January to July 1944
Having received the good news about my new command, I returned to Charter Hall by train on 31 December and arrived in time to celebrate at the New Year’s Eve Party. It would be quite a wrench to leave the OTU, for I had made many friends and got on very well with Rupert, the charming and good-natured station commander. We had enjoyed many good times together and shared a lot of the grief for all too many fatal crashes. Somehow I felt I was letting him and the rest of the loyal staff down at a crucial time by leaving to enjoy flying the more benign Mosquito. I soon had a rude awakening, however! No. 488 Squadron was based at Bradwell Bay on the south side of the Blackwater estuary opposite Mersea Island. More than half of the squadron aircrews were New Zealanders, including two Maoris, and they were mostly inexperienced. I would have one British and one New Zealand flight commander, both of whom were fairly experienced at the game. So it was with high hopes that I cleared from Charter Hall during the first two days of January 1944 and flew down in a Beaufighter VI to Bradwell, taking Becky with me. She was to get a surprise, as the squadron already had a mascot, a huge Great Dane. But subsequently they got on well, with never a cross word between them, although it was rather a case of the giant and the dwarf.
On the 5th I flew the retiring CO of the squadron up to Ouston, the station he was taking over on his promotion to group captain. On the return, flying the Mosquito solo, I was thoroughly enjoying the flight during the pleasant evening of a sunny day, and called Bradwell on the radio, giving my ETA and not bothering to ask for a weather update. But Bradwell came back to say a thick ‘smog’ was moving eastwards from London and that the visibility at Bradwell was already down to 1,000 yards. But now I was only ten minutes from the airfield, and I said I would continue and take a look at the conditions on reaching the base. There was an inversion, and the fog had settled on the ground with the top at about 1,000 feet. With an easterly drift the approach to the runway in use was going to be directly into the setting sun, which was by now low on the horizon, and I found that I could see nothing on that approach. It was at this point that I made one of the worst decisions that I had made in the whole of my flying career. Bradwell tower gave me the option of several alternative airfields where the weather was better, and clearly I should have diverted while I had sufficient fuel, but I decided to see what the approach was like from the other direction with the sun behind me. Although it was still poor, I thought the visibility was better, and determined not to be denied a landing at my new base I told the tower of my intentions. I realized that I would be landing with a tailwind, but it was only slight, and by now the tower had switched on the ‘FIDO’ in the hope that this would help. This was a method of dispersing fog by lighting petrol burners all the way down either side of the runway. This was a fearsome sight at the best of times and an appalling waste of fuel, and in this case quite ineffective as this was not fog but heavy industrial haze. I did a trial run and was then given a radio-directed talk down, which put me in a position to see the runway ahead through the murk. I lowered the wheels and the last of the flap, closed the throttles and landed smoothly on the runway, calling the tower to say I was down. My relief turned to horror when I suddenly became aware that I had touched down a long way down the runway: through the murk emerged the far end of it and the solid hut containing the runway approach beacon, and beyond that I knew the sea wall awaited. I was still travelling at a rate of knots, with no hope of stopping, even with full braking, so I made the split-second decision, released the override and retracted the undercarriage. The Mosquito slithered to a stop on its belly a few yards short of the obstruction ahead. As I sat there in bewilderment that moment would haunt me for a long time in the future and I was furious with myself for such a gross error of judgement, which resulted in serious damage to an aircraft. I did not enjoy relating this incident, and I was pretty upset by it, but the reaction of my New Zealand aircrew, which I had dreaded, was much better than I deserved. Firstly they were mildly sympathetic, and then they kept ribbing me about it; this treatment I applauded, and it endeared them to me, for it lightened the load of my shame.
The rest of January was taken up with night-flying tests and AI practice runs with my new AI operator Pete Bowman, and we had nightly stand-bys for operations. On the 13th I flew to North Weald in my new Mosquito XIII to visit the controllers at the nearby sector operations room, where I met Paul Raymond, the actor, who was a wing commander controller there. Pete and I went on from there to Trimley Heath, which was our controlling radar station. On 20 January I was invited to visit the de Havilland Aircraft factory at Hatfield. I was very pleased to accept, particularly as I was now flying the de Havilland Mosquito, and I looked forward to discussing the aircraft with the experts. On arrival I was introduced to the major and Peter de Havilland, and invited to join them for lunch. After lunch we were all ushered outside to see the Vampire fighter flying over. The whistling screech was a new sound in the air and one with which I would become very familiar in the future.
