A Raid Over Berlin

Chapter 1 Joining the Fight

You could blame the naivety of youth for my enlisting in the Royal Air Force, but I was to grow up considerably in the troubled Second World War years that followed.

Being a London boy, from a working-class background, I saw the RAF as an opportunity to better myself, to get into a profession that had been previously denied young men such as myself and, in September 1941, not long after turning nineteen, I quit my job as an apprentice coachbuilder and, alongside my friend Eddy Stevens, signed up to train as a RAF wireless operator.

I wasn’t seeking to become a hero or itching to risk my life for King and Country; in fact, like so many of my contemporaries, I did not perceive the war as dangerous and likely to claim our lives. We reasoned the horrors of the First World War were ancient history and, therefore, not connected with the present war. Also, the excitement of flying an aircraft far outweighed any thoughts of danger.

So, fuelled by the thoughts of flying and the ambition to better myself, I attended evening classes with the Air Training Corps in Wembley. Having left Wesley Road Senior Boys School at the age of fourteen, I found the maths hard going and therefore was pleased to receive the extra tuition provided by my friend Eddy, who had enjoyed the good fortune to be able to remain at school until he was sixteen and gain a higher standard of education.

Eventually, with our classes successfully completed, I attended the Aircrew Selection at RAF Cardington in Bedfordshire. Here, although keen to be a wireless operator, I was selected by the Aircrew Selection Board to train as a pilot. I really felt as though I had fallen on my feet and was billeted in a sumptuous flat in St John’s Wood and attended lectures in the famous Board Room at Lord’s Cricket Ground. My new career saw me experiencing the luxurious side of the RAF. This was something that, even in my wildest dreams, I had never imagined being a part of.

My bubble was soon to be burst, however, when I was told that, although I had been selected to train as a pilot, due to a shortage of bomb aimers, the entire intake would embark on training to address this crewing shortage. I did not accept this operational decision willingly and, after some persuasion, it was decided I could train as a wireless operator, as was my original wish. Little did I know that those turn of events may well have saved my life as both the pilot and bomb aimer in my future crew were to pay the ultimate price for their part in the war.

The next stage of my training was at Signals Schools, which involved moving around the country to specialist establishments. The first part, learning to be a ground-based wireless operator, was undertaken at Blackpool and then Yatesbury in Wiltshire. The next move was to Madley in Herefordshire, to learn the air operating procedures. The final move was to Stormy Down in south Wales, for air gunnery, from where I emerged wearing an Air Gunner’s beret and sergeant’s stripes, or tapes as they were known.

I was to get my first taste of an unwanted side of life in the RAF while in Signals School: the attentions of the Flight Sergeant. Anyone who has been in the RAF will tell you that, during basic training, everyone lives in fear of the Flight Sergeant. He was not a technical man by any means; he was there for disciplinary purposes, and one of his objectives was to make you realise that you were no longer a human being, and that when he said ‘Move’ you moved.

Flight Sergeant aside, I enjoyed my training and, in the spring of 1943, I was posted to the Advanced Air Training School at RAF Llandwrog in north Wales where the reception from the local inhabitants was somewhat cool. Rumours were circulating amongst the crews of the problems encountered during the construction of the station a few months earlier. Some of the indigenous population, many of them isolated from the rest of Britain in this remote corner of north Wales, did not want an aircraft training school and ‘foreigners’ in their community. So, they embarked on attempts to sabotage the building of the station◦– allegedly, led by their vicar.

It was at this time, at RAF Llandwrog, when I heard some very bad news. My friend, Eddy Stevens, had been killed in a flying accident during the final months of his training. I wasn’t to know, at that time, that the war had only just began to claim the lives of my friends.

From Llandwrog I was posted to RAF Cottesmore in Leicestershire, with its complement of Wellington MKICs. I would finally get to fly an operational aircraft. My first experience of a Wellington, however, would be in one that was firmly fixed to the ground. Before any flying was attempted the aircrews had to familiarise themselves with the aircraft’s layout and we were given instructions in a wing-less fuselage section of a Wellington, known as a dummy fuselage.

More importantly, it was at Cottesmore that I was to meet a small group of people who would hold my life in their hands◦– my aircrew. The process of forming the aircrews of Bomber Command followed what was perhaps an unusual and undisciplined path for a military body like the RAF and ran against the usual practice of giving and receiving orders. Interestingly, the crews were instructed to form by mutual agreement amongst each other◦– rather than direction by a senior officer. One individual, typically the pilot, but not necessarily so, would choose his own aircrew. In the close confines of a wartime aircraft, where the aircrew need to work as a close-knit team and where the lives of each are dependent on the actions of the others, a closely bonded team was essential. Fortunately, the RAF realised that the best way to accomplish this was to let the crews form themselves.

