´óÏó´«Ã½

Ted and Helen

On 24 February 1942 our parents got engaged. Some 60 years later we have records of the occasion in their own words. Helen, our mother wrote a letter that evening; Ted, our father, described the occasion in his later reminiscences. These are just two items in a fascinating archive of material that we have assembled that reflects our parents’ experiences during World War Two.

Due mainly to our mother’s efforts, many items were preserved from those days, including letters, postcards, diaries and, most precious of all to us, a log book that our father kept while a prisoner in a German camp.

Another source are some unfinished writings our father made in the 1980s, reminiscing about events that took place 40 years earlier. All Ted’s reminiscences make fascinating reading. We had never seen them until we began to compile this material.

Ted’s account of his first operational sortie, which follows, brought all aspects of the war home to us. When you think that it was written 40 years after the events described you realise how indelibly the experiences must have been imprinted on Ted’s memory at that time.

To Milan and back in a Mark I Halifax

For our first operational sortie we were given a very elderly aircraft. It could be seen to be so by the number of bombs painted on the side under the cockpit, each representing one mission. Furthermore, it was a Mark I Halifax, which was beginning obsolescence at that stage of the war.

Students of aircraft will remember that the Mark I can be distinguished from later marks by its in-line engines, front gun turret and tapered leading edges to the twin tail fins.

We had to take this one a long way – to Milan and back, about ten hours flying. It turned out to be a very educational trip. Up to this point in our flying career we had been training. All our flying had been over friendly territory. There was always the comfortable feeling, even though not expressed, that a safe landing could be laid on at any moment.

On a learning curve

This next flight, though, was for real. We did not know what our reactions would be or whether our skills were adequate for the task ahead. It was a mission so much greater than anything we had ever tackled before.

Looking back at the 20 operational flights we undertook I can identify three distinct phases. There was the first trip or two, when we were new boys feeling our way. Then the period of a few months when we became a little blasé about the whole thing. Finally, the last few trips, during which we realised, increasingly, that our continued survival was against all the odds – though we might actually finish our tour and collect our survival gongs.

That first trip

These three phases gradually merged one into the other – the really big step was setting out on that first trip.

The briefing followed the pattern of all briefings. We were told the target and the route. We were informed of the special arrangements, like which target markers to look for, and diversions on the way back if we were in trouble.

The Met Officer gave us the weather, and, from the expected winds, we navigators worked out which courses to follow. Later, they might be modified, if position fixes en route showed that the winds were wrong, and we were not following the correct track over the ground.

Flying by the light of the moon

The route was due south from Yorkshire, crossing the English Channel somewhere near Beachy Head, and carrying on south to the French-Italian border. There was a brilliant moon. The ground was slightly hazy, but rivers gleamed like silver snakes.

As we left the Alps on our port side, I doused my light. I slid the curtain back from the window in the side of the aircraft that faced me across the chart table. I can confirm that the Alps by moonlight are a breath-taking sight from 18,000 feet. For ten minutes we forgot our mission and became tourists drinking in the sparkling beauty of the scene.

Naked with nowhere to hide

We had no position fix since crossing the French coast because as usual Gee was jammed. So we turned to port at the time appointed, with only faith in the lines I had drawn on the chart to justify the move. We could see nothing.

There is something a little chilling about turning a corner over enemy territory. It is like closing a door behind you and finding yourself locked out, naked with nowhere to hide.

Bombing Turin not Milan

This probably explains the haste with which the next decision was made. Brian saw some activity – searchlights, flak, flares – and decided it was our target, despite the fact that we were too early and apparently off course.

With hindsight, by tracing our route back, I believe that we bombed Turin and not Milan that night. We knew that there was to be a diversionary raid on Turin, laid to confuse and divert the defences. But it had the same confusing effect on us, and we joined in.

Training could not, and did not, give us the experience of being under fire. Brian had done one operational sortie as second pilot to an experienced crew, so he was more prepared than the rest of us.

Mixed emotions

During the few minutes run over the target, I experienced the mixture of emotions that was repeated on later trips. Fear at being exposed, with shells bursting near enough to make the aircraft shudder. Excitement at seeing the result of previous bombing on the city beneath. Exhilaration at the tremendous firework display going on all around us.

But the aspect that gave a bizarre character to the situation was the voice of the master bomber over the radio. I don’t recall expecting this, but I do remember the feeling of awe that a character was willing to go in early on a raid. That he’d hang around directing the efforts of later arrivals by reference to fires and flares. And that he’d sound as though he was enjoying it.

‘Drop the effing things’

Tom behaved as he did over every subsequent target, coolly giving orders, ‘Left, left’, ‘Right’, ‘Steady’, with Herby telling him, in no uncertain terms, to, ‘Drop the effing things so we can get to hell out of here.’

But, as Tom said many times, if we had taken the trouble to come that far we might as well deliver our parcels as effectively as possible. He was in fact doing what we all found we could do, namely follow the instructions drilled into us while training without thinking about them or allowing the environment to distract us.

Losing an engine over France

Brian's voice saying, ‘What’s the course back, navigator?’ brought me back to my job. We turned on to a short leg due west, before turning again on to the long leg north-north-west over France.

It was on the final leg of the trip that the miracles began. We lost an engine somewhere over France – by which I mean it stopped working. It was evident that we would need to land early rather than go all the way back to base.

We crossed the English coast not far from where we expected. Ford and Tangmere were Fleet Air Arm bases near Chichester and able to cater for any four-engine bombers that needed to get down in a hurry. We chose Ford and said we most definitely were in a hurry.

Land first, sweat later

Bob and I were in the rest position as usual during a landing. Consequently, the loss of a second engine as we turned on to the final approach did not register at the time. We did our sweating later.

Brian miraculously brought us down in one piece and parked the aircraft in a dispersal. This took time because Ford was a bit crowded that night. We then found we were still in for one more piece of excitement. As we walked away from the dispersal there was a sudden noise like firecrackers from the other side of the airfield. I looked round to see what it was.

‘Get down, you fool,’ yelled Tom. I looked back to see what he was talking about, but Tom could not be seen. He had gone to earth as soon as he heard the first burst of machine-gun fire from the intruder strafing the airfield. Palestinian experience had given him some useful reactions.

Grounded for a week

We were not able to leave for a week while – in all – three engines were changed. The week was spent reporting to the airfield every day, then out to do one of the towns along the south coast before creeping back into bed.

At one point during the week Bob and I were talking to some air cadets who had just started their training as we had been not so long before. ‘How many trips have you done?’ they asked.

‘Eight,’ said Bob, and his eyes flickered in my direction. Well, what the hell! That trip had been worth eight.

[Read part 2 of this story.]

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.