大象传媒

Unit : 271 Squadron, 46 Group
Service No. : 3011060

You're more than a number in my little red book - started a song, which we used to sing during the war but most numbers are lost to us. On my way to holiday I saw on a cleaning trolley the number 271 and my memory flashed back to another railway journey as a freshly trained flight mechanic, sitting on my kit bag in a crowded train corridor to join 271 Squadron in Doncaster. We were travelling from Locking in Weston-Super-Mare where for four months a group of trainees had specialised on the new Napier Sabre engine being fitted to the latest fighter, the Hawker Typhoon, so we were looking forward to joining a Typhoon Squadron to service these monster fighters.

Imagine our chagrin when reporting for duty at Doncaster to be told that the aircraft we would be servicing would be the new transport aircraft, the Douglas DC3 or Dakota as the RAF named it. So we spent the next few days familiarising ourselves with the large Pratt & Whitney radial engines and the 95' wingspan of these fat green elephants of aircraft. But on 29th February 1944 our 271 Squadron moved to an airfield in the Cotswolds near Cirencester and a little village called Down Ampney. Although we had never heard of it, apparently it was the birthplace of the well-known composer Ralph Vaughan Williams.

On arrival we were briefed on our future role which was to train to fly all aspects of airborne Operations, Glider towing, paratrooper dropping, air despatch, the dropping of supplies to ground troops and air ambulance, for at Down Ampney we had a large Casualty Air Evacuation Centre fitted with a fully surgical hospital and we were told that between airborne operations we would be bringing back casualties from the European war fronts. Shortly after settling into our corrugated iron Nissen huts we were joined by another Dakota Squadron, No.48. Both Squadrons comprised three flights, A, B & C, with ten Dakotas to a flight, so we totalled sixty Dakotas in all. Later on, we were advanced in our training we had both Squadrons taking off towing the wooden Horsa gliders and circling the village - the noise was horrendous and I often felt sorry for those 280 or so villagers torn out of their rural serenity by all of these aircraft and over 3,500 airmen and WAAFS who had taken over their village, particularly when the village bakery opened at 8 am and was sold out of every crumb by 8.15 am, the long queues at the tiny Post Office and the sole telephone box, the never-ending hunt for beer in the local pub which soon became carefully husbanded by the publican for the locals, whilst we could only buy a liquid paint stripper which they called scrumpy or rough cider.

In March we soon learned a lesson about the dangers of war and flying hazards when whilst practicing close formation flying, the wing tip of one Dakota contacted the elevators of another, which plunged to the ground killing all of the aircrew and some of our mechanics who had gone up for a joy ride. By coincidence the pilot whose wing tip caused the accident was killed himself a month later when the glider he was towing got out of control and brought his Dakota down. By now it was April and training and exercises became more intense. It was most exciting to go on some of these exercises which we mechanics were encouraged to do, flying to Salisbury Plain with a plane full of heavily equipped paratroopers. We always flew without doors in the Dakotas and it was quite exciting to experience the howling rush of air from the slip stream and the noise of the throbbing Pratt & Whitney engines. Over the door aperture there were two lights, a red and a green, and as we approached Netheravon the red light would suddenly flash. Immediately five or ten paratroopers (depending on the size of the "stick" as they called it) would clip their static lines to the cable in the roof of the aircraft and then check the clip of the comrade in front. They would then close up very close to each other until the red light changed to green and then with a clatter of Army boots like a huge centipede they moved rapidly down the centre aisle, sharp turn right out of the door and the only evidence of where they had once stood were the static lines and parachute bags which we had to haul back in the aircraft before we dropped the next stick. It was quite remarkable, the speed of leaving the aircraft for not only were the paras heavily equipped with arms and ammunition pouches, entrenching tools, grenades but they also had an equipment bag which fitted on a leather side strap on their left legs. A long pin and eyelets kept this bag firm until just before the para landed, he would pull the pin and the bag would fall away on the end of a 60' length of rope. This enabled the para to keep his equipment bag handy when he landed but would not be encumbered by the weight of the bag on touch down.

Again, one of these exercises was marred by an unfortunate and avoidable lethal accident. One para's chute had become entangled in a tree whilst his bag was in another. So there he swung between the two trees, suspended about forty feet above the ground, shouting quite happily to his mates below and receiving some friendly but derisory banter. The fire brigade engine arrived from Devizes and a telescopic extending aluminium ladder was raised. A fireman climbed up the ladder to the para but unfortunately he hadn't been briefed on the para's harness, for instead of cutting the rope to the bag, thus allowing the para to swing to the tree, he pressed the release knob on the harness with the result that it dropped off and the whole weight of the heavily equipped para and the fireman were suddenly transferred to the top of this flimsy ladder and to our horror it collapsed. Both men plummeted to the ground and the fireman fell on top of the para who was killed by the impact. It was a very sombre bunch of mechanics who flew back to Down Ampney after witnessing this tragic event. On the same exercise a para became tangled in the tail wheel of his Dakota and despite frantic efforts to get him back in, they failed. So they decided to fly to Poole Harbour where they flew low and cut his strap for him to fall in the sea but he was unfortunately dead when he was recovered.

