(Part 1 - also in printed Newsletter)
Towards the end of July 1914, I went with my parents, my two sisters and my brother to Worthing, Sussex, for our summer holiday. On August Bank Holiday, I persuaded my mother to take me to Shoreham Aerodrome, where there was to be a flying display, in which many famous aviators – familiar to me from the pages of the papers ‘Flight’ and ‘Aeroplane’ (of which I was already, at the age of 15, an avid reader) were to take part. I, in company with many people twice my age, fondly thought that, despite the newspaper reports and the speeches of the politicians of the previous two or three years, War with Germany was so senseless that it could not take place. Even the realisation that, on the hot, sunny afternoon, our ultimatum to Germany had less than 12 hours to run did not prevent me from being shocked by hearing, when we entered the flying ground, that the start of the display had been postponed owing to the tense international situation, and that no aeroplanes would be permitted to leave the ground. We stayed on, hoping that the ban on flying would be lifted later in the day, watching the aviators standing about in little groups, hands in trouser pockets, obviously asking each other what was to happen next. One or two of them were to die in flying accidents within a few weeks.
But the longer we waited, the lesser became the likelihood of flying; especially as we saw an incessant procession of trains, crammed with soldiers or fully loaded with guns, passing eastwards along the nearby railway. At that moment, we did not realise that we were watching the British Expeditionary Force on its way to France, nor that the men who crowded the carriage windows to catch a glimpse of the grounded aeroplanes would later become known as “Old Contemptibles”. There was no flying at Shoreham Aerodrome that day: that night, all bright lights on the pier and promenade at Worthing were extinguished. We children were fast asleep when the ultimatum to Germany expired, but I recall a feeling of great excitement when, at breakfast the next morning, my father told us we were at war. The news was not allowed to interfere with our holiday – the last we were to spend together as a family.
Within a few months, our life at home had changed completely. The town was suddenly invaded by the University and Public Schools Brigade of the Royal Fusiliers, and four soldiers were billeted on us. When they arrived, they had no uniforms nor weapons, nor quarters of any kind. Wearing their civilian clothing – which, in most cases, was quite inadequate – they spent their days drilling with wooden staves, or on long route marches. They got up very early in the morning, usually waking us in the process – and went to bed very early, often completely exhausted by unwanted activity. We children enjoyed having the soldiers with us, for they taught us new games, such as blow-football on the dining-room table. But for my father and mother, things were very different. My mother, even with the help of our maid, found the running of the house and the upbringing of her children immensely complicated by having four great men in the house, whose boots were frequently caked with mud, and who often came in, soaked to the skin, clambering for baths. Nevertheless, she and my elder sister found time to help in the evenings at one of the canteens in the town. My father, always a lover of peace in his house, and a great reader, suffered from the comparative lack of privacy. But neither, to my knowledge, ever complained about the disturbance to a long-established way of life.
During 1915, the Local Defence Volunteers were formed, and I joined the company in our neighbourhood. It was commanded by a schoolmaster who had been commanding officer of the Officers’ Training Corps at Epsom College, the armoury of which was placed at our disposal. So, from the outset, we were able to parade with real weapons, which increased the keen-ness of the many teenagers in the company. Many members of the company were supporters of the local Rifle Club, whose range was made available to us. My father was a keen shot, and I was greatly pleased when he gave me his rifle. We drilled twice a week and paraded on Sunday for route-marches or trench-digging on the slopes of the Surrey hills at Caterham and Warlingham. Firing practice on the range usually took place on Saturdays. The uniform worn by the L.D.V. consisted of cap, tunic, breeches and puttees of a greyish-green colour. There were frequent comments from the local inhabitants about our resemblance to German prisoners-of-war! We also wore a red brassard on our left arms, inscribed ‘L.D.V’ in black letters.
When the Zeppelin raids on London and the Home Counties commenced, the town experienced another invasion; this time, of women, children, and elderly couples from the inner suburbs, trying to find refuge from sleepless nights and fear. Some of the people were verging on complete nervous collapse, and my mother found it very difficult to turn them away from the house when they called, pleading for shelter. Many people travelled out every evening from London and such places as Clapham, Balham, Wandsworth, and Streatham, preferring the prospect of a night without shelter to the nerve-wracking experience of an air-raid. But how different the attitude of many local people – including myself and some of my friends – who would go up to Epsom Downs at night, almost hoping to be the spectators of a raid on the Metropolis.
