A blog about a RAF Mosquito squadron
I am trying to identify a number of photos donated to our Heritage Centre at Bransgore Christchurch UK.
I believe a number are of Jim Coley on his own and other aircrew. Is it possible someone can identify them for me?
Unfortunately we do not have the donors details just a name Cyril Chamberlain.
To be continued…
Second World War Clandestine Lysander and Intruder Mosquito pilot Wing Commander Alan Michael ‘Sticky’ Murphy DSO and Bar, DFC, Croix de Guerre
by James H. Coley
Hardback – 240pp – 234 x 156mm. Approx 30 black and white photographs.
World Rights – Fighting High Ltd. ISBN – 978-1-9998128-4-3.
Those who knew Wing Commander Alan Michael ‘Sticky’ Murphy remember a man who was an inspiration both on and off duty. Indeed, it motivated James H. Coley, who served as a navigator in No. 23 Squadron, to write a book dedicated to his commanding officer’s memory and honour.
In 1941 Sticky joined the ‘cloak and dagger’ 1419 (Special Duties) Flight, pioneering short take off and landings dropping agents into occupied Europe. It was extremely hazardous and daring work. On one flight his Lysander was ambushed by Germans, with Sticky having to fly home seriously wounded, and his exploits on a mission to rescue a comrade, John Nesbitt-Dufort, would earn him the award of the Distinguished Service Order. Such feats made him a legend in the secret and clandestine circles in which he moved, a time Sticky recalled as ‘The greatest fun ever.’
In 1943 Sticky converted to Mosquitoes, and was posted to Malta and No. 23 Squadron. Night after night Sticky led the way, following the Squadron motto ‘Semper Aggressus – Always on the attack’, which he was more inclined to translate as ‘Right lads! After the bastards!’. Sticky soon took command of No 23 Squadron, and became loved for his humanity, daring leadership, and natural charm to all. In 1944 Sticky returned to the United Kingdom and Bomber Command’s No. 100 Group, carrying out dangerous intruder operations against German night fighter bases, and it was on one such operation that Sticky flew his final fateful sortie.
It was said that those who knew Sticky never forgot his infectious laugh, his joy of living, and indomitable personality. Let there be no doubt that in any Valhalla of warriors, Sticky Murphy sits beside his contemporaries on equal terms and with a smile.
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day. After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available to download.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Introduction is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part One) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Two) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Three) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Four) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Five) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Post War Flying
The Leicestershire Aero Club had reformed after the war, first at Ratcliffe and then at Stoughton. I was on the committee and, in 1951 was Chairman. When firing a Verey pistol from the roof of the club house to start some event in a big display we were running, the gun exploded in my hand and made rather a mess of it and also my face. A piece of the barrel went into the thigh of an RAF airman helping the display and did him no good at all.
I had got rather tired of noisy aircraft, and in Mosquitos, with a pair of 1,000 horse power Merlins with open exhausts on each side of the cockpit, the noise was really quite something. Gliding was something which appealed to me as being really quiet and I joined the Leicestershire Gliding Club which was operating from Ratcliffe Aerodrome. I enjoyed this very much and got my A, B and C certificates and went on many week-end camps to hill sites.
It was rather fun to be able to chat to someone on the ground from 500 feet in one of the open cockpit training gliders. Rather late on one summer evening I was drinking scotch rather morosely in the Club bar when a man named Bob Loorimer, a local hosiery producer, came in. He asked me why the gloom and I explained that we had just broken our last serviceable glider. ‘Don’t worry’ he said, ‘I’ll buy you a new one-how much are they? I told him 500 pounds and he wrote a cheque cut on the spot. We finished up the bottle and next morning took the cheque into the bank rather hesitantly, but it was passed, and we bought a new Olympia glider which his wife later christened. I was made a life honorary member. I should think so! To progress much further in the gliding world meant doing cross-country trips, and in turn, this meant sharing with another pilot, taking turns to tow the trailer and collect the glider from wherever. Very time consuming and I was getting involved in towing the horse trailer for my children’s gymkhana activities. So that was the temporary end of my aviation activities.
[This not quite how I remember this! There was a ghastly flying accident when the release gear on the towing wire which was used to launch the gliders malfunctioned. The glider was unable to separate from the wire and was pulled down into the ground killing the pilot instantly. I think my Mother, who had been very patient up to this point, put her foot down. There were by then 3 of us children who needed their Father and having survived the war Mother was not about to let him kill himself in a glider accident. I am not totally sure that the line my Father was shooting here was strictly tikiti-boo, but Dad is not here now to correct the record!]
In 1974 I retired from business and went to live in Blakeney, only 10 miles from Little Snoring.
In 1983 my wife said to me that I looked as if I needed a challenge in life. “What about getting your pilot’s licence back?” So I accepted the challenge and went to talk to the Norfolk Flying Club, who were flying from an RAF airfield at Swanton Morley. They had the use of the grass airfield and one hangar which the RAF was not using. On their advice I first went for quite a stiff – and expensive medical test required by the Civil Aviation Authority before a Private Pilot’s licence can be issued. Not much point embarking on a very expensive training course only to be failed later on medical grounds. This proved to be O.K, and I started on the necessary flying training, The Authority had recently tightened up their demands owing to a large number of pilots who were killing themselves soon after getting their licences, accidents which were put down to inexperience. The new requirements for the number of flying hours was a minimum of forty-three, but as I went to see them with my log books and, in spite of the thirty-seven year gao, because of my previous experience, I was granted a concession of a minimum of twenty-eight hours which saved me a lot of money.
The aircraft used for training by the Club were Cessna 152’s. These are small metal, tricycle undercarriage, dual control machines. There are thousands of them all over the world and they are treated rather like motor-cars. Fill them up with petrol and oil, kick the tyres, make sure nothing is falling off, press the self-starter and off you go. When I reported for my first lesson, my instructor suggested that I wheeled the aircraft out of the hangar, carried out the routine checks and waited for him to join me. This was quite a surprise to me because my last powered flight had been in a Mosquito which had been most carefully checked for every function and the necessary form presented to me by the Flight Sargent fitter for my signature before take-off. Oh well!!
Being a fairly cautious character, as regards aircraft anyway, I was reasonably through in my checks, especially flying controls. During my time at Cambridge I was asked to flight test a Tiger Moth which had emerged from a major inspection. For some reason I did not test the controls and, as soon as I got airborne, I found that they had connected up the wrong way. This made life very interesting and I approached the ground for a landing with considerable caution. All was well, but it taught me a lesson.
I was relieved to find that flying, like riding a bicycle, once learned is never forgotten. A little polishing here and there but no major problems. I was fortunate to arrive at the Club when they had a very good team of instructors. I was allowed to go solo after three hours and found no problem with the flying training syllabus. R/T (Radio Transmission) proved to be a major problem for me. Swanton Morley was at the time surrounded by very active RAF bases from which there was almost continuous flying. These bases each had their own controlled area and their own frequency. These frequencies were obtained by twiddling a knob until the right number came up, just like a radio set. Swanton had its own frequency and, on leaving the vicinity of the airfield, it was necessary to call them up and tell them that you were switching to such and such a frequency. When on cross-country flights, it was necessary to call up the next controlled zone and say, for instance, “Marham, this Golf- Bravo-Foxtrot-Sierra-Romeo on a student training flight in a Cessna 152. My present position is…my height is…my course is…and my estimated time to enter your controlled zone is….Request your permission to proceed. Over.”
At first I used to get completely tongue-tied half way through the transmission and have to start again. Most of the controllers, especially if they were female, were pretty tolerant but some got a bit shirty. If you were accepted you were then told to “stand by on this frequency’. At the busy stations and at Norwich Airport there was fairly continuous chatter going on and if your own call- sign came up you were expected to reply immediately. Since invariably you were endeavouring to cope with several other problems at the same time, this was not always as immediate as the controller expected and they tended to get a bit tetchy – especially if it was a message from an RAF base such as “Golf Sierra Romeo. This is Marham. Alter course immediately 90 degrees to port. There is fast traffic approaching from your starboard side. Acknowledge. Over”. A few minutes later five or six Tornadoes or similar would scream past at 650mph – sometimes uncomfortably close. When peace again reigned the message would come: “Golf Sierra Romeo. Resume your original course” by this time you were almost certainly lost to the wide and trying desperately to pick up landmarks which were not on your prepared route.