A Lancaster’s aircrew was made up of seven members, each with a unique role to play but each dependent upon his fellow crew members. The whole process of taking-off, reaching the target, dropping its payload and returning safely home rested upon the aircrew’s ability to work as a team.

Firstly, you had the pilot who flew the aircraft and called all the shots throughout the operation: in the team analogy he was the skipper. Our pilot, Jimmy Tosh, was Scottish, and came from Dundee originally but had joined the RAF from the Metropolitan Police in London. He was a good pilot, nice and steady.

Our navigator was another Scotsman, Hugh Mosen, but we all called him Jock. He was a charted accountant and had been working in Poland before the war but, of course, had to return home. He was actually sent out to South Africa to do his training.

A marvellous thing, that perhaps the general public didn’t know, was that RAF aircrew training was taking place all over the world. In Bomber Command we had the privilege of training with, or even being in a crew with, men from all parts of the then great British Empire. The larger countries had their own air forces, namely the Royal Australian Air Force, the Royal Canadian Air Force, the Royal New Zealand Air Force, the Royal Indian Air Force and the Royal South African Air Force, while the smaller countries in the Empire, such as Jamaica, were grouped with the RAF but wore a shoulder flash indicating their nationality. It was an extreme example of co-operation, organisation and determination. Because all the training was co-ordinated, wherever in the world it was done, we could all come together and work as a crew.

As one would imagine, being the navigator, Jock was tasked with keeping the aircraft on course, reaching the target and then getting us home.

Both Jimmy and Jock were older than the rest of us; they were closer to thirty while the rest of us were in our early twenties.

David Alletson, our flight engineer, came from Nottingham, and was an engineer by civilian trade, having worked in coal-mining before the war. He was a good lad; they were all good lads. His main job was to oversee the aircraft’s mechanical, hydraulic, electrical and fuel systems, and also assist the pilot with take-off and landing.

Reg Morris, our bomb aimer, was another Londoner, like myself, who did part of his training in Canada. He was very easy to get along with◦– we all had to be; you couldn’t have anyone thinking that they were better or worse than the rest, or miserable.

Reg had a particularly crucial role as he took control of the aircraft when it was on its bombing run, lying flat in the nose of the aircraft, giving directions until the bombs were released. He also acted as the reserve pilot.

Then came our gunners. Bob Brown, our mid-upper gunner, was Canadian, from the Royal Canadian Air Force, and was trained in Canada, although he did the last bit of his training in Britain. And Dick Walton, our rear turret gunner, was from Wallasey, just across the Mersey from Liverpool.

Both were physically separated from the other crew members and confined to their respective turrets for the whole flight. Their main duty was to advise the pilot of enemy aircraft movements◦– to allow him to take evasive action◦– and to defend the aircraft against enemy fighters.

As the wireless operator, I was tasked with transmitting and receiving all messages between the aircraft and our base, as well as assisting the navigator by taking loop bearings, turning the IFF (Identification: Friend or Foe) set on or off at given points, and ensuring the “flying rations” were on board, which were vital for long flights.

I had been at Cottesmore about four weeks when the news came that everyone would be transferred to a brand-new station◦– RAF Husbands Bosworth in Leicestershire. No official reason was given for this posting but rumour amongst the aircrews at the time said that it was because the Americans were going to be based at Cottesmore and history confirmed this to be true.

Flying at Bosworth began in August 1943 even though the construction work was still not entirely complete. There was now immense pressure from Bomber Command to build and operate Operational Training Units as quickly as possible to enable air strikes on Germany’s industrial cities to be carried out.

Many take-offs and landings, known as circuits and bumps, were undertaken, in Wellington bombers, to hone the skills of the pilot and crew. I have never forgotten the intensity of the training and the endless circuits and bumps which were undertaken day after day in order to perfect the crew’s take-off and landing skills; but it was not without its humorous moments.

After each landing the pilot contacted the control tower to broadcast the standard radio message, ‘Clear of main runway.’

Now Jimmy, our pilot, was the archetypal Mr Cool and was every bit as calm and collected as the pilots portrayed in wartime films. One day when we were doing circuits and bumps, the aircraft had just touched down when, suddenly, it lurched uncontrollably to the port. A sixty-second white-knuckle ride followed as our Wellington left the runway then, eventually, after crossing the airfield, came to a halt on the perimeter track.

Without a pause, reflection or expletive, and completely unfazed, Jimmy called up the control and said, ‘Clear of runway.’

‘So I see,’ came back the reply from the controller.

Another part of training was being positioned on the airfield, in a mobile caravan, to observe take-offs and landings. One day, as I was in the caravan, an unannounced light aircraft landed and taxied to a halt in front of me. The young pilot, who I recognised as being American, leaned out of his cockpit and called out in a casual manner, ‘Hey Bud. Can you give me the bearing for Oxford?’

I was about to call control when the phone rang. The in-coming call was from a very edgy and tense controller, asking exactly who this intruder was? I felt relieved I had not spoken first. The controller barked at me, ‘Tell him to report to me, now.’

