The Great World War 1914–1945: 1. Lightning Strikes Twice

As Brooke-Popham found in the First World War, heavy combat losses were often followed by a high accident rate, as more inexperienced crews entered the front line.

Inexperienced aircrew were not popular additions to squadrons, especially if an established crew had to find a replacement for one of its members. One Sergeant Air Gunner recalled his posting to 10 Squadron at Leeming in September 1941.

His first operations were flown with a crew of sergeants who had already done several sorties. They did not speak to him all the way to the target and all the way back, and, on one occasion, he thought that they must have all baled out but he was too frightened to switch on his intercom and ask. This attitude towards new arrivals was endemic, as ‘green’ crew were inclined to make mistakes when subjected to the physical and psychological stress associated with the first few operations. A former Flight Sergeant in 75 (New Zealand) Squadron commented that one mission was a complete disaster for his aircraft because of a ‘green’ crew member, and how his aircraft was only just able to return to base.

As good as the training organisation had become by the mid-war period, it could never fully prepare aircrew for operational reality. However, as in any war, the contrast between doctrinal expectation and wartime reality was greatest at the start of the war. As the official historians comment:

‘…when war came in 1939, Bomber Command was not trained or equipped either to penetrate into enemy territory by day or to find its target areas, let alone its targets, by night. There were, of course, some crews [who] had reached higher standards of navigation, bomb-aiming and gunnery. But the character of their aircraft and guns meant that it was impossible for them, however skilful and brave they might be, to face the enemy over his own territory in daytime.’

The first two years of the war saw the skies being darkened by all the doctrinal chickens coming home to roost. The effects of dogma and budgetary constraint were most apparent in the quality of aircraft and supporting technologies.

The aircraft that would have to carry the offensive to Germany were either obsolescent or obsolete (Hampden, Wellington, Whitley). All these aircraft, but especially the Hampden, were notorious for their lack of crew comfort. Crews operating the Hampden were quick to christen it the ‘Flying Coffin’. One member of 106 Squadron described the difficulties posed by the cramped conditions in the aircraft:

‘… if the pilot was hit or incapacitated, the second pilot – who also carried out the duties of bomb-aimer and navigator as well as being reserve pilot – had to drag him out from his seat by pulling him backwards out of his position, and then crawl into the pilot’s position; a feat which… called for a combination of strength, dexterity, and a blind faith that the aircraft would stay on an even plane during which time this hazardous operation was accomplished.’

The Hampden also had a particularly draughty cockpit, and crews would return from operations numb with the cold. Frostbite was common among the crews of all these early bombers, which had rudimentary heating systems prone to failure. Having to operate at altitudes of between 15,000 and 20,000 feet, temperatures fell as low as -30 degrees C. Crews were compelled to wear bulky and restrictive clothing, and the extreme cold also affected the oxygen equipment, so that even the simplest tasks became almost impossible. A particularly graphic account exists of a Whitley crew engaged in leaflet-dropping over Frankfurt:

‘Everyone was frozen, and had no means of alleviating their distress. The navigator and Commanding Officer were butting their heads on the floor and navigation table in an endeavour to experience some other form of pain as a relief from the awful feeling of frostbite and lack of oxygen.’

In this respect, aircrew conditions had not improved markedly over the First World War flying in open cockpits.

Nor had there been any advancement in aids to navigation or bomb-aiming. At the start of the war dead-reckoning and astro-navigation were the basis of long-range navigation. The early crews had none of the radar navigational aids that ultimately appeared in Bomber Command, such as ‘Gee’ and ‘H2S’. The inter-war Air Staff had shown great indifference to, and ignorance of, long-range navigation problems, and this was highlighted by none other than Arthur Harris, when he was Deputy Director of the Plans Division in 1936:

‘The trouble with service navigation in the past has been the lack of knowledge and of interest in the subject evinced by senior officers in the service… pilotage and “Bradshawing” have quite wrongly been considered as adequate substitutes for real navigation.’

There were many senior officers who shared the opinion of the Deputy Director of Staff Duties, Group Captain (later Air Vice-Marshal) F. H. Maynard, that navigation over long distances was a ‘comparatively simple’ exercise.

When changes to the navigational syllabus were proposed in 1938, this was at the behest of Coastal Command, but few of the revisions were in place by the time war broke out. As late as 1941, to provide bomber crews with an accurate target position before take-off was thought to be sufficient. But operations very quickly demonstrated that if training and equipment were lacking, such information was of little use.

