In early June 1943, fun and games at Hatston were over as all four squadrons were now due to fly back on board HMS Illustrious. None of us in the squadrons knew with any certainty where we were due to operate but there was a clue when our squadron ratings were issued with tropical uniforms. Moreover, we were aware from the BBC of the major preparations being made for the Allied landings and assault on the south of Italy. Sure enough, Illustrious joined a convoy going south across the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean and the routine of Combat Air Patrols for us and Anti-Submarine patrols for the Barracudas began. The Focke-Wulf Condors, our old enemy of the Atlantic, were known to operate on surveillance for the Germans over the Bay of Biscay and there was the possibility also of attack from French airfields by German bombers, probably Junkers 88s. Perhaps Illustrious might launch a pre-emptive strike on those airfields. We aircrew would have to wait and see what was in store for us.
The convoy was comparatively small, about sixteen large merchant ships, with an average speed faster than usual. There was some urgency, we gathered, to get the cargoes of mainly munitions to the Mediterranean area to back up the assault on southern Italy. I found out later on, but not at the time, that our ship was in a hurry to replace HMS Indomitable which had been badly damaged by a bomb from a Junkers 88. It was extraordinary how very little information junior aircrew were given at any time about what was happening and what the plans might be for our ship. During much of my time at sea in a Fleet Carrier, I often never knew precisely where the ship was going or the general situation in which my ship was involved. Such information more often came from the lower deck via my steward or my aircraft maintenance crew, and it frequently proved to be remarkably accurate.
During the first days crossing the Bay of Biscay, the weather and sea conditions were bad but I was fortunate to spend them on stand-by in the Ready room. By the time my turn came for a patrol, the conditions had improved although there was still a heavy sea running which gave some considerable movement to the flight deck despite the size of the Carrier. At this stage of our progress, we were further from the French airfields with correspondingly less likelihood of possible bombing attacks, therefore patrols were reduced to just two Wildcats instead of four. The convoy already was steaming close into the wind and so, to avoid the Carrier having to turn fully into wind for a normal take-off, Jack and I were to be launched from the catapult for the last patrol of the day.
I hated catapult launches. I had witnessed one accident when the hydraulics of the catapult had failed and the Wildcat, with the engine roaring as the pilot had tried to get airborne, had inevitably stalled at the end of the flight deck and fallen under the bows of the ship. The crunching sound as the ship rode over the sinking aircraft and its pilot, remained in my mind. As usual, everything had to be done at breakneck speed and here I was, a mere twenty seconds behind Jack, who had been launched ahead of me. My head and body was braced back ready for the tremendous kick as the aircraft would be pulled suddenly from static to a speed of seventy-five knots in a distance of eighty feet. The acceleration would be such that momentarily I might black out and yet, within split seconds, I would have to recover and take control of the aircraft as it was literally flung off the flight deck into the air by the catapult.
I raised my left hand with the thumb up, to show I was ready, and then opened to full throttle while placing my fist behind the throttle in case, had I been holding it, the sudden acceleration should cause me to pull it back. The aircraft, while vibrating and straining at full power to shoot forward, was held back and immobile by an attachment at the tail of the fuselage. The DLCO dropped his flag, the tail attachment was released and the Wildcat was hurled forward and into the air. How quickly the body and brain reacts. By the time the aircraft was just clear of the deck and sinking down towards the sea, I had recovered all my senses and was flying the aircraft through that difficult moment of near stall, getting the wheels and flaps up and fast gaining the safety of full flying speed. Just another take-off, really.
It was almost dusk by the time we had completed our patrol without incident. The ship had turned into wind and Jack, ahead of me, was on the downwind leg with wheels, flaps and hook down about to land on when, Robert from Fighter Direction, called on the R/T, his usually fruity Shakespearean voice rasping with urgency, ‘Abort landing Red One, I say again abort landing. Bandits approaching at angels ten, thirty miles. Vector 110 degrees, buster.’ ‘Roger, vector 110,’ acknowledged Jack and immediately he and I, winding our aircraft wheels up, turned on to the vector and climbed at full throttle as we did so. ‘Bandits’ must mean an attacking force of bombers and all our fighter aircraft at this dusk hour had just been struck down into the ship's hangar. There must be an almighty panic down there on the flight deck, I thought, as everyone would be rushing to re-range other Wildcats and the Seafires ready for take-off to meet the expected attack.
