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> Units and Formations

Flying Squadrons
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Nationality based Sqns

Updated: 23 Sep 10

J A Campbell, a mid-upper gunner who served on 463 Sqn RAAF and 61 Sqn RAF has contributed his memories of 61 Sqn to the site.

On about the 20th of August, we were posted as an operational crew to 61 Squadron RAF Syerston (sign letters – QR) in Nottinghamshire. Another squadron was also based there, RAF No. 106, (sign letters – ZN). About eight crews from our course at Wigsley were posted in — some to each squadron.

The rest of the course crews were sent to squadrons on other Five Group bases in the area. I had now lost contact with the last of my old friends from Macdonald, but was able to hear of their activities through news passed between the bases from time to time. Bomber Command casualty lists were also posted in the sections after each operation, and within a few days familiar names started to appear. We were in “B” Flight, and our OC was Squadron Leader B. Cousins, RAF. The commander of the squadron was Wing Commander W. Penman, RAF. We finished out the last few days of August familiarizing ourselves with our new sections. We heard about one of our squadron aircraft, which had received battle damage, so Dennis and I went up to the maintenance hangar to have a look. The tailplane and elevator surfaces were pretty well destroyed on one side, and the rear turret was a shambles. The rear gunner’s life had been saved by a piece of 3/8 inch armour plate which slid up and down when he elevated or depressed his guns (later this armour plate was removed from all the Five Group aircraft because it interfered with the gunner’s vision).

WE had a very good gunnery leader — I am unable to recall his last name, but he was a RAF Flight Lieutenant, first name Charles, and he had a DFM (distinguished flying medal) from his first tour of operations. He was an older man, approaching forty years, and did not fly with a regular crew, but filled in from time to time if a gunner was unfit for flying duties through sickness. We did a few more training flights, and were assigned an aircraft to share with another crew — QR “V.” On September 2nd we received our first operational assignments — a mining “stooge” (code name “Gardening”) in enemy shipping lanes off the Friesian Islands. We carried six 1,500-pound sea mines (parachute) and Henry, the navigator, was able to use Gee to pinpoint the dropping position. We were about four miles offshore and all we could see was a number of searchlights probing about the enemy sky. Trip duration was just two hours and fifty minutes — like another cross-country, almost.

On September 3rd, operations were scheduled — we were informed usually sometime during the morning, and at about noon the “Battle Order” would be posted with crews named to operate. Our Captains would inform us of this personally. Our crew was not on the Battle Order for Sept. 3rd, but in mid-afternoon, Charles sent for me. He told me I could refuse if I wanted to, but there was a mid-upper gunner in F/O Woods’ crew sick, and would I fly in his stead? Well, what in Hell is a person supposed to do when a request like that is put to him? I agreed to fly with the Woods crew. We were now checking the casualty lists after each operation, and it was uncanny the number of crews failing to return from their first or second trips. My friend Harold Queen from Windsor was missing on his second trip, as were a couple of others from our course at Wigsley.

The crews on the Battle Order gathered for the main briefing. I entered the briefing theatre with the Woods crew, and the route marking tapes were in place on a huge wall map. It was a straight-in route to Berlin, with few feints or diversions. The strike force was going to be only half the usual size — 375 aircraft, all Lancasters. I thought to myself: a lively introduction, I should see plenty tonight. Only the operating crews had target details, so I was unable to tell my own crew anything. The route in was almost straight, but the way back was the opposite. From the target we were to fly straight north over the Baltic and into Sweden, turn port at a lake landmark, cross Denmark, the North Sea and back to base. Tactics were to confuse the enemy, and this was going to be a classic.
I took transport with the Woods crew to the aircraft dispersal point just as dusk was falling. The aircraft was QR “Oboe”, and this was my first sight of a fully bombed-up Lancaster. The bomb doors were open, and the load was hanging in view. One 4,000-pound blast bomb was in mid-bay position. This was shaped like an elongated oil drum, and had a hollow rear end, which acted as the tail. Three vane fuses were on the front end. The remainder of the load was made up of four-pound incendiaries, which were fastened into oblong containers or “cans” by small metal release bars. There were fourteen cans, each holding 100 bombs. When the bombs were released at target, the holding bars fell away and the four-pounders cascaded out.

Woods checked his aircraft outwardly, and mentioned to the Flight Sergeant (the NCO I/C ground crew) that the undercarriage oleo legs appeared unbalanced. The flight sergeant pointed out to him that the dispersal pad was not deal level, and the aircraft was leaning slightly. This satisfied F/O Woods, and we went aboard to start up and prepare for take off.

The crew entered the aircraft by climbing a short ladder and stepping through a door in the starboard side between the mainplane and the tailplane. The rear gunner, dressed in his flying gear, including an electrically heated inner suit, gloves and boot liners turned left and entered his turret feet first, sliding over the tailplane spar. The mid-upper gunner, similarly dressed, climbed up into his turret by pulling down a moveable step, rising into the turret, and pulling up a drop seat and securing it beneath himself. Both gunners had to stow their parachutes outside the turrets because of lack of room. The remainder of the crew proceeded forward up the bomb bay steps, and closed an armoured bulkhead door behind them as they clambered over the mainplane spar and entered the heated portion of the fuselage. Of course, there was no pressurization, and all crewmen wore oxygen masks combined with intercom mics. The signals operator’s position was next on the left side. Forward from this was the navigator’s position, which could be curtained off, as he had to work on his charts with a bright light. Forward again as the flight deck and the pilot’s seat and controls were on the left. In front of him were a myriad of instruments and controls. The flight engineer had a moveable seat by the pilot, but many of them didn’t’ use it and spent their time standing on the flight deck where they could watch all gauges, and perform their other tasks. The bomb aimer proceeded down a small passageway into the nose, where he spent most of his time in a prone position. His bomb site was right in front of him and his release controls and other instruments were at his right-hand side. The front turret, which he operated as necessary, he just stood up in — it had no seat. All the crewmembers forward of the bulkhead door stored their chutes close at hand. The bomb aimer lay on the escape hatch, and in an emergency was normally out first, while his companions followed as best they could. The rear gunner could open his turret doors, get his chute from the stowage, put it on, find his way to the door and tumble out, taking care not to leave his brains on the tailplane as he did so. As anyone could understand, this could be some operation if the aircraft was anything but upright at the time. One could only hope that the situation would not arise. The forward crewmembers did not have to wear electrically heated clothing, as their positions were at least above the freezing point.

