I always had my boots undone, thinking that we might ditch in the sea and I’d need to get rid of them quickly. Just as I lost my chocolate ration, hoping that some Danish children might find it rather than a German soldier, I came free of my boots and the aircraft. As it hurtled on to crash a moment later, I pulled my ripcord and floated down on one of the shortest parachute journeys ever. I can’t have been more than five or six hundred feet up when I pulled that cord, because I landed literally seconds later.
The fighters’ attack on Bristow’s Blenheim was almost simultaneous with their similarly fatal destruction of Nellie Ellen’s, R3802 UX/A, port wingman of A Flight’s rear section. Ellen himself was unscathed but his aircraft was out of control and falling fast. The turret had taken a thumping, so there was no intercom. He could only make wild gestures at his observer, John Dance, to jump, remembering that this was the man who had been willing, in the scramble to take off, to fly without a chute. Sergeant Dance remembered that as he rolled out of the front hatch.
Ellen couldn’t see anything of his WOp/AG, Gordon Davies. Either he was dead on the floor or he’d made his own decision and gone. The pilot’s hatch was stuck tight and there was no time to wrestle with it. Ellen slid down and out through the nose, pulled his ripcord and landed in a bog. A moment later, somebody else did the same. Maybe it was Taffy Davies. John Bristow:
‘I actually landed right beside Flight Lieutenant Ellen, who said hello like we were meeting in the pub, and produced a little flask of whisky. I didn’t think that was in the King’s Regulations but we had a drink anyway. Just then, a farm worker came running up to us, and we asked him how we could get away and back to England. He didn’t understand the words but he got the message and led us to a barn.’
Two left now, as far as the fighter pilots knew. Like Jones and Ellen before them, Clive Wigley in R3913 UX/M, and Edward Lart in T1934 UX/R, were subject to the Germans’ full attention at more or less the same time. The two crews knew what had already happened behind them. They knew exactly what to expect next. The WOp/AGs, Archie Morrison and Gus Beeby, would have been describing on the intercom the awful slaughter happening not many yards away. As Jones’s and Ellen’s machines went down, with three parachutes between them, those six men, all that seemingly remained of the Ålborg raid, must have been fully aware of their fate. It was their turn.
Wigley, observer Sergeant Arthur Patchett and Morrison had done one op with 82 Squadron, and that was a no-cloud turn-back three days before, against Dutch aerodromes. Danish aerodromes were obviously very different. In view of the pilot’s inexperience, Lart presumably had Wigley as his starboard wingman so he could look after the young man.
They were some 25 miles beyond the target and with the coast in sight, when volley after volley crashed through their aircraft. It is not known who was killed then and who died in the crashes, but there were no parachutes this time. The wrecks of the two planes were within a mile of each other in the Klithuse area, one in the woods, Wigley’s, the other in a field. When Dr Christensen of Brovst hospital came out in the afternoon to inspect the remains, he found that Lart’s crash had been so violent that only one body could be identified, that of observer Maurice Gillingham.
Where was John Oates the while? With his turret knocked out by flak he had no defences apart from the famous under-gun, and no wireless to ask for bearings or to contact base. He had no intercom, so the crew couldn’t talk. Although he had escaped the fighters by his hedge-hopping, he was carrying the extra damage they had inflicted to add to the holes punched by the flak. Oates:
By the time we crossed the coast we were in bad shape. The port engine was only partly serviceable, we had big holes in the wings, and even if we’d had full power we’d lost petrol in the attacks and didn’t have enough to reach anywhere friendly. I thought the gunner was either dead or seriously wounded in the turret, so we had nobody to operate the wireless even if it was still working.
There was no choice, really. Ditching in the North Sea with no means of letting anyone know where they were, could mean days and nights in the dinghy, assuming that was still serviceable, with no good chance of being found. It was still usual for a squadron to mount searches over the sea if a crew was known to be lost out there somewhere, but no searches would have been made for Oates because there would have been no messages. To be found, by British, Danish or German, would have been a matter of pure luck. Oates turned back to attempt a forced landing.
