by Colin Downes
Gin a body meet a body
Flyin’ through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? And where?
On 14 June 1945 four of us were returning to Bentwaters after a camera-gun dog-fight exercise some miles off the coast. We were descending in a line astern tail-chase with me bringing up the rear, when at around 10,000 feet some US P-51 Mustangs bounced us. Such encounters had become almost a daily activity with the concentration of US and RAF squadrons in East Anglia, including the enthusiastic participation of the Polish Mustang squadrons. As we broke hard into our attackers, I glanced up to see a silver Mustang coming down on me in a steep diving turn – I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death. This was certainly a Revelation as I pulled left as hard as I could. In a fleeting second I knew the US Mustang would hit me, and there was nothing I could do to change the situation. A violent bang and shudder occurred as the US Mustang’s right wing sliced into the fuselage behind me. The force of the impact sheared off part of its wing and the US aircraft rolled over and dived steeply into the sea. No parachute appeared but I was not looking for one because I had my own problems as my aircraft half rolled into a steep dive. I assumed the tail or at least the flying controls severed and I pulled the canopy jettison lever before releasing the seat harness and attempting to bale out of the aircraft. The canopy curled around as it released and the front corner of the metal frame struck me behind the left ear, as my head was not lowered sufficiently due to the negative G while inverted. The blow was very violent and I must have momentarily lost consciousness for my next impression was the aircraft was no longer inverted but in a near vertical dive. Instinctively I pulled back on the stick as it was not possible to bale out with the slipstream pushing me back into the seat. To my surprise the aircraft responded and came out of its dive. I could hear nothing on the radio or make any call as the radio which was behind my seat had sustained damage in the collision. The turbulence within the cockpit without the canopy was considerable and disconcerting. My head ached from the blow from the canopy as I felt a warm flow of blood running down my neck and chest. With the Mustang vibrating strongly it was difficult to control the aircraft, and I could only maintain lateral and directional control by flying the aircraft cross-controlled with strong right rudder and left aileron. I turned towards the coast and prepared to get up on the seat any moment and dive for the wing tip hoping the aircraft did not roll over me as I did so. I then wondered if perhaps it was better to let the aircraft roll and then push forward on the stick to give enough negative G to clear the tail. I felt around to check the dinghy connection to my Mae West and I disconnected the oxygen and radio plugs as these connections could throttle me or break my neck. I surprised myself that after an involuntary call to The Almighty in my momentary flush of panic I carried out these actions quite calmly, confirming Dr Johnson’s view that one’s imminent demise can concentrate the mind wonderfully.
The engine was running smoothly and, although the radiator appeared to be operating, the engine temperature had started to rise. I was now down to 3,000 feet and unable to climb as with full power I could not control the aircraft. I looked around but could see no one and felt annoyed at my abandonment by my colleagues (who were looking for two Mustangs in the sea). Fortunately, the weather was clear but over the sea a thick haze caused poor visibility making it difficult to see anything. I had a glimpse of the coastline ahead and decided to bale out when over land. The engine temperature had by now risen considerably and it continued to rise as I waited for the signs of a coolant leak due to the over-heating. My immediate concern was whether I had sufficient altitude to bale out successfully when I crossed the coast. I reached the coast at Aldeburgh with Bentwaters 10 miles to the south-west. It had become quite a strain flying the aircraft cross-controlled with my head aching from the blow by the canopy, and I felt blood from the wound in my neck continuing to run down inside my shirt.
