Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
As far as I can see from my log books there was a change to the official RAF Form 414 Pilots Flying Log Book in 1962. My first was the old one with my basic and advanced training and they both have a 414A pasted in at the end of each period.
The 1962 Log Book has all the summaries and assessments near the back pages so the 414A would not have been used
The 1962 Log Book has all the summaries and assessments near the back pages so the 414A would not have been used
I've finally caught up with the recent Ch 4 programme on "WWII's Great Escapes: The Freedom Trails". Ep 4 In the Pyrenees.
Its focus is on the "Chemin de la Liberté" - a route that starts at Saint-Girons in the Ariège.
Bob Frost, a Wellington rear gunner, evaded via the Comet Line - much further to the west - a far less demanding route than that featured in the programme. Bob was one of the first evaders I ever met down here.
For those who were unable to catch the programme the first time around, here's a link to it (hope it works):
https://vidnode.net/streaming.php?id...-%20Season%201
Edited to add: This is a film that Spanish Basques made about the Comet Line in 2011:
https://vimeo.com/170540972
It's in a mixture of languages - but don't give up - it's worth sticking with it.
Its focus is on the "Chemin de la Liberté" - a route that starts at Saint-Girons in the Ariège.
Bob Frost, a Wellington rear gunner, evaded via the Comet Line - much further to the west - a far less demanding route than that featured in the programme. Bob was one of the first evaders I ever met down here.
For those who were unable to catch the programme the first time around, here's a link to it (hope it works):
https://vidnode.net/streaming.php?id...-%20Season%201
Edited to add: This is a film that Spanish Basques made about the Comet Line in 2011:
https://vimeo.com/170540972
It's in a mixture of languages - but don't give up - it's worth sticking with it.
Last edited by PPRuNeUser0139; 12th Oct 2017 at 14:36. Reason: Added link to film about the Comet Line
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A BEVERLEY BONUS
Roving - re your #11361, hope the log books contain what you are looking for!
What follows is an account of a day at Boscombe Down in February 1956, originally written for 'MagDrop', the journal of the Beverley Association.
Sitting inside the Handling Squadron Offices at Boscombe Down, my colleague and I surveyed the bleak scene outside without enthusiasm; an artic spell of weather had brought the usual British paralysis, and most flying had been suspended. However it was not just the low overcast carried on a bitter east wind, nor the ice and snow largely covering the tarmac, that kept us grounded; additional discouragement was provided by the sight of the Beverley that we hoped to fly standing immobile on the ramp and festooned with icicles. Attempts to remove them seemed to result in the rapid appearance of others, while there were dark hints of meltwater having refrozen in out-of-the-way places housing control rods and cables – so, the immediate future looked bleak in every sense. There in order to familiarise ourselves with the beast prior to undertaking conversion of 47 Squadron at Abingdon, this task appeared infinitely remote.
"That b----y block of flats will never fly" brayed a rather 'blah' voice behind us, "why not fly a real aeroplane, I have just the thing for you airborne bus drivers". Turning, we beheld the fastidious form of 'Dizzy' Steer, the Fleet Air Arm pilot whose task it was to assess naval aircraft. I affected to ignore him on this occasion but, some days later when the weather had improved yet the Beverley was still rooted immovably to the deck for some reason or other, his words returned to haunt me. Anything to get out of this wretched office I thought, going down the passage and banging on his door.
"Thought you would come round, Old Boy" he said cheerily, "afraid I can only offer you a Firefly but it's a super aircraft even if a bit out of date. Here, have a look at Pilots' Notes and come back after lunch". Dubiously perusing the slim booklet back at the Mess it looked simple enough, even though I had previously flown no single larger than a Harvard (and that only briefly). Still, the object was to get airborne and have a bit of fun, and anyway Dizzy would be along to hold my hand. It was a nice day, overcast at about 2500ft. but with good visibility beneath and a light NE wind down the runway, so why not have a go?
"Hello" he said on my return, "the kite's ready and my CPO and his team are waiting for you". I observed that it would help if he could point me towards a parachute. "Better take mine Old Boy" he leered, "I won't need it today". It was like a blow to the stomach, for I suddenly realised that I had been superlatively conned. "What do you mean" I spluttered feebly, "aren’t you coming too?"
"Not on your b----y life Old Boy, surely you don't think I'll fly with someone who hasn't been up in the b----y kite before?" Willing the floor to swallow me up, I despairingly realised that there was no way out; not only was the honour of the RAF at stake, there was no question of allowing myself to be bested by a mere fish-head. So, clipping on the unaccustomed 'chute, I waddled awkwardly towards the flight line.
The wizened old CPO and his team of manically grinning matelots had obviously seen this particular show before, many times; approaching their accursed flying tumbril, the malicious glint in their eyes was only too plain. Clambering inelegantly up the side of what was suddenly a monstrously large aircraft, I was lashed in with excessive zeal, no doubt to forestall any last-minute attempt at escape.
