Hi all,

I've just acquired this book: Winged Words, published in 1941. It contains the verbatim transcripts of some of 150 broadcasts made by RAF officers, airmen and the WAAF for the BBC. They make fascinating reading, complete with misconceptions of the time. Some of them mention operations and personnel familiar to us, others are long forgotten. I thought posting them here might make the wait for BoB SoW seem a little shorter. The first is from December 1939, the last February 1941. I'll try to post one a week. Without further ado here is the first.

RedToo.


December, 1939

CHRISTMAS DAY IN COASTAL COMMAND

BY A SQUADRON LEADER, R.A.F.V.R.

As you can imagine, the Royal Air Force in Great Britain has had to be on its toes over Christmas. This has been particularly true of the crews of Coastal Command aircraft.

Co-operating with the Royal Navy, they are responsible for the safety of shipping on the seas of Western Europe. For them, there could be no holiday . . . Enemy submarines for ever on the prowl . . . the possibility of German warships breaking out from their bases . . . watch to be kept on the great convoys of merchant vessels on their way to Britain . . . the traffic lanes to be searched for mines.

Since the war began, the aircraft of the Coastal Command have flown fully four million miles, on watch and guard over the North Sea and the Atlantic. In other words, in four months, the crews of this Command have covered a distance equal to more than 165 journeys round the Equator.

A substantial part of this immense air mileage has been contributed by the Royal Air Force flying boats, many of which are flying boats of the type used on the Empire routes for the carriage of passengers and mails.

In outward appearance these Royal Air Force and Empire flying boats are identical. But the interior furnishings are very different. In one, as you know, there are armchair seats, tasteful dining-rooms, and comfortable sleeping quarters. But the inside of an R.A.F. flying boat is an arsenal, with batteries of guns on both decks and a ton of bombs slung from a kind of overhead railway on the roof, ready to be run out for easy dropping from the wings.

I spent Christmas Day in one of these flying boats on an anti-submarine and convoy protection patrol of upwards of 1,500 miles over the Atlantic. The crews of the aircraft were aboard, as usual, before dawn, and took off in the darkness so that advantage might be taken of every minute of daylight at sea.

Before we boarded the flying boat, pilots and navigators received their instructions for their Christmas Day's work in a small hut which is the Operations Room of the Squadron. Orders were read to them in front of a big map of the Atlantic seaboard on which seven white graveyard crosses are pinned. Each cross marks the spot where a German submarine has been destroyed by a flying boat of this single squadron.

Just before we left to embark, an orderly from the wireless station brought in a sheaf of messages. They were Christmas greetings from the pilots, crews and passengers on Empire flying boats which are still maintaining, just as in peacetime, their twice weekly, two-way services between Britain and Australia, Central Africa, and South Africa. These messages of goodwill to the Royal Air Force flying boats bad been sent from their sister flying boats while they were in the air over the Dutch East Indies, Singapore, Malay, Thailand, Burma, India, the Sudan, Egypt, Kenya and Uganda.

Reading them in that tiny hut on the English shore of the Atlantic on Christmas morning, one could not help feeling some pride in the fact that the British Empire's Command of its civil flying routes is still completely unchallenged.

There was another Christmas Day message. It came from the Australian crews of flying boats now working with the Royal Air Force from a station further north on the west coast of Britain.

By dawn, which came in saffron splendour, we were having breakfast nearly 200 miles at sea. A FULL breakfast—grapefruit, bacon, sausages, eggs, coffee and toast, served piping hot from the galley next door. The cook reported to the young captain of the flying boat, a youth of twenty-two, that he wasn't satisfied with the behaviour of the ice-box in the galley. Why he should be worrying about an ice-box 2,000 feet over the Atlantic on a freezing Christmas morning, neither the pilot nor I could understand.

Back in the control cabin which, like the gun turrets, was decorated with holly and mistletoe, we saw the answer to Germany's propaganda claim that the Nazi sea and air fleets are blockading Britain.

In the first flush of day, scores of heavy-laden merchant ships from Australia, New Zealand, Africa and South America were riding the seas triumphantly to Britain. Every mile or two for the rest of the day we came on more ships going on their business, unaccompanied and unafraid.

But our special job for Christmas Day was to find and protect a convoy which had been assembled at a rendezvous from all parts of the world and which an escort of French warships was bringing along. We knew that the convoy was about twenty hours late, and that it had gone far off the course set for it because of bad weather and threatened submarine attack.

We could only guess the course it was taking. The ships themselves couldn't help us to locate them. They had, of course, to keep wireless silence so that their position might not be betrayed to lurking U-boats.

