LETTERS FROM HOME
We live in a world connected by electronic means of communication. It is indeed a blessing. But it is also a loss. Let me explain.
My wife and I stay connected to our son in London, England through Skype, FaceTime, smartphone texts and email. Without these electronic applications, I think Susan would go mad with worry. They keep us visually connected, emotionally at rest and they push back the darkness and uncertainty. Likewise, after dinner, we like to ring up our daughter in Hamilton, Ontario and spend a half-hour entertaining our mischievous and precocious 2-year-old granddaughter. These new ways for humanity to stay in touch with family provide emotional release and visible proof of the health and spirit of a son or daughter far away. But, there is also a downside.
Direct and visual connection with correspondents using electronic means such as Skype also erase the many benefits of the old-fashioned method—the handwritten letter. Gone or at least on the verge of extinction are simple things like elegant penmanship, careful forethought, poetic expression, hidden meaning, code, the ability to reassure family with words, the lipstick-kissed love letter held in a pilot’s inside pocket, the lock of hair, the small photo, the tear-stained ink.
Back in the middle uncertain years of the Second World War, the hope of an early end to the war and to be “home by Christmas” had long since left the heart of the fighting man in Europe, North Africa, and the Near and Far East. Parents, who last saw their uniformed sons and daughters boarding a train for an unknown future, lived out their lives in anguish, worry and stress back home. The handwritten letter, the perfumed note card, a scarf knit with love by Gramma, the box of favoured Baby Ruth candy from Mum—all carried with them a powerful message of security and hope.
During the Second World War, the fighting man, the rear echelon service battalion soldier, the ground crew airman, or field hospital nurse in a distant and strange land was desperate to hear from home, and to send letters back there assuring parents that they were safe and out of harm’s way. They took solace knowing that Dad had the crops almost in, that little brother Hugh was playing hockey with the hometown team, that Mum had learned to drive and that Sis had a good job at the factory making parachute harnesses. Knowing that life at home was still there, largely unchanged; that it would be there when they returned, was the one fact unblemished by the stress and horror of the war they were part of. Mail would be one of the great weapons of the fight, one of the unsung strategies that kept the Allied fighting forces from going insane. The Royal Canadian Air Force knew and understood this better than most.
In December 1943, after three years of bloody, dusty battle in North Africa, Canadian Army soldiers were slogging it out toe to toe with the Germans, bogged down in the small coastal town of Ortona in a vicious street fight that became known as “Little Stalingrad”. Royal Canadian Air Force pilots in Bomber Command were dying in droves every week, raked by night fighters and shredded by flak, yet were willing to climb back into that crew hatch one more time. Canadian sailors ran the U-boat gauntlet for the fourth straight year, freezing, forever wet and miserable. Letters from home—you can easily imagine the importance of them.
In early December, the Royal Canadian Air Force stood up 168 Heavy Transport (HT) Squadron at RCAF Station Rockcliffe here in Canada’s capital, overlooking the broad flow of the mighty Ottawa River. 168 Squadron had one task—get the mail to Canadians fighting in Europe and the Mediterranean, and get it there fast. Prior to 168 Squadron’s inception, most mail went by sea. It was not uncommon for a mother to get a telegram that her son was killed in battle, only to get a letter from him in the mail three weeks later, mailed months before. Soldiers needed the boost in morale offered by mail from home and the RCAF decided to build a force that could get it there fast.
