Wings of War E-Book

Martin W. Bowman

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 441

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Of the 7,953 Bomber Command aircraft lost on night operations during the Second World War, an estimated 5,833 fell victim to Luftwaffe night fighters. In this detailed re-enactment of the air war over Western Europe and the raids flown by the men of RAF Bomber Command, author Martin Bowman pieces together official data with the words and memories of the pilots and air crew who took part. Detailing many unique experiences during the night bombing raids that were hurled against Hitler's war machine, these truly epic stories span the period between November 1939 and 1945 and form an appropriate epitaph to the men of RAF Bomber Command.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

Introduction

  1  Flight Lieutenant Roderick Learoyd

  2  Frightened by a Dragon, Geoffrey Cole

  3  The Sergeant’s Story, ‘A Wing Commander’

  4  A Trip over Germany, Pilot Officer Andrew A. Law

  5  Twelve Lancasters went for Augsburg, Squadron Leader J.D. Nettleton

  6  ‘Millennium’ – The First 1,000-Bomber Raid, Victor Arthur Martin

  7  ‘The Story of the Watch’, Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Hall ‘Pop’ Porter

  8  The First Four Liberators

  9  Home on a Wing and a Prayer, Leonard Gribble

10  Mine Laying in Danzig Bay, Sergeant ‘Nick’ Carter

11  ‘F for Firkin’

12  One of the Dambusters

13  Nearer my God to Thee, Frederick John Coleman

14  The Valley of Death

15  Horses for Courses, Arthur Taylor

16  Joining the Caterpillar Club

17  Aussies Over Europe – the Second World War’s Bloodiest Air Campaign, Rollo Kingsford-Smith DSO AM DFC

18  A Midsummer Night’s Dip in the Baltic

19  The Big Raids, Pilot Officer John A. Martin DFC

20  ‘Sunny’

21  The Skies over Mailly-le-Camp, Sidney Lipman

22  Friday the 13th

23  ‘Ted’ the Lad

24  Despite the Elements, Roy Simmonds

25  On His Majesty’s Service

26  The Good Companions

27  ‘Sunshine To Sadness’, Terence C. Cartwright

Plates

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

When Britain declared war on Germany in September 1939 RAF front-line bombers were mainly twin-engined types like the Hampden, Whitley and Wellington, but after suffering heavy losses by day these were used only on night operations which proved no less dangerous than the ‘daylights’ had been. ‘Lady Luck’ decided if they lived or died on ‘ops’. Fear, sweat, tension and dreaded bomb runs made most aircrew realise that the chance of survival and completing a tour before the Reaper caught them was slim. This was reflected in their unofficial anthem:

Lift up your glasses ready

For the air crew up there in the sky,

Here’s a toast to the dead already

And here’s to the next man to die.

Bomber Command sank 55 per cent of the German merchant fleet, and together with Coastal Command, sank three-quarters of the U-boats lost by Germany. In 1942 Sir Arthur Harris became commander of Bomber Command. He began massive raids, which did not cease until the final surrender of Germany. By early 1944 fierce air battles involving four-engined Lancasters and Halifax aircraft raged over the skies of Germany and Reich territory. Approximately 125,000 aircrew served in the RAF, RAAF, RNZAF, RCAF, Polish squadrons and the operational training and conversion units. Most were plucked from Civvy Street where the sight of devastation made many feel that at least they had joined the right service because only Bomber Command was capable of attacking the enemy. It was also refreshing to many young minds to know that soon, with good luck, they would be in a crew that would be dropping bombs on the enemy.

The vivid, poignant and descriptive personal experiences of the bomber crews carrying the war to the enemy in the night bomber offensive in the Second World War are recounted, mostly at first hand, sometimes in wartime broadcasts to the nation.

Of the 7,953 Bomber Command aircraft lost on night operations during the Second World War, an estimated 5,833 fell victim to German night fighters. Nearly 60 per cent of Bomber Command aircrew became casualties. Approximately 85 per cent of these casualties were suffered on operations and 15 per cent in training and accidents. Fatal casualties to aircrew totalled 55,500 and 9,838 were taken prisoners of war and 4,203 were wounded in flying or ground accidents in the UK. Total aircrew casualties numbered 73,741.

I have pieced together official data and the words and memories of the RAF and Dominion pilots and aircrew, detailing many unique experiences during the night bombing raids that were hurled against Hitler’s war machine. This collection of first-hand accounts gives a really good feel for the variety of the RAF’s bomber war, from the earliest limited attacks of 1939 to the overwhelming raids of 1944–45 and a good cross section of what happened between.

Each chapter is the result of meticulous research and, in many cases, converting the anonymous into real people. Some of the stories emanate from wartime publications that were censored and so their names, units and actions were generally anonymous and unknown to the British public until long after the war. Although the actions covered were real many of the names applied to these actions were fictitious.

Recent years have seen an upsurge in the popularity of the memories and experiences of the ordinary man at war. Perhaps this is down to a realisation that, as time passes, their memories might be lost. Their accounts are stirring, gripping and memorable, and not preoccupied by strategy or tactics, but rather the emotional aspect of war.