At this time, I paid frequent visits to the aerodrome at Brooklands which, on the outbreak of war, had been taken over by the Royal Flying Corps. From the shelter of gorse bushes on an embankment overlooking the flying-ground, I would watch aeroplanes of many types – including some in the experimental stage – being flown. I also used to go over to Hounslow where, from a railway bridge, I would watch aircraft from the aerodrome on Hounslow Heath. Thus, and by enthusiastically reading all the technical journals I could lay my hands on, I did my best to keep in touch with the progress in aviation – a subject which had fascinated me from the day, in the summer of 1911, when I was present at the land, near Beckenham, in Kent, the first aeroplane to fly from France to England with a passenger.
As I approached my 17th birthday, my father began to give more thought to my future. He had always hoped I would make a career in the Royal Navy, but, probably owing to the general upset caused by the War, it seemed unlikely that I should be able to pass the Entrance Examinations. The future was, therefore, somewhat obscure. Probably feeling that my liability for service on the Western Front would thereby be postponed, he had the notion of articling me to a friend of his who was a big sheep-farmer in New South Wales. I did not see eye to eye with him, for I had set my heart on going into aviation. At the end of the 1916 school summer term, I decided against Australia, and, without consulting my father, joined the Royal Naval Air Service. When I told him of what I had done, my father’s sole comment was “Well, old boy, your life is your own!”I got my first taste of Service life at the Royal Naval Air Station at Cranwell, in Lincolnshire.
At that time, Cranwell was probably one of the largest air stations in the world. It comprised two very large aerodromes; an airship station capable of housing all types of lighter-than-aircraft, from the two-seater “Blimp” used on anti-submarine patrols, to the 300-ft long rigid ships which were to be the British reply to the Zeppelin and Schutte-Lanz ships of the German Army and Navy; and three training establishments. It was regarded as a somewhat secret place, and letters to those serving there had to be addressed to H.M.S. Daedalus, c/o G.P.O., London. This name had more than a passing interest for me since it had been borne by a Royal Indian Navy ship which my grandfather had commanded. Daedalus was, of course, the father of the legendary Icarus, who tried to fly with a pair of wings made of wax. Whether The Lordships of Admiralty were well advised in giving this name to their largest flying training station must be a matter of opinion.
My training as an air observer occupied nine months, during which I took intensive courses in wireless telegraphy, navigation, signals, and elementary aircraft engineering. We lived rigorously in a large, hutted camp. During the winter I spent there, we experienced a long spell of very cold weather – so cold, that the water supply was completely frozen for nearly a fortnight. One night was so cold in our quarters that a pair of my boots, wet from snow, froze, and were never again wearable. But there was plenty of football, boxing, gymnastics, and athletics, to break the monotony of life on the Lincolnshire Wolds. I was a keen runner in those days, enjoying cross-country runs in the winter and track events in the spring. And there were interesting types among those training with me. One boy, of my own age, was already an Associate of the Royal College of Organists, and spent much of his spare time studying musical composition in order to reach the standard required in the examination for Fellowship. Another had joined the Royal West Kent Regiment at the age of 15½ , had endured six months of trench life in France, and had received the most stringent punishment for being found asleep at his post, before his real age was discovered. I also became friendly with a boy who wrote much poetry, and who was never far away from a copy of Housman’s ‘A Shropshire Lad’.
(Part 2 - not in printed Newsletter)
At Cranwell, we were always conscious of being in the middle of exciting developments. New aeroplanes and airships would suddenly appear; new wireless sets for use in aircraft were to be seen in the laboratories and workshops; and we were initiated into current mysteries; such as the wireless valve, then just coming into regular use. And, from time to time, fatal air crashes occurred to remind us of the price we were paying for mastery of the air. I found that such incidents could touch one closely for, shortly after I arrived at Cranwell, a great friend of one of my aunt’s was killed in an air collision which I witnessed. In other ways too, one was brought face to face with tragedy. I still recall the harrowing experience of being told one morning that a messmate, who had been my companion during a long walk the previous afternoon, had been found hanged. As one of the last persons to be with him, I had to give evidence at the official court of enquiry, and at the civil inquest afterwards. I was troubled most because there appeared to be no reasonable explanation for his act.
