Blood, Sweat and Esprit de Corps - Steve Brew

 

Epic. Grandiose. Peerless. Exhaustive. Brick. Mention a Steve Brew No. 41 Squadron history and these are just some of the words a reader may offer to describe the depth of work this author is known for. With the effort to produce Blood, Sweat and Valour (2012) and Blood, Sweat and Courage (2014), you’d think that’d be enough, particularly as the periods covered by those two books are arguably the most intensive period of extended operations the unit will ever see (let’s hope it remains that way). However, even I’ll admit not everything is about the Second World War and its aircrew. For at least the past decade, besides the release of A Ruddy Awful Waste in 2016, and no doubt long before, Steve Brew has been turning over every rock to produce the ‘prequel’ to the two wartime volumes. It’s equally as impressive. Reinforce your shelves.

Having spent the final two years of the First World War in France, the squadron, along with many others, fell to the rapid demobilisation of the armed forces and disbanded at the end of 1919. Where Blood, Sweat and Esprit de Corps picks up the story is in 1923, when the unit reforms at RAF Northolt with, mainly, Sopwith Snipes. The Royal Air Force is five years old and despite beginning what would be almost two decades of continuous peacetime growth, it continued to fight off the older Services that saw the ‘the third brother’ as a drain on resources they could otherwise employ.

Much like post-Second World War aviation, in which aircraft seemed to come and go in military service at the drop of a hat, such were the advances in technology at the time, so to was the inter-war period, although 41 Squadron’s Snipes quickly gave way to Armstrong Whitworth Siskins which hung around until 1931. Although other types were briefly tested, the Siskins stayed on and it was perhaps the familiarity with the type that saw the unit excel at the various competitions, pageants and air displays that consumed the limited flying hours available outside of the requisite exercises, etc. Aviation was very much the cutting edge of technology at the time and everyone, from the man on the street to royalty, wanted to experience it.

The ‘novelty’ of aviation, even within the Services, is further highlighted by the author in a most interesting way. Such is the breadth of the research that statistics like injuries and deaths caused by aircraft on the ground are collated and presented as graphs and tables. It is enlightening to see that, as awareness of the dangers, and perhaps a developed culture of ‘airmindedness’, becomes widespread within the air force, casualties reduce (relatively speaking). The death toll of personnel across the board is, at times, shocking and certainly something that would not be accepted today. While this type of reporting looks at the RAF as a whole, it serves to place 41 Squadron in context, rather than focus on the unit in isolation. Indeed, under the microscope, the growing pains of the RAF are reflected in the examination of this one unit.

The 1920s and early 1930s were still influenced by the First World War. The experienced men, particularly early on, had seen combat service, and the aircraft remained open-cockpit biplanes. It was not until the arrival of the Spitfire in late 1938, as Britain continued its mad scramble to rearm, that 41 Squadron operated a monoplane. At times the flying, particularly in the late ’20s and early ’30s as the purse strings loosened, takes on the feel of a flying club with individual pilots representing the squadron in civil competitions, some even returning the following year to defend their title. The underlying theme, however, is the pursuit of excellence, partly why these competitions were attended in the first place. Despite the obsolete aircraft and, for a period, the pervading drive for austerity, 41 Squadron stretches itself, be it as part of tactically hamstrung exercises or as a reliable component of the latest air-defence reorganisation. Regular reunions of current and former squadron members also serve to build a legacy, a foundation. Indeed, the period covered by Blood, Sweat and Esprit de Corps produced more than twenty 41 Squadron alumni whose careers took them to air commodore or beyond.

The knowledge of where personnel went after their time with 41 Squadron is one of the great aspects of this book. It is, in fact, my favourite. As the author works through the various chunks of time he’s broken the inter-war period into, personnel arrivals and departures obviously play a major part. The experiences of those departing range from leaving the RAF altogether to spending the rest of their working lives in the Service, and everything in between. For some, their legacy is tangible as, upon their departure, they presented the squadron with an engraved gift, most likely of silverplate. Many of these remain in the unit’s care.

It is this commitment to the personnel of the squadron, even after they leave, that takes this unit history beyond ‘high-level’ works that pass as the norm for this type of book. If the reader wants to learn about a specific person who served during the period covered in Blood, Sweat and Esprit de Corps, not only will they find a potted history of their service career, they will also be able to understand what was happening at the time, i.e., where the RAF was at in its evolution, 41 Squadron’s part of it and the day-to-day challenges of squadron life.

As a further example of going where no one else has gone before with unit histories, there is a table recording tests performed by the RAF medical lab in Aden, when the squadron was overseas for its one and only peacetime deployment. Something like this helps the understanding of what serving in Aden (1935–36 during the Abyssinian Crisis) was like at the time, adding flesh to the airframe and flying bones underpinning the usual squadron history.

There are gems of detail at the turn of every page, not least in the copious amount of images. It would be hard to believe there are any relevant images that have not been included in the book, such is their number. Hats off to the publisher for their inclusion; photos, after, all, take up space and therefore cost money. However, the publisher is also responsible for the only failing of this seminal work of research endeavour. Every single image has been ‘washed’ through editing software, with control given over to artificial intelligence. This has benefited some images but, sadly, has added incorrect, misleading and, in some cases, abhorrent details to many. The publisher should hang their head in shame. It is the poorest result of period image manipulation I have seen; whoever was involved has no idea of anything regarding the RAF. My heart aches for the author who, so clearly focused on getting the words right when reviewing proofs, expected the publisher to handle the images, all of which were provided in good faith.

