From "Braddock and the Flying Tigers" page 42 – set in 1942

Holton took Braddock’s full names - Matthew Ernest Braddock, his birthplace as Walsall, and his age as 30…………..

“ What was your mother’s birthplace?” snapped the lieutenant.

“ I think she came from Salop,” said Braddock.

“ Where?” exclaimed Holton.

“ Just put Salop,” said Braddock…………….

From Biggles Goes Home - Chapter 2 – A Tough Proposition Page 16

“TELL me, Bigglesworth, where were you born?”Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police at Scotland Yard, put the question to his senior operational pilot who, at his request, had just entered his office.

“That’s a bit unexpected,” answered Biggles, pulling up a chair to the near side of his chief ’s desk. “India. I thought you knew that.”

“Yes, of course I knew. I should have been more explicit. Where exactly in India?”

Biggles smiled faintly. “I first opened my peepers in the dak bungalow at Chini, in Garhwal, in the northern district of the United Provinces.”

“How did that come about?”

“My father had left the army and entered the Indian Civil Service. He was for a time Assistant Cornmissioner at Garhwal and with my mother was on a routine visit to Chini when, as I learned later, I arrived somewhat prematurely. However, just having been whitewashed inside and out, the bungalow was nice and clean, and I managed to survive.”

From BORN TO FLY page 24 of The Rover from 30th Oct 1971

“I’ve come to join the Volunteer Reserve,” said Braddock. “No one was about, so I walked in.” “We don't take mechanics,” replied Butleigh. “Our business is to train pilots.” “That’s what I’m here for,” retorted Braddock. “If I don't go solo quicker than A. F. G. Carrington ” – he made a gesture towards the blackboard - “ you can give me the sack.”………………….

“ Occupation?” “I’m a steeplejack,” said Braddock. “How frightfully interesting,”, remarked Butleigh.

“Where did you go to school?” “I went to an elementary school near Walsall,” Braddock answered. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t measure up to the required educational standard,” said Butleigh smugly. “Candidates must have received an education up to the standard required for the
Oxford and Cambridge school certificate.”……………….

From I FLEW WITH BRADDOCK (First series) The Rover from 4/10/1952
I FLEW WITH BRADDOCK (First series - repeat) The Rover from 26/04/1958
BRADDOCK MASTER OF THE AIR (Repeat of first series) The Rover and Wizard from 25/02/1967

“ Where did you to go school, Braddock ?” he asked. “ That’ll take a bit of remembering,” muttered Braddock. “ I went to schools in Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow, Liverpool, Bristol, and Southampton. Oh, and I was forgetting - I put in a few months at Northampton.”
“You jumped about a bit, didn’t you ?” smiled Santon. “ Dad was a boilermaker, and he had to go where there was work,” explained Braddock.

While living in India he was educated by a private tutor.

At the age of 14 and a half Biggles was in England to attend Public School. He became a boarder at Malton Hall School in Hertbury. The school had previously been attended by his brother, his father and his Brigadier-General uncle.

From - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_school_(United_Kingdom)
A public school is an older, exclusive and expensive fee-paying independent secondary school, located in England or Wales, which caters primarily for children aged from 11/13 to 18. Traditionally, public schools were all-male boarding schools.

Public schools have had a strong association with the ruling classes. Historically they educated the sons of the English upper and upper-middle classes.

In particular, the sons of officers and senior administrators of the British Empire were educated in England
while their parents were on overseas postings.

From BORN TO FLY page 24 of The Rover from 30th Oct 1971

Braddock had put his motor cycle back on the road when he got work again. Before he had obtained this job he could not have spared one and eight pence for a gallon of petrol. He had made the machine himself from second-hand parts he had obtained for a few pounds.

Braddock rode to a tiny house in Canal Road, where he boarded with Mr and Mrs Givens, both of whom received the old-age pension.

From Biggles Hits the Trail - page 10

"Exactly fifty-five minutes later Biggles's Bentley pulled up with a groaning of brakes outside the small country station of Brendenhall."

From Biggles Breaks the Silence - page 9

"The voice came from the other side of the room, where Sergeant Bigglesworth, head of the Department, was regarding the street below through the window of his London flat in Mount Street, Mayfair."

Mount Street, London W1K - 2 bed flat for sale - £4,950,000 in 2015 (zoopla)
2 reception rooms
2 bedrooms
2 bathrooms

From BORN TO FLY page 22 of The Rover from 30th Oct 1971

ON an autumn morning in 1938 three men were working at the top of the new factory chimney at Billingham & Company’s works in Midhampton. The chimney, which was intended to carry away chemical fumes, soared to a height of 350 feet and there were many local arguments as to whether or not it was the tallest in the country……..

The face of a complete stranger appeared. It was that of a young man of robust
physique, though he had the hollow cheeks of someone who was not getting enough to eat. There were also signs of malnutrition in the pouches beneath his unusually large and luminous eyes. He wore a tattered pair of overalls………..

"I just need a job,” said Braddock. “1’ve worked in general engineering, l’ve done some bricklaying in my time and I can drive a lorry.” Jack Foster was impressed by
Braddock. At that time there was a considerable amount of unemployment and for
most jobs that were going in Midhampton there was a score of applicants, but this was the only reply to his advertisement for a steeplejack. “Where did you work last?" he
asked. “I was at the aircraft factory,” Braddock replied…………
“Why did you leave?” Foster inquired. “I didn’t hit it off with the charge-hand,“ said Braddock…………

From Biggles Learns to Fly - page 7

There was little about him to distinguish him from thousands of others in whose ears the call to arms had not sounded in vain. and who were doing precisely the same thing in various parts of the country. His uniform was still free from the marks of war that would eventually stain it. His Sam Browne belt still squeaked slightly when he moved, like a pair of new boots.

There was nothing remarkable or even martial, about his physique; on the contrary, he was slim, rather below average height. and delicate-looking. A wisp of fair hair from one side of his rakishly tilted R.F.C. cap; . now sparkling with pleasurable anticipation, were what is usually called hazel. His features were finely cut, but the squareness of his chin and the firm line of his mouth revealed a certain doegedness, a tenacity of purpose, that denied any suggestion of weakness. Only his hands were small and white, and might have been those of a girl.

His youthfulness was apparent. He might have reached the eighteen years shown on his papers. but his birth certificate, had he produced it at the recruiting office, would have revealed that he would not attain that age for another eleven months. Like many others who had left school to plunge straight into the war, he had conveniently ‘lost’ his birth certificate when applying for enlistment, nearly three months previously.

From Braddock and the Black Rockets
The Rover and Wizard from February 15th 1964 - page 4

“Matt Braddock, a national
hero, especially dear to the
hearts of the people of his home
town, died today in a tragic
accident.
“A steeplejack by trade,
Braddock, the only living air
ace with a V.C. and Bar, fell
into the interior of a four-
hundred-foot-high chimney on
which he was working. A spokes-
man said it was unlikely the
body would be recovered.
“A special reception at the
Town Hall, Walsall, had been
planned for this evening, when
the town had intended to do
honour to its famous hero.
“Now, instead of speeches
and gaiety on a grand scale,
there will be widespread mourn-
ing for the sad loss of a man
who will be remembered as one
of the great personalities of
the last war."

The event was fictitious as the "death" was fake to cover up a secret mission to prevent World War Three!
Details of Braddock's later life were never published so, as the saying goes –

"Old soldiers never die, they simply fade away".

From Biggles: The Authorised Biography by John Pearson – page 310

" …… I was surprised to hear that he was going to the Battle of Britain anniversary celebrations, being held that year at Tangmere. He'd never gone before, but several of the former members of 666 were turning up, and he was invited as a guest of honour. As part of the celebrations, a rich American called Maberley had brought over a beautifully restored Mark VI Spitfire from Texas. It was a rarity, of course, a true collector’s piece, and, judging from the photographs I saw, perfect in every detail. Apparently, one of the young R.A.F. pilots had been scheduled to fly the Spitfire at the head of the fly-past of the latest British jets, and just before take-off, Biggles was standing next to Algy on the tarmac, examining the machines. No one will ever know what got into him — or how he managed it. Presumably the sheer temptation of that wonderful old aircraft standing there, ready for take-off, was too much for him. A momentary old man’s impulse, a brief resurgence of his youth — or had he somehow planned this all along? I wonder. He took everybody by surprise, including Algy. The pilots were just about to board their planes, when he darted forward, shouting, ‘Scramble, chaps!’ And before anyone could stop him, Biggles had swung himself with practised ease into the Spitfire’s cockpit, slammed back the canopy, and started up the engine. It happened very quickly, and from that point there was nothing much anyone could do to stop him. The Controller did his best, of course (he was entirely exonerated at the subsequent inquiry), but Biggles totally ignored the poor man’s frantic messages over the radio. All he replied was ‘O.K. 666. Prepare to intercept the enemy. Large formations of Heinkels and a pack of Messerschmitts coming in from northern France. Fourteen thousand feet. Do your best, chaps!’ Then the radio went dead, and the Spit?re slowly taxied past the crowds, none of whom realised what was going on. He made a perfect take-off, with the jets following him as planned. From the ground the fly-past seemed immaculate, with Biggles’ solitary Spitfire in the lead. Then the crowd saw the Spitfire turn, sweep back across the airport, flipping its wings in a salute, then climb towards the sun, and the coast of France. And that was the last that anybody saw of Biggles.
It was a little hard on Mr. Maberley, of course, after coming all that way from Texas, though presumably his Spitfire was insured, and they gave him back the bits of wreckage which some fishermen at Dover brought ashore a few days later. Of Biggles there was mercifully no trace, and the verdict at his inquest was quite simple — accidental death. His will left everything to the daughter of his old love, Marie Janis."

Matt Braddock VC - originated in the D C Thomson comic "The Rover" and the author was given as "George Bourne". The actual authors were the D C Thomson staff writers who would turn their hand to several different characters as required.

The main writer was Gilbert Lawford Dalton who was born in Kidderminster in 1903, the son of a journalist. His first job was with the Coventry Evening Telegraph and became a part time writer for various DC Thomson comics. In 1936 he became a full-time author. He was reputed to write up to a million words per year. Dalton settled in Leamington Spa after war service, moving to the South Coast in 1958. He died in 1963 at Weymouth.

Birmingham born Alan Hemus (1925-2009) wrote later Braddock stories.

More details of the stories below......................

James Bigglesworth DSO MC (or Biggles) - was featured in magazines and almost a hundred books by Captain W.E. Johns - published between 1932 and his death in 1968.