On the night of the 21st the squadron shot down two Huns – a Dornier Do 217 and a Junkers Ju 88. After congratulating the two crews concerned and marking up their score on the crew-room score-card, I flew down to Greenham Common to attend Capt Lister’s funeral, and then returned to Bradwell without delay as the squadron was very busy with regular night interceptions. On 28 January the staff of 11 Group Headquarters threw a party at Uxbridge, and many of my friends were there, including several whom I had met recently in North Africa during my visit to the Coastal Air Force. The festivities went on well into the early hours, so I spent what remained of the night in the Chequers at Uxbridge. On 5 February my Dutch crew shot down a Dornier Do 217, and Pete and I were scrambled to patrol in cooperation with the searchlights, but made no interceptions. The next night we were scrambled to patrol under Trimley radar control, and chased after a searchlight ‘canopy’, but no visual was obtained so we had to return empty-handed. Bradwell was one of the best-equipped and largest runways in the south of England, and being close to the continent it was often host to returning bombers that might be short of fuel or with other trouble after a raid. On the 5th Pete and I were diverted from our night-flying test to lead in a B-17 bomber that had made a distress call to the tower. We were homed onto the American aircraft, which was clearly badly damaged and staggering along on only two engines, barely maintaining height. We flew alongside and synchronized speed, and then took the lead, aiming with radar help to take the bomber in on a direct approach to the runway in use. I called the tower to clear the circuit and give priority for landing to the crippled bomber, and provided them with an accurate time of our arrival. The bomber’s radio seemed intermittent, but we kept up a running commentary on our position in case they could receive it. With a mile to go we told the B-17 to look ahead for the runway and were relieved to see its undercarriage being lowered. As our Mosquito flew ahead, the bomber landed safely and came to a halt on the side of the runway. This was one of the many B-17s to creep into Bradwell with damage, and sometimes they made crash-landings and remained ominously still while the crash tenders and ambulances rushed to their aid. Sometimes members of the crew had been injured or killed, and the rescue team were faced with the dreadful sight of the aircraft dripping blood onto the runway. The US bomber force on daylight raids suffered dreadful casualties, and no one at Bradwell envied them their job. It was a great relief to the Fortresses when their long-range Mustang fighter began to become available and could escort the bombers for a great deal of their route.
Pete and I flew three operational patrols at the beginning of the month without success. In between night sorties I managed to get a day or two off, and on the 12th we had an evening in London, where we had dinner at the Liaison Club and danced until the small hours at the Cabaret Club. On my return to Bradwell, Pete and I flew four more operational patrols, either with the searchlights or under control of Trimley radar, but without contacts, although on one chase we were baffled by a good deal of ‘window’. This was bunches of aluminium strips dropped by both sides to clutter up the radar. Some of the other crews of the squadron, however, were more successful, and shot down a Junkers Ju 88 and a Dornier Do 217.
March continued with a good deal of enemy activity, and on the 18th Nigel Bunting shot down a Junkers Ju 188, which crashed locally. The next morning Nigel and his operator, the AOC of 11 Group and I were all photographed by the press in front of a huge hole in the ground, with Nigel pointing down at the carnage below, which thankfully was not visible in the picture. On the 21st Pete and I got a good contact while on patrol with Trimley radar, and chased it, following violent evasive action, all the way to the French coast, when we were recalled, as we were not allowed at that time to take our radar, which was still secret, over enemy territory. That night the squadron shot down two more Huns under radar control and three more in conjunction with the searchlights – a great night’s work.
The fact that Pete and I had not yet ‘broken our duck’, as it were, was galling and frustrating, particularly as Pete was a very good operator, but there was no doubt that a great amount of luck was involved in bringing to a satisfactory conclusion the picking up of a contact, following it on the aircraft’s radar, getting into visual range and identifying a target as hostile so that it could be shot down. On the other hand the experience and expertise of some of my aircrews was now beginning to tell, and some individuals were becoming highly skilled when given a target. Perhaps it should be appreciated that I had twenty-eight crews flying on operational patrols regularly, and what enemy trade there was had to be spread out between them. Despite my personal frustration it was very gratifying that the squadron’s score was beginning to mount up, and morale was high.