The Commanding Officer of 168 (HT) Squadron was a highly experienced Canadian by the name of Wing Commander Robert Bruce Middleton, a Canadian who had a commercial license before joining the Royal Air Force from 1934 to 1936. Leaving the RAF, he was one of the early pilots of Trans Canada Airlines and then went to Imperial Airways in Great Britain, gaining experience flying long-distance night flights across water. When the war broke out, Middleton rejoined the RAF and conducted ferry and transport missions, before being selected to head 168
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The RCAF purchased six used Boeing B-17E and B-17F Flying Fortresses from the United States Army Air Force and ferried them to Rockcliffe—five over three weeks in December and the sixth in February of 1944. The Rockcliffe “Forts” were the only B-17s ever in the direct employ of the Royal Canadian Air Force and they were given the standard RCAF four-digit serial numbers common in the Second World War—a block of numbers from 9202 to 9207. Though the RCAF had never operated Flying Fortresses before, Canadians were no strangers to four-engine bomber operation. Canucks in Bomber Command were crewing Handley Page Halifaxes, Avro Lancasters and Short Stirlings, as well as B-24 Liberators and Sunderland flying boats with Coastal Command, and were flying in all B-17 crew positions, attached to Fortress units of the Royal Air Force’s Bomber and Coastal Commands.
When the first of these former training Fortresses arrived at Rockcliffe in the first week of December 1943, they were somewhat clapped out and still carried their defensive weapons, American markings and serial numbers. They underwent immediate changes that saw the removal of the features that earned them the name Flying Fortress—their machine guns. Flying across the Atlantic Ocean to places like Morocco, England, Egypt and Italy meant that the chance of being attacked over open water by a German marauder was negligible, and now, with North Africa secured by the Allies, the only enemy aircraft with the range to find them were also four-engined patrol bombers like the FW200 Kondor. Subtracting the weight of the machine guns, their turrets and the gunners meant more mail or additional fuel could be carried, thus increasing the effectiveness of each mission.
Before their inaugural flights could take place, each “Fort” had its American markings painted out and RCAF roundels and serial numbers applied to their sides. The first Mailcan Fortress flight, as they became known, was scheduled for the week after the arrival of the first B-17 (9202). The goal was to get as much mail as possible to the front before Christmas, and bring an equal amount of letters to worried families back home.
For the weeks leading up to the arrival of the B-17s and the first flight, letters and packages for troops overseas were channelled by Royal Mail Canada to Ottawa. Trains arriving from Montréal and Toronto puffed and screeched along the Rideau Canal and clanked to a stop at Union Station, across from the Chateau Laurier Hotel. Mail car doors rattled open while railway employees tossed white bags labelled “Canada P.O.” onto heavy wooden trolleys. These were pushed across the street to Postal Station A (since demolished and turned into a shopping centre), sorted for destinations and transported by RCAF truck the 8 kilometres to RCAF Station Rockcliffe. Here, a photo-op was managed for the benefit of the press. In a rather stagey photograph taken in the poorly lit confines of 168 Squadron’s hangar at Rockcliffe, a large heap of mailbags were seen being checked on the manifest by a well-turned out Flight Sergeant, while Military Policemen with holstered pistols watched with stern faces.
Another photograph, taken out on the snowy ramp, depicted no less than 14 airmen unloading a truck and bucket-brigading the mailbags into the starboard waist gunner’s window at the rear of the fuselage. The first B-17 to be ready to fly the mail to Canadian servicemen overseas was 9202, but at the last minute it acquired a snag and went unserviceable. Flying Fortress 9204 was then selected as the alternate for the inaugural flight.
Though this was not a combat operation, this was no place for junior or inexperienced crews. The mail was important, and so, highly experienced aircrews with combat and transport experience, lucky to survive tours in Bomber Command, were selected to crew the “Forts”. The first flight, departing Rockcliffe on 15 December, was flown by Wing Commander Middleton himself. Later, 9204 was joined by the five other Flying Fortresses, some of which were stripped of paint and modified with faired aluminium noses which opened downward to access forward cargo space, as well as other improvements inside and out.
The first flight was not without problems. As Middleton approached Ireland, fuel feeding problems forced the B-17 to land at RAF St. Angelo near Enniskillen in Northern Ireland. Pressing hard to get the mail to troops before Christmas, and being new with Fortress maintenance, mechanics had failed to connect the auxiliary tanks to the main system. Despite the problems, 9204 carried 5,500 lbs of mail and two passengers to Europe.
