When it was confirmed that the weather was favourable and the sortie was on, ninety minutes before take-off the crews got ready, pulling on their parachute harnesses, fastening life preservers (‘Mae Wests’) or adjusting the electric tubes of their hot suits. The kit was awkward and bulky, much of it to try and combat the freezing cold they would encounter flying at such high altitudes – for every 1,000 feet they climbed, the air temperature dropped 2.5 degrees and after 8,000 feet, oxygen masks were needed.41 They had a whistle attached to their collar to call for help if they fell into the sea, and dog tags stamped with their name and service number made of a material that could withstand the most intense furnace. Many airmen carried some sort of lucky charm around the neck, or pocketed close to the heart, a rabbit’s foot, or a rosary, letter, St Christopher, coin, photograph, playing card; anything to fend off the overwhelming fear of a violent and painful death.
The final briefing took place in the crew room where the meteorological expert gave up-to-the-minute information about the weather. Provisions were handed out for the trip – a thermos flask of coffee, energy pastilles, chewing gum, raisins, chocolate.42 They were also given an escape kit in case they fell into enemy territory. These consisted of local money, phrase sheets and compasses as well as maps of France, Germany or Belgium printed on squares of silk. These could be secreted or sewn somewhere in their uniform. As a last precaution, all crew members then emptied their pockets and were given two different coloured pouches in which to put the contents. One of these would be sent to their next of kin if they did not return. The other would be sent to clandestine girlfriends.43
The aircrews piled into lorries, were driven to their waiting aircraft and assisted into them by the ground crew. Last cigarettes were smoked and many crew members urinated against one of the aircraft’s wheels – a final ritual to bring good luck. Heath signed the F700, accepting the aircraft from the ground crew. He declared that all was in good order and handed the form back to the ground crew who then stood down. From a training that had now become instinct, each member of the crew busied themselves, cramped in their allotted action stations. The navigator of Heath’s crew – a former teacher called Freddie Silvester – laid out his chart in preparation. Despite Fielding-Johnson’s seniority on the ground, in the air, the pilot was always in command of the aircraft, so Heath was very much in charge. He checked the bomb load before ordering the bomb doors to be closed. He then started the port and starboard engines which gave the aircraft electrical power so the crew could carry out the rest of their checks. The Mitchell bomber was a safe and sturdy machine, but the engines were also extremely noisy. The sound was deafening as the engines began to roar. The wireless operator tuned up his set as the engineer checked the instruments. Heath then carried out a cockpit check. The wind from the power of the engines flattened the grass around the aircraft as the ground crew removed the vast chocks. Heath taxied into position for take-off. Mitchell bombers took off in pairs. Once a flight of six was in the air, they flew into correct formation and circled until the rest of the squadron had taken off. Then the whole squadron set course for the target and headed for Holland.
As pilot, Heath’s role was to get the aircraft to the target, Silvester’s job as navigator was to find it. However tense the approach to the target, nothing matched the terrifying minutes of the bombing run itself. The crew would steel themselves for flak if they were picked out by enemy guns.
Once they reached the bridges at Venlo, the bomb-aimer took over. He lay face-down in the perspex nose of the aircraft, exposing the full length of his body to the flak from the enemy bursting around him. When they were above the target, he ordered the bomb doors to be opened. A blast of freezing air filled the fuselage. Checking the lens of the bomb-sight, the bomb-aimer called corrections over the intercom to Heath, who was constantly holding the aircraft steady, all the time trying to avoid enemy fire. Finally the bomb-aimer pressed the button that released the bombs, shouting, ‘Bombs gone!’ The aircraft would then lurch and rise abruptly by 200 to 300 feet as 10,000 lb44 of high explosive and incendaries dropped on the target. Heath ordered the bomb doors to be closed. Though the mission was complete, the crew were still vulnerable as they made for home.