I went home on leave for Christmas, 1916. Our billets had left for a neighbouring camp, and my father and mother were relieved to have the house to themselves again.
I passed out from Cranwell in June, 1917, and was sent to the Royal Naval Air Station, Eastchurch, Isle of Sheppey, for a month’s course in Gunnery School at Whale Island, Portsmouth, and discipline in dress, deportment, and general behaviour was rigidly enforced. But I enjoyed the hard study, the flying in the early morning and the later evening, the days spent mastering the intricacies of gun and fuse mechanisms, and the composition of various types of explosives. But, above all, that month seems to be associated with a spell of glorious sunny weather. I recall vividly an evening walk from Sheerness to Eastchurch when the twilight air was filled with the scent of elder and honeysuckle blossom. But the fighting war was coming nearer. One day, we heard the low roar of a great number of aeroplanes, and then saw, high in the clear sky, the German air fleet which delivered the first daylight bomb attack on London. The so-called Eastchurch War Flight – consisting of three fighter aircraft – took off in pursuit. Only one of the pilots, Squadron-Commander Christopher Draper, managed to make contact with the Gotha bombers. But, as he dived on them, his machine-guns jammed, forcing him to break off the attack. When he landed at Eastchurch, his Sopwith Camel fighter bore many marks of the attention it had received from the German machine-gunners, but Draper was unscathed.
The last part of my course at Eastchurch consisted of air-firing and bomb-dropping. One of the targets at which we fired consisted of a large flag suspended beneath a kite-balloon. Much consternation was caused one day when a sub-lieutenant under instruction shot down the kite-balloon. Whether he did so by intent or mistake never emerged, but I have a vivid memory of the enraged antics of the Warrant Gunner in charge of the range as he watch the burning balloon sink to the ground. I caused a similar consternation later when, during a practice drop with live incendiary bombs, one failed to fall away from the aircraft until we had passed the target and were over a field of standing hay. Seen from the air, the resulting fire was quite impressive; but not so impressive as the subsequent remarks from the sorely-tried Warrant Gunner.
At the end of the course, I was posted immediately to the Royal Naval Air Station at Calshot, Southampton Water, where I found myself attached to the War Flight. The aircraft of this flight were very large American flying-boats, with a wing-span of 104 feet, known as H.16s. They were fitted with Rolls Royce “Eagle” engines which, at that time, had not long been in service. These aircraft were unique in that the crew positions were totally enclosed. They had an endurance of over seven hours. The main task of the aircraft patrols round the shores of Britain at that time was to discourage German submarines from cruising on the surface during daylight hours, and there is little doubt that the purpose was largely achieved; for most sinkings by torpedo took place late in the evening, or at dawn. During my service with the Calshot War Flight, only two attacks on submarines took place. One was confirmed as successful, but the other – in which my aircraft was involved – was regarded as unsuccessful. On this occasion, we attacked about twenty miles north-west of Le Havre, and our two large bombs straddled a patch of air-bubbles which appeared to have been made by a diving submarine. But, although we circled the area for some time, we saw nothing that could really be identified as wreckage. This attack was made at about 10.45am in misty weather.
One afternoon, when returning from an escort patrol, we were ordered to search an area north-west of Cherbourg, following the receipt of a signal from a ship reporting a submarine attack. We had been in the vicinity for about half-an-hour, without sighting either ship or submarine, when one of our engines commenced to give trouble. I was flying the aircraft at the time. I alerted the captain, who was lying in the gangway alongside the pilot’s seat. He then took over the controls, and flew the aircraft towards the French coast and, when within sight of the shore, had to land because the defective engine was seriously over-heated. The weather was fine, but a strong south-westerly wind had made the sea very choppy, and the land was, therefore, somewhat difficult, and we shipped a great deal of water in the process. Just before touching down, I thought how lucky we were to have as our Captain, Flight-Lieutenant “Oby” O’Brien – a Canadian, and one of our most experienced flying-boat pilots. On fixing our position, we found we were about three miles from that part of the French coast which, 27 years later, was the scene of the Normandy landings.
