The plan for 2 Group had always been to remove to France, to become part of the AASF (Advanced Air Striking Force), the optimistically named small collection of Blenheim and Fairey Battle squadrons. This had nothing to do with defending and repelling any German invasion of France, an event not considered likely when the plan was drawn up. Rather, the AASF’s light bombers were meant to strike, and to strike into Germany from a more convenient distance should the enemy start bombing Britain. That this was an entirely mad idea must have occurred to almost everyone but it went ahead anyway.
The French thought differently, that the bigger the AASF, the less likely would be an invasion, but they never got around to building the aerodromes, so 2 Group stayed in Norfolk, Suffolk and Huntingdonshire. The Blenheims could still hit German targets but this looked less and less the way things would go. If the Germans decided to attack France via the Low Countries, the AASF would follow Plan B and become the defensive air-arm of the British Expeditionary Force, trying to stop an advance into France, and the home-based squadrons of 2 Group would be deployed in support. Some senior figures in the RAF believed that Blenheims and Battles would be of little use in stopping the Wehrmacht and would suffer huge losses in the process. Although it had been shown in several conflicts that bombers could be useful in support of an advancing army, there was no history of bombers trying to stop one.
The first real alarm came in January 1940. The Germans were planning an attack and 82 Squadron, along with 21, 107 and 110, were told on the 14th that they must get ready for a move to France. The invasion was expected on the 17th, and those four squadrons of Blenheims had better be prepared for some urgent and concentrated business. The warload would be 1,300lb of bombs, as two 250lb and the rest as twenty anti-personnel bombs, 40-pounders.
Individual skippers would decide on how to attack when they reached and saw the target, which would be an armoured column on a road or similar gathering; but there was something of a paradox in the orders. Going in above 1,000 feet would compromise accuracy; going in below that height would compromise the aircraft when its bombs went off.
Nothing happened on 17 January but it became increasingly clear that it was just the date the intelligence services had got wrong. The routes the enemy might take were mapped out, should he go for France directly with side thrusts into the Low Countries, or for France via Belgium, or for the whole lot starting at the top with The Netherlands. No. 82 at Watton and others had their instructions on 29 February: they were to cause traffic jams by bombing the leading troops and AFVs (Armoured Fighting Vehicles, or tanks) where the roads narrowed or there was some other opportune constriction.
The new year had blown in with a spell of atrocious weather that lasted past February. Fog, snow and rain meant that flying was much curtailed for No. 82. Squadron Leader Keeling came from the Air Ministry to give a talk: ‘Hints on how to escape if taken prisoner’. Lieutenant Caldecote-Smith RN lectured on the German navy. When there was work that could be done, it was photo-reconnaissance, some to find the positions of flak ships. Orders from Group HQ: ‘Two aircraft to take off to report on weather conditions East Anglia to vicinity of Heligoland. Avoid fighters by use of cloud etc.’
On another such trip came the squadron’s first operational loss, 27 February, when a standard flight to the Heligoland Bight ended in a mystery. Orders: ‘Two aircraft required to make recco and report on weather conditions also on salvage work on British submarines. Order of priority: (1) bring back a/c (2) weather recco (3) report on salvage operations.’
One of the crews was unable to meet their first priority. The body of F/O John Christopher Howell Blake, pilot, was found by the Germans. Those of Sergeant Thomas Sinclair Weightman, observer, aged 27, and AC1 Samuel Newton Middleton, WOp/AG, aged 19, never were.
Other squadrons’ encounters with German fighters – Messerschmitt 110 and 109 – had already shown the Blenheim to be slow and vulnerable in comparison, with tight formation the best defence, but F/O Blake and crew were not in a formation. They were on their own. Operations Record Book (ORB): ‘12.30. Two aircraft took off on recco. 16.35. One aircraft returned from recco.’ Leaving aside the German fighters, if they had tried to bomb a flak ship solo, the odds would have been heavily against them.