Before he could find a suitable place to do that, the fighters found him again flying conveniently into view, and tried to force a landing of a different sort. Oates remembered ‘flying up the street of a small town and under some telephone wires’.
Well, that’s one way of putting it. The small town was Vester Torup, three miles from the coast, and Oates was having to fly like a mobbed sparrowhawk, twisting and turning in desperation, bullets coming at him continuously and ricocheting off the village houses. Being unable to strike back, with only one fully functioning engine and parts of his wings missing from the flak attack so long ago – all of fifteen minutes – he knew that if he carried on for only one more minute, they would be shot out of the air and would all probably be killed. So, while he still had some measure of control, he decided to crashland wherever he could, right now. With remarkable coolness, he switched on the fire extinguishers and headed down for he knew not what.
His aerobatics had taken him back towards the coast, towards the Torup Strand, and he was less than a mile from ditching in the Lundfjord when he hit his landing ground, a rough field east of Vust, and the impact knocked him out:
‘After the crash I recovered consciousness [still in his seat] to see the gunner [Sgt Tom Graham] walking about but he was too dazed to know what he was doing. Biden was trapped forward of the cockpit. We were very lucky not to catch fire. I was paralysed from the waist down but not in pain.’
Oates had severe spinal injuries, cracks in his skull and various other wounds. Biden was better off but not by much, while Graham just had a few scratches. With no possibility of escape in this flat, bare countryside, his presence well advertised to the Germans, it was decided that Graham should stay with the aircraft and destroy anything that might be useful information for the enemy, while the other two sought to benefit from the help that appeared to be arriving. Oates remembered: ‘Two Danish farmers lifted Biden and me out of the aircraft and an ambulance took us to Fjerritslev hospital, where we were treated liked heroes.’
And then there were none.
Here is the official German first report of the incident, before all the data had been collected and analysed:
At 12.16 there was an attack by 11 Bristol Blenheims on Ålborg West airfield, during which five were shot down in flames; in addition a further three were brought down by fighter planes; the rest flew off to the west. These machines were also said to be shot down by fighters.
Damage: so far the following has been reported: one Danish worker killed, six wounded, slight damage to the runway.
So far two officers and two other ranks captured. The others are said to have fled.
Later, two more of the Danes died of their injuries. There were no German casualties. Eyewitness accounts were reported in the local newspaper Ålborg Stiftstidende (Morning News). The Germans of course censored the Danish press but were very happy to give free rein to journalists when they had such good news to write about.
A man who worked in the Norden cement factory heard the air-raid siren and ran for the shelter. On his way, he heard and saw some of the fight.
As I left the factory the first rounds fired from the AA guns could be heard. I saw about ten English bombers coming from the south, in two formations, at about 1,000 metres heading west. Before they could reach the airfield they were met with many shells, and I saw fighters in the air too. The fighters attacked and scattered the rear formation. One bomber had its tail shot off and dived vertically into the earth. Another bomber was set on fire over Egholm island and an a
irman jumped from it with parachute. Yet another bomber was hit and crashed. This all happened in a few moments and then it was gone, out of sight. For as long as I live, I shall never forget what I saw that morning.
Another citizen of Ålborg had a view from a different angle:
I watched one of the bombers being hit and it seemed like it broke in two. There was smoke and fire and it went down at a terrible speed. I could see the crew trying to bale out but one had his parachute cords tangled and hit the ground with the aircraft. Other airmen were more successful and glided down into the fjord, where they were rescued.
The Morning News reported:
On Egholm island the farm workers were busy with harvest when the flak guns started up, frightening the horses, which tried to break free from their reaping machines and carts. Many witnesses saw a bomber fall into the sea, only a hundred metres from the shore and in shallow water. In the middle of the wreckage, three men could be seen, unable to move. The islanders waded out and found the airmen very badly hurt, one with broken limbs, all with severe facial injuries and bleeding profusely. They were taken by the emergency services in boats to a landing point at Ålborg and transferred to hospital.
