Mosquito Intruder Pilot – Jeremy Walsh

 

The Far East. That’s how you get my attention. Right, the book is off the shelf. Read the back cover description and/or blurbs: ‘Intruder’, ‘night fighters’, ‘strain’, ‘twitch’, ‘Oscar’. Okay, good. Inside flap: ‘lied about his age’, ‘Boston’, belly landings’, ‘engine failures’. Somewhat standard, but what’s this about his age? He turned 21 in February 1945; he flew his first op in the fourth quarter of 1942. I’ll leave that for you to figure out. Mosquito Intruder Pilot makes all the right moves in selling itself as the complete package – the ideal aircrew biography – and, bar a scattering of issues, it does just that.

Ben Walsh, missing the camaraderie of his older friends who had already enlisted and wanting to do his bit, managed (amazingly) to get his parents to sign a letter saying he could enlist when he was 18. Through further acts of subterfuge, he signed on with the RAF quite short of that milestone. 

Training complete, he was posted to No 418 Squadron to fly Douglas Boston intruders; the unit was new to the role and had suffered heavy losses for little return. These losses continued steadily, the system of two nights on/two nights off – with there being a good chance of not even being called for an op when ‘on’ – meant it really was the luck of the draw, despite some casualties from non-operational accidents. Duty crews, as the night progressed, were stood down one by one if nothing was in the offing. Besides the stress of being on call, the nervous energy that must have dissipated when a crew stood down or built as those remaining continued waiting, would have done a number on any man. Indeed, knowing you were flying that night would have been a release, a known quantity to some extent.

By mid-1943, with 18 ops under his belt, and an interminable number of hours at readiness, it is clear Ben has been struggling with his nerves for some time. This was perhaps exacerbated by his desire to remember his friends and colleagues who were lost; throughout his service he maintained a ‘roll of honour’. By this stage, there were 32 on the list. As the squadron began to convert to the Mosquito, however, and the operational tempo increased, Ben could finally see an end to his first tour. The unit, though, as part of the RCAF in the RAF, had become more Canadian and, as a British NCO, Ben’s conversion to the new type didn’t appear to be much of a priority, although he did complete it. It was then he and his navigator were told they were off to the Far East.

An eventful ferry journey east ended with the delivery of the recalcitrant Mosquito to Allahabad. Senses overloaded by a very foreign land, the two men were briefly posted to a PR unit, much to their frustration given their experience (it was all because they were a Mosquito crew), before finally landing with No 27 Squadron in late November 1943.

Initially, the tempo of ops resembled those in the UK. By April 1944, Ben had only notched up another four trips. The decision of 27 Squadron to retain its Beaufighters, however, forced a move to No 45 Squadron. The unit, consisting mostly of Australians and New Zealanders, came under a different command and Ben was told his ops didn’t count and he would have to start his tour all over again! On top of the surprising and distressing loss of his mother earlier in the year, not to mention his obvious homesickness, it is clear the literal and figurative drop in our hero’s shoulders, and subsequent hospitalisation, had little to do with the oppressive climate of the region. 

Still, he fought on, returning to the unit as an ‘outsider’ in some respects. The grounding of the Mosquito in the theatre due to issues with water ingress and the much-vaunted glue issues was just another thing to be overcome if his luck, relatively speaking, held. With the squadron’s aircraft strength reduced after intensive investigations and assessments, its eventual return to operations was welcomed. No one appreciated this more than Ben. Finally, in December 1944, he hit his straps, flying an incredible 19 ops during the month.

Four months later, having reached 75 operational sorties, surviving Japanese flak and fighters in what proved to be the flying he yearned for – challenging, consuming, consistent – Ben was posted out to a communications unit, eventually ending up with a maintenance unit where he flew several initial air tests on Mosquitos before the effects of accumulated stress returned with a vengeance. 

Back home by late 1945, Ben was demobbed in mid-1946. Understandably, he didn’t readjust very well, but his blossoming relationship with his future wife proved the foundation upon which he rebuilt his life. Menial jobs saw him through to a long and successful career in the pharmaceutical industry, his dogged determination led to starting a successful business from scratch and overcoming health issues. He passed away in October 2008.

