Sergeant Wagner. Here we have one single man in R.A.F. uniform who cannot, or will not identify himself, and who moreover claims a German name. How do I know you are who you say you are? Some details of your last flight might help to clear things up.”
(I could see what he was getting at – a veiled threat – but I
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explained the matter of the identity-discs, and said I could say no more.) He continued: -
“The second thing is that here we have an airman who has been wandering about in Germany for six days, claiming to have been shot down, but we have no others of the crew, and to crown it all, no wreckage of an aircraft that he came from. How do you explain this?”
“I jumped out over Holland and drifted back into Germany on the way down. Presumably the aircraft disintegrated over British-held territory.”
“Well, as it happens, Sgt. Wagner, I know more about you than you think. You come from 51 Squadron, Snaith, flying Halifaxes. The Commanding Officer is Wing-Commander Holford, and.....”(He went on to name the Navigation Leader, Bombing Leader and Signals Officer.) “You see, I have had other crews from 51 Squadron, and they have said more than you are saying. Now, what I would like to know are what operations you have been on, and what was your route and height to Duisburg. And what was the bomb-load.”
“The bomb-load was no concern of mine – I don’t know what it was. The height varied continually, and I can’t remember the exact routeing. Even if I could, the Geneva Convention only permits me to give Number, Rank and Name.”
At this stage, he desisted, and I was returned to my cell. I was roused at 2 a.m. and given a piece of bread and a cup of coffee. Departed 4 a.m., and walked with about fifty others, mostly Americans, to the station. Waited about for two hours in the cold, then went by train to Wetzlar, not a long journey, about two hours. Marched 4 km. to a camp, searched, given a P.O.W capture-parcel, and allocated a billet in a room of 3-tier bunks containing some 20 men. The Capture-parcel was a small fibre suitcase containing pyjamas, towel, socks, shaving-kit, soap, darning-holdall, toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, chocolate,
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and pipe and tobacco or cigarettes, and came by courtesy of the Red Cross. I dumped this on my bunk, stood up, and recognised the man in the bunk above. This was John Trumble, whom I had done some of my training with in South Africa, and we remained together through the hard times that lay ahead. His face lit up, and he said: ”Waggie!” and I said: “Hello John. A right old turn-up this isn’t it?” He had no other members of his crew with him either, so we teamed up. We spent six days altogether at Wetzlar, which was what would be called, I suppose, an Aircrew Disposal Centre, always cold and hungry, and that took us over into January 1945.
I stayed together with John through many difficulties for the rest of the time in Germany and returned to England with him. I stayed with him for a few days in the summer of 1945, then unfortunately we lost touch with each other, as so often happened in those days. It should not have happened, but it did. I often wondered what had become of him, and after writing the above, resolved to make a determined effort to find him. I knew his address was, in those times, Pottene Park Farm Devizes, but he had no connection with the farm, just lived in a rented cottage there. I thought of writing to the present occupier of the farm, asking him to send my letter on if John was still local, or perhaps he could look in the local telephone directory and see if he was listed. Then it dawned on me – “Phone directory, that’s it”, the library in Wisbech having directories for the whole country, about sixty of them. So I waded through some forty directories, and found several A. Trumble’s, but by a bit of good luck John always used the whole three Christian-name initials, A.H.J., and I located him in a village near Truro. If his name had been Smith or Jones, this method would not have been practical, of course.
There follow now some extracts from a diary I kept at the time, with some notes where further explanation is necessary.
5 Jan. 1945. Posting-lists up in the mess-hall. I am going tomorrow with John to Stalag Luft 7, Bankau, Silesia.
6 Jan. Marched down to station in the afternoon, after being searched and given
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a packet of chewing-gum each. Entrained in 2 cattle-trucks, 25 to a truck. One Red Cross parcel between 2 issued for journey. Half the truck occupied by guards.
7,8,9 January, on the train.
10 Jan. Detrained 0800 and walked up to the camp through deep snow. No greatcoats. Searched. Got a billet with John, & we got organised in a combine with 2 others for food-parcels and meals. Filled a paillasse with wood-shavings.
11 Jan. 1 Red cross parcel per man per fortnight promised, and reasonable German rations. First parade 0915 & the other at 1615. Quite a good library. Snow on the ground all the time, and very cold. Got greatcoat. Walked round perimeter track occasionally.
14 Jan. Went to church service in the evening. (The camp padre was an Army officer, Captain Collins. Air Force padres were, in the nature of things, unlikely to be captured. Captain Collins was a remarkable man, but more of him later. A very large proportion of prisoners attended church services, not I think because there was nothing else to do but because a belief gave a man something to hold onto in difficult times.)
One evening, there was a Russian Air-raid in the vicinity of the camp. I had just put margarine and honey on a slice of bread when the sirens went and the lights were put out, so I put it down on a stool and went to look out of the window. When the lights came on again, no bread. Accusations of theft, but everybody denied responsibility. Then I saw a mangled piece of bread stuck to the rear of another man’s trousers. I scraped it off and ate it.
18 Jan. Warned to be ready to evacuate the camp as the Russians were getting close. Packed case, packed as much food as we could, and wolfed the rest. I was ready to carry case, food parcel, and blanket wrapped round neck. Had to wear flying-boots as no ordinary ones were available. (These were lambswool lined, loose-fitting, and not designed for walking.) Very close Russian bombing. Sleepless night, as we had to be ready to move off any minute.
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(By this time, I had been issued with this identity-tag, and was officially “on the books.” In the event of death, the lower half was broken off and kept for records, the other half was buried with the body.)
[inserted]
19 Jan. Departed 0500 in bitter weather, after hanging about in the cold for a long time. Marched all day, 27 km. to Winterfeld. Had to eat snow as no water was available. spent the night wedged in a very small barn – hardly slept at all.
20 Jan. Wakened 5 a.m. and set off again. Marched all the morning, 12 km. to an abandoned brick-factory at Karlsruhe. Warm and dry. Had something to eat, a brew of coffee, then went to sleep. Feet very bad with blisters, so tied boots on with wire. Started dragging case inside the lid of another abandoned one, towing it along with a bootlace. Much kit jettisoned by the side of the road. Left 2000, as the Russians were getting close again. Marched without stopping all night.
21 Jan. Crossed the Oder 0500 – bridge mined, ready to blow up. Stopped in a village, but no accommodation was available, so pressed on another 5 km., making 41 km. in all (i.e. 25 miles). Many chaps dropped out during the night because of bad feet and exhaustion. Arrived Barrkwitz 1100. Got bed-space in a barn and had something to eat. A bull charged in scattering everybody. When it was ejected, went to sleep.
22 Jan. Roused 0300, as Russians were still pressing on Issued with a few carraway biscuits. The Germans had a bit of a job getting the chaps moving again, and there was some shooting. Pushed on 16 km. to Jenkwitz, arriving at noon. Moved some cattle out of a barn and got a bed-space organised. Warm, but very damp and smelling strongly of cattle. Ration 1 cup of coffee, 1/2 a biscuit and marge.
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(Coffee issued by the Germans was made of acorns roaster and ground up, and with milk and sugar from Red Cross parcels was not too bad at all.)
23 Jan. Left 0900. Marched 25 km. to Wassen[?]. Small bread issue and 1 cup of soup.
24 Jan. Spent the day at Wassen[?] trying to get some rest.
25 Jan. Left 0600 and marched 27 km. (17 miles) to Heidersdorf.
26 Jan. Stayed the day at Heidersdorf. Ration 2/5 of a loaf, and marge.
27 Jan. Left 1100 and marched 24 km. to Pfaffendorf, arriving at 1700. Small barn, wretched cramped bed-space, underneath a ladder – grain falling down from above all the time. Made up a double bed with John.
28 Jan. Left 0400; did 22 km. to Stansdort, in bitter weather, a fierce cold wind and driving snow. (You could rake your finger-nails down your face and not feel a thing, a real blizzard.) Arrived noon, dead-beat. Ration 4 biscuits and ½ cup of soup. (The German soup was watery in the extreme. There were two varieties – a) made from shredded dried turnip, and b) a less popular variety made from a very dark green cabbage of some sort, like spinach, known to the consumers as Whispering Grass, after a well-known song at the time.) Cold uncomfortable bed-space. Left 1830, still dragging case – nothing jettisoned. Collected 2 packets of hard biscuits (8 in all) outside a town after 3 km. Walked all night through a fierce blizzard – heavy snow, roads sometimes blocked, so had to clamber through drifts. Much transport abandoned. Many more chaps dropped out during this night.
29 Jan. Very heavy going. Slow halting freezing march. Arrived Peterwitz 0200 in an exhausted condition. Got a good warm ample bed-space; made a double bed with John and turned in, too tired even to wait for soup from the field-kitchen.
30 and 31 Jan. Spent at Peterwitz, resting.
1 Feb. Left 1000 and did 17 km. to Prausnitz.[?] Snow thawed half way, so had to start carrying case, and found it very heavy. Small dirty farmyard, absolutely crowded. However, got a good dry bed-space upstairs
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in a barn, by a water-cistern. Much brewing of coffee and porridge on fires in the farmyard. Soup twice a day from the field-kitchens.
[underlined] 2, 3, 4 Feb. [/underlined] At Prausnitz. On the evening of the 4th, issued with marching rations – 1/3 loaf, 1/3 tin of liver-paste, & some margarine. Although you could not style our progress as “marching” – we shambled along in a dejected shabby column, with German guards along the sides accompanied by Alsations.
[underlined] 5 Feb. [/underlined] Roused 0400; left 0700 and did 7 km. to Goldberg. Slight rain. Stole some sugar-beet along the way and gnawed at it. Packed into cattle trucks at the station, 55 men to a truck, and locked in. (These trucks, common on the continent, bore the legend 40 hommes, 8 chevaux, so we were well over the limit. There was not even enough room for everyone to sit down. There was a small barred window in each corner, also one large tin for toilet purposes. The vicinity of this tin was not rated very highly.) Travel slow, with many long halts of 7 to 8 hours.
[underlined] 6, 7, 8 Feb. [/underlined] On the train. Very hungry. Ate some spoonfuls of flour, barley and sugar mixed, from a cocoa tin. No water. Bought a crust of bread from Eddie, which he found beside the track, for tobacco.
9 Feb. Arrived at Luckenwalde, 23 miles S.W. of Berlin, 0800, feeling very weak. Marched 5 km. up to the camp, Stalag IIIA. Much hanging about. Brewed coffee. Queued up all the afternoon and had a hot shower. Got a billet with John – not too bad a position, on the floor on wood-straw, underneath a window. Warm and light anyhow, and room to stretch out. Porridge and potatoes from the Germans and a cup of soup from our own field kitchen.
10 Feb. Changed into pyjamas and washed dirty clothes. Had a shave.
11 Feb. German rations 1/6 loaf, 5 potatoes, 1/3 litre of soup, and German tea in the morning and evening. (This tea was a herbal mixture, and with milk and sugar made a reasonable drink. A count was held in the mornings early, to find who wanted their tea brewed and who wanted the mixture dry, to smoke – it was just like herbal tobacco. The potatoes were grown in a field near the camp, the crop being fertilised with the contents of the latrine (or “abort” in German), and were boiled in their skins.)
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[Newspaper cutting from “The Prisoner of War” dated May 1945, detailing the journey of prisoners to Stalag Luft VII and the conditions in Stalag IIIA, Luckenwalde]
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12 Feb. Wrote home. (This letter, however, did not arrive.) Bad attack of dysentery, which made me even weaker – nearly everybody had it. (This was brought on by eating raw or undercooked food, insufficient bulk, the freezing conditions of the march, and by general weakness and lack of resistance. For the first few days at Luckenwalde, everyone just lay on the floor, listless and apathetic, except for occasional dashes to the abort – not everyone made it in time!)
14 Feb. Usual day, weak with hunger and dysentery.
16 Feb. and thereafter, a succession of wretched days, very little food. Listened to BBC news brought round and read out daily in each barrack block, received on an illicit radio. This was known to the Germans, but they failed to unearth the set. Anyway, even if they did, there were others in reserve. Shaved and washed once a week. Two roll-call parades in the freezing cold every day, between 30 minutes and an hour each.
[photograph of the bunks]
Three-tier bunks of the type encountered at [indecipherable word] prison camps such as Bankau. At Luckenwalde we just lay on the floor.
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[photograph of ‘feeding quarters’]
Feeding-quarters for a “combine” of six.
[photograph] Luckenwalde. Bringing up one barrock-block’s daily ration of soup. The tub was known as a “keevil”. Blankets airing on the barbed-wire. [/photograph]
This was not the outer perimeter of the camp – there was the no-man’s land of some 50 yards, then the proper fence interspersed with towers (known as “goon boxes”) occupied by machine gunners. The term “goon” was used slightingly of all Germans, named after a comic-strip of the time – The Goons were a stupid shapeless lot of sub-humans. All
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Germans were treated with contempt by R.A.F. Prisoners.
[photograph of prisoners exercising}
Prisoners from the “cooler” at exercise. The usually got there for insulting the guards.
[photograph of soldiers in compound]
American compound. The Americans were late arrivals; all the huts were occupied, so they were accommodated in tents.
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[photograph of soldiers cooking]
Americans operating their cooking-stove, known as “blowers” or “Smokey Joes”, worked by means of a forced-draught propelled along a tunnel by a fan. All made from good-tins and pieces of wood. John's and my Smokey Joe stood on a base detached from over the doorway to the abort. The abort, by the way, was in a long hut, wooden box-like structures, perforated at suitable intervals, over a deep trench, and accommodating about 30 people. It was a social meeting-place and the centre for gathering and passing on rumours.
27 Feb. On fatigue. Slept last night fully dressed because it was so cold. Up 0600, in the dark, collected keevil and went down for tea. Parade. Breakfast. Another parade for blanket inspection. Had a wash and shave in cold water in a dirty wash-place. Afternoon roll-call 1700, then a Red Cross parcel issue, one between four, which greatly improved morale. Shared it out and had some real food. Then the sirens went and the lights went out, so turned in.
Parcel issue was not usually as convenient as this – it was often one between seven or one between nine, which made sharing difficult. Some people made nearly all the contents of their parcels into a sort of solid cake, known as “glop”, but we preferred to use one item at a time.
In 1982, I went to a Stalag Luft 7 reunion at Nottingham,
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and this is the menu and address to those present. Note the amounts stated in the menu, maintaining the tradition of difficult share-outs. How do you share six prunes between ten?
[menu missing]
Klim was dried powdered milk from American Red Cross parcels. The Limburg fish-cheese is worthy of note. It came in wooden
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boxes which, when opened, revealed about twenty oval flattish cakes covered with some sort of skin, and gave off an appalling stench. The only way of eating this delicacy was to strip off the skin, liberally douse the content with pepper and salt, hold your nose, and consume the cheese with the utmost despatch. There were not many takers, so there was plenty for those with stomachs strong enough to take it, but over-consumption could precipitate an attack of the squitters.
A few other items from this programme:-
Amongst the “sporting activities”, we find Louse Hunting. Lice thrived in the crowded insanitary conditions. If you have not had the privilege of encountering any, they were flat dirt-grey insects, hard-shelled – if you squeezed one between your fingers, it had no effect. The lurked in the seams of clothing, so had to be winkled out and crushed between thumb-nails, and there was a little spot of blood if they had recently fed. They carried, of course, the germs of typhus, and the Germans were always much perturbed to hear of increased infestation – any plague would have swept like wildfire through the camp, and while I don’t suppose the effect on prisoners would have worried them a great deal, it would eventually have affected the Germans themselves.
Dog-walking to Kreuzberg. Kreuzberg was the nearest town, and any prisoner requiring dental or medical treatment had to walk there, accompanied by a guard and the inevitable Alsatian.
Goon-baiting, which accounted for the majority of the inmates of the “cooler”, and was a popular sport aimed at making the Germans feel uncomfortable. I don’t think it took place much in Army camps, as soldiers were used to taking orders and doing as they were told, but aircrew were more rebellious independent spirits inclined to follow their own dictates. In a bomber-crew, for instance, the pilot was the captain, and any decision must ultimately be his, but he rarely had to give orders; in case of necessity, he took advice from the appropriate crew-member, a specialist who knew more than he did, weighed up the advice and then made his decision, but it was more a matter of consensus than orders. Goon-baiting usually consisted of telling the Germans that their country was finished, in ruins, that
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they had been misled, and that things were going to be tough for them. Ferreting came into the same category of making the Germans feel uncomfortable and inferior. A ferret was a member of the camp staff who prowled around looking for illegal activity, and was dealt with by the “duty pilot” system. The airman on duty, accompanied by a runner and a tail, would take up position at the entrance to the compound. When a ferret appeared, his name and time of arrival would be written down, making sure that he knew what was happening. The runner was sent off to go into each hut and call out : “Goon in the block”. The “tail” followed closely behind the ferret, making his presence felt. If the ferret turned round and remonstrated with him, he melted away into the crowd and a replacement took over. The object of all this was to inform the Germans that the compound was our preserve and that they only came in under sufferance.
And now a tribute to Captain John Collins, the Stalag Luft 7 padre. Read again the paragraph that describes him; every word is true, but words alone cannot do him justice. Where most of us were trudging along, heads down, concerned only for ourselves, he would appear at different parts of the column, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing down, so that everybody had a share of inspiration from his company. I can picture him now, face reddened by the blizzard, always cheerful, always optimistic, his arm round the shoulder of a man beginning to despair, carrying his gear for a little way as well as his own, then a pat on the back and off to find someone else. And the man he had just left thought: “If he can bloody well do it, so can I.” Truly a “man among men”, and I am sure his inspiration did save lives.
I kept some record of day-to-day events while at Luckenwalde, on odd scraps of paper: here is one such, written on the end-paper of a library-book, and making the best use of available space: -
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[pencilled notes indecipherable]
and on another scrap, a drawing of a Halifax; John, being a Lancaster man, asked me to do it so that we could see the differences between the two types:-
[pencil drawing]
MH were the identification letters of 51 Squadron.
16 March. Germans cut rations to potatoes every other day, 1/6 of a loaf a day, and half margarine and sugar rations.
21 March. Cold. High wind blowing dust all over the place. Difficult day for Smokey Joe – cut up a Klim[?] tin and made a windshield for him. Issue of 1 American Red Cross No. 10 per man – prunes, chocolate
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peanut butter, tuna, plum jam, Camel cigarettes. 3 wrapped chocolate for raisins. News good today – Worms, Ludwigshafen, Neustadt and Homburg taken. Germans in chaos all along the line.
24 March. Twenty-two today. They’ll probably be thinking of me at home and wondering what sort of birthday I’m having. (There had been no news for them from 19 Dec. to 6 March, so they had only heard less than three weeks before.) Shifted dirty straw from bedspace and burned it, in response to an anti-typhus purge by the Germans, so we lay on the bare boards thereafter.
27 March. Issue of the dreaded Limburg fish cheese. Got a bundle of wood from a Russian for 2 cigarettes. Diphtheria broke out in our barrack – block – enforced gargling the opening of windows.
30 March. Good Friday. Washed, shaved, & put on hair-grease. (This was an issue of an evil-looking black grease, much resembling axle-grease, which it may well have been. Goodness knows why they issued it.) Cleaned shoes. Parade by main gate 0920 for church – The Seven Words from the Cross, by Captain Collins.
2 April. Day dragged interminably. Made some prune jam, but it was cold and windy, a bad day for Smokey Joes.
5 April. Issue of 1 American Red Cross No. 10 per man. One more and they will all be finished – time to tighten belts again. Destruction of German rail-system and rolling-stock by the R.A.F. prevents supply of more parcels.
11 April. This evening, it was announced that a partial evacuation from Luckenwolde would begin tomorrow. All officers going, & N.C.O.’s from Barrack 3 and 33 from Barrack 7. John and I volunteered to be among the 33 because we thought the others might not get transport and would have to march. Packed kit and shared our food for carrying; we had a whole case full of tins of food stored up, a little from every parcel.
12 April. Called out to move off after soup 1100. Much checking and roll-calls. Search, just before which we had to get cracking in a hurry and puncture all our tins. Nothing taken, except they took one of John’s blankets. Marched down to Luckenwolde station. We had our
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blower[?] with us – John insisted on bringing it, and just outside the station we set it down and had a hot brew, which was very welcome although it was a hot day. Issue of 40 cigarettes per man. Entrained in cattle trucks, 40 per truck. Stole porage[sic] oats from a nearby train. (Looking up through the floorboards of a truck, we saw sacks inside. On being slit open with a knife, a steady stream of oats came through a wide crack, which was much appreciated by those in the vicinity.) Sleeping-space cramped, but I have been in worse. Very hot and stuffy – no ventilation.
13 April. Up 0600 & brewed up. Had bread, then stewed prunes. Talk by Wing Commander in charge of the party. Bombing of the line down at Treuenbrietzen means we can’t leave here for some time. BBC news read out during evening, also it was announced we go back to camp tomorrow.
14 April. Up 0600. Porridge, thin bread. Results of trading with German civvies – ½ loaf, 2 onions, 6 eggs, 30 saccharine tablets, and 4 lbs of potatoes for 65 cigarettes and 2 bars of soap. Marched back to camp and got organised in our same barrack. While we were away, 2 R.A.F. chaps shot trying to climb the wire – “stir-crazy”, I suppose.
17 April. Issue of 1 parcel between 2. That is the last now. Water turned off nearly all day.
18 April. News good today. Our advance appears to have slowed down, but the Russians have started a big push on the Berlin front, and are doing well. Organisation going ahead for running the camp ourselves when the Germans leave.
20 April. Bombing of Potsdam and Wriezenburg[sic] by U.S. heavies. Lovely fine day. Clouds of smoke over target. Made out a list of food in stock and rationed it to last 5 weeks. This evening there was a feeling in the air that something was going to happen, but there was no definite news. Russian artillery plainly heard, red glows in the sky.
21 April. Heard German staff moving out with lorries, tractors and cars during the night. Not called out on parade this morning. A few German guards still left, but not many. Russian tank crews brought in – short imprisonment for them. Looting of German staff quarters, but not much to be had. Prisoners record-cards from the camp offices were distributed – here
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is mine:-
[blank page]
Dull rainy day. Wing Commander Beamont[?] (who later became chief pilot for English Electric, and was in charge of test-flying Camberras and Lightnings), announced that the Germans had left, the camp was surrounded, and the Russians were fighting in Luckenwalde and Juterbog last night.
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22 April. Slept fully dressed last night in case we had to make a dash for the trenches. French and British flags flying at the gate, and a big red Russian one over the cookhouse. White flags at intervals round the perimeter barbed wire. At 1030 Russian tanks and lorries arrived in force. All the Russian prisoners were given rifles and moved out straight away, anxious to kill Germans. (Russia was not a signatory to the Geneva Convention for treatment of prisoners of war, and they had a terrible time of it in the camp, almost starved or worked to death. The same treatment was accorded to German prisoners held by the Russians.)
Artillery duel just outside the camp in the evening, between Germans hiding in a wood and a party of Russians.
[pencilled notes indecipherable]
The next few pages are photo-copies of the part of Wing Commander Beamont’s[?] book The War in the Air, which deals with the liberation of Luckenwalde.
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THE WAR IN THE AIR
then came the end in Europe. For some it was sudden: the nights suddenly quiet because no engines had to be tested for the dawn; the days suddenly long because they knew there would be a tomorrow. But for others, in the prisoner-of-war camps, it was a more drawn-out affair.
THE LONG LIBERATION
10th April. After weeks of better and better news, and of resigning ourselves to waiting for a few more weeks until final liberation, strated [sic] by our fighters, it will be an amazing stroke of fortune (and I know well enough what 20-mm can do to trains). However should this move come off, my policy will be to try and stay behind with the sick. This is the allied target area – not Munich.
Two days ago we saw a Mosquito release a cloud of leaflets overhead at about 20,000 feet. Intelligence reports that the contents are telling Russian prisoners-of-war that they will be liberated within ten to fifteen days.
The Russians have been literally starved by the goons and are dying in dozens of TB. The hospital is crammed with them. We had collections of food which we can hardly spare for them. Meanwhile great preparation of emergency food. Am fairly well off this time. One lives and learns. Over and above the Red Cross parcel I have acquired six chocolate bars, a tin of fish and three pounds of chocolate pemmican by judicious trading during the past weeks. So even without food from the Germans I should have nearly two weeks food at a bare living rate. In addition I have just traded a blue sweater and a pair of Jack Sharkies for two boxes of prunes, value 2s. 6d. But two days' food.
Midday. Germans announce officially that we move tomorrow. Have sent name in as unfit to travel – this is only partially true. But one risk is as good as another and I prefer this one as a fat better chance of liberation.
11th April. We have informed the Germans that this move is being carried out entirely without our co-operation. The only possible reason must be that we are intended to be held as hostages in the last stronghold in the mountainous area of Munich.
3 pm, Thursday, 12th April. After another night of tension, the camp was marched out to entrain for the incredible journey through the battle area to Munich this morning. As a notable change from the normal practice the move took place to the endless accompaniment of 'bitte,' absolutely no 'Raus! Raus!” at all.
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Even more amazing, my scheme has come off. I have been left behind with the sick bods against all the advice of the well-meaning older kriegies who were, I think, suffering from a surfeit of sour grapes. This was the best chance, and now, not three hours after the main party had gone, comes the news that the allies have cut the Magdeburg – Berlin autobahn. They could be here tomorrow.
The suspense is something of which I have never experienced the like. Waiting for a big low-attack show is a tea party in comparison! Atmosphere is electric.
The German officer on appel said, when I asked permission to remove a partition in a block for a new camp office: ‘One does not start a new building at five to twelve.’ At least they know the form.
The main party was still reported at the station, having spent the night in the trucks waiting for an engine which the Reichbahn [sic] people think is unlikely to materialise.
At 9.30 pm we received word that the boys were coming back as transport is impossible. Tank spearheads are reported at Brandenburg, Wittenberg – thirty miles from here – north of Halle and Leipzig. We are directly in front of the three-pronged thrust, and nothing short of fantastic ill-fortune can prevent our freedom in the next few days.
Saturday, 14th April. We worked late into last night trying to repair the damage in the blocks, caused by the departed kriegies themselves. In seven barracks there was hardly a serviceable bed. After appeals we received about fifteen per cent assistance in the big job of making sure that the returning boys would have at least a place to sleep. It is galling, the number of men who are not in the least concerned about the welfare of their friends and think only about themselves.
Still, somehow we arranged things and this morning the first party came in at 10 am, to the accompaniment of clapping and cheering from the Poles, and a loud chorus of ‘Hey, hey, the gang’s all here!’ from the Americans, accompanied by a trumpet, a violin and a mouth organ.
During yesterday’s appel we held a two minutes’ silence at attention in memory of Roosevelt who died yesterday. Particularly effective as the Americans were not on appel at the time, and remarkable
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because the company of German guards, who had paraded and were about to march off, remained at attention with us.
Reminder that the Germans are still in control came last night when two RAF NCOs attempted to climb the wire at the eleventh hour. One attacked a sentry with a bottle and was shot and killed. The other wounded. Bloody fools.
15th April. Terrific raid on Berlin suburb about twelve miles north of here last night. Made London show seem quite insignificant. Incredible din and display. Patton has a security blackout on the drive across the Elbe at Magdeburg. It is fifty miles away and is heading for us. Groups of kriegies stand in the compound all day staring south-west.
The atmosphere has more than expectancy, however, as the abort, always unsavoury, has sprung a leak.
Today’s big tragedy – I sat on my pipe and broke it.
Monday, 16th April. Tantalising news that the camp at Magdeburg to which the remainder of Luft 3 were sent from Sagen, has been liberated intact! When will our turn come?
Tuesday, 17th April. Another great Fortress raid passed over this morning. Mustangs and Thunderboirs [sic] are constantly in sight. Every thud and explosion, every flash of light in the sky is taken to be an indication of the advancing Americans.
Stalag II A consisting of some 4,000 Allied soldiers was evacuated into this area last week and, having arrived, had nowhere to go. They are living in the open, with no food supplies and no medical attention, and are in a tragic condition. The SBO sent our last reserve of Red Cross parcels to them yesterday together with two doctors and drugs.
Four hundred Russian sick were suddenly taken from our camp yesterday for destination unknown.
Wednesday, 18th April. Day after day, rumours add to the tension. The Russians are advancing fifty miles to the east, the Allies form miles to the west and south, but we are still here! The new optimisty [sic] has not borne fruit and now there is a new situation: no more Red Cross food.
Thursday, 19th April, night. The strain of boredom of the last few days was relieved at midnight when the Wing Commanders were routed out for a meeting with the SBO. His office was crammed with
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a circle of figures crouched round the table upon which lay a map of the area and two guttering lamps. He told us that the Russians had broken through south-east of us, were less than thirty miles away, and that the Germans proposed to march the whole camp unit of 4,000 prisoners-of-war in hostile country with no destination and no supplies of food or drugs, and most probably no shelter. The whole district is a battle area and such an action on the part of the goons cannot but have tragic results.
Friday, 20th April, morning. Still no further action by the Germans. We have our remaining food stocks packed and ready. Whether we go or stay, there will be no more food in a week’s time. With the possibility of freedom nearer than it has ever been, the chance of getting the chop is rather great. But to hell with the war! The only course is to relapse into one’s normal state of mental rigidity and sunbathe.
Saturday, 21st April. The most amazing day of my life. All night fires raged, guns thundered, and cannon shattered and at dawn a violent tank battle took place at Luckenwalde. Juterbog, twelve miles to the south, is in flames. FW 190s are ground-strafing within sight at all times. In short we are in the front line.
(By now most of the German guards had deserted, leaving the prisoners in charge of their own camp).
We are in the most critical of all stages now. Nearly free but without news of relieving forces, and in this country of brutality and horror anything might happen yet.
We know that the Russians are all round us. Perhaps they will be here tomorrow. I win £30 if they are. It is grand to have a job again. Quite a strange thing using a telephone!
Hell! An FW 190 has just strafed the whole length of the camp. I must go and see if there have been casualties.
Midnight, and no casualties. The organisation is almost complete. Amazingly enough the telephone network is operating and I have a set in my temporary office-cum-bedroom now. Very tired, have checked and arranged pickets on the of the NCOs’ compound.
Sunday, 22nd April, midday. Russians are here in force. Fighting all round. Local tank commander’s attitude is very brusque and dogmatic. I don’t think they like us very much. Tanks charging up and down have torn up our communications and in places the wire.
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The French are hysterical, the British a little less so, and the Norwegians are calm. The Americans are reported only a few miles away. I hope they get here before this comedy becomes a tragedy.
At long last the Red Air Force’s close support Aira-Cobras, Yaks, and Stormoviks fly above us. So do the Luftwaffe, putting up a brave show to the last. It was fascinating to watch a silver dart of a Messerschmitt delta jet dive straight down on to a formation of forty Fortresses, then Bang! bang! and a Fortress fell away while the Me 163 shot straight up into cloud.
In another scrap two Me 109’s shot down three out of twelve Aira-Cobras without loss. The Aira-Cobras were flying in formation under cloud. I caught a glimpse of the 109s as they dived straight astern, shot down two of the Cobras, and whipped up into cloud leaving the rest of the formation running round in circles wondering what had happened. Farther on the Me 109s came down again through another hole in the cloud and destroyed the third Aira-Cobra. They suffered no loss themselves.
1 pm. The Russians depart leaving us in temporary control. They have brought up a quantity of flak already, so it seems as if the area is nearly stabilised. However there are still plenty of bangs, and plenty of great unneighbourliness in this area.
The news announces tanks penetrating deep into Berlin.
Evening. Violent fighting in the woods to the north. Shells whistling and screaming overhead, and 109s dive-bombing the autobahn. The Russians have added heavy flak to their set-up here. The din is fantastic. More fierce fighting on the boundaries and cannon-strafing by Junkers 88s. Two Serbs and a number of Russians killed in the fighting round the camp. Violent action between a Russian tank and Germans as it left the main gate. The Russians seemed to win. They have taken General Ruge with them to fly him to Moscow. This leaves the SBO as the senior Allied CO.
(Undated.) Told officers and pickets to dissuade the men from going through the wire if possible, but if told to ‘b------- off’, to ‘b-------- off’ promptly and avoid incident. Then talked to the chaps in the blocks and reported to the SBO. Suggested that all compounds should be open, giving free circulation throughout the whole camp but within the wire. Bed at 2.30 am. Strafed by a Ju 88 at 4 am. Cannon shells all over the shop but fortunately no casualties.
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[typewritten script from The War in the Air]
1945
8 am. Another direct threat to officers. Three sections of the wire cut away and Army NCOs loose. The RAF hanging-fire though pretending to follow Army lead. Walked into each barrack and addressed the men. Think I put the position over and am more certain than ever the trouble is due to just one or two bad characters. At one point nearly used the SBO’s authority to throw the worst types into the cooler, but steered clear. Am sure freedom of circulation within the whole camp would ease the situation.
This is the worst couple of days in my experience without exception. The feeling of the possibility that we might lose control of a mass of desperate men, under condition of front-line war and artillery shells, machine-guns, rifles, aircraft cannon and bombs going off all round, is inclined to be unpleasant. I think we can hold our own, but it is not a comfortable position.
Russians killed off four German wounded hiding in the woods. Nice people!
Stormoviks and Yaks in great numbers today. They seem to operate well on their side of the front! Dog-fights between four Aira-Cobras and one Me 109 overhead this afternoon. The Russians seem to weave violently at all times. The Yak is a good little fighter in the Spitfire class.
Our pet Junkers 88 low-strafed us with front guns again in the moonlight. Plenty return 20-mm fire from the town. Very interesting to be at the other end for a change. I admire these Luftwaffe boys for carrying on to the grim end.
A Russian patrol found four French POWs in a house outside the camp with some women. Russians shot and killed the Frenchmen for refusing to obey an order. They probably wanted the women for themselves.
Our own trouble has died down for the moment. We have averted a riot I suppose, but in actual practise discipline as such is gone.
Wednesday. Still no Americans. This waiting is tricky. Plenty of food now when at odd moments I can find time to eat. Yesterday I had my first hot drink and a meal of bread and rhubarb at 3.30 pm. The Russians are giving us all they can. Very friendly now and much back slapping, but no respect.
Thursday. Situation tense again in my compound. NCOs are not the
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slightest bit prepared to meet the officers half-way, and are quite certain that we are there to make life unpleasant.
In all this turmoil the thought that we are no longer in fact prisoners-of-war and should be home soon is difficult to grasp and is not in the least exciting.
Saturday. So ends this demoralising week of passing on and handing out orders that one knows perfectly well will not be carried out. Held a roll parade to check ration strength this morning. The men took a lot of persuasion and diplomacy to turn out for that. Last night the news of a link-up between the Americans and Russians at Torgau cheered everyone immensely. The later report that a jeep bearing three American war correspondents had been seen on the way to Berlin should do much to settle the present unrest.
Watched a Mig shoot down a 190 in four short bursts. Very pretty.
Wednesday. Ten days since the Germans left. One of the biggest battles we have seen is now raging on the north-east and northern borders of the camp. Rifle and tommy-gun fire is incessant and mortar duel is in progress with us in no-man’s land. The radio has announced the release of all camps taken by the Americans and British, but has said nothing of us. Our people must be worried. So are we.
Thursday, 1800 hours. The first Yanks in the camp. Two war correspondents in a jeep from the lines at Magdeburg. They are taking taking Beatty, our press correspondent, back with them tomorrow and he will fly to Eisenhower’s headquarters with our records. Maybe things will start moving. All the boys want to push off west and are doing so in increasing numbers. I would be right with them if I hadn’t this damned responsibility. Wrote a brief note home and put it in the jeep. It might get through.
Friday. Sunshine. Many more people walking west. Two hundred of the men from this compound alone walked out yesterday. The position is intolerable. We can and should march the camp west to the Elbe with of course the Russian’s approval. The Americans are at Wittenberg. Only thirty miles away – one day or so on a bicycle.
1600 hours. American colonel from Davescourt headquarters here, said our evacuation starts at once! Trucks arriving tonight and we shall be flown home. Can it be true! Shall we, shall I be out of this country of death and home in England? It is almost too much to expect.
Wing Commander ROLAND BEAMONT’S dairy,[sic] quoted by EDWARD LANCHBERY
It was too much to expect. The Americans sent the trucks, the Russians sent them back. It was another two weeks before they got home.
[/typewritten script from The War in the Air]
[page break]
Enclosed below is an account of the last days at Luckenwalde from my own point of view, and the journey home.
[pencilled notes indecipherable]
On one of our private forging parties, John and I fell in with some Polish prisoners who had been employed at the factory making V1 flying bombs. None of us could speak the other side’s language, so everything was done by signs. We went back to their billet with them, and they produced enamel mugs and bottles of spirit, looking like lemon-barley water, which we gathered was fuel for the flying-bombs, and must have been almost pure alcohol. Some was poured on a table, a match applied, and it went “whoomph.” We imbibed a fair quantity of this, and were soon blotto. We staggered back to camp and sagged down to sleep it off; woke up with a raging thirst and had a drink of water. This had the effect of re-activating the spirit, setting the whole
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[pencilled notes indecipherable]
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business in motion again, so we were back in square one.
I see “Stinger” is referred to here and there. This was Staff Sergeant Nettell of the Glider Pilot Regiment, the senior N.C.O. in our hut, and something of a comedian. Rumours were rife towards the end, our prisoners were somewhat apprehensive about what the Germans might have in store for them. One day, Stinger came into the hut, called for silence, and announced: “Everyone in this hut – is to parade outside in five minutes time – to march down to the stores – to draw picks and shovels – to dig their own graves.” I thought: “So it’s come to that, has it?” There was a stunned silence for a moment, then laughter broke out – Stinger and his jokes again!
The Russians were very reluctant to let us go, and our impatience mounted. American army lorries arrived on 6 May to take us away, but the Russians sent them away empty. The next day, prisoners started off trickling away on their own, walking westwards, and John and I set off in a part of about a dozen. After walking about 7 miles, we met another convoy of American lorries heading for the camp. One of them picked us up, turned around, and set off towards the west, finishing up at a P.O.W. reception centre at Schonebeck, in what was a Junkers aircraft factory. So on 7 May we were once again in safe hands. The war officially ended the next day with unconditioned German surrender.
11 May.
Embarked in lorries and proceeded via Magdeburg and Brunswick to an ex-German fighter aerodrome at Hildesheim. Had a hot shower and a de-lousing. In the latter operation, an orderly put the nozzle of a large syringe down the front of one’s trousers and sent a blast of DDT round the interior. Assigned to an aircraft party. Got a Red Cross parcel containing soap (toilet, tooth and shaving), shaving-brush razor and blades, 2 handkerchiefs, tooth-brush, face-cloth, toilet-bag, 50 cigarettes and ½ lb of chocolate. Soup, bread, coffee and a K-ration for tea.
12 May. Called out to the aerodrome after breakfast. A steady stream
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of Dakotas was coming in, filling up and taking off again. Took off 1600, flew over the devastated areas of the Ruhr, and landed at Brussels 1800. Tea and biscuits from the Naafi waggon. Transported in lorries to 42 R.H.U. at Louvain, about 12 miles out. Deloused once again.
