August to October 1939
The month of August 1939 brought to a conclusion all the rumours and uncertainties of the foregoing months. It was almost with a feeling of relief that at last we all knew just where we stood. It was clear that a great effort was required to speed up the rate of production of fighter aircraft, and to this end the Government called into the Cabinet the dynamic Lord Beaverbrook to take on this very responsible task. At the other end of the scale was the appointment of the Duke of Windsor as Governor of the Bahamas. The Duke had been trained as a pilot by the Royal Air Force, and a lot of servicemen had hoped that he might perhaps have been given a more demanding post in support of the war effort, in which he might have redeemed himself, but clearly most members of the Government were not prepared to forgive him his abdication. A few days later we heard with utter disbelief that a Russo-German Pact had been signed in Moscow, and my squadron was once again dispatched to its war station at Northolt, and our aircrews were at readiness in our cockpits or near our aircraft from dawn until dusk each day. Most of the crews slept in their motor cars and ate at irregular intervals from vans sent down with food from the mess. On the morning of 26 August three Imperial Airways airliners landed at Northolt, and in the afternoon took off for an unknown destination with unidentified passengers. There followed much speculation and rumour, but no information was ever released as to their mission. On the last day of August three crews of the squadron were stood down from standby to collect three Blenheim IVs (long nosed) that were being fitted out with the original primitive radar equipment. A few days later I took off in one of these aircraft to undertake one of the earliest airborne radar trials against a flying target.
These early radar sets were painstakingly assembled, and began to arrive for fitting to the Blenheim IVs. One flight of the squadron was given the task of carrying out trials and calibration of the equipment and training the radar operators. It was anticipated that the German bombers might start night attacks at any time, and a workable airborne radar was going to be essential if some at least were to be detected and brought to combat. The night-fighter crews were not at all confident at this stage that we were going to be able to achieve interceptions in the dark. So far the AI sets were primitive and untried, and the squadron had no trained operators. We were still feeling our way in this new field, and civilian scientists from the manufacturing firms often flew with us on the early trials. Each trial flight revealed new problems and frantic work on the ground followed so that the aircraft could get back in the air again. Very close contact was maintained with the manufacturers, who were of the greatest help to the squadron, and we also worked in close cooperation with Dr Watson-Watt, who was engaged in trials of a low-looking radar that it was hoped would help in the interception of the Heinkel minelayers that were operating down the east coast at this time. Flying from Martlesham Heath the squadron flew several low-level sorties out to sea from Bawdsey at the mouth of the Deben river to help in the calibration of Watson-Watt’s radar.
On 1 September Germany invaded Poland, and Britain had, of course, pledged that should she be attacked we would go to her aid. General mobilization was ordered in Britain, and the evacuation of schoolchildren and the disabled was put in train. The next day the air component supporting the British Expeditionary Force left for France anticipating the declaration of war next day. At dawn on the 3rd, Royal Air Force Northolt became a frantic hive of activity. In the armoury airmen were loading up belts of .303 ammunition, our mechanics in the hangars were working flat out to finish repairs and inspections on unserviceable Blenheims, while serviceable aircraft were being taxied down to the gun butts, sights zeroed and guns fired. At 11 a.m. we were on active service, and all this noise and commotion brought home to us that from now on events were going to be for real. I remember more than anything else that the firing of our Vickers guns was the sound that announced the end of security and peace, and our world would not be the same – for how long we had no possible idea. It was only a few days before the reality was brought home to us, when, not long after midnight on 4 September, the as yet unfamiliar sound of the air-raid sirens shattered the night air and one flight of the squadron was scrambled from Northolt to intercept an unidentified aircraft detected by ground radar. Our three aircraft, led by our flight commander, with Miley and me in close formation, took off and climbed up through thick overcast. Later, we realized that this was the first night defensive patrol of the Second World War. Although the unidentified aircraft turned out to be friendly, we were kept on patrol for two and a half hours. The leader and I, after a great deal of difficulty, managed to find our way back to Northolt with no aids and almost complete blackout on the ground. With cloud base at 700 feet we were lucky to pick up the Northolt beacon (flashing NT) reflected through the cloud, particularly as for security reasons it was illuminated for only very brief periods. We managed to land both aircraft safely, and Miley, in the third aircraft, although he got separated from us in cloud, landed eventually at Hornchurch. It was the first of very many frustrating night patrols.
