Fly Boy: The Life and Times of a Fighter Pilot

life.

Foreword

This book is the story of my life leading up to and including 10 years service as a pilot in the Royal Air Force and 20 years service as a pilot in the Royal Canadian Air Force. Some of the stories, particularly in the Memorable Flights and Miscellaneous Tales sections, have appeared in print elsewhere.

I apologize for the less than stellar photographic reproductions; they are the result of ancient original pictures.

Born to fly

~ Chapter 1 ~

My Early Days

The loud rumble quickly became a deafening roar. My grandmother, who at the time was bathing me in a large, galvanized iron tub on the kitchen table, grabbed me, wrapped me in a towel, and dashed out into the street. The roar got louder and louder. I looked up and saw the massive shape of the Graf Zeppelin passing overhead. It was July 3rd 1932, two weeks before my third birthday and my very first memory. Another crystal clear recollection was the night they made the first radio broadcast from an aircraft in flight over London. My father held me in his arms as we looked out of the window and saw the plane’s lights overhead. It is alleged that the commentator inadvertently had the microphone of his radio switched on a bit too early and apparently his remark to the pilot, It’s bloody cold up here isn’t it? boomed out across the BBC network. However, I never heard that.

We lived near Buckingham Palace and I later found out that the huge airship had been flying past the palace in a review for King George and Queen Mary. Every detail of the event remains very vivid in my mind. I have often wondered whether my grandmother ran out of the house in sheer terror or so that I could see the historic event. In those days, such noise and commotion was not common in London. Especially in Wilton Mews, just off Belgrave Square, where we lived in a small flat above my father’s motorcar repair business. In adjoining Little Chester Street, my grandfather (on my mother’s side) had a flourishing green grocer’s shop.

We enjoyed a comfortable existence back then in the days before WWII. My dad’s business flourished, he serviced and repaired the motorcars of the very elite clientele that lived in that part of London. Likewise, my grandfather’s shop catered to many large houses of the rich and famous people that lived in Belgravia.

Almost from the moment I could walk, I was dressed in dungarees and spent much of my time ‘at work’ with my dad and his employees in the garage. Even my ‘jolly jumper’ was fixed up in the workshop. How grimy I must have been at bedtime after spending the day raking around the workshop.

My friends at the time were Kenny, Lorrie, and Betty Page who lived just across the street. I believe Kenny joined the Army and was killed in WWII. His sister Betty died when a bomb demolished their house. Lorrie became a pilot in the RAF and after the war flew for one of the airlines. Next to them lived the twins, Joan and Pam Dexter, and next to them lived my Uncle Len (my dad’s brother) and Auntie Bobbie. Uncle Len owned a Rolls Royce. He had one of the first hire car businesses in London. He often drove foreign dignitaries not only locally but also as far afield as the South of France.

One story he often told: He had driven the Wrigley brothers (of chewing gum fame) who were visiting from the USA, around England and Europe for several weeks. When the time came for them to return to America, he drove them to Southampton to board their ocean liner. As they left to climb the gangway, he gave them a salute and then they shook his hand and thanked him. At the same time, he felt one of them press a ‘tip’ into his palm. He saw it was something white, perhaps a tightly folded five-pound note. Being well mannered, he did not look to see what it was until his ‘guests’ had left. When they were out of sight, he opened his hand and found a packet of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum. Uncle Len was a master at his craft. Since this was before there were many roadside restaurants, he usually filled the trunk on the back of his Rolls with lovely picnic delicacies such as pheasant, caviar, and champagne (not normally found in limos today).

Overall, we were quite happy living in that little cul-de-sac off Belgrave Square. In 1933, my baby sister joined me. Another vivid memory I have was standing up, holding on to the windscreen of my dad’s bull-nosed Morris Cowley, being driven to Westminster Hospital for a first glance of my new sibling.

It is difficult to believe that back then I used to walk, frequently alone, every day, all of the way down Lower Belgrave Street, crossing Hobart Place under the supervision of a friendly policeman, to St. Peter’s Infants School (as kindergarten was called in those days). People did not seem very concerned about the safety of children when I was little. The tragic kidnapping and murder in 1936 of Mona Tinsley marked the beginning of awareness of the perils to which children were exposed. Thereafter I recall my parents drilling me not to talk to strangers, not to accept sweets from anyone I did not know, etc. Much like we do today.

It was at about this time that my dad bought a boat-in-a-box. He imported a 20’ Chris Craft speedboat in a kit from America. Slowly the boat came together. My father and his chief mechanic Frank Stinton built it on the second floor of the garage. There was much consternation as to how they intended to get it down to street level but I guess they had that figured out before construction started. A wall was removed and the boat moved on rollers to the automobile hoist where it was lowered and slid onto a waiting truck. I was very excited the day we followed the truck carrying the boat to Poole in Dorset where she was launched. I can remember several trips in her but at the beginning of WWII, she was sold to, or commandeered by, the RAF; apparently used in support flying boat operations in the Solent.

