RAF 100 GROUP 75th ANNIVERSARY REUNION

RAF 100 GROUP 75th ANNIVERSARY 1943 - 2018 Arthur Reid, 192 Sqn & Stan Forsyth DFC, both veterans of RAF Foulsham, Bernie How, 199 Sqn, RAF North Creake; Andrew Barron, 223 Sqn, RAF Oulton There are many events countrywide happening this year in the UK to mark the 100th Anniversary of the Royal Air Force. Meanwhile, RAF 100 Group, just as they were in wartime, remain in the shadows. Serving under Bomber Command, they never received official recognition, nor were they rewarded by way of a medal for the vital part they played to keep the enemy from our shores. Yet 2018 represents the 75th Anniversary of the creation of RAF 100 Group. They are rightly proud of their heritage, proud they served their country, proud they became the Guardian Angels of bombers, flying above them while identifying and jamming enemy Radar using secret experimental equipment carried on board their aircraft. It was this hidden Group which gave birth to Electronic Warfare, working with Bletchley Park and the Air Ministry. RAF 100 Group Association today represents all airfields specially built for purpose in Norfolk which came under this Group in wartime, and the many Squadrons based here. For over twenty years we have gathered for our annual May Reunion to commemorate and remember, with our programme covering many areas where villagers prepare teas in welcome. Villagers also take an active role in Memorial Services held during our stay as a heartfelt thank-you to airmen for keeping them safe in wartime, and in remembrance of many friendships made. Many airmen lodged with families, including Americans who worked with them. Others were invited to join them for Sunday dinners, or farms gave them eggs from their hens. Now the airfields, once thriving communities of men and woman in uniform; have returned to fields, ownership of land transferred back from the Air Ministry to farmers who originally owned them, while remaining Nissen huts are used as sheds for housing pigs or as storage facilities. Yet local people remember. Stories of the way life and landscape changed in wartime are harvested and passed down to children, grandchildren and on down the generations. While every May, from across the world we come to join The Gathering which so many of us look forward to each year. Many other such Associations have been forced to close because of depleting members, while from its beginnings, ours has been open to family and friends as well as veterans, and indeed, to anyone who has an interest or a passion to find out more about this unique Group. We therefore continue to thrive and grow worldwide.  Every year we meet in May, and every year is different.  Last year, was an historical Reunion because for the first time since the Second World War, veterans from the original 36th Bomb Squadron, 8th Air Force, came from America to join us ... as did the current 36th Electronic Warfare Squadron bringing the historic wartime flag. It was something very special to see so many young men in blue uniforms throughout the weekend mingling among our own. They revere veterans, and take time with them to listen to their wartime stories. The words of Lt Col Tom Moore still ring in my ears as he spoke about what it meant to him: '... we stand upon the shoulders of giants!' His voice came strong and firm and sure. It is difficult to know what to say when asked why we don't do more for our veterans in the UK. This year, what made our Reunion different were the many new members who have joined in recent months, making the journey for the first time - families of loved ones who served in RAF 100 Group coming from the States, Canada, New Zealand and Australia as well as the UK. Our strong connection comes from a shared passion that the Group's history and stories be preserved for the future, that these men and women are never forgotten or airbrushed from history simply because we never hear about them either on documentaries or in the news. They remain a secret entity, just as they did in wartime ... and it's wrong when they are taking their secrets, their stories, their moments of courage to the grave! We remain a worldwide Family of Kindred Spirits who respect, admire, and love these humble brave warriors who survived the war, ensuring that those who never made it home remain in our hearts! Veterans: Arthur Reid & Stan Forsyth DFC, Bernie How & Andrew Barron  In May, as I cross the border into Norfolk, it's like passing through a portal in Time. I have only to close my eyes to hear the air thrumming with the sound of Merlin engines, black shapes of aircraft darkening an otherwise clear cloudless sky. The once concrete runways and buildings of an RAF Base team with airmen and WAAFs, energised by the common threat of an enemy intent on invasion. It's a different mindset. One we cannot even imagine if we don't listen to people who were part of this story ... people working together for the common good. Each day for them then was a new beginning with fresh challenges ahead. Each night a possible end, when they would never see loved ones again, or get to pen the letter being written in their mind, waiting for the right off-duty moment.  It is easy to close my eyes and almost become one of them having listened and learned so much from stories shared through the years, the pattern of lives changed forever by the death of a loved one, or another listed as 'Missing Believed Killed', with no final resting place or known grave. There are many who join me on this annual Pilgimage carrying their own unique story, still seeking pieces of a puzzle which remain lost in Time, but which might provide a sense of closure, or at least explain what happened to someone they knew and loved. FRIDAY 18th May The City of Norwich Aviation Museum at Horsham St Faith is open for 10 am to welcome early visitors through their doors, while during the afternoon, in the New Frost Hall at Foulsham, the main Association Committee holds a two-hour meeting in preparation for the Annual General Meeting taking place the following day. We then join the chattering, laughing throng gathering around the Foulsham village sign and Memorial where wreaths in reverent silence are laid in memory of all who served in wartime at RAF Foulsham. It is here, especially here, where I swear I can hear the voices of Navigator/Special Operator Flight Lieutenant Vic Vinnell, Mum's wartime fiance, and his Canadian Pilot Jack Fisher, who both disappeared on the night of 26/27 November 1944 in Mosquito DK292 ... their deaths still a mystery to this day. Their final resting place remains unknown. One story is that they had engine trouble on the way home that night and made a forced landing on the coast of France, not knowing the beach was mined ...  A reflective walk up the road takes us to the Memorial Plaque commemorated last year in memory of the USAAF/RAF crash in 1943 where both crews were killed, apart from two survivors of the B-17. The Rev Leslie Wilman presides over the Memorials, while Stephen Hutton lays a wreath in memory. Stephen represents the 36th Bomb Squadron, 8th Air Force in which his father Iredell served. They did the same work as RAF 100 Group in wartime, flying combined operations against the enemy, using the same specialised Radar-jamming equipment on board their aircraft instead of bombs with the aim of confusing the enemy. Today, the Squadron is still active, now flying under its true colours of the 36th Electronic Warfare Squadron. Many of their 'Gremlins' as they were known, I am proud to say are valued members of our Association. Our evening meal at The Plough, Marsham, a favourite haunt; is our first real chance to come together informally and simply relax and enjoy one another’s company. Val and Roger Stock, Proprietors, always make us welcome, and we share a wonderful meal amidst the renewal of friendships, much laughter and conversation. One table of many where RAF 100 Group Association enjoy one another's company at The Plough, Marsham, Norfolk SATURDAY 19th MAY Morning We knew from the start today would be a full-on day, yet the programme offers so much to keep us interested and involved. The Annual General Meeting is held in the Mission Hall, Horsham St Faith, opposite the church, while those choosing not to attend take the opportunity to meander around the grounds of the Museum, intrigued by stories of exhibits. Many spent Friday travelling. This is their chance to catch up on latest developments here, especially as a circular maze of new roads can make for an interesting and unplanned journey!! SATURDAY 19th MAY Afternoon A buffet lunch generously provided by volunteers of the City of Norwich Aviation Museum provides time for fun and frolicks as this pair below reveal. Dear Stan Forsyth DFC and good friend Stephen Hutton from the States, make the most of the sunshine, sitting outside among an array of aircraft from times past. It’s a wonderful setting, with collections of memorabilia and photos inside of a bygone age, offering the chance to talk and share with both Association and Museum members. People wander at their own pace, until comes time to make tracks for Oulton and a veritable feast of delights awaiting us! Stan Forsyth DFC with Stephen Hutton Through the years, Oulton villagers have provided a rich and tempting display of home-baked fancies, coupled with a constant supply of tea/coffee. Many of us call this a ‘Death by Chocolate Experience’ and this year is no exception. A Marquee has been set up in a farmhouse garden where we are welcomed with smiles, quickly becoming part of new friendships forged, familiar faces remembered. Warmth and love is almost palpable. I sit next to dear Arthur Reid who travelled all the way from Edinburgh with his son and daughter-in-law. Arthur served with Stan (above) in 192 Squadron, RAF Foulsham, and he’s back for the first time! Chris Lambert, our Oulton Representative, counted in excess of 100 people present in total, officially welcoming everyone, particularly those who travelled from faraway places – Australia, Canada, USA and New Zealand. We remember absent friends such as Phil James MBE (Association President) & John Gilpin in Ireland, and those no longer with us: Sidney Pike & Dr Peter Lovatt: a constant presence in previous years. Chris then introduces and pays tribute to our four veterans present: Andrew Barron, 223 Sqn., Stan Forsyth DFC, 192 Sqn., Arthur Reid, 192 Sqn. and Bernie How, 199 Sqn. North Creake, who each stand in turn to receive the honour they so richly deserve for their role in wartime. Finally, we gather at Oulton Memorial, villagers actively participating in a United Act of Remembrance with the haunting notes of a bugler, and wreaths placed in memory.  