It was a tragic day for Leconfield on 21 February. 234 Squadron suffered its first fatality and 616 Squadron lost two Spitfires and a pilot. In the morning, 616 was ordered to escort a coastal convoy off Flamborough Head. As Flight Lieutenant A. Wilson led his section down through mist to locate the ships his wingmen lost contact. He simply disappeared. His aircraft crashed into the sea off Hornsea.
Another section was scrambled in the afternoon. Flying Officer John Bell, who was leading, brought the section to the end of the runway and began his take-off – but the runway was not clear. He had to avoid a stray Fairey Battle just before he was airborne but then struck a 234 Squadron Magister trainer taxiing onto the runway. Pilot Officer David Coysh in the trainer was taxiing around the corner of a hangar to reach the runway for a solo flight. He was unable to see the Spitfire racing along the runway on the other side. Apparently in the rush those in the control tower were unaware of what was about to happen too. No warning of the other’s presence was given to either pilot. The long nose of the Spitfire obscured forward vision until the tail was raised during takeoff. Its spinning propeller ripped right into the Magister. Both aircraft were wrecked and Coysh was killed. Bell emerged unscathed.2
David Coysh’s funeral was held three days later. He was described as a quiet and likeable young man and his unnecessary death cast a shadow of gloom over the squadron.
Aside from this, Pat’s task of trying to weld the squadron into a cohesive unit capable of becoming operational was becoming all that much more difficult. It was always a relief at the end of the day when he could drive into Hull or visit a local pub to relax with his pilots and down a few ales.
Not that it was so easy to do. Nationwide every night an inky blackness descended over the country. The blackouts were far more rigorous than those of the First World War and the combination of blackout and snow hindered normal social life considerably. A story circulated about two pilots who decided one night in January to go to a cinema. They set off through the main gates of their base and down the road in a car but darkness and snow made it impossible to see through the windscreen. One man climbed out and walked beside the car with a torch as the other drove, inching forward as carefully as possible. Then, unexpectedly, they found something familiar – the main gates again! Somehow, without knowing it, they had turned around and gone back the way they had just come! There was no cinema for them that night.
In the cities, vehicles crept their way through the streets with masked headlights. Pedestrians by the thousands bumped into each other on the way home in the dark, yet vigorously cursed anyone who left a door or curtain open which cast a light. Road accident reports from the Ministry of War Transport showed that 4,133 people were killed in the last four months of 1939 compared with 2,497 over the same period in 1938, and in December alone there were 1,155 fatalities, the highest ever recorded.
Most of the victims were pedestrians, one person in five having had an accident in the blackout. People were advised that they would see better if there were adequate amounts of Vitamin A in their diets. According to this idea, experiments showed that Vitamin A improved the ability of the eyes to adjust quickly when going from light to dark – as when going outdoors into the blackout. Cod-liver oil capsules were recommended. Eating carrots was suggested. For greater safety when walking in the blackout advice was given to ‘wear white at night’ or to carry white objects such as newspapers. Small rear lights were made compulsory for cyclists to avoid them being run down from behind by other vehicles. Kerbs and tree trunks were whitened.
As for cars, with petrol restrictions the number of civilian cars on the road was already declining but motorists had to paint their bumper bars and running boards white. The comment was made that if deaths from road accidents continued at the same rate as they did in December, the losses in a year would resemble war casualties. Faint street lighting was permitted again. On 1 February a speed limit of 20 mph during the blackout was imposed. Just over three weeks later, on 24 February, ‘Double Summer Time’ was introduced, lengthening the safe daylight period by another hour.
Gradually, as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still no violent war erupted, people in the major cities adapted to the blackout and began to resume their old pastimes at the pubs, theatres and cinemas. An odd, unrealistic quality about life settled over Britain. In city clubs and restaurants that were being patronised by young servicemen on leave, a new dance craze called ‘The Blackout Stroll’ became a favourite. Away from their homes, men were pleased to visit places where dancing partners – girls in evening dresses of chiffon, lace and taffeta – could be found. As they danced, the lights would go out and everyone had to change partners.
