SKUA AND ROC MEMORIES

Skua Page Listing | Skua Homepage  | Skua in Pictures | Sinking of the KÖnigsberg | Modelling the Skua | Blackburn Roc | Home page | Bibliography | Oh Calamity!!!

I am indebted to Kim Elliott for sending me the following articles.

Three articles by S/Ldr D.H. Clarke, DFC AFC

The Decision Is Always The Pilot's - Roc Versus Heinkel He59

The Shunned Skua - Memories Of Flying The Blackburn Skua

Ghost Fighters over Dunkirk - Flying The Skua Over Dunkirk At Night

I had flown operationally in three types of aircraft---Skuas, Rocs and one terrifying mine-laying sortie in a Botha--I had to wait until the war was a year old before I was given some guns to fight with.

Strictly speaking, No. 2 Anti-Aircraft Co-operation Unit at Gosport was not an operational squadron. Our job was to supply targets for Navy or Army gunners to shoot at: banners, drogues, gliders, radio-controlled Queen Bees--and sometimes ourselves !

But there comes a time when being shot at is frustrating. Quite apart from my everyday job, I had been attacked by German and British aircraft (it was surprising how few of our pilots could recognise the unmistakable Skua and Roc), and, naturally, by Army and Navy anti-aircraft guns. By the middle of 1940 I was browned off with it! I had been trained as a fighter pilot in 1938 and I wanted to get a bit of my own back (against the enemy, at any rate), so I clamoured for guns; but I had to wait a long, long time before four precious Brownings were installed in the rear turret of my Roc, L3085--until, in fact, the middle of September, 1940. Only then, in spite of having flown on ops since Dunkirk, did I feel really operational.

I owned the only operational kite at Gosport, and I fussed around it with the care that I imagined McCudden or Mannock (my first-war heroes) bestowed on their famous fighters. I even had my own colour scheme and insignia: red spinner, Fighter Command camouflage (Gosport came under Coastal Command), and a red "Saint" (à la Leslie Charteris) in a red-framed, yellow diamond just behind the roundels on each side of the fuselage*. I picked Sergeant Mercer as my rear gunner, and together we harmonised those guns to a hair's breadth.

Mercer and I flew together on every exercise after the tests, and always his turret was revolving and our eyes alert for something to shoot at. But we saw nothing for a whole week ....

The sun was low over the trees on the western boundary of the airfield on September 26 when the call came through to the mess for me to take-off and "search for survivors, 15 miles 200° from St. Catherine's Point." An urgent inquiry to the Sergeants' Mess failed to find Mercer, but Sgt. Hunt was available. Hunt ? Hunt ? Mercer had flown behind me for many hours and we knew each other's ways, but Hunt ? I was certain that he had never been up with me before. Could he operate the Fraser-Nash turret ? Yes ? Well, he'd have to come if they couldn't find Mercer! I slammed the phone down and tore down to Flights in my car. We were airborne within fifteen minutes.

There are no recriminations in this story and it is not necessary to read between the lines. Sergeant Hunt did a good job in unfamiliar conditions, and if we only partially succeeded in our task then it was as much my inexperience as his.

We scoured the target area thoroughly-a square search starting from the approximate 15-mile position and spreading outwards. The conditions were not good. The sun had disappeared behind a black cloud on the horizon and a low overcast had spread quickly and clamped a smoky haze on to the grey, tumbling sea. It was a typical autumn evening. I flew at nil feet and searched only to port-the head of a survivor is such an easy thing to miss--and until then I had always found what I was looking for because I did not let my eyes wander over a large area. Over the intercom I had told Hunt to search to starboard, but mainly to concentrate on the sky-that was his primary function, to watch out for enemy aircraft. Mine was to find the poor devils in the drink and then, somehow, fetch help by radio or by hand signals to a sympathetic ship. The gloom deepened imperceptibly as the time passed-fifteen minutes, half an hour, three-quarters of an hour…

I had spotted the Swordfish searching some three miles away a few minutes before, and I had assumed that Lee-on-Solent had sent it out to help in the search. In the murk I could just detect that it was fitted with floats; if only I could find the bod or bods in the sea they could be picked up at once!