Such is the strength of the writing, however, that I chose to ignore the images where possible, casting a sideways glance at times to see if they were ‘safe’. More than 400 pages of historical narrative are supported by ten appendices (mostly expected stats like aircraft, roll of honour, etc.), taking the page count to just short of 700. A favourite is the final appendix of ‘Statistical Data’, detailing where pilots came from, their causes of death, officer–non-commissioned officer ratio, mode of entry into the service, Service education, medal recipients, ranks achieved, duration of aircraft in service across the entire RAF, etc., etc., etc. Throw in the usual endpapers – notes, references, glossary, and the like – and you’re left with a book of over 770 pages. Yes, it’s big, but it never reads ‘heavy’.

The use of technology, problematic elsewhere, does, however, enhance the adventure of reading Blood, Sweat and Esprit de Corps. The author goes to great pains to refer the reader to Pathé film reels, many of which were hard to source as accessible (and active) links. Being able to watch the squadron in action, in the context of what’s just been read, adds a value not experienced before. It is particularly eye-opening to see aircraft of the period being flown at their limit, something certainly not seen today.

This is not your ordinary squadron history, but it is typical Steve Brew. The reader is not left wondering about some aspect of the unit’s history during the period covered as it is dealt with, be it at a personnel, squadron, Service or national level. You know where 41 Squadron sits in the big picture, you understand its occasional tenuous survival in the face of fiscal strain, but also its vital part in the foundation of the RAF’s developing air-power strategies and eventual rearmament. More importantly, the people who pass through are not just names, ranks and numbers. They are the squadron; their struggles and triumphs on the crest of the wave, at the tip of the spear, as eyewitnesses to the evolution of military aviation in Britain, are the beating heart of this book.

Reinforce your shelves.

ISBN 978-1-80420-062-9

On Silver Wings - James B Wright

 

In the past week, I’ve provided advice on the use of artificial-intelligence imagery in aviation publishing, followed by comments on the content of a promotional blurb, and the artwork in a children’s book. The latter was set in the First World War; my expertise in that area matches the target age group! This is not the first time I’ve done this sort of work, but there’s always some trepidation it will be seen as criticism, despite my stated goal of wanting to see the relevant book do as well as possible (which is always the case). There is some responsibility owed by the publisher or author to getting this sort of thing right, but, really, it’s often a case of you don’t know what you don’t know. Of course, this extends to the content where even the most tenacious of researchers can come unstuck, leading the reader to perhaps question some of the other narrative presented as fact. This is occasionally the case with On Silver Wings, although the depth of research and decades-long ‘dog with a bone’ attitude of the author makes this tale of a lost Spitfire ace a valuable addition to any library.

Desmond Ibbotson turned 18 in 1939, having grown up in Yorkshire and, briefly and interestingly, in New Zealand. He worked his way through training to join No. 53 Operational Training Unit in June 1941. Here he had his first encounter with Billy Drake and the first of several Spitfire prangs. After a month-long stint with No. 129 Squadron, he arrived at No. 54 Squadron in August. This was our hero’s introduction to combat proper, the squadron part of the RAF’s efforts to take the offensive to occupied Europe. Some frenetic Spitfire V flying made up the rest of Desmond’s first tour before the squadron was posted to Scotland.

Besides some time ferrying aircraft around the UK, Desmond ostensibly remained with 54 Squadron until he was posted to North Africa, leaving just before the unit was sent to Australia. Now he was flying Kittyhawks, joining No. 112 Squadron in mid-June 1942. Having cut his teeth over Europe, the ‘matured’ pilot hit his straps in the desert flying with the greatest Kittyhawk units of the war as part of No. 239 Wing (112, and Nos 250, 3 (RAAF) and 450 (RAAF)). They were busy, often flying two sorties a day, balancing escort duties with the Kittyhawk’s new-found capability as a superb fighter-bomber. Desmond manages to claim confirmed victories with 112 Squadron despite being shot up himself. Billy Drake pops up again as one of many notable figures in Desmond’s travels.

Both sides worked themselves to a standstill, Rommel’s surge breaking at Gazala in August in what was his last real chance to break through to the Suez Canal. In October, Desmond is posted to No. 601 Squadron and returns to Spitfires. He continues to make claims but is shot down in November, which results in a remarkable capture, escape and evasion. He was back flying in short order and, chasing the Germans west, saw out the rest of his tour with the fall of Tunis and the completion of 215 operational sorties.

Central Gunnery School in Egypt follows, the ideal place for an experienced and successful fighter pilot to pass on his knowledge. Desmond remains in Egypt until November 1943 when he returns to 601 Squadron, now at Foggia, Italy. He continues his adventures with some success, and the occasional misadventure, but the important development of this period is his burgeoning relationship with a WAAF, Patsy. Nothing is ever clear as to the status of the relationship with this clever and ebullient lady but, as Desmond finishes yet another tour (with a bar to his DFC) and heads to instructing at a refresher unit, Patsy is a constant in his life. It was with No. 5 Refresher Unit, however, that he was killed on 19 November 1944.

