December 1939 to May 1940
At the beginning of December I had two interviews for a commission, one with my station commander, Gp Capt Orlebar of Schneider Trophy fame, and the other by my AOC. On Christmas Day the squadron remained on standby at Northolt, and in the crew room discussions ranged widely over the astounding items of news that kept coming in on our crew-room radio. In November the Russians had invaded Finland and early in December the German battleship Graf Spee had been scuttled in the River Plate off Montevideo and her captain had committed suicide. A fierce naval battle had preceded the scuttling of the great ship, and HMS Ajax, HMS Achilles and HMS Exeter had put up a great fight and suffered some damage and casualties. Apart from our raid on Borkum the squadron had seen very little action and envied the Royal Navy’s opportunities to get to grips with the enemy. However, quite a lot of my friends were still in training, several of them doing their flying training in Canada under the Empire Air Training Scheme, which had just been announced in December, and the agreement signed in Ottawa was of great benefit to us as it relieved pressure on instructors in the UK who were heavily engaged in keeping the front-line squadrons manned with pilots.
Early in January No. 25 Squadron was moved to North Weald in Essex, but before we went I carried out several trials on the Holbeach ranges in the Wash of forward-facing guns in the rear turret of the Blenheim. As far as I knew these trials were not conclusive, and the guns were never adopted, which came as a surprise to me as I thought they would have given the Blenheim badly needed added firepower, particularly for attacking at night. At North Weald, besides maintaining a readiness state each night, the squadron was also tasked with providing a flight to escort the Harwich – Hook of Holland daily convoy. Our three Blenheims covered the ship half-way across the North Sea and there they were relieved by twin-engined Potez fighters from the French Air Force. Our meeting in mid-channel was usually accompanied by a good-natured dogfight, which served to relieve the monotony. At this time there was much toing and froing of squadron flights between North Weald and Martlesham Heath. The flight at the latter base was employed on intensive training and air testing of the new radar equipment in the Blenheim IV, as well as keeping a night air-defence readiness state. Some night air-defence patrols were carried out from North Weald, particularly at low levels looking for the minelayers. From one of these patrols, Sgt Monk returned to base with all three blades of his starboard propeller bent up like a coathanger. He had hit the sea but by a miracle managed to retain control and recover normal flight for a return to base not a little embarrassed.
On 28 March I was required to report to the Central Medical Board of the RAF at Imperial House, Kingsway, for a full medical for my commission. The next day I was very relieved to hear that I had got through it successfully, and was told that I could go ahead and order my officer’s uniform. This was an exciting time for me, of course, but depressing news from the squadron was that a new officer, Plt Off Brierly, had been killed when his Blenheim stalled after take-off at night and crashed. His radar operator, Plt Off Sword-Daniels, died later in hospital. Another tragedy happened at Martlesham when Plt Off Obelinski, the international rugby wing three-quarter, was killed when his neck was broken as his Hurricane overturned after landing, a sad loss to his squadron and a blow to international rugby. But my mood soon picked up when I set off for London in high spirits, this time to call at Fulchers of Saville Row to be measured for my uniform. As I emerged into Piccadilly the Evening News placards showed that Sir Samuel Hoare had been appointed as our new Air Minister. The next day I had to return to North Weald to get cleared and to hand in my rough serge sergeant’s uniform, which I did with much relish. On 1 April 1940, after serving as a sergeant for three years, I received my commission. I found it quite a wrench to be leaving 25 Squadron, having served in it for most of that time. My CO provided a nice parting gesture by recording another ‘exceptional’ assessment in my logbook before my departure.
I was commissioned as a pilot officer and posted to No. 600 City of London Auxiliary Squadron, which was based at Northolt. I anticipated that there would be quite a change in my lifestyle, and joining an auxiliary squadron as an ex-NCO I thought might accentuate the difficulty of my being accepted into its exclusive ranks. All their pilots were what the press used to describe as weekend flyers, and were mostly wealthy financiers or their sons from the City. Even in the service they maintained a very high standard of living. Lord Lloyd was the squadron’s Honorary Air Commodore, and the squadron maintained very close relations with the City’s dignitaries. I was concerned that I would find them rather proud and haughty, but from the squadron commander down they were all very considerate and understanding in their acceptance of this very new member straight from the sergeant’s mess with the very thin blue ring on his sleeve.