13 May. Taken back to Brussels Airport in the afternoon, got aboard a Dakota and flew back to England via Ostend and the Thames Estuary. Landed at Wing, near Aylesbury. Deloused yet again – they must have thought those lice were pretty hardy characters, to have survived two previous assaults. After more tea and biscuits, transported to Bicester aerodrome, where we stayed the night. Bacon and egg, bread and marmalade, for tea.
14 May. Train to Cosford, near Wolverhampton. Given new uniform and kit, went through documentation, give ration cards and leave passes, and pay. Medical exam.
15 May. Left late in the afternoon, travelled through the night, and arrived at Reading 0430. Two hours to wait for a train to Twyford, and another ½ hour for one to Henley. When I arrived home the rest of the family were still in bed and I had to knock them up.
The following letters are in order, as received by my mother. The original telegram has not survived, but it read: “Deeply regret to inform you your son Sgt. H. Wagner failed to return from an operational flight over enemy territory this morning. Pending receipt of written notification no information to be given to the Press.”
* Letters on page numbered 90 onwards.
[page break]
[newspaper cuttings relating the heroism of the aircrews of Bomber Command]
[page break]
[Three newspaper cuttings on Bomber Command – the third worded as follows:]
The campaign fought by Bomber Command was the longest and the most sustained in British military history. It lasted from September 1939 to May 1945. It cost the lives of 57,000 of its aircrew – Britons, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans – a total which represents well over half of all those who flew on operations. Nowhere else was the casualty rate so high, perhaps because nowhere else was battle joined with the enemy on such a continuous and relentless scale.
They were all young men, all highly-trained. They came to England from all over the Empire, to volunteer for and to create the last Imperial force there would ever be. In the darkest days they were a symbol that ultimately their world would triumph, whatever the cost. They were a special breed, on a special crusade, and possessed it seemed of a special courage. They did not ask to live, but only to win.
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51
in charge, rumours were rife, and prisoners were somewhat apprehensive about what the Germans might have in store for them. One day, Stinger came into the hut, called for silence
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89
of Dakotas was coming in, filling up and taking off again. Took off 1600, flew over the devastated areas of the Ruhr, marvelling at the damned good job we had made of it, and landed at Brussels 1800. Tea and biscuits from the Naafi waggon [sic]. Transported in lorries to 42 R.H.U. At Louvain, about 12 miles out. De-loused once again, tea, and turned in.
13 May. Taken back to Brussels Airport in the afternoon, got aboard a Dakota and flew back to England via Ostend and the Thames Estuary. Landed at Wing, near Aylesbury. De-loused yet again – they must have considered the lice pretty hardy characters to have survived two previous assaults. After more tea and biscuits, transported to Bicester aerodrome, where we stayed the night. Bacon and egg, bread and marmalade, and tea.
14 May. Train to Cosford, near Wolverhampton. Given new uniform and kit, went through documentation, given ration cards, leave passes, and pay. Medical exam.
15 May. Left late in the afternoon, travelled through the night, and arrived at Reading 0430. Two hours to wait for a train to Twyford, and another 1/2 hr. for one to Henley. When I arrived home, the rest of the family were still in bed, and I had to knock them up.
There followed several days of seeing old friends and places again, writing to parents of the rest of my crew, playing golf, servicing motorcycle and generally relaxing and feeling glad to be home again and to be able to wander as I pleased. The following letters are in order as received by my mother. The original telegram has not survived, but it read; “Deeply regret to inform you your son Sgt. H. Wagner failed to return from an operational flight over enemy territory this morning. Pending receipt of written notification no information to be given to the Press.”
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90
No. 51 Squadron,
R.A.F. Station,
Snaith,
Nr. Goole,
Yorkshire.
Reference:- 51S/801/251/P.1.
18th December, 1944.
Dear Mrs. Wagner
It is with the deepest regret that I have to confirm the news already conveyed to you by telegram to-day, that your Son, 1604744 Sergeant H.W. Wagner, failed to return from an operational flight over enemy territory this morning.
Your Son was acting in his capacity of Navigator in an aircraft which took-off during the early hours of this morning to deliver an attack on a target at Duisburg, and I regret that nothing was heard of the aircraft or its crew after the time of take-off.
The loss of this crew is a sad blow to all of us here, particularly so in the case of your Son, who was looked upon as one of our outstanding Navigators, and who commanded the respect of all. We cherish the hope that he and his companions may yet prove to be safe and well, though prisoners of war.
Your Son's personal belongings have been gathered together by the Station Effects Officer and forwarded to the R.A.F. Central Depository, who will send them on to you in due course.
I would like to add that the request in the telegram notifying you of the casualty to your Son was included with the object of avoiding his chance of escape being prejudiced in case he was still at large. This is not to say that any information is available, but it is a precaution which is adopted in the case of all missing personnel.
Please accept the deepest sympathy of myself and all the Officers and Men of the Squadron.
Yours Sincerely
H.A.R. Holford
Wing commander, Commanding,
[underlined] No. 51 Squadron, R.A.F. [/underlined]
…./Over.
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91
AIR MINISTRY,
(casualty Branch),
73-77 OXFORD STREET,
LONDON, W.1
22 December, 1944.
Madam,
I am commanded by the Air Council to express to you their great regret on learning that your son, Sergeant Henry Wolfe Wagner, Royal Air Force, is missing as the result of air operations on 18th December, 1944, when a Halifax aircraft in which he was flying as navigator set out for action over Duisberg [sic] and failed to return.
This does not necessarily mean that he is killed or wounded, and if he is a prisoner of war he should be able to communicate with you in due course. Meanwhile enquiries are being made through the International Red Cross committee, and as soon as any definite news is received you will be at once informed.
/If
Mrs. J. E. Wagner,
14, Western Avenue,
Henley-on-Thames,
Oxon.
[page break]
If any information regarding your son is received by you from any source you are requested to be kind enough to communicate it immediately to the Air Ministry.
The air Council desire me to convey to you their sympathy in your present anxiety.
I am, Madam,
Your obedient Servant,
Charles Evans
98
[photograph]
A photograph of the cemetery in Holland, sent to me a few months after the war by Mrs Worthington, mother of our mid-upper gunner.
[photograph]
A close-up of the crew's graves before proper head-stones were fitted.
[page break]
89
of Dakotas was coming in, filling up and taking off again. Took off 1600, flew over the devastated areas of the Ruhr, marvelling at the damned good job we had made of it, and landed at Brussels 1800. Tea and biscuits from the Naafi waggon [sic]. Transported in lorries to 42 R.H.U. At Louvain, about 12 miles out. De-loused once again, tea, and turned in.
13 May. Taken back to Brussels Airport in the afternoon, got aboard a Dakota and flew back to England via Ostend and the Thames Estuary. Landed at Wing, near Aylesbury. De-loused yet again – they must have considered the lice pretty hardy characters to have survived two previous assaults. After more tea and biscuits, transported to Bicester aerodrome, where we stayed the night. Bacon and egg, bread and marmalade, and tea.
14 May. Train to Cosford, near Wolverhampton. Given new uniform and kit, went through documentation, given ration cards, leave passes, and pay. Medical exam.
15 May. Left late in the afternoon, travelled through the night, and arrived at Reading 0430. Two hours to wait for a train to Twyford, and another 1/2 hr. for one to Henley. When I arrived home, the rest of the family were still in bed, and I had to knock them up.
There followed several days of seeing old friends and places again, writing to parents of the rest of my crew, playing golf, servicing motorcycle and generally relaxing and feeling glad to be home again and to be able to wander as I pleased. The following letters are in order as received by my mother. The original telegram has not survived, but it read; “Deeply regret to inform you your son Sgt. H. Wagner failed to return from an operational flight over enemy territory this morning. Pending receipt of written notification no information to be given to the Press.”
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90
No. 51 Squadron,
R.A.F. Station,
Snaith,
Nr. Goole,
Yorkshire.
Reference:- 51S/801/251/P.1.
18th December, 1944.
Dear Mrs. Wagner
It is with the deepest regret that I have to confirm the news already conveyed to you by telegram to-day, that your Son, 1604744 Sergeant H.W. Wagner, failed to return from an operational flight over enemy territory this morning.
Your Son was acting in his capacity of Navigator in an aircraft which took-off during the early hours of this morning to deliver an attack on a target at Duisburg, and I regret that nothing was heard of the aircraft or its crew after the time of take-off.
The loss of this crew is a sad blow to all of us here, particularly so in the case of your Son, who was looked upon as one of our outstanding Navigators, and who commanded the respect of all. We cherish the hope that he and his companions may yet prove to be safe and well, though prisoners of war.
Your Son's personal belongings have been gathered together by the Station Effects Officer and forwarded to the R.A.F. Central Depository, who will send them on to you in due course.
I would like to add that the request in the telegram notifying you of the casualty to your Son was included with the object of avoiding his chance of escape being prejudiced in case he was still at large. This is not to say that any information is available, but it is a precaution which is adopted in the case of all missing personnel.
Please accept the deepest sympathy of myself and all the Officers and Men of the Squadron.
Yours Sincerely
H.A.R. Holford
Wing commander, Commanding,
[underlined] No. 51 Squadron, R.A.F. [/underlined]
…./Over.
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91
AIR MINISTRY,
(casualty Branch),
73-77 OXFORD STREET,
LONDON, W.1
22 December, 1944.
Madam,
I am commanded by the Air Council to express to you their great regret on learning that your son, Sergeant Henry Wolfe Wagner, Royal Air Force, is missing as the result of air operations on 18th December, 1944, when a Halifax aircraft in which he was flying as navigator set out for action over Duisberg [sic] and failed to return.
This does not necessarily mean that he is killed or wounded, and if he is a prisoner of war he should be able to communicate with you in due course. Meanwhile enquiries are being made through the International Red Cross committee, and as soon as any definite news is received you will be at once informed.
/If
Mrs. J. E. Wagner,
14, Western Avenue,
Henley-on-Thames,
Oxon.
[page break]
If any information regarding your son is received by you from any source you are requested to be kind enough to communicate it immediately to the Air Ministry.
The air Council desire me to convey to you their sympathy in your present anxiety.
I am, Madam,
Your obedient Servant,
Charles Evans
98
[photograph]
A photograph of the cemetery in Holland, sent to me a few months after the war by Mrs Worthington, mother of our mid-upper gunner.
[photograph]
A close-up of the crew's graves before proper head-stones were fitted.
[page break]
99
[photograph] Some of the graves. This photo was taken about 1982 by Mrs. Worthington's daughter, Joan.
In 1989, I saw a notice in “Airmail” inserted by a man who had visited Venray and seen the graves of 12 R.A.F. Men. He named them, and offered to send photos to relatives. I told him the names of my crew and the circumstances that led to their being there, and he sent me the following photographs.
[photograph] Warrant Officer W.A. Bates, pilot.
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100
[photograph] Flight Sergeant L.G. Roberts, Bomb-aimer.
[photograph] Sgt. E. Berry, Flight engineer
[page break]
101
[Photograph] Sgt. T.W. Worthington, Mid-upper gunner.
[photograph] Sgt. R. Thomas, Rear-gunner.
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102
Shortly after the war, I applied to join the Caterpillar Club, membership of which is limited to those who have saved their lives by means of a parachute. The club was founded by Leslie Irvin, who invented the modern parachute.
[inserted] Membership card to the Caterpillar Club. [/inserted]
In the middle of June, I went to stay for a couple of days [inserted] with John [/inserted] and his long-time girl-friend (now his wife) Vilna. They lived in a cottage at Potterne Park Farm, Devizes, Wiltshire. A very pleasant visit it was, the last time but one that I saw them for 44 years. But more of that later. We lost touch; it shouldn't have happened, but this sort of thing often did.
My leave expired on 11 July 1945, and I returned to Cosford. This was only for a few days, for the purposes of medical examination, documentation and getting fitted out in full kit. It was a time of unease, restlessness and doubt. I knew only one other person there, Frankie Sedgewick, who had been with John and me at Barkau and Luckenwalde. He was a great virtuoso on the piano and the accordion; although he could not read music, he knew all the tunes, and had a wonderful sense of rhythm. Before we left Barkau for the march, he had become the possessor of a beautiful accordion, thanks to the Red Cross. On the point of departure from Barkau, he slashed it with a knife, tears streaming down his face, and said: “I can't carry it, and those bastards aren't having it.”
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and said: “I can’t carry it, and those bastards aren’t having it.” He had been a member of a Stirling crew, shot down dropping supplies at Arnhem. The aircraft belly-landed on a road, skated along it and ground to a halt. The crew evacuated – Frankie into a ditch on one side, the other six into a ditch on the opposite side, all under fire. The six were on the British side and got away; Frankie was on the German side and got pulled in.
By the 15th of July, I was back on leave again, until the end of August. I spent those six weeks working on harvesting at Dick Green’s farm, playing golf, going swimming, and generally having a relaxed and leisurely time among friends. The war with Japan ended after the dropping of the two atom-bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6th and 8th, as it was all over. On 29 August I reported to R.A.F. Wittering and remained there for nine days, but there was nothing much to do and no real reason for being there – the only purpose it served was to demonstrate to us that we were in fact still in the Air Force. Then there was a 48-hour pass, for which I went home, then back to Wittering again, then off on leave again.
In October, I went up to Liverpool to stay with Mr. Roberts, father of our bomb-aimer. While there, we went to visit the Worthingtons before returning home a few days later, but it was not long before I was back there again, for a fortnight this times, and the affair made good progress. It looked as if this might be it.
I applied for early release from the R.A.F. so as to continue my degree course at Reading University; this was granted, and I was demobilised shortly before Christmas, ready to start at the university again in January 1946.
This would seem to take us to the end of the crosswind leg, and it is now time to turn onto the downwind leg. This one is the longest of all the legs of a circuit, and the most peaceful. Everything should be organised and running smoothly; there is nothing of any urgency requiring to be done, and one may proceed with dignity and decorum towards
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the next turning-point, meanwhile watching the world go by.
[underlined] DOWNWIND LEG. [/underlined]
In January 1946 I returned to Reading University. When I left, I had one year to do for my degree, but now I had two extra terms, which were quite welcome as they gave me an opportunity to settle down again. I was only doing two subjects (as usual for an honours degree) – French and Latin. The French consisted not only of the language itself but also translation into French and from French, classical literature, modern literature, old French, the development of the language from Latin, essays and a considerable amount of reading. In term-time, and even during holidays, I worked very hard, often on into the night. During leisure times, I played a lot of golf, usually with my brother Richard, at Henley Golf Club. He was always a better player than me; where I would be hoping that my second shot finished somewhere on the green, he would be seen picking the spot on the green where he proposed to land his ball. During the summer, I worked on Dick Green’s farm, mainly on harvesting, and often borrowed a gun from him to go rabbiting. Tight rationing was still in force, so a rabbit was always welcome as an alternative to the dreary diet of sausage-meat or fish. Being a hot summer, I frequently went after work for a swim at Shiplake Swimming Baths, on the River Thames.
Joan came down from Liverpool for a week, and I went up to Liverpool and stayed with her family, and also spent a fortnight with them on holiday in North Wales, near Prestatyn. We became engaged during that summer, but early next year it was all over. Looking back, the affair was doomed to failure, because we could see so little of each other, living such a long way apart. There was neither the money nor the time for frequent visits, and the flame flickered and died.
1947 was the year of my final examinations, and I continued to work as hard as ever, reluctant even to give up time to play golf. I did join the University cross-country club, and used to run in
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team matches against other universities and athletics clubs on Saturday afternoons.
In June, I sat the final examinations for my degree, and when the results came out I found I had passed the B.A. with Honours in French, Class II Division 1. I did not expect a Class 1 degree, as these were rarely given. It must have been a close thing, though; some weeks afterwards, I met the Professor of French, Professor Pesseignet, and her said: “I would have liked to give you a First, but there were other considerations.” (He did not specify what they were.) However, Class II Division 1 was classified as a “good Honours degree”, so I was quite satisfied. Class II Division II was a run-of-the-mill degree, and Class III was for those who only just scraped through.
I acquired another motorcycle that summer. I disposed of the old 250 c.c. O.K. Supreme and took over a 500 c.c. high-camshaft MSS Velocette, a far superior machine in every respect. One evening, I went over to Maidenhead to help my friend Geoff Dolphin do some work on his 350 c.c. Royal Enfield. When the job was done, we repaired to the local for some refreshment and got talking at the bar to a Mr. Jupp. He ran a holiday-camp for London youth-clubs in the Isle of Wight, and asked if I would like a job helping in the cookhouse for a few weeks. Having nothing lined up in the way of holidays, I accepted, and went down there several days later. One evening, I was sitting at a table outside, reading, when a girl came and sat down and started reading too. After half an hour, I said: “That’s another book finished,” and stood up to leave. She said: “Would you like to read the paper?”, so I said: “Yes, please”, and she went and got her Daily Mirror. (Years afterwards, she said to me: “I didn’t know how near I was to losing you, offering you the Daily Mirror.”) When it got duck, I said: “It’s too dark to read any more. Shall we take a ride up to Culver Point?” and that is how it all started. Before leaving her that evening, I said: “Are you committed to anything tomorrow?” When she said no, I said: “I have to go up to Brading in the morning to get the cakes for the canteen. Then we could go along to the other end of the island, to the Needles and Alum Bay, and have
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something to eat on the way back. Would you come with me?” By the time that day was over, the friendship was pretty firmly established. Many years later, I said to her: “Why me?”, and she said: “I liked the look of you.” Honest to the nth degree.
She also said: “I threw myself at you, didn’t I?”. I said: “No, you didn’t throw yourself. All you did was open the door. What you were saying, in effect, was: “If you like what you see, do something about it.” The ball was always in my court, it was always up to me to make the next move, if I wanted to.”
The following day, as she was leaving for London again, I said: “Write to me”, and she said: “No, you write to me,” and I realised that of course it was not up to the girl to do the pushing, that was my job. This is the photograph she gave me as she left, with her address on the back. [photograph not included]
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[certificate]
UNIVERSITY OF READING.
It is hereby certified that HENRY W. WAGNER has been duly admitted to the Degree of Bachelor of Arts of this University. (Honours School of French Class II Division 1)
[signed] E. Smith [/signed] Registrar.
July 5, 1947. [/certificate]
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[photograph] [inserted] All my love, Darling, Joan xxxx [/inserted]
and this is one I acquired later, taken when she was a little girl.
[photograph]
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And so the affair progressed; we were very happy in each other’s company, and I quickly got to know her as a gentle, understanding, kind-hearted, undemanding and completely straightforward and honest, completely unselfish, and those characteristics remained with her, unchanged, for as long as she lived. There were never any words of anger, recrimination, accusation or petty temper between us. It did not take me long to realise I had got a good one.
Sometimes, I went up to London, to her home, for the week-end, sometimes she came to Henley, and we saw each other very frequently.
In the autumn of 1947, I went back to the University for one more year, to take a Diploma in Education, a necessary qualification for teaching in grammar schools. After finishing the course, I toyed with the idea of going into the R.A.F. Education Branch, but by the time the paper-work was all completed, I found out that the main requirements were for teachers of English, mathematics and physics. By that time, it was too late to apply for jobs in state-schools, but I got a job at Bodington College, Leatherhead, Surrey, a private boarding-school for boys 11 - 18, and started there in September 1948.
[photograph]
I taught mainly French and Latin, with some English, mathematics
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[missing photograph or document]
and geography. The classes were small, the fees high. The boys all came from upper-class families, and were easy to get on with. Masters were in contact with them a great deal in leisure-times. I used to run a model aircraft club, and we flew diesel-engined control-line models on the playing-filed when weather permitted, and built or repaired them on
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[University of Reading Diploma]
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dark evenings or in wet and windy weather. I was in charge of Rugby Football, and this led to many discussions on team selection and tactics. There were lessons in the evening instead of the afternoon, leaving afternoons free for games - I either played or refereed. There was always a match against another school or a club on Saturdays and sometimes on Wednesdays as well. In the summer I umpired cricket.
The headmaster, the Reverend J. G. Wilkie, was a man of liberal views on education, only hard on those who transgressed the boundaries of good conduct and gentlemanly behaviour. Prefects were allowed to smoke in their studies, and to brew coffee, and often when I was on duty and had seen all the boys into their dormitories and put the lights out, some of the prefects would say: “Come in and have a smoke and a cup of coffee, Mr. Wagner, and we’ll talk about Saturday’s team.”
On alternate week-ends, provided I was not on duty at the school, I used to go up to London and stay at Joan’s; the other week-ends, I went by motorcycle to Henley, and Joan came to Henley by bus, and the love-affair progressed well. One day she said to me: “Henry, are you going to marry me?” I had taken this for granted, it had never crossed my mind that it might be otherwise. I realised that a girl needs to have it put in so many words, and it was remiss of me not to have made the situation clear before. So it was settled, and the wedding was fixed for August 1949. The greatest worry was where we were going to live, as only four years after the war housing was desperately short, and we had no money to start buying a house. Talking the matter over with the Headmaster, he said that there was accommodation available in one of the blocks round the old stable-yard, which we could have at a low rent. So I spent all my available spare time redecorating this, and eventually it looked quite nice. Furniture and carpets were acquired on hire-purchase - you had to have “dockets” to get these, - and Joan
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made curtains and gradually accumulated the bare necessities. I had a radio of my own, but televisions and washing-machines were almost unheard-of, and we did not hanker after them. Nor did we have a refrigerator.
[photograph] Badingham College, from the playing-fields. [/photograph]
[photograph] My Velocette, in the stable-yard. [/photograph]
[photograph] Joan on the motorcycle, taken at Henley. [/photograph]
[photograph] Joan on holiday (right) with her friend Joan Rampton. [/photograph]
Joan made her own wedding-dress and the bridesmaids’ dresses. Joan Rampton was the chief bridesmaid, and her (Joan Rampton’s) little sister the second bridesmaid. For our honeymoon, we
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would be going to Bantry, in the far south-west corner of Ireland. These are the photos we had taken for our passports. [two photographs]
The wedding took place at 11 a.m. at Holy Trinity Church, Henley-on-Thames. Richard was my best man.
[photograph of the bride and groom]
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[photograph of the wedding party]
[photograph] Leaving the reception. [/photograph]
This was held at a hotel just
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across the street from Henley station, so we did not have far to go to the train. Train to Fishguard, overnight ferry to Cork, bus to Bantry.
On our return a fortnight later, we settled in to The Cottage, Badingham College, Leatherhead, Surrey. One of my first jobs was to go down to the bank to get out some money. I came out of the bank, and was handing over some of the money to Joan when the cashier came out. He said: “Did you know your account was overdrawn, Mr Wagner?” I must have miscalculated somehow, and I said: “No. I suppose you had better have this back, hadn’t you?”, and he said: “Yes, I suppose I had,” and took it. Joan said: “Right, I’ll see about a job then,” and immediately went and got herself a job in a grocery shop. What with her money, an advance on my salary, and a loan of £60 from my brother John, we were able to carry on until we got ourselves sorted out. But money was always scarce, as I suppose it is for nearly every newly-married couple, and there were no luxuries. We used to go to the cinema twice a week – no golf, no drinking, and holidays were in caravans or boarding-houses, travelling by motorbike. The furniture was being paid off at just over £9 a month. Food was still severely rationed. We did not ask for much – we had each other, and that was enough.
I enjoyed my work, Joan enjoyed working and being with other people. She always liked to have other people round her, and even later in life when money was not so important, preferred to be working than staying at home. We still went to London and to Henley on alternate week-ends.
The even tenor of life continued at Badingham for another three years. In the summer of 1952, on our return from holiday in Colwyn Bay, the headmaster said that, owing to expansion, he needed part of our house. That meant we would have to go. There was no chance of accomodation[sic] in the “Stockbroker Belt” of Leatherhead, so I gave in my notice for December 1952.
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and set about applying for jobs in the vicinity of Henley, as my mother was willing to put us up until we got sorted out. I got one at Earley, on the outskirts of Reading, at Woodley Hill Grammar School, a boys’ school. This meant a journey of seven miles by motorbike, but that was no hardship except on bitter winter days or in heavy rain. Richard did some auctioneering for a firm in Henley, and they had space to store our furniture above the auction-rooms, so that cost us nothing.
So in January 1953 I started work at Woodley Hill, and Joan got herself a job in a shop in Henley. Richard, being a partner in a firm of estate-agents, would keep an eye open for possible living accomodation[sic] for us, but this was still in extremely short supply. After a few months, nothing seemed to be coming up, so I began to apply for a job in South Africa, where the conditions of life would be better and we would find somewhere of our own to live. Joan was in agreement – she was always willing to try anything, and never raised any objections in major decisions of this sort. But no sooner had I started to apply than Richard came up with something that suited us absolutely. A golfing friend of his, Gerald Mundey, lived with his mother and his sister Joy on a big estate up in the woods at Harpsden, about 1½ miles out of Henley; the gardener’s cottage had become vacant, and we could have it at the modest rent of £10/month. So we moved our furniture up there and settled in. It was fairly isolated, but we got on well with the Mundeys and Joan was still out all day working. I started playing golf again and joined Marlow rugby club. Looking back, it was selfish of me to be out at rugby on Saturday afternoons and often well into the evening, and then go golfing on Sunday mornings, but Joan never complained, although she would have been perfectly right to do so. Once, playing rugby against Kodak, up in London, I broke my right ankle, and had to spend ten days in Henley hospital while it was mending. I had a few more days at home, then went back to work, riding the motorcycle with one leg encased in plaster, the leg which operated the gear-change lever.
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[photograph] Marlow Rugby Club First XV. [/photograph]
I played right-hand prop, and sometimes hooker when the need arose. The regular hooker was Budworth, on the right in the front row. He used to fly Beaufighters against terrorists in Malaya before he came to us. His wife usually accompanied us on coach-trips, and was one of the few women I ever knew who drank pints of bitter. Colin Gill, left in the front row, had a glass eye; in the course of one game, it dropped out into the mud and the game had to stop while we looked for it. The bath accomodation[sic] adjoining the changing-room was a deep recess about ten feet square sunk in the concrete, and we would settle down in the hot water after a game with pints of beer standing on the concrete behind us. After a particularly muddy game, the contents of the bath would be not so much hot water as thin liquid mud. Songs were sung. An invitation came once through the post
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for me to attend a stag-party. At the bottom of the card it said “Singing by our own choir.” Joan said: “That doesn’t sound very exciting, singing by our own choir,” and I said: “Oh, but you don’t know what our own choir will be singing.”
Many such memories of Marlow Rugby Club come back to me, such as the stag-party that got out of hand; the piano was adjudged not to be functioning correctly. Beer was poured into it without producing any improvement, so the instrument itself was dismantled, without finding the cause, and by that time nobody in a state to re-assemble it. After that, the committee put a stop to further stag-parties. Then there was the occasion when a large stag-party, complete with strippers, was held in one of the pavilions at Twickenham, attended by several clubs, and those in the know will recall that I made a libation to the gods of rugby-football on the centre spot of the pitch. The amount of pleasure I have had throughout my life from golf and rugby is really incalculable. Before I stopped playing rugby, I was made an honorary life-member, for services to the club. The club ran seven teams.
[Marlow Rugby Union Football Club card front]
[page break]
[Marlow Rugby Union Football Club card page 1]
[page break]
[Marlow Rugby Union Football Club card pages 2 and 3]
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for me to attend a stag-party. At the bottom of the card it said “Singing by our own choir.” John said: “That doesn't sound very exciting, singing by our own choir,” and I said: “Ah, but you don't know what our own choir will be singing.”
Many such memories of Marlow Rugby Club come back to me, such as the stag-party that got out of hand; the piano was adjudged not to be functioning correctly. Beer was poured into it without producing any improvement, so the instrument itself was dismantled, without finding the cause, and by that time nobody was in a state to re-assemble it. After that, the committee put a stop to further stag-parties. Then there was the occasion when a large stag-party, complete with strippers, was held in one of the pavilions at Twickenham, attended by several clubs, and those in the know will recall that I made a libation to the gods of rugby-football on the centre spot of the pitch. The amount of pleasure I have had throughout my life from golf and rugby is really incalculable. Before I stopped playing rugby, I was made an honorary life-member, for services to the club. The club ran seven teams.
Fixtures Sept. 1964 – April 1965
1st XV Captain: R.J. WELSFORD
“A” XV Captain: G.L. SPINKS
EX “A” XV Captain: P. TRUNKFIELD
“B” XV Captain: D.L.G. THOMAS
CYGNETS XV Captain: R.H. RAGG
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[Rugby fixtures Sept 1964 – April 1965]
[Rules of the ruby club]
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Eventually and inevitably there was an addition to the family. Helen was born at the maternity unit in Henley, and Joan was so proud of her, and she was certainly a lovely little girl. These photographs were taken while we were still living at Red Hatch Cottage, some in the garden, some on holiday.
[six photographs]
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[seven photographs]
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[six photographs]
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[two photographs]
We had been at Red Hatch Cottage about four years. Happy days though they were, money was still tight. I had the motorcycle fitted with a sidecar on Helen's arrival, so we could still get about. But we wanted a home of our own, and there did not seem to be much hope of getting one. I used to go to the bank on Saturday mornings to get out enough money for the week; the bank balance was often down to below £5, and I dreaded a month that had five Saturdays in it.
One day, I saw on the staff-room notice-board a circular from the National Union of Teachers asking anyone who had any salary queries to get in touch with them. For most of my time at Badingham the school was not recognised by the Ministry of Education and did not therefore count as reckonable services under the regulations. However, before I left, it was inspected and recognised. I put the point to the N.U.T. - was there any possibility of having this service all recognised for the purposes of stepping up the salary scale? They replied that it was up to the Local Education Authority. So I put the matter to the Berkshire Education Authority. I was called to the telephone one day at school – yes, they would recognise all that service, put me four steps up the ladder and give back-pay also for those four years. This amounted to some £270. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. When I got home, I said to Joan; “They rang me up from Shire Hall today. They won't recognise that service.” Terribly disappointed though she must have
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been, she put her arm round me and said; “Oh well, you tried.” All the time we were married, she never made me feel inadequate, not good enough for her, although I sometimes felt that was indeed the case – she deserved better than me. She never was sarcastic, never criticised me or made me feel small. All she had to know was that it was my best that I was doing; it may not have been a very good best sometimes, but as long as it was the best, that was sufficient. But even if things turned out well and I had not done my absolute best, I would be gently reminded. Her whole philosophy of life was based on love; she believed in being in love, she loved her husband, family and home. And in return, she always knew she was well loved. I was glad to be able to give her the happiness and security that she needed. Indeed, our marriage was secure in every respect - “Secure:- without care or anxiety, free from fear or danger, safe, confident, in safe keeping, of such strength as to ensure safety” (Chambers's Twentieth Century Dictionary.) I found this cutting many years later, tucked into Joan's writing -case; it obviously appealed to her, embodying as it does her whole philosophy.
[newspaper cutting – from the New Testament]
But I digress; I shall return to this theme later. Hiding her disappointment, and knowing I must have been disappointed too, she didn't complain but tried to console me with: “Oh well, you tried.” I let it ride for a few minutes, then told her the good news, and she was absolutely delighted. We would have enough money for the necessary 10% deposit on a house and to pay for the removal. There would be nothing to spare for the extras that would be needed, but these things would come in the fulness [sic] of time. So it was not long before we were looking around at new houses being built, and eventually settled for one on Ravensbourne Drive,
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Woodley, about three miles out of Reading and not far from the school where I worked. We used to go over on Sunday afternoons and see the progress being made, and as soon as it was ready we moved in. There was a great deal to be done getting the interior comfortable to live in, but Joan was a great home-maker. The garden was a wilderness containing a lot of builder's rubble, but I set to work to make it look nice and pleasant.
[two photographs]
Ravensbourne Drive, taken from outside our house, looking down the road (left) and up the road (right)
[two photographs]
The back garden. The back of the house.
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It was a big job getting the garden in order, but I was much indebted to John for a great amount of help – he used to come over and give a hand whenever he had the time. We mixed and laid concrete along the back of the house and at the side, and made the path running up the garden. I bought a concrete sectioned garage which we put up. I laid lawns, made a sand-pit for Helen, made the trellis and put climbing-roses on it to divide off the vegetable-garden, and planted the willow-tree. Made a coal-bunker too – there was no central-heating in those days. A whole range of kitchen cabinets as well – it was a matter of making things then rather than buying them. And always words of praise from Joan for what had been achieved.
Joan used to take Helen out to a nearby park in the afternoons, where there were swings, and it was there that she met Jean Hindley, who had her little girl with her. Joan was never backward in making friends (Think again how she got to know me), and Jean and Derek have been friends ever since. I always call into see them when I go down to Woodley, and there is always a warm welcome. We also made friends with Babs and Dave Read who lived a couple of doors along, and held lively parties
[eleven lines obscured by photograph]
had pints of mild and bitter, so it was quite obvious he had at least one redeeming feature. He used to be a Petty Officer in the Navy, on the engineering side. As I got to know him better, I
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was happy to consider him a good friend – straightforward, even-tempered, he took life very much as it came. Gradually, other inhabitants of Woodley joined us, and quite a large contingent from Woodley used to go over golfing at Henley – Jim Trevaskis, Bill Spelman, George Wall, Frank Way, Jeff Morgan and Alan Thorngate. I held the post of captain of the Henley Artisans Golfing Society at the time, and for a number of years thereafter. We played matches against the artisan sections of other clubs, and Joan and Anne used to make the sandwiches and come over and organise the teas for us. Good days they were, golfing at Henley in good company. Sunday mornings were the usual time, and after the game we would repair to the Bottle and Glass at Binfield Heath to take pre-prandial refreshment and play darts with the locals. On Friday evenings also we used to go out to one pub or another for beer and darts. And Joan put up with all this without a murmur of protest!
The school moved to new buildings at Winnersh, near Wokingham. In those days, and in such a school, teaching was a pleasant enough occupation and the boys were in general easy enough to get on with. There were exceptions, of course, but in the main they were a decent lot. On a journey from the front of the class to the back it might be necessary to give the odd boy a cuff, but the usual reaction seemed to be: “Fair enough, he caught me out,” and that was the end of it. Not so in these days, though. An action of that sort now would result in reports to the Head, parents up to the school, letters to the Education Department, and so forth. I remember writing on one boy’s report once: “Oafish stupidity is his outstanding characteristic.” At a parents’ evening his father said: “I take exception to this remark, Mr. Wagner. Can you justify it?” “Yes”, I said. “This very morning, when I had got the class settled down to work, he came in late, hurled the door open, which wrenched the door-stop out of the floor, slammed the door, and went to his place without a word of apology.” “Yes”, he said, “I see what you mean. I shall take the matter up with him.” On the other hand, on the last day of the summer term, one of my Sixth Form
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French students said: “Would you care to some out for a farewell drink, Mr. Wagner?”, so off we went. This would cause some raised eyebrows these days. I remember saying to him: “Two years ago, you were an inky little lad in the Fifth Form, now you’re a gentleman,” and that was the way with many of them.
While at The Forest Grammar School, my head of department was Keith Fletcher, an extremely able man and easy to get on with. He expected his staff to do their job competently and conscientiously, he consulted and advised, he did not lay down the law but what he said went, and he did not suffer fools gladly. He was a friend in those times, and has remained a friend every since. We see each other from time to time.
In the fulness of time, there was an addition to the family, and Philip made his appearance. In those days, it was the practice for only the first child to be born in hospital, so Philip was born at home. [Three photographs of Henry with his children]
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[Six photographs of the family]
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Henry Wagner's life story. Part one
Description
An account of the resource
Hand written by Henry, Part 1 covers his early life and time at university. It goes on to cover in some detail his time in the RAF, his time training in South Africa conversion to the Halifax and operations on 51 Squadron. It also covers his time as a prisoner of war and his post war career as a teacher in both England and Kenya. This part also covers his marriage, two children and their first house.
Creator
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Henry Wagner
Format
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153 hand written pages with photographs
Language
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eng
Type
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Text. Memoir
Text
Identifier
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BWagnerHWWagnerHWv1-01
Coverage
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Civilian
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Great Britain
South Africa
Germany
Kenya
Germany--Winterfeld
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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IBCC Digital Archive
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David Bloomfield
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Henry was born Irish but later became a naturalised British Citizen. He talks of his early life in Ireland, going to school at Henley-on-Thames and went to Reading University. (Higher School Certificate p15). He joined the University Air Squadron. After passing his final year examinations he was called up and joined the RAF. (Photograph p 21).
He passed through the Aircrew Reception Centre in London, Brighton, and Liverpool, Henry found himself sailing to Durban, South Africa. He tried to become a pilot but failed a test in a Tiger Moth so was placed in the Navigational Training School. He met Graham Walker while there. On 23 December 1943 Henry became a Sergeant with a Navigator’s brevet. (Navigator brevet p27).
After moving through RAF West Freugh, Scotland, Henry was then posted to the OTU RAF Abingdon to learn more complex skills in addition to lectures about the Luftwaffe, Intelligence information and ‘Escape and Evasion’. Henry crewed up at Abingdon. (Photographs of crew p 34-5). The next move was to 4 Group Training School, and this confirmed for the crew that they would be flying Halifax Mark 3 aircraft. Here lectures were ‘all good stuff’.
The penultimate move was to 1952 HCU RAF Marston Moor to learn about the Halifax Mark 3 and meet Sergeant Eric Berry, flight engineer. (Photograph p37). Henry describes the duties of the navigator, the use of the ‘Master Bomber’, some of the anti-aircraft techniques that were used in the technological war. (Photograph using of the H2S p39, pieces of the ‘Window’ radar defence p50).
Finally, they moved to RAF Snaith. There Henry took part in raids on Julich near Essen x 2, Hagen (an aborted mission), Soest, in the Ruhr Valley, Duisburg x 2, Aachen, Munster, and Osnabruck. There was a degree of acceptance that they were statistically going to die during their duties.
Henry was returning from a raid when he appraised the pilot that there was a fire onboard. The pilot to decide to abandon the aeroplane, and Henry parachuted from his plane. He landed in the garden of a domestic house and explains the contents of his evasion-pack. He was captured, moved to the Aircrew Interrogation Centre was in Oberursel and then onto Stalag Luft 7 Bankau, Silesia. Here he rejoined John Trumble with whom Henry had undergone part of his training. There was an army padre at the camp and the influence Captain John Collins had on the POWs both at Stalag Luft 7 and when the men were marching to other camps is described. They arrived at Stalag 3A, Luckenwaldwe. Henry describes Red Cross parcel, daily life there, attacks of dysentery, and ‘Goon-baiting’.
When the ‘gen’ revealed the Russians were only 12 miles from the camp, the Germans abandoned them, and RAF Wing Commander Beamont assumed command of the camp. On 22 April 1945, the Russians arrived. They refused to release the POWs, so Henry and John walked 7 miles westwards where they were met by the Americans and taken to the Reception Centre, Schonebeck.
