You may remember a rather exciting film called ‘The Dawn Patrol’. If you do, it is just a point of interest for me to begin by saying that I belong to the Royal Air Force Squadron that was represented in it. The squadron dates back to the last war. It is still going strong, taking its share now in the vast work that is being done day and night by the Coastal Command. Lately, our squadron has been doing its bit in making the ports on the other side of the Channel uncomfortable for their temporary tenants. Cherbourg, Brest and Lorient have been most frequently on our daily lists. Lorient was probably a new one on many people. It was a new one on most of us when we were first told to bomb it.
Our attacks on Lorient are now regular news. Lorient - on the Brittany coast about ninety miles south of Brest - has become a U-boat base and maintenance depot. It isn’t giving away any secrets to say that our targets there are power stations, naval yards, slipways, torpedo workshops and so on. Some of us have been so often to Lorient lately that we must know the way into and around it better than its temporary German inhabitants. Now we know every yard of the country and its landmarks. We always see Lorient clearly when we attack it - at dusk or dawn, or in light provided by the moon or by our flares. And the enemy always gives us a hot reception. All sorts of stuff come up at us - light and heavy shells, flaming red things which we call ‘onions’ and what-not.
The other night the armourers of our Squadron were given their first operational flight. Their job is on the ground - to fit and load our bombs. The idea in taking them with us was that they could study what happens when their bombs burst. ‘How did you get on?’ one of them was asked afterwards. ‘Coo - great stuff,’ was the reply, ‘all the colours of the rainbow. Lovely it was from the gallery seat.’ I don’t think I would choose the word ‘lovely’ myself, but let it pass. I wonder if I can give you a sort of mental picture of how we set about things on one of these raids. An hour before the take-off we assemble in the Operations Room to be told all about the job in hand. Then off everyone goes to attend to his own particular end of things. The observer gets the weather report; a gunner who is also the wireless operator makes certain that the guns are OK. Then he checks up the recognition signals and the wireless frequencies and sees that the pigeons are in their wicker basket - we always take homing pigeons with us. And the pilot gets into his head all he can about the trip and the targets.
Before we leave the ground I test the microphone which enables me to talk to the gunner in the rear turret and to the rest of the crew. Hello, gunner - are you all right behind?’
And then to the observer: ‘Hello, observer, course to steer, please.’ Some of us carry mascots. I always have the joker of a pack of playing cards and a couple of German bullets - relics of being shot up on one trip.
And now come with me over Lorient. As we approach it the observer suddenly shouts: ‘I see the target - yes, I’ve got it’ ‘OK’ I say. ‘Master switch and fusing switch on!’ These are the switches which control the fusing and the release of the bombs. Round just once more to make quite certain. The docks and the outlines of the naval buildings show up a little more clearly. Then I throttle the engines back. Running on now,’ I tell the observer.
OK’ he says, ‘left-left - that’s it - steady - a shade right - hold it - NOW!’ He presses the electric button which releases the bombs. The aircraft gives a slight shudder as they go through the doors. Bombs gone! cries the observer.
Down they go; hundredweight after hundredweight of high explosive. My observer is watching for the results. Have we scored hits or just got near misses? I see many bright flashes. Then big flames flick skywards like the fiery tongues of monster serpents. Showers and towers of ruddy sparks burst from the ground. My observer nearly jumps from his seat, waving his hands in excitement. ‘We’ve hit it-we’ve hit it!’ he yells. ‘We’ve damned well hit it!’ Then home we go - our umpteenth visit to Lorient on the Brittany coast has ended.
Attack On Lorient Submarine Base by A Flight Lieutenant, BBC broadcast, November 1940.
No form of attack in the entire Air Force called for as much precision as the dropping of depth charges. The science of using them - and radar - in a heavy aircraft had to be mastered by the aircrews. Air to Surface Vessel (ASV) radar, developed in parallel with Airborne Interception radar, was first demonstrated in trials in 1938. The first operational ASV sets were fitted to Hudson and Sunderland aircraft of Coastal Command but were only capable of looking directly forward and consequently were of limited value. The fist ASV to be fitted to Wellingtons was the sideways-looking ASV MK.II. In trials, aircraft flying at 2,000 feet ASL detected a 10,000 ton ship at 40 miles range, a destroyer at 20 miles and a submarine at eight miles. ASV Mk.II required four antennae on each side of the rear fuselage and a further four antennae on the spine of the rear fuselage 23 Combined with Yagi antennae beneath the wings and lower nose of the aircraft, ASV MK.II provided the radar operator with information on both range and bearing of surface vessels. Ideally, a U-boat had to be fully surfaced and no more than three miles distant for ASV to be effective.
A ship on the surface was still there to be attacked a second time if the Mosquito missed it and a land target was always waiting for a second visit if a bomber missed it the first time. But a diving U-boat was vulnerable for only a few seconds. If fully surfaced when sighted, it could submerge in thirty seconds and still be vulnerable. Thirty seconds later it would be out of harm’s way. The difficulties were doubled at night. The contact was picked up by the radar in the dark. A thin line of amber light revolved continuously on a dark glass screen and when this light is interrupted by a blip by the presence of an object outside the aircraft the first promise of a U-boat has come. A whale or a shoal of fish may cause this blip on the screen, or one of the numerous fishing boats that have been such a nuisance during our patrols. When the blip had been received the next task was divided into two periods, there was the brief interval of darkness while the aircraft was flying in and the thirty seconds of the actual attack, after the Leigh Light24 had been turned on or after the U-boat had been seen in the moon path. During that interval the radar operator must give the pilot accurate information as often as possible and the pilot must plan his approach accordingly. If the approach on the unseen target erred by three degrees, the attack would be abortive. The drift of the aircraft, the possible zigzagging of the U-boat and the fact that it may be submerging must be taken into consideration. This was the problem in judgment for the pilot while he was flying in. From the movement of the blip on the radar screen the pilot must assess the course and speed of the U-boat, by mental arithmetic and instinct. There was neither time nor light for formula to be consulted. And the pilot had to know exactly how much his radar operator was liable to err in a crisis. If the U-boat did not submerge, there was flak to contend with directly the Leigh Light had been turned on. In the minutes of approach the drill of the ten members of the crew had to be as exquisitely concerted as ten separate instruments sounding one chord in an orchestra. It was here that years of training suddenly manifested themselves in one co-ordinated action.
The pilot was flying his heavy aircraft through the dark on the course calculated from the radar operator’s directions. The radar operator meanwhile was watching the blip on the screen and operating his complicated radar set. The second pilot is looking after the engines, putting up the revs and boost as required and at the same time he is setting up the automatic camera. The importance of photographs cannot be exaggerated. They were not souvenirs for an album of victories. They must show the depth charges entering the water, two or three seconds before they explode. It is by the position of entry, not the extent of the explosion, that the attack can be assessed.
During these same minutes the navigator had to set up his bombing panel, check the selection of bombs and see that the bomb doors have been opened. Then he would switch on the Leigh Light. Before this the wireless operator must flash signals back to base so that they knew there was a possible target and so that, if the aircraft was destroyed, it would not be a ‘silent loss.’ The engineer lay in the open bomb bay to watch the effect of the depth charges when they entered the water, the two beam gunners must prepare to do their share of pounding the U-boat when the Leigh Light was turned on and the rear gunner must prepare to give them a further burst when the aircraft had passed over. The front gunner must also be prepared to give the U-boat hell the moment the light was turned on.
A good captain expected his crew to do all this within a matter of seconds so that at the right distance the engines were giving the right speed. Then the orchestra paused to watch for the conductor’s baton. It fell, the light was turned on and the target was revealed for this assemblage of preparation. Then the depth charges were dropped in a long stick, by the navigator. The aircraft flew through the flak and over the U-boat and from his point of vantage the rear gunner was able to substantiate the report of the engineer in the bomb bay. It had to be a perfect straddle. The word straddle is important. A direct hit usually caused the depth charge, which was not fused for contact, to break up. A close miss was therefore the perfect way of exploding the depth charge, to do the maximum of harm. Then came the circuit before the aircraft could fly in and seek for evidence. Little wonder that the crew searched the water hoping to see yellow dinghies and white faces peering up into the merciless beam of the Leigh light.
On 21 November 1940 221 Squadron re-formed at Bircham Newton, Norfolk, equipped with Wellington Is. Early in 1941 ASV sets were installed and in March 1941 the squadron began replacing its Mark Is and ICs with Mark VIII ‘Stickleback’ Wellingtons. By May 1941 the U-boats were largely reduced to operating off West Africa or in the central Atlantic, the latter being beyond the range of Coastal Command aircraft. In June 1941 when Air Chief Marshal Sir Philip Joubert de la Ferté KCB CMG DSO took over Coastal Command, he inherited a force of forty squadrons and more than half the aircraft were now fitted with ASV radar. Joubert’s overriding task was to increase the effectiveness of his ASV aircraft and create airborne U-boat killers. He pressed for heavier types of anti-submarine bombs, bomb sights for low level attack and depth charge pistols which would detonate at less than fifty feet below the surface. He encouraged tests, first started by Bowhill, with various forms of camouflage, in order to render the attacker invisible for as long as possible. As a result all anti-U-boat aircraft were painted white on their sides and under-surfaces.
By September 1941 increased shipping losses again prompted the Admiralty to explore the possibility of employing bombers in the war at sea and Air Marshal Harris turned over large numbers of Wellingtons, Whitleys and Blenheims. In September 221 Squadron moved to Iceland, returning in December for transfer overseas. Three crews flew their Wellington VIIIs to Malta while the remainder of the squadron flew to Egypt in January 1942 to begin anti-shipping patrols from bases in the Canal Zone. Meanwhile, the shipping losses in October and November 1941 showed a reduction over those of September. During early 1942 Coastal Command was helped by the transfer of further aircraft from Bomber Command. In April a squadron of Whitleys, eight Liberators and a Wellington squadron (311 Czech) were transferred to Coastal Command. On 7 May Bomber Command relinquished control of 304 (Polish) Squadron, which flew to its new base at Tiree in the Inner Hebrides. Both squadrons were needed urgently and they took up their new role almost immediately. The Poles had a very eventful career in Coastal Command, moving on 13 June 1942 to Dale in South Wales where they joined 19 Group Coastal Command. They flew 2,451 sorties up until 30 May 1945 and attacked 34 U-boats out of 43 sighted. The Czechs also gave sterling service in Coastal Command. 311 operated the Wellington until June 1943 when it converted to the Liberator. 304 commenced operations on 18 May and 311 Squadron took off from its new base at Aldergrove in Northern Ireland on 22 May 1942 for its first operation.
