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

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

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.

Air Battle for Burma - Bryn Evans

Long time readers (thank you) of Aircrew Book Review, and those of you who know me personally, will be well and truly aware of my eternal fascination with the Burma campaign and, of course, the aerial aspect of it. I will therefore, competing pressures allowing, excitedly devour anything I can find on the subject. By far the best Burma aviation book to be released recently is The Flying Hours by Andrew Millar. Written by someone who was there for several years, from soon after the withdrawal into India right through to the Allied advance and post-Japanese surrender, it is an incredible and sobering account of squadron life in the region at the time. It is a personal account, obviously, with a fine balance of exquisite detail and enough context to mark the author’s important place in the big picture. That big picture, despite being part of the ‘forgotten war’, has been written about fairly extensively, although it’s relatively little compared to Europe or the American side of the Pacific. Bryn Evans’ book was, therefore, gleefully welcomed with a touch of ‘what can be new about it?’ An Australian author, Evans has added a distinctly antipodean aspect to his narrative with reference to some superb written records. As gripping as this book is, though, some of it borders on the frustrating.

Poorly equipped from the start, albeit with hindsight once the Japanese were engaged, the Allied air forces could initially only resist and fall back in the face of a seemingly unstoppable juggernaut that was better equipped for the terrain it was fighting for. The weather in that part of the world, however, always maintains supremacy. It stopped the Japanese in their tracks, but allowed both sides to consolidate their positions. Several passages in the book include memories of flying in atrocious weather and are as harrowing as any of the many combat accounts included. 

In the case of the RAF in India, from late 1942, the long, quiet, bad weather periods enabled a major re-equipment and airfield building program. However, it was not until the arrival of Spitfires, with their superior rate of climb, in the second half of 1943, that a true advantage, from an air supremacy point of view, could be regularly exploited over Japanese formations that continued to be heavily escorted. Even so, the Japanese cottoned on that the Spitfires could not be everywhere. Before then, it had been Hurricanes, Mohawks, and Beaufighters at night, holding the line. Like New Guinea, despite the eventually overwhelming aerial advantage achieved by the Allies, Burma was a long, slow grind and still not completely resolved by war’s end.

This growing superiority in the air was particularly important when Allied drives into Burma required significant, life-saving resupply by streams of transport aircraft (not to mention behind the lines operations by the likes of the Chindits). Legendary battles, such as the ‘Admin Box’, became Allied victories, strong Japanese aerial opposition aside, because the men cut-off on the ground could be supplied entirely by large transport aircraft, and the wounded could be evacuated by vulnerable, short-field capable machines like Austers, L-Birds and even Fox Moths.

The benefits of the Allied control of the air are reflected in the evolution of the narrative. The backbone of the book, the finely curated collection of aircrew accounts, gives way to descriptions of the later land campaigns, particularly Imphal, Kohima and the taking of Rangoon, or, generally, combined operations with an emphasis on air-to ground support and forward air control. Admittedly, I queried the relevance of discussing cab-rank and the visual control post on the ground, not to mention an entire chapter devoted to the ‘war in the shadows’ (Chindit operations and agent delivery behind the lines), but all are direct results of achieving air superiority evolving into air supremacy. Fighter-bombers can go about their work while fighters watch their backs, allowing the former to loiter as required, soldiers behind the lines can be supplied in sufficient volume by Dakotas and the SOE types can get on with their jobs with less risk of interception and not even making it to the drop zone in the first place.

Despite this valuable look at the ability of ground support to proceed with little enemy air interference, there is very little mentioned about the mainstay of the Burma ground attack strength – the Beaufighter. As above, I would initially question its inclusion at length when focussing on the achievement of air supremacy, but its long-range attacks on enemy airfields and infrastructure, among other things, should surely rate more discussion than the ‘war in the shadows’ angle (as important as that is). Instead, all but two of the references to Bristol’s twin pertain to its use as a night fighter in the theatre.

