When I finally emerged from hospital, Bill, Jack, Jock and the rest of the crew had gone, as had all of the aircraft, away in Berlin. I also had a new station commander, Group Captain Ford, who had taken over from Dickie Legg. Before Dickie’s departure, however, he had told me that he was being posted to Washington as air attaché. This was most fortuitous for me, because he asked whether I would be interested in joining him as his assistant. It was an easy decision, and by the end of July I was posted from Northolt to the Air Ministry in a supernumerary capacity while I was ‘prepared’ for my next job.
I was excited by what the future had in store, but saddened to hear of the sudden demise of the Skymaster and the VIP Flight just a few weeks later. Churchill, to his intense frustration and profound shock, lost the post-war election to be replaced by Clement Attlee. Attlee, a Labour man and staunch socialist (despite, or perhaps even because of, his public school upbringing6), had no time for the trappings of wealth or ostentation, and the Skymaster took its last VIP flight on August 2. The aircraft had, of course, only been on lease-lend to the British government, and therefore had to be returned under the agreement. This was primarily to protect the three major airlines–Pan American, American Overseas, and TWA–from unwelcome competition from BOAC. Much later it was damaged in a landing somewhere in China where it had been allocated to General Marshall, by now the US ambassador in Peking. It had been abandoned–a sad and rather depressing end to what was once the queen of the skies.
Meantime I prepared for my return to the US. I was lucky to have had Dickie as my ‘sponsor’. We had become friends while I was the living-in local flight commander. As well as being our own home station, Northolt was the main base of a famous Polish Spitfire wing of Fighter Command. I had joined a small fraternity known as the English speaking union representing the small number of resident RAF officers amongst the more numerous Poles. By virtue of my connection with Number 10, I came to see considerably more of my CO than others of similar rank, and got to know him rather well. Dickie had been pre-war RAF, from the single-seater world, and had for a time been the adjutant of 603 (City of Edinburgh), one of the auxiliary squadrons. When war came, he found himself in Athens as assistant air attaché for Turkey (the air attaché himself was based in Ankara), and when Greece fell he managed to make his way back to the UK. He wanted to get back into the fighter world, but never did, being posted firstly to Sharjah before taking over as station commander, Northolt. He was a gentleman in every respect, and I liked him enormously. I also got to know his wife who was only slightly older than Brenda. It was a happy, and in my case most fortuitous relationship.
It was wonderful to be in the US again. I was of course based within the embassy, where the work of an air attaché was essentially representational with other foreign delegates in the capital. With the USAF itself it was largely a liaison job, with a friendly air force already well known to us through the close co-operation we had enjoyed during the war. We even had our own aircraft–an Avro Anson 19–with which to show off British products. It was a wonderful old crate, a post-war passenger development of the basic version that had served the RAF so well in training. Wherever we went we were teased about how many turns it took to raise the undercarriage by hand, and were quick to point out that we now had modern hydraulics.
On one occasion we flew it, in stages, to Havana to negotiate with the Cubans for facilities that could be used by the embryonic British South American Airways (BSAA). BSAA was attempting to establish routes to Central and South America but competition was fierce. We already knew that we would be dealing with Juan Trippe and PanAm who were firmly in the saddle in the region. Taxiing up to the main terminal building with a flat tyre, I recall, did not enhance our arrival in the Cuban capital!
The RAF worked tirelessly to promote what might now be termed ‘Brand GB’ across the globe, and particularly the Americas. One of the first ever pathfinder units, 35 Squadron, paid us a visit in the summer of 1946 in their wartime Lancasters that had been especially painted all white for the tour. They had tremendous fun renewing old acquaintances. They were followed later by 617 Squadron, which by then had exchanged their Lancasters for the newer Lincolns. Alongside the Boeing B29 Superfortresses, which were now in abundant supply, our old tail-down aircraft looked positively ancient.
Representational duties took Brenda and me all over the US. I found that my previous experience of a more mundane daily life in an average working US household where I lodged near the Link factory was valuable background to the more exotic life of the Washington diplomatic round. We met numerous high-ranking officers on our travels, perhaps none more famous at the time than General Carl Spaatz, who had been commander of the US Strategic Air Forces in Europe and later, the Pacific.
I had the very great honour of receiving from him the US Legion of Merit for my contribution to the basic training of air force navigators and for my efforts at the Binghamton factory developing the CNT simulator. I remember the award ceremony quite clearly. It was in Spaatz’s office in the Pentagon, and as Dickie and I entered, the general–who knew Dickie very well–exclaimed: “Gee, Dick, if I’d have know you were coming, I would have had my pants pressed!” My citation was signed by no less a man than President Harry Truman.
