Woodfield Publishing Limited

Tall, handsome, well-spoken, moustachioed and full of fun, John Leighton Beck was the image of what most people think of when they imagine a World War II Royal Air Force pilot. His wartime service involved him in many adventures, both in the air and on the ground and he writes about these with an easygoing charm that is very enjoyable to read.

He served two tours of duty, one in the United Kingdom as pilot of a twin-engined Wellington bomber, attacking targets in Germany, the second as pilot and captain of an American-built B24 Liberator, seeing action in Egypt and India and ending his RAF career as a Wing Commander. He was twice awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC).

Here are a few snippets from his book...

My first tour on operations lasted through 1940 until March 1941. Most of our targets were in the Ruhr, the industrial heartland of Germany, and others within a radius of 600 miles, which included the Berlin and Magdeburg areas. The channel ports were also attacked when masses of transport barges were assembled ready for the invasion.

The typical routine was for the aircrew to report to their flights at 10.00 hrs each day to find out which crews would be on ‘ops’ that night, the rest being "stood down". As Captain along with my co-pilot I would have a word with the groundcrew who serviced and bombed-up our aircraft, check everything, fly a couple of circuits on test, then go into the mess for lunch. Briefing would be at 1400 hrs and the CO would reveal the target and details of take-off times. Then the specialists would run through their information and instructions. The Intelligence officer would give details of ‘Flak’ (anti-aircraft) bands across Germany and estimated strength of flak over the target, followed by the signals officer dealing with airfield identification beacons, colours of the day, German radio frequencies, radar locations, enemy night-fighter areas, etc. The Met Officer would give the expected weather en route and over the target, also landing conditions on return and wind-speed and direction at various heights en route and over the target.

After "any questions" the briefing ended and each navigator worked out the route to the target on his charts. The Captain then went through the whole trip with the crew, reminding them about rations, effect of cold and fatigue and the need to carry oxygen bottles at height when moving about the aircraft and other safety precautions in case we were shot down or had to land in the sea. We all carried silk maps sewn into the linings of our clothes and compasses disguised as buttons or shirt collar studs to help us to escape, which we were expected to do if captured.

Our point of departure was Southwold on the Suffolk coast and all routes out and back started at that place on the chart, so that hopefully the enemy would not know from which airfield the aircraft had started. A time was set to assemble in the crew room when the crew members were expected to be ready for a truck to take them to the aircraft. If time allowed we would go to our rooms and sleep or rest and have a pre-flight meal before taking off individually at the appointed time.

From then on we were on our own, each aircraft proceeded to the target independently in my day, carried out its mission and returned, hopefully unscathed, anywhere between three or eight hours later, depending on the target distance. Crews became close-knit, each relying on each other’s skills for the safety of the whole crew. In the air, the designated captain of the aircraft was the boss and gave the orders, irrespective of rank.

On our return there would be a de-briefing session with the Intelligence staff, then a very welcome breakfast of bacon and eggs, followed by bed and oblivion. Sorties were usually every third night but a lot were cancelled due to bad weather, especially during winter months, which often produced 10/10ths cloud over Europe. Under these conditions we had to bring our bomb-load back if the target could not be identified. On one particular sortie in atrocious weather I flew for some six hours in cloud and brought back my bomb-load as instructed as the target could not be identified. Being shot at in cloud over flak lines gave one a feeling of utter helplessness.

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In the first part of my operational tour Budge and I lived in a farmhouse and it was my practice on returning from a mission to fly low over the dwelling to let Budge know I was back safely. She would open the bedroom window, as it was usually very early in the morning, and lean out and wave her handkerchief and I would waggle my wings in salute. My crew were young and barely out of their teens and on one occasion I looked round to see them gawping excitedly out of the aircraft windows at my very scantily dressed bride in her diaphanous nightie. I had wondered why, on previous such occasions, I had had to adjust the trim of the aircraft; it was on account of them all being on one side! Over the intercom I shouted "Eyes front!" but couldn’t help chuckling as I did so.

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An amusing incident occurred when my CO asked me to accompany him to look round our aircraft. He was very particular to check everything. As we came round the port wing he noticed a thin stream of liquid coming off the trailing edge of the wing. He put his hand out and tested it by smell.

"Just as I thought," he said. "The tail is down a bit and this is petrol overflowing from full tanks."

