Duncan James Cameron - A Memoir
This is a testimony of a slightly different kind. Although not a Ukrainian testimony, it has unexpected connections, including the link with a twelve-year old Polish boy who escaped a Russian Gulag and then went on to fly for the RAF alongside my late Uncle Duncan. That Polish boy Flt/Lt Jerzy Kazimierz Stanislaw KMIECIK AFM, QCSVA (Known as Joe Kmiecik) wrote a book in 1983 about his time in the Gulag and his escape from it. Sadly, the horrors of russia connect too many stories.
A Boy in the Gulag
Introduction by Hazel Buchan Cameron
I only met my Uncle Duncan once, he was my father's elder brother and moved to Canada with his English wife a couple of years before I was born. When I was twelve, he visited us but I have few memories of him then. Although my Dad kept in touch, I never heard any news until after my Dad died and Uncle Duncan made contact with me directly by email in 2013. I never asked him much about himself as I was keen to know more about his memories of my Dad, so it was an opportunity missed as he became frail soon after and then died in 2015. My sister went to Canada and met him and said it was like seeing and speaking to our Dad.
After that I kept touch with his wife, Joyce, and I discovered she was an artist and we had a lot in common including handwriting letters. Over time I discovered that Uncle Duncan had written a memoir in various stages and I was keen to read it. Duncan's claim to fame was that he had flown one of the plane's in the Dam Buster Film. However, once I received bits of the memoir and began research, I realised there was a lot more to Duncan than that. I also realised he was a kindred spirit: not only his handwriting but his language style was similar to my own. I felt at home typing up his story.
These things are never as straightforward as you'd like them to be. The papers had become muddled and some were missing. Sometimes there were several copies of one story but written at different times, so perhaps with more or less detail and a slightly different memory of events. Duncan's son, Ewen told me his Dad loved telling stories and was likely to exaggerate for effect but I discovered that on many occasions he had underplayed his role. You'll see this yourself as you read about his flying experience in the Arctic for weather mapping as well as his war flights.
Strangely, Uncle Duncan and I grew up in the same house. It was a council house and in those days, it was possible to pass on a house to another family member, so my grandparents moved into a smaller place in Houston (Scotland) in order to give Mum, who was expecting my little brother more space. I would have been two and we lived there until I was twelve.
Here is 39 Mimosa Road, in Bridge of Weir. It was a nice house and had a large garden, with many trees and a large private hedge planted by my Pop. It looks lovely and it was but unlike Duncan, my memories were not always pleasant and that is part of another story.
Acknowledgements
I want this to reflect the love and affection I have for Uncle Duncan and Aunt Joyce, though our connection was later in life and over many miles by letters and phone calls, it has been a true joy for me to have had this relationship. There is no time limit for friendship, they can be instant, long, short or late in life but genuine connections enhance all our lives.
During my research I connected with a crew member who flew with Uncle Duncan, James D Fell. He now lives in Cambridge and was delighted to hear from me and gave me useful detail. He explained that although Duncan was a qualified pilot, he was the Flight Engineer in Bomber Command, when they flew together. I have included some comments from James throughout the piece. Amazingly just before I completed the work, I discovered James knew a photographer friend of my partner, this seemed an extraordinary coincidence but a lovely one just the same.
Finally, thank you to my cousin Ewen, who has looked over the writing and added a little clarity where text was missing.
I'm not sure who will read this or where it will fly off to, but I trust in the Universe that will have a safe and worthwhile landing.
Memoir of Duncan James Cameron (1924–2015)
I was born in the Royal borough of Gourock in the parish of Inverkip on the 11th August 1924 in the old toll house, where in olden days a toll was exacted from travellers wishing to pass through the town of Gourock. My family later moved to Glasgow and finally settled in Bridge of Weir. As we grew up we became children of the rainforest, or rather the woods. These were the small acreages of trees left over from the farm clearances and spotted at various distances from each other, all with nice sounding names. There was the Belton Woods, the Foxglove Woods and my favourite, the Bluebell Woods. Popular with me because it was on a sloping hillside, ideal for launching all sorts of model aircraft. We spent our glorious life going to school in the village with a teacher much like the later movie character, Miss Jean Brodie, and another, Miss Kunzle* (*This would be either Edelweiss KUNZLE or her sister Marguerite), a German lady who instilled in us all, a lifelong wariness of all things German. She came back from a holiday in Germany and happily displayed for our childish eyes, a trophy she had collected there…
Life in the village was a relatively simple affair for the young people and the adults were a very hard-working group of folk. Most of the men worked locally in the leather tanning factory, and they were very proud of the fact that in those pre-war days most of the beautiful hides they produced went to America to provide seat covers for Cadillac cars. You could recognise the long-timers by their yellowed complexion, which was caused by exposure to the dyes.
The three pubs in the village were the centre of fun for most of the older people whilst the others seemed to be deeply involved in the churches or the events which occurred in church halls.
Young people were left much to their own amusements, peeping through the back door of the church hall at the whist players till their dire threats sent us screaming off into the night and hiding across the main street in the shadows. Pub closing time was a rather early 9pm. When I was a little older and was allowed out
that late, my friends and I would walk down the main street waiting for a drunk to come tottering through the swing doors of the pub, following him along at a safe distance, as he bounced off the walls or executed a brilliant one-handed rotation around an iron lamp post. Eventually we would follow them and getting closer and braver we would taunt them with our idea of something funny. Then they would heave around and roar at us to get away. In the odd case when we had misjudged our customer, we would find it necessary to move rapidly. Luckily our youthful speed and their inebriated condition saved us and of course we were all expert at dashing down one close and coming out of another further up the street. It was necessary to be aware of all the escape routes. On one occasion when I was running from the owner of a delicious apple tree, I took a sideway that I wasn’t familiar with. As I came out the back I found myself up against a large stone wall. It did not appear to be too big a problem until I had leaped high enough to get both my arms well across it. At that moment I discovered that the owner had devised a rather devilish way to protect his property. The top of the wall had a layer of cement laid across it and embedded in the cement …………….
Saturdays were ‘marbles’ days with cries of “onies, nae wipes!” ringing out. Whacking conkers with each other would follow until bored with it all, then we would head for the veterans’ club where for a penny, ‘wee Johnny’, a badly wounded veteran sitting outside would curdle our blood by passing a long needle through a lifeless arm. There would be a short interval of cigarette card trading; still no sign of an ‘Isotta Fraschini’. I doubt if they ever printed one so we made do with a Wolseley and a Maserati swapped for a Streamlined Buik and two of my best chestnuts, and off to Grannies for a large jeely piece (a jam sandwich), well wrapped up and delivered by ‘air mail’ from a window three floors up in the tenement building in which she lived. Granny lived to feed the boys in total defiance of our mother’s wishes. She would always be poised at the front window of her kitchen as we passed by on our way home from school, slyly diverting us upwards towards the devilish treats she had created to forestall mother’s sensible nourishments.
Granpa was a rather formidable presence, standing by the gas lamp which he had just skilfully started by igniting the globe. He then proceeded with a really fascinating demonstration for a young lad; twirling into shape his huge moustache; all this a preliminary to a visit just across the street to the Gryffe Arms pub.
Prior to his departure, I might be armed with a large coin and directed to the tobacco shop to get a slab of black and pungent material which he would carve with his sharp knife, then taking the pieces, rub them between his heavy calloused and gnarled hands before gently and artistically moulding the product into the intestines of a fine shaped smoking pipe. The large match would explode dramatically, change to a warm flame and the contented drawing of breath would end with a backward arching of the head followed by the expulsion through a curtain of moustache and beard of a richly smelling cloud of smoke.
Immensely satisfied with this, he would pat me on the head as he lurched on his crippled knees towards the door and down the stairs, and across the street to his other great pleasure, the Gryffe Arms. Granny would give me a knowing smile as she stirred the permanent pot of soup and offered me something more to eat.
On many of the days when we were not at school, we would spend hours hiding inside the dense bushes up in the woods, sheltering from the blistering wind and driving rain.
There, we would imagine ourselves to be Robert the Bruce watching his spider, or William Wallace with his giant sword cutting his way through the main streets of local Elderslie village.
When the rain abated slightly, we would dash across the field chasing the innocent rabbits, then hurtle through the trees to the stream to try once again to prove our manhood by guddling. This was the ancient skill of catching trout by lying on your stomach and feeling with your hands along the undercut of the bank. Oh what terror! What devilish things might be at your fingertips? Courage triumphed eventually and proud you were when you held aloft your first slippery, wriggling fish and accidentally dropped it back into the gurgling stream – well, maybe not accidentally because at that tender age, what else could you do with a living creature.
Soon the excitement of the day would cool along with the temperature and fading light and we would wander aimlessly homewards, to be greeted by a heavy scolding for getting so wet. Stripped, washed and dried and set by the window with schoolwork.
After a short while, the patterns of the wind-blown rain on the glass would resolve themselves into magical visions, capturing my attention and thus seriously interrupting the work at hand. Eventually the glazed eyes would be detected by my dear mother and it would be cocoa and off to bed, where for a short time the whitewashed ceiling would replace the rain-washed window as an image-filled screen.
War Arrives 1939
I can clearly remember the day that war was declared in Europe. I was still lazily lying in bed upstairs in the house in Mimosa Road, Bridge of Weir. When my mother called me to listen as she turned up the Phillips radio. The solemn voice of Prime Minister Chamberlain penetrated to my bedroom with its gloomy tidings. As he finished speaking, I stared at the ceiling and tried to visualise what it all meant. It was exciting and frightening at the same time. I was still too young to be called up for service but I knew from my interests and my reading on aviation that this war would not be restricted to Europe and would be a very different affair from the last one.
