1 October 1940. Australians in the Battle of Britain. Vale Clarence Charles Bennett

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 1 October 1940. Vale Clarence Charles Bennett

South Australia must have been a hotbed of airmindedness in the mid-1930s. It was the adopted home of one Battle of Britain pilot—Bill Millington—and the birthplace of six Battle of Britain pilots—Robert Bungey, John Cock, Desmond Fopp, Lewis Hamilton, Dick Reynell and Clarence Charles Bennett.

Clarence was born on 28 November 1916 at Mallala, the son of a railway worker. He was educated at Kapunda and, after school, took a job as a junior clerk in the railways, transferring to Mount Gambier in 1936. He developed a reputation among his colleagues as a man of ‘untiring energy’ with a ‘happy-go-lucky manner’ and a ‘readiness to lend a hand to all and sundry’. He was popular amongst both his workmates and customers and at some point acquired the nickname ‘Rattler’.

Conscientious he may have been at his duties but he was not averse to the occasional escapade and his workmates recall the day he rode his motor bike up to the tower at Mount Gambier and then narrowly missing a plunge into the Devil’s Punch Bowl, one of several blowholes in the area, on his return.

According to his old workmates, Clarrie was always ‘airminded’ and at the age of 16 built his own glider. From gliding he turned his eyes to aircraft and in 1938 took flying lessons. He resigned from the railways in December 1938 and sailed to England in February 1939 to enlist in the RAF. He was the first South Australian Railway Officer to serve in the Second World War.

Training completed, he was posted to 248 Squadron on 6 November 1939 where he met fellow South Australian Lewis Hamilton. There they flew the fighter variant of the Bristol Blenheim.

He developed a reputation as a good pilot, with particular expertise in bad weather and blind flying. As with his railway friends, he was a popular member of his squadron.

On 28 September, during an operation over the North Sea, he engaged and damaged a Dornier 18 flying boat. Despite being shot in the leg, the only reason he broke off the attack was because he was running low on fuel.

On 1 October, Clarrie was tasked with what Lewis Hamilton termed a ‘tricky piece of work’, a photographic reconnaissance operation to the Norwegian coast. He failed to return and he and his crew were posted missing.

He was the twelfth Australian to die in the Battle of Britain.

On 9 August 1941, Air Board in Melbourne wrote to Clarrie’s family to advise that ‘in view of the lapse of time and the absence of any further news regarding your son’ they ‘must regretfully conclude that he has lost his life and his death will be presumed, for official purposes, to have occurred on 1st October 1940’.

In due course, Clarence’s personal effects were gathered up and sent by sea to Australia. On 19 July 1943, his father Septimus signed a receipt and took possession of his son’s personal items. They ranged from the usual sort of text books and RAF uniform to the more intimate chest protector, shaving brush, razors and pyjamas. Indicating that Clarrie’s youthful fascination with flying had never left despite the work-a-day nature of operations, the cabin trunk included a model aeroplane. Showing that Clarence had taken advantage of the hospitality offered British county families, almost lost amongst the larger items, was a small box of visiting cards. And perhaps indicating the seriousness he took his photographic reconnaissance role, the trunk also contained a book on photography.

The receipt allowed for only the date and his signature, but, indicating the great gratitude and relief that his son’s belongings had arrived, Septimus added ‘thanking you’ to the bottom of the form, and took the trunk home to commence the sad process of sifting through the items. Perhaps his heart was gladdened when he discovered letters and photos and training records which would give a sense of the experiences of his son and the life he had lived in Britain.

Clarence’s railway friends honoured him by including him on their association’s Honour Roll, and in their magazine gave him a fine tribute:

‘A better man I’ve never met, a better man I never wish to meet’.

 

1 October 1940. Australians in the Battle of Britain. Peter Moore

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 1 October 1940

For many, the Battle of Britain appeared to be winding down. But for Peter Moore, of Melbourne, Victoria it had yet to begin.

Before Peter  got stuck into his advanced training on Hurricanes after arriving at 245 Squadron RAF Aldergrove in Northern Ireland on 27 September 1940, he carried out sector reconnaissances to familiarise himself with the area. His training commenced in earnest on 29 September with formation exercises, battle climbs, practice attacks, and air-to-ground firing in the Aldergrove range. September closed with more formation exercises, cloud flying and a battle climb.

 

Advanced training for the new pilots continued on 1 October, Peter’s 21st birthday and it is likely he spent this day on cloud formation practice, sector reconnaissances, battle climbs and attacks.

