Life with a Bomber Squadron at Marston Moor
- At August 23, 2014
- By David Mason
- In Uncategorized
- 0
Life with a Bomber Squadron at Marston Moor – Bob Dales
When war broke out, if you wanted to volunteer for the RAF you were referred to a place in Newcastle (which promptly turned me down because I had sight in only one eye). I did, however, manage to get close to the aircrews as I became adjutant to a Bomber Squadron then at RAF Marston Moor.
From the Commanding Officer downwards, aircrew came and went and appearing to them as someone more permanent, they seemed to rely on me to solve any problems, answer any questions. I was, in a way a link between them and the outside world of civilians, family correspondence and transport. In many cases I became their confidant.
The nights were long when they were on bombing raids, waiting to hear their return, counting them to know how many of them were missing, hoping to hear whether some of those missing had landed at an airfield close to the coast. When breakfast time came we tried to ignore any empty chairs. Then the work started. As there may be another operation by nightfall, could the engineers repair the damaged aircraft in time? Were the armaments lined up? Could a replacement be found if one of an aircrew had been injured or killed? There were two unhappy jobs. Next of kin had to be advised of fatalities and any official advice was followed by a letter from the Squadron Commander.
Some wrote their own personal letters. Some left it to the adjutant, from his knowledge of the aircrew, to write the letter for the CO to sign. Worse, the personal belongings had to be collected and sent home. Care, helped by an understanding station padre, had to be exercised to ensure nothing was sent of a hurtful nature, such as an indication to a wife that there had been an association with a local girl! There were many days when I had no time to charge and light my pipe! If there were no operations the aircrew liked to take me to York, and they knew I could find my way about there. On a winter’s night the centre of the city was weird. Pitch black. The only noise, footsteps. The occasional mumbled apology when pedestrians collided. Unless the wail of the air-raid warning sent people stumbling about more quickly looking for a shelter.
Each squadron seemed to have a favourite hostelry I think ours was called the ‘Half Moon’, where the landlord was a splendid host, always welcoming, and always tried to have enough beer for us. He even cashed cheques! (After the war he told me that only one failed to be honoured.) Equally welcoming, if we reached York in the afternoon was ‘Betty’s Café’. When my son was born – my wife had taken a furnished house in York – and we had a christening party Betty’s somehow produced a tray of iced cakes, despite the rationing. It was the sort of kindness, especially when it was shown in wartime, that you never forget. Nor do you forget particular aircrew who you were privileged to know well.
There was a tubby little Jewish serviceman from Leeds who was a tail gunner. He hid what was the most intense hatred I have ever known. He wanted to attack the Nazi enemy every day. If he went on leave he would make me promise that I would telephone him in Leeds if a tail gunner was required. He was also a special case; instead of an operational tour causing him strain he even gained weight, so much so that we had to persuade the engineers to alter the aircraft so that he could squeeze into the small space behind his gun. But if we had a quiet night in the mess, he would entertain us with quotations from Shakespeare.
Dave was quite different. A Canadian who had come to the RAF as soon as the war started, he became a great friend, especially as we shared a love of the Dales, and fly-fishing. When he was off duty for long enough I used to lend him my little Austin Seven (if we could find enough petrol!) and send him up to Wensleydale to the ‘Cover Bridge Inn’. The landlord there, Dick Stott, would lend him tackle and waders so that he could fish the Cover and the Ure. When writing to his wife in Canada he so often mentioned the Dales that his wife asked him to describe them, but he was a poor hand at writing and asked me to produce something which he could send to her.
Have you ever tried to describe the Dales comprehensively? My attempt was dictated to my WAAF Corporal and the typescript was duly sent to Canada, with a copy for me. It later appeared in The Field and I have often wondered if the original is still somewhere in Canada. We lost Dave over Essen, the last flight of his second operational tour. There were so many airfields in areas like Yorkshire with only one Group Headquarters (in our case, in Heslington Hall outside York) that it was decided to form an intermediate HQ called a ‘Base HQ’.
I found myself as adjutant to the Base Commander, an Air Commodore. We were a lodger unit on RAF Marston Moor, and my office was sandwiched between the Air Commodores and the Station Commanders. There were hatches in the walls and the two of them frequently had them open, talking over my head. Both were exceptional men. John Kirby was the most efficient senior officer I ever knew Group Captain Leonard Cheshire was the most frustrated. Almost every day he pressed for a return to an operational tour. I believe his father was a barrister, and through his hatch he would try to defeat me on some point of Air Force law, but I was well versed in King`s Regulations and Air Ministry Orders.
