Aircrew: The Story of the Men Who Flew the Bombers

by Bruce Lewis

  After leaving the dropping zone, it was customary for the crews to fly on to an area some distance away and then throw out leaflets. By doing this it was hoped that the Germans might be fooled as to the true purpose of their mission. On this night Pilot Officer Affleck, John’s new skipper, called over the intercom, ‘OK, Robby, time to get back down the kite and chuck out some bits of bumph.’ John immediately made his way along the noisy, dark, vibrating, unfamiliar fuselage. He found a large brown paper parcel and unwrapped it. Inside were smaller parcels; these he also unwrapped. Inside each of these were even smaller parcels. When those were unwrapped he discovered they contained blocks of leaflets, rather like brand new banknotes, each bundle neatly tied together with string. Fishing out his penknife he cut all the pieces of string. Then he struggled across to the large hatch-covers over the hole in the floor. As he lifted these lids, in preparation for dispatching the leaflets, an unexpected thing happened. Far from leaving the aircraft, the inrush of air scattered the sheets throughout the interior, covering the occupants in paper. As the wireless operator said later, The effect was positively autumnal!’ No one had thought to tell John that there was a small chute provided for the purpose of ejecting leaflets. After all, no one would have believed that until the previous day, he had never flown in an aeroplane!

  He soon grew to like the Halifax, which, apart from the ‘drop hole’ and the missing turret, was very little modified from the Main Force bombers. Static lines ran along the interior for the parachutists and there was a fairing over the tailwheel to prevent possible injury to those who jumped. Above all, he developed an admiration for the 1390 hp Merlin XXs which transcended the respect he had held for any other aero engine. As an engineer he rated them near perfect for reliability and performance under all conditions.

  161 Squadron carried fewer aircrew because of the specialist nature of the operations. There was no bomb aimer, and only one gunner, in the rear turret. Sometimes, when agents were to be dropped, the crew was joined by a ‘despatcher’.

  John found the missions fascinating, if decidedly hair-raising. Over the drop zone on a moonlit night it was almost like watching a film – reflections from the wet oilskins worn by the freedom fighters; the occasional flashing torch; the car in the distance with headlights blazing; obviously speeding to the scene – presumably driven by Gestapo.

  Seeing rainbows at night amazed and puzzled him. Previously he had always believed this was a scientific impossibility. Glowing red flames in the River Rhône, near Avignon, a reflection from their eight exhausts, two per engine, caused him a great deal of worry and highlighted the aircraft’s vulnerability. If the flames were that obvious at cruising speed, he thought, they must show up like blazing beacons with the throttles wide open.

  He was lucky to be teamed with a very experienced skipper. The previous year Pilot Officer Affleck had been involved in a dramatic mission to bring out some agents from France. In an attempt to take off from a small field, his Lockheed Hudson had become bogged down in the mud. Luckily Resistance fighters and local gendarmerie, aided by oxen with strong ropes, managed to drag the aircraft free. He became airborne without a moment to spare and so avoided capture by the Germans.

  The modus operandi of 161 Squadron was almost the exact opposite from that practised by the rest of Bomber Command. Whereas the Main Stream bombers normally flew high, the higher the better, 161 flew to the dropping zone ‘hugging the deck’. This was to avoid detection by enemy radar. On reaching their destination they had to climb to 1,500 feet, still a low height by any standards, in order to ensure safe parachute descents.

  Another difference – bombers operated in a protective stream, relying on safety in numbers. Also, as we have learned, from August, 1943, onwards, they shovelled out ‘Window’ in vast quantities. But 161 Squadron aircraft flew alone to their ‘target’ hoping to attract as little attention as possible.

  Agents and vital supplies were carried to Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium and France. John was convinced that the trip across the Zuider Zee into Holland was the most hazardous because all the small islands seemed to bristle with flak emplacements. Aircrew flew ‘on the water’ to try to keep out of trouble. One night there was an awe-inspiring instance when this technique was carried too far.