More than once that day I wandered outside to stare up into the sky. It seemed far-fetched and slightly unbelievable at the time to expect to see anything, but it was not before long before imagination was to be replaced by stark reality and for that same piece of innocent Scottish sky to become the cold blue-grey backdrop for a life and death drama. A stray Heinkel bomber, part of a group attacking the navy base at Rosyth, near Edinburgh raced smoking passed our house, pursued by a 602-squadron spitfire. The duel continued out of sight, and I was left in a daze staring into the vacant sky so recently a stage for the performance of something, until this moment, only a figment of my imagination.
Unknown to me at the time, was the fact that the German bomber had dumped its bombs on a local farm field on the Warlock Road in a desperate attempt to escape. This fact was soon communicated to me by my pals and in seconds we were running like madmen in the general direction of the incident.
All the while we were running, we were engaging in a breathless expression of fantasy as to what we would find when we arrived. As we topped the ridge by the pig farm, we were confronted by a sight which at least equalled our imagination and presented us all with a moment of the new truth in our lives.
There on the low slope of the field among the grass and the daisies was a line of smoking craters equally spaced, all about 30ft in diameter. Our run slowed to a walk as we approached in some trepidation. We stopped at the lip of one crater and gazed in awe into its shallow depths, certain that it contained some horrible form of Nazi warfare. That was not to be however, but a greater consolation would eventually lie in the discovery of a treasure trove of shrapnel which rapidly became the junior currency of the village.
More attacks were carried out on the following days but to the disappointment of the Luftwaffe it all turned out to be quite different to their experiences in Spain during the civil war where they were up against a ragtag fleet of outdated aircraft gathered from a variety of European countries. The R.A.F. aircraft were a different breed of animal. It wasn’t enough that the pilots were certainly another consideration as for some time the R.A.F. had been training a group of reservists often referred to as the ‘weekend warriors’. These young men joined the regular Airforce men at the weekends and in their spare time to practice their flying skills along with the veterans. This pool of individuals from many and varied backgrounds turned out to be of immense value at the unexpected outbreak of war. Having just spent the last few years flying obsolete wood and fabric biplanes, they were now in the fortunate position of having converted to the all-metal Spitfire which with its new Rolls Royce merlin engine represented the ultimate in fighter aircraft development. The timing was perfect, The City of Glasgow (602) and the City of Edinburgh (603) squadrons were about to gain a place in history. Soon Heinkels and Dorniers and their surprised crews were falling from the sky into the damp and green fields of Scotland.
A favourite newspaper story of mine at the time was of the proud Luftwaffe bomber pilot, a veteran of the Spanish war, who was shot down on the hills near Edinburgh and asked to meet his conqueror. When introduced to a young lawyer of the weekend warrior type dressed in his civilian suit, since he had been unable to get a uniform, the superior German type burst into tears of humiliation and had to be gently led away to captivity.* https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-50208571
One of these weekend warriors lived up the hill of Bridge of Weir and he represented a great hero to we young lads old enough to know the situation (Andrew Douglas Farquhar 1905 - 1964). It was an exciting day when he flew a Spitfire down the main street and made a landing on the golf course to visit some of his friends. He later was to become one of our finest aces.
Many a long peacetime argument with regards to either day or night bombing was settled by these early Luftwaffe attacks on the naval bases in the River Forth at Rosyth and even more so later when the Royal Air Force attempted their own daylight attacks on the German bases at Wilhelmshaven. The day of the interceptor fighter had arrived and soon the message would be made even more clear to all air forces that the only effective medium for the bomber would be the enveloping shades of night.
One evening in Bridge of Weir the sirens started their mournful cry. At the time I was engrossed in building a model of a Beaufighter in the house of a friend, John Lang.
I had been taught by my mother to race home no matter where I was when that sound screamed through the dark skies of Scotland, not necessarily a good idea as it turned out but understandable since with my father working away on night shift, she would have to spend the next hour or two in the cupboard under the stairs, all alone, as this was the recommended air raid practice.
With this in mind, I grabbed my gear and as Mrs Lang switched off the lights and snatched open the door, I raced out into the dark evening heading for the low fence which separated our two yards. I always enjoyed practising my hurdling skills over the fence even in the dusk so I built up speed as I ran. Overhead the sky was howling with the noise of the Heinkels lining up for a bombing run on the Clydeside oil tanks and the stars were twinkling in the clear sky. Suddenly I took a smash in the face and was flung on my back. Momentarily I lost a sense of where I was and then my eyes cleared and as I lay staring up at the stars shining away undisturbed, I thought I had been hit by bomb, so I felt feverishly for my legs and arms, but everything was in place, so I struggled to my feet and staggered home.
As I crashed through the door my Mother asked her usual question “Where have you been?” and then she said “what’s all that blood on your face?” After washing my face off and noting the huge welt under my nose, the penny dropped! The Luftwaffe had scored a small victory that night. I had raced into Mrs Langs washing line, perfectly suspended, too low to catch a Heinkel, but just the right height to catch D J Cameron under his fast travelling nose, the start of my war career.
In the morning, I was sharing stories of the night with my mother. She had spent a good part of the night under the stairs and had been getting all the local tales of occurrences from the neighbours who emerged from their homes after dawn.
The biggest story concerned a parachute land mine which had come down in the trees about two miles up the road towards Kilmacolm. Apparently, the blast had been tremendous and windows were broken for miles around. I later found that ‘Dicky’ my grandmother’s canary had been killed by the shock. We were all very upset about that.
I took off up the road to the place where the land mine had landed. Several other people had arrived before me and they were standing in a group of trees which had been severely blasted, gazing with great interest at the upper branches. I walked over to look at the object of their attention. There hanging from the branches like a weird backdrop on a theatre stage, were great shards of a brilliant material, shining like silk in the early morning sun.
I glanced across the main road to the other side and there by the Keeper’s Cottage the wall was broken and sheets of canvas and wood had been roughly arranged around a large hole in the ground.
Working for War
I sometimes accompanied my older brother ‘Lofty’ when he drove his truck to Greenock to help clear away the bomb damage.
That came to an end when on one day the load of debris contained two bodies and my mother was a little disturbed that I had been exposed to this.
I then began work at the Dent and Johnson Factory making compasses for the Air Force.
Any break from the workbench was welcome, so when the word went around that the foreman was looking for volunteers to form a works firefighting squad, I was quick to join. Not yet having served in his Majesty’s Forces. I had not been appraised of the fundamental philosophy of the serving man. Never volunteer for anything! It is unlikely to be any improvement on your present situation and could easily be a lot worse. In this case my wide-eyed, country boy simplicity paid off. Instead of hunching over the work bench trying to estimate the time of the next body-shaking blast from the anti-aircraft guns down the road, or what was worse huddled deep in the shelter when the bombs were actually falling, I found myself out in the open, free from the claustrophobic misery of the air raid shelter.
The outcome of this was that yours truly found himself sitting in a small hastily built hut set right on top of the factory. A phone call from the air raid authorities had produced the order from the plant foreman for me and another man to head upstairs with a pair of night binoculars and there we would sit looking and listening into the deep dark blue sky for the dull distant sounds of aircraft engines.
The reason I had been selected for the questionable honour, was that I acted during the evenings as the Paisley cadet squadron instructor in aircraft recognition and signalling. The accompanying adult was rather unwillingly there to supply a modicum of mature judgement and control in the light of temporary deviation on my part. This was unlikely however, since once again I was enthralled with the action taking place and in being a part of the whole thing rather than cowering in a shelter.
It was a magical experience for a youngster. Apprehension was replaced by exhilaration as the scene of battle unfolded in the clear night sky above. The glittering stars were the only stationary lights. They formed a brilliant and familiar background to the new and remarkable performance below. Bright flashes lit the horizon towards Clydebank to be followed shortly by dull distant booms from the brilliant red streams of fire sent into the heavens. Long, wandering pencils of light roamed the sky from the local searchlights in an apparently pointless effort to find something. Their beams of crystal light fading ineffectively into the depths of the deep sky, until suddenly a small, winged object like a tiny moth would drift through the light and for a few seconds would turn luminous and hold the stage before an audience of thousands. As quickly as it appeared it would disappointingly vanish, leaving the wandering search lights to continue their unrewarded work. The feeling of fear felt and nurtured in the shelter was absent in the fresh cold night air and any lingering feeling of this was blotted out by the excitement of seeing to setting the firefighting equipment organised on the small trailer.
There was little chance for visually recognising any aircraft in the star-studded night sky, but the overall intention of the job was made quite easy by the fact that the German Luftwaffe felt strongly that they could foil the British defence’s listening devices by de-synchronising the twin motors of their bomber aircraft. This produced a loud pulsating sound which could actually be heard very clearly at a good distance and of course provided a positive identification of the fact that it was an enemy plane. When this particular sound was approaching it was our function to press a button sending the workers down below into full retreat.
I really looked forward to the weekend bicycle rides from Bridge of Weir, down through Houston and on past the big Dunlop Rubber factory to Renfrew Airport where we would sit in the visitor’s park and wait patiently for the arrival of a Scottish Airways De-Havilland Dominie to arrive from one of the Western Isles. Excitement would be great as the Biplane Airliner with a crew of one and a passenger list of eight or ten people would appear in the sky and with little ceremony sink and land in the long grass. We would pass our expert opinions on the quality of the landing, remount our bikes and head further down the road to gaze in awe at the Hawker Hart Biplane day bombers standing in a neat row at Abbotsinch Airfield.
