We reported to 467 Squadron at Bottesford on the 23rd of December 1942 and Santa Claus came early that year. ( it also happened to be my 22nd birthday.)

On our arrival we learnt that there was to be a big party in the Sgt's Mess that night and the new boys were cordially invited. There was no danger of Sgt McP missing this engagement and he was there when the bar opened and still in attendance when the beer ran out in the early hours of next morning. Once again he had undercarriage trouble for, on leaving the Mess, he ran out of legs and fell down a few steps, dislocating his ankle in the process. It may have been bad luck for McP but it certainly made our Christmas. He was obviously off flying for some time and the following day we were happy to be given a replacement.

This proved to be a temporary appointment and, eventually, we were to have different flight engineers on each of our first 3 Operations before, finally, Jock Rodgers completed our all Sergeant crew. A dour Lowland Scot with a rich brogue that we had some trouble in understanding at first. There was no complaint about his ability and Jock quickly became one of us.

467 were a newly formed Royal Australian Air Force Squadron at the start of Operations. At that time the Australians were thin on the ground though later on they did begin to infiltrate and by the time we left Bottesford the majority of pilots and many of their crew were Aussies. The Squadron was commanded by Wing Commander Cosmo Gomm, DFC (and later DSO), who hailed from Brazil, and we were allocated to B Flight who were led by Squadron Leader A.M.Paape, DFC. Before long, however, an extra Flight was formed, C Flight, and we found ourselves transferred to that under the leadership of Squadron Leader Thiele, DSO, DFC and bar -­a swashbuckling New Zealander.

If we expected an early confrontation with the Third Reich then we were mistaken for the first few days were very much a case of  the mixture as before. The training included 4 more Bulleyes, one of which was to test the defences of London, and it seemed as if our first Tour was going to be carried out against British targets.

One memorable morning we saw for the first time that our crew was down on the day’s Battle Order. At this time it was customary to give 'Freshmen' crews an easy introduction such as a mine-laying mission. The target chosen for our debut would entail flying the full length of the Bay of Biscay to plant our mines in the shipping lane off the border of France and Spain. We listened to the briefing and prepared the Flight Plan and tried to hide our apprehension by vigourously chewing the spearmint and talking and laughing rather louder than usual. In the event, as we were about to board the Lancaster, the outing was 'scrubbed' owing to bad weather. This was to happen on so many occasions to all aircrew. A Tour of 30 Ops might include as many as 40 briefings and, in some ways, the waiting time was as nerve-wracking as the actual Operation.

Then, at last, on 27-1-1943, we managed to get a red entry in our log books, (Night Operations were always entered in red ink and Daylight Sorties were shown in green ink). The crews of Sgt Heavery and Sgt Vine were to get their first taste of action on a reasonably easy mine-laying jaunt across the North Sea. Sgt Vine was an interesting character who had been introduced to us all in rather unusual circumstances. The occasion was when the Station personnel had been paraded to hear the findings of his Court Martial. The pilot had been charged with Unauthorised Low Flying which he strenuously denied though the presence of twigs and foliage in the underparts of the aircraft left little doubt as to what the verdict would be. He was duly found Guilty, Severely Reprimanded and punished by Loss of Seniority. This merely meant that he would have to wait 6 months longer than his contemporaries to become a Flight Sergeant. A punishment that was to prove to be of no consequence as Sgt Vine and his crew were to be reported Missing within 6 weeks of joining the Squadron.

His navigator, Sgt Westhorpe, was a lanky young North Easterner who had also been on the Pan American Course in Miami. lie had suffered severely from air-sickness on the first Commodore flight and on every subsequent one but, optimistically, hoped that he would overcome this. Sadly he never did and would have been well advised to withdraw from the ranks of aircrew. Being a typical stubborn Geordie, however, he did not throw the towel in so easily and repeatedly declared that he would " Give it one more go".The Navigation Section had a lot of respect for the courage of Ken Westhorpe and anyone who has ever endured the miseries of sea or air-sickness would understand this.

The first mine-laying mission would entail a long leg out across the North Sea where an estimated turn to starboard should bring us onto a pinpoint on the island of Juist in the Freisian Islands just off the North German coast. From this a short timed run would enable us to plant our vegetable (as mines were terme ) in the centre of the coastal shipping lane. Juist, we were told, was 'manned' only by a detachment of German Searchlight Frauleins but the adjacent island of Borkum was reasonably heavily defended by unfriendly ironmongery. The important thing was to calculate an accurate ground-speed and thus avoid the possibility of turning too soon on to Borkum. With this in mind I checked and re-checked the navigation and was fortunate enough to make a land-fall on the long, narrow island of Juist. A sudden activity of searchlights below confirmed our position but a gentle spray of lead from Sid in his rear turret had them quickly doused and it was an easy task to lay our mine on the scheduled spot and then head for home.

We could see signs of an aircraft receiving a warm welcome on the next island and correctly assumed that Sgt Vine's crew had over-estimated their ground-speed on the way out and had turned too early and onto Borkum. At the low level at which we were dropping the mines they quickly disengaged from the German target practice and completed their mission before following us back home across the bleak North Sea to the legendary, and always welcome, flying breakfast.

We had got off the mark, our first Op had been carried out remarkably easily and according to plan , and before climbing into bed in the early hours of the morning I proudly chalked the word -- Juist --- on the wall and, hopefully, left enough space to add another 29 targets underneath it.

With just one sortie to our credit we already felt superior to the new crews who were arriving at Bottesford. For the next week or two the atrocious weather conditions ruled out any further flying and by the time our names appeared on the Battle Order again quite a number of fledgling crews had arrived on the scene and were awaiting their baptism of fire on 467 Squadron. The target on the next trip was to be the German Submarine Base at the French Port of Lorient. The subs were protected by enormously thick concrete shelters on wich the 4,000 lb 'Cookies' dropped by the RAF had little or no effect. It was possible to cause considerable damage to the adjoining port installations but it was generally agreed that the inside of a U-Boat Pen was undoubtably the safest air-raid shelter in Lorient.

This was to be a high level attack and we set out on a steadily climbing track to Start Point on the coast of Devon. This easily identifiable landmark would be an accurate departure point for the short journey across the English Channel and on to Lorient. It was here that a stupid error on my part was to cause some consternation amongst the crew and, no doubt, made them wish to query the navigator's ability. I cheerfully passed a course of 090 degrees to the Skipper which he immediately rejected and asked me with some sarcasm to reconsider. This I did but when the next heading offered was an equally ridiculous 270 degrees , Frank had the good sense to realise that something was radically wrong as the target lay in a Southerly direction and, at that moment, the first signs of enemy activity began to appear from that quarter.

By this time Frank had diagnosed the navigator's problem as lack of oxygen and, after instructing the flight engineer to check my supply, he set off in the direction of the firework display. Sure enough, the oxygen connection had to be re-adjusted and in no time at all I was functioning normally. The odd thing about oxygen deficiency in the early stages is that as ones ability rapidly decreases, a feeling of irresponsible self-confidence takes over. It was a lesson I never forgot and taught me that every item of equipment had to be constantly tested before every flight.

The groping fingers of searchlights over the target area were now being accompanied by a fair amount of flak-bursts as we approached our first ever bombing run. At the last moment there was a slight panic as the 4,000 lb Cookie refused to release automatically but it was quickly jettisoned and followed the smaller bombs down to the fires below. We lost no time in clearing the unfriendly sky and settled with the usual false sense of relief for the journey home. This was proceeding as any cross-country with just an occasional glimpse of other Lancasters heading in a Northerly direction when, suddenly, an alarming occurrence gave us an almighty scare. There were vivid explosions on every side and aircraft appeared to be bursting into flames in all directions. It was a sickening sight as many seemed to be plunging to earth leaving a fiery trail in their wake. We could only think that the Germans had at last produced their Secret Weapon and that we had been unlucky enough to make our bombing debut on their Grand Opening Night. There was a deafening bang directly underneath the Lancaster and a blinding flash that illuminated my blacked-out 'office'. Yet we flew on apparently undamaged and, as others were being shot out of the sky, we felt that it just might be our lucky night.

Finally we were over the Channel. Heading back to Bottesford which would surely be a sad place tonight. 467 and other Squadrons must have been decimated and as we took our place in the Interrogation Room we kept our eyes on the door, ready to greet any others who may have been fortunate enough to survive. One by one they trooped in until, to everyone's amazement, every crew on the raid was present. Most of them looking shocked and incredulous to learn that the overall casualties on the Lorient raid had been just one aircraft.

This startling addition to aerial warfare seemed to be more terrifying than lethal and from that night on were referred to as Scarecrow Flares. Oddly enough, after the War, the Germans disclaimed all knowledge of this secret weapon and official RAF records tend to think that they were figments of over­wraught aircrew imaginations. Nevertheless, there are many ex-aircrew alive today who took part in the Lorient and subsequent raids and are still firmly convinced that the Scarecrow Flares were very real.

The only damage that we suffered, on this occasion was a hole in the port inner oil tank which, luckily, had little effect on Lancaster ED 523’s performance. It was not to be a lucky aircraft though as it failed to return from Stuttgart just a few nights later.

The Scarecrow Flares encountered on the return journey from Lorient, (real or unreal), had certainly scared me at the time. Perhaps the old Medical Officer at Stratford really did know more than us and, unfair as it may seem, maybe it was feasible that innocent 20 year-olds could come to swift and sticky ends. Three nights later it was to be clearly demonstrated to us. Prospects were not only possible but highly probable that we could not expect to be around to hear the sweet sounds of the Last All-Clear.

The target on this occasion was to be the German port of Wilhelmshaven and 5 crews were to participate. Led by the Flight Commander, S/Ldr Paape, DFC, were the crews of Fl/Lt Michie and Sgt's Howie, Vine and Heavery. This should have been one of the easier navigational trips with a long straight run across the North Sea followed by a quick intrusion into the Third Reich, a short bombing run to the docks before heading back at full bore to Bottesford.

After the air test and briefing, followed by the ritual fried eggs --The Aircrews Last Supper -- we were ferried out to the waiting aircraft and, in the late afternoon, watched the Winter sun set before piling aboard the Lancaster. As we gained height after takeoff, the sun appeared once again over the horizon before affording us the priveledge of viewing an ' action replay ' sunset. Not that we appreciated the phenomena at this time as we crossed the East coast of Lincolnshire and prepared for the long drag across the North Sea with the altimeter showing near zero as we skimmed the wavetops to avoid any possible radar detection.

For the early part of the journey Sgt Vine and company flew alongside and, as the gunners tested their Brownings with short bursts to the grey sea rushing below us, the rest of the lads amused themselves and kept up spirits by waving and making rude gestures to each other. Then, as the disappearing day­light faded into darkness, we lost contact and settled down in our own separate cocoons. An hour or so later we were in the vicinity of Wilhelmshaven, partly obscured by 3-1Oths cloud and some ground haze but the Pathfinders had already arrived and their accurately laid flares were clearly visible. There was the expected display of enemy aggression in the sky over the target but we pressed on and bombed the red and green Target indicators with surprisingly little difficulty.

The long flight home passed without incident and we attended the de­-briefing eager to undergo the rigorous questioning by the Intelligence Officer and then to enjoy a 'line-shoot' with our fellow travellers. S/Ldr Paape, as usual, was already first back and off to breakfast. He was known on the Squadron as ' First Back Paape' and several minutes later Sgt Howie and his crew arrived.

As we concluded our account and impressions of the raid on Wilhelmshaven we awaited the appearance of Sgt Vine with Westhorpe and the rest of his lads. They had come through the training treadmill alongside us and we had arrived together at 467 Squadron with our 'L' plates on. Later as we adjourned to the Sgt's Mess for breakfast we lingered on to discuss what may have detained them. Perhaps they had landed away from Base and would soon be on the 'blower'. One thing for sure was that their petrol supply would have run out by now and they must be down somewhere. The thought of them being down in the icy North Sea was one that we all tried to avoid as we finally, and reluctantly, made our way back to the billets and bed.

This was our first encounter with the harsh and sobering facts of aircrew life for the crews of Sgt Vine and F1/Lt Michie had vanished that night and were never heard of again. Of the 5 crews who had set out from Bottesford only 3 would be attending the next Briefing. How was it possible that those bubbling and bright young faces of a few hours earlier could have so suddenly and violently ceased to exist? We thought of the misery to be felt in so many homes next day when the telegrams began to arrive and, perhaps for the first time, experienced feelings of guilt at the realisation of the ordeal we had placed so firmly on the shoulders of our own families. Every morning they would turn on their radios and hear that " Last night the RAF successfully carried out attacks on Hamburg, Essen or wherever --- 20 or 40 or 60 failed to return ". They could only pray that the knock of the Telegram Boy never came to their door.

As I lay in bed that night it seemed that sleep was a long time in coming. Of course it would be ridiculous to compile any meaningful statistics from the adventures of just 5 crews on one particular night. Nevertheless, I suspect that I was not the only one awake in the dark whose thoughts kept returning to the daunting figure of 40 per cent.

The Royal Air Force, and Bomber Command in particular, had a rather different and less personal attitude to the study of statistics. While they understood our morbid fascination with the 40% aspect, they themselves assessed the relevant figure as 60% and they quickly laid on other places of interest for us to visit. In the space of 4 nights we added the prime targets of Nuremburg, Cologne and St Nazaire to our log books.