From the first flight onward, 168 Heavy Transport Squadron B-17s settled into a steady service back and forth across the Atlantic, bringing the mail to our warriors in Europe and North Africa. Fortresses and Liberators would carry the mail back and forth across the Atlantic, while seven DC-3 Dakotas (a detachment of 168 Squadron was based at Biggin Hill, England) would distribute the mail across European destinations. In the first month of operations alone, 168 Squadron Fortresses and Liberators carried 111,600 lbs of mail. In late January of 1944, the service was extended from Prestwick (Scotland) to Gibraltar, Algiers (French Algeria), Foggia, Bari, Naples (all in Italy) and Cairo (Egypt). As 1945 rolled around, mail service was six times a week. Another weekly flight was added in April 1945, making it a daily service. Refuelling stops on the northern route were Reykjavik (Iceland) and Goose Bay, and on the southern route, Lagens in the Azores or Bermuda. Every nook and cranny of the aging aircraft was stuffed with mailbags. When the war was over, they continued to fly mail and relief supplies to war-torn Europe.
But despite the lack of an enemy air force to threaten the Fortresses, these mail flights proved a deadly serious business. Three of the six B-17s were lost in tragic accidents that killed their highly experienced crews, and two others were heavily damaged. Of the six “Forts” held by the Royal Canadian Air Force, only two survived to be disposed of by War Assets.
The near loss of a crew and Fortress happened almost immediately. Upon receipt of Fortress 9205 in the middle of December 1943, the official Royal Canadian Air Force assessment was that the aircraft was “very dilapidated, all the parts being badly worn.”
Regardless, maintenance crews struggled to make it mission-ready. On 23 January 1944, Fortress 9205 was flying from Prestwick to Gibraltar when it was involved in a mid-air collision with an RAF Wellington in fog over the Bay of Biscay. The collision left the Fortress with extensive damage to the nose, wings and tail and two engines were forced to be shut down and their props feathered. The pilot, Flight Lieutenant Horace Hillcoat, turned back to Prestwick, and made a safe landing on the remaining two engines (one without a supercharger), but the crew was forced to jettison the load of mail.
A piece in the Winnipeg Tribune, dated 14 March 1944, reported the dramatic incident aboard Hillcoat’s Fortress:
“The crew of a Canadian Flying Fortress mail plane lived through an aerial nightmare when it collided in a Biscay Fog with a heavyweight Wellington. With only one engine ticking, the Fortress brought its crew back to base. In an amazing aerial exploit, the crew of an R.C.A.F. Flying Fortress recently nursed their crippled aircraft back to safe landing in the United Kingdom with only one motor functioning after a mid-air collision with a Wellington bomber over the Bay of Biscay.
R.C.A.F. headquarters said today all that remained of the Wellington after the crash was bits of wings and ailerons later found embedded in the body of the Fortress. On the day of the crash only two aircraft were known to be operating over the bay – the Fortress flying mail to Canadian forces in the Mediterranean and the coastal command Wellington (JA268) on patrol. Both were flying on instruments and taking advantage of cloud cover. They met at 5,000 feet. There was a flash of flame, a grinding jar as the Fortress seemed perceptibly to stop in mid-air. F/O. H.B. Hillcoat of Moose Jaw, Sask., and his crew tensed for a crash into the sea.
Through the cloud, lighted by fire from one of their engines, they saw the shadow of an aircraft hurtling down to the water. A second later the Fortress was spinning down after it. The crew jettisoned everything movable, including mail, as the pilot wrestled with his controls. Then, at 1,200 feet, the stricken aircraft levelled off and staggered ahead, barely under control. The outer port engine alone was developing anything like normal power. Fighting stubborn controls, Hillcoat set course for Britain. The ‘Fort’ limped through the murk. Finally, Hillcoat set her down in a semi-blind landing. The navigator, F/O. F.B. La Brish, of Regina, ran around to the nose, within which he had been sitting at the moment of the collision. He looked up at the hole where the metal ring of the gun port had been. The ring had been hurled by the Impact past La Brish’s head and was embedded in the partition behind where he had sat. That, he concluded, was what had ripped off his helmet and earphones.”