The Bay of Biscay, 500 miles wide, which was the U-boat’s route to the wider hunting-fields of the Atlantic Ocean, would become a happy hunting ground for the Wellingtons, Sunderlands, Liberators, Halifaxes,25 Whitleys and Hudsons of Coastal Command. All flew the Bay patrols and Coastal Command Beaufighters intervened against German long-range fighters which attempted to intercept the U-boat hunting aircraft. Leonard R. Gribble, a thriller writer of such works as The Scarlet Widow, wrote Bombers Fly East for the Air Ministry in 1942 using his pen-name, ‘Bruce Sanders’. He painted a prosaic propaganda picture of British air operations and Deep-Sea Hunters, his thrilling chapter on Coastal Command, was no exception:
‘Hunting U-boats is a big-game sport for men with patience. One Wellington captain spent 1,300 hours on operational flying before he sighted and attacked his first under-sea victim. There had been plenty of other work and adventure crowded into that long flying period, so the captain, a former student of the Scottish School of Physical Education in Glasgow, was not bored. But he may be forgiven if at times he seriously doubted whether he ever would see a submarine. Another Wellington skipper, a Canadian, Sergeant A. S. Hakala from Sioux Lookout, Alberta got a submarine on the first patrol he made with his crew. It was not beginner’s luck this case, for the U-boat’s lookout spotted the plane and the aircraft could not arrive before the submarine crashed but the bombs went down to burst just ahead of the feather of foam betraying the sunken periscope. Hakala recalled: ‘It was some explosion. The U-boat surfaced groggily until the conning tower and part of the hull were awash. The Wellington readily took this second opportunity, guns blazing away. To my surprise and joy flames and smoke poured from the conning-tower. The bombs must have started it, but I hope the bullets helped.’ The U-boat was still on fire when a thick mist came down and the Coastal Command aircraft had to make for home ...’
Another contemporary writer, Hector Bolitho, a New Zealander of Cornish origin26penned these words: ‘I suppose men who serve in submarine craft are specially gifted with courage and that they do not suffer from claustrophobia. Mere day to day existence in such circumstances has enough horror. But this must be intensified when the U-boats crawl through the water, in continuous fear of attack, hearing the far away thuds of other U-boats being bombed - thuds which can be heard fifty miles away under the sea - and the knowledge that must have come to all of them by now, that it is practically impossible for them to surface anywhere within the patrolled area without being sighted by one of our aircraft.’
‘Probably the greatest hardship for submariners’ wrote Wing Commander J. Romanes ‘was the lack of space in which to live and breathe. The craft is 200 feet long, with a maximum internal diameter of 15 feet, the pressure hull being nearly round. Throughout almost the entire length of the boat half of this space is taken up by two big batteries, six main ballast tanks, two quick-diving tanks and many trimming, fresh water and fuel tanks. A third of what is left is occupied by engines and main motors; a quarter of the rest by torpedo tubes and their allied gear. This leaves a very small space to be divided into control room, officers’ quarters, crew’s quarters, galley, petty officers’ quarters and lavatory room. Space overhead is further restricted by pipes to all the ballast tanks with their high and low pressure air lines and associated valves, both hydraulic and hand-operated, battery cables and a mass of other gear. The control room has to house wireless, asdic, echo-sounder, steering and hydroplane operating gear; as well as a watch of ten men. The living quarters are therefore minute, the wardroom, where four officers must live and sleep, being 8 feet by 6 feet, while twenty men live in the fo’c’sle 20 feet long by 7 feet wide forward and 10 feet wide aft. The hammocks alone seem to fill all the available space and the only way to get between them is to crawl.
‘The lively behaviour of the boat in a seaway makes movement even more difficult; she literally whips about and it is not uncommon for the officer in the shipside bunk in the ward room to be slung clean out and deposited in the alley way outside. Moreover, the deck is so greasy with diesel oil that even in a slight sea it is a bit of an art to keep on your feet. Normally the submarine dives all day, which at this time of the year means nearly 16 hours, from six in the morning to ten at night. During this time the crew of forty is using up the very limited supply of oxygen in the air which is trapped in the boat. It is not long before the effects of oxygen starvation are felt. It becomes even more of an effort to move about and reading a book is difficult, as you find yourself reading the same lines over and over again. The effects are very similar to flying at a great height without oxygen. To avoid fouling the air more than is absolutely necessary, neither smoking nor cooking is allowed. The lavatories must be used as seldom as possible as they are operated by pressure air and when blown they release a bubble of air which may be seen on the surface. Smells are impossible to prevent and crew, engines; diesel oil and batteries all make their contribution, so that when the hatch is opened on surfacing, fresh air tastes foul and you get a heavy coat of fur on your mouth which makes your first cigarette taste disgusting. Moreover, when the boat is submerged, a powder is put down to absorb some of the carbon dioxide in the boat but it succeeds mostly in making the crew cough violently. Moisture condenses inside the hull of the boat and after a few days there is a perpetual drip everywhere which is most annoying and which makes all the blankets of the bunks wet.’
On 6 June 1942 a Spanish radio report asserted that an Italian submarine [the Luigi Torelli of the 1,200-ton Marconi class commanded by Capitano di Corvetta (Lieutenant Commander) Augusto Migliorini] had been beached near Santander. The foreign radio reports that continued to mention the beaching added that two Sunderland flying-boats of Coastal Command, which had attacked the U-boat, had been forced down. The foreign radio reports were misleading. The Sunderlands were back at base. The episode involving the Italian submarine had all started on the night of 3/4 June. Air Marshal Sir Philip Joubert, knowing that only a successful operational demonstration of the capabilities of Leigh Light Wellingtons would carry the day had thrown caution to the wind and despatched four of the five Wellingtons on 172 Squadron into the Bay of Biscay. The Luigi Torelli was damaged by Squadron Leader Jeff H. Greswell and the crew on a Wellington on 172 Squadron (one of five Wimpys fitted with the Leigh Light) picked up an ASV contact. His target was outbound from Bordeaux to the West Indies. Greswell homed on the Luigi Torelli by radar and then switched on the Leigh Light but owing to a faulty setting in his altimeter, his approach was too high and he saw no sign of the submarine. However, Migliorini, mistaking the Wellington for a German aircraft, fired recognition flares, precisely pinpointing his boat. On a second approach with the Leigh Light, Greswell got the Luigi Torelli squarely in the brilliant beam and straddled the Italian boat with four shallow-set 300lb Torpex depth charges from an altitude of fifty feet. The shattering effect that depth charges had on a submarine crew is described in frightening detail by Secondo Capo Mechanista Carlo Pracchi of the Regia Marina Velella:
‘The sounds are coming from starboard, midships. Thuds in the water, three at a time and a few seconds later you hear three rumbles followed by the inevitable shaking. Sound source from 10 o’clock and then from 7 o’clock and louder thuds. It sounds as if every gauge in the control room is shattering. All the valves are shut down. The glass of the depth gauge breaks. From the telephone comes the voice of someone shouting ‘Engines ... signal leaks or other faults.’ We get the boards up to look at the water-level in the bilge tanks. I can see water running down the sides ... I look up. In the meantime the bombs go off. I look up again to see where that water is coming from. I can see from the cracks that fortunately it is the varnish peeling off! Higher up I can see drips on the heads of the rivets in the frames. I touch one with my finger and water runs down my arm. Then we get another depth charge and the drips start to run down themselves. That earlier charge exploded underneath and brought us up; one went off overhead and pushed us down. Machine room crew informs: damage. Forward, with a lunatic grin on his face M.N. shows me a rope with knots he has been keeping a tally of the bombs with it. The main relays shut down. The lights have just gone. We’ll have to use the emergency lighting. I feel my leg cramp up, then the tingling starts, then shaking. Maybe I’m tired after these hours of tension. I try to snatch a bit of rest sitting down the centre of the aft bulkhead door of the [salvage] box called by the name of the inventor: Garitta Girolami-Arata-Olivati ... The effect on my legs doesn’t stop; I use my arms to try to suppress it, holding my knees. It makes no difference ... I try to stop just one knee from trembling, but it carries on and only makes my arms shake. In desperation I say: ‘Bloody hell I’m just panicking: can’t get myself out of it ... I really panic.’27
Unsurprisingly, the blasts to Luigi Torelli forced Migliorini to abort and he headed to Aviles, Spain.
In the meantime Greswell and his crew spotted a second submarine nearby. It was submerging when spotted with ASV and searchlight. Greswell strafed the submarine with machine-gun fire, having used all its depth charges on the first attack. What saved the second submarine and the Luigi Torelli was the failure of the pursuer to get a signal of the attack to the other three Wellingtons on patrol in the area and home them to the place of the attacks. No doubt the coded signal which indicated ‘Sighted sub. Am attacking’ had been sent to Chivenor but it may not have reached them immediately because of the low level at which the Wellington was flying when the signal was sent or because of atmospheric disruptions. The three other Wellingtons sighted no U-boats but the ease with which they illuminated fishing vessels proved the merits of the Leigh Light. 28
During the remainder of June the five Leigh Light Wellingtons sighted no fewer than seven U-boats in the Bay of Biscay. Whitleys using conventional methods failed to find any enemy vessels during the same period. The Leigh Light Wellingtons proved so successful that on 24 June Dönitz ordered all U-boats to proceed submerged at all times except when it was necessary to recharge batteries. The morale of U-boat crews slumped with the knowledge that darkness no longer afforded them protection. The work of the Leigh Light Squadrons was the keystone of the success in the air offensive against U-boats in the Atlantic. They enabled night attacks to be made on submarines when they surfaced to re-charge their batteries under cover of darkness. On the night of 5/6 July the Leigh Light Wellingtons chalked up their first true kill when west of La Rochelle in the Bay of Biscay, an American pilot on 172 Squadron, Pilot Officer Wiley B. Howell flying ‘H-Harry’ sunk the U-502, which was bound for the Caribbean on its third war cruise. Kapitänleutnant (lieutenant commander) Jürgen von Rosenstiel and all 52 hands perished. It was described by ‘Bruce Sanders’ thus: ‘H for Harry’, a Wellington, spotted a U-boat surfaced eight miles distant and began stalking it. Closer and closer the Wellington crept out of the sun, handled very clearly by a pilot who was determined to get the submarine if it was at all possible. He proved that it was. He had covered the entire eight miles and was roaring down over the U-boat before its crew awoke to their danger. Three men were still struggling at the conning-tower hatch when the redskin of the skies charged overhead with machine-guns chattering. They tumbled this way and that like broken dolls and the bombs broke across the under-pirate’s slim back.’