The Americans could be queer fellows. On the one hand, they could be very friendly and informal, and put you instantly at your ease; on the other, they were almost Teutonic in their ruthlessness and inflexibility. Regulations could not be challenged. That’s not to say that we didn’t make friends while we were there. I was particularly good friends with an air force liaison officer, Colonel MacDonald7. Charles MacDonald had flown P38s during the war and served alongside the world famous aviator, Charles Lindbergh, while Lindbergh had been working for Lockheed in the Pacific teaching pilots how to get the most out of the aircraft for range. The Americans were famous for having only two throttle settings: fully open or fully closed!
As well as high-ranking military men, we also met various high-ranking politicians, among them Ham Andrews. Congressman Andrews was a Republican from Buffalo, New York, who, not withstanding his own party membership, was chairman of the armed services committee. Through him I was able to visit Capitol Hill on more than one occasion and learn something about how the US government worked. I was actually in the chamber on the day that the act was debated and passed, creating the United States Air Force (previously the US Air Corps of the US Army) of which Spaatz was appointed its first chief of staff.
Ham was a charming man, and took quite a shine to Brenda and me, inviting us to the most magnificent parties at his country estate. Here we found ourselves socialising with many of the country’s most powerful men of that time, including such names as General Ira Eaker, one time commander of the US Eighth Air Force, and General Hoyt Vandenberg who was to succeed Spaatz as the chief of staff of the USAF.
It was a marvellous time to be in the US. The currency of the RAF, so soon after the war, was at its peak, and we were made welcome wherever we went. It could on occasions, however, become a little crowded. As well as the air attachés attached to the embassy, there were various missions and a separate RAF ‘delegation’ commanded by Air Chief Marshal Sir Guy Garrod, who was also the RAF member of the military staff committee, United Nations organisation, New York. While Sir Guy was no bother, the same could not be said for his deputy, Sir Victor Goddard, who took umbrage that Dickie had a rather splendid Packard for official duties. Sir Victor, an air marshal, could not understand why a mere group captain had his own car. He decided that he, and not Dickie, should be the air attaché, prompting Dickie to seek the advice of the ambassador. It was quickly sorted, and Sir Victor was told in no uncertain terms that air attaché appointments were nothing to do with the RAF delegation.
The ambassador to Washington in the early days of my posting was Edward Wood, an austere gentleman better known as Lord Halifax. Halifax had of course gained some notoriety before the war for supporting Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement (a policy that was subsequently shown to be fatally flawed). He had been in Washington since 1941, and ran what would best be described as a ‘traditional’ embassy from the beautiful splendour of the Lutyens Building on Massachusetts Avenue. To be invited to the embassy was on a par to being invited to Buckingham Palace, and a significant honour. They arranged, for example, formal investitures (a number of the senior US military commanders received honorary KCBs and KBEs) in which I invariably had a role to play. Halifax had been born with a withered arm, but made up for it by having incredibly strong fingers. Pinning medals to an individual’s chest was not a problem for him, but he struggled when the honour being conferred meant putting a ribbon around somebody’s neck. He therefore worked out a system. I would present him with the ribbons on a cushion that he would take with his good hand and place both ends on the recipient’s left shoulder. I would then hold one end while he deftly completed the task, and the ‘formality’ of the occasion was maintained.
We had some quite brilliant ministers and secretaries on the embassy staff, including the first secretary, a rising star by the name of Donald Maclean. He was later head of chancery–a powerful position–and a most engaging character with an impeccable background. I found him perfectly charming, if a little smooth, but there was not even the slightest hint of his communist leanings as one of what would later be called ‘the Cambridge five’. The only notoriety he gained while I knew him was for his taste in flowery waistcoats!
Halifax returned in May 1946 to be replaced by Sir Archibald Clark Kerr, recently returned from Moscow (and an early VIP passenger on Ascalon). The Americans had been most impressed with Halifax as he was, in their minds, a ‘real’ member of the nobility, a real ‘oil’. Sir Archibald had only recently been elevated to a peerage, as Baron Inverchapel. The style of Inverchapel could not have been in greater contrast to that of his predecessor. Perhaps it had something to do with his Australian/Scottish parentage. He was friendlier, and considerably more democratic. On one occasion I was sent for and he asked me to sit down–something that you never did in the ambassador’s presence. He then pointed to a silver tray with a decanter of whiskey on it and said: “Help yourself, boy.” (For some reason he always called me ‘boy’.)
Inverchapel managed, unwittingly perhaps, to upset a number of his hosts, especially those that were most conservative or right wing. The Americans were scandalised, for example, that he brought with him from Moscow a Russian valet as part of his personal retinue. Ambassadors were privileged to bring in their personal staff without question and to secure visas for them, but to give a visa to a Russian was not a popular choice.