28 September 1940: John Crossman and Bill Millington

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 28 September 1940

46 and 249 Squadron again participated in wing patrols on 28 September. The first was of Dover and the second of Maidstone. John Crossman and Bill Millington flew on both patrols, John in Hurricane V6478 and Bill in V6614.

On both occasions enemy aircraft were sighted but it was the Maidstone patrol that proved the most significant for John as experienced a lucky escaped and learned two valuable lessons in fighter tactics.

 

For once, 46 Squadron were leading and, on the way home, the wing was caught by surprise. They:

‘Were attacked in rear out of the sun by 2 Me 109s. We were leading and they shot down one of 249 of Squadron at the rear. It was occupying the position in rear of squadron that I usually have. Glad we were leading. Pilot baled out OK but didn’t move when he landed. Have learned he was badly wounded. [This was Pilot Officer Albert Lewis.] When the two 109s attacked [they] had dived into clouds so we weren’t able to get them. Had they not attacked from out of the sun we should have seen them.’

The lessons: beware of the Hun in the sun, and tail end Charlie is always vulnerable.

 

27 September 1940: Peter Moore, John Crossman and Bill Millington

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 27 September 1940

Peter Moore, who hasn’t appeared in this narrative since 8 September, completed his operational training at Aston Down and was posted to 245 Squadron at RAF Aldergrove in Northern Ireland on 27 September 1940. In addition to its defence duties—Aldergrove was responsible for the defence of Belfast and the protection of shipping—it had recently been tasked as an operational training unit for advanced training for Hurricane pilots destined for front line squadrons.

 

 

(Peter Moore)

John Crossman returned from his 24 hours leave at 1.00 p.m. 46 Squadron had already been in the air with 249 Squadron twice that day and was ordered off again about 2.50 p.m. John joined his comrades in the air.

The two squadrons patrolled Hornchurch and saw a formation of ten to twelve Junkers Ju 88s flying above the estuary towards London with a large escort of Me 109s. 249 led the joint attack. A ‘general melee ensued followed by a running fight out to sea.’   

From John’s perspective, this was not a successful outing, and once again he was critical of 249’s conduct of the operation:

‘Intercepted bombers and would have got them all ourselves if 249 hadn’t led us away from them. I only got one burst in. Pat [ie Billy Pattullo] was able to get near but got an explosive bullet in his cockpit—just missed his head. Hit armour plate peppered his face with pieces and he was lucky it all missed his eyes.’

 

 

(John Crossman)

Despite John’s opinion, both 46 and 249 squadrons considered this a successful combat. 46 Squadron claimed one definite Ju 88 destroyed and, although Billy Pattullo force landed with a bullet in his engine, he was unhurt. 249 suffered one killed and other pilot shot down, uninjured and claimed 11 1/2 enemy aircraft destroyed and one damaged. Bill Millington accounted for one and a half of those: 

‘I climbed 1000 feet above enemy bombers and made a steep dive quarter attack on the rear e/a. At this time there were only 7 or 8 bombers left as they were being continuously attacked by Hurricanes. Rear e/a left formation smoking and I delivered a quarter attack opening fire at 100 yards, closing. Port engine of enemy aircraft exploded and e/a dived down steeply to ground in flames. Three fighters, some thousands of feet below, seemed to be following e/a down. E/a crashed South East of Portsmouth.

Bomber formation split up and not one reached the French coast. PO Neil and I attacked the remaining Ju 88 at about 4000 feet which had been attacked by numbers of our fighters, but was still maintaining height and flying steadily over the coast. I delivered a quarter attack, opening fire from 100 yards closing and the starboard motor of e/a burst into flames. E/a dived steeply over the coast losing height rapidly and PO Neil finished it off with a burst from close range. E/a crashed into sea off Shoreham.’

Afterwards, Bill and Tom Neil talked about how they had joined forces in shooting down the Ju 88. ‘I recall reliving [this] and other events with him with some glee when we discussed them later, he being especially animated, as he appeared to enjoy flying as my partner on that and other occasions, and often told me so’.

 

 

(Bill Millington and Tom Neil)

26 September 1940: John Crossman and Bill Millington

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 26 September 1940

Since arriving at 46 Squadron, John Crossman had been living in almost squalid (in his eyes at least) conditions and he hadn’t been impressed:

‘This is an awful place here and if it weren’t that the fellows in the squadron are so decent life would be very lousy. Five of us live in the one room with nothing on the floors, nothing to put our clothes in or hang them from, no bathroom and no hot water laid on. Every five days I drive six miles into Epping of Epping Forest fame to have a bath at a hotel there. As you can guess this place isn’t exactly a bed of roses and you should hear the chaps moaning.’