What ‘Sanders’ could not mention was the Leigh Light. About a mile from the target, the crew switched the light on to reveal the Type IXC U-boat rolling gently on the surface. Four shallow set 250lb depth charges straddled the boat. When the water settled, the aircrew saw that the water around the submarine had become uncommonly dark. Six days later, Howell and his crew attacked U-159, again using their Leigh Light. The U-boat skipper, Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte, ordered his gun crew to shoot out the aircraft’s Leigh Light. The gunners, blinded by the intense glare, could not obey. U-159 escaped but suffered damage. 29
From the twentieth day of June 1940 when Mirek Vild (Flight Lieutenant Miroslav Vild) set out with Alois Siska from Bordeaux bound for England in the good ship Ary Sheffer until 1 November 1944 when Mirek completed his last operational flight as a radio and radar operator, few men can have survived so many potential deaths. On his very first operation with 311 (Czech) Squadron from East Wretham, in Norfolk, the Bomber Command Wellington in which he was flying crashed soon after take-off, eventually accounting for five killed and three more seriously wounded. Vild’s escape (he was literally blown to the ground from the aircraft) was providential. 25 May 1941 was his lucky day. After six months in hospital at Ely and another three on light duties, recuperating with the Squadron, he was back on the treadmill. Four months later, on 10 August 1942, after 311 had been transferred to Coastal Command and to the airfield at Talbenny in south-west Wales, he was the radio operator on Flying Officer J. Nyult’s crew on Wellington HF922 ‘H-Harry’ who claimed their first U-boat destroyed in the Battle of the Atlantic north of Cape Ortegal. 30
Soon afterwards Vild was obliged to change crews. He joined the crew of Flying Officer J. Vella DFC. On their very next trip, Vild’s former comrades were shot down on a patrol in the Bay of Biscay. None of Nyult’s crew survived. Vild then had a strange dream about one of his lost friends. He dreamt that, over a glass of red wine, he asked his departed comrade how he found things and what he thought about life. The message that came back was clear: forget your cares and worries and have a drink, for all will be well. Next, Vild was inquiring of his friend what had happened when he was shot down. Was the end very painful? He was anxious to know the answer. But, suddenly, Vild felt a strange sensation in his head; it seemed to become heavy and painful. What was this? he wondered. He wanted to rest and sleep - but he couldn’t because someone was now shaking him, telling him he must wake up and get ready for the briefing... Now wide awake, the radio and radar operator found it was raining outside. He didn’t at all feel like flying on what would be his 33rd operation. What is more, he noticed that the comrade sitting next to him in the crew-room was looking downcast and glum, whereas normally he was a jolly, spirited and talkative fellow. Vild asked him what was wrong. It turned out that he, too, had just been dreaming and was now apprehensive; dreams, he said, can so often come true. The two remained silent, content to nurse their own thoughts... As the crew were climbing aboard their Wellington, the front air gunner dropped his Thermos flask. It shattered in a dozen fragments on the tarmac. Vild looked down at the broken glass. His face came to life. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘broken glass! Broken glass is lucky. We shall be lucky today!’
That day they were patrolling in the Bay of Biscay, searching for U-boats leaving the south-west ports of France for the Atlantic, or returning after days at sea. Suddenly, down below, the crew spotted eight enemy aircraft, one of which was white. They were Ju 88s. Immediately bombs were jettisoned to make the aircraft safer and more manoeuvrable in a fight. The pilot climbed to 3,000 feet and headed west, out into the Atlantic, at full bore. Mirek radioed the bad news of the sighting back to base.
Meanwhile the 88s began climbing for their prey with the white aircraft positioning for the initial, frontal attack. But the Wellington pilot held his course steady, meeting the approaching German head-on. As they began to close, the Czech air gunner started blazing away from the front turret. Down went the 88, plunging seawards ... How the 311 crew evaded the unequal attacks, none could truly say, but at the end of the engagement, which seemed like an eternity, the score sheet read: 311 Squadron - three German aircraft destroyed: the enemy - O. Back at base, the crew stepped down thankfully from the aircraft. Once on the ground Vild sought out the front-gunner. ‘Are you superstitious?’ he asked. ‘No’ came the positive, monosyllabic response. Vild brushed the negative aside. ‘Have no doubt,’ he said, ‘the broken glass from your Thermos brought us the luck ... 31
During the war ferry flights were frequently fraught with danger not only from the elements but from hunting enemy aircraft. A mixed crew briefed to take a Wellington to the Middle East was attacked by a Junkers 88 off Cape Finisterre soon after their dawn take-off on 20 July 1942. The Ju 88 dived and at 500 yards opened fire, shattering the Wellington’s rear turret and injuring the gunner with broken pieces of perspex. The fire holed the nacelle tanks, shot through the main spar and severed various controls. The rear gunner of the Wellington, his face streaming with blood and with a bullet in his leg, held his fire until the enemy was 150 yards away, then fired. The Ju 88 stopped firing immediately; smoke began pouring from the port engine. Flight Sergeant J. M. Rogers RAAF, who was in the astrodome, saw it go past the Wellington about thirty yards distant and swoop down into the sea. Half-way down it lifted a little as though the pilot were mortally wounded and someone else were trying to pull the aircraft out, but if so it was a vain attempt.
The Wellington landed at Gibraltar. As it touched down the port tyre collapsed and petrol began to stream from bullet holes in the top of the tanks. Soon afterwards the same crew returned to England, where they were chosen to pioneer the West African route for Coastal Command Wellingtons. The first journey began on 3 October 1942 and the trip to Gibraltar was made without incident. On 14 October they left Gibraltar at dawn, flying past Casablanca, to which, a few months later, Australians, among other ferry pilots, were to bring important delegates. As the day progressed, visibility deteriorated and by the time the Wellington was off Dakar it was flying in thick haze, fighting against high winds and made sluggish by its heavy cargo. Seeking Bathurst, which the wireless operator was unable to pick up because of severe interference, the aircraft flew up and down the coast in the haze until night overtook them with almost empty petrol tanks. They sent out an SOS and decided on a crashlanding on a beach. The pilot touched down and ran into a sand dune. There was a crash and the aircraft burst into flames. The back of the aircraft was broken and the fuselage opposite where Rogers, the Australian was sitting, split from top to bottom, enabling him to dive out of the fiery interior into the sand, although he was badly burned in doing so.
The second pilot escaped through the escape hatch in the rear of the fuselage. The wireless operator got out through the astrodome and the pilot through his escape hatch. The pilot’s hands were terribly burned in releasing himself from his harness. The rear gunner alone escaped burning, although he was stunned and bruised. He managed to salvage his parachute, tore the silk into strips and bandaged the burns of the others. It was a hot, tropical night, but all were cold from shock and they huddled close to the burning aircraft.
About an hour later, in the darkness beyond the circle of fiery light, the crew saw several vague figures moving. Rogers and his English comrades staggered to their feet, calling out in the few words of Arabic and French they knew and the figures materialized as scared natives who obviously had seen few, if any, white men before. ‘By signs they were made to understand the airmen’s need of water and half an hour later they came back with a big calabash full of warm, earthy water and the crew drank deeply. Then the natives helped them along the beach to their fishing hut, warned the airmen by signs to beware of leopards and snakes and went off to their village some distance away. The rear gunner kept the fire going through the night. None of them slept; their burns were too painful.
At first light came the roar of an aircraft and a Hudson aircraft appeared, circled and in response to Very lights and a message written by the Australian and the rear gunner in the sand - ‘Five, badly burned’ - signalled by Aldis lamp that they were to stay by their aircraft and left. Thirty minutes later a Sunderland arrived. It had picked up the Hudson’s signal to base. The Sunderland landed about three-quarters of a mile out. Then another Hudson arrived and dropped a dinghy and some food and the Sunderland sent another dinghy in through the surf to take off the crew. The natives returned, collected the airmen’s kit and helped get it into the dinghy on a subsequent trip. Rogers thinks the crew left that tribe the richest in Africa, One of the natives, possibly, is still wearing the remains of the blue silk pyjamas he gave him. The crew was flown to a military hospital at Bathurst. There the second pilot died the following morning from fever and burns. The wireless air gunner died four days later. The rear gunner recovered rapidly and went on to the Middle East. Rogers and the pilot were in hospital for two or three months before they returned to Britain on 2 March 1942.
On 4 August 1942 meanwhile, in the Mediterranean, forty miles west of Jaffa, U-372, which had left Salarnis on its eighth war cruise on 27 July, was attacked by Wellington HF913/M on 221 Squadron and Wellington ‘N’ on 203 Squadron and depth charged and sunk by RN destroyers Sikh and Zulu and frigates Croome and Tetcott after a thirteen-hour hunt. The commander, 33-year old Hans-Joachim Neumann and his crew perished.
In September, a detachment on 172 Squadron, operating from Skitten, Caithness was expanded and became 179 Squadron. The primary task of the Leigh Light-equipped Wellingtons was to saturate the Bay of Biscay at night, forcing as many U-boats as possible, to dive and run submerged and then to surface in daylight hours to charge batteries. This tactic increased the effectiveness of the daylight air patrols of the Whitleys, Sunderlands, Catalinas and other aircraft fitted with less sophisticated radar, whose crews relied heavily on daytime visual spottings.
On 16 September Wellington ‘E-Ela’ on 304 Squadron was airborne at 0930 and within five minutes was setting out on its 140-mile leg to the Biscay area; briefed for a ‘routine’ U-boat search. The navigator, Flight Lieutenant Minakowski, takes up the story.
‘As we approached position ‘A’ at 1612, six aircraft appeared; one starboard, three to port and two far astern. The sky was cloudless and the weather fine, with visibility between 25-30 miles from our altitude of 1,500 feet. Flying Officer Stanislas Targowski, our pilot, descended to 500 feet when the aircraft were sighted and, when we identified them as Ju 88s, jettisoned our depth charges and went further down to 50 feet.’
The enemy fighters closed in rapidly. At 1615 three Ju 88s bore in from the port front quarter, one after another and Targowski threw the Wellington into violent evasive manoeuvres, almost dipping the wings into the sea. Each time a Junkers came in, he turned to face it head-on, thereby presenting the smallest possible target. Both front and rear gunners opened fire as the first Ju 88 came on and hit one of them and saw it fall into the sea. The wireless operator, after transmitting a signal to base about the attack and the aircraft’s location, manned the beam gun. Minakowski’s report continues:
‘Two Junkers - those originally farthest away - now closed in from starboard, passed us and then attacked. They nearly succeeded. As one attacked on the starboard beam, our Wellington turned head-on towards him and was struck by cannon shells and a machine-gun burst. One of the petrol tanks was damaged and the cabin was filled with smoke from the explosions. All our guns were banging away furiously. Another Hun was hit and pieces fell off him as he turned towards France with smoke streaming out of his starboard engine. Shortly after this a crash resounded in the Wellington and dense smoke filled the fuselage. There were no fumes, however and nobody was wounded. Some clouds appeared on the horizon just then and we made for them.