I turned on to yet another course and absent-mindedly glanced at the Swordfish --more to relieve my eyes for a few seconds than anything else. He was about half a mile away, at 10 o'clock, and still orbiting--at that moment with his tail towards me. Somehow he looked larger than a Swordfish. Of course, the darkness and featureless sea played tricks with the eyes, but it did seem to be quite a big aircraft.

My eyes flicked their duty round of checks: rate two turn, no slip or skid, compass not yet quite on course, speed so-and-so, oil temperature and pressure O.K. … What were those two lumps between the wings ? Did Swordfish have long-range tanks slung there ? On course now! Stick and rudder. Height ten feet-damn difficult to judge it exactly in this half-light. Two lumps between the mainplanes; did Lee still have any Swordfish on  floats? Two lumps . . .

DAMMIT! YOU CLOT! THOSE "LUMPS" ARE ENGINES. SHE'S A TWIN-ENGINED FLOATPLANE !

Without conscious thought I pulled into a gentle climb, frantically trying to think of British biplanes which had and twin engines. I could only think of a Vickers-Vimy--but to the best of my knowledge no Vimy was ever fitted with floats! It looked like a Vimy, but it couldn't possibly be. Vimy's died when Alcock and Brown crossed the Atlantic twenty-one years ago.

"What's the matter, sir ?" Hunt crackled over the intercom.

"There's a ruddy aircraft over there and I don't know what it is," I said, and pointed.

"Where ?" he asked, not unreasonably.

"There!" I snapped, and pointed again. Then I realised what I was doing, and said, "Over the port wing."

By that time we were nearly over the top of it, and for the first time we could see the markings.

"It's a Jerry! "Hunt bawled.

"Hell ! "I swore. I hadn't thought of German aircraft !

In all fairness that Jerry must have been as green as we were, or else supremely cunning. Lazily he completed his turn to port and started to fly eastwards, parallel to the almost invisible Isle of Wight coastline. I woofled along 500 feet above him and wondered how the devil a rear-gun fighter (for the Roc, like the Defiant, had no front guns) could attack a front and rear armed enemy aircraft which was flying a few inches above the waves? (I must admit that I never have solved this problem!)

Then another point struck me: should I attack him? I remembered now that the Germans had been using floatplanes to pick up their pilots who had been forced to ditch in the Channel--and not only their pilots, but ours as well! Supposing this particular kite had already picked up the blokes I had been looking for? Furthermore, didn't these aircraft fly under the international Red Cross? I couldn't see a red cross--only black ones--but I had a horrible feeling that this made no difference.

Here I was, as proud as Punch in my first armed aircraft, with my first enemy practically a cold sitter in my sights (for he had given no indication of having seen me), and I couldn't make up my mind whether or not to attack, or how to attack even if I did! Talk about being frustrated! Then I had an idea.

"I'm going to do a steep turn across the front of him," I said to Hunt. "We're obviously faster than he is. Don't open fire unless he shoots at us. O.K. ?"

"O.K., sir."

I looked over my left shoulder and saw the front faring dip and the turret begin to revolve. The four blue-black barrels of my sole armament came into view and dropped to the horizontal position like the mighty guns of a battleship-but, unfortunately just like a battleship, those guns could not be depressed below the horizontal. Not only was I hampered by having to attack with rear guns, but I had to remember that Hunt could only fire when I was slightly under the enemy aircraft--unless, of course, I kept turning round and round the target.

I only tried that attack once!

Diving slightly from 500 feet, from a position about 200 yards and 5 o'clock from the target, I overhauled him rapidly and commenced the turn as soon as I was level with the nose of his aircraft. A rate three turn. I looked down at him a bare hundred yards away. . . saw his front turret revolve with us . . . saw the twin machine gum twinkle . . . saw slashing darts of red light coming at me… heard an ominous thumping of bullets striking home… saw gashes suddenly appear in my port wing ... felt the muzzle shock-wave from our guns strike my eardrums as Hunt opened up . . . saw our tracer pouring into the enemy's fuselage and wing centre-section . . . felt stark naked for one whole second as we hung in the air like a model on a string in an incredibly vulnerable position, whilst he shot at us and we shot at him; and he scored hits and we scored hits... And then it seemed that movement restarted and I broke away to starboard, appalled by the pandemonium of my first action.

