THE LIFE OF A N.Z. FIGHTER SQUADRON (No. 486 (NZ) Squadron)
Jan 10, 2021 16:46:57 GMT 12
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Post by Dave Homewood on Jan 10, 2021 16:46:57 GMT 12
THE LIFE OF A N.Z. FIGHTER SQUADRON
THE AIR WAR
[Broadcast by FUGHT LIEUTENANT HUGH PARKER in the B.B.C.’s Overseas Service.]
Quite recently I spent a day with one of your famous fighter squadrons. This squadron, in common with others of the second Tactical Air Force, was tucked away on what had once been farm land in southern England. It was a sunny but rather blustery day and I sat in a large canvas marquee which does service as a crew room and, so to-speak on your behalf, talked with pilots and personnel of this famous squadron. The canvas of the marquee flapped viciously as we talked.
One by one the pilots left the marquee to go out and do a job. Others came in in twos and threes, eagerly discussing the results of their latest sorties. After a searching interrogation by the “spy”—as these fellows call their intelligence officer—they joined me, and they told me something of their work and achievements in the battle of the doodlebug. But I am beginning this story at the wrong end because I should tell you I went down to see this squadron to get some facts about its history so that I could report, for your interest, the trend of its affairs.
One of the first people I met in that marquee was Flying Officer Jim Wilson of Fairlie, South Canterbury. He proved to be a mine of information and credit goes to him for much of the historical gen which has gone into this radio dispatch. We pored over his log book together. Every now and then his finger hesitated on this entry and that.
The squadron was formed in March, 1942, and formed with that backbone of the Battle of Britain, the Hurricane. I gathered during the early months in the life of the squadron their role had been night fighting. I looked round the circle in the marquee and said, “Have we anyone here who remembers as far back as that?” There was silence for a moment, a silence broken only by the interminable flap of the marquee. You know what the New Zealand boys are like, deeds, not words. Then someone said, “Harvey’s your man, I’ll find him for you.”
Thus it was I met Flight Lieutenant Harvey Sweetman, of Auckland. He claims our attention, not only because of his long operational experience, which has made him a forceful, straight-shooting pilot, but because he has been with the squadron since its formation, under the command of Squadron Leader Roberts. Somewhat diffidently he admitted those nights in the cockpit of a Hurricane seemed very far away.
He smiled a little as he said, “The majority of us hadn't a great deal of experience in this particular art of flying, so we put in hours of concentrated practice, unfortunately at that time the enemy bombing activity in our area was very slight, and so we saw very little of the Hun, and then—just a minute.’ A log book’ appeared from under a pile of flying clothing, and he scanned the pages. “Yes, that’s right, we then transferred to day fighters and they fixed us up with another type of aircraft. Then our night training proved to be very valuable indeed; quite a few of our later operations were done, as a squadron in the very early hours of the morning or at last light, that is just after dusk.”
“Military Installations”
At this point our historian, Jim Wilson, took up the story again. From him I learnt that the day fighting role consisted of waiting for enemy sneak raiders, an occupation crowned with very considerable success. At this time the star of our air power began to mount into the ascendancy, and with its rise, in April, 1943, the squadron became offensive. They escorted fighter bombers. They engaged in shipping strikes. The months passed and October, 1943, found them as fighter bombers themselves. Escorted by formations of their own squadron, with several thousand pounds of high explosives tucked away beneath them, they set out to leave it with ever growing accuracy where it was of most use. And where was that? Well, it was on the targets so frequently designated in communiques as military installations, but nowin these later days revealed as flying bomb installations.
I had got as far as this with the history of the squadron when a young flight sergeant came into the tent. His hair was ruffled from pulling off his flying helmet. A gay silk square was tied about his heck. A map protruded from the top of one of his flying boots. Somebody said, “Talk of the devil, there’s the very man who can tell you about the military installation jobs.” He was introduced to me as Flight Sergeant Brian O’Connor, of Nelson. He settled down in a chair beside me, stretched his legs and said, “Well, you know, although those emplacements are operating to-day, I think the destruction that the squadron inflicted upon them during the months that we gave them our attention must have prevented them being used to the extent that the Huns had hoped. Of course they are very difficult targets to find. They’ve got sort of work shops round them and several other things. After bombing them, we have, at times, gone down and beaten them up with our guns, and sometimes you could even see the Huns running for cover, but unfortunately for them we were at an advantage and made good use of it."
