Peter Isaacson had a new gunner, Joe Grose. His previous gunner Johnny Swain had fallen ill. Just shy of twenty-one, Joe had a mere twenty-six hours’ flying time. He had never flown at night, had not been to an Operational Training Unit, and had only flown straight and level, which meant he had never experienced Isaacson’s ducking and weaving manoeuvres to escape searchlights and flak. He was also prone to air sickness. Joe’s lack of experience worried the rest of the crew. But despite their concerns, he joined them for a raid on the night of 27–28 August 1942 against Kassel, an industrial centre on the Fulda river in central Germany.
Crossing the Zuiderzee bay on the North Sea coast, Joe began ‘vomiting like a dog’. In the bright moonlight, wireless operator Bill Copley, in the astro-navigation dome, saw a JU-88 night fighter screaming in to attack from almost dead astern. It opened fire, holing the Wellington in the port propeller and both wings. Bill yelled at Peter Isaacson, who instantly dived and turned the bomber.
Quickly regaining his composure, Joe Grose held his fire. The JU-88 was still too far away for accurate shooting. Again the night fighter came in and again Isaacson dived. He described what followed in his diary: ‘This time he closed up and Joe had a shot at him and hit him. The last we saw of the bastard he was diving away with smoke and a little flame coming from his port engine. We didn’t see him hit the ground, so we would only claim we had damaged one JU-88.’ Joe had shot down an enemy fighter with his first burst of fire in action at 13,000 feet. The crew had no more misgivings about him. Bill Copley expressed the relief of the crew: ‘Congratulations, Joe, you young bastard, welcome to the club!’
The Kassel raid was the third for Pathfinder Force. With little cloud over the city, they were able to illuminate the area well, allowing the main bomber force to destroy or badly damage more than 450 buildings, including all three factories of the Henschel aircraft company. The raid killed twenty-eight soldiers and fifteen civilians. Of the 306 aircraft attacking the target, thirty-one were lost—10.1 per cent of the force. It was a grim statistic.
A 200-bomber raid against Karlsruhe, in south-western Germany, followed on 3 September. Located on the Rhine near the Franco-German border, Karlsruhe was home to an oil refinery. The bombs caused an estimated 200 fires and damaged many houses.
Among the pilots on the raid was twenty-two-year-old Colin ‘Col’ Alt from Sydney. It was his thirteenth operation with 12 Squadron RAF. Flying a Wellington, he was returning over southern France when a German night fighter suddenly appeared. Desperately trying to evade the enemy plane, Col dived. With just enough light from the quarter moon, he estimated that he was about 100 feet above ground level. But in fact he was lower—so low that the port propeller hit something, probably a tree. Col immediately ordered the crew to the rear of the Wellington, but in the mayhem the wireless operator, Bill Holland, came forward, opened the second pilot’s seat and joined the skipper. Out of control, the bomber soon crashed, killing Bill and the front gunner. Col, together with the observer, the navigator and the tail gunner, survived. Two of the others dragged the unconscious Col from the aircraft and took cover in a hollow 100 metres away before the wreck exploded.
The four airmen walked for the next few days, living on their survival-kit rations. Keen for a cup of coffee, they walked into a village cafe, but Col noticed a soldier eyeing them suspiciously. They quickly left, but were soon confronted by German soldiers and arrested. What struck Col was the wording on the Germans’ belt buckles: ‘Gott mit uns’, or ‘God with us’. ‘I immediately thought, No, He’s with us,’ Col recalled. He would spend the rest of the war in German prisoner-of-war camps.
The Pathfinders led the way again a week later when 479 bombers headed for Düsseldorf, the industrial and oil refinery centre in the lower Rhine basin. Using red target indicators dubbed ‘Pink Pansies’, the Pathfinders successfully marked the targets for the bombers that followed. The raid caused major damage to the city’s industrial base, stopping production for various periods. It also destroyed or badly damaged about 2500 houses and killed 132 people.
Among those taking part was Harry ‘Hadge’ McPherson, a rear gunner from Horsham, in western Victoria. Harry was one of three brothers who had joined the RAAF; he had been posted to 77 Squadron RAF, a Halifax squadron. Seated in the gun turret at the tail end of the fuselage, twenty-one-year-old Hadge had the loneliest job in the aircraft, with only the intercom to let him speak to his crew mates. But such isolation didn’t dent his youthful optimism. A few days after returning from the Düsseldorf raid, his first op, Hadge wrote home about the experience, describing it as a ‘wonderful feeling’. All the boys in the crew had been excited by the prospect of dropping their first lot of bombs, he said. When the intercom became unserviceable just after they left the English coast, they all swore angrily, thinking they would have to return and miss the raid. However, the radio operator managed to fix the problem, and they flew on. It was ‘a queer feeling’ when they first saw the Dutch coast and the searchlights, he wrote.
