By the Skin of my Teeth: The Memoirs of an RAF Mustang Pilot in World War II and of Flying Sabres with USAF in Korea

by Colin Downes

Shortly after this incident Sir Winston Churchill became the British Prime Minister for the second time and the two auxiliary squadrons arranged for their respective honorary air commodores to visit Biggin Hill to inspect their squadrons on the same day. Coincidental to this, Fighter Command had a defence exercise that gave the Queen Mother and the Prime Minister the opportunity to see the Biggin Hill wing in action. The auxiliaries entertained their honorary air commodores to a luncheon in the mess before an inspection of the squadrons to be followed by a fly-past. No. 41 Squadron was not involved in the function and during the proceedings waited at readiness on the north operational readiness platform (ORP) of the runway. The Queen Mother and the Prime Minister inspected their respective squadrons and the two squadrons took-off for the fly-past. Shortly after their departure from the airfield we received scramble instructions and the twelve Meteors lined up in pairs for the interception of a raid coming from the European mainland. I was leading the squadron and a Canadian pilot, Flight Lieutenant MacDonald, was my number three, leading the second pair in my flight. The usual procedure for a flight or squadron stream take-off was for the pairs of Meteors to take off at ten seconds intervals, with the odd numbered pairs in the sections pulling high on take-off and the following even numbered pairs staying low to avoid turbulent slipstream and to pick up speed to facilitate a quick formation join up. All the Meteors had a full fuel load of 330 gallons internal fuel and a ventral overload tank of 105 gallons. MacDonald either attempted to lift off too soon with the full load or selected wheels up too soon on becoming airborne as he encountered my slipstream. Whatever the reason, the Meteor sank back onto the runway and slid along the remainder of the runway before crashing through the perimeter fence, crossing the main road and crashing into a house. The impact demolished the house, and the Meteor, with over 400 gallons of fuel on board, exploded in a massive fireball that enveloped the house. MacDonald and two elderly residents of the house died instantly. I was unaware of the disaster until informed over the R/T before continuing with the squadron on our interception. Fortunately, MacDonald’s wingman and the aircraft following were not involved in the accident and on completion of the exercise we diverted to Manston in Kent before returning to Biggin Hill. This was our first fatality and major accident, and most unfortunately it was witnessed by our distinguished guests. However, before they left the airfield they were to witness a double tragedy.

  The proverb that misfortunes never come singly became a reality when, as the two auxiliary squadrons approached Biggin Hill for their fly-past and were informed of the disaster on the airfield, they turned over the airfield to divert to another airfield and a Meteor IV of No. 600 Squadron, now led by Squadron Leader Jack Meadows, DFC, AFC, RAuxAF, whose pilot was paying more attention to what had happened on the ground than to his formation flying, collided with his section leader. The other pilot managed to bale out of his aircraft and landed on the airfield close by the impact of the two Meteors. Considering the height and time available to him to accomplish this without an ejection seat it was some achievement. The offending pilot was not so fortunate and died in the wreckage of his aircraft. One error compounded by another resulted in the loss of four lives, three aircraft and the destruction of a house. It was certainly a day to remember by all concerned and it was very fortunate that the death role on the ground was not considerably greater. It was particularly sad for us as MacDonald, an experienced and excellent pilot, was a good friend and a popular member of the squadron. I had the unpleasant task as adjustment officer of being responsible for attending to his personal effects for his next of kin, while the CO wrote the usual letters of condolence. The task of an adjustment officer is an unpleasant one and often leads to some embarrassing situations; and once again the squadron assembled to pay their respects to an empty box as it descended into the ground to the echo of the shots fired by the honour escort.