As Biggles and W.E. Johns are well documented I will do no more than point you to........

http://www.biggles.info/

http://www.biggles-online.com/

http://www.wejohns.com/

SERGEANT-PILOT MATT BRADDOCK, V.C. and Bar, was one of the greatest airmen of the Second
World War. He antagonised every other person he
met, but even those who regarded him with bitter
resentment and hostility admitted that in the air
Braddock had no equal.

l’m Sergeant George Bourne. I did my training in navigation,
wireless and bomb-aiming in Scotland and on May 25, I940 was
posted to Squadron l8B of Bomber Command at Rampton aero-
drome in South-East England. All I knew was that the squadron
few Blenheims.
I needn’t say much about
myself beyond the fact that if
it hadn’t been for the war I
I might have become a pro-
fessional footballer. While play-
ing in goal for our works
team in Birmingham, I had
two or three offers to sign for
League clubs and might have
done so when I’d finished my
apprenticeship in the toolroom.
However the Germans put the
snuffler on those ideas.
When I got to Liverpool
Street Station to catch the
train to Rampton, I found
myself‘ in the crush behind a
burly fellow, who was using his
shoulders to barge a way
through to the barrier.
There were indignant
protests from the people on
whose toes he trod, but he was
deaf to them. He had the
stripes of a sergeant on his
R.A.F. tunic. His pilot’s wings
hung by a few threads. He
carried a kitbag but wasn't
wearing a cap.
This fact was immediately
noted by two R.A.F. police on
duty by the gate and they
pounced on him.
“You’re improperly
dressed !” snapped the sergeant
policeman. “ Where’s your
cap ?
“ Where you ought to be,
over in Belgium !” said the
offender gruffly.
He didn’t keep his voice
down and there were murmurs
of agreement from the Service-
men in the crowd.
“Where are your papers?”

BRIEFING FOR BOUSTRECKE.

BRIEFLY, what was happening
at Rampton was that a
fresh squadron of Blenheim
bombers was being hurriedly
scratched together. France was
in a state of collapse. Our Army
was falling back towards the
coast.
The need for air support was
desperate. There was no time
for a squadron to train for
active service. What was being
done was to provide experienced
pilots, and make up the crews
with types like myself.
I found myself allocated as a
navigator-bomb-aimer to Fly-
ing Officer Taylor. Sergeant
Ken Coe was our gunner. "I
noticed from the list that
Braddock had a chap named
Simley as his navigator.
There was so much hustle
and bustle on arrival that I did
not see Braddock again till next
morning when we were ordered
to the briefing room.
Since the war, many
“ inquests ” have been held on
the German tactics at Dunkirk.
There has always been a
mystery as to why the full
weight of the Panzer Divisions
(the tanks) was not hurled at
Lord Gort’s army. All sorts of
suggestions have been made as
to why the Germans seemed to
hold back.
I am now going to narrate
what to my mind provides at
least a partial explanation of
the riddle.
We straggled into the brief-
ing room where , Squadron
Leader Peter Pitcairn was talk-
ing to the Adiutant, Flight
Lieutenant Srnythe. I liked the
look of Pitcairn. He was a lean,
sinewy type, an R.A.F. regular
and as smart in appearance as a
Guards officer.
We were told to sit down. I
had a chair by Ken Coe, who
had had some operational
experience as a gunner. Flying
Officer Taylor, also an R.A.F.
regular, was iust in front of us.
The door was shut. Pitcairn
glanced at his Watch and moved
so that he was standing in front
of the huge wall map.
“ Today We have an
illustration of the old saying that
needs must when the devil
drives,” he rapped out briskly.
“ In the ordinary course of
events, I should have been given
six months to knock you into
shape. But, events aren’t
ordinary, far from it, and we’ve
got to be up and doing straight-
away. We’re suffering as a
nation because we’ve been
caught unprepared. For myself
I’ve no use for the policy of

rearguards and the Panzer
concentration.”
He slid the pointer through
his hand and let it strike the
floor with a thump.
“ It’s our job to destroy the
lock,” he said. “ It’s going to be
a tough iob. The Germans know
just as well as we do that it’s a
key point. The lock is protected
by anti-aircraft batteries and we
shall also have to keep our eyes
skinned for German fighters.
“ In brief,” he went on, “ it’s
a sticky iob but one that must
be pressed home with the
utmost determination.’ The Met
people promise us some cloud
cover on the way over. We
shall attack in waves and bomb
from a thousand feet with the
sun behind us if there is any
sun-—-—”
The hush, except for Pit-
cairn’s voice, was broken by
the sound of snoring.
Pitcairn shouted in anger.
“ Wake that man up! Take
his name !”
“ It’s Braddock,” said the
Adiutant.
The pale-faced Simley gave
Braddock a shake. Braddock

FIREWORKS AT THE LOCK.

AN hour later, we were cross~
ing the Channel. At 4000
feet, we were over a thin layer
of cloud. From my seat on the
starboard side of D for Don, I
could see C for Charlie, Brad-
dock’s machine.
Forward was the bombing

station into which I should
lower myself when the time
came. Ken Coe was isolated
from us in the gun turret, mid-
way along the fuselage.
Our two Mercury engines
were giving us an air speed of
240 miles an hour. Taylor was a
good pilot and though it was our
first ride together, I felt con-
fidence in him. We were carry-
ing a stick of three 350 lb.
bombs.
I was strung-up but not in a
funk. I’d been scared stiff of
making a hash of my job but
I’d settled down all right and
had a good pilot to nurse me
along. Before we took off, the
C.O.’s last words had been that
the attack must be pushed right
home, regardless of opposition.
The cloud lay over the sea
and we ran into clear sky on
approaching the coast. To the
north-east, vast columns of
smoke were rising.
Our target was twenty miles
inland. The canal, a railway and
a main road formed a triangle.
The village of Boustrecke and
the lock were at the southern
apex.

was dry - steady, keep her
steady - then, as I pressed the
release - BOMBS GONE !
I felt the Blenheim given
leap. It shuddered again at the
moment of turning. Then I
saw columns of smoke and
flame gush up as our bombs
exploded. I shouted in bitter
exasperation. We had straddled
the lock without hitting it.
Taylor was throwing the kite
about as he tried to get out of
the barrage. In one of the turns,
we again saw the lock - un-
touched, penning back the
water that had to be released to
stop the tanks.
It was then I had a startling
glimpse of a Blenheim hopping
over the roofs of the village. Its
outline was blurred in the smoke
as it flew just over the canal
towards the lock. I saw that
Blenheim's bombs go down.
Then three flashes like forked
lightning sizzled in the smoky
murk, and I couldn’t see the
lock for smoke.
I heaved myself out of the
bomb-aimer’s station and
scrambled back to my seat. I
looked across the fields. The
lock had gone. There was a huge
gaping hole from which the
water was gushing like a
cataract.
Louder even than the roar of
our engines was a terrific
explosion just under us. Our
Blenheim turned clean over.
The hatch was blown out.
Objects flew round me. We
looped the loop and when we
came out of it, the plane was
diving and Taylor hung in his
straps with his head lolling like
an apple on a twig.
I unhooked myself, reached
over, grabbed hold of the stick
and pulled it back, hampered by
Taylor’s limp body. I gritted my
teeth, braced my legs and put
my weight on the stick and it
shifted. The horizon started to
fall away..Slowly the Blenheim
came back on to an even keel.
Looking back, I don’t know
how I got Taylor out of his seat
and into 1t myself. I tried to
speak to Ken, but the inter-
com was not working. Nothing
seemed to be working. The
compass needle had jammed
and according to the altimeter
we were at 17,000 feet.
I had flown a plane before but
was nowhere near a pilot’s
proficiency. During training, I
had handled an Anson in the air
though I’d never landed or tried
to.
Except that Belgium was
underneath, I’d. no clear idea
of my whereabouts. All my
charts had blown away through
the hatch.
The Blenheim was flying
erratically. It kept dipping and
rising, dipping and rising like a
car on a switchback.
Another Blenheim appeared
to starboard. It was C for
Charlie. I turned my head and
saw Braddock. He lifted a hand
and signalled that I was to
follow him.
He led me out across the
coast and over the sea. When I
had time to look, I saw there
were holes in his port wing and
the rudder was chewed-up like
a boxer’s ear. Just the same, it

26 or 27. He sat on the edge of
a table and watched.
We decided to play 301 up,
starting and finishing, of course,
with a double.
Braddock hardly seemed to
take aim. His first throw was
the Double Twenty which set
him off. Then he threw a
Treble Twenty, went for it
again, just grazed the wire and
scored a Twenty—a total, of
120.
Harman laughed.
“ You’ve caught a tartar,
George,” he said.
“ I shall see he gives me a
start next time,” I smiled.
The game was a foregone
conclusion. Braddock won
easily.
Harman had the next game
with him, but didn’t do much
better. Another pilot, Charlie
Black, saw rnost of it.
“ You’ll have to take your
darts down to the Hen and
Squirrel, Brad,” he said,
referring to the village inn.
“ They have a champion who
plays there.”
Braddock looked interested.
“ A champ, eh ?” he grunted.
“ He won some tournament
in Birmingham,” said Charlie.
“ They keep his cup in a glass
case.
“I’ll have to have a game
with him,” remarked Braddock.
“ Forget it!” Harman ex-
claimed. “ The place has been
out of bounds for a week.”
“ Then it shouldn’t be,”
growled Braddock. “ I never
drink - it’s bad for the eyes -
but why should I be barred
from having a game of darts ?”
“ Because it’s - orders,”
retorted Harman. “ There was
too much careless talk. Walls
have ears and all that !”
“ Lot of rot !” said Braddock.
Harman dismissed the subiect
with a shrug.
“ Do I have to remind you
chaps that there’s a lecture this
evening ?” he exclaimed.
“ Attendance is compulsory.”
“ That’s a bind,” said
Charlie Black.
“ First I’ve heard of it!”
snapped Braddock.
“ It was given out in orders
and it’s on the notice board,”
stated the flight-sergeant.
Braddock made no comment.
He laid three darts on the palm
of his hand and propelled them
off with a flick. He scored three
bulls-eyes.

