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By now I was due to be screened because, with my previous operations in Bomber Command and my flying hours in Coastal Command I had now completed two tours, that is the equivalent of 60 operational missions. It was 1944 and should really have been the end of my front line flying but I managed to get a transfer back to Coastal Command and a posting to RAF Bircham Newton on the east coast in Norfolk. It was an Air/Sea Rescue Squadron and my active flying could continue.

Air/Sea Rescue was all about finding any of our bomber crews who had ditched into the North Sea or the English Channel whilst returning from the bombing raids over Europe the night before. We would drop a life raft to them and then circle round until a surface craft arrived - hopefully one of ours, though occasionally the Germans got there first.

On occasions we carried larger launches which were slung underneath the aircraft. We would drop these into the water close to the crews. Usually this was 'by request'; that is another aircraft, perhaps a Wellington, would have spotted the ditched crew and had radioed for assistance whilst it continued to circle the men awaiting our arrival. Dropping the launches or dinghies was fairly precise work since we had to get down low over the water, flying very slowly and drop them as close to the crews as possible but up-wind of them so that the craft would float to them and not away from them. The trick was to get the launch tight in on the crews without actually landing it on top of them. Once in the water, the launches could be unfolded in three sections and the engine started.

It is important to convey just how difficult it was to spot these crews as they drifted helplessly in the expanse of the North Sea. Their aircraft's rubber dinghy, into which they had perhaps been able to climb, was only 6 feet across. The waves were often several feet high and so their chance of being seen from a ship was fairly slight; their main chance was to be seen from the air but a 6 foot rubber ring, no bigger than a tractor tyre, is a tiny object to spot from the air unless the aircraft flew very close and the crew were looking in the right place. Verey pistol flares played an important part in locating these men but many times it was a race between our own ASR launch and the Germans.

Ditching an aircraft into the sea was always a last resort because it was a manoeuvre fraught with danger. Ideally the aircraft should be ditched along the line of the waves rather than across them, to avoid ploughing into the water at 100mph or more, cart-wheeling and breaking up. Often crew members were already wounded, the aircraft might sink quickly, although empty fuel tanks always helped buoyancy, and other injuries were often caused on impact when the crew were thrown about inside the fuselage; then there was the danger of getting caught up in the aerials and being dragged down with the plane, as happened to so many. Once outside the aircraft it was always best to try to get into the dinghy dry, but inevitably so many lads ended up in the water and had to climb in soaking wet. As the dinghy moved away from the stricken aircraft, the surviving crew were exposed to the weather. Even in summer it was very cold, just not as cold as in winter. The spray from the waves would quickly deposit six or eight inches of water in the bottom of this rubber ring and the wind would cut through the airmen like a knife.

Our job was to find them as quickly as possible before the cold killed them or the Germans captured them - or machine-gunned them, as occasionally happened. Sometimes a crew had not been able to inflate their dinghy and were simply left bobbing about in the bitterly cold water, held up only by their Mae West life jackets. Their best chance of rescue came from tying themselves together to make a bigger target for us to see. On these occasions we would drop a covered dinghy so that at least they would be able to get out of the wind. We would then radio back their position whilst we circled overhead to give them protection against the enemy and to guide the rescue craft in.

Rescue came in many shapes and sizes including ASR launches, fishing boats, Royal Navy ships, flying boats and the enemy. To the men in the water, many of whom were also suffering from acute seasickness to add to their misery, it mattered not what it was, only that it was rescue from an otherwise certain watery grave. British rescue was preferred but in the end - rescue was rescue; even if a prison camp was the destination.

During my time on ASR we were responsible for the rescue of several bomber aircrews from the North Sea and it always gave us a great feeling of satisfaction to see these poor chaps being hauled to safety on a ship or boat. Once though, I remember we spotted an empty dinghy being tossed around on the choppy water and although we searched until dark, we were unable to see any sign of the crew. That evening we returned to base feeling pretty low.

You can read much more about Ted Cowling's wartime exploits in his fascinating, funny and sometimes desperately tragic autobiography, 'The Journey', proceeds of which will go towards the Severn Hospice.

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Becky Barugh of the 大象传媒 Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Ted Cowling and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

See more of Ted's stories:

• 1) How important it is to feel welcome
• 2) Neither darkness nor fighter cover for protection
• 3) Highly dangerous missions
• 4) A hand picked crew
• 5) I left Oban for the last time
• 7) Top Gun

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