Chapter Eighteen

We learned during the usual short arm inspection when we arrived on the squadron that the medico was an Australian. He was a tall, pleasant-looking fellow called Stanton. One morning after I’d been there for about three weeks I received a message to report to medical quarters, and was ushered in.

He said, ‘I’ve been looking at your papers and noted you’ve been in Crothers to have flak splinters removed, and was checking up to see how the spots were healing.’ In addition to this, he gave me a thorough medical check. After this was completed, he asked, ‘How many operations have you done?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Fit as a fiddle.’

‘Nerves okay?,’ he queried.

‘Right as rain,’ I replied, then asked, ‘What’s all this for, Doc?’

He thought for a while and said, ‘This report states you were considerably shaken by your last operation. Twenty-two ops and a hundred and fifty four operational flying hours is a good effort. You can go off operational flying if you wish.’

‘Yes, and be classified LMF,’ I said.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ he said. ‘You simply go on rest as having completed a tour.’

‘Fair dinkum?’, I asked in amazement.

‘Certainly,’ said the Doc. ‘With not a stain on your honour.’

‘You’re different from the doctor on my last squadron,’ I said warmly, ‘but I feel okay. If at any time I feel I’ve had it, I’ll report to you.’

That was the medical atmosphere that existed on this squadron. Stanton, like the medico at Crothers, looked on his charges as human beings, not as lead-swingers who were continually trying to put something across. Because of this the boys respected him. I would say with certainty no-one at any time tried to put anything over him.

An MO had the authority to override a CO. On this squadron it never would have been necessary. But in many instances, as far as I could see, the doctor did not have the guts to override his commanding officer.

As the weeks went by we began to develop a squadron spirit. Gradually the bomber boys forgot to mention their past flying experiences. As the nights lengthened and winter came on we heard the continuous drone of heavily laden bombers circling to get height and thought of the crews who would be riding in the darkness on their missions to Germany. On these occasions, if we were together, we would fall silent, thinking of Kiwi and the others, wondering if Ninnes and Jonesy were up there, plotting courses, preparing for the nine hour flight.

Day flying had many advantages, particularly with regard to leisure hours available. All duties usually finished at 3.30 pm, and we returned to the mess for tea at 4. The mess soon became aware that Australians, Kiwis and Canadians treated this as a main meal and did not bother to back up for the second lot. Thus we ate a combined tea and dinner. If anyone so desired, he could partake of a further meal at eight. This was usually only availed of by the Englishmen and a few hungry types. We then retired at, say, 4.45 pm to the main lounge where the gambling schools soon started. The Canadians considered straight poker a very tame game and introduced a new version called ‘dealer’s choice’.

The hard Australian and New Zealand gamblers took to these games like ducks to water and would not be bothered with straight poker; these were the big schools where you could win or lose fifty pounds in a night – big money in those days. Lesser schools contented themselves with minor games of slippery sam, pontoon or black jack.

Often these games started straight after tea and carried on till 6 am. It was during this period we made contact with Claude. He was in charge of the preparation of food for the mess.

Hally had been trying to make arrangements for him to serve tea and sandwiches to us in our night-long games at a cost of two shillings each. He came back after negotiations and said to me, ‘Claude wants to see you. He’s obviously a queen, so look out.’

I had found in my wanderings that my particular type of looks interested this type. Instead of kicking them out, the RAF drafted them to positions such as Claude’s, or as hospital orderlies where their feminine instincts could be used to best advantage.

I had once heard a medical authority say ‘the difference between a he-man and a queen, like that between a sane person and a lunatic, was only the width of a razor’s edge’, so I never had any desire to bash them up, which seemed to be the inclination of most of my companions.

I went out to see Claude and found him simpering like a shy school-girl and I quickly realised Hally was right. I had consumed quite an amount of grog and said, ‘You look after us, Claude, and I’ll look after you,’ giving him a long wink.

From then on it was a case of me watching Claude. However, over the period I was in Beltwell I maintained his interest and hopes without becoming entangled in his desires, with many advantages to the card players in our all-night sittings. In addition, this deferred relationship helped the four musketeers, because at various times while Claude obligingly turned his back, I grabbed four-pound packages of margarine and complete roasts of beef and other hard-to-get delicacies from the kitchen.