RAF 100 Group Memorial at Oulton, Norfolk courtesy: Stuart Borlase Chris Lambert, as our Oulton Representative; takes the lead, offering a note of introduction and welcome, saying that most of us present are family members of loved ones lost while serving in RAF 100 Group during wartime: ‘We, the villagers who live here, also remember with you. We want you to know we also care and remember.’ This year is also the 75th Anniversary of the ‘Dambusters Raid', and to commemorate the occasion, villager Rob reads an extract from Herr Clemens Mols’ Memoir. Herr Clemens Mols lived downstream of the Mohne Dam in the town of Wickede. The words are taken from an interview during October 1945 about events which took place on 17th May 1943: ‘When in the night from 16th to 17th May, air raid was given by the horn. Nobody could guess what hours of terror were to come for the lower parts of Wickede. It was about 11.30hrs, the sky was clear, the air was calm. I was with my wife on the way from Wiehagen to Wickede/Ruhr when the horn set in. When back home (Post Office) my wife, who manifested a strange restlessness, asked me to listen where the English planes were. I could state this from a warning line which was connected with the Post Office. The Report I listened to ran as follows: ‘Enemy aircraft flying, low above Arnsberg and the Mohne Lake’. As Arnsberg lies not far off from Wickede, I had the inhabitants of the neighbouring house wakened. While my wife was doing this, I stood at the open window in the first floor with sight to the Mohne Lake. The humming of the planes came from a distance. Suddenly an unusually loud detonation was heard, and I saw in the direction of the Mohne Lake a high column of water or smoke soaring …’  Veteran Stan Forsyth DFC of 192 Sqn follows these poignant words by reading ‘For the Fallen’: ‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them’ Robert Laurence Binyon Into the silence then falls the haunting notes of the ‘Last Post’ played by bugler John Landymore. A two-minute hush follows, before ‘Reveille’ interrupts the mood. Faces gaze up expectant as Veteran Andrew Barron of 223 Sqn speaks the ‘Kohima’: ‘When you go Home, Tell them of Us and say: For your Tomorrow, We gave our Today.’ Bernie How, 199 Sqn, lays a wreath on behalf of RAF 100 Group Association, with another placed alongside on behalf of Oulton Village. Elsie lays flowers on behalf of children of the village. While another wreath is laid by the Witts family in remembrance of their father, Peter Witts, who served at RAF Oulton. A villager then reads a poem: ‘When I come Home’:                                               WHEN I COME HOME                                                    Lesley Coulson                                                 When I come home, dear folk o’mine,                                                 We’ll drink a cup of olden wine;                                                 And yet, however rich it be,                                                 No wine will taste so good to me                                                 As English air. How I shall thrill                                                 To drink it in on Hampstead Hill                                                             When I come home!                                                 When I come home and leave behind                                                 Dark things I could not call to mind,                                                 I’ll taste good ale and home-made bread,                                                 And see white sheets and pillows spread.                                                 And there is one who’ll softly creep                                                 To kiss me, ere I fall asleep,                                                 And tuck me ‘neath the counterpane,                                                 And I shall be a boy again,                                                             When I come home!                                                 When I come home from dark to light,                                                 And tread the roadways long and white,                                                 And tramp the lanes I tramped of yore,                                                 And see the village greens once more,                                                 The tranquil farms, the meadows free,                                                 The friendly trees that nod to me,                                                 And hear the lark beneath the sun,                                                 ‘Twill be good pay for what I’ve done,                                                             When I come home! Finally, concluding this moving ceremony, Roger Dobson (Association Chairman) reads the words: ‘In friendship and in Service one to another, We are pledged to keep alive the memory of Those of all Nations who died In the Royal Air Force, the Air Forces of the Dominions, And the United States Air Force. In their name we give ourselves to this noble cause. Proudly and thankfully we will remember them.’ The air around us is suddenly still, silent, sombre. Words we hear and share this day are powerful, meaningful, moving. As I read them again here, they are enough still to produce tears for The Fallen, names easily coming to my lips, held deep within my heart.  We WILL remember them!   Finally, Chris Lambert thanks everyone for sharing, including villagers, in this short bitter-sweet period of remembrance. With Time moving on a-pace, we take our places for photographs to capture stilled images of these precious moments together: Copyright: Stuart Borlase (Australia) Stan Forsyth DFC in a quiet moment of reflection Copyright: Stuart Borlase (Australia) Pilot David Nock explains about his aircraft prior to performing a Flypast lasting several minutes: ‘My aircraft is a North American Harvard, built in 1944, painted in the colours of the 353rd Fighter Group based at Raydon in Suffolk during 1944-1945. Although the Harvard was only used as an advanced training aircraft, many Fighter Groups utilised aircraft of this type as a Station ‘hack’. I shall be overhead at Oulton for 5pm. It will be a great honour for me to do this for the Association, not least for my long-standing friend Phil James MBE and 192 Squadron who were based nearby at Foulsham.' Taken at Old Buckenham prior to take-off for Flypast Copyright: David Nock Courtesy: Stuart Borlase (Australia) SATURDAY 19th MAY Evening At 7 pm we take our table places in The Halifax Suite at The Holiday Inn, decorated in red, white and blue. The atmosphere is electric! Time to sit back and enjoy a medley of wartime songs already wrapping us in a warm blanket of memories … I may not have been around during the war years, but I still treasure times I played these songs for hours at a stretch on our piano at home, my parents dancing and singing to the music. It was my passion even in my growing years to collect the original music scores of old songs and melodies ... Professional 1940’s Singer Heather Marie brings her own unique and very special style to this Saturday evening. She is a rare and talented Singer, and she certainly inspired me to grab hold of my dance partner, Stan Forsyth DFC for a waltz. This, for me, is truly a dream come true. Never in my life have I ventured onto a dance floor until last year … yet here I am again, until midnight, Cinders at the ball, dancing her little heart out, despite the growing pain as the evening wears on! The trouble is that once you get veterans on the dance floor, they don’t want me taking a few gentle steps. Suddenly, they become nineteen years old again. ‘If you’re going to dance, Gal, you need to learn the steps ... stay with the rhythm!’ More than once, Heather Marie joins in to encourage my feet to go where they are supposed to, and it ends up with us all laughing and singing as gradually the dance floor bursts into life, more and more joining us for a variety of dances, while I went in search of new partners. Heather’s husband Matthew is Director of Music for the Central Band of the RAF based at RAF Northolt, and makes a marvellous job of taking charge of the backing music. Heather Marie & husband Matthew provide the music As the evening moves on, replenished from our three-course meal, we offer a warm welcome to our Speaker for the evening Major Gary Walker with two ATC Cadets: Sergeant Adam Bocking and Corporal Erin McGonigle. Our programmed Speaker, Fl/Lt Pauline Petch, CO of Kings Lynn ATC Squadron, was unexpectedly invited to the Royal Wedding in London. She could hardly turn down what promised to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Gary is taking her place and outlines the Aviation Heritage Project in which they are involved, showing a sample of one of the large model aircraft being made by Cadets in fibre-glass, strategically placing them on BT telephone poles (with BT’s permission!) linking all Norfolk wartime airfields, including those under RAF 100 Group, Bomber Command. Aimed at commemorating the 100th Anniversary of the Royal Air Force, the Project received funding to make it happen. It was excellent to hear from each of the Cadets about what being involved means to them … in turn, bringing past, present and future together! A Raffle and Silent Raffle then takes place, before Heather Marie continues the evening's entertainment with her wonderful voice filling the room with sound, unlocking a portal into past times. Janine with Mike Hillier (Haveringland) Courtesy: Stuart Borlase (Australia) Finally, everyone gathers on the dance floor to join in the words of the timeless melody: ‘We’ll meet again … don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again one sunny day …’ Those words echo in my heart. The hour is late. Already we are into the early hours of Sunday