For some the blackout was good for romance.
They met at the Beverley Arms, a former coach house dating back to 1794. It was located opposite St Mary’s church in the centre of Beverley, a medieval village half an hour from York and a fifteen-minute drive from the centre of Hull. The attractive, dark-haired girl he noticed was there with friends from the airfield when Pat walked in one evening. He found out that her name was Kathleen, Kathleen Broderick, but her friends called her Kay.
Her family lived in Hull, in James Reckitt Avenue. The daughter of a widowed mother, Kay was pert and pretty, and by her own admission a bit spoilt. She had her own car, attractive clothes and was never short of boyfriends.
Kay became very aware of Pat too the moment he walked in, tall, fair, with grey eyes and carrying an Airedale puppy he called ‘Flying Officer Butch’. His ‘handsome’ good looks, moustache and smart dark blue uniform made him stand out. She was reminded of the Hollywood film star Errol Flynn, an Australian from Tasmania. Pat Hughes was obviously ‘one of the boys’, but he seemed so noisy and conceited. Flying Officer Butch, however, could win any heart!3
As the night drew to a close, Pat asked her to telephone him, but she didn’t. It was he who rang three days later and asked her out. (Don’t let things happen to you – make them happen!)
*
The confusion over what 234 Squadron would fly deepened when on 10 March, after all their hours training on Blenheims, the squadron had to watch as their Blenheims began to be taken away. What now?
Five days later, after an armament practice camp at Catfoss, the pilots of 234 Squadron returning to Leconfield had a very pleasant surprise. ‘This beautiful thing arrived,’ Bob Doe recalled, ‘We walked round it, stroked it. We took turns sitting in it.’4 It was a Mk I Spitfire, the thoroughbred racehorse of planes. Even just standing there on the ground on its delicate, out-swinging undercarriage, it seemed to say, ‘Come on! Let’s go!’ After training for so long on ex-bombers, slow trainers and biplanes, 234 Squadron was to be supplied with the latest and the best. More Spitfires began arriving and by the end of the month they had sixteen. For all the pilots, but particularly for Pat, it was sheer pleasure. He wouldn’t be just flying ‘crates’ anymore; at long last he would be flying a real fighter. It was as if he had suddenly grown his own wings!
As well as new aircraft, new pilots were arriving too. In April Sergeant Bill Thompson reported in from 603 Squadron. He had applied to join the RAF as a trainee wireless operator in the 1930s but because there were no vacancies he became an armourer and was eventually promoted to LAC. He volunteered for pilot training and qualified as a sergeant pilot. Postings to the Armament School at Catfoss and then 603 Squadron had followed.
Flying Officer Charles Igglesden came from 41 Squadron, John Theilmann’s old unit, where he had flown Spitfires. Thompson and Igglesden were both experienced and added extra to the skills of the squadron.
Another Australian joined the squadron on 12 April and he was quite a character. His name was Vincent Parker, but back in Townsville, Queensland, he was known as ‘Bushy’ Parker. In Australia, ‘Bushy’ was a nickname often bestowed on people, usually distinctive characters, who lived in the country areas away from the main towns or cities. (In fact, in Townsville they still know him as ‘Bushy
’ Parker today.)5 In 234 Squadron he quickly became known as ‘Bush’ Parker, although he had actually been born in England.
Jack and Edith Parker adopted their only son, Vincent, in 1920. The boy, originally Vincent Wheatley, was actually a son of Edith’s sister. He had been born on 11 February 1918 in Chester-le-Street, County Durham, the youngest in a family of three sons. When he was a few months old his mother died, and Vincent was adopted by his aunt. In 1928, the Parkers emigrated to Australia and arrived at Bilyana in Queensland, a small fruit farming settlement midway between Townsville and Cairns. Unfortunately, the community was devastated by a cyclone just before they arrived but Jack Parker managed to obtain work with Queensland Railways and Edith became station mistress at Purono.