Back then, our holidays were centered on Stranraer in Scotland, which in those days was a long and often adventurous drive from London. My father was one of those workaholics that never seemed to be able to tear himself away from his business long enough to take a holiday. Consequently, my mother and I often drove the two-day trip to my aunt and uncle’s pub – the Swan Inn, alone. I remember these vacations very well. Uncle Charlie, a submarine captain in the Great War, had many fascinating tales to tell. Auntie Vie herself was the epitome of the ideal publican’s wife: outgoing, jovial, fashionable, and of stately bearing. It was no wonder that the Swan Inn was a favourite watering hole for the aircrews of the flying boats that were based in Loch Ryan. I was completely enamoured by these young men that usually wore the RAF uniform with a white roll-neck sweater instead of a shirt and tie. One of the Swan Inn’s regulars was the commanding officer of the RAF station at West Frue. Occasionally he invited my mother to tea at the Officers’ Mess. I went along too. One day I was put in the charge of a young airman and taken to look over one of the new Blenheim bombers that were located on the base. At that time, the notion of wanting to be in the RAF and to fly planes was beginning to ferment in my blood. Subsequently, at air shows at Heston and Northolt, I would run away from my parents and when taken to the station guardhouse with the other ‘lost’ kids, told them, I want to join.

The increase in the size of our family with the arrival of my sister soon proved that the little flat where we lived and had been so happy, was too small. Besides, my mother felt that suburbia was a better environment for us to grow up. It turned out at the time that my grandparents were in the process of selling their house in Greenford, Middlesex, and moving to Orpington in Kent. The deal quickly fell into place. My parents bought their house. We moved to 81 Keates Way in about 1936 and I started at Stanhope Elementary School.

I was quite happy living in our new, semi-detached home. We had a nice garden complete with goldfish pond and a summerhouse. I quickly made friends with Robert Allan, a boy about my age who lived on the next street. Living so close to each other, Robert and I became almost inseparable. The summerhouse was our main venue for play. I had an extensive model train layout. We dabbled in radio, making functional crystal radio sets. Between us, we had almost enough Meccano to build the Forth Bridge. Chemistry did not miss our attention either; successes included gunpowder and several stink bombs. However, the most significant thing of all was that in the summerhouse at Greenford, I built the first of many model airplanes – a Westland Lysander, from a nine-penny kit I bought from C.P. Dynes on Greenford Road. I carefully cut out all of the little pieces of balsa wood and stuck them together. However, I did not have enough money to buy the Japanese tissue and dope that I needed cover it. Too impatient to wait for my next week’s pocket money, I covered the little model with ordinary writing paper – it did not fly.

During this period, my parents provided me with subscriptions to two weekly magazines for boys. The Modern Wonder frequently featured cut-away drawings of airplanes, Hurricanes, Heinkels, Messersschmidts, Dorniers, etc., all of which I studied with great interest. The other magazine was the Hotspur in which I could not wait to read the latest installment about a super hero. He flew a plane of steel, had wings as sharp as razor blades, was powered by a rocket engine, and flew as fast as a bullet. Little did I realize then that 25 years later I would be flying a plane with the same specifications (the F104 Starfighter).

Our move to Greenford did not last for long. My dad, who had to sell his business to buy the house, found work at a large garage nearby. It was difficult for him to adjust to just being one of the Indians after being the Chief. He did not stick it out for long. My mother, I guess, missed her friends and the hurly-burly of Central London. As World War II approached, our family was in the process of returning to live there. However, we were still living at 81 Keates Way on September 3rd 1939.

Who can forget that fateful day? It was a warm and sunny morning and we had a couple of neighbours over to listen to Neville Chamberlain’s speech on the radio: Consequently, we are at war with Nazi Germany. He hardly had the words out of his mouth when the air raid siren sounded. I thought, ‘Christ! They’re here already.’ My mind was full of the graphic images we had seen in newspapers and newsreels of the carnage German bombers had caused in Spain. ‘Now we are in for it’, I thought. However, luckily the ‘all clear’ siren sounded shortly afterwards and I thought that there was a good chance that we would live at least until tomorrow.

The so-called ‘phony war’ had started. Britain sent troops and aircraft to fight in France, and some ships were sunk by U-Boats, but we were not affected very much. We were fitted out with gas masks, issued identity cards, and ration books. Air raid shelters began to appear and people volunteered to become air raid wardens. When many people were moving out of London, we were moving back there.

Before television, we went more frequently to the cinema where they showed a newsreel between feature films. Months before the outbreak of the war, British Movietone News, Pathé Gazette, etc. screened very scary war newsreels. Footage showing huge Nazi troop exercises, bombers bombing towns in Spain, the ‘impregnable’ German Siegfried Line, and German pocket battleships and U-boats. So we knew what we were in for from day one.