Our flying boat combed the sea for 5 50 miles. Then we found the convoy. Rather, it nearly found us! Cloud had become so dense and low that often we could see only the nose of the flying boat and the wing-tip floats. I heard the pilot beside me whistle sharply. "Blimey!" he said as he lifted the boat suddenly from the height of sixty feet at which we had been flying. In the nick of time he had avoided the masthead of a ship which had appeared beneath the wing. As he climbed to starboard, we saw another mast . . . then another . . . then mast after mast. His anxious look gave way to a happy smile. He took his hand from the joy¬stick and cocked his thumb. He was over the lost convoy.
Through the thick mist we could see the columns of ships flashing Christmas greetings to us with their lamps.

The bank of low cloud which blanketed the sea was now more than 200 miles square. We flew through it for a couple of hours and then located the British destroyers which were waiting to take over from the French warships. By lamp signals we gave them the position and course of the convoy.

Our Christmas Day job was now half done.

We had to fly back to the convoy, and for the remaining five hours of daylight, sweep the sea ahead of it for enemy submarines.

As quickly as it had fallen, the thick belt of mist vanished. Wintry sunshine filtered into the flying boat as the crew sat down, two at a time, to a quick Christmas dinner of soup, goose and plum-pudding. Until dusk we cruised for 500 miles in the path which the convoy would take to England. There were no submarines about. At least, if there were, they kept their heads down for fear of our bombs. And a U-boat submerged at sea is as useless as it would be in its base in Germany. Part of the job of the Coastal Command of the Royal Air Force is to destroy them or, failing that, to keep them submerged.

Twice the look-out men on our flying boat gave the "action" call to bring the crew to submarine stations. They did so by pressing a button which caused an electric hooter to scream "DAH-DE-DIH-DI-DOH" throughout the boat. Both times a sea marker was thrown overboard by the lookout men, and the pilot made the flying boat stand on its wing-tip so that the sea was like a wall in front of us, with the horizon over our heads. The pilot's fingers caressed the bomb switches. But no bombs fell. As he swept round the column of smoke rising from the sea-markers, he decided that the ripples of water among the "white-horses" which the look-out men had seen were not the footprints of a submarine periscope, but only the foam on the trail of drifting wreckage.

We had left the English coast in the morning black-out against air raids. Twelve hours later we came back to it—again in complete darkness, just in time for a second, and more leisurely, Christmas dinner.

To-day, Boxing day, the flying boat is out again over the Atlantic, guarding the great convoy of merchant ships on another day's safe march to England. Its crew and the crews of the other flying boats of the Squadron have asked me to offer you their good wishes.


A Sunderland taking off.

Thanks, but unfortunately the lay-out in your posting makes the text practically illegible. The column width must be narrower and there must be clear spacings between sections...

Eh?.. I can read it perfectly well.. good read, thanks mate.

very enjoyable reading please keep posting; I fear your book will end before SOW comes out tho!

Part 2. I've included a couple of photos from the other side to balance things up a bit.

RedToo.


January, 1940

A TALK BY THE SQUADRON COMMANDER OF A BOMBER SQUADRON

AIRCRAFT of my Squadron, with others, have been chosen to take part in raids on Brunsbuttel, on Heligoland and on Wilhelmshaven since the war began.

We are always in a state of readiness, but big shows such as they were, entail very careful planning and preparation. It is essential that everybody knows exactly what his job is. Each man must play his part to the best of his skill and ability. That is his duty to the other members of his crew and to the formation as a whole. We pride ourselves that we have got a fine team spirit among our bomber crews in the Royal Air Force-and it's the team spirit that counts on these occasions.
Well, first of all for the preparation. When the order for a raid comes through-and I have usually found that to be at a time when nearly everyone is in bed-Headquarters give us a zero hour, by which time everything has to be on the top line, and we stand by ready to take off.
My Flight Commanders decide with me who is going. The plan of operation is fixed in all our minds.

Such details as the route to the target, and the way we are coming back, the type of flying formation, the order of attack, methods of defence-all those things are settled. We have planned between us, for every contingency we can foresee. Deputy leaders for each section of the formation have been appointed in case we have trouble of any kind.
We're up some hours before dawn, and have a hurried break-fast before going across to the hangars. I'm afraid I cannot appreciate bacon and eggs at that time of the day.

The armament people have been hard at work during the night. They've got the job of bombing up the planes and loading up with ammunition.
Final instructions have to be issued to all crews and there are the usual last-minute jobs to be done. There seem to be a hundred and one things to check up on. It's really a bit of a relief when, finally, one gets in the air and settled down on the course.

