They Gave Me a Hurricane

By Charles Palliser

As a teenager ‘Tich’ Palliser became ‘hooked on this flying game’ and aspired to take to the skies. The Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve provided the opportunity and a few months before the Second World War broke out the Yorkshire-born novice was called-up to learn and develop his skills as a combat fighter pilot. In August 1940 the young sergeant aviator, at the controls of a Hawker Hurricane, entered the ferocious aerial melees of the Battle of Britain, fighting for his life, and his colleague’s lives, as he became one of Churchill’s ‘Few’ in the defense of his homeland. Tich met with some combat success but also witnessed the attrition of war at a personal level, losing many squadron friends. Indeed in December 1940 Tich fell victim to enemy fighters. Tich was commissioned in April 1941 and arrived in Malta a month later to play his part in the defense of the beleaguered island. Steadily his score of combat kills rose. He passed the ‘ace’ status and early in 1942 was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. Soon after he took up instructing duties, and for the remainder of the war, despite the continual threat of sabotage, Tich passed on his hard-won experience to novice pilots in South Africa.

This is Tich’s story in his own words, illustrated with numerous previously unpublished photographs, as the reader accompanies him through the physical tensions and emotional trials of being a Second World War fighter pilot. Tich provides an intimate account of squadron life, including the acquaintances made and coping with the loss of friends. They Gave Me a Hurricane is an extraordinary, gripping, and enthralling account, as told by one of the RAF’s ‘ace’ fighter pilots – a fitting tribute to an outstanding airman and well respected veteran.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fighting High Publishing
• Release date: Aug 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9780993212956

Book preview

Introduction

I will begin my story by giving an introduction to my early life, and the beginning of my destiny. My maternal grandfather was a maritime captain named Charles Calder, who sailed around the world on cargo ships. My maternal grandmother was a retired headmistress. My father was in engineering. We lived in a reasonably nice house and did not want for much. But by the time I reached the age of 7 years, my mother was finding taking care of her family a rather heavy chore. My grandparents suggested I join them on a sea voyage. My grandmother, Nanna Calder, approached the education authorities and assured them my education would not be interfered with. So, with great excitement, I boarded my grandfather’s ship and commenced a wonderful three-week voyage to Amsterdam, Holland.

In Amsterdam two of the crew, who had begun to teach me the use of mercantile instruments, had been given permission by Captain Calder to take one of the small rowing boats to see some of the sights along the canals. They asked if I could join them. My Nanna jumped into the conversation and refused to let me go. After much discussion between my grandparents, with my Nanna worried that I may fall overboard, my grandfather’s comment was: ‘This lad has commenced his future. Like all of us, he has a destiny, which the Lord has mapped out for him. Let him go.’

Over the next couple of years two more journeys furthered my education. Then, after my 10th birthday, both my grandparents passed away. One month before my 16th birthday, and just at the time I was to commence my apprenticeship with Richardsons Westgarth, a maritime engineering company, a note was left on the table at home one morning. It advised me that my mother had left home. I was to live with friends of hers, Mr and Mrs Young, and their 3-year-old son. I moved into their house and they took care of me, as I collapsed in shock over what had happened to my family. After a year and a half my mother’s brother, who was a maritime captain working with the ‘Shell’ company, returned home. He moved me into his house, where he and his wife, Aunt Lena, took care of me until I joined the air force.

Charles ‘Tich’ Palliser, DFC, AE (2011)

1. ‘This Was For Us’

Long before the 1938 initial scare of Hitler on the move, four pals from school and the teenage years, Victor Bruce (Vic), Sydney Dawes (Syd), David Bennett (Dave) and myself, lived for and talked about aeroplanes. Anytime one of those small planes – De Havilland Moths, ‘Tiger’, ‘Puss’, ‘Leopard’, and so on – flew near to our town, Hartlepool, to land on our local airstrip, we would drop everything and cycle out to have a look. In mid-1937 the great day arrived with much excitement when Alan Cobham’s Flying Circus flew into our local airstrip. For days we went mad, watching the many types of aircraft on display. The demonstrations were way beyond anything we had seen or even read about. We were allowed to look over and actually to touch an Avro 504K, which was being used to give spectators fifteen-minute flights around the circuit – something that exceeded our pocket money availability; however, to walk around this amazing machine, touching the control surfaces, wings and tail, and even grasping the propeller – this was for us!

