Double Sunrise – Geoff Goodall

 

I've been sitting on this review since its author, Phil Vabre, sent it to me in January. Other than having no time to get it published, or remembering to do so at the wrong time, I have no excuse. Besides the continued existence of his website, this is the last addition to Geoff Goodall's incredible historic aviation legacy. Phil was involved in the creation of this new, updated edition. While that might suggest some justifiable bias when reviewing, you can't argue with the expertise he brought to the book. Andy Wright.

The long-awaited, and substantially revised and expanded, edition of Geoff Goodall’s book about the wartime Qantas Indian Ocean services has arrived.

The original version was, since its original publication in 1979, the first and only significant work detailing this important, but top secret, wartime airline service. Geoff Goodall and co-author Barry Pattison had the benefit of being able to interview some of the participants who were still alive at the time. Sadly, they are all gone now and, for health reasons, Barry was unable to collaborate on this new edition, but, nevertheless, with the benefit of 45 years of additional research, it is full of new and revised information.

For those unfamiliar with the story, in 1942, the Japanese conquest of much of South-East Asia severed Australia’s air connection with Britain and the British Empire. At the urging of Qantas Empire Airways, the British and Australian Governments approved a bold plan to operate an air service to transport microfilmed mail and a very limited number of VIP passengers between Perth and Colombo in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), where a connection to British airline services could be made.

The top-secret service commenced in June 1943 using a small number of Catalina flying boats provided by Britain. It was the longest regular air service in the world and, in terms of duration, remains so. The route distance covered 3,500 miles with an average flight time of 27 hours – the longest trip being 32 hours – hence the ‘Double Sunrise’ moniker for the service. Five months later, the service was extended to Karachi (then in India, now in Pakistan), an additional 1,490 miles.

In mid-1944, Qantas introduced much-faster converted Liberator bombers to operate on a shorter route from Exmouth Gulf to Ceylon. The year after that, Lancastrian conversions of Lancaster bombers were introduced.

The services were masterpieces of operational planning and technique, and operated accident-free throughout the war period. Unfortunately, this record was blemished when a Lancastrian vanished without trace during one of the final Indian Ocean flights in March 1946. Shortly afterwards, with peace brought again to the world, services reverted to the pre-war route via Singapore.

This new edition of the Indian Ocean Service book covers all of the Catalina, Liberator and Lancastrian operations in detail, with all three types illustrated in colour profiles by the inestimable Juanita Franzi. Black-and-white photos throughout complement the text. As a final bonus, the complete daily movements of the Qantas Catalina and Liberator fleets during this period can be downloaded in tables prepared by Paul Sheehan from Geoff’s website.

A vital reference for anybody interested in this operation.

ISBN 978-1-76419-3-733

Note: for readers in the northern hemisphere, Avonmore Books are distributed by Script Publisher Services, which means they are easily available via the Pen & Sword website.

Evader – Chris Newey

 

Exactly three years ago today, I was sitting in a Lancaster in Auckland. Sure, I'd seen six Lancs before (and this one ticked off the third of the three southern hemisphere aircraft) and even crawled through a Shackleton, but this was something that truly brought all of my reading and research to life. Crawling over the spar in shorts and t-shirt was hard enough (partly from not wanting to scratch the paint too!), let alone imagining doing it in full flying kit. The experience really hit home how such a large aircraft was so constricting for its crew.

The person responsible for organising this treat was Chris Newey, the respected No. 75 (NZ) Squadron historian. We had been talking about a book he was working on when I mentioned I'd be in Auckland during a cruise stopover. It was a holiday that had already offered so much with three B-17s I'd not seen before, visits to museums I'd been reading and writing about for decades and experiences we still talk about as a family. Chris was kind enough to offer to arrange the tour of the Lanc at MOTAT (Museum of Transport and Technology), yet another museum I'd always wanted to visit.