Everyone will be busy to start with. The air gunners checking and testing their guns, the navigator setting out his maps on the chart table, and the wireless operator listening for any messages that may be passed to us. Once we are in the air, he does not transmit for fear of disclosing our position.

As for the Captain, he's got plenty to do. We know it'll be a couple of hours or so before we're in sight of the German coast. But you can well imagine that everyone sits up and takes notice as we get nearer. All aircraft close up tighter in case of attack.
Sixty miles out from the German coast, we get the warning from my rear gunner: "Fighter on the port beam." There's another one to starboard, too, both of them a couple of miles away and flying roughly at the same height and speed as we are. One realises that they're signalling our altitude and speed to the enemy guns.

We can now see the line of the coast thirty or forty miles ahead-only a few minutes' flying. We get through with very little fighter opposition, but then as we get closer to the target, we come under heavy anti-aircraft fire.

The stuff bursts all round. One's surprised to find, the first time, how detached one is about it. Even to the point of being critical of the gunnery.

The formation opens out and we do a bit of dodging- "Evasive action," they call it in the official reports.
Now we have spotted our target-very small, too, at the height we're flying-and we're making straight for it. The signal for attack is given and the bomb doors are opened.
The navigator has now become the bomb aimer. He passes correction of course to the pilot, making allowances on his bomb-sight for our height and speed and also for the wind.
When his sights are on the target-which, at the speed we are travelling may be a mile or two ahead of us-he moves over a lever to release his bombs.

The other aircraft bomb in sequence and in a predetermined order. We've then completed the task we were sent out to do. Now we've got to get back. Bomb doors are closed and throttles opened. The aircraft close up from their open bombing formation to meet the fighters we can see above waiting for us.

As soon as we're out of range of the A.A. guns the fun begins. If there's any sun, the fighters will almost certainly have manoeuvred to a position where they can make their first attacks with the sun behind them. It's an old dodge, but always a good one.

On one raid the squadron was in, there must have been about fifty German fighters. They were buzzing about like flies above us. In that particular scrap they made between sixty and seventy separate attacks.
These attacks developed in quick succession from both sides and from astern. Bright flashes went streaking past the wings. These are tracer bullets. Rather an attractive sight, I suppose, if they weren't quite so unfriendly.

This is the test for our own air gunners. Keen as mustard, these fellows, and it's a comforting thought to the other members of the crew to know that they have such good men behind the guns.
On this particular show, despite the fact that we were out¬numbered by more than two to one, we more than held our own. The fight lasted over half an hour, with about two enemy attacks a minute.

It's good to know that all the time the fight's going on, the fighters are being drawn farther and farther away from their own bases, and must therefore soon turn back, while every minute brings our formation nearer home.

Gradually the intensity of the attack dies away. When you no longer hear the sound of your own guns, you know it's all over. This is confirmed when one of the chaps in my plane says: "Well, that's that, sir. Let's go."

It's a natural reaction, I suppose, that everybody should become more than usually friendly and attentive now that the tension is relaxed. Soon the rations-a hot drink and some chocolate-are passed round.

So much has happened in so short a time that it's only when the formation has settled down on a course for home that one has time to think it all over. One starts checking up on crew casualties and damage to aircraft. We jot down notes of the more important points of the raid and the scrap, which will be of assistance in making out the report when we get back.

We fly on steadily and the English coast is a very friendly sight when, at last, it appears ahead. Before long we are circling the aerodrome to land.
It is good to be safely home again.



Hannes Trautloft and his men of IV./JG 132 before the invasion of Poland, 1939. Bf 109E-1 Nr 4072 carries interesting red and white markings on fuselage and spinner.



Despite the political tension during summer 1939, there was always time for a game of 'skat'.

Part 3. With some more Luftwaffe photos from the Polish campaign.

April, 1940

RAIDS ON NORWAY

BY A BOMBER WING COMMANDER AND SQUADRON LEADER

This was a special job of work which we'd had allotted to us, and we shared the task with other squadrons.

We ourselves made four raids in six days. The first was a raid over Bergen. We had had a report that there were two German cruisers in the fjord. We found one cruiser alongside the shore, but didn't attack her for fear of injuring Norwegians. The other ship seemed to be making towards the shore about as quickly as it could, probably guessing that we would not attack it there— but it did not get there in time.

The aircraft, flying low for greater precision in bombing, got a very hot reception from anti-aircraft guns of the ship and on the shore, but they pressed home the attack. It was the leader of the formation who got in a direct hit on the stern of the cruiser. Other bombs fell very close. Another bomber squadron, we believed, scored a hit on the same ship that evening, and, as announced by Mr. Churchill, the cruiser has not been heard of since.

