Jack Davenport in Narromine, March 1941

When writing Jack Davenport Beaufighter Leader, I was restricted to a word limit. I had to lose about 40,000 words before handing in the manuscript. Some stories had to go. I ended up being about 500 over but my publisher indulgently let me get away with it.

 

 

 I found this story the other day while going through some old drafts. Although interesting from a local history perspective, and another indication of what young men do when they think they can get away with it, it was secondary to the main narrative and I have no regrets about letting it go. 

 

On Saturday 29 March 1941, after two practice flights in the morning, the commanding officer of 5 Elementary Flying Training School at Narromine, Wing Commander E.R. (Roy) King, accompanied Jack Davenport, Bruce Daymond and a hundred or so RAAF trainees to nearby Wellington to participate in a Red Cross fundraiser. Bruce recalled that it was a ‘shocking trip’. It was very hot, the seats on the RAAF tender were hard and the uncomfortable journey too far too long. The difficult travelling conditions were soon forgotten when they arrived. Wellington was gripped by a carnival atmosphere as it hosted the Red Cross appeal day. Button sellers were out on the streets from early in the morning, plying their wares and by lunch time just about everyone in Wellington sported the Red Cross emblem. A fair had been set up on a vacant allotment near the Monarch Picture Theatre with all sorts of fund-raising stalls. The people of Wellington were pleased to dig deep for such an important cause and good-naturedly parted with their cash as they were tempted by fresh produce, home-baked cakes, cool drinks and novelties or decided to risk a flutter on the chocolate wheel. The day showed all the signs of success and organisers expected to net about £300. It was a grand day and everyone enjoyed the festive atmosphere.

The RAAF contingent was to play a key role in the day’s activities: the air men had been invited to march through the main streets of Wellington. Headed by a combined band of Wellington and Dubbo bandsmen, with Drum Major T. Dray in command, Jack and his fellow trainees marched from the railway station through the crowd-lined streets. The reporter from The Wellington Times was most effusive when he later wrote that:

these young men, all of a fine stamp and physique…in their khaki uniforms and blue caps made an imposing sight as they marched with splendid precision and there were hearty cheers for them as they passed the different vantage points.

As far as Jack and Bruce were concerned, two young men of ‘fine stamp and physique’ themselves, the march went well enough and, at its conclusion, the Mayor, Dr V.W. Savage, thanked the RAAF boys for their participation and reminded them that, when their training had been completed, they themselves would be benefiting from the services of the Red Cross. Over the next few months, Jack would note in his diary when the gratefully received comforts packages were divided up but he would never have to await their morale lifting arrival in a prisoner of war camp. Dr Savage invited the boys to a specially arranged afternoon tea. After that, the rest of day was their own so Jack and Bruce decided to walk through the park so they could take some photos. They came across the local pool which was attractively situated under some willow trees, with the lawns sloping down to it. Bruce was particularly taken by the pool which, with all the crowds still enjoying the festivities, was quite empty. The day was still warm and he decided to take advantage of the pristine pool. Naturally, he had no swimming trunks and so, despite Jack’s protests, he stripped to his underpants and dived in. Jack just watched. As it happened, an air force sergeant chose that moment to walk by. He saw Bruce and it appeared to him as if Bruce was swimming naked in the public baths. He wanted to evict Bruce and perhaps put him on a charge. He went up to Jack and asked him for Bruce’s name and number. Jack told the sergeant that he had no idea who was in the pool; he denied all knowledge of him. Not impressed, the air force sergeant left the scene without any details and, happily, neither Bruce nor Jack heard any further about the matter.

A few days earlier, the Wellington populace had been called on to provide overnight billets for their RAAF visitors. Jack and Bruce were billeted at the Court House Hotel. After Bruce’s impromptu swim, they headed to the hotel where they had a good meal; the cold turkey proving very acceptable. Then, along with a crowd of RAAF boys, they went to the pictures but left at half time so they could attend a dance at the tennis club. They returned to Narromine the next morning, and were soon back to the usual training routine.