Nuremburg was to be our deepest penetration up to now into enemy territory. There would be a maximum fuel loading of 2154 gallons for, as was the usual practice, we would he arriving at the chosen site after a series of 'dog-legs' over France and Southern Germany. This was carried out to confuse the Axis defences and, hopefully, the Night Fighter Force would be misled into a rendezvous in sectors that we had no intention of visiting whilst the target due to receive the bomb-load would discover their misfortune at the last possible moment.

After an uneventful journey we were on the last leg and approaching the vicinity of Nuremburg. I was reasonably confident of being on track after many checks on the wind speed and direction and the plotting as I asked the crew to look out for the Marker Flares going down at any second. We had faith in the Pathfinder Force for their experienced crews and more sophisticated navigational equipment had rightly earned them the respect of the Main Force. In the past they had operated with the spot-on regularity of the sun rising and setting but something seemed to have gone wrong on this occasion. Five interminably long minutes dragged by but there were no signs of the coloured flares while the ground below lay obscured by a thick haze and I had a horribly sick feeling inside me. Had I made a stupid error in my calculation ? If so it must have bean a huge one as the brilliant Target indicators were usually visible at a range of 30 or 40 miles. By this time the rest of the lads were sharing my anxiety and Frank was asking for suggestions as to what we should now do. I could only, rather lamely, offer the opinion that we should start to orbit. Perhaps I was right and the Pathfinders were wrong though the very thought of that seemed like outrageous effrontery on my part. For a further 12 minutes (or was it a lifetime) we continued to circle though an occasional sighting of other 4-engined aircraft suggested that others might have been as incompetent as myself.

Then suddenly the intercom was swamped with excited yells as a red flare erupted some way off to the starboard rear, quickly followed by a cluster of green. In a matter of seconds they were joined by a huge display of searchlights and angry looking bursts of flak. The defenses of Nuremburg had been lying low, hoping and praying no doubt that some neighboring city would be honored by the visitors but now they were about to suffer the ordeal. I was so relieved that the Navigation Department had been vindicated that for the first (and only time over a target) I actually felt happy. Not for long though as we were still far from home. Due to circumstances of crew losses and instrument and weather difficulties the Pathfinder Force had, in fact, been 17 minutes late in the flare dropping which was probably their worst ever performance.

In the normal way of things the Main Force would have been arriving over Nuremburg in an orderly manner on a designated Track and Time on Target and then quickly clearing the area. The situation now was dangerously different. The entire attacking force was milling around the sky as they desperately tried to ignore the heavy flak and get round and onto the correct bomb-line. There were sudden cries of warning as other aircraft almost occupied our airspace and there were many heart-stopping incidents of near misses. Collisions did take place and later most crews agreed that there would have been many more if the performance had taken place in daylight. Violent evasive action could only have resulted in further casualties and in the darkness it was almost a matter of trusting to luck and fervently hoping that we were not due for the chop list.

The relief was enormous when Nick finally guided us over the correct bombing-flare and no time was lost in making a speedy exit. Not that our anxieties were now over. The 17 minutes delay at the start must have meant that every available night fighter in Germany would have had ample time to get into the action. Never before had they been presented with such a choice opportunity to pick up their Iron Crosses. As we set course on the long ride for home Frank added extra effort to the customary ' weaving ' and every available eye on board scanned the night sky. At intervals air battles were in progress and flaming aircraft were seen to be plunging earthwards leaving a spectacular and sickening fiery trail in their wake. The more colorful often being members of the Path­finder Force as any unused pyrotechnics ignited and erupted like a Royal Firework Display. We were happy to go unmolested and touch down at Bottesford 7 1/2 hours after takeoff.

Considering the unfortunate breakdown in planning on this occasion it was inevitable that there would be some casualties. Amazingly, we were to learn next day that of the 537 aircraft on the raid only 9 were reported as missing. We felt that 467 Squadron had been fortunate to get away with the loss of only one crew. The ill-fated F/Sgt Stewart and his lads would no doubt have begged to differ. For the first time we obtained a clear picture of the aiming point and later had the satisfaction of collecting our Target Certificate. This was an incentive peculiar to 5 Group. Crews were encouraged to hold their Course after "bombs away " for 10 or 15 seconds, ignoring the ever encroaching flak ­Bursts until the delayed photo-flash operated. If a spot on picture of the target resulted then a Certificate, complete with the crew names and signed by Air Vice Marshal Cochrane, the A.O.C, was the reward. The scheme, however, was not entirely successful as only crews who were briefed early on target had any chance of achieving a clear photograph. The majority would arrive to find all ground details completely obscured by thick smoke and fires.

In quick succession we visited Cologne and St Nazaire. The river at Cologne was clearly visible and many large fires were seen to be glowing on the Northern suburbs. It was a miracle that on this, and many subsequent raids on the city, the magnificent Cathedral defied all the devastation and when the War finally ended was seen to be a proud, blackened but almost unscathed monument surrounded by a sea of destruction.

St Nazaire was considered to be a satisfactory and concentrated raid by the RAF but would have made only a minor contribution to the efforts of the Royal Navy in their attempts to safeguard the shipping lanes of the Atlantic. We felt, rather guiltily, that we might be doing far more damage to friendly French townsfolk's than to the U Boat pens and the submariners who were snugly sheltering in their impregnable concrete carapaces. Though, as at Lorient, there were some unlucky sailors whose task it was to thwart the RAY by producing a thick smokescreen.

So now as February came to an end we had 6 Operations behind us and the list on the wall above my bed was beginning to look rather more impressive.

The first night in March was to be a memorable one. As crews grouped together in the Briefing room the door was locked and we waited impatiently for the board on the wall to be uncovered. This was always a dramatic moment and the unveiling of Salome would not have commanded a more rapt attention. On this occasion there were sharp intakes of breath as the C.O. drew back the curtain and revealed a pattern of colored string and drawing pins, the most Easterly of which was stuck firmly in the centre of Berlin. The Capital City seemed to be the ultimate target and surely this would be the place we could expect the enemy to defend with all the ferocity they could muster. Actually, as we later discovered and most aircrew would agree, the hottest and most terrifying target to visit was Essen in the heart of the Ruhr.

We set Course over Base at 1904 hours and a minute later I got the first shock of the evening ---there was to be a much stronger one shortly afterwards. The screen on the GSM box suddenly flared and then blacked out and from then on resisted all my efforts to restore it. The GEE was the navigator's best friend as it enabled him to get accurate fixes in any kind of weather or visibility. GEE was a radio-pulse system transmitted by 3 stations in Britain. The navigator had to line up these signals on his radar screen and then lock the picture and read off a series of dots. The result could then be plotted on a Parabolic GEE Chart and a fix obtained. Unfortunately, the German Boffins were already having some success in jamming these. The pulses at first were easily recognizable as strong, green inverted Vs but on approaching enemy territory these were subject to interference. At first a short 'grass' would appear on the screen -- rather like a worms-eye view of a bowling green--- and then the 'grass' would grow and grow until it eventually swamped the entire picture. It was possible, however, to obtain several fixes before this took place and thus determine the all important wind strength and direction.

On this occasion I frantically went through all the possible faults procedure with no success and finally thought that it could be the power supply. It must have been a moment of panic when I tested this theory by putting my finger in the socket. The power was definitely there and, to my surprise, the resultant jolt to my system seemed to steady me up and I decided that the solution was to employ a less sophisticated method of navigation. No doubt a Coastal Command navigator would have easily solved the problem by carrying out a 3 Drift Wind exercise but in this situation the idea of flying zig-zag Courses across the path of a Heavy Bomber stream at 2,000 feet on a black Winter's night was hardly an intelligent prospect.

Johnny Lloyd, I knew, would be pleased to have the opportunity of picking up Loop Bearings on his radio set but, unfortunately, at this stage of the war the Germans were able to interfere and tamper with these beams considerably and thus make them totally unreliable. We could always check our Track out by obtaining Single Drift observations though this method had never figured in our training programmes, we were faced with a 366 mile crossing of the North Sea and so this would be a good opportunity to get some practice in. The wireless operator reluctantly agreed to abandon his loops and made his way back to the flare chute where he began dropping out flame floats at regular intervals. AK these ignited in the sea and were left in our wake, Sid, peering over his gunsight and eager as ever to participate, would line up his guns on the glow below before reading off the calibration on his turret. His first report of 5% starboard confirmed my calculations of drift based on the Met forecast but later ones of 7%, and then 11% suggested a significant change in the Flight Plan. There were to be no further contributions, however, as at this time a build-up of low cloud began to obscure the sea below and ruled out any further drift finding.

In the circumstances I decided to have faith in Sid's efforts. What a treasure he was --- always so brimful of confidence and eager to contribute and I kept adjusting the Course to a more Northerly heading. We could only then sit back and hope to recognise a landfall on the coast of Denmark. Somewhere near to the small island of Mando. As ETA approached there was light flak popping up through the cloud which we assumed to be unfriendly action from coastal shipping and then, to my relief, a small break in the downward visibility enabled Nick to report an island which he thought could just be Mando. There was no other confirmation of this, however, so I could only pass a new Course to Frank for the next leg of 119 miles across Denmark to the next turning point on to the Baltic Coast. We had been steadily climbing from 5,000 feet when the drifts ran out and were now approaching 15,000. The forecast winds for these heights had been 25 and 75 km.p.h. so the variations already calculated had to be adjusted from time to time. After 27 uneventful minutes on this leg came a final turn onto a South- Easterly heading which, 164 miles later, should bring us to the Big City. As we drew near to Berlin there were fighter flares ahead of us and, at one point, directly below and it was at these times when the pulse-rate quickened. All eyes were keeping a sharp lookout and, though it was reassuring to catch the odd sighting of other Lancasters, there was still that dry parched feeling in the throat and a thumping heart to contend with. I thought of Mary sleeping soundly in her bed and wished to God that I was there alongside her.

The vast area of searchlights ahead left no doubt that Berlin was coming up and the brightly colored visiting cards of the Pathfinders were in danger of being obliterated by the mighty and angry anti-aircraft barrage all around them. At 19,000 feet we were slightly ahead of our allotted bomb time schedule but this was no time to hang about. With every minute seeming like an hour we edged our way into the inferno until, after an eternity, Nick had the dropping flares in his sights and, with more relief, we felt the aircraft lift as the bombs released. There was still an interminable straight and level flight to record the photoflash and as I called off the seconds for Frank it was a temptation to make them short ones before we finally dived to clear the lethal sector. There followed a 4 minute leg before the Skipper turned onto a Westerly route to carry us 363 miles across the heart of Germany. The planners of Bomber Command had evolved a new tactic for this mission. It was the usual practice to descend gradually on the homeward leg but this time it was hoped that a climb to ceiling height would fox the defenders. We did our best to carry out orders but found that 20,000 feet was as high as this Lancaster intended to go.

There were occasional sad reports from the gunners of aerial combats and of aircraft blowing up but we carried on unmolested. 17 Bombers (5.6 of the Force) would later be posted as  Missing and others possibly with injured men aboard would fail to make a safe landing back in England. The only casualties announced by the B.B.C. would be the unfortunate ones whose fate was unknown. After an hours flying time there were large concentrations of searchlights and flak on the port side and, assuming that we were on track, it was likely that Hannover was joining in the action and picking off any straying members of the RAF. Surprisingly, Sid was to inform us that the target fires were still creating a glow in the sky and, as Berlin was by this time some 160 miles behind us, the raid would surely be regarded as a successful one.

It was now time to start the descent to the Dutch coast at Texel on the Zuider Zee but we had one more scare before reaching there. Our peaceful progress was suddenly rudely interrupted by a solitary searchlight and, within seconds, it was augmented by several others as Frank desperately threw us into steep diving and climbing turns to shake them off. The compass heading was quite forgotten and though this usually brought an indignant complaint from the navigator, I was content to hang on to my seat (and stomach) as we thrashed about to avoid the blinding glare. Fortunately this was successful and we were happy to see the cloud cover increasing until there was 10/10ths all around. This made the ETA at Texel impossible to confirm but, at the appointed time,

The course was altered for Skegness and the 189 mile crossing of the North Sea.

It was also time to dispense with the oxygen masks and it was always a pleasure to be rid of the unpleasant faintly fishy odor.

Considering the early fiasco with the GEE it had been a more than satisfactory result and I decided to ride the luck and test the Loop Bearings. Johnny Lloyd was only too happy to oblige and when plotted they produced a fix showing us to be 20 miles North of Track. In the normal circumstances I would have been very doubtful about using these, especially after an hour of Dead Reckoning but fortune had smiled on us this night so I calculated a new Course and ETA for Skegness. We were still groping through 10/10ths of cloud and descending to 4,000 feet when a break below gave us a glimpse of coastline followed by the unmistakable sight of Skegness Pier. It was a heart-warming ending to a night that could well have been so very different and it vas an easy matter to travel the 48 miles inland and pick up the Base beacon and join the circuit to be followed by the satisfaction of being the first of the 467 Squadron crews to arrive at the Interrogation Room.

With the scalp of Berlin hanging from our belts we felt that the probationary period of the Heavery crew was definitely over and perhaps that we could after all hope to emerge at the end of the Tour Tunnel.

