1936 to 1937
On 10 May, a date that I would have occasion to remember all too well in the future, I received my first posting, and much to my delight it was to No. 25 Squadron. This was a prestigious fighter squadron flying Hawker Furies, and I could not have wished for anywhere better. It was based at Hawkinge, a small grass airfield in a unique position on the cliff tops above Folkestone. It was a beautiful position with wide views across the green belt of South Kent. Attractive to look at but a menacing trap to unwary aviators when the sea fog rolled in to cover the South Downs and visibility at Hawkinge was reduced to nil. It was only a few months after I joined the squadron that two of our officers were caught in this trap and were killed in the subsequent crash into the hillside.
On my arrival at Hawkinge I was well received on the first day when I rather nervously reported to the squadron adjutant and he told me to find the A Flight commander in number one hangar. Slim was all one could wish for in a fighter pilot – tall and slim with a real press-on attitude and leading his flight from the front with dash and confidence. He suffered my inexperience and nervousness with kindly understanding, and I was soon able to take my place in all details of the flying programme. I enjoyed every moment of flying the Fury and was prepared to suffer the taunting and kidding of the other NCO pilots in the flight who had, of course, had to get in several years of service before they got their three stripes, and they understandably resented the direct-entry sergeants such as myself. However, as I gained experience and caught up with their capabilities, I was soon accepted as one of them. I began to fly as No. 3 in Slim’s formation aerobatics team, and several times was called on to carry out special flights requiring accurate recordings of in-flight data, etc. These flights, I think, first gave me the idea that I might aspire to be a test pilot, although it was early days to think about that, of course. On the anniversary of King George V’s Coronation the squadron was called on to carry out dummy dive-bombing attacks on a target at the Folkestone cricket ground as part of the celebrations, and I again flew as Slim’s number three in a close formation. On 22 June I had the first, and the last, engine trouble with the Kestrel that I ever experienced. During a local flight the engine developed an internal water leak, and with white smoke pouring from the exhaust and power being rapidly lost, I managed to land without further trouble on the small emergency landing ground at Littlestone, near the seafront at New Romsey.
On a glorious June day as I was doing a navigation exercise over Canterbury and diving my Fury down to a few hundred feet over a little village of Sturry, I circled round a large house with extensive gardens. A lawn in front of the house was the centre of my attention for there was the lovely sight of several scantily dressed young ladies doing gymnastic exercises on the green sward. My arrival was by no means accidental, as I had previously found out that this was the home of the Women’s League of Health and Beauty, and I knew that Suzette would be there. The short display of aerobatics over Sturry that morning was one of my best, and I returned to Hawkinge with a happy heart. This was not the last time that Suzette would receive my salute from the air. From time to time the other NCO pilots from the squadron and I used to go down to the Wellington Hotel in Folkestone for a darts and table-tennis evening. Here I met Maisie, the daughter of Captain and Mrs Lister who ran the hotel, and we became close companions.
Life at Hawkinge was most fulfilling in every way, and I revelled in it. When weather permitted there was flying every day, either on individual training or flight formation exercises. The station also sported a good rugby team and had regular fixtures with the Army at Shorncliffe Barracks and local towns like Dover and Maidstone. I would never claim that I was a brilliant stand-off half, but I always found a place in the first team. Life continued happily until 16 October, when I came very close to tragedy. During a high-level cross-country squadron formation flight in Furies to RAF Tangmere, we had been flying westwards at 20,000 feet for some time when my flight commander, who was leading the formation, was astonished to see my aircraft leave the formation and start to do the most alarming antics, rapidly losing height in a series of stalls and spins. Slim called me desperately on the radio, as did other members of the formation, but there was no answer. Getting dangerously near the ground, I slowly became aware that I had passed out, but I finally regained consciousness and was lucky enough to have sufficient height to regain control of my Fury. After a shaky landing at Tangmere, to a group of anxious faces gathered round I was able to explain that apparently my oxygen supply had somehow become disconnected, and I could remember nothing until waking up at 2,000 feet and being amazed to find myself in the air. Safely on the ground, we found that the Fury, on inspection, was a bit ‘stretched’, and the doc said I had burst a lot of blood vessels in my eyes, but I did not seem to have suffered further damage. I managed to fly back to Hawkinge under the watchful eyes of the rest of the formation led by Slim, who kindly remained at low altitude. On 11 December the members of 25 Squadron were delighted when the squadron was re-equipped with the Fury Mk2. We had looked on the Fury 1 as the ultimate in grace and elegance, but this Super Fury soon received all the superlatives for looks and performance. With an uprated, fully supercharged Kestrel engine, streamlined spats on the wheels and a new wing plan, it gave the squadron an élite reputation, soon to be affirmed by its being chosen to perform at the Royal Air Force Display at Hendon in June 1937. This turned out to be the last of these famous pageants ever to be held. On 29 January 1937 I was asked to report to my squadron commander, who gave me the sad news that my father had died. It was a very sad blow, particularly as I had planned to write to him that very night to tell him that I would be flying at Hendon. I knew that he would have been proud and pleased to know that it was largely through his help and support that his son had done so well in the Royal Air Force. Now he would never know. Slim sent me off on a week’s leave, and after the funeral I returned to my squadron a very saddened sergeant.