After a dramatic start, the early days of the war were normal. Among the exceptions: people that owned cars had to apply for petrol ration coupons, gas masks came in a cardboard box complete with a string so that you could carry it over your shoulder. We had to carry them at all times, even us children when we went to school. Gas mask drills were a regular event. The teacher would give a signal and we had to take our masks out of their boxes and put them on. Woe betide anyone that did not have his or her mask with them or took too long to put it on. We were taught how to ensure that they fitted properly and how to test them when we had them on. Shortly after the masks were issued, they were recalled for the fitting of an additional filter. Apparently the original configuration would not protect against nerve gas – very scary. The recall was accomplished efficiently; everyone took their masks to a local school and the new filter was attached in seconds.

During the ‘phony war’ period as it was called, all sorts of interesting things were happening on the home front. Homeowners could apply for a subsidized air raid shelter. These came in two forms: the Anderson and the Morrison. The Anderson meant digging a hole about 10’ x 8’ x 6’ deep in the garden. The shelter itself consisted of several corrugated steel arches that were assembled in the hole, and the dirt that was removed to dig the hole was piled back on the top. The Morrison consisted of a very strong steel cage about 8’ x 6’ x 4’ high, which could be assembled inside the house affording protection to the residents should the building collapse in an attack. Public air raid shelters were popping up everywhere. They were strong, blockhouse-type buildings, erected aboveground. Underground facilities such as church crypts, and some London Underground stations, were also designated as emergency shelters.

Every homeowner had to ensure that his home was completely blacked out. That is to say, had effective blinds that ensured no light leaked out at night when the lights were on inside. Put out that light was the frequent call by air raid wardens and the police if they saw any light leaking out during their frequent patrols. Even car headlights had to be fitted with special filters to reduce the amount of light they projected.

EWS tanks, huge prefabricated steel emergency water tanks, were erected at strategic points around the city and filled with thousands of gallons of water. This was an Emergency Water Supply for the fire brigade. Miles of steel water pipes were laid in the streets and emergency water was supplied to them from pumping stations constructed on the buttresses of most bridges over the River Thames. The volunteers of the Auxiliary Fire Service supplemented the regular fire brigade. Their equipment consisted mainly of London taxicabs fitted out with a ladder on top and towing a Coventry Climax emergency water pump behind them. (The power plant of this famous unit after the war became the mainstay of early Formula 1 racing cars.)

Another feature of the times was the stirrup pump. These were standard, hand-operated pumps that homeowners could buy to deal with incendiary bombs. Each came with a book of instructions showing in diagram form how to use the pump to combat an incendiary bomb. They, together with the two buckets of water they needed, became familiar sights in office buildings, schools, hospitals, department stores, etc. as well as private homes. Everyone was expected to know how to operate them.

Dozens of volunteer organizations sprang up as the British people rushed forward to ‘do their bit’ towards the war effort. There were Air Raid Wardens, Fire Watchers, the Women’s Volunteer Service, the Local Defence Volunteers (who later became the Home Guard), the Royal Observer Corps who scanned the skies over Britain for enemy aircraft, the volunteers of the Special Police Constabulary, and the Women’s Land Army who worked on the farms. In addition, many, many others as Britain mobilized. If the Germans thought that this war was going to be a pushover – they were in for a big surprise.

Under the circumstances, I do not suppose it was difficult for my mother and father to sell the house at Greenford. After all, many folks were thinking of moving out of London at the time our family wanted to move back into the city. By mid-1940, we were back in London living in a two-bedroom flat in Vauxhall Gardens.

My father had a new job working as an inspector of fighting vehicles for the Ministry of Supply. An important job he found interesting and demanding. Initially he was based at Portsmouth in Hampshire where he had taken lodgings. However, we saw him frequently; he managed to get home most weekends. One of his first duties consisted of patrolling the south coast inspecting private trucks that were deemed suitable for military use. If they passed inspection, their owners were put on notice that the vehicles would likely be impressed. A year later in the war, when a German invasion was considered to be imminent, he patrolled the same territory ensuring that petrol pumps at service stations had been properly immobilized to deny fuel to any invaders that had the temerity to set foot on British soil.

Meantime back in London, a full-scale evacuation of children was taking place. The daily papers were full of pictures of bewildered and frightened children with identity labels around their necks, each clutching a suitcase containing a few of their belongings. Pictures of parents with tear-filled eyes, waving goodbye as train after train steamed out of the main railway stations taking their sobbing youngsters to safety in the country.

It was not long before my sister and I joined this heart-rending exodus. I was about eleven and my sister eight when our time came. It was a very sad day. With several hundred other children and chaperoned by a handful of our teachers, we were put on a train which took us to an, at the time, unknown destination. Several hours later, the train deposited us at a railway station in Cornwall. We were jostled out of the station into a waiting charabanc, then whisked away to the little schoolhouse in the tiny Cornish village of St. Breward. In the assembly hall a large table had been set up behind which sat several important looking people. Our names were called out and we were transferred to the custody of our new foster parents. Fortunately,