Then came the first definite blow inflicted on the enemy by No. 82. Squadron Leader (Acting Wing Commander) Miles ‘Paddy’ Delap, an Ulsterman from County Tyrone, with crew Corporal Allen Richards in the turret and observer Sgt Frank Wyness, were on a recco off Borkum on 11 March, looking at defences including barrage balloons. Descending to 4,000 feet they saw four brown balloons above the clouds. They came down to 1,000 feet and found a big surprise, a U-boat dawdling along on the surface. Delap dived into the attack, Wyness released their four bombs at once and they all saw two direct hits. The U-boat sank leaving only an oil slick but the aircraft had been damaged too, being so low over its own explosions. Delap had no idea at first what his unwelcome modifications were; he only knew that his Blenheim had acquired a tendency to fly in circles. Experienced pilot that he was, having qualified way back in 1928, he sorted things out and got them home. This is his DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross) citation, London Gazette, 2 April:
During March, 1940, this officer was the pilot of an aircraft engaged in a reconnaissance flight over the Heligoland Bight. Whilst penetrating into a strongly defended area and descending through cloud to about 1,000 feet a submarine was sighted moving slowly on the surface. Squadron Leader Delap immediately attacked from about 500 feet allowing the submarine no time in which to submerge. He released a salvo of four bombs and two direct hits were observed. Squadron Leader Delap then continued the reconnaissance which produced valuable results.
Richards and Wyness were both awarded the other-ranks equivalent of the DFC, the DFM (Distinguished Flying Medal), but it was not announced until 17 May, something of a red-letter day in the squadron’s history for altogether different reasons.
U-31 was the first U-boat sunk by the RAF. She was quite a famous vessel, having sunk nine Royal Navy and merchant ships with torpedoes and mines. All her crew of fifty-eight were lost but the Germans raised her, repaired and returned her to service to sink three more ships, to be herself sunk again in November by Royal Navy destroyer HMS Antelope, with most of the crew surviving, thus becoming the first U-boat to be sunk twice.
A satellite ’drome was built for Watton, down the road at Bodney, and the squadron removed there on 19 March, and matters in the war at large took a serious turn. German air attacks on the Royal Navy had had only modest success so far but, on the night of 17/18 March, five Heinkel 111s dive-bombed ships at Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands. They damaged two, HMS Norfolk and HMS Iron Duke, killing four officers and wounding more. The rest of the formation went for an aerodrome nearby, with insignificant results except that bombs fell on a tiny village, Bridge of Wraith, killing one civilian and wounding seven more.
The dead man, James Isbister, a council worker, had been standing in his doorway watching the action. The Germans claimed the civilian casualties were caused by detritus from British anti-aircraft fire. The British claimed that fifty bombs and many incendiaries had fallen on land, wrecking several cottages, a car, and setting a farm building and straw stacks alight.
A gentlemanly response was devised, being an attack on the seaplane base at Hörnum, at the far southern end of the island of Sylt. It was a land target but, as stated, there were no civilians. Fifty bombers went – thirty Whitleys, twenty Hampdens – of 50, 51, 61, 102 and 144 Squadrons, with six hours allocated between them for their bombing runs over the base. Forty-one of the attackers claimed to have found the target in clear weather, and to have hit it. Around twenty tons of general purpose bombs were dropped, plus 1,200 incendiaries, in the biggest job so far. One Whitley was lost, shot down by flak.
This was a first on many counts, including a technological first as the wireless operator in the leading aircraft was able to send coded messages reporting the attack, whi
ch started at 20.00, before it finished after 02.00, so that Mr Chamberlain could inform the House and the world that our bombers were hitting Germany, while the raid was still going on – ‘an event probably without precedent in the history of warfare’ as The Times had it.
Intelligence officers were delighted to hear about the accurate bombing, and 82 Squadron went to check early on the morning of the 20th. ORB: ‘These two aircraft (Sutcliffe and Newbatt) made a photographic recco of Hornum to cover the area of the bombing raid night 19/3/40–20/3/40. Excellent photographs obtained despite intense A.A. fire.’ Regrettably, the photographs showed little evidence of 41 bombers finding the target.