We wondered how in the hell we would get through them safely. However, we managed it—a few searchlights got near to us, in fact one did get us but we soon lost him. It’s funny to see all the flak bursting all over the sky—they look as harmless as anything—it was just like Guy Fawkes day or the Dimboola Regatta.
We were all just like a lot of kids when we got near the target, as if we were going to a picnic. The boys in the front of our crate, [pilot Jack Rank], Bruce and Russ, said that they couldn’t mistake the target, Düsseldorf—they could see it for 20 or 30 miles before we got there. I could see the bright glow from where I was. When we got there we could see our target beautifully—it was just like daylight—the boys ahead of us had already got a good blaze going.
You should have heard the message that the boys sent down with the bombs. I expressed my feeling to Hitler too. Then when we went over the target I had the view from my turret, it was a sight I have been dying to see for months—it was like one big furnace down there and when I saw all the searchlights and ack-ack that we had gone through, I nearly took a fit.
A few minutes later a JU-88 came onto our tail—I can tell you it is a funny feeling—I just opened my mouth and nothing would come out. Anyway I told Jack which way to dive, and did he dive! I never saw the Jerry again. Coming back we seemed to go through more searchlights and flak, you have no idea how pretty it looks. One burst came pretty close, but that was all and I was about the proudest person out when we left the Belgian coast.
At that point, Hadge thought he could relax. He opened his vacuum flask and began to pour himself a cup of coffee while keeping a good lookout at the same time. Dazed by the experience he’d just been through, he just kept pouring. ‘It spilt all over me—I had coffee from head to foot and I just sat there and laughed. I could still see Düsseldorf glowing from 50 miles away—it was a very gratifying sight. I didn’t get to bed until 7 o’clock in the morning and I can tell you I slept pretty soundly until 4 o’clock in the afternoon. The [Officer in Charge] was very pleased with our little job.’ To Hadge, the success of the raid amounted to payback for the earlier Nazi bombing raids on English cities.
Peter Isaacson also had reason to be pleased. After twenty-two ops, in November 1942 he was decorated with the Distinguished Flying Medal. He promptly headed for the local pub. ‘It was a darned good party,’ he wrote home, ‘altho’ I’m afraid I got a bit tight. The boys presented me with a cigar and made me smoke it on the spot. Naturally, it almost, repeat almost, made me ill.’
He also underwent a conversion course to fly the Lancasters that were coming into service in 460 Squadron. The change came shortly after Wing Commander Keith Kaufmann took over from Commander Arthur Hubbard on 1 September 1942. Kaufmann was a far different personality from the more reserved Hubbard, who had been a steadying influence after 460 Squadron was formed. On his first day with his new squadron, the Victorian-born Kaufmann walked into the sergeants’ mess, took off his coat and said, ‘I believe you blokes are pretty good drinkers; let’s get stuck into it and see how good you are.’ He became a popular commanding officer, mixing with all ranks, and was credited with resolving many hitches in promotions for aircrew and ground staff alike.
When Kaufmann arrived, Wellingtons were being phased out in favour of Halifaxes. But crews were far from happy with the new bombers, which had a disturbingly high crash rate. Kaufmann figured out that the problem stemmed from a hydraulic fluid pipe in the starboard motor closest to the cockpit. The pipe would fracture during certain flying manoeuvres under full power, spraying the hydraulic fluid and causing a fire in the motor. The squadron lost two crews before the fault was corrected.
Kaufmann, who had served five years with the RAF since joining a short-term commission from 1936, had established good contacts in England. He got in touch with an officer he knew in the Air Ministry and said 460 Squadron would not accept the Halifaxes and that he wanted to refer the issue to Air Vice-Marshal Henry Wrigley at Overseas Headquarters in London. Although the officer opposed this, he agreed that Kaufmann could contact the Air Officer Commanding (AOC) No. 1 Group, to which the squadron was attached. In the meeting with Air Vice-Marshal Robert Oxland that followed, Kaufmann requested that the squadron be given Lancasters instead of Halifaxes but was told there were not enough Lancasters to go around. Kaufmann refused to accept this. ‘I said, “Sir, would you mind if I took this matter up with the Australian Air Force Headquarters in London because I feel that we are an Australian squadron operating with the Royal Air Force . . . and I think that we shouldn’t subject our Australian aircrew to flying in aircraft that are not capable of doing the job and, in fact, are killing us.”’ Oxland said, ‘Oh, no, Kaufmann, leave it with me.’ Ten days later, he phoned to inform Kaufmann that 460 Squadron had got its Lancasters—as had the whole of 1 Group.
