‘Damned decent of you to come! Meant a lot to the men.’ We shook hands. ‘Meant a lot to me!’ he added awkwardly.
‘It was a pleasure! You have a fine unit. I was most impressed.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We both know it’s damned pathetic!’ He paused, struggling to express his feelings, after a lifetime spent concealing them.
‘There’s just one thing,’ he said gruffly. ‘If the Hun lands – and he probably will; if he goes through here – and he probably will, not one of those men will be alive to tell the tale. I just wanted you to know that.’
‘I know that, sir,’ I said. I stepped back and saluted. ‘That’s why it’s not so pathetic!’
Back at base, I found I hadn’t missed anything but frustrating scrambles and uneventful patrols. After dinner I was having a drink with my New Zealand Maori friend, Kempton Werohija.
‘Where were you, to-day?’ he asked. The others at the bar turned around and said, ‘Yeah, where did you goof off to?’
I couldn’t tell them. It was part of the RAF tradition that nothing serious or corny should be discussed in the Mess. There could be no hint that the tragedy of war was anything but a farcical comedy.
‘I’ve been with Drake on Plymouth Ho!’ I said.
‘I thought you said you were going to visit the Home Guard.’ said Ray.
‘Same thing!’ I said.
We were not to know it then, but in spite of our frustrations, or perhaps because of them, we were absorbing the savvy and the spirit that formed the basis of the Fourth Fighter Group.
Gradually, we went over to the offensive. Unfortunately, in my opinion both then and now, the first big effort was a tragic waste. We were thrilled when we were briefed for the Dieppe Raid in August 1942 – until we learned that, after risking their lives in capturing their objectives in Dieppe, the troops were simply going to turn around and leave. They explained that it was a dress rehearsal for the invasion. I only hoped there would be enough left after the rehearsal to take part in the main event. I felt so strongly about it, I wrote a suggestion through the CO that the target be switched to the Channel Islands. That would have given the Canadians their training, but they could have stayed and held them, liberating an occupied part of Great Britain, giving the RAF airfields from which they could better gain air supremacy over Northern France, and providing a possible jump-off base for the invasion. The RAF, Royal Navy, and Army were strong enough even by then: they could have held them.
We were flying Hurricanes in close cover to the landing. Stacked up above us were most of the fighter squadrons in England. They held their own against the Luftwaffe, but were neither prepared, nor expected, to give much help to the struggling troops. We came in with the first wave, duly strafed the targets we had been given; but we were up against some of the heaviest fortifications in the Atlantic Wall. As we turned for home, most of the Canadians were still pinned down on the beach. We refuelled at Tangmere and went back. At first it looked as if they were still pinned down on the beach, but as we roared in low, we saw no movement from those prostrate bodies.
We went back again to cover the withdrawal, but for a lot of them, there was no withdrawal. The last to leave were the first to have landed, and I believe the only unit to have taken all their objectives dead on time: Lord Lovat’s Commandos. They seemed in no hurry to leave. As we twisted and turned we saw them drawn up in front of their CO and his piper. Something was burning and smoking. I was told afterwards it was part of their Scottish tradition. They were cremating their dead.
As we finally turned for home over the deserted beaches strewn with dead, I shook my head and murmured: ‘They should have taken the Channel Islands.’
By now we were carrying the air war to the Luftwaffe over France in the form of fighter sweeps. We now had Spitfires. It was a whole new kind of flying: we were one with the machine, and, more important, we had new confidence. For the first time we felt we had a plane that could out-perform the Me109 and FW190.
It may have been true in a turn, but not in a dive. I remember one sweep over St Omer. The squadron was flying in perfect formation, when a Me109 came down in a vertical dive behind us, pulled up behind the last plane in the last flight, shot him down, continued through the squadron, pulled up in front of the squadron leader, did a slow roll and then split-essed, and dived for the ground.