Abbotsinch (now Glasgow Airport) was the neighbouring military airfield to Renfrew. Still just a grass airfield since the aircraft of the day were very light in weight and were equipped with tail wheel undercarriages which allowed short landing runs on turf without any danger of sinking into the soft ground.
These were the RAF’s front line attack aircraft of the day shortly to be replaced by modern monoplanes being rushed into service to face the threat of another war with Germany.
With their silver painted sides and gleaming aluminium nose plates they were a wonderful sight, the last of the beautiful biplanes looking very much the part on that sunny Saturday. On later visits I would be very impressed with my first sight of the new Spitfire, and it was a great day when I first saw one taxi out and take off. As I watched one flying across the road at the boundary of the field a few weeks later, I was vastly intrigued to see the wheels slowly fold into the wings. This was something quite different and the new fighter certainly looked very sleek and fast.
A few weeks later I was asked by Mr Walter Munn if I would like to go for a trip in a training aircraft that was based at Abbotsinch. I quickly agreed and spent the next few days in a dream. Mr Munn was a training officer with Air Training Corps in Paisley and since I had now joined the RAF Volunteer reserve as aircrew, he had asked me to help with the instruction of navigation and morse code signalling which I had already taught myself in my spare time. Mr Munn was quite famous in Scotland as a former World War One fighter pilot and an extremely nice person to know. I treasure a very fine reference* which he wrote for me when I finally joined the RAF.
The day arrived for my trip, and I was driven to the Airfield by Mr Munn in the company of a couple of other cadets, all pretty excited. After a few formalities we were led out to the apron and to our great pleasure were introduced to our pilot and shown the aircraft which was to be the means of our first introduction to the joys of the sky.
The neat little aircraft was a gleaming twin-engine passenger plane of wooden construction, fabric covered and beautifully painted in coloured dope. I recognised it immediately as an Airspeed Oxford, an up-to-date RAF trainer. Powered with two Armstrong Siddeley Cheetah radial Engines of 500 horsepower each.
As we climbed into the aircraft, I noticed the distinctive smell of petrol and dope. Fumes which would in the future become a very familiar and nostalgic part of my working environment. The inside of the plane was tight but comfortable and I felt very much at home in this place.
The engines were started with a surprisingly loud noise and quickly we were taxiing out to the runway all very excited as we squinted through the very narrow windows at what little we could see of the airfield. There was a stop followed by a very busy moment or two up front, quite mysterious to us in the back and then with an overwhelming suddenness, a great roar shook the whole airframe, accompanied by a violent acceleration as we were pressed back in our seats.
The rumble of the wheels quickly gave way to a wonderfully smooth motion and the familiar territory of Abbotsinch slipped rapidly past my little window. There was my spotting location close by the boundary fence where I had spent many hours dreaming of this very moment and wondering if it would ever come to pass. Familiar sights rapidly came into view, especially with the increase in height. The large expanse of the rhubarb farm passed under our wing, allowing me to align myself with Houston village and then Bridge of Weir, where I had the great pleasure of looking down at my house. The trip continued southwards and then west towards the coast where we circled over the town of Ayr getting my first ever view of the ocean and the beaches from the air. As we turned homewards the other two lads were looking a bit uncomfortable and Mr Munn was advising them to not look up or down but straight ahead so they would not be sick, but all of it was fine by me, I was enjoying myself looking in any and every direction it was possible to do.
Then as I looked out of the window it was with a feeling of sadness that I realised that we were over Abbotsinch and that my dream trip was almost at an end. The last part however was very exciting. We circled low over the town of Paisley and then came shooting across the hangar with the wheels just skimming the rooftop and came down with a nice thump on to the green grass.
Many days passed before the memories of that flight dimmed but I now knew beyond any doubt that my intended direction in life was the correct one. As the bombs fell on Clydebank and Greenock nightly, I worked away in the Dent and Johnson Factory making compasses and wondering as I engraved the final serial number on each one, which of them I would someday look at in the cockpit of an aeroplane. As it turned out, eventually, I saw more than one in the location it was designed to fit.
Just as I had concluded that my waiting period to be called up for the RAF would be the greatest bore in history, I got another call from Mr Munn. He told me to go down to Abbotsinch and contact a certain person in the Scottish Aviation Company office. I met a flight lieutenant Smith who told me that I could come down to the Airfield when my job allowed and fly in the back of the transport plane which they used to supply the airfields on the Western Isles of the Hebrides which are a large group of islands lying off the west coast of Scotland.
My eyes popped when he took me out to see the aeroplane that I was to be travelling in. It was a huge and the nose seemed to reach the roof of the hangar. The body was long and cigar shaped and the great sweeping high wing supported no less than four large and powerful Pratt and Whitney radial engines. It was a very modern airliner from Holland purchased just hours before the outbreak of war for use by Scottish Airways on their internal routes to the Hebrides and other remote locations around the country
The day dawned brightly and I was off early to Abbotsinch. The previous day I had been tipped off that there was a trip on the books for the Fokker. Sure enough as I hiked up from the airfield gate to the hangars I could see the great bulky shape of the aircraft lined up before the flight shed. My spirits rose and I could see no reason for the flight to be cancelled, as so many others had been recently. The weather was beautiful and the engines were rumbling with a smooth note as the flight mechanics tested them. Soon I had my name entered in the logbook and I was climbing up into the large roomy fuselage of the Fokker with all its fine pre-war woodwork showing. The luxurious passenger seats had been removed to make cargo space and the only real reminder of the aeroplane’s former use was the large, chromed altimeter mounted in the centre of the enormous laminated wing spar which passed through the top of the passenger compartment. In later years, knowing that a bad setting could result in an erroneously low reading on an altimeter, I wondered at the wisdom of placing such an instrument in full view of a group of innocent passengers. It must have caused some apprehension on certain occasions when making low approaches through foggy conditions.
It is difficult in these days of radar and radio control to appreciate the trials and tribulations of ‘seat of the pants’ flying as practiced before and during WWII. Directional aids were often very unreliable or didn’t work at all. Altimeters were dependant for their accuracy on having recently been adjusted to local barometric pressure. This again depended on radio communication which had its own problems. Some devices, such as radio direction aids could be virtual death traps in themselves as they could be distorted by various external influences whilst appearing to work correctly. Airfields with mountainous terrain in the neighbourhood, could produce heat experiences in bad weather, and it was rare to be stationed at one where the local experts could not point to a huge scar on the face of a mountain, then add an accompanying story as to who had hit it and when and what the results were. It could cause the most ardent supporter of modern equipment to become a convert to visual flying at any cost.
In my flying days with the Scottish Aviation crews out of Renfrew, I often used to admire with some apprehension, the bad weather approaches to the Hebridean Islands, made with the aircraft’s wheels skimming the Atlantic whitecaps. The course would be set for some known coastal area of the low-lying beach and we would descend agonisingly through the heavy sea fog, ever so delicately, until the grey Atlantic waters appeared just beneath our speeding wheels. Then would follow a most exciting period as we raced along with every eye staring downwards and soon a cry would echo from different sources as we steered over the low sand dunes and raced across the fields, picking up a road which eventually led to the edge of the airfield. We then executed a turn in that big clumsy aeroplane which would have done credit to a Spitfire.
I was soon adopted as an assistant navigator or more correctly, a back seat map reader. Several former Scottish Airways crews had been absorbed into the RAF and were flying passengers and freight to the outlying bases on the Hebrides. The aircraft were mainly De Havilland Dominie biplanes, a twin-engine plane but I regularly flew in the Fokker F.XXII. When flying through turbulance the aircraft creaked wildly like a schooner in a gale, terrifying any passengers we were carrying (total passengers 24). The sounds which emanated from the big wooden wing spar were never reassuring. As we passed through the clouds or areas of clear turbulence, loud creaks and cracks could be heard indicative of timber in agony. Many years later I was to hear the same cries of pain from wooden timbers in Canadian frame houses as they shrank painfully from the terrible stresses of weather which was 40 below.
Trips to the Hebrides were arduous because we carried all sorts of junk in the back which sometimes left no proper seats for sitting on. I often found myself lying on top of the most odd cargo – sacks of lumpy potatoes or carrots and on one occasion the back of the aircraft was filled with small iron stoves used for heating Nissan huts.
These were exciting times and I was really able to improve my map reading which in those days before electronic navigation, was a very important part of a pilot’s skills. At this time of course, I was working sixty hours per week in a factory making bomb sights and compasses, so on the long stretches over the sea when I was not map reading, and on the return flight home, I would snooze off. I certainly appreciated the enormous comfort in the passenger compartment of this deluxe modern airliner. Having it all to myself back there, I often ruminated with some amusement at the situation where a poor Scottish laddie had come to be in sole occupation of this rich man’s machine.
The aircraft was almost entirely constructed of wood and in keeping with its overall quality the decorative parts were made of the most luxurious materials. The huge main wing spar passed through the upper part of the main cabin and had mounted in its centre the large altimeter surrounded by a shiny chrome ring and sporting big clear numerals showing the height at which we were supposed to be flying.
Interestingly enough, my last trip of many to the Hebrides was to Benbecula [During the harsh winter weather experienced in January 1940, relief flights to isolated islands on the west coast of Scotland were organised and the F.XXIIs were called upon to transport supplies to military camps. The conditions made it impossible to get goods there over land.], this was just prior to a 14 year stint in Bomber Command.
As an RAF cadet, the last occasion on which I landed at Abbotsinch (now Glasgow Airport) but then a small grass airfield, was in 1943.
