Remembering Flight Sergeant ‘Tet’ Walston, by Fred Alexander

War in a Sky-Blue Spitfire

In 1943 at La Marsa, Tunisia, the RAF photo reconnaissance (PR) Spitfires of 682 Squadron shared the airstrip with P-38s of the 12th U.S. Photo Group. Col. Elliott Roosevelt, a non‑operational flyer, headed the North West African Photo Wing, which included the two units. When 21-year-old Flight Sergeant Tet Walston returned from a mission, he recalls, “The camera magazines were being unloaded from my Spitfire. As usual, the Jeep came to take me to debriefing.”

“That’s my Jeep! You’ll have to find other transport,” said Col. Roosevelt.
“Sir, I’ve just returned from an operational sortie, and this Jeep is reserved for the pilot and film,” responded Walston.
The colonel started getting pompous and pulling rank, and so F/Sgt. Walston asked, “Are you Col. Roosevelt, the President’s son?”
“Yes, I am,” replied the colonel proudly.
“Then why don’t you ask your Dad for a Jeep of your own?” asked Walston as he drove away.

A couple of days later, Col. Leon Gray, a genuine U.S. ace, whom I admired and knew very well, asked if the incident was true,” said Walston. “Another friend, a mere F/Sgt. like me, confirmed the story. Leon just about fell down laughing, saying, `What I admire about you guys is that you seem to be so bloody superior.’”
“My friend responded, `Well, Leon old chap, it’s because we actually are!’”
“`S___! I walked right into that one,’ he said.”

* * *

Tet Walston flew a beautiful sky blue Spitfire on 78 missions over enemy territory during 1942-43. That was an average number of PR missions, he notes. Afterwards, until the war ended in 1945, he was a flight instructor in Southern Rhodesia.

In 1997 while looking for people on the Internet with aviation interests, I saw his posting that he flew Spitfires during the war. He allowed me to pepper him with a hundred E-mail questions and a few phone calls. He read everything I organized to make sure it was still true. Here is his story in his own words:

I was born and raised in Yorkshire, England. My nickname “Tet” comes from one of my family names, Tetley, famed in my native Yorkshire for beer‑‑and good beer at that. My given name is Alfred, which I do not like. At 17 ¼ years, I was already a member of the RAF Volunteer Reserve and eligible to apply for a Short Service Commission in the Royal Air Force. I had passed all the preliminary tests and was due to go to London for my final interview on September 5, 1939. Unfortunately, Germany invaded Poland–the first of the Blitzkriegs–on September 1, 1939. We declared war on Germany at 11:15 a.m. September 3rd, and two hours later my interview was canceled by telegram stating, “All recruitment will be through usual channels.” At the Recruiting Office the next day, a Ministry of Labor official screened applicants. This was necessary to keep skilled workers in the home workforce for the production of planes, ships, and tanks.

Unfortunately, as a Pupil Apprentice Mechanical Engineer I was not allowed to join the military forces! My work and studies included mechanical engineering, design, production techniques, jig and tool design, etc. Living in Yorkshire, I saw only night bomber attacks during the Battle of Britain in the latter part of 1940. The day action was about 200 miles south. The war only intensified my desire to fly. I wanted to be a pilot since I was four. It took me another 18 months, until early 1941, to provide false documentation to get past this barrier. After being selected for pilot training, I stood in line while a particularly uneducated corporate took down my particulars. Things went well until he came to “religion.”
“Agnostic,” I stated, baffling him.
“Never ‘eard of it.”

I started to explain, but he was not interested.
“You’ve got to have a religion.”
“You mean that in order to join the RAF so I can kill the enemy, I’ve got to have a religion? How logical!”
“Were you christened at all?” asked the poor desperate chap.
“Yes, Church of England, if it’s to your liking!”

Anyway, I was sent to Canada where I flew Tiger Moths, then Harvards [AT-6A Texan in the U.S.] and was awarded my wings.
On return to UK I flew Masters Mark I and II. The Mark II was superior to the Harvard, and almost as fast as the Hurricane fighter.
The rumor that we were to go onto twin engine planes prompted me to volunteer for Photo Recce. This way I was certain to fly the only aircraft that interested me, the Supermarine Spitfire. At this time, Photo Recce was part of Coastal Command. They required all pilots to become navigators, trained in all aspects, including naval code, ship recognition, fleet deployment, and a whole lot of other material which I never used again. C’est Le Guerre!