Air Battle for Burma should be of interest to any student of the campaign, casual or otherwise, but it varies from riveting to clunky (this review probably gives it a run for its money regarding the latter!). As just mentioned above, everything is built around the superb collection of memories from those who flew in combat there with several Australians and New Zealanders featuring prominently. The records of Noel Constantine RAAF (the book is, pleasingly, dedicated to him and his wife) are heavily leaned on and prove valuable given his time in theatre rising through the ranks to become one of Australia’s unsung fighter leaders. Kiwi Vic Bargh, referred throughout as ‘Kitchy’, as done in other publications (not ‘Ketchil’ per his biography), is also heavily referenced early on as is the likes of Jack Storey etc. There really are some engrossing memories recorded. A lot of the names of recurring ‘characters’, however, are often repeated in full, complete with rank and nickname, sometimes on the same page. Other repetitive aspects creep in too – such as biographical details, full squadron titles, Spitfire re-equipment (consecutive pages!), scene setting details, and even the occasional concluding discussion (particularly regarding the Admin Box, the first large-scale resupply by air alone) – and all act as speed bumps to an otherwise nicely flowing narrative. A bit more attention on the editing side of things would have tidied these up easily, perhaps shortened the book by several pages, and caught misleading items like the Hurricane Mk.V typo (for Mk.IV) and the Mk.IIc carrying four 40mm cannons (instead of four 20mm).

The ‘Allied’ on the cover is perhaps a misnomer, however, as it focuses on the RAF (if we ignore the cosmopolitan nature of the air arm at the time) with the Flying Tigers and USAAF fighters only mentioned in passing. That said, that makes it even more ideal for inclusion in ABR!

While it falls a little short in places, to embrace a theatre where the hectic fighting was separated by months of inaction, and then concentrate on examining one aspect in context, requires the ability to hold a reader’s interest and ABFB certainly succeeds there. The photo section contains some nice, relevant images and there are some very useful maps early on that, in all honesty, could do with a bit of tweaking to make clearer (either that or use them as the basis for newly drawn examples). Each chapter is extensively referenced and the glossary, bibliography and index are pleasingly comprehensive. The epilogue serves to remind the reader no one is immune from war, nor have we yet learned to avoid it ‘at all costs’. A useful postscript provides potted biographies of some of the aircrew whose memories contributed so much to the narrative. Through the extensive use of Noel Constantine’s records, it is clear the author has developed an affinity with him. Air Battle for Burma cements Bryn Evans’ place in this genre, following earlier works on the air war and other subjects, so perhaps he might consider the biography of the interesting, albeit ultimately tragic, life of a forgotten Australian leader. Tackling a subject as broad as the air battle for Burma, and doing so competitively, surely means such a worthwhile project is within the realms of possibility. Either way, the author’s next work is happily anticipated.

ISBN 978-1-47385-892-3

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

Geoffrey Guy's War - Jennifer Barraclough and David Guy

I read this book last year in an attempt to shake off the Bomber Command blues I have mentioned before. What I needed was something that set the hook just from its mere description (not that Bomber Command doesn’t), something based around what fascinated me most. So, what I needed was something off the beaten track. Did I ever make the right choice! North Africa, India, Burma, photo-reconnaissance. Yes, yes, yes and yes. Add text written by a pragmatic, natural author and I was in heaven. It was what I needed then and is what I need now. I haven’t written a review for ABR for months due to other writing commitments and tonight, as I looked at the books on my desk that I owe a review debt to, the slim white spine of Geoffrey Guy’s War did its job. It was then a struggle to find my notes. Could I be bothered even when I did find them? I flicked open the book and began to read. The glow I felt from remembering this book when I saw the spine earlier took hold. Geoffrey Guy’s War is one of those wonderfully written books that, like its author, goes forward with a minimum of fuss and fanfare and drags the reader along “as a magnet draws a helpless fragment of iron”.

After being evacuated to the Midlands in May 1940, Geoffrey Guy begins his first term at Oxford in the latter third of the year. During his short time there, he developed several characteristics that were to serve him well. After a poor showing in a history essay, he determines never to take the first and easiest option again. He discovers a whole new level of fitness through the University Boxing Team, despite already being a passionate cricketer, joins the Air Squadron and meets a girl. An innocent romance weaves around the 1941 season of cricket but paradise could not last forever. There was a war on.

Having served in the University Air Squadron, the author was not posted to the Initial Training Wing. Instead he spent an interminable five weeks waiting for his posting to Elementary Flying Training School. Mid-September saw him board a ship for a rough voyage to Canada. He and his mates then spent another five weeks waiting for the courses ahead to progress. That time was spent shovelling coal out of railway wagons. Winter had well and truly set in when he was finally posted to No. 32 EFTS at Red Deer. After ten hours of dual instruction, and barely a fortnight in to the course, our hero soloed on a Tiger Moth. His half-page description of this flight exudes delight.

