Part 88.

14. W. A. A. F. in Air Raids

It is now commonplace to hear that in German attacks on R.A.F. aerodromes the W.A.A.F. personnel displayed great courage and coolness. . . . (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

ONE cool, sunny morning I was talking to my senior sergeant (flight-sergeant) in the guard-room about the ordinary routine of the day, when the station broadcast ordered one squadron "to come to readiness." I told her that I might as well stay where I was for the time being, and go with her down one of the airwomen's trenches nearby should there prove to be a raid. But as the minutes passed and there were no further announcements, I started off towards my office in the station headquarters building.

As I entered headquarters the sirens wailed and we were told to go to the trenches. A few seconds later we heard one squadron roar into the air, then another, then still another, and finally the civilian air-raid warnings sounded in the surrounding country. We laughed and chatted on our way to the trenches, as this was no unusual occurrence.

We had hardly settled down when the noise of the patrol¬ling aircraft overhead changed from a constant buzz to the zoom and groan of aircraft in a dog-fight. Then aircraft and machine-guns barked and sputtered, while plane after plane dove down, with a head-splitting, nerve-shattering roar. I had no idea that so much could happen so quickly and remember thinking: " I suppose one feels like this in a bad earthquake."

Then there was a lull, broken only by the sound of our aircraft returning to refuel and re-arm. A moment later a messenger arrived to report that a trench had been hit on the edge of the aerodrome. The padre and another officer followed the messenger to the scene of the disaster, and I thought I'd better go and see if the airwomen were all right in their trenches. All was now deathly silent. I climbed through debris and round craters back towards the W.A.A.F. guard-room. As I drew nearer, there was a strong smell of escaping gas. The mains had been hit. Another bomb had fallen on the airwomen's trench near the guard-room, burying the women who were sheltering inside.

After a while I returned to headquarters to report to the Station Commander, and was told that the W.A.A.F. Officers' Mess could not be used as there was a delayed-action bomb in the garden.

After some food, I went over to the W.A.A.F. cookhouse to see how things were going. The airwomen's Mess was the only one which had not been damaged by the raid, and I could see that they would have to do all the cooking for the station for a bit. On the way there I saw something like a white pillow lying on the ground. As I approached to pick it up a voice said out of the darkness, "I shouldn't touch that if I was you, Miss, it's marking a delayed-action bomb." I thanked him very much, and trying hard not to look as though I was walking any quicker than I had been previously, I proceeded on my way to the cookhouse.

The airwomen were cooking virtually in the dark. But to their eternal credit they were producing delicious smelling sausages and mash to an endless stream of men going past a service hatch.

The next afternoon, as I was returning to the aerodrome from my "billet-hunting " expedition with another W.A.A.F. officer, we were caught in a second attack. Our choices of action were few. There was no time to get to a trench, so we hurriedly put on our tin hats and ran into a nearby wood. As we did so, all the preliminary noises of the previous day began again. The edge of the wood was near a cross-roads, and as we ducked under the trees the police "bell-shelter " opened and a policeman shouted, " You'd better come in here." We did not hesitate, but scrambled in quickly. It was a tight squeeze, but it became much worse when a bus-driver, who also wanted admission, banged on the door. Somehow—I still don't know how—we got him inside.

We waited till the noise had died down before we emerged, weighing, I am sure, much less. By the time we reached the aerodrome a fierce fire was raging in one quarter, but this time all my airwomen had escaped injury.

This story covers a period of almost forty-eight hours. It started with a clean, tidy station, efficient to perfection; it ends with buildings destroyed, telephone lines blown up, and the aerodrome itself cratered. But not for one second did this station cease to be operational: it never failed to keep open its communications, and it still got fed! For their heroic work three of my airwomen were later awarded Military Medals.


WAAFs and airmen in the front line at the Chain Home Station above Ventnor on the Isle of Wight.


Across the road from Biggin Hill airfield, in the area that formerly housed the RAF married quarters, are roads named after the three WAAFs who won the Military Medal in the Battle of Britain. The date is that on which the award was gazetted.

Part 89.

15. Dog-fights Over England

The king has been graciously pleased to approve the following awards in recognition of gallantry displayed in flying operations against the enemy:
Bar to the Distinguished Flying Cross.
Acting Wing Commander --------, D.S.O., D.F.C. This fearless pilot has recently added a further four enemy aircraft to his previous successes; in addition, he has probably destroyed another four and damaged five hostile aircraft.
. . . (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

I'D like to tell you something about the boys in my squadron. They're grand lads, every one of them. About 75 per cent, are Canadians and many of them came over to this country a year or two before the war to join the R.A.F. Several worked their way across, at least two of them on cattle-boats, and they all came here to do what they'd wanted to do since they were youngsters—to fly.

Since the war started they've shown that they can fight as well as they fly, and between them they've already won six of the nine D.F.C.s which have been awarded to the squadron. One holder of the D.F.C. is from Victoria, British Columbia. Another, who has won a bar to his D.F.C., comes from Calgary, Alberta. Others come from Toronto, Vancouver and Saskatoon. There's never been a happier or more determined crowd of fighter pilots, and, as an Englishman, I'm very proud to have the honour of leading them.

I shan't soon forget the first time the squadron was in action under my leadership. It was on August 30th, and I detailed the pilot from Calgary to take his section of three Hurricanes up to keep thirty Me. 110's busy. "O.K., O.K.," he said with obvious relish, and away he streaked to deal with that vastly superior number of enemy fighters. When I saw him afterwards, his most vivid impression was of one German aircraft which he had sent crashing into a green-house. But perhaps I'd better start at the beginning of that particular day's battle.

Thirteen of the squadron were on patrol near London. We were looking for the Germans whom we knew were about in large formations.

Soon we spotted one large formation, and it was rather an awe-inspiring sight—particularly to anyone who hadn't previously been in action. I counted fourteen blocks of six aircraft—all bombers—with thirty Me. 110 fighters behind and above. So that altogether there were more than 100 enemy aircraft to deal with.

