Sean Feast joins Fighting High

Important and delightful news from the great aircrew book publisher, Fighting High Publishing. Aircrew Book Review has been an ardent supporter of Fighting High before it was Fighting High and, indeed, before ABR was ABR!

Indeed, Steve was the first to send me a book to review (a P&S title) for his latest venture so, in essence, is partly responsible for the creation of ABR (these past 16 years can't all be my fault!). This was back in the day when Steve, already an accomplished author, was stepping out on his own, initially looking at a 'periodical-style' of presenting aircrew stories which, in turn, became the two-volume Fighting High series. These evolved into the much-lauded, similarly large format Failed to Return series. 

Since then, Fighting High the publisher has released a variety of memoirs and biographies of unerring high quality. While most have been Bomber Command-related (and who can forget the outstanding BC Memorial and International Bomber Command Centre commemorative books), the memoirs have also featured men who flew in the Mediterranean and Far East Theatres, and during the Battle of Britain, not to mention several prisoner of war accounts, stories about US airmen, individual crews, collections of biographies and even full-colour photo essays of two American Thunderbolt units, and a Great War army unit history. 

Established authors, such as Andrew White, Robert Owen, Steve Brew, Michael Cumming, Marc Hall, Steve Bond, Nigel Julian and Graham Cross have joined first timers, including veterans, to contribute to an impressive back catalogue. None, however, have appeared as many times as Sean Feast, who first contributed to some of Fighting High's earliest works. Sean's own back catalogue comes from a number of publishers, and all are worth chasing down, but his most-impactful works – namely Missing Presumed Murdered and The Lost Graves of Peenemunde – were released by Fighting High. For him to come on board, after some shaky times for the publisher during the lockdowns and event cancellations of the early 2020s, speaks highly of Steve Darlow's enduring commitment to keep these stories alive. Fighting High just took the next step. Its foundation is strong, its future luminous.

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

Fighting High Publishing - 50% discount offer

As part of Aircrew Book Review's tenth anniversary celebrations, Steve Darlow, the man behind Fighting High, publisher of some of the finest hardback aircrew books on the market, and staunch supporter of the Bomber Command Memorial and the Royal Air Force Benevolent Fund is offering the books pictured below for 50% off their normal price (signed editions included)!!!

All you have to do is visit the Fighting High website, select the books you want to buy, and enter the code 'ABR' in the discount field at checkout. This generous offer will run until the end of April. Enjoy!

A Ruddy Awful Waste - Steve Brew with Mike Bradbury

I think, maybe, it has begun. Imperceptibly, the flow of new Second World War aircrew memoirs and biographies is slowing down. For the former, of course, this is a given as time marches on and the veterans are taken from us one by one. We will have to rely on discoveries of unpublished manuscripts to increase the numbers there. New biographies will take longer to fade, but they will as those who are interested in the era, and have the skill and dedication to write about it, move on. The famous flyers - the Baders and Gibsons of the world – will no doubt continue to sell books. They’re a good thing as they are the poster boys that can attract a new enthusiast, a pending historian, and draw them into a world where ordinary men lived lives that no fiction writer could ever imagine. There is one chap who is talked about with reverence, seemingly more so than the others at times, yet he remains somewhat of an enigma. What is it about Eric Lock DSO, DFC and Bar, and why on earth has he not been written about as much as all the rest?

Eric grew up in Shrewsbury, Shropshire, and proved a good student and sportsman once he was settled. He worked at the family quarry and adjacent farm. As the second youngest of five children, Eric was barely a teenager when the last of his elder siblings married. His hard working parents, with established businesses, provided Eric and his younger sister with a sound education. At fourteen years of age, Eric had his first flight with Alan Cobham’s barnstorming operation. He didn’t look back.

Eric joined the RAFVR and began part-time service in early 1939 as part of the RAF’s rapid build-up for what was quickly becoming inevitable. He soloed on 3 March and eventually went to an Initial Training Wing in October, Service Flying Training School in December and then, finally, in June 1940, to No. 41 Squadron. This was the posting that would make him a household name in a very short period of time.