morning. But I know without a doubt, memories of that evening will remain with me always. New-found friendships are obvious with veterans Arthur Reid & Stan Forsyth DFC both of whom served in 192 Squadron, RAF Foulsham, Norfolk SUNDAY 20th MAY Service of Remembrance & Thanksgiving Presided over by Peter Holness We wake to glorious blue sky and a bright summer’s day, some of us more energised than others! It was a late night … dancing sapped much of our strength. Yet here we still are, in the beautiful land of Norfolk, where the portal remains open into Times Past, and we scurry to join the throng entering Horsham St Faith ‘St Mary & St Andrew’s Church’, where Anglicans and Methodists worship together. It must be said that Peter, a dear friend for many years, felt daunted at the challenge which lay ahead. He explained their new vicar had only arrived a couple of weeks previous, and felt it unfair to presume on her for this auspicious occasion. It was agreed therefore that Peter is the ideal person to lead the proceedings, having shared this Special Service of Remembrance for many years … while I agreed to light one of three candles and speak the required words. Aylsham Town Band plays us in through the doors before the Standard is presented by Rod Vowler. They play throughout the service, accompanying hymns, providing a stirring performance at the end which is uplifting and memorable, just the kind of note we need to set forth to our next destination. Aylsham Town Band Courtesy: Stuart Borlase (Australia) It was a truly special service. Everything fell into place beautifully, and Peter's words were moving, evocative and uplifting. Roger Dobson read words of Scripture, and despite my own misgivings about fire … having recently set a menu alight in a restaurant while inadvertently resting it against the candle on the table … all went to plan. We came out unscathed to share tea/coffee and biscuits with villagers, before making our way through sleepy villages, down narrow lanes with high hedges either side, to Haveringland, known in wartime as RAF Swannington. SUNDAY 20th MAY St Peter’s Parish Church, Haveringland Picture courtesy of Mike Hillier, taken of the Avenue of Remembrance Haveringland is steeped in history. It is a place where Churchill secretly visited a relative in wartime, hence the change of name to Swannington where 85 and 157 Squadrons were based under RAF 100 Group, Bomber Command. The name change was meant to confuse the Germans. Many families attended a Remembrance Day held in November last year, when an Avenue of Remembrance was planted in memory of brave airmen who served here. Mike Hillier, now a member of our Association Committee, instigated the Remembrance Day Event, and for today put a great deal of time and energy into bringing together displays to denote Swannington’s history and stories which became a valued part of its heritage. We also share the joy of waiting, listening for and watching a bi-plane fly across the still blue sky to honour those for whom this place became Home in wartime. Bi-plane during a Flypast Copyright: Stuart Borlase (Australia) It is an extraordinary feeling, standing in a place caught in Time. No matter how many times it happens, it still goes through my mind about in whose footsteps I might be standing, what might be their story, what became of him ... or her. Questions to which there are no answers. We can never know exactly the way it was. However, gathered with us are families who attended the Remembrance Day in November 2017, relatives of loved ones who served at RAF Swannington, now talking and sharing with others in a like-experience, wanting to know and understand more about the kind of life their relatives led. The atmosphere is poignant, the air still, almost holding its breath as we gaze across the scene, taking in silent fields which once spoke of men and machines, the noise of engines filling this now empty space in Time. St Peter’s Church is the only building still standing, and within we discover rich treasures from the past … pictures, stories, paintings, books of a bygone age. So much suddenly to see and then to hear as John & Chrissie who make up ‘Timescape’ fill the air around us with songs of the day. 'TimeScape': John & Chrissie, Vintage Entertainers Copyright: Stuart Borlase (Australia) A team of villagers have laid on a wonderful tea, with so many home-cooked goodies to tempt us we can’t help but reach for a plate and cuppa. Both duly filled, we take a ‘pew’ to enjoy a refreshing drink and cake, letting the rich wonderful music wash over us. Suddenly, there is a flurry of activity as people rush to the windows, spying the bi-plane performing a flypast, clearly outlined against a perfect blue sky. It’s a thrilling sight! Another reminder of times past. As it passes from view, people gather outside for a brief but poignant Memorial Ceremony led by Mike Hillier and local minister, Rev Andrew Whitehead alongside the Memorial Stone: Rod Vowler (RAF 100 Group Association Standard Bearer) with Rev Andrew Whitehead Copyright: Stuart Borlase (Australia) The sun is hot. The air alive with voices, sharing memories of loved ones, exchanging details to keep in touch. Laughter and love are tangible. These are precious moments. I’m not alone in feeling overwhelmed by the emotion of the day. Final hugs and goodbyes are shared as people begin moving towards their cars and for many a long journey home. Martin Rouse attracted a great deal of attention and interest with part of the Merlin engine from Mosquito MM677 (RS-U) he acquired in April last year which he brought with him. It was from an aircraft of 157 Squadron, based at RAF Swannington. He continues to research both the aircraft and its crew, while carrying out sympathetic restoration of the engine, removing as much Norfolk mud and corrosion from it as possible and re-assembling it using as many original parts as he can find. Merlin engine from Mosquito MM677 (RS-U)  Courtesy: Martin Rouse, photo: Stuart Borlase Gradually, the once-home of RAF Swannington empties of people. The Reunion is sadly over for another year ... but not quite yet for some. For Stuart Borlase from Australia and I this marks the beginning of a different journey as the ensuing two weeks are spent exploring the countryside, driving further and further afield, visiting veterans in their own homes, especially those who can never travel to join one of our annual May weekends. It's always a pleasurable and leisurely experience, catching up with old friends, making new ones, the drive spent in deep and lively conversations.  There is also the unexpected waiting! This year, we were able to find a new veteran wanting to share his wartime experiences, wishing he'd known about the RAF 100 Group Association before. Next year, for sure, he will be joining us with his son. We also got to put in contact two wartime friends who lost touch through the years. Both were WAAFs serving at RAF Oulton. They were best friends. It was as Stuart gave her a DVD he had put together of last year's Historic Reunion when the Americans came over to join us, that Win took one look at the cover, and immediately sparked off names, including that of her friend. She then happened to mention her friend lived in a village not far from my home. Immediately we made plans to visit, taking with us both wartime and present-day photos to share with her on Stuart’s laptop. In turn, her friend was delighted to hear about her friend, and Win’s daughter is arranging for the two of them to come together for a visit soon. A wonderful crescendo to our harmonious journey through Time! FEEDBACK FROM VILLAGERS OF HAVERINGLAND ‘I felt honoured and privileged to be a part of this truly Special Occasion. Our normally peaceful ‘church in the fields’ was vibrant, resplendent with colour, stained glass windows brought alive by the sunshine, brasses glowing in candlelight, atmosphere enhanced by music from the 1940s, the sounds of people coming together and sharing their stories. All this added a human side to the facts and figures we already knew about the history of the airfield surrounding our church. Here were people whose lives, or the lives of their relatives, had been touched by our village during World War Two. I found it particularly moving to see the broken engine from the training aircraft which left RAF Swannington only to crash in another field in Norfolk. Lives full of hope and expectation, extinguished before their first battle with the enemy had even been fought. I enjoyed hearing stories from those who had been stationed here, meeting the families of those whose names had hitherto been part of a list, learning little details about life here in the 1940s. The simple service brought real poignancy to the event. The Standard Bearer, the laying of wreaths, remembering those who had served our country during the silence that we can enjoy due to their war efforts.’ Lorna ‘It was great to see so many people at this event, and especially the three veterans; two fine gentlemen and one Merlin engine that came from RAF Swannington! You’d all be very welcome to come and see us again next year.’ Nigel ‘To me it was an honour and privilege to meet such a brilliant group of people who were entertaining, especially the Scottish veteran (Arthur Reid). It was nice to see the different generations together. I also felt it was a lovely gesture to remember those who did not return, followed by a two-minute silence.’ Carol ‘Just to say it felt wonderful to be able to give something back and to be part of such a lovely day. Our little church is raising its profile and visits such as these all help to put it on the map. Everyone who came spoke so highly of the church, for some it felt like coming home. I feel these days are really important because they help to keep the spirit of the airfield alive.’ Mary These words shared by villagers of Haveringland are echoed by many involved in our Reunion. It’s always difficult to answer the question: ‘What is a Reunion like?’ These words express so eloquently what it means to so many. But you really have to be there to know! Meanwhile, for those who cannot travel the distance, or who have an interest in stories of the past, and related events; I have done my utmost to share what happened, and the treasured memories we carry home.