It must have been on one of the early sweeps that I shot down my first enemy plane. I’d chased them before, and even dog-fought with them, but always as wingman, protecting my number one. I was still flying wingman, and last man in the flight. I knew it was the most dangerous position in the squadron, so when the gaggle of 109’s came down on us and the flight leader yelled, ‘Break,’ I hauled back so hard on the stick, I blacked out temporarily. When my vision cleared I saw the last 109 turning in front of me. I could see the black crosses! I pulled tighter in the turn and was easily gaining on him. I peered through my lighted gun-sight and saw it moving up the fuselage as I tried to lay off the right deflection. The correct procedure was to give short bursts, but I was too eager for such niceties. I pressed the firing button on the spade grip on the stick, and held it, simply hosing the target from stem to stern. I pulled right on through until he disappeared under the long nose of my Spitfire. I kept in the turn and looked back to clear my tail. Suddenly I was totally alone. There were no Germans, and no squadron. It said a lot for the sense of discipline instilled by the RAF that the pride in gaining my first victory was obliterated by the horror of having lost my number one. I went into a dive for the coast, twisting and jinking to clear my tail. As I approached the home base, I heard the others landing. I followed them in and hoped no one would notice I’d come home alone. At the debriefing, I was relieved to learn that everyone had returned safely.
I knew that Buzz Beurling, the Canadian sergeant-pilot had been disciplined for being too independent and attacking on his own by being posted to Malta; but when they saw my combat film with the flashes along the fuselage and the cockpit, I learned that success could make up for breaches in squadron discipline. Beurling learned the same thing. In Malta he became Canada’s leading ace by shooting down thirty-one enemy planes!
Those of us who had flown with other RAF squadrons left them with sadness when we were posted to join the Eagle Squadrons in the autumn of 1942. Ray Fuchs, ‘Whitey’ White and I said goodbye to 416 Canadian Squadron with some sadness.
It had become our home; and its CO, Lloyd Chadburn, and all of its pilots were our family. We knew that 133 was one of the three Eagle Squadrons composed entirely of Americans in the RAF. It was based up in Essex in 12 Group. With 416, and before that, with 43, we had been at the front-line stations of 11 Group: – Kenley, Biggin Hill, Tangmere.
The train chuffed off, leaving us alone except for the stationmaster making his way back to the small station-house. We asked him if there was transport waiting for us.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’ll be at Saffron Walden. All aboard!’
He indicated a small train on another track. He seemed to find it hard to believe that everyone was not aware of the fact that Audley End was not a town or even a village, but simply a stop on the main line where passengers could change trains for the four-mile ride to the town of Saffron Walden. We never learned why the original Victorian builders of the line didn’t run it through the town. It could hardly have been for the convenience of the owners of the beautiful stately home of Audley End. They were probably powerful enough at the time, but would they have cared that much to be on a main-line railway? Over the next few years, hundreds of Americans puzzled over the apparent inefficiency of the change at Audley End, but they never got an answer. It never occurred to the English to question the situation. The only thing they found strange was the reaction of the ‘Yanks’, which they accepted as another peculiarity of their unsophisticated, but likable country cousins.
‘You mean we’re supposed to take this lil ol’ Toonerville Trolley to Saffron Walden?’ Thanks to Whitey’s Te
nnessee accent, as far as the Stationmaster was concerned, he might have been talking Greek.
‘Don’t knock it’, said Ray. ‘If it wasn’t for this we’d probably have to walk. They run this train system like we run street-cars. It’s convenient and cheap, so sit down and relax. The secret of enjoying life in this country is never to be in a hurry. If you push them they resent it. It’s kind of like an Old Folks Home.’
When we got out of the little train at Saffron Walden station, it was getting dark, there was still a chill in the air, and it was raining. We found a small camouflaged van outside, eventually located the driver, and were driven out to the base of Debden. It had been a pre-war base and we were impressed with its solid brick buildings; but they were not for us. They gave us a meal, but then we had to move on again. For reasons of defence and security, the squadrons had been ‘dispersed’. 133 was based at a satellite airfield at Great Sampford. It was just down the road about two miles, through Wimbish Green and Radwinter, which were not really villages but collections of five or six houses. The airfield was only a grass field, with wooden huts dispersed around the edge for sleeping accommodation. There was nothing great about Great Sampford. We were dumped off in front of the barracks reserved for officers, and the van immediately headed back for the civilization of the main base at Debden. We couldn’t blame it.