The Ottawa Journal on the same day described the impact and recovery of the Fortress as “one of those million-to-one-chance affairs... one of the most amazing aerial exploits of the war.”
Hillcoat’s citation for his award of an Air Force Cross states: “This officer was captain of a Fortress which was proceeding one night recently from Great Britain to Gibraltar, when about 190 miles from base, under very dark conditions in cloud, his aircraft had a violent head-on collision with an unidentified aircraft on 23 January 1944. Despite the fact that two engines were out of commission, all four propellers bent and the aircraft badly damaged, he managed to right it, after falling approximately 2,000 feet. When they were still unable to hold altitude, he directed his second pilot and crewmen to jettison the cargo and all other loose equipment. By strenuous effort and skillful flying, he was able to set course for land. Although flying with a crew previously unknown to him, he guided their efforts with such confidence that every member performed his function in a most exemplary manner. The flight back occupied approximately two hours of instrument flying, during which the aircraft was vibrating terrifically and apparently on the verge of breaking up. By careful use of radio and other aids, an aerodrome was found and a successful landing was made with no further damage to his aircraft. This officer, when faced with an almost unprecedented emergency in the air, did his job and directed his crew in an extremely laudable manner.”
The navigator on the flight was Flying Officer Frederick La Brish of Regina, Saskatchewan. His Air Force Cross citation for his professionalism during the incident states, in part: “The navigator’s compartment was badly damaged but Flying Officer La Brish quickly gained his full senses and immediately moved aft to the wireless compartment, where he carried on his duties in a very cool and efficient manner, despite having to work on the floor under extremely awkward conditions. That the aircraft successfully completed the return trip in its badly damaged condition is in great part due to this officer’s expert knowledge and coolness under most trying circumstances.”
The Wireless Operator was Flying Officer Cecil Dickson and his citation states, in part: “In spite of the fact that the aerials and loop were missing, he successfully maintained contact with shore installations, and his co-operation with the navigator under extremely trying conditions contributed to a great extent in the safe return of the aircraft to base.”
Also on the flight were Flying Officer Eli Maximillian “Ross” Rosenbaum (30 years) and crewman Corporal A. DeMarco. Rosenbaum’s obituary in 2001 stated: “Eli and the entire crew were awarded the Air Force Cross on May 5, 1944. Eli always joked about having received a medal for saving his own life... From then on, Eli considered his life to be a gift, and he lived his life as though it were indeed a gift to be savored daily, laughing, joking, hugging, always singing and whistling - just happy to be alive.”
Fortress 9205 was then fitted with a temporary fabric nose and upon return to Ottawa, was fitted with the fold-down metal nose cone. But 9205 was a hard luck bird. The following November it made a wheels up landing at Rockcliffe, was repaired and then again in April of 1945 suffered category C damage in the Azores. Luckily, 9205 made it through the war without any more damage, and, after delivering relief supplies to Warsaw, Poland, left 186 Squadron to become a Search and Rescue aircraft. In 1964, 9205 was sold to the Argentinian civil registry as LC-RTP. Horace Hillcoat, Fred La Brish and Cecil Dickson did not fare so well, as we shall see.
There are few photographs available of Fortress 9207, the last of the six, which arrived at Rockcliffe at the start of February 1944. Perhaps it is because she lasted only three months. Just 12 weeks later, on 2 April 1944, 9207 was taking off from Prestwick, bound for Canada. Witnesses saw the Fortress lift off and then climb out with increasing steepness until it stalled and, still under full power, spin out of control and crash into the ground. The “Fort” was completely destroyed by the impact and ensuing fire and the five Canadians on board were killed instantly. The post crash investigation had no definitive cause for the crash but investigators suggest that its cargo of mail had shifted in the steep climb, moving the centre of gravity aft. One just has to view the video of the same thing happening to a Boeing 747 at Afghanistan’s Bagram Airfield to see the devastating effects of a load shifting on take-off. 9207 did not have the mail restraint modifications later installed on the other Fortresses.