Meantime, the two of us already in the air would have to deal with the bombers and we were at full throttle desperately trying to gain height. Robert from Fighter Control called again; this time his voice was back to its well modulated fruity tones, ‘Hello Red One this is Mother, bandit now recognised as single and a Condor. Bandit has turned away and your vector now 080 degrees.’ My heart gave a thump of relief; the prospect of the two of us trying to fight off half a dozen Junkers 88s had been daunting, although I don't suppose it had caused Jack any fear. Then we could see it; the Condor flying fast with plenty of height above us. There was little hope of catching it but, at least, we had chased it off before it could report the exact position and course of our convoy.
At 10,000 feet there was still some light in the cloudless sky and we could see the Condor as a far off speck. Although we chased for a short while, it soon disappeared into the gloom. ‘Mother’ called and, after telling us to switch on our IFF, gave us a course back to the ship. By this time it was getting dark but, at sea level, darkness would have fallen entirely, necessitating my first deck-landing at night. It would be the same for Jack. I moved into close formation on his starboard side as he began losing height on course for the ship. The ridiculous factor was that there was a whole battery of light switches down on the right of the cockpit which I had never before had occasion to use and, as I flew, I had to fumble about to find the right switch for the aircraft lights on the wings and fuselage. Down at low level, it really was a black night and I could see nothing yet of the Carrier or the convoy as we followed the course given to us and yet we must be close to them by now. I had never lost my fear of night flying after my prang at Shrewton and I felt no better now, bogging around in the dark over the sea. Thank heavens for Jack, I could rely on him to lead me to the Carrier but, after that, I would have to cope with the new experience of a deck-landing at night. I didn't fancy the prospect at all.
Suddenly we were over the convoy and I could see the wakes of the ships and a few faint glimmers of light from them. The Carrier was near the convoy but very difficult to see until, at five hundred feet, we flew over the top of it and I could look down and see the form of the ship from the line of her deck-landing lights. She was already into wind and gave us clearance to land. Jack led me in a tight circuit to bring us flying parallel along her starboard side. At least the trigger-happy gunners on the merchant ships were not firing at us, thinking we were enemy aircraft, as could easily happen at night.
I followed Jack as he broke away to port on to the crosswind and then downwind legs of his circuit and then I throttled back to stay further behind him, not to be too close as he landed. He seemed to go too far astern of the ship for his final approach and I would have to do the same. But then I realised he was quite right; we would be unable to see and line up on the flight deck lights unless on final approach we were in a direct line with them. My usual daytime method of turning on to the deck would not be practicable. For the first time since my early deck-landings, I was now reliant on the signals from the batsman. I hoped it was not the senior one of the two DLCOs, the one who tended to dance about as he batted, as I had little confidence in him. But I must press on now with the landing regardless.
It was not too difficult to line up on the lights looking over the short, stubby nose of the Wildcat but … was I too high? No, apparently not; the batsman was signalling for more throttle; telling me to hold my rate of descent. He was right and seconds later I was past the round down and received the ‘cut’ engine signal from the batsman to thump down on the deck. With the relief of getting down in one piece I could stop holding my breath. Two days later, after two more uneventful patrols, Illustrious came into Gibraltar harbour, leaving the convoy to continue under the protection of Destroyers, Corvettes and an Escort Carrier. This would be my first of many visits to Gibraltar and I was delighted with the little streets of the town and its long history of connection with the Royal Navy. For instance, I liked the little naval cemetery in the middle of the town for officers and men killed in the Napoleonic wars. It was a sailors’ town, full of bars and brothels in the little streets and good restaurants for the officers, assuming the latter would have disregarded the former type of entertainments.
There was mail waiting for me from my Mother, Maddie, Lalline and, unexpectedly, from my sister Phoebe. What she wanted, it transpired, was my old but still favourite brown civilian suit to convert into a skirt since, of course, new clothes were almost impossible to get under rationing at home. I went ashore and sent an immediate telegram via the British Post Office saying simply: ‘Negative brown suit.’ The meaning should be quite clear to Phoebe with all her naval connections.
Two or three days later, by which time I had completely forgotten the telegram, I was told to report to the Commander whom I found talking on the quarterdeck to a Chief Petty Officer wearing a naval police armband. The CPO had come to escort me as, apparently, I had been summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal of Gibraltar.
I had no idea whatsoever what the summons could be about even when we arrived at the Governor's Residence where I was marched into the Marshal's office. I had to stand to attention in front of his desk whereupon he harangued me about the telegram and its meaning which, he said, was deeply suspicious. He questioned me about my schools, my service in the RN, indeed on almost every aspect of my adult life.
