Category: Aircraft Collection

‘Whose Surgeon’s fingers gave me back my pilot’s hands’: McIndoe, Page and the Guinea Pig club.
This quote appears on the dedication page of ‘Shot Down in Flames’, the memoir of Geoffrey Page DSO, OBE, DFC and Bar. Page was one of a unique group of men and a group that is often overlooked when military history and battles are discussed. He was one of the wounded of war.

Being wounded was something those going into battle did not expect. Geoffrey Page recalled his own thoughts as a young man of 19 regarding war, thoughts that were echoed by many of his generation;

‘Paradoxically, death and injury had no part in it. In the innocence of youth, I had not yet seen the other side of the coin, with its images of hideous violence, fear, pain and death. I did not know then about vengeance. Neither did I know about the ecstasy of victory. Nor did I remotely suspect the presence within my being of a dormant lust for killing.’

Much focus has rightly been on the Battle of Britain and the victory over the Luftwaffe by the ‘Few’ and how these young men saved the country from invasion. But what of those who fought in this battle and were wounded, many in life altering ways, some literally rendered faceless? For them, the war did not stop in 1945 and would carry on for the rest of their lives.

One of those determined to help these young men was the New Zealand plastic surgeon Archibald McIndoe who become consultant plastic surgeon for the Royal Air Force in 1938. In 1939 there were only four full-time registered plastic surgeons in Britain. Two of these men had experience of war wounds from the First World War: Harold Gillies and Thomas Pomfret Kilner who had worked as surgeons in the Royal Army Medical Corps. Gillies is more well-known due to the moving images of his work produced by the artist Henry Tonks of facial reconstruction, repairing the wounds caused by the ripping and tearing of bullet and shell. It would be Gillies who would invite his cousin over to England in 1930 to join his practise, his cousin was Archibald McIndoe.

McIndoe’s services would be needed more than ever in 1940. Emily Mayhew in The Reconstruction of Warriors lists 24 aircrew who between 8 August and 28 November 1940 were wounded, and categorised as having at least one third of their body tissue burned. This would most often be the exposed areas of face and hands.

Fire was the one fear of all pilots. And the face, the area of the body which forms our immediate identity to others could be burned away in an instant thanks to a Luftwaffe tracer bullet. This is graphically recalled by Geoffrey Page, who is one of those on the list, shot down and wounded on 12 August 1940 while attacking Dorniers;

‘Surprise quickly changed to fear, and as the instinct of self-preservation began to take over, the gas tank behind the engine blew up, and my cockpit become an inferno. Fear became blind terror, then agonized horror as the bare skin of my hands gripping the throttle and control column shrivelled up like burst parchment under the intensity of the blast furnace temperature. Screaming at the top of my voice I threw my head back to keep it away from the searing flames.’ It was later, while first being treated that Page realised that his attempt to save his face had not been successful;

‘I looked away and upwards, catching sight of myself in the reflector mirrors of the overhanging light. My last conscious memory was of seeing the hideous mass of swollen, burnt flesh that had once been a face. The Battle of Britain had ended for me, but another long battle was beginning.’ McIndoe was determined to give these men back their identity both physically and mentally. To give them back their lives. In many aspects he was following in the footsteps of men like Sir C. A. Pearson.

Sir Archibald McIndoe was the right man for the job at the right time. He was a highly skilled plastic surgeon (and had been noted for his skills as an abdominal surgeon) who by 1939 had started contributing to the literature of the profession. He was sent to Queen Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead to organise a centre that would assist in the treatment of the expected facial injury and burn casualties from south-east London originating from the expected enemy bombing. The Hospital would have three new wards;

Ward I: dental and jaw injuries.
Ward II: women and children who were in the main air raid casualties.
Ward III: for officers and the most seriously burned and injured service personnel.

The hospital was soon to receive badly burned airmen, and would go on to treat hundreds. McIndoe would bring two key members of his operating theatre staff with him, Sister Jill Mullins and John Hunter who was his Chief Anaesthetist. Hunter would become famous among those he treated for offering to buy them a beer if they were sick when they woke up from the anaesthetic.

McIndoe and his team were pioneers in their treatment of burn victims. Before the start of the Second World War, tannic acid was used to treat burns by forming a hard casing over the raw wound. However, this caused the skin to contract making reconstruction problematic and was very painful for the patient when it had to be removed. McIndoe was instrumental in making this treatment obsolete and replaced with gentler saline washes. This resulted in more one-to-one treatment, and dressings were more easily removed.