Having survived a number of crashes in Spitfires, let alone being shot down in one, mystery remains as to the cause of the crash and Desmond’s death. Did he stay with the aircraft too long trying to fly his way out of the problem like he had before? Was he incapacitated? The final third of the book is dedicated to an examination of the facts, including eyewitness accounts, and what was learned from the subsequent excavation of the wreckage in 2005. This led to further interest in Desmond, his life and loss, and the author expertly weaves these discoveries with the family’s reactions, both at the time of death and as they learn of the ongoing commemorative efforts. Indeed, throughout On Silver Wings, even though Desmond never returned to the UK after he left for North Africa, the connection he maintained with his family is highlighted through letters and his relatives’ regular discovery of his smiling face in the press.

It is a remarkable story that opens with the mystery of the crash, the discovery of an eyewitness and the author’s part in making the connections that helped provide some closure for the family. I say ‘some closure’ as we all like to think, and write, that the discovery of a wreck and/or remains brings closure for loved ones (is there ever really any?). The author’s deepening relationship with the family certainly helps their understanding evolve and, ultimately, is directly responsible for their realisation of what happened. His good, long description of the research journey – from ‘easy’ archives to travel to connecting with the excavation team – clearly explains the wins and frustrations, the known unknowns and, ultimately, brings another flyer back to life.

Refreshingly, there is no padding. Where there’s nothing to add, like Demond’s journey to North Africa, the author doesn’t insert ‘noise’. This is a good skill to have; retaining the focus on Desmond is far more important than another treatise on the ‘Desert Fox’ or waxing lyrical about the Spitfire, for example. What’s mentioned is of value, adding to the narrative. There are exceptions, of course, and these fall in the technical column. The Tiger Moth is described as having a wooden airframe (wings, yes, fuselage, no) and General Gott was shot down in a Bombay (not a Whitley). When Desmond joins 112 Squadron, he is flying Kittyhawks with Merlins. Nothing wrong with that. The reason for this, inexplicably, is presented as the Kittyhawks being re-engined (from Pratt & Whitneys, not Allisons!) with Merlins to standardise with other RAF aircraft. Yep, my mouth was hanging open as well (and then the expletives came). I can only think this is a bit of (well, a lot of) a disconnect in the development of the P-40 series as the P-36/Mohawk was powered by a Pratt & Whitney Twin Wasp. That, however, ignores the RAF quite happily operating Tomahawks and Kittyhawks with Allisons before and after they, equally happily, flew the Merlin-powered ones. It is one of the most bizarre passages I have ever come across.

Further technical confusion comes with the Merlin 66 (the low-altitude version of the more widely used 63) being superb at height due to its two-stage supercharger kicking in, and the genuinely amusing anecdote of Desmond and Patsy flying an Auster together, but switching places by climbing over each other as the controls were up front and the passenger seat ‘slightly behind’. The Auster Mk. I is not roomy, and can carry a passenger behind the pilot, but the two seats up front, side by side and with two sets of controls, makes me wonder if one did indeed feature in these adventures. Perhaps it was something like an L-4 Grasshopper instead or a seat was removed? These anecdotes, notably, come from Patsy’s memoirs, which otherwise add substantial colour and detail to Desmond’s time away from the airfield. Correlation with his logbook would be interesting, and revealing, here.

Perplexing passages/statements aside (despite casting some doubt on the path taken to some conclusions reached elsewhere), they are fortunately in the minority, so this is still a story to savour. The author goes to great lengths to show Desmond’s place in things; he was one of many and, while the focus rarely pulls away from him, others are brought in to add colour, a differing view or, indeed, the detail Desmond’s records couldn’t supply. This is all under the umbrella of a ‘gentle’ contextual background, particularly in North Africa where a landing ground could be evacuated one day and reoccupied the next. The reader knows what’s going on, and how the flyers are contributing to the bigger picture, yet it remains Desmond’s story. There are no tangents or distractions which, these days, is not as common as you might think with such a biography.

Perhaps the most important thing this book does is bring Desmond’s story to a close, with the recovery of the rest of the Spitfire’s wreckage and his memorialisation, all expertly detailed by the author in the form of a mini-memoir of his experiences and involvement (there’s even a colour-picture section accompanying two monochrome sections, albeit all printed on the same paper stock as the narrative). More than eighty years on, although it was a tick over sixty at the time of the modern events in Italy, the flyers of the Second World War are still teaching us, still surprising us and still reminding us what had to be done because rotten people felt the best way forward was to oppress their fellow man. One of these days, we will learn to solve our differences without violence. In the meantime, books like this serve to remind us of the cost of not doing otherwise. On Silver Wings has brought another airman’s life back into the spotlight and there it will remain, but only if we ensure it does. We owe Desmond Ibbotson that.

ISBN 978-1-80399-920-3

Relentless Skies: The Most Efficient Airman – Ian Campbell

This year has not been kind in allowing me time to write reviews, let alone get some quality reading done. Aircrew Book Review is what led me to the editing work I do now, so I owe it, and its supporters, a lot; consequently, it's certainly not going anywhere. I still harbour hopes of writing a review for publication here, but the end of the year is upon us and there's a second pass of the current editing project to get stuck into. The computer was actually turned off on Christmas Eve, once I'd finished the first, slightly infuriating pass of said project, but if it's not on, I'm not working and if I'm not working, as a freelancer ... Perhaps watch this space for a bit of a 'cheat' should I not have time to write a review; a 'year in review' of new books, and maybe some of the old ones, crossing my desk might at least achieve some worthwhile content.

