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Don Hunt - File 1

CONTENTS

1. Memoir of a Friend

2. Photographs

3. Don's Letters

4. Other Items

Don's service badgeCloth badge of Goldfish ClubMembership card for club

Note: The story of 10 Squadron, includingaccounts of the operational incidents in which Don

was involved (with two photographs in which heappears), is told in Kevin Baff's Maritime Is Number

Ten: The Sunderland Erw. A copy of the book/ with mynotes in front, is on the bookshelf in my study.

Memoir of a Friend

Donald Eric Hunt (b. Bathurst 31 March 1923) was Margaret'sbrother and my best friend.

Our friendship developed in 1939 at Stockton, Newcastle.where Don's father, the Rev. H. C. (Charles) Hunt. was theCongregational Minister. When his parents moved late that year tothe manse at Windsor, Brisbane, Don remained because he did notwant to give up his job with the Hunter District Water Board andthe friendships he valued -- with me, with Wal and Eric Shearman,Jack Herrald and Harry (Dick) Kerr.

The Shearmans, who lived on a dairy farm at Fullerton Cove,had been his friends for many years. We visited the farm often.Indeed it was virtually our country headquarters. The Shearmans'parents were tolerant and very kind to us and we were alwayswarmly received. Wal, who did his own processing and printing,was photographer to 'the gang' of boys and girls whose routine ofassociation included surfing at Stockton Beach, tennis on

Saturday afternoons, cinema at the Savoy on Saturday nights,church on Sundays, and picnics from time to time at nearby beachand lake resorts.

After his parents left, Don boarded at Stockton, brieflywith the Pritchards (who lived in a large flat above the BeachCafe, corner of Mitchell and Clyde Streets) and then with MrsMacLean, an elderly widow who consulted fortune tellers, in KingStreet. Most of Don's friends were members of the Stockton

Methodist Church but Don was a Congregationalist, so hecompromised by attending his own church two out of every threeSunday nights and joining us for the other evening service. TheMethodist Church was then a vital part of our lives. We attendedevening services, frequent Socials/ periodic scavenger hunts, teameetings and the Order of Knights (every Friday night), playedtable tennis in the church hall, and walked the girls home by thelongest possible routes.

Don was handsome, six-feet tail, with blonde, naturally wavyhair. At his squadron in England, his looks and bearing inducedhis mates to call him 'the arrogant Aryan'. Clare Glazebrook saysshe remembers her 'Anglo-Saxon-looking young cousin well, asbeing an amiable and presentable young man with golden curls andblue eyes.'

Like many of us in our late teens at that time, Don was veryidealistic. His view of life in general, and especially ofrelations with women, was excessively romantic. As youngsters wehad read Beau Geste and been indelibly impressed. Don became'Beau' to my 'Digby', names which we continued to use between usas we grew older. We had code whistles and a stock of expressionsexclusive to our circle and found life tremendously exciting. Inspite of the possibility that war might destroy our world, we hadfaith in

a future of boundless potential. We never doubted, even inthe darkest hours of the war, that right would triumph.

Though experience in the RAAF, in Canada and England,rapidly matured Don and loosened a certain stiffness and shynessin his nature -- this comes through in his wartime letters -- Donremained true to his high principles and to the woman who was thelove of his life. Her name was Olwen Evans and she lived with her

parents in Monmouth Street, Stockton.

Olwen, the youngest of three sisters, was a year or so olderthan Don and this seemed an insuperable barrier. The social moresof the time dictated that girls usually associated with men sometwo years older and it was not as easy as it might appear for agirl to leave her peer group for the company of a younger man.However, a relationship did grow in the last few months beforeDon left for Canada, though without positive commitment. I haveno doubt that it would have flourished if Don had survived the

war.

One of his characteristics was a (mostly) controlledebullience. When it did explode - fortunately not often - it waslikely to be dangerous. His mother told me how Don had once madea grab at a plaster archway of the corridor in the manse atStockton and swung on it until he very nearly brought thestructure crashing down. He took a spur-of-the-moment snap shotwith a pea rifle at the Shearman's wireless aerial and brought ittwanging down on to the roof of the farmhouse. Once when I wasstanding on the edge of a narrow canal full of muddy water, I hada premonition one of Beau's eruptions might occur. I moved to oneside just in time to avoid his thrusting arms which would havepushed me headlong into the mire. Astonished I could havepredicted his action, and contrite, Don mastered these rushes ofblood to the head from that time onwards.

It was all part of his zest for life. Though he had the usualglooms, the exaggerated, worries and self-doubts of adolescence,Don had a wonderful sense of humour and capacity for simpleenjoyments. Inexperience sometimes led him into errors but he hada core of wisdom for one so young and great moral strength.

Before war service intervened, we spent a lot of our sparetime at what we called 'Movie Mountain'. This was an area of sanddunes about half a mile square, cut off from the true ocean beachby bush. We reached it by riding our pushbikes to the Longbite(or Longbight) farm at Williamtown. On the eastern or ocean rimwere high sandhills topped with vegetation.

The highest hill, which was a struggle to climb because itssandy slope was steep and yielding, we dubbed 'Movie Mountain'for no better reason than that we thought it was the kind ofexotic place that would appeal to movie-makers. The area wasremote and unspoilt. The rolling dunes were Sahara-like and attheir feet were shallow lakes of fresh water. We camped there sooften that we decided to build a hut in the

bush nearby and to bury a cache. Don coated a butterbox with tar which we filled with utensils such as frying pansand saucepans. We buried it near our half-completed hut (destinedto stay that way) and although I uncovered it on one subsequentvisit, I could never find it again. It is still there waiting tobe dug up and revered as a hoard of artefacts from themid-twentieth century.

On the way to the sandhills we usually paused at Shearman'sfarm and sometimes, later in the day, Eric Shearman would comeriding through the bush on a pony to join us for a few hours.

The war caught up with us in 1941 when we turned eighteen. Ihad my first medical examination for the Army in December thatyear, just after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour. Rejected onmedical grounds (incisional hernias)/ I had to seek another

examination before they would enlist me. The Army called me up inApril the following year.

Don applied to join the RAAF and was already a member of theAir Force Reserve when Newcastle Drill Hall summoned him to beginarmy service on 2 January, 1942. There was considerable delay incalling up men in the Air Force Reserve at this time and theywore a special badge to show that they had volunteered, passedthe medicals, and would be enlisted at the earliest possiblemoment. This caused some difficulties for those caught in theuniversal army call-up before they could be signed on by theRAAF. Theoretically, though still civilians, RAAF Reservists wereregarded as air force property. The Army, if it called up aReservist, was supposed to release him when the RAAF sent him hiscall-up notice. In Don's case/ the Army, or at least hisCommanding Officer, tried to prevent him from obeying the RAAFnotice by claiming that he belonged to the 'key personnel' of theSignal Corps.

Transformed into N152149, Signalman Hunt, D. E., of H Anti-tank Section, 10 Div Signals, Don went into camp at Largs nearEast Maitland. Later he was posted closer home when he attended aspecialist Don R (dispatch rider) school at New Lambton. The Armythen shifted him to his 'battle station' at Tomago and it wasfrom there that he finally fought free of the military.

