大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Stella Howe of the 大象传媒 Radio Sheffield Action Desk on behalf of Mr Lewis Abbott, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

TRAVELS WITH A SPITFIRE or No 242 (Fighter) Squadron 鈥� 1942 to 1144

Volunteer鈥檚 Introduction

This story was written 30 years ago (1975) when the writer was still serving in the RAF. During the war, the author was a Sergeant Fitter with the responsibility of servicing and maintaining Spitfires. Born in Sidmouth, Devon, he followed his 3 older brothers into the RAF in 1933. He completed his Mechanic鈥檚 Engineering training in 1938. Before the war he was stationed outside Swansea and also Bath. He served in the RAF long after the war. At one point he was stationed at Norton and returned to live in the vicinity many years later.

Story Written In 1975:

I have set a few thoughts down on paper telling the story of two years in my Air Force career. This particular period of time was during the last war, it has no moral, no earth-shattering message, and is just an "old sweat's tale". I would remind those who do read 'war stories鈥� that this article is being written, not by a professional or well-known personality.

So to the tale and let us turn the clock back some thirty years or so to the summer of 1942. I was then a sergeant, married but a few months, and serving with No 125 (Newfoundland) Squadron equipped with Beaufighter Mk. 2 night-fighter aircraft. Came the dreaded telephone call, "You鈥檙e on the boat, report to the orderly room". After that a medical examination, I report to the M.O. in Sick Quarters, who roared with laughter, touched me to see if I was still warm and said with glee, "Caught you at last, eh?"

So far my path had followed the way worn smooth by countless thousands of forlorn airmen before me, but then things began to develop in a rather mysterious way. I was instructed to report to No. 242 Squadron at R.A.F Digby in Lincolnshire. This famous squadron, once led by Group Captain Bader, had disbanded after his capture and was reforming at Digby with Spitfire Mk 5 aircraft. A week on embarkation leave and I was packing equipment into wooden packing-cases for a sea voyage. Then came the order to hand in our blue uniforms and we were issued with army khaki battle-dress on which we sewed our blue chevrons and eagles.

After two or three weeks of frantic activity, one dark night we were taken to the nearest rail-head and off we went. We eventually arrived, at some ghastly hour near dawn, at Greenock in Scotland. There followed the inevitable wait of hours on the dockside, then on to lighters and over to the waiting troopship, whose name, if my memory serves me rightly, was the 'Empress of Scotland鈥�.

By this time, it was mid September; Dame Rumour spread her wretched tales by the hour, but, truth to tell, none of us had the remotest idea, where we were bound. Soon enough, we sailed one night as part of an enormous convoy complete with a fine Royal Naval escort, Imagine the field day the wiseacres had when it was realised that we were sailing in a westerly direction and that there were no squadron pilots in our contingent. After a few days of sailing west, our convoy then turned to the south, then north-east and sundry other points of the compass - always out of sight of land. I will not dwell here upon the joys of travelling troop-deck in a troop-ship; perhaps another old sweat could compose an article on that subject.

However, after ten days or so afloat what should rear itself out of the horizon but the good old Rock of Gibraltar - we had reached the Mediterranean.
"Ah ha," said the optimists, 鈥渨e're for the Western Desert and the fleshpots of Egypt".
"Not so,鈥� replied the pessimists, "It's through the Suez Canal and on to the Far East for us poor b...'s".

In the event, both were wrong because one bright day in October (I forget the exact date), a sudden dash south brought what was left of our convoy into the port of Algiers on the north coast of Africa. Things had gone so well with the advanced parties of the invasion, that our ship was even able to come alongside a jetty, enabling us to disembark directly onto terra firma.

Then began a short period that I would prefer to forget. Utter chaos abounded on all sides with troops milling around looking for someone to love them and tell them just what to do next. Eventually our squadron personnel, who had rather huddled together in a form of mutual protection, received the verbal instruction.