Vincent was educated at Bohleville State School, but after leaving he drifted in and out of several jobs (including as a magician) until he eventually obtained a billet as a steward on the passenger liner Ontranto voyaging to England and back. At this stage he read about and became interested in training in England and joining the RAF. After his second trip, he left the vessel and cabled his mother in Townsville seeking her permission and financial support. She agreed.
Once in England, Vincent stayed with his birth family while at civilian flying school at Gatwick, and on 22 July 1939 he was granted a six-year short service commission as a pilot officer on probation. His training began in August with No. 11 Fighter Training School at RAF Shawbury in Shropshire, where he gained his pilot’s badge on 25 October. Vincent received a posting to 234 Squadron in Yorkshire on 10 April 1940, and when he arrived two days later he was placed into ‘B’ Flight. Pat Hughes was his flight commander. It may have been Pat who shortened his nickname from ‘Bushy’ Parker to ‘Bush’ Parker as it was his habit to give nicknames to most of the people around him like ‘Morty’ Mortimer-Rose, ‘Hornpipe’ Hornby, ‘Bish’ Owens, and so on.
Bush Parker nearly did not last very long. Two weeks after joining, he could have been killed while flying in a section of three Spitfires which were caught up in heavy fog and then a storm. Before long they were lost. With fuel running low, Parker tried to make an emergency landing in a field but as he was coming down a flock of sheep loomed in his path. Somehow he managed to avoid them, but the wheels of his plane caught in an unseen hole and the aircraft flipped over onto its back. Fortunately, he was not hurt. It was fortunate too that his Spitfire was only slightly damaged. A message was circulating in the squadron to the effect that anyone who crashed one of the precious Spitfires would be posted immediately! Parker was not transferred.
Shortly after the Spitfires arrived, Pat was sent on an air fighting course at RAF Northolt for a week. When he returned he intensified the training programme.
The authorities thought the most likely threat they would have to face would be air attacks by German bombers flying directly across the North Sea from Germany. These would be open to interception by fighters based in eastern England and in France or Belgium. Because of the distances involved they would be far beyond the range of escorting fighters to protect them, except perhaps from heavy twin-engine fighters like the Me 110s that could carry more fuel to extend their range.
In strict accordance with RAF regulations, the pilots were taught to fly their Spitfires in tight formations and carry out precise manoeuvres. In the RAF Training Manual of 1938, the chapter on ‘Air Fighting Tactics’ stated:
Manoeuvring at high speeds in air fighting is not now practicable, because the effect of gravity on the human body during rapid changes of direction at high speed causes a temporary loss of consciousness.
The thinking was that dogfighting as it occurred in the First World War was a thing of the past. The manual went on to instruct that single-seater fighter attacks at high speed must be confined to a variety of attacks from the general direction of astern. It gave three text-book methods of attack with the basic fighter section being the standard vic of three aircraft.
In ‘Fighter Command Attack Number One’, on sighting an enemy bomber the leader would order his two wingmen into line astern. Diving to attack, the three fighters would drop just below the height of the bomber to avoid return fire from the rear-gunner. The fighters would close and in turn open fire from about 400 yards, then one by one break away outwards and down. They would then turn and regain height behind the enemy aircraft to reposition themselves for a possible further attack.
The German bomber types did not have a rear-gunner position in the extreme tail like RAF bombers. They had a dorsal gunner positioned more or less in line with the trailing edge of the bomber’s wings. All the guns appeared to be on free-standing mounts and not in power-operated turrets like most RAF bombers.
‘Fighter Command Attack Number Two’ dealt with attacking an enemy bomber formation with two three-plane sections. The leader of the six fighters would orders his pilots into line astern to attack. Positioning themselves behind the target bombers and slightly below, the leading section would attack the right-flank bomber and the second section the left-flank bomber. As the attack went in, the sections, which would ideally be separated by about 200 yards fore and aft, would form a rear echelon formation. The leading three would go into a starboard echelon and the second three into a port echelon. After the attack, the leading section would break to the right and down, the second section to the left and down. They would all then pull up and around for the next attacks.
