Flying Officer Wallace Watson McSween RCAF

A dark, clear night somewhere near Hamburg. Bursts of tracer fire could be seen here and there. Occasionally the glow of an exhaust could be seen. Flak was light. Knowing that there were German fighters around caused some quiet tension - not much being said- just intently peering into the darkness in search of other aircraft getting too close, creating the danger of collision.

Suddenly, I felt a tick on my right earphone, and heard a sharp bang as a shell from a fighter plane entered above and behind me, and went through the windscreen, taking with it the compass which was there, and leaving behind a hole about 6" in diameter, and creating a strong draft from the hole.

We carried on and bombed our target, and started for home. As we approached the coast of the North Sea, we ran into a cloud of sleet, resulting in a stream of sleet pouring in through the hole in the windscreen. I had to lean to the side to avoid it. Things happened so fast that it never occurred to me to turn on the carburetor heat - a lapse of good flying procedure which almost cost the lives of myself and my crew, and for which I silently, but vehemently cursed myself later as all four engines, one after the other conked out, and the pitot head also froze so that there was no reading of airspeed or altitude.

We were over the North Sea when this happened, still in cloud - trying to avoid the shudder which precedes a stall by keeping the control column slightly forward - obviously losing altitude, and hoping to hit the water at such an angle and speed to be a successful "ditching" . The chances of achieving this were basicall y nil.

I had, of course, turned on carburetor heat as soon as I realized it wasn't on. There was nothing to do but wait, pray and hope. Suddenly we were below the cloud, still in pitch black night. My imagination- made me think I could hear waves when I opened the vent window. The dead silence in that plane, interrupted only by the sound of wind rushing by as we glided toward the frigid, unseen sea was eerie, oppressive, ominous, terrifying and full of suspense. Then, after a few minutes of this, I heard a sputter from one of the windmilling motors - then another, and another and another followed by the sound of four engines running - then readings of altitude and airspeed.

I and my crew have never been so terrified. The relief with the return of control was an overwhelming W-W-H-EE-W and a prayer of thanks.

Wallace Watson McSween, Flying Officer RCAF, 429 Squadron Bomber Command Q Group

Humanity

Early dusk, good visibility, cruising over Germany in a Southerly direction with the glow of the disappearing sun in the West.

Suddenly a Folke-wolfe 190 crossed in front of us from left to right, no more than thirty feet away. He was there no more than a second. I and the German pilot were equally caught by surprise, but we both had time to salute each other (almost a reflex action}.
As we both continued in our respective directions, he became directly off our starboard wing and an easy target for my mid-upper gunner. I immediately shouted: "Hold your fire!" After all, you don't salute someone and then shoot him in the back.

The Folke-wolfe carried on to the West, and while still in view, turned South to fly parallel with us. He could easily have turned and come up under us, but he "waggl ed" his wings - another form of salute, and disappeared into the sunset.

This little encounter went a long way to affirming my faith in human beings.

Wallace Watson McSween age 21. RCAF, 429 Squadron Bomber Command 6 Group

"NIGHT OPS" - PILOTS POINT OF VIEW

I don't remember what the breakfast hours were on the squadron, because I don't remember ever having been there for a regular breakfast. If you had been on a night operation the night before, you would have had a huge breakfast on your return; and if you weren't on a night operation, you would have spent the evening in a nearby pub, or in the mess, drinking and chasing women, and would probably be hung over. My navigator didn't drink, so he would know about breakfast.

In any event, the first thing you did on getting up, was to go to your flight office and look at the notice board to see if there was a battle order posted, and if so, whether or not you were on it.

Finding your name on the battle order was the source of probably the highest degree of tension involved in the entire operation, because you knew nothing whatsoever, except that you're going on an "Op" that night. You don't know where you are going, or what kind of a bomb load you'll be carrying. You won't get any information until briefing time. Crews are fairly quiet as they file into briefing. Then you find out where you are going, what bomb load you'll be carrying, the route you'll take, the altitudes you'll fly at, the take-off time, the "set-course" time, time over the target, weather conditions, your altitude over the target, gasoline load, and all other pertinent information. This all helps to resolve the apprehension caused by uncertainty and imagination.

You are now "involved" (and a little more garrulous. )

Then you get into your flying suit and gather your maps, log books, parachute, and head out to the truck that will take you to your dispersal point. There you greet your ground crew, inspect the outside of the aircraft - tires, control surfaces, etc., and climb in and squeeze through the fuselage to your position.

Each member of the crew checks the equipment at his position, including oxygen supply and intercom. The pilot ascertains from each crew member in turn that all is well - then signals to the ground crew that he is ready to start the engines. The ground crew hooks up the "accs" (booster battery assembly) to each engine in turn,and each engine sputters into life, and is run up and checked for mag-drops, oil pressure, constant speed props function, etc.

When you are satisfied that all is well, you report to the tower that you are ready for take-off. When you are ready to taxi to the take-off position you signal the ground crew to pull the chocks from under the wheels.

As you taxi down the perimeter to the down-wind end of the runway in use, you continue checking (ask the engineer if he has found anything out of the ordinary for example).