Four of the boys had gone off to check up on some unidentified aircraft which had appeared shortly before we sighted the big formation, and they weren't back in time to join in the fun. That left nine of us to tackle the big enemy formation. I sent three Hurricanes up to keep the no's busy, while the remaining six of us tackled the bombers. They were flying at 15,000 feet with the middle of the formation roughly over Enfield, heading east. When we first sighted them they looked just like a vast swarm of bees. With the sun at our backs and the advantage of greater height, conditions were ideal for a surprise attack and as soon as we were all in position we went straight down on to them.

We didn't adopt any set rule in attacking them—we just worked on the axiom that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I led the attack and went for what I think was the third block of six from the back. And did those Huns break up ! In a few seconds there was utter confusion. They broke up all over the sky. As I went through, the section I aimed at fanned out. I can't give you an exact sequence of events, but I know that the Canadian pilot who followed immediately behind took the one that broke away to the left, while I took the one that broke away to the right. The third man in our line went straight through and gave the rear gunner of a Hun in one of the middle blocks an awful shock. Then the other boys followed on and things really began to get moving.

Now there's one curious thing about this air fighting. One minute you see hundreds of aeroplanes in the sky, and the next minute there's nothing. All you can do is to look through your sights at your particular target—and look in your mirror too, if you are sensible, for any Messerschmitts which might be trying to get on to your tail.

Well, that particular battle lasted about five or ten minutes, and then, quite suddenly, the sky was clear of aircraft. We hadn't shot them all down, of course; they hadn't waited for that, but had made off home in all directions at high speed.

When we got down we totted up the score. We had destroyed twelve enemy aircraft with our nine Hurricanes. And when we examined our aircraft there wasn't a single bullet-hole in any of them!

One pilot had sent a Hun bomber crashing into a green¬house. Another bomber had gone headlong into a field filled with derelict motor-cars. It hit one of the cars, turned over and caught fire. Another of our chaps had seen a twin-engined job of sorts go into a reservoir near Enfield. Yet another pilot saw his victim go down with his engine flat out. The plane dived into a field and disintegrated into little pieces. Incidentally, that particular pilot brought down three Huns that day. Apart from our bag of twelve, there were a number of others which were badly shot up and probably never got home, like one which went staggering out over Southend with one engine out of action.

Another day we like to remember—what fighter squadron who was in the show doesn't!—was Sunday, September 15th. when 185 enemy aircraft were destroyed. Our squadron led a wing of four or five squadrons in two sorties that day, and we emerged with 52 victims for the Wing, twelve of them falling to our squadron.

On the first show that day we were at 20,000 feet, and ran into a large block of Ju. 88's and Do. 17's—about forty in all and without a single fighter to escort them. This time, for a change, we outnumbered the Hun, and believe me, no more than eight got home from that party. At one time you could see planes going down on fire all over the place, and the sky seemed full of parachutes. It was sudden death that morning, for our fighters shot them to blazes.

One unfortunate German rear-gunner baled out of the Dornier 17 I attacked, but his parachute caught on the tail. There he was, swinging helplessly, with the aircraft swooping and diving and staggering all over the sky, being pulled about by the man hanging by his parachute from the tail. That bomber went crashing into the Thames Estuary, with the swinging gunner still there.

Just about the same time one of my boys saw a similar thing in another Dornier, though this time the gunner who tried to bale out had his parachute caught before it opened. It caught in the hood, and our pilot saw the other two members of the crew crawl up and struggle to set him free. He was swinging from his packed parachute until they pushed him clear. Then they jumped off after him, and their plane went into the water with a terrific smack. I've always thought it was a pretty stout effort on the part of those two Huns who refused to leave their pal fastened to the doomed aircraft.

The other day I led two of the latest recruits to the squadron on a search for a Ju. 88 off the East Coast. We found it fifty or sixty miles out to sea, and I led an attack from below. Suddenly the raider jettisoned his bombs and two of us had to duck out of the way. We know some of the German tricks to try to get rid of our fighters, and at first I thought he was throwing out some new kind of secret weapon to bump us off. Then I realised he'd let them go to help his speed.

I kept with him and told the other two boys to go in and have a crack. Their shooting was amazingly accurate, and for the first time I saw bullets other than my own going into the fuselage of an enemy bomber. You know how the lights flash on a penny-in-the-slot bagatelle table ? As the little ball goes through the various pins different lights flash. Well, that's how the bullets from one of these Hurricanes went in.

I watched them cracking in. The bomber pilot tried to get away and made for a cloud about the size of a man's hand. He went in, while one of my boys cruised around on top and the other waited underneath. Either the pilot of that Ju. 88 was a damned fool or he just couldn't help it, but he came flying nicely out of the cloud at the other end on a straight course. The boy on top nipped down on him like a greyhound after a hare. The boy below went up—it was almost like watching an event at a coursing meeting. When they had finished their ammunition those two Canadians left the bomber in a pretty bad state, and all I had to do was to finish him off.


The Battle of Britain by Paul Nash. Painted in 1941.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Nash_%28artist%29

Part 90.

16. Low-level Raid on Nantes

The people of Nantes heard a message of hope and ultimate deliverance for France on Sunday night when a force of Beauforts of the coastal command flew low over the city as dusk fell. The town is surrounded by German troops and is where the 50 hostages are in prison. Our aircraft dropped a load of high-explosive and incendiary bombs on the docks area and also distributed thousands of leaflets to the citizens of Nantes. (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

The flight over the sea to France was thrilling. We flew in formation over the waves at about too feet. The seas were running high and we passed over trawlers which were literally standing on their tails.

So it was a great relief when we arrived. We were so low when we reached the French coast that I had to pull up sharply to avoid the sand-dunes. There was still some day light and we went along at what we call "nought feet." Every time we came to a clump of trees we leap-frogged over them and then went down almost to the ground again. We went over scores of little villages and we could see the people open their doors and rush to wave.

It grew darker as we went farther inland, and then began the most surprising experience of all. It was really remark able—as though the whole of that part of France were turning out to welcome us.

Every village we went over became a blaze of light. People threw open their doors and came out to watch us skim their chimney-pots. In other places whole hamlets would suddenly light up, as if the people had torn the blackout down when they heard us coming and had waited until we were overhead to switch on the lights.

