August 1944 to July 1945
By the beginning of August my squadron’s victories had amounted to 41 German aircraft destroyed. On the night of the 4th while on my 112th operational patrol, Pete and I were flying over the beachhead when ground control warned us of an unidentified aircraft six miles ahead and crossing from port to starboard. Pete picked up a contact on our radar and was able to put us in a perfect position to identify the aircraft as a Ju 88. I closed in to 200 yards and opened fire with the aircraft firmly in my sights. A two-second burst of the four cannon was devastating and started a fire in the port engine of the Junkers, and pieces began to fly off it and whistle over our heads. It then turned slowly to port and dived steeply down, and we saw it explode on the ground east of Vire in Normandy. Ground control soon put us onto another contact that we chased after, but in the end had to abandon, as we ran into heavy flak from Allied ships. Not surprisingly the Navy gunners were a bit trigger happy at this time, and it was unwise to provoke them.
On landing back at Zeals my ground crew gave a cheer as we taxied in and they spotted that I had fired my cannon because the fabric patches that covered the cannon mouths were in tatters. The next night we flew two more patrols, but all was quiet. On the 9th, during another patrol, we had a visual sighting of a Ju 88 but could not get into firing range when it took violent evasive action. After two more rather dull operational patrols over Le Havre and the beachhead, we had a far from dull patrol on the 26th. It was a bright moonlit night and we were given a patrol line that we followed for some time without incident. After an hour our controller called to say that we had a friendly aircraft in our vicinity that was showing an undue interest, and advised us to do a quick turnaround to shake it off. So I pulled around into a steep turn, and after straightening up we came under attack, with a burst of cannon shells hitting the Mosquito in the fuselage behind the cockpit. A bit shaken, and not knowing what damage we had suffered, I called up Colerne and reported the action and requested an emergency landing either at an airfield en route or back at base. I advised Pete to put on his parachute and be ready to jettison the escape hatch, even though everything seemed to be behaving normally. We stayed on course for Colerne for twenty minutes, and with the airfield in sight I began to relax and we landed without any trouble. It transpired that the culprit was an American Black Widow night-fighter pilot who misidentified the Mosquito as a Ju 88. On inspection after landing, our servicing crew found several 20 mm cannon shells lodged in the dinghy pack a few inches behind Pete’s head! We were both very lucky to have escaped more serious damage, but no apology was ever received from the American pilot or his unit. A subsequent board of enquiry by the Americans found he was not to blame, and he was promoted to major and sent back to the States. I heard later that when he was questioned about not identifying the aircraft that he fired at as a Mosquito his answer was that he thought it was ‘a small Ju 88’! I wondered at the time what would have happened if the attack had been successful. Anyway, the day after the incident, Paris was liberated, which served to take our minds off the affair.
On 1 September Pete and I had another success while patrolling south of Caen. He got a good radar contact and I followed his instructions until I got a visual. The long, tapered wings of a Ju 188 were unmistakeable, and I closed in and after a sustained burst of cannon fire it crashed in flames west of Le Havre. After the combat, we returned to Colerne to land in heavy rain, with a cloud base of 400 feet. The local controller gave me an excellent talk-down, which made the landing straightforward despite the rain and low ceiling. We were again treated to a cheer from our ground crew as we taxied in with clear evidence that we had fired our cannon again. The next day, as our night patrols continued, came the good news that Brussels had been liberated and the Dutch border crossed by our troops in several places. The reoccupation of European territory continued to go well. In the middle of all this action the squadron was re-equipping with Mosquito XXXs, which were fitted with the new AI Mk 10 SCR 720, the new American radar system. This was a great improvement on previous marks, as regards both range and its resistance to Window interference. On 9 September I had my last flight in my faithful steed, the Mosquito Mk XIII MM566, and Pete and I air-tested my new Mk XXX MM 818 with AI Mk 10. For the rest of the month flying was mostly taken up with conversion training for Pete and the other operators on the new radar, which was substantially different from the old mark.