As I have done in the past, I am pleased to host a guest reviewer, and it is only fair one of Australia's leading present-day aviation historians should write about an Australian aviator who, despite his achievements, continues to be a polarising figure. This is the first volume of the new Don Bennett biography* and it goes a long way towards understanding just who the man was that assumed command of the new Path Finder Force, an initiative that led the way in transforming Bomber Command into an innovative and scarily effective asset for the Allied cause. Bennett's pre-war career featured a plethora of flying boats and there is no better reviewer for such a subject than Phil Vabre, so it's over to him. Andy Wright

Most people with a passing interest in Second World War airpower will be familiar with the name of Air Vice Marshal Donald CT ‘Don’ Bennett CB CBE DSO FRAes, creator and commander of the RAF’s legendary Path Finder Force. What is much less well-known about Bennett are his pre-war achievements in long-distance navigation, and his role as one of the driving forces behind the establishment and early operation of the Atlantic Ferry Organisation. This is the imbalance Ian Campbell addresses in Relentless Skies: The Most Efficient Airman, the first volume of a new two-part biography of Bennett.

This volume covers Bennett’s early life, growing up in Queensland, Australia, and joining the Royal Australian Air Force. After learning to fly, he took the opportunity to move to England on a transfer to the Royal Air Force (RAF) where he flew flying boats and became a navigation instructor. Bennett subsequently joined Imperial Airways where he eventually gained a captaincy on Empire flying boats before taking on the role of pilot of the Mercury component of the Mercury–Maia composite aircraft. As such, Bennett made a world record trans-Atlantic flight in mid-1938, followed by another in Mercury between Dundee, Scotland, and Orange River, South Africa, later the same year. After the outbreak of the Second World War, Don joined a small group to form the Atlantic Ferry Organisation. The purpose was to ferry American-built bombers and patrol aircraft to Britain across the Atlantic; Bennett led the first group personally. After a year of that, he rejoined the RAF and was put in command of No. 77 Squadron and, later, No. 10 Squadron where he was shot down by flak during an attack on the Tirpitz in Norway. He escaped by walking into Sweden and then talking his way into repatriation. You might be forgiven for thinking that is enough for one man, but this is just a brief recounting of the first part of Bennett’s career, and where this volume concludes.

There is no shortage of previous literature on Bennett, including his own controversial memoir, Pathfinder, published in 1958, and no less than three biographies, published in 1985, 1992 and 2018. There are numerous other works touching, in greater or lesser depth, on aspects of Bennett’s career, so can this new biography add anything more to the story?

Bennett’s papers reside in the Queensland Air Museum at Caloundra where Ian Campbell is their volunteer curator. This valuable archive of records comprises a mass of never previously available information including such items as Bennett’s original, hand-annotated navigation charts. With this trove of primary source material, as well as a great deal of secondary material on which to draw, Campbell has been able to look afresh at the facts. As he puts it, his approach was to ‘Trust, but verify’. Consequently, in many instances, he has been able to correct or dispel errors and myths about Bennett that have grown and been perpetuated over time (in not a few cases by Bennett himself).

The depth of Campbell’s research is evident from the copious endnotes (this is a book to read with two bookmarks). In trying to verify the facts of Bennett’s career, he has gone to considerable lengths to track down information. As noted above, not only has this exposed inaccuracies in the accepted ‘Bennett story’ but it has also enabled him to fill in the details of many of Bennett’s exploits. For example, Campbell has put together the best account yet of Bennett’s mission in the dark days of June 1940 to fly Polish General Sikorski from England to Bordeaux, France, to persuade the remnants of the Polish General Staff to return with him to England to continue the fight.

There are one or two minor points with which one might quibble. For example, Campbell claims the Cirrus Moth to be ‘obsolete’ when Bennett learned to fly in them in 1930; superseded by later models for sure, but hardly obsolete. There are also a couple of references to ‘Certificate of Accreditation’ when I’m pretty sure he means ‘Certificate of Airworthiness’. These are, no doubt, a product of the author’s lack of broader aviation background but are trivial exceptions in the overall quality of his work.

Campbell’s aim in writing this biography goes further, though, than simply recounting the facts of Bennetts’s career: he hoped to also understand, and paint us a picture, of Bennett the man. In that aim, he succeeds. We come to view Bennett as a man prepared to take calculated risks, when the potential reward was high enough and the risks could be adequately understood and controlled. We see him as a man of considerable intellect and hard work, but one who did not take kindly to those he considered fools, or to bureaucracy. Bennett’s drive to ‘get things done’ often created friction with those around him. He was also a man of considerable personal courage. In providing a deeper, balanced view of Bennett, Campbell has done his legacy a solid turn.

Relentless Skies also includes some very useful appendices including a chronology of Bennett’s life to mid-1942, a list of aircraft types flown, a comprehensive bibliography, and an excellent index divided into People, Places, the Air Force (units, bases, etc.), Aircraft and General. Finally, there is good photographic coverage with decent reproduction grouped in sections throughout the book. Furthermore, unlike many similar works, the aircraft illustrated are not just generic examples: in keeping with the quality of his overall research, Campbell has gone to considerable lengths to obtain images of the specific aircraft flown by Bennett.

Don Bennett deserves to be better remembered for his considerable achievements outside the Pathfinders and Ian Campbell’s book goes a long way toward redressing the balance.

ISBN 978-1-923020-64-1

*I edited Relentless Skies. As much as I wanted to, despite not having the time, it is not my place to write a review for it. All I can say, though, is you won't be disappointed by what is my new benchmark for aircrew biographies.

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.

Aircrew Book Review on The Damcasters podcast!