 

(Jack Davenport after the war)

 

Desmond Fopp

The other day I was very privileged to be presented a copy of a wonderful Anthony C Harold print of his beautiful oil painting of Australian Battle of Britain pilot Desmond Fopp: ‘1056 hrs – September 3rd 1940 Hurricane M.K 1 – 17 Squadron. Mine is 621 of 1000 and is signed by Squadron Leader Desmond Fopp as well as Harold. On the reverse of the framed print is the ‘Certificate of Authenticity’ signed by Harold and dated ‘15 August 80’. The certificate also gives an account of the events that took place on 3 September 1940. Before I get to that, I will tell you a bit about the early days of the man known as Des to the majority and Dizzy or Dizzy Desmond to his mother, Dorothy, as he always had his head in the clouds.

He was born on 13 March 1920 at Cuddlee Creek in South Australia’s Adelaide Hills. His Australian birth was almost by the skin of his teeth, as his father, Dick, and his pregnant English-born bride had only embarked on the Orsova on 22 November 1919, on one of the last ships to bring returning troops and their new wives home.

Dizzy had an idyllic childhood on his father’s prosperous fruit farm in the Adelaide Hills. Dick Fopp grew apples and pears on a large, sloping block but not all of its acreage was given over to fruit trees. There were some steep sections which were ideal for a boy with freedom and imagination to hide and hunt, rove and play. He had a shock of wavy, blonde hair, originally snowy white but which had darkened into a honey blonde that curled up from his forehead. Fair skinned and haired, prone to freckles and sunburn under South Australia’s blazing summer suns, he was an only child who enjoyed his own company, or that of his dog, Smokey. Even so, he was close friends with his cousin Bob who lived nearby and the two would range around on their bikes on the weekend and in school holidays, with Smokey at their wheels. Dizzy was a good swimmer, loved horse riding, played tennis—there was a tennis court near the house—and in his final year at St Peter’s College, Adelaide claimed a gymnasium prize in the end of year prize giving. Although his name did not appear in any of the other school prize lists he was a whiz with maths and rapid mental calculations.

The Depression seemed to have bypassed many of the Adelaide Hill families—those on properties were relatively self sufficient—but even so, Dizzy, like many of the other boys in the area, supplemented his pocket money by shooting the rabbits that abounded in plaque proportions on and near the farm. He had a keen eye and was a good shot, and he always had a supply of pelts when he went into town to collect the bounty. But Dizzy’s eye was not always glued to his gun site. From an early age, he turned it skywards and Amy Johnson and Jean Batten, along with Bert Hinkler and Charles Kingsford Smith, became his role models and heroes. As Dizzy imagined himself climbing into a cockpit just like his aviation heroes, his head really was in the clouds and by the time he sailed to England with his mother after his father’s death in October 1934, he had developed a burning ambition to fly. He fulfilled that ambition in November 1938 when he joined the RAFVR and was called up at the outbreak of war. After training he was posted to 17 Squadron on 24 May 1940. After ops in the dying days of the Battle of France, he participated in the Battle of Britain until his bale out of 3 September.

 

 

(This photo was taken when Desmond returned from France)

 

That was the day that he damaged a Do 17 and was then shot down in flames by a Messerschmitt 110. He baled out at 17,000 feet, with burns, and landed at Pressey’s Farm, Hutton. Hurricane P3673 crashed and burned out near Handley’s Dairy Farm, Ingrave, Essex. He noted in his log book: ‘Opps. Intercepted 60 EA. 1 Do 17 probable. Shot down in flames by three Me 110s. Baled out 17,000 feet. In hospital 2 months.’(50 mins for op ‘+ 15 mins by parachute’). I found Dizzy’s description of the day’s events in Franks, The Battle of Britain, Bison Books, London, 1989, p. 38

‘We were scrambled late and did not get to sufficient altitude to achieve a favourable attacking position from above, with the result that we had to attack head-on at about 20000 feet, and hope to break up the large formation of Do 17s, with guns blazing which did separate them considerably. I had just put a Dornier’s engine out and he was smoking badly when I saw three Me 110s coming in behind me in line astern. By this time I had run out of ammunition but decided that as I could not match them for speed I would turn into them and simulate an attack. This I did and to my astonishment and joy they broke all around me so I immediately half rolled and dived for the deck. Unfortunately for me one of them was also below and behind out of sight and managed to put a cannon shell into my radiator, with the result that all I heard was a thump and the next second I was sitting in a ball of fire.

