Typhoon Pilot

Desmond Scott

• Publisher: Leo Cooper
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9780436444289
• eBook ISBN: 9781473820012
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

A decorated WWII flying ace and Royal Air Force Group Captain recounts his experience in the air over Europe in this thrilling military memoir.
New Zealand fighter pilot Desmond Scott joined the Royal Air Force in 1940. Over the course of his illustrious service, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bar, and a Distinguished Service Order. For the heroic act of rescuing a pilot from a crashed Supermarine Spitfire, he was made an Officer of the Order of the British Empire.
In Typhoon Pilot, Scott recounts his time as a young commander of a New Zealand Air Force squadron, and later as the RAF's youngest Group Captain at the age of 25. His story includes conflict in the air over Normandy, Belgium, Holland and Germany, where the Hawker Typhoon fighter-bomber fought its last battle.

Contents

Illustrations

Foreword by Air Vice-Marshal W. J. Crisham

Introduction

Prologue

1. Bentley Priory

2. Tangmere

3. Squadron Life

4. Mixed ‘Operations’

5. Wing Commander

6. A New Enemy

7. Hawkinge

8. 123 Wing, 2nd TAF

9. Invasion

10. Falaise

11. Walcheren

12. Ardennes—The Last Offensive

Index

Illustrations

1. Desmond Scott and ‘Spud’ Murphy, Tangmere, September 1943

2. HRH the Duke of Kent (soon to meet a tragic end) talks to New Zealand Pilots at Tangmere.

3. Desmond Scott’s Typhoon being refuelled, Tangmere 1943

4. Bombing up: the Ground Crew at work.

5. An Air Sea Rescue Walrus.

6. A member of the Ground Staff at Tangmere shows how a pilot (who survived) ended up after crashing his Typhoon.

7. The 486 New Zealand Squadron Crest. The motto ‘Hiwa Hau Maka’ means Beware the Wild Winds.

8. Rocket Firing Typhoons.

9. A Hawker Typhoon F Mark 1 B with a 2180 hp. Napier Sabre IIa engine, Normandy 1944.

10. Typhoons lined up on a forward air strip in Normandy.

11. Collapsible tubes used to carry hot air from the pre-heating van.

12. Typhoon taking off watched by resting troops.

13. Typhoon on forward airstrip in Normandy.

14. Desmond Scott and Wing Commander W. Dring meet General Eisenhower.

15. A Typhoon’s-eye view of the devastation caused by bombardment.

16. and 17. Rocket firing Typhoons attacking.

Note: The endpaper photographs and those marked IWM in the 8 page section are reproduced by permission of the Imperial War Museum.

Foreword

by

Air Vice-Marshal W. J. Crisham, CB, CBE, RAF (Rtd.)

This is a story about heroes, a record of their collective courage and skill, alight with the fierce enthusiasm of their young leader, Desmond Scott.

Scottie—himself a brilliantly able and magnificent pilot—forged his closely-knit team of young New Zealand pilots into a superb fighting unit, capable of meeting constantly changing operational needs with matchless efficiency.

Scottie’s operations, whether he was squadron commander or wing leader, bore the stamp of immaculate planning and execution. He was always concerned for the safety of his pilots and other aircrew, especially those who had the misfortune to be ‘downed’ in the sea. Indeed, his rescue operations dangerously close to the enemy coast were cast in the heroic mould and gave a tremendous boost to morale.

The Tangmere Typhoons were extremely active during the buildup prior to the Normandy invasion, primarily in the neutralization of flying bomb and other missile-launching sites, and later in the destruction of heavily defended radar stations before D-Day. These vital tasks were successfully carried out.

On the Normandy bridgehead, with Scottie and his Tangmere Typhoon squadrons now in the Second Tactical Air Force, the rocket-firing Typhoons smashed the enemy’s tanks and road convoys at Falaise and hustled him homewards via the Channel Ports and the Scheldt Estuary to the Rhine.

The job was done!

To the dauntless nothing is denied.