TROUBLE FOR BRADDOCK

TOWARDS l9.00 hours, seven
o'clock in the evening, there
was a. move towards the briefing
room in which the lecture was
to take place.
To me, there were many un-
familiar faces among the fellows
who were lining up to go in. In
addition to 18B, Rampton had
a second Blenheim Squadron
and a third was in process of
formation.
Harman and another flight-
sergeant ticked off our names as
we went in.
I was looking forward to the
lecture. It was to be given by

destroying the lock at Bous-
trecke,” he said crisply. “ The
Army are very pleased about
it. I hear that Sergeant
Braddock applied the finishing
touch . . . ’
He paused and looked round.
“ Is Sergeant Braddock
here ?” he inquired.
“ He should be,” said
Martingley and looked
questioningly across the room.
Harman’s voice rang out.
“ No sir, he’s not here,” he
reported .
There was a brief, tense
pause and then Halder started
to give his talk.
"We're in a tight corner ”
he said. “ In a few days’ time,
we shall have been thrown out
of Europe. The only attacking
weapon then left in our hands
will be that of Bomber Com-
mand. We are the only people
who can hurt the enemy on his
own ground. While Fighter
Command will be fighting hard
to withstand the inevitable
attacks by the Luftwaffe, the
German Air Force, we’ll still be
able to hit the Hun where it hurts.
“ Believe me, we’re going to
have a vital job in stopping

out on suicide operations, but
when you are given a mission
you must look on it as vital
and bang it right home.”
Much of the lecture was
technical. The recent air fight-
ing had provided much valuable
“ gen” about the Luftwaffe.
He told us, for instance, that
though the Messerschmitt 110
had great speed and rate of
climb, its manoeuvrability was
poor and its tail unit was
dangerously weak. .
He made the point that the
Germans’ ground to air com-
munications were poor. -
“lt’s extraordinary, but the
Hun appeared to think he could
do without ground control,” he
said; “Now he’s finding out
that he can’t. He’ll catch up in
time, of course, but it’s a weak
point at the moment.”
The lecture, with answers to
questions, lasted for fully two
hours. Discussing what we had
heard, we gradually filtered out.
I saw a motor vehicle, with
the label “R.A.F. Police” on
tihe windscreen, enter the aero-
rome.
Harman flung up an arm
and pointed at the truck.

He’s the greatest pilot of them
all, but he’s never out of
trouble. Look out for more
thrills with Matt Braddock in
“The Rover” out next
Thursday.

STARTING TODAY.
Sergeant Matt Braddock, V.C., D.F.M.,
was one of the R.A.F.’s greatest pilots.
His story is told here by Sergeant George
Bourne, D.F.M., who flew as his naviga-
tor. At the time this new series of
episodes opens, Bourne had not seen
Braddock for three months. He’s had one
postcard from him which conveyed the
news that he was “in the pink,” but which
contained no further information. In Sept-
ember, 1941, Bourne received a posting to
Carstock, in Oxfordshire. This appoint-
ment came after he’d finished a course in
special aerial photography. The back-
ground of the war was that the German
armies dominated Europe and were
advancing far into Russian territory. In
North Africa, British troops had been
driven back by the Germans and Italians
into Egypt.

The ceremonial went on.
The only part which impressed
me was the presentation of the
medals. We marched past and
then came the word our feet
were aching for, “Dismiss,”
I inquired about Braddock
and nearly had an ear bitten
off by Sergeant Drax. Braddock
was in the guardroom and,
in the sergeant’s opinion, would
be lucky to get away with
less than three months in the
cooler.
I was outside during the
afternoon when there was a
hum of aircraft engines
up above.
This was no returning Spit-
fire. I saw Group Captain
Renton and Squadron Leader
Trayle come out of the admini-
stration building and join those
of us who were looking sky-
Wards.
A lovely-looking twin-
engined aircraft, flew into the
circuit.
“ It’s a Mosquito, sir,” Trayle
exclaimed.
“First I’ve seen,” Renton
said. “ Hello, he’s putting his
wheels down. He’s going to
land here.”
“ It’s not the Mosquito night
fighter which has a flat wind-
screen,” the Squadron Leader
muttered.

TARGET BERLIN
IF the Group Captain
had been asked if
there was an uncaged
tiger about the place he
could not have been
more surprised.
Wayne hitched back his cuff
and glared at his wrist watch.
“Has the R.A.F. messed
things up?” he snapped.
“ Sometimes I think you people
couldn’t run a whist drive.
You’re all flannel and no
action. I was definitely promised
by the Commander-in-Chief
that Braddock would be wait-
ing for me.”
Renton was still in a daze.
“ He was to fly here in a
Harvard,” went on Wayne.
“I was to go back in it.”
“He has arrived,” Renton
spluttered and t u r n e d
brusquely on Trayle. “ Send
Braddock here immediately,
Squadron Leader.”
Trayle left the scene at the
double. Renton offered his
cigarette case to Wayne.
Wayne shook his head.
“Nobody is to enter this
Mosquito except Braddock and
his navigator,” he said. “You
might as well know it’s the
first photo-recce Mosquito ever
made, and there are features
about it that we’re keeping
secret. We’re sending mechanics
from the works to service it.”
I saw hurrying figures in
the distance. Lagging behind

TEST FLIGHT
WHILE we went to
kit up, sentries
kept guard over
the Mosquito.
“ It’s a grand plane, George,”
Braddock said enthusiastically.

“ It’s tops. I’ve never flown
one half so good.”
“Have you been at the
factory these three months
since I last saw you ?” I asked.
“Most of it,” replied
Braddock. “ Do you know what
the machine’s made of ?”
“ Some light alloy,” I
guessed.
“Have another think,” he
chuckled. “ It’s made of birch-
wood laths and balsa plywood
glued under pressure. The
wings and fuselage are covered
in doped cloth.”
“ Sounds flimsy,” I gasped.
“ It’s about the strongest
plane ever made,” he said.
“As for speed, we can cruise
at three-seventy-five miles an
hour at twenty—five thousand
feet. You can add another
ten thousand feet to get its
ceiling.”
“ Some plane," I exclaimed.
“ It’s the war winner,”
declared Braddock. .
When I climbed the ladder
I found there was a wonderful
view from the cockpit which
was placed over the leading
edge of the wing. The seats
were practically side by side.
Under the nose was a little
compartment with a trans-
parent panel. From here the
two cameras, one on each
side, were operated. Instead
of being a bomb-aimer I should
be the camera-aimer, so to
speak.
I settled down comfortably,
fixed the straps, and put on
the oxygen-mask with its micro-
phone. '
Braddock started the engines
and we waited for them to
warm up. Then there was a
hiss of compressed air as he
released the brakes. The air-
screws kicked up the dust
as we taxied on to the runway.
I was able to watch Braddock
closely. He held the brakes
on hard while he ran each
engine.
“ Main !” he snapped.
I checked that the petrol
cocks were switched “on.”
“Main, okay,” I said.
Braddock released the brakes
and his hand moved on the
throttles. I felt the surge of
power, pinning me back in
my seat. In a few moments
our tail was off the ground.
Braddock jerked at a lever to
lift the stumpy undercarriage.
I unhooked my table and
let it down then. I made my
first note in a new log-book.
I settled down to get my
bearings. I looked at the gyro-

DECEPTIVE TALK
THAT night, round
I about a quarter-
past ten, Braddock
and I were together in our
sleeping quarters. We had
been given a room with a
couple of beds to our-
selves.
I had spread my maps on
my bed. Across them I’d
ruled the thin pencilled lines
that marked the course we
had to follow on our flight
to Berlin.
Braddock went over those
maps inch by inch. We picked
landmarks in order to check
drift. .
By this stage of the war,
the enemy had his radar
stations in operation over wide
areas. Therefore we had
arranged several changes of
direction so as to mislead
their radar.
What Bomber Command
wanted from us was pictures
of Berlin’s new war factories
in the north-eastern part of
the city.
There were two forms of
aerial photography, the vertical

lectured about security, but
the factory mechanics sent here
to be the Mosquito’s ground
crew are the ones with loose
tongues,” he said.
“What have they done?”
inquired Braddock.
“Tonight they went to the
Rose and Crown,” rapped out
Renton. “ There was a police-
man in plain clothes mixing
with the crowd. He heard
Frank Harris arguing with Pete
Paull about the distance to
Bordeaux and back. The latter
answered that the new plane
would do the trip on half a
tank of fuel.”
“ What have you done about
it ?” Braddock asked.
“ They were arrested as soon
as they got back to their
quarters,” stated the Station-
master. '
Braddock grinned broadly.
“ Then you’d better let ’em
out,” he said. “They've done
a good job.”
Renton gave a jump.
“A good job ?” he echoed.
“Not half,” said Braddock.
“I'm not going to Bordeaux.
I can tell you that much.”
Renton leaned back in his
chair.
“ So it was intended to
deceive any enemy spy who
might hear it,” he muttered.
“That’s right,” said Brad-
dock. “ I put Frank and Pete
up to it.”

ENEMY COAST
AHEAD
WE had breakfast just
as it was getting
light. My confi-
dence in Braddock and the
Mosquito was such that
my appetite did not suffer.
After his second cup of tea,
Braddock went off to phone
the “Met” office at Group.
He wasn’t away long. When
he came back he turned up a
thumb.
“ It’s on, George,” he said.
“ I’1l give you the details in
a minute, but, in a nutshell,
We’ll have light cloud for part
of the journey. Clear sky is
forecast over the target.”
Renton was waiting for us
when we went out.
“The best of luck,” he
exclaimed. “When shall we
be seeing you again?”
“ Inside five hours with any
luck,” said Braddock.
With my navigation bag
over my shoulder, I climbed
up into the plane. I ought
to mention that the bag had

It was routine at first, but
when we passed over the
English coast Braddock dived
to within 20 feet of the water.
I could tell by Braddock’s
attitude that he was as wary
as a hare. You don’t sit back
and relax when you’re low
flying. One dip, and you’ve
had it. Water is as hard as
concrete when you’re flying
at 250 miles an hour.
The French coast came up
as a hazy line which rapidly
grew firmer. So far so good.
Our landmark, a large house
on a cliff, was ahead. I kept
my fingers crossed in the
hope that the German gunners
weren’t waiting to draw a
bead on us.
I saw a flash and I said,
“They’re shooting.”

our fighter pilots during the
Battle of Britain.
The Messerschmitts took
shape and were streaking across
the sky like furies.
“ It’s almost too warm, isn’t
it ?” remarked Braddock, and
yawned.
He made a slight change
of course. He opened the
throttles and our speed jumped
up with a shrill scream.
The Messerschmitts got no
nearer, and I soon realised
they were dropping back. With
our air speed verging on 400
miles an hour in level flight
we were leaving them.
I noted the time in my log
with the remark, “Three Me.
109’s sighted, but they soon
got out of breath.”
We sped on, penetrating

Braddock and Bourne are off
for a bash at Berlin. How
they got on you'll find out
NEXT WEEK!

