Chapter Twenty-three

The main buildings of the new place were the inevitable Nissen huts. The quarters were quite reasonable, being weatherboard with separate rooms for two bods. We set ourselves up in one and with the practice born of long experience, soon scrounged a few extra chairs and tables to make the place a little more homey.

The living quarters were set deep in the trees and in place of the well-laid-out bitumen roads and paths of Beltwell we now had wandering dirt tracks. Dotted beside these byways were excavations ranging from six to ten feet deep left by the builders. These proved quite a trap on late trips back from the mess, particularly for unwise imbibers. Due to blackouts there wasn’t a glimmer of light and, until the fellows got used to the paths and equipped themselves with torches, plaintive cries were often heard in the night as lost bods floundered in and out of holes or wandered completely lost in the darkness.

Those safely established in their beds thought it a helluva joke and left the lost souls to find their own way home. Several times inebriated bods were found in the morning sleeping soundly like modern babes in the wood.

This new location appealed to me. I had been reared in the country and the sighing of the wind in the pines had for me a soothing, indefinably sad note as though it mourned for all the young lives that were being lost in the titanic night-and-day aerial struggle over Europe.

Another pleasant feature was that we were now domiciled with the New Zealand squadron. Previously we had met only at odd mess get-togethers or when we played football. On these latter occasions we clashed as though deadly enemies and tried to pull each other to pieces.1

Living with our cousins we found them unassuming, pleasant fellows who could drink the grog, gamble and fit into the scheme of things better even than the Australians. The result was that we struck up a number of new acquaintances that rapidly developed into warm friendships.

The Kiwis had the same opinion of the Ventura; that it was not up to the fighting standard of the European theatre and should be pensioned off. Smithy and I developed special friendships with a young gunner called Rip, a big Maori called Bob and a long, stove-pipe of a gunner called Tommy. The latter was one of the most imperturbable men I ever met, with a dry unsmiling sense of humour that never failed even under the most adverse circumstances.

It was evident TAF was undecided what to do with us, because for the first two weeks in our new quarters, even though the weather was fine, we did no ops. We were advised if we had leave due, to take it. Never being reluctant in such matters, we took it.

Smithy and myself went to Edinburgh where we had the time of our lives in this beautiful, medieval Scottish city with its tree-lined streets. It was the only place in Britain where complete strangers stopped us in the street and asked us to have supper with them. We unanimously voted the auburn-haired softly spoken Scots lasses the most beautiful ever.

A few days after our return we were briefed for a raid on Dutch power stations. The Dutchies were asking for help because of the repressive measures the Nazis were using to break their strike. It was felt if we could knock out a few power stations, particularly with the workers absent, it would help their cause.

The first day we were about to cross our coast when we received a recall, the reason given being ‘weather conditions bad on target area’. The following day we were in our kites, some having taxied to the take-off point, when the op was scrubbed for the same reason.

As we came back to flight, Jack said, ‘I don’t like this. Every bugger knows about this op; they should either choose a new target or scrub it altogether.’

On the third day, after standing on alert for three hours, word came through it was on. The force consisted of two boxes each from ours and the Kiwi squadron, twenty-four kites in all, with an escort of sixty Spits.

The low-flying mist had not risen appreciably and ground visibility was restricted at best to half a mile. Wilbur said, ‘I hope it’s better over the other side, otherwise this is one journey that’s going to be unnecessary.’

Climbing a couple of thousand feet we came into clear blue sky and sparkling sunshine. The grey blanket persisted out across the Channel but as we came in to the enemy coast it began to clear so, as through gauze, we could dimly discern the outlines of shore and headlands.

That we were over the coast was verified by black splodges of hate which appeared as if by magic around us in the clear sky. The two boxes, battlewise, weaved their way through and all made the crossing safely. The two Kiwi boxes were half a mile away on the port quarter, about a thousand feet higher at eleven thousand. They were to go in first and we were to stoke the fires two minutes later.

The Spits had thrown out a protective umbrella and as usual were nattering incessantly. Wilbur growled, ‘Why they make us keep complete silence while those bastards talk their heads off beats me.’

Jack announced, ‘Ten minutes to target.’ It looked like being another routine op. Suddenly, out of the ether, a precise English voice spoke with urgency, ‘Red Box, can you see what’s on the port quarter? I can’t see for the sun.’