Sometimes people switched their lights on and off until we had gone over. I remember one house with a courtyard fully lit up. I saw a woman come out of the house, look up at us, wave, and then go back. She switched off the outside lights and then I saw a yellow light from inside stream out as she opened the door.

Our targets were the docks on the banks of the River Loire. The moon was up now, but it was only shining fitfully through a cloud. Still, we could see the river easily enough, and the other Beauforts formated on me until we separated near the target as we had planned.

It was a good moment as we ran up over the docks of Nantes outside the town. The squadron had thrown every effort into this raid. It was the climax as we climbed 200 or 300 feet above the water and let the bombs go in a shallow dive.

I followed my bombs down until I was just above the ground again, and then I beat it, flat out, across the roof-tops of Nantes.

The whole city was laid out below us, church spires gleaming in the moonlight, streets and houses clearly out lined. It looked like a city of the dead for the first minute.

Then I began to see white pin-points on the ground, and one by one lights appeared as we raced over the chimney pots, our engines flat out and creating a terrific roar. We were at top speed, but even so we could see doors opening and people coming out.

I felt that we had brought some comfort to the people of Nantes and that they had come out to wave and wish us good luck.


A Bristol Beaufort.

Part 91.

17. Parachute Troops

Before the aircraft had disappeared into cloud again, they had landed, unharnessed their parachutes, and were silently preparing to attack a remote and vital enemy objective. (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

IT was the Russians who first translated the idea of the parachute—an idea first recorded by Leonardo da Vinci— into a means of war-like attack. The first parachute descent was 150 years ago, the first jump from an aeroplane thirty years ago, but it was not till about ten years ago that we began to see those pictures from Moscow—a thousand parachutes dappling a cloudless sky like spots on a silk handkerchief.

Reactions were various but the Germans alone methodically studied it, worked out their own rather different technique and adopted it for their young army. When they attacked Finland, the Russian parachute troops were almost a complete failure.

When the Germans attacked Norway, they tried their new technique. In a few cases they achieved their object and many lessons were learnt. It was in Holland that the parachutists were first successful. Comparatively few were used — perhaps 2,000 in all—and the main attacks were on The Hague and Rotterdam. All over the country was a well-organised mass of fifth-columnists.

Even so, the parachutists were not successful everywhere —certainly not at The Hague. But they showed the effect, both on civilian morale and on military organisation, of packets of armed men delivered by air far in advance of the main army.

One of the principal roles of parachute troops was clearly shown in Holland. They were the advance guard of much larger air-borne forces carried in troop-carrier aircraft. They dropped round selected points and held these till the Ju. 52's arrived. The theory of the air-borne force of all arms—the real flying column—was demonstrated for the first time. And the Germans, at least, were satisfied, for since then they have worked feverishly at the creation of a large air-borne army, numbered not by battalions but by divisions, to be transported in troop-carrying aircraft and in gliders, and of this force the paratroops are only a small proportion.

The proposed use of the German air-borne army is a matter of conjecture. If it is thrown against this country, its casualties will be terrific. But will they be greater than if the same troops were advancing across no-man's-land behind a barrage towards a trench line bristling with machine-guns ? Probably not, and such attacks were sometimes successful in Flanders. Perhaps this, then, will be Hitler's secret invasion weapon. I think we must prepare ourselves to make the most of this—the best opportunity we shall get of destroying a war-worshipping section of the enemy's forces that is particularly dear to their leaders.

Perhaps I may seem to have spoken unduly of the work of our enemies in the new field of air-borne warfare. What about ours ? Some of you will have noticed on the arms of certain officers and men a very attractive badge with the white parachute between blue soaring wings. The recent small operation in Italy has shown the extent to which the joint work of the R.A.F. and the Army has developed this new art. I daresay that in the whole of Army Co-operation Command there is no better example of co-operation between the services than in the organisation and training of the Special Air Service troops that has been quietly taking place for some time.

The Royal Air Force has had to produce the parachute equipment, the methods of dropping and training, and to teach the troops all their air technique. Meanwhile, the Army have had to study the special organisation for fighting on the ground, the weapons and tactical training of the paratroops. Starting with the men themselves, they must be picked specimens, keen and determined and intelligent. It's going to cost a packet to get them on to the job, so when they get there, each of them must give the best possible account of himself. So, your parachutist is not the ape-faced all-in wrestler with a cauliflower ear, but a daring and clever man who feels that the only way to get the Germans down is to take the offensive, and who wants to do it as soon as possible.

He must be physically very fit. The effect of reaching the ground on a parachute is about the same as jumping from a 10-foot wall, the height of an average ceiling. And if there's some wind and the parachute is drifting and swinging a bit, it's as if he were jumping on to the deck of a ship that is steaming full speed and rolling and pitching as well, with its deck covered with fences and hedges and trees as well as fields. Pretty exciting!

The actual jump from the aircraft is specially important. The machine may be travelling over the ground at a couple of miles a minute. So, unless the men pop out of it very quickly, you can imagine that they'll land a long way apart from each other, and some will not be in the right place at all. Jumping in quick succession means careful drill.

The job of flying the troops into the exact position for dropping is a Royal Air Force responsibility, as well as the whole organisation of the air side of an operation. Skilful piloting and accurate judgment are needed, and this is what makes an air-borne attack the perfect example of co-operation between airmen and soldiers.

Our men, of course, always wear uniform. They are normal soldiers as much as the cavalry of the last generation, but they have special boots and helmets designed to give protection while landing, and their outer overalls, worn out¬side everything but their parachute harness, ensures that none of their equipment can catch in any part of the plane as they jump. Their weapons also are specially selected according to the job they have to do. Often they must fight rapidly at short range like gangsters; sometimes silently hand to hand. . . .

Such troops offer a means of local attack on vital points— as it were of sticking a hypodermic into specially sensitive places in the enemy's anatomy. I was one of those who helped to prepare and organise the recent expedition to Italy, and I was later privileged to go out with it and occupy a front seat in the stalls throughout the performance. There could be no greater contrast than between the troops who took part in that and the Nazi paratroop thugs. They were, of course, a specially selected and trained force, expert in the particular work they had to do, carrying very special equip¬ment and led by magnificent officers. Unfortunately, I may not give many interesting details of the attack that you would like to hear. That must come later. But I can say that the R.A.F. pilots and crews who carried the force did their job with characteristic thoroughness and accuracy. The flights were long, at night, a good deal over hostile territory, and for long periods in pretty bad weather, and the places they were navigating to were pin-points. But they just ran to schedule.

