PILOT TRAINING in UK, WW2
On the last day in July, 1942, Ivan and I, with four other crews, were told we would be posted the following day. We were to be cleared from Abingdon by 11-00am and then report to the Engineering Officer. There we were given the Form 700 for six ancient Whitleys which just been serviced, after lying idle for some months. They were an uninspiring sight, recently fitted with six internal tanks,- long cylinders stacked three each side in the fuselage. We were told these would enable the Whitley to fly for up to 14 hours, and we were to deliver them to St Eval.
10 kit bags, two for each crew member, plus several other packages and three bicycles, were strapped down in the available space and we climbed in. Unfortunately there was no seat squab for the pilot. Also we had no parachutes nor Mae Wests, despite the order we were always to carry these. Abingdon parachute section demanded they should be handed in before clearance and would not issue others. Peter, my Bomb Aimer, acquired a blanket from the Sergeants’ Mess for me to sit on. The engines fired up and the airframe rattled and groaned as we taxied out.
A Pilot Officer wearing pilots wings, but also the badges of the ATC, said he was authorized to fly with us to St Eval, as he was spending a holiday in Newquay. Peter had confirmed this at the Watch Office. I invited him to sit in the jump seat and Peter said he would sit in the nose. As we turned onto the grass airfield the Pilot Officer said he had never flown in a Whitley and he was looking forward to the trip. I replied, “They are very solid aircraft, but don’t judge them by this clapped out old kite. I will feel much happier when we get it off the ground.” I wish I had not said that !
It was hot day with no wind and the “T” was laid out to give the longest run. Opening up to full bore we rumbled across the grass in a long run but, just as we reached take -off speed, I felt a slight swing to port. I immediately knew something was wrong so I called, “Hold tight. We are crashing.”
The trees on the airfield boundary loomed up as I pulled back on the stick and we just scraped over them, dropping onto the wheels in a field of stubble.
Flames shot up between my legs and the green fabric by the side of my seat was also ablaze. ( Who would line a cock-pit with a green carpet-like material?) Then we hit a fence and the wheels were torn off, and we stopped in a field of wheat. Although I had hit the switches there was an awful noise from the fire.
The Pilot Officer had disappeared through the nose, following Peter. Jack Roberts was standing on my right thigh and pushing against the escaped hatch. I reached up and released the catch and Jack shot out. As I turned round, I saw ‘Benny’ Goodman staggering from the wireless compartment. He had taken his jacket off before take off, because it was a very hot day, but now his shirt was in flames, his hair had disappeared and the skin had gone from his face. He was blind, and groping forward with his hands.
I grabbed hold of him and steered him up to the hatch and pushed him out. The port wing was ablaze so I pushed ‘Benny’ forward over the front turret where Bert Bradley had come round from the rear turret and he grabbed him.
I urged the crew away and we ran to a farm house at the edge of the field. The front door was open but no one was about, so I picked up the telephone and asked the operator for Abingdon Airfield, saying it was ‘An Emergency.’ She did not know what an emergency was and did not want to connect me. As I argued with her, a hand came from behind me and took the ‘phone. It was Group Captain Gray. I said to him, “I don’t know what on earth happened, Sir.”
“Don’t worry, sergeant. All your crew are alive. That’s all that matters.”
The rest of the crew were already in the ambulance and ‘Benny’ was being swathed in wet bandages, taken from a bucket of brine water.
I commented on the speed at which the Ambulance and Fire Crew had arrived and one said. “We watched you take off. Half way down your run we saw the fire break out from the port engine and it was like an eighty foot blow lamp. It even burnt off your port rudder before you got airborne, and we started out, not across the field but by the main gate.”
Of the other five Whitleys, Ivan landed at St Eval, but as he passed over the “hump” on the main runway he found he had no brake pressure. Unable to stop he turned and wrote off the undercarriage. A second aircraft landed at St Merryn and also suffered brake failure, crashing into the bomb dump railings. Number four lost an engine in flight and landed safely at another airfield. Number five landed safely at St Eval, and number six did not take off at all. Wing Commander Pickard, the C/O of the new unit at St Eval was not amused!
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