Aircrew: The Story of the Men Who Flew the Bombers

by Bruce Lewis

  As they lined up for their bombing run, a searchlight caught them in its beam. Within a fraction of time this column of intense light was joined by two others of equal brilliance. They had been caught in a dreaded cone. Leslie, blinded, lay in the bomb-aimer’s position in the transparent nose. In seconds the flak was hitting them, badly damaging their port wing. John pushed the stick forward and sent the bomber into a steep dive. The altimeter spun in reverse as they fell away from the searchlights and flak. Pulling out of the dive must have been too much for the weakened wing. It failed to support the aircraft, still loaded with bombs. Moments later they crashed.

  Leslie remembers struggling to his hands and knees and crawling out through a gap in the side of the Hampden. He could hear groans coming from both John and Ginger. John had broken his back, while Ginger was in agony from a terrible head wound. Kiwi, in the lower gun position, was dead. He had probably been killed by flak before hitting the ground. Miraculously, although in the most vulnerable part of the aircraft, Leslie had escaped with no more than a sprained ankle and a scratch on his nose.

  Within a few moments some Luftwaffe soldiers from a nearby anti-aircraft site arrived on the scene. In a state of shock, Leslie called to them in the only words of German that he knew: ‘Deinicht mein ganzes herz!’ …‘You are my heart’s delight!’ The Germans laughed and treated the three survivors with consideration. The lives of both John Graham and Ginger Hughes were saved by skilled surgery carried out in Lübeck hospital. Leslie Biddlecombe became a prisoner of war for nearly four years.

  The Bomber Command War Diaries mention the reactions of some German military veterans from the First World War who witnessed that raid on Kiel. They said that the flak barrage was so intense, it reminded them of the Western Front offensives of 1914–1918.

  It is certain that young men who volunteered for flying duties during that period and were assigned to bombers suffered from inadequate and hurried training that fell far short of proper preparation for their onerous tasks. Newly qualified pilots were used, certainly when flying in Hampdens, in a capacity for which they were only minimally prepared – that is as navigators, while in Whitleys or Wellingtons, where the second pilot took over the controls from time to time, they were still wastefully underemployed.

  It was illogical for pilots to be paired in aircraft that could only carry a small bomb load. In the later stages of the bomber offensive a single unmodified Lancaster, flown by one pilot and a crew of six, could carry up to 18,000 lbs of bombs. In order to lift that same load it would have required twelve Hampdens with combined crews totalling forty-eight airmen, twenty-four of them qualified pilots. In current terminology – hardly cost-effective!

  True comparison between the earlier days of Bomber Command’s operations and those that followed later in the war is barely possible anyway. A given weight of bombs dropped in 1944 did infinitely more damage than a comparable weight dropped in 1941. In the beginning RAF bombs were of such inferior construction that the explosive element accounted for little more than a quarter of their weight, the difference being made up of heavy metal casing. The Amatol explosive, used by the British since World War One, was not nearly so effective as that employed by the Germans, who, in any case, packed twice as much explosive into their bombs.

  The crowning irony was that aircrew were expected to throw away their lives while fighting, not only with inefficient weapons, but with ones that were often defective. A large percentage of those early bombs failed to explode on impact.

  Added to this, as we have seen, was the frequent failure of crews to find their targets through lack of navigation aids. Even if the target was found, the chances of hitting it were reduced because of antiquated bomb-sights. Is it fair to assume, then, that the campaign in those early days was a pitiful waste of time? Nothing could be further from the truth. Without the fortitude and bravery of men such as Flight Sergeant (later Warrant Officer) Leslie Biddlecombe, the massive bombing offensive of the future could never have come about. It was the pioneering spirit of these early volunteers that laid the foundations for what was to come – an onslaught on the enemy such as the world had never seen. They showed the world that, in spite of Göring’s boast to the contrary, British bombers could range, night after night, far and wide over German territory.