Then, according to Dizzy in a letter on his RAF Museum file:

I therefore left fairly hurriedly by parachute and arrived at Brentwood still smouldering. In fact the harness of my parachute was still burning on arrival. I was immediately set upon by the local farmer and had a bit of a job convincing him that I was British due to my burnt closes—however a few choice bits of language convinced him!

He was unrecognisable because of his burns: the whole of his back, legs and face around the eyes had been seriously burned; he was blind for a month. He was taken to Brentwood District Hospital. His eye bandages on his eyes had to be changed daily. There were days when he was in great pain and told his nurse he wanted to die. When his mother, who lived in Bristol, came to visit, she was told how desperately ill her son was and asked her not to show her emotions. She apparently just went in to him and said ‘Now what have you been up to Dizzy?’ She never let him know how ill he was. Despite the pain and discomfort, he was a good patient and the nurses were fond of him. He was their own ‘Battle of Britain Boy’ and they were determined to make him better. A nurse remembers the day he winked at her when she removed the dressings.

Desmond Fopp eventually returned to flying duties and enjoyed a good RAF career including the award of the AFC in September 1944 for getting an aircraft down safely after a mid air collision. A sergeant pilot, he was commission on 3 November 1941. He retired as a Squadron Leader on 13 March 1975. He died on 8 August 2005 at the age of 85. He was the last surviving Australian fighter pilot of the Battle of Britain. I think my print, so kindly given to me by Desmond Fopp’s cousin, is a fine way to remember one of our Second World War greats.

 

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69th Anniversary of the Great Escape

On 24 March 1944, 76 men escaped from Stalag Luft III. Six of the escapees were Australian airmen: Flight Lieutenant Tom Leigh, an air gunner from 76 Squadron RAF, Pilot Officer Albert Hake of 72 Squadron RAF, Flying Officer Reginald ‘Rusty’ Kierath and Squadron Leader John ‘Willy’ Williams of 450 Squadron, Flight Lieutenant Paul Royle of 53 Squadron RAF and Squadron Leader James ‘Jimmy’ Catanach DFC of 455 Squadron RAAF.

On 4 September 1942, 144 and 455 squadron has been deployed to Russia as part of Operation Orator, which had been launched to protect convoy PQ18 which was taking vital supplies to Russia. Jimmy Catanach’s Hampden was one of two from 455 Squadron that failed to make it to Vaenga, an aerodrome near Murmansk in Russia.

Jimmy Catanach was piloting Hampden AT109, which experienced a great deal of flak as it crossed the Norwegian coast. He realised they were rapidly losing fuel. Rather than risk the engines cutting out, he took the first opportunity to land. He touched down safely on a strip of heather adjoining a beach near Vardo, in northern Norway. Catanach, his navigator Flying Officer George ‘Bob’ Anderson, wireless operator/upper gunner Flight Sergeant Cecil Cameron, lower rear gunner Sergeant John Hayes and their passenger Flight Sergeant John Davidson, a ground crew fitter, attempted to destroy the Hampden, but they were fired on by soldiers from one direction and a patrol boat from the coast. The five were taken prisoner. Davidson died on a forced march in the last weeks of Germany’s collapse. Anderson, Cameron and Hayes all attempted, unsuccessfully, to escape during their captivity. They survived and were released as the Allies advanced through Europe.

 

Jimmy Catanach was one of the fifty escapees from Stalag Luft III at Sagan who, like Tom Leigh, Albert Hake Rusty Kierath and Willy Williams, was murdered in the post-escape reprisals. Paul Royle was captured, interrogated and returned to Stalag Luft III. He is the oldest living survivor of what is now known as the Great Escape. An brief article about him was published in the Dec 2012/Jan 2013 issue of Air Mail. http://www.raafawa.org.au/images/upload/File/AIRMAIL-DecJan.pdf

This photo is of Jack Davenport, Squadron Leader Jimmy Catanach, Wing Commander Grant Lindeman, 455 Squadron’s commanding officer, Flight Lieutenant Les Oliver, and Squadron Leader Bob Holmes, taken in August 1942, just before the Squadron flew to Russia.

