Fighters in the Blood

The Story of a Spitfire Pilot & the Son Who Followed in His Footsteps

Black' Robertson

• Publisher: Air World
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781526784872
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

A retired RAF air marshal looks back on his career and the career of his World War II pilot father in this military memoir. As this fascinating memoir unfolds, moving backwards and forwards through time, two parallel stories emerge: one of a Second World War Spitfire ace whose flying career comes to a premature end when he's shot down and loses an eye, the other of his progeny, a second-generation fighter pilot who eventually reaches the rank of air marshal. The narrative is unique in its use of two separate and distinct voices. The author's own reminiscences are interwoven with those his father recorded more than thirty years ago, embellished by extracts from some 300 of his wartime letters. Intensely personal and revealing, controversial too at times, this account is above all about people, not least those with whom the author flew while serving with the USAF—a tour marked by tragedy; that said, they proved altogether more friendly than the P-38 pilots who twice attacked his father in North Africa! A daughter with dual citizenship subsequently helped him sustain his links with the US, both while serving and afterwards in business. The irony is that the son spent a lifetime training for the ultimate examination—one that, despite strictly limited preparation, his father passed with flying colors. To "Black" Robertson's eternal regret he was never able to put his own training to the test. His father, "Robbie, " was awarded the DFC and retired as a flight lieutenant after five years or so. He himself served for nearly thirty-six years, earned a Queen's Commendation, an OBE and CBE and served as an ADC to HM The Queen. But after reaching almost the top of the RAF tree, in one important sense he retired unfulfilled; his mettle was never tested under fire. Anyone interested to know more about flying, about the RAF, about leadership, about character even, need look no further than this beautifully crafted, immensely readable account. Praise for Fighters in the Blood "Offers an insightful look into the professional development of an RAF airman from Cranwell cadet to Air Marshal, the evolution of the Royal Air Force itself from the early jet era of Hunters through the demanding days of NATO versus the Warsaw Pack and the defence of British interests (e.g. the Falklands) with the Phantom, and then on into the post-Cold War world where the need to strengthen RAF airpower is challenged by drawdowns, budgetary stringencies, and often misguided Mandarins driving questionable defence policy.I was struck by how beautifully the author integrated his father into the story... it is at once very moving and very effective, and, once again, works to integrate the RAF "then" with the RAF of the 1960s-1990s. The photographs are wonderful. This book is a real winner."" —Dr. Richard P. Hallion, Aerospace Historian

Chapter 1

What’s in a Name?

Acopy of Debrett’s Etiquette & Modern Manners, 1981 edition, pages yellow with age, sits in my bookcase having hardly been opened in decades. Would that I had heeded the advice on page 142 regarding introductions: ‘Never mumble, be audible and clear. It is awkward for [people] to have to turn to each other and say, “I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear your name.”’ To make matters worse, reiterating that, ‘It’s “Black” Robertson,’ occasionally obliterates the name of the individual to whom I’ve just been introduced. My sympathies go out to all those who’ve suffered as a result. Try being me!

So often have I been asked about the origin of my nickname that it seems the obvious place to begin, even if it means setting aside the chronological approach that an obsession with neatness and order would otherwise dictate. Freedom from such conventions also makes it easier to draw parallels between Father’s experiences and my own. So I make no apology for the detours and digressions backwards and forwards through time that are an essential part of these reminiscences.

They begin on 9 September 1963, the day that, together with the sixtyeight others who comprised No 89 Entry, most fresh out of school and still wet behind the ears, I arrived at the Royal Air Force College, Cranwell – under false pretences as it turned out, but more of that later. Without a woman among us – equal opportunity was an unknown concept in those early days – we were the first entry, eventually, to embrace the entire gamut of professional specialisations. In a cohort comprising mostly aspiring pilots and navigators, engineers were conspicuously absent from our number until the 1965 merger with the RAF’s Technical College at Henlow.1 These late additions were spared an initial regime that was spartan to say the least. As Junior Entry flight cadets we enjoyed no privileges whatsoever and were effectively confined to barracks for the first six weeks or so. Not that we could have got up to much mischief beyond the camp boundaries; cadets were paid a pittance, less than £5 per week. Of this meagre sum we could spend no more than £5 each month on alcohol across the Junior Mess bar, where individual expenditure was carefully monitored in individual bar books. Charges accrued to a mess bill that had to be paid by cheque by the tenth of each month. Failure to meet this bill was a chargeable offence, and woe betide anyone whose bank account went into the red. This and much else was impressed on us in a series of introductory lectures, not least on setting up bank accounts (few if any of us had one) and how to write cheques. Worldly-wise we were not, which may explain why the College had its own bank.