"Right Sir", says the CPO, "when I gives yer thumbs up yer presses that there button an' orf yer goes". Smiling weakly at him as he returned to ground level I ran through the pre-start checks as slowly as was decently possible, finally showing a reluctant thumb above the cockpit edge. Receiving his acknowledgement, I pressed 'that there button' to be answered with a deafening explosion and a dense pall of smoke. Panic-stricken, I fumbled fruitlessly for the harness release thinking that the aircraft had blown up but then noticed the big Rolls-Royce Griffon was turning over sweetly with that lovely staccato music barking from the exhaust stacks; and, as the smoke blew clear, it slowly dawned on me that I had experienced a cartridge starter for the first time (yes, I should have read those Pilots’ Notes more closely!).
Waving the chocks away I commenced taxiing gingerly towards the runway, swinging the nose from side to side in the approved manner. It seemed easier than expected, and even though I was still on the ground some confidence slowly returned. The power check presented no problems, but pre-takeoff checks were repeated several times until the moment of truth could no longer be decently postponed. Sliding the canopy part-closed as the tower gave takeoff clearance I lined up on the runway and slowly opened the throttle, to be answered by a snarling roar that, with its accompaniment of deep orange flame jetting from the stacks, was highly satisfying and stirred within me a previously unsuspected Biggles factor. Even with slightly less than full power applied acceleration was rapid, and in what appeared to be no time at all a gentle backward pressure on the column achieved lift-off, the wheels retracting into the wings beneath as I climbed away.
It has to be said that the rest of the story is rather anticlimactic. Flying beneath the overcast, I unexpectedly found that I was hugely enjoying myself. Coming from the closed world of Transport Command, where one was hardly allowed to set eyes on an unfamiliar aircraft without having first completed a ground school course of interminable length, now with no previous instruction of any kind I had a totally alien bird all to myself. The contrast was so extreme as to be almost ridiculous.
By instinct a straight & level pilot, I satisfied myself with bumbling about the local area and staying beneath the cloud deck meanwhile. After half an hour or so I headed back towards the field to carry out a few circuits and landings, but the Firefly seemed almost to land itself; better pack it in, I thought, before destroying the illusion.
Arriving back at the ramp in a euphoric mood, I sensed (probably unjustly) an air of disappointment on the CPO's part at my evident good spirits. However Dizzy was in no way put out, accepting as perfectly proper that any pilot should be able to climb into a completely strange aircraft and fly it without further ado; in fact I was mildly surprised not to be asked to write up a précis on the Firefly's handling characteristics, normal procedure for a test pilot.
What has all this to do with the Beverley, I hear voices ask. Not very much at all really, except that its unserviceability presented me with an opportunity of the sort that comes only once in a lifetime, and so I remain eternally in its debt. Over sixty years later I can still hear that V12's rasping roar and recall with pleasure the Firefly's crisp, vice-free handling, an experience granted now only to a select handful of display pilots; it also gives some small satisfaction that the Royal Navy's base attempt to faze the RAF was met head-on and duly foiled (well sort of, anyway).
A pilot with experience of the Firefly alleged that I have over-praised it, and that it was something of a cow to handle. Be that as it may, after some years of that arch-pig the Hastings Mk1 even a brick s---house would have appeared to fly like a dream.
A couple more pieces featuring the Beverley will appear in due course, but require some editing first.
What follows is an account of a day at Boscombe Down in February 1956, originally written for 'MagDrop', the journal of the Beverley Association.
Sitting inside the Handling Squadron Offices at Boscombe Down, my colleague and I surveyed the bleak scene outside without enthusiasm; an artic spell of weather had brought the usual British paralysis, and most flying had been suspended. However it was not just the low overcast carried on a bitter east wind, nor the ice and snow largely covering the tarmac, that kept us grounded; additional discouragement was provided by the sight of the Beverley that we hoped to fly standing immobile on the ramp and festooned with icicles. Attempts to remove them seemed to result in the rapid appearance of others, while there were dark hints of meltwater having refrozen in out-of-the-way places housing control rods and cables – so, the immediate future looked bleak in every sense. There in order to familiarise ourselves with the beast prior to undertaking conversion of 47 Squadron at Abingdon, this task appeared infinitely remote.
"That b----y block of flats will never fly" brayed a rather 'blah' voice behind us, "why not fly a real aeroplane, I have just the thing for you airborne bus drivers". Turning, we beheld the fastidious form of 'Dizzy' Steer, the Fleet Air Arm pilot whose task it was to assess naval aircraft. I affected to ignore him on this occasion but, some days later when the weather had improved yet the Beverley was still rooted immovably to the deck for some reason or other, his words returned to haunt me. Anything to get out of this wretched office I thought, going down the passage and banging on his door.
"Thought you would come round, Old Boy" he said cheerily, "afraid I can only offer you a Firefly but it's a super aircraft even if a bit out of date. Here, have a look at Pilots' Notes and come back after lunch". Dubiously perusing the slim booklet back at the Mess it looked simple enough, even though I had previously flown no single larger than a Harvard (and that only briefly). Still, the object was to get airborne and have a bit of fun, and anyway Dizzy would be along to hold my hand. It was a nice day, overcast at about 2500ft. but with good visibility beneath and a light NE wind down the runway, so why not have a go?
