Throttle to Bottle
Pubs Used by RAF and USAAF Pilots in WW2

Pub Stories

 
 
 

December 2019: A Short Stop and a Sudden Drop

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In the winter of 1943, pilots from No.610 squadron, stationed at RAF Westhampnett, visited their favorite pub in Chichester, “The Unicorn.” The Unicorn had become the RAF local because the armed services had informally divided the city, and the pubs in the eastern half had been alloted to them. Ever since, the pilots from both Tangmere and Westhampnett used the pub to blow off steam, analyze the days events, and strategize future operations. The Unicorn was run by Arthur King, a publican who insisted that RAF boys had the best of food and drink in his establishment, and who turned the upstairs into the “Heroes Bar,” filling the walls with signed photographs of the pilots and squadrons. On this cold winter night, the 610 squadron pilots drank until closing before returning to their lodging at Woodcote Farm.

Because it was still early, and becaue they still had plenty of beer at Woodcote, the pilots decided to continue the party. But it was a cold night, and without a fire in the fireplace, and without access to coal in the coal closet, they set about looking for something to use as firewood. Unfortunately,they could not find any readily at hand. In their exuberance, they tore out the bannisters from the staircase, broke them up, and set them ablaze. Pleased with their resourcefulness, they sat around the roaring fire, drinking mulled beer and singing bawdy songs.

One of the revelers was No. 610's Flight Lieutenant, Colin Hodgkinson, an irrepressible character who had lost both his legs during a training accident in 1939 while a midshipman in the Royal Navy Fleet Air Arm. After he was fitted with two artificial legs, he joined the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve, but upon seeing the example set by double-amputee Doughlas Bader, he was determined to fly fighters in the Royal Air Force. He joined No. 131 Squadron, where he was given the nickname, “Hoppy,” and when No. 131 was sent to Scotland to rest, he had successfully petitioned to stay on in the south and had joined No. 610 squadron.

As the drinking and singing approached 3AM, Hodgkinson remembered that he was on the roster for an early morning raid on Brest. Rising from his seat, he bade his companions good night, and started up the stairs. But as he recalls, "Arthur's rum and the heady stench of burning varnish had had their effect." He lost his balance near the top of the stairs and without the benefit of a bannister, "slow-rolled sideways and outwards, clutching wildly at where the bannisters should have been and fell like a log some nine feet to the floor beneath." Hodgkinson landed smack on his head and was knocked out cold. When his friend and future ace Johnnie Johnson woke him in the morning, it was clear from the state of Hodgkinson’s face that he was not fit for duty and was in no state to fly. Johnnie told him not to worry about it, saying they would find someone else to fly. Although Hodgkinson was mortified, he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. He was siffering from a severe concussion, and in his current state would have been able to fly even a training aircraft around the circuit.

He slept passed noon and wandered over to dispersal, where he immediately realized that the operation had not gone well. As the planes from No. 610 came limping in, Hodgkinson heard the story. They had been counced by forty or fifty 109s on the other side of the Channel, losing four Spitfires in the battle. One of the missing pilots was an affable Canadian, Sammy Malton, who had taken Hodgkinson's place on the mission. The worst part about it was that Malton wasn't even supposed to be on station. He'd broken his jaw in a fight with Americans at the Regent Palace Hotel, and to save money, he'd decided to spend his sick leave at the base. It was the sort of cruel turn of fate that was only too common in their line of work.