There was a short silence, then a voice screamed, ‘Focke Wulfs, eighty plus, vectoring from the port quarter. Break! Break!’

In an instant the two boxes, realising the urgency of this alarm, started a split-arse turn to starboard. A voice said, ‘Jettison’, and the bombs plummeted earthwards.

As we came around the air about the Kiwis seemed to erupt in a maelstrom of cannon fire, tracer and twisting, writhing shapes. Relieved of their ironmongery, the Vents started in reasonable formation in a steep dive towards the coast. Everyone knew if we could reach sea level we might have a chance. Upstairs would be plain suicide.

In that mad dive gravity took over. Gloves and everything loose floated around my ears. With my head jammed tightly against the top of the turret, I couldn’t even raise my hands. I thought, ‘God, we’ll never pull out of this.’ Then, while the gunners were immobilised, like hawks sweeping on a flock of pigeons, three enemy fighters struck.

They hit the rear box in a paralysing burst of speed and spitting cannon fire. To those trained killers the fat Vents must have offered a perfect target. The first vicious attack accounted for three of the six planes.

Hard on their tails a lone fighter poured a stream of fire into our group, but the pilots, warned by the tracer and cannon fire, were already breaking formation and scattering. This decreased the target but robbed the box of its massed gun power. Every plane was on its own.

In these chaotic seconds, I had given myself up for lost. With my head jammed against the top of the turret and my guts in my throat I thought, ‘This is it,’ then with a swoop we came out, crossing the coast at such a bat the unprepared ground gunners were only able to fire a few wild shots.

As we skimmed to sea-level Jack said, ‘You bloody beaut.’ It was deliverance from certain death.

Immediately, from out of the mist at three o’clock, a yellow-nosed plane flashed, sighted us and came around on a vicious curve of pursuit. The intrusion of this peril, after our deliverance, made me hopping mad. After our escape, I’d felt nothing could stop us.

He came around in a perfect curve at six hundred yards. I bellowed my evasive order, ‘Turn right, go.’ In that moment of danger we were all on our toes as his gun began to spit. Like a rabbit twisting from the jaws of a greyhound, we came around in a turn so tight that it threw me sideways against the turret, and I lost him in my sights. He broke to my right and swept around in a perfect arc.

At my report, ‘Attack broken’, Wilbur had straightened and swung back on course. Like a hornet questing for his prey, the snub-nosed menace swung around. I sensed this attack wasn’t going to be as impetuous as the first. The way the plane was handled showed this pilot was no mug.

He came in again from the same quarter but at what I felt was a reduced speed. I reported every movement to the tensed crew, who could see nothing and were only aware of their danger from my patter.

I waited till he was past the five hundred yard mark, but as I saw his nose straighten up I screamed the evasive order. Simultaneously with our turn the stream of explosive and tracer fire streamed at us. We came around in a violent turn, but instead of breaking to the right, the fighter came with us. I tried to keep my guns on him but again I was thrown to the side. I screamed, ‘Keep turning, keep turning, he’s still on us.’ As his arc shortened, he swept away again.

The attack over, each member reported safe and sound. Wilbur said, ‘I’m okay, but I’m afraid the port motor isn’t. It’s been hit badly. Where’s that bastard now, gunner? If I could get half a chance I’d ditch.’ Famous last words – to ditch we’d have to drop our speed by half and make a slow calculated approach. A hasty ditching at speed was suicide, the plane would disintegrate on hitting the water.

I said, ‘He’s preparing for another attack. Looks like dead astern.’ For the second time that day, I gave myself up for dead. I said, ‘Christ, where are the bloody Spits?’ As though in answer to my blasphemous prayer, a grey shape swept into view and miraculously tacked itself onto the tail of our attacker. It was something like a hawk attacking a pigeon with a pee-wee on the latter’s tail, offering a distraction. The Focke Wulf, with a speed of four hundred mph, had at least seventy on the Mark V Spit and, with one crook motor, at least a hundred and eighty on us.2

This attack would have meant curtains, but with the Spit on his tail, he had to rush it. Even on one engine the Vent performed creditably as Wilbur threw it into a corkscrew. I pressed the tit and gave him a long sustained burst till he broke off to starboard. I knew I must have hit him as he flew straight through my cone of fire without any apparent damage.