Two nights later we-were again carrying out a trek across the grey North Sea. The route was almost a carbon copy of the previous jaunt to Berlin and, no doubt, the inhabitants of the Big City were already being forewarned that a swift encore could be expected shortly. On this occasion, however, as the coast of Denmark was crossed the Bomber stream suddenly changed direction to starboard and headed straight for the busy port of Hamburg. The absence of any form of cloud or haze made the identifying task a lot easier as the estuary of the Elbe was clearly visible and the bomb aimers had no trouble at all in unloading the hardware on the chosen area of dockland. Surprisingly, the defenses of Hamburg were much less aggressive than Intelligence had predicted. Perhaps they felt that the clear skies would present the Night Fighter Force with an opportunity to display their talents but the Heavery crew were quite happy to be spared any demonstration of this. The journey home was quite uneventful until a sudden flurry of hostility by light flak caused some anxious moments as we crossed the enemy roast. As we neared England there were a couple of sightings from the mid upper of flashing lights in the sea. These could have been planted as Night Fighter decoys but we were always conscious of the fact that many a stricken aircraft had ended their run for home in the icy waves of the North Sea and any Bomber crew would always make every effort to obtain a fix and pass the position on for the Air/Sea Rescue folks to consider. There was no doubt that we all felt that one day (or night) it could be our turn to be struggling desperately to survive the freezing conditions in a flimsy rubber dinghy.

During the long and sometimes boring training sessions at OTU we had often tried to get first-hand information from the Instructors of what Operational Flying was really like. With typical RAF modesty they were reluctant to discuss personal experiences and targets visited but, occasionally, they would unbend and become more specific. Usually towards the and of a long night in the Sgt's Mess or the local 'Pig and Whistle' and at these times the name of Essen invariably cropped up.  "You will know what it is all about," they would say, "When you have Essen down in your log books". Rather maliciously I always thought. Some of them spoke of it almost with affection but, no doubt, the fact that there was little chance of them being called upon to re-visit the place in the foreseeable future had something to do with this. We knew that the mighty Engineering Workshops of Herr Krupps had their home in this centre of the Ruhr and they assured us that the vast output of anti-aircraft shells hardly had time to cool down before the assembly line became a vertical one and they were heading for a rendezvous with some poor unsuspecting P/O Prune and friends.

The night of 5/6 March 1943 was a historic one in the annals of Bomber Command. It was also to be a memorable one in the lives of us lesser mortals. For the first time we were to be afforded the privilege of seeing at close quarters the might and fury of the hornet's nest known as Essen. We not only followed the trail blazed by our hoary instructors but we accomplished some­thing that they had never been able to do. For the first time the RAF managed to well and truly clobber the City of Essen with the Krupp's Works itself suffering 50% damage. Let me hasten to add for the benefit of any indignant and outraged instructor that the result was in no way due to the superior skills or daring of the current crop of aircrew.

The credit must be given to the Boffins of Bomber Command who had produced a navigational system of unsurpassed accuracy ---- OBOE. This equipment enabled a Pathfinder Mosquito to be directed from a Base in England along a beam until it was intersected by another beam directly over the target, whereupon the Marker Flare was released. Unfortunately, due to the curvature of the Earth, the range could only operate as far as the Ruhr but this was now possible however adverse the weather conditions may he. Earlier aircrews had to struggle to find and mark targets in appalling and impossible situations but, from the 5th of March, 1943, the full weight of Harris's boys would be destroying the heart of the enemy.

The Old Boys had certainly been right about the hostile reception we could expect from Essen. As we approached the city there was flak of an intensity we had never before encountered and it seemed to be an impossibility for an aircraft the size of a Lancaster to pass through unscathed. Oddly enough, the prospect always looked worse at a range of 10 miles or so and whatever the consequences we meant to carry out the task of dropping the 4,000 lb bomb and incendiaries in the centre of the markers. This we finally managed to achieve though one burst of gunfire was near enough to crack all the windscreen. Luckily this managed to hold together or we could have expected a slow and miserable return journey. The raid was carried out with an unprecedented degree of accuracy and efficiency and almost 1,000 tons of high explosives bombs and firebombs fell on the citizens of Essen that night. It was also a satisfactory  result from an aircrew point of view as the losses were l4 aircraft from a force of 500. This was a statistic of less than 5% at a time when the overall losses were far greater than that. In the 5 months from the beginning of March, 872 aircraft failed to return and almost 6,000 grand young man along with them. These figures never included the not inconsiderable number of men and machines who were lost or crashed on returning to England due to damage sustained or weather conditions.

We sincerely hoped that it would be a long time before we were again called upon to visit Essen as, after 4 ½ hours flying, Frank circled the airfield at Bottesford and tried to call up for our turn to land. Unfortunately, the first pilot back, a position usually taken by S/Ldr Paape, had managed in conditions of deteriorating visibility to splatter his aero plane all over the runway and thus caused the field to be closed down for the night. We were diverted to nearby Swinderby and, after another long wait in the landing pattern, finally managed to cope with the low cloud and thankfully taxi to a convenient dispersal. It was a tired and somewhat dispirited crew who were directed to an indifferent breakfast of Spam and fried potatoes and then to the Sgt's Mess. There was no sleeping accommodation and only the early arrivals were fortunate enough to grab the luxury of an armchair to rest their weary bodies. For the rest of us it was a stretch out on the beer stained carpet with the noise of 4 Merlin engines still drumming in the ears and the adrenalin still running high enough to make the possibility of sleep more than remote.

The Station Warrant Officer at Swinderby could hardly have been impressed by the appearance of the flying NCOs of 467 Squadron as they were gathered morosely together waiting for the fog to clear the airfield. After a restless, almost sleepless night the strain and grime acquired a few hours previously were clearly apparent and we looked forward to a hot bath and a soft bed to recover on. When at last we were able to get airborne on our way to Base the Flying Control, to our dismay, relayed an instruction to carry out an Air Test on the way home. This could only mean that our services would be required again that evening and we could only hope for a relatively easy target after the terrifying ordeal that Essen had handed out to us.

A few hours later we wearily trooped into the Briefing Room and when the Target for Tonight was uncovered there was an audible groan as the largest and most Southerly drawing pin was still seen to be protruding from the centre of Essen. After the fire and destruction of the previous night they must surely be thirsting for a bloody revenge and it was obvious that I was not the only one who felt we might well have seen our last sunrise. As we adjourned to the Mess for our Flying Supper there was none of the usual lively banter. Few of the corny chestnuts were produced -- like " If you don't come back can I have your egg ?". Any attempt at humor was made without the normal loud and often ribald responses. The condemned men were clearly not about to enjoy their last meal.

Later on as we were ferried out to the waiting Lancasters we appreciated the beautiful Spring countryside of rural England as we had never done before. We gathered at the rear of the aircraft for the ritual ceremony of 'christening the tail wheel' which was very necessary though a couple of empty beer bottles were usually available for any emergencies. Then, as one by one, the Skipper began to start up the mighty Merlins, came the most welcome sight of my life up to then. A glorious red Very cartridge was seen to soar high over the Control Tower, signifying that the Operation for the night had been 'scrubbed'.

Amidst loud cheers my navigation bag rose in the air almost as high as the flare of reprieve and we hurriedly stripped off the flying gear and rushed to stow it in the Locker Room. There would surely be a celebration in the Sgt's Mess tonight and experience of previous 'scrubs' had already produced an extra-curricular drill for Sgt Heavery and his squad. The red light had hardly faded away before our genial mid-upper had stepped out of his bulky electrical flying suit, left it to be disposed of by the rest of us, and was pedaling madly in the direction of the Mess. The bar was always overcrowded on such occasions but we could be certain that the boisterous, and extrovert, Butterworth would have secured a table and 14 foaming pints of beer by the time the rest of the crew arrived on the scene. Scrub nights could be counted on to relieve the tension and remove morbid thoughts of what the future might have in store for us. Hilarity, noisy and somewhat maudlin, would escalate as as the beer stocks rapidly dwindled. When towards midnight, the lads were weaving an unsteady way back to their billets the fears of Essen had noticeably lessened and some were even referring to it with the affection previously shown by our old Instructors.

We were lucky the next day when the RAF (or more likely the Met report) granted us another free night to recover from the party, though many of the more disreputable characters elected to carry on with the medicine instead. The following night, however, was back to business as usual as Bomber Command decreed that Nuremburg was due for another visit. We could only hope that the Pathfinders would produce a better performance than on the last outing to the City and, sure enough, as several hours later we drew near to the chosen victims at 14,000 feet, the Target Markers suddenly made their appearance at exactly the appointed time. The snag was that there were 2 clusters of red fireworks which crews later, at Interrogation, estimated as being 10 miles apart which suggested that one might be a decoy flare that the enemy had recently invented. Later in the WAR the RAF perfected the technique of the Master Bomber -- a very brave individual who, in such a situation, would suspend all bombing until he had carefully assessed the marking. Often at an extremely low level before calling in the Main Force with clear instructions as to which cluster to concentrate on. On this occasion Nick could only guess at the one to aim at and though the raid would hardly be classed as an unqualified success, Sid had the satisfaction of reporting from his rear turret as we raced for home that the glow in the sky in the direction of Nuremburg was plainly visible at a range of 150 miles. A subsequent photograph of the Aiming Point the next day -- followed by the Certificate - showed that our Irish bomb aimer, with the luck attributed to the Emerald islanders, had correctly chosen the flares to fix his bombsight on.

We could have almost used the same Flight Plan on the following night as crews were briefed to cover almost an identical journey. Except that there was to be an alteration of Course just before arriving at the still smoldering ruins of Nuremburg and this time it was the turn of Munich to take the hammering. In clear skies the City was easily identified and many fires resulted. All crews later reported one extremely large explosion and we hoped, maliciously, that Hitler's infamous Beer Cellar had been eliminated. Seven and a half hours after take-off we were wearily landing back at Bottesford and looking eagerly forward to a spot of well earned leave.

In the RAF generally the privilege of Home Leave came round every three months and lasted for seven days. For Operational Aircrew it was the custom to be granted nine days every six weeks, though many young and inexperienced crews had arrived on the Squadron and disappeared long before that. The record short service on 467 was held by an air gunner who arrived on camp one morning and was immediately called upon to complete a crew for the evening's operation. When his aircraft sadly failed to return it was both tragic and embarrassing to realize that not one person on the Squadron had any knowledge of his name or appearance. The poor lad was only able to be identified by the name and number on his still un-packed kitbag left in the Guard Room.

We checked the most popular roster in the Flight Office next morning and found that our nine days reprieve was still due in two days time and we fervently hoped that there would be a clampdown in the weather before then. Bomber Command had other plans for us, however, and had already laid on a Maximum Effort with all available crews to operate. Understandably, the Heavery crew were eager and impatient to get this next mission behind us though perhaps not quite so keen when the blackboard was again uncovered to reveal the old favorite -- Essen --- as the target. Once again the use of OBOE meant that the PFF could mark the huge factory complex with their new-found precision and enable the Main Force to produce a devastating effort. It was possible to edge our way through the flak (which thankfully seemed lighter than last time) and  release the the bomb load on target at 2136 hours from 18,000 feet. We were thrilled on arriving back at Bottesford to hear several crews report sightings of a huge explosion followed by volumes of thick smoke at 2137 and tried to persuade ourselves, no doubt, erroneously, that only a star crew such as ours could have achieved such a result.

The next morning found us heading joyfully towards the Railway Station at Newark and the pleasure and satisfaction of enjoying a well earned respite from the dicing with death and destruction.

How very much we looked forward to those glorious days ( and nights ) of leave. Most of the ' Colonials (?) ' amongst us headed for the bright lights of London but, to the ' Natives ', the thought of spending 9 days with loved ones was like entering the Kingdom of Heaven. The nearest we got to the War was the 9 o'clock News which everyone, in those days, made time to listen to. There were usually some accounts of RAF activity. Always reported as successful raids and the last sentence invariably being " X number of aircraft failed to return ". Just another number to the majority of listeners but they were flesh and blood to us participants.

All too soon those idyllic days passed by and we were bidding those wretched farewells and trying desperately to suppress those awful thoughts that it was more than likely that we would never meet again. As we reluctantly returned to Bottesford our minds were centered on the new faces that would have arrived on the Squadron in our absence and, more apprehensively, how many friends would have left the scene forever. 467 Squadron was a brotherhood of men from all parts of the Commonwealth and it was recorded that the first 3 crews to fail to return were those of P/C Wark, a Canadian on his 2nd trip, Sgt Aichen, a New Zealander on his 5th and P/C Mant, an Australian on his 10th. On this occasion we were pleased to learn that there had been no losses at all over the past 9 days.

467 had quickly fashioned themselves into a competent and respected member of 5 Group and this was largely due to the leadership of Wing Commander Gomm, ably assisted by his 3 experienced Flight Commanders. Cosmo Gomm was a tall, handsome man with a quiet almost diffident manner. He had traveled from his home in Brazil as a 19 year-old to join the RAF in 1933 and, on the outbreak of War, was posted to 77 Squadron in Yorkshire from where he completed his First Tour flying on Whitleys and was awarded a well-earned DFC. He then almost immediately joined a Night Fighter Squadron of Beaufighters where he was credited with 2  victories before being withdrawn and selected for the onerous task of forming a new Bomber Squadron --- 467. Not at all like the popular public conception of a Bomber Squadron Commander as portrayed so admirably by the immortal Guy Gibson of the Dambusters. Nevertheless, they had much in commom. Both being fearless, determined Officers who always insisted on leading from the sharp end. Every aircrew and ground crew member of 467 had a Sincere respect and affection for Wing Commander Gomm.

The first thing most men did on arriving at the Flight Offices every morning was to seek out the day's Battle Order which listed all the crews who were detailed to test their aircraft, and prepare for the night's Operation.