Then rumour had it that the squadron was to move to Hunsdon early in October, as other squadrons started moving to the continent. Clearly 488 would go over soon, and so on 2 October Pete and I in the Mosquito XXX flew over to take a look at the airfields coming into use in France. We landed at Amiens Glise, then on to Brussels Melsbroek, where we had a stopover and a chance to savour the nightspots of Brussels. The next day we went to Ghent by road and returned, and then flew back to Colerne. A couple of days later on a flight in an Oxford to Sudbury with Pete and Becky, I had to force-land at Lyneham when a piece of the port propeller flew off in flight, causing very severe vibration. On the 9th I led a squadron formation from Colerne to Hunsdon on the squadron redeployment, and we started operational patrols from there without delay, although things seemed rather quiet and we felt that the squadron had been taken out of the front line temporarily, pending a move to the continent. On the 19th I flew to Lille Vendeville via Le Treport, and a day or two later to Ghent (St Denis-Westrem) to where No. 85 Group HQ had been moved. There was a party for the Belgians at the Hôtel de la Poste that evening, where there was a large gathering of officers from most of the British squadrons then in Belgium, and good relationships were built up with our Belgian visitors.
At the end of the month, much to my disappointment I was posted onto the staff of 85 Group, pending the formation of a wing headquarters, to take two squadrons to France when an airfield was available. As there was no immediate job for me, I asked to be attached to the Group Forward Repair Unit as its test pilot to test operational aircraft after repair or inspection and return them to operational squadrons. The unit was based at Odiham, but before reporting there I flew a Mosquito to Hunsdon to attend No. 488 Squadron’s farewell party, where I was well and truly ‘dined out’. I was very sad to leave the squadron that had been so successful and where I had made so many New Zealand friends. Not least of all, I was very sorry to have to say goodbye to Pete, who had been my splendid radar operator for some hundred flights, and I was very pleased that before splitting up we managed to shoot down two German aircraft together. I think that he stayed with the squadron for a while, but I regret that I lost touch with him.
On arrival at Odiham I soon settled into my new job, and on my second day I air-tested a Mustang III, a Mosquito XIII, and another Mosquito. This was the first time that I had flown a Mustang, and I found it a delight to fly, with a comfortable and roomy cockpit to make its long range and endurance tolerable for long hours at the controls. The locking tailwheel for take-off was an innovation I had not come across before. The next day I flew a Mustang and a Typhoon, the latter type being new to me, and this too I found was a very rugged fighter, but pleasant to fly. It had a much bigger, heavier feel to it after the Mustang and the Spitfire, but it was a really aggressive and pugnacious machine in which to go to war, as was proved by its reputation as a ‘tank buster’. I also tested a Mosquito and then ferried it to Lille and was flown in an Oxford by a Canadian pilot to Amiens Glisy, together with the indomitable Jimmy Rawnsley DSO, John Cunningham’s radar operator. There was a resident night-fighter squadron at Amiens, and we took the opportunity to exchange views and experiences of the night-fighting game. The following day I flew as second pilot in a Dakota back to Hawkinge to pick up a Proctor, and took it back to Odiham. For the next week I was kept busy air-testing Mosquitos and Mustangs. After some time I managed to get in a game of rugger at Odiham, but there was little enthusiasm among the participants and, it must be admitted, not a lot of talent. However, I felt fitter after the game. Over the last few months I had been making efforts to obtain a posting to the Empire test pilots’ course at Farnborough, but I had heard nothing in response to my formal application, so after an air test I took a Mustang to Boscombe Down to make enquiries from the commandant, whom I knew. I was told that the prospects did not look good! The following day I tried to deliver a Mosquito to Ghent, but the weather was bad and I had to postpone the trip. I finally spent a day in Ghent, the capital of East Flanders, and was surprised to learn that it was the second largest port in Belgium, even though miles from the sea. At the confluence of the Scheldt and Leie rivers, it has access to the sea, not only by the rivers but also by several canals. In the city the shopping was very expensive, but it was full of the most beautiful buildings, the most splendid of all being the cathedral of St Bavon, the construction of which was started in the tenth century. I was sorry to have to leave, but work was building up at Odiham and I flew back there via Courtrai and Lille. After a short break I flew the Proctor back to Odiham and arrived in time to air-test a Spitfire IX. The next day, before taking the Proctor to West Hampnett and Middle Wallop, carrying delivery pilots, I air-tested a Typhoon. The following day I had another delivery flight, this time in the Oxford, to Cowley and Reading, and returned in time to air-test a Tempest and a Spitfire XIV. Before the end of the month I was asked to demonstrate a Beaufighter to a group staff officer, so I flew him on an hour’s handling flight. In December there were several delivery flights to the continent, including Ghent, Amiens and Courtrai. While in Courtrai I was asked if I would fly an American B-25 Mitchell back to the UK on a delivery flight. I hadn’t flown anything similar before, so it was a bit of a challenge. A plucky corporal who was keen to get back home agreed to come with me, and it was useful to have him in the right-hand seat turning to the right page in the Pilot’s Notes, as I needed to refer to them. The Mitchell turned out to be a very pleasant and straightforward aircraft to fly, with a spacious and well-laid-out cockpit, the flight only being spoilt by deteriorating weather, which made it necessary for us to creep into Manston under low overcast. However, it soon cleared, and after another easy take-off I landed back at Odiham with a feeling of great satisfaction, and, I guessed, some relief in the case of my passenger.
