17289 DF

A DANGEROUS WAR AN UNFORGETTABLE STORY

From the smoke-filled mill town streets of Macclesfield to the skies over occupied Europe, The Wooden Wonder’s Sting is the remarkable true story of Flight Lieutenant Eric Swaine DFC and his service as a Royal Air Force Mosquito pilot during the Second World War. Drawn from Eric’s own wartime diaries, flying logs and personal notes, these memories recount his journey from eager RAF volunteer in 1939 to operational pilot flying the legendary De Havilland Mosquito FB Mk. VI – the RAF’s famed “Wooden Wonder.” Through training accidents, night flying, low-level strike missions, and deadly encounters with enemy aircraft, Eric captures the reality of wartime flying with honesty, humour, and extraordinary detail.

Flying seventy-two operational sorties across Europe, Eric witnessed both the exhilaration and the terrible cost of aerial warfare. His recollections bring to life the courage, camaraderie, fear, and split-second decisions faced daily by RAF aircrews during the war’s most dangerous years.

The Wooden Wonder’s Sting

A FAST AIRCRAFT

The

Wooden Wonder’s Sting

Memoirs of a Mosquito Pilot

More than a combat memoir, this is a deeply personal account of one young man’s path through war – and a tribute to the generation who flew, fought, and sacrificed in defence of freedom.

A STORY OF COURAGE AND COMRADSHIP A TRIBUTE TO THE WOODEN WONDER

Eric Swaine

A STORY OF WAR

Flight Lieutenant Eric Swaine dfc, RAF

End paper on uncoated white paper (blank)

End paper on uncoated white paper (blank)

End paper on uncoated white paper (blank)

The Wooden Wonder’s Sting

Memoirs of a Mosquito Pilot

First published in Great Britain in 2026 Copyright © 2026 Eric Swaine and Dale Fairbrother.

The right of Eric Swaine & Dale Fairbrother to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Formatted and Printed by www.beamreachuk.co.uk

ii

The Wooden Wonder’s Sting

Memoirs of a Mosquito Pilot

by Flt/Lt Eric Swaine DFC.

Editorial Note: This memoir has been carefully edited for clarity, consistency, pacing and readability while preserving Eric Swaine’s original voice, recollections and storytelling style as faithfully as possible by Eric’s grandson, Dale Fairbrother.

iii

I know that Eric would have wished to dedicate this book first and foremost to his beloved wife, Kay, and his cherished children, Mark, Pippa and Katie, whose love and support meant so much to him throughout his life.

This memoir is also dedicated to the brave men and women who served their country during the Second World War, and especially to those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

Their courage, dedication, and selflessness will never be forgotten.

v

Contents

Prologue..................................................ix 1. Rally-O in the Dark............................... 1 2. From the yard to first flight.................. 11 3. Learning to Fly..................................... 14 4. War is Declared....................................... ?

5. Tiger Moths and Training....................... ?

6. Night flying and near misses................... ?

7. Upavon and Tragedy............................... ?

8. Cotswolds to Canada.............................. ?

9. The Wooden Wonder.............................. ?

10. Hunsdon and Gravesend......................... ?

11. D-Day..................................................... ?

12. The First “Buzz” Bomb........................... ?

13. France in Flames..................................... ?

14. Into the Reich......................................... ?

15. Viscount Stansgate.................................. ?

16. From the Fields of France........................ ?

17. The Mosquito’s Hidden Vice................... ?

18. Epilogue – Forever in Flight.................... ?

19. Glossary.................................................. ?

20. Citation.................................................. ?

21. Photographs and Documents.................. ?

22. About the Compiler................................ ?

vii

Prologue

This is the story of Flight Lieutenant Eric Swaine DFC, born in Macclesfield, Cheshire, on the 6th of October 1920. In this book you will read about Eric growing up in Macclesfield and joining the RAF in 1939. Eric’s training as a pilot and on becoming an instructor, and lastly his posting to his operational unit and his recounts of the operations that he was involved with.

During his service in the Royal Air Force, Eric took part in numerous important and successful operations, demonstrating exceptional courage, skill, and dedication throughout the war. In recognition of his bravery and his distinguished service, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC).

