Richards, Lindsay

Lindsay Richards

"What did you do in the War Daddy"? A not uncommon question years ago when sealed lips were more likely to be the result, but now as I am in my eighties, why not?

Well the short answer is, not much, considering the enormous amount of effort and money expended on my training as a pilot. I suspect there are many fellows just like me with a similar story.

Let's go back to 1945. I have just arrived with a fellow pilot from Operational Training Unit to join 451 all Australian Spitfire squadron, stationed at Matlaske, near Norwich in Norfolk England.

Upon arrival we were directed by the adjutant to a hut where we were to bunk. We then searched for and found two wire mattress bunks when a small group of pilots burst through the door and homed in on a bunk opposite loudly proclaiming "He won't need this or that any more" referring to items of issue that were always in demand. Nothing personal was touched but an item like a sheepskin TAF jacket that was very hard to come by, if found, would not be allowed to return to store.

This group of pilots had just returned from a dive bombing raid. One pilot had been shot down and parachuted into the drink to slosh about in his dinghy 10 mile off the coast of Holland. His chances were not looking too good and the likelihood of his requiring any issue gear that would go back in to store was rather slim. Although the rest of the flight had hung around to give protection to him for as long as they could, lack of fuel and the oncoming darkness forced them to leave.

Air sea rescue had been notified and a flight was to escort it for cover to the spot at daybreak and try to effect a rescue.

As it turned out next morning had whipped up quite a blow and when located he was only 2 miles from the Dutch coast paddling vainly for all his worth for England. It was too rough for the old air sea rescue Walrus to land on the water and any attempt that was made, brought a fury of shellfire from the Dutch coastal batteries. Finally it was declared futile and Jerry was allowed to fish him out of the water to spend his remaining days of the war as a guest of the Reich.

Hardly what could be called a good start. Settling in to the squadron environment wasn't easy. New conditions, new faces, and new things to learn. The squadron was equipped with the Spitfire mark XV1(16) which had a much more powerful engine than the mark V that I had experienced for my training. It was also a Packard Merlin engine as opposed to the Rolls Royce and rotated in the opposite direction. Why, I guess, only the yanks would know. It was good but did not give quite the same confidence that the Rolls gave.

I then embarked upon a few familiarization flights to get accustomed to the extra power, the different trimming arrangements and to the local area surrounding the aerodrome.

Then came day 1 for my first op. The briefing among the experienced

pilots was a little intimidating, realizing how raw and unskilled I was. Taking in the data for the journey across the North Sea, the target with the detail necessary to, not only identify it, but be able to find the centre of attention at the target. The target was the V2 rocket gantry which really was the whole

purpose of the op. These were the source of devastation being occasioned on London as Jerry desperately drew back following the Normandy invasion. Twelve aircraft were involved and I was in the first flight of four. To recall all this is to relive it again ..

My tension is already beginning to climb and the need to control it becoming evident. Briefing over we disperse to make the final personal preparations before climbing aboard our individual aircraft.

On approaching my aircraft NI-S (for sugar) my immediate attention focused on the two 250lb bombs under each wing and the 45 gal jettisonable fuel tank under the belly. This would allow us to return to England, whereas with an extra 500lb bomb under the belly we would continue on into Belgium rearm and refuel and bomb again on the return trip. This was to be my first experience of such a load on the delicate, prancing Spitfire and I could only imagine what that would do to her performance.

Once snuggled in to the cockpit everything changed. I was at one with the aircraft and busy with the checks that helped tensions relax. When ready my attention was drawn to the other three Spits and I settled down

to wait for the leader to start up. As the raw sprog of the day I was to be his number 2 and would stick to him like glue and follow his every move. When the prop on his aircraft turned I reached forward and pressed the tits. The starter motor growled and thankfully the Merlin burst in to life, then settled to the bloob, bloob, bloob of the gentle idle of those beautiful engines.

The leader moves out and I follow weaving slowly from side to side to avoid conflict and keeping a clear vision ahead. Final checks before lining up on the runway and moving in to place about a wingspan out to his right and up in line with his tail-plane. He's rolling. GO, GO-steadily increase the throttle to hold position and hard forward with the stick to bring the tail up at the same time as his. She's as heavy as lead but rolling fast. My hand seeks out the elevator trim to settle the stick load and I get a quick look down the runway and can assess quite readily we are going to need all of it.