Before Europe had become engulfed in war British plans had envisaged a strategic air offensive against Germany by Bomber Command. Now that the stark reality was upon us it was clear that the Command had neither the capacity or efficiency to undertake the effort that would be required to have a noticeable effect on the German war effort. In response to an appeal by President Roosevelt, Britain and France announced that they would restrict bombing to targets of military importance. Surprisingly Germany followed suit after her short campaign in Poland. Thus it was that our gambit was the dropping of six million propaganda leaflets over Germany and sporadic attacks on units of the enemy fleet in Wilhelmshaven and the Schilling Roads. But it was the German response at the commencement of hostilities that was of importance to our defending fighter force.
In the first few months very few German aircraft penetrated our territory, and fighter sorties flown by the squadron were largely defensive patrols and flights for the development of the airborne radar (AI) and training of its operators. Constant reassessment of the risk of air attack and where it might fall resulted in fighter squadrons sometimes being redeployed to other bases. Accordingly, two weeks after the outbreak of war my squadron was moved to Filton to provide cover for Bristol and Avonmouth docks. Having carried out reconnaissance flights and familiarized ourselves with the approaches to Bristol and the Severn from all directions, squadron defensive night patrols continued. It was now policy for anti-aircraft defences and barrage balloons to be deployed around vital industrial establishments, particularly factories producing aircraft and aero engines. It therefore seemed appropriate that our Blenheim fighters were employed in defence of the factories in and around Filton, where our aircraft and its engines were built. Despite regular night patrols the Blenheims made no contact with enemy aircraft. There was still little air activity, but German naval units were becoming increasingly aggressive. Earlier in the month the British liner Athenia was torpedoed 140 miles off the Hebrides, with many Americans among the missing. Several small British ships and a French trawler were torpedoed, and the aircraft-carrier HMS Courageous was sunk in the Bristol Channel by a U-boat.
On a day off duty I met some of my family in Bristol, to where my brother had driven them down from Gloucester. This was the first time that we had met since the outbreak of war, and we had plenty of news to exchange. My brother, whose building firm was engaged in the construction of military facilities and airfield hangars and workshops, was in a reserved occupation and had joined the Observer Corps in Gloucester. One sister was in the Land Army and Mother was doing useful community work where they lived at Longhope, under the shadow of May Hill. My other sister was working in London at the Ministry of Information. The family brought news of the war budget: income tax at 7/6d, and 1½d on an ounce of tobacco, half a pint of beer and a packet of cigarettes! This was no great burden, but it foreshadowed much greater hardships to come, particularly when German U-boats swarmed into the Atlantic and started their relentless attacks on ships of our Merchant Fleet carrying all manner of vital supplies to the homeland.
Early in the next month the squadron was redeployed back to Northolt, and as we took off from Filton I recalled that first visit to the Bristol Aircraft Company when mother had introduced me to the world of fighting aeroplanes, and I could again visualize in my imagination that silver-winged Bulldog fighter touching down on that very same grass from which my Blenheim now became airborne on a sterner mission. More grim news greeted us on landing back at Northolt. The battleship Royal Oak had been sunk by a U-boat while at anchor in Scapa Flow, with the loss of nearly 800 lives. And the first air raid on Britain had taken place when fourteen German bombers had attacked the naval dockyard at Rosythe and the Forth bridge. The next day a few bombs were reported on Scapa Flow, and there were air raid warnings sounded down the east coast. Despite all this activity around us my companions and I seemed to fit in occasional breaks for relaxation when released from duty. On one day I ferried a Blenheim IV for servicing down to St Athan, a maintenance unit in Wales, and stayed on for a mess dance at the station that night with my navigator. The next day we were collected by two friends in another Blenheim and we called in at Filton on the way home for lunch. That evening back at Northolt we went to a film in Ruislip, Confessions of a Nazi Spy. The next day I was invited to apply for a commission, which was approved by my station commander, and I managed to get through a local medical board without any problem. That evening we went to a station dance at Alexandra Palace to celebrate with a party of WAAF girls. Half the squadron had a stand-down the following weekend, and I met my eldest sister, who was working in London, and we collected my mother from Paddington and went together to a film in Baker Street. The next day we went to the film The Lion Has Wings at Leicester Square, and then a show, The Little Dog Laughs, at the Palladium, followed by dinner at the Café Royal. The following day we met for lunch at the Café de l’Europe, Leicester Square, followed by the film Black Velvet at the Hippodrome, and finally finishing up at the Piccadilly Grill for dinner. Our leaves were short, and as can be seen we were determined to fit in as much as possible in the precious time available. Having said my goodbyes to my mother and sister, I rushed back to Northolt to be on duty at dawn next day.