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM!

SOUVENIR OF OULTON 1945

MEMORIES SHARED

by Accounts Officer: Flight Lieutenant David Collins

 

The Buckinghamshire Arms, known as 'The Buck'; a familiar haunt.

The hedges and the trees which line the Aylsham road still wore the fresh green of summer when you left us. No doubt, you still picture the tall chimneys of Blickling against the bright blue sky of early morning as you waited for the bus. The kites bask peacefully on the airfield in the warmth of the morning haze ... do those days seem far off now as you sit by the fire at your comfortable peacetime Station?

Since then, the gales and fogs of winter have descended upon the wilds of Norfolk. The airfield is bare and desolate; the Control Tower is deserted. Not an echo of a clang disturbs the silence of the hangars. The Signals Block is locked and barred. The sites are swept and garnished. The Sick Quarters slumber quietly up the road, but the old Station dies very hard. An R.A.F. uniform is still to be seen in the village shop. The sound of a scratching pen may still be heard at S.H.Q. where an odd bod or two challenge the claims of the rats and mice to undisputed occupation. Occasionally, a Morris van limps by, and the hoot of the NAAFI wagon will evoke a surprising response at any hour of the day or night.

The oldest inhabitant staggers painfully around in his tattered uniform with the help of a crutch; and often his thoughts will turn to livelier and happier days of yore. Then Oulton was a place of life, vigor and laughter; of coaches and vans and sports cars; of whirring air-screws of taxiing aircraft; of snappy salutes and bright-eyed Waffies. He has bidden farewell to many an airman and WAAF since those days, as he pressed a parting gift from the safe into their reluctant hands. He knows that almost without exception, they left full of pleasant memories of the weeks and months spent on the Unit. All have agreed that Oulton was an exceptionally 'happy' Station. Group Captain Dickens could not have failed to be gratified to hear the comments that were made.

803BS Lt Scott with Commander Dickens

Having an idle hour to spend whilst awaiting his own departure, the Oldest Inhabitant thought that an account of the gradual decline and final graceful expiry of Oulton might be of interest to some of her former inmates; while the setting down of the few of the memories which so often float through his mind might perhaps stir up similar pleasurable recollections in those of his readers.

Big things happened at Oulton during 1944 and 1945.

We knew little of what was going forward; each man did his job and he asked no questions; each man and each woman had some share in those achievements. Big men lived among us, ate with us, played with us at Oulton. Some of them flew away into the night and never returned ... They were gallant souls. We mourned their loss, but we didn't talk about it much. All that is another and a far greater story. The O.I. is not the man to tell it. He was one of the 'chair-borne troops' whose task was glamour-less and unspectacular. Still maybe he experienced phases of camp life which were missed by some of the others. These too have their interest. Anyway, here are some random memories - no attempt at a history, just a 'Souvenir'.

214 Squadron aircrew based at RAF Oulton

On January 1st, 1944, I set off for Sculthorpe, Oulton's forerunner. Late at night I arrive at Kings Lynn and spent an hour in the crowded buffet waiting for the Peterborough train. What a line! Gosh, it was cold. Eventually, I reached Sculthorpe; even in the dark you could sense the flatness and bleakness of the place. Still, they were a jolly crowd that gathered in the Mess. G/C Dickens, Jean Woodman, F/Lt Martin, Sgt Wickenden and other pioneers had arrived from North Creake; Sigs Collins, the Adj., and F/Lt Brown had joined them. The next few days brought S/L Bradshaw, dear old 'Sado', the Catering Officer, S/L Howard, Doc Vyse, and sundry others; all set to with a will to get the place ready to receive 'the lads of 214' and the American Squadron. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was fun. The Officers in the Mess chiefly occupied themselves in the evenings with darts matches organised by G/C; while troops settled down as best they could with somewhat limited resources. There were plenty of wind and bags of rain; many an evening the Accounts Staff would foregather round the stove in the Section for warmth and dry off after the trek from office to site and site to Mess. There was much clamouring for coal, much searching for wood and the fires wouldn't light - ask the Batman - but those were good days. As winter relented and the sun broke through and evenings drew out, the bikes came out too and troops began to explore the road to Fakenham (egg and chips!), to Wells and Runstanton, and to Walsingham. Esna came to visit us. We had some working parades! The Accountants took to P.T. The kites were airborne; and rumours came of a move to the eastward.

Line drawing of RAF Oulton by Len Bartram, young local lad at the time

Do you remember the long trek to Blickling in convoys from Sculthorpe? The '214 bods' who couldn't be found when it was time to start? The D.Rs who trailed us and rounded us up like watchdogs, and who turned up as if by magic at every signpost? The long wait up in the lane on arrival while they manoeuvred the Queen Marys? I shall not forget in a hurry the first view of Blickling Hall, flanked by the creeper-covered almshouses, and the great yew hedges; and the white 'Buck' with its red geraniums in window boxes, nestling among the tall trees. Did you see the gardens about that time? What a show of rhododendrons and azalea, of lilac and laburnum, of bluebells in the woods, of prunus and cherry blossom, and at the end of a long walk, the Solarium shining in the sun. The swans had nine youngsters in 1944 and they used to sail up and down the lake in convoy. We watched them grow as summer lengthened, until in time, they could all take off in formation and execute superb sweeps and dive-bombing operations.

Blickling Hall and lake in 1944/45

The Lido at the head of the lake seemed more popular in those days than latterly. The rubber dinghies were very much in vogue until some silly fatheads got in them with spiked shoes. The WAAFs produced some very natty bathing ensembles and certainly appeared to enjoy themselves, if one could judge by the amount of screaming and shrieking which was heard in those regions. Remember the swimming sports and the jousting? In 1945, fishing was more popular. the more elderly gentlemen of the M.T. Section were usually to be found patiently waiting for pike in the evenings. I certainly saw a monster they caught one day. The Batmen had their successes too; one sometimes wondered whether they had really come from the lake though! The Met Officers were often to be seen on a raft, but I never discovered what they were doing there. The place was a real delight to lovers of nature. I wonder how many times some of us walked round in the course of the summer months ...

The dwellers in the Hall in former centuries would have been sorely shaken had they beheld some of the things which happened when the R.A.F. arrived. The ghost of Anne Boleyn must have been gravely disturbed. At first, she mildly protested by such time-worn efforts as swinging open the great wardrobe in Lord Lothian's bedroom in the middle of the night when the Group Captain was sleeping there, but within a few days, she grew more lively. At midnight in the Lothian passage such phenomena occurred as the flinging open of bedroom doors with resounding crashes; bundles of stair rods were precipitated violently inside. On opening one's door in the morning, fire buckets full of water would crash to the floor from the door handles. At all hours there were ghastly groans and shrieks - some of them strangely masculine. The inmates of the aforesaid passage celebrated their emancipation from the more restricted amenities of the Nissen huts by some astonishingly light-hearted exercises. I shall never forget the sight of Brad and Sammy tumbled in a struggling heap among the coats and wellington boots, in a cupboard linking my room with Brad's. Brad was an entertaining neighbour. He had a most original vocabulary. The Padre used to say he had never heard anyone swear so charmingly as Brad, and he was usually the first in the bathroom in the mornings, full of irrepressible high spirits whatever time he had gone to bed.

Nissen Hut

The part of the Hall which was usually locked was extremely interesting, if you could gain entry. To do this, you had to make friends with the Custodian, Miss O'Sullivan, the lady in slacks with the fierce hound, who was so often to be seen walking round the grounds. She very kindly showed me round on one occasion. There was a magnificent library upstairs, with some very fine old books. There were rooms where royalty had been entertained in bygone centuries, and there was much fine old furniture and a number of interesting pictures and tapestries.

A noble feature of Blickling was the Concert Hall. It was only after the war began, of course, that the old barn was patched up, and a stage added to produce the really excellent hall that we knew. Many were the pleasant evenings spent here. The distinctive atmosphere of these entertainments could hardly be reproduced outside the R.A.F. the notabilities with their wives in the front rows, the welcoming whistles of the troops and the pretty girls, and the precarious tiers of seats at the back, crowded to capacity. Perhaps the most dramatic episode was the noisy interruption of the sirens and the doodle-bug at the crucial point of 'Gaslight'. Then there was the gruesome hanging scene from Maria Whatsit. Do you remember the Canadian Show - 'cakes-wid-or-widout prunes'? And the Ballet and 'Swinging on a Star'? And the Russian concert at Sculthorpe, and Ann Casson in 'The Taming of the Shrew'? The greatest success without a doubt were our own shows so excellently produced by Corporal Parish; and the dashing Ken May and dapper Corporal Gratwick.

No reference of Blickling would be complete without reference to the famous Brains Trust. S/Ldr Foster, F/Lt James and Cpl Griffiths certainly established a reputation that night and they compared very well with Professor Joad and Lord Winster. Leslie Mitchell as Question Master rounded off a tip-top performance, and if I remember rightly, Cpl Griffiths preceded the Trust with one of his famous quizzes.

One of the highlights, in the history of the Accounts Section at any rate, was the 'Sports Day' in Farmer Mitchell's field. Let it be recorded for posterity that, fielding a team including four old men approaching forty, and two determined WAAFs, urged on by the enthusiastic Sandford and the cheers of the crowd, they defeated a team of tough Armourers by 2 pulls to 1 and reached the Final. Pretty good going. My word, I shan't forget pushing old Webby in the wheelbarrow race, we didn't get very far! What other memories are there of Blicking Hall? The M.T. vehicles neatly stacked row on row, the rush for buses to Oulton, the trek of Officers back to lunch led by those absurd Aberdeens, the crowd in The Buck every evening and the inexhaustible energy of Mr O'D in cutting sandwiches, the friendliness charm of little Susan Vyse and the cats!!

MT Section of RAF Oulton

The Music Circle must have a paragraph to itself. In the earliest days, we had the privilege of some masterly programmes given by S/Ldr Sutton. Then we moved to Blickling and used the Solarium - a lovely setting for music, but also for midges. With the onset of winter, attendances of 80 and more were reached. Those were the days of Jackie Furner's 'Bach to Baizy' Shows, and the operatic performance of F/O 'Your tiny hand is frozen' Darracott.

