In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

The following passage is just one of many exciting extracts from the marvellous stories about 3 Squadron's people and their adventures contained in "YOU LIVE BUT ONCE", the classic autobiography of Wing Commander R.H. (Bobby) Gibbes, DSO, DFC and Bar.

This incident happened on 21 December 1942, 150 miles south of Cirte, while Bobby Gibbes was leading six Kittyhawks on a reconnaissance over Hun, an Italian aerodrome.



Sergeant "Stuka" Bee's aircraft was set on fire by the aerodrome defence gunfire and at the same time, Pilot Officer Rex Bayly called up to say that his motor had been hit and that he was carrying out a forced landing. As Sergeant Bee had a lot of speed from his dive and was flaming badly, I advised him to climb up and bail out instead of trying to belly land his aircraft at high speed. He mightn't have heard me, or perhaps was badly wounded or even dead, as his speed had not decreased when he hit the ground. His aircraft rolled up into a ball, an inferno of flames. He didn't have a chance.

I circled and watched the Italians, showing great courage, send out an ambulance in an attempt to save him, but the outcome was obvious. It was later confirmed that he had been killed.

In the meantime, Rex Bayly crash landed his aircraft nearly a mile from the aerodrome, and on coming to a stop, called up on his radio to say that he was O.K. His aircraft did not burn. I asked him what the area was like for a landing to pick him up, and ordered the other three aircraft to keep me covered and to stop any ground forces coming out after him. He told me that the area was impossible, and asked me to leave him, but I flew down to look for myself. I found a suitable area about 3 miles further out and advised Bayly that I was landing, and to get weaving out to me.

I was nervous about this landing, in case shrapnel might have damaged my tyres, as on my first run through the aerodrome, my initial burst set an aircraft on fire. I had then flown across the aerodrome and fired from low level and at close range at a Savoia 79. It must have been loaded with ammunition as it blew up, hurling debris 500 feet into the air. I was too close to it to do anything about avoiding the blast and flew straight through the centre of the explosion at nought feet. On passing through, my aircraft dropped its nose, despite pulling my stick back, and for a terrifying moment, I thought that my tail plane had been blown off. On clearing the concussion area, I regained control, missing the ground by a matter of only a few feet. Quite a number of small holes had been punched right through my wings from below, but my aircraft appeared to be quite serviceable.

I touched down rather carefully in order to check that my tyres had not been punctured, and then taxied by a devious route for about a mile or more until I was stopped from getting closer to Bayly by a deep wadi. Realizing that I would have a long wait, and being in a state of sheer funk, I proceeded to take off my belly tank to lighten the aircraft. The weight of the partially full tank created great difficulty, and I needed all my strength in pulling it from below the aircraft and dragging it clear. I was not sure that I would be able to find my way back to the area where I had landed, so I stepped out the maximum run into wind from my present position. In all, I had just 300 yards before the ground dipped away into a wadi. I tied my handkerchief onto a small camel's thorn bush to mark the point of aim, and the limit of my available take off-run, and then returned to my aircraft, CV-V, and waited.

My aircraft continued to circle overhead, carrying out an occasional dive towards the town in order to discourage any attempt to pick us up. After what seemed like an age, sitting within gun range of Hun, Bayly at last appeared, puffing, and sweating profusely. He still managed a smile and a greeting.

I tossed away my parachute and Bayly climbed into the cockpit. I climbed in after him and using him as my seat, I proceeded to start my motor. It was with great relief that we heard the engine fire, and opening my throttle beyond all normal limits, I stood on the brakes until I had obtained full power, and then released them, and, as we surged forward, I extended a little flap. My handkerchief rushed up at an alarming rate, and we had not reached flying speed as we passed over it and down the slope of the wadi. Hauling the stick back a small fraction, I managed to ease the aircraft into the air, but we hit the other side of the wadi with a terrific thud. We were flung back into the air, still not really flying, and to my horror, I saw my port wheel rolling back below the trailing edge of the wing, in the dust stream. The next ridge loomed up and it looked as if it was to be curtains for us, as I could never clear it. I deliberately dropped my starboard wing to take the bounce on my remaining wheel, and eased the stick back just enough to avoid flicking. To my great relief we cleared the ridge and were flying.

Retracting my undercart and the small amount of take off flap, we climbed up. I was shaking like a leaf and tried to talk to Bayly but noise would not permit. The remaining three aircraft formed up alongside me and we hared for home, praying the while that we would not be intercepted by enemy fighters, who should by now, have been alerted. Luck remained with us, and we didn't see any enemy aircraft.

On nearing Marble Arch, I asked Squadron Leader Watt to fly beneath my aircraft to confirm that I had really lost a wheel and had not imagined it. He confirmed that my wheel had gone, but that the starboard wheel and undercart appeared to be intact. I then had to make up my mind as to whether to carry out a belly landing, thus damaging my aircraft further, or to try to attempt a one wheel landing, which I thought I could do. We were at the time very short of aircraft and every machine counted.

The latter, of course, could be dangerous, so before making a final decision, I wrote a message on my map asking Bayly if he minded if I carried out a one wheel landing. He read my message and nodded his agreement.

Calling up our ground control, I asked them to have an ambulance standing by, and told them that I intended coming in cross wind with my port wing up wind. Control queried my decision but accepted it.

I made a landing on my starboard wheel, keeping my wing up with aileron and, as I lost speed, I turned the aircraft slowly to the left throwing the weight out. When I neared a complete wing stall, I kicked on hard port rudder and the aircraft turned further to port. Luck was with me and the aircraft remained balanced until it lost almost all speed. The port oleo leg suddenly touched the ground, and the machine completed a ground loop. The port flap was slightly damaged as was the wingtip. The propeller and the rest of the aircraft sustained no further damage. The port undercart was changed, the flap repaired, the holes patched up and the aircraft was flying again on the 27th of the month, only six days after Hun.

Every enemy aircraft on Hun was either destroyed or damaged. Six aircraft and one glider were burnt, and five other aircraft were badly damaged. The bag included two JU52s, two Savoia 795, one JU88, one Messerschmitt 110, one CR42, one HS126 and two gliders. I was later to be awarded the DSO and this operation was mentioned as having a bearing on the award.