The treatment of tubes of skins forming skin grafts was also pioneered by McIndoe and his team. These tubes would over time be grafted over the burns on the face or hands, making new skin. It is images of men undergoing this treatment that form some of the most memorable images of facial reconstruction. Treatment was unavoidably long and full of pain and discomfort for these young men. Because of this a bond was formed between them.

Geoffrey Page’s first experience of walking into a ward at East Grinstead is an example of this and what treatment demanded of the patient;
‘The tall figure was clad in a long, loose-fitting dressing gown that trailed to the floor. The head was thrown right back so that the owner appeared to be looking along the line of his nose. Where normally two eyes would be, were two large bloody red circles of raw skin. Horizontal slits in each showed that behind still lay the eyes. A pair of hands wrapped in large lint covers lay folded across his chest. Cigarette smoke curled up from the long holder clenched between the ghoul’s teeth. The empty sleeves of the dressing gown hung limply, lending the apparition a sinister air. It evidently had a voice behind its mask. It was condescending in tone.
“Ah another bloody cripple! Welcome to the home for the aged and infirm!”’ This was Page’s first encounter with Richard Hillary who so memorably wrote of his own experiences in ‘The Last Enemy’.

The unique atmosphere of the wards was due to the powerful personality of McIndoe who was aware of the psychological scars caused by burning as well as the physical. Page had encountered this scarring early on when he and a group of men going to the hospital for treatment went to the pub on the way;
‘At that point the landlord’s wife joined her husband behind the bar. Her loud undertone to him soon jerked me back to the true state of affairs. “The poor dears, and them so young and all. Quite turns me stomach.”’

Those being treated formed their own grouping and dark humour played its part; for example, men would place bets on whether a patient who woke up from surgery would be sick and crowd around his bed watching with interest. It was a way of deflecting thoughts of the gruelling and painful treatments. All ranks were treated the same and watered-down beer was allowed on the wards. Meals were supplied when needed not at a strict time. McIndoe also fought to improve the pay and conditions of the men while they underwent recovery. He was also known to loan them money to help them set themselves up for civilian life.

To keep this intimate friendship and bonding a club was formed. On 20 July 1941 in a hut in the grounds of the Hospital a meeting took place. Those at the meeting were a mixture of staff and patients. A toast was drunk to the forming of The Guinea Pig Club. The Club was for those who had surgery at East Grinstead and also the staff. Archie Mcindoe wrote that ‘It has been described as the most exclusive Club in the world, but the entrance fee is something most men would not care to pay and the conditions of membership are arduous in the extreme’.

Geoffrey Page, one of the founder members of the club and its first chairman admits that at first it was formed as just a drinking club but ‘it was soon to change its nature’. At the second meeting Page suggested that the funds they collected from members should be used to support others financially. This became an important aspect of the club and was supported by the RAF Benevolent Fund. Its annual dinners were also a highlight of membership and the last was held in 2016, the 75th anniversary of the forming of the Guinea Pig Club. On this last meeting, members were giving a tour of East Grinstead, which become known as ‘The Town That Didn’t Stare’ when patients were encouraged to go around the town while undertaking treatment. They were accepted by those living in the town.

McIndoe’s legacy is today carried forward in the Blond McIndoe Foundation, founded in 1961 after the death of Archibald McIndoe in 1960. Its aim is to research the science of healing with emphasis on burns and wounds healing.

Geoffrey Page, like other members of the Guinea Pig Club, would fly in combat again, determined, at the time, to take vengeance. He was awarded the DFC in 1943 and a bar to this when his victories reached 10. By the end of the war Geoffrey Page had 15 victories to his name, and one damaged. Of these 6 were shared. Geoffrey Page would go on to be instrumental in the creation of the Battle of Britain Memorial, unveiled by the Queen Mother on the White Cliffs of Dover in July 1993.

For the wounded of war, conflict does not end in ceasefires, when peace treaties are signed or when victory parties take place. There is no getting back to ‘normal’. The work of McIndoe and the determination of men like Page ensured that these group of men, the ‘Guinea Pigs’ were not forgotten and that they achieved their own personal victories. The Fewest of the Few would also be remembered.