  Britain then stood alone, her cities bombed by the Luftwaffe, her home army impotent, her ships at the mercy of U-boats. Only Bomber Command carried the war to Germany. This was done as well as it could be done at the time. The exploits of the young bomber crews gave heart to the British people. Their deeds brought comfort to a nation under siege. Furthermore, they inspired those of us who were to follow.

  THREE

  The Air Gunner

  The professional air gunner emerged as a distinct aircrew category in World War Two. In the previous war a bombing plane’s defence was in the hands of the observer who operated under very difficult conditions. For example, in the British B.E.2 he sat in an open cockpit in front of the pilot, surrounded by a confusion of struts and wires, while the engine limited his field of fire immediately ahead. Flying suits were, of course, unheated and the intense cold not only affected the physical efficiency of the men, but also caused stoppages in their guns when the lubrication systems froze.

  By the outbreak of the Second World War the RAF had developed the power-operated turret. It was then best utilized in the Vickers Wellington which mounted two.303 Browning machine guns in a nose turret, and four.303 Browning machine guns in the tail turret. Later, beam guns were added to frustrate side-on attacks. After the development of the four-engine ‘heavies’ the mid-upper turret became standard additional defensive equipment. Later we shall see how the Americans brought the ‘art’ of air gunnery to its ultimate peak, when, in daylight skies over occupied Europe, their aptly named Fortresses and Liberators fought their way through to the target in spite of the fiercest opposition from cannon and rocket-firing Luftwaffe fighters.

  At first air gunners were usually of low rank, often no more than LAC. Soon, however, the minimum rank, as for all aircrew, was established as Sergeant. It was possible for a volunteer air gunner to reach operational squadron service more quickly than in any other flying category. The actual gunnery course took only six weeks. It was said, with some justification, that the rear gunner occupied the most dangerous position in the plane. It was certainly the loneliest, and the coldest. Yet occasionally it was an advantage to be situated aft; as Reg Scarth discovered – on two occasions.

  Tough, restless and stocky, with a clipped northern accent, Reg Scarth finally hauled himself into the rear turret of a Vickers Wellington in 1943. He went an unusually roundabout way to get there. But for his determination to fly, he might well have remained as an administrator in the RAF.

  Having volunteered for aircrew duties, he should have finished up as a pilot, which was what he was selected for. In fact he almost certainly would have become a pilot if it had not been for his stockiness. Then he could have trained as a navigator, but his restlessness got in the way of that. Instead, Reg became an air gunner, for which his toughness suited him well. Eventually he attained the rank of Squadron Leader.

  Reg was born in Osset, Yorkshire, on 15 September, 1922, and joined the RAF as an apprentice in July, 1938, shortly before his 16th birthday. He was posted to Ruislip where he trained in the Records Office. He qualified in September, 1939, the month Britain and France declared war on Germany, and began work as an RAF clerk at Church Fenton.

  It was not very long before restlessness set in. Volunteering for duties overseas, he expected to finish up in France like most other servicemen at that period of the war. Instead he was posted to Rhodesia. Life was pleasant enough – good climate, a full social life, and plenty of sport. By 1942 he had been promoted Sergeant.

  In South-East Africa the war seemed a long way off. It was this that worried him more and more as time went by. Reading between the lines in newspaper and radio reports, he felt certain there must be a ser
ious shortage of aircrew back in England. Yet there he was living in safety and comfort in a billet remote from the war. So he volunteered for flying duties. As a veteran of four years standing in the RAF, he sailed through his initial training, being excused much of what the raw recruits had to undergo.

  At EFTS he thoroughly enjoyed himself learning the basics of flying in tiny De Havilland Tiger Moths. These delightful little biplanes were like machines from a bygone age. They could be spun and stalled with impunity, and however much pupils mistreated them, their wood and canvas construction nearly always stood up to the strain. Reg was convinced he had found his vocation – he was a natural pilot. But when he reached SFTS at Cranborne, near Salisbury (now Harare) he was faced with one of the most frustrating situations of his life. Here the advanced training aircraft were rugged North American Harvards. Built on a much more generous scale than the diminutive Tiger Moth, they were also very noisy, with large, ‘ungeared’, single radial engines.