The news awaiting me was not good, and this time it was a local tragedy. A pilot whom I knew well from the meteorological flight, which carried out a daily weather information-gathering, flying from Northolt in Gladiators, had crashed apparently out of control while descending through cloud and had been killed. This brought back memories of my incident when I became disorientated in cloud and so nearly lost control of my Gladiator. There was news also of a British destroyer hitting a mine off the east coast and sinking with loss of lives. A few weeks later when my squadron attacked the seaplane base from which it was believed the minelaying aircraft came I felt that perhaps that we had taken some small revenge for at least some of those who had been killed. On 21 October I had my first problem with a Blenheim when the starboard engine failed at 7,000 feet. I had no difficulty in getting back to base with all that height in hand, and landed without incident. I did not mention this episode to Captain Lord Inchquim, who was my passenger that afternoon in another Blenheim when I took him on a reconnaissance of AA sites. A further incident occurred a few weeks later with more serious consequences, which ended in my first-ever crash. I was detailed to do some night circuits and landings, and as my navigator and I walked out to our aircraft we were conscious of the very heavy frost on the ground. Strangely enough the Blenheim did not seem to be affected, and as we strapped in I could see quite clearly through the windscreen the ground-crew waiting to start the engines. Start-up was quite normal and I had no difficulty in taxiing out and lining up on the flare-path. Shortly after take-off, however, all the Perspex windows iced over, leaving me with no forward visibility. I tried to open the side window to keep the airfield lights in view, but this was firmly iced up. At this time there was no de-icing system fitted to the Blenheim, and as I realized that freezing level was obviously at ground level I could not see any way out of my dilemma. I concluded that my only option was to try and land as soon as possible. I had been flying by instruments since take-off, and it was not easy to establish my position, let alone find the flare-path on which to attempt a landing. I called ground control on the radio and reported my difficulty, and to my relief a helpful voiced answered and offered to illuminate the airfield identification beacon. Our radios at this time were not all that reliable, hence the relief to get an answer. I then asked for the landing floodlight to be switched on, as this was situated at the touchdown point on the flare-path. As these lights came on I could see their glow through the aircraft’s opaque windows, which showed no sign of clearing, and I managed to set up an approximate line of approach to the landing strip. Still on instruments, with an occasional glance outside I managed to keep the blurred image of the floodlight immediately ahead and the beacon in the right relative position to starboard. I estimated my distance from the threshold and began to lose height as shown on my altimeter, and checked my heading on the compass. As I came up to the floodlight I throttled right back and checked my descent. And then the floodlight went out. Perhaps the operator thought I was already on the ground, but as it was I was plunged into a darkness so intense that I could see nothing and all I could do was just feel my way down onto the grass by instinct. The Blenheim wheels touched quite lightly, and with a gasp of relief I applied the brakes and concentrated on keeping the aircraft straight. However, my relief was premature as there was a sudden deceleration and I was thrown forward onto my safety harness as the Blenheim ploughed into the substantial grass bank at the far end of the airfield and finished up with its nose hanging over the Western Avenue, which passes alongside Northolt airfield. I managed with difficulty to get the iced-up overhead escape-hatch open with the help of a fireman who had appeared very speedily, and it was a relief to have a clear view at last as I clambered out and slid down the rather crumpled wing. The aircraft’s frosted-over windows were still very evident, and I thought I was lucky to have got it down safely, even if, regrettably, not without damage, although the aircraft was flying again within a month. I was relieved to be able to put in my logbook a copy of a letter from my AOC that said, ‘The icing-up of the Blenheim windows was a serious problem that had to be addressed without delay and that this accident was due to circumstances outside the control of the pilot and he was not to blame.’
