Aircrew: The Story of the Men Who Flew the Bombers (15 page)

Hawker Hart. Originally introduced into the RAF in 1930 as a single-engine Light Day Bomber, this biplane was powered by a 525 hp Kestrel

DH 89B Dominie – RAF version of the twin-engine Dragon Rapide biplane. (
RAF Museum)
.

Blackburn Botha. Designed as a twin-engine Torpedo Bomber, the aircraft was a failure in this capacity. Relegated to Air Gunnery training it was still far from ideal
(RAF Museum)
.

Handley Page Halifax. A superb four-engine heavy bomber used for a variety of purposes apart from dropping bombs

Avro Lancaster. Unlike this ‘Lane’, those operated by 101 Squadron differed in having accommodation for a crew of eight instead of the usual seven
(RAF Museum)
.

B-17 Flying Fortresses
(RAF Museum)
.

Junkers Ju 88G. Luftwaffe Night Fighter. The enemy ‘homed in’ on Bomber Command ‘Heavies’ by means of Lichtenstein radar. Note the aerials installed in the nose
(RAF Museum)
.

Messerschmitt 109G. The ultimate development of the 109 day fighter carried an offensive armament of one 30mm cannon, two 13mm machine guns and either two 20mm cannon or two 210mm rocket launchers
(RAF Museum)
.

In broad daylight they flew to the target without any problems. On the bomb run Harold had set up his SABS and the red light was already glowing – the bomb would drop automatically in a matter of seconds. But before those seconds had ticked by, there was a shattering explosion right in front of the Lancaster. The perspex nose was destroyed and pieces of red-hot shrapnel ricocheted back and forth inside the bomb aimer’s compartment which was filled with choking smoke. The tubular steel rods supporting the bomb sight were severed like matchsticks.

Fortunately for Harold, he always drew his head back inunediately before the Tallboy dropped away from the aircraft. This was because, released from the heavy load, the bomber would leap up several hundred feet, giving an unwary bomb aimer a nasty smack on the back of the head. This time Harold’s instinctive reaction saved his life.

For a moment he lay unconscious, then, gathering his wits, he started to crawl up the steps into the main cabin, where he received his second shock. Trevor Davies, the flight engineer, took one look at him and screamed. Harold raised his trembling hands to his face. When he brought them away they were bright red. Small slivers of shattered perspex had cut into his face.

So, with fifty-one operations behind him, more than the rest of the crew because of his extra missions with Wing Commander Tait, Harold’s combat career ended. His wounds healed and slowly he came to terms with the fact that he was going to live. Even then, celebration of his 22nd birthday on 14 September was blighted by the news that his school friend Neville Crisp had been shot down and killed in his Beaufighter on that very day, attacking E-boats in the channel.

Leaving 617 Squadron, which had long since moved to Wood-hall Spa, Harold did a spell as an instructor. One day he received a signal to report to Thorney Island, in South Wales, to carry out some specialized bombing practice. The war in Europe was over but Japan was still fighting and plans were afoot to send 617 out
to the Pacific to bomb the Japanese Navy. Unlike the German capital ships, which had been moored in various docks, the Japanese warships were on the move. The practice therefore involved bombing moving targets – black and white striped drogues towed by motor torpedo boats.

One day he was asked to take some aerial photographs of Thorney Island, where the airfield was due for reconstruction. He was standing in the open doorway at the rear of the Lancaster with a rather cumbersome P4 camera strapped to his chest, taking shots, as his pilot, Wing Commander Brooks, flew back and forth at about 1,500 feet. Harold had grabbed the first parachute harness that came to hand, one adjusted for a man around 6 foot 2 inches. This meant that the lower canvas straps which should have been snugly embracing his crutch were actually hanging down level with his knees. Of course he was not wearing the actual chute pack which was tucked neatly away in its holder.

Brookie called up on the intercom and told him he was going to do a gentle rate 1 turn. The turn must have been so perfectly executed that they hit their own slipstream on the way back. The sudden turbulence pitched Harold straight out of the door.

By a miracle a small metal ring attached to the bottom of the dangling harness caught on some protrusion on the door, a bolt perhaps or a hinge, and stopped him from plunging 1,500 feet on to the concrete runway below. The wireless operator had noticed his unexpected exit and, with the help of the flight engineer, managed to haul him back on board. By this time, not surprisingly, he was out cold.

The force with which the slack in the harness had been taken up on his downward plunge nearly ruined him. In hospital his appendages, which, to use his own words, ‘had swelled up like footballs!’ were encased in a kind of leather bladder with a hole in the front. He remained in this embarrassing state for several months. His discharge from medical supervision came in time for him to take part in a ‘joy ride’ to Berlin to see the damage that he and others had inflicted on the German capital. Gazing in disbelief at the acres of ruins brought him no particular pleasure.

Soon afterwards he was granted leave to spend time with his wife, Cynthia, at their home in Nottingham. From Thorney Island
it was a long and tedious train journey, so he was therefore pleased to scrounge a lift in a Lancaster to Fiskerton, in Lincolnshire, and in this way cut down his travelling time considerably. With satisfaction he saw that the youthful Pilot Officer planned his route meticulously, and also decided to ignore the stipulated safety height of 4,000 feet, opting to fly at 9,000 feet instead.

They were over the Midlands and Harold was standing in the astrodome enjoying the view. Ready for leave, he was not even in flying kit, but wearing his officer’s greatcoat and peaked cap, with a small travelling case at his feet.

Suddenly the aircraft tilted and dived straight towards the earth. With less than 1,000 feet to spare, the pilot managed to pull out of the plunge. If they had flown at the official safety height, they would have finished up several feet into the ground. The cause was simple enough – the aircraft had been on automatic pilot. The Lancaster was new, straight from the factory. Inspectors had failed to detect iron filings in the linkage control ducts; these filings had jammed the controls in the dive position on the automatic device.