During the 1930s we had all been concerned by the danger of another War with Germany
after all the British Empire had lost 1 million soldiers between 1914 and 1918. The
worries increased when the Germans elected Hitler and the Nazis to power in 1933 and
thereafter the seizure by the Nazis of the Rhineland, the Ruhr, Sudetenland and in
Czechoslovakia and Austria the Anschluss (the Anschluss was the take over of Austria by
The German Nazis)
Britain and France only slightly strengthened their armed forces – wishing to pursue
peaceful policies, but Germany was creating the world’s most efficient and aggressive
military force.
The British Prime Minister (Neville Chamberlain) made many a weak concession to
appease the Germans – but they were intent on world domination.
Then on 1st September 1939 the Germans, with the connivance of the Russian
dictatorship invaded Poland with massive forces and heavy bombing of cities. The
British in the peace treaty of 1918 had guaranteed to protect the independence of
Poland, and warned Germany to also respect its treaties with Poland or Britain would
have to declare war.
So on Sunday morning 3rd September Neville Chamberlain broadcast to the nation that we
were at War again like 1914-1918. At this time I was working in C&H Fabrics, but that
afternoon, at the age of 18, I sat down and wrote to the R.A.F. offering my services
as a fighter pilot to try to protect the people of Britain from the terrible destruction of
heavy German bombing which the British press had predicted.
There was a family tradition of volunteering to fight to save this island. My father
volunteered on the outbreak of the First World War, and served in the trenches in
Flanders. His younger brother, Stanley, became a Pilot in The Royal Flying Corps in
1917/18 and William Neville (First Company Secretary of C&H Fabrics) flew British
Fighters in Mesopotamia in that War. Keith was only 16 years old at the end of the War in
1945, but shortly afterwards became employed in digging up the many unexploded
bombs.
Some two or three weeks passed before I had a reply, which suggested the R.A.F. was too
busy to consider me! Anyway there was no dramatic German bombing early on, and a
period of ‘phoney war’ followed. Some 7 or 8 months later the war really started.
Denmark and Norway were invaded by Germany, and then Belgium and Holland were
over run, followed by France and the defeated British army retreated to Dunkirk.
Many of the British and some French troops were rescued by sea, but all the weapons
and equipment was lost. With the surrender of France and the other European countries
Britain and its Empire were left to fight on alone. So in the almost hopeless situation,
I offered my services again, and I was accepted. It was March 1941 before I could go to
Ballacombe and Torquay for training.
From June 1940 the British position seemed quite hopeless and the Germans had
conquered almost all the rest of Europe. But Churchill took over power as Prime
Minister and was determined to fight on despite the odds. The Germans decided to
invade England, and their preparatory step was to destroy by bombing the R.A.F.
airfields and the Ports. This started The Battle of Britain in the south-east of England
and the Germans had a superiority of 4 to 1 in aircraft and aircrews. But the R.A.F.
fought brilliantly, using all the aircraft and pilots they could muster, which obviously
meant heavy casualties for the R.A.F. Somehow the R.A.F. held on, and on
15th September 1940 the Germans made an enormous battle effort against the R.A.F. –
but the R.A.F. destroyed a lot of German aircraft (despite the losses of British fighters),
and the Germans abandoned their invasion plans. So we had won the Battle of Britain.
Next the Germans switched to night bombing attacks on British cities and armament
factories. One night in September 1940 there was a mass raid on the Surrey docks,
and the London railway stations. I was returning home from work in Kilburn and found
that all the railway stations were out of action and so had to walk home (some 15 miles)
The R.A.F. lacked night fighter aircraft, so they had to start manufacturing these and
heavy bombers to attack Germany.
The Germans were able to employ all the factories all over occupied Europe to provide
them with weapons of war. Also Italy had joined in the war on Germany’s side that
summer – thus starting the war in the Mediterranean, including North Africa.
As a result of Britain’s determination to put all its efforts into the war, by early 1941
the war effort was progressing. I was now required to train as a pilot, and sent to
Torquay in Devon. So on the journey Stanley came to see me off at Paddington Station,
and amongst the rest of the would-be pilots, I saw somebody I had known at school
named Perrot. He lasted the course until Elementary Flying School in Canada – but was
then ‘washed out’ because the RAF flying standards were so high. After re-assessment
he became a navigator for bombers, but sadly was killed during bombing in Germany.
Early in the War the RAF was ruthless in it’s standards for flying, and said up to 90% of
applicants did not make the grade.
Like all the other volunteers I had to learn about warfare, military discipline, airmanship,
air navigation, how to counter poison-gas etc. Also I passed my 20th birthday (un-noticed)
and left my teenage years.
Although I still had two or three weeks of the course in Torquay to complete, I was
suddenly given a railway ticket for a 48 hour leave. So I went home to say goodbye
to my family. On my return to Torquay we were shipped by train to the Wirral into a
miserable and muddy holding camp. After a couple of days or so, another train journey
took us up to Greenock on the Clyde. There we loaded kit-bags etc. on to a large
camouflaged ship, and at dusk we sailed out past the submarine boom with a scratching
gramophone playing a Scottish lament.
I guessed the reason for the hasty voyage was the sinking the previous week of the
German battleship the Bismark, a great threat to allied shipping. But of course we did not
know where we were going. The Atlantic voyage was very uncomfortable on the
crowded converted liner – The Windsor Castle – and the rest of the convoy was a
damaged battleship, due to be repaired by the ‘neutral’ Americans, plus we had an
escort of four destroyers. We took turns keeping watch for enemy submarines, and all
the ships were going at maximum speed.
Anyway, one morning the rest of the convoy had vanished, and a few hours later we were
disembarked near Halifax in Canada. There followed yet another long and uncomfortable
journey by train through Canadian forests, but at night we caught a glimpse of the name
‘Quebec’ as we passed a railway station.
Next day, tired, dusty and fed-up we reached some railway siding and met a Canadian Air
Force Sergeant. He realised a psychological approach was called for ‘I know you guys
have had a rough time, but you help me and I’ll help you. You have professional
experience and can march into this building to impress the new rookies I have to train’
So we marched in very smartly, and received a great cheer from the new recruits.
There was now a great change from the hardships of the past journeys. Canada was a land
flowing with milk and honey!