鈥淵our airfield is up the road that away, only fourteen miles and you can鈥檛 miss it.鈥�

Our Squadron Warrant Officer optimistically formed us into three ranks and off we bravely stepped. Now each one of us was in full marching order, carrying sten guns and our ammunition pouches full of loaded magazines; remember that we were dressed in thick khaki battle-dress, wearing tin-hats and big ammo boots. I would rather draw a veil over the rest of that day and the condition in which we eventually straggled into Maison Blanche, our first overseas airfield.

To make us feel really welcome that first night, enemy aircraft liberally sprayed the whole area with vicious 鈥榖utterfly' anti-personnel bombs (amongst other things). The Squadron eventually got together on one comer of the airfield, our transport started to appear. Spitfires with extra large, overload, long-range tanks began to arrive from Gibraltar and slowly but surely we began to look like a proper air force unit again. Our trucks and wagons were a real mixture of all sorts and sizes, some of which had never really belonged to us in the first place, but it was a case of, 鈥淲hat I have, I hold鈥�.

I think it might be appropriate at this juncture to break off the narrative to state one or two general remarks about the time ahead. I would ask you to keep in mind that from the time the squadron left Digby in September 1942, for the next two years we ground staff personnel were never, never, never, told beforehand of any move, nor of the next destination. We were expected to be able to move at less than twenty-four hours notice, and often did, being entirely self-contained, having our own transport, technical and domestic facilities. During the two years that lay ahead, the longest time the squadron ever spent in any one place was nine weeks; most of the time living under canvas and eating the eternal compo rations.

But I digress - back to Maison Blanche. After we had been there about a week, we were ordered to load up and move out. I did not know that our destination was to be a tiny airstrip very near the small Port of Bone, along the coast to the east of Algiers. But not for us the direct and comparatively good metalled road along the coast, that was fully utilized by far more important military traffic moving up to the front. Our route took us directly inland and through the Atlas Mountains over tortuous and very twisting second-class roads, stopping when it was dusk to make an evening meal and to sleep under our vehicles. Most of our drivers were what we now call 鈥楥lass B鈥�, but even so the only 鈥榗asualty鈥� that I remember was a water bowser, which was being towed by an old five ton Leyland. A hairpin bend in the mountains proved to be too sharp for the lock on the trailer wheels, and it finished up precariously hanging over a sheer drop. Only by disconnecting and rolling the bowser over the edge of the road could the convoy proceed. To see this water bowser crashing and smashing down hundreds of feet of mountain-side was a spectacle that is still very vivid to me.

We eventually reached the airstrip at Bone, pitched camp and in no time, there was a fully operational Spitfire squadron on the job. Unfortunately, air superiority was still very much in the balance at this time, with the result that at least three times daily we were treated to unfriendly visitations by German fighter-bombers. This made life a little fraught, as we had no system of early warning (other than our own ears).

My outstanding memories of this time include our amazing shortage of casualties on the ground, our very first ration issue of bread on Christmas Day (one slice per man), the arrival of the first batch of mail from home, and the dawn-to-dusk work, work, work. Our continuous flying patrols plus the enemy raids on the airstrip, however, all took their toll and by the evening of Boxing Day 1942 we were reduced to one serviceable Spitfire. It was time to take a breather So on the wagons, off you go heading south. South? Yes, we finished up on the outskirts of the city of Constantine, there to recuperate and receive our replacement aircraft. Two weeks later on the wagons, heading north again - back to Bone鈥� Not a pleasant prospect. This time, though, we landed up at a brand new airstrip which had been constructed by the R.E,鈥檚 using P.S.P. (Perforated Steel Plate) and which was located some miles inland from the actual port.

It was called 鈥楾ingley鈥�, after the name of the major in charge of its construction, the amazing thing was that although our squadron continued to fly as intensively as ever, the enemy never located that particular airstrip, at least we were never on the receiving end of any 鈥榥asties鈥� while we were there for the next month or so.