BRADDOCK FLEW BY NIGHT (Third series) The Rover from 19^th Sept 1953 for 11 weeks

BRADDOCK FLEW BY NIGHT (Third series - repeat) The Rover and Wizard from 11^th  May 1968 for 11 weeks

Also see my Flickr album - Matt Braddock VC - boys comic stories

Many, many readers have asked for another story about the R.A.F.’s No. I pilot,
Matt Braddock. Here it is. IT STARTS TODAY.

HERE I am again, writing about the war-time exploits of one of the
greatest airmen of all time, Sergeant Mott Braddock, V.C.
I am Sergeant George
Bourne, and I flew as his navigator.
The story I now have to tell is
about the great bomber offensive
against Germany during the 1939-
45 war.

“ Come with me, Sergeant
Braddock !” he exclaimed, and
whisked Braddock out of the
clutches of the startled flight-
sergeant.
A minute afterwards Brad-
dock was ushered into the
presence of the Commander-in-
Chief of Bomber Command.
The Air Marshal stood and
held out his hand.
“We’ve got you back into
the bomber fold at last,” he
said.
The Air Marshal smiled
grimly.
“ Fifty men can win the War,
Braddock, and you’re one of
them," he said. “ At last we’re
starting to get the bombing
craft with which we can hit
the enemy hard—but we shall
never knock him out unless
we hit him in the right place.
Sit down! There’s a lot to
talk about.”
The ‘Commander-in-Chief
and Braddock were together, so
I heard later, for four hours.
That was the kind of flyer
Braddock was. Although only
a sergeant—because he had
always refused to become an
officer——he was the kind of
pilot that the big bosses them-
selves discussed plans with.

CHANGE OF
CIRCUMSTANCES
I HAD my leave and I
was then ordered to
take a course at the
A d v u n c e d Navigation
School, at Malwick, in the
Midlands.
At Malwick I was shown for
the first time a new instrument
called Gee. It had been made
to help bombers in finding their
target at night.
The idea behind this new
instrument called Gee was that
the navigator could fix his
exact position by means of
radio impulse signals coming
to him from headquarters
through the instrument.
The Commanding-Officer at
the school was Wing-Com-
mander Raught. He was a
ruthless, cold-blooded man and
kept us hard at it. There were
long lectures every morning
and afternoon and work to be
done in the evenings. He
allowed no leave into the town.
One warm afternoon Wing-
Conmander Raught had all the

“ Return to your class,
Bourne !” barked the Wingco.
Braddock pulled the motor
bike round.
“ Hop on, George,” he said.
I swung astride the pillion
and Braddock paddled away.
The engine roared. We accele—
rated like a Mosquito.
“ Where are we going, Brad?”
I shouted.
“ Craxby,” he answered over
his shoulder. “Headquarters of
5A Bomber Group.”
“ Bombers again!” I ex-
claimed.
“ The Heavy Brigade,” Brad-
dock calledout.
We threaded our way through
the narrow streets of Malwick.
“ They won’t catch you now,
George,” he shouted.
I got a glimpse of the ‘speedo-

BRADDOCK’S CREW
IN I942 the build-up of
Bomber Command
was slowly develop—
ing. It had had to wait for
aircraft and crews. ln
l940, when in vasion
threatened, it had been
necessary to turn out
fighter aircraft and pilots
fast for the defence
against the G e r m a n
raiders.
In January of 1942, Britain
could only put 42 heavy
bombers into the air at a time.
When Braddock fetched me
away from Malwick in the
early autumn the position was

briskly towards the administra-
tion block.
“ There’s the Stationmaster,”
Devenish exclaimed. “I’ll ask
him about it.
Squadron-Leader Devenish
dashed out, intercepted the
Stationmaster, and entered into
a conversation with him. It
concluded when Group-
Captain Larke shook his head.
Devenish came back in.
“ He can’t help,” he stated.
“ Postings have to go through
the normal channels. They can’t
be side-tracked.”
Braddock moved to the desk_
“ Can I borrow your phone?”
he asked and picked up the
receiver. “ Put me through to
Group,” he said.
The operator at Group Head-
quarters answered.
“ I want to speak to the Air
Officer Commanding,” Brad-
dock exclaimed.
A horrified gasp broke from
Parr.
“ You can’t speak to Air
Vice-Marshal Pringell,” he said
hoarsely.
Apparently the telephone
operator was protesting.
“ My name’s Braddock,”
roared my pilot. “ Tell him!”
There was a slight pause
and he was through.
“ What d’you want, Brad-
dock ?” we heard Air Vice-
Marshal Pringell ask.
-“ There’s a bit of bother
because I’ve brought Sergeant
George Bourne along as my
navigator and he hasn’t been
posted here,” said Braddock.
“ All right,” replied the Air
Vice-Marshal. “ If he’s the
navigator you want, you can
have him. If there anything
else you want ?”
“ There are two other chaps
I’ve asked along,” he said. “ I’d
like Sergeant Ham Hancox to
be my second pilot and flight-
engineer, and Sergeant Tom
Tanner to be the bomb-aimer.”
“ That’s all right,” answered
the Air Vice-Marshal.
Braddock had picked the
crew he wanted to fly with
him, and he was only a sergeant.
But what a sergeant !

TARGET FOR
TONIGHT
A KEEN wind blew
across the drome
when we
descended from our Lan-
caster, F Fox, after a test
flight two mornings later.
The Lancaster loomed vast
over our heads as we started

cause of the smoke from factory
stacks. It’s strongly defended.
just the same, we’re going to
hit it—and hit it hard. The
Lancasters which are equipped
with Gee are going to lead the
way in tonight.”
There was tension in the air.
We were going raiding over
dangerous ground.
“ This is the plan,” the
A.O.C. stated. “The Lan-
casters will be loaded with
flares. You will use your Gee
instruments to locate the city
and drop the flares. You will
be followed in by a wave of
Wellingtons with incendiary
bombs. These should start
fires to guide in the main force
of Halifaxes with the big bombs.
Your flares will go down a
midnight.”
Dr Studley coughed drily.
“ You may place full reliance
in your Gee apparatus,” he ex-
claimed. “The Gee fixes will
guide you to the centre
Essen.”
“That’s what you hope,
said Braddock.
Dr Studley frowned.
“ In recent tests the apparatus
has worked perfectly,” he re-
torted.
“ No doubt,” said Braddock,
“ but in your tests the aircraft
would be flying straight with
no night fighters, searchlights,
or flak. It’s one thing to use
your fancy instruments on a
nice smooth trip. It’s another
to get your fixes when the plane
is being chucked about all over
the sky. Still, we’ll see.”

THE RAID ON
ESSEN
I HEARD Braddock say,
“Get ready to start up".
" O K," Ham answered.
Ready to start up."
" C on t a c t starboard
outer!“ Braddock snapped.
As Ham pressed the starter
buttons in turn the engines
crackled, spat, and thundered.
I looked down through my
window. Twenty feet below
men of the ground crew pulled
on the long ropes to move the
wheel chocks. I heard the hiss
of air as Braddock released the
brakes. Swaying and rumbling,
our thirty-ton bomber headed
for the runway.
As we approached, I saw a
Lank racing along the flare-
path. Squadron — Leader
Devenish in A Ack was taking
off.
Ham called the control tower.
“ Hello, control. F Fox call-

into the picture when I gave
Braddock the course.
“ Ten minutes to the coast,
I said.
It was a dark night, clear
over England, but with a fore-
cast of clouds over the Contin-
ent.
Between the two front
windows was the large repeating
compass. I noticed how
Braddock’s eyes were never
still. He looked at the compass
and then at the air-speed
indicator.
We were climbing as we
passed over the coast. Some-
where in the darkness were the
nine other Lancasters whose
job was to plant the flares on
the middle of Essen.
The Wellingtons and the
Halifaxes would also be air-
borne by now, coming from
various aerodromes. It was
going to take some skilful staff
work to bring them over the
target at the right times.
I returned to my cabin. In
front of me on the table was
the chart prepared for use with
the Gee instrument.
Braddock’s voice came
though on the inter-com-
munication phones.
“ How are you getting on
with Gee ?” he asked.
“ Fine,” I said. “It makes
my job easy.”

Has the first raid been a com-
plete failure? Is the Gee any
good? The answers will be
supplied NEXT WEEK in a great
story.

I FLEW WITH BRADDOCK ( series 4 ) The Rover - 5 Dec 1953 for 54 weeks

BRADDOCK – MASTER OF THE AIR The Rover and Wizard - Repeat of the fourth series from 27^th  July 1968 for 54 weeks.

Also see my Flickr album - Matt Braddock VC - boys comic stories

FOR NEW READERS.
After flying at night with the Pathfinders, Sergeant Matt Braddock, V.C., one of
the R..A.F.’s greatest pilots, received a temporary posting to Brinkley, the American
Flying Fortress Station. His navigator, Sergeant George Bourne, who tells the story,
went with him.
Some time previously Braddock had made a forced landing at Brinkley and had
nearly come to blows with Top-Sergeant Pete Lannigan, who saw no good in anything
British.
Braddock was told he was going to fly a Fortress named the Yonkers Kid——and
Lannigon was a gunner in the crew.

WE headed for Brinkley on Braddock's motor-bike. We had been
told we were going on an important liaison job, The leaders
of the American Air Force knew that their men and them-
selves were novices in war, and were most anxious to get all the help
and advice they could from the R.A.F., which was the reason for our
posting.