The cause of our trouble was a leaking radiator which the engineer repaired temporarily with masticated chewing-gum. While he was working on the radiator, we were approached by a French fishing-boat, with two men and a boy on board. Being able to speak French, I asked them how far we were from Cherbourg, where we had an air station. They told us we were about 30 miles away so, after completing our repair, we took off – again shipping a lot of water – and steered towards the Cherbourg peninsula, which we saw as a long high, mass of land, black against the evening sky. As we approached the harbour, the faulty engine suddenly stopped, and we were forced to land on the seaward side of the mole. Eventually, a French torpedo-boat took us in tow and, incidentally, provided with some amusement; for, on her quarter-deck she carried several chicken-coops, through the bars of which, the head of squawking cocks and hens kept appearing. Until that moment, we had not realised that the French Navy carried live poultry to sea in order to make sure of eggs for breakfast and cold chicken for supper.
We got ashore at about 7p.m. and were given a meal and beds in a small estaminet in a village called Querqueville. This was a welcome change from camp life, and we were not sorry that there were no quarters for us at the air station. We spent the next day working on the flying-boat, and eventually took off for Calshot in the evening. As we climbed, the sun, which was just below the horizon as we taxied out into the harbour, came into view again for a short time. So, that evening, we saw two sunsets.
The quarters and sheds at Calshot were mostly raised on piles above the shingle bank, being connected by wooden platforms, between which there were rails on which the trolleys carrying the flying-boats and seaplanes ran. One night, in the black-out, I missed my footing, and fell from one of the platforms, hitting my head on a steel rail, which concussed me. I picked myself up sometime later and caused somewhat of a sensation by walking into our quarters with my face and neck covered in blood. Concussion was not regarded as being very serious by the doctors and I was back on duty the next morning, with a head which felt as it if was being struck steadily with a sledge-hammer.
The central feature of the camp at Calshot was the castle, one of several built during the reign of Henry VIII for coast defence.
Living conditions were primitive, and many people lived in the neighbouring villages, coming in each day to their duties. But the lovely New Forest, and the trees-bordered beaches of the Solent, were close at hand, with Southampton near enough to be visited occasionally. So, despite, the elemental living conditions, we counted ourselves fortunate in not being amongst those who pass down Southampton Water each night in the crowded ships on their way to the Western Front.
After a few months at Calshot, I was posted to the Air Station at Newhaven harbour, for flying duties. But, soon after my arrival, I became ill with food-poisoning, and only flew one patrol. Then I was transferred to the wireless station at the top of Seaford Head, which was situated in the middle of what had been a Neolithic causewayed camp. During off-duty periods, I spent much time searching the ditch of this camp for Neolithic implements, without result. At this period, the weather prevented flying to any extent, and life at the wireless station, and in my billet in the town of Seaford, became very dull; although it was relieved on one occasion by a week-end visit from my father, with whom I had some enjoyable walks over the downs, during which we talked about the family doings and the progress of the War.
One night at the wireless station there was great excitement. When I turned in, it was snowing hard. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by what seemed to be gunfire close at hand. When it ceased, I ran down to the Coastguard station, about half-a-mile away along the cliffs, to ascertain what had happened. For a moment, I had thought we were being shelled by an enemy submarine. But the coast guards told me that a ship, making for Newhaven, had been blown out of her course, and in the snowstorm, had gone aground at the foot of the chalk cliffs. The noise I had heard was that of rocket guns firing lines to the top of the cliff. Most of the crew managed to get ashore in breeches buoys hauled up on the lines. The ship itself, although badly holed, was afterwards pulled off the rocks by three tugs, and salvaged.