Taking off
No stale air here, the fresh wind would blow violently flapping the sides of the leather helmet, small bursts of summer rain would sneak around the windshield and sting your cheeks adding to the euphoria. On Friday afternoons as the lesson came to a close, the young instructor, usually a Spitfire pilot on rest time from an active squadron would take over control and dive the Tiger Moth towards the airfield, anxious to be on the train for London. The struts and wires would strum, sing and scram a raucous symphony and I would sit back, after the tension filled instruction period, soaking up every glorious, exciting moment, wondering how the great god of the air had selected me for this joyous experience.
As we passed over the grass fields and observed the signals laid out in the box, I noticed with envy the beautiful shape of the station Spitfire sitting in front of the small control tower. The thought crossed my mind that it could very well have been placed there as an inducement to the 18-year-old cadets to do their very best on the course. What greater incentive to a young man than the dream that he might someday be blessed with the chance to fly the most wonderful aeroplane ever designed, so brilliantly created in the image of the great birds of the sky by R. J. Mitchell.
In reality, it had a more practical purpose, as it was used by the instructors to keep up their skills for the day when they would be recalled to active duty. It also had another use, although it was a more carefree one. It was standard practice when bringing new recruits up from Swindon in a bus, to drive around the tower on the way to the billets thus allowing them a quick look at the sleek metal fighter sitting beside the old wood and fabric biplane trainers. The resultant expressions of loud admiration were quickly silenced by a grim-faced corporal driver loudly explaining how many pupils last month had frozen in the air on their first solo, and of course had to be shot down using this very aircraft.
My first solo flight was at Clyffe Pypard Field, Wiltshire, England, 1943.
I looked at the sky, sunny and bright, dreams are in the past, no more models to fly, no more staring into the air as some other plane flew past, this one is mine, this sky is mine. My Battle of Britain, veteran instructor limped off to the side of the field with his stick, last instruction, do it right, pick me up when you land.
Off I went full throttle, singing and shouting in the slipstream, climbing up, cruising on the downwind leg, too soon on finals, sinking gently down to touch the grass with throttle closed. Done it! My first solo – elated, I open the throttle and taxi rapidly towards the flight hut to receive the accolades of my pals. Noticing another Tiger racing in the opposite direction, I look over my shoulder and see a lonely figure with a stick climbing into that rescue Tiger, someone I had forgotten. I taxied back to the parking lot and quietly got out and vanished.
North Africa
The take-off from Cairo was uneventful and soon we were headed for the canal, a familiar sight with its spaced column of ships moving slowly along the Port Said and the open Mediterranean, less spectacular from the air than the ground where the almost mirage-like image of a large ship making its way through the sand with not a drop of water in view created one of the most bizarre scenes that I had ever witnessed.
Our next objective was Habbiniyah in Iraq, not far from the fabled city of Baghdad, but we did not proceed to that point in a straight line since it was government policy to use any flights in that area as pipeline patrols and the oil pipeline did not follow a direct route. Rather it travelled across the desert from the location of Baghdad towards the Port of Aqaba; a blazing hot location on the shores of the gulf. And so, we would proceed north rather than on our desired course towards the east.
The terrain at first was stark and desolate, low sharp cliffs of sandstone penetrated by tortuous ravines and trails, each one of which I scoured with my eyes in the vain hope of glimpsing a camel train bound for some historic place to deliver its romantic load of wares.
My camera recorded nothing so interesting, mile after mile of barren and sunblasted sand and stone and not a living thing as far as the eye could see. Then, Aqaba, the buildings hardly distinguishable from the surrounding territory, obviously constructed from material picked at close hand and basically the same colour. The sharp lines were all that indicated a man-made community and the only thing to tone the impression of abominable heat was the diamond blue of the shoreline. At that point we turned away more to the east leaving a colourful gulf for the unrelenting.
As we entered the Kingdom of Jordan, monotone of the desert. Slightly north of east and we dropped even lower now in order to see more clearly the detail attending either side of the all-important oil pipeline. A height of approximately 1000 feet would allow us to pick out any individuals engaged in nefarious duties. Now on A1 alert as our first maintenance point came up but a circle around the location showed a vehicle and workmen clearly in the employ of the oil company. On again monotonously using techniques taught in coastal command for search and rescue missions to ensure alert and responsive coverage of the line.
Fighting the boredom hour after hour until the appearance of a greenish haze ahead signalled the end of the featureless Syrian desert and the beginning of the valley of Euphrates. The magic that can be created by moisture, water seeping from the great main river through the miles of adjoining desert, bringing pleasure and diversity to the eyes and a glorious harvest of food to industrious inhabitants, another world, and how welcome at the end of the journey. The airfield looked much like any other but in the same moment its basic familiarity promised comfort and nourishment and maybe even a little entertainment.
Soon our wheels were skimming the high sand piles at the end of the runway and a gentle thump announced our arrival on Iraqi soil.
We turned off at the nearest point on the tarmac and I followed my usual practice of sliding back my side window and sticking out my hand to deflect in the cooling draft. On this occasion however, I immediately reversed myself in some astonishment as instead of the welcome cool draft, I received a scorching blast across my palm and the angle of my hand led a torrent of very hot air into the aircraft. I quickly slid my window closed and as I mused on the situation I had it clarified for me by a message transmitted from the control tower. The message was clear and to the point. As a result of an unusual heatwave, even in this normally hot part of the world, we were to taxi to a specified parking location near the control tower and remain in the shade of the aircraft until we were picked up. Under no circumstances were we to allow anyone to attempt to walk to the reception area. This all sounded slightly alarmist, although the recollection of my attempt to cool the aircraft off, gave me some pause.
As I completed the shutdown checklist most of the army passengers had left the aircraft and I was almost last to step outside. I was instantly struck by a tremendous blast of air at a temperature the like of which I had never before felt. The rest of the crew and passengers were huddled under the main wings of the tail plane, all of them with a slightly bemused expression on their faces. Some of them had a rather more serious look to them. Not surprising in the circumstances. It was clear now that the Tower’s advice had been transmitted in earnest and that any attempt to walk across the blazing surface of sand would have been futile if not dangerous. Soon a small tuft of dust indicated a fast-moving vehicle and before long we were all enjoying the trip to the reception with the red-hot breeze blowing through the Garry pleasant, despite its temperature because of its mobility.
Life in the desert was very different from that back in the UK. There was a lovely warmth at the right time of year and after the knees were browned by the sun, it felt nice to be part of the local scene. At night it became quite surprisingly cold and then as the dawn broke and the strong sun began to beat down, the oily smell of canvas pervaded the still air in the tent and there was little doubt that we were in a strange place. Different sounds too, camels grunting, native voices calling and the shouts of a drill sergeant driving some unwilling soldiers through their paces before the heat drove them inside for the day. The ever-present smell of oil fumes became more noticeable as the camp came to a busy start of the day.
A quick wash and shave and it was off in a hurry for breakfast. Strange tasting eggs and black spotted bread which we no longer picked through. As veterans, we now just ate the weevil filled bread without thinking too hard about the content. As one long-standing veteran put it, “this stuff is better than old country bread, it’s got a lot more protein.”
There were attacks of heat fever which in some case necessitated dragging the affected individual into a cold shower. Snakes were a concern and care had to be exercised especially at night when walking between buildings, staying only on the concrete paths and avoiding stepping off into long grass or being bumped off when returning from a night of ale. Heavy rains at night would drive the snakes into the accommodations and unlike Ceylon there were no snake boys to protect you for a rupee. The result was that the standard issue ,38 bore revolver was kept loaded by everyone’s beds on the nights and on some occasions the sleeping billets would sound more like a wild west saloon bar. It could be safer out in the rain with the snakes
Singapore (1953)
The news was electrifying and swept through the squadron rapidly. We had been selected for the next rotation to the war in Malaya and would be leaving shortly for the airfield of Tengah on the Island of Singapore. Attitudes were varied, all the way from depression on the part of the married men to the great enthusiasm of people with no attachments like myself and besides it was time I had a new camera and Singapore at that time was a freeport with no duty on photographic goods. It was also the time of the Japanese resurgence in goods of this nature. Japan had made the decision to give up its notorious policy of making cheap copies of western goods and had commenced a new national plan to make high quality equipment superior to that of most other nations. This plan was having astonishing results particularly in the field of photographic hardware, so I was very excited about the prospect of laying my hands on a camera of the type previously beyond my resources. From what we had heard about the terrorist war, it seemed like a fairly straightforward situation for us, with typical area bombing of jungle hideouts and minimal anti-aircraft type resistance.
I could hardly wait to leave and once again see all the ports of call from my Transport command days, and since I was alone in having been out to the far east, I was immediately elected the tour guide.
There was a sudden increase of activity around the hangars. Minor modifications were necessary to the aircraft for the hotter climate and many other details had to be seen to. Chief among these, of course was being outfitted with tropical kit. This was an occasion for many good laughs as a great variety of unusual knees and legs which had previously been relatively private were now up for public viewing, when shorts and long stockings were being tried on.
My most pressing concern, however, was money! That which I would need in good measure to satisfy the demands of the wily traders in Singapore when I went shopping with gleaming eyes for the prize of a lifetime.
Singapore, crossroads of the Eastern part of the British Empire, fascinating in its diversity of architecture and lifestyles. Half of the population, it seemed, was living on the water, on rafts and scoops, curing raw fish of several varieties hung from the rigging, curing in the blazing sun like ragged pieces of leather. The occupants dressed in simple shorts and ragged shirts. They sat on their heels quietly conversing with each other and casually glancing up from time to time at the passing throng of Europeans and other races who gazed down at this intriguing spectacle. Most of the watercraft looked as if they would hardly survive a day in a rough sea.