This book has been carefully compiled from Eric’s personal war diaries, notes, and flying logs, and also includes original photographs taken during his time in service. It is hoped that these memoirs will offer readers a unique and personal insight into the experiences, challenges, and daily life of an RAF pilot during the Second World War. Unfortunately, Eric never had the opportunity to fully complete these memoirs, as he sadly passed away before he could bring them together himself. It has therefore been both a privilege and a deeply personal honour for me to compile this book in his memory. My hope is that, through these pages, family, friends and future generations alike may come to know the man behind the uniform and share in the remarkable stories and experiences of his life and service. ix

Part One

Pre War years

Chapter 1

Rally-O in the Dark

Go to any back street in any Northern Industrial town, large or small, and today you will find them deserted after dark. It was not always so some sixty years or more ago, when I was a small boy growing up in Macclesfield, Cheshire.

How well I remember returning home from school in the gathering gloom, rushing my tea to get out into the dark streets of the old Cheshire mill town in which I was born. The air would be thick with mist, often laden with acrid smoke that poured from all the mill chimneys that lay in the valley nestling at the foot of the Pennine Hills. There was little in that atmosphere to give pleasure to the adult workers as they quickly walked home after the final “buzzer” had signified the end of the working day, but to the children aged between seven and eleven, who gathered beneath the gas lamp near my home, this was the most exciting moment of their day.

This was the time that we played “Relievo” or “Rally-O”, as some children called it. Little heads would gather under the pale gas light, and high-pitched voices would be heard. Arguments were soon settled, and half of the children would scamper off into the darkness of the streets and the alleys, leaving the other half to move across the street to gather in front of Dan Bailey’s joiners shop double doors.

1

The “flags” or pavement stones in front was their “den”, well chosen for the pavement had no kerb - just a gentle slope from the doors to the cobbled road.

Immediately opposite, behind the gas light was an ‘entry’ - a wide passage leading to the backs of the houses and through to Paradise Street, one of the three streets bounding the perimeter area for the game, the other two streets being Crossall Street and Bridge Street. The centre of this triangle was honeycombed with back yards, gennels and allotments.

The rules were simple, the side ‘on’ could go anywhere within the designated area but not cross the boundary roads. The challenges were many: for the more daring, there were high walls to scale, as some of the backyards were on different levels. There were the twin dangers of falling and of being caught in the act by irate householders, who, from time to time, emerged from their backdoors to dash across the yard to the outside toilet. Even the infirm were capable of a remarkable turn of speed on this journey on a cold and blustery night and they did not look too kindly on any small child that might impede their progress through the unlit yard! Few of the cottages showed any light through the small rear kitchen windows as they were still lit by gas and there could be no sudden switching on of lights. Furthermore, thick roller blinds often protected the windows or heavy curtains that would have passed the most rigorous inspection by air raid wardens in the war years, still ten years away.

The side left in the den would begin a slow, rhythmic count, gradually getting louder as the count progressed until they finally got to ‘one hundred’. Then a loud shout of “Rally-O” would ring out and the chase was on.

Once the cry of the pursuers was heard, the team ‘on’, who had all dispersed to all corners of the area, would make last second adjustments 2

to their places of concealment. To be caught, they had to be ‘tagged’, once ‘tagged’ they had to go to the den as prisoners, and they could only be relieved by another member of their side running through the den before being ‘tagged’ themselves. If this was done the prisoners could again run off and the game continued until, finally, all the side ‘on’ were caught. Then the sides reversed their roles.

Surprisingly the teams always seemed to be well matched and there was little argument. The games would often go on until, one by one; their parents who often had to make more than one call to their protesting offspring called in the players, to plaintiff cries of “It isn’t time yet” or “Let me stay till Raymond goes in”, the children disappeared leaving the streets quiet and empty.

Every night seemed to bring a fresh challenge: new participants, new teams and new hazards, small boys and girls, normally nervous and timid and invariably afraid of the dark, learnt to stalk the inky blackness of the gennels and backyards, forgetting their fears in the excitement of the chase. Many ingenious schemes were tried to gain advantage, but any infringement of the boundaries was rigorously penalised - if you were found out! Many trespasses went unseen, and they got away with it!

