“GUNLESS GASLESS FOODLESS WHY THIS DELAY – STOP – HURRY”xiv
“THIS IS TERRIBLE – STOP – ONE THOUSAND MEN WITHOUT AMMO HAVE WAITED THREE WEEKS FOR A DROP”xv
And the tetchy messages that went back displayed little sympathy:
“APPARENTLY YOU HAVE NO IDEA OF SORTIE POSITION. YOU ARE ONE OF MANY MISSIONS ON IMPORTANT TARGETS AND WEATHER BETWEEN AERODROME AND YOU IS BAD. PROPORTION SORTIES YOU VERY HIGH. UP TO YOU MAKE ‘TEMPO’ UNDERSTAND THIS.xvi
Supply drops were a lifeline for Mission personnel, not only bringing arms, food and clothing, but letters from home and news of the outside world. The SPILLWAY Mission in Albania, waiting at a cold drop zone with their restive pack mules, desperately needed food, winter clothes and ammunition, but most of all they wanted the letters, newspapers and books from home that they knew would be in No.1 container. Brigadier Davies later recalled that the priority following a drop was to retrieve the precious No.1 container, drag it over to a mule, load it and take it straight to the mess hut before it could be mislaid or stolen. Invariably the catches and hinges would have been damaged during the drop and so someone in the mess hut would hack at it with hammer and chisel to get at the longed-for letters from home.xvii
Theft from the containers and bundles was a very real problem because villagers in the vicinity of a drop zone soon learned to spot the signs of preparation for aircraft reception and made their way to the area in the dark, helping themselves to the contents of stray containers, which could be scattered over a wide area. The most highly prized was the bullion container, which the resourceful local folk soon learned to identify, leading Mission staff in Greece to start taking bright Aldis lamps to the reception area, switching them on after a drop to deter pilferers. A typical load for a Halifax on a supply run would be fifteen pre-packed containers for arms, ammunition and explosives, nine of which were stored in the fuselage bomb bay and three beneath each wing. These were released by the bomb-aimer to descend on parachutes, plus in the aircraft fuselage were an additional twenty to thirty packages and bundles given free drop, and around 230lbs of leaflets. These would be stacked to a considerable height in the fuselage and moved to either side of the dropping hatch by the despatcher during the flight. The despatcher, assisted by the wireless operator, worked in complete darkness to ensure that no light escaped through the bomb bay, and he would watch for a green light on his display board. This was the signal to push out the packages as fast as possible. A red light on his board would tell him to stop and, if any packages were left, the aircraft would do further runs until all the supplies had been dropped.
The rear gunner, in his cramped turret at the back of the aircraft would watch the packages as they left the aircraft to make sure they were dropping on the target. The strenuous nature of moving the large weight of stores, coupled with a lack of oxygen if the aircraft was flying above 10,000ft to avoid bad weather, imposed quite a strain on the despatchers’ lungs, and the Squadron’s medical officer was sufficiently concerned about the conditions that he flew on a sortie as second despatcher to see for himself what it entailed. He found the work exhausting and went on to recommend that despatchers should be rested whenever possible and spare aircrew brought in to relieve them.xviii In the early days, the crew had no idea what was in the containers and packages, but later they were alerted to very dangerous or valuable items, which could then be packed in such a way that they could be isolated if it became necessary to jettison the load. Bomb aimer, Eddie Elkington-Smith remembered bullion containers always going on number three bomb bay, and he could then be sure to keep that one with the aircraft, though Walter remembered an occasion when they jettisoned their entire load in the Adriatic, unaware of the contents. On returning to base they were told that they had jettisoned a container of bullion. The general rule for aircraft in trouble was not to jettison the load if they had been airborne for more than three hours, but anything less than that was at the pilot’s discretion.
