The Fauquier family was well-to-do, and John attended fashionable Ashbury College, where he became head boy and was noted as something of a mathematical wizard. He had shown a strong interest in medicine at school, but on graduation he left the family mansion for Montreal, where he became a successful bond salesman. John Fauquier was no less successful in his social life and became something of a lion among Montreal’s young set. He found an outlet for his restlessness in speed: he owned both an automobile and a motorcycle. Then he joined Montreal’s Light Aeroplane Club. This casual decision changed his entire life, for Fauquier was one of those rare men who are indeed “born to fly.” Flying so appealed to him that, early in the 1920’s, he turned his back forever on St. James Street, the bond business, and Montreal’s social life. He set up a small bush airline, Commercial Airways, operating out of Noranda, the centre of mining operations and prospecting for northern Quebec. The decision was all the more momentous since Fauquier was married now. It was no easy thing for a man to turn his back on seven years in a lucrative business and strike out in a field that was still in the experimental stage. But while the bond business returned a handsome salary, it had little to offer a man of Fauquier’s temperament.
Fauquier started his airline with two airplanes, a Waco and a Fairchild. In the late 1920’s commercial flying was still in the early stages of evolution, but Fauquier thrived under the constant challenge offered by both the elements and the business competition. It was a rugged life. The flying community of Noranda consisted of four small companies, all located on the same lake, and all operated by young people. They were a zesty lot, full of enthusiasm and dreams of the expansion of the north, far different from some of the bored young sophisticates whom Fauquier had known in Montreal.
As both owner and chief pilot of the airline, Fauquier had all the work that his active nature desired. The heavy work of wrestling cargoes into the planes toughened his muscles, and the primitive conditions taught him independence and the knack of practical invention born of necessity. His wife often accompanied him on the long flights over the silent forests and lakes of northern Quebec and Ontario. By the time the war began Fauquier had logged more 300,000 miles in the air.
On November 1, 1939, he enlisted in the RCAF as a flight lieutenant and took an instructor’s course at Camp Borden and Trenton. For a time it looked as though Johnny Farquier’s war would be spent in training school, teaching rookies the first principles of flying. In those early days of the war, Canada required many experienced pilots to instruct the thousands of youngsters who had enlisted in the Air Force under the Commonwealth Air Training Plan.
Then in June, 1941, the man who was destined to be known as the “King of the Pathfinders,” was transferred England to a glider and paratroop training school. September of that year saw him posted to No. 405 Squadron, a bomber formation. Fauquier’s first operations were performed in a Halifax bomber, a machine that was very difficult to handle. In later years he remembered the first he ever saw the big, four-motor Lancaster bomber would carry him to fame: he was guiding his formation home from a particularly tough raid when “the Lancasters came streaming by, and were home forty-five minutes ahead of me. I said to myself, ‘I’ve got to get my hands on one of those.’ “
He did not have long to wait, for No. 405 Squadron notified that it was to be re-equipped with Lancasters. “You can imagine our relief when we knew we were getting this superior aircraft, which in the end carried the heaviest bomb in the European theatre, the Grand Slam. Morale went up fantastically as the Lancaster proved herself to us. This was a big aircraft, and she flew as easily and as dexterously as a Tiger Moth. The Lanc had no bad habits . . . you could dive the Lancaster at phenomenal speeds to escape the cone of enemy searchlights.”
By February, 1942, he had performed so well as a bomber pilot and flight-leader that he was promoted to the rank of wing commander and given command of the squadron. A Distinguished Flying Cross accompanied the promotion. The citation had this to say of Fauquier: “Throughout the many sorties in which he has participated this officer has displayed the highest quality of courage and leadership. His ability and grim determination to inflict the maximum damage on the enemy have won the admiration of the squadron he commands. Wing Commander Fauquier took part in the two raids on Essen when a thousand of our aircraft operated each time. He is an exceptional leader.” Fauquier’s “grim determination to inflict the maximum damage on the enemy” soon established for 405 Squadron the record of dropping the largest bomb tonnage ever to fall on enemy targets from the bomb bays of a single squadron.