F/O Woods and his flight engineer proceeded with the start-up: starboard outer; starboard inner; port inner; port outer. This put life in all the hydraulic systems, and gunners tested the turret rotation and gun-laying controls. Crewmen also tested intercom connections and oxygen supplies. At taxi out time the fully laden aircraft moved sluggishly out from its dispersal pad and took its place in the lineup on the perimeter track, as the line moved slowly toward the end of the runway in use. Each awaited the green Aldis signal from the control van at the runway end, before turning on to the run-up spot. The procedure was quite rapid and we were soon turning onto the end. Brakes held fast, and roaring, straining engines — then release and a surge ahead as the pilot’s hand on the four throttle levers applies full power. The aircraft rapidly gains speed as it charges down the flare path, the pilot compensating for torque swing with throttle. The wheels skip a few times as the tail rises, and the runway lights suddenly slow up and draw away as we are airborne. Soon a shallow climbing turn to port, and the circuit lights show up in their huge uneven circle. The flight engineer, on the pilots order has pulled up the landing gear and a short time later draws up the flaps slowly as we start our long climb towards operational height.

The takeoff was just after dusk in QR-O with no moon, good conditions. After what seemed as short time climbing in the Midlands area, the navigator gave the pilot a course that would take us over our coast-crossing point, Mablethorpe, at the appropriate time. Woods turned onto the course, and continued climbing on track. The time raced by. We continued climbing over the North Sea, and were soon heading in over the Low Countries at operational height of 20,000 feet. There was a lot of low cloud over enemy territory, and the searchlights shining from beneath made it quite bright. We could faintly see other Lancasters silhouetted on the cloud. There were a few air-to-air attacks going on about us, and about five aircraft were seen going down in flames along the route. The straight-in track confused defenses — they couldn’t believe the force would do that. It also made for a speedy trip to the target. Conditions at the target were unexpected — the cloud cover had broken, and Berlin lay clear and exposed beneath us. The target indicators were cascading down, the ground was sparkling from heavy flack batteries and the air seemed filled with exploding shells. The concentration of aircraft over the target was extreme, and we were almost hit by a Lancaster directly above us losing height rapidly. Woods pushed into a sudden dive and avoided it. In a few seconds the bomb aimer had released the load on a group of indicators, and the ship gave a lurching jump as the bombs left her belly. The navigator called a new course for the pilot and we turned port to make our north leg into Sweden.

The concentration of high explosive bombs and incendiaries was terrific; on all operations I flew afterward, I never again saw such fires. We flew on a straight leg north across the Baltic and into Sweden. The Swedes greeted us with a display of high altitude tracer flak, rising to about 22,000 feet. I don’t think they hit anyone, at least not in my view from the mid-upper turret. The fires of Berlin were still visible from 300 miles north as we made our turn westward and onto the leg over Denmark and the North Sea. This was a long tedious leg. We could see nothing but occasionally could feel the rough slipstream of an aircraft in front of us.

As mentioned previously, the bomb load and fuel load were balanced according to the distance and target. We had carried a heavy payload and our petrol consumption had been excessive. The flight engineer realized this as he watched his gauges, and informed Woods, who decided to make the earliest landing he could as we headed in over Yorkshire. When he saw a likely looking circuit pattern he called for landing permission, “Hello Control, this is Lingers Oboe. I request a landing, over.” A controller with a Canadian accent replied, “Hello Lingers aircraft, this is Linton. You have permission to pancake, over.” We landed at the Six Group Canadian base of Linton-on-Ouse in Yorkshire. We were interrogated, had breakfast and were refueled. There was a problem — when we landed no signal was sent down to Syerston for about an hour, so we were missing! Poor Jack, on just his second trip, too. However, we did get back to Syerston in time for lunch, and I was greeted by my own crewmembers, all wearing broad smiles. I went to bed at about 2 p.m. completely exhausted. At about 6 p.m. Henry tried to wake me up to come into Nottingham with him, but I don’t think I’d have woken up if he’d offered me Betty Grable on a platter!

Syerston was an older base, and well laid out with permanent type brick buildings. The Sergeants’ Mess had the trappings of pre-war comforts, a fine lounge and bar. The actual messing facilities had been moved to a dining hall in another building, because the original mess was too small for such an influx of NCO aircrew. There was a library and a theatre, which had a change of movies three times a week. There was a little town called Bingham about six miles away, which was our nearest railway station, but when we went to “town” it was to Nottingham, about twenty miles to the west. There was also a late afternoon bus in, and one returning at 11:30 p.m. Also there was an early morning workmen’s’ bus from Nottingham to Syerston which one could catch in a real emergency. Our route to town took us through a sugar beet growing area near Radcliffe-on-Trent. Nearby there was a prisoner-of-war camp for Italians captured in North Africa — they were only too glad for the safety and comfort of the beet fields and their camp facilities. It was amusing when we went by the fields on the bus; all the workers would stop their labour and watch the bus go by. They looked like a bunch of gophers popping up and down.

Nottingham was Fun City for us. There were good hotels and a live theatre with a weekly change of good variety shows. There was also the Palais de Dance, a large dancehall with a restaurant on the balcony overlooking the floor, and a bar and lounge downstairs from the dance area. Good bands played, and there was even a revolving bandstand to change bands. Nottingham, being a centre for tobacco manufacturing and textiles, meant there were plenty of pretty girls, as these industries had mainly female employees. If we were in town on a night off, as darkness fell the skies over Nottingham were filled with Bomber Command aircraft rumbling southward from the bases in Yorkshire, while the aircraft of Five Group were rising to join them. Most of my trips into Nottingham I was accompanied by my new Australian friend, Henry Mahon, our navigator. He was a cheerful, likeable sort, and a good companion. Henry had one problem: cooped up in his little navigator’s position, he at times suffered from bouts of airsickness, which made things extremely difficult for him. He didn’t complain, but it was a bad situation.