The Canadian Sergeant advised attending Sunday morning service in a local Toronto
Church – he said that on the way out of church you will be surrounded by very patriotic
matrons who will invite you home for a special Sunday lunch. Try to choose one with the
prettiest daughters!’ Well I met a Mrs ‘Mom’ Harris who cared for me while I was in
Canada, and she became a pen-friend of my mother’s. They took me to Niagara, the
Muskoka lakes and let me drive their car, and I had an excellent time. They said that
when the war was over I should emigrate to Canada! I was certainly tempted!
(Photo: DeHavilland Tiger Moths)
Within a few days, I was posted some distance away to Oshawa and very quickly I
started flying Tiger Moths. After only 4 trips of one hour each, the instructor said” now
you fly solo”. Initially I did not find it easy, but with determination and practice I
improved. So early in June 1941 I was a pilot.
It was hard work but very satisfying – and the work was relieved at weekends by all sorts of journeys and entertainment encouraged
by the Harris family, even including a game of cricket in York, Canada.
The course ended in late August, and we were given a weeks holiday. With another
R.A.F. friend we went outside the airfield and raised a thumb.
(Photo: Barry Hamblin pictured during his training at No. 14 SFTS Aylmer) Immediately cars stopped
asking where we would like to go – so we said Montreal and off we went. I think we
stopped the night at Kingston, then hitched a lift to Gananoque where a boat ran
across the St. Lawrence river to New York State in the U.S.A.. On arrival we met some
U.S. immigration officials who asked to see our passports. I said that I had never had one.
The Officer said ‘you are in the uniform of a belligerent country and the U.S.A. is at
peace, so I cannot let you through’. Then he said how sorry he was not to let us through –
‘we Americans are hospitable people and I hate to be mean’ so they sat us down in
comfortable chairs, supplied coffee, biscuits and offered cigarettes. One could hardly
have been thrown out more politely! On the return boat journey I met a girl from Virginia
who wrote to me for years – but after I was married Shirley wrote and told her of our
marriage – end of correspondence!
Well we proceeded to hitch to Montreal and back via Ottawa, so we saw something of
Canada.
On our return some of us were posted to the Canadian West to be bomber pilots, including
Cyril Payne, who had been with me since Torquay, his Mother lived near Croydon,
and got to know my mother. Cyril qualified on Bombers and flew one back from Canada
to England. Sadly he was killed on an operational flight against German U-boats and
Fighters in the Bay of Biscay.
(Photo: North American MkII Harvards at No. 14 SFTS Aylmer)
I went to Aylmer, near Lake Erie, by London (Canada). Here the aircraft were North
American Harvards, a big change for us, with high speed retractable undercarriages etc.
Anyway, I got a lot of flying experience and became efficient until the end of the course in
late November, when I was awarded my wings. A proud ceremony attended by many
Canadian patriots including the Harris family to cheer me on. But the next day they came
to see me off at the railway station – with many tears. I had had a wonderful time in
Canada.
The train was poor and uncomfortable, but in two days or so it reached Halifax.
It was now December, bitterly cold after Toronto’s autumn and we had to wait for a boat.
Eventually I was part of a small group out on to a meat boat. While waiting for the
Convoy to form, we heard on the radio that the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbour, thus
bringing the U.S.A. into the War. Well it was an enormous convoy, but the speed was
determined by the slowest merchant vessel, so it took us three weeks to reach Belfast.
We managed to avoid the U-boat menace, by a northerly course between Iceland and
Greenland – but it was incredibly cold, so I tried to grow a beard!
Anyway we were lucky – two Atlantic crossings without being sunk.
We landed in Belfast, got across to Heysham in Lancashire where I was able to phone my
parents for the first time for 6 months or more. My father came to meet me at Paddington
where I gave him a large suitcase of food I had carried from Canada. I was then
transferred by train to Bournemouth arriving Christmas morning. One thought longingly
of how much better it was in Canada.
Shortly afterwards we were all sent to Hastings – Marine Court on the seafront. There
was nothing to do but wait for the posting which did not happen until early February. I
was given a few days off and saw my family. Thereafter there was little to do but wait –
check in daily and maybe take a bus ride round the country.
Things happened in February – I was posted to an operational training unit at Sutton
Bridge on the Wash. Here I was given the briefest of checks flying a Miles monoplane.
Then I read the instructors manual for a Hawker Hurricane, and then flew it. My first
single seater operational flight, which luckily was no trouble. A very uncomfortable and
bitterly cold airfield which lay below sea level – to walk round it you had to climb on top
of the sea-walls and suffer the vicious east wind off the North Sea.
Anyway I got lots of practice flights including firing the Hurricane’s eight machine guns at seagulls on the
Wash.
March 24th that year was my 21st birthday – I applied for the day off, but no consent was
granted. I slipped out of the airfield the night before to go home. In London I was
stopped by security, but bluffed my way out of trouble ‘desertion’ would have been
thought serious. I managed less than 24 hours at home, then managed to get back to the
airfield unnoticed.
Towards late March 1942, the Air Force decided to move the entire operation – aircraft
and pilots to Dundee in Scotland. I was allocated the worn out Miles aircraft to take up.
We had to refuel at Acklington, but as soon as I selected down for the landing wheels,
There was an incredible alarm warning noise. I tried two or three times but the alarm
always went off.
Finally I flew low over the control tower, waggling my wings, but nobody seemed
interested. So I decided to land the aircraft very cautiously and had no problem. I
reported to an engineer on the serious problem, but the reply was ‘you should have been
told the alarm was defective’. Anyway, refuelled I took off again and landed safely in
Dundee ignoring the warning alarms.
I had only a few days after that on a new satellite airstrip near Forfar.
Then a weeks leave at home in Kenley where I received a letter posting me to Turnhouse
in Edinburgh, where I was to discover we were to re-form a fighter squadron – No. 242-
being equipped with Spitfires. I was lucky to be one of the first arrivals and was soon
to work my way into being one of the permanent staff – rather like the first eleven at
School – and I never wished to belong to any other part of the service.
For a couple of days I worked hard sitting in the cockpit reading the manual – I needed to
work out and memorise all its details before flying it – and of course there was never any
possibility of real practice in a single seat fighter. I also became very friendly with
Arthur Hampshire who had come from our operational flying unit with me. He lived
near Manchester, and told me he had a scar on his forehead from when he landed badly
one night during training. A few days later he asked me to fly as a Section Leader and he
would fly as my number two. I agreed and discovered how exceptionally good was his
formation flying – he kept his wing tip about two feet from my starboard wing!