To some extent, Eric’s flying training benefitted from its timing. While things were becoming rather hairy on the Continent, and the RAF and Air Ministry certainly recognised this, the length of training periods was only marginally truncated and the period of the Phoney War allowed some courses to be lengthened slightly. For a gifted flyer like Eric, this allowed him to truly settle into his flying. Even his first squadron was operating in a quieter sector which again allowed him to get to grips with the Spitfire. His wedding, too, in late July, and subsequent leave, meant he missed the squadron’s busy, two week deployment to Hornchurch and he did not fly his first op until August. One can imagine his intense happiness with squadron and married life while chomping at the bit to get into operational flying. He was about to get his wish in spades.

As fortunate as Eric was to be somewhat eased into combat flying, there was always going to be that first op to be flown and, assuming it didn’t happen then, the baptism of fire. For our hero, and soon to be everyone else’s, the latter occurred on his third op when Luftflotte 5, based in Norway, attacked the supposedly lightly defended northern counties on August 15. Baptism of fire, first sighting of the enemy and the first victory. It was a red letter day for Eric Lock. There were to be many of those as the Battle of Britain reached its climax and Eric’s score continued to increase. At one stage his op/kill ratio was 1:1. The squadron’s move back to Hornchurch in early September saw it regularly engaged several times a day. Many of Eric’s kills were when he was on his own, as he preferred, and, curiously, given his rising seniority and leadership qualities, he was often employed as the squadron weaver, a role that was certainly the most dangerous in the squadron formation. However, Eric relished it, but it was flying in this position, with the Battle well and truly over (officially), and after two months of frenetic, unceasing flying, that he was shot down and seriously wounded in mid-November. His wounds, hit in the left arm and both legs, included his left forearm being broken in two places. Such was the seriousness of his injuries, that he was sent to East Grinstead and the care of the legendary Dr Archibald McIndoe. While renowned for his treatment of burns victims, McIndoe was, of course, a leading plastic surgeon and exactly what Eric needed to recover, at least physically. He thus became one of the founding members of the Guinea Pig Club.

After seven months of treatment, and not having flown in that time, Eric, inexplicably, was posted to No. 611 Squadron as a flight commander. The position makes sense, but the squadron’s role at the time does not. It was based at Hornchurch and heavily involved in Fighter Command’s offensive operations over the Channel. While his experience would have been welcomed, he certainly wasn’t up to scratch and would have benefitted from being eased back into squadron life. Perhaps the time recovering and recuperating was regarded as his rest period? It certainly seems that way. Anyway, he was flying again on 1 July and in a little over a month he was dead. During that time, he was again successful on several ops and, with hindsight, the victim of the mounting pressure placed on the experienced pilots. Time after time, new pilots arrived on the squadron, but most had very little operational time or, indeed, none at all. They could not take the weight off the flight commanders and squadron leadership, so already worn out men continued to climb into their aircraft for operations that, as the Germans found out the previous summer, could be dictated by the enemy. Still, it had to be done and Eric would not be the only eminently qualified RAF fighter pilot to be so cruelly lost.

There is a reason why it has taken until now (well, 2016) for a comprehensive Lock biography to be published. Surprisingly, for one of the RAF’s leading lights, very little in the way of documentation remains. There is no logbook. There is no diary. Most tellingly of all, Eric’s wife cut her ties with his family soon after he was lost. This dearth of primary sources makes A Ruddy Awful Waste all the more remarkable. The authors have drawn on what family records they could, but the vast majority of Eric’s flying career is recounted via combat reports and the memories of his colleagues and family.

Contemporary accounts are heavily drawn upon where it is known Eric would have experienced something similar. From those, conclusions have been drawn where they need to be. For instance, Eric’s initial field treatment after being shot down, and then subsequent recovery via skin graft operations, is masterfully pieced together by Brew and Bradbury reading between the lines, applying logic and a good dose of common sense (as is their investigation into the conflicting claims totals towards the end of the book). The authors clearly indicate what they believe happened, but reinforce it with detailed analysis and what supporting evidence there is. The pages explaining his injuries, treatment, the process of the skin grafts, and subsequent battle with infection, and recovery (aided by references from none other than Richard Hillary, among others, who shared a ward with Eric), are the best wartime medical writing I have read since Mayhew’s magnificent The Reconstruction of Warriors.