One of the passing-out tests was a triangular cross-country, landing at two other airfields and getting a signed report that proper procedures had been followed. I chose Ipswich and Cambridge. When I was working out my flight plan, I realised that I should have to make sixteen frequency changes, some of them in a short space of time. It seemed to leave little time for flying the aircraft and map reading, but it all worked out in the end and I got my two pieces of paper. All this flying was done by map and compass, just as in 1937. How I longed for the sophisticated equipment we had at the end of the war, and a navigator to do some of the work.
I then had to tackle a passing-out test by a Civil Aviation Authority Examiner. He was reckoned by the Swanton gang to be a bit of a grumpy bastard, but I found that he was nearly as old as me, that we had a lot in common and we got on well. The two hour test included verbal tests on the ground concerning the aircraft and then a very thorough flying test including spinning, blind flying, forced landings, cross wind landings and take-offs, etc. I passed. The most trying part of all were the ground examinations. I had attended several lectures on various subjects and I had been through and through the official booklets. but my brain seemed to have lost a lot of whatever capacity it once had for absorbing knowledge. I was frequently up at 6.00am through the summer studying various subjects. There were three exams of two hours duration. With only a very little cheating with cribs, I passed all three and was awarded my Private Pilot’s licence. At 67, one of the oldest members of the Flying Club.
I was then entitled to take passengers and, using the Club’s four-seater Cessna 172, I took up several friends to show them the coast and their houses from the air. My wife Sheila came with me on several occasions and took some very good aerial photos. I was also able to use my licence in Australia and in 1995 I hired a Cessna from the Sunshine Coast Air Charter at Caloundra in Queensland and Sheila again got some excellent photographs.
In 1988 I had a sudden urge to try flying a helicopter and had a hour’s lesson from a company at Norwich Airport. Very, very difficult and very, very expensive. End of urge.
I enjoyed it all immensely, but in the summer of 1989 I caught myself making some minor errors and being a bit forgetful. Since I had not had an accident or damaged an aircraft in my 3000 hours of flying I felt the time had come to pack it in while the going was good. I made my last flight in Golf-Bravo Hotel Alpha Victor on 29 September aged 73 and very grateful for all the fun that flying had afforded me.
[ Father had enjoyed his ‘addiction to flying and at the end the war his log book credited him with 2,874 hours and 30 minutes of actual flying time. This was an astonishing total. With some 72 operational sorties the fact that he survived in one piece was amazing. The hours that he flew gliders and light aircraft are sadly not recorded, but he fulfilled his dream of flying in a big way!]
Dad died peacefully on 26 November 2012, in his sleep, at the ripe old age of 96. He was tired. We scattered his ashes from a boat in Blakeney Harbour. He would have flown over this harbour many times as he made his way to and from Little Snoring airfield in 1945. He loved to sail there in later years, especially after his retirement. As we drifted slowly out towards Blakeney Point on the ebbing tide, I read Psalm 139 as the family said our farewells. It is known as the airman’s Psalm. Part of it is quoted on the following page (the emphasis is mine):
Psalm 139
¹ O LORD, you have searched me and known me!
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
3 You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
behold, O LORD, you know it altogether.
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is high; I cannot attain it.
7 Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
9 If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
10 Even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,”
12 Even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you…
Next time…
A complete version in a more readable PDF file.
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day. After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available to download.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Introduction is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part One) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Two) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Three) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Four) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Five)
Sir,
I am directed to refer to Air Ministry letter, number as above, of the 2nd April and to inform you that the American Authorities have notified their final approval of the award of the Distinguished Flying Cross to you. The a ward will be announced in the Royal Air Force Supplement to the London Gazette to be issued on 14th June, 1946.
Doubtless you will receive the appropriate decoration from the American Embassy, in due course.
I am, Sir, Your obedient Servant
American DFC for Wing-Commander
Wing Commander S. Philip Russell, DFC, of 56, Romway-road. Leicester, has been awarded the American DFC for outstanding services in co-operation with the American Forces in Sardinia.
Wing Commander Russell is the son of Mr. and: Mrs. S. H. Russell, of Ratcliffe -road, Leicester. He received his British DFC from the King at an investiture at Buckingham Palace. This award was made three years ago when Wing-Commander Russell, then a squadron-leader, had 41 sorties to his credit.
[ Copy of one page of Dad’s logbook. Note the ‘Duty’ column – Flying from Malta shot down JU 88 near Tunis. Other activity including setting fire to petrol tankers mentioned on page 15. Note also number of flying hours 2,480.]
Davis West’s Addition
‘But Little Snoring would keep calling her aircrew back, throughout all their lives, as a site of pilgrimage, and to their children and their children. Neither Squadron nor airfield would ever be the same again.
Read all the diaries, see the hopes realised of surviving tours, the lives lost, then stand on the airfield out by the control tower after dusk and hear in the howl of the wind maybe a faint roar of twin Merlin engines, and you will see those mosquitoes with their aircrew again, leaving Little Snoring perpetually for the last time… stealing into the night sky, forever blue.”
[Reading his account of the time in Sardinia and the American squadron that was based there it might be understood. that the medal was for arranging great parties, but I think in fairness it may have had much more to do with his liaison role and meeting and working with two Generals. When trying to find out a little more about the Citation for the award it was very difficult to get information about American medals given to British servicemen. However, the email reply did explain that these medals were not handed out lightly and any person being awarded such a high honour were “very brave men”.
On the next page is part of an email from Pete Smith to me. Earlier in this narrative you will have seen letters between Pete’s Father Tommy Smith, who crashed and was badly burnt, and my Dad. Pete takes a trip down memory lane (as I have often when returning to Norfolk) and visited the old airfield at Little Snoring. It is still used for light aircraft and the old control tower still stands, as do the aircraft hangers. It is a moving account and I include this with Pete’s kind permission. We are indeed most fortunate to have had such brave fathers.]
Pete writes…
So that year, on my birthday in December 2006, instead of working, I did something for me; I drove across to Little Snoring for my first visit to the airfield. I followed the way that Dad had described from his first ever visit there, past the royal estate at Sandringham, or the back entrance, and on to Snoring.
As I drove around the last corner and saw the first huge T2 hanger my heart skipped a beat, all the hair stuck up on the back of my neck…and yet it felt like I had almost come home, a place so comfortable and familiar. I went to see Tom Cushing* and when I left took the pictures of the airfield, and stood at the end of the runway, looking out towards the north sea, with the cold wind roaring in my ears, staring for all I was worth into the darkening blue of the coming night sky… and the wind, it sounded like Merlin engines roaring as the throttles opened up and looking until my eyes hurt, I could see them, one at a time just disappearing from view. My Father took off from Little Snoring and would never return there operationally as a fighter pilot…like Sticky and Darbon, and 7 other squadron crews, but he was alive.
Make no mistake, our Fathers were true blue, in the finest tradition of the RAF- me, I had the best birthday I had ever had. So, in the longest way ever, those paragraphs were written by a Son, me, written with real sorrow that I had neglected to take an interest in this part of my Father’s life, the seminal part of his life, where every operational night, death was the third member of the crew, and death would only come so close once more in his lifetime.
Tommy was most proud of being one of the pilots of the fighting 23rd, and a guinea pig and then an officer, in that order. So the remaining few, Phil, George, Buddy, Jim, Don and Norman from 23 hold a special place in my heart, they knew Tommy when he wasn’t burnt and when he was young and fighting fit, literally. With their passing the story and memory of my Father will be consigned to the history books, no longer an oral tradition by people that knew him then, but a historical event, written about in only a couple places. So there you have it. But in context, retrospectively, we are possibly the luckiest children in the world.
best
Pete
[ The Cushing family owned the land on which the airfield was built. Tom Cushing was only a young boy when the war was being waged and now continues to farm the old airfield and has a small museum containing memorabilia of 23 Squadron. He also co-authored a book called ‘Confounding the Reich’ with Martin Bowman.]
[ This book covers in more detail the work of the 100 Bombing group and is described thus:
On 23 November 1943, 100 (Bomber Support) Group of RAF Bomber Command was formed. The object was to consolidate the various squadrons and units that had been fighting a secret war of electronics and radar countermeasures, attempting to reduce the losses of the heavy bombers and their hard pressed crews – in Bomber Command. This secret war involved the use of air and ground radar’s, homing and jamming equipment, special radio and navigational aids, and intruding night-fighters to seek out and destroy their opposite numbers, the Ju 88s and Bf 110s of the Nachtjägdgeschwader who defended the night skies of the Third Reich with ever increasing success.