As our friendship developed we were amazed to find that we had some sort of mental
relationship when flying, and he could understand my thoughts from my aircraft to his,
we generally did not need or use the radio and we continued to fly as a section through
all our operations in England and the Atlantic Coast of Europe. Also shortly after I
arrived at 242 Squadron in Turnhouse, (April 1942) an experienced Flying Officer named “Benny”
Benham arrived, and was promoted to Flight Lieutenant of our flight – a capable person
who survived the War.
Well we soon moved from Edinburgh to Drem (June-August 1942), and on occasion to other airfields in
Scotland, depending on what had to be protected. We had a couple of US battleships off
North-west Scotland, so Arthur and I went to Peterhead to protect the battleships. Also in
the Southern-uplands we did a multi-service practice of an invasion to come. Sadly we
had a pilot killed in the southern uplands from a flight of 3 that I was leading – due to
a radio fault, and the pilot did not hear my instruction to him to return to base.
In May the whole squadron was moved for a few days to Ayr on the West Coast of
Scotland. We were briefed that the liner Queen Mary was returning to England at
maximum speed bearing an incredible number of American troops (believed 18,000),
and as we had Spitfires armed with cannon and machine guns, we must escort them
safely into Glasgow. It was emphasised that it would be a terrible blow if the Queen
Mary was damaged by enemy planes or U boats.
Our share (Arthur and I) would be 30 minutes over the convoy (May 23, 1942) and then another pair of
our Spitfires would take over. I disliked the look of Ailsa Craig, which rose steeply from
the sea – dangerous in fog. All went well for us, but after dark a German bomber on a
reconnaissance aircraft was heard overhead. We sent up another section of Spitfires who
had little hope of finding the raider in the dark. But sadly the less experienced pilot of
ours (Pilot Officer David Hunter-Blair) did not switch on his oxygen, lost consciousness and crashed and was killed
somewhere over the Southern Uplands. The plane (Spitfire AD540 – “Blue Peter”) was not discovered then, but by
accident was found by a BBC adventure programme (Blue Peter) 50 years later.
I went back to Drem with the Squadron, but one Spitfire had been out of action so a
couple of days later I got a lift in a Boulton Paul Defiant (a two seater fighter) back to Ayr and collected the Spitfire.
(Note: June 8, 1942 Sgt. Hamblin, flew Spitfire Mk. Vb. BL614 during a No. 242 squadron training flight. The aircraft survived the war and is now displayed at the Royal Air Force Museum, Hendon.)
Sometimes the Government thought ‘it might be good for us to visited by a Cabinet
Minister or celebrity’. One day they sent the Foreign Secretary, Sir Anthony Eden, who
made a few trite remarks, and I thought looked incompetent. My opinion seemed justified
when years later he became Prime Minister and made a rotten job of the Suez Crisis.
However sometimes they sent somebody impressive – like Lord Trenchard, who made a
speech to us about successful tactics of the American pilots who had just won the Battle
Of the Coral Seas. He was interrupted by an accompanying , and less senior Air Marshall,
who said’ that information is scheduled secret Sir and you must not discuss it’. Lord
Trenchard told this Air Marshall to ‘shut up, how can we expect to win the War if my
Pilots are not fully informed?’
After a few days at Ouston by Newcastle, we were sent by the R.A.F. as a Squadron down
to North Weald (August 1942) in Essex. Arthur and I had been busy, and for the move south I had
been made Transport Officer, for no apparent reason, so we spent the two day journey
driving a staff car and it was a rest. Perhaps the Commanding Officer wanted his less
experienced pilots to get some extra flying experience.
We did a number of flights around Essex, London and the South-East and checked courses
back to the aerodrome. Within a week we were to begin attacks on the French, Belgium
and Dutch coast. Maintaining complete radio silence in all of South-East England, and
flying never higher than 100 feet above the ground, the enemy radar could not know
when we were coming. We flew very low across the Channel with our slip streams
stirring up the water, but the moment we could pick out the French coastline we climbed
very fiercely often up to 30,000 feet. The enemy anti-aircraft gunfire got going
immediately, and the sky looked like it had black measles. Generally we went in large
formation – often 36 Spitfires and hoped that if there was an air battle we would start with
the advantage of height.
At North Weald we were the newest Squadron – the two senior squadrons were
Norwegian and very experienced. The whole wing of 4 Squadrons was led by
Wing Commander Scott Maldon. At the start of the War he had been reading Classics at
Cambridge, but had been in the University Air Squadron and so was collected by the RAF
at the outbreak of War. He fought in The Battle of Britain in 1940 and was lucky to
survive. Due to heavy casualties among pilots he made rapid promotion, and would finish
as an Air Vice-Marshall at the end of the War. I envied him his job then responsible only
for tactics, and leading the wing when attacking the Germans – but I did not have his
luck. Later I saw his obituary, and he lived to be 80 years old.
For these air engagements we knew the Germans were equipped with Focke-Wulf 190
fighters, which were superior to our current Spitfires in rate of climb, and very steep
turning thanks to their ball bearing ailerons.
However, we had practiced very hard to compensate for the disadvantages, and we
made a number of attacks against the so-called ‘Fortress Europe’.
Then we were sent down to Manston near Ramsgate. A tricky airfield so close to the
Channel that it was very difficult to protect against hit and run raids. A road ran
Across the airfield to camouflage it, so we had to land on top of it. The next evening
we were briefed very precisely.
We would invade the port of Dieppe in the morning
with some 10,000 Canadian infantry who would hold the port for half a day and then
return to England. Sadly half of them never returned. Our instructions were to
operate between 3,000 and 10,000 feet only – above Spitfire Mark 9 would be
superior to the Focke-Wulf 190s – and below the Navy would attack all aircraft. The
R.A.F. and the Luftwaffe each lost about 50 aircraft – and this left the Luftwaffe
noticeably short of aircraft and ammunition for several days – but the R.A.F. was
better supplied. The facts we discovered were firstly that the Germans were too
strong for us to succeed in invading a port our 8 destroyers were incapable of destroying
enemy guns on top of cliffs and we had not been given any more powerful vessels; and
the Canadians had little chance of success. Politically there was some success, the
Russians were encouraged by the hope of a second front. The Germans had to
strengthen their aircraft and forces to protect the Atlantic Coast which again pleased
the Russians. We were not heavily engaged, but on that day I flew 4 sorties (the
latter of which was to protect the returning convoy of ships and troops). I am sure the
Allies learned many invaluable but costly lessons, which were to help the invasion in
June 1944.