"Hello" he said on my return, "the kite's ready and my CPO and his team are waiting for you". I observed that it would help if he could point me towards a parachute. "Better take mine Old Boy" he leered, "I won't need it today". It was like a blow to the stomach, for I suddenly realised that I had been superlatively conned. "What do you mean" I spluttered feebly, "aren’t you coming too?"
"Not on your b----y life Old Boy, surely you don't think I'll fly with someone who hasn't been up in the b----y kite before?" Willing the floor to swallow me up, I despairingly realised that there was no way out; not only was the honour of the RAF at stake, there was no question of allowing myself to be bested by a mere fish-head. So, clipping on the unaccustomed 'chute, I waddled awkwardly towards the flight line.
The wizened old CPO and his team of manically grinning matelots had obviously seen this particular show before, many times; approaching their accursed flying tumbril, the malicious glint in their eyes was only too plain. Clambering inelegantly up the side of what was suddenly a monstrously large aircraft, I was lashed in with excessive zeal, no doubt to forestall any last-minute attempt at escape.
"Right Sir", says the CPO, "when I gives yer thumbs up yer presses that there button an' orf yer goes". Smiling weakly at him as he returned to ground level I ran through the pre-start checks as slowly as was decently possible, finally showing a reluctant thumb above the cockpit edge. Receiving his acknowledgement, I pressed 'that there button' to be answered with a deafening explosion and a dense pall of smoke. Panic-stricken, I fumbled fruitlessly for the harness release thinking that the aircraft had blown up but then noticed the big Rolls-Royce Griffon was turning over sweetly with that lovely staccato music barking from the exhaust stacks; and, as the smoke blew clear, it slowly dawned on me that I had experienced a cartridge starter for the first time (yes, I should have read those Pilots’ Notes more closely!).
Waving the chocks away I commenced taxiing gingerly towards the runway, swinging the nose from side to side in the approved manner. It seemed easier than expected, and even though I was still on the ground some confidence slowly returned. The power check presented no problems, but pre-takeoff checks were repeated several times until the moment of truth could no longer be decently postponed. Sliding the canopy part-closed as the tower gave takeoff clearance I lined up on the runway and slowly opened the throttle, to be answered by a snarling roar that, with its accompaniment of deep orange flame jetting from the stacks, was highly satisfying and stirred within me a previously unsuspected Biggles factor. Even with slightly less than full power applied acceleration was rapid, and in what appeared to be no time at all a gentle backward pressure on the column achieved lift-off, the wheels retracting into the wings beneath as I climbed away.
It has to be said that the rest of the story is rather anticlimactic. Flying beneath the overcast, I unexpectedly found that I was hugely enjoying myself. Coming from the closed world of Transport Command, where one was hardly allowed to set eyes on an unfamiliar aircraft without having first completed a ground school course of interminable length, now with no previous instruction of any kind I had a totally alien bird all to myself. The contrast was so extreme as to be almost ridiculous.
By instinct a straight & level pilot, I satisfied myself with bumbling about the local area and staying beneath the cloud deck meanwhile. After half an hour or so I headed back towards the field to carry out a few circuits and landings, but the Firefly seemed almost to land itself; better pack it in, I thought, before destroying the illusion.
Arriving back at the ramp in a euphoric mood, I sensed (probably unjustly) an air of disappointment on the CPO's part at my evident good spirits. However Dizzy was in no way put out, accepting as perfectly proper that any pilot should be able to climb into a completely strange aircraft and fly it without further ado; in fact I was mildly surprised not to be asked to write up a précis on the Firefly's handling characteristics, normal procedure for a test pilot.
What has all this to do with the Beverley, I hear voices ask. Not very much at all really, except that its unserviceability presented me with an opportunity of the sort that comes only once in a lifetime, and so I remain eternally in its debt. Over sixty years later I can still hear that V12's rasping roar and recall with pleasure the Firefly's crisp, vice-free handling, an experience granted now only to a select handful of display pilots; it also gives some small satisfaction that the Royal Navy's base attempt to faze the RAF was met head-on and duly foiled (well sort of, anyway).
A pilot with experience of the Firefly alleged that I have over-praised it, and that it was something of a cow to handle. Be that as it may, after some years of that arch-pig the Hastings Mk1 even a brick s---house would have appeared to fly like a dream.
A couple more pieces featuring the Beverley will appear in due course, but require some editing first.
Another story to read and re-read, thank you Harry!
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#sidevalve
Thank you for the link. Shocking that a British petty thief named Cole betrayed so many.
#harrym
(edit) What interesting aircraft the Royal Nay have had over the years
I just hope they are still in existence. Whether I am any better informed after studying them is of less importance than that I can pass them onto my children for safekeeping.
My Uncle, my father's younger brother, was with the British Army 11TH ARMOURED DIVISION from landing in France shortly after D-Day to entering Bergen Belsen in April 1945. He and my father agreed that neither would never ever speak about the war. In fact when I was spent time with my father very shortly before he died, he told me his brother had visited him and for the first time they had talked about the war including Bergen Belsen. This encouraged my father to answer just a few questions before he asked me to find on my laptop websites containing photographs of the many different models of cars he had owned. One of his favourites being a Volvo P1800S.
Thank you for the link. Shocking that a British petty thief named Cole betrayed so many.