Having survived all this, I was sent to the Photo Recce Operational Training Unit at RAF Dyce near Aberdeen, on the northeast coast of Scotland. The 14 who began my OTU Course were a typical mixture. Eight had trained under the Arnold Plan in the USA and the others like me had trained in Canada under the Empire Air Training Scheme. We were mostly about 19 years old, very enthusiastic and competitive, and all NCOs.

I was the first of my Course to fly a Spitfire. It was a clapped out ex-Fighter Command Mark IA. But to my distorted mind, it was the most desirable plane in the world. That flight was the best I’ve ever had!

The Spitfire had no vices, and if handled gently would do a straight stall, just like a Tiger Moth or PT-17 Stearman. The long nose created a visibility problem for landing. We overcame this by virtually landing at the end of a curving final approach. I still land a sailplane this way today, although I have full visibility. We could not see our target because the Spitfire was not designed for Photo Recce (PR) work. Consequently, we practiced hard to learn the art of positioning our plane and camera to take pictures.

The Spitfire was an interceptor or defense aircraft. Thus it carried eight machine guns and had an endurance of only about 90-120 minutes. Speed and altitude made the Spit desirable for Photo Recce. Replacing the guns in each wing with 67 gallons of petrol increased endurance. Fitters removed the armor plate and thick windshield. These modifications were carried out easily on the Mark V to make a Mark IV (PR). Economical cruise, 200 mph indicated (312 true airspeed), at 30,000 feet yielded four hours plus with comfort. My record in a Mark XI was six hours and 40 minutes.

After learning to fly the Spitfire at 8 (Coastal) Operational Training Unit (OTU) we then learned how to take photos. For vertical work we had a single 14-inch focal length camera. We learned the technique of approaching the target, turning usually to the left, and seeing the target disappear under the wing about half way to the tip. As it disappeared, one straightened out for a photo run. An airfield, for example, took five exposures.

We also had a few Spits with the oblique camera fitted behind on the port [left] side. Officially, we were encouraged to make flights on low-level targets. In reality, the staff frowned on our desire to make a great number of low-level passes. When it came to low level obliques, the battle was on! Eventually my friend Bert Gardiner came back with a photo taken while flying under the wing of a parked Lancaster! [A four-engine bomber about the size of a B-17.] This particular plane was parked on the edge of the airfield. A wing extended over the lower outside ground. Hence his marvelous shot.

ABeat that,” said Bert. And I did with a photo at minus 25 feet.

Our favorite watering hole was the Caledonian Hotel in nearby Aberdeen. The hotel was on a side street off Union, the main street. The railroad running parallel to the Caledonian was in a deep cut, one side of which sloped gently to provide a park. This park just across the road from the hotel was below street level. This was tempting. The approach up the rail tracks from the harbor meant getting low just after flying over the Union Street Bridge. I paced out the distance between Union Street Bridge and the next. It was about 600 yards. The sloped area of the park was about 500 yards long. If one flew low over Union Street and dipped down into the park area, an oblique shot of the Caledonian from below street level was just possible. Speed would have to be down to about 150 mph, with flaps down, and only one shot could be made, since there would be little time for the film to advance.

It worked out exactly as planned, better in fact, since the old doorman at the Caledonian was standing at the top of the front steps. When the film was developed, he had a wonderful expression of complete disbelief. I received great credit for initiative, supreme hell for breaking flying regulations, and was fined two days pay. Such money went into a fund for our ground crew. The manager of the Cal and I got a print. Mine was lost in transit with some of my gear in Africa. I wrote to the Cal some years ago asking if they had the photo, but the staff knew nothing about it.

Pity. I was very proud of that effort.

In my ignorance, I had tried to impress my masters that I was an excellent low level pilot, not knowing then how dangerous it was. Of course, they stuck me on high altitude jobs. The CO of OTU was Wing Commander Lord Malcolm Douglas‑Hamilton, brother of the Duke whom Deputy Fuhrer Rudolph Hess had secretly flown to meet. Malcolm was a well-known mountain climber. He organized voluntary weekend trips to the nearby Cairngorm Mountains in central Scotland. Though only 3500 feet high, the Cairngorms were treacherous in the winter. These trips were officially organized under the euphemism of “escape training.” As a keen rock climber, I enjoyed these trips immensely.