The night of the show itself was one of the most beautiful you can imagine: full moon and glorious stars above patches of white cloud; the sea clear of mist, and the snow-capped ridges of the Apennines. I'd flown over that bit of coast years ago in a Moth on my way to Africa and I could easily recognise it in the moonlight. It was a lovely scene. We could recognise every feature and landmark as we came in, looking just like the landscape model we had used in planning the job and training the air crews. It was easy afterwards to see the parachutes on the ground and the figures of the troops moving together, and giving us a last flash of their torches as we passed overhead.

It was a moment one will never forget; but even more I shall remember the efficiency and the wonderful spirit of the men we dropped, their bearing, and the way they got into the aircraft at the take-off, singing a song with special words of their own, not particularly suited to the B.B.C., the refrain of which was “Oh! We've a surprise for the Duce, the Duce ! " They certainly had, and perhaps not the last.


His first trip by parachute. This pupil, standing on a special platform, is learning how to jump with the parachute. He has pulled the ripcord of his parachute, which has opened. In a moment he will be dragged off the wing of the machine and will float safely to the ground.


Parachute troops marching to emplane.

Part 92.

18. Fortress Crosses the Atlantic

A number of the very latest type of four-engined Flying Fortress bombers have just reached this country from the United States. . . .
. . . Despite their vast size, the Flying Fortresses have beaten all records in their flight across the Atlantic. These machines will shortly be flying alongside British and other types of United States four-engined bombers in service with the Royal Air Force. (Ministry of Aircraft Production.)

1 CAN'T help feeling that there is not much of a story in this. The most remarkable thing about the whole flight was that it seemed so ordinary and uneventful. We just stepped into the Fortress on the other side one evening, flew her east all night, and landed in Britain soon after dawn the next day. It's true we had flown the Atlantic, but until we got close in to the British coast, we didn't even see the Atlantic. We were much too high. All we saw was the sky and the stars and the moon, clouds towering high above us here and there and a great floor of clouds beneath us. It was just about as exciting as a night flight from London to Paris in peacetime.

I happened to be in Canada doing a course—and a very good time the Canadians gave us, too. When the course was finished I was told that I was to fly as navigator in one of the American bombers being sent to this country, but I wasn't told what aircraft it would be. In fact, it was only a few hours before we took off that I went down to the aerodrome and had a look at the Fortress which had just arrived. There were some Liberators about too, and they were all being sent here to take part in the war.

I didn't actually get into the Fortress until just before we took off on the first stage of the journey from Montreal to Newfoundland. There wasn't much of a ceremony. A young lieutenant in the Canadian Army came down to wave us off and wish us luck. He seemed very impressed by the size of the Fortress—it really is a very large bomber indeed. And his last words to us were, “She’ll look nice over Berlin!”

After we left him we settled ourselves in for the journey and I had a good look round the aircraft. My own “office," as navigator, was up in the nose. It was quite big enough to be called an office. It had a nice big table in it, a chair, plenty of lockers, and racks and instruments and a carpet on the floor. If I put my feet up to the table and leant back in the chair, I could just touch the opposite wall by stretching out my arm to its full length. And up in front a couple of machine guns stuck out, so that I could fight a bit of the war, if the need arose, almost without getting out of my office chair!

There was a window behind me through which I could pass messages up to the two pilots. The flight engineer sat behind them, and through the door at his back you got into the part of the fuselage where the bombs are carried. Through that, there was a catwalk leading aft to the fairly large room which housed the wireless operator and the gunners.

The whole thing was beautifully fitted out. The American Army fliers do themselves very well. They even have a sort of electric oven which is wheeled out of the hangar at the last minute, full of hot food, and plugged into the aircraft's electric circuit, to keep it hot. And behind the wireless operator there are two large urns with taps, one pouring out coffee, the other tea. But we weren't going far, so we contented ourselves with a few egg and bacon sandwiches and a few thermos flasks.

We reached our intermediate aerodrome in time for lunch, and in time, too, to watch two other Flying Fortresses set off for Britain. I've never seen such a place for snow. It had been cleared from the aerodrome, but it lay ten feet deep alongside, and it was melting and trickling over the runway, so that the two Fortresses took off in great clouds of spray kicked up behind them. They took off splendidly, though, and headed east.

We were held up for a couple of days by bad weather reports, so it was two evenings later, just as the sun was setting, that we, too, started out on the long flight to Britain.
There was a slight check soon after we started, for the wireless seemed to falter, and we turned to put back. But it righted itself and we turned again to the east, climbing at once to 20,000 feet, and staying at that height all the way over.

The journey was then quite uneventful. Once I strolled aft to see the wireless operator, but I found even that short walk took it out of me badly, and I was glad to get back to my own office and my oxygen supply I spent most of the time navigating by the stars, and that kept me quite busy. Occasionally I chatted with the pilots, and I ate the sand¬wiches I had brought with me, and drank the tea from my flask. The bomber rode beautifully, with never a jolt. Far below us in the darkness was the cloud bank over the Atlantic. Sometimes we passed under a roof of cirrus cloud 5,000 feet or more above us. When the moon came up, it grew quite bright. It also grew extremely cold, and the temperature went down to about 45 degrees of frost, so that sometimes the windows were clouded over with hoar frost. And then my office, with the electric light shining on the table, the charts, the instruments, the rack of pencils, became a little room quite boxed away from the world, speeding steadily eastwards towards the war at 20,000 feet above the Atlantic.

Dawn was breaking as we approached the shores of Britain, and we started to come down through about 15,000 feet of cloud. A little ice formed on the wings as we came down, but nothing to worry us. Now and then one of us shone an electric torch through the window to keep an eye on the ice. And then, in the thin torchlight, we could see the big wings of the Fortress stretching out into nothing, and the four engines turning steadily.

We broke cloud at about 1,500 feet above the sea. It started to grow light quickly then, and soon we were above the British coast—we came out, actually, only five miles from the point at which we were aiming.

