Mission Accomplished

The Engaging Memoir of a Czech Fighter Pilot Flying for Britain in World War Two

Frank Mares

• Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781904943822
• eBook ISBN: 9781909166899
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

A heroic account of a man who overcame immense obstacles to avenge his country against Nazi Germany during the Second World War. Appalled at the German occupation of his homeland in 1939, Frank Mares determined to assist his country in their battle for freedom in the only way he could—as a fighter pilot. Unable to do so from Czechoslovakia he began his mission, navigating his way through Poland to France, through manned borders, guarded stations and hostile territory, in order to assist the offensive against their common enemy. Armed with fake identities, evading arrest and faced with uncertainties and frustrations at every turn, his journey was one of courage and fortitude. Narrowly avoiding a five-year enlistment in the foreign legion, Frank eventually made it into the French Air Force and finally, following the withdrawal of France from the war, joined 601 Squadron with the British RAF. Patriotic and determined, he was involved in numerous dogfights and had many engagements with the enemy, flying Hurricanes, of which he was particularly fond. In all of the battles that he fought in the skies with German Luftwaffe pilots, he was never shot down. In 1942 he was decorated with the DFM and Czech War Cross. Despite incident and injury Frank persevered, always driven by love for his country and for the planes he flew. He remained in England after the war and, now retired, lives in the West Country near the old RAF Harrowbeer airfield at Yelverton, Devon.

CHAPTER 1

BORN TO FLY

I was born free in the Czechoslovak Republic and until the age of six, lived in the small tranquil village of Zamy

el, amongst the forested hills of Sumava in West Bohemia. It was a poor but friendly and happy community of farmers who freely shared their land, tools and food. Life was hard but the inhabitants were content and intensely patriotic. In my early years I was mostly in the care of my grandparents because my father was away in the army and my mother was training to be a midwife.

Apart from religious pictures and ornaments with which these God-blessed people adorned their homes, there was always a portrait of our president prominently displayed. I must have been four or five years old when I came to understand that Tomas G Masaryk was not only our president but also our ‘father’ and was loved by all. I loved him at the first sight of his picture – an aged man with a kindly smile and a gentle face with wrinkles around his eyes, as if he was perpetually bemused by my presence. The spectacles he wore were pinched upon his aristocratic nose; his drooping white moustache and short beard increased my respect for him. My first reading lesson incorporated learning the words under his portrait: “Pravda Vitezi” (Truth Triumphs). This slogan, together with the red, white and blue flowers which were often placed behind the picture frame, representing the colours of the Czech national flag, braced me for the future.

When I was six years of age my parents moved to Plzen (Pilsen), where I was to begin my schooldays. This drastic departure from the gentle village folk and the serene countryside to a heavily industrialised town, perpetually shrouded in billowing black smoke, seemed to choke me and caused my emotions to erupt. The school swallowed me ruthlessly and the transition to life in a large town split my mind and body apart. For a long time I resented school and during lessons my mind would wander to recall the kind people of my native village. One lovely summer’s day the whole school went on an excursion to a place called Làny, near Prague, where I underwent a transformation into a boy eager to learn. Làny was the president’s summer residence and it was here where he found the time, away from state duties, to embrace his children, millions of them, as he walked among them. My love for my country and my ‘father’ – Tomas G Masaryk – was wholly re-affirmed. From that time on, I was happy at school as I eagerly wanted to become a worthy citizen of the Czechoslovakia Free Republic.

My parents’ home was situated adjacent to the town’s abattoir, where my father was employed as an analytical chemist. He was a hard man, at times unkind to my mother and never sparing the rod where I was concerned. My mother, who by now was a qualified maternity nurse, was kind and loving towards me, her only child, but often was not at home when I needed her protection.

Whilst continuing with my education, which ultimately led me to become an engineer, my ever-present yearning was for a life of freedom – like that of a bird. This yearning prompted me to visit the West Czechoslovakia Aero Club. It was situated not far from the western terminal of the town tram, about twenty minutes walk. When interviewed by the club manager, I soon realised that the cost of flying lessons would be prohibitive for my means, but I was not to be deterred.

After I had made it clear that my aim was to become a flyer, I was told that I would have to be willing to offer my services free of charge, carrying out detailed work in exchange for flying lessons. To this suggestion I happily agreed and, thereafter, spent all my spare time inside the hangar. My first task was to ‘navigate’ a broom and a pan around the aeroplanes. During the following months I worked hard, learning all that I could about servicing aeroplanes. Under expert guidance I was introduced to the ins and outs of all the essential repairs, including the splicing of cables linking the pilot’s joystick to the rudder, elevators and ailerons.