Flak from the enemy was excessive in the whole area around the bridges and as they turned back towards Allied lines, Heath’s bomber was hit by two bursts underneath the fuselage and under the port wing. From Fielding-Johnson’s position in the top turret he could see that they were in danger of losing all their fuel from the port tanks in seconds. He contacted Heath over the intercom, suggesting he should ‘feather’ the port propeller immediately to avoid risk of fire. Heath tried but the oil pressure had already dropped. Suddenly, the port engine burst into flames. As pilot and captain of the aircraft, Heath gave the order to bale out. The rear gunner and Fielding-Johnson got away quickly through the rear escape hatch, but Silvester the navigator struggled to get his parachute on in the very confined space as flames began to engulf the aircraft. As pilot, it was Heath’s responsibility to bale out last, but time was running out – he couldn’t control the bomber for much longer. Seeing that Silvester needed help, he got out of the cockpit and squeezed through the cramped fuselage of the burning plane. Having secured Silvester’s parachute, he helped him out of the stricken aircraft. Finally, Heath parachuted out of the plane himself. Seconds later, the Mitchell crashed to the ground, bursting into a ball of flames.
Later, when Silvester took his two weeks’ survivor’s leave, he told his wife about the incident, praising Heath for his heroism and quick thinking. There was no doubt in Silvester’s mind; Heath had saved his life. As far as Fielding-Johnson was concerned, Heath’s behaviour in the cockpit had been exemplary. He had behaved calmly and quickly, and though they had lost the aircraft, all the crew had survived. They eventually got together on the ground and made their way to an RAF station in Holland. After they arrived, they had several drinks and a meal to celebrate their escape. The crew were now eligible to be members of the Caterpillar Club, the informal organization open only to airmen who had parachuted out of a disabled aircraft, entitling them to wear a caterpillar badge on their lapels. For Heath, he was at last a member of a small elite with membership not based on background, status or money but on the demonstration of his own character.
However, after Heath had been drinking for a while, Fielding-Johnson noticed that he was displaying the abnormal behaviour that had previously concerned him. Getting drunk was recognized as a natural reaction to the strains of flying in Bomber Command as well as a unifying way for crews to celebrate survival, so it took extreme behaviour to stand out. On this occasion, Heath’s behaviour was particularly marked and caused Fielding-Johnson, as senior officer, considerable embarrassment, as the crew were all visitors in another mess. Though Fielding-Johnson did not describe Heath’s behaviour in detail on this occasion, the South African writer Peter Godfrey recalls a similar incident in a bar in Johannesburg during 1944.
Godfrey was meeting Duncan Burnside, the South African Labour MP, at the Shakespeare Bar in the centre of the city. Burnside was known for his great conversation and extraordinary tales. One of his favourite stories – and one which he enjoyed improvising for the entertainment of his various friends – was how he had come to lose his leg. Godfrey had heard the story several times, but the facts were always different – the Homeric telling of the tale being part of the fun. When he arrived at the bar, Burnside was with a ‘pleasant soft spoken man’ in a SAAF uniform, who was introduced as ‘Jimmy Armstrong’. Godfrey thought that Armstrong seemed cultured and had a sense of humour. He was drinking double whiskies and Burnside was drinking South African brandy with a Pilsener chaser. More people joined them to listen to Burnside’s outrageous tales, but as the afternoon wore on, Heath became very quiet. One of the newcomers then asked Burnside how he came to lose his leg and he told a ludicrous tale about an encounter with a shark off the coast of Natal. The audience were very amused, all, that is,
except Heath. Suddenly, he went into a frightening – completely unprovoked – rage, calling Burnside a ‘bloody liar’, grabbing a beer bottle by the neck and shattering the end of it. ‘I’ll give you some real scars to boast about!’ he shouted. Heath lunged at Burnside’s face with the broken bottle but was then grabbed by a couple of the other men until he let the bottle drop.45
Whatever occurred in the RAF station in Holland, it was sufficiently serious that when Heath’s crew returned to London, Fielding-Johnson discussed the matter with his squadron commander.