The storytellers are an eclectic mix of pilots, navigators, bomb aimers, wireless operators and gunners who flew on operations in heavy bombers. It conveys the terror of being coned by German searchlights over the target, attacks by Luftwaffe night fighters, often catastrophic damage to aircraft and the ensuing struggle to keep the machine airborne on the return trip to base. It tells of the comradeship between the crew and conveys the sense of purpose that these men felt in doing one of the most dangerous jobs in the war. These truly epic stories are a fitting tribute to those who survived and the many thousands who died in the struggle against Hitler’s dreadful ambitions in Europe, and are an appropriate epitaph to the men of RAF Bomber Command.

As Churchill said: ‘Britain can never repay them as they should have been repaid for the huge sacrifice they made to ensure our freedom.’

Martin W. Bowman

1

FLIGHT LIEUTENANTRODERICK LEAROYD

The Germans worked hard to repair the damage to the Dortmund–Ems Canal after the raid on 19–20 June 1940 and they also defended the canal so well with searchlights and guns that they probably considered it impossible for any aircraft ever again to make a successful attack on the waterway. Nevertheless, the RAF went back from time to time to do their worst. On one occasion Acting Flight Lieutenant Roderick Alastair Brook ‘Babe’ Learoyd on 49 Squadron acted as a decoy to draw the fire of the defences while other bombers slid down to attack; another time he made a high-level attack. He was, thus, not unfamiliar with the Dortmund–Ems Canal when he started out to make his third attack upon it on 12–13 August, when two Hampden units, 49 and 83 Squadrons in 5 Group, carried out a low-level raid. It was a night of half moon, which gave sufficient light in which to see the target. The Hampdens carefully timed their attack so as to drop the special charge at intervals of exactly two minutes, beginning at 01.30. At one point the canal was especially vulnerable. North of Münster, two aqueducts, one on four arches, the other on two, carried the canal across the River Ems. The width of each channel was only 100ft at water level.

To destroy both aqueducts meant cutting the canal entirely, while the destruction of one would greatly reduce the volume of traffic passing through it. The aqueduct was heavily protected by anti-aircraft guns disposed so as to form a lane down which an attacking aircraft must fly if it was to reach the target, but it was decided to attack from a very low level in order to make certain the target would be hit. One by one, the eleven Hampdens went in from the north, the moon shining in the faces of their crews and throwing the objective into relief. The first aircraft was hit and the wireless operator on board wounded; the second was hit and destroyed. The third was set on fire, but before the aircraft became uncontrollable, the pilot succeeded in gaining enough height to enable the crew and himself to bail out. They did so and were made prisoners. The fourth Hampden was hit in three places but got back to base. The fifth and last Hampden, piloted by Flight Lieutenant Learoyd, went down the anti-aircraft lane at 200ft.

After a moment three big holes appeared in the starboard wing. They were firing at point-blank range. The navigator continued to direct me on to the target. I could not see it because I was blinded by the glare of the searchlights and had to keep my head below the level of the cockpit top. At last I heard the navigator say ‘Bombs gone’; I immediately did a steep turn to the right and got away, being fired at heavily for five minutes. The carrier pigeon we carried laid an egg during the attack.

The attack achieved an element of surprise and the damage to the canal restricted barge traffic on this important waterway for a number of weeks. Learoyd was awarded Bomber Command’s first Victoria Cross of the war. His VC citation read:

This officer, as first pilot of a Hampden aircraft, has repeatedly shown the highest conception of his duty and complete indifference to personal danger in making attacks at the lowest altitude objective on the Dortmund–Ems Canal. He had attacked this objective on a previous occasion and was well aware of personal danger in making attacks at the lowest altitude objective on the Dortmund–Ems Canal … To achieve success it was necessary to approach from a direction well known to the enemy, through a lane of especially disposed anti-aircraft defences and in the face of the most intense point blank fire from guns of all calibres. The reception of the preceding aircraft might well have deterred the stoutest heart, all being hit and two lost. Flight Lieutenant Learoyd nevertheless made his attack at 150ft, his aircraft being repeatedly hit and large pieces of the main planes torn away. He was almost blinded by the glare of many searchlights at close range but pressed home this attack with the greatest resolution and skill. He subsequently brought his wrecked aircraft home and, as the landing flaps were inoperative and the undercarriage indicators out of action, waited for dawn in the vicinity of his aerodrome before landing, which he accomplished without causing injury to his crew or further damage to the aircraft. The high courage, skill and determination, which this officer has invariably displayed on many occasions in the face of the enemy, sets an example which is unsurpassed.1

I joined the Royal Air Force on a Short Service Commission in March 1936, so by the time the war came along I had a fair bit of flying experience.

Ten days before the war started, when I was based at Scampton, Lincolnshire, I had been in the south of France. I wasn’t supposed to be out of the country – nobody actually said so, but it was assumed. My father phoned and told me to get back quickly. I had to travel on a blacked-out and very crowded train. If the war had started during Chamberlain’s ‘Peace in our time’ business, we’d have had biplanes and Rolls-Royce-engined Hawker Hinds as our front-line bombers with a twenty-pound bomb on each wing, a Browning front-gun and Lewis rear upper-gun. But luckily, the war was delayed and the next year we took over the first squadron of Bristol Pegasus-engined Handley Page Hampdens. Of course, the Hind was a much more nimble aircraft but we were very impressed with the Hampden. You could still play with a Hampden to a certain extent, much more, than say, a Wellington. In a Hampden you had a crew of four: the pilot; the navigator bomb aimer down in the nose – he didn’t stay there all the time, because it was a pretty awful position. Then there was the upper gunner/radio operator and the lower-gunner who also didn’t sit in that position unless he was preparing for action. The Hampden was a very pleasant aircraft to fly, but they did have one fault: they used to go into what is called a ‘stabilised yaw’. If you got into a spin, the rudders were blanked off by the suitcase-like fuselage and it was difficult to correct the spin. I actually saw one spinning all the way down to a fatal crash – not a nice sight. Quite a number of aircrew (mainly in training) were killed in this manner. But we, who had a little more experience, had no real trouble.