 

 

 

The Spitfire Association

 

The Spitfire Association originated when a few comrades from 457 Squadron decided to keep in contact after the Second World War. They eventually expanded membership to include those who were members of No. 1 Fighter Wing (encompassing 457 and 452 Squadron, both RAAF Squadrons, and 54 Squadron RAF). As time passed, membership was open to those who flew spitfires in the defence of Australia. Some years ago, the Association changed its membership rules to allow for Associate Members, those who had not had war service, but had some connection with Spitfires, or the association, or an interest in the defence of Australia. The ‘boys’ realised this was important so that the Spitfire Tradition could be carried on by a new generation.

 I was accepted as an Associate Member some years ago and have my membership certificate proudly displayed in the shop. The Association produces Spitfire News which appears twice a year. Association magazines are a wealth of interesting stories you won’t necessarily find anywhere else. I was flipping through some of my old old copies of Spitfire News and my eye was caught by this from the March 2003 edition. West Australian Ron Rigg wrote that he was posted to 452 Squadron in Darwin in March 1943:

 

During my time with 452, three Spitfires were detached to Drysdale River Mission Strip which is sometimes known as Kalumbaru (about as far North as you can go in the Kimberleys) and I was sent there as duty armourer. Drysdale (WA) which was classified as a forward operational area after an earlier air-raid by the Japanese which saw the mission station bombed and three of its inmates killed, was the closest point to Portuguese Timor, an ideal crash strop for aircraft in trouble and a re-fueling and jumping off point for 31 Squadron’s Beaufighters from Coomalie Creek. I celebrated my 21^st Birthday there with 6 bottles of Flag Ale which I had saved up for the occasion and sharing them with my mates. We experienced 18 inches of rain in a matter of days and the dirt strip was closed for over a week as a result. Guildford Airport (Dunreath) which became Perth’s International Airport, was where 452 Squadron deployed to in the course of an emergency which turned out to be a false alarm. It was a massive task and two Spitfires were lost (without loss of life) on the downward flight. Two weeks later, the Squadron returned safely to Darwin. One day, whilst cleaning Tim Goldsmith’s Spitfire, I noticed an inscription showing through some recently painted camouflage. It read “Donated by Sir Harry and Lady Oakes”. Sir Harry was the Governor of the Bahamas and was murdered there later. (Spitfire News: Journal of the Spitfire Association Issue No 78 March 2003 pp30–31)

  

Coincidentally, the most recent issue of Aviation Heritage, the Journal of the Aviation Historical Society of Australia has an article on the Bourke Spitfire Fund and their presentation Beaufighter!

 

Here is a great Spitfire photo (well I think so anyway). Led by Clive Caldwell, these fighter pilots receive their final training in aerial combat at 2 Operational Training Unit, Mildura, October 1943–April 1944.

 

 

20 March 1917: Frank Hubert McNamara; 20 March 1918: John Dallas Crossman

On 20 March 1917, Frank Hubert McNamara carried out a daring rescue under enemy fire that resulted in award of the Victoria Cross. Twelve months later, John Dallas Crossman was born. What do these men have in common? Read on.

 

 

John Dallas Crossman

John Dallas Crossman was born in North Queensland, Australia exactly 95 years ago on 20 March 1918. His father Ted, who hailed from Taunton in Somerset, England, had come to Australia in 1912. John was a great swimmer, enjoyed music, collected stamps and was a voracious reader but his greatest enthusiasm was for flying. He was mad about aeroplanes from the time he could walk and whenever he could, he headed out to the local aerodrome & loved making plane models. Soon, he would turn to the real thing.

Handsome young John was firmly set upon a career in the air force. After a grand farewell from his family, friends and fiancée Patricia Foley he set sail for England. While at sea, war was declared and while some cheered at the news but John’s reaction was subdued and resigned: ‘Should this last any time it seems unlikely that I’ll ever see home again. Still I expect it can’t be helped. A fellow has to realise that.’ And as for the decision to go to war, ‘it is a pretty filthy business altogether but really the only thing that England could do’.