  Affleck’s crew had their own Halifax, T for Tommy, in which they had every faith and cherished above all other aircraft. One night they lent it to a Flying Officer ‘Dinga’ Bell and his crew. These ungrateful types treated poor old T for Tommy so badly it was never quite the same again. Flying at wave-top height over the Zuider Zee, ‘Dinga’ Bell actually ploughed the Halifax into the water. Survival seemed impossible. Yet, jettisoning every container they somehow managed to struggle out of the sea and stagger back to base. This was all the more remarkable as the two port wooden propellers were smashed to matchwood, leaving only the stumps. The bomb-bay and the rear turret were full of seaweed!

  Agents arrived at Tempsford in large black limousines driven by women of the WRAC. Officially aircrew were not supposed to speak to these undercover operators apart from the routine instructions given over the drop zone. However, sharing common dangers created a comradely atmosphere in which more than idle banter was sometimes exchanged. The airmen were the only people to whom these men and women could speak without fear of betrayal, before they plunged into a world where a single unguarded word could send them, and others, to their deaths.

  Tempsford is mentioned in a remarkable book. Six Faces of Courage, by Professor M. R. D. Foot, where he illustrates the exploits of half-a-dozen agents. He describes how one of these men, Harry Peuleve, was dropped by a Halifax of 161 Squadron into a field near Nîmes, in France. He was parachuted too close to the ground and broke his leg. Unable even to hobble, Peuleve was discovered by a farmer and his family who gave him shelter for the night. The following day he was taken to a discreet hospital ward in Nîmes. The book goes on to describe how the fracture was so severe that a surgeon, who took care to ask no questions, had to be called in to set it. This was a major operation, and an anaesthetist was available; but Peuleve insisted on being operated on without anaesthetic – to avoid any possibility of giving secrets away while unconscious.

  On one occasion John and his crew had to ‘deliver’ a group of young Belgian agents. The weather conditions were foul, and the Halifax was being buffeted all over the sky – albeit, as always, only a few feet from the ground. One of the flight engineer’s most important tasks was to keep a careful eye on the fuel gauges, and switch on the aircraft’s petrol wing-tanks in plenty of time before they ran dry; the gauges were rarely 100% accurate. To make the procedure a little more difficult, the manufacturers had located the fuel-cocks under the rest-bed.

  John was not in his best mood as he knelt on the aircraft’s juddering floor and struggled to carry out the adjustment. The Belgians sitting on the rest-bed hardly made the task easier. Near-ing the dropping area the hatch-covers were opened in readiness. Suddenly, the interior was lit up by a blinding light. They had inadvertently flown over an airfield near Bapaume and were momentarily caught in a searchlight beam.

  As the Germans opened fire, their guns must have been depressed to the lowest notch in an effort to hit the hedge-hopping intruder. It seemed to John that all they were achieving was the demolition of their own hangars. Seconds later the surrounding darkness had swallowed up the Halifax which soon reached its destination, marked by a pinpoint of light shining up from the ground, as a torch flashed the letters of the day.

  John’s philosophy at this time was that he and the boys were doing a good job. He hoped he might be spared a little longer so he could continue his work. Work was the key factor – keeping himself busy at all times took his mind off the constant danger. Never-ending mental arithmetic, calculating fuel consumption, without help from a calculator, was the constant lot of a flight engineer. There was no time to brood.

  He felt certain that fate would catch up with him sooner or later. The chances of complet
ing a tour were too remote to be considered seriously. Having come to this conclusion, he made the most of each day as it came along with absolutely no regrets. He found it impossible to join in what he considered the false bonhomie indulged in by many aircrew. As the crew wagon made its way out to the aircraft, the flyers would rend the air with raucous jokes and mock insults, assuring each other that ‘they were definitely for the chop this time’. John would sit silently in his seat, lost in his own thoughts.

  When his best pal was shot down, he made no attempt to hide his feelings under a cloak of indifference. It was an almost unbearable tragedy and that was all there was to it.