The Metropolis itself seemed far out of place by comparison with the mainland of Malaya. Here instead of a quiet and uniform race of indigent people were the ethnic groups of the world all arrayed in their different garbs and chatting furiously in their several different languages as they assessed the colourful and attractive goods on display in the many stores and shops in their crowded back. It seemed incongruously out of place in the overall picture of Malaya with its heavy matted jungle covering the land from coast to coast, the city perched on the southernmost top on an island narrowly separated from the mainland by a strip of water.
It was another world to the gentle land of villages filled with happy, bright and simple people. It was a great place to fly along the coastline a few feet above the water and view the waterfront villages with houses standing on long stilts out of the water, fishing nets drying everywhere, small children paddling their canoes and the older generations waving from the flimsy balconies.
The operations out of Tengah airfield represented air warfare in an unusual form. No enemy reaction was ever anticipated. The trips which were more in the nature of load transportation much like the Berlin Airlift, except that the unloading was done from 6,000 feet rather than the ground. No great concern existed over timing of take-off or time over the target. The main thing was to get everyone off approximately together. The ground conditions were invariably extremely hot and incredibly humid. Desperate efforts were made to get into the air with as little personal activity as possible to avoid soaking the light clothing which was worn on the trips with perspiration. Failure to do this resulted in extreme discomfort from the effects of the low temperature at altitude. An aching body was the result of the continual boil, sweat, freeze cycle and the pain associated with salt deprivation.
Unlike the Berlin Airlift, one purpose of our flights in Malaya was to destroy food. (From Duncan’s son, Ewen: One of their jobs in Malaya was to starve the enemy of food. I remember him telling me they would fly Lancaster’s very very low over the cabbage fields and drop their bombs, then they would have to bank the plane up to the right side so the bomb blast wouldn’t blow the plane out of the air.
(From James D. Fell)
When Duncan and I were in Singapore with 83 Squadron, at Tengah, there was a strange Englishman who was a taskmaster over the native labourers who cut the grass on the airfield. They were terrified of this giant of a man. We learned that he had been taken prisoner of war by the Japanese, and had been imprisoned in the notorious Changi Jail. Duncan made friends with this strange gentleman who lived apart from the British, married a Malayan girl, and now only spoke English as if it was a second language.
Duncan told him he had a brother who had been a prisoner of the Japanese in Changi Jail.
Duncan asked him if he knew his brother when he was in Changi? Yes, he said he did!
Hong Kong (28th November 1953)
One morning after the regular terrorist briefing, Joe, our pilot was called away to the flight commanders office. He came back with his face lit up with excitement and we crowded around to hear the news.
Apparently, there was an airshow planned for a couple of weeks in the future in Hong Kong at an airfield called Kai Tak. None of us had ever been there so we were highly pleased at our luck. It seemed that, since things were a little frosty between the British Government and the Mainland Chinese, the foreign office had decided to show the flag a little and wanted to include a heavy bomber in the show in addition to the fighters which were stationed at Hong Kong at the time.
As usual when something like that came up, Joe’s (Jerzy Kmiecik) reputation as a former Spitfire pilot put him immediately in the lead to be chosen, and as usual I, as Flight Engineer, was deputised to put it to him that we would all love to see Hong Kong but not to die there.
Joe was at his most reassuring, waving his hands, palm forwards like some provisional politician, he insisted there would be no ‘hokey pokey’ and that we would put on a most professional show with everything according to the book and besides he would keep in mind the rather advanced age of the aircraft we were flying. I communicated this information to a relieved crew without any great conviction and departed with the others to the mess hall for some tea.
The big day arrived, and we waved goodbye to our jealous friends at the dispersal as we climbed aboard our trusty steed, Lincoln 358.
We taxied out minus our 14,000 lb bomb load and leaped off the runway. It was a pleasant start to a trip generally referred to as a ‘Jolly’. The stress normally associated with hauling a huge load of high explosives down that short runway was happily absent and the lightness of control was most noticeable, the old 358 was once again a young bird of the skies and happy to be showing off her paces in a foreign clime.
The following few days were passed beautifully in supposed practice for the upcoming airshow. Mostly we cruised around Hong Kong and the New Territories viewing the scenery at low altitude and following a bit of advice from a local airman, we found that it was quite acceptable to “buzz” the Macao ferry which was an extremely colourful sight, loaded to the decks with the most unusual variety of passengers. It plied the waters between Hong Kong and the nearby Portuguese colony. This we did on a few occasions to the obvious delight of the passengers and I found myself wishing that I could join them on the vessel, especially after hearing about the outings many of the lads on the station had enjoyed. It was not to be however, as time was running out on our visit and there was a war to be won back in Malaya.
Time prevented us from visiting Macao which had quite a reputation with the boys on the station. We did however enjoy some time in Kowloon and took the ferry to Hong Kong itself with its many interesting shops and its wall.
The day of the airshow dawned and Joe was still very coy about his plans. This did not please me as my considerable experience of flying with him had taught me that like others with his background, he loved nothing more than to be free of authority and here we were a very long way from our base and the eyes of the squadron commander. Not that he wasn’t a good pilot, he was by most observers considered to be one of the best, which was also why I chose to crew with him. However, he had this wild streak backed with great pride which caused him to grasp at any challenge with both of his renowned powerful hands. He was a small man by most standards with a lean jaw, a wiry and exceptionally strong body and a grip of real steel. Once you had fallen for the quiet smile and the proffered handshake, you never made the same mistake again. All of this was accompanied by an almost mystical reticence and quiet inward confidence, personified in the immediate retreat after a harrowing night’s operation, to a secluded corner table in the mess with a fellow countryman, to play seemingly endless chess, often to be still there the next morning when the rest of us surfaced for breakfast.
This impenetrable character had obviously been distilled during the exceptional hardships suffered in his escape from Poland and his treatment by his Russian captors. An astonishing experience for a young man in these conditions and at that time. Some of this was hinted at periodically, particularly if anyone was complaining about his own bad fortunes at that moment. However, with Joe’s remarkable modesty, the comments were so lightly made that none of us took them too seriously. Only many years later, with the publication of his book, The Boy in the Gulag was it clear just what fires it had taken to cast the mettle of which this man was made.
Joe’s reaction on being queried about anything he had in mind, was to fix you with a piercing gaze, not at all unfriendly, but to invariably reply with one of the many succinct phrases that he had picked up in the English language as she is ‘spoke’. Jeepers Creepers was his favourite expression of mock surprise and Hey Mister was another method of address designed to disarm. The end of a bad incident was always greeted with ‘Goodbye Vienna’, a reference drawn from his departure from the last of his several incarcerations, before arriving in England.
The piercing gaze and ‘Jeepers Creepers’ met my first querulous approach on the subject of the programme for the air display. Hands airily waved, accompanied with the assurance that I would see in good time and would most certainly approve put the seal on this discomfiting conversation.
Thus, apparently suitably mollified, I climbed up into the familiar confines of the Lincoln 358 and proceeded with my pre-flight checks sitting hazy in the hot Kowloon afternoon. Shortly, I was joined by the rest of the crew and we taxied out and took off to our point of rendezvous north of Hong Kong island where we were scheduled to be in a low lever holding pattern for some time while the initial part of the display took place. After what seemed like an eternity, broken only by the chatter between the control tower and the various aircraft involved, we were called to standby, at which point we took up position just off the city of Kowloon.
As I made some minor adjustments, I scanned Joe’s face for a sign of his intentions but as usual it was impassive. George was straightening up his rear gun turret for what would inevitably be a wild ride for him, since any sharp movement was greatly magnified by virtue of the distance between him and the centre of rotation of the aircraft, some 65 feet. In actual fact it took considerable courage to hold that position in normal operation, but during periods of violent manoeuvre it is hard to describe what ‘Tail End Charlie’s’ experienced, and there are no words to express the amount of intestinal fortitude required.
A quick glance revealed a rather concerned navigator standing looking forward over my shoulder to see what was ahead instead of sitting hunched over his chart table as usual. At that moment the call came from the control tower and we were heading in towards Kai Tak on a countdown.
I found myself wishing that it was a familiar countdown on a bombing run back in Malaya where there was no mystery involved and only a slight concern as to the integrity of the old bombs we were forced to use. Here it was simply the unknown prospect of what my silently wild friend in the left-hand seat had in mind.
The approach into Hong Kong was far from routine and I found myself scanning my instruments at speed in order to get more time to view the passing mountains which were appearing rapidly on all sides. As we sighted the airfield, a jet fighter took off and almost immediately vanished into a gap in the hills beyond.
I noticed there was a rather large hill right on the approach to the main runway and that the end of the runway itself was the scene of many nondescript shacks surrounded by considerable activity of a kind.
Cruising downwind with the Kai Tak and Kowloon City on our right, I just had time for a quick look at the sun-drenched city of Hong Kong on the left which rose sharply up from the sea to its opulent looking heights. It looked like a place I would like to visit in the immediate future. A glance at the main part of Kowloon which we were now approaching created a different impression. It appeared to be a much less attractive area of old buildings and industrial type installations, running up the hillside from the busy waterfront towards mainland China in the distance.
Quickly returning my mind to the matters of the moment I ran through my checklist for landing and made the associated adjustments. Then looking up I was amazed to see that we were heading straight into a mountainside! Joe had made the turn on to the base leg as I was making my adjustments and now it was clear that we were going to have to exercise a pretty hairy turn down this steep hill in order to make a landing.
