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After almost a year and a half of doing mainly "circuits" and "bumps", I decided I was due a change and so volunteered to go back on operations. I had helped to form the first Heavy Conversion Unit under W/Comdr Willie Tait. He was my previous Flight Commander in 35 Squadron. and also on "Operation Colossus". The Unit, 29 Con. Flight, which operated from Leconfield.
At the end of `41, together with S/Ldr Robinson, we were sent to Dalton, a satellite of Topcliffe, the home of 102 Squadron, to convert the pilots from the twin-engine Whitley to the four—engine Halifax. After 4 months, Robbie elected to go back on "ops" and I took over Conversion Unit. I stayed with it until early '43 when it was disbanded. I was then posted to the new Heavy Conversion Unit at Rufforth as a Flight Commander.
After a month of the same old routine, I felt the "call to arms" and moved back to 102 Sqn. and took over "C flight". Of course, I was pretty well known there, as I had helped most of them convert to the Halifax. Within a couple of days, I had a great crew put together. When interviewing for a possible Flight Engineer, I was, to say the least, flabbergasted to see one of the candidates to be an ex RAF apprentice, who had joined up with me fourteen years back. We had been roommates for three years and had not met since we passed out in '31. Our RAF numbers ran consecutively. My first response was "My God, - Nippy". There was no difficulty filling that vacancy. All the crewmembers were very experienced and had previously done a tour of "ops" on Whitleys or Halifax.
We were ready to go on our first sortie in less than a week. The first target was on Tuesday night June 14th, ’43. It was Stuttgart on the south end of the Ruhr. The trip out and back was much as it used to be, plenty of searchlights and ’flak'. The target had already been marked for us by the Pathfinder Force. It was our duty to bomb the markers left by them. Not always correct, I'm afraid. With hundreds of bombers on each raid, I calculated our chances of meeting an enemy fighter must have been at least one in twenty. Just as well I didn't lay a bet on it. The next day, I was flown down to London and taken to the BBC to do a broadcast on the raid. I remember being introduced by Alva Liddell, the nine o'clock newsreader at the time. Little did I realize how useful that little broadcast was going to be for me, in the not too distant future.
On the following day, we were detailed for another maximum blitz. The target this time was the Skoda Works at Pilzen, Czechoslovakia. After dropping our bomb load, I was selected to make a second run over the target, to take photographs of the damage. We made the outward trip at about 12,000 ft. It was a clear moonlit night with a cloud ceiling at 9000 ft. As we neared the target area, it was like a million dollar firework display, with flak and searchlights forming a seemingly solid curtain. The searchlights were coning the aircraft, while the anti aircraft gunners tried their best to knock them out of the sky. Bombs exploded continuously on and around the markers. We made our run as briefed, from south to north, during the whole time being rocked and buffeted by anti aircraft shells exploding above and below, added to by running into the slipstream of other aircraft. Once our bombs were away, I did a quick about turn and the bombardier got cracking with the camera.
I never knew whose bright idea it was to suggest the "reverse run". We must have had charmed lives, as neither did we have a head-on collision, nor were we hit by the Lancaster’s bombs dropped from high above the Halifax's and due at the time. Once clear of the target area, I decided to take advantage of the stratus cloud cover at 9000 ft which had become solid soon after leaving the target. I descended right down to it so that the gunners only had to watch out for fighter attacks from above. I continued to hold this position until we were about 20 minutes from the coast, just approaching the Belgium/French border. Then the stratus cloud cover came to an end. Too late, I realized we were highly vulnerable to night fighter attack and almost immediately saw a bomber go down on my portside. I called the Rear Gunner on the intercom with the words, "Watch out for the fighters, there's a Lanc going down on the portside, keep your eyes...", I got not further. There was a single long burst of cannon fire from an unseen night fighter below. It was "Bang! - Bang! - Bang!" all flame and smoke. The stink of cordite was overwhelming I saw the shells coming through the inner wing, between the port inner engine and the fuselage. The burst took in the rear turret, killing the tail gunner, also the rear fuselage, wounding the mid-upper gunner.
My reaction was to immediately do a diving turn to port, to cut down the chance of getting a second burst from the fighter. It was then I saw the port wing was on fire. In what I thought was a relatively calm voice over the intercom, I said "Prepare to abandon aircraft". I then tried to pull the aircraft out of the dive. We were down to 6000 ft. It would not respond. Another look at the port wing showed a torch like flame cutting back through the wing like an acetylene burner.
My next order was not quite so calm. I shouted, "For God's sake, get out before the bloody wing falls off!" The bombardier, the radio op and the navigator soon made their exit through the front hatch. I was still trying to get the aircraft out of the dive. "Nippy", the flight engineer, came alongside and informed me that the port wing was a mass of flame, that the tail gunner had "had it" and the mid-upper was wounded but had got out through the rear hatch. I told Nippy, in no uncertain terms, to give me my parachute pack and then get out. He handed it across to me from the starboard sidewall. I was still holding on full rudder and aileron to stop the aircraft turning over and going into a spin. He tried to clip the chute on for a right-hander. I shouted, "Come on Nippy, you know I’m left handed". We had boxed each other during our apprentice days. He corrected his error. I said, "Now get out". He jumped down and dived through the hatch. When I saw him go, he looked all arms and legs and I thought, "Doesn't he look like a frog?"
It was now my turn. A glance at the altimeter showed that we were down below 3000 ft. I let go the controls, the aircraft turned over as I tried to leave the cockpit. My harness caught in the trimming gear. After a short struggle, I got free, only to find my headphones and helmet were still connected. I threw the helmet off with the satisfying thought, "You won't have to pay for that now! " I dived for the hatch but the centrifugal force generated by the spinning aircraft stopped me going through. I tried again, to no avail. It was, I decided, now too late, expecting to hit the ground any second. I leaned over the hatch and pulled the ripcord. The pilot-chute, similar to an umbrella, must have opened outside the hatch. I was whipped out like a cork out of a champagne bottle. I was on the end of the parachute in along swing to port.
I saw the aircraft burning fiercely, not far away. "My God, you’re saved", was my instant reaction. Then I hit the deck, backside first. Next the back of my head made contact with the road. "You’re wrong. That’s killed you anyway". But, it hadn't. I sat up and saw Nippy coming down about half a mile away.
Time 0400 hrs, 17th April 1943.