Further Reading
The RAF Museum Archive hold the papers of Wing Commander Page including his log books (Ref: X004-1425, covering the period 1937 – 1948). These are available to view via appointment. The library holds many memoirs including Tales of a Guinea Pig and other histories of the Guinea Pig Club and Archie McIndoe.

Richard Hillary, The Last Enemy (London: Penguin Books, 2018)
ER Mayhew, The Reconstruction of Warriors: Archibald McIndoe, the Royal Air Force and the Guinea Pig Club (London: Greenhill Books, 2004)
Geoffrey Page, Shot Down in Flames (London: Grub Street, 2011) This was originally published as Tale of a Guinea Pig.

Websites of Interest
Blind Veterans UK
https://www.blindveterans.org.uk/
Blond McIndoe Foundation

The Heinkel He 111 was a bomber in service with the Luftwaffe, the Nazi German air force before and during the Second World War. At the time of its entry into service in the late 1930s, it was one of the finest combat aircraft in the world. It was the main German bomber during the 1940/1941 Blitz over London, although by that time, its operations were mainly restricted to flying at night. It had become too vulnerable against British day fighters such as the Spitfire. In various roles, it soldiered on until the last days of the war.

The Heinkel He 111 was originally designed as a passenger aircraft and because of this, quite unusual for a bomber, it has windows along the fuselage. However, our 1944 He 111 with serial number 701152 and individual code NT+SL went back to its roots. The seats and straps which are still inside the aircraft today, show that this is a H-20 variant, optimised for carrying 16 paratroopers beside its 3 crew members. This is somewhat surprising as Germany was on the defensive this late in the war and was unlikely to drop soldiers in support of a ground offensive. It is more likely it would have dropped secret agents behind enemy lines. For this reason, the H-20 could carry two 800 kg (1,764 lb) supply containers.

American forces captured this aircraft in May 1945, in the final days of the war. It was flown to Cherbourg on the French coast for shipment to the USA for evaluation. Due to the lack of space on the allocated vessel, HMS Reaper, this did not occur. A three-man American crew of the 56th USAAF Fighter Group, Major Carter, Major Williamson and Captain Ordway took the decision to fly the abandoned aircraft to their base in Boxted, Essex. The He 111 was painted in the unit’s colours: matt purple / black with the nose and tail rudder in red. On one side of the fuselage was a monogram, in red outlined in white, forming the individual identification letter. This consisted of a letter O in which was a letter C and centred in that the letter W – the initials of the three-man American crew: Ordway, Carter and Williamson. When they received their orders to return to the US, they realised they had to leave their ‘private’ He 111 behind, possibly to be scrapped. They came up with an idea…

The Museum was contacted recently by Azure Carter, granddaughter of Major James Carter. She filled us in as to what really happened. Her grandfather was a successful American fighter ace. He was credited with 8 ‘kills’ flying the Republic Thunderbolt, the largest and most powerful single-engined fighter aircraft of the Second World War. He logged 450 combat hours or 137 missions, although when he was assigned a desk job, he flew on without logging his flights.

After hostilities ended, he and his two colleagues were eager to get back to their base in Boxted, Essex when they noticed an abandoned German Heinkel He 111. They took it upon themselves to fly the German bomber, although none of them had received any instructions how to fly the aircraft. Prior to landing they had to fly rounds around the airfield while they tried to figure out how to lower the landing gear. But somehow, they managed to bring the Heinkel safely on the ground. In the following weeks, they flew the aircraft several times, attracting great interest wherever they went. But when in September 1945, they were ordered to return to the States, they knew they would get in trouble for possessing an aircraft without documentation as the Heinkel was not officially on the USAAF’s books.

Carter and his friends first thought of cutting it up. But as it was such a fine aircraft they could not bring themselves to do this. In any case, dismembering and disposing of such a large airframe could not be readily undertaken. Carter could not pass it to any other American establishment, so the RAF was considered, particularly an RAF cadet airfield where aerodrome security would not be tight. Feeling that the British might also be loath to accept it without transfer documents an act of stealth was planned.

At dawn on the morning of 12 September, Carter took off from Boxted and landed at RAF North Weald, parked the Heinkel near the watch tower and was immediately collected by Captain Charles Cole, flying a 56th Group’s transport aircraft, and returned to Boxted. It must have been quite a sight for the people at RAF North Weald to suddenly wake up and see a German bomber parked near the watch tower! Before the British could start an investigation, Carter and his unit were on their way to the States.