During Don's nearly six months in the Army, we saw himquite often. He travelled by train from Maitland and (no doubtillegally) by army motor bike from New Lambton. He turned upunexpectedly at places in Stockton where we he knew we would be

found -- the tennis court on Saturday afternoons, the Savoy onSaturday nights, church on Sunday evenings. He went AWL (absentwithout leave) on a picnic to Caves Beach on 14 March 1942;accompanied Wal Shearman to Katoomba between 25 March and 2April; and deputised for me (I was then in the Army at Dubbo) asbest man at my brother Leslie's wedding. Since Don did not intendto embark on an army career, he regarded his enforced stay assimply filling in time until the RAAF claimed him. For thisreason he treated the Army in a very cavalier fashion.

The crisis came on 1 June when the RAAF directed him toreport at Woolloomooloo Recruiting Centre at 8 a. m. on 20 June.The Army flatly refused to discharge him. Thoroughly outraged,Don took off on an army motor bike, riding (as he told meafterwards) at reckless speeds through the countryside. He wassomewhere near Paterson before he calmed down. Returning to camp,he endured a period of suspense and despair before the Armyrelented (or was forced to relent) and notified him that adischarge awaited him in Sydney.

Twelve days before Don was due to report to the RAAF, theArmy conveyed him to Sydney in a blitz wagon. Having dumped him,so to speak, at the discharge depot at the Showground, the wagonheaded straight back to Tomago. Don's unit may not have graspedthe fact that he had twelve days to go, or, more than likely, itwas too glad to be rid of him to care. From the moment the Armyrefused to recognise his air force call-up, Don had made himselfinsufferable. He had good cause to wonder how he escaped beingcharged with insubordination or other offences over 'the furiousdriving of my old BSA. 'At all events he was out of the clutches of the Army with twelvedays on the loose. Stripped of uniform and equipment, Don leftthe Showground with little to sustain him except a happy frame ofmind.

'All I stood up in, ' he wrote, 'was a pair of old sportstrousers and coat, an old army shirt which I managed to purloin,and a pair of sandshoes. It was winter, and I nearly froze beforeI crawled humbly into Newcastle. In this position I was No. 1Problem Child of Society. I was no longer in the Army, nor was Iyet in the air force, and yet not a civilian either as I had noration card or identity card! I got a change of clothes at Wal'sand proceeded to Brisbane. Besides getting a holiday, I also gota free pass at the RTO (Railway Transport Officer -- the Army hadone on every major railway station) to Brisbane as 1 told them Ihad to report to the air force there. I had a great time with thefamily, and twelve days later I reported to Woolloomooloo.'

The RAAF sent Don briefly to a training school at Somers,Victoria, before posting him to Bradfield Park, Lindfield, totrain in navigation, meteorology, theory of flight and so on.

With Don in the RAAF and me in the Army, meetings were nowpossible only when our leaves synchronised. on one of his leaves/finding me trapped in camp, Don travelled all the way to Greta tovisit me in barracks.

During Don's few months at Lindfield, the flamboyant MaxieFalstein, Federal Member for Watson, NSW, arrived as a fellowtrainee. Convinced he was just using the RAAF to further hispolitical career, his course-mates could not take Maxie seriouslyand, in a fit of exuberance, they shaved off half his moustache,a thick and luxuriant growth which he wore with considerablepride and panache. As a result, Falstein made a savage attack inthe newspapers on the quality of RAAF recruits. His fellow

recruits had summed him up accurately however. Maxie was carefulto avoid anything resembling active service.

On 11 August 1942, 1 received a telegram from Don whichread: 'They Made Him a Pilot stop By Canny Hunt'. The 'Canny'alluded to Don's conviction that the smartest trainees, thosewith the highest examination results, were chosen to beObservers. Don wished to be a pilot, a lone hand, in charge ofhis own aircraft. Believing that pilots were picked from themiddle range, Don claimed that he deliberately set out toachieve this rating. The telegram ended 'Tell the gang'.

Unfortunately, Don's elation did not last long. The RAAFfound itself overstocked with pilots and short on wireless airgunners (WAGs). In what the trainees called 'the GreatBradfield Purge' -- and which nearly caused a mutiny — nineteenof the twenty-nine pilots in Don's flight were reclassified asWAGs. It happened elsewhere too: in Melbourne, Don said, anentire course suffered a sudden switch in roles. On 8 SeptemberDon telegrammed again to say that he had now been made a gunnerand was about to begin thirteen days pre-embarkation leave. Hehad volunteered to continue training in Canada under the EmpireAir Training Scheme. Don's chagrin over his re-classificationsoon dissipated. Only a month or two later he admitted 'none ofus are sorry now.'

I managed to get down from Greta during Don's final leaveand we had photographs taken with Wal Shearman at a Newcastlestudio. Don spent four days on Stockton, where he stayed at myhome/ visiting Olwen and other friends.

The last time I saw my friend was on the seedy wartimestation at Newcastle. Held up somewhere, he came hurrying to myhome around ten o'clock at night just as I was preparing toreturn to camp. Don accompanied me down the dimly lit streetsof Stockton to the wharf, across in the ferry and then to thestation. I tried to find some words that would not sound too

emotional/ theatrical or banal but, as the train pulled out, Ifelt I'd failed miserably. The truth is, of course, that thereare no adequate words at such times, especially when there is asense of foreboding which must not be expressed. Althoughnothing was said on the subject, we acted towards each other asif we knew we would not meet again.

After Stockton, Don went to Brisbane to spend the rest ofhis leave with his parents and Margaret at Windsor. By afortunate coincidence, his ship was sailing from Brisbane so thatwhen his official leave ended, further precious days with hisfamily were gained because of embarkation delays. Margaret saysthat the family saw a lot of Don at this time.

Led to believe he had a further day in Brisbane, Don wentto the movies with Diana Baker-Finch on what proved to be hislast few hours leave in Australia. Diana lived close to the

manse and Margaret recalls that her last sight of her brotherwas of his tail figure striding into the darkness alongLutwyche Road to keep his annoi " r •^ •

the Exhibition Gro<

further freedom. He was

boarding the ship on 3

depot that night he was refused

,

^e only to telephone home before^ber, 1942.

It must have been a dreadful voyage across the Pacific. Donalways referred to it afterwards in terms of revulsion: the merethought of it, he said, 'made him bilious'. The ^stinking littleDutch ship' took eighteen days to reach San Francisco withoutonce sighting land. The hapless airmen slept in the hold andworked their passage: the rest of the crew (Don's emphasis)comprised Javanese, Chinese, Dutch, Americans/ Malays andLascars. Observers did kitchen duty; WAGs manned the guns. Donand three others crewed the 3. 5mm guns up for'ard in four-hourlywatches for the entire voyage.

The only break in the monotony came when the gun watch wasallowed to fire a few practice shots with live ammunition. 'Youdon't know, ' Don wrote, 'how boring it is to merely stare outinto the surging blackness just looking for something you don'twant to see. ' There were several scares such as a ship on thehorizon that 'looked too much like a Japanese cruiser forcomfort' and a series of unexplained coloured flares one night.But nothing untoward occurred except that Don lost two stone inlittle over a fortnight. In letters to me, he called histransport 'the Altmark'.

Don first saw some of the United States when the shipdocked at San Francisco where he spent one and a half days. Hisgroup made their way to the reception depot at Edmonton, Alberta,by train. They arrived on 21 October. A few weeks later Don wasenrolled in Class 56A, No 2 Wireless School, RCAF, near Calvary,and the training of LAC 423125 Hunt, D. E., began in earnest.

