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Promotion of a potential Officer.
By Warrant Officer Peter Hutton Fox.
754399 R.A.F.V.R. (OXFORD).
Quote: - In my log book, the last four entries have been made
by a hand other than mine, and include a convoy patrol and then
on the 20th October 1941 the entry: - "La Mazerie
missing shot down by flak over La Mazerie." It didn't
take long for whoever made that entry to make it, and I do note
that I have added, "three and a half years as P.O.W. in
Germany".
It was a lovely day and I was dressed in my best, with my
leave chit in my pocket. All I needed now was someone to be available
to take me home to Kidlington in Oxford in the squadron Magister.
No such luck 'cos 234 Squadron was on standby, and there was
no other pilot available to take me there and return the Magister.
234 Squadron
So I had to wait, with a photograph in my pocket to show my
parents of the Squadron Transport, with 234 Squadron written
in large letters on the windscreen, and a batch of pilots sitting
and standing around it.
A small round metal tag, with Flight Lieutenant Mortimer-Rose,
234 Squadron, on one side and "Rissole" on the other.
Flight Lieutenant Mortimer-Rose
He had recently given me his dog, and as I couldn't take the
dog, I could at least show my parents the name tag.
Just before lunch, and when the Squadron was about to be stood
down, the Commanding Officer, Squadron Leader H.M. Stephen called
out that he wanted two volunteers for a job.
I knew perfectly well that one should never volunteer for
anything, but just to be different, I did. "It won't count
off your leave." He said. "Oh no Sir, of course not",
I replied.
There were two volunteers to fly as my number two, and I selected
an old mate of mine Sergeant Sapsed. The other pair had to strafe
a 'drome to the west of Cherbourg.
And so into my kite, with its two 20 mm cannons, and four
machine guns to do the job. A good flying platform for this gunnery,
the Spitfire Mk 5.
Warmwell was a grass Aerodrome from which you could only land
or take off in an Easterly or Westerly direction according to
the wind. Dispersal was at the West end of the 'drome, and in
the woods.
On the day in question, of course the wind direction meant
we had to taxi right along the whole length of the grass 'drome
to take off into the wind, and the other pair had got a bit ahead
of us. Result was that I stepped on it a bit, swung my kite round
for take off and the tyre burst!!
I jumped out and ran the length of the 'drome, jumped in to
any old plane available, rejoined my number 2 and took off.
The other pair had long gone. If I had only thought correctly,
I should have scrubbed going, 'cos here we would be approaching
enemy territory with no revolver in my kite to "fire my
aircraft" should I be forced down, and with a pair having
already crossed the coast-line long before us, and so created
a "stand to" alarm, with all land guns in the area
manned.
My navigation was perfect, and there was the bay I had to
enter and cross, and cross it I did and I think it was possibly
a single machine gun and certainly a single bullet that went
straight through an oil supply to the engine.
I knew this had happened 'cos it had happened once before
over England and I knew it only took a few minutes before the
engine would seize up and stop, and it did.
I turned round back towards the coast 'cos I knew I was a
strong swimmer, and as I had no revolver to destroy my kite.
I could at least, drop it in the sea, and swim back to captivity.
No such luck, "pop,poop,pop" and it stopped and I was
gliding with virtually nil height.
Just as I was stalling, I gently hit a telegraph post with
my port wing, my nose went in, and my tail came gently up and
then down and there I was.
Now I had seen, and become aware of those who had bailed out
of their aircraft and then drowned, so I had invented a great
idea which I had shared with others.
One drilled a small hole in the tiny lever that you pulled
to inflate your dinghy on your Mae West, and then tied it to
the cushion on your parachute on which you sat. If you were shot
up, and managed to bale out, then you lost consciousness, then,
as you went into the drink, and went under, together with the
cushion, it would try to float, pull the cord and up would blow
your Mae West.
Good idea for when you went on a raid, returned to your native
land and drome, landed, and then quickly undid the knot to the
cushion and climbed out. BUT when you have crashed in enemy territory
one seems to forget!
"Release your harness, then get out and run to hide from
the enemy". POOOF! Your Mae West inflates and you are stuck
in your cockpit. You have to wriggle like mad to get out. I did
eventually get out and ran to a cross-roads of the hedges and
dived into the bottom, took off my Mae West, undid my escape
kit, put the money and compass into my shoes, and waited.
