If Canada’s Six Group had air crews who were considered the cream of the RCAF—and the country—it was entirely due to the efforts of men at home. McEwen had drilled his men in England and developed a superb force from good materials but other Canadians made sure that the RCAF got the right men. As the Second World War began breaking over Europe, the senior officers of the RCAF appraised the needs of far-ranging warfare and shifted the emphasis of their training programme to bombardment and air transport. In 1917 General Hugh Trenchard, chief of. the Royal Flying Corps, had given a lecture in which he had emphasized the correct use of air power in war. The role of the fighter plane, said the general, was a subsidiary one, important in defence, but wars were not won by defensive tactics. The bomber was the decisive weapon.

This was the message that Billy Bishop emphasized in his recruiting programme. He was the Canadian chiefly concerned with providing men for the new air force. By temperament, training, and outlook a fighter pilot, Bishop threw himself into the formidable task of recruiting bomber pilots with all the enthusiasm he had displayed in Flanders twenty years earlier. The Bishop name had lost none of its magic. His appeal for airmen aroused enthusiastic response: so enthusiastic that, while other services complained of man shortages, the Air Force for a time had to put applicants on a waiting list, since existing training facilities were swamped. Bishop worked a man-killing schedule. He made speeches, inspected graduating classes, awarded wings to successful air crew trainees, and worked long into the night planning for the expanding training facilities.

It was a little ironical that Bishop’s new lesson should be contrary to the dreams that his own flying career inspired in the eager young recruits. Fired with the visions of individual exploits in the fast new fighter planes, the young men found the new concepts hard to accept. Many pilot-trainees were bitterly disappointed when, on graduation, they were assigned to further training as bomber pilots.

Bishop reiterated the importance of bombardment in his book Winged Warfare and its sequel Winged Peace. In a speech made to one graduating class he also said that he was sure that Canada’s proud aerial traditions would be carried on. What he meant was that the bomber pilots of the forties were the true descendants of the fighter pilots of the twenties and would have equal opportunities for courage and service as his contemporaries had had. A glance at the record of just three of these “multi-engine” flyers who served this country in the Second World War proves that Bishop did not hope in vain.

Of all the unglamorous and tedious jobs tackled by the pilots of twin- and multi-engine aircraft, submarine patrol was probably the worst. In the vast stretches of ocean that were the hunting grounds of the U-boat, the job of finding the undersea craft was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Very early one summer morning, on June 7, 1944, before dawn had broken, K. O. Moore of the RCAF made history when he became the first pilot in the war to knock out two submarines in a single patrol. Moore was serving with the RAF’s 244 Coastal Command Squadron. It was a calm night, and a full moon spread a silver sheen over the water as Moore lifted his big Liberator from its base at Ushant. Some hours later, still in the darkness, Moore’s radar operator suddenly electrified the entire crew of the big plane with the report that he had made contact with a U-boat. The submarine was on the surface, probably charging its batteries in preparation for a day of stalking convoys. Moore swung the wheel to bring the plane on heading given by the radar man and at the same time called for full throttle.

Nov. 15, 1943, photo shows an RCAF Consolidated model 32 Liberator GR Mk. V, serial no. 600, aircraft N, of No. 10 (Bomber Reconnaissance) Squadron, No. 1 Group, Eastern Air Command, taxiing on the inboard engines from an east coast dispersal. 600 began life as USAAF B-24D-70-CO, serial no. 42-40557, was supplied under Lend-Lease to the RAF as BZ755 then transferred to the RCAF. Note open bomb bay doors, anti-submarine radar antenna on the nose and standard Coastal Command finish. Dedicated to East Coast anti-submarine patrols, No. 10 (BR) Squadron, which won the nicknames “North Atlantic Squadron” and “Dumbo,” finished the war having attacked 22 U-boats and sunk three. It was based at Gander, Nfld., at the time of this photo.
Department of National Defence/PL-21811

In the bright moonlight the sub loomed ahead, her conning tower making a perfect silhouette against the moon-glow. The Liberator roared in to the kill. It was a set-piece attack. Moore’s responses became almost automatic. How many times had he and his crew rehearsed this very thing in training! Scores of hours had been spent preparing this one moment, when each man would operate as an extension of the pilot’s mind and will. “We passed dead over the conning tower and dropped six depth charges, a perfect straddle,” Moore related later. The bombs, set for shallow depth, exploded almost on contact with the ocean. They blew the submarine right out of the water. Bedlam broke out inside the bomber as the gunners whooped and Moore’s elated navigator and co-pilot pounded him on the back. Moore remembers that his comment was: “Now, let’s get another one.”