My time in Washington was fast coming to an end, and I faced the prospect of returning to the UK and a somewhat uncertain future. Before I had left, it had been patently obvious that general duties (GD) pilots were more favourably placed for promotion than GD navigators by reason of command opportunities, having had the chance to display their leadership qualities and operational knowledge in charge of an aircraft, flight or squadron. In Bomber Command, a few outstanding navigators had been in command of squadrons, but they were the exception that disproved the rule. There was pressure, therefore, to get on a pilot’s course as soon as possible, not just amongst we navigators, but also from all GD branches–wireless operators, flight engineers et al.
There had been some provision for engineers (including some signals specialists) and doctors to be given flying training, and then their wings. Some had proved outstanding as test pilots and flying doctors, with excellent career prospects. Others never proceeded beyond the FTS stage, but nevertheless wore the coveted pilot’s wings and thereby qualified for advancement. I felt I was in danger of being left behind.
The air council were well aware (which we were not at the lower levels) of the coming enlarged requirement for navigators with the advent of the jet bombers, particularly the ‘V’ force. Understandably, they did not want highly experienced navigators to become highly inexperienced pilots. But it was simply not enough to keep them in the Service with the promise of a permanent commission (which I already held) but little prospect of promotion.
It was against this background that I sailed home from New York in October 1947, bringing my family with me, enjoying the comfort of a new Cunarder, the Media. Docking in Liverpool, we were met by my younger brother, Geoffrey, who was by now a first officer with Cunard. He had had a most eventful war, having had two ships torpedoed from under him. On the first occasion he had been on a Fyffes banana boat, and spent several days adrift in a lifeboat before being spotted, by pure chance, by a passing Blue Star meat boat en route to Argentina. He and his comrades were landed at Buenos Aires, and taken in by the local seaman’s mission, where they were given clothes and accommodation. Disgracefully, his pay had been stopped the moment he came ashore. On the second occasion, he was torpedoed in the channel by an E-boat–a fast German motor torpedo boat.
Geoff had also been junior third officer on the RMS Queen Mary, and part of the crew on the day in October 1942 when the massive liner collided with the cruiser HMS Curacoa, cutting her clean in two. Only just over 100 of her complement of 440 men survived, and the Queen Mary could not stop to pick up the struggling men in the waters, for fear of enemy submarines. Although he was not on watch, my brother clearly remembers a shudder as the two ships came together. It was a terrible tragedy.
After a few days on leave, I found myself posted on a Spec.N refresher course at Shawbury (Salop) where I quickly realised how out of touch I was with the latest wartime developments in electronic navigation. Having spent two years flying with Churchill and other VVIPs and two years in Washington, I had lost touch with RAF station life, having led a somewhat sheltered and some might say exotic life since the spring of 1943. Having satisfied the instructors and myself that I was still fit for purpose, I was posted to the Central Bomber Establishment (CBE) at Marham.
The CBE had formed at Marham towards the end of 1945, and to all intents and purposes mirrored its sister unit, the central fighter establishment at West Raynham, the principal difference being that our role encompassed the testing and proving of new bomber aircraft (rather than fighter aircraft) prior to their deployment within front-line stations.
The unit was divided into two: the tactical wing commanded by Group Captain Sydney Bufton; and the development wing led by Group Captain Richard Collard. I was to get to know both men well in the coming months, and admired them greatly.
‘Sid’, as he was known, had served with distinction in the war, receiving the DFC at much the same time as I received my own. He was the man largely credited with helping to create the elite pathfinder force, and became great friends with the group’s first commander, Donald Bennett. Later he had been director of bomber operations, and was therefore admirably equipped for his new role.
Dick Collard was also a true gentleman, who had needed every ounce of his calm demeanour and diplomatic skills to survive nearly three years as a prisoner of war, often as the senior British officer (SBO) in the camps in which he was held. He had kept his men together including a number of Norwegian officers (he had also been awarded the Norwegian War Cross) in the face of the Russian advance, and threatened the Germans that they would be tried as war criminals if anything happened to them that contravened the Geneva Convention. He had been awarded the DSO and DFC before being shot down over Duisburg flying Wimpey IIs with 12 Squadron in 1942. (Dick later joined Handley Page and tried to get me to go with him but I declined. Had he been working for De Havilland or Rolls, I might have considered it, but Handley Page was not a company I aspired to join.)
