With Hallowe’en just around the corner, this story from my dad’s days as an airman in World War II seems perfect for the occasion. He told us this tale (which he swore was true) many times over the years, and it never failed to entertain us.
Early in 1941 I was ferrying a Swordfish aircraft from Gosport up to Scotland when, overtaken by the gathering dusk, I dropped in at a Yorkshire bomber station for the night. On the approach, I noticed the burned wrecks of two Whitley aircraft off the end of the runway.
After landing, I reported in to flying control and lugged my parachute and overnight gear over to the Sergeant’s Mess where they assigned me to a spare bunk. I dumped my stuff and went to scrounge a late meal.
Afterwards, at the Mess bar, I spotted a chap who looked familiar to me. It turned out we were nodding acquaintances from our days as apprentices. He was now a Sergeant and, over a tankard of the local brew, told me of his difficulties in keeping the aging bombers serviceable. I said that they seemed to be plagued with gremlins at one end of the field, too, referring to the two crash sites I’d seen.
“Aye!” growled a voice from the other side of me, “Gremlins, goblins, an’ ghosts!” I turned to see a stocky, dark haired man, wearing an air gunner’s badge, huddled morosely over a half-empty glass of ale.
A bit nonplussed, I resumed conversation with my companion, offering him a refill of his drink. He declined, regretfully. “Thanks, but one’s my limit for now.” He glanced at the clock behind the bar. “Gone seven now. Time I got down to the flight office – our lot are taking off at 21.30.”
The mess was a gathering place, drinking hole and life line for servicemen during the war. (that’s my dad front left, enjoying a brew)
Straightening up, he beckoned me to accompany him to the door. The air gunner was still in some dark world of his own. As we reached the blackout curtain, my friend nodded towards him.
“Don’t let old Jacko start binding, he might get you thinking you’ve landed at the loonie bin!” He hesitated. “Poor bloke’s had a rough time, in fact, he’s grounded because of it. Trouble is,” he continued, “the story’s all over the station and a lot of people believe it.”
He ducked through the curtain. “Some people are getting to be afraid of the dark. A pretty hopeless state of affairs in this war!”
Ambling slowly back to the bar, I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I looked around at the senior NCOs present. Were they uncommonly quiet and sombre, or had his words, obscure as they’d been, created an eeriness only in my mind? No, I decided, there was no particular ‘atmosphere’ here. With most of the personnel out on their various duties, of course the place would be quiet.
Servicemen enjoyed drinks, conversation and quiet time at the Mess bar (note the candles and blackout drapes).
I carried my beer over to one of the tables, carefully avoiding a glance at the introspective air gunner. I’d hardly taken the first sip before he pulled up a chair and joined me.
“What did he say about me?” he demanded. “Told you I was ‘round the bend, did he?”
“No,” I replied, “Matter of fact, I haven’t a clue as to what he was talking about.”
He stared at me suspiciously for a moment, then muttered, “I’ll tell you the whole story, if you like. Then you’ll know, won’t you?” He was a troubled man and obviously needed to confide in someone whom he possibly considered to be a neutral listener. I nodded, “if you like.” He leaned in, and in his thick Yorkshire accent, began his story.
“I’ve been on this squadron since war started. I’m no sprog. I’ve done a few ops and I don’t imagine things!”
“Fair enough!” I responded, and he continued his tale.
His unit was engaged in the usual Bomber Command operations against increasingly heavy enemy defenses. One night, his crew had to fly a replacement aircraft when their own had become unserviceable at the last minute.
A strange sequence of events occurred.
The replacement was a Whitley on which extensive repairs had been made to rectify damage sustained on a previous raid. The rear gunner and the navigator had been killed and two others badly wounded. This was to be the machine’s first trip since then.
Avro Lancasters departing (painted by N. Best)
Even before he boarded the plane, Jacklin had a strange feeling of apprehension, unlike anything he’d felt before. On entering through the hatch, he noticed the clammy cold of the interior, so much so that he mentioned it to the other crewmembers, who all agreed that they felt it too.
The Whitley made heavy going of the take-off. The two engines were delivering the correct revs and boost, but there was abnormal resistance on the control column when the pilot applied backward pressure. Using a lot more muscle than usual, he hauled the aeroplane off the ground with the end of the runway disconcertingly close, and made a mental note to have a forceful word or two with the ground crew on their return.
In the rear turret, Jacklin was manipulating the heater ducts, trying to ward off the chill that enveloped him. As yet, they were only at a couple of thousand feet, and it certainly was not going to get any warmer as they climbed to bombing height. He had the curious sensation that someone was watching him, peering over his shoulder. The feeling was strong enough to cause him to look behind him at the turret doors, closed tightly against his back.
