War And Love Catalina

War and Love - Catalina

© JoeMo1619 - May 2025 ff.

'War and Love' ('Krieg und Liebe') is a successful series of erotic-historic short stories on Literotica's German language platform. Some of these stories have Anglo-American background, so I'm planning to translate them into English step-by-step.

I got the idea to create these short stories from Leo Tolstoy's novel 'War and Peace' and Theodor Fontane's novel 'Before the storm', two of my three favourite books. Love is the best 'medicine' to overcome the stress and worries of war, something we can see in many actual wars too.

Royal Air Force, United Kingdom, before and during WW II

I, Charles M. Watts, had inherited my passion for aviation in general and flying boats in special since I was a baby. My father had graduated as a mechanical engineer and had served the entire WW I period as flight and engine engineer in the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS), which had been established just before the war's beginning. He was deployed to Southampton Airfield and other location, had married my Southampton born mother during the war and was integrated in the newly established Royal Air Force at its incorporation on April 1

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, 1918.

I was born on July 27

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, 1917. My parents completed our family with two additional girls over the next few years. After the war's end my father switched to civil aviation because Southampton became the most important UK air base for flying boats. He established in partnership with a financial colleague his own company for service, maintenance and repair of flying boats and land-based aircrafts. His company grew slowly, but steadily, both at the small airport of Southampton as well as the flying boat terminals at the Channel harbour.

Since I joined school, it was the greatest excitement for me to escort my father into his company's workshops, inspecting the flying boats and their technology, becoming larger and more complex with every new model. All employees and mechanics in my father's company knew that I was able to ask detailed questions over hours. But almost all of them stayed patient and answered as good as it was possible. So it was no surprise for anybody that I had chosen my future job from a young age: I wanted to become a pilot.

Consequently, nobody was surprised that I chose after my graduation from King Edward VI.-Grammar-School in Southampton to join the RAF as a volunteer. All medical checks went well and I passed the tests with flying colours. My education as RAF-pilot and flying officer started in summer 1936.

After a training period of two years and a successful examination for my solo flight licence, I was promoted to pilot officer, the lowest officer's rank in the RAF. During a third training year, I learned to fly military aircrafts with two and four engines, followed by additional exams and a further promotion to Flying Officer. I became familiar with twin-engine, land-based bombers like 'Armstrong Whitworth Whitley' and 'Vickers Wellington' as well as twin-engine flying boats like the 'Consolidated PBY Catalina'. Especially the flying boats had been most fascinating for my, absolutely not surprising with my family background. My wing commander at school recognized this and arranged additional training on the brand-new four-engine flying boat 'Short S.25 Sunderland', the military sister model to the civilian flying boats of Imperial Airways. Finishing my three-year-education I was deployed to 210

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Squadron as my first RAF-unit, which transferred me for the first time into the north of Scotland - Invergordon, located at the Moray Firth. This seaside loch at the North Sea coast in the Scottish Highlands was the second home of the Royal Navy's Home Fleet, added to the main Navy's war harbour at Scapa Flow on the Orkney Islands. Before the war began, these Navy harbours had been located almost outside the maximum range of German bombers but needed special protection against dangerous submarines. This transfer was the beginning of my six-years-service on RAF flying boats, patrolling the northern Atlantic up to the polar circle as well as the North Sea, protecting merchant ship convoys, hunting and fighting German submarines as well as several rescue and salvage operations.

Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, before and during WW II

I, Patricia Justin, was born on July 25

th

, 1916, in Vancouver, Canada. My father was a well-established Canadian aircraft engineer, my parents had already four sons before I was delivered as their one and only daughter. All my elder brothers had been aircraft enthusiasts, a passion encouraged by both of my parents who believed in a bright future of the aircraft industry. Being the youngest child and the only daughter it was rather easy for me to follow in the footsteps of my brothers; aged eighteen I was allowed to train for a private pilot licence at a well-known flying school in my hometown. Finishing high school in 1934 I went to the University of British Colombia to read mathematics and geography. This course combination gave me a lot of opportunities to fly as co-pilot on geographical and cartographical excursions, both with small land-based aeroplanes as well as small flying boats. I got a lot of experience during that time.