The engine temperature was now dangerously high and I knew it was decision time to either get out or make an attempt to land the aircraft before the engine failed. I had no means of contacting either the control tower at Bentwaters or aircraft in the circuit, and a landing would be a one shot chance with no possibility of an overshoot and a go-around. The runway at Bentwaters was much shorter than an emergency landing strip at Woodbridge, a further 5 miles to the south-west, and I decided my chances of putting the aircraft on the ground safely would be better if I could reach Woodbridge. The airfield was built during the war, together with one in Kent and another in Yorkshire, for bombers returning with battle damage in bad weather as all three emergency strips were equipped with FIDO, a runway fog dispersal system. There was no circuit aircraft to worry about at Woodbridge and I had a clear descending straight-in approach to the 3,000 yards of runway. I decide to try landing the aircraft with the landing gear down, and still with sufficient height to bale out I lowered the undercarriage. The aircraft responded without loss of control as long as I maintained a speed of 150 mph. White puffs of glycol coolant started to appear from the Merlin’s exhaust and I knew I did not have much time left on the engine before it seized. I flew the Mustang onto the runway without flaps and the tail up, closing the throttle on the runway, cutting the fuel and switching off the ignition. The Mustang continued straight along the runway until the tail wheel touched down when there was a vibration as the tail wheel tyre burst.
I got out of the aircraft to see the radiator twisted out of line with a great gash in the fuselage aft of the cockpit. The empennage appeared to be a few degrees out of the vertical and this may have accounted for the tail wheel tyre bursting. Looking at the Mustang it was hard to imagine how the engine kept running and how the flying controls still operated. The impact from the collision occurred at probably the only place along the fuselage that was strong enough to absorb the blow while still allowing air to flow through the radiator. It was clear that the US Mustang’s right wing had passed very close to my right wing; and had the impact been anywhere else, fore or aft, my Mustang must have suffered fatal structural damage and gone in with the American aircraft. Several jeeps, two crash trucks and an ambulance arrived and some incredulous observers viewed my Mustang. A physical reaction set in and I felt shaky with blood from my wound now below the waist. The ambulance crew put a first aid dressing on my head before taking me to Ipswich hospital where they stitched up the gash to my head and neck. I arrived back at Bentwaters still wearing my bloodstained shirt with my head swathed in a large bandage looking like a turban. Waiting to greet me were our new wing leader, Wing Commander Max Sutherland, DFC, together with the squadron commander, flight commander, and Graham Pearson, my flight leader, who could not resist his penchant for The Bard by commenting – ‘What bloody man is that!’
Shortly afterwards two USAF majors arrived for a preliminary inquiry into the accident. The squadron commander and my flight commander gave statements, together with my flight leader; and I explained the cause of the accident involving the loss of the American pilot and his aircraft. The two Americans were singly unimpressed with my explanation being quick to emphasize that the leader of the flight of US Mustangs was a very experienced fighter pilot and one of the top aces of the 363rd Fighter Squadron and the 357th Fighter Group at Leiston. He was also on his last flight with the squadron before returning to the US for a promotional tour of the States. I assumed from this that he was the pilot who collided with me and hence my angry response to say it depended how one spelt ‘ace’! The essence of the two USAF majors interrogation was to imply that culpability for the accident lay with me as a junior, and by implication, an inexperienced squadron pilot. Max Sutherland led me away saying there was bound to be some flak from the Americans and it would be better if I went to ground until required for the official court of inquiry. In my turbaned state and throes of an unremitting headache, I was reluctant to go home and confront my parents. Graham Pearson with typical generosity solved the problem for me by sugges
ting I hole-up in his mews cottage in London. As I gratefully accepted the keys he said, ‘Now’s your chance to show off at the usual watering holes looking like a genuine war hero’!
The next day the air and sea search continued for the missing US pilot. No wreckage or body was found and in all probability both aircraft and pilot lay some twenty fathoms down on the seabed of the North Sea, and I was fortunate not to be resting nearby in my Mustang. The Americans returned to question me further but Sutherland informed them I was on sick leave. A formal Court of Inquiry later exonerated me of any blame for the accident. It was not until some years later I learned that the pilot who hit me was a Lieutenant George F. Barrett; an inexperienced pilot who had recently joined the squadron. He was still on his initial training with the squadron and not listed as operational. This made it clear that the blame for the accident rested with the flight leader. The RAF Official Records Office briefly summed up the incident succinctly by stating: ‘Mustang KM316 of 65 Squadron hit by USAF aircraft 14 miles ENE of Orfordness on 14 June 1945. Aircraft not repaired and Scratched off Command’. During the last six months of the war I managed to thwart the grim reaper but the USAF nearly succeeded where the Luftwaffe had failed. Flying Spitfire Vs in a ground support role I yearned for Spitfire IXs in a fighter interception role and was initially disappointed to be flying Mustangs on long range escort. However, on that unforgettable day in June 1945 I was thankful to be flying in a Mustang and be able to fully appreciate the quality of construction of the P-51 Mustang by the North American Aviation Company, when over the North Sea I beheld A Pale Horse.