On 30 March I was able to welcome the New Zealand Deputy Prime Minister, who visited the squadron with the AOC of the Royal New Zealand Air Force. Clearly, they too were delighted to meet the squadron aircrews and ground crews who were making such a splendid contribution to the war effort. At the beginning of April Pete asked me if we could have a change from daily night-flying tests and do a cross-country exercise to give him some practice in straight navigation. This seemed a good idea, so I left him to work out a flight plan, with turning points at known airfields where let-downs and radar approaches could be practised. This was always valuable exercise for air traffic controllers as well as pilots, as the former rarely got enough aircraft with which to practise. I did a check of Pete’s flight plan and we set off from Bradwell, climbing through cloud, and set course for St Mawgan in Cornwall, Pete busy with his stopwatch and CSC. On ETA I called St Mawgan tower and asked for a let-down and radar approach to their runway. This they did gladly, and the Mosquito broke cloud at 450 feet on the glide path and on the centre line, with the runway dead ahead, making a roller landing a simple matter. Having taken off from the roller and started my climb up through cloud, I congratulated and thanked the St Mawgan controller for a faultless approach and set the next course that Pete gave me. We followed the same procedure at Valley in Anglesey and at Honiley. In the latter case we had to break off our approach as we were still in cloud at 400 feet, so we climbed up through the cloud again without seeing the ground. We landed back at Bradwell having done our night-flying test en route.
Life at Bradwell was pretty hectic at this time, with a good deal of enemy activity at night. But I managed to get an odd night off immediate duty when I could invite local friends into the officers’ mess for an evening’s drink and discussion. These became quite popular, and several local characters were made honorary members of the mess.
Notable among these guests was a certain Tom Driberg, who lived locally and brought several cronies with him, and in retrospect I hoped that our discussions were not on sensitive matters, in view of his later reputation as being very Left Wing. But it was always an amusing evening. There was not a great deal of enemy activity in the next few days, although operational patrols were flown. While I was at stand-by one night in the crew room the chaps told me an interesting story, which I had never appreciated before. When I was sitting in the crew room at readiness, Becky would lie at my feet, and as soon as I went out to fly she would hop up onto my chair and there she would sit, without stirring. Quite suddenly she would get down, go to the door and sit outside. The chaps naturally thought that I was just about to walk in, but in fact I had only just called the tower from some miles away for landing. She always seemed to know when I was overhead, and whenever she left my chair the chaps would say, ‘The boss is back’, knowing that I was just about to land. But how did she know? She never made a mistake. If I was diverted they found it very difficult to get her to leave my chair and persuade her to go back with someone else to the mess.
It so happened that one night Pete and I had just landed from a patrol and were walking to the crew room to greet Becky when we heard an aircraft low overhead, obviously in trouble. As it turned and began to descend onto the runway, Pete and I jumped into my Jeep and drove out onto the airfield. The aircraft crashed onto the runway with its wheels retracted, and slithered to a halt. As we drove up and the lights of the Jeep illuminated the aircraft, we were astonished to see the German markings on its side and wings, and recognized it as a Ju 88. Four figures emerged from the wreck, gesticulating and demanding in halting French to know where they were. Pete in his immaculate French replied that they were in ‘Angleterre and you are our prisoners’. They made a half-hearted attempt to draw their side-guns, but as the ambulance drove up and came to a screeching halt Pete and I rounded them up and herded them into the ambulance with vague but forceful threats. As soon as they were all inside, the doors of the ambulance were slammed and, escorted by the Jeep, they were whisked off to the guardroom. It was only then that I realized that Pete was locked in the ambulance as well as the Germans, and I was very relieved to see him descend in good order as the four prisoners were led away by the service policemen for interrogation. When we got back to dispersal and were welcomed, at last, by Becky and several of the crews, I couldn’t resist an aside to Nigel, ‘You may have shot down more Huns than us, but Pete and I are well ahead of you on capturing prisoners!’
Over the next few nights there was considerable activity from enemy raiders, and the squadron was very successful and shot down a further six Germans. We were pleased to receive a very nice signal from the C-in-C ADGB sending ‘Congratulations on the outstanding success and brilliant night’s work’. And a similar signal from C-in-C Headquarters No. 10 Group was received.