The commandant of this prestigious outfit was none other than ‘Crack’ em’ Staton, now an air commodore. Staton was a veteran of the first war, and later CO of 10 Squadron, who as I recalled earlier had dropped his bombs ‘safe’ on the Tirpitz. Like Dick, he had had to endure three long years as a prisoner of war, but this time in the hands of the Japanese. Physically he had suffered considerably, having all of his teeth removed for refusing to answer questions under interrogation, but he was still a man of imposing size and character. He was also obsessed with shooting, especially revolvers (he later represented the UK in the 1948 and 1952 Olympics), so much so that he appeared to spend every waking moment practising on the range.
I was attached to Dick Collard’s development wing, as navigation officer. There was plenty to keep us busy. When we took delivery of the Skymaster in my days with 24 Squadron, the aircraft came with a handbook the thickness of the Oxford English dictionary. British aircraft arrived with little more than a thin pamphlet of pilots’ notes. It was down to the CBE to put more of the proverbial meat on the bone, conducting such things as high altitude trials and take-off runs with different loads for which we took full advantage of Marham’s new 3,000ft runway. There was a mixed assortment of aircraft, notably the Lincoln but also the impressive B35 and PR36 variants of the Mosquito.
Trial flights took us as far afield as Shallufa in the Canal Zone and Khartoum, testing how the various aircraft performed in extreme weather conditions. I lost a great deal of weight working through the hottest part of the day, but it was good for my tan. I also got to see quite a bit of Khartoum town, spending time at the Sudan club and enjoying dinner at The Grand, overlooking Omdurman. In the Lincoln trials, we also got as far as Nairobi–a city that was little more than an overgrown country market town run by extremely lazy English settlers–but managed to make a detour to photograph the crater of Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya, both of which had snow on them.
For ballast we used wartime unfused 1,000lbs bombs, some of which were inclined to go off ‘bang’ on impact when jettisoned over the sea, especially those that had been left out in the desert ammunition dumps. They were notoriously (and understandably) unstable.
On some of these occasions, especially when flying the Mossie, my skipper was David Green, one of the flight commanders. David was quiet yet assured, and a highly competent pilot. Once when we were flying together in a B35 Mosquito he demonstrated a dead stick landing. Approaching the runway, he cut both engines and then immediately shoved the nose forward until the aircraft had the speed and the position over the airfield for landing. Then just as suddenly he hauled back on the control column and executed a perfect three-point landing. David was another with the DSO and DFC, who had been stooging around in Hampdens with 44 Squadron while I had been trying to find targets in my Whitley. (After he left us he went on to command a Canberra squadron and then one of the first Victor squadrons. He was SASO 1 Group until his retirement as an air commodore in 1971.)
I was at the establishment when the first Berlin crisis was at its zenith, which in turn led to the rather accelerated deployment to the UK of the 35th Wing of the US Strategic Air Command that arrived with three squadrons of B29 Superfortresses, one of which flew into Marham in June 1948. They were capable of carrying the US atomic bomb, but whether they brought any of the things with them I never knew. Whatever the Soviets thought, or knew, this rapid deployment certainly helped to relieve the pressure on communications in and out of the city at that time.
The speed with which we welcomed our American friends was recognised in an official notice from Colonel S.T. Wray, OC USAF detachment to Marham to Air Commodore Staton, CB, DSO, MC, DFC. The notice read:
“I desire to express the appreciation of General Hoyt. S. Vandenberg, chief of staff, US Air Force and Lieutenant General Curtis E. Le May, commanding general, US Air Forces in Europe for the manner in which personnel at RAF station Marham prepared for, and received, US Air Force personnel.
“The courtesy, efficiency and willingness with which the US personnel were met, processed and cared for, imposed as it was as an additional burden on top of normal activities, and at the sacrifice of two weekends, reflects the highest credit on the personnel of Marham.
“The efficacy and unity of purpose with which the US Air Force has enjoyed in joint operation with the RAF is a matter of record and the treatment accorded to us on this occasion further cements these bonds uniting the two air forces. It has given me much personal pleasure to have been associated with Marham personnel on this occasion and I wish to thank all ranks for their indefatigable efforts in this regard.”
Having aircraft the size of a B29 on our station meant that space on the airfield as well as in the mess was at a premium. We had been squeezed up in every way, but being well aware of USAF ways, in the air as well as on the ground, I felt much more in my element and believe I was instrumental in smoothing the operational workings of the base. I also managed to wangle a few flights in the Superfortresses, as well as their hack B17 that they maintained for casual communications duties.
It was in November that Dick Collard told me he wanted a word. A most prestigious posting had come up, as senior navigation instructor at the RAF college, Cranwell. Having spent a hectic twelve months learning about RAF bomber operations and the future Command, and the chance of moving on from being a navigation specialist, I now found myself having to pack up and move to a totally new environment as the first non-Cranwell graduate to join the staff.
I was in for a bumpy ride.