Peter Isaacson had been among those preparing for the switch to Halifaxes. He had a high regard for Keith Kaufmann, but was unaware of his commanding officer’s machinations to replace the squadron’s Halifaxes with Lancasters. With the Halifaxes withdrawn before he flew them operationally, Peter was pleased to move straight into Lancasters. He and his crew made their first Lancaster raid on the night of 28–29 November 1942, when, along with 227 other aircraft, they headed for the Italian industrial centre of Turin, about eight and a half hours from southern England. The target was the Fiat automotive works. Peter wrote home that crossing the Alps by moonlight was a glorious sight.
Flying as we were only about a thousand feet above the peaks, we could see all the crevasses and ridges covered with snow. Gosh, they looked grim—no place for a forced landing. Mont Blanc, which seemed to be just off our wing tip, was almost free of snow, its top standing out like a bald man’s head (sorry Pop). The whole trip across was most inspiring. I’d like to do it by daylight. Maybe I will some day. The Italian defences were rather weak and didn’t worry us in the least. We saw one fighter and managed to evade him successfully.
Also on the raid was Flight Sergeant Rawdon Middleton, who was flying a Stirling. A twenty-six-year-old from central western New South Wales, he had been educated at Dubbo High School and had worked as a jackaroo before enlisting in the RAAF on 14 October 1940. Known variously as Ron and Rawd, he was quiet and a little moody, with a strong streak of honest determination. Arriving in Britain in September 1941, he was soon promoted to flight sergeant and posted to 149 Squadron RAF in February 1942. After gaining experience as a second pilot in Stirling bombers, he became a first pilot and captain five months later. By 28 November, he had completed twenty-eight sorties. Three of his crew had already flown their tour quota of thirty ops and could have left, but they decided to stay out of loyalty to Ron.
Flying Stirling ‘H for Harry’, they set out for Turin. The flight did not go well. They began to experience mechanical problems and struggled to climb to 12,000 feet to cross the Alps in darkness that left the mountain peaks almost invisible. With barely sufficient fuel for the return journey, Middleton decided to press on. Sighting flares ahead at Turin, he dived to 2000 feet and flew over the city three times before identifying the target. But as he did so, the Stirling came under fire from light anti-aircraft guns, which blew a large hole in the port wing. As Ron struggled with the lateral controls, a shell burst in the cockpit, shattering the windscreen and wounding both pilots. A piece of shell splinter tore into the side of Ron’s face, knocking him out, shattering his right eye, and probably wounding his body or legs. The second pilot was bleeding profusely from similar wounds, while the wireless operator was also wounded in the leg.
With Ron unconscious, the aircraft plunged to 800 feet before the second pilot regained control. Taking it to 1500 feet, he released the bombs amid intense flak, while the three gunners fired furiously until the rear turret was put out of action. At this point Ron regained consciousness. By now clear of the target, he ordered the second pilot back to receive first aid. But knowing that Ron could hardly see, was bleeding badly and found speaking excruciatingly painful, the second pilot returned before the treatment was completed.
The navigator plotted the course for home, but crossing the Alps again presented a challenge. Despite the severe damage to the aircraft, Ron rejected the options of flying to Africa or bailing out over occupied France. Putting the crew first, he insisted on returning to England. Ron was in agony during the four-hour flight. With sufficient fuel for only five minutes’ flying and wanting to avoid crashing into a populated area, Ron ordered the crew to abandon the aircraft over the English coast. Five of the crew jumped out and survived. The front gunner and flight engineer chose to stay and assist Ron as he took the plane back out over water. Not long after, it crashed into the sea. The two crewmen scrambled out but drowned. Their bodies were recovered the next day. Ron was unable to get out and died in ‘H for Harry’.
His heroism was saluted with the first Victoria Cross awarded to a member of the RAAF in the war. His citation read:
Flight Sergeant Middleton was determined to attack the target regardless of the consequences and not to allow his crew to fall into enemy hands. While all the crew displayed heroism of a high order, the urge to do so came from Flight Sergeant Middleton, whose fortitude and strength of will made possible completion of the mission. His devotion to duty in the face of overwhelming odds is unsurpassed in the annals of the Royal Air Force.