John Fauquier was gifted with the same dash and ability that had distinguished Canada’s fighter pilots in the First War. He was a good pilot, hence a “lucky” pilot; he was also a popular pilot among the airmen who flew with him. One of their stories told how Johnny Fauquier once used his heavy bomber as a fighter plane, in order to protect his high-flying squadron mates.
It was over Bremen, in June, 1942. Heavy concentrations of flak and night fighters were creating havoc in the formation, which was being coned by batteries of searchlights. To avoid the heavy fire, 405’s pilots had to take violent evasive action. This spoiled the chance of each plane’s bomb-aimer to line up his sights on the targets far below, and to miss the targets would mean that the squadron would have to return another night and again face the maelstrom of cannon shells and flak. As their leader, Fauquier was directing the onslaught of the bomber formation, and he realized that something must be done to give his aircrew respite from the barrage. Picking out an assembly of flak batteries and searchlights near the bomber’s objective, he shot his huge craft down from 12,000 feet, at the same urging his gunners to blast the ground defences with heavy machine guns. Handling the huge bomber as though it a fighter, Fauquier ranged over the ground defences, heedless of the hail of machine gun and light cannon fire brought to bear on his plane. He diverted the fire of the ground defences to himself and at the same time smashed the lights that were pinning his other aircraft to the sky like moths. It was a fantastic feat for a heavy bomber. Fauquier’s ground-strafing sortie was the talk of Six Group and Bomber Command for a long time. Later, when asked if he experienced fear on such missions, he said: “A man who wasn’t frightened lacked imagination, and without imagination he couldn’t be a first class warrior. Let’s face it: good men were frightened. Especially between briefing and take-off. bravest man I knew used to go to bed right after briefing, and refuse to eat. Sick with fear. Any man that frightened who goes to the target is brave.”
In the summer of 1942 Fauquier’s squadron, now part of No. 8 Pathfinder Group, took part in the massive assault on the German city port of Hamburg. The Pathfinders were a new concept in heavy bombardment. Their job to fly ahead of the bombers and mark the route and target with flares and “Christmas trees” of tinsel-like phosphorous that hung in the sky like traffic lights. It was dangerous work, probing alone into enemy-held sky. Under Fauquier’s leadership the squadron had become one of most successful in the Pathfinder Group. For the raid on Hamburg, besides his duty as Pathfinder, Fauquier way appointed to act as deputy Master Bomber. His task was to fly over the target throughout the raid, directing the incoming streams of bombers to untouched bombing areas, much as a traffic policeman directs automobiles. The Master Bomber had to remain constantly over the target area, braving flak and the night fighters throughout the entire while the aircraft actually engaged in bombing could look forward to making their bomb run and immediately getting clear of the battle area.
It was all part of the new tactics devised by the RAF and RCAF for night bombing. Instead of using the stretched-out formations which covered a broad expanse of sky on the to the target and back, planes flew in to the target area number of small waves from all points of the compass. They rarely saw each other until, like raindrops, they had massed together over the objective to saturate the ground below with bombs. The new technique lessened the dangerous time over target for individual aircraft and also made it more difficult for the enemy interceptors to find the attackers in the darkness, since there was no actual formation to assault. But the German Fighter Control had soon learned the role played by the Master Bomber in the successful attacks and German fighters began cruising the aerial arenas, searching for the lone plane from which the Master Bomber plotted his next moves. Fauquier therefore had the most dangerous assignment of all during the Hamburg operation.
He once described another aspect of the raid on Hamburg:
We were after military objectives, the seaport, armament works and so on, but there was another kind of policy at work: demoralize the people, don’t let them sleep, make them homeless, break their will. It’s not the kind of thing we ever bragged about. But those people were at war with us, and they were very serious about it. Hitler, you know, called us “Air Pirates.” Some of us were to be beheaded if we were captured.
