From Dogfight to Diplomacy: A Spitfire Pilot's Log, 1932–1958

CHAPTER ONE

A Career Begins

I left my home in Swanage in September 1932, having spent an evening in a pub with my friends from the garage where I, Donald, had been working as a mechanic since leaving school. I made my journey to RAF Cranwell a few days later. My cousin Maurice Hartford — who had been brought up with us — was at the Imperial Service College with the intention of getting into Sandhurst and the Army and my brother Peter was still at Bryanston, a new avant-garde public school in Dorset, based on a German model, which suited his unconventional behaviour. The family had begun to split up and Mum was slowly dying.

Dad saw me off from London on the train to Grantham. Groups of parents were on the platform bidding farewell to their sons. Elderly men wearing regimental ties, rocked back and forth on their heels and made strange military sounds like ‘Yeah! Ah-ah! Uhuh! Jollygoodluck’ and ‘Bashonoldson!’ Thank God Dad didn’t; he said very little, smoking a cigarette and just being there. The Mums were badly thrown. A few flung their arms around their embarrassed sons and kissed them emotionally. Others stood back and shook hands in a way which Mums find difficult, and had tears in their eyes when their offspring climbed aboard the train as the whistle blew. It was awkward and undignified. The boys weren’t going to war. Not for several years.

Most of us were relieved when the train pulled out. We began to consider each other and started to talk, except the few from the upper-crust public schools, who merely gave their names. Later, when Cranwell absorbed us into the classless regime of its two-year process of officer training, we found no difference in the merits of those from public schools or grammar schools. Though Hurstpierpoint was a public school, I was completely at home with the young men of my entry regardless of background or status. However, on the whole we broke the ice on the train to Grantham.

On arrival, the thirty-odd cadets were met by Warrant Officer Joe Beresford, the Cadet-Wing disciplinarian and drill instructor. He was on the platform when the London train drew in; immaculate in his uniform, relaxed and welcoming. Without bullshit or bluster, he projected his personality and, during the coach drive to Cranwell, he established a companionship and authority which was to sustain us throughout the time he held office. Joe was unique. He was tough, human, supportive and yet a strict disciplinarian. To him we were ‘Sir’ or ‘Gentlemen’ and he cared for us as a pastor for his flock. We revered him and would drill and parade to our best endeavour to receive his, ‘Thank you, gentlemen — well done’.

After his retirement our squad was marching down to the hangars for flying training when we saw Joe, in plain clothes, with his daughter, standing by the entrance to the Guard Room. The cadet sergeant in charge of our squad ordered, ‘Eyes right!’ and saluted Joe as we passed. He took off his hat and said, ‘God bless you, and thank you’. There were tears in his eyes and his voice was shaky. To me Joe was an inspiration. I have not met many men like Joe, in or out of the Service. To a man from a humble background the ordering and upbringing of a succession of teenage youths from varied walks of life must surely have been a daunting prospect. That Joe succeeded reinforces my belief that leadership and example are not always factors derived from privilege and class. It is the Joes of the armed forces who really forge the affinity and understanding between the officers and ‘other ranks’ which characterise the unique camaraderie of the Royal Air Force. A democracy of common purpose. In my time I commanded a fighter squadron in the Battle of Britain. I was privileged then — as on subsequent commands — to lead a classless complement of men and women. It was Joe Beresford who showed me the way.

Academically Cranwell was more than an equal to any technical college of the day. The universities, by virtue of the range of faculties they offered, obviously had the edge on us. But at Cranwell, while the emphasis was, of course, on developing officer qualities and flying ability, the cadets were given a remarkably wide ranging education. The technical thesis which we were required to present halfway through our course was a stimulating challenge for us, destined as we were to become leaders in a technical service. I chose streamlining, an interest dating from my early fascination with racing cars.

I got much information and encouragement from the Royal Aeronautical Society and other organisations affiliated to aircraft design and the RAF. My graduation report made special mention of my thesis as it had been awarded a one hundred per cent mark. It was recommended that I pursue this particular aspect of aeronautics — a follower perhaps of Frank Whittle, but in aerodynamics?

At Cranwell the transition from first to second year was marked, as far as flying training was concerned, by graduation from the basic training aircraft to an operational front-line aircraft bereft of its guns or bomb rack. The more promising cadets were creamed off to complete their second year as fighters; the rest continued their flying training on less rewarding aircraft. Both the fighters and the also-rans flew obsolescent, often obsolete, aircraft. Though I hate to say it, the duffers who were not awful enough to be thrown out were usually destined for flying boats.