Mosquito Intruder Pilot goes a lot deeper than just recounting a wartime service career. The depth of understanding and analysis brought by the author, as Ben’s son and a former RAF serviceman himself, extends far beyond the aircraft, the flyers, their operations and the greater war. There is a successful attempt to get inside Ben’s head, based on his letters and other records, to extrapolate the effects of the immeasurable factors that contributed to his mental load, factors that manifested themselves physically one way or the other.

The examination of stress felt by aircrew, Ben specifically, is no mere undercurrent. Indeed, the first chapter, what sets the scene for the rest of the book – therefore one of the author’s most effective tools – sees the subject under examination in 1946 as RAF medical types try to get to grips with Ben’s bouts of fainting. Immediately, the focus is on this man’s mental and physical state. What got him here? The author’s subsequent deft touch in this area, while influenced by his own experiences living under the same roof, raises as many questions as it answers, revealing an understanding of the subject while making it clear just how much more there is to learn in this understudied area of the aircrew experience.

With this early investment in the ‘principal character’s’ wellbeing, the reader develops an affinity with him – the aim of all good biographies – and feels his frustration as the tour drags on. Equally, it is pleasing when he finally gets a good run on operations, flying 50 or so in short order before he is finally rested. However, there is also concern for his willingness to record the losses of his friends and colleagues, even those in other theatres he learns of through the grapevine. While it is clear he wanted to remember these men, did the exercise affect him adversely? We all know the generally accepted ‘line’ or method, often recounted, was to get on with the job, apparently without a second thought for those lost, so seeing something like this (the list is included in an appendix), something outside the ‘accepted’ norm raises an eyebrow or two. It also asks the question as to what was more effective – addressing the losses as Ben did or ignoring them and having the effects of doing so manifest as who-knows-what later in life. No two people are the same, but it is clear both ‘methods’ have their downsides, as you’d expect, with Ben’s laid out for all to see.

Wrapped around this ongoing intrigue is a decent discussion of intruder operations in both Europe and the Far East, as well as the minutiae of life on a squadron and the impact of lives and family outside the RAF. To place all of this in context, while keeping the focus on Ben, most of the superbly titled chapters begin with a small list of major events happening at the same time. While these are useful, they highlight a problem encountered throughout the book – an incomplete grasp of the technology, terminology and ‘basics’ of the era. Don’t get me wrong, everything about Ben is what you want from a biography; it’s the details that let things down. While no doubt the author’s doing, some of the issues need to lay at the feet of the publisher. Typos like Welham (Geoff Wellum), Gypsy, Turpitz, Aircraftsman, Boxcar (the Nagasaki B-29) and Chindwits are inexcusable for a major military publisher. British ships at Midway, anyone? The author’s relative ‘newness’ to the era is also clear with his research leading him to moments of confusion such as Pratt & Whitney Cyclone engines, the Airspeed Oxford being powered by Wasps (less than 300 were) and, similarly, the inference that all Bostons/Havocs had Pratt & Whitneys, not to mention talking to the tower to request permission to take off for an intruder op, there being no autopilots or electronic aids, and clunky references like ‘German riots at Amsterdam Jews’. 

Repetition is also an issue with, most glaringly, ‘Ben’ being used many times in the same paragraph or even sentence (more so that what I’ve used above!). Minor details also regularly crop up, such as the marriage of Ben’s sister or the specifications of the Mosquito. Most obvious is the map on page 198 reappearing on page 206. An author may not see the woods for the trees, understandably, but that’s what editors and proof-readers are for and, as well-intentioned as family members always are, the majority of the time they will accept what is written when it comes to detail and fact. Again, though, I must stress the examples mentioned above made it through several stages, the final ones being the ‘eyes’ of a major military publisher. The buck stops there and in this case prevent the book from crossing the threshold from ‘very good’ to ‘excellent’.

I was always going to buy this book and I cannot wait for the author’s forthcoming Mosquito Intruders – Target Burma, which is sure to be equally well illustrated and produced. Mosquito Intruder Pilot is everything you look for in a biography, albeit a little rough around the edges, with the subject barely moving from the centre of the narrative; the author avoids major tangents and rabbit holes, with even the Mosquito’s issues in the Far East (the one great failing of the type) recounted with just sufficient detail to add depth to Ben’s journey. The editor in me came away frustrated at what might have been, but the reader and aircrew enthusiast/aficionado/activist revelled in experiencing another life lived. 

