A DAUGHTER REMEMBERS HER FATHER

A DAUGHTER REMEMBERS HER FATHER: September 1998

Flt Lt R.E.Jones RAF 605 Squadron

My father died on 3rd September 1994. He was one of ‘the few’ that Sir Winston Churchill spoke of. He died with the letter I had written to him giving details of my first solo flight, in his shirt pocket. I never did get to fly with him, but believe that he is now always my right seat co-pilot, and keeps me out of trouble. Can old fighter pilots ever truly die?
He was a private man and never spoke much of his flying days. When he did, I listened, but in those days I never knew enough to ask him questions. I never realized how important weather is to a pilot. I never got to ask the technical questions I now so badly want to ask him. I never got to ask him details of flights he volunteered for that are not in his battle reports. I read his two logbooks and there remain so many unanswered questions.
He imparted so many wonderous things to me and taught me to appreciate the great outdoors, walked the mountains with me, taught me how to fish and shoot and slowly I absorbed some of his philosophy. I remember walking up a valley one evening, both of us with rifles, our border collie harassing our heels. I was 12 years old. I asked him why he never went to church, yet he forced me to get dolled up in a pretty dress, white socks and shoes and cycle off to Sunday school with regular monotony, leaving behind a glorious day and fun while he, stipped to the waist, soaking up the sunshine, worked in his nursery and watered his plants. He stopped, looked at me, smiled, opened his arms to encompass the beauty of the valley, the cliffs, the vast dome of sky above us, the sun sinking in the west, and he said, “Pen, do you see what is all around us? Do you see the beauty and the vast sky above? This is my cathedral. What could be more beautiful and where could one find more peace and spirituality? I want you to first learn the basic principles, then you too can embrace your own cathedral in which ever way you choose to do.”
When I was 18 years old he was invited as the honoured guest to the premier of the movie “Battle of Britain”. I asked him if the movie was realistic. He said quietly to me, “Pen, it was hard taking up young inexperienced pilots knowing that some would not come back”. He said no more.
When dad died, an old WW11 fighter pilot and P-38 ace from the Pacific Campaign came into my life and I became his ‘adopted daughter’. I am sure that he was sent into my life by my father to help me. He is a Texan and when he introduces me as his ‘daughter,’ and I have an English/South African accent, not the Texan drawl, the old boys in the local diner, look askance at him, smile, and a long explanation follows. Through my Texas ‘dad’ I have had the great honour of meeting many American fighter pilots and aces from the veterans of WW11, the Korean days, Vietnam to the young jocks flying F-16s on active duty at present. My conclusion is that they are all cut from the same cloth, and a special breed of men. There is a sense of honour and integrity about them. Regardless of what they feel about their government, duty calls and they do it with honour. There is a sparkle about them; they work hard, they play hard. A sense of fun, a philosophy that is sound, an ability to be alone and private. Watching the young F-16 men at a reunion is the same as watching the WW11 veterans. They have similar stories; their hand actions are the same, laughter is plentiful, tears are there when talking of friends who bought the farm and above all the senior men are so highly respected.
It is heart warming to see the bond of brotherhood, love and respect that stretches across the generation gap. They all share a common bond and it shows. It is like watching fathers and sons together. The WW11 vets might be getting old in body, but their minds remain in their twenties, and their eyes sparkle like little boys when in the company of their ‘brotherhood’.
It is indeed an honour to have been brought into this unique circle and allowed to share some of their moments together. They deserve an immense amount of respect and I believe it is necessary to get as many of their stories down on paper before it is too late.
My father now lies scattered around a rock on the mountain side in my home town of Hermanus, South Africa, in an area he loved with a passion, and was instrumental in turning into a nature reserve. His memorial service was held outside, at the at the base of the mountain, amidst sunbirds gathering nectar from proteas, guinea fowl scratching in the dirt close by, and baboons barking from far off cliffs.