  Reg was convinced he could handle the Harvard, or any other aircraft for that matter. Eagerly he strode out to the flights alongside his instructor. Full of enthusiasm he hauled himself up the metal side of the fuselage, stepped over the lip of the cockpit and sank out of sight into its depths. To his dismay, at 5 feet 4 inches, his head was below the level of the windscreen. He was unable to see out. Even worse than that, the rudder bar was beyond the reach of his feet!

  For a moment his chagrin knew no bounds. He cursed all idiot aircraft designers who based their cockpit dimensions on the measurements of giant Texans. Then his mind raced – seeking a solution. Explaining the problem to his sympathetic instructor, he rushed off to the Sergeants’ Mess and grabbed a couple of cushions. Returning to the Harvard, he placed one behind his back to move himself forward towards the pedals, and then sat on the other which he placed underneath his parachute. ‘AH right now,’ he assured the pilot, ‘Let’s go!’

  But it was not all right. It proved quite impractical to try to control the aircraft in an efficient manner when perched so precariously. Those in authority were very sorry; they admired this man who had voluntarily forfeited a safe post in order to go to war. They did their best to allay his bitter disappointment, and offered him a variety of alternatives: either to join a long queue of cadets waiting to complete their pilot training on Oxfords – aircraft in which the seats were adjustable, and where the pilot sat in a cabin with all-round visibility, rather than a small confined cockpit, or train as a navigator, or forget the whole thing and return to his ground trade as an administrator.

  Reg had made up his mind to fight in the air in some capacity, so his answer to the last alternative was a brief, ‘No thanks.’ Yet he knew for sure that the other two offers would lead to delays and extended periods of further training. Navigators particularly, unlike in the earlier years, were now receiving a long and comprehensive course. The war might well be over by the time he quali-fied.

  After a moment’s thought, he asked: ‘Any vacancies for air gunners?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘How long to wait?’

  ‘Immediate acceptance.’

  ‘Duration of course?’

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘That’s for me,’said Reg.

  His erstwhile mates safely back in the office must have found his behaviour quite incomprehensible. Reg, on the other hand, was perfectly happy to be moving positively in the direction he wanted to go – back to England to see some action.

  Gunnery School at Gwelo Moffat was stimulating enough. Flying in Oxfords fitted with turrets, he blasted away at drogues, long sausage-shaped canvas objects towed by intrepid airmen in airborne tugs. He studied the mysteries of ‘deflection’, dismantled Browning.303 machine guns, and re-assembled them until he could do it in his sleep. He fired at targets on the ground and studied film of fighters approaching from all conceivable angles. Mentally he absorbed the shapes of models, representing friendly and enemy planes, which hung from the ceilings of every classroom.

  After the six-week intensive course he had qualified. Proudly sporting his new air gunner’s brevet above his left breast pocket, a single silvery-white wing and the letters AG surrounded by oak leaves, he arrived in Cape Town, South Africa. He was billeted in a vast transit camp crammed full of servicemen waiting to board ships bound for many destinations. There were two parades each day at 8am and 6pm. After roll call the names of those who were to sail that afternoon, or the following morning, would be read out.

  Reg, who had found himself a girlfriend, soon became fed up with this monotonous routine. He got into the habit of staying overnight at the girl’s home on the other side of town. After all it was safer – he might well have been mugged returning to camp late at night! Each morning and evening he telephoned the camp for the latest shipping news.

  When his turn did come it was actually his girl, working in a shop, who first broke the news. She told him he would be embarking on the troopship Staffordshire the following day. So much for wartime security in Cape Town.

  But no one had told him where he was going. He assumed, and hoped, that the voyage would end in an English port, but having experienced the vagaries of posting procedures during his years in ‘admin’, he was prepared for anything, or almost anything. What actually happened was outside his wildest speculations.

  Reg’s group was made up of forty aircrew, all senior NCOs. These airmen had learned their specialized skills at great expense to the British taxpayer. Even in those days it cost thousands of pounds to train a flyer in any category. The idea was that, once they were qualified, they should then fight the enemy in the air.