Happily, the boys had now been billeted at Thrift Hall in much more pleasant conditions. John was sharing with Billy Pattullo in a ‘very comfortable room. Quite a change from the aerodrome’.

(Blast from the past One: John Crossman in uniform before he received his wings.)

After a good night’s sleep in his comfortable new accommodation, John awoke to find that there was no flying on the 26th. With 24 hour leave pass in hand, he borrowed a Maggie, flew to North Weald, filled her up and headed off to Leamington Spa to visit friends he had met via the Lady Frances Ryder and Miss Macdonald of the Isles Hospitality Scheme.

Perhaps it was just as well John had a day off. As a perfectionist he had high standards for both himself and others; he did not tolerate his own weaknesses, nor those of others. Indeed, he could be overly critical of others’ faults, real or perceived. Flying wing patrols with 249 Squadron was a frustrating business for him. Despite carrying out number of patrols over the last few days, including one on the 25th where they had ‘chased round the sky, saw no Jerries and came home’, he had had no further chance at combat. Rather than accept that that was just the way it was, he uncharitably blamed his wing partners:

‘We are generally led by 249 Squadron from North Weald and they always seem to lead us away from any fights that there are. Our chaps think they must be yellow.’

This was clearly an unwarranted accusation as 249 Squadron was manned by extremely skilled and courageous pilots. Coincidentally, John’s fellow Australian, Bill Millington DFC, who had also participated in those abortive wing patrols, was on this very day receiving some much warranted publicity, though he would have been too modest to acknowledge it.

 

 

(Blast from the past Two: Bill Millington on his last day in civvies.)

Bill’s parents back in Adelaide had woken up to two articles about their son in the local paper: one told the readers how he had been awarded his DFC and the other was an interview with the Millingtons who, when informed of the DFC, told the reporter that:

‘Their son had always been interested in aviation and had insisted on learning flying as a career. “After serving in the Naval Reserve here Will left South Australia in May last year for England where he joined the RAF...He was always keen on becoming a member of the Air Force and his letters to us after he enlisted as a pilot officer of the RAF have arrived regularly until recently. He does not, however, refer to his exploits to any great extent.”’

John Crossman and Bill Millington were both courageous young men. They simply expressed their courage in different ways.

25 September 1940. Vale Kenneth Christopher Holland

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 25 September 1940. Vale Kenneth Christopher Holland

On 25 September 1940 the Luftwaffe’s Kampfgruppe 55 (KG55), along with escorts, attacked the Bristol Aero Company’s works. This was the first time the Luftwaffe had sent so large a force to attack an inland target. 152 Squadron was one of the squadrons sent to intercept. Rather than flying in sections of three, the squadron was broken into six sections of two. Ken Holland, in Spitfire N3173, was Blue Two, flying with Squadron Leader Peter Devitt. The individual sections were not able to form up in the air and so could not operate as a unit; they operated independently. Devitt at least led Blue and Green sections.

Just before 11.30 a.m. Devitt led Ken and Green Section to intercept the enemy aircraft which were at that time over Warmwell aerodrome. He ordered them to climb as he surmised the enemy aircraft would be heading towards Bristol. Then control advised that the ‘bandits’ were 15 miles north of Yeovil at 15,000 feet so he then ordered the climb in this direction. When they were over Bath he saw 100 plus enemy aircraft making a wide sweep with about 50 fighters astern and above. He advised control of this and remained in the sun. The enemy bombers then turned due South and were approaching Devitt and B Flight. He ordered a number one attack and led the attack from above.

It was an aggressive engagement, with roiling dogfights. After dropping his incendiary, Devitt saw no more as he was blinded when his petrol tank was hit. He did not see that Blue Two, Ken Holland, was killed. Ken’s fellow Australian, Ian Bayles, Black One, however, saw Ken’s Spitfire crash.

 

 

Shortly afterwards, Flight Lieutenant Hudson investigated and reported that: 

‘Sergeant Holland came up at great speed, circled once to identify his quarry and opened fire at approx 400 yards from the rear and slightly to the port side. His first burst apparently took effect for the [Heinkel] He 111 rapidly began to lose height and circled as if looking for a landing. Sergeant Holland turned quickly and got in a second burst, turned again and at 2000 feet came up on the enemy’s tail. This was his only mistake and was fatal as the rear gunner had not been silenced and was able to get in one burst at short range. This burst was fatal and the machine of Sergeant Holland dropped his nose and crashed.’