A couple of months ago, having lamented at my inability to get anything done book-review wise so made it known I was open to other avenues to get the word out, I sat down with Matt Bone and recorded an episode of his popular The Damcasters podcast (now The Aviation Show).

While it was originally supposed to be 'just' a vehicle for me to talk about some books I'd not had the chance to write about at length yet, Matt was also curious about the editing work I do. What I do is quite straightforward in the great scheme of things; it all makes sense in my head but trying to explain the process somewhat lucidly, to the extent it could be used as podcast content, was quite the challenge. I found it refreshing, however, as, beyond prospective clients, I don't usually explain what I do or how I go about doing it. Every project is different, so the approach varies, but there are some general rules and procedures I apply and Matt was able to tease these out. 

Being interviewed is not something I've done much of and it's been several years since I last 'broadcast' something about books. While that comes across more in the Youtube video of the interview, Matt's judicious editing makes the sound file almost seamless and me almost well spoken!

We had talked about doing another episode on books, perhaps even making it a regular thing, but I am conscious of listeners of The Damcasters having a much-wider interest base than RAF and Commonwealth aircrew of the Second World War. I don't want to spread my wings too far away from spreading the word on these stories far and wide, but it's only fair that I somehow cover books beyond the usual 'sphere'. Editing books that aren't Second World War-centric helps; believe it or not, the majority of my editing work isn't actually set in the 1940s! Perhaps there's hope for me yet.

The Aviation Book Review! with Andy Wright

Changing Altitudes – Stories of Australian Air Force Women

This is the latest addition to the RAAF's excellent Air Campaign Series and, at 360 pages, easily the longest to date. Of course, we're talking Air Force history that spans from the 1940s to today so there's a lot of ground to cover, not to mention three iterations of service arms female aviators have served their country in (WAAAF, WRAAF and RAAF). 

Collated and written by a team of five (at least two of who have forthcoming books – Karyn Markwell, Australian air power use in humanitarian aid and disaster relief, and Rosalind Turner, Australian air lift history), it looks at all aspects of Australian women in Air Force service – impressive, inclusive and uplifting, but also frustrating and sobering in part. Much is made, particularly in the more modern stories, of the work/life balance in today's Air Force. Challenges remain, of course, but today's equal opportunities are highlighted – from raw recruit and fast-jet pilot to the upper echelons of command – while also acknowledging the system isn't perfect, something the RAAF, with this book series and other publications, has been relatively open to discussing.

The standard of production is top notch, as expected from this series, with colour throughout on glossy paper stock, and good, thick card covers. Like the preceding books in the series (and there's more to come), the whole package provides exceptional value for money.

Note: I did the main edit for this (to date, I've worked on all but one of the series) so feel free to take any potential bias with a grain of salt. Stuff that, just buy it, you won't be disappointed!

Casemate Publishers – 15% off until the end of December!

I've been a bit slow with getting this one on the website, but it has been 'live' on the Facebook group for some time now.

Visit Casemate before the end of December 2024, select any Casemate-branded books that take your fancy and apply the code CASE15 at the checkout to get 15% off.

It's that easy, but I do expect a message to let me know what you splashed out on!

Grub Street – 25% off until 18 December 2024!

Grub Street discount time!

From now until 18 December, use the code aircrewbooks to get 25% off the list price at Grub Street.

Grub Street has sorted the shipping issues and can now ship worldwide. However, please note these purchase cut-off dates if you want to ensure delivery before Christmas (UK customers have until the 18th of course):

3 December Australia and New Zealand

4 December Cyprus, Malta, Portugal and Spain

5 December Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Eastern Europe (except Czech Republic and Poland), France, Germany, Greece, Iceland, Ireland, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Slovakia, Switzerland and Turkey

6 December Canada, Czech Republic, Finland, Italy, Poland, Sweden and USA

Have at it and let me know what you get!

Admiral VAT Smith – Graeme Lunn

 

It's been a while. Sorry.

Regular readers will know of my penchant for the wartime Fleet Air Arm, and my motivation to spread the word about what is always quite a suprisingly extensive bibliography of memoirs and biographies. I am also particularly keen to see more stories of the very few Australian wartime 'flying sailors' in print. The most recent one was the Fred Sherborne 'limited' bio, An Accidental Hero, which focussed on his evasion in the south of France and had very little to say about his adventurous naval career up until then (or after).

Now, however, leading Australian aviation history publisher, Avonmore Books (distributed by Casemate/Pen & Sword in the Northern Hemisphere), has released Admiral VAT Smith, the biography of the father of Australia's Fleet Air Arm and a book a long time coming in part due to the subject's reluctance to talk about himself in interviews.

If the dustcover artwork of this hardback doesn't sell you (Avonmore also offers a voucher to buy a discounted print of the cover image), perhaps this will. Avonmore's two recent Australian Fleet Air Arm titles, Flying Stations II (currently on sale!) and The Skyhawk Years are books of astounding quality. VAT surpasses them; it is glorious. The typical Avonmore use of colour within (and world-class Juanita Franzi-Aero profiles!) makes it stand head and shoulders above any other FAA bio. Fair enough, it’s the latest effort, but it will be hard to come close (even for Seaforth or the Naval Institute Press!).