‘Two fighters now attacked us time after time from astern. Both were hit by our gunners who greeted them with accurate fire as they got within close range. Thereafter the enemy’s attacks were half-hearted. The clouds were by now much closer, about 1,500 feet up, so Targowski made for them at full speed. He reached them safely and we finally broke away from the enemy. We fixed our position and informed base we would land at Portreath in Cornwall, owing to fuel shortage. The petrol in the starboard tank had all leaked out and the auxiliary oil-delivery tank was damaged. We landed at 1750, having been airborne for 8hr 20min. None of us was hurt. 32
On 22 October ‘B-Bertie’, a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 179 Squadron piloted by Flight Sergeant A. D. S. Martin DFM sank the U-412, commanded by 26-year old Kapitänleutnant Walter Jahrmärker, as she entered the Atlantic northeast of the Faeroes, six days out from Kiel on her first war cruise. All 47 hands were lost. Early in November the Squadron was stood down from anti-shipping operations and by the end of the month had moved to Gibraltar. Meanwhile, 544 Squadron had formed at Benson on 19 October 1942 with two flights. ‘A’ Flight operated Ansons and Wellingtons from Benson while ‘B’ Flight operated Spitfires in the PR role from Gibraltar. ‘A’ Flight Wellingtons began flying experimental night photographic operations over France in January 1943. 33
By January 1943 Coastal Command aircraft had almost ceased to locate U-boats by night. The only solution was to replace the ASV Mark II, which only had a 1½ metre wave-length, with the long overdue ASV Mark III of ten centimetre wavelength. This apparatus which had a PPI display was already in operation having originated from an adaptation of centimetric AI. An American version, developed with the help of British scientists, had been successfully tested in May 1942 although British models would not be available until spring 1943. The new model Leigh Light-equipped Wellington GR.XIV, which was fitted with ASV.III was powered by more powerful Hercules engines and propellers that could be feathered, which enabled the aircraft to fly on one engine in emergencies. Two Coastal Command squadrons - 172 and 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF - consisting of about fifteen aircraft each, received these new Wellingtons.
In 1943 Coastal Command underwent many changes to its Wellington squadrons. On 9 February 1943 U-268 commanded by 26-year old Oberleutnant zur see Ernst Heydemann was inbound to Brest returning from its fourth war cruise low on fuel and was found west of St. Nazaire by ‘B-Bertie’ a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 172 Squadron piloted by Flying Officer G. D. Lundon. He dropped four depth charges close to the U-boat and later, German aircraft and patrol boats could find no sign of U-268. The boat and all 45 hands had perished. 34Ten days’ later, on 19 February U-562, which had left La Spezia on its tenth war cruise on 7 February, was bombed northeast of Benghazi by Wellington LB177/S on 38 Squadron piloted by Flying Officer I. B. Butler DFC who was escorting Convoy XT.3. U-562 was also depth charged by the destroyers HMS Isis and HMS Hursley. All 49 hands including the commander, Horst Hamm, perished.
In March 1943 one of the biggest convoy battles of the war took place when nearly fifty U-boats in six wolfpacks attacked four large eastbound convoys numbering 150 merchantmen and their escorts. U-333, which had been equipped with extra anti-aircraft guns, encountered a Wellington on 172 Squadron in the Bay of Biscay. When the Wellington attacked, the U-boat crew fought back instead of diving and shot the Wellington down in flames, killing the crew. 35
Confirmation of claims for kills and identification of the actual U-boat ‘victims’ often posed difficulties. West of Nantes on 10 April 1943 an attack by a Leigh-Light Wellington, ‘C-Charlie’, flown by Pilot Officer G. H. Whiteley on 172 Squadron using ASV-IV radar, formerly credited with the destruction of U-376 commanded by 28-year old Kapitänleutnant Friedrich-Karl Marks, was actually directed against U-465, inflicting severe damage. 36 U-376 was outbound for a special operation code-named ‘Elster’ (Magpie) to take aboard German naval officers who escaped from a Canadian PoW camp at North Point on the northern tip of Prince Edward Island on the Canadian east coast.
When it failed repeatedly to report its position after sailing, it was posted as missing in the Bay of Biscay effective 13 April 1943. 37 On 26 April U-437 commanded by 29-year old Kapitänleutnant Hermann Lamby left St. Nazaire on its sixth war cruise bound for the mid-Atlantic but he was forced to return after being hit by a stick of Mark XI Torpex depth charges dropped by ‘G-George’ a Leigh-Light Wellington on 172 squadron piloted by Flying Officer Peter H. Strembridge. Almost immediately ‘two separate patches of very large bubbles were seen’ reported Strembridge but two flights of Ju 88s and another U-boat helped nurse the badly damaged submarine to safety at St. Nazaire on 30 April. U-437 was heavily damaged and did not re-sail until 23 September when it set out for the North Atlantic.
North-west of Cape Ortegal in the Bay of Biscay in the early hours of 3 July Leigh-Light Wellington ‘R-Robert’ on 172 Squadron piloted by Flight Sergeant Alex Coumbis, a Rhodesian, picked up U-126 or U-154, which was close by, on radar. Coumbis lined up and attacked a U-boat that proved to be U-126 commanded by 26-year old Oberleutnant zur see Siegfried Kietz, which was returning from West Africa on its sixth war cruise. Nothing more was ever heard from U-126 which was lost with all 55 hands. West of Figueria six days’ later the veteran U-435 commanded by 32-year old Korvettenkapitän (Lieutenant Commander) Siegfried Strelow, which was returning from the Azores area having left Brest on its ninth war cruise on 20 May, was bombed by four depth-charges dropped by Wellington ‘R-Robert’ flown by Flying Officer E. J. Fisher on 179 Squadron. The U-boat was lost with all 48 hands. 38
The U-459 commanded by 49-year old Korvettenkapitän Georg von Wilamowitz-Möllendorf sailed from Bordeaux on 22 July bound for refuelling operations in company with two other U-boats, one of which soon developed a bad leak and aborted. On 24 July, late in the day, Flying Officer W. H. T. Jennings piloting Wellington ‘Q-Queenie’ on 172 Squadron found U-459 and attacked out of low clouds. U-459 remained on the surface and Wilamowitz-Möllendorf’s new quad 20mm and twin 20mm guns opened fire. Jennings bravely flew into this very heavy flak barrage and crashed into the starboard side of U-459, demolishing the quad 20mm and other guns and killing or wounding half a dozen of U-459’s crew. Utter chaos ensued. The Germans cut away the wreckage of the Wellington fuselage and pushed it into the sea. Upon doing so, they found three unexploded depth charges, two on the bridge and one on the afterdeck. Apparently unaware that the depth charges were fitted with shallow-set pistols, Wilamowitz-Möllendorf rang up full speed and ordered his men to roll them overboard. One or more of the charges exploded as designed beneath the stern of U-459, inflicting horrendous damage. A second Wellington, on 547 Squadron, piloted by Flying Officer J. Whyte arrived on the scene. Upon seeing U-459, which was slowly circling out of control stern down, he attacked, dropping eight depth charges at wave-top level in a close straddle. These explosions dashed any hopes the U-459 crew may have had of limping home. In a second attack run, Whyte dropped several more depth charges and raked the topside with machine-gun fire, killing and wounding more Germans and destroying some of the dinghies. Following this attack, Wilamowitz-Möllendorf ordered his men to abandon ship and scuttle. As the dinghies pulled away, he saluted his men and then went below and opened the vents. Observed by Whyte and his aircrew, the U-459 sank swiftly by the stern. This second Wellington and other aircraft directed the Polish-manned destroyer Orkan to the scene. Seven to eight hours after the first Wellington attacked, the Poles picked up forty-one Germans and one British airman, A. A. Turner, who had been blown out of the crashed Wellington and had climbed into his own dinghy. The Admiralty credited the kill to the first Wellington and in view of his ‘high degree of courage’ recommended Jennings for a posthumous Victoria Cross. 39
During the great battle with U-boats in the Bay of Biscay on 30 July 1943 - subsequently officially described as ‘the greatest single victory of the war against U-boats’ - a formation of three U-boats was annihilated by aircraft of Coastal Command and the USAAF and by sloops of the Royal Navy, in a six hour’s engagement. The U-614, commanded by 27-year old Kapitänleutnant Wolfgang Sträter sailed from St. Nazaire on 25 July 1943 on its third war cruise. On the fifth day out while still in Biscay, Wellington ‘G-George’ on 172 Squadron piloted by Wing Commander Rowland G. Musson found and attacked U-614, dropping six depth charges. Sträter remained on the surface to fight it out with his new quad 20mm and other flak guns, but the depth charges blew the boat to pieces.
The Wellington aircrew saw survivors in the water, ‘some wearing life jackets and yellow skull caps.’ All waved or defiantly shook fists, but no German survived. 40 On the evening of 24 August Musson took off on a Leigh Light patrol at 2335. He crashed two miles inland from Clovelly thirteen minutes’ later. The Wellington caught fire and the DCs exploded. Musson and three of his original successful crew were killed with two others. 41
By 7 August 1943 Dönitz was facing a grim butcher’s bill; for three months past an average of thirty U-boats had been sunk a month and the Allied shipping losses had been reduced’ to a relatively negligible quantity’. Fifty-six U-boats were lost in the Bay and in the North Atlantic between 1 June and 1 September 1943 but the nerves of their crews, brave though the great majority were, were near breaking point. ‘You’ve no idea how unnerving is the effect of repeated alarms’, observed a prisoner from U-202 sunk on 1 June 1943. ‘The loudspeaker begins to sound like the voice of doom’. But perhaps the most significant remark of all was that made by an officer from U-506, sunk on 12 July 1943 in the North Atlantic. ‘It’s no longer any fun’ he said, ‘to sail in a U-boat. We don’t really mind even a cruiser and we can face destroyers without turning a hair. But if an aircraft is there, we’ve had it. It directs surface craft to the spot even if it does not attack itself ‘. These remarks came from the lips of shaken prisoners, but, even after due allowance has been made for their condition of mind it was obvious that by August, 1943, the situation from the German point of view was very serious.
On 17 August 1943 U-403 commanded by 28-year old Kapitänleutnant Karl-Franz Heine who was searching for Convoy Sierra Leone 135, was bombed by Hudson V9220/D flown by Flying Officer P. R. Horbat on 206 Squadron and Wellington HF697 on 697 Free French Squadron off Dakar in Senegal and was lost with all 49 hands. On 24 August, three days after an attack by a Wildcat-Avenger team from the carrier Croatan, escorting convoy UGS 14, ‘J-Johnny’ a Leigh-Light equipped Wellington on 179 Squadron piloted by a Canadian, Flying Officer Donald F. McRae, found U-134 commanded by Kapitänleutnant Hans-Günther Brosin west of Vigo and attacked in the face of heavy flak. Brosin was returning from American waters and had shot down a blimp in the Florida Straits. McRae dropped six depth charges and claimed U-134 destroyed 45 miles south of Cape Finisterre but he was unable to provide positive evidence of a kill. 42 This was often difficult, to say the least. Sometimes crews did not return to file their claim. On 27 August, Flying Officer R B Gray on 172 Squadron attacked U-534 which was on its third war cruise and was shot down by return fire. The pilot was awarded a posthumous George Cross.