A witness to the battle saw the Heinkel and Ken’s Spitfire plummet. The wreckage was strewn across the fields of Church Farm Woolverton, a village about four miles north of Frome, in Somerset. Heinkel and Spitfire were less than 500 yards apart. The witness recalled that :

‘the Spitfire broke its back as it crashed. I sent the gardener out to see if the pilot was all right—nothing could be done for him—he had been shot right through the head.’

Kenneth Christopher Holland was only 20 years old. He was the youngest Australian to die in the Battle of Britain. Since his first combat he had made a conscious effort to improve his combat technique, thus increasing his success rate. But during this last action he had forgotten one of the fundamentals taught by the instructors (veterans of the Battle of France) at 5 Operational Training Unit Aston Down: Never follow an enemy aircraft down after hitting it because of the likelihood of an attack from the rear. Rather, strike and get out fast. He had also forgotten the lesson he learned a few days earlier: rear gunner first then engine.

Forgetting these important lessons resulted in Ken’s death. And the second attack was not even necessary: Flight Lieutenant Hudson later discovered from Hauptmann Brandt, the pilot of the downed Heinkel that ‘Sergeant Holland’s first burst had, in point of fact, been sufficient to put his machine completely out of action’. Small consolation, but Ken was credited with bringing down Brandt’s Heinkel. 

Kenneth Christopher Holland, known as Ken, was born on 29 January 1920. Fair-skinned with sun-tipped blond wavy hair and good looking in a fresh-faced way, he had grown up in the coastal suburbs of Sydney, ranging around the Bondi area like any other growing boy, taking pot-shots at rats with his air rifle and perhaps even contributing the results of his fishing expeditions to the family table.

He entered Randwick Intermediate High School in 1933. After three years he gained his Intermediate Certificate with passes in English, History, Latin and French, but failed Mathematics. He was a keen and strong swimmer and in October 1935 joined the Tamarama Surf Life Savings Club as a junior member. As soon as he turned 16 he began working towards his surf bronze medallion.

At the club he met the man who would become his guardian, Major Hugh Ivor Emmott Ripley, known as Toby. Toby invited his young protégé to accompany him on his next trip home to England. At some point Toby suggested that Ken live there under his guardianship. Ken’s parents agreed and, after a brief return to Australia where he passed his examination for the surf bronze medallion, he farewelled his family in early 1937 and left Australia with Toby, trading the beaches of Bondi and Tamarama for the Cornish coastline.

 

 

 

Toby was devastated at Ken’s death. He had Ken’s body cremated and kept the ashes in a small urn. Ken’s bedroom at Melorne, the house in which they lived at Camelford, was kept unchanged since Ken’s last visit. Toby erected a stone monument at the place where Ken’s Spitfire crashed. He also placed a memorial in the church in which Ken was baptised at Tintagel. Although he had not formally adopted Ken, he acknowledged an adoption on the Tintagel memorial—a statue of St Christopher, patron saint of travellers—and gave his young ward the courtesy of his name on both memorials.

 

 

 

But Toby was not the only one who grieved Ken’s death. Back in Sydney, his parents, Ina and Harold Holland, who had not seen him for almost four years also grieved. On 5 October 1940, a small notice appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald’s Roll of Honour:

‘September 25, 1940, killed in action. Sgt-Pilot Ken C Holland RAF, only son of Mr and Mrs H G Holland of 11 King Street Bondi.’

Vibrant, happy-go-lucky Ken, who lived life to the full had died. Their only son. Indeed, their only child.

The photos of Kenneth Christopher Holland used in this blog appear to be the only ones of him in the public domain. If anyone else reading his story here has photos they would be willing to share with me I would appreciate it if they would get in touch. Thank you. 

24 September 1940

Australians in the Battle of Britain.

After his early night sleeping in 152 Squadron’s dispersal, Ken Holland was hauled out of his cot for an early morning flap with Flight Lieutenant Thomas, as Blue Two. Soon after, he was in the air again as Blue Two when B Flight scrambled. Then, some time later, he was off again, for his third operational sortie of the day, this time on ‘yet another squadron scramble as Blue 2 to the CO’. This last was not a doddle. He had no oxygen and, after 20 minutes at 23,000 feet blacked out on a turn. He ‘woke up at 3000 doing 400 and pulled out gently!!’ He climbed to 14,000 feet then went home.

