by F. M. Worden
We were having lunch at the diner when a Navy pilot Jack knew came in and joined us. He told us he had signed a contract to fly for the Flying Tigers in China. A General Chennault was asking military pilots to resign to go and fight the Japanese in China. I could see Jack was interested in this man’s talk, Jack was a real old war horse. Big money was being paid to military pilots.
I started asking questions, but Allie cut me short and said, “Don’t you get any ideas, you’re not going anywhere without me and Elsa.”
After the Navy Officer left, I asked Jack if he thought there would be a war that the US would get in. “You can bet on it,” he said. “Have you been reading the papers?”
I told him, “I only listen to the radio, I don’t seem to have time to read.”
Jack said, “It looks to me like the Germans are on the march again, they have the biggest air force in the world, most modern, too. They sent planes to fight in the Spanish civil war.”
“My brother Frank is a student in Germany, I hope he is okay.” I was real worried about Frank.
I must have had real concern on my face as Allie said, “He better get out of the country, I read the Germans are drafting the young men. Wouldn’t it be something if your brother got forced into their military?”
I could only say, “God, I hope not. That would kill my Mon and Dad.”
We finished our meal and headed back to the airport. A news flash came over the car radio. “Germany has just invaded Poland and England has said it would declare war on Germany if they didn’t pull their troops out today.”
Jack said firmly, “The war is here now.”
That was the first time I had ever seen or heard Allie cry, I could say nothing to console her. I knew in my heart, the USA was going to war sooner or later. Jack told the two of us that our government had not prepared us for war. He was mad as a hatter and said, “President Roosevelt and his cronies let us down, the writing has been on the wall for some time, our big shots don’t even think about war, the way the draft went proved that.”
The next thing we heard was England and France both declared war on Germany and Germany was in the process of invading France. England had sent troops to France to fight the Germans.
Our world was at war alright, where the heck was Brother Frank?
Chapter 4
The Battle of Britain: RAF
It was the saddest day in my entire life, up to that time, to see my Allie crying. She knew as I did what we were in for. As we sat in our car listening to the car radio, I could only hope this coming war would be over soon. Little did I know then what was in store for me and my family?
Allie, the baby and I flew to the ranch for Thanksgiving; all the news was of the fighting in France. The Germans had overrun Belgium and the Netherlands. France and England were having a rough time keeping the German Army from taking France.
My Dad and Popie were beside themselves that Germany would go to war again. All of them were worried sick about Brother Frank. No one had a word from him in weeks. I tried to console them by telling them that he could take care of himself. That didn’t seem to help a bit. Mother and Michelle would tear up at the mention of Frank’s name. I kept telling them, “He will be okay.”
My Dad took me aside and wanted to know what my plans were about the military. I told him I had no plans, he advised I should think about joining a service before I got drafted.
“I’ll look into it when I get home.”
Back home I went to see the Navy recruiter; he said I could join, go to boot camp then take my chances about flying. “Maybe you can go to flight training, but right now we don’t need pilots.” I tried the Marines, same story. “We need good strong guys like you, but we need Infantry.”
Not me, no Infantry for me. I got the same song and dance from the Army, I could go to basic training, then I could try for pilots training. I kind of said to hell with it, I was too young to be drafted at this time. Allie wasn’t really happy about the whole thing, she just didn’t want me to join at all. I told her I would have to go sooner or later. She said she knew that but wanted to prolong it as long as possible.
The month slipped by, Christmas and New Year’s came and went. We had spent the time with Jack, I was at the airport helping one of Jack’s mechanics clean up an engine when three guys who had been pilots in the air shows flew in and landed, I walked over where they were talking together.
“Hi guys, what’s up? What brings you boys to this bird nest on a day like this?” It was cloudy and getting ready to rain.
Big Jim said, “We’re waiting to meet a plane to take us to Canada; we have decided to join the Canadian Air force. How about you, Tommy, you want-a go too?”
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“Any licensed U.S. flyer can join if you can pass the physical.”