The aircraft was later put on display, first in the German Aircraft Display at RAE Farnborough and later at several RAF stations. In the late 1960s, its interior was used for several shots in the Battle of Britain film. In 1978, it moved to the RAF Museum in London, where it remains today. It is here that Azure saw the Heinkel her grandfather flew in 1945.

She went up close to the aircraft, went underneath to have a peek inside and imagined what it must have been like for her grandfather to fly this rare aircraft. To hear the story in her own words, have a look at this video we made of her visit to the RAF Museum London.

Most stories about D-Day understandably focus on the actions on the ground. And rightly so. However, it was widely recognised, then and now, that the invasion could not have been successful without the contribution of air power. The Royal Air Force Museum has in its vast collection a multitude of documents, photographs and objects which relate to D-Day. Especially the aircraft on display, both at the London and Cosford site, tell the story of the invasion in their unique visual way.

More than any other service, it was the Royal Air Force which prepared the ground troops for the invasion. Photo reconnaissance aircraft had mapped every square foot of the Normandy beaches and the areas behind, providing vital information to the ground troops.

Several weeks prior to D-Day, RAF bomber aircraft had started ‘softening up’ the German defences. The infrastructure was targeted, aiming to impede Germans bringing up supplies and reinforcements. Fighter-bombers such as the Supermarine Spitfire and the Hawker Typhoon, and medium bombers such as the North American Mitchell and de Havilland Mosquito attacked roads, bridges, major crossroads, airfields and rail targets. Also, the heavy bombers, the Avro Lancaster and its lesser known twin, the Handley Page Halifax became involved. They dropped 55,000 tons of bombs on larger targets such as depots and railway junctions.

Surprisingly, the region around Calais was attacked more intensely to confuse the Nazi authorities and to make them believe it to be the invasion target. The ruse worked. Even days after D-Day, Hitler was convinced it was a mere diversion to the main invasion and he withheld the forces defending Calais until it was too late.

Closer to D-Day, coastal gun batteries and radar stations came under attack. All six of the long-range radar stations taken out, the Germans were blind to what was coming. As explained by Officer Geoffrey Murphy:

‘On 5th of June, 25 Typhoons from 121 Wing, led by Wing Cdr Charles Green, attacked a large radar installation near Cap de la Hague, putting it out of action. On that same evening, at about 8pm, two Typhoons of 245 Sqd flown by Flying Officer Douglas Martin and myself, were scrambled to join aircraft from other squadrons to carry out a standing patrol along the south coast of England, between Weymouth and Southampton, covering an area of about 20 miles out to sea. Although it had been clear for some weeks that the preparations for the invasion of France were proceeding rapidly, the date on which it would take place and the area in which the beachhead would be established, had naturally been a closely guarded secret. So, as we climbed into the gradually darkening sky, we were amazed to discover that, as far as the eye could see to the South, columns of ships, large, small, naval and merchant, had formed-up into parallel lines and were steaming towards the Normandy coast of France, as though proceeding to a regatta.’

One aircraft closely associated with the invasion in Normandy is the Hawker Typhoon. Originally contemplated as a successor to the Supermarine Spitfire, its thick wings rendered it inferior as a fighter aircraft. However, its rugged construction, powerful engine and heavy armament of four 20 mm cannons, bombs and rockets made it excellent for low-level attacks. Before, during and after D-Day bombed, rocketed and strafed anything that moved and that could be deemed hostile. The successor to the Typhoon was the Tempest, of which two examples are on display at the RAF Museum in London. Its thin wings made it an excellent all-round combat aircraft. However, on D-Day, only two Tempest squadrons were operational.

The Supermarine Spitfire, of which the RAF Museum has five versions on display, was the main RAF fighter aircraft. It did what the Typhoon did, but it excelled as a fighter aircraft. While the armada of ships sailed toward the beaches, Spitfires were patrolling over the fleet, keeping a look out for any German aircraft, or escorting bombers to their targets. Others were spotting for Royal Navy guns, making sure the shells landed on target.

