Squadron Leader John Lynch was our third Commanding
Officer in 249 Squadron in the four months since I had arrived in Malta.
His predecessors had been popular, and he had big boots to fill. There
was Timber Woods, tall and dark with a ready smile. We liked him, a good
leader. He had flown a great deal of ops., was decorated, and was sent
off for a rest a couple of months after I joined the squadron. Timber
didn't enjoy the non-operational job, and came back as Wing Commander
for his third tour as soon as his six month stand-down was over. By then
we were up in Italy, and Timber and his good chum Bowie Debenham, Commanding
Officer of 126 Squadron, who had returned to operations with him, attacked
a large gaggle of Me 109s over Yugoslavia, having crossed the Adriatic
from Grottaglie. We never heard from them again. But I'm ahead of my story.
Mac MacLeod took over from Timber. MacLeod was a pilot's CO., and his
fortitude was not confined to the air. We were, of course, short of aircraft
due to enemy action. Understandably, accidents due to carelessness were
not tolerated. The routine punishment for a pilot who pranged an aircraft
was immediate banishment to a squadron in the desert, which was only a
couple of hundred miles to the south.
One day, one of our fellows ran off the strip at Krendi, broke his landing
gear and prop, and faced the wrath of the Wing Commander who happened
to be at the dispersal. Quite a few of us tore over to see the prang.
Before the Wingco could say a word, MacLeod stepped between him and the
unfortunate young pilot and said quietly, "Sir, if you send this
man to the desert, you'll have to send me too." We thought it was
superb. The Wingco was on the spot, but maintained his composure. The
young lad stayed with us.
Squadron Leader MacLeod, from Pictou, Nova Scotia, only
signed my logbook twice (two months) before he was killed over Sicily,
an unsung courageous airman.
John J. Lynch was an American. From one of the Carolinas, as I recall,
although he didn't have a drawl. I had known him briefly at Operational
Training Unit (OTU) up near Newcastle in the summer of 1941 when we were
flying Hurricanes. Then we went our separate ways, he to an "Eagle"
squadron while I flew Whirlwinds for nine months before wangling a transfer
to Spits. Johnnie was several years older than most of us, and had flown
privately before the war. He was a very sober, taciturn individual whom
the mechanics promptly labelled "Smilin' Jack." But if one could
break through his shyness, there was a smile underneath. It just wasn't
easy to find.
Johnnie was a keen student of the tactics and habits of the Luftwaffe,
and spent endless hours in the Intelligence Room, reading reports on German
and Italian sorties over the Mediterranean. The research involved Junkers
88 action against shipping, and transport aircraft, mostly Junkers 52s,
carrying cargo to and from Rommel's army in Africa.
Johnnie had already taken me over to Sicily the previous month. We each
had two 250 pound bombs under our wings, and went on a low level raid
up the railway line north-west from Gela until we found a train which
we blew up. Shortly after dropping the eleven-second delay bombs, we pounced
upon a Junkers 52 transport aircraft which we clobbered. As Flight Commander,
he had the privilege of attacking first, and he set one engine on fire
before I had a crack at it. I knew that he was generous to share it with
me, although technically it was RAF policy that any pilot who observed
strikes on an aircraft shared in the claim.
Based on his reading of radar and radio reports, Johnnie got permission
from Operations to make a daring long-range low level sortie northerly
up the east coast of Sicily, across the Straits of Messina, then down
onto the sea again north of Sicily proceeding west towards Palermo. He
thought two aircraft would be optimum. We would be more than two hundred
miles from home, but by staying low and maintaining radio silence, surprise
should be our greatest advantage. There would be a reasonable chance of
finding some enemy transport aircraft, but such a flight could not be
undertaken more than once. The Luftwaffe fighter squadrons in the south
of Sicily would not allow it.
One day, he asked me if I would accompany him early the next morning.
I was absolutely thrilled with the prospect, and found the evening long.
We got the mechanics to put ninety-gallon long range fuel tanks on our
aircraft, doubling our endurance to three hours. These external belly
tanks could be jettisoned whenever we were through with them.