Thereafter we flew a number of attacks against the European Coast – and managed
as a Squadron to sink a German light warship in a Dutch harbour. I flew very low
for my attack, and the R.A.F. used the photography I produced for an Instructional
film.
I became very familiar with the landmarks in South East England, especially Kent. I
used especially Dungeness, the Marine Court building at Hastings and Canterbury
Cathedral – though Canterbury flew a balloon at 150 feet, and I had to keep under
100 feet, so one had to be watchful. Years later Canterbury was to have importance for
me – Bryce and Bryan went to Kings School Canterbury, and I later met Ailsa and
Claudius there. However in more serious earlier times one could be grateful to be
back at Canterbury in one piece. On one occasion I became engaged in a dog fight
high over Dunkirk with a FW190 German fighter getting close to my tail. So I put the
Spitfire into a really steep turn, so at maybe 5 ½ /6 gravity I completely lost vision –
but not consciousness – I had practised this a lot – and coming out of the turn I could
see again and there was not another aircraft in the sky! So for safety I put the aircraft
into a vertical dive, watched the ailerons which could be ripped off with excessive
speed, and returned fast and low to Canterbury and North Weald.
So the summer passed, and suddenly in early October we were all withdrawn from 11
Group/South East England and sent for some specialised long distance navigation – I
did not know why – but obviously we were now thought to have knowledge and
experience of combined operations for invasions.
Our Squadron Leader named Parker, was posted to Training Command – appropriate
as we all felt he preferred flying over Canterbury rather than Calais! He was replaced
by Squadron Leader (Dennis) Secretan (much better). I lost touch with Secretan after I was
shot down, but he wrote to my parents saying that the Squadron had lost an above
average pilot (a considerable qualification in the RAF). Years later I saw memorials
to his family in a church near Rudgwick in Surrey – so maybe he survived the War.
We had a Flight Lieutenant named (Dennis)Fox-Male (nice chap), who was sent to the USA
later, to speak in lectures for propaganda. We were also joined by a South African
Battle of Britain ace – Peter Hugo as Wing Commander. However, I never flew with
any of these people, because the king of warfare in North Africa was to require
smaller numbers of fighters and by now I was sufficiently experienced to be leading
Flights.
I got a short leave (the last for almost 3 years!) and then reported back to somewhere
on the Wirral. We then guessed that we must be going overseas – so all of us Officers
paid to stay a few nights in the best hotel in Manchester. Then we were sent to
Gourock on the Clyde again. I think we received some khaki clothing suitable for
tropical wear – and so we all tried to guess where we were going. Our ship sailed
and we were part of a massive convoy, and we had a rendez-vous with an American
Battle fleet of carriers and battleships 1,000 miles west of Gibraltar . Afterwards I
was to find that they would invade Morocco.
(Photo IWM: Supermarine Spitfire Mark Vs assembled by the Special Erection Party for Operation TORCH, undergoing initial engine tests at North Front, Gibraltar. The Special Erection Party was established at Gibraltar in July 1942 to assemble and test fly aircraft crated from Britain by sea for the reinforcement of Malta. On 28 October 1942 an unexpected shipment of 116 Spitfires and 13 Hawker Hurricanes arrived to be prepared for the Allied landings in North Africa - Operation TORCH and a further shipment was received a few days later.)
At about 03.00am on November 7th we were taken ashore in rowing boats as silently
as possible – it was Gibraltar. After a few hours sleep we had to report to the
Garrison cinema. Then an Air Marshall came onto the stage, unrolled a map of Africa
and said ‘ tomorrow morning gentlemen you will take over all of North West
Africa’. The 8th army was doing well at El Alamein, and it was obvious that if we
seized the North West of Africa, the German Afrika Korps would also have to fight at
the rear as well as its front; have its supply lines cut, and be totally lost.
In fact this took some 6 months, but it was the allies first major victory of the war, and
cost the Germans 300,000 men.
The Air Marshall said ‘ Deny the Germans the use of airspace and you take off all the
Aircraft tomorrow morning to seize Algiers’. Before our commando forces had even
landed we sent off over 100 Hurricanes – by the time they had reached Algiers some
airfields had been captured.
Then the Spitfires were to be dispatched. I had carefully considered the take-off
problems. Gibraltar had only one runway – made much narrower by all the fighters
stacked together along the entire width of the runway. I had to lead off a formation of
three Spitfires and my number two and three pilots were relatively inexperienced –
hoped they could keep dead straight on take-off, also all aircraft were fitted with
heavy long range fuel tanks so would require a longer take-off run - the runway ended
abruptly in the sea. I no longer had Arthur Hampshire (KIA - January 1, 1943)flying as my number two
because he had been promoted to a Section Leader.
I checked all three aircraft – kicked the tyres for pressure, checked screens clean to
give a good view of the enemy and put my fingers in petrol tanks to check full
Fortunately my precautions paid off, everything worked, and I led my formation of 3,
straight to Maison Blanche Airport at Algiers, almost 500 miles and all landed safely.
The same day the Americans (some flying Spitfires) took other parts of Algeria and
Morocco. We were in the most forward position as our squadron had battle experience.
My chief anxiety was that we had no petrol with which to refuel, so would be unable
to defend ourselves if the enemy attacked. Also we had no food, but discovered a
shed on the airport selling something, but it did not want payment in the British
Military occupation money, but eventually sold me a couple of doubtful sausages for
an English half-crown. The transaction I encouraged by gesturing with my loaded
Revolver!
No supplies arrived that first day, and one remembered problems the Spanish invasion
Fleet suffered in the middle ages. Anyway as night fell there was nowhere to sleep, so
I stayed to guard my Spitfire. I had chosen the one marked BH in letters a yard high –
Hoped it might frighten the enemy. I got a little sleep on the ground under the wings,
And kept a sharp eye out for the impoverished Arabs who were looking for anything to
Steal.
The following morning – 9th November – the landing craft from the convoy were still
having difficulties with the swell of the waters, and all that came ashore were crates of
beer – no use for a thirsty Spitfire. But in the afternoon quantities of petrol in 4 gallon
Drums arrived and we were able to refuel and so the aircraft became airworthy again.