To this day I maintain the same bank account arranged in nearby Sleaford early one Saturday morning at a relatively formal meeting with the manager. Helpful he may have been, but seated behind a wooden desk in his formal suit, he brought back uncomfortable memories of one-sided headmasters’ interviews. One of the civilians entrusted with the task of introducing new cadets to the real world in this way was the unfailingly obliging John Ulyatt, scion of a Nottingham firm of brokers, Frank S. Ulyatt. Like me, a number of cadets remained his loyal clients until he retired, arranging everything from insurance to mortgages and latterly investments. Annual kit insurance was the usual starting point. If premiums seemed a burden on impecunious young cadets, according to a more knowing senior individual such costs could always be recouped through an occasional claim for mythical losses – advice, I hasten to add, that was studiously ignored.

Ulyatt was one of a number of accredited individuals, salesmen in reality, who regularly plied their trade in the Junior Mess – all part of the process of assisting the transition from schoolboy to potential officer. Early emphasis on turnout, on smartness and appearance, meant induction into the mysteries of personal tailoring and hand-made footwear (Oxford uniform shoes courtesy of Messrs Poulsen & Skone). Tailoring was the province either of Gieves, the long-established military outfitters with on-site premises, or one of the visiting firms such as R.E. City, represented by Frank Varney. Together with his cutter, Charles Goodwin, Frank later set up his own successful tailoring business in Sleaford. Like John Ulyatt, Frank proved a good friend and sage adviser to many a young cadet. Being measured for my first bespoke suit brought a moment I will always remember. As Frank’s assistant recorded various measurements I could just about follow what he was writing down until he added ‘P.S.’ to one particular notation. When I asked what this meant he explained that it was simply, ‘Tailors’ code, Sir’. Still curious, I pressed him further until he eventually conceded that it stood for ‘Prominent seat. We allow a little extra material here, Sir.’ I knew I had a dropped right shoulder but this was a new and not entirely flattering revelation.

There were two College entries each year comprising four separate squadrons, each identified by a coloured flash on the white georgette patches sewn into uniform collars. I found myself in A Squadron wearing red; it was yellow for B, blue for C and green for D Squadron. Initial accommodation was allocated by squadrons in the huts (circa 1915) of the South Brick Lines, each of which housed half a dozen or so of us, including a member of the previous entry who effectively acted as a mentor. The entrance comprised a line of individual hand basins, each with a small mirrored cabinet above, a single shower and lavatory. This area gave way to the linoleum-floored sleeping area, beyond which was a small carpeted ante room where we were each allocated a single desk and chair. Cadets were responsible for keeping the accommodation area in immaculate condition for the regular formal inspections. Drill sergeants wearing white gloves were capable of instantly finding any speck of dust, misplaced razor or sign of inattention to detail such as a poorly made bed. Transgressions resulted in charges where the punishment was a few days’ ‘strikers’: a requirement to present oneself immaculate in uniform for evening inspections by Senior Entry cadets.

Notwithstanding our personal housekeeping efforts, a batman oversaw the condition of the accommodation in more general terms. These College servants were a special breed, genuine characters steeped in Cranwell folklore. Some had spent almost their entire life in the service of the RAF, indeed one such individual recalled ‘batting’ when Douglas Bader was a cadet. The legless flying ace certainly made his mark at Cranwell. Not only was he an immensely talented sportsman (his picture as part of the College rugby team is a regular site of homage), on his entry’s graduation in 1930 he was one of only two Flight Cadet Under Officers, the highest cadet rank at the time. Batmen had an uncanny ability to identify those cadets likely to succeed and those who might fall by the wayside during the three-year course. Their assessments were based purely on perceived character. In theory they had no knowledge of flying ability, the critical factor in most cases, but had they access to such information it would have come as no surprise. The dedication and devotion to their charges of the majority of these individuals was remarkable, witness an incident in my final term. My wake-up call and morning cup of tea was delivered ten minutes late and not by my usual batman. The apology said it all: ‘Sorry for the delay, Sir. Horace dropped dead this morning and it’s caused a bit of a problem.’ Unfortunately the individual in question had been found lying, expired, in one of the corridors.

