by Bruce Lewis
Jack finished up in No 1 Ward, St Richard’s Hospital, in Chichester. My uncle kept an eye on him while he remained there and took him fruit each day. Meanwhile, the rest of us returned to Ludford Magna. I wrote to my mother and father about part of our journey:
The following day we travelled back by train in flying kit. The Londoners are marvellous. Sirens blowing and no one pays any attention. They just carry on with their work as if things are quite normal. We didn’t see anything of the Flying Bombs, and damage was slight except coming up from the South to Victoria where things are pretty devastated, I’m afraid.
The London taxi drivers are a grand bunch of blokes. We exchanged comments with many of them as we passed in transport provided from Victoria to King’s Cross. Nelson still stands undaunted in Trafalgar Square. To me he has always been London.
Back on the squadron I had a conversation with our Station Commander, Group Captain King. This most approachable of officers wanted to know in precise detail exactly what had happened on our trip to Coquereaux. As a Lancaster pilot himself he appreciated how magnificently our skipper had behaved. Shortly afterwards it was announced that Jack had been awarded the Distinguished Service Order – the only DSO to be won by 101 Squadron that year.
Sadly, after only a few days, the rest of Jack’s team, with the exception of Max and myself, were posted away from the squadron. Max, as a ‘Special’, was in an aircrew category unique to 101, and was almost immediately absorbed into another crew. I was left feeling lonely and isolated – losing a crew was like being severed from a family.
However, being a gentleman of leisure for two or three weeks set in train events that were to affect the rest of my life. I met a beautiful young WAAF who was involved with Signals Duties on 101 Squadron. Miki had previously seen front-line action on a fighter ’drome when stationed at Biggin Hill, during the desperate Battle of Britain days. She knew all about the terrors of being bombed and strafed while still carrying on her work. Our experiences, emotions, the way we lived and our language led to a shared understanding. These alone would have been enough to bring us together, but of course there was much more. An overwhelming attraction, each for the other, soon meant we were in love.
We arranged a date for the day after our first meeting, but I nearly failed to keep it. A Flight Commander asked me to accompany a Pilot Officer Bateman and a ground staff Engineering Officer on an air test. Only the three of us were detailed to fly. Apparently a new crew had taken off the previous day, but had been unable to get the Lancaster (I Item RV293) above 8,000 feet and had returned to base long before reaching the target. We were required to give a second opinion on the aircraft’s performance.
We flew west over the Welsh mountains. To simulate operational conditions, the aircraft carried a full bomb load. Impatient to get the test over, (it was already late afternoon), I stood in the astrodome dressed in my best uniform ready for the evening date with the marvellous WAAF I had met the previous day. It soon became obvious that the ‘sprog’ crew had done well to get as high as they did. After half-an-hour’s flying we were barely over 3,500 ft. I Item was patently unfit for service.
The Engineering Officer was making careful notes when the starboard inner engine spluttered and stopped. Bateman was astounded to find the bomber would not maintain height on three engines – unheard-of for a Lancaster. He suggested we might jettison the 4000 pound ‘cookie’ over the Welsh mountains. With a clear vision of my Aunt Annie, I protested strongly and gave him a course to steer across England to the Wash. This would also bring us into the vicinity of Ludford Magna. As we crossed the east coast we were down to 1000 feet and I had positioned myself in the nose, trying to remember the many things that Jimmy had told me about releasing bombs. All the switches on the panel had been flicked to ‘on’, everything seemed set. Flying out over the Wash, Bateman opened the bomb doors and said, ‘Let the bloody things go, Bruce. Quick!’ I pressed the tit. Nothing happened. Again and again – still they would not unstick. It was the Engineering Officer who twigged what was wrong. ‘Because this is an air test, the bombs are not wired up. We’ ll have to get them away manually.’ Remembering Jimmy’s instructions, I looked in the holder for the ‘bomb toggle’, a long piece of wire with a loop on the end specially fashioned for dislodging bombs by hand. It was missing. From Bateman: ‘We’ re down to 800 feet, for Christ’s sake!’ The odds on survival when plunging into the sea with a fully laden Lancaster would not be looked on with much optimism by bookies or insurance actuaries.
