CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ONE WAR ENDS, BUT NOT THE OTHER

 

The war in Europe ended on May 8, 1945. But, because we were still flying ops to round-up enemy U-Boats, we had no time on the squadron for celebration such as was going on in London and cities all over Britain - and, indeed, the Allied world. Furthermore, we were under orders for the squadron to move to the Far East where the war against the Japanese was still raging.

U-Boats in the Atlantic had been ordered by their High Command to stay on the surface and abide by surrender directions given by Allied air and naval forces. I intercepted a surfaced U boat in daylight on one of my patrols and ordered it by a message flashed in Morse on the Aldis Lamp by one of my wireless operators to proceed to the port of Falmouth on the South Cornish coast. I kept watch on it until the limit of my endurance then handed over to another aeroplane.

Subsequently the squadron was invited to send representatives to Falmouth to inspect this U-Boat. I was one that went. The German crew, now prisoners of war, were no longer aboard but the body odour stench they left behind was nauseous, even though all hatches had been open to the air for several days. The boat had been submerged travelling by snorkel for 60 days. In those conditions the crew could not surface to get fresh air. Ablution facilities on the boat were very limited. A special cream was rubbed into the body to absorb perspiration. It must have been most uncomfortable.

On this visit to Falmouth hangs a tale. Bill Lewis had driven down in his car. I had driven down in mine. On leaving the dock where the U Boat was moored for the return journey to St Eval, I was a little uncertain which street to take to get out of town. Bill said to follow him. He passed through a set of traffic lights which held me up and he got considerably ahead of me. He had inadvertently driven up a one-way street. A policeman stopped him to point out his error then sent him on his way. Trying to keep a tab on where Bill was, I came along the one-way street a couple of minutes later. Out stepped the Bobby .He said he had just told me I was in a one-way street and here I was back again. I politely told him he must have been referring to another car like mine which was being driven by my friend. I can understand the policeman's confusion. Bill and I were both driving blue Morris 10s of the same model. There was only one numeral difference in our respective number plates .We were both New Zealand air force officers of the same rank, displaying “ New Zealand ” as a patch on our upper sleeves. Annette in civilian clothes was sitting in the front seat with me and I had an Australian officer in the back seat wearing the darker blue uniform of the Royal Australian Air Force. Bill had a girl friend in civilian clothes in the front seat beside him. And he had an Australian officer in the back seat. The only difference between the two cars was that Annette was nursing our baby. Bill's girlfriend was not, of course, nursing a baby. The policeman could be excused for overlooking that small difference. He looked perplexed and let me get on my way obviously figuratively scratching his head and probably wondering about the intelligence and road sense of New Zealanders.

Thankfully, I had never had any premonition that I would not survive the war. This was not in any way a sense of invulnerability. I had too many close calls for that. But I did have a feeling that when the war ended extra care would be needed that no risks were taken. That proved to be prophetic. Ten days after the victory in Europe I was assigned to air test an engine which had been modified for conditions in the Far Eastern war which was still raging against Japan. The instruction was when airborne to feather the propeller on the unmodified engine and fly only on the modified engine until it seized up with overheating. At that point the good engine was to be unfeathered and a single-engine landing was to be made on the good motor.

Well the modified engine seized up as expected but when I tried to re-start the good engine the propeller would not unfeather. So I had no power at all. I sent a Mayday on the radio telephone. Being in the vicinity of the aerodrome I calculated I could make a gliding approach and touch down on the runway. I lowered the undercarriage and as a precaution had the navigator fire off red verry lights as a warning of an aircraft in trouble. But an aeroplane about to take-off did not see the signal and began its take-off run blocking my access to the runway. I had no alternative to raising the undercarriage and doing a belly landing on the grass beside the runway. The aeroplane skidded along and by the grace of God ploughed through the only gap in a stone wall which gave access to our dispersal area and came to rest exactly where it had been parked before taking off. Fortunately no fire occurred and the only two crew I had taken with me and I scrambled out through the escape hatch. We were clear before someone came rushing along to asked if we knew who was in the aeroplane. When we replied that it was us there was a look of surprise that we had got out so quickly.

The ground staff were perplexed because they had wanted the aeroplane delivered back to the maintenance hanger after we had landed. In wondering why it was back on its original park in dispersal they had not at first cottoned on to the fact that it was on its belly.

We were taken to the station sick bay which was standard practice after a crash. There the medical officer poured a rum for each of us. Then he inquired if we had been on ops. When I replied it was an air test he took the rum away from us and ordered a Waaf to give us a cup of tea with a double ration of sugar. And I didn't take sugar in tea!

