The four squadrons of Number 3 Wing had moved from Henstridge to Lee-on-Solent by 1 May 1944. We now had no doubt that the invasion area would be that part of the Normandy coast within range of our Seafires. After consulting the tide tables, and assuming a dawn landing at half tide, we could even forecast the date. The fact that the Germans were caught napping was not only because of the huge subterfuge plan by the Allies, and the shooting down — as it landed in France — of a photographic Me 109 on D-2, but because those at Lee-on-Solent and elsewhere did not give the game away by careless talk.
In order to make sure that I was not left out of any operations, I had asked Buster Hallett if I could be attached to one of the four squadrons, 886, with Lt/Cdr ‘Val’ Bailey, RN as CO and Lt Dicky Law, RNVR, as Senior Pilot. This was now arranged. The three other squadrons were — 885, Lt/Cdr (A) S. L. ‘Tiny’ Devonald, DFC, RN, 808 — Lt/Cdr (A) ‘Jimmy’ R. Rankin, DSC, RNVR, and 897, Lt/Cdr (A) W. Simpson, RNVR. In addition to our 48 Seafires, there were Numbers 26 and 63 RAF Squadrons, plus VCS-7, a US Navy outfit, all engaged in bombardment spotting or Army TAC/R. Finally, three Mustang squadrons would be using Lee for their spare airfield in case their own was bombed during the invasion. Our emergency landing ground was at Needs Oar Point by the mouth of the Beaulieu river and currently in use by Typhoons.
The most interesting of all the newcomers was VCS-7. The US Navy pilots flew Kingfisher OS2U amphibians, equivalent to our Walrus or the Fairey Seafox. Each US cruiser carried two of them for bombardment spotting and recce. The Americans arrived with their lovely little seaplanes one day, pushed them into a hangar and climbed into Spitfire Vbs. They had wisely decided to do this, rather than risk the Normandy beachhead in their floatplanes. Each of the spotting pilots in VCS-7 had a minimum of 500 hours in their Flying Logs and they seemed to have little difficulty in transferring to the Spitfire V, almost overnight.
A month before ‘D’ Day, the Lee-on-Solent air was thick with aircraft. The RAF did their usual wide circuits, disappearing towards Portsmouth or Southampton in the process. Number 3 Wing did the usual Naval circuits, met the RAF Spitfires on finals coming up faster from behind, with inevitable near-misses and arguments afterwards. The old-fashioned method of airfield control, as at China Bay where Dicky Cork lost his life, would not work and some sort of r/t-controlled discipline was essential. Lee Tower was therefore reinforced with two experienced pilots, Cdr (A) J. Keene-Miller, RNVR and Lt/Cdr Colin Campbell-Horsfall, RN, who set about organising an airfield control system using r/t for every movement; taxying, take-off, joining the circuit for landing, calling ‘downwind’ ‘finals’ and ‘clear of runway,’ after landing. It was unpopular to start with, but during the whole of the 33 days of operational flying from Lee and in 4400 movements, there was only one minor accident.
The wardroom and the Officers’ Mess was like a five star, three storey hotel with ‘hot and cold’ and a view of the sea thrown in. It was a world apart from the pigsty arrangements at Henstridge, Hatston or Twatt. There were deferential, white-gloved stewards padding about again — anyway, to start with, and the whole was surrounded by tennis courts, sylvan walks for senior officers to salute each other, car parks, garages, impressive, sweeping entrances and Wrens. The Lee regulars were upset by the sudden arrival of 120 RNVR pilots demanding bed and board, and 1000 ground crew crowding into the Barracks. Notices were therefore pinned up in obvious places, telling us to dress properly, to keep to the Junior Officers’ Anteroom (unless of Lieutenant rank or above) and to sit at various tables for meals at various times.