The book contains many first-hand accounts from pilots and crew and provides a fascinating record of 100 Group’s wartime history.]
Next time…
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Post War Flying
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day. After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available to download.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Introduction is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part One) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Two) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Three) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Four)
In December our C.O. ‘Sticky’ Murphy, of whom more later, went missing and I took command of the Squadron with the rank of Wing Commander.
In January, we became part of No.100 Special Duties Group. This Group operated from a number of airfields in Norfolk, with Headquarters at Belaugh Hall. The Group had been formed with the primary duty of reducing the escalating losses being suffered by our heavy bomber groups over Germany. Our own part in the activities was to keep on doing what we were used to, but having our targets related to the general scheme of the group. Other squadrons were flying aircraft fitted with gear to jam both radio and radar transmissions from German bases, others set out on ‘spoof’ or misleading raids on imaginary targets, and yet others flew on imaginary targets dropping ‘window’ which created the effect on German radar of a very large force. We also had to take on another activity of actually escorting the bomber force – not an easy task on a dark and dirty night with a lot of trigger-happy rear gunners in the bomber stream. As Squadron C.O., I used to attend the daily briefings at H.Q. and it was fascinating to watch the plot being hatched out, and then, on the next day to be able to see what results had been achieved. It all worked out very well and the losses in Bomber Command fell dramatically. The Germans very much resented our efforts to prevent their night-fighters becoming airborne. The aircraft flak was increased heavily and we lost rather a lot of crews. We were quite often within sight of the mainstream bomber attack and a big raid was a most dramatic sight.
Caption
The aircrew of 23 Squadron, home at last, in front of one of our Mosquitos at Little Snoring, Norfolk. Dec.’44.
[As previously mentioned Tommy Smith was one of 23 squadron pilots. His son, Pete Smith, had this painting commissioned to record his Father’s brave action in which he was shot down. It shows the sort of activity the squadron was involved in suppressing the enemy night fighter activity in the closing stages of the war. Note the 4 x .303 machine guns in the nose had been replaced with a radar cone.]
What must surely be one of WWII’s most extraordinary acts of bravery occurred on the night of 16th/17th January 1945 when F/L T A Smith and F/O A C Cockayne were on an ASH patrol over Stendal. Flying Mosquito FB.VI RS507 (YP-C). They inadvertently stumbled upon the German airfield of Fassberg on their return trip, fully lit up with aircraft taxiing. Taking full advantage of this situation, F/L Smith went straight in to attack, destroying one Bf.109 on the taxiway and another two as they attempted to take off. RS507 received ground fire hits to its starboard engine during the chase down the runway, Smith feathering the prop, but continuing to press home his attack. Knowing that there was no way of saving their aircraft, Cockayne was ordered to bale out, but sadly lost his life in the attempt. F/L Smith fought gallantly to bring his Mosquito down into snow with minimum damage, but the aircraft hit trees before striking the frozen ground and a furious fire broke out, with Smith trapped in the wreckage. Against all the odds, he survived the crash, albeit with terrible burns, and saw out the war as a prisoner of the Germans.
I have to admit that when the end of the war came, I was extremely relieved. Courage is an expendable thing and mine was just about expended. With the exception of my time in hospital, I had been flying continuously from the outbreak of war and had completed seventy-two operational sorties (considerably more than the normal thirty sorties per tour applied in Bomber Command) and I had had enough – and then some.
I flew my last sortie on 15 April, 1945. Soon afterwards, our sister Squadron No. 151 was disbanded, and as Senior Officer remaining, I became Station Commander of RAF Little Snoring – a lovely title! As such I had to take one or two rather large parades, including a march-past before the Queen WAAF, who had come to Snoring to present the Sunderland Cup to our own WAAF section for efficiency. We then proceeded to have enormous parties to dispose of the very considerable accumulated Mess Funds – much appreciated by all the local friends we had made. In September, the Squadron was disbanded, I was demobilised, given a demob. Suit and a felt hat and sent on my way to Leicester, broke to the wide [flat broke!] but all in one piece.
I went to see the King to collect my DFC and also to see the American Ambassador to collect the American DFC which I had collected somewhere down the line.
I was exceptionally lucky in my Commanding Officers, All regular RAF and all career men. The war was what they had been waiting for so that they could start climbing up the career ladder usually by stepping into dead men’s shoes. Group Captain B.R.O’B. Hoare (Sammy) was an incredible character with an enormous handle-bar moustache. He had lost an eye when a duck came through the windscreen of a Blenheim he was flying. Against all the rules he continued to fly but his one-eyed landings (especially in a Mosquito- not the easiest of aircraft) were something to behold and his navigators had to be very brave men indeed-not only because of his landings but because he always selected the most dangerous of the night’s targets. He created such an impression at Snoring that, when he was killed, a memorial stone was erected in the local churchyard to his memory. He made me cross because he could always beat me at squash, one eye or not.
Wing Commander Wykeham-Barnes, who took us to Malta, was not only a very brave man but also a very bright one. Having survived a terrific fighting war (and my attempts at drowning him) he stayed in the RAF and went right to the top.
Wing Commander ‘Sticky’ Murphy was another one without any fear. Before he came to our squadron he had spent many months flying agents into and out of France in Lysanders. They eventually decided that he had had enough when he just managed to return to the U.K. holding a finger over a bullet hole in his throat. Fearless, bursting with enthusiasm and born leaders of men, what a fine example they were to we amateurs who had to follow them.
The other thing I should mention before I leave the war years is that my old friend Bob Marks, with whom I flew to France pre-war, was posted to a light bomber squadron at the beginning of the war and was shot down while laying a smoke screen during the dreadful failure of the Dieppe landing. He was rescued and taken prisoner. When he was released at the end of the war he came to stay with me in my quarters at Snoring and I taught him to fly again. He applied for a posting to the Development Squadron at Martlesham and, shortly after his arrival there, he was killed while testing a German aircraft. I was not popular with his Mother.
[ What Dad does not say here is that this was his closest friend who he had grown up with. He and Bob used to make rafts out of bits of wood and set sail across a pond in the Mark’s back yard and they had many other childhood adventures. They went on holidays together and his loss must have been incredibly painful. The joy of surviving the war only to be killed when hostilities had ceased is even more tragic. Dad lost most of his red blooded friends in the war and it must have been a very lonely time returning to Civvy Street. It was especially hard when some who had not enlisted had grown sleek on war profits.]
[Recently I had Dad’s medals mounted and framed with a picture of 23 Squadron and Dad, then a Squadron Leader, taken in Kalta 1943 (front cover). The medals are described below in the caption. I also used a couple of pages from his log book enlarged to make the background. They make interesting reading and you will see on page 48 a clearer example of the ‘Duty” column where he records shooting down an enemy aircraft and strafing petrol tankers.
I believe it was unusual for British pilots to be awarded an American DFC but the newspaper cutting on the next. page indicates that it was awarded for: ‘Outstanding services in Co-operation with the American Forces in Sardinia”.]
Caption
Medals display From Left to right DFC, 1939-45 Star, Air Crew Europe Star and Clasp, Africa Star and Clasp, Italy Star, Defence Medal, War Medal, Air Efficiency Award and the American DFC
Next time…
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Five)
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day. After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available to download.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Introduction is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part One) is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Two) is here.
[Although there is a little bit of repetition here this letter to my Grandparents gives a little more detail and is great to have the original letter which is now some 76 years old.]
23 Squadron
R.A.F.
B.N.A.F.
18/2/1944
Dear Mother and Dad,
I think I might as well start an ordinary and, I trust, comparatively interesting letter, which I find quite impossible on an air letter card. Heaven knows how long it will take to get to you, if it ever does, as it will come by sea.
I can’t really tell you an awful lot about the trip out here. Suffice is to say that we were lunching at Algiers within 12-hours of leaving England, and that Algiers, as I have remarked before, is one town. We spent three days there this site and found our way around quite a bit. Tunis we managed to get through fairly quickly, but had time to look at the dock area which is a complete and utter shambles. We stayed the night at a peacetime luxury hotel – not quite so luxurious now, but still reasonable. One discomfort is the complete lack – throughout Algeria and Tunisia – of any hot water.