The extent of navigational error during many of these early operations is illustrated by one account of 7–8 March 1940, when Whitleys of 77 Squadron were returning from a mission over Poland. A 77 Squadron aircraft flew for 11 hours using dead-reckoning navigation before making an emergency landing in an area calculated to be near its base at Villeneuve, some 30 miles south-east of Paris. The crew was astonished to find that the language spoken by a group of farmworkers gathering around the aircraft was German. It was only then that they realised the enormity of their navigational error, and only just succeeded in restarting the Whitley’s engines as enemy troops arrived.

This is reminiscent of similar navigational problems faced by the RFC’s bombing crews in the First World War. For example, in December 1917, 55 Squadron lost half of its formation during one bombing operation because the crews lost their way when they were forced to navigate above cloud. Only the flight commander was able to locate the home aerodrome and land safely.

As the official historians commented, ‘What is surprising about the years before 1942 is not that so many crews failed to find their targets, but that more of them did not fail to find England on their return.’

Even if aircrews succeeded in locating their targets, there was no guarantee that they would be able to hit them. The early aircrews of the Second World War were reliant upon bombsights developed by the previous generation. The most common was the Course Setting Bombsight, which dated from the closing stages of the First World War, and this was only partially automatic, so that the final settings had to be done manually by the bomb-aimer in the run-up to the target. The bombsight demanded that the aircraft be kept on a straight and level approach to the target, as the slightest deviations in the air resulted in large errors on the ground, so that crews were compelled to hold their nerve if they wanted to hit a target accurately. As a consequence, aircraft fell easy prey to enemy fighters and flak, as one 10 Squadron Whitley crew found during May 1940 when they attempted to hit an oil installation at Bremen. In order to have a steady run-up to the target, the pilot made six passes over the city at less than 1,000 feet, coming under heavy fire each time. When the aircraft returned to its Yorkshire base, 700 holes were found in the fuselage.

The real impetus to improve navigational and bomb aiming standards came with the findings of an independent report into bombing accuracy instituted by Churchill’s Scientific Adviser, Lord Cherwell. The so-called Butt report, issued in the autumn of 1941, concluded that of all the aircraft claiming to have attacked their targets, only one-third had arrived within 5 miles of them. Over the Ruhr, the proportion fell to one-tenth because of the heightened anti-aircraft defences and industrial haze obscuring targets.

In combination with developing Operational Research techniques, this study led to a more frank approach to operational problems experienced by aircrews. Not only was there subsequently far greater research and development into aids to navigation and bomb-aiming, which led to the introduction of radar equipment such as H2S, improved bombsights such as the Stabilised Vector Bombsight known as Mark XIV, and the specialist navigational group in Bomber Command known as the Pathfinders, but there was also a far greater understanding of the physical and psychological stresses placed on aircrew.

Like so many other facets of the air war, the First World War experience cast its long shadow also in relation to attitudes towards combat stress. In the First War the prevailing view was that there was something cowardly about squadrons who lacked an offensive spirit or individuals who broke down under the strain of operations.

Trenchard, who was known for his advocacy of an offensive spirit, admonished one of his bombing squadrons in 1918 for having ‘naval ideas’, by which he meant the squadron was being overly cautious. The RNAS had developed a reputation for not flying if the weather conditions were considered marginal, quite sensibly, whereas the RFC, and then the RAF under Trenchard, had the ‘habit of flying whenever possible, taking risks, expecting losses, and hoping for the best’.

The CO of the bombing squadron concerned (which had been in the RNAS) disagreed fundamentally with Trenchard: ‘I think the question of morale in a squadron is very important and if a squadron does a great deal of work without losing any machines, it is doing as good work as a squadron which is doing slightly better work, but at a high cost of machines and personnel and consequently morale.’

As time went on, Trenchard’s views prevailed, and what seems to have been the wise caution exhibited by the old naval squadrons evaporated.

After the First World War there was no attempt by the Air Ministry to examine the question of combat stress, as it was not considered an issue. Nor did the official historians of the air war devote any attention to the subject. The closest they came was a page and a half on ‘the spirit of the pilot’, in which Walter Raleigh spoke of Trenchard’s belief that the morale of the air service depended on individual pilots being positive in everything they did: ‘To think only of dangers and drawbacks, to make much of the points in which the Germans had attained a fleeting superiority, to lay stress on the imperfections of our own equipment – all this, [Trenchard] knew, was to invite defeat.’