The same style is applied to Eric’s childhood and education with extensive use of local records to support what is known and what could be remembered. A nice touch is the images of landmarks (schools etc) from that time that are still standing and photographed by the authors. While not as obvious as the myriad of tangible honours rightly afforded to Lock to this day, they are important parts of a short life well-lived and just as important as the other images included in the typically impressive Fighting High glossy photo section.

Importantly, and this might seem an odd thing to say for a biography, the authors keep Eric at the forefront of the narrative. Because of the lack of the usual primary material, the reliance on other accounts, as mentioned above, is paramount, but these are only elaborated on in relation to the operations Eric participated in. This is particularly valuable as the Battle of Britain sequences have a very familiar feel to them. There is very little different to the reams of combats with Messerschmitts, Heinkels, Dorniers and Junkers that have already been written about, and will continue to be written, during the summer of 1940 and the authors thankfully avoid the trap of turning this section of the book into yet another account of the campaign as a whole. Very little space is given to squadron combats that Eric did not take part in. They are mentioned in passing, if at all. In that sense, the reader keeps in touch with him, reveling in the quiet efficiency with which he goes about his job (similarly, a detailed family history is left to the appendices). That said, he does seem to get a bit lost in the accounts of the combats over the Continent in mid-1941. His scoring was certainly not as prevalent during his final month of flying, but a large part of that was because the Luftwaffe controlled when, where, and if, they would intercept the RAF formations. It’s as if he had already started to fade away.

Eric Lock remains missing to this day. His memory lives on in an almost constant stream of memorials and honours befitting a man of his accomplishments. However, there is very little chance we will ever know the full story. The ultimate primary source, the man himself, took the most important resource, his memories, with him. Had he lived, there is little doubt that his story would be known backwards by now and in its umpteenth printed edition. One can but hope that this becomes the case with this book. It needs to be. Aspects of Eric Lock’s life will remain a mystery, but that’s not for the lack of intelligence and thoughtful analysis applied by the authors. He will continue to inspire and mystify enthusiasts and historians, pending or otherwise, but everything they need is in A Ruddy Awful Waste.

ISBN 978-09934152-3-4

The Flying Hours - Andrew Millar

Several years ago I stumbled upon a photo that depicts one of the things that fascinates me the most. I can’t remember how I found it but I did. I call it the League of Nations photo and, for long-term readers of ABR, you’ll know of my enduring fascination, and overuse of the term itself, with the 'melting pot' that was the RAF (and now I’ve used it in two consecutive reviews). Anyway, this photo of No. 20 Squadron pilots leaning or sitting on the wing of a rocket-armed Hurricane Mk.IV ‘somewhere in Burma’ includes two Australians, one Kiwi, a Canadian, a South African, a Scot and an Englishman (and not a bar in sight). While I pored over the photo and wondered at the dynamics between these men and the journey each had travelled to reach that point, little did I know that Squadron Leader Andrew Millar, the Englishman and CO, had, twenty years after the war, using some notes, his logbook and his memory, written his memoirs. This manuscript, although read by his family, has taken fifty years to see the light of day. It is now The Flying Hours and, although written with some hindsight, but still with an old world take on things, it is an astounding and, dare I say it, accurate account of one squadron’s war in the Far East.

The author arrived in India in June 1942. With two years as an Army co-operation pilot under his belt, Millar was in high demand and was posted to No. 20 Squadron. The squadron was equipped with the Lysander, the Army co-op aircraft of the day. Millar quickly proved adept at handling this remarkable aircraft, having flown them previously in the UK, and is soon busy flying the occasional recce of Japanese positions, dropping messages to Army units and flying senior commanders here and there. During this time he encounters the ever-challenging nature of India’s weather, the joys of finding and operating from remote strips and, inch by inch, accepts the culture and attitude that is required to survive this very different part of the world.

Then he flies Lizzie bombing raids. Towards the end of the year, while the squadron was based at Chittagong, the front line was forty kilometres south of Cox’s Bazar and anything that could have a go at the enemy was given the chance. As 1942 drew to a close, however, the Japanese were at the furthest extent of their advance in to the Arakan. The struggle to grind them back was about to begin. Fortunately, the squadron began to receive Hurricanes to replace the worn out Lysanders. That said, the first lot of Hurricanes was a mixed bag of marks, but by the middle of 1943, the 40mm cannon-armed Mk.IID was what the squadron would return to the war with.