On 6 September Flying Officer Donald McRae attacked U-760 off Cape Finisterre and this time there was no doubt. The U-boat, commanded by Kapitänleutnant Otto-Ulrich Blum, had left La Pallice on its second war cruise on 24 July and on 12 August had been damaged in an attack by an American B-24 and had to return to port. McRae’s attack put both diesel engines out of action and U-760 limped into El Ferrol in Spain two days’ later only to be interned with its crew. 43 On the night of 18/19 November, 430 miles southwest of Cape Finisterre, McRae was flying Wellington ‘F-Freddie’ and escorting Convoys SL.139/MK S.30 when U-211 was detected on radar and bombed by Leigh-Light. The Type VIIC U-boat, which was commanded by 27-year old Kapitänleutnant Karl Hause, had left Brest on 14 October, on its fifth war cruise and was operating as a ‘flak trap’. Type VII ‘Flak boats’ or ‘flak traps’ were introduced to lure and destroy anti-submarine aircraft. Their first success came on 24 May when west of Gibraltar, the veteran U-441, the first of eight such boats, which was armed with two quad 20mms on bandstands fore and aft of the conning tower and a rapid fire 37mm flak gun on a second, lower bandstand aft, plus nests of machine guns on the bridge and a team of highly trained gunners, shot down Sunderland EJ139 on 228 Squadron flown by Flying Officer H. J. Debden, who also damaged the U-boat’s bow area by depth charges. None of the flying-boat crew survived. U-211 went down with all 54 hands.
On 7 September 1943 Pilot Officer E. M. O’Donnell DFC on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF carried out an attack in ‘W-William’ on a U-boat believed to be U-669, commanded by Oberleutnant zur see Kurt Köhl, which was outbound for a special operation code-named ‘Kiebitz’ to take aboard former U-434 Kapitänleutnant Wolfgang Heyda, who escaped from a Canadian PoW camp at Baie de Chaleurs, New Brunswick on the Canadian east coast. The attack, in which O’Donnell dropped five depth charges, was actually directed against U-584 and they inflicted no damage. 44
On the night of 10 September a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 179 Squadron, piloted by a Canadian, Squadron Leader D. B. Hodgkinson found U-617 commanded by Kapitänleutnant Albrecht Brandi about one hundred miles east of Gibraltar near the coast of Spanish Morocco. Attacking into ‘heavy’ flak, Hodgkinson dropped six depth charges that disabled U-617. 45 Three hours later, in the early hours of 11 September, another Wellington on 179 Squadron, piloted by Pilot Officer W. H. Bronini, arrived and, in the face of ‘intense’ flak, dropped six more depth charges. These attacks so badly damaged U-617 that Brandi, could not dive. To avoid certain capture, he drove the boat into shallow water offshore and abandoned ship. After he and the 48 crew reached the beach, Spanish troops took them into custody. Hodgkinson was awarded the DFC. 46
Among Australians serving in the Leigh Light Squadrons was Pilot Officer M. H. ‘Max’ Paynter on 612 Squadron. At three o’clock on a black morning in October 1943, when the water was covered in a thick sea mist he piloted a Wellington in one of the many Leigh Light operations in the Bay of Biscay. The Wellington had been sent out to search for a dinghy previously reported in the Bay and it was flying low when an unidentified object was picked up on the detector apparatus. Paynter switched on the Leigh Light and in a few seconds it swivelled round on to a fully surfaced U-boat. As soon as the light went on, red and white and green tracer bullets streamed up from the submarine’s guns and the glass of the Leigh Light was shattered and the tail of the aircraft hit. Paynter’s navigator, Pilot Officer J. W. McKay RAAF had moved along to man the front gun and at 300 yards could see the gun crew clearly. He opened fire and saw his tracer ricocheting off the deck. Then the Wellington swept in from the beam and dropped a stick of depth charges across the conning tower. McKay kept firing until they passed over and the fire from the submarine slackened and then died away. The last two depth charges straddled the U-boat. The rear gunner saw the explosion close to the conning tower and then there was nothing more in the pitch blackness. The Wellington stayed near the spot for another twenty minutes and then proceeded on patrol. An hour and twenty minutes later the crew found the dinghy floating 100 miles off the Spanish coast near Cape Finisterre. It illuminated the spot, reported its position and returned to base. 47
Forty miles WSW of Cape Spartel at the mouth of the Gibraltar Strait in the early minutes of 1 November U-340 was damaged in a bombing attack by Leigh-Light Wellington piloted by Flying Officer Arthur H. Ellis DFC on 179 Squadron. Ellis dropped six depth charges but an engine malfunction forced Ellis to abort. Later in the day RN destroyers HMS Active and HMS Witherington and sloop Fleetwood found the U-340 with sonar and attacked with depth charges. The U-boat, which had left St Nazaire on its third war cruise on 17 October, was abandoned by its commander, 28-year old Hans-Joachim Klaus, after passing through the Straits due to extensive damage. Forty-eight hands were rescued by Spanish fishermen but were then taken off by HMS Fleetwood and taken into captivity. 48 In the early hours of 10 November 1943 the U-966, commanded by 25-year old Oberleutnant zur see Eckehard Wolf, which sailed from Trondheim on 5 October, was found by a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 612 Squadron piloted by Warrant Officer Ian D. Gunn while inbound to France via the northern Spanish coast south-east of Punta Estace. Gunn attacked U-966, dropping six depth charges, all of which fell short. After an exchange of gunfire, U-966 dived. 49
On the night of 26 November ‘H-Harry’, a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington (HF146) on the Azores-based 179 Squadron piloted by Flight Sergeant Donald M. Cornish found the U-542, commanded by Oberleutnant zur see Christian-Brandt Coester north of Madeira. The boat was on its first war cruise, having left Kiel on 21 October for the Azores area. Cornish and his crew had earlier sunk U-431 in the Mediterranean east of Cartagena on 21 October50 and three days’ later forced Kapitänleutnant Hans Hornkohl to scuttle U-566 in the North Atlantic thirty miles west of Porto after a bombing attack as the steering gear failed and the screws were ruined. 51Flying into heavy flak, Cornish dropped six depth charges that destroyed U-542, which was lost with all hands. 52
In November 547 Squadron converted to the Liberator. On the 15th 415 ‘Swordfish’ Squadron RCAF moved to Bircham Newton, Norfolk, for operations using Leigh Lights to illuminate targets for its Albacores to attack E-boats. The Royal Navy was also involved, as Fred Dorken, a WOp/AG on the squadron, recalls: ‘The Navy would stay a few miles beyond the convoy route in their MTB and MGBs and when the E-boats were within range, working singly we would drop flares and illuminate them for the Navy. The E-boats had impressive armament and we longed for bombs instead of flares. We flew eight-hour patrols against enemy convoys and several ships were destroyed. (We carried 500lb bombs on these trips.) All told, it was hours of boredom and every once in a while, wild excitement. ‘The North Sea in wartime is a cruel place and a goodly number of crews just disappeared.’
Derek Bielby, a Coastal Command pilot recalled the experience of a Polish crew on 304 Squadron at Chivenor near Barnstaple in north Devon, one black night in the Bay of Biscay in the winter of 1943. It proved again the rugged durability of the Wellington aircraft.
‘The night-aircraft of Coastal Command were navigated, in those days, by dead reckoning. The method depended on the constant measuring of drift53 by taking back bearings on flame floats dropped overboard. These devices ignited on contact with the sea. As drift-taking took place with monotonous frequency, the sea was often dotted far and wide with the flame-float pattern of other aircraft of 19 Group flying parallel courses in the saturation search for surfaced U-boats. Indeed, on a moonless night with a heavy overcast, it appeared as though the heavens and the sea had changed places.’
Flying one night in such conditions, the captain of one of 304’s Wellingtons was suddenly puzzled to see four glowing red dots just in front of him. Equally suddenly the apparition vanished and the aircraft shuddered with the stupefying shock of hard contact. Baffled by the swiftness of the phenomenon, the captain realized that there had been a collision of some sort and though the aircraft vibrated uncharacteristically, it was manageable and still flew. As the patrol was reaching its limit, the pilot at once turned for home and the long, lonely haul over six hundred miles of hostile sea. It was only after the aircraft had been safely parked and the engines shut down that the ground crew discovered that the Wellington’s fin and rudder were missing. And when a Coastal Command Liberator returned to its 19 Group base the same morning after an all-night Biscay sortie, minus the outer part of a wing, the realization of what had actually happened gradually dawned. The patrolling Polish pilot had seen the red-hot exhausts of the four-engined Liberator as it closed on a collision course. Inches only must have averted the sudden and total loss of both aircrews and aircraft. Chance had, yet again, played a fateful hand.... 54 1944 brought fresh hopes of improving the U-boat kill ratio, although the early success of Leigh Light operations was now very much reduced due to U-boats being fitted with Schnorkel equipment enabling them to re-charge their batteries at periscope height. After getting through Gibraltar Strait, late in the evening of 8 January 1944, a Wellington on 179 Squadron piloted by Flying Officer W. F. M. Davidson, found U-343 south of Sardinia by radar and a full moon. Attacking into heavy flak, Davidson dropped six depth charges on the U-boat, which was commanded by Oberleutnant zur see Wolfgang Rahn. Riddled by flak, the Wellington crashed into the sea, throwing Davidson clear, but the rest of the airmen perished. Davidson found a raft, climbed in and was later rescued by Allied forces. 55
North-east of the Azores on the night of 13 January the U-231 commanded by 33-year-old Kapitänleutnant Wolfgang Wenzel was located by aircraft from the aircraft carrier USS Block Island which brought up Wellington HF168 ‘L-London’ on 172 Squadron piloted by a Canadian, Pilot Officer W. N. Armstrong DFC who was on a night escort patrol over a convoy. In two runs into flak, 420 miles northeast of the Azores, Armstrong dropped six depth charges that wrecked the U-231 beyond saving. ‘There was a brilliant blue flash after my depth charges had gone down’ recalled Armstrong ‘and I think one of them must have hit the sub. We stooged around for a while and then saw him again. It looked as if he was too damaged to dive and my gunners opened up immediately, raking the sub from end to end. This time, however, he was ready for us and gave us everything he had. The flak was terrifying and it’s a near-miracle we weren’t hit then.