Anyway, after much cursing and binding, we reached our island. We were forced to spend two days in Cagliari and what a two days. It is, I believe, one or the most scientifically bombed areas in this theatre of war, and it certainly rates very high in my estimation as the most depressing town I’ve ever seen – far worse than Malta. There is literally nothing stirring at all. The Americane are running the nearby aerodrone and the one consolation was their rations which are excellent. We had tinned fruit for every meal, and you can guess how that would suit me. There was no light or heat anywhere, and the only course available at dusk was to go to bed, where it was at least warm. The Yanks have their last meal of the day at 5.30, and it leaves a complete blank for the rest of the evening. The weather was very had
…
and, after two days of it, Greg and I decided to take the drastic action of ‘hitching’ across the mountains on a truck. It was quite the coldest ride I’ve ever had – there was over a foot of snow on the ground and we came through blizzards and rain and what have you – all in an open-backed Yank 6-wheeler with no seats in. It took us 7-hours to get here, by which time we were more or less numb and extremely hungry, as we started before tea and didn’t get in till after 10. However, we rapidly knocked back a night flying supper and several very large whiskies, and the warmth of our welcome was sufficient to thaw us out pretty thoroughly. Anyway, we both agreed that it was better than hanging around that deadly hole waiting for the weather to clear.
We are the first crew to return to the Squadron from U.K. and everyone takes a very good view. My Flight-Sergeant who came out with us is still here out, and was very glad to see me, as are all the ground crew we brought Their chances of getting home are nil for 3-years, but I think they feel not quite so deserted if air crew come back for a second dose. Apart from that sentiment, they all think we are completely mad to leave home again.
The Squadron’s reputation stands as high as ever it did, and that’s saying quite a lot. They still fly hard and play even harder, and its no line-shoot to say that “the fighting 23rd” is a by- word in these parts.
We are stationed on an old Italian aerodrome, which is, like most of them, composed of very fine aerodrome buildings and an appalling aerodrome. However, it is sufficiently good to operate from. The squadron aircrew are billeted in an ex-Italian Fascist Headquarters, still under construction. It’s really a pity they were not allowed to finish it, as it would have been rather fine. However, we are in one
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of the finished bits, and are very comfortable. I am sharing a room with Greg and our windows face South across the bay and we look out across the bay to the mountains. The sea is only about 100-yards from the window, and the view is wizard. Unfortunately, most of the glass is missing, as there have been several sea mines go off in the bay after drifting ashore, and the RAF has been a bit playful around here too. Luckily it’s only the North winds that are cold, and as they are almost in the North they don’t worry us much. The central heating we manage to get going on most days with scrounged fuel, and this also supplies us with hot showers. The weather in distinctly colder than Malta, probably because these damn great mountains have something to do with it, and also because prevailing winds come straight down from the Alps. However, I’ve no doubt the end of this month will see us start to swelter a bit.
We have arranged to hire a 27-foot sailing boat from a Type across the bay, and that should be absolutely smashing for the odd day off.
The Italians have more or less deserted large number of Yugoslav prisoners of war who were here on the island. The poor beggars appear to be no-one’s care at the moment, and they are practically starving. We employ a dozen in the mess here as batmen, and they do a very good job too. They do all our washing for us, and do it as well as most laundries.
My Italian is not so hot as yet. We went out on a scrounging expedition yesterday afternoon and came back with two Turkeys, four chickens, 50 eggs, and a basket of lemons. Practically all trade is done in cigarettes or food. If we give them money, they’ve got nothing to spend it on anyhow. A few of the peasants
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have a smattering of French or German, and the mixed language that flies around at the bartering is just nobodies business. However, with much dumb show and nattering, we make out somehow.
The rate of exchange in 400 lira to the £ and 10 woodbines will fetch 50 lira in the black market in the Town. Eggs cost us 5 cigarettes. Lemons can be picked fresh from the trees at 1 ½ lira each but there are no oranges in the North of the island.
We have ‘egg orgies’ owing to their plentifulness, and it is no uncommon aight to see someone consume six fried eggs with no trimmings at two in the morning after some celebration. We got through 40 the other night. All the necessaries are a tin plate, some margarine pinched from the Mess, and a solid Meths-stove.
I have taken over a new aeroplane. ‘A’ and christened her Susan II. We hope to do our first ops as soon as we got some reasonable weather. I took her on a test trip round Sicily the other day and I had a wonderful time looking at all the places where we used to get into trouble last year. It’s amazing how different it looks in daylight.
Our only worry at the moment is that we’re in a pretty hectic malaria belt, but we may be moved before the danger period cames, no it’s no good worrying.
Well, I reckon that’s enough for this time, else I shan’t have anything left to write about. I hope you’ll pass this round, because I’ll never be able to write it all again. It will probably come home to a returning aircrew, who I hope will remember to post it in England.
Love to you all at home.
Caption
Egypt, March’44. With Bill Shankland and Abdul in front of the Sphinx and Giza Pyramids, Cairo.
I had scarcely properly settled in when I received a signal posting me to a Junior Commander’s Course in Cairo. This meant a journey of 1500 miles (the old American Taxi Service again) for a fortnight of luxury living on one of Tommy Cook’s [Thomas Cook & Son] houseboats on the Nile, attending lectures sporadically (no one was really interested) and spending the remaining hours in the Turf Club and Gezira Club of which we were made Hon. Members. There were no exams and I returned no wiser, but considerably poorer, than when I left. I ‘did’ the pyramids etc. on H.M. Government and flew 1500 miles back again. A funny old war indeed. From our houseboat we were rather amazed to watch the local women coming down to the river bank, defecating, washing themselves, and then filling their pots with drinking water from the river. We had strict warning that if we fell into the river it meant either a stomach-pump immediately or being dead from the dreaded Bilhartzia within forty-eight hours. The Gippos must have bred some pretty tough women.
Mementoes of second overseas tour
The American Squadron to whom I referred earlier were the only other allied unit on the island, everyone else having gone up North after the Germans. They were a friendly crowd but with odd habits. When we threw a Mess party and invited them over, we got rather drunk, as usual, and played silly games like rugger in the Mess. Not for them. When THEY threw a party the invited the entire contents of the local brothel including Madame. The standard drink was medicinal alcohol, of which they had unlimited supplies, laced with anything available – probably orange or tomato juice. Either way it was lethal. After an hour or so our hosts departed to their quarters with their ‘guests’ and we were left with our hangovers. Every one to their choice.
On one visit to a pub in our local village, Sassari, I must have drunk out of a dirty glass and I had to go to the local medical unit with a horrid throat.
Unfortunately for me, the only doctor on the island was American. Diphtheria had been eradicated in the States for some years and he failed to recognise the symptoms, so I was treated for tonsillitis. I was delirious for several days and they had to keep clearing my throat to enable me to breathe. My doctor at home, later, said that untreated diphtheria was nearly always fatal. It almost was.
By this time the invasion of Europe was imminent and it was apparently felt that we would be of more use flying from the U.K. again. We therefore left Alghero and flew our aircraft to Blida, the airport for Algiers, where we abandoned them. We eventually embarked on the S.S. Mooltan, 20,000 tons, a very luxurious liner, previously on the India run and still with her original crew. We duly set off in a fast, unescorted convoy bound for the Clyde. When we were well out in the Atlantic, our steering gear failed and we turned sharply towards an enormous liner in the outside column. Sirens blew and, with life-jackets on, we waited for the big bang. Fortunately we missed her, slowed to a stop, and sat quietly on the sea watching the rest of the convoy depart over the horizon. We were there for some time, during which we had a Sunday Service. Seldom has the hymn ‘For those in peril on the sea’ been more enthusiastically sung.
[Dad said they were just waiting for a U-Boat to appear and put a torpedo into them. A terrifying wait sitting quite helplessly in an empty sea.]
We anchored off Gourock on 29 May and on 1 June, as C.O. of the troops, I received a signal instructing the Squadron to report to RAF Little Snoring. When I told the gang our destination there was total disbelief and it was only when we climbed out of the train at Fakenham that the drivers of the buses confirmed that there was indeed such a place.
