‘'Trapped Above the Clouds by Coincidence'’
Recalling how a chain
of coincidences led a young Sub Lt. (A) RNVR to the war in the
Pacific and eventually, to an encounter in a bar in London after the
war.
by Peter Hyde
How it all started
 Why did ten minutes
spent in a Nissen hut on a Scottish airfield towards the end of the
Second World War lead to a unique experience on a South Pacific
atoll and to near disaster in the Australian skies? The answer: a
series of coincidences, each setting the stage for the next, and
documented by entries in my flying log book. The account that follows illustrates the powerful role of coincidence in shaping the
direction of our lives.
It begins with my
arrival on 28 December 1944 at R.N.A.S. Ayr, the birthplace of
Robbie Bums. I was there for a three-week conversion course. I would
learn to fly the Navy's first-line fighters and torpedo bombers, and
I hoped, complete six practice deck landings on an aircraft carrier
in the Clyde.
By then I had logged 455 hours, some at flying schools in Britain
and Canada, the remainder while "stooging" in Boulton-Paul Defiants.
Designed for night fighting, they were found to be lacking in speed
and manoeuvrability, and were soon reassigned to other duties, one
of which was drogue towing. The monotonous task of hauling sleeve
targets at the end of a long cable, backwards and forwards along a
designated sector of the Cornish coast between St. Merryn and
Tintagel, so that they could be fired on by student fighter pilots,
was one of the safest of all wartime flying jobs. Now, at the ripe
old age of 20 I was about to realize my dream of joining an
operational squadron and going to sea in one of HM's carriers.
Little did I realize that fate would intervene and deposit me on the
other side of the world.
Picture the scene at Ayr on January 4th, 1945. At latitude 55
degrees, 30 minutes north, the sun is about to set. It is 1530 hours
and the sky is overcast. Flying has ended for the day, and the
pilots and their instructors are awaiting transportation to the
Mess, located on the far side of the field.
A utility van known as "Tilly"
is sighted wending its way along the perimeter track towards the
aircraft dispersal area. As soon as it arrives there is a rush to
clamber aboard, for there is only enough space for about a dozen.
The laggards, an instructor, another student and myself, must wait
in the hut until the return of the van. As it happened, the
conjunction of my tardiness and a high-level decision in London to
assemble a British Pacific Fleet to lend direct support to the U.S.
forces during the final months of the war were to have an immediate
effect on my future.
Suddenly, the telephone
rang in the next room. The instructor appeared briefly in the
doorway to ask which of us was available for a flying exercise on
the following day. As my companion was already booked, I was asked
to give my name and rank, which were repeated to the caller. Minutes
later, "Tilly" returned and whisked us away to the Mess. On arrival,
the Senior Pilot casually informed me that someone from the
Admiralty had "phoned and I'd been appointed to join 723 squadron in
Australia. "Get your things packed and go on embarkation leave
tomorrow. Take the morning train to London and get kitted out for
the tropics. You'll receive further instructions in due course." So
that was it—-not an exercise but half way round the world in a
troopship. "What an extraordinary coincidence," I thought.
Off to Australia
The six-week voyage to
Australia was completed without incident. After embarking in the
troopship "Dominion Monarch," along with thousands of others,
including many homeward bound Australian and New Zealand
aircrew, we departed from Liverpool on the afternoon of January
15th. By daybreak we had joined a convoy of some 200 merchant
vessels assembled off the coast of Northern Ireland; preparatory
to crossing the U boat- infested North Atlantic at the speed of
the slowest ship, about eight knots. It took all of 16 days to
get to the Panama Canal.
After refuelling and
victualling in Colon, we crossed the Pacific unescorted. Towards
the end of the voyage we were scheduled to disembark several
hundred New Zealanders, however, the plan was hastily abandoned
upon the discovery that a Japanese submarine was shadowing us.
The fact that the ship couldn't slow engines preparatory to
entering harbour came as a major disappointment to the Kiwis,
many of whom had been away from home for four or five years. Two
days later, we arrived in Sydney.