Unsuprisingly, the author follows VAT's life through his early years and into the Royal Australian Navy, his eventual pre-war qualification as an observer, serving on HMS Ark Royal until the carrier was lost, attacking Scharnhorst (per the cover), catapulting in Fulmars, catapulting from HMAS Canberra in the Pacific (VAT was on board during the Battle of Savo Island), terms as Air Staff Officer Afloat (back with the Royal Navy) and Ashore (back in Australia tending to the British Pacific Fleet), carrier life in Korea, command at sea and ashore, and the highest of upper echelons. It's a story that encounters some of the greats of the Fleet Air Arm – 'they have their exits and their entrances'; VAT 'in his time plays many parts'.

Photo reproduction is superb with some lovely half-page plates dedicated to images whose quality deserves such treatment. Several maps are also presented; they, and the layout, are very clearly the expert work of Di Bricknell. A Tasmanian graphic designer, Di's work needs to be seen by a much wider audience. Her signature is evident throughout Avonmore's titles and her map work has graced the pages of aircrew authors such as Kristen Alexander, Graeme Gibson and Ian Campbell, to name a few.

Avonmore has the book listed at a price cheaper than hardbacks imported into Australia; produced at a far higher level of quality, everything about this book makes it the aircrew biography of the year. I'm calling it already.

Available in the Southern Hemisphere.

And, in the Northern Hemisphere.

Buy a print of the cover art from artist Drew Harrison!

ISBN 978-0-64570-0-480.

Flying with the Navy – Steve and Heather Bond

 

I can't say I've ever seen a landscape format book from Grub Street before, especially an aviation title. It's a surprising package from cover to cover (almost as surprising as ABR showcasing a book with a 'Brick' on the cover!). As a sucker for anything to do with wartime naval aviation, and therefore absorbing anything to do with the subject either side of 1939–45, I expected to see some familiar images, but none were. The photos are the 'cast offs'; those not used in the author's Fleet Air Arm Boys series. That says a lot for the quality of the images in that series as this book is quite magic.

The subject matter, which of course guides the images (or was it vice versa?!), covers almost all aspects of life in the Royal Navy's air arm, from far flung bases and theatres to life at sea and 'coming home'. Just about every aircraft type used by the air arm gets its own chapter and photo spread, as do some of the roles that make everything happen and the cultural norms familiar to the naval family. Some of the captions are quite pithy too.

At first glance, you could argue Flying with the Navy is a potted history of the RNAS and FAA, but it goes so much deeper than that. This is the illustrated story of an air arm that, but for a few long years in the mid-1940s, has always had to justify its existence. Its people have always played the cards they've been dealt and always, always, delivered more than could ever be expected. The proof is in the images and breadth of narrative.

Visit Navy Wings and support them by buying the book from their store. 

Please be mindful the Grub Street website links above are only of use if you are in the UK. For various reasons, the publisher no longer ships outside the UK. Please speak to your local bookshop to buy/order a copy, visit the Navy Wings link above, access your preferred buying website or use this Abebooks link to acquire a copy.

ISBN 978-1-91171-4-033

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

Flying to the Edge – Matthew Willis

 

Mention ‘test pilot’ to anyone with even just a passing interest in aviation and their mind will inevitably turn to the likes of ‘Chuck’ Yeager, perhaps the astronauts of the ‘Space Race’. Widen the net and Jeffrey Quill, Alex Henshaw, Hanna Reitsch and Eric Brown are sure to be mentioned. What about Mike Lithgow, Peter Twiss, Don Lopez, Roland Beamont and, a personal favourite, ‘Mike’ Crosley? Besides the obvious Western origins, there is one thing they all share. They all came to prominence, and I mean approached being household names, for their exploits during and after the Second World War. What about Duncan Menzies? Never heard of him? Well, you have now and the opportunity to learn more is provided by a book that is a lesson in efficiency and focus.

 

Born to a Scottish farming family in 1905, Menzies’s future was to follow his father on the family’s land in the Scottish Highlands. What he wanted, though, was freedom and flying appeared to offer that. Perhaps seeing his future in his father made him feel hemmed in; joining the RAF offered a broadening of horizons.

 

Broaden they certainly did as Menzies trained in Egypt for much of 1928, flying Avro 504Ks before progressing to the ‘bomber’ flight and DH.9As. In the final quarter of the year, he was posted to No 45 Squadron, south of Cairo, to continue flying the DH.9A. Promoted to flying officer early in the new year, he was sent to No 47 Squadron in the Sudan in mid-June, but not before flying the Fairey IIIF as his old squadron began to convert to the type.

 

The RAF in Africa and the Middle East, and beyond, performed the role of ‘aerial policeman’ throughout the 1920s and 1930s. The Sudan was no exception although there is no evidence Menzies was involved in any raids at the time. He was certainly not underemployed, however. Flying Fairey IIIFs again throughout the region proving routes and performing aerial photography and surveys, he even tried for some endurance records. He returned to the UK in mid-1930, trained as an instructor and, as fate would have it, returned to Egypt, and the school he learned to fly at, to teach.

 

With hours building, Menzies found the time between instructing to hone his aerobatics; he would be called upon to perform flying displays. With the culmination of the first course, he led a flight of, interestingly, Armstrong-Whitworth Atlases to Iraq, effectively graduating the class while also acting as a show of force to the region. It is a particularly evocative part of the book, with accompanying images, as the aircraft traverse vast tracts of exceptionally inhospitable desert (and not without mishap).

 

An oft-expressed desire to fly a wider range of types, coupled with his instructing prowess and reputation, saw Duncan posted to the Aeroplane & Armament Experimental Establishment (A&AEE), the centre of the test-flying world. During his almost three years at Martlesham Heath, after finding his feet, Menzies achieved his goal, albeit most types seemed remarkably antiquated for the time. While he had glimpses of the future, including flying the Heinkel He 64, his testing career gravitated towards naval types and he was part of the team that tested what would become the Fairey Swordfish. 

