Before Wickenby
As a dark cloud of German raiders droned over Bristol, thousands of people craned their necks to watch the war arrive. They had seen nothing like it in the year since the conflict had officially started. Twenty-year-old brunette Edna Stirret stepped out of the dress shop where she was working to see what the fuss was about and was suddenly gripped by fear. The 100 or more planes were headed for the aircraft works on the city's outskirts at Filton where her fiancé Fred Shorney, 24, was a fitter, making wing ribs for the Beaufort torpedo bomber.
Bristol Aeroplane Company was a vital wartime factory and now, September 1940, it was in range of fully-laden bombers moved onto captured French airfields. The 58 Heinkel He 111 bombers of the Luftflotte 3 air fleet, escorted by 52 Messerschmitt Bf 110 fighters, which had crossed the coast at Dorset, had little opposition and dropped 300 bombs on BAC and the surrounding area. Ninety-one employees were among 132 killed, a further 315 were injured, factories were wrecked and eight new aircraft destroyed. As Edna grew desperate she was astonished to see Fred, completely unscathed, walking past the shop. It was September 25, his 25th birthday, and he had spontaneously taken the day off work to visit the labour exchange in the city centre to ask about signing up for the RAF.
The invaders would only add to his determination to get into the air. He said: "I came out of the labour exchange and saw a formation of German bombers. There were two fighters, too high to make out whether they were Spitfires or Hurricanes, which dived into the German formation hoping to break it up and both got shot down. I went into town for a purpose - all Jerry did was make up my mind well and truly." He was told he was in a reserved occupation and could not join the RAF - but he got round that by quitting his job and resuming a former profession of barber for a few weeks before applying for the Volunteer Reserve.
January 1941 found the aircraftman second class - service number 1270546 - at 4ITW, Initial Training Wing, in Paignton, Devon, billeted with other trainees in requisitioned hotels on the Esplanade. He so excelled at aircraft recognition they wanted him to stay on and teach subsequent classes, an offer he declined because of a burning ambition to fly.
After final exams he became one of the first British airmen of the war to learn to fly in the United States under the secret Arnold Scheme, away from ration books, blackouts and bombs. All the group of 550 was told at this stage was they were going to Canada and at Greenock they boarded the twin-funnelled Britannic, flanked by the battleship Rodney and destroyers Eskimo, Mashona, Somali and Tartar. All this for one troopship? They soon found out why after the convoy set out on May 22. Some airmen broke the monotony of the voyage by reading the escorting warships' Aldis lamp signals and were alarmed to discover the Bismarck was not only on the high seas but had their position and course. It did not improve their peace of mind to see the Rodney and three of the four destroyers peel off and disappear below the horizon to hunt down the pride of the German navy. The Admiralty had signalled to the Rodney: "If Britannic cannot keep up, leave her behind with one destroyer." The Rodney in turn signalled to Britannic to head at top speed for her destination. The liner, now accompanied by only the Eskimo, changed course and increased speed but arrived safely in Halifax, by which time the Bismarck had been sunk, the Rodney having played a key part in the denouement. A relieved cargo of trainees spent that night on board, gazing in wonder at Halifax dock's lights undimmed by blackouts.
Next morning they gained the first taste of ration-free life with drinks, fruit and magazines on a two-day train journey to Toronto's Manning Depot, a staging post where they were told their ultimate destination. To record this unprecedented posting an official group photograph was taken on June 6 of all 550 men on the depot steps, a picture that today hangs in the RAF Museum in London.
As America was not at war it could not train the men in uniform. Instead they got smart haircuts and were fitted out with immaculate double-breasted lightweight suits for the journey south. But they also had a stern lecture about the very heavy responsibility they now carried. Effectively they were told they were ambassadors for Britain at a highly-sensitive time and it was important to watch their step and mind what they said.
Carlstrom was run by the private Riddle Aeronautical Institute and was all they could have wished for: the breakfasts were of pork chops, French fries, tea and milk, Coca-cola was available throughout the day from machines for a nickel, and there was a bar for soft drinks and ice cream. They were class 42-A - the 42 being the year in which they would graduate and the A representing the first group to do so.
