Chapter Thirty-seven

I arrived at the new camp in Surrey half a day early. We had been told the squadron was going over to field conditions; that is, we were to live in tents to acclimatise everyone for the coming Second Front and projected moves into France.

It was a huge, rambling place with crops growing right up to the mess walls. It housed three squadrons, two RAF and the other Dutch.1

When I presented myself at the office I was told I had a four days’ extension of leave. The Wingco had evidently wangled this; the other two were contacted by phone but they had no means of informing me. Normally I would have relished this extra leave, but I’d had London and its fleshpots; besides, it didn’t seem worth the struggle of going up and returning in a few days.

Most of the station were already in tents. I found a few odd bods, mostly airmen who had finished tours, getting clearances to go off the squadron which was still established in a huge ugly-looking mansion that crowned a hill overlooking the mess buildings. I was in no hurry to get under canvas, particularly without my crew, so settled myself in one of the many bedrooms that looked down on a lovely park. It was an amazing place; it had at least twenty outsize bedrooms and all the appointments that went with the opulent ugly early Victorian mansion.

The monstrosity belonged to the local Lord of the Manor who owned all the land the station was located on. He was related in very high places and, by general agreement of locals and the RAF, was a low illegitimate.

During my first night in the mess, I ran into Bill Fogg.2 He had come direct to the squadron from Beltwell, was flying with a squadron leader, and had completed thirty ops, making a total of forty-eight. ‘Why the hell don’t you give it away?’ I asked.

‘The Skipper has an okay from the CO to do a further seventeen and I’ve decided to stop with him.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s okay,’ he replied, ‘a bit mad, old English family and all that; ancestors have always been in the cavalry you know.’

‘Hope he doesn’t ride his plane like a horse,’ I said.

He had news of Wilbur and Jack; their bodies had been recovered from a burnt-out Mossie some twenty miles west of Berlin. A Hun fighter had evidently jumped them on their way out. This shattered all hopes that they may have bailed out or crash-landed. It was depressing news, for these two young men had brains, ability, education, everything to make a success of their lives.3

We talked for a while of old times and Bill said, ‘There’s not many left, Johnny. I often wonder where it will all end.’ Bull Stanton was on the station too. After his Ventura effort he had been banished to a training unit and was now engaged on his first tour. Bill declared he was as profane and wild as ever and still a bloody awful pilot.

Later at flight I met Bull, who was overjoyed to see me. He said, ‘I heard you were bloody well dead, but I ought to have known they couldn’t kill a tough old bastard like you.’ His opinion of the RAF had not changed one jot. Since we last met he had, he declared, been fugged around by experts, but life on this station offered some compensations, particularly a hostel for Land Army girls on the other side of the drome. This, he declared, offered more smooey than you could poke a stick at.

The rest of the crew arrived four days later. I felt that there must have been some urgent family crisis to have kept the Wingco, but he was his old happy carefree self and made no mention of any family problems.

With the coming of spring the great aerial offensive that was to precede the opening of the Second Front had opened over Europe. By night the air vibrated with the drum of the mighty air fleets of Bomber Command as they went forth to pound Germany and her satellites. No two-engined obsolete Wellingtons these, but four-engined giants such as the Lancasters, Halifaxes and Stirlings, capable of carrying a twelve thousand pound bomb load.

When these returned in the early morning the Fortresses took up the offensive, circling and climbing in their hundreds in the clear spring air to gain height till their vapour trails criss-crossed the heavens.

Supporting these, the mediums – such as our own Mitchells, Bostons and Marauders – drove across the Channel, escorted by hundreds of fighters, to attack railway depots, bridges and any installation that would be of assistance to Hitler. Truly might it be said that the Nazis had sown and reaped a whirlwind of destruction.

In our own little world, our Skipper didn’t seem to be in any hurry to join the fray, which didn’t worry the other two one jot – they were already home! We did a few training flights and it looked as if we were destined to fiddle around indefinitely till the Groupy cracked down.

Under RAF protocol the Skipper should have been immediate leader, but in this case, here was a pilot who hadn’t even done an op. A sprog starting in such circumstances would have to fly in positions Five and Six; if he survived long enough he would rise to Four, then Two and Three depending on his ability, then finally to Number One. The powers that be solved this problem by deciding that we would fly Number Four in our first do and after he’d cut his teeth and learned the ropes the Skipper was to take over leadership of a box. Due to his excellent training form at the Castle I had no qualms that he could cover this position. He showed a marked lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of his coming operational baptism. He displayed little interest in the briefing. You would have thought he was just finishing his tour instead of starting one.