Vic Bruce, a newly found older friend, Bill (Sticks) Gregory, and myself were really hooked on this flying game; however, Syd Dawes was looking at the strongly advertised Territorial Army Reserve, and David Bennett decided he would stick with his local bank career. We all had different vocations – David as a clerk in the bank, Syd in the town office timber company, Vic in the office of a shipping company and myself as a junior draftsman in a maritime engineering company. Bill Gregory, who was some years older than us, was a plasterer in his father’s building business. His real claim to fame, though, was being a drummer in our local dance band – hence the name ‘Sticks’. Despite the small age differences, we had great fun in those pre-war years, and we were all members of the local cricket and tennis clubs, as well as enjoying swimming, boating and fishing when we were not on the lookout for aeroplanes.

The year 1937 went by quickly; we had to pay attention to work responsibilities, as well as attending technical college and spending lots of time studying. The rumours of Hitler’s shouting and raving that had bubbled to the surface, causing us some excitement, seemed to have died down somewhat, and we drifted into 1938 with little on our minds but work, fun and games, and of course an interest in girls. As the year progressed, the news from the Continent revealed that Germany and Mr Hitler were really creating problems, and German armed forces, particularly their air force, were helping Franco in Spain to fight his war against the Spanish government. Our engineering work was increasing – we heard of aircraft factories being replanned and dispersed throughout the country, warships being completed and launched, and a new and bigger class of submarines (T Class) being built for future services.

‘The pace was hotting up’, as my chief put it, and we would all have to put our backs into the general effort. I was now classed as a student engineer and had been made an assistant in a new department, designing and developing exhaust gas pressure (super) chargers for all types of heavy duty diesel engines – more about this later.

Towards the end of 1938 the government had decided to build operational airfields all over the country. A suitable area of land was to be developed outside the village of Greatham, about 5 miles from our town and adjacent to the Cerebos Salt factory, which was known worldwide. This development brought the newly formed countrywide organisation called ‘CAGS’ (Civil Air Guard Service) to our north-east Yorkshire location, and with it came the commencement of flying training for men and women as pilots and/or air crew, should war be declared.

By the end of 1938 thoughts and discussions about the possibility of Germany attacking Britain – us youngsters arguing and debating whether we would be attacked or not – had cooled somewhat. The idea of Germany attacking Britain was really preposterous, as we all felt that we would be fighting alongside the Germans against the great ‘Bear’ – Russia. However, be that as it may, at the beginning of 1939 the announcement was conveyed by the media that No. 32 Elementary & Reserve Flying Training School (E&RFTS) was to be established without delay at Greatham Airfield and volunteers would be interviewed forthwith, subject to health and academic qualifications, for pilots, navigators and wireless operators/air gunners. Well! Vic Bruce contacted me, yelling blue murder as he ran down the path to my home: ‘They’ve done it, they’ve done it! Come on, get on your bike and let’s go.’ Bill Gregory screamed to a halt at the house in his Ford 8, hooting and shouting – one would have thought that war had actually been declared. So one Saturday morning in early February 1939, three of us joined a queue hundreds of yards long outside a wooden office structure, which housed the newly appointed representatives of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve (RAFVR). This group, a mixture of air force and civilian people, would administer and operate No. 32 E&RFTS. The officers in charge were Wing Commander Joly-de-Lotbinière RAF, assisted by a Major Orde ex-RFC. Imagine, although there were now three friends out of the original five, here we were looking at a door through which we were going to be taught to fly, and believe it or not, we would be paid for it. It was a dream come true – or so I thought!

Eventually, after a lifetime of waiting, pushing, shoving, shouting, threatening and otherwise playing the fool, we three were at the desk, facing the office staff, who were issuing forms for application to join the RAFVR. We were nearly there – though there were many questions to answer, first on the form, and thereafter before the examiners. Proceedings seemed to go well; Vic and Bill were through and were advised they would be called for further discussion in a few days. My form, completed in all detail, accurately and carefully, had been sent through to Major Orde, and I waited for what seemed like a lifetime finally to be called to his office. I was invited to sit down, and this tubby and reasonable sort of person looked at me over the top of his half glasses and said, ‘Now, young fella, why do you want to join the air force?’ I explained in every way possible. It had always been my dream! I had thought, talked and dreamed about aircraft development and flying, and wanted nothing else! He then explained very gently that, according to the information I had so carefully detailed on my application, I could not be accepted because of my being in an exempt occupation – engineering! I stuttered and argued, complained, suggested war was imminent, but Major Orde smiled and said, ‘Sorry, son, good try but they are the rules. Next!’