‘I came round for my third attack run. The U-boat was clearly silhouetted in the moon-light and I could see that the hull aft of the conning tower was under water, with the bows clear of the sea. My own gunners kept up so effective a barrage that the Jerry gunners only got off one shot before ducking for cover, but it was an unlucky shot for us. It hit our rear turret, smashing it and exploding right in front of the gunner, Flying Officer H. B. W. Heard. I didn’t know about this at the time and only first learned what had happened when I asked over the intercom what the rear gunner had seen of our attack. Back came the answer, ‘Sorry, but I’m afraid I must come out. I’ve been hit.’ He showed amazing courage and managed to lever himself out of the turret with his arms - he’d been hit badly in the legs. Despite his pain, he insisted on writing up his own report during the return journey - just in case he didn’t make it, as he said - and was laughing and joking. At base, as soon as we landed, they rushed him to hospital where he underwent amputation, but he lived.’
With his boat flooding heavily aft, Wenzel ordered abandon ship. An American intelligence reported that: ‘Sometime during the abandoning of his boat, Wenzel, probably in a fit of despondence, attempted suicide by firing a revolver bullet into his mouth.’ The bullet ‘lodged harmlessly... in the back of the neck and most crew members were unaware of the event.’ All fifty men on U-231 escaped from the sinking boat in rafts and dinghies, but seven soon died of exposure. About thirteen hours later, on 14 January, two aircraft found the survivors and two American destroyers, the USS Parrott and the USS Bulmer picked up the forty-three Germans and transferred them to the Block Island, which arrived in Norfolk on 3 February. A doctor on Block Island removed the bullet in Wenzel’s neck. 56 Flying Officer Heard and Armstrong were each awarded a DFC.
Identification and confirmation of claims for kills were still posing problems. West of Bordeaux on 31 January 1944 Wellington MP813/K flown by Flight Sergeant L. D. Richards on 172 Squadron using a Leigh Light for a night attack, was thought to result in the destruction of U-364 but it was actually directed against U-608, inflicting no damage. The Wimpy was shot down in the attack without being able to drop its depth charges. 57 Identification and confirmation of claims for kills were still posing problems. West of Bordeaux on 31 January 1944 Wellington MP813/K flown by Flight Sergeant L. D. Richards on 172 Squadron using a Leigh Light for a night attack, was thought to result in the destruction of U-364 but it was actually directed against U-608, inflicting no damage. The Wimpy was shot down in the attack without being able to drop its depth charges. 58
On occasion identification was easier. In the North Atlantic 180 miles southwest of the Faeroes on 11 February, U-283, which was on its first war cruise, having left Kiel on 13 January, was bombed in a night attack by Wellington MP578 ‘C-Charlie’ flown by Flying Officer P. W. Heron DFC on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron. The night before, U-283 had shot down a Wellington on 612 Squadron. Heron dropped six depth charges on the boat which was lost with all 49 hands including the commander, 21-year old Günther Ney, the youngest officer yet to command a U-boat at sea.
In the Bay of Biscay on 3 March while U-525 was homebound to Lorient, another Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 172 Squadron, piloted by J. W. Tweddle, bombed and severely damaged the U-boat, which was skippered by 35-year old Kapitänleutnant Hans-Joachim Drewitz. U-525 limped into Lorient, escorted by two Junkers Ju 88s and several small vessels. The boat was out of action until April. 59
On 10 March 380 miles west of the mouth of the River Shannon the gunners on U-625 and U-741 shot down Wellington HF311 on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF flown by Pilot Officer E. M. O’Donnell. Sunderland EK59l/U on 422 Squadron RCAF flown by Warrant Officer W. F. Morton, who was on his first operational sortie as captain and Flight Lieutenant Sidney W. Butler DFC along as check pilot spotted U-625, which commanded by 25-year old Siegfried Straub This submarine was a standard 517 tonner without the forward gun and carried two twin 20mm mountings on the upper platform and one on the lower, the latter being well shielded. Butler, who was at the controls at the time, avoided flak by frequent alterations of height and dropped six depth charges. U-625 sank by the stern and all 53 hands perished.
Next day a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington ‘H-Harry’ flown by Flying Officer H. C. Sorley on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF found and attacked the U-256 and U-741, which ran into difficulties while racing to locate and rescue shipwrecked Germans. U-256 suffered ‘severe’ damage. British and Canadian sources state that U-256 shot down ‘H-Harry’ but Oberleutnant zur see Wilhelm Brauel the U-boat commander, reported that the aircraft ‘crashed 1500 metres off before own fire opened up.’ Oberleutnant zur see Gerhard Palmgren in the outbound U-741 also reported an air attack. When he later surfaced, he said, he was attacked again, this time by ‘four carrier aircraft and three destroyers,’ which pursued him for hours, but inflicted only ‘slight’ damage. U-256 reached Brest on 22 March;60 the U-741 continued her patrol. Meanwhile, the U-629, commanded by 27-year old Oberleutnant zur see Hans-Hellmuth Bugs, which sailed from Brest on 4 March was damaged the following day by DCs dropped by a Wellington on 304 Squadron which forced him to return to Brest on 7 March. 61 After repairs Bugs re-sailed on the 9th, but in the early hours of 12 March, ‘C-Charlie’, a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 612 Squadron piloted by D. Bretherton attacked into heavy flak and dropped four depth charges. These inflicted so much damage that Bugs was compelled to abort to Brest a second time, arriving on 15 March. The boat did not re-sail until 8 June when Bugs put to sea on a war cruise bound for the Plymouth area. 62
In the North Atlantic in the early hours of 13 March U-575 commanded by Oberleutnant zur zee Wolfgang Boehmer was attacked into heavy flak by Leigh-Light Wellington HF183/B piloted by Flying Officer John P. Finnessey DFC on 172 Squadron. Finnessey attacked with depth charges, dropped float flares, gave the alarm and broadcast beacon signals. At dawn Fortress FA700/R flown by Flight Lieutenant A. David Beaty DFC on 206 Squadron arrived on the scene and attacked into heavy flak and dropped four close depth charges. When the automatic feed of the U-boat’s 37mm gun failed and it had to be loaded by hand. Boehmer decided to submerge. Overhead it looked to Beaty that U-575 went down stern first with her bow sticking up at a steep angle. Beaty climbed, broadcast an alarm and circled the position for five hours, sending beacons. Fortress ‘J’ piloted by Flying Officer Wilfred R. Travell DFC on 220 Squadron soon arrived. Seeing a large oil slick, Travell dived and dropped two depth charges into its middle. He then climbed and broadcast homing signals for the benefit of an American hunter-killer group which included the ‘jeep’ carrier USS Bogue with Grumman Avengers of VC-95 on board. One of the Avengers piloted by John F. Adams came on the scene that morning; found the oil slick and dropped sonobuoys. A hunt was commenced by USN destroyers Haverfield and Hobson and RCN frigate HMCS Prince Rupert escorting Convoy Outbound North 227, backed by aircraft on the Bogue led to depth charge and ‘Hedgehog’ (forward-firing depth charge) attacks which finally forced U-575 to the surface. All three warships opened fire with main guns and an Avenger piloted by Donald A. Pattie attacked with rockets and bombs. These finally destroyed U-575 which sank with the loss of sixteen hands. Fourteen survivors were rescued and taken prisoner by Prince Rupert and took them to Newfoundland and 24, including the commander, were picked up by USS Hobson, which took them to Casablanca for eventual transfer to the United States. 63
In the Bay in the early hours of 28 April 1944 the Admiralty believed that U-193, captained by Oberleutnant zur see Dr. Ulrich Abel, which had sailed from Lorient on 23 April to report weather and to serve as a provisional refueller if needed, came under air attack by ‘W-William’, a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 612 Squadron piloted by the Australian, Flying Officer C. G. ‘Max’ Punter, a veteran of the U-boat wars. Punter reportedly picked up U-193 on radar and from wave-top level, dropped a salvo of depth charges that destroyed the boat west of Nantes. Punter reported ‘about ten small bluish lights in the water,’ evidently illuminants on the life jackets of the German survivors. 64
In bright moonlight in the North Atlantic north of Cape Ortegal on 4 May Flight Lieutenant L. J. Bateman DFC RCAF on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF piloting a Leigh-Light equipped Wellington (HF134/M) bombed U-846. The U-boat, which was on its second war cruise, having left Lorient on 29 April, was commanded by 35-year old Oberleutnant zur see Berthold Hashagen. Attacking into heavy flak, Bateman released six depth charges. Nothing more was ever heard from the boat, which presumably was sunk at this time and with the loss of all hands. 65 It was sweet revenge. U-846 had shot down Halifax HR741/H on 58 Squadron into the sea two days’ earlier, on 2 May, with no survivors on Flight Lieutenant D. E. Taylor’s crew.
By June Coastal Command operations had reached a peak, with priority task of keeping the English Channel free of German shipping in preparation for the imminent invasion of Europe. Included in Coastal Command’s Order of Battle were seven Wellington squadrons: 172, 304 (Polish), 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF and 612 AAF at Chivenor while 179, returned from Gibraltar were at Predannack. 415 RCAF and 524 were at Davidstow Moor, a few miles from the coast and a thousand feet high, between the hills, were the remaining two squadrons.
In Biscay on the early hours of 7 June, several aircraft of 19 Group attacked U-989 commanded by 26-year old Kapitänleutnant Hardo Rodler von Roithberg. Coastal Command gave credit for the damage to a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 179 Squadron piloted by W. J. Hill. A Liberator and a flight of Mosquitoes also participated in the attack. Wounded in the thigh by Mosquito gunfire, von Roithberg aborted to Brest for medical attention. 66
On the night of 6/7 June - the night of D-Day - Coastal Command reported the loss of a Wellington on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF flown by Squadron Leader Farrell and three Liberators, but it is not known which U-boats made which kills. On the night of 8 June Flight Lieutenant J. Antoniewicz, captain of Wellington HF331 ‘A-Able’ on 304 (Polish) Squadron claimed to have destroyed U-441 40 miles north of Ushant. 67 Flight-Lieutenant Antoniewicz was from Bilystok. He served a year in the Polish Army, before the war and then joined the Air Force. He was still a cadet when the war began and he was posted to a station as an engineer. When Warsaw fell, he escaped to Romania where he was held in a concentration camp for three and a half months. He escaped at night, reached the coast of the Black-Sea and found a friendly Romanian who helped him to board a ship and cross the Aegean. He ended up in Syria whither so many Poles had hastened. But Antoniewicz’s eyes were on France so he made his way as far as Marseilles and served four months with the Preach. His dream was to become a pilot so he began his training just before the French capitulated. Then he had to move on once more; to carry his undying faith to still another country. He went to Oran, to Casablanca and then took ship for Liverpool. He completed his training as a pilot in the RAF and during that time he had attacked three U-boats.