Three days later I was back at Ghent and taken by staff car to Ath to sit as president of a district court martial that lasted for two whole days. On my return to the UK I heard that my posting to command No. 147 Wing had come through. The wing was forming at Odiham and would shortly be proceeding to an airfield on the continent to accommodate a Mosquito and a Typhoon squadron. On the first day of the New Year I returned to Odiham to take over the new wing, and heard the startling news from No. 85 Group that the Luftwaffe had made a last desperate effort to try and counter our air superiority by launching about 300 Fw 190s against our fighter airfields in Belgium and France. About half their force was shot down, but the Allies suffered considerable losses of aircraft caught on the ground. A salutary lesson. The day after testing a Spitfire XIV I flew to Ursel and on to No. 85 Group HQ for briefing on my new wing.
On 10 January I was attached to Hatfield to do a course on de Havilland propellers, which was a very nice rest and a few days of relaxation. The members of the course were accommodated in the Mayfair Hotel, and on the first night after dinner at the Hungarian Restaurant we were taken to a show at the Lyric Theatre. During the next two days we attended lectures and demonstrations, and after a delightful lunch at Brentwood visited Stag Lane, and were given a tour round the factory, finishing up later with another dinner at the Hungarian Restaurant. We finally visited Hatfield, where I met my old friend John Cunningham, who had been taken on by his old firm de Havilland as a test pilot after his very distinguished career as a night-fighter pilot. We were then given an aerial demonstration of the new Hornet fighter, which looked most impressive, and after taxiing in we were intrigued to see the contra-rotating propellers as the engines were shut down. After lunch at Brentwood the course dispersed and we went back to our various units. On the 16th I had to go to Ath once more to finalize the courts martial as president. This time my journey was not as convenient as the last time when I had flown most of the way. Now I first drove to Dover, where I went aboard an air-sea rescue launch to Ostend, and took a train to Ghent and then a staff car to Ath. I tied up the findings of my court after two days and was picked up by an Oxford and returned to Odiham. I was very disappointed to hear that my application for the test pilots’ course had been turned down, as wing commanders were no longer eligible. I flew to Northolt and went in to the Air Ministry to see if I could persuade the Postings Branch to find me a flying job. In early February I heard that the wing would shortly be moving to Ibsley, so I flew down there in an Oxford to find suitable accommodation for the troops. The next day, back at Odiham, I air-tested two Spitfires and arranged for their delivery back to their squadron. Two days later I heard that our move to Ibsley was to be on the following day, so I managed to get in air tests on two more Spitfires and a Tempest after an engine change before I had to leave. I flew down to Ibsley in an Oxford and the rest of the personnel went down by road. We were to be phased in to move to Ghent in the following week, and I went to Hornchurch to arrange a motor transport column to pick up personnel and stores according to the plan I had prepared. On the 21st I took the Oxford to Ghent to arrange for the reception of the wing and accommodation for its personnel, and flew back to Odiham. I air-tested a Typhoon 1B the next day and then flew down to Ibsley in the Oxford. While I was down there I took the opportunity to visit the Central Fighter Establishment commandant and senior staff at Tangmere in the hope that I could persuade them to give me a flying post, as I knew that when I had moved 147 Wing to Belgium I would be out of a job. I also went to see my old rugby friend, Tom Morgan, who was a staff officer at Tactical Air Force HQ, on a similar mission. When I got back to Ibsley there was an American pilot visiting who offered me the chance to fly his Vengeance aircraft in exchange for a trip in my Oxford. I think I got the better part of the deal. On 3 March No. 147 Wing convoy moved off from Ibsley at 06.00 hrs, with me in the lead driving a large Humber shooting brake and the remainder following in three-ton lorries or coaches. We arrived at Hornchurch exactly on schedule and were accommodated for the night. The next day we moved down to Tilbury and started embarking at 0830 in a tank landing craft. We sailed at 13.30 hours and lay off Southend until midnight. At 01.00 the TLC sailed from Southend and docked in Ostend at 17.00 hrs. Having rapidly offloaded troops and stores in our vehicles, we set out on the road to Ghent, where the convoy arrived safely and intact at 21.00 hrs. On the following day the wing was settled in and ready to receive our flying element of a squadron of Mosquitos and a squadron of Typhoons. These duly flew in during the afternoon, and I was able to hand over