Saturday 21 December 2019
Friday 20 December 2019
Saturday 28 September 2019
Friday 16 August 2019
Monday 8 July 2019
Moose Jaw Air Show July 6, 2019
Moose Jaw Air Show July 6 saw the Needham siblings, spouses and family get together to witness Warren Pietsch fly a spitfire - the same model that our Dad flew in WW2.
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Debra, Colin, Scott and Denise |
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Colin, Linda, Denise, Scott, Debra, Sharon, Alfred, Sandi and Wolfgang |
Wednesday 12 June 2019
June 6, 1944 to the 75th Anniversary of D Day June 6, 2019
On May 20, 2019 I arrived at Tangmere Military Air Museum having travelled from Martlesham Heath Aviation Society the day before. Both of these air bases are listed in Dad's log book and Tangmere was most often mentioned by him in his story telling.
Entries in Dad's log book June 6, 1944 read:
Trevor graciously gave a personalized tour of the incredible museum directing me through the Battle of Britain displays to "Have a look around the corner."
Entries in Dad's log book June 6, 1944 read:
Spitfire "R" Patrol Beach Head 2:00 flight comments: "D" Day WE INVADE FRANCE AT LAST!!
He made 2 more Beach Patrol flights that day for a total of 6 hours 15 minutes
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Denise and Trevor at Tangmere |
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412 Squadron with Dad is top row second from the left
These photos have been in the museum 37 years since 1982 when it first opened.
Needless to say I was very moved to see them.
 The same photo we have in our collection!! |
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412 Squadron listed for June 6, 1944 |
Who Shot Rommel?
Dad knew Charey Fox and he encouraged Charley to set the record straight when it had been believed that an American shot up Rommel. This article connects the dots as Dad told the story to us on occasion.
https://www.tangmere-museum.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Tangmere-Logbook-9-Autumn-2011.pdf
Monday 3 June 2019
The Flying Fox versus the Desert Fox
Charlie was the honorary colonel for 412 squadron when he died; Dad was asked to replace him but he declined due to logistics & I suspect lack of interest in the pomp & ceremony.
Sunday 14 April 2019
High Flight
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of
Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-
silvered wings;
Sunward I have climber, and joined
the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds,-and done a
hundred things
You have not dreamed of- wheeled and
soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring
there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls
of air…
Up, up the long delirious, burning
blue
I’ve topped the windswept heights
with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew-
And while with silent, lifting mind
I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of
space,
-Put out my hand, and touched the
face of God
Officer
John Gillespie Magee Jr.
Royal
Canadian Air Force
Saturday 13 April 2019
Return to Normandy
Excerpts from Lloyd Berryman’s diary Return to Normandy……
June 6, 2004 60th Anniversary of D Day Celebrations
Lloyd Berryman with Charlie Fox and Barry Needham Trip to France courtesy of Veterans Affairs
First Ottawa……
“Barry had not yet arrived when I finally turned out the lights. However, a banging on the hotel door, brought me to fling it open, to have my old friend Barry Needham standing there in person.
We had much to talk about, not the least of which was the experience we shared just getting to Ottawa. I threw on some clothes to gain entry to the hotel bar so we could continue our reunion; however it had closed an hour earlier.
Not to be so easily defeated we ventured up the main street of Ottawa to a piano bar. It was about to close but when the owner learned we were on hand as Veterans going to Normandy for the 60th anniversary celebrations of D-Day, he kept it open for an extended period and joined our discussion. Barry and I didn't know then of the incredible experience that lay ahead.”
Battle Honours Royal Canadian Air Force - Squadron 412
“Canadian Veterans were paraded in style in World War Two vintage vehicles supplied by Dutch hobby restorers.
The day got underway with another 6 a.m. wake-up call which commenced a week of arduous, and for the best part joyful, commemorations to honour the anniversary of D-Day and the Battle of Normandy.
The first scheduled event was a parade of Veterans representing the Canadian military at Saint Aubin-sur-Mer, a small community situated on the eastern end of Juno Beach. The assembly area for all those participating in the parade was a mile or so outside the town. At this mustering point there were a large number of World War Two era transport vehicles parked aside the road. Much to our surprise we learned that the Veterans would ride into Saint Aubin in style aboard these lovingly restored jeeps and trucks.
I climbed aboard with my two buddies, F/L Charley Fox DFC and Bar, from London, Ontario, and F/L Barry Needham from Wynyard, Saskatchewan, and joined three army Veterans as we entered the town to a wonderful surprise.
As we reached the outskirts of St. Aubin, it became clear the entire community was determined to make us welcome. The joyous, enthusiastic, wildly cheering citizens were unbelievably boisterous and friendly. Almost every home we passed was flying a Canadian flag and every youngster in St. Aubin was waving our red Maple Leaf obviously enjoying the opportunity to let Canadians know how much they are appreciated.
The experience was certainly more than we anticipated and yet there was more. As we arrived at the beachhead itself, a large group was awaiting our arrival together with the mayor and officials from the town. Another assembly of young people were anxious to demonstrate their vocal talent by singing a selection of tunes which they obviously had been practising for some time.
The Governor General of Canada, Adrienne Clarkson, arrived and very eloquently expressed the appreciation of all Veterans to the townspeople.
To commemorate the occasion the mayor insisted on meeting every Canadian in attendance and presenting a very special medal. For me the entire affair was beyond belief and I could hardly wait for the opportunity to shake hands with as many youngsters as possible and to give each of them a little Canadian flag pin to remember us by.
Our buses arrived for our return to Deauville and it became apparent the residents were aware of our timetable for they were very much in evidence to bid us farewell as we passed through St. Aubin.
The vehicles were provided by a group of Dutch hobbyists who restore and maintain a complete fleet of jeeps and trucks for these types of special occasions.’
*For complete story search Lloyd Berryman Return to Normandy
Barry flew over with Veterans Affairs. Bored with the ceremony Barry managed with his great luck to end up at the tarmac where Adrienne Clarkson’s (Governor General at the time) Challenger from 412 Squadron was waiting. The Captain, Chris Strawson met Barry that day and learned of some of his war time adventures. Originally from Rose Valley, Strawson admitted to feeling reluctant at the prospect of flying a Wynyard resident around in his plane – given that Rose Valley and Wynyard were intense hockey rivals when he was growing up. Strawson got over his reluctance, flew Barry over the site where he had bailed out in 1944 and since then has formed a close bond with the World War II veteran.
June 6, 2004 60th Anniversary of D Day Celebrations
Lloyd Berryman with Charlie Fox and Barry Needham Trip to France courtesy of Veterans Affairs
First Ottawa……
“Barry had not yet arrived when I finally turned out the lights. However, a banging on the hotel door, brought me to fling it open, to have my old friend Barry Needham standing there in person.
We had much to talk about, not the least of which was the experience we shared just getting to Ottawa. I threw on some clothes to gain entry to the hotel bar so we could continue our reunion; however it had closed an hour earlier.
Not to be so easily defeated we ventured up the main street of Ottawa to a piano bar. It was about to close but when the owner learned we were on hand as Veterans going to Normandy for the 60th anniversary celebrations of D-Day, he kept it open for an extended period and joined our discussion. Barry and I didn't know then of the incredible experience that lay ahead.”
Battle Honours Royal Canadian Air Force - Squadron 412
“Canadian Veterans were paraded in style in World War Two vintage vehicles supplied by Dutch hobby restorers.
The day got underway with another 6 a.m. wake-up call which commenced a week of arduous, and for the best part joyful, commemorations to honour the anniversary of D-Day and the Battle of Normandy.
The first scheduled event was a parade of Veterans representing the Canadian military at Saint Aubin-sur-Mer, a small community situated on the eastern end of Juno Beach. The assembly area for all those participating in the parade was a mile or so outside the town. At this mustering point there were a large number of World War Two era transport vehicles parked aside the road. Much to our surprise we learned that the Veterans would ride into Saint Aubin in style aboard these lovingly restored jeeps and trucks.
I climbed aboard with my two buddies, F/L Charley Fox DFC and Bar, from London, Ontario, and F/L Barry Needham from Wynyard, Saskatchewan, and joined three army Veterans as we entered the town to a wonderful surprise.
As we reached the outskirts of St. Aubin, it became clear the entire community was determined to make us welcome. The joyous, enthusiastic, wildly cheering citizens were unbelievably boisterous and friendly. Almost every home we passed was flying a Canadian flag and every youngster in St. Aubin was waving our red Maple Leaf obviously enjoying the opportunity to let Canadians know how much they are appreciated.
The experience was certainly more than we anticipated and yet there was more. As we arrived at the beachhead itself, a large group was awaiting our arrival together with the mayor and officials from the town. Another assembly of young people were anxious to demonstrate their vocal talent by singing a selection of tunes which they obviously had been practising for some time.
The Governor General of Canada, Adrienne Clarkson, arrived and very eloquently expressed the appreciation of all Veterans to the townspeople.
To commemorate the occasion the mayor insisted on meeting every Canadian in attendance and presenting a very special medal. For me the entire affair was beyond belief and I could hardly wait for the opportunity to shake hands with as many youngsters as possible and to give each of them a little Canadian flag pin to remember us by.
Our buses arrived for our return to Deauville and it became apparent the residents were aware of our timetable for they were very much in evidence to bid us farewell as we passed through St. Aubin.
The vehicles were provided by a group of Dutch hobbyists who restore and maintain a complete fleet of jeeps and trucks for these types of special occasions.’
*For complete story search Lloyd Berryman Return to Normandy
Barry flew over with Veterans Affairs. Bored with the ceremony Barry managed with his great luck to end up at the tarmac where Adrienne Clarkson’s (Governor General at the time) Challenger from 412 Squadron was waiting. The Captain, Chris Strawson met Barry that day and learned of some of his war time adventures. Originally from Rose Valley, Strawson admitted to feeling reluctant at the prospect of flying a Wynyard resident around in his plane – given that Rose Valley and Wynyard were intense hockey rivals when he was growing up. Strawson got over his reluctance, flew Barry over the site where he had bailed out in 1944 and since then has formed a close bond with the World War II veteran.
Canadian Pilots in Wave Top Battle
Canadian Pilots in Wave-top Battle
(Canadian Press Cable)
LONDON, Sept.18.-1942—Two Canadian pilot officers Thursday night told how they shot down a Nazi Focke-Wulf 190 and damaged a second in a wave-top chase from the South of England to near the French coast.
The two Canadians, P.O. Lloyd Powell of Edmonton, credited with destroying one of the enemy aircraft, and P.O. W. Barry Needham of Wynyard, Sask., who damaged the other, were flying as a section when they sighted the enemy seconds after they had dropped bombs on the gasworks in the coastal town of Worthing. Then , as Powell said, “the chase was on.”
“It was about 30 miles from the French coast when we caught them and attacked,” he added.
“We each took one. I fired a 10-second burst after which the Jerry went into a steep climb. I saw it pull up suddenly, and then stall, turn and crash into the sea about 15 miles from the French coast.”
Needham recounted that he attacked and “gave the enemy a 10-second burst and observed strikes all over it. I last saw the aircraft crossing the coast with a volume of white smoke pouring out; but that was after I had given it several bursts.”
Both Canadians returned to base without having a shot fired at them.
A sequel to this story was revived when Squadron Leader Chris Goss, an RAF historian and author of several war-time books was researching German and British records for a new book on German hit-and- run raids on the South coast of England. He contacted Willy Wenger, brother of the pilot flying the damaged FW190 and Barry Needham, pilot of the Spitfire for information.
In 2001 an enduring E-mail and telephone association between Wenger, now living in Austria and Barry in Wynyard was established.
The final chapter to this saga was recently written when Barry, accompanied by wife Martha and daughter Denise visited Willy and his wife Wilma in their home in Bad Gleichenberg, Austria, where they were graciously made welcome.
Willy had a special gift for Barry, a 20mm cannon shell that had been extracted from his brother’s airplane. “You gave this to my brother, now I am giving it back to you”.
Submitted by W. Barry Needham, Wynyard, Saskatchewan.
(Canadian Press Cable)
LONDON, Sept.18.-1942—Two Canadian pilot officers Thursday night told how they shot down a Nazi Focke-Wulf 190 and damaged a second in a wave-top chase from the South of England to near the French coast.
The two Canadians, P.O. Lloyd Powell of Edmonton, credited with destroying one of the enemy aircraft, and P.O. W. Barry Needham of Wynyard, Sask., who damaged the other, were flying as a section when they sighted the enemy seconds after they had dropped bombs on the gasworks in the coastal town of Worthing. Then , as Powell said, “the chase was on.”
“It was about 30 miles from the French coast when we caught them and attacked,” he added.
“We each took one. I fired a 10-second burst after which the Jerry went into a steep climb. I saw it pull up suddenly, and then stall, turn and crash into the sea about 15 miles from the French coast.”
Needham recounted that he attacked and “gave the enemy a 10-second burst and observed strikes all over it. I last saw the aircraft crossing the coast with a volume of white smoke pouring out; but that was after I had given it several bursts.”
Both Canadians returned to base without having a shot fired at them.
A sequel to this story was revived when Squadron Leader Chris Goss, an RAF historian and author of several war-time books was researching German and British records for a new book on German hit-and- run raids on the South coast of England. He contacted Willy Wenger, brother of the pilot flying the damaged FW190 and Barry Needham, pilot of the Spitfire for information.
In 2001 an enduring E-mail and telephone association between Wenger, now living in Austria and Barry in Wynyard was established.
The final chapter to this saga was recently written when Barry, accompanied by wife Martha and daughter Denise visited Willy and his wife Wilma in their home in Bad Gleichenberg, Austria, where they were graciously made welcome.
Willy had a special gift for Barry, a 20mm cannon shell that had been extracted from his brother’s airplane. “You gave this to my brother, now I am giving it back to you”.
Submitted by W. Barry Needham, Wynyard, Saskatchewan.
In His Own Words : Barry Needham's War Time Biography
In his own words……..Barry’s war time biography
Possibly, I am the only pilot living to have flown operationally with John Gillespie Magee, author of World War 11’s most famous sonnet, “High Flight”.
Two Sergeants and one Pilot Officer joined 412 Canadian Spitfire Squadron at Digby, Lincs. during the last days of September 1941. A.P.L.Smith , and I were the sergeant pilots and Magee was the pilot officer. Smith and Magee were both killed in flying accidents while I completed two tours of operations, serving 26 months in 412 Canadian Spitfire squadron.
Smith and I, both from Saskatchewan, received our wings at Yorkton, Sask. in June, 1941 and operational training at 61 O T U at Heston, where the South African ace Sailor Malan was the Wing Commander.
Shortly after joining the squadron it moved to a satellite grass airfield at Wellingore. Here the officers were billeted in a rambling old house called the Grange, while the sergeants and airmen occupied a three- story stone building (nearing castle-size) previously part of a large estate before being expropriated by the RAF. Our aerodrome was a farmer’s grass field about 800 yards square, fairly close to the southeast corner of Wellingore village.
The squadron had four non-flying officers: an adjutant, a medical officer, engineering officer and an intelligence officer. Flight Lieutenant Hart Massey, diminutive son of Vincent Massey, Canada’s war-time High Commisioner to Britain and later Canada’s first native born Governor General. While attending Oxford University, just prior to the war, Hart’s diminutive size earned him the coxswain position in their rowing scull when Oxford defeated Cambridge in one of their legendary races. Hart drove at break-neck speeds an MG sports car that was especially modified with extended clutch and brake pedals to compensate for his small size. On one occasion he was a passenger in a spitfire while seated on Rod Smith’s knee He occasionally flew, with another pilot, the squadron’s “Maggie” also modified to suit his short legs.
Squadron operations those days were mainly training flights and long boring convoy patrols off the East coast .However occasionally the squadron would fly south to Manston or West Malling to join two other squadrons for a sweep over France The squadron received its first baptism of fire on its fourth sweep on November 8 when tasked to give withdrawal cover to 12 Blenheim medium bombers which were to bomb the locomotive shops at Lille.
Briefing had been by an aging wing commander who when reaching the French coast led the wing through a poorly executed maneuver, causing the 36 aircraft to disintegrated into a loose beehive. Sections, pairs and single aircraft flew around in an endless left hand orbit and was soon attacked by 109 F’s which from time to time would down one of our spitfires. During the melee a voice believed to be that of the wing leader was heard to say “I guess I am too old for this boys”. He did not return.
Kit Bushell, 412 squadron’s recently appointed squadron leader and two other pilots, Owen Pickell and Ken Denkman became the squadron’s first casualties. This was Magee’s first and only operational sweep.
On December 11th the squadron took part in a wing formation exercise above cloud, with an RAF squadron from Kirton - in - Lindsay , a fighter station located about 18 miles north of Lincoln . When the exercise was completed Squadron Leader Morrison ordered the squadron into line astern and dove through a hole in the clouds. Unfortunately, the hole was right over Cranwell airfield circuit and Magee’s spitfire collided with an Airspeed Oxford training aircraft. Magee bailed out but was too low for his parachute to fully open and he died in a field near Cranwell. The crew aboard the Oxford also died.. Magee is buried in Scopwick village cemetery, near Digby airfield. In a letter to Magee’s brother in 1987, Squadron mate Rod Smith described John as a skillful pilot whose formation flying was tight and dog fighting tough. However, he was sometimes impractical having once taking off downwind in a strong wind towards the hangers at Digby, narrowly missing the top by no more than a yard. This incident was observed by the Duke of Kent who had just arrived to inspect the squadron. On another occasion Magee forgot to hook up his oxygen supply and passed out at 22000 feet. He came to in a high speed dive just in time to pull out. Another time while taxing, he hit the wing of a parked aircraft with his wing tip. Smith concluded by saying he thought Magee had the right stuff to become a first class fighter pilot.
In February the squadron flew south to Biggin Hill to join more than 400 RAF fighters providing cover for bombers and torpedo-carrying Swordfish attacking the German battleships Scharhorst and Geisenau when they broke out from Brest and were making their way up the English Channel. The weather was extremely difficult with complete overcast at 5,000 feet, broken cloud and rain below making it almost impossible to keep station with the bombers and we did not observe the German ships.
The squadron’s next major operation was on March 15, 1942 . Led by F/L Bill Napier 10 aircraft attacked five German E boats near the Dutch coast. When first sighted one aircraft was delegated to make a low pass to positively make an identification, friend or foe.. When the E boats opened fire Napier ordered everyone to attack .After everyone had made two or three passes expending all their ammunition, one boat had been sunk and the rest were dead in the water, smoking heavily. This action earned the squadron a letter of commendation from the British Admiralty.
May 1 1942 saw 412 squadron begin 17 moves in England before embarking for France on June 19, 1944.
The first moves were to Martlesham Heath, Suffolk where we continued with convoy patrols and the odd sweep. Readiness duty served from dawn to dusk was quite arduous as double daylight saving time made a short night. It was from here that I flew my first Rhubarb shooting up some canal barges and a gun position in the Ostend area. Received a lot of flak, but no damage. My number two that day Was Claude Weaver !!!. from Tulsa Oklahoma. Weaver later went to Malta where he destroyed several enemy aircraft before he himself was shot down and became a prisoner of war in Italy. When Italy surrendered in September 1943, Weaver along with several other POW’s escaped just as the Germans took over the camp. He returned to England, joining 403 squadron where he shot down two more enemy aircraft for a total of 13. He was killed January 28, 1944 while on a fighter sweep in the Amiens area of France. Weaver was awarded a DFC, DFM & bar.
In less than a month the squadron was on the move again, to North Weald for a very short stay before moving to Merston, Sussex, a satellite to Tangmere airfield on June 21.
Johnnie Walker of the whiskey Walker family was the wing commander and led us on a great many sweeps, often to the Abbeville area where we occasionally encountered JG26 pilots nicknamed the “Abbeville Kids”. On August 19, 1942 the squadron took part in the Dieppe Raid providing cover over the beachhead and escort for Hurri Bombers. Several enemy aircraft were engaged and the squadron lost two aircraft and one pilot due to anti-aircraft fire. The best I could do that day for three flights was to claim a damaged FW190.
More moves followed: to Redhill, Friston and Kenley By this time winter over the continent was setting in and Rhubarbs, usually consisting two aircraft, became the order of the day. Trains, emitting steam in the cold air were visible for great distances, and were the favorite target. On January 17 Wing Commander Fee led the wing on an offensive sweep in the Treport-Abbeville area netting several trains and a German army training camp. Less than two hours after their return the wing set out to repeat the operation in the St. Valery region. While attacking locomotives and other ground targets, the wing was bounced by a score of 190’s. Both Fee and his number two were shot down.
Winter operations continued to March 1943 when 412 squadron took part in “Operation Spartan”, an all-out exercise designed to prepare for a landing on the continent.. A couple of more moves to Lasham, Fairwood Common and finally to Perranporth in Cornwall where I completed my first tour where I was posted to become an instructor at 57 OTO at Eshott, Northumberland , still flying spitfires. My logbook showed I had flown 251 operational hours.
My posting was not without its fun side. Following the traditional going away party Buck McNair who had been a supernumerary Flight Lieutenant in 412 squadron for a short time, was posted at the same time. We proceeded to London where I discovered I had 33 pounds in my deferred pay account. We checked into the Regent Palace hotel and had a glorious time for the next 3 days until the money ran out. When I arrived at Eshott W/C Gracie enquired why I was late so when I told him I had been with McNair in London, he said “I understand” and nothing further was said. Buck had been in Malta where Gracie was the Winco.
And so I spent the next six months familiarizing new pilots with the Miles Master prior to going solo in a spitfire and leading nerve racking formations. Students were told not to try to crowd in close, but to stay up in line-abreast. Invariably, some showoff would try to impress you with his flying skill. Nothing is more frightening than to look out and see a whirling three bladed propeller just inches away, about to chew off your wing tip, knowing that the pilot had very little experience flying spitfires. Six months of this must surely equal a tour of ops.
By October first I had finished my 6 month tour of instructing and received a posting to Warrington where on December 3rd I boarded the ship Mauritania, landing in Halifax on December 10,1943.
Following a happy visit at home with my parents in Wynyard then a train trip to Vancouver to visit family members, I reported to Lachine, Quebec. On January 22, 1944 our returning group boarded the Queen Mary in New York harbor. An extremely rough crossing, combined with the after effects of several inoculations given to the 8,000 American soldiers just prior to boarding made a very uncomfortable crossing. Suffering the effects from their shots and experiencing sea sickness most of them were violently ill which put a heavy strain on the ships “head”. When the ship was battened down at night, with little ventilation, the sickening odor was overpowering. Luckily, the Queen made one of her fastest voyages landing at Greenock, Scotland on January 29.
My second tour of ops started on February 19 with 401 squadron at Biggin Hill where I was welcomed back by Buck McNair who by this time was the Winco Flying. After only five operational flights with 401 and a four day familiarization course on the new Gyro gun sight, I was posted back to my old squadron 412, resuming where I had left off as Flight Commander of “B” Flight.
March flying was mostly training flights in co-operation with the army and considerable air to ground firing. However, one notable flight took place on March 23 when we escorted 72 Mauraders bombing Criel marshalling yards. On the return flight my section spotted a lone JU88 flying close to the ground. Two of us dove down and attacked with cannon and machine guns. Badly damaged, the 88 crashed in a field where after getting the OK from the wing leader, we strafed the fallen aircraft on the ground.
April saw the squadron take on a new role, that of dive bombing carrying 500 pound bombs slung under the fuselage, The most frequent target was a couple of small buildings located along the coast and well hidden in dense bush. We called the sites “Noballs” but learned later that they were launch sites for the V1, Buzz Bombs”. Diving at a 70 degree angle from about 10,000 feet and pulling out around 1500 feet, built up tremendous speed making the controls extremely stiff and shake violently. Little did we know that this was compressibility, the violent disturbance encountered prior to reaching the speed of speed of sound. Complete blackout was experienced when pulling out which may account for the mysterious loss of several pilots while dive bombing.