We traveled by train to Ballater. The nearby Army Commando unit took us by truck to Invercauld House, a large hunting lodge near Balmoral Castle. Our cooks arrived some hours before, and met us with a good steak before a big, roaring fireplace. In those days of food rationing and other restrictions, we were quite privileged. The next day, Sunday, we walked the mountains for some six hours. Since this was wintertime, the weather could be bloody awful, but we enjoyed it. This was good training for crossing the Pyrenees if we had to escape from occupied France. I still savor one Sunday when I was lead on the second rope on a snow climb up the North face of Lochnagar. The view was marvelous from this mountain overlooking Balmoral Castle.

Our Course, which graduated 12 pilots, had the bad reputation for being late with the “disciplinary” staff. In our favor, the ground staff thought we were great. Four of us played on the rugby team, only one was scrubbed, and only one was declared “Missing, presumed killed.” The previous Course lost three killed. Our exam results were the highest to that time; our ordered photographs were the best; and our initiative in low-level photography set a new “high.” When I was handed my logbook on completion of the course, Lord Malcolm remarked on our achievements–I was rated “Exceptional”– and asked, How the hell do you do it?”
My reply was then, and is still, “Clean living, Sir.
He nearly died laughing.

It was a proud, but sad, moment. I had planned to spend a week with Bert Gardiner and his wife in London. Instead, I met her for the first time to tell her that Bert was missing. I was the last person to see him alive as he roared past me on the perimeter track, giving me the “V” salute. His body was found just off the coast of Norway.

I was posted to 541 Squadron at RAF Benson in Oxfordshire, between Oxford and Reading, in September 1942. From there, I flew the Spitfire Mark IV, the PR version of the Mark V. I flew over France, Belgium, and Germany. Then was transferred to 543 Squadron at the same location doing the same work.

My squadron in North Africa covered the French coast from the Franco‑Spanish frontier, across Italy and all of Corsica, Sardinia and Sicily. In fact, my most important missions were photographing the beaches of Sicily and covering the landings as they took place. I also flew over the Anzio and Salerno landings. When we couldn’t fly because of bad weather, we spent our time playing cards or chess, reading, shooting clay pigeons, or dozing. Some attempt was made to spread the load, but if a difficult target came up, a more experienced pilot would fly the mission. We flew whatever plane was allocated for the mission, though my favorite was EN 422, a plane I began flying when it was new. We were not allowed to decorate the planes in my squadrons. But, I called EN 422 “Lizzie,” the most unglamorous name I could think of.

Most PR Spitfires were painted a particular sky blue. There were also pink and white Spits for low level “dicing,” but these were rare. The main difference between our planes and the fighters were that we had no guns or armor, but carried fuel in the wings.

The Mark XI was essentially a Mark IX fighter modified for photo work with cameras and a more powerful engine. Eliminating machine guns and armor plate lightened the plane. Speed and altitude were its defense. Wingspan was 36 feet 10 inches and length 31 feet. Maximum gross weight was 8700 lbs. It carried 218 gallons of fuel, 67 of which was in each wing. Service ceiling was 44,000 feet and range was 1360 miles. At 27,500 feet it could reach 422 mph. It could climb to 30,000 feet in 8.3 minutes.

Shortly after the invasion of North Africa in November 1942, I took delivery of a brand new Mark XI and flew out from Cornwall in UK to Gibraltar and onto Algiers. That was a memorable flight! Since I would be at 30,000 ft., I thought “to hell with neutrality” and flew due south over Spain. About two hours out, just west of Madrid, the engine started to sputter and cough. I guessed there was an airlock in the fuel system. I kept the engine going by using the priming pump from time to time, and finally landed at Gibraltar with my right-hand glove fingers worn out‑‑and part of my flesh too! The same thing happened on my next operational trip from Algiers to Sardinia.

The new Merlin 61 two-stage supercharger created fuel flow problems. The wing tanks were not vented to the outside air. Pressure differences, from one to four pounds per square inch, caused effervescence or bubbling and thus air locks. Venting the wing tanks solved the problem. Much of our work was routine coverage of ports, airfields, and military camps. But we also took the “before and after” pictures of cities, ports and other bomb targets. I flew from UK, Egypt, Algeria, and Tunisia. I took some of the target pictures for the U.S. bombing of Rome on July 19, 1943.