Braddock had never once derided
what the Americans were doing.
He was for hitting the enemy with
both fists; in other words, to raid
them night and day.
We were getting very near to the drome
when Braddock stopped and I heard a roar
of engines.
, “ A Fortress,” he said, and we stared up.
“ A Mark Two judging by the turrets,”
I exclaimed.
“ That’s right,” said Braddock. “The
Mark One was under-gunned for a day-
light bomber. They’ve stuck a lot of armour
on ’em now and given ’em thirteen wal1op-
ing big machine-guns. It isn’t a weight-
lifter like our Lancasters, but it canfly six
and seven miles high. I’ll be interested in
their special bomb-sight.”
A jeep faced up and jerked to a violent
stop. The American police, in white
helmets, who sprang out reminded me of
tough guys I’d seen at the pictures.
“ Can’t you read ?” demanded a “ gor-
illa ” with a helmet on, and pointed to a

NO FLIES ON
BRADDOCK
It was no doubt sur-
prising to the Ameri-
cans that the R.A.F.
had sent two sergeants on
the liaison job. The point
was this, that in any big
American plane, the pilot,
co - pilot, navigator and
bambardier (bomb-aimer)
were officers, and the
radio operator and gunners
were N.C.O.s
Braddock’s co-pilot was to be
Lieutenant Charlie Forde and
the bombardier was Lieutenant
Garry Hurd. Both were young-
sters and had done two or three
combat flights.
The kit issued for high-
altitude flying included heavy
underwear, an electrically-
heated flannel suit, fleece-lined
leather trousers, and a sheepskin
jacket. The gunners were the
men who really felt the cold, for
the heating arrangements at the
rear of the Fortresses were not
good. , when flying six miles
high a gunner could get frost-
bite if he took off a glove to
adjust a gun.
Bracldock’s request that we
should take off for a test flight
was at once granted.

rabbit’s foot, Sam?” he asked.
“ Yes,” said Sam Wooding,
one of the waist gunners.
“ Stroke it hard,” Lannigan
exclaimed. “ I guess we’l1 need
all the luck that’s going.”
A green rocket went up from
the control tower and we began
to move. Leaving a cloud of blue
smoke, we picked up speed, and
the concrete was a blur through
the plexiglass. I saw the ground
fall away. We roared over the
perimeter track and the road.
We were not carrying a load,
and Braddock took us away in a
steep, climbing turn.
“What’s the course,
George?” he asked.
“ Three three zero magnetic,”
I said.
There was a babble of idle
chatter and snatches of song over
the inter-com. Lannigan’s voice
was loudest.
“ I went into town last night,
Sam,” he said. “Talk about a
dump ! The dance hall was like
a morgue, with a band they
must have dug up from the
cemetery?-”
Braddock cut in sharply.
“ Get this clear,” he snapped,
“in this plane there’l1 be no
talking that isn’t necessary.
Anybody who natters will be on
the mat the moment the flight
ends. Gunners will identify and
report all aircraft sighted.”
“ Say, our limey skipper is
chucking his weight about,”
ieered Lannigan. " '
“ You’ve had your last chance
Lannigan,” snapped Braddock.
“ If there’s another bleat from
you I’ll put you out.”
Almost in the same breath he
called the top-turret gunner.
" 'Why haven’t you reported
the three aircraft at three
o’clock high?” he demanded.
Fields of fire and approach
were indicated by the clock face
system. The plane’s nose was at
twelve o’clock and the tail at
six o’clock.
“ Sorry,” gasped Sergeant Ike
Lewis. “ Haven’t sighted them
yet. Yep, 1’ve got ’em now.
Three dots!” -
“ What are they?” Braddock
rapped out. “ They’re near
enough to identify.”
“ I think they’re Spitfires.”
Lewis exclaimed.
“ They're Hurricanes,” snap-
ped Braddock as the fighters ap-
proached nearly head-on. “ If
they were Spits they’d have the
radiators under the starboard
wing instead of central.”
I looked down and saw a
couple of high-wing planes with

THE RETURN OF
LANNIGAN
LATE that night I was
out in the black-
out, heading for
our hut, when I heard a
couple of sergeants from
another crew talking in
the darkness.
“ Pete Lannigan has just
come in,” said one of them.
“ He thumbed rides most of the
way, but he had to walk from
the town. He’s mad.”
“He’ll get ribbed. Everyone’s
laughing,” was the answer.
“ That guy Braddock must be a
tough egg.”
“ He means to be the boss of
his own ship.”

A grin spread across Brad-
dock’s rugged face.
“ You’d better turn in early,
George,” he chuckled. “ You’ll
be getting up at three.”

FORTRESS OVER
FRANCE
THE target was to be
a factory n e a r
Lille where muni-
tions were being manu-
factured for the Germans.
Two groups were to make
the raid, some sixty ships
in all.
At three o’clock in the morn-
ing we were aroused, and for my
benefit somebody exclaimed,
“ Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.”
Yawns mingled with groans.
I dragged on some clothes
after having a wash, and then
went out on the way to the mess
for breakfast. The sky was clear,
with the stars still shining.
After breakfast we went to the
briefing-room, which was dazz-
lingly lit. On the wall was a
great map on which the target
was indicated by a square of
transparent plastic, with red
route lines leading to it and
away.
I listened to the comments.
“ Germany, here we come,”
was one remark I caught.
“ Who’s afraid of the blamed
Focke Wulfs ?” was another.
I need not give the details of
the briefing, which was ex-
tremely thorough and illus-
trated by pictures of the target
projected on to a screen.
“ On this mission we are
receiving fighter support from
Spitfire squadrons,” stated
Colonel Cahey.
Lannigan shrugged.
“ I don’t think much of Spit-
fires,” he muttered. “ You just
wait till we get our Thunder-
bolts across. They’re real
fighters-—yes, sir.”-
From outside came the sound
of motors being started and
tested. I went to an adjoining
office with the navigators, where
we plotted out the route on our
maps.
When we went out it was
starting to get light. I caught up
with Braddock, and we walked
towards the Yonkers Kid to-
gether.
Colonel Cahey’s aircraft,
Yukon Digger, moved slowly
from its bay and turned on to
the track. He was followed by
Captain Tarr’s Homicide
Bureau. We were the third to
go.

" DON'T TALK TO
BRADDOCK!”
THE target was
smothered in
s m o k e as we
swung away. The chatter
was tremendous.
“We’ve flattened it.”
“Boy, what a bonfire!”
“ Hitler will chew up another
carpet.”
Braddock’s voice rasped out.
“We’re not coming home
from a school treat,” he
snapped. “ Stop nattering and
watch out.”
We turned for him, and there
was silence until Ike Lewis
reported that a Fort was dis-
abled and had dropped out of
the formation. I saw the big
ship flying on three engines
and with a tailplane darnaged.
I thought it would be all right,
as Spitfires were with it.
We met a fresh formation of
Spits before reaching the coast.
That the raid had been com-
paratively uneventful was due, I
was sure, to our having a con-
tinuous fighter escort. The
trouble would come when the
Forts passed beyond fighter
range in raids on Germany.
Our formation flew back to
Brinkley, and the elements
broke off. Two aircraft that were
slightly damaged landed first.
The others quickly came in.
“ What did you think of it,
Brad?” I asked after we had
left the ship.
“ We’re seeing the start of a
very big thing,” he said
gruffly. “ The formation-keep-

ing was first-class. Mind, the
anti-aircraft fire was feeble,
and the Spits held the fighters
off. The real test will come on
the first long-distance raid.”
We went into the briefing-
room to be interrogated. There
was a table for each crew.
Lieutenant Spragg, who wore
rimless glasses, was our interr-
ogator-
“ Do you claim any enemy
fighters as destroyed ?” he asked.
“ Do we claim any ?” yelled
Lannigan. “ I got two myself.”
“ I shot down a couple,
Lieutumat,” boomed Ike Lewis.
“ I sent down a Messer-
schmitt in flames!” exclaimed
Sam Wooding.
“ I got one for sure and hit
another,” declared the tail-
gunner.
“ Gee; you’ve been busy,”
chirped Spragg, his eyes gleam-
ing excitedly.
“ You can wipe the lot out,”
rasped Braddock. “We didn’t
shoot down a single Hun.”
The faces that turned on
Braddock were indignant and
hostile.
“ Are you saying I'm lying?”
snarled Lannigan. “ A Focke
Wulf dropped away smoking.”
“ He dived under full control
with some smoke trailing from
the exhaust stubs,” snapped
Braddock.
Lannigan glared at him.
“ What about the second ‘Wulf
that turned over?” he de-
manded harshly.

THE LORIENT PENS
THE German U-Boa-ts
were hitting us
hard. With France
in their hands, the enemy
had established bases at
places like Brest, Lorienr
and Bordeaux for their
Arlarntic raiders. With
German thoroughness, the
enemy built U -Boat
shelters, great concrete
boxes, in the harbours.
Round them were the
engineering shops.
Three days after the Lille
raid, we were briefed for a raid
on the submarine pens at
Lorient.
It was stated that three

Braddock leads a bombing
raid on the U-boat pens in
Lorient. Don't miss NEXT
WEEK'S clash with Lannigan,
it's a real humdinger.

Braddock flies on a
routine mission and
comes back with the
most astounding report
of the war. Read about
it in this. new story!

NOW I am going to tell the story of
Braddock’s greatest exploit of the
war. It is a story that until now has
been shrouded in mystery, but at last
it can be told.
Sergeant Matt Braddock, V.C., had
already established himself as one of
the R.A.F.’s greatest pilots before this
story starts. I am Sergeant George
Boume, and I flew as his navigator.
Towards the end of an autumn after-
noon, I was waiting at Paddington
Station for Braddock. We had been
given a short leave and posted to
Ambleton, an aerodrome in the South-
West Midlands. I knew we should be
flying in Mosquitos again, but that was
about all I did know.
It was my guess that we should be
on reconnaissance flights, as Mosquitos
employed on long-range scouting
missions flew from that part of the
country. But it was only a guess.
Our train was due to leave at 4.10,
and that meant I could expect Brad~
dock to show up at about 4.8. He
wouldn't miss the train, but he
would not waste any time by arriving
early.
Around the entrance to number two
platform there was suddenly a stir.
Policemen seemed to sprout from the
ground. Passengers, civil and military,
were shooed out of the way in a polite
but very firm manner.
A minute or so later the Great Man
walked from the entrance towards the
platform. You should have seen the
Military Police risking dislocations of
the elbow as they saluted, and many
civilians took off their hats -- and
looked pleased at having the oppor-
tunity to do so.
The Great Man was Mr William
Lorrimer, a person nearly as important
as the Prime Minister himself.
Even as he walked into a railway
station, he gave the impression of
having tremendous vitality and tre~
mendous force. His eyes, beneath bushy
eyebrows, seemed to take us all in at
a sweeping glance. I’d never seen such
a dominating forehead, such a massive
chin.
“Lummy, I wouldn’t like to get on
the wrong side of him,” muttered an
airman who was standing near me.
That was how the Great Man affected
you. He was merely walking to a train
and yet his overwhelming personality
could be felt.
It was small wonder that Admirals,

BRADDOCK ARRIVES
BRADDOCK wasn’t one of the
willowy, languid pilots. He was
tremendously rugged. His expression
was challenging with a hint of burning
impatience. His eyes were unusually
big and had that far-sighted, trans-
parent look you so often see in air
pilots and sailors.
He was wearing battledress with
greasy smears on the blouse and knees.
He had not buttoned the blouse down
on to his trousers, and so there was
a gap at the back through which his
shirt was visible.
I guessed that he’d packed in a
hurry, for what looked like a woolly
vest poked out of his kitbag. His
medal ribbons hung by a few threads.
“ Have you been having a roll in the
road? “ I asked him by way of greeting.