After a few days of
luxurious R & R in the spacious accommodations of HMS "Golden
Hind," occupying the grounds of Sydney's pre-war racecourse, I
travelled by train to
HMS "Nabbington" at Nowra, a naval air
station about 100 miles to the south, only to find that I was
supernumerary, as the vacancy in the squadron had been filled.
By yet another coincidence, a requirement had arisen for two
maintenance test pilots to be sent to what were vaguely referred
to as "the islands," lying somewhere to the north of Australia.
To that end, another Subbie and myself were to receive training
for the job at
HMS "Nabberley" at Bankstown, an R.A.A.F airfield on the outskirts
of Sydney. During our several
weeks at Bankstown we were instructed in the fundamental
principles of test flying in the leading naval fighters of the
day, the Vought-Sikorsky F4U Corsair and the Grumman Hellcat,
both designed and built in the United States, and the
British-built Seafire Mark III, the naval version of the famous
Spitfire. All were fitted with retractable arrestor hooks to
facilitate deck landings, and with wings that folded
hydraulically to facilitate storage below decks and in the
limited space available near the forward end of the flight deck.
On to the Admiralty Islands
From Bankstown, we were ferried in an R.A.A.F DC-3 Dakota to Port
Moresby in what is now known as Papua-New Guinea, and from there to
the vast U.S. naval base at Manus, by far the largest of the string
of Admiralty Islands forming part of the crescent-shaped Bismarck
Archipelago.
After its recapture from the Japanese, Manus became the headquarters
of General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of U.S. ground
forces in the Pacific Theatre. Furnished with an excellent natural
harbour, it served as the staging area for many hard fought
operations by U.S. ground forces against enemy-held islands lying
farther to the north. By the time we arrived, MacArthur and his
staff had already departed for their new headquarters at Manila in
the Philippines.
From Manus, a light aircraft ferried Sub-Lieutenant Jack Jones and
myself to Ponam, an atoll lying about three miles off the shoreline
of the 60 miles long, jungle-covered Manus Island. The approximately
mile and a quarter-long Ponam had been transferred by the U.S. Navy
to the recently formed British Pacific Fleet. It incorporated an
airstrip of crushed coral; aircraft repair shops and communications
facilities; prefabricated buildings for the storage of aircraft
parts; jeeps, trucks and other rolling stock; a launch in which a
callow Midshipman named Balls deftly negotiated the treacherous
waters of the reef; gasoline and oil storage reservoirs; a small
control tower; a desalination plant to supply brackish drinking
water; and accommodations for several thousand men. Air Artificers,
riggers, fitters, armourers, radio technicians, electronics and
communications specialists, to mention only some of those with
state-of-the-art training in their trades, comprised the bulk of the
Ship's Company. Known as
HMS "Nabaron," MONAB 4 was the most
northerly of the wartime MONABs.
Again by coincidence, this was the very unit with which I had
embarked at Liverpool earlier in the year for the six weeks voyage
to Australia. I had never given a thought to its purpose or ultimate
destination, and none of the lads had taken the trouble to enlighten
me.
On thinking back, their studied silence undoubtedly reflected the
high level of secrecy that surrounded every aspect of a brilliantly
conceived mission. During the closing months of the war, "Nabaron"
played a vital role in enabling forward repairs to be effected to
British carrier-based aircraft that had been damaged in strikes
against the enemy. The majority could be flown ashore, but the
occasional severely mauled "kite" had to be ferried on landing craft
that picked their way through the reef and the lagoon. Our job was
to test fly them upon the completion of repairs, to ensure that they
were airworthy and able to land-on and rejoin their squadrons.
Soon after arriving, Jack Jones and I decided to stage an
exhibition. We would do some unauthorised low flying in Seafires
over the United States base at Manus, and after landing, provide an
opportunity for the U.S. pilots to examine the famous "Spits" at
close range. Upon returning to Ponam we were told to report
immediately to the Commander (Flying). Lieut-Commander John Boteler
R.N., a product of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, ordered us
to stand stiffly to attention while facing him, and proceeded to
read out a blistering signal received by Captain Bingley from the
American Rear-Admiral a few minutes earlier. I recall hearing the
phrase "not conducive to the development of good relations"... etc.
etc. After telling us never to attempt such an "idiotic, blankety
blank" performance again, "for if we did, that would be it," he
shook hands warmly and the three of us sloped off to talk things
over less formally in the Mess.
