21.03.2009, 05:57
06:00 Hours, 17th August 1941, HMS Shamrock Bay, somewhere north of Murmansk on the Barents Sea.
![[Image: 99d19426dd62cacfb1f2a7a0a7d0fe956g.jpg]](http://www3.mediafire.com/imgbnc.php/99d19426dd62cacfb1f2a7a0a7d0fe956g.jpg)
To our chaps of the Royal Air Force, the comings and goings of sailors aboard the aircraft carrier Shamrock Bay were something of a mystery. Still, the fellows were kind enough to supply a mug of hot tea this fine morning. Although August, the chill air was uninviting, the cold wind even less so. I looked out at the haze obscuring the calm grey water and above us, the ivory cirrus clouds, and knew today we would fly out.
An hour earlier we'd finally been told what to expect. I marvel at at the way the military drops these suprises on you when you've had it figured out for weeks. All that short field circuit flying had to be for a reason. Some of the men had postulated we'd be heading for Canada. That's ten shillings Raymond owes me.
Our mission was simple. The Northern Expeditionary Force was to disembark at Murmansk and assist the Russians attacking Finland. It seems the Finns are supplying the Third Reich with all sorts of materials and Mr Churchill wants to put a stop to it. Personally, I think he wants revenge for that Norwegian fiasco last year. Too many defeats doesn't help ones political career.
The sailors were at work, our Huricanes rising out of the dark steel hangars on lifts with practised ease. If I were honest, they made the process look easy than it was, adopting the demeanour of men who'd done this a thousand times. I watched them manhandle the aircraft into position at the back of the flight deck. I knew this would come, but the prospect of taking off along this frighteningly short deck was something I was in no hurry to experience, especially since a mistake would drop me into the freezing waters of the Barents Sea.
"We're ready for you now Sir." Called a naval petty officer. He seemed suited to this enviroment, a square jawed man carved from salt water. He may have been polite to my rank, but I got the impression that on his deck a Squadron Leader does what he's told.
The others heeded my call, and given the temperature, were only too keen to get going. Flight Lieutenants Carter Bishop and Hayden Burbridge chatted eagerly to each other, both young men who'd missed the Battle of Britain and were keen to make their mark on the Luftwaffe. Flight Sergeant Raymond Pattle was a different man altogether. He was a quieter, more grim faced man. An excellent pilot but one with a lot buried under the surface.
We clambered aboard the aircraft and the cold air was shocking. It was a strange scene. A short metal runway ahead of us, tall plumes of steam rising from the ships funnels either side of us, and our aeroplanes packed tight ready to go. Mechanics swarmed around like flies and demanded attention as we began firing up our engines. They knew a thing or two about starting merlins and without any fuss the Rolls Royce fired into life, a few bursts of flame from the exhausts followed by a cloud of grey smoke that dissipated in the propellor wash, a blast of air that froze me there and then despite the protective windshield.
The sailor standing on the wing stopped me from closing the cockpit with hand signals. Of course he was right. Standard procedure was to leave them open in case you ditched on take off. How can he stand the cold? The man isn't human. Everything checked out, he gave a final thumbs up and vanished from sight. Another sailor waited to pull the chocks away. He signalled me to run the engine up.
The burbling engine changed character immediately. The pops and bangs gave way to an angry roar, the Hurricane vibrating as I held it on the deck with the stick fully back. The propellor wash was merciless, biting cold. Then the sailor waved me on. I felt the aeroplane lunge forward of its own volition and quickly countered the swing. The bridge superstructure flashed past me - it was all I could see - and as the Hurricane left the deck I felt it sink. The engine was giving everything. The flaps were down. I wound up the undercarriage as quick as I could, seeing the grey water rise in the corner of my eyes. At last, clawing its way skyward, the Hurricane began to fly and I breathed in relief, hurriedly closing the canopy.
My tiny world seemed instantly warm and quiet. I adjusted the heading to one nine zero and trimmed the aeroplane for a climb. It was a glorious morning. The sun very low on my left through the deep haze, and a fleecy blue sky above. Our destination was Vayenga airfield, where we'd begin operations. In this sunlit murk, I wondered how I would find it.