One evening, before a glorious sunset, which lit up the West over the Atlantic Ocean, I scattered his ashes, and a whale breached in the bay below us. I like to believe that it was done in salute to a wonderful man, who would go down each day to see how many whales he could count. I scattered the best part of a bottle of Chivas Regal around and drank a few toasts alone on that rock with my dad. I miss him. I am proud of him and honoured to be his daughter.
I would like to share with you, some of the things I found in his office and filing cabinet.
Battle of Britain experiences of Flight Lieutenant R E Jones
I found the following in my father’s files. The page was torn from a published book or magazine. It was a letter that he had written home to his family. This is exactly as it was written.
THE WAR IN THE AIR
The letter from which the following extract was taken was written home by Pilot Officer R.E.Jones, on the 15th August, 1940, from S.E.Scotland, where he was then stationed. It describes his first actual contact with the enemy raiders, and came to our notice through his brother, Alan,who has himself been accepted by the R.A.F. and is waiting to be called up to train as a pilot.
Since the experience here described, the writer has himself been shot down by a Messerschmitt, and, although wounded by the nosecap of a cannon shell which clipped his elbow and travelled down the left forearm, managed to bale out successfully at 3000 feet. As his ‘plane was put out of control at 18000 feet, we can congratulate him on a particularly narrow escape. Apparently with his machine doing 300 miles an hour, and his injured arm preventing him from throttling down, the wind pressure was so tremendous that his first attempt to bale out resulted only in the loss of helmet and a beautiful pair of black eyes.
He is now fit for active service again. We send him our sincere good wishes.
The Editor
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I think I can give you some good news today.
Yesterday our Flight was “at available”, which is to say we have to be on the camp and be able to get into the air within 15 minutes. At 11.45 a message came through that the whole squadron was to go up on patrol. Within 10 minutes we were climbing to 20,000 feet and heading out to sea. From there we were directed by the ground and heard that about 30 enemy aircraft were approaching. We cruised about and eventually found ourselves over Newcastle and the Tyne. I began to think we were on a wild goose chase because by this time we had been up for about one and three-quarter hours and we were being told to land at local aerodromes to refuel. There were only five of us left by this time; the others had drifted away. Suddenly over the leader’s machine and about three miles away, I saw the biggest formation of enemy aeroplanes I have ever seen - bigger than any I ever saw at Hendon air display - and then another smaller formation behind them.
Archie McKeller, my leader, decided to attack the big formation, so we turned and
climbed up into the sun. At that moment, I ran out of petrol and by the time I had turned on to my reserve tank Archie was 200 yards in front of me. We kept climbing until we were about 4,000 feet above the enemy and directly overhead. Then we turned on our backs and dived to attack
I found myself attacking two aircraft which were below each other and dead in my sights. As I came down I pressed my firing button and for the first time heard my eight guns go off - I could see my bullets hitting the aircraft, when suddenly the starboard engine of one of the Heinkel’s (111) exploded and left a long trail of black smoke.
Almost immediately the port engine of the other machine caught fire and the last I saw of those two as I shot by at 400 m.p.h, they looked as if they would collide.
I pulled out of my dive and climbed up again well to one side of the formation and looked for Archie. I couldn’t pick him out, so I decided to attack a lone aircraft which was a little way from the others - I went in from the side and as he went through my sights I followed him round. Suddenly his nose went straight up into the air, and then he toppled over and went straight into a spin. Two parachutes came out as the machine crashed toward the sea. I climbed up again and waited until I saw another straggler and then I went in again and pressed the button - there was a roar and silence - I had run out of ammunition, so I dived towards the clouds and as I went I saw lots of bombs explode in the sea.
My total bag for my first encounter is one Heinkel 111 shot down and two damaged. We lost two machines, but the pilots are safe; one came back to the aerodrome last night; the other is in hospital with concussion. My machine was not hit.
We had a wizard champagne party in the mess last night. The whole of A Flight was unlucky; they didn’t see a thing, but our Flight sent seven down and damaged six.
R.E.JONES