Since then, I've worked on two of Chris's books as he strives to share the lesser-known stories of New Zealand's most famous squadron. The latest addition is the tale of Ron Clark, a pilot shot down flying his 'second dickey' op with a very experienced crew on 27/28 May 1944, and the network of civilians who risked everything to help him. These civilians never knew what happened to Ron, but it was a query from one much later in life, and the interest of descendants, that led to this book being written, minds laid to rest and the discovery of betrayals, intrigue and, amazingly, some service 'misrepresentation' by one of the crew. Using Ron's own 'brief account' of his adventures, written for his family at their request, Chris pulls together everything needed to tell the story of a bomber crew, with the added complication of tracing their fates after the Lancaster fell to a night fighter and getting to grips with the complications of resistance operations in Belgium.

A softback of 150 pages, the book features period monochrome and modern colour images throughout and is available locally/worldwide as a print-on-demand edition (via Bomber Command Books from Aviation Books Ltd.), thereby keeping the cost of postage as low as possible. Evader is very much worth your while.

ISBN 978-1-91533-5-883

Heroes are Fools – Murray Crawcour

This will come as no surprise, but the time between me reading this book and then writing the review is far too long. My records show I acquired it at the end of February 2023 and, by all accounts, read it in late 2024 and/or early 2025. Nothing like fresh memories, especially when I forgot the simplest of things – start and end dates. In keeping with this theme, my copy has quite the non-descript appearance (not the lovely artwork edition above); there’s not even a title on the spine. Reliant on a diary and some slightly fallible memories, Heroes are Fools is quite the surprising package, and it’s written by a former member of the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) no less.

The author began his RAAF training in January 1941, working up as a navigator/bomb aimer. He is sent to Egypt before attending an operational training unit in Kenya. After several periods of seemingly interminable waiting around, coupled with immense frustration at being ready to go but missing out at the last minute, Murray flies his first operation on Blenheims with No. 113 Squadron, out of Asansol, India, in May 1942, having previously flown into Akyab just before it fell. Conditions at Asansol are not pleasant and, over time, despite a serious amount of operations (what he refers to as the ‘monotony of life’), or because of them, Murray begins to drink heavily, somewhat out of wanting something to do. Ferry flights from Africa and trekking in the Darjeeling district serve to break up the routine, but only the latter is an escape from the oppressive heat and clapped-out Blenheims.

Upon completing his tour of 300 hours, Murray asks to stay on until his pilot finishes his tour but is told his nerves are shot. Arguing the point to no avail, he realises, once he begins ‘flying a desk’, that his nerves are indeed gone. While instructing, he spends some time in hospital before finally returning to Australia, Geelong specifically, pending his next tour. The return to operational flying is initially with No. 32 Squadron in Queensland and then No. 8 Squadron in Tadji, New Guinea, where he spends much of 1945 flying three times the number of sorties as he did in India (for a total exceeding 200, of which 153 were ‘completed bombing strikes’). Inexplicably, he consistently refers to the aircraft of 8 and 32 Squadrons as Bisleys, not the Beauforts they clearly were.

Post-war, he studied law before moving to Israel and, remarkably, was called up to the Israeli Air Force for brief service (including on board a Flying Fortress during a bombing raid where it appeared he was the only ‘professional’ among the crew). Raising a family in Israel, he was, of course, still impacted by conflict despite being too old to serve. There is a sense of relief when he mentions that and it is clear, at the time of writing the book, he is tired of humans being no different to animals. The weariness that crept in during his tour in India, held at bay by the importance of his work as squadron bombing leader in New Guinea and replaced by an enthusiastic idealism in the 1950s and 60s, returns as it only can in people who have fought for what they saw as right over and over again.

While the subtitle refers to the book being a diary, the narrative is certainly not set out that way. Indeed, there are mentions of future events (such as the huge amount of flying he goes on to do, the positions he held, etc.) throughout. It is, however, classic storytelling with lots of decent anecdotes painting pictures of life in Egypt, Kenya and India in particular.