I felt obliged to do this as the peculiar moods in which I had seen [Heath] from time to time struck me as definitely abnormal as whilst in such moods he seemed to become an entirely different person and something quite different from merely a highly strung youngster who had taken a drink or two too many and this curious behaviour apart from undermining the spirit and morale of his own crew might influence other air crews.46
Heath would never fly for the RAF again.
CHAPTER TEN
Out of South Africa
NOVEMBER 1944 – JANUARY 1946
We shall drink on the seas and oceans,
We shall drink with growing confidence
And growing strength in the air.
We shall drink on our Island,
Whatever the cost may be;
We shall drink on the beaches,
We shall drink on the landing grounds,
We shall drink in the fields and in the streets,
We shall drink in the hills.
We shall never surrender OUR DRINK.
Alterations to a poster of Churchill’s speech,
RAF Officers’ Mess, 1944
After baling out of the Mitchell bomber following the Venlo raid, Heath took his two weeks’ survivor’s leave. It is at this point, he later claimed, that ‘the reaction occurred’ when he first started to experience blackouts. One night, he woke up to find himself on the floor in a corner of his bedroom, brushing away imaginary flames and trying to pull his ripcord.
He was then admitted to the RAF hospital in Brussels on 29 November 1944 with sinus trouble, and both his maxillary antra (sinuses) were washed out three times. Discharged from hospital on 13 December, he returned to England and was admitted to an RAF hospital in Wroughton with maxillary sinusitis and otitic barotrauma, the blockage in the ears often felt on descending in a plane.1 Untreated, both these conditions can be painful and lead to greater infection. Heath’s mentor, Mr Scott, who was already alert to the possibility that Heath might be suffering some sort of mental illness, was to point out later that these physical conditions might be symptomatic of an underlying psychological problem.
I think I am correct in suggesting that in the RAF sinus inflammation after considerable flying was frequently found to be the outward and visible symptoms of a neurotic state consequent on the strain of flying duties. At the time of this breakdown Heath had completed over 2,000 hours instructional flying, plus an operational spell.2
Just before Christmas 1944, Heath was categorized as temporarily unfit for duty and was granted twelve days’ sick leave. In the New Year, he was found fit for discharge from hospital and returned to his unit in Morecambe. But the day after he was discharged, a letter from the Air Ministry to South Africa House confirmed that no further flying duties could be found for him and that his secondment with the RAF would cease before the end of January. It’s unclear what the exact reason was for the Air Ministry’s rejection of Heath at this point, as the war was still in process. But his spells in hospital and either formal or informal reports from Fielding-Johnson would have indicated that he was a pilot with many problems, both physical and perhaps mental. He was repatriated to South Africa, arriving there on 2 March. Rather than reporting to his unit, he went straight back to Johannesburg to see his wife and child. But his return was not the homecoming he had anticipated. As soon as he arrived, his wife told him that she wanted a divorce.
I was absolutely shattered as we’d been extremely happy but she was adamant. I tried everything to make her change her mind and on the last evening I saw her I tried to shoot her and myself but I blacked out and became unconscious before this was accomplished.3
This statement was made after he was arrested in 1946 so it may have been an attempt to provide a reason (or excuse) for the murders. In an earlier statement from 1945, Heath described his return to South Africa in less detail, but still registering his extreme reaction to the notion of the divorce.