ISBN 978-1-39908-4-772

Sticky Murphy - James H Coley

 

Every now and then a book comes along that reminds why you got into this ‘game’ in the first place. You know, the exuberant flyer who worked hard, played harder, led by example and, somehow, seemed unruffled by what he had seen, done and narrowly escaped. If that all seems a bit of a cliché, it is, and the reality, as we are so often reminded, and should always be cognizant of, was a hell of a lot harsher. No one can go through a war and emerge completely unaffected. Some didn’t emerge, of course, so their character, and how they’re remembered, remains frozen in time. One man who fit the cliché like a glove was Alan ‘Sticky’ Murphy, lauded as a special operations Lysander pilot and intruder Mosquito squadron CO. His wartime biography, written more than thirty years ago, and published by Fighting High in 2018, has the perfect title: Sticky Murphy, Lover of Life.

Joining the RAF before the war, Sticky graduated from Cranwell and flew Battles and Hampdens with No. 185 Squadron. Evidently chafing at the bit to get into action after years of training, culminating in a specialist navigation course, he wangled an op as second pilot of a 3 Group Wellington in June 1940. He met his future wife, Jean, at Lossiemouth in late 1940. Sticky was posted to No. 1419 (Special Duty) Flight at Stradishall in March 1941 and commenced flying clandestine ops with Whitleys and then Lysanders. As the latter type proved itself in this role, care of men like John Nesbitt-Dufort, demand for pilots to fly it increased. Sticky’s first operational Lysander trip in December 1941 (as part of what was now No. 138 Squadron) almost became his last. The dramatic description of the events that unfolded, partly gleaned from German records and even the agent involved (found and interviewed by the author in the 1970s), is indicative of the author’s dogged pursuit of primary sources, albeit a mere thirty years after the fact.

All good things, and perhaps the pushing of one’s luck in a certain field, must come to an end, and Sticky reluctantly left Lysanders behind in May 1942 for a ten-month rest, mostly flying a desk with the Navigation Branch at the Air Ministry. While continuing to fly several different types, it was, as you’ll no doubt already understand, not to his liking. Solo in a Mosquito in late June 1943, having already crewed up with navigator ‘Jock’ Reid, led to a ferry flight to Malta to become a flight commander with No. 23 Squadron. This unit was flying night intruder sorties over Italy and soon moved to an airfield in the country as the Allies advanced up the peninsula. Conditions were far from ideal, but Sticky’s leadership and his joie de vivre helped contribute towards turning the squadron’s morale around. The hot weather greatly affected the performance of the Mossies so, coupled with suspected contaminated fuel (traced to open drums at Naples) and the hilly terrain over which they operated, nothing was easy for the aircrews or the men who maintained the aircraft. However, operate they did with Sticky somewhat learning on the job and gaining the trust of his colleagues. 

The squadron returned to the UK in mid-1944 to become one of the Mosquito units to fly from the famed airfield at Little Snoring. Sticky, now a father, wing commander and the CO of the unit, never missed a step, flying intruder ops with Reid and, despite his seniority, causing mayhem and hilarity with his hi-jinks on the ground. On the night of 2 December, however, his luck well and truly ran out when his Mosquito crashed on the way home near Oldebroek in the Netherlands, ‘in sight of the Zuider Zee’. Even his death sounds like a cliché (or even part of a movie plot): it was late in the European war; a staff posting pending, he’d told his wife ‘Just one more trip, darling’; Reid was off sick so he flew with a different navigator; and his mother suffered ‘excruciating pains’ at the time of his crash. Whatever it sounds like, the RAF had lost another two men, another daughter had lost her father, another wife had lost her husband, and another squadron mourned the loss of its leader.