From a CBC documentary film, The Last of the Lancasters.
Perhaps the greatest tribute to Fauquier’s ability was his assignment to one of the most critical and top secret raids of the war. Since 1935, German scientists, under the direction of rocket expert Wernher von Braun, had been experimenting with rocket-propelled guided missiles at a remote spot on the Baltic Sea called Peenemunde. The entire project had been kept top secret, even from members of the General Staff, for a number of years. As the war neared the end of its third year, Hitler began more and more to rely on Peenemunde to come up with the miracle weapon that he needed if he were to win. But Allied air intelligence had discovered Hitler’s secret. The sharp eyes of Flight Officer Constance Babington-Smith, the girl who had the job of evaluating the pictures taken by reconnaissance aircraft, spotted a tiny black smudge on the runways at Peenemunde. The smudge did not resemble the normal runway wear and tear from conventional aircraft, so more high-flying Spitfires were sent out to take more pictures. These photos showed oddly shaped aircraft parked around the runways, and the rocket secret of the Nazis was out. The black smudge was the carbon left by the blast of burning gases ejected from the tail pipes of the experimental jets. The Allies had uncovered the launching site of the Germans’ robot flying bomb, the V-1 (called “The Doodlebug” by British fighter pilots) which for a time rained death and destruction on England. The inaccurate but destructive Doodlebug was only the forerunner, however, of a far deadlier weapon, the V-2, a heavy guided missile.
The Allied Command decreed that Peenemunde must be destroyed. Canada’s Six Group was called on to provide a large share of the bombing force of six hundred aircraft assigned to the mission. Details of the raid were kept so secret that even the air crews taking part did not know what they were attacking. They were told that Peenemunde was turning out improved radar sets for night fighters. Bomber Command chose its top Master Bombers to conduct the raid: the RAF’s fabled Group Captain Searby and the RCAF’s Johnny Fauquier. Their orders were simple: they must splash this target on the first try. If they failed they would have to go back again and again if necessary, but Peenemunde must be destroyed. It was to be a maximum effort attack.
No one got much sleep at Castle Dismal as Black Mike McEwen and Six Group’s staff planned the attack with Fauquier. It was decided that the attacking force would use the same route followed by formations heading for Berlin, and would be accompanied by a host of planes which would continue to the German capital after the actual attackers had made a last-minute turn north towards the North Sea and Peenemunde. The attack was launched on the night of August 17, 1943. The deception worked, for during the early part of the raid German night fighters had been ordered to points inland to intercept what was considered to be a large-scale attack on Berlin. Fauquier was over Peenemunde throughout the entire attack. He made seventeen dangerous passes over the target, directing the incoming waves of bombers and assessing the damage on the ground. It was a clear, moonlight night, ideal for flak and fighters. Seasoned bomber pilots still talk about the job Fauquier did. For thirty-five minutes he remained over the target, dodging flak and fighters, sweeping in at varying altitudes, until the last bomber was on its way back to Britain, and the workshops, laboratories, and living quarters at Peenemunde were a mass of blazing wreckage.
When the last heavy had unloaded its cargo of bombs, Canada’s Master Bomber turned for home. German fighters, fooled by the diversionary tactics earlier, were now either on the scene, or lying in wait for the bombers along the homeward route. Furious at being tricked, they hurled themselves at the bombers, their machine guns and cannon lacing the night sky with bright pink tracers. Plane after plane faltered and plunged to alien territory far below. Before the night was over forty-one of the bombers had been shot down, ten of them manned by Canadian crews. But the attack had been a complete success. Peenemunde and its rockets lay in ruins. The worst consequence for the Germans was that many of their leading experts in jet propulsion and rocketry were killed in the raid. The attack delayed the development of the V-1 and V-2 rocket bombs by a year, thus saving London from complete devastation. When rockets were finally launched against that city they neither the range nor the explosive qualities of the weapons that were destroyed at Peenemunde. For his night’s work Johnny Fauquier was awarded the Distinguished Service Order.