"You all right?" I shouted to Hunt. There was no answer.

I was flying parallel to the floatplane, about half a mile away-turning gently with him to starboard as, seemingly unhurriedly, he altered course for France.

"Hunt!" I yelled over the intercom. "Are you all right?" '

No answer.

I slid back the canopy and strained round in the cockpit. The guns were pointed to starboard now. I could see Hunt head down, peering through the miniature reflector sight. I bashed my fist against the outside of the fuselage to attract his attention. I was keyed up, furious … I thought he'd been hit …

"Hunt! HUNT!" His head turned and I tapped angrily at my face mike.

"Sorry sir." His voice was suddenly comforting. "Plug must've come out."

"Are you all right" I slammed the canopy shut.

"Yes, I'm O.K." Then: "You all right, sir?"

" Yes. Now look, Hunt; that so and so's running for home and we've got to get him. He's going to stick low down, so you won't be able to fire unless I dip my wing. I'll edge in a bit closer to about 300 yards,dead on his beam, and every time I get a chance I'll yell out and you fire."

"O.K., sir. Hold it as long as you can won't you'? It's a bit tricky getting lined up with this control."

I knew what he meant. The turret and guns were operated by a small control column with the firing button on the top, which operated exactly like my stick; control column back to elevate the guns, over to the left to revolve the turret to the left--and so on. But it took some getting used to.

"Do your best," I said. "Be as quick as you can. It's going to be darned difficult in this light." And I started to edge in towards the silhouette of the wavehopping floatplane. I checked my speed as I did so. 140 m.p.h.! If only I had one front gun! Just one, and I'd be able to make a normal fighter attack. Instead, I was reduced to placing my aircraft in a ridiculously dangerous position where the other fellow had all the advantages (his floats would give him warning if he was too low; his gunners almost certainly could depress their guns), firing broadsides at him like one of Nelson's wooden walls! At 300 yards he looked terribly close.

I lifted from nil feet (twice already my airscrew had flung spray over the wind-screen) to 20 feet and dipped my starboard wing, slowly easing on top rudder to keep a straight course.

"FIRE!" I yelled.

Once again the muzzle shock-wave drummed against my ears and the tracer twisted towards the enemy. Yes! We were hitting him!

But there was only time for a quick burst. In a few seconds I found that the self-applied skid was dropping my starboard wing towards those ugly waves and I had to straighten out hurriedly--so rapidly that the final burst from our guns was fired into the broody sky.

Back came his reply--from three gun positions! Red balls which started lazily and then hurtled straight at me to pass nerve-shatteringly close at the last moment. Three gun positions! I already knew about the front and rear guns--but there seemed to be another one underneath the rear gunner. The battle had really and truly started!

It lasted for about twenty-five minutes. I have no recollection how many times during that period my airscrew flung salty spray back over the hood or how many times I thought that Hunt's guns had scored hits and that the Jerry was going to crash ,(and we certainly did hit him, because after a time there were only two guns firing back).

And then, as black land appeared ahead--France!--he really hit us. Not just an odd tump! tump! as before, but a frightening cacophony from shattered perspex and torn metal and, even worse for a single-engine pilot over water, a sudden faltering, spluttering, choking Perseus--no longer reliably purring!

Fuel shortage at nil feet! My left hand flashed round the bullet torn cock-pit: full rich mixture, pitch into fine, ease the throttle, change tanks--automatically I switched over to the 17 gallon auxilliary tank gravity supply . . . instinctively I turned away from my triumphant opponent . . . our speed dropped with the revs... this, then, was it! I prepared to ditch.

But at less than 100 m.p.h. that wonderful engine picked up! With mixture weakened to mostly air we staggered back to Gosport and landed. The engine stopped before I could taxy in.