At least I gave him some amusement when I found in KR that an adjutant was allowed the use of a horse, and pressed for one as a better alternative to the WD-issue bicycle. Needless to say my request was refused! But Cheshire had two diversions. When Jerry plastered our airfield with anti-personnel bombs, he shot each one of them with a rifle from a Land Rover. The other incident was of his own making. He decided to test the airfield defence, and arranged for a night attack by a very tough lot of men who I think came from Driffield. Cheshire, trying to defend the Control Tower with a handful from the RAF Regiment, had a glorious black eye the next morning. I was very sorry when both Kirby and Cheshire moved on. (I met john Kirby again after the war; his beautiful wife was the daughter of the owner of a notable departmental store in Grimsby which he joined.)
The next Air Commodore was ‘Butch` Adams, another regular officer∗. He was a very large man, which on one occasion became a problem for me. He had arranged to meet two very senior officers from Bomber Command off the train at York, but early that morning came to see me in great distress. There had been such a heavy frost overnight that not one vehicle, of any type, would start. I telephoned every taxi company only to find that their cars were in a similar state.
∗ Citation for the award of the OBE
“Group Captain Cyril Douglas ADAMS, Royal Air Force.
One night in November 1941, an aircraft, fully laden with petrol, bombs and several thousand rounds of ammunition, crashed shortly after taking off and came to rest in an orchard, where it burst into flames. Long grass in the vicinity became ignited from burning petrol and some trees caught fire. Group Captain Adams, who was in his car on the aerodrome at the time, immediately drove to the scene and was the first to arrive there. With complete disregard of his personal safety he entered the aircraft and searched for survivors. While so doing, ammunition was exploding in profusion and Group Captain Adams was well aware of the presence of a number of heavy bombs under the floor on which he stood. Despite the growing intensity of the heat and the imminent danger from the bombs, he extricated and took to a place of safety an airman who was seriously injured and then extinguished the flames on the airman’s clothing. Group Captain Adams then covered the casualty with his own overcoat, returned to the aircraft and, finding no other survivors, successfully removed the body of a dead airman. By his gallant action, this officer undoubtedly saved the life of the injured airman.”
(London Gazette – 31 March 1942)
Not long before I had been asked by the station padre, who had been posted at short notice to the Far East, if I would take his Austin Seven off his hands. I think I paid him £65 and found it in working order. So I tried clearing the frost off the window and unfreezing the door lock to start the simple engine. The Air Commodore looked morosely out of the HQ while I yanked the starting handle frequently and it burst into life. My large passenger could just get into the front seat and we drove sedately to York. But the two officers who were expected to be taken in comfort to Marston Moor were as large as the Air Commodore and we were all enlarged by heavy great coats. As it was apparent that we intended to get into a two-door Austin Seven a few people including two grinning soldiers waited to see if it was possible.
It was an undignified operation. rather like three elephants trying to mount a minibus, and as the load increased the saloon sank roadwards. Would the engine take the load? Fortunately we made tough little cars in those days and, to a cheer from the onlookers, we moved off. We had to accept the speed was little more than a crawl. but we reached Marston Moor in time for lunch. When the war in Europe ended, cars were still almost impossible to buy and my brother whose old Lanchester was no longer roadworthy was glad to have the old Austin Seven. After a year it went to a retiring bank manager who drove it round the coast of England and Wales. This year is proving to be a sad chapter for Yorkshire’s RAF as this was written, 25 Squadron at Leeming were having their ‘marching out’ ceremony as they are being disbanded. We shall miss their jets screaming overhead, and the contribution both air and ground crews made to our community life.
Postscript
Bob Dales is known to many game fishermen through his work for the Salmon & Trout Association, from Regional Organiser to National Vice Chairman and Vice President. His writing has appeared in The Field, Country Illustrated, Trout & Salmon, Waterlog, Countryman’s Weekly and many other publications. He lives near Northallerton in North Yorkshire and recently celebrated his 100th birthday (August 2014).
Fly Fishing in Herriot Country – A must for anyone considering fishing in the North Yorkshire Dales but also a book to be read by fly fishers everywhere for simple enjoyment. This is a collection of short stories about memorable Dales’ angling characters in pursuit of fish in that land of vast skyscapes and rich scenery. The author also gives advice about how to fish here and the flies to use. Beautiful landscape photography by Dave Coates. Part of the proceeds from the sale of this book are donated to the Salmon & Trout Association.
http://www.waterlogmagazine.com/7783-Fishing-Books-Fly-Fishing-in-Herriot-Country_by_Bob-Dales.html
Sadly my friend Bob died peacefully in March 2015 – it was a privilege Bob