Chapter 4 from Moira Dynon; An Inspiring Life
by John F Dynon
(edited and compiled by Michele Trowbridge and Jacinta Efthim)
Moira was in hospital at Bowen, recovering from a jeep accident, when she received an urgent telegram: ‘Be Brave My Darling Tragic News Received Alan Lost In Action Over England Love Daddy.’
On 11 March 1945, June Shelton wrote to her sister:
Dear Moi,
I do not feel I can write much today, but know how you must be feeling up there. Mummy asked me to drop you a few lines. It is indeed terribly hard on you and Val to be so far away from home at such tragic times. We all loved Alan didn’t we? And it is hard to understand why such a good spotless boy should be taken. Everyone loved him.
Daddy got the news on Thursday about 5:30 p.m. and this is what the telegram said:
“Deeply regret to inform you that your son 428602 Flying Officer Alan Percy William Shelton lost his life on fourth March 1945 as result air operations. Known details are your late son was member of crew Halifax aircraft which crashed near Sutton on Derwent Yorkshire England. It is presumed that aircraft crashed as result of being struck by fire from enemy intruder aircraft. The Minister for Air joins with Air Board in expressing profound Sympathy in your sad bereavement.”
Don’t fret Moi dear. Alan would not want us to. It was his wish to fight and there is no doubt that he is in Heaven now. Daddy found out that four of his crew were saved—three of them uninjured, one with a sprained ankle but three were killed. Roger Johnson was killed.
I arrived down yesterday and have leave till Tuesday week. There may be a chance that Val can come down but haven’t heard definitely yet. I am so pleased to be home with Mummy and Daddy. They are simply marvellous. David has to go back on Wednesday so will be here for the Requiem Mass at St Kevin’s on Wednesday.
I won’t upset you by writing any more now Moi dear—will write in a few days. Be brave although it is so hard and you cannot realize it. Hope you are getting better.
Love June
The Catholic Archbishop of Melbourne offered his sympathy:
Dear Dr Shelton
I have just returned home and have heard of your great sorrow. I wish to assure you that you and your family have my deepest sympathy and that your son will often be remembered by me at the Holy Sacrifice. Tomorrow I will offer the Mass for the repose of his soul. Praying God, who gave him and took him away, to give you and all those who mourn for him the grace of courage and resignation in your grief and bereavement.
I am sincerely yours
+ D. Mannix
On 12 October 1980, four years after the death of Moira, I had the opportunity to speak with Pat Hogan who was the navigator in Alan’s aircrew. He had his Flying Log Book, which helped to clarify details. Pat told me about Alan’s life in the Air Force in the United Kingdom, their earlier operational flights and the events on the night of 3–4 March 1945.
Pat Hogan’s edited account
I first met Alan Shelton in July 1944. We had been sent to an RAAF Operation Training Unit at Litchfield. All the trainees were addressed after lunch on the day we arrived. We were told we would be there about ten days and that we were to mingle with other trainees and, by the end of ten days, the pilots were to form crews with people who were all individually compatible. Naturally the pilot was to be Crew Captain. Within an hour or so, a pilot approached me and introduced himself as Alan Shelton. We had a chat about our origins, background, families and interests. We soon got on to Aussie Rules and Alan’s interest in South Melbourne. He asked whether I would like to join his crew as his navigator as he was sure we would have no worries in getting along together. I readily accepted and Alan took me to meet Roger Johnson whom he had known at Melbourne University. Roger was to be the Bomb Aimer. We met several Wireless Operators and we all agreed that the diminutive and likable Greg Dixon from Chatswood, Sydney was the one for us. Roger Laing from Adelaide was to be the Mid-upper Gunner. Our first tail gunner was not medically fit and we got a real bonus when he was replaced by the big and friendly Bill Bullen.