  John, who never considered himself a natural engineer, (he would much rather have been a botanist) went to endless pains to avoid making any mistakes when flying. During the course of his career in the RAF which extended from 1938 until 1960, he only knowingly made one error as a flight engineer – not a bad record. One night on return from an ‘op’ he was distracted by the possibility of enemy intruders in the vicinity of his home base. On that occasion he forgot to release the mechanical safety locks that held up the undercarriage. These acted as a safeguard in the event of the hydraulics being damaged. When Affleck tried to lower the wheels, they would not come down. Once John had realised the problem and removed the locks they landed safely.

  He always had great faith in the standard of ground maintenance. The Halifaxes were looked after with meticulous care. He knew, better than most, how expertly the fitters had been trained. The faith that Trenchard had in his ‘Brats’ had been well-founded – it was the ex-Halton boys who kept the kites flying, sometimes under the most appalling weather conditions during which they worked on the aircraft in the open air.

  The regulations laid down by the RAF for servicing the four-engine ‘Heavies’ were second to none. John sometimes felt that the inspections went too far. He believed that a number of the Daily Inspections bordered on the finicky – but if this was a fault, then it was a comforting one. [See Odell Dobson’s experiences in Chapter 10].

  Two American Air Force Liberators arrived at Tempsford to take up operational duties. To John these aircraft looked impressively workmanlike, already noted for their long range. Their crews behaved in a professional manner, showing interest in the radar equipment installed in the Halifaxes – equipment that the Liberators did not possess. That night they both took off on a mission to Poland. Only one returned. The following day the survivor flew away from the airfield never to be seen again.

  There was an American, a typical Brooklyn boy, who had joined the RAF and flew with the squadron as a Sergeant wireless operator. On a mission to Montluçon in Central France, the aircraft in which he was flying crashed. Escaping without injury, he was placed on a truck on top of the pile of containers which he and his crew had just dropped, and carted off to Montluçon. Hidden by underground workers, he soon settled in and made the best of his new circumstances. He even found himself a French girlfriend.

  News eventually filtered back to the squadron, and his Wing Commander flew over in a single-engine Lysander, landed, picked him up and brought him back to Tempsford. One of the last things the French asked their new-found American friend before he left was ‘Please tell the RAF never to bomb us’.

  Not long after this incident, 161 Squadron were briefed for a mission to drop more containers in the same locality. It was the night of 15/16 September, 1943. They were just arriving, at low level as usual, when, to quote from the Bomber Command War Diaries, the following happened:

  209 Halifaxes, 120 Stirlings, 40 Lancasters, and 5 American Fortress B-17s took part in a moonlit raid on the Dunlop rubber factory at Montluçon in Central France. The pathfinders marked the target accurately and the Master Bomber, Wing Commander D. F. E. C. Deane, brought the Main Force in well to carry out some accurate bombing. Every building in the factory was hit and a large fire was started.

  The report omits to mention that as the bombs rained down a clutch of poor old Halifaxes from 161 Squadron was trying to get on with the work of dropping containers! Nor is there any quote about the reaction of the citizens of Montluçon to this unexpected attack.

  Incidentally, the Sergeant from Brooklyn was asked by the American Eighth Air Force to leave the RAF and join them. He complied with this request and was immediately promoted to Colonel. The increase in pay alone must have been a heady experience!

  The time came when Affleck’s crew became the longest surviving on the squadron. Their durability was attributed to the quality of the crew, a seasoned pilot and, particularly, an outstanding navigator, ‘Mack’ MacMasters. He, like his skipper, was on his second tour. He never failed to reach the drop zone accurately and on time, and then always plotted a safe course back to base. Flying so low, there was little help from electronic aids, although, like other navigators, he sometimes made good use of a radar device hidden in a tree ‘somewhere in France’!

  John could hardly believe his luck, when, after completing thirty-nine operations, his tour was over and he was still alive. It took a little while for the fact to sink in. Not only had he survived, but he had actually completed nine more missions than was normal for a first tour in Bomber Command. (In spite of its special-duty role 161 Squadron was still a Bomber Command squadron under the authority of 3 Group.) After Affleck had completed his second tour, John pressed on with another crew skippered by a cheerful New Zealander, Sergeant Wilkinson, and then completed his operational duties with Flying Officer Don Harborow and his crew.

