Layout 8 - Winston Churchill

had proven that the North Atlantic could be flown even in
winter. Beaverbrook was vindicated, the RAF had their
bombers, and Ferry Command was born.
Now the task was to find experienced, long-distance
aircrews to continue this dangerous mission. The lure was
the romance of flying, combined with the sense of patriotic
duty. But in the neutral United States, all the recruiting was
done in secret.
Bennett and Beaverbrook enlisted the help of the
Canadian Pacific Railroad to act as a cover and an organizational
parent, which delivered the American-built planes to
Montreal. From here they were flown to Gander, and then
across the ocean. The transatlantic leg was done at night,
since celestial navigation was the only method of holding a
course. Naturally, if clouds covered the stars they would
have to proceed by dead reckoning, for there were no radio
beams and no radar.
The planes had unpressurized cabins, no sound insulation,
and no heat. Aircrews said that if it was 50 below
outside, it was 50 below inside. Many men suffered from
frostbite. When the planes were delivered, their chilled
crews were sent back to Montreal by ship, a two-week trip
that guaranteed seasickness and risked attack by U-boats.
Later crews returned by air in the cold of converted bomb
bays. Either way, it was not amusing work.
Despite the challenges, Ferry Command delivered
thousands of badly needed bombers on a regular basis:
Lockheed Hudsons, B17 Flying Fortresses, B-24 Liberators,
B-25 Mitchells and B-26 Marauders, as well as Canadianbuilt
Lancasters and Mosquitoes. Then Ferry Command
began to ferry VIPs on certain flights.
“Some people take drugs,” Churchill said of his wartime
Minister of Aircraft Production: “I take Max.” Facing page:
Lord Beaverbrook, right, with his son, Group Captain Max
Aitken, 1945 (photograph by Ian Smith). Below: Australian
Donald Bennett, who formed the secret operation that
became Ferry Command, and Air Chief Marshal Sir Charles
Portal, Chief of Staff of the RAF, who in July 1942 told Bill
Vanderkloot where he was going (Wikimedia Commons).
Vanderkloot and Churchill
As one of the senior Ferry Command pilots at 24, my
father began to fly VIP missions across the Atlantic to
Britain and Africa. In less than two years at Ferry
Command he accumulated over one million miles.
In July 1942, having landed a new long-range Liberator
in London with an important passenger, he was told to report
to Air Chief Marshal Sir Charles Portal, head of the RAF.
Portal asked the young captain a hypothetical question: If he
were to fly to Cairo, what route would he take
My father might have been surprised at the question.
At the time, the Germans controlled North Africa and were
advancing on Cairo itself. Nevertheless, he told Portal, “I’d
take off just before dark, I’d go straight down the
Mediterranean for a few minutes just to clear Tangiers, and
I’d turn and go southeast, over the Atlas mountains; go
south of the battle line, follow it straight through to the
Nile River, turn north at the Nile and go into Cairo.”
Portal told him: “Stay close to the phone.”
The phone rang two days later at 8pm. Captain
Vanderkloot was told that an RAF car would pick him up
downstairs and to please come alone. Driving through the
blacked out streets of London, they arrived at a dimly lit
street. The driver told him to exit the car and walk to the
middle of the block, where a light was shining over a
doorway.
He walked to the light. It was Downing Street. The
door was numbered “10.” A butler opened the door and led
him to the private office, where he was greeted by the
British Prime Minister. Dressed in a bathrobe, Churchill
wasted no time on preliminaries: “Well, Captain
Vanderkloot, I understand we’re going to Cairo.”
Trying to take this all in, my father replied, “Yes sir, I
suppose we are.”
They would fly in a Liberator named Commando (see
foregoing article by Chris Sterling)—an unarmed B-24
painted flat black. It had few creature comforts and no passenger
windows. A bed was constructed for the Prime
Minister under the large fuel tanks near the wing. The rest
of his party had to sit in seats in the converted bomb bay.
My father was told that he could choose the night he
wanted to leave, but was warned to tell no one. Portal said, “I
am not to be told of the exact route of your flight, nor is
anyone else. We know your departure points and your destinations.
Details of anything that lies in between must remain
secret, even to me. You are on your own. Good luck.”
On a rainy night a few days later, a line of official cars
arrived at RAF Lyneham. Waiting for their special passenger
was a five-man crew, all Ferry Command veterans. Two
were Americans: Captain Vanderkloot and co-pilot Jack
Ruggles; three were Canadians: radio operator Russ
Holmes, flight engineers Ron Williams and John Affleck.
The oldest man among them was 26. >>
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