Below you will see links to this books different chapters, it's too big to put into one page. Hope you enjoy reading and if you wish to pass comments onto Wally would you PLEASE email the webmaster, thanks. Go back to Wally's MAIN page.
After serving for over ten years in the RAF, the last four as a sergeant pilot with over 2000 flying hours, I found myself about to take off on my first operational bombing sortie.
Prior to this trip, I had gained most of my flying hours as a Ferry Pilot, collecting and delivering aircraft from factories to maintenance units and squadrons. Laterally, as a member of the Continental Ferry Pool, I flew replacement aircraft to France.
Dunkirk saw the end of the Ferry Pools as far as regular pilots were concerned. I had by then ferried over 400 aircraft of more than thirty different types, both single and twin engine ones.
Included in these were the Blenheim, Anson, Hudson, Hampden, Wellington, Whitley, Hurricane and Spitfire, to name but a few.
The squadron was equipped with the Whitley bomber. For this first sortie, I was crewed up as second pilot and bomb aimer, to a young pilot officer who had just completed over twenty trips as 'second dickey'. He was now ready to take his first trip as captain, so the
Flight Commander informed me. He also said that he expected me to take over a crew of my own after a couple of trips, over the 'other side' for the necessary operational experience. I must admit this was a welcome relief to hear. It's no fun flying in all weathers
with someone who is a complete stranger — and to you a beginner.
It was the 9th September 1940, at approximately 10.30 pm, when we taxied out for take off.
The five crew members were the captain, second pilot, navigator, wireless operator and rear gunner. The weather was by no means 'nice' at all - slight drizzle, poor visibility and a cloud base of less than 800 feet.
Our airfield was Dishforth, Yorkshire, just north of Borobridge, bordering the Great North Road. In those days, it was a grass airfield and had no runways. We used glimlamps and gooseneck flares to mark the take off path. Having reached the flare path, the pilot
tested the engines, one at a time, by opening them up and checking the oil pressures, temperature, mag drops etc. Much to my surprise, he then ordered me to take up the bomb aimer’s position in the nose bay, so that I would be able to report any landmarks that I
might spot, as we flew over them. Not a happy place to be, during take off!
At that time 'check lists' for take off were not invented. They came into use with the four engine craft. Each pilot had his own mental rhyme he recited and followed. We lined up for take off, and then the engines opened up and we were lumbering down the flare path. From my nose position, it seemed we were never going to get airborne. I was wrong. We made it just as the red lamps marking the end of the run passed underneath. The next few seconds were a nightmare.
The aircraft seemed to be wallowing about like a cork in a torrent.
We steadied a bit after the wheels came up. This was just before I got an urgent call from the pilot to come back and help determine why the aircraft was so sluggish and he was unable to gain height. I quickly spotted the fault. He had neglected to raise the flaps! I
returned to my lookout position while he continued his climb and set course.
The cloud became less dense as were climbing. After a while, the navigator announced that we should be over the coastline at Filey any minute. I looked down and sure enough, saw breakers marking a shoreline. Some time later, I was recalled to the cockpit by the pilot to check why he was unable to reach his normal operating height. After a careful check of the engine instruments, I found that they were in the 'Hot Air' position instead of the 'Cold Air', thus reducing the power output. `Hot Air' was only used in severe icing conditions.
l We finally reached our desired attitude and continued towards Bremen in the German Ruhr. As we neared the area, the cloud cover was 10/10 and hid the ground completely. We circled over our D.R. position for Bremen without any sighting at all. We could see the odd searchlight reflections but nothing else. The captain, as per instructions, aborted the raid, as we were unable to identify the target. I think the time was now about 0100 hours. The navigator then gave the captain a course to steer for base and he set out on the new
heading.
About thirty minutes later he called me to come up and take over the flying, as he had done his share, and it was now my turn. He climbed out of the pilot’s seat and I climbed in. The first thing I did, was to check the gyro heading against the compass. Much to my horror, there was a 180 degree discrepancy between the two!
The compass needle pointed south instead of north. The captain immediately assured me it must have happened when he turned for home, after circling the target. So instead of flying towards home, we had flown an extra half an hour deeper into Germany.
Accordingly, I turned and flew on a westerly heading. I must say, I was none too happy about his reasoning, and after some two hours on that course, asked the wireless operator about the strength of his signals. He said they were very faint and not getting any stronger. I advised the captain of the latest and told him I was going to about turn and descend below the cloud. He was not too keen, but the rest of crew was on my side.
On breaking cloud, all we could see were miles of grey ocean! I tried to reassure the captain that it had to be the Atlantic. He thought it might well be the Baltic. Be as it may, I continued flying east for what seemed a lifetime. Had I made a mistake? If we didn't make it, no one would ever know — or would they?
As time dragged on, the needles on the petrol gauge got lower and lower. This added to our anxieties, then just after 0700 hours, I saw landfall ahead. I know now how Christopher Columbus felt on his first sighting of America!
As we crossed the coastline with its numerous inlets, I concluded it must be the south-west tip of Ireland and informed the captain accordingly. Being a neutral country, he thought we should land as soon as possible, as the petrol tanks were pretty low. I persuaded him to give me half an hour, as I thought we could make Aldergrove, an airfield I had often used in my ferrying days. We landed just after 0800 hours, having been airborne for over nine hours. We were down to the last 50 gallons of petrol!
After refueling the aircraft, and ourselves, we flew back to Dishforth, where we were debriefed.
It was concluded that we had headed west from take off'!
The sighting of the first coastline was that of Morecambe Bay, a similar distance west from Dishforth, as Filey was east. Circling the 'assumed' target had been Sligo in North West Ireland.
From there we went east to Dublin before turning west to a very wet spot, far out in the Atlantic, for our last turn. I have never worked out how, after take off, we managed to get over the Penines!
Shortly after this fiasco, compass needles were changed from a straight arrow to a T, making it far less likely to make a similar mistake in the restricted lighting of the cockpit at night.
Next Chapter: 'Hot Pants'.