From: Johnnie Johnson, "Wing Leader", 1956

In March 1943 Johnnie Johnson had taken over command of the Canadian Wing at Kenley (403 and 416 Squadrons) equipped with the then new Spitfire 9:

"Some three weeks passed and we had only flown together on two or three occasions. Once, well inside France, we saw a large gaggle of Focke-Wulfs in the far distance, but our petrol was running low and we had to return without firing a shot. My Canadians flew extremely well and their air discipline was excellent, better I thought than the average mixed squadron. But we wanted a full-blooded scrap with the Abbeville boys to weld the wing together. Our opportunity arrived on a Saturday afternoon in early April [1943].
We were having lunch when the Tannoy announced that the wing would come to readiness in one hour's time. I walked over to the ops. block to study the details so that I could brief the wing. It was only a small show, but far better than idling away the afternoon on the ground. Crow was to lead his squadron of Typhoons across the Channel at low level, dive-bomb the Abbeville airfield and then withdraw at a high rate of knots. Our job was to climb over France as the Typhoons came out and knock down any Messerschmitts or Focke-Wulfs flushed by the bombing. It was a simple little operation, just Crow's squadron and my wing. What really appealed to me was that we were operating in a free-lance role and were not confined to any particular area. The weather was perfect and we were to operate under the control of a new radar station in Kent which was rapidly acquiring a reputation for excellent long-distance controlling. It was a week-end, and there always seemed to be a stronger enemy reaction on Saturdays and Sundays than any other day.
I telephoned Squadron Leader Hunter, the senior controller of the new radar station, outlined my tactics and agreed that he would not break radio silence unless he had an enemy plot on his scopes.
Crossing the French coast just south of Le Touquet, I caught a glimpse of Crow's Typhoons well below and heading back towards England. Our superchargers cut in at 19,000 feet with
an unpleasant thump and die engines surged and we eased back our throttles. At 24,000 feet I levelled out and Bolton's squadron drew abreast of me in the finger-four formation. Ford's squadron were just beginning to make condensation trails and these could be seen from a great distance and would betray our position. But before I could call him he dropped his squadron a few hundred feet and the twelve conspicuous thin white banners ceased.
Hunter broke the silence:
"Greycap from Grass-seed.1 Twenty plus bandits climbing up inland. Steer 140."
"O.K., Grass-seed," I acknowledged. "Any height on the bandits?"
"Well below you, Greycap. They are approaching the coast and I'll try and bring you out of the sun. Continue on 140."
This was perfect teamwork between controller and wing leader. It was the first time we had worked with Hunter: he seemed to have something of Woodhall's ability to put his information across in a quiet, reassuring manner. The whole intricate mechanics of long-range radar interception seemed to be working perfectly. Suddenly I was brimming with confidence, for I knew that Hunter and I would pull this one off.
"Greycap. Bandits have crossed below you at 15,000 feet. Port on to 310. Buster."
"O.K., Grass-seed. Port on to 310," I replied.
"Greycap. Bandits now seven miles ahead. 5000 feet below. Gate."
I put the Spitfires into a shallow dive and scanned the area ahead. The sky seemed empty.
"Greycap. Another strong formation of bandits behind you. About five to eight miles. Exercise caution."
Here were the makings of a perfect shambles! We were almost on top of the first enemy formation with another gaggle not far behind. How far? Hunter had said between five and eight miles, but the radar was scanning at its maximum range and five miles could be one mile - or ten. Should I call the whole tiling off and set course for Dungeness now? The decision was mine. For a moment it seemed as if we were suspended and motionless in the high sky, with the Canadians clustered around me waiting for an order.
Then I saw our quarry. One bunk of twelve 190s just below us and a mile ahead, and a further ten 190s well out on the starboard side. It was too golden an opportunity to miss. Height, sun and surprise in our favour and I had to take a chance on how far behind the other enemy formation was.
"Greycap to wing. Twenty-plus Huns below from twelve to three o'clock. Syd, I'm taking the left-hand bunch. Come down and take the right-hand gaggle. Get in!"
I turned slightly to get directly behind the 190s and remembered to make the turn slow and easy so that our wingmen could keep well up. I put the nose down and had to fight back an instinct to slam die throttle wide open. We had to hit these brutes together.
My own 190 was flying on the extreme port side of the enemy formation. We came down on their tails in a long, slanting dive. Before I opened fire, I looked to the starboard, saw Bolton's boys fanning out alongside and Ford's arrowhead of Spitfires falling down on their prey about three miles away. The attack was coordinated, and my task of leading the wing was temporarily, suspended. Now it was up to the individual pilots to select their opponents and smack them down. I missed the 190 with my first short burst and steadied the gun platform with coarse stick and rudder. I fired again and hit him on the wing root and just behind the cockpit. The spot harmonization paid off and the cannon shells thudded into him in a deadly concentration of winking explosions. He started to burn, but before he fell on to his back I gave him another long burst. Then I broke away in a steep climbing turn and searched the sky behind. Still nothing there. Below me another 190 was falling in flames, and on the starboard a parachute had opened into full bloom. Hunter was still concerned for our safety:
"Greycap. Withdraw. Strong force of bandits approaching. Almost on top of you."
I spoke to the wing:
"All Greycap aircraft. Get out now! We won't re-form. And keep a sharp look-out behind!"
The pilots didn't need telling twice: we poured across the Channel at high speed in pairs and fours. My section was the first to land and when I climbed out of the cockpit I was met by a small posse of officers, for the good word that we had bounced the 190s soon spread. I lit a cigarette and counted the Spits as they joined the circuit over Kenley. Sixteen down, four on the circuit - twenty. A singleton - twenty-one. A long pause and a pair - twenty-three. One to come. It seemed very important that he should swing in over Caterham and land. But we had waited too long: he was either missing or at some other airfield.
The pilots walked into the briefing room still excited and full of the fight. We totted up the score with the Spies listening silently and ever ready to reduce a claim from a destroyed to a damaged or, if they had the chance, to nothing at all! The total came to six 190s destroyed for the loss of one of our pilots, who, we could only surmise, must have been clobbered by a 190 after our first attack.
I was delighted with our effort. The controlling had been superb and the Canadians had flown really well. I made out my report, called the radar station and thanked Hunter, and checked with our operations room for any news of our missing pilot. They had no information.
The next morning Syd Ford walked into my office. He laid a pair of blue Canada shoulder-flashes on my desk and said: "The boys would like you to wear these. After all, we're a Canadian wing and we've got to convert you. Better start this way."
"Thanks, Syd," I replied. "I'll get them sewn on today."
A simple gesture, but for me it had a deep significance. The flashes were sewn on and two years were to elapse before it was time to take them down. "

