BOTH SIDES OF THE COIN

On the Ground - In the Air

 

by Stan Jones

 

September 3rd, 1939 - War was declared at 11:00 that morning and the first air raid warning sounded. My mother and father and myself were visiting relations in northeast London. There was no shelter in the garden so we stood in a trench wearing our gas- masks; our heads just above the ground, looking towards London which was about 8 miles away. There was a strange eerie silence over the whole area. "Were we to be bombed or gassed or both?"  As we watched, there rose into the air about 250 silver-coloured barrage balloons. These B-balloons have steel cables attached to them to prevent enemy dive bombers attacking their targets with greater accuracy.

At first sight they looked like planes which certainly did nothing to help the situation. My younger cousin yelled, "Here they come", and we all nearly died on the spot. However, all was well. It was only the balloons and within a few minutes the "All Clear" sounded. We all looked at each other in disbelief but all with a sense of relief. The Balloons were slowly lowered and we came back into the house and put the kettle on for a much needed cup of tea.  Personally, I concluded that at fifteen, if that was being frightened, then I had better get used to it.

 After the fall of Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain began and my journey to work became a little more scary. During the bombing of fighter airfields in the southeast of England, it was a good idea not to dawdle on roads surrounding these bases. I made the journey, twice a day, six times a week, but fortunately I was only involved a few times. Invasion was on everyone’s lips, with talk of parachute troops and landing craft being used by the enemy to invade the U.K.

 Daily we saw many vapor trails high in the sky overhead, twisting and turning, and the chatter of machine guns could be heard quite distinctly. Frankly, with all the talk of invasion, anyone dropping from the sky at this time was in extreme danger. Not only from the local people but also from the "Home Guard" (Land Defense Volunteers) which had been formed in great haste. Men over the age of call-up were enlisted on a volunteer basis and trained evenings and weekends. Rifles were in short supply, so in some cases the platoon leader had the rifle, and the platoon had broom sticks. That is, until there were enough rifles to meet the demand. We had lost much war material at Dunkirk. Trenches were dug in the green belt and local farmlands around London. Concrete tank- traps and gun emplacements (pill boxes) were erected at strategic points. Signposts were taken down and a strict " blackout" was in place, through the night hours. There were also many rumors of  "fifth column agents" dropping by parachute who would relay information to the enemy. Glass windows, both in houses and shop, were taped corner to corner with brown sticky paper tape to prevent glass splints from bomb blasts. Nobody missed the news broadcasts on the radio, and people looking skyward, from time to time, was not unusual.

 It all started on Saturday afternoon in the late summer of 1940, September 7th. An air-raid warning sounded in our area about 3 p.m. Shoppers were just beginning to drift home from the High Street. The local anti-aircraft guns were firing almost at once. The familiar drone of enemy bombers could be heard. The people who were in the shop were herded into a big freezer which had just been defrosted; mothers, babies and prams. After a short while, the first wave of bombers had gone on to the docks in London. This was the start of the London Blitz.

A little later there was a lull in the gun fire and people hurried home. While cycling home with an older colleague, about five p.m., the warning was still on, quiet overhead. We were on the far side of the fighter airfield and in the distance, high in the sky, a plane came into view coupled with gun fire from the ground. A bomb fell in the road just ahead of us. The bomb blast blew us off of the road into a ditch, and left a crater which took out half of the road a short distance ahead.

Fortunately, except for a ringing in our ears, no damage was done to either of us or the bikes. We rode home without further interruption. It was still daylight and we could see a red glow in the sky in the direction of London some 8 miles away . That was my introduction to the London Blitz.

When I arrived home, most people were in their air-raid shelters, and although there were quiet periods, the raid was to go on all night and well into the early hours of Sunday morning. I well remember standing at the entrance of the shelter with my father, just staring at this huge red glow in the sky. It was the London docks burning. This was the first experience of an air-raid for most people, and to be in the Dock area it must have been very frightening to say the least. Some water mains were blown up, so it was necessary to pump water from the River Thames in an attempt to control the fires. All that night, at irregular intervals, you could hear enemy bombers droning overhead flying through a barrage of anti-aircraft fire towards the red glow. In those days, before the use of intersection of beams, to find the target, enemy planes followed the river Thames into London and very often they would follow the railway lines from the East and South coast.