The presence of Sgt Heavery was invariably required and the next thing was to check the top of the list and discover who was to lead the Squadron. If it was the Wing Commander then we knew immediately that there was going to be no easy ride tonight. We could expect a rough target and usually got one. His dedication and style of leadership inspired all the Squadron to give their full support though many of us lesser mortals were happy to enter a few easier targets also into our log books. These were not for the Wingco, however, and it must have been a surprise to everyone when, a few months later, he elected to join an attack on the City of Milan. These Italian targets, while long in duration, were regarded by us all as comparative joy-rides and it was ironic that this easy outing was to be his last. On this, his 57th bombing raid, W/C Comm was attacked by a Night Fighter over Normandy and crashed near the village of Beaumont. Only the flight engineer managed to parachute to safety while the rest of the crew were to be buried in a cemetery near to Caen which, itself, was to be later a centre of carnage in the struggle to secure a foothold in Europe. It must have been a sad morning at Bottesford when the Wing Commander failed to return. A gallant gentleman still held in high regard by all those who were privileged to serve under him.

Any crew returning from leave could be certain to appear on the Battle Order the following night and we were no exception. In fact in the first 4 nights back we had 3 tough targets to contend with. First of all came a visit to the Ruhr once again --- known to all whimsically as the Happy Valley and this time it was the turn of Duisberg to receive our Cookie and 1080 - 41b incendiary bombs. Quite a lot of potential firms there from just one air­craft. Our Irish bomb aimer was to be late in arriving back from leave due to delays on the Belfast Ferry and so a substitute had to be pressed into service. Despite the layer of 10/10ths cloud over the City which led to a less than accurate performance from the PFF, Sgt McCalloway was able to off-load the cargo with little difficulty. There was a scare shortly afterwards as Ken in his mid-upper turret spotted a twin-engined Fighter directly above us and screamed instructions to the Skipper for a corkscrewing dive to port. A second later we were violently twisting and turning as we desperately sought to leave the area. We hung on to our seat belts and awaited the stitching of bullets or cannon shells but, happily, not a shot was fired. At the inevitable inquest back at Base it was assumed that the German pilot must have had his sights on some other Lanc ahead and had failed to see the sitting duck that was there for the taking.

The following night saw the start of a busy weekend with 2 visits to

the Big One -- Berlin. There was always something special about a trip to the Big City and several aircraft were seen to meet with disaster on both occasions.

9 on the Friday night and 21 on the Sunday night which was 6.4% of the Force.

We ourselves were fortunate enough to collect only the usual small amount of hot shrapnel and none of them in vital parts of us or the Lancaster. We did, however, suffer the fright of our lives and this was a self inflicted one. It was always an anxious time as the Marker Flares were dead ahead and the bombing run about to begin. Suddenly, over the centre of Berlin, the mighty Merlins began to splutter and then cut out. This would have been quite an alarming situation even on an English cross-country but I can vouch that it was a near heart-stopping event when happening directly over the unfriendly inhabitants of the enemies Capital City. The scare probably lasted no more than 20 or 30 seconds but that can be an awful long time in certain circumstances.

Our 20 year-old Skipper was quick to diagnose the problem as a petrol shortage and he calmly, almost politely, invited the flight engineer to check the cross-fuel controls. It was the drill to take off on the inboard tanks and, when comfortably airborne, to switch to the smaller outer ones. As this supply drained off, a cross-feed valve had to be opened to bring the mid-tanks into operation and later repeated to go on to the original and larger main in-board tank. In the excitement over the inferno of Berlin, Jock must have overlooked this essential duty but he swiftly rectified this and immediately the sweetly thundering Merlins were back in action and drowning the outside noises of battle that we had actually just heard for the first time.

In the early days of 1939/40 before the shooting war really started it had been the custom to send Hampdens, Wellingtons or Whitleys to scatter propaganda leaflets over the skies of Europe. Now, in 1942/43, these informative little booklets or pamphlets were still being dropped but this time in conjunction with, and not instead of, the bomb load. The ones being showered on Belgium, Holland, France or Denmark contained messages of encouragement and support to the beleaguered citizens but for the Germans they were a very different sort of publication. Gruesome pictures of the frozen bodies of the Master Race in the deep snows of Russia and pathetic hordes of scantily clad prisoners-of-war must have made very depressing reading for the followers of Herr Hitler.

Most of the crews on 467 were avid collectors of these war souvenirs and whenever the leaflets were carried one member would always open a bundle and extract 7 copies before tossing all the rest in the bomb bay. On the second Berlin raid, however, we were explicitly cautioned that the packages about to be dropped were Top Secret and on no account were they to be interfered with. Needless to say, one of the bundles ' accidentally' fell apart and we found them to be a consignment of German Emergency Ration Cards. These were very authentic, printed on immaculate water-marked paper and each on was stamped with a 'genuine' imprint of the Berlin Food Office. Many a hungry German must have been tempted to augment his meager rations by using these and, hopefully, some would suffer the consequences of being caught in the act. The following day there were indignant protests from the Nazi hierarchy about this, as they claimed, flagrant breach of the Geneva Convention. The British Government, for their part, adopted a bewildered attitude to the allegations and denied all knowledge of such a nefarious practice. Not a very difficult task for Politicians who, even in times of peace, have the ability to distort the truth so easily.

The list on the wall behind any bed had now grown to 15 entries and already we had reached the half-way stage of our Tour. Like most other crews, we had been happy enough on the rare occasions that our names had failed to appear on the battle Order. The harsh facts were that we did have to undergo the ordeal (if lucky) of  30 Operations to complete a Tour and earn a respite. There was a-certain amount of pride in being the top scoring outfit on the Squadron and, to our surprise, we realized that we were now in the top three of 467 Squadron. We had lost crews along the way and these seemed to disappear completely without trace. During our stay at Bottesford we never once heard of the fate of any of our missing friends. Records later would show that the vast majority of them were to be found on Rolls of Honour as Killed in Action though a fortunate few managed to bale out of their stricken aircraft and end up in P.O.W. Camps. Replacement crews ( and Lancasters ) were arriving at regular intervals and we were embarrassed to find that they regarded us as battle - scarred Veterans. Their expressions of awe and respect were hard for us to take for we ourselves know that we were only a few months ahead of them on the production line.

The average life expectancy on Bomber Command at this time was assessed as 12 Operations and so we were already living on borrowed time. Lady Luck had certainly smiled on us --- which was very fortunate for, without any doubt, the biggest survival factor was purely and simply Good Luck. We had made many mistakes along the way but every member of the crew tried to profit from these and, unquestionably, we were a far more efficient and professional crew after 3 months of  Operations. Like a successful football team we had confidence in each other and every one was eager to contribute at all times. The air gunners had quickly realized that Operational Flying was much more demanding than the previous cross-country exercises. The freezing conditions at high altitudes added to their discomforts. The constant vigilance required from them meant that, to cover the maximum field of vision, they had for long hours to lift off their seats and adopt a crouching position in the cramped turret. At regular intervals the intercom would flick on, followed by a quick ' puff 'or sometimes 2 'puffs'. This may have puzzled an outsider but it told us that all  was well in the rear turret -- 1 puff-- or the mid upper -- 2 puffs. It must have been a great relief after a long trip to shed their bulky and cumbersome electrical clothing. Many gunners would heave them straight into their lockers but Sid and Ken made sure that they were properly aired and stowed correctly. They knew that any damp spots in the circuit could have serious results. At best it might lead to many hours of inefficiency and discomfort and severe frost-bite and even death was an ever-present possibility.

All of us checked and rechecked our oxygen and equipment and every Air Test was carried out as thoroughly as the succeeding Operation. Many a non-flying day was spent in the Intelligence Library studying the results of previous raids with particular attention being paid to the latest known information regarding enemy defense locations. Our procedures in the air were more disciplined than at the start of the Tour. All un-necessary chatter had been reduced to a minimum and, for long periods, the only messages on the inter­com would be changes of Course, ETAs and confirmations. On the bombing run there was always a temptation to steam in and out as quickly as possible but the experienced crews held back from this. One of the ' Eager Beavers ' would usually be seen to be coned in the searchlights and as he frantically sought to escape from frightening hazard the older hands would seize the opportunity offered by the diversion and complete their offloading as speedily as possible. On the return journey as tension lessened it was natural that some relaxation might set in but concentration had to he maintained until the aircraft was safely back at dispersal. The Germans had an unsporting habit of infiltrating Intruder Aircraft into the returning bomber stream and it was possible for any unwary or tired crew to die just as horribly over Base as over a target.

Another example of our newfound maturity was that, from now on, we would often be called upon to carry a passenger in the shape of a 2nd 'Dickey'. It was the custom in 5 Group for all new pilots joining the Squadron to be introduced to the realities of Operational Flying by accompanying one of the senior crews. His anxious crew would sit up most of the night hoping and praying that their Skipper would be safely returned to them without having lost his appetite for flying. Just as we had waited one night in January for Frank to return from his 2nd Dickey and fill us all in with the sordid details.

467 was meant to be an Australian Squadron and by this time most of the pilots arriving were from Down Under. They looked self assured and determined characters in their darker blue uniform and while some had acquired other Aussie colleagues, navigators or bomb aimers, the remainder of their crews would have been made up of men from the United Kingdom. I wondered how a native of Brisbane or Perth would cope with the hysterical accent of a Welsh or Geordie rear gunner who suddenly espied an enemy Fighter boring in . But cope they did and, after surprisingly few Operations together, they would forge a bond of friend­ship and trust in each other and would soon be of the opinion that they were the finest crew in Bomber Command.

There was no doubt the Heavery's crew felt that way and though that may have been ascribed to youthful conceit we were no longer the unsure and raw young boys who had arrived at Bottesford just 3 months earlier. In that short time we had witnessed death and destruction and fear at close quarters almost nightly.

Like many others of our generation we grew up fast in 1942/43.

We kicked off the second half with another visit to the Happy Valley. For the first time we were carrying a 2nd Dickey. Flight Sergeant Parsons Was a tall and pleasant young Australian who must have had some difficulty in making himself comfortable in the limited space up front in the Lancaster. With no other duties than observation to carry out he was surely impressed, and possibly alarmed, on this his first Op. Especially as it was the hotspot of Essen but he was eager to press on and captain his own aircraft. This he later did but, sadly, his career was to be a short one as, just 6 weeks later, he and his crew were to be lost on a raid on Düsseldorf.

On this occasion Essen once again produced a tremendous reception over the City and the gunners reported 4 bombers going down in quick succession as they ran into the target area. At this time the Ruhr was reputed to be defended by 5,000 anti-aircraft guns and over 500 searchlights -- a large percentage of which appeared to be around the outskirts of Essen. As they well knew, every raider would be attempting to drop his load on the same Marker flare and it would seem to be an easy exercise for them to calculate the third dimension, that of altitude, and with such an array of firepower to make the RAF’s efforts

virtually impossible. Nevertheless, the raid was carried out with the degree of efficiency that was becoming reserved for Essen and such was the damage and destruction that Bomber Command would have considered the resultant loss of 21 aircraft as acceptable. 21 bombers way have been a small price to pay but not so the 150 cheerful and vibrant young men whose lives had so abruptly ended. The hundreds of relatives in all parts of the UK and the Commonwealth who were to receive those shattering telegrams the next day would never have agreed. This was to be a sad night also for 467 Squadron as the A Flight Commander failed to return. Squadron Leader Paape, DFC and Bar, was Australian on his 2nd Tour of Ops. The Essen raid was the 18th sortie of this 2nd Tour and his loss was a blow to the morale of all us lesser mortals. He had been an example to all of us and, like W/C Comm, had always reserved his talents for for the more hazardous targets.

There was time for only a few hours sleep before we were back in the Briefing Room and this time everyone was pleased to see that the colored string was-not connected to the Ruhr. Our Track would lead us out again across the North Sea to Kiel in the North West sector of Germany. There was to be a slight domestic crisis that night before take-off time.

It was a ritual on every Bomber Squadron that everyone lucky enough to return from a mission could expect to be rewarded by a breakfast of bacon and eggs. On 467, by popular demand, it became the custom to serve the same also as flying suppers before leaving the ground. The Operational value of eggs to aircrew was rather like that of spinach to Popeye. The civilian ration at this time was about 3 per month and a newly arrived Catering Officer decided, probably with some justification, that an issue of 2 per day to aircrew was outrageous and he therefore instructed his kitchen staff to provide a nourishing Shepherd's Pie instead for the ' Last Supper '. This brought forth angry words in the Sgt's Mess from the pilots and navigators while the air gunners, on the whole, seemed to be more in favour of lynching the Cook. This unfortunate (and blameless) individual became so alarmed that he beat a hasty retreat and got on the blower to the C.O. Begging him to come round at once as there was rioting in the Mess and even talk of mutiny. The Wing Commander was quickly on the scene though he had other matters on his mind at the time -- like Maximum Efforts --- and he soon stopped all the nonsense. Of course he had in his time consumed more Flying Suppers than any of us. He knew the value of the mighty egg and it did not take him long to convince the Catering Officer. About 15 seconds in fact. Order was soon restored, the eggs were sizzling in the pan and we were so happy with our little victory that the coming battle was quite forgotten.