Having removed the small, oblong hatch-covers located on the deck above the bomb bay, I was lying flat on the floor, bathed in sweat and covered in grease and oil, trying to unhook the ‘cookie’ with an improvised contraption made up of a short length of wire cable, a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. Looking down the sides of the stubbornly resisting 4,000-pounder it was all too evident the sea was frighteningly close. The white crests that topped the green waves almost seemed to be splashing the underside of the Lancaster.
Just as the moment of despair overtook me, the monstrous drum of explosive broke away and plunged into the sea. Relieved of its weight, the aircraft eased out of its downward journey. Later, Bateman told me we had been at 300 feet when it went. It continued to be a tricky business, because, although we were now flying level, I Item still lacked the power to climb. We sent a message to base and obtained permission to come straight in. As we touched down a second engine started to splutter. The Engineering Officer looked as though he might be glad to get back to his desk!
After a lengthy report, and our heartfelt suggestion that this new aircraft should be sent back from whence it had come, I was still in time for my important date. But my appearance hardly lived up to the debonair image I had hoped to present. The image was, in fact, rather closer to that of a fitter’s grease rag. Miki, who looked stunning in her beautifully pressed WAAF uniform, affected not to notice.
A little more than three weeks after Jack West’s misfortune I flew to Kiel with a new crew. There was heavy opposition over the target, the starboard elevator was holed, but otherwise it was a good trip. The skipper, 32-year-old Flight Lieutenant Jim Bursell, apart from being mature, also had a streak of the ‘swashbuckler’ in him, which prompted him from time to time to perform some ‘daring deeds’ well beyond the call of duty. On a later occasion we went to Neuss, near Düsseldorf in the Ruhr, and flew three times over this heavily defended target just to get our line up ‘absolutely right’, before dropping the bombs. Another time we continued over the target, although recalled by the Master Bomber because of poor visibility, in order to take line-overlap photographs proving that we could have bombed in any case. That was the time we were struck by lightning.
Jim Bursell, a tall New Zealander, was hero-worshipped by his young crew. They made no bones about telling me he was the best pilot on 101, the only one who had the guts to take off with a full load and then do a double climbing turn! Although, at the beginning, I did not share their enthusiasm for the skipper’s eccentricities, I eventually came to appreciate his outstanding abilities both as a pilot and a leader. From then on I was convinced we were in sure hands.
By mid-August Bomber Command was ready to return to attacking German cities, especially some of those that had proved difficult to eliminate earlier in the war. We had just completed a period about which the Bomber Command War Diaries say:
Operations during this period consisted of a multitude of small or medium-sized raids. The planners never worked harder, nor did the aircrew and the ground staffs. Sometimes aircrew flew two sorties in twenty-four hours. By day, they might be bombing targets only a few yards from the battle lines in Normandy; a few hours later they could be bombing an oil refinery in the Ruhr. Bomber Command flew approximately the same number of sorties in an average week during this period – more than 5,000 sorties – as in the first nine months of the war! No one who flew in those weeks and survived will ever forget them.
And of course, for reasons already ex
plained, 101 Squadron flew with even greater frequency than the rest!
Later, in October, we were still hard at it. On the 5th we air-tested a new machine, a G George, (the same designation as our previous one, which by now was worn out). That was around 1100. It proved to be satisfactory so at 1850 that night we flew it to Saarbrücken and bombed military concentrations. We did not return to base, having being diverted to Witchford.
The following morning we flew back to base from Witchford. Then at 1741 we took off for another night raid, this time on Bremen. On return there was hardly time to close our eyes before being called to a briefing for an urgently mounted mission supporting the army at Emmerich, and were airborne by noon. Within a brief period we were testing yet another new machine, because our ‘recently new one’ had been damaged by a bomb that had hit us when it fell from one of our own aircraft flying above us in the target area.