And the Roc? A neat bullet hole through the port side "Saint" summed up the condition of my beautiful fighter: shot through the head, finished! I never flew her again.

Our Flight Sergeant fitter approached me the next day and gave me two shapeless masses of metal.

"I think you were even luckier than you thought, Mr. Clarke," he said "We found these two incendiaries in your main fuel tank - the one you sit on. They went in right at the bottom and the petrol put them out - a couple of inches or so higher in the vapour and - wumph!" He raised his hands expressively.

And my opponent?

After a search through the Recognition Books I discovered that he had been a Heinkel He59. I claimed him as "damaged," and wondered what damage we had really done. Had he got back to his base; had he sunk on landing?

Heinkel He59 floatplane of the type attacked. As early as July 14th 1940, 2 months before the incident described, the British Government was advised that Heinkel 59s bearing Red Cross markings were radioing back information on any British shipping movements they observed. The Germans were warned that any such aircraft would be attacked on sight. At the time no detailed explanation was given so as to not to reveal to the Germans that their radio traffic was being listened to by the British "Y" service radio intelligence units.

But my battle did not end there. After a thoroughly uncomfortable interview with my AOC who held that I should not have attacked, I appealed to the AOC in C, Coastal Command--Sir Frederick Bowhill **. I was indignant--and worried: my conscience was troubled about the attack, even although I had been fired at first. I knew that I could never be sure as to whether I had done the right thing, but official approval certainly would be more encouraging than being torn off a strip. I thought I was right, but-. This miserable anti-climax dragged on for days.

And then I had a letter from Sir Frederick Bowhill himself---congratulating me! I had an even more painful interview than before with my AOC when he apologised. Then there were drinks … congratulations ....

To the best of my knowledge this was the first battle ever fought between two air/sea rescue aircraft and even now I wonder if there should have been a fight.Were there any of our chaps' in that rescue 'plane? Did they survive? Did any or all the German aircrew survive?

My first scrap undoubtedly taught me that whatever "orders" tell you to do, in the final reckoning you have only your own conscience for guidance: the decision is always the pilot's.

In war time it is never an easy one.

Skua employed on Air Sea Rescue duties by 275 ASR Squadron in October 1941 (serial unknown).

* A photo of Nobby Clarke besides his Roc, showing the "Saint" motif  was published in the March 2007 "Flypast" magazine. The demarcation line between the upper camouflage and the lighter underside ran along the middle of the fuselage, suggesting a  Fleet Air Arm colour scheme rather than a RAF "Fighter Command" one. It had "B" type roundels on top of the wings with "A1"  roundels (eg with yellow surrounds) on the fuselage. The saint motif was about half way between the tailplane and fuselage roundel with the saint facing forwards. The broadest part of the diamond insignia being a little below the demarcation line between the upper and lower camouflage.

** Sir Frederick Bowhill was one of the great wartime figures of the RAF, from Coastal Command he moved to be AOC of the newly created Ferry Command which grew into Transport Command.

The "Padbury Aircraft Hanger" is working on a representation of the Roc in the markings worn by the aircraft during this encounter. Click here to go to the Padbury Aircraft Hanger web site.

The Fleet Air Arm hated the Skua; it was one of the six best aircraft I have flown. I imply intentionally that the FAA didn't know what it was talking about and I do so vehemently. They didn't!

Blackburns have always been noted for building tough aircraft--" battleships " we used to call them--and the Skua was tough. One landed at Detling during Dunkirk (it had been on fighter patrol-one of the Ghost Fighters which nobody seems to have noticed over the beaches), with a dead rear gunner, a dead pilot, an incredibly cannon and bullet slashed fuselage, no windscreen or hood, no instrument panel, the top cylinder of the Perseus 12 shot clean away and nine bullet holes in just one propellor blade! And that plane had wallowed home--flying for at least 20 minutes with a dying pilot at the controls.