Having got ourselves bedded in, we received disembarkation leave and went on our different ways. I had felt unwell ever since my attack of ‘tonsillitis’, running some very high temperatures. I went for a check-up with my own doctor in Leicester and he first thought that I had caught polio and I was whipped into the Isolation Hospital. After many swabs and check-ups the health authority decided that I was suffering from the after effects of untreated diphtheria. By this time my eyesight was pretty useless and my legs had ceased to function. I was transferred to the RAF re-habilitation unit at Loughborough College, run by Dan Maskell of subsequent tennis fame. I had to learn to walk again, helped by with lots of massage from attractive nurses and swimming sessions with even more attractive ones. At the end of September I went for an RAF medical examination and (here I have to admit rather shamefacedly, to my mild disappointment) I was passed fit for flying duties and re-joined my Squadron on 7 October.
The European picture had changed considerably since we had left the U.K. and our targets were now principally in Germany and all rather heavily defended. In December we were fitted with radar and I took on a new radar operator, Hugh Boland, who was mad as a hatter and totally without a trace of fear. As we were crossing the enemy coast amid curtains of flak, he would laugh out loud and say, “Gosh, isn’t that pretty” – and he meant it!. He also carried a flute stuck in his flying jacket and would play happily to himself until I told him to belt up and find out where we were. His hobby on the ground was making up anything explosive such as bombs and rockets. I remember that he made a sort of Verey Pistol, and on the way home from a rather wild night in Norwich, during which we had stormed the Castle, he sat on the back step of the aircrew bus firing Verey lights along the road at following traffic. Judging by their evasive action, it must have been quite upsetting, seeing these coloured lights bouncing along the road towards them. To be frank, in the aircraft I would sooner have had a navigator who was as frightened as I was, but he did enjoy it so much.
[My understanding of this or a similar story was when a particularly impatient motorist was trying to pass their bus and Hugh had fired his Verey Pistol at him and he had to swerve off the road to avoid the flare. This resulted in a Sergeant from the local Constabulary visiting the base the next morning, asking questions about the possibility of men from the Squadron being responsible for the vehicle running off the road. Father, with a twinkle in his eye, explained that it was most unlikely that any of his men were involved in such an alleged incident and was amazed that the driver had seen what he claimed were lights bouncing down the road towards him. He politely asked whether the said driver had possibly been drinking. Nothing further was heard from the police on the matter. This also reminds me of another tale I heard concerning a couple of his pilots who had gone into Fakenham on their night off and having had such a good night out had lost track of time and missed the last bus back to the aerodrome. Rather than facing a lengthy walk in the dark, they had come across a steam roller which had its boiler still lit, but was dampened down for the night. They worked out how to fire the boiler up and to work the simple controls to enable them to drive the vehicle, somewhat slowly home. The unfortunate result of this adventure was that they had fallen asleep or lost control of the steam roller on arrival at the base and had run through a perimeter fence and then on through a bicycle shed flattening several of the Station bikes inside. The steam roller had then hit the stone steps of the Mess hall where it stalled. Where upon the two pilots duly abandoned it and fled. There was even more collateral damage as the next morning was an official visit from the ‘Queen Bee’ of the WAAFS in the area. A special morning tea was to be laid on in the Mess for her, but the building could not be accessed through the front door because of the runaway steam roller was blocking the entrance… Boys will be boys one might say…]
Leading the Squadron in the March Past the A.O.C. and the “Queen WAAF” on the occasion of the presentation of the Sunderland Cup. June 1945.
[This next picture taken in the Mess with Wing Commander ‘Sticky’ Murphy pulling down the ‘dice’ meaning that operations were on and they would be ‘dicing’ with death. If the scrubbing brush was pulled down it meant that ops were ‘Scrubbed’, perhaps due to bad weather, or other reasons and the bar would remain open. Much the preferred option I am sure at that stage in the long war.]
[ There was another incident regarding the afore mentioned Hugh Boland and his love for explosives. My Dad had a miniature working replica of a cannon cast in brass that had been used for starting pre-war sailing races. It had a barrel about 8 inches long and sat on a beautiful carriage with brass wheels. Hugh would load this up with gunpowder and gravel and fire it at the steel sides of an aircraft hangar which he managed to successfully penetrate at 50 paces.
This same cannon came home after the war and sat proudly on the mantelpiece in our lounge room. At my Sister’s 21st birthday party the venue was only licenced until midnight but for Father and his cronies the party had only just begun so everybody was invited back to our house to kick on. We had rather a long hall way and after a few more drinks Father decided to fire the cannon. The hall was stripped of rugs and the weapon duly loaded with powder. The crowd gathered behind the cannon and lights were extinguished. There was a bright flash and a long tongue of flame appeared, accompanied by a deafening roar which was magnified being indoors. The cannon recoiled down the hall at high speed when there were suddenly screams “I’ve been shot”. The lights were quickly restored and there was Hugh Boland with his face all covered with what appeared to be smoke stains and grime. General pandemonium ensued until it was discovered that Hugh had not been shot at all, but knowing what was about to take place had run into the lounge room where there was an open fire burning. He had put his hands up the chimney and blackened his face with soot and ran back into the party! What a memorable evening and at age 15 I was in complete awe of these wonderful men who really knew how to party!]
Next time…
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Four)
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day except on Remembrance Day when a special tribute to Shorty Dawson will be featured.
After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available to download.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Introduction is here.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part One) is here.
After I was grounded as my tour expired, I was still in charge of the Flight and had the dreadful task of despatching crews to various missions and then sitting impotently awaiting their return. Our losses had been high and new replacement crews were constantly being sent out. With a few flying hours behind them and lacking any operational experience, they failed to cope with difficult operational problems and, one after another, they failed to return.
I seemed to spend a great deal of time writing letters of condolence to their relatives. This was not a happy time for me.
[This was probably one of the most difficult times of the war for my Father. Many years later speaking to the son of another of the Squadron’s Pilots, Pete Smith, he told me about a letter his Father Flight Lieutenant Tommy Smith had received. Tommy was shot down and crashed in Holland, having successfully strafed an enemy airfield and destroyed 3 aircraft on the ground. He was badly burnt in the ensuing crash and became a P.O.W., but survived the war.]
Pete recently emailed me part of correspondence between Dad and Tommy:
Phil said the worst time of his life (not when he nearly died when ill in Italy!) [more on this later] was this time out in Italy-because he watched all these new crews turn up fresh from training, while being off flying at the time himself, and within 3 weeks he was writing kind words to their parents, when the truth of it was he and the other members of the squadron barely knew their names to link to their faces.)
Fortunately, a chance arose for me to return to the U.K. De Havilland’s, who made the Mosquitoes at Hatfield, asked that one of our original aircraft should be flown home to them for examination after several months in the Middle East. Since these planes were only wood stuck together with glue, we could understand their interest.
So I set off homewards with my navigator. However when I stopped for re-fuelling at Gibraltar, I found my ex-commanding officer,Wing Commander Wykeham-Barnes, wandering about on crutches having broken his leg in some high-jinx party in the Mess.
[Apparently one of the games, apart from indoor rugby, that they played was called ‘Highcockalorum’ (spelling??) which involved one chap sitting on the shoulders of another and then trying to wrestle off the opposing number. It is no wonder that limbs were occasionally damaged!]
He had set off for home some time earlier and was desperate to get to a new and important posting. So, he decided that he would come with me as my navigator, and my own navigator was fixed up with a berth on a destroyer.
We only had some rather primitive maps between us. [apparently a school atlas! The main idea was to fly off in the general direction of England and when one thought you were in radio range call up for directions!!] After all, we said over a few beers in the Mess, we really ought to be able to hit England. We decided that if we kept France on our right and then turned a bit more to the right. Lands’ End should loom up. Unfortunately, the weather over Cornwall was horrid and we failed to pick up our landfall. We then had to decide whether we were to the right of our course and flying up the English Channel or to the left, in which case we were flying towards the Irish Sea. Eventually I called up for a bearing from anyone who could hear and a very faint-voiced WAAF gave me a bearing of 340 degrees which indicated that we were indeed in the English Channel. However, land still failed to appear and, since fuel was getting low, I climbed to 10,000 feet to improve the R/T range and sent out a MAYDAY. This brought a controller on the air and, finding out where we were and what course we were steering, he said, “sorry you have been given a reciprocal bearing. Turn immediately onto course 160 degrees.” We wasted no time in so doing and landed safely with VERY little fuel.
