More importantly, it was at Cottesmore that I was to meet a small group of people who would hold my life in their hands◦– my aircrew. The process of forming the aircrews of Bomber Command followed what was perhaps an unusual and undisciplined path for a military body like the RAF and ran against the usual practice of giving and receiving orders. Interestingly, the crews were instructed to form by mutual agreement amongst each other◦– rather than direction by a senior officer. One individual, typically the pilot, but not necessarily so, would choose his own aircrew. In the close confines of a wartime aircraft, where the aircrew need to work as a close-knit team and where the lives of each are dependent on the actions of the others, a closely bonded team was essential. Fortunately, the RAF realised that the best way to accomplish this was to let the crews form themselves.
A Lancaster’s aircrew was made up of seven members, each with a unique role to play but each dependent upon his fellow crew members. The whole process of taking-off, reaching the target, dropping its payload and returning safely home rested upon the aircrew’s ability to work as a team.
Firstly, you had the pilot who flew the aircraft and called all the shots throughout the operation: in the team analogy he was the skipper. Our pilot, Jimmy Tosh, was Scottish, and came from Dundee originally but had joined the RAF from the Metropolitan Police in London. He was a good pilot, nice and steady.
Our navigator was another Scotsman, Hugh Mosen, but we all called him Jock. He was a charted accountant and had been working in Poland before the war but, of course, had to return home. He was actually sent out to South Africa to do his training.
A marvellous thing, that perhaps the general public didn’t know, was that RAF aircrew training was taking place all over the world. In Bomber Command we had the privilege of training with, or even being in a crew with, men from all parts of the then great British Empire. The larger countries had their own air forces, namely the Royal Australian Air Force, the Royal Canadian Air Force, the Royal New Zealand Air Force, the Royal Indian Air Force and the Royal South African Air Force, while the smaller countries in the Empire, such as Jamaica, were grouped with the RAF but wore a shoulder flash indicating their nationality. It was an extreme example of co-operation, organisation and determination. Because all the training was co-ordinated, wherever in the world it was done, we could all come together and work as a crew.
As one would imagine, being the navigator, Jock was tasked with keeping the aircraft on course, reaching the target and then getting us home.
Both Jimmy and Jock were older than the rest of us; they were closer to thirty while the rest of us were in our early twenties.
David Alletson, our flight engineer, came from Nottingham, and was an engineer by civilian trade, having worked in coal-mining before the war. He was a good lad; they were all good lads. His main job was to oversee the aircraft’s mechanical, hydraulic, electrical and fuel systems, and also assist the pilot with take-off and landing.
Reg Morris, our bomb aimer, was another Londoner, like myself, who did part of his training in Canada. He was very easy to get along with◦– we all had to be; you couldn’t have anyone thinking that they were better or worse than the rest, or miserable.
Reg had a particularly crucial role as he took control of the aircraft when it was on its bombing run, lying flat in the nose of the aircraft, giving directions until the bombs were released. He also acted as the reserve pilot.
Then came our gunners. Bob Brown, our mid-upper gunner, was Canadian, from the Royal Canadian Air Force, and was trained in Canada, although he did the last bit of his training in Britain. And Dick Walton, our rear turret gunner, was from Wallasey, just across the Mersey from Liverpool.
Both were physically separated from the other crew members and confined to their respective turrets for the whole flight. Their main duty was to advise the pilot of enemy aircraft movements◦– to allow him to take evasive action◦– and to defend the aircraft against enemy fighters.
As the wireless operator, I was tasked with transmitting and receiving all messages between the aircraft and our base, as well as assisting the navigator by taking loop bearings, turning the IFF (Identification: Friend or Foe) set on or off at given points, and ensuring the “flying rations” were on board, which were vital for long flights.
I had been at Cottesmore about four weeks when the news came that everyone would be transferred to a brand-new station◦– RAF Husbands Bosworth in Leicestershire. No official reason was given for this posting but rumour amongst the aircrews at the time said that it was because the Americans were going to be based at Cottesmore and history confirmed this to be true.
Flying at Bosworth began in August 1943 even though the construction work was still not entirely complete. There was now immense pressure from Bomber Command to build and operate Operational Training Units as quickly as possible to enable air strikes on Germany’s industrial cities to be carried out.
Many take-offs and landings, known as circuits and bumps, were undertaken, in Wellington bombers, to hone the skills of the pilot and crew. I have never forgotten the intensity of the training and the endless circuits and bumps which were undertaken day after day in order to perfect the crew’s take-off and landing skills; but it was not without its humorous moments.
After each landing the pilot contacted the control tower to broadcast the standard radio message, ‘Clear of main runway.’
Now Jimmy, our pilot, was the archetypal Mr Cool and was every bit as calm and collected as the pilots portrayed in wartime films. One day when we were doing circuits and bumps, the aircraft had just touched down when, suddenly, it lurched uncontrollably to the port. A sixty-second white-knuckle ride followed as our Wellington left the runway then, eventually, after crossing the airfield, came to a halt on the perimeter track.
Without a pause, reflection or expletive, and completely unfazed, Jimmy called up the control and said, ‘Clear of runway.’
‘So I see,’ came back the reply from the controller.
Another part of training was being positioned on the airfield, in a mobile caravan, to observe take-offs and landings. One day, as I was in the caravan, an unannounced light aircraft landed and taxied to a halt in front of me. The young pilot, who I recognised as being American, leaned out of his cockpit and called out in a casual manner, ‘Hey Bud. Can you give me the bearing for Oxford?’
I was about to call control when the phone rang. The in-coming call was from a very edgy and tense controller, asking exactly who this intruder was? I felt relieved I had not spoken first. The controller barked at me, ‘Tell him to report to me, now.’
I had learnt a vital wartime lesson◦– always be suspicious of strangers.
It was shortly after arriving at RAF Husbands Bosworth, with my new aircrew, that I was to form another, far more important and longer lasting relationship◦– with my future wife.
Adelaide was in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) and, at the time, stationed at RAF Little Rissington in Gloucestershire, which was many miles away from Bosworth. Fortunately for me, she was from a small village near my base called Sibbertoft, and was home on leave. As it was a Saturday night, she had cycled to nearby Welford to attend a dance in the village hall with her friend. I had also decided to attend the dance◦– such an alignment of chance must have meant we were destined to meet.
I can still remember the first time I set eyes on her; she was wearing an attractive civilian dress and I plucked up the courage to ask her out. To my relief she said yes and I’m proud to say we are still together this very day◦– but it was by no means an easy courtship.