These were taken to the haven where the roasts were sliced and grilled and often used as WAAF bait, particularly when they were mixed with the contents of parcels from Australia.

These months were, I think, the happiest I spent in England. If it weren’t for the thought of what our sustained low-level training was for and the continued bad news about fighting on all fronts, particularly the Pacific, I think we would have been completely happy. Autumn came. Then winter; fortunately, not a patch on the preceding one. In November the tempo of our low-level flying was stepped up so that we flew, weather permitting, in echelons of six every day. Plants and factories were picked out as far away as Scotland and briefings were as thorough and definite as the real thing.

One particular sprawling factory in the Midlands was used several times and towards the end of the month we were adept at dodging chimneys and high tension wires in these mock attacks on individual buildings.

These tactics were mostly lost on the new gunners but Hally voiced all our thoughts when he said, ‘I only hope the one they’ve picked for us is not in Germany or too bloody far away.’

On Sunday, December the seventh we were briefed. The target was Philips Radio Works, Eindhoven, Holland. Sunday had been chosen because a large number of Dutch workers would be absent. The Groupy stressed that this was an important and valuable target. If it could be put out of commission, it would be a real body-blow to the German war effort.1

Nine-tenths of our load was incendiaries. We were to contribute four boxes of six aircraft, the Kiwis three, and another Vent squadron three, making sixty Vents in all. Fighters were to go in ahead of us, stirring up the fighters.2 We were to be covered by some hundred Spitfires fitted with long-range tanks; an innovation that would cause consternation, surprise and loss to our enemies.

The attack was to be entirely low-level. Flak opposition was to be expected crossing the off-shore islands and at odd scattered points, and was expected to be heavy over the target areas.

As we drove to our kites, Hally remarked, ‘Well, it’s something new, but I hope these bloody Spits keep close to us. I don’t want to tangle with any Focke Wulfs in this bloody crate.’

I looked at the faces of these young airmen who were about to be blooded. They were serious and generally quiet. As each crew got out the rest wished them luck.

It was a fine, windless day with a slight mist. As we streamed across the flat Norfolk countryside the field workers stopped to wave to the modern cavalcade that rode the sky so close above their heads. The North Sea was grey and unruffled. We crossed it at zero feet. Our box was the tail-end of this bomber stream. Number One, the leader, had Number Two and Three on either side as support. Number Four flew just below Number One to miss his slipstream, and was supported by Numbers Five and Six. Thus, Number One flew at approximately twenty feet while Number Four (which was ourselves) was down to ten feet. Despite the nervous qualms at the pit of my stomach, I found this new experience exciting.

The low-level approach was intended to spoof the enemy radar. The idea was that the island defences would be taken by surprise and we would be across them before they recovered. What someone omitted to allow for was that the initial beating-up by the fighters and Mosquitos who had gone in ten minutes ahead would have the Jerry gunners right on their toes.

I heard Jack say, ‘Enemy coast coming up’, and then the sea beneath us began to churn white as the enemy gunners extended their welcome. Overhead, black smudges lined with red appeared as if by magic. Luckily, the heavies could not depress far enough down to get our range, but the concentration of Bofors, 20 mm and light flak was terrific.

Two tremendous splashes tossed water over our heads and marked the passing of two crews, then we were over the defenders. A little to our right a plane plunged into the earth, skidded into a strong point and exploded in a burst of flame and debris. It suddenly struck me that in this sort of flying, parachutes were useless; if you went in, there were no survivors. I sweated across those islands that day and anyone who says they were never afraid on ops is a bloody liar.

Suddenly we were flying across the mainland. A few black smudges chased us but it looked as if we had passed the strongly-defended coastal area. As we roared across the flat Dutch countryside the inhabitants out on their Sunday strolls waved frantically and jumped with joy. These Dutchies let it be known whose side they were on.

Bill had his head stuck out in the astrodome until the dome was blown away coming in over the coast without giving him anything worse than a scare. He returned to the front of the kite.

Suddenly Jack said, ‘That’s an aerodrome’, and the next moment we were skipping across an excellently laid out drome. This was a costly blue on someone’s part, because two more planes ploughed in with a smother of dust, flame and smoke. Probably this place had taken a beating earlier and was out for revenge. A cannon shell blew the perspex out on the starboard side of the cockpit, giving Bill his second fright but doing no damage.