From that never to be forgotten day in 1940, and for the next hundred nights or so, the air-raid warning sounded almost as soon as it got dark. The "Al-Clear" wail of the siren would be rarely heard before the early morning hours. At times not before dawn. During these early days of the Blitz, when the warning sounded, we would go at once to our air-raid shelter in the back garden, dressed in warm clothes with blankets, flasks of tea and biscuits. There was always a very strict blackout throughout the night hours enforced by air-raid wardens who would patrol the streets.

My father was a chief warden in our area. There were times when after the warning had sounded, there would be no planes or anti-aircraft fire for quite some time. This we called a quiet night.

Being now well into my 15th year I was required to join a fire-watching team both at home and at my place of work. We would be one night on call every two weeks. We would watch for fire bombs and deal with them until the Fire Service arrived.

One Saturday evening, later in the year, a high explosive bomb fell in the next street to where we were living. It destroyed three houses and damaged others. My father and I, along with many others, including the Rescue Services, spent many hours helping to find people who were trapped in the rubble, most of the time while the Raid was still on. Three people were killed.

Christmas night 1940 was the first night since the Blitz had started that we had no air-raid warning throughout the London area. Almost one hundred consecutive nights and at last a break. A real Christmas present indeed. We had another quiet night on Boxing night, but that was it. It was back to normal after that.

Sometime later, a weekend in late January, my London relatives, to get a break from the bombing, which was much heavier in their area, being closer to the city, came to stay with us. About 9:30 p.m., the air-raid warning sounded, and with almost a sang-froid attitude, they all continued to play darts in the front room. There was no gunfire, and all was quiet, so I decided to go to bed, which had been made up for me under the stairs, just opposite the room where the darts were being played. With all the relations staying, someone had to lose a bed. I was asleep in no time. However, a loud explosion awoke me and almost at once a number of shoes were tramping all over me. The owners of said shoes were attempting to get under the stairs, which is the place in the house to dive for when H.E. bombs fall too close for comfort. A small bomb had fallen in the street just outside the house. The front door was separated from its hinges and one or two windows were broken; a crater in the road and me with a face full of foot marks was the result. It put an end to the game of darts for a while. Many hands made light work and things were soon back to near normal. On Sunday, all returned home, having enjoyed the weekend in spite of the interruption.

The Blitz was now part of our daily lives.

In May of ‘43, I received my call-up papers. I remember my mother not being too pleased at the time. Her sister had just had her son (my cousin) reported "missing in action". She said to me as I left for the recruiting centre "Try not to get into anything too dangerous, son."  Personally I was quite sure they would put me in the army. The Second Front had been on everyone’s lips for a while now. However, after IQ tests and medical exams etc., I found myself in front of an R.A.F. officer who was sitting behind a large desk. "Sit down lad", he said, and went on to say " I’m sorry, we have no vacancies for pilots or navigators". To which I felt and must have looked greatly surprised. "You want to be in the air force, don’t you, lad?" he said. "Yes sir", I replied, "Yes sir, thank you, sir". He went on to say, there was a great need of wireless operators at this time; a very important bomber crew member. We shook hands, he wished me luck, and I left the room.

As soon as I arrived home, my mother asked how I got on. I told her I got in the R.A.F. "That’s good", she said, "you may not have to go overseas." It was then I told her about the flying etc. She went a little pale and said, " Oh dear". I felt very sorry for her at that moment. I quickly reassured her that by the time my training was completed, the war would likely be over.

On March 2nd , 1945, seven days before my twentieth birthday, I'm flying a daylight raid to Cologne. Early briefing and then over to the aircraft. We took off in bright sunshine, the weather forecast was good for most of the day. We climbed steadily and were soon over the Dutch coast, way below us.

When I’m not needed at the radio, I stand as a look-out from the astrodome, which is to the right and just above my seat. It affords a clear view from the aircraft and I could see a stream of aircraft, both in front and behind us. It was quite a sight and one that I got very familiar with during the next few months.