I was much relieved when, early in 1918, I was posted to the Royal Naval Air Station, Portland, Dorset, for flying duties; especially as for as long as I could remember I had been possessed by a very strong desire to go to this part of England. I was also pleased, because the station had built up an enviable reputation, under its Canadian commanding officer, Squadron-Commander John Waugh, for the amount of flying which it carried out in all but the most impossible conditions. Submarine attacks in the English Channel were then at their peak, so patrols over the area allotted to the station – which was within a line joining St. Catherine’s Point, in the Isle of Wight, and Stuart Point, in Devonshire – were as frequent as aircraft serviceability and weather allowed. Usually, the first aircraft took off at dawn to escort a French-bound convoy as far as the Needles, while the last landing was at dusk.
I quickly became accustomed to a four-hour flight before breakfast – warmed previously by a large mug of steaming ship’s coca from the galley – another shorter patrol in the middle of the day, and a long escort or patrol flight in the late evening. But the Fates were conspiring to cure my love of flying. One day early in March, I took off with an Ensign of the U.S. Navy, and immediately ran into a low sea-fog. Fortunately, we missed the masts of ships in the harbour, and, when we were clear of the shore, tried to remain in sight of the sea. In doing so, we crossed the long pebble spit, Chesil Bank, twice; on the second occasion narrowly missing houses near the shore at Abbotsbury. Then we put the nose of the seaplane over Chesil Bank, and flew low until we reached the edge of Portland Harbour. The fog was still too thick for us to be able to see shipping an anchor so, instead of flying across the harbour to make a landing into wind, we headed down-wind, tearing off our floats as we did so. The wreckage of the floats supported the nose of the seaplane, and I was able to guide rescuers to us by the firing bursts from the machine-gun. When the motor-boat arrived, I was half under water, trying to put the safety pins into the fuses of the four bombs we were carrying, and thus creating the impression that I had either been killed or injured in the crash. In fact, neither of us was even slightly hurt. This was the first of four bad crashes in which I was involved that year. Curiously enough, they all took place on the first Monday of the month.
On the first Monday of April, I was ordered to show a new pilot one of our dawn patrol areas. Portland Harbour was then always full of shipping, so moored that there was a lane along which we could take-off and land. On this particular morning, this lane was masked by a line of ships facing north-west. The new boy decided – in spite of my instruction to go into the lane before attempting to leave the water – to take off through the gap between the bows of one ship and the stern of the next ahead. It was not possible; but the pilot did not realise it until he was airborne. He then tried to avoid a collision by turning into the gap when too low down. The aircraft stalled – the right wing hit the water and crumpled, while the fuselage rose into the air and pivoted on the crashed wing. For a moment, I thought we were going to turn over but, fortunately, it remained right side up, and came down with such an almighty thump that I thought we must be thrown out. We got out of the wreck as it was sinking. As I got clear, I was very surprised to see the valves in the wireless amplifier light up as its switches were short-circuited by the sea-water. Again, we were unhurt, although badly shaken, but I still retain a vivid memory of the disgusted look on the faces of the crew of another seaplane as they passed us paddling about in the sea waiting to be picked up.
The third incident took place on the first Monday of May. I went up in the afternoon with Captain Ronnie Ward, R.M. to test an aircraft which had just come into service after an engine overhaul. We were about 800 feet up over the harbour when I noticed that the engine was on fire. I told Ward, who was flying the seaplane, and he immediately started to bring it down in a series of swinging turns in order to keep the flames away from us. As soon as we landed, the flames shot up. We dived into the sea. As we did so, one of the petrol tanks blew up. My one thought was to get away from the blazing spirit, and I swam under water, somehow or other getting rid of my flying-coat until I could no longer hold my breath. I surfaced just beyond the pool of blazing fuel, and swam to the slipway at the air station, some 400 yards away.
On coming ashore, I sub-consciously put a cigarette in my mouth. The awful taste of the sodden tobacco seemed to bring me to my senses, and I suddenly realised that I was standing in clothes thoroughly soaked in water. The blazing seaplane drifted on the tide into the seaplane basin, and towards a trawler, from which it was shoved away by the crew – but not quickly enough to prevent a small fire in the rigging of the ship. It then collided with another seaplane moored at the end of the slipway. This was badly damaged before it could be towed out of danger.