Cranwell was an enchanted two years. I responded to drill and ceremonial. I made many friends and my batman became more of a chamberlain than a servant. I can remember the distress when my father came to my graduation ceremony and slept in a spare room on my corridor. He found petty faults with the cleanliness of the room and was arrogant and offensive to my batman. But that was Dad — sublimating the failures of his post-war life which contrasted so strongly with the importance of his Intelligence role in Baku, the place on the Caspian Sea where Peter and I were born.

For the first two terms we were taught on basic training aircraft. In my first term this was an Avro 504N, the offspring of the 504K of the First World War. The only difference between the two was that the earlier Mark had a Glerget rotary engine and a sort of ski protruding ahead of the landing wheels, while our Mark had a Lynx radial engine and no ‘toothpick’ in the front. It was a two-seater biplane, the instructor occupying the front cockpit with his pupil in the rear. Communication was by a ‘Gosport tube’ which connected each cockpit by means of earphones in our helmets, and a voice tube through which we could speak to each other. The cockpits were open, the engine was noisy and it was difficult to hear properly; particularly if one’s instructor, often a sergeant pilot, was heavily accented in his local dialect. Alas, I never had one with a Dorset brogue.

One of the drills on approaching to land is to wind back the tail trim or actuator. When flying with a sergeant who was making splendid efforts to master the ‘King’s English’, I forgot to do just that. His voice, grossly distorted by wind and engine noise, came through the Gosport tube: ‘Wind back the actuating gear’. I said, ‘What?’ He repeated his instruction. Again I couldn’t hear properly and said, ‘Sorry, can you say that again?’ Whereupon a splendid North Country accent came through loud and clear: ‘Wind the fuckin’ wheel back!’ I understood this at once and did what I was told.

A week or two later, after I and my flying instructor had spent half an hour practising forced landings, he said: ‘Right. Back to Cranwell and land close to A Flight’. Nothing unusual. I flew the Avro back to Cranwell and put her down some three hundred yards from A Flight’s apron. My instructor then told me to throttle back and stop. To my surprise, some two hundred yards from the apron, he undid his straps, stepped out of the front cockpit, locked his seat straps and said to me, ‘Okay, off you go. Do a couple of circuits and landings. I’ll be watching you’. As he stepped to the ground he gave me a big grin and a thumbs-up. He was a great flying instructor!

Ye Gods. I was entirely on my own. I knew this was what it was all about. Pride fought with fear on fairly equal terms. In somewhat of a daze I taxied out and joined the queue of aircraft moving to the downwind end of the airfield. I recognised many of my team-mates with their instructors. But I was alone. I was obviously taxiing far too slowly. I was frequently overtaken by others in the queue until I pulled myself together and accelerated to the take-off position. I swung into wind. I went through my pre-take-off checks. I held my breath. I steadied my hands on the controls. I centralised the controls. I slowly opened the throttle. We moved forward. More throttle. Check your rudder as speed builds up. Ease stick forward. Tail comes up. Speed 60 mph. Ease back on stick. Keep straight with rudder. Then suddenly: no bumping and controls seem light. We are airborne: me and my aeroplane! I have reached for the sky and I have found it on my own.

I relax. I become a pilot. I conform with the circuit pattern for landing. I throttle back and manage a remarkably smooth landing a long way down the airfield, far from the A Flight apron. For a moment I sit in my cockpit without the accustomed solid frame of my flying instructor occupying the front one. ‘Do two circuits and landings,’ he had said. So be it. I went through the take-off drill consciously and without fear. We became airborne. I flew a full circuit of the airfield and judged my landing approach to put me down reasonably close to the A Flight apron. I was supremely happy. My approach was well judged but the landing was not one of my best. I bounced twice before I taxied to where I saw him standing near the apron. I switched off and climbed out. ‘What do you think you are?’ he said ‘A bloody kangaroo?’ But he grinned at me and slapped me on the back. ‘You’re okay,’ he said.

The September 1932 entry was lucky in several ways. First, the new College building, a real architectural triumph, was finished by the beginning of my second term. The first term was spent in wooden barracks with five in a room; one cadet from each of the four entries with a ‘senior’ in charge of each room. All right, if he was all right, but bloody hell if he wasn’t. I was lucky. Also, by the beginning of my second term, the old Avro 504Ns were phased out as basic trainers. They were replaced by a sturdy little biplane, the Avro Tutor, also with a Lynx engine but with a better turn of speed, dead easy to land, open cockpits and the inevitable Gosport tubes. We all fell in love with the Tutor which was fully aerobatic, virtually idiot-proof and relatively quiet.