Some three months after my initiation with the hangar sweeping broom, came a day of extreme happiness, I was told to fasten myself into the back seat of one of the bi-planes standing in front of the hangar. The aircraft was a First World War antique, and looked like two tea chests stuck together; one for the pilot to sit in and the one behind which I was told to climb into, which I did in double quick time – not stopping to ask any questions. Of course, I made quite sure that the wings, engine and the tail were all very much in evidence. I was sitting quite comfortably when the test pilot came to me and said, “You are being given this free flight as a reward for all your past hard work.” He continued, “I want you to keep your eye on that gauge, making sure that the needle remains pointing to the green line. If it should, at any time, start to move towards the red line, you must tap me on the shoulder, whence I shall make for a landing as quickly as possible.” He then added, “If the needle starts dropping fast, operate that lever, it will help to maintain the pressure.” My reply was quick; “Yes sir, I will do exactly as you wish, you can rely on me.” I had no illusions whatsoever; I knew the significance of the gauge needle dropping towards the danger mark.

However, as the pilot climbed into his seat this matter did not concern me unduly, and I was determined that the ensuing flight would be the making of my day. I was about to fly and to experience for the first time in my life what it was to be free as a bird. My pulse began to race when the pilot, after completing his pre-flight checks, shouted to the mechanic standing by the propeller: “switches off, throttle set.” The mechanic repeated these commands before beginning to rotate the prop in order to suck fuel into the engine cylinders; all eight of them. When this was done the mechanic replied: “contact” and held up his right thumb. The pilot, having made sure that he had remembered to switch the fuel on, repeated: “contact”, whilst at the same time giving a thumbs up sign as well. At this point, the mechanic swung the prop over and to my amazement the engine spluttered into life, coughing through the exhaust pipe a cloud of stinking smoke. I simply prayed that it was ‘all systems go’.

At last we were on the move. The man who had been responsible for coaxing life into the engine was now holding on fast to the starboard lower wing, helping the pilot to turn towards the grass airfield. When this was achieved, the engine throttle was eased forward and we began to taxi towards the northern perimeter of the field. The exhaust smoke was no longer enveloping my cockpit and I had a clear view of the instrument that I had been placed in charge of. The needle was remaining close to the green line.

The pilot had completed his pre-take off checks, opened the throttle and the roar of the engine blasted me with a very clear message that we were on our way towards the thrill of my life. As we sped across the field, I became more and more exhilarated. With the bouncing of the plane over the uneven grass and the wind grasping hold of my hair and trying to inflate the cavity of my mouth, I began to feel like a baby being cuddled in the arms of its mother, or in my case, by my beloved grandmother, who proved to be my guardian angel on more than one occasion. All of a sudden we were airborne, no more bouncing along, but a smooth, floating sensation had taken over – I was being caressed.

For me, there was no altimeter to look at, not that I cared about our precise height. It seemed as if I was at the gates of heaven, the ground below was as a moving map, over which we seemed to be flying at the speed of destiny. Hardening my feelings to face up to the reality of the moment I remembered to look at the important dial. Unbelievably, the needle was glowering at me, pointing to just above the red mark. As a matter of priority, I grabbed the lever and began to feverishly move it back and forth. It seemed an eternity before the unfriendly gauge needle began unwillingly to move upwards and towards the green line. When this had been achieved I began to think – if I kept on pumping, the pilot would never know what was going on, thus the flight could go on and on, until he was ready to land. I could risk telling him later and say that being strapped in so tightly in my seat had prevented me from being able to reach forward and tap him on the shoulder. To my absolute delight, we remained airborne for about half an hour. We eventually made an approach towards the airfield and a superb landing, followed by parking what was now, my beloved and most beautiful plane in the world. It had all been well worth disobeying the given orders.

To my relief and surprise my day of glory was not in any way blemished when I informed the pilot, whose name was Venca Slouf, that I had disobeyed his instructions. To my intense pleasure, instead of reprimanding me he placed his arm around my shoulder, squeezed me tight and said: “Frank, I can well remember the day of my very first flight. Like you, I was only fifteen when I too experienced the thrill of my life. Very likely I would have done exactly as you did.”

Venca and I became very good friends although he was almost ten years older than me. As time marched on he taught me, not just how to fly, but how to become a vital part of the plane – to fly as if the wings were bonded on to my body. Some years later, Venca and I flew with the same squadron, our wings strengthened by the bond of our beliefs, that a freedom must be defended. Later, as members of the Royal Air Force we were proud to give a good account of ourselves.

A week or so after my inaugural flight, I found that it became somewhat difficult to concentrate on my studies at college. I remained intoxicated by the addictive spirit of the heavens above. Previously I had enjoyed my studies, in particular, producing technical drawings of electric motors, turbines and associated circuits. As a side line, I became interested and attended lessons about the internal combustion engine, both 2-stroke and 4-stroke petrol, and also plumbed the depths of the diesel engine functions which, at that time, were not considered seriously.