[bobbysocks]

From: Johnny Johnson, "Wing Leader", 1956

"We had been in Normandy well over three weeks, but the German bastion at Caen still held firm and prevented our ground forces from breaking out into the open country south of the city. Our fighter-bombers and light bombers of the Second Tactical Air Force had attacked enemy strongpoints on the outskirts of Caen many times, but the well-disciplined, tough German troops continued to put up a most stubborn and effective resistance. Early in July it was decided, despite some stern opposition in high quarters, to reduce enemy ground opposition by saturating them with a heavy attack by Lancasters of Bomber Command. Would the fiasco of Cassino in Italy, when the bombing attacks had created impassable obstacles to our own advance, be repeated at Caen? Was not the condemnation to death of many innocent French civilians unnecessary and a basic contradiction of the very principles we fought for? Would not the heavy bombers be more suitably employed in their strategic role of reducing the industrial might of Germany? Despite the various military and moral considerations, and the conflict of opinion amongst our most experienced air commanders, the decision was made to attack Caen.

Late one fine July evening, as the sun dropped to the western horizon, the attack began. Although Spitfires provided a target-cover force for the hundreds of Lancasters and Halifaxes, our presence was un necessary, for the Luftwaffe did not react to the attack. As the bombers made their run-in from the sea, I positioned my Spitfire to the west of the town so that I could watch the progress of the attack from a down-sun position. Our own ground troops had been withdrawn to a line some distance from the target area so that they would be in little danger of bombs which fell short of the targets. We had been told that all the targets were contained in an area approximately two miles in length and just short of a mile in depth. But well before the smoke and debris from the first bombs which hung over Caen in the calm evening sky had obstructed the scene from our view, it was quite apparent that a number of bombs had fallen well outside the target area. As I watched the terrible destruction wrought on this French city I could not help but wonder whether we were using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. We were all aware of the military necessity to break the enemy at Caen so that our ground troops could eventually deploy into open country. But we were not so sure that this object could only be achieved by the wholesale destruction of Caen and the death of a great number of its inhabitants. Some of the bombs were fused to explode up to six hours after the attack, so that there would not be too large a time-lag before the ground forces went in early the next morning. Flying low on the fringe of the attack, I distinctly saw a German tank thrown into the air, like a child's toy, and turning over and over before it fell to the ground.

Instead of turning to the north to set course for England after dropping its load, one of the Lancasters came down in a fairly steep dive towards the strongly defended enemy-held territory south of the city. I watched this manoeuvre in some amazement as the Lancaster would soon find itself a solitary target for the German flak. Perhaps the aircraft had had its controls shot away or damaged and could only fly in this fashion. But wait, the bomber has now levelled out and is still flying due south only a few feet above the main Caen-Falaise road. Amazed, I watch its antics. What the Hell is the pilot up to? I soon discover the object of the low-level flight. This road, which is one of the enemy's main supply routes, is packed here and there with stationary tanks, armoured cars and vehicles. As it sweeps down the road, both front and rear turrets of the bomber are in action and the gunners are firing long bursts into the enemy vehicles. There is a considerable amount of light flak, but the pilot obviously scorns this small stuff, since he is accustomed to a nightly barrage of heavy flak over the industrial cities of Germany. For him this affair is a bit of a lark, and like a schoolboy away from the vigilance of his prefect he is making the most of his freedom. Now the Lancaster carries out a slow wide turn to re-trace its flight northwards to Caen. Majestically, it ploughs along over the straight road with rear and front guns blazing away. Enemy drivers and crews abandon their vehicles as the Lancaster pounds along and dive for the shelter of the hedgerows. But what is this? Another Lancaster has appeared on the scene and is carrying out similar tactics. The first Lancaster is flying north. The second is steaming south. Both are over the centre of the highway and both avoid each other with a careful little swerve. Speechless, I watch the role of fighter-bomber being carried out, and most effectively, by the four-engined heavies. But now it is all over. The original glamour boy has climbed away to the north for his homeward journey and the second is pulling up from his strafing run. I fly alongside the Lancaster as it settles down for the flight back to Lincolnshire and wave to the gay adventurers inside. We have seen two bomber missions this evening which will never be recorded in any official log! Long after the war I discovered that the pilot of the first bomber was an ex-bricklayer from Scotland called 'Jock' Shaw. At the time of my story he was the proud captain of his own Lancaster, and was to win the D.F.C. and bar. Later he served as my adjutant.

Two days after the bomber attack, Caen was in British hands. We decided to drive there and see the results of the bombardment at close quarters. The streets were still choked with rubble and we had the greatest difficulty in manoeuvring the versatile jeep past blocks of stone and gaping craters. We had been told that the original plan to send an armoured column through Caen on the morning following the attack had to be abandoned. We could fully understand the-reason. Bulldozers struggled to clear the blocked roads, and we had to stop the jeep and continue our journey on foot. Here and there fires still raged: pathetic groups of silent French folk struggled with the debris in a forlorn attempt to find the bodies of some of their friends and relatives. A sickening stench of death pervaded, and the people to whom we spoke said that few Germans were killed as there were no enemy positions in the bombed area. We had seen the destruction wrought by the Luftwaffe on London, Sheffield, Coventry, Liverpool and Manchester; but those scenes paled when compared to the magnitude of this disaster. We thought that the French had been made to suffer without sufficient justification. We cut short our visit, made our way back to the nearby beach, where we lay in the sunshine and swam in the stained waters in an endeavour to forget the broken bodies, the shattered homes and the brooding despair which lay heavily on Caen."

________________________

"Breakthrough! Finally the beachhead burst at its seams, and the Americans broke through to the west, followed later by the British and Polish forces who were up against the main German armoured divisions at Caen.

What are one's remembered impressions of this history-making breakout? Hundreds of burning vehicles that we had strafed and set on fire in the famous Falaise gap? Red Crosses tied across lifeless German tanks? The group of arrogant German soldiers sitting outside on the farmhouse steps, playing cards as their trucks burnt? I stopped their game with a few hundred rounds of bullets, and their arrogance disappeared rapidly. Wildly waving peasant children welcoming the conquerors little knowing what it was all about?