Don had a lucky break for his first Christmas overseas.With his friend, Mal Hook/ he spent five days with a family atRevelstroke,a tourist and sports centre in the Rockies. He alsovisited Banff, a famous resort. But his most exciting excursionduring his early months in Canada was a visit to Chicago. Hedescribed this 2000-mile dash in letter dated 27 February 1943.

With Mal Hook and eighteen others, Don left Calgary on ninedays leave at 8. 15pm on Friday, 12 February, and entered the USAthrough Portal where the Customs officials made 'a laconicinspection'. While waiting at St Paul to change trains they hadfree coffee and doughnuts in the Red Cross Centre where theytalked to an American whose brother was in Brisbane ('Everyonein the USA seems to know someone in Aussie. '). Don emphasisedthat they were actually given two cups of coffee, because coffeewas severely rationed and many restaurants displayed the notice'Cup of coffee lOc. Second cup $100.'

Finding that they could cut their waiting time bytransferring their tickets to the Burlington Route, they ranthrough the bitterly cold streets and the 'gaping pedestrians' tojoin passengers on a huge speedy diesel engine known as

The Hiawatha. This took them the final 500 miles at 75 mph,including stops, in luxurious style. They reached Chicago at8pm on a Sunday and checked in at the Ex-servicemen's Center inthe heart of the city.

'After that, ' Don wrote, 'Mal and I and Bombo Moss, our classsenior (like a lance corporal), set out for 'Orgys', a flashhotel whose address had been given to us by one of the corporalsat Calgary. We eventually found it five miles away (but still inthe heart of the city) by travelling on a streamlined streetcar-- tram -- which can do 54mph. It was a dimly-lit, erotic-lookingcocktail and lounge bar in a large hotel.

'As usual everyone wanted to talk to us at the same time, buteventually we found 'Orgy'/ who used to play ice hockey with ourcorporal in Calgary. They used to get $1000 a month! I spent thenext three hours answering questions on life 'down under' anddodging drinks. Mal and Bombo were as full as ticks when we leftabout lam and as usual my role of guide philosopher and friendwas timely and invaluable. I talk US out of trouble and set amagnetic course for home. We put on a show going back in thetram, singing 'Waltzing Matilda', 'We are the boys from way downunder' etc., in mirthful discord.

'Although we'd been warned to be in before one o'clock, we didn'ttake it seriously -- until we saw the revolving doors of theServicemen's Club tied up with rope. One good concentrated pushdid the trick however, but I had to talk fast to an iratenightwatchman once inside. Next morning we found that the re-tieddoor was maliciously forced twice after our late arrival. Themanager was raving about 'those goddam Aussies', so we decided tochange our address as soon as possible. A time limit of lam mightbe all right in camp, but not when you're on leave in a citywhose night life doesn't start till midnight.

'On Monday we decided to visit the art gallery which is prettyfamous. We wandered leisurely around. town for a while, cheerfullygreeting the usual amazed stares. We were carelessly jay-walkingacross the Boulevarde Michigan Avenue, which is the busieststreet, when the copper hailed us. We carefully ignored, but whenhe started after us, we walked faster. Eventually he caught up onus, and, lo and behold!, started to greet us as old friends. Hehad a son in Aussie somewhere, and asked all manner of questions.We endeavoured to satisfy his curiosity, but meanwhile thetraffic went haywire, one only has to obstruct the traffic forten seconds to set up a bedlam of car horns for half a mile backin Chicago.

'We eventually got rid of him, and proceeded to the art gallery.They've got some real masterpieces there. I saw some real ModernArts there, but still can't appreciate them, although I spenthalf an hour on one...'

At this point, Don said he would have to discontinue theChicago story and finish it in a subsequent letter. He had a

wonderful time on the trip and declared the experience to be well worth fhe fourdays spent on travelling'. However, events moved too rapidly for him to writemore to me about the Chicago visit m later letters. One highlight described inletters to his family was a meeting with Marjorie Lawrence, an Australian singerwell-known in America at that time. While in Chicago, too, Don recorded hisvoice on a small blue disc — a special service provided in Chicago for overseasservicemen -and sent it to his parents. It carried messages for all his friends towhom it was circulated. The disc has since vanished.

As the letter indicates, Don did not drink himself, then or later, but he alwaysstayed close to his mates, even on their drunken sprees, and kept them out oftrouble. As late as October 1944, Don wrote of the way he often guided a friendhome after a night at the sergeants mess bar. The airman concerned, TubbyWard, was 'a big-limbed, rotund, blond Saxon giant' who always referred to Donas 'me ole Saxon mate' and who, when dnmk, talked to trees and 'burst forth intorhetoric and poetry'. Don never made wowserish judgements, however. Heclearly had the greatest affection for Tubby Ward, for instance, and an almostenvious admiration for his philosophy of life.

In Calgary, Don made friends with a Canadian family who offered him ahome where he could always call and find a welcome. The daughter, JoyFarquharson, fell in love with Don but he always made it plain that there was agirl in Australia to whom he intended to return.

A letter, started on 23 April 1943 but fmished about a week later,described the kind oftrainmg Don was undergoing.

"The 'fighting 56th' arose at 6am and RCAF buses took us to Sheppardaerodrome or No. 2 Wireless School Flying Squadron. Naturally we were allpretty tense and keyed up, for this phase of our training is really the testingground of our previous six months. All that Saturday morning we were givenmore cockpit drill for the Norseman and Fleet Fort aircraft, briefed for some ofthe exercises, and partook of some morse tests.

'Most of us went up in the afternoon, and I, with three others, went up in aNorseman. They are strange-looking crates, looking slightly like the old 'SouthernCross' ofKingsford Smith fame. Alfhough they're fairly old, they're prettyreliable, and were used by the Bush Pilots up north for carrying skins, furs,supplies etc. Now, however, they just carry pilot, co-pilot, three or four wirelessair gunners (WAGs) and possibly an instructor.

1 For two hours we took it in turns to take DF bearings on the localradio stations. ('Direction Finding' equipment isn't exactly secret, andmerely consists ofdetermming the aircraft's position in relation to theradio station whose radio waves are being picked up by the equipment).I'd been doing this in the laboratories for the past five months so I

didn't find it particularly hard except that sometimes it's hard to concentrate onswitches, knobs and aerials when in the middle of a steep bank or a slow roll, andthings that were originally intended for the floor lie all over the roof.

We've been here for five days now and I've done every exercise that has tobe done at least once. Most of the flips are for two hours, and we get in anythingup to eight hours per day. This is pretty tough going, for whereas previouscourses - 54 and 52 etc. - only got up 25 hours in two weeks, we've done atleast 18 to 20 hours in only five days. As usual the 56th are copping it m the neckagain. A ten-mile route march is not as strenuous as a two-hour flip, for somereason unknown to me. Maybe it is the amount of concentration needed, togetherwith the high altitude. (It's 4000ft at base level and 10,000ft on top of that atwhich we work.) Anyway, I know I'm just completely knocked out every nightand have never slept or eaten so well in my life.

Today we started at 0500hrs and go to 2100hrs, the usual schedule sincewe arrived. This morning I did a 'crosscountry' of three and a half hours, and Idon't think I've ever felt so sore as I did when we had to scramble for breakfast at

0400hrs. There were four other aircraft in my flight, all working on the samefrequency and radio station back at base. When we weren't sending or receivingfrom base or between each other, we were using DF equipment to determine ourwhereabouts. It was a good trip all round and the scenery just marvellous as wewere above light clouds most of the time and the stability perfect. It was likeriding on a lake.

