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This story was submitted to the People's War site by Roger Marsh of the 'Action Desk — Sheffield' Team on behalf of Edward Gordon and has been added to the site with the author's permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

CHAPTER 8
NO 9 AGS PENRHOS - NORTH WALES

The train journey from Bridlington to Pwllheli, N Wales was a tiring time, and it seemed ages before we got there. Lorries collected us down the only road to Penrhos Airfield, and the No 9 Gunnery School. This was a surprise to all of us for it was just a large expanse of field with one hangar for servicing aircraft, and a collection of wooden huts. Not at all what we expected, having previously been at Finningley. This was an expediency of wartime, and when the needs must, the devil drives.

These wooden huts, with a round stove for heating, were to be your home and lecture rooms for your stay, a far cry from the surroundings of Scarborough College and the hotels of Bridlington, but it was comfortable.

I am not a particularly godly man, but the church here was like the rest, a long wooden hut. The altar was a plain wooden table covered in green cloth with the RAF crest embroidered upon it. It was plain and simple and had a presence within it totally unlike any other church I have been in, and I don't doubt for a moment that many other air gunners who went through this station had the same experience, for it was indeed a haven of peace and quiet.

Here the lecturers were different from the academic types at the ITWs, these were all practical and experienced senior NCOs, one or two had distinguished flying medals, and these men gave you a new insight into what you were about to do. These men commanded your respect, and you gave it willingly, for their words of wisdom proved right on more than one occasion.

Here you were split into flights of ten, with a total intake of forty. Our ten comprised nine Englishmen and one Scot, and we all lived together in one hut. Our characters were all different, from one who was inclined to be sullen to the Scot, a most lively character.

Here the lectures were different, you were assessed on practical and written work, and discreetly on your attitude to flying and leadership qualities, the last one determining your qualification and selection.

The top of the course, we were unofficially told, was usually awarded a commission, so this, at this stage, was the target for us all.

Back to the classroom we went, to discuss and learn the working of the 0.303 Browning Gun, the Cine Gun, the Frazer Nash Turret, the art of deflection of air firing, the harmonisation of guns and turrets. You had to strip and assemble a 0.303 Browning blind folded within a specific time limit, and you learned to do it, for your later work was always in the dark of night.

Here you did your first flying in Blenheims, a most uncomfortable aircraft, not one which you could get out of easily if you were in trouble, and thankfully no-one on our course experienced it. You had to climb over a main spar to get to the turret, and could not wear a parachute harness, which was disconcerting to say the least; quite honestly the Blenheim was a death trap.

The pilots we flew with were good, some very good, especially when one day a Whitley came in, and just managed to stop only a few feet away from the hangar. When we saw it happen, we fully realised how good our pilots were, and this increased our confidence in them.

On air firing, you rarely flew with the same pilot twice, and they were always the boss, for any mistakes meant you could probably shoot down the Martinet that was towing the drogue, and he would be blamed. This was your first lesson in air discipline: The place we did our Air Firing was west of Bardsey Island, a place noted for its seal colony, and on our journeys in and out we could see these lovely animals swimming, basking in the sun and, as far as I can recollect, nobody interfered with nature's delight.

On your way out to sea, you flew over Abersoch, the only place with a pub, and a small beach beyond, which was many feet below. This was the place to relax whenever you had the time, and the only way you could get there was by "Shanks' pony", unless you could borrow a "sit up and beg" bike, the aircrew's favourite mode of transport.

We toiled at our lectures, ripped hands on the Browning, worked hard in the turrets with Cine Gun assimilation, and enjoyed our air firing in the Blenheims, until alas examination day came, and your fate was decided.

The examinations took three days for us all to get through and then another three days before the results were known.

Results day arrived, and as usual a mad rush for the noticeboard to see if you had passed. For me it was a surprise, for I was "Top of Course" with 81.5%. I did not win the commission, probably because I was the youngest of the lot, but at least I was a Sergeant, and this would partly please my mum. Mum was never keen on flying, but at least she knew it was inevitable, and was resigned to the fact. Dad understood more in some way, being an ex Army man, and I was later told he was proud of me, although on many things we did not see eye to eye.