Shortly afterwards we were skimming the wave tops on the grey and still cheerless North Sea though with Spring now upon us there was less chance of being involved with the formidable storm clouds and even more frightening lashings of snow which at times reduced the visibility to almost nil. As the coast-line drew near there was a steady climb to operational height before crossing the lovely country of Denmark. Pinpoints of light from the blacked out towns and villages below were quite common and it was not unknown for some daring Dane to flash out a swift ' Victory V ' for our encouragement. Just before midnight at 16,000 feet we were over Kiel and though 10/10 the of cloud added to our difficulties of locating the Marker Flares, it was a relief to find that the defenses were negligible with no signs of the expected Night Fighters though 12 of our Force failed to return for the flying Breakfast.

Everyone was happy the following day (except perhaps the Chairborne Warriors of Bomber Command) when the dirty weather descended upon the air­fields of Lincolnshire and the adjoining Counties and ruled out any prospect of flying for the next 4 nights. The cinemas and pubs of nearby Newark and Grantham always swelled their takings on stand-down days and nights while the more red-blooded types amongst us hurried off by rail or liberty busses to take their pleasures at the notorious ' City of Sin ', Nottingham.

All too soon the meteorological situation showed some improvement. Enough at least for us to get in another 2 trips and again it was back to the Happy Valley with Duisburg being the “unfortunate” victim on both occasions.

On the first of these we were allocated a new Lancaster in mint condition, much to Frank's delight. He was more than impressed by it's climbing performance and, to our surprise, decided to test it's upper bomb-laden limits Which was why we found ourselves alone at 23,000 feet over the target. Well above the designated Bombing Height of 17,000 feet and also why other members of the Squadron later expressed their delight at seeing flak bursts so far above them. Once again there wan a 10/10the situation over Duisburg and as a result the PFF flares were blossoming below the cloud layer. It was barely possible to detect a faint glow shining through and consequently all crews returned with less than their usual enthusiastic reports of a successful Op.

On the next night things were a little better. The clouds having thinned out to only 9/10ths. Sadly the 1/10th of clear sky did not happen to coincide with the chosen sector of Duisburg. Once again the Pathfinders had a difficult task and failed to perform with their usual precision. The few Markers that could be spotted tended to be scattered and the bomb aimer could only hope that they had selected the correct one to maneuver into their bombsights. At least on this outing our Skipper decided to stay with the Main Force at 18,000 feet and it was always a comfort to catch glimpses of other 4-engined aircraft as they also pressed on grimly towards the target. There was some degree of hope in the old adage of safety in numbers and every navigator's aim was to keep his crew in the centre of the Bomber Stream. Once again it was a less than satisfactory raid on Duisburg and it was obvious that the town could expect further visitations in the not too distant future. They were to be allowed a short respite however, as our next few journeys were to more distant parts.

On the night of the 13th of April we were happy to show off our talents further a field and tackle our first lee-Cream Run. This was the disdainful description that Bomber Command applied to all the Italian raids. They had scant respect for the fighting qualities of the Macaroni Men though, if truth be told, their feelings of contempt were seasoned with a dash of gratitude. Perhaps the ground crews summed up the situation best. It was the custom, after every Operational raid to Germany for some self-appointed artist to paint a wicked-looking bomb on the side of the aircraft. Just one or two Lancasters went on to proudly display over a hundred of these symbols though many, many more never arrived at anywhere near to double figures. The Italian raids, however, were depicted by a luscious ice-cream cone which suggested that they were never taken quite so seriously as their Axis partners.

Our target was to be the Port of Spezia which, we were told, was at that time harboring a large part of the Italian Grand Fleet including at least one Battleship. There were some expressions of alarm when the height to bomb was announced as 7,000 feet for the thought of bombing the German (or the British) at that altitude would have been less than healthy but we were assured that the Italian sailors were a very different proposition. The extremely long journey would require a maximum load of fuel and consequently the weight of bombs had to be reduced to 4-- 1,060 lb GPs and only 450 incendiaries. At 2100 hours we were on Course over Base and climbing steadily to the chosen point of exit on the South coast. For the first time the forecast wind was proving to be immaculate and, with no adjustments required, we were spot on ETA. There was a short crossing of the Channel before Frank shoved the nose down to achieve maximum speed and to clear the defensive Fighter Belt as quickly as possible. Having completed this, without the benefit of the now ' grassed-out' GEE, we settled down on a long dead-reckoning stint before climbing again to clear the white-coated Alps. The planners at Group must have had little faith in the Main Force navigator's ability to maintain Track over such a considerable distance and the Pathfinders had been instructed to plant a flare on the surface of one of the Italian lakes to assist any stragglers.

I was still using the Met winds as forecast and was gratified, perhaps also astonished, to find that exactly on ETA we were directly over the chosen lake. The Met people had certainly excelled themselves though, at that moment, our thoughts were on the breathtaking beauty around and below us and I actually felt that perhaps we should be paying the RAF for the privilege of viewing such a magnificent sight. All too soon we were leaving the Alps behind and approaching the coast of the Mediterranean where we arrived, still using those superb Met winds, spot on the designated crossing point. Just a short flight across the Bay of Genoa and we would be at La Spezia. Already there were signs of activity from there as the flak and searchlights decorating the sky made us wonder if our Backroom Boys (who were still in those back rooms) had been less than realistic about the 7,000 feet plan.

It was odd that our present course seemed to he drifting us to the South of the target but the significance of the fact escaped my attention at that time, I was to remember it ruefully a couple of hours later. As the first PFF flare descended over the port of Spezia, Frank decided to ignore his compass instruction and head straight for it but a strange, almost unbelievable, incident happened at the same moment. As the RAF’s firework display erupted, The Italian one came to an end. Every searchlight and ack-ack crew downed tools and, presumably, retired for the night. The entire responsibility for the defense of the port being left to the smoke-screen section who, it must be said, were obviously working overtime.

We had been briefed to carry out a visual bombing attack with the Battleship being the juiciest target and every endeavor was made to do that, although the thick, black smoke was increasing by the minute and making identification very difficult. For the first time ever, Nick insisted on three dummy runs to set up his aiming point. Something he never did ( by popular demand ) over a German city. When finally satisfied, he pressed his bomb release and we set off for the journey home. Some ten minutes later, as we re-crossed the Bay and with every Bomber now well clear of the target, we were astonished as Sid and Ken informed us that the gallant defenders of Spezia were back in business and peppering and illuminating the sky with their brave efforts.

Very soon we were again struggling to clear those awesome Alps and still working on the fantastic wind information provided by the Meteorological Officer. Much later as we trekked across the low-lying French interior the first faint signs of GEE pulses were dimly visible through the ' grass '. the first tentative fix was plotted ---- obviously wrong as it showed us to he 100 miles to the South of Track. The second reading was somewhat stronger and, ominously, differed not a lot from the previous one. The third, and most sickening one, confirmed without doubt that we were indeed 100 miles from my estimated position.

The Southerly drift on that last leg to Spezia should have warned me of the drastic alteration in the wind direction. The 10 degrees starboard drift of my calculations was actually, in fact, 10 degrees drift to port. This meant an alarming error of 20 miles in every 60 progressed and I wondered how I dare enlighten my ever trusting crew. Should I leave them in blissful ignorance or let them share the worry that was hanging over the Navigation Department? The easy way out would be to alter course quietly to the last exit on the French coast but this entailed a long and, more importantly, a lonely trip across the Fighter Belt. I decided to spare the crew for the time being and cravenly announced that we were "Some way South of Track " and altered Course to a Northerly heading. The idea being to regain the safety of the Bomber Stream as quickly as possible though there was now the added anxiety of lengthening the duration of the flight and that the fuel supply may become critical. It was a chance we had to take.

The crew, especially the Skipper, were very patient. Though Frank did ask, almost politely, several times if he should resume the original Course but it takes a long time to regain 100 miles. Eventually, as I felt they were becoming uneasy, I let them into the secret of my predicament and it must have been a great relief all round when we were finally back on the Flight Plan Track though by this time, surely, at the tail end of the Main Force. Indeed we might well be some distance behind the tail end. It was a long and uneventful journey across the plains of France and already I was thinking of the sarcastic comments that would be coming my way from my colleagues in the Nav Section next day as we compared our logs and charts. As we crossed the English Channel I pictured them already back in the Interrogation Room, clutching that welcome cup of coffee as they held an animated inquest into the incredible pantomime that had just been performed by the Italian Navy at Spezia.

By the time the Heavery crew were circling Bottesford the other crews would surely be into the egg and bacon in the Sgt's Mess though it was surprising to see other Lancasters joining us on the circuit at regular intervals. By the sound of their anxious requests for a landing position they were also looking at the fuel gauges as keenly as we were. When we finally trooped in to be de­briefed we discovered, to our amazement, that we were amongst the first to return. Every crew on 467 had been caught out by that unexpected wind change and my feelings of shame were somewhat eased to learn that other navigators would have undergone a similar shock to the nervous system when the undemanding outing to Italy had cast a dark shadow on their ego.

A couple of nights later saw us once again heading for the more distant parts of Europe. Everyone at briefing was astonished, some even apprehensive, to discover that the target was to be Pilsen in Czechoslovakia.

It was the turn of the massive Skoda works to have their production of tanks and armaments interrupted, if not terminated, by the intrepid RAF.

There would be no easy ride as on the run to Spezia where, for long periods, the burden of flying the aircraft had been carried out by ' George ', the Automatic Pilot. Any navigational errors might well bring us into conflict with one of the many heavily defended cities that were close to our intended route while the presence of numerous red patches on the Briefing Chart promised action from enemy airfields. The target itself was not expected to be particularly hostile which was one consolation as we were briefed to go in at 6,000 feet. We noted with interest that the final turning point before Pilsen was on the River Danube -- which up to then I had only associated with Viennese Waltzes and Johann Strauss. Perhaps the full moon and clear skies promised by the Met men would add to the romance of our first sighting of the Blue Danube.

Take-off time was at 2130 hours and for the next four hours we droned along in an Easterly direction and while there were signs of enemy activity we ourselves were never seriously troubled by them. At long last we picked up the winding path of the Danube and someone remarked, inevitably, that it was a mucky looking grey rather than blue. More important was the fact that Nick had almost immediately recognized our turning point with an absolute certainty that was often very difficult to achieve. We confidently turned on Course for a short North Westerly run up to Pilsen but, as ETA approached, were dismayed when the PFF flare erupted some distance away to the port side. For probably the first time I felt experienced enough to question the accuracy of the Pathfinders but the instructions were to aim for the Markers and we moved across to them. Every aircraft was carrying 1-4,000 lb bomb and 2- 1,000 lb GPs with no incendiaries. Obviously we were meant to do some re-arranging at Skoda and any fires would be incidental.

As the bomb aimer guided us in to the target a cluster of large buildings were clearly visible below but nothing like the huge Armaments Factory that we had expected to see. There were several searchlights groping around the sky but the flak was moderate enough for a strong attack to be pressed home and the resultant flashes and explosions suggested that a successful raid had been carried out. Once again we were faced with a long drag back to the French coast but were fortunate enough to meet with little resistance overland on the way and we felt that there would be a low cost in men and machines for this nights

work. We were appalled next day to learn that 37 aircraft had failed to return out of a Force of 327. This was to be the largest loss ( 11.3% ) of any raid that we were to take part in. 467 squadron had made their contribution towards this grim total as two of our junior crews were lost on the Pilsen raid. Sgt Stuart and Sgt Wilson had gone down on their 6th and 7th Operation respectively.

It was crossing the French coast that the Heavery crew had come near to joining them in the worst moment we were to undergo in our Tour. The briefing had been for a low flying return and at that moment we were down to 500 feet. We all agreed later that this was an idiotic position to be in and in future low flying would mean 100 feet or less if possible. As we approached the coast-line Nick had been manning the front turret and, thinking it would be advisable to get an accurate fix if possible on crossing, I asked him to climb down into the bomb-bay and look out for a pin-point. This he did but before he had time to unplug his intercom lead an enemy shell passed through the Perspex turret he had just vacated. It was surely our lucky night as it failed to explode.

The immediate effect was that a howling and arctic gale roared through the Lancaster and removed my log, charts and maps like a whirlwind in the direction of the rear gunner. More important, the terrific thump up front which seemed to have come from the Pilot's position had wrecked the communication system and, without Frank's charming Cotswold voice to reassure us, we were hurtling nose down towards the sea. At that moment I knew we were about to die and felt no fear at all. I have since learnt that this was a common experience of many a Flyer in such a fraught situation but I still remember wondering who would have the unenviable task of breaking the news to Mary, my wife, and how she would cope with the shock.

It then occurred to me that, from 500 feet and at the angle at which we had been diving, we should have been nearing the bottom of the ocean by now. We appeared to have leveled off and, pulling back the black-out curtain, I noticed that the sea was racing by just a few feet below us. The frustrated German firing squad were still doing their damdest to down us but were unable to depress their weapon sufficiently and their erratic fire was passing well overhead. The Skipper seemed to have survived the trouble up front and, as I emerged alongside him, he dumb-founded me by sticking his tongue out and giving me an energetic and cheery RAF version of Churchill's famous 'V' sign. That was the caliber of a 20 year-old that I was lucky enough to be going to War with.