Braddock grinned.
“You’re getting fussy in
your old age, George,” he
retorted. “But, as a matter
of fact, I have been having
a roll in the road. A bloke’s
car dropped a track rod, and
I had to give him a hand
with the repair.”
Braddock was always a
kind of human magnet to
Service Police. Four or five
converged on him. A
sergeant, with a mouth like
the slit of a letter-box,
pounced first.
“Well, you’re an oil paint~
ing, I must say,” he said
with harsh sarcasm.
“ Out of my way!” growled
Braddock, and walked round
him. “I’ve got a train to
catch.”
“Halt,” snarled the
sergeant. “Come back here,
you!”
Braddock r e a c h e d the
barrier, and the ticket
collector, with a Wink,
glanced at his travelling pass
and let him on to the plat-
form. I followed, and so did
the sergeant and a corporal.
They doubled to get in front
of him.
“ I’rn putting the hooks on
you for disobeying an order
and for your untidy appear-
ance,” snarled the sergeant.
“ Let’s see your papers.”
Braddock dumped his kit-
bag on the platform. He
fetched out his wallet and
produced his papers.
“ Hurry up and take what
you want,” he snapped. “If
I miss this train, it’ll be you
who carries the can.”
“ What can?” jeered the
cop.
“ You’ll blooming soon find
out,” said Braddock. “I’m
flying tonight—if you don’t
stop me catching the train."
The cop didn't like being
hustled, but he was a little
uncertain about things, and
hurriedly re a d out Brad-
dock’s name and station for
the corporal to put down in
his notebook.

RECOGNISED
I RECOGNISED the Great
Man. Before I could utter
a warning, Braddock had
the door open.
Shouts of alarm rang out.
The Major with the red
armband leapt at Braddock.
A police sergeant got hold
of his other arm.
Mr William Lorrimer rose
from his seat and stood in
the doorway.
“Is it not usual, Major, to
salute a ho1der of the
Victoria Cross?” he asked.
The Provost-Marshal went
as red as his arm-band. He
released Braddock, stepped
back, and saluted him.
I nearly fell over back-
wards when the Great Man
gestured to us to get in with
him. From the adjacent first-
class compartment his secre-
taries stared out.
“ I’m sorry to butt in, sir,”
Braddock said. “The train’s
very full, and I saw the
empty seats.”
Mr Lorrimer chuckled.
“I have work to do, Brad-
dock,” he said, and pointed
to a stuffed brief-case.
“That is why I usually
travel alone. Is your com-
panion Sergeant Bourne?”
I was staggered that the
Great Man should know us.
As the train started and the
astonished faces on the

BRADDOCK PROTESTS
IN the course of the next
month, Braddock and I
made fourteen long flights.
As I look back, my
principal recollection is of
their monotony. Six or
seven hours in the dark,
with the motors pounding
steadily away, made it a
tedious business.
In that month We never
got a glimpse of a German
fighter or were attacked by
one we didn’t see. We en-
countered anti-aircraft fire
occasionally, and search
lights chased us vainly. At
the job we were on, the
Mosquito was supreme.
The German Propaganda
Minister, Dr Goebbels,
alluded in his diaries, found
after the war, to the “ small
Mosquito machines which
are exceedingly hard to hit.”
The Officer in Command
at Ambleton was Group-
Captain Chimer, D.F.C. He
had three squadrons to cope
with from the administrative
angle, and he was inclined
to be a remote figure. We
were to come hard up
against hirn before we were
much older.
We were more directly
concerned with Squadron-
Leader Oliver Grane, D.F.C.
He had been a night-
fighter pilot through the

blitz period, and, when the
German raids on this
country dwindled, changed
over to the Mosquito
bombers.
He was a quiet, pleasant
man, and his navigator
spoke well of his skill as a
pilot. Braddock said that he
was all right, but he allowed
himself to be pushed around
by the Commanding Officer.
I remember that it was on
a Friday morning that five
crews, including Braddock
and me, were summoned to
a briefing. Squadron-Leader
Grane waited in the room
with the Intelligence Officer,
Squadron Navigation Officer,
and a lot of other fellows.
“Munich!” he said. Then
he added, “I don’t hear any
loud cheers.”
The reason was that
Munich was a very distant
target, and that we were
faced with a long and ex-
hausting flight. I looked at
the weather forecast. It
seemed that the weather
most of the way would be
poor and that clouds were
to be expected over the
target area.
The Intelligence Officer,
Flight - Lieutenant Warke,
addressed us.
“I expect you educated
types know that Munich saw
the start of the National
Socialist cult, otherwise
Nazi-ism,” he said. “It was
in a beer cellar in Munich
that Adolf Hitler founded the
party that has given us such
a lot of trouble. Today is a
Nazi anniversary, and it’s
known that celebrations are
being held in Munich. It is
considered that it would be
a good thing to drop in on
the party and heave out a
few bombs.
“ It is proposed that you
should take off at intervals
of half an hour or so to
prolong the alarm as long as
possible——”
Braddock, a scowl on his
rugged face, interrupted the
speech.
“ What’s the use of it?” he
demanded brusquely.
“According to the weather
forecast the city will be
hidden by cloud. We shan’t
get a look at the ground.
We’re just as likely to drop
our bombs in the Wurm
See ”—he referred to a lake
near the city - “as on a
worthwhile target. I call it
waste of time and waste of
bombs.”
It was his first outburst at
a briefing, and Warke looked
distinctly taken aback that
anyone should doubt the
wisdom of Group in the
selection of a target.
“ As for interrupting the

in the Service,” he snapped.
“ Wait till after the war and
then you can stand on a
soap-box in Hyde Park and
natter to your heart’s con-
tent.” ' ‘
Some of the chaps grinned.
Braddock said nothing, but I
could tell he was very angry.
The briefing followed the
normal course. Our
Mosquito, F-Fox; was to be
the last to take off at 19.30
hours—7.30 in the evening.
It was as we went out that
Braddock made a pungent
comment.
“Have you ever noticed,
George, that the chap with
the biggest hat often has the
s m a 1 1 e s t brain?” he ex-
claimed. “ This raid is a silly
waste of time.”
For once Braddock was to
be proved wrong.

pounded away smoothly. I
switched on my oxygen. We
were at 18,000 feet when we
crossed the C h a n n e l and
passed over the F r e n c h
coast. Our course was
roughly parallel to the
French-Belgian frontier. We
should enter Germany near
the town of Baden, and then
fly over the Black Forest to-
wards Ulm, and on to
Munich.
Mosquito bombers did not
carry guns. We relied on
speed to keep ourselves out
of trouble.
“No flak tonight, Brad,” I
muttered as we raced over
France. “No searchlights,
either. Isn’t their radar
working ?”
Braddock started weaving.
“ Could be they’re hunting

the Mosquito would suddenly
break up.
There came a vivid blue
shimmer. Lightning began to
play around us and every
metal part sparked with blue
shafts of St Elmo’s Fire.
Another terrific shock
seemed to stop the plane.
We dropped and then lifted.
We were being tossed about
like a leaf in a gale.
Braddock nursed the
plane along in a wonderful
fashion. He seemed to
anticipate the worst of the
bumps and be able in some
way to reduce the shock a
bit. His hand continually
moved on the throttle.
A terrible streak of light-
ning seemed to split the
cloud like a red-hot scimitar.
There was a dazzling flash
and a thump. I thought we’d
had it.
The Mosquito shuddered
and then flew on. But some-
thing Was wrong.
“What’s happened?” I
shouted hoarsely.
“The port engine’s cut
out,” Braddock exclaimed.
“We shall have to turn.
back.” _
In the garish blue light
we turned, and I gave him
the course as nearly as I
could calculate it. As I made
the log entry, my pencil
slithered right across the

COLD RECEPTION
TWO hours or so later we
were back at Arnhleton.
Our one engine brought the
Mosquito home without a
falter. Once we had rid our-
selves of our bomb load in
such dramatic fashion we
were in no danger.
We heard that one Mos-
quito had not returned. The
other three had failed to get
near Munich because of the
weather and had dropped
their bombs near Ulm.
I sensed tension in the
briefing-room. A mission had
failed. -
Group-Captain Chimer
looked worse than narked.
Squadron-Leader Grane had
a worried expression. The
Intelligence Officers wrote
away.
Chimer spoke as soon as
we trudged into the room.
“ Did you get to Munich?”
he demanded.
“No,” Braddock said
curtly.
“ Then the lot of you have
put up a black,” snapped
Chimer.
“ Wait for it,” said Brad-
dock gruffly; “We dropped
our bomb over the Black
Forest, and it produced the
biggest explosion I’ve ever
seen and I’ve seen a few.”
“There aren’t words to
describe it,” I exclaimed.
“A green light played
across the ground and then
everything blew up,” said
Braddock. “It was some-
thing special!”
“I’ve known crews come
back with stories like this
before, after unsuccessful
raids,” Chimer insinuated.
“ Go and look at our Mose
quito then,” snapped Brad-
dock. “The paint’s blistered
by heat on the under~
surfaces.” "
Chimer looked at him
angrily.
“You were evidently
lucky enough to blow up a
munitions dump,” he said,
and, leaving the Intelligence
Officers to get on with it.
walked out.
Braddock glared after him.
“Munitions dump, my
foot,” he exclaimed. He
turned on Flight-Lieutenant
Warke.
“I tell you it was some-
thing special,” he said, and
thumped his fist on the
table to emphasise his
words.
“Steady on, old boy,
you’ve spilled my tea,” said
Warke. “We’ll put down
what you say.”

A couple of mornings later
I was alone in the air crews’
mess having a look at the
newspapers. I observed that
they contained a report of a
speech made by Hitler an
Munich on the night we
failed to get there.
According to him the war
was as good as won by
Germany, and as soon as
new weapons became avail~
able the enemies of the
Reich would be crushed.
I was more interested in
the brief reports of some
football matches. If it hadn’t
been for the war I might
have become a professional
footballer.
I had completed an
engineering apprenticeship
and was deciding whether to
become a draughtsman or
accept an offer to sign on as
goalkeeper for a Third
Division club when Hitler
invaded Poland and the
R.A.F. got me.
Braddock appeared to
have been a Jack-of-all~
trades before the war, and
his last job before joining up
had been that of a steeple-
jack. His spare time he spent
in flying light aircraft and
gliding.