Probably as pilots we saw more than most but what we did see wasn't very attractive. Then I met the man who will haunt me until my dying day.

Including ground-strafing, dive bombing and air-to-air fights, I had probably by now killed several hundred people, but from the air it was completely impersonal and made no mental impact. This man was different.

I was out on another "cannon test" which was the usual thinly veiled excuse to look for trouble. None of the aircraft in the air had the slightest smell of the Luftwaffe, so I confined my searchings to objects on the ground many miles behind the enemy front. Suddenly I saw him!

His motorbike had caused a small cloud of dust to arise, giving away his position. Like a kestrel hawk pouncing, I wheeled my Spitfire and streaked towards the ground.

By now my man had stopped on the corner of a hairpin bend, and as the range closed rapidly, I guessed he was studying a map. His military camouflaged bike and his grey-green uniform spelt him out as a despatch rider, and therefore a legitimate military target. As I placed the orange reflected dot of my gunsight on the centre of his body, he looked up straight at me, and knew the moment of truth had arrived.

As I stabbed the gun button he threw up his left arm as if to shield his face from the impact. I cursed him with all my soul for making such a pathetic human gesture, and loathed myself as I saw man and bike disappear in a torrent of bullets.

I returned straight to base and found it difficult to talk to anyone for several days.

I can still see his face and the raised arm."

Wing Commander Geoffrey Page, DSO, OBE, DFC and Bar, "Shot Down in Flames", Grub Street reprint 1999, pp.149-150.

[bobbysocks]

"WE began to carry out low-level flights over France. These
operations were known by the code name Rhubarb. The idea
was to take full advantage of low cloud and poor visibility and
slip sections of Spitfires across the coast and then let-down
below the cloud to search for opportunity targets, rolling-stock,
locomotives, aircraft on the ground, staff cars, enemy troops and
the like. They were usually arranged on a voluntary basis and a
few pilots seemed to prefer this type of individual, low-level work
to the clean, exhilarating team work of the dog-fight. But the
great majority of fighter pilots thought privately that the dividends
yielded by the numerous Rhubarb operations fell far short
of the cost in valuable aircraft and trained pilots.
First of all we had to contend with the weather. Usually the
cloud base was less than 1000 feet when we slipped our two
Spitfires into its concealing vapour. During the next few minutes
all our thoughts were concentrated on the likely height of the
cloud base over France. Our let-downs from the cloud were
usually made over reasonably flat countryside, but here and there
small hills rose a few hundred feet and presented serious hazards.
If we weren't in the clear when the altimeter recorded 500 feet,
then we climbed back into the cloud and called the show off.
So it was difficult to be cool and calculating when making our
let-downs on Rhubarb flights. Perhaps two of us had flown in
cloud, in tight formation, for a distance of fifty miles at 2000 feet.
Time to descend, for we are over the target area—or should be
if we have steered an accurate course and the wind hasn't changed.
We ease the throttle back and put the Spitfires into a gentle dive.
The engine note changes, but it seems strangely loud in the cloud
and the stick trembles in your hand. You flash a grin of encouragement
at your wingman who is only a few feet away, his
eyes and hands attuned to every movement of your Spitfire,
for if he loses you in this bumpy, swirling greyness there is
not enough height for him to make the difficult transition to
instrument flight. You ease her down slowly. Are we slightly
off course? Will the ground be higher than where we planned to
break out? And the flak? 600 feet on the altimeter and you
catch a sudden glimpse of a wet sombre landscape of
hedged fields and copses. Then you are at the bottom of a
sort of inverted bowl, whose translucent sides of falling rain
seem dangerously confining.
Then there was the light flak. Gibbs told us that once beyond
the heavily defended coastal belt we should be lightly opposed
from the ground, but it always seemed as if the enemy gunners
were ready and waiting. Airfields were always extremely well
defended and it was a dangerous business to try and make more
than one fast, low-level attack. Straight in and out was the only
method on these occasions.
The Germans prepared unpleasant counter-measures against
these low-level attacks. Here and there decoy targets were
established, and these sometimes took the form of stationary
locomotives heavily armoured and surrounded by numerous,
well-camouflaged light flak guns, arranged to provide a deadly
concentration of fire against air attack. Many pilots received the
shock of their lives when they streaked down upon what they
imagined to be a sitting duck.
Usually our Rhubarb efforts yielded little more than a staff car
(or was it a French civilian vehicle?) or some target ineffectively
sprayed with the puny bullets of our machine guns. Whenever
we went after bigger game on the airfields we took some bad
knocks, and our first losses were from such operations. The
engines of our Spitfires were cooled by a liquid called glycol,
which was held in a small tank just below the spinner. This
glycol tank and radiator were always exposed to ground fire,
and one machine-gun bullet through either meant that the
engine caught fire or seized up within a matter of minutes.
I loathed those Rhubarbs with a deep, dark hatred. Apart
from the flak, the hazards of making a let-down over unknown
territory and with no accurate knowledge of the cloud base
seemed far too great a risk for the damage we inflicted. During
the following three summers hundreds of fighter pilots were lost
on either small or mass Rhubarb operations. Towards the end of
1943, when I finished this tour of ops. and held an
appointment of some authority at 11 Group, my strong views
on this subject were given a sympathetic hearing and Rhubarbs
were discontinued over France, except on very special
occasions."

from: Johnny Johnson, "Wing Leader", 1956

[scottyvt4]

more a facts and figs on a fighter ace for the luftwaffe ace ..........................

Walter Nowotny
German Luftwaffe Ace, Fw 190 and Me 262 pilot
JG 54 and Kommando Nowotny

One of the highest scoring German aces (an Austrian, actually) almost ended his flying career very early.
Flying a Bf 109 in July 19, 1941, he had shot down three Polikarpov I-153 biplanes (his first three kills), when he went down too. He ditched his Messerchmitt in the Gulf of Riga and clambered into his one-man survival raft. With no food or drink, he paddled southwards, towards land that he estimated to be about 40 miles away. A couple German fighters flew overhead, but didn't notice his Mauser pistol shots. Sunburn set in, waves splashed into his dinghy, and he became exausted from his paddling.