command to the resident airfield commander, and flew back to Ibsley, still without prospects of further useful employment. On 15 March I delivered an aircraft to Ghent and spent the afternoon at Ghent golf course contemplating my chances of landing a flying job. The prospects were not very bright, as I had only recently relinquished command of No. 488 Mosquito Squadron, but on my return to Ibsley there was a signal from SASO No. 12 Group saying he wanted me to take over command of Winfield, the satellite airfield to No. 54 OTU at Charter Hall. I was delighted to be going back to my old post in Scotland, and a flying job! On the 18th I reported to Charter Hall, and the next day I flew down to Turnhouse in a Mosquito IV with Mike Maxwell, the Wing Commander, Flying, at Charter Hall, and we had tea with his family in Edinburgh. In the evening we had a party at the De Guise to celebrate Isobel’s birthday (I think she was Mike’s girlfriend, but I never found out!). I took a Beaufighter 6 and flew down to B.61 Airfield Ghent to clear my desk at No. 85 Group, and left the Tactical Air Force and the war in Europe for the last time.
Once settled in at Winfield, I called a meeting of all my officers, who gave me a briefing on the workings of the station and the senior course of the Night Operational Training Unit who were based there. As I had served at the OTU before, it was all fairly familiar, and I could not see the necessity for any immediate changes. The great difference on the flying side, however, was that they were now operating Mosquitos instead of Beaufighters, and this made the life of the instructors much less stressful and easier for the pupils. The Mosquito was an aircraft of superior performance, more docile and pleasant and easy to fly. Some of the aircraft had the added advantage of being fitted with dual controls, so the conversion to flying them solo was a much safer operation. I was soon enjoying the kind hospitality of the local Scots people again, and before Easter I was invited to Caldra for tennis and tea. I discovered that Isobel was my partner on the tennis court. I don’t remember where Mike was.
During the Easter break that followed I took the opportunity of a Navex (navigation exercise) and flew south to Aston Down to visit my brother and my mother in Cheltenham. On 3 April I was busy again when the next course began flying, and there was a good party in the Charter Hall mess to welcome in the new course members. My friends down south soon learnt that I was a good source of Scotch salmon from the Tweed, and often my Mosquito was loaded with fish on my navigation exercises and liaison visits to the other OTUs in the south. Cranfield was one where Johnny Topham was in charge, and a regular customer.
The early days of May brought great news of the German collapse, and it was reported that Himmler had offered surrender to the Allies but not to Russia. The Huns in Italy had surrendered, and Berlin was about to be taken by the Russians. Rumour had it that Hitler and Goebbels had committed suicide and that Admiral Doenitz, the new Führer, said they would fight on. In Burma the 14th Army had entered Rangoon, and the Huns in north-west Germany and Denmark had surrendered. Among all this shattering news I was posted to Charter Hall as chief instructor, and there was a mess party at Winfield to see me on my way. The next night there was a mess party at Charter Hall to welcome me there. On the following day, 8 May, the Prime Minister and the King made a broadcast announcing the unconditional surrender of the Germans at midnight. Needless to say, there was yet another party in the mess, preceded by a celebration with the NCOs and airmen. The following day was an ordinary working day, but all aircraft were kept under strict guard to prevent any over-enthusiastic celebrations in the air, which might well have ended in tragedy. I, however, did a restrained flight in a Mosquito that was overdue for an air test, but only to land and hear that I was on the move again. This time I was posted to command the Spitfire OTU at Eshott, which unfortunately was due to close down. I flew down to the new station in a Mosquito to talk over the handover arrangements with the Group Captain Commanding, and next day I set about packing all my kit into the Anson and flew down to Eshot. On the Friday evening I flew a Spitfire back to Charter Hall for the weekend. Several of us were invited to tennis at Caldra, and as usual Isobel was my partner. She was a lovely girl, but with a permanent air of melancholy that I found hard to fathom. She was on sick leave from the Royal Navy, being a WREN, but I was never able to find out more about her or her illness. I found it difficult to make her relax and she did not smile very often. But we had some very happy times together and often went for long walks down the lovely Blackadder valley with her sister Alex and a friend, and she seemed to enjoy that. Isobel regularly came to mess parties and joined in happily, but seldom left my side or danced with anyone else.