Having arrived in England John joined the RAF on 12 August 1939. His proudest moment was the day he received his wings believing that in flying for Britain he would be fulfilling his destiny.

John’s first action was on the September 14th. He admitted to being scared sick and panicky when the squadron attacked a formation of about 60 Messerschmitt 109s at 20,000 feet. The fear was worse just before he fired, but he pushed it aside and ‘got one decent burst into a 109 but was unable to see if I got him as [I] had to get out of the way of a few more’.

John was in the air again on the 15th, the day ever since commemorated as Battle of Britain Day. He ‘ran into hundreds of Jerry kites at about 19,000 feet. Three of us were going round to do head-on attacks on some Dorniers. I lost speed, spun down 6000 feet, came out near 20 more escorted by about 60 Messerschmitt 109s. Three of the 109s came after me. I evaded then came round [and] did a stern attack on the Dorniers. Put all my shots into one of them, set his port engine on fire and saw him go down’

John’s nerves quickly passed. As September advanced he was in the air two or even three times a day. With a zest for life and a bright sense of humour, he made friends easily. When he could grasp a few hours respite he spent time with them in an effort to forget the serious business of fighting. His family and fiancée were also clearly in his constant thoughts as John’s cabin walls were plastered with their photos. A large portrait of Patricia took pride of place in his display.

By the time John took to the air in the afternoon of 30 September 1940, he had flown 18 sorties. At about 1.30 p.m., 46 Squadron encountered a gaggle of Messerschmitt 109s and his Hurricane was hit. John Dallas Crossman was only 22 years old when he died in the Battle of Britain.

 

 

Frank Hubert McNamara

The only Australian Great War airman to receive the Victorian Cross was Frank Hubert McNamara and, interestingly, he has a connection to John Crossman. On 20 March 1917, exactly one year before John’s birth, McNamara and Alfred Ellis, flying single-seated Martinsydes, escorted by Peter Drummond and new pilot Doug Rutherford in BE2cs, were tasked with bombing a section of Turkish railway near Wadi el Hesi. McNamara dropped his bombs over a train but the last exploded as it left the racks. His Martinsyde was caught in the blast and metal fragments cut through the seat into his buttocks. He was dazed, bleeding and in pain so decided to return to base but he saw that Rutherford had force-landed and the Turkish cavalry were fast approaching. McNamara dived through enemy ground fire to land about 200 yards from Rutherford who was attempting to destroy his BE2c. Rutherford stopped when he saw McNamara, dashed to the Martinsyde and climbed onto its wing. McNamara tried to take off but the aircraft could not take Rutherford’s weight and veered to the left. McNamara’s right leg was next to useless and did not have enough strength to operate the rudder to align the Martinsyde and it lurched into a gully. McNamara and Rutherford pulled themselves from the wreck just before the petrol tank exploded. The Turks were almost upon them and firing as Rutherford helped the wounded McNamara to the BE2c which, although damaged during its forced-landing, looked as if it could fly. Ellis and Drummond arrived and tried to distract the advancing Turks with machine-gun fire while Rutherford helped the still bleeding McNamara into the pilot’s seat. While McNamara fired at the fast approaching Turks, Rutherford swung the propeller. The engine started and he climbed in. Ninety minutes later, they were back at base.

McNamara’s actions exemplified self-sacrifice, bravery and devotion to duty and he was lauded as a hero when he returned to Australia. His rescue of Rutherford was not branded as chivalrous at the time—although he was publicised as a gallant hero—but it was belatedly recognised as a chivalrous act when Septimus Power’s 1924 painting ‘How the Victoria Cross was won in Palestine’ was included in the 1933 publication Australian Chivalry.

McNamara joined the RAAF on its formation in 1921 and served until 1946 when he retired with honorary rank of Air Vice-Marshal. The whole of his service during the Second World War was spent outside Australia, initially as as representative for the RAAF in London until 1942, then on loan to the RAF while commanding British forces in Aden until 1945.