With VE declared and de-lousing completed they were returned to RAF Wing, Aylebury. He shows the graves of his crew (photographs p 99-101).
On demobbing Henry resumed his university studies and became a teacher. He married and had children. Henry went to a Stalag Luft 7 reunion in 1982.
Claire Campbell
1652 HCU
51 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
aerial photograph
air gunner
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
bale out
bomb aimer
briefing
C-47
Caterpillar Club
coping mechanism
crewing up
debriefing
Dulag Luft
evading
final resting place
flight engineer
Flying Training School
Gee
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
Heavy Conversion Unit
incendiary device
killed in action
Master Bomber
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
missing in action
navigator
Operational Training Unit
Pathfinders
perception of bombing war
pilot
prisoner of war
RAF Abingdon
RAF Acaster Malbis
RAF Heaton Park
RAF Marston Moor
RAF Snaith
RAF West Freugh
recruitment
Red Cross
shot down
Stalag 3A
Stalag Luft 7
target indicator
target photograph
the long march
Tiger Moth
training
Whitley
Window
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1524/30282/BBaxterPDBaxterPDv1.1.pdf
577eb11ecf5974b8a0c61795657b59c5
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Baxter, Peter Dennis
P D Baxter
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IBCC Digital Archive
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2016-07-12
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
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Baxter, PD
Description
An account of the resource
63 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Peter Baxter (b. 1922, 52604 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, photographs and documents. He was trained as an airframe apprentice at RAF Halton and served as ground crew before volunteering to become air crew. He flew operations as a flight engineer with 12 and 153 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Michael Baxter and catalogued by Trevor Hardcastle.
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I Flew with Nine Wing Commanders
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The detailed and wide ranging story of Peter Baxter's service in the RAF from an Airframe Apprentice to Flight Engineer Leader.
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Peter Baxter
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Book in .pdf
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eng
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Text. Memoir
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BBaxterPDBaxterPDv1
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
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England--Lincolnshire
England--Buckinghamshire
Wales--Glamorgan
England--Staffordshire
Wales--Gwynedd
Germany--Berlin
Italy--Milan
France--La Rochelle
Europe--Frisian Islands
Germany--Essen
Germany--Düsseldorf
Italy--Turin
France--Lorient
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Nuremberg
France--Saint-Nazaire
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Mülheim an der Ruhr
Germany--Wuppertal
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Germany--Bonn
Germany--Paderborn
Italy
Great Britain
Germany
France
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
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IBCC Digital Archive
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
12 Squadron
153 Squadron
50 Squadron
aerial photograph
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
Battle
Beaufighter
Blenheim
bombing
Cook’s tour
coping mechanism
crash
crewing up
debriefing
dispersal
Distinguished Flying Medal
Do 217
entertainment
final resting place
fitter airframe
fitter engine
flight engineer
fuelling
ground crew
Halifax
Halifax Mk 1
Halifax Mk 3
He 111
Heavy Conversion Unit
incendiary device
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Lancaster Mk 1
Lancaster Mk 3
Lincoln
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
mine laying
Navy, Army and Air Force Institute
Nissen hut
nose art
Operation Dodge (1945)
Operation Manna (29 Apr – 8 May 1945)
pilot
promotion
RAF Cosford
RAF Faldingworth
RAF Halton
RAF Hemswell
RAF Kirmington
RAF Llandwrog
RAF Scampton
RAF St Athan
RAF Sturgate
RAF Tilstock
RAF Waddington
RAF Wickenby
recruitment
target photograph
training
Whitley
Window
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1526/29793/BMilesRJMilesRJv1.1.pdf
9c4ecee51db3f431f91201332344b0c2
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Miles, Reg
Reginald J Miles
R J Miles
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IBCC Digital Archive
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2016-07-26
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Miles, RJ
Description
An account of the resource
102 items. The collection concerns Reg Miles (1923 - 2022) and contains his audio memoir, log book, photographs and documents. He flew 36 operations with 432 and 420 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by R Miles and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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Biography of Reg Miles
Ex Apprentice No 1 S. of T.T., R.A.F., Halton 39th Entry 34 – 67 M.U.s – 27 A/S Bloemspruit South Africa – Lympe Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 242 – 245 – 511
Squadrons Transport Command Lyneham, RAF
Chapter 1
Ex Apprentice No 1 S. of T.T., R.A.F.
The summer job had ended and there was a few months to go before I would leave for Halton, must get a job Mum said, so I got a job as a paper boy with Smith’s Book Shop in Westgate, delivering the morning papers to all the grand houses in the area and woe betide you if you got the houses wrong, no scandal sheets there all Times, Telegraph, Financial Review, and sometimes the Daily Express but certainly no Mirror. A friend worked for the same place and we both rode the Smith’s bikes, very distinctive they were, painted dark red with a large panel under the cross bar with the company logo on it and either side of the back wheel large canvas bags to hold the newspapers. Riding towards home together one day we came across a coal ship hight and dry on the Nayland rocks, which jutted out into the Margate harbour entrance, the skipper had missed the turn and when the tide went out there he was stuck, the crew were busy shovelling the coal over the side onto the rocks so that the ship could get off on the next tide. Too much of a temptation for two young boys, onto the rocks we went with the bikes and filled up the bags at the back with coal and home to the thanks of a family with a little more fuel for the winter. How the mighty are fallen, as we turned up for work the next morning at the crack of dawn, we were greeted by the manager with the words ‘you two are sacked here are your wages now clear’, when we asked why we were shown the front page of just about every newspaper with pictures of us and Smith’s bikes filling the bags with coal, and head office in London were not at all pleased, silly buggers very cheap advertising for them, so ended my last job before entering The Royal Air Force.
On January 24th 1939 I arrived at Wendover Railway Station in Buckingham Shire on a special train from Paddington with about one thousand other new boys, we were all shapes and sizes, colours, and aged between fifteen and eighteen. Halton at that time was the Apprentice Training Establishment for The Royal Air Force in the various aviation trades which included Engine Fitter, Airframe Fitter and other trades that were just starting to be developed. Prior to this most work on aeroplanes was done by the same people., but aircraft were becoming more complicated
[page break]
and needed specialists for just about every part, guns, radio, electric’s and so on. RAF Halton still is a training station for the engine, airframe, and all other bits and pieces of the aircraft. (I was recently told that a cook school was now in operation!!). The bits all have different names now. When I joined in January 1939 there were four wings each one had about 1000 boys in it under training, the course was three years, two entries each year , entry by competitive written examination of many subjects including, Math, English, and a number of science subjects which at my age when I took the exam at 14 made me struggle a bit but I got in! Massive workshops, an airfield and each wing was self-contained with proper three storey brick buildings housing the sleeping accommodation, each wing also had its own parade ground, gymnasium, cookhouse, band and all other facilities, different coloured hat bands were worn by each wing.
Apprentices were known as Brats and when you had passed out from Halton after a three year course you were an Ex Brat and a very close bondship with others who had been through Halton existed. Now March 15 1998!! I seem to have been very busy with all sorts of projects and still have some in the pipe line either incomplete or not even started yet but will endeavour to type a little more to keep this going. The first thing that happened to all us new boys was a medical to see if we were fit enough for service in the R.A.F. The first complete check up for most of us,the M.O. told me I had flat feet, said I did a lot of cross country running perhaps that was the cause!! Strange to say it was recently found that people with high arches were not able to stand the stress of marching and battle fatigue, flat was better. Next was fitting for a uniform, no I did not take size nine boots that Mum had said I would grow into but eight and a half and that still left room for thick socks.
Once all into our uniforms we paraded in sections for the swearing in for which we received an extra shilling (the Kings shilling) Most of us suffered with those boots made from leather so they said, more like sheets of armour plate, toes and ankle bones were rubbed sore after the first few hours, the corporal in charge of our section told us to fill the boots with water, pee was best, and stand them by our beds over night, empty them out and put them on straight away they would never hurt again, he was right but most mothers would have had a fit to see their little darlings squelching about in wet feet all day. I was allocated to four wing and told I would be trained as a Fitter 2E which meant I would become an aero engine fitter, others became Fitters 2A airframe, and others would become instrument, radio, and armament specialists. There were also boys who had joined the Royal Navy and would be trained in the same trades for the Fleet Air Arm, they were known as artificers, tiffys to the rest of us. Our uniform was the same as the regular service with proper trousers instead of a kind of jodhpurs with puttees that were wound around the lower leg, these were still worn by “Boy Entrants”
[page break]
who were trained in similar trades elsewhere but would end up as mechanics after a much shorter course, I think they were boys who were keen to get into the R.A.F but had not been able to pass the entry examination for apprentices. To distinguish four wing from the other three we had a bright orange-yellow hat band not too sure what the other were, seem to remember red and also black and red squares, we also had on our arm a brass badge that was a wheel with crossed propeller blades inside, and wore small rank badges the same as the adult services if promoted. All of the boys in the new entry were taken in group to the airfield and given a short flight in De Haviland Tiger Moth, gave us some idea how big Halton was and in most cases the first taste of airsickness, never had any trouble with this problem when I was flying as crew, but even a short flight at times as a passenger made me hang on to my seat and swallow heavily!! I joined the cross country team of four wing, and completed in many events during my period at Halton, won medals for this event and passed them on to Gillian for safe keeping. I was promoted to leading apprentice and made responsible for one of the rooms which held about thirty boys, one of them called Shaw I will never forget, a good looking boy but had a way of life completely strange to me and I suspect to most of the boys of my age.
This first came to light one night when he returned from a weekend pass with a full suit case full of cigarettes, where they came from we didn’t ask but we all got some free samples my share being double. He then told me he had a flat in London and a girl friend he kept there and paid for, how this was possible on three shillings a week I just could not understand, but it all came out later on. Because I was responsible for seeing that everyone in my room was present at “lights out” each night and weekend passes were only allowed very rare, Jonny Shaw asked me to sign him in nearly every weekend so he could go to London, didn’t worry me to do this, hadn’t asked to be a leading apprentice, was just given the job and I was never short of a packet of “fags”. One night late Johny turned up with another suit case, after climbing through a hole in the fence near our room, instead of cigarettes it contained woman’s clothing that he had picked up on the train from London, because it was there! Told him in no uncertain manner that if he didn’t do something about returning it to the owner it was the last time I covered for him. He packed up the case and took it out of the room and I expected he would leave it close to the guard room so that it would be found early in the morning and sent on it’s way to a very worried female. That was not Johny’s way, when I took a detail of boys out at the crack of dawn to make sure there was no rubbish about the place, every post, lamp standard, sign board and railing was draped with all of the contents of the case, we found the case and quickly packed the items back in and I took it to the guard room and stated that it has been found some way away from our room, it was opened by the police and an address found inside and was I presumed sent on to it’s owner, but I was very mad a Johny Shaw and never covered for him again,
[page break]
didn’t stop him from going out when he wanted to. Some months later he was found to have been forging instructors signatures on chits to book out micrometer and vernier gauges from the stores and was no doubt selling these in London and perhaps committing other crimes we knew nothing of, he was discharged from the R.A.F and as the second world war started soon after probably had a prosperous war and even ended up rich and famous, may be knighted for his efforts, while the rest of us fought and died! I have recently been contacted as a result of this webpage by Peter Long, another one of our fellows who knew Johny. He did become very rich eventually, Rolls Royce, Two ‘Planes of his own etc.!
R.A.F Halton was at one time a county residence owned by the Rothchild family whether they gave it to the R.A.F I don’t know but the “house” was used for the officer’s mess and the stables were allocated to the apprentices for a “hobby shop”. The stables were a magnificent set of buildings with curved brick walls and big enough to house a dozen families in great comfort. Many of the boys at Halton came from very wealthy families, some sons of aircraft manufacturers because it was recognised that an apprenticeship at Halton was the finest training anywhere in the world in Aircraft engineering. One father had given his son a new Ford car, he was probably in his last year of the three year course, we all helped him to take it completely to pieces and each part was reassembled with great care so that every part was a perfect fit, ran like a sewing machine the quietest Ford I have ever known.
There were even sons of Indian Princes, in fact it seemed as if every nation was represented there, many of the boys when they had finished their apprenticeship were “bought out” by their parents and returned to their own country or in some cases the firm that their parents owned in Britain, can’t remember the cost but did hear at the time it would have bought a row of houses in any town in England! The railway station we all arrived at was Wendover and the nearest large one was Alyesbury, (famous for ducks!) county seat for Buckinghamshire. Halton was set just below a ridge of hills and covered many square miles of country, the workshops were massive, covering all trades that operated in the Royal Air Force, an airfield with a grass runway complete with hangers and numerous aircraft that were used for hands on work and proper lecture halls where we were brought up to date on current affairs, and scientific laboratories with the latest equipment used in the testing of materials. The idea was to give not only complete technical training but a good all round knowledge much like a private college, apart from training in military matters and of course plenty of sporting activities. We were paid 5 shillings a week, four of which was saved for us, to be given when we went on leave, breakages which were deducted for individual items broken or worn out before a replacement was normally issued, boys can be hard on clothes! We were issued with a complete kit of
[page break]
clothes which included just about every thing required, but out of our weekly shilling we had to purchase things like metal and boot polish, once a week we had kit and barrack inspections when everything has to be spit and polish and all kit in good order, when the war started in September 1939 things change very rapidly, our three year course was cut down to just over two by stopping all holidays and we worked from dawn to dusk on our training, the subjects did not get shortened just longer days and no holidays or week ends, and we had to do anti invasion patrols and ride around the hills on our bicycles in the evenings to check for land mines that may have been dropped to blow the place up. At this time my father and mother had rented a house at High Wycombe which was not too far away from Halton, Dad was in charge of all military and naval buildings and repairs caused by shelling and bombing in Dover, so Mum lived at High Wycombe and Dad came up when he could, he had an old car and special petrol rations because of his work. I managed to get a weekend pass and went to get my bicycle from where it had been requisitioned for us in land mine patrols, the sergeant in charge said I couldn’t have mine but let me have grotty old service bike, think he was using it himself as it was new and my pride and joy, set out to visit Mum and Dad and coming round a corner met a flock of sheep all over the road, no where to go so crashed into the bank and bent the frame so that I could only steer one way, took me ages to get to High Wycombe and could not get anyone to mend it so Dad put it on the roof of his car and took me back to camp, left Halton soon after and took my bike with me.
The entry ages for Halton were 15 to 18, and we signed on for 12 years of service from the age of 18. As I was almost the minimum age, I was 15 in November 1938 and joined in January 1939, I would have been 18 when I finished the apprenticeship, but due to the war and cutting out holidays etc, I was only 17, I therefore was still classed as a boy when I left Halton and was not informed what rank I had passed my final examinations, so when I arrived at my first operational posting was paid the princely sum of ten shillings a week (about one dollar a week), yet was the only qualified member of the gang and had to tell men much older than myself sometimes the right way to do things.
– Reg Miles
Those items listed below can be found on the web at
http://members.aol.com/famjustin/Milesbio.html
[page break]
[underlined] Biography of Phyllis Miles (formerly Phyllis Dike), [/underlined] LACW, WAAF
[underlined] Collected Poetry of Reg Miles, [/underlined] Flight Engineer, No1SoTT Halton/ MUs/ Snowy Owls, 420 Sqdn RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 511 Transport Command, RAF
[underlined] Miss Phyllis Miles nee Dike, [/underlined] Photo, LACW, WAAF
[underlined] Group Photo, [/underlined] 432 Squadron RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Yorkshire
[underlined] 420 Squadron Badge, [/underlined] Photo, 6 Group Bomber Command, Tholthorpe Yorkshire, RCAF
[underlined] Barrington-Kennett Trophy Winners, [/underlined] 1939/40, Photo, Reg Miles, RAF Halton, RAF
[underlined] FIDO, [/underlined] Anecdote, Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, RAF
[underlined] Flight Engineer Reg Miles, [/underlined] Photo of Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, 432 Sqdn RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, RAF
[underlined] Flight Log 1664 HCU page one, page two, 432 Squadron page 1, 2, 3, 4, 420 Squadron page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 1332 H.C.U. Page 1, Certificates of Competency, 242 Squadron, Page 1, Page 2, Page 3, 246 Squadron, Page 1, Page 2, 511 Squadron, Page 1, Page 2, Page 3, Page 4, Page 5, Page 6, Page 7, Page 8, Reg Miles, [/underlined] Flight Engineer, No1SoTT Halton/ MUs/ Snowy Owls, 420 Sqdn RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 511 Transport Command, RAF
[underlined] Halifax, E Easy and Crew, [/underlined] Photo of Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, 420 Sqdn RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, RAF
[underlined] Mail Plane, [/underlined] RAF Joke, Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, RAF
[underlined] Missing in Action Telegram, [/underlined] Reg Miles, 432 Squadron RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Yorkshire
[underlined] PLUTO, [/underlined] Anecdote, Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, RAF
[underlined] Queen Mary, [/underlined] Photo, Reg Miles, 67 M.U.s, RAF
[underlined] Salvaging a Bristol Beaufort, [/underlined] Photo, Reg Miles, 67 M.U.s, RAF
[page break]
[underlined] Tholthorpe Control Tower, [/underlined] from Jim Tease, Pilot, Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, 420 Sqdn RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, RAF
[underlined] Wedding Photo, [/underlined] Photo of Reg Miles, Flight Engineer, No1SoTT Halton/ MUs/ Bomber Command/ 511 Transport Command, RAF
[page break]
Biography of Reg Miles
Ex Apprentice No 1 S.of T.T., R.A.F., Halton 39th Entry 34 – 67 M.U,s – 27 A/S Bloemspruit South Africa – Lympe Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 242 – 246 – 511 Squadrons Transport Command Lyneham, RAF
Chapter 2
Ex Apprentice, 34 – 67 M.U.s, R.A.F.
I was posted to 34 Maintenance Unit Shrewsbury in Shropshire 5-10-1940, this unit was housed in sheds on the out-skirts of Shrewsbury and was responsible for the repair on site of crashed aircraft and the recovery of crashed aircraft that could not be flown away, this included both British, German, Italian, and later on American. The Flight Sergeant in charge of the crew of about six airmen was about sixty, was an optician in civvy street, had been a driver in the 1914-18 war so had no knowledge of aircraft, the rest of the gang were ex-garage workers only about one had any experience with spanners so it was finding out the hard way how ‘planes came to bites! We also had a driver for our Chevy truck and could call on “Queen Mary” low loaders and Coles cranes to lift things, but many times we were unable to get cranes or trucks to the site and it was sheer legs and muscle that were used.
[missing photograph]
[page break]
[italics] Photo of a crane of the type we used to salvage aircraft during my time with 34 & 67 MUs in 40-41. On show as an Amazon Crane but the same as a Coles one, so have altered it’s title. It is on show at the Yorkshire Air Museum based at Elvington airfield a WW2 bomber station flying the dear old Halifax of 77 Squadron RAF and two Free French squadrons 346 Guyenne and 347 Tunisie [/italics]
The only time I tried to drive a Coles Crane I made a complete mess of it and sheared the drive shaft!! The two Polish operators were not well pleased, but as the could not speak English and I not able to understand a single word of their long and arm waving complaint, it was left to our Flight Sergeant to ball me out, and as he was a geriatric (well must have been all of 50) little notice was taken of it all. The Poles got underneath and removed the bit, replaced it and were operational in a few hours, I was not allowed anywhere near it after!!
The lowloader, Queen Mary, was a specially made semi trailer body, very low platform with wheels exterior, from memory would think the platform about 12 inches from ground, also very long able to take most aircraft fuselages and wings. Extending side rails were fitted that could be locked up so that wings could be stood on their leading edges, one on either side (on sand bags to prevent damage) and strapped to these side rails, the rails were also covered in felt to prevent damage, and strapped to these side rails, the rails were also covered in felt to prevent damage, this left the centre of the trailer free to fit the fuselage on trestles, with propellor removed but engine still in place, some aircraft with long bodies could extend over the tail board if put on trestles to clear, open body to the trailer so that there was no height restriction, only the height of bridges and power cables, standard 1939-40 prime mover, 6 cylinder Perkins or Ford, nothing like the monsters on todays roads. It was called “Queen Mary” because they were so long that the only thing to compare them with was the ship of the same name.
[missing photograph]
photo from David Searle-Baker Queen Mary
[page break]
Recovering Hawker Tempest Mk. V Wreck
My first job with them was at an aerodrome called Shawbury that was used to train pilots and Navigators, a Spitfire pilot had been shot in a fight with a German fighter and had lost a lot of blood before crash landing beside the main runway and the aircraft had tipped onto it’s back as he had not been able to lower the underbridge. The first job was to make the guns safe and remove any bombs before starting to dismantle the ‘plane, the next job was always to remove instruments that were either secret or likely to be stolen, this in a Spitfire was the gunsight, compass and a clock it fitted, as the new boy I got the job of crawling into the upside down cockpit to remove these items while the rest of the gang removed the wing fairings and bolts to waggle the wings off. I had to get on hands a [sic] knees to get the items off as they were almost on the ground, felt something wet on my head and back as I worked, found when I crawled out that a large pad of congealed blood had come adrift from the floor and I was a right mess, no water anywhere near as we were miles from any building, the crew washed me off with the 100 octane petrol we drained from the ‘plane, but as we sat and ate our lunch of sandwiches couldn’t help keep looking at the blood still under my finger nails. As we sat and ate we saw a training Miles Master coming in to land with the cockpit hood open and the horn blaring loudly to warn the pilot that his under carriage was not down, we all stood up and waved like mad, the pilot, probably doing his first solo landing, waved back with a big smile on his face and crashed, we now had another ‘plane to remove!
I don’t know how the trainee pilot got on, we helped him out and he had no damage but whether he was “scrubbed” or not have no idea (scrubbed thrown off the pilot’s course through some error).
The Spitfire being monococ [sic] construction in aluminium alloys was a very easy aircraft to dismantle and transport, the main wing spar consisted of a series of square tubes fitted inside each other, gradually tapering towards the wing tip, the mating tubes for these being very close to the fuselage, with the propeller removed the body fitted easily into a low loader and the wings were slid in either side being supported on sand bags to prevent damage and strapped to the extendable rails fitted to the sides of the low loader, the guns, ammunition, and propeller being stowed in any suitable position. The Miles Master being of wooden construction was an entirely different proposition, the wing roots were attached about one and a half metres either side of the fuselage making this “centre section” which was not removable about three and a half to four and a half metres wide, when placed on the sides of the low loader these projected out each side a considerable amount and because they were very low often jammed on road side obstructions, this was particularly a problem on the windy narrow country roads with many “hump
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Back” bridges, we were caught only one when the centre section rode up onto the walls of a hump back bridge and very nearly caused the injury to one of the crew riding in the back of the low loader, three or four sleepers lashed to the side rails lifted this aircraft high enough to clear any road side obstacles. We never had enough red flags to fix to the overhangs so it was almost a game to ride in the back of the low loader and lean over as we motored along and steal the flags placed in empty paint cans by the road gangs, as we used the same route frequently from training airfields to our depot I guess the road workers got fed up with us and one day as one of the gang grabbed a flag found himself flying through the air to land in the road, the rotters had concreted all the flags in and they were very heavy, no damage done just a few bruises and wounded pride. Coming back from the same airfield one day we were held up by a new gang with a Miles Master stuck on the hump back bridge walls, to add to their problems their Coles crane was in front of the low loader so couldn’t get to the plane to lift it up, we managed to get our crane in place and help them out, they hadn’t read standing orders! Called to the same airfield with instruction to remove some twenty Avro Ansons from a hanger we through they were being transferred to another airfield, when we got there found the whole lot burnt out in the hanger, looked like an elephant’s grave yard with just the steel tubing frames and melting engines and propellers lined up in two long rows. When we asked what had happened were told that during the night an airman on guard duty saw a low flying airplane crossing the field and identified it as a German one so fired his rifle at it, the plane dropped it’s bomb which landed on the concrete outside the hanger, bounced over the bomb proof doors, bounced on the hanger floor and just missed going clean out the other end but hit a girder and went off. The airman had been put on a charge for firing at an unidentified aircraft!
I was going on my first leave after being posted to an RAF squadron as an aero engine fitter, and at only 17 in 1940 felt a big wheel, My folks lived in Dover and my brother of 9 years would need something from my war, grabbed a handful of .303” ammunition from a crashed training Hurricane, pulled out the bullets and emptied out the charge, would put the cases in a fire when I got home to get rid of the caps and put the bullets back, would impress my small brother. Put the cases in a fire out in the yard and got a most awful telling off from Mum, they were having more than their share of bangs. Next day was about to leave the house to look up at the “dogfights” going on above, Mother said you’ll get killed by falling shrapnel stay indoors, but out I went, and in I went after a few seconds as redhot bits of metal fell around me, I might be in the RAF but my folks and young brother were seeing more of the war than I was, my few bullets were nothing compared to his collection of shrapnel, from both our guns and those firing 12inch shells from France, he has seen more action that I had!!
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We had arrived at a very posh looking house set up on a rise with a well maintained garden with small bushes lining the curving path to the front door and a perfect green lawn. I suppose we did look a sorry bunch with our usual costume of rolled down gum boots, white socks turned over the top and greasy overalls that were well over due for a wash, no hats and most with a few days of beard, long uncombed hair in fact even the ‘chiefy’ could have passed for the robber leader, we had been out on the road for about a week and were tired and hungry when we got yet another job before returning to base for a rest. Chiefy went up to the front door and was answered by a smart looking man who took the Flight Sergeant round the back of the house through a very ornate garden arch way, he soon came back and called us to follow him. The sight that met the eyes was one to make us all laugh, a learner pilot has got into trouble and seeing what looked like a nice open field came into land, too late he found it was a chicken farm with lots of tall wire fences to separate the various chickens, his ‘plane had become wrapped up like a parcel as he ploughed through the lot, but to make matters even worse as his ‘plane neared the back of the house his engine fell off and landed into a rather nice goldfish pond, this cracked the concrete and all the water ran out stranding the fish. The owner was not a very happy man and refused most emphatically to allow us to clear a wide path way back through the mess so we could get a crane in to lift the whole lot out by a back way, no it all had to go round the side of the house and no damage must be done. What a hope he had the radial engine was levered out of the pond and rolled with great difficulty through the side gate, a few bits came off both as we struggled to hold the engine upright but when we got to the front of the house it just seemed to get a life of it’s own and rolled across the lawn leaving giant size foot prints and demolished hedges and flower beds on it’s way. The rest of the aircraft was sawn into bits and man handled the same way, miserable sod never even gave us a cup of tea when we had finished, just growled he would report us for damage we had caused, we all hoped his chickens never laid another egg.
As to the Learner who crashed, he was long gone before we got there. This was not always the case as we did come across the odd bits and bobs and even complete bodies at times, not all RAF either.
For about three months we worked all over the north part of England and Wales, even had to close The Mersey Tunnel one time to tow an American light bomber through from Speke don’t know why or where we took it. We were then transferred to 67M.U. bases in Taunton the county seat of Somerset. The depot was in a large garage on the main road south of the city, has it’s own sports field out the back which we used for general storage during transit, all the low loaders, lorries, and cranes were parked in various streets which had to have guards circulating during the night, our five rounds of ammunition and World War 1 rifle must not be lost or even used,
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it was all we had, another job for the technical people, office and stores people never got this job, perhaps because they made out the lists, one time when we were back at base had to spend the day shovelling coal at the railway station to fuel the fires for the office staff, couldn’t let them get dirty, wonder if Churchill knew that his trained people were waiting on the lazy sods in the office.
This was early in 1941 with the threat of invasion by the German army still a possibility, the sports field was surrounded with a high spiked railing fence. The fence was six feet high made of steel spikes about 3 quarters of an inch in diameter, spaced about six inches apart fitted through holes at top and bottom of steel plates which were made of 2 inch by 1/4 inch steel. I’m sure you must have some around houses or playing fields where you live. The spikes were held in swaged nibs pressed into the spikes when the sections of fence were made this held the spikes in place. We were given the job of filing off the nibs that held alternate spikes in place. We had to file these nibs off alternate spikes so the fence did not collapse, but the “doctored” spikes could be removed. Each one of these then had a number pained on it, all airmen were allocated a spike and on the call to arms would rush to get out their spike, if they could, and fend off the invading hordes of Germans with their Tiger tanks, machines guns and other lethal weapons, no doubt we should have had a major victory as the German troops fell about laughing!!
The C.O. held a dummy run which became a real pantomime as men fought for a spike having forgotten their number and short people couldn’t reach high enough to pull them out of the top rail. Nobody got stabbed but it was a close run thing. We all treated the whole thing as a joke, it is easy when you have your back firmly against the wall to consider defeat impossible, and so many of the daft ideas did work, FIDO, PLUTO, to name just two. This one was one of those that just was stupid!!
The same wally of a C.O. who gave us the spikes decided to make me up to a Corporal, told him he couldn’t because I still didn’t know what rank I had passed out from Halton, and in any case being technical trade had to pass a trade board before I could be promoted. Threatened to put me on a charge if I didn’t put up my stripes straight away to be officially second in charge of the gang, just ignored him and was called up before him a couple of days later to be told he couldn’t promote me for the reasons I had given him, but told me I had passed out from Halton as a Fitter 2 Engine with the rank of Aircraftman First class and my pay would start right away because of the work I was doing, so I did get some thing out of it all. Following on this I was given the job as Station Armourer, responsible for sorting and packing for dispatch all bombs, cannons, machines guns and ammunition brought in from crashes. I was given the relevant Air Ministry orders to tell
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me what to do because lets face it I was not even 18 and trained as an engine fitter, but perhaps the only real airman on the place, I was given the away team half of the sports changing room, the Station Warrant Officer had the other half, a retread from 14-18 war and responsible for station discipline.
One of the jobs I had to do was strip all guns of any bullets “up the spout” as many had major damage and bent barrels, this was never easy, the breach blocks had to be taken out and packed in separate boxes, with a bullet jammed in, the only way to release the blocks was to fire the gun which sent the bullet up the bent barrel and this released the breach blocks, S.W.O. came in one day when I had a pile of Browning Machine guns on the bench all with bent barrels and was firing them one at a time to get the breach blocks out, nearly wet himself, and then a few days later I was burning all the Very pistol cartridges. These were all different colours and were used to signal and identify aircraft. Usually they just burnt with lots of bright colours but this lot started flying all over the place just as he marched out of his office with his cane under his arm, moved pretty quick for an oldy and got back inside his office, seemed to think I did it on purpose!!
Does seem a bit mad perhaps now to do what I did as an “armourer”. But times were a bit desperate you know and everything was in very short supply so if it could be repaired and returned into service we might just survive.
The first 20m/m cannon I dismantled was a problem, had never seen one before had no books on it and had to get the breach block out, barrel was straight and nothing up it, the cannon was about two and a half metres long and the only nut I could see was on the “blunt” end, a large hexagonal nut with a locking tab on it, so behind it must be the return spring and hopefully the breach block, with the “blunt” end sticking out the open door I got to work and the nut kept turning and seemed to have lots of thread, with a bang the last turn flew off and what seemed like yards of spring flew out of the door, and guess who was just leaving the office? The other problems with the 20m/m cannon was the round cartridge drum that fitted on the breach, these always arrived to me battered and bent and the only way to get the shells out was to cut a slot in the case and prise or shake the shells out, I was sitting on the bench with an ammunition box on the floor shaking a drum to get the shells out when the door burst open and a strange sergeant charged in, “Call yourself an armourer” he shouted, “Stop that before you kill us both”. When I told him who and what I was he said that he had never seen a cannon gun in fact he didn’t know much at all as he had spent the last few years at a place called Shaibah in the Gulf and had only worked on Vickers water cooled guns while there, but he did know the coding for the shells I was dropping into a box and some were of a very delicate contact type to explode on contact with the thin aluminium skin of a ‘plane! I filled him in
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with all I knew and what had to be done with each type of weapon and worked with him for a week or so until I managed to get back with my old gang.
Shortly after we were sent on detachment to an airfield in Cornwall called St. Eval, at which were based Bristol Beaufort Torpedo Bombers, they were sent out after German ships and dock installations and had received very heavy casualties.
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Men of 67 MU at Bristol Beaufort Recovery Reg 2nd from left back row
We were housed in one of the Nissen huts and started work right away as there was a Spitfire sitting on top of a dry stone wall at the edge of the airfield, the pilots had overshot, bounced and come to a halt perfectly balanced on the wall, pained on the side was the pilots name and the legend “Sempre in Excreta” (Latin is not my strong point!) Always in the shit! At the end of the runway was a stone quarry and a Beaufort had crashed into it on take off loaded with torpedoes, these had detonated so there was little to move mainly the two large radial engines, one was in the middle of the quarry and our crane soon lifted that into a lorry, the other was partly buried under stone and against the quarry wall so we had to move it out with brute force to get it into a position that the crane could reach, It was hard hot work and we were having trouble keeping our footing because of all the oil that had spilt out when it had hit the wall, except it wasn’t oil but half a man buried under the engine, not a pretty sight but a nurse who just happened to be looking on helped us to put the remains in sacks so that they could be buried properly with the rest of the poor devil. We very rarely had a problem with bodies or parts there of, because the bodies were taken away before we arrived on the scene.
We did have one occasion when we were sent onto the moors to remove a Hawker Hurricane, but it was the wring number and found the pilot still in it, we reported this and found our one a mile or so away. The Hawker Hurricane was a very different type of construction from the Spitfire,
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basically a steel tubular frame around which were fitted wooden formers and these were joined together by wooden strips along the length of the fuselage, the wings were very similar and all surfaces were covered with doped fabric, this was very time consuming to make and repair, much like a model aeroplane in appearance. A fitter from Hawker’s had almost finished this repair to a Hurricane when German bombers gave us a visit to pay back for what the Beauforts were doing in France, a bomb dropped outside the bomb proof door, blew them in and flattened the poor Hurricane! We got bombed out that night so drove a few miles away to a friendly looking field and slept all in a row under a tarp for a few nights until we were given an empty holiday beach house at Trearnon Bay which became our base for a few weeks, when we were not out on a job. Visited St. Eval in the 1980s and they were only just starting to remove the remains of that hanger blown up in early 1941.
During the next few weeks we were constantly on the move all over Cornwall, from Penzance across to Predanack, which is on the other leg at the base of Cornwall. Working on a Whirlwind, twin engined fighter-bomber which had nose dived straight into the ground, on a desolate part of the moors, all that showed was the edges of sheets of aluminium in the ground and lying a few feet away, a hand complete with a ring on, we could not salvage the plane and pilot’s body without large earth moving gear and instructions were received to pull out what we could and fill the hole in, as we worked we heard the sound of aircraft high up and turned to watch a flight of the same ‘planes go by, as we watched one pealed off and dived into the ground a few miles away, heard later that the tail planes of this aircraft were a bit suspect. We always had billets in the nearest place to where we worked, sometimes this was an Army Camp or a pub and in this case we were living in a cafe at Predanack, after a wash we all trooped into the dining room for our first meal and on came a Cornish pastie, about a foot long and looked delicious but didn’t think it was a lot for six or seven hungry blokes to share, but then in came the rest and we had one each!
Once we had to go to a Fleet Air Arm station to dismantle an aircraft, it was in a hanger and we were dressed in our usual scruffy outfits, all these Naval types marching about at the double, and the public address system nearly drove us mad, never seemed to stop with lots of whistles and incomprehensible bellowing, asked one of the sailors what it all meant his answer left us just as ignorant as before. We were in one of the huts and left our truck at the hanger to walk to the mess hall to get some lunch, as we strolled by a hut the window flew open and a loud voice wanted to know what we were doing walking on the Quarter deck and tried to make us run across, not in gum boots we couldn’t and didn’t try. That night being near a town, after 50 years have no idea which one, we all thought a night on the town would be a good change, so managed to tidy ours [sic] selves up and found
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out when the bus left and got to the guard room at the main gate just as a sailor closed and locked it, outside was the queue for the bus which had yet to arrive. “Open” we all said, can’t was the reply because the liberty boat has gone, what a load of rubbish, if you were on a ship you could understand it, if the Navy still do things that way it’s about time they changed from the days of Rum, bum and Nelson!! Soon got away from that stupid place probably didn’t know there was a war on we certainly did and spent all our days clearing away the rubbish caused by it. Often we had to remove crashed German aircraft that had been shot down, most were just a heap of burnt wreckage with often the remains of the crew inside, not recognisable as such just bits of bone that had not been found for burial, at other times we would have a complete ‘plane with little or no damage, there we took to pieces if not able to fly out from where they were, went to a special place to be put together perhaps with parts from other ‘planes to make them airworthy, and test flown to find out more about that type. Once we were called to an aerodrome near the coast where, I think it was a J.U.88 had landed the pilot thinking he was over the channel in France, the duty officer seeing the plane land had driven out in a jeep and crashed into the tail to stop it taking off again, we had to get the bits from a depot that was full of the German ‘planes and replace the damaged parts. Some of the early R.A.F. bombers such as the twin engined Handley Page Hampden were fitted with special balloon cable cutters to the leading edge of the main wings, these in theory would be tripped as the cable slid into it’s jaws and an explosive charge would fire a razor sharp chisel cutting the cable allowing the plane to get free, after a number of M.U. airmen had lost fingers while man handling wings during salvage instructions were issue that these had to be tripped before any work was done on the aircraft, I tripped the only one I worked on and it chopped the end from my screwdriver! An American Flying Fortress had crashed somewhere in Devonshire, can’t remember where, and what it was doing in England I don’t know, though the Yanks came in much later, anyhow we were told to get it and it must be sent up to Liverpool. The biggest thing we had tackled, got the fuselage, wings and engines away alright but the centre section was very wide and when stood on it’s leading edge was exceptionally high.
The local police were always asked for advice on getting past low bridges and electricity wires, spent more than a week travelling a few miles only to find yet another low bridge in our way, chiefy was fed up and so were we camping along the road where ever we go stuck, most aircraft that we worked on had a fire axe stowed on board so we had a good selection of sharp ones we used for all sorts of jobs, we cut foot and hand holes in the centre section and cut off with the axes quite a few feet from the trailing edge which was now the top and were able to get back to the depot next day, thing was only worth scrap anyway. After about 5 months of this work which in most cases was just garbage collection, not what I had been trained
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at great expense to do, I saw a notice on orders calling for volunteers to go over seas. I put in my application and was accepted, given seven days posting leave and reported to the assembly camp called I think Paddington, hundreds or more like thousands of airmen of all trades were gathered there and we were all issued with both tropical and cold weather equipment, had two large kit bags of the stuff to lug about plus personal kit in a small bag. After about ten days of this which included a medical we were all paraded on the very large parade ground to get our instructions to more to lorries and get abroad a ship, suddenly a voice bellowed out “575931 Miles R.J. fall out and report to the parade adjutant” was that me? “yes” said a bloke next to me who had become a friend. So out I marched dragging bags in front of all these assembled airman, saluted after dropping the bags and reported my name and number, still not 18 I was told I was too young to go where these men were going and told to hand in my kit and report back to my unit, this lot went to Russia I found out later and many did not return, some drowned when their ship was sunk and others just died from the cold!