I began by being very scared of this ferocious looking Commander, an ex-gunner's mate I learned later. Eventually, I became angry and barked back at him that, if he really thought I was some sort of spy sending secret messages, then his first action should have been to check my credentials and character from the Commanding Officer of my squadron with whom I had served for the past eighteen months at sea. ‘At sea, Sir’, I repeated pointedly and I glared at him sitting there behind his desk Then I drew upon my background at Harrow to add with the immense pomposity I had learned there as a boy to add, ‘Properly Sir you should have obtained the permission of the Captain of HMS Illustrious, the ship in which I serve, before summoning me to your office in this manner.’ Absolute bull, of course, because I had no idea of proper procedures. I stopped; feeling rather frightened of my deliberate rudeness. His ruddy, weather beaten face broke into a broad smile. ‘Calm down son,’ he said, ‘I accept what you have told me and you can go, but use your loaf in future and don't send silly messages like that in time of war. And you should know that authority for my actions comes directly from the Admiral. Also, incidentally, for your personal information, I have served at sea continuously since 1939 until three months ago.’ I left his office feeling a bit silly and quite shaky from the confrontation, to seek a large gin from the nearest pub.
I dined well on the story, as the saying goes, on board that evening when it was an excuse for a squadron party. Just before we all staggered off to our respective bunks, the CO called Jack, Winnie, myself and Mike Penhale aside to tell us that he had selected us four to go by bus from the harbour, leaving at five am, to the Gibraltar aerodrome. There at the main naval hangar we would find four Hurricanes, fuelled and ready for flight. We were to fly these Hurricanes from the aerodrome to meet the Carrier later that morning at sea off Gibraltar and land them on board. It being eleven o'clock at night, at the end of an evening of heavy drinking, I thought Jimmy must be joking, since it seemed such an extraordinary requirement. But no; it was serious. Someone of high rank had made a very sudden decision that these Hurricanes were needed on board the next morning for some reason. It all seemed so dotty that I just giggled and stumbled off to bed.
A light went on in the cabin and I was being shaken awake by our steward who had already given a shake to Mike whose turn it had been to sleep on the camp bed. I looked at my watch which showed four o'clock and remembered the extraordinary requirement to fly the Hurricanes from the Aerodrome. I had dismissed it from my mind, when falling into my bunk last night, as some sort of joke. Fortunately Jack, before he went to bed, had arranged for us all to be woken up at this time. Good thing he did because, had he not done so, I would have nursed my awful hangover asleep in the bunk for several hours more. When dressed, we had to fetch our parachutes and flying kit from the Ready room. These we dumped outside the Wardroom before getting a much-needed cup of coffee and something to eat from a couple of duty stewards, morose at that early hour.
I began to feel better and listened sensibly as Jack, who before going to bed the night before, had been briefed in detail about our flight in the Hurricanes. The essence of it was that we were to carry out an hour of dummy deck-landings at the aerodrome before a rendezvous with the ship at sea in the straits of Gibraltar at midday. In due course apparently, these Hurricanes were to be delivered to Malta and we would have to fly them ashore there. It would be rather fun and exciting, I now began to think, to fly a Hurricane again and particularly so to deck-land it. There was no problem therefore to the projected flight as far as I could see.
The aerodrome at Gibraltar appeared to be a huge expanse of white concrete, of triangular shape with its broad base at the inland end of the rock of Gibraltar and with the concrete right up to the very foot of the towering Rock. This widest part, close as it was to the Rock, was in effect the main runway and the prevailing wind meant that aircraft took off and landed facing towards Algeciras, across the bay. The commercial buildings and hangars were at the narrower end of the triangle and we were driven over a mile or so of concrete to one of them. Parked outside were the four Hurricanes which we now noted were Mark 11c's with a cannon barrel protruding forward from each wing. The sun was well up by now and the aircraft cockpits would be unbearably hot if we delayed.
The Petty Officer in charge of maintenance gave us the Form 700 to sign showing that the Hurricanes were fully serviceable, fuelled and armed. At our request, he found a copy of the Pilot's Notes for us to study. The first thing to do was to re-familiarise ourselves with the cockpit and its layout and we wasted no time starting on this before the hot sun would make sitting in the static cockpits unpleasant. How strange and cramped the Hurricane cockpit seemed after the orderliness and space of the Wildcat but, after a while, I remembered the feel and place of all the various controls and instruments. After signalling to the ground crew that I was ready to start the engine, I listened to the old familiar deep note as, with puffs of black smoke from the exhausts, the RR engine started up. The other three were ready too and Jack received permission from the control tower for all four of us to taxi out on to the huge expanse of runway.