 

Ken

 

Over at Stapleford Tawney, there was more to life than just waiting at dispersal for the inevitable call to action, or, in the case of John Crossman and 46 Squadron on 24 September, a call to ‘intercept some Jerries’ which ‘turned out to be a squadron of Hurricanes’. Happily, there was plenty of opportunity for light relief, either a quick 24 hour pass to London, or an invitation to party hosted by a local. About 15 officers went and, recalled John, enjoyed the ‘whisky and gin flowing freely’. One of their complement (no names no pack drill) imbibed a little too heavily and was ‘drunk and very funny’. After they returned to the mess, the light-hearted party mood continued with ‘boys squirting fire extinguishers around’. But the merriment was rudely interrupted. Jerry might not have been out and about during the daylight hours but he made his presence felt when he ‘dropped a land mine at random and it fell in middle of aerodrome. Helluva row. Shook the place and broke a few windows in the mess’.

 

John relaxing at a more carefree time.

22 September 1940

Australians in the Battle of Britain. 22 September 1940

Ken Holland was resilient and bounced back from his ticking off the day before. Nothing dented his natural enthusiasm for long. There was no flying for him (although ‘Deanesley and Bayles [were] shot up by a Ju 88 which got away’) so he had a ‘sleepy day’. As he lolled around, there was ‘bags of panic in the afternoon about invasion’ but he did not take it seriously. He had plans to go into Weymouth for a few quiet drinks with friends. As had happened so often before, Ken’s outing turned into a late night (sorry, early morning) drinking session and he turned in at 2.00 a.m. 

 

Meanwhile, at Stapleford Tawney, John Crossman was also having a quiet day. ‘No flying today. Very low mist ceiling zero. Visibility Zero’. Even so, John was rostered on and still had to hang around dispersal just in case the Luftwaffe put in an appearance. But instead of sitting with his new squadron friends who were ‘very decent and we all get on very well’ John sat in his car, which was parked in the general dispersal area, and caught up with his letter writing, including one to his parents where he filled them in on his recent change of squadrons and his flying activities.

He told them that he had been in action a number of times now, and had regularly carried out operational sorties with 46 Squadron. He had successfully put aside his initial fear and air fighting now, ‘is not very worrying...one gets used to it and regards it as more or less just doing a job of work’.

Of great importance to John in keeping the fear at bay and ensuring he could carry out that job of work, was his new kite. V6748 was not just his pride and joy, it was his strength. He hold his family that:

‘I absolutely mother and keep it in tip top condition. My mechanics are just beginning to get used to my ways and are keeping things clean now without being told. It is well worth it because now I know that everything is at its best and I can’t have things better. I spend most of my spare time on my aeroplane with the result that when I go into combat I have ever so much more confidence.’

John loved his RAF life. It was something he had dreamed of since childhood and now, despite the war, despite being far from his home and missing his family and their letters which were chasing him all around the country as he moved from squadron to training school, from squadron to squadron and from one end of the country to the other, despite an indefinite separation from his fiancée, he was fulfilled. He tried to impart a sense of this to the folks back home:

‘I hope I will never have to leave the RAF. There’s something about the service that gets into one’s blood and these days I get a very satisfied feeling.’  

It seems this letter to his family was his last and, although he did not pen it as a final farewell, the passages quoted above are extremely poignant in light of what will happen before the month is out.

 

 

John Crossman from a more carefree time, on a bush picnic, before he sailed to the UK.

 

Stuart Crosby Walch 21 September 2011

On 21 September 2011, as the Australian Representative of the Battle of Britain Historical Society, I attended a presentation of a Memorial School Plaque at The Hutchins School Hobart, Tasmania in memory of Stuart Crosby Walch.

 

 

Stuart was a second generation Hutchins boy, enrolling in 1927 when he was 10, He left in 1934 after achieving sound results in his final exams and a fine reputation as an oarsman and footballer.

In 1939 a new racing four was ordered but was not delivered until 1949. When it came to name the boat it was decided to name the boat after Stuart, as ‘no one was more deserving of this tribute’. The boat was used by the school’s oarsmen and Stuart’s story was perpetuated. In 1967, however, the boat shed was burned down but somehow the Stuart C. Walch escaped destruction. Its remains were salvaged and restored. It is now mounted in school’s museum so a new generation can reflect on Stuart’s achievements and sacrifice.