With fate decided, we now awaited the next posting, for me the Operational Training Unit, Hixon in Staffordshire, where we knew it was the ever faithful "Wimpy", or Wellington to be precise.

CHAPTER 9
O.T.U HIXON

On arrival here we were housed in the same type of billet we had at the Gunnery School, wooden huts with the old round stove for heating. The airfield was in a bowl, surrounded by hills, and an ideal place for flying.

After settling in, we now awaited selection for a crew, but odd jobs occurred, and one day a few of us were asked to take a lorry to the station. We did not know what was in it until we arrived there, but soon realised it was four coffins, carrying the bodies of fliers who had been killed a few days before. What an introduction to forming a crew.

A few days later a more pleasant task, a visit to a factory, all females, who were making and filling shells for the Army and Navy.

We stayed for lunch with the girls and this, I suppose, was helping the morale for the war effort, for they were pleased to have some male company, even if only for a short time.

After being here a week, an Australian Sergeant Pilot and a Canadian F/O Navigator, came and sat on my bed, we had a chat, and then I realised I was to become the Mid Upper Gunner of their crew. Later that day I met the rest, so emerged the team of Pilot Sgt Barney Magee, RAAF, Navigator F/O Happy Protheroe - RCAF, Bomb Aimer Sgt Harry Whitehead, Wireless Operator Sgt Doug Carrington, and Rear Gunner Sgt Reg Dix.

Initially, the crew of the Wellington we knew, had six men, and it was not until later we learned we were destined for the heavier craft of Bomber Command, the Lancaster, Halifax and the Stirling, but which one was the unanswered question.

What a mixture, Australian, Canadian, one from the Potteries, a Londoner and two Yorkshireman, six good men and true, all single, except for Doug the Wireless Operator.

Barney, the Aussie, was a tall man, tight curly hair, slim and wiry, quiet, but efficient. Happy, the Canadian, tall, lean and lanky, inclined to stoop, maybe this was caused by leaning over his navigator's table. Harry was the glamour boy, with dark wavy hair, all the girls fancied him. Doug, was smaller than the rest of us, with slightly bowed legs, solid and reliable. Reg the Londoner, was tall, dark and often uncommunicative, with a typical southern attitude.

This started a relationship that had to work for our own survival, in some ways it was true, other ways false, for we did not really know what to expect.

First of all, we were kitted out for night flying, helmet, night glasses, electric suits, Irvin Jacket and trousers, flying boots, underwear and singlets of wool and silk, gloves, sun glasses for day flying, (these I still have, and just as modern as the day I acquired them).

Our first flying in the Wellington was circuits and bumps; for the uninitiated, round in a circle, wheels touch runway, and round again. It didn't take Barney long to master this, and then we realised we had a first class pilot, just how good was further proved later on.

The instructor for this exercise was F/LT Tony Bartley, and he was the envy of most of the aircrew, for his wife was Deborah Kerr, the film actress. Here, was the only time I saw and managed to inspect, the Defiant, the only single engined night fighter with a turret, which was his pride and joy, which he flew before becoming an instructor.

For us Air Gunners, apart from the flying as a team, we were mostly restricted to the use of Cine Guns, and only on one occasion did we do any Air-Air firing against a drogue, on an inland firing range.

Here we got our first taste of night flying, with cross country flying, this was to get our navigator Happy, back into practice, and work for Harry our bomb aimer, for on these runs were points which had to be bombed by photography. Hidden lights were placed in the ground and these were your targets, get them on your camera, and you were in business, miss them and it was back to the air. Our pair did well, so we were ready for a move.

Our last flight here was a "nickel", and our first flight over occupied Europe. Nickel was the term given to leaflet dropping operations, dropping these over Paris, printed in French and German, these I suppose today would be called a public relations exercise. They did however, serve a secondary purpose, in splitting the German air defences for other operations.

On the return flight, one engine packed up, so we were diverted to Manston, the fighter drome, after calling Mayday. This for Barney, our Aussie pilot, was his first emergency, and as we knew, he was as cool as a cucumber, as was the confidence that he quietly exuded.