We did not wait long for a real operational trip as complete crew. On the 5th of September we were briefed for an attack on Mannheim, and industrial centre on the upper Rhine River. Most of the route in was over France, and approaching the target from the south and departing to the west. It was a “maximum effort,” that is, the full force of Lancasters and Halifaxes took part — about 750 aircraft. There was heavy opposition in the target area and on the way out, but things quieted down while we were returning over France. We got back to base with no problems, and we all felt a sense of relief to have the first trip over in our shared aircraft, QR “Victor.” At the debriefing, I was buttonholed by a Canadian war correspondent, and he interviewed me at some length. He told me the report would be in the Toronto Globe and Mail the next day. My family saw it and they were happy to have such up-to-date news of our activities.

The trip was nearly seven hours duration, and we carried the usual load of one 4,000-pound “Cookie” and the remainder made up of 4 and 30-pound incendiaries.

The following night we were again on the battle order. This was to be a longer trip to the heart of Nazism — Munich, in the extreme south of Germany. There was a slightly lighter bomb load because of extra fuel required. On the approach, we swung along the north slope of the Alps near the Swiss border, and we could see the glimmering lights of un-blacked out towns in Switzerland. It was another well-concentrated attack on a clear target. There were more night fighters engaging us, and we saw about ten aircraft going down in flames. The trip duration was nearly eight hours, and we were back to base again with no problems. Alex was pretty tired looking, and as pilot and Captain, I’m sure he was under a great deal more strain than the rest of us. He was a good operational pilot, and kept a cool head. His take offs and flying were excellent, but his landings at times were a bit rough. He seemed to be out to prove that the Lancaster had a very rugged undercarriage!

During our period of training, short leaves, as a rule, came in the intervals between various levels of our training program. Now that we were operational, a more regular schedule for the crews was in effect. Every day was a working day, at last until about noon when we’d be informed about operations. In other words, we were on call seven days a week. If we were not operating or flying for some other reason, we were able to take part of the afternoon or evening for a trip to town or whatever. The regular leaves schedule was nine days every six weeks, and we were given this as a crew. The four RAD members usually went straight to their homes. Up until this time I had traveled with my old friends from the original draught from Canada, but those times were now behind us, as it would be too difficult to find our leaves coinciding.

Our last leave had been between Cottesmore and Wigsley, and now we had a welcome nine-day period coming up. Henry, my high-stepping Australian friend and I decided to spend our leave in London, and points south. We went to London for a couple of nights, one of which was spent partying at a midtown pub where we had arranged to meet Alex, Dennis Chalk, George Harvey (another pilot) and part of George’s crew. Needless to say, a high time was had by all. As the evening wore on, the songs got louder and longer and the publican kept trying to quiet us down because he said he would lose his license because of the racket.

From London, Henry and I went off in search of my brother Bill. I had got instructions over the telephone from his as to their location on the south coast, and we found his unit without undue difficulty near a little place called Barton-on-Sea. We arrived at Bill’s unit of the Royal Canadian Ordnance Corps just before dark, and they gave us a big welcome. I guess we flyboys were kind of a novelty to them. Bill had come to England in early summer, and had already paid me a visit while we were at Wigsley. He had been commissioned between his service with the Toronto Irish Regiment and his transfer to the Ordnance Corps, so we were wined, dined and quartered in their Officers’ mess. We went out on a pub-crawl that night in the local village with Bill and some of his friends, and we had a fine time swapping yarns with them. We stayed the night, and after breakfast and goodbyes we took a bus for Bournemouth. The damages from the air raid of May had been so thoroughly cleaned up as to be hardly noticeable. We met a few acquaintances there and attended a dance. Next day, we took the train to Torquay, a resort on the south coast, east of Plymouth. The holiday season was passed and the place was very quiet, except for a lot of American officers on leave. Next day, on to Plymouth, and I was anxious to see just where Sir Francis Drake had been rolling those bowls on Plymouth Hoe while waiting for the Spaniards (actually the people of Plymouth were rater vague about the whole affair). Bombing from the previous year had heavily damaged the town, and whole areas were completely laid waste with just heaps of brick and stone left. Form there we took the train up through Bristol to Birmingham, where we spent the night, and then on to Nottingham next day. Here we spent our last two days around our familiar haunts, and then back to Syerston. It had been a most welcome time off.

Action came again for us on the 27th of September, in the form of an attack on Hanover, centrally located about halfway to Berlin. This was a vital industrial and communications centre, and tactics this trip were again to confuse. We flew an almost direct route toward Berlin, then made an almost 90 degree turn onto the target. Cloud cover was heavy over Hanover, and bombing was done on indicators suspended over the cloud base. The indicators were laid down by aircraft of the Pathfinder Force (PFF) using a radar device known as H2S. This instrument gave an image of ground detail on a screen for the Pathfinder navigator, and parachute indicator flares were dropped according to the image reading. It was not a foolproof device, but usually quite accurate. One problem with the bombing on cloud cover was the bright effect of fires and searchlights shining from beneath. The aircraft on their bombing runs had to hold straight and level, and were more vulnerable to the night fighters attacking from above.

The time into and out of the bright zone was not long, perhaps ten minutes, but it seemed longer. We were also using another device to confuse radar controlling fighters, flak, and searchlight batteries; these were strips of paper-backed foil dropped by the bomb aimer through a special chute. These bundles, known as “Window” would fly apart in the slipstream like chaff, and give a false reading to the enemy radar. They were thrown at intervals in the danger areas and worked well. We still had, had no contact with enemy fighters, but were seeing plenty of air-to-air combats, the majority of which ended with a burning aircraft disappearing through the clouds — and then a large flash and fire as it hit the ground. The casualty lists continued with more familiar names appearing. We were also losing some of our own squadron members, including the squadron commander, wing commander Penman. We lost Charles, our popular gunnery leader as well, which shook up the section members considerably.