Just prior to the rude interruption, Johnny Lloyd had handed me a diversion note instructing all aircraft to land at the Experimental Airfield at Boscombe Downs so I went back to my cosy cabin to calculate a change of Course. If  Frank wasn't going to worry about the situation then why should I? But this was easier said than done and as I realized that for the moment we had by-passed the Pearly Gates, my hands began to shake so that a simple manipulation of the Dalton Computer became a difficult task. Eventually I did manage it and, without the benefit of the intercom, had to go forward and set the new Course on Frank's compass before shouting in his ear the reason for the change of plan, Nick, who was still in his position in the bomb-bay was looking very grim I noticed. His appearance, of course, was not improved by the fact that the hydraulic pipe above his head had shattered and the green oil that engulfed him had made him look even more like an authentic Irish Leprechaun.

There was still some time to go before daybreak as we arrived on the circuit at Boscombe Downs and joined the many Lancasters of 5 Group who were orbiting the airfield. Our particular predicament was that with the wrecked R/T we had no means of contacting the Flying Control and with the fuel supply giving some anxiety, the Skipper tried 3 or 4 times to gate crash the proceedings only to be confronted on each approach by an angry red Very Cartridge. Finally as dawn was breaking over this unique grassy airfield, some alert Controller noticed that the ' rogue ' Lancaster (who was due for a rollicking on landing) had a re-arranged front end and might well also have a few re-arranged bodies on board. We were given some priority and returned to earth with a feeling of gratitude that many a member of aircrew came to know but few could put adequately into words.

There was a scarcity of accommodation for itinerant aircrew and once again they had to snatch an hour or two's sleep in a Mess chair or on the carpet. Nick was still in some state of shock as he gazed blankly at the wall and defied all our jolly efforts to cheer him up. If our great leader, Butch Harris, had appeared on the scene that morning there was sporting chance that our bomb aimer might have told him what to do with his Air Force. Later that morning we had to leave our Lancaster for some restoration work and we scrounged lifts back to Bottesford in other aircraft. By the time we arrived there Nick had recovered sufficiently to forget his plans for an immediate return to Northern Ireland and to leave flying to the birds.

There was a surprise the following morning when the Photographic Reconnaissance Mosquito returned with the news that the Skoda Works were still functioning and showed no sign whatever of recent damage. It was no surprise to the Heavery crew and confirmed our doubts of the accuracy of the previous night's exercise. We were told by the Intelligence staff that the Mossie had, in fact, brought back pictorial evidence that an unfortunate brewery some miles from Pilsen had been reduced to a smoking ruin. This left the crews with mixed feelings. They were maliciously pleased that the enemy's taverns might well be suffering the annoyance of short rations that we regularly encountered on our visits to Newark or Grantham. On the other hand the thought of all that lovely lager running down the gutters was somewhat sad.

If the real truth had been revealed to them at that time they would have been horrified rather than merely sad. It was after the War that the people of this Country were informed that the tragic error of the Pathfinders had resulted in the destruction of a Mental Asylum. The German High Command at that time were constantly broadcasting their contempt of the murderous bunch of schweinhund they referred to as the British Terror Flyers. Apparently we were a more despicable rabble than their Luftwaffe heroes who had shown us the way by showering their loads on Rotterdam, Coventry, Hull and London. Many people cowering in air raid shelters in Berlin (or indeed London) would have visions of airmen aloft laughing gleefully as they dropped their bombs. The truth would be very different. They were young men who had become involved in a War that was none of their making and at that time would be suffering similar fears, sometimes terror, as were the unhappy civilians below. They were forever aware that violent and horrendous deaths were occurring in the skies around them and that their own demise might well be imminent.

All Wars are evil and all active participants are defiled by them. But the chivalry of past centuries had long since disappeared. The aim of modern Warring Nations is to win at all costs. Everyone felt that the Nazi's were an iniquitous regime and the Concentration Camps that were to be uncovered later endorsed this. Great Britain had been within an hairsbreadth of suffering the fate of millions of enslaved Continentals and, whatever the cost to us or the enemy, we had to ensure that our families were never to be engulfed by Hitler and his henchmen. In the end, Victory had to be won though, perhaps, no one could be proud of the means that were often implemented. In the appalling air battles it was inevitable that tragic consequences occurred from time to time.

The attitude of aircrews could be illustrated by the experience of one young air gunner on 467 Squadron. He had just emerged from the Briefing for his first operation and was probably encountering for the first time the feelings of apprehension and mild panic that most men felt but struggled to conceal. This pleasant and decent young lad had sought to combat his fears by adopting a ' tough guy ' approach and informed everyone within earshot that he " Hoped there would be a few school playgrounds and maternity homes to prang ". This stopped all the conversations and he was visibly shocked by the furious and savage response from several of the hardened ' Veterans ' around him. These older men (though the majority of them were still in their early twenties) took no joy from the

personal tragedies that they were inflicting on the German population but it must be understood that the civilized life-style that Britain enjoyed came very close to being wiped out and we were fighting desperately for our very existence.

The flying members of Bomber Command who were fortunate enough to survive those days bitterly resent some of the judgments of young latter-day Historians and Peace at any Price fanatics who, with the benefit of hindsight, are always ready to condemn the selfless efforts of many of our generation. Anyone who was not even alive in those dark days will never begin to understand how desperate the struggle was at times and only the tooth and nail resistance of Britons and Allies kept the evil Nazi war machine from trampling all over us. They should realize that the right they so freely indulge in to preach and protest and the law and order that protects them even in acts of civil disobedience was earned for them by a proud generation who had the guts to stand up to all the horrors of War and offer to lay down their lives to preserve their families freedom and futures.

There were no murmurings from such people in those dark days as they kept their heads well down below the parapets.

We were not to be so lucky and two nights later as Briefing commenced it was some relief to see that a further visit to La Spezia was on the agenda. The route and method were almost identical to the previous one but an early mishap was reported by Ken Butterworth as, after only 10 minutes flying, his mid upper turret refused to function properly which restricted his efficiency for the next 9 hours or so. We were all pleased that it was an Ice Cream Trip and not the Happy Valley. Once again it was possible to dive successfully through the Fighter Belt and press on towards the breath-taking beauty of the moonlit Swiss scenery. Switzerland was, of course, a neutral Country and entitled to expect that all combatants should keep out of their airspace. This was usually ignored by the RAF and while the Swiss sometimes protested with a token display of anti-aircraft fire, it was always 2,000 feet below us and, we felt, laid on more to placate the Germans than to inconvenience us.

The Met man did not supply his wonder wind on this occasion and I had to work a little at the navigation before, once again, we were admiring the brilliant flare that illuminated the mirror-like surface of the Alpine lake. From there we pressed forward and shortly before 2 a.m. were crossing the Bay of Genoa. There was already some activity from the defenses of Spezia and they seemed to be putting on a braver display than last time. There was no cause for alarm, however, as exactly as before, the first RAF bomb to be

going down was passed by the last enemy shell coming up. Once again the defenses went to ground except for the ever-increasing smoke-screen and there was a carnival atmosphere on board our Lancaster as we indulged in 3 dummy runs before dropping the bombs.

There was one unexpected happening as we set out to re-cross the bay when an Italian bi-plane was seen to cross behind us from starboard to port but he held his course and was obviously hell-bent on leaving the action as quickly an possible. This brought a typical quip from the irrepressible Butterworth. His unreliable turret was forgotten as he sadly remarked, " I could have shot the little sod down if only I could have stopped laughing ". I think we were all secretly pleased that he had not done so.

Once again as we left the Mediterranean behind the guns and search­lights of Spezia had resumed their gallant efforts though by this time the last Lancaster or Halifax must have been well clear of the area as their crews produced their coffee flasks and chocolate rations to fortify them­selves for the long and boring journey home. 1 remembered the last fiasco on our visit to Italy and was hovering over the GEE set long before the first faint pulses were struggling to appear through the grass that was jamming the screen. When they finally emerged strong enough to extract the co-ordinates and obtain a fix it was a relief that it plotted reasonably close to the intended Track. From then it was easy to project our position at 6 minute intervals and even possible to dose off in between them. There was no risk of harassment until nearing the Fighter belt and Frank was able to leave the flying of the aircraft to ' George '.

At last it was time to alert the crew that we were now approaching the land dominated by the more respected member of the Axis Forces and from this point on we were back in the serious War. The rest of the journey was trouble free and, after 9 hours in the air, we touched down at Bottesford as dawn was breaking and the bleary-eyed ground crews were heading for their daily duties. As for us, we were ready for the egg, bacon and fried bread and then the even more welcome sight of our Nisson Hut and the hard bed therein.

There was to be an unsavory episode concerning the Squadron Adjutant about this time, A dark and dapper man with a neatly trimmed moustache. He had the appearance of a Gigolo and, indeed, it was rumored that his pre-war occupation had been that of a Ballroom Dance Instructor.

Our personal contact with him, as NCOs, had been slight but one morning as we cycled down to the Flight Offices we came across him holding a blistering one-way conversation with a scruffy looking fitter on the subject of discipline. It appeared that the tired and grimy airman, after a hard night's work on the cold and wet airfield, had actually endangered the War Effort by returning to his billet with his cap in his hand rather than on his head. When at last the offender was allowed to retire, The Adjutant mounted his bike and rode alongside us. With a superior smirk he informed us that, " They don't like being corrected you know ". We ourselves had not enjoyed the incident either though no one thought it wise to tell him that. The ground staff were doing a tremendous job in keeping our Lancasters flying, often in appalling conditions. Every intelligent Station Commander had the good sense to under­stand this and to realize that the efficiency and work-rate of a Squadron would best be served by keeping the spit and polish of the Training Establishment down to a minimum.

On one dull no-flying day we were favored by a visit from the cameras of British Movietone News, This was in connection with the Berlin raids of the previous month and in due course the entire Squadron aircrews were lined up in front of a Lancaster. Understandably, the Officers were in the middle and nearest to the microphone. Only 3 crews had actually taken part in all 3 of the raids, these being the ones of Sergeant's Ball, Cairney and Heavery but, as NCOs, we found ourselves as expected underneath the port wing-tip. In the very centre was the Adjutant and, from our distant viewpoint, he seemed to be taking an active part in the interview. For some reason he wore the wings of a pilot though no-one had any knowledge of his flying career and the nearest he had been to Berlin was when he waved us goodbye at the start of the runway, The B.B.C. Interviewer could have been forgiven for thinking that he had played a leading role in the missions and the Adjutant for his part seemed to be supplying a harrowing account of the hardship one could expect to encounter on a visit to the Big City.

Wing Commander Gomm, who had actually been through the ordeal, was content in his modest way to stay in the background and, when later the News­reel was shown in the Camp Cinema we realized that our families back home who had been instructed to visit their local cinema would have mistakenly thought that 467 Squadron was commanded by the short and voluble heroic figure rather than the tall and handsome character lurking behind him.

One of the unenviable duties of an Adjutant was to supervise the return of the effects of missing aircrew to their families. Later on a special appointment known as a Committee of Adjustment was set up to perform these sad tasks and it was possible that 467 had something to do with this. It was commonplace for a crew to be declared as ' Missing ' at breakfast-time and by lunch-time their billets would be stripped of all their belongings. Often before night fell a newly arrived set of aircrew would be occupying their recently vacated beds. The kit of the departed airmen would be gathered together and carefully examined with special attention being given to any correspondence. Some had wives. Some had girlfriends. A few even had both so it was important that any letters that might upset the relatives must be destroyed before returning the remaining possessions to the Next-of-Kin.

For some time the C.O. had been embarrassed by letters from grieving families thanking him for the return of personal items but asking what had become of a watch or a camera or suchlike valuable articles. Eventually the RAFs Provost Services were called upon to investigate the discrepancies but before they had time to apply there expertise the mystery was solved by a sharp-eyed Aussie air gunner. He and his all-Australian, all Sergeant crew had recently arrived from another Squadron with half a Tour already behind them. They had all been recommended for commissions and eventually the a appointments came through. All except for the disgruntled rear gunner who, sadly, had to hang about the Station while his jubilant crew-mates traveled to kit themselves out and enjoy 4 days leave in the flesh-pots of London. When they returned, rather self-consciously in their smoother blue outfits, there was just time for 1 more Op together before the gunner caught up with them and he set off on a solitary leave in search of his new uniform.

Uppermost in his mind as he traveled back to Bottesford must have been the thought of joining his mates in the Officer's Mess but he was shocked to discover that in his absence they had undertaken one more mission from which they had unfortunately failed to return. In their happier days together in the Sgt's Mess they had shared a room and also a communal radio and the lad reckoned, as sole survivor, that the set would now belong to him. He was to find there was no radio in the inventory of their belongings but that did not deter the young Aussie and he decided to carry out some detective work on his own account. One day he was passing along a corridor in the Officer's Mess just as a bat-woman was entering the Adjutant's room. As any normal Australian would, his eyes followed the trim figure of the WAAF and, on a table next to the bed, he espied a radio that looked familiar. His suspicions were quickly conveyed to the Provost Officer who took it upon himself to carry out a discreet examination of the Adjutant's quarters. His expert search procedure soon revealed a number of missing valuables that immediately answered all the questions of the bereaved relatives.

The wheels of justice were set in motion on that infamous day though the aircrews were totally unaware of the developments as at that time they were busy preparing themselves for yet another night of adventure. This time to Stettin in the North East corner of Germany. There would certainly have been scenes of great anger in both the Officer's and the Sergeant's Messes for in their eyes to steal the possessions of our late comrades was just about as low as anyone could stoop.

