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Spitfire Pilot, 92 Squadron, Desert Air Force (DAF), Italy (1944 — 1945)

A ‘Spit’ Pilot’s thoughts…

Flight Sergeant/Warrant Officer Stanley (Mike) Widdowson: Spitfire Pilot, 92 Squadron 1944 — 1945.

Chapter 9: …until the end.

The March, and particularly April of 1945 had been gruelling months, claiming many aircraft and pilots of 244 Wing DAF. On the ground there had been a concerted effort to smash through across the enemy troops holding the northern banks of the Senio and Po Rivers which formed part of the ‘Gothic Line’. Much of the success of the allied ground troops was done in conjunction with the DAF squadrons who continued to operate the ‘Rover Paddy’ missions against ground targets immediately ahead of the advancing British army. There is a cutting from the Eight Army News stapled into Dad’s diary at this point. It is a letter from the men of the 5th Battalion, Royal West Kent Regiment, it reads:

‘’From the men of 17 platoon ‘D’ Coy., 5th Bn. Royal West Kent Regt.
We the rank and file of an infantry platoon would like to express our admiration and appreciation of the gallant DAF. So often we have admired their skill and courage when working is close support of us; so often we have gone into the attack behind (their strikes) and taken our objectives with ease, simply because the DAF have transformed the enemy defenders from men prepared to fight to the last round, into a ‘whipped and destroyed remnant’ whose morale has been broken. We know that but for this factor, many of us who are alive today would now be lying beneath six feet of Italian soil’’

Dad flew his last combat ‘op’ on 30th April 1945 — an ‘armed straffing recce’ with a 90 gallon long-range ‘slipper tank’ strapped to the belly of his Spitfire. However, within minutes of being airborne his R/T (radio telephone) became U/S (unserviceable), and the engine started to behave badly. The last flying log entry reads:

‘I lobbed (jettisoned) the tank into the sea, turned back to the ‘drome, and landed’.

By this stage the Spitfires and their pilots had been in the thick of the thrust against the Gothic Line for months. The Spitfires were now patched together with spares borrowed from the more damaged, or ‘written-off’ aircraft and, consequently, they were becoming unreliable. Similarly, the pilots were desperately tired and emotionally drained from the constant flying, and daily loss of friends and colleagues. However, rumours were already circulating regarding the imminent surrender of Germany, the end of hostilities — and possibly even the end of the War itself! Dad’s diary records:

‘We have all been listening to the radio on and off between ‘ops’, and wondering when it was all going to end. We finally heard it whilst sitting around in the backs of the wagons (trucks) which were dotted around the ‘drome, and which we were now using as ‘billets’. As the news of the German surrender came over the radio, we all listened without a word. The newsreader continued after the main bulletin telling us all about the various details of what had happened in Germany in the previous few days. He was obviously excited, and told us that there would now be ‘celebrations all over Europe’. We didn’t feel like celebrating, and we didn’t feel joyful. We were just too bloody tired to feel anything at all. Eventually, after listening for a while, one ‘bod’ (pilot) stood up and turned the radio off. We didn’t protest. ‘Well, that’s that, then’ he said. And it was.

After all this mayhem, it took just four words to sum up all we have been through, and to account for all the good chaps we have lost, and all the destruction we have caused. I suppose four hundred words, or four thousand, or even four hundred thousand, wouldn’t have been enough to tell our story. So, these four are perhaps the best way of putting it.

Nobody was saying much afterward, so I got up, and walked off. I wandered around the perimeter of the ‘drome for a breather and a fag (cigarette). The Spits are dotted around the ‘drome, and they are all silent, for once. They sit there on their undercart (undercarriage wheels) with their noses still pointing expectantly toward the sky, as if they waiting for us to jump in and fly them into battle again. But there are to be no more battles now. We’ve won:Thank God! But, most surprising is the fact I’m still alive — my good luck has held out until the end’.

This, then, is the final chapter I shall write here. It has been quite an experience transcribing Dad’s diary. My brother and I hope it will be of value, and we hope that we’ve now also ‘done our bit’.

Mike and Glen Widdowson (January 2006)

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