The Group Captain of the aerodrome came out to meet us when we landed and took us in to a large and much-needed breakfast. The flight was over. Britain had another big bomber—just one more in the procession which is steadily moving eastwards now over the Atlantic.


The Atlantic Bridges.


Goose Airfield.


Dorval Airfield.


Windsor Airfield.


A Liberator arrives safely at Prestwick.

Part 93. Sorry it's late - Christmas does tend to soak up ones time ...

19. Home on One Engine

With great skill, Sergeant -------- flew his severely damaged aircraft back to this country, after dropping his bombs on an enemy objective, making a successful landing at an aerodrome, without injury to the crew. (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

UNLIKE the Germans, who only have to cross the Channel to get to England, we have the North Sea to think of on our way to and from Germany. And there have, of course, been plenty of adventures over the North Sea in this way. I'll tell you now about one which happened to me and my crew recently.

We had just made a successful night raid on the docks at Wilhelmshaven and were barely ten minutes away from the target when we ran into heavy anti-aircraft fire. It wasn't as bad as I have known it, but one of the shells hit the star board engine and soon after that the airscrew came away from the engine and flew off into space. I didn't actually see it go, and the first I knew that something was wrong was when the aircraft swerved to the right—fortunately not a very violent swerve—and at the same time I heard the navigator telling me what had happened.

I looked down and there were sparks and flames shooting out of the engine cowling, and for a second or two I thought that it was all up with us. I gave the crew the order to stand by to abandon aircraft, and then it passed through my mind that we ought to be able to make a forced landing in Germany. My next thought was that, either way, we'd become prisoners of war, and I didn't like the idea of that at all.

By now the crew were ready to bale out, and then I saw that the flames had disappeared. What put them out I don't know. The main thing is that they went out, and with the danger of fire over, there was a reasonable chance of getting back home. Anyhow, it was worth the gamble, and the crew were, like me, all in favour of having a shot at it.

At the time we were 8,000 feet up, facing a strong head¬wind which would soon have been too much for the single engine we had left—we would have gone so slowly that we might not have got there. So I came down to 3,000 feet in a gentle glide. I'd been told before we set out that, at 3,000 feet, the wind was less fierce. It was. The "Met" section was right as usual.

The next problem was up to the rest of the crew rather than to me—that was to try and lighten the machine. So I told the navigator, the wireless operator, and the rear gunner to jettison everything that could be spared out of the machine. This might tighten it and give us a chance to keep at a fairly good height. Just before this the navigator, who sits in front and below the pilot, had the bright idea of tying his oxygen tube round the left end of my rudder bar and pulling forward on it. This relieved me of a great deal of strain as, before, I had to correct the pull of our one engine all the time with the rudder. The navigator's brain-wave helped me out with the rudder and stopped me from getting cramp in the leg, though it didn't stop me from getting a nasty pain in the small of the back. It was a grand bit of quick thinking, and as soon as I was easier he got busy chucking things out of his own compartment. Guns, pans of ammunition and a good deal of our navigation equipment went into the sea. We kept just a few pans of ammunition as well as a couple of guns just in case we met an enemy. Next, the crew tried to get rid of the armour plating behind me, but it wouldn't budge. Then they tried to unship part of the bombing apparatus, but that was just as obstinate. By now we were down to 800 feet, but by getting rid of the guns and things we were able to keep at that height and later even climb to just over 1,000 feet.

Still there was always the danger of being forced down into the water, so the crew decided to get the dinghy ready in case it was wanted. We were keeping a reasonable air speed, but the one good engine was getting overheated. As dawn broke we could see no sign of land, though the navigator was confident that it wasn't far away. He was right, although at five minutes past seven we had only 35 gallons of petrol left and still no land to be seen. And then, only a few minutes later, the grey outline of the East Coast came in sight. It was too early to count our chickens but, when we crossed the coast thirty-five minutes afterwards, I knew we would be all right—if we could find an aerodrome. Then the navigator suddenly exclaimed, “It’s all right, there's an aerodrome a couple of miles away!” His navigation had been marvellous. He had reckoned with all the wobbling about I had done on the way and had brought us safely home. Down we went to make a perfect landing, four hours after the airscrew had said goodbye to the bomber. There was no petrol left in the tanks but, as you can imagine, our spirits were high.

The Battle of Britain seen through cartoonist’s eyes:


Carl Giles, Reynolds News, 17th November 1940.


Joe Lee, Evening News, 1940.


Sidney Strube, Daily Express, November 1940.


Pont, Punch, 25th September 1940.

Part 94.

20. Hurricane Bomber

Aircraft of Fighter Command this afternoon carried out a number of offensive patrols and sweeps over northern France and the coasts of Holland and Belgium. Hurricanes carrying bombs took part in one of these operations.
(Air Ministry Communiqué.)

WHOEVER thought of fitting bombs to a Hurricane is to be thanked for giving the squadron which I command some of the most thrilling days' work that has ever fallen to the luck of Fighter Command pilots.

Low-level bombing of ground targets by fighters which it makes possible is, of course, something quite new to R.A.F. pilots. In our Hurricane bombers we don't have to dive on to our targets. We come down almost to ground level before we reach them, and drop our bombs in level flight, with greater accuracy than can be achieved generally in dive-bombing.

The whole thrill of the Hurribomber is in this ground-level flying over the target. There we are, like a close formation of cars sweeping along the “railway straight" at Brooklands, only, instead of fast car speeds, we are batting along at between 200 and 250 miles an hour. At times we may exceed 300 m.p.h.

The impression and thrill of speed near the ground has to be experienced to be believed. Even though we are travelling so fast, there would be a risk of being hurt by the blast of our own bombs if they were of the ordinary type which burst on contact. Consequently our bombs are fitted with delayed-action fuses, so that they do not explode until we have got well outside their blast range.

It might seem that, flying on to the target at only a few feet altitude, we would be easy prey for Bofors or machine-gun posts. We would be if the gunners could see us coming. But generally they cannot see the low-flying fighter until it is almost overhead, and then they have to be remarkably quick to get the gun trained on the fleeting aircraft. More¬over, they have little time to calculate what deflections to allow in their aim. On the other hand, of course, the pilot would have precious little chance of baling out if his aircraft were hit. Indeed, he would have practically no space in which to regain control of his aircraft if a hit threw him temporarily out of gear.