By nightfall we were once again winging across the North Sea. This time to cross the Northern tip of Denmark and to take advantage of the safety offered by the neutral skies of Sweden. The Swedes could be relied upon to produce some token of protest but, as in Switzerland, their anti-aircraft batteries were content to aim well below our flight path. After the black­ out of Europe their brightly lit towns and cities were a sight we enjoyed and enabled navigators to check their positions and ensure that an accurate pin point on the Eastern coast-line would enable them to cross the Baltic Sea on Track before arriving at the North German sea shore. The lightly defended area around Stettin offered only slight resistance and from 12,000 feet a successful attack was carried out with several large explosions reported by all crews. Once again we were happy to avoid the shorter route home across the unfriendly Third Reich and a more Northerly circuitous journey brought us safely back to Bottesford after 8 hours flying time.

It was then that we heard the news of our late unlamented Adjutant who by this time had been discreetly removed and was never seen again on 467 Squadron. His verbal performance before the Movietone News cameras was remembered and many of the pilots would willingly have shown him what Berlin was really like. Preferably a one-way passage with a seat on the bomb doors.

The list above my bed had grown impressively longer. There were now the names of 23 targets showing. We were now leading the field and it was just possible that we might attain the magic number of 30.

There was to be a brief interlude, however, due to an outbreak of diphtheria at Bottesford. Diphtheria was regarded as a serious and contagious disease in those days and resulted in all personnel being confined to camp until further notice. After two days someone in the hierarchy decided that it was not necessary to inflict this irksome restriction on the aircrews. They, and they alone, would be allowed to leave the airfield. Always provided that they were accompanied by a Lancaster and a 4,000 lb bomb and heading in an Easterly direction. Needless to say, the aircrews would have been more than happy to endure the incarceration along with all the other inhabitants of Bottesford.

When the door was locked next day in the Briefing Room it was notice­able that an elderly Medical Officer had joined the ranks of the experts on the platform. After the target was unveiled --- another outing to Duisburg -- the Wing Commander gave his usual pep talk and then the Specialist Leaders provided all the essential information for this particular raid. The Met Officer then took the stage and his prediction of cloud over Germany and clear skies on return produced the inevitable response of sardonic cheers and comments. Finally the silver-haired M.O. stood up and preceded to lecture all present on the subject of diphtheria and the daunting aspect of such an affliction. We were admiring his smooth-tongues, bedside manner but were visibly shocked as he concluded by saying that, in the unfortunate event of any aircraft being shot down and the crew taken prisoner, they must immediately inform their captors of the situation and suggest that they should be placed in quarantine.

It apparently had never occurred to the gentle Doctor, or indeed to anyone else on the platform, that the Germans might just possibly have discovered an instant cure for diphtheria and the isolation suggested could result in a long stay in a lonely wooden box. The thought had occurred immediately to the startled individuals who were gathered round the briefing tables but, perhaps being more personally involved, their wits were somewhat sharper at the time. I knew that I for one had no intention of sharing the secret of my possible affliction with any Gestapo thug who may be interested and the crew quickly confirmed that 6 others, at least, were of a similar opinion. By the sound of the muttering around us we were not alone.

We took to the air at one minute past midnight and for some reason had the novel experience of being caught in the beam of a persistent search­light as we circled the Bottesford airfield. This produced some bad language from our usually mild-mannered, but now infuriated, Skipper and he instructed me to enter a few choice comments in the log. Two hours later the citizens of Duisburg were again undergoing what must have been a terrifying ordeal as, from 18,000 feet, we unloaded our cargo of 1-4,000 lb bomb and a host of 41b incendiaries. All the crews of 467 Squadron returned safely to Bottesford and the Germans were at least spared the possibility of sharing our unfortunate epidemic.

When, a few days later, the curfew was lifted there was the usual stampede by All Ranks to catch up with the joys of civilization and sample the delights of nearby Newark, Grantham or Nottingham. As expected, after closing time, the souvenir hunters were busy and the following morning at least two of Nottingham's Belisha Beacons had been re-sited on the road to the Flight Offices.

For some reason there was to be a further lapse of ten days before any flying was carried out and everyone was happy to enjoy such a respite. For some time we had noticed that Jock was spending less of his free time in the company of the crew and could usually be found at 6 p.m. occupying a seat on the Liberty Bus to Nottingham. Our suspicions were confirmed that the dour Scotsman was indulging in an amorous dalliance with one of the many ' temporary War Widows ' whose bottoms seemed to cover so many of the seats in the Pubs of the Fair City of Robin Hood. His evenings of ecstasy came to a sudden end when a certain Army Sergeant returned unexpectedly from the Middle East. Poor Jock had to suffer the ignominy of two lovely black eyes and the shamefully unsympathetic comments and suggestions of his crew-mates but, to his credit, he endured it all with a philosophic dignity and an occasional wry smile indicated that he thought his misdemeanor had been well rewarded.

When at last we were back in business it was yet another run to Duisburg. Our 5th outing to that sorry City. There were lighter moments on the way at the sight of Jock as he peered through half closed eyes at his instruments but it would have taken more than a bout of fisticuffs to deflect our flight engineer from his usual competent performance. At this stage of the Tour I was often content to to spend the whole journey within the safety (?) of the black-out curtains around the nav table and thus be blissfully unaware of the angry red flashes in the sky that quickly changed into wisps of black smoke. Nick and the gunners were welcome to their grandstand views. It was possible to concentrate so hard an the navigation that all thoughts of the surrounding mayhem were eliminated. I tried hard to do so but never entirely succeeded.

There were constant reminders from the thuds of near misses and more often than not there was some damage to the Lancaster to keep the ground crews busy on return. I was shocked one night when a fearsome whack underneath the nav bench sent a shock-wave through my posterior. My anxiously exploring fingers revealed no sign of blood or damage which was reassuring. After all, who wants a war wound that can't be shown to a friend? On the floor was a still hot piece of jagged metal that luckily must have run out of steam as it passed through the fuselage and struck the solid nav bench.

On returning from Duisburg there was just enough time for a few hours sleep before the inevitable Air Tests and as the petrol bowsers labored to supply every Lancaster with a full ration of fuel it was obvious that another long night was on the agenda. Remembering the previous months fiasco at Pilsen it was no surprise to see the red tape once again stretching out to Czechoslovakia. As the Wingco took the stage we were flattered to learn that, on this occasion, the Pilsen raid was to be entrusted to 5 Group. We were an arrogant lot who regarded ourselves as the elite of Bomber Command though the lads of all the other Groups would have scorned such impudent assertions. At least on this occasion we, or perhaps more truthfully the Pathfinders, managed to locate the Skoda Works at Pilsen and this time they suffered a full-scale RAF blitz. The defenses were lighter than expected and our only problem was with the camera which somehow failed to function. It was always a satisfying moment to visit The Intelligence Library and see a clear picture of the aiming point with the name of Sgt Heavery attached to it.

There was a trouble free but long and weary flight back to England and it was especially pleasing to touch down at Botteford at 0517 that morning. This time there was no intention of  taking to our beds as by early afternoon we ware all headed in different directions to savor another glorious 9 days of well earned leave. There was some sadness, however, as Sgt Mahoney and his crew had failed to return from Pilsen. This loss was particularly upsetting to us as Sgt Mahoney, a young Australian pilot, had made his debut as 2nd Dickey with the Heavery crew on the Spezia raid just a few weeks earlier.

It was unbelievable how swiftly the 9 days of leave could be torn from the calendar and the depressing gloom that persisted on the return train journey only lifted a little on reaching Newark with the thought of sharing sorrows with the rest of the crew. As we gathered together in the Mess. After supper we were eager to hear from the other crews of any changes in our absence and to be told the fate of any others whose names may have been rubbed off the blackboard.

We ourselves had come close to being removed from the 467 ration strength a few weeks earlier after a surprise invitation to visit the wing commander in his office. He explained to us that a new elite Special Duties Squadron was to be formed in 5 Group and the C.O. of every Squadron had been ordered to contribute by submitting the names of any veteran crew of outstanding ability. It was a proud moment for us when he said that he had reluctantly decided to release us and our first thought was of the honour to be thus chosen.

As he went on to elaborate I began to have different ideas however. It appeared that the new Squadron was to be formed immediately and an intensive low-flying programme had to be carried out before operations. He stressed that there was little point in undergoing all this training merely to complete the few trips that remained on our 1st Tour and that all crews selected would be asked to undertake a new complete Tour with the Special Duties Squadron. Finally the Wing Commander said that there was to be no compulsion for us to leave 467. It had to be a voluntary effort and he would give us time to think things over.

We adjourned to a secluded corner of the Crew Room to discuss the offer. Frank in his quiet, imperturbable manner indicated that he was quite willing to give it a go and Sid, who saw the chance of even more difficult targets in his log book, had the look of one of God's chosen people. It was a source of wonder to me that Frank never seemed to have acquired the strain, and the odd nervous twitch, that many of us were laboring under. Indeed there was one occasion when we returned to the Interrogation Room to find that the Group Commander, Air Vice-Marshal Cochrane, had honored us by a visit. He must surely have been impressed by our youthful and nonchalant Skipper after one of the longer harrowing excursions over the Third Reich as he was heard to remark with some surprise that " The young pilot over there looks as if he has just taken the dog for a walk round the block ".

As the only married man in the crew my thoughts regarding an immediate 2nd Tour were somewhat different. I felt that my Wife was owed some consideration and that the outstanding trips on 467 would enable me to take an honorable retirement from the field of conflict. A view that was heartily endorsed by our Irish bomb aimer. Nick had the advantage of age and intelligence over all of us and also the disadvantage of occupying the most frightening position in the Lancaster. Having to lie face down across the escape hatch and ignore the flak bursting around and ahead whilst calmly guiding the aircraft through the inferno required a special brand of courage. He had never shirked this ordeal but the shell that narrowly missed his head on the Pilsen raid had hardly increased his enthusiasm and he was already looking forward to the more civilized life as an OTU Instructor. The rest of the crew, Ken, Jock and Johnny Lloyd, were also less than keen on commencing an immediate 2nd Tour and, after some argument, we finally persuaded the Skipper to accept the majority decision. Frank went back to the Wingco and declined his offer of glory but I don't think that he ever forgave his crew for their lack of press-on spirit.

Wing Commander Gomm accepted our derision and, after further consideration, decided that the crew of Flight Sergeant Dyers should be put forward and they readily agreed with this. F/Sgt Dyers was a solidly built young Canadian pilot with more flying experience than most but who was still in the early stages of his 1st Tour. His crew were a tough, blasphemous bunch who laced every conversation with a string of colorful adjectives which they freely used a few days later as they happily packed their kit before traveling the short journey to Scampton.

The new Squadron was, of course, the immortal 617 led by Guy Gibson and shortly afterwards they could be seen hedge-hopping their way across the fields of bomber country before making mock attacks on the dams of Sheffield and Scotland. In just a few days the training programme reached its climax and on the morning of the 17th of May 1943, the people of Britain and the World were thrilled to read and hear of their Dam Busting exploits. Later they would be saddened to learn of the loss of so many gallant airmen who failed to return. Sadly, F/Sgt Byers and his lads were probably the first crew to be slaughtered that night. Shortly after crossing the Zuider Zee they were brought to earth by a sudden barrage of light flak and, with the 'bouncing bomb' still on board, their end must have been mercifully abrupt.

We were anxious to press on with our Tour on returning from leave with only 4 raids remaining but, for some reason, 5 Group decided to give the enemy a respite and for the next ten days or so, a programme of Practice Bombing was carried out along with Formation Flying and Air Firing. This should have been a pleasant period of relaxation for us but, unfortunately, it co-incided with a shock announcement from our Skipper that his off-duty sessions in the Sergeant's Mess had now ended and his future drinking would be confined to lemonade. This we found hard to swallow ( as no doubt he did ) but we were totally unprepared for the results of his newfound evangelism. His touchdown on returning from the first session of Practice Bombing was diabolical and his next attempt was even more bone-juddering. We had always boasted that his landings were an example to all the less talented pilots and so this new development was causing some alarm. After two further ham-fisted efforts the crew were anxiously trying to persuade him that perhaps teetotalism was not him and were even seen to be begging Frank to have a large beer on them. He was already suffering from withdrawal symptoms and eventually succumbed to our pleadings. The bar sales returned to normal and that was the end of our bruising returns to earth.

When later 'normal services' were resumed the Ruhr Valley was chosen to undergo the onslaught of Bomber Command and we gathered for a briefing on Dortmund. The Cities of the vast industrial areas were already in a sorry state but the same could not be said of the surrounding anti-aircraft batteries. They were still throwing a fearsome barrage around the sky and the ruses of back-room strategists to outwit them seldom succeeded. On an earlier occasion they had caused us to laboriously climb out of the target instead of the more favored rapid diving exit. This time some bright spark planned a return route directly across the centre of Essen. 36 aircraft were lost on this night. The maneuver may have taken the Germans by surprise but it definitely startled the RAF participants and did nothing to reduce the nervous twitches that many of them had already acquired. Sid and Ken reported several signs of fighter activities in the vicinity of Dortmund and Essen but once again we were fortunate enough to avoid being involved with them as we raced back to Bottesford. Frank had recently acquired the title of ' First Back Heavery' and again we had our choice of Intelligence Officers who were waiting to de-brief the crews.

A couple of nights later I was adding the name of Düsseldorf to the proud list that now adorned the wall of our sleeping quarters. Düsseldorf had been an unlucky target for 467 Squadron in recent weeks. Just 10 days ago we had lost F/Sgt Parsons --- the young Australian who had accompanied us to Essen on his 2nd Dickey trip back in April. This ill-fated outing had been his 10th mission. Now on this night it was the turn of another Australian, Flying Officer Giddey, to disappear. Sadly he and his crew were on their first mission.