We didn't get away unscathed. One aircraft was hit by pom-poms and a shell took a nasty chunk out of its starboard wing. The pilot was afraid that one of the tyres had been punctured as well and was trying to hurry home so as to make a landing before dark, while all the time the section leader—seeing this big hole in the wing—was aiming at preventing him going too fast because he was afraid that flying at any sort of high speed would increase the damage. Still, he got down without mishap in the end.

Back at the base we had been making all sorts of emergency arrangements in case there were any casualties, but, fortunately, they proved unnecessary. Naturally we were eager to know all about what had happened, but most of the fellows seemed to have been so impressed by the beauty of the Norwegian scenery that at first it was difficult to get them to talk about anything else.

The following evening we called in on Stavanger aerodrome. As we knew there were fighters there, we planned to arrive in the failing light to make it more difficult for them to intercept us. We were also relying on the clouds to cover our approach, but it rather let us down, so we descended to water level. We thought that there we should be less likely to be seen. That attack really was a magnificent sight. The sort of thing that will always remain in one's memory. We had split up into sections of three. Each section seemed to be trying to race the other to the target. We were simply streaking across the water. The other section—not the one I was in—got there first.

The Germans put up a terrific barrage over the target before we got there, but our chaps simply went straight in. We flew across that aerodrome just below 1,000 feet and at about 200 miles an hour with our front and rear gunners letting loose their full fire and the bombs exploding in our wake. With different-coloured tracer bullets coming up and our own tracer bullets going down, it was like a gigantic firework display.

Unfortunately we lost one aircraft. Two others were badly damaged but got home. The pilot of one of these aircraft was wounded in the left side and the left shoulder and his second pilot got a splinter wound in the head. The tail gunner was hit, too. The second pilot wanted to relieve the more seriously injured captain of the aircraft but they dare not risk changing places because the control trimming gear, which enables you to trim the aircraft to fly itself for a short period, had been damaged. To make matters even worse, the hydraulic system had been put out of action, so that they were faced with the prospect of having to land, not being able to let the undercarriage down. They made the three-hour flight in the dark through very bad weather with heavy rainstorm and unusually bumpy conditions to reach their base.
Reaching home, the pilot circled the aerodrome three times, waited until everything was ready down below. Then he put he machine down on its belly. They deserved to get away with it—and I am very glad to say they did.

In the other machine the navigator was shot in the chest. The second pilot attended him and gave him morphia. Having done that, he took over the injured man's chart and maps and navigated the aircraft home.

The next day we were standing by for another attack on Stavanger, but it was eventually decided to postpone the raid until dawn the following morning. We had to wake the pilots and crews in the middle of the night and they took off in the small hours of the morning, while it was still dark.

In the weather conditions we were expecting I had been doubtful whether it would be possible for the machines we were sending to keep formation in the dark. I did not want them to go in separately and stir up trouble for one another. But the captains of the aircraft were dead keen to go. They said they could do it; in fact, they almost tried to bully me into sending them. At first they were able to fly with their navigation lights on. That's all right, but as they got nearer Norway their lights had to be put out.

After that, flying over the North Sea in darkness, the pilots of the two following aircraft managed to keep formation by watching the exhaust flames from the leading machine. When they arrived off the Norwegian coast it was too dark for them to find their target with any degree of accuracy, so they hung about for half an hour—keeping well away and out to sea—until the light improved.

The Germans opened fire as soon as the aircraft came into attack. The machines dived to about four to five hundred feet. Their front gun raked the enemy aircraft on the ground and the bombs, aimed at the runway, the aircraft and the hangar, began to fall. In addition to attacking the aerodrome we shot up their seaplane base there on both these Stavanger raids.

Two incidents occurred during these operations which, I think, will give you some indication of the spirit of our crews. In one case the number of aircraft originally detailed for the job was cut down by one. The captain of the aircraft ordered to remain behind said to me: "If I can't go this time, will you promise me that I can go on the next raid?" To satisfy him, I had to sit down and write out a chit: "I owe you one show" and sign it. So far, I haven't had an opportunity to redeem the pledge, but the captain assures me that he is holding me firmly to it.

The other incident concerns a sergeant pilot who was unable to get off with his formation because of some slight trouble with his aircraft. He practically begged me to let him follow in another plane. I said "all right, provided you can catch up with the others before you run into the danger zone, you may go." Within a few minutes, he and his crew had transferred to another aircraft and taken off.




Polish Campaign. Last minute instructions by telephone.