It was a bravado gesture, but the words were hardly of Moore’s mouth when his bombardier shouted a warning. Dead ahead was the dark shape of another submarine. The plane had probably stumbled across the rendezvous of a wolf pack gathering off Ushant to prepare their attack on the crowded shipping around the British Isles.

This time the submarine fought back. Tracers from deck machine guns and 20-millimetre anti-aircraft cannon flashed past the speeding bomber as it bore in for a second time. The range was one mile and closing fast. The nose gunner of Moore’s plane was already trading fire with the crews of the submarine’s deck guns. Moore nursed the wheel and eased the plane lower. Then, “Bombs away!” shouted the bombardier. As Moore pulled the wheel back and the big plane zoomed over the sub, six more depth bombs splashed into the water on either side of the U-boat in another perfect straddle. The bombs detonated with a terrifying roar and the sea surged skyward in a gigantic explosion. The submarine’s forward speed slackened and it began to list to starboard. When the plane circled back over the area, the bow of the U-boat rose from the water, pointed briefly at the stars, and slid from sight. On board the Liberator, the wireless operator was just completing his first strike report to base when he was told they had sunk another sub. “He thought we were kidding him,” Moore related. Within twenty-two minutes Moore carried out two successful attacks against two different submarines. It was a freak combination of circumstances had placed the Liberator within striking range of the boats, whereas ninety-nine per cent of all the pilots on anti-submarine patrol cruised for months without even sighting one. There was nothing freakish about the precision and accuracy of the attack carried out by Moore and crew, though.

The young pilots who wore the blue uniform of the RCAF the Second World War possessed all the initiative, rage, and skill of the Canadians who blazed the trails of aerial warfare from 1914 to 1918. Canada’s heavy bomber formation, Six Group, had many tales of heroism to tell. The two highest awards of the British Commonwealth—the Victoria Cross and the George Cross—were presented to members of Six Group during its wartime career. The recipient of the Victoria Cross was Andrew Charles Mynaraski, a twenty-eight-year-old wireless operator and air gunner. The base commander at Station Tholthorpe, Comlore A. D. Ross, was the George Cross winner. Mynarski was serving with 419 Squadron, a Lancaster unit. He had just been promoted and had replaced his sergeant’s stripes with the narrow band of a pilot officer when, in June, 1944, bombers from his squadron were called on bomb a special target: the rail centre at Cambrai. The landings of D-Day had just taken place, and Six Group bombers had been assigned the task of disrupting rail communications to slow the arrival of German reinforcements in France.

Mynarski’s plane was one of those that took off from Middleton St. George to bomb Cambrai. The bomber had begun its glide in to the target when the black shadow of a German JU-88 lunged at it out of the murky sky. A bright stream of fire hosed the Lancaster and cannon shell strikes lit the interior with lurid flashes of light. The enemy fighter made just one pass, then vanished into the darkness, like an indifferent barracuda fishtailing away from a dying whale.

“We’re on fire, Skipper!” Mynarski heard the words over his earphones in his cramped radio operator’s cabin. He glanced back quickly through the bomber. Beyond a wall of fire halfway to the stern he saw the tail gunner, Flying Officer George Brophy, preparing to leave his tiny, glass-enclosed tail turret. Just then both port engines of the crippled bomber failed.

The pilot, Flying Officer A. de Breyne, shouted over the intercom as he fought to maintain altitude to give his crew time to jump: “Bale out! Abandon ship! Hurry!” Their bombing run had been low, the plane was rapidly losing height and it was only a matter of seconds before it would be too late for the crew to use their parachutes. Mynarski clipped on his ‘chute and headed for the nearest escape hatch. He watched several dark figures fall away from the bomber as he poised himself ready to leap. He glanced back for one last look into the burning bomber; his eyes met those of Brophy, still trapped inside the power turret. The loss of the port engines had caused a failure of the hydraulic gear and Brophy had been unable to turn his turret around to climb free. In his desperate struggle to escape he had broken off the manual release lever for such emergencies. The turret had now become his coffin.