That first day of war, I remember writing a letter to my mother and father, saying ‘thank you’ for everything – all that sort of stuff. One really thought something big was going to happen immediately and then of course it didn’t. However, on the evening of that first day of World War II we did go out on a ‘search’ mission – to find the German Navy who were supposed to be en route from Kiel to Bremerhaven. And we were supposed to go and locate them. We soon lost our no. 3 in cloud and gathering darkness. My leader, George Lerwill and I found ourselves flying in and out of cloud and I had great difficulty keeping in touch with him. We didn’t find the German Navy either!

There was a longish break after that and we enjoyed our off-duty hours as, in all the pubs of Lincoln and Nottingham, we were considered operational just because we’d been out and done a trip – so it was, ‘Well done, come and have a drink!’ The next stage was dropping propaganda leaflets over Germany. I’m not sure that I ever read one, but they said the equivalent of, ‘Give up now!’

We did a lot of mine-laying in the Skagerrak and around that area and I can remember low-flying across Denmark once in broad morning daylight and seeing people waving to me. Denmark was not in the war at that time so nipping across that charming country in daylight at about two hundred feet was great fun. We then turned our attention to railway tunnels and marshalling yards. There was a lot of that, trying to disrupt rail transport. There was light opposition to those first raids, Bofors guns, etc. Then in August 1940 we started preparing for a low-level attack on the DortmundEms canal. Our target was an aqueduct carrying the canal over the Ems River.

We had had some practice in low-level night-bombing over water when mine-laying. However, a special exercise was devised for this mission – a small light was placed on a little fenland river and I had to drop my practice bomb – a small 81b smoke-bomb – on this target. Off I went on my run, flying solo (no crew). At first I couldn’t see the light and then ‘There it is!’ As I approached it I suddenly realised there were houses going past my wing. I pulled up sharply, for obviously I wasn’t in the right place at all. I never did find out what that light was! However, I did manage to find the right place later.

This was my first really low-level operation on the canal – I had carried out an earlier, higher, unsuccessful try. There were five aircraft, all from Scampton. We set off on 12 August and we were supposed to go in at 150 feet, drop the bombs, each with a ten-minute delay, at two-minute intervals and swing away. I was the last one in and so I had to be accurate with my timing, because the first bomb was due to go off very soon after I passed. I didn’t want to be late!

Flight Lieutenant ‘Jamie’ Pitcairn-Hill on 83 Squadron led the way in and immediately came under fire. He levelled out at about 100ft, dropped his bomb and got away without any damage.2 The next two to go were great pals, both from 83 Squadron – and both Australians. Pilot Officer E.H. Ross went first and he was hit and came down. The third to run the gauntlet was Flying Officer R. Mulligan. Before he reached his bomb-release point he was hit and one of his engines burst into flames. All four crew bailed out and survived as prisoners-of-war. The next one in was Pilot Officer Matthews who dropped his bombs – he got hit but made his way back.

Learoyd’s VC was awarded in an investiture at Buckingham Palace on 9 September 1940, by which time he had been taken off operations and had been promoted to squadron leader. He was further honoured in November 1940 when he received the Freedom of the Borough of New Romney, Kent. Learoyd’s navigator and bomb aimer was Pilot Officer John Lewis, the wireless operator and dorsal air gunner was Flight Sergeant Walter Ellis and the ventral air gunner was Leading Aircraftman William Rich. Ellis and Rich were each awarded the DFM. Rich’s DFM was announced on 22 October 1940 and his citation stated:

Leading Aircraftman Rich is an armourer and member of a ground crew who volunteered for training as a part-time air gunner. He has shown exceptional keenness and ability in his work, both in the air and on the ground, and by his enthusiasm, skill and courage very quickly became operationally fit as an air gunner. He has carried out a total of 8 operations against the enemy during the course of which he has completed 49 hours flying.

He was the air gunner in the aircraft flown by Flight Lieutenant R. A. B. Learoyd VC, when a low level attack was carried out on the Dortmund-Ems Canal. In this and in all other operations in which he has taken part, LAC Rich has shown outstanding skill and courage in operating his guns against the enemy defences. By his enthusiasm, courage and devotion to duty, he has set an outstanding example to other airmen in this squadron.

Rich is believed to be the first leading aircraftman of the Second World War to be awarded the DFM. The recommendation for his award was endorsed by AVM Sir Arthur Harris, who wrote: ‘Strongly recommended. A keen and efficient volunteer for dangerous duty without the pay and rank of regular crew.’

Ellis’ DFM was announced on 22 November 1940 and his citation stated:

This NCO has carried out a total of 39 operations against the enemy during the course of which he has completed 230 hours flying as a Wireless Operator/Air Gunner. Throughout these operations, Sergeant Ellis has shown outstanding ability, determination and devotion to duty, and has been of the greatest assistance to his Pilot, both as an air gunner and as a wireless operator.