 

So, what is the connection between John Crossman and Frank McNamara? Well, when Edward Wimperis, who painted John’s crash site on the day he died in battle, tried to track down the Crossman family so he could give them the paintings, he contacted McNamara at Australia House who agreed to forward the paintings to Australia. He told Wimperis on 29 October 1940 that ‘your kind and spontaneous action on the occasion of the death of this gallant young officer is something that moves me with admiration. I know too that the Air Ministry appreciates what you have done. Above all, I am sure that the relatives of the late officer will be grateful’. They were. And are.

 

 

'The Journey's End. 30th September 1940' by Edmund Wimperis, 1940.

 

There is a wonderful postscript to this story which reveals another connection between John Crossman and Frank McNamara. A friend in Chalfont St Giles, who is one of the parishioners who tends John's grave,  recently told me that he and his wife bought their house from the estate of the mother of  Captain Jack Grayburn VC (Parachute Regiment; Arnhem Bridge; buried in Arnhem Oosterbeek military cemetery). They then discovered the grave of Lieut-Commander Drummond VC a couple of miles away (his was a WW1 award and he died on active service in WW2).  My friend then heard that there was a third Victoria Cross connection in the Chalfont St Giles area: Frank McNamara he lived with his family in Buckinghamshire and his grave is just 2-3 miles away from where he lives, and quite close, as the Hurricane flies, to John Crossman's grave.

 

19 March 1941: Jack Davenport soloed at 5 EFTS Narromine

Jack Davenport arrived at 5 Elementary Flying Training School at Narromine, NSW on 6 March 1941. As well as almost daily flight instruction, the hectic training syllabus had a heavy course work component, which included armament lectures and technical work on engines. For Jack, there was no option but to work hard. It was the way to get on in life and it was the way to ensure that he would be sent overseas to play an active part in defeating the enemy. For him, the ' major consideration was to get there and become involved … That was what it was all about. I think it made people try very hard and apply themselves far more than otherwise would have been the case.' Jack was soon flying six days a week: he learnt climbing and steep turns, forced landings, all sorts of aerobatics, take off and landings, forced landings, side slips, gliding approaches and landings, and how to prepare to abandon his aircraft. He often flew on longer cross country exercises and carried out low flying exercises, with probably no idea of how low he would fly a few short years later when he would lead Beaufighter strikes flying at ‘nought feet’.

Jack took his first solo flight on 19 March 1941 and by the time he took his last flight in Tiger Moth A1789 on 26 April, the day after he completed his final assessment, he had flown 29 hours dual and 25.10 hours as pilot. He was assessed as above average. Jack always had a high degree of modesty; was never one for self aggrandizement and when he noted his achievement in his diary, he simply stated that he had ‘scraped a pass of 88%...luckily being first on course at flying’. Although Jack applied himself rigorously to his course work, his ground marks were not quite as good as his flying marks but, even so, when they were combined, he was third overall on the course.

 

 

 

Jack Davenport climbing into A17-86, one of 5 Elementary Flying Training School’s De Havilland DH 82 Tiger Moths.

Jack was recommended for bombers. This was just what he wanted. In a time when many young men had been influenced by the exploits of fighter aces and Battle of Britain veterans, Jack did not want to fly fighters. He ‘was rather keen to fly a multi-engined aircraft. I thought that this had more potential, I thought you were flying with somebody else for whom you were responsible and who had some responsibility towards you.’ As well as this, he relished the potential for personal challenge. He thought the demands of a bomber pilot were greater than those in a single-engine aircraft.

Bobby Gibbes in the Western Desert

Life in the Western Desert. Some time ago I was fortunate enough to purchase from the great man himself, Bobby Gibbes’ autobiography ‘You Live But Once’. It is a bit of a holy grail for collectors of Australian aviation memoir so I was very pleased that Bobby still had one or two left. I loved it. Lots of anecdote and lots of operational details, much taken from his diaries of the time.

