Interview with Pat Towsey - RNZAF Bomber Pilot
Jul 7, 2022 19:06:39 GMT 12
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Post by Dave Homewood on Jul 7, 2022 19:06:39 GMT 12
AIR HERO APOLOGISES FOR HIS "TAME" STORY
(By E. K. GREEN)
PAT TOWSEY, who used to do serious things with a piano, is a quiet sort of chap. He hasn't changed much that way—not even as Flight-Lieutenant C. P. Towsey, D.F.C. and two "mentions." Not even after three and a half years overseas, flying with R.A.F. bomber squadrons over places like Stettin, Cologne, Essen, Emden and Rostok in Germany, Paris, Brest and so on in France, odd spots in North Africa and Tunisia, Genoa and up about Naples in Italy, and a few thousand miles of anti-submarine patrolling with the Coastal Command.
No, Pat hasn't changed much. Not even after "bailing out" once, being "shot up" occasionally, flying for hours on one occasion without oxygen at 15,000 ft, and dropping British paratroops at Bruneville.
Quiet is the descriptive word. Do I give the impression he has done something in this war. I'm sorry. Actually, he just had a "prosaic, quiet time."
And his D.F.C. and two "mentioned in dispatches"? Nothing much really; quite simply explained— hand-outs.
All in the Day's Work
He told me about it, himself, under diligent questioning, and apologised that he didn't have a better story to tell. There is such a thing as under-statement for the sake of emphasis. It wasn't like that in this case. Pat was quite sincere about it.
It's an R.A.F. and R.N.Z.A.F. attitude, and comes from living for years among other chaps who have all had somewhat similar experiences, who don't "talk shop," and who mustn't, under any circumstances, "shoot a line." The unusual, the adventurous, the hazardous, is all part of the day's work and nothing to write home about. It's difficult for a civilian to understand that this isn't just a pose. There's nothing in civilian life to offer as an apposite case; nothing, that is, so packed with hazard as to make hazard normal.
If you remember that, you can fill in the drama in Pat Towsey's story (and you can multiply it to infinity, and make it the normal story of a New Zealand pilot returned from war). There was the occasion, for instance, when he had to bail out by parachute. It was the finish of his second bombing mission over Germany as a second pilot on a Whitley.
"We were coming back from Stettin. . . . Had overshot the place, got off our course, and ran out of petrol. It meant crash-landing in the dark or bailing out. As second pilot I was the first to go. No, I'd never jumped before, but we'd practised the drill. I didn't notice much until the parachute opened. I was lucky, landed in a nice soft plough field. Didn't break anything."
An Airman's Best Friend
Then there was the general story of adventuring over Germany on 28 occasions, bashing at factories and things. "I never had many exciting experiences. Got a few holes now and again. Saw the odd fighter now and then, but always managed to get into a bit of cloud and get away. Nearest we came to it was once when we saw three Jerries standing off, signalling our position to the ground. A lot of stuff came up. After that they started to close in, but we managed to duck into a bit of cloud. . . . Cloud? Yes. Our best friend at times."
Do you get the general idea? You fill in the bits about the tensed-up nerves, the drama of the take-off, the questing over enemy borders, with hostile eyes straining upwards, and hostile aircraft waiting to pounce, the long fingers of the searchlights probing the night, the bumping of the plane, the flak bursting brilliantly all about, the strain of concentration over the target, the sudden relief when the bombs are gone, and then running the gauntlet home. After all, that's just the background. Nothing to talk about.
After that you can take a touch-and-go show in a Wellington, all the way from Britain, over the Alps, down to bomb Genoa and home again, in the simplest terms. "Oh yes. You haven't got much to spare on that run in a Wellington. You can't fool round too much, or you're a gonner. You've just got enough gas to get home on."
Action Over Brest
To get the real idea of this "Find the Story" game, you want to look up a newspaper file of January 8, 1942, and a news item there stating that the Commander-in-Chief of the Bomber Command had brought to the notice of all bomber stations "the commendable courage and resolution of a young Aucklander, Pilot-Officer C. P. Towsey," who, despite severe air sickness and the failure of his oxygen apparatus, "pressed on to the target and placed his bombs successfully. He had to carry on almost unaided because illness and oxygen lack exhausted his crew. The flight lasted over eight hours, including two or three hours without oxygen at a great height."
Towsey, who was then making his fourth flight as a bomber's captain, was mentioned in dispatches for that. Did he remember a certain incident over Brest associated with a Gneisenau and Scharnhorst raid, I asked him. "Oh that? Just ran out of oxygen and the crew got a bit sick. It was a bit bumpy, but it was the lack of oxygen that upset us—a breakdown of the apparatus before we got to the target.
"How high were we flying? Oh, about 15,000 feet over the target. Nobody passed out, but we were all pretty seedy—just felt sick." That must have been a happy landing back in Britain? "I was never so pleased in my life. That was Pickard's first show in the squadron, and he was so pleased that all his crews got in and out again safely that he gave me a bit of a write-up."