Glancing back I spot a couple of my lads closing into formation. I leave them to it. Ahead, on my left, high ground rose above the mist. Ostrov Kildin? I hope so, or I'm hopelessly lost. A thick russian voice came over the radio. I doubt that was meant for us, whatever it was he said. This was their realm, a place of alien coldness, and a part of me wondered what to expect.
The coast began to emerge, draped in white frost or snow, and looking so bright in the sunshine. The river was plainly visible and I used that to guide me in toward Vayenga. Down there, ahead of my right side leading edge, a ship cruised northward. We must be near Vayenga surely? I dipped my wing and there, almost passing me on the left, a snow covered airfield below. This Russian terrain is deceptive. I shall note that for future reference.
We fly in, appreciating the english voice we hear on the radio. At first I lose the field in the mist, but there it is, and with a little change in heading and some extra power I approach the runway. The Hurricane floated more than I expected, as if it didn't want to touch down here. I could feel the drag of the snow and grass, and at the same time, the momentum of my aeroplane pushing forward on the slippery surface. Nonetheless, the brakes worked, and I taxied in to the open area on my right, first to land.
With the sun in my eyes I cut the engine, the propellor coming to a stop with a series of clacks. The straps were known to me but my cold fingers found them strangers. My nose began to run. A knock on the canopy gave me a start. A Russian leaned forward on my wing grinning like a lunatic, beckoned me to open up, and as I pulled the canopy back he offered a handshake, chatting away in fluent gibberish. He presented a half empty vodka bottle. Now that I understood, and warmed myself discreetly.
Once we assembled at the wooden cabin we assume was set aside for our use, our Russian hosts threw an impromptu party, eager to trade and make friends. None of us understand a single word they say. It doesn't matter.
Carter Bishop wasn't there. I saw Burbridge looking out the window, searching the sky for signs of his friends arrival. A Russian with a walking stick arrived and saluted his senior officer, who glanced at me with knowingly whilst the party went on. I knew what that message was, and later I learned officially that Carter Bishop hadn't made it. He'd flown into a hillside. Burbridge took that hard. They were close friends. Somehow, I sensed the Russian commander knew how he felt. My task for tonight was morale. Young men far from home and already missing a comrade.
To our chaps of the Royal Air Force, the comings and goings of sailors aboard the aircraft carrier Shamrock Bay were something of a mystery. Still, the fellows were kind enough to supply a mug of hot tea this fine morning. Although August, the chill air was uninviting, the cold wind even less so. I looked out at the haze obscuring the calm grey water and above us, the ivory cirrus clouds, and knew today we would fly out.
An hour earlier we'd finally been told what to expect. I marvel at at the way the military drops these suprises on you when you've had it figured out for weeks. All that short field circuit flying had to be for a reason. Some of the men had postulated we'd be heading for Canada. That's ten shillings Raymond owes me.
Our mission was simple. The Northern Expeditionary Force was to disembark at Murmansk and assist the Russians attacking Finland. It seems the Finns are supplying the Third Reich with all sorts of materials and Mr Churchill wants to put a stop to it. Personally, I think he wants revenge for that Norwegian fiasco last year. Too many defeats doesn't help ones political career.
The sailors were at work, our Huricanes rising out of the dark steel hangars on lifts with practised ease. If I were honest, they made the process look easy than it was, adopting the demeanour of men who'd done this a thousand times. I watched them manhandle the aircraft into position at the back of the flight deck. I knew this would come, but the prospect of taking off along this frighteningly short deck was something I was in no hurry to experience, especially since a mistake would drop me into the freezing waters of the Barents Sea.
"We're ready for you now Sir." Called a naval petty officer. He seemed suited to this enviroment, a square jawed man carved from salt water. He may have been polite to my rank, but I got the impression that on his deck a Squadron Leader does what he's told.
The others heeded my call, and given the temperature, were only too keen to get going. Flight Lieutenants Carter Bishop and Hayden Burbridge chatted eagerly to each other, both young men who'd missed the Battle of Britain and were keen to make their mark on the Luftwaffe. Flight Sergeant Raymond Pattle was a different man altogether. He was a quieter, more grim faced man. An excellent pilot but one with a lot buried under the surface.