May was a continuation of dive bombing, escort duties and sweeps over Northern France. During the month I racked up 36 operational hours.
The last days of May saw air operations dramatically increased with three and four operations a day. Sweeps, dive bombing ammo dumps, road and rail communications and bomber escorts kept us in the air from dawn to dusk on many days.
On May 25th we received 3 inoculations and were told two more were coming, so we knew something big was brewing. A clinching clue was when we were ordered to barber pole our aircraft with black and white stripes which were familiar to us having used them for easy identification on August 19,1942 for Dieppe.
While painting was being done we had June 5th free to do as we wished. Somebody obtained several dozen eggs which together with the contents of parcels from home and a whacking great quantity of beer made for a great outdoor party much like a modern day barbecue.
The party raged on all afternoon and evening as the sky began to fill with planes towing gliders filled with paratroopers. At 23:30 hours Group Captain (Iron Bill) MacBrien called the pilots of 126 and 127 wings to announce that the long-awaited D-Day had arrived.
The briefing broke up at 01:30 hours on June 6th. Two hours later we were called to readiness and at 8:10 hours we were air born for the first of 4 beach patrols that day.
The Luftwaffe did not show its face until D plus one when 126 wing destroyed 12 enemy aircraft. For the next several days we continued with beach patrols, bomber escort and dive bombing. On June 14 we landed at our future home at Beny-sur-mer in France, returning to England in the evening. On June 18 the entire 126 wing moved permanently to France.
By the end of June I had completed another 62 hours of operations, destroying numerous transports as well as dive bombing the railway yards at Liseau. One memorable op took place on June 27 when I led my flight to the village of Villers Bocage where a concentration of German transports was reported to be congregated, Over the village, we encountered intense flak whose accuracy was phenomenal, putting 17 holes in my aircraft and damaging three others in the flight. Luckily, we all landed successfully back at B4.
In his book “Invasion Without Tears”, Monty Burger wing Intelligence Officer, reports “by the last week in June the wing’s pilots were dropping bombs on special targets, shooting up road and rail traffic, and almost as an afterthought, knocking enemy aircraft out of the sky with regularity”.
My logbook shows a busy time during the first week of July when I shot up two transports, one in flames, dive bombed a road and rail junction, shot up a truck and two soldiers, shot at a ME 109 without result and while the squadron was having great success in downing enemy aircraft, I had no luck.
July 7th was a very memorable day for me. Besides being my father’s birthday, it was the day my luck ran out and I was shot down by anti aircraft fire. While patrolling in the Falaise area, I attacked, using cannon and machine guns, a large transport followed by a motorcycle dispatch rider travelling along a tree-lined highway. After successfully destroying the target, I climbed up to rejoin the squadron, passing right over a German Flak battery where my aircraft was hammered by a succession of exploding shells. Immediately, a huge ball of dirty red fire shot up from between my feet scorching my face, wrists and legs. Sheer panic took over as I unsuccessfully tried to back away from the flames, being held back by my harness, oxygen and radio cords. Self-preservation instinct must have helped me jettison the coupe top, undue my straps and stand up whereupon I popped out like a cork from a Champaign bottle.
I don’t recall pulling the rip cord, but the next thing I knew I was floating down clutching desperately to the D ring, thinking it was the only thing keeping me from free falling. I was only at about 1,000 feet from where I could clearly see a vehicle loaded with troops headed in the direction in which I was most likely to land. I hit the ground with the usual back-wrenching, dropped my chute and started to run away from the approaching vehicle. Coming towards me was a young boy, possibly 12-13 years old, who pointed to a large bush at the edge of the field. I dived head first into the thickest part, covering myself with leaves and loose branches.. Barely a minute later a young German soldier had his rifle pointed at my head and escorted me to their vehicle. I was then taken to a small village (I learned later was Martagny Sur L’Ante) where a German officer was holding the small boy who I had passed while running away. They were surrounded by the boy’s mother and a large gathering of villagers, all pleading to have him released. I tried to tell the officer that the boy had done nothing wrong, but when I was taken away he was still being held. I have ever since wondered what he had done to warrant his arrest and what became of him.
All this time my burns were becoming more and more painful and I pleaded to be taken to a doctor. But first, I was paraded before a German officer, still in bed upstairs in a nearby house being used as a headquarters. Following his instructions I was again loaded into their vehicle and taken to a nearby airfield, so well camouflaged I am sure our intelligence did not know of its existence. Finally, a doctor arrived and proceeded to bandage my head, face, wrists and legs. When finished, I resembled a mummy with two holes for eyes and a slits for my mouth and nose. I was then locked up in a small shed with a straw pallet for a bed. During the night I developed a raging fever and insatiable thirst. My frantic calls for water, made in English, were finally understood and responded to by the young German soldier stationed outside the door.
In the morning I was taken before several officers who through an interpreter asked the usual questions, what aircraft was I flying, from what airfield, etc. My response was name. rank and number until one officer accused me of attacking ambulances. This I vehemently denied, although I knew that some attacks had been made resulting in huge explosions, proving that the Germans were using Red Cross ambulances to transport ammunition. I was then given a large piece of dark crusty bread and a piece of sausage which I found difficult to get into my mouth. I don’t know what prompted me to scornfully ask the interpreter “is this the best food you can provide an officer?” His response was that all German ranks received the same food. This exchange, interpreted for the officers made them visibly angry and I was quickly dismissed.
My memory of events during the next couple of days remains dimly hazy as I was probably in shock and moved several times. I recall lying on the grass in the midst of many wounded German soldiers, the one next to me without an arm. Nuns were scurrying about which makes me believe this could have been a convent or monastery. We were outside on the grass because of the excessive casualties inside. Next I was in the back of a large covered truck with several German soldiers returning to their unit after being on leave. One, who spoke excellent English was anxious to engage me in a political discussion. He wanted to know why I was opposing Germany rather than Communist Russia which was his motivation for being in the war. I am afraid I did not have a very apt reply.
Another vague recollection is of spending the night alone in a warehouse type building, sleeping on a straw pallet on the floor. In the morning I was startled to hear the sound of American voices coming from the yard outside a window. I learned they were prisoners, detailed to chop wood, and our conversation was made short by the German guards.
At some point, someone in authority must have ordered that I be taken to Rennes where there was a POW hospital which I learned later was designated Stalag 221. I was seated in the back seat of a large staff car along with two soldiers. Spotters rode one on each front fender watching for allied aircraft. Several times spitfires flew over sending the guards dashing for safety at the side of the road, leaving me a very nervous, fully exposed, sitting duck. Luckily, we were not spotted and eventually arrived at our destination, Stalag 221, Rennes.
My new home for the next 34 days was a former 3-level brick school building converted to a hospital to accommodate several hundred wounded prisoners, mostly American paratroopers captured on the morning of D-Day. The building faced onto a busy street with a high stone fence on three sides, guarded by aging German soldiers. Medical treatment was provided by a 83-year old French doctor, brought out of retirement and assisted by a group of student nurses who came in every morning, returning to their homes at the end of the day.
My first medical treatment took place in a make-shift operating room where a French nurse first shaved my head, stripped off my clothes and then began to peel away the dead skin from my burns with the aid of tweezers. I suffered the excruciating pain for as long as I could until when she asked “sleep”, I quickly assented and a cotton swab saturated with ether was placed over my nose. When I awoke I was lying on a cot in a large room, surrounded by similar cots, all occupied by bodies showing various degrees of bandaged wounds. Being the newest arrival, I received a barrage of questions, how the war was progressing, my name and rank etc. Because the rank of Flight Lieutenant was completely strange to the Americans and with my bald head covered with mercurochrome, I looked like a native on the warpath, I became Chief.
I got a real scare the first morning I woke up to find that I could not open my eyes. Puss from my burns had dried, sealing them shut.. Using forceps to peel off the scabs became a morning ritual for one of the nurses who came to my bed.. Gentle as she could be, the pain was agonizing, especially when mercurochrome was applied. When she was finished I would lay rigid on my straw mattress with my teeth clenched to keep from crying out. When the pain subsided I was able to shuffle outside into the courtyard to sit in the warm sun and watch the puss drip from my wrists. By the next morning my hands were doubled up into claws as the scabs formed and the peeling procedure began again.
I learned my companions were mostly from the American #101 parachute division, nick named “The Screaming Eagles”. They had been dropped several miles off of their intended drop zone and were quickly captured. While being marched down a road behind the lines, they were attacked by a flight of American Air Corps mustangs that mistook them for the enemy. Caught between high embankments almost everyone in the column was either killed or wounded, a case of friendly fire. They were transported to Rennes to become the first prisoners of Stalag 221 hospital
The first fellow prisoner I became friendly with was a husky paratrooper from Louisville, Kentucky who despite his wounds, assisted in the operating room. He told me that while under the anesthetic I had fought like a wildcat, requiring two persons to hold me down. He also kept us entertained with stories about the many surgeries, including amputations that the old French doctor was required to perform
The scanty food we received became an ever present obsession. Once a day we received watery cabbage soup, a piece of dark, dry bread and occasionally a piece of unsavory cheese, which added to my already dislike for all kinds of cheese. Despite the persistent urging of my new found Kentucky friend, I continued to refuse the cheese until hunger finally drove me to give it a try. When I found that it was not as bad as I had imagined, we became a team, collecting all we could get from those who turned down their ration. Some enterprising person rigged up a toaster, using wires plugged into the power outlet which markedly improved the cheese, but caused the lights to go dim.
The dark bread we received was sometimes delivered by Moroccan prisoners in a horse drawn cart used mainly to haul garbage. Captured early in the war, the Moroccans were used as slave labor, leaving their barbed wire enclosed compound each morning, returning in the evening. The arrival of the bread cart always drew a large audience to watch as one worker climbed into the cart, pushing the bread out with his boots while the second caught the loaves in a spread blanket. The fun began when one loaf fell to the ground initiating a mad scramble for possession. Some prisoners visited the Moroccans through the wire barricade separating our camps, sometimes receiving food and bargaining for cigarettes. Rumor had it that some of the food came from a stray cat.
Another paratrooper with whom I became acquainted had an interesting but dangerous peace time job with Ringling Brothers Circus. He would ride at breakneck speed, a noisy, souped up motorcycle around an enclosed wooden bowl, rising to near the top rim, then descending to the bottom before repeating the ride over and over. He became enamored with one of the pretty little French nurses and asked me if I knew a French phrase that he could use to impress her. The only one I could think of was “Vous Etes Mon Petite Chou”, you are my little cabbage. It was hilarious to hear him in his deep southern accent reciting over and over again the phrase I had given him as he practiced for the time he would approach his would be lover. I never learned if he was successful or not.
Those prisoners who were mobile spent the long hot July days basking in the sun out in the enclosed courtyard surrounded by apartment blocks. One paratrooper made use of his time by contacting a female apartment resident by writing messages on small stones then tossing them over the fence. A return message made the same way revealed the writer was a teacher of English in a city school. The day we were liberated he hurried to the apartment block anxious to cement their relationship. Rumor had it that he moved in with his new found love, reluctant to continue the war. Another pastime only lasting until the guards spotted us at the top floor windows, was ogling the SS troop’s female companions as they sunbathed on their patio.
We were able to get daily news of the war’s progress by means of a clandestine radio, smuggled in piece by piece by one of the nurses. A single hand written page was made by the senior British officer and secretly passed around. He was an imposing army major whose facial wounds required his jaw to be wired shut. Two front teeth had been removed to allow soup as his only food. Where the radio was kept and who operated it, remained a secret, but the news it brought us was the highlight of the day.
In early August mortar shells began raining down, announcing the arrival of General George Patton’s Third Army which had just landed at Cherbourg and was smashing it’s way South towards Rennes. Those who could move took shelter in a crowded slit trench. A British Army Lieutenant, who had seen many mortar attacks, advised me that this was not a good place to be so I joined him huddled against a stone wall until the shelling stopped. It was then we learned that a strong French Resistance group had contacted Patton convincing him there was no need to flatten the city, as was his usual practice, because it was lightly defended. During the First World War Rennes had been declared an open city because of its many hospitals
It was not long before the German SS troops began evacuating their quarters. Trucks arrived and they began loading their personal effects all the while being pestered by their French lovers to be taken along. We watched from our vantage point through the upper windows but it did not appear any were successful, It is possible they were the female collaborators with their heads shaved we later saw being driven through the downtown streets No sooner were the escaping trucks out of sight, than the looters arrived in force. They began hauling out everything they could move. Beds, mattresses, dressers, bedding, cupboards, carpets, lamps, dishes and pots and pans were quickly loaded onto wheelbarrows and carts then rushing back inside for another load. It wasn’t long before the looters reached the wine cellar and began passing out bottles of wine and champagne to the growing crowd joined by the liberated POWs. Soon there was a happy singing, dancing, drunken mob milling around the square. Time magazine reporting on the Liberation, said that the citizens of Rennes celebrated longer and louder than any other French city.
Unfortunately for me I missed the fun, having developed quinsy, requiring the old French doctor to lance my tonsils just the day before.
The next day an American hospital unit arrived to set up a complete tent hospital on the outskirts of the city. The unit had arrived barely 24 hours previously from the US with the barest of information, there were several hundred casualties waiting for them in Rennes. In short order we were given showers, clean beds, food, cigarettes, and candies and shown a recent released movie. This luxurious living lasted for a couple of days until I was put on an American C47 hospital plane bound for England. After checkups at two hospitals I was given two pounds, seven days leave and told to report to headquarters in London. At this time I was still wearing my scorched battle dress, American GI khaki shirt and pants, paratrooper boots that I had traded for my flight boots and with no hair, eyelashes or eyebrows, it is little wonder that it took considerable persuasion before I got past the security guard. Needless to say the receiving officer was quite surprised as I was still reported missing. After interrogation by both RCAF and British MI9 Intelligence I was issued clothing warrants, given back pay and sent of leave with orders to report to Repat depot at Wharrington for transportation home to Canada. I arrived at Halifax on November 4, 1944, just in time for Christmas.
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Possibly, I am the only pilot living to have flown operationally with John Gillespie Magee, author of World War 11’s most famous sonnet, “High Flight”.
Two Sergeants and one Pilot Officer joined 412 Canadian Spitfire Squadron at Digby, Lincs. during the last days of September 1941. A.P.L.Smith , and I were the sergeant pilots and Magee was the pilot officer. Smith and Magee were both killed in flying accidents while I completed two tours of operations, serving 26 months in 412 Canadian Spitfire squadron.
Smith and I, both from Saskatchewan, received our wings at Yorkton, Sask. in June, 1941 and operational training at 61 O T U at Heston, where the South African ace Sailor Malan was the Wing Commander.
Shortly after joining the squadron it moved to a satellite grass airfield at Wellingore. Here the officers were billeted in a rambling old house called the Grange, while the sergeants and airmen occupied a three- story stone building (nearing castle-size) previously part of a large estate before being expropriated by the RAF. Our aerodrome was a farmer’s grass field about 800 yards square, fairly close to the southeast corner of Wellingore village.
The squadron had four non-flying officers: an adjutant, a medical officer, engineering officer and an intelligence officer. Flight Lieutenant Hart Massey, diminutive son of Vincent Massey, Canada’s war-time High Commisioner to Britain and later Canada’s first native born Governor General. While attending Oxford University, just prior to the war, Hart’s diminutive size earned him the coxswain position in their rowing scull when Oxford defeated Cambridge in one of their legendary races. Hart drove at break-neck speeds an MG sports car that was especially modified with extended clutch and brake pedals to compensate for his small size. On one occasion he was a passenger in a spitfire while seated on Rod Smith’s knee He occasionally flew, with another pilot, the squadron’s “Maggie” also modified to suit his short legs.
Squadron operations those days were mainly training flights and long boring convoy patrols off the East coast .However occasionally the squadron would fly south to Manston or West Malling to join two other squadrons for a sweep over France The squadron received its first baptism of fire on its fourth sweep on November 8 when tasked to give withdrawal cover to 12 Blenheim medium bombers which were to bomb the locomotive shops at Lille.
Briefing had been by an aging wing commander who when reaching the French coast led the wing through a poorly executed maneuver, causing the 36 aircraft to disintegrated into a loose beehive. Sections, pairs and single aircraft flew around in an endless left hand orbit and was soon attacked by 109 F’s which from time to time would down one of our spitfires. During the melee a voice believed to be that of the wing leader was heard to say “I guess I am too old for this boys”. He did not return.
Kit Bushell, 412 squadron’s recently appointed squadron leader and two other pilots, Owen Pickell and Ken Denkman became the squadron’s first casualties. This was Magee’s first and only operational sweep.
On December 11th the squadron took part in a wing formation exercise above cloud, with an RAF squadron from Kirton - in - Lindsay , a fighter station located about 18 miles north of Lincoln . When the exercise was completed Squadron Leader Morrison ordered the squadron into line astern and dove through a hole in the clouds. Unfortunately, the hole was right over Cranwell airfield circuit and Magee’s spitfire collided with an Airspeed Oxford training aircraft. Magee bailed out but was too low for his parachute to fully open and he died in a field near Cranwell. The crew aboard the Oxford also died.. Magee is buried in Scopwick village cemetery, near Digby airfield. In a letter to Magee’s brother in 1987, Squadron mate Rod Smith described John as a skillful pilot whose formation flying was tight and dog fighting tough. However, he was sometimes impractical having once taking off downwind in a strong wind towards the hangers at Digby, narrowly missing the top by no more than a yard. This incident was observed by the Duke of Kent who had just arrived to inspect the squadron. On another occasion Magee forgot to hook up his oxygen supply and passed out at 22000 feet. He came to in a high speed dive just in time to pull out. Another time while taxing, he hit the wing of a parked aircraft with his wing tip. Smith concluded by saying he thought Magee had the right stuff to become a first class fighter pilot.
In February the squadron flew south to Biggin Hill to join more than 400 RAF fighters providing cover for bombers and torpedo-carrying Swordfish attacking the German battleships Scharhorst and Geisenau when they broke out from Brest and were making their way up the English Channel. The weather was extremely difficult with complete overcast at 5,000 feet, broken cloud and rain below making it almost impossible to keep station with the bombers and we did not observe the German ships.
The squadron’s next major operation was on March 15, 1942 . Led by F/L Bill Napier 10 aircraft attacked five German E boats near the Dutch coast. When first sighted one aircraft was delegated to make a low pass to positively make an identification, friend or foe.. When the E boats opened fire Napier ordered everyone to attack .After everyone had made two or three passes expending all their ammunition, one boat had been sunk and the rest were dead in the water, smoking heavily. This action earned the squadron a letter of commendation from the British Admiralty.
May 1 1942 saw 412 squadron begin 17 moves in England before embarking for France on June 19, 1944.
The first moves were to Martlesham Heath, Suffolk where we continued with convoy patrols and the odd sweep. Readiness duty served from dawn to dusk was quite arduous as double daylight saving time made a short night. It was from here that I flew my first Rhubarb shooting up some canal barges and a gun position in the Ostend area. Received a lot of flak, but no damage. My number two that day Was Claude Weaver !!!. from Tulsa Oklahoma. Weaver later went to Malta where he destroyed several enemy aircraft before he himself was shot down and became a prisoner of war in Italy. When Italy surrendered in September 1943, Weaver along with several other POW’s escaped just as the Germans took over the camp. He returned to England, joining 403 squadron where he shot down two more enemy aircraft for a total of 13. He was killed January 28, 1944 while on a fighter sweep in the Amiens area of France. Weaver was awarded a DFC, DFM & bar.
In less than a month the squadron was on the move again, to North Weald for a very short stay before moving to Merston, Sussex, a satellite to Tangmere airfield on June 21.
Johnnie Walker of the whiskey Walker family was the wing commander and led us on a great many sweeps, often to the Abbeville area where we occasionally encountered JG26 pilots nicknamed the “Abbeville Kids”. On August 19, 1942 the squadron took part in the Dieppe Raid providing cover over the beachhead and escort for Hurri Bombers. Several enemy aircraft were engaged and the squadron lost two aircraft and one pilot due to anti-aircraft fire. The best I could do that day for three flights was to claim a damaged FW190.
More moves followed: to Redhill, Friston and Kenley By this time winter over the continent was setting in and Rhubarbs, usually consisting two aircraft, became the order of the day. Trains, emitting steam in the cold air were visible for great distances, and were the favorite target. On January 17 Wing Commander Fee led the wing on an offensive sweep in the Treport-Abbeville area netting several trains and a German army training camp. Less than two hours after their return the wing set out to repeat the operation in the St. Valery region. While attacking locomotives and other ground targets, the wing was bounced by a score of 190’s. Both Fee and his number two were shot down.
Winter operations continued to March 1943 when 412 squadron took part in “Operation Spartan”, an all-out exercise designed to prepare for a landing on the continent.. A couple of more moves to Lasham, Fairwood Common and finally to Perranporth in Cornwall where I completed my first tour where I was posted to become an instructor at 57 OTO at Eshott, Northumberland , still flying spitfires. My logbook showed I had flown 251 operational hours.
My posting was not without its fun side. Following the traditional going away party Buck McNair who had been a supernumerary Flight Lieutenant in 412 squadron for a short time, was posted at the same time. We proceeded to London where I discovered I had 33 pounds in my deferred pay account. We checked into the Regent Palace hotel and had a glorious time for the next 3 days until the money ran out. When I arrived at Eshott W/C Gracie enquired why I was late so when I told him I had been with McNair in London, he said “I understand” and nothing further was said. Buck had been in Malta where Gracie was the Winco.
And so I spent the next six months familiarizing new pilots with the Miles Master prior to going solo in a spitfire and leading nerve racking formations. Students were told not to try to crowd in close, but to stay up in line-abreast. Invariably, some showoff would try to impress you with his flying skill. Nothing is more frightening than to look out and see a whirling three bladed propeller just inches away, about to chew off your wing tip, knowing that the pilot had very little experience flying spitfires. Six months of this must surely equal a tour of ops.
By October first I had finished my 6 month tour of instructing and received a posting to Warrington where on December 3rd I boarded the ship Mauritania, landing in Halifax on December 10,1943.
Following a happy visit at home with my parents in Wynyard then a train trip to Vancouver to visit family members, I reported to Lachine, Quebec. On January 22, 1944 our returning group boarded the Queen Mary in New York harbor. An extremely rough crossing, combined with the after effects of several inoculations given to the 8,000 American soldiers just prior to boarding made a very uncomfortable crossing. Suffering the effects from their shots and experiencing sea sickness most of them were violently ill which put a heavy strain on the ships “head”. When the ship was battened down at night, with little ventilation, the sickening odor was overpowering. Luckily, the Queen made one of her fastest voyages landing at Greenock, Scotland on January 29.
My second tour of ops started on February 19 with 401 squadron at Biggin Hill where I was welcomed back by Buck McNair who by this time was the Winco Flying. After only five operational flights with 401 and a four day familiarization course on the new Gyro gun sight, I was posted back to my old squadron 412, resuming where I had left off as Flight Commander of “B” Flight.
March flying was mostly training flights in co-operation with the army and considerable air to ground firing. However, one notable flight took place on March 23 when we escorted 72 Mauraders bombing Criel marshalling yards. On the return flight my section spotted a lone JU88 flying close to the ground. Two of us dove down and attacked with cannon and machine guns. Badly damaged, the 88 crashed in a field where after getting the OK from the wing leader, we strafed the fallen aircraft on the ground.
April saw the squadron take on a new role, that of dive bombing carrying 500 pound bombs slung under the fuselage, The most frequent target was a couple of small buildings located along the coast and well hidden in dense bush. We called the sites “Noballs” but learned later that they were launch sites for the V1, Buzz Bombs”. Diving at a 70 degree angle from about 10,000 feet and pulling out around 1500 feet, built up tremendous speed making the controls extremely stiff and shake violently. Little did we know that this was compressibility, the violent disturbance encountered prior to reaching the speed of speed of sound. Complete blackout was experienced when pulling out which may account for the mysterious loss of several pilots while dive bombing.
