Jack Harding was born in London, Ontario in 1919. His family moved to Windsor in 1920 where he was raised. He enlisted in the RCAF in 1941 and qualified as an Observer with the rank of Sergeant. In April 1942 he arrived in the UK and was soon to meet his future wife to be, Olwen, at a dance at Bournemouth. He was posted to 20 OTU at Lossiemouth where he crewed up with an English pilot called Sid Burton. From there they were transferred to 1656 HCU and then to 103 Sq in December 1942. The following is an account of this his crews 27th operation on the 28th April 1943 taken from his book "The Dancin' Navigator". "For some strange reason I awoke. Perhaps it was the horrendous dream I was having. That same recurring dream where I was falling endlessly, powerless to help myself. I could hear the sound of a throbbing compressor. A quick squint at my watch showed 7 a.m.
Struggling out of bed, I peered through the thicket of scrub trees that separated our sleeping quarters from the main runway. An Air Ministry works department crew were spraying a tar-like solution on the already camouflaged surfaces of the taxiway and the runway.
I dressed and gathered my shaving kit together. I had decided to pass up the cold-water taps at the nearby ablutions building, newly built for us. I slung my towel over my shoulder and made for the Sergeants mess washroom where at least there was hot water for shaving.
Walking down the narrow road to the mess I could see one woman among the noisy tar spraying workmen, handling the long metal spray hose. She was about 40, clad in heavy gloves, overalls and high wellington boots. Her long platinum blond hair was completely uncovered except for a hair net, despite her work.
There were other aircrew who wouldn't stand the cold, poorly equipped washing facilities provided for us. In the mess washroom I was surrounded. Luckily, an Aussie crew who regularly exhausted the hot water supply taking showers, hadn't been in yet. When they'd finished there was usually little left for others.
In light of the food offered, fried bread, brussel sprouts, or fried sprats, I ate only a light breakfast. Toast, tea and jam. Spence sat at a nearby table. I waited for him to finish and we walked to Operations together.
Spencer Cartwright was from Stoke on Trent. A slim, energetic, 21 year old Englishman of average height. Very quick mentally, he always wore his airforce wedge-cap at a jaunty angle. He had an eye and a ready smile for the girls. He prided himself on the fact that he'd once been ballboy to the great Stoke football team and knew Stanley Matthews, his great boyhood idol, personally.
He and I had a lot in common. He was an Observer too and had become Sid Burton's navigator on Blenheim training until I'd appeared on the scene.
As luck would have it, months before at O.T.U. in Lossiemouth, we'd found ourselves in a lecture room containing 40 Observer-Navigators. An officious English Squadron Leader entered and with a wave of his hand proclaimed ì All you people to the left of this centre aisle will now become bomb aimers and all you people to the right will henceforth act only in the navigational capacity. Make certain you all sign the forms in the appropriate place that I'm about to distribute.
Bomber Command had at last realised that an Observer had been given just too many duties - front gunner, navigator, and bomb aimer. Even with the eyes of an owl he would have found it difficult to move from a brightly lit plotting chart to the darkened area of the bomb sight. They'd finally decided, in their wisdom, to divide the duties. On that day Spence was on one side of the room, I on the other. We had never met and we wouldn't until a later crewing up day.
For some time his had been a simmering, unforgiving attitude towards me. With the bond that Sid and he had formed earlier I was the outsider. The one who had to prove himself to both of them. They were highly critical of my work in our earlier crew training, which, I'll admit, hadn't been that impressive. It wasn't until Spence and I had a serious talk one night that I convinced him that I could not change what decisions had been made by the RAF. He, as a former navigator, knew what problems I faced and I sorely needed his support. From that day on he dropped all barriers and we became friends.
The two of us usually worked together on our route. I'd lay out the track as dictated for that night by Bomber Command on my plotting chart. He'd be at my side in the Nav's room, if his duties permitted, scribing those same tracks in pencil across our topographicals.
We were stunned to find that our crew was about to do the longest flight of our entire tour. A low level mining trip to the Gulf of Danzig! Gardening was the RAF term. It was the first trip of this nature we had been called upon to do.
Special plotting charts had to be distributed to the navigators because of the extended distance. No one liked these trips as they were felt to be unlucky.
At a main briefing we found that we were one of three aircraft from 103 Squadron mining in that particular area. Low level flying there and all the way back, a quick climb was required in the target area to 4,000 feet. The mines, to be effective, had to be laid at a prescribed height. This was an unprotected bay where untrained Nazi submariners practised tactics before being assigned to North Atlantic duties.
Jack Harding, Part Two or Back to More Stories
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