Copyright: Peter Walker
F/Lt Vern L. Scantelton DFC, RAAF, died on 11 April this year in Toowoomba, Brisbane, aged 97 years old. He was awarded the French Legion D’Honneur in 2015 by the French Ambassador in Brisbane. Vern served with 214 Squadron at RAF Oulton, Norfolk, flying 46 Fortress ‘jamming’ operations between April 1944 and April 1945 – more than any other Pilot. He volunteered to do a second tour over and above the normal 30 ops. He also flew five bombing ops on Stirlings with 214 from Chedburgh (not then 100 Group).
The following two accounts are personal writings shared.
It should be appreciated when presenting a first-person story, that it is difficult not to appear to be ‘shooting a line’ as wartime pilots were renowned for their ability to do so. You will have to accept what you read here at face value. With any story relating to Bomber Command during World War Two, it is also essential to have some appreciation of difficulties experienced both by pilots and crews.
Piston engine aircraft were greatly underpowered, compared to today’s jets and required every inch of the runway for take-off. A standard Bomber Command aerodrome was one, two-thousand-yard runway criss-crossed by one twelve-hundred-yard runway. The twelve-hundred-yard runway was only used when high winds caused too much cross wind on the two-thousand-yard one. Bomber Command operated mostly at night, and all dromes had strict blackout conditions. This added to the pilot’s problems. For instance, taxiing a Stirling Bomber with an all up weight of approximately 75,000 pounds around a perimeter on a black, windy, wet winter’s night with only a few pinpoint lights as a guide could prove very demanding.
All Bomber Command raids were carried out with strict R/T and W/T silence from prior to take-off time. The reason for this being that any increased R/T or W/T activity could be picked up by listening devices of the enemy, which would alert them to the fact that Bomber Force was about to leave or already on their way.
My first story relates to a mid-air collision which took place on 6 November 1943.
We took off from Stradishall Airfield at approximately 9.30pm and had climbed on course to a height of approx. 7,000ft over Cambridge. The night was dark and full blackout conditions were in force. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark object loom up on the port side. Instinctively, I pulled back on the control column, raising the nose of the aircraft. Almost immediately, the nose of our aircraft collided with the tail plane of a Wellington Bomber. Beyond any doubt, pulling back on the control column saved our aircraft, otherwise the two aircraft would have collided at the same height with almost certain death to both crews. Because we struck the tail of the Wellington, the pilot would have lost immediate control.
Courtesy: Vern Scantelton DFC
The aircraft would have gone into a ‘Corkscrew’ spin and centrifugal forces would have made it impossible for the crew to bail out. All seven Australians in this Wellington were killed.
Our advantage was that the Stirling was the ‘Rolls Royce’ of aircraft made by Short Brothers, makers of the famous Sunderland Flying boats. Added to that, the Wellington was only a two-engine aircraft and about a third of our all-up weight. The Wellington Bomber was affectionately known as the ‘Wimpy’ and played a major role in Bomber Command in about 1942 and prior to the introduction of Lancasters and Halifaxes. The Wellington Bomber was invented by Barnes Wallis, later to be made famous as inventor of the Dam Buster bombs. It was later to transpire that, at the moment of impact, I pressed the intercom button on the control column and called out: ‘Christ!’ This exclamation was later to bring a little mirth to the staid Court of Enquiry held a month later.
Immediately following the collision, we were able to ascertain that we still had the aircraft under control, but the starboard outer motor was running roughly, and this motor was feathered. I consulted with the Navigator and it was agreed that we should fly back to Base on a reciprocal course and, due to the impact, the gyroscopic compass would probably have toppled and be useless, meaning we would have to rely on the P15 magnetic compass. Little were we to know that the gyroscopic compass had not toppled and, in fact, the P15 had been knocked out by at least 45 degrees and we were not flying a reciprocal course.