'The first crate we took up developed engine trouble about 40 miles outand we had to return to base. We loaded up another and an hour or so laterlanded at Lethbridge by a very roundabout route. On the way out, I intercepted an'immediate' message from another aircraft of our flight to the effect that he'd beenforced down somewhere through lack of gas. The pUot leaned over my shoulder,grinned broadly and said 'The dumb sonof-a-bitch!' We couldn't do anything andso carried on to arrive back here just ahead of the others.

'However, most of my flips have been done in a Fleet Fort, a single-engined, two-seater trainer, with fixed undercart and eliptical wings like aSpitfu-e. I like them much better than fhe Norseman although they're not very safeand inclined to stall without warning. It's now 1300hrs and I'll have todiscontinue as I'm due for a 'Fleet' at 1400hrs.

It's now 1725hrs and I'm due for another 'Fleet' at 1945hrs. The last trip at1400 went off all right, except that we rooted up a line of flag guides comingdown the runway. We were over Calgary - about twenty miles out - when thepilot thumbed my gaze down to No. 2 Wireless School. I sneered at the flightsdoing drill on the parade ground far below, and asked the pilot if he had anybombs aboard. INaw, ' he griimed, 'but we sure could have a whale of a time witha few HE'S.'

10

'Because I had first flight up this morning and will have last up tonightand then first tomorrow morning, I will probably get a whole 24 hours off dutywhen I'll be able to go into Calgary to see Joy.

'We flew right through last weekend, as will be the case next weekend andthe one after; on top of which we cannot get into Calgary at night astransportation is lousy. I'd probably be right down in the dumps if it weren't forthe fact that we graduate in a month's time — I hope! — as wireless operators.Then to Bombing and Gunnery to get our Air Gunner's wing and three stripes.'

About mid-May, Don's flight graduated as wireless operators. In the weekbefore the official ceremony, the tight regimen of the camp seems to have beenrelaxed since Don speaks of being AWL 'on and off. During this period, forinstance, basking one day in the pleasant sun of Spring, Don heard 'the familiarsound of Joy's car outside the high barbed wire fence'. Joy had another girl withher and Don and Mal Hook needed no other spur to shower, shave and dress 'in atwinkling' and then clear the fence.

If the graduation parade and the dinner which followed it at Calgary's'poshest hotel' were 'pretty pompous affairs', the celebrations which went onafterwards were far from sedate. ('I think everyone bar me was blotto for daysafterwards on this tough Canadian whisky.') For his part, Don enjoyed 'a tmlyhilarious night of dancing - mainly with Joy', - crawled into bed at the YorkHotel at 4am and did not report back to camp until noon.

There was, Don said, 'a tearful adieu with some of the locals' at the CPR

station when the Australians left Calgaiy at 8.20pm on Friday 29 May 1943. Donnot only parted from Joy but also from Mal Hook, who had been a close friendsince their Bradfield Park days. Hook was posted to Lethbridge Bombing andGunnery School while Don went to Mossbemk with thirty others from his flight.

Mossbank, where Don spent six weeks, is about 70 miles south-west ofMoose Jaw and Regina in Saskatchchewan. Here Don completed the bombingand gunnery section of his training which fully qualified him as a wirelessoperator-air gimner. He was accordingly promoted sergeant on 12 July 1943.

On the way to the gunnery school, Don had three hours to put in at MooseJaw. He liked this quiet little country town which was in its 'prettiest Springmood'. Mossbank, however, was so tiny he did not expect we would be able tofmd it on any map. The school was five miles out of the town on the 1 same oldundulating prairie' that Don had lived on for seven months in Calgary.

Describing the training programme, Don said that he only did enough morse tokeep up speed. The rest of the time was taken up on theory of the Browning andVickers machine guns, followed by practical use of them on the range, on turrets,

11

firing from air to ground and from aircraft at a drogue (the white canvas targettowed behind another aircraft). He felt that the hardest part for him would beaircraft recognition. For the final exam fhey were given half a second torecognise an aircraft flashed on a screen.

Don concluded that Mossbank was not a bad place provided one's stay waslimited to six weeks. Food was the best he had had in army or air force and thesporting facilities were the best in Canada 'just to compensate for its isolation.'

In his letter to me from Mossbank, Don had some interesting things to sayabout the attitude of the French Canadians whose sour view, no doubt, was colouredby the fact that France had been defeated, was under German occupation, and had apuppet government at Vichy to which some of them may have felt a degree of loyalty

The general idea of the powers-that-be in Ottawa, he said, was to keepAussies over in the west of the country, away from the French-Canadiaa partssuch as Montreal and Quebec because they always got into trouble there. 'TheFrench are very conservative and narrow-mined in their outlook on religion andsocial aspects/ Don wrote, 'and often cause friction with the Canadians - and us-for their indifference, and even obstructionism, to any war effort. They stickwholly to themselves, and in some parts one is an alien if he doesn't speakFrench. There were often brawls and even knifings when Aussies first went overthat way, so you see why they endeavour to keep us over in the very fhendly,hospitable west.'

As a result of this policy, Don said, there were 'oodles of Australians' atMossbank. He caught up with two firiends who had travelled across the Pacificwith him and found four Newcastle men — John Jenner, Ron Hansaker fromWallsend, Shorty Jeffhes of Helen Street, Merewether, and Wilcox 'who used towork for the main PMG and lived at Lambton'. (John Jenner, known to Margaretand myself when he and his twin sister lived on Stockton, died a year or so laterwhen his aircraft disappeared over the Atlantic).

Of course the little hamlet ofMossbank ('one step off the main street andyou're into newly-sown wheatfields') had littfe to offer fhe high-spirited youngmen on its doorstep. Don detailed how, on fhe town's picture show night oneSaturday, six of the airmen arrived with several hours to fill in before the filmstarted. Seeing no one about, Don caused heads to pop out of windows with aseries ofear-splitting yells and 'coo-ees' aimed at letting the people know that'those wild goddam Aussies' were in town. After that, he said, in the arousedtown, they had a good time for the rest of the night. At the fihn showing the 'goodtime' took fhe form of thrusting their fingers into the light from the projector andcreating silhouettes on the screen. Don claimed (but one wonders) that 'fhe entireaudience thought this very diverting and amusing'. After the show, the partyordered steaks at 'a bit of a cafe' and accepted an invitation to supper one night

12

of the following week from the owners of a dmg store. Thus ended what passedfor a wild night in Mossbank.

When Don completed his Empire Air Training Scheme courses at Mossbank,he went on pre-embarkation leave which included six days in New York. It wasprobably during this leave that he visited Ray Beesley, a pen friend of ClareGlazebrook's, in Toronto. Clare said that Don was 'a big hit, and they liked him somuch that they gave a party m his honour'. Some interesting and sometimeshilarious accounts of that leave reached home in letters to various people but nonehave survived as far as I know. He left New York with 53 cents in his pocket andwent to Montreal (In spite of the problems with French Canada, Don had alwaysbeen determined to see some of it because, he said, it was the 'prettiest and mostcivilised' part). He had only a day's sightseeing in Montreal, however, before he hadto catch the Halifax-bound train laden with his Mends from Calgary and Mossbank.