I had found my calling. I called Allie on the phone to tell her, I wanted to join the Canadian Air Force. To my surprise, she said, “Go for it.” That’s how I joined the Canadian Air Force.
In Canada I spent three months training, it was called “a quick up.” I spent most of the time learning about how to be a military person. After finishing the course, I was made a Flight Sergeant. We received new blue uniforms, with flight wings over the left breast pocket, and a Canada patch on the left arm at the shoulder, I was pronounced a fit combat Fighter Pilot.
Allie and Elsa had spent two months with me while I was in this training. That made life a lot better for me.
Orders came down that fifteen pilots were to be in England ASAP. I was made the CO of the detail; we were to fly two Lockheed Hudson twin engine aircraft to England.
Allie booked a flight to San Diego; I saw the baby and Allie off at the airport, it was a sad day to see Allie crying so hard, as she entered the plane; I threw a kiss and mouthed, “I’ll be back.”
We left the next morning, we landed at Nova Scotia to refuel and flew across the Atlantic to an airdrome in central west England. There I was posted to a Patrol Squadron at the tip of northern Scotland. I was to patrol the North Sea looking for submarines and other German sea going vessels, I complained. “I came here to be a fighter pilot, not a sub chaser.”
The C.O. told me. “We need experienced pilots to instruct the others, you are our best.”
What could I say but, “Okay.”
My duties started as soon as I unpacked, the Hudson was the ideal aircraft to use, it carried ten, one hundred and ten pound bombs. We patrolled sunup to sundown. My first go was fourteen hours, and then we would get eight hours on, eight hours off. A month of this and my butt was dragging. We hadn’t spotted one sub, I was beginning to think the Huns {as the Brits called the Germans} had no subs in the North Sea.
If I hadn’t been getting letters from Allie and Mother, I would have gone berserk. Funny how news from home will make a guy feel so good. Allie said she was working at the Lockheed Aircraft Company in Santa Monica, California, I kind of figured she was building airplanes. Little did I know she was a test pilot for the aircraft Lockheed P38? It was several years before I learned about it, what a gal I married. She was in more danger than I.
All the news was of the fighting in France. The Brits had sent a force {with fighter planes - Hurricanes - no Spitfires} to stop the Nazi advance. Seems they were having no luck stopping the Germans.
Two of our pilots were called to Fighter Command, they were older chaps. I felt cheated for weeks, I said so too. I was to feel better soon.
It was on an early morning patrol, we had been out for an hour, when the observer called on the intercom, “Sub dead ahead.”
Sure enough, I could just make out a Sub on the surface coming our way, what luck! I banked the Hudson hard right and at full throttle we climbed into a dense cloud bank. At 15,000, I leveled off and turned north, every once in a while we could get a peek at the Sub through a break in the clouds. She was steaming right along on the same course. Apparently, their lookout had not seen or heard our aircraft.
I
gave it five minutes, dove down and a few feet off the water headed for our target. At five hundred yards, I climbed above the Sub. “Bombs away!” She never knew what hit her, the hundred-ten pounders hit square on the deck, what a shot! As we climbed away, I banked left to get a better view. The Sub jumped out of the water and broke in half, in two minutes, the Sub was gone. I had total remorse; I knew a hundred men had just died. War had come to me in a striking realization.
After the patrol, a celebration was had in the village pub. Now there were fourteen crews patrolling the North Sea from our airdrome. Our Commanding Officer, Jeff J. Jones, a tall Scott, came to me that night and told me I had been posted to Fighter Command, I almost broke down as I wanted that so bad.
“Tommy,” he said “You will make one great Fighter Pilot.” He had been one in the first war. “I wish you the best in the world, England needs you now.” Boy, oh boy, did he make me feel good; I had a lot of respect for this man.
The news was of the retreat of French and British forces. They were trapped on the beaches of a French coastal town - Dunkirk.