The first day the FAA flew Skuas at Lee-on~Solent early on in the war, three pilots spun in after take-off. Three! One after the other! The FAA then declared the Skua "unsafe" and grounded them. To be as fair as possible, it was the first monoplane they had ever flown and they suffered from the same "flaps, retractable undecart and enclosed cockpit" feelings as I had had some two years before--but I still wonder how they managed to make such a hash of their first solos.

After thinking things over, they phoned up Gosport and asked us if we would "put on a demonstration," and because I had been reprimanded many times for shooting an airborne line, my C.O. gave me the job: "--and don't make it too hectic!" he warned me with his tongue in his cheek. We were all tickled pink that the FAA had had to ask the RAF for help.

I landed primly at Lee, taxied back down the runway, turned into wind and took off. Directly she was airborne I slammed the undercart up, tipped her on her port wing, heaved back on the stick and took her over in a near-Immelman to 500 feet. Then I closed the throttle, lowered the undercarriage and flaps, slipped her through 180° from the downward leg almost dead over the runway into a final fishtail and three point landing on exactly the starting point I had left less than 60 seconds before. That, I thought, should show 'em that the Skua doesn't stall easily on take off.

For twenty minutes I enjoyed that rare thrill: a legal beat-up. I finished with my piéce de résistance. From 3,000 feet I half-rolled, with full flaps, and dived vertically--vertically, not just steeply-at the crowds standing on the tarmac. At 500 feet they started to move; at 300 feet they were running wildly to dodge the seemingly crashing Skua. Then I eased her out of the dive, flattening out easily at 50 feet, and lifting those wonderful flaps for a zoom to gain altitude; no sign of squash, or of high speed stalling. I used that trick many times in the early days of the war to dodge trigger-happy pilots (mostly allies) who were a bit vague on their aircraft recognition. Nothing could dive as slowly as a Skua, nor did I ever discover another aircraft which could pull out of a vertical dive at such a low level so safely. It became my favourite demonstration stunt, as many Jim Crows visiting Thorney Island will testify.

Another unjustifed complaint about the Skua, which resulted in the tail parachute being fitted, was that she was a killer in a spin. I admit that she began to tighten up after 4 or 5 turns, but so did any monoplane--even the gentle Harvard-and who on earth wants to spin more than three turns any rate? When the emergency tail parachute cord was pulled (it was a typical "bodge" assembly with a ring in the cockpit and a long wire, fabric doped to the outside of the fuselage, which tripped a spring-loaded hatch just behind the trailing edge of the rudder) it was as if you were suddenly hoicked up by the seat of your pants and suspended on a nail--that is, if the contrivance worked ! It didn't always.

But the real joy with the Skua was its diving abilities and after all it was designed as a dive bomber. The pilot sat in a low-sided cockpit with really excellent visibility and the seat-adjustment ranged from almost sitting on the floor to standing upright.

My first dive bombing attempts proved how suitable the Skua was for the job. With eight 11½ lb. practice bombs, diving from 3,000 feet and dropping them one per dive from 3,000 feet, 'I averaged (on three sorties) 22 yards (one direct hit), 24 yards and 17 yards (one direct hit).

But one of my greatest 'Skua dive-bombing triumphs occurred just before I left them to return to fighters. I had always held that the FAA should attack targets--especially the German Navy--by diving vertically. Ship's anti-aircraft guns, I argued, can seldom bear on a vertically diving aircraft and if the ship is rolling or pitching the chances of scoring a hit are nil. But the aircraft, especially a Skua, could easily hit the ship--and if the pilot knew that he was safe he could take plenty of time with his aiming .

I made one sortie against a cruiser--a British light cruiser I hasten to add. I was armed with eight 1 lb. flour bombs (rock hard in paper bags after many months in RAF stores ! ). The cruiser fired llve "bursts short "--in theory the shells exploded ahead of me! In seven dives I scored seven hits--and the "bursts short" were really "bursts wide." My eighth bomb hit exactly in the middle of the bridge- in fact it penetrated the chart table! Of course, it was a lucky hit--I'd be the first one to admit it--but the Navy were not amused.

That was long before the Bismark sank the Hood with another lucky hit.

Perhaps the FAA ought to have used Skuas against the Bismark instead of Stringbags.