#harrym
(edit) What interesting aircraft the Royal Nay have had over the years
I just hope they are still in existence. Whether I am any better informed after studying them is of less importance than that I can pass them onto my children for safekeeping.
My Uncle, my father's younger brother, was with the British Army 11TH ARMOURED DIVISION from landing in France shortly after D-Day to entering Bergen Belsen in April 1945. He and my father agreed that neither would never ever speak about the war. In fact when I was spent time with my father very shortly before he died, he told me his brother had visited him and for the first time they had talked about the war including Bergen Belsen. This encouraged my father to answer just a few questions before he asked me to find on my laptop websites containing photographs of the many different models of cars he had owned. One of his favourites being a Volvo P1800S.
Last edited by roving; 13th Oct 2017 at 06:19. Reason: spelling
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harrym (#11364),
Glad to know that that I'm not the only one to be scared out of his wits by a first experience of a Coffman Starter ! (not only the bang but the Spit's stab at a roll on the spot !)
Yes, the old belief that "Anybody can fly anything after half an hour with Pilot's Notes" lasted a long time ("Aircraft innit ? - Pilot ain'cher ? - Fly it !)
But the ATA managed just fine.
Danny.
Glad to know that that I'm not the only one to be scared out of his wits by a first experience of a Coffman Starter ! (not only the bang but the Spit's stab at a roll on the spot !)
Yes, the old belief that "Anybody can fly anything after half an hour with Pilot's Notes" lasted a long time ("Aircraft innit ? - Pilot ain'cher ? - Fly it !)
But the ATA managed just fine.
Danny.
How many times have you jumped into a hire car and wished that you had read the owners handbook, if it was there, before you were trying to work out what switches did what at the first junction.
I heard about a similar experience with a Coffman starter from a now departed acquaintance in my local.
As a National Serviceman in the early fifties he was an engine fitter in the RAF and was posted to Singapore, tending mainly Mosquitos, Hornets and Vampires.
IIRC, an RNZAF squadron equipped with Venoms was posted to the same airfield and came under Doug's care.
Apparently he found out - very suddenly - that the DH Ghost in the Venom had a cartridge starter. When he pressed the start button, there was a loud bang, a cloud of smoke and he was out of the cockpit and off down the runway at a rate of knots.
As an aside, I once took him to the DH Museum at London Colney. Although he'd never really thought about it, having worked on Vampires and Venoms he'd always assumed the Sea Vixen, being of a similar configuration, was basically a further development of the same aircraft.
I can't remember his exact words when confronted with the enormous beast, and even if I could I couldn't post it here, but it was very loud and and the first word began with F...
As a National Serviceman in the early fifties he was an engine fitter in the RAF and was posted to Singapore, tending mainly Mosquitos, Hornets and Vampires.
IIRC, an RNZAF squadron equipped with Venoms was posted to the same airfield and came under Doug's care.
Apparently he found out - very suddenly - that the DH Ghost in the Venom had a cartridge starter. When he pressed the start button, there was a loud bang, a cloud of smoke and he was out of the cockpit and off down the runway at a rate of knots.
As an aside, I once took him to the DH Museum at London Colney. Although he'd never really thought about it, having worked on Vampires and Venoms he'd always assumed the Sea Vixen, being of a similar configuration, was basically a further development of the same aircraft.
I can't remember his exact words when confronted with the enormous beast, and even if I could I couldn't post it here, but it was very loud and and the first word began with F...
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It's the Daily Wail but it is pertinent to WW2 and flying.
How British engineers dodged German snipers' bullets to build 74 airstrips in 90 DAYS across Normandy battlefields to help defeat the Nazis
How British engineers dodged German snipers' bullets to build 74 airstrips in 90 DAYS across Normandy battlefields to help defeat the Nazis
Back to Escape Lines for a moment, and further to my #11119, I see that today's Times has published an obituary for Halifax pilot John Evans. Not surprisingly, it concentrates on his evasion story:
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/j...076f256f113657
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/j...076f256f113657
The Provost T1 I did my basic training on had a Coffman starter. When you walked out the magazine would be on the starboard wing root. You starting airman would, or would supervise you, placing it in the starter. Then one would close the cowl and continue the walkround.
The starting procedure, after ensuring the fuel cock was open, was to wrap your left arm around the control stick to keep the elevators up with the hand on the central, instructor's, throttle. The right hand would be down on the starter lever with the thumb on the priming button.
About an inch with the throttle and between two and five seconds on the primer depending on how cold the engine was. Pull up the lever which would fire the cartridge and then there would be a few seconds juggling the throttle and primer until the engine settled down at about 1,200 rpm.
Wait for it to warm up; throttle back to idle, a quick mag. check and chocks away.
U/T pilots could do this with less then ten hours total. Where's the drama? Even the Chipmunk had a wire operated Coffman starter.
The starting procedure, after ensuring the fuel cock was open, was to wrap your left arm around the control stick to keep the elevators up with the hand on the central, instructor's, throttle. The right hand would be down on the starter lever with the thumb on the priming button.
About an inch with the throttle and between two and five seconds on the primer depending on how cold the engine was. Pull up the lever which would fire the cartridge and then there would be a few seconds juggling the throttle and primer until the engine settled down at about 1,200 rpm.