An improvised airfield on the Polish border.

Part Four.

April, 1940

ATTACK ON GERMAN CRUISERS IN NORWAY

BY A BOMBER SQUADRON LEADER

IT was in the late afternoon that we set off across the North Sea to carry out our attack. The weather going over was good, but when we got there the sky was absolutely cloudless.

We approached the Norwegian coast at a height of 7,000 feet, flying in two sections of three machines each. Then when we were about ten miles from the harbour where the cruisers lay I gave the prearranged signal for the second section to detach itself from mine and to take its position astern and to our right.

By this time we could see the two cruisers. I told the leader of my other section to attack the one which was lying at anchor near the shore while, for our formation, I chose the one in the middle of the harbour.

The ships and the shore batteries had opened fire during our approach, but none of our aircraft was hit. We went in to attack in line astern, making a steep dive from 7,000 to 1,000 feet. The aircraft followed one another quite closely.

At about 1,000 feet I gave the order to my bomb aimer to release his bombs. Owing to a misunderstanding however we flew right over the ship without letting them go.

It happened like this. I was anxious that my bomb aimer should not drop his bombs too close together so I said to him before we started: "Don't pull your lever over too quickly, but take your time from me. As I say "bomb . . . bomb . . . bomb", let them go."

Well, he must have got a bit excited. We were all excited of course at the idea of getting in our crack at the cruiser. Anyway, he mistook my "bomb—bomb—bomb" for "Oh—Oh—Oh," thinking I had been wounded, and didn't release his bombs.

The only thing to do was to have another shot at it. For about ten minutes we cruised up and down one of the fjords, hoping that the enemy would think we'd gone home. But, unfortunately, this little ruse failed because there were some guns on top of the cliff. They spotted us and apparently decided to have a little practice at our expense.

We were flying then at about 100 feet above the water and they were shooting down on us. They came pretty close but didn't hit us. By now the other chaps had carried out their attacks and had left, so we decided after a few minutes that it was about time to make our second attempt.

We climbed up over the mountains to about 5,000 feet, and approached from the land side instead of from the sea as we had done before.

This time, of course, being alone, we were the gunners' only target and they gave us a really hot reception. By now, too, the cruiser was under way and making for the open sea.

Again we went down in a steep dive at over 300 m.p.h. Accurate bombing with the aircraft being shaken by shell bursts is very difficult. I'm afraid we didn't get a direct hit, but we came within twenty feet of her.

It was now dusk, and having dropped all our bombs, we decided to follow the others and make for home.
One might have thought that the day's adventures were over then, but there was still another to come. For, shortly afterwards, we ran into an enemy flying boat, a Dornier.

We were going west and he was flying east, so we turned and gave chase. The minute he saw us, he dived towards the sea.

We dived after him. As we came into range we opened fire with our front guns and he replied with his rear guns. Eventually, we drew alongside where we could bring our other guns to bear.

We must have been flying side by side for about a minute, exchanging shots from about sixty yards range. First his rear guns stopped firing and then one engine was put out of action. Clouds of smoke were coming from it and we could see that the propeller had stopped. He continued for a bit on one engine. Then that stopped too and he went down into the sea. Again we set course for home.
This time there were no further incidents.

When we landed and inspected the aircraft, we found that we had been hit a good many times. There were bullet holes in the wings, fuselage, and the tailplane and a bullet had even gone through one of the propeller blades, but whether this damage was done by the Dornier or by the A. A. fire over Bergen we could not say.

The main thing was that no member of the crew had been hit and that we had got home.



Bristol Blenheims


A Bf 110C-2 of ZG 26 over the North Sea.

Part 5 Norway.

Pics this week of a Wellington (but not over Norway), Kristiansand, Emils and some happy German pilots.

May, 1940

A RECONNAISSANCE OVER NARVIK

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

WING COMMANDER: It'll be a long time before anyone can tell the full story of the Allies' recent expedition to Norway. But one thing can be told even now—that whatever else it has done, the Norwegian campaign has proved once again that the R.A.F. can be relied on to do its job thoroughly under the worst possible conditions.

It was no picnic this work of the R.A.F. over Norway, you can take it from me. Behind the official reports of reconnaissance flights, patrols and heavy bombing raids, there is a remarkable story of men and machines engaged in a struggle in which the odds were with the enemy from the start and not only with the enemy but with Nature as well.