Ground Staff
As he finished speaking I noticed a sergeant hovering about the entrance of the tent. The badge on his arm proclaimed him to be of the signals section. He came in and spoke to one of the pilots. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I did catch his last words—“We’ll fix that straight away, sir”—then he went out, I walked over to the pilot he had been speaking to and asked him what his opinion was of the way the ground staff were doing their job, because I felt no picture of a squadron would be complete unless it included some account of these men. There is a mutual admiration between those of the ground and those of the air.
I picked up a field telephone and got hold of Sergeant Jim Robertson of Dunedin, and he snatched a few moments from his work to come over to the dispersal area to see me. He reeled off a list of names of New Zealanders working with him—Corporal Joe Brash, of Auckland, Corporal, well, they’re all corporals—M.S. Parks, of Auckland, C. Shepherd, of North Auckland, E. Burgess, of Wellington, and D. Ramsay, of Invercargill. Jim Robertson is responsible for all wireless maintenance on the squadron, and, with the men I ready mentioned, makes up the New Zealand contingent of the ground staff —veterans who have been with the squadron almost since the days of its formation. His last words to me typify the keenness and enthusiasm with which the job is being done, “We’re all working flat out keeping our aircraft serviceable.” From all accounts that’s a modest understatement.
“The Sky is Ours"
And so we got back to thumbing our way through that logbook. Picture after picture, memory after memory brought us to 1944. In this year events in the air war have moved with a rapidity only exceeded by the aircraft themselves. D Day came and went—a time which apparently, opened quietly for this New Zealand squadron. Long-range sweeps, train busting, fighter cover over our beachhead. And I was just going to ask Jim Wilson whether there was any veteran about who had all three occupations when Flight Lieutenant Jim McCaw, of Kurow, popped his head into the tent and was promptly set on as being the man I was after. Still protesting violently we got him seated, and, what was far more important, got a few words out of him. His contribution to our history included sidelights on some low-level long-range sweeps which the squadron had undertaken, “trying to get the Huns to play” as he put it. He went on: “We had bags of fun and lots of flak, as Dusty Miller and the commanding officer would be table to tell you.” From what Jim McCaw said I got a very good before and after D Day picture. They had obviously taken part in an intensive anti-transport campaign, which campaign included a high percentage busting.
This took them up to D Day. June 6 opened fairly quietly for them, it wasn’t until the afternoon of that fateful day that members of the squadron were airborne, but as one of them put it, “Things were really moving, and they had got the party going properly by then.” Many heads shook in sad unison as pilot after pilot recalled that no unit of the Luftwaffe had come his way, that the sky over head swarmed with Spitfires, Mustangs, and Typhoons. Fortresses and Liberators were there in hundreds, and it was unanimously carried by everyone in the “house" that afternoon that “the sky is ours over there.” A roar of cheers accompanied this motion and as it died away the “spy” took my arm and led me to a board.
“What those fellows were telling you is past history,” he said. "Now have a look at this. This is the up-to-the-minute stuff.” I got his meaning at once. German ingenuity in weapons of destruction eventually met its master, and the flying bomb is no exception. One of this weapon's masters is this New Zealand fighter squadron. Many holes in the countrysude round Southern England these days bear silent testimony to gunnery ability of the squadron. I pointed to the board and said to “Each mark represents a kill?" He nodded. “Well,” I said, “I’d like to get hold of that fellow—what's his name?—Cammock?” “I’ll try and get him for you,” the intelligence officer said. '“As top scorer in the squadron he should be able to tell you for the folks back home, something of the doodlebug and its habits.” He was able.
“The squadron has had plenty of gunnery practice since this nuisance cropped up,” Flying Officer Ray Cammock, of Papanui, Christchurch, told me. “These things are very fast but not fast enough for us. We’re improving our technique every day in dealing with them. The folks back home may be interested to know what the things look like and I think I can best describe them as being like a long cigar, with a very square wing halfway along and a tube which propels it on top with a flame coming out it..."
He broke off as we heard the sound of aircraft taxiing towards the dispersal and rushed out of the tent. A moment or so later I heard voice outside: “Any luck Gus, came the faint reply from a distant Cockpit. “I got two.” The tent emptied, as if by magic, everyone anxious to hear the details from Warrant Officer Gus Hooper, of Wellington. I followed and, on the outskirt of the crowd, I found myself standing next to the commanding officer, Squadron Leader Iremonger. He is the only Englishman in the squadron, and feels very honoured to have been given the command. One thing he said, and he said it as though he was thinking aloud and thus it came from the heart: “They’re a grand lot of fellows. They’re doing well and we're very grateful to have them over here to deal with the Hun so effectively.
He put into words just exactly what I, a visitor, was thinking.