Our job was to fly out, take photos, and return. Regular flights over enemy seaports gave intelligence on shipping movements and, possibly, cargoes. Aircraft movement from one base to another was important, and, of course, photographs of beaches, gun emplacements etc. were vital. Our tools were two cameras that were tilted to give a stereo pair of photos. They were located behind the seat. The F24 had a 20-inch focal length and the F25, a 36-inch focal length. A Type 33 camera control, mounted high on the instrument panel operated them. The controls were on, off, and interval between frames. Simple‑‑‑but so were we! My cameras failed only once when a fuse burnt out. With great difficulty and stiff, frozen fingers I replaced it near my left foot. On another occasion the cameras worked, but the relatively warm air keeping the lens clear failed, causing the pictures to be blurred and useless.

We aircrew were the “laborers.” The skill was in the interpretation and cataloging of intelligence gained from our pictures. Our missions yielded strategic, rather than tactical, information most of the time.

When on ops, the main consideration was that the target be clear to be photographed. If our local weather were at all marginally flyable, we would go if the target was expected to be clear. Sometimes a trip would be a waste because targets were obscured. When home weather was less than desirable on return, we could be talked down with the use of ground control radar.

The Spitfire Marks IV and XI had engine heat to the cameras, and some of this was ducted off into the cockpit, aimed mainly at the lower abdominal regions. It was not noticeable at any height above 10,000 feet, and so dressing for the occasion was essential.
We did not wear electrically heated suits. These were tried, I believe, but rejected for several reasons. They were not too reliable, a drain on the electrical system, and I believe their heat was less than expected.

Experience taught us to wear several layers of clothing. We were issued silk long johns and long sleeved undershirts, and oiled wool “submarine” sweaters. We had silk gloves, woolen gloves, chamois leather gloves, and leather gauntlets. Our outer clothing was the Irving Suit of fleece-lined leather trousers and jacket. Most of us wore only the jacket. I usually dressed in silk next to my skin followed by another couple of layers of loose garments, some of which could look like civilian clothing. Then came the RAF “Battle Dress” serge uniform, with a scarf worn around the open neck. Gloves were worn in layers starting with silk, but I found that wearing the final gauntlets was too restrictive to the blood supply. I wore silk short stockings and a few layers of socks, but not tight enough to restrict the blood supply to my feet. My flying boots were lined leather, with a knife in the heel, and a thin layer of leather between the shoe part and the legging. They could be cut down to resemble civilian shoes if I went down in the other side. Despite all that, it was bloody cold at 20,000 plus, and we just put up with it. We had little feeling below the knees, which were quite cold, and our hands were not too dexterous either. We could operate our camera control, and carry out some scrawly note taking, but it was bloody cold.  Combined with the civilian looking clothing next to my underwear, passport portraits, escape maps and other aids in my clothing, and my escape money, I was fully equipped for most eventualities. I also had two water bottles attached to my Mae West when flying over the sea for long periods.

We had been well trained in evasion should we be shot down over land, but it was no surprise that survival in the drink was not so well covered. I know only of one successful ditching and, of course, we never knew of the failures. The successful pilot ditched about a half mile from the end of the only runway at Gibraltar. He only got his feet wet as he stepped out into his dinghy. This was most unusual because Spits did not float too well.

We flew on oxygen from takeoff because of our relatively rapid climbs, but the lack of pressure became evident after a short while. The smallest exertion, like using one’s hand to bang the partially frozen wing tank fuel cock, made one gasp for oxygen. All in all, it was a very uncomfortable thing to be doing.

There was also the chance of nitro‑embolism, the “bends,” and despite the fact that we had all been tested in a decompression chamber to 40,000 feet. This was no guarantee that our bodies would continue to be the same over time. We had the occasional bends in odd parts of the body. It was not dangerous, but painful at times. A badly filled tooth could be agonizing, and a blocked sinus was unpleasant. I once had a very bad attack of nitro-embolism in the sinus cavities. This was very painful and I nearly passed out. At one time, I think I became disoriented, but managed to keep control of my senses. Forty-five minutes later, I landed with an oxygen mask full of blood and mucus. Looking back, I thought I’d never make it!

Still, we had volunteered, said we could do it, and we could not “un‑volunteer.” We were not selected based on training performance and needs like bomber and fighter pilots. Obviously some of us were better suited for PR work, but if one completed operational training, that was it. Anyone who complained heard, “Serves you right or you shouldn’t have joined.”