It was surprising to read of Murray’s move to Israel post-war. His faith is clear throughout his service, and guides many of his activities, but he did not come across as ardent, though it was clearly a major part of his life growing up. If nothing else, services, acknowledging specific days and dates of note, and networking with local Jewish communities gave him something to do. The networking proved useful and seemed to keep his social calendar full. With the passing of time, however, what probably peaked in the 1950s and 60s mellows as he ages and reflects on our inability to evolve beyond armed conflict.

Rather bizarrely, details of family history, growing up, education, and his post-war study, relationships and work are placed in appendices. This perhaps contributes to the impression Murray was not married to his faith as the narrative opens with his first day in the RAAF. While it’s straight into the whole reason for acquiring this book, the familiar structure of, at least, growing up and education in Melbourne would have helped the reader build an image of the author, rounding out their understanding as he embarks on the great events of his young life. With the Crawcour story coming to an end, I admit to not being terribly interested in the family history and religious introspection, for example, by then and skimmed a fair chunk of the appendices (which make up about a third of the page count).

To each their own from that point of view, but don’t let it scare you off trying to find a copy of Heroes are Fools. It is largely a book about flying in India/Burma and I’m all for that, especially considering the Australian connection. There’s only a handful of pages covering New Guinea, indicating how busy he was, which is a shame as such accounts aren’t exactly thick on the ground, especially ones as entertainingly written as the Indian sojourn is. That said, the eclectic photo section includes some good images from the New Guinea tour, although all photos are reproduced a little on the small side, there being enough room on each page for them to be made at least 20 percent larger.

Heroes are Fools is a self-published (in Israel, remarkably) diamond in the rough. The passage of time is a little hard to follow – although some good indicators are easy to note if you need them – and there’s a couple of niggles when it comes to memory that can lead to questions elsewhere, but it’s an otherwise entertaining and thought-provoking read. The author’s access to his diary and logbook provides an immediacy to his writing and serves as an ideal trigger for his colourful and erudite observations which are, albeit, slightly influenced by looking back over a life peppered by a series of conflicts witnessed firsthand. That said, the narrative is seemingly unaffected by external ‘influences’ such as contemporary memoirs, unit histories or even in-depth archival research. This might have added helpful context, but it would have removed the reader from their place at Murray’s side, diluting an engaging tale.

ISBN 978-9-65229-0-526

Gestapo Hunter – Sean Feast

 

This will sound ridiculous, but I don’t think I’ve read a pure Sean Feast book since Thunder Bird in Bomber Command. By ‘pure’ I mean a book where he’s listed as the sole author on the cover (not taking anything away from his many collaborative works). Sure, I’ve dipped in and out of The Pathfinder Companion, Pathfinders – The Definitive Story and Halton Boys, but I’ve not yet read them cover to cover. I’ve also read A Thousand and One by Humphrey Phillips DFC ‘with Sean Feast’ (one of those rare books written by a flight engineer). There’s lots of shouting when new books are released but I’m finding, of late, some to be lacking either in terms of being rushed to market, scant genuine understanding for a subject or (with my editing hat on) a lack of interest or care at the final hurdles, with perhaps the latter two being a function of the first. Reading Gestapo Hunter reminded me how well-crafted an aircrew book can be.

I’ve always thought the wartime RAF to have been the finest proponent of low-level flying (and no doubt post-war Buccaneer and Tornado crews, for example, would agree to have continued that legacy), especially over land. Blenheims, Bostons and Mosquitos immediately come to mind, some to survive in an interceptor-rich environment, some to ensure a second visit wasn’t needed. It is hard to fathom the feelings of civilians in Occupied Europe upon seeing a loose formation of Mossies screaming by at rooftop level. It is awe-inspiring to think of now, but it was clearly dangerous work with little room for error, be it in finding the target easily, hitting same and reacting to emergencies where a greater altitude would allow some options, or a chance. Giving the game away somewhat, of all those involved in these operations, it is fair to say Ted Sismore DSO DFC** AFC, the subject of Gestapo Hunter, was the finest of the low-level navigators. That is saying a lot.