W. J. Crisham

Introduction

Whereas the Spitfire always behaved like a well-mannered thoroughbred, on first acquaintance the Typhoon reminded me of a half-draught: a low-bred cart horse, whose pedigree had received a sharp infusion of hot-headed sprinter’s blood. It lacked finesse, and was a tiger to argue. Mastering it was akin to subduing the bully in a barroom brawl. Once captured, you held a firm rein, for getting airborne was like riding the wild wind. One casual crack of the whip, and the jockey was almost left behind. But like the human race, the Typhoon had its good points too. In sharing the dangerous skies above Hitler’s Europe I had good reason to respect its stout-hearted qualities. It gave no quarter; expected none. It carried me into the heart of the holocaust—and even when gravely wounded delivered me from its flames. As a young pilot I grew not only to respect the Typhoon, but also to trust—even to love—it.

After the death of the Third Reich, silently and unobtrusively the Typhoons flew off in obscurity. But I shall never forget them. Not ever, for by the war’s end they had become part of me.

The travels of Desmond Scott and his New Zealand Squadrons.

Prologue

I was brought up with horses, and it was therefore only natural, when I left grammar school, that I joined the Territorial Army and became a trooper in our Canterbury Yeomanry Cavalry. The rattle of spurs, the mature conversation of older men and the orchestrated performance of our horses, was a welcome change from the classroom, but life in the cavalry had its sore points too, as I was quick to learn.

One day while on manoeuvres, our troop was ‘attacked’ by two Bristol Fighter planes, ancient relics of the First World War, and flown by pilots of the New Zealand Air Force. As they swooped low over our heads, my horse, which normally had the heart of a lion, took the bit in his teeth and bolted. One of the pilots, savouring my predicament, persistently pressed home his ‘attacks’ and, several fences and a few ditches later, Toby and I parted company. To add insult to injury, I received an impolite hand signal from above, and decided there and then, if I was to fight my wars in a sitting position I would need a steed that could not only fly, but outsprint any opposition.

When our annual camp disbanded, I began taking flying lessons in an Aero Club Gypsy Moth, but in those days dual instruction was 30 shillings an hour, and consequently my progress was expensive and slow. However, after a total of six and a half hours dual instruction, I managed to go solo, and was saved from my creditors by a stroke of good forturne. Just prior to Hitler’s indiscretions, our government introduced a scheme in which successful applicants were given 40 hours flying at the taxpayer’s expense. Much to my surprise, my application was successful. About the same time that I had completed my 40 hours, England declared war on Germany. I promptly received a registered letter from our Air Department reminding me of a small clause at the bottom of our contract. Thus I was compelled to leave the cavalry and became a member of His Majesty’s Junior Service, but it was not until August, 1940, and after much flying in antiquated Fairey Gordons, that I finally set sail for the other side of the world to take my place among the survivors of Churchill’s ‘few’.

Flying Hurricanes was a far cry from piloting slow old biplanes, but again I was lucky, for my first operational posting was to the Orkney Islands, a relatively quiet area in Hitler’s blitz. A few weeks protecting part of the British Fleet at Scapa Flow gave me the opportunity to gain the necessary experience that helped me to survive in No 11 Group, the RAF’s hot spot, which included London and most of the south coast. It was in this prestigious company that I spent the following four years.

Hurricanes were already the work horse of Fighter Command and for nearly two years I piloted them on almost every type of operation. There were many nights when I flew above a burning London. I participated in daylight shipping attacks along the French and Belgian coasts and acted as close escort to Blenheim and Stirling bombers, on raids that were aptly code-named ‘Circuses’. I survived a mid-air collision with one of No 23 Squadron’s Havocs, and it was also from a long-range Hurricane that I watched Cologne explode, as a thousand RAF bombers emptied their war load from the night sky. As with our adversaries, our offensive operations were often more spectacular than successful. Nonetheless, all were hazardous, and the experience gained by those who survived was always sorely won.

When I had completed the equivalent of two operational tours, I began to feel the strain and did not object when I was promoted to Squadron Leader and posted on rest to a temporary staff appointment at Bentley Priory, the headquarters of Fighter Command.