* * *

A typical trip, a “mission” to Americans, began with a briefing at the psychologically worst time. We were briefed in the evening before the actual sortie. The only exception was the “panic” trip when some urgent tactical info was needed. So, one went to bed with a mind actively working out details on the best way to carry out the duty. In my case, I was always unable to rest before an exciting event (when young, a trip to London perhaps) or an important thing such as a trip on operations. After inspecting the plane, the usual trip started with me pissing on the tailwheel. It was important to empty the bladder. The butterflies in my gut vanished once the engine started.

Once airborne, I began the slow monotonous climb to operational height in the case of flights from North Africa. Leaving from Maison Blanche, Algeria or La Marsa, Tunisia, there was the long boring flight over the sea to the southern French coast. This gave the first opportunity to check the actual wind velocity, using the track and ground speed method plotted on the Dalton computer strapped to my right knee. Then we were on to the targets, keeping a good lookout for the enemy. The cold and discomfort kept us awake and alert. During the approach to France, a German radar sweep sounded a high pitched tone in our VHF radio. Thus, we knew that they were aware of our intrusion. Radio silence was maintained except for emergencies and certain operational code messages. For example, we were keeping watch on the Italian battleship “Littoria” and the “Guilio Cesar” in Spezia harbor. The moment they came into view, we radioed, “Apples and oranges,” indicating no change.

We flew straight whenever practical. At 30,000 feet, the flak was accurate for height, but reasonably predictable. The Germans had 6-gun batteries. They fired 88 mm guns one after another in a straight line. If the first one didn’t get you, all that had to be done was move over a bit and watch the other five go by. It did get a little complicated when a second battery provided crossfire, but that was rare. Normally flak was used against us only when the target was vital to them. Our altitude, of course, helped us.

I never saw more than three enemy aircraft at one time and was only attacked three times, that I know of. Enemy fighters were not too numerous in the Mediterranean Theater. The expression “jumped” did not apply because we were normally above the enemy that had to climb several minutes to reach us. Only patrols sent up in time could reach us.

My biggest fright came after I landed one time. During an enemy attack, my radio went dead and I felt a bit cooler, but didn’t know why. The shock came when I saw a big hole in the fuselage about two feet from my head. Usually, we were unopposed, and after covering all appointed targets, I turned for home. If my flight were over other land, such as Corsica, Sardinia etc., I would turn on the cameras and photograph whatever was beneath. The remaining film would be wasted otherwise. Our flights were lonely, cold, boring, and uncomfortable. The air pressure was about 4 pounds per square inch (14.7 is normal at sea level), air temperature minus-50 Centigrade, and breathing was labored despite the oxygen supplied. A condition not to be recommended!

Photo Recce trips were longer than fighter missions and the cold was not conducive to retaining liquid in the bladder. We tried several devices. To be efficient the tank part was strapped to the leg. This was fine, but when the urine cooled it froze, leading to frostbite.
We avoided too much liquid intake and foods that could produce a lot of gas, before going on a trip. That was the best one could do.
I only had to go once in the air and it was quite a job. I had to unzip, unbutton, and make sure no urine wet my clothing. I had to partially stand to do this, at 31,000 feet, and so I did my business. Owing to the temperature differential, the urine vaporized, filling the cockpit with steam that became ice crystals at once. Everything, including me, was frosted over. Fortunately, I was on my way back, but I had to scrape the instrument glasses and the inside of the hood [windshield] in order to see. As I reduced altitude, everything got warmer. Soon there was a generous coating everywhere. It took quite a while to dry it all up after I landed. That was the only occasion, I’m pleased to say.

* * *

When we moved from Maison Blanche, Algeria, just after the German surrender in North Africa, I was on the road crew along with my friend Flight Sergeant Leighton-Mowbray. As we approached Medjez-el-bab, a group of large trucks flying a white flag and full of men came toward us. They stopped and we realized they were Germans surrendering. Since I was the only person who knew a little German, I approached their spokesman. He spoke a little English, and with the aid of his Africa Korps phrase book, we conversed in simple terms. They were part of a Luftwaffe Flak Regiment from Bizerta, and had been trying to surrender for a week! Every Army unit they met gave them provisions and pointed them west. So there we were. “Go ahead, they’re all yours,” said Mobe (Leighton-Mowbray). “Under the Hague and Geneva Conventions, you are now my prisoners and we will be responsible for your well-being,” I said or words to that effect.