The hut in which I found myself, together inter alios with two almost inseparable Devonians, Jerry Pook and Russ Pengelly (both of whom went on to make considerable names for themselves in the Harrier and Lightning respectively), was the responsibility of ‘Pop’ Amies, a big, bluff Lincolnshire character. He delighted in referring to ‘his’ flight cadets as ‘****ing crows’, an early indication that a batman’s respect had to be earned; it was by no means a right. The origin of the term ‘crows’, traditionally applied to the Junior Entry, was never clear – possibly an allusion to the vast number of birds that cawed incessantly from the tall trees in the College grounds.

The only means of escaping the confines of the College in those early days and meeting senior cadets on more or less level terms was through sport. This proved my salvation. Sport was my one great love. Competition for places in the rugby XV was extremely stiff and this, together with strictly limited ability, led me to opt for hockey, where I was fortunate enough to make it into the College team. There was also a new sport to learn about: crowing. It involved members of the Senior Entry descending from the lofty heights of the College proper to have fun at the new arrivals’ expense. For these exalted individuals it was an amusing diversion; for the Junior Entry it was a relatively painless and educational form of bullying. In my case it also exposed an embarrassing naïveté. Early one evening a strident call of ‘Attention!’, the required response in the event of our seniors’ arrival, heralded a personal grilling. As I stood rigidly erect, eyes firmly focused on the wall ahead, in front of me appeared a tall, imposing Senior Under Officer (SUO), flanked by acolytes including a dapper Pakistani, Under Officer (UO) Pervez. ‘Do you know who I am?’ said my interrogator. ‘The Senior Under Officer, Sir,’ I replied. More was needed. ‘And what’s my name?’ I hesitated, ‘Come on boy,’ until inspiration at last arrived: ‘Hampshire, Sir.’ This brought peals of laughter from UO Pervez and his colleagues. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ said the SUO. I wasn’t of course; I was simply nonplussed. The reason for this hilarity was that the individual in question was John Cheshire, son of Air Chief Marshal Sir Walter Cheshire, at the time a serving officer. Thanks too to the exploits of Group Captain Leonard Cheshire VC, 2 John was the bearer of one of the most celebrated of RAF names and went on to considerable success himself.3 Such confusion was an early example of how, over the years, I sometimes came perilously close to getting things right, to success even, without ever quite reaching the heights; it betokened, too, a lack of awareness that it would take hard work and dedication to overcome.

Early in that first term the hockey XI began to focus, as did all College teams, on the inter-Service events, forthcoming matches against our Army and Navy equivalents. A measure of how seriously these were taken is that in the run up to the first, against the Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, for a couple of days each week we even trained before breakfast. There was a palpable feeling of excitement among those of the Junior Entry lucky enough to be selected, whether it was for rugby, hockey or any of the minor sports (cross-country, squash, badminton, basketball and shooting) also included in the weekend’s activities. Then one misty Friday morning in November, we set off by coach for Grantham and the initial leg of an all-day rail journey to Devon. It was my first real escape from relative isolation. When he established the RAF College in 1919, Lord Trenchard had the foresight to locate it in the heart of Lincolnshire, reasoning that the flat countryside would be ideal in the event of the inevitable student forced landing. But there was another factor in his choice of location. ‘Marooned in the wilderness … Cranwell was far from the “vice and pleasure” area of London.’4 For some of us the trip thus represented a first opportunity to taste the delights of London since arriving at Cranwell – fleetingly en route to Dartmouth, but for an entire day on the return journey. A couple of us managed this by catching the overnight train on Saturday from Newton Abbot, courtesy of a lift from an obliging Dartmouth midshipman (the Navy’s flight cadet equivalent). We eventually returned to the College in time for the Sunday night curfew, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The journey to Dartmouth passed in something of a haze as, keen to be accepted, I joined my elders and betters in downing the odd can of beer as the journey progressed. Never a great drinker, by the time we finally arrived at Dartmouth in the early evening I would have been happy to retire quietly to bed. No such luck. There waiting for us were a number of midshipmen. ‘Welcome to Dartmouth,’ said a smiling individual. ‘I’m marking you. We’re off to The Gun Room for a beer. Don’t worry about your kit. It’ll be taken to your cabin.’ And with that began the longest evening of my young life. So insistent and generous were our hosts that it was almost impossible for my companion, Bruce Holben, and I to buy any drinks ourselves – all part of a cunning plan as I was subsequently to discover. It was not until much later that night and our arrival at the Dartmouth Boatel (the clue is in the name) that I finally managed to buy a round. Feeling immensely proud of myself for coming up with such an inspired idea, I added double vodkas to the beers for my marker and his companion. The next thing I remember was stumbling down the steps of the Boatel as we left. Finding myself at the feet of a policeman I was rescued by an Australian. ‘Don’t worry officer,’ said Johnny Hazell, ‘It’s the RAF. They’re playing the College tomorrow. I’m just taking them back,’ whereupon I was poured into Johnny’s ancient Austin 7, ‘You Beauty Two’, and delivered to my cabin.