But I had little time to dwell on the loss of a father who had helped me so much in my career, as we were busily engaged during the next few weeks in practising for our event in the coming Hendon Display. Our part was to be a squadron of ‘goodies’ called in to attack and destroy a party of ‘pirates’ assembled in a fort: a canvas erection in the centre of the airfield. They were to be armed, so the squadron had to devise tactics to confuse their return fire. Sufficient to say that on the day, the screaming of our Kestrels as the Furies dived in to the attack, the aerobatics in tight formation, together with the howling of the pirates and bomb and gun-firing noises broadcast over the PA system, made this a very popular event. This was the last of the famous Hendon Displays, and as the squadron re-formed and did a last flypast I thought how fortunate I was to have taken part. Unfortunately the Furies had to return direct to Hawkinge after the show, and so I did not have the chance of seeing my family party, who were among the 200,000-odd spectators assembled below, together with the King and Queen, princes and princesses, foreign diplomats and a crowd of air marshals. But it was not for them that I had been flying, not even the air marshals. As we swept over Hendon in our farewell flypast I only had a moment to scan the upturned faces of the great crowds below, and hoped that Suzette would know that it was she for whom I was flying and would be proud.
As the news from Europe became more and more ominous, our flying was concentrated on war exercises. It had already become clear that Germany had abrogated the terms of the Versailles Treaty and had announced the formation of the Luftwaffe. Details of German aircraft began to appear in the crew room, and aircraft recognition became a daily subject for our attention. The Germany – Italy Axis had been proclaimed and German aircraft had been used to uplift Franco’s Army in Africa back to Spain. The Spanish Civil War was being used by Germany, Italy and Russia as a testing-ground for their war weapons. The bombing of the City of Guernica by the German Condor Legion shocked the world and gave a grim warning of what was in store, being clear evidence that Germany was bent on armed conflict in Europe.
In August 1937 the squadron suffered a flying accident when one of our flying officers crashed while flying his flight commander’s Fury and attempting a forced landing at Dymchurch. Happily he was only slightly injured. On the same day I took off in a Fury on a climb to maximum ceiling of 34,000 feet, and as I looked down from that great height the whole of south-east England in all its tranquil beauty was spread out below. I was still at that innocent and impressionable age, and could not imagine that this land, so precious to every Englishman, might be threatened by a hostile invasion, and I could not even imagine the vital air battles that would be fought in this very piece of sky in a few years’ time. I contemplated the future as I saw it, with the prospect of meeting superior German aircraft, in this beautiful but wholly inadequate Hawker Fury that I was flying.
In August the squadron flew to Biggin Hill and Kenley on short ‘war’ detachments, and when these were completed we were released on a long summer leave. I took the opportunity to drive down to Gloucestershire in my splendid little Riley Imp (surely the most desirable sports car ever made?) to see my mother and brother and sisters. We had a great deal to talk about, and had long discussions about the future prospects and what we might do to safeguard the family interests now that father was gone.
Before returning from leave I went to Hatfield to see the end of the King’s Cup Air Race, won that year by Alex Henshaw flying the stylish Mew Gull. On the way home Leslie, my big brother, took me to the Shelsley Walsh Hill Climb, where we entered his Riley Gamecock in the race. We were outclassed and were not placed. Although we were not placed we had a lot of fun, and I always enjoyed doing exciting things with my elder brother. We were, and always continued to be, very close until Leslie emigrated to New South Wales with his wife to live near the beautiful coast at Ocean Shores, to play golf, and all too soon to die after a painful cancer, nursed by his devoted wife. In his last days he could look out of his bedroom window and for the last time see the whole length of the beautiful Byron Bay, the most easterly point of Australia. I missed him badly.
I spent my twenty-first birthday at my sister’s home at Longhope with my mother, and next day returned to my squadron to find a new CO and station commander. The latter would prove to be a good friend some weeks in the future.