by Colin Downes
I had by this time flown the first of my two operational sorties with Bomber Command. The RAF encouraged liaison between the Air Cadet Corps and local fighter and bomber units, and there were many bases around Cambridge. South of the city was Duxford airfield, a famous fighter base that I got to know well when posted there after the war. North of the city was the airfield of Oakington, a bomber base with a wing of Stirlings, the first of the four-engine bombers delivered to the RAF. While visiting the station to inspect the new bomber the squadron commander of No. 7 Squadron offered to take me on an air test to which I readily agreed. Wing Commander Graham had the reputation of a ‘hot-shot’ pilot having claimed one Bf-109 fighter destroyed over the Dutch coast. The flight plan for my flight changed from an air test to dropping leaflets over Holland and we headed for the Dutch coast at wave top height. This enabled the skipper to indulge in his passion of flying the Stirling as low as possible. Low-level manoeuvrability was probably the best feature of the Stirling, as it was inferior in terms of speed, altitude and bomb load to the later Lancaster and Halifax bombers. I had to stand between the two pilots and the flight was both exhilarating and tiring as our skipper weaved his way over Holland, all the time exhorting his gunners to spot enemy fighters as in shooting down one Bf-109 he had every confidence that he could shoot down another. Apart from some desultory AA fire directed against us we did not meet up with any Bf-109s, and with the Bf-109 armed with cannon and a considerable advantage in speed and manoeuvrability this was fortunate.
I was not at all sure that I should have been on this mission, but it was certainly a thrilling experience and more enjoyable than the night flight I did in a Halifax bomber in 1944. I did not repeat the experience of a Stirling flight again, nor did I mention it to my parents, but I did fly in a Whitley bomber before joining the RAF. The RAF operated an Operational Training Unit (OTU) with Whitley bombers at Abingdon airfield with a satellite airfield at Stanton Harcourt where my father lived, and he was very hospitable to the aircrew flying from the satellite airfield. The instructors were all on rest from a bomber tour of operations. The squadron commander of the unit was a frequent visitor and my father offered him pheasant and partridge shooting. By way of appreciation, as I was in the Air Cadet Corps with the University Air Squadron, he took me flying a couple of times on a training exercise. The Whitley was a slow gentlemanly type of aircraft and an easy bomber to fly. Early in 1942 the RAF launched the 1,000 bomber raid on Germany with an attack on Cologne; followed by raids on Essen and Bremen. Bomber Command could only produce the magic number of 1,000 bombers by mobilizing the aircraft and crews from the training units. The RAF could not sustain the makeshift effort and it was 1944 before Bomber Command authentically launched 1,000 heavy bombers on raids on Germany. The OTU Whitley aircraft with instructional crews made up a large component of the first 1,000 bomber raid. The comparatively small bomb load of the twin engine Whitley contributed a disproportionately small amount of damage in the raids and the comparatively slower speed and altitude capability of the Whitley resulted in a disproportionately higher rate of casualties from the German anti-aircraft guns and fighters. Among the casualties from Stanton Harcourt during these three raids was our squadron leader friend.
With my accumulated flying experience I was not lacking in confidence in my flying ability, which was more than I could say about girl friends. During my first term at Cambridge I met a lively and attractive girl with a strong interest in horses, sports cars and airplanes. The first interest was a result of her father owning some training stables near Newmarket. Not owning a horse or a sports car, I thought I might impress her with my newly acquired flying skills. The girl responded to my interest by trying to persuade me to do a ‘beat-up’ of the house. As the stables were close to the Newmarket gallops I had enough sense to disregard such a foolish request. She then suggested that I take her flying but that, of course, was out of the question. However, I did not entirely dismiss the thought from my mind. The opportunity to demonstrate my prowess germinated in my mind when we started cross-country flights. One of our cross-country flights was to visit the Oxford University Air Squadron, a distance of 60 miles to the south-west with a still air flying time of around forty minutes. We would land and refuel the aircraft before flying back to Cambridge. The Oxford squadron would do a reverse exercise by visiting us. I had a friend at the university flying with the squadron and I arranged to visit him. My father had farming friends midway between Oxford and Cambridge and we used to exchange shooting rights with them. I knew the countryside well and while visiting the farm reconnoitred a suitable field in which I proposed to land the Tiger Moth. The plan was to make a pass over the farm, land in the field, give the girl a quick circuit around the house, land back on the field and proceed on to Oxford. The girl had visited these friends with me and although petrol rationing was in effect farmers and horse trainers had a fairly generous allowance. The girl was ostensibly to visit these friends with me but arrive before me, and when I buzzed the farm meet me at the field. There was no air traffic control for us as we had no radio. After authorization of the flight the pilot was responsible for entering the take-off and landing times in the log. The time spent on the ground at Oxford refuelling would make these times flexible without inviting comments.