Joe now commenced the turn which by virtue of our relationship to the hillside rapidly became an exceptionally steep turn. Instead of my normal fairly simple exercise of lowering the wheels and flaps and setting the throttles at his request, I was actually putting both flaps and wheels out instead of down and having a very interesting time trying to adjust throttle and RPM levers with the pressure from the turn pushing me in all directions. The view from the cockpit was pretty impressive as a glance to the right gave me a straight look down one half of the 120 foot wing to the ground, which seemed very close indeed and the scene immediately to my left would have impressed mother Kmiecik no end. Her slight but noble son was outlined above me above a pure blue oriental sky, sweat pouring from his brow as he wrestled manfully with 40 tons of flexing and vibrating aeroplane . Finally with the control column wheel almost reversed, the great span of the Lincoln bomber righted itself and now we were diving down the steep hillside at an excessive speed.
A sharp request for an adjustment relieved me of my thoughts and I was quickly bent over towards the controls. My rear end floated ever so gently off my seat signalling a fairly positive nose down attitude had been assumed. On looking up I saw as I had supposed that we were in a shallow dive but with some surprise I also noticed that instead of heading for the airfield, we were at a tangent to it and were aiming directly at the city of Kowloon. In a moment however the light dawned and all became clear as I realised that we were heading straight for the main throughfare through Kowloon, a huge wide street filled with shops and markets of all kind.
In front of us was this large main street filled with a variety of vehicles, shops and stores of all shapes and sizes, many spilling on to the broad avenue and high on the sides of the highway a multiplicity of tenements packed with humanity all brightly signalling their presence by row upon row of washing fluttering in the stiff breeze from the balconies.
The plan was now dazzlingly clear, this great roadway led nowhere else but to the airfield and now at a height impossible to gauge because of it being so low, we were hurtling wildly toward the end and its entrance onto the field itself.
As we ripped between the lines of laundry like some huge mechanical cyclone both of us hunched over the controls, Joe calling for throttles and George in the rear turret yelling excitedly about the blizzard of white linen streaming out behind us, I began to wonder who the hell we were fighting. Another yell from Joe to ‘Gate it’ meaning to ram the throttles through the emergency gate and thus push our screaming Merlin engines to their limit, had me once again busy and head down. All the while as a friend related to me later, the huge crowd of spectators on the field were gazing into the sky and wondering ‘where in the name of Mao’ this monster bomber they had been promised had got to. Shortly they had to adjust their gaze more in the direction of their navel as with a great roar the promised avenger from Lincolnshire erupted from the end of the main drag and tore across the centre of the field, trailing smoke and vibrating the Chinese hillsides with the snarl of the four furiously overworked Merlin engines.
In a normal situation we would be sitting at 800 to 1000 feet at a comfortable couple of miles out from the end of the runway and straight and level to boot.
With a fighter, all of this would have been very normal, but for a forty-ton bomber with a wing span of 120 feet and most of that pointing vertical and not level, it was to say the least, interesting. I was able to ruminate that after all these years of conventional flying, I was now breaking new ground. Instead of putting the wheels down as per book, I was putting them out, and instead of lowering the flaps, I was rotating them. Now, with all the skill developed in his time in the Spitfire, Joe was executing a masterful rotation of the whole aircraft without even asking for my very willing help.
I could have wished differently, however as I now witnessed one of the most remarkable sights I had seen in my twelve years of flying. No more than one hundred yards, and many less seconds ahead of us was a large stream of humanity, stumbling and pushing its slow way across the end of the runway. Some with truculent and reluctant children and others with equally reluctant animals in tow. Everyone seemed to be carrying goods on their backs or pushing and pulling on a variety of wheeled contraptions. Old people staggered and young people were being urged along, including pigs, chickens and assorted livestock all in evidence.
At the rear of this motley column were several Chinese policemen armed with long sticks attempting to speed up the dragging rear. Behind them another policeman had closed off a makeshift gate and this had resulted in a growing stretch of bare road becoming visible at the end of the procession.
A quick hand signal from Joe and I dropped full flaps and hauled all four throttles back. The short Merlin exhaust stubs spat ragged flames and snarled and crackled as the deceleration slid me forward against my straps. I was now left free to observe the last part of this exercise.
The timing of all this was perfection, no doubt, born of great experience, not to mention the probable loss of a few lives, because as the last few barefooted individuals cleared the tarmac, our wheels slashed past and struck with a scream and a spurt of black smoke spurted out with the accompanying scream of rubber on tarmac, I wiped my forehead and thought, so this is China!
We turned off the runway at the intersection and as I cleaned up the flaps, we drifted to a breathless halt, I looked back from my side window towards the road crossing the end of the runway and noticed with a degree of astonishment that the column of variegated humanity had re-established itself as before. We had come and we had gone, a speeding moment of the future, a minor interference with hundreds of years of the past.
The official statement read: “Flt Sgt Joe Kmiecik treated the crowd to a show of near – aerobatics and low flying such as had not been seen before, with Kmiecik flying his regular Lincoln RE358 like a fighter springing numerous rivets in the process.”
We sprung more than rivets, on our return to the UK the aircraft had to be scrapped as the main wing spar turned out to be fractured.
“Bismuth" long-range meteorological flights 1946
Bismuth was the code name of the operation – Aldergrove airfield near Belfast was our base of operations and the purpose of our trips far into the remote and lonely Atlantic was to provide the necessary information for the station meteorological staff to prepare the daily weather forecast for the BBC and many other civil and military authorities. There was some glamour attached to the station work and we received many visits from media types. There was however, little romance in the actual collection of the required data and as a result of it being common knowledge that the trips were arduous and dangerous, we very seldom had any passengers along.
In between our weather sorties we maintained a search and rescue function, in which, although we had the blessing of much shorter duration trips, we also suffered from the fact that most incidents requiring our help were the result of very bad weather. They were also mostly at sea, flying just above the surface of the violent and tormented ocean waters where gale force winds were blowing the white foam into the air from the wave tops, we would jam our faces against the cold plastic window in a desperate and often futile search for some missing fishboat.
Once when I saw, just south of Iceland, for the first time but not the last, a fishing trawler out of Grimsby rolling steeply in storm slashed waves shrouded from sheer to mast top in the glassy, gleaming, deadly black ice. Forlorn but desperate human figures were hacking furiously with axes to relieve their vessel from its awful and unwelcome cargo, and I expected at any moment to see the unfortunate vessel turn over and vanish into the steel blue waters. Fortunately, in this case it was not to be and the outcome was much to our satisfaction.
The aircraft were old, worn-out Halifax bombers from wartime, tired and leaky, demanding of very careful inspection before every trip and as if this was not enough there was a certain amount of sabotage and vandalism going on around the airfield. A visit by the Queen in 1949 was heralded by the flagpole being chopped down overnight in company with several other expressions of Irish discontent.
Worst of all were the examples of damage to the already dangerous aircraft, some obvious and some unseen; these would later surface as faults when airborne.
Constant vigilance was necessary even to the extent of searching the toilet can in the rear of the aircraft with a stick for plastic wrapped bombs, and various other checks which we had not found necessary even in wartime.
The unexplained loss of several aircraft into the Atlantic confirmed only by the arrival of the wheels from the missing aircraft on the western beaches of Norway served as a grim reminder as for the need for this extraordinary care. Indeed recognising the value of the North Atlantic extension of the Gulfstream current in these searches, the authorities showed their sensitivities by painting the name of the airfield ‘Aldergrove’ in large white letters on each tire to make it easier for the Norwegian authorities to identify the source of the wreckage, something akin to the ancient tradition of sailors having their bodies tattooed in order to have a good Christian burial in the event of being washed up on a foreign shore.
A depressing and indelicate reminder as you climbed aboard for the long trip. Needless to say, this neat little idea of officialdom did nothing for the already delicate state of morale existing in the minds of the crew members.
It hardly seemed that we had graduated to the peacetime years. As the ancient and cranky converted Halifax bomber from WWII days laboured and groaned off the end of the runway, we became deeply pre-occupied with the business of flying and navigating our airborne meteorological station into the lonely skies of the north Atlantic. And for the next twelve hours we climbed and descended collecting our records of temperature, humidity etc., until finally once again, the craggy grey and green shores of County Donegal materialised out of the mist and rain. A mere 45 minutes to go, as the fuel-lightened aircraft, rapidly swept across the lakes and hills towards our home base of Aldergrove on the eastern shore of Lough Neagh.
Another Bismuth trip to mid-Atlantic on the shaky old Halifax bomber. Grabbed sandwiches (yuk) and tool kit. Did external check, w/c legs really sagging with the huge fuel load. Tyres, wing locks, gasoline controls, surfaces etc. Climbed aboard and checked out various equipment. Engines started, checked all oil pressures, critical on the slave valve engines. All OK. Taxi out to the runway and full max burn at this weight.
Usual to run at this weight, just airborne at the letters on the end of the runway climbing painfully slowly to 2000 ft for track to Donegal Bay. Soon there and now heading south-west into the ocean and gaining height slowly to barometric height and all settled down to our duties. The aircraft was getting slowly lighter by using up fuel and this was always a good feeling. The weather looked good for the Atlantic.
As we passed over the west coast it was clear enough that we could settle down from our safety height. The long, cold, eleven-hour flight was nearly over once more, and again we had left the turbulent grey Atlantic behind us safely with its myriad mysteries, including a few of my good friends, lying deep. It was a fair day for Northern Ireland at that time of the year, grey drizzling with a light rain, ‘Atlantic Gloom’ was the favourite description of the station meteorologist, perhaps it only seemed fair since Christmas was almost upon us; it could have been worse, we could have been having everyone else’s wish – snow!