The invasion of Sicily in the summer of 1943 had taught the perils of wrong identification of aircraft. Several aircraft were lost to friendly fire. Jumpy gunners tended to fire first, ask questions later. The Sicilian invasion was small compared to the one planned for Normandy and it was expected that the friendly fire losses would have been much higher. For this reason, the Allied aircraft were painted in clear identification markings, called invasion stripes. These were five bands, ¦white¦black¦white¦black¦white, painted on the wings and rear fuselage. For security reasons, the orders to paint the stripes were not given until 3 June. In most cases, the stripes were painted only hours before D-Day, the paint still wet.

After blinding the German forces, the RAF fed them wrong information. The 1943 Dambuster Raid – the RAF Museum London has recently launched the excellent Dambusters Virtual Reality Experience – was carried out by the famous No. 617 Squadron. They were now tasked to dropped bundles of ‘Window’, large quantities of thin aluminium strips. These gave German radar false signals and convinced them that another fleet was heading toward Calais. The main American heavy bomber, the Boeing Fortress was also in service with the RAF. For D-Day, some were equipped with devices such as the ‘Airborne Cigar’. This consisted of powerful receivers and transmitters, jamming German radio frequencies. Now, the German forces were not only blind, but also deaf.

An ultimate deception operation evolved around paratrooper Rupert. In fact, Rupert was a sackcloth, filled with sand and straw in the crude shape of a dummy parachutist. 450 Ruperts were dropped on the night of the invasion. Many Ruperts were designed to produce gunfire sounds or fire flares to add to the confusion for the German defenders.

This does not mean that no real paratroopers were dropped. Far from it, 15 RAF squadrons of transport and glider tug aircraft, such as the Halifax and the Douglas Dakota, flew most of the British 6th Airborne Division into Normandy, a few hours before the first troops hit the beaches. One week after the invasion, RAF Dakotas were the first transport aircraft to land in France. They brought in supplies and brought back wounded soldiers. These were cared for by air ambulance nurses, who became the first British women in active service to be sent into a war zone.

While Spitfires and Mosquitoes protected the invasion fleet from German air attacks, other aircraft under Coastal Command protected it from German speed boats and submarines. Day and night, their aircraft patrolled the approaches to the invasion fleet. Short Sunderland flying boats or Consolidated Liberator long range aircraft were equipped with radar and were excellent at spotting and engaging German submarines. But when it came to attacking, nothing came away unscathed from the Bristol Beaufighter, armed to the teeth with ten guns and rockets, bombs or a torpedo.

It may be expected that the RAF’s contribution was limited to the air, but this would mean omitting the contribution of the hundreds of RAF personnel at sea and on the beaches. Naval vessels were equipped with radar, operated by RAF personnel, directing Allied aircraft and protecting the troops on the beaches from the air. While the beaches were being stormed by the Army soldiers dressed in khaki, some men wearing the distinctive blue battledress. They belonged to the RAF Beach Squadrons, directing the RAF aircraft from the ground to the front line. The forward air controllers acted as a liaison between the troops and the patrolling aircraft, directing the latter toward the target. They even landed on Omaha beach with the Americans, directing RAF night fighters in defence of the beach heads.

In the two months prior to D-Day, the RAF flew 71,800 sorties, dropping 94,200 tons of bombs, almost half of the total of the Allied air forces. Unfortunately, it also meant that 702 aircraft were lost before D-Day. Many aircrew were shot down over sea. The RAF had its own Air Sea Rescue Units, a combination of patrol aircraft, even old Spitfires, flying boats, such as the Short Sunderland and hundreds of Marine Craft boats, especially high-speed launches. On D-Day alone, 163 aircrew and 60 other personnel were rescued.

Once the troops were on shore, they were supported by Spitfires, Typhoons and other powerful combat aircraft. However, not all aircraft fit that description. The tiny, unarmed and unarmoured Taylorcraft Auster was an Air Observation Post aircraft, directing artillery fire with devastating accuracy. Able to take off and land from short runways, it would also land and evacuate wounded soldiers. The Austers were flown by Army pilots, serving in RAF squadrons.

So where was the Luftwaffe, the German counterpart to the RAF? The incessant attacks on airfields and the deception missions had left it in absolute disarray. While the RAF conducted a total of 5,656 sorties, the Luftwaffe struggled to get 319 aircraft in the air that day. Only two Fw 190 fighter aircraft appeared over the beaches that day, led by German ace Joseph Priller. He was convinced it was a one-way mission, but against all odds, he survived and finished the war with 100 victories. The RAF Museum has two rare Fw 190s on displays.