What with my constant moves and the great news of the end of the war in Europe, there were constant parties at the several stations, and I seemed to spend my time flying backwards and forwards in a Dominie that I had inherited from Eshott. But I found time to contemplate the way ahead, as there seemed to be no plans for my future employment. Over the previous few months, because of a fairly active time, I had been able to see very little of Maisie and Sue, and now I earnestly hoped that perhaps I might be posted to some station where I might have my family with me after the months of separation. But that problem was to be dramatically solved for me when I was told to report to Headquarters Transport Command, Bushey Park, where I learnt that my next posting was as SOA to Headquarters No. 302 Wing forming at Ibsley and proceeding as soon as possible to the Pacific theatre.
Perhaps it came as a feeling of relief, for clearly I was going to be frantically busy and faced with a most interesting and challenging posting that would take up all my time and thoughts. More separation from my family was going to be most regrettable, but now inevitable, and the question of any reconciliation with my wife must now await events in the future. For me there was still the Pacific war, and that problem had to be addressed first.
On the 12th I took the Anson down to Ibsley, having reduced my personal kit down to the minimum, as no doubt we would be fitted out with tropical gear at some point. While waiting to be called forward for embarkation I had an interesting flight that certainly served to concentrate the mind. I joined a few more daring fellow pilots and clambered into a Hadrian glider. This was a very basic glider designed to carry about ten armed infantrymen and light machine-guns, to be released from a towing Dakota over the battlefield. But this flight was a test to see if the glider could be snatched from the ground by a Dakota trailing a hook, with the intention of picking up a long length of bungee rubber cable suspended between two poles and attached to the front of the glider. Clearly this would require great skill on the Dakota pilot’s part, and steady nerve and skill by the glider pilot, who in this instance was a sergeant from the Army Air Corps. We could see the Dakota circling around, but when it came up astern it disappeared out of sight. However, a character posted in front of the glider was gesticulating wildly, and obviously something was about to happen. Although my fellow passengers and I were thrown into an undignified heap as the bungee rubber rope took up the strain, the acceleration was surprisingly smooth, and in no time Sgt Fielding was settled into normal towed flight behind the Dakota. The glider was released over the airfield and we were soon safely down on the ground, all smiles of relief and slaps on the back for the sergeant, who seemed to take it very calmly as if it was an everyday experience, although he told us that this was the first time that the snatch had been done with a load of passengers.
On the last day of June I reported to RAF West Kirby, the nearest unit to our port of embarkation, Liverpool. There were still a few days before the ship sailed, and I was invited up to Caldra to stay with Isobel and her mother. We talked long into the night about prospects for the future for everyone, and the next day we had another long walk down the Blackadder. When we came to say goodbye, Isobel, surprisingly, put her arm around my shoulders and held me close as we walked together to my taxi. There, as I turned, she kissed me in a way she had never done before, and gave me a most lovely smile, which made her look even more attractive. Involuntarily I hugged her close for a moment, and as I was driven away it was I who was sad and regretted our parting. Looking through my diary, I found an entry there which said, ‘Left Coco with Pip for Isobel’. I never saw or heard from Isobel again, but regretted it, if only so that I might have learnt who Pip was, and who or what Coco was. I never forgot Isobel, but had no recollection of the others.