Air Vice Marshall Jack Furner

Then came the purchase of our own records and two programmes were given weekly for nine months. In the bitter cold of January we would sit in comfort by a roaring fire, the less highbrow members writing letters or knitting according to their sex; and when summer returned Beethoven's 7th might be heard in the Tudor garden. A noble band of Compares came into being, the soothing Goddes, the pugnacious Crowson, the voluble Cpl. Snell, the calm Harry Blyth, the witty Scott and very many others. First class pianists like F/O Heal and Weaver revealed themselves (almost too late) and greatly added to the enjoyment. Nor must be forgotten the record short programme of LACW Haywood; the consistent production of 'wads' by Keen; and the faithful distribution of the same with coffee by LACW Gamble, Newton, etc. There were more unorthodox meetings of the Music Circle such as the midnight performance in the water tower in the days of Uncle Jo. I think, for years to come, the hearing of Bach's Toccata and Fugue, the 'Pastoral' Peter and the Wolf, or the Dance of the Hours on the radio will awaken vivid memories; and that many will have a greatly increased appreciation of good music as a result of those evenings. I shall, anyway.

Officers' Mess, with a visit from Pat Roc (L) and Margaret Lockwood (C)

(The filming of 'The Wicked Lady' was something else to happen at Blickling, which caused quite a stir among the men particularly as they mingled among them, some fortunate to get involved in the actual filming itself.)

The silences of the passages and the empty offices at S.H.Q. are very strange after all the activity and bustle of the old days, and the queues of airmen awaiting casual payments, or a less attractive interview with the S.W.O. or C.O. they were a grand crowd at S.H.Q. S/Ldr Lowry, now in Civvy Street, had the most ferocious bark, but the gentlest and most benevolent bite that you ever met. S/Ldr Cox, ditto, ditto, was surely one of the world's hardest workers. Mr Norton, one of the most popular S.W.Os. There is no doubt we were exceptionally fortunate with our WAAF 'G' Team - Flight/O Wareham and 'Little Betty'. Few would realise how many lame dogs were helped over the stiles by Padre Price. In P2 we had the smiling and competent Gamble and the obliging Sgt. Wickenden; in the Registry, the glamorous 'Goo-Goo'. Corporate modesty forbids detailed reference to the efficiency of the Accounts Section - addressed so politely in public and referred to so scurrilously in private! Suffice it to say, it has been a great pleasure to work in their company for nearly two years and I shall miss them all.

Yes, I could go on for hours ... could tell of the official V.E. Day Celebrations, the unofficial V.J. Day celebrations in the Hall, the Savings efforts of the Signals Section, the gardening abilities of the Sick Quarters. I could say a lot about Pay Parades and the all-in salute-and-grab evolutions of the WAAFs. But you will want to hear of the last days of the Station.

Celebrations at RAF Oulton, 1945

It must have been about the end of August when most of the aircrew types left. Life seemed very quiet without them. F/Lt Wynne and some others remained for a time to ferry the kites away. They occupied their spare time in archery and other pursuits. A number of Officers continued in the Mess for a while awaiting release. In fact, the Release Section was working at high pressure for several weeks and the golden voice of F/Sgt O'Connell could be heard on the Tannoy almost continuously, urging prospective civvies to step up and see him some time.

By the end of September, about 400 bods were on the books, although we didn't see much of them. The dozen Officers moved into the fragrant and hallowed precincts of the Sick Quarters. Jack Clark still presided in the Little Bar there; Crib and Patience became in vogue about that time, but we did break out occasionally on more traditional lines, notably when the Sergeants visited us and the day when S/Ldr Cox returned from hospital. Then came a Blitz from Command. Press Gangs got to work. The troops were rounded up from local farms and the sites, and real progress was made. Equipment fairly poured into the Stores, and overflowed all round. Bods were hounded off the Station, and on October 29th, after many postponements, the Station was officially handed over.

In October, we fell below the 100 mark; all feeding together in the Airmens Mess. The cinema had closed of course, and the liberty runs had ceased. Even the NAAFI had shut up shop, but life was pleasantly informal, as it was no doubt in the earliest days of the Unit at North Creake in 1943. Six Officers moved into the hut formerly used as the Padre's Office, and thereafter, the story of the ten little boys was enacted. The WAAFs had to be transported from Group H.Q. each day. Evenings were pretty quiet, except on the famous occasion when my lonely slumber by the Mess fire was disturbed by the sound of female carollers about 9pm and our six WAAFs appeared, after having spent two hours losing themselves on the perimeter track, and demanded accommodation for the night! However, we coped. Smithy has gone and the pheasants breathe more freely. Sgt Wickenden has left us. The last two Orderly Room staff, Newton and Mountain, go in the morning. The remaining five Accountants leave at the weekend, and I go to Cheadle, Staffs, on Wednesday. Only Sgt Wright and three Stores WAAFs: Livingstone, Clark and Jones, will be left of Bomber Command. Otherwise, the C and M Party will be in sole possession.

And that is the end of my story.

Service life certainly has its bright side. Nothing has been said here of other aspects of the war - the separation from home comforts, the monotony, the danger and the loss. The Oldest Inhabitant is an incurable philosopher, and he asks will all this be allowed to happen again? If it does, the papers tell us the Atom Bomb will put paid to civilisation as we know it. Can this be prevented? He himself can see only one solution, ultimately, and that is a return to a vital, genuine Christianity - born out of giving, of respect, of laughter, of love. We don't talk about this much in the Services, but we think quite a bit about it.

Thank God the war is over!

We find ourselves living, nevertheless, in perplexing and somewhat irritating days. But they are days filled with opportunity. Let us make the most of them, and learn how to co-exist ... and live in peace!

Air view of Blickling Hall, courtesy Eric Dickens

'RED FLAG OVER ENGLAND' A War Story

John 'Des' Howarth, courtesy Stephen Hutton

John 'Des' Howarth turns 94 years old on Wednesday February 28th. These writings are his own. I am including them with his permission in celebration of his birthday and to honour all he achieved as  a USAAF Navigator on a B-24 Liberator assigned to one of the world's first Electronic Warfare Squadrons stationed in England - 36th Bomb Squadron, 8th Air Force, known as the 'Gremlins'. He served in one of the 'Squadrons of Deception', their full story told in my firm friend Stephen Hutton's book of the same name.

Des served in Lt McCarthy's crew and was in Lt Boehm's B-24 'Beast of Bourbon' when it crashed on February 19th 1945 (see previous posting). In this story Des illustrates the stark reality of war and how those such as he woke to each new day not knowing if it might be their last ...

RED FLAG OVER ENGLAND

A yellow beam of light shot across my face. Half awakening from the fantasies of a dream, I imagined the dawn breaking over Lake Huron. It was pleasant to dream without a care in the world. But suddenly, with a sickening realization of the truth, I was fully awake. I knew this was not dawn. It was still dark. It was not Lake Huron. It was Cheddington, England, and I was going back to work. I wanted desperately to go back to the world from which I had just come and never return to reality.

I looked from the glare of the flashlight and into the face of my tormentor. I recognized it vaguely as that of the CQ.

'Time to get up Lieutenant Chapman. Briefing is in 45 minutes,' he stated without emotion.

Gradually, I remembered the red flag outside the Orderly Room last evening. Another mission! For a moment, I neither moved nor spoke. Hate was welling within me. I tried to hate the young Private who brought me these good tidings, for disturbing my serenity. But I knew I didn't just hate him. He was too insignificant. I knew I hated everything. Especially I hated reality. The thought of it was nauseating.

I acknowledged him without thanks. No matter; he had already moved on to the next bed. I glanced at my watch. Three minutes to five. In the opposite cot Mac, with whom I'd lived for almost a year now, had switched on his feeble light. For a moment, I reflected on the fates that had forced us together, he as Pilot, me as Co-Pilot.

In civilian life I knew our paths would probably never have crossed. We were of different types, background and interests. A couple of years older than me, he had been a machinist in civilian life, evidently with few outside interests. While he didn't fraternize with the crew much, even on 'Ops' he treated them with respect and 'chewed them out' individually only when it was deserved. While he often seemed ready to let off steam towards the war, the Army, and its bureaucracy, he seldom used profanity and would not tolerate its use by any of the crew.

Being only Co-Pilot, it was hard for me at first to get used to the idea that it was Mac's show. But he could fly an airplane, handled the crew well, and had courage. He deserved to be sitting in the left seat.

