by Boris Senior
NEW HEAVENS
Series Editors
Walter J. Boyne and Peter B. Mersky
Aviation Classics are inspired nonfiction and fictional accounts that reveal the human drama of flight. The series covers every era of military and civil aviation, is international in scope, and encompasses flying in all of its diversity. Some of the books are well known best-sellers and others are superb but unheralded titles that deserve a wider audience.
OTHER TITLES IN THE AVIATION CLASSICS SERIES
Ploesti: The Great Ground-Air Battle of 1 August 1943
by James Dugan and Carroll Stewart
Operation Overflight: A Memoir of the U-2 Incident
by Francis Gary Powers with Curt Gentry
Thirty Seconds over Tokyo
by Capt. Ted W. Lawson
“Wildcats” over Casablanca:
U.S. Navy Fighters in Operation Torch
by Lt. M. T. Wordell and Lt. E. N. Seiler
NEW HEAVENS
My Life as a Fighter Pilot
and a Founder of the Israel Air Force
For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth;
And the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind
But be glad and rejoice forever in what I create;
For behold I create Jerusalem for rejoicing,
And her people for gladness.
—Isaiah 65:17–18
Boris Senior
Foreword by Peter B. Mersky
Foreword to the First Edition by Ezer Weizman
Copyright © 2005 by Potomac Books, Inc.
Published in the United States by Potomac Books, Inc. (formerly Brassey’s, Inc.). All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Senior, Boris.
[Shamayim òhadashim. English]
New heavens : my life as a Fighter pilot and a founder of the Israel Air Force / Boris Senior; foreword by Peter Mersky; foreword to the first edition by Ezer Weizman.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-57488-679-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Senior, Boris. 2. Israel òHel ha-aòvir—History. 3. Israel—History, Military. 4. Israel-Arab War, 1948–1949—Aerial operations. I. Title.
UG635.I75S4613 2005
956.04’2—dc22 2003021721
Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that meets the American National Standards Institute Z39-48 Standard.
Potomac Books, Inc.
22841 Quicksilver Drive
Dulles, Virginia 20166
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
List of Maps
Foreword by Peter B. Mersky
Foreword to the First Edition by Ezer Weizman
CHAPTER ONE
A Yellow Stain in the Water
CHAPTER TWO
Heritage
CHAPTER THREE
War
CHAPTER FOUR
Zion
CHAPTER FIVE
First Missions
CHAPTER SIX
Airplanes and Volunteers
CHAPTER SEVEN
Independence
Index
About the Author
Maps
Egypt, showing Egyptian and Israeli airfields
during the War of Independence
Israel, showing Israeli airfields
during the War of Independence
Foreword
THE establishment of the State of Israel in May 1948 caught the world by surprise, especially when this event was so quickly followed by a particularly nasty war between the Israelis and their Arab neighbors. Confrontations between Jewish settlers and their sworn enemies, who had lived in the region since before biblical times, were an unfortunate part of life for the new arrivals seeking a homeland after the horrors of the Nazi concentration camps. The influx of these refugees swelled the ranks of the new nation and forced a do-or-die defense that has yet to be resolved after more than fifty-five years.
The Israel Army of 1948 was far removed from the well-equipped, highly trained force the world has come to know and respect. It relied on a vast collection of volunteers from all over the world, and an equally large, disparate assembly of equipment, much of which had long since been discarded by its original owners after World War II. Cadres of ex-patriots from Europe, America, Canada, and South Africa bolstered the meager ranks of the native-born Israeli defense forces against the Arab League, whose might, at least on paper, seemed poised to hurl the Israelis headlong into the Mediterranean. In similar fashion, an influx of weapons from behind the Iron Curtain and from forgotten airfields in South America and Europe arrived to help the hard-pressed Israelis. Everything from discarded rifles to biplanes eventually helped defend the tiny struggling country that became a symbol of resistance to the world and a beacon of hope to people without a home.
Although Boris Senior may not be well known outside Israel, he played an important, even vital, part in the formation of the Israel Air Force (IAF) and in the War of Independence in 1948. Those who do know of his efforts and dedication hold an abiding respect and appreciation for this transplanted South African who nearly died after being shot down on a mission in 1945 for the Royal Air Force. Leaving the RAF after World War II, he brought his family’s history of service to the formation of the State of Israel.
He used his own money to buy supplies and aircraft and fly them to Israel. He flew combat sorties in such widely differing aircraft as the Spitfire and, of all things, a Beech-craft Bonanza, a general-aviation type, known for its unique butterfly tail assembly, which he had bought with his own money.
Yet, with all his experiences, Senior maintained a deep understanding of the overall situation that still bedevils the Middle East, and in particular Israel and its neighbors. As a senior citizen, his fondest wish was to see the resolution of the age-old problems that result in so many Israelis and Arabs dying in attacks and counterattacks, more than fifty years after he helped birth the IAF. (As this book entered production, word came of Boris Senior’s death at age eighty in April 2004.)