Throughout, Stick Murphy, Lover of Life, trips along despite a liberal dose of minutiae that helps build a well-rounded, colourful picture of the subject. This apparent lightness is due in part to the fond memories and amusing, reflective stories told by friends, relatives and colleagues. There is barely a negative word said about Sticky, such was his larger-than-life personality and presence (six feet tall with a typically epic moustache), and many of the reminiscences include a tale of hi-jinks or, at the very least, talk of the unflappable nature of the man. Indeed, his wife, who only knew him during wartime, said ‘I never saw him unhappy’. It seems almost impossible, knowing what we do now about the effects of war on an individual, that Sticky did not have a moment or two of introspection, but I suspect to do so he would have had to let his mind wander (possibly when flying home wounded) and, by all accounts, he pressed on in all aspects of his life. Perhaps this was his coping mechanism, albeit evident well before he joined the RAF. The overwhelmingly positive comments and memories do, therefore, smack of blinkered hero worship on behalf of the author and his interviewees. Written by a junior flyer under the command of the subject (the author was a nav with 23 Squadron), this would not be the first time such a book has ventured into such territory. However, the breadth of memories collected by the author from an impressively large population of people, including some of the agents Sticky flew in and out of France, doesn’t support this. Having cast his net so wide, and so relatively recently after the war (compared to now), the author would have ‘landed’ people who perhaps didn’t remember Sticky as favourably. He did, but they are in the minority. Author’s prerogative aside, you can reach the conclusion Sticky truly was an irrepressible character as well as a capable flyer.

Of course, save the several family members and friends featured, none of the heavily quoted sources (at least a quarter of the narrative is given over to valuable memories), were to know a post-war Sticky Murphy. How would the prospect of demobilisation or, at best, much reduced flying duties, have affected him? Would the war years have caught up with him somehow, like they arguably do for everyone, or would he have kept ahead of them by continuing to live life to the full? No one knows. Like so many, Sticky’s life exists only in the memories of those who are left and a finite collection of photos and written records. His service persona defines him and is etched in the minds of those who knew him. While his loss is naturally lamented, he is fondly remembered without exception. If anything, that’s a life well lived.

As this is a book from Fighting High it is, of course, about the finest hardback of the genre money can buy. Cover to cover, the design is crisp and clear and the glossy photo section features some fantastically interesting group and aircraft imagery. A useful index at the end of this 190-plus page book follows six appendices and an epilogue. Five of the appendices apply to clandestine flying and are written by those who flew with Sticky; the great Nesbitt-Dufort being one. He was one of many remarkable flyers who were either interviewed by the author or ‘star’ in the three periods of Sticky’s operational flying.

As is obvious, and alluded to above, this book is a tribute to Sticky Murphy. The author, an aircrew veteran himself, could easily have written about his own clearly extensive experience, but only mentions it in passing. This is typical, heap adulation on someone else. Indeed, even Sticky’s post-operation reports are modest and, despite flashes of understated humour, without the flourish expected from such a character. 

While this manuscript was written more than three decades ago, and the second half lost for years before being rediscovered in the family’s attic, such is the quality of the author’s research and writing (occasional meandering aside), and his eye for the ridiculous, as often accompanied Sticky in his travels, that, like an older classic, it stands the test of time. Many unsung people are remembered as a result. Telling their stories is what matters and the last words in that vein deserve to come from the ‘Author’s Note’:

The world of old comrades, now grandfathers galore, must be those of the gladiators of Rome – morituri te salutamas (We who are about to die salute you). Soon no man will survive to tell his story, and history is notoriously academic.

ISBN 978-1-99981-284-3

Worth the wait - how to do a squadron history

One of the operations for which the de Havilland Mosquito is best known is the low-level attack on the prison at Amiens in France - the Amiens raid. The main striking force consisted of aircraft from two squadrons predominantly crewed by airmen from the Southern Hemisphere. These two units - the Australian No 464 Squadron and the New Zealanders of No 487 Squadron - worked closely during their wartime service, but, until now, save the various books about Operation Jericho and the Leonard Trent biography for example, there hasn't been a detailed treatise of the Kiwi unit. It's been worth the wait.