On our night ‘ops’ we flew around 20,000 feet above large German cities, while daylight targets were sometimes attacked by our heavy bombers at hair-raisingly low altitudes. For example, we bombed a coastal battery at Cap Gris Nez, near Calais, at only 2,700 feet.
Our longest trip had been to Stettin on the German/Polish frontier at the end of August. We had taken off as daylight was fading, flown over the North Sea, across northern Denmark, then found our way south to the target flying high above the Baltic. After bombing, we came back by the same route, and landed at base just as dawn was breaking – the trip had lasted 9 hours and 5 minutes.
Yet the most memorable moment on that mission was when our bomber stream flew over Malmö, blatantly breaking through the air-space of neutral Sweden. What a sight it was! After nearly five years of total ‘Black-Out’ both at home and on the Continent, it is almost impossible to describe the wonder of looking down on a city bathed in light. Houses with twinkling windows, streets lined with illuminated shops, highways picked out by marching rows of lamps, traffic with headlights blazing, neon signs, illuminated docks, and perhaps most strange of all, an airport aglow with light. It was a fairyland in a world at war.
Focke Wulf FW190. Arguably even more deadly than the Messerschmitt 109, with similar armament configurations, but having over three times the endurance, at 3¼hours (RAF Museum).
The Consolidated Vultee Liberator B-24. The other ‘Heavy’ of the 8th AAF. Powered by four 1200 h.p. Pratt & Whitney radial engines, it was a rugged war machine (RAF Museum).
The North American P-51 Mustang. The best of a group of three escort fighters which in 1944 ensured success at last for the 8th AAF (RAF Museum).
Sergeant Leslie Biddlecombe
Sergeant John Roberts DFM
Flight/Sergeant Reg Scarth
Reg Scarth as a seasoned Kriegie
Flight Lieutenant Harold Chadwick, DFC, as a trainee pilot in Canada. He is seated in a Steerman PT17 biplane trainer
Flying Officer Francis Kelsey and crew in front of their Lancaster of 625 Squadron, Kelstern, July, 1944
Francis Kelsey as a Pilot Cadet
F/O ‘Ben’ Bennett, navigator, (aged 21), with his pilot, F/Sgt John Hollander, (aged 20), under the nose of their Halifax Mk 111 bomber, MH-R, of 51 Squadron, Snaith
Flt/Sgt Douglas Parkinson, flight engineer, (aged 20) perched alongside the astrodome
Flt/Sgt Thomas Tommy’ McCarthy, bomb aimer, (aged 19), posing with the crew mascot, Thumper Rabbit. The bomb sight can be seen through the perspex nose.
Flt/Sgt Ken Booth, mid-upper gunner, (aged 19) with his four Browning .303 machine guns in a Boulton Paul hydraulically operated turret.
Flt/Sgt Mick Campbell, RAAF. Rear Gunner, (aged 24), the crew’s ‘grandad’! On operations, both he and Booth wore electrically heated suits to combat the freezing conditions.
Flt/Sgt Bruce Lewis – the author.
LACW ‘Miki’ Smith of 101 Squadron’s highly secret Signals Section, Ludford Magna, 1944.
The Waist Gunner – Sergeant Odell Dobson.
8th AAF Air Gunners. A group of typical air gunners, tough and generally of stocky build, but the exception, Sergeant Odell Dobson, was well over six feet.
Odell Dobson’s Crew. Typical of many crews who manned the ‘Heavies’ of the 8th AAF – ten flyers; four officers and six sergeants. From this group, only Odell Dobson, (fourth from left, back row), and radio operator Roger Clapp, (fifth from left, back row), survived an attack by enemy fighters on 10 September, 1944.
The Swedes made a gesture, as they had every right to do. They fired obsolete flaming onions that burst 10,000 feet below us. We spotted some ancient biplane fighters that wisely kept their distance from our 402 Lancasters, but flashed their Aldis lamps in ‘warning’. On the way back, around 0300, it seemed most of the inhabitants, including the Swedish armed forces, had gone to bed. The activity had died down, and the lights extinguished.
Moments later, over Denmark, the dream ended for over twenty Lancaster crews, as waiting Luftwaffe fighters tore into the bombers and sent them tumbling from the sky. We, as on other nights, were lucky.