 

Coming to the end of his medium-service commission, and now a highly regarded test pilot, Menzies took the opportunity to resign his commission to stay employed doing what he loved. Faireys took him on and he was soon back in the Swordfish programme before moving to the long-overdue Hendon bomber. It was a Fairey light bomber, however, that stole the limelight the following year, 1937, when the first Battle rolled off the production line. Menzies flew this aircraft for most of April, testing it and proving that, weighed down with operational equipment, the Battle fell short. He had his first brush with the aircraft that would define his career, the Fulmar, in mid-1937, but much of the remaining years leading to war were taken up with testing Battles.

 

The Fleet Air Arm desperately needed a modern fighter and ended up with the Fulmar. Underpowered and carrying a crew of two, this graceful and ‘friendly’ (important when landing on aircraft carriers) aircraft remains the highest-scoring fighter fielded by the Royal Navy. It was the typical FAA type of the period, loved by its crews but lamented for not quite being up to the job given it. This aside, Duncan Menzies was there to test all the improvements and refinements made to the type throughout its operational career, no doubt being one of the main contributors to ‘Winkle’ Brown’s comment about the ‘basic rightness’ of the Fulmar.

 

After a Fulmar disintegrated around him, the g-force of the destruction throwing the test pilot clear, in early February 1941, Menzies spent the next few years of the war flying whatever Fairey had on offer – prototype and early production Barracudas, reconditioned Battles and even Fairey-built Beaufighters. He worked as an FAA liaison from 1944, taking advantage of being able to spend a few days at sea, ostensibly to see how aircraft handled on and off carriers of course, away from what was becoming an increasingly technical and somewhat troublesome job. He even headed to the Far East to investigate issues with operational Fireflies.

 

Throughout the later years of the war, the Fulmar, despite being withdrawn from operational service, continued to feature prominently in Duncan’s life; the prototype, having languished at Faireys for some time, was rejuvenated and became the company ‘hack’. It continued in this role post-war, proving useful during the development of the Firefly trainer, a project Menzies pushed hard for upon realising the power differential between trainers of the day and new aircraft like the Sea Fury. After a year in Australia helping with the Royal Australian Navy’s new Fireflies, and 25 years after dragging an Avro 504K into the hot Egyptian air, Menzies stepped from a cockpit as pilot for the last time in February 1952. Fittingly, his last flight was in the company Fulmar. He retired in 1964 and passed away in 1997.

 

Flying had been Duncan’s path to freedom and it kept him gainfully employed, and challenged, for a quarter of a century. When it became overly technical and bureaucratic – constricted by gadgets, technology and rules – he felt the freedom had gone so, without any apparent qualms, he simply stopped. He did so without fanfare; quietly and modestly, he just stepped aside. That modesty is reflected in Flying to the Edge. While there are some gaps in the account of his pre-war service, per what remains of his records, the author seamlessly fills them with reference to other sources backed by intelligent analysis and conclusions. There is no padding, though, and little in the way of contextual scene setting once Menzies returns to the UK for good. It’s not needed as the focus is kept firmly on the subject.

 

The accounts of service in Africa are vivid, almost ‘last frontier’ stuff, and are remarkably well illustrated, not by generic photos of the era and region, but by images featuring Menzies and his colleagues. An image of the Atlases flying to Iraq over a forbidding landscape is particularly striking. The focus exhibited in the narrative extends to the photo selection throughout, each having a direct link to Menzies if he’s not actually pictured.

 

Pre-war test flying was, obviously, the crest of the wave and Menzies was right on it. Descriptions of the types under development with A&AEE border on the exquisite, without disappearing down any number of rabbit holes, and are the product of an author well versed in the technical, and sometimes quirky, aspects of the machines and their time. 

 

For a book of a modest 120 pages, it is astonishing how much is included. The thoughtful layout helps, but this is certainly a book that punches well above its weight. Like Duncan Menzies, it might have flown under the radar, especially as the author has since been ‘scooped up’ by larger, more prolific aviation publishers, but track it down and set off on a heady journey with the Faireys.

 

ISBN 978-1-44566-4-415

Barracuda Pilot - Dunstan Hadley

 

To give you an idea of how busy I've been and how absolutely neglected ABR has been in 2023, besides the obvious sole review to date appearing on 1 January, this review, written by regular contributor (to both ABR and Flight Line Book Review) Adrian Roberts, was sent to me at the end of January. It's taken me this long to remember I had it at the same time as having some time to publish it. I do hope to have more reviews up before the year is out; we'll see how we go. It is interesting to note Adrian's comment about the author's positive views on the Barracuda, certainly in the minority in this age of 'stories' and 'reputations' that take on a life of their own. While I agree some of the criticism towards the Barracuda is justified, Hadley's impressions mirror those of the great Roy Baker-Falkner, as detailed in Drucker's excellent biography 'Wings over the Waves'. Andy Wright

Dunstan Hadley left his studies as a medical student and joined the Fleet Air Arm in 1941. He was selected for training on the Fairey Barracuda torpedo bomber, which implied a greater level of aptitude than those destined for the Swordfish. 