We had decided that we were going to take as much time as possible over re-familiarising ourselves with these aircraft. None of us had deck-landed a Hurricane before, it was two years since we had flown one, the 11c was a new mark and we would have no more than an hour to become accustomed to flying it. To deck-land the aircraft later that morning was going to be a considerable challenge. To make matters more awkward, we would have to fly all the way round the Rock after each landing, instead of flying a normal short circuit.
Jack took off first and I left plenty of time before I opened the throttle to follow him. The sun was already very hot by this time and, as there was a fairly strong wind blowing as well, a lot of turbulence was created close to the Rock; very noticeable even on the take-off. I didn't feel comfortable flying this Hurricane; it seemed to lack the natural flight of those earlier Marks I had flown at Yeovilton. Perhaps it was the turbulence, I thought. Normally, I would have taken the aircraft up to 10,000 ft and done a few stalls and slow flying with wheels and flaps down to get a better feel for it. But there wasn't time. So I pressed on, grinding my way round the Rock until I turned into wind as I came round the highest point of the Rock, to make my final approach. The turbulence was bad and that, plus the effect of the two cannons protruding out of the leading edge of the wings, made the aircraft feel unstable compared with my memory of the earlier Hurricanes. It was dangerous to bring the speed down to deck-landing level in that turbulence and there was no question of attempting to fly just above the stall to do a dummy deck-landing under those conditions. However, I completed the landing, selected the flaps up and opened the throttle to go round again for another go.
My approach for the second landing was no less difficult so, once down, I stayed down and called Jack on the R/T. ‘Red One, these dummy deck-landings here are a waste of time and give me no confidence for the real thing on the ship, sorry but I think we should pack it in.’ From Winnie on the R/T, ‘That goes for me too Jack, bloody waste of time this is.’ ‘Right, I agree, everyone back to the hangar for coffee,’ replied Jack. And so we all taxied back to the hangar to await the call from the ship. Great leader was Jack; never hesitated to make a decision or take responsibility. If any of us were to make a mess of the forthcoming landing which, as we all knew, was more than likely then sure enough the Commander Air would point the finger of blame at Jack for not insisting, as leader, that we complete further dummy landings.
An hour later the signal came for us to take-off and rendezvous with the Carrier. We formed up in close formation on Jack who took us on a low, fast pass at deck level down the port side of the ship first, before we turned round and moved into echelon on the starboard side in readiness to break away individually for the landing. I had not had time or opportunity in close formation to worry much about it but now the time had come for me to put the Hurricane down on the deck. Jack, in front of me, was already safely down as I approached on the turn, just as I would have done in the wildcat, but at faster speed and flying the Hurricane automatically and unthinkingly as I had done two years earlier at Yeovilton. I flew past the little chap dancing about and waving his bats and I caught the third wire nicely. The deck party released the hook from the wire and I taxied grandly past the Island with its galleries filled with Goofers who, reasonably enough, were expecting to see at least one of us hit the crash barrier or worse. I took off my helmet as I passed and gave them a royal wave of my hand. I felt rather pleased with myself.
Although, under all the circumstances, it had been an exciting triumph to fly the four Hurricanes on board without mishap, there was a slight disadvantage to it. As the wings were non-folding, the Hurricanes could not easily fit below into the already crowded hangar and consequently they would have to be shuffled back and forwards along the flight deck during flying operations. Instead of shuffling them about, Commander Air decided that it would be easier for our flight to fly them on patrols.
The Mediterranean by that time had become a comparatively safe area since the Italian Navy had been hammered and tamed by the Swordfish at Taranto in the previous year. But there was always the possibility, even probability, that German aircraft might attack from Italian airfields. Our four Hurricanes alternated therefore with the Wildcats in putting up a CAP during daylight hours so that, in effect, we flew two patrols each day for the short period before the ship reached Malta. I found that the Hurricane, with its tight little cockpit smelling of glycol and fuel, was more tiring comparatively to fly on two-hour patrols than the Wildcat. But the patrols were without incident.
However, flying the Hurricane over the sea, I could not get out of my mind the fear of engine failure if it should ever occur at a level so low, such as in the landing circuit, where it would be impracticable to bale out. It was well known that to ditch a Hurricane safely was impossible because of the huge cooling radiator located like a scoop under the fuselage. The radiator, as soon as it touched the sea, would inevitably cause the aircraft to bunt upside down and hard into the sea without possibility of survival for the pilot. Engine failures did occur from time to time among all aircraft in those days, but the certainty of being killed if it did occur in the Hurricane, made me look forward to the return to my Wildcat with its radial engine which gave the pilot a good chance of surviving a ditching.