I think Alan probably commenced learning to fly a twin engine Wellington (Wimpey) at this stage, doing take-offs, circuits and landings (‘circuits & bumps’) until going solo. The rest of us were attending lectures, escape duties etc. We were then posted to the satellite station at Church Broughton, Derbyshire. Our flight commander was at that time the highest decorated Australian flying in the RAAF in England, Squadron Leader Dave Shannon, DSO & Bar, DFC & Bar. He was a veteran of over 100 operations at the ripe old age of 22. Dave got the direct hit that broke the wall of the Moehne Dam with the ‘skip’ bombs of the Dambusters. His right leg was encased in plaster. Our imaginations ran wild and we were somewhat disappointed to learn it was as a result of some frivolity in the Officer’s Mess on pay night at Litchfield.
We did intensive courses, lectures and simulated training sessions in our own categories. We came together flying as a crew in all sorts of exercises, designed to give each of the crew the facility to improve his particular skills. This boosted the morale and confidence of each member of the crew working as a team and drove home the complete interdependence we had on each other under the quiet but firm leadership of Alan Shelton.
Our relaxation periods, outings and social evenings were also a very important factor in the ‘getting to know you’ process. On time off (48 hours leave pass), Wally, who joined the crew later, would head for home, the gunners had undisclosed plans and the other four of us usually headed for Leeds. On the first occasion, we stopped at a large hotel built over the main railway terminal. We were told we could not go near the fourth floor as the whole floor was occupied by an Indian Maharajah and his entourage. We came home about 1 am to find the doorman asleep at his post and the lifts were out of action. We started up the stairs and, when we got to the 4th could not resist a look. There was no one about and we were intrigued by the variety of shoes and knee boots, some with ornate silver and brass fittings, outside the doors for cleaning. We all looked at one another and grinned with the one idea in mind. We spread the Indian boots and shoes on all 12 floors, as also all those of other guests, including our own. Alan was up early, dressed and in socks and demanding the poor frustrated ‘boots’ man immediately find his new officer issue shoes—thence down to reception to join the queue of protesting guests.
Leeds was a favourite spot for us as it was easy to get to on leave at short notice. Also, by this time we had found an ‘old’ widow, Mrs Ackeroyd, who lived close into the city and would give us accommodation for a very nominal amount in return for a few food coupons. Apart from shows, Leeds was the Black Market town of the North. Whilst we did not smoke, the four of us always took our weekly ration of a carton of American cigarettes at a nominal fee. On one occasion in Leeds, we were able to barter (in a pub) two cartons of Camels for a tin of mushrooms, a tin of tomatoes and two Australian peaches (wrapped in cotton wool). For a couple of days, we dreamed of a magnificent feast on these delicacies. Off duty back at Riccall, we got on the bikes and toured the farms buying eggs. It was highly illegal, and the price was exorbitant at three pence each, but we eventually got 14 eggs. We obtained a loaf of bread, but how would we ever get butter? Alan said, ‘Leave it to me’. Next day he got up early, went to the Officers Mess, read the morning paper, folding part on his lap, put the half-pound of butter on the paper and put the empty butter container at the end of the table. When English RAF officers arrived, he ordered his breakfast. When breakfast arrived, he politely asked one of the RAF Officers to pass the butter, please. As there was no butter, the Englishman called the stewardess and ticked her off for not putting butter on the table. After she produced more butter, Alan ate his breakfast and departed. When he turned up with half a pound of butter, he was almost hysterical telling us what happened. As a crew, together we cooked our meal on the pot-bellied coal heater in the middle of our hut and further cemented our crew relationship.
Alan, Roger, Greg and I spent leave time also in London and one night we went to a stage play. At first interval, we went into the crowded bar and had one drink when the bell rang. The barmaid said to us, ‘A gentleman has just paid for another drink for you’. Around came Robert Newton and said, ‘That’s a bloody awful play. You might as well stay here and enjoy a few quiet drinks while the audience squirm in their seats’. With a deadpan face, he told us lots of stories about London, his dark eyes rolling and moving the whole time—just as they did when he later played Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist. We were in high spirits when we went down to the underground to make our way back to the Red Cross Club where we were staying. We were horrified to see the whole platform covered with people who had been bombed out that night. They were all so cheerful and making cockney cracks: ‘Watch it, cock, don’t stand on me. Stand on the missus, she’s got more padding.’
