Albert Gerald Lewis

A long while since I asked the question, I had forgotten about it! Absolutely right, Albert Lewis.

RedToo.

Nice pics Harker.

Part 16:

July, 1940

THE OBSERVER CORPS WAITS FOR THE ENEMY

BY A MEMBER OF THE OBSERVER CORPS

It is midnight at one of the posts of the Observer Corps near a small country town somewhere in England. I am one of the crew on duty. My mate has just said it isn't a bad night but he wishes it were a bit warmer. And so do I, for I call it decidedly chilly, even for an English midsummer. It's dark, too, for the waning moon has not yet risen, and the stars don't seem to have much brightness about them.

We came on duty at ten o'clock, just as it was getting dark, and since then we've been watching the skies and listening, as we have watched and listened since the war began. But the night is quiet. The wind has blown away the rain-clouds which threatened a wet night, and has now died down. My mate and I discuss the prospects of a raid. He thinks it most likely that Jerry will come over a bit later on—when the moon rises.

Suddenly our telephone bell rings. A message from head-quarters: "Keep a sharp lookout—we're expecting a spot of trouble." My mate and I stand-to with increased vigilance. But all is quiet. A little breeze brings the scent of new-mown hay across the meadows. The river murmurs as it wanders below us on its way to the sea. All is as it has been for centuries—the war is a thousand miles away.

The bell rings again. This time the voice at the other end is a little more explicit. Jerry, the gentleman who drops the bombs, is definitely about. Certain figures and directions are given, and on the map we are able to trace his course from the spot where he last disclosed his unwelcome presence. The telephone is very busy now, and we hear our neighbouring posts take up the tale as they pick up the sound of the raider and pass him on to the next post, and the next. Still we can hear no sound of him—he is too far away yet. Suddenly the air-raid sirens—a melancholy sound at the best of times but in the dead of night a most depress¬ing performance. And when they have died away we are able to listen again. Our nearest neighbour now has the raider within his hearing, and, on the telephone, we hear him reporting the track of the plane across the sky. Will he come towards us? We wonder. At last we hear him, but he is still a long way off and our neighbour hasn't finished with him yet. Faintly and inter¬mittently at first, then louder we hear him and finally our neigh¬bour passes him on to us. And now we start to track him; we hear him quite plainly now. There's no gunfire yet, but we can picture the anti-aircraft gunners behind their guns waiting for the moment when he comes within the probing beams of those search-lights. On and on comes the raider—a lone machine, we decide. Suddenly there's a flash and a report and a light in the sky. He's dropped a bomb—and another—and another.

My mate and I are very busy now. It is vitally important that every movement of the raider should be followed and reported, and we watch and listen for every change in his height or direc¬tion. Ah, he's turning now, coming straight towards us—his engine becomes suddenly louder. On he comes, louder again now, turning again till he strikes his course for home. Fainter and fainter grows his engine, and at last we pass him back to our neighbour, a little regretfully. We had hopes he would have shown himself for just one moment—just long enough, as my mate puts it, for the boys to crack off at him. But he is a long way from home yet, and he has many perils of British fighters and anti-aircraft guns to face before he can say he is safe. On the telephone we hear him being passed on from one post to the next.

Before long the sirens sound again—this time the long sustained note of the "all clear". Gradually the sound of activity in the little town beneath us dies away. The worthy country folk return to their beds, and my mate and I settle down once again to our routine job of watching and listening.



Using range and direction equipment to watch the skies around London.


Ready to transmit details to the control centre.


An Observer Corps control room which receives reports from outlying observation posts. Information is then passed to regional centres in direct touch with Fighter Command.

Part 17.

July, 1940

AIR BATTLE OVER THE CHANNEL

BY A FLYING OFFICER

The following description of one of the biggest air battles since raids on this country began is given by a young Fighter pilot who fought in the battle. He is a flying officer and was recently awarded the D.F.C. On Wednesday he destroyed one Me. 109 and helped to destroy a Dornier 215. His squadron that day shot down their fiftieth enemy aircraft.

I suppose many people who watched the air battle from the shore saw a lot more than I did, although I was in it. As you can imagine, you don't see anything but your own particular part of the show when you are actually fighting.

Our squadron was ordered to fly to the spot where ships were being attacked.

In a few minutes we had reached the scene. We were at 8,000 feet, the clouds were about 2,000 to 3,000 feet above us, and below we saw very clearly a line of ships and a formation of bombers about to attack.