There seems to have been little appreciation of the unnatural stresses placed on aircrews, or, indeed, the fighting man on the ground, during the First World War. But, for the airman, there was not even a term equating to ‘shell shock’. Evidently it was felt that aircrew during the First World War did not suffer from combat stress, and this might have arisen because aviators were removed from the horrors of the land war. The fact that men volunteered for flying duties, which, in any case, were seen as glamorous, would not have helped.

Therefore, combat stress in the early part of the Second World War was little understood. Before May 1941 there was no conception of a limited tour of duty; aircrews continued to serve until they were killed, wounded or taken off flying operations for some specific reason. There was no organised investigation into flying stress among aircrews until the end of 1940, and the term ‘flying stress’ was not coined until the very end of that year. Flying stress was then used to describe a condition that might be observed in an aircrew member as a result of an abnormal strain being placed on an individual. Those who broke down as a result of this strain were categorised into three principal groups. The first comprised those men who were temperamentally unfit for flying duties. ‘These men are brave, and prove it by determined and unavailing effort to make good. They are overcome by fear of their environment and not by fear of the enemy.’

Such men, it was thought, would break down in the space of five to ten missions, and their breakdown was believed to be permanent. The second type identified was the individual with less than average capacity for sustained effort. He was described as a ‘good type’ who undertook operational flying successfully, but who had less than average capacity for sustained effort on such duties. Being less able, he was more likely to be under strain. The third category covered the man with average or better than average capacity for sustained effort, but who collapsed suddenly, usually after a period of sustained fatigue.

In addition to these categories there were two others, which sought to explain the failings of men considered to be outside the three principal groupings. There was the ‘constitutionally unsuitable for flying duty’ type. ‘These men are not brave, and they seek to evade the danger and discomfort of operational duty through any door of escape.’

Such men were thought to break down after one to five missions, and they were considered a ‘serious danger to morale’. The other type was called the ‘fair weather’ individual, who used as a means of escaping from operational duties an alleged dislike of a particular aircraft or environment, which he attempted to use as a justification for asking to be transferred. He, too, was described as a serious threat to morale.

A good indication that the phenomenon of flying stress was not fully understood at this stage is suggested by the fact that most of the men listed as unfit for flying duties in the period 1 April to 31 December 1940 did not fall into the three categories of unfitness for flying caused by ‘real’ factors, but rather had their records endorsed ‘LMF’ (Lack of Moral Fibre), the term for cowardice.

Accusations of LMF were levelled on a regular basis during the first half of the war. Aircrews who returned early from operations, claiming mechanical failure or similar in their aircraft, were liable to be labelled LMF until their reports were corroborated by groundcrew inspection of the aircraft.

The accusation of cowardice was made usually within the confines of the squadron or the station, but it could come from higher levels. For instance, it was reported at the end of 1941 that a Squadron Leader from a Blenheim unit ordered a formation to return to base without dropping its bombs after they failed to find a target, mainly as a result of low cloud.

On return to base, he was asked why he had not dropped his bombs on Heligoland, to which he replied that at such a low altitude he did not think it advisable to do so owing to the wastage of aircraft likely to occur. The Air Marshal conducting the interview used the words, ‘Yellow, were you?’, and put an end to the questioning. Shortly after this incident, the Squadron Leader was ordered to send out his squadron to attack Heligoland, from which operation only two aircraft returned.

This particular incident was brought to the attention of the Chief of Air Staff Portal by the Minister of Aircraft Production, Moore-Brabazon, in December 1940. Unfortunately, no reply can be found, and it is not clear from what remains of Portal’s private correspondence as to what his views were on the subject of LMF. What can be said is that there was no perceptible change in attitude towards the subject of cowardice until 1943, and this was due to the more rigorous investigation into the problem of flying stress, for which much of the credit must go to the Air Member for Personnel appointed in August 1942, Air Marshal Bertine Sutton, who stated that he deplored the term ‘Lack of Morale Fibre’.

A study of combat stress in the operational commands was begun in 1942, under Air Vice-Marshal Sir Charles Symonds, who was a consultant in neuro-psychiatry, and a Wing Commander Denis Williams. They submitted their first report in December of that year, and their main finding was that aircrew stress was caused by the combination of fear and fatigue.

Many causes of fatigue are fairly obvious: the length of sortie, the extremely low temperatures, having to concentrate throughout on instruments or the night sky, the effects of low oxygen, etc. However, there were the less tangible causes of aircrew fatigue, such as the strain caused by concern for wives or other relatives, and dependants, should they be killed or incapacitated.

