My father was on 88 sqn and also a Boston skipper, thought you might like to read one of his escapades.
The Saga of the Wingco's Kite
It was shortly after "D" Day and the British and Canadian troops were desperately trying to break out from Caen, but having little success. Meanwhile Rommel was pushing reinforcements forward as fast as possible.
H.Q. received a report from the French Resistance that a Panzer division had massed in the forest near Alencon and were expected to move out that same night, this resulted in instructions being passed to the French and British squadrons to arrange a maximum effort intruder attack on anything that moved in the area.
My navigator was a brilliant young Canadian , a product of McGill University and a red hot map reader and bomb aimer. He plotted a route which crossed a sharp V bend in the Sarthe river, which pointed directly towards the target area and for this reason, we were the first away. My aircraft, G for Glenda, (navigator's girlfriend) was on inspection and I was given the Wingco's pride and joy, his beautifully polished brand new private steed, what a thrill for a sprog F/O !
Geoff 'breaks off' in his own kite G-Glenda. (Not the Wingco's pride and joy which he flew on the raid!!)
It was a lovely moonlight night and we approached the river without incident, but having crossed it, everything changed !!! Suddenly All hell broke loose and coloured fireworks began flashing past the windows, we were bathed in the glare of searchlights and two almighty bangs followed which shook the aircraft to its boots, then suddenly the rays of the searchlights were coming through the cockpit floor. I immediately began to wonder how long it would be before the eleven second delay fuses on our bomb load detonated and fragments of my aircraft, self and crew would be scattered over a wide area of the oft - quoted "Foreign Field". I had started counting off the seconds when my thoughts were rudely interrupted by a stream of North American obscenities which came screaming over the intercom from my normally quietly spoken navigator. "Let's go back and get the S.o.Bs " he shouted. I know exactly where the S.o.Bs are. (and this was the mild stuff).
Personally I was not very keen on the idea, but as he correctly maintained, other aircraft following might not be so fortunate. Everything seemed to be working O.K, we were trundling along quite happily except for a hell of a draught plus the odd shudder and shake - and since the Wingco's kite appeared to have absorbed the punishment as a Wingco's kite should - I made a very wide circuit, picked up the original track, descended to 150 feet and selected two 500 pounders and a canister of incendiaries. Speed was now of the essence and with its donkeys giving everything they had to give, the Wingco's kite raced once again towards the bend in the river. As we crossed the water the Nav. yelled "I can see them, I can see the B..s, dead ahead - bombs away" (High drama indeed - Biggles couldn't match it). I made a climbing turn out of there and looked back a few seconds later to see the whole area explode and burn furiously - must have been much more there than just a clutch of guns !! Thinking the fire would act as a useful navigational aid we headed for the main target. I later congratulated the Nav. on his ability and suggested that one day he should try his luck on the stage, but he said he might have difficulty adapting to the life style because he was a Baptist . I didn't press the point, but doubted whether he'd learned his vocabulary at Sunday School.
Upon returning to base we completed the F.700, declaring the aircraft to be Cat.4 (extensive damage), went to de-briefing and then to our beds. The following morning we reported to the flight office expecting a pat on the back and perhaps a bit of the "well done thou good and faithful servants", but nothing of the kind! When the Wingco saw the damage to his beautiful aeroplane - a gaping hole where the bomb doors used to be and the belly ripped open right back to the rear hatch - his rage was terrible to behold, (much more frightening than being shot at by the enemy) and he seemed to have it fixed in his head that the damage was sustained whilst making an unauthorised attack on the gun battery and not earlier, whilst overflying. Luckily, the A.O.C. visited the squadron a few days later and when he learned of our escapade and being something of a tearaway himself, said it was a "Jolly good show" which, with the arrival of a replacement aircraft, nearly as shiny as the damaged one, caused the storm to slowly subside. Nevertheless, the dear old Wingco never addressed me by my first name again.