On his second night adrift, two Soviet destroyers passed close by, but didn't notice him either. He was somewhat heartened by the evidently-German artillery fire directed at the Russian warships. But by the second day, he became nearly suicidal, and even began writing a "farewell message." He fell asleep, and when he awoke on the third day, the currents had brought him close to shore. He paddled towards it, landed, and collapsed on the sandy beach. He awoke in a bed; two Latvian auxiliaries (collaborators?) had rescued him.

For many months, JG 54 remained at Krasnogvardeisk, as the northern front settled into a stalemate around besieged Leningrad.

Messerschmitt Bf 109
Nowotny achieved over 50 victories in this airplanes, from July 1941 through early 1943. He was appointed Staffelkapitän of 1./JG 54 on 25 October 1942.
Focke Wulf 190
In January and February of 1943, JG 54 transitioned to the Fw 190, a rugged aircraft that Nowotny and many othe experten would fly with great success. In August, Nowotny added 49 victories to his score and was promoted to Gruppenkommandeur of 1./JG 54. Heady stuff for a 22-year-old. But he hadn't yet been awarded the "Oak Leaves," and showed distinct signs of "throat-ache;" despite the fact that he had passed the 120-victory threshhold - no "Oak Leaves."
But he continued to excel in the air. On September 1, 1943 he downed ten Russian aircraft. On a morning bomber escort mission, he destroyed four attacking Soviet fighters. He noticed another group, and promptly got two of those. As the dogfight carried him 180 km over Russian lines, he closed in on a seventh victim, only to have his cannon jam. he closed in ever closer and finished it off with his machine guns. He made good his return by flying on the deck, right thru the flak thrown up from a large town. That afternoon, on another sortie, he got three more during an in-and-out duel in the clouds.

A few days later, he received his long-awaited Oak Leaves. "The Swords" followed three weeks later, awarded to him at a ceremony at Hitler's headquarters.

By September 14, his score stood at 203, just behind the Luftwaffe leader (Hans Phillipp?). At midday, on a clear, perfect day, Soviet bombers and their fighter escorts approached. Nowotny led his 4-plane Schwarm on a Freie Jagd (literally "free hunt," or in Allied aviation jargon, a "fighter sweep"). Soon, evryone in the ops room heard over the loudspeaker his radio call that he had achieved his 204th. He was then the top Luftwaffe experte. He kept flying and fighting and shooting down Soviet planes. Before the end of September, he had reached a total of 235. On afternoon, while patrolling south of Velikiye Luki, he shot down 3 of a group of 14 Airacobras. The next day, in the same area, a flight of 6 Airacobras fled as soon as they sighted the Fw 190's; perhaps they were survivors from the previous day's mission. Only two escaped.

Then he had a day ruined by jammed guns and an out-of-service aircraft. The following day, his aerial rampage continued: two P-40s, a P-39, and an LaGG-3. Nowotny was doing his part to reduce the American Lend-Lease equipment sent to Russia.

The Diamonds
On October 15, 1943, he destroyed a Curtiss P-40 - his 250th victory. He was the first pilot ever to achieve such a score. Back at his base, a wild celebration ensued. Nowotny took off to Vilna to celebrate in style. His wingman "Quax" Schnörrer stayed at the base and, with other pilots, got riotously drunk. Then General von Greim telephoned, to say that the Führer wanted to speak to Nowotny, to congratulate him personally. Understanding the situation, General Greim passed on the information that Nowotny was at the Ria Bar in Vilna, confident that Hitler's telephone operators wouldn't be able to get through to the partying Nowotny. But they did. Nowotny, stewed to the gills, surrounded by young lovelies in a noisy bar, managed to get through the conversation with the Führer. He had been awarded the "Diamonds," the Reich's highest military honor. The next day, von Greim, Schnörrer, and Nowotny flew to Hitler's HQ in East Prussia, for Nowotny to receive his "Diamonds."

But October, 1943 marked the end of Nowotny's famous schwarm (flgiht of four planes). Toni Döbele (96 victories) was killed. Lt. Karl "Quax" Schnörrer (35) was badly injured in a crash and hospitalized for a long time. Nowotny himself was made into a superhero by Goebbels propaganda machine and was withdrawn from the front.

Training Assignments
His career was temporarily halted because he was assigned command of the Schulegeschwader 101 (SJG 101). This was a training unit for new pilots, and was based in Palau. Even though it was an unpopular assignment for the veteran pilots, Nowotny once again brilliantly succeded, earning a reputation as a first class instructor.
Me 262 Jet
On September 26, 1944, he was appointed CO of Kommando Nowotny, the world's first jet fighter unit, based at Achmer and Hesepe
Kommando Nowotny became operational on the 3rd of October and claimed their first kill, a B-24, on October 7th. Nowotny began the practice of using prop-driven conventional fighters as cover against the roaming Allied fighters during the takeoffs and landings of the Me 262. The Me 262 was especially vulnerable as the turbojet's relatively low thrust resulted in slow acceleration. It took some time for the jet to get up to speed. But once there, no Allied aircraft could touch it.



November 8, 1944
Adolph Galland, Luftwaffe General of Fighters, visited Achmer for an inspection. Nowotny was going to give Galland his pilots' flight reports. A flight of B-17 bombers was reported, so the unit took off, about six jets in the first wave, then another. The Fw-190Ds were waiting on the runway cover their return of the jets. Galland was in the operations shack, monitoring the pilots' radio transmissions. Several bombers were called out as shot down, and Nowotny radioed that he was approaching. The flight leader on the ground, Hans Dortenmann, requested permission to take off to assist, but Nowotny said no, to wait. The defensive anti-aircraft battery opened fire on a few P-51 Mustangs that approached the field, but they were chased away. The jets were coming in.
One Me-262 had been shot down, and Nowotny reported an engine failure before making a garbled transmission referring to “burning”. Galland watched Nowi's approach, heard the sound of a jet engine, and saw his Me 262 A-1a (W.Nr. 110 400) “White 8” dive vertically out of the clouds and crash at Epe, 2.5 kilometres east of Hesepe. The explosions rocked the air, and only a column of black smoke rose from behind the trees. The wreckage was Nowotny's plane. After sifting through it, the only salvageable things found were his left hand and pieces of his Diamonds decoration.

The unit was disbanded shortly after Nowotny's death. It had claimed 22 aircraft with a loss of 26 Me 262s, eight of which were due to accidents and mechanical failures.