  It was November, 1943, and while John was celebrating his good fortune on leave, 161 suffered what was probably its heaviest loss of the war. Western Europe was unexpectedly blanketed in a thick layer of fog. Bomber Command transmitted a warning to its raiding bombers and they were recalled to their various bases in time. 161 Squadron was forgotten. Very few of its Halifaxes returned safely that night.

  MacMasters was navigating a new crew. He had brought them back to an emergency airstrip at Woodbridge, in Suffolk. Because of the dense fog the pilot misjudged his approach and the Halifax crash-landed. ‘Mack’ was thrown clear. He fell at the side of the runway, unconscious, but not badly injured. When searchers discovered him he was lying face downwards; he had drowned in a puddle of water.

  To John’s surprise he was awarded the DFM, commissioned and sent to RAF Feltwell, a Lancaster Finishing School, as an instructor. The usual pattern, which was to reveal itself throughout his flying career, had cropped up again. Apart from his early apprenticeship not once did he receive training for any job that came his way. Now he was expected to teach others in an aircraft he had only seen flying in the distance!

  His introduction to the Avro Lancaster was a revelation – to use his own words, ‘It was a dream! It flew like a bird’.

  Yet the greatest bomber of the Second World War had been born out of failure. With high hopes, the Avro Manchester had been launched early in 1941. Powered by two Rolls-Royce Vulture engines of 1760 hp, it proved a bitter disappointment. The Vultures were notoriously unreliable. Many aircrew lost their lives flying in these dangerous machines. There was nothing wrong with the aircraft itself, only its engines. Roy Chadwick, A. V. Roe’s chief designer, was inspired to fit four Merlin engines in place of the two Vultures. The name Manchester died. With a wing span increased by 12 feet to accommodate the two extra engines, the Lancaster soared into the air – the ‘Shining Sword’, as Arthur Harris called it, had arrived.

  Unlike the Halifax, where the flight engineer was stationed under the astrodome, on the Lancaster John found he was in closer proximity to the pilot, almost like a second pilot. With his Merlin XXs, which had also powered the Halifaxes, he was perfectly content. Perhaps his most satisfying moment in the air came one day when an American B17 Flying Fortress took up formation alongside them. The American pilot indicated by signs that he would welcome a race. Reaching over to his switch panel, John cut two of the bomber’s engines. Then opening the throttles on the two remaining motors, the Lancaster pul
led steadily ahead of the Fortress!

  John, who in 1946 married Lynne, a charming girl from the WAAF, remained in the RAF as a flight engineer until 1960. One of the highlights of his peacetime career was taking part in the Berlin airlift, when the entire population of the city was fed from the air for months by the Americans and British, until the Russians, who had blockaded the city, relented and removed the road barriers. Apart from food, the aircrews carried electrical generators, huge rolls of newspaper, and coal. John and the others were not very keen on coal as a cargo. But, joining the constant stream of planes, they did enjoy flying low over General Sokoloski’s residence. He was the man who had ordered the blockade!

  After 22 years in the RAF, John retired with the rank of Flight Lieutenant and became, not a botanist, but an antique dealer.

  FIVE

  The Bomb Aimer

  The role of the bomb aimer, like that of the flight engineer, was created through the need for greater efficiency in bombing operations, utilizing the effectiveness of the four-engine bombers. Until the arrival of these larger aircraft, the business of dropping bombs had been left to the navigator. With increased specialization among aircrew, better aircraft, improved equipment, radar navigation aids, bigger and more potent bombs, the highly trained bomb aimer became the prime member of the crew at the moment of attack, guiding his pilot towards the aiming point.

  Bomb aimers were sometimes recruited from the ranks of cadets washed out as pilots. After further rigorous training they passed out in their new role. Because of their long period of instruction, many of these men, apart from being skilled in their own job, had also accumulated a knowledge of navigation, and how to fly an aircraft – not a four-engine bomber, perhaps, but with enough know how to be useful in an emergency.