In those fateful few days at the end of May and beginning of June. 1940, when the British Expeditionary Force lay crammed on the Dunkirk beaches entirely at the mercy of the German Army, Britain could have lost the war. That she did not was due to German lack of foresight--and the tremendous efforts made to save the men on the beaches:

The soldiers, huddled together on the shell-strafed beaches were well aware of the efforts being made when they saw the shoals of boats, naval and civilian, queueing to take them off. But, as they were strafed time and time again by enemy aircraft, the cry went up "Where's the RAF ? "

The fact that the RAF were at Dunkirk --and played a leading role in the success of the Operation, is now part of history, although, perhaps, their part was not obvious to the men on the beaches.

But I was there too, flying through the misty vastness of .the night skies. And if my own aircraft could not be seen by the men below, at least I was in a position to know what happened to the pilots who flew in the daytime.

Despite the fact that Dowding was anxious to husband his front line fighters for what was to be the Battle of Britain, 11 Group alone maintained a daily average of 15 Hurricane and Spitfire Squadrons over Dunkirk. But there were also other types capable of carrying guns, and it makes not a jot of difference if most of them were antiquated, obsolete or totally unsuitable for the task. These aircraft flew over Dunkirk, apparently unrecognised by our troops--so that in retrospect it seems as if I flew with ghosts.

I operated from Detling--a small aerodrome on the escarpment near Maidstone, and normally used by one squadron of Ansons only. I flew there in a yellow and black striped target-towing Blackburn Skua from my base at Gosport on the evening of May 31st, 1940, and in company with me was a similarly painted Fairey Battle, also equipped with a D-type winch for target towing, and piloted by P/O Cliff Rendle. In the two aircraft we carried our winch operators, LAC Phelan and Verrier, Sgt..Jefferies as general handyman and F/Lt. Digger Aitken, who was in charge of our little unit.

Digger was a regular officer, but Cliff, like myself, held a four-year short service commission. Although I was senior to him by a few months, we had roughly the same amount of hours in our log-books-about 400--but neither of us had more than two hours night-flying experience.

Our total operational experience was nil, so although we were rather surprised at the strange assortment of aircraft which were parked on the aerodrome--Ansons, Battles, a Gauntlet, Vildebeeste, Lysanders, an old Harrow, Swordfish and several other oddments- we certainly did not think off them, or of ourselves, as front line fighters.

We asked the way to the Navigation Room, and there we found a confusion of pilots and aircrew. Struggling through the crowd, we eventually located the Station CO to whom we had been ordered to report.

Group Captain Sainsbury was middle-aged, large and florid; his desk represented an oasis of calm in the surrounding tumult. Digger introduced us, and we saluted.

"I understand that one of you has been shown the flares this afternoon," the Group Captain said.

I was startled. It was true that I had been told to fly over to Lee-on-Solent just after lunch "to have a look at a new idea for target towing at night," but I couldn't understand how he came to know about it. ' Y-yes, sir,'' I stuttered. "It must have been me."

"Well, don't you know ?"

"I'm sorry, sir." I pulled myself together. "I was shown how we could tow lighted flares for night target practice- sir--but nothing was said about coming here to do it."

"Hm! Night target practice--someone has a sense of humour." Group Captain Sainsbury accepted the joke, if joke it was, without a flicker of emotion. Then he went on, addressing us all.

"You are no doubt aware that the British Expeditionary Force has retreated to the French port of Dunkirk just across the Channel--here." He turned in his chair and stabbed a finger at a 4-miles-to-the-inch map pinned to the wall behind him, "You are probably not aware that the Navy are doing their damnedest to rescue as many soldiers as they can from this untenable position. Now we at Detling are operating a selection of aircraft day and night to give air-cover, and your particular job--code-named 'Flash'--is to illuminate the sea north of the ferry lane so that our bombers can spot any enemy shipping which is likely to interfere with the evacuation

The sudden impact of the connection between, what I had seen demonstrated only a few hours before and what we were expected to do with the flares, made me feel sick-empty sick: a condition which I soon came to recognise as the twitch, and inevitable before any operational flight.