On another occasion, we went to Edinburgh and stayed at the Victoria League Club in Princes Street. When we got in one evening, the hostess asked could we please stay in until lunchtime the next day as the Royal Family were coming and wished to meet all Dominion airmen staying there. With tongue in cheek, Alan told her that would not be possible as we had arranged an escorted trip over the ‘Bass’ brewery next morning. As it was only available once a week, we were sorry we would have to decline the kind invitation to meet the Royal Family. The hostess got on the phone to the manager of the brewery and arranged a private tour the following day. Whilst we were waiting for the Royal Family, Alan introduced me to a Flight Sergeant Ken Groves from Mordialloc. Just then, we were asked to form a circle around the room and Alan and I were on either side of this chap. We were wearing name tags and the hostess introduced us all to the King, the Queen, Princess Elizabeth (in A.T.S. uniform) and little Meg and we shook hands with each. Because of the King’s impediment, the Queen spoke to each third bod. She asked Ken, ‘Where do you come from, Sergeant?’ ‘Melbourne, Your Majesty’. ‘Which suburb?’ ‘Dudley Flats,* Your Majesty’. ‘A lovely area, isn’t it, Sergeant?’ ‘Delightful, Your Majesty’. It was hard to control our mirth until they were out of earshot.
- Dudley Flats was the popular name for the waste-grounds in West Melbourne. According to Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki//Dudley_Flats; [Accessed 4 January 2020]. ‘During the Great Depression of the 1930s (and also possibly from an earlier date), the site was visited and then occupied by Melbourne’s poor and homeless who scavenged for scrap and rags from the tips, and built humpies out of discarded rubbish such as old timber and corrugated iron, even lino and hessian sacking. By 1935, over 60 humpies had been erected along the waterways and around the rubbish tips.’
While we had to take serious risks, work long hours and take enormous responsibilities on young shoulders, we were also fun-loving boys at heart.
I first flew with Alan on 4 August 1944 in a twin engine Wellington (‘Wimpey’) with a crew of six. On 25 November 1944, we had our first flight in the type of aircraft we would eventually fly on operation—the Halifax MK III (‘Halibag’). This was at the Heavy Conversion Unit at Riccall, York where we welcomed the seventh member of our crew—our new Flight Engineer, Wally Welsh, a tall, thin, shy, gangling, fair-haired 18-year-old youth from Devonshire, who integrated very well in the crew of Australians.
Alan got on with the inevitable ‘circuits & bumps’ in learning to fly a four-engined Halifax. We all had long sessions day and night, attending lectures and learning new procedures to master new equipment. As a crew, we all had ‘circuits & bumps’, whilst Alan practised three-engine, two-engine and single-engine landings. Then on to bombing practice, gunnery practice and cross-country flights of long duration, both day and night.
One night exercise was designed to take us virtually around England and Scotland. As we approached Land’s End in heavy cloud we were tossed about in a violent electrical storm. Alan had to fight hard to maintain control. When we got on top he asked me for a course to take us up about NNE off the Cornish coast to cross into Wales. When a break came in the clouds, Alan saw the coast coming up at the estimated time. We all got quite a shock when anti-aircraft flak started to burst around us for the first time. We realised we were over the small pocket of resistance still holding on to Dunkirk. Our compass had gone haywire in the electrical storm. We came down to low level and ‘unflappable Alan’ flew over the heavily fortified Southampton with Alan using the distress call ‘Mayday’ and Wally firing Red Verey Cartridges and we map-read our way back to Riccall.
