THIS old crewroom is cold and damp, its Crittal metal windows are corroding, the single-skin brickwork has more damp patches than dry, alas many of its occupants have made their final takeoffs. But to celebrate the New Year, let’s stoke up the old stove until its cast-iron chimney goes red, pull up the old chairs, and gather round for a tale which surely deserves an honoured place in this immortal ‘Brevet’ thread.
When my father was posted from India to Binbrook in 1948 the young Australians of 460 Sqn were still fondly remembered by the villagers. The young men who survived had flown their Lancasters home to rebuild their own air force, and were replaced by the Lincolns of 9, 12, 101 and 617 Sqns. While the gallant deeds of these squadrons were well known, even as a youngster I noticed that people in the closely-knit RAF community spoke of 101 Sqn almost in hushed tones.
The squadron had been based 1943-45 at Ludford Magna only four miles away and had, we were told, flown the most sorties and had the highest casualty rate in Bomber Command. Nobody could explain why, and some put it down to inexperience, some to bad luck, some to finger trouble. It was long after the war until the nation learned about the top secret electronic battles that raged high in the night skies over Germany.
The 40-plus Lancaster aircraft of 101 Sqn carried eight men instead of seven, the eighth being a Special Operator whose task was to block and disrupt enemy radio communications with powerful transmitters to broadcast a variety of jamming tones and even give false instructions to German night fighters. The Special spoke fluent German and nobody mentioned his role in the aircraft, even the pilot, and he did not appear in crew photographs. Many served under a changed identity, especially if they had Jewish-sounding names.
B for Baker of 101 Sqn releases a 4000lb cookie blast bomb and hundreds of incendiaries over Duisberg, 1944. Note the jammer transmitter aerials between cockpit and mid-upper turret.
Each aircraft carried six tons of bombs as well as half a ton of extra equipment, plus three long transmitter aerials to create extra drag. The squadron proved so effective that they flew on most major raids after 1943. Each aircraft was spaced along the bomber stream for maximum disruption, and obviously their high-powered transmitters turned every 101 Sqn Lancaster into an electronic lighthouse for the German pilots, who soon learned to pick them off. Until recently I had read very little from the crews until I encountered a totally gripping account written 80 years ago by Pilot Officer Ronald Homes.
He describes the banalities of daily life one moment, then the formal exchanges of his sortie, course changes, fuel states and so on, mixed with moments of sheer terror:
“What a strange noise… WE’VE BEEN HIT! A brilliant yellow-orange light fills the cockpit. “Starboard outer’s on fire skipper” shouts the engineer, “There’s a bloody great flame going past the tailplane” shouts the mid upper. “OK chaps, settle down. Pilot to engineer, feather the starboard outer and push the fire extinguisher”. “OK skip ... Fire’s still burning skip” ... “****! ... What the hell is happening engineer? “Starboard inner’s feathered skipper!” “So has the bloody port inner, I’ve only one engine left!”
And more besides, it’s like being aboard the Lancaster listening to the intercom. P/Off Homes’s superbly told story has appeared elsewhere, but I can’t find any trace of his post-war career among the broken links and unanswered emails. So I acknowledge all sources for his account which I propose to post over the next couple of weeks.
May it form a fitting tribute to the 1,176 airmen of 101 Sqn who never returned to base.