Our next trip, on September 29th, was to the smaller industrial city of Bochum, in the Ruhr Valley, between Dortmund and Essen. This was a very successful attack on a clear target. After leaving the area, and when about fifty miles west of the target, we saw the largest explosion on the ground we had ever seen. It rose in a great red globe shaped like a rising sun. It was assumed that it was probably a gasworks blowing up. This was a relatively short trip of just five hours.
Bomber Command causalities as we read them each morning were running at about five to six percent. In other words, under the usual operating conditions, you send out 700 aircraft and losses would be 35 to 40. If they were much less, there was reason. Either our feints and diversions had worked extra well, or weather was bad on the enemy night fighter bases. Still, five percent didn’t sound too bad… until one started calculating the ratio on the standard tour of 30 trips. Let me see: 5 times 30 equals 150 – hmmm. This was when skills were combined with a great deal of luck, a game of chance, which crews were referring to as “Dicing with Death.”

On October 1st, 3rd, 4th and 7th, our crew was involved in operations against Hagen, Kassel Frankfurt and Stuttgart. I must confess that having kept no diary (unfortunately) it is quite impossible to give an account of these raids. Things were happening too fast, and one experience seems to blend into another. All of these targets being in the western district, opposition seemed to stiffen on each attack.

I can recall a few interesting incidents. On the trip to Kassel, Henry was using the navigational device Gee, to check his “in” course across the Ruhr Valley. The Gee was not reliable very far into the Continent, and there were many factors that could interfere with the course — cross winds, evasive action to name a couple. Somehow we were well south of track. Henry’s calculations suddenly made him realize this, and he shouted a warning to Alex that we were heading in over Dortmund. This of course, would give radar controllers on the ground exactly what they watched for — a single image. Cloud cover was heavy and searchlight batteries were probing. Suddenly there was a shattering explosion, and four heavy flak bursts flashed all around us. Alex pushed over to port and down, just as four more bursts flashed a little above us to the starboard. That was the end of the flak as the gunners on the batteries failed to adjust in time. That was a real scare for all of us. We had sustained no damage as far as we could tell, and Alex was soon back on track and into our bomber stream. The attack on Kassel proceeded normally with the usual amount of opposition. On the return leg the enemy a new tactic for us. This was dropping high-powered parachute flares along our track. They were dropped at intervals of about five miles, and they looked like an endless row of powerful streetlights. This was a bit unnerving, but I don’t think really effective, as the enemy abandoned this tactic as the winter came on. They were ready to try anything, not surprisingly as their cities were being devastated. We proceeded back to base with no further incidents, landed and taxied back to our dispersal point. Here the ground crew of QR-V met us, and the first enquiry they made as they shone their flashlights along the wings and fuselage was about the “holes.” We made a more detailed examination of “V” and finally a count of fifty-six holes was made — luckily all superficial. At daybreak, Victor was rolled to the maintenance hangar for a patching job.

The October 7th attack on Stuttgart in the south of Germany had a number of complications. The longest approaching leg was over eastern France, a run into the target from the south, then an exit to the northwest back into France. Opposition had been getting heavier during this series of attacks on western Germany, and the Stuttgart raid was very rough. I observed at least seventeen aircraft shot down on our approaching leg. The enemy had obviously moved up more night fighters from northeastern bases. We had no contacts, but were fully expectant of an attack. We flew seemingly endless miles with at least one burning wreck on the ground visible. The strike was fairly concentrated on a partially cloud-covered target. The air-to-air combats let up as we headed back over France, and we hoped the fighters had used up their fuel and required fuel-up landings. I’m sure many of them had used up their ammunition as well.

Henry was having a bout of airsickness, and neglected to give Alex a new course for our northward leg out of France. Consequently, we ended up nearly a hundred miles west off track. When we finally got straightened away into our northward leg, Dennis’s rear turret hydraulic system failed, and now another complication: I saw the glowing exhaust stubbs of a twin engined aircraft about 500 feet below us. We prepared ourselves for an attack as best we could, but without the rear turret it would be a poor contest. I kept a commentary going to Alex, as to the aircraft’s position. Alex would weave over to starboard, and the aircraft would move over under us again. Then, the same procedure to port. This went on for nearly half an hour, but the unidentified aircraft never attempted to close. He knew we were watching him. When he did not know was that the rear turret was out of action, and I was unable to depress my guns enough to bring them to bear. We had a theory about this incident afterward. Perhaps it was a pupil of an enemy training unit, and they were not game to close. Who’d ever know?
A peculiar thing about Henry’s airsickness — he was never bothered by it until we had left the target area. Perhaps it was that odd feeling of “mission accomplished” that touched it off. On the other hand, some trips didn’t bother him at all. Anyone who has not experienced real motion sickness has no idea how awful it can be. Getting so far west of track used up extra fuel, and we were obliged to come down at RAF station Hurn, in southern England. We were debriefed, refueled, had breakfast and then returned to Syerston. That was the last trip for us in QR-V. The next operational trip we didn’t fly. Our sharing crew took her, and never returned.

On the 18th of October, we made our second and last trip to Hanover. Again, we were operating with heavy cloud cover over the target, so were unable to observe proceedings. Fires and searchlights made the cloud exceedingly bright, and I believe this was the first time we encountered the “Scarecrow.” This was some type of shell or whatever the enemy fired up, or dropped, in the target area. It burst into a huge, boiling red ball, and was supposed to look like an exploding aircraft. It certainly did, but there was no falling debris afterwards, and it subsided into a trail of sparks, as fireworks do. We had seen aircraft get direct hits from flak, and the results were different — there would be large pieces of burning wreckage falling. As a matter of fact, a mid-upper gunner in another crew had seen a very odd sight. He witnessed a direct hit on a Lancaster above and astern of his aircraft, and saw a single engine thrown out from the explosion, sailing by with the propeller still turning at speed.