The first German bombers arrived shortly afterwards to be met by plenty of armed
Spitfires, and so they had to return at speed to their base in Cagliari on Sardinia. As I
was taking off however, a stack of bombs fell on the runway ahead of me – so the
moment I was airborne I did a sharp turn to port and was not damaged. We spent
about a week there and could protect the coast and shipping around, but the next
invasion landing was beyond our range at Boujie Bay and we lost three liners to
Torpedo planes. If only the landing equipment had included suitable washers and
unions, we could have re-fitted our long range tanks and covered Boujie Bay, but they
were still in England.
On November 15th commando forces had seized an airfield at Djilli about 180 miles
ahead, so off we went at once. Many of the first squadron overshot the small grass
airfield and were damaged, we were the second squadron to arrive and had heard of
the problems on their radio. So we came in on ‘precautionary landings’ not very neat
but allowed a safe but bumpy landing. The next morning my new number 2 came on
a patrol with me, and we spotted a Junker 88 Torpedo bomber as did two other Spitfires.
They attacked it first, without destroying it. Then I attacked it and it had to jettison its
torpedoes and Lindsay my number 2, followed and the bomber finally crashed into the
sea. None of the crew survived and each of the 4 Spitfires was awarded ¼ victory.
On arrival at Djilli we had seized a very smart casino to sleep in. Arthur Hampshire and
I shared a very elaborate flashy room, running water etc, though Arthur complained about
the beds – said he thought it had been a brothel! There was plenty of French booze, but
the catering staff had little ability with food. It improved after some gesturing with our
Revolvers! There were some French pilots still around, and uncertain which side they
should be fighting for. Anyway they came and took a look at our Spitfires and asked a
few questions. Finally one of them looked at the plastic covers on our cannons and asked
their purpose. Doing our best in school-boy French we gave the colloquial English term,
explaining it translated as ‘chapeaux anglaise’ -this caused laughter, relieved their
anxiety and hopefully they left to volunteer for the ‘Free French’.
Djilli was right by the sea with a pleasant beach and generally was a very pleasant
place to be. We lost no pilots there, though we flew quite a lot of sorties. After one flight
I returned and after landing I felt mentally and physically exhausted – enemy bombers
attacked before I could get out of the aircraft, so I simply had to sit there until they
departed.
Later that day I was walking over to the beach, when there was a sudden cry from some
Officer from an observation post we had. The officer said he had been telephoned by an
Air Marshall who was abusive and difficult, so could I come and talk to him?
Luckily the important Air Marshall was friendly when I explained I was a pilot.
He demanded to be told of the ‘Mayfly’ – code for how many serviceable aircraft
we had – so I could tell him and he was pleased.
(Photo: Operation TORCH: Supermarine Spitfire Mark V reinforcement aircraft and a Hawker Hurricane, prepare to taxi out from the flight line at Bone, Algeria, for delivery to forward units in North Africa, after being ferried from Gibraltar.)
Next day we were urgently ordered forward to the next captured airfield at Bone some 100
miles ahead now called Annaba in Arabic, and I was forced to leave two bottles of
Algerian Champagne on the beach. Sad thing. I think Djilli was perhaps the airfield I
favoured most in all my experience.
Anyway Bone was to be a much rougher and tougher experience. Bone in fact
had been a civil aerodrome with runways, but at night time the lighting often failed.
The ground crew made some lights by spilling and igniting petrol, but I don’t think
we got all of our replacement aircraft down safely. Strategically Bone airfield was close
to a large harbour, and was easy for enemy bombers to find who were based in Southern
Sardinia and Sicily. Also we did not seem to get any warnings of attack – probably we
had no working radar.
There was now much more activity for us – we needed to protect the advanced
British Troops who were quite a few miles ahead towards Tunis, and being attacked
by enemy troops shipped across the Mediterranean. We also needed to protect ships
and installations in Bone harbour, which was now a vital supply base and also a base
to supply Malta. So we were very busy, and inevitably constant engagement cost us
pilot’s lives.
On one morning our Group Captain, with lots of rank and old for flying
Spitfires (probably mid thirties) told our Squadron leader that he wished to fly as my
Number 2, and I was to be sure that he got back safely. I did my best but somewhere
ahead over Tebourba in Tunisia we were attacked by Messerschmitt, so I ordered us to
climb very steeply into the sun for protection. The strategy worked though I lost sight of
him so I returned to base, and he landed at almost the same time – so I had done my duty.
I went to a crude flight office to speak to him but before we could speak, there was an
Enemy bombing raid, and the Group Captain rushed out to keep the ground staff
working on re-fuelling and re-arming. Instead of lying flat on the ground as
protection from falling bombs, sadly the next bomb blew off one of his legs – so
bravery was expensive. I yelled for our Squadron Doctor, but it was all very messy.
I retired back to the flight office, laid below a marble covered bar and ate field rations
being bread and cheese.
The next morning we were alerted to a British convoy being attacked on route to
Malta. Our Squadron leader decided to send 6 Spitfires and announced that I was
to lead them – this seemed to me like a prospect of promotion. So I hurriedly briefed
the other pilots – some not very experienced – that we would fly as 3 sections and I
would lead the section at middle height, so they must keep in loose formation on me
and watch keenly all the time for enemy aircraft and shipping. No sooner had we
reached a couple of thousand feet than I saw a massive convoy of ships beginning to
enter Bone Harbour. I cursed our luck, and the shocking inaccuracy of naval
intelligence (yet again) and returned my formation to the airfield.
The next day, I became involved with my number 2, (Lindsay) in a dog fight with Messerschmitt
109s. We shot one down, and I was attacked by one of them, and could see him
clearly shooting at me. I was not concerned because I was in quite a steep turn, and with
full deflection shooting he had little chance of hitting my aircraft.
(Photo: Still from camera gun film, showing smoke billowing from a stricken Messerschmitt Bf 109F as more cannon fire from a Supermarine Spitfire. IWM)
The following day we had another engagement, I did the traditional vertical climb to the
sun, so steep my number 2 stalled off. I was then alone but above a Messerschmitt
I pounced on it and shot it down. I saw one of our aircraft shot down and the Sergeant
Pilot – a cockney – was killed. On the way back I saw a formation of Junkers 87 dive
Bombers attacking our ground forces. Unfortunately, I had no ammunition left in my
cannons, and only a few rounds left in my machine guns, but just to try to put off the
dive bombers, I attacked them, and used up all my remaining ammunition and hoped
it would spoil their aim on our infantry.