The air plan for D-Day was the most complex ever devised, involving thousands of aircraft, each with their own task, route and time schedule. Not only did the RAF need to coordinate with the Americans, the RAF itself was an amalgamation of different nationalities, from the Commonwealth, but also from several countries which had been subjugated through Nazi invasion. Several ‘national’ RAF squadrons were raised and participated on D-Day: Dutch squadrons flying Mitchells, Polish Mosquitoes, Belgian Spitfires or Norwegian Sunderlands. The RAF had trained them to the highest standard and, united, they achieved victory on D-Day.

Aircraft types in our collection that served on D-Day:

RAF Museum London:

Avro Anson: Hangar 5
Avro Lancaster: Hangar 5
Boeing Fortress: Hangar 5
Bristol Beaufighter: Hangar 4
Consolidated Liberator: Hangar 5
de Havilland Mosquito: Hangar 5
Focke-Wulf Fw 190: Hangar 5
Handley Page Halifax: Hangar 5
Hawker Typhoon: Hangar 3
Hawker Tempest V: Hangar 3
Junkers Ju 87: Hangar 5
Marine Craft boats: Hangar 1
Messerschmitt Bf 110: Hangar 5
North American Mitchell: Hangar 5
North American Mustang: Hangar 5
Short Sunderland: Hangar 1
Supermarine Spitfire V, XVI and F24: Hangars 1 and 3
Taylorcraft Auster: Hangar 3

at the RAF Museum Midlands:

de Havilland Mosquito: War in the Air
Douglas Dakota: National Cold War Exhibition
Focke-Wulf Fw 190: War in the Air
Junkers Ju 88: War in the Air
Messerschmitt Bf 109: War in the Air

Our recent Facebook poll has revealed that the aircraft most of our Facebook followers would like to hear more information about is the de Havilland Mosquito. We promised to share a Facebook post about this fantastic aircraft but as we have quite a substantial amount of material we decided to dedicate a blogpost to it instead.

The de Havilland Mosquito was also called the ‘Wooden Wonder’. Sir Geoffrey de Havilland decided to build his aircraft out of wood. This was a controversial decision as almost all combat aircraft at the time had a metal structure. Although it is often believed that this was to preserve precious metals and would create an aircraft which could be built in woodworking shops, the main reason was because de Havilland felt confident that a wooden aircraft could be lighter and more streamlined. He had demonstrated so with his previous design, the DH88 Comet racing aircraft.

Although most of the aircraft was constructed out of wood, certain structural elements as well as the engine compartment were made out of metal. The wood consisted of three layers consisting of Ecuadorian balsa wood and two layers of three-ply birch wood, harvested in the UK, US and Canada. The wood was light yet strong and allowed for a smooth aerodynamic profile. Also fir and spruce were used throughout the aircraft.

Even more controversial than the use of wood was the decision to forgo any defensive armament, rather rely completely on superior speed. The Air Ministry were reluctant to accept this aircraft. They were right to believe that this aircraft may be faster ‘at the moment’ but would become defenceless once the enemy adopted faster fighter aircraft.

However, the projected performance of 400 miles per hour and a range of 1,500 miles warmed the Air Ministry to the proposal. 50 aircraft were ordered in March 1940, but interestingly, there was no consensus whether to use it as a bomber, reconnaissance or fighter aircraft. The Air Ministry still felt gun turrets were needed to use the Mosquito, as it was now known, as a bomber. It was the need for fighters during the Battle of Britain and the Blitz which kept the project alive.

A Mosquito with mock gun turrets was tested, but the aerodynamic drag resulted in a much-reduced speed. In May 1942, the first bombing raids were carried out which proved to be highly successful after which the RAF and the Air Ministry relented and embraced the Mosquito. The Mosquito bomber not only proved to be fast, it was able to carry four 500 lb. bombs and drop them with remarkable accuracy, as shown by a highly publicised low-level attack on the Gestapo Headquarters in Oslo on 26 September 1942. They later repeated this feat against several targets, such as Amiens prison, which enabled the liberation of French Resistance fighters.