After approximately 25 minutes of flying, we became aware that we were lost. To add to our woes, we had other problems to contend with. In the impact, the port side of the nose of our aircraft was opened up. At the time of impact, the Bomb Aimer, who operates in that area, was lying on his stomach, map reading through the Perspex viewer. The poor fellow copped the full blast of the impact, but miraculously did not suffer broken bones and, in fact, was only in hospital a few days. Unfortunately, in the collision, his parachute was ripped open. He was found enveloped in approximately 70 square yards of silk which he was manfully trying to repack without any success.
An urgent assessment of the damage which we could determine internally showed that the airspeed indicator recorded zero, which meant the Pilot head, which is located externally under the nose, had been ripped off. Knowing your airspeed is a vital and essential piece of information needed to fly a large and heavy aircraft as the craft must always be kept above stalling speed in the air, except at the point of landing.
The thought of bringing an aircraft in to land with an all up weight of 75,000 pounds, at night, without knowing our air speed was hair-raising to say the least! Whilst a Stirling Bomber had dual controls, the RAF used only one Pilot. The Bomb Aimer was trained to act as second dickie to assist the Pilot in take-offs and landings. One of his functions on preparing to land was, on the Pilot’s instructions, to call the air speed every three or four seconds when the aircraft was at a height of about five hundred feet and on the descent in the approach funnel. Without a known air speed, the only way to bring the aircraft safely in, was under high power and going like a ‘bat out of hell’. An attempt to call Base on P/T proved useless as the set was damaged during impact. We called ‘Mayday … Mayday …’, the international distress call; a number of times, but obviously we were only talking to ourselves. The trailing aerial of the W/T set was ripped off, which meant the Wireless Operator was unable to transmit or receive messages.
Having decided we were lost, Roy Forbes, our New Zealand Navigator took some Astro shots and determined our position. By some outstanding calculations under extreme pressure, he worked out a course to set for Base, this time using the gyroscopic compass. Roy proved to be an outstanding Navigator and justified his award of the Distinguished Flying Cross after completing 30 operations.
After arriving over Base, we fired a number of red Very Lights, to indicate our distress situation, hoping they would clear the runway for our sole use. We need not have worried. They were already aware that a collision had taken place and, with no R/T or W/T response from our aircraft, had assumed we were one of the planes involved.
At one stage, the opportunity was given to some of the crew to bail out, but all refused to do so. This was a little surprising as some must have thought our chances of survival fairly grim. As one of the parachutes was useless, it meant that, in the event of a forced bail out, one of the crew faced certain death. Fortunately, this terrible decision did not have to be made.
Having decided to land, the undercarriage was selected to be lowered and … bad luck again! … nothing happened. The huge wheels and 16ft Oleo legs of the undercarriage are operated independently by electric motors on either side. As these were obviously unserviceable, we were left with no alternative but to get the wheels down manually. This was a slow, laborious job as it takes six hundred turns for each wheel to be lowered, all this time stooging around above the airfield at a fairly low altitude in an aircraft with unknown external damage.
Finally, with the wheels locked down, the time had come to land the aircraft.
The aircraft was brought in under high power and, in hindsight, at an excessive speed. Over the start of the runway, the throttles were pulled off and we had hopefully expected the aircraft to settle. Instead, our excessive speed would not let the aircraft stall onto the runway, and we went tearing down the runway using its length up at an alarming rate. Finally, the aircraft settled onto the runway and it was a great relief to find that the undercarriage did not collapse on impact. Our relief however was short lived. On applying the air brakes, they failed completely!
The braking system had been damaged and we had total loss of air pressure, therefore no braking power whatsoever. As it had become apparent we would overshoot, the only remaining option was to ground-loop the aircraft and hope the Oleo legs would not collapse, and that in the wide arc required, we would not collide with some stationary object which, of course, we would have no way of avoiding. Fortunately, the Oleo legs withstood the stress of a complete ground loop, and we were all pleased to be back on terra firma. We were met by a welcoming party, all keen to learn what had happened.
Over the next few days, I noticed that the Medical Officer on the Station sought me out in the Mess on several occasions to pass the time of day. Was it that he was looking for some twitching of the eyes, or the shaking of the hand which was holding the pot of beer?
Next day, the aircraft was considered a total right off and towed to a remote part of the airfield. No doubt it supplied valuable spares over the next few months.