Dragging our gear with us, we opened the wooden door, and gazed down a dark corridor with doors on either side. There wasn’t a sound or a light. We opened a door. The neat little room was deserted. There were two beds, two little desks, two little wooden chairs and two wooden lockers. On the desks were photographs of girl-friends or wives. It looked well lived-in, but somehow that made it all the more desolate.
‘Guess they’re at chow or out on the town!’ said Ray, but he knew, and we knew, it wasn’t that.
We closed the door behind us and walked on down the corridor. Suddenly a door at the end opened. A young, worried looking pilot came out. He was tall, with jet-black curly hair, and his good-looking Italian appearance reminded me of a film actor; either Cesar Romero or Victor Mature. Right now, he looked shaken and nervous.
‘Hi! I’m Don Gentile. I sure am glad to see you. I’m all alone here.’
‘Where are the others?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you know?’
We didn’t answer.
‘None of them came back.’
We still didn’t understand. ‘Came back from where?’
‘From the mission. They were escorting the first Fortress raid to Brest. There was a lot of cloud, and maybe the wind changed. I guess the Forts kept going, and our guys stayed with them. On the way back they were already short of gas when they were bounced by Jerries. Then they couldn’t get back across the Channel. I’ve heard Beaty made it back to the South Coast, but he’s the only one.’
We didn’t answer. There was nothing to be said. We went back to our kit and looked at Gentile.
‘I guess you can take any room. They’re all empty.’ He made a dash for his door and slammed it behind him.
Ray and I moved into the next room. I opened a locker. Inside was his overcoat and best uniform; his shaving brush, razor, soap, toothpaste and toothbrush were neatly lined up on the shelf. There were well-thumbed letters, and the beginning of a reply on a fresh sheet of paper: ‘Dear Mum –’.
‘I don’t think I’ll unpack to-night. They’ll come and pack this stuff up tomorrow.’
‘Yeah!’ said Ray. ‘I feel like an intruder.’ He was looking at the photograph of a good-looking girl beside his bed. Across it was written: ‘For ever, yours, Doll.’
I think it was a day or so later. We had been flying formation under the command of Red McColpin, the CO of 133 Squadron, until dusk. After dinner, we found our way by bicycle to Saffron Walden and The Rose and Crown, the old pub on the market square. We weaved our way back to Great Sampford, parked the bikes and approached the barracks.
Suddenly the wooden door of the hut was shattered as if by an explosion. A body came hurtling through, closely followed by another. They were followed by two kit bags. A six foot figure appeared in the doorway. His open-necked shirt and unbuttoned blue tunic made his shoulders seem even broader than they obviously were. His head was lowered like a bull about to charge showing his short-cropped hair, and broad forehead over blue eyes. His powerful chin added to the overall impression of forcefulness and drive.
The two sprawled figures began to pick themselves up slowly and painfully. They were RAF administration officers. Ray, Whitey and I moved towards the door but it was still blocked by the glowering figure.
‘You pilots?’ he asked.
We nodded and he let us in.
‘I’m Don Blakeslee.’ He said it as if no other explanation was necessary. He was right.
Apart from a few like Red McColphin, Spike Miley, Dusty Miller and Dixie Alexander, 133’s most experienced pilots were lost on the last mission or were eligible for rotation to the States, where they needed instructors with European combat behind them; so that those of us who had been brought in from RAF and RCAF Squadrons to fill the gaps had more hours of flying and combat than the survivors. This was particularly true of Blakeslee so, when McColphin went back home, it was natural that Don should take over as CO.
