Fighter Boys and Bomber Boys: Saving Britain 1940–1945

by Patrick Bishop

  These were the off-duty symptoms. During operations there were other generally agreed portents of trouble. Investigators put them under the heading of ‘loss of keenness’ and they started at the pre-op briefing. It was noted that ‘a keen man will react to the announcement of a “heavily defended target for tonight” with immediate professional interest, but if he is suffering from stress he will show his lack of keenness by immediate preoccupation with the defences.’ He might start asking ‘unnecessary questions’ about the sortie or appear half-hearted in the mess. On the other hand there were others who ‘overcompensate and appear wildly enthusiastic, emphasizing their keenness too forcibly’.

  It was in the air that the trouble became fatal. There it became categorized as ‘loss of efficiency’. This state produced ‘foolish errors of judgement, or gross carelessness, leading to bad landings or crashes.’ Over enemy territory ‘carelessness or recklessness may lead to catastrophe.’ This observation, as the report admitted, had to be theoretical as the deadly consquences of the mistake meant that no one was likely to be alive to bear witness to what had actually happened.

  If an aircraft suffered repeated damage but made it home it was taken as evidence that the pilot’s judgement was going. ‘He forces himself to go in regardless of risks because he is afraid that his nerve is getting shaky.’ In the case of a navigator, he may ‘make silly mistakes … gives wrong fixes or sets the wrong course … he may go to pieces over the target.’

  On the other hand, returning without a scratch might also be evidence of shattered nerves. Early returns were regarded as one of the surest indications of the state of morale both in individuals and squadrons. Even in the best-maintained aircraft it was inevitable that once in a while a crew would be forced to abort its mission because of mechanical failure. However the fault had to be serious and real if the captain were to avoid arousing official attention. Commanders were on the lookout for defects which were ‘trivial or imaginary’ including ‘minor engine troubles, such as a fall in revs or oil pressure, turret trouble, or difficulty with the intercom.’ The decision to turn back was the captain’s and it was on him alone that the responsibility for doing so fell. ‘Once they occur they tend to be repeated, a different reason being found each time.’

  Different commanders took different approaches to the problem. Some ordered a full, potentially humiliating investigation if an aircraft returned twice without reaching the target. It was the practice of one to check the trouble himself if a fault was reported before take-off. If he found all was well but the pilot was still reluctant to fly, he would stand him down for further investigation and ask a spare pilot and his men to take over. Another went around each crew before take-off to ascertain they were happy with the condition of their aircraft, thereby making a ‘boomerang’ all the harder to justify.

  Failing to reach the target without good reason was an extreme example of ‘inefficiency’. Over the target it could manifest itself in other, equally undesirable ways. The investigators recognized that shredded nerves might result in recklessness. But they could also lead to excessive caution which diminished the crew’s contribution to the raid. Some pilots would drop their bombs hopelessly high, while the so-called ‘fringe merchants’ would scatter their cargoes before they reached the aiming point.

  Such nervousness emanated from fear of death. But those suffering it seemed to die as frequently than those who did not. There was no accurate way of telling. Dead men could not speak. But it seemed logical to one medical officer that ‘if … carelessness, recklessness and loss of judgement result from excessive stress, there must surely be an abnormally high casualty rate in the aircrews who, through one member, have become inefficient.’ Symonds and Williams also judged that shattered nerves increased the likelihood of death, particularly among those who never gave any formal indication, oblique or direct, that they were suffering. This ‘sort never report sick. They show their signs and symptoms in the mess, but they keep on flying and in the end write themselves off, because they have become inefficient through loss of judgement.’

  The other ‘sort’ were those who felt their spirit weakening, though they were unwilling initially to acknowledge this directly in front of authority. According to one MO they ‘report sick with some trivial complaint which has no real physical basis. After a talk if you ask them why they have come to sick quarters they will say that they are afraid or that they panic in the air.’