It was after this incident that I first experienced the reaction which often sets in after the adrenal flow has been suddenly accelerated in moments of danger. Some two hours later I suddenly went to pieces, feeling that I could never fly again, and that everything connected with war and aviation was no longer bearable. At the time, most of my friends were either flying patrols, or on leave, and, consequently, there was no-one about capable of helping me to climb out of the fit of deep nervous depression into which I had been plunged. After lying on my bed for some time, I went out, and walked aimlessly in the dusk towards the little town of Portland. Seeing, after a while, a girl I knew slightly approaching me, I greeted her casually. I still recall my surprise, when with an almost frightened gesture, she said “Oh! You did give me a shock. I have just been told that you and Ward were burnt to death in that fire in the air this afternoon!” Curiously enough, up to that moment it had never occurred to me that the local people - other than those in Weymouth, whose houses we visited – might be interested in the welfare of those who served in 241 Squadron (as we became known after the formation of the Royal Air Force on April 1st, 1918).
At about this time, the flying personnel was increased, and we were given four days’ leave each month. As we were averaging five hours a day in the air, we really needed these breaks. I had received permission to convert a disused seaplane float into a boat and, during the spring and summer of 1918, I spent much of my spare time and some of my leave periods, working on it and sailing it in the harbour. There was something very satisfying in sailing out, tying up to a buoy, and catching mackerel and whiting for tea and supper – and in watching other people doing the flying.
In June, 1918, whilst flying a dawn patrol with an Ensign of the U.S. Navy, I had a forced landing, due to engine trouble, some miles west of the Isle of Wight. We alighted safely at 5.40am on an absolutely calm sea, about 2 miles from some motor-launches engaged in a submarine hunt. I signalled them by flash-light but, although my signals were acknowledged, it was not till after 8 a.m. that one of the boats took us in tow. The sub-lieutenant in command told us that he had only received permission to come to our assistance because he was short of food, and absolutely without water and, therefore, forced to return to Portsmouth. However, he had a bottle of whiskey, and we were very glad of a tot or two – for it can be very cold on the sea; even on a sunny June morning. The tow to Calshot took over 6 hours for, as one of the seaplane’s floats sprang a leak, the motor-launch had to proceed very slowly.
We optimistically thought we should remain at Calshot until the damaged float was repaired. Instead, we were ordered to return to Portland that night in readiness for next day’s dawn patrol. Having been unable to obtain anything to eat at Calshot – food then being so short that those not “on the strength” frequently could not be fed – we walked into a Southampton restaurant and, ordering a meal of steak and chips as though we possessed all the food coupons in the world, managed to appease our considerable hunger before the inevitable row with the management commenced. As this – at about 7 p.m. – was our first real meal of the day (excepting a few Horlick’s malted milk tablets from our emergency ration, and the tots of whiskey in the motor-launch), we were prepared to go to prison for it, if necessary. Fortunately, the manager, after some considerable argument, took pity on us. We arrived back at Portland at about midnight, after a 20-hour day.
Shortly after this, the great influenza epidemic of 1918 reached Dorset. Very soon, news of the high death-toll among the civilian population in the district began to reach us, and we Service people found ourselves thinking about their sufferings with a sympathy which, I felt, had been absent during the previous stages of the war. Till then, “fighting for one’s country” had carried with it the implication that war was being waged only by those in the Services. Stories which now reached us made it startlingly clear that our weapons were powerless against the attack of this new enemy, which had struck “the home front” so silently and relentlessly.
I was flying when I first became aware of symptoms indicating that I might fallen a victim of the outbreak. On landing, I went straight to bed. The next morning, I was unable to get up when I awoke. Later in the day, I dragged myself to the sick bay. The medical officer took my temperature, and sent me to the Naval Hospital immediately. During the ten days I was there, three men died in my ward, and all were victims of the scourge. On returning to duty, I found that, as almost half the personnel on the station were ill, we flying people, after a day in the air, had to spend the nights servicing the seaplanes for the next days’ patrol. We usually worked until, worn out, we went to sleep in the aircraft, or on the floor of the hangar; only to be awakened by the roar of the engines, as the dawn patrols prepared to leave. I remember being so tired one morning that I went sound asleep as my aircraft taxied out to the take-off point, and re-awoke when off Lyme Regis, some 40 miles away. Fortunately, I was the observer that morning.