There were more routine recco flights while the Germans were assembling great numbers of ships in their northern ports, ready for what turned out to be their invasion of Denmark and Norway, although such routine was always laced with danger. Just how much the Germans didn’t like being photographed was discovered by Sq/Ldr Walter Sutcliffe, if he didn’t know already, when he took pictures through especially concentrated flak over Sylt on 20 March. He had the DFC for that, added to his previous flights over the Heligoland Bight.
Attacking ships was not a very fruitful use of bombers. Success was rare and the bombing was dangerous; but when warships set sail they became legitimate targets. The embargo against hitting actual pieces of Germany, in case of civilian casualties, did not apply. The orders said seek and destroy, and nine of 82 took off from Bodney on 1 April to look for them off the Danish coast. Six machines turned back, frustrated by cloud and rain. One section of three couldn’t find the warships either but just happened across two pairs of flak ships, two miles apart. Called by the Germans Vorpostenboot, outpost boat, these heavily armed conversions of small civilian ships, often fishing boats, were generally to be avoided if at all possible.
The section of three went in to bomb. No success was recorded for the attackers, but the defenders scored. ORB: ‘No hits were observed, but some bombs seen to fall 50 yards short. F/O G Harries, Sgt H H Kelleway and AC E L Wolverson failed to return. It was not known what happened to this aircraft.’ And that was despite the two others going back to the flak ships to search. It is not known either what happened to Harries, Kelleway and Wolverson, except that they were killed.
As one pilot put it, if you were flying alone in a Blenheim and met German fighters, you didn’t come home, and if you didn’t meet them, you were lucky. One 82 Squadron pilot proved another truth: flying was dangerous enough without meeting fighters. F/O Joe Hunt took off at dawn on 4 April to look for U-boats reported near Cuxhaven. The weather was awful, rain, cloud down almost to the sea, so he turned for home and the starboard engine stopped. Flying on one in a Blenheim was perfectly feasible, but Hunt lost his concentration and control of the aircraft when, in the middle of restarting his engine, he turned off the petrol supply. The machine dipped sharply back down towards the sea. Hunt got a grip again but not before he’d lost his tail wheel, snapped off in the water, and bent his starboard propellor. Like so many machines from the pre-computer age, the Blenheim had a great deal of built-in resilience and, even when severely handicapped, could be coaxed into performing by a skilled human. They climbed to safety and luckily not meeting the enemy, got home somehow.
This was remarkable for another reason. It was the second time he’d done it. Looking for an enemy naval patrol to attack, in similarly filthy weather, meant skimming the waves on 19 March. He dropped his bombs in a dive and managed to dip his tail wheel in the sea as he pulled out.
In a month of continuous stand-bys followed by nothing more than stand-downs, 4 April was a busy day, and all the work was concentrated on ships. ‘Flying in rain at 250 feet … Very intense and accurate AA fire and tracer bullet machine-gun fire … Two ships probably of Scharnhorst/Gneisenau class observed, photos taken by gunner with Contax camera not successful owing to rain.’ Well, at least he had a first-rate camera with him – German, of course, made by Zeiss Ikon of Dresden.
Another 82 Squadron crew saw the same ships and attacked with 250-pounders. ‘Nearest bomb dropped 40 yards ahead.’ Four destroyers were attacked by F/Lt George Watson: ‘One bomb was a near miss,’ and he had to fend off a Messerschmitt 110.
A few days later, 8 April, there were more fruitless ventures against shipping in northern waters, and a sergeant pilot called Bennett took a Blenheim up on a training flight with an extra man aboard, a student navigator. The aircraft emerged from cloud in a power dive about a mile from Bodney base above a field disguised as an aerodrome, a bombing decoy meant to lure the Germans away from Bodney and Watton, at Hollow Heath, Hilborough. Sgt Bennett baled out, too low to be safe, and was injured in the fall. His crew fared much worse, with no time to free themselves. Sgt Ian Murdoch, observer, age 22, MID (Mentioned in Despatches), was buried at home in Inverness. Sgt George Chapman, observer under training, was a 19-year-old lad from Invergordon, a dozen miles from Inverness as the Blenheim might fly. Frances and William, parents of AC2 John William Kempton, WOp/AG, 22, would receive their telegram at March in the Cambridgeshire fens.
