ANALYSIS
With the death of Les Munro, an icon of Royal Air Force history, and of aviation itself, has been lost. As I got to know him I found that this last surviving pilot of the Dambusters raid was, like most of the men of his wartime generation, a private man, and simply couldn’t understand why people were interested in his life and career. This understated attitude is part of the reason that he deserved our unbending admiration. But there was more to it than that.
Munro’s was one of the founding crews which volunteered for No 617 Squadron before the celebrated attack on German dams in the Ruhr valley. He had joined the Royal New Zealand Air Force in 1941 because of “an allegiance to King and Country” and his views echo those of almost every RAF veteran I have interviewed over the last 20 years — their notion of duty to Britain was powerful. More importantly, they wanted to be part of the fight, to be alongside their mates, to “do their bit.”
At 9:38 p.m. on May 16 1943, 19 crews from No 617 set out for Germany. None of those involved had any idea that their actions that night would come to symbolise British bravery and ingenuity. Les and his crew were ordered to attack the Sorpe Dam, but approaching the island of Vlieland in Holland he had to climb to about 40ft to clear the sand dunes. Diving back down on the other side, his Lancaster was hit and badly damaged, forcing him to return to base.
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Of the 133 men who set out, 56 did not follow him home. And more than 70 years later, the fact that he hadn’t been able to reach the target still played on Les Munro’s mind. “For me, all that training and preparation had been for nothing,” he used to say. “The celebrations were [soon] in full swing but it was embarrassing for me to participate; I wondered if I really deserved to be part of it all.”
It is this introspection which marks out Les’s wartime generation — the thought that they might “let the side down,” or worse, that others might think them “slackers” or God forbid, “cowards.”
One of the two surviving “Dambusters,” bomb aimer Johnny Johnson is now 95 and lives in Bristol. After flying through the flak and fire to reach the Sorpe, Johnson forced his pilot to make no fewer than nine runs against the dam before finally satisfying himself that the attack conditions were perfect.
Even so, he underplays the magnitude of the raid. “I would say we were satisfied in doing the dams’ raid,” is how he sums it up. “It was just another job we had to do.”
Bomber Command Museum of CanadaThe Canadian Dambusters who survived the attack. Back Row: Sgt. Stefan Oancia, Sgt. Frederick E. Sutherland, Sgt. Harry E. O'Brien, Kenneth W. Brown, Harvey A. Weeks, John W. Thrasher, George A. Deering, Sgt. William Radcliffe, Donald A. MacLean, Joseph C. McCarthy (an American), Grant S. MacDonald. Front Row: Sgt. Percy E. Pigeon, Harlo Taerum, D. Revie Walker, Sgt. Chester B. Gowrie and David Rodger.
This is the remarkable thing about such veterans. For them, performing such feats of arms was usual, despite the staggering risks. The chances of surviving a posting to Bomber Command were remarkably low. Of the 125,000 who served, around 55,500 were killed — a death rate nearing 50 per cent. Against such a backdrop it is easy for us to think, in retrospect, that Munro’s character — stoic, taciturn, utterly dependable — was the norm, too.
In fact Les Munro was deeply unusual. He knew the risks, but simply rose above them. “I was a fatalist — whatever was going to happen would occur come what may; if I was killed so be it. I never thought ’Come tomorrow I might not be alive.’ It didn’t worry me.” Of course he recognised that luck played an enormous part. He used to refer to his Lancaster as Lucky Lady. But the fact is, Munro didn’t focus on the consequences. Others did. And as a result they weren’t as good.
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The war prompted many apparently ordinary men and women to astonishing feats of bravery. But even within this corps of heroes, people like Munro, with their ability to tune out danger, were almost freakish.
Until the end, Les remained humble about his role. “People still come up and shake my hand and say ‘thank you’ — but I’m unsure what to say. It is somewhat embarrassing to have people thank me for what so many others did.” He was right and wrong. Many others did serve. But only a handful did so to such effect.
John Nichol is a former RAF Navigator and author of ’After the Flood: What the Dambusters Did Next’
Imperial War MuseumsA movie still showing an inert, practice version of the Upkeep bouncing bomb being dropped by a Dambusters pilot.