Because the collision occurred between two RAF aircraft over England and seven Australians had lost their lives, it was deemed necessary to hold a Court of Inquiry. Two Investigating Officers interviewed me, taking statements from the three senior members of the crew. A date was set for the forthcoming Inquiry about a month after the collision.
A dour Legal Wing Commander was President when the Court was convened. After the preliminary waffle, the Clerk began reading Statements made by the three crew members. The first stated that first knowledge of the impending collision was when the Skipper pushed the intercom button and called out ‘Christ!’. The second Statement followed similar lines, again quoting that the first he knew of the impending collision was when the Skipper called ‘Christ!’ on the intercom. The third Statement was read out, and as it got to the part concerning the Skipper’s exclamation, the dour President held up his hand to stop the proceedings. He turned to me and said:
‘Mr Scantleton, tell the Court, was that blasphemy or were you just appealing for help?’
Well, I’ll leave that for you to decide!
WAR EXPERIENCE TWO
This is my second effort at putting on paper some of my wartime experiences and it is a mixture of observations, comments, nostalgia and my first and only admission of a most stupid and reckless decision made during my flying career.
Whilst most boys in the 1930s were captivated by the great flying feats of Sir Charles Kingsford-Smith, Charles Ulm and others, nurturing secret dreams of becoming Aviators, my doom was sealed when, in about 1939, I saw the pre-war film ‘I Wanted Wings’ which, amongst others, starred the gorgeous but absolutely dumb blonde Veronica Lake. The film must have made quite an impact as I can still recall most of it today. Needless to say, at the tender age of eighteen, it was not the dumb blonde who mesmerised me, but the remarkable at that time B-17 Mk 1 Flying Fortress four-engine bomber. This aircraft was featured throughout the film and would have been one of the first four-engine bombers to be in Service anywhere in the world. Little was I to know, as I watched the film in the Kerang Theatre one Saturday night, that I would be flying the latest version of this aircraft on my second tour of operations over Europe in 1944.
It was my good fortune to survive two tours of operations relatively unscathed in Bomber Command. The first tour comprises thirty operations, and the second tour twenty. Actually, I only completed nineteen operations on my second tour as the Station Commander, Group Captain Dickens, refused to let me do the twentieth saying ‘You’ve done your share and have completed your second tour’. It is rather difficult for a Flight Lieutenant to argue with a Group Captain. Statistically, one had to have a lot of luck to survive two tours as it had been worked out that, over a period, the chances of survival was about one in thirteen on each raid. This therefore was somewhat akin to playing the poker machines. If you play long enough, you will lose eventually. I was very fortunate in having two very good crews which, I must admit, I was very severe on regarding training and discipline. With a total crew of ten, this was essential. But I was well aware at times that some of the younger members hated my guts, especially as I was only 23 at the time.
On 11 March 1944, I was called to the Wing Commander’s office and told that I was to take Flight Lieutenant Cam Lye, a Pilot in the Royal New Zealand Air Force, and Roy Forbes, my Navigator, with a skeleton crew, and go to Langford Lodge RAF Station in Northern Ireland and fly back a B-17 aircraft. This, on the surface, looked to be a simple and routine exercise. Pilot Officer George Mackie and crew were to fly us over, waiting until we had taken off the following morning. At this stage, it is worth giving a few comments on George Mackie. George was one of the great characters of the Royal Air Force. In 1940, he was studying architecture at Edinburgh University when he joined the RAF and gained his wings as a Pilot. George was well read, witty, highly intelligent, and one of the few to have had his Log Book endorsed as an exceptional Pilot.
On the debit side, he was very bad tempered, argumentative, sarcastic, ‘red-ragger’ and a true Scot in his intense dislike for the British. He did little to conceal his various dislikes and thus paid a high price as he was only Commissioned in 1944. With his ability, he should have won a Commission in 1940 and with the passing of time and loss of Pilots, could reasonably have been expected to rise to the rank of at least Wing Commander by the end of the war.
