Lancaster Men

by Peter Rees

  Amid his turmoil, Alick had a glimmer of hope. Since the Nazi occupation of Europe, church bells throughout Britain had been ordered to be muffled, and not to be rung except as an alarm in the event of the long-feared invasion. The ban was lifted shortly before Christmas 1944. Early one crisp and clear Sunday morning, with a scattering of frost and snow, he strolled to his room, ‘Another operation under the belt, tired and replete, relaxed and off to bed, I was at peace with the world. Then across the flat Lincolnshire countryside sounded church bells. That first Sunday morning they must have rung simultaneously every church bell in the county. It had me near to tears.’

  The bells were pealing a favourite song of Alick’s since childhood, ‘Bells Across the Meadow’.

  As Alick prepared to celebrate Christmas in London, Jim Rowland set off on a daylight raid on the fighter airfield at Düsseldorf, carrying six 1000-pound bombs as well as target indicators. Just after takeoff, as his Lancaster cleared the fog, the port outer engine overheated and failed. Jim had a dilemma. He reasoned that at their weight they could probably reach 12,000 to 13,000 feet on three engines by the time they got to the Ruhr. This would put them above the light flak instead of at a more comfortable 18,000 to 20,000 feet. But they would also be much slower than the other bombers, which would have set off home by the time they arrived, leaving them on their own. On the other hand, by then the raid would be over, the enemy fighters would be short of fuel or already landing, and everyone on the ground—hopefully including the flak gunners—would be so busy fighting fires that they might not be expecting a lone bomber. It seemed worth a try.

  Jim knew he was perfectly entitled to abort the sortie and jettison his bombs at sea. He knew, too, that it was his decision to make. But he had always tried to work with the crew, to lead them rather than push them. He said: ‘I propose we continue with the op and see what height we can get and how late we shall be. We can decide whether to turn back later. Does anyone want to abort now? If anyone is doubtful, speak up.’ The answer was a unanimous ‘Let’s go on.’

  They managed to climb to just over 12,000 feet in clear blue sky. In the distance, Jim could see the airfield erupting in brown smoke laced with small chains of bright flashes. As the bombs exploded, the carpet of smoke puffs from the flak guns thickened. The flak barrage seemed to slacken, as the last of the main stream left the target and turned away, Jim began the bombing run, so far unseen. ‘Then all hell broke loose, and the big greasy black smoke-puffs with their flaming centres got closer. We stuck to our run, our three good engines at full bore, but now the shellbursts were close enough to be heard, and I could see we were being hit. “Bombs gone. Doors closed,” and I dived hard into a starboard corkscrew.’

  During the next ten minutes flak bursts followed whatever Jim did, but at last the fire eased and they headed west to a fog-covered England. The airfield was equipped with FIDO—Fog, Intensive Dispersal Of—to make landing easier. Petrol-fuelled burners down each side of the main runway produced a line of flame which, given the right conditions, would burn off enough fog over the ground to allow an aircraft to land using the Lorenz Beam blind-landing system. But the technique was expensive, consuming 70,000 gallons of petrol an hour. Jim found landing on FIDO an eerie experience.

  One would line up in the murk using Gee and the Standard Beam Approach, and then, wheels and flap down, run in on final approach at about 110 knots, keeping carefully to the right speed and rate of descent. If all went well, suddenly the fog directly in front of you would lighten and a wall of fire would loom up below. As you flew through it at about 100 feet, the end of the runway would materialise ahead between two lines of flame. You needed to have the aircraft well-trimmed as you passed over the threshold, especially if you had lost an engine, as the aircraft, now lightly loaded, would buck in the rising hot air. Now you checked the descent, rounded out, and the wheels touched seemingly all in the same moment. It was quite an experience.

  Lancaster ‘P for Peter’ made it safely down. But because of the damage sustained during the attack, the plane was written off. Jim did not know whether he would be court-martialled for endangering his crew and aircraft or commended for pressing on. The answer was an immediate DFC.

