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Rusty Memories
If one had to go to war, low level graphic reconnaissance, was as good way to enter
the fray.
No.35 Wing RAF was a unique unit inasmuch as most of the pilots were ex-army officers who had volunteered for
the work, the idea being that they could use their army training to maximum advantage in supplying Divisional
Headquarters with up to date photographic Intelligence.
At the time of my transfer in 1942 I was plucked from army duties during the siege of Malta and flown to
England in the bomb bay of a Wellington. Fifteen months later, after intensive flying training,
I was posted to No.2 Squadron, 35 Wing, to join the happy band of vagabonds and live some of the best days of
my life.
The Wing was run with the minimum amount of red tape, but maximum amount of expectations. It was a
glorious rabelaisian existence where laughter and high living masked the unbelievable horror of war and
sadness that surrounded our lives.
We were a very international mob having in our midst Chinese, Indian, Czech, Norwegian, Polish, Australian
and New Zealand pilots, all contributing their own unique qualities, to make us a very happy and close knit
unit.
Spitfires and Mustangs equipped with an F-24 camera housed in the fuselage, and operated from the cockpit,
were the tools of the trade. Most missions were carried out between zero and 5,000 ft and flown
in pairs. The lead aircraft was responsible for the navigation and photography with No.2 watching
out for enemy aircraft in case of attack. On return the photos were processed and the pilots
debriefed by army intelligence officers attached to the Wing. The Germans didn't like these
'spies in the sky' who appeared from nowhere, took photographs, and disappeared.
Prior to D-Day our missions were mostly concentrated on German coastal defences, marshalling yards, docks,
VI sites, factories, dams, and airfields and, sometimes, obscure hidden country houses which, for those with
a natural hunting instinct, was the job of jobs. How you went about the mission was your own
business - get the photographs was the order of the day, every day!
From D-Day on we were attached to the Canadian Army Corps, living in tents and following up as close behind
the battle front as was possible. Time and again we landed on airfields miraculously created
overnight by army engineers ~ rain or snow somehow they managed to provide a serviceable landing strip, stay
just long enough to give us a wave and see us safely landed, before moving on once again to repeat the
miracle.
Occasionally we lived in billets on ex-Luftwaffe airfields; with their hot showers and furnished quarters
this was luxury indeed. Once we were housed in a fully operational nunnery and school on the
outskirts of Ghent. The Reverend Mother saw to it our invading mob was kept well segregated from
her brood. We slept in a well scrubbed dormitory and while unpacking our kit and camp beds the
Rev. Mother appeared, all 5 ft 2 inches of her in black habit and rosary beads, and gave us a short talk on
how to keep the place tidy: we listened attentively, did our best to comply and took her to heart.
Three days after arrival the weather clamped down, the Wing was grounded, and the nunnery had a bunch of
restless pilots on their hands. The situation could have got out of hand had it not been for our
saucy Wing commander who asked the Rev. Mother if we could hold a dance in the convent! To our
surprise and lasting admiration she agreed and furthermore accepted an invitation to attend.
The squadron briefing was unique next day ~ round up as many girls as you can find for the big night.
Somehow the Wing catering officer managed to provide a superb buffet with lots of bottles of
questionable wine. How he managed it we never knew, and no questions were asked. The
mayor and corporation of Ghent were also invited. Before the dance got under way the poor girls
in their threadbare wartime frocks were so hungry all they wanted to do was eat so we gave up the idea of a
dance. The small band abandoned their instruments and the whole affair became a glorious feast!
Next day we moved on ~ dance or no dance the party was declared a success. The mayor wanted to
bestow the "Freedom of the City' on the Wing, and most important of all the catering officer saw to it that
there was plenty of food left over for the Rev. Mother and the nuns.
One of my best friends was a New Zealand pilot called Warren Blain who started the war in some cavalry
regiment in Canterbury. How he found himself in our squadron in Holland we never knew.
He had a bad limp caused by polio when he was boy: we called him 'Bronc' because he always talked about
horses and what he was going to do when he got back to his farm in New Zealand.
He soon turned out to be a real character; he hadn't been with us long before he got hold of a foot-operated
sewing machine; set it up in the far end of the Nissen hut, and called for any clothes that need repairs ~
his services were much in demand as by the time we got to Holland we looked a pretty ragged mob.
Then an oven appeared, and a plentiful supply of eggs which he fried at all hours of the day and night If
you happened to be asleep that was no concern of Bronc; he offered 'two on a raft' (two eggs on a bit
of fried bread) and they would go cold if you didn't eat them right away.
Another time he appeared with a large bolt of cotton he'd found in a bombed out factory in Nijmegen.
He cut it into large generous strips and insisted that we all took some home.
Dutifully we took our bundle of cotton with us on leave and the material was lovingly made into blouses and
frocks. Unfortunately they all shrank into a shapeless mass after their first wash!
So much for a few memories, now mostly lost and forgotten with time. I've never commited pen to
paper before, I only hope I haven't bored the reader too much.
Peter Critchley
(Date unknown)
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