Our Orderly was having a little trouble in waking Wally, our Bombardier, before moving on to Si's and Gordon's beds, both members of Sullivan's crew, before walking out into a foggy night with his torch cutting a path through the darkness. There were twelve of us living in these Nissan hut barracks. In seven beds the occupants slept on, a few restlessly. Wally rose slowly, muttering some epithets to no-one in particular. Like me, he had been in College when he joined the Air Corp and we had been together on Mac's crew even before leaving the U.S. Sometimes, when we had infrequent Leave, we went into London together. Luke, our Navigator, was one of those fortunately still sleeping. He wasn't going with us today, having been grounded for some respiratory problem. The fourth Officer on our crew and the oldest, he was pretty much a loner, but was a team player once we left the ground. His proficiency regarding his job was never in question.

'Lucky Devils', growled Mac, nodding to the other recumbent Officers in the hut. I didn't bother to answer. I dressed quickly, leaving on my sweater and socks in which I slept. It was too cold to sleep without them. Picking up my towel, toothbrush and soap, I hurried out into the blackness, sloshing my way through mud, heading for the wash room. It was barely visible by a crack of light slipping through the black-out windows. Inside, the glare of the dingy overhead light again made me wince. Wally was already washing. He muttered a curse about the temperature of the water. I turned the tap and drowned my face in the frigid liquid also. It bounced off the flat concrete basin and cascaded down the front of my pants to my disgust. I tucked a towel under my belt to catch the shower.

Mac entered, followed by Lt. Sandburg, Pilot of 'Rambling Wreck', and Wally. Sandy attempted to be humorous, but failed.

'Got your diversion kits ready, men? We probably won't get back to this field for a week!' It was too early to be funny, and with the weather we'd been having, there was too much truth in what he said.

'We'd better get back this week', warned Wally, knowing there was really nothing he could do about the situation. 'I've got a date with a cute little brunette in London.'

'We'll be back,' exclaimed Mac in a threatening tone, 'if we have to come home by chute. Nothing's going to stop us from coming into this field!' His remark was sarcasm directed at Sandy. They didn't get along very well. Mac wanted it understood who was the better Pilot.

We grabbed our bikes and peddled down the hill to the Mess Hall, four of us following Wally's light. Above us, stars appeared through a transparent haze like tiny pearls, although the horizontal visibility was less than twenty feet. The muteness of the sky was pierced by the increasingly loud drone of bomber engines overhead. Possibly it was one of the Mosquito Squadrons of the RAF which were returning from their nightly visit to Berlin. The Mess Hall was warm, but hardly cheery. My feelings toward the place were shared by all. The food was rotten. It had been ever since we'd been pushed out of the 'Grounders Office Mess' into the so-called 'Combat Aircrew Mess'. Their excuse was that this Mess would be serving better food and be open all hours. None of us had been gullible enough to believe it. We knew who would continue to eat steaks twice a week and chicken on a Sunday. The situation hadn't been helped any when a little runt - a former Infantry loouie - who was about as useless as a feathered prop, was put in charge of our menu.

Breakfast was lousy as usual. The powdered eggs tasted exactly like powdered eggs. I washed down the doughy pancakes with coffee - rancid as only G.I. coffee can be - and peeled an orange for dessert. We all ate in silence, too fed up with the food and apprehension of the mission to talk.

The three Officers of our plane 'Lady in the Dark', Mac, Wally and I, parked ourselves in our allotted row of chairs in the Briefing Room. In spite of a capacity crowd, it was cold and hellishly damp. On the side, there was a stove, highly inoperative. Up front was a large map of northern Europe, stretching from Brittany to central Russia. Dangling from a point located just above London were several colored ribbons.

'Where we going this time, Mac?' asked Wally. 'Any ideas?'

'Naw', Mac growled. 'Luke will tell us when he comes in.' Navigators always had a pare-Briefing before the full crews.

'Luke isn't flying with us today. I thought you knew. Been grounded for a cold or something,' I informed him.

Mac, never in a sociable mood in the morning - especially after getting in at midnight - was ready to blow his top. Under his breath he let out an oath.

'Why don't those fools in Operations use their heads instead of fouling up things this way? Who in the hell is navigating for us today?'

'Probably one of those new guys,' guessed Wally, whose tone indicated that he had no confidence in any of them and was resigned to his fate.

One by one our enlisted aircrew entered the Briefing Room. Jerry, our Tail Gunner and Jackson, our Radio Man, sat down beside Wally. Jerry had sworn he was twenty-two, but his bashful grin and youthful actions still made him the kid of the crew. He would never be more than eighteen, even if he lived to be a hundred. In many ways, he was simple. The crew kidded him mercilessly about his capacity for beer, his love of money and his faithfulness to Peggy back in Cleveland. Everyone liked Jerry. Perhaps unknowingly, they saw in him all that their complicated lives lacked.

Jackson, now a Staff Sergeant, had always gone around with Wally and me despite his Army rank. He'd been in College too. Then he'd gone into Cadets, only to be washed out as a Pilot because the Instructors said his nerves couldn't stand the strain of flying.

'Where we going? Lieutenant?' Jerry asked, his boyish smile making him look drunk.

'Marienburg in East Prussia', Wally lied with sarcasm.

Lindy looked puzzled. His knowledge of geography was negligible.

'That's near Russia', explained Jackson, catching Wally's wink.

Sergeant Mike Gregory, our Engineer, who had been dozing; sat upright. He said nothing of his obvious fear.

'Damn! We'd better not be going to Marienberg!' snarled Mac. 'We're due for a milk run'. Sergeant Waist Gunners Freeman and Bailey slid into their chairs as Major Kelly called Roll, read ship assignments, and gave out Call Signs. Adams, Turret Gunner, as usual was late and barely got into his seat beside the other Gunners when Kelly called his name.

'That's the last time that's going to happen!' threatened Mac, glaring at Adams. 'You'll be here when Briefing starts ... or else!'

Although Adams was somewhat of a screw-up, I personally winced at the rebuke. If I'd had to squeeze myself into that death trap of a belly gun, freezing my tail for several hours, knowing that if our plane got in trouble I'd be the most vulnerable of the whole crew; I probably wouldn't show up at all. I'd probably be a screw-up too.

The Navigators, busy until now making Flight Plans, entered the room. Ted Chavez, a rookie with fewer than five missions, came over to Mac.

'I guess I'm flying with you today.'

'O.K.' answered Mac, unenthusiastically. 'Where we goin'?'

Chavez moved into a chair next to me.

'Target's Magdeburg', he muttered.

Mac gave a slight shudder and swore softly. We all felt the same. Magdeburg was no damned 'milk run'. With a green Navigator, it would be even rougher. I could feel Mac inwardly cursing everything in general, and Operations in particular for saddling us with Chavez on a deal like this. Luke had flown 21 missions with us. He had even led the wing once or twice. Even though he might not have been the best Navigator in the Squadron, there were nine members of our ship 'Lady in the Dark' who were ready to challenge that he was.

After he got through, Morris, Head of Intelligence, took over. Morris was a dapper little guy, just boosted to the rank of Captain. No-one ever knew how he got into Intelligence, but there were rumors. Wally let out the story that he'd seen Morris selling shoes in one of New York's smaller department stores, and Morris hated him for it. But Wally said he wasn't kidding and Morris did hail from New York City. Personally, I didn't like him. But at times I felt sorry for him because he wanted to be one of us. He was too stupid to realize that he never could be. He strutted to stage center of the Briefing Room and gave his well-lubricated hair an affectionate pat. His tone was that of a third-rate coach asking his boys to 'win this one for the Gipper'. He spoke of us as 'we'. After Briefing, he'd go back to the sack till noon.

'Today's mission will probably be a little rough. Our target's an oil storage depot just south of Magdeburg,' Morris stated in a matter of fact manner. 'Little rough'. Translation: 'a lot of you guys won't be having dinner with us this evening, and for many others, you've probably had your last meal!' 'This will be an all-out effort for the Eighth today. We're sending up 1250 bombers and about 200 fighters. So you see, we'll get plenty of protection.'

There were a few smothered sneers from the crews. Morris made no recognition of hearing them.

'Form over Ipswich at six-fifty hours. The route is from Clacton to Heligoland. Then you cross the enemy coast just below Cuxhaven. From there, your heading is 90 degrees to the IP which is the town of Oschersleben, fifteen miles west of the oil depot. After bombs are dropped, you return the same route, coming out at Cuxhaven and Heligoland, the same way you went in. You'll be screened until you're six degrees east. by that time, you should be at bombing altitude of 21,000 feet. You will probably still see fires burning from RAF raids last night. They sent 700 Lancs and Halifaxes to Hamburg. They also sent 80 Mosquitoes to Berlin. If you stay within five miles off course you won't have any trouble with anti-aircraft batteries. Any questions?'

I wanted to ask him if he was kidding, but realized there was no point. Morris conveniently didn't make any mention of those damned Messersmitts and Focke-Wulfs who were a hell of a lot more of a problem than the flak!