As he broke to the left, the Spit, perhaps two hundred yards behind, banked with its quarry and tried to get on his tail again. He had refrained from firing while we were in his line of fire. It was soon evident Jerry had decided to rid himself of this intruder, for he banked violently in an endeavour to get on the other’s tail.

For the next couple of minutes I caught glimpses of this battle as the two planes flashed in and out of the mist. I felt there could be only one result as the Spit pilot was out-sped and out-manoeuvred by a faster plane and a better flier, but he had guts and stuck long enough to give us the break we needed.

A mighty splash in the leaden sea marked his end. I often think of that young fellow who lies beneath the cold dark waters of this unfriendly sea, truly might it be said that he lost his life in order that we might live.

I saw the Focke Wulf a few times questing around and then, no doubt mindful of depleted petrol supplies and with his ammunition low, he disappeared back to base. Wilbur said, ‘I think one of those last shots must have holed the starboard petrol tank, it’s getting very low. Send ‘Mayday’, Wireless Operator. How far are we from land, Navigator?’

‘We’d be about half-way across,’ said Jack. ‘I got a bit mixed in those gyrations back there.’

There was a short silence, then Wilbur said, ‘We’ll have to ditch. I’ll hold her as long as I can.’

‘Jam the key,3 Bill; you and Jack take ditching stations. When I say “go”, gunner, scramble as you’ll only have five or six seconds.’

I looked at the cold waters and thought, ‘I bloody-well don’t like this.’ If we were to go in suddenly, it would probably mean a broken neck or back for me. On the other hand, I didn’t like leaving the plane a sitting duck for some marauding fighter.

A voice said, ‘Scramble’, and I came out of that turret like a fireman coming down a greased pole, and in a split second had my back jammed against the bulkhead, my knees under my chin and my hands clasped at the back of my head, dragging it down.

I felt the jar as we hit, and a great swishing and splashing as we slid over the water. It wasn’t as bad as I expected, not nearly as severe as that ground loop in S for Sugar. I thought for a second we might have skipped and there was a second crash coming when the cold water started to splash around my bottom.

I left that floor in a bound; twenty seconds was the estimated time we had to get out, and I had a horrible feeling I had wasted eighteen of them. A pair of blue-clad legs were disappearing out of the astrodome, which had been jettisoned before the crash. I tried to follow when I realised I still had my harness on. I hit the release button in sheer panic. The water was almost to the top of my boots as I came out of that hole like a rabbit out of a warren.

The raft had inflated and Bill and Jack were already in it.

Wilbur had hold of the cord. He said, ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? I was just coming to look for you.’

I didn’t think this merited a reply but scrambled smartly in. It tipped to one side and as it took my weight, Jack said, ‘Sit down, you’re rocking the ruddy boat.’

Wilbur cut the rope and we paddled away from the plane, which was already three-quarters under water. In a matter of seconds the nose disappeared, the tail rose momentarily in the air, and she was gone.

Jack, ever the navigator, said, ‘Twenty-three-and-a-half seconds. The bloke who worked this out must have been speaking from experience.’

I said, ‘Twenty-three-and-a-half seconds … Christ, it seems like bloody years.’

Bill said, ‘I don’t know, it’s just like pooping in bed, there’s nothing to it!’

It was a poor joke, but probably from relief of the last fifteen minutes of tension and danger, we all started to laugh and were screaming with laughter when the sound of an approaching plane wiped the smiles from our faces.

Bill said, ‘It’s a single engine.’

We saw it flashing along twenty feet up. It was hard to pick its identity. Then I caught a glimpse of that unmistakable nose.

‘It’s a Spit!’, I screamed, ‘a ruddy Spit! You bloody beaut.’

Almost simultaneously he came around and swept over us, waggling his wings in recognition.

Jack said, ‘What was that habit of yours that you were telling us about, Bill?’, and we all started laughing again.

A short while after a second Spit joined our escort, which made us feel reasonably safe. Even if the Germans did send an E-Boat we felt we had a slight edge.

Wilbur said, ‘That was a fine bit of evasive action you gave, Johnny.’

The other two agreed, and they sang ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Air Gunner’.