When you arrive at the take-off point, you stop at right angles to the runway and do your final engine run-up, (checking mag-drop primarily), and put down 30 degrees of flap for take-off.

After checking with each crew member that he is ready for take-off, you swing out on to the runway, (as soon as it is clear).
As the previous aircraft is lifting off, you apply brakes and rev up the engines, with the port throttles slightly ahead to counteract torque, until you feel the aircraft surging against the brakes and you release them. You keep the aircraft straight with the throttles and brakes until you have enough speed to have rudder control. You continue to advance the throttles to fully open and "through the gate" , and the engineer then takes over the thrott 1 es and holds them there so you have both hands on the control column for take-off. As the speed increases with the control column forward, the tail comes up, and when the take-off speed is reached, you pull back on the control column, lift off, and raise the undercarriage. As climbing speed is attained, you take off the 30 degree of flap a little at a time, and the throttles are brought back through the gate and stay there as you climb to the set-course altitude.

On a cloudy day, I will have looked for a break in the clouds while still on the ground, and would head in that direction, (hoping to find it still exists), and climb through it, rather than flying blind amongst a sky-full of loaded aircraft (from our own and other airports around the area) milling around, waiting until the set-course time (watches will have been synchronized at the briefing). At this time, the danger of collision is quite obvious, and tension is high. If you are watching this from the ground, it is a very impressive sight. The deep, powerful, steady hum of all those engines seems to make the ground shake. Then, as one, every aircraft points in the same direction, and they disappear in the distance as the sound fades away.

Now you are busy settling down to cruising speed, synchronizing engines, if you haven't already done so, and getting a course from the navigator.

As the darkness closes in, there is very little conversation, other than what is necessary. Everybody who can see out, (all but the navigator and wireless operator) is busy staring into the darkened sky for any sign of other aircraft getting too close, or enemy aircraft in the vicinity. Exhaust flame may be visible from other bombers, or tracer bullets, indicating fighter activity, (the further away, the better.) Sometimes, there would be flak, (either scattered, or so thick that you'd swear you could walk on it} bursting around you. When the flak was heavy, there was little likelihood of fighters, but searchlights would be sweeping the skies, including the big blue radar lights, which were so bright that they blinded you. Whenever that light hit you, it was joined by dozens of nearby lesser lights which would "cone" you, and the anti-aircraft guns would concentrate on that one brightly lit aircraft. Chances of escaping this situation were slim. If you were quick enough, and very lucky, you might try diving immediately and directly at the blue light, feinting a turn in one direction, and quickly turning in the other direction - something like a hockey player deking a goalie. This worked for me once.

If there was fighter activity, they usually attacked from the rear, off to one side or the other. When spotted by the rear gunner, he would shout: "corkscrew right! " , if the enemy was coming from the starboard side, or "corkscrew left" if he was coming from the port side. The corkscrew was an evasive manoeuvre designed to minimize the fighters' chances of ling up a good shot at you. "Corkscrew right" meant an immediate diving bank to the right, then a bank to the left, followed immediately by a pull-up, bank to the right, dive etc. "Corkscrew left" was the same thing in reverse .

During this, all intercom was between the pilot and rear gunner, as required. If successful, you then resumed cruising speed, course heading, and peering into the black night. These evasive manouvers naturally increased the risk of midair collisions, and many aircraft and crews were victims of this.

Eventually you see the target ahead, and the bomb-aimer takes over and tells the navigator to switch on the master switch, the pilot to open the bomb doors, and switches his selector switch to "salvo" if all bombs are to be released together, or "stick" if in sequence, (This was the usual choice) and begins (with his eye on the bombsight) to call directions to the pilot - for example: "Right, right-steady-left-steady-steady-bombs gone" . You can feel them go. During this bomb run, the "stream" of bombers becomes much more dense, because all are heading for the same target. You might suddenly be aware of an open bomb bay directly above you, just about ready to release his bombs: so you side-slip immediately out of that situation, hoping not to spoil the bomb run. Nobody wanted to go around again and repeat the bomb run. Tension was very high at this point. After releasing the bombs, you hold your heading straight ahead over the target so that your automatic camera can record where your bombs landed. Without this, you may not be credited with the trip. This done, you bank to the left and head for home. Between the target and home was a risky time for encountering fighters. You would be flying West with the rising sun behind you, and fighters could attack out of the sun. The Germans also knew that crews would be more relaxed and a bit careless a that time.

If there were no other complications, such as engine failure, shortage of gas, flak or fighter damage, you would arrive safely, land, taxi to your dispersal area, shut down, climb out, get in the back of a truck and be driven to the de-briefing to be interrogated byan Intelligence Officer, get your shot of rum, change clothes and drag your exhausted, starving body to breakfast.

All this applies to a night raid. The daylight raids were different - more fighters, fighter cover, etc., but still mid-air collisions -more chatter amongst the crew etc., but that's another story.

"Accs" - Booster batteries .