I ended my first year at Cranwell as an above-average pilot, a centre three-quarter in the College ‘A’ Rugby team, and with an encouraging general report on my progress towards a commission. Mum was delighted, though Dad was unable to refrain from a characteristically snide remark to the effect that he didn’t imagine the competition was very great. After all, he had opposed my joining the RAF because he regarded it as being made up of ‘garage mechanics’, which of course is what I was at the time!

We moved into ‘the College’. Ceremonial and discipline went up several notches. Burberry’s had a pitch in the College and they tailored our uniforms and messkits. There was a resident hairdresser whose fingering of our heads rather suggested he enjoyed the physical contact. He always asked us when he was done whether there was anything ‘special’ we required. A half-open drawer explained what he meant. Some of us bought from him until the buzz went around that ‘they’ were a lot cheaper from the chemist in Grantham.

We had our own rooms and six of us shared a long-suffering civilian batman. We were paid 7s 6d a day with food and accommodation all found. I think there was a standard rate we paid our batmen who, poor chaps, were more often than not forking out loans for our excesses in Grantham and elsewhere. In the long run they were probably not out of pocket. To have our buttons shined, our shoes cleaned, our rooms scoured and beds made was, to me, a new and luxurious dimension in life.

At the end of each of the four terms was Graduation Day. This was preceded the evening before by a formal ball to which parents, sisters and girlfriends were invited. The younger women swayed around the ballroom and then slunk guiltily towards the bar which served soft drinks and a mildly intoxicating fruit cup. I had fallen in love shortly before I went to Cranwell and so Phyl came to my first graduation ball. Her aunt had taken rooms in a Grantham hotel and had lent me her Morris saloon for the ten-mile drive to Cranwell. Phyl was an excellent dancer. I was not. But we spent a very happy evening in a party with the father and sister of Peter Hackforth, a cadet of my entry, whose elder brother Norman became well known on BBC radio as ‘The Voice’ in Twenty Questions.

Dad came to my Graduation. I met his train at Grantham during the afternoon before the ball. The passing-out parade was on the following morning. The ball took its toll and most of the cadets on parade were green-faced, semi-conscious and suffering the wrath of Hell. But we survived, and parents and well-wishers clapped as we finally marched off. We were commissioned as Pilot Officers in the Royal Air Force and that was really what it was all about.

I left Cranwell with a good report, and a record of excellence as a rifle shot; a near miss for the Rugby First XV; and a qualified fighter pilot with an ‘above average’ assessment in my pilot’s logbook. I had also grown a silly little moustache and had bought a 250cc Cotton motorbike from a senior cadet for £5. I was qualified, commissioned, adult and mobile but still growing up.

CHAPTER TWO

No. 54 (F) Squadron, RAF

My first posting in the autumn of 1934 was for flying duties with 54 Squadron, equipped with obsolescent Bulldog, single-seater fighters. The Squadron was based at Hornchurch in Essex, within a few miles of the Ford works at Dagenham. We were commanded by a spry little Squadron Leader, George Daly, who had been awarded a DFC in the First World War. The Squadron Adjutant was Flying Officer John Grandy, who befriended and guided me. He rose to high rank and retired with a knighthood and the rank of Marshal of the Royal Air Force and Chief of the Defence Staff. I probably owe more to John Grandy than to any other officer in the RAF.

George Daly was an efficient, kindly and respected commanding officer, and his wife ‘Dot’, quite a bit younger, was a favourite with the officers. The Dalys had no children, so we young ones were brought under her protective wing. John Grandy, with his great charm and outrageous good looks, was the front runner.

To me, aged twenty, to have my own aircraft, my own ground crew and by now my own car was to step over the threshold from youth to manhood and to taste, for the first time, the challenge of responsibility and the sense of freedom and independence which went with it.

As I was a ‘regular’, I was appointed understudy to John Grandy as Assistant Squadron Adjutant. Thus I was privy to the assessment of officers and NCOs in the Squadron and began to develop a judgement of people which, as I grew older and held more senior rank, stood me in good stead when it came to selection, promotion and suitability for appointments. Some forty years later, after I had retired from the RAF, I found myself in a close-knit partnership of recruitment consultants in London, where my service experience in personnel assessment was of very real commercial benefit.

At Hornchurch, 54 Squadron was joined, several months after I was appointed, by a re-formed squadron, No. 65 Squadron. This squadron had been disbanded after the First World War. Its commanding officer was Squadron Leader ‘Mongoose’ Soden, a jovial extrovert who quickly built up a team of eager and slightly superior pilots. Superior because the Squadron was equipped with the relatively new Hawker Demon, a two-seat biplane with a rear gunner and a performance that could outmatch that of our ageing Bulldogs. Inevitably, inter-squadron rivalry built up.