 

Stuart is further remembered in one of its inaugural exhibits. Located almost in the centre of the room Museum, the Battle of Britain display features photos of Stuart and his 1934 Head of the River rowing trophy. 

 

 

 

In a departure from previous school plaques, Stuart’s had some unique and very personal features. The school motto was included in the text and the plaque itself was mounted on Tasmanian Blackwood, linking it physically to the small Blackwood plaque that accompanies the Stuart C. Walch in the school’s museum. In addition the Blackwood symbolises Stuart’s unique status as the only Tasmanian on the Battle of Britain Honour Roll in Westminster Abbey.

 

 

It was a moving ceremony and many fine words were spoken about Stuart. Perhaps the most poignant were from Air Vice Marshal Skidmore who noted that Stuart had been marked for greater things in the Royal Air Force but that promise was unfulfilled. He flew just over 50 operational sorties from 2 July, when his squadron was declared operational, until his last on 11 August 1940. He simply sketched Stuart’s final moments: how he did not baulk at the overwhelming enemy numbers; how he led his flight into the onslaught of enemy aircraft; and how he and three of his charges were attacked; and how they all plummeted into the sea below. He told of how two of Stuart’s pilots returned and from them we gather Stuart and his much less experienced charges ‘put up a really good show’. Such a modest, unassuming accolade, reflected AVM Skidmore, but very telling in the respect felt for Stuart and, indeed all men who continued to fight to their utmost even at the cost of their lives.

 

 

Stuart’s was the first school plaque to be presented in Australia. It was a great honour and privilege for me to help bring it about.

Stuart’s is one of the stories that appears in my Australian Eagles, available in early December 2012.

http://www.facebook.com/AustralianEagles

http://www.barrallierbooks.com/site/australian_eagles

 

21 September 1940

Oh dear. Ken Holland was in the bad books; his natural vibrancy got the better of him. He slept in until 8.25 a.m., needing as much sleep as he could get after his late night/early morning. Later on, he flew as Blue Two with Flight Lieutenant Thomas on a flap that was of such little consequence it did not make it into 152 Squadron’s Operations Record Book. Perhaps it was just as well, as our young Australian had put up a number of blacks. First off, there was just sheer bad flying. Then he carried out a blitz dive and lost the knockout patch off UM-N’s cockpit hatch. (BTW: if anyone can tell me what a knockout patch is, I would be very grateful.) And if all that wasn’t bad enough, without a hint of enemy aircraft in the general area, he fired ten rounds from each gun.

Ken was well and truly ticked off when he landed, and, sorry to say, he thoroughly deserved it. But it is hard to be unforgiving of such boyish joie de vivre. After all, Ken was only 20. What sort of hi-jinks did we all get up to as 20 year olds? I’m certainly not confessing!

 

While Ken was proving that boys (or at least 20 year olds) will be boys, John Crossman was taking life as seriously as he could. The mechanics had finished their ministrations of V6748 and John wanted to try her out. ‘Took my kite up for a fly this morning.’ After twenty minutes of putting V6748 through her paces, Johns verdict was ‘It handles very well.’ But he had noted that the sights were off so, he then ‘spent an hour checking the harmonising of the guns and sights. The sight was out and also two of the guns. The other six were OK.’

All tuned up, John had the chance to try her out on an operational sortie, another wing patrol with 249 Squadron. But the ‘weather was very thick so no show. Landed very late. Almost dark, were using navigation lights where we came in.’ Perhaps Bill Millington flew that 90 minute patrol over the Thames Estuary as well, and so two Australians were in the air, in almost the same area, at the same time, scouting for enemy raiders. We can assume that he was, but we can’t know as 249 Squadron did not record the names of the pilots who participated in that patrol.

Australian Eagles update.

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20 September 1940.

20 September 1940 was a quiet day for our Australians. Ken Holland had a ‘Lazy day—made out intelligence reports on yesterday’s show’. He was released at 6.00 p.m. when he headed into Dorchester, about 5 miles south east of Warmwell to see ‘Sergeant Madden’, a 1939 film starring Wallace Beery. Another late night, for young Ken ensued, or should we say early morning with him turning in at 2.00 a.m.

At North Weald, Bill Millington and 249 Squadron carried out one squadron patrol but did not sight the enemy.