Two days later, I was on a train bound for Fighter Command. I was to report to Air Vice-Marshal Park at Uxbridge, Group 11 Headquarters in south east England. I arrived at Park HQ at seven a.m. He welcomed me with open arms. “We need fighter pilots. You will be a member of Squadron 29 at Tangmere Airdrome, it’s the hottest group we have.” He was a no nonsense guy.
“We need pilots,” he said again, “Not heroes. Follow the orders of your squadron leader.”
I said I would without fail.
The news about Dunkirk, France was that the Brits had taken most of the soldiers back to England, 250,000 in a flotilla of civilian small boats. That was an impossible feat, to say the least.
I was given a ride to the Tangmere Airdrome. In the dispersal hut; I met my Squadron Leader, a chap named Flight Officer Major Sailor Martin. A stern looking individual, he looked to be about thirty-five years old, Six feet tall about one hundred eighty pounds. He was a friendly fellow and introduced me to a good number of my brother pilots, most were young as I. I met my wing man, Lee Johns, an Aussie, tall, blonde, dark blue-eyed, handsome, weighting in at about a hundred and sixty pounds. a really good looking young guy. He told me he had been with the squadron all of three days. “I have four hours of combat time, No kills but some misses.”
“I’ll get one soon,” he told me with much confidence.
Major Martin asked if I had ever flown a fighter aircraft.
“I have a few minutes in a Navy f4f Grumman Wildcat and an old Pea-shooter, a Navy Officer let me fly them at an air show we were giving at a Navy field; nothing to brag about.”
Major Martin the Squadron CO and I walked outside and over to a Hurricane fighter plane parked in the dispersal area. Four ground crew men were busy working on it.
The Sq. CO said, “This is your aircraft, it has just been refurbished at the factory. These men are fueling and putting a few finishing touches on it. The ship was shot down and the pilot killed, may you have better luck with her.”
I must have looked a little apprehensive. He told me. “She’s as good as new.”
He introduced me to my ground crew chief, Corporal Jason Smith. “She’s all ready to fly, sir.”
The Corporal looked really young, maybe nineteen at the most. He was a rather tall, lanky chap with a smooth face and a friendly smile. I could see we were going to get along fine. He gripped my hand and said. “We’ll get a lot of Huns, won’t we Sir?”
“You bet we will.”
“Your airplane is in good hands, I’ll take good care of her and you, Please call me Smithy, everyone does.”
“I sure will.”
Squadron Commander, Flight Officer Major Martin said, “I want you to take your Hurricane up. You need to get the feel of her before you go into combat.”
Smithy told me, “She’s full of petrol and ready to go, no ammo though”
“Go south out to sea, give her a good jolly go, you have an hour. Watch for enemy aircraft, the Huns are lurking about.”
I climbed into the cockpit. This aircraft had more instruments than any plane I had flown. He stood on the wing giving me instructions I needed to fly my Hurricane. “When you turn upside down, the engine will spit a few seconds. She has a carburetor, it takes a second for the fuel to catch up. Remember that, the enemy has fuel injection, so you are most vulnerable at that time.” When he got down, Smithy helped with my seat and parachute harnesses, I was ready to fly my Hurricane.
As I was flagged out and taxied to the take-off area, I tried to run over in my mind the instructions Officer Martin had given me. There was no runway here, just a grass field, the ground was somewhat soft. At the end of the field, I turned into the wind, set the brakes and revved the engine, I released the brakes and she leapt forward in response. Away we went, back on the stick, in a split second we were airborne.
“What power this baby has.”
I circled the field two times, climbing all the time, I needed to get my bearings. At three thousand feet, I banked right and headed south. Climbing all the time, I was out over water in a few minutes. I put on the oxygen mask at twelve thousand feet, and flattened out, all the time watching for enemy aircraft. None, I never saw any all the time I was out when I figured I was out about twenty miles, I put her through some aerobatics.