The Group Captain continued.

"You will patrol between Dunkirk and the River Scheldt, about ten miles offshore, lighting your flares one at a time until they are all used. I understand that they burn for 3½ minutes, so take as many as you think you can manage in the rear cockpit--about twenty to thirty should do."

He paused and looked at me intently- then at Cliff.

"You realise, of course, that with 20,000 candlepower to light up the sea.you will also light up yourselves. We don't know if the Germans have any night-fighters in the area, but if they have you will be sitting targets. Consequently I cannot allow you to take maps or documents of any sort with you- in fact, before you go I want you to clear out your pockets completely and check that your crew does the same. Your radio sets should have been removed at Gosport (Digger signified that they had), but I would like you to check through your aircraft and make sure that anything which might be of use to the enemy is removed. We can't be too careful."

"How about armament, sir ?" I asked. "We're not fitted with guns "

"I'm afraid that you'll have to do without them. We haven't any here, and in any case it would take too long to fit them."

And what is more, he seemed to imply, it would be a waste of time and a waste of, guns.

Our first briefing (and brief was an operative word) was a waste of time-apart from the fact that it told us what we were there for. I scarcely had time to show Cliff and our crews how the flares worked, before we were hustled into the air to follow six bomb-laden Swordfish apiece.

I found the night take-off a terrifying business--my previous one being at F.T.S. nearly two years before--and I didn't improve matters by doing it in coarse pitch ! Unfortunately, nobody had thought of telling each Swordfish leader to keep his navigation lights on until Cliff and I had pulled into position, so neither of us found their faint blue formation lights and the first trip was a complete fiasco ! But we were learning...

In company with fifty other aircrew we managed to doze a miserable four hours on the floor of the ante-room in the Officers' Mess for the rest of that night.

Three nights later I flew on my first operation of the war.

Three bombed-up Ansons led the way to Dunkirk, and I followed the leader's blue formation lights without difficulty. The weather was perfect, with the barest trace of a mist, but there was practically no horizon and my instrument flying ability was as poor as my experience of flying at night. I had a feeling of unreality-the darkness, no experience, no guns and navigating by guesswork--it was just like a dream. The Perseus-droned monotonously and the instruments glowed their luminous messages with green confidence.

Dunkirk was an inferno of fires, surrounded by flashing pin-pricks of light which I assumed were guns hammering ceaselessly at our troops. We turned to port before we reached the land and the leading Anson blinked his formation lights.

"Stream all the wire," I ordered Phelan over the intercom.

When he reported that the 6,000 feet was out, I pulled clear of the Ansons.

"Right ! Let go the first flare."

Half a minute dragged in agony. I pictured the two-foot tube sliding through the darkness down the long wire. When it reached the toggle at the end the jerk would snap the firing pin home and ---

Suddenly the night sky vanished; the faint horizon disappeared. A billion misty droplets of water, almost invisible in the darkness, hurled back the glare of 20,000 candlepower so that I could see nothing outside the cockpit. We were locked in a bowl of brilliant whiteness, and it was as if we had flown inside an electric light bulb - even the instruments showed their black and white faces.

Somehow I managed to keep straight and level. When the first flare died, the enveloping blackness which smothered my eyes was even worse than the glare.

"Don't wait for orders--keep 'em lit," I told Phelan, hoping that he wouldn't notice the tremor in my voice.

For three-quarters of an hour I sweated a blind course up the Belgian and Dutch coast. I never saw a thing--neither land, sea nor Ansons. All I had for guidance were my instruments--how I wished that I had spent more hours under a hood--and some rough courses worked out by the Navigation Officer at Detling.

Then I did see something! A vague blur of movement over the silver disc of the spinning airscrew--half seen through concentrated attention on the instruments. What was it: a night fighter?

There was a sudden jolt. For a moment the engine note changed--then it resumed its steady beat.

"Sir! An aircraft's fouled the wire. The flare's gone!

And then the blackness . . . once more the green instruments. .