Like the Australian squadron, superbly profiled in The Gestapo Hunters by Mark Lax and Leon Kane-Maguire, 487 began life as a Lockheed Ventura bomber squadron and committed to the RAF offensive over Europe. The Ventura, a replacement for the venerable Hudson, was not ideally suited to the role of medium bomber, but it was available and, like the Douglas Bostons, Short Stirlings, and the Bristol Blenheims before those, it could be used to entice German fighters into the air for the escorting RAF fighter wings to engage. The bombing force on such raids was hardly ever enough to cause significant damage to the targets selected, and the Luftwaffe could choose to engage at its leisure, but there was never any doubt of the courage exhibited by the airmen on both sides. The Venturas are perhaps best remembered for their raids on the Eindhoven Philips factory (Operation Oyster) and the disastrous Ramrod in early May 1943 when only one 487 Squadron aircraft, of the eleven that crossed the Dutch coast, made it home. The type did a lot more than that, of course, but the Aussies and Kiwis were not sad to see the back of the Venturas when they were replaced by the Mosquito, an aircraft ideally suited to the intruder work that epitomised the work of the Second Tactical Air Force.

The Mosquito operations of 487 Squadron are, partly due to their success and also because of the eternal popularity of the Mossie, the stuff of legend. Considering The Gestapo Hunters was published in 1999, it is surprising we've had to wait this long for a similar Kiwi effort. Add issues with the publisher initially selected in New Zealand, believed to have delayed publication for several years, and it's been quite the frustrating wait, especially for 'airheads' in the antipodes (a surprising number in Australia). What we finally have in Through to the End, however, is nothing short of pure unadulterated brilliance. 

This book is a large format hardback of more than 360 pages (bibliography, glossary, roll of honour, index etc included). It is printed on a semi-gloss paper stock that allows the photos to be clearly reproduced throughout. Such a thing is a necessity for a unit history. The multitude of personalities, in particular, need to have 'faces put to names' as the narrative progresses, not relegated to a single glossy photo insert as can often be the case. Similarly, on the subject of images, lovely clear maps are often presented at the start of relevant chapters, allowing for quick referencing should the need arise. These maps are often of the same areas, but the relevant targets for the period are highlighted. Again, this is much preferred over one or two maps placed in fore or endpapers. 

Then there's the story itself. Happily, more than 130 pages pass before the Mosquitos arrive. Considerable effort is made to reflect the impact of the massive losses suffered by the squadron during the Ventura era (and in no way is this discounting the later Mosquito losses). This is what lifts this book above the relatively standard unit history with the Operations Record Book at its heart. Throughout, the writing is evocative, while remaining grounded, and paints quite the picture of squadron life and, combined with the memories of those who were there (in the air on both sides, on the ground, military and civilian alike), makes for the most captivating read. Indeed, in preparing this 'first impression', I was regularly lost, emerging several pages later either wrung out from an operation or shaking my head at just the thought of what these men did. This is the effect of David Palmer and his ability to bring everything together historically, creatively and accurately, tempered from his admitted 'storyteller's flights of fancy' by Aad Neeven's advocacy for 'hard historical fact'. 

Interestingly, some of the chapters are more or less dedicated to a particular airman, following his path to, and life on, the squadron. This is an effective tool as it allows the authors to concentrate on a particular individual, and his place in the unit history, and avoids disrupting the flow of the 'operational narrative' with an extensive biographical tangent.

Through to the End is the perfect literary tribute to 487 Squadron. While its size, and resultant cost, does not make it as accessible as contemporary squadron histories, some recently released, it is the equivalent of Graeme Gibson's Path of Duty and Owen Clark's Under Their Own Flag, and in some respects surpasses the benchmark set by those magnificent titles. I didn't think that was possible. While it took me a year after the book's release to buy a copy, thereby adding to the 'wait', all that time fades away as 487 Squadron is so wonderfully brought back to life.

ISBN 978-9-08264-7-532 

I bought my copy from the Air Force Museum of New Zealand. Given 2020 has not been terribly kind to museums, please consider, if you are in Australia or New Zealand, buying your copy from this organisation. With postage costs as they are at present, the mid-year worldwide increase making things just that much more difficult, and this being a large book, those of you in the Northern Hemisphere, would be best served by ordering from Aad Neeven's Aviation Warbooks (he's also the publisher of Through to the End).