The fighting was now becoming intense, we were destroying German aircraft, but we
were also taking heavy losses ourselves, and a number of our regular experienced
pilots were failing to return from engagements. The Germans had seized airfields in
Tunisia and were now being well supplied.
So far I had been lucky, but for how much longer? I had now been in Africa some
23 days and had flown probably 45 sorties, and now we were fighting almost 1,000 miles
from Gibraltar.
The next afternoon I was engaged late in the afternoon, and my aircraft was hit in the
oil tank. Fortunately it continued to fly back as far as our airfield, hopefully not too
serious a damage to the oil tank. But my windscreen was covered with oil so I could
not see forward, and outside was nearly dark. I approached the airfield as cautiously
as possible, using the altimeter as a guide to the aircraft height and carried out a
precautionary landing. No wheels down , so a belly landing. I just succeeded but I
could not see another aircraft parked on the ground, and my wing-tip broke off its tail.
not pretty, but I was unhurt.
The Germans were now furiously trying to hold a front in Tunisia and were heavily
supplying it with troops and machinery. No-doubt they were fully aware that their
Afrika Korps (some 300,000 men) was now forced to fight on two fronts, east and
west. The combined Allied Army (with General Eisenhower as Field Commander)
was not doing well so there was much air fighting for the R.A.F. every day.
Well on 2nd December 1942, we had information again from Naval Intelligence that
a Malta convoy was being attacked. The position was North East of us, so I was
sent with my number 2. I reached the advised position, but of course there was no
sign of it. Anyway in view of our position, and I believed that the Germans were
establishing an important air base where the French had had major installations at
Bizzerta I decided we had enough range to return that way and make a quick low run
over the airfield with all the guns firing and might destroy several enemy aircraft.
However, this never happened, because a few miles later, still over the sea, I managed
to spot 5 large aircraft, obviously transport, flying in formation. They were Italian
enemies. So we attacked, and on the first attack shot down one each. Then on the
second attack, my number 2 shot down a second enemy, but my target was only
damaged. So I tried a final attack, but I was hit by return cannon fire from the main
aircraft. One shell twisted my starboard cannon and the other shell felt like it had
hit the engine – either oil tank or coolant tank. I guessed the worst, so being low over
the sea I immediately climbed at maximum speed, knowing that nobody had ever
survived landing a Spitfire on the sea. I reached about 2,500 feet before the engine
failed, so I turned the aircraft over, opened the cockpit cover and bailed out. I knew
the danger of being hit by the tailplane, but avoided it. I was concerned that the
parachute had not been serviced since England, but it worked. I also knew that
dropping into the sea there was a danger you could be swamped and drowned by your
parachute, so I released myself from it when I descended to about 50 feet. It blew
away safely in the breeze, but I hit the water hard and lost my breakfast.
I then opened the dinghy we each carried, and scrambled into it. Fortunately, the
Mediterranean was not cold. I checked to see what equipment I had in the dinghy –
a collapsible flag, and a whistle, and a collapsible oar – but neither food nor drink.
It was about 10.00 a.m., my watch had failed when hitting the sea, so I had to keep
alive in the hope somebody would pick me up.
I learned afterwards that the Squadron did try to find me – but without success.
So the 2nd December passed without seeing ship or aircraft, as did December 3rd, and
the nights were difficult as the dinghy needed occasionally inflating. On
4th December several sharks fins appeared, though probably they were dolphins, but
I did not fancy them bursting my rubber dinghy. So I fired a couple of rounds from
my revolver into the sea, hoping to discourage them. I was then left with only a
couple of rounds, which I felt is wise to keep in case of need and there was the
unpleasant thought that if suffering from terrible thirst, it was better to end your life
than drink sea water.
Obviously it was a blow to be shot down, and see my successful flying career ended.
But on balance I reflected that I had destroyed far more enemy aircraft than my losses.
It was the first successful allied victory as in 3 ½ weeks in Africa we had advanced
from Gibraltar, and were now fighting almost 1,000 miles ahead into Tunisia.
However, coming down to earth, I knew that I had no hope of survival alone in the
middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
However the first sign of human activity I saw was just before dusk on 4th December
when I saw a convoy. I calculated I was some 17/20 miles north of Tunisia, and it
was not possible to row that far.
Although the convoy was a mile or two away, it was my only hope, so I waved the
flag, fired a shot in the air, and splashed the paddle hoping to attract attention.
Anyway, they saw me and sent a naval escort vessel back. Somebody shouted in
doubtful English ‘stay’ and I couldn’t do anything else. I dropped my revolver and
map into the Mediterranean, while they got close and lifted me into the vessel. I could
not stand. They took off my soaking wet clothes, wrapped me in a blanket and put me
to bed. When I had recovered a bit I was given some canned pears which tasted
wonderful! Some while later I was taken to see the Captain, who was very pleasant.
he said ‘pity we have to fight you but we are poor and you are rich’. I then got some
much needed sleep.
We arrived in Western Sicily at Trapani and I was handed over to some military
official who was having trouble with a chaotic telephone system, and I was then
moved to an army barracks for a couple of days, where I continued to catch up on
my sleep. I was then put on a train via Palermo and Messina to mainland Italy and to
Rome guarded by a sentry with a fixed bayonet. As he kept dozing off during the
two or three day journey I could have easily killed him with his own bayonet, but
did not think I would have had much chance of escaping from the train, and I was
sorry for him anyway.
We eventually got to Poggio Murtute outside Rome, where I was held for two
weeks, interrogated very inefficiently, and then sent by train guarded by an officer
to Chianti near the Adriatic coast. Here I was taken in to a Prisoner of War Camp
filled with 8th Army British Officers who had been captured at Tobruk.
My recollections are that things were a lengthy bore, food was always short, it was
overcrowded, the Italians were incompetent, and the peasants I had seen were very
impoverished, but the only good thing was that one was still alive. So I was supposed
to be allowed to write home. The Italian authorities did not like something that I
had written and I was sent for by a Captain Croce of the Italian Secret Police, who
ordered that I should be put into Solitary Confinement for a fortnight. Arriving in this
‘solitary’ confinement I found an American News Correspondent – Larry Allen of
Associated Press, who had lots of experience of the Mediterranean war which passed the time amusingly.
My parents had been told that I was ‘missing from air operations against the enemy’,
and it was 3 or 4 months before they heard that I was alive.