From St John on the coast, he caught a ferry to Digby on Nova Scotia - afour-hour trip 'accompanied by the inevitable fogbank' - and went on to Halifax.The Halifax barracks, where Don stayed for a week, were, he said, 'prettystinking'. As for Halifax itself: 'I think "intrigumg" is the way to describeHalifax. It's probably one of the oldest cities in Canada and while the old sectionof the town stinks in a romantic sort of way, the new parts are beautiful. It's areal naval man's town...'

Don left Halifax by ship for England on 3 August 1943 and reachedLiverpool eight days later. He was sent immediately to the Personnel Receptionand Dispatch Centre at Brighton where he remained until he was posted to 10Squadron RAAF at Plymouth. The squadron was part of 19 Group CoastalCommand. Equipped with Sunderland Flying Boats, it was based at MountBatten and its task was to locate, harass, attack and destroy U-boats as they camein and out of their five bases on the French coast offhe Bay ofBiscay.

On war service continuously since 1939, 10 Squadron was the only completelyAustralian-manned RAAF unit in Britain. It owned its Sunderlands - they wereRAAF property - and it was commanded by Australians. A sister unit, 461. wasbased at Pembroke Dock in Wales but its Australian staff was at best around 75

per cent and its Sunderlands belonged to the RAF. (This was important when itcame to making changes to the boats in the light of operational experience).

Once Don was on operations. he could tell us little about what he wasdoing and, in any case. he usually avoided raising fears for his safety, especiallyin letters to his parents. He joined the squadron on 16 September 1943 but doesnot seem to have begun operations in earnest until November. In late October hespent a week or so doing *special exercises with Fighter Command' well awayfrom Plymouth. For that period he lived aboard 'the kite' and cooked his ownmeals. He also made a tour of all the flying boat bases in England, Scotland,Ireland and Wales.

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One of his later captains. Max Johnson, recalled (in a letter to me in 1950)that he first met Don when he joined the crew on V about November 1943. PhilEdwards was captain, Alan Murray 1st pilot and Max was 2nd pilot, Paul Smclairwas navigator and Ron Richards 1st wireless operator. Bill Tiemey joined the crewabout February as a straight gunner (AG). 'I think Ron Richards finished his tourabout March,' Max wrote. Don then went to 1st WAG and a Dick Prentice cameon as 2nd. ' on 12 January 1944, Don was promoted to Flight Sergeant.

Don gave few hints to indicate the exhausting and often monotonousnature of the work he was doing - all-weather patrols out to sea lasting about 12hours each time (stepped up to 14 on occasions) searching the grey and sullensea, whipped by wind and squall, for fhe sign of a periscope. The dangers weremany. Apart from engine failure, the big flying boats were conspicuous andinviting targets for fighter packs - usually six to eight at a time ~ from airfieldson the French coast.

When Don began his tour of operations, the fighters were very active; a 10Squadron Sunderiand failed to return on 21 September and, in November,another was shot down and a third fought off six JU-88s, stmggling back on oneengine with three wounded on board. Incidents like this continued well into1944. one of the most hair-raising took place on 15 February 1944 when Q,captained by John McCulloch, was surrounded by twenty JU88s. Only brilliantflying by McCulloch and providential cloud cover enabled the Sunderiand toescape. But the rear gunner was killed and the Sunderland so riddled with bulletholes that it sank as it taxied up to its buoy in Plymouth Harbour. McCulloch,when he was 70, told me that on each 15 Febmary he recalls the fatefulencounter and 'records that another year of borrowed time has passed'.

Don seems to have been fortunate in avoiding trouble with enemy fighterson his patrols although the tension, during those long flights over the sea, wasalways there. The only two references he made to the dangers on operations werein a letter dated 29 October 1943 - 'Just at the moment we've got our hands fullwith fhe JU88s' - and one dated 24 March 1944 in which he said that 'thingshave been pretty quiet lately, seen quite a few JU88s and DOs, and one U-boat,but the latter beat us to the dive!' The threat posed by fighter packs did not easein the Bay ofBiscay until the Allies' successes on D-Day in June.

Even at home base during Don's early months with the squadron, air raidsaround Plymouth meant constant alerts. The RAAF installations at Mount Battenhad been heavily bombed earlier in the war and were always likely to be hitagain. In a postscript to a letter dated 16 November 1943, Don said 'Had a big airraid last night here'. The history of the squadron. Maritime Is Number Ten byKevin Baff, states that 'alone among the flying boat bases, Mount Batten becamesubject to recurrent enemy air raids late in 1943.'

15

And, as if the tedium and strain of the ocean patrols were not enough,skeleton crews were needed on the flying boats as they lay at anchor in stormyweather to save them from damage. A 10 Squadron Sunderiand drifted on torocks in a gale, another sank at its moorings; 461 lost three flying boats in oneday at Pembroke Dock. Don wrote me one letter while he was Suiiderland-minding at night, watching it strain at its ropes in a rough sea.

Don's record of service shows that he completed fiftyeight operations with10 Squadron between September 1943 and November 1944 m which he logged694 hours operational flying. He served in thirteen of the squadron's Sunderlandsthough he was most often a crew member of DW113 (code-named V) in which heflew on twenty-one operations, and ofEKS73 (P) in which he flew on ten.

Operational flying at this pitch caused considerable strain and it is smallwonder that he declared himself to be 'just about operationallyjiggered' when hewrote to me on his 21st birthday (31 March 1944). At that time he wasundergoing a period ofrecuperation with kind hosts on a farm in Cambridge.

During his service with 10 Squadron, Don was involved in three incidentswhich are recorded m the official history of the RAAF in World War II - thesinking ofU-boat U243, an air-sea rescue, and a forced landing at sea when anengine exploded over the Bay ofBiscay.

The Soufh-Westem Approachesand the Bay ofBiscay.

Over tins area of ocean, Donflew 58 operations in theconstant war Coastal Command

waged against German U-boats.The submarines preyed on theAtlantic convoys from bomb-proof bases in the FrenchBiscay ports.

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17

The official accounts are in Volume IV of the Air series, John Herington'sAir Power Over Europe 1944-45 published by the Australian War Memorial in1963. The submarine sinking is on p.244 with a photograph opposite p.277; theair-sea rescue is on p. 358 with photographs opposite p. 370 and the forcedlanding is described on pp. 358-9. (The earlier history of 10 Squadron is told inVolume IH of the Air series).

The attack on U-boat 243 took place on 8 July 1944 when H/10, flown byFlying Officer W.B. (Bill) Tilley, sighted a submarine 130 miles south-west ofBrest. Don had joined Tilley's crew in late April when Tilley was appointed aCaptain, and when Donts Captain on V, Phil Edwards, had finished his tour. The

Simderland had been patrolling for nearly seven hows when the fully-surfacedU-boat was seen at 2. 35pm. This is the official account:

Tilley dived immediately to attack, and when he had narrowed fhe range to twomiles he had to face gunfire from the submarine, which remained surfaced. Hecontinued a jinking approach and the Sunderland's front gunner. Flight SergeantCooke, replied to the enemy fire with his machine-guns, sweeping the U-boat soeffectively that he had silenced the guns by the time Tilley flew overhead anddropped six depth-charges from a height of 75 feet. The last two charges in thisstick straddled the U-boat between its stem and conning tower. The Sunderlandthen circled while radio messages were sent to base. The Uboat was seen to besettling down by the stem and to be stationary, and, although its guns wereagain manned and fired for a few minutes, at least some of the crew were seentaking to life rafts. A second Sunderland then arrived and delivered an attack,closely followed by yet another made by a Liberator which had interceptedTilley's radio report. Neither of these additional attacks did more than hasten theend of the already foundering submarine, which finally sank at 3. 10pm, leavinga number of survivors in the water.

