Trafford Publishing: Flight Into Yesterday

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Flight Into Yesterday

by Les W. Perkins

482 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0391; ISBN 1-55212-989-6; US$37.50, C$42.70, EUR30.50, £21.50

A 500 page legacy that provides unique insight into the hearts and minds of men and women in war.

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about the book about the author sample excerpt catalogue info

About the Book

Members of the Royal Canadian Air Force in World War Two were issued log books in which to record their experiences, during training, combat, and sometimes their personal thoughts. In the words of Right Reverend REF Berry, a World War Two mid-upper gunner with the RCAF flying Lancaster bombers out of Lincolnshire, England:
"These are men whose wartime contributions are of heroic proportions. Their log entries tell of real life experience of young Canadian men and their allies." (Flight Into Yesterday, 1999, ii)
Many of these diaries survived the ensuing decades and it is through the gracious input of their owners that FLIGHT INTO YESTERDAY was created. I've collected, re-written, printed and bound these experiences into book form for the members and friends of the Kelowna Wartime Aircrew Club. The 500 pages of this book provide a unique insight into the hearts of men and women in war. FLIGHT INTO YESTERDAY is a legacy.

About the Author

Les Perkins was born in London, England, on November 17, 1923. During the Great Depression, he and his brothers wereinstalled in a boys' boarding school in Buckingham, where heobtained his basic schooling to School Certificate, laterupgrading to Junior Matriculation. He then attended an agricultural training school in Kent, not far from Biggin Hill, and as a seventeen year old, mad about flying, thrilled to the Battle of Britain almost over his head.
His mother spent some time in the Women's Air Force during the First World War, and delighted her eldest son with a description of the downing of the first German Zeppelin, which took place near London, she being an eye witness. On another occasion she dragged young Les out to the back garden to investigate a strange humming sound; it was the British airship R100 passing overhead. As a boy, Les delighted in the Biggles and Algy stories and all together the above had a part in creating for Les a fascination in aviation.
At any rate, he graduated from agricultural school and put in two years dairy farming, as he had promised; then, at age nineteen, took his day off to travel to Maidstone and volunteer for aircrew duty. A short time later he passed muster at a selection board in London, and early in 1943 was introduced to the Royal Air Force at Lords Cricket Ground, where he was kitted out and given two haircuts in one day, later given over to the gentle care of a drill corporal and the joys of square bashing. Everyone in charge made sure Les and his sprog companions understood they were now the lowest of the low, even a worm would need to descend to get to their level.
In due course he moved on to ITW at Bridlington in Yorkshire, to suffer further indignities on his way to being aircrew. But at last, Les escaped to #2 Air Gunnery School, at Dalcross in Bonnie Scotland. His first flight, in an AVAC Anson, was an experience in self control, since his companions all suffered from air sickness. Getting in and out of the turret was a slippery business and the aircraft stunk like an abattoir. Les was pleased when told to wind down the undercarriage, it took his mind off the discomfort.
The real gunnery training was done using Bolton Paul Defiant aircraft. They were truly clapped out old kites and probably dangerous, but thrilling to ride in nevertheless. Les finally graduated to receive the coveted half wing, thankful to be in one piece and as keen as ever.
On to #12 OTU at Chipping Warden, in Oxfordshire, and some equally clapped out Wellington bombers. It wasn't long before Les discovered war was no game, and a lot of his preconceived notions gleaned from Biggles and Co. flew out the window. A leaflet raid to Rennes, France, a finale to operational training, resulted in his crew being shot down and ditching in the Seine estuary. They were lucky to survive and get back to England. (That story is part of this book).
Following about three weeks at #1657 Conversion Unit at Stradishall in Suffolk, his crew was posted to #199 Stirling Squadron at Lakenheath, part of #3 Group. Later, the squadron was transferred to #100 Group for special duties, and were sometimes rather rudely referred to as Œthose funny fellows from 100'. Les went on to do a varied two tours which included bombing, mine-laying, low-level supply drops, and diversionary support operations to main force using, Window, Mandrel, and other special electronic devices.
He spent three years in such places as Egypt, Morocco, Malta, Gibraltar, and sundry other parts of North Africa, before taking his discharge in London, England. He then spent several months hitchhiking through Europe and North Africa before emigrating to become a Canadian citizen in 1949. Following an early retirement from the farm equipment business because of ill health, Les and his family moved to Kelowna where he enjoys many friends and continues his perhaps futile attempt to become a writer. He belongs to a number of ex-service organisations, including #883 (Kelowna) Wing Royal Canadian Air Force Association, and keeps up a lively correspondence with his old skipper in New Zealand and their wireless operator in England. His rear gunner died some years ago but Les keeps in touch with the wife of his old companion, as well as many other wartime pals.