Geoffrey is eventually posted to Moose Jaw and No. 32 SFTS to fly Harvards. He received his wings in July 1942 and became a sergeant pilot. Bitterly disappointed at not being made an officer, he was, apparently, ideal in all aspects but was an average pilot, he felt let down by the RAF and the system to which he had been so trusting since joining the University Air Squadron. Little did he know that his very rank would be the cause of his great adventure in Burma and the cornerstone of his personal growth during the war.

Back in England, after three weeks at AFU, Geoffrey is posted to General Reconnaissance School. He protests, to no avail, but finds solace in the fact that his is an elite profession. After navigation training, he is posted, oddly, to a fighter OTU. This time is punctuated by the characters he meets and his first flight in a Spitfire which, like his first solo, is a passionate piece of writing.

February 1943 comes around and finds the author at RAF Benson and finally part of No. 541 squadron. His sense of anticipation is eroded as he finds a distinct lack of camaraderie. That said, after ten days, our man is selected to fly a new Spitfire out to No. 680 Squadron PRU, somewhere in the Middle East, so his observations and conclusions, while often accurate, were certainly conceived in short order.

An almost four hour flight to Gibraltar is followed by continual journey east to Cairo where 680 Squadron is finally found. The entire flight from the UK was performed without maps but the author, despite asking for the precious commodity at each stop, began to learn to study what was available and memorise it for the next leg (a vital skill for the budding reconnaissance pilot).

Imagine the disappointment, again, when, upon arriving at the squadron, the CO says he does not want NCO pilots. The author spends six weeks in a transit camp, battling flies and other unpleasant aspects of life in and around Cairo at the time, before he is sent to Palestine and No. 74 OTU where he is, finally, to be trained as a PRU pilot. He enjoys his time flying there, despite a horrific crash on approach that puts him in hospital for two weeks, but has to wait around yet again upon completion of the course. Finally, in August 1943, Geoffrey is posted to No. 681 Squadron in India.

It is all frustrating and time-consuming but the writing is so succinct, so pragmatic, yet beautifully toned, that the waiting, the climate and other inconveniences are actually enjoyable to read. Although welcomed into the fold in India, and flying his first op towards the end of September, there is never an easy camaraderie in the squadron as a whole. Strong relationships are made, of course, and several of the chaps who were with Geoffrey from his time in the UK are still present, but it is not ideal.

Geoffrey’s first operational flights were in the squadron’s ageing Hurricanes. The long flights from Dum Dum, refuelling in Chittagong, were gruelling and energy-sapping with not a moment for relaxation as the impetus was on a speedy return home so the film could be developed and examined. Finally let loose on the scarce Spitfires, the ops become longer and more tiring.

Life on the squadron was not terribly pleasant so when the chance to transfer to No. 28 Squadron, a Tactical Reconnaissance unit, based on the Imphal plain in Burma, came up, Geoffrey and his mates jumped at it. Compared to PR, Tac/R was down in the weeds. He joined the squadron in late 1943 and stayed with it until early 1945. During that time, after several idyllic months, the war heats up as the Japanese advance and the squadron is in the thick of it. The author has his fair share of shaky dos but his luck holds while that of his colleagues does not. He is isolated as the only sergeant in his flight, partly by choice and an intense sense of duty at times, but this leads to him getting to know the other enlisted men of the squadron and developing the ability to build a rapport with all comers. His life in the diplomatic service post-war would benefit greatly from this most important of skills.

Geoffrey was mentally and physically worn out when he left the squadron in March 1945. He did not make it home until January of the next year but, happily, it was to a young lady who had patiently waited for him. They were married in 1946 and the author returned to university and, several years, later joined the Colonial Service and served with distinction for thirty years.

This is such a well-written book that I don’t think it could have been any longer than its 160 pages (and eight of those are photo pages). The author has honed his story-telling ability and uses words so efficiently that little needs to be said to get the point across. It’s an indication of the man and his approach to life – I am not going to beat around the bush here, I am going to get it done but, by golly, I am going to do it well. Several times throughout the book you can see him gritting his teeth, setting his jaw and pushing on through and that’s not just to do with his flying.