The War proceeded and some 9 months later Italy collapsed and surrendered, and we
were instructed by the Senior British Officer (ex Indian Army) not to run away to the
mountains, but to stay put so that Allied Forces could collect us. It was bad advice,
because within a couple of days we were taken over by heavily armed German
Paratroopers, forced into cattle trucks and shipped to Germany. The one or two
Officers who ran for it were killed by the Germans. It took a few days to cross the
Alps, go through Innsbruck in Austria and dump us in a camp in Regensburg in
Bavaria. We then got some food – but not much.
The Germans picked out British and American pilots and put us on a train with
Sentries. We spent the night in a cellar on Leipzig station – while the city was being
bombed by the R.A.F., but luckily no bombs hit the station. The next day we got a
train onwards and arrived at Stalag Luft III, where there was an enormous number of
Aircrew – British, American, Polish, Czech etc all of whom had been shot down from
1939 onwards.
Although the Germans seemed better organised than the Italians, it seemed the same as
the boredom, shortage of food, discomfort etc, as in Italy.
I was now 22, but on my 23rd birthday, the officers escape organisation had
successfully completed a tunnel – a remarkable operation without tools, cement,
timber etc and despite the German staff watching closely at all times. A total of over
100 escaped, though the last of this number were recaptured without getting far – but
over 60 got well away. I think only 3 or 4 got back to England via Sweden, but it
created enormous efforts for the German Army and police etc. to recapture them.
Finally to discourage any further attempts Hitler ordered that 50 British Officers who
had been recaptured be shot. This was cold blooded murder, totally contrary to the
Geneva convention which Germany had signed. Of course we had all understood
the difference between professional German Officers who had grown up observing
the rules of warfare and behaving properly as we did, but on the other hand the Hitler
and Nazi influence meant that the Gestapo, the Abwehr, and the S.S., were just thugs
without conscience, compassion or civilisation.
The R.A.F. High Command let it be known that no Officer should try to escape in
future to save lives. However, after the War, at the War Crimes Court the R.A.F.
demanded retribution for those who had signed the death warrant, and those who had
murdered unarmed Officers.
(Photo:British prisoners of war tend their garden at Stalag Luft III.)
Of course I met many other British Air Force Officers at Stalag Luft III including
‘Wings’ Day, who was a contemporary and friend of Douglas Bader. A tough and
remarkable officer, who had often been ill-treated by the Germans when trying to
escape. There were also some who had been seriously involved in tunnel escapes,
a number of whom were later murdered by the Nazis. Secretly one met others, whom
the Germans never discovered their past history – one Bomber Pilot who had come
from Berlin and joined the RAF, several Jewish Aircrew who were not publicly
admitting their religion, and one English pilot who had frequently visited Germany
pre-war because he owned a famous Rose Nursery and surreptitiously brought
back information of Military Development.
(Prisoners of war watching a boxing match at Stalag Luft III POW camp, scene of the 'Great Escape' in 1944.) Sadly I heard that Peter Bosch (a South African) and a friend of mine from 242
Squadron had been shot down March 22, 1944, into the Adriatic, seen to get into their dinghy, but
never discovered. I could appreciate the similarities, and could only compare my luck.
For us, the year 1944 continued and we were cheered by Russian advances and the
Anglo/American successes in the Normandy landings, though we were anxious for our
families at home about Hitler’s V rockets and bombers.
In January 1945 in Sagan (German/Polish border) we began to hear sounds of Russian
shelling, which was getting nearer and increasing. By this time of course, there was
heavy snow and it was very cold, which would last all winter there. The Germans
would not wish to loose so many thousand aircrew – if set free they would strengthen
the allies resources – so we were concerned that they might simply murder us.
However, at the end of January we were told that we had one hours notice to prepare
ourselves to march, and it was already night time. We collected what we thought we
could carry – we had previously worked out we would need as much warm clothing
as we had. Knowing how desperately cold it would be I decided layers of clothing would
be best. I started with pyjamas from a Red Cross parcel from home. We had prepared and
saved some basic food also from Red Cross parcels – cans of American oleo margarine and a specially cooked cake, I baked with oleo margarine and raisins.
(Photo: Three British prisoners of war chat to a German officer in the Red Cross parcel store at Stalag Luft III, Sagan, Germany. Piles of Red Cross parcels can be seen piled up behind them.)
You could swallow
pieces even if in freezing gales and consume with some melted snow.
Anyway, at about 01.00 a.m. the Germans were ready to move us. A friend and I managed
to steal an old sledge the Germans kept for moving heavy objects – so this enabled us and
other friends to take some extra clothing and food, and take turns to pull it on the snow
and ice. Obviously the Germans had problems escorting so many thousands of
prisoners of war, so did not care about the sledge as the camp would be over-run by
the Russian forces anyway. Unfortunately we had to abandon everything we could not
carry.
They marched us that night and all of the following day, but the following night we
reached some farm buildings and many of us were herded into a large barn. The only
protection from the bitter cold was piles of straw into which we immersed ourselves as
best we could. The word went round ‘if you have any matches don’t light them!’
The straw could have caught alight and burned everybody locked in the Barn. We
knew of course that when marching or walking you dare not let your feet be still or
you could easily get frostbite. Some of the guards got frostbite and pneumonia etc. in
the terrible conditions, and some of them were older than we were.
We continued to walk westwards for a couple of days until we reached a small town
named Muskau where we were locked into a disused cinema for a night and then
marched to a train at a sidings where we were crowded into cattle trucks. The sledge
had served us well, though in day time the weather warmed a little, which made it
difficult to pull. However, on a village street we passed a dustcart with wheels, and
I seized this and we transferred our load. Obviously at this time the population, civil
and military were all desperately concerned about the proximity of the advancing
Russian army. As one of us commented ‘the march of so many thousand of us could
only be compared with Napoleon’s army retreating from Moscow’.
After a couple of uncomfortable days on the train we reached Bremerhaven near the
Atlantic Ocean. Conditions as usual were awfully uncomfortable. However, some
Red Cross food arrived to prevent us from starving. We were supposed to be away
from the battle areas, but the British were coming up from Belgium, Holland and the
West Bank of the Rhine, and the Russians and Americans were advancing in their
Sectors.
We were in Bremerhaven until the beginning of April, and German High Command
decided to move us further from the advancing allies. We were now more optimistic
about the end of the War, and the weather was beginning to feel as if spring was
arriving.