  Sinusitis, visual defects, airsickness, even boils were employed to avoid flying. It was only when the condition had been cured or discounted that the patient admitted his fear. It was then up to him to choose whether to return to flying or cry off with all the dire consequences that entailed. The report found ‘the result of the decision is usually unsatisfactory.’ Those that went on soon cracked. Those who gave up were lost to the effort for ever as surely as if they had been killed.

  A larger category did report sick but refused to admit they felt any psychological strain, even though examination suggested this was the root cause. Base doctors noted a higher incidence of such cases if a big operation was in the offing, even among ‘very good men’. The most common symptoms were discomfort, nausea, mild dyspepsia and diarrhoea. These, it was felt, were literally ‘a visceral response to impending danger’. Some medical officers told their patients frankly that their illness was a product of fear. This, in many cases, at least initially, had the effect of reinforcing resolution.

  It was unusual for these men to assert that they could not carry on with operations. ‘They all exaggerate the point that they don’t want to come off flying. But later, if they are kept on, they may say they do not think it fair to the rest of the crew that they should carry on, because they are afraid that they may let them down.’

  Commanders and medical officers were more impressed with those who openly admitted their fear or revealed that their nerve had gone. By doing so they had demonstrated strength of character and consequently the chances of returning them to operations were better. ‘The man who comes up complaining of inability to carry on is the honest type,’ one respondent said. ‘There is more chance of getting him back to flying than the others.’

  The medical officers making these observations were, by peacetime standards, little qualified to do so although they did receive some psychiatric training on joining the service. Psychiatric and psychological studies were underdeveloped in Britain at the start of the war. Although the military had recognized that psychiatry could not be ignored in maintaining morale, the tendency in some quarters was to regard its terminology as jargon that described existing conditions which could more easily be diagnosed by observation and commonsense. In the experience of David Stafford-Clark, one of the few medical officers who had specialized psychiatric knowledge, ‘psychiatry was regarded in those days as an extremely cranky operation.’

  MOs were expected to know the men they were treating. When ops were on they sat in on the briefing, waved the crews off and were waiting for those who returned when they arrived for the post-attack interrogation. They were encouraged to mix with the crews off duty in mess and pub. The aim was to ‘think squadron and live squadron every minute of the day,’ but not in such a way that made them appear to be snooping.6 Separate messes created an obstacle for the conscientious MO and several suggested that the system should be scrapped in favour of an aircrew club that all could attend. To get round the problem, one squadron medical officer arranged for crews to come to the sick bay for ultra-violet treatment, during which he would strike up conversations aimed at winning their confidence and learning their concerns. Another organized ‘informal talks on oxygen, equipment and quasi-medical affairs, ostensibly for education, actually for observation and personal contact.’

  Medical personnel were also expected to go on the occasional operational trip. Stafford-Clark did so regularly. ‘I decided that once in a while, the person that they would turn to when their morale was shaky should participate in what they were doing … I found
it absolutely terrifying [but] one of them was kind enough to say “it was a great comfort to have you with us, Doc.”’7 The station medical officer at Wyton, Wing Commander MacGowan, was at forty an old man by RAF standards. He nonetheless took part in many operations, including several to Berlin. He told Freeman Dyson that ‘the crews loved to have him go along with them. It was well known in the squadron that the plane with the Doc on board always came home safely … at first I thought he must be crazy. Why should an elderly doctor with a full-time staff job risk his life repeatedly on these desperately dangerous missions? Afterwards I understood. It was the only way he could show these boys for whose bodies and souls he was responsible that he really cared for them.’8

  The quality of medical officers varied considerably. There were those like Stafford-Clark who understood that dispensing reassurance, understanding and sympathy was at least as important as doling out sleeping pills and amphetamines or acting as a military GP. Then there were the likes of Jack Currie’s MO at Wickenby who was approached in the ante-room during a drunken sing-song by a Canadian crew member whose nerve had long gone. He was ‘shaking horribly in every limb; his head spasmodically jerked sideways and, every few seconds, his left eye and the corner of his mouth twitched. He placed a trembling hand on the doctor’s arm and croaked: “I’ll fly, Doc. Tell them I’m fit to fly. I was pretty bad this morning, but I’m OK now.” The MO, raising a tankard, glanced at him.