We then proceeded to walk towards the rear compartment when he saw a thin stream of similar liquid coming from the underneath onto the ground. He went over and collected some onto his hand, sniffed it, tasted it, turned to me and said, "I can’t make this out, its not a lubricant and furthermore it’s slightly warm. Get in and find out where it’s coming from and what it is – it might be important."

I did as he requested and just as I entered the rear compartment I heard one of our maintenance crew say, "Stop pissing Bert – the CO’s outside!"

Need I say more!

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Towards the end of April or early May 1942 the Squadron was ready and Wing Commander Skinner detailed me to go off first, entrusting me to test the short runway at Gibraltar before committing the whole Squadron. First I had to fly out to Hurn (Bournemouth Airport) to weigh the aircraft and find out its centre of gravity. I had assumed that the aircraft was properly fuelled up for the short flight (famous last words) and didn’t check and I was very lucky to get there. I was crosswind, ready to turn in to land at about 1,000 feet when my engines started to splutter and one after the other they cut out, just as I landed. I kept quiet about it, but never forgot the lesson.

At Hurn we refuelled and took off with a full load, including two crews – our 159 Squadron ones and a second crew for 160 Squadron who we were ferrying out to wait until they got their own aircraft. We were kitted out with tropical gear and carried our camp beds with us, so our aircraft was crammed with personnel and their gear.

I flew out to some 14 degrees west in the Atlantic then turned south to close in on Portugal at Cape St Vincent, before turning south-east on the last leg to Gibraltar.

Without brakes, a Liberator could run for three miles and at the briefing beforehand there was some humour, at my expense, when they said the strip at Gibraltar was easy to recognise as you could see all the high tails of Wellingtons which had overshot the runway sticking out of the water on either side of the narrow isthmus joining the Rock to the mainland.

I approached over the bay of Algeciras with full flap, just above stalling speed, and cut the throttles right back just before the wheels touched the runway. With brakes full on I managed to stop some 10 yards from the sea at the other end, much to the relief of the crew. Half of Gibraltar had turned out to witness the first landing of a four-engine bomber. Amongst the crowd was an old schoolfriend, Captain Hay, who was a gunner stationed on the Rock. I took him up on one of my test runs and scared the daylights out of him, as both take-off and landing were hairy experiences. Afterwards he said that he was glad he was in the Army!

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As soon as we were clear of the target I could feel that my aircraft had sustained some damage, but had no time to check as we were immediately attacked by three fighters – an ME109, a ME110 and an Italian Macchi 200. My fighter direction officer, Flight Lieutenant Dalton, was already in the astro-dome, letting me know the direction each fighter was attacking from. They were all quarter or stern attacks. With the running commentary from Dalton I took appropriate action to counter their attacks, but we still got a terrible hammering. I could hear bullets and cannon shells smashing their way down the fuselage and one or two of the cannon shells smashed into the armour plating behind my back. I could also see pieces of the port engine being shot off. Flight Lieutenant Dalton did a magnificent job keeping me informed of the fighter’s movements.

I had headed north out to sea, as I knew the fighters had only about 20-30 minutes endurance before having to return to base to re-fuel. The formation had been broken up in the intense barrage and the others were nowhere to be seen. After some 15-20 minutes of running battle the fighters pulled away, which was just as well, as my rear gunner’s guns had jammed and his turret was out of action as well as his intercom. My second pilot was wounded.

As soon as the enemy planes had left, my crew reported that our starboard outer engine was on fire and streaming smoke and flame behind, so I put the nose down and dived for the sea after operating the fire extinguisher on that engine. This was one method of putting out engine fires, and on this occasion it worked. I pulled out of the screaming dive at 500 feet over the sea, thankful that the excessive speed hadn’t pulled the wings off and happily the fire was out. My port inner was giving only half power so I had only 2½ good engines to fly the 1,000 mile journey back. I lightened the aircraft by throwing out everything of weight that could be spared and finally, after some 7 hours, staggered back to Fayid in bright moonlight. I landed safely but the nose-wheel had been damaged and collapsed, causing my aircraft to slew off the runway on its nose in a cloud of sand until we finally stopped just short of a stone building.

Next day I viewed the aircraft and it looked like a sieve, with over 100 jagged holes. That mission to Benghazi was my worst in terms of being within a hair’s breadth of being shot down.

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