Before taking up my new posting I had a few days’ leave, which I spent with my brother. After I had shown off my new uniform to the family, Leslie took me down to Bristol and we saw Tommy Trinder at the Hippodrome and then went on to Ilfracombe to stay in one of the best rooms in the Cunningham Hotel, as befitted a newly commissioned officer! We came back through Bristol to try the newly opened Mauritania Hotel, reputed to have a bar on every level of the eight-storey building. It had, and we sampled them all, but it was, after all, a special celebration of my commission. I was quite sober the next day when I joined my new squadron, which in the meantime had moved to Manston in Kent. No. 600 Squadron also flew Blenheim fighters, but they were not yet fitted with AI, and my first four flights from Manston were to calibrate the ground radar stations looking out from Kent across the Channel and to accustom us and the controllers to the interception techniques that were going to be so vital in the months to come. My next flight was a two-hour night standing patrol off the coast, which passed off without incident. That April the weather had turned out to be beautifully sunny and warm, and I well remember sitting out in front of the officers’ mess after lunch with the other pilots of 600 Squadron in our shirt sleeves, drinking Kummel out of wine glasses. If this was an example of the lifestyle they were used to, I doubted whether I would be able to keep up with them for long. As we sat drinking our Kummel in the sunlight we talked of the German invasion of Norway, the bombing of Oslo and the rumour that the Nazis had landed troops in Denmark. We could only make a pathetic gesture in support when we landed a small force of British troops at Narvik. There was much speculation as to how soon the Germans would move into the Low Countries, but there was no doubt in our minds that this prospect was inevitable, and as we at Manston looked across the lawn and the well-tended flower beds of roses and marigolds, out beyond Ramsgate and Broadstairs towards the Pas de Calais, we found it hard to believe that this peace would not endure. But we were soon to learn the reality.
The warm and sunny month of May continued, and for a while the relative calm of our lives was unbroken. In the officers’ mess life continued to be lavish, and the old batmen still brought us early-morning tea, ran our bath, cleaned our shoes and pressed and laid out our uniforms. After an unhurried breakfast we would set off across the airfield to the flight office to check on the day’s flying programme and get our flying kit from our lockers in the crew room. There might be an air test, a radar calibration run or perhaps a convoy escort out in the Straights of Dover to be carried out before lunch. The squadron kept a flight of aircraft and crews at immediate readiness, and this duty was rotated throughout the day. So after lunch there were probably still a few officers off duty lounging and snoozing in the sun on the lawn in front of the mess. One or two of the younger officers had taken rented accommodation locally, and their wives were living near to the airfield, and so they would go to them when off duty. But even as they enjoyed this pleasant existence, German Panzer divisions were massing on the Dutch border, supported by their dive-bombers and an armada of Junkers Ju 52 troop-carriers, with a host of infantry and paratroops. Overhead, protecting this massive force, would be a fleet of single- and twin-engined fighters. At dawn on 10 May they rolled forward with relentless momentum, and the peace and tranquility of that precious corner of Kent where 600 Squadron waited was to be shattered and changed, perhaps for ever, as would the lives of those assembled to defend it.