The Hurricane Mk.IID had proven itself in North Africa against armoured vehicles. Very low strafing runs would be made against targets with the two .303 machine guns being used to sight the much heavier cannon mounted under each wing. At most two pairs of rounds, one from each gun, would be fired during each pass. Millar and his mates found a high angle diving attack proved to be more accurate with the slow-firing cannon. The squadron seems to have effectively written the book on the use of the Mk.IID in the theatre.

Shortly after the unit’s return to the war, in early 1944, Millar assumed command. He was to remain as CO for almost two years during which time he led arguably the most effective ground attack unit in the region. As the Japanese were forced back, the squadron became adept at relocating by air and quickly returning to operations. The pilots developed a reputation for identifying heavily camouflaged targets from the air. The rocket-armed Hurricane Mk.IV had also entered the fray and for a time the squadron was equipped with a flight each of both marks. The close-support work continued of course and as the war wound down, personnel began to disperse. Millar found himself in Siam (modern-day Thailand) in what is a brief but interesting look at the occupation of that country before returning to India and heading home in at the end of 1945.

There is a hell of a lot in this book. The summary above does not even begin to do Millar’s adventures justice. His observations extend well-beyond squadron and operational life but even the seemingly mundane in a place like India takes on a remarkable quality. To adapt, one had to effectively give in and simply roll with whatever the region threw up. Millar’s initial observations, somewhat culture shocked upon arrival, are that the old stagers were slightly batty. They seemed to have developed a particular languid state, an almost resigned air. This, of course, is familiar to those who have read about squadron life, indeed any military service, during the war in this part of the world. A good dose of ‘mad’ did help to relieve the stress of operations of course, nothing new there, but there was a generally accepted, coping, mental state that pervaded in India. The weather, the people, the fascinating mix of Imperial and centuries old local customs, the Japanese, the terrible diet, the poor hygiene, the inevitable debilitating illnesses, and the wildlife all combined to send men like Millar round the twist. Indeed, he freely admits several times that he was bonkers. Despite this, he seems to have been able to recognise that he had necessarily succumbed, but it didn’t interfere with his duties. He was a firm but fair CO intent on leading a happy, as far as possible, and effective squadron. He certainly achieved that.

Round the twist though he was as time wore on, there is no doubting Millar was an exceptional pilot. He is brutally honest about his flying, though, and had several close shaves, particularly in Lysanders, where he admits how lucky he was to have escaped harm. His accounts of Hurri ops are as fascinating for his ability to paint a picture of what he saw as they are for the tone in which they are told. The writing barely changes pace as he barrels along at low level but it effectively portrays the brevity and repetition, and occasional frustration, of some of these strikes.

On that note, this is not the book for you if you want reams of action. However, any book about a long stay in India/Burma is going to have extended periods of relative inactivity. That was the nature of the theatre and its campaigns. The weather and the terrain dictated everything, more so than the Japanese. However, when things did kick off, when the Allies had an overwhelming superiority of men and equipment, things were as frenetic as they could be and 20 Squadron was a brutally effective instrument. Millar’s career mirrors the fortunes and progression of the campaign in the theatre. He arrives ill-equipped for a new environment but adapts and does what he can with what he has until he has the experience and equipment to push forward.

This is an enjoyable read from the insightful foreword to the very last sentence. It is written as a stream of detailed, fleshed out memories, and it is clear that as Millar was writing, small anecdotes would pop up so he simply included them. Often, these are just one sentence paragraphs with little relevance to the preceding or following text other than to add colour to an already vibrant picture. Even in the longer stories and escapades, these little ‘vignettes’ pop up. Despite their apparent interjection, they don’t affect the flow at all.

As a medical student before the war, and then as a trained Army co-op pilot, Millar has a trained observational eye. His descriptions of the myriad of people he encounters are delightful albeit tinged with the language of the time. You instantly know who he has time for and who he just wants to be rid of but has to endure and that applies to everyone featured in the book. India herself, too, is laid out for the reader from the beaches and dry plains to the cool foothills where many a serviceman retreated on leave. Even up there life took on an almost surreal quality with remnants of the pre-war colonialism desperately hanging on despite the war.