It was during our preparation for Tiger Force that the first post-war general election took place and the nation showed its gratitude for Churchill’s leadership by defeating him at the polls. It seemed to many of us a mistake that he was not given a mandate to settle the problems of post-war Europe and to settle with the Japanese in the Far East. The first major Allied conference of post-war Europe took place at Potsdam near Berlin during July 1945 without the presence of Churchill or Roosevelt, who died in April. Although the war with Japan was still in progress most of the conference business at Potsdam concerned the reconstruction of Europe. Many people in Britain and the Socialists in particular, regarded Joseph Stalin (responsible for more deaths among his citizens than Hitler killed in the concentration camps) as ‘Dear Old Uncle Joe’. The British cabinet appeared prepared during renditions of ‘The Internationale’ or ‘The Red Flag’; to give in to his demands. One outcome of this was that forty Rolls Royce Nene jet engines sent to the USSR enabled the Mig-15 fighter to appear in the skies over Korea before the US F-86 Sabre Jet. The Mustang wing at Bentwaters flew to Tangmere on the south coast to escort the Allied participants to the Potsdam Conference. I was delayed by an engine problem and taking-off late in the afternoon flew through a thunderstorm en route to Tangmere and experienced a severe electrical storm with violent discharges of lightning. Recalling advice from those who experienced large tropical storms in the Far East, I lowered my seat and placed a map over my head as I turned up the cockpit lights and concentrated on my primary flying instruments. The soundness of this advice became apparent when after experiencing several intense lightning flashes the aircraft received a lightning strike with a big bang and a great flash of blinding light. Had my eyes not been shielded I must surely have become momentarily blinded and the aircraft uncontrolled. As a result of the strike the compass went haywire and despite replacing the compass and degaussing the aircraft before swinging the new compass, the compass was always erratic and unreliable on that particular aircraft. This experience was to stand me in good stead when I experienced flying in tropical storms. I experienced another lightning strike some years later in a Meteor jet as the lightning entered the aircraft at one wing tip and exited at the other wing tip, and again we could never completely degauss the aircraft and get a compass to function accurately. My third lightning strike occurred while flying a Canberra at 50,000 feet through the top of the inter-tropical front lying across Malaysia.
From Tangmere we escorted the new Prime Minister, Clement Atlee, and his cabinet to Berlin and the wing landed at Debelsdorf, an ex-Luftwaffe ME-262 base east of Lubeck. Here we stayed during the period of the conference before escorting the UK participants back to England. During the conference we flew wing strength formations over Berlin and along the Unter-den-Linden in a show of strength for the benefit of the Soviets. Our stay at Debelsdorf was certainly an eye opener on how the other half operated and lived compared with us and it appeared the only thing in our favour was victory. The German fighter squadrons were an elite force in the Luftwaffe and the jet pilots of the ME-262 squadrons were the creèème de la creèème of the fighter force. It amazed us to see the luxurious appointments of the base; in particular the officers’ mess. This had the appearance of a luxury country hotel with a hunting lodge interior. In addition to a very comfortably furnished lounge was an attractive dining room with tables set for four. This was unlike an RAF mess with its large communal dining tables. To ensure an exceptional degree of comfort and privacy the mess provided individually furnished bedrooms and bathrooms; and to take care of these rooms and to serve the meals in the dining-room were tall, long-legged and good-looking blonde Valkyries. This was certainly quite unlike any RAF mess! At first the mess staffs were nervous and anticipated a fate worse than death from their conquerors, but they became relaxed with the occupation of largely Anglo-Saxon troops, rather than ravishing Slavs and Tartars. We had strict orders regarding fraternization on pain of court-martial. Obviously the girls were hand picked as part of the benefits provided for the ME-262 pilots in anticipation of maintaining a high morale with a sense of Valhalla; and for the propagation of der meister rasse! It was a bit of a strain for healthy young pilots used to making the subject of girls a topic in the mess when ‘shop’ talk was taboo. In no time the girls became congenial in the knowledge that the Allied military authority would protect their honour. Some more handsome members of the wing even received glances indicating little resistance should the victors take advantage of the spoils of war. It was perhaps as well our stay at Debelsdorf was of short duration as it would have spoiled us for a return to our more Spartan world in the RAF.