Our lads were armed the Sten, a crude submachine gun. I ordered one man to ride in the back of each German truck. As I supervised their boarding, I saw one lad hand his Sten up to a prisoner so he could be helped into the truck! I elected to sit in the back of their lead truck which followed our jeep. In my best German I said, “Wir singen?”

Dead silence.

So, I started singing in my lousy voice, “Ein Jager Aus Kurphlaz,” a children’s song. Some joined in and then started “Schwartzbraun ist Die Hazel Nuss,” which brought in a few more. I startled them all by singing, “Wenn Wir Fahren Gegen England,” the U-boat song I’d learned from the escaped Norwegians with whom I’d trained in Canada. We even went as far as the “Horst Wessel,” the Nazi anthem.
By the time we reached La Marsa, we were almost a private force, except for one devout Nazi. “My” prisoners helped us settle in on the landing strip. Gefreiter Fritz Neuberger from Zwichau and I became good friends. Two weeks later we reluctantly handed over our prisoners to the French who claimed them. But, I still managed to get them on day release occasionally.

It was not until the collapse of Communism in East Germany that I tried to find Fritz. I had not done so earlier because of the possible danger to him. I explained my connection in a letter to the burgomeister of Zwichau, asking him to forward my letter. Fritz had been a personal friend of the mayor, but had died the year before. I sent his widow some flowers and she was quite touched.

* * *

While exploring the area around La Marsa, we found a Zundapp motor bike with sidecar abandoned on the beach. This was a marvelous machine with shaft drive to a rear differential. It had five forward and reverse gears and a machine gun mount on the sidecar. There was just one snag, the differential gears were such that it could only go around in circles. One of our lads spotted a similar machine in a ditch about 10 miles back. We picked it up and between the two we had a fully working outfit which we used every day. I wish I had it now.

* * *

Back to Spitfires. The Mark XI had a retractable tail wheel for reduced wind resistance. If it became necessary to use the C02 to blow down the main wheels, the door to the tailwheel did not open, and the wheel did not drop. Thus the stern frame was damaged every time an emergency wheel procedure was necessary. The repair was usually simple, but required the replacement of eight bolts of one type and twelve of another. We had two planes out of action with stern damage, but were far from Algiers, the nearest Maintenance Unit. As the most technically suitable pilot, I flew to 251 MU (friends of ours) to get the bolts. The Unit was on 48 hours of well-deserved leave, and so I hitched a ride to the MU near Algiers.

The war in North Africa being over, this lot was back to peacetime B.S., and a Flight Sergeant wearing no cap, and having no identity documents, was not welcome. Having insulted everyone I was brought before, I finally convinced the C.O. of the unit that we needed those bolts because the war was still on. Further, I said I’d even pay for them myself; and Air Marshall Tedder would have my personal report on this incident. I had no requisition and no part numbers, just my samples. It took another hour to find the bolts in their stores. After a multitude of signatures, I got them! About 10 days later, a long Form 252 arrived at La Marsa. This charge sheet started off with “Conduct Unbecoming, Insolence to a Superior Officer, Being Improperly Dressed”, and so on.
“Is it all true?” asked my C.O., Jimmy Morgan.
“I think it is understated,” I responded, adding, “but I did get the bolts.”
Grinning wryly, he said, “Don’t do it again, unless you have to,” wrote “Ballocks” across the charge sheet, and sent it back.

Not long after that, we needed a Merlin 61/63 series engine. The Engineering Officer wanted one badly for one of our Spitfire Mark Xs. The M.U.s had not yet moved up, but Mobe remembered seeing a U.S. Air Stores Park a few miles away. We rode over on the Zundapp motor bike, and the sentry kindly fetched the Duty Officer. Yes, he thought, they might have something like that if we know what to look for. The Store Park was enormous, but we soon found some unopened Packard/Rolls Royce packing cases. The Duty Officer sent for his major, and we explained our needs. “Sure,” said he, “We can let you have one, but you’ll need a truck. Your machine couldn’t handle it.” So we had a Merlin loading onto a truck, the driver ordered to follow us to La Marsa. “I’d better sign for this,” I said, but it was not necessary. All the paperwork was taken care of! What a difference in attitudes. My Annual Report for that year was one I should have copied and framed. It noted, “His initiative sometimes exceeds the expectations of the Service.”

* * *

The bit I liked most was returning. Regardless of weather, the home coast was always beautiful on return. We were permitted to “beat up” the airfield if we had photos on board, and we were past masters of the extreme low pass.