But, while no one questioned his talents in the air, many in the top command had less confidence in his behaviour on the ground. He had established his reputation at the time of transfer, by choosing the very night before General Hunter’s visit to the base to entertain two female officers in his barrack room. The General started his tour early the next morning. Warned of the approaching danger, the two WAAF officers just had time to cover some of their embarrassment, and scramble out of the barracks window right into the path of the General and his staff.
Told that Blakeslee would be demoted and transferred as a first lieutenant, ‘Monk’ Hunter remarked: ‘For one, maybe; but for two! He should be promoted!’
Maybe that was why he was a captain again within a few weeks, and given command of the squadron.
Most newly appointed squadron CO’s made a speech; sincere, patriotic, sentimental, amusing, profane, bawdy, blasphemous, or any mixture thereof. Blakeslee simply stood on the bar and announced that the drinks were on him. It was well after one a.m. when he announced to those who were still at least semi-conscious that all pilots would report ready for take-off at 6 a.m.
Somehow the faithful batmen and the more abstemious pilots were able to get most of us to the briefing, in body, if not in spirit. Blakeslee was in fine form. He was a great believer in the RAF tradition of hard drinking and high living, and never permitting either of them to interfere with constant readiness to fly, and fly well, at any time.
There was no enthusiasm on the part of the pilots. The loss of most of the squadron, the thought of flying with pilots we didn’t know, the depressing facilities at Great Sampford, and the fact that we were stuck off there, while the other two Eagle Squadrons relaxed in the luxury of the main station at Debden, all combined to create an atmosphere of depression and cynicism. There was no esprit de corps; most of us had had to leave the squadrons we loved, and the few 133 survivors saw their squadron taken over by brash strangers. There was no enthusiasm or spirit; and, without these, no fighter squadron could survive. In short, we were not a true squadron, and we knew it.
Apart from the poor amenities at Great Sampford, there was the problem of the grass airfield itself. It was small, irregular in shape, with an uneven surface. By the time you got the Spitfire’s tail up, and could see over the long nose, you were often practically on top of the boundary fence.
Normally, fighter planes took off in two’s, a leader with his wingman. On a very good field, I had seen a section of four scrambled off at the same time. Only twice had I ever seen a whole squadron of sixteen aircraft take off in formation; once on the huge grass airfield at Martlesham Heath, and once at the big main airfield at Tangmere.
As Blakeslee put names to the pla
nes outlined on the board, we all presumed that, as usual, those were the positions we would take up once we were airborne. Then, incredulously, we heard him say almost casually: ‘We’ll form up this way on the east perimeter. When I give the signal, the squadron will take off in formation!’ There was a gasp of disbelief. It was cut short by a bellow from Blakeslee: ‘Move!’
It wasn’t quite daylight as we started to taxi into position. To add to the confusion, there was a slight, patchy ground fog. It was a miracle that everyone got into position without chewing the tail off anyone else, with their prop, as we zig-zagged from side to side to try to see around the long nose. Blakeslee was standing up in his cockpit. The Spit’s in-line engine heated up if it had to taxi too long, so the minute every plane was more or less in position, he brought his arm forward like John Wayne leading the US Cavalry, flopped down into his seat, and started to roll.
The engines’ splutter built up to a roaring crescendo. We were soon bumping over the rough grass surface. The frightening thing was to have to pull back on the throttle on the ground to keep formation when we knew we needed every bit of power and speed to get off. It was worst for us in the last section. We had to be jockeying our throttle violently to stay in position. But when we saw the fence and the trees looming up, we pushed the throttle to the gate and kept it there. We resisted the temptation to haul the nose up – and risk a stall – and cleared the fence by inches. We had to swerve to miss the trees, which were higher than us.
‘Tighten it up. Let’s show these bastards!’
It was Blakeslee on the RT, and I realized we were already flying over the centre of the main airfield at Debden. We knew what he meant. The other squadrons were watching, and we were going to show them the best formation flying they’d ever seen at under 500 feet. They said afterwards that the effect was dramatic: a whole squadron rising out of the ground and sweeping across the middle of the base in perfect formation in a roar of sound which shattered the windows.
Tumult in the Clouds Page 6