Three days later I missed the pleasure of coming into Valetta harbour when the ship arrived at Malta with the ship's company paraded on deck and the marine band playing. HMS Illustrious had played such a big part in the Malta convoys two years earlier that she was well loved by the population of the Island and crowds had turned out to welcome her back. Our flight of the four Hurricanes had to take-off and fly ashore to one of the two aerodromes. However, the four of us wasted no time in getting back to the ship to join the celebrations on her return to Malta. As always there were harbour duties for aircrew to do and, this time, there was the extra one of being detailed off in a motor boat to chug round and round the harbour, dropping very small depth charges by hand into the harbour waters, throughout every night. This was in case Italian frogmen should succeed in broaching the harbour defences with the intention of fixing limpet mines to any one of our many Warships. The Italians had proved themselves to be brilliantly good at this form of warfare since they had succeeded in damaging four of our Battleships, two in Alexandria and another two in Gibraltar. Although the Admiralty regarded damage to their beloved Battleships as disastrous, they were in reality no great loss in modern warfare and it was fortunate indeed that the frogmen had been so foolish as not to have concentrated on Carriers or Destroyers. Apparently our small depth charges were effective because no ships were damaged but two bodies of frogmen were washed ashore.
When off duty, most of the daytime ashore was spent as a group of chaps lying in the sun and swimming although, for me as a non-swimmer, the rocky coast was not particularly attractive. I liked wandering about in the narrow streets and steps of Valetta and, in need of more tropical shorts and shirts, I found a particularly good tailor's shop. Particularly good perhaps, because the young Maltese girl who served me was strikingly attractive, slim with dark hair and lovely wide, brown eyes. Like most Maltese people, she spoke good English and we chattered easily together as she packed up my purchases. I simply felt very much in need of female company and thought, why not try? And so I asked her if she would like to come out with me and maybe have drinks and dinner together at a nice restaurant, or anything else really that she might like to do? I did so want her to say yes, that I was absurdly shy in my manner of asking. She took her time, looking me in the eyes before she smiled and thanked me saying that she would be happy to go out with me.
I met her that evening at her parents’ house, quite near the shop. Unlike English girls who tend to dress in bright colours in hotter climates, Marie was wearing a black blouse with a knee length straight skirt of a russet red material. I took her by taxi to an hotel just outside Valetta and why I can remember so well what she was wearing is because, in contrast to the few European women there, her dark outfit and olive colouring made her stand out. She looked beautiful, I thought. Most of the other people in the restaurant of the hotel were very senior officers of the three services and I enjoyed being there amongst them in the company of such a pretty girl. She was composed and conversation with her was relaxed and easy. Her parents, she told me, ran a small restaurant quite near the harbour and their business was beginning to recover from the bombing which had so badly affected all their lives. She asked me if I would like to have an evening meal there and maybe, if I liked, to have a preliminary drink at their house first. I didn't hesitate to accept both invitations.
Marie had asked me particularly to wear uniform again, otherwise I would have worn casual clothes, so I arrived resplendent in my ‘whites’, those which I had bought in New York, complete with epaulettes and wings. The small terrace house was off the street, cool and dark inside with a pretty and sunny courtyard at the back where Marie had arranged two glasses of cold beer. I had expected that one of the parents would be there but we were alone in the house and, as we talked, I began to realise that the intimate situation thus created was deliberate. She was older than the teenager I had first thought her to be and certainly she was making all the running when she suggested that we go inside where it would be cooler. Once inside, she began undoing the collar clips and gold buttons of my tunic. ‘We must take off your uniform, she said, or it will become creased.’ She kissed me hard and passionately with a competent composure which left me gasping as I felt her hands undoing the belt of my trousers.
There followed a happy hour, both of us lying naked on a long and comfortable sofa, where I believe that I may have learned more about joyful sex from Marie than in all my previous experiences put together. I could have happily continued for the whole evening but the time came when we had to get dressed for we were expected at the restaurant. Although exhausted and groggy with the excitement of our close encounter, I was elated and proud of myself. In a way it had been almost equivalent to earning my ‘wings’ at the end of flying training. However, I thought it odd that so pretty a girl would go out with service men, who were just passing through Malta. Her explanation was simple; she liked men. But, if she had affairs with any of the local men of Malta, her fiancé would soon know about it and there would be trouble.
The restaurant was in what should have been a good location near the harbour but the buildings around it had been badly damaged by the bombing and the area still appeared desolate There had been no attempt to make the restaurant appear grand but it looked neat, very clean and cheerful with attractive coloured tablecloths and flowers on all the tables, some of which were set outside.