The crowning jewel of this Luftwaffe home-from-home was below the building in the cellar that acted as an air raid shelter. In a large room, lavishly decorated in the style of a Bavarian Hofbrauhaus, was a panelled bar with recreational facilities and decorated with antler heads, crests and trophies. The wine and beer cellars ensured a steady libation of entertainment while under bombardment. With all these delights we were in grave jeopardy of forgetting any problems associated with fraternization and courts martial. During our stay we were unable to leave the base due to the presence of German Werewolves. These guerrilla fighters ambushed individuals and during our stay killed a British army dispatch rider. Field Marshal Montgomery’s personal staff officer returning to Twenty-First Army Group headquarters suffered the same fate. Under the circumstances we had no desire to explore off the base. After a pleasantly unexpected and very educational diversion to Debelsdorf, with a contrasting view of life style in the Luftwaffe, we returned to our bare and draughty Nissen huts at Bentwaters to reflect on a different military philosophy, and a grudging envy for an elite German approach to service morale.
Following VJ Day the Air Ministry called for volunteers for the occupational force in Japan, I decided against this opportunity to see The Land of the Rising Sun as there appeared to be much more interesting prospects in Europe. There are pundits and moralists who state with 20/20 hindsight that the use of the atomic bomb against Japan was unnecessary and that the Japanese were ready to surrender. I think that anyone who took part in the Battle of Okinawa would readily dispute this assessment. The amphibious assault on the island chosen in preference to Formosa (Taiwan) or the Philippines as the final springboard for the invasion of Japan claimed the most casualties of any Allied campaign against Japanese forces in the Pa
cific War. The scale of the assault was comparable with the Allied landing in Normandy, consisting of over 1,300 ships landing over 150,000 veteran troops on a small island defended by over 120,000 fanatical Japanese troops with the heaviest concentration of Japanese artillery of the war. The Americans lost over 700 aircraft and the Japanese lost over 1,000 kamikaze aircraft in attacks on the Allied fleet resulting in the sinking of thirty-eight ships. Total American casualties were around 50,000 killed and wounded against 110,000 Japanese troops killed. This was a taste of the resistance that could be expected in an assault on the Japanese homeland. The planning for the final assault against Japan, ‘Operation Olympic’, anticipated an attack on Kyushu, the southernmost of the Japanese home islands, during the autumn of 1945 using a force of 770,000 men with anticipated casualties around 270,000. Estimates of Allied casualty figures ranged from a low of 100,000 to a high of 500,000. The invasion of the Japanese home islands was to be a far greater enterprise than the Normandy landings. The 400 miles of open sea from the start line on Okinawa to the rocky coastline of southern Kyushu made it a far more hazardous operation and vulnerable to attacks from a still formidable force of more than 1,000 kamikaze aircraft, with an anticipated fanatical defence by the Japanese of their homeland. After the consolidation of Kyushu, the island would become a huge invasion base for massive air attacks on the main island of Honshu, to be followed by invasion in the spring of 1946.