234 Squadron.
After a time I heard voices coming closer, and I stayed still.
Then a word I was to hear so many times over the next three years,
"RAUS!", and I stayed still.
Suddenly an obviously agitated Frenchman's voice in broken
English, shouts out "come out boy, or they shoot you."
There were two bangs, - in the air I presume, so I then thought
logically, "sod that I'm coming out." And out I came.
There were a few Frenchmen and some French women there, plus
one lonely German soldier with his rifle, and I was on the farther
side of the fence from them.
Having been unhurt by the crash landing, 20 years of age and
pretty athletic, I put my hands on the fence and did a standing
arm pressure leap over the fence to their side.
To add to the humour of the whole situation, all the French
gave me a round of applause, and the German soldier grinned.
My poor kite was in the nearby field, its claxenhorn blaring
out loud and clear, and I said something in my very poor schoolboy
German plus many signs, to try to convey that I had come without
my revolver and I couldn't destroy my kite, but they all seemed
a bit dim, so I re-explained and laid my hands on the Germans
rifle, who immediately withdrew his own hand and I was standing
there with my hand on the German rifle, plus an unarmed German
Soldier who was vainly trying to understand my poor German, when
a German Officer arrived, slapped the soldier across the face,
and grabbed his rifle off me.
Off I went through a small village, where a German came out
with his camera to take my photograph, and I covered my face
with my arm. Why I did that I can never guess, but it probably
arrived in some German local paper with the heading "Terror
fliege is ashamed of his acts of aggression".
Transport, and off to the nearby aerodrome which I knew would
be Malpertus, for in my log book is the record that on the 26th
August I blew up a petrol bowser with about twenty men underneath
it. I decided that it was "not on" to mention this
to my captors!
There I was in the German dispersal hut, chatting to the German
pilots, and trying to talk them into letting me try out flying
one of their 109's, 'cos I wished to compare it to the Spitfire,
which I said was the better plane.
They nearly all spoke English , and asked me to sing "I'm
going to hang out my washing on the Siegfried line", and
I said I certainly would if only I had a good singing voice.
They wouldn't let me fly one of their 109's 'cos they said I
would fly back home, even if some other of their kites accompanied
me! I think they were correct!
Then back to their mess, where I started playing table tennis
with one of the pilots. I must add that I had always played pretty
well, but whether or not I was winning. Suddenly an immaculate
German Officer in black uniform stamped in to the room, screamed
his head off, and half a dozen of the pilots took rapid flight
after Heil Hitlering a number of times. I was quickly locked
away in a cell until the following morning.
I had been searched earlier and all bits of paper, photos,
dog discs and money had been confiscated, together with the bulky
Mae West that had been recovered from the hedge. I had been asked
to sign for them, and they were all parcelled up, tied up with
string which was sealed with a wax seal and "Gepruft"
and other German words written all over this confiscated lot,
none of which had been inspected before parcelling.
Next morning a pleasant German soldier joins me, and off by
an army car to the railway station bound for Paris. On arrival,
we have to walk to the train, and it was then that my guard decided
that as he had a prisoner, he might as well carry the large and
cumbersome parcel, and so I did.
The taxi took us to the South of Paris, to a building from
which you could see planes landing and taking off from a nearby
'drome. My guard told me that he was off to get some food, leaving
me and my parcel with three other guards in a room.
I chatted to the guards in my schoolboy German and they were
quite friendly. It was then that I turned my parcel over so that
no writing was in view, and asked them for some scissors to open
my parcel.
I can't remember whether they gave me them, or cut the string
for me, and I was able to show them a Mae West and how it blew
up. I also showed them English money and explained it as well
as I could, during which time I pocketed my leave pass, my photograph
and my dogs name disc.
After a time, I had a parcel with seals broken but neatly
retied up and containing my Mae West. My leave pass and photograph
were completely chewed up, and thrown out of the open window
whilst chatting, and the dog disc was kept in my pocket with
my English currency notes. Later on, whilst travelling in a taxi
through Paris I dropped "Rissoles" disc out of the
window onto the street.
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Peter Fox
However, I and other pilots of the Squadron had been to a
talk by an escaped prisoner who had got back home, and he was
very definite that any escape should be made way before one was
locked up in a prison camp, as it was much harder to escape from
a camp. Result :- I chatted to the three guards, showed them
the English money, gave them some loose change for a memento
and made friends with them. I waited by a large open window
open at the bottom, where there as a drop of about 20 feet to
the ground.