We clambered aboard the aircraft and the cold air was shocking. It was a strange scene. A short metal runway ahead of us, tall plumes of steam rising from the ships funnels either side of us, and our aeroplanes packed tight ready to go. Mechanics swarmed around like flies and demanded attention as we began firing up our engines. They knew a thing or two about starting merlins and without any fuss the Rolls Royce fired into life, a few bursts of flame from the exhausts followed by a cloud of grey smoke that dissipated in the propellor wash, a blast of air that froze me there and then despite the protective windshield.
The sailor standing on the wing stopped me from closing the cockpit with hand signals. Of course he was right. Standard procedure was to leave them open in case you ditched on take off. How can he stand the cold? The man isn't human. Everything checked out, he gave a final thumbs up and vanished from sight. Another sailor waited to pull the chocks away. He signalled me to run the engine up.
The burbling engine changed character immediately. The pops and bangs gave way to an angry roar, the Hurricane vibrating as I held it on the deck with the stick fully back. The propellor wash was merciless, biting cold. Then the sailor waved me on. I felt the aeroplane lunge forward of its own volition and quickly countered the swing. The bridge superstructure flashed past me - it was all I could see - and as the Hurricane left the deck I felt it sink. The engine was giving everything. The flaps were down. I wound up the undercarriage as quick as I could, seeing the grey water rise in the corner of my eyes. At last, clawing its way skyward, the Hurricane began to fly and I breathed in relief, hurriedly closing the canopy.
My tiny world seemed instantly warm and quiet. I adjusted the heading to one nine zero and trimmed the aeroplane for a climb. It was a glorious morning. The sun very low on my left through the deep haze, and a fleecy blue sky above. Our destination was Vayenga airfield, where we'd begin operations. In this sunlit murk, I wondered how I would find it.
Glancing back I spot a couple of my lads closing into formation. I leave them to it. Ahead, on my left, high ground rose above the mist. Ostrov Kildin? I hope so, or I'm hopelessly lost. A thick russian voice came over the radio. I doubt that was meant for us, whatever it was he said. This was their realm, a place of alien coldness, and a part of me wondered what to expect.
The coast began to emerge, draped in white frost or snow, and looking so bright in the sunshine. The river was plainly visible and I used that to guide me in toward Vayenga. Down there, ahead of my right side leading edge, a ship cruised northward. We must be near Vayenga surely? I dipped my wing and there, almost passing me on the left, a snow covered airfield below. This Russian terrain is deceptive. I shall note that for future reference.
We fly in, appreciating the english voice we hear on the radio. At first I lose the field in the mist, but there it is, and with a little change in heading and some extra power I approach the runway. The Hurricane floated more than I expected, as if it didn't want to touch down here. I could feel the drag of the snow and grass, and at the same time, the momentum of my aeroplane pushing forward on the slippery surface. Nonetheless, the brakes worked, and I taxied in to the open area on my right, first to land.
With the sun in my eyes I cut the engine, the propellor coming to a stop with a series of clacks. The straps were known to me but my cold fingers found them strangers. My nose began to run. A knock on the canopy gave me a start. A Russian leaned forward on my wing grinning like a lunatic, beckoned me to open up, and as I pulled the canopy back he offered a handshake, chatting away in fluent gibberish. He presented a half empty vodka bottle. Now that I understood, and warmed myself discreetly.
Once we assembled at the wooden cabin we assume was set aside for our use, our Russian hosts threw an impromptu party, eager to trade and make friends. None of us understand a single word they say. It doesn't matter.
Carter Bishop wasn't there. I saw Burbridge looking out the window, searching the sky for signs of his friends arrival. A Russian with a walking stick arrived and saluted his senior officer, who glanced at me with knowingly whilst the party went on. I knew what that message was, and later I learned officially that Carter Bishop hadn't made it. He'd flown into a hillside. Burbridge took that hard. They were close friends. Somehow, I sensed the Russian commander knew how he felt. My task for tonight was morale. Young men far from home and already missing a comrade.