The gunners poured a fusillade back without much apparent effect. A little farther we passed another Ventura burning fiercely. Four figures scrambling awkwardly away in their flying boots showed they at least had escaped. As we swept over them they turned and gave a forlorn wave.3

In all this excitement I had completely forgotten about the target. Wilbur’s voice ‘Target coming up’ brought me back to reality. It would be hard to give my impressions over the next minute for the area was a nightmare of burning buildings, smokestacks and high tension wires.

Jerry gunners still manned their weapons on roof tops even though the windows belched smoke and flame. We went through so fast that it was hard to pick a target, so I put my finger on the tit and sprayed the entire area. How we missed the stacks and wires I’ll never know. I saw a Vent veer crazily and hit a smokestack plumb in the centre and plunge downwards in a welter of dust, bricks and flame.

Jack screamed, ‘Bombs away!’, and we swung violently to the left. The clusters of incendiaries flew off at a tangent, travelling almost horizontally to smash into the front of the building in such a welter of explosion and fire that it really shook me. I knew why the place was so thoroughly alight.

We straightened up and missed a set of high tension wires by inches. I saw a burning Ventura that had smashed into a row of tenement houses. This, I heard later, was the only instance during the entire raid where civilian property was destroyed.4

The next moment we were doing a split-arse left turn as we went for home. It was only then that I noticed I still had my finger on the teat and that neither gun was firing. Around us, dog-fights were going on everywhere but enemy fighters appeared to have their hands full on that particular day.

We came out along a canal about three-quarters of a mile wide. Guns placed on either side turned in and churned the water white below us. Bill, who had gone to man the lower guns, had his third life when a shell hit both of them, curled them up in a ‘V’ but failed to explode.

Miraculously, no direct hits were scored on this fleeing target. A mile astern we saw a plane that turned out to be Pete the Canadian limping home. The German gunners concentrated on this inviting target but again, despite a hail of shell, the crew came through.

We came out over a marshy flat area without a shot being fired, which later prompted the thought, ‘Why the hell didn’t we go in that way?’. It was a badly mauled squadron that limped home. Because of the absence of runways, planes all pleading various emergencies landed everywhere. The place was a shambles.

Our petrol indicators showed empty five miles from the station and like everyone else we landed straight into the wind with another plane on our tail. While taxi-ing back on the tarmac we ground to a stop, completely out of petrol. At interrogation, I found the six bomber gunners had come through, which was almost a miracle.

A check showed our losses at six, as well as five Kiwis and four of our co-squadron. A total of fifteen out of sixty.5

A young gunner remarked, ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad.’

‘Not bad?’, said Hally dryly. ‘Another three ops like that and we’ll have completed our tour.’

The young fellow looked at him open-mouthed and said, ‘But it’s thirty ops for a tour isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ said Hally, patting him paternally on the head, ‘only we won’t have to go that far.’

On the way back to the mess we looked at each other and shook our heads. Smithy commented, ‘Looks like a short career in TAF.’

I said, ‘Bombers at their worst were never as bad as this. I hope to Christ they don’t put on too many more do’s like that.’

That night Groupy turned on a free party in the picture theatre for officers and sergeants. Strangely enough, these young fellows who had just completed an extremely tough mission seemed completely unaware of the importance of a twenty-five per cent loss and, possibly through nervous reaction, got gloriously full. Late in the evening Groupy announced that the attack had been successful and the entire target area was still burning furiously and that, as a reward, the entire squadron had been granted five days leave.

It wasn’t until later we found that there wasn’t a serviceable plane in the place, and that it was estimated it would take five days to get the squadron airborne again! As we staggered back to our quarters, sounds of revelry could still be heard from all sections of the station. Up in my room I thought I was seeing things when I spied a form in my bed.

‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘what are you doing here, Maria?’6

A tousled red head supplied the answer. ‘I had to see you, Johnny. I had to make sure you were alive.’

‘If I was dead,’ I replied, ‘the bloody Committee of Adjustment would have been here by now.’ I fell over in my haste to get my boots off and then found I couldn’t make it.

‘I’ll have a little sleep,’ I said drowsily, ‘and then I’ll come good.’

When I awoke it was daylight. Maria had gone and I had a splitting headache and felt awful.