I was more than gratified, so said, ‘May I say that was a masterly bit of flying, Wilbur, particularly that last bit on a conked-out engine.’ This received general agreement, so we sang, ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Pilot.’

Jack said, ‘I must commend our WAG for his brilliant execution of “Mayday”, and his devotion to the noblest ideals of wireless operators as he was second out of the astrodome and first into the raft.’

This necessitated a dirgeful singing of ‘The poor old WAG lay dying with a pisspot supporting his head.’

Bill responded by passing a vote of thanks to our efficient navigator who got himself lost in the melee, but crawled into the raft on his belly. It was a corny humour, spiced by good comradeship and that wonderful, indefinable feeling of being alive.

For my part, after twice giving myself up for lost in the last twenty minutes, it was a kind of bubbling ecstasy, a feeling that contained all the intoxicating pleasures you could think of. I felt I could sing, shout, scream with joy. It was during this unusual exhilarated state I got the idea I would survive the war. It was just something that came to me out of the blue, like the feeling you get that something is going to happen, a horse will win, it’s going to rain, or some close friend is worried about something and you suddenly say, ‘Don’t worry, everything will be all right.’ That was the feeling I got on the raft that day.

Apropos of nothing, Wilbur said, ‘Johnny, how many ops have you done now?’

‘Forty’, I replied. ‘Twenty-two on Wimps, eighteen on Vents.’

‘You could retire, you know,’ he said.

‘What are you trying to do?’ I asked, ‘Kick me out of the crew?’

‘No, I’m not,’ he said, ‘but after this, I wouldn’t blame you if you took a rest.’

I thought this over. It was something I hadn’t given any thought to. Then that feeling I had had earlier came, the surety that I would survive.

‘No, Wilbur,’ I said, ‘I feel if we can all stick together we’ll come out okay.’

‘Thanks, Johnny,’ he replied, ‘I think all the crew would like to shake your hand on that.’

After a period, the elation wore off. Someone said, ‘I wonder how the others got on.’

It was then I remembered the sight of the Kiwis smothered in fighters and cannon fire, the vicious attack on our planes on the way down, the scattering of our own box. It was a sobering thought. ‘How many’, we wondered, ‘had survived?’

One hour fifteen minutes later, time check courtesy of our navigator, we heard the deep beat of a powerful motor. One of the Spits dipped down and flew a short circuit over us then, out of the mist, a white wave curling at its prow, came a low, powerful-looking speed boat. Sighting us, it performed a neat circle, cut its engines and came gliding towards us.

So neatly judged was its approach the raft hardly rocked. Ranging alongside, a clipped English voice said, ‘Well, what have we here? Three kangaroos and a kiwi. Come on boys, all aboard.’

Strong hands reached down to pull us up. The officer said, ‘Give us that rope, this little tub may come in handy again.’ We were aboard in seconds. The raft was pulled in too and immediately deflated.

Almost as soon as we touched deck the muffled beat of the motor sprang to a full-throated roar and we were off. Once aboard we were whisked below. I had often heard of these Air Sea Rescue boats, but this was my first acquaintance. I was struck by their quiet unassuming efficiency. Apparently they were prepared for a badly shot-up, half-frozen lot of airmen. Instead, they found four healthy unscratched bods. They didn’t let this deter them and without further ado, hit us with four powerful pots of rum.

The funny part about this was Bill was a non-drinker and Jack and Wilbur moderate ones. I’ll never forget the look on Bill’s face as, attempting to get his rum down his neck, he finally ended up in a paroxysm of choking coughs. Wilbur explained to our hosts he was a non-drinker.

This really shook them. A teetotal Australian was something they had never heard of. I fixed this by giving the officer a big wink and saying ‘Give him one of those nice pink drinks. He’ll like that.’ Catching on, he poured a pink gin and Bill innocently drank these with growing hilarity on the one-and-a-half hour trip back to their base in The Wash.

Their hospitality was so good that we were a hilarious high-stepping group when we got off. Bill was particularly funny. A naturally buoyant, effervescent type, he literally bubbled with laughter and gin. The wonder was he wasn’t flat on his back.

Conducted before the MO, we heard him say, ‘What’s wrong with that officer? Is he suffering from delayed shock?’ The officer who had accompanied us in whispered something in his ear and they both laughed.

