Memoirs of as WW-II Typhoon pilot Part 18
Here is another extract from Peter Brett's memoirs. He is now operational with No 183 Typhoon squadron, carrying out ground attack raids over northern France.
On October 28th 1943 I flew Typhoon HF-B from Fairwood Common to Predannack. I flew part of the way in company with a Spitfire which was returning to Perranporth.The rest of the trip included a low level beat-up of some of the beaches along the North Cornish coast and round Lands End, across Mounts Bay to Lizard Point.
The next day I again flew this aircraft but this time on my first operation!
The target was the airfield at Guipavas near Brest (Now the Brest Airport). We were to dive-bomb using 500lb bombs. The method and approach to dive bombing changed several times during my tour but, at this time, we were starting from 12000 ft, diving down to about 4000 ft. The briefing just told us that the target was probably heavily defended by AA fire but that we should not expect any fighter opposition since the airfield was not then occupied by an operational squadron. It seems that we were to bomb the airfield to delay the deployment of a fighter wing which was due to be transferred there.
I freely admit to the 'butterflies in the stomach' feeling during the briefing, and it was not until we were airborne and well on our way that I began to settle down. The procedure was that we flew across the channel at nominally zero feet and then did a fast battle climb to 12,000 ft just before we reached the target. The climb was done at +4 boost and 185 mph which gave us the maximum rate of climb. As soon as we reached 12,000 ft we were ordered into echelon and then the leader would call the target position and tell us when he was about to dive.
As the 'new boy' I was No.2 in the second four which made me the sixth aircraft to dive. Crossing the Channel, I was very busy keeping station on my No.1 and ensuring that I did not inadvertently fly into the sea, since we were only some twenty feet above the waves! The fast climb up was relatively easy and uneventful. The C.O. called 'Echelon Port, Arm Bombs.... Go!' and I tripped the arming switches and slid across to the left of my leader as the squadron reformed. Almost immediately I realized that I was actually being fired at for the first time! Black puffs of smoke were appearing in the sky around us. Fortunately most of them were too high. The C.O. then called 'Target 3 o'clock below, diving now' and peeled off. Up to now I had not seen the target and I blindly followed my leader into a 135 degree bank and down into, what seemed at the time to be, a vertical dive. Looking ahead I then realized that I was looking down on a grass airfield with various hangars and other buildings.
I pointed the nose of the aircraft at the centre of the field, glanced at the altimeter, which was unwinding very fast, and, as it passed 4000ft I eased the nose up a trifle and pressed the bomb release button on the end of the throttle lever. Time to leave! I pulled back on the stick and came out of the dive, keeping the 'G' force such that I did not 'black out'. As the speed dropped I eased back into level flight and looked around for the rest of the squadron. Nobody in sight! I eventually saw them about 4000ft above me. I don't think I have ever felt so alone since! Nobody had told me that you pulled out using the maximum 'G' that you could stand, even if it meant 'blacking out' by losing the blood supply to the eyes. I later became adept at pulling just the amount of 'G' to lose my vision but keep conscious on the pullout from the dive. At this time however, I had to make up the difference. By slamming the throttle 'through the gate' to emergency boost and moving the propellor control to fine pitch I managed to catch up the rest of the squadron in short order. The C.O. later apologized for not briefing me properly. The operation was counted as a success and was reported with a short paragraph in the newspapers. I had a cutting from the 'Daily Sketch' pasted into my log book. The whole operation lasted one hour and ten minutes but I felt afterwards as if I had done a hard day's work!
I did not fly again for three days. The squadron was on 'stand down' for a couple of days and, of course we had an impromptu mess party as soon as we knew that we would not be flying operations for a while. Most of us used to drink a pint or two every night but on party nights it was almost obligatory to become legless! Apart from the singing of service type songs, most of which were very obscene, we also indulged in some pretty weird pranks.
One favourite was to get some poor lad to remove his shoes and socks, dip his feet in a mixture of beer and soot from the fireplace, and then the rest of the mess, sometimes as many as fifty people, would hoist him up and he would make black footprints up the wall and across the ceiling. Since in most messes the ceiling was fairly high the footprints could only be obtained by hoisting the performer up, head downwards, on top of a pyramid of supporters. Also, since everybody was somewhat drunk and tended to collapse laughing at the slightest excuse, it usually took a long time and many downfalls before anything was accomplished. I suppose it was because we were drunk that no major injuries occurred.
I also remember trying the business of having someone sit in a chair whilst two others pressed down on his head. At a given signal the two others would transfer their hands to place one under each armpit and one behind each knee. They would then lift the subject up as high as possible. It used to work too! I can clearly remember two of us fairly tall types hurling a smaller member right over a table and landing him in a settee a good ten feet away!
The songs we used to sing were the usual ones popular in every Service mess and in every rugby club too. They were always being added to, and the notable ones, such as 'Eskimo Nell', 'The good Ship Venus' and even the more venerable "Quartermaster's Store", must by now have reached epic proportions.
One quotable ditty that I remember was an RAF dig at the US Air Force. It was sung to the tune of 'John Brown's Body' and went as follows:
We're flying Flying Fortresses at Forty Thousand feet
We're flying Flying Fortresses and we know we can't be beat
With bags of ammunition and a tiny weeny bomb
And when we've dropped the bastard then we don't know where it's gone!
This was of course a gross libel on the incredibly brave crews of the Flying Fortresses. It was based on the fact that the B-17 had many more defensive guns than, for instance, the Lancaster, but carried a somewhat smaller bomb load. Also the technique used by the USAF for daylight raids was 'Pattern bombing' where all the bombers in a formation released their bombs together on a signal from the leader who was the one doing the bomb aiming. No doubt the USAF had some equally derogatory songs about the RAF!
The only times I every came into contact with the USAF I found them very similar to ourselves and very ready to help out in any situation. I certainly did not envy the Flying Fortress crews on their raids into Germany. In any case, we had every reason to be thankful to them since at this time the Luftwaffe was deployed defending Germany from their operations and consequently we were not very often attacked by German aircraft over Northern France.