This is another book from Fighting High and, as to be expected, it is a lovely hardback. I was never really taken by the cover as I felt a lot of detail was taken away from Millar’s face. Having read the book now, though, I see the cover but I am instantly transported to India such is the effect of the writing within. There is a traditional central photograph section of 35 images and an incredibly useful map with numbers, correlating to chapters, pinpointing important locations. The manuscript has been preserved as Millar wrote it so there are several technical and historical details that are a little astray but they are so fleeting, and ultimately inconsequential, to the book and the history that has been recorded, that they are only mentioned here for sake of a complete review.

The Flying Hours is several things at once. It is Andrew Millar’s memoirs, of course, but also a history of 20 Squadron from mid-1942. Overall, though, it is a remarkable social and operational look at India and Burma and a reminder of the challenges faced at all levels by those serving in the forgotten war. There are not many books that can portray life there like Millar has done with TFH. This will sound grandiose, but it is quite simply transcendent.

ISBN 978-0-9932129-0-1

Thunder Bird In Bomber Command - Sean Feast

As time passes, and as the last of the veterans leave us, the Second World War will be confined to books and whatever is written, for better or worse, on the internet. All we will have will be whatever the veterans leave behind. Future aircrew books will depend purely on archival material and by that I mean the usual suspects of letters, diaries, logbooks, recorded interviews etc. It is, of course, often the only way to tell a story, particularly so when the subject did not survive the war. For the most part, Sean Feast’s Thunder Bird In Bomber Command does just that. In fact, it says so on the cover – “The Wartime Letters of Lionel Anderson…”. It is so much more, however. Hidden inside is a quality unit history of one of Bomber Command’s unsung squadrons.

Lionel was from a Jewish family of Russian heritage that changed their surname to Anderson in an attempt to escape the prejudice, as was rife even beyond the Third Reich, of the time. His sense of adventure led him to the RAF and, following the usual path, he was soon in a convoy sailing for North America. His arrival in Canada was the beginning of a somewhat charmed existence in terms of hospitality and diet. Very little was too much trouble for the welcoming Canadians and food was plentiful. The situation only improved when Lionel was posted to Mesa, Arizona, and 4 British Flying Training School. Of course, there was a lot of hard work to be done but Lionel, and adventurous and outgoing type, certainly made the most of being taught to fly in the US.

Desert and mountains, snakes and spiders, oranges and cacti, rodeos and girls. It was a different world but the one common theme with any pilot in training is, of course, flying. Lionel soloed on a Stearman, the aircraft that did the same job as the Tiger Moth but with more power and considerably more presence. He took to it well and, after ninety hours on the big Boeing biplane, he progressed to the Vultee BT-13 and then the more complex North American Texan. He was finally awarded his wings in August 1942 and he returned to the UK in September with a tan and fond memories of, and no doubt a longing for, road trips to California, dining and dancing with movie stars, starring in a Hollywood film shot on location at the airfield and, as mentioned above, the phenomenal hospitality extended to the British airmen.

After a spot of leave, Lionel progressed though Advanced Flying Unit and OTU and waited anxiously for an operational posting. Spitfires? Typhoons? He was disappointed to find out he would be flying Defiants with No. 515 Squadron. The aircraft were worn out hand-me-downs and the accident and serviceability rates put a serious dampener on the squadron’s ability to do its job. However, it was a vital job and it did it well.

German radar developed at a rapid rate and was vital to the German air defences. Bomber Command’s war with these defences in particular was one of evolution. Tactics and technologies evolved but often the advantage was only held by one side for a short time as the enemy would quickly develop a counter. Two systems were developed to confuse or diminish the effectiveness of the German radar and both required the use of airborne jamming sets. ‘Moonshine’ was designed to give the impression of a large formation approaching. These ‘spoof’ raids were useful in directing enemy fighter defences away from day fighter offensive operations as well as daytime bombing raids. To ‘sell’ these diversions, the Defiants would fly in formation within about fifty kilometres of the enemy coast … in daylight. To operate the jamming set, the Defiant’s gunner had to leave his turret, descend in to the fuselage and work his box of tricks. The aircraft, save the occasional fighter escort, was virtually defenceless while jamming and several were lost to fighters during both day and night ops.