The bombers were between 100 to 200 feet below us. There were twenty-four Dorniers altogether and they apparently in¬tended to attack in three ways. The first bunch of bombers had already dropped their bombs when we got there and the second formation was about to go in. The third wave never delivered an attack at all. It was a thrilling sight I must confess, as I looked down on the tiny ships below and saw two long lines of broken water where the first lot of bombs had fallen. There were two distinct lines of disturbed water near the ships and just ahead were fountains of water leaping skywards from bombs newly dropped. In a second or two the sea down below spouted up to the height of about 50 feet or more in two lines alongside the convoy.

Our squadron leader gave the order to attack. Down we went. He led one flight against a formation of bombers and I led my flight over the starboard side. It was a simultaneous attack. We went screaming down and pumped lead into our targets. We shook them up quite a bit. Then I broke away and looked round for a prospective victim, and saw, some distance away, a Dornier lagging behind the first formation. I flew after it, accompanied by two other members of my flight, and the enemy went into a gentle dive turning towards the French coast. He was doing a steady 300 miles an hour in that gentle dive, but we overtook him and started firing at him.

He was in obvious distress. When fifteen miles out from the English coast we turned back to rejoin the main battle.

I was just turning round when I saw an Me. 109 come hurtling at me. He came from above and in front of me, so I made a quick turn and dived after him. I was then at about 5,000 feet and when I began to chase him down to the sea he was a good 800 yards in front. He was going very fast, and I had to do 400 miles an hour to catch him up, or rather to get him nicely within range. Then, before I could fire, he flattened out no more than 50 feet above the sea level, and went streaking for home. I followed him, and we still were doing a good 400 miles an hour when I pressed the gun button. First one short burst of less than one second's duration, then another, and then another, and finally a fifth short burst, all aimed very deliberately. Suddenly the Messerschmitt's port wing dropped down. The starboard wing went up, and then in a flash his nose went down and he was gone. He simply vanished into the sea.

I hadn't time to look round for him, because almost at the precise moment he disappeared from my gun sights I felt a sting in my leg. It was a sting from a splinter of my aircraft, which had been hit by enemy bullets. There were some Messerschmitt 109s right on my tail. Just as I had been firing at the enemy fighter which had now gone, three of his mates had been firing at me. I did a quick turn and made for home, but it wasn't quite so easy as all that. My attacker had put my port aileron out of action, so that I could hardly turn on the left side. The control column went rough on that side too, and then I realised that my engine was beginning to run not quite so smoothly.

There were no clouds to hide in except those up at 10,000 feet and they seemed miles away. Practically all my ammunition had gone, so it would have been suicide for me to try and make a fight of it. All I could hope for was to get back home. I watched my pursuers carefully. When they got near me I made a quick turn to the right and saw their tracer bullets go past my tail. I gained a bit on them and then they overtook me again, and once more I turned when I thought they had me within range. I did that at least twelve times. All the time I was climbing slightly and when I reached the coast I was at 2,000 feet. My course had been rather like a staircase. They had not hit my aircraft after that first surprise attack and finally, on the coast, they turned back.

I went on and landed at my home aerodrome, got a fresh Hurricane, and rejoined my squadron before going on another patrol.


Hurricanes.


Vapour trails signal the start of an air battle.


Dorniers passing Beachy Head.

Part 18.

July, 1940

AIR LOG

A BOMBER PILOT'S ADVENTURES

BY A PILOT OFFICER

This Pilot Officer has been in the service for eighteen months. Aged twenty-two, he was born in Co. Derry, Northern Ireland.

LONG distance bombing is generally just routine work without incident. Still, most bomber pilots come in for unusual experi¬ences sometimes. Mine came all in a bunch. They began in France towards the end of May when I was the second pilot of an aircraft detailed to bomb bridges over the River Oise and so hold up the German advance.

We started just after dusk, and to identify the target the captain had to come down to about 300 feet. The Germans opened up an intense barrage of anti-aircraft fire which hit the radiator. The engine did not fail immediately, so we bombed at 800 feet and the observer was able to see the bursts on the bridge.

Then we climbed. At 3,000 feet the engine gave out and then, when we were about twenty miles south of Amiens, it caught fire. The captain told us to jump. We did, one after the other, in the dark. The intercommunication system was out of action and the captain had to see us all away before he baled out last of all.

That meant we were all well separated when we got down, but hearing the rattle of refugee carts on the road we all made for the noise, and the captain, the wireless operator and myself met in a little village where we were directed to a house where they spoke English. Reaching the house we found the family packing up to join the unending stream of people on the same trek. The Germans were in Amiens, but we did not know that.