– Reg Miles
The URL of this page is
http://www.geocities.com/milbios/Milesbio2.html
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Biography of Reg Miles
Ex Apprentice No 1 S.of T.T., R.A.F., Halton 39th Entry 34 – 67 M.U.s – 27 A/S Bloemspruit South Africa – Lympe Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 242 – 246 – 511 Squadrons Transport Command Lyneham, RAF
Chapter 3
27 Air School, Bloemspruit South Africa,
B Squadron, Service Unit, R.A.F.
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I didn’t spend long back at Taunton before the call came again to report for over seas posting, I’d had the special leave so on the train to Blackpool this time.
The Leaving of Liverpool “ring any bells” a film about children forcefully taken from England during and shortly after the war, the parents and children never told if the others were alive and the children taken to Church run HOMES in Australia and treated as slave labour, in fact in many cases the children built the homes (as in collective enclaves) As I said a very different life style, we were all led to believe that they (as in any one in authority even self proclaimed) knew best and slavishly carried out their instructions to the letter. Children were abused, physically, mentally and sexually, both boys and girls, how did it happen, only because authority was not questioned until recently and only now is the truth coming out of those children’s tragic lives.
Bearing all that in mind you may not be surprised to read that I like my peers did as I was told without question.
The journey out to South Africa started from the joys of Blackpool, a holiday resort in the north of England, no work, billeted in houses normally
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used to accommodate the vast numbers of “visitors” from the industrial towns of the north during their summer holidays. The local “landladies” welcomed us with open arms, we were a source of income to them, not that they opened too wide the food cupboards, but many daughters opened their hearts and arms to us, we were all young healthy and free. Had my first go on ice skates at the local rink and after a few falls soon mastered it and really enjoyed it. Soon became time to board ship S.S. Mooltan 20,000 tons of sheer misery at Liverpool and head out into the Atlantic that was waiting for us with all the dirty weather it could find. April 1941, could well have been April fools days for all I know.
By buses we arrived at grey Liverpool to stand for hours on a grey dockside in front of a grey wall that stretched to the sky and disappeared into the grey distance, only relieved by a black hole in it’s side through which countless airmen staggered carrying all their worldly goods contained in two kitbags and a small case. One of the kitbags contained our normal selection of issue clothing, the other, two complete outfits one of tropical shorts shirts etc, the other cold weather clothes suitable for Russia!! We had no idea where we were headed and it was hoped neither did the enemy! The kitbag not required was taken off us well into the voyage, the Russian one I am now very happy to say!!
The Mooltan 20,000 tons of aging ship, massive to us but now would only be classed as a small ship 100,000 tons seems to be the average, 250,000 tons on the large size!!
Our turn came at last and through the hole we trooped to find ourselves in a black cavern, directed through doors that were about a foot off the floor so that dragging kitbags jammed and brought forth words of complain not heard very frequently in church. Now completely lost and descending even deeper into the bowels of this black tank we were at last told that is where you stay until told to move and that heap there contain hammocks and those hooks there are where you swing them and those tables and benches are where you eat and some can sleep on them and the heads are there and don’t move!!
So we sat and surrounded with our bags wondered what we had done to deserve this, after all we had volunteered for overseas posting, but this?
A few thought to see what was through the next doorway but only more of the same lots of airmen sat sitting waiting to be told what to do. Ah a sergeant has arrived, ‘you and you come with me’, not me but a couple near who left their kit and followed as detailed, who return some time later with urns of tea, a scramble to find our own kitbag and delve into it’s contents to find our ‘mugs airmen’ hopefully still in one piece.
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These two had been delegated as our mess orderlies and would fetch our food at the times arranged, well at least we should be fed and the tea was hot strong and sweet, by this time it was getting late in the day not that we had any idea whether the sun was shining or it was raining, the urns were returned and the message came back to sling your hammocks and get in.
I was just about 18 from memory and certainly the youngest in our “room”, places on the benches and tables had already been taken by those in the know. The Mooltan was a slow old converted cargo ship. As such the accommodations were happenstance and crowded. The only hammock hook left was over the stairwell and passage way. This is where I had to sling my hammock, which was over the stair case leading to the lower toilets. I slung my hammock and endeavoured to climb in and found myself on the floor the opposite side, I had tied it too tight and had no head room so that as I climbed in I pushed myself out again, instructions from those near who were well bedded down soon got things “ship shape” and I crawled in to assume the shape of a banana, not at all comfortable and desperately aware that a trip to the heads should have been made before becoming cocooned like this.
Sleep came but was soon interrupted by the rustling noise as hammocks swayed and rubbed together, we were on the move but this soon stopped and dawn found us moored in mid river, we had been allowed on deck soon after stowing our hammocks and being fed, strict instructions being issued that not too many on one side as the ship could capsize!! A sea of men everywhere, no small piece of deck was vacant, and only the grey Mersey, grey sky, and crowds of grey clad men were in view.
There we stayed all day and other ships moored near, we were fed during the day and tried to wash with the salt water soap we were issue with, it didn’t foam and currently did not remove dirt, in fact it left a grey sort of coating on the hands which was difficult to remove, seems that life from now on going to contain logs of grey!!
And so to “bed” or do you say and so to hammock? only to be woken up feeling very sick and scrambled out of the hammock to find most others were doing the same and a rush to get on deck for some fresh air which may stop that horrible feeling. It was dawn a very grey dawn, and directly behind us was a very large grey ship, completely without modesty showing us her (it’s?) grey bottom as it lunged up and down, we likewise were playing silly buggers and this motion was no doubt the cause of our distress, in the distance could be seen other ships, some had things like broom sticks pointing about them and we presumed that they were to protect us, I like many other now wished that we could be torpedoed and sunk, they only relief in sight for that awful sinking feeling!
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That night, all the hammocks swung together as the ship rocked in the heavy seas and the rush by some people during the night to get to the “bogs” before they spewed up often ended just below me, perhaps it is no wonder that I spent as much time as I was allowed on deck away from the stench, but always got herded down when it got dark, the Atlantic was not a very pleasant place to be at that time apart from the gale that seemed to rage more each day, we were only too aware that U Boats would enjoy sinking a troop ship and the chances of being saved in that stormy water was about nil! It was cold and smelly in my hammock as we sailed out into the Atlantic Ocean.
The days passed and gradually we were able to take a small sip of tea a tiny crumb of bread without heaving it up straight away, as we and the other ships headed into the grey Atlantic, the clever ones amongst us saying that we were headed for America, others convinced we were going into the Med, and an even more knowledgeable bunch with a compass sure we were going south. The sea was empty but for our escort. Our convoy, being one with important cargo, a troop ship, was doubtless given a course away from the shorter more populated routes. We saw no planes escorting us or other ships other than our own convoy and escort. Some bits and bobs were sighted in the sea, just a few empty crates probably slung over board by any ship friend or foe going that way. Nothing else.
Funny things that stick in the memory after all these years, apart from the agony of sea-sickness which passed after about a week, was and still is the smell and taste of the bread loaves we were all given each day as part of our food ration. I had now recovered from sea sickness and was able to eat my share of the food on offer, what we were serves up I have no recollection apart from the small loaf of bread we were issued with each morning which had to do us for the rest of the day. Eat it when you like but you wont get any more until the next morning. It was the most enjoyable bread I have ever tasted, of course I had teeth then and was very hungry, as all young people are, but after so many years I can almost taste it in my memory!!
The grey has passed and the grey ships with guns, one of which was a battleship, left us as we entered Freetown, not the town you understand but the estuary leading to it. We called into Freetown after three weeks of utter misery. Freetown is on the west African coast, so it did look as if we might end up somewhere hot but where no one knew. Apart from one poor sod, one of our airmen though not from our mess, who had not stopped bringing up just bile for the last three weeks, no one from the troops got on shore. The lad who was taken ashore with seasickness that had lasted since leaving UK, was in a very bad way with dehydration.
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We moored away from the town itself and have no memory of other ships near us but guess they were there. We did not get ashore, not that it looked very inviting, mud huts and mud was all we could see moored out in the channel. After one day on a ship that actually stayed in one place horizontally we set sail again for parts unknown.
I developed a raging tooth ache and reported sick, the ships doctor showed me his equipment for treating tooth aches, it consisted of an armchair and a few rusty looking plier type instruments, said he hadn’t pulled out any teeth and which one hurt, showed him and tapped on the wrong one and told me to come back in the morning if it is still bothered me, funny thing the pain went away and only returned very many years later when all that was left was a hollow shell which crumbled to pieces when the dentist gripped it!!
Sailing away from Freetown the weather became much sunnier and it was now quite evident that south was the way we were going, the sea became less grey, but cannot remember the other ships, perhaps they no longer were showing their bottoms, flying fishes flew from our path dolphins rode our wash, and life became just about perfect, apart from the fact that the 10 shillings (about a dollar) I had boarded with was long gone (no pay until we arrived where ever we were going). I smoked a pipe but would smoke cigarettes as well and the only ones on offer free from my “room” mates were Springbok, a very strong South African fag oval in section and only given to me because those that had bought them felt sick after a few puffs. It is one of the other things that I remember after all these years, the horrible smell of the Springbok cigarettes, which was all I had to smoke the six weeks we were aboard. Perhaps in retrospect a good time to give up smoking you might say, but in those days they were issued free to some units and certainly the Salvo’s and other friends of the forces gave them out to all service men. The opiate of the masses it would appear!!
We got into smoother waters and the sun shone and most of the Navy escort left us, and there really is a sort of magic about the sea when you are far from land, suppose most of us got a good rest and were well fed for six weeks and enjoyed the days relaxing in the sun, watching the flying fish, dolphins and strange patches of seaweed, and of course we all had to be “welcomed” by King Neptune.
One thing about a troop ship there is no such thing as privacy, we slept close to one another, ate our food touching elbows, and washed and showered in sea water which does not get any dirty off only ingrains it further in the skin, even using the special soap that was provided. Toilets had to be increased and the solution on this ship was to construct on the top deck a trough about 30ft or 9 meters long and fix along this some 20 or so squares
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of wood with holes in, water was pumped in from the sea one end and ran over board out of the other, a very friendly loo indeed, the rocking of the ship was a worry some times when your next door neighbour’s evacuation born on a tidal wave came visiting!! To enliven an activity that was already fraught with some peril, people with a distorted sense of humour nailed a stub of candle to a piece of wood, lit the candle and then set it on its journey down stream to warm the posteriors and other appendages of the poor captive sufferers!!
We travelled south but then to confuse all and sundry we started to go north and with our very limited knowledge of where things were on the earth’s surface we were again lost, after six weeks of a war time sea cruise we entered the Port of Durban and once more were on dry land which to our consternation would not keep still and behaved much like the Mooltan had in Liverpool.
Perhaps it is not to be unexpected that most if not all were glad to get off the Mooltan after six weeks when she docked in Durban on the east coast of South Africa. The group I was with were taken from the ship to the rail and we began the last part of our journey to our final destination which was Bloemspruit R.A.F Pilot training station near Bloemfontein in the Orange Free State, where we were to keep the 104 Miles Master aircraft flying day and night. A much better job that I had been doing since leaving Halton.
The railway journey from Durban to Bloemfontein lasted one whole day but can’t say I remember anything at all about it, on arrival at 27 Air School about ten miles outside the city which is the capital of the Orange Free State we were shown to our barracks, decent brick buildings, single storey, with stable type spilt doors and the usual basic beds and lockers, but heaven after the ship. Food was so strange at first, lots of fruit most of which we had never seen or heard of and many different dishes made from maize, one like porridge called “mealie meal” served at breakfast I thought wasn’t too bad but soon learnt that the natives ate it so South African whites wouldn’t beneath their dignity. We had a lot to learn about the South African white way of life, to see the native workers on the flight line covered in oil and grease as they did the dirty jobs and then watch them fishing in the bins where we emptied the left overs from our plates, made us recent arrivals very angry, but we were told not to interfere, we were guests in the country and our ways were not the right way to treat these “savages”. If we offered them the “butts” left from our cigarettes they had to hold out both hands in case they had a knife in the other and would stab us, it did seem and still does to me that the white population went in fear of their lives and in many cases rightly so because they did treat the natives in a terrible way and at last the right thing has been done but the Dutch Boer has a lot to answer for. These Boers had an organisation based in the Orange Free State (think they
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now call it The Free State) that went about blowing up power lines and post offices and was very pro German know the name but my spelling of it will be far from correct (Osiver Brantvag) told you it was all wrong!! I made a number of friends while stationed at Bloemfontein, the Florie family for one, they picked me up at the bus stop when I had missed it one night and gave me a lift back to camp, he was an accountant and she was after a bit of ‘rough’ not 18 and dim as a Toch H lamp didn’t recognise the invitations handed out every time I stayed over night, frilly things always had been left on my bed by mistake, “I’ll just put them away, do you like them?” was only one of the things and her husband I’m sure thought I was giving her one, would have done if I hadn’t been so thick!! One night at their house they were having the usual meeting of the tennis club, very few blokes but lots of pretty young girls, suggested that they might like me to do some toast on the open fire for all of them, funny thing it wasn’t some thing they had ever done, so there I sat toasting slice after slice and spreading each with lots of butter, calls for more coming all the time, the family cat came to see what I was doing and I just spoke to it calling it “Pussy”, a deathly hush descended over the room and then a few stifled giggles and one of the chaps wanted to tell me some thing outside, pussy was the local name for that part of a girls body that men seem to want to get into so no more calling cats pussy.
Another person I got to know was Nabiha Masoud (think that’s how to spell it) she and her large family were all from Lebanon and would you believe classed as coloured, which is only one degree above black and not to be mixed with, the Florie family would have nothing to do with her even though she had her own ladies hairdressing business and good at it, tried to get me not to see her or her family, but apart from “Dad” the rest of her folks were very nice to me and always had a place at their table for me, Dad thought things were serious so didn’t want her getting involved with a Pom, we were in fact just good friends and perhaps I saw her just to say “up you” to the white population. There is a town called Margate down the coast from Durban and I did write to the Mayor who invited me to visit the town and be their guest, but never took up the offer. Dac Dacre was an ex Halton “Brat” like I was and we got on very well together, we arranged to take a leave together and as we could get a free railway pass decided to go to a place called Muizenburg this is a seaside holiday town on the shores of False Bay, we had booked into a YMCA hostel and spent our leave there but the train journey lasted all of two days and did get a bit boring after a while, miles and miles of very little followed but some more, had a look at Cape Town and little did we realise that not too many months would pass before we again found ourselves in the area, in fact in a transit camp between Muizenburg and Cape Town waiting to board ship back to England and flying over Germany as crews of bombers. My mother’s father had a brother who had moved to South Africa many years before and I managed to find them in a small town called Krugersdorp near Johannesburg, they invited
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me to stay with them on one of my leaves so I took the offer up and spent two weeks with them. Very interesting for me as my uncle had a building firm and I went about to see how things were done, one of the sons was an inspector of mines and arranged for me to go down a gold mine and also see all the processes of getting gold from the ore.
There are two reefs bearing gold in that area, called north and south, can’t remember which is which but one is very wide and is made up of very white quartz pebbles around which can be seen the glitter of gold flecks, the other reef is quite narrow and in places only inches wide but is very dark even black in colour and the gold can be seen quite easily as small nuggets. Both of these reefs go down into the ground at an angle so that new shafts are sunk to reach the reefs as they get deeper in the earth and further away from the original shaft, each new shaft being much deeper before it reaches the gold bearing ore. The very large heaps of brilliant white dust from the treatment plants can be seen for miles around Joh/burg and when the wind blows cause painful eyes and noses.
The mine I went down was very deep indeed and the lift travelled at such speed that one felt slightly air-borne as it descended the earth. The area at the bottom was huge and the passage ways leading off very large and well lit, as we moved away towards the mine face things got steadily hotter until we reached a place where a native was working a jack-hammer in a steeply sloping crack removing the small but very rich ore piece by piece, all jack-hammers also have a water pipe connected to prevent that miners curse of silicosis, so we had a very wet large black man working hard in a very narrow and hot space, he still was able to give me a big white toothy grin, but what he said I do not know, the noise of the hammer was terrible! After an hour or so of this we returned to the surface, glad of the fresh air and my shirt at least a chance to dry off from the high humidity underground. The first part we visited was the Stamp house, the noise here was unbelievable, row upon row of steel hammers pounding the ore as it slid beneath them washed down by streams of water, sheets of corduroy were used to catch any free gold after the stamps, these sheets were taken out periodically and burn to get the gold, the slurry then passed over copper sheets with mercury on them which also collected gold, not sure how or in which order this happened, it is a long time ago!! The slurry then entered very large tanks open at the top in which cyanide was dissolved in water (cyanide is a very deadly poison) the gold was dissolved by this mixture, this fluid was then pumped to a centrifuge where any remaining rock particles were extracted, the fluid which now looked like clean drinking water, but was far from it, was pumped again and ended up in mile long sheds which were full of troughs that contained hundreds of separate boxes filled with zinc shavings, as the liquid passed through the zinc the gold stuck to the zinc, and the next process melted the zinc shavings in a furnace which was then poured into an
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inverted cone shaped mold [sic], on cooling the cone was turned upside down, banged and out fell a very large cone of zinc with a small gold top, these gold knobs were cut off by hacksaw and tossed in one corner, when enough had been made, were themselves melted and poured into newspaper lined ingot moulds, lots of these bars of gold were stacked against the wall and I was invited to help myself if I could carry one away, tried but it flattened me to the floor and had to be lifted off me by the ever grinning black workers. The zinc was re-rolled into sheets and in one corner was being turned again into shavings on a very old lathe by the still grinning workers.
So far it would seem that all I did was visit and enjoy but this was a pilot training ‘drome, flying went on 24 hours a day and our days were spent servicing the 104 Miles Master ‘planes on the daily inspections. The Masters was made of wood and plywood, much like the Mosquito of later and much greater frame. The Miles Master was an advanced training aircraft that trained pilots in fast single engine ‘plane management before they became operational on Hurricanes or Spitfires. Mark 1 Masters were fitted with Rolls Royce Kestrel engines (fore runner of the Merlin) some of these were even equipped as fighters with four Browning guns during the panic of 1940, Mark 2 Masters had Pratt and Whitney Junior Twin Wasps.
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Servicing Miles Master Trainers at 27 Air School
With the many hours they were flown each day, some very hard landings and the general wear and tear of pupil pilot use they were becoming very hard to keep airworthy, even had one do a forced landing at a place called
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Dewetsdorp which ended up on it’s back. As I had spent some time in England salvaging Miles Masters I was in the gang that went to collect it, still have some photos of the job.
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Miles Master Recovery
The salvage crew was led by Sergeant “Jock” Brown and was made up of members of the flight servicing crews at 27 A/S. A Queen Mary low loader was not available nor was a crane which made the task more difficult, sheer legs being used to lift, turn and load the ‘plane. As far as I know the pilot did not die but would have needed to “duck” a lot from the amount of cockpit damage. As bad as the airplane was, great care was taken to salvage the ‘plane without further doing further damage. This took a great deal of work, including some careful maneuvering [sic] over a narrow bridge on the way back.
104 American Harvards were flown in and my mate Dac and myself were given the job of checking these and making them airworthy for use, they had been shipped to Durban as deck cargo, and although sealed before loading, some had had their canopies opened by the ship’s crew, salt water had entered and causes much damage, not only to things that could be seen but many radios had been ruined and props had been turned so that ports had opened, we found many that had damaged pistons on the con rods due to salt water no wonder the delivery pilots had complained that some were gutless and rattled a lot. I joined the Camp Concert Party and band, played the fool on the camp and Bloemfontein stage and played the trumpet very badly at camp dances, practised like mad but still caused the lead trumpeter to shake his head in disgust.
Notices were on the boards for aircrew volunteers, Dac and I were a bit fed up with our treatment regarding promotion, we did the work and other got the credit, funny it’s still the same fifty years later!! We put our names in and after various interviews were sent to Cape Town to await shipment back to England.
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– Reg Miles
The URL Of This Webpage is
http://www.geocities.com/Pentagon/Bunker/7797/Milesbio3.html
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Biography of Reg Miles
Ex Apprentice No 1 S. of T. T., R.A.F., Halton 39th Entry 34 – 67 M.U.s – 27 A/S Bloemspruit South Africa – Lympe Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 242 – 246 – 511
Squadrons Transport Command Lyneham, RAF
Chapter 4
Lympe, Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire
Unescorted fast ship Mauritania II brought us home in just two weeks. This was more like a holiday cruise, she was a large new fast ship, not over crowded, weather sunny, no real worries about the enemy, just too ignorant to have a care. And good food, all very pleasant!!
We came into port during the night, I suggest for security reasons. We would be confined below decks after dark so that no lights would be shone and any portholes on our decks would be welded shut. As we had no idea where we were it was only at dawn that we found ourselves suddenly in harbour.
We returned to a cold and rationed England, which was a bit of a shock after the land of plenty that was South Africa. I got to spend some time at home. Home was River outside Dover where Dad was responsible for building work for all the various Navy, Army and Airforce units stationed in and around the port of Dover.
After a couple of weeks I was posted to Lympne RAF Base near Folkstone in Kent, not too far away from home. I could cycle home on the odd day off. I was at a servicing echelon on Typhoons there from August 1943, making myself useful until the Flight Engineer course came through.
I arrived at this very basic airfield, grass runway, no hanger that I can recall, road to the village went through the place and we were living in requisioned [sic] houses on the floor, the Guardhouse miles away so we never booked out or in, just went! There I was fit, brown, and fairly knowledgeable, and there they were the service crews, lilly white, half starved, most hadn’t a clue about the RAF. The CO wanted me to stay, rather than take the flight engineer course. He did everything to make me, even tried to bribe me with promotion and an instructors course, turned him down flat, not the best way to make friends!!
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A few days later I watched as the flight sergeant in charge of the service crew was trying to unlock a propellor, up on the steps with a very, very large lead hammer and a long spanner thumping away to release the lock, told him it was the wrong rotation, what would I know?, the engine shaft sheered [sic] off and prop and F/S landed on the ground, another job now to remove the whole Napier Sabre and fit a new one, suppose the F/S got promoted and probably blamed me!!
The Typhoons were very heavy fast fighters. They were fitted with Napier Sabre H section sleeve valved 24 cylinder engines, had 20m/m cannon and rocket rails, and were hell to fly and worse to service. The engines were proto-types and only could do 20 hours or so between engine changes, never saw even one do that much while I was there, the single prop was the biggest in service and only cleared the ground when in flying position by 4 inches, many were bent on take off, and many came back from ops with bullet holes in as the ‘plane went faster than the bullets in a dive and caught up with it’s own fire!!
When I was working on Typhoons heard many yarns, but all “driversairframe” are a bit like fisher men I think. While the story teller was giving the the [sic] usual flyers tale, with lots of arm waving indicating who did what, even the other pilots had a “I don’t believe him” smiles on their faces.
The Typh’s were used as tank and train busters and also for downing V-1 Bombs and did a mighty job. Despite their success, some of the Typhoon pilots were very keen to improve the speed of the Typhoon so they could catch the enemy, be it pilotless V-1 Bombs, or piloted fighters. They were always wanting a few more miles an hour of them and “if only the bloody thing went faster I would have shot down” probably the whole German Airforce!! Adjustments to the engines were very difficult because they were so complicated and really just prototypes still. So they spent many hours with car polish rubbing and polishing every bit to reduce drag. They got us to help also, big things Typh’s and we got very tired of it. Guess they were like me, young and keen and a bit stupid as well, you’d have to be to risk life and limb for peanuts!!
Of course battle was not the only thing the pilots were keen on. The Typhoons were flown from a small grass runway. A sergeant’s mess party was being held one evening when I was on duty crew, we had to see the “dusk” patrol in and prepare them the “dawn” patrol, check everything and rearm and refuel and make sure every thing was as it should be. The small ‘drome was crowded visitors ‘planes from surrounding units and many were parked at the ends of the runway, fog was closing in and the last few of the dusk patrol had been told to divert to Manston, which was a very large aerodrome fitted with FIDO, by air it was seconds away by road it was
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too far to get a lift and still get to the party. All their mates would be there plus many of the local girls and if you didn’t turn up some one else would try their luck with your girl!! All managed to get back in, just one left to land, and here he comes he’s too low can’t see the row of ‘planes at the end of the runaway.
Yes he has but too late the massive undergear crashes through about six aircraft of all types and sizes and comes to earth with one wing low, the prop touches, that one won’t be on dawn patrol, as it taxi to our flight position where we are standing with torches to direct the pilot and hook the ‘plane to our tractor and tow it into position for the morning, the pilot climbs out, says “shit” and heads off for a shower and no doubt a bullet from the CO and even grounding if senior officers have had their ‘plane destroyed. We check the undergear to make sure it wont collapse as we tow it and generally check the damage, this takes a while and as we are doing this we hear the bell of the “blood wagon” in the distance, but too late for any injuries we say so I lay on the ground with one leg in the air and groan as the medical orderly rushes over, but it’s not the usual medical orderly it’s the senior medical officer, who wants to make a name for himself as all the top brass are on the base for the party. Well we didn’t part as friends I must say, but he really enjoyed chewing me out so perhaps that made his day!!
Arriving back at camp after a day with my parents, we slept in empty houses really outside the camp boundaries so no booking in or out, supposed to but why go a long way to the guard room if nobody cared, any how it was early in the morning, near midnight, not late at night as it should have been as I cycled to my billet, as I got off my bike the sergeant of my ground crew called for me to get moving and handed me a bucket of white paint. Our flight line was very close to our billet, and I was told to start painting wide white stripes under the wings of the Typhoons, other bods had black paint. So I crawled under them with buckets of white paint late at night in my best uniform. No idea where the Typhoons were off to, but we were told it was for identification purposes for an operation, but which one? It might have been coastal or near to it, and in support of either Commando’s or Navy, both tended to fire at all aircraft without any idea who flew what!! But why do it in the middle of the night with far from clever painters with large distemper brushes and I’m sure it was water based paint? On 15 November 1943, 2nd Tactical Air Force is formed, perhaps the Squadron I was on was made part of this force and some “stay in bed get the boys out” prat thought it would be nice if the new force were correctly dressed for Dawn Patrol. Whatever the reason for the early morning paint job, my best uniform was never quite the same, every one else had on their overalls!
As it turns out this was the first time that this type of identification was used on allied aircraft, and I Did It!!! These black and white stripes were
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called invasion stripes by others much later. They were widely in use for the Normandy invasion. They were painted to clearly show our ground forces that they were friendly aircraft so we would not lose aircraft to our own flak. Only the Tactiful [sic] Air Force had the invasion stripes. Well before the invasion some aircraft were painted with the stripes to be used as Targets for spotters and Anti aircraft units and also for ground troops to get familiar with our own planes, as marked. Apparently this Typhoon squadron was one of those painted early to get our troops used to the stripes.
I was stationed at Lympne until the end of 1943 when my posting came through to report at St Athan in South Wales to start my Flight Engineers training. Because of my training at Halton and my service work on aircraft my training would be specific to the type of bomber I would be doing my operations on, that was the plan anyhow.
It might be best to spend a moment reviewing the various RAF bombers. First there were the Medium Bombers. The Hampden, outdated before the war started so not used much – bit of a death trap so not to be included.
Bristol Blenheim private design as all decent ones are, Beaufort a torpedo version did lots of damage and raids on shipping in French ports, made the Germans angry. Beaufighter very fast version called “Whispering Death” also used as a night fighter with radar, all types with twin radial aircooled engines also by Bristol.
De Haviland Mosquito, best all round fighter, bomber etc of the war, just look up it’s stats and learn! 4000 lb bomb load, faster than any thing until the jets arrived, 42600 ft ceiling, used by the Master Bombers, fitted with 4 cannon and even with a single 57 m/m cannon. Don’t know what a Master bomber is? They first used Lancasters, would circle the target at a low height during all of the raid, and direct the “Pathfinders” where to drop more target markers, all this done at night of course and we would be called up as “main force” and directed which colour markers to use as an aiming point, and woe betide you if you came in from the wrong direction or dropped anywhere but the correct place. we were usually at 18000 to 20000 ft and could see the Master Bomber back lit by the bursting bombs almost as ground level, a number of back ups would be at our height and when, not if the master bomber was either hit by flak, or by a fighter or as was most likely had a load of bombs dropped on him, saw a Lancaster one time when we had to land away from base that had had a load of incendiaries land on it, not a pretty sight!! Master bomber two would have his own call sign and often with an accent to prevent the Gardens from giving us the wrong information, cunning devils!!
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Heavy bomber Wellington made by Vickers designed by Barnes Wallis (swing wing F1111, Dam busters bomb, and even the Avro York made from parts of the Lancaster) Twin engine geodetical construction, (all little bits joined together to make a net like effect, very strong) covered with fabric, front and rear turrets, two .303 Brownings in each 4,500 lb bomb load 300mph main stay of bombing until the large 4 engined bombers came along, still going strong at the end of the war, called The Wimpey by every one. very many versions from sea search with a lifeboat slung under, to mobile radar and radio station and I remember seeing one flying very low along the coast line with a large ring the size of it’s wing span detecting and blowing up magnetic sea mines.
Short Stirling the first 4 engine one, slow. low and designed by the Air Ministry with short wings so that it would go into the standard hanger, typical stupid desk riders. My log book contains some hours spent as F/E on one, a pretty useless bomber and not to be in the same class as the Halifax and Lancaster.
The Manchester was first operational about the same time as the Halifax but as we all know was plague by engine problems and was a “dead duck” until fitted with four Merlins, the Halifax was also supposed to get RR Vultures but because a shortage was expected was designed for four RR.
Handley Page Halifax 4 engined similar to the Lancaster never gets a mention much like the Hurricane is over shadowed by the Spitfire, but many thousands of them were flying and bombing Germany, while the Manchester was falling out of the sky with failing engines. Rolls Royce produced a 24 cylinder engine really based on two Merlins joined at the sump one upside down, it was only when the Manchester was modified to take four standard Merlins that it became the great aircraft it eventually did become. Both The Halifax and Lancaster had versions with Merlins and Hercules engines, the Halifax with Hercules was much better than the version with Merlins and the Lancaster was the reverse better with Merlins, More versions of the Lancaster were developed during the war and it’s construction was easier than the Halifax, but the Halifax was much tougher and took more punishment before crashing, I trained on and flew them all as an F/E, just wanted to get down in one piece so all were good for me!! 6,176 Halifax were built, their first operational flight took place March 1941.
Both Lancaster and Halifax had 4 .303 Brownings in the rear power turret, mid upper had 2 but had a full 360 rotation and up and down. Some later versions of the Lancaster had twin .5 Brownings in the rear turret, both Halifax and Lancaster had versions with mid under turrets with twin Brownings.
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The Lancaster did eventually drop 22,000 lb grand Slam bombs, called by some earthquake bombs as they were made of high quality steel typical bomb shape and were used to bomb things like bridges which are very hard to destroy, need a direct hit, theses bombs penetrated deep into the earth and shattered the foundations so that the bridge or viaduct collapsed. 7,377 Lancasters were built, their first operational flight took place on 3/4 March 1942.
So I started my training on four engined Lancaster Mark 2 bombers which were in every respect the same as all Lancasters except for the engines which were Bristol Hercules 14 cylinder air cooled radial, all other Lancasters had four Rolls Royce 12 cylinder water cooled twin 6 cyl. vee Merlin engines. Lancasters were the outcome of a design called the Manchester which originally had twin Rolls Royce X engines 24 cylinder X, really two Merlins coupled at the sumps making a cross of four banks of six, these engines were a completed failure and before I went to South Africa in 1941 had worked on one of the Manchesters that had crash landed in a field due to engine failure. A.V Roe (Avro) knew they had a good aircraft and as The Royal Airforce refused to allow them any engines, so scrounged 4 Merlins from Rolls Royce on the “old pals network” and re worked the ‘plane from two engines to four and demonstrated to the top brass what a good all round bomber they had, and so it proved to be in service, carrying heavier bombs farther and higher than any other ‘plane at that time.
I studied the Lancaster and it’s systems including the Hercules engines until I knew every part, hydraulic, air, auto pilot, bomb release gear, undercarriage, you name it I knew and passed with ease my examinations, so much of what I had been studying was what I had been working on for a couple of years, different ‘planes but basically the same in principle. St Athan is a very old and well known R.A.F. Station the R 101 and R100 airships were built there and a “ring” of one of them is fitted to the wall of the huge hanger they were built in, which still stood when I was there, anyone interested in these airships should get “Slide Rule” written by Neville Shute and learn some very interesting facts about these two airships, Neville Shute was an aircraft engineer and any of his fiction books are a good read, perhaps his most well known book was the basis for the film “A Town Like Alice”.
After passing out from the F/E course I was given a short leave and in March 1944 told to report to 1664 Heavy Conversion Unit at Dishforth in Yorkshire and it was there that I joined up with the rest of the crew who had until that time been flying twin engined aircraft. What aircraft did I see on the runway when I got there? Halifax Mark 2s and 5s different ‘planes and different engines so I had to start all over again on systems and bits!!!
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11.3.44, I had to do some initial training to see if I could handle things actually in the air, so it was circuits and landings with a senior Flight Engineer to see how I went. Well we took off OK and did a circuit and came straight in land again, with me operating the various undercarriage and flaps etc as the pilot asked and all was going well round and round until the bumpy air and round and round got to me and I felt sick as a dog after about an hour and asked the F/E if we could pack it up. He looked at me and said if you give in now you are off the course and can go back to your unit, well funny thing I suddenly felt better and got on with the rest of the job for another hour, after that I was always too busy to feel sick.
I have a log book of my time flying, and I include here the information in it from the flights I made as crew member, rather than as a passenger. This began here, with the 1664 HCU, 1664 Heavy Conversion Unit, which means it was heavy conversion unit from 2 to 4 engine aircraft.
Some of the terms on the Log Book shall require explaining. The Lat and Long at the top I have added recently when I bought MS World Atlas and was able to pin point the airfield locations. You will note the first column is the date to help you follow the sequence. This log book records all my flying both training, operational and at Transport Command. C&Ls circuits and landings very boring and mainly for the pilot and engineer to frighten them as much as possible, D.C.O. duty carried out D.N.C.O Duty Not carried out. P.O Lauzon was my first operational pilot, others mentioned on this first page and perhaps elsewhere were senior pilots who had done at least one tour of operations and were being rested before doing another tour of at least 30, all were very much more frightened of the ‘sprog’ pilot than of anything the Boche could throw at them!! PO is Pilot Officer and is really a rank to ensure that the person will not put up any ‘blacks’ and behave like an officer and a gentlemen, probationary period usually 6 moths. FO is not Flight Officer which is a female rank in the WAAF but Flying Officer. 25th Feb 1:32 E Easy was the aircraft that we normally flew when I was with 420 Sqdn, V Victor was our designated ‘plane when with 432 Sqdn, but as we were very new got what was available due to serviceability problems. Will get to each one as I go through my log book, which will be about 30 pages.
Pilot Officer Lauzon asked if I would like to join his crew. The rest were already joined as a crew. I was the last one to join being an RAF Flight Engineer, they needed me to shovel in the coal and to keep the boiler streaming!! As I knew nobody on the course happily agreed, soon realised that all crews belonged to The Royal Canadian Airforce so I had joined a bunch of people who I had no idea of their country or life style, some thing else to study, I was going to be a busy boy! The rest had trained on twin engine aircraft of some sort in Canada and were now ready for the big time.
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We were all very young with different back grounds and likes and dislikes, remember I was with the Canadians who were used to a much higher living standard, more independent than us down trodden POMS (from the Australian prisoners of His Majesty, convicts) So where they had quite a lot of money we did not, all the same Yanky pay, and the food parcels poured in from their families in Canada, when we had leave they went to certain places arranged for them or hit the “big smoke” and found some one to enjoy their pay with, I went home to a shell and bombed Dover, first thing Mum wanted was my ration book so should could feed me, one of my father’s sub contractors always called at our house soon after I got home and from the inside of his very dirty overalls gave me a Black Market parcel of butter, cheese and bacon. My crew always made sure I had some of their surplus food to take home, sugar and jam etc. I could not invite them to stay at my house, one reason was there was no room and another was that I had to have a special pass to even leave the railway station near home even though the local cop on duty knew me. The whole south coast was a restricted area all roads in were manned and high fences were all around so no use trying the fields, took one of my girl friends once, was only allowed to stay 12 hours and had to either send her back to London or both go somewhere else, went somewhere else!! My parents not too pleased but I was on a promise and determined to find out if it was as good as everyone was telling me, yes it was!
After being introduced to the rest of the gang, I got down to serious study learning about fuel systems, tank positions and the fuel transfer arrangements that allowed one tank to supply all engines and many compilations of this, very necessary if flack makes a hole in a fuel tank, need to use that one up first and tanks have to be balanced for the same reason during operations, loose a full tank and you wont have enough fuel to get back home again!! Engine controls are important too, boost and rpm govern the fuel consumption, and which supercharger gear ratio being used is also very critical.
A very brief explanation of boost, revs and supercharger gearing. Boost is the measure of pressure, plus or minus of the air in the induction system of an engine. When a piston sucks in air it increase it’s speed and therefore lowers it’s pressure below atmospheric pressure at ground level (14Ibs per square inch roughly) The more weight of air that can be crammed into a cylinder before it is fired the move power is produced. Hence turbo chargers and super chargers, turbo’s are driven by the exhaust gases, superchargers by gearing direct from the engine, as the aircraft flies higher the air gets less dense, and the power from the engine becomes less, turbo’s and supers pump more air in so that power is maintained, use of ground level increases the power from a given capacity of engine cylinders, an engine without a charger would always show a minus reading on the boost pressure guage [sic].
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The setting of the throttle (accelerator) governs the boost pressure coupled with the turbo or super charger speed setting, the two work together and then setting is done by the pilot or engineer for the conditions at the time (climbing, cruising, etc) components that are a part of the system automatically retain this boost pressure until either a height is reached where the air is so thin that it cannot do so, or changes are made to flight conditions. Revs are the speed at which the propellors go round and relate somewhat to the gearbox of a car, selection of speed is made and automatically kept at that speed by a unit on the engine and one in the propellor itself, bit like an automatic gear box on a car, changing conditions of flight such as taking off and landing require different propellor speeds and reacation [sic] of the flight conditions, feathering which rotates the blades so that they do not “windmill” in the event of an engine failure are also incorporated. Guess it’s not so simple after all and I used to teach this but had the advantage of being able to flap my arms about!!
My first flight with P/O Lauzon was on March 16, 1944 and was Exercise 7&8 in my log book. Exercise 7&8 I have no idea but only took about one and a half hours so not very important I should say.
Our next exercise was the next day, the 17th, and was Local Bombing. This was a training exercise for the crew but mainly for the bomb aimer and pilot to get their co-ordination working together so that the target is hit. Small practice bombs used but sometimes larger ones full of concrete may be dropped.
The next night I was up with another pilot, Fry, for Circuits and Landing exercises again. More night training.