Metro was about as encouraging as could be expected. There was a high pressure area centered around the Wash. That meant there was no chance of the fog getting blown off. We probably would be diverted to Scotland when we got back. That was always good for a laugh! After flying a mission for six or seven hours, you'd come back trying to get in. We'd often be sweating it out as to whether we'd have enough fuel and then would often have to jockey for landing instructions with five or six planes always in priority because of dead or injured crew or damaged aircraft. Diversion meant we'd fly another couple of hours to some Base in the remote regions of the British Isles. It would probably be an RAF Base - they always were - which meant we'd get their lousy food and go without sleep for another few hours.

Today's mission would have to be an instrument take-off. We all knew what that meant! That was getting to be tragically monotonous. Hardly a mission without a ship blowing up at the end of the runway. Hell, what a picnic! Upstairs, the weather was supposed to be good until we crossed into Germany. Then we'd probably catch the tail-end of a front. No matter what Metro said, we were always certain of flying in the soup all the way in December.

Outside, we threw our equipment on the truck and rode out to the 'Lady in the Dark'. A biting wind whipped itself with fury against the canvas covering of the truck as if in protest at our disturbing the now-approaching dawn. We stood around smoking. Gregory and Jackson checked the ship while the Gunners tested their guns. Up front at his station, Chavez was already at work. It was still half an hour before we were to warm up the engines.

 

'Lady in the Dark', courtesy: Stephen Hutton

 

Lt. George Sandberg's crew with 'Lady in the Dark'. Courtesy: Stephen Hutton

'Bombs are all set', said Wally to Mac, in a matter-of-fact manner. Deadly as our payroll could be, it wasn't something most of us thought about a great deal. Then he bummed me for a smoke.

'This kid know anything about navigating?' Wally asked, nodding to Chavez' compartment in the nose.

'I dunno. Probably not,' I answered. 'None of these new jokers are worth a damn. Hope to hell he can read that Gee-box.'

'Can you?' he asked, somewhat pointedly.

'Sure, in a pinch. Luke checked me out on it. Nothing to it', I lied. The Gee-box was accurate and could literally bring the plane within a few hundred yards if the Navigator knew his stuff. Unfortunately, I'd never taken the opportunity because it looked too complicated.

Overhearing our conversation, Mac muttered: 'Dammit, he'd better not foul up!'

It was seven twenty-eight when we got the green light from the caravan. Mac shoved the throttles forward. 'The Lady' lurched ahead, gathering speed as it rocketed along the runway. From my window, I could barely see the wing lights. The runway lights were so engulfed in fog that I couldn't see from one to the next - a distance of about sixty feet. Gregory called out the airspeed. We were running out of runway. At 125, Mac pulled back on the stick, and we were in the air. How he pulled her off in time I'll never know because those engines were obviously laboring. We staggered to fifty feet and I saw the end of the runway below. Then for a nightmarish moment the ship leveled off. Mac hit the throttles again and I got the gear up. We resumed climbing and thankfully all four engines smoothed out to their usual cadence. I glanced at Mac. He was sweating. So was I.

'Take her over for a while, Chappie', Mac asked quietly. 'We're o.k. now.' He sat back and relaxed.

We formed over Ipswich. At Clacton, we were at 17,000 feet. Metro for a change had been right. We'd been flying for almost an hour and a half and hadn't left England. Mac had taken the wheel again. We were flying number four position, in the slot above and behind Obenshane in 'P-Peter'. Mac was welcome to the job of jockeying this boxcar behind that Wildman. I took it for granted that Mac would make no mistakes.

We altered course five miles west of Heligoland. Five minutes more we were almost over Bremerhaven. The formation was right off course. I pointed the fact out to Mac. He leaned over toward me to see.

'Pilot to Navigator', he called over the intercom.

'Navigator to Pilot. Go ahead', Chavez replied.

'What town is that ahead?' asked Mac.

'Just a minute and I'll check.' A pause ... and then, 'Yeah, I guess we're south off course a little', answered Chavez without conviction. There was too much hesitation in his voice.

Another ten minutes went by without the formation changing heading. The undercast was now almost ten-tenths. Occasionally there was a break. Wally called out a town to our right.

'What's that town, Navigator?' growled Mac. There was no immediate answer from Chavez.

Wally finally answered. 'I think it may be Hanover, Mac.'

'No, I don't think it was Hanover', interrupted Chavez. 'I think we're just north of Munster'.

Mac just sat there, shaking his head without responding. There was no doubt who Mac would believe. Wally had been over Hanover before.

The argument was forgotten by the first puffs of flak. I remembered how fascinated I had been the first time I had seen the stuff. It was like tiny balls of black cotton bursting on a bluish-white background. Only now I realized it as grim and deadly, without beauty. At first, it was ineffective. Then it struck. One moment Thompson was on our wing, the next his ship was spiralling drunkenly towards the earth, half a wing torn off. I watched until it plunged through the billowy undercast. There were no chutes. I almost heaved.

We were first hit half an hour from the IP. Number two engine was knocked out and caught fire. I cut the switch, but she continued to burn and the prop was windmilling, so I had to feather it.

'Everybody put your chutes on, but don't jump unless I tell you', Mac shouted over the intercom, adding a few epithets for emphasis. His voice was calm, but his face belied it. 'Jackson, Bailey, help Adams get out of his turret', he ordered solicitously. 'Jerry, get back in the Waist', he added.

Surprisingly, 'The Lady' aircraft was flying, even if we did start falling behind the group. Then, in a short few minutes, a second burst came up through the nose, cutting a hole the size of a pumpkin. My plexiglass shattered. I was sure we'd had it. Mac and I were both shaken up, but evidently uninjured. Then I thought of Wally and Chavez. Both probably had been hit. I hardly noticed that the fire in the engine had burned itself out.

Mac, getting his bearings, barked over the mike: 'Everybody o.k.? Anybody hurt?'

'Yea, Chavez', Wally replied. 'Somebody please come down here and help me with him. He's hurt bad and can't function.' 

Gregory grabbed a walk-around bottle and started for the nose. Then we got hit again, this time in the rudder. It was a losing battle.

'Wally, do you have any idea where we are?' Mac asked pleadingly.

'Not a clue, and I think that damned Gee-box has been knocked out. Besides, it won't work this far east anyhow,' Wally grimly admitted.

In spite of her wound, 'The Lady' remained airworthy and Mac somehow kept her on course. I knew Mac pretty well. He wasn't thinking of turning back, but he wanted to. Without a Navigator, he had no choice but to stick with the formation. It wasn't easy to go on, knowing that Chavez might die if we did. He might die anyway. Mac sat there expressionless. I thanked God I was only the Co-Pilot. I don't know whether I'd have guts enough to keep on to the target if I were in Mac's seat.

We got to Magdeburg, but we'd lost altitude. Wally had missed the IP, but still salvoed the bombs with the rest of the formation. On the way back, miraculously we ran into little flak. Mac pushed 'The Lady's' three engines to their limit, hoping we'd have enough gasoline to at least get to the coast. The aircraft kept dropping, however, and Mac and I together had to fight the rudder all the way.

Like a condemned man waiting for the switch, we staggered along, expecting fighters or flak to finish us. It seemed like we'd flown hours after leaving Magdeburg; actually it was less than one. On the horizon was the coastline. We crossed at 11,000 feet. I had prayed we'd get there. Now I swore because we were being allowed to escape. The North Sea in winter would be a worse fate than a Stalag Luft. Below, the black waves hurled their defiance at us. In those icy waters we might survive fifteen minutes if lucky.

We tossed everything we could overboard in an effort to retain altitude. It was useless. At 6,000, I called 'Mayday', telling air-sea rescue that we'd have to ditch and gave them our approximate position. I realized that probably wouldn't help too much because it was only approximate, but they took a bearing. I begged the Lord that it might work this time, remembering how several members of the crew had scoffed at the chances of ditching a B-24. We all felt Mac was the one man who could do it.

While the Rear Gunners quickly assumed their ditching positions against the rear bulkheads, Gregory and Jackson went below to help Wally bring up Chavez from the nose, which was an almost impossible feat. He had to be passed along the nose wheel in its retracted position and then, without any of them falling off the bomb bay catwalk, hoist him onto the flight deck. I couldn't help them because Mac needed me to help him drop 'The Lady' in the drink. Compared to what the three of them had gone through with Chavez, our job would be a piece of cake.

I envisioned either being killed when we hit the water or drowned in trying to clear the wreckage. Together we got the plane leveled off. I could see the waves almost lapping at the fuselage. Mac picked out a trough and set 'The Lady' down. We must have still been doing a hundred when we collided with the seemingly immovable object. Then the roof caved in. I don't remember unlatching my seat belt, nor anything else in particular; but I was gasping for air as I must have floated to the top of the cockpit. Gregory and Jackson were pulling me up through the top hatch when I came to. Wally and Mac somehow had pushed Chavex into our yellow rubber which was already inflated. Bailey and Adams were swimming towards it. Finally regaining my bearings, I found a piece of wreckage and shivering uncontrollably, tried to hang on to it in the frigid water. Jerry, probably badly injured, floated around beyond anyone's reach. Gregory wanted to go after him, but to try was suicide. Wally swore at our inability to help Jerry. Jackson sobbed unashamedly. Moments later, Jerry simply dropped out of sight. None of us spoke. There wasn't much you could say when you lost a guy like Jerry.