Five months later, on 17 September, 9204 suffered Category A damage at Rockcliffe. The Fortress had just landed after a long flight from Prestwick. As the Fortress was taxiing along the Rockcliffe flight line, the undercarriage collapsed, seriously damaging both outer Pratt and Whitney engines and slightly damaging the inner pair. Category A damage is described as “destroyed, declared missing or damaged beyond economical repair.” The damage was serious enough to take the Fortress out of the lineup for good. It was struck off charge on 11 October and parted out. No injuries or fatalities were reported.
Tragedy struck again on 15 December 1944. Boeing B-17 9203, one of the hardest working “Forts” in the fleet, disappeared while on a transatlantic flight from French Morocco to Canada via the Azores. The highly experienced crew, including pilot Horace Hillcoat, and three RCAF pilot passengers never arrived in the Azores. Only a few Royal Mail Canada mailbags were spotted floating on the surface during the search. 168 Heavy Transport Squadron had now lost half of its Fortress Fleet, just one year into operations.
Losing another “Fort” was bad enough, but it was the human loss that truly devastated the squadron. Five of its airmen and three of its passenger charges disappeared into the Eastern Atlantic swell. These were no ordinary pilots and aircrew. Between the two pilots, there were two Distinguished Flying Crosses (DFCs), one Air Force Cross (AFC), Air Force Medal (AFM) and a Dutch Flying Cross. The navigator had an AFM as well. Among the passengers, Flight Lieutenant William Pullar was also a DFC recipient.
Hillcoat’s co-pilot on the doomed flight, Flight Lieutenant Alfred John Ruttledge of Simcoe, Ontario, was even more experienced and his loss dramatically underscored the dangers of the long over-water flights and the unfairness of war. Ruttledge was a distinguished and highly decorated veteran. An article in his hometown newspaper, the Simcoe Reformer, reported that Ruttledge had completed 103 bombing missions over Nazi-occupied Europe, 3 full tours of flying operations and 719 hours of combat flying.
Ruttledge was awarded a rare (for a Canadian) Dutch Flying Cross for his operations over that country. His citation reads: “Over a period of twelve months this officer completed six sorties of a special nature over Holland. He fully appreciated the very great hazards involved, but by the display of the highest degree of resolution, skill and leadership he set a most inspiring example to his contemporaries, and made a very fine contribution to the air effort in Holland.” When asked about his success after his return to Canada with two DFCs and a Dutch Flying Cross, Ruttledge told the Reformer reporter that he was “Just darn lucky”.
At the end of the Second World War, only three Fortresses (9202, 9205 and 9206) had survived. Sadly, that number was cut to just two a few months later, when B-17 9202, the first of the B-17 acquisitions of the RCAF, was lost on a mission of mercy. The aircraft was the same one that had fulfilled the first mission of mercy. 9202 left Ottawa on 31 October 1945 with 39 cases of much needed penicillin. It arrived at Prestwick the following morning, fuelling and then flying on to RAF Manston, England. Two days later on 4 November, 9202 left Manston bound for Warsaw via Berlin, Germany. Around noon the big Fortress, flying low in cloud, struck trees at the top of a high point near Halle, Germany known as Eggeberg Hill. The five Canadians on board were killed instantly as the “Fort” struck the ground, disintegrating and bursting into flame. All were buried in Münster, Germany
The five-man crew consisted of Flight Lieutenant Donald Forest Caldwell of Ottawa (32 years – pilot), Flight Lieutenant Edward Harling of Calgary, Alberta (28 years – co-pilot), Sergeant Edwin Phillips of Montréal (24 years – engineer and loader), Flight Lieutenant Norbert Roche of Montréal (radio operator) and Squadron Leader Alfred Ernest Webster, DFC of Yorkton, Saskatchewan (36 years – navigator).