The morning of April 22nd dawned cloudy, but visibility was good and we
were airborne early at 0610 hours. We flew at deck level north-east around
Cape Passero, then turned north about ten miles offshore. Opposite Riposto,
I saw an aircraft coming south at deck level between us and the coast.
Should I break radio silence so early? This might foil our plans. On the
other hand, it might be the only aircraft encountered. I called up the
CO.
"Tiger Green One. Green Two here. Aircraft eleven o'clock ahead,
same level, proceeding south. Over."
After a pause, Johnnie came on. "Green Two, I don't see it."
"Green One. Aircraft is now at nine o'clock. Might be a Junkers 52."
It was a few miles away.
Another pause and the CO. came back. "I can't find it, Green Two."
We were going in opposite directions and whatever it was, it was now at
seven o'clock and required drastic action. I pulled around hard to port
and said, "Green One, I'm going back after him. I'll catch him before
we lose him," and I opened up the throttle.
It was no time until I caught up with the transport aircraft which proved
to be a Ju 52, oblivious to our presence. As Green One was still a long
way back, I gave the Junkers a quick burst which set the port engine on
fire. It crashed into the sea at once. Then I turned back north, the CO.
also turned, and we continued on our course without a word. I could not
understand why he had taken so long to react, but felt justified in my
attack.
As we approached the Straits of Messina at Taormina, we turned port and
climbed north-west overland, descending to sea level again south of the
Lipari Islands. We were now proceeding westerly in brilliant sunshine,
the clouds all having been left on the east coast. I was staring at three
very small specks a long way ahead of us that at first I considered might
be birds, but because of their constancy of position must be aircraft.
I watched them for another minute or so, then decided to break radio silence
once more.
"Tiger Green One. Green Two here. There are three small aircraft,
possibly 109s, twelve o'clock deck level. I don't know if they're approaching
or going away. They're several miles away. Over."
"Green Two, keep your eye on them. I don't see them yet. Over."
"Roger, Green One."
We kept on the same course and speed for perhaps three minutes more, although
it seemed longer, by which time it was obvious that the three aircraft
were going away from us, and that we were only very slowly gaining on
them.
"Green One. Green Two here. Those three aircraft are still dead ahead
and going the other way. We'll have to open up. Over." "O.K.
Green Two. Lead me to them."
Now that was better! We'd give the old Spitfire Vs a ride. Enough of this
loafing! I opened up to nine pounds of boost. We still had lots of gas:
still running on our drop tanks in fact. Now we were catching up a bit,
and with that came a surprise. They were not 109s. I could see an engine
in each wing. They had been so far away that they had looked like small
aircraft, but now I saw that they were heavier.
"Green One. The three aircraft dead ahead are twin-engined. I'm opening
up a little more. We must catch up more quickly. Over."
"O.K. Green Two," came the reply from the CO., but still he
lagged a thousand yards behind me. making no move to lead the way. I weaved
a little to starboard to look back at Johnnie, then straightened out again
looking at the three aircraft still a long distance away, and felt in
the middle of a conundrum. I knew that the CO. was full of courage; he
had carefully planned this flight. I knew also that he was a very conservative
pilot and didn't like to abuse his aircraft. But this was going on too
long since we had originally broken silence; and yet he was the boss.
I opened up a bit more.
I was intent upon the silhouette of the transport aircraft ahead when
I finally realized what was happening. It must be the C.O.'s eyes. He
couldn't see the enemy aircraft yet. He had said, "Lead me to them."
He was myopic as blazes and hadn't told anyone because he knew that he
would be grounded at once. It would be the end of operational flying for
him. In a way, he was using my eyes. I felt relieved, and keen to get
this job over.
I caught up to the three transports flying in open formation about two
hundred feet above the water. Now I could see that they had a third engine
on the nose like Junkers 52s. I moved in on the port quarter of the nearest
aircraft at good speed, but for a second I noticed the mid-upper gunner's
gun pointing to the sky. Then I saw his head on his chest; he was snoozing.