The next morning I was called to fly with yet another pilot, Vinish, for a Sea Search. VINISH is correct, think I wrote “finish” and got a sharp reminder! Sea Search was a very serious matter that was to see us spend all those hours searching a particular part of the ocean with other crews looking for a downed ‘plane, a hell of a strain on the eyes, the sun shining on the moving waves makes it very hard to see anything properly so things are reported that are not there and other things missed, and no we did not see anything.
You will note that I took off at 10:15 am flew for nearly six hours and then took off again the same day with a different pilot at 20:20 being tested on night C&Ls for about 4.30 hrs and that is only the time in the air, lots goes on before and after!!
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Then it was back to P/O Lauzon for two flights in one day, the 20th. Two and a half hours of Local Bombing in the morning then a six and a half hour Night Cross Country exercise.
Apart from actually flying and being checked by a senior Flight Engineer to find out if I could do my job properly, our navigator had to give me instruction on star charts, which star was where and how to use the sextant to take star shots while flying to help in navigation, the F/E position was beneath the astro-drome and it was another of his jobs to do star shots if and when the navigator needed them, the correct star had to be found and a timed shot taken to give an average reading, the wrong star could make life difficult and I can tell you the ‘plane bumping about, nasty people trying to shoot you down didn’t make finding the right star in amongst the millions out there easy.
During this course we also had to take instruction in escape technic’s [sic] both from the aircraft and the enemy, we went to a swimming pool and in full flying gear jumped in the water and tried to turn over an up turned dingy we managed, but could not see it being possible at night in a rough cold North Sea, we all treated it as a bit of a laugh, young and foolish in hind sight.
Our next flight, on the 24th March 1944 at 18:45, our crew did it’s first night operation over France as a diversionary raid to fool the Germans into sending fighters up to intercept what appeared a bomber force approaching targets in their country. This Bullseye Mission was a number of training aircraft that were sent in a direction different than the proper bombers, hoping this would direct enemy fighters away from the real bombers. This diversionary raid turned back before any target was reached and hopefully before any of the inexperienced crews were shot down!! The 1/3 shown on the log was a third of a point awarded towards the total of thirty points needed for a complete tour of operations. “Bullseyes” only counted as one third of an operation. The missions was six long hours wandering about over enemy territory before landing back at base with eyes very sore with looking for enemy fighters that never appeared.
Another course we had to attend was escape after being shot down, this was carried out by senior NCO’s of the Army at a special camp on the Yorkshire Moors, a cold and bleak place, with our instructors determined to show those “Brylcreem boys” what tough meant, we were marched and run about all day, all ranks, some quite senior officers going back on operations for their third tour, were made to wear overalls at all times with no badges of rank and shouted at as if we were new recruits in the Army. Escape training was carried out at night without any warning, doors were slammed no lights put on and we had to get into our overalls and get outside, loaded
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into trucks half asleep, and driven out on to the moors, dropped off in twos with a map, not told where we were and left to find our own way back to camp, the local police, army and the courses just finishing came out looking for us and if found we were arrested and help in jail until sent back to camp. The Canadians were very much anti authority, (much like the Australians I now live with) so nothing was sacred, buses were found in back yards and driven near to camp with lots of aircrew hidden under seats, some stayed out for days being fed and “watered” by lonely wives whose husbands were in the Forces, and said they have got lost and were tired and hungry, some did look as if they had been working very hard and needed a rest. This was our last training in the Heavy Conversion Course.
The fact that this was our last flight was a coincidence. Bulls Eye was not a graduation ceremony. If one was wanted by the higher ups and you had reached a level of training able to do it you went, the needs of the service were what governed what and where you went.
I had completed training and was graded on my performance in the course. Exam result is 73.5% That was based on my flying with instructors and theory of the aircraft systems at HCU 1664, not wonderful but remember I did do a theory and practicle [sic] course just prior to arriving at HCU on the Lancaster Mark II, different ‘plane with entirely different engines, so apart from crewing up with a bunch of wild Canadians, I had less than two weeks to learn all about a new ‘plane and it’s engines, not bad for yours truly. The results of my examination were signed officially by the Flight Engineer Flight Leader, a flight of men can be any number that can be controlled or over seen, a flight of aircraft also can be any number that is suitable for the type, 3 bombers being usual, more for fighters, a number of flight make a squadron, a number squadrons make a wing, a number of wings make a Group and a number of groups make a command as in Bomber Command. Got all that? So the Flight Leader responsible for a number of Flight Engineers under training, signed to say that I had reached a standard whereby I could be expected to do do [sic] my job properly. All trades of air crew had Flight Leaders, Navigator, Gunners, Wireless operator, Bomb aimer, and lets not forget the driver Leader for the Drivers airplane!!
This all ended in due course and our crew were given a posting to 432 Sqdn RCAF at Eastmoor who were equipped with Halifax Mark 3, same engines as Lancaster 2s and much better version of the Halifax’s at Dishforth, so all that study had paid off in the end!! My flying time with Squadron 432 are covered in those pages of my Log.
The RCAF was called 6 Group part of Bomber Command, most airfields had two Squadrons based on it, each was controlled by its own staff and did not always fly to the same targets nor even on the same days of nights.
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Usually the same nation were located at each base, so you had two Canadian Squadrons where I was, 420 and 425 at Tholthorpe as an example with my next unit. I just can’t remember which squadron was at Eastmoor with 432, the Lancaster book I mentioned before gives all the squadrons and I will just look to see which Squadron was at Eastmoor with 432 when they were with Lancasters. Doesn’t help, my book shows an HCU at the same base but that was to covert 432 from Wellingtons I think on to Lancaster II, they then changed to Halifax III just before I joined, need the same sort of book for the Halifax which I don’t have and maybe no one has! To continue both these squadrons, and 432 as well, were part of 6 Group. Each squadron was divided into flights the number I cannot remember nor can I recall how many ‘planes in each flight. I would recommend to you that you beg borrow, steal or even in extreme circumstances purchase a book called The Lancaster Story by Peter Jacobs it is distributed in the USA by Sterling Publishing CO Inc 387 Park Avenue South, New York it’s ISBN is 1 85409 288 8 it is a very fine book and gives much detail of the history and operational types of Lancasters I was given the book by one of Phyllis’s brothers and treasure it greatly.
We flew out of Eastmoor airfield. The airfields were just that, fields, hangers and other buildings had been erected, but I visited some many many years later and just the concrete runway was still there most had been removed for scrap and given back to the farmers, local drag car clubs still use some of them and guess those farmer with ‘planes of their own could land and take off on them. Although I do not recall the details of Eastmoor, I have read that the Standard Airfield design for heavy bombers was to have a main runway 2000 yds, and two secondary runways at about 60 degrees to one another of 1400 yds.
A fence had been errected [sic] around the perimeter and RAF Police patrolled this to keep strangers out, but guess if you really wanted in it would have been easy, gun positions were manned by RAF Regiment people with mainly light guns and fixed posts with bofors. The local towns were in the main villages, been there for centuries still using the roads that the Romans built, a village hall, for all the functions so a trip to one on a dance night would see all the lonely ladies out in force and us being the local best thing since sliced bread were over whelmed with attention, take your pick and hope her husband is not near!!!
Two crew slept in each nissen hut so no need to shout for quiet more like a moan about someones socks which were “humming”, don’t ever remember noise being a problem, none of us played craps or other gambling games like the Americans, guess compared to them our lives were a bit like “The vicar’s tea party”! There were no other ‘normal working hours’ type people in our huts so no problem.
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Life on the Bases 432 and 420 was the usual things. We played horse shoes, pool. I even had to have lessons from the wireless operator on the morse code and key. Buses were laid on to the local villages for the dances which were not all that popular, not too many lovely ladies there!! The odd trip into York but much the same old thing into the pub a few beers and away before the usual fights started between the armies of the Allies. Only those that had not fought anywhere had to prove how wonderful they were, just idiots, bit like the rubbish on earth today. nuf said!!
We didn’t have any “hours” as such when bomber crews, we were expected to be available 24 hours a day , but if “stood down” officially for a number of hours usually until next morning could go out of camp and be back in by 23.59, the usual time for late return from a night on the town.
Stations Order were posted on the various notice boards which would give times of lectures , and other places we had to be, one such was the visit to our camp by the Prime Minister of Canada, we had to line up to be inspected, not to bull parade more like a casual couple of lines of airmen of all ranks chatting away until he got near and spoke to some one, unfortunately the first three or four he spoke to and asked “Where are you from in Canada” were all RAF and not RCAF so when he got London, Yorkshire etc was a bit puzzled, one of the officers took him by the elbow and steered him in the right direction. We all wore RCAF brevets for our aircrew trade so not easy for him to know who was who, on my squadron only the Flight Engineers were RAF the rest all Canadians. The Canadians had a saying that I have just remembered, “Joe for King, home by Christmas” Joe was Stalin and King was the name of the Canadian Prime Minister.
So to recap, we were pretty free to do as we wished most of the time, and I like most others only read any notice board if we thought we were getting promoted, and left all that stuff to our pilot, who knew before we did when and where we were flying etc. That is why I got in such a muddle over my Officer’s interview, mentioned elsewhere I think you will find, just never bothered to read the notice boards!!!
Our missions were at first all night operations. As such I shall have to educate you about night and day in England, Winters starts about October/November and goes on until February/March, some visitors swear it never stops and is winter all year, but the important thing is that in these northern climes daylight ends very early and starts late so a man working a normal day starting at 8am and finishing 4-5 pm will always travel in pitch darkness to and from work. Taking off in darkness at 18.00 hours is no different from taking off even later. Darkness from say 7pm to 7am is 12 hours and we did not have bombers that could last that long and where would they have
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bombed anyhow? Hope that helps, just to take a random looking in the log book 6-10-44 15.45 take off to Dortmund all listed as night flying. Remember England is not too far from the Arctic Circle where 6 months of days and the 6 months of nights happens all the time!! At times we would land fairly early in the evening, but for another random look 15.9.44 22.00 to Keil 5.35 meant we got back to base about 3.30 am debriefing meal etc bed by about 5am, no early night that one.
If there had been a large night force out on a target say a 1000 bomber raid not every place was at the target at the same time, enough problems spread out, guess it would have been chaos otherwise so a raid would start soon after dark and continue until close on dawn when the day bombers took over.
April fools day found me acting as F/E to our Flight leader, Flight Lt. Cooper, doing circuits and landings at night for more than two hours to again check my skills, followed a few days later on the 4th with the whole crew doing the same thing. We passed this ok so now had to do a daylight cross-county to make sure we could go and come back!! The next day, the 8th, we did another “Bullseye”, this one 3 hours 35 minutes long, but were told they didn’t count towards points for a tour!
On the squadron you only got points for what you did operationally. While I am talking about a TOUR, it was a walk in the sun eyeing up the Canadian WAAFs, all who were very pretty and carried about a ton of makeup on their faces, my Canadian crew thought it wonderful, I thought they looked like a bunch of clowns Hey Ho. A TOUR was a certain number of operations 30 being the average but based on targets and what the service wanted so some did more and some did less I did 36, wanted to do more so that my crew could finish with the same F/E, as I had done some ops before joining them, I didn’t say anything to my Flight Engineer Leader but when he found out I had done more than I should have, he stopped me and sent me to get my new uniform as an officer!!! But that was yet to come of course.
On April 10th we flew our first operation, to Ghent, Belgium. The ops to Ghent was in all probability a German ammunition dump, a guess.
The raid is on so after a quick trip to the mess hall for a preflight meal it’s back to the barracks to put on my flight gear which is really only to dispense with the collar and tie, pull on the very large white woollen rollneck sweater under my normal working uniform top, pull on my flying boots and zip them up (keep hoping that the latest ones will be issued to us, these are impossible to walk in, made of foam and suede with long uppers lined inside with sheep skin, they certainly keep the feet and legs warn [sic] but after a few
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uses tend to lose their shape and “become down at heel” the latest ones are made from black leather as proper shoes and the leg portion can be removed by cutting the top off with the small knife hidden inside, more suitable for aircrew to walk away from the enemy after bailing out.
Down to the parachute section with the rest of the crew and draw my chest type chute and harness. On one operation we were told that ALL squadron parachutes had been repacked, a rumour had been circulating that a chute had had it’s rip cord pulled by mistake and all that fell out was an old blanket!! Parachute silk was much sought after during the war to make the “gift wrapping” that men looked for when their girls took their outer clothes off. We always poked a finger into the corner of the case to feel if there was silk (nylon?) inside.
Time to board the truck to take us out to the aircraft, as we called at each dispersal point calls of “race you back” and some not quite so pleasant were made to those climbing out, at last we were at our ‘plane, tumble out and grab our bits and bobs, I had in addition to my chute and harness a tool bag with a few spanners, pliers, bits of useful wire, string etc, other had large bags with the navigation and wireless bumf, and the tails gunner probably had a brick or lump of old iron.
We all climbed aboard to put our things in a position we could grab them if needed, my chute went on the floor in my position, as did my tool box, then I fitted my chute harness on making sure it was tight and properly fastened. down to the tail to remove the elevator lock and start doing my normal checks before we started the four engines, I had an aircraft log sheet to fill in, with what fuel was in which tank, and as soon as we started engines, all their details must be entered., by this time we had all settled in and a quick call was made to check that all intercom positions answered.
Halifax crew positions were spread throughout the aircraft. The bomb aimer’s position was in the nose where he map read if possible our mark of Halifax had no nose gun, it was found that fighters did not attack head on at night, various design changes took place during the war as needed so some had nose guns and some not. Then there was a blackout curtain, behind which was the navigator, then the wireless operator, all these at a lower level than the pilot, wop more or less under the pilot’s feet, up a bit the Pilot and behind him the Flight Engineer, who darted about as required. Then there was the mid upper turret and then tail turret. The Halifax had bomb bays in the fuselage behind the f/e position but beneath the floor but could be got at through panels if needed in the case of a hang up, also bomb bays were situated in the wings between the inboard engines and fuselage.
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In the cockpit where the pilot was were all the throttles, under carriage and flap controls, and the usual flying instruments. My position was also in the cockpit, where I would access the various contrls [sic] and dials needed to keep the plane flying properly. Only on very rare occasions did I have to help my pilots and that was if we had lost an engine and then only on landing. Once when a tyre burst as we touched down did he want a bit of muscle to keep it straight other than that managed without what seemed any effort. The Halifax position for the flight engineer was right behind the pilot, with my instruments, fuel, oil water pressures and temps etc on a rear partition, levers etc to change fuel tanks was either side behind the main wing spar. I had no resting place, no chair, so what I was only the engineer!! If a crash landing was going to be done all the crew expect the pilot could make themselves a safe spot by clinging together behind the main wing spar, so that was no worry, in a crash I would be as well off as the rest.
I was able to stand upright at my F/E position, and also when I assisted the pilot, think I could stand upright at the mid upper gunner’s position but needed to bend my back as I got near the tail, The inside was not pained as such, but from memory was a dark green in colour, probably the anti corrosion coating applied to Duralumin, Alclad and Aluminium sheets used to fabricate the ‘planes. The step up to my F/E position was about 9 inches, underneath was stored the oxygen supply for the whole aircraft, but I could still stand erect with my whole 68 and bit inches of height (the bit is much more important than the preceding 68 for those of us who are in a neat and compact package) I was able to turn round with relative ease, the space being sufficient for my needs, no windows of any kind apart from the roof astro-drome, the cockpit did have sliding windows both sides as well as a windscreen which was a great help to us, to see our way!!!, Both wireless operator and navigator had windows (non opening) complete with blinds for night work, there was also a large curtain between these positions and the bomb aimer nose, which was completely made of perspex in the Mark III version I flew in on operations, as far as I can remember we could all stand upright in the nose section where the nav and wop had seat with tables for their equipment. far from being cramped we all has as much room as we would require, not enough to hold a dance or even a large party but we could all move about with relative ease and reach anything needed to do our job. The fuselage looking back from my position which was just forward of the main spar, was really empty except for the mild upper gunner’s position, his lower body and feet only projected down about half way, with room to pass either side of him, we didn’t have the open side gun positions used in the forts.
During this time we had gradually crept up to the runway threshold and were now awaiting the green from the Aldis lamp, I had left my position to stand next to my pilot at the top of the steps landing down the wop,
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nav, and bomb positions, ready to hold the throttles open as we charged down the runway and to assist in any way wanted, I had already told the skipper that all engines were running Ok and so we set forth to battle.
The tail came up and we reached our “unstick speed” (whatever that was !!) the whole aircraft was shuddering with the effort of leaving the ground, a few skips off the concrete and we were airborne, time to take a breath, it had stopped completely as the trees bordering the ‘drome had got closer and closer, we once arrived back with bits of branches still caught in the undergear, and a failure of only one engine at that time with a full bomb and fuel load meant the end. Up with the undercarriage reduce the flap angle and set the throttles for climbing, synchronise the propellers, fill in the log book, reduce again the flap angle, check engine temps and pressures, change gills to get the temps right, stepping in and out and up to the pilot to do as he wanted, breathing heavily into the oxygen mask, which always smelt of rubber and rust and wet with condensation. I had to keep mine on to receive instructions from the skipper but most of the other crew could leave theirs unfastened until we climbed higher and went on to oxygen.
Back into my cubby hole, standing looking up out of the astro dome to see if we were in danger of climbing into some one else, all clear, down to the top of the steps to pile up the window and pamphlets that I would start to put down the chute later on, check all the engine details again, at every change of engine revs and at a regular period (think it was 15 minutes but not sure the log had to be filled in, a cardboard rotary calculator was used to work out what fuel had been used at certain revs and boost to check what fuel was left in each tank, the gauges were only a very rough guide!!
Not exactly a “Jack in the box” but I always took my job seriously and did all I could to ensure my side of things ran like clockwork, no guesses keep checking and worrying until home again safe and sound.
We had arrived at the altitude we were to fly at and engine revs and boost were reset, oxygen had been switched on at about the same time high speed had been selected on the supercharger for each engine, about 11,000 to 12,000 ft.
The navigator would tell the skipper at what time and which compass bearing he should be on to set course not for the target but the first of the course changes, and so with the constant roar of four engines, our little world of icy cold draughts, a lethal cargo, shuddering rocking in the streams of air from those in front, with many staring eyes looking for any others who might be near us in the black sky, seven young men went about their duty as they saw it.
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It was cold, it was apparently dangerous, if you worried about not getting back you probably wouldn’t, those that were frightened all the time were the real heroes, most of us just did it and were glad to be doing something to save our civilisation, not that we ever know just how bad things were or what a terrible bunch the leaders of the enemy were.
Yes I was a bit frightened on our first operation, but the ones that I always felt sorry for were the gunners. The pilot and engineer could see what was happening but were also very busy not only with flying the plane, but I had to record all the engine and fuel tank details plus other odds and sods. The navigator and wireless operator were shut up in their places with little to see from a small window and were themselves busy with their bits and bobs. The bomb aimer was in all probability stretched out full length looking at the sights below waiting to do his bit and telling us what he could see to help us avoid others and ensure we got where we were supposed to go. But the gunners isolated in their turrets had only themselves to talk to and fear can become a self promoting thing. Being busy kept me from being too frightened to do my job properly, and I can honestly say that I never really felt fear just a bit of apprehension on some operations, but more of that later.
There was no way to tell if we hit the target, not unless we were told so later. Most times, as here, we were not the first on target, it was all organised on “waves” so the thing was usually well alight or just a ploughed field by the time we got there. What we added to this was difficult to say or see from our altitude. The bomb aimer would see all the ground targets and perhaps what happened when the bombs landed. I was busy with my jobs and searching the sky above to help the gunners, didn’t really see a great deal. Sorry I am not able to give you a graffic [sic] picture of bombs falling and targets blowing up, Hollywood might but they live in a dream world anyhow!!
When we returned from our first operation, we were told the mission was only worth one third of a point!
We did not fly again for a week and then only flew a cross country exercise. On the 18th we flew an op to Paris. Ah Paris!!! Do you really think it was lit up??? All we saw were the flashes of bombs going off and the crash and flash of anti aircraft shells trying to get us. Every target we went to sent up flak, the Germans seemed to really hate us I wonder why? Until we started daylight operations we only saw what was lit up by our bombs and must say we didn’t hang about looking at the sights.
A five hour mission. How can it take five hours to fly to Paris you ask? The time taken to get to a target does not indicate how far it was, to confuse
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the enemy bomber tracks were deliberately set out as if a certain target were that night’s one when in actual fact we went elsewhere so the navigator did not have a period of nothing to do but was always calculating when and where to turn onto the next part of the course, gaining or losing time if necessary to arrive on target at the correct time, and checking on drift from winds not as per listed, and adding anything in his log that was of use to others, such as new flak sites. We never flew directly to any target nor flew home the same way, always many twists and turns to fool the enemy, those that chose the easy way home often didn’t get there, we followed the plan as set out by our squadron commanders, in our case it worked!!
Again, only one third of a point for some reason. Two nights later, on the 20th, we went to Lens, Belgium on an operation for which we were given one third of a point again!! I can’t seem to remember any reaction to this grudging point system, good boys did as we were told!! Funny thing is that most of us never really worried about reaching the end of a tour, the mateship of the crew was more important, ie just look at my and others search for old mates we flew with, can’t afford in most cases to get really together but nice to hold hands at a distance!!
On 22 April 1944 we went to the Ruhr Valley, known by all bomber crews as Happy Valley, solid flack from end to end.
Flak was present not just over the target of course. There were flak sites all about, and even flak ships. flak ships were in fact ships moored off the Enemy coast and were very bad medicine for anyone foolish enough to fly over them, guess being cooped up in a ship and see sick some of the time made the crew mad as they were very accurate and fast with reloading. Flak ships were well documented and only the crews with poor navigators or ‘planes in trouble ever went near then, we saw but kept well away!!
A slight shuffle off course, there were many flak towers of our own situated in the Thames estuary which were just as lethal as the ships, some years after the war and many years from now took one of my boys out to one in the first runabout I built, pretty massive things and I took a couple of photos to prove we had been there, our boating friends all turned back halfway and chickened out!!
Back to Happy Valley, the flak was heavy. Dusseldorf was a very serious affair, bits of red hot flak flew about inside the ‘plane as the shells burst, our navigator got hit but fortunately right on the torch in his May [sic] West (flotation vest), made him grunt a bit but he was Ok to get us home again. I had to check all manner of bits that got damaged, seem to remember the fuel control levers, about ten of them got damaged and it was a nightmare of a lottery which bit of frayed wire controlled which tank, but guess I must have
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done the right thing because we got home!! Just remember all this is being done in more or less pitch black darkness with the “driver” dodging flak burst and weaving about for the gunners, none of it calculated to appeal to the faint hearted!! But I wanted to get home as well and could have been on a promise from my latest girl friend, what more incentive could a guy have? Over Dusseldorf we were hit by flack. We returned safely. This was a full point towards our 30 needed.
On the 24th Karlsruhe was the target, and Essen on the 26th, back to France on the 27th to Montzen one whole point for this one, but on the 30th again over France to Somain and back to 1/3 point no idea why.
My log book for April lists 40.15 hrs operational, total 56.05. It is signed by Squadron Leader (rank about Flight Lieutenant shown as F/L and S/L) Officer Commanding (OC) “B” Flight This Officer was in overall control of all LEADERS for that flight of a number of aircraft and men to fly them, The ranks when I was in the RAF were Pilot officer, Flying Officer, Flight Lieutenant, Squadron Leader, Wing Commander, Group Captain, won’t bother with the rest, but the rank did not signal the position held visa vi aircraft operations as these ranks applied also to medical, religious, cook house and all other branches concerned with the RAF so a clerk could be a Squadron Leader if an officer, got it? BUT no non-flying type ever got to be incharge [sic] of operational people, want a riot do you? Unless you had pilot’s wings, very few other crew members ever made it to high rank, had to be a “driver” to get to the top. and so it should be I say!! Driver a term used by non drivers to put them in their place at times of getting about themselves, like chatting up your girl or not standing their round at the bar!!
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Underlined] F/E Reg Miles [/underlined]
May started with an air to air fighter affil. A Fighter Affil was us in a Halifax or Lancaster bombers in daylight practicing avoiding a fighter and a fighter doing the same to us, or should I say trying to us down (in
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theory we hope) camera guns used, good fun if you like sick making dives and climbs, as Flight Engineer the only one of the crew in constant free fall, all others belted in and the pilot having a real fun time as he tries to make the slow bomber do things never designed for it!! Hope that tells you what fighter affil was, never tried it at night guess not too many would land again in one piece, with 19-20 year old boys doing wheelies in the sky with permission of the 24-25 year old bosses!! But this one we didn’t finish due to the weather. Heavy cloud moved in and the exercise was D.N.C.O duty not carried out! My Log book will show by each notation D.C.O. or D.N.C.O. DCO is Duty Carried Out, DNCO has a not in it!!!
In fact May was a bad month only two ops. The first was to France at Le Clipon. I note that on the night of the 19.5.44 ops Le Clipon that there is a small red note 15x500 could be what bombs we took!! The second mission in May was to France as well, to Mont Couple for a grand total for the month of 2/3 of a point. Most of the time was spent night flying about England doing more training.
A recent TV show about drugs, reminds me of something during my service, which many people may not know happened. On at least two occasions we were drugged!! Not too sure which ones it was but, you see we weren’t ever told what was being planned or cancelled, just called up to do a raid. Once we were pulled out of bed to do a raid and given pills to keep us awake, the raid was then cancelled after we had climbed aboard out planes, we were then given more pills to make us sleep. No idea what the pills were or even if they worked!!!
The second of June started much as May with an op to Neufchatel in France for another one third point, and on the 12th six days after D Day, Les Lauzon and I were marshalling V Victor from our dispersal to the main runway, as I unlocked the elevators by pulling out the large pin something slipped and my hand was trapped and very badly cut, I had to be taken to the hospital, sewn up, bandaged and my arm put in a sling. No possibility of my going on the op so a spare F/E was called up in my place.
Later that night after some pain killers and a rest I heard the 432 ‘planes returning and went down to the Ops room where all returning crews had to call in and give our statement of events, what we saw, if we could give any details of aircraft shot down, and all the details that would help to decide if the target had been hit. When the Station Adjutant saw me he had a fit, my mother had just been sent a telegram to say I was missing on operations, my crew had been shot down and would not be returning.
This was a great shock to me. It would also be a shock to my parents. and as it was now just after 8 o/clock in the morning knew that my
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Dad would be at work in his office on the docks at Dover, gave the Adjutant the number and was put through in record time, told Dad I was ok and would explain the details when I saw him.
Each crew shared a nissen hut with another crew, not a happy situation when the other crew went missing, but the padre or one of his staff quickly gathered all the stuff up and it was sorted out by one of the squadron officers to send to the parents, anything not nice was removed. I was lucky my stuff was not sent before I managed to let them know I was still on camp!!
Nothing for me to do on the base so home I went on the next train from York to Dover. Trains, now that is something that you should all enjoy, no Air Raid Wardens, the guard just turned off all lights when an air raid warning was sounded, if a tunnel was near the train would go in there, but we are only talking about trains near the coastal regions, hit and run raids were the ones that tried to get trains, trucks etc but that soon stopped when the RAF squadrons became equipped with plenty of fighters to scare the low fliers away, happened to me a couple of times on my way to Dover on leave but really not a worry, worse things happen at sea we always said. Train travel was dirty, uncomfortable, long delays, overcrowded with troops and all there [sic] gear going about the country, only very rarely would a seat be available and soon given up to the lass with a baby on board or in arms, the corridors solid from end to end, tired people going back from leave and even more tired people going home for a spell away from war, but in some cases going into more war if their home was in the south, not that the north escaped bombing raids but it continued for longer in the south in fact almost to the day war ended, V1s and V2s almost to the end. After I was made an officer I travelled first class, now that was good if I had a travel warrant, not so hot if I had to pay for it, lot of rubbish I thought but must do as I am told like a good boy.
I arrived just after eight the next morning and phoned Dad from the Railway Station, he picked me up and took me home, Mum was at the local corner shop and post office, all the staff knew me and also knew about the telegram.
I did not notice a great deal about the Normandy build up, the landing happening on the 6th. We flew over the south of England on our night operations and sometimes were on our way home at dawn we would see the build up. As I usually spent time with my father in the Dover docks while on leave would have seen what was going on. But remember Dover was always very busy and some parts were off limits to every one, any double decker buses used on that part of the coast had all the top windows locked and pained on the outside black so no view of what was happening about the place.
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D Day itself, however, must have come and gone without me noticing it. A bit like V Day and J Day. I was in all probability flying somewhere, or coming from somewhere by car, train, boat, or foot, just never registered, but see years later the crowds in London celebrating, guess they were lucky to be there at that time.
Being home with a wound, I thought I would have some luck with the local girls if I spun the yarn that I had swum the English Channel with one hand, didn’t work out that way because a couple of days later I had a big lump behind my ear and a raging headache, high temperature and not a well boy at all. Dad took me to the closest Military Hospital which was in fact at Dover Castle (built by William the Conquer 1066), beneath which miles of tunnels had been cut and a large and modern hospital installed, I was told that I had an infected scalp, the poison was draining into a gland behind my ear and would take a while to heal, perhaps brought on by a combination of shock from my injured hand and the loss of my crew, a close bond exists when people depend on each other for their survival and air crew had a very close bond. I was taken by ambulance to an old country mansion up the valley a few miles inland from Dover, this was on or about the 10-12 June 1944, no medicine was available to treat my condition, just aspirin for the pain and high temperature, I lay in bed staring through the large windows hoping for sleep and return to health and wondering what had happened to my crew, night time was the worst, nursing staff all asleep upstairs and every one else snoring their heads off.
Then to make matters worse the Germans started sending over Flying Bombs on the night of the 13-14 June and every night and day after that, these pilot-less aircraft had a rocket type motor which had a pulse mechanism that gave them a strange but most recognisable noise, when the noise stopped they just fell out of the sky and the one ton of explosives made a nasty mess of anything underneath. They were programmed to fly up the valley where I was laying sick in bed and on the opposite hills from my bed were 20 and 40m/m quick firing guns, which of course fired at each and every one they saw or thought they did. I swear they were firing straight at me and thought it very unfair that after putting up with Jerry firing his guns at me now my own side were doing the same!
After the war there was a newspaper article showing the location of all Doodle Bug strikes in Kent. I still have a copy, and it is copied elswhere [sic] on this CD.
I was in that hospital for more than a week until one afternoon the doctor seemed to think I was ripe and cut into this lumps behind my ear and out popped a golf ball sized ball that looked like wound up white wool, all pain went and the wound soon healed up,.
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A few days at home to get my strength up and I was told to report to 420 Sqdn RCAF at Tholthorpe in Yorkshire, where I was crewed up with Jim Tease as pilot and the usual other members of E easy, they had lost their F/E somehow can’t remember now why, but they were a nice bunch and as I had done a few more trips than them, was an old hand!!
One such trip they made without me Jim has only recently told me of. On the 25th of July 44, Jim relates, we started for Stuttgard with over-load petrol tanks in the wing bomb bays, and the fuel lines were plugged so we could not get the fuel from them into the main tanks, so we had an early return. He then says “think you were the F/E but book says Naish”. His Book is correct.
The new crew to which I was assigned was as follows. Jim Tease Pilot, Bridgeman Bombardier, Nicklen Navigator and best man at my wedding!, Baker Wireless Operator, Vaughan Gunner, and Yack Gunner. Our ground crew were LACs Jones, Milne, Parker, Smith and Sgt Berry. All were RCAF.
When I was stationed with 420 Snowy Owl RCAF Squadron our motto was ‘pugnamus finitum’ which translated mean (so I’m told) ‘We fight to the finish’, now my long time RAF mate, (Halton, South Africa etc) arrived on the companion Squadron at Tholthorpe, good looking always got the pretty girl, 425 Alouette RCAF Squadron motto ‘Je te Plumerai’ “I shall pluck you” how appropriate for a French Canadian outfit, the re-write by all and sundry is painfully obvious, even more so for my mate Darce, got through the war OK but lost touch in 1947 and just hope he is still doing what he always did best!!
Our first op together was on the night of 28th July to Hamburg in Germany, the port inner lost all of it’s oil over the target, flack put a hole in a pipe so we returned on three engines and for some reason it wouldn’t feather so that was added drag but we made it back in one piece, and all felt good that one was over.
On the night of the 31st we were over Deuf-en-Ternois and had a slight argument with an ME109 we both tried to get into firing position and the Jerry pilot realised that he might come off worse if he didn’t go away which he suddenly did, we were happy to see him go!! We again had problems which meant we couldn’t return to base but had to land at Skipton an emergency aerodrome equipped with FIDO.
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Landing away from home usually would be on a FIDO drome. Once landed, our ‘plane would be towed clear of the runway and dumped for us to sort out in daylight, we would get our heads down wherever we could and as it was often nearly dawn by the time we had sorted out our problems we would get some more fuel get the fans fixed and fly back to base, where we would then be de-briefed have a meal and either get some kip or get ready for the next one.
August 3rd daylight to Foret-de-Nieppe in France target an ammunition dump. Flying at night we all went our way and took no notice of friend or foe unless forced to, by daylight the powers that be decided we should fly in, and practice formation, all very good for them that always get lost or need to hold hands, not us we know where to go and what time we should be there so get out of the way and follows us if you like!!!
Perhaps I should try to relive the first daylight raid I went on, that would have been 3:8:44 Foret-de-Nieppe. I mentioned before that as far as flak we never had a free ride, well the flak this first daylight one is well remembered.
It seemed all very strange at first to be able to see what we were doing, not having to squint with hardly any illumination to read gauges and find things by touch alone, so a bit like a holiday as we set “sail” to our target. All our friends around us, not I hasten to add in formation, but at time close enough to be able to recognise some and even give them a wave as we passed close. We of course were heading in the correct direction for the target, where some of the others were off to we did not know, kites flying off all over the place, and yet at night we all arrived where we should be, but how we missed one another in the dark is a mystery. Thinking about it, all the navigators were in their little cubicles without reference to what was happening outside and were working out their own headings taking into account the wind directions and the aircraft speed, so were doing their own plans to get to the target on time, bit like modern motorists taking different roads to get to their work places on time. Any how the skipper and I looked at the mess of planes going every which way and remarked that some of them must be mad, not us we knew where we we [sic] going. Gradually things sorted themselves out and a few of us were going in roughly the same direction, not all at the same height I might add but you can’t have everything can you? As the holiday spirit continued we saw some of our ‘planes cross our path and joined us, where they had been no one knew, but we had a gaggle of bombers heading towards the target. Crossed the coast of England and could see the French coast coming up, no need for the bomb aimer to tell the skipper and I but the navigator would welcome the information and the fact that we were not alone anymore!!
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“Ten minutes to target” came through the inter com from the navigator and as was usual a heading for the skipper to take as soon as we had dropped our bombs, often a lot of noise over the target so best to get our escape route sorted before going in.
And there was the target the first wave had been in and were on their way home again, but it was impossible to get to the target, one solid mass of bursting flak, not enough room between the bursts for even a small ‘plane let alone a bomber. The skipper and I stared through the windscreen, we did not say anything but guess he felt as I did that this was going to be one hell of a trip, the holiday was over that was for sure.!! The bomb aimer was crouched over the bomb sight giving directions, only the skipper and I could see what was in front of us but in we went and all was suddenly revealed to us what we could see were the shells that had burst, the ones to worry about were the ones that were on their way up, not quite back to the holiday spirit, but survival was now possible, the great puffs of stinking smoke were swept aside as we juddered from near misses and kept on course to our dropping point, a quick look around the sky showed our friends doing what we were doing and guess we weren’t the only ones to have had a bit of a fright at our first daylight op.
Daylight operations were less stressful then night missions I would say over all, though we didn’t know about stress then. We could see what we were doing as we took off and every one in the crew could do their job without trying to see with a very dim light, the wop and nav could even see outside through their windows, not having previosly [sic] seen the bursting flak, and burning ‘planes, the first time in daylight may have been rather a shock for them!!! For our pilot I’m sure it made life just a little easier, taking off in the dark with a full load, not able to see where you were on the runway or how close to the end and it’s obstructions you were, for me it was a strain but for him trying to physically lift the beast into the air must have been a constant worry, and landing back in the light at base where he could see all the other circling ‘planes, the runway not a shadow but there in all it’s concrete glory was much easier than trying to figure out where everything on the ground was and where he was in relation to other unseen aircraft. I suppose both kind of operations had their good and bad points, at night you crept into the target like a black cat in a black room, unseen you hoped but concerned with contact with both fighters and your own friends, navigation difficult because of lack of ground sighting, landing and taking off harder, even taxing to a dispersal difficult at times. In daylight everything could be seen even you over the target so no hiding in clouds, just fly in and drop the bombs and get out again, not sure which I preferred, if you survived all were good!!
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We had fighters flying with us to keep the enemy ones away, so just a little of the holiday spirit came back, but on future ones we had the sight of bombers falling to the flak, my most vivid one was seeing a Flying Fortress some miles away have a wing shot off and counting the parachutes that came out as the ‘plane tumbled over and over and eventually disappear through the clouds. But for this trip there was none of that, and later it was very nice to see all the other squadrons from the many ‘dromes in our part of the world circling their airfields to go into land, some had a few bits hanging off them, and I suppose some had injured aboard, but home was near at hand a mug of coffee well laced with rum and one more to enter in the log book as DCO.
August 4th daylight again to France a pilot less plane storage dump at Boiss-de-Cassair. These were the V-1 Rockets, or Doodle Bugs as they were called. All we could see of the target was really only a gap in the forest with the ramp for the doodle bug to be fired up for launching, and the rest of the site was hidden in the trees,. I guess the local French Resistance would have sent the information by wireless of the location. Afterwards, not much to see when a number of bombers have dropped a few tons of bombs on a target. We used 500lb and 1000lb bombs on these sort of targets. Not too sure what our maximum bomb load for the Halibag would be but must have been at least 6 ton, but please don’t quote me! The area looked like a very poorly ploughed field after we had gone.
Regarding Bomb Loads this what Jim Tease, our pilot, has in his log book and I feel he is correct in what states. “We made many trips with 16x 500lb bombs, others were 9x 1000lb + 4x500lb. only one trip with a 2000lb + incendiaries, no record of taking a 4000lb believe the bomb doors would not fully close on a Halifax if one was loaded, bombs and petrol load would depend on the target and it’s distance from base”.
August the 5th daylight yet again to France this time ammunition stored in caves at St-D’Esserent. As usual there was no way for us to know if our bombs hit the target, whether we exploded the ammo dumps inside their caves or not. The explosions caused by our bombs 500, 1000, 2000, 4000, bombs going off do tend to make a lot of smoke and fireworks so unless we were on the ground hard to tell our bombs exploding from the enemy ammo or target going up, we did sometimes get a report days later from our briefing officer to say “well done target gone”.
It is a bit hard for me to explain about what was saw on the ground both in England and over the enemy, you see when I was flying passengers in Avro Yorks, from UK to other parts of the world, one of the first things passengers used to say as well climbed up to 8000 ft our cruising height was “Oh look the sun is shining” they didn’t seem to understand that it always is!!