Little did I realise that this most exciting and enjoyable children’s game was to be the basis of my wartime role as a night intruder pilot. All the elements were there: hiding in the dark, evading the hunters, avoiding the hidden dangers and obstacles, the dash for the target and the escape into the darkness.

The love of adventure in the dark brought other challenges. I remember, at the age of eleven, setting out one night with a school friend to the outskirts of town. My friend had a brand-new torch. We climbed the fence when we had passed the last houses and began to walk the half mile to Ivy Road.

3

Halfway we encountered a bog in which I lost my shoe - it took ages for us to find it. While looking we were frightened out of our wits by a strange noise and a vague white shape looming towards us. To our relief we recognised the outline of an inquisitive cow. There were two muddy and scared young lads who finally arrived home that night.

Later, as we all became owners of bicycles, we organised evening trips into the lanes of Cheshire, often encouraged by the acquisition of a new lamp or dynamo by one of the party. Gradually our confidence in the darkness grew and our fear left us.

My first school, a Primary School, was Christ Church C of E School in Great King Street, Macclesfield. The headmaster was Mr. Simpson, a short stocky man who wore a dark suit and a winged collar with a bow tie. He was never seen outside the classroom without his bowler hat, and he looked just like a smaller version of “Oddjob” in the James Bond films.

The analogy does not end in his looks: he was a great advocate of corporal punishment, and his cane was the “Charlie Chaplin” type with a hooked handle, which he used on the more serious offenders the “wrong way round”, that is, he hit them with the hooked handle to inflict more pain.

I can still remember the names of some of his favourite victims: Phillip Gaskell and Charlie Bamford were frequent recipients of that swishing cane. I do not know how much it hurt them, but it certainly frightened me as I watched the almost daily ritual.

Women teachers in those days were not allowed to be married: many retained their single status all of their lives and long after the rule was abolished. I remember one of my first teachers was Miss Bollins.

One of her main concerns was the teaching of handwriting and the 4

use of the old-fashioned ‘dip’ pens. They were beastly instruments with which to practice, and they were made more awkward by the fear instilled by Miss Bollins as she walked in front of the long desks, which seated up to half a dozen children, carrying a heavy, round ruler.

If any unfortunate pupil was not performing to her liking, they received a short rap on the knuckles to encourage them to try harder. To make matters worse the chosen method of handwriting was the Old English Script style, with all its flourishes and swirls.

The teaching of reading was the old-fashioned method of “reading round the class”. This meant that everyone had to be following the reader with a finger under the words as they were read.

Pupils shared one book between the two and everyone in the class had to read the same page, taking turns to read aloud along the rows. It made no difference if a pupil could read the whole book; he or she had to plod along with the rest of the class. Should a pupil become interested in the story and read ahead of the pupil reading aloud, the teachers were quick to spot this and to demand that the offender should resume the reading.

Of course, they did not know their place, as they had been absorbed by the story and so they were admonished for not paying attention. In spite of this cumbersome and inefficient method, most pupils became good readers and few left school illiterate.

As the years passed by and we left school and began to have our first girlfriends, even our courting was done in the dark. Few children in those days were able to take their friends home - especially friends of the opposite sex. They probably did not even tell their parents, so there was no alternative but to head for the darkness of the back alley or the nearby countryside until a suitable quiet spot was found. In the 1930’s 5

the schools in Macclesfield were still all-ages, that is to say that they catered for children from five years to fourteen years old.

There were, however, two selective schools in the town, giving two opportunities for children at the age of eleven when tests were taken.

The goal of most ambitious parents was, for boys, King’s School in Macclesfield. Scholarship places were pitifully small, and the competition was fierce.

I well remember taking the examination - the papers were difficult and daunting. The Mathematic test would be completely unacceptable today; but it served its purpose, I suppose, and by and large, weeded out the most talented.

I floundered on the Maths paper, taking too long on some of the earlier problems and having no time at the end to finish some that might have earned me valuable marks. I was not surprised to find that I was not one of the few to be granted a scholarship.