Darkness had fallen, so it was decided we would stop the night. A signal advised base that we were safe, who in turn told us to proceed to a nearby aerodrome early in the morning and we would be picked up. Apparently they were anxious to hear our story.

Not being an officer, I was directed to the Petty Officer’s Mess. Wilbur tried hard to keep me with the crew, stretching the truth a bit by stating my commission was just about to come through, but with the Navy ‘orders is orders’, and he was told courteously but firmly this request could not be acceded to. To my surprise, he then declared that if I could not come into the Officer’s Mess, the crew would come with me to mine. This really did cause some consternation as he was unusually belligerent and vehement about this point.

I thought, ‘This is not like Wilbur’ … then I remembered the many drinks he had consumed. Things were developing into what might be termed a situation when I said, ‘Bugger you blokes, you go to your own bloody mess. I’m going to have a bloody good time in the Sergeants’. Hooray.’

Famous last words – did I have a night and did those petty officers treat me well!

***

Next day they drove us out to the drome. The duty pilot was a new sprog, and he brought calamitous news. Only one Kiwi crew, the squadron leader’s, had got back. Six planes, including ours, had failed to return from our squadron and as far as he knew, one Vent like ours had ditched near the enemy coast. Of the rest there was no news.

He told an incredible story which afterwards proved true, of the Kiwi Squadron Leader. Beset by German fighters he had dived to ground level, and instead of fleeing, had shaken off his pursuers and continued on to bomb his target.

I thought of our precipitous flight to sea level and our battle to get back. How about if we had gone the other way? Wilbur said, ‘If that’s true, he deserves a bloody VC’. And that is just what he got.4

Normally, our lone arrival back at camp would have created a furore, but so catastrophic had been the events of the day that our coming went almost unnoticed.

It took a while to sort things out. Then the horror of this catastrophe hit the squadron – eleven of the twelve Kiwi planes had been lost plus three of our own – a total of fourteen crews.

Fifty-six men ripped out of the station was something that just didn’t seem possible. Where were Bob, Rip, Long’un, Snowy and dozens of other carefree happy blokes?

There were some amazing tales of luck and fighting prowess. Smithy’s crew, like ours, had hit sea level and escaped across the Channel without a single shot being fired at them. Another crew had been involved in a melee in which three Focke Wulfs and four Spits had tangled. Both enemy and friendly shells had splattered around them and the fight had ended with two Spits and a Nazi in the drink and all fighters out of ammunition.

It was evident the RAF, despite German aerial superiority in planes and performance, had fought a valiant fight to protect the bombers. The unfortunate Kiwis had taken the full brunt of the first onslaught. The enemy had come out of the sun and their misfortune had been our good fortune, for it had given us a chance to flee, as well as bringing our own fighters into action.

The survivors and the rest of the squadron, ground crews and all, went into mourning and onto the grog. The next few days saw men who rarely drank hit the hops. The powers that be did not interfere. Perhaps they were on it, too. Gradually, after a couple of days, the station started to come out of it.

What really put us back on the wagon was the sobering information that TAF had decided the Vents had had it and were not to be used operationally again in Europe. This caused endless speculation. What was to happen to the crews? Were we to transfer to other aircraft or split up? Rumours swept the place, then officially it was announced that the pilots and navigators were to convert to Mosquitos. What was to happen to the WAGs and gunners was not decided.5

In addition, a new CO was to take over. His was a famous name in the RAF, a pilot with an unmatched fighting record.6 When this was confirmed the squadron collectively went back on the hops again. The breaking up of crews is always a poignant moment and, in addition, for the gunners there was the unsettling speculation as to what was going to happen to them.

I personally thought it was a bloody nuisance. Forty ops could easily be classified as one tour.7 My two tours seemed as far away as ever. If we could only have flown another ten sorties our crew could have signed off. Now I had to dodge the MO plus Kodak House to get another ten in somehow.

The arrival of the new CO didn’t help any. He was an imposing figure of a man with an outstanding record, but lacking in tact. In the officer’s mess he passed some remarks regarding the reputation of the Vents and the squadron’s record. That didn’t endear him to anyone, for what he didn’t realise was that Venturas should never have been used in the European theatre and that the boys still remembered the loss of many close friends.