WOP/AG Peter Jensen. Instalment 15
Over the next couple of weeks, the memory of the 465 signal gradually faded from squadron memory. As winter approached, the cold, wild weather made flying difficult, and even when moored, the flying boats had to be constantly guarded and protected. There always had to be at least two of the crew on board day and night. Refuelling especially could be a nightmare, especially at night. Also, re-arming with depth charges or ammunition for the guns had to be experienced to be believed.
I remember one dark and stormy night, we had landed after a long patrol. It was pitch black, the wind was blowing hard and the moisture in the air couldn’t make up its mind whether to hail or sleet. The skipper and the navigator went ashore for de-briefing, leaving the rest of us to get the aircraft ready for takeoff the next day. (It was requirement that the aircraft be fully refuelled and re-armed by the crew immediately after landing.)
I had the job of topping up the oil tanks, so I climbed out on the wing with a small torch. I started with the starboard inner engine, opened the panel covering the oil tank cap, and with the aid of the torch, read the dip stick. I pulled up a cord that was attached to the oil pipe from the refuelling barge below, put the nozzle into the oil tank and called: “Oil on,” and oil started flowing into the tank. When the tank was full, I called “Oil off,” and when the oil stopped flowing, I replaced the cap and panel and carefully stood up holding the nozzle close. It was pitch black, a bitterly cold wind blowing, hard-laced with hail and snowflakes, the aircraft was bucking – and then I started to slip. I couldn’t keep my feet. I went down on to my knees, switched on the torch and found that the oil line was still oozing oil and the oil was running down the front of my battledress, over my flying boots and the rubber soles couldn’t grip the oil-covered wing. I expressed my deep feelings into the wind, and finished up topping up the oil in the other three engines on my knees.
One of my most memorable experiences happened on Christmas Day 1943. On Christmas Eve, a signal was received from a 228 Squadron Sunderland. They had sighted a mystery ship, possibly a blockade runner. And so it turned out to be. Then a short time later, a signal was received from another Sunderland from 201 Squadron, (captained by Les Baveystock, who, for a short time, flew as our first pilot during our Poole days). The positions were close together and the question was – were there two ships, or did one aircraft have the wrong position?
Both aircraft were told to check their positions, but the 228 Squadron aircraft was never heard from again – obviously, it had been shot down. The panic was on. Les was told to shadow his ship, and when the Navy was called, all they had on hand was an old WW1 cruiser that had been converted to a minelayer. It was sent at full speed – about 12 knots! – to the area.
Jimmy was told to prepare for take over from Les Baveystock when he had to leave to refuel. We all went to bed to get what sleep we could.
We assembled at 4 a.m. for briefing. It was the most diabolical briefing I had ever attended. There were two blockade runners, and the Germans were desperate to get them into port. They had sent out eleven destroyers, (Narvik and Ebling class – modern ships with heavy armament), two Sperrbrekkers (flak ships), and there was intensive air cover of Ju88’s.
I thought: “Great! But what’s the cloud like?” Les had reported good cloud cover, but when the Met. man came on, he said he predicted a clear sky – no cloud! The last word was from the Operations Officer, whose comforting remark was: “There will be a Mosquito standing by at St Athan, but don’t bother calling him. You’ll be way out of his range.”
We were a quiet bunch walking down to the jetty, each with his own thoughts. To make matters worse, we weren’t flying our own aircraft. For a reason I can’t remember, we were told to take another one. This was something we didn’t like, as every aircraft is different and you become used to your own – you become comfortable with it.
It was to be a first light takeoff and dawn was just breaking as we slipped moorings and started towards the flare path. Then George Done the navigator came on the intercom to Jimmy and said: “There’s good light, Jimmy. Why not take off down river?” This was surprising, as I had never heard a navigator advise a pilot before.
Jimmy said: “Good idea. There’s a lot more water,” and proceeded to take off.
We had just got airborne when there came a loud banging noise. I looked over to the engineer’s position to see red lights flashing. This was all I needed. I grabbed my seat cushion, put it against the transmitter, sat on the bench, back against the cushion, feet on the piece of armour plate behind my position, in a crouch, with my head in my hands – and waited to hit!
In a wonderful example of airmanship, Jimmy brought the aircraft down on the water so softly that I didn’t know we were down. How fortunate that George had made his suggestion. If we had taken off on the flare path, we would have ended up in the township of Neyland, and if the depth charges had gone off, there wouldn’t have been much of the town left.
The panic was really on – we had to get airborne within 20 minutes or the op. would have been classified as an operational failure, and someone would have to be blamed for it. The Engineering Wing Commander came running down, a greatcoat over his pyjamas, determined it wasn’t going to be pinned on him. He came aboard with a couple of erks, who climbed up on the wing, opened the nacelle and found the trouble – the petrol line to the carburettor had been disconnected.
A big relief for the Wingco! He immediately blamed us. “Must have been one of the crew milking petrol out of the tank.”
This was loudly denounced by Bubbles, as it was not our aircraft.
“Well,” the Wingco said, as he nervously looked at his watch, “it’s all OK now. Get airborne.”
Bubbles and Joe Taylor stood their ground. “I want the other engines checked.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the other engines are OK,” said the Wingco.
“As far as you were concerned, the port inner was OK before we took off,” said Bubbles and Joe.
There was a moment’s silence as the two factions faced each other. Then the Wingco tried a new tack. He turned to Jimmy: “I am ordering you to take off,” he said.
What a responsibility for a young man, with ten lives plus his own at risk and with a job to do that he knew was dangerous for all involved. To his credit, he didn’t hesitate. “I’m taking off,” he said. “Who’s coming with me?”
We were all near the end of our tours and the experience of the immediate past had us all with a dose of the shakes, but when your skipper asks, what can you do? One by one, we said OK, as much as we would have all liked to go ashore and back to bed like the Wingco.
So off went a very relieved Wingco and his erks in the dinghy as we prepared for takeoff.
We started the engines and I switched on the R/T and requested permission for takeoff. We took off – down river again! – did a circuit of the base, then the navigator gave the captain a course to steer. The captain took up the course and I leaned over to switch off the R/T and change to W/T when I heard a faint voice on the R/T. I switched to intercom and asked the captain to do another circuit of the base, as base could be calling us. Sure enough, as we got into range, the voice came calling us.
I replied, and the message came: “Return to base, sortie cancelled.”
What a relief! We had Christmas dinner after all!
The drama unfolded over the next few hours. Apparently, the Navy had managed to get two cruisers into position and didn’t need us, and a battle took place which led to a magnificent victory by the Navy. They suffered no damage, but on the German side – disaster! They lost the blockade runners and their valuable cargoes and several destroyers. (I don’t know the exact number.)
Last edited by Wiley; 1st Feb 2010 at 00:53.
Reason: Typos, new info from PJ