1
Bentley Priory

No sane pilot would have wanted a posting to a Typhoon squadron in the winter of 1942. New types of aircraft always had their faults, but the Typhoon had far more than most. For a start, its huge 24-cylinder Napier Sabre liquid-cooled engine was far from dependable. If it stopped dead while you were in the air, you were faced with two alternatives—over the side, or the gliding angle of a seven-ton brick. Even worse was its tail section. For reasons which even the experts could not fathom, several Typhoons had shed their tails and buried themselves and their pilots in very deep holes.

Nonetheless, there was something about this all-metal aircraft which rather appealed to me. It had a very determined chin, its 20 mm Hispano cannons stuck out like ramrods, and its gigantic three-bladed propeller gave it a pugnacious air which few other aircraft of its time possessed. Head on, it was not unlike a bulldog. But unlike a bulldog it could outsprint anything that had so far flown in the European or any other theatre.

I had already completed two tours in the Typhoon’s elder brother, the much smaller Hawker Hurricane. This gentle saviour of Britain was a beautiful aircraft to fly, by day or by night, but at this stage of the war it was rapidly being phased out of the European theatre for service in the desert and Far East air forces, where the opposition was less formidable. It was still quite capable on anti-flak missions, but it could not longer hold its own alongside the latest Spitfires, and it was no fun for the pilot of a Hurricane suddenly to feel he was flying backwards when he tangled with a Messerschmitt 109 or Focke Wulf 190.

In the Typhoon—with all its faults—I could see a ray of hope. If Hawkers could build the dependable Hurricane then they must be capable—once the faults were ironed out—of turning out something similar in its younger and much faster brother. So I set my sights on a Typhoon squadron, and began plotting to escape from my temporary staff job at Bentley Priory, the headquarters of Fighter Command.

The Priory, once the home of Nelson’s mistress, Emma Hamilton, was situated in the London suburb of Stanmore. Its cold stone walls hid a hive of industry, so all operational pilots naturally avoided it. Operational squadron life, although dangerous at times, was free and easy and in sharing the fortunes of war we relied so much on one another that differences just did not exist, and we jealously guarded this happy state of affairs from every intrusion. However, it was Command practice to post to the Priory certain tour-expired officers, in the hope they would help the chairborne types to ‘keep up with the field’. Being posted to the Priory was like being sent from the follies to the morgue. The only redeeming feature was that it was within easy distance of the great metropolis, with its wide and varied range of attractions.

The Command’s regular staff were not all Air Force officers. Many senior First World War naval and army officers were there on liaison duties for their respective services. Having spent a good part of my early operational life blasting my way into enemy shipping, I soon grew impatient with two old naval captains who persisted in re-fighting the 26-year-old Battle of Jutland on the mess bar. Fortunately the army officers were not so boring, but after their retreat from Dunkirk they appeared to have little if anything to talk about. However, I did feel sorry for an elderly brigadier-general—after I had nearly killed him! He was not a member of the staff but was visiting the Priory and had asked me if I would consider flying him over his old tank regiment which was on manoeuvres near Framlingham in Suffolk. My heart softened when he confided that he had served alongside New Zealanders in the First World War, and after a drink too many I agreed to meet him the following morning at Martlesham Heath.

I selected a Miles Magister, a low-wing monoplane with two very open cockpits, one set some distance behind the other and connected by a simple voice tube, like a vacuum cleaner hose, into which we also plugged our earphones. Before helping him into the rear cockpit, where I considered he would command the better bird’s-eye view, I enquired whether he had ever flown before, and received the haughty reply that he had been airborne before I was even chair-borne.

I strapped him in and we were soon off into the cold, rough morning air, flying low over the Suffolk woodlands in search of his troops. A freshening in the wind did not help, and the little aircraft began to flip and flop like a puppet on a string. The general did not complain, and I carried on, executing steep turns to the left followed by figure eights to the right, fairly close to the tree tops. After about half an hour I was feeling cold and asked my passenger if he had spotted any tanks in the woods yet. There was no reply, and I assumed that his earphones had become detached.

As I banked again to the left I looked round—not easy when your neck is frozen stiff. The general appeared to dive half ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Full Title
• Copyright Page
• Contents