In the Officers’ Mess we mixed amicably and without jealousy until the occasional ‘guest night’ when, after dinner, the anteroom became an arena and 54 Squadron competed against 65 Squadron in jousts which I can only describe as reminiscent of Roman games. No one suffered serious injury but the mess which the domestic staff was confronted with the following morning was pretty awful.

We attended the Station Parade at 08.30 each morning. This consisted of an odd combination of a roll call by squadrons and prayers read by the Station padre. For reasons which I have never understood, the Roman Catholics and the Jews were not subjected to the ritual. They were given the order by the Station Adjutant, an elderly and humourless Flight Lieutenant, ‘Fall out the Roman Catholics and Jews’. Whereupon those of such persuasions would ‘about face’, take four paces out of the ranks and stand at ease with their backs to the proceedings. Following a particularly riotous guest night, the Station Adjutant was compelled to spend the night in the Mess as the plug leads of his car had all been changed around. The following morning he came on parade looking like death, called the parade to attention, reported to the Station Commander and then faced us all and croaked: ‘Roam out the fallen Catholics and Jews!’ The parade collapsed in hysterics.

One of the Flight Commanders who helped to develop my ability as a fighter pilot was Arnold Christian. Christian had an admirable disregard of the petty restrictions of the rule book. During the course of a perfectly proper Sector patrol, he and I came back to base low over the Thames estuary. As we approached, skimming the flat fields, we noticed a blonde girl standing on a white houseboat waving to us. We swooped low overhead and then, to my surprise, Christian’s Bulldog nosed down to a flat field alongside the river. He landed and taxied towards the houseboat. I followed. The blonde was wearing a red sweater. She was very attractive and invited us to tea. Back at Hornchurch, the Duty Pilot logged our ‘patrol’ as one hour thirty but was persuaded to reduce the time to an acceptable one hour. Of course, the Royal Air Force, was — and is — a highly professional Service, yet I often look back on those days as belonging to a free flying club. Within a few years we were to be put to the test ....

With 54 Squadron I learned to perfect my aerobatics and to ‘dogfight’, to fly in a tight and symmetrical squadron formation, to practise dive bombing with small smoke-bombs, and to fire my two guns at a towed target over the sea and at a ground target on the ranges near Lydd on the coast of the English Channel. I also became aware of what we all owed to our ground crew and, because of an affinity with mechanics, I spent time, when the weather was unfit for flying, assisting my own crew in cleaning, inspecting and servicing my Bulldog.

I was appointed officer in charge of the Corporals’ Club, a group of junior NCOs who met once a week in the NAAFI and played darts and snooker. I helped the club raise a small team of musicians; I played an accordion just well enough to be included. We sang bawdy songs and the ‘comics’ performed their solo and topical acts. It was fine until we took part in the NAAFI concert. Alas, our pianist was pissed out of his mind. But we got through with a substitute from the audience. I was hauled up before the Station Adjutant the next day, but was allowed to continue in charge of the Corporals’ Club more or less on remand.

The morning of 1 April, All Fools’ Day, was foggy, overcast and unfit for flying. John Grandy and I sat in the office checking logbooks and other documents until the coffee break. We could then find nothing further to do. Inevitably, perhaps, our thoughts turned to setting up an ‘April Fool’ before the morning ran out. We settled on a splendid ploy which, unfortunately, went awry.

Flying Officer Price, 65 Squadron’s Adjutant, was a pompous and humourless individual who took his appointment very seriously. In a sense he epitomised the attitude of his Squadron, he was ambitious and flew unimaginatively. John masterminded our April Fool. We wrote a draft signal as if from Headquarters Fighter Area, posting Price to Cranwell for Cadet Wing administrative duties. I had no difficulty in persuading the Flight Sergeant in charge of our station signals unit to commit this to an official signals form which was duly delivered to 65 Squadron.

John Grandy and I sat in our office and waited. Nothing happened for quite some time. The telephone rang. It was Price, clearly upset. What, he asked me, did Cadet Wing Administration at Cranwell involve. I said it was rather like being a housemaster at a boarding school. Was it a flying post? No, I replied, though you could scrounge an occasional flight if you were lucky. Why was he asking? His reply was terse: ‘I’ve just received a signal posting me to Cranwell. I’ve given it to my Squadron Commander, who is furious. He is taking it up with the Station Commander.’ John and I looked at each other as I rang off. What the hell to do now? John grabbed the phone and called Squadron Leader Soden, the Commanding Officer of 65 Squadron. The orderly who answered said the CO had gone to Station Headquarters to see the Station Commander. This was no longer a joke!