I well remember the trip across the Irish Sea as it was a beautiful day. As we approached the Isle of Man, George took the aircraft down to zero feet, skimming across the waves. This is a very dangerous stunt as water is very deceptive. A moment’s inattention can put the aircraft into the drink. As we approached the Isle of Man, George raised the nose of the aircraft and we slid across the Island at tree-top height, no doubt frightening the hell out of animals and humans alike.
On landing at Langford Lodge, we sought out the Station Engineering Officer and were stunned to learn that the aircraft we were to pick up had been in the Station for about four years. It had been flown over the Atlantic, dumped at Langford Lodge, and forgotten. He was unable to give any details and interested only in getting it off his hands. However, he did confirm that no maintenance had been carried out, the motors had not been run, nor had the compasses been ‘swung’ in all that time. Finally, we were taken to the aircraft and somewhat staggered to see that it was a Mk1, which didn’t even have the fairing on the tail plane. In other words, it was similar to the aircraft in the pre-war film ‘I Wanted Wings’. An interior inspection showed that various spiders and other wrigglies had taken up residence for the duration. The aircraft had no R/T or W/T and, as RAF and American flying equipment were totally different, we would have no intercom communication throughout the flight. On the Squadron, we were flying the latest B-17 H aircraft with twin row Wright Cyclone radial motors. The motors in this aircraft were single row of unknown horsepower and capabilities. This all added up to the fact that the aircraft was totally unairworthy and under no circumstances should it have been flown, especially as the return flight was over water and with no means of communication. I have prided myself that, during my flying career, I always paid particular attention to detail and did not take unnecessary risks. Why then should I decide to take off in an aircraft which was certainly not airworthy? Perhaps it was because of the discussion with Cam Lye, a more experienced Pilot than I, as he had been an Instructor in Canada prior to his posting to the United Kingdom. As Captain of the aircraft, the final decision to take off however, was solely mine.
On the morning of 12 March, we decided to take-off as it was a lovely clear day, and the Met Report was favourable particularly over the Irish Sea. We turned the aircraft into the runway for take-off and gave the motors full power.
We had not gone more than a couple of hundred years when the combined four motors set up a tremendous scream, giving the impression we had four runaway propellers. I looked at Cam. Cam looked at me. We both dived to pull off the motors. By the time we taxied to the end of the runway, we could find nothing wrong with the motors or instruments so could only assume this was the normal function of these particular motors. We decided to try another take-off. As we turned the aircraft onto the runway, the yellow Vauxhall Control Tower van came rushing across the field, lights flashing for us to stop. An Erk got out of the van and was pulled into the aircraft at the rear door. He scrambled breathlessly up to the cabin and said to me:
‘The Control Officer said to tell you that he has now placed an ambulance at the end of the runway’.
Hells Bells!
That was the last straw!!
Or then again, was it? Because we were in Ireland, it could be just a sick joke. I’ll bet very few Pilots have ever had a personalised ambulance placed at their disposal on take-off!
By now, readers will have guessed the second take-off was successful and, with just a little sweat on the brow, under the armpits and a few other places, we turned easterly and headed for Base.
The weather over the Irish Sea was clear, but as we came up to the United Kingdom coastline, we could see clouds forming ahead. Soon after passing landfall, we were in thick cloud, intensifying the further we went. This placed us in a serious situation as we had no communication with the outside world, and with an unswung compass, we did not want to ‘pussy-foot’ around in case we ended up in some mountain range. We decided to forget going back to Base. At the first opportunity of a break in the cloud, we would land at the first aerodrome we could find.
We finally found a break in the cloud and descended cautiously, after time thankfully spotting a drome. This was a fairly small drome and as we had no R/T to call up the Control Tower, we fired off a couple of Very Lights to make sure we had the runway to ourselves and for our exclusive use. We had no wish to risk an abortive landing and having to go around again. We were directed to a dispersal pan near the Control Tower and were to learn that we had landed at Llandwrog in Wales.