The second option was a fairly new selective Central school, and I passed for this with ease. It was an excellent school, as I now appreciate having spent my life in modern education. Its Headmaster, Gordon Barry, was a man greatly loved and respected by all, he ran a house system with the names of “Hood”, “Hawke”, “Nelson” and “Drake” how he would be criticised today for such a warlike choice of names, but in the prevailing atmosphere of the thirties it was an appropriate choice. Fostering much healthy competition throughout the whole range of activities in the school.

Proof of the affection the boys had for their Headmaster was shown when Gordon Barry left to become the Secretary of the National Association of Head teachers. At a short simple ceremony held at the end of his last day, he said goodbye to the assembled school.

There was not one dry eye in the hall, never before or since, have 6

I witnessed such genuine mass emotions that were shown for this revered man.

It was possible to leave school at the age of fourteen in those days and, with Mr. Barry's departure, my interest in schoolwork declined. My stay had not been without some success: I had obtained a Cambridge Local Junior Examination Certificate, which was to prove very useful to me in the future; I had also proved myself on the playing field by becoming Junior Champion, breaking two school records in the process. I was also proud to be chosen 'Sportsman of the Year' by a vote of all the pupils in the school.

One day a man called Mr. Matthews came to school to recruit a junior clerk for the local council. I asked to be interviewed, and I was offered the job. My parents were speechless when I told them but, after much discussion, they decided that I could go ahead.

The position was in the Highways Department at the Town's Yard at the bottom of Buxton Road in Macclesfield. The yard housed a variety of departments including Highway, Water, Painting, Cleansing as well as the Fire Brigade and Ambulance Service. It contained a blacksmith's shop for the horses that were stabled there, and it garaged all the motor vehicles then used by the corporation. The whole was run from a narrow office about 20 feet long.

Officially, I was described as an assistant storekeeper, but my duties involved all the departments plus a weekly job of making out the pay packets for all the corporation staff including the Gas and Electricity employees. I also had to assist in the weighing of vehicles on the weighbridge across the railway line in Waters Green. Finally - To my horror-, I found I also had to destroy, in a gas chamber, all the dogs and cats that were brought in. Just for good measure, I also had to operate the petrol pump to refuel all the vehicles and police cars.

7

These duties took 48 hours per week, five and a half days a week and I was paid the princely sum of 9s 10d per week (about 49 pence in our new money).

Despite the long working hours, my social life continued at a hectic pace. I had learnt to dance, and dancing took at least three of my nights: sometimes, on important occasions, it might be after three in the morning before I got to bed but I still had to be at work by eight the following morning.

During the summer months tennis took over. Nearly every spare evening I would be playing on the South Park courts. Eventually we formed a club and entered a tennis league. We played men's doubles and were quite successful in our first season.

The second season never got off the ground as nearly all our members were in the forces. In between these activities I still found time to go to the cinema at least twice a week, which was all I could afford, especially when I had to take a girlfriend.

For many years I had read a lot about the flyers of World War I: it began when my Uncle Tom took me to a newsagent who sold American aviation comics and magazines. Each Saturday night I would purchase one of these and I soon became familiar with the W.W.I heroes and the aircraft they flew. It was not until I was 16 or 17 that I had my first flight in an Avro on Southport sands. The trip was brief, but the seed had been sown. I was aeroplane mad from then on!

8

9

Part Two

Joining the RAF

Chapter 2

From the yard to first flight

After the Munich crisis of 1938, young men of my age began to think seriously about the future. They sensed that a war was imminent, and they knew the government would announce national service. Rather than wait for the call up, most of my contemporaries began to consider volunteering. Amongst the Town Hall staff, the favourite was the newly formed Army 'Z' reserve which paid £10 a year retaining fee and demanded two weeks’ full-time training. Many of them joined and did one training session in the summer of 1939, most lived to regret their decision when they were called up, the instant war was declared and found themselves in France even before the Territorial Army Units got there.

I had other ideas, and I sent for the details of joining the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. I felt I had a chance of being accepted provided I could pass the medical tests. For months I did breathing exercises until I could hold my breath for over the 90 seconds that was required. I was very fit and did lots of exercise, so I didn't need extra training. The one big obstacle was to obtain the permission of my father! My Dad was a pacifist: he would never allow me to have toy guns or join the Boy Scouts. I had a big hurdle to jump.