While we were returning from Hanover, we came upon a broken cloud cover, and a few searchlights were probing about. Suddenly, one hit us directly, and at once about six more snapped on. Alex was good in such a situation. He glued his eyes to his instruments and pushed into a turning dive. In a few moments we were out of them, and sliding away into the cover of darkness. It was a sad sight and torturous fate to be caught in a real searchlight cone. We had seen this happen, usually to an aircraft off track for some reason or other. As many as 30 searchlight beams would converge on a lone aircraft, and he was helpless. One could sense the desperation of the crew as the pilot tried to escape the cone by weaving and diving. But there was seldom escape — they were driven down to the light flak batteries, which would cut them to pieces. Strangely enough, considering the number of aircraft in the stream, there were very few “coned.” We returned to Syerston without further incident.

Squadron Leader Cousins, the OC “B” Flight had gone missing, and was replaced by S/L E. Moss. Wing Commander Penman had been replaced by W/C R. Stidolph, who had recently returned from the Far East, where he had been flying against the Japanese in Burma. A quiet chap, he was very nervous. I noticed one morning while we were on the skeet range; he jumped and blinked at each firing of the shotguns. Wing Commander Stidolph was only with the squadron for about a month, until he went missing in early November.

The 20th of October was a miserable day with low cloud and cold showers. We were briefed for a long trip — to Leipzig, deep in eastern Germany. The whole affair seemed a screw-up from the word go, and we were hoping it would be scrubbed, as it had been previously. Such was not the case. We took off at dusk, and had to fly under low cloud out to the North Sea because of icing conditions, and then climb on track. The cloud cover was complete over the Continent. We made a feint toward Berlin where a small force of Mosquitoes was dropping some indicators and a few bombs, and then turned south for Leipzig.

Everything went wrong. The Pathfinders with their special equipment had suffered heavy losses, and the deep cloud obliterated the target indicators that were dropped. The Main Force had no alternative except to drop the bombs on ETA (estimated time of arrival). We must have sent incendiaries into most of the haystacks in the area, as numerous fires reflected on the cloud, but reconnaissance a few days later reported “no visible damage to Leipzig.” We had problems with excessive fuel usage again, and as we approached the east coast of England, Ted informed Alex that we should land with no delay. We knew we were approaching U.S. 8th Air Force country, so Alex called a landing request to the first circuit light system that came into view. It proved to be Bungay Norfolk, a U.S. flying Fortress base (B17s).

The landing request was acknowledged by a voice with a Texas accent, and Alex joined the circuit on the crosswind leg. As he turned onto the downwind leg, Ted informed him that the fuel gauges were reading so low that he doubted there would be enough for an overshoot (it took a minimum of 50 gallons for an overshoot). Alex grunted a reply and continued to lose height as he turned port to make his approach to the funnels. As he got lined up on the winking glide-path indicators, he called to Ted — “Full flap twenty-eight fifty” for his powered approach. I turned the turret forward to see those indicators flashing their welcome green, and then turned astern for landing position. Alex called for Henry to read the reducing speeds from his repeater air-speed indicator, as the wheels gave a shuddering screech and cloud of smoke as they touched the runway at about 100mph. The tail wheel made contact an instant later, and we rolled with engines cut to a muttering drone, to the end of the runway.

After landing, Alex taxied on orders up to and shut down in front of the control tower. We were debriefed by a very nice American Captain, and then we NCOs were taken to the “enlisted men’s” mess and had a sandwich. We also had black coffee with a shot of gin in it (not a good combination, but much appreciated). Then we were taken by jeep to quarters for a rest. After we’d had a couple of hours rest, a young soldier came back with the jeep, and took us over to the Officer’s mess, where we had been invited by the Captain from the control tower. We met Alex and Dennis Bourke our bomb aimer, who was also an officer. We all walked into the dining room. There were a bunch of colonels, majors and junior officers sitting eating breakfast and when they saw we NCOs, they all jumped up from the tables and left. We were quite stunned by such a display of bad manners, or class-consciousness — whichever. Our Captain friend apologized for his fellow officers, and we enjoyed a good breakfast. We left the mess a short time later, and the jeep took us back to our aircraft. Alex had opened the bomb doors, the usual procedure at shutdown, and about twenty American lads were standing under the massive bay, and marveling at its size. One of them told me the new B-29, which was going to be used against the Japanese “was so large that a B-17 would fit in the bomb-bay.” He was exaggerating a little, but it sounded good. I strolled over to a B-17 parked nearby. It was fully bombed-up and had twelve 500-pounders on board. That was a full load. The B-17s were heavily armed — with all 50 cal. (1/2”) Browning guns. Two in the chin turret in the nose; two in the top turret; two in the ball turret beneath; two in the tail position; and one in each waist position. Due to such armament and a crew of ten, there was not the room for a very heavy bomb load. Our Lancasters carried sixteen 1,000-pounders on a short haul.

There had been a continual argument about armament. We were supposedly under-gunned, but I would venture to say if we’d had as much armament as the U.S. heavies, and had still been operating using nighttime tactics, our losses would have been no less. It was a matter of close in shooting, or not at all, and our guns had a more rapid rate of fire. Some of our aircraft were even fitted with a single 50 caliber Browning firing through a hatchway in the floor to cover up our blind spot, but this idea was soon abandoned. In the earlier days of the Lancaster, there had been a prism-sighted two-gun turret at this position, before Bomber Command had given up the idea of unescorted daylight operations. Now a nacelle built to house H2S antenna was utilizing the position. The U.S. tactics were: daylight visual precision bombing, flying in tight orderly formation, while defending themselves with their heavy firepower. This had been quite unsuccessful on short-range sorties over France and the Low Countries on attacks on airfields, industrial complexes, and harbour installations. There had usually been fighter cover for these operations, which had helped keep the defenders at a standoff. The heavy firepower of the B-17 and B-24 formations led the Commanders of the U.S. 8th Air Force to believe that they could penetrate deep into enemy territory in daylight without fighter escort. On October 14th, 1943, they were involved in a strike that led to a change of thought.