By mid-January 1945, we had been deemed a crew fully trained and ready for Operations. We were sent to fill a vacancy on 466 Squadron RAAF Driffield. Driffield had been a pre-war ‘drome and Bulldust Castle’. On arriving, we had a great feeling of humility, expectation and awe, knowing we were the only crew on the Squadron which had not yet experienced an operation over enemy territory.
Our fifth operation was the most memorable. Our aircraft, K for King, had oil pressure problems and we were quickly transferred to the best aircraft—L for Love which belonged to the Commanding Officer. As it turned out, the boffins (planners) goofed on this one. The idea was that the main stream was to bomb a section of the Dortmund-Ems Canal. We were in a small group which flew over the main target about 15 minutes before the main stream to give Jerry the impression the target was further East. We flew on past our own target, a synthetic oil refinery at Reisholz with an 8,000 lb bomb load. After about 60 miles, we turned back and approached our target. As we came in on our bombing run, from the comments of those looking, we were flying into the moon. We were in a line of four aircraft, almost wing tip to wing tip—two on our left—one on our right in bright moonlight. We were attacked by ME109 fighters, being beautifully silhouetted for them. The bomber on our left took evasive action to starboard and the one our right dived to port, and both came underneath us. To avoid collision, Alan had no option but to calmly continue, straight and level and drop our bombs and cop it sweet. We got a lot of shells. An oil line was severed on the starboard outer engine and Alan had to feather it. Shortly after, the starboard inner also gave up the ghost and Alan had to work frantically adjusting trim etc. Bill Bullen reported that a shell had gone right through his turret, front and back, about half an inch above his head. The turret would not turn hydraulically but, ‘not to worry’, he would turn it manually.
Greg Dixon and I saw out for the first time on an operation as a shell had grazed down the port side of the aircraft taking a 6-inch strip off the fuselage. Wally went on an inspection tour and reported the Elsan (toilet-can) had been blown to bits and the interior of the aircraft would scarcely pass examination by a health inspector. Roger Johnson reported there was a 1,000 lb bomb stuck in the bomb-bay; the hydraulics weren’t working and we couldn’t open the bomb-bay doors. Wally Welsh got busy transferring fuel from the starboard tanks to the port tanks. Alan kept coaxing L for Love along as we gradually lost altitude. Over the North Sea, the port inner seized and had to be feathered.
There was a crash drome near Flamborough Head but not one of us questioned Alan’s decision to return to Driffield or his ability to land on one engine with a 1,000 lb bomb. He also found the hydraulics would not operate the oleo legs (landing wheels). Control asked us to circle whilst more ambulances and fire carts were lined up. Keeping Wally to assist him, Alan ordered the rest of the crew into the centre of the aircraft and to brace themselves against struts and bulkheads as firmly as possible to avoid breakage of limbs. He put her down beautifully on her belly on the tarmac and, seeing the sparks flying, I wondered whether the bomb would blow or the fuel ignite and we all made a hasty exit.
At this stage, Alan Shelton was regarded around the squadron as a quiet, friendly, likable young pilot, improving with experience. After this incident, his stocks improved considerably and everyone on the base became aware of him as they all went to have a look at the wreck. Air crew and ground staff—fitters, cooks, riggers, drivers, armourers, clerks—came and shook us all by the hand. Certainly, Alan took a bit of ribbing for writing off the C/O’s aircraft but the friendliness and admiration were gratifying.
Alan had ten operational trips over Germany, the last being on 3–4 March 1945. On the night of 3 March, we set off on a successful raid on an oil refinery. It started with the usual joint crew briefings, explanations of target, hazards that might be encountered, type and weight of bombs to be carried, met, intelligence, etc. Then back to our Sections to plot and plan our course; to the Mess for eggs and bacon and bar of chocolate. Eggs and chocolate were a strict ration, available only to air crew on a trip, and expectant mothers. A rush to collect our parachutes and the cheerful lasses pointing out the large wall sketch: ‘It won’t mean a thing if you don’t pull the string.’ Near the parachute section was the Chapel, and Father Baron, our Chaplain (from Lancashire), always waited in case we had the time to slip in. On this night, Alan, Roger Johnson, Wilf Tobin (also shot down that night), several others and myself slipped in for less than a minute, received a General Absolution and Holy Communion.