[scottyvt4]

Recollections of a Corsair Pilot
By C. R. Cartledge

In March 1944 came my posting to the new 1842 Squadron of Corsairs to be formed up at Brunswick, Maine, USA. This new and powerful fighter aircraft was immediately distinguishable by its cranked "gull" wings. From head on, with its radial engine, it had an aggressive appearance, but was fast and nimble, its long and horizontal nose giving it an unmistakable profile. It was faster than the Hurricane on which I had trained and was very responsive and manoeuvrable, with formidable fire power.
For a crisis it could go into water injection mode for those extra knots, the water tank giving ten minutes of boost.




We spent two months working up the squadron under Lt. Cdr. (A) Tony Garland, RNVR, and by June we were ready to complete our preparations by a trip[ down to Norfolk, Virginia, where we achieved the standard three successful landings on a US carrier. The Corsair was particularly tricky to deck-land due to its long, straight nose, which blotted out the pilot's vision ahead when the aircraft was adopting the landing position with flaps down. The final approach had to be made while still turning in order to keep the deck and batsman in sight, straightening out at the last moment before touch down.

Coming back to the U.K. we were based briefly at RNAS Eglinton (where we lost Sub. Lt. (A) Wheway who flew into a mountain in the mist) before joining HMS Formidable (Capt. P. Ruck-Keene, RN) in the Irish Sea in August 1944. We were on our way to the arctic to attack the German battleship Tirpitz, which was sheltering in the Alta Fjord. Little did we know that some of us were to be used as dive-bombers. Corsair Squadrons 1841and 1842 were on board, plus 848 Avenger Squadron. Stopping briefly at Scapa Flow, we sailed northwards carrying out flying exercises whenever weather permitted. Those who had volunteered for dive-bombing, of which I was one, were given practise on towed targets. We lost another pilot in an air collision, the younger brother of our own ship's surgeon. As we neared the arctic, we ran into the roughest seas I had so far experienced. There was no possibility of flying. The huge seas were throwing the ship in all directions and breaking over the flight deck, drenching the lashed down aircraft with salty water.

As we drew nearer the target the weather improved, enabling four strikes to be carried out on August 22, 23, 24 and 29, involving Barracudas, Hellcats, Corsairs, Avengers and Seafires. These included some dare-devil attacks led by Lt. Cdr. R. H. Richardson RNZVR and Major V. B. G. Cheesman, Royal Marines, who screamed low over the Tirpitz, attempting to lob their bombs down the funnels. Richardson lost his life in an attack two days later. We simultaneously supported diversionary attacks on related coastal targets. These left a trail of damaged or destroyed tankers, airfields, radio stations, and three Narvik Class destroyers near the islands and neighbouring fjords. In one attack Richardson, having run out of ammunition, lowered his arrestor hook and tore away the station's radio mast and aerials from almost zero feet.

In the last strike, the 'dive-bombers' were told that a 1000-lb bomb would be fastened under the port wing, the central fuselage position being taken up by the extra fuel tank. We were advised to trim the aircraft to give maximum lift to the port wing in the hope that this would compensate for the bomb. We would only find out when the aircraft left the flight deck on take-off! As I am writing this article 57 years later the reader can conclude that all went well. It was a fine and beautiful morning and we approached the islands and main coast line as low as possible to avoid radar detection knowing the Germans would operate a smoke screen as soon as they received warning. We climbed as we hit the coast and gained height for the dive-bombing. The view over the mountains and fjords on this brilliant morning was breathtaking and I could see the whole party of Avengers and the escorting Corsairs of 1841 and 1842 Squadrons. As we approached the Tirpitz, the white puffs of A-A shells started to burst around us and I lost my No.2, Sub. Lt. (A) French, RNVR. The smoke screen was already across the fjord, but leaving the huge outline of the Tirpitz just visible through it. I turned, and as I dived, saw one bomb explode close to the outline of the battleship. I released my bomb and pulled away hard, partially blacking out. There was a lot of flack blazing away in all directions. I turned and fired into one of the gunnery positions, then broke away at low level along the fjord. Cruising along just above the water I was admiring the scenery when bullets kicked up the water just in front of me. My Corsair responded well to some violent turns and twists and I escaped. Several pilots did not return however, two of whom were from 1842 Squadron. Whilst waiting his turn to land, one pilot ran out of fuel and ditched alongside the fleet. He was quickly picked up from the icy water. Very few of our aircraft returned unscathed, causing the maintenance crews a busy time patching up the bullet holes. Although immediate observation was made impossible by the smoke, we learned as we withdrew southwards that the Tirpitz, such a menace to Atlantic shipping, was disabled but not sunk. At least it was put out of action until it could be finished off by RAF Lancasters operating from Russia. It had been a gallant operation and had served its purpose of preventing the German battleship from sailing out of the fjord on further deadly missions. Major V. B. G. Cheesman was awarded a D.S.O. and I believe, later, Lt. Cdr. Richardson a posthumous V.C. for their exceptional bravery and determination in the attacks. There were also twelve D.S.C.'s and a D.S.M. awarded to other squadron commanders and flight leaders of which I was privileged to be one, which I took as recognition of the gallantry of all the aircrew involved.

The Formidable then set sail for the Pacific. After three months delay at Gibraltar waiting for a new gear wheel to be sent out from the U.K. we sailed through the Med and on to Columbo, losing three pilots in flying accidents off Alexandria, Lt. (A) Dunkley, RNVR, Sub. Lts. (A) RNVR Chipperfield and Railton. We finally arrived in Sydney early in June 1945, and from there we headed north stopping in the Phillipines for provisions and briefing. We were to join the British Pacific Fleet (B.P.F.), operating on the right of the line of the U.S. fleet. On the way we carried out regular sorties in pairs, attacking targets on the Sakishima Gunto, a chain of islands between Formosa and Okinawa. Here we lost our squadron commander Lt. Cdr. (A) Tony Garland D.S.C., who did not return from one such sortie. It was a shattering blow to lose Tony, who had been such an inspiring and efficient commander since the squadron's formation. He was replaced by Lt. Cdr. (A) Douglas Parker, RN.

