June, 1944: Chivenor
After about four weeks [1] we were posted to # 407 R.C.A.F. Squadron at Chivenor which was near the town of Barnstable in Devon. This was quite a large station with about four squadrons of Wellingtons operating from it, although # 407 was the only Canadian one. In the mess hall it was like being at the League of Nations with Free French, Belgians, Norwegians, Poles, Americans as well as from all countries of the British Commonwealth.
The first few days were spent trying to find our way through the indoctrination procedures, medical checks, and familiarization flights. Our stops were to be mainly at night and mostly over the English Channel and down the coast of France and Portugal to Gibraltar. We would usually take off at dusk after a detailed briefing on the weather and possible enemy activity in the area. The details of the flight pattern we were to fly was also carefully reviewed along with the wireless and radar frequencies to be used.
The time we spent after briefing and before takeoff was undoubtedly the worst part of operations. The "last supper", otherwise known as the meal served in that interval, consisted always of bacon and eggs instead of turnips, brussel sprouts and shepherd's pie which the rest of the crews were having. Considerable time was spent just waiting prior to the time the green light was given, especially on foggy and rainy nights when there was a strong chance the operation would be scrubbed. During that wait most of us wished we would see the white flare, signaling us to stand down for the night, or else the green for go.
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Wellington
Our first couple of operational flights [2] were uneventful and I found them very boring, flying on instruments over water for about six hours at a stretch. Usually we were only about 600 feet above the water and Gord or myself, when we were flying, had to keep a sharp eye on the instrument panel or else we could find ourselves in the drink. The Wellington was equipped with an automatic pilot but its reliability at times was suspect. One night while at the controls and letting "George - the auto pilot" fly I had the plane trimmed so that if anything went wrong the Wellington would climb, or so I thought. Well all of a sudden I went into a steep dive and I just managed to pull it out above the water. For the remainder of that flight, needless to say, we didn't use "George", while the rest of the crew had a hard time believing that I hadn't pulled a colossal goof.
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Maurice Neil, George F Deeth and Harvey "Red" Firestone
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Summer in southern England was really beautiful and we spent most of what spare time we had on the beaches of the Cornish coast or at the popular seaside resort of Ilfracombe. I played quite a bit of tennis and baseball, the latter in a league against other Canadian and American Stations in the area. There was a U.S. fighter squadron based not far from Chivenor and we played there a few times. I really envied the pilots flying their Mustangs and I vowed to myself that one day I would get off the boxcar "Wimpeys".
One night after a ball game we were invited to stay and listen to the band of the American Expeditionary Force under the direction of Glenn Miller. They were really great.
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Bill Monk,a high school friend, and George Deeth
Another night while we were cycling back from Barnstable a Wimpey, while trying to make an emergency landing with one engine on fire, crashed just beside the road a few hundred yards in front of us. The entire crew was killed. [3]
Our most memorable experience at Chivenor occurred one stormy night [4] when we were routed on an operation to the Bay of Biscay. We were assured by ops control that there were no friendly ships in our patrol area. About 3:00 a.m. the radar operator picked up a large "blip" and we immediately maneuvered downwind so the aircraft sound would not be heard by the target. I was on my stomach in the nose of the Wimpey preparing to direct the Leigh-Light towards the enemy. The radar operator kept calling off the distance to the "blip" while Gord brought the plane down from 600 feet to 100 feet. At about 1,000 yards out I asked to have the light switched on. To Gord's and my amazement the beam lit up an American Destroyer which had all its guns pointed right at us. I can remember shouting "Get the light off" and then Gord fired the colours of the day with all of us hoping we had been given the correct colours. It took us all a few days to stop shaking from that close call. We never did find out what happened to our intelligence re "no friendly ships in the area".
Our most memorable experience at Chivenor occurred one stormy night [4] when we were routed on an operation to the Bay of Biscay. We were assured by ops control that there were no friendly ships in our patrol area. About 3:00 a.m. the radar operator picked up a large "blip" and we immediately maneuvered downwind so the aircraft sound would not be heard by the target. I was on my stomach in the nose of the Wimpey preparing to direct the Leigh-Light towards the enemy. The radar operator kept calling off the distance to the "blip" while Gord brought the plane down from 600 feet to 100 feet. At about 1,000 yards out I asked to have the light switched on. To Gord's and my amazement the beam lit up an American Destroyer which had all its guns pointed right at us. I can remember shouting "Get the light off" and then Gord fired the colours of the day with all of us hoping we had been given the correct colours. It took us all a few days to stop shaking from that close call. We never did find out what happened to our intelligence re "no friendly ships in the area".