An early German objective was the Waalhaven airfield at Rotterdam, at which they would need to land their infantry units transported in the Ju 52s. At Manston No. 600 Squadron was brought to readiness, and A Flight was warned for an operation over Holland that morning. Before a full briefing could take place, the order was cancelled and the flight could relax, although kept at immediate readiness. It was released at noon, and B Flight, my flight, came on duty, and so it was we who were briefed to carry out this operation. Six Blenheims with their crews, led by the squadron commander, Jimmy Wells, with me flying as his No. 2, took off from Manston and climbed up into that clear blue sky to 2,000 feet and circled waiting for a promised Spitfire escort. Some time passed but the sky remained clear, so the squadron commander decided not to delay our planned time on target and set course for Rotterdam. As we approached the Scheldt we climbed to 3,000 feet and changed to a loose echelon formation. Our specific task was to attack German troop-carrying aircraft and infantry on the Waalhaven airfield or airborne in the circuit, and there was no question of our engaging German fighters until that was accomplished. So all our attention was directed at the airfield, and all the Blenheims dived down and fired on the Ju 52s and other opportunity targets. Damage was done and fires started, but there was little time to assess the extent before the German fighters were upon us as we climbed away struggling for height to put us on better terms to meet the Messerschmitts. The CO’s aircraft was the first to go down, crashing in flames into the outskirts of Rotterdam, quickly followed by three more Blenheims flown by the young flying officers also going down in flames. The fifth aircraft, having survived one attack, managed to evade further damage and set course for home. Unfortunately Norman, in the confusion, mistakenly turned south to make his escape instead of north, but soon realized the error and turned around. As he flew back over the same battleground he was amazed to find that there was not an aircraft in sight and the sky all around was clear. He was the only one from the flight to get back home that day, and arrived back at Manston safely but with an explosive incendiary shell lodged in a fuel tank. I, of course, was flying the remaining Blenheim, and like the others I was attacked by either an Me 109 or an Me 110 as I climbed away from attacking the Ju 52s. In the first attack by the fighter a burst of cannon shells shattered the Perspex hood above my head, grazing my helmet and destroying the instrument panel in front of me. I started to weave sharply, but the next attack stopped my port engine and riddled the port wing. With one engine out I could no longer weave, so to try and shake off the attacking fighters I dived down to low level, but the attacks persisted and yet another burst of cannon riddled my starboard wing and shot off a few feet of the starboard propeller, setting up a horrible vibration. My airspeed indicator had been shot away, but I would not have been able to read it with the severe vibration anyway, so I had no idea of my airspeed. My poor old Blenheim was now staggering along on only one engine, with a lot of surface damage hindering the airflow over the wings and tail, so I knew I must be very near to stalling and falling out of the sky. And then an extraordinary thing happened. As I struggled to maintain control of the aircraft, an Me 109 F flew alongside in close formation with my Blenheim. Either the German pilot thought we must be doomed anyway or he was out of ammunition and was just waiting for us to crash, but I was screaming at Kramer, my gunner, to shoot him down. More shouts came from the back saying his gun was jammed. ‘Change the f—g magazine!’ But this advice was not needed, as at that moment the gunner’s ‘K’ gun burst into life at the sitting target. The 109 slowly fell back and was seen to disappear into the low scrub, and Kramer was sure he had hit the pilot and the aircraft had subsequently crashed. I was too busy to see what was happening astern as I nursed my badly damaged Blenheim along and tried to keep it in the air. We were rapidly losing flying speed, and my right leg was giving way under the strain of trying to keep straight against the asymmetric power with only a single engine working. I knew now that I had to try and get the aircraft down, and very quickly, before it stalled and spun in. But ahead was a line of what looked to me like the tallest trees in Holland! With the gentlest of movement of the controls I managed to lift the staggering machine over them with only a foot or two to spare, and there ahead, ‘God be praised!’, was mile after mile of mudbanks. I had no time or inclination to put down the flaps or wheels, but managed to put the Blenheim down fairly gently and it settled on the mud like a dying swan relieved at last of the pain of its fatal injuries. The mud quickly slowed us down, and as we slivered to a stand-still my gunner and I were able to clamber out and get onto firmer ground on the bank alongside which we had landed. We were on the Dutch island of Overflakkee, near Herkingen, and we stood on a very remote