When one of the college tutors noted that I had become rather lax in my attention during lectures, and that my hitherto high quality drawings were not up to the required standard, he asked me to visit him in his office. He was perplexed about the sudden downgrading of my work. He asked me if there was a plausible explanation. Encouraged by his benign and caring attitude, I told him of my recent experiences and ambitions to become a pilot. After some contemplation, he looked me straight in the eye and solemnly declared: “You have a natural talent to become good at what you are presently studying, do not place that in jeopardy. By working hard, as you have done until recently, you are set to achieve success.” He went on to say: “So far as your dreams to become a pilot are concerned, there is nothing at all wrong with this notion. Indeed I applaud your strong determination.” At that moment, once again looking me full in the eyes, but with a few wrinkles appearing on his forehead, he urged me to ‘go for it’ but at the same time, to get my priorities right. He pointed out that I had only three more years of study, during which time, he could see no reason why, in any spare time that was available, I could not carry on with my ambition to become a pilot as well. We concluded the conversation with me explaining what motivated me to emulate what the birds did naturally.

As a result of that very friendly advice, I began the process of connecting my hitherto crossed wires, to a polarity I knew would energise me towards what I was destined to reach. Indeed I switched myself on, tuned the dial of priorities and thereafter found it easy to recharge my capacitors of knowledge. I graduated from the college, with honours.

Whilst furthering my education, every opportunity was taken to avail myself of time at the aero club, where later, I was fortunate enough to gain a state scholarship to train as a pilot and to realise that freedom and flying are tightly interwoven.

Except when the weather made flying impossible, lessons were given every weekend. I was grateful, that by the grace of the state, these lessons came free of charge. It was a privilege that could never be taken for granted, knowing that it was paid for by those, who like me, were Czech patriots, living in their free democratic beloved country – Czechoslovakia.

Having, in the opinion of my flying instructors, received sufficient dual tuition, the day was appointed for me to take my very first solo flight. I tried my best to control my overwhelming emotions. I was determined to do my best for the instructor who was pretending to be unconcerned, but at the same time standing near enough to see if I was losing my nerve – which was not the case. I felt aware that for every move made or command that was given, there were many pairs of eyes watching me. This was so every time somebody was about to go solo for the first time. It was very important to do everything that was expected of me. It was essential not only to satisfy the instructor and all those watching, but also vital to prove to myself that flying was what I was destined to be good at, from the very first ‘flap’ of my wings.

I busied myself with all the pre-flight checks; asking the mechanic if the chocks were in front of the wheels, turning on the fuel cock, making sure that no loose articles were about, checking the instruments were all in order, including tapping the altimeter gently and making any necessary adjustment to its setting.

The next procedure was to ascertain that the flying controls moved freely; that the rudder and elevator on the tail responded correctly, that the ailerons also responded, noting that when the right one was deflected down, the left aileron was up. This done, everything looked and felt smooth, all the responses were satisfactory. With the fuel cock turned on, all was ready to initiate the engine starting procedure. In order to breathe life into it, help was needed from somebody suitably trained, to turn the propeller which ensured that fuel was sucked into the cylinders prior to switching on the ignition.

The mechanic, clearly in view, was awaiting my orders. Making sure that the engine ignition switches (yes, there were two, the circuits being duplicated) were in the ‘off’ position, the throttle was set slightly open and the friction nut tightened. At this stage I shouted “switches off, throttle set.” No sooner had this command been given than the propeller began to move clockwise, pausing each time the engine compression was overcome. With this completed, the cylinders were primed, the mechanic stood aside and shouted “contact”, which I repeated while switching the ignition to ‘on’ and holding the joy stick back towards me as far as it would go. The mechanic placed himself with the utmost care at the end of the propeller and, balancing his body on one foot set slightly forward pulled the propeller very smartly downwards. As eagerly hoped, the engine burst into life, its pistons pumping power to the propeller, very like my heart pumped blood through my veins.

The engine was allowed to purr gently at just about the ‘tick-over’ pace in order to warm it up and prepare itself to be my willing servant. Just like my own blood pressure can be monitored, the engine oil pressure, the temperature and the rpm were transmitted back to a set of dials arranged along the instrument panel.

Making doubly sure that the chocks were in place under the undercarriage wheels and after checking the instrument readings, the throttle was gently opened to its fullest extent. The engine gained in revs and decibels whilst the joy stick was held back and the whole plane strained to leap forward. I turned the ignition switches ‘off’ and ‘on’ in turn, noting that the rev counter did not indicate any drop. Throttling the engine back, it and I took a breather. My thoughts were concerned with having performed all the necessary checks whilst the engine, much like a racehorse, seemed impatient to rev-up and ‘charge’.