Story of an Ace
Pickard. . . . There was a chap who would have had a real story. The ace of the Bomber Command. A star of "Target for To-night." Had flown more missions than anyone else, and done every sort of job, including dropping and picking up spies. The late Wing-Commander Pickard—"Pic" for short ... a grand chap. Towsey was in his squadron when they dropped British paratroops for the first such raid. That was at Bruneville, in the south of France; an attack on a German radio direction finding station.
Towsey forgot to mention that it was that show which earned him his second mention in dispatches.
And then, about his D.F.C.? That was the time, he said, when he and a few other Whitley pilots were called on for anti-submarine patrolling to help out Coastal Command just before the North African show. An Auckland squadron mate, Squadron-Leader Reg. Coates, developed engine trouble and went down in the ocean about 300 miles due west of Cornwall.
"We had a rough bearing on his position, and went out and did a square search. We were lucky to pick him up after searching round about the area for a couple of hours. We couldn't land, of course, so we flashed back the position of the dinghy and they sent out a destroyer.
The "Keeping: Alive Medal"
"That was what I was cited for, but, frankly, we call it the 'keeping alive medal.' You get it when you've been on a certain number of missions. They rake up something that sounds good as a citation. Of course, there are immediate awards for some outstanding feat. That's different." That, be it explained, is the old soldier complex. The medals that "come up with the rations." They started off in the R.A.F. by saying that so-and-so had "rung the gong" when he won an award. Now they call the D.F.C. familiarly "a gong." And they "kick the gong around . . an attitude recommended only for those who wear them, or who know from experience what it means to fly "so many missions."
Take Towsey's case, as an example. His citation, published on August 26, 1943, recorded that in that sea rescue, "he made flights totalling 30 hours till he succeeded. He has participated in numerous operations, his efforts being marked by outstanding determination to bomb targets effectively. This officer has invariably displayed great courage and devotion to duty."
On Feelings—and Tolerance
Or, if you like, you can read a lot into a casual remark, offered by Towsey, in answer to a question whether he had experienced oxygen lack on any other occasion than the Brest incident. "No," he answered. "I've felt a bit queer at times, but not from oxygen lack."
There was a final question for this R.N.Z.A.F. pilot who has served in Britain and the Middle East, taken an instructor's course in Southern Rhodesia, and taught air pupils at Palestine. What had he learned mainly? His answer was prompt. "Tolerance. I was always in R.A.F. squadrons, with a good mixture of English and Dominion pilots, and a few Poles. In my crew there was an Australian, a Canadian, an Englishman and a Scot. They were all fine fellows and we got on well together. I went over with the usual prejudices, but I found the English charming people. I came back through the States, and I liked what I saw there, too."
AUCKLAND STAR, 13 NOVEMBER 1944
(By E. K. GREEN)
PAT TOWSEY, who used to do serious things with a piano, is a quiet sort of chap. He hasn't changed much that way—not even as Flight-Lieutenant C. P. Towsey, D.F.C. and two "mentions." Not even after three and a half years overseas, flying with R.A.F. bomber squadrons over places like Stettin, Cologne, Essen, Emden and Rostok in Germany, Paris, Brest and so on in France, odd spots in North Africa and Tunisia, Genoa and up about Naples in Italy, and a few thousand miles of anti-submarine patrolling with the Coastal Command.
No, Pat hasn't changed much. Not even after "bailing out" once, being "shot up" occasionally, flying for hours on one occasion without oxygen at 15,000 ft, and dropping British paratroops at Bruneville.
Quiet is the descriptive word. Do I give the impression he has done something in this war. I'm sorry. Actually, he just had a "prosaic, quiet time."
And his D.F.C. and two "mentioned in dispatches"? Nothing much really; quite simply explained— hand-outs.
All in the Day's Work
He told me about it, himself, under diligent questioning, and apologised that he didn't have a better story to tell. There is such a thing as under-statement for the sake of emphasis. It wasn't like that in this case. Pat was quite sincere about it.
It's an R.A.F. and R.N.Z.A.F. attitude, and comes from living for years among other chaps who have all had somewhat similar experiences, who don't "talk shop," and who mustn't, under any circumstances, "shoot a line." The unusual, the adventurous, the hazardous, is all part of the day's work and nothing to write home about. It's difficult for a civilian to understand that this isn't just a pose. There's nothing in civilian life to offer as an apposite case; nothing, that is, so packed with hazard as to make hazard normal.
If you remember that, you can fill in the drama in Pat Towsey's story (and you can multiply it to infinity, and make it the normal story of a New Zealand pilot returned from war). There was the occasion, for instance, when he had to bail out by parachute. It was the finish of his second bombing mission over Germany as a second pilot on a Whitley.
"We were coming back from Stettin. . . . Had overshot the place, got off our course, and ran out of petrol. It meant crash-landing in the dark or bailing out. As second pilot I was the first to go. No, I'd never jumped before, but we'd practised the drill. I didn't notice much until the parachute opened. I was lucky, landed in a nice soft plough field. Didn't break anything."