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The highest we ever bombed at was 24,500ft all crew members with paddles going like crazy!! But that is still well over the cloud layer. Because that part of the world is more often than not shrouded in cloud people forget that above the clouds there is always sunshine. So you see most times we were over cloud, never saw a completely cloud free sky.
August 7th night operation to bomb Tanks and artillery in the German line at La-Hougue. You will note that August was a very busy month, nearly every day we were out either day or night, can be a bit confusing to remember what and where we went, guess one target is much like another, lots of flak, bits of hot stuff flying about just ajumble in the memory, one thing that does stay vivid and I really can’t be sure just when it happened or which target it was, only know it was at night and could have been in August. I think it was this mission to La-Hougue.
We took off on a very dark and rainy night and were told that the cloud and rain would clear just as we got to the target, we seem to have started our night flights very late at that time. Well we climbed to our cruising height and were in thick storm clouds, listening hitting us and rain very heavy, the whole aircraft glowed with static electricity and large rain drop slid along the radio wires like illuminated ping pong balls, to burst as they hit the fins and rudders, the ride was very bumpy and the skipper and I tried going up or down to get clear of all this storm without any luck, just before the target was reached we flew into bright moonlight, bombed and returned within minutes into what looked like a solid black wall from ground to the sky and flew in this muck all the way home, I see we landed at Tilstock on Fido one night so perhaps that was the night, have a vague feeling that we were one of the very few who made it to the target that night.
August 8th Daylight to France to bomb oil storage dump at Foret-de-Chantilly. On the way home from this mission, or perhaps one of the other daylight missions, an enemy fighter came toward us. The Germans, however, seemed as cautious as my crew was. There were plenty of targets in the sky for the fighters so why risk getting shot at if you could creep up on a crew too lazy to do their job properly. So when this fighter approached us in daylight our gunners gave him a warning burst at a distance and he just turned away. However we watched as he dived straight on another ‘place about a couple of miles away and shot it down. That crew had not been alert and did not see him coming. We were all on our way home, but the time to relax was on the ground not in the sky.
August 9th night operation to Foret-de-Nieppe to bomb ammunition dumps. What does this mean, you might ask? Was it like they show in films? Like most people I often view WW2 films on the box and have
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always wondered which war the markers were intending to show, certainly not the one played a little part in. You see when a bomber is shown being attacked by fighters or anti aircraft fire there always seems a lot of shouting and the intercom is full of talk, not on any bomber I flew in, or passenger one either.
So let me go through what I and the crew did. On the ground we were the usual young, bugger about, chase the girls, have a drink etc boys, but once in the ‘plane that all changed and the pilot, skipper or skip as he was known was boss, not in any heavy handed way but no task was started without his ok and all functions were reported to him.
So he and I marshalled the aircraft in a position allocated to us for that night’s raid on the perimeter track leading to the runway in use, there we left it while a last meal was had, briefing concluded, and we as a completed crew were then taken by truck to our ‘plane. The Canadian Salvation Army called at each ‘plane as we waited to board, handing out cigarettes and chocolate, and a last fumble in the layers of clothes was made to get rid of any urine likely to cause pain, no toilets on our “kites”.
A green light was shone from the small caravan parked at the end of the runway to tell us it was time to climb abroad, this caravan was painted in large black and white squares, a Perspex roof blister was used to signal to the crews and need less to say it was towed away before we started to land back after our raid, with the way some of us landed it would not have lasted very long in one piece likewise the occupants!!
Each one of the crew settled into their place and checked that all was ok with their bits and bobs, the pilot would then call each position in turn (not by the persons name but what position they occupied, ie rear gunner, navigator, etc) and each crew member would reply along the lines of “OK SKIPPER” I was often left to last and was given the order to start engines when my turn came, after all we running satisfactory, I would log the start time and all pressures and temperatures etc, the navigator would no doubt make a note in his log of this time also, when our aircraft letter was flashed from the control caravan we would taxi onto the runway, I would select what angle of flaps the skipper wanted, set take off boost and hold the throttles behind his hand to ensure we stayed straight along the runway. As we climbed up I would only raise the undercarriage and flaps as he ordered, setting climbing revs and boost as he wanted, and would without any order synchronise the engine revs on each side so that the propeller blades did not rotate in respect to one another. If we were one of the first in our squadron to take off we would gradually climb to the operation height and circle the ‘drome until all our aircraft were present, not that we could see much on a dark night but we had a set time to “set course for the target”.
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During the climb and setting course for the target one very important job was the charging and locking of the Hydraulic accumulator, this was an emergency charge of hydraulic fluid which would be enough to lower the undergear and even the flaps if we were lucky, should damage to the engine which drove the pump or the system itself be damaged. Was just a large cylinder connected to the hydraulic system filled with air (what this was pressured to I have forgotten only 56 or so years ago so sue me for having a bad memory) fluid was let into this cylinder and charged to a certain pressure (sue me) and the cock turned off so the fluid was held under pressure by the air also in the cylinder, in an emergency the undercarriage would be set to ‘lower’ and this cock turned on and hopefully this stored fluid would lower the gear, Got all that? Phyll just read the first part I sent and was rather surprised that I could still know what to do but not sure if the RAF would still require my service!! Back to the plot!!
As we reached about 12000ft I would change the supercharger speed to high, make sure all the crew were on oxygen, and fill in all the details in my log these included petrol consumption and which tanks I was using, I always tried to have an equal amount of fuel in each tank by the time we reached our target so that should a tank be punctured we only lost a small amount of petrol, but each time I changed tanks permission was asked from the skipper and he was informed when I had done it.
There we are drifting along trying to make sure we didn’t bump into any of our own ‘planes in the dark sky, all lights were at dim, mine to fill in my log was at a glimmer when wanted, all the pilot’s instruments lights very low and the blackout curtain between the bomb aimer’s position and the navigator and WOP very tightly fastened, both working with minimum lights. And it got cold, the gunners and bomb aimer had heated suits but even they felt it, as for the navigator his hands were too cold at times to hold a pencil and asked the Skip if I could direct hot air down to his position, The skip and I already partly frozen but to get there and back we needed to know which way so hot air it was and some of our bits that might be wanted in more pleasant times went into cold storage.
There was no chatter between crew members, and if someone left their mic on by mistake he was soon reminded of the fact, young as we all were I am reminded of very professional we were, perhaps that is why we survived to tell our tales!
This professionalism was needed. One night we had a Halifax with a mid under turret, not a standard feature in earlier models, and a gunner was added to our crew to man it. The gunner we were landed with saw more enemy fighters in the 6 or so hours we were airborne than I think were
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available to the Germans at any time during the war. This excitability was not helpful. We go rid of the mid under and that gunner.
Why we survived and others didn’t was because we took notice of the experts (those pilots and crews who had done it lots of time) you don’t fly straight and level thinking of nothing much, but weave and bank slightly so that the gunners get an all round view of things, there is no blind spot under the tail if you stay awake. No need for a lower turret to fill that blind spot then.
I can only speak for myself but guess all the crew were feeling as I was, and that was that our navigator would take us there and back, our gunners would spot the attacking aircraft in time and either shoot it down or scare it off, our pilot was second to none and would steer us through whatever came our way, our radio operator would get a fix, receive a message, and let us know what was happening, our bomb aimer would always hit the target, and I would keep the old girl in the air until we got home safely again. So there was no need for lots of chatter we all did our jobs and depended on the others to do theirs.
The navigator would sometimes ask the skipper if I could do a star shot for him, over my position I had an astro dome, would unload the sextant from it’s case hang it from the hook, wind up the clockwork 2 minute time and after I had found whichever star was wanted tell the skipper and of course the navigator I was ready when they were, the navigator would tell me when to start and I would press the trigger and try to keep the star in the mirror., at the end of the two minutes a reading of the average of all my shots would come up on a panel which I would give to the navigator, on the ground I had been averaging 2 to 3 miles, not as good in flight but handy if other navigating items were not up to scratch.
The bomb aimer was in the nose during the flight and gave what information he could to the skipper but the navigator also heard it and it would be something like this “Coast coming up skip” “crossing the coast now”. Now we were over enemy territory.
Details of flack ships and sites seen in action would be reported much the same, no panic just facts. The gunners would report fighters positions and would not fire unless ordered to. We were told that on some nights our fighters would be in the “stream” so gunners watch out for them, and they would circle the German dromes to shoot down any fighters taking off or landing, the Germans did that to our bombers early in the war but as we got air superiority it was our turn to be the nasty ones. Still, Fighters of any type all were enemy until they proved otherwise. Very few of either nation came
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near us. In most cases the fighters saw we were a threat to them and went elsewhere.
Although there was sufficient ammunition for whatever may occur, our own use was very minimal and mainly used to test fire the guns soon after airborne, our job was to deliver bombs and drop them hopefully at the right place, which we seem to do most of the time.
One night standing in the astro dome doing my bit of searching the sky I looked up and saw a FW 190 almost within touching reach just above me, would not have been 10 feet away. I told the skipper and of course the gunners wanted to have a go, but as the skipper said we are supposed to be bombing and will just slide away but if we see one the way back shoot the bastard down. The FW covered the sky, was flying quite close and not much faster than we were, no doubt we could have given it a very sore bum. But the skipper rightly said no, could have all gone wrong anyway, maybe his mate was close at hand and while we blazed away at one, another could have had us who knows?
Remember that this is flying in darkness. We had radar, but not for seeing other planes. We used radar in a thing called H2S, shows as a small bulge under the fuselage of bombers, used to show a map of the ground and useful for bombing on nights with full cloud cover. Radar, good if you are a fighter but what good would it do us, never switch any radar on even H2S unless needed, gives out a signal for the enemy to follow and get you, switch it off and use the mark 1 eye balls.
There were very many different anti fighter systems used, these names are all either tail warning devices (which caused more trouble that they were worth) special aircraft with German speaking radio operators who would tune into the German fighter directors and give conflicting directions, The Germans would do as we did and use people with distinct dialects to stop this, microphones were installed in the engine bays and this sound would be sent out on the fighter wave lengths to stop the information from being received. Gee was a navigation aid using three or more radio beacons and a special receiver, window you know about but many different versions of Radar were used to block fighters, G-H, Oboe, Serrate, Monica, ABC, Corona, and many names I either never knew or have forgotten were all warning devices fitted near the tail to warn rear gunners of the approach of night fighters, I suppose some lives were saved until the Germans had a crashed ‘plane to work on and then it was just the reverse, switch it on and get caught! All of this electronics, if on board for this mission, would be in use or ready for use while we moved towards our target through the night sky.
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The navigator would also tell the pilot that it was time to start “window” and at what rate, another of my jobs, as was the dispatch of leaflets to inform the enemy that it was time to give in, why didn’t I ever keep some??? So you have a very noisy ‘plane with not much chatter going on all the crew going about their jobs quietly, checking with the skipper if required and all hearing what was being done to keep us safe.
The view from the cockpit at night was minimal, the occasional flare of a bursting shell which changed to continuos [sic] bursts as we got near the target or passed near flak sites, the halfseen shapes of other bombers or fighters with muffled flames from their exhausts, from the astro-drome on a clear night, the dark blue inverted bowl of the sky pierced with a multitude of twinkling lights, but these often shaded by the dark shadows of friend and foe as they passed by.
Dark nights and heavy clouds were the norm, rain and lightening greeted us most times, eyes strained to see what was not there, but ready to give a warning of any contacts either friend or foe.
A master radar controlled searchlight may catch us and very soon we were “coned” no panic, every one closed one eye to retain night vision, and either the bomb aimer or the rear gunner would give the pilot instructions about the best way to get out of it, usually to dive down the master one and do very sudden sharp turns to one side, always got out before any real damage was done, and never ever thought we wouldn’t!!
Now we were nearing the target and the ‘plane jumped about as we flew through the wake of our bombers ahead of us, on a thousand bomber raid at night over the one target things get a bit hairy. Some of the sudden jumps are not ‘plane wakes but the burst of anti aircraft shells trying to send us down, but at night you see the flash, hear the rattle of splinters, check that all is well with the crew and our ‘plane and just carry on. The navigator would tell the skipper than it was say 5 minutes to target, the bomb aimer would have set his bomb sight to drop the bombs in a certain pattern, we had wing and fuselage bomb bays, and with the right pattern the pilots had an easier task to control the ‘plane as it lost it’s load, a 2000Ib ‘cookie’ really gave us a quick lift when let go, I can imagine that some of the Lancasters that carried and dropped 12000Ib and larger “earthquake bombs” really hit the heights when relieved of their parcels!
Now all eyes were searching the sky even harder than they had been, searchlights were weaving their way across the sky, catching a plane which was lit up and looked just like a moth around a lamp, sometime they slid out of the light, some time they suddenly flashed into extinction, and some
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times the flashing of guns was seen as a fighter chanced his luck amongst the bursting anti aircraft and was answered by the bomber gunners.
The flashing of bursting bombs, rattle and crash of anti aircraft shells bursting, searchlights sweeping the sky and settling on some lone ‘plane to be followed by the stream of incendiary bullets, all make the hearts of the night bomber crews halt for just a fraction as they go about the job of beating the foe into submission. Hearts once young and tender soon become hardened to this show of defiance, but not to the sudden eruption of flames at their height as one of their own is hit and spirals to destruction, “bastards” comes through the intercom from all quarters and the empty bottles, bricks and old iron brought for this occasion are pushed out of gun turrets and down flare and ‘window’ chutes, the rage is personal you can’t do this to ours is the feeling.
All in all over the target it was quite a busy place to be and we still had to reach the aiming point drop our bombs and beat a hasty retreat. Each plane that was hit was reported and logged by the navigator, new anti aircraft gun sites logged, ‘window’ and leaflets pouring out the chute, bomb doors opened and from the bomb aimer ‘steady, left steady left steady hold it hold it and the magic BOMBS GONE, bomb door closed, new course from the navigator and turn for home, but still aware that his was perhaps the most dangerous time, many crews relaxed and never got home. So search the sky dodged the ack ack and searchlights, perhaps put on a bit of speed by dropping a few thousand feet, and again that most welcome call from the bomb aimer still in the nose ‘coast coming up, crossing the coast’ and now I could eat my bit of chocolate, and just ease a little.
The wireless operator would be giving weather and other information to both the skipper and the navigator, as the navigator and wop sat next to one another many messages were passed by notes to and fro, but one that sent shivers through us was
“Intruders reported over the ‘drome skip” not often but meant we could not relax even when we arrived back at base, never got caught, guess our night fighters got up and sorted things for us. So on a normal return to base we were greeted by the interlocking rings of lights from all the multitude of bomber bases in Yorkshire, and each one flashed it’s own recognition red light to welcome it’s pigeons home, no radio silence now as there was prior to take off, call in make our letter E EASY and given a height and position in the queue, and as we were called down and moved up in the queue sometimes had to loose our turn to one of ours with dead and wounded on board, or no fuel left or any one of the things that happen to planes that will go out searching for trouble, down we go and I stand by the pilot and do all the actions in reverse, undercarriage, flaps and so on, all the others are
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strapped in but not me I just stand next to our pilot and help him as and when wanted, down we go another perfect landing and taxi to our dispersal, the crew climb out to wet the grass again while the skipper and I switch off everything, lock the brakes and controls, and make our own way to a quick piss, climb in the waiting truck and head for debriefing.
Now we would give our version of events while we are handed a large mug of coffee liberally laced with rum. Here we report the sighting of the sudden eruption of flames at our height, which we knew to be one of our own being hit and destroyed – the sighting that sent us to throwing junk down at the enemy. But at de-briefing, we were told it was on a “Scarecrow” shot up by the enemy to make us afraid. But it didn’t, it made us mad and nothing the briefing officer could say convinced us that it wasn’t one of ours failing to their death. So was the whole thing counter-productive by both sides, we just got mad not scared, so the enemy lost that one and we never really knew if there were such things as “Scarecrows” just kept heaving out the junk.!!
After debriefing, we hand in our parachutes, and head for a meal and bed. Our ground crew would be busy checking E Easy for faults, some I will have reported on landing to them, the camera film will be taken from the bomb sight and on it’s way to processing, and a hush will settle on this and many airfields while the weary rest for the next effort, but usually woken up by the roar of engines being tested for the next one.
The next one was August 12th, a daylight run again to France. The target this time was Foret-de-Mont Richard, more ammunition dumps.
August 18th Night to France to bomb the Railway Marshalling Yards at Connatre. must again had a problem because we landed at Skellingthorpe, returning to base the next day.
August 27th daylight to France to bomb a construction site at Marquise – Minoyecques being built to launch flying bombs on London.
I must add details of my selection interview by a senior RAF officer for a commission, My Flight commander had asked me to put in for a commission and when I failed to do so, gave me a direct order, sat me down and made me fill in all the forms, I just forgot all about it and rather than play the usual games that Canadian Air Crew used to while away the hours between operations of horse shoes, billiards and pool, I managed to convince the Station Engineering Officer to supply me with a hut, tools, bench, and a worn out Hercules engine. This I proceeded to take to pieces and section so that every one who was interested could see the inside of a very complicated sleeve valve engine, and perhaps treat them with just a
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little more respect! I would check with my pilot each day if we were flying and if not cycle out to my hut which was away from the main area and certainly not in range of the public address speakers. So I happily worked on my own getting my clothes well covered in oil and the aluminium dust from the sawing and filing which clung to everything this mean that I had to wear really old uniforms when working and must say that after a few hours in my hut did not look too special! A breathless Flight Sergeant burst in through the door and shouted with the little breath he had left ”Your name Miles?” When I replied yes it was, told me that that public address (Tannoy) had been calling for me for some hours to report to Head Quarter for my interview with Air Commodore. Said I would go back to my barrack room to change “No you won’t, I’ve been looking for you all morning and you go there now” Didn’t want to be an officer anyhow so who cares, arrived at Head Quarters on my cycle to be met by yet another Flight Sergeant, if anything more angry than the first, “Don’t you read Daily order Miles” I walked into the waiting room to find all other applicants polished and shining in their best uniforms, sat in rows like birds on a fence, my own make said “Hard luck Reg” Before I could answer yet another Flight Sergeant with great glee said “Miles you’re next” So In I went to stand in front of the table behind which sat My Squadron Wing Commander, The Base Group Captain, My Flight Leader and the imposing figure of the Air Commodore. Their eyes were all focused on the notes they were making about the previous applicant as I saluted and stated my name rank and service number. Eyes were raised and a look of horror passed over the faces of each one as they looked at this dirty silver speckled scruffy airman. The Air Commodore asked why I had not appeared when called before and how had I got into this condition. It seemed to me that only the truth would do and so I related my story of the engine I was working on and said how sorry I was that I had caused so much trouble. The Air Commodore asked each of the other officers if they were aware of my efforts and no one did, “ring the Engineering Officer and check while we question Miles” he confirmed my story and said I was doing a good job and hoped it would be finished before I left the Squadron. While this was going on The Air Commodore and I were chatting away about my service history and how far I had got with the engine, finally he said “I shall be pleased to welcome you into the Officer’s Mess in a few weeks time, we need more people like you who just get on and do things” So I walked out head high through the waiting room and said to all and sundry “I’ve got mine good luck to you”
Quite a busy month trying to help our ground troops push their way through France. I have not mentioned the training flights also carried out between operations, so that apart from the odd break we were flying most days and nights. My crew and I must have had some leave during the first week of September because my flight record for that month is a training flight on the 9th and a note that I had had some more practise at flying a Halifax,
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we only had one pilot on board and that was Jim Tease so if he got injured or killed who would fly us home? That left only me who did at least know how things worked but as I had no flying training on small aircraft it was very difficult to manage something so big and slow to react to the controls, alter the angle of the control column and it seemed ages before anything happened so learners always over correct and you end up with a ride like a fair ground switch back, I practiced whenever I was able always in daylight and most time on the return flight from an operation, tried a few times landing on clouds, more forgiving than the ground, think I could have got back to England ok but landing without a crash I’m not so sure!!
Back to France in daylight to bomb a German strong point at Le Havre on September 10th. I seem to remember that we were one of the last on target and all that could be seen were bomb holes on top of bomb holes, The RAF and American Air Force had complete air superiority so we had only flack to contend with and that could be very accurate because the Germans use Radar tracking.
September 11th daylight to Germany, to the dreaded Ruhr Valley, to bomb a synthetic oil plant at Castro-Rauxel. Our height for this drop, based on the aiming point photo, was 16,500’, and our bomb load was 16 500lb bombs. We hit it smack on and our photo showed that, still have my copy given to us, and we were given a guided tour of 6 Group Bomber Command in recognition of our skill.
The tour we had of 6 Group Bomber command was more for the Canadian guys, so they could oggle the Canadian girls, told you before I was not impressed so just saw lots of lush offices and big boards with meaning less maps and figures on them. Waste of time I thought but the rest of the crew liked it so that was OK.
September 13th again to Germany in daylight to bomb the railway marshalling yards in Osnabruck, I have a note that it went well so presume the target was destroyed, daylight targets were a bit scary after night ones but soon got used to it and at least we could see what we were aiming at and whether we had been right on target.
September 15th A night raid on the shipping port of Keil in Germany, this was a 500 bomber operation, we were coned by about six radar controlled searchlights on the approach to Keil, with German night fighter hanging about out of the cones, all had to keep at least one eye closed as the light was very bright and if we managed to get out of them the fighters would pounce as we would all be blind, Jimmy Tease handled the bomber like a fighter diving and side slipping all over the place even at one time diving down one of the lights, and got us out, we were however hit by flack
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over the target and the perspex nose fell right off, Red Bridgeman the bomb aimer had to hold the black out curtains between his position and Nick Nicklen our navigator while I wired them together, Red had to stand with his feet over nothing all the way home to hold the curtain against the howling gale that came in, Nicks charts had all ended up down the fuselage mixed up with the bundles of window that I was pushing down the window chute.
These were sorted out and Nick went on with his job of guiding us home, from my notes looks as though we or some of our Squadron hit the target so a good prang was noted.
I do remember this next mission, a daylight raid on one of those massive guns built into the ground with a barrel hundreds of feet long pointed at London. This was September 17th. The target was in France at Boulogne, our height in my log is noted as 2000ft. 2000ft is very low for bombing could get damaged by the bombs in front of you going off especially in slow old things like Halis – Lancs. This was the only low level bombing I ever went on!!! Although we would bomb from 2,000 feet, we flew down from base in Yorkshire at about 8,000 feet. This was a good cruising height for our aircraft, as we passed over many cities, towns, airfields, hills, barrage balloons, tall chimneys, and other obstructions for low level craft.
When we got to the English coast lowered our undercarriage and flaps pulled back the throttles and dived down to 2,000 ft over the channel. The lowering of flaps, undergear and reducing engine revs helped us to quickly reduce our height, the channel is only a bit over 20 miles wide not a lot of distance to get a great old lumbering kite down low and level out and on course to give the bomb aimer a chance to fund the target.
The dive over the channel was to get us down to 2,000ft quickly, at the low height we were certain to hit the rather small target and not the surrounding empty fields or buildings. We also had to have time to make the approach without crowding other aircraft. We had to watch out for ‘planes all round us because, at this altitude, if we were too close to one in front we could get our ‘plane damaged by a bursting bomb from the plane in front. So not quite the “milk run” it would appear to be.
The flight down to the target on this trip must have been a change, able to see some of the country side. Although the whole operation only lasted 4 hours, and so not a lot of time for sight seeing, no doubt the gunners and bomb aimer had a nice view. The only time I had to look was when I took a moment as we flew over the village where my parents were living, but I did not see any street or bit that I could say, “that’s where I live”. It is surprising how difficult it is to recognise thing from the air that you haven’t seen a few
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times from the air. But the skipper and I as usual were busy making sure we got there OK. Sounds as if he and I were always busy doesn’t it? Well we were, bomber pilots had it tough, long hours at the “office” in all weather conditions, responsible for a number of other people’s lives, not forgetting their own. My job was to help him, so I did, as best as I was able. I also wanted to get home again!!!
Once we were down to 2,000 feet, we pulled all our hanging bits back on board opened the taps, then bombed this target with all we had, again being very careful not to get too close to the bomber in front. All I saw was a few acres of mud which kept leaping into the air and rearranging itself, guess another case of over kill!! After the target, we climbed again after bombing to 8,000ft for the return run over the afore mentioned obstructions to our flight path.
This target was noted in the log book as a “strong point” which we were told it was at the time, no one knew what it was so it was decided to destroy it. A ground investigation later on found the gun, much to every one’s surprise at it’s size and pointing straight at London, various TV programmes over the years have shown it and it’s concrete barrel rising from deep underground. Checking distances with my M.S World Atlas I found much to my surprise that Boulogne is the closest point in France to London, closer that Calais by about 10KM, so an obvious place to put a gun of this range and size.
September 19th we took our old ‘plane to the HCU at Dishforth she had done 56 trips and had been hard used many patches and repairs has been done so with all her proud bombing trips still painted on her nose she went to train more aircrew for the struggle still to come.
September 25th off again to France in daylight to bomb a German strong point at Calais another target gone, our new E easy going good!!
September 26th to France in daylight again to Calais bombed Gun positions and the docks in the harbour, noted as another good hit.
September 27th daylight to Germany Bottrop in the Ruhr, have note that we bombed a factory on visual which means some thing had gone u/s. My pilot, Jim Tease recently gave me some more information on this mission. “I had a friend now deceased who was a navigator on 428 Ghost Squadron. He wrote a book about Ghost Squadron & I compared his report of trips we were both on, and found we had different visions of what happened. On our 31 trip to Bottrop on Sept 27 I indicate there was 10/10 cloud for the whole trip, the Master of Ceremonies (Master Bomber) of the Path Finders lost his way and we bombed where (our navigator) said the target area was
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located. Ron’s book indicates the refinery was hit & smoke rose to 17000ft. So much for records!!”
My Log Book for that raid states “10/10 cloud Bombed Factory Visual M/C U/S” guess that all means we found a gap in the clouds and bombed the target but had solid cloud both there and back M/C U/S Master of Ceremonies out of order, unserviceable.
On one of these daylight raids we saw a V2 launched on one raid, didn’t know what it was just a streak in the sky. Looking out of the windscreen I saw a streak of smoke come through a layer of cloud and shoot up into the sky and disappear into the next lot of cloud, l know the skipper also saw it but who else I am not sure, lasted milli seconds. It was logged by the navigator and an estimation of where it had come from made by us. When and where seen etc was important, once a site was located it could be knocked out by bombing.
September 30th daylight again in Germany Sterkrade in the Ruhr saw one of our Sqdn go down and three of the seven get out on ‘chutes, we landed at a FIDO ‘drome at Cranesby, no brake pressure went off the end of a very long runway into a field of potatoes that had just been ridged up and we went across the ridges, a bit like roller skating on corrugated iron.
On the 4th of October we went to Bergen in Norway flying across the North Sea in daylight to bomb U/Boat pens and a large ammunition ship in the harbour. We flew across the sea both ways at 1000ft to be under German Radar, and climbed rapidly near the target to 12000ft, Mosquitos and Mustangs gave us fighter cover.
I still have an image in my mind of a semi-circular bay with a large ship moored more or less in the middle. As I remember it the country around Bergen is low lying, nothing at our height to give us cause for panic, but if the ship had blown up and we were down low could have cause major damage to one or more of our Halifaxs [sic].
The large ammunition ship blew up. The ship was still all in one piece when I last saw it and if our bombs had done the damage guess we would have been told. I think it was our rear gunner who told us via the intercom that it had blown up, and that is why we were there.
Our attack made the Bergan people even more anti British than they already were, Gillian visited there some years ago as the intended bride to the son of one of Bergen’s top families, the mother was a local member of parliament, they treated her most awfully which did not help when she casually mentioned that her Dad had bombed the place during the war,
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needless to say that romance soon died!!! The Norwegians still didn’t like us Brits, near enough to Germans and lots supported Hitler during the war, bit like the Swiss only interested in making money, the shits.
Of course, most ordinary Norwegian people hadn’t any view pro or anti regarding Germany and Britain, just wanted to get on with their lives as best they could. Those that were anti us had lots riding on our defeat, and were involved in either working for the Germans or making lots of money out of them by trading with them, those that helped us risked torture and death, and were really in more peril than we were, they were the real heroes. After the war and for many years, I never met anyone who speaking with what sounded like a German accent, was other than Swiss, even if they said their home town was in Germany!!!. I still find the Swiss attitude to money and it’s retention disgusting, particularly in the light of revelations of their trading with the Nazis in Gold and goods taken from innocent people. Guess ordinary people all over this world just want to eat and enjoy what little life they have, but greed gets in the way and those few who can claw their way up the ‘food’ chain and get much more than their fair share are the ones who I have no time for, being poor perhaps colours my out look!!!
So we come to the 6th of October and a night operation over Germany to Dortmund in the Ruhr Valley, this was a 500 bomber raid to the centre of the city, we again were hit by flack bits flying about all over the place and very red hot some hit the bomb door hydraulics which fell open and stay open and I’m sure that it was on this operation that a lump hit Nick Nicklen on his side making a very nasty bruise, fortunately it also hit the torch on his MAYWEST [sic] life jacket so didn’t kill him, he was in much pain but got us back to England ok, Nick was awarded the D.F.C. later and I am sure it was for this brave effort. Because of our damage we again had to land apart from our base and this time landed at Woodbridge and after some quick repairs we flew back to base the next day, where I was told that I had finished my tour of operations, had been granted a commission, given dockets and a leave pass to get my officers uniform and told to report back in seven days. A friend and I travelled to just about every city and large town in Yorkshire before we managed to get kitted up in Harrogate.
Before departing on leave and to await our next posting we had to hand in certain flying and escape items. There were mainly items of some value French and German money hidden in our clothes together with fine silk maps of France and Germany. Our flying boots which had a hidden knife in the sheep skin lining so that the long leg warmers could be cut off leaving what looked like ordinary shoes also were handed in, other items like compasses hidden under badges or in pencils, hacksaw blades concealed in the linings of clothes, a bag of oiled silk that could be used to hold water and a few other odds and ends we kept, these like so many things at that time
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had no value to us and no doubt went into the bin without much thought! Jim Tease and the rest of the crew still had a few operations to go but I was not allowed to finish with them told not to be so greedy, others wanted a go and as far as I was concerned they were welcome. So home on leave to await what the RAF had in store for me again. Cycling along the main road in Cliftonville what should I see but a bunch of very good looking WAAF’s (Woman’s Auxiliary Air Force, who did every job except fighting (which they sometimes had to do for their honour) from clerks to Radar operators, cooks to delivering aircraft from the factories, and with them a girl friend if but briefly from my school days, Phyllis Dike!! I made contact and started to see her and eventually proposed marriage to her, she wasn’t very keen but agreed in the end.
I was recalled to service and was posted to Heavy Conversion Unit 1332, Nutts Corner in Norther Ireland where I crewed up with F/lt Poore,a navigator and a wireless operator all of us being officers and had completed at least one tour on bombers, we were being trained to fly Avro Yorks on the main trunk routes from U.K to India and Ceylon now India, Pakistan and Shri Lanka [sic]. We started the flying part of the course on the 8th April 1945 and completed it on 17th of the same month. My flight log of my time in 1332 H.C.U. is presented later.
The Avro York interior lay out was much as the Lancaster. The pilot, F/E, Nav, Wop were together in a small group, the F/E acting as second pilot even if untrained. When spare pilots became available they took over the task of second pilot the f/e found himself a place amongst the mail bags to sleep and do his job as he could.
When a number of crews joined Transport Command after our course at Nutts Corner, we arrived at 242 Squadron in Stoney Cross. My log book details my flights with 242 Squadron.
Within a day or so we were all loaded onto an Avro York, flown I know not where and without any “by your leave” injected with multiple injections in both arms and I seem to remember elsewhere, we were told this was for protection against all the terrible deceases we could encounter in foreign lands, yellow fever was mentioned as one but there was a whole list of them. I know most of us were a bit under the weather for a few days, some even very sick. What sticks in the memory was that we weren’t asked or consulted just injected!!
I had already obtain permission to get married and given leave for that period, but the Wedding was on the 28th and I had to get home and do some organising, so used the “old boys” network and thumbed lifts to England and managed to get a train to get home in time. Don Nicklen my navigator
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from 420 sqdn came down from Yorkshire to be my best man, and I can’t say I saw much of him before it was away on a short honeymoon, and then back to camp for both of us!!
– Reg Miles
The URL of this page is
http://www.geocities.com/milbios/Milesbio4.html
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Biography of Reg Miles
Ex Apprentice No 1 S.of T.T., R.A.F., Halton 39th Entry 34 – 67 M.U.s – 27 A/S Bloemspruit South Africa – Lympe Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 242- 246 – 511 Squadrons Transport Command Lyneham, RAF
Chapter 5
242- 246 – 511 Squadrons, Transport Command, Lyneham, RAF
I started flying at 242 Sqdn on the 16th May again all training in passenger flying technique, rather different from press on bombing! We did a few cross countries and many three engined landing and the use of radio range flying. One exercise in the log book was Over Shoots and Landings. Overshoots and landings are practice in taking off again before you actually get the wheels on the ground, some clever dickies even run the wheels along the runway and open the throttles and take off again, alright for intrepid birdmen like fighter pilots but not recommended for serious passenger flying types. There are the odd occasions when the runway suddenly does not become clear for landing, animals, cars, fire engines, even other aircraft, so practice for these times (which may never happen) is necessary, these days a no risk practice can be made in the Flight Simulator, we had to do it the hard way with an instructor beside us and no knowledge of what we would be asked to do, he could shut down one engine and then another, drop the undercarriage, put on full flap, what ever his distorted mind felt like that day!! The pilots I flew with on Transport Command had all done at least one tour on bombers, some quite a number and were used to the enemy doing much the same to the aircraft, so no panic just the correct procedure and “What would you like next” often asked, with a wry grin. So the other to “overshoot” became automatic, with me acting on my pilot’s instructions about throttle, flaps and under gear, but I was always aware of what he wanted and would be “hands on” waiting, would have been a rather poor F/E if not ready when wanted!!
My crew went on leave after this training, so I was made a temporary Flight Engineer to the Squadron Leader, who took me on a test flight of my abilities to Cairo and back, left Stoney Cross on the 4th flew to Luqa in Malta.
Malta was still on a war footing. Luqa, on Malta, a dry and stony place all the airport buildings pained white but very small and certainly not like any airport you may have seen, a concrete slab to park on for refuelling, all
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of which had to be done through massive filters, with chamois leather inserts to catch any water and of course the ever present dust and sand. All the ground crew well tanned and going about their jobs with efficiency, being bombed continually taught them not to delay getting the fighters airborne, we were lucky that the fighters had gone before we started to use Luqa, the enemy ones!!
Malta is an island with a long history of invaders, us being the last, independence was granted some time after the war and I am sure the locals were glad to see all the foreign military go, wonderful harbour, well used by the Royal Navy during WW2, a street (very narrow and steep) in Valletta was lined with open fronted drinking bars, just really the front room of a house with easy entry for the soldiers and sailors to get drunk, think from memory it was called by the Navy “The Gut”, but could be thinking of somewhere else, for us, just a place to “slip” crews, water always very scarce, milk, butter and cheese from goats, think I have mentioned that before, as I have about collecting all the papers and books from the mess before leaving UK to leave both with the RAF and also some Navy types who crewed a fast MTB (motor torpedo boat) made a change for both crews to chat with some one other than their working mates.
The runway ended at a quarry, no sight for the faint hearted, as it was well stocked with aircraft that had not made it, guess the passengers just thought it was some where the RAF stored unwanted ‘planes. My first trip there was with a senior pilot to check me out so a quick run to Cairo and back, all 7,800 Km of it! My years in South Africa had made me used to hot weather shorts and open neck shirts so it was easy for me to climatise to the changed weather conditions. I now live in Mackay, Queensland and there is thriving community of Maltese people, many sugar cane farmers or the descendants of cane farmers, and NO they are not called Maltesers!!
On the 5th Malta to Cairo. Cairo, a large bustling over crowded city, full to bursting point with every shape, colour and size of humanity, and I am talking about 1945!! We had little to do with Cairo itself, as we either landed at Cairo West or at Almaza in Heliopolis, a suburb of Cairo, where we were put up in the largest hotel I have ever seen, not that I am into hotels as such, but as a young very green officer the Heliopolis Palace Hotel was mind blowing, acres of everything, not outside but inside, entry large enough to hold a soccer match, dining rooms that vanished into the blue and rooms so large that if they had been properly furnished a guide would have been required to see us to the door. Each crew had a room on arrival with number of beds scattered about and a couple of tables and chairs etc, guess the hotel had not been completed prior to WW2 and had been taken over by the British Forces, lots of “red tab” types swanning about, had a very hard war from the looks of things!! Food was good and served properly the same
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as our mess in UK, so no complaints there. About flying times etc you must remember that as we flew East the time got later and daylight ended sooner, ie Cairo – UK 2 hour difference, same as New Zealand – Australia.
We all took a trip to Giza and along the road to the Sphinx and the Pyramids, don’t know who built that lot but bet he over ran the budget, The one thing that still sticks in my mind is the overpowering smell of diesel oil on that road, not so much burnt oil but the same smell you get on a production oil field, the brown desert stretched to the horizon on either side of the road which was very black and shiny, perhaps that’s where the smell came from not bitumen but oiled sand!!! Now I’ll never know!!! Natural History Museum in Cairo a must if you visit, remember it as a highlight of my various times there and after these many years must be a wonder to visit now, didn’t go to the medical section if just before or after lunch, in fact might be a good idea to give that bit a miss!!
I wanted to buy Phyllis something special and found a market that specialised in perfumes. Channel number 5 or was it 7? was all the go, entered this so dark and gloomy looking shop, about the size of your average toilet, greeted with lots of bowing, and what sounded like praises for my everything, down some steep stairs to end up in yet another room the same size where there was a small table and two or three chairs, ‘would the effendi like some coffee’? (no idea how you spell effendi)’ well really wanted to buy some perfume’ lot more praised heaped on me but coffee came regardless, the cups must have been part of a doll house at some time and the coffee bitter and black, Now I had to sniff every smell known to man, ‘is this for your lovely wife’? what colour are her eyes etc and so on ‘does my lord have a mistress’?
By this time I was all sniffed out, couldn’t tell one heap of horse crap from another of cows, throat dry as dust from the coffee, and still I was given the full treatment until I made a purchase and bolted, can’t remember what scent I did buy but it was a big bottle!!!!
On the 6th Cairo to Malta, and on the 7th, Malta to Base. My flight log records of my time in 242 Squadron are listed later.
Two quick training flights with my real crew and then I was lent to F/o Good to go as F/E on a Short Stirling (never seen one close up before) that was to deliver supplies all over the world, why me I’ll never know, a very quick half hour lesson on where everything was, happily the engines were Hercules with which I had done all my operations, perhaps that’s why I was picked, only one on the squadron with that engine experience.
