Groups and Single Decorations for Gallantry


Instinctively diving hard away, Knilans yelled to his gunners, ‘Where is he now?’ Only the mid-upper gunner, Roy Learmouth, replied, telling his skipper that his perspex had been shattered and splinters had hit him in the eyes. From the rear turret came only silence. The first burst had exploded inside Jackson's turret, killing him outright. Other damage included the port inner engine, which had to be feathered, and (as Nick found later) the tail assembly and port main wheel had suffered.


Though now without any defences against further fighter assaults, Knilans decided to complete the sortie. Reaching Kassel, he duly bombed it, then worked his way into the part-protection of the main bomber stream for the return journey. On the way home one of his crew confirmed damage to the port main wheel tyre, so Nick decided against landing quickly at Marston - a grass airfield which might produce a ground-loop on landing, hence possible disaster - and instead flew back to Woodhall Spa. Here, with no little skill and sheer muscle power, Knilans managed to land with one wheel and three engines without crashing. As soon as he clambered out of the Lancaster, Knilans went to the tail turret which had yet to be opened. Prising the jammed sliding doors apart, Nick extracted the body of his dead gunner and put him in the nearby ambulance. Gerry Jackson now would never see the face of his newborn son.’


Transfer to the U.S.A.A.F.


After two more sorties - including a return trip to Kassel on 22 October when his aircraft was again hit by flak and returned home on three engines - Knilans was informed by the Squadron Commander that he was to be transferred from the R.C.A.F. to the U.S.A.A.F. Ten days later, after gaining sanction to see out his tour of operations, he pitched up at Woodhall Spa in the uniform of a 1st Lieutenant, U.S.A.A.F. Now the recipient of a 50% bonus for operational flying, he drew the same salary as his station C.O., a Group Captain.


D.S.O. - American D.F.C.: ‘words cannot do justice to the outstanding courage displayed by this officer’


Returning to operations with 619 Squadron, he was assigned to attack the Big City on three occasions in the period November 1943 to January 1944. Of these latter sorties, the night of 26 November was particularly memorable. Bomber Barons takes up the story:


‘At 5 p.m. on 26 November 1943 the first of sixteen Lancasters from 619 Squadron took off from Woodhall Spa, each loaded with a 4,000 lb HC ‘Cookie’ blast bomb nestling among some 3,000 lb of incendiaries in the bomb bays. The target was primarily Berlin, but twelve of the Lancasters had been briefed to drop their loads on Frankfurt en route as a feint diversion attack, hopefully to draw the Luftwaffe defence fighters away from the main bomber stream's path to the Big City. In the case of Lancaster 111, ED859, ‘V-Victor’ the feint was rather too successful. As it approached Frankfurt at 20,000 feet a Junkers Ju. 88 bore in from dead astern, closed to 150 yards, then raked the bomber with a hail of cannon shells. Four more times it closed with its intended victim, its fire shattering the port inner engine and destroying the port tail elevator, before the Lancaster’s air gunners finally shot it down in flames. Even as the doomed Ju. 88 plunged to earth, a second German, a Messerschmitt Bf. 110, attacked the corkscrewing bomber from the port beam. As it passed closely over the Lancaster, it ran straight through a burst of fire from the gunners, jinked away to starboard, then disappeared into the blackness.


The damaged bomber steadily lost height as its pilot [Knilans] fought for control, finally levelling out at some 13,000 feet. Taking stock of his situation, the pilot decided to press on to Berlin on his remaining three good engines - another 200-plus miles to go to target. Reaching the city, he lowered his seat to avoid being blinded by the dozens of searchlights weaving around him, then put the crippled aircraft into a shallow dive to start his bombing run. Running the fierce flak barrage, he saw cascades of incendiaries and ‘Cookies’ raining down from the main force well above him, while to one side he caught a glimpse of another bomber jettisoning its entire bomb load only seconds before it exploded in an horrific gout of flame. Concentrating on his instruments, the Lancaster captain made his bomb run through the inferno and emerged apparently unscathed. Setting course for home he found his aircraft was still slowly losing height and he eventually crossed the Dutch coast at merely 2,000 feet altitude. On arrival over his base airfield, however, he found that his problems were not over - a thick blanket of ground fog precluded landing there and he was diverted to Spilsby. Here, still with only three good engines, and a punctured main tyre, he finally landed safely. Of his companion skippers on that sortie, nine had made landings at other airfields, one of these crashing in the fog and killing his crew, while Lancaster ‘S-Sugar’, with ruptured fuel tanks from the Berlin flak, managed to reach the mouth of the Humber before running out of petrol and baling out. Eventually, twelve hours after actual take-off, the skipper of battle-scarred ‘V-Victor’ tumbled thankfully into his own bed.’