Mother came to greet me and Father came bustling out of the kitchen at the back also to do so. Mum was nearly twice the size of her daughter Marie but I could see the likeness in their pretty faces. Four of the tables were occupied by civilians inside but I suggested we sit outside for an aperitif first. I wasn't all that stupid because I realised that the reason why I had been asked to wear uniform was possibly to promote the restaurant as suitable for other officers who might be walking past from the Grand Harbour to the city. It worked too because four of the Seafire squadron from my ship stopped, said hello to me and came back later for a meal. Our dinner, for which I insisted on paying in spite of protests from Marie and her Mum, was superb; so much better than the hotel meal had been. I said good-bye to Marie with a chaste kiss and, as I was doing so, four more officers entered to have dinner there. I felt that I had done my duty for Marie. I visited the restaurant with my chums twice more because the food was so good but I did not see Marie on her own again: I didn't like the thought of the big dockyard fiancé catching me with her!
In early September, HMS Illustrious and HMS Formidable with a complement of about eighty aircraft between them, steamed out of the grand Harbour with an appropriate retinue of Cruisers and Destroyers en route for …. Where and for what purpose?
As usual, I had no certain knowledge of the situation and the purpose of such an obviously strong task force, other than that Landings were expected to be undertaken by the Allied Army somewhere on the Italian coast. My fellow pilots and I presumed that we would be taking some part in support of those Allied landings. In due course at pre-flight briefings, we learned that we would be covering the assault at Salerno.
The essential role of the Royal Navy would be to provide air cover over the Salerno beachhead where the Army were facing a German force very much more powerful than anticipated. Airfields at Sicily or Malta were too far away for the RAF to provide such cover and thus it was an ideal job for the Fleet Air Arm.
A task force of four Escort Carriers, with a complement of some eighty Seafires, had been chosen by the Admiralty to provide air cover over the beachhead throughout the hours of daylight for as long as necessary, i.e. until an aerodrome could be captured by the army ashore when the RAF could take over. These Carriers were to operate close inshore so that the Seafires would have only a little distance to fly to their operating location and height. This was important because the Seafire had a patrol endurance of little more than one hour and twenty minutes. In effect, therefore, a patrol of Seafires had to land back on their Escort Carrier every hour.
For the Seafire to land on the small deck of an Escort Carrier, even under ideal conditions, calls for considerable skill and experience on the part of the pilot. But at Salerno, the wind conditions were no better than a zephyr breeze and almost a dead calm, conditions entirely to have been expected at that time of year. Thus the Seafires had to operate with a total wind speed over the deck of only sixteen knots, being the maximum speed of the Escort Carriers, whereas they needed a total wind speed over the deck of at least twenty-eight knots. These were desperately difficult landing conditions for the Seafire pilots; conditions which surely should have been anticipated at the outset when the whole Salerno operation was being planned by Rear Admiral Vian who, despite never having flown an aircraft or having served in an Aircraft Carrier, had been put in charge of this, the first multi Carrier Fleet of the Royal Navy.
After two days the four Escort Carriers had virtually run out of Seafires, no less than forty-eight of which had been written off as the pilots attempted to land in those windless conditions. The situation was made worse by the limited sea space available for the Carriers so close to shore; this limitation must have created a frantic situation with so many crashes occurring while other Seafires were waiting to land on. How many of the Seafire pilots were killed or seriously hurt in this fiasco does not seem to be recorded. Nevertheless, in spite of the appalling crash rate, many sorties were flown in that short period from the five small Carriers. It was a courageous performance by the Seafire pilots under dreadful conditions. Unfortunately, another ten Seafires were shot down by German fighter-bombers largely due to the lack of radar in the Escort Carriers preventing the Seafires reaching an advantageous combat position.
Meantime, further out at sea, the second task force of two Fleet Carriers, HMS Illustrious and HMS Formidable were stationed with the secondary purpose of providing air cover over the Escort Carriers. Their complement of fighter aircraft for this task was thirty Wildcats and fifteen Seafires and these aircraft flew about four hundred sorties on patrol over the Escort Carriers and the beach head. On the second day, Formidable sent some of her Seafires to join in with the crashes taking place on the Escort Carriers. When there were no more Seafires, the Wildcats from Illustrious and Formidable were sent to land on the Escort Carriers to take over the task of patrolling the beach head. It was no problem for the Wildcats to operate continuously from these small Carriers. Moreover, since the Wildcats could patrol for a full two hours and more, the Carriers needed to turn into wind only half as frequently as for the Seafires.
