AUSTRALIA'S ONLY AIR V.C.
(when this was written, pre WW2)
MOST men enlist in war time because their country needs them; and most of them hope that in "doing their bit" they will distinguish themselves in action. But for all their hopes of martial glory they know, these fighting men, that no matter bow hard they strive, few of them can win the Victoria Cross. For this, the most prized decoration in
the Empire, is rarely awarded. For instance, in the four years of~ the Great War only nineteen
VCs were awarded to the British and Dominion war birds. The only Australian thus honoured was Captain Frank McNamara of No. I Squadron. Australian Flying Corps. This is the story of the glorious deed that won him the bronze cross "For Valour."
Born at Rushworth, Victoria, he was a school-teacher before he enlisted in the Australian Flying Corps. But he had held a commission in a militia regiment, and was soon made an officer in the A.F.C. He learned to fly at Point Cook and sailed away with No. I Squadron.
Even in this squadron whose officers came from many walks of life, Frank McNamara soon became known as a character. He was not at all interested in the neatness of his appearance, but he gave a great deal of attention to his jet black hair which he painstakingly parted in the middle. He was a good pianist. He sang at every opportunity, especially when aloft, and caused lots of fun for his fellow -officers. But his singing was bad for formation flying. For Frank used to sing to the sun or the stars, and that meant his full attention was not given to his correct distance from other planes in the formation. Often, his eyes upward turned, be would unintentionally climb to the point where the plane would stall; and then, after be bad recovered from the downward fall, be would have to speed to catch up with his patrol. But his pals got used to that kind of thing. He was very popular, and they used to call him "Dilberry," or "Dill" for short.
1917. Romani-Katia-Bir el Abd-Rafa-Magdhaba. Desert battles far away fought on sands where once the Roman
legionnaires bled and died. Stubbornly the Turkish armies fell back with Australian war hawks watching and
harrying them from the sky. Bitter fighting across more than a hundred miles of desert-and then the green fields of Palestine.
During those hectic campaigns the British and Australian war birds were a lively crowd of daredevils. And they had every need to be! Otherwise the German fliers would have wiped them out-and then how our mounted troops
would have suffered! For the German machines-those vicious Taubes, the speedy, well-armed Fokkers, and the Aviatiks that hurtled down like hawks-were then much superior in speed, climb,
maneuverability and fighting power to our old BE. 2.c machines. But their men weren't superior.
Wherever and whenever they could, our war birds tackled the superior enemy planes and chased them from the skies. It was not until 1917 that the German aviators came with a furious attack to regain air supremacy. Then it was too late. For our lads now bad the Bristol Fighters and S.E. 5s and these could cope with the best German machines. But there was many a desperate struggle in the air before the enemy was definitely beaten, never to regain the air supremacy he might have held all along. Daring and skill had actually beaten the machine.
And now, in 1917, the Germans in new and better machines were desperately striving to drive the British and Australian war birds from the air. Times were lively, events moving fast. The mounted men bad crossed over into Palestine and were rolling on to the great attack on Gaza and Beersheba. Both sides were working their airmen all out to drive or pin down their opponents and thus hide the great movements behind their own lines. The Turks were rushing up reinforcements. Suddenly, too, their German-manned air arm was reinforced, and strongly attacked the British 'dromes and machines.
Now, more than ever before, the Australian war birds lived through days and nights of excitement. Some of the airmen were shot down and killed; occasionally a pilot or crew were forced to land, only to be taken prisoner. There was nothing the Australian airman or mounted man hated so much as to be taken prisoner. For added to love of freedom
and pride of service was the knowledge that life in a war
prison could be terrible indeed.
When the Turkish infantry retired from Weli Sheikh Nuran, Lieutenant Tunbridge was doing a patrol over Tel el Sheria, seeing what he could see down in the seething Turkish antbed below. He bad no thoughts of a Turkish prison camp. But that was almost his fate-that, or worse. For "Jacko's" anti-aircraft guns barked viciously. A violent explosion under the Australian machine threw it in the air like a feather. The plane had been bit. Tunbridge spun away in the stricken machine, desperately fighting for control, for height, gentling his wounded engine. He was deep in Turkish territory. Like a bird with a broken wing he fled towards Rafa, just managing to keep in the air. At long last he was away past the mounted Turkish patrols. Then the engine failed completely, and down came the plane to land in no-man's-land. The pilot clambered out from the machine, revolver in band. Quickly, searchingly, he gazed around. Here, where the lines were far apart, there was not a sign of life. Far away, the boom of gunfire towards Beersheba, dying in a low thunder towards Gaza. Around him were low hills, brown and barren under a blazing sun. Miles away, a relief to the eye, was the green of barley fields.