The tide of war has ebbed and flowed for us for 1770 days and, with that thought, one last word to you, of their homeland. If it goes on for another 1770 days, this New Zealand fighter squadron will still be in there —pitching.
PRESS, 28 OCTOBER 1944
THE AIR WAR
[Broadcast by FUGHT LIEUTENANT HUGH PARKER in the B.B.C.’s Overseas Service.]
Quite recently I spent a day with one of your famous fighter squadrons. This squadron, in common with others of the second Tactical Air Force, was tucked away on what had once been farm land in southern England. It was a sunny but rather blustery day and I sat in a large canvas marquee which does service as a crew room and, so to-speak on your behalf, talked with pilots and personnel of this famous squadron. The canvas of the marquee flapped viciously as we talked.
One by one the pilots left the marquee to go out and do a job. Others came in in twos and threes, eagerly discussing the results of their latest sorties. After a searching interrogation by the “spy”—as these fellows call their intelligence officer—they joined me, and they told me something of their work and achievements in the battle of the doodlebug. But I am beginning this story at the wrong end because I should tell you I went down to see this squadron to get some facts about its history so that I could report, for your interest, the trend of its affairs.
One of the first people I met in that marquee was Flying Officer Jim Wilson of Fairlie, South Canterbury. He proved to be a mine of information and credit goes to him for much of the historical gen which has gone into this radio dispatch. We pored over his log book together. Every now and then his finger hesitated on this entry and that.
The squadron was formed in March, 1942, and formed with that backbone of the Battle of Britain, the Hurricane. I gathered during the early months in the life of the squadron their role had been night fighting. I looked round the circle in the marquee and said, “Have we anyone here who remembers as far back as that?” There was silence for a moment, a silence broken only by the interminable flap of the marquee. You know what the New Zealand boys are like, deeds, not words. Then someone said, “Harvey’s your man, I’ll find him for you.”
Thus it was I met Flight Lieutenant Harvey Sweetman, of Auckland. He claims our attention, not only because of his long operational experience, which has made him a forceful, straight-shooting pilot, but because he has been with the squadron since its formation, under the command of Squadron Leader Roberts. Somewhat diffidently he admitted those nights in the cockpit of a Hurricane seemed very far away.
He smiled a little as he said, “The majority of us hadn't a great deal of experience in this particular art of flying, so we put in hours of concentrated practice, unfortunately at that time the enemy bombing activity in our area was very slight, and so we saw very little of the Hun, and then—just a minute.’ A log book’ appeared from under a pile of flying clothing, and he scanned the pages. “Yes, that’s right, we then transferred to day fighters and they fixed us up with another type of aircraft. Then our night training proved to be very valuable indeed; quite a few of our later operations were done, as a squadron in the very early hours of the morning or at last light, that is just after dusk.”
“Military Installations”
At this point our historian, Jim Wilson, took up the story again. From him I learnt that the day fighting role consisted of waiting for enemy sneak raiders, an occupation crowned with very considerable success. At this time the star of our air power began to mount into the ascendancy, and with its rise, in April, 1943, the squadron became offensive. They escorted fighter bombers. They engaged in shipping strikes. The months passed and October, 1943, found them as fighter bombers themselves. Escorted by formations of their own squadron, with several thousand pounds of high explosives tucked away beneath them, they set out to leave it with ever growing accuracy where it was of most use. And where was that? Well, it was on the targets so frequently designated in communiques as military installations, but nowin these later days revealed as flying bomb installations.
I had got as far as this with the history of the squadron when a young flight sergeant came into the tent. His hair was ruffled from pulling off his flying helmet. A gay silk square was tied about his heck. A map protruded from the top of one of his flying boots. Somebody said, “Talk of the devil, there’s the very man who can tell you about the military installation jobs.” He was introduced to me as Flight Sergeant Brian O’Connor, of Nelson. He settled down in a chair beside me, stretched his legs and said, “Well, you know, although those emplacements are operating to-day, I think the destruction that the squadron inflicted upon them during the months that we gave them our attention must have prevented them being used to the extent that the Huns had hoped. Of course they are very difficult targets to find. They’ve got sort of work shops round them and several other things. After bombing them, we have, at times, gone down and beaten them up with our guns, and sometimes you could even see the Huns running for cover, but unfortunately for them we were at an advantage and made good use of it."
Ground Staff
As he finished speaking I noticed a sergeant hovering about the entrance of the tent. The badge on his arm proclaimed him to be of the signals section. He came in and spoke to one of the pilots. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I did catch his last words—“We’ll fix that straight away, sir”—then he went out, I walked over to the pilot he had been speaking to and asked him what his opinion was of the way the ground staff were doing their job, because I felt no picture of a squadron would be complete unless it included some account of these men. There is a mutual admiration between those of the ground and those of the air.