May was a continuation of dive bombing, escort duties and sweeps over Northern France. During the month I racked up 36 operational hours.
The last days of May saw air operations dramatically increased with three and four operations a day. Sweeps, dive bombing ammo dumps, road and rail communications and bomber escorts kept us in the air from dawn to dusk on many days.
On May 25th we received 3 inoculations and were told two more were coming, so we knew something big was brewing. A clinching clue was when we were ordered to barber pole our aircraft with black and white stripes which were familiar to us having used them for easy identification on August 19,1942 for Dieppe.
While painting was being done we had June 5th free to do as we wished. Somebody obtained several dozen eggs which together with the contents of parcels from home and a whacking great quantity of beer made for a great outdoor party much like a modern day barbecue.
The party raged on all afternoon and evening as the sky began to fill with planes towing gliders filled with paratroopers. At 23:30 hours Group Captain (Iron Bill) MacBrien called the pilots of 126 and 127 wings to announce that the long-awaited D-Day had arrived.
The briefing broke up at 01:30 hours on June 6th. Two hours later we were called to readiness and at 8:10 hours we were air born for the first of 4 beach patrols that day.
The Luftwaffe did not show its face until D plus one when 126 wing destroyed 12 enemy aircraft. For the next several days we continued with beach patrols, bomber escort and dive bombing. On June 14 we landed at our future home at Beny-sur-mer in France, returning to England in the evening. On June 18 the entire 126 wing moved permanently to France.
By the end of June I had completed another 62 hours of operations, destroying numerous transports as well as dive bombing the railway yards at Liseau. One memorable op took place on June 27 when I led my flight to the village of Villers Bocage where a concentration of German transports was reported to be congregated, Over the village, we encountered intense flak whose accuracy was phenomenal, putting 17 holes in my aircraft and damaging three others in the flight. Luckily, we all landed successfully back at B4.
In his book “Invasion Without Tears”, Monty Burger wing Intelligence Officer, reports “by the last week in June the wing’s pilots were dropping bombs on special targets, shooting up road and rail traffic, and almost as an afterthought, knocking enemy aircraft out of the sky with regularity”.
My logbook shows a busy time during the first week of July when I shot up two transports, one in flames, dive bombed a road and rail junction, shot up a truck and two soldiers, shot at a ME 109 without result and while the squadron was having great success in downing enemy aircraft, I had no luck.
July 7th was a very memorable day for me. Besides being my father’s birthday, it was the day my luck ran out and I was shot down by anti aircraft fire. While patrolling in the Falaise area, I attacked, using cannon and machine guns, a large transport followed by a motorcycle dispatch rider travelling along a tree-lined highway. After successfully destroying the target, I climbed up to rejoin the squadron, passing right over a German Flak battery where my aircraft was hammered by a succession of exploding shells. Immediately, a huge ball of dirty red fire shot up from between my feet scorching my face, wrists and legs. Sheer panic took over as I unsuccessfully tried to back away from the flames, being held back by my harness, oxygen and radio cords. Self-preservation instinct must have helped me jettison the coupe top, undue my straps and stand up whereupon I popped out like a cork from a Champaign bottle.
I don’t recall pulling the rip cord, but the next thing I knew I was floating down clutching desperately to the D ring, thinking it was the only thing keeping me from free falling. I was only at about 1,000 feet from where I could clearly see a vehicle loaded with troops headed in the direction in which I was most likely to land. I hit the ground with the usual back-wrenching, dropped my chute and started to run away from the approaching vehicle. Coming towards me was a young boy, possibly 12-13 years old, who pointed to a large bush at the edge of the field. I dived head first into the thickest part, covering myself with leaves and loose branches.. Barely a minute later a young German soldier had his rifle pointed at my head and escorted me to their vehicle. I was then taken to a small village (I learned later was Martagny Sur L’Ante) where a German officer was holding the small boy who I had passed while running away. They were surrounded by the boy’s mother and a large gathering of villagers, all pleading to have him released. I tried to tell the officer that the boy had done nothing wrong, but when I was taken away he was still being held. I have ever since wondered what he had done to warrant his arrest and what became of him.
All this time my burns were becoming more and more painful and I pleaded to be taken to a doctor. But first, I was paraded before a German officer, still in bed upstairs in a nearby house being used as a headquarters. Following his instructions I was again loaded into their vehicle and taken to a nearby airfield, so well camouflaged I am sure our intelligence did not know of its existence. Finally, a doctor arrived and proceeded to bandage my head, face, wrists and legs. When finished, I resembled a mummy with two holes for eyes and a slits for my mouth and nose. I was then locked up in a small shed with a straw pallet for a bed. During the night I developed a raging fever and insatiable thirst. My frantic calls for water, made in English, were finally understood and responded to by the young German soldier stationed outside the door.
In the morning I was taken before several officers who through an interpreter asked the usual questions, what aircraft was I flying, from what airfield, etc. My response was name. rank and number until one officer accused me of attacking ambulances. This I vehemently denied, although I knew that some attacks had been made resulting in huge explosions, proving that the Germans were using Red Cross ambulances to transport ammunition. I was then given a large piece of dark crusty bread and a piece of sausage which I found difficult to get into my mouth. I don’t know what prompted me to scornfully ask the interpreter “is this the best food you can provide an officer?” His response was that all German ranks received the same food. This exchange, interpreted for the officers made them visibly angry and I was quickly dismissed.
My memory of events during the next couple of days remains dimly hazy as I was probably in shock and moved several times. I recall lying on the grass in the midst of many wounded German soldiers, the one next to me without an arm. Nuns were scurrying about which makes me believe this could have been a convent or monastery. We were outside on the grass because of the excessive casualties inside. Next I was in the back of a large covered truck with several German soldiers returning to their unit after being on leave. One, who spoke excellent English was anxious to engage me in a political discussion. He wanted to know why I was opposing Germany rather than Communist Russia which was his motivation for being in the war. I am afraid I did not have a very apt reply.
Another vague recollection is of spending the night alone in a warehouse type building, sleeping on a straw pallet on the floor. In the morning I was startled to hear the sound of American voices coming from the yard outside a window. I learned they were prisoners, detailed to chop wood, and our conversation was made short by the German guards.
At some point, someone in authority must have ordered that I be taken to Rennes where there was a POW hospital which I learned later was designated Stalag 221. I was seated in the back seat of a large staff car along with two soldiers. Spotters rode one on each front fender watching for allied aircraft. Several times spitfires flew over sending the guards dashing for safety at the side of the road, leaving me a very nervous, fully exposed, sitting duck. Luckily, we were not spotted and eventually arrived at our destination, Stalag 221, Rennes.
My new home for the next 34 days was a former 3-level brick school building converted to a hospital to accommodate several hundred wounded prisoners, mostly American paratroopers captured on the morning of D-Day. The building faced onto a busy street with a high stone fence on three sides, guarded by aging German soldiers. Medical treatment was provided by a 83-year old French doctor, brought out of retirement and assisted by a group of student nurses who came in every morning, returning to their homes at the end of the day.
My first medical treatment took place in a make-shift operating room where a French nurse first shaved my head, stripped off my clothes and then began to peel away the dead skin from my burns with the aid of tweezers. I suffered the excruciating pain for as long as I could until when she asked “sleep”, I quickly assented and a cotton swab saturated with ether was placed over my nose. When I awoke I was lying on a cot in a large room, surrounded by similar cots, all occupied by bodies showing various degrees of bandaged wounds. Being the newest arrival, I received a barrage of questions, how the war was progressing, my name and rank etc. Because the rank of Flight Lieutenant was completely strange to the Americans and with my bald head covered with mercurochrome, I looked like a native on the warpath, I became Chief.
I got a real scare the first morning I woke up to find that I could not open my eyes. Puss from my burns had dried, sealing them shut.. Using forceps to peel off the scabs became a morning ritual for one of the nurses who came to my bed.. Gentle as she could be, the pain was agonizing, especially when mercurochrome was applied. When she was finished I would lay rigid on my straw mattress with my teeth clenched to keep from crying out. When the pain subsided I was able to shuffle outside into the courtyard to sit in the warm sun and watch the puss drip from my wrists. By the next morning my hands were doubled up into claws as the scabs formed and the peeling procedure began again.
I learned my companions were mostly from the American #101 parachute division, nick named “The Screaming Eagles”. They had been dropped several miles off of their intended drop zone and were quickly captured. While being marched down a road behind the lines, they were attacked by a flight of American Air Corps mustangs that mistook them for the enemy. Caught between high embankments almost everyone in the column was either killed or wounded, a case of friendly fire. They were transported to Rennes to become the first prisoners of Stalag 221 hospital
The first fellow prisoner I became friendly with was a husky paratrooper from Louisville, Kentucky who despite his wounds, assisted in the operating room. He told me that while under the anesthetic I had fought like a wildcat, requiring two persons to hold me down. He also kept us entertained with stories about the many surgeries, including amputations that the old French doctor was required to perform
The scanty food we received became an ever present obsession. Once a day we received watery cabbage soup, a piece of dark, dry bread and occasionally a piece of unsavory cheese, which added to my already dislike for all kinds of cheese. Despite the persistent urging of my new found Kentucky friend, I continued to refuse the cheese until hunger finally drove me to give it a try. When I found that it was not as bad as I had imagined, we became a team, collecting all we could get from those who turned down their ration. Some enterprising person rigged up a toaster, using wires plugged into the power outlet which markedly improved the cheese, but caused the lights to go dim.
The dark bread we received was sometimes delivered by Moroccan prisoners in a horse drawn cart used mainly to haul garbage. Captured early in the war, the Moroccans were used as slave labor, leaving their barbed wire enclosed compound each morning, returning in the evening. The arrival of the bread cart always drew a large audience to watch as one worker climbed into the cart, pushing the bread out with his boots while the second caught the loaves in a spread blanket. The fun began when one loaf fell to the ground initiating a mad scramble for possession. Some prisoners visited the Moroccans through the wire barricade separating our camps, sometimes receiving food and bargaining for cigarettes. Rumor had it that some of the food came from a stray cat.
Another paratrooper with whom I became acquainted had an interesting but dangerous peace time job with Ringling Brothers Circus. He would ride at breakneck speed, a noisy, souped up motorcycle around an enclosed wooden bowl, rising to near the top rim, then descending to the bottom before repeating the ride over and over. He became enamored with one of the pretty little French nurses and asked me if I knew a French phrase that he could use to impress her. The only one I could think of was “Vous Etes Mon Petite Chou”, you are my little cabbage. It was hilarious to hear him in his deep southern accent reciting over and over again the phrase I had given him as he practiced for the time he would approach his would be lover. I never learned if he was successful or not.
Those prisoners who were mobile spent the long hot July days basking in the sun out in the enclosed courtyard surrounded by apartment blocks. One paratrooper made use of his time by contacting a female apartment resident by writing messages on small stones then tossing them over the fence. A return message made the same way revealed the writer was a teacher of English in a city school. The day we were liberated he hurried to the apartment block anxious to cement their relationship. Rumor had it that he moved in with his new found love, reluctant to continue the war. Another pastime only lasting until the guards spotted us at the top floor windows, was ogling the SS troop’s female companions as they sunbathed on their patio.
We were able to get daily news of the war’s progress by means of a clandestine radio, smuggled in piece by piece by one of the nurses. A single hand written page was made by the senior British officer and secretly passed around. He was an imposing army major whose facial wounds required his jaw to be wired shut. Two front teeth had been removed to allow soup as his only food. Where the radio was kept and who operated it, remained a secret, but the news it brought us was the highlight of the day.
In early August mortar shells began raining down, announcing the arrival of General George Patton’s Third Army which had just landed at Cherbourg and was smashing it’s way South towards Rennes. Those who could move took shelter in a crowded slit trench. A British Army Lieutenant, who had seen many mortar attacks, advised me that this was not a good place to be so I joined him huddled against a stone wall until the shelling stopped. It was then we learned that a strong French Resistance group had contacted Patton convincing him there was no need to flatten the city, as was his usual practice, because it was lightly defended. During the First World War Rennes had been declared an open city because of its many hospitals
It was not long before the German SS troops began evacuating their quarters. Trucks arrived and they began loading their personal effects all the while being pestered by their French lovers to be taken along. We watched from our vantage point through the upper windows but it did not appear any were successful, It is possible they were the female collaborators with their heads shaved we later saw being driven through the downtown streets No sooner were the escaping trucks out of sight, than the looters arrived in force. They began hauling out everything they could move. Beds, mattresses, dressers, bedding, cupboards, carpets, lamps, dishes and pots and pans were quickly loaded onto wheelbarrows and carts then rushing back inside for another load. It wasn’t long before the looters reached the wine cellar and began passing out bottles of wine and champagne to the growing crowd joined by the liberated POWs. Soon there was a happy singing, dancing, drunken mob milling around the square. Time magazine reporting on the Liberation, said that the citizens of Rennes celebrated longer and louder than any other French city.
Unfortunately for me I missed the fun, having developed quinsy, requiring the old French doctor to lance my tonsils just the day before.
The next day an American hospital unit arrived to set up a complete tent hospital on the outskirts of the city. The unit had arrived barely 24 hours previously from the US with the barest of information, there were several hundred casualties waiting for them in Rennes. In short order we were given showers, clean beds, food, cigarettes, and candies and shown a recent released movie. This luxurious living lasted for a couple of days until I was put on an American C47 hospital plane bound for England. After checkups at two hospitals I was given two pounds, seven days leave and told to report to headquarters in London. At this time I was still wearing my scorched battle dress, American GI khaki shirt and pants, paratrooper boots that I had traded for my flight boots and with no hair, eyelashes or eyebrows, it is little wonder that it took considerable persuasion before I got past the security guard. Needless to say the receiving officer was quite surprised as I was still reported missing. After interrogation by both RCAF and British MI9 Intelligence I was issued clothing warrants, given back pay and sent of leave with orders to report to Repat depot at Wharrington for transportation home to Canada. I arrived at Halifax on November 4, 1944, just in time for Christmas.
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Ferry Squadron Tales
Ferry Squadron Tales
Another very memorable flight I made in 1945 while flying with 126 Ferry squadron out of Winnipeg, Man. commenced at North Battleford, Sask. where our group of pilots was dropped off to fly Harvard aircraft to Dauphin, Manitoba.
It was a beautiful summer day without a cloud in the sky when we took off. I remember being able to see for hundreds of miles from an altitude of 8-10 thousand feet. First I could see Saskatoon, then Manitou Lake at Watrous and finally Big Quill Lake next to my home town of Wynyard.
The plan for the flight was to land for refueling at Yorkton, However, when we arrived over Wynyard I could not resist giving the citizens another air show of aerobatics while the rest of the flight continued on. When I arrived over Yorkton I could see that my companions had already refueled and left for Dauphin. Anxious to catch up, I estimated that I had enough fuel and so did not land but pressed on. As I flew towards Dauphin the weather deteriorated with visibility becoming less and less When my ETA (estimated time of arrival) passed, Dauphin airfield was still nowhere in sight. Not having a map, I was completely lost and despite an ever widening circle could not find the airfield. By this time the fuel gauge showed empty so I had to get down fast or take to my parachute abandoning the aircraft, not a pleasant alternative.
The countryside was covered by bush with only the occasional farm field large enough in which to land a Harvard. I used the last few drops of fuel looking and at the last moment found a summer fallow field surrounded by tall poplar trees I skimmed the trees and with a steep side-slip made one of my better landings. The only trouble was the field was short and as I approached the end I reached to lift the undercarriage to prevent winding up in the trees. Fortunately, the deep summer fallow slowed my progress and I got stopped with only yards to spare.
Owner of the land accompanied by several neighbors who had witnessed my circling and landing quickly arrived for a close-up look. When an aggressive bystander attempted to climb into the cockpit, I became quite concerned for the safety of the aircraft, the farmer-owner agreed to tether his guard dog next to the aircraft, setting up a security perimeter while I headed for the highway leading to Dauphin, 15 miles away. I was lucky to catch a ride with a Coca Cola truck, spending the night in air force quarters. In the morning I enquired about transportation to carry fuel back to the aircraft. The station was in the process of closing down and the only vehicle available was an ambulance. With the driver I loaded several gallons of gas and returned to my aircraft, still safely sitting where I had left it.
With the gas on board and with the help of the farmer and neighbors we pushed the aircraft to the far end of the field, back into the trees as far as I safely could and with flaps down, brakes on and with full throttle I zoomed out of that field like a helicopter, landing shortly after at Dauphin.
My hope that I had “got away with it” lasted for a few weeks until one day the Commanding Officer called me into his office wanting to know what I was doing in that farmer’s field where he claimed damage to his crop.
Lucky for me, I had a very understanding commander who when he heard my sad tale, dismissed the whole affair and I never heard another word about it.
Another very memorable flight I made in 1945 while flying with 126 Ferry squadron out of Winnipeg, Man. commenced at North Battleford, Sask. where our group of pilots was dropped off to fly Harvard aircraft to Dauphin, Manitoba.
It was a beautiful summer day without a cloud in the sky when we took off. I remember being able to see for hundreds of miles from an altitude of 8-10 thousand feet. First I could see Saskatoon, then Manitou Lake at Watrous and finally Big Quill Lake next to my home town of Wynyard.
The plan for the flight was to land for refueling at Yorkton, However, when we arrived over Wynyard I could not resist giving the citizens another air show of aerobatics while the rest of the flight continued on. When I arrived over Yorkton I could see that my companions had already refueled and left for Dauphin. Anxious to catch up, I estimated that I had enough fuel and so did not land but pressed on. As I flew towards Dauphin the weather deteriorated with visibility becoming less and less When my ETA (estimated time of arrival) passed, Dauphin airfield was still nowhere in sight. Not having a map, I was completely lost and despite an ever widening circle could not find the airfield. By this time the fuel gauge showed empty so I had to get down fast or take to my parachute abandoning the aircraft, not a pleasant alternative.
The countryside was covered by bush with only the occasional farm field large enough in which to land a Harvard. I used the last few drops of fuel looking and at the last moment found a summer fallow field surrounded by tall poplar trees I skimmed the trees and with a steep side-slip made one of my better landings. The only trouble was the field was short and as I approached the end I reached to lift the undercarriage to prevent winding up in the trees. Fortunately, the deep summer fallow slowed my progress and I got stopped with only yards to spare.
Owner of the land accompanied by several neighbors who had witnessed my circling and landing quickly arrived for a close-up look. When an aggressive bystander attempted to climb into the cockpit, I became quite concerned for the safety of the aircraft, the farmer-owner agreed to tether his guard dog next to the aircraft, setting up a security perimeter while I headed for the highway leading to Dauphin, 15 miles away. I was lucky to catch a ride with a Coca Cola truck, spending the night in air force quarters. In the morning I enquired about transportation to carry fuel back to the aircraft. The station was in the process of closing down and the only vehicle available was an ambulance. With the driver I loaded several gallons of gas and returned to my aircraft, still safely sitting where I had left it.
With the gas on board and with the help of the farmer and neighbors we pushed the aircraft to the far end of the field, back into the trees as far as I safely could and with flaps down, brakes on and with full throttle I zoomed out of that field like a helicopter, landing shortly after at Dauphin.
My hope that I had “got away with it” lasted for a few weeks until one day the Commanding Officer called me into his office wanting to know what I was doing in that farmer’s field where he claimed damage to his crop.
Lucky for me, I had a very understanding commander who when he heard my sad tale, dismissed the whole affair and I never heard another word about it.
Influence
Influence
I may have inadvertently had some influence on the results of a municipal election held in the city of Regina. It was in the last days of WW11 when British Commonwealth Air Training Airfields across the prairies were being closed and the aircraft dispersed to new locations.
I was a pilot with Ferry Squadron, based in Winnipeg, whose job was flying no longer needed training planes to their new homes for long-term storage. Once we left home we were considered to be on temporary duty entitling us to $7.50 per day for expenses, added to our regular pay. Most of the pilots , like me, were tour expired, having returned from overseas after completing tours of operations.
When there was a number of planes to be moved, the procedure was to fly the number of pilots required in a multi-passenger plane, usually an Anson, to the pickup point where each pilot would then take control of his individual aircraft and continue on to the final destination.
Often these flights took us to Regina where Ferry Squadron kept a small detachment of mechanics and refueling personnel. After delivering our charges it was usual to return to spend the night at our favorite hostelry the Drake Hotel whose owner, Mr. Black, somehow always managed to have a supply of alcohol on hand to liven up our usual cards games and parties.
It was this camaraderie that led us to become involved in Mr. Black’s bid for civic election. With liquor rationing in place, Mr. Black was hard pressed to run a liquid fuelled campaign and wondered if we could help.
.”Tex Charles”, (all Americans were called Tex) came up with the idea of flying into the US where liquor was in great supply. Mr. Black contributed $800 and by using our temporary duty entitlement three of us raised a further $500
Boarding the Anson that had brought us to Regina, three of us took off on a cold windy April day for about an hour flight to Crosby, a small town just across the Saskatchewan-North Dakota border.
Upon landing in a farmer’s field adjacent to the town, we were met by two members of the Us Border Patrol who enquired the purpose of our visit. Our uniforms identified us as members of the air force so when we said we were on a mission to purchase booze for the officer’s mess, they willingly drove us into town.
Here we found a raging fire, fanned by a strong north wind, sweeping down the main street. Firefighters were desperately fighting the blaze occasionally dropping into the liquor store for instant rejuvenation. With the fire fast approaching, and disaster staring him in the face, the store manager was so ecstatic when we showed up with a bundle of cash he donated several extra bottles.
After making our purchases the Border Patrol again kindly delivered us back to our parked airplane. While waiting for the engines to warm up, bottles were opened and many toasts proposed to our friendly allies.
Shortly after take-off one of our intrepid flyers accidentally dropped a lighted cigarette between the floor boards, creating a possible disaster. The fire extinguisher proved useless, having been emptied by a common practice often used by ferry Pilots to cool soft drinks on long hot flights. With no water available and reluctant to pour the valuable booze down to prevent a possible fire, we resorted to Mother Nature’s resources by urinating through the floorboards.
I don’t recall how Mr. Black made out with his election campaign but I do know that all our friends in Regina enjoyed a tremendous party at the Drake Hotel, compliments of the Crosby Trio. I don’t know the pilot who next flew the Anson, however, I apologize for the less than pleasant aroma emanating from the lower bowels
I may have inadvertently had some influence on the results of a municipal election held in the city of Regina. It was in the last days of WW11 when British Commonwealth Air Training Airfields across the prairies were being closed and the aircraft dispersed to new locations.
I was a pilot with Ferry Squadron, based in Winnipeg, whose job was flying no longer needed training planes to their new homes for long-term storage. Once we left home we were considered to be on temporary duty entitling us to $7.50 per day for expenses, added to our regular pay. Most of the pilots , like me, were tour expired, having returned from overseas after completing tours of operations.
When there was a number of planes to be moved, the procedure was to fly the number of pilots required in a multi-passenger plane, usually an Anson, to the pickup point where each pilot would then take control of his individual aircraft and continue on to the final destination.
Often these flights took us to Regina where Ferry Squadron kept a small detachment of mechanics and refueling personnel. After delivering our charges it was usual to return to spend the night at our favorite hostelry the Drake Hotel whose owner, Mr. Black, somehow always managed to have a supply of alcohol on hand to liven up our usual cards games and parties.
It was this camaraderie that led us to become involved in Mr. Black’s bid for civic election. With liquor rationing in place, Mr. Black was hard pressed to run a liquid fuelled campaign and wondered if we could help.
.”Tex Charles”, (all Americans were called Tex) came up with the idea of flying into the US where liquor was in great supply. Mr. Black contributed $800 and by using our temporary duty entitlement three of us raised a further $500
Boarding the Anson that had brought us to Regina, three of us took off on a cold windy April day for about an hour flight to Crosby, a small town just across the Saskatchewan-North Dakota border.