Two hundred and ninety-one B-17s were sent on a mission to Schweinfurt, a ball-bearing manufacturing centre on the main river in northwest Bavaria. As the formations made their way into the Continent the enemy day-fighters rose to engage them in large numbers, and inflicted extremely heavy casualties. Sixty B-17s were shot down (600 men lost) and many more were severely damaged but managed to limp back, many of them carrying dead and wounded crewmen. No force could stand such losses, and the in-depth penetrations were ceased until new long-range fighter escort was perfected.

October ended, and our leave schedule came up again. The six-week period had passed quite quickly, and we had now completed twelve operational trips. Poor Ted, our flight engineer had some kind of a skin outbreak on his hands and arms. Treatment from our sick bay was ineffective, so he said he was going to visit his old “Doc” at his home in Croydon. Henry and I decided not to travel, but just go down to London. Alex was going to visit Dennis Ghalk’s home at Enfield, and we made arrangements to gather at Dennis’s local pub, the “Nag’s Head” out in Enfield. This was well outside London, and it was quite a long journey on the Underground and bus, but we eventually found the place and Alex and Dennis were ensconced in the lounge. We had a great evening of drinking, singing and nonsense. I can recall one of the songs we used to sing:

Betrayed by the country that bore use,
Betrayed by the country we find
All the best men have gone before us,
And only the dull left behind.
Stand by your glasses steady —
This world is so full of lies,
Here’s to the dead already,
And here’s to the next man to die.

*Sung in the old movie Dawn Patrol back in the thirties (adapted from a poem entitled "Revel, East India" by Bartholomew Dowling.)

Henry’s bout of airsickness had weakened his stomach to such an extent that he was unable to handle much drinking, and he often became ill with just normal partying. At the Nag’s Head he had imbibed just a little too much, and he got sick o the way back to London on the Underground. He and I took up a position at a set of sliding doors. Each time the train stopped, I’d grab Henry by the collar and shove his head out, and pull it back in just as the doors slid shut. It seemed an endless trip back to the Strand station. He was still in bad shape in the morning, but after forcing himself to eat breakfast he made a rapid recovery. We were living in style at the “Strand Palace” hotel, quite a difference from the little place out by Hyde Park. The following day we all met and went to the White City dog-racing track — that was a new experience. We each won a few, but of course lost it all in the end. We had dinner that night in a pub and spent the rest of the evening in the lounge.

The next morning we picked up a newspaper in the foyer of the Strand Palace, and the headline caught our eye. It said, “RAF Pilots is Awarded Immediate Victoria Cross”. This required further reading, and we were astounded to find that the pilot was one of our 61 Squadron compatriots, Flt. Lieut. William “Jock” Reid. On the night of November 3rd, Jock and his crew were on an operation to Dusseldorf when they were shot up shortly after crossing the Dutch coast. The aircraft was damaged and Jock was wounded. He ascertained that his crew was okay and decided to carry on — saying nothing about his own injuries. A shirt time later they were under attack again. This time the aircraft sustained further damage, including a compass and intercom system. During the attacks the gunners had succeeded in driving the attackers off, but in the hail of fire of the second attack the navigator was killed; the wireless operator severely wounded and Jock was again hit. He still had control, and assumed that the rest of the crew were intact, and so carried on. He more or less flew by stars, and reached and bombed the target. It was not until they were on the way back that the extent of casualties became known. The flight engineer, who was also injured and the bomb-aimer helped as best they could. By this time Jock was suffering from loss of blood, and lapsed into unconsciousness from time to time. The flight engineer with help from the bomb-aimer kept the aircraft on a course for England, and encountered severe anti-aircraft fire while re-crossing the Dutch coast. The North Sea crossing was accomplished and Jock revived in time to make a safe landing at a U.S. Air Force base, although one undercarriage leg collapsed when the load came on.

Jock was awarded the V.C., the flight engineer got the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal; the bomb-aimer received the Distinguished Flying Cross; and the mid-upper and rear gunners each were awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal. The navigator was killed outright in the second attack, and the signals operator, sadly, died the following day. These full details, of course, were not in the newspaper, but were learned by us when we returned from leave.

We spent about four days around London, and then Henry and I went back to Nottingham. We stayed at a small hotel up from the town square called the “Lion” owned by old George Lucas. We got quite friendly with George — so friendly that he used to lock the main front door at afternoon closing time, and then reopen the bar for us. On one occasion there were about ten of us in on one of these parties. At the time Henry and I had a room on the fourth floor equipped with a very old and unused looking rope fire escape seat. Henry was always threatening to test the contraption, and finally as the party was about half over, he grabbed my arm and insisted that the time had come.

We went up to the room, where Henry draped himself into the loop and I dispatched him out the window. A small crowd including a Bobby was soon watching from the street, as Henry made his slow and graceful descent. I was playing out the rope and watching from above, as Henry waved to the crowd. Then I saw the casement window on the second floor dining room open, and George’s comely daughter Daphne reached out, got Henry’s dangling feet and pulled him in the window. The bobby was soon knocking rather loudly at the front door, and we explained to him about the necessity of testing equipment. He had to agree and left, while the party continued. We all arrived back at Syerston on the ninth day, and Ted’s skin rash had completely disappeared. He was a very highly-strung fellow and treatment from his own family doctor had settled his nerves. This happened regularly after, and then the rash would return in about a week.