Such were the last 35 minutes ofU-boat 243. There were no casualties on

H though submarines could mount a deadly barrage when attacked on thesurface, and many Coastal Command planes were shot down as they came in,low and vulnerable, to drop their depfh-charges. The entry Don made in hislogbook (it has since disappeared) said simply "Sighted sub. Sank same."

When Bill Tilley visited us in July 1983, he brought with him his Captain'slogbook. Pasted in the log were some contact prints, one of which showed theU-boat survivors in their inflatable dinghies. Tilley told us that he noticed threesurvivors struggling in the water so he dropped them a dinghy from theSunderiand as well as a foodpack. Don had transmitted radio messages about theaction to base, and a destroyer was on its way to pick up the German survivorswhen the American Liberator mentioned in the official account arrived on the

18

scene. To the horror of the Australians, it began to machmegun the helplesssailors in the water.

The same bloke, ' Tilley said indignantly, 'had the hide to claim that he sankthe U-boat. ' Tilley, however, had a photographic record of his attack and itsresults. When he pressed the button to release the stick ofdepth-charges, heautomatically started a camera.

The Germans were subsequently taken aboard a Canadian destroyer andbecame prisoners-of-war. Later, they gave Tilley one of their life rafts which is theone now on display, in the 10 Squadron section, at the Australian War Memorial.

The submarine sinking had an interesting aftermath, long after Don'sdeath. One of the three men to whom Tilley had dropped the dinghy was KurtMurbe. the U-boat's second-in-conunand. CThe U-boat captam was killed duringthe action. ) Murbe was hit in the leg in the wanton strafing from the AmericanLiberator and subsequently had to have his leg amputated. In 1979 the AustralianSunderland Squadrons Branch of the Air Force Association arranged a trip toGermany for its members. A German Air Force magazine published an articleabout the proposed visit on the lines of The Bay ofBiscay Boys Are Coming.'Murbe saw the article, obtamed Tilley's address from the branch m Sydney, andwrote to him from Cologne, saying he would like to meet him when he came toGermany. As a result, the two former enemies and their wives met at Kiel andliked each other so well that it was decided Murbe should visit Australia.

'Murbe came in 1980 and stayed with us while he was in Melbourne,'Tilley said. 'Unfortunately his wife couldn't come with him. and Murbe broke hisplastic leg in an accident just before he left. In Australia he was in pain as heused two sticks to help move around. But we gave him a ball. He was made a lifemember ofCockatoo Dock; he was taken for a trip in an Australian submarine;and when, in Adelaide, an air hostess strike looked like preventing him fromreaching Perth, the RAAF put on a special Orion flight for his benefit.'

Returning now to the events involving Don in 1944. the air-sea rescue occurred on27 August when P/10 saw a mbber dinghy wifh two men aboard, and another manclinging to it in the Inner Bay area, 80 miles west ofRoyan. They were smvivors of aRAF Wellington shot down the previous night by the U-boat it was attacking.

After reporting the sighting, Tilley circled for an hour and then decided tojettison his depfh-charges and go down and get them, even though alighting on theopen sea was prohibited except in emergencies. Experience had shown only toowell that setting down on the open sea was hazardous and put fhe aircraft and itscrew at risk. Indeed such as attempt by a 461 Squadron flying boat in 1942 endedin complete disaster. The Captain, Wing Commander R.N. Halliday, set downon the sea to rescue the crew of a Wellington. The Sunderland bounced over

19

the waves, stalled, an engine caught fire, and then heavy seas literally tore theplane apart. Only one of the Sunderland's crew survived.

Tilley was aware of the dangers but, fearing the airman in the water wouldsoon be too weak to keep his grip on the dinghy, claimed humanitarian groundsfor his action in rescuing the three airmen and taking fliem back for speedymedical aid. 'They would have had no chance if we hadn't picked them up whenwe did, ' Tilley said. He visited the survivors the next day at Devonport Hospitalto find them recovering, one was up playing darts.

The Station Commander, Group Captain Jim Alexander, (unpopular withthe men for 'going very Pom'), demoted TUley for his action although only for afew days. Max Johnson comments that TiUey 'got into a bit of bother' over therescue because it was against orders. 'As his nerves were a bit frayed too, he wastaken off flying and posted as an instructor. ' Tilley left the squadron on 8September 1944 on posting first to Invergordon (for a few days only), and then toan OTU (Operational Training Unit) at Obm in Scotland. Of Don he had this tosay: 'He was a dam good crew man. In the air, discipline was maintained. But onthe ground we were all mates. Don never drank himself but he always joined us.'

After Tilley's departure, P was taken over by Max Johnson and Don wasaboard when the ditching adventure took place on 16 September 1944. MaxJohnson was making his second trip as Captain. The Sunderiand was detailed topatrol about 15 miles west of St Nazaire and to watch for a German flak ship, theRostock, which claimed to be a hospital ship on its way to a Spanish port. Theship was intercepted first by another Sunderiand, and, when P joined it, theymaintained a circling watch until the Navy arrived and escorted the German shipto Portsmouth for investigation.

After this,' Max Johnson said, 'we were told to go on an anti-sub patrol about200 miles west and it was then that the motor caught fire. We dived the kite to tryand blow the flames out and also to lose height for ditching. Luckily the mountingsbroke away and the motor fell off, and the sudden msh of air put the fire out.

'As we still had three motors, we headed for home; but about 60 miles outthe other motor cut out due to an airlock m the burnt petrol lines, and there wasnothing for it but the "drmk".'

Distress signals were sent - no doubt Don's task - and P threw overboarddisposable weight such as guns and depfh-charges. Then it crash landed in thesea. The 2nd Pilot Roy Felan received a groin injury when the boat hit the water.After many hours wait perched on the wings, and a period spent in mbber liferafts when the Sunderiand appeared to be sinking, the crew were picked up by atorpedo-boat and the crippled flying boat was taken in tow. Later, the men were

20

given orders to transfer to an air-sea rescue boat which took them to FalmoufhHarbour.

The matter did not end there. The squadron hierarchy charged Johnson withdeserting his aircraft without authority - a unjust accusation, because he and hiscrew had been instructed to board the rescue boat and proceed to Falmoufh.Alfhough the squadron itself signalled these instructions, the hierarchy refused tocheck squadron records and Johnson was only acquitted because the signal hadalso been received by a British aircraft in the vicinity. Its captain confirmed thatJohnson had been told to leave the aircraft, so the case against him collapsed.

However, descending to the trivial, awkward questions were askedconcerning the whereabouts of the flying boat's chronometer. For this Don was toblame. Determined to have a souvenir of the ditching, Don appropriated it. 'Hetold me he intended to take it, 'Max told us (when we visited him m May 1988).'At the time I didn't care what he took. But they made a great fuss about it at mycourt martial. ' Somehow, Johnson managed to parry the questions withoutinvolving the real culprit.