Upon landing in a farmer’s field adjacent to the town, we were met by two members of the Us Border Patrol who enquired the purpose of our visit. Our uniforms identified us as members of the air force so when we said we were on a mission to purchase booze for the officer’s mess, they willingly drove us into town.
Here we found a raging fire, fanned by a strong north wind, sweeping down the main street. Firefighters were desperately fighting the blaze occasionally dropping into the liquor store for instant rejuvenation. With the fire fast approaching, and disaster staring him in the face, the store manager was so ecstatic when we showed up with a bundle of cash he donated several extra bottles.
After making our purchases the Border Patrol again kindly delivered us back to our parked airplane. While waiting for the engines to warm up, bottles were opened and many toasts proposed to our friendly allies.
Shortly after take-off one of our intrepid flyers accidentally dropped a lighted cigarette between the floor boards, creating a possible disaster. The fire extinguisher proved useless, having been emptied by a common practice often used by ferry Pilots to cool soft drinks on long hot flights. With no water available and reluctant to pour the valuable booze down to prevent a possible fire, we resorted to Mother Nature’s resources by urinating through the floorboards.
I don’t recall how Mr. Black made out with his election campaign but I do know that all our friends in Regina enjoyed a tremendous party at the Drake Hotel, compliments of the Crosby Trio. I don’t know the pilot who next flew the Anson, however, I apologize for the less than pleasant aroma emanating from the lower bowels
A Few Close Calls.....
A few close calls………
I have had a few close calls in my lifetime, several from enemy action while serving overseas with the Royal Canadian Air force and other times through just plain stupid bravado. My post war near demise began in the Wynyard Hotel beer parlor on a Wednesday afternoon where local businessmen used to gather for a few hours to enjoy the traditional half day holiday.
The conversation got around to war assets Tiger Moth Victor Josephson had recently purchased. Victor was not a pilot so how he got it to Wynyard is unknown to me. He had been trained in the RCAF as an airframe, engine mechanic. We had become good friends and as I was the only qualified pilot (not licensed) in town, I was the pilot for future flights.
Among the afternoon crowd was Bud Swedberg, who was anxious to visit his future wife in Wadena .Whether it was a request or a dare, I don’t remember, but Bud challenged me with an offer of $25 to fly him there because the roads were near impassable.
Having survived the war, accumulating a couple of thousand flying hours, mostly on high performance Spitfires, I thought it would be a piece of cake, despite the fact I had not flown a Tiger Moth since .training days in 1940. The $25 looked pretty good and besides my reputation as a hot shot fighter pilot was on the line, so I agreed.
Off we went, accompanied by the whole beer parlor crowd to the outskirts of town where the Moth, still equipped on winter skis, was sitting in a snow covered field. Some instinct told me that this could become dangerous so rather than lose face, I decided to do a solo test before loading Bud into the airplane.
I didn’t realize that the mild March weather had softened the snow to the point that it required almost full throttle to taxi the airplane. This is when I should have swallowed my pride and called it a day, but I had my reputation on the line and so followed the fighter pilots code “press on regardless”.
I managed to get lined up into wind and with the throttle wide open began my run, bouncing from snow drift to snow drift with the trees at the end of the field looming closer and closer. At the last moment I became airborne with enough speed to bank steeply between the tree tops and continue flying. Now, I found I had no instruments, especially an airspeed indicator. After such a harrowing take-off, I decided what the H… I might as well enjoy myself.
So for the next half hour I gave Wynyard citizens one of their first air shows , beating up the school yard full of children and the main street. Later I learned one irate citizen reported the incident, claiming the pilot was either inexperienced or crazy.
Victor was able to restore the instruments and I flew the Moth on many other occasions, including taking my future wife Martha to her family farm near Wadena, landing in a field near the farm house. Here, one of her younger brothers also became a passenger.
Flying the Moth with passengers at $2 a head became the regular Sunday entertainment, until one day the long arm of the law came calling. Because I did not have a valid flying license and the Moth was not properly licensed, we were out of business.
Later we decided that we could not afford the cost of licensing and so sold the Moth to a local farmer who made it into a snow plane.
I have had a few close calls in my lifetime, several from enemy action while serving overseas with the Royal Canadian Air force and other times through just plain stupid bravado. My post war near demise began in the Wynyard Hotel beer parlor on a Wednesday afternoon where local businessmen used to gather for a few hours to enjoy the traditional half day holiday.
The conversation got around to war assets Tiger Moth Victor Josephson had recently purchased. Victor was not a pilot so how he got it to Wynyard is unknown to me. He had been trained in the RCAF as an airframe, engine mechanic. We had become good friends and as I was the only qualified pilot (not licensed) in town, I was the pilot for future flights.
Among the afternoon crowd was Bud Swedberg, who was anxious to visit his future wife in Wadena .Whether it was a request or a dare, I don’t remember, but Bud challenged me with an offer of $25 to fly him there because the roads were near impassable.
Having survived the war, accumulating a couple of thousand flying hours, mostly on high performance Spitfires, I thought it would be a piece of cake, despite the fact I had not flown a Tiger Moth since .training days in 1940. The $25 looked pretty good and besides my reputation as a hot shot fighter pilot was on the line, so I agreed.
Off we went, accompanied by the whole beer parlor crowd to the outskirts of town where the Moth, still equipped on winter skis, was sitting in a snow covered field. Some instinct told me that this could become dangerous so rather than lose face, I decided to do a solo test before loading Bud into the airplane.
I didn’t realize that the mild March weather had softened the snow to the point that it required almost full throttle to taxi the airplane. This is when I should have swallowed my pride and called it a day, but I had my reputation on the line and so followed the fighter pilots code “press on regardless”.
I managed to get lined up into wind and with the throttle wide open began my run, bouncing from snow drift to snow drift with the trees at the end of the field looming closer and closer. At the last moment I became airborne with enough speed to bank steeply between the tree tops and continue flying. Now, I found I had no instruments, especially an airspeed indicator. After such a harrowing take-off, I decided what the H… I might as well enjoy myself.
So for the next half hour I gave Wynyard citizens one of their first air shows , beating up the school yard full of children and the main street. Later I learned one irate citizen reported the incident, claiming the pilot was either inexperienced or crazy.
Victor was able to restore the instruments and I flew the Moth on many other occasions, including taking my future wife Martha to her family farm near Wadena, landing in a field near the farm house. Here, one of her younger brothers also became a passenger.
Flying the Moth with passengers at $2 a head became the regular Sunday entertainment, until one day the long arm of the law came calling. Because I did not have a valid flying license and the Moth was not properly licensed, we were out of business.
Later we decided that we could not afford the cost of licensing and so sold the Moth to a local farmer who made it into a snow plane.
Scrambled Eggs
SCRAMBLED EGGS
While stationed at Wellingore, Lincs. (satellite to Digby) in late 1941-42, John McColl,(of McColl-Frontenac fame), B Flight Commander in 412 squadron, discovered a source for fresh farm eggs.
He kept them in his room securely guarded until each morning he would put a couple in his pocket to be taken to the mess for his breakfast. Needless to say he was the envy of the Squadron.
One morning the squadron was scrambled (ordered to fly) while John was enroute to the mess He hastily joined the squadron in an uneventful flight returning safely. The only casualty was the eggs in his pocket.
For several days after, as he stood discussing the day’s events, John could be seen casually extracting bits and pieces of egg shells from his now grease-stained pocket.
While stationed at Wellingore, Lincs. (satellite to Digby) in late 1941-42, John McColl,(of McColl-Frontenac fame), B Flight Commander in 412 squadron, discovered a source for fresh farm eggs.
He kept them in his room securely guarded until each morning he would put a couple in his pocket to be taken to the mess for his breakfast. Needless to say he was the envy of the Squadron.
One morning the squadron was scrambled (ordered to fly) while John was enroute to the mess He hastily joined the squadron in an uneventful flight returning safely. The only casualty was the eggs in his pocket.
For several days after, as he stood discussing the day’s events, John could be seen casually extracting bits and pieces of egg shells from his now grease-stained pocket.
The Smith Brothers
THE SMITH BROTHERS
There is never any solid proof that a pilot’s one-time misdemeanor determines his future in the service. However, there is not much doubt that Jerry Smith’s flight in early 1942 prompted his early posting to Malta as punishment. In July 1942 he was joined by his brother Rod and they flew several missions together before he was shot down and killed.
Jerry’s low flying pass over Wellingore airfield, meant to impress his brother Rod , a charter member of RCAF 412 Spitfire squadron, demolished the radio antenna on top of the squadron’s dispersal hut. Despite considerable damage to his spitfire, he was able to return to his home base and shortly after received a posting to Malta.
Enroute , aboard the aircraft carrier Wasp, he made aviation history. After take off, he found he was unable to engage the auxiliary fuel tank whose extra fuel was necessary in order to reach Malta. This left him three choices of action; land in the sea, bale out and hope to be picked up, or return to the carrier to try a never-before accomplished deck landing without an arresting hook. He did the near impossible, landing back on the pitching deck and stopping just inches short from going overboard. Needless to say, Jerry’s miraculous feat made him the toast of the officer’s wardroom earning high praise and a pair of American wings presented by the Admiral.
Years later, when Rod was attending a reunion in the US, a Navy pilot was reminiscing about his duty as Deck Officer on the aircraft carrier Wasp. He recounted the story of a spitfire that after taking off, returned to the Wasp deck, landing without arresting gear. Rod startled the speaker when he revealed “that was my brother Jerry, and I have those wings”
Incidentally, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. was an officer serving on the Wasp. He gave a three page account of Jerry’s landing in the second volume of his memoirs.
Rod completed two tours of operations, earning the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bar. In September 1944 he was promoted to Squadron Leader commanding 401 Squadron at Brussels , Belgium where he shot down six Me 109’s and a share of the first German jet a Messerschmitt 262 bringing his total enemy aircraft destroyed to 13 1/5.
He returned to Canada in December 1944 entering McGill university where he earned a P Eng While there in 1946 he joined 401 Squadron RCAF Auxiliary flying Vampire jet fighters. Later he was promoted to the rank of Wing Commander and appointed commanding officer of 411 squadron from which he retired in 1952. He graduated from Osgoode Hall in 1953 and moved to Vancouver where he was called to the bar the following year. He continued to practice law until retiring in 1987. He died suddenly on April 16, 2002 in Vancouver.
The Smith brothers lived with their parents in Regina ,attending Davin and Lakeview schools and Central Collegiate before enlisting in the RCAF in 1940.
There is never any solid proof that a pilot’s one-time misdemeanor determines his future in the service. However, there is not much doubt that Jerry Smith’s flight in early 1942 prompted his early posting to Malta as punishment. In July 1942 he was joined by his brother Rod and they flew several missions together before he was shot down and killed.
Jerry’s low flying pass over Wellingore airfield, meant to impress his brother Rod , a charter member of RCAF 412 Spitfire squadron, demolished the radio antenna on top of the squadron’s dispersal hut. Despite considerable damage to his spitfire, he was able to return to his home base and shortly after received a posting to Malta.
Enroute , aboard the aircraft carrier Wasp, he made aviation history. After take off, he found he was unable to engage the auxiliary fuel tank whose extra fuel was necessary in order to reach Malta. This left him three choices of action; land in the sea, bale out and hope to be picked up, or return to the carrier to try a never-before accomplished deck landing without an arresting hook. He did the near impossible, landing back on the pitching deck and stopping just inches short from going overboard. Needless to say, Jerry’s miraculous feat made him the toast of the officer’s wardroom earning high praise and a pair of American wings presented by the Admiral.
Years later, when Rod was attending a reunion in the US, a Navy pilot was reminiscing about his duty as Deck Officer on the aircraft carrier Wasp. He recounted the story of a spitfire that after taking off, returned to the Wasp deck, landing without arresting gear. Rod startled the speaker when he revealed “that was my brother Jerry, and I have those wings”
Incidentally, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. was an officer serving on the Wasp. He gave a three page account of Jerry’s landing in the second volume of his memoirs.
Rod completed two tours of operations, earning the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bar. In September 1944 he was promoted to Squadron Leader commanding 401 Squadron at Brussels , Belgium where he shot down six Me 109’s and a share of the first German jet a Messerschmitt 262 bringing his total enemy aircraft destroyed to 13 1/5.
He returned to Canada in December 1944 entering McGill university where he earned a P Eng While there in 1946 he joined 401 Squadron RCAF Auxiliary flying Vampire jet fighters. Later he was promoted to the rank of Wing Commander and appointed commanding officer of 411 squadron from which he retired in 1952. He graduated from Osgoode Hall in 1953 and moved to Vancouver where he was called to the bar the following year. He continued to practice law until retiring in 1987. He died suddenly on April 16, 2002 in Vancouver.
The Smith brothers lived with their parents in Regina ,attending Davin and Lakeview schools and Central Collegiate before enlisting in the RCAF in 1940.
John Gillespie Magee
I am possibly the only living pilot to have flown operationally with John Gillespie Magee, author of World War 11’s most famous sonnet, “High Flight”.
Two Sergeants and one Pilot Officer joined 412 Canadian Spitfire Squadron at Digby, Lincs. During the last days of September 1941. A.P.L.Smith , and I were the sergeants pilots and Magee was the pilot officer Smith and Magee were both killed in flying accidents while I completed two tours of operations , 26 months in 412 squadron.
Smith and I, both from Saskatchewan, received our wings at Yorkton, Sask. in June and operational training at 61 O T U at Heston, where Sailor Malan was the Wing Commander.
Shortly after joining, the squadron moved to a satellite grass airfield at Wellingore. Here the officers were billeted in a rambling old house called the Grange, while the sergeants and airmen occupied a three- story stone building nearing castle-size, previously part of a large estate before being expropriated by the RAF. Our aerodrome was a farmer’s grass field about 800 yards square, fairly close to the southeast corner of Wellingore village.
The squadron had four non-flying officers: an adjutant, a medical officer, and engineering officer and an intelligence officer. Hart Massey, diminutive son of Vincent Massey, Canada’s war-time High Commisioner in Britain and later Canada’s first native born Governor General. While attending Oxford University, just prior to the war, Hart’s diminutive size earned him the coxswain position in their rowing scull when Oxford defeated Cambridge in one of their legendary races.
Squadron operations those days were mainly training flights and long boring convoy patrols off the East coast .However occasionally the squadron would fly south to Mansion or West Malling to join two other squadrons for a sweep over France The squadron received its first real baptism of fire on its fourth sweep on November 8 when tasked to give withdrawal cover to 12 Blenheim medium bombers which were to bomb the locomotive shops at Lille.
Briefing had been by an aging wing commander who when reaching the French coast led the wing through a poorly executed maneuver, causing the 36 aircraft to disintegrated into a loose beehive. Sections, pairs and single aircraft flew around in an endless left hand orbit and were soon attacked by 109 F’s which from time to time would down one of our spitfires. During the melee a voice believed to be that of the wing leader was heard to say “I guess I am too old for this boys”. He did not return.
Kit Bushell, 412 squadron’s recently appointed squadron leader and two other pilots, Owen Pickell and Ken Denkman became the squadron’s first casualties. This was Magee’s first and only operational sweep.
On December 11th the squadron took part in a wing formation exercise above cloud, with an RAF squadron from Kirton in Lindsay , a fighter station located about 18 miles north of Lincoln . When the exercise was completed Squadron Leader Morrison ordered the squadron into line astern and dove through a hole in the clouds. Unfortunately, the hole was right in Cranwell airfield’s circuit and Magee’s spitfire collided with an Airspeed Oxford training aircraft. Magee baled out but was too low for his parachute to fully open and he died in a field near Cranwell. The crew aboard the Oxford also died
In February the squadron flew south to Biggin Hill to join more than 400 RAF fighters providing cover for bombers and torpedo-carrying Swordfish attacking the German battleships Scharhorst and Geisenau when they broke out from Brest and were making their way up the English Channel.
The squadron’s next major operation took place on March 15, 1942. Led by F/L Bill Napier 10 aircraft attacked five German E boats near the Dutch coast. When first sighted one aircraft was delegated to make a low pass to positively make an identification, friend or foe.. When the E boats opened fire Napier ordered everyone to attack. When everyone had expended all their ammunition, one boat had been sunk and the rest were dead in the water, smoking heavily. This action earned the squadron a letter of commendation from the British Admiralty.
May 1 1942 saw 412 squadron begin 17 moves in England before embarking for France on June 19, 1944.
The first moves was to Martlesham Heath, Suffolk where we continued with convoy patrols and the odd sweep. Readiness duty served from dawn to dusk was quite arduous as double daylight saving time made a short night.
In less than a month the squadron was on the move again, to North Weald
Hart and I Meet the King
HART & I MEET THE KING
I don’t know who was the most surprised King George V1 or I when we suddenly came face to face. It was November 13, 1941 when the King visited our Canadian Spitfire Squadron at Wellingore, Lincolnshire,England..
It was the only time I can remember that the full squadron was ever on parade. Hart Massey and I played hooky that day and skipped the parade. I don’t remember what his excuse was, but I did not have a gas mask which was mandatory equipment to be worn on parade. While the rest of the squadron lined up in full dress on the parade square, Hart and I escaped to the warmth of the dispersal hut where we curled up on cots snuggly covered with sheep-lined Erwin flying jackets.
On the parade square a keen eyed photographer caught a remarkable sight of a gaggle of white geese marching pompously past the assembled parade. The photo, captioned “Democratic Goosestep” appeared on the front page of next day’s London newspaper. HM was said to be much amused by the unexpected appearance of the Squadron’s Christmas dinner.
He was probably a lot more amused and startled when followed by his aids and squadron officers, he entered the dispersal hut where Hart and I were holed up. I quickly jumped to my feet and as inconspicuously as possible, slunk off into the background while Hart stepped forward.
Hart did not suffer the embarrassment I did as he was well known to HM, having met on several other occasions. Diminutive Hart, (a mere 4 ft.6” caused by pituitary gland problems as a child,) was the son of Vincent Massey, Canada’s High Commissioner to Great Britain during WW11. Following the war he became Canada’s first Canadian - born Governor General. Hart’s size made him a natural Cox -swain for the Oxford rowing team when they defeated their arch rivals Cambridge in 1939.
Despite his size, Hart was able to enlist in the RCAF where he became 412 squadron’s first Intelligence Officer holding the rank of Flight Lieutenant .During a German Luftwaffe air raid at an Allied airfield on New Year’s Day 1944, he received severe head injuries from which he recovered , returning to Canada where he pursued a distinguished career in architecture. Hart died in 1997, survived by his wife and children Caroline and Jonathon.
Years after the King’s visit I obtained a photo taken in the dispersal hut showing George V1 chatting with squadron officers and enjoying a cup of tea. Conspicuous in his hand was the ever-present cancer causing cigarette from which it was reported he died.
I don’t know who was the most surprised King George V1 or I when we suddenly came face to face. It was November 13, 1941 when the King visited our Canadian Spitfire Squadron at Wellingore, Lincolnshire,England..
It was the only time I can remember that the full squadron was ever on parade. Hart Massey and I played hooky that day and skipped the parade. I don’t remember what his excuse was, but I did not have a gas mask which was mandatory equipment to be worn on parade. While the rest of the squadron lined up in full dress on the parade square, Hart and I escaped to the warmth of the dispersal hut where we curled up on cots snuggly covered with sheep-lined Erwin flying jackets.
On the parade square a keen eyed photographer caught a remarkable sight of a gaggle of white geese marching pompously past the assembled parade. The photo, captioned “Democratic Goosestep” appeared on the front page of next day’s London newspaper. HM was said to be much amused by the unexpected appearance of the Squadron’s Christmas dinner.
He was probably a lot more amused and startled when followed by his aids and squadron officers, he entered the dispersal hut where Hart and I were holed up. I quickly jumped to my feet and as inconspicuously as possible, slunk off into the background while Hart stepped forward.
Hart did not suffer the embarrassment I did as he was well known to HM, having met on several other occasions. Diminutive Hart, (a mere 4 ft.6” caused by pituitary gland problems as a child,) was the son of Vincent Massey, Canada’s High Commissioner to Great Britain during WW11. Following the war he became Canada’s first Canadian - born Governor General. Hart’s size made him a natural Cox -swain for the Oxford rowing team when they defeated their arch rivals Cambridge in 1939.
Despite his size, Hart was able to enlist in the RCAF where he became 412 squadron’s first Intelligence Officer holding the rank of Flight Lieutenant .During a German Luftwaffe air raid at an Allied airfield on New Year’s Day 1944, he received severe head injuries from which he recovered , returning to Canada where he pursued a distinguished career in architecture. Hart died in 1997, survived by his wife and children Caroline and Jonathon.
Years after the King’s visit I obtained a photo taken in the dispersal hut showing George V1 chatting with squadron officers and enjoying a cup of tea. Conspicuous in his hand was the ever-present cancer causing cigarette from which it was reported he died.
An Airman's Story book editing in process
An Airman's Story William Barry Needham
Dedication
This
book is dedicated to our father, William Barry Needham simply known to us as
Dad.
Dad-
your willingness to share your stories about your one of a kind life is so
appreciated by so many. Your newspaper career with two fingered typing on the
old Remington led you to learning to operate a computer still with two fingers.
Your writing skills were put to good use as your kids asked for stories and
more stories. You more than likely told those stories to your Legion comrades
while sharing rum on a Friday night and I am sure you told more than you have
recorded. Thank goodness you put a lot of them down.
Thank
you being the energetic, fun seeking, up for an adventure any day of the week
Dad. So many people when presented with an opportunity – perhaps a fishing
trip, trip to France, trip to Austria would say no and live to regret it. Not
you! You jumped at every opportunity and you created some to boot.
Like
you have said when you toss a stone in water it sends out ripples and your life
becomes one big adventure after another. Your family has loved every minute of
it with you. This collection is a small reminder of your BIG life. We hope you
enjoy………
Much
love from all of us
Denise,
Colin, Debra and Scott
_____________________________________________________________________
Barry Needham calls it his “French connection.”
Back in June of 1994, this veteran of the wartime RCAF was on a group tour of Normandy marking the 50th anniversary of D-Day.
There was much interest amongst the French in this commemoration, so Barry (with the savvy that comes from decades as editor and publisher of a weekly newspaper), wondered aloud what had happened to someone he’d met 50 years ago.
It was the French nurse who had helped to take care of him after he had received second-degree burns bailing out of his damaged Spitfire. She also helped to care for other Allied prisoners of war in a makeshift hospital in the summer of 1944. He recorded her name on a scrap of paper and kept it for decades.
An article in a French newspaper asked if anyone knew this person and, lo and behold, he got no fewer than nine responses. Fortunately, one was from the son of that dedicated nurse, Louise Ferlico — she was not only alive, but able to travel to a poignant meeting.“You can imagine the reunion after 50 years … I just cried.”
How Barry came to have that remarkable link with France could be said to have started with his birth in 1920. His father was a printer and publisher who took his wife and children through a number of Saskatchewan communities including Simpson (where Barry was born), Young and Saskatoon. “In those days, any town of 500 population had a weekly newspaper” -- and those papers needed experienced workers to run their complicated linotype machines.”
But the “Dirty Thirties” were hard on everybody and in 1933 the family found itself on the move again — this time to Wynyard, where the elder Needham had bought the weekly newspaper from its owner, a Miss Playfair.
Wynyard was, and is, a farming community about two hours drive north of Regina. Also important to its economy was the Canadian Pacific Railway, which had a divisional point in the town, with train crews and maintenance workers. Near as Barry can remember, the population was about 600 in those days. Passenger trains served the town and there was “excellent service,” he recalled. “You could get in the passenger train in Wynyard at 5 p.m., get to Winnipeg for the next morning, have a full day there, then get back onto the train in the evening and be back in Wynyard at 11:00 the next morning.”