At nearby Stapleford Tawney, John Crossman, in Hurricane N2599, and 46 Squadron carried out a joint patrol of Chelmsford at 15,000 with 504 Squadron from 10.45 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. Despite it being ‘an absolutely marvellous day’, ‘strangely enough we haven’t had a Jerry up all day near us’. But for once, other than his usual annoyance at ‘sitting down here waiting’, John was not too worried about the lack of aerial activity as he had something else to focus on.

 

 

‘A new aeroplane arrived in the flight today. So I grabbed it for myself. My last aeroplane was written off when I went on leave Wednesday. One of the chaps took it up and was shot down’.

This was Sergeant George William Jefferys who baled out and died when his parachute failed to open.

John ‘had my mechanics working on my new kite all day and generally getting things ship shape’.

No doubt he was looking forward to flying V6748 into battle.

19 September 1940. Bill Millington

On 19 September 1940, Bill Millington was posted from 79 Squadron to 249 Squadron at North Weald. 249 had been very busy recently and Bill was one of two replacement pilots to arrive about this time. Three days earlier, the squadron had received a signals from the Air Ministry congratulating them on their ‘magnificent fighting’ of 15 September. They also received another from Air Marshal Cyril Newall, Chief of the Air Staff, who lauded their success as ‘an outstanding example of the hard fighting which is frustrating the enemy’s attack. Keep it up’.

Bill had arrived at a skilled and battle hardened squadron. But he had much to offer. Charles Pallisser, who had arrived at North Weald a few days before Bill, was aware of Bill’s DFC and his previous success at shooting down enemy aircraft. Charles thought Bill was a ‘damn nice lad’ and, although the two did not meet often, they got on well together. One of their main conversational topics was Australia and Charles learned a lot about Australia from Bill.

 

 

Tom Neil recalled that Bill was ‘a small, fair chap with a tiny moustache. An Australian, apparently, though he did not look or sound like one. Pretty experienced, too, with a DFC. Seemed very nice’. Tom also recalled that Bill was ‘keen on animals and I believe it was he who introduced Pipsqueak, the dog, and Wilfred, the duck, to the squadron. However, I can’t be sure of that, although photographs taken at the time rather suggest they could have been, as he was obviously very fond of animals’.

19 September 1940. Ken Holland

Ken Holland was back in action again on 19 September when there was another ‘flap after lunch’.

Green section was ordered to 15,000 feet over Warmwell. They were vectored onto a Junkers Ju 88 over the channel at 10,000 feet. The attack was delivered at 16.20 p.m. Ken’s individual fighter combat report is extant and he can tell of this encounter:

‘RT of Green One was unserviceable so I became Green One. I was ordered to 15,000 feet over Warmwell and was then vectored to Ju 88. As there was cloud at 10,000 feet Green Two [Pilot Officer Williams] was below cloud and I went above cloud at 11,500 feet. When cloud broke I went down to given height and sighted Ju 88 ahead on the right two miles away. Green Two was left behind below cloud. I gave Tally Ho but Green Two could not find me. I made alternate quarter attacks from left and right from 300 to 200 yards aiming first at the gunners’ positions and then at each engine.’

[Just breaking off here for some authorly interpolation: looks like Ken put into practice what he discovered on the 18th when he inspected the crashed Ju 88. But back to Ken’s account now.]

‘EA took slight evasive action, heading for cloud on a southerly course. White and black puffs of smoke came from both engines and there was no return fire after my second attack.

I continued to attack and eventually the EA, now at about 8000 feet, dived vertically towards the sea, with both engines on fire. As my ammunition was finished I flew on a northerly course, and came to the Isle of Wight. My engine was missing slightly so I made for Portsmouth aerodrome, where I landed and after checking engine returned to base’.

What Ken did not include in his combat report—and why would he?—was that before he finished checking the engine he met up with some of ‘the old gang’ at the Airspeed works. When his Spitfire was declared all sound he ‘ran up engine, cleared out and shot up the works’ in a final farewell.

 

Ken was ultimately credited with this victory but he was not initially certain and noted it as ‘V!?’.

18 September 1940

46 Squadron at Stapleford Tawney were very busy on 18 September 1940. They carried out four patrols, each one as a wing with 249 Squadron, which was based at North Weald. John only flew on one of these patrols, a morning interception. Flying Hurricane V7442, he was in the air for one hour and 20 minutes.

‘We saw several formations of enemy fighters but no bombers. The fighters left tout suite when they saw us but we didn’t follow as we were looking for bombers. Didn’t see any so went home’.