We are really rolling now and beginning to feel as though we might fly as the end of the runway charges towards us. Now there is the positive sign of lift and I can see the leaders wheels beginning to part from the runway. We are airborne, and just as well as the perimeter fence flashes by underneath and I cross hands and go for the undercarriage lever and get the wheels up. Hell, but she is heavy and I spin the rudder trim to match the swing that comes from the propeller wash on the tail as we go through 100+ knots. Settle down and relax, drop below him now and cross over to his port side and watch as number three and four come up on his starboard. We are climbing steadily now on our way to eight thousand feet to level out for the sea crossing.

The Norfolk countryside slips by and soon we are crossing the coast. The scenery is beautiful on such a clear sunny day. It all seems so tragic, so ridiculous to be doing this with the world spread out so peacefully below you. But looking straight ahead I suddenly see a white smokey streak reaching vertically into the heavens and that is the first vision of a death dealing rocket on it's way to London. This is all too serious to be distracted from why we are there and what we are doing. The base of that streak in the sky is our target and whatever damage we can do will be to the benefit of many vulnerable people in London.

Looking across I become aware that the number three has a thin black streak trailing out from under his belly. Hell, that looks like oil and is confirmed when there is a short radio call from him that he is going back. If that is oil he has a very serious problem. We close into a Vee formation and keep going whilst silently wishing him the best of luck. We are over a smattering of light cloud and I spot some shipping below and with juvenile naivety I radio the fact. I am to regret that, but we live and learn.

As I search about as one must do, I am startled by a single black and yellow checkered nose Mustang that screams down in front of us which, I am sure, would bring a rash of oaths from our leader. The possibility of that action bringing about an abortive bomb release and dispersal of the group would stuff up the whole operation. Even so, just as well the yank did not mistake us for ME 109's because we were sitting ducks. It was a foolish thing for him to do in an area where the allies had complete air superiority at that time on the English side of the North Sea.

We drone on with little to think about but the possibilities of what is in store. I check the sky, the instruments, my harness and wriggle in my seat to get comfortable and test the technique of softly flexing muscles to get relaxed. I become aware, as often happens, of the small CO2 bottle in the dinghy pack of the parachute seating which presses on your bum until it takes on the size of a gun barrel. I could never find a comfortable position with that tiny bottle.

The coast of Holland is coming in to view. It won't be long now. Our target is in the suburbs of the Hague on the coast and we go in to echelon starboard in battle formation to make ready our position for the dive. As we cross the coast No.1 starts to weave as we make our way the short distance inland and we follow suit to lower the risk of being ranged by anti aircraft defenses.

There's the target area coming in to view and I see No 1 release his belly tank. I switch to the main tank and pull the release for my belly tank to drop away. We stop weaving and settle for the run in as the target slides along the port side engine cowl and disappears under the wing root. Only seconds to go now and I watch No 1 and get ready to follow. I arm the bombs and wind the elevator trim several turns forward to condition for the dive and pull back hard on the pole to keep level.

No 1's nose rises and he rolls over to go down. I pull harder on the stick to lift the nose and shove the spade grip hard over to the left taking full advantage of the split stick that is a feature of the Spitfire to allow clearance over your thigh and knee. As I slowly roll on to my back I fully realize the effect of the heavy load the Spit is carrying and I get a quick thought of what it is going to be like when there is an extra 500 pounder under the belly. Holding the back pressure the nose pulls down and I throw my head back to grab the target in to my view. Ease the control forward now to settle into the prepared forward trim for the vertical dive. I rudder on to the target and it flashes through my mind that I am leaving 8,000 feet and heading for 4,000. The Spitfire was not designed for this work. Without dive-brakes in a vertical dive she will be approaching record speeds that will only allow about 8 seconds to sort everything out.

7,000 going for 6 and the Spit is already whistling in to a scream as I  wind the elevator trim to get a steady dive that will minimize stick pressure required to keep an accurate bead through the gunsight. Hell, what are those white balls coming up and shooting by? Get used to it, that's flack, and for every white one you can see there are probably six others following right behind. A fleeting thought that one may have my name on it but this is hardly the time for that sort of thinking. 6,000 going for 5 and I can see the leader right ahead and there goes his bombs and almost immediately he disappears in a screaming pullout. 5,000 going for 4, so make it quick, thumb on the button, sight on the target, last second check don't stuff about or you are going to make a bloody great hole in the Dutch countryside. It's "bombs away", but it flashes through my mind the consequences if they don't release, worse still if only one releases.