Pete and I took a Mosquito down to Zeals in Wiltshire to assess its suitability as an airfield to operate Mosquitos from at night, as there were plans afoot to move the squadron there. The airfield itself was acceptable, although it only had grass runways and few facilities were available as yet, and so pending these being completed the squadron would operate from Colerne on the hill south of Bath. Much to our regrets we moved down there on 5 May, sorry to leave Bradwell, where the squadron had been so successful. In the absence of proper accommodation we were accommodated in a tented camp on the east side of the Colerne airfield.
On 11 May we started night-flying from Zeals, and on the 14th Pete and I were scrambled for a patrol in association with the searchlights. After following searchlight indications we intercepted and fired on a Ju 88, but lost it after violent evasive action. It was probably damaged, but no confirmation could be obtained as it was over the sea. On 20 May the AOC of No. 85 Group presented No. 488 NZ Squadron with a squadron crest at a formal parade on the airfield. The next day Nigel and his operator were awarded a bar to their DFCs, and another crew, John Hall and Jock Cairns, received a DFC each, having shot down the squadron’s fiftieth enemy aircraft. After the war John became a respected barrister, studying at Trinity Cambridge, and was called to the Bar at the Inner Temple.
It was becoming more and more obvious that the invasion of the continent was only a few days away, but before the news broke I managed to get a few days’ leave and arranged to rent a tiny thatched cottage in a charming village in Suffolk where I settled Maisie and daughter Sue before returning to the frantic activity back at base. On 3 June I went to Middle Wallop to collect some very important documents, which were to be guarded like the Crown Jewels and not opened until authorized. On 4 June I was summoned to Headquarters No. 10 Group for briefing by the AOC and his intelligence officer, one Rex Harrison. At a final conference the next day at Tangmere it was announced that ‘D’ Day was on the morrow, and the squadron commanders received their briefing regarding their flying operations required over the beachhead.
The day broke fine and clear, but the forecast for the next few days was not too good. After our usual night-flying tests the squadron provided maximum effort on regular patrols over Normandy and the beachhead after nightfall. We had at least four night-fighter Mosquitos in the air every night under close control of our radar stations – some on the south coast, but one already at sea with the invading forces. Pete and I flew at least once every night, as did most of the other crews, and we maintained a very high flying intensity. I should mention that our servicing crews worked all hours to keep the Mosquitos flying. They did a marvellous job, and deserve the highest praise for their considerable part in the squadron’s success. On 13 and 14 June the squadron shot down five more Huns, and Peter and I did five more operational patrols without success. But by the end of the month the squadron had shot down a further three aircraft. As the ground forces were overrunning more occupied territory, plans could be made to establish forward radar control stations in Normandy. On 27 June I flew an Oxford with another squadron commander and some radar controllers to an advanced landing ground AI at St Pierre De Mont, and then we were taken by Jeep to a 21 Sector radar unit that had been established near Cherbourg. Here we were shown around the site recently deserted by the Germans, and the temporary buildings housing the control room. We then spent our time getting to know the controllers and discussing interception techniques with them, as these were the guys who would hopefully be bringing our fighters to successful interceptions and kills. We flew back to Zeals with German souvenirs and a crate or two of brandy.
At the beginning of July I did a navigation trip down to Aston Down to take an airman on compassionate leave. I took the opportunity to take my brother, in his capacity as an Observer Corps officer, on a flight in the Mosquito. On my return to Zeals, Pete and I flew two more patrols, one when we were sent off chasing flying bombs, which unfortunately we were unable to catch, although twice we had the jet flame in sight but were unable to get closer. During the other patrol we made two interceptions, but on Stirling bombers that were dropping window. On 30 July I was temporarily away from the base when I received a message to say that Nigel was missing on a Lone Ranger patrol over France. Without losing a moment I rushed back to Zeals, full of remorse and a feeling of guilt. I must admit that I did leave the base fairly often when off duty, and I made a pledge that I would not leave it again if I could possibly help it.
I was devastated to lose a flight commander and a friend, and not being with the squadron at the time made it even worse. It is doubtful whether my presence would have made any difference, and the chaps had done everything possible to find out what had happened to Nigel. As soon as I got back to the squadron I got authority to fly two sorties over the area where he was last plotted, in the hope that we might pick up a clue. But nothing was discovered, and his loss was still unaccounted for when I left the squadron, despite all our efforts to arrive at the reason for his disappearance. I later heard that Nigel had been shot down by enemy flak and is buried in France.