  39

  FOREBODINGS

  Flying Officer Colin Flockhart was in a reflective mood as he sat down to write to his family one bitterly cold night in early January 1945. His twenty-first birthday was less than a month away, and he wanted to let his mother and father in Sydney know his feelings about the war and flying in Bomber Command. Theirs was a close-knit family. Colin and his father Jack played in the same cricket team, and his mother, Lil, was the team scorer. Colin’s older brother, Alan, was in the AIF in New Guinea. His younger sister, Alison, idolised him. A few weeks earlier, she had posted Colin a pocket Bible for his birthday with the inscription: ‘To Dearest Colin, May God Watch Over You Always. From your devoted sister’.

  Colin had studied accountancy and joined the Commonwealth Bank before enlisting in the RAAF in October 1942. Now he was a pilot in 619 Squadron RAF, based at Strubby, Lincolnshire. ‘Being in a rather sentimental mood to-night,’ he wrote,

  I have decided to do something that I have meant to do for a long time—to record some impressions so that, if, by some chance, I should not finish my tour, you will know just how I feel about things and it may help to ease the suffering and sorrow you will endure at my loss.

  First of all let me say that I have enjoyed my Air Force service as I have enjoyed no other years of my life and I have been completely happy the whole time. I have travelled, made friendships and shared experiences which will stand me in good stead all my life, which otherwise I would probably never have had the opportunity of doing.

  This war was inevitable and I could never have been content unless I did my share, so never regret having given me your consent to enlist. I have been very proud to wear my uniform and have always striven to bring credit to the service as a whole.

  I believe in the cause for which we are fighting and I am equally sure that our actions are justified in the eyes of God. My faith in God never wavers and, after asking for His blessing, I go about my job in the manner you would have me do, for I feel sure He is watching over and protecting me.

  Faith in God is a wonderful thing—it dispels your doubts and misgivings and replaces them with a feeling of contentment.

  I want you to know therefore that if I should die I shall not be afraid because my heart is at ease.

  Lastly, I want to pay a tribute to all of you; Mother, Dad, Alan and Alison. I don’t know why I should deserve such a splendid family but I do know that there is nothing finer and I love you all very dearly.

  Well that is about as much as I can say on paper so I shall finish up now. Please don’t think I’m pessimistic but I do realise what the odds are and I have seen too many of my friends pass on without leaving any words of hope or encouragement behind. Cheerio and keep smiling though your hearts are breaking.

  Colin sealed the envelope and pencilled on it the instruction that it was ‘to be posted in the event of my death’.

  His crew were all British except for Flight Sergeant Eric Smith, from Sydney, the wireless operator/air gunner. On the evening of 7 January 1945, they set off for a raid on Munich in Lancaster ‘M for Mike’, along with 644 other Lancasters and nine Mosquitos. The two previous raids on the Bavarian capital had approached from behind the Alps. This time, the crews were told the approach would be direct, as that might confuse the German defences. It did. The city was caught unprepared, and nearly 2200 tons of bombs were dropped in what the RAF claimed was a successful attack. Among those on the raid was Alick Roberts, in his Lancaster ‘J for Jig’ on his first operation since coming back from leave. This was Alick’s fifteenth op, which meant he was halfway through his tour.

  Colin Flockhart and the crew of ‘M for Mike’ dropped their bomb load and headed for home in deteriorating weather. Eleven Lancasters had been shot down over Munich. Now the bad we
ather downed four more. One of them was Colin’s. Four days later, a telegram informed his family that Colin’s aircraft was missing. As they grappled with the shock, one of Colin’s friends, Flying Officer Dennis Godfrey, who had trained with him, wrote a letter to his sister Alison, urging her to be brave and holding out hope that he would be found safe. ‘Life can’t be that cruel, it doesn’t take away sons like Colin,’ Dennis wrote. ‘When I first heard the news I refused to believe it, just as I refuse to believe that anything has happened to him.’

  But it had. Flying over St Pierre in France, Colin’s Lancaster was seen to disintegrate in the air, possibly after a collision with another Lancaster from 49 Squadron RAF in the stormy weather. All on board were killed. The bodies were recovered and buried in the cemetery at Villenueve-St-Georges, eighteen kilometres south of Paris.