 Bobby was a bit of a larrikin (remember, he is the one who famously built the Cricri aircraft in his upstairs room) and he used to regale visitors in aeroplane seats in his ‘cockpit’. I tell you, it was a great privilege to sit in first class and laugh myself silly as he shared some of his experiences. Bobby had a fine sense of humour and one of my favourite stories comes from his memoir: Be warned. It contains delicate subject matter, and those of more sensitive sensibilities might like to skip reading it. Bobby sailed to the Middle East on the Queen Elizabeth. Soon after boarding, ‘we had been lectured on the dangers of getting to know Egyptian women too well. I had even heard that toilet seats could be infectious and I was naïve enough to believe this’. Anyway, sometime later:

 

Without confessing a ruddy thing, I developed an ache in those accoutrements peculiar to the male species. I suppose that I was terribly silly, but when this ache occurred at the commencement of the Syrian offensive, and I didn’t want to miss out with any of it, I decided that an approach to the medical officer might see me grounded. There was also some feeling of shame at such a disaster befalling me.  She was such a pretty little thing too. If I was killed, no one would know. Treatment would have to wait until later.

 

I took to the bush rather than use the normal toilets as I didn’t want to provide the catalyst for such a horrible thing to be passed on to my fellow pilots. While flying, the tightness of the parachute harness around the groin area caused me a great deal of pain, but I just had to put up with this for the time being.

 

Immediately peace was declared, I went to see John [Laver, 3 Squadron MO] and explained my fears. After careful examination of the offending apparatus, he started to laugh. He told me that I had no real problem and I was terribly relieved. He supplied me with a truss and instructed me to wear it for diminishing periods each day. I had worn Jockey underpants for some years, but they had all worn out and I had not been able to buy similar underpants in Palestine. The muscles had not been used for support and had grown weak. They had to be re-trained to perform their former duty.

 

 

Bobby died in April 2007 and it was a great loss to Australian aviation and storytelling. Continuing blue skies, Bobby.

Good news:

 

I have heard from the editor of Wings, the Journal of the RAAF Association and he will be publishing  All he wanted to do was Fly. John Dallas Crossman: Australian Battle of Britain Pilot. Part Two in the Winter edition.

 

Just to whet your reading appetite, here is how it begins:

 

At 9.05 a.m. on 30 September, 22-year-old John Crossman of 46 Squadron was patrolling the Hornchurch line, south of the Thames Estuary in Hurricane V6748. John was a diligent pilot. As soon as he could after landing, he pulled out his flying log and recorded the sortie while it was fresh in his mind: ‘A large formation [of] Me 109s passed us but we did not attack—were looking for bombers.’ He then put his log safely away. He did not take out his diary, however. He only wrote in that just before turning in at night. Entry completed and pen down on the 29th, he placed the ribbon marker neatly on the blank 30 September page so he could easily find it the next evening. But John did not fill in his diary again. And that morning patrol was the last entry in his flying log.

 

 

 

 

This is a model of Hurricane V6748 which John was flying on his 19th - and last - operational sortie. It was made by John's great nephew. 

Book reviews

 

With the newspaper format reducing in size and page number, does this spell a different fate for book reviews? The evidence indicates it does. And here was me hoping for a stack of reviews of Australian Eagles! Guess I had better think again. This article makes for some very interesting but sad reading if you are hoping to receive lots of varied book reviews for your latest work. http://sydneyreviewofbooks.com/parallel-fates-2/

 

 

Parallel fates

sydneyreviewofbooks.com

It is conventional wisdom in the publishing business that newspaper reviews, even negative ones, can help to sell books.

 

 

Australia's Few. An Intimate History of the Battle of Britain. A Work in Progress

I am very much looking forward to the publication of Australian Eagles in July.

Coincidenally, it will be my third book published in the middle of Australia's winter!

I have not put my pen down (so to speak as I use a keyboard) and continue to research and write. I am now well into a more detailed work on eight Australians in the Battle of Britain, working title Australia’s Few. An Intimate History of the Battle of Britain.

In the last month of my current Battle of Britain chronology, Stuart Walch and Dick Glyde became the first Australians to score in the Battle of Britain, Jack Kennedy has died, John Crossman and Ken Holland have gone to OTUs, Des Sheen has arrived back in England after taking the long way home from France, Bill Millington has discovered there is nothing chivalrous about air fighting and Pat Hughes has got married.

I still have a lot more to write but I am loving every minute of it.

 

 

Here's a photo of Dick Glyde, hockey player, taken before he joined the RAF.

Welcome to Kristen Alexander - Author

 

Welcome to Kristen Alexander - Author