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

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.

The Flying Hours - Andrew Millar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ISBN 978-0-9932129-0-1