The primary course aircraft was one of the best, in Fred's view, he would fly: the Stearman PT-17, a thrilling open-cockpit biplane with fixed undercarriage and 220-horsepower Continental engine.
Everyone desperately wanted to be a pilot and enjoy the kudos that went with it but many did not make the grade. Fred said: "Some of them didn't want to go into the Army and chose to fly but didn't reckon with their lack of ability. America got rid of quite a few in the early stages. One person I knew from Paignton flunked his first flight and I did not see him again."
Ten weeks soon passed and, of the 99 who started, Fred was one of just 53 who graduated in primary flight instruction. They headed off to the second course at Gunter Field, Montgomery, a military aerodrome with a more powerful aircraft, the Vultee BT-13 and 13A monoplane.
On a solo grass landing exercise Fred ploughed into an unseen wire fence, the Vultee coming to a halt with a 90 degree noseover - tipped forward, nose touching the ground. He scrambled out and was lucky to be uninjured. "Nothing was mentioned about fences at all and I couldn't see it from the air. It was only when I was on the ground that I realised I was going too fast. I got out as quickly as possible and, thinking I hadn't turned the petrol off, climbed under the aircraft and turned the fuel switch off, which was a daft thing to do because it could have burst into flames at any time."
Wastage on the three-course training programme was high - Fred was one of only 270 graduates from the initial 550. With 202hr 55m of flying under his belt, he and the other airmen made their way back to Canada for a return to Blighty and the war.
At Halifax on January 30, 1942, they boarded the 15,000-ton Dutch liner Volendam for the 2,800-mile return journey, accompanied by another troopship and two Royal Navy destroyers. The fact that the enemy could easily have read in the American press full details of their training in the United States and its conclusion date only imperilled them more.
The several thousand British and Canadian aircrew aboard wrestled with hammocks below decks on the first night as the Volendam set off on her treacherous voyage. They would know nothing of the hideous disaster to take place in the heavy seas around them. German U-boat U-82 intercepted the fast-moving convoy, and her captain prepared to fire torpedoes. One of the destroyers, HMS Belmont, went full speed ahead to block the line of fire to the Volendam. Within seconds a torpedo hit the Belmont, which was rocked by two violent explosions, and she sank with all 138 hands in the bitter cold winter night. Her brave crew had sacrificed themselves because the safety of the Volendam passengers was considered paramount.
The Volendam sped away, believing that as they were only 300 miles out of Halifax a rescue ship would soon arrive to look for any survivors. A frantic chase then took place as U-82 tracked its quarry for three days, keen to use two remaining torpedoes. She was joined by three other U-boats, two of which fired their torpedoes, but the fleeing convoy's 14-knot (16mph) speed was too great for the pursuers.
Trying to sleep as best they could in their hammocks the airmen had come within seconds of death without knowing it, and neither were they told of the drama when they woke on the second day. But alarm soon spread when, on deck, they could spot only one destroyer. The second troopship, USS George Washington, was also nowhere to be seen, fuelling incorrect speculation that both ships had been lost in the night.
Fred said: "When we got up the next morning the second troopship and the second destroyer were not there. We didn't know about any attacks overnight. When you go to sleep all you can hear are the motors of your own ship. There was no information offered to us at all about it. There were a lot of RAF cadets who were very nervous indeed. Rumours went around that the other ship or ships had been sunk."
The airmen were not told of the furious race to escape the enemy as it took place over the next three days. All they saw was the remaining destroyer, HMS Firedrake, doing double duty for the rest of the trip, moving at high speed over a distance normally covered by two ships. Fred said: "It was listening for subs to sort them out, going out to the skyline in one direction, out to the skyline in the other direction. I remember being in the barber's shop and there was a great big bang and the ship shook. It was so close I thought it was the ship, but it was just our escort Firedrake dropping depth charges."