11

Secretly I assembled the enrolment papers and made them out. Patiently I waited for a suitable time. I often mentioned the fact that I would be called up in the near future, knowing that my father could do nothing about that. One evening I asked him to sign the papers, and he went mad. I persisted and, finally, he said, "Where is the paper?" and in desperation he signed. Quickly I put the form into the already stamped and addressed envelope and shot out to the nearest post-box. On my return he shouted, "Where is that form?" I told him it was already in the post and felt sorry that it seemed to cause him so much distress. He remained silent and never reproached me thereafter.

A few weeks later I got a reply asking me to go to Trentham in May for the interview and medical. When the day dawned, I was so excited I was sure my blood pressure was too high. I sat in the waiting room for ages watching the A's to R's come and go until, at last, they started on the S's. My confidence had been shattered when I saw one or two muscular young men come out to say they had failed the physical. I was convinced that I looked puny beside them and had little chance.

Then my name was called, and I found myself in front of three rather elderly men in Air Force uniform.

They asked a few questions about my education and then one started to ask questions about geometry. I was able to answer with confidence, as I was pretty good at basic geometry. Then the questioner asked me something that did not make sense. He was talking about triangles, and I quickly realised that he had mixed up equilateral triangles with congruent triangles. How did I get out of this without offending him?

I had little time to ponder so I said something like "Do you mean equilateral triangles or congruent triangles, sir?" A blank look came over his face, and he turned to his fellow officers and said, "What do I mean?" They in turn could not help him so, with a little smile, he said, "Let’s leave it there, shall we? Go and get your medical. If you pass that, you're in."

12

My well-rehearsed medical tests proceeded perfectly until I was asked to provide a urine test, and I failed to squeeze even a drop into the beaker. The doctor ordered me to drink a glass of water and to run round the block. It turned out to be a very large block, and I returned breathlessly to succeed in providing the sample. Then he found that the exertion had increased my pulse rate, and I had to rest until the tests could proceed.

At last, after a long day, in the late afternoon, it was all over and I emerged, fully attested, as 748292 Sgt. Eric Swaine of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve (RAFVR). I was elated - I could not believe it had happened as I rode on the train back to Macclesfield in a state of euphoria. The first person I met coming out of the station was my friend Dennis Pass, who told me he had just joined the Territorial Army.

The course of my life altered dramatically from that day. As a member of the RAFVR I was given a book of train passes that enabled me to travel free of charge, at any time to either my airfield at Mere, or to my headquarters at Trentham where lectures were held on two evenings per week.

Once at either of these locations I was paid at the rate of 1/- per hour.

Since my normal job, at that time paid me 18/10d for 48 hours, it was obvious that I would have been financially better off just training twenty or more hours per week. The fact that I did not do this was due to my innate caution - in 1939 you did not burn your bridges so easily.

In retrospect, this inaction probably saved my life, as most of the pilots who started the war years with greater flying experience than I, failed to survive the war.

13

Chapter 3

Learning to fly

From the beginning of June 1939, I not only worked 48 hours in my normal job, but I also travelled to ground school two nights a week and on Saturday afternoon. I spent at least six hours on the airfield.

Of course, it was at the flying field that the real excitement lay. One reported to the crew room, signed a book - that started your pay - and waited for an instructor to call you for training.

On June 9th, I had my first "air experience" with a Flying Officer Heelas. The following day I was taken by a Mr. Lockhart, a former RAF pilot, who had been dismissed from the service for some infringements of rules. I did not enjoy the experience as much with this instructor but a short time later a flight with Flight Officer Smith, who was said to be now a local bookie, restored my morale.

Over the course of the next month, I had frequent visits to the field and a constant change of instructors. On the 23rd of July, I commenced my two-week training stint and flew every day and had five different instructors. Then on the 25th, I had a long series of flights with Mr. Lockhart. He nearly reduced me to tears. He swore and became violent with the aircraft when my Gosport tube became disconnected; he did all the things that a good instructor would never do. I was devastated and I sat morosely in the crew room looking at the board which said 14

that I had already had 9 hours and 30 minutes of dual instruction and I had no feel for the aircraft at all. I was tense, yes, even frightened when with Mr. Lockhart.