  Lil Flockhart was at home when the postwoman came on 15 January. The postwoman had delivered many letters from Colin and Alan which she knew their parents were eager to read. Now she knew she was bringing the message that every parent in Australia dreaded. The telegram expressed deep regret that Colin was dead. His body had been identified among seven at the crash site.

  Lil phoned Jack at his office in the city. Before he left for home, he called Alison, a junior typist with the Rural Bank in nearby Martin Place, who also left for home immediately. In shock, she wondered how people on the train could be laughing and joking when she had just lost her brother. By the time she arrived home and walked in through the open front door, her father was sitting alone in the lounge room and weeping. Lil, who had been in the next room consumed by her thoughts went and consoled Jack. Not long after, she told Alison that when the telegram arrived she had gone into the bedroom and knelt to pray. Alison recalled: ‘When she got up she told me there was a vision of Colin. He was standing there with his arms outstretched. My mother said she went towards him, embraced him and he kissed her goodbye.’ Lil coped stoically with her son’s death, but Jack never got over it. He died eighteen months later, at the age of fifty-two.

  In Colin’s plane, the two Australian and five English crew members, whose average age was just twenty-one, formed a close bond—so close that in letters to their families, they would write of their shared experiences. The mother of rear gunner Tony Murdoch, later wrote to Lil Flockhart: ‘I have often thought of you and more especially on the anniversary of our sons’ deaths. My son . . . had a very high opinion of your son, Colin, both from the point of view of character and his abilities as a pilot, and had every confidence in him.’

  The commanding officer of 619 Squadron echoed this in a letter to the Flockharts. He said he had every confidence in Colin, and was sure ‘he would have done everything possible to ensure the safety of his crew and himself’. In mid-March, Colin’s last letter, and the Bible that Alison had sent to her brother, both arrived at the Flockhart home.

  Meanwhile, Alick Roberts returned to base, intent on keeping the jinx on Australians in 44 Squadron at bay. Four more ops were successfully completed before he headed off on the night of 1 February for a raid on Siegen, east of Cologne. The 271 Lancasters and eleven Mosquitos were to attack rail facilities. Despite problems with marking, the raid was a fairly routine one for Alick—but not for Flight Lieutenant Charlie Ellis, from Daylesford, Victoria, gunnery leader of 467 Squadron. The Siegen raid was the last trip of his second tour.

  Charlie’s regular crew were not flying that night, and as Flight Lieutenant Keith Livingstone’s rear gunner was sick, he nominated himself to fill the gunner’s place on a raid that would also be the final trip of Keith’s tour. With this in mind, Charlie joked to other crew members before the briefing, ‘We are a moral to get the “chop” tonight.’ At briefing, the intelligence officer expressed confidence that the end of the war was imminent. That being the case, he told them, if they were shot down, they should not try to escape.

  The flight was uneventful, apart from the usual flak en route to Germany. After they had bombed on target, the bomb aimer reported that a 1000-pounder was hung up in the bomb bay. As he tried to free the bomb, the starboard inner engine was hit and burst into flames. Since the attack had not come from the rear, Charlie reasoned that it had probably come from a night fighter below them, firing upwards. With the Lancaster crippled, the skipper called over the intercom: ‘Looks like we’ve had it, fellows, you’d better bail out.’ Charlie clambered out of his turret into the fuselage.

  After walking up forward I met the mid-upper gunner, Ray Brown, who had already jettisoned the escape hatch. The flames of the fire in the engine were streaming down the side of the aircraft [and] Ray said, You bastard, Ellis, you’ve ‘mozzed’ us!’

  He then turned and disappeared through the escape hatch. I followed suit and the next thing I knew was a welcome jerk on the parachute harness which indicated that the ‘chute had opened. While descending I could still hear Ray, who was of course floating down below me, saying ‘You bastard Ellis!’ I saw the burning aircraft pass underneath me and then it turned back onto its original course. I thought, ‘Hell, he’s flying back to base and leaving us in Germany!’

  Charlie landed in a snowdrift about two metres deep, released himself from the parachute harness and buried the gear in the snow. He took shelter in a wrecked train carriage, only to be arrested by two German soldiers. They took him to a military post from where he was sent to Frankfurt for interrogation.