It was with enormous relief that the steamer eventually landed at Greenock where her valuable cargo was safely disgorged. The hat was passed round in appreciation of the great efforts of HMS Firedrake's crew, and only then were details forthcoming of the tragedy of their convoy. They were unaware, however, that U-82 had herself already been sunk. Firedrake too went down later that year with the loss of 168 crew.
Safely home Fred opted to become an instructor, which meant a posting to South Cerney, Gloucestershire, and shortly afterwards, to its new satellite station at Lulsgate, nine miles south of Bristol, now home to Bristol International Airport. There he trained pilots - mainly from Australia and New Zealand - to fly the Oxford.
Lulsgate is 600 feet above sea level and as air from the west hits and rises up the escarpment it drops in temperature and forms cloud. One early evening after a fine day they assembled at the flying hut to be told night flying was cancelled. Fred said: "Another instructor and myself said that was unbelievable because we had been out 15 minutes earlier without trouble." Defiantly the pair climbed into an Oxford and took off, the other instructor piloting, with Fred navigating. Only in the air did they discover the weather warning had been all too accurate. "By the time we got out there was a real pea-souper fog. Fortunately there was a clearer spot where a marker light was visible and we did a calculated flight from there which amounted to three turns - turn left, turn left, turn left, and counting as well because you couldn't see anything. We reckoned we were then positioned to make the approach to land. As we did so we asked for the lights to be put on and fortunately we were on the right course. We happened to be spot on. When we got down no one said a word. I think we just said, 'Yes, we agree'."
Bristol Aeroplane Company was a vital wartime factory and now, September 1940, it was in range of fully-laden bombers moved onto captured French airfields. The 58 Heinkel He 111 bombers of the Luftflotte 3 air fleet, escorted by 52 Messerschmitt Bf 110 fighters, which had crossed the coast at Dorset, had little opposition and dropped 300 bombs on BAC and the surrounding area. Ninety-one employees were among 132 killed, a further 315 were injured, factories were wrecked and eight new aircraft destroyed. As Edna grew desperate she was astonished to see Fred, completely unscathed, walking past the shop. It was September 25, his 25th birthday, and he had spontaneously taken the day off work to visit the labour exchange in the city centre to ask about signing up for the RAF.
The invaders would only add to his determination to get into the air. He said: "I came out of the labour exchange and saw a formation of German bombers. There were two fighters, too high to make out whether they were Spitfires or Hurricanes, which dived into the German formation hoping to break it up and both got shot down. I went into town for a purpose - all Jerry did was make up my mind well and truly." He was told he was in a reserved occupation and could not join the RAF - but he got round that by quitting his job and resuming a former profession of barber for a few weeks before applying for the Volunteer Reserve.
January 1941 found the aircraftman second class - service number 1270546 - at 4ITW, Initial Training Wing, in Paignton, Devon, billeted with other trainees in requisitioned hotels on the Esplanade. He so excelled at aircraft recognition they wanted him to stay on and teach subsequent classes, an offer he declined because of a burning ambition to fly.
After final exams he became one of the first British airmen of the war to learn to fly in the United States under the secret Arnold Scheme, away from ration books, blackouts and bombs. All the group of 550 was told at this stage was they were going to Canada and at Greenock they boarded the twin-funnelled Britannic, flanked by the battleship Rodney and destroyers Eskimo, Mashona, Somali and Tartar. All this for one troopship? They soon found out why after the convoy set out on May 22. Some airmen broke the monotony of the voyage by reading the escorting warships' Aldis lamp signals and were alarmed to discover the Bismarck was not only on the high seas but had their position and course. It did not improve their peace of mind to see the Rodney and three of the four destroyers peel off and disappear below the horizon to hunt down the pride of the German navy. The Admiralty had signalled to the Rodney: "If Britannic cannot keep up, leave her behind with one destroyer." The Rodney in turn signalled to Britannic to head at top speed for her destination. The liner, now accompanied by only the Eskimo, changed course and increased speed but arrived safely in Halifax, by which time the Bismarck had been sunk, the Rodney having played a key part in the denouement. A relieved cargo of trainees spent that night on board, gazing in wonder at Halifax dock's lights undimmed by blackouts.