My favorite sight was when suddenly bursting through dirty gray “clag” into a bright, sunny unclouded sky. Of course, it was always great to circle brilliantly lit cumulus clouds.

Unlike the fighter pilots and the bomber boys, we did not have the satisfaction of the righteous “take that you bastards” of firing our guns or dropping bombs. However, our superiors told us our work was very valuable, and our contribution to the war effort was at least as important as fighters and bombers. We just didn’t get the glow of a successful combat. I know that today it is unseemly to express these aggressive sentiments, but don’t the modern day moralists appreciate that we were fighting for our freedom–and theirs?

The thing that surprised and disappointed me the most when I became operational was the lack of squadron or team spirit. Unlike those airborne families of Bomber Command or the comradeship of Fighter Command, we, of course, flew as lone pilots. This was not conducive to the development of the close friendships I had experienced previously.

Throughout the RAF at that time, there were officers and NCOs (non-commissioned officers) doing essentially the same job together. This lead to a social mixing, exchange of ideas, etc. In Photo Recee, we were separated by rank differences. I think that much more could have been accomplished if we had lived together. (An exception for a Photo Recee unit was Warby’s squadron on Malta.)
I went to Southern Rhodesia as a flight instructor in June 1944. I flew Harvards, Cornells, and twin engined Oxfords. Flying over Africa was carried out in clearer, more predictable weather than in Europe. The rainy season could produce violent turbulence.

The most unusual experience there was participating in the organized killing of wild animals that were possibly infected with sleeping sickness. Parts of the vegetation in the “fly belt” were set alight. All the fleeing animals were shot and the carcasses left to be burnt. When I tell Canadian hunters that I’ve shot more animals than they have ever seen, I’m not joking. Necessary as it was, it put me off hunting forever.

I returned to Britain from Southern Rhodesia via Capetown in September 1945. After a long furlough, I was posted to a dump of an airfield. It had only one redeeming feature, the WAAF who became my wife. A buddy from my Rhodesia days invited me to see the workings of Flying Control and there was Celia, a radio operator. We have been together from November 1945, having married in March 1946. We have three daughters, a son, and eight grandchildren.

Following our release from the RAF in July 1946, we decided to start out in Devon, a wonderful part of England. I was to have trained as a schoolteacher. But the waiting time for college was too long. So, I returned to my old trade in mechanical engineering.
Through the years, and a move to Poole in Dorset, I became a tool and die maker and was also responsible for design. Oddly, my greatest achievement was the design and manufacture of an original eyebrow pencil holder, the first made entirely from plastics.

My military career resumed in 1953. I joined the Royal Devon Yeomanry Territorial Army and became an artillery first lieutenant. I enjoyed this pleasant association, similar to the U.S. reserves, for 10 years.

In 1965, we moved to Canada to give our children a better chance for the future. It worked out well for all of us. I retired from my job as a mechanical technologist at the Saskatchewan Accelerator Lab, a nuclear research facility.

We came to live in Comox on Vancouver Island in 1991. This was a great move for me because of the active RCAF Air Base here. I joined the RCAF Association, served as president in 1996, and have enjoyed lots of contacts and friends, despite my being a wartime-only pilot and a flight sergeant in a foreign air force, too.

Tet died in 2002.

Fred Alexander

---

Photos to be added later

PHOTO CAPTION
Tet Walston, now of Comox Island, British Columbia, began flying Spitfires as a 19-year old. Pictured here after the war as an old man of 23, he had flown hundreds of hours at high altitude over enemy territory in an unarmed plane. During the last year he was a flight instructor in Rhodesia.

PHOTO CAPTION

Tet Walston’s favorite Supermarine Spitfire Mark XI was EN442. Here the sky blue photo reconnaissance plane is shown high above the clouds in a watercolor by Ken Tilson.

PHOTO CAPTION
Today Tet Walston is an active member of the aviation community on Commox Island, B.C. He is a recent past president of the RCAF Association there, flies gliders, and assists with an aviation museum.

PHOTO CAPTION
“It was always great to circle brilliantly lit cumulus clouds,” says Tet Walston who flew a British Spitfire Mark XI photo reconnaissance plane like this one during World War II. Today, one Mark XI is still flown by a private owner in Britain. Another four are in museums in the U.S., Portugal and Norway. The U.S. planes are at the USAF Museum at Wright-Patterson AFB, OH, and the Museum of Flying in Santa Monica, CA.