The story of his navigator, George Moller, is equally exciting. He was born in Poznan, forty miles from the German: frontier. He was a qualified pilot cadet, stationed near Warsaw when the war began. His school was bombed and he tried to escape in one of the aircraft, flying it to Lublin, It crashed a few miles from the aerodrome and Moller had to walk back. He then hitch hiked into Hungary where he became very ill. A family of Hungarian Jews sheltered him; they were kind, feeding him on oranges until he was well enough to escape to Greece, by way of Yugoslavia. Then to Marseilles, which had become the vague, unknown goal for so many Poles who were trying to find their way across Europe. From Marseilles Moller went to an aerodrome at Lyons, where he was twice bombed. He too was forced to escape when France fell. He went to the Atlantic coast and found a ship which brought him to Liverpool. It was the Arandora Star, which was sunk, four days’ later. Moller joined the RAF as a navigator and has flown four years.
Antoniewicz and Moller were about to alter course to investigate a U-boat sighting when they saw the conning tower of a second U-boat surfacing in another position. Antoniewicz turned to starboard to bring this U-boat on the port side and then turned to get on to an attacking course. When he was a mile away from the target he saw the first U-boat only one and a half miles away. The Wellington kept on its course and dropped six depth charges on the second U-boat. The first two hit the water to starboard of the target, the second one falling about ten yards from the hull. The U-boat was obscured by the explosions but the crew saw a long pole-like object blown 100 feet into the air. When the plumes subsided only the conning tower could be seen. The other U-boat had submerged.
Antoniewicz tracked over the scene of the attack and his crew saw a spreading, bubbling, patch of oil, two dark cylindrical objects, each thirty feet long and a considerable quantity of smaller wreckage. They made a second run and saw oil gushing to the surface and spreading out into a big circle with a fluorescent edge. The third run over revealed the oil patch had spread to 500 feet in width and on the last run, they saw both the oil and the wreckage again. U-441 veteran boat’s commander, 31-year old Kapitänleutnant Klaus Hartmann and all hands were thought to have perished. 68 Antoniewitcz’s attack however, had probably been directed against U-988 commanded by 24-year old Oberleutnant zur see Eric Dobberstein which was lost with all fifty hands. 69
There were several Wimpy losses at sea during June. On the night of 12/13 June Wellington ‘K’ on 179 Squadron flown by Flight Lieutenant Walmsley was lost over the Channel and all the crew perished. On 13 June a Liberator on 53 Squadron hit the U-270 commanded by Kapitänleutnant Paul-Friedrich Otto. The German gunners, who had earlier destroyed a Fortress on 206 Squadron, shot down this aircraft as well. On the same day ‘Y-Yorker’, a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington on 172 Squadron piloted by L. Harris, hit U-270 and caused such damage that Otto aborted to Lorient. 70 A 415 Squadron Wellington with Pilot Officer G. H. Krahn and crew went missing from Ostend.
On 10 August Hector Bolitho drove along the coast from Davidstow Moor into Devon. ‘The only sign of war was a splendid convoy of ships, moving over the blue satin ocean. I was to spend the day with Poles and South Africans who were flying in the British squadrons at Chivenor. After lunch with Group Captain Dicken I met the only South African crew fighting with Coastal Command in this country. It was a curious change, after talking to Poles, to listen to the lusty South Africans who laugh more easily, treating war as an adventure for the young rather than as a grim necessity vomited up by centuries of trouble. The South African captain was B. D. Miller from Johannesburg. The navigator was W. T. Wilkins from Zululand and the radar operator, R. C. Naude. I asked Naude whence he came and he said, ‘East London.’ As I was writing it down he added, ‘Please add South Africa or they will think I come from the East End of London.’ Miller and Naude were not wholly pleased with the results of their last attack and they said they would not be satisfied until they had seen some ‘nice German dinghies with lots of Germans in them.’ They made the attack on 11th July when they got what Naude described as ‘a nice small contact to port,’ about 3.40 in the morning. They had switched on the Leigh Light, swept the sea with its beam and saw the schnörkel and periscope of a U-boat, while they were flying at 50 feet. They were not in a position for attacking so they went in again. They switched on the light once more but there was too much haze for them to see the target so they decided to run in again before attacking, without the Leigh light. The depth charges were dropped and the rear gunner saw them explode and straddle the target ahead of the wake. When the crew searched the area there was no sign of victory, but the U-boat had at least been forced to submerge and had probably been damaged.
‘On 12 August some idea of the panic among ships was revealed by a sighting about 1115 in the morning when a 1,500-ton merchant vessel was seen at sea with branches of trees still tied to the sides and rigging. This is a well-known camouflage trick of the Germans when in port but, as one of the pilots said, ‘It seemed a bit odd to see a coppice moving over the water.’ A Halifax of 502 also had a fruitful afternoon. About a quarter to two, eighteen vessels were seen, including a Sperrbrecher. There was an escort group with the Halifax and they shelled the Sperrbrecher which died in an immense orange explosion, no doubt from the magazine or from ready ammunition on the deck. The story of the day is just a succession of sightings and attacks. A 5,000-ton merchant ship was caught by aircraft of 404 and 236 Squadrons west of La Rochelle. It was carrying a deck cargo of timber and a small tug was heading it out to sea. Both were hit and the smoke from the big vessel rose to 500 feet, with reddish flames emerging just forward of the poop deck. Both ships were enveloped in smoke as the aircraft flew away. Another Halifax on 58 Squadron bombed a Sperrbrecher about 2.15 in the afternoon and claimed a hit. Black smoke came from amidships and the Halifax watched the results until two unidentified aircraft appeared on the scene. Two more minesweepers and a merchant vessel were attacked by Halifaxes about one o’clock in the morning and five more unidentified vessels were attacked at a quarter to five in the morning, near Ile de Croix. The U-boats were equally unlucky and a Wellington on 172 Squadron dropped depth charges on one which it sighted at half-past two yesterday afternoon, obtaining a straddle across the stern. The U-boat dived a few minutes after. A Halifax made a daring attack on another U-boat about seven in the morning, in face of concerted flak from no less than three U-boats and from the shore. It is possible that the depth charges overshot the U-boat, but the attack was made through exceptionally intense flak. The same group of U-boats were seen by a Halifax on 502 Squadron, at the same time and the rear gunner was seriously wounded by flak. The results of this action could not be judged but the U-boats were at least held up on their way. 71
‘One U-boat after another has joined the ghosts of the Spanish galleons on the ocean bed and those that have escaped are creeping out of Brest for the uncertain haven of ports in the south. And the ships, fussing like ants, are trying to save themselves. Doenitz’s feathers are being plucked, one by one.’
Early in September 1944 Arthur Rawlings joined 179 Squadron at Predannack. He recalls: ‘My position was that of wireless operator-air gunner in Squadron Leader E. E. M. Angell’s crew. Most of our operations in the Wellington Mk XIV were night sorties, using radar search and homing procedures, descending to fifty feet (using radio altimeter to inspect suspect contacts. The Leigh Light was switched on at about a quarter mile range.’ Squadron Leader Angell himself recalls: ‘With overload tanks and carrying six depth charges, we used to patrol at about 1,500 feet for up to ten hours. We were given set areas to patrol from Predannack in the Bay of Biscay and from Benbecula and Limavady in the North Western Approaches. On making a radar contact the drill was to home in going down to sixty feet on the radio altimeter and illuminating with the Leigh Light at three quarters of a mile. In preparing to attack, the bomb doors would be opened and the depth charges armed. The Leigh Light would be lowered and lined up with the target in accordance with radar reports by the second pilot who had remote controls in the nose. He would switch on and search for the target on the instruction, ‘Leigh Lights on!’ from the captain. The front guns would be manned by the navigator sitting astride the second pilot and he would open fire if the submarine was surfaced. The pilot would release the DCs by eye, spacing them 60 to 100 feet apart. The rear gunner would be ready to fire at the submarine after the aircraft had passed over it. The wireless operator would already have sent a sighting report before the attack and would be preparing to send an attack report. Like so many aircrew on anti-submarine operations, I never actually saw a U-boat.’
Shortly after midnight on Tuesday 26 September 1944 a Wellington XIV crew on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF at Wick in Scotland were briefed for a routine patrol off the coast of Norway. The ‘Demon’ Squadron was one of the few all-Canadian squadrons at serving in Coastal Command. At around 12.45 am Flying Officer Gord A. Biddle and his all-RCAF crew took off for what was to be an eventful operation. Flight Sergeant Harvey Firestone, one of the wireless-operator-air gunners, recalls.
‘We feared that the trip would be cancelled because of persistent bad weather. A few days earlier we had missed an operation when Biddle had come down with a very high fever. We did not want to miss two trips in a row, so we hurried to board ‘S-Sugar’, a Leigh Light-equipped Wellington. Despite the wild and stormy weather we were given the green light to take off. With visibility down to about a quarter of a mile and with a fifty-knot wind from the west, we managed to become airborne at 0050 hours. We headed out over the North Sea and proceeded to our patrol area. We were about thirty miles out from the Norwegian coast on a course roughly parallel to it, when suddenly, at 0452 hours, our starboard engine coughed and spluttered but commenced running smoothly again. Biddle climbed hurriedly to 3,000 feet. A short time later it coughed once and a large fireball gushed out of the exhaust. Biddle throttled back immediately. Flying Officer George Deeth, the second pilot, feathered the propeller and pushed the automatic fire extinguisher on. He switched the engine off and closed the fuel cocks and gills. Warrant Officer George Grandy, at the wireless set, sent out a QDM-5 (SOS) signal to Group. Fortunately, radio reception was good but Group informed us that the headwind we faced was not expected to abate but rather increase. They suggested we should try to reach the Shetlands and told us to continue sending signals so they could plot our course and attempt to monitor our position.
‘Everything that we could do without was thrown out of the aircraft to maintain height and reduce strain on the one engine. Deeth and Neil threw the batteries that powered the Leigh Light out of the forward hatch. Pilot Officer Ken Graham threw out the radar equipment. Even the Leigh Light went, after quite a struggle for Graham and me. We rid ourselves of the ammunition through the opening where the Leigh Light had been. The parachutes went too. Meanwhile, Flight Lieutenant Maurice Neil and Deeth got rid of the ammunition for the single nose gun. Biddle, who had turned for home, had jettisoned the depth charges but we were still losing altitude.