On 4 July, with my headquarters staff and about 3,000 troops I went aboard the ‘four-stacker’ ship Empress of Australia, one of the largest liners afloat at the time, as she lay massively alongside Liverpool dock. The next evening, shepherded by four fussy tugs, she felt her way out of the Mersey and set her prow to the west, bound for Panama and I thought to who knew what perils. The troops aboard were mostly airfield construction engineers and other tradesmen, with a few RAF Regiment officers and men. I was very pleased to have the latter when things got a bit strained later in the voyage. I was SOA and my colleague Freddie Chadwick was SASO, and we shared command of the whole force, since the designated commanding officer, a group captain, although he came aboard, retired to his cabin and was not seen again until he was taken ashore some weeks later, a sick man.
Tiger Force, so called, was intended to sail to Okinawa, a large group of islands that were still being fiercely fought over by Japs and US forces, and to set up airfields from which Lancasters and Lincoln bombers would carry out intensive bombing raids on mainland Japan in an attempt to shorten the war. Little did we know then that our plan would be pre-empted by a far more dramatic event that would hit Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
As can be imagined, morale on board was not good, and would gradually worsen. The majority of men aboard were disgruntled at being uprooted from families and friends just as peace was declared at home, and the prospect of a long boring sea voyage terminating with the thought of facing up to the Japs was far from alluring. But from time to time there were interesting events aboard to keep them quiet. Some relief came when we arrived at Colon, Panama, after an uneventful crossing of the Atlantic. Troops in parties were allowed ashore on the dockside at Christobel to marvel at the huge lock-gates marking the Atlantic end of the Panama Canal. Fifty miles long and averaging 150 metres wide, the canal was built by the American Corps of Engineers between 1904 and 1914. The Americans retained control of the canal and the land immediately bordering it, but the Panamanians have now taken over the administration of the area, having guaranteed its neutrality. General Bradley came aboard to welcome the troops before the ship started her ponderous way through the numerous locks and the fresh-water lake en route. At night we were all excited to see the shining eyes of black panthers prowling through the jungle within a few yards of the ship’s starboard side as we glided along at little more than walking pace. On the evening of 21 July we sailed past Panama City to the north and Balboa and entered the Pacific.
Far from living up to its name, the ocean was very rough, and our escorting American destroyer had a hard time. There were many flying fish that leapt out of the water, some even flying as high as the ship’s open decks. The ship’s captain would not allow any alcohol to be handed out to the troops, although we carried the whole of the NAAFI’s stocks of beers and spirits down in the holds. There was strong resentment, and I tried to get the issue of a small ration from time to time, but the skipper was adamant. If the truth be known I think he was really scared of the mass of troops on his ship when he was only used to a relatively few fare-paying and docile passengers. The only entertainment we had was one film, which nearly drove me crazy, as it was shown every night in the main saloon. Unfortunately Freddie’s and my cabin opened out onto the gallery around the saloon, and even with cotton wool in our ears it was constant torture. It was a pleasant change when early in the evening Freddie, who was an accomplished pianist, would sit at the piano and play a selection of popular classics. For a while ‘Clair de Lune’ and ‘The Warsaw Concerto’ would have ascendancy over that other ghastly moon tune. During this time there was a worrying sign of rebellion among the troops aboard, particularly those quartered on ‘F’ Deck, where the accommodation was truly dreadful, particularly in the rough weather that seemed to predominate. The ship was overcrowded and there was very little that could be done, but the other ranks’ letters home showed a growing bitter resentment of the contrast between their treatment and that of the officers. As their mail was censored it was clear that they were exaggerating the situation and causing unnecessary anxiety at home, but I clearly recognized that a careful watch had to be kept on events.
I called a conference of all the unit commanders and warned them to keep a very close eye on the situation and also to call a meeting of all the troops in their units to hear their moans and try to alleviate the situation where we could. I also formed the RAF Regiment into flights of Military Police to detect and deal with any ringleaders who might emerge. I then had a public address system set up in the main ballroom and spoke to the whole force. I promised them that in a week’s time the ship would be docking in Honolulu, where they would be given shore leave, and I took the opportunity to warn them that their behaviour ashore must be exemplary, as they would be the first large force of Britishers to arrive en masse at Hawaii. I left the meeting with my fingers crossed because at that time it was by no means certain that they would, in fact, be allowed ashore.