(Footnote, by A.Jones. - The squadron was moved down to S.E. England soon after, and Eric shot down two more enemy ‘planes before being shot down himself, on 15th September. He baled out with his parachute, and after a few days in hospital and a short rest he was soon fit again. Archie McKellar has since been awarded the D.F.C. and later a bar to it. Unfortunately, he was shot down and killed on 1st November)
NOTES REGARDING 15TH SEPTEMBER 1940
The following handwritten pencil draft, found in dads files, is an account of his
experience on 15th September 1940. He had been answering questions for a
man doing research.
The tail number of his Hurricane was L 2122.
Battle of Britain. 15th September 1940.
Flight Lieutenant R E Jones RAF 605 Squadron

I’ll answer the specific points you mention and then I’ll tell you my story of that day and a few after. Of course it is 53 years ago but much of the day and days are very clear in my mind.
Yes, we took off at about 11.20, just before lunch and I was shot down about ½ hr later.
The time in my log book is probably wrong as the entry must have been made a month or so later. The 15th Sept was of course Battle of Britain Sunday and I think the RAF claimed to have shot down 180 enemy aircraft. It was a very very busy day.
Your second query about the type of aircraft we were attacking raises doubts in my mind but I can only reason that they were Heinkel 111 as I suppose I got to within 150-200yards of them and it was a large formation. I do know that there were many Do 17 about at the time.
I was shot down by cannon fire from, I can only assume a ME109 fighter as they were escorting the bombers. My aircraft was shot from the rear. I know they were firing with 20mm cannon because they took a 20mm nose cap out of my forearm in an operation performed in the evening of the event. I had the nose cap for years until it disappeared from my office. I was not, to my knowledge, fired at by the German bombers who were in front of me and partly to the right of me.
I was shot down over a little village in Kent called Plaxtol. It was the only place I really knew in Kent, because a group of prewar pilots from our Flying school went down to the thatched cottage of a farm at Plaxtol for weekends of horse riding with our girlfriends.
The Flying school was situated at Gatwick Airport which had been started in 1936/7 and was a large grass field next to the railway line. There was a station about 300 yards from the control tower and airport buildings. There were about 3 other aircraft parked there, apart from the flying school aircraft ----- Tiger Moths, Harts, Hinds,Audax.
The farmer who owned the farm was the ambulance driver who picked me up from Old Soar Manor and took me to Wrothham Cottage Hospital in the early part of the Sunday aftenoon. The cottage Hospital, which was primarily a maternity hospital only had one other patient there when I arrived and he was a New Zealander from my own squadron who had been shot down during the week and we escourted him down, his clothing was burning as he went down. His name was Jack Fleming and he was moved to the burns hospital where, after a long serious time he survived and continued as a pilot.
I landed in my parachute within 300 yards of Old Soar Manor, which I had visited before the war. My aircraft flew into the ground about 1 mile from where I landed. It crashed about 50yds from a farm house. They dug it up a considerable time after the event.
I had lost, in the jump from the aircraft, my helmet, my flying boots and my gauntlets.
These must have been forced from my body when the parachute opened. I must have been doing more than 300mph when I pulled the ripcord.
I staggered up and to the gate which I climbed over and met the people who had watched my descent from the front garden of Old Soar Manor. They immediately, to my relief, recognised me as an RAF pilot and escourted me with assistance to the house next door to Old Soar Manor where they gave me hot tea and comfort until they had bandaged my arm, and at my request put me to bed in a room on the ground floor where I immediately fell asleep. I was awakened somewhat between 3 or 4 pm by the arrival of the ambulance driver, who as I told you, was the farmer who owned our weekend cottage. He took me off to Wrotham cottage hospital. During the drive I was told that there was another pilot there, it was Jack Fleming from my squadron and he was badly burned, arms legs and face. We were the only customers at the hospital for the two days I was there.
They took the bullet from my arm the evening I arrived there. The nose cap had taken a piece of the arm of my tunic into my arm and this was not actually discovered until they opened my arm at a swelling and discovered this unwanted item. This was in January. After that my arm healed quickly and I resumed flying in March 1941.

Apart from the nose cap in my arm I had two very black eyes, the whites of which were completely blood red. This happened when after struggling to get my canopy open I stuck my head out and was whistled into the sky.
I have always estimated that it must have hit the ground at a speed in excess of 300mph. I was hit by the 20mm cannon shells at a height of 18000ft in the Maidstone -Sevenoaks patrol line, whilst commencing an attack on a formation of Dornier bombers. I did not see the aircraft that destroyed my Hurricane but the bombers were escourted by M E 109 fighters. At the time I was hit, I was in full fine pitch and my throttle was “through the gate” and the last thing I remember doing before trying to escape was pushing the stick forward and to the left to avoid the rest of my flight who were climbing rapidly to attack the bombers. The cannon shell entered my left elbow and down my forearm. It lodged just above the wrist, so the throttle was never closed. I managed to get clear of the aircraft at an estimated height of 3000ft.
When I was hit I was chasing a large gaggle of German bombers and was lining up on the section of the left of the formation when all hell broke out in my cockpit, first the bursting of the shells; one or two hit my radiator and the hot cooling liquid rushed into the cockpit. My uniform was completely soaked with glycol. I unleashed my harness and slid the canopy open—it immediately closed. I hadn’t locked it after take off. I pushed the joystick forward to escape the enemy on my tail and avoid the rest of the flight who were climbing rapidly. I started a dive towards the earth, pulled the canopy open again and at the same time stuck my head out. The force of the speed of the aircraft, the engine was on full power and at fine pitch sucked me out of the aircraft and I came to in my parachute swinging peacefully backwards and forwards.
There was just silence—no aircraft noise and no wind. As I looked around I saw a column of white smoke about a mile or so away. It was where my aircraft had hit the ground. I was drifting toward a building, Old Soar Manor and the house next door. I drifted over a line of tall trees and then suddenly I was on the ground. On my back and watching a green apple roll along the ground. I had landed in an apple orchard.
I was later posted to Central Flying School at Uphaven where I completed my Instrucors course. I was posted to Kidlington RAF Flying School. Then to South Africa, 24 Air School Dunnotar. Then back to UK Mosquito Training School, High Ercal and from there back to 605 Squadron Night Intruding Castle Camps at Bradwell Bay.
Then as Chief Flying Instructor to Mosquito O.T.H. in Canada 31 OTV Debret and then back to England for VE Day and demobed Aug 20th 1945.