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454 RAAF Squadron Robert S. (Bob) Andrews - WAG
<<<<>>>> "Bradfield, Bankstown and Beyond" - by Bob Andrews This is the first time I have ever written anything about my wartime service as an aircrew man in the RAAF or, for that matter, my later life as an aviator in civvy street. Like many ex-servicemen I have always been reluctant to even talk to people about my war experiences, lest I be labeled a "line shooter". But because our comrades are passing on at a rapid rate and having been encouraged recently I thought it was time to gather my memories and put them on paper before it became too late.
The story begins in May 1942 when
I enlisted in the RAAF and joined my Taw workmates, Alf
Green and George Pearton in the same crew intake.
Regrettably after our initial training course at Bradfield
Park the three of us went our separate ways. Alf went to
Wireless/Operator/Air Gunner (WAG) schools within Australia
while George journeyed to Canada for similar courses. My
destination was Temora where I completed a pilot course in
Tiger Moths.
At this stage successful trainee
pilots were given the option of further courses on
single-engine fighters or multi-engine bombers. I chose
bombers based on the falsehood they they were safer. This
involved a move to Point Cook and further training in twin
engine Airspeed Oxfords. Unfortunately (or maybe
fortunately) I was scrubbed out just before the "wings" test
and had to resign myself to a switch to the WAG field. This
meant a transfer to Ballarat and Sale for training in
Wacketts and Fairey Battles.
After qualifying in 1943 I left
Australia on the USS Mount Vernon, bound for San Francisco.
From there our group traveled across America to a place
bearing the rather aristocratic name of Myles Standish, a US
Army base in Massachusetts. This turned out to be a staging
point before embarkation to Europe. A few weeks later we
traveled to nearby New York to join the troopship Aquitania
for the Atlantic Crossing. The old Cunard liner, built in
1914, proved to be a far cry from the Mount Vernon. No ice
cream this time, only meagre helpings of corned beef and
cabbage twice a day.
The crossing was uneventful except
for one night when we were on our bunks below the
waterline. We were startled to hear lots of gun fire and
exploding depth charges - never knowing the cause of it all,
however the Aquitania pressed on regardless.
Finally, at dawn one morning we
moved into the still waters of the Firth of Clyde, Scotland,
to berth at Greenock just a couple of Spitfires zoomed over
the surrounding hills. Then followed a night trip south to
Brighton, Sussex, where the reception unit for all RAAF
aircrew was located. Until each of us received a posting
the unit was free and easy except for the odd dinghy drills
at the local baths and for the WAG'S, clay pigeon shooting.
At dusk each evening I lay in a hot bath singing "I don't
want to set the world on fire". (The irony of the words
escaped me until I started bombing missions). Those hot
baths proved to be our last for the next couple of years.
After Brighton the next posting
was to an airfield at Hooton Park, Cheshire, for airborne
training on ASV equipment (Air to Surface Vessels radar).
The trainees sat at a screen in the aeroplane (Avro Anson)
and watched lots of wiggly green lines and learnt to locate
a surface vessel and establish its bearing and distance.
With this unit the operator could also guide the pilot into
and down the landing path in poor visibility. One day I was
in the co-pilot seat of an Anson when the young pilot began
wriggling, squirming and contorting his face - all the
symptoms of a bladder about to burst. I motioned for him to
go aft and relieve the pressure but he just stared at me in
disbelief - I was only a WAG. Finally in desperation, he
trusted me with the controls briefly and all was OK.
At Hooton Park we were quartered
in a stately home - stripped of course of carpet and
furniture and with its bathroom locked. It was winter and
the footpaths were icy and slippery for the walk to the air
base. One freezing night, cold and miserable, we were
gazing at the empty fireplace when our focus switched to our
only piece of furniture, a long wooden bench, inevitably it
soon became a sacrificial pyre for the sake of one night's
warmth.
At the conclusion of the ASV
course we headed south for another advanced radio course at
a place called Carew Cheriton, near Tenby - a Bristol
Channel port in Wales. Here we flew in Airspeed Oxfords and
it soon became obvious we were being trained for Coastal
Command. Four Aussies began the course but before long two
of us had to be posted elsewhere. We tossed to see who
would take the posting and I happened to be one of those to
go. The two who stayed were shot down by a JU88 over the
Channel a little later, just the luck of the draw.
My posting from Carew Cheriton
resulted in another sea journey, this time to the Middle
East. Remarkably Georgie Pearton and I were reunited on the
troopship. We stayed for awhile in Jerusalem and even in
those days there were terrorist bombings in the city at
night by a mob known as the Stern Gang. After joining an
operational training unit at Shandur, near the top of the
Suez Canal, we were formed into a permanent crew to fly the
aircraft in which we were to finally earn our pay - the
American Baltimore, a light bomber designated as the A30
(Attack 30). When crews formed it was customary to allow the
individuals to sort themselves out and choose each other. I
already knew one of the Pilots from early days at Bradfield,
so we chose each other. Our navigator was an old bloke from
Perth (at 29 he seemed old to us kids) and the turret gunner
was an Englander. Strangely enough, we were all partly
trained pilots but that was of no advantage because in the
Baltimore it was not possible to change places with the
pilot.