  Behind the desk stood a well-dressed civilian who greeted me with the words, ‘How is the accommodation? Is the food all right, Mr Ellis?’ in fluent English. He then proceeded to interrogate me on all aspects of my base at Waddington, particularly with regard to whether our aircraft were equipped with the American .50 calibre Browning machine-gun. I pleaded ignorance—he then sneered at me and said, ‘I know more about your station than you know yourself.’

  The interrogator not only knew the name of Waddington’s commanding officer, but also that Charlie was the squadron gunnery leader. Charlie and the rest of the captured crew were later taken to a holding centre at Nuremberg before being transferred to Stalag VIIA Moosburg, from which they were subsequently liberated.

  40

  THE PRISONER IN THE CELL NEXT DOOR

  One evening just before Christmas 1944, while he was on leave in London, Jim Rowland thought it was time to lighten the mood of the party at Una Brown’s Kensington flat. He asked Una if she would read his palm. He had seen Una do this once or twice before, and she had ‘seen’ things that made everyone present laugh. Una was unwilling at first, saying that she had to be in the right frame of mind, but finally she took Jim’s hand and stared at his palm. She spoke of incidents from Jim’s past, and told him, ‘You have a scar on the ball of your left foot. I see you as a boy in the country, barefoot with an axe.’ When he was nine or ten, Jim had been chopping wood behind the vegetable garden when the axe slipped and badly cut the ball of his foot.

  But there was no way she could have known about it. Then she traced my lifeline, said that one day I should go into a job like politics but not politics, and that I should be successful but that the top job would elude me. We laughed, as politics was not a calling that I admired or which had any attraction for me, but she said that it was clearly in my hand. Then suddenly she stopped, burst into tears, and would say no more.

  Jim was surprised, but he put Una’s tears down to the emotional toll of Scott MacPhillamy’s death and soon forgot the incident. Over Christmas, he sat down wrote a long letter to his girlfriend, Barb Woodward, who lived at Grafton, New South Wales, about 200 kilometres from Jim’s family in Armidale. The letter, he wrote, was one of those that would not be sent unless its author was killed: ‘I want you to imagine that I am getting my body to organise this for me before it meets its Armageddon, and so you’ll know that this is still me writing it.’ Jim said he was not afraid of death, which he regarded as simply the ‘Curtain on Act 1’. He wanted Barb to know how he felt about her.

  I was nearer being in love with you than I have
ever been, and so your friendship and your letters have given me a great deal of happiness and general joie de vivre in the past. My thanks are thus due to you, though I knew I hadn’t a hope—about as much chance as a snowball in Hell . . . I have known the bitter-sweetness of the love of you from a distance.

  Jim imagined that it was ‘not painful or sorrowful or unpleasant to be dead—at worst, it can only be oblivion and peace, without hurry, without pain, without worry, without sorrow’. He wanted Barb to forget him until they met in the hereafter in ‘sixty or seventy years’. ‘Remember me as the bloke who used to consider it a very great pleasure and an honour to hold you in his arms on the dance floor, an ugly but admiring young man without much to commend him who esteems it an inspiration to have known you.’ He added some thoughts about war, saying that while he had always wanted to fly he never wanted to fight.

  I can gain no pleasure nor can I assuage any hatred by flying an aircraft through a barrier of hurtling death and unlovely searing searchlights; it doesn’t please me to know that I and six other fools might soon find ourselves dropping the centre of a flaming molten metal thing trailing flame and molten separated pieces streaming in its last dive. And I gain less from feeling the sudden lift that four or five tons of agony are gone to join and increase the great furnace below, to witness the cremation of people I’ve never seen, from hearing the laconic ‘Bombs gone, skipper,’ of Jim, the bomb aimer.

  He finished by talking of the coming night’s operation. ‘If I get back tonight I’ll probably write you some more of this tripe. If I don’t the chop has got me.’ After addressing the envelope, he attached a note: ‘Please post when it is certain I’ve gone for a Burton. (Any weak rhyme [with Burton] is quite unintentional.)’