Sample Excerpt - From Chapter Six

The Night We Got Our Feet Wet
Les Perkins
It was only a "Nickel", the code word for a leaflet raid, a sort of graduation exercise at the end of the operational training course. A low risk sortie into enemy territory designed to give new crews the feel of an "op" . A chance to polish the rough edges and gain a little experience. Though considered fairly safe, there was always danger when intruding into defended enemy airspace; still and all it was a chance to "get ones feet wet", so to speak.
The crew, for the first time, experienced the tingling excitement of an operational briefing. The atmosphere within the room was thick and they eyed the covered wall map with wonder. The intelligence officer began his always dramatic "Gentlemen, the target for tonight is ... " and they held their collective breath as the curtains covering the wall map parted and the red route markers were revealed. Their target was Rennes, in France, and to their uninitiated eyes, the scarlet tapes plunged a fearful distance into enemy territory.
It was the night of Tuesday, July 13, 1943 and because of the lateness of the sunset, takeoff was delayed until 23.20 hours. The place, #12 Operational Training Unit, Chipping Warden, Oxfordshire, England. It was here that various trades crewed up.
In some strange and mysterious way, pilots discovered "The best damn navigator on base, old boy!" and he of course knew the best bomb-aimer, who knew the very Marconi of wireless operators, who knew two air gunners blessed with the night vision of a tom cat; and the accuracy of a laser beam. Drawn together by some inexplicable means, they would become closer than brothers. A bond would form that would last a lifetime; for some this would be pitifully short.
Wing Commander Norman Bray needed only a mid-upper gunner and a flight engineer to complete his crew. The engineer would be added during the next step in training. The conversion course to four engine heavy bombers.
Dick Stokes, the rear gunner, a strapping young man a year or two older than Les and already wearing the thin blue stripe of a Pilot Officer, introduced Les to his skipper. The smallish Bray proved to be a kindly, tolerant man who welcomed a shy and awkward youth with warmth and sincerity and Les was made to feel welcome, and happy at last to have found a crew. A career officer, brim full of life and with the heart of a lion, Bray became a friend and a bit of a father figure. Later he would help save the life of his newest recruit.
The rest of the crew joined in the introduction. Little George Wilde, neat, precise and logical, a navigator never in doubt. Thanks to George their log books were always neat and current. He too was a Pilot Officer. "Parky" Parkinson, bomb-aimer, Flying Officer: a Canadian with thinning hair, older than the others, perhaps at the very limit for operational flying. He did not like being a bomb-aimer. Quiet and introspective, not given to small talk or much drinking, he took Les under his wing. His friendship was a comforting thing.
The diminutive wireless operator, Bert Fitchett, was a Flight Sergeant. London born and bred, with a Cockney humour and accent to match. He was a solid and conscientious radio man with the added advantage of being a trained air gunner. Prior to the war, Bert had spent some leisure time roaring around Brooklands race track. He worked the mechanic's side of the little cars that ripped apart the quiet of a Saturday afternoon. His knowledge of small combustion engines would later prove a blessing. Bert and Les were thrown together a lot, by necessity, for the rest of the crew were officers.
Thanks to the brilliant moonlight they easily pinpointed Portland, and watched the ragged wash of the English coastline pass beneath. The sea reflected a silver moonpath pointing east. Still climbing, they talked of feeling for the first time the nervousness and tension induced by venturing into enemy territory. The bomber droned on, a highly visible silver speck in the brilliant moonlight. Less chatter now, but their thoughts were similar. The conditions were a night fighter's dream -- scattered cloud cover, the night as bright as day. Les' stomach muscles were taut in anticipation as he anxiously searched the skies. The moon sailed on through the scattered clouds like a ghostly watchful eye.
A click as George turned on his microphone:
"Enemy coast ahead, skipper; about three minutes."