This can only have been Blair, Magrath and Greenwood in R2772. Back in town, a reporter from the Morning News happened to be on his way to the police station as the air-raid sirens were wailing.
The English bombers came from the south and passed over the city in finger formation at a height of 1,000 metres. AA shells exploded round them like small clouds of wool against the blue sky. There was so much smoke that, for a moment, there seemed to be fifty aircraft up there. One of the bombers was hit and a yellow flame came from it as it fell out of the formation in a dive. It levelled out and carried on towards the target but only for a few seconds, when it rolled and dived again in a ball of yellow flames. Faster and faster it hurtled down until it crashed in a great red and yellow fire that could be seen for miles, while behind it a lone parachutist slowly descended to the ground.
As A Flight tried to make its escape, heading north-west towards the coast from the aerodrome, hotly pursued by fighters, they flew over the small towns of Kås and Pandrup, where many folk turned out to watch in fascinated horror. An eyewitness from Pandrup:
I heard a furious and thunderous roar and saw a bomber going flat out, hunted by three fighters that jockeyed for position so they could hit the bomber in its weakest spots. It was like the most dangerous stunt flying display. At one moment the fighters were above the bomber, then again beneath it, or all around it. They were shooting continuously. I could hear the guns, and the bomber fired too, in short bursts, as it dived, climbed, and turned at impossible angles, and then it all stopped. The bomber stalled and fell, straight down to the ground, and exploded on impact, a massive explosion as if its bombs had gone off as well. Only the tailfin was recognisable from the wreckage. The crew also must have been entirely blown to pieces.
As we watched this terrible sight, another bomber appeared out of a cloud, chased by fighters in furious combat with fire coming from everywhere. How could the heavy English machine defeat its light and agile enemies? It was hopeless, and soon there was smoke coming from the bomber but this one did not go into a vertical dive like the other. It began to glide down, with a trail of smoke behind. A white spot appeared and was falling, whirling, and everyone was praying for the airman. At last his parachute unfurled and he landed in a meadow. Immediately there was a second parachute, emerging from the cloud where the aircraft had been, which was now smashing into the ground, turning somersaults and bursting into flames. While the second airman landed safely, we found the third one, lying beside a ditch. He had on his flying helmet with intercom. There was nothing we could do. He had been killed instantly in the crash, or perhaps was already dead from the fighting.
In a cornfield near Kås, one man had a very difficult job trying to calm his horses when a Blenheim crashed to the ground in the next field. This had been watched by another worker who had jumped into a ditch as the bullets flew over his head.
The fighters came in from behind the bomber, firing like mad. Suddenly, the British machine fell like a burning rocket and hit the ground with a violent bang. I ran to get my bicycle, thinking that it was all over, when another combat arrived and I jumped back in the ditch. This other bomber was also set on fire but it fell slowly, and the crew were able to bale out. I saw four more bombers being chased westwards, and two of them went down in my sight, somewhere around Koldmose.
The last episode in this fantastic drama was witnessed by a citizen of Vester Torup, who saw a bomber coming back overland from the sea.
It seemed as if the British aircraft had very bad damage. It flew very low, seemingly among the roofs of the houses. The fighters attacked and there was mayhem between the chimneys. Everything in the village shook. Machine gun bullets whistled through the streets and people took shelter, as the combatants flew this way and that. Eventually, the bomber had to give up, landing in a field east of Vust. The pilot was badly injured, the observer less so and the gunner not at all, and he stayed with the machine until the Germans turned up. There were huge holes in the wings which apparently were the result of fire from the guns at the aerodrome.