Shortly after this, I also had a salutary lesson in the dangers of glider towing. I was sitting on the grass beside the Horsa glider and chatting to the glider pilots prior to a cross country exercise called 'Balbo', when one of the glider pilots asked me if I had ever been up in a glider, when I answered negatively, he invited me to join them. Several times I had watched these black gliders swoop silently over the hedges, apply gradual flap and gently land on our airfield on the grass between our runways. So I had no hesitation in racing over to our dispersal flight hut to ask Chiefy (our Flight Sergeant) if I could go. He expressed his policy of not interfering with suicidal aspirations and acquiesced. So I stepped into the cockpit and stood between the two green tubular seats of the glider, the only sound being the thumping of my heart. We took off very smoothly, being airborne well before the Dakota became unstuck. So there we were, swaying gently from side to side or up and down in the slip stream at the end of this long thick rope entwined with the telephone cable which enabled the glider pilot to talk to the tug pilot. High tow, low tow - we went through the lot until we reached Oxford and turned for base which we reached after a short time of flying. We circled the airfield but to my surprise our glider cast off its rope at about 3-4,000 feet and our Dakota flew away trailing our rope. Suddenly the glider pilot barked "Hold tight son" and puzzled, I wondered where we were going. I soon found out for the pilots pushed the control column onto the floor of the glider and placed their Army boots on it. The nose dropped and diving vertically it plummeted earthwards. My knuckles became white as my terror stricken grip tightened on the green tubes of the seats and my eyes started to bulge as I looked at the tiny Matchbox model of the black and white control van at the end of the runway getting bigger by the second. The Horsa had been described as a Silent Sword but I can refute this for there are gaps between the separate sections of the glider and as we gathered speed a banshee wail screeched from these gaps. Thoughts tumbled through my addled brain - one, that the whole tail unit was held on by four bolts for rapid exiting, another was that I had made a terrible mistake and lastly the heap of strawberry jam that would be sent to my mother with regrets. By now all or my internal organs had assembled in the nape of my neck. If anyone has experienced this vertical rapid descent on a roller coaster or the hair raising "Krachen" ride in Disneyland in Florida, I assure them that that stomach wrenching experience pales into insignificance with this 7 ton gliders descent... Then, when I thought that all was lost, the gliders pilot shouted "right" and they both hauled the stick back and we levelled out. As we touched down, the huge barn door flaps were dropped and it was like running into a huge rubber block. As I tottered away from the glider, I had the thought that whilst I was fully fit, the experience left me mentally and physically exhausted but in battle our glider pilots would be expected to fight. When I arrived at dispersal the NAAFI wagon was serving tea "What was it like?" I was asked. "A piece of cake" I replied with my shaking hand slopping tea from my mug. From that day on, I grew a tremendous respect for the glider pilots. The next time you fly in one of our modern airliners and see the runways brightly lit, think of a glider pilot landing in pitch darkness in a plywood box and a Perspex screen, the only thing between you and perhaps a wall, a barn or tree, at up to 80 mph. So often we get people claiming compensation for stress at work. If you want a real definition of stress, ask a glider pilot or a submariner!

At the end of May an order came confining us to camp. The phone box was sealed, all letters left open for the censors and all leave cancelled. The invasion loomed near. Then came the order on June 4th to paint black and white stripes round the fuselage and wings of all our Dakotas and Horsa gliders to help our anti aircraft gunners on D Day. At about 6 am on the morning of June 6th, someone cried "Christ, look at this lot!" and marching round our perimeter track were the 3rd Canadian Parachute Regiment. They had cropped their hair to the bone leaving a tuft of hair in a V shape like the Cherokee Indians. They had black and white war paint on their faces and in addition to all of their equipment, many of them carried butchers' meat cleavers in their belts. They looked fearsome and we were all delighted that we were helping them to depart rather than have them arriving. Our Dakotas had actually flown on the night before to drop gliders and paras on crossroads, bridges and gun batteries before the actual invasion. They took off at precisely 10.35 pm on the night of June 5th, so in effect the invasion started at Down Ampney.

The following is taken from the article, "It's Only a Number", written by Alan Hartley about his period of service with 271 Squadron. Mr Hartley wants this article submitted on his behalf by people's war volunteer Anastasia Travers and understands our terms and conditions.

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