An Airman's Best Friend
Then there was the general story of adventuring over Germany on 28 occasions, bashing at factories and things. "I never had many exciting experiences. Got a few holes now and again. Saw the odd fighter now and then, but always managed to get into a bit of cloud and get away. Nearest we came to it was once when we saw three Jerries standing off, signalling our position to the ground. A lot of stuff came up. After that they started to close in, but we managed to duck into a bit of cloud. . . . Cloud? Yes. Our best friend at times."
Do you get the general idea? You fill in the bits about the tensed-up nerves, the drama of the take-off, the questing over enemy borders, with hostile eyes straining upwards, and hostile aircraft waiting to pounce, the long fingers of the searchlights probing the night, the bumping of the plane, the flak bursting brilliantly all about, the strain of concentration over the target, the sudden relief when the bombs are gone, and then running the gauntlet home. After all, that's just the background. Nothing to talk about.
After that you can take a touch-and-go show in a Wellington, all the way from Britain, over the Alps, down to bomb Genoa and home again, in the simplest terms. "Oh yes. You haven't got much to spare on that run in a Wellington. You can't fool round too much, or you're a gonner. You've just got enough gas to get home on."
Action Over Brest
To get the real idea of this "Find the Story" game, you want to look up a newspaper file of January 8, 1942, and a news item there stating that the Commander-in-Chief of the Bomber Command had brought to the notice of all bomber stations "the commendable courage and resolution of a young Aucklander, Pilot-Officer C. P. Towsey," who, despite severe air sickness and the failure of his oxygen apparatus, "pressed on to the target and placed his bombs successfully. He had to carry on almost unaided because illness and oxygen lack exhausted his crew. The flight lasted over eight hours, including two or three hours without oxygen at a great height."
Towsey, who was then making his fourth flight as a bomber's captain, was mentioned in dispatches for that. Did he remember a certain incident over Brest associated with a Gneisenau and Scharnhorst raid, I asked him. "Oh that? Just ran out of oxygen and the crew got a bit sick. It was a bit bumpy, but it was the lack of oxygen that upset us—a breakdown of the apparatus before we got to the target.
"How high were we flying? Oh, about 15,000 feet over the target. Nobody passed out, but we were all pretty seedy—just felt sick." That must have been a happy landing back in Britain? "I was never so pleased in my life. That was Pickard's first show in the squadron, and he was so pleased that all his crews got in and out again safely that he gave me a bit of a write-up."
Story of an Ace
Pickard. . . . There was a chap who would have had a real story. The ace of the Bomber Command. A star of "Target for To-night." Had flown more missions than anyone else, and done every sort of job, including dropping and picking up spies. The late Wing-Commander Pickard—"Pic" for short ... a grand chap. Towsey was in his squadron when they dropped British paratroops for the first such raid. That was at Bruneville, in the south of France; an attack on a German radio direction finding station.
Towsey forgot to mention that it was that show which earned him his second mention in dispatches.
And then, about his D.F.C.? That was the time, he said, when he and a few other Whitley pilots were called on for anti-submarine patrolling to help out Coastal Command just before the North African show. An Auckland squadron mate, Squadron-Leader Reg. Coates, developed engine trouble and went down in the ocean about 300 miles due west of Cornwall.
"We had a rough bearing on his position, and went out and did a square search. We were lucky to pick him up after searching round about the area for a couple of hours. We couldn't land, of course, so we flashed back the position of the dinghy and they sent out a destroyer.
The "Keeping: Alive Medal"
"That was what I was cited for, but, frankly, we call it the 'keeping alive medal.' You get it when you've been on a certain number of missions. They rake up something that sounds good as a citation. Of course, there are immediate awards for some outstanding feat. That's different." That, be it explained, is the old soldier complex. The medals that "come up with the rations." They started off in the R.A.F. by saying that so-and-so had "rung the gong" when he won an award. Now they call the D.F.C. familiarly "a gong." And they "kick the gong around . . an attitude recommended only for those who wear them, or who know from experience what it means to fly "so many missions."
Take Towsey's case, as an example. His citation, published on August 26, 1943, recorded that in that sea rescue, "he made flights totalling 30 hours till he succeeded. He has participated in numerous operations, his efforts being marked by outstanding determination to bomb targets effectively. This officer has invariably displayed great courage and devotion to duty."
On Feelings—and Tolerance
Or, if you like, you can read a lot into a casual remark, offered by Towsey, in answer to a question whether he had experienced oxygen lack on any other occasion than the Brest incident. "No," he answered. "I've felt a bit queer at times, but not from oxygen lack."
There was a final question for this R.N.Z.A.F. pilot who has served in Britain and the Middle East, taken an instructor's course in Southern Rhodesia, and taught air pupils at Palestine. What had he learned mainly? His answer was prompt. "Tolerance. I was always in R.A.F. squadrons, with a good mixture of English and Dominion pilots, and a few Poles. In my crew there was an Australian, a Canadian, an Englishman and a Scot. They were all fine fellows and we got on well together. I went over with the usual prejudices, but I found the English charming people. I came back through the States, and I liked what I saw there, too."
AUCKLAND STAR, 13 NOVEMBER 1944