This memoir describes an earlier period when Senior and many like him were dedicated to getting Israel on its feet among the nations of the world. During that turbulent time these men did whatever it took to get the job done. Senior is direct and forceful as he describes his attempts to circumvent European security while desperately trying to get precious aircraft to Israel. Although soft-spoken and always hopeful that things will improve, Boris Senior had no problem heading into dangerous situations if the end would help his newly adopted country retain her place in the family of nations.
With a title that refers to a biblical passage, this first-time English edition of Boris Senior’s wartime autobiography sheds a new and very personal light on the struggle that began as the establishment of a new country and its concurrent fight to maintain that nationality, and yet today, still persists as one of the world’s primary conflicts between people who are, in reality, brothers.
Peter B. Mersky
Editor
Foreword to the First Edition
ABOUT a year ago, Boris Senior told me he had decided to write a book for the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel and to tell the story of the foreign volunteers, the “Machalniks,” who joined the air service of the state in the making. He stressed that his main aim in writing the book was to tell of the rise of the state and the miracle that happened to the Jewish people between the most terrible period of its history, the Holocaust, and the wonder of the founding of an independent country and its War of L
iberation. I knew that as always he would fulfill his promise and complete his mission in time.
When Boris had appeared in the skies of Israel about six months before the declaration of independence, he was the right man at the right time. At that time, it was becoming evident to our national institutions that a confrontation between us and the Arab world was inevitable. The forces of the Haganah and its commanders had been organized into military formations, but they had been trained mainly as infantry fighters. The air sector, as a result of the restrictions imposed by the mandatory administration, was limited to a flying club, the aviation arm of the Palmach and the flying school of the Irgun. At the outbreak of hostilities, we had only a few light aircraft with some pilots who knew how to fly them, but without the necessary ability to take part in the great struggle we would face.
Ezer Weizman in the cockpit of a Spitfire in 1948.
In November 1947, immediately following the United Nations’s decision to partition the country into two states, one Jewish, one Arab, I received a cable that said “arriving on … signed Boris Senior.”
Boris was born in South Africa to a Zionist Jewish family. He was an excellent fighter pilot who had taken part in many important missions in Italy during the decisive stages of World War II. I met him in the Palestine Club in London in 1946. We had both just completed our service in the RAF, and within a few days, we became close friends. We were both mad about flying and were deeply attached to the Zionist cause. We had already decided that our place was to be in an Israel Air Force, which was to arise in the distant, uncertain future. Boris never forgot this, and at the time, he said he would come to Israel. He arrived, first of the fighter pilots to come as volunteers from abroad, the Malchalniks, who came to fight in the War of Independence.
Immediately after his arrival, Boris joined the group of the first pilots of the air service, and among other missions, he participated in the historic sorties of the four light planes that air dropped ammunition to the Etzion bloc. After having seen the shortage of aircraft and pilots, he went to South Africa to recruit volunteers and to buy aircraft. When they eventually reached Israel, they tripled our air strength.
In July 1948 some of our gifted technical staff succeeded in building a complete Spitfire from scrap and from parts of Egyptian aircraft we had shot down. Boris agreed to be the first test pilot to fly the improvised craft, though we were not sure it could take off and land in one piece.
Boris Senior, one of the first pilots of 101 Squadron, eventually found his place in the air force headquarters and was one of the pioneers who established guidelines for the organization and operations of the air force. But most of all, unlike most of the Machal pilots, he made his home in the country, raised a family, and became an Israeli citizen. It remains for me to thank him for his contribution in general, and for having written of his part in the glorious history of the Israel Air Force.
Ezer Weizman
President of Israel
March 1998
CHAPTER ONE
A Yellow Stain in the Water
CERVIA, ITALY, MARCH 1945
THE target today is Mestre, the most heavily defended port in northern Italy. We are in 250 Squadron of the Royal Air Force flying Kittyhawk (P-40) fighters over northern Italy and in Yugoslavia, in support of the Eighth Army.
The readiness boards on the wall in the living room give out the day’s duties. The hominess and familiarity of the living room are marred by the impersonal furnishings, such as the torn armchairs, and the carpets that are spread around the room, as well as by the general feeling of impermanence. We await the sign to man our aircraft, all the while pondering our fate.
Unlike the fighter interceptions, when we usually stand alert near the runway or in the cockpit ready for a “scrambled” takeoff, there is ample warning for bombing missions.
The runway is made of perforated steel planking, or PSP, sometimes known as Marston Mat, linked together in narrow strips to form a long, flat surface. Similar strips make up the taxiways. Nothing is permanent, for we have to be ready to dismantle everything and move forward if the ground forces are advancing, or back if we are retreating. The runway, too, can be easily taken apart and moved to another location. Airplanes are parked in their own parking bays among the trees and bushes. One mechanic services every two planes, helping us get into the machines and start the engines.
We get into the cramped cockpits of our Kittyhawks with our parachutes, life jackets, and dinghies, our maps strapped to our left thighs. The mechanic, kneeling on the wing, begins the start-up procedure. He turns the crank-handle faster and faster until the flywheel reaches a high-pitched whine. The magnetos are switched on, and the engine coughs and splutters into life. We check the various systems and increase to full power to test the engine. The Kittyhawk shudders and quivers, impatient at being restrained by the chocks.