For the returning aircrews, there was little in the way of comfort at the Tocra base with persistent winter rain turning the camp into a sea of mud. The trench Tom and his crew had dug around their tent proved inadequate and the first real downpour washed their belongings out into the mud. Walter Davis described their next trench as resembling a “fenland dyke.” It kept the rain out of the tent but also caught the occasional airman weaving his way back from the nearby Sergeants’ mess to his own tent.xix One or two resourceful airmen had replaced their sand floors with concrete to try and make life tolerable but it wasn’t long before the commanding officer, who attributed the scrounging of building materials to: “bad habits picked up in the desert”, put up stern notices forbidding it. The airmen continued to occupy the tents, but the mess was now a permanent building and Nissen huts were erected for operational use, with officers moved to an empty fort nearby. The poor sanitary conditions were slowly being improved, thanks to an NCO sanitation squad, and a fumigator was made available in the sick quarters so that airmen could: “have their blankets fumigated, on request, daily after 1400 hrs”.5 Desert sores, skin infections stomach upsets and visual fatigue were the commonest medical conditions during this last quarter of 1943, but morale was surprisingly good considering the number of casualties and the number of aircraft written off.xx Tom and his crew had a narrow escape on the night of the 15th December during a leaflet drop for the Political Warfare Executive, when a burst of flak came up through the clouds from the north-west end of Crete and made six or seven holes in the aircraft. The crew found it somewhat galling to come under fire from the ground for the sake of leaflets, but propaganda was part of the war effort and it was the despatcher’s job to make sure that the correct language batch went out at each location.
Some credit for the morale of the Squadron must go the social committee, led by Flying Officer Guest, who worked hard to organize concerts, whist drives, films and seasonal events. Christmas plans were certainly gathering pace and, at a meeting in the airmen’s mess, it was agreed that lunch would take place in the central hall followed by buffet dinners at every section’s canteen. Meanwhile, the mobile cinema was proving so popular that there were now two showings a day and, even then, demand could not always be met. For crews grounded by the weather there were long hours to kill, and during December a number of football matches took place, cooks versus electricians, or squadron versus maintenance crews. The airmen were just one part of the team of men working at the base. Meals had to be prepared, containers and bundles packed, aircraft maintained, supplies brought in, intelligence gathered and communications maintained. Flight crews, however, were on the front line, and when an aircraft failed to return, everybody felt it.
The Storey crew had not been flying on the night of 10th December, but were woken up by the sound of exploding ammunition from Halifax BB344 (‘Fortune’s Coleen’), which was engulfed in flames on the runway. The catalogue of disasters for Cyril Fortune and his crew that night began during the flight when, midway between changing places with the second pilot, violent turbulence flipped the aircraft upside down and dropped it 5,000ft before Fortune was able to regain control. Then, as they came in to land, the aircraft swung and ploughed into a parked spitfire, bursting into flames. Patrick Stradling, a member of Fortune’s crew, was instrumental in saving their lives that night and, a few months later, when Stradling was missing and his fate unknown, Cyril Fortune wrote a wonderfully heartening letter to his parents to say that there was a very good chance he was safe and adding: “He was always a member of my crew and on one occasion he helped, with two others, to save us all from a very nasty situation, and for that I always felt proud and grateful”.xxi
Halifax JN888 (Rita) taken at Tocra, December 1943
Poor weather conditions kept all Squadron aircraft grounded in the days leading up to Christmas and this gave the crews a well-earned break from flying. One of the Storey crew took a photograph of Halifax JN888, in which Tom and the crew had completed twenty-four sorties. Tom, with his flo
ppy, curly hair looks out of the open window above a beautifully painted unicorn on the fuselage and the name ‘RITA’ on the nose, along with a star for every sortie flown. It was Walter, the crew’s wireless operator, who had created this masterpiece, making his own stencil so that he could add a star for every operation, and although personalization of aircraft was discouraged, it was often overlooked in the interests of crew morale. Before flying out to Libya Tom had been living with his new wife, Rita, at the family run Unicorn Hotel in Ludlow, and the bold artwork must have given him heart on the long walk out to his aircraft, before climbing into the cockpit to begin his pre-flight checks.