Walking out of the building, I was screaming inside. Bill and Vic had gone, after a long time. Someone asked me if I was all right, saying I looked ill. I mounted my bicycle and rode home in a complete daze. It was the first knock-back I had ever suffered in my short life, although I knew what adversity meant. But I was determined that I was not going to stop trying. I realised now that I must not tell my plans to my friends in the office where I worked, and certainly not the head of the department, who would probably kick my backside.

I had, before the RAF first air school had opened or even been mentioned, applied to the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve (RNVR) for submarine service, as the small department I was then working in was responsible for the design and manufacture of gas turbine pressure chargers (superchargers) for the diesel engines in the huge T Class submarines being built at Greenock – Triumph, Tribune and Trident – and Liverpool – Thetis. These pressure chargers were manufactured under licence from the Swiss firm of Brown Boveri. As a junior, I was a technical ‘gofer’ to the three senior engineers in the department, but it did spark much interest at the time, as it was very exciting to step aboard the underwater giants. Our efforts came to an end when Commander Pennington RN, to whom we were accountable, was killed on HMS Thetis. The whole of Britain was shaken by the loss of this boat, and I suffered much ‘leg-pulling’ from the men in the office, who remarked on my proposed application to the Navy (Subs) at that time. However, this had been before there had been any sign of a flying school being opened in our vicinity. No mention was made of reserved occupation. I had received an acknowledgement of my application to join the RNVR but nothing more, and when the RAFVR was announced I simply forgot about the Navy.

Now in 1939, having been knocked back by the RAFVR, I was more than fed up listening to Vic Bruce’s and Bill Gregory’s excited talks and discussions as to what they were doing in regard to aviation lectures and very short flying trips – this crazy pair really deafened me with their talk of achievements and potential possibilities. I was sickened by my inability to succeed in my efforts to join up and at the same time I could not allow this disappointment to interfere with my work in the specialised department. I had been very fortunate in passing exams that had allowed me to become a junior draftsman, and I would subsequently attain student engineer status in the department in which I was employed. Mr Tom Hall, the chief, was very highly qualified and a member of the Royal Aeronautical Society, as well as maritime societies. Jackson, a young 21-year-old, had worked on the ‘Mercury-Mayo’ composite design flying boat development of this quite radical aircraft attempt. Bill Jones, my direct chief, was a well-qualified mechanical and marine engineer and a remarkable design draftsman. These two, Bill Jones and Jackson, as well as pulling my leg about submarine service, now changed their interest to flying. Jackson’s experience enabled him to explain to me the mysteries of the new fighter aircraft that were to be supplied to the Royal Air Force; he spoke in depth about the Hawker ‘Hurricane’ fighter, which was the first of the monoplane aircraft capable of incredible speeds and performance, and fitted with eight guns, which could blow an enemy aircraft apart.

On a balmy May day in 1939 I was working with some of the engine fitters on a trial run of a new submarine pressure charger. The talk was all about war, and I let loose with my anger at the authorities who barred my applying to join the RAF, when one of them, not associated with my office, suggested that I apply as a ‘labourer’, which had no exemption qualifications and must get me through. Back to the recruitment office I went and once more filled in the forms, only this time I wrote ‘labourer’ in the job position. There was another long wait and then that dreaded request as before: ‘Please wait, Major Orde would like to see you.’ I was trembling like a leaf, making much effort to be calm as I hauled my 5’7" body into the presence of Major Orde. ‘Palliser,’ he said, ‘there couldn’t be another one. I thought I had seen the last of you.’ I commenced some stammering reply, by which time I felt that my head was barely level with the top of his desk, but Major Orde shuffled a number of folders on his desk and asked me to sit down. His first remark hit me like a stone. ‘What the hell is all this about, young fella. I’ve received more than enough applications from you. But what’s this? You’re now a ruddy labourer, heh?’ This time my frustration showed. I endeavoured to tell him how and why and what I was trying to do, but it must have sounded like Swahili or Hindustani for all the understanding I was able to give. Major Orde, an old First World War veteran, could see how disturbed I was and came around the desk, put his hand on my shoulder and calmed me down in a true fatherly manner. Eventually I was able to convince him that I was going to join the RAF, no matter what, and that I was sorry about the deception. The Major then advised me that he would discuss my case with Wing Commander Joly-de-Lotbinière, who was the school commandant and would advise me as to what might be done. A further interview was arranged, and I was advised that, if I signed a document that placed all the responsibility on me, my application would be accepted. However, as there had been such a time lapse, I could be admitted only as a wireless operator or air gunner. I was told, however, that, as war was imminent, I would – as the weeks passed, and if war was declared – immediately be re-mustered to sergeant pilot status.