Also at work were railway mail cars with their own staff sorting letters as the train moved. “You could mail a letter in Wynyard and it would be in the next town in the time it took to get there.”
During the 1930s economic depression, the presence of those trains meant there were plenty of young men “riding the rails” through the town. Barry remembers taking food supplied by his mother to the men in a hobo jungle near the CPR yards.
It was also in Wynyard that he first saw, up close, an airplane. It had been brought to Wynyard by a barnstormer — his description of it as a four-seater makes it sound like Prince Albert-based M&C Aviation’s famous Waco monoplane “Lady Wildfire” — who landed it in a farmer’s field. Barry, was 11 or 12’ he and his pal Louis Devlin, went to the field. A ride cost $2. Barry didn’t have that much, but a man who worked with Barry’s dad took pity and gave him the money. Thus Barry got into the air.
As Barry got older and advanced into the senior years of high school, he admits he paid little attention to the gathering war clouds over Europe beyond some reports on the Spanish Civil War. It had broken out in 1936 and pitted an elected left-wing government (eventually supported by the Soviet Union) vs. right-wing rebels supported by fascist Germany and Italy. Part of his interest was nurtured by author Ernest Hemingway’s writings from that vicious little war. Barry also heard the
stories of the Boer War and Great War veterans from the local branch of the Canadian Legion
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| Barry Needham — the day before he enlisted in the RCAF in 1940 (Barry Needham Collection.) |
“It was very exciting and romantic, I guess. We used to visualize being in France or Spain.”
Even the outbreak of the Second World War in September 1939 initially failed to impress him. It had “built up for quite a little while,” he said. “You sort of knew it was coming.”
Barry, by then, was working. He’d disagreed with one of his teachers and had left high school two classes short of a Grade 12 certificate. “I was not a very good
student,” he conceded.
As the war went on, he considered enlisting in the navy, but decided on the air force. He went to the RCAF’s recruiting office in the Regina Trading Co. building on the northeast corner of Scarth Street and 12th Avenue in downtown Regina in January 1940, accepted an officer’s advice to quit smoking and gain some weight (for he weighed only 115 or 120 lbs), then endured a medical examination — and passed. “Just go home and we’ll call you,” he was told.
He did. No call.
Frustrated, he went back, taking with him his father, who pressed recruiters to search their records until they found the reason. Barry’s medical classification, A1B,had been inadvertently misfiled as “ATB”, meaning “not fit for immediate service”.
“I’ve often wondered ... if I’d just kept quiet, maybe I’d have been able to sit out the war! But think of the fun I would have missed!”
Thus was Barry inducted into the RCAF on Sept.30, 1940, along with his friend Rod Smith. — more on him later. Soon, Barry was sent by train to the RCAF manning depot, or regional basic training centre, at the fairgrounds in Brandon, Man. Recruits were organized into “flights” of about 20 or 30 men overseen by a corporal about 10 years older than most of the airmen.
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| Airmen head for weekly church parade at the RCAF’s Brandon Manning Depot in 1940. (Barry Needham Collection.) |
Uniforms were issued and the men underwent route marches, lectures on air forces ranks and traditions, and plenty of drill. When training ended in late October, the corporal took them to the Brandon railway station and a trip to guard duty at the new RCAF station at Prince Rupert, B.C., which was being built because “there was some concern that the Japanese were going to invade the west coast ... they sent us there to stop ‘em!”
In fact, the RCAF felt worried enough that it developed a string of airfields and stations up and down the B.C. coast. No invasion came, of course, but there certainly were Japanese submarines offshore after war broke out a year later: a lighthouse at Estevan Point on Vancouver Island was shelled and ships were sunk later. Patrolling the area was not without considerable danger because of the poor weather and scarcity of rescue craft.
Coastal Prince Rupert was noteworthy for two distinctions, Barry added. It rained an average of 300 days each year and contained what was then believed to be the only legal red-light district in North America!
Weather wise, “our salvation was that it’s mostly rock, so you’re not in the mud all the time. The first [clothing] issue we got was raincoats, rubber boots, sou’westers and Ross Rifles — left over from World War One!”
“That’s how we were going to protect Canada from the Japanese.”
Specifically, the airmen were sent to a nearby spot called Seal Cove, where a contractor was building a seaplane base for the RCAF. A hillside had to be leveled and barges kept bringing gravel for construction. One guard post was on an island that could only be reached by small boats shuttling back and forth. One small mercy was that the contractor let sentries take shelter in a construction shack. If they fell asleep, which happened “nine times out of ten”, the contractor would thoughtfully wake them up before the next sentry arrived.
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| Barry on guard duty at Prince Rupert, B.C.,in 1940. (Barry Needham Collection.) |
After Christmas in Regina and Wynyard, his next stop was the RCAF’s No. 2 Initial Training School located in what’s now the University of Regina’s College Building, which in 1941 was called Regina College. ITS was designed to test all those who’d applied for glamorous, but dangerous, duty as aircrew — pilots, navigators (then called observers), gunners and bomb aimers, and screen out those unsuitable for this duty. There were also lectures in air force law, aero engines, navigations, meteorology and Morse code. He was chosen for training as a pilot. “How and why they decided I don’t know,” said Barry, who was posted as a pilot trainee on Feb. 1, 1941 to No. 15 Elementary Flying Training School, one of two RCAF schools at the Regina Municipal Airport.
At 15 EFTS, the instructors were civilians, many of them Americans eager to help in the fight against fascism. Flying training in winter was in ski equipped versions of the famous Tiger Moth biplane trainer. Students lived in a series of huts near the hangar line.
After 6 hours, 35 minutes of instruction, he went solo on Feb. 15, 1941 in Tiger Moth 4282. “I don’t recall a great deal about it except that I was probably scared to death.”
One of the few things that made an impression was reaching the controls. “My only problem with the Tiger Moth was that I’m pretty short in the legs and to do aerobatics, you had to push back — and I had a hard time reaching.”
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| A beaming Barry prepares to board an RCAF Tiger Moth trainer at 15 Elementary Flying Training School, Regina, in early 1941. (Barry Needham Collection.) |
But he recalled how he did his aerobatics check flight with the school’s chief flying instructor “absolutely perfectly” and how his regular instructor would take him north of Regina and simulate emergency landings with a dead engine. The Tiger Moth, was “a good airplane — great, really. They always said that if you could fly the Tiger Moth, you could fly anything. Now, whether it was true or not, it was a good airplane!”
After graduating with just under 30 hours of flying time, his next stop was Yorkton’s brand new No. 11 Service Flying Training School in the spring of 1941. The school, located at the Yorkton Municipal Airport on the city’s northern edge, was so new there were “duck boards” carrying foot traffic over the mud between buildings. After making a number of flights with an instructor, he soloed on April 21, 1941 in Harvard 2996. Training included ever-more sophisticated instruction on formation flying, navigation, emergencies, cross-country flying and aerobatics. He persevered and successfully graduated after logging 45 flying hours of dual time on Harvard’s and 45 solo — a sergeant pilot, rated “average” as pilot and navigator.
“And with a total of 150 hours, they sent us overseas, “he said. “It was just a year after the Battle of Britain and they were still short of fighter pilots.”
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Barry receives his wings at 11 SFTS
from Group Captain G.R. Howsam, station commander at Yorkton.
|
An 11 SFTS Harvard trainer, an example of an aircraft so durable
it was used by the RCAF to train pilots until 1965.
(Barry Needham Collection.)
He compared the challenge of flying training to the jitters you have “the first time you drive a car — and then, pretty soon, you think you’re a race car driver.”
Even though the Second World War was not exactly going well for our side in the spring and summer of 1941, every fighting man wanted to get overseas. Thus Barry was pleased to get 30 days leave, then a posting to the RCAF’s “Y” Depot at Halifax for a journey to Britain. After spending six or eight days in the Nova Scotia capital, during which time other airmen were packed onto ships, he and another sergeant pilot named Alphonse Phillip Luddington Smith (he was from Cupar, Saskatchewan and his nickname was “Apple”) got orders to go to Montreal. Wanting to leave no berths empty, the air force had sent the pair to fill two spaces on a tiny (3,000-ton) Norwegian fruit boat called the SS Olaf Fostines. With the captain’s blessing, the handful of airmen aboard “did the town” and crawled back on board in time for sailing. There was no waiting for a convoy; the captain just took them into the Atlantic. “He said they (German U-boats) wouldn’t waste torpedoes on a ship our size — this was his opinion anyway. And it turned out that way!” said Barry, who celebrated his 21st birthday aboard the little freighter.
After it docked in Liverpool, Barry and other Canadian airmen were put onto trains bound for the RCAF personnel reception centre in the seaside resort town of Bournemouth. Next came a posting to the RAF’s No. 61 Operational Training Unit, commanded by the legendary “Sailor” Malan, one of the RAF’s top aces in the Battle of Britain the year before. (“When you’re a sergeant pilot, you don’t get acquainted with the CO!” chuckled Barry).
Located at Heston, near Windsor Castle, 61 OTU was a kind of finishing school where aspiring fighter pilots who’d already learned how to fly were taught the skills of their trade on Spitfire fighters that had served in the Battle of Britain the previous year. Training covered formation flying, reconnaissance, aerobatics, instrument flying, simulated air attacks and dog fighting, plus air firing at drogues pulled by other aircraft. His first flight in a Spitfire was on Aug. 21, 1941.
After graduating with an additional 33 hours, 50 minutes on the Mark II version of the Spitfire, he and “Apple” Smith were posted in early October 1941, to the RCAF’s 412 Squadron, which had been formed in June at RAF Digby. He made his first flight in a 412 Spitfire on Oct. 8, starting with local formation flights and circuits, then a “recco” of the sector around it, cloud flying, and practice dog fighting.
Among the many pilots he encountered at 412 Squadron was S/L Christopher “Kit” Bushell of Fort Qu’Appelle (who’d studied at Royal Military College, joined the RAF in 1937, took over command of 412 Squadron in late 1941 — then was killed in action only a day later).
Another pilot who joined 412 Squadron around that time was P/O John Gillespie Magee, a young, American-born fighter pilot-writer whose literary output included many poems including one called “High Flight” that has become a classic. Magee was an officer, Barry a sergeant pilot, so they had little chance to talk. And on Dec. 11, 1941, 412 Squadron and three other units were practicing operations above the clouds. The CO of 412 Squadron spotted a hole in the clouds, put his squadron into a line-astern formation and led it down through the hole. Alas, Magee’s Spitfire collided with an Oxford training aircraft. “He bailed out, but he was too low and the ‘chute never opened,” Barry said.
One of Needham’s squadron pals, the late Charlie Fox, has been widely credited with wounding the brilliant German general Erwin Rommel in the summer of 1944 — and possibly changing the outcome of the Normandy campaign and perhaps the entire war.
At one point, Barry and “Apple” Smith set off for London because “we’d heard all these stories about the girls in Piccadilly and we wanted to see that. I mean, we were from the sticks!”
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| Barry and his buddy Alphonse Phillip Luddington Smith (alias “APL” or “Apple” Smith) dressed for “ops” at Wellingore. (Barry Needham Collection). |
They found their way to a famous bar (and RAF hangout) called Chez Moi that had been “bombed out” earlier in the war, but relocated to another building’s basement. When the hostess, a brash woman named Becky, found out they were Canadians, she excitedly asked where they’d been posted to: When they told her Digby, she exclaimed, “That’s where my boyfriend, Cowboy Blatchford, is the wing commander! Be sure to say hello to him!”
“You can imagine two sergeant pilots talking to the wing commander … bringing greetings from his girlfriend!” Barry said.
Incidentally, despite signs of bomb damage all over London, Barry saw no signs of a “down spirit” among the great city’s people, though “people were still sleeping in the underground — there were lots and lots of them who had, I suppose, either lost their homes or they were just going (to sit out) the bombing in the subway tunnels.”
With the Battle of Britain a year in the past, the RAF in 1941 had taken the offensive, conducting an array of fighter and light bomber sweeps over German installations in western France. A “rhubarb”, for example, was the nickname for a sweep by two or four RAF fighters “doing low-level attacks on anything that moved,” Barry said. Many Luftwaffe units had been sent to the eastern front, though those remaining in France were still dangerous. At that point, though, German aircraft rarely crossed the English Channel. “Everything was going to France instead of coming the other way,” he said.
The daily work of 412 Squadron in late 1941 and early ‘42 included convoy patrols off the British coast and “sometimes, we’d go to Manston or West Malling and do sweeps over northern France.” The idea was “to shoot up everything that looked like it was part of the German war effort.”
“I think it was agreed by the RAF that the ME-109 (the Spitfire’s main German adversary at that time) was a little superior
412 Squadron pilots, plus the inevitable dog, around a Spitfire V, which was the most widely produced, if not the best, wartime version of the Spitfire — a symbol of Britain’s collective war effort. Barry is fifth from left, wearing a hat. Kneeling in front, with the dog, is 412 Squadron’s “spook” or intelligence officer, 4’2” Hart Massey, Oxford grad and son of Canada’s high commissioner to wartime Britain. (Barry Needham Collection.)
“I think it was agreed by the RAF that the Me-109 (the Spitfire’s main German adversary at that time) was a little superior in certain circumstances,” said Barry, who added the gap became even bigger around that time as the Luftwaffe introduced the fast, powerful Focke- Wulf Fw-190 fighter in 1941.
In response, October 1941 saw 412 Squadron reequipped with the new Spitfire Mark V, which had two 20mm cannon and four .303 machine guns in place of eight small .303s in earlier Spitfires. Being updated, too, were RAF fighter tactics with the old idea of flying combat patrols in nice, tight “vics of three” replaced by a new, more flexible system called “finger four”. In it, the basic element was two elements of two aircraft each, one hunting for targets and the other protecting his tail from attack. 412 also moved to Wellingore, a grass airfield near Digby, where Barry and the other sergeant pilots lived in an old two-storey estate house.
The squadron CO by now was Chuck Trevena, a prewar RCAF reservist from No. 120 Squadron in Regina (where he’d worked in The Leader-Post’s prewar accounting department) who’d fought with the RCAF’s No. 1 Squadron in the Battle of Britain.
Trevena eventually was posted away to another unit and replaced by another ex-Reginan, S/L John D. “Jack”
Morrison, (a former Leader-Post staffer too) who’d previously been with the RCAF’s No. 1 Squadron (by then renumbered as 401 Squadron.) Barry remembered Morrison as “a fine leader and kind of a father figure to the rest of us — why, he must have been in his 30s and, of course, he was married. He was the one who got ‘Apple’ Smith and I our commissions.”
Two other Saskatchewanians were Regina’s Smith brothers, Jerry and Rod. One day in early 1942, Jerry sought to impress his brother by making a spectacular low-level pass across the Wellingore airfield — so low that he knocked down the radio aerial on the squadron’s dispersal hut and damaged his aircraft. He landed safely, but soon was posted to the cauldron that was the Mediterranean island of Malta, under more-or-less continual attack by German and Italian bombers. Rod eventually found
his way there too and the brothers flew together until Jerry and his aircraft disappeared over “The Med”. Rod survived the war.
On 412 Squadron, there was practice in flying formation and scrambles. Barry’s first operational flight was a peaceful patrol over a convoy in the English Channel; probably “really boring” for more experienced pilots, “but not for me because it was the first operation where you were taking part in the war.”
Feb. 12, 1942, was a particularly eventful day. In poor weather, the German battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisnau made a successful daylight dash through the English Channel to a port in the Netherlands, stunning the British military establishment. 412 Squadron had flown south, refueled at another squadron’s airfield, and then set out to look for the two warships, heavy fog making it difficult to keep the aircraft together. “The weather was so bad that we had difficulty even finding the Scharnhorst — and those that did got beat up pretty badly.”
Around that time, Barry was part of rhubarb that was bounced by “a swarm” of Me 109s. As per instructions, he broke sharply “and went around and around ... when I straightened out, there wasn’t another plane around for miles and miles.”
Air combat happened intermittently, but quickly. You’re flying along when the enemy suddenly dives through your formation. “You’d get a split-second glance — unless they happened to shoot you down!”
March 15, 1942 was another memorable day: the first time he and a number of his buddies had a chance to fire their guns in anger. They had been scrambled to search for reported German torpedo boats or gunboats and indeed some small craft were spotted. But were they German — or very similar British MTBs?
F/L Bill Napier offered to take a good look, buzzing the ships — and drawing plenty of flak for his trouble. “He said, ‘They can’t be very friendly!’ and we took turns shooting them up, going around about three times.
One sunk, four others lying dead in the water. The navy said that we did such a good job that they sent us a commendation.”
On a sweep over Abbeville nine days later, he fired at a German Fw-190 fighter, but could not claim a victory. But CO Jack Morrison and another pilot were killed and Barry wrote in his logbook of meeting six Fw-190s while on his way home. “Was I scared???” he scribbled in his logbook.
By April 27, the squadron was at RAF West Malling in southern England to escort RAF Douglas Boston light bombers on a raid, leaving behind Barry’s buddy, “Apple” Smith. As he flew south later to join 412, “Smitty’s” Spitfire began to “porpoise”. Like Magee five months earlier, he baled out, “but he was also too low for his chute to open.” And on the raid, two Bostons were lost to flak and two Spitfires “collided and went in”. A very bad day.
412 Squadron ground crew in front of one of the Spitfire Mark V (“V” is Latin for “’5”) fighter aircraft on which they worked. Note the small door on the port side of the cockpit, making access to the cramped little fighter easier for pilots. (Barry Needham Collection).
Another 412 Squadron pilot was Claude Weaver, an American who’d joined
the RCAF. On a rhubarb over Belgium, he became separated from Barry and flew in broad daylight over Ostend harbor — “about the worst thing you could do because just about every flak gun in there opened up.”
But Weaver escaped unscathed. He later was posted to Malta, was shot down and became a PoW, was freed and eventually went back on ops before being shot down and killed.
So how did the young pilots deal with the loss of friends and the possibility of their own deaths? “You never really thought too much about it, I don’t think” Barry recalled. “If somebody was shot down, it was just like he went away on leave and he never came back — he got posted”
The tempo of operations was heavy. From June 4-18, 1942, Barry logged 15 flights — plenty of training, but also several convoy patrols and armed searches for German shipping — “one of them, I notice here,” said Barry, consulting his logbook, “was so close to the Belgian coast that we came under fire from the shore batteries.”
On a July 26, 1942, sweep over Abbeville, the squadron lost a US Army Air Force colonel named Albert Clark. His presence takes some explaining: about a half-dozen USAAF pilots had been attached to 412 Squadron to gain experience flying Spitfires in combat. Such a senior officer normally would remain on the ground, but the colonel wanted to gain experience in the
air with the RAF, which by that point had been fighting the Luftwaffe for almost three years. He “went on operations; he was shot down and became a PoW,” Barry said. “I’ve often wondered what his pay packet would have been like when he got back.”
Barry also fought his way through the aerial battle over Dieppe (“A helluva lot of airplanes flying … I managed to damage one that day; that was the closest I got”) on Aug. 19, 1942, when he made four operational flights. 412 Squadron lost two pilots killed and a third,Sgt. Bill Aldcorn, bailed out and — despite being a non swimmer— paddled to a rescue launch, where a newsreel photographer captured a fine shot of him being hauled aboard, grinning broadly and flashing a “V For Victory” sign.
Barry and some buddies saw the newsreel a few days later and hooted appropriately. Aldcorn’s wife saw the same film a little later and cried with joy.
Famous photo of Barry’s pal Bill Aldcorn being pulled aboard a Royal Navy vessel on Aug. 19, 1942 — the day of the ill-fated raid on the French coastal town of Dieppe.(Barry Needham Collection).
On Sept. 17, 1942, Barry and a fellow 412 Squadron pilot named Lloyd “Pipsqueak” Powell were sitting in their Spitfire Vs — and waiting. For several months, German fighters had been carrying out an aggressive campaign of lobbing 500-lb. bombs into British coastal cities almost daily, causing heavy casualties among service personnel and civilians alike, and generally “terrifying the population.”
Suddenly, the news came through: two Fw-190s were flying over the Channel nearby. Barry and Powell roared into the air.
Though the Fw-190s were a bit faster, the two Spitfire Vs began a long, wave top chase, Powell successfully shooting down “his” 190. Barry had to content himself with a few shots at long range at the remaining 190, which was hit and emitted some smoke, but was able to reach the French coast, at which point Barry broke off the chase.
Years later (in 1999), Barry received a letter from S/L Christopher Goss, an RAF historical officer researching those coastal raids. Searching through combat reports, he had determined that the Fw 190 pilot at whom Barry had shot, Lt. Leopold Wenger, had survived, though he’d later been killed while flying on the Russian front.
However, the pilot’s brother, Willy Wenger (an infantryman who’d survived the hellish fall of Berlin in 1945) was tracked down and (being fluent in English) opened a long correspondence with Barry.
When Barry , Martha and their daughter visited Willy in 2004, he gave the Canadians a 20mm shell that Leopold had pulled out of his aircraft that day. “He never forgets to phone me on my birthday and at Christmas, and on Canada Day he sends me a card,” said Barry. “A fabulous guy!”
Willy Wenger presents Barry with his 20 mm shell
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There was frequent bad weather in the autumn of 1942, but he was able to attack two trains in France (“I never thought about it until much later: those were poor Frenchmen who were running those trains”) and did escorts for American B-17 and B-24 bombers on raids over western Europe — as far as the Spitfire’s limited fuel could take them. Particularly chilling was seeing the occasional bomber crippled and falling out of formation. “It was like watching a big, wounded bird flip-flopping around the sky. Anybody who’s a hunter will recognize that. Sometimes, parachutes would come out.”
Two more squadron moves and bad weather intervened, but action picked up again in March 1943, when he logged 22 operations. The same month, he was promoted to flight lieutenant and became a flight commander. Around the same time, the squadron moved from the front line in southeast England to the RAF’s 10 Group
in Wales, where operations consisted largely of patrols over coastal convoys. By the time he finished his first operational tour that month, he had logged 250 operational hours and had a total of 518 hours flying as a single-engine pilot. Between mid-1941 and April 1943, 412 Squadron had moved no fewer than 14 times and took part in a huge military exercise dubbed Operation Spartan that saw pilots and ground crews living out of tents beside their aircraft.
Barry’s next posting was a “sentence” to 57 OTU at Eshott, Northumberland, where he helped to teach new pilots how to fly and fight with the Spitfire. Some, ironically, were former British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (BCATP) flying instructors from Canada with far more flying hours than he — but no combat experience. (Barry isn’t quite certain, but he believes one of the Mark II Spitfires he flew at this OTU survived the war and now flies with the RAF’s famous Battle of Britain Memorial Flight.) His commanding officer there was W/C E.J. Gracie, an RAF officer who was home for a rest after a tour of operations in the Mediterranean that saw him hailed as the “savior of Malta” for bringing to the embattled island several squadrons of Spitfires that flew off an American aircraft carrier — one of them flown by Reginan Jerry Smith.
After six months there, Barry was posted home for 30 days leave, including Christmas 1943. He travelled with some other pilots. “We thought we were pretty hot stuff!”
On Jan.22, 1944, he boarded the liner Queen Mary in New York for the weeklong trip back to Britain. His companions were 8,000 black GIs who’d just had their inoculations for overseas duty and were understandably queasy. The weather was awful and almost everybody aboard became violently ill. Sewage flowed inches deep and, at one point, nobody left their cabins save for a few individuals sent to get sandwiches.
Back in Britain, he contacted a buddy from 412 Squadron, Robert “Buck” McNair. Another expat Saskatchewanian (from North Battleford), McNair was by then wing commander (flying) of the RCAF’s 126
Wing and its three squadrons, No. 401, 411 and 412 Squadrons. Brash, confident and aggressive, he got Barry a spot in 401 Squadron. After five weeks, Barry returned to his old unit, 412 Squadron, as a flight
commander.