Satisfied that all was in order, I wasted no time in asking to have the chocks removed. With the mechanic holding the starboard wing tip and by application of full right rudder and a gentle opening of the throttle, the plane turned to face the expanse of the grass airfield. By careful nudging of the throttle even further forward, the plane gathered speed, the prop fanning more air back over the fuselage towards the tail. By operating the rudder and elevator, the plane responded by maintaining the direction in which I was aiming to taxi.

In the knowledge that the instructor would not let me go solo unless he was fully satisfied as to my complete proficiency, I felt confident that it was time for take-off. The day chosen for my solo flight had turned out ideal, the sky contained only scattered fluffy clouds, floating patiently at about 3,000 feet and seemed to be welcoming me into their territory. The visibility was crystal clear and the wind was blowing along the length of the airfield at a steady 6 to 8 knots. With this type of gentle breeze it was easy to maintain a course towards the edge of the field from where I was briefed to take off. As with all the planes that I had flown so far, this too, had an open cockpit; the propeller slip stream keeping me fresh and ready to take to the air.

After turning into the wind I looked across the mile long airfield. At the perimeter was the infamous Bory prison and beyond that the tram terminal where I alighted so often for my walk to the field, in order to fulfil my dream of learning to fly. The engine patiently ticked-over whilst I carried out a pre-flight check; all instruments in the normal position; one more quick ‘stir’ of the flying controls and a good look ahead. My heart felt in unison with the aircraft and at full throttle the engine flexed its power to full potential. As the plane gained speed use of the rudder was necessary in order to maintain a straight line and with the stick pushed gently forward, the elevator at a slightly downward angle, the force of the air lifted the tail up; the skid cleared the grass. As further speed was gathered the plane bounced over the ground until, as if by magic I was airborne, striving to reach the sky.

Almost two years previously I was privileged to fly, as a passenger, for the first time free to enjoy the freedom of the skies. This time I was in sole control of a much updated and streamlined purpose-built bi-plane trainer aircraft. I was very much aware of the reassuring power of the air-cooled radial engine (the cylinders arranged round the crankcase to form a star). With throttle fully open, the engine’s surge of power propelled the craft ahead with the ensuing stream of air vitalising the wings, the controls responding to my urging command – or were they? Was there an unseen force behind the controls, and in charge during the vital stages of the take-off? My left hand remained grasping the throttle lever, my right on top of the joy stick by which I was controlling the elevator and the ailerons. With feet firmly placed upon the rudder pedals, I had an uncanny feeling that some unseen power was energising my limbs, making sure that my first solo flight would turn out to be perfect, never ever to be forgotten.

The cool stream of air, trying its very best to flow under my flying helmet, made sure that I maintained a cool head which helped to dispel any doubts as to who was in control of my plane. I was the pilot in charge, making sure that the speed was correct, the aircraft in perfect, gentle climbing trim. The altimeter hand was beginning to indicate that sufficient height was being attained to fly safely over the edge of the town buildings. The airfield now lay a distance behind and below and out of sight. On looking sideways I had a view of the park where people were walking, or sitting on the many benches. Towards the middle of the park some tennis courts were set out. A quick scan of the instrument panel gave me satisfaction and confidence that all systems were functioning properly and, having continued the climb, I was just about to reach 2,000 feet, at which height I had been instructed to level off.

On reaching the prescribed altitude, it was now time to perform some flying exercises, carrying out a few gentle and some steep turns, also flying at a very slow speed at which the aircraft would threaten to stall. At this low speed, the flying controls become unresponsive and any further decrease in speed would bring about a stall – the nose of the aircraft would drop suddenly. This is an exercise, which is of vital importance to all would-be flyers who wish to survive. After diligently carrying out all the allotted tasks the time had...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Dedication
• Acknowledgements
• Foreword
• Introduction
• 1 Born to Fly
• 2 National Service and Plans to Escape
• 3 The Long Journey Begins
• 4 Poland
• 5 France – What Are We Waiting For?
• 6 Escaping Enlistment in the French Foreign Legion
• 7 War is Declared
• 8 Finally Flying
• 9 Advanced Flying Training and the Knife Trick
• 10 Impotent in the Face of Attack
• Photo Section
• 11 Voyage to England
• 12 Flying with the RAF
• 13 Operational at Last with 601 Squadron
• 14 On the Offensive
• 15 Channel and Convoy Patrols
• 16 Intense Operations and Aerobatics
• 17 Czech Squadrons
• 18 Back Down to Earth with a Crash
• 19 Flying Escort on D-Day
• 20 Rest and Recuperation
• 21 Return to Liberated Czechoslovakia
• Epilogue
• Travels through Europe to England
• Frank’s RAF Squadrons
• Map of Frank’s Journey from Pilsen to Liverpool June 1939 – June 1940
• Glossary of Terms
• Index