[ I understand that when the aircraft finally landed and was taxiing up the runway one of the motors stopped. They were down to about 5 minutes of fuel and once the aircraft was on the ground the plane naturally tilted back towards the smaller rear wheel which meant that the remaining fuel drained away from the engine. A very close shave.]
The mistake by the WAAF was not uncommon since they twisted their location set through 360 degrees to line up with your transmission. You were then either forward or backward – if you see what I mean.
It was just as well that we did not have to ditch. We had had enough trouble getting Pete Wykeham-Barnes into the tiny cockpit on his crutches. Getting him out of the escape hatch would have been impossible. It was also just as well that I did not drown him since, having later dropped the hyphenated Barnes, he became Air Marshall Sir Peter Wykeham with a string of decorations and honours. He went on his own way and I flew the aircraft to Hatfield where, having unloaded a very large bunch of bananas bought in Gib, I took myself home. My Grandfather Wright was in Regent Road hospital after an operation. He was very chuffed with the bananas.
Caption of the image
Some of the Squadron in front of my beautiful “S” for Susan on the aerodrome at Luqa, Malta in March 1943. She took me on over 40 sorties and only gave trouble once.
After some leave I was posted to No. 60 Operational Training Unit at High Ercall in Shropshire as Chief Flying Instructor. This unit trained crews to be operational on Night Fighters before being posted to Squadrons. As Chief Flying Instructor I was responsible for checking each crew out at night. The controls available to the instructor (me) were minimal and I found the tests VERY frightening. Within weeks I was pestering Fighter Command to let me go back to something safe like operational flying. In fact, it took until February 1944 before mercy was taken on me and I was posted to re-join 23 Squadron, by then in Sardinia.
I have only two clear memories about High Ercall. One was when one of the pilots, having found out that his wife had been unfaithful to him with another pilot, persuaded her to go into the air, quite illegally, and then smartly dived from a great height onto the intersection of the runways on the airfield. I thought that this was going too far and was awfully messy.
The other was the matter of the cockerel. This creature used to crow outside our quarters and wake us up when we needed to sleep after night-flying. One day we caught it and took it up in a Tiger Moth to test its flying abilities. At 2000 feet we launched him over the side. He glided about for a minute or two very well, but then he looked down, squawked, folded his wings and plummeted down. There was no more crowing.
The next job was to get back to 23 Squadron which, by now, had moved themselves to Sardinia to be closer to the retreating Germans. So we said farewell to High Ercall, that had been a happy station, and set off for the staging pool at Lyneham. From there to Porthreath and in the fullness of time, climbed aboard a clapped out DC-3 that was bound for Gibraltar. Seven long hours later we duly arrived, and after sampling exotic food once more, set off in another DC-3 for Algiers. We were now enmeshed in the taxi service run, extremely efficiently, by the Americans. Their aircraft kept to a strict time table all along the North African coast. The problem was that they adhered strictly to priority documents. A spare tyre for an aircraft was priority 1 but aircrew in transit were priority 3. So we hung around and eventually got to Tunis. Stuck again and then found a flight going to Sardinia. It was an appallingly rough ride over mountains and most people, including a lot of nurses, were sick. Had I not been wearing pilot’s wings, I should have followed suit but could not bear the shame. We landed at Sassari on the south of the island and stuck again. Fortunately we met the skipper of an RAF rescue launch which was based there and he was glad of company. He also had access to Navy Rum. My first but no means my last experience of this admirable drink. Ultimately, and becoming desperate, we bribed our way on to an open-backed truck. The 100 mile journey over the mountains at 3000 feet and with temperatures below freezing seemed interminable. When we eventually reached our base at Alghero, they more or less had to lift us out and unbend us. We received a great welcome – the first crew to return to the Squadron and an enormous party developed. Unfortunately, the only available drink was vermouth. The after effects were not good and I was not able to look at vermouth in the face for at least five years!
The airfield was not a particularly good one. Scruffy in itself, it also lay right at the foot of some quite high mountains and considerable care was needed in landing and taking off. We shared the airfield with an American Squadron – of whom, more later. We were billeted in an ex-Facist headquarters – all marble and pretty-pretty, and also damn cold. Food was not too bad and the bartering price with the locals was (picture in my scrap book) one egg for 2 cigarettes. I remember making an omelette on one occasion with 48 eggs.
The surrounding hills were full of armed bandits (I think that they still are) and we travelled in convoy and well-armed when we ventured away from the airfield. Our operational activities were much the same as before, but over different territory and I note from my log book that I carried out intruder sorties over Rome, Spezia, Pisa, Florence, Rimini, Pescara and the Po valley.
Caption of the image
Bartering for eggs with the wretched locals. Current exchange was one egg for two cigarettes.
All these sorties were attacks on surface transport with bombs (which we then had) and cannon. No enemy aircraft were sighted. I don’t remember any very exciting moments. I was permanently frightened but I don’t recall being REALLY frightened.
Next post on November 12.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – The War Years (Part Three)
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day except on Remembrance Day when a special tribute to Shorty Dawson will be featured.
After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available for download.
One Man’s Addiction to Flying – Introduction is here.
When war was declared in September and we were called up, we expected to be posted to operational squadrons. We were, like most young men, desperate to have a go at the Germans before the war finished! To my dismay I was informed that my standard of flying and the number of hours that I had flown made me ideal material for training as a flying Instructor, of which there was a desperate need for training the vast intake of trainee pilots. (With hindsight, this action by the Air Ministry probably saved my life. Had I gone straight into the Battle of Britain I doubt I would have survived).
Since I had no choice anyway I duly reported to Hamble, No.3 Flying Training School and received a VERY rude shock. My own opinion of my flying ability was quite high. The opinion of my instructor, a regular RAF Flight Lieutenant with a sour outlook on life and bad breath, was quite different. He spent the first five days teaching me to fly PROPERLY but also to synchronise my instructor’s “patter” with what I was actually doing with the aircraft. We trainees practiced in pairs and our efforts were pretty hilarious. My instructor was, of course, quite right and it did me a power of good. But what a horrid three weeks that was. I passed out with good marks eventually.
With blessed relief I was then posted to No. 22 Elementary Flying Training School at Cambridge as a Flying Instructor. Apart from the actual job, which was a really hard grind, flying for five hours a day in aircraft with open cockpits in all weathers, day and night, I quite enjoyed myself and met many friends – one of whom I married!
I tried to do my best for my pupils, although I was still very mutinous about not being on operational work and tried my hardest to get a posting. The travelling examiner from Central Flying School gave me an “above average” rating as an instructor, so I must have learnt something at Hamble. I am convinced that this period of my career, frustrating though it was, contributed in a major way to my survival in the later stages of the war. Such concentrated and precise flying had made the handling of an aircraft almost second nature and I had no trouble in dealing with the various aircraft I later flew – under any circumstances – and there were indeed some very odd ones!
At last in December 1941, some 1687 flying hours later, I was released for operational flying. I did a short course on converting to twin-engine aircraft. I was then selected for training for night -fighters and went to No. 54 Operational Training Unit, where we flew Blenheims and Beaufighters and I crewed up with an observer, Pilot Officer (Pluto) Carcasson. He had decided that I might be safe to fly with and with him acting as Observer/ Radar Operator we completed our period of training on operational aircraft and under operational conditions.
I must have pleased somebody because at the end of the course, I was lucky enough to be posted to No. 157 Night Fighter Squadron operating from Castle Camps airfield near Cambridge. This was the first squadron to be equipped with the new Mosquito aircraft and everyone was green with envy. I fell in love with the Mosquito immediately and felt very much at home with it. Strangely enough, I did not fly any other type of aircraft operationally throughout the war. The role of the squadron was to intercept enemy bombers at night, using a rather elementary airborne radar system. We were in theory, guided towards our targets by a ground radar station operating from Trimingham on the Norfolk coast. They also were learning to operate new equipment and the results, at times, were quite farcical. We made a point of going over to see the controllers in off-duty moments to buy them a beer and apologies for the rather bad language over the R/T which mutual errors had brought forth.
We stooged around the night skies getting occasional blips on our radar, but signally failing to make satisfactory contacts leading to an attack. I found it all rather frustrating.