Perhaps, without those holes, and with enough petrol, and with two serviceable engines, that was one Blenheim that might have got away. We cannot be sure of every aircraft these eyewitnesses were reporting, and it’s hardly surprising that in the frenetic midst of the battle the fate of one crew and machine has been mixed with another. Even so, we can say that it was Sergeant John Oates in T1889 who was flying between the chimneys, the only one of A Flight to be seriously damaged by flak but, like all of that flight, ultimately a victim of the fighters.
The German press initially reported the Ålborg incident as two separate raids, by twelve and eleven bombers respectively, of which sixteen were shot down. The occupier’s influence on the Ålborg Morning News editorial was also clear:
‘Some Danish people were wounded during the attack but only a few were wounded seriously and two of them died later. Bombs that were dropped in a field killed some horses and cattle.’
Curiously, this is not the only news source to state that there were twelve British bombers, of which one ‘returned to England’, even though Sgt Baron turned back before reaching the coast.
When Baron got home, the fact of his return would not have been questioned. Orders covered this type of decision, to return for perceived technical reasons. The preservation of crew and aircraft was an important matter to be balanced against the likelihood of failure due to a handicap in machinery or sickness in a crew member. Confirmation of Baron’s account would be had from his CO, Wing Commander Lart, when everybody else returned.
But there was no confirmation, not even from his crew. They would have heard the conversation with Lart, but they could not have seen the petrol gauges at the time. When fuller news of the disaster reached the station, Sgt Baron’s story was put in doubt and he was placed under open arrest, awaiting court martial for cowardice. The shame and stress of such treatment can hardly be understood by outsiders. It was, if such a thing can be, a fate worse than death. His crew at Ålborg on 13 August, Sgts Mason and Marriott, were flying again on ops on the 15th. Eventually, Norman Baron would be cleared of all charges – see Postscript.
The disastrous news was incomplete because some of the bodies could not be identified. It was not until 1946 that Edward Lart’s family were able to obtain formal confirmation of his death and the circumstances of it. The Danish report at the time stated: ‘Crew of three men dead, mutilated and charred. One identified as P/O Gillingham.’
The Recorder of Operations was clearly a man of few words - but this is how they did it. Other reports would be rather more detailed, but the ORB was for facts only.
Although Dr Christiansen of Brovst hospital recovered a badly damaged pocket watch with the initials ASB on the back, the body of Gus Beeby was too scorched and mang
led to be named.
The same was true of Earl Hale and others. Twenty men died on the raid. At the time, it was not clear that the total was so high, as investigators could not separate mortal remains into twenty individual bodies. Without knowing how many men they were burying in a communal grave, the Germans held a full military funeral on 16 August with a 36-rifle salute.
‘One of our more disorganised efforts’, indeed. Confirmation of Edmund Lart’s death was not obtained by his family until six years after the event.
What news of the boys in the British papers? The Times of 14 August carried a report under the headline ‘Jutland to the Bay of Biscay – Counter-offensive by RAF – Daylight raids’. The text mentioned medium bombers carrying out daylight operations against enemy-occupied aerodromes and named six of those airfields, but did not include Ålborg in the list nor anywhere else in Jutland. ‘Twelve aircraft have not returned,’ it said, which was true enough. One Blenheim of 114 Squadron was lost without trace in a raid on Jersey, and we know what happened to the other eleven.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TO TELL THE TALE, YOU HAVE TO LIVE
The farm worker who took John Bristow and Nellie Ellen to his barn was Alfred Nielsen. The airmen were keen on getting away, and the first stage was accomplished on bicycles supplied by Nielsen. Bristow:
He led us along country lanes for a few miles to a school building in a little place called Moseby, where we were picked up by the local GP, Doctor Bryder, who put us in the back of his car with a blanket over us. He drove us to the other end of the village, to the Jørgensens’ house, where Mrs Jørgensen made us a lovely meal and gave us real coffee, which was a rarity in England even then.
The Squadron That Died Twice Page 12