Next morning they gained the first taste of ration-free life with drinks, fruit and magazines on a two-day train journey to Toronto's Manning Depot, a staging post where they were told their ultimate destination. To record this unprecedented posting an official group photograph was taken on June 6 of all 550 men on the depot steps, a picture that today hangs in the RAF Museum in London.
As America was not at war it could not train the men in uniform. Instead they got smart haircuts and were fitted out with immaculate double-breasted lightweight suits for the journey south. But they also had a stern lecture about the very heavy responsibility they now carried. Effectively they were told they were ambassadors for Britain at a highly-sensitive time and it was important to watch their step and mind what they said.
The smartly-dressed trainees arrive by train at Arcadia, Florida. Fred is mid-way along the front row.
On June 7 they set off by train and after two days Fred's 99-strong contingent ended up in Arcadia, south west Florida, where it appeared the whole town had turned out to greet them. The final leg of the journey, which in total had taken nearly a month, was made in style in a motorcade to Carlstrom Field, a breathtaking expanse of aerodrome dominated by two huge hangars and surrounded by orange groves.Carlstrom was run by the private Riddle Aeronautical Institute and was all they could have wished for: the breakfasts were of pork chops, French fries, tea and milk, Coca-cola was available throughout the day from machines for a nickel, and there was a bar for soft drinks and ice cream. They were class 42-A - the 42 being the year in which they would graduate and the A representing the first group to do so.
The primary course aircraft was one of the best, in Fred's view, he would fly: the Stearman PT-17, a thrilling open-cockpit biplane with fixed undercarriage and 220-horsepower Continental engine.
Stearman biplanes line up outside the hangars at Carlstrom Field, Arcadia, Florida.
Initial flights were made with an instructor in the front seat and pupil sitting behind, communicating via a speaking tube. During aerobatic training Fred pointed out to the instructor there was a plane ahead going in a spin and that someone had bailed out, to be met with a blunt "Nonsense - you're seeing things". Within seconds the instructor had to eat his words as a pilot was spotted floating down by parachute. The instructor swiftly took over the controls, flew to where the hapless trainee had landed, gave him a wave and raced back to the aerodrome to alert them.Everyone desperately wanted to be a pilot and enjoy the kudos that went with it but many did not make the grade. Fred said: "Some of them didn't want to go into the Army and chose to fly but didn't reckon with their lack of ability. America got rid of quite a few in the early stages. One person I knew from Paignton flunked his first flight and I did not see him again."
Ten weeks soon passed and, of the 99 who started, Fred was one of just 53 who graduated in primary flight instruction. They headed off to the second course at Gunter Field, Montgomery, a military aerodrome with a more powerful aircraft, the Vultee BT-13 and 13A monoplane.
On a solo grass landing exercise Fred ploughed into an unseen wire fence, the Vultee coming to a halt with a 90 degree noseover - tipped forward, nose touching the ground. He scrambled out and was lucky to be uninjured. "Nothing was mentioned about fences at all and I couldn't see it from the air. It was only when I was on the ground that I realised I was going too fast. I got out as quickly as possible and, thinking I hadn't turned the petrol off, climbed under the aircraft and turned the fuel switch off, which was a daft thing to do because it could have burst into flames at any time."
The Carlstrom cadets graduate. Fred is fourth from left, middle row.
The last course, at Maxwell Field, Montgomery, featuring the North American AT6A and BC1A, comprised fewer but longer flights, with a peak of 6hr 45m in the air on December 7, the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour. Fred said: "The first reaction was that the lights went out in Montgomery. A stupid rumour went round like wildfire that there was a Japanese boat in the Gulf of Mexico. Two or three instructors went up to test the effectiveness of the blackout. All we wondered was what was going to happen to us." The answer was their final ten-week course was cut by two weeks to make way for an influx of American trainees into Maxwell Field as the U.S. entered the war.Wastage on the three-course training programme was high - Fred was one of only 270 graduates from the initial 550. With 202hr 55m of flying under his belt, he and the other airmen made their way back to Canada for a return to Blighty and the war.