So far, however, the advantage seems to be on our side, and not on the side of ground defences. I have seen “flak” and machine-gun fire pelting at my aircraft from all angles, but none of it has hit me. We get intimate, if lightning, pictures of the countryside. People on the road, soldiers scrambling for cover, bombs bursting and throwing up debris around us.

Our first big day out recently was typical of the work of this new weapon of ours. We went over in half a gale. The target we were looking for eluded us on this particular occasion. I think we passed it only a mile to one side. We did a circuit, and not seeing our main target, began to look for our alternative.

I found myself flying down a river with a main line rail¬road running alongside. Ahead was a bridge, carrying the railway over the river. I called to my companion that I would bomb the bridge, and together we swept over it, barely skimming the structure, and let our bombs go. Another pair in the squadron coming on behind saw the bombs explode in the river and the whole bridge slump to one side. As they passed over it, they saw the bridge looking as crooked as an eel.

I looked back to see the effect of our bombs, but all I saw was a string of tracer bullets going up behind my port wing. As 1 turned again, I saw it was coming from a gun-post on an aerodrome which my companion and I were already traversing. I was half-way across it before I recognised it as an aerodrome, but I was in time to give some huts on the far edge a good burst from my guns. After this I made for the coast again, flying slap over a town and straight down one of its main streets. The squadron reassembled just off the coast, and we beat it back to our base.

Altogether, it was what you'd call a party—or a rough house, according to whether you were at the receiving or the delivery end. And the only damage we sustained was a hole in a tailplane—and that was caused by a seagull!


Hurricane fighter-bomber diving to attack.


Bombing-up a fighter-bomber.

Part 95.

21. R.A.A.F. to the Rescue

A very cartridge saved the lives of a crew of an R.A.F. aircraft, when they were drifting in their rubber dinghy in the sea off the south-west coast of Britain. The crew were found by a searching Hudson, lost, and found again and a few minutes later they were picked up by a Sunderland flying-boat of an Australian squadron of the R.A.F Coastal Command, which alighted, and taxied up to them. (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

IT was my flying-boat which picked up the Whitley boys from the Atlantic, but we only came in at the end of the job. If it hadn't been for a spot of good navigation by the Whitley crew themselves, and then by the Hudsons, these lads would never have been found at all.

The Whitley crew sent out their position so exactly when they came down, and the Hudson navigators worked so well, that the leading Hudson was over the dinghy, dropping a bag of comforts, only fifty-nine minutes after taking off. In the comforts bag that was dropped were food, brandy and cigarettes. That's one way to get a smoke these days.

We in the Sunderland were flying towards the last-known position of the dinghy. Then my wireless operator inter¬cepted a message from one of the Hudsons:
"Am over dinghy, in position so-and-so."

We altered course for the new position, and at last came upon two Hudsons circling round in steep turns. Soon we got close enough to see the dinghy on the water. It was a dinghy made for only two men, but there were six in it. They gave us a cheer as we went over.

We cracked off a signal to base that we were over them, and then I began to wonder about getting down to pick them up. It's a tricky business putting a big flying-boat down on a roughish sea in the Atlantic. A heavy wave can easily smash the wing-tip floats, or even knock out an engine as you touch down.

We flew around, talking it over, and looking very hard at the sea. It wasn't too promising. The waves were about eight feet from trough to crest. But there was one good point—the wind was blowing along the swell, and not across it.

We soon decided to have a try, and I picked out a comparatively smooth piece of water, about a mile from the dinghy. We landed all right. It was a bit bumpy, but it was all right.
The next problem was to get the boys out of the dinghy and into the flying-boat. We taxied near to them. Two of my crew clambered into one of our own dinghies, at the end of a rope, and tried to paddle across to the Whitley dinghy.

But the rope was too short.
We tied another piece of rope on the end. It was still too short, even then.

One of my crew then climbed out on the Sunderland's wing and fastened the end of the rope to the wing-tip. But by that time the Whitley dinghy had drifted away, out of reach.

Then I thought we would tow our dinghy up to the Whitley's dinghy. We started up the engines, and moved off slowly, pulling our own dinghy along behind us. I'm afraid the lads in my dinghy got a bit wet.

After a few minutes we brought both the dinghies together. They floated alongside the Sunderland itself.

The Whitley dinghy seemed to be very crowded. When I took the crew aboard, I learned that their big dinghy had failed. So all of them had had to cram into the smaller one, which is designed to hold only two men.

We pulled them aboard through the after-hatch of the Sunderland—and just about time, too. Their dinghy was gradually filling with water, and I doubt whether it would have lived through the night. It was only half an hour before dusk when we picked them up.

They were quite all right, though. Just a bit tired. We gave them some hot tea and some food, and they turned in for a sleep on the way home.

We did get one bit of amusement before we got back to base. . . . About thirty miles off the coast we saw beneath us one of the high-speed rescue launches, haring out towards the position where we had picked up the crew.

We flashed a signal to the launch: "Have picked up six air crew from dinghy in position so-and-so."

The launch flashed back only one word: "Blast!" and turned round and headed for home.

Just one other point strikes me about this rescue incident. It had a fine international flavour.

The British crew in the dinghy included one New Zealander. They were located by Lockheed Hudson aircraft built in California. And they were picked up by a flying-boat manned entirely by Australians. There seems to be a nice touch of co-operation about that.

Pics on a seafaring theme, but nothing to do with air-sea rescue:

The view a pilot has while coming in to land on one of the new Escort Carriers. Photos taken from a Swordfish.

Four hundred yards away.


Fifty yards to go. The Deck Landing Control Officer signals the pilot that he is satisfied with his approach. Note how the nose of the aircraft is held well up.


Only a few inches above the deck. The Control Officer gives the pilot the signal to cut his engine. Instant obedience is essential if the hook at the back of the aircraft is to pick up one of the arrester wires seen in the foreground.

Part 96.