The other system, ‘Mandrel’, was kept in reserve. Once the cat was out of the bag, its days were numbered before an effective counter was developed. A series of orbiting Defiants could jam the German radar with noise from the ‘Mandrel’ sets so the radar could detect nothing or very little. The Germans cottoned on to ‘Moonshine’ relatively quickly so its effectiveness was soon diminished. The change to ‘Mandrel’ also meant the squadron switched to night ops. The screen produced by the Defiants allowed the bomber stream to at least get a head start in the ‘what’s the target for tonight’ stakes, or sneak home, and hopefully delay the deployment of German night fighters in particular.

Lionel arrived on the squadron in late January 1943 but did not fly a Defiant for another fortnight. He flew his first op several nights later and by early July had more than twenty under his belt. During that time, the squadron had been informed it would be transitioning to the role of long-range night fighters (read, intruders). Early hopes were dashed, however, as the ‘Mandrel’ ops had to be continued so, for the time being, the crews had to make do with their faithful, but failing, Defiants.

Operations continued but began to peter out and the squadron entered a strange period of limbo. It was still equipped with Defiants but Lionel and his colleagues were heavily involved in flying the variety of twin-engine types that had dribbled in to help the pilots convert. It was not until March 1944 that the first of the Mosquito Mk VI fighter-bombers arrived.

Now part of 100 Group, the new Mossie crews were seconded to No. 605 Squadron for an introduction to intruder work. Lionel followed suit, returned to his squadron and flew the first op of his second tour on the night of 26/27 April. He did not return.

Thunder Bird in Bomber Command seems like a straightforward tale. He trains, he writes home to the family, he flies, he dies. It’s a familiar story and, in short, this book shines a light on yet another airman. His younger brother, of course, was Gerry Anderson who went on to create classic television shows like the Thunderbirds. Gerry was inspired by his older brother and the connection between the film Lionel was an extra in, Thunder Birds, is evident. However, there’s a bit more to it than that. Much has been made of the Thunderbirds link and rightly so as it is a fantastic marketing angle. Would the book have been written without it? Maybe, maybe not. It is the marvelously told operational history of 515 Squadron that makes this book stand out but there is little to suggest this at first glance.

Lionel’s last letter or, more correctly, the last one kept and transcribed, was sent during his time at the Advanced Flying Unit. From then on, the narrative takes on a slightly different style as the author refers to operational and technical sources to reproduce, as best as possible, Lionel’s first tour on operations. The letters, mostly sent from Arizona, are truly superb. Lionel had an easy style to his writing and painted quite the picture of training and life in general in the New World. The author, accomplished as he is, barely gets out of first gear in this section of the book. Instead he lets Lionel do the talking and simply guides the story along with context, clarifications and introductions. It is practically seamless. He really kicks on, however, when the personal source runs out and the archival records have to take over. I was vaguely aware of the ‘Moonshine’ and ‘Mandrel’ ops but, thinking about it, they have only ever been mentioned in passing or as a side note in a much bigger campaign discussion. Thunder Bird was certainly the first time I had read about the squadron and its activities in any great detail and that is the great surprise about this book. It is, of course, the author’s bread and butter and he makes what could be a dry operational read spring to life with frustration, edgy flying, worn out aircraft and just enough about Lionel (probably all there is) to keep the reader focused on the main subject. It makes the book a must read for anyone wanting to go beyond the operations of Bomber Command’s Main Force.

There were a couple of little niggles on the aviation terminology front that made me wince but, in the interests of honesty as is ABR policy, they may have only been obvious to me. They are completely overshadowed by one of the best collection of photos I have seen in a biography for quite some time. Again, we have Lionel to thank for this as he was a prolific photographer. As much as the 515 Squadron operational detail is a valuable addition, the photos, particularly in conjunction with the letters, provide one of the best illustrations of life as an RAF trainee in the US I have ever seen. It is always bizarre seeing the RAF in such a setting. Refreshing, though.

Thunder Bird in Bomber Command will sell because of what’s on the cover. It will be sought after because of its contents. It is, as usual, a lovely hardcover from Fighting High, and has probably one of the most understated covers from this publisher to date. It is simple and straightforward but the more you look at it, the more the depth is revealed – “Wartime Letters”, “Legend”, “Thunder Bird”, the Mosquito, the white training flash on his forage cap. All of that indicates there is so much more to this book. It rattles along nicely, you get to know Lionel and then a rare operational account smacks you in the face. It is a rare treat.

ISBN 978-0-9926207-7-6