Halifax JN888, ‘Rita’, with her prancing unicorn artwork, only had seven months of flying left. She crashed in the Pyrenees on the 13th July, 1944 while supplying French Resistance fighters, and was just four miles from the drop zone; her crew having flown her over 600 miles by dead reckoning. Pilot Officer Leslie Peers of the Royal Canadian Air Force and his crew died at the scene. The Mayor of the nearby village of Nistos wrote in 1945:
“The seven occupants of the plane were killed instantly. A shepherd found them on the 15th July. At once a large group of inhabitants of Nistos went to the scene and there buried the seven heroes. They dug seven graves side-by-side and buried the heroes in beds of fern. It was impossible to take coffins there because the place was two-and-a-half hours walk away amongst precipitous mountains, and moreover this country was occupied by the enemy. We erected a wooden fence round their small cemetery and a cross, also of wood, bears the inscription: To the memory of our heroic allies, who died for France. Their graves will not be left untended.”6
In stark contrast to the story of this crash is the loss of Halifax HR674 on the night of 19/20 October 1943. SAPLING 7 was a personnel and supply drop to the Albanian Mission of Major Jerry Fields. Flight Lieutenant Forester knew the Albanian drop zones well and had, just a few days earlier, taken Brigadier ‘Trotsky’ Davies’s SPILLWAY Mission into the Chermenika mountains, noting on his crew’s map of the drop zone: ‘Climb quickly, left-handed, or else’.xxii On that fateful night the reception party lit the signal fires only to hear the “scream of the engines”7 as the Halifax came in low and crashed into the mountainside, killing all on board, including two men destined to join the Mission. The terrible phrase: “scream of the engines” describes all too graphically the desperate efforts of the pilot as he uses maximum thrust to try and prevent the inevitable. When Field went down to bury the dead, the Albanian partisans, for whom the supplies were intended, “proved more interested in looting and grumbling that their material was lost and would not help to dig the graves”. Field was helped in this task by a group of Italian soldiers and two old men. He was very disillusioned at the waste of British life on behalf of the Albanians who did not appreciate the sacrifice, and he never got over it. In a report in 1943 he wrote: “Hate the country and hate the people. We will of course continue to do our best, but if there is any excuse for another type of work and evacuation from here, we should jump at it.”xxiii
The crew of Halifax HR674 had been familiar with the Albanian drop zones and their loss, which has never been fully explained, illustrates the danger that all Special Duty pilots faced. The partisans chose remote areas as drop zones – small valleys enclosed by mountains and, in the darkness, what might appear to be a hole safe to use for descent, could well be a hilltop or protruding mountain peak. I remember Charlie Keen telling me that on some drops, particularly in Yugoslavia, the heavy aircraft, laden with supplies, would have to spiral down inside a bowl of mountains, do a low-level drop and then spiral out again. He recalled the steady voice of the navigator over the intercom as they came in for the final approach: “you can do it Tommy, you can get in there.” Mechanical failure or a fire at this stage of a drop (which is what was suspected for the SAPLING crash) could only have one outcome.
At Tocra the general stand-down of operations and arrival of Christmas meant a rare opportunity for the crews to relax and enjoy three days of well-planned festivities, starting with much drinking in all section canteens, which had been specially decorated with Christmas trees and streamers, followed by midnight mass in the HQ Block. Christmas Day was a complete stand-down for everyone except the duty pilot, but even he was given three hours off to have his Christmas lunch of ‘Crème a la Tomato, Roast Turkey and Xmas Pudding’.8 Buffet dinners in the various sections that evening were visited by both the outgoing Wing Commander Blackburn, and the incoming Wing Commander Pitt, with much good cheer all round. Walter Davis, who was ‘duty pilot’ that day, remembered that the mess staff had been hosted by the officers during the course of the day, and were rather the worse-for-wear by the time it came to providing supper in the Sergeants’ mess. He described the meal as “a rather poor effort!”9 Nevertheless, a convivial atmosphere prevailed as they signed each other’s menu cards with good humoured messages. Pat Stradling, who carried his signed menu card in his wallet long after the end of the war, got a note from Paddy Fortune: “Good luck to you and many thanks for help in a dangerous position”. And from Jack Easter, wireless operator on the Fortune crew: “Your smiling mug on the other side of the hole is always a great help to me – good dropping”. Tom Storey, whose crew he would join in a couple of months, wrote: “For pete’s sake, don’t forget to let go Paddy.”xxiv The following day, as the weather stand-down continued, a Squadron Concert Party was held in the concert hall, and so ended Christmas 1943 at Tocra airbase. A crew change saw Canadian Oscar ‘Hap’ Congdon join the crew as navigator, replacing Flying Officer Nichol, and the crews of 148 Squadron prepared for a January move to Brindisi, on the south-east coast of Italy.
Notes
1 Ivor Porter, in his book ‘Autonomous’ says that the aircraft carrying de Chastelain in November was a Liberator, but the Squadron Records state that it was a Halifax, piloted by F/Lt Brotherton-Ratcliffe.