Wait for it to warm up; throttle back to idle, a quick mag. check and chocks away.
U/T pilots could do this with less then ten hours total. Where's the drama? Even the Chipmunk had a wire operated Coffman starter.
Back to Escape Lines for a moment, and further to my #11119, I see that today's Times has published an obituary for Halifax pilot John Evans. Not surprisingly, it concentrates on his evasion story:
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/j...076f256f113657
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/j...076f256f113657
His crew:
Camping out at Daverdisse in the Ardennes.. (too dangerous to travel to SW France by train after D-Day)
Here's John Evans' Comet file.. give your French a work out:
French version...
or try the Google translate English version..
I hope that he knew just how much men like him are respected.
Could I ask you to copy his Times obit here please? Many thanks..
sv
Last edited by PPRuNeUser0139; 13th Oct 2017 at 13:58.
Sidevalve: That link contains a 'Share Token' that permits it to be seen beyond the Times paywall. Or does that not work outside the UK? If not, I'll see what can be done about putting it here.
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John Evans
Halifax bomber pilot whose plane was hit over Belgium and who spent more than 100 days evading capture, helped by the resistance
October 13 2017, 12:01am,
The Times

The Royal Air Force bomber pilot John Evans, front centre, with his crew
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As John Evans struggled to get out of his burning Halifax bomber he realised with horror that his parachute was not on his back — and was about to fall out of the aircraft without him. The parachute pack had become dislodged from the hook on which it was kept while Flight Sergeant Evans was at the controls. It was now lying right at the edge of the open front escape hatch. Evans, who was only a little over 5ft 7in, scrambled towards it, clipped it to his parachute harness and jumped through the escape hatch.
As he tumbled into the darkness he watched the blazing aircraft dive into the ground. Only moments earlier he and his crew had been attacked by a Messerschmitt 110. A few minutes before that they had delivered their bomb load on the railway marshalling yards at Hasselt. It was May 12, 1944, Evans was on his 12th mission, and the land below him was Belgium, occupied by the Nazis for four years.
Spinning through the night air, Evans’s parachute opened with such a jerk that one of his flying boots was wrenched off. He saw a wood rushing up to meet him, crashed through the tops of a cluster of fir trees, and landed gently on the ground. The parachute had tangled in branches and acted as a brake on his fall.
Sitting in the darkness, Evans thought of his parents at home in Wales, who would soon get a message to say that he was missing, and then of his friends on the squadron who would be at Betty’s Bar in York later, drinking beer and wondering about the friends who had not returned from the last mission.
As daylight dawned Evans approached a farm labourer on the road. He explained in schoolboy French that he was an English airman. When the man replied in Flemish, Evans shrugged, said, “Bonjour,” and headed off. The man then pointed towards the direction Evans was walking and shouted: “Boches!” It was a word that they both understood, and Evans hurried in the other direction. Eventually he took a risk and knocked on the door of a farmhouse. He got lucky. The couple would help him, despite the risks to themselves and their seven children. They fed him and contacted a member of the resistance. Soon afterwards Evans’s bomb aimer, Flying Officer Bill “Robbie” Robertson, who had been found in the woods, was brought into the farmhouse.
They had fallen into the hands of people linked to the Comet evasion line and to the armed resistance, the Armée Blanche. He and Robertson were given bicycles and taken by a group of men to Zonhoven, where they met Baron de Villenfagne, a local resistance leader, and René Jaspers, his dedicated helper. Jaspers took them to an underground hideout dug into a steep bank deep in the wood. They were soon joined by three other members of Evans’s crew.
The resistance allowed the airmen to stay in one place for only a few days. At one time they were housed by an elderly widow, Louise Delchef, who hated the Nazis and wanted to prove it to Evans. She took him into the attic and showed him a stash of machineguns and revolvers, which she kept under the tiles on her roof. One day, the old woman said, she would use them against the Boches.
The man pointed and shouted: ‘Boches!’ a word they both understood
After D-Day the airmen were transferred to the village of Beffe in the Ardennes, where they stayed with a young married couple. One morning the Germans launched a massive search for four members of the Armée Blanche, and Evans and the other airmen were forced to flee out of the back window of the house. Behind them a gun battle broke out in which three of the resistance were killed and a German officer seriously wounded. The fourth resistance man remained hidden in a cellar.
With the Allies now moving through northern France, the resistance created a camp for about 30 evaders near Bohan sur Semois, a small town on the French border. On the road the airmen could hear the rumble of German vehicles as their armies retreated. Food was scarce so sometimes they had to cut chunks of meat from horses killed by strafing aircraft.
When the American army entered Bohan, Evans swam the River Semois and introduced himself to a young soldier. He finally returned to Britain on September 9, four months after he had left. His parents in Goodwick, Pembrokeshire, had feared he was dead.
Born into a seafaring family in 1919, John Evans was the fourth of five children. He had an older brother, Cyril, two older sisters, Mair and Enid, and a younger brother, Doug.
After his return to Britain, Evans was posted to Transport Command and tasked with delivering Wellington aircraft to north Africa. On his first leave after his escape he met a young woman named Jeanne Thomas and they married in February 1946, five weeks after he had been demobbed.