The day arrived and I checked out and took-off to see my friend in Oxford. It was a nice day and everything proceeded according to my flight plan. I flew over the house waggling my wings and revving the engine. There is a proverb about stolen pleasures being the sweetest, however, as Robby Burns observed, ‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley’. I landed in the field; a large grass meadow used for grazing cattle, and noticed some cows on the far side of the field. I taxied over to the gate by the road and waited with the engine running. Nobody appeared and after a few minutes I started to get anxious. When I saw the cows moving towards me I realized that the sensible thing now was to abandon the caper and take-off for Oxford. It was at this moment that common sense and not the Tiger Moth took-off. In medical terms perhaps it was a question of testosterone flooding the cerebellum; anyway, I switched off the engine. This was not a problem as I anticipated some help from the farm in holding the aircraft while I started the engine, and to move any cows from my take-off path. Still nobody appeared and I set off for the house. I arrived to find that not only had the girl not arrived but my farmer friend and his son were away attending to some emergency. I decided I had wasted too much time and enlisting the help of the farmhand we returned to the aircraft. As we entered the field I saw with some apprehension the cows gathered around the Tiger Moth, before noticing them contentedly and lovingly licking the wings and fuselage. I rushed towards them shouting and waving my arms; only to stop in horror as I saw strips of fabric hanging from the ailerons, elevator and rudder. Closer inspection revealed holes not only in the control surfaces but also in the lower wing and along the fuselage. With a feeling of acute nausea I realized I could not risk a take-off in that condition. How would I explain my aircraft apparently peppered with light flak damage?
The Tiger Moth’s airframe, wings and controls were of wood construction covered with fabric. A varnishing dope tightened and weatherproofed the fabric making it as tight as a drum. It was the smell and taste of this dope that proved irresistible to the cows; similar to a salt-lick in the veldt. The dope also had a slight hallucinogenic effect on the cows. Anyone experiencing the lick of a cow’s tongue knows its roughness and abrasiveness which resembled the texture of a number 36 sanding paper or a large bastard file. I was now feeling numb, dumb and emasculated. Recovering from this mentally and physically paralysing attack of the staggers, I began to contemplate the consequences of my stupidity. Grounded by the Squadron and ‘gated’ by the University – certainly! Dismissed from the Squadron and rusticated from the University – quite likely! Rejected by the RAF and banished to the trenches or the coal mines – a distinct possibility! Recovering from my mental torpor I started to grasp at straws
and a plan of action for survival. I walked back to the house leaving the farmhand to guard the remains of the Tiger from further ravaging. The only comment made by the farmhand at this unusual situation was a bemused and descriptive drawn out ‘Urrgh’. I instructed him that if questioned he knew nothing and if he said nothing it would be to his advantage. I received the same succinct reply. I returned to the farm and telephoned the squadron, reporting a forced landing in a large field without damage to the aircraft. This was true to the extent that the aircraft was undamaged until the coup des langues of the cows; which of course I did not mention. Oh! – Those cloven tongues like as of fire! About three hours later a truck arrived with a flying instructor, a fitter and a rigger. I led them to the field where the Tiger Moth appeared even more tattered than when I left it, surrounded by the blissfully contented cows. I prayed my surprise and anguish at this catastrophe appeared genuine, as I sent silent supplications to the Deity. It not being possible to repair the aircraft in situ we corralled it and an aircraft transporter retrieved it for recovering at the maintenance unit. To my great surprise and relief the squadron accepted my report. The squadron also accepted my suggestion that an air lock in the fuel line caused the engine to stop; and I had the embarrassment of a commendation for a successful forced landing! I was on tenterhooks for sometime whether the girl’s father or my father should get wind of the near disaster. The farmer did not let on that he was an accessory to the fact. This was certainly a salutary lesson and brought home the distinct advantages of all-metal construction for light aircraft. It was probably one of the very few occasions when the tiger succumbed to the cow! The girl explained her absence was due to her parents insisting she accompanied them to a race meeting and being scared to say she was meeting me in case it got out that she hoped to fly with me, she followed them to the races. Under the circumstances it was just bad luck things turned out as they did but I did not intend to push my luck so the matter ended. I suppose she waited until the war ended before getting her first flight. The following year I joined the RAFVR and sailed off to the United States to complete my pilot training. Little did I imagine that the bovine spectre I avoided so fortuitously would follow to thwart my hopes of a pilot’s brevet for a second time. From this point the girl’s path and mine drifted apart and when I returned I heard she had married into the horse racing fraternity.
