Open Writing

We moved up Italy on the east coast with interesting experiences. My first trip into Italy proved the most frightening. A Kittyhawk from North Africa required delivery to Bari in September ‘43. We refuelled in Catania and reckoned there was just time to reach Bari before nightfall. Only problem was that we did not yet have any map of Italy.

A tremendous thunderstorm meant that I had to fly across the Gulf of Taranto at sea level and found Bari as darkness arrived. The grass airfield was under water, and a series of red rockets told me not to land.

No radio communication. What to do? A sudden recollection that someone had told me that the only Italian airfield we had captured with night landing facilities was Lecce, and this was 40 miles due east from a lighthouse in the Gulf of Taranto.

So on my way in the pitch darkness for my first night flying since training. Panic stricken, short of fuel, I radioed for help. Should I climb and bale out? Finally I found the lighthouse, turned due east and suddenly saw the landing lights below. I made a hurried turn and the most beautiful landing. The engine then cut out due to lack of fuel. When the aircraft came to a standstill, I could not get out because of shock.

Gaining experience, I became more and more careful. By now my pre-flight checks were very detailed and probably enabled me to live. The only pilot I knew who got an airman to blow down the pitot tube to be sure that the airspeed indicator was working. This after a wasp nest had prevented it work on one occasion.

Then I was hit by American fire twice. Once by a Lightning aircraft I met, and on another occasion by a squadron of Thunderbolts whilst I was coming in to land. They thought they were north of the front line. There was nearly a retaliatory raid by the Australian, South African and British squadrons on the airfield.

The only person killed was the pilot of a Walrus seaplane who had just rescued the crew of an American bomber that had come down in the Adriatic. I had imagined that the bursts in the sand were raindrops. However, when the ‘rain’ started making holes in my wings I realised what was really happening.

A Meeting with My Brother Peter

As a Royal Marine 2nd Lt, Peter’s Commando Unit had come overseas and he wrote to me, telling me that they were at Djidjelli in North Africa. (I am certain he should not have told me.) So I asked my CO if I could disappear for a few days. He agreed since, as he said, “It is over a year since you have had any leave.”

So by judicious air hitchhiking I arrived at Tunis and waited around there until a Beaufighter arrived, piloted by an old school friend, Bill Brook. I found out where he was going, which was an aircraft maintenance unit at Setif behind the Atlas Mountains. I offered to join him as his navigator, and in due time we reached Setif. After checking the situation I finally found the AOC Malta’s blue Photographic Spitfire that had been serviced and arranged to return it to Malta.

Appalling weather made it impossible to fly for a few days, but finally it cleared sufficiently to be allowed to take off for Djidjelli. There was still solid cloud up to 20,000 feet, and I flew above cloud until I knew I was over the Med. Then down through 20,000 feet of cloud to 30 feet above the sea, and back to the coast until I found the port and airport.

Next was to remove my Warrant officer insignia and replace it with a pilot officer ring. I handed over my Spitfire and hitchhiked to the Royal Marine camp, where the two of us had a happy couple of days together before I eventually delivered my aircraft to Malta. Peter finally came to the Adriatic, where he won a DSC in the Yugoslav islands.

On another occasion I suddenly found myself flying over the Italian fleet. Hastily I fled and reported the event. “Don’t worry, they have only come out to surrender.” This was the first time the Italian fleet had emerged. For the invasion of Sicily we had assembled the largest fleet we could manage, and they were off Syracuse on the East Coast. However, the Italian fleet did not emerge at that time.

Thinking back as to whether I was ever frightened makes me realise that before flying I always had to sit on the toilet, so even if not aware of fear, my body was obviously aware of the stimulation and risk when flying.

As I became more experienced, I often took aircraft to destinations when others had failed. On one occasion a pilot had attempted to take a Spitfire from Bari to a forward airfield north of Naples. This meant crossing the mountain range when travelling from the east coast to the west coast. The weather was poor, and so his efforts to get through the valleys were foiled.

I decided that the only way to tackle it would be by flying above the cloud and then descend through the cloud when my timing calculations told me that once again I was over the sea. At that time there was no radar, radio or computer aid to tell us where we were. The trip was completed successfully, and the next morning at 6 am I went out with several of the squadron pilots on an excellent mushroom collection.