During the morning we went out to see the photos which revealed the success of the attack. Our ground staff then advised that J for Johnny had 187 holes in it. They had calculated this by ringing each hole, large and small, with chalk and numbering them.7

The four of us decided to go up to London. Blondie said, ‘Am I going to live up these five days. I’ve a feeling I won’t see another leave.’

‘Don’t say that,’ I said. ‘Touch wood, you silly bugger.’

At the Boomerang Club we ran into a shining Dagworth, now a flight lieutenant. He told us things were going exceedingly well. His ferrying job, whilst being fraught with innumerable dangers, still offered compensating perks. If we cared to join him, he said condescendingly, he would be only too pleased to buy us a Scotch. We declined with thanks. As we went on our way, Blondie growled, ‘I’ll bomp that bludger one of these days. He gives me a pain in the poofta-valve.’

That night, after a pub crawl, we talked our way into a so-called night club, telling the doorman, a tough-looking individual, we had been recommended by Joe.8

Safely settled inside, we were asked by a waiter if we would like a bottle of Scotch. It seemed a reasonable question. The only thing we forgot to ask was the price. This turned out to be five pounds, which caused some consternation as all we could muster was four pounds, five shillings.

A portly, benign-looking old gentleman with a platinum blonde companion came to our rescue by asking if he could have the pleasure, which was thankfully given. In a mater of minutes we had two more bottles of Scotch on our table, gifts of other kindly patrons.

The Scotch turned out to be firewater of the first order. We afterwards found that RAF bar stewards made pin money by selling empty Scotch bottles – complete with seals – to these joints for a pound or more. The result of the donations was so good that before the night was over we were dancing with the chorus who, on first sight, seemed a hard-bitten tough lot, but improved immeasurably as the night progressed.

Smithy tried to talk one sinewy chorine into taking him to her arms and bed and her retort was, ‘Shucks, love, I’m old enough to be your grandmother. Why, me youngest is older than you!’, which shows what a drop of good London moonshine could do.

We rolled back to the Lions Club at 6 am and the staff spent the rest of the day trying to wake us. One old cleaner, when she finally got us out after mid-day, said, ‘Cor, what ’ave you boys been drinkin’? Metho? I ’aven’t been game to light a fag all mornin’ for fear of blowin’ the place hup.’

Later we staggered down to Dirty Dick’s, to be greeted with his usual question, ‘You still here?’ In sympathy for our woebegone looks he turned on a really good steak or whatever it was, that soothed our tortured stomachs.

These five days followed a fairly defined pattern; after breakfast at the club, a leisurely trip by tube to Boomerang House. There you were sure to meet some old acquaintances and learn of the doings of former course- and shipmates. Old Australian papers supplied some news of home: how surf clubs, cricket or football teams were faring according to the season and what was happening generally in that faraway island.

Pubs opened at about 11 am, which meant the drinkers departed to put the fires out. Staggered hours meant you could drink for most of the day and night. We soon got to know the hostelries and their hours and, if a real pub crawl developed, then there were still the dozens of small clubs, some reasonably sited, others in basements and back rooms that were only too anxious to make you an honorary member for a nominal fee. In most instances the females who frequented these dives were either part- or full-time prostitutes. We often wondered how they made a living because the competition from the amateurs was fierce. In the bars and night spots you rubbed shoulders with airmen, soldiers and sailors from every Commonwealth country, from America and from the free forces of nearly every nation in Europe.

Probably the most inhospitable of these fighting men, as far as the gunners were concerned anyway, were our own fighter pilots. These types were generally distinguishable by the way they aped their RAF counterparts, with scrawny moustaches and battered caps worn at a rakish angle. One day just after my arrival I walked into a bar where two of them were drinking. Being twelve thousand miles from home, I politely passed the time of day, only to be rewarded with a blank, icy stare as they returned to their drinks.

I can truthfully say at no time while I was in England did a fighter pilot say, ‘g’day’ to me. It was not unusual to see Aussie gunners and pilots at a bar, each ignoring the other.

A possible answer might be that the cream of the fighter boys had either ‘bought it’ or been moved back to Australia. Certainly no great Australian fighter name such as Bluey Truscott or Killer Caldwell came to light after 1941. Those left became more English than the English. This may sound like sour grapes but it didn’t worry us a jot. Gunners had no reputations to keep and lived and loved for the day and night only.9