WOW, what an aircraft this was! If I had done some of the same stuff in the old biplanes in the air shows, I wouldn’t be here, this plane could take it. Loops, rolls, spins, she climbed like crazy. I had never flown a plane like this before, I was having a ball, what fun! When I checked my instruments, I only had a few minutes fuel left. The gauge was clicking on “E.” I was at fifteen thousand feet, I rolled her over and went into a steep dive.
WHOA! The Hurricane began to shudder and kept in the dive, I was pulling back on the stick with all my strength, I was sweating like a run-a-way horse. She pulled out at one thousand feet, Whew! Hooray, I was about to relieve myself—pee in my pants.
Back at the airfield, I sat her down as gentle as a baby buggy. Smithy helped me out of the cockpit. “How ya like her?” he asked.
“This is a real aircraft.”
He grinned and shook his head yes.
A lorry pulled up next to the Hurricane, a young female in a blue uniform got out and started to unload cartons of 303 ammo. I asked Smithy about her.
“She’s a WAAF, we have lots of girls like her, and they do everything for us. Drive lorries, tractors, you may see them with a shovel filling bomb craters after a raid, mostly they work on the tracking tables.”
“Tracking tables?” I asked.
“Yeah, they track the enemy as soon as they take off in France; track our fighters as they intercept them. You will have to go see, it’s something to see, we can’t do without them, they’re wonderful.” He introduced me to the WAAF, her name was Sarah. I learned more every day, about Fighter Command.
I walked past the dispersal area, there sat eight pilots waiting for the call to scramble. They were lounging in lawn chairs, one got up and introduced himself. “My name is Patty,” he said as he shook my hand. He told me the seven other chaps’ names. “How do we call you? We give nick names to everybody.”
“My name is Tom. I’m called Tommy at home.”
“Tommy is an English Bloke, we need one better.”
One of the pilots chimed in. “Let’s call him Yank.”
“That’s okay by me. “
“Yank you are,” Patty said. “The CO wants to see you.”
“See you chaps later.” I walked over and entered the dispersal hut, there were three pilots and Officer Martin sitting around a table.
“Come on in,” Officer Martin said. “How was your flight?”
“Great, that’s the most powerful aircraft I’ve ever flown.”
“Did you have any trouble at all?” he asked.
“She was a little hard to take out of a steep dive.”
�
��Ha, ha,” Martin said laughing. “You forgot to trim. Many first timers pull the same thing, you won’t forget again.”
I assured him I wouldn’t.
“Two critical moves you must make when you dive in a Hurricane trim her and don’t forget to switch on the firing button when you go into combat. Also, you only have nineteen seconds of ammo. Try to use two second bursts, watch your tracers, they will tell you where your hitting. We recommend starting firing at two hundred and fifty yards from the target. We use the Hurricane for the bombers; let the Spits take on the German fighters. Our tactics as of now are to dive from above, out of the sun if possible. Try to pass thru the enemy formation, firing as you pass by. Climb as soon as you can and get in position to make another pass. I know it sounds simple, it’s not. Most of all, you will have to train yourself. We all do, we don’t have the time to train to shoot. Most of the pilots never shoot their guns until they go into combat.”
“I understand, I’ll try not to spend ammo.”
Major Martin then introduced the three pilots, all three where NCO’s. “These men are your bunk mates. Flight Sergeant Adolf Lyseek, he’s Polish” He was a rather short husky individual, with a ruddy face, balding head and a strong hand shake, my hand will never be the same. He spoke good English when he welcomed me to the squadron. Officer Martin told me Sgt. Lyseek’s story. He had come over to Great Britain a year ago with five other pilots from Poland. Sgt. Lyseek interrupted the Major.
“Yes, we came to England as we saw the Germans marching; my country’s aircraft were obsolete, we could not fight the Germans with them.”
Officer Martin continued, “He was with us in France, his wife and two young sons were killed in the bombing of Warsaw.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I felt sadness for him.
Sgt Lyseek said, “She would not come to England with me, I should have made her. She did not want to leave her parents.” He bowed his head as he spoke.