By this time they were over the sea and the captain instructed him over the intercom to test the guns. He depressed the four Brownings and pulled the cocking levers. The guns fired a short burst, but Jacklin knew he had not touched the firing button. He could smell cordite fumes in the confined space and, this time, he consciously and deliberately pressed the buttons himself. The guns fired as before. Beginning to doubt his first impression, he suppressed his unease and passed a terse “OK, Skipper!” to the pilot.
The operation was a disaster. Contrary to the forecast given at the briefing, the primary target was totally obscured by cloud. They were on the final run in when, without warning, the port engine lost all power.
With the bomb doors open and the load still in the racks, the Whitley almost flipped into a spin before the captain, with splendid airmanship, regained control and ordered the bombs to be released into open country.
The return trip was agonizingly slow. All attempts to restart the port engine failed. The strain on the remaining Merlin engine was considerable and had to be nursed along to avoid overheating. The aircraft steadily lost altitude over the dark German countryside. Crossing the coast, a searchlight caught them and flak burst close enough to send pieces of shell casing rattling through the fuselage until they outranged it over the North Sea.
Daylight was breaking when the English coastline finally came into view. Throughout the entire flight the sense of uneasiness had stayed with Jacklin and intensified as time wore on.
Approaching base, with their altitude now below fifteen hundred feet, the starboard engine began to run roughly, losing power and briefly picking up again. The captain, who had been watching the radiator temperature climb as steadily as the fuel level fell, decided that they’d used up all their luck and gave the order to abandon the aircraft. Jacklin had never used a parachute before and there was very little height to spare, but the only emotion he felt as he tumbled out was of immense relief.
The pilot headed the Whitley out to sea, trimmed it to fly back towards Germany and set the automatic pilot prior to making his own hasty exit.
What followed is a matter of official record.
The captain had barely dropped clear of the hatch when both of the aeroplane’s engines sprang to full, healthy life. The Whitley then made a 180-degree turn and headed inland, presenting the authorities with the problem of an unmanned, explosive and highly inflammable juggernaut droning unpredictably across the thickly populated industrial north of England. The chances of its falling, without warning, onto the unprotected heads below, were excellent.
The Observer Corp was alerted and a pilot from a nearby fighter unit sent off with instructions to track the Whitley and shoot it down when it reached the sea.
He located the fugitive but not before it had arrived over the mountains of North Wales, having flown in a wide southward arc. It must have been flying on mere fumes, but had managed to climb to 5,000 feet. Seeing nothing below that might be threatened, the fighter pilot went into a textbook attack. He saw the flash of bullet strikes behind the Whitley’s cockpit but, before he could fire again, a long burst of return fire came from the bomber’s unoccupied rear turret, slamming into the nose of his aircraft. The engine screeched to a halt, showering the windscreen with a blinding film of oil and coolant and the thoroughly confused pilot made a swift leap for safety.
Floating earthward beneath the silk canopy, he watched the Whitely disappear sedately behind the Welsh hills. He was the last person to see the plane. Its wreckage was never found.
As I listened to Jackin’s story, I had a vision of an aeronautical ‘Flying Dutchman’ cruising the skies for eternity.
Jacklin gave a wry smile. “There was an enquiry – circumstances being a little unusual. Some engineering blokes felt that everything could be explained away in a technical sense, though somebody said they were stretching the long arm of coincidence. But they couldn’t explain that lad as was lookin’ over my shoulder. They sent me to the doc for that, but all he’s done is send me on leave and put me on light duties. Told me to go easy on the booze, too,” he said as he took his empty tankard to the bar for a refill.
The bond between airmen during the war was often fleeting. Thousands of young airmen never returned from even routine missions.
“None of them were there,” he continued, as he sat down again. “Otherwise, they’d know there was something – more – happening.”
“Theirs was the official view,” I replied, trying in some way to help him. “They can only go by cold facts and mechanical evidence. Many people believe that very strange things happen in this world, which can’t be explained rationally. If it’s any comfort to you, it all sounds true to me.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but I can’t forget it.”
I looked around the Mess. I turned back to Jacklin. “I’m not suggesting that you can forget it. Just remember, though, that you came out of it in one piece, in spite of everything.”
“Aye, happen you’re right.” He seemed a little less moody. “We all got away without a scratch so something was lookin’ after us.” He rose to leave. “I’m goin’ to turn in now, thanks for listening.”
That was the last I saw of him. I departed at 0900 the next morning. The wind had changed so I was obliged to take off on the reciprocal bearing to the previous day’s landing. The Swordfish needed very little room to become airborne, so I had plenty of height when I passed over the two crashed aircraft. Men were sorting through the remnants and loading it on to lorries. With a bright sun rising on my starboard quarter, I set the nose north for Scotland.