After a flight to test a replacement engine in another Blenheim the next day I was called in to a briefing on a proposed operational sortie planned to take place on 26 November. This was to be a raid on the German seaplane base on the Island of Borkum, the most westerly of the Friesian Islands. The raid had two objectives: firstly to destroy or damage as many as possible of the Heinkel floatplanes known to be based there, and secondly as a propaganda exercise to support a claim that our long-range fighters were able to reach and attack the homeland of Germany itself. The floatplanes were known to be laying magnetic mines in our coastal waters, and several ships had been sunk, including a British destroyer. These aircraft had proved to be very difficult to intercept as they came in at night below radar cover, and the obvious answer was to try and catch them in their lair.
To this end nine Blenheims of 25 Squadron, led by the squadron commander with me flying as his wingman, took off from Northolt, turning east and crossing out over the coast at Great Yarmouth. We flew 250 miles to the east, low over the North Sea, but by an error of navigation failed to make a landfall, and with nothing but grim grey water in sight the formation wheeled around and returned to land at Northolt some four hours later. The failure of this enterprise was a great disappointment and happened because of a the mistake by the navigator in the lead aircraft, who had been borrowed especially from a bomber squadron. The following day four aircraft of the squadron were standing by to repeat the operation, but this was cancelled and it was not until the day after that that another attempt was to be made.
This time the six aircraft of 25 Squadron were joined by a further six Blenheims from 601 Squadron. We all rendezvoused at Bircham Newton in Norfolk for refuelling and took off in the early afternoon and flew east. All twelve Blenheims kept in fairly close formation as it was a murky winter afternoon, and we flew as before at only a few hundred feet above the dreary grey of the North Sea. An experienced and competent navigator flew with the CO in the lead aircraft, this time borrowed from a maritime reconnaissance squadron. Right on ETA the Dutch coast emerged out of the mist, and a few minutes later we were able to identify the mole, cranes and gantries of Borkum naval base. The squadrons opened out into wide echelon formation and dived down in turn, our four Vickers guns, loaded with De Wilde and incendiary ammunition, spraying the seaplanes, gun posts and installations, while our gunners joined in with their ‘K’ guns as we swept past and climbed away. There was some slight and inaccurate flak coming up at us, but we were too low and fast for it to be accurate and effective. There was no doubt that complete surprise had been achieved, and although it was difficult to assess at the time there must have been quite a lot of damage done. The timing of the attack was impeccable – just enough light to see the objective for our attack but gathering dusk to retreat into and re-form for the flight home. We returned westwards low over the sea in rain and gathering darkness. About an hour later all twelve aircraft landed safely at Debden after this most successful operation. A later assessment showed that the damage done at Borkum was considerable. Several seaplanes had been damaged and fires started. None of our twelve Blenheims suffered any damage, and all the crews taking part agreed that it was a few glorious minutes of strafing and beating up the Hun, giving a welcome relief from the weeks of frustrating inactivity. The Commanding Officer, Hallings Pott of 25 Squadron, was subsequently awarded the DSO, and his navigator, a sergeant, the DFM, for their leading part in the operation. The two flights that accompanied us from 601 Auxiliary Squadron were led by Max Aitken and Whitney-Straight.
While at the time the success of this raid seemed to justify the use of Blenheims as a long-range fighter, account must be taken of the fact that it was a surprise attack, the first of its kind, carried out in poor weather and at dusk. The use of the squadron’s Blenheims on a similar mission but in very different circumstances a few months later was to prove the aircraft’s vulnerability in a tragic way.