It could also carry special loads, such as the ‘cookie’. This name hid the fact that it was a massive 4,000 lb. bomb. It did not resemble a bomb, but had a cut-off cylindrical shape. Another unusual load was the Highball bouncing bomb, a smaller version of the Upkeep bomb used by the famous Dambusters. The Mosquitoes could also carry ‘Window’ which was a codename for thin metal strips which would jam German radar, rendering it useless. Finally, the Mosquito could drop brightly coloured flares on targets, enabling the main heavy bomber force (Lancasters and Halifaxes) to hit an otherwise blacked out target with much greater accuracy.

The Mosquito NF Mk. II was a night fighter, equipped with on-board radar and entered Home Defence service in August 1942. Due to its excellent radar, high speed and powerful armament of eight guns, it was successful in intercepting German bomber aircraft. When more aircraft became available, the Mosquito escorted RAF bombers over Germany, actively hunting German night fighters. The Mosquito intruder became the main scare for the Luftwaffe’s night fighters, forcing them to carry a rear gunner for their own protection. It even brought the Germans to develop their own wooden ‘Moskito’ night fighter, though the design was less than perfect and it failed to become operational.

Photo reconnaissance was equally successful. Able to fly at high altitude and at great speed, the unarmed Mosquito could penetrate deep into German airspace with little risk of being intercepted. It famously photographed the Nazi Peenemünde Army Research Centre, where the V2 rockets were being tested, enabling the RAF to conduct a massive 600 bomber raid of the facilities, delaying the programme by two months. The penultimate recon version was the PR Mk 34, optimised for long range flight in the Pacific. With a full fuel load its range was 3,600 miles and its maximum speed was 425 mph, faster than any aircraft in the Japanese inventory.

Beside these three versions, several more versions were developed. The Mosquito FB Mk.VI was the fighter bomber version and packed an impressive punch of four 20 mm cannons and four 7.7 mm machine guns with two 500 lb. bombs or up to eight 60 lb. rockets. Most spectacular was the Mosquito FB Mk. XVIII, also known as the Tsetse (fly), armed with a mighty Molins 6-pounder / 57 mm cannon, capable of destroying ships and U-boats.

A major user of such aircraft was the Banff Strike Wing in Scotland. Toward the end of the war, it was led by Maxwell Aitken. This was not because he was the son of Lord Beaverbrook, the Minister of Aircraft Production, but because he was a top fighter ace with 16 German aircraft on his tally. The Wing consisted of six Coastal Command squadrons, operating in Norwegian waters against German shipping. Their Mosquitoes would run the gauntlet of anti-aircraft fire and unleash a devastating attack. On one occasion, a Mosquito FB Mk VI was badly damaged from striking the mast of a ship. That demonstrated both the low altitude of these strikes as well as the strength of the Mosquito’s wooden frame.

Shortly before the end of the war, the first Sea Mosquito took the skies; a version designed to operate from aircraft carriers. The famous test pilot Eric ‘Winkle’ Brown undertook tests from HMS Indefatigable, the first landing-on taking place on 25 March 1944. Also built were trainer and target tugging versions and some were used as high-speed transports. In total, 7,781 Mosquitoes were built and they served with around 20 air forces worldwide.

It is difficult to compare aircraft, let alone choose a ‘best’. For instance, a 1945 aircraft will always be better than a 1940 one. And how does one compare a fighter with a transport aircraft? One doesn’t. Nevertheless, the Mosquito was beyond comparison. When the ‘Mossie’ flew for the first time, its performance exceeded and shocked even its own designers. The RAF did not know in which role to use this new aircraft, but simply knew it wanted it. In the end, it turned out to be great in all roles.

“It makes me furious when I see the Mosquito. I turn green and yellow with envy.” Although it cannot be verified that Hermann Goering, the head of the Luftwaffe, actually said these words, it perfectly sums up the Nazi desperation of being unable to intercept the Mossie. An unarmed aircraft flying over Berlin during broad daylight was nothing more than an insult to the Luftwaffe. To me, the de Havilland Mosquito was the best aircraft of the Second World War.

We have different versions of this wonderful aircraft on both of our sites: a de Havilland Mosquito B35 in Hangar 5 at the RAF Museum London and a de Havilland Mosquito TT35 in War in the Air exhibition at the RAF Museum Midlands. So any of our visitors can come to marvel at the ‘Wooden Wonder’.