  So how were they employed? As soon as the Staffordshire put to sea they were signed on ship’s articles to carry out ‘trooping’ duties. This involved calling at small ports along the West African coast collecting native ‘troops’. The military knowledge that had been imparted to these unfortunate blacks was limited. They had been told which end of a rifle the bullet emerged, and very little else. They had not the remotest idea who the enemy was, and their desire to fight anyone was less than enthusiastic.

  This unhappy complement of ‘passengers’ was shipped up to Freetown and disembarked. Then Reg and his boys sailed back for more ‘recruits’.

  He celebrated his 20th birthday on 15 September, 1942, in Lagos. Having regard for his years of service in the RAF, he was the senior man of his group. Occasionally he had to act as policeman, both on and off the ship. Once, with an Askari escort he went ashore to round up 150 native deserters. After scouring several unsavoury locations he returned to the Staffordshire with a handful of deserters. Unfortunately, the compliment of prisoners was outweighed by the number of escorting troops who had disappeared!

  Another time, perhaps not surprisingly, three of his fellow aircrew sergeants had gone ashore and got drunk. They were reported to be causing a disturbance in a hotel and Reg was detailed to bring them back to the ship. With a revolver strapped to his waist he strode into the hotel, determined to restore peace and order. At that moment the local Gendarmerie arrived. Mistaken for one of the revellers, Reg received a smack on the back of the head from a truncheon. He woke up later in a gaol from which he was released the following day.

  Matters came to a head when they again docked in Freetown with another two or three thousand troops. Orders were issued to take the troops north to Bathurst, in readiness for an assault on the German U-boat base at Dakar. Reg, with the wholehearted support of his comrades, felt the time had arrived to lodge an official complaint.

  He explained to a Flight Lieutenant that he, and many of the others, had been in Africa for two and a half years. They had trained to do a job that would help Britain’s war effort, yet their services were not being utilized in a proper manner. The effect of this protest was dramatic. Coded signals sped back and forth between RAF Freetown and the Air Ministry in London. An indignant Group Captain came on board.

  This is all wrong,’ he protested. ‘You boys are desperately needed bac
k home. They are crying out for aircrew. Why the hell are you wasting your time here?’

  It had worked! In double quick time they were ferried from the Staffordshire to the SS Orion, a one-time P&O luxury cruise liner. Within the hour the small contingent of flyers had set sail for England with an escort of eight warships.

  Reg was impressed by the promptness in which matters had been arranged. Especially comforting was the presence of their formidable naval protectors, who ranged around them like watchful sea-dogs. His astonishment, therefore, was all the greater when one morning he woke to find the ‘navy’ had disappeared. The warships had ‘turned right’ into the Mediterranean, leaving the Orion to face the troubled ‘home waters’ alone.

  They rounded the northern coast of Ireland in a tremendous gale. At one point a large four-engine aircraft was spotted. A high ranking ‘brown job’ [RAF term for an army type] called to everyone within hearing, ‘It’s all right, it’s a “friendly”!’ Reg, who knew better, headed for the nearest machine gun. The Focke Wulf Kondor flew over the liner at a safe height and dropped one small bomb. It splashed into the sea, missing them by about 200 yards.

  Within hours they had docked in Liverpool and were soon away on disembarkation leave. After this Reg was sent to 15 OTU at Harwell. Flying under training as rear gunner in Wellingtons, fate intervened before he really had a chance to get to know his new crew. Taking part in a cross-country exercise, the bomber, for some unknown reason, began to lose height rapidly. The bomb aimer, bracing his feet against the instrument panel, assisted the pilot in heaving back on the control column. To the relief of the crew an airfield was spotted through the darkness. Attempts to contact the control tower on R/T met with no response. However, someone on the ground was operating an Aldis signal lamp. It was flashing a welcoming ‘Green’. With the Wellington behaving unpredictably they wasted no time in preparing to land.