There was no time to think about the gunner, and anyway I wasn't interested
in him. My target was the port engine which I hit a good clout, and which
promptly caught fire. As I pulled out I thought, "I reckon that woke
him up!" The aircraft descended quickly to the sea. Did he crash
or ditch? If the latter, the pilot did very well, but I was busy looking
at the others.
The CO. was still out of range, but coming in quickly now. I had a belt
at the second aircraft, another port engine with profuse black smoke,
while Johnnie attacked the third which went down on fire. Then I hesitated.
I held off while Johnnie hit the second aircraft another clout before
it settled down on the water. I distinctly remember feeling that I should
be a little diplomatic here. Besides, I was content. Elated! I was not
angry with the transport crews.
There was nothing difficult about these clumsy aircraft. But they were
enemy aircraft, and I had clobbered some port engines, and they were down
in the water.
"Green Two, Green One here. Let's go home." "Roger Green
One."
We climbed hard to the south. Johnnie had taken over once more. We had
been hidden behind the mountains of Sicily, particularly Mount Etna at
11,000 feet which had cut us off from any radio contact with Malta. With
our noses high in the climb, out of habit I looked in my rear-view mirror.
In the broad view of the sea a thousand feet back I could see three fires
burning on the water. Small, localized fires, quite apart from each other,
and I thought, "They were not carrying fuel."
We climbed up to 22,000 feet and Green One called Malta Control. Control
came back loud and clear, which was reassuring because we were still one
hundred and sixty miles away. Control appeared excited.
"Tiger Green One. Where have you been? We've been trying to get you
for an hour. The whole German Air Force is up after you. Over." "Hello
Control. Tiger Green One here. We've been to a party. We're coming home
now. Over." I could tell Johnnie was chuckling. "Tiger Green
One. Control here. Keep your eyes open. Several squadrons of 109s are
up from Comiso looking for you. Did you have any luck? Over." "Hello
Control. Tiger Green One. We got four Junkers 52s. Over." Then he
continued to me: "Green Two, did you hear Control?" "Roger
Green One." I felt fine. I thought that Control was exaggerating.
I was enjoying this.
• The C.O.'s eyesight was terribly defective in scanning the horizon
for an aircraft, but he could see the outline of Sicily from 22,000 feet
and knew exactly where we were. Of course, Etna's volcano was just to
our left, coming up half-way to meet us. The southern tip of Sicily was
seventy miles ahead, and Johnnie wasn't through with the Huns yet.
"Green Two. These guys have a problem lookin' for us. We'll just
go down and take a look at Comiso and show them where we're at."
Johnnie's southern background had finally surfaced.
We stuck our noses down and opened the throttles. I stayed with him about
a hundred feet abreast. We were moving, because the controls were a bit
stiff, but it was not a time to look at airspeed. I was busy looking for
the 109s and finally, looking straight ahead as we tore across Comiso
aerodrome at nought feet. I looked right into the hanger at men scattering
in all directions. We were rubbing it in.
Tiger Green One throttled back when we got down over the sea. In no time
the Malta cliffs rose up ahead of us, and we pulled up over Krendi.
He waited for me, and we walked in together from the aircraft. He was
much more affable than usual, smiling, in fact. I was chuckling over the
Comiso bit.
"That was a good ride, sir," I said. "A very good ride."
"Yes, it was, actually," he replied. "Actually" was
his favourite word. He had picked it up in England, and unconsciously
used it a lot. "What are you going to claim?" he asked me.
I recalled his sharing one with me before. And perhaps he would take me
again. "What about sharing even, two each? I asked. "Sounds
reasonable," he said. He seemed relieved.
We went into Intelligence. I never mentioned the matter of his eyesight.
It seemed of less significance on the ground. Besides, it was none of
my business. I knew that Johnnie, like other Americans who had joined
the RAF before Pearl Harbour, was considering transfer to the U.S. Army
Air Force. He had served the RAF very well; to fly with him was my privilege.
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