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The Short Stirling was just a bomber, not converted to anything, the fuselage was used to carry freight and we carted an exhibition of bombs etc all over the place, we also picked up and dropped off odds and sods as required, much like a “tramp steamer” at everyone beck and call!! The Stirling was the first of the four engined bombers for the RAF and suffered because of that, a bad spec. by the chairbound in the Ministry ended up with a well made but poor WW 2 bomber, they did get used for bombing, others as tugs and for training purposes, remember one of Nutts Corner left the end of the runway and landed in the mud, tipped up on it’s nose, the Station doctor rushed to the crews aid (they had all left some time ago) climbed up on the wing slipped and fell off and broke his ankle, mustn’t laugh!!!
The Stirling was slow had no great ceiling, noisy, draughty and I was a long way from home, my crew and a lovely Avro York, what else do you need to think a ‘plane was terrible?
So off we went in a lumbering noisy old Sterling, 15th June England to Castel Benito in North Africa 7 hours 20 of misery, Castel Benito was obviously a place named for the Italian Dictator, My only recollection of this place is sand more sand and then some more sand, the tents we slept in were filled with sand and the food was full of sand and even the ever present flies were full of sand, how the troops managed to service ‘planes and keep them flying is a wonder. I don’t remember if there was a concrete runway but if there was bet it was covered in sand, it blew everywhere, filled every orifice, eyes got sore even just during one night there, no thank you don’t want to remember that place!!
16th June Castel Benito to Lydda the airport for Tel Aviv in (Palestine) Israel 6 hours 45. Lydda, was Palestine. now Israel, was the main airport of Tel Aviv, guess the name has been changed so people like me have no idea where it is now, but was decent airport so probably just extended and has a new name. While at Lydda took the opportunity to visit Jerusalem, The Wailing Wall, Church of the Holy Sacrement [sic], built on the site of the cross and also Bethlehem. I don’t even recognise these places when shown on TV now, Wailing Wall about the same but more open when I was there, Bethlehem completely unspoilt, a crude stable as it always had been, no frills or religious artifice, The Church of the Holy Sacrament surrounded by squalor, beggars, the maimed, and only reached by a walk through narrow alleys, now seeing them on TV, must have had a bit of a clear out, but the Church full of the usual con men selling bees wax candles to see the sights, all they did is coat the hand with evil smelling grease no bee had ever seen, and the opulence inside made a mockery of “love thy neighbour” when related to the poverty outside. HOPE THIS DOES NOT UPSET YOU but just report as I saw many years ago!!! Guess I was full of brotherly love after a tour on bombers!!!
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18th June a night flight to Shaibah in Iraq 3 hours 45. Shaibah, now there is a place to bring back memories not for me but for the thousands of RAF blokes who served there, when I was an RAF Apprentice I heard more dirty poems about Shaibah and its population than anywhere else, some went on for pages and although not a collector of such memorabilia, remember one that had as it’s main item a wheel of very large proportions that continued to revolve against the odds. Another place of sand, from the air very little could be seen as most accommodation was built under ground or should I say the roof of concrete was just about ground level, ventilation was by open slots at ground level, bit like sleeping in a WW2 air raid shelter, situated in Iraq at Lat 30-2349N Long 47-3628 E at 2224ft, has taken me many years to find out just where it was/is, managed it by locating a web site all about the Gulf War, nothing more to say about another sand castle.
19th June Shaibah to Karachi in what is now Pakinstan [sic] 6 hours 15. After taking off from Shaibah we flew directly to the waters of the Gulf and flew all the way to Karachi as near as possible in the centre of the Gulf, many bad friend either side so instructions were to avoid problems, even did a bit of a “dog leg” at the Straits of Hormuz to stay away from any one’s territory. Was quite a peaceful looking scene in those days, lots of small ships ploughing their way along and across, probably smugglers and all manner of evil goings on if we did but know it!!
And so to Karachi itself, part of India then, but now Pakistan, thriving city of many thousands or millions, place that I bought many carpets to bring back to England to help cheer up a rather dark old house Phyll and I were renting.
There were very many carpet makers in the various streets working on looms made from everything imaginable, some used by young children making wonderful patterns with the dyed wool, both hands and feet being used at a rapid pace to insert the wool and move the shuttle. I would shop about for one we wanted to do a room, passage or a hallway, and athough [sic] most colours were somewhat bright and did clash with others we had, we were glad to be able to cover the floors with some thing soft and warm. Many of the carpets had long wool which made them bulky to carry especially some long ones for the stairs, but the carpet makes were only too pleased to wrap them in sacking for me. Most times the Customs at Lyneham let me through without any payment but on occasion I would be charged some small amount to keep them happy!! The chewing of beetle nut and the continual spitting out of it’s bright red juice made the pavement look as if a gang battle had taken place, many were the street side workshops, silver coins hammered thin, cut into strips and soldered into intricate shapes to make the lovely fret work for jewelry [sic], and delightful decorative items. In fact all streets in every Indian city of town I visited had it’s crafts men,
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woman and children, some carved ivory to make the famous balls within balls, time seemed to have no meaning to the carvers who I was told spent years on a single item, how they lived was a mystery. Apart from the clever ones there was also the cunning ones, just a few of the things they made were, cigarettes in a perfect copy of all English packets and tins which when lit popped and crackled as the dead bugs burst, Phyll was pregnant with our first son and suffered as so many woman do with terrible morning sickness, was told that Philips Milk of Magnesia would help, but none obtainable in England that would could find, bought the largest bottle I could find in India at the Officer’s Mess, Dark blue bottle and all the correct labels etc, Phyll took one dose and heaved it straight up, might have been the right bottle but the contents were foul and unknown, apparently it was quite a common practise to bore a hole in the bottom of bottles of all descriptions, whisky, gin, brandy etc the favourites, pour the contents out and fill with anything that looked right and seal the hole in the bottom, I was told that at time pattent [sic] laws in India were unknown. A shoe maker told me he could copy any size, style, colour, so with a pattern of Phyll’s shoe size ordered a pair of suede shoes as a surprise, was a surprise to us both, Minnie Mouse would have been proud to have worn them, not Phyll, yet without soap they could remove grease and stains from the dirtist [sic] of shorts and shirts, return them the next day looking like new, a large country with a great deal of talent in the common man!!!
20th June Karachi to Dum-Dum Calcutta in India 7 hours 05. I have been asked what this was like, flying out of a war zone and to these peaceful areas. But it was not like that at all. Most places we went were on a war footing. Also I don’t think that the local population welcomes us, our money yes, but us no thank you. India was in the throes of becoming independent after many years under the yoke of Britain, Pakistan and Ceylon were also stirring as was Egypt. We landed in Dum Dum (Calcuta) one time to be told that we could not go into town as some workers had had an argument with their foreman and had tossed him into the furnace and shut the door. Another time we received an invite to visit a local Big wig’s Palace, nearby got there when a crowd on a rampage filled the streets and our taxi did a U turn and took us back to camp, war in England was never like that!! Instead of landing back at home, each time we landed in enemy territory, well on most days!!
22nd June Dum Dum to Palam in India 4 hours 25. The old city of Delhi, like some so many cities in India, narrow streets, too many people and cows, but New Delhi a much cleaner place guess the name tells it all, many administrative departments built I would guess to house the government in a cleaner environment, may be just as crowded now as the old one was years ago, we used both names New Delhi and Palam as our stop off point for this place, not a major junction at that time and not on our normal route. Calcutta
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in the East of India was a large city, the RAF base of Dum Dum well known throughout the service, the dum dum bullet came from there, and from the tales I was told much more that was strange and a mystery to western eyes, saw the Indian rope trick once, yes the boy did vanish but always thought there was something a bit iffy about it, if you don’t believe it can’t happen I suppose. Again the streets red with beetle juice and lined with small workshops in some areas, wonderful brass work made by hand, beaten out of sheets of brass, bought a beautiful rose bowl there on one trip, stolen long after by a staff member of the roadhouse we had, really heavy brass with roses carved around the circumference, these were filled with glass and fired so the glass melted into the cuts and then ground until smooth, coated with silver and fitted with a silver mesh to hold the stems, bought a few different types but all long gone now, probably found a new home years ago with the craved wooden tray, crystal glasses, and they even stole the fez I brought back from Egypt!!!
23rd June Palam to Ratamalana in Ceylon, now Shri Lanka [sic], 8 hours. Ceylon, Sri Lanka, was a nice place, called at a number of ‘dromes there, Ratmalana, Negombo, a couple of them, our sleeping quarters were straw huts in amongst the coconut plantations, spoilt for me on one trip when I left my case on the bed and went for a shower, found when I returned that it had been stolen so no change of clothes until I could buy some more, found out when I asked the station police that it was quite normal for things to vanish, very light fingered some of them.
Great surf beaches there which we all found very welcome to cool off in the water, no hope of swimming as one minute the sand is dry and the next 10 feet of water, terrific undertow we were very luck [sic] we did not get swept out to sea, Africa the next stop!!
A rather nice hotel built on a promontory or maybe it was a linked island anyhow went there one night and had a game of snooker with the attendant, played quite well but was given a lesson on how to play the game, found out later that the attendant had been the “marker” for Horace Lyndrum, one time world Champion.
24th June Ratamalana to Karachi 8 hours, 25th June Karachi to Shaibah 6 hours 40, 25th June (YES THE SAME DAY). One of the things I did notice about India as we flew the length of it to Ceylon (Sri Lanka) from Karachi. That it was covered in trees and where the vast population lived I often wondered, certainly the street of towns and cities were full , covered in the red strains of beetle juice and cows.
Shaibah to Lydda a night flight of 4 hours 20. 26th June we had trouble with the electric’s of the flaps and undercarriage so missed a day!! 27th June
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Lydda to Castel Benito 6 hours 40. 28th June Castel Benito to Holmsley South 8 hours , and finally on the same day Holmsley South to base at Stoney Cross 15 minutes, all in an aircraft that I had had about ten minutes of this is this and that is that!!
We were now transferred as a crew to Holmsely [sic] South, with 246 Squadron, and I started flying again with a F/O Lunn on the 10th July doing 3 engined landings, another gap which could have been ground instruction or being a “dogs body” to my F/E Leader, or even a spot of leave and started flying with F/Lt Poore again on Yorks on the 22nd and again on the 28th doing various training flight, then it was off again on the 29th of July from Holmsley South to Malta, Cairo West, Shaibah, Mauripur (India) Dum Dum and so on back to UK on the 11th of August having flown on 29th and 30th July 1st 2nd 3rd 7th 8th 9th and twice on the 11th August. The reason was that there were so few trained crews and very few York aircraft, so we all had to do a great deal in fact far too much. The logbook of my time with 246 Squadron is presented later.
A York oversea flight was very different from Bomber operations, on bombers our cargo had no opinions of physical wants, just sad and waited to be jettisoned.
We carried mail as well, but our passengers were important, not in rank but in the interest of the service they were. So a completely different style of flying had to be undertaken, “press on regardless” the bomber style was no good for people. Safe and on time was the motto, no risks with bad weather, fly round it, we could not go over because there was no oxygen installed on the ‘plane.
From my point of view it was all very strange to start with, clothes for a couple of weeks was required but tropical ones were worn most of the time, so we got into a routine of flying out from UK in our normal uniforms, changed at Malta and left our “blues” there to be cleaned etc and changed back into them on our way home, leaving our tropical shorts shirts etc to washed, ironed and ready for us next time out. Food was another problem, Malta for example was still on very tight rations and my first taste of goat milk, butter and cheese still a rank memory!! The warning to be very careful what we ate, the sudden change in temperature and humidity took their toll of us all and from memory we are nothing at all out of our RAF Messes and very frugal in them. We were not able to drink much hard booze, mainly soft drinks and the occasional beer, the fruit was very welcome however and provided it was either skinned or peeled we could eat them, most of us took back to England some fruit each trip for our families, often when we landed back in UK, calls were out for certain fruit mainly bananas for sick children
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in London hospitals, something in banana which helped cure some illnesses, needless to say no one minded giving up whatever we had.
When you and I fly these days we bound the ‘plane and are quite confident we will arrive where we should, flying on operations we went and came back (hopefully) now we went and went and went and then turned round and came back but it was us doing the wenting and to places that we had never been before and had to land discharge our passengers, sort out the plane, refuel etc, find a bed and food and be ready for the next one in the following day, the first few time were difficult, strange places and people and equipment, and even a brand new crew, all who had done at least one tour but some had done a number, our navigator I remember wore “brothel creeper” suede boots in the topics, was to my eyes ancient and seemed to dissapear [sic] between flights into his room, never really got to know him!!!
I had to get out to the aircraft at least an hour before take off to check out things and run up the engines, you will note many 02, 03 04, 2359, times given as take off time so you can see I for one lost of lot of sleep, the rest of the crew were not in bed but sorting out all the charts, weather, flight plans etc, and we often flew twice in a day if needed so apart from the constant changes in climate as we flew hither and thither we were kept busy.
After take off and once we had reached about 8,000ft we could settle down to some hours of straight and level flight, passengers had to be checked, even in those days there were the terrified ones who could not look out of the window,
After a number of trips the whole thing became a boring job with very little excitement, great discomfort because of the climate, lack of food and the desire to get home to my growing family, I really loved the RAF but loved my wife more.
Among the sites seen during this flying over North Africa, ones that are stuck in the memory are the rusting tanks and other vehicles that littered the North African Desert as we flew in and out if Cairo, lots of miles of nothing then a heap of rust etc, all seen as we flew over at 8,000ft.
We as a crew were transferred yet again to the top Transport Command Squadron, 511 at Lyneham who still operate from there to this day. (August 1998). The logbook of my time with 511 Squadron is presented later.
The only highlight during October was the flight the skipper and I did on our own in Lancaster Bomber P 780 (it was used as the squadron spare parts transport) was to fly by my map reading to Prestwick near Liverpool to pick up a parcel and return, clocked up 3 hours 30 in a Lancaster. The York was a
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nice ‘plane to fly couldn’t go above 8000ft because we had no oxygen for the passengers and it was not pressurised, really a Lancaster with a different body to take freight or passengers, we even had a very good galley on board but until we were given an ex airgunner to act as steward was little used, don’t know what training our chap was given but on the first flight was told on the ground what and when we as the crew would like for our meal. He waited until we were well on our way before puncturing the tins and most of the contents ended in his face or on the ceiling, didn’t seem to know about changes of air pressure, but he soon learned!!
There is one trip to Langar mentioned in my log book where we picked up a York for a VIP Flight. We were in York MW100, which had been the first operational York delivered to the RAF. I have read that Langar was an AVRO refurbishment factory, where repairs etc were carried out, so it looks as though MW 100 was “tarted” up there for 24 Squadron VIP flight.
One of the more pleasant jobs we have, even if a bit sad really, was to fly back to England those British troops that had survived the death camps of the Japanese in Burma and else where. We used Freighter Yorks for this with mattresses spread on the floor and female nurses in attendance, the looks of thanks we all got from these sad men was soul touching, all crews involved would have happily got our old bombers out and bombed the bastards to kingdom come, I for one will never forgive them for their cruelty. Returning from one of the later trips we were met by the Squadron C.O. and told to move all our gear into the Waaf’s quarters (they had been moved out) get a decent room and then report to the main gate where transport had been laid on, the useless mob of non flying officers had crawled out from under the stones they had been hiding under, while we all risked life and limb, and were now insisting that we as crews were not allowed in the mess in flying kit, even though we had to breakfast at between 4-5am and then go straight out to fly, when we returned late night no food would be available after 6pm. Our C.O. wouldn’t stand for that, he had done at least 90 ops some with the Dam Busters, so we moved all the Squadron items from the mess to our new accommodation, which meant all the silver, billard [sic] tables most of the decent armchairs (we could never sit in one because these idle sods were always in them), all the liquor from the bar plus all the glasses and bits and bobs. We had all been paying mess bills but very rarely had been in England, so an even bigger shock was in store for them when they found their mess bills had sky rocketed.
The day after day of flying from cold damp England to steaming hot and humid India was very wearying and when at the end of February 1946 I was offered the chance to leave the RAF I took it, our son Tony had been born in April shortly before I left, I could have stayed on in The RAF, but long hours of flying and a new wife and baby were not the way to go if life was
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going to be at all normal, what I should do for a job I didn’t know, but time at home was what I really wanted, it had been a long hard war and I wanted a rest.!! I have been thinking about this part of my time with The Royal Air Force and it seems as if I should explain where possible the duties of the various aircrew members. Starting with the bomber crews, the pilot is the boss whatever his rank, some crews were formed with quite senior ranking officers as non pilot members, this was often caused by the need for senior officers to really find out what happened on operations, often this was of a temporary nature, but it was known for a senior officer to complete a tour with a N.C.O pilot. The pilot made all the decisions in the air and usually on the ground as well, he had to have the respect of his crew and a happy crew always had a father figure for their pilot even though he might not be the oldest member of the crew, fighter pilots could and possibly should be of a less serious nature, most times they only had to look after themselves.
The pilot must have some understanding of all the jobs that the crew carried out, not to any great detail but sufficient to understand when things went wrong, and in an emergency could make the correct decisions if that crew member was unable to do so, his training would take much longer and would start as a pupil pilot on small aircraft, when he got his wings and started his training on twin engine ‘planes he would be joined by his navigator and in some cases by the wireless operator, these two crew members would have been carrying out their training else where, and once passed as proficient would have been posted to the conversion unit to await joining a crew, it is possible at this stage that these three crew members could after completing their conversion course, be posted to a squadron flying twin engine aircraft, DC3’s. or twin engine light bombers or fighters such as Mosquito’s, Beaufighter’s, Blenheim’s there were many different RAF and USAF twin engined aircraft in service all over the world that this crew could have ended up flying, navigation and wireless equipment was all basically the same in the RAF and no doubt the same applied in the USAF. Assuming that this crew now carries on to four engine conversion, all of the previous training could have been carried out in Canada or South Africa some I understand also completed twin engine training in the USA. Crews formed of Canadian, South African and Australian nationals naturally liked to be all from the same country, I am not sure what happened in other countries but I joined a Canadian crew when they arrived in England because they had no Flight Engineers, I do know that other countries also had the same problem but just who and how much of a problem it was I do not know. So now we have the crew at a 4 engine conversion course some where in England, here the pilot must learn the tricks of flying and landing a large and most likely difficult bomber, having done some initial training with instructors he will now get his crew together and they will complete their training together, While he has been receiving instruction and doing take off’s and landings with an all instructor crew,
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usually only a pilot and F/E, if going on a cross country he would have both a navigator and wireless operator also from the instruction staff (all would be air crew who had completed at least one tour and told me that it was more scary instructing than doing ops!) the rest of the crew have been likewise receiving instruction. Navigators, wireless operators and flight engineers would be all flying both day and night being taught and checked for competence in their various jobs, and subject to being passed as suitable would then continue their training as a crew, any member that didn’t do their job properly was soon found out and a replacement soon found, our navigator had been passed as ok but on a cross country during our training got us hoplessly [sic] lost in the Welsh mountains and the pilot and I, map and beacon read our way home, needless to say he went! The pilot now has his crew and after arriving at a bomber squadron he and his crew are checked out again by the various section leaders, he will now go on two “second dickie” bombing trips to see just what it is all about, standing next to the pilot he will watch what happens all the way out and back, and have that little extra bit of knowledge that his crew hasn’t got.
So to complete this long story about the pilot he stands at the front of his crew and leads and guides them in the tasks ahead. He never shows fear nor does his voice ever tremble when in difficult situations, he may be trembling inside but no one would ever guess, a good bomber pilot was a hero unsung, I was lucky I flew with two on operations. The navigator must have an ability with numbers and calculations often carried out under very difficult conditions, many were remustered from pilot training having failed to reach the flying standard required, they made very good navigators because they understood the problems a pilot could have, and could be very quickly given what additional training was required for a navigator. His job simply described would be to get you there and back again, on time and on target, never as simple as that because the bombing routes were always being changed to dodge known hot spots of “flack” and lead the enemy into thinking you were going to one town and then suddenly turn and bomb some where else. His view of the target or for that matter anywhere we went was limited by his position below the pilot facing a blank wall, his instruments consisted of the usual pencils rulers etc. but also fitted were a repeater compass from the gyro-compass until in the tail, a Gee unit which had a screen and fixed radio stations in England broadcast signals that were projected as curved lines which could give him a fixed position, the gee signal did not reach far into the continent so was of limited use but did help the beginner out and home, H2S was also fitted in a belly blister underneath this was a very primitive form of radar and gave a misty picture of the earth below helpfull [sic] if bombing blind and could aid in locating a town and the trusty old sextant, much improved from the sailor’s version with a two minute clockwork motor that averaged out the readings over that period so was a bit more accurate, wouldn’t do on a yacht would rust up solid in no
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time, piles of maps, charts for everything. Not only did he have to keep up a proper running diary of events, such as aircraft seen to crash or explode any unusal [sic] sightings, we saw some of the early German rocket tests on one operation, we didn’t know what it was and said so and we weren’t told either, changes to targets would be passed to him by the w/op, wind drift had to be regularly checked and whether we had a tail or head wind could effect the time we got to the target, and when we got back home he had to hand in his charts for them to be checked just in case we hadn’t been where we were supposed to have been, a very busy member of the crew, perhaps managed to look out the nose on odd occasions but always working and figureing [sic] out the next course change. The wireless operator was probable a very frustrated man, he had all this high powered gear and could only use it to receive, except in an emergency which none of us wanted anyhow. Signals were being passed from group headquarters to the squadron in code and where they effected us were passed to those concerned, almost always to the navigator, these could be very sudden and high changes of wind direction as monitored by aircraft ahead of us, changes of routes to avoid a new “flack” post, recalls due to bad conditions over the target or fog closing in on our own ‘dromes.
Which meant we might not be able to land properly anywhere in England, 500 to 1000 bombers spread out all over England many crashed with crews killed was not a happy thought! So the w/op spent most of his time listening in, when we started using Master Bombers, (they flew round and round the target during the raid giving instructions to various crews where to bomb and telling those off who ignored him) the w/op got some extra work changing channels as briefed so that the German radio could not block transmissions. Our transmitted signals out were always brief until over friendly land and even then too much chatter from one ‘plane could cause trouble for those in real peril, ‘planes with injured on board or ‘planes so badly damaged that the sooner they could land the better got priority and all crews listened to see if one of their mates was in trouble often a few words of comfort from a friend helped no end, once we started doing daylight operations and could see many miles we could also warn others of enemy action such as flack and fighters, and when we given the job as “dive bombers” on a couple of raids warn other of bomb bursts and local guns that could be a danger. The Bomb Aimer’s (or as the USAF called him The Bombardier) job was to drop the bombs we had carted about the sky and drop them where they would do the most damage, his bomb sight of RAF planes was quite good, needed to be set accurately with wind speed and direction, had a set of switches that could be set so that various bomb bays on the ‘plane emptied first once all the settings were put in which also included things like height and temperature, could be others but it is a long time ago, then he directed the pilot to change course a degree or two either way until his sight was on the target and then he pressed the button and a
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sudden jolt told us we were a great deal lighter and could set course for home. The Master Bomber made a difference because he would tell us which coloured markers to bomb on and give us lots of warning as we came in towards the target. Pathfinder Force had arrived at the target with the Master Bomber before we got there, he told them where to drop their markers and which colour to use, they didn’t land on the ground but floated on parachutes so the Germans couldn’t put them out but they did light “spoof” ones which confused us until the Master Bomber started and then most bombs fell on the target. Some RAF and USAF bombers has a light machine gun in the front nose which the bomb aimer could use, don’t think is was much use, we never hand one. the only other job that the bomb aimer could do was help the navigator with map reading in daylight and he always called out when we crossed the coast both in and out of Europe and England, at night this showed up as a slightly different colour of grey. The USAF made a big fuss about how their Norden bomb sight was so good, reports I have read since the war seem to discount it’s accuracy, like most things, a good operator is good whatever rubbish he is given to use!!
Lets face it the Dam Buster’s used a sight made from a few sticks of wood and we know what they did. We now come to the Air Gunners we had two one as “tail end Charlie” in the rear turret, and another as the mid upper gunner, the rear gunner was considered the top man and he really had the worst position both for comfort and danger, both turrets were fitted with four Browning .303” aircooled machine guns, the turrets were power operated, and the rear gunner usually saw the fighters first particularly at night as they climbed up to get into position the Browning was no match for the fighter cannons so they could keep out of range and bang away until both gun positions were destroyed, then we were sitting ducks. We had two good gunners and just a couple of rounds fired at a distant fighter was enough for him to go else where and find a crew half asleep, we saw this a few times when on daylight raids and cursed them for not attending to their job of survival for the whole crew, some squadrons has much larger losses than others, we reckoned it was not luck but bad training and stupid people who once their bombs had gone thought they were home and dry. Another problem the gunners had and this also effected the bomb aimer was cold they all had electrically heated suits but it could get very cold at night and it made it just that much harder for the gunners to stay awake. On one trip they took our H2S blister out and fitted a mid-under turret, not like the USAF ball turret but more like a small bath tub with a gun mounting, didn’t look very comfortable and gave us a gunner we had never met. What a dissaster [sic] he never stopped seeing fighters from the time we left the ground until we got back, poor chap was probably “flack Happy” That bit of useless gear came out and never went back what they did with the poor gunner I don’t know. but he should not have been given a mid-under job a midupper would have kept him in contact with the rest of the crew and perhaps settled
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him down, who know what terrible tales he had to tell, but we didn’t want him!! The Flight Engineer usually came from the ground staff, had worked on engines, prefferably [sic] those fitted in aircraft, many were recruited like I was having been trained by The RAF at Halton Number 1 School of Technical Training, after passing out I had served two or three years on the flight line servicing a large number of different areo-engines so my F/E training could be specific to the engines fitted in the aircraft I should fly in, the course at St Athan in Wales was quite short, and like all the ex-brats found it no problem, my duties were to control the engines all the required speed the pilot decided and adjust boose and RPM so that they were all syncronised [sic] and did not “hunt”, raising and lowering undercarriage, flaps and bomb doors also were my job, on take off I had to help the pilot hold the throttles open and assist in correcting any swing which could happen with a cross wind and a full bomb load. Every other crew member was strapped in but the F/E had to stand beside the pilot to carry out his job, once off the ground U/G up and flaps retracted, climbing boose and revs set, temperatures checked and on radial engines gills opened or closed to keep the engines at the right temperature.
On water cooled the radiator flaps had to be adjusted for the same reason, a log had to be kept from the moment the engines were started so that a running total of fuel used to could be calculated, every change of boost, revs ,height and which gear the super charger was in affected fuel consumption. There reading were very important also which fuel tanks were in use so that all tanks could end up over the target holding the same amount of fuel, a full tank with a hole could mean no return to base. As an F/E I never really had enough time for all the jobs, the navigator called on me at times to do star shots with the sextant which I could hang on a hook in the astro-drome above my bank of engine and fuel instruments, there was always some thing that needed a tweek or a piece of wire to keep it going, and over the target apart from all my usual jobs I had to feed the “window” out of the special chute, some time there were large bundles of leaflets to send down, to let [sic] the Germans they had no chance or the invaded ones that thing would get better. Before and after a trip I had to check things, although the ground staff never missed a thing perhaps we survived because they were as fussy as we were. My log had to be handed in and any odd things explained so that they could be fixed before we went out again. When ever I had time or if fighter activity was great I would stand in the astro-dome and do my own bit of searching, one night to my amazement within almost arms-reach was a F/W 190 night fighter, I pointed this out to all of the crew and the skipper slowly dropped us a few feet until he was out of sight, the gunners wanted to have a go at him, but the skipper said you can’t be sure you will win and we are here to drop bombs!!! The different in the training for the carrying of passengers by those members of the flying crew that transfered [sic] from bombers to transport was not so very different except that the “press on
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Spirit” of bombers was now changed to safety and arrival at the destination on time. Pilots were trained to fly with the comfort of the passengers as of major concern, Navigators now had some visual land marks to help on long flights and with the help of the wireless operator many “fixes” obtained by cross bearings from two or more radio beacons. The war in Europe and with Japan was still on so many of the peace time facilities were still not available but most of southern Europe was conflict free so that flight were in themselves safe from enemy fire. The flight engineer’s duties still contained those element of engine, fuel, and general aircraft overseeing that were needed in bombers, in the early days he was the only member of the crew free to move about during the flight no cabin crew were employed, so the was the only contact that the passengers had with the flight crew, and many times his duties required him to reassure passengers who had not flown before, although he also acted as a second pilot, on long flights, ground prepared sandwiches and thermos filled with hot or cold drinks were given to the passengers by the F/E. On freighter aircraft another new duty the F/E had to perform was the checking of the centre of gravity of the load this had to be within very strict limits, because of safety considerations, each item of the load had to have it’s centre of gravity worked out and then it’s position in the aircraft designated to ensure that the centre of lift and centre of gravity were within limits.
All RAF Yorks of Transport Command were also Royal Mail carriers so that large bags of mail on both freighter and passenger ‘planes were carried, there was also a small compartment that could only be entered from the outside situated on the port side near the tail, this was for high security items and was usually filled and emptied by a person from the Consulate, who would also lock it.
Without checking with Phyll, or for that matter anyone else, I applied for release from the Royal Air Force, because I had been commissioned I was able to leave the RAF even though I had signed on as an apprentice for 18 years after the age of 18. Phyll was shocked when I turned up at the home she had started to make for us and told her what I had done, what was I going to do for a job?, how would I earn a living,? none of these things had really mattered to me, I just wanted to be with her and our new baby Tony. My Commanding Officer wanted me to stay in and said I could return at any time before my demobilisation leave ended, on the 27th of April 1946 (the day before our first wedding anniversary) I was given a demob suit, some food and clothing coupons and cleared from the RAF, my leave would finish on the 9th of July 1946 so I had a couple of months to decide what to do with my life and that of my family. Phyllis and I were married on the 28th April 1945, she was released from the WAAFs in November of 1945 and managed after a lot of form filling and chasing up the local council to get a requisitioned house, which she moved into in the early part of 1946. These
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houses had been empty for many years were of low standard compared to today’s, but ours was a solidly build three bedroom, two rooms and a kitchen down stairs but had only one cold tap in the house, gas lighting and an outside flushing toilet of the design known by young and old as the Thunderbox. I was still frying to India and Ceylon and only managed to get home for the odd night very seldom, so Phyll all on her own with no help from anyone sought out second hand furniture and managed to provide the basic things needed to make a home, Tony arrived on the 13th of April while I was on leave but I had to return to 511 Squadron as soon as all was well with Phyll and Tony, but was home again on the 27th of April for good.