Interestingly, his RAF career did not initially proceed as he wanted. While his instructors figured he’d get there eventually, such were the exigencies of wartime that he ran out of time to solo in a Tiger Moth. While this scuppered his dream of being a pilot for a few years, the RAF, and the war effort at large, benefitted from this failure. Sismore would, however, go on to fly Meteors, Javelins and Canberras, among other types, in the post-war RAF, seeing a career through to unit command and the higher echelons of the Service.

Having flown 26 operations on Blenheims by the end of June 1941, Ted’s subsequent posting to Malta was cut short by fever. From arriving on the island to his repatriation, he survived a frenetic period in which the crews of the detachment, while successful, suffered badly. The same applied to those of his unit, No. 110 Squadron, who had remained in the UK. An uncomfortable posting to No. 13 OTU (Ted didn’t want to be there and made it known) led to No. 24 OTU and, interestingly, involvement as a Whitley nav in the ‘big push’ raids on Bremen and Düsseldorf of mid-1942.

Just before these raids, the Mosquito had flown its first operational sorties. Ted already knew he wanted to fly on a Mossie squadron; this became a reality when Reg Reynolds, a veteran of two Bomber Command tours, teamed up with him for posting to No. 105 Squadron. This is where the Ted Sismore legend truly began with his ability to plan, and execute succinctly, routes to and from targets coming to the fore. While getting ahead of myself slightly, name a ‘classic’ Mosquito raid and Ted was involved: interrupting Göring’s Berlin speech in January 1943; deep-penetration raids; planning Operation Jericho, the raid on the Amiens Prison; the ‘Aarhus raid’; and Operation Carthage, the March 1945 raid on Gestapo headquarters in Copenhagen. Of course, not all of these were done with Reynolds flying the aircraft, although they did transfer to No. 139 Squadron together and were part of the early Light Night Striking Force before briefly parting, Ted heading to No. 2 Group HQ but duly flying with the likes of Charles Patterson and Basil Embry, the latter on some of the first ‘Noball’ strikes.

Ted and Reynolds were reunited in early 1944 when the latter assumed the role of wing commander flying for No. 140 Wing. After some time away learning the intricacies of Gee-H, Ted became wing navigation officer alongside Reynolds. As always, there were ‘run of the mill’ ops interspersed by stand outs such as the raid on the SS base at Château de Marieville in retaliation for the murder of SAS members of Operation Bulbasket (see the recently released SAS Rogue by Peter Weaver for details of the betrayal, attack and subsequent war crimes committed against these men). The successful Mosquito raid also saw the RAF’s first use of napalm.

With Reynolds having flown his last operational sortie during the Aarhus raid, Ted flew with his replacement, Bob Bateson, and Bob Iredale, the great Australian Mossie flyer, specifically flying with the former on Carthage and the attack on the well-camouflaged Gestapo headquarters on the island of Funen, near Odense. Post-war flying saw him team up with another great proponent of low-level flying, ‘Micky’ Martin, on a record-setting flight to Cape Town before entering the world of all-weather fighters, a long Cold War RAF career ending in the early 1970s with ‘retirement’ into private enterprise, leveraging his navigational and electronic-equipment expertise.

It is probably a bit of an oversell to regard the author as a modern-day Tony Spooner or Roy Conyers Nesbit. Admittedly, he didn’t fly during wartime, or at all as his primary career, but it’s the comprehensive understanding of the subject that leads to this comparison. That’s the great strength of Gestapo Hunter; Ted Sismore, while leaving behind enough of an ‘official’ record, didn’t reveal any unpublished manuscripts or diaries in his personal collection, although he did give interviews. As a result, the author has a few holes to fill and does so beautifully, leaning into his knowledge. His previous works, extensive research and enduring fascination for the period come to the fore with the ability to place Ted in the bigger picture, for example, explaining the move of 105 and 139 Squadrons from low-level ops to the Path Finder Force (PFF), and the reasons behind the creation of the PFF. Such ‘scene setting’ could easily lead to excessive tangents but, in every case, the author maintains a tight rein to ensure the focus remains on Ted. This sort of control only comes from truly understanding, being at one with the subject as it were, what is being written about. The ability to get the point across succinctly, particularly with complicated subjects, is a skill of great value (and why my reviews are so long …) honed, in this case, by decades of getting to grips with all aspects of the air war. It is impressive to read it in action. At the same time, however, the author doesn’t assume established knowledge among his readership, making Gestapo Hunter remarkably accessible, which is another nod to his grasp of the subject.