John thought I should call the Station Adjutant and confess and I did so, explaining it was an April Fool. His reply was characteristic: ‘I fail to see anything humorous in this practical joke. I shall inform the Station Commander.’ John and I fell silent and waited. It was Soden who phoned. He was obviously amused by the whole thing. He said: ‘Mac, I recommend you put an atlas in the seat of your pants.’ It was not long before I was summoned to Station Headquarters.

It seems that Soden had brought in the signal to the Station Commander and protested that he was trying to form a new squadron; that Price was essential and for him to be posted away less than six months after he had joined the Squadron was absurd. The Station Commander immediately got onto Command Headquarters who stoutly denied having sent any such signal regarding Price’s posting and were quick to point out that the reference code was nonsense. Sticking to his guns the Station Commander demanded to speak with the Air Officer Administration, considerably more his senior, and was spluttering his concern when the Station Adjutant came into his office where Soden was standing by the desk. According to Soden, the Adjutant broke in with a hesitant, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I understand this has something to do with today’s date.’ The truth filtered through to the Station Commander who disengaged apologetically from Headquarters, dismissed Soden and shortly afterwards demanded my presence.

He was beside himself with fury, gripping the arms of his chair; his knuckles were white. I have never seen anyone so angry. To say that I was frightened would be an understatement. I had been commissioned a mere six months. I was terrified. Thoughts of courts martial, dismissal and ignominy ran riot through my mind. I stood before his desk at attention with the Station Adjutant staring unhappily at the ceiling.

‘How dare you make a fool of me!’ . . . ‘You impertinent little upstart.’ ... ‘You are a disgrace to Cranwell ...’ and so on and so forth. Eventually the tirade subsided. He had, to give him his due, always been supportive and friendly. He looked hard at me and said something about not playing schoolboy games in the Service. I was then dismissed. He sentenced me to a fortnight’s Orderly Officer duties which effectively confined me to camp. A pity, as I had a date with Phyl a few days later. Orderly Officer was tedious. On duty twenty-four hours each day; inspecting the airmen’s barracks, their meals, their attendance at the Sick Quarters — always the same malingerers — and taking the evening roll before lights out. The Orderly Officer wore parade kit which was breeches and puttees — damned uncomfortable. He was also required to deal with any minor emergency or official telephone calls in off-duty hours. It was a pretty tedious fortnight: with no flying.

I think it was that fortnight, grounded at Hornchurch, that really brought home to me the extent to which the flying bug had bitten me.

NAZI GERMANY

My generation, born just before, during or shortly after the First World War, was brought up in the unshakable belief that the defeat of the Kaiser’s Germany and the conditions of the Versailles Treaty which followed were just desserts for a dangerous and outrageous nation which, with God’s help and supportive allies, was put down after four years of unspeakable horror.

I was commissioned into a Service trained in air warfare: the idea that we might be called to war was far from our thoughts. Flying was our life. We were young, adventurous young men with normal pursuits, girlfriends and personal preoccupations which the relatively relaxed routine of squadron life allowed us to enjoy.

It was a chance meeting with an old friend who had recently been appointed to the Foreign Office that opened my eyes and made me look beyond my narrow horizons and to consider seriously what was going on in Europe and in Germany in particular. Thanks to my friend, I became more and more aware of the European scene. The Weimar Government of Germany had been overturned. A man known as Adolf Hitler, whose name was in fact Schickelgruber, had mesmerised the youth of Germany by his oratory and leadership of the Hitlerjugend, the youth of the country. He loathed Jews. Dolfuss, the Chancellor of Austria, had been murdered by German agents and the country annexed. Hitler was repudiating — in mass rallies — the Versailles Treaty. He bellowed against the clause which gave Poland access to the Baltic through the ‘Polish Corridor’; an obvious bone of contention since it sliced Germany in two with a smaller section to the east of the Corridor and the main mass of Germany to the west. Hitler’s movement was known as the National Socialists, or Nazis. The British Government, totally unprepared to back any disapproval with even a veiled threat of armed intervention, prevaricated.

In London, Oswald Mosley had recruited a formidable following of ‘Black Shirts’ — the British Union of Fascists. I was disturbed and curious. I attended a well advertised rally in Hyde Park and was horrified at the parade of black-shirted, arrogant young men and women goose-stepping to the hysterical rhetoric of Mosley’s minions, whose theme was fight Communism and down with the Jews. It so happened that a rally of the British Communist Party was being held at the same time, also in Hyde Park: a bad mistake on the part of the Home Office. Before long the Communists had infiltrated the spectators lining the route of the Black Shirts: trouble was inevitable. The Police were unable to contain the threat from the rear. Their ranks broke. A mêlée ensued. The women in the Black Shirt parade were hustled into vans and fisticuffs broke out among the opposing factions. I sought safety in retreat but was twice knocked down on my flight to Park Lane. Oswald Mosley stood his ground until a posse of police led him away to safety. The rally broke up in disarray and many arrests were made. Politically I was growing up.