Coming out of dispersal he ran the port wheel off the concrete runway onto the soft ground. When it started to dig in, instead of waiting for the tractor to pull us out, he revved forward so that the bomber, with its two thousand pound bomb load, bogged in to the axle. This unexpected upset caused a panic. Queries and commands crackled from Control. Operations, due to fighter protection and group arrangements, are a matter of split-second timing. The officer in Control must have been a beauty. There was always a second kite bombed up and ready to go kept for such emergencies. He set a series of commands and instructions going and, in a matter of minutes, a bus was alongside our bogged plane and we’d piled out.

The Chiefy, a hard-bitten Australian warrant officer, took one look at the immobilised bomber and made a cutting motion with his finger across his throat.

I said defensively, ‘The wheel slipped off the runway.’

‘Pig’s bum,’ he replied. ‘The greenest sprog wouldn’t do this – it was done intentionally.’

I made a very rude reply, scrambled into the bus and we were on our way to the spare. I did notice our Skipper didn’t look his usual happy self. This I put down to a combination of first op jitters and the mix-up. Group would want to know what the hell caused the delay.

We took off thirteen minutes late, which was no mean feat. It was a tame op on some of the mysterious installations. There were no fighters, no flak, but in spite of this our Skipper, from the time we got near the enemy coast, flew like a hairy goat. Gone was the perfect synchronisation and steady co-ordination; in its place was an unusual up and down undulating movement, which threw Five and Six out of formation and must have been a headache to those two pilots.

As we came in to bomb we bloody nearly ran under the top three; luckily things straightened themselves out sufficiently for all six planes to bomb. It was a rotten bomb pattern and a lousy display of flying.

When we got back four hours later, Chiefy and his crew had just managed to pull the bogged bomber out. He was as mad as a hornet and most profane. His opinion on pilots, Wingcos or not, who bogged planes, was completely unprintable.

That night, the Skipper got the car out and we went into Guildford. He was his old happy self again, without a care in the world. His poor exhibition of the day seemed to be completely forgotten.

Guildford was a garrison town, that is, the permanent Army officers and NCOs had their homes there, in which the wives and families resided, whilst Poppa was doing his bit in various parts of England or the globe. No doubt a big portion of these femmes stayed at home and virtuously looked after the home and the kids. On the other hand, a fair proportion frequented the pubs looking for convivial male company.

The Skipper made a contact with an extremely presentable blonde, who attracted three comrades in a kind of chain reaction. They were well-dressed and well-spoken and a pleasant party eventuated. When the pubs closed, the Skipper piled us all into the car and arrangements were made for him to pick us up at midnight.

My companion was Betty, a presentable dark Spanish-looking woman in the twenty-eight to thirty age group. Ted had her cobber. By a kind of tacit agreement we went to my companion’s home, which turned out to be quite a pretentious double-storied establishment. We both thought we were going to have supper, however Betty said, ‘We’ll leave these two down here and go upstairs.’ It was as easy as that.

In the in-between confiding period, she advised her husband was a Major in the permanent forces. She had a boy of twelve who went to a nearby boarding school and came home on weekends. Her husband was an easy-going kind of person. She stated she neither loved nor hated him. Married at eighteen she was now really enjoying life. She, however, had her scruples. She only cohabited with officers, with the qualification she had to like the man.

At midnight an alarm shrilled, set, I found, prior to the fun and frolics. These girls were really organised. ‘You boys had better get cracking,’ she said, ‘your Skipper will be waiting for you.’

Our chauffeur was late. During the wait Ted was plunged into the depths of remorse. ‘A man’s an animal,’ he said. ‘Here I am cohabiting with that slut, while my wife is at home expecting my child.’

‘It doesn’t look as though you had much choice, those girls would seduce a saint,’ I replied.

I wasn’t feeling very proud of myself either; the photos on the mantlepiece and in the bedroom had shown a likeable kind of a bloke. Still, I thought, what the hell, if it wasn’t me it would be someone else.

***

The aerial offensive mounted in intensity. That the Huns were more concerned with damage to their homeland than occupied Europe was exemplified on our second operation. We had been briefed to attack a target in Holland at nine thousand feet.4 It was a beautiful fine summer day. As we went in over the coast, away to our left and at least fifteen thousand feet higher, two formations of Fortresses gleamed in the bright sunlight. These groups flew in battle formations of thirty-five each. They had strong fighter protection as dozens of smaller planes could be seen circling above and below. Fifty miles in from the coast, German planes attacked the two groups in strength and the air was filled with the turmoil of men trying to annihilate each other, five miles above the earth.