Harried as they were, that family gave us each two raw eggs and a bottle of red and a bottle of white wine before they went. We searched for the aeroplane, hoping to meet the other two members of the crew. We did not find them but found the air¬craft burned out where it had crashed. As there was no need for us to do anything more to it, we set off for Beauvais, but changed our direction very soon. French soldiers who had just left the Germans, told us where they were.

So instead we made for Rouen and walked from half-past two in the morning till about one o'clock in the afternoon, along roads crowded with a pitiful procession of refugees in every kind of vehicle, or on foot. Some were in farm carts, some in motor cars that gasped at every turn of the wheel and were so heavily laden that it was a miracle they held together. Others were on bicycles with little carts trailing behind, even perambulators were used. They had been machine-gunned on their way and nearly all of them must have suffered, because whenever an aeroplane—any aeroplane—was heard or seen they hopped into ditches asking us if it were friendly.

At one o'clock in the afternoon we were arrested by a French captain who questioned us closely. When we had satisfied him that we weren't German parachutists he got hold of some milk, bread and chocolate and arranged transport for us to a town about twenty-eight kilometres from Rouen.

That place was expecting an attack and everybody was clearing out, leaving the British troops to do what they could. They were fighting hard and in a tight corner themselves, but they gave us a long drink of lemonade and fixed us up as well as they could.
We went on to the Prefect of Police looking for transport. It seemed hopeless. There was no transport at all, but while we were talking with him a rat-trap of an old Ford—the original T model—was pushed in and the owner begged petrol. The Prefect promised some petrol only if the motorist would give us a lift. We got it, but half way on the journey the Ford broke down. Yet our luck seemed to be turning and we got a lift in an Army ambulance for ten miles, and then an R.A.S.C. wagon took us right into Rouen. The rest was easy—we were taken to headquarters and sent home on a refugee ship.

Our rear gunner got home a few days later. He had been marched what seemed to be half way across France at the point of a bayonet. He, too, had been taken for a parachutist. The fifth member of the crew was probably taken prisoner by the Germans.

A fortnight later, I was promoted to be captain of aircraft and began another series of adventures. On my second raid as captain, we had only been in the air for half an hour when a flare was accidentally let off inside the fuselage and began to blaze furiously. I turned for home.

The second pilot went back to see what had happened and with the wireless operator and observer helping tried to get the flare out, and fight the fire, while I stayed at the controls.

The fumes had carried to the rear-gunner and were choking him so I told him to jump. Shortly afterwards the forward cabin filled so I ordered the rest out and looked round. The fuselage was filled with smoke but the fire seemed to be slowing down. Probably the flare had burned its way through and fallen out. So I decided to try to land. We were only about five miles from an aerodrome and I landed and looked for the crew. They had dropped all over the place, of course, but were all safe. Safe enough, but treated as suspicious characters by the police. In fact they came back in Police escort—parachutists again.

Shortly after this we were detailed to attack a target in the Ruhr and were expecting to sight it at any moment when we were caught in a blaze of searchlights and a barrage of heavy anti-aircraft fire. I could not shake the searchlights off—or the barrage. In fact they were hitting us. We felt a few jolts and one seemed to come flat amidships. The rear-gunner said later that there had been bursts all round us filling the sky with little puffs that showed up in the moonlight.

The only thing I could do was to get out of range, which I did, and went back again to look for the target.

We were off our original track so we made for an alternative objective. Just as I was running up on it a Messerschmitt 109 came at us from behind and below. We were about 9,000 feet up then and the Messerschmitt had us against the moon. It was a beautiful clear night. The first thing we knew was that a lot of stuff was zipping through the aircraft. I had no idea that it was a fighter because as the intercommunication system had been shot away the rear gunner could not tell me.

I continued my run and the burst stopped. Another one came, though, and then I realised it must be a fighter. I turned steeply to port just in time to see the old Messerschmitt going down in an inverted dive. The rear gunner had got him. He had held his fire until the fighter was right on him before letting him have it. Then in the middle of dropping our bombs on the target the starboard engine which had been hit by enemy bullets caught fire.

I gave orders to stand by to bale out, and the second pilot came up and said, "Not so fast. Let's have a crack at getting it out."

We did get it out, stopped the engine, jettisoned the rest of the bombs and headed for home. Nursing the other engine, we reached the Dutch coast at 2,000 feet steadily losing height, so again the crew were given the option of bailing out over Holland or heading out to sea in the hope that a destroyer would pick us up. They've done that before—they're good at it.