They marched us out of the camp and headed north. It did not seem worth the risk of
being shot escaping because the Germans seemed to be definitely losing the War. The
first night we slept in a field and it came on to snow, but it was nothing like as cold as
it had been in January, and each day and night it felt more Spring like. So we moved
On each day, but we pretended to be only well enough to walk slowly, trying to give
our troops as much time as possible to catch up with us. Things were becoming much
more relaxed for us – Winston Churchill had made a speech saying he would hold the
Germans responsible for all allied prisoners of war – and no-doubt all Germans
realised they had lost the War.
A friend and I went off to collect some twigs and logs to start a fire on which to cook.
It was a nice day and attractive countryside so we were wandering along happily,
when along came some German Officer in full uniform – drew his revolver and said
‘halt!’.
We did so and said we were British P.O.W.s looking for some firewood. He became
less fierce when we said it was such a beautiful day and of course the “Kreig was
Capute”. The next day we reached the area of Blankanese, near Hamburg, and the
German Commandant got some ferry boats to take us across the big river. Somehow,
the Red Cross was sending us food parcels via Sweden, so things were less
threatening for us.
I had not had any chance of washing for a week or so, but found a tiny stream swollen
with melted snow, so got a brief cold bath.
Mostly now the Germans were becoming more friendly, and we passed a farm, so I
looked in and said in my few words of German “had they any goose eggs to swap for
some surplus Red Cross coffee”. I don’t know if they understood, but I was asked if
I was hungry, I said yes, and was given a bowl of hot soup for which I was grateful.
We were now close to Schleswig-Holstein, everything was becoming more friendly
and finally we reached Lubeck on the Baltic – it had been a long journey from Africa
in 2 ½ years. They had nowhere in Lubeck to house us, so we were marched back
some 5 or 6 miles to a large farm where we had shelter in farm barns and sheds.
The sentries were getting anxious, and wondering if they should desert the German
Army. We heard that Hitler had committed suicide in Berlin, as the Russians were
continuing to advance.
There was now an increasing trickle of German army troops walking past us, away
from the fighting. We began to talk to them, and said the farm had a large well
stocked pond of fish. We offered to give any of them a cigarette if they would chuck
a hand grenade into the pond to bring the stunned fish to the top so we could collect
them. We thought it was a way of neutralising a few weapons which could have cost
human lives.
A couple of days later we were over-run by British tanks of the Cheshire regiment and
so officially freed. These troops had just over-run Belson concentration camp, and
though they were hardened infantry who had fought all the way from El Alamein,
Some of them were physically sick at the sight of mounds of naked Jewish corpses,
and their terrible mal-treatment. They had seen that this incredible bestiality was
controlled by the German S.S. troops. From that moment though we were capturing
German soldiers by the thousand , any in S.S. uniforms got promptly shot.
I remember asking a British Infantry man if he thought this right – he said it was after
what he had seen at the concentration camp, and I tried to explain to him that if we acted
that way we were morally lowering ourselves to the German Nazi level. I think the
discussion saved the lives of a couple of the S.S., but I doubt if they were gently treated.
There was still a couple of days to go before all the German troops in the area had been
Disarmed. I got a lift with some British Army officers into the city of Lubeck. We visited
the Mercedes showroom as they needed to replace one of their vehicles damaged by gun
fire. They knew that the next day they had to free Denmark and immediately after free
Norway so they invited me to join them. I was very tempted, but had not seen my parents
since 1942, so decided I should return to England. I thought that for the moment a car
would be useful and helped by the army officers (well armed) persuaded the garage
owners to lend me a Mercedes with driver – thus had a chance to see some of the area.
The following day a couple of Army repatriation officers arrived and began making
arrangements for our return to England – mostly a matter of filling in forms. Next day
some army lorries took us back an hour or two to Diepholz to a German airfield now
controlled by one R.A.F. Officer and a staff of Germans. We passed through a hanger
and were fixed up with new battledress and sundries, like washing materials, toothpaste
etc. There was also a dining room offering bacon and eggs – it was a surprise to meet a
female waitress who said “would you like more bacon and eggs sir?”
That evening a number of DC3s (Dakotas) arrived and flew us back to England, landing
in Oxfordshire at Wing. The R.A.F. was delighted to have us back, congratulated us
on our behaviour in enemy captivity, and were keen to get us back home to our
families. They needed to give us rail warrants and the officer in charge, an Air Vice
Marshall, joined in the organisation to speed things up. I thought how the R.A.F. had
become so efficient and helpful!
I caught a train back through London – very crowded but I was exhausted, and
managed to sleep on the floor of the Guard’s van. London was a tremendously
exciting place – it was 6th May and it had just been announced that 8th May would be
Victory in Europe Day.
So I caught a train from London to Kenley, and at the local station deposited with the
only porter on duty, my kit bag and a large case of food I had managed to bring.
I walked up the hill, Hayes Lane, I knew so well, but had not seen since 1942 and
was re-united with my parents and brother. I slept in a bed – the first time for many
weeks, and the next morning collected my baggage from the station with my father
and his wheelbarrow. No car or petrol left!
The following day, 8th May, I went to a Victory Party at Kenley Cricket Club with
Keith, and met a girl – guess who?
Epilogue: My only further experience of the war and the RA.F. was one day in July 1945, when
they wanted to see me somewhere in Yorkshire.
They kindly were interested in my future and offered me various safe and easy jobs,
but said that they would not want me to fly operationally against the Japanese who
were still at War.
They checked on my academic records, and said they could get me a place at
Cambridge University. However, I knew of the terribly run-down state of
C&H Fabrics, and said that I would prefer to leave. I argued that my only talent,
useful to the R.A.F. was the ability to shoot down German aircraft – and they were no
longer flying.
So they de-commissioned me, thanked me, gave me a useless civilian suit, a
gratuity of almost £80 for 5 years service and the rank of Flight Lieutenant.
Fortunately they gave me a double ration of food for some weeks which delighted my
Mother, and they forgot to stop my salary until the end of the year.
So the War was won!
Note: Barry Wilfred Hamblin died 10 May 2012 at the age of 91. Information and photos kindly provided by the Hamblin family.
Above Photo: Page from Barry Hamblins' RAF pilot logbook. Note the November 2, 1941 flight at Aylmer with LAC (Charles)Woods.