Between 4 and 8 April, there were 45 Blenheim sorties flown looking for these ships. Of these, less than half found a ship and bombed it, but no crew recorded a hit.
Missing most of the previous base-hopping but arriving in time for Bodney and Watton – the squadron would be back there again on 1 May – was a new CO, and a most remarkable one. He was an Irish peer, the fifth Earl of Bandon, Percy Ronald Gardner Bernard, known to his many friends as Paddy.
In their youth, he and his twin brother went to the same schools, which must have been confusing for everyone. Paddy was officially known at Wellington College as Bernard Minor although he was the elder of the two by twenty minutes. Regardless of seniority, he was no great scholar, being much more inclined towards the rugby field and the running track. Sporting prowess had always been a good qualification for the armed forces but there was still the examination to pass if he was to be an officer, and that’s what he wanted more than anything, in the Royal Air Force.
He was eighteen, it was 1922, and the RAF was struggling to survive political attacks from the army and navy, both of which considered a separate air force entirely unnecessary. Paddy was going to join it come what may; and so he spent his final summer holiday cramming on an intensive training course, which hard work got him through the entrance exams for the RAF College, Cranwell.
Officer Cadet Bernard became the fifth Earl of Bandon when a fairly remote relation died, the cousin of his grandfather. This was good news all round. Although there was a more or less bankrupt estate in County Cork, the IRA had burned the castle down so Paddy was pleased to receive the government compensation instead. The young Lord Bandon suddenly had the modern equivalent of about £6 million in the bank. He also didn’t have the responsibility of a seat in the Lords, because it was an Irish peerage, but he did have that title, which was greatly pleasing to RAF senior management. The two other, more ancient services were quite used to having titled gentry in their ranks but it was a novelty for the newly born air force, and rather more important then than it would be now.
Paddy earned his wings and became an instructor for the rest of the 1920s, then had an overseas posting with 216 Squadron, originally a Royal Naval Air Service bomber unit but by this time flying mail and passengers between Empire stations in Africa and the Middle East. The passengers were usually troops, two dozen men sitting on the equivalent of camping stools, being flown to wherever trouble happened to be flaring up. The squadron was forging new routes all the time in some rather antiquated aircraft, including the Vickers Victoria. Paddy Bernard, now usually known as Paddy Bandon (sometimes lengthened to The Abandoned Earl), became the first pilot to fly non-stop from Khartoum to Cairo, about a thousand miles, which he achieved by his version of mid-air refuelling, from cans of petrol stored inside the aircraft.
He was a character, certainly, a notable practical joker who could swear as well as any trooper and who lacked somethi
ng of the gravity that might have been expected in higher places. But he was a dashing pilot and an inspirational leader men would gladly follow.
It was typical of him and his attitude to life that a new posting, as a staff officer to the Anglo-French Supreme War Council, did not dismay him in the slightest even though he could speak no French. He simply arranged a swap with an old pal who could speak it but had been sent to the Directorate of Plans. Soon after that he joined Bomber Command 2 Group, also as a staff officer, and swiftly moved on to operational command with 82 Squadron in early 1940.
Wing Commander Bandon would retire as Air Chief Marshal GBE, CB, CVO, DSO. Meanwhile, he had a war to fight and, as one pilot put it: ‘He was a fine morale booster, very loyal to the squadron and, in fact, he commanded affection and loyalty from everyone who met him.’
At the beginning of April 1940, the political tension could not have been higher, and not only about German plans for the Low Countries and France. Britain had been becoming increasingly furious with neutral Norway. Thousands of tons of (neutral) Swedish iron ore were being shipped from the Norwegian port of Narvik to Germany and thence down the ship-canal system to the industrial heartland, the Ruhr. The possibility of Britain invading Scandinavia had been put about by the German High Command for some time, to divert attention from their own campaign of espionage, intrigue and fifth-column work aided by the notorious Vidkun Quisling.
The Royal Navy laid mines inside Norwegian territorial waters in an attempt to stop the traffic. The Norwegian government issued a heated protest, threatening to declare war on Britain. The Allies jointly issued a list of sea areas into which Norwegian ships would sail at their peril.
The Squadron That Died Twice Page 3