He worked for many years for HM Customs and Excise, first at Fishguard Harbour and then from 1959 in Liverpool. He and Jeanne lived on the Wirral until her death in 1998, when Evans moved to Calverton, Nottinghamshire, to be near his daughter, Judith.
Summers were often spent tracking down the people who had helped to save his life, travelling with Jeanne, his brother Doug and Doug’s wife, Dorothy. They discovered from Jaspers that parts of Evans’s wrecked plane had been turned into saucepans and cooking pots by enterprising locals. Jaspers had survived incarceration in Neuengamme concentration camp, but others who had helped Evans had been killed.
Evans’s family, including Judith, a retired social research consultant, and Richard, an engineer, are still in contact with the families of some of those who helped him.
A peace-loving and humble man who enjoyed painting watercolours and played the piano by ear, Evans was acutely aware of, and a little haunted by, the controversy that Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris’s bombing campaign attracted after the war, but he felt that “it could not properly be judged in hindsight through civilian eyes”.
John Evans, RAF pilot, was born on June 30, 1919. He died of congestive heart failure on August 4, 2017, aged 98
Halifax bomber pilot whose plane was hit over Belgium and who spent more than 100 days evading capture, helped by the resistance
October 13 2017, 12:01am,
The Times

The Royal Air Force bomber pilot John Evans, front centre, with his crew
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As John Evans struggled to get out of his burning Halifax bomber he realised with horror that his parachute was not on his back — and was about to fall out of the aircraft without him. The parachute pack had become dislodged from the hook on which it was kept while Flight Sergeant Evans was at the controls. It was now lying right at the edge of the open front escape hatch. Evans, who was only a little over 5ft 7in, scrambled towards it, clipped it to his parachute harness and jumped through the escape hatch.
As he tumbled into the darkness he watched the blazing aircraft dive into the ground. Only moments earlier he and his crew had been attacked by a Messerschmitt 110. A few minutes before that they had delivered their bomb load on the railway marshalling yards at Hasselt. It was May 12, 1944, Evans was on his 12th mission, and the land below him was Belgium, occupied by the Nazis for four years.
Spinning through the night air, Evans’s parachute opened with such a jerk that one of his flying boots was wrenched off. He saw a wood rushing up to meet him, crashed through the tops of a cluster of fir trees, and landed gently on the ground. The parachute had tangled in branches and acted as a brake on his fall.
Sitting in the darkness, Evans thought of his parents at home in Wales, who would soon get a message to say that he was missing, and then of his friends on the squadron who would be at Betty’s Bar in York later, drinking beer and wondering about the friends who had not returned from the last mission.
As daylight dawned Evans approached a farm labourer on the road. He explained in schoolboy French that he was an English airman. When the man replied in Flemish, Evans shrugged, said, “Bonjour,” and headed off. The man then pointed towards the direction Evans was walking and shouted: “Boches!” It was a word that they both understood, and Evans hurried in the other direction. Eventually he took a risk and knocked on the door of a farmhouse. He got lucky. The couple would help him, despite the risks to themselves and their seven children. They fed him and contacted a member of the resistance. Soon afterwards Evans’s bomb aimer, Flying Officer Bill “Robbie” Robertson, who had been found in the woods, was brought into the farmhouse.
They had fallen into the hands of people linked to the Comet evasion line and to the armed resistance, the Armée Blanche. He and Robertson were given bicycles and taken by a group of men to Zonhoven, where they met Baron de Villenfagne, a local resistance leader, and René Jaspers, his dedicated helper. Jaspers took them to an underground hideout dug into a steep bank deep in the wood. They were soon joined by three other members of Evans’s crew.
The resistance allowed the airmen to stay in one place for only a few days. At one time they were housed by an elderly widow, Louise Delchef, who hated the Nazis and wanted to prove it to Evans. She took him into the attic and showed him a stash of machineguns and revolvers, which she kept under the tiles on her roof. One day, the old woman said, she would use them against the Boches.
The man pointed and shouted: ‘Boches!’ a word they both understood
After D-Day the airmen were transferred to the village of Beffe in the Ardennes, where they stayed with a young married couple. One morning the Germans launched a massive search for four members of the Armée Blanche, and Evans and the other airmen were forced to flee out of the back window of the house. Behind them a gun battle broke out in which three of the resistance were killed and a German officer seriously wounded. The fourth resistance man remained hidden in a cellar.
With the Allies now moving through northern France, the resistance created a camp for about 30 evaders near Bohan sur Semois, a small town on the French border. On the road the airmen could hear the rumble of German vehicles as their armies retreated. Food was scarce so sometimes they had to cut chunks of meat from horses killed by strafing aircraft.
When the American army entered Bohan, Evans swam the River Semois and introduced himself to a young soldier. He finally returned to Britain on September 9, four months after he had left. His parents in Goodwick, Pembrokeshire, had feared he was dead.
Born into a seafaring family in 1919, John Evans was the fourth of five children. He had an older brother, Cyril, two older sisters, Mair and Enid, and a younger brother, Doug.
After his return to Britain, Evans was posted to Transport Command and tasked with delivering Wellington aircraft to north Africa. On his first leave after his escape he met a young woman named Jeanne Thomas and they married in February 1946, five weeks after he had been demobbed.