He was there to do a job and he was resigned to an expected fate or, at the very least, a long war. To that end, he told his family and loved ones, in the very few letters he did write, that they were to “write him off”, to forget him. He regretted doing this, particularly with his father whom he regarded as one of the great men of his generation, but hardened his heart and stuck with this seemingly callous attitude. He simply did not want anyone to hold out hope for him and then, should the worst occur, weep over his loss. They were to move on. To some extent, if you were to regard the aircrew of the war as some of the doomed youth of their time, it is a perfectly acceptable, albeit rarely seen and pessimistic, approach to take. I am already lost, do not grieve me, move on, live your life, do not let my passing hold you back. It is perhaps one of the greatest acts of love.

As much as Geoffrey Guy’s War is a masterpiece of the art of efficient writing (unlike this review), the reader will be left wishing for more. The manuscript was superbly edited by family members and I doubt much, if anything, was removed beyond the initial family history passages. A summary of Geoffrey’s life is included in an appendix but really only serves to tease the reader as the author’s post-war life was quite fascinating. However, what we have, really, is more than enough. A paperback with decent card covers, don’t let the small stature of this book put you off when it comes to spending money on it. It is worth every cent and then some. You will struggle to find a more finely crafted narrative in an aircrew book.

ISBN 978-1-4456-0022-2

The Republic Thunderbolt Mk I - Phil Listemann

It is always quite a thrill to find a book written by or about a flyer who crewed on a lesser-known or rare aircraft (dare I say “forgotten”). I tend to get a bit excited when I discover, for example, an RAF Marauder book or something featuring the pre-war Hawker biplanes. It’s the thrill of learning something outside the norm or helping remember a small group of men who experienced the war in some far-flung corner of the world. I love the ‘obscure’ stuff. Fortunately, theatres like Burma and East Africa are being researched and remembered. North Africa, along with the Far East, is a particular favourite of mine and has certainly seen welcome attention from historians, authors and enthusiasts alike. Campaigns within campaigns – like Greece and Crete or, later, the Balkans and the Adriatic – throw up aircrew who have led fascinating lives and wartime careers. It is, happily, never-ending. There is always something ‘odd’ to learn more about.

The Republic Thunderbolt saw limited service with the RAF and so qualifies as one of the aircraft that, wearing roundels, instantly becomes, in my eyes, much more intriguing. The two variants, the Thunderbolt Mk.I and Mk.II (the ‘ridgeback’ and ‘bubble-canopy’ versions respectively), were particularly powerful aircraft and generally loved by the relatively few pilots who flew them for Britain and her empire. Phil Listemann’s new addition to his Squadrons! e-book series focuses on the Mk.I and, in doing so, shines a welcome light on a rarely covered subject.

The big, imposing fighter was intended to replace the Hurricane and Kittyhawk. Both of these workhorses were employed effectively in the Middle East in the ground attack role as the air superiority role was handed over to increasing numbers of Spitfires. The ‘Jug’ was considered a good replacement in the fighter-bomber role (the Typhoon had been found unsuitable during its African trials) and its impressive performance with the USAAF over Europe certainly helped this decision. The effectiveness and availability of the preferred Mustang, however, meant that, in the end, all RAF operational flying on the Thunderbolt was performed in the Far East with only training and conversion units using the aircraft in Egypt.

The general format of this new e-book series is to introduce the type’s usage in the RAF and Commonwealth air forces by presenting numbers and variants delivered and employed. The best detail, however, lies in the subsequent squadron ‘biographies’ which are drawn largely from the relevant ORBs. The Mk.I’s days were numbered, even as it entered service, as the Mk II was already available in considerable quantities. This makes the Mk.I the perfect subject for the second volume of what promises to be an affordable and valuable series. The first editions will feature types that were not used in great numbers like, for example, the Spitfire Mk.IX. This will allow the author to find his feet as it were and streamline his process from beginning to end.

Designed to be read electronically, of course, the closing ‘pages’ of the The Republic Thunderbolt Mk I include five full-screen, high-resolution profiles that can be printed as posters and add great colour to an otherwise mostly black and white world. This is a nice touch and the subject matter, again, is relatively rare. The real value for me, however, was in reading about aircrew, especially Australians and New Zealanders, hitherto unheard of. There’s a lot to digest in forty pages.

English is not the author’s mother tongue so there are some issues with grammar but these are being addressed. They take nothing away from what is a useful, readable and easily accessible resource. I’m not a massive fan of the e-book as a format but the value is in the affordability of production and distribution. This allows a prolific and hard-working author like Phil Listemann the ability to produce a number of comprehensive publications quickly and easily which, with a readership itching for something different and fresh, is a bloody good thing.