This would be our last trip for this year and good riddance to it. We had lost a good few friends in this sad year and could only hope that the next one would be less tragic. Three major crashes on the airfield, one of them destroying three other four-engined Halifax aircraft sitting in their dispersals and with the crashing aircraft spectacularly grinding to a halt right on top of the two-million-gallon fuel storage depot. What a place to end up; needless to say, the crew made a rapid escape and all lived to tell the tale. One of the others was a sad story which involved a Halifax shedding a propellor, a fairly common occurrence at that time. The prop passed through the nose of the plane taking off a crew member’s legs. A very effective piece of first aid by the others saved his life and a quick landing got him into the hospital where he underwent treatment and was eventually sent home in a wheelchair. Sadly after all that, he was unable to deal with the change of circumstances and did away with himself.
The third crash of the year ended up as a comedy. Another lost prop resulted in a two engine, and quite successful ditching in the cold waters of Lough Neagh only a few miles from the airfield. However due to the suddenness of the whole thing the Sargent pilot had been unable to communicate with the control tower. Shortly after this a B.O.A.C. airliner circling over the lake on its approach to land at neighbouring Belfast airport made a call to Aldergrove tower politely enquiring as to whether at this time, the RAF was carrying out a full-scale ditching drill in Lough Neagh, which included a large crew and a real-life bomber. The tower quickly dispatched a radio-controlled motor launch which was based further up the lake. When the boat arrived on the scene, they were amazed to see a huge Halifax bomber sinking slowly under the lake surface while the crew were still hacking away at the wing, through several inches of water, to endeavour to release the emergency rubber dinghy which was still trapped in its compartment in the wing. All’s well that ends well and a large amount of Guiness was consumed in Aldergrove mess that night with several toasts to an observant B.O.A.C. crew.
On one occasion, I was standing in a line to see a movie in the local RAF cinema when in comes Tommy O’Reilly to plead with me to take a trip next day for him, he said he had misplaced his toolkit and couldn’t go himself. I had no desire to do an extra 10 hour Bismuth trip, so I said, I’ll bring my toolkit round easily so you can do the trip yourself. He wasn’t too pleased and I could see his girlfriend was waiting anxiously, so he left to try someone else. I still went round in the morning and gave him the toolkit and left for a day in Belfast. Later that evening I came back to find a pair of security men plastering 'comm' tape across his door. A sad sight. Another nice friend had vanished into the depths of the Atlantic and with him, my bits and pieces in the toolkit. So many friends lost in the Atlantic, mysteriously the only evidence being wheels and other light parts.
We were doing this flight as a special favour for the Press who wanted their usual definitive statement about the possibility of a white Christmas, not to mention the sly suggestion of a faint image in the sky over the north Atlantic, scooting along behind a team of horned quadrupeds and heavily laden with equally faint sacks. The pleasant thought of Christmas fun at the party, which even now would be getting underway in the aircrew mess hall, were passing through my mind as the green hills of Antrim passed beneath our wings. The rough contours of the Irish countryside blended and softened in the fading light while ahead a silver strip gleamed like a welcoming beacon.
The great watery bulk of Lough Neagh stretched for miles from left to right widening as we approached to fill our horizon and increasing in brightness by contrast with the darkening countryside. In the near distance, on the far side of the water, the outline of Aldergrove Airfield began to emerge with here-and-there a light springing up to give substance to the growing image.
The sound of the four Bristol Hercules changed to a welcome rumble as the throttles were reduced and this was accompanied by a sudden rush of activity as maps and logs were folded and stacked and all the loose odds and ends of a lengthy flight were tidied up and put back in place ready for landing. A momentary wrestling match with the wireless operator as he tried to acquire a large pair of my woolly socks which I valued greatly. These were invaluable on the high leg of these weather trips where the temperature would reach -40 degrees or lower and the metal of the aircraft got so cold that any exposed flesh coming into contact with it would immediately attach itself and have to be ripped painfully away.
A quick fuel check, the two 400-gallon bomb bay tanks were empty and most of the 14 wing tanks also, but a nice 90 minute of reserve remained in the main tanks, more than usual on these very difficult navigation trips where it was common to get blown miles off course during the remote Atlantic portion of the journey. On occasion, landings had to be made at odd destinations such as Shannon or the North of Scotland. Sometimes they were not made, and the aircraft was never heard of again. Now however, we were in the circuit for landing and we at least were home again.
Throttles were reduced further now and a quarter flap and wheels down were selected. I scanned the pressures and temperatures for a last check and then looked for the green lights on the undercarriage indicator, but only one green was showing!
A cry from an observer in the nose of the aircraft – fire! And as I looked out, I froze, brilliant crimson flames were shooting out of the starboard inner engine cooling gills. Quickly I moved through the shutdown and the propeller feathering procedure and with an enormous feeling of relief saw the flames retreat out of sight, so the propeller slowly came to a stop. Thanking my stars that we were down to the last 200 gallons of fuel in the tanks, with Hastings I readjusted the RPM and throttles on the three good engines to maintain speed and height. With…
The skipper was staring at me now as I called down to the nose for an observation which quickly came in the negative. Apparently, the left wheel looked fully down which agreed with the cockpit lights but the right wheel was stopped in the half down position. I shot down into the nose of the plane to see for myself and there was no doubt at all. There must be a problem with the hydraulics! Back upstairs and a couple of quick operations of the undercarriage lever brought no resolution of the problem.
The next item on my emergency check list was the main oil header tank for the hydraulic system, and as I climbed over the main spar to check the oil level in the vessel, I was hoping we had lots of cold coffee and tea left over in the drinking flasks. At the same moment, I couldn’t help thinking of the number of times I had heard the famous story of the crew who had saved the day by topping up a low-level tank with their own bodily fluids. The level looked good however, and fortunately so, since the location of the hydraulic tank would have prevented anyone except a midget or an acrobat from performing this heroic deed in the confines of the Halifax bomber.
As the noise and vibration died away, I started towards the front to see the results but I stopped abruptly at the look on the Navigators face. It left no doubt that all the noise and fury had been to no avail. Clearly there was some quite serious damage in the right undercarriage mechanism or more likely an internal leak of some kind in the leg hydraulics, it was just hanging loosely in the slipstream. Gas must be passing through the rubber jack seal and was unable to build up any kind of pressure to lower the wheel.
My last resort now was the nitrogen tank buried in the wing root with its 2000 lbs of gas pressure. Surely this would do the trick.
It seemed as if we were going to be forced into making a crash landing and the sooner the better as the light was fading fast. A quick call to the tower by the skipper and we were directed to the lake to unload all the excess weight and particularly any heavy loose equipment which could fly around on landing and cause damage. Out went the equipment worth a fortune through the rear door into the gloomy depths of Lough Neagh as the wireless operator and other crew members assisted and since we were very low on fuel there was no need to jettison from the main tanks. All that remained was for me to drop the two huge, long-range bomb bay tanks, each of 400-gallon capacity, now of course empty of gasoline but even more dangerously full of highly volatile vapour. Open bomb doors and pull the jettison levers then climb back down the fuselage to open the inspection panels in the floor, stopping briefly to reassure a young weather cadet who was concerned about the noise at the back. A blast of fuel vapour in the face and a clear view of the water below sufficed to confirm the loss of the tanks, and now exhausted, I called up front for the bomb doors to be closed.
It was now getting dark and as we returned to the airfield we had one more call from the tower to say that the wing commander was present and would like us to perform one more test by diving over the tower. As we pulled up he would endeavour to see if the effect of the manoeuvre forced the wheel down.
I braced myself between the main spars as we executed the dive and noticed the young man in the rear pointing to his ears and guessed he was in pain in some way. At this point I called up front to make adjustments for landing and then I retreated again to my crash station between the spars. As I turned to go, I glanced out of the astrodome at the airfield and noticed at the landing end of the runway, a row of blood wagons and fire equipment all lined up for action, and brightly lit. The lead vehicle was occupied by a couple of well-known characters, all dressed up in their asbestos firefighting suits ready to battle into a flaming wreck. I remember thinking “I hope we don’t need these fine Irish lads today”. As I squatted down on the cold metal floor, the lad from the rear joined me shouting in my ear, “Something is banging like hell back there!”
As I turned from looking forwards I just caught a glimpse through the windshield of the lights beginning to come on at the door of the mess hall. Some of the boys are one ahead of me already I thought! And I knew from experience that at any minute the word would get through to them and they would be congregating in the cool night air to watch the fun, pint in hand. These casual thoughts vanished rapidly from my mind as I contemplated my next move. I had never, before operated the nitrogen bottle and was just a little curious as to what might happen. As was common among aircrew any story of dramatic and spectacular occurrences enjoyed considerable circulation with the accompanying tendency towards exaggeration. The high-pressure emergency cylinder was no exception so it was with a small amount of trepidation that I made the adjustments and with a glance over my shoulder at nothing in particular, I released the gas. A loud screaming howl pierced the already noisy atmosphere, changing rapidly in tone as if a range of very large animals had been stricken in sequence with the most agonising pain. A high frequency vibration passing into my frozen hands attested to the rapid passage of gas through the system.
{From James D Fell: During the period of flying the Halifax the Squadron lost 32 aircrew in accidents; an enormous number for what may have seemed to many to be a cushy peacetime job. This was the infancy of civil trans-Atlantic flying creating a great need for upper air data. The high level observations from BISMUTH were invaluable.