He worked for many years for HM Customs and Excise, first at Fishguard Harbour and then from 1959 in Liverpool. He and Jeanne lived on the Wirral until her death in 1998, when Evans moved to Calverton, Nottinghamshire, to be near his daughter, Judith.
Summers were often spent tracking down the people who had helped to save his life, travelling with Jeanne, his brother Doug and Doug’s wife, Dorothy. They discovered from Jaspers that parts of Evans’s wrecked plane had been turned into saucepans and cooking pots by enterprising locals. Jaspers had survived incarceration in Neuengamme concentration camp, but others who had helped Evans had been killed.
Evans’s family, including Judith, a retired social research consultant, and Richard, an engineer, are still in contact with the families of some of those who helped him.
A peace-loving and humble man who enjoyed painting watercolours and played the piano by ear, Evans was acutely aware of, and a little haunted by, the controversy that Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris’s bombing campaign attracted after the war, but he felt that “it could not properly be judged in hindsight through civilian eyes”.
John Evans, RAF pilot, was born on June 30, 1919. He died of congestive heart failure on August 4, 2017, aged 98
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Danny (#11364) I later had a demo of an alternative means of engine start, thanks to a failure of the Coffman article............
During a regular TCEU visit to Aden in the early sixties, I was ordered to categorise the Twin Pioneer squadron commander. Having no Twin Pin experience whatsoever I was not over-happy with this situation, but consoled myself with the knowledge that he already held a "B" category and was therefore presumably fairly competent.
And so it proved. The circuit work was an eye-opener, and included a backwards flight demonstration achieved by flying at minimum airspeed (something absurd like 35 knots max) into a strong headwind at circuit height. Opportunities for a route check were limited to a choice of up-country strips so, never having been to Dhala, I decided to see it from an aircraft for which restricted field length held no terrors.
Checking in at the appointed hour, I was advised that my presence would render the aircraft overweight. An easy solution was found by giving the navigator an afternoon off, the Captain saying (truthfully) that the TP knew its way without human assistance. In view of the circumstances I raised no objection, being well aware that in this theatre rules had to be bent more than occasionally if the job were to get done, and recalled an occasion six months before when I had expressed surprise on boarding an engines-running Bev and found two of the oil pressure gauges reading zero. On my remarking this to the captain (the wingco flying no less), he pointed out that if they were forced to await spares from UK at least half the fleet would be grounded; besides, oil pressures must be OK or the engines would surely stop, a logic with which I was forced to agree.
The Twin Pin CO had of course been to Dhala countless times before, so following a very short transit we were soon on the slightly alarming final approach toward that forbidding rock face at the runway’s far end; offloading of the cargo was a fairly swift process, so we were soon back inside. Now the Twin Pioneer had a bang-start system, with a rotating magazine holding about half a dozen cartridges positioned on the cabin partition above and behind the captain's head. Following firing-up of the first engine the magazine had to be rotated, this achieved by the pilot reaching behind with his right hand and pulling on a sort of lavatory chain arrangement. No problem with the starboard engine, but subsequent pulling of the chain resulted only in a string of curses for apparently the magazine had failed to index properly. A quick investigation revealed it to be immovable; "feel like staying the night here?" I was asked, "not much I can do about this, and it's too late to get help from Khormaksar". Having heard lurid tales of small men with long knives who reputedly lurked unseen thereabouts, I enquired what his local knowledge might suggest. "There is a way out", he replied," but highly unofficial and definitely not approved of even in Aden". Saying I had been party to the breaking of a few rules already, I intimated that one more sin would make no difference to me.
"Stay here, and press the booster coil button when I give you the sign"; saying which, he exited the aircraft with a large coil of rope round his shoulder in the manner of a hangman off to a job. Finding some steps lying around, he gave one end of the rope several turns round the port propeller boss and walked off to the side, hailing the inevitable solitary Arab squatting on a nearby rock: ‘...hey, Ali, come and give us a hand’. Receiving his sign, I pressed the button while he and his companion hauled vigorously on the rope, the engine burst into life, and with a wave to Ali he came back inside. In no time at all we were off again, carrying out a mail drop somewhere en route. The actual disgorging of the bags fell to me, but at this distance in time I recall little about the process other than getting covered in dust; I rather think the bags were ejected through a hatch in the floor. All in all, the whole trip was completely and utterly different from the Shiny Fleet way of things that was then my usual lot; not just a window on a different way of life, but also an interlude that much increased my respect for those to whom it was routine.
During a regular TCEU visit to Aden in the early sixties, I was ordered to categorise the Twin Pioneer squadron commander. Having no Twin Pin experience whatsoever I was not over-happy with this situation, but consoled myself with the knowledge that he already held a "B" category and was therefore presumably fairly competent.
And so it proved. The circuit work was an eye-opener, and included a backwards flight demonstration achieved by flying at minimum airspeed (something absurd like 35 knots max) into a strong headwind at circuit height. Opportunities for a route check were limited to a choice of up-country strips so, never having been to Dhala, I decided to see it from an aircraft for which restricted field length held no terrors.