Oct. 21, 1943, photo shows an Avro model 683 Lancaster heavy bomber towering over an approaching airman on the flight line. Location unknown.
By January, 1944, Fauquier had completed his second tour of operations with 405 Squadron and handed over command to Wing Commander R. J. Lane, DSO, DFC. Farquier had flown at least thirty-eight sorties with the squadron. During his term as commander he had built the unit into one of the best, in a group that had many crack squadrons. In March a bar was added to his DSO, in recognition of his work with Number 405.
Fauquier’s formula for leadership was simple: he never asked another pilot to do something he would not do himself. Time after time he chose the most dangerous task of a mission. He was. the “follow me” type of leader rather than the “get going” kind. No armchair commander, he won respect and loyalty of his men by his own courage.
While the average man would have been content to put his feet under a desk for the rest of the war after completing two tours of operations, Fauquier was cut from the same cloth as Billy Bishop, Barker, and Collishaw. Promoted to the rank of air commodore in June, 1944, he voluntarily reverted in rank to group captain so that he could begin his third tour of operations, this time as the commanding officer of an RAF unit.
Number 617 “Dambuster” Squadron, RAF, was a unit composed of specialists in precision bombing. The Dambusters had originally been formed for the special task destroying the Mohne, Eder, and Sorpe dams in order to flood the Low Countries and disrupt German communications. Now they ranged over the Continent, hitting special targets with the brand new 22,000-pound Grand Slam bombs, the biggest ever used in Europe. These powerful weapons were still in short supply. Fauquier, rather than see them wasted in misses, developed the practice of acting as Master Bomber for the squadron, flying low over the target and braving the flak to direct while the others circled and watched. This, a radical departure from the usual methods of the Dambusters, was precision bombing at its most refined. Fauquier would call on only as many planes as he needed to destroy the target; the rest would be sent home with their precious Grand Slams intact and ready for another day. This way the squadron destroyed pin-point targets such as viaducts, rail bridges, roundhouses, submarine pens, and the last of the German battleships. Fauquier described one of the Dambusters’ assignments, the destruction of the Neinberge Bridge:
We loaded eighteen Lancs with these bombs [Grand Slams] to get the Neinberge bridge, over which supplies travelled to the enemy front lines. I was in a Mosquito down low beside the bridge, and was struck by a fit of economy. Why throw away eighteen of these expensive, handmade bombs on one bridge? I called in three of my fellows, while the rest circled. The result was a sensation. Two bombs hit, one at each end. The bridge actually rose in the air, intact, and I could see right under it. Then the third bomb hit the structure square, as it flew through the air. We could try that again a thousand times, and never do it.
The Dambusters’ last raid was on Adolf Hitler’s personal headquarters at Berchtesgaden:
Perhaps the most satisfying raid by the Lancasters of the Dambusters was the last. The attack on Hitler’s country cottage, of no military value, was a salutary moment in the history of this aircraft. How many nations had been threatened from Berchtesgaden? How many decisions made on this spot, to annihilate millions of souls?
Hitler’s “cottage,” built of heavy stone and concrete, and equipped with deep reinforced cottage bomb shelters, was pulverized by the Lancaster attack.
Fauquier’s skill left even the veteran Dambusters a little in awe of their Canadian commander. As one pilot put it: “He plants those bombs like he was threading a needle.” They all agreed that the additional bar to his DSO—equivalent of three of the coveted Orders—was more than merited. Besides these awards, Fauquier won a DFC, the Croix de guerre with Palm, and was created a Chevalier of the Légion d’honneur, to become one of the most decorated Canadian aviators to emerge from the Second World War. But it was the British press that gave him an unofficial award by which he became world famous. An enterprising Fleet Street reporter called Fauquier the “King of the Pathfinders,” in a story he wrote about the Canadian. No one ever contested the title.