I had learnt a vital wartime lesson◦– always be suspicious of strangers.

It was shortly after arriving at RAF Husbands Bosworth, with my new aircrew, that I was to form another, far more important and longer lasting relationship◦– with my future wife.

Adelaide was in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) and, at the time, stationed at RAF Little Rissington in Gloucestershire, which was many miles away from Bosworth. Fortunately for me, she was from a small village near my base called Sibbertoft, and was home on leave. As it was a Saturday night, she had cycled to nearby Welford to attend a dance in the village hall with her friend. I had also decided to attend the dance◦– such an alignment of chance must have meant we were destined to meet.

I can still remember the first time I set eyes on her; she was wearing an attractive civilian dress and I plucked up the courage to ask her out. To my relief she said yes and I’m proud to say we are still together this very day◦– but it was by no means an easy courtship.

Following the dance, I asked if I could walk her home. She agreed but when she told me that she lived in Sibbertoft, at least three miles away, I realised I had been presented with a problem; I did not have a car, a motorcycle or even a bicycle. Eventually, a solution was agreed: I would pedal Adelaide’s bike standing up and she would sit, legs outstretched, on the saddle. And so, in this rickshaw-manner, I took my date home.

With Adelaide and her bicycle safely returned, and our next meeting arranged, it seemed a simple enough matter to walk back to the base. But the night was dark and I soon found myself disorientated. I was in a strange environment, being more familiar with navigating the streets of London than the open countryside, and it was many hours before I finally returned to my bunk.

I eagerly counted down the days to our next meeting but I had no idea at that stage that there was competition. There was a young pilot who, like me, had just arrived at Husbands Bosworth for the Operational Training Course. I had already got to know him, and liked him. He had just come from completing his Advanced Flying Unit course at Little Rissington where Adelaide was stationed and they had already met.

At this same time Adelaide was home on leave at nearby Sibbertoft and they met up again. A “date” was made when he would call at her house in the village. In the meanwhile she met me at the dance and, forgetting her previous engagements, invited me to visit her◦– same day, same place.

When her mother heard about this she was very concerned, but it all worked out well. I got there first and had a very pleasant walk in the woods with Adelaide while the young pilot, arriving later, was treated to a good night out at the village pub and was enjoying talking to her father when we arrived back. There were no hard feelings; in fact we kept in touch, remaining friends for many years.

That young pilot was also shot down during the Berlin raids and suffered very badly from frostbite.

Having chosen me, eventually, due to our individual postings future meetings were few and far between and we had to content ourselves with conveying our feelings for one another through exchanges of letters; there were no mobile phones, of course, and any phones available at RAF stations for social use were so much in demand that it was impossible to pre-arrange a call.

We both realised that we may have to wait for the war to run its course before our relationship could develop, as there were no certainties in love, especially if your bloke was preparing to fly in a bomber over Germany◦– prophetic thoughts indeed.

Having completed my training at Bosworth I was posted to a conversion unit where the crew learned to fly four-engine planes: Halifax, Stirling and Lancasters. Here we joined up with the mid-upper gunner and the flight engineer. In January of 1944 we relocated to an operational base called RAF Kirmington, in Lincolnshire, where the war was about to get very real for myself and my aircrew as we were to embark on operation flights in a Lancaster bomber.

Even today, catch sight of one of the two remaining airworthy Lancaster Bombers (as far as I am aware there is only one airworthy Lancaster in the UK, the other is in Canada) heralded by its four Rolls-Royce Merlin piston engines◦– I was once told by a jet pilot, one of two people who were working with the Lancaster that would become part of the Battle of Britain memorial flight, that he talks to his engines. Each one, he said, has its own individual character◦– and you will gaze on in awe of this breath-taking instrument of war. To many, it is a true icon of the Second World War, having earned its reputation the hard way as the RAF’s principal heavy bomber during the latter half of the conflict◦– but I have to say there were plenty of other bombers, such as the Wellington, Halifax and Stirling, that did exceptional jobs and, in my opinion, never received the credit they deserved.

Having praised the Lancaster, I must confess that our first one, AS-S2, was nothing to write home about, having gone through the mangle a number of times. It was the oldest most battered thing in our squadron; nobody wanted it but, as we were the new crew, we had to take it. I remember the Flight Sergeant in charge of the maintenance saying, ‘There’s no need to bring this one back.’ But we did. We flew it to Berlin; it got hit a little bit with flak. On our second mission we got hit badly by flak and it wasn’t fit to fly after that.

As a result, we weren’t supposed to fly on the night of Sunday, January 30, 1944, because we didn’t have an aircraft, but then our flight commander said, ‘The Old Man says you have to take our aircraft tonight.’ Before we went he added, ‘Don’t bend it; it’s a new one.’ He didn’t see it again. And neither did we.