"Thank you, navigator."
The Wellington bomber did not have a mid-upper gun turret so the skipper had assigned Les to the Astro hatch. He was to be used as an extra watch this trip and in the event of an attack to scamper to the front turret and man the guns. Though they were bathed in moonlight, distant horizons appeared dark. Les could now see a thin white strip of surf peeping from under the skirt of France like a wayward petticoat. The plane droned on, slipping across the coast without incident and making a slight course change for the run to the target.
Far to starboard a sudden flash followed by a flurry of flashes, like explosive echoes. A lone searchlight made a long flat desultory 360 degree sweep and abruptly shut off.
"Flak to starboard, skipper. Distant."
"We saw it, mid-upper. Keep your eyes peeled. You too, rear gunner."
Les turned slowly, scanning the skies to port, past the tall tail fin, up and down, moving towards the wing and over the whirling prop. At the precise moment he lowered his eyes to peer beneath, a sudden burst of heavy predicted flak exploded under the port engine. The flash startled him and he clearly saw little tendrils of smoke pirouetting in all directions. There was a rattling sound but oddly he did not hear the explosion. Then Les noticed the thin stream of oil trailing away behind the port engine.
"Mid-upper here, skipper. We' ve been hit and the port engine is losing oil."
"Right mid-upper. Get to the auxiliary tank and start pumping."
"Okay, skipper."
He scrambled down to the oil tank location and flipping the switch to port, began to pump. In his excitement he had forgotten to turn off his mike and now the whole crew could hear his heavy breathing as he worked away. Les could hear himself too, but he did not turn it off; he did not want to. In some strange, comforting way, the sounds of his labour seemed to draw the others closer. The aircraft was flying at 16,500 feet and the time was 0120 hours. They had been aloft for only two hours and were approximately sixty miles from the target. The skipper again:
"Sorry chaps. I've had to feather the port engine. Afraid we've lost it."
A little chatter from the crew, then Dickie from the rear turret:
"That's all right, skipper. Press on. We can make it on one."
Les had stopped pumping and was waiting.
"All right, mid-upper. Top up the starboard engine and return to your position."
Bray's voice was calm and unexcited. Back in the Astro hatch, Les looked at the lifted port wing and the silent engine. One blade of the propeller was standing straight up. An incongruous thought intruded, of Golgotha and three crosses on a hill.
Bray's voice again:
"Chaps, I'm having trouble controlling the aircraft. Must be some wing and mainplane damage. We may have to jump for it, so be prepared."
Those of us who could snapped on our parachute packs, and waited. Bert's voice followed the click of his mike:
"Wireless Op. Skipper. Should I break radio silence?"
An answering click from the skipper:
"To all of you, we cannot make the target and return. We are losing too much height too quickly. If we continue on and then bale out, the war is over for us. If we turn now we should be able to get far enough back across the Channel to give us a good chance at rescue. How do you feel about it?"
Starting with Dickie in the rear turret, they all voiced an opinion; it was unanimous - no one fancied being a prisoner of war and it was agreed they should press on back as far as possible and take their chances. Ten minutes passed. Bray was talking to the radio operator:
"Bert, inform base we are returning with one engine. Then go back to radio silence."
He was reluctant to use the radio for fear of night fighters and the perfect conditions for them - and because they were so deep into France.
A long careful turn to starboard and they were back on track for the place they had crossed into France earlier. For the one and only time he would ever do it, Parkinson, the bomb-aimer, opened the bomb bay doors and released the war load. A plaintive wireless operator complained, "Christ, Skipper. I've lost the bleeding aerial!" Unable to reel it in in time, the leaflet canisters had torn it away. The time was now 0135 hours and the aircraft becoming increasingly more difficult to manage. At 135 mph, it was losing height at 1000 feet per minute....

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