When I got back to the house we were living in at Mawgan Porth, I told Annette I had just had a crash. She would not believe me until one of my mates came along to see if I was O.K.

After a crash there is always an inquiry, particularly to establish if there was pilot error. Ground staff were able to testify that inspection of the crashed aeroplane revealed that a link which actuated the propeller feathering mechanism had cracked apart when the propeller was feathered so it could not be unfeathered. So I was exonerated from any blame.

In June, 1945 I received the award of a Mention in Dispatches (M.I.D). The notification read: "By the King's Order the name of Flight Lieutenant R.C.Sayers, Royal New Zealand Air Force, was published in the London Gazette on 14 June,1945, as mentioned in a Dispatch for distinguished service. I am charged to record His Majesty's high appreciation” - signed Harold MacMillan, Secretary of State for War.

I was awarded a second Mention in Dispatches announced in the London Gazette dated January 1, 1946. The citation was the same as the first M.I.D. Two M.I.Ds. is most unusual in the Services. Both had arisen from recommendations from the squadron for the award of a Distinguished Flying Cross.

On August 6, 1945 America dropped the world's first atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. Three days later another was dropped on Nagasaki. The Japanese formal surrender was signed on September 2 but after the first atomic bomb was dropped the order for 179 Squadron to move to the Far East was cancelled. Immediately arrangements were put in train for the repatriation of Commonwealth aircrews to their own countries and for the demobilisation of United Kingdom personnel.

I was aware that the Royal New Zealand Air Force had a scheme under which repatriation to New Zealand could be deferred to enable a person to seek a job to get British experience in his pre-war occupation. I got leave from the squadron to go to R.N.Z.A.F. headquarters in London to inquire about this. I found that I would have to get employment on a newspaper on condition that I would not be paid by the newspaper (this to avoid income tax complications). I would remain on air force pay for up to a year before returning to New Zealand. Getting an unpaid job was no problem. My services were eagerly sought because pre-war English staff had then not yet been discharged from the services.

This visit to London fortuitously coincided with a cricket match at Lord's between an England service team and a Commonwealth service team. I took Annette along hoping to get in to the famous Lord's ground for one day of the match. I did not have tickets. I discovered Australian servicemen were admitted free. So Annette and I huddled in the middle of a bunch of Aussies and got through the gate. Annette was somewhat shocked at my arrogance in doing that. Once inside the ground we had no trouble finding seats.

We enjoyed the cricket, particularly the experience of being at the famous Lords ground. The England team included such famous cricketers as Len Hutton,Wally Hammond (whom I had seen make the then world record score of 336 at Eden Park in the early ‘thirties when I went to the match with my father), and Bill Edrich. The Commonwealth team was mainly Australians, including Lindsay Hassett and Keith Miller but it also included Martin Donnelly, the eminent New Zealand left-hand batsman.

On return to the squadron at St Eval I was posted on August 14, 1945 to the R.N.Z.A.F. Headquarters in London. My total flying on war service was 1401 hours 15 minutes. I was assessed as a pilot and captain as above average. My career with the sword had ended.

In addition to being twice mentioned in dispatches, the service medals I was awarded were The 1939-45 Star, the Atlantic Star (with the Germany-France clasp to denote participation in the invasion of Normandy) the Africa Star (with clasp to denote serving at the time of the Battle of El Alamein), the Italy Star, the Defence (of Great Britain) Medal, the General Service Medal and the New Zealand Service Medal. I feature in a book on New Zealand airmen decorated during the war, “By Such Deeds”, by Group Captain C.M.Hanson.

Of the thirty-five pilots who trained with me at Woodbourne in 1941, only seventeen survived the war. A number of my pre-war mates and school friends were killed in action - the biggest lost among these was one of my best friends, Stuart Lindsay (“Buster”) Snelling, who was killed in action in the Western Desert in Egypt on January 12, 1941, while serving as a gunner with the 6th Field Regiment of the New Zealand Artillery. He was aged 23. We had shared a celebration of our 21st birthdays before the war. The third friend who also had shared my 21st birthday party was Jim Meredith. He joined the air force and was killed in a bombing raid over Germany on January 10, 1942 (by a strange coincidence virtually exactly a year after Buster Snelling was killed).

I especially remember these particular friends - and other air force comrades who lost their lives in the war - at the annual Anzac Day service at Takapuna when I parade with other ex-servicemen. As the years go by, the ranks of ex-servicemen on Anzac Day thin but it is impressive that the number of the post-war generations, particularly youngsters, attending Anzac Day services seem to be growing. There is no perception at these services of gloryfying war. It is a time to honour those who gave their lives, and servicemen who survived, so that people today can enjoy freedom from the threat of tyranny from the Nazi regime of Germany.