One of our most important duties at Portland was the provision of air escorts for the giant liners “Olympic” and “Aquitania” which, during 1918, were transporting U.S. troops across the Atlantic. Early in July, we received orders overnight to provide an escort for the former ship as she passed up the English Channel to Southampton. When dawn came, a gale was blowing from the south-west, and the cloud-base was down to between 150-200 feet. Visibility, owing to the heavy rain, was no more than half a mile. Two of our aircraft took off after breakfast, both of them alighting after circling the harbour once, and the crews reported that, in their opinion, it would be impossible, in those conditions, to locate the “Olympic”.
Our commander, Major John Waugh, then said he intended to make the attempt, and asked me to accompany him. Flying very low in rougher conditions than I had previously experienced, we came upon the ship – at first, an indistinct shape difficult to identify on account of her camouflage – about 30 miles south-south-east of Portland Bill. Almost immediately, she was hidden by a rainstorm. Going down very low over the very rough sea, we were lucky enough to locate her again, and continued to circle her until she entered the western end of Bournemouth Bay. By this time, we were beginning to wonder whether, on turning into wind to return to Portland, our fuel would last out. We first decided to attempt a landing at Swanage, but one look at the breakers off-shore soon convinced us this was impossible. So, we made up our minds to try to reach Portland. Whilst flying within sight of the Dorset cliffs, I found that our true speed was between 25 and 30 miles an hour, owing to the strong headwind, which must have been blowing at anything up to 50 miles an hour.
We got back safely, landing at the northern end of the harbour, and smoking much-needed cigarettes before taxi-ing to the seaplane station. That we should have broken the invariable rule of “No Smoking in Aircraft” is a fair indication of the nervous strain imposed by that flight.
The last of my four crashes took place on the first Monday of August, 1918. Owing to very bad weather, no flying had been possible during the day. I was a member of the two crews standing by during the evening. Just after 6pm, we received a report of a submarine attack on a ship a few miles south-east of Portland and got ready to leave for the spot. I was in the second aircraft to taxi out. Just as we commenced our take-off, I noticed that the first aircraft to get away was landing after having made a half-circuit of the harbour. Our take-off run was exceptionally short. This and the rate at which we climbed after leaving the water indicated a wind of gale force from the west. On turning, we were blown across the harbour at great speed, and it became clear that if we proceeded with the sortie, the chances of being able to complete it before it became too dark to land were slim. We, therefore, decided to return. Just after we had turned into wind to commence the approach to the harbour, the front end of the engine fell away, taking the airscrew with it, and causing damage to the floats. The seaplane become very difficult to control – even when I, with my arms over the pilot’s shoulders, tried to assist him to hold it steady.
We hit the water just inside the harbour wall, and cartwheeled. I had some difficulty freeing myself from the wreck, for my left leg was trapped by the framework of my seat. The pilot’s legs were also trapped by the petrol tanks. However, we both managed to get clear by vigorous struggling and were picked out of the sea – which was very rough – by a rescue boat. Neither of us was seriously hurt; the pilot was badly bruised, and I tore a muscle in my left leg. By far the worst part of the experience was the awful feeling some two hours later, of nervous collapse, caused by the return to the normal of the adrenalin flow. I recall clearly the complete absence of fear during the descent, despite the certainty of a crash on landing. Instead of fear, I had a feeling of exhilaration, accompanied by an ice-cold sensation of being in complete control of all my senses, which were functioning at many times their normal speed.
The German submarine activity now began to decrease as the attacks by sea and air patrols became more successful. During July, two of our seaplanes made simultaneous attacks on two U-boats which were cruising on the surface, about a mile apart, one misty afternoon. Both were sunk. By the end of August, our patrols were reduced to four a day, which meant that the flying personnel were able to lead more relaxed lives.
We went to Weymouth more frequently to shows and concerts; we were able to devote more time to sport. I began to read more and, being in Dorset, immersed myself in Thomas Hardy’s books. I also went home on leave more frequently. But, although it was nice to be with my parents more regularly, I found these visits home more and more depressing. With one’s own kin, news of casualties among local acquaintances seemed always to be more affecting than news of casualties among one’s Service friends – no doubt because, in the former case, it meant that the war had shattered another facet of a way of life which, a few years earlier, had seemed immutable. And, at home, there was too much opportunity for thinking about the general progress of the war, which was hardly ever a cheerful occupation.