An American Lightening squadron flew in and we were on our way once more. Pack up, on the wagon, heading east, this time to a forward airstrip called Souk-al-Arbe, just to the rear of the First Army The action had started up again after being somewhat bogged down during the winter, and, of course, we came in for our fair share of enemy hate. Still, the campaign proceeded and forward we went in support of the action until the great day dawned when the enemy had been thrown out of North Africa. We then found ourselves on an airfield on the outskirts of Tunis, and had the honour of taking part in the victory parade through that city.

Dame Rumour now gave tongue again; we had completed the task for which our Spitfire Wing had been sent overseas - all four squadrons were being shipped home to the U.K. However, within a couple of weeks came the now familiar order, 鈥楶ack up, on the wagons鈥�. Heading south, we soon reached the outskirts of the small port of Sfax where we had to wait a couple of days for a ship. I well remember that each night the port was subjected to really fierce air raids and our tented camp got well and truly peppered with the debris from A.A. shells. Fortunately we were left unmolested during the day and in no time the whole squadron with all its gear was loaded on a flat-bottomed L.S.T. In brilliant sunshine we sailed off to the northeast, as far as I could see completely unchaparoned by an armed escort.

It was on this voyage that my Flight Sergeant, returning from a shower in the crew鈥檚 quarters and clad only in a towel, trod full force on an opened bully-beef tin. The result was that he cut his foot so badly that he eventually finished up in hospital and we never saw him again. I mention this incident because the outcome was that I took his place as N.C.O. in charge of the flight and remained so for the rest of the life of the squadron.

In the fullness of time our L.S.T waddled into Malta, we disembarked under the eagle eye of General Gort, and made our way to Ta-Qali airfield. There, rather to our surprise, we found that our Spitfires had already arrived. By this time it was either late May or early June 1943 and life on Malta was still a little rugged, but it did have its points. For instance, instead of living in our old faithful tents, we were accommodated in buildings. The Sergeants鈥� Mess in Rabat even had hot showers - a long forgotten luxury. The squadron stayed at Ta-Quali on Malta for six weeks and for the only time in our campaigning it was obvious to everyone where we were headed next, The Allied invasion of Sicily.

For this particular move of the squadron, I found myself detailed to be in charge of the advance party, scheduled to fly in as soon as our airstrip had been established. We loaded on board one of the old faithful Dakotas and after a completely uneventful flight (I鈥檓 glad to say), landed on another tiny airstrip somewhere in the heart of Sicily, about due west of Catania. If this place ever had a name, I鈥檓 afraid I have forgotten it, but we seemed to be miles from any town. It was at this time that the squadron acquired a new commanding officer, who turned out to be a strict martinet. In the air he was a born leader, so we were told by our pilots, but on the ground he was little short of a despot. In hindsight this was probably just as well because we needed a strong man at the top in the days that lay ahead.

The Sicilian campaign moved on successfully and it was soon time to load up and be on the move again. We had recently 鈥榗ome by鈥� two Italian five-ton trucks to add to our M.T. fleet and these gave us yeoman service for the next few months that we managed to hang on to them. However, there had been a price to pay. We had recovered these trucks under shellfire, and one poor corporal didn鈥檛 move quickly enough. Northward we went, around the inland side of the base of Mount Etna, who seemed to be registering her protest at all the activity. Our destination turned out to be an airstrip on the northeast coast, which had been constructed by the R.E.鈥檚 at a little place called Milazzo. They had simply ripped out this strip from an area which had previously been covered with grape vines, and I remember so well that the soil of the whole area was powder fine. The Spitfires raised great clouds of filthy dust every time they landed or taxied, and by the end of each day everybody鈥檚 legs were black right up to the thighs. Fortunately, we were right beside the sea and could wash off most of the muck at the end of the day.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2

Pr-BR

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