On completion of training as a
crew, we boarded yet another troopship to cross the
Mediterranean to Taranto, near the heel of Italy. There we
transferred to a small coastal ship loaded with soldiers of
the British 8th Army. Upon reaching our destination, the
Adriatic port of Ancona, we four air force bods waited well
into the night (getting inebriated to fill in the time)
until we were gathered up into an RAAF truck and taken north
to join 454 Squadron RAAF at Esenatico, a coastal town
between Rimini and Ravenna. 454 Squadron was one of four
Australian squadrons forming part of the Desert Air Force (DAF)
which was married (for want of a better word) to the British
8th Army, whose entry into the Italian campaign had followed
its successful operations in North Africa. Other components
of the DAF included RAF and South African units while
Allied ground forces, headed by the US 5th Army, consisted
of New Zealanders, Brazilians, the Polish Corps and a Jewish
Brigade.
The four Australian squadrons were
No.s 3 and 450 (Mustangs) and No.s 454 and 459
(Baltimores). During my time in 454, in close support of
the 8th Army, we carried out formation daylight bombing of
designated targets on German lines of communication over a
wide area of Northern Italy, including Padua, Bologna and
Conegliano. Later, after we were converted into a night
intruder squadron, air operations extended a far north as
Verona, many of them involving low level flying ranging from
a few hundred feet to 5,000 feet.
Baltimore - 454 Squadron - flying over Italy
I was no hero. I just did my job
as a WAG. This required me to conduct the formalities with
base by Morse code when airborne, to use the Verey pistol at
times, drop flares and operate the six guns (two free
travel and four fixed firing to the rear). I also had to
hang out of the open ventral hatch to see that all bombs
went out OK. The most distasteful task of all was having to
put one foot on each side of the open hatch, minus
parachute, monkey strap and intercom (trying to ignore the
big drop that could result from any lapse of concentration)
and then go aft to arm the IFF (Identification Friend or
Foe) set. This apparatus sent out a signal so that friendly
aircraft (especially night fighter Mosquitoes and
Beaufighters) would know we were goodies.
One night a Mosquito did line up behind us and I watched him nervously until he broke away at the last moment (Smart Alec). Now for a little confession. My family thinks its hilarious that I could have shot down our own plane. On that occasion whilst using the free travel guns, I was too lazy to swivel them out through the hatch and fired them from inside the aircraft. Instantly lots of little holes appeared with daylight shining through. Dear me (to put it mildly). I never mentioned the mishap and the armourers didn't dob me in. The airframe boys must also have kept mum because nothing ever hit the fan. In fact, it was only about six years ago that I told our Pilot, Jim Lysaght about it at one of our Anzac Day Reunioins at The Glenmore Hotel. Jim and I remained close friends until his death shortly afterwards. Once when a new crew arrived on the scene its WAG turned out to be Georgie Pearton and needless to say, we really enjoyed another reunion.
Some time later George earned
himself the nickname "Flak" following a daylight mission
involving three Baltimore squadrons, a total of 36
aircraft. Each plane carried "window" (silver tinsel) boy
be dropped by each wireless operator at a designated time.
Window is designed to confuse the German radar and radar
predicted anti-aircraft guns. Due to bad weather
conditions, the squadrons aborted the mission and returned
home. However, through a misunderstanding, one hapless
wireless operator (George) dropped the window at the
designated time - in our own airspace. The result was a
stinging censure from our own radar people. On two
occasions I volunteered to stand in for a turret gunner
because the usual fellows were ill. These were the only
times I ever did a trip in the turret and I didn't enjoy the
view. Subsequently, disaster befell both the regular
crews. One plane failed to return from its next mission
and the other managed to survive after a bomb exploded as it
left the bomb bay. With all three of his crew wounded the
pilot brought the blood streaked plane home on one engine.
So much for volunteering.
On reflection, my war experiences
in the air could hardly be summarised as thrilling, tinged
as they were with underlying feelings of apprehension.
Rewarding is probably closer to the mark. But I must admit
to getting a bit of a thrill from time to time, such as when
hanging out of the hatch in the daytime to count the bombs
out, I could see and smell the orange and black flak when it
was close.
In closing the wartime element of my story I would like to say that 454 Squadron was proud of what it achieved, even though its role was a relatively minor one in the final battle for Italy - the scene of one of the greatest Allied victories in WW2 which, strangely, has received scant attention from historians. In all, our crew managed to complete some 35 missions.
During the war and later back home
in Australia I had always carried some private shame about
being wiped out as a pilot at Point Cook but it was 1966
before I decided to do something about it. I joined The
Royal Aero Club at Bankstown, where I eventually gained my
unrestricted pilots licence and night flying rating. In 1983
I was fortunate to receive the Federation Award and Medal of
the Royal Federation of Aero Clubs for what was described
as outstanding service and contribution to the Aero Club
movement in Australia. It was very gratifying to
receive such a prestigious award which is usually given to
only one person in Australia each year.
Sadly by 1985,my health and other factors grounded me permanently but I am still engaged in my hobby of building and flying radio-controlled model aircraft. Today however, I only fly small electric powered models because of my disability. I can stand for only a brief period and walk a short distance with extreme difficulty, as a result of the loss of control of my legs. I am very grateful to my fellow club members without whose assistance I would not be able to pursue these activities.
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This site was last updated 06-Nov-2007