As you’d expect from a Grub Street hardback, this is a lovely book, the boards replicating the artwork of the dust cover, something that remains unique among ‘modern’ aircrew books. The text is quite small, cramming a lot of fine narrative and the standard endpapers into a little over 200 pages. There’s the ‘classic’ glossy photo insert (eight leaves, 16 sides) with the majority of images clear, albeit reproduced relatively small. The most interesting of these, despite the ‘familiar’ and remarkable low-level images of Copenhagen, etc., are of Ted and his fine colleagues, many of whom, as you’d expect, are talked about at length in the narrative. Just before the extensive Cold War selection of images are several from Ted’s sobering visit to Copenhagen, during which he met with some of the families who had lost children when the school was hit during the Carthage raid.

The Spooner/Conyers Nesbit comparison, with further reflection, stands up well. There are very few authors consistently releasing standalone aircrew biographies of this calibre. Gestapo Hunter is proof there are still great aircrew stories out there to be shared and that truly understanding the subject at hand, putting the work in, is as great an instrument in ensuring their survival as spreading the word about them.

Read wide. Talk about it!

ISBN 978-1-91171-4-118

Nose Art of the Fifth Air Force – David Vincent

 

Every now and then, as you know, I'll feature something here that is somewhat adjacent to the RAF and Commonwealth aircrew experience during the Second World War. Case in point, the latest massive work from David Vincent, the Australian historian responsible for Catalina Chronicle, Mosquito Monograph and, of course, one of the most important Australian aviation works, The RAAF Hudson Story (Volumes 1 and 2). The Fifth Air Force grew out of the ashes of the Far East Air Force, setting up its headquarters in Australia in early 1942. At the end of a long, and sometimes threatened, supply chain, it eventually grew into the powerful air force we are most familiar with, perhaps best known for its jungle fighters and low-level strafers. A number of Australian aircrew did, however, fly with the American units to help fill shortfalls in gunners and copilots, for example (they have been sadly underappreciated and unacknowledged over the decades since the war, but that is a different story currently being addressed). 

As the Fifth's units expanded, and the Allies progressively went on the front foot, so too did the American servicemen's ability to decorate their aircraft with more and more extensive artwork, the most famous of which, of course, is featured on the front cover of Nose Art of the Fifth Air Force, a book that is phenomenal, massive, authoritative and peerless.

More than just a collection of photos and captions, the author has explored the origins and evolution of nose art within the Fifth Air Force. He applies this approach to popular designs across multiple airframes/units/periods but also how a piece of art changed on an airframe, sometimes evolving with a change of regular crew or crew chief, modifications necessitated by damage or new equipment, or even being completely replaced. Threads have been pulled and rabbit holes followed since he began collecting Fifth Air Force images in the early 2000s (more than 1,100 feature in the book).

As a book on artwork, the human element has not been forgotten with several of the better-known artists profiled. Here, too, are nice personal details with quotes from the men themselves or family members.

It's the analysis that surprised me the most, though. I should have known, given the author's work on the benchmark-setting and aforementioned RAAF Hudson volumes; he gets beneath the skin (pun intended) of where this art came from, why it was used, what it meant and its impact over the decades. This is an art gallery and historical document you can hold in your hands (briefly, as it's bloody heavy!).

ISBN 978-0-76436-921-6

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