My time in the air

Ben Bentley speaks to a former wartime pilot who flew dozens of sorties without a scratch — unlike many of his fondly-remembered colleagues.

Like many kids with big dreams, Norman Gregory was clear about what he wanted to do when he grew up.

"I knew what I wanted to be - a pilot," he says." I used to make model aircraft when I was about 14. I was flying the real things a few years later as a fighter pilot."

Norman, now 87, of Shifnal, only stopped flying two years ago following a fall - ironically in the aircraft hangar near Much Wenlock where he and a friend had built a plane and regularly still took to the skies in.

But with the Second World War underway, in 1941 at the age of 18 Norman volunteered to join the RAF and was posted to Craigfield near Alabama in the United States. Here he learned to pilot Stearmans and Harvards.

"Harvards were okay until I wiped one out," says Norman. "I was trying to emulate the film Reach For The Sky and I did a roll and caught my wings on the grass, bringing me down.

"I wasn't injured but bent both wings. I felt a bloody fool, but I was flying again the next day."

To Norman, the job of being an wartime pilot was as glamorous in real life as it was on the silver screen.

Airmen had top status, enjoyed better breakfasts, free drinks and were entertained by the pop stars of the day.

Says Norman: "We were marched off the station by Glenn Miller. And we had dances where the Glenn Miller Band would play, doing stuff like American Patrol.

"It was the best music of the lot. I get goosebumps hearing it now. I was a keen dancer. I wish I could do the dancing now."

From here he was posted to Halifax in Canada for further flight training in preparation for airborne operations.

He says: "I flew 28 different kinds of aircraft. The first one was a Tiger Moth, of all planes. Then I went on to Masters to get the hang of things."

When he was posted back to Brize Norton in Oxfordshire, Warrant Officer Gregory found himself on secret missions flying Halifax planes over occupied territories.

"I spent a lot of time towing gliders, such as Horsas, in preparation for D-Day Landings," he says.

"I never got to the D-Day Landings - mostly they sent me on covert operations flying over low countries delivering personnel to land by parachute."

Where to?

"That was never divulged," says Norman. "We were given the co-ordinates and the instructions and that was it."

He recalls operations flying over Holland and dropping supplies for the Resistance. It was lonely work as planes flew singly rather than in groups.

He adds: "We would take off at dusk, loaded up, fly over the North Sea in blackness and navigate to the point where we were going. Then we'd look on the ground for the flares and drop the tackle.

"You never thought it was hairy, but I was lucky - I came out of it without a scratch. I did 1,500 to 2,000 hours of flying and not so much as a mark.

"But we lost people every day, people who did not come back. If you think about it they lost something like 55,000 air crew just from the RAF."

For a young man who dreamed of flying fighter planes, the idea of not coming back never occurred to him.

"I loved every minute of it, it was like a fix," he says. "I was not grateful to come out of the RAF because I liked it so much. I would like to have stayed in, but my wife said 'Don't push your luck'.

"Youngsters now have computer games, I had the real thing. It was such a thrill that I never thought it was dangerous. I thought 'It won't happen to me', but I was a young man. It's a young person's game - you wouldn't do it if you were older - you probably know better."

His thrillseeking led to manoeuvres beyond the call of duty.

"I don't know if I should be saying this. . ." Norman starts. "We used to fly low and knock the sheaves down in farmers' fields. It relieved the monotony.

"And it used to get us in trouble with the mechanics because of all the grass and hay the planes used to come back with.

"We were like kids. And in some ways, I'm still a kid at heart."

Norman never flew Spitfires - although he did have some training with the iconic fighter plane - but he would receive instructions and within a few hours he'd be in the sky.

"It wasn't difficult," says Norman. "Once we had learnt all the intricacies and layouts and had read the pilot's notes the skills were transferable.

"When I first flew the Halifax, that was a big step. There were three of us standing behind the pilot; he flew it, came down and said 'That's it, lads. Get the plane and take it up, and while you're at it tow a glider up as well'."

He continues: "There were no computers but it was easier than driving a car - except you were operating in three dimensions.

"And you don't get the idiots up there either. Well, one or two. I was one."

Norman also did navigation courses, flying Wellingtons from Shawbury to Iceland.

"When you got to Iceland you had half an hour's fuel left and if you missed it you were in the drink," he says.

"Iceland was a bit of light relief," he says, adding that he'd pick up nylons for the missus while he was there.

Today he watches war films and sheds a tear. The walls of his home are covered in proud pictures of war planes and recent talk of the start of the Second World War brought back wartime memories, which, on his part at least, are mostly fond.

"It was the most enjoyable part of my life," he says. "I achieved my ambition."