To all our followers, who would rather hear the story of another aircraft, we will soon organise another poll on our Facebook pages offering you to select another aircraft you would like to learn more about. Please keep your eyes peeled and choose you favourite.

The humble Chipmunk could easily be overlooked amongst its bigger, faster and generally more impressive RAF Museum hangar mates – but it is a source of nostalgia for thousands, and not just for the generations of RAF pilots who began their flying careers in it.

From 1958 until the mid-1990s, thousands of teenage air cadets received their first experience of flight in a de Havilland Chipmunk, operated by one of the RAF’s air experience flights. I was one of them. My cadet squadron’s headquarters was only a hundred yards or so up the road from Cambridge Airport, which was then home to Number 5 Air Experience Flight – although I’m not sure how much more flying we might have got because of that. Anyway, it always started on a weekday parade evening: “There’s spaces for flying this weekend – who’d like to go?” Hands would go up, names were written down, and the lucky few would gather on a Saturday or Sunday morning for a march to the airfield.

First came waiting. Then came the pre-flight entertainment – an 18-minute safety video, fondly remembered by thousands who saw it as “Jump, Jump John!”. Made in 1979, with truly authentic late 1970s music and haircuts, and usually presented on a worn and battered VHS tape, the film followed Cadet John Andrews as he took to the air. John dutifully emptied his pockets of loose items that might jam the controls, donned parachute and helmet and waited for his turn. Once in the air, he managed to remain unflappably calm as he experienced almost every conceivable Chipmunk emergency short of alien abduction – concluding with the jettisoning of the canopy and John standing up into the slipstream created by a large fan just out of shot for a low-budget simulated bale-out.

Then there was more waiting.

Then we got to do what John had done – not the emergencies though. There was an old World War II-style (possibly World War II-surplus) seat-type parachute – meaning that you sat on it to put it on and again when you sat in the aeroplane. Walking in it was neither easy nor dignified. On top of that came a two-part helmet – a cloth inner, with earphones, boom microphone and trailing lead for connection to the aeroplane, and a hard outer bone-dome. I have a big head, in the literal sense; it didn’t look good.

More waiting.

And then it was my turn. A Chipmunk taxied in, and its previous passenger disembarked. Someone would be standing on the wing to help, and to make sure that we didn’t do anything too dim right at the start. He’d beckon the next candidate over, and over you’d waddle. Up on the black walkway at the wing-root, over the side of the cockpit and into the bowels of the Chipmunk’s rear seat. Battered black metal surroundings, instruments, controls, all vibrating with the idling Gipsy Major engine. Another set of straps over the parachute harness, securing the hapless cadet firmly to the Chipmunk. That lead trailing from the helmet would be connected to its socket in the aeroplane, and the headphones would come alive with a hiss of static, blocking the engine noise just a little. One of those polished-calm-RAF-trained voices would come through from the front seat. “Hello, can you hear me? What’s your name?”

Communication established, the canopy was run forward, the helper departed the wing and the engine noise increased. The Chipmunk taxied around for the end of the runway, as pilot and passenger chatted amicably about the weather, or perhaps the possibility of doing some aerobatics. A little radio chatter, a turn onto the runway, and the engine gave its all as the Chipmunk accelerated. Cambridge dropped away below, and the Chipmunk turned away, towards open country. Aerobatics weren’t compulsory, but they were fun. As soon as we had enough height – and space from other aeroplanes of course – the pilots would happily put us through loops, stall turns, barrel rolls – and let us have a go as well.

And before you knew it, it was over – Cambridge Airport coming up to meet us, wheels on the runway and taxi in so that the next cadet could have a turn. No cadet ever had to bale out of a Chipmunk as far as I know – but a lot of people have said it’d be good to see that safety film again.

Just to confirm, there isn’t a copy in the RAF Museum’s film archive – but there is in the Imperial War Museums Film and Video Archive, and perhaps they’ll let you have a copy if you ask nicely, and maybe make a small contribution towards the museum’s upkeep. And another thing: at no point in the film – and I have checked – does anyone actually say the words “Jump, Jump John!”.

And one other thing – I recently dug out my old RAF Form 3822, Cadet’s Record of Service book, and discovered that I flew in the Chipmunk currently at Hendon, WP962, from Cambridge airport on 24 March 1995 as a 14-year-old air cadet.

It’s a funny thing, nostalgia.