Splash and Dash Searey Seaplane Delights                            Apr 25 8:03 Guest User - Request Membership Layout | Log In | Help | Videos | Site | Emails  Search:   Front Page Calendar Photos Add Photos News Add News File Cabinet Add File Cabinet History Add History * Searey Info * Add * Searey Info * Polls Add Polls Classifieds Add Classifieds Utilities Create a New Site  News View All News | Add News | Emoticons | Mark Unread Search News:      Category: Previous Item - A Summertime Searey Sojourn This will go to the previous thread in this topic.       Favorite option: If you want this item to be marked as a favorite, click on the black heart.   A Sunderland in Action         Next Item - A Survivor's Story from Flight 1549 This will go to the next thread in this topic.    Don Maxwell - May 02,2016   Viewers  | Reply     A Sunderland in Action From Virginia Cowles’ Looking for Trouble: The Bomber and Fighter Commands were not the only Air Force groups striking at the enemy. Every morning at dawn the Coastal Command's heavily-armed Sunderland flying-boats slipped out of their quiet harbours and roared into the mists of the Atlantic. Their job was to help the Navy protect the great and vital sea routes of the British Isles. Sometimes their day's run was only hours of lonely patrol; sometimes it ranged anywhere from signalling the position of enemy ship and attacking submarines to rescuing U-boat victims, protecting incoming vessels and engaging enemy planes in combat. One week-end I visited a station from which an Australian squadron was operating. During the previous six months, this particular squadron had established the startling record of flying as far as the moon and half-way back again. I asked one of the officers if there was any chance of my going out on a flight with them and by a lucky slip-up somewhere (which caused the Air Ministry no end of indignation) I was signed on as an extra pilot and taken out on a thirteen-hour patrol of nearly seventeen hundred miles. There were two officers—a pilot and an engineer—and a crew of seven. The officers were tough, experienced men with a long record of flying behind them; they seemed greatly amused at the bewildered looks the crew exchanged when I stepped aboard. "I only hope you won't be bored," one of them said anxiously. "A ship was torpedoed off the coast of Ireland a few hours ago and Jim (one of the other pilots) has gone off to pick up the survivors, so maybe we'll run into some excitement, too.” We left at six o'clock in the morning and flew at a speed of about a hundred and fifty miles an hour. Soon we were far out at sea with nothing but a solid blue stretch above and below and the sun sparkling on the waves. Everyone was very busy. The bomb-racks were loaded and the gunners took their positions, scanning the brilliant horizon for enemy submarines. The engineer sat at the dual controls with the pilot; behind them the chief mechanic was sitting at his desk checking engine temperatures and pressures, the navigator was bending over his maps calculating speed and position, and the wireless operator listening for messages. Our ship was two-decked and built entirely of metal It carried petrol for two thousand miles and was armed with guns bow and stern, port and starboard. (The pilot said they spit fire from so many angles the Germans had dubbed them the Fliegende Stachelschwein —the flying porcupines.) It was also equipped with cameras for reconnaissance work, parachute flares for night landings, a collapsible rubber boat which expanded when it touched the water, and a cage of carrier pigeons. One of the gunners told me it had been so quiet lately the pigeons had been driven to laying eggs out of sheer boredom. But the most indispensable contrivance on the ship was an automatic pilot known as "George." George was an invention for long-distance flying; he kept the boat on its course so perfectly the pilot didn't have to use controls for hours at a time. We hadn't been in the air long before the wireless operator intercepted a message from the flying-boat which had set out to pick up the survivors of the torpedoed ship reporting two enemy aircraft. They evidently weren't anxious for combat however, for a few minutes later we picked up a second message saying "Enemy out of sight.” During the next four hours the only object we saw was one small trawler, a Spanish fishing boat. Hundreds of sea-gulls were following in its wake—according to the pilot, the one indisputable way you could tell whether or not it was "on the level.” At ten-thirty we had breakfast: bacon and eggs, fruit, coffee, toast and jam. The front gunner, also an expert mechanic, had the triple role of cook. "You can tell how busy he's been," said the pilot, "by how strongly the potatoes taste of petrol." He was a good-natured< wise-cracking little man, proud of the fact that he'd learned to cook in the Australian bush. He said it was pretty difficult to feed ten people from such a small galley but on the other hand it wasn't sup-posed to be the Ritz. I asked him how he liked patrolling the Atlantic and he told me he'd like it better after he'd had "a smack at Jerry." He said he thought our flying-boat had a jinx, for it was the only one in the squadron which hadn't yet gone into action. Shortly after lunch I thought we were going to have some excitement. The engineer was at the controls and the pilot and I were just finishing our tea when the ship suddenly swung off its course. The pilot jumped up and went to the window. We were banking steeply and far below there was a long patch of oil on the water. He muttered "submarine" and scrambled up the ladder to the cockpit. A second later a noise that sounded like an old-fashioned motor horn resounded through the boat—the signal to man all guns. From the galley there was the sudden clatter of pots and pans, and the cook made a dash for the forward gun. We were turning slowly like a giant bird circling down to swoop on its prey. Suddenly it was all over. The all-clear sounded, the boat gained altitude and straightened out on its course. The cook came back to his dishes looking like a disappointed child. "Just some old wreckage," he grumbled. "Thought we were going to unload a few that time." He wasn't the only one who was disappointed. The chief mechanic shook his head gloomily. "The trouble is, it's such a clear day the Jerries can see us for forty miles. It's always lousy fishing, this weather.” The engineer apologized for the lack of excitement but said to make up for it he would put me into the rear-gun turret. This proved to be one of the most terrifying experiences I have ever had. The turret was a round, glassed-in cubicle which swung out over the sea. I suddenly found myself locked in, with the wind whistling ominously through the gun openings, and below me nothing but a sickening drop into the sea. "Let me out! "I yelled. "What's the matter?" grinned the engineer when I was back in the cabin once more. "We were thinking of signing you up as our permanent rear-gunner.” This gave the engineer the idea of organizing a little gunnery practice. The crew put on helmets, with wires and microphones attached, enabling them to communicate to each other from all parts of the ship. The engineer then broadcast an enemy attack with frightening realism: "Now they're on our tail! They’re diving towards the starboard! And here come two more! Port side!" After practising the movement of the guns, targets were thrown out and the gunners fired short bursts. Soon it was all over, but two of the gunners forgot to disconnect their microphones. The pilot suddenly heard one of them saying: "I wonder how long it's going to be before we're allowed to bring one of our lassies up on a hop?" The pilot said: "I advise whoever is doing the talking to remove his helmet." There was a sharp click, then silence. There were no further incidents that afternoon and we patrolled hour after hour with only sea and sky stretching endlessly before us. We landed in the harbour just as it was getting dark. The sequel to the story is a sad one, for the next morning the little Australian cook who had longed to "get a smack at Jerry" left on a flight for Gibraltar. His ship sighted and attacked a Dormer 18. Although the latter was put to flight, the cook, who played his part as front gunner, was seriously wounded and died a few hours later. I felt as though I had lost an old friend. (NOTE: I read the book as a free download that came with goofy paragraphing. I’ve tried to make the paragraphs more sensible here, but haven’t changed the words. Cowles was friends with Churchill and Hemingway, interviewed Mussolini, and knew almost everyone else who was important in that era.)

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