The weather in the first part of November was terrible, and flying was almost impossible. As a matter of fact, we didn’t fly again until the sixteenth. This was a flight none of us wanted to take. Our 61 Squadron was being moved from Syerston to a new dispersed base at Skellingthorpe, about six miles west of Lincoln, and we were going to share this base with 50 Squadron, code letters “VN”. We regretfully packed our gear and piled it into a brand new aircraft — the replacement for QR-“V”. She didn’t even have the new letters painted on her yet.
Skellingthorpe was a mess of mud and Nissen huts, and spread all over the place. It was about ¾ of a mile to the mess from our quarters, and the mess was small and crowded. Ablutions were also a couple of hundred yards from quarters, and water was sometimes hot, but more often cold. Shaving in cold water is a bit of a trial. Our Nissen hut was heated by a little coke-burning stove. There were about twenty of us in the hut, and we decided when we got a good fire going we’d never let it out, but of course, by about 3 a.m. it had expired, and the metal building was completely chilled. After all, the stove was not much bigger than a bulge in the smoke pipe. Mind you, I know this sounds like a lot of complaining, but the change from Syerston was so vast that we felt a bit depressed. Actually there were far worse places, and when we considered what an army in action had to content with, we had heavenly conditions.

The letters “QR-V” were soon painted on our new aircraft, and the first real trip we took from Skellingthorpe was a “dinghy search” on the North Sea, and down toward the Friesian Islands. An American aircraft had been forced down at sea, and the last position the disabled ship had sent was the area we were going to search. Visibility was not good. We had to fly about 500 feet above the rough, grey water, and the two 61 Squadron aircraft were to make a systematic grid search, flying within easy sight of each other. We conducted the search from about 3 p.m. until 8 p.m., with no results. All we saw was a group of British fishing travelers riding up and down on the 15-foot waves. These ships were within easy reach of enemy aircraft, but they just went on about their fishing and they did daily. Evening faded into darkness and we kept up the search hoping perhaps to see a light signal. We wondered about the people in the dinghy, and if they were still afloat. We saw nothing, and returned to base.

On the afternoon of November 22nd we were briefed for an attack on Berlin. Conditions for this raid were going to be different. Intelligence had reported a thick and deep cloud cover all over the Continent — so heavy as to cause severe icing conditions at lower levels, and enough to curtail the effectiveness of most of the enemy night-fighters. A massive effort would be mounted on a fairly straight in-and-out route. All three types of heavies would be used, Stirlings, Halifaxes and Lancasters for a total of almost 900 aircraft. This was the first Berlin attack for the rest of my crew, and they were anxious to get it over with. Briefing information had discounted fighter activity because of bad ground conditions on their bases, but that, of course, would not affect their flak defenses. We were informed that Berlin’s main ground defenses were 400 heavy guns, 400 light guns, and about 200 searchlights. It sounded like a milk run with everyone taking their chances running through the flak barrage. If the Force was well concentrated the defenses would have to fire randomly at the stream, as their radar readings would be snowed under. We knew that there would be nothing to see at the target except reflecting searchlights and fires on the cloud. Sure enough, all the predictions were true for a change, and no one in either of our two squadrons saw a fighter, although our search was just as intense as always.

Our assigned heights were from nineteen to twenty-one thousand feet. The Pathfinders laid cloud markers, and the bomb-loads were sent down through a heavy flak barrage. We saw a tremendous explosion over the target which must have been a direct flak-hit on a fully-loaded bomber. The sparse air stank with the acrid smell of shell bursts as we bumped through the slipstream and flak roughened target area. Fires shone brilliantly on the cloud-base, and made and almost daylight-like brightness. The trip back was uneventful, with our squadrons suffering no losses. Total losses due to the unusual conditions were twelve aircraft of all types.

This was the last attack on Germany where the Stirling squadrons were used. The losses among their brave numbers had become to heavy to sustain, chiefly because of their inability to attain higher altitudes. Obviously, from this point, altitude made for slightly safer operating conditions — but some people were carried away by the idea. Often as we flew in toward the enemy coast from the North Sea on an in-depth attack, we’d see large flashes in the sea. These, we were informed by intelligence, were 4,000-pounders being jettisoned by crews who had decided that they wanted more altitude. One can understand this being done on a rare occasion as a necessity, but not as a habit. When I was instructing down at an OTU after the completion of my tour, I was told by one of our staff pilots who had done his tour on Halifaxes: “If I can’t get the altitude I want — Fuck it — out go my wing bombs”. The Halifax usually carried two 500-pounders in each of two small wing-bomb bays. Our next Berlin trip would prove to be a completely different experience.

If we could just pause here in the sequence of events, I’d like to relate an experience that took place nearly six-weeks previously. On the 3rd of September the Italian Government had signed an armistice with the Allied Powers. Everyone sort of reckoned that this would mean the collapse of the defenses of Italy, and that the Allied armies would make a fairly rapid advance up the “boot” of Italy as the German forces withdrew. Of course, this didn’t happen, and the Germans sent in large reinforcement units, and were determined to hold onto Italy, and to keep large Allied forces tied up at all costs. At this time we were treated to a bit of a personal viewpoint of a typical RAF senior officer. On the morning of September 5th, the Syerston Station Commander, Group Captain Evans-Evans, called a special station parade. All personnel were to be involved, and we all wondered what it could be for. After much shuffling around the parade was finally formed up on the square, and Group Captain Evans-Evans inspected us, and made a few rude remarks about the length of some of our haircuts. Then he mounted the dais he’d placed before the square. He proceeded to make a speech congratulating us on our good work and stating that “this was the first time in history that a country had been defeated by bombing alone” — which we all knew was bullshit. The Italians were trying to salvage what was left of a bad bet. They had backed the wrong horse. At this time we wondered what the reaction would have been if Group Captain Evans-Evans had made his speech to units of the British, American and Canadian armies who were involved in the Italian campaign.