CHAPTER THREE

The Fleet Air Arm: Conversion and Joining

I was posted to RAF Leuchars in Fife for a conversion course leading to a two-year secondment to the Fleet Air Arm as a Fleet Fighter Pilot to operate from aircraft carriers. I didn’t like the idea at all. John Grandy and Squadron Leader Daly both supported me, but the powers that be had made up their minds.

I reported to Leuchars, not far from St Andrews. We were required to fly training aircraft — which I found humiliating — and to bring them in to land on an area of the airfield marked out to simulate the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. Those of us who passed this absurd course — we all did — were earmarked for a tour with the Fleet Air Arm, which had equal numbers of RAF and Royal Navy pilots. Although I was not best pleased at first, the spell in Scotland was a lot of fun. I made new friends and found an unexpected affinity with a number of Naval pilots who shared my concern about the situation in Germany.

I had disclosed this to Dad in letters at the time. Mum had died. Dad and Peter continued to live in Swanage. I wrote frequently to Dad, not only to support him in his loss but also because I was beginning to understand him and to acknowledge his understanding and experience of international affairs. His replies were reasonable but unconcerned: let Germany do what it wished, so long as it didn’t pose a threat to France and Britain. He disapproved of Hitler’s attitude to the Jews, but hedged this by pointing out the extent to which the Jews were in control of the government and economy of our country — the Press, the Cabinet, the major industries. He was honest in his views but I don’t remember taking them very seriously.

Then Benito Mussolini — ‘Il Duce’, the self-appointed dictator of Italy — while acknowledging the sovereignty of his pathetic little King, invaded Abyssinia in 1935 and inflicted atrocities on Haile Selassie’s people, dropping mustard gas from the air. This invasion followed hard on the heels of the Spanish Civil War in which both Germany and Italy actively supported the Fascist movement in Spain. It was the success of the illegally created German Luftwaffe in its bombing offensives against defenceless towns in Spain like Guernica that finally persuaded a supine and pacifist British Government that we had a role to play. The disgraceful, so-called agreement between Sir Samuel Hoare and Pierre Laval of France not to impose oil sanctions on Italy — which would almost certainly have ended the conflict — finally confirmed me in my belief that what the British Government said was one thing: what they were prepared to do was another. Mussolini roared, fulminated and threatened war against Great Britain.

So, I found myself posted to ‘an unknown destination’ as a Fleet Air Arm pilot. I was given a travel warrant, a detailed list of medical injections, a catalogue of totally useless advice on ‘what to avoid’ when overseas and a clothes list that included tropical uniform. I, and a number of other FAA servicemen, were instructed to take a certain train on a certain date from London to Liverpool and to report to a Movements Officer in a specified corner of the station. Revealing our destination was taboo and the order ended with the injunction: ‘You are not to discuss this movement with anyone outside your family.’ Fancy! Our baggage was taken over at Liverpool and marked ‘Destination Z’. There must have been about sixty of us, all in plain clothes. We were led to one of the docks where the Cameronia of the Anchor Line lay alongside. Inevitably, it became common knowledge that we were off to the Middle East; either Malta, Alexandria or Port Sudan.

We were allocated to four berth cabins and, after a delay of two hours while the catering staff walked out at being refused extra pay for sailing into an unknown and possibly hostile part of the world, the dispute was settled and the Cameronia sailed. I sent a mildly dramatic telegram to Phyl and then joined my colleagues at the bar.

The British Government’s response to Mussolini’s bluster and threats amounted to a reinforcement of our Naval presence in the Mediterranean. The Home Fleet carrier Courageous joined the Glorious in Alexandria. A number of additional destroyer flotillas, a light cruiser squadron, three additional battle cruisers and a number of support vessels were dispatched to the Mediterranean. Two extra RAF squadrons were sent to the area and the odd armoured car unit joined in the reinforcement.

Our Naval strength and potential were overwhelmingly superior to the small Italian fleet which remained in Taranto throughout this period of tension. But from what I have since read, I doubt whether we could have offered Haile Selassie’s nomad army adequate support against the Italian invaders. The British Government under Baldwin, with Sir Samuel Hoare dismissed as Foreign Secretary in favour of Eden, was not disposed to indulge in anything more effective than the age-old ‘gunboat diplomacy’.