The Spit leaps with the release and starts pulling out of her own Account  but I must pull hard and force my head up and scream and yell and squeeze muscles to overcome the g force that will soon black me out.

My mask slides down off my chin and the goggles pull down but I can't see anyhow as everything goes gray and gets very dark. I scream and yell and try to lift my left hand to get to the throttle as I will need every bit of power to climb, climb, climb. Then back to the trim to get the load off the stick as I scramble to go vertically upwards. As I head for the heavens my vision returns and I am staring at the blinding sun. Out to my right I spot my leader and immediately swing over to join up with him whilst scanning the sky for any sign of aircraft and particularly No.3. I spot him and all is well. We level out, gather up and head west for England. I'm trembling but steadily calm down and even begin to enjoy the lightness of the Spit and the smooth journey home.

We haven't gone far when we are over a layer of cloud, not very thick but at ten/tenths completely covering the water below. "Oh well", I think, "when we get near the coast we will break up and go down individually."

Not so, as evidenced by the clipped voice of the leader "close in, tighten up, we are going down". Hell, this is news, formating in cloud!! This wasn't in my training, nobody ever told me about this. But when you've gotta go, you've gotta go, so I find myself tucked in as close as I dare on the No.1 and am already starting to sweat.

Gradually we skip in and out of the tops of the cloud and I get an idea of what I am in for. Then suddenly, poof, we are in and all I can see is his aircraft beside me and nothing else. Now I am really tensed up and perspiring. Relax, just concentrate, watch every movement of the other aircraft and if there is any change, correct it, but loosen up, concentrate, but loosen up. Relax those muscles, lighten that grip, soften on the pedals. Take no notice of those strange sensations you are getting. Of sitting upright over the top of the other aircraft, of seemingly screaming in a dive, everything is OK, the boss knows what he

is doing. Just stick with him and ignore everything else. That's fine but, skinney as I am, I'm sweating like a pig. My oxygen mask has perspiration running into the chin space so that I could put my tongue out and taste it. How long does this go on for. It wasn't very thick but we must have been in for hours, or so it seems.

So after what seems an age the greyness of the cloud is beginning to brighten a little and the thought that we are near the end of this exercise is a relief, but don't drop the concentration. If you lose him you will never live it down and if you touch him, no matter how lightly, you won't have to live it down. You'll both be gonners.

Wonders, we are through and there's the coast of England underneath and it is a bright day and I can move away a little and relax and stop shaking. That is the toughest bit of flying I have ever done and I don't doubt there is going to more of it so I had better get used to it. But time will tell that I won't. No matter how much cloud formation you might do, it will always be nerve-racking, terrifying.

The rest was easy and as I taxied in I was impressed by the way the ground crew came out to meet you, jump on the wing whilst closing the last distance in to the bay and immediately go to work on the service.

It took some effort for me to climb out of the cockpit for the truth was that I was drained, exhausted. There was the debriefing to go through with intelligence. I climb out and with my chute slung over my shoulder, head for the briefing room.

I find an inconspicuous spot at the rear of the seated group, quite prepared to just listen and learn. The sad news came out immediately that the No.3 with the oil leak tried to make it back to base, left it too late to bale out and was committed to force land in a field, misjudged, hit a ditch, flipped and was killed. I reflect that I experienced just that in a Mk V Spit at OTU and was lucky to get away with it with only a minor injury. A gloom settled over the proceedings but the debrief went on.

As the CO went through the patter I was shattered to hear him point out that radio calls locating shipping BELOW were unnecessary and I hoped, though no-one was named, that I was not seen to cringe in my seat identifying me as the one who had made the boo-boo. My anxiety was broken when a comic in the group piped up " Christ I was glad they weren't ABOVE". This brought a round of chuckles that made me appreciate that I was in good company. These were fair-minded men who knew the pain of gaining experience and could make a joke of it.

So to the showers, the mess, the bar and finally to bed. As I lay in my bunk going over again and again the experiences of the day my thoughts were, "so this it, and there is more of the same, again and again, and again.

Some future! I am only 21. Will I make 22?

Well, I did and well beyond. I was one of the lucky ones.