The trip itself was to be the easiest of operations so far. We had to bomb an oil refinery at Kamen, north of the Ruhr Valley. We had been there before. We took off at 1823 hours. The mission was completed. We encountered the usual flak at and around Kamen. The journey back was uneventful and, when we crossed the coast returning to England, we were very surprised when the gunners reported a heavy barrage of anti-aircraft fire from our own Coastal Batteries. We immediately correctly assumed that there were intruders in our midst and I gave Alan a course to take us directly back to Base at Driffield. We were the second aircraft of our Squadron back to Driffield. Joe Moss, the pilot of the first aircraft in, had already landed but one of his engines caught fire as we were approaching to land. We were about to touch down when we received a call from the tower ‘Braemar to Rudkin Charlie Overshoot’. We overshot and Alan gunned the motors to full revs, replying ‘Roger Braemar’. As we gained height, Joe Moss reported ‘Runway Clear’ and we went into circuit with other planes of the Squadron. Some of the others landed and we were instructed to prepare to land. As we got down to about 200 feet, the lights went out on the drome and we got the message from Control ‘Braemar to all Rudkin Aircraft Scramble—Intruders’. Intruders were shooting up the tower and aircraft on the ground. So we had to stay in the air. When the order came from the tower to scramble, Alan asked me for a course to another drome. I moved back quickly to my navigation table in the nose and gave him a course to another drome.
Whilst on a mission the Navigator, Bomb Aimer and Wireless Operator are situated in the nose under the Pilot. Roger, Greg and I always had to come back to benches in the centre of the aircraft for landing. This was called the ‘rest position’. When Alan asked me to return to my position and give him a course, in my haste I left my parachute in the rest position—a mistake which undoubtedly saved my life.
We were flying west, the first drome was in darkness. We flew to three other dromes in that direction; they were all blacked out. Obviously, intruders were still about. Then Wally said, ‘We’re low on fuel’. We had a quick conference and aimed to gain height to a safe 4000 ft, head east for the coast to avoid any houses or towns, bail out on land and let the aircraft crash in the sea. As we turned to 90 degrees, we were unfortunate enough to fly head on into the firing line of a Junkers 88 night fighter. Roger reported an attack from the port bow just as the first burst struck our aircraft. The radial engines of a Halifax present a lighted circle from the front at night. It was relatively easy for the Hun to shoot out our four engines, a target rarely presented to him. The fuselage behind Alan caught on fire and the aircraft shuddered and lost height. Alan immediately gave us the order to bail out. He called out very calmly, ‘Emergency jump; jump and go for your lives and the best of luck’; he said he would try and control the kite. Under my chair was the front hatch through which those in the nose normally get out. I didn’t have my parachute with me. I had to climb past two bulkheads to retrieve it; all the way back, the port side was blazing. The middle upper hatch was already open as the mid-upper gunner Laing had gone out. Wally Welsh was standing there with flames all about him. I pushed him out and followed immediately, pulling my rip-cord as I went. Theory is that you count to 10 before pulling the cord. I pulled my cord as soon as I jumped because we were so close to the ground. Bill Bullen had caught his foot trying to get out at the rear. He was a big fellow for a gunner, ex-infantry, size 10 boots; he got his foot caught under the chair. He had flames all about him. He decided to pull his parachute cord in the hope that this would free him. It did, leaving his boot behind.
It was a relief in the darkness to feel the jolt as the parachute filled with air and I found myself sitting in the harness. I was looking up and saw other aircraft and ammunition exploding everywhere. Our two gunners had both got out at the same time and were able to talk to one another on the way down. They were descending quite close to me. We saw our aircraft spiral to the ground and explode. Eye witnesses later told the enquiry that 40 seconds elapsed between the time we were hit and the time the aircraft hit the ground.