  “‘Yes, you look all right to me.”

  “‘Gee, thanks, Doc.” [The Canadian] staggered away, alternately grimacing and twitching, and the choir, refreshed, struck up again …’9

  The RAF went to considerable trouble to establish whether there was a medical explanation for a man’s inability to carry out his duties. Nonetheless, it also maintained that there were airmen whose failure to perform was due to weakness of character rather than any illness. The bureaucratic formula referred to them as those ‘whose conduct may cause them to forfeit the confidence of their Commanding Officers in their determination and reliability in the face of danger.’ There were two categories: ‘the man who is maintaining a show of carrying out his duties,’ and, more worryingly, the ‘man who has not only lost the confidence of his Commanding Officer in his courage and resolution but makes no secret of his condition and lets it be known that he does not intend to carry out dangerous duties.’

  The ministry letter dealing with what it was clear even at the time of writing in April 1940 would be a persistent problem, acknowledged that such men might be suffering from a genuine medical condition. It made a soothing reference to the possibility that with encouragement and tactful handling they might once again become useful squadron members. But, it went on, in a passage that was to resonate throughout the rest of the war, ‘it must however be recognized that there will be a residuum of cases where there is no physical disability, no justification for the granting of a rest from operational employment and, in fact, nothing wrong except a lack of moral fibre.’10

  LMF was born. Essentially it was a device to punish an offence which fell outside the conventional military crimes of cowardice or desertion. The designation was controversial from the outset. The RAF’s chief medical consultants, including Symonds, objected to the terminology, though his suggestion that it should be replaced with the phrase ‘lack of courage’ hardly seemed more scientific.

  Making the judgement was extremely difficult. Symonds himself admitted that there was no clear line between an ‘anxiety neurosis’ and a normal emotional reaction to stress. He nevertheless concluded that ‘in the interests of morale, a line must always be drawn.’11 The process was thorough and complicated. Cases came to light in several ways. A squadron commander might notice a lack of determination and reliability in one of his men. Alternatively a man might report to him that he was unwilling or unable to carry on his flying duties. In both cases the suspect would be referred initially to the medical officer. Often it was the medical officer himself who learnt of an impending problem when someone reported sick with real or imagined ailments that prevented him from flying. It was then up to him to determine whether or not there was any physical or nervous reason to explain the subject’s condition. If the MO felt unwilling to pass judgement the patient was passed on to a specialist, consultant or one of the twelve Not Yet Diagnosed (Neuropsychiatry) centres set up by the RAF early in the war.

  The guidelines struggled to be fair. They emphasized that it was ‘highly important … to eliminate any possibility of medical disability before a member of an aircrew is placed in [the LMF] category.’ A medical diagnosis made life simpler for all concerned and some MOs were willing to oblige in order to spare a man the ignominy of being thought a coward. Subjects found to have physical or nervous problems were treated on the station, sent on leave, admitted to hospital or passed on for a more specialized examination. The vast majority of those who were removed from flying duties were stated to be suffering from ‘neurosis’ rather than cowardice. The proportion was roughly eight to one. Between February 1942 and the end of the war, 8,402 RAF aircrew were thus diagnosed, a third of whom were from Bomber Command. In the same period there were 1,029 cases of LMF.12

  Medical officers were not qualified to categorize a man as LMF. Nonetheless the initial diagnosis could be crucial. A man who was found fit for flying duties was automatically open to the charge of LMF. If inadequate medical cause, or no cause at all was found, the matter returned to the hands of the CO who, after interviewing the individual and consulting his record, decided whether or not he was lacking in moral fibre. His report was then passed up the line to the Air Ministry. The punishment for LMF was shame. Officers and NCOs alike were remustered as Aircraftman Second Class, the lowest RAF rank. They lost their entitlement to wear the aircrew brevets they had laboured so hard to win. They were segregated from their fellow airmen and quarantined in Aircrew Disposal Units.13