‘At 1,000 feet Biddle decided, after consulting with Neil and Deeth, that as we had about 5,000lb of petrol still in the wing tanks, we could jettison about three quarters of it and still reach the Shetlands. The jettison valve was open for about twenty seconds, then closed but Graham, watching from the astrodome, reported that petrol was gushing from the wing outlet even after the jettison valve had been closed. Biddle and Deeth tried several times to stem the flow but the meter finally showed no petrol in the wing tanks. We could no longer hope to reach the Shetlands against the fifty-knot head-wind. We had only 92 gallons of petrol in our reserve tanks. We were over 100 miles from Sumburgh, the nearest British base and less than that from the Norwegian coast. Group ruled out an ASR operation for many hours and that to attempt to ditch in the raging sea would be suicidal. We all agreed, very reluctantly, that our only hope would be to turn round and head for Norway. Group were advised. They acknowledged and wished us luck. Our ground speed picked up considerably with the wind at our back and at the break of dawn we sighted the mountainous coastline of Norway. We heard Ken Graham softly praying over the intercom as we neared land.
‘We could see nothing but mountains with low hanging clouds obscuring the tops. Biddle spotted an entrance to a fjord and headed towards it. We could see some ships escorting a submarine. We had little choice but to fly over the small convoy as our petrol at this time was just about all gone. As we neared the ships we were met by heavy machine-gun fire. Biddle took what little evasive action he could. I fired off a Very cartridge in the hope that we would confuse the gunners into thinking that we were a friendly plane. They stopped firing momentarily but started to fire again when they realised our deception. I fired off another but fooled no-one. Tracers entered just beside Graham in the astrodome. Our good engine had also been hit. Biddle and Deeth searched for a place to put the plane down as we had lost all power. They told me to tell Grandy and Graham to take crash positions. Grandy sent a final message and tied down the key. He strapped himself in at the wireless set. Neil was on the navigator’s table. Biddle was in the pilot’s position. Deeth, after first pumping down the flaps and opening the top hatch, took up his place behind the door. Graham and I braced ourselves on the floor behind the main spar. Silently, we turned to each other, shook hands and waited, wondering if we were going to make it.
‘Biddle swung the plane around into the wind and without power, at over 100 knots per hour, attempted a wheels up landing on what appeared to be the only spot possible. We hit some trees with our port wing, shearing some branches about four feet from the ground. Biddle brought the tail down first to slow us up and then jammed the nose in. We slewed around and came to a very sudden stop, having landed in just about 65 feet. Grandy and the radio fell on top of Deeth, Neil was thrown from his table and had a gash in his head and a cut on his hand. Biddle was jolted but not hurt physically. The astro hatch, which had been removed in order for us to leave the plane and which had been thrown to the rear of the aircraft, came plummeting forward toward Graham and me. I instinctively ducked and when we hit the second time, I hit my head on the main spar, dazing myself momentarily. Graham and I fully expected to see water come pouring into the aircraft but we had made it safely to land. As we jumped to the ground I saw that we had attracted a small crowd of people.’
Biddle’s crew had crash-landed at Haughland on the Bjørne fjord, ten kilometres south-west of Os (Osoyra) and twenty-five or so kilometres south of Bergen. They destroyed their maps and detonated the IFF equipment. Having thrown all their parachutes, harnesses and bags into the sea they set fire to the aircraft and then talked to one of the Norwegians who had gathered around the crash. Magnus Askvik informed them that there was a German garrison at Os and another at Bergen. Askvik advised the six Canadian airmen to cross a neighbouring mountain to the settlement at Bjørnen. Cautiously, Neil approached one of a group of four houses while the rest of his crew watched from a safe vantage point. They saw Neil being greeted by a Norwegian who then pointed him to another house. There the lady of the house, Ingeborg Bjørnen, already knew of the crash. Getting her cousin to hide the men on the mountain she went off to see what could be done about getting them back to Britain by fishing boat. She was back at noon with some milk and with the news that her father would be making further enquiries that night. She returned at around 8 pm, this time with Einar Evensen, who took them to a small cove where two Norwegians were waiting for them in a rowing boat. They thereupon rowed the airmen to a small island, where three more Norwegians were waiting in a second boat. Three to a boat, the airmen were rowed to the small island of Strøno, almost due west of where they crashed.
The airmen spent the night of 26/27 September in the upper storey of a boat-house, but were off before dawn to the hills. The Norwegians brought food and civilian clothing and told them to shave off their moustaches. At around 10 am on the morning of 1 October they were picked up by a motorboat and taken to another boat-house five kilometres north of Hattvik, where there was a U-boat training base from which the airmen saw three submarines operating. Avoiding the Germans the Canadians were taken to a nearby farmhouse where they met the head of the local 2nd Company of the Milorg Resistance and were fed and given dry clothing: At the farmhouse there were eight other members of the underground movement. The chief sent a message to the UK saying that the Canadian crew were safe.
Before dawn on 2 October the airmen were off once more, this time to a small cabin hidden away in the mountains. There they stayed with a Norwegian who cooked for them and looked after them. On 6 October the Canadians witnessed at first hand the first all-Canadian daylight bomber raid, on U-boat bases at Bergen and Hattvik. Though there were plenty of weapons to be had - three Sten guns and pistols (one a Colt; another a German Luger)-the airmen never had the opportunity to use them. On 8 October the Resistance leader took them to another farmhouse, from which, at 3 am on 9 October, they stealthily made their way to a boat-house barely one and a half kilometres north of Hattvik, where they transferred to another fishing boat. This boat took them to a small island almost due west of Austervoll and north of Selbjorn fjord, where they stayed, in a fisherman’s hut, with a Norwegian merchant seaman. On the night of 11 October, they were picked up in a motor launch and taken to a waiting Norwegian naval vessel, one of the three former US Navy submarine chasers that had been made available in August 1943 to the Royal Norwegian Navy and which were then based at Scalloway. These boats, named Hitra, Hessa and Vigra after islands off the west coast of Norway, were 100 feet long and powered by two 1,200hp General Motors engines, which gave them a cruising speed of 17 knots and a top speed of 22 knots. They were so well armed that German aircraft kept their distance and their speed was sufficient to get them quickly out of trouble. Each boat had a crew of twenty-six men, three of whom were officers and were skippered by Fetter Saelen, Ingvald Eidsheim and Leif Larsen DSC COM, DSM*. As a measure of the speed and seaworthiness of these boats the record crossing to the Norwegian coast and back by Ingvald Eidsheim on the Hitra took just twenty-five hours.
Using the very boats that had carried refugees to Shetland, agents, radio sets, arms and ammunition were landed and they returned with yet more refugees. From November 1943 until the end of the war they carried out 114 missions to Norway. In the foreword to his book The Shetland Bus David Howarth wrote: ‘During the German occupation of Norway from 1940 to 1945 every Norwegian knew that small boats were constantly sailing from the Shetland Isles to Norway to land weapons and supplies and to rescue refugees. The Norwegians who stayed in Norway and struggled there against the invaders were fortified by this knowledge and gave the small boats the familiar name which is used for the title of this book: ‘to take the Shetland Bus’ became a synonym in Norway for escape when danger was overwhelming.’
On 12 October the six Canadian airmen and the Norwegian sailor were ferried back to Scalloway in the Shetland Islands aboard the Vigra, captained by Leif Larsen, a distance as the seagull flies of 220 miles. The Vigra had departed Scalloway only the day before. The remarkable recovery of the Canadians had taken just seventeen days. 72 Next day the BBC broadcast ‘Coconuts on holiday’ to tell their Norwegian friends that the Canadians had reached England safely.
The war continued for other crews in Coastal Command. On 21 October 1944 Squadron Leader E. E. M. Angell’s crew was posted to 172 Squadron at Limavady, Northern Ireland and on 14 November Angell was posted to command a Halifax squadron. Flying Officer Chambers took over as pilot. Arthur Rawlings recalls: ‘We had only one sighting of a U-boat just before the end of the war. We saw a periscope which was immediately submerged when we turned to attack. This was in the area of the Mull of Kintyre and the coast of Northern Ireland. At this time the enemy was increasingly entering the vicinity of the Clyde and North Channel in a last ditch effort against our shipping. Although Liberators and Sunderlands did most of the convoy escort duties we once did an escort for the Queen Elizabeth on one of her troop carrying trips. She was too fast for the convoy system and both she and the Queen Mary were always independently routed. Of course, we had to keep a respectful distance but we could see the decks covered with thousands of GIs.’
Apart from enemy action, changing weather was a constant source of anxiety to Wellington crews on long, over water patrols. Icing could cause severe problems, as Gordon Haddock, a WOp/AG on 36 Squadron recalls:
With radar being somewhat primitive it was deemed one man should not have to gawk at the screen for more than 1½ hours at a time. So, by having three people in the same category, one could play musical chairs every hour or so from being radar operator, to the wireless operator, to the rear gunner. Invariably, we would toss a coin as to who would choose the position for takeoff. While on an anti-U-boat course at RNAS Maydown, Northern Ireland, on 26 December, I was lucky in winning the toss and choosing to start the trip as rear gunner. In flight the carbs iced up and we crashed into Way Moors Wood in Devon. The radar operator was killed and the wireless operator was facially burned. Neither he nor the captain ever flew again.’
On 30 December 26 miles south of Portland Bill, NB855/L a Leigh-Light equipped Wellington on 407 ‘Demon’ Squadron RCAF flown by Squadron Leader C. J. W. Taylor spotted U-772 ‘on the calm sea in the moonlight’ and straddled the submarine with six depth-charges. The U-boat, which was commanded by 27-year old Oberleutnant zur see Ewald Rademacher and was on its second war cruise having left Trondheim on 19 November, sank with the loss of all 48 hands.
On the last day of January 1945 the new U-927, commanded by 28-year old Kapitänleutnant Jürgen Ebert, sailed from Kristiansand to the English Channel. Off the Lizard on the evening of 24 February, ‘K-King’, a Leigh Light-equipped Warwick on 179 Squadron piloted by Flight Lieutenant Antony G. Brownsill, got a radar contact on U-927’s snorkel. He attacked from an altitude of seventy feet, dropping six depth charges at the snort in a perfect straddle. Nothing further was heard from U-927. Brownsill was later awarded the DFC. 73 The successes of the Leigh Light Wellingtons were to continue until the final victory in Europe in May 1945; with the final confirmed U-boat sinking by a Wimpy occurring on 2 April 1945 when southwest of Ireland, Warrant Officer R. Marczak piloting Wellington ‘Y-Yorker’ on 304 (Polish) Squadron sank the U-321. Oberleutnant zur see Fritz Berends and 41 crew perished. 74
Arthur Rawlings concludes, ‘We had the pleasure of escorting in a surrendering U-boat off the west of Ireland a few days after hostilities ended on 4 May.’ Then Coastal Command was quickly run down. During June, 14, 36 and 407 RCAF Squadrons disbanded at Chivenor while 172 disbanded at Limavady in Northern Ireland. On 14 June 304 (Polish) Squadron was posted to Transport Command. By 7 July 524 and 612 AAF Squadrons had disbanded at Langham, Norfolk.