Meanwhile, fear was seen to have many elements. The fear of death or injury manifested itself in numerous ways, depending on the individual, but there were common tell-tale signs.

Many former aircrew recounted the atmosphere in messes before operations, how many men were unable to eat and how vomiting became a daily occurrence. Many referred to the congestion in ablution blocks, as men visited the toilet for the umpteenth time before an operation. Many referred to the distinctive ‘smell of fear’ that pervaded dispersal areas and transports to the aircraft. Then there was the fear of letting down the other crew members, or letting down a commanding officer. Many, including Miles Tripp, feared being labelled LMF. After an attack of nerves during a mission over Cologne, he was anxious to go on another as soon as possible, reasoning that it was like falling off a horse or having a car accident, when one had to get back in the saddle or back into the driving seat as soon as possible.

For some aircrew, fear and general stress were manageable until one particular event caused them to snap, if momentarily, like Miles Tripp. A number of former aircrew commented that they had coped with fear and stress over many months of operations, but how they were thrown off balance by the death of a friend in the squadron, the sight of an empty bunk bed next to them, or seeing mutilated bodies. One former navigator recalled having seen a bomber make an emergency landing at his base, and how groundcrews had to use high-pressure hoses to clean out the rear gun turret after the gunner was shot to pieces by an enemy fighter.

Methods of coping with fear and general stress varied. Some men became superstitious and could be seen going through pre-flight rituals. Those of a religious persuasion carried rosaries or crosses. Heavy drinking and absorption in mess social life were also common, as was living for the day. Most aircrew abandoned long-term planning and concentrated on day-to-day existence.

But there were also mechanisms commanding officers could employ to boost morale and alleviate stress, and Symonds and Williams made a number of recommendations.

First, it was emphasised that it was very important for a commanding officer to explain the purpose of missions and where they fitted into the overall campaign, as far as OPSEC would allow. Second, it was vitally important for the results of missions to be articulated to the crews, especially the success stories, and recognition of hard-won success by a telegram from Command or Group HQ level was considered essential. However, it was felt that the most valuable praise was that from the immediate commanding officer at squadron or station level. The award of medals or other decorations was also seen as a significant factor in the maintenance of good morale.

Keeping the crews at the sharp end apprised of their contribution to the whole effort does appear to have been one of the keys to maintaining Bomber Command’s morale as a whole at a reasonable level. Whatever criticisms we may level at Arthur Harris for his lack of strategic vision and dogmatism over the merits of area versus precision bombing, he was very popular with the aircrews because he believed in speaking frankly about Bomber Command’s successes and failures, and his enthusiasm and determination filtered right down to grass-roots level. Even when Bomber Command was facing crippling losses during 1943 and 1944 during the Battles of Berlin and the Ruhr, when a heavy bomber crew faced less than a 44 per cent chance of surviving a first tour of operations, Harris remained a popular C-in-C. One former Right Sergeant said of him: ‘We had all the confidence in the world in his strategy. We felt that we and we alone in Bomber Command were winning the war.’

It required a unique type of leadership to convince aircrews to keep on putting themselves in harm’s way, with little chance of survival. Harris had that ability, and his leadership style is worthy of a much larger study.

Harris, for his part, had tremendous admiration for the bomber crews under his command. He said:

‘There are no words with which I can do justice to the aircrew who fought under my command. There is no parallel in warfare to such courage and determination in the face of danger over so prolonged a period, of danger which at times was so great that scarcely one man in three could expect to survive his tour of thirty operations… It was, moreover, a clear and highly conscious courage, by which the risk was taken with calm forethought, for their aircrew were all highly skilled men, much above the average in education, who had to understand every aspect and detail of their task. It was, furthermore, the courage of the small hours, of men virtually alone, for at his battle station the airman is virtually alone. It was the courage of men with long-drawn apprehensions of daily “going over the top”.’

It is interesting that Harris chose to use a First World War image, and it was entirely fitting, given the enormous casualty rate in Bomber Command (49,585 killed in combat, with another 8,117 lost in non-operational flying), which paralleled 1914–18’s battlefield losses.

Bomber Command’s own record demonstrated that to serve as aircrew was anything but a safe option. Further, it imposed unnatural strains on individuals, and demanded levels of technical proficiency largely unparalleled in the other services. As is often the case, many of the fundamental principles of strategic bombing were identified, at least by the RNAS, in the First World War, but were subsequently forgotten, so that a second generation of airmen had painfully to relearn the lessons. For this reason, and the fact that we are dealing with human endeavour, there were many parallels between the First and Second World War experiences.