But not a sign of a Turk, not an Arab. So far, so good.
In great relief Tunbridge took his bearings, cautiously set out to walk to the Australian lines. He knew they must be a good many 'Miles away. He was intensely alert, for an Arab patrol might spot him. He thought grimly of those must
hawk-eyed roamers of the desert, and of the tracks h, make. He knew that if hostile Arabs caught him they would cut his throat.
He had no water and it was unbearably hot. A jackal sat up and snarled at him. It seemed as if the beastly, cowardly
thing knew he dare not fire his revolver, for fear that wandering Arabs might hear.
Next day, a man-made eagle of the sky was soaring low away out from Rafa. Its main job was to spot enemy patrols. But the crew also were on the look-out for the pilot who had not come home. Lieutenants Snell and Morgan stared down for what they could see. Then the observer shouted. He whipped up the glasses. Yes, down there was a man, staggering along, falling, rising, staggering again but keeping on, on, on. They sped down, circled over him. He looked up, waved eagerly.
"It's old Tunbridge," shouted Morgan, "all out, too!" They landed, picked him up, and flew away home. That was not an unusual happening. But sometimes the distressed airman was caught by Turks or Arabs. If the captors were Turks, his life was safe; but with Arabs it was at the best a fifty-fifty chance.
One day a Fokker roared straight down on the El Arish aerodrome, where No. I Squadron was stationed. It was a complete, an utter surprise. For instead of a bomb, the German machine dropped a mailbag; then zoomed straight up to the skies and away.
In the bag were letters from two Australian airmen captured several days before, and a letter to a German aviator captured by the British. A reply was sent, the Australian machine diving down to within fifty feet of the German 'drome. They waved to her from the ground. She waved back.
Frank McNamara was singing, singing away up in the moonlight. A night of utter beauty over the age-old fields of Palestine. Just the drone of the raiders, the stars and the night and the moon. Raiders-the rush of a camel host with
the coming of the dawn such had been old Palestine throughout the centuries. But now! The modern raiders droned on and Lieutenant Frank McNamara was singing as he often used to sing when in the air, to sun or stars or moon. His fellow-officers had long since got used to the singing pilot. They knew he would fumble in formations; probably be would fall out of the patrol. But he'd be there "when the whips were cracking." Frank always was.
He did fall out of this formation. With his eyes on the stars and voice uplifted he was unintentionally climbing.
Suddenly the plane stalled-and Mac awoke to realities. Smart work with the controls and he had recovered from the spin. Then he sprinted after his comrades who were now flying ahead, like moon-kissed moths. He only just caught them up when, like an avalanche of doom, they dived, roaring straight down upon the grim redoubts of Sheria.
"Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash ! " Splashes of flame, spouts of earth, billowing smoke rushing up to meet them.
Roar of Archies (anti-aircraft fire), spurts of flame from machine-guns, thousands of flashes of rifle fire. Above -the roar of motors, the thunder of bombs, the crash of exploding
Archies, the air seemed alive with countless bees. Bullets ripped and pinged through wings and fuselage as the raiders dived and turned, zoomed and swooped. Then they were away into the outside night. And there was Mac still safely at the tail of the formation, singing up at the moon.
Several days later and they were at it again. This time, the target was Junction Station, a vital Turkish supply point lying down between the brown hills near Beersheba. Just at a critical moment, when over the Turkish redoubts, the engine of one of the planes stalled. The pilot was Lieutenant L. W.
Heathcote. Desperately be strove to right the trouble, falling, falling down towards the Turkish lines. In fleecy
clouds bursting around it, Archies followed the stricken plane as it came down, for the Turks thought the plane might recover. But no.
With a final, sickly wobble the machine came down in the Turkish lines and Heathcote was taken prisoner. His comrades could do nothing to help. Sadly they waved down to him, Then they flew home.
Like great moving clouds the Anzac horsemen were rolling up out of the plains. The Yeomanry was riding on
Sheria. The New Zealanders were coming fast. The British infantry was advancing to attack the terrible Ali el Muntar redoubts that shielded Gaza.
Gaza, city of Samson. Over these plains bad marched the armies of the Philistines, the hosts of Persia, the legion's of Rome. And now had come the Anzacs. Above this ground over which had galloped the chariots of the Assyrians the Australian war birds now sped.