I told Phelan to reel in, and he reported that only a few hundred feet of wire were left. Whatever it was I had seen must have flown into the wire and snapped it. With the toggle at the end gone we could light no more flares that night !

I turned on to the reciprocal course. As the pupils of my eyes slowly dilated I began to see again: a faint glow in the sky--Dunkirk; a dark mass over my port wing--land. Thankfully I straightened from my crouch over the instrument panel and flew visually- it was a strain even then, because there was no moon, but with the fires of Dunkirk as my guiding star found my way back to England.

My orders on approaching the English coast were to fly at 4,000 feet, switch the navigation lights on and off three times and then leave them on, and then to fire a two-star colour-of-the-day cartridge from my Very pistol which was fixed alongside my seat and discharged through the bottom of the fuselage. When I saw the dim outline of home looming ahead I did all these things, confident that the worst was behind us and that soon I would be despatching a beer...

A white slash of incredible brightness battered into my already over-strained eyes. This time I could see nothing--not even the instruments. I was completely blinded--by our own searchlights! I .slammed the seat-positioning lever to the bottom notch, but the low sides of the cockpit, designed for maximum visibility when flying from aircraft carriers, gave me no protection. I flicked the strap release and strained forward over the stick, my face only inches away from the green messengers of flight. But even in that position the glare was dazzling; the instruments were blank-faced !

I had already fitted a red/yellow cartridge into the Very pistol and I fumbled around until I found the trigger. The discharge thumped. I felt for another cartridge in the rack . . .

Then, quite suddenly, there was an uncanny silence which even overwhelmed the droning Perseus. A stall ! Mentally I felt for the position of the stick and rudder bar. Then we were diving . . . I closed the throttle as the engine overrevved, easing back on the stick--back, back . . .

She flicked into a spin. I corrected. She went the other way. I got her out. She dived, stalled, spun again--and all the time the white finger of blindness followed...

And then, miraculously, the lights were switched off; in the few seconds that the carbons glowed, I caught the glimmer of water.

God knows how we escaped ! Perhaps we were at 100 feet maybe less. I corrected the spin instinctively, hauled back on the stick and gave her full throttle …

There was a shattering bang! Water showered into the cockpit; the engine vibrated furiously. And then we were clear.

We were picked up again by searchlights at nil feet. Some shone down on us so that once again, blinded, I flew without knowing what I was doing or what was happening. I only wanted to land--a ploughed field would have done --anything to escape from the unreality which had turned into a nightmare. The lights shining down on us switched off; but those behind lit another whiteness ahead--whiteness which stretched up, up

I slammed the throttle open again, dragged back on the stick; we climbed steeply and below, stark in the bleak brilliance, I could see crumbling chalk, tussocks of grass, some sand-bagged pits, white staring faces and then nothingness. The beams were slashed by the lip of the cliff and we were heading inland into blackness ....

We had no further trouble from searchlights: I switched my navigation lights off ! At zero feet, in the blackout, without maps, after following several wrong creeks, roads and railway lines, I found my way home. I was furiously determined to get there so that I could express an opinion about our reception over the coast; perhaps I would never have achieved it if I hadn't lost my temper.

But a temper lost in the panic of danger is soon dissipated by the comforts of safety; and the relief which came when the wheels of my Skua rumbled across the grass between the flaring goosenecks, can only be known by those who themselves have returned.

Late the next day, June 3rd, we returned to Gosport---Cliff formating on me as we flew westward into the setting sun.

His adventures on the previous night had been very similar to mine, but although we must have been quite close together at times, neither of us had seen the other's flares. Our Ansons, though, claimed to have sunk an E-boat.

So what did we care if our odd, tigerstriped aircraft looked a trifle peculiar .in formation? We didn't give a damn: we were blooded; we were operational !

After the war S/Ldr D.H. "Nobby" Clarke wrote extensively on sailing and became the foremost authority on single-handed sailing and rowing. He worked for the Guinness Book of Records for many years.

Skua Page Listing | Skua Homepage  | Skua in Pictures |  Sinking of the KÖnigsberg | Modelling the Skua | Blackburn Roc | Oh Calamity!!!

Home page | Bibliography