In September I heard on the grape vine that a new intruder Squadron was forming and that volunteers were being called for. From defence to attack was right up my street. I flew over to see the C.O. and got the job of Flight Commander of “B” Flight, No. 23 Squadron, with the rank of Squadron Leader. We were based at Bradwell Bay in Essex and were equipped with the Mosquito Mark VI aircraft.
Incidentally, on checking the Commanding Officer’s assessment in my log book on leaving 157 Squadron I was most delighted to read “as a night- fighter pilot – exceptional”. A very rare assessment and particularly gratifying to me since it came from Group Captain Gordon Slade, himself an extremely capable regular R. A. F. pilot, who later became a very famous test pilot.
This is where my war really started. I crewed up with Bill Gregory as my navigator (we did not carry radar). Greg was still with me four years later and seventy-two operational sorties later. We were, in fact, the only crew who survived from when the Squadron was formed.
Our job was to attack enemy airfields in France and Belgium and to create as much chaos and confusion as possible. Each crew was allocated an airfield known by Intelligence to be active and to cover it for a defined period. Knowledge of an intruder in the circuit quite definitely caused chaos of varying proportions. Runway lights were turned on and off, aircraft flew around with or without lights and the airfield ack/ack guns fired at everyone indiscriminately. After the war, examination of German records confirmed the damage done.
There was another ambition achieved. When I was instructing at Cambridge in 1941, we were carrying out night landings and take-offs at a satellite airfield nearby. There were five or six of us going around the circuit in our little unarmed Tiger Moths when a German aircraft appeared in the circuit, and started to take pot shots at our aircraft, all going gaily round with their navigation lights on. We had no radio in those days and not everyone reacted very quickly. I told my pupil to switch off our lights (the switches were in his cockpit) and he unfortunately pressed the wrong switch which ignited a magnesium flare, carried under the wing for use in case of an emergency landing away from the airfield. There was no means of dowsing it. The sight of this enormous light meandering around the sky probably frightened the German pilot as much as ourselves because, after dropping a stick of bombs along the runway he took off for home. We were, in any case, flying so slowly that he stood little chance of hitting anyone. I was very frightened and very cross and I remember saying to myself “Right, you…One day I will get my own back”. And here I was doing just that.
[One of the other stories Dad told me about his experiences at Cambridge was that around the time of the Battle of Britain there was a distinct possibility the German army might invade Britain. In preparation for such an invasion, the Training Squadron was being schooled to fly low over the beaches and drop hand held bombs from the rear cockpit! Low flying an unarmed bi-plane over invasion beaches at around 100 MPH did not inspire much confidence and it gives some idea of the dire state of the nation’s defences at that time. A well placed revolver shot could have bought them down! The only pleasure the pilots gained was that they were allowed to practice low flying and enjoyed ‘beating up’ the countryside and appearing over hedges, houses and haystacks at very low altitude frightening the poor locals below. Fortunately, as we now know the invasion was never to eventuate, but no doubt there were some seriously concerned young pilots not relishing a return to early WWI bombing practices over the trenches – much to the great relief of all.]
After the stint in covering an airfield, we were allowed to attack any target on the way home. Basically, if it moves, shoot it. Steam trains were the most spectacular targets. Our four cannons and four machine guns could perforate the boiler and produce a really good display. During the moon period’s motor transport also provided splendid targets. We were allowed to plan our own routes in and out and it was most satisfying. Just as we were really settling down to business, the ‘powers-that-be’ decided that a squadron of the new Mosquito aircraft would be a good thing in the Middle East. So, in a chaotic four-week period we were issued with twenty-four new aircraft, all of which had to be equipped for Middle East operations, tested for fuel consumption, firing tests etc. We flew down to Portreath just before Christmas 1942. Bad weather held us up for two days and then we took off in darkness for the 1300 mile sea crossing to Gibraltar, keeping well out from the Brest Peninsular on account that the Germans had knocked down three American planes the previous day and we were not in a fighting mode. The distance was near our maximum range and some concern was felt (especially among the aircrews). Eventually everyone arrived, two aircraft having to cut the corner over forbidden Spain and Portugal to conserve the last of their petrol. One aircraft crashed on the very small runway at Gibraltar.
Christmas was spent mostly happily in hospitable Gibraltar. On 28 December we flew on to Algiers where we had the unusual task of re-fuelling our aircraft from jerry cans of petrol. Very exhausting. We took off again in darkness, crossing the enemy-held coast South of Tunis and spent some time searching for Malta which seemed to be a very small island in a very large dark sea. Our ground crews and other non-flying personnel had travelled out on an aircraft carrier. Stories of the happenings on their journey became less and less plausible and more and more hilarious with repeated tellings. Anyway, we soon settled down and I was billeted with the other officers in a commandeered hotel on the sea front at Sliema.
I flew my first sortie from Luqa airfield on 30 December. This was over Sicily and I was immediately impressed by the difficulties of covering airfields and attacking transport in such mountainous country. My fears were later justified by the heavy losses which the Squadron suffered, the largest cause being flying into hills or trying to follow a train into a tunnel. Life on Malta was Fairly Spartan. Although the siege was virtually broken by the time we arrived, food and petrol were very scarce. To save petrol we were towed to the end of the runway by tractor. Unfortunately, also, the Air Sea Rescue launch was restricted to a radius of forty miles from the island. If one ditched forty-five miles out it was a long swim home.
Operationally one could have wished for no finer situation. We were within range of Sicily, Italy as far North as Naples and the North African coast from Misurata to Tunis. The main targets were road and rail traffic, shipping, and the air traffic between Sicily and Tunis. The tempo was brisk and the number of sorties flown by the Squadron during this period was higher than at any other time of the war. When Rommel’s troops were retreating along the desert coast my log book records several occasions during the moon periods when I flew two sorties each night with a pause for re-fuelling, re-arming and a cup of tea. The sea crossing was exactly two-hundred miles each way. The targets were quite irresistible – long convoys of soft-bellied transports silhouetted on the black tarmac road against the white sand with the desert moon making it almost as bright as day. My most satisfactory bonfire was from two enormous petrol tankers. My claim was confirmed by two other crews who had seen the flames from forty miles away and had come to investigate. As the German troops became more concentrated towards Tripoli the flak got very intense and our losses were heavy.Tripoli fell on 24 January. Group Captain Riley, who was Senior Air Staff Officer on Malta wanted to have a look so I took him along as a passenger. We landed with some trepidation and I hoped he knew what he was doing. He did and all was well. We drove into the town in a borrowed jeep. It all looked rather a mess.In February I happened to be in Headquarters when the Captain of a merchantman which had just docked rang up to invite a few officers to dinner. Since it was nearly my birthday I grabbed the chance. On board the S.S. Phemius in Grand Harbour we had white bread, sugar, butter and beef, all unknown luxuries since we had landed. The skipper was most impressed by the amount we consumed. In March I was commandeered by the “boss-man” Air Vice Marshall Sir Keith Park, then A.O.C. Malta, who wished to attend some high level conferences (he also wanted to show off one of his Mosquitoes). I flew him to Constantine and since I was acting unofficial A.D.C., I had an interesting dinner with General Spaatz and General Norstad. Next day I flew the A.V.M. to Algiers and had another interesting meal with Air Marshall Tedder and Air Vice Marshall Wigglesworth. I was in good odour because I got him there in impossible weather, whereas another aircraft flew into the Atlas Mountains and killed a lot of top brass.
In April I was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) and on the 24th I completed my extended tour of fifty operational intruder sorties and was grounded.
The citation for the DFC (which I did not want to include in this narrative, but was pressured by my wife) appeared in the “The Times of Malta” on 10 April as follows:
Squadron Leader Russell is the Flight Commander of a Mosquito Squadron. He has completed 195 hours of operational flying, 120 of them from Malta. He has made more than 40 intruder sorties. When based in England, S/Ldr. Russell intruded over France and Belgium and attacked and destroyed seven trains. Since his arrival in Malta he has intruded over Africa, Sicily and Italy. In attacks against trains and ships he has shown an unrelenting offensive spirit and destroyed much road transport, often in the face of intense anti-aircraft fire. In January he destroyed a Junkers 88 in a night combat. One night in March he set fire to a supply ship with cannon fire and then destroyed an ‘E’ boat. Two days later he attacked a destroyer, causing an explosion. Squadron Leader Russell has proved to be an exceptional Flight Commander and has set the highest standard of keenness and eagerness for action. His personal example in outstanding enthusiasm has materially contributed to the fine record of his Flight.”