In less than fifteen minutes, somehow air-sea rescue found us and picked us up. It was quick enough to save Adams and Freeman from exposure, and Bailey whose leg was broken. But Chavez died before we got back to England.

Early that evening, three of us: Mac, Wally and I, walked into the Interrogation Room. Captain Morris extended his hand like a Lodge brother in greeting. We all ignored it, but stood at attention, wanting to get the ordeal over with.

'Heard you fellows had a pretty rough time. That was tough, losing those two boys', said Morris condescendingly. Yeah, we could tell his heart was bleeding!

'Yeah, it was rough', agreed Mac.

'Well, damned glad you made it. You had us worried', admitted the Captain, attempting to be affable. I could see him worrying. At the bar in the Officers' Club he'd been sweating it out. I was sorry we'd worried him!

'Let's see,' he fumbled. 'You got to the target all right?'

'Yeah', snapped Wally.

'What bombing altitude?' He questioned us about bombing, weather, turning points. We didn't know most of the answers and didn't care. But we gave him a good story. Morris continued his questioning, but it was obvious he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

'Where did you see the greatest concentration of flak?' he asked, trying to conclude this most trying task.

'From the time we crossed the enemy coast going in till we crossed it on the way out,' Mac snarled.

Morris started to laugh, expecting another answer, but realized Mac wasn't trying to be funny. Mac glared at him in defiance. I felt foolish for forgetting to count the flak bursts every five minutes. It was the Captain who concluded with one final question:

'I don't suppose you've got Chavez's Log, have you?'

Wally surprised us all. He reached into his flight jacket and produced a crumpled, blood-spattered sheet and tossed it on Morris' desk. The Captain's face discolored. He didn't like the sight of blood.

'Thanks', he mumbled. 'That's enough, I guess.'

We started to leave.

'Oh Mac, I almost forgot', called Morris. 'I know you'll be happy to learn that you've been recommended for the DFC. The rest of the crew will get another Air Medal. I'll do all I can to expedite them', he said, smiling importantly.

Mac turned toward him in disgust, as if to swing. Wally caught his arm and pushed him through the door into the corridor.

'Why that ...'

'Forget it, Mac', Wally interrupted. 'The poor slob is just plain stupid.'

'And they offer you a medal; so everything's all right!' muttered Mac.

We trudged slowly towards our Nissen hut. 

Outside the Orderly Room, the red flag was up again.

These writings offer a vivid and clear insight into wartime conditions and the dark face of war. Des survived against the odds. Even reading this one experience out of so many clearly illustrates his courage and commitment, his sheer grit and determination, and the close connection of his crew. At 94 years old, I believe this is something we need to remember and reflect on. While I'm sure all readers will join with me in wishing Des Howarth a very special birthday.

Louis McCarthy's crew, including Des Howarth. Courtesy: Stephen Hutton

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM!

HONOURING 'BEAST OF BOURBON', B-24 BOMBER, 36th BS, 8th AIR FORCE

'Beast of Bourbon', B-24 Bomber, 36th Bomb Squadron, 8th Air Force, U.S.A.A.F.

Photograph courtesy Iredell Hutton Collection

FINAL MISSION

February 19, 1945

by Des Howarth: Navigator, B-24 Bomber,
36th Bomb Squadron, 8th Air Force, U.S.A.A.F.

Ironically, this densely foggy English morning on which I was supposed to complete my tour of duty as a Navigator with the 36th Bomb Squadron, the weather was far worse - instrumental flying only - than the day before when we'd had only clouds, but we'd had to abort. I was seated on the bench behind our Pilot, Mac McCarthy, as was customary during take-off. Unfortunately, the new Navigator, who I was supposed to check out on his first mission, decided he'd remain in the tail section till we were airborne.

Because both the Navigator's and Front Gunner's positions on the B-24 bomber in which we were flying were in the nose section and thus highly vulnerable during take-off, we usually remained on the large flight deck until the aircraft had obtained some altitude. However, on this occasion, we didn't gain any altitude. Whatever the cause, we never really got off the ground; our 'Beast of Bourbon' just collided with Mother Earth and churned up the ground for what to me seemed an eternity.

On the flight deck I bounced around with the Radio Operator and Flight Engineer, both of whom also were stationed there; until the aircraft came to a halt. I remember calling to McCarthy to 'cut the switches' to avoid possible fire, but he had already done so. He and our new Co-Pilot who was getting a check-out ride were fortunately unhurt. Howard Hailey, the Front Gunner, who had been standing behind me, was tragically thrown into the bomb bay and killed on impact. Waist Gunners Lindquist and Becker riding in the rear of the aircraft met the same fate. Lt Foreman, who was Lt. Victor Pregeant's Navigator and flying with the crew to get his pilot's check ride from Lt. McCarthy at the time; suffered a broken hip, and was laid up over six months. He never did get to fly any mission before war ended.

In spite of the encumbrance of our heavy flight suits, the five of us on the flight deck pulled ourselves up and out of the top hatch, dropping to the soft ground ten feet below, and scrambling to safety in a nearby ditch. While our plane carried no bombs, it did carry hundreds of rounds of ammunition since we had five gun positions on 'The Beast'.

Evidently, I was the only one of the surviving crew who suffered any injury. It was only a dislocated shoulder - not qualifying for a 'Purple Heart' since it wasn't received at the hands of the enemy. I was given credit for the mission, meaning I had finished my Tour (300 combat hours required). I had 296, but would have been out of action until VE Day anyhow. I stayed in the Base hospital only a day or two before being sent north to join hundreds of other aircrew being sent back to the States after completing their Tours. Actually, I remember little of the time between being discharged from hospital until reaching my disembarking Base in Lancashire. Ironically, I believe this was the time when my Cheddington Base was being moved to Alconbury.

After one more week in England, I finally boarded the U.S. West Point to sail home to Newport News, Virginia. From there, it was on to Ft Sheridan where I got a three-weeks Leave before reassignment to Santa Ana. Because of the crash, I was sent to Ft. George Wright for R and R (rest & recuperation), which was the best assignment in my Service career ... and then, because of V-J Day, I went next to Santa Ana and honorable discharge. It was just in time for me to again return home and re-enroll at the University of Michigan where I graduated a year later.

(I had originally enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force in January 1943. After receiving a Commission as a Navigator in December, I was sent to England where I had the opportunity to transfer to the U.S. Army Air Corp. In June 1944, I began my tour of duty with the 36th Bomb Squadron, a secret outfit of about a dozen planes, doing Radar reconnaissance from Cheddington Air Force Base just south of London. Our planes contained no bombs. We jammed enemy signals with electronic devices ...

The 36th Bomb Squadron (today, continuing to operate under its true title: 36th Electronic Warfare Squadron) lived and worked alongside RAF 100 Group. Both carried secret, specialised equipment in their aircraft designed to identify and jam the enemy. Flying deep into the heart of Germany it was dangerous work, especially when flying day and night operations, and when they flew above the bombers as their 'Angels in the Skies'. They were so secret, the main force never even knew they were there!

Today, we need to honour and respect their memory ... both the 36th Bomb Squadron as it was known then, although in truth they carried no bombs; and RAF 100 (Bomber Support) Group, made up of Squadrons of dedicated men and women based on built-for-purpose airfields in Norfolk, England.

Further information is available through:

'Squadron of Deception', by Stephen Hutton, Schiffer Publishing,

'RAF 100 Group - Kindred Spirits', by Janine Harrington, Austin Macauley,
'RAF 100 Group - The Birth of Electronic Warfare', by Janine Harrington, Fonthill Media.

Stephen and I remain passionate that the history and stories of these people who did so much to turn the war around towards a successful defeat of the enemy, be preserved that their legacy live on.

We WILL Remember Them!

Wartime crest of 36th Bomb Squadron, 8th Air Force, U.S.A.A.F.

Cheddington Base of 36th Bomb Squadron

In Memory of Aerial Gunners S/Sgt Carl Lindquist, Pvt Fred Becker, Pvt Howard Haley

Honouring the 36th Bomb Squadron RCM Unit,

based at Cheddington Station

&

Pilot 1st Lt. Louis J. McCarthy and his crew

who crashed after take-off due to instrument failure

in which three crew members perished

in their 'Beast of Bourbon' B-24 Liberator

 My thanks as always to Stephen Hutton for his help and support in bringing this wartime episode together, and to the writings of veteran Des Howarth (Navigator) who gave his permission to include them.