I did not know until we were well on the way home that the wireless operator and the observer had been wounded in the scrap, but the wounded wireless operator managed to fix his instruments and the observer got back to take over navigation, while the second pilot looked after the crew in case a quick exit was needed.

Everyone of them decided to go on. They said they didn't want to be a—something—prisoner-of-war, so with each of us at our job we headed out to sea.

Eventually we were down to within 400 feet of the surface and decided to stand by in case we were forced into it. The wireless operator sent out his SOS.

I was at the controls and opened up the port engine further than I had ever dared up to that time in a last effort to make England.

We struggled on for another couple of hours with the wireless operator giving me the course and reached the south coast. As we could not climb over the cliffs we flew along looking for somewhere to come in. Our petrol was nearly gone, the under¬carriage and flaps had been damaged by anti-aircraft fire and we decided to come down near the first friendly-looking town we could see.

Ultimately we landed in the sea half a mile from a popular resort. The second pilot threw the dinghy out so enthusiastically that he threw himself out with it. We all climbed in and floated about, waiting for a rescue party, sending up Very lights to indicate our position.

We had already been seen, and almost immediately about twelve rowing-boats were coming towards us with the Police and A.R.P. wardens. They took us ashore, gave us hot baths and dry clothes, soup and tea, and one dear old lady, who had been up all night because there had been an air-raid alarm, cooked us breakfast. The observer who was rather seriously wounded, but is better now, was taken to hospital. We telephoned to our commanding officer, who said, "Have a night in London and come on up"—which we did.

Then I had some leave and went back to routine stuff.


Refugees, France, 1940.


London, 1940.

Part 19.

July, 1940

A RAID ON NORWAY

BY A FLIGHT COMMANDER

I am a Flight Commander in a Squadron attached to the Coastal Command. We are based in Scotland, and when I was last in London I was actually taken for a Scotsman, but, as you may guess, my home is in Canada—Vancouver, British Columbia—in fact, in some ways, Scotland is quite like home—pine trees, moun¬tains, and plenty of snow in the winter.

We've been pretty busy in the last few weeks with our Ameri¬can-built Hudson aircraft. It's a mixed type of work that falls to the Coastal Command.

We spend most of our time over the North Sea doing recon¬naissance work, looking for U-boats, and escorting convoys. These are comparatively peaceable occupations, although you may run into German aircraft doing the same job from the other side.

But sometimes you get an operation which breaks the monotony.

We had a bit of excitement the other day when orders came through for us to attack some shipping in a Norwegian harbour.

Our leader was our Wing Commander and we had a talk in his office before starting, discussing the method of attack, and then we got ready for the flight.

Soon after we left we ran into mist, fog and rain, and had to fly blind for about half an hour. There was a possibility that the bad weather might spoil the fun, but nearer to the Norwegian coast, it cleared.

In the half light the scores of little islands were a greyish-brown colour, with the sea a darker shade. The wide fjord showed up almost black ahead.

We flew into it, keeping level with the tops of the surrounding mountains. We kept on until we had a big, snow-covered moun¬tain between us and the harbour. We skipped over the top of this mountain and flew down the other side so close to the snow that we almost seemed to be tobogganing down it.

In a few minutes we were below the snow level, skimming the rocks and the tops of the pines.

The wing commander was leading, with five of us streaming along behind.

That was just about the moment that the guns opened up on us. Batteries on the mountain-side behind started firing down from above, and anti-aircraft posts on each flank and in front let us have all they'd got. Streams of tracer shells coming at us made a criss-cross pattern all round, and there were bursts of black smoke ahead where the heavy stuff was exploding. It was really a fireworks display, and, actually, it looked very nice—if you were in a position to appreciate it.

Another few seconds, and we were down over the harbour. Machine gunners were shooting from the windows of the hotels on the waterfront. One of our rear gunners sprayed the buildings with bullets as we passed—and the windows emptied like magic.

The guns on either side were firing so low that they were probably hitting each other as we went between them. They didn't touch us and, as a matter of fact, none of our six aircraft was so much as scratched.
The ships we were after were lying at anchor—some against the quays, and some moored in the harbour. We dropped our bombs on and around them and shot off towards the sea. As we looked back, we could see the smoke and flames caused by the explosions.

We had an even more spectacular party over the same harbour, later, when we paid a return visit and blew up an ammunition dump. I arrived by myself, a little early for the appointment, and decided to start the ball rolling. It was very early dawn, and I could just pick out the little huts on the end of the quay which we knew contained ammunition. (I'd seen photographs of them before leaving, taken by another aircraft of the squadron.)

