‘Lest I forget’: the legend of the Beaufighters

So much emotion sweeps through me that I can’t speak. My breath and words are torn away. I turn aside from the cameraman so that he won’t record my tears, but the sound of muffled sobbing reverberates through the loudspeakers. I shove the microphone out of my way, but the tape has already caught my words, ‘He had trouble on take-off that day.’

It’s bad enough to lose men in wartime, much worse to lose them in an unfortunate accident only months after World War II ended. Keith Gulliver was 27 years old; the other three were 20 years old. Just kids. They called us hour-hogs in those days; pilots eager to log more flying time. We often only made one flight a week, depending on what orders came through.

10 December 1945. I’ll never forget the date. That morning Keith was piloting a Beaufighter aircraft. His navigator, Don Seekamp, sat behind him. Though the Beau, that’s what we called the planes, only held two seats, there were four other men crouched in the fuselage – a Medical Officer, another CO, and some ground crew along for the ride. As long as the men were listed on the flight log and were in the air, the hours counted.

The plane had supercharger technology, so extra weight wasn’t the problem. The front canopy design provided perfect forward vision. There was plenty of space between the pilot’s seat and navigator’s seat and map table located toward the rear.

A big Catalina stood parked on one side of the airstrip. Wind must have been strong that day. Beaufighters are notorious for swinging to one side, as both engines rotate in the same direction. Keith swerved to avoid that Catalina on his right, then swung left and overcorrected, taking the engines out of two nearby Mustangs and slamming into a bomb stack on the runway’s edge. He was thrown through the Perspex windscreen as the plane exploded. The other men were all burnt to death in the inferno that followed. There wasn’t much left to recover with their bodies. Mostly ashes.

I stand here now, in my 70s, and think of the 50 or more years of life that each of those friends lost, of their grieving families who were left behind. I reckon myself lucky to still be alive. These blokes are part of the reason that I live my life to the fullest, that I make every moment count. I didn’t get to say goodbye to them in 1945, but I made an oath that I would someday find their resting place. They didn’t get to live in this peacetime, have more children, or see swelling crowds that gather every Anzac Day to honour them and to commemorate our freedom. What we must never forget is what they died for and for what we must live. I want to record my memories before they fade – lest I forget.

Over time, I’ve made several trips to Tarakan, Morotai, Zamboanga, and Mindanao in the Philippines and have a large photographic record of Labuan, Tarakan, and Balikpapan. The National Museum of Australia requisitioned about thirty of my war photographs.

On the flight home from the Philippines, it seemed like coming back from the war for the second time, but this time I didn’t have to tell my family that I probably wouldn’t be returning, with the odds against surviving too great.

Some time ago the son of one of my navigators, while in Melbourne, spotted a model Beaufighter kit in a store window. The box lid showed a Beaufighter in flight, the number A8-116 clearly visible near the tail. He bought it as a surprise for his father, Professor Norton Duckmanton, OAM, a former Beaufighter navigator.

‘I can’t keep this. It’s the Green Ghost 116. Bill Mutton flew that plane. Send it off to him,’ said Norton, searching for my address.

When I received this gift, I was stunned but appreciated the irony. The box kit came from Japan. My plane, effectively used to defeat the enemy during wartime, is now, decades later, being produced in miniature for commercial gain by the Japanese!

Whispering Death is now available through Hachette Australia.