22. Cologne—in Daylight

Six squadrons of Blenheims of bomber command penetrated into the Rhineland this morning to attack the great Cologne power stations at Quadrath and Knapsack. Fighters accompanied the bombers as far as Antwerp. The bombers went on alone, often flying at less than 100 feet, on their 150 miles penetration of the German defence system. Both power stations were attacked at 11.30 a.m. at point-blank range. A great number of bombs scored direct hits and the targets were left in flames. (Air Ministry Communiqué.)

You may remember in the film “Target for To-night" a young airman goes around telling the crews where he thinks they're going. When asked how he could possibly know, he says, " I get around. I get the Gen." Two days before we attacked the power-house near Cologne, everybody on our station was getting around, getting the “Gen." We knew there was something big in the air, but no one was quite certain what it was. In fact, no one had the faintest idea.

We were keyed up when we went into the briefing-room at 6.45 on the morning of the raid, and the Station Com¬mander's opening remarks did nothing to lessen the tension. He started off by saying, “You are going on the biggest and most ambitious operation ever undertaken by the R.A.F." Then he told us what it was. Cologne, in daylight. One hundred and fifty odd miles across Germany at tree-top' height and then—the power-house. We were given the course to follow, the rendezvous with other squadrons of bombers, and the rendezvous with fighters. We were given the parting point for the fighters and the moment at which certain flights would peel off the formation for the attack on the second power-house, and then—in formation across Germany. Our orders were to destroy our objectives at all costs.

While pilots and observers were getting all they could from the weather man, we rear gunners gathered round the signals officer for identification signs and then hurried out to get ready. Someone said, “What a trip!" and got the answer, “Yes, but what a target!”

Knapsack, we were told, was the biggest steam power plant in Europe, producing hundreds of thousands of kilo¬watts to supply a vital industrial area. If we got it, it would be as good as getting hold of a dozen large factories.

One of the pilots on the raid was in civil life a mains engineer for the County of London Electricity Supply. He came away rubbing his hands and explained to us that, with turbines setting up about 3,000 revolutions a minute, blades were likely to fly off in all directions at astronomical speeds, smashing everything and everyone as they went.

We crossed a fairly choppy sea to the mouth of the Scheldt, flying in probably the biggest formation of bombers ever to deliver a low-level attack. It was grand to see them. Even while we were attacking we knew that other bombers and squadrons of fighters were penetrating deep into the Pas de Calais.

Over Holland we saw fields planted out in the pattern of the Dutch flag. People everywhere waved us on, there was a remarkable amount of red, white and blue washing about the place. I saw one Storm Trooper standing over a group of workers, and when he saw us he ran like a weazel. Near the frontier they did not wave, they just watched us. In Germany itself men scuttled off for shelters. During the whole of our trip we saw no motor transport of any kind.

I was sitting in the rear turret and I didn't know we were over the target until I saw the power-house chimneys above me—four on one side, eight on the other. Then the observer called out, “Bombs gone," and as I felt the doors swinging to, the pilot yelled, “Machine gun!” I burst in all I could as we turned away to starboard. Three miles off I had a good view of the place. We had used delayed-action bombs, and banks of black smoke and scalding steam were gushing out. Debris was rocketing into the air, and I thought of those turbine blades ricochetting around the building.

On the way back we kept sufficiently good formation to worry attacking Me. 109's. The first I knew of them was the leading air-gunner calling out: “Tally-ho! Tally-ho! Snappers to port beam. Up five hundred." The attack went on for eight minutes until they broke off and another formation of twelve enemy snappers came into action. They left us when they saw our own chaps coming out to meet us.

Some odd things happened on this raid. One draughty hole in a front perspex was stopped by the gallant observer sticking his seat in it to keep out the gale. Over Holland we flew into hosts of seagulls, and some aircraft brought back specimens stuck in their engine cowling, so giving rise to the suggested Dutch communiqué, " And from these operations five of our seagulls failed to return." Twelve ducks also failed to return; one of our aircraft came back with them inside it, all of them dead. But I should think the oddest things of all must have happened inside that power-house at Knapsack.

When we got back we astonished a few people on our station when we told them where we had been. Sometimes we get around too. We also get the “Gen," and we cer¬tainly got the target.



A Bristol Blenheim Mark IV of the Royal Air Force's Number 2 group pulls away after a successful attack on the Fortuna Power Station in Quadrath. You can see the end of the dorsal turret Vickers .303 machine gun lower right. Two power stations, Fortuna I and II, burning lignite (brown coal), were run by Rheinische Aktiengesellschaft fur Braunkohlenbergbau und Brikettfabrikation or RAG (Rhine Public Company for Brown Coal and Briquette Manufacturing) in the small village of Quadrath. Another target was the Goldenberg-Werk Power Station in nearby Knapsack. Fifty-four Blenheims were detailed for a low-level raid, coming in over the Netherlands to attack, causing significant damage. The Blenheims came from 18, 21, 82, 107, 114, 139 and 226 Squadrons, commanded by Wing Commander Nichol in his first Blenheim mission (????-1941) and navigated by Officer (later Wing Commander) Thomas Baker (1914-2006) who later said the mission was "almost suicidal - it was the only time in my life that I saw my fellow aircrew grey and shaking." Ten of the Blenheims were shot down and others were damaged, mostly to the large anti-aircraft concentrations around the plants. The power stations were heavily damaged. While the bomb run on the plant had no fighter cover, Supermarine Spitfires of 306 and 315 Squadrons covered the incoming flight, 308 Squadron with Spitfire VBs and 263 Squadron with Westland Whirlwinds flew top cover, and three other squadrons flew cover for the fighters. 485, 610 and 452 Squadrons, all flying Spitfires, and three other squadrons of Sprtfire VBs struck airfields and targets along the French and Dutch coasts. Lacking the range to get within 100 miles of Cologne, the Blenheims went in on their own; all the Spitfires had to withdraw after five minutes of loitering in the formation area over Holland. 19, 65 and 226 Squadrons, flying the standard short-range Spitfire II, and 66, 152, and 234 Squadrons, all flying the longer-ranged standard Spitfire IIA, rendezvoused with the Blenheims on their return.