From the glow of a dying dust storm they again roared down on Junction Station, man-made birds of prey, soaring down through exploding bursts of shrapnel and high explosive. Another war bird was shot down, a British pilot. He crawled from the wreck. Quickly he put a match to his machine. As the flames billowed and black smoke welled up Turks came running from trench and redoubt. But there was a roar through the air. A machine swooped down, landed. Bullets zipped the dust at the British pilot's feet as be sprinted to the rescue plane.
The observer-his name was Ross Smith-leaned from the machine, reached out an arm to the exhausted man, and pulled him into the cockpit. Bailleau, the pilot, was skilled as well as brave.
Machine-gun and rifle bullets drilled the machine's tail and wings; but the pilot took off. And away they flew over the very rifle muzzles of the Turks. It was a very game rescue. How strange that the next day, almost on
the same spot, the episode was to be dramatically repeated under desperately difficult circumstances," wrote the official historian.
Above the hills of Beersheba fleecy clouds were bursting -their targets the Australian planes that were circling and diving to crash their bombs yet again on Junction Station. From the Turkish redoubts came sustained and furious fire.
Up there was Frank McNamara. He was flying a Martinsyde, a light bomber, and be could see the blazing station, the smoking redoubts, the trenches lined with men whose white faces against their rifles were staring up at the sky.
Then "crash!"-and the world seemed to explode for McNamara in a blaze of flame. With the clang of a busy factory ringing in his ears be was falling. Then light flashed again and consciousness fully returned. He dragged the machine out of the spin and gasped for breath. The Martinsyde was under control-good. There was a fierce throbbing in his leg. Warm blood was drizzling down to his boots. He knew he was seriously wounded. But his head was clear. He could fly.
Then Rutherford's BE. 2.c. was hit. McNamara saw it stall like a frightened horse, then slip away from a cloud of smoke. He caught a glimpse of Rutherford frantically working at the controls, falling away down there in between the bills right between those two big redoubts.
McNamara clenched his teeth. His mind was made up. With a roar the Martinsyde sped down, following the wounded machine. As the earth leaped up towards them Rutherford came into a hail of fire. For all his strivings, he bad to land-in a wady near a Turkish camp. And as he was strenuously working to start his engine, McNamara landed beside him. No time, now, no need, for repairs. Rutherford ran to the rescue machine, clambered aboard.
Turks were now rushing towards them. Every second counted. The
Martinsyde' s engine roared for the take-off, the plane lurched forward. But alas, McNamara's spirit was greater than his strength. His wounded leg slumped on a rudder bar, and what, on the broken surface of the wady, should have been a clean, sharp turn became a wobble. The plane slewed, pitched forward on her nose, piled up.
Now the Turks were nearer, firing as they came. But for all the deadly danger these pilots kept cool. They got clear of the wreckage. Mac grabbed his revolver; then quick matches lit the torn fabric and the gallant old "Tinsyde" was in flames.
Amidst Turkish fire the pair hurried back to Rutherford's machine. No running for Mac. His wound was a seething fire; he was streaming blood. But he snapped out a few shots at the oncoming Turks and as Rutherford rushed to the propeller be clambered his painful way into the cockpit. Now he had a second revolver; now he could put up a better fight. But also he had switched on. And now, with Rutherford's swingings at the propeller, came a blessed sound-the engine had started!
Rutherford flung himself on to the centre section. The BE. 2.c. was a single-seater: there was no other place for him. The machine began to move forward. But knowing that even now their prey might escape, the oncoming Turks, redoubled their speed, their rifle fire. Again McNamara bad to use his revolver. And then from the sky came the thunder of diving engines and the rattle of guns. Their bombing done, a No. 1 Squadron patrol had discovered their comrades' desperate plight. Now they were covering the getaway. And get-away it was. Almost out of the very hands of the Turks the overloaded
BE. 2-c. took off.
This time the spirit won, the flesh was conquered. Frank McNamara's fighting heart dictated, and his sorely-wounded leg obeyed.
In a hail of rifle and machine-gun fire the plane rose unsteadily between the two lines of redoubts. Struts were cut by bullets, the fuselage was riddled. But on flew the plane, wobbling desperately, but under control-McNamara's control. For an hour be flew. Then there was a familiar 'drome below. Out of the very jaws of death the plane came home. The pilot was unconscious when they ran to lift him out.
That is how the school-teacher from Hawthorne won the bronze cross-"For Valour."
from 'Daredevils of the
Skies" by Norman Ellison. Angus & Robertson 1940 |