BRADDOCK WRITES A
LETTER
THE door opened and he
came charging in look-
ing like an angry bull.
“I’ve just had a look at
the Intelligence bloke’s
report on our raid,” he
roared. “He’s got about as
much intelligence as a
whelk. The C.O.’s as bad.
He’s counter-signed it.
“ All the report says about
the explosion is that one
Mosquito apparently
destroyed a munitions dump
in jettisoning its bomb.
“I’m not going to mess
about. Lend me your pen.”
I pulled out my fountain
pen.
“Who are you going to
write to?” I asked.
“Can’t you guess?” re~
torted Braddock, and went
over to a writing table.
He got a sheet of note-
paper and Wrote steadily. It
was a rare sight to see Brad-
dock with a pen in his hand.
Letter-writing was not a
favourite pastime of his.
I saw him take an envelope.
He addressed it and then
looked across at me.
“Does he stay at 12 or 14
Downing Street?” he asked.
“Who?” I squawked.
“Mr Lorrimer,” he
growled.
I nearly shot out of my
chair.
“You’re not writing to
him?” I gasped.

SURPRISE VISITOR
THEN there was a silvery
gleam and on to the
tarmac glided a huge Rolls-
Royce.
It stopped. The chauffeur
sprang out and opened the
door.
A cigar stub was tossed
out on to the concrete. Mr
William Lorrimer got out of
the car and gazed round.
In his shadow Air Vice~
Marshal Grout and Chimer
were reduced to dwarfs.
They looked incredulous at
this unannounced visit.
“Where is Braddock?” he
asked. “I want to see
Sergeant Braddock, and I
don’t want to be kept wait-
ing.”
Chimer gasped an order
in the ear of the Adjutant,
who left the scene at the
double.
The Great Man fixed his
terrible stare on Grout.
“Did you read Braddockls
r e p or t, Grout?” he
demanded.
“Ahum,” squawked the
Air Vice - Marshal. “ I
accepted the opinion of
Intelligence that an ammuni-
tion dump had been ex-
ploded.”
“I wonder how much
vital information is with~
held from me through
stupidity?” muttered Mr
Lorrirner. He moved towards
the administration buildings.
“ Come along, Peacock,
come along,” he said
irritably.
Then the spectators ob-
served that a second man, a
scraggy man, had got out of
the Rolls.
One of his trouser legs
had got caught up to reveal
that he wore boots, reddish
socks, and long, woolly

NEXT WEEK Braddock Flies
on a dangerous task—to
bring back information from
the mysterious bomb crater!

FAIREY FULMARS and Skuas, with
wings folded, were pushed closely
together and I examined them with
interest as I waited for my pilot,
Sergeant Matt Braddock, V.C.
It Was not often that I had the
chance to look around the hangar of
an aircraft carrier.
Occasionally an order would be
barked over the loudspeaker system.
Fitters and riggers, in overalls and
rubber pumps, were busy on planes,
at the benches. They were as busy as
bees, but I observed the numerous
interested glances that were cast at
the aircraft standing on the lift.
It was a Mosquito and, in 1942,
that was an uncommon plane. The
few already in service with the Royal
Air Force, as fighters and reconnais-
sance planes, hacl been so succesful
that the Fleet Air Arm had decided to
try it out.
There on the lift it stood, a shapely
plane With its highly-polished blue
surfaces, polished to reduce air fric-
tion. In those days it was a revolution-
ary aircraft from ailerons to rudder.
It was fast because it was light and
it was light because it was built of
laths of birch and balsawood, glued
under pressure.
The coverings of wings and fuselage
were doped cloth. To this airframe,
apparently so fragile and yet so strong,
were fixed two powerful Merlin
engines.
This Mosquito, F Fox, had been
adapted for aircraft carrier operations.

He’s a bit old-fashioned
in his ideas,” I remarked.
“He’s the best blooming
rigger in this banana boat,”
said Braddock. "
He rarely used Air Force
slang, but “ banana boat”
was the term for an aircraft
carrier.
Then, coming towards us,
we sighted a group of sailors
and civilians, including the
commanding officer of the
Royal Ark, Captain Shepper-
torn, D.S.O., a lean tall man.
Bustling along at his side,
taking two steps to each of
the Captain’s, arms going like
pistons, was an American,
Vice-Admiral Hiram Parker.
- He was short and thin. He
had a big, sharp nose and a
long, sharp chin. His lips
were so thin and indrawn
that they looked like the
edges of a couple of razor
blades.
Towering behind him was
Commander Watrous,
another American, and some-
how he gave the immediate
impression that he did not
think much of anything
British.
I might remind you that
the Americans did not have
an independent air force
like the R.A.F. Their two
Air Arms came under the
Navy and Army respectively.

TEST FLIGHT
FIVE minutes afterwards,
Braddock and I sat side
by side in the cockpit wait-
ing for the lift to carry the
Mosquito up to the flight
deck. I did not speak as he
went carefully through his
cockpit drill. In everything
he did in the air, he was
extremely careful. At last he
looked at me.
“Did you notice how the
Admiral kept harping on
about its range?” he said.
“It was all he seemed to
think about,” I replied.
“ You can see what’s in his
mind,” remarked Braddock.
“The war in the Pacific
against the Japanese is being
fought at great distances,
and a plane with the range
of a Mosquito would give the
Commander of one of their
Task Forces a big advantage
over the Japs.”
I gave a grim nod as I
reflected on the situation in
the Pacific.
Following up their
treacherous blow at Pearl
Harbour, when devastating
air attacks from carriers had
sunk four battleships and
heavily damaged others, with
a loss of two thousand
American lives, the Japs
were sweeping across the
East while we were having
all our work cut to stop the
Germans in the West.
“I could see you having
the gloves on with the Com-
mander,” I said.

I saw that the safety
barrier had been raised
across the deck. That was
what you ran into if your
hook did not catch one of
the arrester wires. .
Since I knew Braddock, I
did not doubt that he had
the skill to put the Mosquito
down in onepiece, yet his
judgment had to be spot on.
He had to lose all the speed
he could without risk of
stalling, but even then we
should be landing on the
carrier at twenty-five to
thirty knots faster than any
plane had done before.
“Look for the flag,” said
Braddock. “It’ll be on the
port boom as they call it.”
I saw a flutter. A red flag
with a white cross was
hoisted and rippled out in
the breeze. The Deck-Land~
ing Control. Officer, with the
“bats” he used for signal-
ling to pilots, was waiting on
his platform aft.
Braddock made a straight
approach, holding the nose
Well up."
I thought for an instant
we were too high. Then we
sank fast.
With the Mosquito hanging
on its propellers, we cleared
the stern and the deck
streaked under us. I braced
myself for the sudden check.
There was a jolt, a shudder
and a bounce, and the
Mosquito slithered to a stop.
On the bridge, I noticed
the Vice-Admiral talking
excitedly to Captain
"Shepperton.
“What’s the next item on
the programme, Brad?" I
asked.
“The experts will be
nosing round,” he growled.
“I told ‘em the Mossy would
stand up to the pull of the
hook, but they didn’t believe
me. When they’ve finished,
they’ll send reports in tripli-
cate to the Admiralty, the
Air Ministry, and, for all I
know, the manager of
Walsall gasworks. Then, in
eighteen nionths or so, the
Navy will start getting the
Mosquito or something like
it for carrier work.”

WORDS IN THE WARD-
ROOM
AT that time the Royal
Ark was working up to
fighting trim after a refit,
with a sea loch on the west
coast of Scotland as her base.
I have described in some
detail the first flight we
made. After official scrutiny
by engineers representing
the Admiralty and the Air
Ministry, we made several
more flights during the

expecting us in the chief
petty offfcers’ mess.”
“You’d better do the
navigating,” I remarked as
we stepped out of the cabin.
Braddock and I descended
vertical ladders, ducked
through manhole doors,
arrived in the bakery by
mistake, reversed, turned a
corner, thought we were on
the right track at last, went
up a companionway, on
down a wider passageway,
pushed open a door and
found ourselves in the big
officers’ Ward Room, with
its plain but comfortable
furnishings.
There was no chorus of
welcome from the numerous
officers who were in the
Ward Room. Braddock’s
battledress tunic was hang-
ing open and his braces
were showing.
I should have gone
straight out, but Braddock
spotted the Sub-Lieutenant
who had been the Deck
Landing Control Officer on
the last occasion the
Mosquito was flown.
“Hold your horses,
George,” he said. “I wanted
a word with the chap who

next time you’re wig-wag-
ging you can expect me to
approach higher than your
Skuas and Fulmars.
“I’ve got more speed to
lose than they have and
need a bit more height to
help me judge the approach
and pull up-—-”
Across the room, With_a
scowl on his tawny-‘bearded
face, strode a Lieutenant.
His name was Mitchener and
he belonged to a Fulmar
squadron.
He gave Braddock a sharp
tap on the shoulder.
“Out you go!” he said
harshly.
Braddock scowled.
“ I’m talking business,” he
retorted.
“This isn’t the place for
it,” snarled Mitchener.
“Where is the place for
it?” demanded Braddock.
“The briefing - room,”
snorted Mitchener. “You
can talk as much as you
like there, . and someone
might even listen, but when
on watch below stay in your
own quarters and keep out
of the ward room.”
Braddock glanced at
Mitchener’s fiery whiskers.

We had a job to keep up
with him, for sailors seem
to fly up their vertical
ladders. The office was
under the bridge, and Com-
mander Frewing (Wings) was
alone except for a telegra-
phist.
“ Sit down, chaps,” said
the bronzed, beribboned
Commander affably. He
offered us cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
Braddock shook his head.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“Smoking is bad for the
eyes.”
Frewing slipped his cigar-
ette-case back into his
pocket.
“You certainly sold the
Mosquito to Vice-Admiral
Parker,” he told us. “He's
demanded one for trials with
a carrier force in the Pacific
that he is shortly going to
command.”
“I could tell he was
impressed by it's range," said
Braddock.
“He’ll be coming to visit
us again, but this is the
point,” stated the Com-
mander, “ we shall provide
the crew and maintenance
party for the Mosquito. The
Admiralty have insisted,
quite rightly, I think, that a
British plane must have a
British crew to get the best
out of it.”
“ That’s sense,” said Brad-
dock.
“The crew have been
selected, and I want you to
brief them about the
Mosquito,” exclaimed Frew-
ing. “ Ah, here they come!"
The door opened and
Lieutenant Mitchener and
his navigator, Sub-Lieutenant
Gassell, walked into Flying
Control.