To put it bluntly, the Nazis got there first and having got there by means as ruthless as they were treacherous, they seized all Norway's available air bases. In the circumstances our fighters had only one base—and that an improvised one—from which to operate. That meant that our long distance bombers and long range fighters had to fly all the way from this country across at least 300 miles of sea before they could even get going with their job. But in spite of this our men and machines put up a fine show, and to-night I have brought to the studio a young Dominion pilot who was captain and first pilot of an aircraft which recently returned from the longest reconnaissance flight of the war— from Scotland to Narvik and back. The flight was even longer than those to Posen and Prague; it was certainly by far the longest over the sea carried out by land planes. During fourteen and a half hours' flying the pilot and crew were only over land for a few minutes.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: I am a New Zealander. I come from Northcote, Auckland, and my crew are all members of the Royal Air Force New Zealand Bomber Squadron. My second pilot, who was a sergeant observer and acted as navigator, comes from Stratford, near New Plymouth, New Zealand; my wireless operator, who was a leading aircraftman, is also from Auckland. The aircraftman who was the air gunner, is also a New Zealander. We came to England last year to collect Wellington bombers to serve in New Zealand. Before we could get back the war started and we stopped on.

WING COMMANDER: SO you will be here for a while?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: It certainly looks like it.

WING COMMANDER: Well, tell us something about this remarkable flight.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: It was all kept pretty hush-hush before¬hand. At our home station they simply told us to proceed to another station where we were to collect a Wellington for special reconnaissance work. We flew there and saw the Wellington that had been chosen for our flight. She wasn't a new or special type of aircraft—just an ordinary machine they had been using for training.

WING COMMANDER: What sort of special preparations did you make?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: It was an all-night job getting the aircraft ready, fitting the special tanks, loading up with ammunition, trying out the machine-guns, the wireless equipment and those hundred-and-one gadgets needed for navigation, then we flew to Scotland where we were told to be ready for a take-off the next morning at daybreak.

In Scotland we made our final check up and filled up with petrol and oil. Our navigational equipment, by the way, included bomb-sight and drift-sight, sextant, compasses, charts, pencils, rubbers, dividers, parallel rules, protractors, and so on.

WING COMMANDER: What sort of men were picked for the crew?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: The whole crew was interchangeable. Everyone had to be able to do everyone else's job, even to piloting at a push, for there was no automatic pilot in the aircraft. We also had with us a Lieutenant Commander from the Navy to assist in identifying ships at sea.
WING COMMANDER: HOW did you guard against the chance of a forced landing in the sea?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: We carried a collapsible rubber dinghy safely tucked away behind the engine. Then what happens is this: If we have to use it, we pull a wire which forces the dinghy out of the aircraft. It is immediately inflated automatically and ready for use, complete with its own supply of distress signals.

WING COMMANDER: And what do you carry in the way of food in case you are forced down?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: Mostly "hard tack"—tinned beef, sardines and chocolate. Before taking off we removed the oxygen bottles from the aircraft because we didn't intend to hit the heights. That meant a saving in weight.

WING COMMANDER: You had cameras with you, of course?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: Yes. We had two cameras on board, one for vertical pictures and the other for oblique pictures. The next morning at dawn we were told what the job was—we were to reconnoitre the Norwegian coast to the Lofoten Islands and the Vest fjord to Narvik.

WING COMMANDER: What time of day was it when you started off?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: We took off in the early morning, flew once round the aerodrome and then out to sea in a bee-line for Narvik. We skirted the Shetland Islands at a steady speed of nearly 200 miles an hour, and we were soon out of sight of land.

It was a bumpy day. We ran into some extraordinary weather with heavy rain squalls, and finally, just as we were coming near the Norwegian coast we headed into a snowstorm. For quite a while our instruments were registering twenty-seven degrees of frost.

As we came in sight of the Norwegian coast we got ready— ready for anything. The wireless operator manned the front gun; the second pilot took over at the astro-hatch, acting as a fire-control officer, and the rear gunner took his place in his turret.

Norway at that moment looked all covered in deep snow, but still it was land and any sort of land was welcome.

WING COMMANDER: I can quite believe that.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: Our real work had now begun, although the weather was steadily getting worse. There was a high wind by now and we were flying in and out of snow and sleet about 3,000 feet above the sea. There were such terrific bumps that the gunners bumped their heads as they were thrown upwards out of their seats.

Just as we were going towards Vest fjord we met an enemy aircraft but he sheered off as soon as he saw us. We flew up the fjord through driving snow at only 200 feet. The clouds and cliffs seemed to be closing in on us, and when we got to the end of the fjord we swung round, made a sharp turn and went on with our reconnaissance southward down the coast as far as Christiansand, then we turned for home.