As with the submarine sinking, there was a postwar denouementconcerning the Rostock. The RAAF Sunderiand which first reported findmg theship to the British Navy was credited with its capture. This raised the question ofprize money. Doug Nance (ofHackett, ACT), who was a member of theSunderland's crew, said that a special act of parliament was passed to deprivethem of the right to such payment.

The rest of Don's operational service with the squadron appears to havebeen without incident. Until the war ended we knew nothing of the eventsrecounted above except for the attack on U-boat 243. I'm not quite sure how, butDon's family and friends knew of it. I assume it was fhrough a report about fheaction in the Australian press. (A Stockton friend wrote to me in New Guinea totell me she had seen Don's name listed among an Australian crew credited withthe sinking of a submarine. However, subsequent searches I have made of themajor Australian papers, covering several weeks after 8 July 1944, havefi-ustratmgly failed to locate any reference.)

All through his war service, Don kept his religious faith. In response to a letterfrom me expressing doubts, Don said that when he reflected on the dangers he hadsurvived, he was sure that someone's prayers for his safety were being answered.

At times, he betrayed depression and acute homesickness ('I often long just forthe sight of a gum tree'). Increasingly as time went on, he became almost obsessivelyconcerned about changes to the world he had left behind. In a most unrealistic wayhe wanted it to stay exactly as it had been. Wal Shearman, pinioned in a reservedoccupation, was the only male member of the original 'gang' not in the servicesand it was on his shoulders that Don placed the impossible task of preserving

21

things as they were. He was uneasy when he saw strange faces in the photographs Wal senthim, and critical ofWal for mentioning the names of new fi-iends. 'All I'm interested in isyou and the family and the social world as I once knew it, ' he wrote in late December 1944.He did not really accept that change to that world was inevitable. Nor did he seem to fairlyconsider the reverse situation - the changes in himself which came from experience ofother countries, active service, air force camaraderie and the forging of new friendships.This departure from reality was founded in a deep nostalgia, a yearning to resume thefamiliar pattern of life at Stockton which seemed ever more desirable as he became morewar weary. Wal Shearman commented that, after re-reading Don's letters, he was 'stmck bythe gradual wearing down of the person as a result of the war, long hours, and therealisation that if he got home, it would never be quite the same place he had left.'

Like many other RAAF men in Britain and the Middle East, Don wanted to beinvolved in the Pacific War where the real danger to Australia lay. He chafed at staying inBritain, especially after Overiord.

He saw the English through critical Australian eyes, was not very impressed, andnever ceased to be grateful that he had been sent to a fully Australian squadron. Donmentioned that some of the Australians in the squadron married English girls, seeking somelove. warmth and comfort in a world where none of them could be sure they would survivethe morrow. Ron Richards, who also came from Newcastle, was among those who extolledto Don the virtues of taking an English wife. Don said the temptation was hard to resist andhe understood only too well why many succumbed. After long hours over the ocean inwinter they could return, not to a barracks, but to a cosy room or flat and a caring wife.

Ron Richards' subsequent story was tragic. He disappeared from an OTU in aSunderland m May 1944 in much the same circumstances as Don. Unaware of his death, Icalled at his New Lambton home some years after the war, when I was seeking former 10Squadron men who flew with Don, only to be told of his fate and of the 'trouble' his familyhad had with his widow when they brought her to Australia.

Don went on leave to London a number of times and sometimes called at the

Boomerang Club in Australia House and the Aussie Forces Club at Hamngton Gardens.On one of his London visits, a flying bomb landed not far from him. The flying bomb androcket attacks which the Germans unleashed on Britain in 1944 represented a new andcompletely unpredictable menace. On 30 June 1944, Australia House received blastdamage from a 'near-miss'. A few people inside the buildmg received minor mjuries, butoutside two RAAF men were killed as they were approaching the club. one of them wasFlight Sergeant Oswald Ferguson ofProserpine, Queensland, 10 Squadron's topmaintenance man who had been with the unit since September 1939. 'It was a time whenall leave was stopped for 10 Squadron, Tilley said. Ferguson had been allowed to go toLondon only because he had to have a medical check.'

22

While on duty, the Sunderland crews flew seven days a week. The breaks came inthe form of occasional 48-hour passes and 12-day leaves every three months. On theseleaves, Don saw a great deal of Britain ranging from Torquay ('We stayed at the YMCA inan old medieval castle. Our boys always go there, for the management is very partial toAussies. ') and Exeter, to Glasgow, Edinburgh and Loch Lomond (over the Christmasperiod 1943).

Some time in the second half of 1944 he bought himself a small secondhand car andmade rapid trips to Salisbury, Reading, Oxford and Stratford-on-Avon. On one occasionthe police pulled him up for driving his car without a licence. When the case came beforethe Plymouth magistrate, Don was flying over the Bay ofBiscay on an anti-submarmepatrol. He accounted for his absence at a subsequent hearing by saying he had been on 'theKing's business'. The matter was dropped.

While on a 48-hour pass in November 1943, Don went to Bristol and then to Bath tovisit Wal Shearman's uncle and aunt, a Mr and Mrs Cantels. He also called on his mother'saunt Alice and her family (Alice Norwood, ofBalham in London) on several occasions.

According to the official record, Don ended his service with 10 Squadron on 30November 1944 and was then posted as an instructor to No. 4 OTU ofRAF CoastalCommand at Invergordon, near Inverness in Scotland. Don himself said that he wasnotified on 24 November that his tour was officially over and he was given four days topresent himself at his new unit. This allowed him to take three days leave in London. Then,a few days after his arrival at Invergordon, he was sent on seventeen days leave (the normalreward for ending a tour of operations). He spent this long leave 'at the home of a girl Iknew at Romford, London' (no other details), and at Edinburgh. Returning to the OTU, hewas packed off to Barry m Glamorganshire, South Wales, to undergo a five-weekinstructors course. All this would put him back at Invergordon probably somewhere nearthe end of January 1945.

On 12 January 1945, Don was promoted to Warrant Officer. We were told — thesource cannot be recalled — that Don had been offered a commission but had refused it,

preferring to stay with his friends among the Other Ranks.

Don left Ahiess (which I gather was the station site at Invergordon) on his last flighton the night of 14 March 1945, a few weeks short of his 22nd birthday. The end of theEuropean war was only eight weeks away. But the poignancy of his death does not lie in itscloseness to the end of the war. Thousands died in those last eight weeks. What made Don'sdeath so hard to bear was that he had not only completed his operational flying but had alsoaknost completed his tour as an instructor. He was due to depart to London for repatriationto Australia and expected to board a ship due to sail in a few days time.

23

In an interview on 27 March 1990 with Roy Felan, his captain at Invergordon and anold crew mate from 10 Squadron, we at last learnt how Don came to be on that fatal flight.At the OTU Don was a member ofFelan's crew. It comprised three experienced men -Felan as pilot (captain), Don as wireless/air gunner, and a flight engineer. The rest of thecrew were Australian newcomers undergoing training. Don was rated as 'a dedicatedinstmctor, tough but good. ' Normally, at the OTU, Don would not have flown under anyother captain or with any other crew.

But on 14 March 1945 Don felt the circumstances were right for him to make anearly getaway on the ship he somehow knew was going to leave for Australia soon. Havingfinished his tour of operations, he had taken the option to apply for repatriation andapparently this had been approved. He needed only to complete one more flight to finish hiscommitments at Invergordon. So he arranged to take the place of an instructor assigned toSimderiand DP 178 which was scheduled to go on a training flight that night.