He was recommended for - and awarded - the D.S.O., in addition to the American D.F.C., the latter distinction actually being signed- off by “Willie” Tait on 10 September 1944. In concluding his account of events on the night of 26 November 1943, Tait stated, ‘words cannot do justice to the outstanding courage displayed by this officer and the superb skill with which he inflicted damage on the enemy while bringing his aircraft and crew safely home.’


Knilans’ final trip with 619 Squadron was an attack on Stettin on the night of 5-6 January 1944. On the return trip he was alerted to a ditched crew off the Danish coast and set in motion a successful rescue by an A.S.R. seaplane.


617 Squadron


The bombing of civilians - “Operation Gomorrah” being a case in point - had been playing on Knilans’ mind; he wanted to continue his operational career but on the basis of attacking precision targets. His answer lay in a transfer to 617 Squadron and he duly volunteered his services - and those of his crew without their knowledge:


‘The Squadron had several new pilots now, including another American, Nicky Knilans, a droll youngster from Madison, Wisconsin, with precisely the quality of nervelessness that Cheshire wanted in 617. Knilans had already done about twenty trips with 619 Squadron and been in strife on nearly every one of them. Several times on the way to the target he had had engines shot out, and more shells had ripped chunks out of his aircraft, but he had always pressed on and bombed and had a D.S.O. to commemorate that laudable habit. Once his rear gunner had been cut in two by a night fighter, and it was such a terrible mess that, when they landed back at base, the ambulance driver who met them had had hysterics and largely left it to the nerveless Knilans to get the remains out of the turret.


Knilans had joined the Royal Canadian Air Force before America came into the war and had just recently been transferred. Now a ’Lootenant’ in the U.S. Air Force, he wanted to stay and finish his tour in the R.A.F., and had a row with his crew when he had them posted with him (without telling them) to 617. They claimed it was a suicide squadron, but, as Knilans pointed out, few people on 619 had ever finished a tour either, so it didn’t make much difference. The crew was even more unhappy when Knilans suddenly seemed to develop into an exceedingly hamfisted pilot. He was given a new aircraft, ‘R Roger’, when he joined 617 and could not make his usual three-point landings any more; even the take-offs were frightening, as ‘R Roger’ seemed most reluctant to leave the ground, and when she did leave climbed like a tired duck. “Give the game away, Nicky,” one of his gunners said. “You’re getting flak-happy. You can’t even fly any more.” “Doggone, it’s not me,” said the badgered American. “It’s this bloody-minded aircraft. You don’t have to fly it, you have to understand the son of a bitch.”’ (The Dambusters, by Paul Brickhill refers).


Bomber Barons sets the scene: ‘On 8 and 9 January 1944, Knilans’ former unit, 619 Squadron, moved to Coningsby, and 617 Squadron moved in to Woodhall Spa from Coningsby. It meant that Knilans could remain in the Petwood Hotel Officers' Mess - 'the best damn foxhole I would ever find for shelter'. At that period 617 Squadron was commanded by Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire, D.S.O., D.F.C., and was carrying out pin-point precision attacks on vital objectives. Among its crews were several hardened veterans in bombers, including Micky Martin, the 'low-level' specialist, Dave Shannon, Les Munro, Joe McCarthy, another American, and Bill Reid, holder of a Victoria Cross. It was a somewhat elite company to be joining, but Knilans was not over-awed. He knew too well that the Grim Reaper played no favourites in his grisly selection process - veteran or tyro, all could be chopped with equal ease.’


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