Alan Shelton, Roger Johnson and Greg Dixon were my closest mates. They went down in the blazing plane. I don’t know why they failed to leave the aircraft. I had tested the forward hatch before take-off and found it quite in order. I can only think it may have jammed when we were hit and that the fires at the nose may have been too intense or the gradient too steep. Mercifully, they would have died on impact and would not have suffered.
I hit the deck reasonably gently, as I was in a fallowed paddock. Roger Laing and Bill Bullen also survived. Wally must have waited to ensure he was clear of the tail-plane. His parachute had opened but did not break his fall. I had to go to the site the next morning and identify him. We were hit at around 0100 hours and the aircraft crashed at Fridaythorpe, nine miles WNW from Great Driffield. Seventeen aircraft from the Squadron took part in this mission. Only one other plane of the Squadron was lost that night but all of its crew got out.
Alan was calm in everything he did, even in his last moments. It was a pleasure to work with him and under him, as it was to enjoy his companionship. He was a great personality. He was always quietly confident in his own ability and let each of his crew feel he had complete confidence in them. There was magnificent cooperation and spirit within the crew—confidence in the pilot and in each other. My final tribute to Alan Shelton is to suggest to his family that, instead of praying for him, they pray to him.
- The editors compiled this account from notes taken by John F Dynon during his meeting with Pat Hogan on 12 October 1980; supplemented by Statement of PJ Hogan, 5 June 1945: ‘Re – Loss of Halifax Aircraft NR.179 on the night of 3rd March 1945’; and copy of personal record of Pat Hogan dated 2 November 1980 and other records provided by Pat Hogan’s daughter, Elizabeth Lusby, to Jacinta Efthim on 11 September 2017.
David Shelton, the youngest of the siblings, shared some memories of his brother Alan and the war years:
[The] final years at school [1939] coincided with the rising threat of war. As ‘a sickening precursor of what lay in store for Europe’, the Spanish Civil War and its horrors featured prominently in the minds of educated young Catholics like Alan. In October 1938, the army conducted searchlight and gunnery practice in Caulfield Park, not far from the Shelton residence. The exercise sparked concerns about air raids among a community still troubled by the bombing of the Basque town of Guernica eighteen months earlier. Pessimistic press reports heightened such fears, so that, by early 1939, local councillors ‘were giving more and more of their time to plans and preparations for a time of war’.
As Alan followed in his father’s footsteps by commencing medical studies at Melbourne University, Caulfield had already sent its first troops off to war, and the army had established an encampment at Caulfield Racecourse. On October 16, 1941, with the end of his second year approaching, Alan signed a Mobilization Attestation Form…and joined the Melbourne University Rifles…Alan was clearly one of many undergraduates who now viewed the MUR as a means of ‘undergoing basic training before departing for full-time service’. From December 15, 1941 until January 18, 1942, Private Shelton was encamped with the Rifles at Bonegilla, in north-eastern Victoria. Australia was then enduring the worst crisis in its history. HMAS Sydney had been lost with all hands on November 19, 1941; the Japanese had attacked Malaya and Pearl Harbour on December 7–8; with the fall of Singapore on February 15, 1942, the Eighth Division of the AIF was lost; four days later, Darwin was bombed. Australia was now confronting two nightmares which it had long dreaded: the ‘Yellow Peril’ was on the march, and the very basis of British power in the Far East was gone. Christmas 1941 therefore found Australia ‘grim and determined; at bay against a new and treacherous foe’. The Shelton household soon received a council circular explaining how to make a backyard slit trench. By February 1942, Caulfield had been blacked out, with glass in public buildings removed or covered. In the same month, the Prime Minister, John Curtin, announced the conscription of all of Australia’s resources, human and material, for ‘the purposes of war’.
Alan Shelton was one of 12,984 aircrew trainees to pass through Somers as part of the Empire Air Training Scheme between 1940 and 1945. Sadly, more than 7,000 of them never returned from their active service.