THE TELL-TALE TRAIL
WITH Vice-Admiral
Parker and Commander
Watrous watching from the
bridge, Mitchener and
Gassell took off in the
Mosquito a couple of morn-
ings later. The Irish coast
was a faint line to port, but
the weather was closing in
rapidly and clouds piled up
to the west.
Braddock and I watched
from the lee of the island.
The Mosquito raced along
the deck and was airborne.
“It’ll be back to our own
mob for us tomorrow,” I
said. '
Braddock nodded. His gaze
followed the Mosquito, now
a dot in the sky.
“I would have liked to
have gone out to the
Pacific,” he said.
“ It would certainly be
warmer,” I replied with a
shudder.

"exclaimed. "We’re flying!”
“Eh? Does the three-star
Admiral want another
demonstration?” I asked.
Braddock shook his head.
“ No, it’s just a test flight,”
he said. “The port engine
lost some of its revs when
Beardie Mitchener was
stooging about, and the
engineers have just asked me
to see if the trouble has been
rectified.”
When we took off there
was a glint of sunshine, but
it was a watery gleam and
horizontal visibility was no
more than three miles.
We roared away and the
carrier soon vanished in the
mist astern,
Braddock called the ship—
call-sign Collector--over the
radio telephone and got a
routine answer. We flew
under the clouds at about
2000 feet. Sunshine gave
way to another squall.
“Engine okay?” I asked.
“Yes, first class,” said
Braddock. “We’ll home on
the carrier now.”
He pressed the button on
the radio box to transmit.
“ Collector, Collector, this

the periscope of an un-
identified submarine. I’m
going to orbit now. Over!”
Within seconds we got an
answer.
“Fox, Fox, try to keep
contact with submarine.
Over!”
“I am still in touch,”
Braddock rapped back.
“Out!”
We cast round in circles
and watched the feather of
foam made by the periscope.
With skilful use of cloud
cover, Braddock took care
not to be spotted by the
submarine.
While he was watching
the submarine’s periscope, I
saw a rakish grey shape
with a tremendous bow Wave
streaking out of the mist.”
“ Destroyer, Brad,” I
shouted, “I think it’s the
Active!” '
Braddock glanced towards
the racing ship.
“We’ll lead ’em to it,” he
rapped out.
He shoved the stick for-
ward and we dived. My eyes
searched for the feather of
foam, but it had gone.
“The sub’s ducked," I

NEXT WEEK--Braddock finds
himself with a dying engine
and an aircraft carrier that
doesn't want him to land.

ON an autumn morning in 1938 three
men were working at the top of
the new factory chimney at Billingham
& Company’s works in Midhampton.
The chimney, which was intended to
carry away chemical fumes, soared to
a height of 350 feet and there were
many local arguments as to whether or
not it was the tallest in the country.
There were two ways of reaching the
platform inside the chimney top.
The first was a ladder fixed in
sections to the interior brickwork.
The other was a hoist, worked by a
donkey-engine on the ground, turning
a drum on which a cable was wound.
The cable ran up inside the chimney
and passed over a pulley attached to a
tripod above the hole in the staging.
The steeplejacks always rode up and
down on the cable. It took a quarter of
an hour to climb the ladder.
The “topmen,” as those who work
on top of a chimney are called, were
going. to tar the inside of the stack
and were making their preparations
when the foreman, Jack Foster,
observed the ladder give a shake.
He looked through the hole. The
chimney was as dark as a tunnel but,
dimly silhouetted against the light
shining in at the bottom, he saw a
figure coming up the ladder.
“Hey, Cecil, somebody’s on the
ladder,” he said to his son.
Cecil, a lanky fellow of about 25,
looked down.
You’re right, Dad,” he exclaimed.
"Who can it be?”
Tom Yarnold, the other topman. also
took a look.
The ladder had an inward slant
because the chimney tapered from a
diameter of 25 feet at the bottom to
16 feet at the top.
“He’s coming up nice and steady,”
Yarnold said. “I can't think who it is,
though.”
As the unknown climber neared the
top, they could hear his quick
breathing.

“ If you don’t hit it off
with me you’ll mighty soon
get the sack,” rapped Foster.
A grin spread across
Braddock’s face.
“It sounds as if I’ve got
the job,” he exclaimed.
“l’ll give you a trial,”
Foster said. “You can have
four pounds a week till l see
how you shape.”
“I’ll take it,” replied
Braddock.

THE LITTLE
GREEN VAN
IT was a week later that
Braddock drove the
Fosters’ two-ton lorry
towards the factory.
He had been to their yard
to fetch a new half-inch rope
and some other materials.
The lorry wasn’t one of
the latest and, the first time
he had. driven it, he had
found that the engine pulled
like a sick sheep and that
the brakes were poor.
It was characteristic of
Braddock that any machine
he handled had to be right,
and he had put in several
evenings and the Saturday
afternoon in getting it into
shape.
After a slow drive through
the narrow streets in the
middle of the city, he turned

INSUFETCIENT
SCHOOLING
THAT afternoon Braddock
spent tarring the inside
of the chimney from a
bosun’s chair slung from the
platform above.
It could be raised and
lowered by a pulley-chain.
When Jack Foster, the
foreman, called out that it
was nearly time to knock-off,
he drew himself up and
stepped on to the platform.
His old cap and overalls

were black with tar, and his
face was spotted.
His head turned as he
heard the sound of an air-
craft engine. The plane that
was flying over Midhampton
at about 800 feet was a small
biplane with a radial engine.
It was painted red. -
“We often see him buzz-
ing about,” remarked Cecil
Foster. -
“It’s an Avro Tutor,”
Braddock said. “ It belongs
to the Flying Club.”
He watched the machine
keenly. Then he surprised his
workmates.
. “I'm going to take up fly-
ing,” he remarked.
Cecil guffawed.
“What’s put that idea into
your head?” he asked.
Braddock made a strange
answer.
“There are two “reasons,”
he said. “I belong up there.”
“What’s your second
reason, Matt?” Jack Foster
inquired.
“There’ll be war inside
twelve months,” said Brad-dock.
“Garn, there’ll be no war,"
scotfed Cecil. “ Hitler is too
smart to risk it.”
“I tell you he’ll overstep
the mark and then there’ll be
war,” retorted Braddock
grimly. “I'm sure of it!”
The plane came round
again. Cecil looked up at it
and grimaced.
“You wouldn’t catch me
in one of them things,” he
said. “ They ain’t safe.”
“Hey, Matt, how are you
going to set about this" fly-
ing you want to do?” Tom
Yarnold asked,
.“ I'm going to. have a
shot at joining the R.A.F.
Volunteer Reserve,” Brad-
dock replied. " ’
“I’ve made some in-
uiries, and chaps who are
accepted as likely pilots get
their training at the local
flying schools, I’m going
along to the Town Centre
tonight.” '
He moved towards the
cable as it dangled over the
pulley, and inserted a foot
in a link of a chain that
hung from the hook. He
held the hook with his
hands. .
Foster jerked the bell-wire
as a signal to the man down
below who was in charge of
haulage.

FIRST FLIGHT .
IT was on the following
Saturday morning that
Braddock walked out of the
police court after giving
evidence against P.C. Stoker.
On a summons for careless
driving, Stoker had been
fined £5 and ordered to pay
the costs.
The chief constable, Major
Brackett, who was in court,
appeared to be extremely
annoyed.
The reporters were the

reverse of annoyed! The
green van was notorious.
Braddock had provided
them with a story that all
the newspapers would
splash. .
Braddock got on his motor
cycle and rode out to the
Midhampton Civic Aero-
drome for his first flying
lesson.
He would not have the
motor cycle much longer.
He hoped to sell it for ten
or twelve pounds to help
pay for his lessons.
The aerodrome was not as
imposing as its name.
It was a grass field with a
factory hangar on one side
and a hangar and clubhouse
belonging to the Flying club
on the other.
Braddock could not afford
to join the Flying club, which
entailed paying a subscrip-
tion of £5 a year. He was
paying £2 15s for each
lesson, which included the
hire of the club’s trainer
plane and the instructor’s
fee.
He rode along a tarmac
path to the club premises.
He saw that the red Avro
Tutor was standing nearby.
A mechanic was taking in
some slack in the rudder
wires, watched by the
instructor, Leonard Robin-
son.

flyer and had never
served in the R.A.F.
For some years he had
been a bush pilot in
Canada. He had also been a
member of a ?

flying circus.
The Tutor had two open
cockpits in tandem and the
pupil sat in the back one. It
was, of course, dual-con-
trolled.
Braddock had an excited
gleam in his eyes as he dis-
mounted. It was the day he
had been waiting for, the day
when he would first feel a
plane under his. hands.
Deep in him was the feel-
ing that he belonged up
there, that he was born to
fly.
At their first meeting,
when the lessons had been
arranged, Robinson had been
surprised by Braddock’s
knowledge of the lay-out of
the controls and instruments.
Braddock had told him he
had picked it up by reading
every book and magazine
about flying on which he
could lay his hands and by
watching and looking at air-
craft at every opportunity.
“Put your helmet on and
We’ll get cracking,” remarked
the instructor briskly.
“ When I have a new pupil I

The blast flattened the
grass so that it resembled a
wake astern of the rapidly-
moving aircraft.
Braddock shut the throttle
at the instant the engine
began to race. But it had no
effect, and he knew it had
sprung and then jammed.
He at once closed the
switches, but the engine
roared away, and the plane
raced across the drome
towards the factory hangar.
A new Whitley bomber
stood on the tarmac out-side
the lofty hangar, and ground
mechanics scattered as they
saw the Avro Tutor racing
towards them.
Braddock was not in a
flurry. He recovered in a
moment from the surprise of
having the plane run away
with him.
He knew that the first
thing to do was to bring
the tail up. He nudged the
control stick forward. Too
much! The nose dipped.
He was quick enough to
correct what would have
been a fatal movement had
the propeller dug into the
ground.
He felt the wildly career-
ing machine start to skid to
the left.
A steady pressure of his
foot on the right rudder
corrected it.
He had the quick wits to
move the tail trimmer lever
to compensate for the lack
of weight forward.
Members of the flying club
were rushing out of the club-
house.
Robinson was shouting
that the crazy fool had gone
off on his own.
Braddock judged that he
had plenty of “revs” for
climbing and drew the stick
back between his legs.
The pounding of the
wheels on the ground
stopped. The motion became
smooth.
The shadow of the plane
swept across the tarmac.
He used a bit more stick,
and the Tutor cleared the
Whitley and zoomed over
the hangar roof.
The sweating onlookers

* Braddock demonstrates his
flying skill NEXT WEEK when
he averts a mid-air disaster
with a brilliant piece of
plane-handling.