Before sailing westwards to complete my training I was inducted into the RAFVR in London. The RAF aircrew induction centre was at St John’s Wood, and the Air Ministry commandeered several large luxury apartment blocks near Regent’s Park and Lord’s cricket ground to accommodate the volunteer aircrew. As aircrew cadets we were discernible by a white flash worn on our forage caps, and leapfrogging the first two basic ranks of Aircraftman 1st and 2nd Class we held the rank of Leading Aircraftman (LAC), indicated by a propeller patch worn on our upper sleeve. Subsequent NCO promotion following the presentation of our ‘Wings’ would skip the rank of corporal to that of Sergeant Pilot, to be followed one year later to Flight Sergeant Pilot, and ultimately to the exalted and respected top NCO rank of Warrant Officer. I joined other university entrants at the cricket ground for the signing-in and swearing of allegiance to the King Emperor, his heirs and successors. Here we were quickly made aware that Service life was to be very different to that of ‘Civvy Street’ and the hallowed halls of learning during our Spartan stint in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. We were now subject to King’s Regulations and Air Ministry Orders, with sundry directives such as those listed for the enlisting airmen into the RAF. These included such counsel as forbidding gambling for cash; the consumption of food and intoxicating liquor in the barracks; and the commendable prescription to take a bath at least once a week. We were also instructed to be properly dressed at all times while carrying a respirator. We drew uniforms and, to our dismay, full marching kit from the Quartermaster’s stores. This was quickly followed by innumerable and interminable inspections and parades while being initiated into the military process of proceeding from A to B and beyond by route marching or double quick time – two things we had hoped to avoid by volunteering to be aircrew. The venerated grounds of the Marylebone Cricket Club echoed to the bellowed commands of our stentorian drill instructors as they harried us hither and thither with a litany of commands in preparation for church parades and station inspections.
Although we viewed it as somewhat irksome at the time, our initiation process into the military was certainly far less dramatic and arduous than that experienced by my father when joining the 10th Battalion of The Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) in January 1915, as part of Kitchener’s Volunteer Army in the popular belief that the war would be over by Christmas 1915. They landed in France in June with the 9th Battalion and marched to the Belgian coalfields of Loos on the Flanders Front in time to join the 9th and 15th Scottish Divisions of General Douglas Haigh’s First Army spearheading the Battle of Loos on 15 September 1915. This was the start of the Second Ypres Offensive that resulted in gains measured in yards for a total of 60,000 British casualties against 20,000 German casualties. The British First Army had only a quarter of the number of men necessary for the battle, with insufficient and unsuitable heavy artillery to cut wire and pound the well-prepared German defences. The attack over open ground, swept by machine-gun fire, while British chlorine gas was released in the still air conditions, was near-suicidal and 40,000 men fell in the first three hours of the attack. For the Scots the battle was their blooding and they fought with great determination at great cost to create a salient in the German lines. German counter-attacks sealed off the salient and the invested Scottish battalions were cut down as they attempted to regain the British lines. The subaltern commanding my father’s platoon together with his platoon sergeant, and the company commander, were killed in the attack but my father escaped unscathed with survivors of his battalion to regain the British lines two days later. He received a Mention in Despatches and due to the 70% casualty rate among the officers in the two Cameronian battalions he was granted an immediate Field Commission with the 9th Battalion as a Temporary Acting Second Lieutenant on Probation. The Second Ypres Offensive resulted in a total of 250,000 allied casualties against German losses of 213,000. The aftermath of the failed offensive saw the battlefields of the Western Front governed by the machine-gun and barbed wire, and the start of the Great War of Attrition. Second Lieutenant Bernard Walker Downes was to remain for some months as a platoon commander in the pulverised sodden coalfields with the obliterated trenches and torn wire, the unburied dead and the all-pervading stench, before moving south in preparation for the Battle of the Somme in 1916.
At university, freed from the constraints of school discipline, one feature of free expression of dress was a tendency to allow one’s hair to grow longer than had been the case at school. Although encouraged by the University Air Squadron to keep it at a reasonable and respectful length – after all it had to fit within the confines of a tight leather flying helmet and not impede the hearing of instructions shouted down the Gosport speaking tube – this did not necessarily meet with Service requirements. At our first parade in uniform with full marching kit the Senior Warrant Officer, ‘God’, an ‘old hand’ from the Guards, walked slowly behind the ranks of the paraded cadets touching each one in turn on the shoulder with his swagger cane with the words, ‘Get it cut!’ When he arrived behind me I felt the tap and received the same instruction. I eschewed the free services of the RAF barber, whose ability with scissors and comb was exceeded by his experience with sheep shears and the specialty of a razor cut long before it became fashionable. At an expenditure of a full week’s pay I visited the renowned establishment of Mr Trumper in Jermyn Street to avail myself of his expertise as to how a gentleman should appear in public. At our next inspection before the Senior Warrant Officer I was dismayed to hear the repeated words, ‘Get it cut!’ echoing along the line. When ‘God’ arrived behind the cadet standing in front of me, I heard him sigh and say in a low concerned tone of voic
e close to his ear, ‘Am I “ertin” you Lad?’ To which the startled cadet stammered, ‘Er – er – no – no – Sir.’ ‘Well I should be,’ responded the very Senior Warrant Officer with a rising intensity of tone in his voice that finished in a bellow, ‘Cos I’m standin on the back of your hair. GET IT CUT!!’