‘Fighter Command Attack Number Three’ was very similar to the Number Two attack, except that it was designed for a squadron using four vics of three fighters attacking a larger number of bombers. It was far more complicated and as the fight began the sections would endeavour to attack simultaneously from the rear, beam and rear quarter.
All of this became quite complex as the number of aircraft increased. Instinctively, some pilots in the squadron were beginning to feel that such rigid procedures that were out of date! The three attacks would only be effective if the German bomber pilots obligingly flew straight and level without taking much evasive action.
As Pat intensified the training programme, he found that he was shouldering the burden of more and more responsibility because of his seemingly indifferent CO. He had to walk a political tightrope, but it had to be so – a mere acting flight lieutenant could only do so much. At the same time, he had no choice but to support his commanding officer as the chain of command and discipline had to be maintained. Any desire to ‘make things happen’ had to be tempered with patience.
Even so, the other pilots were becoming aware of the situation. Years later Bob Doe recalled:
It was about this time also that we noticed that the CO and the ‘A’ flight commander didn’t seem to do much flying. Our flying was supervised and led by Pat Hughes, the ‘B’ flight commander who, being Royal Australian Air force, wore a royal blue uniform with gold rank badges. He was a good leader and we flew three to four sorties a day each, under his instruction.6
Away from the squadron Pat could relax. And there was Kay. Far from remaining ‘rather footloose and dissolute’, as he had written in his letter to Bill last September, a new romance was blossoming, and the two began to see each other at every opportunity.
Meanwhile, the war clouds were building. During the night of 16/17 March while attacking Royal Navy ships in Scapa Flow, German aircraft dropped bombs on British soil for the first time and killed a civilian, James Isbister, as he stepped outside his home at Bridge of Waithe in Orkney to help a neighbour. Seven others were wounded. A reprisal raid was ordered on the German seaplane base at Hörnum, on the southernmost tip of the North Frisian island of Sylt.
English newspaper headlines the morning after the raid blazed out: LAND TARGET AT LAST FOR THE RAF; TONS OF BOMBS DROPPED; SIX HOURS’ ATTACK ON SYLT; HANGARS AND OIL TANKS ABLAZE; ADMIRATION IN U.S.; NIGHT SKY LIT UP! Reports on the BBC described it as a heavy raid and claimed extensive damage.
The story was told differently in Germany. Berlin’s newspapers carried the headlines: ‘BRITISH BOMB
DENMARK!’ The German High Command claimed that no damage had been caused despite the bombing going on for nearly seven hours. It seems that during the attack on the seaplane base a couple of bombs did fall on Danish territory and on orders from the German propaganda minister, Dr Goebbels, this was how it was reported.
Another member of Pat’s Point Cook course was lost in France on 31 March. Like Britain, France was emerging from one of the coldest winters on record and with the warmer spring weather approaching the placid ‘Phoney War’ was expected to end, particularly in the air. Cec Mace was in 105 Squadron flying Fairey Battles. He and his gunner were flying on an anti-aircraft cooperation detail and did not have an observer with them when their plane crashed north of Champigneul. Both men were killed. Pat’s wrestling mate, ‘Grappler’ Mace, with his endless supply of funny, spicy, stories, was no more.
On 9 April at dawn German forces invaded Denmark and Norway. The move into Denmark by land was almost uncontested and the country was occupied within hours. The attack on Norway was carried out by sea and air and it was opposed by the Norwegians.
On the night of 13/14 April, Bomber Command went gardening and carried out the first RAF mine-laying operation of the war. In future, such missions had the code name of ‘Gardening’. Different areas to be mined were known by their own code names. Oslo was known as ‘Onion’, the Elbe area was coded ‘Eglantine’, and so on. Fifteen Hampdens took off and fourteen of them laid mines in the sea lanes off Denmark between the German ports and Norway.
A Spitfire Pilot's Story: Pat Hughes: Battle of Britain Top Gun Page 11