John Boteler, who was old enough to be our father, was immensely
popular with a wide assortment of flying types. In exchange for a
case of Scotch, he had acquired a home-made Piper Cub, built by an
American sergeant in his spare time, and was in the habit of taking
to the air in the old crate in the late afternoon hours. I can still
"see" that tiny speck in the sky, some three-quarters of an hour
later. It flew so slowly that it was impossible to lose sight of it.
Getting back before dark was what really mattered, as Ponam lay only
two degrees south of the Equator. He had some nasty prangs though,
one of which consisted of tipping a Hellcat upside down after
landing on the runway, and being forced to hang helpless in the
straps, to the great consternation of the onlookers, the fire crew,
the ambulance driver and the padre. Who knows! Perhaps he had
applied the brakes too heavily? We were all saddened to learn of his
demise, which as far as I know, was the result of yet another
mishap.
I enjoyed my three months on Ponam; especially the time spent in the
air, when one could open the hood and obtain blissful relief from
the all pervading heat and humidity on the island. It was with mixed
feelings that I returned to Australia in mid-July, leaving behind an
all-male community that included two Air Engineering Officers who
were my cabin mates, the overhead coconut trees, the afternoon
siestas that ended with a violent thunderstorm precisely at 4 p.m.,
followed by superb swimming within the safety of the reef, knowing
full well that hungry sharks and barracuda lurked just outside it,
the multicoloured birds and fish, the friendly lizards that shared
our living space and pounced on uninvited insects, and the
mysterious flying foxes, which could be seen among the treetops just
before sunset.
Another lingering memory is that of watching Nabaron's padre,
popularly referred to as The Bishop, explore the mysteries of the
coral reef, with the aid of a snorkelling device. He did this every
day. All one could see of him were the bubbles.
Return to Oz
In the Australian spring and summer that followed the end of
hostilities, I remained on strength in 723 squadron at Nowra until space
became available in a troopship for the return voyage to the UK.
It was during this waiting period that a ceremonial flypast of
British carrier-based aircraft took place off Melbourne as part of
the victory celebrations. In the course of it, a Hellcat had become
unserviceable and was forced to undergo repairs at Point Cook. A
signal to Nowra was made, requesting that a pilot be sent to collect
it, as the Fleet was already steaming north and it was necessary for
the Hellcat to land-on.
The task was assigned to me and on September 6, 1945 I was flown
from Nowra to Melbourne's Essendon airfield as a passenger in a
clapped out Avenger torpedo-bomber, piloted by a well known
Lieutenant Commander, one Freddie N.
I
still remember the uncomfortable, drafty flight of several hours
duration. We arrived in the late afternoon and agreed that on the
following morning we would meet at 2,000 feet, and then fly back in
formation. Over breakfast we finalised our plan. We would take-off
simultaneously, he from Essendon and I from Point Cook, join up over
the city, and head for Nowra and Bankstown, respectively. As he was
by far my senior, I assumed that all matters pertaining to
navigation and safety would be his responsibility. This was the only
occasion I had ever taken off without a map, a chart, or some
knowledge of the weather. All that I knew were Freddie's call-sign
and the frequency of his receiver transmitter on the VHF radio band,
essential for voice communications. It was easy to see him
silhouetted against the ten-tenths ceiling. I had no idea of how
thick the clouds were, and expected it would be easy to remain in
formation as we climbed through them. At flying schools in Canada
and Britain we had been thoroughly trained in the stringent demands
of instrument flying, both at night and in cloud. But never before
had I attempted to fly on instruments while keeping station on
another aircraft. I soon discovered that it was impossible to do
both. One would have needed two pairs of eyes. Cease watching his
port wing for a moment and there would be an immediate change in
your airspeed, course, altitude and the aircraft's angle of attack.
The need to trust one's instruments implicitly and resolutely ignore
subjective sensations was repeatedly emphasised in the training
courses. Given that formation flying necessitates keeping the leader
constantly in view, so as to instantaneously make corrections, the
total loss of visibility was twitchy, to say the least. I hadn't
expected the clouds to be so thick and had no alternative but to
remain glued to the instruments until breaking clear of them.