  The LMF procedure was designed as a deterrent. Wing Commander Jimmy Lawson, who was closely involved with its administration, admitted in an internal review that ‘the intention was to make the chances of a withdrawal, without legimitate reason, as near impossible as could be … if withdrawal had been an easy matter without penalty, this would have undermined the confidence and determination of some of those who continued their duties loyally and effectively.’14

  Official guidelines put great emphasis on the need to act quickly. LMF was considered to be contagious by RAF bureaucrats and squadron commanders alike. Cheshire was brisk and unemotional about LMF. ‘I was ruthless with “moral fibre cases”,’ he said later. ‘I had to be. We were airmen not psychiatrists. Of course we had concern for any individual whose internal tensions meant that he could no longer go on; but there was the worry that one really frightened man could affect others around him.’15 Peter Johnson’s technique with LMF cases was to ‘try to shuffle them as rapidly as possible off the station via the “trick cyclist” … who could produce some medical grounds. It wasn’t the pleasantest of tasks. You always remembered that these men were volunteers who had failed, not conscripts who had revolted.’16

  Breaking down was felt as an enormous personal failure by those to whom it happened. It was a tragedy as powerful as any encountered in the life of the crews and they recognized it as such. Jack Currie remembered at the beginning of the Battle of Berlin coming across a newly-arrived sergeant pilot who was ‘a casualty neither of flak or fighters, but of an enemy within himself. He came back early from the mission … and gave as a reason the fact that he was feeling ill. Next night he took off again, but was back over Wickenby twenty minutes later. Again he said that he had felt ill in the air. I had seen the crew together in the locker-room clustered protectively around their white-faced pilot. They may have thought that some of us would vilify him, but no one except officialdom did that. We knew what was wrong: the so-called lack of moral fibre, and most of us had felt that at times.’ But most did not succumb. In the battle of fears, the greater terror of letting down your comrad
es almost always prevailed. Currie felt only sympathy. ‘Goodness knows what hell the wretched pilot lived through – the fear of showing cowardice is the strongest fear of all in most young men.’ All the years of training, all the hazards that marked the journey to an operational squadron, counted for nothing. The pilot ‘soon … disappeared, posted to some dread unit especially established to deal with such unhappy cases.’17

  One 115 Squadron pilot spotted the signs of collapse in his wireless operator even though their tour was well advanced and the end in sight. ‘When we were in the air he started to speak out of turn. He said “I’m not very happy with this wireless set, sir …” I said don’t worry about it. He said you shouldn’t go on without a working wireless. I said well I am … he kept this up and I said I want you to forget about it, I’m the skipper of this aircraft. We’re going to complete this trip. But by this time he’d already got the rest of the crew a bit concerned … I told them all to shut up and I said to this other chap if I have another word from you I’ll have you arrested when we land … it was all quiet after that. We got back and we landed and we had a good trip.’ The pilot had the wireless checked. There was nothing wrong with it but he did not report the matter. ‘I had a word with him and he admitted that he was wrong. I said to him you need a rest. I spoke to the squadron commander and they sent him off for a rest and he came back again later [and completed his tour]’.18

  Despite the official reluctance to identify prima facie cases of LMF there were some circumstances that made action inevitable. A blank refusal to fly could not be overlooked. Flight Sergeant X appears to have made his aversion to operational work very clear long before he was posted to 103 Squadron at Elsham Wolds in the summer of 1942. After a short while he wrote to his commanding officer stating that ‘owing to complete lack of confidence, I ask to be relieved of aircrew duties and be reverted to ground duties.’ He had, he explained, volunteered as a pilot [in July 1940] but had been selected instead as an air gunner. During flying he suffered from catarrh and eye trouble and had injured his back in the gym. He had asked to be remustered and had hopes of being commissioned to serve as a trainer on the Link flight simulator. He was surprised when he heard he was being posted to 103 Squadron. In addition to his medical complaints he was ‘a married man with three children [which] adds to my dread while in the air.’ He would, he concluded ‘rather be doing ground duties with complete confidence than flying in mortal fear.’