When the navigator, Squadron Leader Alfred Webster, was awarded a DFC, his citation read: “[his] work as a navigator has been outstanding and only equaled by his courage. On one occasion when his aircraft was attacked by enemy fighters and the wireless operator badly wounded, he coolly and effectively administered first aid. Although handicapped by a damaged chart table, chair and instruments he navigated the aircraft safely back to base. He again displayed exceptional coolness and imperturbability, when his aircraft struck the trailing aerial of another which smashed the front turret and tore his clothes. Owing to his determination and resourcefulness, Flight Lieutenant Webster has several times been able to navigate his badly damaged aircraft back to base.
Engineer and loader Sergeant Edwin Erwin Phillips of Montréal had an interesting back story. Phillips was one of a small group of black Canadians in the RCAF. The Veterans Affairs Canada website included a short profile on Phillips, which reads: “Edwin Erwin Phillips was born in Montréal and worked as a printer’s apprentice before volunteering for service with the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1942 during the Second World War. Only 21 years old when he enlisted, he would go on to work as a mechanic with the No. 168 Heavy Transport Squadron and rise to the rank of sergeant. As part of his duties, Phillips would sometimes accompany transatlantic cargo flights.
The loss of Phillips and his fellow crew members was a devastating blow to the tight-knit squadron. Though their aircraft rarely flew together and were always in distant locations overseas, the men prided themselves with their accomplishments and the quality of their crews. The remaining Fortresses (9205 and 9206) were both struck from the RCAF lists a year later and sold to the civil registry in Argentina. They were both reported scrapped in 1964.
Whilst 168 was operating the Flying Fortresses, it also operated eight Convair-built Consolidated Liberators for Mailcan flights. These aircraft proved incredibly reliable and had a higher capacity for freight. “Libs” accounted for the lion’s share of lifting, accounting for nearly 400 of the Atlantic crossings, all without loss of life. In all, 168 transport aircraft flew 636 times across the ocean. Of these flights, 240 were made by the small fleet of six Flying Fortresses. In Europe, 168 Squadron pilots used DC-3s to do short distance delivery of the mail. With all types of aircraft, Middleton’s 168 Squadron flew 26,417 flying hours and carried 2,245,269 pounds of mail, which included 9,125,000 letters from home and from the front. In addition, the squadron also carried 2,762,771 lbs of freight and 42,057 passengers.
The total weight of cargo, the number of letters, the tally of crossings, the distances and hours flown, tell only half the story. One cannot quantify the greatest of all the accomplishments achieved by the crews and Fortresses of 168 Squadron, for it is as intangible as a knowing smile, a feeling of warmth, or a tear shed in joy. The mighty Mailcan “Forts” and their war hero crews brought news from home, the fragrance of love letters, the renewed hope for reunion, a strengthening of bonds stretched to the extreme, and the knowledge that the home front was still there, that the chaos and horror of Europe could be left behind if a man was to survive. I know in my heart that the men who flew the 168 Heavy Transport Squadron Fortresses understood this well and that their accomplishment brought them great joy. Sadly, they risked and, in some cases, forfeited all to bring our boys letters from home.
I can see them now—Hillcoat and Ruttledge—sitting relaxed in the front of their Flying Fortress, climbing out of Rabat, Morocco, heading west once again to the Azores, the sun shining in through the glass, the four big Wrights thundering, the blue Atlantic off the African coast 10,000 feet below. They chat, they laugh, they conduct their complex business as professionals. Perhaps they are talking about the progress of the war, the fact that it may soon be over. Perhaps they are talking about friends they have lost. Inside, despite the risks of the flight they are undertaking, they are both no doubt relieved that they are headed home to Canada, that they do not have to fly in combat again. All is good. They are returning to their families.
We leave them there, out over the Atlantic where, for ever more, they are young and beautiful and heading home.
By Dave O’Malley