The other flight commander was F/L George “Buzz” Beurling, by then a high-scoring ace (“too bad some of his expertise didn’t rub off on me!” Barry quipped) with a DSO, DFC, DFM and bar and 27 “kills”.
Beurling was even more addicted than McNair to breaking air force rules. He had learned to fly as a civilian in the late 1930s and once beat some RCAF pilots in an aerobatic competition. When war broke out, he attempted to enlist in the RCAF, but it declined to accept him, he claimed. Beurling asserted that was because it had been miffed because he outperformed its pilots; the RCAF suggested it was his lack of formal education. So he signed on as a deckhand on a small freighter, worked his way across the Atlantic, went into an RAF recruiting office in Britain and enlisted there, having to make one more trip across the Atlantic to get his birth certificate. After a mediocre early career in Britain, Beurling was sent to Malta, where he excelled. His tour of operations there finally finished in late 1942, he headed home for Canada, narrowly missed death when the transport aircraft carrying him skidded off a runway at Gibraltar and made a triumphant tour of Canada. Returned to Britain, he transferred to the RCAF from the RAF.
As Barry put it, “everything you’ve heard about Beurling was true!” For example, the ace didn’t smoke or drink, but he did energetically chase women. “On several occasion, I’d been in bed when he’d come in, grab his sleeping bag and go ... he had a WAAF waiting on the squash court!”
Beurling also had a macabre, bloodthirsty streak. When, for example, a damaged USAAF B-17 or B-24 would make an emergency landing on 412’s fields “he’d be the first one down to see all the blood and gore. He just lapped it up.”
“I never became an ace, but I sure flew with a lot of them and knew a lot. I was very, very fortunate to be associated with so doggone many of them.”
By that time in early 1944, the doughty old Spitfire Mark Vs that had been outmatched by the FW-190 were being retired. Of the Mark V, Barry said, “I was never that confident; I was scared most of the time. The ‘five’ was a good airplane, but it was no match for the 190, that was for sure.”
In its place was the Spitfire Mark IX (“a match for the 190”), which also “had a supercharger that kicked in at 20,000 feet and gave you a boost like you wouldn’t believe. We were then able to operate at from 28,000- 32,000 feet. It was just fabulous.”
“Very, very light on the controls; it really didn’t have any bad habits.”
There was also a new mood around Britain. Everybody knew there soon would have to be an invasion of German-held Europe; the only question was where and when. As he put it, “they were going to have it sometime — there was a lot of noise about it.”
Another addition: 250- and 500-pound bombs, one at a time below the fuselages of the squadron’s Spitfires, which had been given a new job: dive-bombing “Noball” (V-1 flying bomb) launch sites near the French coast. Standard tactics involved entering a steep dive around 10,000 feet, then pulling out around 1,200 feet and releasing the bomb. “Now by this time you’d be travelling
Famous photo of a 412 Squadron (note code letters “VZ” amidships) Spitfire IX on airfield B.4 at Beny-Sur-Mere in Normandy after D-Day. Note the Hawker Typhoon fight-bomber behind it. Both aircraft wear the wide black/white “invasion stripes” applied to all Allied aircraft taking part in the June 6, 1944, D Day landings to identify them to Allied anti-aircraft gunners on the ground and aboard ships.
(Photo: Department of National Defense via Barry Needham.)
at a pretty good clip and you’d just about have to have your feet on the dash to pull it out,” said Barry, who added that “compressibility” as the pilots called it) of air on the control surfaces made the controls at a pretty good clip and you’d just about have to have your feet on the dash to pull it out,” said Barry, who added that “compressibility” (as the pilots called it) of air on the control surfaces made the controls extremely difficult to move. “We lost quite a number of pilots and we didn’t know why. This was the reason: you’d black out when you pulled out.”
There was another challenge: What happened if the bomb didn’t release? The answer, the pilots were told, was that a Spit could drop not only the bomb, but the rack carrying it, too.
One of Barry’s colleagues got to try this out. The bomb failed to drop, and then so did the rack. Rather than land with a live 500-lb. bomb aboard, he got back to Britain, pointed the aircraft back toward the Channel, and then bailed out. “Well, the Spitfire spiraled down and landed in a farmer’s field — and didn’t explode!”
By this time, there were even fewer German fighters over France and Allied aircraft spent most of their time attacking targets on the ground. As a result of Allied numbers and Luftwaffe losses, the latter’s aircraft “were still showing up once in a while, but not like they used to.”
Only six days after D-Day, the Allied landing in France, 412 Squadron (part of a wing with 401 and 411 Squadrons) was sent to operate from a makeshift airfield code named B4in a field near the town of Beny-Sur-Mer in Normandy.
The squadrons flew what was called armed reconnaissance – “Go in and find anything German behind the lines, and shoot it up.”
The whole experience, he recalled, was akin to “a great adventure”. The Canadian airmen lived in tents and ate baguettes acquired from local bakers. So close was the wing’s rough-and-ready airfield to the front lines that soldiers guarded its perimeter against German infiltrators. Flying went on constantly during daylight hours. The only city already liberated, Bayeux, had been placed out-of-bounds to soldiers and airmen by Field Marshall Montgomery and there was little else to see, though the wing commander, Buck McNair, once drove toward the front line and came back with a captured anti-aircraft gun “just to play with”.
In the absence of the Luftwaffe, which had been chased out of western France, the biggest threat was from flak, or anti-aircraft fire — which, Barry admitted, “terrified me”. He deadsticked one Spitfire (with no fewer than 17 bullet holes in it!) into the airfield, but on July 7 (while shooting up a German truck and dispatch rider) his Spitfire, flying at just over 1,000 feet, was hit by ground fire and he had to bail out. He noted “there’s no set way” of bailing out of a damaged Spitfire, cramped as it is. One could slow it, then crawl onto the wing and drop off. One could roll the aircraft inverted, then drop out. “There’s probably a thousand different bailouts and every one would be different,” said Barry, who on that day faced the horrific problem of flak having started “a ball of fire” between his legs.)
So what he did was “rear back”, open the canopy, undo the straps holding him in the seat, stand up “and I popped out of the thing — just like a champagne cork!”
Despite the low altitude and second-degree burns, he landed safely — he couldn’t remember pulling the ripcord — and was quickly captured by German SS troops. Given that he’d been shooting up the area mere moments earlier, “it was surprising they didn’t beat me up or something.”
Wherein another fascinating postscript: in 2003, he received a call from Noa Dorn, a young Frenchwoman living in Toronto who reported that her grandmother had seen an RAF pilot bail out 59 years earlier and could even remember waving to him as he floated down under his parachute. Georgette had even saved a French newspaper clipping of one of his trip’s to France to look for his crashed aircraft; from that, she got the name of the pilot — Barry Needham. And when Noa was visiting Georgette in Paris, they discussed the war, at which time Georgette produced the clipping. On the morning of Jan. 1, 2004, Barry got a call from Noa about this remarkable coincidence. Five years later, through the work of ANSA, the Normandy
Association for Air Remembrance, Barry was able to meet Georgette Dorn, who showed him a sketch she’d prepared of the crash/bailout area and revealed she and other French civilians had planned to hide him in a well – had they got to him before the Germans did. “Unfortunately, “they didn’t.” said Barry, who in 2009 was able to stand on the exact spot where Georgette had stood on the summer day as she and her mother watched him descend under his parachute.
As a result, Barry was treated at a German military camp’s PoW hospital and bandaged like a mummy. At one point, he was lying amid many wounded German soldiers, the one beside him missing an arm. Another struck up a conversation in excellent English and wondered why Britain and America were fighting Germany, and not joining it to fight the Soviet Union. “I’m afraid I did not have a very apt reply,” said Barry, who was taken to a POW camp at the Breton town of Rennes that held some American paratroopers captured in the confused fighting right after D-Day; a number had been injured when American P-51s Mustangs spotted the marching POWs, mistook them for Germans and opened fire. To accommodate the wounded, the Germans commandeered a school; an elderly doctor was brought out of retirement to care for the POWs and a group of French nurses assembled.
At this impromptu Stalag 221, the tedium was interrupted by moments of whimsy, like POWs secretly gathering to ogle the French girlfriends of the local SS detachment in the barracks across the village square from the school building, and the American paratrooper (in peacetime, a motorcycle stunt rider in a circus!) who was besotted with a French nurse and assumed Barry, as a Canadian, could supply him with a suitable French phrase. Barry could offer only “Ma petite chou” — meaning “my little cabbage”!
Food was in short supply, and amounted to black bread and “smelly” cheese once a day. When Moroccan POWs from the camp next to Barry’s were unloading bread from the a cart in which it was hauled, a single loaf slipped out of the blanket in which the loafs were carried — and a “mob scene” ensued as hungry PoWs scrambled for it.
But there was also plenty of ingenuity in the camp. Within a few weeks of it being opened, the POWs, with help from French nurses who smuggled in parts had constructed a radio and were listening to BBC news broadcasts. “I’m telling you, those nurses should have had medals,” he said.
His favorite day, of course, was the day in August on which the camp was liberated. Local Resistance fighters had communicated with the U.S. Third Army, which began moving toward the town, and the SS troops simply disappeared one night, even leaving behind their luckless French mistresses. Suddenly, the townspeople descended on the SS headquarters, finding food and champagne that was immediately put to good use. Said Barry: “Rennes was supposed to have celebrated louder and longer than any other city in France.”
2004 saw Barry contacted by a member of the Normandy Association for Air Remembrance, a French aviation history group that specialized in digging up the wrecks of the approximately 3,000 aircraft that crashed in Normandy during the Second World War, then erecting memorials to their crews. After he indicated roughly where his Spitfire had crashed, one of the members said he might know precisely where it was.
As a result, Barry returned to France in October 2005, to watch the excavation in the Argentan area of Normandy. From 15 or 20 feet deep in a farmer’s field, aircraft parts emerged and Barry was presented with one of the propeller blades.
He hadn’t been back in Canada long before a call arrived from “a very embarrassed Frenchman”. Analysis of the parts indicated they were from a Mustang, not a Spitfire!
But to its credit, the history group persevered. A French newspaper article about its hunt brought responses from no fewer than four people who figured they’d seen Barry bail out. In fact, one man who’d been a young farm worker at the time had written about this in his diary, recording the crash site’s precise location.
As a result, Barry was invited back to France for another ceremony in June 2006. “This time, we dug the right airplane!” he said.
So well had it been preserved that the tail wheel “was still inflated after all those years”.
He was also invited to Normandy for the dedication of a memorial saluting the 17,000 Canadian airmen killed in the course of the Second World War. It was a gala event, complete with a fly past; Barry later got to fly in a Tiger Moth and his son in a Harvard.
Back to 1944: After being checked out by a U.S.Army hospital unit in the Cherbourg area, Barry (missing hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, and wearing U.S. Army paratrooper shirt, pants and boots, plus his scorched air force jacket) was flown by the U.S. Army Air Force to a base in Britain, where he got more medical treatment and, eventually, a train ride into London. There, he presented himself to RCAF headquarters. As well, MI-9, the little-known British agency that helped “escapers” interrogated him to ensure he wasn’t a German infiltrator. Barry learned that having been a POW once, he wouldn’t be going back on operations.
So with his burns healed, he was going back to Canada. By early December 1944, he’d been assigned to help ferry all sorts of aircraft — notably Dakotas, Ansons and Cornells, but also Hurricane fighters — to bases or storage units across the country. He served first with the RCAF’s 124 (Ferry) Squadron at Rockcliffe, flying in and out of places like Bagotville, St. Hubert, Moncton, Greenwood, Quebec City and even as far west as Winnipeg. Early in 1945, he was posted to 170 Squadron, based in the Manitoba capital, to continue this work, going in and out of familiar places like Regina, Mossbank. Calgary, Vulcan, Swift Current, North Battleford and Moose Jaw, Gimli and Brandon.
One time, he was in The Queen City (where liquor rationing was still in effect) when the idea of taking an Anson to Crosbie, North Dakota, for booze was broached. $1,100 was collected — some from a Regina hotelier who was running for city council and wanted liquor to either help his election campaign or celebrate. Barry & Co. landed at Crosbie, where they were met by the Border Patrol, cleared — and made a chilling discovery: a fire was threatening the only liquor store in town! That being the case, its owner was more than eager to sell his inventory to his Canadian allies who, with the Border Patrol’s help, got the booty back to the Anson.
Their adventures weren’t over yet. Airborne, they noticed that a lit cigarette had been dropped through the Anson’s floor. Visions of an airborne fire danced through their heads and there was nothing left in the fire extinguishers “because we’d used them to cool the soft drinks!”
Pouring beer on the fire “would be a terrible waste”, so the airmen took turns getting onto their knees and urinating into the Anson’s nether regions to extinguish the smoke. “I hate to think,” said Barry, “of the next guys who had to fly that airplane.”
Anyway, that night, the ingenious airmen had a party of epic proportions. “We had more friends than you’ve ever seen.”
Around the same time, he was flying a Harvard from North Battleford to Dauphin, along the way giving the good folks of Wynyard an impromptu air show. Trying to catch up with the other Harvards, he decided against refueling at Yorkton and pressed on as weather worsened — until he became lost. Almost out of fuel, he landed in a summer fallow field and stopped mere yards from a grove of poplar trees. Getting the farmer and his dog to watch the aircraft, he hitched a ride on a Coca-Cola truck to Dauphin, spent the night in barracks and got a ride with some fuel back to his aircraft in the only vehicle left on the soon-to-be closed station: an ambulance. He refueled, got back to Dauphin and forgot about the matter for several weeks until his commanding officer brought news: the farmer had filed a claim for crops destroyed in the emergency landing. “Lucky for me, I had a very understanding commander who, when he heard my sad tale, dismissed the whole affair and I never heard another word about it.”
Barry, fortunately, had left 170 Squadron for several months when a terrible tragedy occurred: an RCAF Dakota carrying squadron pilots back to Canada after ferrying RCAF Cornell trainers to a storage site at Fargo, N.D., crashed while attempting to land at Estevan on Sept. 15, 1946. Killed were 21 pilots — some of them former colleagues of Barry.
Meanwhile, VE Day came and went, and then VJ Day, too. Barry, who was enjoying himself in the service, stayed in the RCAF and volunteered to go to occupied postwar Germany in January 1946 as
part of what was called the Air Force of Occupation. By appealing to an old pal for whom he’d once done a favor, Barry was able to get assigned for the third time to 412 Squadron, by now flying the Griffon engine Spitfire XIV — one of the highest evolutions of the adaptable Spitfire airframe — from Utersen airfield near Hamburg. The city itself had been “bombed flat — absolutely unbelievable”, he said. “Rubble, on both sides, was as high as a vehicle. It was just like driving through a tunnel.”
But the locals had accepted defeat and life was good for the airmen. Utersen had been a permanent Luftwaffe base and there was music with meals in the mess. Some locals got to work on the station, doing maintenance work and tailoring. Others scavenged from the trash bins at the mess. Cigarettes were the de facto currency and the Canadians were on the lookout to buy cameras, jewelry and German military souvenirs. He didn’t recall any unusual security precautions. “We weren’t doing much of anything. If you wanted to take an airplane, and fly it around the countryside, I guess you could. We just had one hell of a time.”
By March 1946, news arrived that the squadron was to disband and its personnel return to Canada. Its Spitfire fighters went into storage in Britain. “I never met anybody who didn’t fall in love with flying the Spitfire,” he said. “It was just a wonderful airplane to fly. You could go just about immediately from the Harvard into the Spitfire.”
Postwar, Barry tried other jobs, but returned to Wynyard and its weekly newspaper. He also served on the board overseeing the town’s airfield and frequently went to reunions of 412 Squadron.
And in tribute, this field was formally named for him in a 2011 ceremony that featured a fly past by military aircraft from Portage and Moose Jaw and a tribute by the Commander of the Royal Canadian Air Force, Lieutenant-General André Deschamps, who thanked Barry for “the unwavering contributions that you have made over the years, and continue to make, [which] were undoubtedly cemented during your valiant service flying with the RCAF during the Second World War.
“Today, a new generation of RCAF airmen and airwomen find inspiration not only in your wartime flying achievements and sacrifices, but also in your exemplary service to your community. May I also thank you on this occasion for your tremendous ongoing dedication to the RCAF family. “We will always consider you one of our own.”
- by Will Chabun
And a very special thanks to Will for interviewing Dad and making chronological sense out of his massive archives. Will says about himself "I'm a grizzled old reporter who's seen a lot... and likes to write about it."
And we are glad you did.
Will amongst other things writes for the Leader Post and blogs regularly
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Sources and Notes:
The core of this article is a pair of talks — one in 1994 and the other in 2012 — that Barry Needham gave to the Regina chapter of the Canadian Aviation Historical Society (CAHS). They have been supplemented by the author’s interviews with Mr. Needham on April 12 and April 26, 2014.
412 Squadron was the 10th RCAF squadron formed overseas during the Second World War — in the summer of 1941. After the war and service in the Air Force of Occupation in Germany, it disbanded in 1946, then got a new existence in 1947 when the existing 12 Squadron at Rockcliffe was re designated 412 Squadron. It has remained in existence since then, carrying military personnel and VIPs in aircraft ranging from the Liberator to the North Star transport, the Comet jet transport, the CC-109 Cosmopolitan, CC-117 Falcon and the Canadair/ Bombardier CC-144 Challenger.
Barry’s childhood friend Louis Devlin also joined the RCAF. He was killed in action on May 30, 1942 at Acroma, Egypt, while serving with the RAF’s 250 Squadron. He is buried in the Knightsbridge War Cemetery west of Tobruk.
Rod Smith survived the war. He died in 2002.
Barry’s older brother Jack, also joined the wartime RCAF. Because of his experience working in a bank, he was assigned to administrative duties. But he re mustered to aircrew, trained at 4 SFTS at Saskatoon and instructed at Dauphin.
Howard Peter “Cowboy” Blatchford was born in Edmonton, on Feb. 25 1912, and enrolled, as did hundreds of other Canadians, in the Royal Air Force before the Second World War. He fought in the Battle of Britain and was commanding officer of 257 (Fighter) Squadron by July 1941. By that autumn, he was commander of the entire wing at RAF Digby. He eventually was given a break from combat, but returned early in 1943 and was shot down and killed that May over the Netherlands. The Edmonton Municipal Airport was named for him.
A notation in Barry’s logbook after he returned to Britain in August 1944 discussed his time as a prisoner of war (PoW) with commendable brevity:
“Shot down July 7/44. Picked up by Huns and transported through Falaise — Argentan — Le Mans — Rennes. No. 1 Allied Prisoner of War Hospital in Rennes. Recaptured by Americans Aug. 8/44.
Returned to England by Dakota. Warrington, Sept. 30. Returned to Canada on Mauritania landed at Halifax Nov. 14/44.”
One of Barry’s classmates at 11 SFTS at Yorkton was James F. Edwards, who flew with the Desert Air Force in 1942 and 1943, then remained in the RCAF postwar. “Stocky” Edwards, as he was nicknamed, finished the war with 19 victories. In tribute, the Gatineau-based Vintage Wings Canada flying museum has painted its P-40 Kittyhawk in the markings of the aircraft he flew in North Africa.
Note: Dad visited Stocky Edwards in Comox March 2016 . It was a heart warming experience for Scott and Denise to witness 2 old airmen reminiscing
Hart Massey, 412 Squadron’s intelligence officer for much of the war, was a member of the well known Massey business family. He attended Oxford and joined the RCAF within weeks of the war’s outbreak. His father, Vincent, was the wartime Canadian high commissioner in London. Hart was only 4’8” tall. When he was 6, his parents faced a decision: let doctors remove his thyroid gland (and end his growth) or he would go blind. Barry remembers Hart’s intellect, good nature and willingness to share with his pals goodies acquired through his family and British friends. Also, “I’ve seen him drink whiskey that would put any person under the table!”
In 1944, Massey refused a promotion in order to accompany his squadron to Europe after D Day. Six months later, he was badly wounded during the
Luftwaffe’s infamous Jan. 1, 1945, mass attack on Allied airfields. But he recovered, married and worked as an architect. Massey died in 1997.
In 2014, American author Ray Haas published a biography of Barry’s squadron-mate, John Gillespie Magee. The first copy off the press came to Barry with the inscription: “I admit to being somewhat awestruck by your experience. Surely you and your peers were responsible for the survival of Western civilization. Somehow, saying, ‘Thank you for your service’ doesn’t seem adequate , but it will have to do!”
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French Newspaper Account Oct. 4/05
The Normandy Association of Airplane Souvenirs 1939-45 Orne-Maine unearthed a new airplane at Martigny sur l’Ante last Sunday. For this occasion, a Canadian pilot and his family had come from the province of Saskatchewan.
The association has once more brought to the surface a souvenir of the Second World War. At the start, everyone thought they were finding a piece of a Spitfire, but in the end, it proved to be, in fact, a Mustang.
For this occasion, a Canadian pilot, native of Saskatchewan (western Canada) was on the site with his family. Barry Needham is now 85 years old. The 7th of July, 1944, he shot at a German truck but he didn’t see the DCA. He was falling and his airplane caught fire. He parachuted but was seriously burned. He was taken prisoner and sent to Rennes where he stayed until the liberation of the town by Patton. He then returned to Canada where he remained in the army while waiting to find out if he was to rejoin his squadron in Germany.
Mr. Needham was very emotional to find himself on this site. Indeed, it is in this region that his airplane had been shot down in 1944. He had been a member of Squadron 412 of the Royal Canadian Air Force.
A Mustang motor…
The association had dug up a motor on this day. Indeed, the owners of the land were also there and had explained to us that in 1944, the airplane had crashed and that they had buried the motor so as not to have problems with the occupation forces. So, the motor had been found again as well as the propellers and some shells, in very good shape. Everyone was waiting to find a Spitfire motor; however, it proved to be that of a Mustang. Therefore, there remains more research to be done in order to find Barry Needham’s airplane, which should not be too far from there.
The Association must still do different research but it also has a task regarding different airplanes. It would dig up in a short time a German airplane at Mesnil-Villement in the presence of German representatives. The pilot would be still inside.
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Canadian Pilot Finds Again his Downed Airplane from 1944
If it isn’t rare to find again even today, in Normandy, some airplanes downed during the Second World War, the exhumation of a machine in the presence of its pilot definitely is exceptional.
Barry Needham, actually staying in a guest room at the farm of Val-de-Baize, in Mauvaisville, in Argentan with Nicole and Michel Huet des Aunay, couldn’t hold back tears this Monday in front of his Spitfire which had been buried since 1944, north of Falaise, in Bons-Tassilly. That summer, on the 7th of July, this 24-year-old pilot of Squadron 412 of the Royal Canadian Air Force, was bombarding a vehicle on the road when his airplane was hit by German DCA. Barry, burned in several places, had time to eject. Captured with a witness, he was hospitalized at Rennes and freed three weeks later by the American Army.
On the occasion of the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Normandy, “ we were in contact with him. He was hoping to find his airplane and this witness”, explains Jean-Claude Clouet, independent wreck-searcher, who works closely with the Normandy Association of Airplane Souvenirs. “This witness is deceased but we met his widow.”
Last year, Barry returned to Normandy soil, with his wife and Scott and Debra, two of their four children. “According to witness accounts, they thought they had found the airplane. But it was not the right one. Sixty years after, memories are less reliable…..” The family was disappointed but didn’t give up. One year later, Debra repacked her suitcase, and along with her sister Denise, accompanied their parents. The suitcases were once again placed at Michel Huet’s des Aunay (former high school friend of Jean-Claude Clouet, of Mezeray) in order to be involved in the searches.
The operation was taking place under the direction of Jacques Paris and Michel Rainfroy, president and member, respectively, of ANSA, “ and in the presence of policemen, for legality. This time, we found good witnesses. And as we were hoping to really find it in front of him, we pre-searched.”