Pilots and Observers of 723 squadron at
RNAS Nowra
The fact that the Avenger was heavier than the Hellcat and climbed
more slowly added to the difficulties. On breaking into sun, Freddie
was nowhere to be seen. I immediately contacted him by VHP. His
reply: "Continue to orbit and I'll find you." Describing huge
circles in the sky at an altitude of 9,000 feet, I wondered how long
it would take him to spot me. About ten anxious minutes passed,
during which I checked the amount of fuel in the main tank and the
auxiliary drop-tank, which would provide an additional 45 minutes of
flying. To my relief, both were registering full. There was no sign
of the Avenger and I felt twinges of nervousness. The flight path
between Melbourne and Nowra, approximately 500 miles to the
northeast, crossed a major structural element of Australia's Great
Dividing Range; it is known as the Australian Alps. The mountains
trend north-eastwards from Melbourne at least as far as Canberra.
"Where the hell are you, Freddie?" I shouted, without switching on
the transmitter, of course. Suddenly, the radio crackled in my
earphones and he was saying "I can't see you. You had better proceed
independently;" whereupon he gave me a bearing in degrees of azimuth
on the compass, ending with "Good luck! Out."
Now, the course that a pilot steers in order to make good a desired
track is governed chiefly by the force and direction of the wind. It
was fortunate that, despite the absence of maps and weather
information, I was able to recall the orientation of the departure
runway at Point Cook and the approximate strength of the wind.
Ideally, you take-off directly into the wind, so as to use up as
little space as possible before becoming airborne. Knowing the
compass heading of the runway, it was a simple matter to arrive at a
rough approximation of the wind direction. By mentally working out a
"triangle of velocities," I calculated a course that was based on
the velocity of the wind at Melbourne and the direction and distance
to be flown. The compass heading thus determined lay well to the
east of the course I'd been given. After reflecting for a moment I
decided that this easterly course was preferable. Getting lost over
the outback would have led to my premature departure from this
world!
Although I was counting on a break in the cloud, which would provide
for a visual fix, after an hour had elapsed about half of the fuel
had been expended and there was no indication of this happening. I
was "sitting on the bearing," but the question that nagged me most
was-"-how far away was the coast?
For a number of reasons I didn't dare reduce altitude. For one
thing, on the previous day we had flown close to or over Australia's
highest peak, Mount Kosciusko, rising to more than 7300 feet.
Secondly, if I were to turn 90 degrees to starboard, fly eastwards
until well clear of the coast, and then come down through the
clouds, I might still be above the land, as the course I'd worked
out could have been wrong. The alternative of ditching in "the
drink" and inflating the emergency dinghy was distinctly
unappealing. It was safe to assume that there were sharks out there.
There was no alternative but to remain on course and continue to
hope for a break. After a further 45 minutes had elapsed I became
seriously worried. The main fuel gauge was registering almost empty.
I would soon have to switch to the drop tank. I peered downwards and
could see only solid cloud that gave no sign of dispersing. Several
minutes later, I looked down again. There were fleeting patches of
cloud that presented a darker shade of blue. Then suddenly, I
realized that the clouds were beginning to disperse. This was fact,
not a mirage. Within minutes, a continuous expanse of dense
eucalyptus bush country came clearly into view, some 10,000 feet
below.
Now, for the moment of truth. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes
and turned my head to the right. After a moment of hesitation, I
cautiously opened my eyes. Some 30 miles off the starboard wing was
exactly what I'd been hoping for—a magnificent stretch of coastline.
I breathed an enormous sigh of relief, made a rough estimation of
the aircraft's position, and within half an hour was safely on the
tarmac at Nowra.
My only other encounter with Freddie took place six months later in
the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve Club on Hill Street in Mayfair.
Noticing that someone had just taken an adjoining seat at the bar, I
was astonished to find that it was he. How's that for a
coincidence!
"Hello" he exclaimed.
"'Melbourne wasn't it? Get back alright?"
"Yes thanks," I replied, somewhat gingerly.
"What will it be?"
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