We await the green Aldis-lamp signal from the control tower. As soon as the leader sees the green, he taxies out to the runway and opens up to full power. The takeoff is a hurried procedure, each fighter closely following the one in front to get aloft and into close formation. We have checked our radios but everything is done in radio silence for the time being. We are all well versed in our procedures and communicate using hand signals.
As the leader reaches 1,000 feet, he turns to port and we slide into a tight line-astern circle. When we are all in the circle the leader signals us into three flights of four airplanes in “finger” formation. Then, we set course to the north, well out to sea. I see the coastline below me and through the haze to the east, Yugoslavia.
Two Thirty-Nine Wing of the Desert Air Force, 250 Squadron’s dive-bombers in the lead, is chosen to be first over Venice. Our wing probably has the most experienced fighter squadrons of the Desert Air Force. Its history is intertwined with the victories and the defeats from North Africa to southern Italy and now gives support to the Eighth Army by dive bombing and low-level strafing.
By this time, I had completed forty-five missions, some as fighter escort to the heavy bombers, but more frequently, performing interdiction flights to disrupt enemy transport lines by bombing bridges, railroads, and marshaling yards. The enemy has difficulty in moving anywhere behind his front lines during the day. Moving shipping and barges in the canals and rivers is also dangerous because of our constant presence.
RADIO SILENCE
In a long climb to attack altitude, grouped behind, below, and on both sides, wing upon wing of fighters join us. Sleek Mustangs, dainty Spitfire IXs, snub-nosed Thunderbolts with their huge radial engines, and the solid old Kittyhawks named after Kitty Hawk, the airfield of Wright Brother fame and almost identical to Gen. Claire Chennault’s Flying Tiger fighters in China three years before.
Five hundred aircraft in a dive-bombing raid on one target, the largest assault of its kind in the entire European theater of operations. The target is beautiful, old Venice sinking slowly into its own mud, of interest now only for her ugly gray port of Mestre, a major supply center for the Wehrmacht forces in Italy. We know it bristles with antiaircraft guns of every caliber.
During the briefing before takeoff, the details are given as usual by the intelligence officer, Flying Officer George. He is less jovial than usual—his pink English face and yellow eyebrows creased by an occasional frown. He says that we will approach from the sea to the east of Mestre harbor, dive on the ships in the harbor, and rendezvous out to sea at 5,000 feet after the bombing. With a view to avoiding damage to the city, only dive-bombers with their greater accuracy are employed. Because of the expected heavy antiaircraft fire, Marauder [American-built B-26 medium bomber] “flak ships” will fly overhead to draw fire and, crucial as it turns out later for me, three air-sea rescue aircraft, one American and two British.
They are to follow and to wait over the sea south of the target area. One of the aircraft, an RAF Wellington, is fitted with a life boat, which can be dropped near any pilot who ditches in the sea. Another is a very old and slow Wal
rus single-engine seaplane of the Royal Air Force. The third is a twin-engine Catalina amphibian of the U.S. Army Air Force. [The army flew navy PBYs, designating them OA-10s.—ed.]
The sun glints through the haze and my eyes ache from the strain of searching the sky for enemy fighters. The Perspex of the windscreen and side panels is slightly scratched, yet my vision is largely unimpaired. The cockpit has the familiar smell of fuel, oil, and Glycol coolant. The faint smell of the harness webbing and parachute covers brings me back to the early days of my flight training and to my first solo in the Tiger Moth. I wriggle into a more comfortable position on the hard dinghy beneath me. My scalp itches and I try, though I know it to be useless, to scratch through the leather helmet.
The comforting drone of the engine is my sole companion on these long flights, and my only contact is the voices on the radio from the rest of the squadron. I search every sector of the gray sky behind me because that’s where danger lurks, especially with the sun behind you. The enemy will attack from above and behind, invisible between you and the sun.
We constantly scan for possible attackers, maintaining radio silence until we are into our dive and are detected by the enemy. My mouth is parched, and I lick my lips so I can speak into the microphone in my oxygen mask.
I keep my goggles on all the time to protect my eyes from the flames that may engulf me in a crash landing or from a strike by enemy aircraft or anti-aircraft fire. Hundreds of gallons in the fuel tank are two feet in front of me. For the same reason, I fly with long leather gloves. Some of my comrades have suffered badly burned faces from their exploding aircraft, but some continue to fly missions in spite of it.
To the left I can see Lake Comacchio just inland from the coast beyond Ravenna and the rivers that flow out at right angles from the coast. The small towns along the coast are harmless and barely worth a glance, for the heavy anti-aircraft batteries are farther inland near the cities of Ferrara and Bologna. Smog and haze merge the sky and the sea into an indistinct blur as I peer through my windscreen at the murky horizon. The sea lies in wait far below, sluggish, lifeless, reflecting the yellow-gray haze above it.