– Reg Miles
The URL of this page is
http://www.geocities.com/jkjustin/Milesbio5.html
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Biography of Reg Miles
Ex Apprentice No 1 S. of T. T., R.A.F., Halton 39th Entry 34 – 67 M.U.s – 27 A/S Bloemspruit South Africa – Lympe Kent, Flight Engineer 432 – 420 Squadrons RCAF, 6 Group Bomber Command, Eastmoor, Tholthorpe, Yorkshire / 242 – 246 – 511 Squadrons Transport Command Lyneham, RAF
Chapter 6
Post RAF
My parents called round to this very old, dirty, requisitioned house and found me in my battle dress trousers and very large white flying rollnecked sweater sitting on the floor smoking a “Churchill” cigar (very large and the last of my Indian purchases) cleaning and stopping up holes in the wall of what would be our dining and living room. To say that they were horrified would be putting it mildly, where was their son of whom they were proud? The Flying Officer in the RAF who had been on bombers and regularly flew to India and other foreign parts, gave all that up to do what? I couldn’t tell them because I didn’t know, just wanted peace and my own family and no more racing about the world. Something would come along I said, my parents were not impressed they had battled for years to get a little bit out of the working class rut, still only out a little way and here was Reg on his way up and just throwing it all away to be at home cleaning up the dirt of years of neglect. After our marriage on each trip to India I bought carpets and other items that would help to furnish a home, after the floors walls and ceilings were washed the carpets gave a nice touch of luxury to the place. In the kitchen was a brick built “copper” this was filled with water, a fire lit under and when hot this water was used for cleaning the house, washing clothes, and once a week for Phyll and I to have a bath, the babies of course got at least one day. Friday evening was usually “bath night”, Phyll had managed to buy an adult size “tin bath” which spent most of it’s time handing on a nail in the back yard, with a fire going well in the back room downstairs, the bath was placed in front and buckets of cold and hot water carried in from the kitchen. Ladies first was always the rule so Phyll could have hers in comfort, when she got out I go in and removed my dirt, now came the reverse trip with the buckets of water, each one tipped outside to run into the drain by the back door, once tried to empty the bath by lifting it up to the window sill and sliding it out, not much luck with that just a lot more water to wipe up. I did eventually install a proper full size bath in the kitchen with the drain passing through the wall and hot water fed from a gas heater and cold from the one cold tap. The whole thing was boxed in with a hinged cover which gave Phyll a decent size work surface when cooking, and fun for the boys to hide in when not in use for either of it’s purposes. I
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thought I might like to work as a mechanic in a garage, just shows you what an innocent I was, spoke to a garage owner who had looked after Dad’s car before the war and asked if I could work there without pay for a couple of weeks to see what it was like. Started a few days later and after a day or so he wanted to pay me, worked there for a few weeks, can’t say I thought much of the job or the owner, gave me some wooden boxes with parts of a lorry engine in it and told me to build it up, no instruction manuals so took me a while to sort out what went where and he was not impressed, went out on welding jobs to hotels whose heating boilers had frozen up and cracked, nothing went right and as I unloaded the gear from the truck he threw a heavy spanner at me which just missed, I threw it back and nearly hit him, so he said I was not suitable for his job, not a very good start to civilian life! Next I called in at the Labour Exchange and it was suggested that I should go on a course to become a commercial artist, couldn’t draw to save my life so that was out, they had a vacancy for a Trainee Manager for a laundry would I like to try that. Why not I thought, so turned up for an interview by the boss lady and started next day, must learn all the processes she said and put me on a Hoffman Press doing fancy pillow slips, kept coming by every so often and throwing all I had done in the “do it again” bin, all females working there and most old enough to be my mother, put me on the calendar, long steam heated rollers that were used to iron sheets and other large items, I was at the back on my own taking things off while two or three woman fed them in, or course I got in a muddle and another job hit the dust!! So it was back home and helping Phyll with house cleaning, my father was not impressed and said I must have a job what ever it was and suggested that he could get me a job with the large building firm of which he was a very senior employee. When it came, it was as a painter’s labourer (the lowest for life in the building industry) but I just took it to save any arguments and did my turn of holding the bottom of ladders while the painter did the clever stuff, while doing this in the middle of the local shopping street two RAF officers much junior to me on my old squadron couldn’t believe their eyes, told them that good jobs like this were going fast so they’d better get in quick. I had bought a new bicycle, the one that I had bought with the money from my photo job before going into the RAF had been completely destroyed when my uncle Jack was killed on it by a German shell outside Dover. I cycled about Margate going from one painting job to another, the one I most remember was the one at the local brewery, being the lowest on the totem pole I had the job of lighting a fire with wood scraps and making the tea at mid morning and afternoon breaks, got things going just waiting to see how many to make and no one turned up, and went out side into the yard and there all the workers were, both brewery and building, lining up for tankards of beer. Told to come and get mine but just did not fancy cold beer for a drink, went in a had my cup of tea, we were there for some time and eventually I was persuaded to give the beer a
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try, never tasted anything like it, smooth and warming and just perfect, asked where I could buy some of it, told not be so silly, this was a special brew made by the brewer for the staff and not on sale anywhere!! I had not taken up the offer by my CO to go back into the RAF, guess time just went by and didn’t given it much thought, from a salary of 20 pounds a week I was now earning about 3 (took me about 14 years to get up to that again and it wasn’t worth as much when I did) we managed, or at least Phyll did, both of us took extra jobs she did cleaning for the local library and tourist department and also worked in the evenings as a cashier at a large seaside restaurant, later on Phyll worked at a couple of hospitals in the Margate area, I carried out maintenance at the same restaurant and also had a teaching job for the local technical college. My father was talking to the company manager who asked how his son the RAF officer was doing, when told that he was working for the firm as painter’s labourer suggested that there was a need for a fitter to take control of the depot used to store all the machinery used in the company and also large stocks of materials surplus from contracts would I like it? Would I just, right up my alley so after a couple of days I started work at this depot which was on ground adjacent to Manston RAF Base, and in fact my yard was next to the station bomb dump that my father had built just before the war. When I eventually found the yard it looked like a rubbish tip, met by an old man who said he was in charge and who was I. Explained what my job was and found out that he had been there for some time just to help unload and load up the odd lorries that came in from building sites, asked why things were scattered all over the place and he said that he just put things where there was a space, and certainly didn’t do any clearing up or sorting out. A number of sheds had been erected and were all full of a jumble of building materials returned from sites, he didn’t know what was in any of them and had no intention of finding out, bricks of every shape and colour were stacked in heaps without any order and large stacks of roofing tiles had collapsed, spreading out like the tide to cover other items, with weeds and flowers poking their heads between. Loaded lorries had driven over what looked to the driver empty areas, but were in fact filled with sheets of glass, tins of paint, sanitary fittings, and various strange items returned from sites as not required or perhaps in many cases wrongly ordered, so that a sticky mess of dried paint, broken glass, and unknown fragments covered some areas resembling the appearance of a hastily cleared bomb site. This would not do for me, dotted about amongst this bleak landscape were concrete mixers of all shapes and sizes, and many other rusting hulks that I had no idea what they were, order what was wanted and somewhere to work and store tools in safety. I found a shed that looked as if it might keep out the rain and with the old man’s help cleared some space for a bench which was among the multitude of items scattered about the site. One water tap was near the front entrance, I say entrance more like the gates of hell or a test of driver’s skill to weave
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through the junk piled just where it fell, and without me asking a cup of tea was soon offered, that at least had received top priority. I spent the following week looking at machines, to in the first case find out what they were and to check if they could be made to work, that would be my first job, to get the plant needed on building sites in a fit condition for work. To make matters worse there was no electricity or ‘phone connected to the site and very little in the way of anything to help me lift and replace things that were broken, I needed to get things sorted with the boss, calling into head office for my pay on Friday I asked to see him and told him what I needed and was given permission to book anything I wanted with their local supplier and arrange for power and telephone to be connected, the old man would return to his normal work of bricklayer’s labourer and I could engage a young man to take his place. So the clean up started, I concentrating on checking and repairing machines and my new helper re-stacking fallen heaps, wheeling away to a corner all the rubbish he found during his efforts, which would eventually be used to fill in some large holes uncovered during this clear up. The first shed I had used was emptied of all the rubbish and made into a small workshop where other benches were installed, the power and telephone were connected, I purchased some items of tools including a complete oxy-acetylene welding and cutting outfit from BOC, which I then had to learn how to use!! A call came for a large number of wheel barrows for a site, most that I had found had splits and cracks in the bodies and all had narrow steel wheels, repairs by welding were hastened and a quantity of wheels with pneumatic tyres were purchased, a coat of paint given from our stocks, all of which turned out to be grey of various shades when mixed together, the site foreman phoned to send transport, who shortly after receipt of the barrows phoned to register his delight in getting what appeared to be a truck load of new equipment. Gradually sheds were emptied, their contents sorted and listed and put away in some sort of order, all stocks of bricks, tiles, screws, nails, plumbing fittings, and all the multitude of items used in the building and construction industry were sorted and listen on stock sheets, these were sent to head office for typing and all site foreman and those people in the drawing, quantity and supply departments given copies, amendments made to these when required. All materials for building work was on licences, which were hard to get and the cause of a great amount of office time and paperwork, my lists helped to overcome some of these delays and gradually most people in the organisation used them to help in planning, they became even more useful when I was able to add separate sheets which gave lists of what machines were held in stock and what their state of readiness was. I was now getting more and more calls from sites asking for my help not only to supply machines and materials but my advice was asked for on the manufacture of items for sites and in many cases I was asked to make thousands of an individual item for the massive tower blocks being built in and around London to house those who had lost their homes
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due to enemy bombing. for most of this twelve years we still lived at Tivoli Road in the requisitioned house, much cleaner and more livable [sic] after Phyll’s ministrations, the wall paper in our bedroom which consisted of large purple parrots on a dark blue background had like the rest of the house been removed and given coats of a more restful colour of paint, there was always plenty of part tins returned from contracts so no problem with supplies! Philip our second son had arrived on the scene about two years after Tony, which gave Phyll. more work with washing and caring for two boys who carried on a constant war with each other and would always try to outdo each other in the speed at which they turned clean clothes into dirty rags. Sheila, Phyll’s sister came to stay and had the usual boy friends, mostly American service personnel from Manston, none of which seemed to understand that rationing of everything was still in place in the UK, invited to an evening meal on one occasion the incumbent boyfriend took out family’s weekly ration of cheese spread it our total stock of biscuits and swallowed the lot! Whether it was the same one who broke our settee into fragments one night in a fit of passion I don’t know, the remains however did come in useful as our ration of coal for heating had largely been burnt and the settee end up as fuel the stuffing and covers used to add humus to the starved patch of soil called garden at the back. To help with the family budget Phyll had obtained part time evening work at a large restaurant on the sea front manning the till, she also cleaned the Margate library, and at times the Margate Information centre, she wasn’t afraid of hard work but it did and still does seem all wrong that people like her who had done their bit during the war got nothing for their efforts while the stay at home fortune markers still got all the benefits, I noticed this particularly when visiting an aircraft factory in the Midlands, whole families worked in the one factory each one taking home much more than the fighting men did and most seemed to have a fiddle of some sort which enabled them to get the best of every thing regarding food and clothes, some got bombed but most got rich! Susan came along after a further eight years, she was born at home as Phyll had not been happy at the treatment she received at the local maternity hospital and determined not to suffer that again, her brother Peter was performing with a band at a local venue and his wife Jean stayed with us until she had her second child, we even at times had other artists to stay all to help with the family budget. I had changed my cycle for a “Corgi” , this was the war surplus parachutist motor bike, dropped with them for quick movements of men, they had a small 125cc two stroke engine, folding seat and handle bars, no instruments of any sort and very basic lights, push start, no gears, and certainly no suspension, the front tyre wore to a point after some miles so that turning on wet or icy roads was fraught with peril, many was the 360s I did on old cobble stones and slick corners. A large metal box was made and fitted and my range of operations grew to sites many miles away from base, it was a cold and slow means of transport, crawling up a
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hill with the box on the back filled with heavy tools after an hour or so on the road to be passed with ease by everything on wheels and some even on hoof did not endear me to other road users, who out of pure spite drove near and informed me if I pedalled harder would get along faster. To spend over an hour on the road to get to a site that had called me that they had problems with machinery, only to find as I often did that failure to check the oil in an engine had caused it seize up, the topping up with fresh oil prior to my arrival supposed to fool me, strong words were said by me while I stripped the engine freed the pistons and rings and got it running again. Some cases were even more bizarre, once called to a site two hours away because the small bulldozer would not “go”, this was in the middle of winter with ice and snow about, found that the machine had been left after it’s day’s work in a large puddle of liquid mud, this had frozen overnight and struggle as it may the poor thing could only slip clutches trying to get out of the clutches of the ice, a stern word to the “ganger” to get off his backside in future meant no more silly alarms from that site. On another occasion nearer home I was asked to call at a site because the 14/10 mixer would not mix (14/10 – 14 cu ft of dry material in and 10 cu ft of wet mixed out) It was still operating when I arrived on site to be shown that as the hopper tilted to pour the dry material in it shot straight out the other side, shut it down and had a look at the blades inside the drum, these often got badly worn after months of use, not in this case the drum was full to the brim with rock hard concrete. Again poor or perhaps in this case non existent maintenance, I had issued guide lines to all foreman as I found that certain work methods damaged or caused performance problems with plant, in this case of concrete mixers at the end of a day’s work a few shovels of sand or gravel should be placed in the drum and allowed to mix for a few minutes this combined with the liquid cement usually still present from the last mix and made it too weak to set hard, the following day it would be broken up during the first mix. There were a number of these information suggestions most of which I have no memory, one that still remains is the one involving flexible drives used on vibrators to consolidate in shuttering, or formwork, it was common practise to hang the vibrating head over the shuttering and leave it operating while the concrete was poured, the sharp kink in the flexible drive caused the high speed inner drive to cut a hole in the outer casing, this would be fairly large on the inside but often a very small slit on the out side, if this slit became immersed in the concrete the rotary action of the inner drive sucked in liquid concrete which soon set when switched off and the next day no vibrator, more obvious to the operator was the damaged caused if the actual vibrating head was to touch the reinforcing steel bars inside the shuttering, I have had the heads returned to me cut in half after being in contact with the steel. During the 12 years I was employed by Rice and Sons many things happened that are worth repeating. I cannot begin to remember them in any proper order will just tell them as they pop up in my memory, a local garage
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owner who’s place of business was just up the road from the yard, I bought my petrol from him and we often helped one another out with bits and pieces, he had been the only one who had an independent supply of electricity provided by a single horizontal cylinder glow bulb diesel engine to start it needed a long heating of the bulb part with an oversize blow lamp, then grasping the spokes of one of the very large fly wheels a heave to start the rotation and followed by more pulling until it fired and continued on it’s own, the trick was to let go before you went with it, rather like prop swinging an aircraft engine, his wife helped him to serve petrol, but needed the engine running to supply electricity for the pumps, the odd times when he was too ill to get out of bed I would start the thing for her and so we became friends and swapped ideas about thing, he had “come upon” some very cheap metal twist drills and wondered if I would like some they certainly looked good quality but would they cut I asked, we’ll give them a go he said and put one in his bench drill stand and tried to drill a hole, no luck must need sharpening, and still no luck, a close examination showed that they were left hand drills were stamped USAAF and no doubt had originated in the USAAF Base at Manston and were made for a DeWalt machine that did a number of operations some of which required left hand drills. The local manager of Rice and Sons had a number of children one of which was a young girl who like so many of her gender rode and had horses, the garden at his house had become too small for her latest horse and as there was quite a bit of open space at the yard now it was tidy he asked if we could manage to find room for it, wasn’t very keen but found a space between piles of bricks and partition blocks that could be fenced and space in a shed near by that would do as a tackle store. The young girl turned up with this, to us great hairy beast, and put him away while dad pulled up in his car and took her home. We used to let it out to feed around the yard during the day and never really had any trouble putting it away at night, not that any of us felt very comfortable with it, but it did cause trouble, one day it got it’s nose and most of itself jammed in the door way of a shed while it warmed itself on a potbelly stove that was burning to drive out the moisture from stored items, one of us climbed through a window and tried to back it out but it wouldn’t budge, only thing to do was push it forward and dodge the backward explosion as it’s nose got burnt, it often scratched it’s back on stacks of bricks or tiles, our only warning the rumble as thousands of carefully piled ones slowly slid down to cover yards of ground, when burning worm infested wood it loved to put its hooves into the hot ashes and the long length of pipe we used to move the wood about poured out smoke from it’s top end, the horse stood with this in it’s mouth and seemed to enjoy the odd smoke. We had a few minor problems with this horse, it got out one day when a stupid lorry driver left the gate open and the young lad I had taken on spent most of the day chasing it over hill and dale until it leapt a fence into a paddock of other horses and charged about until this owner
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caught it and insisted on knowing who the owner was. The end for us came when I arrived at the yard one Monday morning to be greeted by a very irate RAF officer, the horse had apparently got out during the weekend and right opposite was the grass runway of Manston Aerodrome, these acres of lush grass were heaven to the horse so in spite of large numbers of service personnel in jeeps and on motor bikes it just cantered madly about preventing the circling aircraft from landing. The main runway at Manston was some miles long, equipped with FIDO and a major airfield during WW2, at this time it was occupied by the USAAF flying Lockheed “Shrunk Works” F80 Shooting Stars, Spifires [sic] had by legend taken off across the runway it was so wide, the grass runway was used by visiting light aircraft to leave the main runway free for ops. I noted that the officer concerned was a non flier and after he had calmed down suggested that he get a few years in before going off at the mouth to me, but felt sorry for him as no doubt he had been torn off a strip by some other prat in uniform, told him the horse was not mine and mentioned my service number which shut him up, but the horse had to go and so it did. Another morning I arrived to be called over by the next door neighbour, who had a small holding and piggery behind his house, to complain about the noise I had been making late into the previous evening, said he would come over and shut me up if it happened again, told him I wished he had which surprised him. What had happened was I crawled into the drum of a large concrete mixer to check the blades and water feed pipes, it was going out on to a site the next day and the phone call only came in as I locked up the workshop, my men had already gone, knew that most of the mixer was in good condition but wondered if the blades and water pipes had been checked, blades were OK but still a small amount of concrete on the inside of the water pipe, got a hammer and cold chisel from the toolbox and chipped out the bits and pieces, a small pebble just didn’t want to move so pushed my finger in to flick it out, the pebble dropped down jamming my finger in and the harder I pulled the more it jammed. The only way I could get out was to hold up the pebble with a piece of wire while I eased my finger out, the tools I had with me were too large, that is why I was banging on the drum hoping someone would come and help me, but no luck and I was going deaf from my hammering. Perhaps the last shovel of sand put in to weaken the cement remaining in the drum had a piece of tie wire in, what a hope but after scrabbling about with my free hand for some time I found a piece, held the pebble up and quickly grabbed my tools and crawled out, the neighbour laughed and would come quick if heard banging late again. Another Monday I arrived at the yard to find the entrance blocked by a very large and dirty Steamroller, no sign of a driver, enquires with neighbours did not help, no note or message on the machine, just parked most tidily across the entrance, walking space only. None of my people knew anything about it and none of us knew how to drive, we checked the tank which had some water in it but no coal or wood,
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lit a fire made sure the sight glass was full and when steam started to come out of various holes, pushed and pulled every lever in sight until it moved into the yard, rolled up and down the yard a few times to make our road smooth and put the brake on, the fire was only wood so it soon burnt down and went out. It stay there for a couple of days and then one morning when I got to work it was gone, never did solve the mystery of the vanishing steamroller. While I was having fun and games at work Phyll was doing her best to balance what budget we had, many times when the gas meter was emptied we didn’t get any “rebate” only the return of the many foreign coins left over from my trips abroad that we had used to get gas because we were flat broke. Tony and Philip were a great trail being about 5 and 3 years old, she once got them all dressed up in their best white outfits, told them to be good boys and play together while she got dressed in her only decent frock, we were going to my Granny and Grand Dad Miles 50th wedding anniversary party, all the family would be there and poor as we were had to make out we were not. I was on my way home from some job or other and arrived in time to see the two boys playing together in the garden as requested, only they were playing in the heap of soot that the chimney sweep had left the previous day after sweeping our coal fire chimney’s!! Poor Phyll all the hard work, no [sic] only did she make their outfits, get them clean and looking smart, rushed to get dressed herself, and now had to start all over again, and I turned up dirty as well. We got to the party and everyone said how smart the boys looked, just one more of the miracles she worked. Kids can drive you mad and at other times make you laugh, arriving home from work one day Phyll told me that Tony had put his head into the bath of bleach water while she had been hanging out the clothes, ‘What a silly thing to do’ I said to him, ‘it could burn you and make your hair fall out’ With eyes as large as saucers he looked at me and said, ‘Is that what you did Daddy’ I couldn’t keep a straight face nor could Phyll. Returning from a trip to my brother’s small pig farm Tony suddenly said ‘I know eggs come from chickens Dad, do pigs lay sausages?’ always expect the unexpected where children are concerned. Apart from all the house work, looking after our growing family, Phyll always managed to find yet another job to help the budget, with Susan in her pram she pushed her quite a way to clean and tidy the house of the local vet, his wife looking after Susan while she did this, funny thing neither of us complained, just glad that we could feed and clothe us all from week to week. Among the jobs I did as part time extra work, was painting a house that a nurse lived in near the Manston yard, and doing all repairs and maintenance at the same restaurant that Phyll did evening work. This later one was a real learning experience, all equipment and machines had to be checked before the place opened for the summer season and most were completely strange to me. All the kitchen machines had to be cleaned and tested, and what most of them did was a mystery to me but head down and asked a few questions and off I went, the
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chipper didn’t work I was told, pulled a cover or two off and found that the last one to use it had put in a rock instead of a potato (dissatisfied employee?) cleared that, straightened the blades and OK again, the spud peeler was very slow, found that the abrasive lining was no longer abrasive! new lining ordered and fitted, and so I worked my way through all the catering gear. The manager asked me to look at the revolving entrance doors, had been very stiff at the end of the last season, what did I know about revolving doors, nothing but there must be a reason, climbed on top and found that the lock nuts that held the door up were loose and had allowed the door to drop so that it dragged on the floor, soon adjusted that and smiles from the manager, he began to think I was a miracle worker, but most of it was just the very uncommon common sense. This restaurant was situated on the land side of the road that ran along the beach, a section that was below high tide mark had a dance floor and entertainments as well as food and drinks served. The floor and walls up to high tide level had been “tanked” with a bitumen coating to prevent sea water damaging the decorations and timber block dance floor, some clever “dicky” had removed some of this timber block dance floor and “tanking” to increase the area used to cater for food and drink patrons, vinyl floor tiles had been stuck over the bare concrete floor that was exposed, at the same level and matching those already installed, but these new ones had no “tanking” underneath. The manager explained that as the tide came in and out the salt water dissolved the adhesive which expanded into a large ulcerous looking lump in the middle of the tiles, ladies with stiletto high heels punctured them when they stood on them and the resulting black goo shot up their legs damaging stockings and dresses. I had a look at the problem and sure enough a number were well and truly ready to “blow their top”, dug out those that needed replacing and realised that to put new ones in with adhesive was not the answer, nails would be good but the heads would probably trip people but headless one might be the answer but into concrete could be a problem, had an old gramophone at home that used the old steel needles, gave that a try and magic no problem the hardened needles went into the concrete easily and held the tiles OK, quick trip to the local gramophone shop got all their old used needles and a few boxes of new ones and just kept an eye on the tiles and as they started to bulge out they came and new ones in, during that summer think I changed the whole lot. I was on call during the evenings and week ends not too many problems, most had been already fixed mainly things broken by staff or customers, the ‘chefs’ were a funny lot always on their “high horses” about how clever they were and just threw things about if upset, more work for me, the amplifier and microphones at the dances often played up due mainly I think by drunks grabbing the mic. to bellow their inane rubbish. During the summer ‘season’ Phyll did other work, one of her aunties had a “Boarding house”, perhaps the more modern ‘bed and breakfast’ might convey to readers what it was,
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whole families came to Margate and other seaside resorts to spend their summer holidays, the cheapest accommodation for a family being the Boarding House, must be out of the house by about nine thirty and not let back in to the afternoon, these regulations varied, some miserable people stuck to them, but people never went back to them. Phyll’s job was to clean and tidy all the bedrooms, change over days, usually Saturday was very hard, most of the houses were big old places with perhaps only one lavatory and bathroom on each floor, some not even that, so chamber pots or ‘gusunders’ were provided under all beds, hence the commonly used expression used in those days for all things running late “here it is (time) and not a po emptied”. How Phyll managed to keep house, look after me and the kids and still go out to work I don’t know, no such thing as child minding in those days, we couldn’t have afforded it if there had been, must ask her some time how she managed it all!!! The house in Tivoli Road had no electricity, lighting by gas may be romantic but fraught with problems, too much gas pressure or touched when being lit and mantles break, a small hole will send a jet of flame against the glass cover and in winter when the whole house is cold, the glass shatters and people get cut, candles were used to move from room to room, and checking a sleeping baby without dripping candle grease on everything was an art soon learnt. We decorated this old house from top to bottom, never thought to ask for money to pay for things just got on and did it, remember Phyll standing on a chair wallpapering our bedroom just hours before she asked me to go out and phone the midwife as Susan was on the way, we had made up a bed for her in the dining room so no stairs to climb, I was pushed out and told to boil lots of water and get piles of newspaper, think the water boiling job was to shut me up, brave things woman, glad it was Phyll and not me going through child birth, I need medical attention if I break a finger nail, guess all men are cowards. Because the house was one of a long row of terrace houses, now known as town houses, houses all joined together, being old and some had been empty all during the war, mice had invaded one or two, we had used traps and got rid of ours but roofs and coal cellars joined, so that migration to the best food source was common. All food was kept in mice proof containers, the only source of food not covered being the layers of fat on the inside of the ancient gas cooker, efforts to get it clean only disturbed the recent deposits. Leaving Phyll sitting beside the fire in the room we used most of the time I went out to the cold kitchen to make our nightly drink of cocoa, as I lit the gas light I could hear a scrabbling coming from the oven, a mouse was having supper also, blocking the rear vent up with some clothes waiting to be washed I turned on the oven gas, waited for the scrabbling to end and picked up a dead mouse and in triumph took it in to show Phyll threw it on the fire and returned to make our cocoa. The next night a repeat performance was in sight as the next mouse awaited it’s fate, on went the gas, open came the door and Reg ended on his back against the wall as the
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cooker exploded, with the eye brows, eye lashes and moustache singed I staggered into Phyll, no longer the hero just a poor wounded soldier. The previous night the gas for our cocoa had not been lit, tonight it had, when I opened the oven door the gas escaped and was lit by the gas alight on top. Phyll covered my sores with Vaseline and I hurried out to get the mouse only to see it disappear behind the vegetable boxes in the larder, using all my force I crushed the box against the wall and another dead one, but of course the milk boiled over so I guess you could say, Reg one, the mice one, a draw. A friend of both Phyll and I when were at school was Laurie Foat he worked with his father who had a Greengrocer’s shop in Eaton Rd, I had been interested in bees when at school and found that Laurie also had an interest and had in fact a number of bee hives. We got together and started to expend the number of hives by breeding and bought quality Queen bees which we introduced after removing the old queens, we had bees in all sorts of places, orchardists welcomed us as pollination of their fruit trees was ensured, growers of many crops wanted our bees on site, this sometimes was a very painful as during transit the hives often moved and many times we travelled with swarms of bees round our heads, hoping that we would arrive on site still with enough to carry out the job in hand.
We experimented with new ideas, the only hive that had been used in England apart from the straw skip was the WBC, this had inner boxes in which the frames fitted, usually two types, honey and brood, and outer sloping ones that gave insulation in the cold months when the bees were in hibernation, we tried out the new style National hives, these were single wall and larger than the WBC (how I remember all this after 50 years, I do not know) The National hive was a copy of hives used in warmer countries such as Australia and South Africa, where the honey flow continued most of the year and hibernation was not needed, our extractor could not handle the bigger National frames and filling by the bees took much longer and in fact frames were often found to be only half full even if the honey flow had been good, they were easier to handle but really not for the small bee keeper who enjoyed the hobby more that the honey.
We also tried out a new floor board which had a fine mesh panel in it, a cover over it was controlled by a thermostat which opened and closed it depending on the temperature, this in theory helped the bees to drive off the moisture from the honey before it was capped. An old wives tale says that your bees know you and you must tell them all about you family particularly births and deaths, whether this is true I don’t know but sitting by the entrance to a hive as the sun goes down with crowds of bees at the entrance to the hive all facing inwards fanning their wings madly to drive off the moisture from that day’s honey crop is a rather magic experience, the bees ignore you and with your face close to them the sweet smell of clover,
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apple or other flowers they have been visiting beats any of man’s bottled perfumes.
As winter approached one year, it was obvious that two of our hives were not big enough to survive over the long months ahead, one had been used as a breeding hive for new queens, the other the remnants of one that had swarmed in an orchard miles away and the orchardist had not told us until it was too late to get most of them back. We would need to combine them and as bees are very territorial they couldn’t just be put together (one of the two queens must be removed), most of both hives would be killed, there were two normal ways to do this, cover each lot of bees with flour then combine them and by the time they had cleaned all the flour off themselves they would all smell the same, another ways was to block up the entrances put many layers of newspapers between the two and wait until the two lots of bees had chewed their way through and hope they would be friends.
Laurie lived over his father’s shop which had a flat roof which could be reached from one of Laurie’s windows, the combining needed to be watched to see if it was going according to plan, and the bulk of our hives were on land some miles away, the flat roof above the shop was an ideal place, we thought, the hives were set up near one another and a search through Laurie’s wife’s food cupboard failed to find any flour but a number of half packets of different coloured blanc-mange powder seemed just as good, the lid was removed from one hive and well dusted with powder, the floor taken off the other placed on top and it’s roof removed and the remainder of the powder sprinkled in.
Some of the bees took offence at this and gave us both our usual injection of anti-rheumatic treatment (after the number of stings I took should never get any joint problems, perhaps another old wives tale!) we retreated behind the closed windows of Laurie’s flat to watch events, all seemed to be going well until Laurie’s father suddenly appeared in the room, not a very happy Daddy, bees, all colours of the rainbow were driving his customers away, no one had been stung, but they were landing on everyone and everything and bright orange red, blue, and even multi coloured bees were not the normal thing seen in shops. After about an hour the panic was over and all the bees had settled down to do what bees do best, hum, and make honey.
Bees like the rest of living things get sick and we sent any suspect ones to Rothamstead Research Institute for analysis. I had been working the bees one weekend and on the Monday morning woke up feeling not too good, turning to Phyll in bed asked if my face was swollen, the look on her face and a sudden withdrawal of breath told me the tale, got out of bed and looked in the mirror, two slits that must have been eyes once, two nose holes
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that belonged more to a member of the pig family, the whole lot buried in a red blotched landscape of no sharp edges just fat curves, felt even sicker after seeing that sight. Phyll rang the doctor, (doctors actually came to see the sick in those days) who knew of our family history and at once remarked that it looked like a bee sting, told him we had a hive that we suspected had paralysis and were awaiting the results of tests, sat on my bed for about half an hour finding out all the symptoms of various bee diseases, gave me pills to take, come and see me in ten days, these blue pills got rid of the swelling but seemed to deposit glass chips in my joints, Phyll had to help me move and the pain was worse than the sting, managed to walk with great pain to his surgery after ten days, when I told him of my joints problem, said he should have given me these other pills to dissolve the crystals that would form in my joints.
Went to him once with a very swollen elbow, tennis elbow he said, don’t play it I said, showed me his elbow which was just as swollen as mine, got mine playing golf he said, what shall I do I said, don’t play golf or tennis for a bit was the answer!! Good doctor always came when asked and never gave you any bull, just one of the old school, straight answers to straight questions and don’t go to him if you just wanted a note to stay away from work, I never did, in fact had to argue with him at times when he wanted me to rest, but mutual respect was our way.
At work load was getting greater most self inflicted see a job do it is still my way, and the firm found that if they wanted some thing done and it was possible for me to do it, it got done. The “Corgi” motor bike was just too small for all the tasks expected of me, tried to get a van from the firm, but even old ones were very hard to get after the War, saw an advertisement for a 1928 Austin 7 only 20 quid, borrowed the money from my Dad and went to pick it up, one of the firm’s lorries dropped me off at this farm many miles away from home, it was in the back of a barn and sounded a bit rough when started up, farmer said it had been used to carry a full milk churn down to the front gate each day, drove it out to the yard at Manston, the engine rattle getting worse as time went on. Left it there to begin work on it the next day, stripped it right down, found the front seat was a bale of straw, no back seat, when pulled to pieces the small parts just filled a cardboard box, the chassis was two slender bits of channel joined at one end and that had a number of cracks in it, engine and body was all aluminium so very light, Phyll not very impressed when she first saw it, a box of greasy bits and some other bits of tin hanging on the workshop wall. I rebuilt the thing from scratch, crankshaft reground, cylinders rebored, valves and seats refaced, king pins and bushes renewed, any cracks in the chassis or body welded up, new seats, and tyres and tubes, it was a “tourer” open body and need less to say the canopy was missing, I had a new one made by a coach builder, when finished I spray painted it dark blue, and we now had our own motor car to
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go about and I had arranged payment by the firm for so much a mile when I used it on the firms business, which in fact covered all our costs of the car and a bit over, the overhaul had been done in the firms time and at their cost, not that they were made aware of it, and wouldn’t have minded if they had, for me to be mobile anywhere anytime was what they wanted and now had it.
I could take a decent size tool kit out on repair jobs and even the odd spare part, if they wanted me to do oxy cutting or welding a van or truck had to be available to carry the cylinders and other gear, and the oxy cutting began to become a major part of my work, I had taken on a fitter who stayed at the yard and together with the young bloke I had engaged kept on top of the repairs to machinery while I was out on jobs. A list of all of the metal work jobs I did on site would take pages and strain the old memory but some can never be forgotten for various reasons.
There are three which stick in the memory, Dreamland a very well known and large entertainment park, side shows, scenic railway, ghost house, roller coaster, you name it, Klingers a stocking and tights factory built by Rice and Sons, and The new Margate and district Telephone Exchange also built by Rice’s.
I’ll start with the last, the telephone exchange, this was a multi storey building with imposing stairs and entrance halls, Italian workers had been brought from Italy to do all the Terraza work to floors and stairs, my first contact with the site was when one of their machines would not start and the local garages couldn’t or wouldn’t repair it for them, not a very big job to fix it as I remember, but with typical Italian gusto I was treated as if I had saved them from a fate worse than death itself, showed me all their secrets for treating Terraza floors before people were allowed to walk on it, dozens of bottles of milk poured on after it was ground and washed, the fat from the milk sealed the pores in the cement and polish was applied over this.
The interior hand rail supports up the stairs had been concreted in before the Italians started their work, before they applied the final grinding and polishing they wanted the steel core rail for the wooden hand rail fitted, from their previous experience metal filings often landed on their Terraza and caused stains which were hard to remove, all the interior and exterior steel fences and railings had been contracted from by a London based company some 75 miles away by road. Their workmen arrived on site to fit the core rail and spent a couple of weeks drilling and fitting this top rail and returned to London, the manufacturers of the wooden rail itself came to the site to check that this work had been carried out properly, most people don’t look at wooden hand rails in multi storey buildings, next time you are in one have a look at the complicated solid wood shapes made to change direction
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round corners or up to the next flight, all made from plans and joins that are hard to see. The steel core rail was a mess and phone calls to the London manufactures went un-answered, there was also the question of some hundreds of yards of exterior fancy railings which had to be fitted into holes cut in the Portland Stone capping that was the topping for a wall that curved round and sloped and ended at various entrances on three sides of the building.
The call came in one morning to visit this site and see the site manager, who just happened to be my Father! He showed me the stair problem, the core rail in some cases had been cut short and in others it was too long making the legs fixed into the concrete look like a row of trees, some of the end rolls were all twisted, in fact it was a mess, went back to the yard got oxy gear and other tools told my staff expect me when see me and ring if you can’t cope, the only way was to remove completely the core rail, straighten and check for plumb the supports, and start one end and rectify as I went, finished that part in a week or so, it was OK’d by the handrail people and the Italians who still made a fuss of me and I started to pack up my gear to return to base, that was not on my father’s plans, the steel railing manufacturers had been ‘sacked’, would get no further payments, I would complete the work! ‘Thanks Dad I had other jobs to do,’ ‘but you don’t leave here until the railings are complete’, see what happens when you do a good job? you get more!!
I found that not only had I to get the railings to fit, but had to concrete the legs into the wall leaving the cement a good half inch below the top of the Portland Stone, I then had to come back when the concrete was set and pour melted lead into this space leaving it slightly proud, which I then had to hammer flat using a caulking chisel so that the lead prevented any water from getting at the steel in the wall and causing it to rust. All this was said as if I had been doing this all my life and my own father standing there and saying it, there’s family for you.
I started on a long straight section and when concreted in it was straight as a gun barrel, a good start, now for this curved and sloping section, each day was yet another battle with wedging posts upright, cutting and welding, all joins in the rails had to be half lapped, welded and smooth, at last this very long section was finished, ready for the lead. Back to the yard for a coke fired furnace, pouring pots, melting pots, scrap lead, coke and other tools, I needed help with this lead pouring so told my fitter to report to the site the next day and we would make a start, did the straight run first, each hold had to be done in one pour, lead soon gets a skin on it and if stopped half way would not seal properly, things went well until we did a hole that was damp and all hell broke loose, the hot lead turned the dampness to steam the lead sealed the hole, but the steam won and lead shot out covering
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both of us with lead spots on face and clothes, none in our eyes thank god, a lesson learnt, back to the yard to make to face masks with thick glass and a frame much like an arc welding mask.
Each hole after that had to be heated with the oxy torch to ensure no moisture was present, winter in England there is always moisture present, and so we poured and heated and caulked our way round to the last post outside the main entrance, heated, checked for moisture, poured, and bang the whole of the dark brick work at the main entrance covered in very pretty sparkling lead spots, who should walk out before we could hide, yes dad, “now you’ve got a long job picking every bit of lead out”, some we removed but like I said earlier it soon gets a skin and goes dark and it was winter with no light so we only spent one day doing the easy seen ones and then back to the yard for a rest!!
Dreamland was a very different job, it was the height of the holiday season and the crowds filled every place of entertainment, Margate was a sea side place and families came from all over southern England for their week or two of fun in the sun. Those businesses that depended on the holiday makers for their lively hood had just three months to make enough to last all year, rain didn’t really matter the people came anyhow just spent their money in different places and Dreamland was humming. A very large building had been erected just inside one of the entrances it was about 40 feet high and about a hundred yards square, really only consisted of a corrugated cement and asbestos sheeting clad roof on massive steel supports, the interior filled with side shows and games of chance (very little chance in most cases) and it was always very well patronised, if the sun was out it was a place to get cool and if raining a good shelter, most of the people who ran the side shows paid rent for the site and many managed to find a space in their stall to get their head down when Dreamland was closed for the night. I received a call at home before I even left for the yard to get my Oxy gear and come down to Dreamland to do some cutting, I always had plenty of gas bottles on hand and had purchased very long hoses because of the difficult jobs I was always getting. Arriving at Dreamland I could see this skeleton of a building still smoking from the fire, the foreman met me to say that the owners wanted it cleared away as soon as possible so that trading could start again, but if I made a start a professional in building removal was on his way and he would take over from me. Looking at the structure it was basically a cross with massive compound girder columns at each corner, with again compound steel trusses spanning from column to column, the roofing material had collapsed into the rubbish beneath, but the heavy purlins were all twisted about and had been put under great stress by the heat of the fire. The safest way was to get on top of the building and using boards climb up to the ridges from both sides cutting and dropping the purlins as you went, this would leave the massive truss supported only at
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each end, cut through this at one end with great care, and hang on when it dropped, climb up the other side and drop the remaining end of the truss, this could then be cut up into manageable size lumps and carted away, the two columns could then be cut close to ground level and chopped up and after the whole building had been removed a final cutting of the column stumps would make the site use able again. Explained my thoughts to the site foreman and the boss from Dreamland who both agreed that it seemed OK, barriers were put in place and men stationed to prevent anyone entering the area where I was working, ladders erected for me to get up top, but my hoses though long would not reach far enough, so with a bit of a strain got the two heavy cylinders up to the top of the columns and lashed them there, I would leave them in that position until the time came to fell the columns. Up I went, ladders removed and I started cutting away the purlins, each one acted in a different way depending on what the stress was, just had to be careful and not get too close at the final cut, but things went OK and soon the clatter of falling steel and the showers of sparks from the Oxy torch had a crowd of sight see’ers, got the first truss free of purlins and ready to drop one end, when an almighty bang nearly tossed me off the roof, looked round to where the noise had come from and there was the “professional”, with his long ladder leaning on the truss, he had cut through one end of the truss and had not cut any of the purlins, dangling by a rope tied to the ladder his torch burning the ladder and the truss hanging by the already under stress purlins. The site foreman rushed to help him down and put out the ladder fire.
I cut my truss end and went round to start on the other end when another loud crash rang through the site, the idiot had cut the same end of another truss and now two were hanging and swinging, told the foreman I was off, let the idiot kill himself but not me, don’t worry he said he has scared himself half to death and is going home the job is all yours, I often wonder if I should have thanked the foreman. For a number of days I started at sun up and worked long into the night, balancing on boards and cutting steel, usually woke up in the middle of the night shaking at all the near misses I’d had during the day but just went back to the job in the morning, Phyll was going to the cinema one night with her friend up the road and took a short cut through Dreamland to get to the cinema, saw me up on the roof sparks flying everywhere and just couldn’t go any further, got the job finished in the end but nobody ever thanked me and not even a whisper of some extra money, should have asked for some before I started I suppose, just too thick for my own good. Reading this could make people think that I am boasting about how clever I was, I’m afraid the reverse is the case, all of my children have more sense than I, if extra work is undertaken, extra pay is demanded, and received, promotion is given with extra perks for an employee of value, I just did everything asked and in most cases took on extra responsibilities without being asked and it seems never thanked, managers used my work to enhance their own images and gained increases
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of salary and position by getting work done under cost and dead lines because they could depend on me, and I the mug just kept on delivering. I obviously didn’t realise any of this at the time, probably would have carried on just the same if I had, but I had something that none of them had, satisfaction of doing a good job and over coming difficulties that would have had many asking for help, none of my jobs could ever cause me any embarrassment about my skill as a fitter, my training in the RAF taught me that near enough is not good enough, only one way, the right way, think before you start, it might be too late if you start to think after you have started!! The next job I will describe was again something quite different, a site had been cleared on the industrial are between Margate and Ramsgate for a factory being built to manufacture stockings and tights and owned by Klingers. This factory was a very special construction in reinforced concrete, a triple barrel vault roof with north facing double sealed windows, parking and storage beneath, no columns or supports of any kind on the factory floor. The drawings of the reinforcing steel bars to go into the roof were a maze of interlocking rods, the roof changing in thickness from massive beams running the full length, to just three inches in thickness in the centre of the curves and again getting thicker to support the large double glazed window units. I was given various lists of machinery required and the dates when they should be on site, apart from the usual concrete mixers and scaffolding, steel bar bending tools were wanted to make all the complicated shapes of reinforcing needed, the men on site would start working to the drawings provided many weeks before the actual construction work started. Benches, various benders and cutting gear was delivered to the site but the foreman had trouble actually bending some of the shapes with the machines provided, investigations of machines on the market indicated that there was none that could do the tight and difficult shapes wanted. The architect would not change his design, so the foreman, workers and I put our heads together and worked out a simple device to bend the difficult pieces, made one of the machines and once we were all happy with it made a couple more. Further tales of working life can be found in the FAMILY CD. Reg
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[Missing photograph]
[underlined] Wedding photo April 28 1945 [/underlined]
– Reg Miles
http://www.geocities.com/jkjustin/Milesbio6.html
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Biography of Reg Miles
Description
An account of the resource
A detailed Biography of Reg' service and post service life.
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Navy
Royal Canadian Air Force
Royal Air Force. Transport Command
Royal Air Force. Fighter Command
Free French Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Margate
England--Wendover
England--Aylesbury
England--High Wycombe
England--Dover
England--Shrewsbury
England--Liverpool
England--Penzance
England--Devon
South Africa--Bloemfontein
England--Taunton
England--Blackpool
Sierra Leone--Freetown
South Africa--Durban
South Africa--Muizenberg
South Africa--Cape Town
South Africa--Krugersdorp
Germany--Dortmund
Belgium--Ghent
England--Folkestone
France--Paris
France--Lens
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Essen
Belgium--Liège
France--Somain
France--Pas-de-Calais
France--Neufchâtel-en-Bray
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Hamburg
France--Creil Region
France--Saint-Vaast-La Hougue
France--Montrichard
France--Mimoyecques
France--Le Havre
Germany--Castrop-Rauxel
Germany--Osnabrück
Germany--Kiel
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Calais
Germany--Bottrop
Germany--Oberhausen (Düsseldorf)
Norway--Bergen
England--Harrogate
Malta
Egypt--Cairo
Australia
Queensland--Mackay
Libya--Tripoli
Israel--Tel Aviv
Middle East--Jerusalem
West Bank--Bethlehem
Iraq--Baṣrah
Pakistan--Karachi
India--Kolkata
Sri Lanka--Ratmalana
Sri Lanka--Negombo
Israel--Lod
India--New Delhi
England--Cornwall (County)
France
Queensland
Libya
Egypt
Germany
Belgium
India
Iraq
Israel
Norway
South Africa
Pakistan
Sri Lanka
Sierra Leone
West Bank
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Kent
England--Shropshire
England--Somerset
England--Lancashire
Egypt--Jīzah
France--Chantilly Forest
Creator
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Reg Miles
Format
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109 printed sheets
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
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BMilesRJMilesRJv1
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
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Georgie Donaldson
346 Squadron
347 Squadron
420 Squadron
425 Squadron
428 Squadron
432 Squadron
6 Group
77 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
B-17
Beaufighter
Blenheim
bomb aimer
C-47
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
control caravan
crash
crewing up
debriefing
demobilisation
dispersal
Distinguished Flying Cross
entertainment
FIDO
fitter engine
flight engineer
Fw 190
Gee
Grand Slam
ground crew
ground personnel
H2S
Halifax
Halifax Mk 2
Halifax Mk 5
Hampden
hangar
Harvard
Heavy Conversion Unit
Hitler, Adolf (1889-1945)
home front
Hurricane
Ju 88
Lancaster
Lancaster Mk 2
love and romance
Manchester
Master Bomber
Me 109
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
Mosquito
navigator
Nissen hut
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
Oboe
P-51
Pathfinders
perimeter track
pilot
promotion
RAF Carnaby
RAF Dishforth
RAF East Moor
RAF Elvington
RAF Halton
RAF Langar
RAF Lyneham
RAF Manston
RAF Nutts Corner
RAF Prestwick
RAF Shawbury
RAF Skellingthorpe
RAF Skipton on Swale
RAF St Athan
RAF St Eval
RAF Tholthorpe
RAF Tilstock
RAF Woodbridge
recruitment
runway
Scarecrow
searchlight
Second Tactical Air Force
service vehicle
Spitfire
sport
Stirling
target indicator
Tiger Moth
training
Typhoon
V-1
V-2
V-weapon
Wallis, Barnes Neville (1887-1979)
Wellington
Window
wireless operator
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
York