The license plate confirmed it. “ It was very emotional. He was very happy that it was his this time and that it had been found quickly because he didn’t want the French people to have such great expense in vain just for him,” translated Jacqueline, who lives in the same Canadian town of Wynyard, in the province of Saskatchewan, as this former editor of a weekly newspaper.
The machine had been badly damaged in the shock. “With the speed and weight, it had entered more than three metres under ground. It was in clay,” explained Andre Bourlier, friend of the wreck-searcher and who helped this time to transport the Canadian family. But the clay earth served to preserve the pieces in an amazing condition. At the moment when we were removing it, we all smelled the odor of gasoline.”
The main part of the airplane will perhaps one day be on display in a future regional museum at a site yet to be named.
But the control lever (throttle) “that he had used when he was 24 years old” insists Jean-Claude Clouet, the side camera with still a part of a film,” we don’t know if it contains any pictures”, the exhaust pipe, a piece of the controls for “the wing or the steering” are some souvenirs that the former pilot will be able to take with him. What precious trophies!!
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EYE WITNESS REPORT
Mr. Elie Lemarchand, a young farm worker wrote the account of my capture……translated from French to English. Barry and his family met Elie at the home of Madame Oriot (who also witnessed the bail out) and Elie read part of his diary to the group gathered. This was videotaped and simultaneously translated into English for us Canadians.
July 7, 1944
Around 1:00 in the early afternoon, a airplane turns above Bons-Tassilly. La DCA shoots, we go out to look. The airplane is hit; it falls in flames; the pilot ejects and falls through the flames and it is for this reason that he is seriously burned on his face and elsewhere on his body. The pilot falls into a little woods on the other side of the road behind the washing-trough of Bons-Tassilly. The airplane crashes not far from the entrance of the road from Caen to Falaise and the “lagoon” in the marsh (swamp) formed by the lagoon. Now at this spot, a double lane road passes from Falaise to Caen, not far from the water treatment plant at Bons-Tassilly…. So at this moment, the pilot disentangles himself from the netting and hobbles behind the washing-trough to hide. At the same time, Guy Oriot, who has seen him, runs toward him and perhaps makes signs to hide in the woods behind the washing-trough…. But….alas…the Germans based at Patigny are arriving by car and notice Oriot making his way toward the pilot….stop both of them.
The story continues because Oriot is suspected of wanting to help the pilot in order to save him. The pilot himself is taken prisoner, but….what would happen to Oriot? For the Germans…perhaps a “resistance member” who was looking to hide the pilot……Still they are both taken to the farm of Chateau de Bons-Tassilly to the residence, for the time being, of the Colonel who commands the DCA who had shot down the airplane…. So.. the Germans who arrive at the farm with the two men are SS. There follows a sharp discussion between the two parties, the colonel and the SS. It is the SS that take Oriot and the pilot to the General’s quarters which is located at Beaumais…We are thinking that for Mr. Oriot, it is serious and that he will be harmed upon leaving….that perhaps even give his life. In these kinds of things, the SS don’t play around…..
Therefore the owner of the Chateau where the colonel stays thinks that he must try to arrange things. He goes to find the Colonel in the living room where he has set up his command post and tries to convince him that Mr. Oriot is not involved in this business and during a good part of the afternoon with carafes of coffee, washed down with calva (calvados) that finally the Colonel phoned Beaumais and we don’t know what was said to convince the SS that Guy Oriot had nothing to gain in this incident. Mr. Oriot didn’t tell him anything. After having been a little roughed up, he is finally set free in the evening… You are thinking that he’s had enough of it and started walking on the road towards Bons-Tassilly…..But…a few kilometers further, he is caught by the SS car…. His blood runs cold and he immediately thinks “This time I’ve had it!: But no! They were coming to apologize for having mistreated him and offered to take him to Bons-Tassilly….that’s what was done….
The next day relatives of Mr. Oriot came to the owner of the Chateau to thank him for his intervention with the Colonel and brought him something (I’m not sure what) to express thanks. (perhaps a flask of calva) This airplane, I don’t know if it was a Spitfire. Had it been removed by a business that digs up war wrecks?
Mr. Oriot has been deceased for a few years; the owner of the Chateau has also died as have quite a number of family members. There are still some grand children who are now one, three and five years. Perhaps they don’t yet know about this incident. So…some more testimony…..
If I remember, it is because I used to work on this farm, on the run from the STC and hidden on this farm at Bons-Tassilly. I was 21 years old and one shouldn’t be too visible near these people—the SS and other Germans.
But…I remember very well this Canadian pilot who had burns on his face and elsewhere. Is it he? The airplane to the southwest of Falaise doesn’t reveal much—an airplane which turns and returns and searches and moreover is looking to evade the DCA. Will he be able to avoid them a few kilometers further?....
I’m adding to the story that the owner of the Chateau used to go every morning to see the Colonel, commander of the artillery of DCA of the region. He had been stationed there since the beginning of the disembarkation (landing) and it is through him each morning that while bringing him his ‘liquored’ coffee that he had news on the military operations on the Normandy side. To that effect, he was being friendly with the enemy, especially when it was a matter of saving the life of someone.
Nevertheless, this story would take all afternoon to unfold on the 7 of July, 1944 and it is really true as stated, Mr. Barry Needham, in the newspaper, that the mother and father of Mr. Oriot did really come to plead with the Colonel on behalf of their son. But not knowing how to speak German and the Colonel not knowing how to speak French, it was therefore Mr. H of Belgian origin, who in some fashion, served as interpreter….
Certainly, Mr. Barry wouldn’t know what had happened to the young man beside him in the SS car….Himself, burned, wounded, hiding in the woods…Perhaps not seeing too clearly, no doubt not even seeing Mr. Oriot running towards him. It is normal that he is wondering who this young man is…
Mr. Oriot was, I believe, 21 years old at this time. I think that part of the answer is in this narration.
E Lemarchand
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WATCHING FOR MAIL
Barry Needham has been impatiently checking his mail each day since recently returning from Normandy. He will be looking to receive a small parcel containing pieces from the past. While in Normandy, attending the 60th Anniversary of D-Day, Barry contacted a group of French hobbyists who make it their business to track down the remains of crashed aircraft, both allied and German, in the Falaise area of Normandy. They find the sites using official records and from personal sightings at the time of the crash. In the case of a fatality, a small plaque is mounted with the details, pilot’s name, rank and unit. After, they often contact surviving relatives, many of whom come to visit the memorial.
Norbert Hereau is the one who found the remains of Barry’s spitfire where it crashed after he bailed out on July 7th, 1944. Since his wife died a few years ago, Hereau’s home has become a veritable cluttered museum with literally thousands of aircraft related artifacts, including two aircraft engines dug up and carefully preserved under cover in his back yard. Hereau has been involved in this work since he was 14 years old when he was an active member of the French resistance. He also found time to become Mayor of Argentan, population 18,000.
Positive identification that it is Barry’s aircraft was made when Norbert’s numbered piece matched the number in Barry’s logbook
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2008-Falaise opening of memorial Colin, Debra and Scott went with Barry. Debra read High Flight.
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Barry and Georgette Dorn 2009
Map Georgette drew of Barry parachuting July 7, 1944
Eyewitness to crash contacts former Spitfire pilot
By Denise Mozel Wynyard Advance article
More than 60 years ago, Canadian airman Barry Needham’s plane was shot down over Bons Tassilly, France.
Spitfire pilot Needham managed to parachute to safety as his plane crashed to the ground.
The story of that fateful day in July of 1944 continues to unfold.
Recently an eyewitness to the war-time crash contacted Needham at his home in Wynyard.
Noa Dorn phoned Needham on behalf of the eyewitness, who is her grandmother Georgette Dorn. Georgette lives in Paris, France.
Noa had visited her grandmother over the Christmas holidays, and the two women talked about the World War Two incident.
In an email, Noa explained why her grandmother decided to contact Needham after all of these years.
“On New Year’s Eve this year we were speaking of the war… She then brought out a newspaper article from a tin cookie box. The article dating back a few years outlined Mr. and Mrs. Barry Needham’s passage to Normandy,” wrote Noa, who lived in Toronto until just recently.
The article in question contained details of the excavation of Needham’s downed Spitfire.
Noa searched the Internet to locate Needham. She eventually found his Wynyard phone number.
“My heart was pounding as I phoned on Jan. 1, 2009,” wrote Noa.
During the phone conversation, Needham had one request for Noa.
“I asked her to get her grandmother to write out what she observed at the time, and what she knew of the situation. She wrote the whole story of what she saw,” said Needham, who received two letters in the mail, one with Georgette's story in her native French, and another that had been translated to English.
The following is Georgette’s story of what happened the day Needham’s Spitfire was shot down.
“On that summer’s day in 1944, my mother and I were witness to a small plane getting hit by (anti-aircraft fire). The plane quickly burst into flames. We saw the pilot jump with his parachute. We were very touched by the pilot’s sensitivity when he directed his plane away from our houses.”
An email from Noa provides more information about that fateful day.
“At (that) time my grandmother was a beautiful 20-year-old living and working in Paris as a housekeeper, and sending back most of her wages to her mother and younger brother in Bons Tassilly. She had been home for a couple of days on holidays before the fated day,” wrote Noa.
Georgette had been hanging up washing to dry when the Spitfire was shot down. She tried to catch Needham’s attention as he drifted to earth in his parachute.
“The parachute and the pilot came down quite slowly while we tried to get his attention with our white tea towel, hoping to direct him away from the (enemy) Germans. But the terrain was not in our favour. We followed you with our eyes until you landed, and we’ve always remembered your legs dangling,” wrote Georgette in her letter to Needham.
That wasn’t the last Georgette saw of the Canadian pilot. She caught a glimpse of Needham after he was captured by the Germans.
“After a few hours I made my way to the gate on the edge of the road to Falaise, and that’s when I saw the SS car, in which you were seated, stop for a moment. I waved Au Revoir, and someone waved back. I had always thought it was you… ” wrote Georgette, who also sent Needham a picture which shows in detail her memories of the day of the crash.
During the phone conversation Needham had with Noa, Georgette could be overheard in the background.
“The grandmother said, ‘Did he see me waving?’” recalls Needham.
Noa says the French-speaking Georgette also asked one other question.
“The entire time on the phone my grandmother kept whispering to me, “Does he remember me?” and it broke my heart a little to have to say no. Part of me wanted to lie, but I do think that hearing his voice and hearing of his story has since amply made up for that,” wrote Noa.
After Needham's capture by the SS, the Canadian pilot remained a prisoner of the Germans for more than 30 days.
A few years ago, Needham was notified that a group called ANSA was going to attempt to retrieve his downed Spitfire. In October 2005, the Needham family travelled to France for the excavation.
Searchers recovered an American Mustang instead of Needham’s plane.
A newspaper article was published, containing details of the excavation and Needham's war-time crash.
Eyewitnesses then came forward with information, which led to the recovery of Needham's Spitfire in June of 2006.
In what seemed like the final chapter of this story, Needham travelled to France last August to attend an inauguration ceremony for a monument dedicated to the 17,000 Canadian airmen killed during World War Two.
The ceremony was held at the Monts d’Eraines airfield near Falaise, Western France.
As a Canadian airman who had survived a war-time crash, Needham had the honor of giving a speech during the ceremony.
And that is where Needham thought the story of his French connection had ended.
The Dorn women proved him wrong.
Needham is amazed that after all of these years more information is being offered about the day his plane was shot down over France.
“When you drop a pebble in the water it spreads out more and more. This story has done that. Every time I turn around there’s more to it that shows up,” said Needham.
For more information on the recovery of Needham’s Spitfire, visit the website www.ansa.ornemaine.free.fr. Click on Files to find the story.
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November 2, 2008
Memorial for Charley Fox in Ottawa
Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Capt Chris Strawson and I have the privilege to briefly go over the role of an HCol in the CF and to discuss some of the many contributions Charley Fox made to 412 Sqn and the Canadian Forces.
I have to say that there have been many kind words spoken of Charley today, however I occasionally saw another side of him. For example, on a mission over to Pisa, Italy in 2004 with Charley, he introduced me to his second vice. With ice cream of course being his first, no this vice was instrumental in the development of the Fox-Clutch! It was scotch. And I have to say that after being introduced by Charley to this elixir, I am still a little fuzzy as to exactly how much that famous tower in Pisa actually is leaning!
But let's get back to the role of honoraries. The Canadian tradition of appointing honoraries to units originated with the British military but has only been in practice within Canada for a little over a century. Honorary rank is granted to persons who have rendered distinguished service to the Canadian Forces (CF)!!! who, from an educational or administrative point of view, are likely to promote the well being of the CF. The Honorary Colonel of a unit is seen to be the guardian of Squadron traditions and history, an advocate of the unit's identity and ethos, and an advisor to the Commanding Officer on virtually all issues.
Did Charley meet these prerequisites? Well let me say that it may have been his distinguished service to the CF in World War II that got 412 Sqn excited about this man; however it was the secondary prerequisite of promoting the well being of the CF where he truly delivered.
Charley was one of few the few people that you'll meet in your life that has "it"! And what is "it"?
In Jun 2004,412 Sqn had the opportunity to participate in some of the 60th D-Day events that took place over in Normandy. Of course Charley was there and was busily travelling from event to event and interview to interview on a non-stop pace for days. As June 6th came, it was wonderful to participate and walk the beaches of Juno with him. Through this opportunity we were able to meet a couple of Charley’s 412 Sqn mates from the war. One of those men is here today, Barry Needham of Wynyard Sask. Barry was another accomplished aviator of 412 Sqn with a distinguished record.
As luck would have it, 412 Sqn was tasked to pre-position our challenger aircraft from A to B the following day after the celebrations, which was the 6 of June. Because we had Charley's D-Day painted challenger over in France with us, we thought it would be appropriate to take him for a quick jaunt across the country-side. But as many of us know, Charley is a very busy man and would not be able to make the flight. However he strongly thought we should take his fellow 412 Sqn fighter pilot friend from Sask. Well I'm from a little town in Sask as well. It's called Rose Valley (and there's no roses and no valley there). And it's just north of Wynyard. And we used to just hate going to Wynyard to play hockey because those guys were tough and the women were tougher. Taking a guy up from Wynyard Sask in the challenger, I just wasn't sure about that!
But Charley had strongly recommended it, so we arranged it.
On the morning of Jun 7th, 2004 we picked Barry Needham up and left for the airport.
Because the Chief of the Air Staff is here today, I feel obligated to say that all flight levels that day were well within the rules of safe flight, by D-Day 1944 standards! And Barry will attest to that!
When we landed, the 412 Sqn members quickly disembarked the aircraft so we could greet Barry at the bottom of the stairs. When Barry got to the bottom, he extended his hand in gratitude.. ..but within seconds and before his hand could be shook, he took it back sharply.
It was at that that moment that it hit me. And it hit me like a 100b sledge hammer In that two hours of flying, we had done something that was immeasurable. We had given Barry what few aircrew had the opportunity to experience at war's end, a last flight (or a victory flight). Although it was long overdue (exactly 59 years and 11 months to the day), it was deserved, it was important.
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Airport being renamed after war veteran
By Denise Mozel
The Wynyard Memorial Airport is being renamed after a local war veteran.
At an October 21, 2010 meeting, town council voted to rename the facility W.B. Needham Airport. The decision was based on a recommendation made by the Wynyard Memorial Airport Board.
Needham had a colorful history during World War II - one that has been documented in media all over the world.
The Wynyard resident was a Spitfire pilot during the war, and more than 60 years ago his plane was shot down over Bons Tassilly, France. For a short time he was held as prisoner of war by the Germans.
A few years ago, the former Canadian airman made headlines when he travelled to France to observe an organization’s efforts to dig up his downed Spitfire. In 2005, the group called ANSA was unsuccessful in locating the plane, but less than a year later managed to discover the aircraft’s true location. Needham witnessed both excavations, and brought several major parts from his old fighter plane back with him to Wynyard.
The decorated war veteran said that it means a lot to him that the local airport will bear his name.
“I think it’s a great honor. I’m very pleased,” said Needham.
It seems appropriate that the airport is being named after a man who played an instrumental role in its formation.
“I negotiated the land deal for the airport, and bought the land on behalf of the airport committee,” said Needham, who had served as chairman on the airport board for about 17 years.
Needham is pleased to see that his early efforts in the formation of the airport continue to bear fruit today. He has noticed what a busy place the airport is these days.
“Within the last week there have been 10 to 12 airplanes that have landed at the airport. Some of them are hunters. One airplane had five people on board. They were with the Jansen potash development, and this is probably the closest airport for them. That’s a big help to them,” said Needham, who also mentioned that travelers have been very complimentary about the airport’s good-quality landing strip.
In the coming months, signs will be made bearing the airport’s new name. A grand opening will also be scheduled – likely for some time in the spring.
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WWII pilot honored during airport dedication ceremony
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| Chis Strawson and Barry Needham |
By Denise Mozel
The skies over Wynyard Memorial Airport buzzed with activity on the afternoon of Saturday, August 27. 2011
It was truly a sight to behold.
A military helicopter slowly set down in a field next to the runway, which is located about four miles north of Wynyard.
The crew from 3 Canadian Forces Flying Training School (3CFFTS) in Portage La Prairie, Manitoba climbed out of the Griffon helicopter and walked over to the spot where a large group of people had gathered, their eyes still watching the sky.
A twin-engine military plane then landed on the runway.
Two CT-156 Harvard II aircraft from 15 Wing Moose Jaw zipped past overhead, their pilots putting on a spectacular display before coming in for a landing.
In all, a total of 17 members of the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) arrived just in time for a dedication ceremony for W.B. Needham Field at Wynyard Memorial Airport in honour of local World War II spitfire pilot Barry Needham.
The 91-year-old war veteran felt very touched to receive such a spectacular flypast during the dedication ceremony held in his honour.
“It’s one of the greatest days of my life. The flypast was a complete surprise. It’s the highlight of the whole affair,” said Needham following the ceremony, which featured speakers from CFB Moose Jaw, 412 Squadron based in Ottawa, and 3CFFTS.
Two of the speakers that day were pilots who have become Needham’s close friends.
Captain Chris Strawson from 3CFFTS and Captain Jeff Andrews of CFB Moose Jaw have both formed bonds with the Wynyard war veteran.
Andrews had recently taken part in the flypast during Wynyard's centennial celebration in late July. Needham was amazed he returned so soon for another flypast.
“Some of them were here for the centennial weekend. To come back again… it’s outstanding,” said Needham.
Both Andrews and Strawson met Needham while stationed with the 412 Squadron (Needham’s squadron during the war), which is now a VIP unit that flies important dignitaries all over the world.
“Upon meeting him it was an instant bond,” said Andrews during the dedication ceremony. He has known Needham for about six years.
Andrews then read the famous aviation poem High Flight written by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., a squadron mate of Needham’s who died during the war.
“Thank you for letting us come here today Barry,” said Andrews following the recitation.
Strawson also played a role in the dedication ceremony. Having met Needham while in France seven years ago for the 60th anniversary of D-Day, Strawson talked at length about the impression Needham has made on him.
Recalling a time in June 2011, when he had to fly to Wynyard to pick up Needham and then fly him to Ottawa for the 70th anniversary of the 412 Squadron, Strawson marvelled at Needham’s calm demeanour when they had to fly in less-than-stellar weather conditions.
Strawson had asked Needham for a weather report that day, and the veteran said it was okay to fly. When Strawson arrived in Wynyard he discovered the weather was not good. It suddenly dawned on him why Needham had not warned him to call off the flight.
“I asked a World War II spitfire pilot, a man who flew four times on D-Day… to provide me with a weather prognosis…”
In response to this remark Needham licked his finger and held it up to the wind, drawing laughs from the audience.
When he regained his composure, Strawson said the flight that day gave him a rare glimpse into the conditions pilots like Needham must have had to face in battle.
Lt. Col. Todd O’Malley from CFB Moose Jaw also spoke during the dedication ceremony, taking the opportunity to thank Needham for helping to pave the way for today’s RCAF pilots.
“If it wouldn’t have been for men like you, none of us would be able to live our dreams,” he told Needham.
O’Malley read a letter penned by Chief of the Air Staff General Andre Deschamps which told Needham, “We will always consider you one of our own.”
Capt. Andrew Wetmore of the 412 squadron also read a letter from his superior which stated that Needham, will “...always remain a falcon.” That majestic bird is featured on the squadron’s badge.
Besides receiving tributes for his wartime service, Needham also got a few accolades for his volunteerism in the post-war era.
“We have a very distinguished member in our community,” said Mayor Sharon Armstrong, who helped emcee the dedication ceremony. “He has been contributing to and working for Wynyard all of his adult life, so it is very appropriate we have named this W.B. Needham Field.”
The reeve for the RM of Big Quill, Eugene McSymytz, also helped emcee the event, and he outlined some of Needham’s service to Wynyard, which includes being one of four founding members of the Wynyard Memorial Airport.
In 1957, a small group of Wynyard residents decided to set up an airstrip near town as a result of the many difficult landings encountered by air ambulance when transporting patients.
The four men – Needham, Walter Magnusson, George Bolt, and Kelly Park – sought out land for the project, and canvassed for donations.
“As the Wynyard Advance, the community’s newspaper stated in 1961,” read McSymytz from a history of the airport which was compiled by former newspaper publisher Needham, “many visiting airmen have since remarked that the runway is one of the best in the province.”
It has been nearly 54 years since Needham helped found the airport. As he stood surrounded by RCAF members following the dedication ceremony which named the facility W.B. Needham Field at Wynyard Memorial Airport, Needham thought back to the official opening ceremony held on July 30, 1961.
“At the opening… there were several hundred people out here. There was supposed by be a flypast at 2 o’clock. The second hand got to two, and we thought, ‘Where’s the planes?’ They didn’t come as promised. I wrote a nasty letter to the Air Force. I told that story to the Colonel (today), and he said, ‘Did today make up for it?’ I said yes,” remarked Needham, who finally got his flypast more than five decades late.
Near the end of the dedication ceremony, Needham and his family revealed a plaque embedded in a large stone at the airport which names the site W.B. Needham Field.
Following the ceremony, everyone headed back to town to enjoy refreshments at the Legion Hall.
Needham’s daughter Denise read stories written by her father about his aviation days during and after the war. Many laughs were shared during this time.
The family is very pleased that Needham is being recognized for his accomplishments.
“We think he deserves it," said Denise Needham. "He’s a very modest man, and we’re very proud of him."
The social gathering at the Legion Hall brought an end to the day. It's safe to say that it was a day that all those in attendance won't likely soon forget.
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Proud family-left to right Scott, Denise, Dad, Debra, Mom and Colin August 27, 2011
Crews came from 3 Canadian Forces Flying Training School in Portage La Prairie, 412 Squadron Ottawa and CFB Moose Jaw August 27, 2011 2 pm. Wynyard Air cadets join the crew below
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Biplane stops in Wynyard during historical reenactment
By Denise Mozel
The small blue biplane taxied down the Wynyard Airport runway after landing last Tuesday morning.
The two pilots waved to their small welcoming committee.
A cold wind blew, chilling the spectators. They took refuge in a building.
Surprisingly, the only ones not feeling cold were the pilot Tom Hinderks and his co-pilot Curtis Peters.
The men quickly unfolded their bodies from their cramped quarters in the open-cockpit biplane named the Blue Baron.
“I’m not even cold to be honest,” said the smiling Peters as he stretched his legs.
Hinderks seemed to be shivering, and kept lifting his shoulders.
“I’m not so much cold. It’s just that the back cockpit where I fly from is a little smaller. I’m all crinkled,” said Hinderks, trying to work out all of the kinks.
The pilots stopped in Wynyard last week while recreating the first air-mail service flight between Winnipeg and Edmonton. That inaugural flight took place on December 10, 1928.
The re-enactment was part of the Spirit of Edmonton Project initiated by the Alberta Aviation Museum and the Edmonton Aviation Heritage Society.