2 Greek People’s Liberation Army.
3 SCULPTOR.
4 Did not complete operation.
5 148 Squadron ORB Summary 17th December 1943
6 Their sacrifice is also commemorated on the Runnymede Memorial.
7 Words of eyewitness Austin DeAth (from The Wildest Province, Roderick Bailey, Page 195)
8 Menu preserved by Patrick Stradling
9 My Grandad’s Story, a Memoir, Walter Davis and Sharon Spencer
CHAPTER 3
148 SQUADRON MOVES TO BRINDISI
“There is not the slightest prospect of finding suitable weather for dropping on any of the available areas tonight,” was the view of the Met Officer, Flight Lieutenant Rowles, as the New Year began, and it wasn’t much better the following night, with operations limited to areas north of Latitude 43N. Consequently six aircraft were briefed for Serbia and took off at nightfall with supplies for MULLIGATAWNY, the Mostyn Davies Mission, which had been making its way to the Bulgarian border, dodging hostile German, Bulgar, and Albanian forces, and up against the most atrocious winter conditions. This doomed operation was being stoically endured on the ground by a handful of brave men who, on this cold January night, would wait in vain for their air-drop of supplies. All six aircraft failed, either because the cloud cover was too thick, the signals, when spotted, were incorrect, or in the case of Tom Storey’s Halifax, because of mechanical trouble. “Altogether a very abortive night,” was the summary in the ORB1 for that night. Tom’s aircraft had climbed continuously after take-off to try and get above the dense cloud layer, but icing at 14,000ft prevented them getting any higher and, as they began to descend, the elevator stick jammed forward and stayed jammed until they got down to 5000ft, when it finally released.2 Engineer Charlie Keen then noticed that the oil-pressure had dropped and, suspecting that the excessive vibration from the jammed elevators had caused a leak, Tom decided to return to base, where this was confirmed by the ground crew.
The following day, as the crew caught up on some sleep in preparation for a 1730 take off to Albania, another drama was unfolding clos
e to base. A Wellington of 38 Squadron had failed to return to its base near Benghazi, and a call came into 148 Squadron to see if it had landed at Tocra. It had not, but later in the day two Arabs arrived at the officers’ mess bringing a message from one of the Wellington crew to say that they had crashed on an escarpment along the coast at Ptolomais, and urgently needed medical assistance. Flight Lieutenant Scott, the medical officer, raced off in his ambulance to the crash site to find one crew member dead and the others injured, the aircraft having apparently flown into a hillside in the dark. 38 Squadron was involved in reconnaissance and anti-submarine operations from their base at Berka, (Benghazi, Libya) and January was to be a bad month for them with the loss of two Wellington crews just a few days later.
JN888 was barely airborne for Albania that afternoon when a mechanical problem3 forced Tom to abandon the flight for a second night running. For pilots, the decision of whether to plough on regardless with engine failure was one they were required to make on a regular basis. A Halifax could fly on three engines and so the decision would need to take a number of factors into consideration – height, weight of load, strength of headwinds, terrain at the drop zone, distance from base, and the likelihood of encountering night fighters, which would find the slow-manoeuvring aircraft an easy target.i An inner-engine failure would make it difficult to hold course with the aircraft skidding through the air, losing performance and manoeuvrability. An outer-engine failure would increase these effects, so that the pilot would have to fly ‘hands on’ – something that required real physical effort. The exhausted pilot flying like this for many hours on the homeward flight would not then be at his best for a three-engine night landing. Tom was lucky on this occasion in that the engine failure occurred early in the flight, making the decision to turn back possible. Flight Lieutenant Brotherton-Ratcliffe and his crew were not quite so lucky when, a few nights later, they suffered double engine failure close to their dropping ground on the Greek-Albanian border. They lost the outer engine on the way to the drop but continued, only to lose the inner engine on the same side as they manoeuvred in mountainous terrain for their second drop. Flight Lieutenant Morris, the navigator, guided his skipper through the twists and turns of the valley but, trapped in between mountains, they were forced to turn to the dead-engine side, which increased the rate of descent and, with no hope of gaining height, the crew baled out, leaving Brotherton-Ratcliffe to crash-land the aircraft in a field. The crew destroyed the aircraft as instructed and were then whisked away to a hideout in the hills by Captain Ian Hamilton, an agent they had dropped on a previous operation.ii It was only a matter of weeks since this same crew had jumped to safety from their Halifax after the failed AUTONOMOUS drop with de Chastelain, and to hear that against all the odds the entire crew had survived another such incident must have given heart to their fellow crews at Brindisi. They spent ten weeks in Albania, eventually making it back to Brindisi in a motor torpedo boat, with the swashbuckling Brotherton-Ratcliffe sporting a huge ginger beard, and looking very much the guerrilla fighter he had become.
A Special Duty Page 4