  I do not recall The Queen Mother visiting Biggin Hill again during my time there, but Winston Churchill did visit unofficially on a couple of occasions. The Prime Minister liked to talk to the pilots on the squadrons and as a battalion commander in the Royal Scots Fusiliers while out of office during the First World War in 1916 he was proud of his military associations. His sense of sartorial individualism saw him frequently dressed in his Air Commodore’s uniform with RAF wings and campaign ribbons from the Boer War and the First World War. I had seen him on several occasions without speaking to him but on one occasion I did speak to him while in the mess at Biggin Hill when he was en route to his home at Westerham. There happened to be a cocktail party in the mess at the time and the great man’s appearance created a stir as usual. I recall him asking me to find him a comfortable chair in a quiet corner of the mess so he could talk with some of the squadron pilots while smoking the inevitable cigar accompanied by a glass of cognac. He asked that we try to keep the ladies from speaking to him as he was too tired to keep getting up to greet them. Churchill had not been well and showed his approaching eighty years. Despite rumours to the contrary, although he appeared frail at the time his mind remained as sharp as ever. Bearing in mind that he continued as Prime Minister until 1955 and then lived in retirement for a further ten years, the reports of his decline were probably exaggerated. At the risk of echoing a popular comic song consisting of only two lines – Lloyd George knew my father – My father knew Lloyd George – sung over and over again to the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ I mentioned to the Prime Minister, while he was questioning me on the Meteor, that he had known my father during the First World War. At first he showed polite interest as obviously my name meant nothing to him until I said my father was his ADC while he was with the 9th (Scottish) Division of First Army on the Western Front in January 1916. To my surprise he said, ‘Ha yes, a tall young Scot with a passion for firearms.’ Churchill had resigned from the Asquith government in 1915 and returned to the Army after a period of eighteen years. It was expected that he would be given command of a brigade in First Army with the 9th (Scottish) Division. My father was serving with the 9th Battalion of The Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) having received a field commission during the Second Ypres Offensive at the Battle of Loos in September 1915. He was assigned to Churchill’s personal staff as his ADC while escorting him around the 9th (Scottish) Division and First Army. Political infighting resulting from Churchill’s resignation from the Asquith government quashed the command of a brigade but he was given command of the 6th Battalion of the Royal Scots Fusiliers, and my father returned to his regiment. However, Churchill did not remain long at the front with the Royal Scots before leaving to join the government of Lloyd George in 1916, becoming Minister of Munitions in 1917. Therefore, he was not with the 9th (Scottish) Division when it moved from the pulverized sodden land of Flanders south to the open rolling chalk-downs of the Somme in June 1916 to join Fourth Army in preparation for the Somme Offensive in July 1916. Churchill asked after my father and I told him he had survived the severe wounds he received during the Battle of the Somme in 1916, the Battle of Cambrai in 1917 and the Battle of Amiens in 1918. Churchill expressed interest and concern, saying he was glad to hear that my father had not only survived the war but was still alive and able to live an active life. While standing with a group at the entrance to the mess as the Prime Minister took his leave, I was surprised when he moved over to me to say, ‘Thank you. I enjoyed our talk. You should be proud of your father, he was a brave man. Please pass on my regards to him.’ My father, who always spoke well of Churchill, was both surprised and pleased that the Prime Minister remembered him.

  In the era of the propeller driven aircraft, despite constant warnings, people still managed to walk into whirling propeller blades with fatal or horrendous injuries. So it was with jet propulsion engines when people passed too close to the engine intakes, but unlike propeller aircraft steel grills could be placed in the intakes of the jet engines to prevent ingestion. It was standard procedure for these guards to be placed in the engine intake whenever ground running the
engine, and although the grill mesh was not small enough to prevent small objects being ingested into the engine, it would prevent a human body from being sucked into the engine intake. One day while standing outside the squadron dispersal during a Meteor ground run, I saw an airman walk across the front of the aircraft and in an instant disappear as if in a magic show, followed by a loud bang as the impeller turbine disintegrated. Running over to the aircraft as the fitter shut down the engines, we found no protective grills over the engine intakes and no sign of the airman, apart from one black shoe lying on the ground. Looking inside the engine intake some ragged remains of clothing and body parts were seen and yet again I attended another farewell and customary consignment of a largely empty box into the ground. Even with the engine intake guards in place, if a human body was drawn against the grill at high engine power the suction applied at the intake by the jet engine was such that the lungs would collapse and the victim suffocate before the engine could be shutdown; but at least the body would remain intact for burial.