We were a noisy lot, and the ‘knife and fork’ course in the Painted Hall at Greenwich had obviously done us no good at all. There were only four RN officers amongst us, two of whom were RN (A) ‘Short Service’ Entries, and therefore didn’t count. We tended to drink all the beer, eat all the rations, sing disgusting songs and cause delay in the eating arrangements. Furthermore, Buster Hallett had made sure that we were given our fair share of seafront cabins and refused to nag us for not saluting or not wearing our hats in the proper manner. Buster had also seen to it that we were given the same extra ‘flying rations’ as the RAF aircrew, much to the locals’ disgust.
Although the Commander at Lee-on-Solent had obviously been chosen for his firm grip upon ‘good order and Naval discipline’, he was nevertheless a human man. We admitted to ourselves at least that he must have found it very difficult to ignore the oddly dressed RNVR Subs who lurched past as he marched smartly from the Wardroom Senior Officers’ entrance to his office in the Administrative Headquarters. He did his best to look away, but there were some things he could not ignore. A young scion of a famous Russian family walked by one day. “You there, what’s your name, Subby?”
On being told, the Commander declared: “I don’t care if you’re Peter the Great, but you’re not going round the place wearing the DSO and those other medals which I know you haven’t earned, and with hair all over your face. When you’ve shaved off those buggery grips and removed those pieces of coloured tape, come and see me in my office, in ten minutes.”
The final improvement to 3 Wing’s arrangements organised for us by Buster was the Franks Flying Suit. This was an anti-G suit. It was designed to prevent blacking-out in steep turns. As we should have to maintain high speed in case we were ‘jumped’ over the enemy-infested beachhead while spotting, and would also have to maintain an almost continuous steep turn to see the ground, the relief that the suit would give us would be welcome. (See Appendix 9 — The Franks Flying Suit.)
We continued flying at Lee in a relaxed manner, tuning up for the forthcoming battle which we knew could not be far off. On 3 June shore leave was cancelled. Next day came and went and still nothing happened. At 1800 we were told that we would be allowed ashore until 2230 that night, but not to go to any pubs.
Thereupon, eight of us, including Dicky Law, elected to visit my father and raid his supply of petrol and beer. We had enough petrol for one car, one way only. The Hornet could not take all eight of us, so we towed another car-full without petrol, for the five miles along the A27 to my father’s house called ‘Greenroof in Bursledon, where he was now living.
It had been a year since I was in this part of the south coast. The A27 road between Portsmouth and Southampton was now almost unrecognisable. Mile after mile had been widened and laid waste by the passage of thousands of Army vehicles and tanks as they charged from one end to the other. They moved mostly by night. They seldom followed the exact contour of the road, taking in gardens, walls, lamp posts, petrol pumps and trees in their urgent progress. The road steadily extended into the fields on either side. Driving at night from Bursledon to Lee-on-Solent was therefore a difficult exercise.
My father was out when we drove up, so we got in through the larder window and consumed most of the barrel before he returned. He was not surprised to see us. He had worked it out that the Second Front, as he called it, could not possibly have started yet. The weather was too bad. He tapped the barometer to prove his point and the needle leapt a full five millibars towards ‘Rain’. As he seemed certain that there would be no invasion on the morrow, we finished his beer, filled up the cars with his petrol and set off back to Lee with all engines going strong.
Next day, 5 June, we spent the time listening to the radiogram and tinkering with our cars at dispersal. That evening, with foreboding in our hearts, we looked for the appearance of next day’s flying programme. It was pinned up at about 1900. It was the longest any of us had ever seen — 435 sorties. It started with the first take-off at 0430 and ended with the last landing at 2100. My first take-off, with Sub-Lieutenant Don Keene as my Number 2, was to be at the gentle hour of 0730.
“Time”, so say the philosophers, “is nature’s way of preventing everything from happening at once.” But the flying programme for ‘D’ Day looked impossible. We slept fitfully, wasting the night in fruitless imaginings. The rain and wind was driving against the windows and we trusted that the morale of our soldiers in their landing craft would not suffer too much from seasickness. At least, we thought, we would not arrive over the beach, cold, wet, and with an empty stomach, and perhaps the Germans would not expect us after such a night as this.