Usually, I was relieved when the time came to return to my squadron and to a way of life in which, peculiarly, contentment was to be found, contentment which, however, became rarer as opportunities for flying diminished.
The strain of long patrols in bad weather, accidents and forced landings, was more than compensated by early morning flights when, in a cloudless sky, the sun suddenly appeared on the eastern horizon, sending a long golden shaft of light over the black-blue sea below; by the sight of the Brixham fishing-boats with their brown sails, returning to Torbay after a night’s fishing; by the beauty of the red and yellow cliffs of Devon and Dorset, capped by fields of vivid green, seen as one flew along the coast after a patrol far out over the English Channel down to Start Point; by the excitement of knowing that, with little or no warning, one of the ships under escort might be torpedoed, and that, immediately, all one’s faculties would have to brought to bear on the business of sighting and bombing the attacking submarine.
All this slowly came to an end during the months of September and October, and I soon felt in need of another spare time activity to supplement by reading, sailing and fishing. I found it in the Portland stone quarries. The Isle of Portland is a large mass of limestone, much of it honeycombed with the fossilised remains of sea creatures, large and small, which had lived millions of years ago. I spent many fascinating hours with hammer and cold chisel in these quarries and built up an interesting collection of fossils.
For us at Portland, the war really ended almost a month before the Armistice was declared on November 11th. That was a dull, rainy day, but at 11am, the many ships in the harbour commenced to ring bells, to fire rockets and coloured lights, while we sent up two seaplanes to circle them, from which coloured lights were also fired. But they soon landed, for they quickly became targets for the ship’s rockets. I recall standing alone on our slipway, watching these celebrations and, at the same time, thinking that, before long, I should probably be facing a cold, hard world, in which thousands like me would be struggling to gain livelihoods and to build up careers. To me, the prospect was not one which called for celebration. I went to bed very early that night.
By the end of November, the United States battleships “Arkansas”, “Utah” and “Wyoming”, together with destroyers, submarine-chasers and submarines had arrived in Portland Harbour, after several months service with the British Grand Fleet. There were two large Australian convalescent camps in the Weymouth area, and it was not long before serious fighting in the streets occurred between the Australian soldiers and the American sailors. Following one of these fights, a large group of American soldiers was chased up into the hills between Weymouth and Lulworth by Australian soldiers and there they stayed until the next day.
We had opportunities for visiting the American battleships and were surprised by the many amenities – such as large, fully-equipped barber’s shops – which were provided for the crews. We were also introduced to the American game of football, which we found very puzzling at first. Two battleships of the Japanese Navy, which had also been attached to the Grand Fleet, paid a short visit to Portland before returning home. We saw little of their crews, as they only seemed to come ashore in small groups. With the departure of the Americans, and the ending of the convoy system - for which Portland had become a focal point – the harbour soon became deserted.
I was not released from the Royal Air Force until July 1919. From Portland, I went to one of our oldest aerodromes, Fort Grange, Gosport, where I was attached to a composite squadron of fighters and torpedo-bombers, which was training for service against the Communist forces in North Russia. Many were the stories about our probable fate if we were unlikely enough to be forced down in enemy territory. But as the aircraft-carrier in which we were to embark had returned to England infected with typhus, after transporting refugees from Black Sea ports in South Russia, our departure was postponed. In fact, it never took place, because the fighting in Russia ended before the carrier could be made ready for us. None of us regretted that. I, least of all; for some eight months earlier, I had met a Wren who, much later, became my first wife.
What effect did the war have on me? There can be no doubt that the crowded experiences of my service life compensated for the interference to my normal education. Certainly, they changed the whole course of my life. The war also provided me with training in what was an entirely new field – that of aviation electronics. It also gave me opportunity to fulfil a boyhood ambition to fly; and I was fortunate enough to meet men whose influence then, and in my later life – as friends and colleagues – helped me to build up a career full of satisfaction. And, not least, it enabled me to meet the girl who, for 36 years, was my wife, and the mother of my children.
I was one of the more fortunate. For me, it was a good war.