The three raids mentioned earlier, on the 5th, 6th and 7th October, completed my 30 ‘ops’. Still not quite believing I had actually survived I sat down and penned a letter to my parents telling them it was all over for the present, and that some leave should follow shortly. Then Miki and I went for a walk. As we wandered through the beautiful autumnal woods that overlooked the lovely little village of Tealby, where we had spent so many off-duty hours, I proposed to her and she accepted me. Danger was behind us. The future, whatever it held, looked bright and exciting. That night, lying on a haystack, we watched 101 Squadron taking off. As our Lancasters climbed for height my heart went out to all the crews, but with special thoughts for Jim Bursell and the boys who still had six trips to do to complete their tour.
The following morning, with a light step and a new sense of freedom, I was making my way to the Adjutant’s office to sort out some leave when Jim Bursell waylaid me. ‘Bruce,’ he said, coming straight to the point as always, ‘as you know we flew last night, and the boys are not happy with the new chap. They don’t want to fly with him any more. We’ ve had a chat about it and they’ ve asked me to ask you if you’ ll carry on with us – fly with us on our last five trips.’
‘Bloody hell, Jim, you’ re asking a hell of a lot!’ That was my immediate reaction. Then I looked at him, lean, reliable, like an older brother, his eyes anxious for my answer. I thought of the crew. The two inseparable Canadian gunners: Larry, tall, boyish and fair; Chuck, chunky-square dark as a bear, an ex-lumberjack. And all the others, each in turn, especially Colin Pyle, the unflappable, skilled navigator from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, full of common sense, with whom I had worked so harmoniously. These were the men who had accepted me as part of their team. I had never enquired about the wireless/op whose place I had taken. Somehow I knew they didn’t want to talk about him. Now they were calling on me again. My emotions were a mixture of pride, frustration, fear, and a certainty that, having ‘diced with Jesus’ and miraculously won, yet now, after all, it was only going to be a temporary victory.
It was blackmail of course. If I refused, there would be a lifetime to ponder on my decision, whatever happened. Yet, if I agreed to carry on and we got the ‘chop’, what about Miki? What about the shock to my parents? Having received my letter, they would assume I was safely through.
But from that first second when Jim asked me, I suppose I knew there could only be one answer: ‘OK Jim. I’ ll do it.’ And somehow managing a grin, ‘I’ ll hold you personally responsible if I get the “chop”!’
Jim’s relief was obvious. ‘I’m bloody pleased, Bruce. If you hadn’t agreed I think I’ d have had a mutiny on my hands!’
‘The bastards!’ I muttered with a mixture of resentment and affection.
Almost at once we flew off to a Fort Fredrick Heindrik, near Breskins, to destroy some heavy guns, attacking them at low level. Next it was Dulsberg, where the Germans threw up intense heavy flak wrecking our starboard ou
ter engine. This was the fourth time I had flown in Lancasters with less than the full complement of engines. Then there was a daylight raid on Cologne. This time the heavy flak blew a hole in the front of the aircraft. The return trip was uncomfortably cold and draughty. Three down, two to go. ‘What a bloody stupid clot I am,’ I kept grumbling to myself.
Raid No 4. Another mission to Cologne. A night job this time. Again we lost an engine, but on this occasion within minutes of taking off. Let me quote from my log book:
30.10.44 Operations: Cologne. A trip of snags! Starboard Inner Engine U/S from Reading on outward journey. Intercom U/S before target. No brake pressure. Fuel shortage. Sent message to base. Lightning flashes from aerial connections. Earthed all aerials. Target bombed OK. Landed Woodbridge.
Woodbridge, in Suffolk, was a specially established ‘crash drome’ for bombers in trouble. Twin searchlights pierced the sky vertically. They were like the gateway to heaven. Enter between those beams of light and you would touch down on concrete – stretching away into infinity and three times the width of a normal runway. Jim brought our wreck of a machine to a halt and she never flew again. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for this effort. Next day we went back to 101 by train. One to go!