On the 26th of November we were again briefed for a Berlin attack. Rumours were now rampant that Berlin was going to be subjected to an all-out series of attacks by our Main Force. Weather continued typically November, with frost and ground fog at our bases, and cloud over the Continent. The route in was over the North Sea, down into a cloud-covered Europe, and with feints on various German towns by small groups of Mosquito bombers. The total cloud cover over the target led to the unusual bright conditions, and the aircraft concentration was high. As we were preparing for the bomb-drop on a straight and level run, suddenly another Lancaster appeared about 300-feet just above us. I could look up into the bomb bay and could see a load of bombs ready for release. A warning to Alex, and he made a slight alteration of course to starboard, just as I saw the bomb-load start to tumble out the open doors. The bombs slid by our port side, and I could see the yellow lettering on the side of the green 4,000-pounder, surrounded by hundreds of 4-pound incendiaries. I could swear that some of the 4-pounders went between our port wing and tail-plane, but in reality they were probably about thirty feet off our port wingtip. This put a crimp in Dennis’s bombing run, but he still got a fair group of indicators in his photoflash picture. The route out was quite long over Germany, and the night fighter bases were certainly not fogged-in. As we left the target brightness, I saw the unmistakable silhouette, a tail fin of a Junkers 88 as he broke away to starboard. He was probably stalking another silhouetted Lancaster. A moment later a Me110 flashed across, above us, a scant 100 feet away. It moved from port beam to starboard beam in an instant, before I could rotate the Turret and bring guns to bear.

The homeward leg took the stream between Hamburg and Bremen, and there were some cloud layers reaching to about 3,000 feet below us. I observed an attack on a Lancaster about 500 feet below us on the port beam. The streams of bright green trace from the German fighter caused a shower of sparks to erupt from the bomber, which continued on course, but started to veer starboard. As it did so, fire broke out and started to stream backward as the Lancaster passed beneath us. It disappeared into the cloud layer, and the enlarging fire flickered and shone from beneath. A few minutes later a large flash signaled the impact. The rest of the route took us over the Netherlands, toward landfall on the coast of East Anglia.

As we crossed the English coast, Doug received a message from our base, ordering a diversion as the aerodrome was fogged in. Henry obtained a Gee fix, and gave Alex a course for Catfoss, an OTU for Bristol Beaufighters in Yorkshire. Our aircraft were soon in the Catfoss circuit, and calling for landing turn. We heard Wally Einerson’s Canadian accent asking for priority because he had lost about seven feet off his starboard wing in a mid-air collision. We all got down without incident, and Einerson’s wing was a mess. He was lucky again, having done every Berlin trip so far.

Catfoss was a rain-soaked, bleak training base, ill prepared for such a sudden influx of aircrew. We were de-briefed, but there was no food or refreshment for us at the cookhouse, so we retired to unheated barrack huts for a few hours of rest. Some of the lads went and tried the cookhouse again at daybreak. They still had no luck, but brought back the welcome news that the staff would have a special meal for us at noon. When the hour arrived, we were all waiting at the cookhouse door. As long as I live, or wherever or whatever I may eat, there will never be another meal more enjoyed or as appreciated. I truthfully cannot remember what it consisted of, certainly nothing out of the ordinary, but it was hot, and good, and ample.

Our aircraft were refueled and we prepared for a return to base. Nature interfered and the fog settled in. We hung around all day, and that evening we took the bus into Hull to check out the pubs. We surely must have looked a disreputable lot, unshaven in our sloppy blue battledress, flying boots and most of us with no hats. The following day was a repeat for fog conditions. Predictions were for the overcast to lift in the evening, and we were at our aircraft, ready to start up for take-off. The fog had lifted, but the lead aircraft on the perimeter-track had developed dead batteries, so another delay while replacements were brought out. Night flying with students in the Beaufighters was in progress, and as Henry and I stood outside QR-V, we observed an aircraft in the circuit with an engine afire. It was a Beaufighter and he required an immediate landing. The person in the control van at the runway’s end tried to direct him to a grass landing beside the runway, but he seemed confused, banked quite sharply to port and now was coming directly toward our line of aircraft, with sparks and flame shooting from his starboard engine.

Henry and I were almost transfixed to our spots as we yelled, “He’s going to hit!” and we watched, helpless, as the Beaufighter roared straight into George Harvey’s aircraft QR-S, about fifty feet behind us. With a sickening, tearing crash the Beaufighter’s undercarriage wheels straddled the mid-upper turret, as propeller blades chopped through the fuselage on the Lancaster. The bomber, her back broken, pointed her nose skyward like some great wounded beast, as sparks and shapeless pieces of junk flew in all directions. The fighter struck the ground seconds later and started a slide across the grass, with seemingly endless bumps and crashes. The force of the impact had blown out the fire.

We ran to George’s wrecked ship, and by some miracle the crewmembers had all been in the front end and were unhurt. After a headcount we all started to run across the dark field on the trail of the fighter. We found the wheels and propeller near the point of impact, and both engines smoking on the grass at different spots farther along. We arrived at the wreck just moments after the fire trucks and ambulance. The pilot, whom we were sure we’d find dead, had already climbed out of the cockpit, unhurt and unaided, walked to the ambulance, got in and lit a cigarette as the fire trucks laid foam on petrol pouring from the ruptured fuel tanks.

This episode cancelled our flying for another night, and we quietly rode back to the flights reflecting on what had happened. The next morning the fog had lifted again, enabling the squadron to return to Skellingthorpe before noon. We took along George’s crew as passengers, and Don Thomas, the Canadian mid-upper gunner brought one of the control handles of his wrecked turret on the QR-S. This was our last flight with 61 Squadron, and our fifteenth trip.

On the permanent pre-war base of Waddington, near Lincoln, a new Australian squadron, 463, was being formed from “C” Flight of 467 Squadron, RAAF. Alex had the opportunity to transfer us over to the new squadron, and happily for all of us he took it. We packed up our gear and took transport over to Waddington, and warm barrack-blocks with a fine Sergeants’ Mess building a few steps away. Our new location was within walking distance of three good pubs, a fish and chip shop, a bakery and only about three miles from Lincoln town.

// more ..

Read more in "The airborne years", a complete 131 page book covering J A Campbell's training in Canada and the UK. His memoirs span 14 OTU at RAF Cottesmore, RAF Saltby, 1654 HCU at RAF Wigsley, training at RAF Fulbeck and then operations on 61 Sqn RAF from RAF Syerston and 463 Sqn RAAF from RAF Waddington. Download or read the entire book free of charge.

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