Amongst other notable and successful operations in which he has taken part, he was Wireless Operator/Air Gunner in Flight Lieutenant Learoyd’s aircraft which carried out a successful low-level attack on the Dortmund-Ems Canal. His work has always been of the highest order and his efficiency and enthusiasm have been an inspiration to other Wireless Operator/Air Gunners in the squadron.

Learoyd resumed operational flying on 28 February 1941 when he was appointed commanding officer of 83 Squadron at RAF Scampton. In June that year, however, he took up a new post as Wing Commander Flying at 14 Operational Training Unit (OTU), RAF Cottesmore, Rutland. In December 1941, Learoyd succeeded to the command of 44 Squadron at RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire, and in May 1942 he was posted to 25 OTU, RAF Finningley, Yorkshire where he carried out more instructional duties. From then until the end of hostilities in Europe Learoyd remained non-operational, with postings to the Air Ministry and two further OTUs (109 and 107). In May 1945, he returned to flying when he joined 48 (Dakota) Squadron, which was posted to West Africa the following month. It was not until 14 October 1946 that Learoyd was finally demobilised. For three years he worked for the Malayan civil aviation department before returning to Britain in 1950 to accept a post with a tractor and road construction company. In 1953 he became the export sales manager to the Austin Motor Company. Learoyd died in Rustington, Sussex, on 24 January 1996, aged 82.

Notes

1    Acting Flight Lieutenant Roderick Alastair Brook Learoyd, 49 Squadron, Hampden P4403. Awarded for action 12 August 1940, London Gazette, 20 August 1940.

2    James Anderson ‘Jamie’ Pitcairn-Hill was awarded the DSO for the attack on the Dortmund–Ems. The son of a Scottish minister; he excelled in sport and played rugby for the RAF. On 29 August he was forced to ditch in X2897 after running out of fuel on the return from Berlin, having been in the air for more than nine hours. On 18 September Squadron Leader Pitcairn-Hill DSO DFC was killed when his Hampden was literally shot to pieces over the target area during an attack on Le Havre.

2

FRIGHTENEDBYA DRAGON

GEOFFREY COLE

Geoffrey Cole joined the RAF Volunteer Reserve in early 1938 at Derby. He trained as a pilot and wanted to join Bomber Command with a view to becoming a civilian airline pilot. He was awarded his pilot’s brevet in 1939 and joined 214 Squadron in July 1940, then 103 Squadron in 1943. Among other places, he was based in Lossiemouth, Stradishall, Elsham Wolds and Blyton. He flew Wellingtons with 3 Group and Lancasters with 1 Group, Bomber Command and, after completing fifty-four operations, he became an instructor on Lancasters and Halifaxes. For a short time he was seconded to the Royal Navy aircraft carrier, Argus. After the war he achieved his ambition of becoming an airline pilot with BOAC, Skyways and Court Line. He amassed a total flying time of more than 20,000 hours worldwide.1

I saw my first aircraft in 1926 when I was six years old. I was playing in the woods near my house with a friend when we heard a terrible roaring noise and something swooped above the trees. We were terrified. My friend identified it as a dragon then we fled in terror into the house. My mother allayed our fears and told us, ‘It’s an aeroplane, not a dragon. There’s nothing to be frightened of. I think it’s landed in the field just down the road. Go and have a look.’

Still somewhat apprehensive, we ventured forth but my courage grew as my brother and his friend joined us. Just as my mother had predicted there was the aeroplane. We watched from the edge of the field as instructed by the field owner. He went out in his car to talk to the man standing by its side. Eventually, the aeroplane was turned around, ‘wound up’ and came racing towards us. It took off and soared over our heads. The pilot waved to us and finally disappeared. We watched until it was nothing more than a speck in the distant sky then we raced back home.

‘We saw it fly into the sky!’ I told my mother excitedly. ‘It just ran along the ground and then went right over us into the sky! But it never moved its wings – how can it fly if it doesn’t flap its wings like a bird?’

‘I don’t know, dear. You’ll have to ask your father when he comes in – he knows all about aeroplanes.’

When my father came in I told him the story and asked him how it flew.

‘It’s obvious, my boy. Sky-hooks, that’s what keeps it up.’

‘Sky-hooks?’

‘Yes.’ I puzzled over that for some time. Finally I said, ‘Yes, dad, but what holds up the sky-hooks?’ (I was a little boy with an enquiring mind.)

‘Bigger sky-hooks.’

I realised then that if grown-ups didn’t know the answer they told you a story! I finally learnt the truth about how aeroplanes fly from a Christmas present in 1931 – Every Boy’s Hobby Annual had a chapter on how aeroplanes flew and an article about some fifteen-year-old apprentices at a place called RAF Halton who had actually built a real aeroplane. I did not realise it at the time but I was hooked on aeroplanes.

I was called up for regular service three days before war was declared in September 1939 having already attended various courses and clocked up solo flying hours as a pre-war Volunteer Reserve. I became a fully qualified pilot (twin-engined) in June 1940 at RAF Ternhill, Shropshire. From there I went to Lossiemouth – a new OTU flying Wellingtons with two newly commissioned pilot officers and Sergeant pilot Cattle (pronounced C’tell, not Cattle), who became a friend. It turned out that the aircraft were not dual controlled and we were to be instructors, which we didn’t fancy at the time and so we went to see the newly arrived Wing Commander. We requested not to be instructors and said we wished to go to war.