Peters and Hinderks had originally set out on their journey on December 1, of last year. They flew the Kelly-D model biplane (which is a replica of the one flown 80 years ago) from Winnipeg to Neepawa, Man., before being grounded due to dangerous cold temperatures and high winds.
Winter weather stalled the flight until last Monday, when the plane finally lifted off from Neepawa.
During the entire journey, the pilots had to stop at roughly two-hour intervals to refuel the plane. Last Monday they stopped in Russell, Manitoba, before spending the night in Yorkton.
At around 10:30 am last Tuesday, the long-awaited biplane finally touched down on the runway at Wynyard Airport.
After the pilots removed their head gear, Barry Needham stepped forward. He introduced himself, and delivered a letter from the Mayor of Wynyard, Sharon Armstrong.
At each of their stops, the pilots collected letters from the mayor of those communities for delivery to Edmonton. This was a way of highlighting the importance of early air-mail service.
Once the Wynyard letter was in their possession, the pilots took shelter in the airport building.
Hinderks told spectators that the wind had slowed the plane’s progress that day.
“Coming into Wynyard it got a bit rough. At times we were only going 35 miles per hour. It was a decent flight, but the winds aloft were really nasty today,” said Hinderks, who is the executive director of the Alberta Aviation Museum.
A ground crew consisting of Rod Macleod and Paul Squires from the Alberta Aviation Museum followed the plane in a van.
“We were following from Yorkton, and we had to stop several times to let (the plane) catch up,” said Macleod.
When asked what it is like to fly in an open-cockpit plane on a windy, winter day, Hinderks offered this description:
“Imagine being in a big convertible with the top down driving 85 miles an hour. Today, it was like going down a washboard road and the heaters are broken.”
Peters began laughing at that description.
“That’s so true,” said the co-pilot, who then joked about his part in the project.
“I don’t think anyone else was silly enough to go on this flight. I didn’t have any fantasies about it being fun,” said Peters, who despite his words seemed to be enjoying the trip.
“Only the diehards fly like this,” he added, before mentioning that pioneers of early air mail flights used to wear buffalo coats to protect them from the cold.
“In a lot of ways the technology of the 1920s was more reliable than what we have now. We are using electric vests. If that fails, we are in serious trouble,” said Peters.
While the men stood around drinking hot chocolate, they talked about the trip ahead.
The pilots originally planned to fly to Saskatoon from Wynyard, but decided to err on the side of caution by stopping in Humboldt to refuel before flying to Saskatoon.
“There are two rules on this (project),” declared Peters.
“Tom don’t get hurt, and Tom don’t get hurt. I’m on the same plane with Tom, so I’m okay with that.”
The men talked amiably with the spectators, who had arrived to witness the historic flight.
Needham, who was a World War Two Spitfire pilot, mentioned that the Kelly-D plane had been built to resemble an Avro Avian.
“That’s what I learned to fly on,” said Needham.
Peters was familiar with Needham.
“I run the largest aviation website (Aviation.ca). I recognized your name as soon as I heard it. I am an aviation history buff. It is very much an honor to meet you.”
While Peters had a chance to meet one of his heroes of aviation, Hinderks told the spectators it wasn’t the first time he had flow in the Wynyard area.
“I have flown this route before in August, in an airplane that was somewhat faster,” said Hinderks, provoking laughter.
“I used to fly into Dafoe with my father. Back then it was a busy, busy, base,” he said.
Though many people would probably have given up on the Spirit of Edmonton Project when delays stretched out for more than a month, Hinderks offered this reason for the team’s perseverance:
“We’re too damn stubborn to give up,” he said.
The men soon headed back outside to do a safety check of their plane.
They remained in Wynyard for less than an hour before heading out once again.
Before the plane began to taxi down the runway, Mayor Sharon Armstrong (who had arrived moments earlier) said a few words to the pilots.
“Thanks for stopping in Wynyard,” she said. “It’s an honor.”
Before long, the plane picked up speed and lifted off. The pilots waved a final goodbye to the people on the ground.
The sound of the engine soon faded as the plane moved from sight. The spectators shuffled off, seeking the warmth of their vehicles.
The pilots arrived in Saskatoon that day, after stopping to refuel in Humboldt. It had proved to be a grueling flight for the two men.
“Due to some communication equipment issues we only had partial communication… Talk about pilot stress. If you ever need to feel small, try flying into an international airport in a eight-meter wingspan biplane in high winds with communication issues. That had to be the most stressful landing I have ever done,” wrote Hinderks in a press release.
The men stayed in Saskatoon overnight, before flying to North Battleford, Lloydminster, and Vegreville, Alta. the following day.
After refueling in Vegreville, the pilots began the final leg of their journey to Edmonton.
Here is an account of that trip written by Dave Heathcote of the Alberta Aviation Museum:
“Our crew made it successfully to Edmonton, with 15 minutes of daylight remaining. The final speed bump was a total failure of the communications system. A Cessna was dispatched to meet the biplane at Vegreville and fly escort to Edmonton. Enroute, the local Global news helicopter joined the formation. Over 100 people met the aircraft on the ramp in Edmonton, beside the museum,” wrote Heathcote in a news release.
Three more flights are scheduled this year as part of the Spirit of Edmonton Project to celebrate the 100th anniversary of aviation in Canada.
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Oilivier Combret with Barry Needham post Harvard flight
Two new friends 'shake' over an old friend. World War Two pilot Barry Needham of Wynyard (right) is no stranger to the Harvard aircraft. Neither is Olivier Combret of Oliver, B.C., but the two come from two different eras. Needham trained in Harvards at Yorkton in 1941 and was one of the first graduates from the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (BCATP) flying school #11 there. Combret normally flies helicopters for his own firefighting company in B.C. but this 1951 vintage Harvard MarkIV is one of his passions.
On Sunday, Sept 14, 41 year old Combret helped the 94 year old fighter pilot into the Harvard for a flight down memory lane, launched from virtually the same runway he had flown from 72 years previously. Combret and his 15 year old son Vincent (also a licensed pilot) flew the plane into Yorkton from its base in Oliver B.C. in order to meet Barry Needham. Needham is, of course, the former longtime owner/publisher of the Wynyard Advance.(Rumour has it he may even have taken the controls for a few moments out of a 30 minute flight around Yorkton and Good Spirit Lake.)
The grin said it all. "Now that's flying" said 94 year old Barry Needham of Wynyard, as he stepped from the canopy of a "Thrush" aerial spray plane owned by MICAAR Aerial of Yorkton, September 14. The Thrush 510 P Dual was piloted by Devan Yaholnitsky, one of a team of spray pilots for MICAAR. Needham said that when Devan powered the 750 horse power turbine Ag tractor at low level spray height across nearby fields, it was "more of what he was accustomed to" when flying the famous WW2 Spitfire over France. The Harvard aircraft just behind was a 460 HP rotary engine training airplane powerful enough for its time and purpose but obviously without the flight capabilities of either the WW2 Spitfire or the modern day "Thrush". Needham says the Spitfire was "the perfect aircraft." Its early version Merlin engine also cranked 750 HP but later models went well over 1000 HP. The two pilots also flew several circuits over Yorkton in formation.
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WW II Veteran Compares “War Birds” and Ag Tractors.
Barry Needham seems quite comfortable making ( and talking about) history.Barry Needham gives us the The Big Sendoff! Devan Yaholnitsky fires up the Thrush with Copilot Barry Needham
When Needham, a WW2 veteran airman, spoke to several hundred at a special celebration of
aviation history in summer of 2013 at Yorkton, people were taken by his story of a 1944 bailout from a crippled, flaming Spitfire over France and impressed by the spunk and agility of a man of 93 years ( at that time).
A year later, age 94, Needham was back, in the same place, for another historic celebration. The
2013 event was a visit of a B17 American Bomber. This time (September 14, 2014) Needham
climbed into the rear seat of a vintage Harvard very much like one he had trained on in 1941 – also at Yorkton. Eventually he took the controls for a few minutes while flying with 41 year old Olivier Combret of Oliver, B.C... Combret is French expatriate, now a Canadian citizen, professional aerial fire fighter, and a man who says he wants to do his part to preserve Canada’s aviation history..
Combret’s company, Atlas Helicopters, is based at Oliver in the Okanogan Valley. “I wanted to
contribute to maintaining Canadian heritage,” he says, “And Canada has a great history of aviation and manufacturing.” In 1941, Yorkton based Harvards were made in California. But Combret’s “warbird” was built in postwar 1951, in Quebec,. It spent much of its early life as a training plane at Moose Jaw. The plane is serial number #7 but its Royal Canadian Air force registration # is 216. In 1966, it was disposed of by the military, went through several U.S. ownerships, returned to Canada in 2007 and was purchased by Combret in 2013. It has some advanced radio equipment and other necessary mechanical upgrades, but its paint job and authentic appearance are in keeping with Combret’s interest in Canadian aviation history.
Needham was heard to say “That was great!” as he dismounted from the Harvard, but after his
spray plane flight he was “lit up” by its power, agility and maneuverability. (“That’s closer to the kind of flying I would do (in the Spitfire war birds”).
The Thrush, after all, has the ability to carry more than it’s own weight (4900 pounds) and even
fully loaded (about 10 thousand pounds) can work at 150 miles per hour. At 8 thousand pounds
weight it still can climb over 600 feet per minute. In his Thrush flight Needham was treated to some low level runs, which he said was typical wartime attack style.
Unlike some veterans, Barry Needham is quite willing to talk about his combat experience –
perhaps his personal contribution to Canadian aviation history. He easily shares the story and other anecdotes of his war stories such as how his Spitfire caught fire from an exploding target, during a strafing run over France, an incident which landed him in a German hospital. .He would meet one of his French nurses during another post war visit to France.
Among his personal souvenirs, the (still inflated) tail wheel from his downed fighter plane, as well, he says, as a box of miscellaneous pieces of the aircraft dug up in France.
A more complete account of Barry Needham’s wartime story can be found in the
February 2012 edition of Windsock, a publication of the Regina branch of the
Canadian Aviation History Society.
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TALK TO REGINA HISTORICAL SOCIETY
This is where I am supposed to say “thank you for inviting me, it’s a pleasure to be here. “At my age, it is a pleasure to be anywhere”
Winston Churchill once said; “It is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is perhaps the end of the beginning”. I believe this quotation could very well relate to my many experiences since the end of WW11 that have made, and continues to make, my life interesting. with no end in sight. I call it my French Connection. story.
Prior to going on a group tour to Normandy in 1994 for the 5oth anniversary of the D-Day landings. I found the name Louise Ferlico on a scrap of paper that I had saved from 1944.. She was a nurse in the POW hospital at Rennes,.I asked the France-Canada Assoc to try to locate her. My request published in a French newspaper, resulted in 9 responses. Several said they had known Louise in the past but no longer knew her whereabouts; others said they did not know her, but issued an invitation for me to visit their homes. The one reply I was looking for came from Louise’s son Jean He spoke excellent English and by phone and mail we arranged to meet his 83 year old mother during our visit to Benny-Sur-Mere Canadian war cemetery. Even after 50 years we recognized each other instantly. We put our arms around each other and I admit we cried while recalling the days at Stalag 221.She was one of a group of French nurses who came in each morning then returned home in the evening.
The hospital was a large three story building commandeered by the Germans to house several hundred prisoners the majority American Paratroopers captured on the morning of D Day. They were being marched down a road when a flight of P51’s attacked. All of a sudden they had a lot of casualties.
On another tour in 2003 the year prior to the official opening of Juno Beach a French friend drove my wife and I to the city of Rennes. Here we met another nurse from the POW hospital. Her son arranged a tour of the school now returned to it’s former state. This was another very emotional visit recalling 34 days spent there recovering from my burns.
Despite near starvation (water cabbage soup, and occasionally black bread and stinky cheese) there were some amusing and interesting incidents One paratrooper whose peace time job was riding a motorcycle around a wooden bowl for Ringling Bros. Circus became enamored with one of the pretty nurses, He thought because I was Canadian I could speak French so he asked for help. The only French phrase I could remember was “Vous etre mon petite chou” Where in the world I got it from, I have no idea. It apparently is a lovers phrase ‘you are my little cabbage” .He could be heard in his deep southern accent, practicing this over and over again, trying to get up nerve to approach his nurse I don’t know if he ever used it. There was a work party of Moroccan prisoners in a camp next door who went out every day performing various tasks. One task was to bring the bread ration using a horse drawn cart.. The driver got into the cart and kicked the bread out while two helpers held the corners of a blanket to catch the loaves. This day a loaf failed to hit the blanket and fell on the ground causing a mad scramble.
One entertainment was to watch from the top story windows the girlfriends of the SS sunbathing. In the backyard of their barracks. The guards soon put a stop to this spoiling our fun.
Stalag 221 was only days old before a hidden radio was in operation with the help of the nurses giving us daily BBC reports on the war’s progress. These nurses deserve a medal.
My best memory is the day we were liberated. It happened to be my birthday. Rennes had a very active resistance group that contacted General George Patton convincing him not to flatten the city as was his usual practice.
After several mortar attacks, the German SS troops began evacuating their building just across the village square. Their sunbathing girl friends received short shrift when they tried to climb aboard the departing trucks. They were barely out of sight when the French civilians started looting. It did not take long to completely empty the building when they came to the wine cellar; it started one of the wildest tail gate parties you ever saw. Champagne and wine flowed like water. Grey cup celebrations couldn’t compete. Unfortunately, I could not take part as I had developed quinsy and the old French doctor had lanced my tonsils. I read somewhere later after the war that the residents of Rennes celebrated longer and louder than any other city. They were noted for cutting their hair and paraded girls who had collaborated with the Germans.
The second chapter began in 1999 when I received a letter from RAF Squadron Leader Chris Goss in the UK. Goss is a historian and author of several military books While researching a new book “Luftwaffe bombers over England” he found my combat report of September 1942 and asked if he could include it.
During the summer and early fall of 1942 the Luftwaffe was carrying out almost daily hit and run raids on the towns along the South coast of England. The Focke Wulf’ and Meshersmits carrying 500 pound bombs were doing tremendous damage and terrifying the population. To counteract these raids spitfire squadrons were placed along the south coast.
September 17th 1942 Lloyd Powell and I were sitting in our Spitfires on immediate readiness at Tangmere airfield when we saw bombs bursting over the village of Worthy. At the same time we were ordered to scramble and at once saw two Focke-Wulf 190’s fleeing out to sea. Our combat report says “and the chase was on”. Powell was able to latch on to the nearest 190 which he shot down into the channel while I began a long full-throttle chase at wave top height, before getting close enough to open fire with cannon and machine guns. I observed strikes and the 190 was last seen crossing the French coast streaming smoke. The Mark V spitfire was no match for a 190.
Besides contacting me, Goss also contacted the brother of the 190 pilot whose aircraft I had damaged now living in Bad Glechenberg, Austria. He had us exchange addresses and so we began a friendship that is still carried on to this day by regular mail, e mail and telephone. Willy speaks excellent English having managed an American 5-star hotel in Algeria. He sent many photos and news reports about his brother Leopold who was one of the top pilots of the JG 26 Luftwaffe fighter group. Leopold carried out more than a dozen low-level raids on the English coast the largest against Bournemouth the coastal city where all RCAF personnel went first after arriving in the UK. He led a raid by 26 FW”s on May 23/1943 that killed 77 civilians and 34 RAF and RCAF personnel. Leopold was shot down and killed in 1945 while flying against the Russians. Willy tried to follow his brother into the Luftwaffe but instead found himself in the army defending Berlin from the Russians. His account “Springtime In Berlin” is an incredible story of his days there before surrendering to the Americans.
Over the next couple of years our friendship grew. Willy never forgets my birthday or to wish me and my family Merry Christmas, Happy July 1st Canada day and Easter. In 2004 our daughter Denise convinced us we should visit Willy. She booked the flight, train and hotel reservations to Bad Glechenberg.. Willy and wife Wilma made us welcome and royally entertained us for the next few days. At our first meeting Willy presented me with one of his brother’s souvenirs, a 20mm cannon shell I had fired into his aircraft.. Willy said, “You gave this to my brother, now I am returning it to you”.
That same year, 2004, I was a Veteran Affairs delegate to the 60th anniversary of D-Day in Normandy. While there I met a group of French hobbyists called ANSA, “The Normandy Association for air remembrance.” Their prime object is to locate aircraft crashed during the Normandy invasion. It is estimated nearly 3,000 went down. So far they have recovered 1500. They do this by searching RAF and German records and local eye witness accounts. Often at the crash site a small cairn is erected with the unit and names of the deceased engraved. Memorial services are held each year on the anniversary of the crash. When possible, surviving relatives are located and invited to attend.
When I described my bail-out one Ansa member said I think I know where your aircraft is and we will investigate. On October 17, 2005 I was invited to attend the excavation near Falaise. With My wife Martha, son and daughter we flew to Paris, then by train to Argentan where we were met by members of Ansa. The next day we joined the excavation crew in a farmer’s field. As the backhoe worked piece after piece including an engine, propeller, cannons and machine guns came out of a hole more than 15 feet deep. With the help of my French friends I was able to wrap the 6-foot 75 lb prop blade which Air Canada delivered to Regina. A short time after arriving home I received a phone call from a very embarrassed Frenchman who said I hate to tell you this, but that was not your airplane that we dug up. It was a P51 Mustang. Needless to say I was disappointed, but considered it to be a great experience.
The Ansa group did not give up the search. A newspaper story about our disappointing visit resulted in four persons coming forward with information. One was L. Marchand , a young farm worker who saw me bale out. Later he presented me with his hand written diary recording the event on July 7th, 1944. With the location of my aircraft fairly certain, Ansa invited me to attend another excavation in June 2006. This time we hit the right location. A stench of gasoline filled the air when the backhoe broke made the first cut uncovering the mangled remains of MK622.This time I was able to bring home the still inflated tail wheel.
Because I am one of the few remaining survivors of ANSA many excavations, I was invited to unveil an impressive marble memorial at the Falaise airport in August 2008. It is dedicated in memory of 17,000 Canadian airmen who lost their lives while flying to liberate France. I was accompanied by my daughter Debra who recited “High Flight”, a poem by Flying Officer John Gillespie Magee, a squadron mate while I was in 412 Squadron. Also sons Colin and Scott. Part of the program was a flight for each of them in a Harvard and a flight for me in a Tiger Moth. Several hundred attended including four representatives from the Canadian embassy, mayors of neighboring villages and representative from the Russian embassy. A fly-past by the French air force was very impressive. At the reception following, I was made an honorary member of ANSA. The dedication was attended by several hundred spectators.
The last chapter to my French Connection story opened the morning of New Years day 2009 with a phone call from Paris. The young voice said “I am Noa Dorn, I live in Toronto and I am here visiting my grandmother. My grandmother has a question for you she wants to know did you see her waving when you bailed out.” Needless to say I was stunned!! She said her grandmother was a young girl hanging out the laundry near Bons Tasilly when she saw my aircraft get hit and saw me take to my parachute. I asked her grandmother to write her recollections. Later I received a remarkable colored map and account of what she saw that day in 1944. In October 2010, Ansa brought Georgette Dorn to Argentan to meet me. , What a gracious lady. When we visited her former home we were able to stand in the exact spot where she watched me come down. She pointed out a well in the yard where she said they planned to hide me if they could get me before the Germans. However, they were unsuccessful. She said she waved as I was driven away.
Now, back to the beginning when Churchill said it is not the end, I must disagree, this is the end. Thank you.
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Some important dates in Needham’s life
1940 to 46 Barry Needham served with the RCAF’s 412 Squadron during WWII.
1944 July 7 Needham was shot down over Bons-Tassilly, France, and taken prisoner by the Germans. Just 34 days later the American army liberated the area and Needham was freed.
1957 December After learning about the many difficult landings encountered by air ambulance during the transportation of patients, four Wynyard residents held a meeting concerning the possibility of developing an airstrip near town. The founding members included Needham, Walter Magnusson, George Bolt, and Kelly Park.
1958 June Land was purchased for the airport
1961 July 30 The airport’s official opening was held. A scheduled fly past did not occur, disappointing Needham.
1990 The north-south grass runway which served well for 30 years was replaced with an east-west paved runway
1991 June Barry and Martha go to England to visit 411 squadron sister squadron to 412
1995 Needham was named Wynyard Citizen of the Year.
2003 First tour of Juno Beach. It was not officially opened yet. Here he met his nurse friend Mme. Louise Ferlicot from hospital POW camp at Rennes. They visited the POW site with JC Boularand
2004 June 6 D Day Official opening of Juno Beach -
On this same trip Barry met the ANSA group (Normandy Association for Air Remembrance) and talked about possibility of finding his downed Spitfire
2004 September Met Willy Wenger and his wife Wilma in Austria. Willy presented Barry with the shell that his brother Leopold Wenger salvaged from his plane after being hit by it over the English Channel September 17, 1942
2005 First dig Debra and Alfred, Scott and Loreli with Martha and Barry. Found out when they got back to Canada- Wrong plane! It was an American mustang.
2006 June 19 Debra, Denise, Barry and Martha – this time they found the spitfire. What an amazing day!
2008 Falaise opening of memorial Colin, Debra and Scott went with Barry. Debra read High Flight.
2009 Barry went to France with Alfred to visit Georgette Dorn who was an eye witness to Dad baling out of his burning spitfire
2011 June Captain Chris Strawson picked up Needham in Wynyard and flew the war veteran to Ottawa to participate in the 70th anniversary celebration for the 412 Squadron.
2011 July 22 Captain Jeff Andrews and other pilots from CFB Moose Jaw took part in a fly pass held during Wynyard’s centennial celebration. Andrews had met Needham several years earlier while serving with 412 Squadron, and the two remain close.
2011 August 27 The dedication ceremony was held for W.B. Needham Field Wynyard Memorial Airport. A spectacular RCAF fly pass took place. Both Capt.Strawson and Capt. Andrews participated in the fly pass and the dedication ceremony.
2014 Ray Haas publishes his book “Touching the Face of God” The story of John Gillespie Magee Jr. and his poem High Flight. Ray dedicated his book to Flight Lieutenant Barry Needham Royal Canadian Air Force 412 Squadron ……..and to all of us who have found a home in the sky
2014 September 13 Barry flies a Harvard at the Yorkton Airport. When asked by his daughter “Could you have landed it?”his answer was “Hell yes!”
2015 February 4 Barry receives French medal in the mail given to all living allies who participated in D Day 1944
February 27 at the Wynyard Legion Needham is officially presented his French medal
2015-2017 Dad spent time with his family up until his passing July 17, 2017 exactly 2 years to the day when his wife Martha passed July 17, 2015
Dad enjoyed many road trips during this time period including 2 to Minot North Dakota where he visited a Spitfire and where he was treated like royalty. Let it be known he did not qualify for extra health care insurance so travelled with none. What is the worst that could have happened? …….Always up for an adventure he travelled by train to Vancouver and around Saskatchewan making his last fishing trip June of 2017.
In Dad’s words………..I saved the best for last…..
I first met Martha on a blind date in 1947. She was a steno at the Bank of Montreal. I have often jokingly said that I married her because I thought she owned the bank. This is not true I married her because I loved her and I still do more than ever.
At 94 years of age and 67 years of marriage I only now am beginning to appreciate what a wonderful person she is. Her talents are endless. She is proficient in almost all of the crafts including carpentry, copper tooling, cut glass, knitting and pottery in which she excelled for more than 40 years. Her pottery has won her awards and is scattered around the world. Martha has a toolbox she knows how to use and that would put to shame some professional mechanics. Many , many times when I have called “Martha!” for help whether it was something mechanical or deciphering instructions how to open the box, put the contents together and make it work, she always had the solution.
“I could never have a more faithful and devoted companion. You were always agreeable to go whenever and wherever I asked. Most of my friends used to say I have to ask my wife when I want to go some place” I never did. You always approved and encouraged. “ Love Barry
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An Airman's Story William Barry Needham Dedication This book is dedicated to our father, William Barry Needham simply k... -
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