The procedure for the soundings had been developed over years of experience and required a high standard of flying and crew co-operation.}
Life in Ireland
It was not easy as there was a constant political undercurrent to everything and a wrong word in the messhall could have significant effect on the general picture. Allegiances were strange and as a young Scot, I was surprised to find that I was quite acceptable, at a slight distance. My English friends were not so lucky and my best friend, a handsome blonde Afrikaner lived in an amused state of mild confusion, although since he like myself, was only interested in getting, what was a very dangerous and demanding job, done, and finding a little pleasure in our spare time.
The city of Belfast was interesting in its old-fashioned way. The pubs were pleasant locations once the political affiliations had been determined and the taste had been adjusted to the dark and excellent brew. For a very outspoken and liberal minded group such as RAF aircrew, the need to significantly limit the scope of the conversation was punitive, after all, the wild and violent verbal competition of the crew room during the mind-killing periods of waiting between operations was a fundamental of contented Airforce existence, not to mention a vital safety valve for extreme emotions, but in the Irish social scene almost any comment could be unwittingly misunderstood and often led to quite dramatic ends.
This all led to modifications of conduct at odds with those normal in Britain, some of them quite serious and some quite amusing. For example, when attending local dance halls it was common for me to give short lessons in the Scottish vernacular to my English crew mates to enable them to successfully request a dance with some very attractive Irish girl, since the revelation that you were an Englishman was often fatal to the invitation.
It was quite amusing to see how long the happy couple would circle the floor before the inevitable penny dropped and the unhappy lothario was left dangling in mid ballroom. I would laughingly offer my advanced course for the price of a pint of Guinness, an offer seldom refused providing the delicate choice of pub was acceptable.
Touring on my BSA Motorbike was a most enjoyable pastime on this beautiful island, but once again when we stopped for a drink or lunch at some remote and lovely village, it was often desirable to leave hurriedly since in our careless and carefree way, we had somehow or other given away our supposed allegiances. The green and lovely countryside which we inhaled as we sped along the lonely roads, the racing clouds and frequent invigorating cool showers so redolent of Irelands isolated purity of atmosphere was a tonic to our stressed minds, yet through it all a sadness permeated each thought. Memories of needlessly lost companions and endless bitter arguments forced themselves to the fore at each break in the observation of earthly wonders and the beauties of nature dimmed against the idea of a mother’s grief. In the event, of course, the optimism of youth triumphed and all was made right by the dawning of a new day.
Other Memories
FLASH
Up early to the lecture room for a talk by two engineers from the experimental station at Farnborough and then out to the Lincoln 358 to see their new ‘toy’. They had spent the night before installing it and it was most impressive. Poor Bert the bomb-aimer, it was a gigantic camera which took up most of the space in his nose position and was bolted down in place of the former escape hatch! Goodbye to my emergency escape, two steps down – now it was 45 feet away in the rear of the aircraft. I don’t think I would make it!
The idea was to drop a giant two-ton flash flare which would explode on a barometric switch at a lower height and thus operate the camera via a light sensitive switch and take a clear picture of a night target. Lots of rumbling as we strolled back to the crew room for a cup of tea and further discussion on the plan for the night.
As the light faded, we gathered that evening in the crew room and collected our gear for the trip, the target area was on Salisbury plain just north of Larkhill.
A well-known army base, used for training, we took off in a clear night with a nice starry sky and found a think layer of cloud which we entered at about 8000 feet over Oxford. As we popped out of the cloud tops in the clear moonlight, I was shocked to see a British Airways twin engine passenger plane about 100 yards away, cruising along on the same heading as us. I just had time to see the stunned faces of twenty or more terrified people illuminated behind brightly lit windows before Joe became aware of the situation and executed a rapid evasion manoeuvre.
We continued on our planned course slightly shaken and soon arrived over Larkhill where we carried out our routine checks and started on our first run to the target marked by indicator lights. Joe carried out his usual steady target run up with a minimum of course alterations from the bomb-aimer and soon Bert called “flare away.”
Joe selected ‘Bomb Doors Closed’ and I grabbed my torch and proceeded to climb down into the nose of the aircraft. As I started to unscrew the small panel I heard Bert reporting, “no flash” to Joe. I then quickly swung back the panel and shone my torch into the cavernous interior of the bomb bay and gave a quiet curse, there was the ugly huge cylinder containing one and a half million candlepower of chemicals rolling gently from side to side with nothing but its pressure switch wating to incinerate all of us in full view of a large part of England. Without thinking, I instantly called to Joe to open the bomb doors and away went the monster. I called to close the doors and returned to my seat, suddenly the cabin was filled by an intensely brilliant glow and I looked down on a small village 10,000 feet below shimmering in a silver light. To this day I often wonder how many poor villagers thought on that night that the world was ending.
Arizona
Duncan is stunned at the growth of the boneyard since he was at Davis-Monthan representing the RAF. There is another boneyard they never mention. When he was there, a young American airman asked him if he would like to see something interesting. He then drove him to a big shed and showed him a long line of huge A-bombs and said, would you like to touch one? Dunc says he has never got over the feeling to this day.
Paris
English girls can be very unusual, a high proportion of them are very good looking, which was demonstrated during the war when the American soldiers commandeered them under all sorts of pretences and removed them to the U. S. of A. but an even higher proportion have a sense of individuality which can rise to surprising heights. Only the French girls are more individualistic and in their case it is directed more towards appealing to the opposite sex. When I was in Paris, I was absolutely stunned by the lengths that the young females of that fabulous city would go to in making themselves attractive and different. It was like some great city-wide game or competition as to which young lady could outdo all the others in dressing up and then to parade quite discreetly through the main streets to be admired by all the young men. As we draped ourselves over the balcony of our bare but huge room in the Ritz Hotel, formerly occupied by the Gestapo, we oohed and aaahed at each lovely as she walked demurely along sporting the most original of hairdos and the most creative of home-made dresses, for make no mistake about it, these were not rich models but honest working girls determined to show themselves to the world at their best.
On the other hand, the English girls, always seemed to be interested in doing more things of an adventurous nature, especially where it equalled or at least competed with the more manly. The air force was a very strong supporter of anything sporting and physical and to add variety, the fitness people were constantly seeking outside groups for us to compete against. Once our soccer team was invited to take on a Wiltshire village team and so we rolled off into the countryside one Wednesday afternoon in the general direction of Lower Snodbury packed in the back of the usual draughty Gharry or truck.
The Air dual
They were a very special breed with faraway looks in their eyes, given to doing strange things in the night. They were always leaving places behind when others were travelling towards new destinations, they would watch their beloved places recede rapidly into the distance and when others were excitedly arriving at new locations, they were always lagging behind slightly, about 60 ft behind, often still in the air when others were firmly on the ground.
Their movements in the air also tended to be exaggerated. When those at the front dipped their nose gently to scan the horizons, these lads at the rear violently swept the vertical reaches of space and a gentle change of direction left or right, caused them to rotate the horizon with dramatic speed. At least they had early indications of the need to brace themselves against these great oscillations as just on either side of them were located the large control surfaces, the rudders and elevators, which by their movement would signal the impending alteration of direction.
Exceptional manoeuvres such as a mild bit of corkscrewing during fighter affiliation produced a strange variety of sounds over the intercommunication system probably caused by the violent collisions with the sides and roof of their wildly oscillating little cabin in the sky as they strained to aim their guns at the friendly spitfires.
…none of the young national service pilots had any experience of working with a large propeller driven aircraft, so we did not know what to expect from them. I was surprised to see the first attacking aircraft suddenly break off and dive rapidly away down behind us, and the next one actually rolled over on its back before executing the same manoeuvre. This continued for a short while with the other members of the squadron until their very short fuel supply ran out and they had to hare back to the satellite field and land.
When we landed and attended the debriefing, we were highly amused to hear the conversations which were racing around the room. It appeared that our violent bomber command type corkscrews plus the totally unexpected effect of the huge multi-engine slipstream had been somewhat a surprise to the young fighter pilots.
The camera films were more than complimentary to us and I thought, a great compliment to Joe Kmiecik’s handling. Having been a Spitfire pilot certainly paid off in circumstances like that and Joe really enjoyed the moment. He was in better shape too as the effect of the manoeuvres are always less on the driver than on the loose bodies being flung around inside the aircraft, so we left him to gloat as we headed for the mess and a welcome pint.
We were soon met with a challenge to another dual which we all quickly rejected since not only was it a very demanding pastime in that extreme climate but we also knew from experience that after the first learning opportunity the story would be quite different and we were not about to present the ‘sprogs’ with a bragging chance.
With Bomber Command, my last job was flying the Lancs in the "Dambuster” movie.
There are books, films and endless articles about the filming of the Dam Buster movie, yet in Uncle Duncan's memoir this is the only mention he gives it. Yet, with Joe Kmiecik, he flew the main plain which Richard Todd was seen 'flying' in the film. He features centrally in many of the official photos as seen below and yet his contribution is hard to find in official documentation, it took me some time to discover the photo below where he is named as 'Jock' rather than Duncan. I'm sure he will have written and certainly spoken of his Dam Buster experiences, but I cannot add anything further here. To me, the photos speak loudly about the man and his actions.
He has a letter from Joe Kmiecik dated 1983 after they rediscovered each other, Joe having been told that Duncan had moved to Australia and had died! Duncan never knowing where Joe ended up. It was good they reconnected and I discovered Joe had a son who was also a pilot, however I did try to make contact without success.
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