Arriving home I discovered my wife asked me to give her a divorce, which was rather a blow and I am afraid I flew off the handle.4
Here he didn’t mention either the blackout or the gun, but at this stage he was being tried for a series of other crimes, so presumably wouldn’t have wanted to add to the trouble he was already in by mentioning them. When he sold his story to the Sunday Pictorial, Heath fleshed out the incident a little more:
On my last attempt to dissuade her we stopped the car to talk. I felt my head go tight. Then it was half an hour later. I was still in the car, in the same place, I was given to understand that I had tried to shoot my wife and myself but had collapsed. It was a blackout.5
Heath’s return to South Africa is also discussed in an interview that his wife gave to the crime writer Peter Godfrey in 1947. She indicated that she had only once been witness to her husband’s extreme behaviour – the night before he left her. ‘I was lucky, I suppose. I managed to get away before things got too bad.’ According to her, Heath’s behaviour on this occasion was brought on by an excess of alcohol, particularly whisky:
To me there is no mystery about his various attitudes to the various women in the case. With Yvonne Symonds he must have been sober: with the others, very much the worse for drink.6
She agreed with Fielding-Johnson that alcohol made Heath a ‘different person’, a malevolent and dangerous Mr Hyde in contrast to the breezy and clubbable Dr Jekyll that she had fallen in love with. As far as the blackouts go, alcohol-induced amnesia can certainly result from the large amounts that Heath was known to drink, affecting the hippocampus in the brain and leading to varying degrees of memory loss. They may also have been induced by some sort of post-traumatic stress following his baling out over Venlo. That said, Heath was a fantasist and would use any excuse to try and negotiate his way out of trouble. It’s also true that by the mid-1940s, film studios from Hollywood to Elstree had embraced the new science of psychoanalysis. Memory loss and blackouts dominated cinema melodramas of the time. In Random Harvest, Ronald Coleman forgets he is married to Greer Garson due to shell shock; in The Seventh Veil, Ann Todd plays a concert pianist traumatized by her Svengali (James Mason); and in Spellbound, Gregory Peck blocks out the memory of (accidentally) killing his brother as a child.
In 1946, Heath refused to discuss his marriage with his lawyers and psychiatrists. But several of the doctors who questioned him were convinced that the key to his breakdown and subsequent spree of murderous violence lay in his relationship with his wife – or at least in the breakdown of relations between them. The reason given for the divorce was desertion7 and there is no suggestion from the brief interviews that Elizabeth gave at the time of the trial that Heath had been violent towards her. Indeed she went so far as to say that despite his drunkenness he was ‘a big teddy bear’. It seems more likely that in his absence from South Africa, Elizabeth and the Rivers family had become aware of Heath’s debts and possibly his dalliances with other women. Having raised their son alone for much of the war, and with the support of her family, she may simply have felt that she and her son were better off without him. But for Heath, the breakdown of his marriage was a shock, affecting him profoundly.
I think my divorce broke me completely. I have never felt the same since it happened and ever since have acted in a peculiar way on occasions.8
With the end of the war in Europe announced in May 1945, the Allied nations celebrated the end of hostilities and the beginning of a new era. Men who had been lucky enough
to survive the conflict would be returning home from all corners of the globe to their wives and families. The world was starting again with a new contract for peace. But Neville Heath had nothing. No home or wife to return to. The future looked bleak, empty and forbidding. Everything in his life – his health, his career and his marriage – had deteriorated. Despite the fact that he knew he was now absent without leave, he went on a spree, living in hotels in Cape Town, Randfontein and Durban. Perhaps he was attempting to relive memories of happier times with Elizabeth or he might simply have been indulging his depression in bars and brothels.
Heath checked into the Queen’s Hotel at Sea Point, Cape Town on 14 June and introduced himself to the hotel clerk, Reginald Hoar, as Major Armstrong. He had promoted himself and had also awarded himself the DFC, the ribbon for which he wore on his chest. A week later he made a payment of £10 1s. 10d. in cash, so the hotel assumed that Armstrong was bona fide. This is exactly the assumption Heath wanted them to make. On 26 June, he cashed a cheque for £5. The next day he wrote a cheque for £20 to pay for his room. He then told Mr Hoar that he was flying to Pretoria but would be back soon. He didn’t cancel the room and said he expected his wife to join him there. He left his suitcase behind, giving the impression that he’d be back shortly. In reality, he had no intention of returning. Nor did he go to Pretoria, instead making his way up the coast to Durban.9
Handsome Brute: The True Story of a Ladykiller Page 20