  One of the joys of flying a jet propelled fighter after flying a propeller driven fighter was the greater power and speed aligned to a greater smoothness and simplicity of controls with relative quietness. Gone was the rasping, clattering noise of the twelve cylinders combined with the propeller noise as the propeller heaved the aircraft into the air with the blade tips approaching the speed of sound, before the aircraft settled down to a lengthy climb to altitude. Instead, the surge of the jet thrust projected the aircraft rapidly into the air and the rate of climb to altitude was initially quite breathtaking. With the pilot insulated within the pressurized cockpit, the whine of the jet engine penetrating the flying helmet was muted and soon ignored, and the flight was smooth and seemingly effortless. Accustomed to the vagaries of the piston engine and propeller pitch noises accompanied by the occasional airframe shake, flying a jet was a completely new environmental experience. Gone too were the complications of engine boost, propeller revolutions and fuel mixture control with carburettor heat control, to be replaced by a simple use of throttle to control the turbine revolutions and jet pipe temperature. The monitoring of the engine instruments was similarly simplified from several dials to basically a group of four: the engine revolutions and the jet pipe temperature, grouped with the fuel pressure and oil temperature gauges, while keeping a watchful note of the fuel contents. The sensation was that of riding a projectile into space and in a few short minutes one was through the overcast to the troposphere, when after a climb of around 6 vertical miles the tropopause was reached on the edge of the stratosphere. With a little imagination, as the blue of the sky deepened and the perception of the curvature of the earth emerged, one felt one was on the edge of space itself. However, to achieve this would require a few hundred miles more altitude; through the stratosphere, ionosphere, mesosphere and finally the exosphere, a distance of around 650 miles. At the tropopause, and above the weather, the view below was either a bright white carpet, or more rarely in Europe a patchwork quilt of greens and browns edged by the blue-green of the sea. Flying in the tropopause, at the edge of the effect of weather, as the aircraft turned one could view one’s progress through space marked by the condensation trails of the jet engine as it traced a broad white chalk line across the sky against a deep azure board. At such times, if flying alone with the radio silent, there was an incredible feeling of not being part of this world, especially if above cloud, and regardless of one’s religious beliefs the effect was one of wonder, empathizing with John Magee in a perception of being able to touch the face of God. With the sight of another aircraft the spell and any illusions were broken and one contemplated a return to earth, often dependent upon the guidance from the ground via radio, radio compass or radar control. If flying on instruments the descent through the darkening clouds would reveal the real dark, dreary, wet and forbidding world below; but for a few short magical moments one had soared with angels. The great joy of flying a jet fighter was that no matter how life appeared to mere earth bound mortals, one could slip the surly bonds of earth and enter another world of bright sunlight and sun drenched clouds.

  One of the great flying experiences of which I never tired was the awesome manoeuvrability of flight in a jet fighter. The power of the jet engine and the ease with which it could perform aerobatics covering great areas of sky, enabled one to soar over towering cumulus cloud mountains and around the soft rounded cotton wool tops, before plunging down deep running canyons and through narrow winding ravines, without the danger of impact if the judgment was not fine enough. Here one could effortlessly traverse the great white crags as hills peeped over hills, and Alps on Alps arose, with vaulting zooms and darting dives interspersed with loops and rolls. It had been difficult, if not impossible, remotely to experience this effortless flight in any propeller driven fighter and it was always a source of great pleasure for me until recalled to the operational role of being a fighter pilot. Since most of our flying was conducted in some form of formation flying, the opportunity for personal indulgence such as this usually resulted while on an air test or a cross-country exercise or on simulated camera gun combat when the right conditions prevailed.

  When flying at night one was usually alone on a cross-country flight, or practising circuits and landings. Flying at high altitude above cloud would bring a sense of awe and wonder at the magnificence of the night sky, seen with a brilliance and clarity never experienced on the ground. Often the feeling of remoteness would be replaced by a sense of extreme loneliness. The ground, if seen at all, was only discerned by shades of darkness and a town or a city identified only by strings of fairy lights strung along the streets, no matter the hour of the night. On occasions, especially when flying over the overcast, a sense of remoteness and loneliness could be almost overpowering; until the spell was broken as one was connected to another aircraft or reconnected to earth by a voice on the radio telephone. These were all magical moments never remotely contemplated, or even dreamed of, while flying propeller fighters. They are still treasured memories in the twilight of my non-flying days.