As the evening got closer, I knew, hot though it was, that
the window would be closed for the blackout. I knew I had to
jump out pretty soon, get to the wire that surrounded the garden,
and as the 'drome appeared to be just over the nearby woods,
I could hide for the night and pinch a plane in the morning!
The optimism of youth!
A guard in his multi-coloured and striped posten box was at
the gates to the property, chatting up a nurse maid who had a
child in her pram. His guard box was near to the start of a long
building which ended up just past my window. I thought I could
jump out, recover my balance and run round the near-end of this
long building, and away from the guard, before the guard could
take aim, and by which time I should be round the building and
out of sight over the fence and in to the woods.
Things sometimes do not work out how they should, 'cos I had
thought and worked things out by the length of this building,
but what I should have known was that it was also a very narrow
building, and the quick thinking guard ran along the road and
along the narrow end, and away from me, so by the time I was
round the building I was also fully in his sights.
I fell to the ground, got kicked a few times by one guard
when they came, and overheard some of the guards complaining
of my "friendship", and about the Mae West and the
money etc.I was extremely lucky, and during the journey to the
reception camp in Germany Dulagluft, where all R.A.F. prisoners
started off their imprisonment, my guard bought and shared grapes
with me. On leaving me, he quietly wished me good luck on my
next escape attempt, and funnily enough this attempted escape
was the only one for which I received no punishment.
No 1
There were Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve Sergeants
in No 1 Initial Training Wing, based in the various colleges,
in Cambridge 1939, and St John's College was one of them, manned
as from the first day of the war, and I was one of them. Some
of these sergeants, myself included, were straining their ears
at the door of the interview room in St John's College, trying
to overhear the type pf question being asked by the board of
the selection committee.
We were to be possibly selected as potential Officers. Sgt
Clive was being interviewed. "Why do you think you are the
right type to be a commissioned Officer in the Royal Air Force,
Sergeant Clive?" A pause, and then in a deep, heavily educated
voice answers in round tones, "I do not remember having
ever informed you gentlemen that I wished to be commissioned."
End of interview, and as far as I know, Viscount Clive of
India remained a Sergeant.
Some of the remainder, including self, gained white flashes
in their forage caps, and Warrant Officer Dolby used to spit
out the word "Potential" with scorn, and then add the
word "officer" whenever addressing us.
We all got posted, and as far as I know, that was the end
of the matter, and it formed my number one botched effort to
be commissioned.
No 2
A number of sergeants including myself, had been recommended
for commissions at No 8 F.T.S. Montrose and my log book records
Under the appropriate column that my "Duty on the 12th August
1940, Safety Pilot."
It was a beautiful day, and one could see the golfers at Loch
Tay Golf Course in Scotland were enjoying themselves, for they
were waving to the other Sergeant pilot and me in our Miles Master
training plane. One more low sweep across the Club House, and
then off home to base. Strange,.. as we pulled upwards, the airspeed
indicator had ceased to function. And so it was that we landed
safely at an estimated airspeed on Montrose 'drome, only to discover
that the pitot head (attachment on the wing to record airspeed)
had been twisted round backwards by some wire.
During the following "Discussion" with Squadron
Leader E. Verdon-Roe (O.C. Advanced Training Squadron) as to
how the pitot head could be twisted backwards, the phone rang
to complain that a Miles Master (N7756) had taken away the Loch
Tay Golf Clubs telephone wires.
It was then that the foreboding words were issued "Your
recommendations for Commissions will be withdrawn, and neither
of you can ever expect to get any where in the Royal Air Force".
Squadron Leader Verdon-Roe proved to be 50% correct, for it was
the 26th December 1946 that I retired from the Royal Air Force
after three and a half years as a Prisoner of War in Germany,
with the rank of Warrant Officer.
Sadly, my Associate Sergeant pilot Neil Cameron died some
years ago(January 30th 1985), but he had achieved the rank of
Marshal of the Royal Air Force, Chief of Air Staff, Chief of
Defence and a Lordship. The Lord Cameron of Balhousie, K.T.,
G.C.B., D.S.O., D.F.C., A.E., F.K.C., L.L.D..