Two of my bombs, and possibly more, scored direct hits on the dumps. We were about 2,500 feet up, but even there the force of the explosion lifted the aircraft as if it were riding a wave.
We went right over the hill and did a right turn and circled back round the harbour to see what damage we had done.

Growing from the remains of the ammunition dump was a huge mushroom of black smoke, going up to 2,000 feet. Its base was a fiery red mass, and higher up it was pierced through and through by flames and pieces of burning debris flying through the air.

Other aircraft which arrived later saw the fire still burning. We all returned from that trip safely.

Another job was the occasion when we bombed a group of enemy warships. To give honour where it is due, I must raise my hat to the German naval gunners. We were flying at 15,000 feet, but they kept planting their heavy ack-ack so close to us that we could see the flash of the bursts before the smoke appeared (the burst has to be VERY close for you to see more than just the smoke). We could feel the aircraft vibrating from the explosions. It was continually jerking, as though it had been kicked by a giant. All six of our aircraft were hit by bits of high explosive shell, but we all got back to our base—and I might mention as a tribute to the maintenance staff that the six were all flying again the next day.

On one of our raids in the north of Norway, we used the Midnight Sun to light us to our objective, which was an aerodrome. We dropped numbers of high explosive and incendiary bombs on that occasion, and left several fires behind us.

Perhaps our most successful attack on an enemy aerodrome was when we dropped ninety bombs in less than a minute. This particular aerodrome had hardly been used, and was tucked into the side of a hill. With infinite trouble, the Germans had built new wooden runways which looked as smooth as a skating rink when we arrived, but were burning merrily after our bombing. We counted forty fires when we left, some of them in the woods where the aircraft were probably hidden, and others in the huts around the side of the aerodrome.



Norwegian carpenters lay wooden paving on an airfield. The aircraft are Bf 109E-1s.


Bf 109Es of JG 77 on a Norwegian airfield.

Cyril Bamberger?

Hi Hackl,

If you're referring to the Hurricane pilot in part 6 he was Albert Lewis - Smosh got the ID right just below part 15. They do look similar though.

Cheers,

RedToo.

Part 20.

July, 1940

A BOMBING RAID ON GOTHA

By a Polish Group Captain

I was most pleased to have this opportunity of being with the Royal Air Force in action for the first time. For me it was very enjoyable and very profitable to have had this experience. The impression that is most strong in my mind is the excellent collaboration of the crew. It was as though they had worked together for years and years. Each one was so efficient and so calm, and all of them most confident and working so smoothly together. I had never imagined that such a high standard could be obtained. As in sport one talks of the team spirit, so in these British Bomber Squadrons they talk of the crew spirit.

On this night we were to bomb the aircraft factory at Gotha. It is here that some of the Messerschmitt fighters and training aircraft are assembled. The factory is also engaged in the production of heavy tanks. When we have set off from our base the navigation is very, very correct and most exact. I am astonished at this accuracy because the conditions are not good and for the most part of our trip we are flying blind in the clouds.

We are going, on this occasion, a little north of the Ruhr. A.A. fire and the searchlights there are very strong and the pilot is all the time manoeuvring and varying his height and speed. Several times we have been held by three, four or five searchlights together in a bundle. Some of the A.A. fire comes quite close, making the aeroplane bump about but we are not hit.

Suddenly I hear machine-gun fire from another plane. We are now near Cassel. Just afterwards I hear, three times, firing from the rear of our own aircraft. I cannot see anything because I am in the front. The whole of this lasts a very short space of time. Perhaps a minute—no more. Then the pilot says to me: "One Me. down. Very good." He has the report from his gunner in the rear turret.

We have approached our target and it is quite easy to find the factory because the machine going before us has dropped bombs and we have seen the explosions and the fires from them. Our pilot does a run, then he takes the direction of the factory and we drop our bombs. Afterwards he makes a special turn to see what is the effect of the bombing, and it is possible for me to see bright fires burning. Over the target there is very little firing at us, but coming home we have once more for a period this heavy fire and searchlights. But the pilot just laughs and puts his fingers to his nose at them. He is a very fine young man with great courage, like all of them, and quite without excitement at all this.

Then coming home we have also made some ice on the machine in the clouds. We are blind because the windscreen is covered with ice and that obliges the pilot to come lower down. When we get back to our aerodrome it is raining and visibility is very, very bad, but he makes an excellent landing without incident.


A Whitley bomber coming in to land.


The rear turret of a Whitley bomber.