As we came within striking distance of Japan, the Formidable suffered a direct hit on its flight deck from a Kamikaze pilot, causing casualties around the control tower and killing one of our pilots, Sub. Lt. (A) Bell RNVR. My flight was airborne at the time, but we never saw the Jap plane. We landed on the Indefatigable for a three-day stay while Formidable's flight deck was repaired. Early in the morning of July 17 Douglas Parker led 1842 Squadron in the first British air attack against the Japanese mainland. We were to attack airfields and other targets at Matsushima, Sendai and Masuda on the East Coast, north of Tokyo.
We came in low through poor visibility, but the Japs were ready for us. As I came across Matsushima airfield targeting two planes on the ground, my aircraft was hit and its trimming went suddenly berserk as I zipped over the hangars. I had to apply full right rudder and pull hard on the stick in order to fly straight and level. I could not carry on with the others, and radioed that I was returning to the fleet. I suspected my hydraulics were damaged, so I decided to bail out on my return, as deck landing without operative flaps and arrestor hook would almost certainly be disastrous, especially if I couldn't jettison the extra fuel tank! I climbed painfully to a safe bail-out height of 5,000ft, and was later relieved to see the fleet coming into sight. The drill for bailing out is to eject the hood, for which there is a lever. I pulled it, but instead of ejecting the hood it jammed it shut! I would have to do a deck landing after all (I must have said a prayer or two). The fire appliances were all ready waiting for me should I crash the barrier. As I made my final approach the batsman waived me on and I received a radio message to wait while the fleet turned out of wind to regain its correct position. I circled the carrier, waiting for it to turn back into wind, at probably not more than 500ft, trying to free the hood. At each effort I had to let go of the stick, continuously losing height.

Then the miraculous happened. As I turned for another effort I flew into the sea. The next thing I knew I was floating, supported only by a Mae West, with the last piece of my Corsair's wing just disappearing into a wave about twenty yards away. The impact had knocked off the hood and thrown me out, breaking my safety straps and parachute harness, yet leaving me more or less unscathed. A friend watching from Formidable's bridge said that my aircraft exploded on impact and he was amazed that I survived. I was picked up by a destroyer, and was sent back to Australia for a rest and check-up. While in Sydney, news came through of the atom bombs and Japanese surrender.

Early in September, from the Botanical Gardens overlooking Sydney Harbour, I watched the triumphant return of the Formidable. Going on board I found many new faces but several old ones missing. 1842 Squadron had lost a further three pilots. These included Sub. Lt. (A) Jimmy Ross (Canadian), whose aircraft wings folded up on take-off. Of the eighteen pilots in the Brunswick photo only nine had survived. Total squadron losses were fourteen. Tragically, half these losses were non-operational and could to some extent have been caused by the Corsair's long, level nose, which restricted the pilot's view ahead.

[bobbysocks]

more nowotny....but tomorrow...hot russian chicks we would all love to meet!!

The eager and fearless nature of "Nowi" soon became well-known among the other pilots of JG 54. This side of his personality almost cost him his life, as he was shot down by an I-153 over the Riga Bay, following his first three victories on 19 July 1941. After three days and nights (during which he was close to committing suicide out of pure desperation) in a rubber dinghy in the sea, he finally reached the shore. This first encounter with death changed young "Nowi". He became more careful - and superstitious, always carrying the trousers he had worn on this occasion, the Abschusshose, on all his combat missions.

Please hear his own vivid account from second mission over Leningrad on 4 August 1942 (the previous mission resulting in three kills) clearly pictures both the skill and character of this young Austrian fighter pilot in the Luftwaffe:
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"It was a clear blue sky, and it was filled with Soviet fighters attempting to attack our bombers. I picked an I-18 (MiG-1) and made a sharp turn, putting my Me 109 in a good position. A few bursts sent him burning to the ground. The remaining fighters tried to escape, but my Me was faster. Flying above the docks on the Neva mouth, I got the backboard plane in a finger-four formation into my gunsight. Two bursts of fire and the Rata blew up. Fuselage and wings tumbled down on fire. The Flak fired fiercely from below. I made a 180 degree turn and spotted four I-18s attacking our bombers from behind. Pulling up the nose of my plane, I made one of the Soviet fighters pass through my bullet tracers. The success stunned me. He immediately went into a steep dive, started spinning and left a thick black trail of smoke. This was my sixth victory today. Number seven didn't last long. I was just about to return home, as suddenly a Rata pulled up beneath me. I pushed my stick forward, and seconds later the enemy went down in spirals."
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This day, Tuesday 4 August 1942, he achieved his victories Nos. 48-54 - thus marking the beginning of his astonishing victory row. Fourteen months later, he reached the 250 victory mark (on 13th October 1943, his victim was a skillfully flown P-40) as the first fighter pilot of WW II.

During the following year, he managed to down another 40 Russian planes, but in majority these were rather "easy" victories, achieved with great care and mainly against aircraft much obsolete to his Messerschmitt Bf 109 F and Gs. The blow against Nowotny´s self-confidence was not fully repaired until that fateful day in August 1942. From then on, he felt absolutely secure in the air. Only on 4th August 1942 "Nowi" scored seven kils in three sorties. This is remarkable, since the bulk of his successes were scored after the recovery of the Soviet Air Force, when obsolete models such as the I-16 were exchanged for Yak-9s and La-5s equal to the Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf fighters, and as aces such as Petr Pokryshev on the Leningrad front started emerging. Successes of Nowotny were awarded by Knight Cross on 4th September 1942. Soon, on 25 October 1942 he got command of 9./JG 54.

Roaming the skies over Leningrad in 1942/43, Nowotny definitely must have met Pokryshev in the air more than once. Flying over Staraya Russa, a skilful Soviet pilot once was close to putting an end to Nowotny´s deadly career. "The Russians have had me shot up! I've got 'blisters' on my wings!" Nowotny cried over the radio: "We desperately shook off the enemy and made a quick escape at low level", said his wing-man "Quax" Schnörrer. With smoke pouring out of the hit engine, Nowotny´s Messerschmitt 109 made a hastily landing at Tulebya airfield. Rushing on the landing strip at 100 mph, the engine suddenly burst into flames. At a speed of 60 mph, Nowotny blew off his and left his plane in a true do-or-die jump. The burning Messerschmitt continued rolling another 30 meters, and then exploded.

