Virtual
War Memorial
Australia

Letter front Pilot-Officer E. C. Bagot, RAAF,
captain of a Lancaster bomber at an RAF station
somewhere in England. PO Bagot is the son of
Mr. and Mrs. E. D. A. Bagot, of 90 Jeffcott street,
North Adelaide.
TOMORROW my navigator
and I are going to church.
Our living quarters are two
miles from the drome, and
are very close to a rather sweet
little village, with an old church
on top of a hill.
Since Easter the bells have been
rung again, and so every evening
at dusk we get this lovely mellow
peal ringing out over the country
side. Even while waiting to take
off, when the sun has set, we can
hear the bells above the roar of
the engines.
In the Air Force we just don't
go on and on until we are shot
down, instead, we do two tours
of operational sorties, consisting
of 29 operations. After tnose 50
trips we are definitely never al
lowed on operations again. They
say we get nervy or cocksure.
I have been on "ops" for some.
Actually, 'they are "a piece of
cake." Flying a Lancaster, we just
sail across the target, while all the
flak is aimed below us.
Of course, we may "go for a
Burton." but It is not my destiny
to die young, and I never worry
much. All the crew have long life
lines.
Our grande premiere was Ham
burg, gy far the most incredible
sight it is possible ever to conceive
—fire flak, and searchlights galore.
The entu-e place was one vast in
ferno. Bombs were going off the
whole time among the fires. There
is now no Hamburg.
We've been there thrice, Milan
twice. Berlin twice, MnnnhPim
four times, Ruhr once, and to seve
ral other places. lam sorry I
have not described every trip, but
the papers give an absolutely cor
rect picture of the raids and
losses.
Milan was the prettiest trip. It
was bright moonlight. Right
across France we were well above
fleecy clouds and "silver wings in
the moonlight."
The Alps rose up and appeared
on our bevel. Mont Blanc all
covered In snow was a pale, pale
pink.
I had full power on, and we
crossed Milan with a ground speed
of 400 miles an hour. The Italians
were completely demoralised and
made no attempt to stop us with
flak or to hold us In their search
lights.
The return journey on these
trips Is agony, as we are just
'-there," out of sight of the ground,
and seeing nothing for hour after
hour. "George," the automatic
pilot, is a great help, as it is almost
Impossible to keep awake. One's
earphones hurt, and the oxygen
mask cuts one's nose.
Not a word spoken, as talking
disturbs the navigator.
Then the coast of France ap
pears. I push the nose down, shoot
across the Channel—and Eng
land!
Ten thousand feet, off come the
oxygen masks. We stretch, spit
out the old "chewy." and take our
coffee in comfort.
And so to base, bacon and eggs,
and bed.