‘All right,’ came the reply. ‘Get yourself a crew!’

So we went round the hangar, talked to the chaps working there and acquired a crew. This consisted of LAC Flanagan, LAC Cook, LAC Hide and Sergeant Butcher, a direct entry sergeant navigator. We called ourselves No. 1 Crew, No. l Course, Lossiemouth. There was one small snag: I had trouble with my take-offs and Cattle had trouble with his landings!

Our first flight together in a Wellington from Lossiemouth (now known as 20 OTU) was round the top of Scotland and lasted about four hours. A pilot, Sergeant Douglas, who had been on ops, accompanied us and ‘knew all about it’. Towards the end of the flight he said, ‘I’ll show you how things are done on the squadron.’ We were duly impressed when he got right down on the deck – really low – and for the last thirty miles or so came roaring back at minimum altitude.

Unfortunately, he had been used to flying the latest Wellington, the Mark Ic. This one was a Mark I and had a hydraulic system that had to be off-loaded by means of a power cock. Before putting wheels and flaps down it was necessary to turn on the power. Sergeant Douglas forgot all about this and we ended up in a heap in the middle of the field. It must have been the quickest evacuation on record!

I’ve said that Cattle was no good at landing and I was no good at taking off and so we swapped over when it was time to land or take-off. Obviously, this couldn’t go on and so we put in some practice. One particular day returning from a cross-country flight we discovered there were two squadrons of Blenheims lined up on the far side of the field at Lossiemouth. Cattle was due to do the landing and, as often happened, he touched down well into the field; only this time it was worse than usual. However, he managed to turn the aircraft. We were now going sideways at a rate of knots but heading for a gap between the two squadrons. At that moment a Blenheim appeared in the gap from behind the other Blenheims.

‘This is it. This is my lot,’ I thought, ‘I’ve had it.’

The Blenheim’s propellers would slice right into us. I could see it coming. Cattle swung the aircraft again at the last minute and, instead of his propellers chopping us, ours chopped his nose off.

After a speedy evacuation from both aircraft it was discovered that the navigator of the Blenheim had been in the nose. We got him out. He was fully conscious but the propeller had chopped his arm off at the shoulder – clean as a whistle! We tried to staunch the bleeding with our shirts while the ambulance came – but it never did. We realised that no one on the airfield had seen the accident happen as they had all gone to the NAAFI for tea. The RAF was still operating under peace-time conditions.

Eventually, our navigator raced the full length of the field to get the ambulance. When it arrived the ‘armless’ navigator was sitting up smoking a cigarette. He got up casually, strolled into the ambulance, somebody put his arm in behind him – and off he went.

A year later he returned to Lossiemouth on a visit from Canada where he had been instructing navigators. Cattle and I were both back there as instructors having completed our first tour. He told us that the accident was the best thing that has happened to him as out of eighteen crews on 21 and 57 Squadrons (Blenheims) only four survived their fortnight at Lossiemouth.

Up to this time Cattle and I had taken turns to be captain but after this incident Cattle was made permanent second pilot by the CO.

We had been chronically short of equipment – so short that up to now we had had no guns and so, whenever we went out, the gunners just came along for the ride! Eventually, we actually got guns in our turrets and set off on a gunnery exercise. I was taxiing out in preparation for take-off when I felt a vibration from behind. I wondered if there was something wrong with the tail wheel or if it had collapsed. I asked the rear gunner, ‘Tail wheel ok?’ There was a slight pause then the rear gunner replied. ‘It was me, skipper.’

‘You?’

‘I just fired my guns into the ground.’

‘You did what? I asked incredulously.

‘In the 1914–18 war gunners had to fire their guns into the ground just before take-off to test them. Standard practice,’ he said.

‘I see.’ I had a suspicion that I had not heard the end of this.

We continued with the exercise and on return I wasn’t in the least surprised to be summoned to see the Station Commander – on the double. I had to give my gunner all the support I could and explained exactly what had happened, praised his outstanding ability and keenness, proved when he said it was standard practice to test the guns by firing into the ground during the last war.

‘Maybe it was then but it isn’t now. Perhaps, Sergeant Cole, you’ll be interested to know that the entire camp took to the air raid shelters, including me. In future, when you do things like this will you warn me first?’ and I thought I detected a faint smile.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Dismissed.’

We had just completed our first raid. This was to Schiphol airport, Amsterdam and we were on our way back. I was now second pilot to Pilot Officer Filluel who had taken over my crew. Tension was high as there had been many rumours about German night fighters with lights on them. We had left the target about ten minutes when the rear gunner reported a light coming up behind. ‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

Filluel dived and turned trying to lose the light but it remained steadfastly behind us. He ordered the navigator, ‘Go take a look through the astrodome.’

‘Definitely a light, skipper,’ reported the navigator.

I then suggested, ‘I’ll go and look.’

Sure enough, there was the light. No matter what we did or where we went, it stayed with us.

‘How about giving him a burst with our guns?’ I suggested to Filluel, ‘let him know we’ve seen him.’

‘OK.’