I picked up a field telephone and got hold of Sergeant Jim Robertson of Dunedin, and he snatched a few moments from his work to come over to the dispersal area to see me. He reeled off a list of names of New Zealanders working with him—Corporal Joe Brash, of Auckland, Corporal, well, they’re all corporals—M.S. Parks, of Auckland, C. Shepherd, of North Auckland, E. Burgess, of Wellington, and D. Ramsay, of Invercargill. Jim Robertson is responsible for all wireless maintenance on the squadron, and, with the men I ready mentioned, makes up the New Zealand contingent of the ground staff —veterans who have been with the squadron almost since the days of its formation. His last words to me typify the keenness and enthusiasm with which the job is being done, “We’re all working flat out keeping our aircraft serviceable.” From all accounts that’s a modest understatement.
“The Sky is Ours"
And so we got back to thumbing our way through that logbook. Picture after picture, memory after memory brought us to 1944. In this year events in the air war have moved with a rapidity only exceeded by the aircraft themselves. D Day came and went—a time which apparently, opened quietly for this New Zealand squadron. Long-range sweeps, train busting, fighter cover over our beachhead. And I was just going to ask Jim Wilson whether there was any veteran about who had all three occupations when Flight Lieutenant Jim McCaw, of Kurow, popped his head into the tent and was promptly set on as being the man I was after. Still protesting violently we got him seated, and, what was far more important, got a few words out of him. His contribution to our history included sidelights on some low-level long-range sweeps which the squadron had undertaken, “trying to get the Huns to play” as he put it. He went on: “We had bags of fun and lots of flak, as Dusty Miller and the commanding officer would be table to tell you.” From what Jim McCaw said I got a very good before and after D Day picture. They had obviously taken part in an intensive anti-transport campaign, which campaign included a high percentage busting.
This took them up to D Day. June 6 opened fairly quietly for them, it wasn’t until the afternoon of that fateful day that members of the squadron were airborne, but as one of them put it, “Things were really moving, and they had got the party going properly by then.” Many heads shook in sad unison as pilot after pilot recalled that no unit of the Luftwaffe had come his way, that the sky over head swarmed with Spitfires, Mustangs, and Typhoons. Fortresses and Liberators were there in hundreds, and it was unanimously carried by everyone in the “house" that afternoon that “the sky is ours over there.” A roar of cheers accompanied this motion and as it died away the “spy” took my arm and led me to a board.
“What those fellows were telling you is past history,” he said. "Now have a look at this. This is the up-to-the-minute stuff.” I got his meaning at once. German ingenuity in weapons of destruction eventually met its master, and the flying bomb is no exception. One of this weapon's masters is this New Zealand fighter squadron. Many holes in the countrysude round Southern England these days bear silent testimony to gunnery ability of the squadron. I pointed to the board and said to “Each mark represents a kill?" He nodded. “Well,” I said, “I’d like to get hold of that fellow—what's his name?—Cammock?” “I’ll try and get him for you,” the intelligence officer said. '“As top scorer in the squadron he should be able to tell you for the folks back home, something of the doodlebug and its habits.” He was able.
“The squadron has had plenty of gunnery practice since this nuisance cropped up,” Flying Officer Ray Cammock, of Papanui, Christchurch, told me. “These things are very fast but not fast enough for us. We’re improving our technique every day in dealing with them. The folks back home may be interested to know what the things look like and I think I can best describe them as being like a long cigar, with a very square wing halfway along and a tube which propels it on top with a flame coming out it..."
He broke off as we heard the sound of aircraft taxiing towards the dispersal and rushed out of the tent. A moment or so later I heard voice outside: “Any luck Gus, came the faint reply from a distant Cockpit. “I got two.” The tent emptied, as if by magic, everyone anxious to hear the details from Warrant Officer Gus Hooper, of Wellington. I followed and, on the outskirt of the crowd, I found myself standing next to the commanding officer, Squadron Leader Iremonger. He is the only Englishman in the squadron, and feels very honoured to have been given the command. One thing he said, and he said it as though he was thinking aloud and thus it came from the heart: “They’re a grand lot of fellows. They’re doing well and we're very grateful to have them over here to deal with the Hun so effectively.
He put into words just exactly what I, a visitor, was thinking.
The tide of war has ebbed and flowed for us for 1770 days and, with that thought, one last word to you, of their homeland. If it goes on for another 1770 days, this New Zealand fighter squadron will still be in there —pitching.
PRESS, 28 OCTOBER 1944