On entering the Officers’ Mess that evening, I was delighted to be met by Geoff Bromley, a fellow Pilot who got his wings and Commission on the same day as I at Point Cook. Within a short time, (that is a couple of beers later) he informed me he was getting married to an English girl the following month. My mind had to work overtime as I well recall having loaned him twenty pounds to buy a ring to get engaged to a Melbourne girl just prior to our embarkation for overseas. On our way to the United Kingdom, we were billeted for six weeks at Camp Miles Standish in Taunton, near Boston in the USA. During this time, Geoff got himself engaged to an American girl. Needless to say, I did not question him as to what happened to the other girls. But boy, oh boy, was he a fast worker!! On the other hand, the weaker sex did fall for the boys in blue. Even some of the girls at Benalla married intrepid airmen!
Apart from the fact that it took an hour and a half to get the four motors started the following morning, our return to Base from Llandwrog was uneventful. This aircraft of course was totally unsuitable for operational purposes and again, was put in a lonely dispersal pan.
On 16 April 1944, 214 Squadron was moved lock, stock and barrel to Oulton on the Oulton Broads just north of Norwich. All aircraft had to be flown over, and as this clapped out old machine was on the Squadron Inventory, I was given the job of flying it over. Fortunately, it was only a short distance between the two dromes. But about halfway to our destination, there was a loud bang and the aircraft shuddered violently. It was promptly picked up that the problem was number three engine and this was feathered immediately. On arrival at Oulton, quite a number of aircraft were milling around all wanting to land. Again, with no R/T, we could not communicate with the Control Tower and with a clapped-out old machine on three motors, we were not prepared to take risks. We fired off a series of red Very Lights clearly indicating to all that we needed the runway exclusively for our own use. It was subsequently found that a couple of connecting rods had snapped on number three and punctured the cylinder walls. No wonder it had kicked up such a racket!
I had always been aware that Grandfather John Scantleton migrated from Northern Ireland to Australia in the 1860s. In more recent years, I was to learn that he left from Moneymore, which is very close to Langford. How ironic it would have been if, through my foolhardiness, my broken bones had been scattered over a field near where my Grandfather had left some 80 years earlier.
For 50 years, I have pondered on why a B-17 Mk1 aircraft could have been dumped at Langford Lodge and forgotten. This, of course, would have been before the Americans entered the war. The answer came when I was browsing through some war books in the Maroochydore library last year. I opened a book on the RAF and started to read a paragraph which told how twenty B-17s, that is Flying Fortress Bombers; were purchased from the USA in 1940 for use by Bomber Command. These aircraft were found totally unsuitable by Bomber Command and ‘scrapped’. Beyond doubt, this particular aircraft was probably the last to be flown over the Atlantic, and by that time, noone wanted it. Those readers who were aware that I was flying B-17s at the end of the war, will have picked up that contradiction exists in the above story, so I had better explain.
After Bomber Command ‘scrubbed’ the use of B-17s as a bomber in 1940, they did not use these aircraft again for carrying bombs. By 1943, the invention of Radar and other highly sophisticated electronic devices were rapidly being used by both sides. Bomber Command decided they needed a bomber support Squadron in which aircraft carried no bombers, but only specialised equipment operated by two German-speaking Operators.
The power needed to operate this equipment had to be equivalent to the output of the BBC prewar. The only aircraft available to generate this power was the American B-17 series G & H. Thus, the B-17 was brought back into the Bomber Command fold. In their great wisdom, the Powersthat- Be selected 214 Squadron to convert from Stirling bombers to B-17s. The whole Squadron and Station were then classified as ‘Top Secret’.
On raids, the Squadron aircraft were placed throughout the bomber stream, that is at the head, tail and middle. Our problem was that we had to carry home with us the same pay load we went out with, unlike Lancasters and Halifaxes that dropped their load over the target, put their nose down, and clocked about 270 miles per hour whilst they got the hell out of the target area. For use of the special equipment, the B-17 bristled with antennas and a large Perspex blister under the nose. All this impeded our speed so that within twenty minutes of leaving the target, the B- 17s were at the tail end of the stream heading home.
Not a good place to be when the night fighters came up!
Vern Scantleton (F/Lt R.A.A.F)
214 Squadron, Bomber Command
1 April 1995
DIED 11 APRIL 2019
This article is from the Autumn / Winter 2019 issue of Confound and Destroy