Back in Australia, his father said, ‘My son did his duty.’
Ron’s body washed ashore near Dover, in February 1943, and a funeral with full Air Force honours was arranged. Among those who attended the funeral was thirty-four-year-old nursing sister Doris (Dee) Walsh, from Coffs Harbour, New South Wales. She had been working as a nurse in England since 1937, and as the war went on, she and her flatmates, who were also nurses, kept an open house for lonely Australian and other Dominion Army and Air Force boys in London on short leave. Dee was named as next of kin by several of the Australians scattered among British squadrons. Dee knew Ron, and she and her flatmates were ‘very upset at the heroic story’ of his death. She wrote home:
. . . when I think of what he went thro’ on that awful journey back from Turin, with his injuries and pain, I just die inside, bless him—such a story of valiant and enduring courage one will never know again—and in many ways, knowing how he was injured, after the first shock—I was glad he went into the sea with his beloved Stirling—H. for Harry—then we were appalled when we heard the news he’d been found on Dover Beach and it all came back again.
The RAF had asked Dee and her friend, Mary, to attend the funeral, as they ‘specially wanted someone who knew him to be present to make it more personal and not seem so far from home . . . You can imagine how we felt and quite frankly, I didn’t think I could do it—but I worked it all out,’ she wrote. ‘The RAF were wonderful, met us with a car [and] had everything arranged and took us at once to the Chapel at the [RAF] Station where the Service was held. My knees could scarcely hold me up, but as I got out of the car I saw all the boys, the RAAF—all pilots—volunteers, 50 of them outside and at once I felt a bit better.’
Dee took with her a sprig of wattle specially grown in London.
I felt I must take some up to Rawd. So I carried it in my outside hand so the boys would see it and be cheered up too. Inside the wee Chapel was a most moving and impressive scene—but somehow, the moment I went in I felt better—I just felt it wasn’t Rawd there at all—just like something I was looking at from a very far distance. I only had one moment of despair and that was when I saw his cap on the top of the flag—’cause suddenly I remembered how his hair used to stick up a little at the back, bless him. Then so many people came in—all the RAAF big shots and RAF—and the aircrew lads from 149th Sqdn. had taken over the Guard at each corner of Rawd.
An Australian chaplain conducted the service, after which they followed the RAF lorry carrying his body to the ‘wee old-fashioned little English churchyard where he was buried’. Dee thought the RAAF boys looked wonderful slow-marching ‘as perfectly as guardsmen who have done it daily. Never have I been so proud of my Aussies,’ she wrote. The RAAF stood on each side of the grave as a volley was fired and the Last Post played. ‘Then I put my wattle in with Rawd and that was the end.’ For Dee, it was ‘a grim and desolate day and until I die I shall never forget the sound of the volley being fired’.
She went back to London on a train, ‘bulging with Australians bless them’. The Officer in Charge sat with her and talked of ‘how thrilled the boys were when they knew they were to go to Rawdon Middleton’s funeral’. They knew it was a great honour to farewell an Australian hero. His death devastated his mother, who wrote to Dee a few months later. ‘Dear old Rawd—I’ve just had a lovely letter and portrait of him from Mrs Middleton—she is heartbroken.’
By now, Hadge McPherson at 77 Squadron RAF was starting to come to terms with such experiences. He wrote home about an op to Lorient, in north-western France, on 13 February 1943, where ‘the fires and explosions were really terrific’.
Just as we were leaving the target area we were caught in searchlights and talk about fun, they threw everything up at us and all around my turret there was red and green tracer whizzing up past me. Honestly I was expecting to collect one any moment, it’s such a strange sensation, you don’t realise that they can do any harm to you, they just seem to float past, all very fascinating, but [pilot Jack Rank] really threw the big kite around, he dived, turned in fact I think he nearly looped once and still we couldn’t get rid of the stuff. It was only when we were out of range that they stopped and we all heaved a sigh of relief. In the middle of it all something exploded right under us and lifted the kite but fortunately didn’t do any damage. All the time this was happening I was trying to think of a decent prayer to say but all I could think of was, ‘For what we are about to receive’, so I gave up and left it all to Jack, who can really throw the old kite around.
When they got back, a couple of the other crews told them about a bomber that had been caught in the searchlights and had hell belted out of it. Hadge and the rest of the crew laughed at their luck. For many, it was the only way to cope.