Life on a Wartime Airfield in Italy.

The most constant thing about living on an airfield in war torn Italy was the noise.

With first light came the sound of the returning Beaufighter from its pre-dawn patrol, then there was the crackle of the Merlin engined Spitfires as they warmed up ready to take the place of the returned night fighter.

Soon, the cough and spit of American bombers starting, followed by the noise of warming up and testing. Then the intermittent note as Liberators and Fortresses followed the taxi tracks towards the runway. Roar came after roar, as one by one, they took off, carrying their load of death, usually to the Ploesti oil fields well to the north.

A sort of quiet came after their passing, to be punctuated by the sharper sound of day fighters as they took off on escort and strafing duties up the line. Later, the heavies returned, invariably fewer than when they had started out. Some visibly damaged, with pieces off wing tips and rudders, propellers feathered, and smoke issuing from engine nacelles. Screaming crash tenders and ambulances raced alongside crippled planes ready to spray foam or take away the wounded to the nearby hospital.

Then it would be our turn to add to the cacophony as we took off to test our Beaufighters and the radar they carried, ready for the night and any enemy aircraft that might enter our patch.

Daylight operations over, and as the sun dropped in the sky, waves of British bombers rumbled on their way, to carry on where the day bombers left off. Olive green and dun colours replaced the shiny aluminium of the American aircraft: but even these dark colours changed to black silhouette as they climbed into the sunset.

Once the bombers had gone, it was the turn of our night fighters to play their part in the deadly game. The dusk patrol Beaufighter would take off into the semi-darkness, the crew enjoying a second sunset, as they climbed out of the dim light into the glowing sun once more.

The readiness crews would sit in the relative quiet of the Ops. Trailer waiting for the telephone to ring. Then. “Scramble!” The dash for our aircraft started. From nervily reading a book to all-out action took only seconds. Within a few minutes we would be airborne and climbing hard into the blackness, hoping for a ‘kill’, but, more often than not, finding it was one of our bombers returning with its IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) not working, and we would return, the adrenalin slowly subsiding in our systems.

Nights off duty would be spent in the Mess, or in the local town drinking. There was little else to do. The local girls were ‘off limits’ so life was pretty tedious at times

There were occasions for reflection. Our Mess was an old farm house and I remember one night - there was the usual chat and laughter - and I wandered with a cigarette and a drink over to the french window which gave onto a small balcony with its typical Italian wrought iron balustrade; I gazed at a full moon hanging in a starlit sky. Behind me a radio was playing a popular tune of the time called ‘I’ll be Seeing You’. I thought of the girl I had left at home in England, and wondered if I would be seeing her again. Later we would return, somewhat unsteadily, to our tents, and collapse on our camp beds in the hope of sleep.

I recall lying there one night listening to the sound of cicadas on the balmy night air. All was otherwise quiet for a change until the unmistakable sound of a returning Beaufighter could be heard as it joined the circuit preparing to land. The engine note altered, and I went, mentally, through the motions as the pilot changed propeller pitch, lowered the undercarriage and flaps, before turning in towards the runway. The engines purred smoothly as the aircraft approached, then died away as the pilot levelled out to land.

A squeal of tyres told me he was down, and I relaxed. Then came a loud report as a tyre burst, followed by what sounded like some giant scattering a hundred metal dustbins.

Along with the rest of the boys I was out of bed and running in the direction of the crash. What we hoped to achieve I cannot imagine. In the event all we could do was to stand helplessly by and watch as the Beaufighter burst into flames. Soon the white and blue/green of burning aluminium and magnesium was flecked with other colours, as ammunition and Very cartridges exploded in the heat.

The crash crew arrived and white foam cascaded over the burning aircraft. The ambulance was quickly on the scene and we were relieved to see two figures dressed in flying clothing outlined against the flames. Somehow the crew had got clear and were whisked off to sickbay for a check over.

As the fire died down we spectators retired, thoughtfully, to bed, wondering if, and when, it might happen to us - in the event I didn’t have long to wait.

There were many variations on the foregoing account of a day on a busy wartime airfield in Italy, but the differences were more in detail than in substance.

Reverting to the song ‘I’ll be Seeing You’ - I have to admit it moves me still. War is a strangely mixed emotional business.


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Extract from Beau Gen, a newspaper produced by members of 255 Beaufighter Squadron based at Foggia, Italy in 1944:

There was one exciting night at Foggia when a high flying Hun came into the area. The two aircraft in the air had run out of oxygen and were unable to tackle him. W/O Dicky Swale and F/S Mick Homes did a very smart scramble after finding one aircraft u/s, and climbed out to 17,000’ in record time when his port engine ‘ran away’, and he had to feather the prop. Dicky making his third single engine landing found it necessary to whip up the undercarriage to prevent too much overshoot. The aircraft was written off but congratulations on a good effort and to both of them on escaping scot-free.