spot with only one small farmhouse in sight. As we surveyed the scene around us there was no sign of the intense air activity of a few minutes before. Nevertheless we decided that the sooner we distanced ourselves from our faithful Blenheim L. 1514 (N) the better, for it would surely never fly again. First, however, we tried to burn it, but even with the help of several Very cartridges fired into it and the fuel leaking from the wing tanks it would not oblige. We feared that further flares might draw unwelcome attention to us, as we could now see several Ju 52s not far away dropping parachute troops. With a last look at my gallant Blenheim and a prayer of gratitude for our deliverance we hurried along the bund to the small isolated farmhouse, where we were hastily ushered inside by the old man who stood at the door. Despite our protests we were sat down by the deal table in the little kitchen and given cheese and bacon and a mug of unknown beverage by his wife. We thanked the old man and his wife profusely, but not wishing to compromise them further we set off along the track pointed out to us as going to the nearest town of Oud-Beijerland. We hurried along as there was no cover on either side, and it was a relief to reach the small houses of the town. Here we were swiftly picked up by a unit of the Dutch Army, who, though initially suspicious, and who could blame them, for we had seen German paratroops falling all around, told us that they would do their best to get us to the coast and a ship back to England. Being thus assured we were content to be escorted to the Hotel de Oude Hoorn. Here we spent a very noisy night with firing and explosions going on all around, and next day we were surprised and gratified to find we were still in friendly hands. We were taken to see one of our injured aircrew in hospital nearby. Poor Hugh was badly burned and in a poor way, but we promised that we would take him with us if we possibly could. The next morning, still in Oud-Beijerland, we went in to see Hugh again. He was conscious but we were told that it would be most unwise to try and move him. Unfortunately we were whisked away at midnight when the Dutch said they were retreating. When we protested about leaving Hugh behind they said that they thought that the hospital was already in German hands. Hugh subsequently survived to become a prisoner. After we were rushed across the ferry we were escorted to the little town of Numansdorp. Here in the middle of the day we were left with a Dutch family in their large house in suburbia, with strict instructions from the Dutch militia that we must lie low until we were picked up again. The weather was very hot and cloudless, and as we waited we were invited out into the garden by the two daughters of the house and persuaded to play a game of table-tennis. It did occur to me at the time that it was a very inappropriate thing to be doing under the circumstances, and a little reminiscent of Drake and his bowls. As the game progressed we saw several Heinkels flying low overhead, and heard machine-gun fire. I persuaded the girls that we would all be safer indoors, and luckily we were picked up again by a staff car and driver soon after. We were taken to a large country house on the edge of town, where we joined a civilian party from the Philips factory at Eindhoven. Here we were accommodated in the large house, and we all slept on the floor of a huge lounge. In the morning we were given a breakfast of cold raw bacon, brown bread and margarine and cold tea before setting off in convoy out of town along a straight road into the countryside. As we marched along we were machine-gunned ineffectively by a Heinkel that flew very low overhead. Having been picked up by a Dutch Army staff car, my gunner and I were taken on a wild dash into the Hague. As we entered the city the Germans were lobbing mortar shells into the streets, and the smoke was the cause of a scare of a gas attack, which fortunately proved to be groundless but was very worrying at the time. The Dutch soldiers accompanying us in the car carried side-arms and there was one machine-gun held by the man in the front seat. I remarked that we felt a little naked without some means of defence, and the officer beside me presented me with a very neat little 9 mm Browning automatic. It wasn’t much, but it gave me a little more confidence. At least it was a nice souvenir, and later, when I got home, I asked my squadron armourer to clean it and service it for me. When he reported on it he said it was just as well that I did not have to use it in a tight corner as the firing pin had been filed down to make it inoperable! Back in Holland we were still with the Dutch Army who next took us to visit another injured airman, Plt Off Savill, a Hurricane pilot from 235 Squadron, Bircham Newton. Unfortunately he was very badly injured and was not able to give us a message that we could take back to his family. We were then rushed off to the British Legation in the Hague, where we found the front door barricaded with sandbags, and so we were sent round to the back entrance. In the doorway at the foot of the stairs stood a British Tommy, tin hat, puttees and an old .303 rifle at the slope and looking