The good ship Cameronia sailed from Liverpool with a reserve pool of pilots trained for the Fleet Air Arm, a couple of land-based squadrons, a battalion of gunners and an odd assortment of the inevitable administrative ‘tail’. Life on board was free and easy. It seemed to me odd that we, the officers, should have to attend the evening meal in Mess kit. As we entered the Mediterranean, the heat became such that we were allowed to wear a modified form of dress which didn’t include a Mess jacket. Even so, we perspired freely and obviously. Some, like me, probably smelt.

One instruction was intriguing. It was to the effect that, while uniform was to be worn during the voyage, all Service personnel were to be prepared to change into civilian clothes immediately when so ordered. We regarded this as official crap and paid little attention to it. We spent our time on deck or in the bar. The Purser introduced us to a venomous cocktail which was a knock-out. We played deck tennis and quoits or swam in the overcrowded and over-chlorinated pool on the after deck. Then an odd thing happened. We were off Portugal when, one morning, our cabin staff brought in two ladies’ dresses and wide-brimmed sun hats. We asked what the hell all this was about, but the steward, who was very embarrassed, said we would be told later and that he had to leave two sets of dresses and hats in each officer’s cabin. Shortly all was to be revealed.

A day or so later the loud-hailer ordered: ‘All personnel in military uniform to proceed below decks and to change into civilian clothes. Those with dresses and sun hats to dress accordingly and mingle with others on the port side of the ship.’ We changed into ‘civvies’ and the ‘ladies’ looked fine except one who had a moustache and was sent below to become a man again. The reason for all this was that an Italian destroyer had been identified on the port bow.

So, we trooped giggling onto the promenade deck where, clad in male and female clothes, we were encouraged to lounge on the railings or sprawl in deckchairs as the Italian destroyer closed with the Cameronia, circled from astern and sped away south. The idea that Italy was not all too well aware that the Cameronia was carrying reinforcements to the Middle East is of course ridiculous. But we played our part in the pantomime and it was a lot of fun. I shall long remember the large Flying Officer striding along the deck in a flowered frock and a jaunty hat, puffing a pipe. I wonder if the Italians spotted him through their telescopes.

We stopped at Gibraltar just long enough to go ashore and wander through the town. Then on again through the Western Mediterranean to Malta. Here we crept in late in the evening past the promontories of St Angelo and Bighi into Grand Harbour where we moored alongside Parlatorio wharf as the sun went down and the myriad lights of Valetta broke through the darkness like candles on a Christmas tree. Malta was then an important naval base in the Mediterranean. Grand Harbour had a large dry-dock and berthing facilities for ships from battle cruisers to destroyers. The Maltese economy was dependent on the British presence and the whole life of the island was essentially that of a British colony. There was an RAF airfield at Hal Far, mainly for shore-based Fleet Air Arm squadrons, and a seaplane station at Kalafrana in the south of the island. Lloyds Bank and Gieves had established themselves in Valetta and ‘medically approved’ brothels were doing a roaring trade in the red-light centres of the island.

It was common knowledge that most of us were destined for Alexandria but that a few were going on to Port Sudan. Whether it was the vicious antibiotic jabs that the MOs administered at this stage or simply a virus that invaded the Cameronia, I know not, but most of the passengers, including the cabin staff, went down on the passage to Egypt with severe sore throats and high temperatures. We were in pretty poor shape when the ship crept into Alexandria harbour late one night.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Fleet Air Arm: Egypt

I had taken whatever it was badly and was feeling terrible, but I can still remember the unforgettable smell of the harbour, indeed of Egypt: a mixture of ordure, spice and probably just people. We berthed at dawn and those who were classed as ‘walking wounded’ disembarked. I was among them. We were driven in coaches to the RAF Middle East Headquarters at Aboukir, a few miles from Alexandria. Those unable to travel remained on board for a few days. Two died.

The RAF medical staff were taking no chances and tents had been erected in the Headquarters compound. We were effectively in quarantine. Rumours were rife — yellow fever, typhus? In the event we all recovered within a few days. A week later we were installed in the luxurious Officers’ Mess, but we had really nothing to do. This is common to an emergency overseas movement when there isn’t a war. As reserve pilots for the two carriers which had no casualties, how were we expected to occupy our time whilst on standby?

We flew a motley selection of aircraft during the morning, by which time the temperature had gone off the clock. So we went to the beach, bathed and acquired a tan or sunburn. There was a bar on the beach run by shrewd Egyptians who plied us with ‘White Ladies’, a drink which was reasonably harmless when taken in moderation. Not all did. They slept on towels in the Mediterranean sun and paid the price. We soon discovered that the girls in Alexandria didn’t care for peeling foreheads and noses.