It was in this state that I watched a smart little MG Midget pull up to the crew room. In it was a beautiful lady passenger. Who really took my eye. When she walked over to the canteen the driver, a smart looking young man came into the crew room and looked up at the operational board. He then glanced across at me and asked my name.

On being told, he raised his eyebrows and said, "Nine and a half hours, you must be ready for solo?" Miserably I told him I was not very good and was having trouble. "Get in 8255 and let's see what you can do", he said gently, as he put on his helmet and collected his parachute. For half an hour, he coaxed me and tried to put me at ease then he said he would take me again the following morning. He did, first thing the next day then he turned me over to the senior pilot, Mr. Smith, who finally encouraged me to do my first solo after 13 hours 15 minutes. It was a close-run thing. Mr. Lockhart had nearly ended my RAF career before it had really begun but thanks to Mr. Hammill and Mr. Smith, I finally made it!

Many years later, I found out that Mr. Lockhart had indeed been dismissed from his Short Service Commission for beating up an airfield, flying so low that the Air Officer Commanding had to fall flat on his face to avoid injury. The ensuing Court Martial ended his career in the peacetime RAF. He served as a civilian instructor with Reid Sigrist at Stoke-on-Trent. He was totally unsuited (and probably untrained) to instruct, as my experience indicated.

When war started, he enrolled as a Sergeant Pilot, soon became commissioned again and rose rapidly to fame for his exploits in the special Lysander flight that flew agents into occupied territory. Wing

15

Commander Guy Lockhart had found his true vocation, and he received the DSO and DFC. He was killed later in the war.

On the 5th of August 1939, my two-week training period ended. I had done some 18 hours dual and over 7 hours solo: just enough to make me feel that I had got over the first hurdle and could now fly with a degree of confidence. I knew that a long slog lay ahead, because I had seen other reservists, like my Macclesfield friend, Eric Bann, progress on to Hawker Hinds, an aircraft only just leaving active service in the European theatre and still used by squadrons abroad.

The papers were full of the political crisis, the Polish situation was coming to the boil and by the end of the month, it erupted. On Friday the 1st of September, with Hitler sending his forces into Poland, I left work for the last time.

The whole air seemed charged with menace as a rode home through the smoke-filled streets. At six o'clock, the BBC news announced the call-up of all reserve forces, including the RAFVR, telling them to report to their units immediately. I hurriedly packed a small suitcase and met Eric Bann, who lived nearby, and we drove to the Volunteer Reserve HQ at Trentham.

The place was abuzz with reservists, all expecting to have seen the last of their homes for some time to come. After a wait of over two hours, we were sent home with instructions to return on the following Monday. I remember that we drove to Macclesfield and went straight to the local dance hall to finish off the evening with our girlfriends.

Early the next morning we said our farewells, once more Eric Bann and I reported back to Trentham, with our suitcases, convinced that this time we were on our way to war. Again, there was a long wait before it became clear that we were going nowhere that day. We were now in the RAF, being paid the handsome sum of 5 guineas a week (more than 16

five times my normal weekly wage), but we were being given eight days’ leave until the following Monday. I immediately telephoned my Uncle Harry in Orpington, London, and he agreed that I could go down for a few days’ holiday.

The next day a funny incident took place. In the evening, I took my girlfriend, Margaret, to the Picturedrome. In the middle of the performance, the screen showed the following announcement. "Will Sergeant E. Swaine of the RAFVR return home immediately and then proceed to his unit without delay".

I had to leave the cinema and finally sorted out the reason for this demand. A confirmatory telegram of my call-up had been delivered to my home, and my uncle had, naturally, taken it very seriously. A quick telephone call confirmed that I was not expected to report until Monday, so, back to the cinema to complete the film.

17

18

Citation

1

Eric aged six months old in April 1921 and Eric as a toddler outside the family home in Crossall Street, Macclesfield, Cheshire, 1923.

2

Eric as a child, the photograph on the left showing Eric with his rocking horse, believed to have been made by his father William Swaine.

Eric outside the family home, in the garden of number 62 Crossall Street, Macclesfield, in the 1920’s.

3

Eric’s parents, Ada and William Swaine. Both died within six months of each other in 1940, leaving twenty-year-old Eric to face the challenges of wartime without either parent.

4