Aug. 4, 1995, photo shows the Mynarski Memorial Lancaster in flight during an air show at CFB North Bay, Ont. This aircraft, built as Avro model 683 Lancaster B. Mk. X, serial no. FM213, by Victory Aircraft at Malton, Ont., in July 1945 as part of the last batch of Canadian-built Lancs, was stored until taken on RCAF strength June 21, 1946 and later converted to Lancaster 10 MR/MP (Maritime Reconnaissance/Maritime Patrol) standard and flown by 405 (Maritime Reconnaissance) Squadron and 107 Rescue Unit at Torbay, Nfld., before its retirement Nov. 6, 1963. The aircraft was saved from scrap by the Goderich Legion, which arranged for its display on a pedestal. It was later sold to the Canadian Warplane Heritage Museum, at Ancaster, Ont., and restored to flying condition in the markings of Lancaster B Mk. X serial no. KB726, coded KR*A, of 419 “Moose” (Bomber) Squadron, in which P/O Andrew Mynarski won his posthumous Victoria Cross during a raid on Cambrai, France, on the night of June 12, 1944.
Department of National Defence/DND95-219-46

Without hesitation, Mynarski plunged through the flames that separated him from the trapped gunner. His clothing and parachute took fire, and with burned and blistered hands he tugged at the metal framework of the gun turret, trying to move it by brute force. Hydraulic fluid drenched his clothing, which burst into flames. Still he fought to save his companion. “It’s no use!” Brophy shouted above the roar of the flames. “Get going. You can’t help me anyway, I’ve had it.” His hands seared to the bone, Mynarski finally admitted defeat. He staggered back through the flames to the escape hatch. Turning towards the trapped gunner, he stood at attention and saluted. When he jumped it was too late. Mynarski was a human torch when he left the plane. Somehow, he managed to pull the D string of his parachute, but the fire had burned away most of the canopy, and, with clothing and parachute still burning, he fell at a tremendous speed. On the ground, French peasants working in the fields watched him fall and later described the parachute as a fireball. He hit the ground and lay still.

By a miracle Brophy survived the terrifying ordeal. After Mynarski jumped, the pilotless bomber flew on on its remaining engines, trailing smoke and flame and gradually losing altitude. When it finally crashed, Brophy was hurled clear of his tiny prison, surviving what had appeared to be certain death. Mynarski’s heroism was not discovered until after the war, when Brophy and the other members of the crew who were released from prison camps told the story. As a result Six Group won its first Victoria Cross, awarded posthumously to Pilot Officer Andrew Mynarski of Winnipeg.

Less then twenty days after Mynarski’s magnificent attempt to save his companion, another crippled RCAF bomber, Halifax “C” for Charlie, from 425 (Alouette) Squadron, was struggling home from a successful attack against the German flying bomb launching sites in the Foret d’Eawy. One engine had been shot out, but it seemed that the pilot, Sergeant M. J. P. Lavoie, would be able to bring the Halifax down to a safe landing. It was early in the morning of June 28 when the wail of the crash siren brought everyone to the flight line at Station Tholthorpe to watch the pilot nurse his crippled bird down to earth. Among the spectators was the station commander, Air Commodore A. D. Ross, a veteran pilot with lengthy service in the RCAF.

Lavoie’s landing was good and everyone began to breathe more easily when suddenly a tire blew out and the huge plane, still rolling at a good clip, veered sharply and ploughed into a parked aircraft which had just been loaded with ten 500-pound bombs. There was a deafening explosion and a ball of flame billowed from the wreckage. Crash wagons roared across the field towards the wreck. Commodore Ross, who was closest to the crash, could see that the pilot was either trapped or dazed by the concussion. He dashed into the flames and, with the help of two other Flight Sergeant J. R. M. St. Germain, the bomb-aimer from another Halifax which had just landed, and Corporal M. Marquet, a ground crewman, pulled the injured airman from the wreckage. The fire had reached the bomb and the blasts of the exploding bombs hurled the rescuers and rescued to the ground. Just as the roar of the explosions subsided, Ross heard a faint cry from the tail turret of “C” for Charlie. Immediately he dashed back to the burning plane. Helped by St. Germain and Aircraft M. M. McKenzie and R. R. Wolfe from the station crash tender, the officer used an axe to smash the plexiglass the turret to free the gunner, Sergeant C. G. Rochon. Just then another bomb exploded and a flying piece of metal sheared off Ross’s right hand. Quickly fashioning a torniquet around his wrist, he walked calmly across the field to the medical centre to have his wound tended.

Thanks to Ross’s alertness and courage, the entire of the crashed bomber was saved. His leadership in directing the rescue was also credited with saving other aircraft parked nearby. Air Commodore Ross was awarded the George Cross, given for acts of bravery which do not place in battle. Flight Sergeant St. Germain and Corporall Marquet were awarded the George Medal for their part in the rescue, and Aircraftsmen McKenzie and Wolfe received the British Empire Medal.