The next thing I remember was a loud ‘whoosh’ as the curtains round my bunk were pulled back, followed by ‘Christ, you black bastard!’ I was lying stark naked, pallid and sickly looking, with every little jet-black hair (and there were lots of them) on my body standing to attention – or so I was reliably informed by those who had apparently been searching for me for some time. There was barely an hour until the morning bully-off so I was pointed towards a shower, a glass of water appeared from somewhere, and eventually I managed to clamber gingerly into my sports kit. In no shape for such an important match, I was soon trotting through an avenue of politely applauding watchers when a familiar voice wished me good luck. It was my ‘marker’ from the previous evening. ‘I thought you were marking me,’ I said. ‘Oh no old boy. I was only marking you last night!’ We somehow managed to contain the Navy until half time; thereafter we were effectively submerged by a superior team on an artificial pitch that demanded techniques that were beyond us. It didn’t help our cause either that I was far from the only flight cadet some way short of peak physical condition that morning.

The upshot of all this was that I became known as ‘The black bastard’. Word of this soon got back to Pop Amies, who delighted in taunting me as ‘You ****ing black crow’. Baiting young cadets was Pop’s stock in trade, but it once brought unexpected results. We always got on very well but whenever we met in later years, even after his retirement, he took great delight in pointing to a scar in the middle of his forehead, the legacy of a heavy wooden hanger I once threw at him in an otherwise good-natured response to his taunting. Eventually an unflattering soubriquet was shortened simply to ‘Black’. It proved impossible to lose this tag, although I thought there might be an opportunity when I arrived in Arizona in 1972 for an exchange tour with the United States Air Force (USAF). Unfortunately I was met by an RAF colleague who knew me only by my nickname. The chance had gone. That said, another colleague did offer a glimmer of hope when we worked together in the Ministry of Defence (MoD) during the early 80s. Possibly affected by early onset political correctness, he took delight in referring to me as ‘Darkness’. Needless to say, it never stuck.

By way of a footnote to this story, not long after my retirement I received a telephone call from the RAF’s personnel department asking if I would be happy for my name to be put forward as the (ex-)military candidate for the governorship of Bermuda. Given that there would be plenty of better candidates from among the great and the good, I rated my chances of success as close to zero as makes no difference. However, I wasn’t prepared to provide an immediate reply. The question needed some thought, plus consultation with my wife, so I arranged to call back with a response next morning. An evening’s due diligence revealed that in March 1973 the Governor, Sir Richard Sharples, and his aide-de-camp, Captain Hugh Sayers, had been killed as they strolled in the grounds of Government House. These assassinations came six months to the day after the island’s British police chief, George Duckett, was also shot dead. At the time there were apparently murmurs of discontent about the island’s status as a British dependent territory, particularly among less privileged black Bermudians. There was concern too, it seemed, that the governorship had never gone to an indigenous candidate. I therefore couldn’t help smiling at the unlikely prospect of a governor known as ‘Black’ Robertson. This thought had eluded the RAF staffs too, but it mattered not. In the event, and unsurprisingly, I was an also-ran in this particular race.