The rear gunner blasted into the night sky. What a surprise – we had been trying to shoot down Venus – the morning star! In retrospect it was laughable but at the time, with nerves stretched to breaking point and an atmosphere of fear and tension, the slightest thing could spark imagination and defy reason. Shooting at Venus was just one of many similar incidents created, I suspect, by tension and anxiety. I believe other crews had also tried to shoot down Venus. It was, of course, the first year light bombers had operated and not many people had observed the early morning planet.

Two years into the war – 14 September 1941. It was the day the war could have ended if we could have found Hitler. We were to bomb a railway station at Ehrang in the Harz Mountains where, according to intelligence, Hitler was spending the night in a train. There was a lot of cloud but we let down through the cloud to about a couple of hundred feet and found the railway line and followed it but couldn’t find the station.

We decided to drop a flare. We’d never dropped a flare before and the navigator went to do this. He came back, ‘It’s stuck, skipper.’

I went back to help him. It was wedged in the flare chute – not only that but the nose of the flare was already out. The flare’s nose had a propeller and when the propeller came unscrewed the thing exploded. I was fiddling about with it when it started to fizz ominously. With an almighty shove I pushed it out. It fell into a field about 200 feet below us and killed a cow. By the light of the burning flare we found ourselves on the side of a hill, climbed to clear it and back into the clouds but they obscured our target and we never did bomb the station. Had we achieved our goal and killed Hitler instead of the hapless cow, maybe the war would have ended much sooner.

On 17 October 1940 my aircraft was one of three that took off thirty minutes before the main force of sixty aircraft detailed to light the target, Düsseldorf. On the way back we ran into a lot of cloud and so I decided to climb above it. We reached 14,000 ft when both engines stopped – iced up. I had had my aircraft fitted with a hand-operated, alcohol-pump that was supposed to de-ice both engines but they still would not start. There was nothing I could do as we steadily dropped. At 6,000 feet I ordered, ‘Parachutes on. You know the drill.’ The parachutes were separate from the harness and kept in a rack by the entrance door so that as you left you took your parachute and jumped out. At least, that was the theory. The drill was that the navigator would sort out the parachutes and hand them out. I looked round and was amazed to see the navigator on his knees praying. I also noticed my co-pilot had stopped pumping. Although I’m not a religious chap I offered up a prayer myself at the same time saying, ‘Pump, you bastard, pump!’

Suddenly the starboard engine started but we were below 4,000 feet.

‘We’re OK. If she keeps going we can make England on one engine.’ I tried not to sound too jubilant because our altitude was 2,000 feet and dropping – maybe we couldn’t make it after all. On top of that we were attacked by ground defences. We were so low by this time that the searchlight beams looked almost horizontal and reflected on the sea; we realised we were heading over the North Sea at just 500 feet. We pressed on and rose to 1,000 feet. The port engine started and we made it back home.

The next day I was called into the parachute section.

‘Where’s your parachute, Sergeant Cole?’

‘In the aircraft.’

‘It isn’t. There’s one missing and it’s yours.’

‘I told them what had happened. In handing out the parachutes, the navigator had probably accidentally dropped one through the open door. If we had had to abandon the aircraft I would have been parachute-less. My mind went back to seeing the navigator praying – had he been praying for himself or me?

From then on I always wore a pilot-type parachute on which I sat. (Incidentally, of the three aircraft that led the raid, I was the only one to return. The main force of sixty all turned back due to bad weather.)

It was on my second tour on Lancasters on 103 Squadron, on a raid on Bochum in 1943, when we took a lot of flak. Even so, we came back relatively unscathed or so I thought. The next day the parachute section called for me.

‘I can’t have lost a parachute again,’ I thought. I knew I couldn’t because I had actually been sitting on it and it was attached to me. I went to see what the problem was. I was shown a black, sticky mess hanging from the rack.

‘Your parachute, Flight Lieutenant Cole.’

I was handed a piece of shrapnel about four inches long.

‘Where did that come from?’

‘Your parachute.’

On inspection of my aircraft I discovered that this piece of shrapnel had gone through the bomb doors, through a can of incendiary bombs, through the floor of the aircraft, through the bottom of my seat and into my parachute. It had stopped there. Being red hot it had melted the artificial silk into a burnt, glutinous mess. Had I not been wearing this type of parachute I wouldn’t be here to tell this story!

Pilot Officer (as he was now) Cattle and I were instructing on Wellingtons at Lossiemouth from 1941–42. There was also a New Zealander, Flight Sergeant Bagnall (‘Baggy’) and another chap whose name I’ve forgotten. On 22 August 1941 we were on night training exercises with pupils – circuits and bumps. I finished my shift and waited for the others. Cattle and the other fellow came in but there was no sign of Bagnall. We waited a while and presumed he must have gone home. The flare path was being cleared and the airfield closing down for the night.

‘Wonder what’s happened to Baggy? He’s not signed in,’ said Cattle. ‘Let’s check with the flight office.’ The flight sergeant confirmed that the aircraft was still out. We called the Observer Corps.

‘Nothing flying at all, sir. No aircraft airborne in Scotland at this time,’ came the reply.

‘He must have crashed.’ We notified the CO and he raised the camp and a search party to search the cliff tops.