I had a pleasant note from Air Vice Marshall Sir Keith Park, whom I had chauffeured to North Africa saying “Heartiest congratulations on your award of the Distinguished Flying Cross. Grand work. Keep it up”.
There had been some interesting moments. After we had shot down the JU 88 (he still had his lights on after taking off from Tunis airfield!) we lost an engine. It was a very hot night and we were flying in shorts. Whilst a Mosquito will fly happily on one engine, extra power is called for on the good engine and it runs hotter than normal. If the coolant boils the engine ceases to function. We flew the two-hundred miles back to Malta with our eyes glued to the temperature gauge willing it to stay below boiling. It did – just. We also lost an engine after rather stupidly having a go at a destroyer off the coast of Sicily. I told Greg to feather the engine but, in all the excitement, he pressed the wrong button and feather the good engine. There was a sudden dramatic silence with the sea rapidly approaching. Remedial action was taken a bit smartly and we landed happily on our good engine.
[ I remember Dad retelling this story. He said that he had got a bit carried away taking on a heavily armed destroyer who was very cross at being shot at. In a strafing run over the ship with all the German anti-aircraft guns trying to knock him out of the sky his 20 mm cannon shells must have hit a depth charge or a ready ammunition locker. He said there was a terrific explosion and all the guns on the aft of the ship ceased firing. However the Mosquito was hit and lost an engine and so they had another two-hundred mile flight home nervously watching the temperature gauge-again!
[Before we leave the Malta episode there are a couple of other stories I recall. The Allies had captured a huge amount of Italian armaments, including rifles and ammunition, some of which made its way to Malta. On some nights when they were not flying, some of the pilots would grab a rifle and some bullets and sit on the edge of the cliff tops. Seagulls would zoom up these cliffs on the updrafts and would present like clay pigeons. The pilots would spend hours potting away at these fast moving targets but I don’t ever recall hearing of any casualties on either side.
One of the pilots had somehow got hold of an Alsatian dog and he and Dad were out walking one day with the dog when it returned with something large in its mouth. It turned out to be part of a person’s arm complete with clothing, which was rather a gristly find. There was so much bomb damage that not everything was buried neatly. Funny what you remember.]
[In July 2012 my wife and I visited Malta. Sons like to see where their fathers fought and I was no exception. We landed at Luqa, which is the main airport for the island and also visited a satellite airfield nearby. Most of this second airfield has now been converted to a football stadium, but there were still a number of Nissan huts and signs of RAF buildings in the area. There was also a museum in the vicinity, with many interesting items including a model of a Mosquito and a complete 20mm cannon of the type installed in the aircraft. The staff on duty in the museum were most interested that my Father had been a pilot here in WWII and showed us badges and Crests of all the various squadrons that had been based here during the war. Malta has so much history and we would love to visit again and can thoroughly recommend it as a destination. Sliema, where the wartime pilots were billeted, is now a very modern, highly commercialised and crowded holiday spot, but we particularly enjoyed the old town of Valletta and the magnificent harbour.]
With the kind permission of the author, One Man’s Addiction to Flying will be published online each and every day except on Remembrance Day when a special tribute to Shorty Dawson will be featured.
After the online publication is completed, a PDF version will be available to download.
Front cover
One Man’s Addiction to Flying
Contents
Dedication
Foreword
The Early Years
The War Years
Post War Flying
Appendix 1
Acknowledgements
This book may not have ever been published without the help of Tim Robson who encouraged me to take on the project and put me in touch with the right people.
I am indebted to the professional services of Design Notion especially to Anna Sapio for her caring interest, level of detail and expertise in guiding me in the project and the creative spade work done so faithfully by Amanda Stephens.
Some of the photos have been supplied from family albums by my Sister Penny Polito (nee Russell) and others from Dad’s log books and my own collection of family memorabilia. Also thanks to Paul Hughes for photographic assistance. Special thanks to Pete Smith for correspondence, photos and great encouragement, and to Kym Boxall for the wonderful proof reading.
Front cover: Wing Commander S P Russell, DFC taken in Malta 1943 serving as a Squadron Leader
Rear cover: Four examples of the many different types of aircraft flown by my Father. Olympia Glider image courtesy of Mick Bajcar.
Back cover
Page 2
Blank page
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Dedication
To my lovely wife Beverly for her support and encouragement in getting this booklet in print. She has been very long suffering and generous in allowing me to spend many hours cooped up in my den pouring over texts and photos. Bev had a very special relationship with my father. I still hold a picture in my mind of Bev and my Father companionably working on a jigsaw puzzle. Neither speaking much but obviously enjoying each other’s company.
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Foreword
This short book is a combination of the writings of my late Father Wing Commander Samuel Philip Russell DFC, who had been encouraged by family to write down some of the memories of his many years of flying. I have taken the opportunity to add some anecdotal stories that he told me as a nipper, that are marked in [brackets] and also some photographs and cuttings from his various scrap books and photo albums.
I was born in 1948 only 3 years after the ending of the hostilities of the Second World War and I clearly remember Dad sitting on the edge of the bath telling me some of these stories before my bedtime when I was at primary school. As the years passed he said less and less about the war, so in many ways I was privileged to hear his accounts and I have now been encouraged by others to write them down for posterity. Many sons and daughters before me have written of their father’s exploits in the Second World War, I am therefore conscious these days, in my later years, of the courage of so many men and women who selflessly gave their all to defeat the tyranny of Nazi Germany and the Axis Powers. My Dad was the last man standing. All the original crews of his squadron were killed during the war. At his funeral, at age 96, he was also the last survivor of a large rugby club in his home city of Leicester, UK. Most of these men had gone to fight and so many did not return. He outlived them all, even those who did not enlist for various reasons.
This book is divided into three sections: The Early Years (pre-war), The War Years (Europe, North Africa and Malta) and Post War Flying.
I went to live in Australia in 1972 and so missed Dad getting his pilot’s licence back or even being taken for a flight in Norfolk on my many visits home. He loved Australia and came to see my family and I in Australia on several occasions but only flew once in Queensland and never in my home state of South Australia. In fact I do not think any of his three children ever flew with him, only his wife and one lucky grandson.
My Dad was my hero and I, and his whole family, are immensely proud of his achievements. I hope you may find something of his character, sense of duty, fun and courage in these pages.
Michael Philip Russell Adelaide, Australia
2020
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Like many other youngsters. I had always had a great ambition to fly an aircraft. I was one of the lucky ones who achieved that ambition because, for my 21st birthday, my Father put up the money for me to get my pilot’s licence.
I learned to fly with the Leicestershire Aero Club. I can still remember vividly the thrill of my first solo flight in a De Havilland Moth on 14 February 1937. Thereafter, I flew for every hour I could afford. I must have been fairly self-confident, because when I had done only 30 hours total flying, together with Bob Marks, a friend with similar experience, I hired the Club’s Leopard Moth and gaily departed for the South of France. More by luck than judgement we landed at Le Bourget, had two rather wild nights in Paris and then flew on in stages to Nice. The French gentlemen, who gave us the compulsory weather forecast for each leg of the flight, appeared to speak a different sort of French to ours and, although we nodded wisely, we had one or two unpleasant surprises (oh! Is THAT what he said). We got back safely and I still have the invoice from the Club for the hire of G-ACSF for 10 days for a total sum of 15 Pounds!
Fortunately for my rapidly depleting funds, in April 1937, with war obviously impending, the Government formed the Royal Airforce Volunteer Reserve. I was on the doorstep the next day and was one of the first to be enrolled as a Sergeant Pilot. Because of my previous experience, I was given a quick check-out by the Chief Flying Instructor and went solo on 25 April – fairly rapid progress! Flying was carried out at Desford aerodrome, which had been a civilian training school. Since the school paid for each hour which we members of the Reserve flew, we were actively encouraged to spend as much time in the air as possible. Fortune really smiled on me and I took full advantage of it.
We graduated onto Hawker Harts, Hinds and Audaxes, semi obsolete warplanes, but magnificent fun to fly. My Father was tolerant in giving me time off from my job in the family business and I flew all over England, by day and by night. By August 1939 I had accumulated 300 hours flying – all free of charge! In June I was commissioned with the rank of Pilot Officer in the R.A.F.V.R.- the first in the Midlands area and one of the first in the country.
RAF 23 Squadron 