Even with hindsight it is difficult to see how or why the Admiralty came to rely upon Seafires for this particular task. Either a deliberate gamble was taken that there would be adequate wind conditions or, more likely is my guess, Admiral Vian, in charge of the Salerno show, simply had no experience of naval aviation to make the right decisions. Any junior Sub Lieutenant pilot could have told him that the plan for Salerno was a potential disaster. A disaster salvaged by the skill of the Seafire pilots who, despite the wind conditions and the crashes on deck, managed to fly many sorties.
To summarise Salerno: neither of the two types of fighter aircraft procured and provided by the Admiralty at that time, either Seafire or Wildcat, was adequate for the task against the faster German fighter-bombers. The Seafire 11c, with the weight of the landing hook together with its supporting structure, was no longer a particularly fast fighter; very little faster than the Wildcat in fact. The two Fleet Carriers and the four Escort Carriers were adequate to operate the available fighters, if only they had been used knowledgeably, i.e. Seafires for the Fleet Carriers and Wildcats for the Escort Carriers. At least that way the air umbrella over the beachhead of twenty or more Wildcats could have been sustained for as many days as necessary. And our appalling losses of Seafires (and how many pilots?) need never have happened.
My personal part in the Salerno operation was very minor as just another Wildcat pilot flying twice-daily patrols from HMS Illustrious to cover the air space over the Escort Carriers plus a small part of the beachhead. We chased about the sky after the faster German bombers none of which seemed bothered to attack our Escort Carriers. It seemed that the Germans were aware of our difficulties and were content to let the Seafires write themselves off, at a high rate each day. The Germans seem to have thought, ‘Why bother to attack the Escort Carriers when they are doing such a good job in writing off the Seafires and their pilots for us.’
At the end of the second day, when the supply of Seafires was exhausted, our two squadrons of Wildcats were ordered to land on the Escort Carriers and continue patrol operations over the beach head from there. My squadron flew off early on that third morning and formed up ready to land on whichever of the four Escort Carriers indicated that it was ready to take us. The first flight with the CO had landed on and, while there was some sort of delay on the flight deck, we were told to orbit and patrol overhead at 5,000 feet. It was an intensely hot day with the sea glassy like a millpond and, looking down, I could see the Isle of Capri like a jewel sitting on a bright blue cushion. I was idly thinking of Gracie Fields, whom I believed still lived on the Island, and of her cheerful songs, when there was a kind of hiccup from the engine which then began to run roughly.
I looked down at my instruments to find that the engine temperature gauge showed at red and the oil pressure was just about nil. I certainly didn't want to ditch again. The mirror-like surface of the calm sea would make ditching difficult and this was a further factor which encouraged me to attempt a landing on a deck. I was still getting some power from the engine and I reckoned to land on whichever deck would take me. I pressed transmit on the R/T and in a voice cracking with anxiety called out ‘Mayday, mayday, this is Red Two and I require immediate landing.’ I squeaked this message out twice more. Down below one of the Carriers was already turning into wind preparing to take our flight on board anyway and, when I saw this, I made up my mind definitely to go for a landing on it.
Meantime, I was getting very little power out of the engine and by now was down to about three thousand feet. I was ahead of the ship and more or less on the downwind leg calculating that I had sufficient height to circle round to position myself reasonably well for the final approach. I glanced quickly round; no other aircraft near me or in the circuit, they were all keeping clear. I decided to assume that there would be no power at all from the engine should I need it, so I closed the throttle completely to concentrate on an engineless landing. I would have to come in very high on the final approach and might have to do an old-fashioned side-slip to get down. Also I must remember how very little wind speed there would be over the flight deck, sixteen knots no more and therefore the deck would appear to be rushing at me twice as fast on my final approach.
All this had gone through my mind but now, at some two thousand feet, I selected wheels down, half flap, hook out, straps very tight and hood locked open. I had already put the prop into fine pitch as soon as the engine had started running rough. There was no going back now; the decision to attempt a deck-landing instead of ditching was made. If I missed the deck, it would not be possible to ditch safely as the wheels would catapult the Wildcat on to its back as soon as they touched the sea and, whether I could swim or not, I would be drowned. Meantime, over the R/T from the Carrier, which was now into wind, I had received the affirmative to land.
I was turning on to the final approach, prop still rotating, speed at eighty-five knots, selecting full flap now, very high up astern of the Carrier with the batsman frantically signally me to ‘come down’. Everything was happening very fast. Yes, I was too high; would fly straight over the crash barrier at this rate; side slip down to port, red Very light from the DLCO platform, meaning ‘Abort landing, go round again.’ A second red light with the batsman waving me off furiously. Straightening up from the side-slip, speed eighty knots. Oh dear Lord, I had overdone it, I was now slightly lower than I should be and I might not quite make it to the deck. I opened the throttle for the first time but only a brief response from the engine for a second before it expired, then I was over the deck to stall and thump down catching the first arrestor wire. Somehow, I was down and safe.