"Mag-drops" Most aircraft engines have two ignition systems with two spark plugs in each cylinder.
Mag-drop is the loss of engine revolutions when one system is switched off. Test with each in turn switched off.

w.w. McSween

429 Squadron R.C.A.F.
6 Group

In Air Collision

It was a clear dark sky with plenty of stars visible. On one particular run (about the second or third) the stars suddenly disappeared. We were obviously flying through a stray cloud.

At the same instant that the stars reappeared there was a large bang and I was thrown out of my seat and flung to the right (starboard) side of the cockpit. There were straps on the rudder controls like stirrups which came over the foot to keep it from slipping off the rudder. My right foot slipped out of the stirrup and my left foot stayed in leaving me hanging from the left rudder pulling it fully back and fully depressing the right rudder. As I climbed back into the cockpit seat I began to neutralize the rudders but found that the slightest move to do so caused the port wing to drop so I reapplied full right rudder to keep the aircraft level. I turned very gently on to a course for base and I saw the port engine catch fire. I pressed the fire extinguisher button and fortunately the fire disappeared. I noticed in the light of the fire a large chunk was gone from the end of the port wing. The nose of the aircraft containing Johnny, my bombaimer, and my parachute was al so gone. I gave the order "prepare to jump" and heard the rear gunner say "I can't" just before the entire intercom went off with a weird descending whistle like one of those whistles vaudeville comedians use. Just at the same moment my navigator (Cy) poked his head through the bulkhead door and saw the gaping hole where the nose had been. The expression on his face said "where's Johnny" or "what happened " or something like that . I shouted at him to go back and find out why Duke couldn't jump. He had his parachute clipped to his chest as he turned to go back.

From the time of the bang all of this happened in about 30 seconds.

When Cy reappeared he had caught his rip-cord on something and had his arms full of parachute silk. This was a most pathetic sight and the macabre humour of the situation in spite of the circumstances was hard to ignore. He shouted that Duke could now jump. He simply hadn't had his parachute on when he said he couldn't. Cy asked me if I was going to jump and I said no because my parachute was gone. With Johnny gone with the nose and Joe, the other gunner off to Manchester to see his girlfriend there were only four of us left. Cy, Duke and Scotty, the wireless operator, all decided to stay with the plane when they knew that I had to God bless them.

We got back to base firing red flares en route so they would be ready for a crash landing. I decided that since I had no idea how much damage there was to the tires, undercarriage and hydraulic lines, I would not try to put the wheels down. It would be safer to belly land. with the jagged metal in front of me and below me I knew I had to land on the grass to avoid being folded under if the jagged metal caught in the tarmac. This would also avoid sparks and fire.

As we approached the field and were near to landing, the port engine burst again into flame so we landed on fire. When the aircraft came to rest I climbed out through the escape hatch above my head. I could have stepped out the front but training is training. Scotty and Cy went out the top and ran down the starboard wing and jumped to the ground, disappearing into the shadows. I couldn't see Duke so I walked down the side of the now brightly burning plane and found him trying to get out through the diamond shaped escape hatch located on the side and belly of the aircraft. His head and shoulders were poking out and he was clutching at the grass as the flames got closer. Grabbing him under the arms I pulled as hard as I could and managed to get him out without breaking his back. Then I began to berate him for not going out through the top which was clear instead of what was left available of the bottom exit until I realized that there was about to be an explosion when the fire reached the gas tanks and whatever practice bombs that were still aboard. We ran off in the direction the others had gone and assembled in the semi dark, lit by the growing flame as the fire truck arrived. I went back to let them know there was no-one left in the plane.

Before the fire had consumed the fabric fuselage cover I noticed that it had stretched at least a foot. Most airplanes (I remember thinking) would, probably, have broken, but with its geodetic construction the "Wimpy" as we called the Wellington bomber had stretched and stayed intact. The name "Wimpy" was derived from the name of Popeye's hamburger eating friend known as J. Wellington Wimpy.

We were loaded into an ambulance and taken into the base hospital to be checked out and interrogated. We had to be sedated because we were chattering like a bunch of monkeys.

On checking the next day we found that we had cleared the cross runway by inches and had plowed a furrow about 50 yds. long, at the end of which lay the charred remains of our aircraft.

The other aircraft was flown by Jeff Round from Calgary and his crew. They were accompanied by an instructor, a Flight Lt. who was the only one to get out. Jeff and his crew all perished.

Reconstructing what happened was fairly simple. I never did see the other aircraft but as we emerged from the cloud they had seen us and dived but unfortunately also banked to their right bringing their port wing up to smash off the nose of our aircraft and then hit our port engine and wing tip. Their port wing was sheared off at the engine and they went down spinning out of control into the ground. I went to visit Jeff's parents in Calgary when I got home. They had been informed of his death but not of the circumstances.

For some unknown reason we were denied the privilege of going to Johnny's funeral. It was as though he had never existed but we will never forget him. Johnny Tchwaikosky - may he rest in peace.

This collision took place on the 11~ of August 1944 at 11 p.m. at 11 thousand feet. Eleven is a lucky number in craps.

W.W. McSween