Our Father's Generation. F. M. Worden
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up.” I spent most of the time learning about how to be a military person. After finishing the course, I was made a Flight Sergeant. We received new blue uniforms, with flight wings over the left breast pocket, and a Canada patch on the left arm at the shoulder, I was pronounced a fit combat Fighter Pilot.
Allie and Elsa had spent two months with me while I was in this training. That made life a lot better for me.
Orders came down that fifteen pilots were to be in England ASAP. I was made the CO of the detail; we were to fly two Lockheed Hudson twin engine aircraft to England.
Allie booked a flight to San Diego; I saw the baby and Allie off at the airport, it was a sad day to see Allie crying so hard, as she entered the plane; I threw a kiss and mouthed, “I’ll be back.”
We left the next morning, we landed at Nova Scotia to refuel and flew across the Atlantic to an airdrome in central west England. There I was posted to a Patrol Squadron at the tip of northern Scotland. I was to patrol the North Sea looking for submarines and other German sea going vessels, I complained. “I came here to be a fighter pilot, not a sub chaser.”
The C.O. told me. “We need experienced pilots to instruct the others, you are our best.”
What could I say but, “Okay.”
My duties started as soon as I unpacked, the Hudson was the ideal aircraft to use, it carried ten, one hundred and ten pound bombs. We patrolled sunup to sundown. My first go was fourteen hours, and then we would get eight hours on, eight hours off. A month of this and my butt was dragging. We hadn’t spotted one sub, I was beginning to think the Huns {as the Brits called the Germans} had no subs in the North Sea.
If I hadn’t been getting letters from Allie and Mother, I would have gone berserk. Funny how news from home will make a guy feel so good. Allie said she was working at the Lockheed Aircraft Company in Santa Monica, California, I kind of figured she was building airplanes. Little did I know she was a test pilot for the aircraft Lockheed P38? It was several years before I learned about it, what a gal I married. She was in more danger than I.
All the news was of the fighting in France. The Brits had sent a force {with fighter planes - Hurricanes - no Spitfires} to stop the Nazi advance. Seems they were having no luck stopping the Germans.
Two of our pilots were called to Fighter Command, they were older chaps. I felt cheated for weeks, I said so too. I was to feel better soon.
It was on an early morning patrol, we had been out for an hour, when the observer called on the intercom, “Sub dead ahead.”
Sure enough, I could just make out a Sub on the surface coming our way, what luck! I banked the Hudson hard right and at full throttle we climbed into a dense cloud bank. At 15,000, I leveled off and turned north, every once in a while we could get a peek at the Sub through a break in the clouds. She was steaming right along on the same course. Apparently, their lookout had not seen or heard our aircraft.
I gave it five minutes, dove down and a few feet off the water headed for our target. At five hundred yards, I climbed above the Sub. “Bombs away!” She never knew what hit her, the hundred-ten pounders hit square on the deck, what a shot! As we climbed away, I banked left to get a better view. The Sub jumped out of the water and broke in half, in two minutes, the Sub was gone. I had total remorse; I knew a hundred men had just died. War had come to me in a striking realization.
After the patrol, a celebration was had in the village pub. Now there were fourteen crews patrolling the North Sea from our airdrome. Our Commanding Officer, Jeff J. Jones, a tall Scott, came to me that night and told me I had been posted to Fighter Command, I almost broke down as I wanted that so bad.
“Tommy,” he said “You will make one great Fighter Pilot.” He had been one in the first war. “I wish you the best in the world, England needs you now.” Boy, oh boy, did he make me feel good; I had a lot of respect for this man.
The news was of the retreat of French and British forces. They were trapped on the beaches of a French coastal town - Dunkirk.
Two days later, I was on a train bound for Fighter Command. I was to report to Air Vice-Marshal Park at Uxbridge, Group 11 Headquarters in south east England. I arrived at Park HQ at seven a.m. He welcomed me with open arms. “We need fighter pilots. You will be a member of Squadron 29 at Tangmere Airdrome, it’s the hottest group we have.” He was a no nonsense guy.
“We need pilots,” he said again, “Not heroes. Follow the orders of your squadron leader.”
I said I would without fail.
The news about Dunkirk, France was that the Brits had taken most of the soldiers back to England, 250,000 in a flotilla of civilian small boats. That was an impossible feat, to say the least.
I was given a ride to the Tangmere Airdrome. In the dispersal hut; I met my Squadron Leader, a chap named Flight Officer Major Sailor Martin. A stern looking individual, he looked to be about thirty-five years old, Six feet tall about one hundred eighty pounds. He was a friendly fellow and introduced me to a good number of my brother pilots, most were young as I. I met my wing man, Lee Johns, an Aussie, tall, blonde, dark blue-eyed, handsome, weighting in at about a hundred and sixty pounds. a really good looking young guy. He told me he had been with the squadron all of three days. “I have four hours of combat time, No kills but some misses.”
“I’ll get one soon,” he told me with much confidence.
Major Martin asked if I had ever flown a fighter aircraft.
“I have a few minutes in a Navy f4f Grumman Wildcat and an old Pea-shooter, a Navy Officer let me fly them at an air show we were giving at a Navy field; nothing to brag about.”
Major Martin the Squadron CO and I walked outside and over to a Hurricane fighter plane parked in the dispersal area. Four ground crew men were busy working on it.
The Sq. CO said, “This is your aircraft, it has just been refurbished at the factory. These men are fueling and putting a few finishing touches on it. The ship was shot down and the pilot killed, may you have better luck with her.”
I must have looked a little apprehensive. He told me. “She’s as good as new.”
He introduced me to my ground crew chief, Corporal Jason Smith. “She’s all ready to fly, sir.”
The Corporal looked really young, maybe nineteen at the most. He was a rather tall, lanky chap with a smooth face and a friendly smile. I could see we were going to get along fine. He gripped my hand and said. “We’ll get a lot of Huns, won’t we Sir?”
“You bet we will.”
“Your airplane is in good hands, I’ll take good care of her and you, Please call me Smithy, everyone does.”
“I sure will.”
Squadron Commander, Flight Officer Major Martin said, “I want you to take your Hurricane up. You need to get the feel of her before you go into combat.”
Smithy told me, “She’s full of petrol and ready to go, no ammo though”
“Go south out to sea, give her a good jolly go, you have an hour. Watch for enemy aircraft, the Huns are lurking about.”
I climbed into the cockpit. This aircraft had more instruments than any plane I had flown. He stood on the wing giving me instructions I needed to fly my Hurricane. “When you turn upside down, the engine will spit a few seconds. She has a carburetor, it takes a second for the fuel to catch up. Remember that, the enemy has fuel injection, so you are most vulnerable at that time.” When he got down, Smithy helped with my seat and parachute harnesses, I was ready to fly my Hurricane.
As I was flagged out and taxied to the take-off area, I tried to run over in my mind the instructions Officer Martin had given me. There was no runway here, just a grass field, the ground was somewhat soft. At the end of the field, I turned into the wind, set the brakes and revved the engine, I released the brakes and she leapt forward in response. Away we went, back on the stick, in a split second we were airborne.
“What