WING COMMANDER: HOW did you manage about food and drinks all this time?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: Well, up to this time we were too busy to bother about our rations and too excited. Now that the job was done we passed round hot coffee and sandwiches. We had six flasks of coffee with us, beef and ham sandwiches, chocolate, biscuits, chewing-gum, a packet of tea, six bottles of water, a billy-can and a "Tommy" cooker.

WING COMMANDER: On the way back—what happened?

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT: Not very much. That is to say nothing worse than bad weather. We sighted British Naval units in the North Sea, circled round them and exchanged signals by lamp. We were able to give them news of a couple of British destroyers and a merchantman we had seen at the entrance to one of the fjords. All the way home we had a strong wind against us and we were glad to see the Shetland Islands again. The flight covered well over 2,000 miles and the second pilot and I before we finished had shared between us fourteen and a half hours at the controls. As soon as we landed we were given hot drinks before we began to make out our reports and had the photographs we had taken developed.

WING COMMANDER: It was a very fine show all round.







109 E-2’s in Norway.


A picture to commemorate the dramatic capture of Oslo from the air. The third pilot from the left is Helmut Lent.

RedToo.

Part 6 – Hurricanes!

June, 1940

A FIGHTER SQUADRON OVER FRANCE

BY A SQUADRON LEADER
I am the leader of a squadron which has been helping the B.E.F. We have gone up daily from quiet aerodromes in England to fly over the Dunkirk beaches.

Day after day we saw the smoke from the innumerable fires of Dunkirk blowing down the Channel. It followed the coast like a gigantic piece of black cotton-wool. And we knew that beneath it, the B.E.F. were fighting their tremendous rearguard action. We could see the hundreds of little ships which were helping them to escape. At one moment we'd be smelling the fresh-cut grass of peaceful English fields and looking at the lupins in front of the mess. Half an hour later we'd be in the thick of it.

Thirty German bombers and fighters have been shot down by my squadron and quite a large number crippled, though we did not actually see them crash. Two of my flight commanders have been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.

1 suppose our best and most exciting day was when we had a "brush" with a bunch of Messerschmitt 109s—our first combat with enemy fighters. We got two at about 1,500 feet.

That was in the morning. In the afternoon we were standing near our aircraft—we landed for a short time in France—when we heard aeroplanes overhead, above the clouds, which were at roughly 5,000 feet. Suddenly we heard machine-gun and cannon fire coming from "upstairs".

We leaped into our Hurricanes to join in. We raced up towards the fight, but before we had reached the cloud base, I saw two Messerschmitt no fighters come streaming down in flames through the clouds. Each was without tail and rudders.

As soon as we came above the clouds we ran smack into a hectic battle. There was a large number of Messerschmitts and another squadron of Hurricanes were doing their stuff.

The moment I came through the clouds I saw a Me.110 with a Hurricane on its tail about 200 yards behind. The Messerschmitt flew right across my sights. I swung slightly round and delivered a quarter attack, hit him, and then left him to the other Hurricane to finish off.

I looked round quickly to find a target, and it was a good job for me that I did. There was another Me. 110 right on my tail, ready to give me the K.O. I don't think I ever moved so quickly in all my life. I pulled the stick back hard, went up and round as swiftly as that Hurricane would get round, and found myself a second or two afterwards immediately behind the Me. I had simply outmanoeuvred him, thanks largely to the way you can pull a Hurricane about in the sky.

I immediately blazed away at him. It was nice range and a short burst was sufficient to send him streaking down in flames through the clouds out of control. We bagged eleven out of twelve that afternoon without losing one of ours. Later the same day we had another scrap in which we got a Heinkel 111 bomber and a Me. 110.

Then there was one other day when we had an enjoyable dog-fight with a squadron of Me. 109s. We were accompanying two other fighter squadrons over Dunkirk and my squadron had orders to "sit tight upstairs". A huge formation of Heinkel 111s escorted by Me. 109s, arrived at the same time.

We played ducks and drakes with them. It was not long before seven of the enemy's fighters were going down in flames. The rest turned tail and limped for home, leaving the bombers to the mercy of our fighters. Although they greatly outnumbered us, the bombers soon panicked. They unloaded their bombs anywhere, mostly into the sea. I have never seen anything like it. There was no attempt to hit anything, though there were ships about.

One of my pilots who had some ammunition left went down and shot two of the Heinkels into the sea and when we got safely back to our base our only casualty had been a pilot with a bullet through his foot.

We cleared the sky of Germans in twenty minutes. It was a grand day.

These Time Life images of 85 Squadron go well with the above account. 85 Squadron served in France before returning to England and the Hurricane in these pics shows evidence of wear and tear:















Who can name the pilot?