Now we had only 2 more raids to go and we were still on course to become the first crew to complete a whole Tour on 467 Squadron though 3 other crews were in close contention. We were aware that Frank had only one to go as we remembered the chilly night back in January when we had waited anxiously for him to return from his 2nd Dickey trip. None of us were very happy at the prospect of farewell performances as ' spare bods' with any unknown crew who may be temporarily short of a member. Secretly we were hoping that the Skipper would volunteer an extra effort to enable us to complete the tour together but no-one would ever have suggested that to him. There were several instances in 5 Group of generous Tour-expired pilots who had got the 'chop' in similar situations and surely Frank deserved a better fate than that.

In the end Wing Commander Gomm solved the problem for us. He declared that we had given him good service throughout our time on 467 with none of the early returns that Squadron Commanders frowned upon. Therefore one more raid -­-- Frank's 30th --- would also be regarded as the whole crew's Completion of Tour and we were more than happy to go along with his judgment.

Superstitions were widely believed in by most flying personnel. Many carried good luck charms or performed certain rituals before Take-off. Rabbit's feet ( that hadn't brought the rabbits much luck,) girl friends silk stockings -- even bras were popular. My already anxious Mother had slipped a tiny black cat charm in my top pocket on the day I left to join the RAF. I was inclined to scoff at all this good luck rubbish but made sure that this trinket never left my possession. We clutched at every straw that might ensure preservation.

Another inexplicable belief was that it was bad luck to wash the long, white aircrew sweater and, consequently, a man’s time on the Squadron could be calculated by the disgusting amount of grime he had acquired. Many were also convinced that the Gremlins were out in force on a crew's 30 Op and that this, along with the 1st, made them most vulnerable. But this view must have been logically unsound for surely the experience gained while surviving 29 raids would have equipped them to deal with situations that were beyond the abilities of 'sprog' crews. Though, of course, luck could just as easily run out on the retirement run. All the older Squadrons could produce evidence of many of their best craws who had failed to negotiate the last hurdle and as we meticulously air-tested our Lancaster on the afternoon of 27th of May there was an unspoken resolve that everyone of us would be doing our utmost to ensure a safe return for our last trip.

Later as we gathered in the crowded Briefing Room we were touched by the concern of many of the other crews who, for a moment, forgot their own anxieties as they gave us a thumbs-up signal. Some of the younger ones who were just starting out found it hard to conceal their envy but, at least, we were proof that it was possible to arrive at the magic end of the rainbow. With any luck, Sgt's Ball and Cairney and Flying Officer Desmond would be completing their Tours in the near future.

When the Wing Commander and his retinue took their places on the platform that night the buzz of conversations faded as the wallboard was uncovered and the target revealed. This was to be no easy one to finish on for once again it was to be the Krupps Works at Essen. Hardly the one that we would have chosen for our farewell performance but we were eager now to get on with it. Take-off time was at 2200 hours and the thick cloud cover was very acceptable as was the 8/10ths that was forecast for the target area. There was the usual cluster of well-wishers at the head of the runway as Frank opened the throttles to produce the thundering roar of 4 mighty Merlins before releasing the brakes and thrusting us into a headlong charge down the concrete path. Often the Station Commander would be standing alongside the waving WAAFs and airmen. It was almost a ritual for many an air gunner to offer him a two-fingered RAF gesture as they sped past and this never failed to produce a wide grin and a pukka salute from the Group Captain. He well understood the terrific tension they were attempting to conceal by a show of bravado. It was also customary ( at least for me ) to say a little prayer at this stage and, as ever, I wondered if those cheering lads and lasses realized how much we appreciated their moral support.

At last we lifted off the runway and joined the swarm of Lancasters already circling the neighboring airfields before, at the appointed time and with chorus line precision, they turned onto an Easterly heading and joined the deadly procession before allowing the rich, green countryside below to enjoy once again the quiet peace of centuries past. The shadowy coastline slid underneath us and after a check all the instruments ( not the least of which being that the navigation lights were switched off ) we busied ourselves at our various stations for this last jaunt across the North Sea. Some time later the clouds ahead were illuminated by bright and angry flashes of violence and as the first red Marker flares were seen to go down it was obvious that the defenders of Essen had lost none of their ferocity. For the last time Nick lined up his bombsight and maneuvered the aiming point down his graticule before pressing the release button. Then cams the nest agonizingly long 12 seconds as Frank ignored the ever-encroaching sounds ( sometimes metallic ) in his determination to secure a final aiming point photograph. As my anxious voice completed the 3-2-1-Zero countdown he forced the control column forward to evade the groping search-lights before a violent turn to port that would bring us round to the most important section of this journey, The return route.

As always I checked that Polaris was on the starboard side and that we were indeed heading in a Westerly direction. There was the usual false feeling of relief that we were no longer sitting on a 4,000 lb bomb but this was no time for relaxation and every available eye was searching the sky for unfriendly aircraft. Sid and Ken would be controlling nervous trigger fingers as they recognized the dark shadows of other returning 4-engined Bombers and an occasional distant exchange of fire indicated that the Luftwaffe were seeking retribution. We were fortunate enough once again to avoid any close encounters as the Skipper sought to uphold his new-found reputation of ‘First Back Heavery’ and at 0304 we touched down on the runway at Bottesford before any other aircraft had joined the circuit. As the 4 trusty Merlins were silenced after taxying to our dispersal to be greeted by a jubilant ground crew it would be difficult to describe our emotions. This was the moment we had hoped for, and prayed for, though commonsense had told us that it would be foolish to expect it to happen. I was not the only crew member who sank to his knees and kissed the ground on that cold, sweet early morning and the WAAF driver who ferried us to de-briefing had never carried a more boisterous set of passengers. The first fragrant mug of coffee had never tasted better as we enjoyed the congratulations from all around including a firm handshake and a pat on the back from a beaming Group Captain, Then, as other tired aircrews returned we appreciated their genuine delight to see that Heavery's lot had finally made it.

Imperceptibly the tension that had lived with us for the past 5 months was already beginning to slacken but, perhaps for the first time, came the realization of the pride and privilege of sharing the exploits and being fully paid-up members of this band of brothers known as 467 squadron. Dame Fortune had certainly smiled on us as later records would show that 64 crews had come onto the strength of 467 in 1943 and that 44 of them were sadly destined to go down on the Honors List as ' Failed to return from Operations'. Inevitably we were about to cross the invisible dividing line that separated Operational Aircrew from the envied ranks of ex-operational types. The cup winners at Wembley often appear reluctant to leave the field of triumph and we understood their emotions as we were in no hurry to depart from the acclamation on that memorable night. When later we trooped off to the Sgt's Mess for breakfast there were still one or two of the Essen raiders unaccounted for. The bacon and egg had never tasted better. After every previous sortie the optimistic Butterworth had made an unsuccessful bid for second helpings. Now he was to be rendered speechless ( no mean feat ) when a smiling cook at last rewarded his persistence before he was halfway through his first breakfast.

Finally we retired to our billet with no thoughts of sleep but not before a last check to confirm, as we hoped, that all 467 had returned safely. Sadly our feelings of elation were dampened to learn that one crew was not accounted for. The luck of Flying Officer Desmond and his lads had run out on their 22nd trip. We were especially saddened by this as they had joined 467 Squadron along with us as founder members back in November.

We ourselves could now expect an immediate, and much more relaxed, 9 days of welcome leave but before rushing off to enjoy that the long promised and traditional End of Tour Party for the faithful ground crew had to be organized. Most of them had set out as 'sprogs' along with us and were a great bunch of lads. Of course they 'reproached' us when we brought back a damaged Lancaster, which we did on many a trip. It was impossible to fly across Essen etc, without collecting some signs of shrapnel but they would cheerfully work round the clock if it meant us getting back safely. Some crews managed to complete a full tour in the same aircraft, Years later I was surprised to discover from my log book that our crew had occupied 11 different Lancasters.

As we adjourned to the village pub at Long Bennington the seven of us got together a 'kitty' to provide the beer for the evening's festivities but the Erks had other ideas. THEY were giving US the Send-off and soon the pints provided were being augmented by their contribution of the hard stuff. The events that followed are a little hazy now, in fact they were not very clear the next morning but I do recall the landlord calling Time Please at which point a large Leading Aircraftsman tripped me up and leapt across ny chest with a huge clasp-knife in his hand. Surely, I thought, this silly sod is not blaming me for all the ventilation holes in his hydraulics ?

I need not have worried. It seemed that he was just a souvenir hunter and I willingly settled for the loss of stripes and flying bars --er--brevet.

Which was why my family were surprised next day when their favorite flyer arrived home as a rather disheveled A.C.2. They should have been pleased ( as I was ) that he had not returned singing soprano.

It was with somewhat lighter hearts that we returned to Bottesford nine days later. There was no longer the need to suppress anxieties as to what the next night, or the one after that, might have in store for us. No-one, of course, would have admitted to having suffered such apprehensions but never the less they were there. The sad reality was that the crew were now about to be elevated to more prestigious appointments as Instructors (or ' Screens ' as they were known).

For the past nine months we had shared every facet of life, not only living together but at times coming disparately close to dying together.

We had unconsciously built a bond of respect and affection for each other and about to be scattered to all corners of Bomber or Training Command. Things were not quite so bad at Flight Office the next day when postings were revealed. At least they were not so bad for the other 6 crew members. They would be going together to the Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Silverstone. Unfortunately I was to be the odd man out as some sadistic moron at Group or the Air Ministry had decided that my services would be required at 16 OTU  Wing, an airfield equidistant between Aylesbury and Leighton Buzzard.

One of the perks of being ex-Operational Aircrew was that from now on a transfer to another Station would no longer entail a long and tedious journey on an overcrowded railway train. It would always be possible to wangle an air­lift, officially recorded as an Air Test. On this occasion our genial C Flight Commander, Squadron Leader Thiele, DSO, DFC and bar, volunteered to do the honors. It vas a sard day as we said goodbye to 467 Squadron at Bottesford but I myself was even sadder shortly afterwards as the Lancaster landed at Wing and I jumped to the ground to be followed by my two kitbags. There were tears in my eyes as I stood forlornly watching Frank, Nicky, Jock, Johnny, Sid and Ken disappear down the runway into the sunlight en route to Silverstone. For a moment it reminded me of all the final shots of the old Charlie Chaplin movies.

There was something odd about the airfield as I took stock of the surroundings and I realised that it was the aircraft that were parked around the dispersals. The vintage aeroplanes, the Wellingtons, had seemed so large on my first acquaintance at Bircotes but now, after the magnificent Lancaster, they had the appearance of waddling ducks. I made a mental note that while it had been possible to walk under the whirling props of a Lanc it would now he fatal to leave the forward exit of the Wimpey and pursue a similar path. I reported to the Guard Room and then the Sgt's Mess to be directed to a billet and later to the Station Navigation Officer who welcomed me as an Instructor and allocated me to C Flight. It was an odd co-incidence that the S.N.O. was Squadron Leader W.I.N.G. Doig and I wondered what joker had seen fit to appoint him to RAF Wing.

C Flight, at least, would keep me out of the classroom aspect of Instructing and there would be plenty of flying details to occupy the time and ensure a continuity of flying pay. The Navigation Staff of C Flight consisted of 2 Officers and a Warrant Officer and I felt very conscious as a Sergeant of being the junior member. Though just a few weeks later my promotion to Flight Sergeant was promulgated and I fixed the shiny brass crowns above my stripes. As the trainees were crewed up they came under the jurisdiction of C Flight. Each Course was made up of 16 crews ( 12 in the Winter months due to restricted flying conditions ) who would be getting their first taste of performing together in a Bomber and it was our responsibility to arrange the flying details, shepherd them through the exercises and, on return, to discuss with them the shortcomings of their logs and charts. Every crew had to be accompanied ( or screened ) on their first day and first night cross-country. I assumed that the Staff Pilots demanded the presence of Nav and Wireless/Ops Instructors to ensure that they did not get lost while being fed Courses by sprog navigators . After all, the cross-countries were carried out in all kind of weather conditions and descending through 10/10ths of icy cloud could be a dicey occupation in blacked-out Britain. Similarly, no Staff Navigator or W/Op, having survived the rigors of Ops over Germany, had the death wish to travel around the sky every other night with an inexperienced trainee pilot at the front end.

The C Flight Nav Officer informed me that the current Course was at this time about to commence their night flying activities and, consequently, I could begin to earn my Instructor's pay that very night. No advice was offered as to what exactly a Screen Navigator was expected to contribute to the success of these cross-country jaunts so I decided that my presence was just an insurance against the possibility of the sprog navigator getting lost or just being unable to cope. The important thing, I thought, was for him to acquire some confidence in his ability and I remembered how off putting it had been in my own training to have an Instructor breathing down my neck. Consequently I made myself comfortable on the rest bed and relieved the boredom from time to time by inserting my head in the astro hatch and admiring the stars or the occasional glimpse of scenery below through the odd breaks in the low cloud. I visualized the Apennine Chain below as we left the Border country and traveled South down the backbone of England. My thoughts were turning to the welcome flying breakfast that awaited us back at Wing when the quietly controlled voice of the Staff Pilot came over the intercom. " I suppose you know where we are Navigator "?, he asked. That sounded ominous to me but........