No 3
After a short time of service in 56 Squadron in 1940,
our Commanding Officer, Squadron Leader Herbert M. Pinfold informed
me that he was recommending me for a commission. The white flashes
had not been worn again since I had left Cambridge.
Fate stepped in once again, for when I was returning from Kidlington
(Oxford), having had lunch with my Parents, I was in our Squadrons
Miles Magister, and Pilot Officer Ingle-Finch, who sadly died
recently, either flew me into a haystack, or, no-one as piloting
the aircraft at that time, and the plane flew itself into the
haystack.
I woke up three and a half days later with a compression fracture
of the spine, of numbers 6, 7, and 8 dorsals, and still no Commission.
No 4
Well plastered for a time, (in Medical terms) I then
found myself by 1941 serving with 234 Squadron on Spitfires at
Warmwell.
Towards the end of October 1941 the Commanding Officer, Squadron
Leader H.M. Stephen said he "thought it was about time I
was Commissioned", and that he was recommending me for this.
I thanked him. Then very shortly afterwards, Squadron Leader
Stephen informed me that he was going to withhold my recommendation
until after my Flight Sergeants crown was through, as that would
only be a matter of days.
It seemed that this action would enable me to miss out the
rank of Pilot Officer and jump to rank of Flying Officer.
I was due for leave in Oxford on 20th October 1941 and have
already told you how I volunteered for a trip which cost me three
and a half years imprisonment and put a stop to my Commission!
By now I had a new Number, not RAFVR 754399, but Kriegsgefangener
Nummer 24442.
It was 1942 and I had had my 21st birthday as a prisoner,
and was residing in the R.A.F. compound in the middle of a large
Army Prisoner of War camp at Lamsdorf, Stalag V111B in Sudatenland,
and Sergeant Johnny Bell-Walker (another Battle of Britain Pilot
now sadly deceased) had accepted voluntary demotion; he became
a Corporal, and I, a Private, both in the New Zealand Army.
That is, of course, as far as our German hosts were concerned.
It was much easier to escape from working parties, and the
Army prisoners were forced to go out on these working parties,
whereas the R.A.F. prisoners were all interned in a compound,
with no outside work allowed. Consideration of Plane theft must
have been the reason for this.
Result was that a number of us managed a mini-internal escape
into the Army camp, whilst the swap over, army bods escaped,
if that is the word, out of the outer Army camp into the internal
R.A.F. compound.
It was however, after our first escape failure that we were
in the main camp inspecting the working gang lists, when we discovered
that Junior N.C.O's and above could choose, subject to vacancies,
which working party they went on, whereas Private soldiers had
to go where they were sent.
I had a tunnel collapse on me in the past, and this episode
had left me quite claustrophobic. The thought of being sent down
a mine petrified me.
It was quite a good idea, if not very well thought through.
We went off to the German Administration Office to point out
that on the last party I had been incorrectly listed as a private
in the New Zealand Army, whereas I was indeed a Corporal, as
was my colleague.
We explained that we had both been born in New Zealand, and
as infants had gone with our parents to England, where we were
educated before the war.(This accounted for our English accents
both for the New Zealanders, but more essentially for the Germans).
We had both returned to New Zealand to enlist in the Army, when
war seemed imminent, and had been together ever since, both gaining
our first stripes as Lance Corporals, both promoted to full Corporals,
and both taken prisoner together. It is truly amazing how one
almost believes the whole thing, both of us telling this saga
in such a convincing manner. The German was more than helpful,
as he didn't like faulty workmanship and incorrect records, and
thanked us for telling him of the error. So off he went to an
adjoining room to return with "my" identity card, including
"my" photograph. Our mutual surprise at seeing a tall,
red headed fellow called Patrick on the photograph, encouraged
the German to join in the hilarious false laughter coming from
both of us. How could they have got everything wrong? Our dear
German was no fool, for he wanted to get everything right, and
trotted me off to have my new photograph taken, a new card issued,
and of course, my correct rank of full Corporal given.
It was after our third attempt at escape that we were being
doled out our solitary confinement punishment, when the R.A.F.
compound Unteroffitzer came in to recognise us as both being
R.A.F. Personnel.
I was soon on a train to Sagan Stalagluft 3 to replace my
Full Corporal swap over, who thought he was a private, and Johnnie
Bell-Walker was off to an Officers camp, because his commission
had caught him up.
Promotion is so much easier in Germany than in England, especially
when dealing with an understanding and conscientious German!
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