F/Lt Bartley collected us next day. This was the first reminder of the danger aspect that Colonel Sadler advised me of those many years ago. Here we had a rather unusual instructor, a Major in the Royal Artillery with the D.F.C. who taught us about anti-aircraft guns, and the defences of cities in Germany. His job with a crew was to fly and plot the defences of these areas, with a job like that he more than deserved his D.F.C, and so did his crew.

To come back on home leave was always welcome, and it was from here that it first occurred since being called up, a span of over two years. This was not unusual, for some number of the forces were faced with longer sentences away from home, dependent on their theatre of operations, but it was good to see the family, mum, dad and sister, but in some ways sad for many school friends were also away in the forces.

Our next port of call on this journey to fly was the Conversion Unit no 1481, Binbrook, Lincolnshire, which still had Wellingtons. We did not stay long here, just long enough to record nine-and-a-half hours flying, but now we knew which of the heavies we were destined for, the Lancaster, and which group of Bomber Command we would be attached to - 1 Group. At this stage we did not know the Squadron, for Bomber Command was emerging as a major force in the war strategy, under the command of that most energetic man Air Chief Marshall Bomber Harris, and nicknamed "Butch" by all aircrew.

During the time since Gunnery School you had learned team spirit and what leadership was all about; some of the instructors inspired you, like the DFM instructors you had at Gunnery School, but it was always the men who had been through the mill who were the best; some smooth as silk, others rough diamonds, but they knew their job, and prepared you as best they could, and we were thankful for that.

Binbrook was a permanent station, like Finningley, high up and placed on a hill top, a far different type of aerodrome than we had experienced before; from a flier's point of view ideal in every way, and for me a place where I got great satisfaction and experienced the worst accident I can ever recall.

How and why comes later.

Next stop Blyton, Lincolnshire and the Lancs.

CHAPTER 10
1662 CONVERSION UNIT - BLYTON, LINCOLNSHIRE

Here we got our introduction to the Lancaster, built by A.V. Roe, and borne out of the failure of the Manchester, an aircraft loved by all aircrew, for it was indeed a magnificent aircraft, tough, sturdy, reliable, and the best of the three heavies. By comparison the Stirling was heavy, slow and deficient on height; the Halifax, better than the Stirling, slightly slower, but once again deficient on height. Even crews that flew the Halifax loved their aircraft, but agreed the Lancaster was the best of the three.

Having flown on both the Halifax and Lancaster, I found more confidence in the latter and, having lost a close friend in the Stirling, I suppose I am biased against them.

For Barney our Pilot, in particular, this was a gigantic leap in size from the empty weight of 18,556 lb, twin engines, and wingspan of 86' 2" of the Wellington, to 36,900 lb, four engines, and wingspan of 102' 2" of the Lancaster but, with the help of F/O Cross, and our newly acquired Flight Engineer Sgt Vic Burton, another Londoner, we started the usual grind.

Circuits and Bumps, and then a six-hour cross-country flight in daytime, and the same occurred at night for this was to be the medium in which we were to operate. Reg and I now appreciated what it was to be in the loneliest part of an aircraft. For me, in the mid upper, it was as though you were suspended in air, for Reg in the rear, it seemed a long way off when all the others were bunched together in comparative comfort.

Indeed, the turrets were the coldest places in the aircraft, especially on a cold winter night when the temperature got down to minus 20°C at something over 20,000 feet and this caused problems for many gunners, as I will reveal later on.

The mid upper turret was not a comfortable place to sit, just a piece of canvas, unlike the rear, which had a solid base, but you got used to it, and it became second nature.

The view from the mid upper was fantastic, you could observe everything with its 360 degree rotation; sometimes you saw things which you wished you hadn't, but other times things which still linger on in your memory. Two of the more pleasant occasions came later on.

Blyton near Gainsborough was the nearest so far, that I had been to home. There were hopes, but these were soon dashed, when suddenly one day, the notice board read Sgt B Magee and crew posted to 100 Squadron, Waltham, Nr. Grimsby.

Pr-BR

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