  During a Fighter Command exercise against the Vampire wing at North Weald, while leading my flight over East Anglia I witnessed a mid-air collision between two Vampires at 30,000 feet. The impact was that of an explosive shell and from the fire-ball pieces of wreckage fluttered down with no sign of a white parachute emerging. We reduced height looking for signs of survivors and on reaching 20,000 feet I heard a call from my squadron commander, ‘Dusty’ Miller, that he had a fire warning light on his port engine. This was followed by a call reporting an explosion. On checking over his aircraft I could see that flames coming from the engine jet pipe were getting bigger and assumed a disintegrating impeller turbine had ruptured the fuel line. I called for him to eject as the fire in the port engine was now intense and threatening the aileron control. An ejection appeared to be his only option before losing control of the aircraft. Miller turned onto an easterly heading with a hope that the aircraft would fly itself seawards. He closed down the live engine, reduced speed to around 150 knots, trimmed the aircraft, and remembered to lower his seat and head as he jettisoned the canopy. Then drawing his feet back towards the seat, he reached up and pulled the blind over his face, firing the ejection gun. He recalled a violent thump and loud bang as the charge propelled the seat up the guide rails taking him clear of the Meteor. This was before modification of the ejection seat would provide a double charge ejection gun to help reduce the very jarring shove in the backside as the single ejection gun fired. This was also before further modification to the seat provided a rocket propelled drogue to stabilize the seat. As it was the seat began to tumble and with the blind off his face he could see the sky and earth reversing positions. An automatic barometric release unit had yet to be incorporated in the seat, but he knew he was at a safe altitude to release the seat and open his parachute. Feeling for the seat harness release he turned it and when the sky appeared above him, punched the release and kicked away from the s
eat. He then remembered to wait for a separation from the seat before pulling the parachute ripcord. This was necessary because before the fully automatic sequence of events that would result in suspension from the parachute when clear of the seat, there were instances when the pilot was not so fortunate and the ejection seat became entangled with the parachute. Eventually the whole process became fully automatic because the pilot could be unconscious from the moment of firing the ejection seat to the time he arrived safely on the ground: but in the early days of the 1950s one had to work for the banana. Miller was around 10,000 feet when his chute opened and swinging gently he could see below a reassuring green patchwork quilt of open countryside.

  ‘Dusty’ Miller recounted that his descent was very quiet and peaceful as he contemplated whether he could control the chute to avoid hitting any obstacles such as high tension wires, houses or trees. All those easy instructions during pilot training on how to control one’s descent could now be demonstrated as he tried to assess the wind speed and direction. Fortunately for him, the weather was fine, the wind speed moderate and he was over farmland. For a short while he was almost enjoying the seemingly gentle descent but as the earth started to approach rapidly he saw he was heading for some farm buildings. Fortunately, before he could consider any guidance to his descent he passed them by and arrived on mother earth just inside a meadow of grazing cows. He landed in an untidy heap and while struggling to release his parachute, the wind dragged him into a hedgerow. He had barely disengaged himself from the parachute harness when some farm labourers arrived on the scene followed by the inquisitive cows. On feeling himself all over he found his limbs all in place and, when asked, was able to pronounce himself in fine fettle. His flying helmet, goggles and gloves had protected him from any scratches from the hedgerow, and he was able, as a devout Catholic, to make an appropriate number of ‘Hail Mary’s’ in thankful salutation to whatever providence had prevailed to provide such benevolent conditions for his first, and he hoped, last parachute descent. Equally fortunate was the fact that his Meteor crashed in open country without causing any civilian casualties. He was taken to the nearest RAF station at Wattisham and after a cursory inspection by the station doctor, declined his offer to send him to the RAF hospital at Ely. A service car drove him back to Biggin Hill where his anxious family, and squadron, awaited his arrival.