Checking in at the appointed hour, I was advised that my presence would render the aircraft overweight. An easy solution was found by giving the navigator an afternoon off, the Captain saying (truthfully) that the TP knew its way without human assistance. In view of the circumstances I raised no objection, being well aware that in this theatre rules had to be bent more than occasionally if the job were to get done, and recalled an occasion six months before when I had expressed surprise on boarding an engines-running Bev and found two of the oil pressure gauges reading zero. On my remarking this to the captain (the wingco flying no less), he pointed out that if they were forced to await spares from UK at least half the fleet would be grounded; besides, oil pressures must be OK or the engines would surely stop, a logic with which I was forced to agree.
The Twin Pin CO had of course been to Dhala countless times before, so following a very short transit we were soon on the slightly alarming final approach toward that forbidding rock face at the runway’s far end; offloading of the cargo was a fairly swift process, so we were soon back inside. Now the Twin Pioneer had a bang-start system, with a rotating magazine holding about half a dozen cartridges positioned on the cabin partition above and behind the captain's head. Following firing-up of the first engine the magazine had to be rotated, this achieved by the pilot reaching behind with his right hand and pulling on a sort of lavatory chain arrangement. No problem with the starboard engine, but subsequent pulling of the chain resulted only in a string of curses for apparently the magazine had failed to index properly. A quick investigation revealed it to be immovable; "feel like staying the night here?" I was asked, "not much I can do about this, and it's too late to get help from Khormaksar". Having heard lurid tales of small men with long knives who reputedly lurked unseen thereabouts, I enquired what his local knowledge might suggest. "There is a way out", he replied," but highly unofficial and definitely not approved of even in Aden". Saying I had been party to the breaking of a few rules already, I intimated that one more sin would make no difference to me.
"Stay here, and press the booster coil button when I give you the sign"; saying which, he exited the aircraft with a large coil of rope round his shoulder in the manner of a hangman off to a job. Finding some steps lying around, he gave one end of the rope several turns round the port propeller boss and walked off to the side, hailing the inevitable solitary Arab squatting on a nearby rock: ‘...hey, Ali, come and give us a hand’. Receiving his sign, I pressed the button while he and his companion hauled vigorously on the rope, the engine burst into life, and with a wave to Ali he came back inside. In no time at all we were off again, carrying out a mail drop somewhere en route. The actual disgorging of the bags fell to me, but at this distance in time I recall little about the process other than getting covered in dust; I rather think the bags were ejected through a hatch in the floor. All in all, the whole trip was completely and utterly different from the Shiny Fleet way of things that was then my usual lot; not just a window on a different way of life, but also an interlude that much increased my respect for those to whom it was routine.
Another trick I saw in Borneo with a Twin Pin was a lacrosse like arrangement which was hooked around a propeller blade so as to swing it into life.
IIRC the Twin Pins of Borneo Airways had electric starters.
IIRC the Twin Pins of Borneo Airways had electric starters.
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harrym
Did your TCEU visits take you to KL?
Sandy Johnstone's sinecure in KL was air defence commander, a role which he claimed did much to improve his golf.
When Malaya became independent in 1957, and formed its own air force, he became its founding senior officer. The pride of the fleet was a Twin Pin. I think it was the only one based in KL at that time.
He was a man of great charm especially with the wives and one day invited some of the wives to a flight on it.
Whilst I recall my late mother talking about it, I cannot recall whether she actually accepted the invitation. I suspect not, but I could be wrong.
My dad used to enjoy personally taking the mail over to Royal Dutch Shell in Borneo in a single pin. He told me that the sea was so clear he could see shoals of sharks.
Next week I will post about his flight to a jungle fort, fort Langkap, with the adjutant general in the back.
A flight which nearly ended badly.
There are wonderful colour slides of that sortie, but not in a format I can upload.
Did your TCEU visits take you to KL?
Sandy Johnstone's sinecure in KL was air defence commander, a role which he claimed did much to improve his golf.
When Malaya became independent in 1957, and formed its own air force, he became its founding senior officer. The pride of the fleet was a Twin Pin. I think it was the only one based in KL at that time.
He was a man of great charm especially with the wives and one day invited some of the wives to a flight on it.
Whilst I recall my late mother talking about it, I cannot recall whether she actually accepted the invitation. I suspect not, but I could be wrong.
My dad used to enjoy personally taking the mail over to Royal Dutch Shell in Borneo in a single pin. He told me that the sea was so clear he could see shoals of sharks.
Next week I will post about his flight to a jungle fort, fort Langkap, with the adjutant general in the back.
A flight which nearly ended badly.
There are wonderful colour slides of that sortie, but not in a format I can upload.
A peace-loving and humble man who enjoyed painting watercolours and played the piano by ear, Evans was acutely aware of, and a little haunted by, the controversy that Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris’s bombing campaign attracted after the war, but he felt that “it could not properly be judged in hindsight through civilian eyes”.
roving - many thanks for posting the obit..
You're right ICM - I am able to access the Times - I'd become so used to banging my head on the firewall that I didn't check your link. Me pudeat..
sv
SV: No problem, and I'm encouraged to know that those Tokens travel so well. And thanks in turn for the Comet Line link. And now back to Harry's stories ......