Despite the fact that the Mitchells would have been an easier target, we weren’t touched. We were flying Number Two, so my search area was in that quarter and I had a full view of this grim aerial battle. In spite of the fighter protection the attackers broke through the protecting ring again and again. In the half hour period I watched, until we bombed and turned for home, eight Fortresses, streaming smoke and fire, had plunged earthwards, and I could imagine the dry taste of fear in the mouths of those airmen far above us, with at least another hour to the target in Germany, and then a four hour trip back. For mine I’d sooner do it under cover of darkness.

On the trip we met neither flak nor fighters but despite this, as we got near the target our plane started to undulate like a ship in a rough sea. This, I decided, was the Skipper’s idea of evasive action, only there was nothing to evade.

These ops, to my way of thinking, were exceedingly easy. With the memory of Wimpy operations over this area two years before and even the Ventura ops a year later, it didn’t seem possible that you could fly a hundred and fifty miles into Holland and not have a single shot fired at you in anger. This seemed to be the time to get as many in while the going was easy.

That night I expressed the opinion to the Skipper that this state of affairs would not last; as soon as the second front opened we would run into tougher opposition, so we should take advantage of this easy phase to do as many ops as possible.

Despite the favourable operational conditions, our Skipper didn’t seem anxious to hop in and follow this good advice. But, like a king born to a throne the day arrived when he had to take his place as Number One. The target was a factory in Southern Germany, not an easy target. It meant we had to cross France and, using the Black Forest as a final marker, go in and hit the target.4

Intelligence stated the target had a priority as it manufactured component parts for a new German fighter. We were told we could expect some flak, and possibly fighter resistance. A strong escort would neutralise the last problem.

Met promised thunderheads and cumulus clouds with a base of twelve thousand feet but, as we were to fly at ten thousand, it was thought they would not worry us.

Going in over the coast, three guns away to our left opened up. In addition to the range being too far, their shooting was so poorly directed I didn’t report it. The Skipper must have because he threw the plane into violent evasive action so that for a while it was like riding a bucking bronco. This, in turn, gave the formation a torrid time as they sought to keep formation behind him.

After this little effort he asked, ‘Did you see the flak?’

When I replied that I had, he tore a strip off me for not reporting it. He was savage over the matter and advised me to keep my eyes open and not go to sleep.

‘What’s wrong with this drongo?’ I thought, but said nothing.

It was a fantastic flight, the huge billowing cumulus clouds with bases at ten thousand feet, and thunderheads at twenty, came up as Met had predicted and through the valleys and canyons of this aerial fairyland we flew. Despite their beauty these cloud formations could serve as a cover for marauding enemy fighters. The Wingco seemed uneasy in this respect. His first ‘Are you watching, gunner, can you see anything?’, evoked a standard reply, but when it was repeated twenty to thirty times, it became a bit monotonous.

Our navigator, despite frequent deviations to evade threatening cloud formations, brought us bang in on course. I heard him say ‘Black Forest coming up at one o’clock, five minutes to target’. More out of curiosity I swivelled the turret around to see these historic woods that had figured so frequently in the history of Europe.

Ted said, ‘Three minutes to target, Pilot’, and gave a slight course correction.

It was then the flak came up. It was obviously predicted and fairly accurate. I got halfway through ‘Flak at nine o’clock’ when the plane seemed to fall away from beneath me. We must have fallen two hundred feet. For a second I thought ‘God, we’ve been hit.’ It wasn’t till we started to rise again I realised it was evasive action, the only trouble being we were rising bang under our formation. I could see the bottoms of the planes and the whirling propellers rushing towards me and let out a God-Almighty yell.

The result to this timely warning was as unexpected as our Skipper’s reaction to the flak. Our plane broke away sharply to the right while the box, minus their leader, turned left. I saw them disappear behind a bank of clouds and there, right over Southern Germany, we were on our Pat Malone.

Under normal conditions we should have been able to pick our mob up again but when they disappeared behind the clouds it was the last we saw of them. There were some panicky requests on the part of our Skipper asking where the formation had gone to, but when it was evident they had disappeared into the blue and we were all alone, his thoughts immediately turned to beating a retreat back to England.

The logical plan from my point of view was to make this as unobtrusive and quiet as possible. There was enough cloud formation around for us to skip from bank to bank and make a quiet exit. But to the amazement of the crew, as Ted gave a course for home, we flew about a thousand feet under the cloud base, and in addition he started a bleat on open broadcast ‘Leader Black Box calling, we are all alone. Where are angels?’

This, in layman’s language, meant a broadcast to our escorting fighters advising we were alone and requesting their protection, but the only flaw in this appeal was it was also monitored by the Germans, so they also knew there was a lone bomber stooging homewards unescorted.