Later that day, 24 hour leave pass in hand and car freshly filled with petrol, John headed to London with Billy Pattullo. ‘They ‘went [to] numerous places. Met four Aussie officers and started a sing song at Regent Palace, then onto several night clubs. Had a whoopee time’.

Meanwhile at Warmwell, it was wet and windy, ‘a V quiet day’. With no impending action, Ken and Marrs piled into O’Brian’s car at about 3.00 p.m. and headed to Warminster where ‘their’ Ju 88 had crashed. They had plans to souvenir some bits and pieces but, when they arrived two hours later, they were disappointed to discover that the Tank Corps had ‘pinched things—almost everything from it’. There was a crowd surrounding the machine, which had been roped off in an attempt to keep the sightseers and souvenir hunters at bay. Our souvenir hunters, however, were allowed to climb all over the Ju 88, which was in surprisingly good condition. Despite being stripped by the Tank Corps, Ken and his friends claimed an ‘altimeter and petrol tank dip stick—good condition—armoured pilot seat’.   

But claiming souvenirs was not the only thing on Ken’s mind as he studied the stricken enemy aircraft. He wanted to improve his chances of increasing his score in future conflicts and of course maximise his chance of survival. As he looked all over the Ju 88 he noticed where their bullets had gone, including in the radiator and the back of the pilot’s back armour plated seat, and so he ‘concluded [the] way to get it was to shoot rear gunners and then engines’.

Mementos safely stored away, the three departed at about 7.00 p.m. and had a good meal and drinks at the Haunch of Venison at Salisbury. They made an evening of it and Ken did not turn in until just after midnight.    

17 September 1940

At 13.50 p.m. on 17 September 1940, just after lunch, three Spitfires from 152 Squadron’s B Flight took off from Warmwell and commenced a patrol over Portland Bill. They were then vectored onto a formation of Junkers Ju 88s at 17,000 feet which was flying north over Shepton Mallet. Ken Holland was Two, and was flying UM-J. (Ken notes that this was Green Section but the squadron’s combined combat report records it as Blue Section.)

Ken, Pilot Officer Marrs (1) and Flying Officer O’Brian (3) sighted a lone enemy aircraft about a mile away. They closed and carried out a No 1 attack. The Ju 88 dived steeply into cloud cover at about 6000 feet to evade them. Ken, Marrs and O’Brian broke up and chased the Ju 88 separately, each attacking as the opportunity arose. Most of the battle occurred in the cloud cover.

They saw white smoke coming from the starboard engine but the Ju 88 was far from totally stricken; Marrs copped some machine gun fire from the top gun early in the attack. His Spitfire seized. He then bowed out and headed for Colerne Aerodrome where a bullet hole was found his Spit’s oil cooler.

Meanwhile, Ken and O’Brian continued their attack. The Junkers was taking violent evasive action, diving, slide slipping, throttling back and doing vertical banked steep turns in alternate directions. Ken and O’Brian clung to it. It tried climbing on one engine but still could not throw them. Ken and O’Brian continued to fire on the starboard engine until it stopped and the smoke had almost ceased. Then O’Brian struck with full deflection, concentrating his fire from below on the Ju 88’s right wing. There was no return fire. Ken and O’Brian continued their attack, concentrating on the enemy aircraft’s port rear quarter. Then they lost the Ju 88 as it headed through the cloud on a southerly course. It later crashed almost intact.

By this stage Ken’s engine was becoming hot so he landed at Yatesbury aerodrome where he discovered that UM-J had taken machine gun fire through the glycol header, oil pipe, starboard wheel bay and tyre. Yatesbury loaned him a Magister so he could fly back to Warmwell while the ground crew worked on J. Ken was in the air again later that afternoon; ‘another flap Bournemouth 15,000’ but he ‘saw nothing’.

In the final wash up of the post-lunch effort, it was determined that Ken had fired 1650 rounds, in five two second bursts, while closing from 550 to 200 yards. The section was credited with the destruction of the Ju 88, a 1/3 share each.

All in all, Ken thought it was ‘quite a good day’ but the ‘V!’ that topped his diary page and the double underlining of ‘shot it down’ belied the inherent modesty of those words. Ken’s inherent enthusiasm was at odds with the RAF’s traditional virtue of underplaying every achievement in an effort to avoid line shooting.

 

152 Squadron. Ken Holland, front row, right, semi kneeling.