As we got about five miles from the target, our altitude being about 18,000 feet, the first wave of aircraft were entering what I described as a gigantic cluster of enemy shell bursts immediately over the target area. The black puffs of exploding shells hung in the sky. Over the target, just as we closed the bomb doors we were hit by shell fire, which exploded just below us and on the starboard side of the aircraft. The starboard outer engine was put out of action and the starboard inner caught fire. A quick check of the crew was made and found that no one was in trouble. The engineer feathered both starboard engines, and with smoke and fire coming from the starboard inner, we dove to about 8,000 feet before the fire was extinguished. We were now flying level, after a style that is.

With only two engines on the port side working, it was difficult for the pilot to keep a straight course. It was then I was able to look back down the fuselage to check the damage. All I could see through the dust was a great many shafts of light beaming through a great many holes. Now quite alone, with only the two port engines to keep us airborne, some quick decisions had to be made. By this time we were now out of the target area, alone and slowly losing height. From our present position, could we get home? Have we enough fuel? Can we maintain height? Will these two port engines hold up under the strain etc? Fuel was certainly going to be a problem, we were already losing fuel from the damaged starboard wing tank. Fortunately, after some excellent work by our flight engineer, we were able to transfer what was left of the fuel into another tank. Some floorboards had to be torn up to accomplish this.

It was then decided that we might just have enough fuel to reach the English coast.

Another problem was that it was necessary for the pilot to keep the two remaining engines at near full power to maintain height; he also had to fly the plane at a 30 degree angle to keep it on a straight course. As for the route home, we used a straight line between two points - across northern Belgium to the north sea and, hopefully, to the Suffolk coast of England, being still over enemy territory and vulnerable to attack by enemy fighters. We were more than thankful when two Allied twin engine American aircraft spotted us. They could see we were in trouble and flew around us at a distance as far as the North Sea coast. At which point, although we were still losing height, it was decided we should try and cross to the English coast. If one of the two engines were to fail, we surely would have to ditch in the sea. Knowing this, I had already tuned in to our Air-sea Rescue Station. Should we have to ditch, they were going to hear about it very loud and very clear.

We crossed the coast and made for the Crash Station at Woodbridge, Suffolk. This airfield is for badly damaged aircraft that should not attempt a landing at their home base. Now our chances of reaching our home base at Ludford Magna were slim, and again the question arose, "Could we maintain height, had we enough fuel, would an engine fail?"

More calculations were made and discussed, relayed to the crew and the general opinion was the risk was worth taking. So with fingers crossed, we made for our home base. We arrived over Ludford at an altitude of about 1000 feet. I had to run an R/T aerial down the length of the fuselage so the pilot could talk to the Control Tower. We had lost the original aerial. We were now almost 2 hours late and with only an egg-cup full of fuel left in the tanks. Still flying at an angle of 30 degrees and two engines keeping us air-worthy, the pilot asked for permission to land and gave a brief description of our situation. "Go back to Woodbridge" was the reply. Well now, that did not sit too well with our pilot, and his reply was "Can’t be done, no fuel left. We’re coming in".  And with that, I switched off the R/T.

Now while in the circuit, it was decided to start our starboard inner engine to build up brake pressure to assist with the landing. However, it caught fire almost at once and although it was shut down, the flames were still visible as we came in to land. The pilot and engineer made a very reasonable landing under very difficult circumstances. Just one more problem . After only traveling 500 -600 yards down the runway, the left tire blew out and the under-carriage collapsed, and we slid around and came to an abrupt halt on the grass at the side of the main runway, the left wingtip touching the ground.

I remember stepping from the aircraft on to the ground; it had a strange feeling about it. Guess we were all glad to touch solid ground again.         

The fire crew had put out the flames and as we looked back at our aircraft, it looked a sorry sight. We were told later by our ground-crew, they had counted 60-70 holes in the starboard wing and down the length of the fuselage. Sadly, its destination was almost certain to be the graveyard. It never flew again.

 World War 11 officially ended May 8th. The weather was sunny and warm. There were celebrations throughout the Squadron. As part of the celebrations, there was a soccer match played between England and "the Rest of the World". All the crew came along to see their Wireless Operator play for the England side. We lost, but enjoyed the celebrations afterwards.