Having made his plans. Don then went to his captain to try and persuade him toagree with them. Roy Felan refused. He told us that he distrusted the Canadians whoformed the crew of DP 178 because he regarded them as being. like the Americans, carelesson radio when on operations. These Canadians were described by Max Johnson, Don'scaptain on P and the only other ex-10 Squadron man at Ahiess at the time, as 'anexperienced crew from West Afhca who were doing a conversion course in radar.'

With characteristic single-mindedness. Don would not accept his captain's refusal.He told Roy that there was 'a girl he wanted to marry' and that he wanted to return toAustralia to help in the fight against the Japanese. He thought he might be posted toRathmines flying boat base on Lake Macquarie near Newcastle. Roy tried to resolve theissue by sending Don to see the Commanding officer of the OTU. The CO declined toadjudicate. It was, he told Don, 'a matter between him and his captain.'

Roy said that he pleaded with Don to give up the idea and that another member ofhis crew advised Don to 'listen to what your captain says. ' But Don wanted to catch thatship. No doubt he could already see himself on the way home, to Olwen, to his family, hisfhends - to all he valued and missed so desperately. To his great regret (and. we fear, anabiding but unjustified sense of guilt), Roy Felan gave in. So it was that Don. by his ownaction and at his own wish, flew into the night on DP 178.

On the terrible day I received the telegram from the Australian Air Board, I wasa sergeant attached to Headquarters, Torokina Defences, on Bougainville. (It was an adhoc, short-lived headquarters thrown together to meet the threat posed by twelveJapanese suicide missions reportedly on their way to infiltrate the Torokina perimeter.)The telegram said that Don was missing on a non-operational flight. The

24

Sunderland was last heard from when it was 75 miles south-east of Sumburgh Head in theShetland Islands.

For many months afterwards we continued to hope that Don would be found alive -perhaps in a German prison camp. Wal Shearman nursed the hope that he may have beenpicked up by the North Sea convoys heading for Murmansk. We all went on hoping longafter the Department of Air advised, on 1 December 1945, that Don was, for officialpurposes, presumed to have been killed on 14 March.

Further details about the final flight have been hard to come by. Clearly, theAustralian authorities know no more than was contained in their telegram — that is, theskunpy details provided to them by the RAF. The Australian records do not even indicatethat the flight was at night, nor do they have any mformation about the other young menwho died at the same time.

Most of what Roy Felan and Max Johnson told us I have verified with the AirHistorical Section (RAF) of the British Ministry of Defence (see its letter of 1 September1983 in 1 Documents'). Max refers to the flight as a 'night exercise'. The British Ministryletter calls it 'a routine operational training exercise' and its list of the crew on boardSunderland DP 178 confirms that they were all Canadians except Don and a British FlightEngineer. The last message from the flying boat. Max said, was about 11pm and indeed therecord from Britain shows the call was made at 2251 hrs. No messages of alarm werereceived.

Next day, ' Max Johnson said, 'a search revealed what was thought to be a portion ofwing and a petrol tank about the area where they should have been at the time. ' London hasnothing to say on this point, although I asked if a search had been made. The London lettersimply says that the RAF have no details of what happened to the aircraft. It disappearedwithout trace.

What happened to DP 178 will never be known. The RAF officially list it as an'accident' — the aircraft simply 'disappeared: cause obscure. ' There is, of course, thepossibility of a mechanical failure causing the boat to crash and break up in the sea. If thatwere the case, there should have been time to send a signal to base, especially as the RAFAccident Report Card describes the weather that night as 1 good'. Max Johnson says thepresumption was that 'a night fighter may have got on to them'. Roy Felan concurs and thisdoes seem the most likely explanation. No alarm was raised, so the destruction of theSunderiand must have been swift. Survivors of an attack (or a crash) would have swiftlyperished in the icy waters of the North Sea.

One wonders whether the radio message at 11pm, which gave away their position,could have been intercepted. 'On operations, Tilley said, 'we never broke radio silence. It waslethal to do so. ' In the opinion of many 10 Squadron men, flights on OTU exercises weremore dangerous than those on actual operations. Gordon Craig, an ex-squadron man who

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Active service theorttically over,Don Nas transferred a* an instructorto Invargordon. In fact, the •OMplaced hr in wh»t was now the •<itdangerous af*a of operations.The last knoNn poittion of hi»aircraft (aarkcd Nith a crois) *sNithin range of NorNegian-bwednight tighter*.

26

billetted with Don at Plymouth, still considers himself lucky that a fortuitous illness allowedhim to avoid an OTU posting, on operations at 10 Squadron, there would never be more thanone inexperienced crew member aboard learning the ropes from veterans used to working as ateam, but on OTU missions the position could be reversed - a crew ofnewchumsaccompanied by one or two experienced instructors. Max Johnson refers to the Canadians onDP 178 as 'experienced', but they came from the West Africa, not the European theatre, andmay not have fully appreciated the danger from the sophisticated night fighters the Germanshad developed. Roy Felan believes that radio silence was broken on DP 178 by one of theCanadians while Don was elsewhere engaged on the aircraft. There were three Canadianswireless operators aboard.

Certainly, there were plenty of enemy fighters in the area. With the recapture of theFrench ports on the Bay ofBiscay, the U-boats shifted to Norwegian havens. The North Seaand what was called the Northern Transit Area (the Atlantic between Iceland and Norway)became the focus for the Allies anti-submarine patrols. At the same time, the covering fightersfor the U-boats also moved north and were active over the North Sea. A few weeks before

Don's final flight a RAAF officer on a night patrol in the North Sea 'repeatedly had to evadenight fighters' (Air Series IV pp. 380-81). A glance at the map suggests that Don's last knownposition was well within range of the German fighter bases in Norway. Roy Felan thinks thatthe Germans based in Norway knew of the training flights. He said the Sunderlands fromAlness on night exercises took off at fairly regular times and followed a similar flight plan.DP 178, he said, would be flying at a low altitude, around 1500 to 2000 feet, with little leewaybetween it and 'the deck' if it were attacked.

Don's parents never received his belongings, apart from his log book. Max Johnsonthrew some light on this when we talked to him in 1988. When Max and Roy realised Donwould not be returning, they thought at once about the purloined chronometer. Where was it?Apparently with Don's personal things which. Max said, Don had left with his girl friend inLondon whose name and address they did not know. (If we had known this earlier, instead of43 years later, we might have been able to locate the 'Romford girl friend', and perhaps recoverhis personal effects.)

For some years after the war, I hoped that we would hear more from the air forceauthorities when they had checked German records, all of which were captured intact whenhostilities ceased. But I now doubt that any effort was made by RAF or RAAF researchers toclear up such matters by examining the records of German fighter squadrons.

In early September 1945, when the Pacific War was also over, I flew for the first time ina Sunderland on my way from Port Moresby to Torokina. I was impressed by their size, powerand stability. The flying boat was one of six flown to Australia by veteran 10 Squadron pilotsfor transport work in the Pacific and the flight naturally recalled Don and his fate.

On that sad journey, I asked myself the question 1 have often asked since: Why, withall the other directions across the oceans to choose from, was Sunderland DP 178 sent on a

training flight into an operational area where night fighters were known to be active?To us it makes no sense. To Roy Felan it makes no sense. But, then, war never does.