Aldridge Arthur - The last torpedo flyers: the true story of Arthur Aldridge, hero of the skies

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS COMPANY

Copyright Arthur Aldridge and Mark Ryan, 2013

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.

All rights reserved.
The right of Arthur Aldridge and Mark Ryan to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

The publishers have made every effort to contact those holding rights in the images reproduced in this book. Where this has not been possible, the publishers will be glad to hear from those who recognise their material.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

HB 978-1-47110-275-2
Ebook: 978-1-47110-277-6

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Dedicated to the lost torpedo airmen

What would I say to those who claim we were only one step short of the kamikaze? Looking back Id say theyre absolutely right! To fly a Beaufort low through a barrage of thick flak and continue undaunted towards a giant enemy ship took a man with nerves of steel and great courage. Such a man was Arthur Aldridge. He inspired great confidence in the capable crews of 217 Squadron as he successfully attacked German and Italian shipping. His bravery was twice recognised when he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bar. Perhaps an even greater reward in the long run was the knowledge that hed helped to win the war and therefore enable countless men and women to resume the peaceful way of life he cherished.

Bill Carroll (gunner on Aldridges crew during World War Two), June 2012

Only the names of those who had to come off flying due to the strain and horror of war have been changed. None will receive condemnation or judgement here. If the names adopted to protect their identity bear any resemblance to real names of RAF personnel past or present, it is purely coincidental.

Apart from those name changes, every effort has been made to recount accurately the true story of my experiences and those of my gunner, Bill Carroll, during World War Two.

As I write this in the summer of 2012, Bill and I are still alive, having enjoyed seventy years more life than we could reasonably have expected.

Arthur Aldridge, summer 2012

Thin grey slivers on the horizon, they look so harmless, but I know what they are.

Look ahead!

If the others havent spotted them yet, they will now.

Grey turns to silver in the bright sunlight, and we make out the three enemy ships weve been searching for two merchant vessels and a destroyer. Theyre hugging the Tunisian coast, just as we thought. Theyre out to supply Rommel with arms and precious fuel in order to defeat our army in the desert. Were going to do everything we can to stop them.

Its 21 June, 1942, and Im flying a Bristol Beaufort one of nine to have taken off from whats left of Malta an hour earlier. Each Beaufort carries a torpedo and we know the lethal routine. Pick a ship and fly towards it at fifty feet above the waves. When we think were about a thousand yards away, rise to between sixty and eighty feet to drop the torpedo. As the torp swaps air for sea and swims beneath the surface towards the monsters hull, get out of there. Sounds simple enough.

We near the African coast by Cape Bon in perfect visibility, and we know they must be able to see us, too. That means theyre going to be ready. The destroyer will do everything it can to protect the merchantmen carrying the war materials. The two vessels, one German and the other Italian, will unleash their own firepower. No time to dwell on such things. This is it.

Squadron Leader Robert Lynn, a big, cheerful Scot from Inverness, is our leader for this strike. Were in three vics, a formation each made up of three aircraft, and Im leading the second vic. Lynn waggles his wings to signal that hes about to attack. Sergeant Bill Carroll, my gunner, has always seen this as a clear and unnecessary invitation to the enemy to start shooting. The Axis ships accept the invitation.

When Lynns vic of three planes turns in towards the targets, hes already facing heavy 37 mm flak. Behind them Im turning into position, too, ready to spearhead the second wave. My focus is broken by Bill Carrolls yell from the turret at the back.

Get up, pilot! Aircraft to starboard! Pull up!

Instinctively I pull back on the control column and a plane from Lynns vic invades our space from nowhere. Its suddenly changed course and slides under us, through a narrow space between my Beauforts tail and the waves below. We very nearly collide. Its all over in an instant. Unbelievable!

I try to grasp whats just happened. The Beaufort appeared from somewhere over on the starboard side, so it must have been flown by Sergeant Smyth, who was just behind the port wing-tip of Squadron Leader Lynn. So Lynn must have suddenly changed direction for some reason, and Smyth was forced to veer just as violently. Now theres a domino effect. The other planes in my vic lurch as theyre forced to react to my own evasive action.

Theres mayhem and we havent even begun the attack yet. This isnt going well. While my Beaufort still holds its own in the air, others are in a frantic battle to avoid the sea. Squadron Leader Lynn has taken a shell right up through his seat while turning, and hes been killed instantly. Thats been the catalyst for some of the wild flying weve already seen. Sergeant Dick Dickinson, Lynns navigator, is trying to keep their aircraft in the air; but he has to get Lynns body out of the way before he can work the controls. Squadron Leader Lynn is a well-built fellow and his body wont be shifted easily. A third crew member tries to help Dickinson, and theyre just starting to haul Lynn out of the way when they lose control of the aircraft completely and smack into the drink. An instant before their aircraft hits the sea, the torpedo separates, rebounds off the surface, and smashes through the wing of Smyths Beaufort, bringing it down as well. The other plane in the vic, piloted by Flying Officer Phillips, is hit by flak and forced into the waves, too. That wipes out the leading trio before they can land a single blow on the enemy.

Now its our turn to face the storm. All three ships are firing at us, the destroyer the most deadly. Im going to aim for the supply ship behind it. The wall of black and grey flak is terribly dense, the worst Ive ever seen. Theres not a word from my crew. As I fly at the wall, I feel something new, a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, making me queasy. Its fear. And who wouldnt be scared, faced with this flak? Theres no let-up, its truly awful. On we go towards this welcome. I dont have time to realise these are probably the final moments of my life. I feel the horror of it, thats all. That feeling in the bottom of my stomach is telling me that the next few seconds are not going to be very nice.

I was staggered by their sheer beauty. Not the distant North Downs with their chalky paths, where Id happily cycled for miles; or the huge Kent skies bathed in late summer sunlight. These just formed the backdrop to the drama on the grassy stage in front of us. What had me transfixed were the shots I saw pouring from a bat there; cover drives so effortlessly powerful they could only have been the creations of a sporting poet.