A Bristol Blenheim Mark IV (extreme left), serial V6391, marked RT-V of 114 Squadron, 2 Group, Royal Air Force, banks away after releasing two 500-pound (227-kilogram) bombs over the Goldenburg-Werk lignite (brown coal) power station in Knapsack. V6391, piloted by Sergeant (later Air Marshal) Ivan Gordon Broom (June 2, 1920 - January 24, 2003) and crewed by Sergeant William "Bill" North, Navigator, and Sergeant Leslie Harrison, Weapons Operator and Aerial Gunner. Fifty-four Blenheims made a daring daylight raid on two power stations near Cologne run by Rheinische Aktiengesellschaft fur Braunkohlenbergbau und Brikettfabrikation or RAG (Rhine Public Company for Brown Coal and Briquette Manufacturing). They were escorted by fifteen squadrons of Supermarine Spitfires and 263 Squadron flying Westland Whirlwinds, but none of the fighters had the range to make it all the way to the target, so the Blenheims went in on their own. Broom was noted as one of the flew pilots of 2 Group who did not consider the mission a suicide run. He relished the enthusiastic reaction of the Dutch public, who greeted the low-flying Blenheims with waving and cheers, which abruptly stopped when V6391 crossed into Germany. This photo ran in the Illustrated London News, which syndicated the photo around the world without Brown or his crew being named. The Goldenburg power station was severely damaged, but power was restored to the Ruhr factories. Brown and his crew were sent to the Far East in September 1941, but were "hijacked" in Malta, where they were ordered to fly anti-submarine patrols and attack airfields in Sicily and Italy. On their first flight out of Malta, Broom and North used an Aldis signal lamp to guide a stricken Blenheim back to base. With most of the senior officers dead or missing, Brown was given command and won his first Distinguished Flying Cross, eventually surviving 30 missions. Brown was a popular leader who shared his men's risks.



"Bristol Blenheims" by James Gardner, 1941

This ‘rough' by James Gardiner shows Bristol Blenheims conducting a daylight raid on the German power stations at Knapsack and Quadrath near Cologne, 12 August 1941.
Transcription: ROUGH – In blue pastille. The bombing in daylight of the power station at knapsack Germany by the RAF– Directly beneath picture on right hand side Will be turned upright + a spot more colour in bomb bursts On right hand side with line around – artist's comment

Part 97.

23. Torpedo-Bomber Gets Home

Beaufort aircraft of Coastal Command, continuing the hunt for enemy shipping off the south-west coast of Norway to-day, located a German convoy and torpedoed a supply vessel. (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

I'm from the Isle of Man. My observer — we call him "Daddy" because he is twenty-eight and a year older than I am—comes from Beckenham in Kent, the rear gunner from Camberwell, and the wireless operator from Streatham. Both of these boys are in hospital wounded at the moment, but I hope they will soon be back in my aircraft again.

We carry torpedoes on our Beauforts, and the other day we were ordered to attack a convoy of large enemy ships off the coast of Norway. Three aircraft were to go, led by the Squadron Commander. Unfortunately, my aircraft was delayed a little in getting off the ground, and as such operations are worked to the split second, the other two Beauforts went on ahead.

We had about three hundred miles to go before reaching Norway, and before getting there I did everything to catch up with the other two aircraft, but I couldn't—though I ran into evidence of their work. There was a big black pall of smoke on the horizon, just where we knew the convoy to be, and I soon saw it to be a large ship on fire and listing over.

I picked another ship of about 7,000 tons, went in and released my torpedo. At that second Charlie—that's the rear gunner from Camberwell—yelled through the intercom., " Look out, skipper—Messerschmitts!"

At the same moment I heard the rattle of a German's guns and the pouf of his cannon shell. The Messerschmitt hit us first time, and I saw tracers going past my head. Then the gunner yelled again, "Another one coming in, skipper." They hit us again. I heard our guns going all the time. Charlie, very calmly, said, "I think I got him"; then a second later, "Here comes another from the beam." There was a terrific explosion at the back, and the rear guns stopped. "Daddy," the observer, crawled back, and a few seconds later came to tell me, "Charlie's been hit pretty badly."

All this time I was throwing the aircraft about, but we were then only about 20 feet above the water. All the time the two Messerschmitts were coming in and letting us have I everything they'd got from 20 yards. Every time they hit us my Beaufort shuddered, and I had to fight the controls to keep her out of the sea.

Later I found that the rear gunner, who had been unconscious, had come to, and had opened up again. We are certain he got one of the Messerschmitts. He filled its belly with lead at less than 20 yards, and didn't see anything more of the Jerry.

Then the rear guns stopped again, and I was chased all over the place. There was some inviting cloud, but I couldn't get the aircraft higher than a few feet, we were so badly hit. I thought a thousand times that we must go into the ditch. But I had to laugh when the observer calmly pulled out his watch and announced that the scrap had lasted for nearly twenty minutes.

Our guns began again. I said, "By God, those boys are all right." They had dragged themselves up to the guns and were still fighting. Then the one remaining Messerschmitt came round the front of us. He must have thought we were finished, but after one more squirt from our guns he turned away in a hurry. We didn't see him again.

We had to get home then, and we found that we were heading south instead of west, with about three hundred miles to go in a damaged aircraft. We were just skimming the waves. It was raining hard, blowing a gale, and all the perspex—that's the glass—had been shot away.

We were wet and miserable, and there were two men behind badly hurt. I said, "We'll have to go down in the water," but then we found that the rear gunner and wireless operator had collapsed and couldn't move.

We were still only just above the sea. So we decided to try to get home, and we took off our Mae Wests to make a bed for Charlie, as he was really hurt.

It took three hours before we made a landfall, and then we were about two hundred miles south of where we should have been. That's how we had been chased.

When I tried to turn the aircraft right, I found that she wouldn't turn, although I managed to coax her to 80 feet. So we turned out to sea again in a wide circle to the left, and lost sight of land.

Anyhow we got home at last. But, on getting ready to land, I saw the undercarriage swinging about in the breeze. So I just prayed and crash-landed. I was amazed that the Beaufort ever got home after all she'd been through.

This is the last BBC broadcast from the 1942 book ‘We speak from the air’.

However IL2 CoD (I’d like to meet the person responsible for the change of name) is still near the horizon, so the stories will continue, taken from various war time publications.


See you next week.

RedToo.