On 1 September 1939 we had all received instructions to be at the town headquarters early on Sunday morning, 3 September, where we would listen to an announcement by Neville Chamberlain, our Prime Minister. The excitement was electric – Major Orde with his ear glued to the small portable radio and most of us clowning around swapping wisecracks as to what we would do to old Hitler. The Luftwaffe had no chance – in those days we were like a bunch of kids ready for glory, and totally invincible.

2. ‘Then the Marching Started’

We did not know or even expect that many of us would never see our 21st birthdays, or, for that matter, the end of 1940. We were all sergeant pilots, albeit under training, but who could stop us now! There were many others destined for positions as navigators or wireless operator/air gunners, all kicking up one hell of a noise as the Prime Minister concluded his speech with those dreaded words, ‘We are now at war with Germany.’ The Major proceeded to address us all as to what to expect in the days ahead. We listened to grave and sincere words from someone who had been there before. Gone was the silly chatter, laughter and joking as we heard the Major explain what the forthcoming conflict would or should mean to us. Suddenly the sun had stopped shining; we were looking at each other as the Major’s words penetrated. This was going to be ugly; some of us might fail to qualify in the various categories; would-be pilots might become navigators, wireless operators or air gunners, and some might fail altogether and be relegated to other forces. No matter what, some of us would suffer hurt and some would lose their young lives. We had, at least at this moment, entered a new dimension of life from what we all had known. It was some time before the sound of voices was heard discussing the important inferences of the Major’s talk.

As the day moved on and after we had been offered beer, light drinks and sandwiches, we dispersed to our various homes, just a little different from what we had been before the radio announcement. We were ordered to take care of our work and home affairs and report each day for information regarding our air force movements, and to expect to commence what would be our first journey to what had been described as Initial Training Wing (ITW).

I had lived with an aunt for most of my teens and I proudly arrived home to tell her that the big day had arrived and I would soon be on my way to win the war. ‘Win the war!’ she said. ‘Damn it, you just don’t know what war is!’ And then, to my horror, she broke down and cried. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘you are 20. Why must all you youngsters have to go once again?’ Her worry was twofold, as her husband, my uncle, was a maritime captain commanding a Shell oil tanker and would also be subject to great danger. She talked about the wonderful period from 1935 to 1939 when industry had revived in our area, many ships had been built and prosperity was everywhere. She reminded me of the good times I had enjoyed in my teens, playing tennis and cricket, swimming and fishing, and joining our girlfriends at dances and parties. We had had wonderful times in those years. But this time we were going to straighten out the world – make it an even better place in which to live! Forgive me, as I write, if my smile is something of a grimace! So, with most of my family in the maritime and Navy world, I was the first to join the Royal Air Force.

After two or three weeks of waiting around, attending parades and on lectures, and being advised by friends and relatives how best to organise myself, I received the order to report for posting to ITW.

The worst period had been explaining my actions to my work friends and heads of departments. My ultimate period of concern was when, on Monday 14 September, I arrived at the office of Richardsons Westgarth, the huge firm of marine and mechanical engineering manufacturers where I worked, and reported to the head of the department. I arrived at the office to be greeted by Mr Hall, who, with a huge smile on his face, turned from talking to Jones and Jackson and said to me, ‘Now you little devil, war has been declared and we’ll have to work bloody hard from now on.’ I gulped hard and said, ‘I’m leaving. I have joined the RAF.’ Amid loud guffaws and much prodding and pushing, Bill Jones said, ‘Well well, we’ve made a lot of humorous remarks but yours takes the prize. You cannot join up – you’re in an exempt occupation.’ Suffice to say I explained my movements over the previous months, which I had managed to keep quiet, apart from talk of the submarine service. As I produced proof of my commitment, the laughter ceased. Somehow news of my decision reached the company Chairman, who had the Managing Director escort me to his office. He asked me to sit, and looking down from a dizzy height, said, ‘Do you fully understand what you have done to your future at a time when you are commencing a fine profession?’ I answered, ‘No Sir. However, I really want to fly and join the Royal Air Force.’ After a short but fatherly lecture, he advised me that the company would support me to the limit, and, if my flying studies failed, I was to return to the company under a regulation that catered for such problems as I had created. He shook my hand and quietly said, ‘Son, not many of my friends know this, but in the First World War I did exactly what you have done today.’ So all obstacles were removed and my conscience was clear.