just as though he had been there since 1918! After reporting in here we were passed on to the Air Attaché, who listened to our report of the action with interest. A messenger rushed in at this point, and the Air Attaché looked up from the flimsy he was reading and surprised us by offering us a chance to return to Britain by air! Apparently the Dutch troops had liberated a serviceable Heinkel at Waalhaven airfield and the Air Attaché asked if we would be prepared to fly it to the UK. After a feeling of shock I thought what a wonderful chance that would be – a bit of one-upmanship to appear in the circuit at Manston in a Heinkel bomber. Without giving it further thought we leapt at the chance, and as we were whisked off in the Air Attaché’s car my gunner and I were frantically trying to work out the German for fuel, flaps and undercarriage, etc. But the excitement was shortlived, as our car was stopped further on and we were told that the airfield had been recaptured by the Germans and the Heinkel was no longer available! I did not know whether my feelings were of disappointment or relief, but it meant that that night we spent a very noisy few hours in the Hotel de Passage in the Hague, conscious of the time slipping away when we might be getting down to the coast. In the blessed quiet of the new day’s dawn we were picked up by a Dutch staff car, and it was a case of a dash down to the Hook of Holland in the hope of catching a ship. There was plenty of evidence of fighting on the way, and we had to be diverted several times to avoid road blocks set up by isolated pockets of German paratroops. Arriving on the dockside at the Hook a very welcome sight greeted us: two Royal Navy frigates were tied up alongside, their white ensigns bravely waving in the fresh morning breeze. We were expeditiously ushered aboard HMS Hereward, with H43 painted on her hull, and surprisingly we discovered a gang of ratings busily employed in tidying the decks and polishing the brightwork on guns and bulwarks. A chief petty officer seem to be fishing with a long pole over the stern, but we were told later that he was warding off mines that the Germans had dropped higher upstream to float down to the ships moored below. After an anxious short wait with the sounds of battle getting ever nearer, there was a flurry of activity on the dockside and a cavalcade of large limousines skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. Several distinguished ladies and gentlemen came aboard to be met with due reverence. As the last one came over the ship’s side the gangway was dropped and abandoned, the warps and cables were cast off and with a surge of power the diesels gushed out a plume of black smoke as the ship cleared the inner mole, already doing some 25 knots. There was gentle panic on deck as lifejackets were handed out, and in the confusion a rather large lady, surrounded by her attendants, was struggling to get into hers. I went forward to see if I could help, but as I did so a lieutenant-commander approached with authority and said, ‘I think you should come below, Your Majesty.’ It was Queen Wilhelmina, and the rest of the party were members of her Court and Government. I thought it strange at the time that, although the ship had been attacked sporadically by dive-bombers during the previous night and had fired off every shell on board, no enemy aircraft came near the vulnerable ship carrying such a high prize at any time during our dash from the Hook or during our five-and-a-half-hour passage to Harwich. The Germans must have known that their most valuable hostage was escaping but seemed to do nothing to prevent it. I was much too relieved to be safely back on home ground to let it worry me further, and I went straight to the Air Ministry to report my return to the duty clerk. Then I made tracks to find a telephone to tell my family that I was safe. I did not know it then, but I had been reported missing for two days, so my call was received with great relief. But it was a sad story on which to reflect. Out of the six aircraft of No. 600 squadron that had set out on that sunny May afternoon to try and help the Dutch in a brave but forlorn effort, only one aircraft returned, six aircrew had been killed, including the squadron commander, Jimmy Wells, and his gunner, Cpl Kidd, four more were shot down, three of whom managed to get back to Britain within a few days, and the fourth was badly injured and eventually became a prisoner. It was a terrible shock for those two poor girls who had breakfasted with their husbands that morning just down the road from Manston, and now Mike and Roger were dead, shot down over the Ijsselmonde area of Rotterdam in a gallant but doomed attempt to help our Dutch friends. In November 1981 the people of Rotterdam invited members of No. 600 Squadron and the relatives of those killed in this raid to a remembrance service at their gravesides and a thanksgiving for their efforts to help them in those dark days. A young Dutchman, Hans Onderwater, has recorded in his book about the war years in his town of Barendrecht, a few miles south of Rotterdam, details of the 600 Squadron’s valiant effort. He has called his book En toen was het stil (And then there was silence).