On 25 March 1943, Nowotny met the first Soviet Spitfires - belonging to Major Petrov´s 26 GvIAP of the Leningrad Air Defense - and shot down one of them, his 79th victory. On 15 June, he scored his 100th kill. Nine days later, he brought down 10 Soviet aircraft in one single day. That month, Walter Nowotny raised his score by no less than 41. Promoted to Oberleutnant and in charge of 1./JG 54 "Grünherz", he surpassed himself by downing 49 Soviet planes in August 1943, among them nine on the 13th and seven on the 21st. Claiming his 150th victory on 18 August, Nowotny stood as No 16 on the "Ace list".

The following month was opened with another ten victories on the first day. Three days later, he was awarded with the Oak Leaves to the Knight's Cross, and on 9 September 1943, his victory tally reached the incredible "200 mark". During his last ten days on the Eastern Front, ending on 14 October 1943, Walter Nowotny blew 32 Russian aircraft out of the sky - pushing his total victory score to 255.

22-years-old Hauptmann Walter Nowotny by now stood on the top of the fighter aces. Desperate for anything that could give the German people any faith in the war, the Nazi propaganda machinery rapidly turned Nowotny into its foremost headline "superstar". Young Walter received all the highest military awards at hand: The Knight´s Cross with Oak Leaves, with Swords, and with Diamonds added. Afraid of losing such a "star", the High Command withdrew Nowotny from combat activity.

During the following year, his main role in the war was to serve as an object for propaganda and moral-boosting. But the winds of war eventually forced the High Command to call back Nowotny into active service. In the fall of 1944, he was put in charge of the first jet fighter unit, equipped with the Me 262, "Kommando Nowotny".

Nowotny was firstly reassigned to a training Geschwader in Pau. He also test flew the Me 262 - like most other Experten he was astonished. Since he was not employed to his full potential in the Defense of the Reich organization, he was given the command of the Me 262 test unit - Kommando Nowotny. In it's short history Ekdo 262 didn't live up to expectations of the High Command and the pilots themselves. Nowotny was to be the energy boast that the unit needed. He was to lead by example. When he arrived to Hesepe he was introduced to the Oberleutnant Hans Gunther Muller the Komandeur of the Hesepe detachment, Nowotny immediately reacted in his own fashion saying: ¨What? You are the Staffelkapitan and you haven't scored a kill on the Me 262??!! I suggest you find yourself a more suitable employment.¨ But he was to soon experience the real situation in the unit.

In the next few weeks the unit was plagued by the constant enemy action, the highly temperamental jet turbines and similar problems which were not solved till the end of the war, but eventually the catastrophic 8. November would dawn.

Galland and Keller were visiting the unit that day. Under the pressure to perform, and to rectify the unit in the eyes of the High Command, Komando Nowotny gave their best shot. Nowotny was among the pilots who were to fly that day. The Komando's all out effort turned out to be only 2 Me 262 in the first wave and the same in the second wave. The target was a large group of bombers heavily escorted who were targeted to bomb the marshalling yards at Rheine and the Nordhorn Canal. There were four FG on the lookout for rats coming from Hesepe and Achmer. Detecting the bombers two Rottes of Me 262 were prepared to take-off (one at Hesepe-Erich Buttner and Franz Schall, and at Achmer-Nowotny and Gunther Wegmann). But only two Me 262 managed to take-off. Buttner had a puncture during taxing and Nowotny's turbines refused to start-it was most likely an fuel-clog problem. But the two pilots airborne managed to bring down a Thunderbolt and a Mustang.

Galland: "I arrived on that day ( 7. November) to inspect the unit and write a report, plus I spoke with Nowotny that evening, and he was going to give me his pilots' reports concerning their actions. The next day, a flight of B-17 bombers was reported heading our way, so the unit took off, about six jets (note: some relations told about four), if I remember correctly, in the first wave, then another. The Fw-190Ds were waiting on the runway to take off and cover their return, engaging the Allied fighters that were sure to follow. I was in the operations shack, where we monitored the radio transmissions and could get an idea of what was happening."

Schall approached the formation but didn't make contact as he was intercepted by escorting Mustangs. In the following dogfight Schall reported a Mustang shot-down, but he suffered a flame-out at high altitude. He tried to start his turbines with a dive, but was caught-up by Mustangs, who made some really nice photos of the evacuated turbinen jager.

Galland: "Several bombers were called out as shot down, and Nowotny radioed that he was approaching. The flight leader on the ground, Hans Dortenmann, requested permission to take off to assist, but Nowotny said no, to wait. The defensive anti-aircraft battery opened fire on a few Mustangs that approached the field, but they were chased away, from what I could understand, and the jets were coming in. One Me-262 had been shot down (note: piloted by Franz Schall), and Nowotny reported one of his engines was damaged. He was flying on the right engine alone, which made him vulnerable. I stepped outside to watch his approach to the field, when an enemy fighter pulled (Nowotny's slayer) away not far from us."

At that very same moment Lt. RW. Stevens of the 364 FG which was patrolling the area, caught-up with a Me 262-flown by Nowotny who was returning to Hesepe. He knew the jet was approaching the field, and would shortly be in the Flak-alley. He swiftly closed in due to the Nowotny speed loss from the engine failure. When in the gun-range he opened fire. He recorded some hits on the jet, but sensing all that flak is just waiting for him to come in to range, he decide that he would be satisfied with a Me 262 - damaged. He put his trusty Mustang in a shallow dive to gain speed and he immediately went back to seek cover in those low hanging clouds. Meanwhile Major Nowotny was fighting a lost battle. His Me 262 was partly paralyzed from the engine loss, and he made one last radio transmission. Last words of Nowotny heard over the radio were: "I´m burning! My god, my god! I´m burning!". Then his fighter rolled and stalled-probably on the port side. His altitude was low, so when hitting the ground he briefly bounced back in the air losing one of the engines, and upon hitting the ground his Me 262 furiously exploded.

Galland: "I heard the sound of a jet engine, and we saw this 262 coming down through the light clouds at low altitude, rolling slightly and then hitting the ground. The explosions rocked the air, and only a column of black smoke rose from behind the trees. We took off in a car and reached the wreckage, and it was Nowotny's plane. After sifting through the wreckage, the only salvageable things found were his left hand and pieces of his Diamonds decoration."

The crash site at Epe (2.5 km east of Hesepe) is littered with the remains of the Meserschmitt scattered in an wide area. A local remembers that a engine was lying on the road beside the crash site. A small memorial was erected near the ¨grave¨ of this exceptional pilot. R. Stevens reported having chased and damaged a Me 262 at Epe.