Given the negative view of many aviation enthusiasts of the Barracuda (more of which were produced than any other British naval aircraft), it was interesting to read the views of a pilot with first-hand experience who has a largely positive view of the type. Many pilots will have a prejudice in favour of types on which they spent a large proportion of their career; Hadley seems to find very little reason to be negative about it. Possibly the worst faults had been ironed out before he got to fly them; he acknowledges that the wings came off some of the early examples but does not mention this happening to anyone he knew. One of his friends was killed when he apparently lost control during manoeuvres, but Hadley was prepared to go up and replicate the incident and work out how to deal with it. Readers may have come across some rumours of the undercarriage collapsing into the observer’s position during heavy landings, but Hadley does not even mention this so maybe it was not considered a frequent issue. 

In the end, Hadley only flew one combat operation, from HMS Victorious against Sigli on Sumatra. He is critical of the Admiralty’s decision to withdraw the Barracuda in favour of Avenger squadrons due to their longer range. Readers solely interested in accounts of combat may be disappointed. They would be missing out, however, as Hadley is a very entertaining writer and takes us through the entire process of basic training of a naval recruit, primary flight training and operational training including practice landings on small escort carriers. 

The anecdotes are often humorous and self-deprecating. Obviously, writing 50 years after the events, he must be fictionalising the conversations and possibly re-inventing some characters, but the story opens onto a forgotten world involving people as well as technology. Either way, the small details of life in the 1940s are rapidly moving out of human memory and worth preserving.  

Hadley gives no details of his later life, but the book’s flyleaf implies he went back to Medicine after the war. A Google search turned up a document from University College Oxford (where the book says he was a student) suggesting he died in 2000, aged 79. Aviation enthusiasts have reason to be grateful he committed his flying career to paper. This book is long out of print but well worth searching out on the second-hand market.

ISBN 978-1-85310-1-953

Looking Backwards over Burma – Dennis Spencer DFC

 

Like this simple 192-page paperback from Woodfield Publishing, I’m getting straight into this review. Dennis Spencer was a No 211 Squadron Beaufighter navigator, flying a tour of operations over Burma, hence the title, with the same pilot he flew the ferry flight from the UK with. As expected, their bond was strong and the book is simply dedicated ‘for Geoff’ (Vardigans).

 

It took them 20 days to reach India (Allahabad), slowed by two spare parts delays, and then almost the same again for the author to reach Calcutta, his pilot having been admitted to hospital. The account of their journey to this point reads almost like a travelogue, once the ferry flight from the UK is underway, the author proving exquisitely observant (something that becomes exceptionally useful, both for intelligence officer and reader alike, during his tour) with good descriptions of weather, terrain and people.

 

Dennis is also particularly good at an almost overwhelming dose of self-doubt. He is consistently worried about his ability and skill as a navigator and, in general, a serviceman. This is evident early on before he flies on ops. Having to travel to Bhatpara (East Bengal, now Bangladesh, just north-east of where the Ganges flows into a major distributary, the Padma River) on his own, despite travel warrants and the like, is daunting. Indeed, this chapter is titled ‘Lonely Journey in a Foreign Land’. His uncertainty is further assaulted by the ‘seething mass of humanity’ he encounters and the general culture shock of experiencing India, both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Dennis is eventually warmly welcomed to the squadron, having travelled by Dakota, train, river steamer and truck to get there, and takes up residence on a ‘dead man’s bed’, a fact his new basha mate tries to hide (the standard coping mechanism for most aircrew).

 

Flying his first op six days later (this is March/April 1944 so the time of Kohima and Imphal) across the Irrawaddy with a ‘mad’ Canadian who felt he did not need a navigator, the author, having been told by his colleagues that map reading was of far more use than keeping an accurate plot, experiences a rollercoaster of emotions as he feels compassion for the Burmese they scare the living daylights out of at low level and then burning hatred for enemy soldiers who try to man an anti-aircraft gun. The realisation sinks in – ‘For me this was the day the war had really started.’

 

Pilot and navigator were reunited soon after as, by mid-May, Geoff and Dennis were approaching double figures for ops flown. Their tour progresses through to early December, with a few adventures on the way as you would expect, both men earning the DFC as a result and the author starting a rest tour with a Mosquito Conversion Unit near Bangalore; he also casually mentions he’s there as the navigation officer so any doubts about his abilities were clearly all in his head! If you’ve read anything about low-level work over Burma, you’ll be familiar with how these strikes were carried out and how the environment – the terrain and the weather – were as dangerous as the Japanese. What stands out, however, is the author’s description of the flying, the attacks and the sheer effort just to get home. Coupled with his memories of squadron life and life in India, the narrative is on par with Andrew Millar’s The Flying Hours and Atholl Sutherland Brown’s Silently into the Midst of Things in terms of painting a colourful, harrowing, debilitating, and even fragrant picture of the aircrew experience over Burma. The downtime between ops is exacerbated by Dennis being very good at worrying when he has nothing to do. His ‘expanded Inner Self awareness’ means he knows he lets his mind run; these internalisations – the fear, overcoming it, etc. – receive as much weight on the page as the flying.

 

Lightly illustrated, a small bibliography is included, as are some small, useful appendices. While very much a descriptive account of the ‘highlights’ or, at least, what he could remember – there are a few dates and aircraft/technical details mentioned, but their paucity hardly registers given the rich narrative – a lot is learned about Dennis and, to a lesser extent, Geoff, his pilot. To do so in less than 200 pages is something special. This is the ideal aircrew memoir.  

 

ISBN 978-1-84683-0-730

*Dennis Spencer passed away in September 2020.