Cattle and I did a square search of the sea just off the coast. A Whitley from RAF Kinloss did the same thing and the lighthouse keeper also put on his light as a guide. In those days we didn’t carry radio – just speaking tubes – so there was no contact with the ground once you were airborne. We started our search, combing the sea with our landing lights on at a height of 200 feet or so. Suddenly, we noticed air-to-air gunfire to port. An enemy intruder had joined us. I switched off the navigation lights immediately. The lighthouse did the same, so did the Whitley from Kinloss and the airfield. In the total darkness the three aircraft – two British and one German – flew round not knowing where the others were. I waited for the crash that I was sure would come ... Finally, as dawn broke we landed safely back at the base but no one had seen a sign of Flight Sergeant Bagnall.

‘Poor old, Baggy, what a way to go – lost on circuits and bumps.’ Cattle and I retired to bed having been up all night thinking we had lost a good friend.

In circuits and bumps the pupil, in effect, flies a square, four-legged circuit round the airfield and comes into land then takes off again, turns, goes round in ‘legs’, lands again and so on. It’s easy to forget which ‘leg’ you’re on and thus continue in a straight line. This happened to a pupil the morning after Baggy disappeared. The instructor let him carry on and waited for the pupil to realise his mistake but the pupil didn’t. Eventually, after five miles or so downwind near the Spey estuary the instructor suggested it might be an idea to turn back to the airfield. The pupil, no doubt embarrassed at his lapse in concentration, did so. At that moment the instructor glanced out of the window and noticed a dinghy floating in the water with two people in it. It was Baggy and his pupil! (How lucky can you get?) The rescue people went out and the two were brought in and taken to hospital. We went to see him. ‘What happened, Baggy?’ was our first question.

‘First take-off on the circuits and bumps the full flaps came on, the aircraft struck a hangar, damaged the propeller, knocked off the airspeed indicator, the engine caught fire and the next thing I remember was being in the sea. The aircraft sank but the dinghy floated to the surface. We scrambled in and sat there the rest of the night. We watched you searching and we waved like mad but you never saw us.’

Three weeks later he returned to circuits and bumps. (Sadly, Flight Sergeant Bagnall was later reporting missing in action while flying Stirlings on his second tour of operations.)2

I was a Squadron Leader on 1662 HCU Blyton near Gainsborough, Lincolnshire in October 1943. I was just twenty-three years old. One particular occasion [in all probability, the night of 7 March 1944] I was Officer-in-Charge of night flying and was about to go off duty as all the aircraft were back except one. He should be back any time, I told myself, but there was no news. I waited and waited then the telephone rang.

‘RAF doctor here. There’s been a mid-air collision between two aircraft about ten miles away. I think one of them is yours.’3

‘We’re expecting one back. What happened?’

‘No survivors from one, I’m afraid. Not sure about the other. Would you mind going to the crash site where there were no survivors? My corporal will go with you and he’ll bring the body bags.’ The other RAF doctor was away on leave and it was an RAF requirement that there had to be an officer present at clearing up after such an accident.

The wreckage was still burning when I arrived at the scene. The corporal and I began our gruesome task and put bits and pieces in body bags. I saw a flying helmet on the ground not far away and picked it up. There was a head still in it and I looked into the face of a young lad I had been speaking to only four hours before.

We finished our grim task as dawn broke and returned to the airfield. Before going to bed I went over to the mess and ordered a late lunch for two o’clock. When I returned at two the mess was empty. As I was hanging up my coat the mess telephone rang. No one came to answer it and it continued to ring. It rang and rang. Suddenly I got the odd sensation that it was for me. What’s more, I sensed it was the mother of the boy whose helmet and head I had found.

I forced myself to pick up the receiver. A gentle, woman’s voice said, ‘Is that RAF Blyton?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘I had a strange feeling she knew without asking. I stalled for time. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say but can I help you?’ She told me her name – it came as no surprise – and continued, ‘My son’s a bomb aimer in Squadron Leader Cole’s flight. He’s my only son – he’s everything to me,’ her voice trembled slightly, ‘I’m a widow, you see.’ There was a pause. ‘I know this sounds silly but I woke suddenly at four o’clock this morning and I had a horrible feeling that something had happened to him – that he had been killed. I couldn’t sleep after that and all morning I’ve been thinking about him. I just had to ring up and find out. I do hope you don’t mind. I’ve been so worried,’ she paused, ‘has there been an accident?’

I couldn’t tell her that I had been looking into the face of her beheaded son only a few hours ago. What does one say at a time like this? ‘I believe there has,’ was a much as I could say. ‘I’ll put you through to the adjutant. He’ll be able to help you.’ Thankfully I transferred the call. All the time I sensed she knew who she was speaking to – even though we had never spoken before. Four o’clock had been the exact time that the accident had happened.

I was on duty at RAF Lindholme and there were just three aircraft flying that night. It was winter with a slight mist over the hollows that would soon clear. The first aircraft took off and crashed shortly after take-off about two miles from the end of the runway. I sent the emergency vehicles – fire engines and ambulance – and notified the civilian people who sent their emergency staff and equipment. I put the other two aircraft on hold while all this was being sorted out. Very soon the telephone rang. It was the Air Commodore. I told him what had happened and that, until the emergency vehicles and staff were back on the airfield, I was holding the remaining aircraft which struck me as the most sensible and safe thing to do.

‘Don’t you know there’s a war on? Get them airborne immediately!’ came the angry reply.

‘But, sir ...’ I began.

‘Get them airborne,’ insisted the air commodore.