At Halifax on January 30, 1942, they boarded the 15,000-ton Dutch liner Volendam for the 2,800-mile return journey, accompanied by another troopship and two Royal Navy destroyers. The fact that the enemy could easily have read in the American press full details of their training in the United States and its conclusion date only imperilled them more.
The several thousand British and Canadian aircrew aboard wrestled with hammocks below decks on the first night as the Volendam set off on her treacherous voyage. They would know nothing of the hideous disaster to take place in the heavy seas around them. German U-boat U-82 intercepted the fast-moving convoy, and her captain prepared to fire torpedoes. One of the destroyers, HMS Belmont, went full speed ahead to block the line of fire to the Volendam. Within seconds a torpedo hit the Belmont, which was rocked by two violent explosions, and she sank with all 138 hands in the bitter cold winter night. Her brave crew had sacrificed themselves because the safety of the Volendam passengers was considered paramount.
The Volendam sped away, believing that as they were only 300 miles out of Halifax a rescue ship would soon arrive to look for any survivors. A frantic chase then took place as U-82 tracked its quarry for three days, keen to use two remaining torpedoes. She was joined by three other U-boats, two of which fired their torpedoes, but the fleeing convoy's 14-knot (16mph) speed was too great for the pursuers.
Trying to sleep as best they could in their hammocks the airmen had come within seconds of death without knowing it, and neither were they told of the drama when they woke on the second day. But alarm soon spread when, on deck, they could spot only one destroyer. The second troopship, USS George Washington, was also nowhere to be seen, fuelling incorrect speculation that both ships had been lost in the night.
Fred said: "When we got up the next morning the second troopship and the second destroyer were not there. We didn't know about any attacks overnight. When you go to sleep all you can hear are the motors of your own ship. There was no information offered to us at all about it. There were a lot of RAF cadets who were very nervous indeed. Rumours went around that the other ship or ships had been sunk."
The airmen were not told of the furious race to escape the enemy as it took place over the next three days. All they saw was the remaining destroyer, HMS Firedrake, doing double duty for the rest of the trip, moving at high speed over a distance normally covered by two ships. Fred said: "It was listening for subs to sort them out, going out to the skyline in one direction, out to the skyline in the other direction. I remember being in the barber's shop and there was a great big bang and the ship shook. It was so close I thought it was the ship, but it was just our escort Firedrake dropping depth charges."
It was with enormous relief that the steamer eventually landed at Greenock where her valuable cargo was safely disgorged. The hat was passed round in appreciation of the great efforts of HMS Firedrake's crew, and only then were details forthcoming of the tragedy of their convoy. They were unaware, however, that U-82 had herself already been sunk. Firedrake too went down later that year with the loss of 168 crew.
Safely home Fred opted to become an instructor, which meant a posting to South Cerney, Gloucestershire, and shortly afterwards, to its new satellite station at Lulsgate, nine miles south of Bristol, now home to Bristol International Airport. There he trained pilots - mainly from Australia and New Zealand - to fly the Oxford.
Lulsgate is 600 feet above sea level and as air from the west hits and rises up the escarpment it drops in temperature and forms cloud. One early evening after a fine day they assembled at the flying hut to be told night flying was cancelled. Fred said: "Another instructor and myself said that was unbelievable because we had been out 15 minutes earlier without trouble." Defiantly the pair climbed into an Oxford and took off, the other instructor piloting, with Fred navigating. Only in the air did they discover the weather warning had been all too accurate. "By the time we got out there was a real pea-souper fog. Fortunately there was a clearer spot where a marker light was visible and we did a calculated flight from there which amounted to three turns - turn left, turn left, turn left, and counting as well because you couldn't see anything. We reckoned we were then positioned to make the approach to land. As we did so we asked for the lights to be put on and fortunately we were on the right course. We happened to be spot on. When we got down no one said a word. I think we just said, 'Yes, we agree'."