The propeller had jarred itself to a halt as soon as the aircraft landed and I lay back in the cockpit gasping with relief as the handlers pushed me forward. As they did so, a furious batsman jumped on to my port wing and harangued me for not taking his ‘wave-off’. I looked at him; I didn't know the man; I said nothing but gave him a couple of fingers sign and so he jumped off again. As usual, the flight deck was all activity preparing for Jack and the rest of the Flight to land. The Tannoy blared out, ‘Pilot to report immediately to Lt Cdr ‘F’ and the Captain on the Bridge.’ That's me, I thought and, without any hurry, I undid my straps to climb slowly out of the cockpit then made my way across the deck to the Island and up to the Bridge.
I was confronted by the Lt Cdr ‘F’, red-faced with anger and, a few feet behind him, the Captain also with a boot-face. ‘You stupid man,’ the Lt Cdr ‘F’ shouted at me, ‘you deliberately disobeyed a clear instruction not to land; you were likely to crash on to the deck and put the Carrier out of action; you were even more likely to have killed people on the deck park; and don't tell me that you had no engine power because I heard it. You are a menace and I personally shall see to it that you are court-martialled.’ The Captain nodded his agreement.
I waited a little before I said anything; not because I was frightened of them but because I needed to contain my anger and to be sure of giving them a quiet, composed answer. I knew that I had just completed an astonishing feat of airmanship; a forced landing without engine on the deck of a small Carrier in conditions of nil wind, could be regarded as nothing less. I was not prepared to be brow-beaten by these two non-flyers.
I replied, ‘Sir, you were aware that I was in a forced landing situation from my Mayday call, you gave me the affirmative to land; by the time of my final approach I had no engine power available. I suggest you wait for the report of the Air Engineer Officer, who is now examining the engine, to confirm that the engine had no power.’ The Captain interrupted the confrontation immediately and agreed that the Engineer's report must be obtained before anything further was said.
I took my leave of them and the Bridge and went to look for my CO. He had not seen the landing as he was in the Ready Room being briefed by Cdr Ops on the Squadron's role in future operations from this Carrier. ‘Leave it with me now, I will consult with the Engineer, see Wings and discuss it with the Captain.’ he told me. Well, except for the Seafire pilots, it was a busy time for everyone and I never heard anything more from anyone about that forced landing. It was confirmed that there had been a broken oil pipe in the engine. It was replaced and I flew the aircraft from the Carrier, in some slight trepidation I might add, the next day. I am still a bit miffed, even now as I write, that my feat of astonishing airmanship went unrecorded except in my own Log Book. Everyone was far too busy to give it a thought.
During the next two days, we carried out two patrols each day with all eight squadron aircraft airborne combining with the other Wildcat squadron in another of the Carriers.
There were no problems, neither was there any action except chasing fruitlessly around after much faster enemy bombers which were difficult even to see in the thick hazy weather conditions. It was not a pleasant few days in that ship. The few remaining serviceable Seafires had been able to move to an airstrip ashore, but those pilots who remained on board, with nothing to fly, were miserable. Understandably so; they had suffered a very bad time with the constant crashes of the first two days and it must have been galling to see how easily our Wildcats coped with the deck-landings on their Carrier.
Our Squadron returned to HMS Illustrious and the ship's company were given the cheerful news that we were returning to the UK, via Gibraltar.
We paid only a short visit there but it enabled me to buy some goodies to take home. In particular, I bought half a dozen bottles of good Sherry as a sort of peace offering to Father.
In November 1943, HMS Illustrious returned from the Mediterranean to Scapa Flow, but before entering harbour there, her four squadrons flew ashore to the Air Station at Hatston. It had been rather a subdued farewell party on board on the final evening mainly, I suppose, because the ship's officers didn't drink much alcohol at sea, as we often did. Truth to tell, I wasn't all that sorry to be leaving HMS Illustrious although it was a justly famous ship and I was proud to have served in her. The ship's officers had been an admirable bunch of chaps on the whole but I had never been able to rid myself of the feeling that they regarded us RNVR aircrews as rather below par for the Royal Navy. If these chaps were going to continue serving in Aircraft Carriers, they would have to come to terms, sooner or later, with the fact that the Fleet Air Arm had become composed of ninety-five percent RNVR officers. Another factor was that I had in time become altogether fed up with the bad accommodation.
Two days later, I left Hatston for the long train journey home to Taplow on leave.