I was very reluctant to do this for what if they crashed too? It was unlikely but ... The next aircraft went off and it too crashed about five miles further on. Of course, there was nothing I could do about it. There were no emergency services – nothing. I told the duty clerk to tell the air commodore but I had to send off the third aircraft and this one also crashed about three miles beyond the second crash. I now had three burning aircraft – eighteen young men needlessly killed.

There was a sequel to this. About three years later I was a captain with BOAC and was flying out of Bordeaux one evening. Forest fires had been burning and smoke and mist was forming in the low-lying areas and drifting across the airfield. I told the crew to hurry up and take-off as quickly as possible before the fog came down.

We took off and at about 200 feet the first officer grabbed the controls. I looked up and was horrified to see that we were flying upside down! Above me was a perfect picture of the ground with moving vehicles, streetlights, house lights – everything. I snarled at him to check the instruments. Slowly he let go, checked the standby instruments and then mine. He relaxed slightly and sat back. The instruments were correct but we were apparently flying upside down. At 600 feet we flew clear. It was the strangest sensation I have ever experienced. My mind went back to the three aircraft that had crashed at RAF Lindholme. The meteorological conditions were almost the same. There was smoke and mist and I have often wondered how many aircraft crashes have been due to this phenomenon with the pilot ignoring his instruments and believing his visual sighting. To suddenly see the ground above you is unnerving, to say the least and to someone with relatively little experience of night flying, could prove fatal.

Notes

1    Quoted in Wings on the Whirlwind, compiled and edited by Anne Grimshaw (North West Essex & East Hertfordshire Branch Aircrew Association, 1998).

2    Warrant Officer Trevor Horace Bagnall was killed in action (KIA) on 17 December 1942. Sixteen Stirlings and six Wellingtons of 3 Group were detailed to attack the Opel Works at Fallersleben. Five Stirlings on 75 New Zealand Squadron, led by Wing Commander Victor Mitchell DFC, a 27-year old Scot, with Bagnall as his second pilot, took off from Newmarket for the Opel Works. The New Zealand squadron, which had only recently re-equipped with Stirlings after having flown Wellingtons since April 1940, suffered disastrously. Mitchell and his crew were lost without trace and all fourteen men on the two other crews were killed. A fourth Stirling flown by Flight Sergeant K.J. Dunmall was shot down by a combination of flak and fighters and crashed in the Westeinder Plas in Holland. All seven crew were soon taken prisoner.

3    On the night of 7 March a 1662 HCU Halifax with an all-Polish crew and a 1667 HCU Halifax were involved in a mid-air collision. There were no survivors from either aircraft. RAF Bomber Command Losses, Vol.8 Heavy Conversion Units and Miscellaneous Units, 1939–1947 by W.R. Chorley (Midland Publishing, 2003).

3

THE SERGEANT’S STORY

‘A WING COMMANDER’

Every battle is an unrepeatable event and no one story can do duty for the sum of the experience of all the gunners of Bomber Command. But the story of a sergeant rear gunner – I have given him another name than his own – does at any rate show for what these men must have been ready. It happened on a night in February 1941; the gunner was in a Whitley, on its way to Bremen.

Sergeant Hunt, listening to what the crew had to say at intervals on the intercom, felt as much out of it as though he was hearing a play on the wireless. While the captain and the navigator watched the surface of the cloud for a hole in its moonlit expanse and a glimpse of something underneath, he himself was gazing backwards all the time, not looking for land or sea below him but searching the air. The cloud beneath was a level table-land at 7,000ft and above there was more cloud, cumulus cloud puffed upwards, but not enough of it to block the moonlight streaming down. So he was being taken backwards down a long, brilliantly lit passage. A perfect opportunity for fighters – a perfect night for them all round. So, after all, what the captain was saying now was very much Hunt’s business. ‘That exactor’s still U/S,’ he was saying and that meant one of the engines was groggy. They could not get above 9,000ft, as the captain was saying, and they would have to keep at that height all the way. It would make a lot of difference, Hunt said to himself, if they met any fighters. And with one engine running badly they wouldn’t be able to manoeuvre well. Hunt searched the air even more intently, turning his turret from side to side; its rotation, at any rate, was smooth and easy.

One of the makers of these turrets used to make greenhouses before the war and, at the tail end of the bomber, shut up behind steel doors and so far away from the rest of the crew, Hunt sometimes felt as if he were sitting in a greenhouse at the bottom of the garden, with the rest of the family warm and comfortable inside the house. They had just about crossed the North Sea now and the captain was still trying to get above 9,000ft. The navigator was anxious about making landfall at the right place; he had seen something below the clouds and thought it might be Texel. But they were not yet over land when Hunt saw what he thought was a flare. It was a bright light, but it did not hang in the air or float gently downwards; it darted towards the bomber, like a shooting star, but more steady and with a more willed and intentional movement. Hunt waited. He braced himself, with his head against the headrest, his eyes about 6in from his gunsights. When he had first seen the light it seemed to be about half a mile away; now it was within 200yds. He was used to judging distances in the air and in the darkness. The light was getting still closer when Hunt fired. For eight or ten seconds he watched his bullets – one in ten was an incendiary and made a streak of light ahead of him – converging into the centre of the gunsight where the approaching circle of light was held. Then the light went out and in its place there was a dark fighter. Its nose was down and in a moment it had dived at a steep angle into the solid cloud below.