So strong was the belief in the infallibility of pilots he made at least half a dozen appeals before Ted voiced a protest and said, ‘I consider we should keep quiet, Pilot, we are only advertising our position.’ Our Skipper did not acknowledge this remark, but sent out another call for protection.

I thought, ‘Bugger it, it isn’t often a new crew member, let alone a gunner, advises a pilot’, but I felt this was an emergency, so I reported, ‘Gunner to Pilot. May I suggest all outward calls cease and that we get up into cloud cover? We’re sitting ducks for any fighter attack in our present position.’

This message was not acknowledged, so like a lost lamb bleating in a forest full of wolves, we flew across France, a thousand feet from cloud cover. Three times I saw fighters take off, but still consider the Jerries thought it was such an obvious trap we were not attacked. I could imagine them evaluating this lone tempting target, the bleating pleas for fighter protection and saying the Teutonic version of ‘Like bloody hell. What’s in the clouds above?’

Just the same, someone’s guardian angel worked overtime that day, for when we crossed the coast we ran out of clouds, but made the fifty mile sea trip without molestation. It was bloody-well incredible. We arrived back over base twenty minutes ahead of our formation.

It would have been funny only for the serious implications, for the box, bereft of its leader, had also turned for home without bombing, so that six bombers and their crews, plus a highly organised fighter escort, had made an eight hundred mile return trip with all its perils for Sweet Fanny Adams.

Chiefy was on hand as we parked our plane, bomb-load and all. Ground crew took a fierce pride in their efficiency and manifested as big an interest in bombing results as air crew, so that they felt any goof was a reflection on their work and ability.

When I said we lost the formation, Chiefy said incredulously; ‘But you didn’t bring your eggs back!’

I was feeling a bit tense myself; a crew shares its captain’s inefficiency. There were a hundred and one reasons why you might not bomb; also, I felt there was no reason why I should account to a Warrant Officer Chief Mechanic, so replied, ‘Of course we didn’t bloody-well bomb; in fact we’re lucky to be here.’

He said; ‘That bastard’s yellow. I could have told you that when he bogged that plane. You’re a bloody fool to fly with him. He’ll prang as sure as eggs.’

We had some uncomfortable moments when the rest of the boys returned. That night, despite a freezing atmosphere, the Wingco was in the Mess. The events of the day seemed to have had no effect upon him, and he was his charming natural self. It says a lot for his personality that by the end of the evening he was back on drinking terms with most of the mess.

The Wingco’s lack of fighting heart must have set the Groupy a problem, for here was a top-ranking officer whose position by all flying protocol should be at the head of his squadron, and was not suited for the job. If he had been an NCO, he would have been disposed of smartly by being classified LMF, but this derogatory term could not be applied to a Wingco.

We sat on the sidelines for a few days while the powers-that-be chewed the matter over, then our names appeared on the battle order again; this time, we were flying as Number Four.

The do was almost a repetition of the previous fiasco, our pilot did reasonably well, until we started our run-in and the inevitable flak came up, then we started to buck around the sky like a buck jumper at a rodeo. The result was Five and Six couldn’t keep formation and it was a bloody awful pattern. There was no doubt our Skipper was a bloody menace to everyone and more help to the enemy than the RAF.

Safely back on the ground he seemed to be able to revert to his old happy-go-lucky self and be completely impervious to the cold reactions of his flying comrades. Strangely enough, as a crew, we stuck by him.

That night we went into Guildford and hit the grog, and when we got back to camp we were full. He invited us to help him knock over a bottle of Scotch, but the other two declined. Hoping to get him drunk enough to talk, I went along with him. About three-quarters of a bottle later, he said, ‘You think I’m a coward, don’t you, Johnny?’

It was a delicate question. I said, ‘No, Skipper, but I think you’re a bit flak happy. Actually, it’s the least of our worries. It’s the fighters you’ve got to worry about.’

I won’t repeat our conversation. The main point he made was he intended seeing the war through, and he didn’t give a bugger what anyone thought. His three little girls and his wife, he declared, were his main consideration, for despite his philanderings he was very much in love. His transient loves meant nothing, they were a part of a war-jumbled world. He had never wanted to fly operationally and didn’t give a damn if he was removed from the squadron.

He declared he wasn’t built for war, and I thought of poor Mac. There was nothing maudlin in this discussion. He stated his case and I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Three years previously I might have, but I’d seen a lot of men die since then.

Next morning we looked at each other sheepishly and I said, ‘What we discussed last night, Skipper, is between you and me.’