My aunt had bid me a tearful farewell at home, as I had insisted I wished to minimise the sad goodbye, particularly on a cold wintry railway station platform. It really was a most emotional scene when I arrived at the then West Hartlepool railway station. The crowds were incredible. There had probably not been so many people on a platform since the First World War. Whistles were blowing and guard’s flags were waving and an uncanny quiet crept over the crowded platform as the train slowly moved out, and all goodbyes were said. We sat for a moment very quietly, as for once we all seemed lost for words. After we had watched the various families saying goodbyes, the sadness struck home, as I sat there in my seat at the window. This was indeed a big moment. We were leaving a lifestyle behind and we were actually going to war. What was going to happen to us? A door had closed on our teen years. The final years of the 1930s had been marvellous.

We started our journey south to our ITW at Hastings on the south coast of England, right on the English Channel between Brighton and Dover. The last view of Hartlepool Bay and the cold wintry North Sea vanished, and there was a little excitement as we passed the Cerebos Salt factory. Just over the fields was the last we would see of our local airfield and No. 32 E&RFTS, where it had all begun, only a few months before. We were shunted through London and on to the south coast.

By the beginning of November 1939 we were billeted in an eleven-storey block of new apartments, along with many lads from all parts of Britain. These apartments, called Marine Court, were on the foreshore of Bex Hill, and overlooked the main promenade and the English Channel. Days passed, and 16 November 1939 saw us kitted out in full uniform; most of us had arrived in civilian clothes. The photographers did well, as each group was photographed, proudly displaying sergeant’s stripes. The final act was to advise us of our RAF identity number: mine was 751910.

At our first introduction to our future programme, we stood with open mouths, watching aircrew who had arrived before us go through their marching and drill routines. The marching and drill NCOs were sergeants and corporals generally from RAF Uxbridge, and we listened in horror as all kinds of incoherent remarks hissed and bellowed from their mouths. ‘How in the hell are we going to understand that language?’, someone pleaded. Heaven knows! We knew that with a mix of men from all over the British Isles, we could expect a polyglot of accents, but the drill instructions were something else! We were advised that the next day (in mid-November) we would be on parade. We had never marched or drilled in our lives, except at school, and that was baby stuff compared to this. So next morning, immediately after breakfast, we walked up eleven flights of stairs (there were no lifts), made sure we were dressed correctly, and then walked down the stairs to be assembled in squads among what looked like hundreds of young lads. Then the marching started.

We were in the care of a Corporal McTaggart, a bright, smartly turned out chap who, to our amazement, had a head with a permanent lean to ‘port’ and also quite a husky voice. The introduction can well be imagined: we turned and twisted, bumped and stumbled, until I thought we would all die of shame. Then, after an hour or so, ‘Mac’ must have had relatives in heaven, for things began to take shape, and we were marching, turning, wheeling, halting, standing to attention, standing at ease – it was a sheer miracle, we all agreed. We never looked back and could not have enough of this treatment; physical training was the same. After a week we all felt like supermen and we could understand every syllable, word and movement of our beloved NCO instructors. Life was terrific! Some three weeks were given to RAF education. Drill and physical training were very intensive. However, there was time for winter sports – swimming, football, even a game or two of water polo, during which time we were under the jurisdiction of such famous sportsmen as Wally Hammond, Victor McGlouglan, and Len Harvey. There was never a dull moment.

This period naturally had its funny occasions as well as more serious episodes. One piece of fun was perpetrated on a chum from Hartlepool, one ‘Bowen’, who was something of a grump and a little reserved. Ryan, who had been elected as squad senior, suggested the prank after an evening of dancing and merriment towards the end of November, when Bowen had refused to join us. Remember that there were eleven flights of stairs, it was now 2.00 a.m., there were very few lights on and a complete blackout of windows. Six of us tiptoed into our room, where Bowen was fast asleep. We altered the alarm to 6.00 a.m. and, remaining dressed, we yelled and pushed Bowen, rudely awakening him. We had included the lads in a room on the floor below in this fun. Once we had our roommate awake and rubbing his eyes, we yelled, ‘Look, for heaven’s sake, we’ve overslept.’ And, with him looking at us in horror, we dashed out, downstairs, and into the room below. We waited for what seemed an eternity, and then down the stairs, cursing and swearing, three