Because flying was to me an essential ingredient in my life I scrounged flights with the resident units in Aboukir; mostly very ancient twin-engined bombers like the Vickers Valencia or the single-engined Fairey 111F. I was never really content on the ground unless whooping it up in the Officers’ Mess of an evening. I did all the things that young men did and probably still do. We took taxis into Alexandria and visited the bar in the Excelsior Hotel where we ate and got mildly sloshed. We then went to one of the many ‘exhibitions’ which consisted of a variety of sexual activities between the most unlikely partners. But I had a cultural and civilised anchorage in Alexandria — the British Consulate.

The Consul General, Clifford Heathcote-Smith, had been a colleague of my father in the Foreign Office. I was frequently invited to the Consulate for formal and informal occasions. With the Heathcote-Smiths I learned diplomatic protocol: I became familiar with the manner in which visitors from foreign nations were addressed, received and engaged in conversation. I graduated to international receptions and was always encouraged by Jocelyn, Heathcote-Smith’s elder daughter, who was four years older than me. She played the piano beautifully and could have become a concert pianist. Gradually she and I became emotionally involved. We wanted to become engaged. Heathcote-Smith and my father exchanged letters: Dad’s attitude was one of non-intervention; Heathcote-Smith’s was to endeavour to break up this affair. Jocelyn and I stuck to our guns. We announced our engagement in the local paper and the London dailies.

I do not remember any sense of guilt about Phyl. She had obviously been fond of me but a year after my departure from Liverpool she had married a man called Roger Newton. However, she wrote me a very loving letter saying that I would always have a special place in her heart.

Although I was a mere Flying Officer, Heathcote-Smith accepted our engagement and talked to me about my future, about a marriage settlement and — in a thinly veiled allusion to my wardrobe — suggested I buy a ‘well-cut’, lightweight suit. He hinted that he would foot the bill and recommended an Egyptian tailor in the main street of Alexandria. At the age of twenty-three, I was proud and probably somewhat defensive. I did not take at all kindly to Heathcote-Smith’s implied criticism of my appearance and, for the first time, I rebelled against him. He was stuffy and offered me a loan: this I refused.

The monotony of life at RAF Aboukir was broken when we had orders from Middle East Headquarters that all Fleet Air Arm pilots, both RN and RAF, were to be deployed to a desert airfield, El Amirya, some twenty miles south of Alexandria. The airfield, which dated from the First World War, had been sufficiently rehabilitated to provide hangars for the aircraft, a clear piece of desert for the operation of our aircraft and a makeshift Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess. We were to be accommodated in tents. I had qualified as an RAF Transport Driver, so I was put in command of the MT convoy.

Among the motley assortment of vehicles which ground and scrunched their way into the desert was the sullage lorry. It was of 1918 vintage, with solid tyres and a vicious gearbox which baffled almost everyone. It backfired when started on the handle — no self-starters in those days. Most of my MT crew were terrified of the thing, so my splendid Flight Sergeant and I between us tamed the brute and drove it to El Amirya. In the absence of sewage drainage in the desert, its presence was essential. Somehow the two of us got it there, where it stood for weeks stinking and refusing to stop backfiring until we drove it to the native village which had been commissioned to dispose of its contents.

Amirya was good. I enjoyed the endless desert, the relentless sun and the fascinating Senussi who had migrated north from their normal habitat following the rains to raise their barley crops. They were nomads, living like us in tents, and we engaged the men to complete the reconstruction of the stone buildings. I had acquired a smattering of colloquial Arabic — I have an ear for languages — and I fell under the spell of their philosophy, their beliefs and their intrinsic dignity and hospitality. They camped, with their camels, half a mile from the airfield. They were working on the dilapidated buildings by six o’clock each morning and returned to their camp twelve hours later. They were friendly and appeared satisfied with what they were paid.

Once, a Senussi father and his wife brought in a very sick child. Our Medical Officer said the child needed immediate hospitalisation. My afternoon was free. I had a dilapidated old car. Somehow we contacted the international surgery in Burg el Arab, a relatively civilised village some twenty miles across a desert track. I drove the parents and the child to the surgery. It took me the better part of an hour. I spent the night lying across the front seats while the child was operated on, and the parents prayed in the waiting room. She lived and, against the surgeon’s advice, I drove them back to their camp. I had grown to understand and love the Senussi. They are a proud people.

Flying from Amirya was not without its hazards. We carried out Met (meteorological) flights which consisted of climbing to maximum altitude each morning at first light, recording temperatures, wind direction and velocity, cloud formations and any evidence of low gusting with sandstorms. They were our enemies. We had no homing equipment and our desert base had no beacon. At best, if we overflew the airstrip during a sandstorm, the ground crew on hearing our approach, fired rockets in the hope we could circle and make a safe landing. Most of us did but there were those who