Chapter 2

Earliest Recollections – Illness, Loss and Two Discoveries

My earliest recollection is not a particularly pleasant one. It was seeing Mother carried out of our small house in Ilford on a stretcher. She had contracted what was known then as infantile paralysis and subsequently as polio. Happily, she eventually recovered, leaving as the only outward sign of her illness a slight muscular weakness in one corner of her mouth for which she occasionally apologised. Unnecessary of course, but how typically British to feel the need to apologise for something over which one has absolutely no control!

A second early memory, disturbing too in its way, was noticing for the first time an eye, immersed in fluid and peering at me out of a tumbler on a bathroom shelf. I later learned that Father removed this glass appendage, the legacy of his final Spitfire flight, every night, donning a knitted eye-patch and eventually replacing his right eye next morning. I never once heard him complain about this infirmity. Rather, he attributed his wartime survival to being shot down because it ended a flying career where survival rates were relatively low. Besides which, he’d already had more than his fair share of luck – a trait I was more than happy to inherit. It’s hard to imagine how difficult for him the resulting lack of depth perception must have made life in general and driving in particular. That said, unlike his son, he was never once involved in a car accident. Parking though was a different matter. He was prone to the odd minor nudge when manoeuvring in restricted areas, particularly when parking near the family beach hut at Frinton-on-Sea in his retirement. All four corners of his various cars over the years bore testament to this fact. Unlike the wraparound systems fitted to modern vehicles, oldfashioned metal bumpers were made for people like Father.

It took me some time to establish the link between his glass eye and an old leather flying helmet that languished in the shed attached to our garage. The moment I found it lying amongst an assortment of what can only be described as junk is still as clear to me as day. Unaware of its significance, I marvelled at this mysterious object as it lay there in diffused sunlight. Once I’d examined it and worked out what it was, I put it on and immediately became conscious of a peculiar smell – not unpleasant, simply different from anything I’d previously experienced. It became more noticeable as I attempted to fasten across my face the attached oxygen mask. Only later did I learn that it was the very helmet Father had been wearing when he was shot down. This explained the deformities in the metal accoutrements across the nosepiece, the result of shrapnel penetrating his cockpit canopy. Unusually, his aircraft had been hit by cannon fire from the front quarter. The vast majority of aircraft lost during the Second World War were shot down from behind, many of them totally oblivious of the approaching danger.

Years before discovering this relic from the past, Mother’s illness led to a few weeks spent with grandparents in Woodford, ‘Ferdie’ and ‘Else’ F...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Foreword: Marshal of the Royal Air Force
• Prologue
• Chapter 1: What’s in a Name?
• Chapter 2: Earliest Recollections – Illness, Loss and Two Discoveries
• Chapter 3: A Career Decision – Introduction to a Hero
• Chapter 4: The Route to Cranwell – Via a First Solo
• Chapter 5: Life as a Flight Cadet – a Shaky Start Works Out Well in the End
• Chapter 6: Advanced Flying Training – Fate Lends Another Hand or Two
• Chapter 7: Bridging the Gap to a Squadron – Experience as the Great Teacher
• Chapter 8: First Tour in Bahrain – a Turning Point
• Chapter 9: The Start of Two Long Relationships – and the End of Father’s Flying
• Chapter 10: America via a Short Teaching Stint – the Experience of a Lifetime
• Chapter 11: Home Again – and a Change of Role
• Chapter 12: Feet Firmly on the Ground – Crossing a Personal Rubicon
• Chapter 13: Commanding 92 Squadron – No Greater Privilege
• Chapter 14: 23 Squadron – the Falkland Islands Experience
• Chapter 15: Wattisham – a Different Kind of Command, Some Special People
• Chapter 16: Back to London and the Ministry of Defence – a Different Perspective
• Chapter 17: A Year’s Sabbatical – Revealing Experiences, Recharging Batteries
• Chapter 18: The Magnetism of the Ministry – Prejudices Reinforced
• Chapter 19: A Return to Germany – and Hitting a Speed Bump
• Chapter 20: Back to the Ministry – Troubles in Store
• Chapter 21: Final Circuit in a Blue Suit – France, the TA and a Hypothesis
• Chapter 22: Reflections of a Nearly Man – and the Ultimate Frustration
• Epilogue
• Eight Desert Island Discs
• Abbreviations
• Acknowledgements