Part seven, enter the Hudson, which will feature several times in future talks.

June, 1940

A FIGHT OVER THE SEA BETWEEN HUDSONS AND MESSERSCHMITTS

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

I was the leader of a flight of three Lockheed Hudsons on a reconnaissance patrol the other day.

We were suddenly attacked by a flight of German Messerschmitt fighters, which came screaming down out of the sun.

We dived towards the sea in order to prevent them from getting beneath us and to allow our rear gunners to get to work.

The Messerschmitts had the advantage of being faster than we were, so we remained in tight formation and dodged and twisted to break up their attacks. They were flying up behind us, shooting as they came, and then breaking away on either side to turn and renew the attack.
Our Lockheeds were going hell for leather.

I was wrenching the stick right over from side to side and keeping the engines at maximum boost the whole time. The air-speed indicator was showing about fifteen or twenty miles an hour more than the maximum claimed by the American manu¬facturers. Even then I had something in hand, because, as leader, I had to make sure that the other two were keeping up with all I was doing.

The nose cannons of the Messerschmitts were firing at us all the time. Puffs of smoke came from them with unpleasant regularity, like someone hurriedly blowing a lot of smoke-rings.
In all we had fifteen attacks from each of them. Then they ran out of ammunition and went home.

Our Lockheed Hudsons were still flying as well as ever, although the attacks had lasted for more than half an hour. By that time we had led them about 150 miles from land, and there is just a chance that the Messerschmitts would not have enough petrol to get back

When we landed, we found that only one of our Lockheeds was at all badly hurt. It had received two cannon shots in the wings, one in the cabin, and one in the tail.

Quite a lot of metal skin was blown off the wings, but the flying performance was very little impaired. One shell had come from behind, ripped through the wing to the main spar—and exploded there. The upper and lower surfaces of the wing looked like a sort of colossal nutmeg grater. By a stroke of good luck neither the flap nor aileron controls were affected. We tested the engines of all three aircraft. There wasn't a thing wrong with any of them.

Another trip my flight of Lockheeds had was a bombing raid to Hamburg, in Germany.

There was plenty of moonlight and acres of searchlights and buckets of A.A. fire, which nearly turned night into day. As we came near the oil tanks, which were our objective, we were about 15,000 feet up, and the A.A. shells were bursting in clusters of white lights around us. These seemed to float steadily in the air, in groups of half a dozen or so, and then go out.

We flew through several puffs of smoke, all the time diving, climbing and turning to get out of the searchlights. Their glare prevented me from seeing the horizon, and we might have been on our heads or our heels.

Then I spied the moon through the side window, and used it as a guide. Sometimes it was high above us, and sometimes it seemed to be below us, but it always helped us to get back on an even keel.

Every now and then the Lockheeds would shudder violently as another shell exploded close by. We could hear shrapnel pounding into the fuselage with a sound like throwing a handful of stones sharply into a pond.

The wireless operator, who had been looking out of the observation dome, had a lucky escape. He had gone back to his seat for a few moments when a lump of shrapnel tore straight through the cabin from one side to the other—just where he had been standing.

We dropped our bombs beside the target and saw a fire break out before we sprinted for home.

Suddenly we smelt petrol.

I tested the tanks, and found one of them was losing fuel rapidly. Fortunately there was enough to get us back.

When we landed, we had more than a score of shrapnel holes in the aircraft.

Then we had quite a successful reconnaissance flight with bombs on board. Again we crossed the North Sea.

We could not see the water because of fog. It lifted a little near the enemy coast, and we ran into broken cloud with a few showers.

Suddenly we saw the German-occupied harbour below us. Several German supply ships were at anchor there, so we dived through the clouds for a thousand feet and dropped our bombs. As we shot back into the clouds, our rear gunner shouted into the inter-communicating telephone that we had scored a direct hit on one ship and left it burning furiously. There was a lot of A.A. fire and pom-pom fire about, but it never touched us.

I am sure I am speaking for all the Lockheed Hudson pilots I know when I say we consider that they are first-class aircraft for the job of reconnaissance. They're comfortable to fly in, with plenty of space to move about, and there are practically no draughts. Naturally they have their limits when we are forced to use them as fighters or bombers—which is not work for which they are built—but we think they are fine kites. We are proud of them.


Hudsons over Heligoland – Two of a formation of these American-built Lockheed-Hudson aircraft which have been equipped with a deadly new gun turret.


The Lockheed Hudson


Bf 110C-2s on an airfield in the west, May 1940. The unit is the sole Gruppe of ZG 52, which was absorbed into ZG 2in July 1940.