In the meantime, my father had been promoted as chief operating officer of Boeing Corp.'s new production plant at Vancouver. The US-American HQ in neighbouring Seattle had expected war in Europe and decided that it would be a clever move to have a production plant at a domestic location in the British Empire. This plant had been designed and constructed under my father's leadership, he was now responsible for the licence production of Consolidated Aircraft Corporation's PBY Catalina, a twin-engine powered flying boat as well as the central section of the heavy bomber B-24 Liberator.

During autumn 1939, I was allowed for the first time to join Boeing's chief test pilot in Vancouver on a test flight with a PBY Catalina and fell in love with this flying boat which was by far the largest aircraft I had ever flown. Like the entire British Empire Canada had joined the United Kingdom in its war with Germany. This new war had significant consequences for Boeing's production plant at Vancouver. RAF's demand for a long-distance flying boat with excellent fuel economic was rocketing. Additional demand from Air Forces in Canada, Australia and New Zealand ripped off all budgets and planning. Boeing came under heavy pressure to increase its production to its maximum and beyond. The exploding order numbers resulted into another key problem: what pilots should fly these finished and operation-ready flying boats to their air bases for UK's war effort? Experienced pilots from the Royal Canadian Air Force had been transferred to England, Scotland and Europe on short notice just after the war's outbreak. But the Canadian Boeing plant didn't employ transfer pilots, just test pilots who had been indispensable. An additional huge problem was the long distance for aircraft deliveries to the RAF. The PBY Catalina had an impressive range of 4,000 kilometres, but the distance to the air bases in the UK had been more than double; a very big logistic problem.

Being a licensed female pilot with experience I was keen to join the RAF or the RCAF; unfortunately this was impossible for a woman. During the Christmas period my father handed me some information that the UK had started to establish a civilian Air-Transport-Auxiliary-Service (short ATA); according to this information a woman with private flight license and proven experience could apply for a job as ATA-pilot, transferring all kinds of military aircraft from the production plants to the airfields.

"I want to apply for this ATA-service", I announced to my parents on Christmas Day. Surprisingly, my father encouraged me to volunteer, which ended in a massive argument with my mother.

"You have paid your daughter an university education and a flying license, so that she doesn't even bother to think of marriage, aged 23. And now you want to allow her to join the war in Europe. Have you gone mad?" The festive, peaceful Christmas atmosphere was gone for this year.

My father defended himself vigorously. "This war pushes us all to the brink, if the Empire is losing it. So we have to get 'all hands-on deck' as the sailors say. And from my point of view this 'all hands' include women too."

But my father didn't stop with words. My key problem was to travel as civilian from Vancouver to England. There was the opportunity to travel with a neutral US-American passenger ship from New York. But from his point of view this alternative wasn't safe. Like all Anglo-Americans he remembered very much the Lusitania-catastrophe which had killed many Americans after being sunk by a German U-boat. "We have to deliver up to four Catalinas per month to England from February onwards", he explained to me on New Year's Day. "We have successfully tested a flying route via New Foundland, Greenland and Iceland. When weather gets better, and we get more daylight at the end of winter I would like to place you into the cockpit as co-pilot of an experienced captain. From my point of view this is significant safer than travelling by ship."

I laughed silently for myself. My father evaluated the flight of a military aircraft as safer than the passage with a civilian ocean liner. My father arranged some additional flight hours with some of Boeing's most experienced test pilots. Then, on March 15

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, 1940, I said goodbye to my parents and joined the officially retired squadron commander Gerald Douglas on my first aircraft transfer. My senior pilot had already flown the newly established route via Lake Erie, at Halifax, on Greenland as well as Keflavik harbour on Iceland which was very helpful for me. Additionally, we had been extremely lucky, we had surprisingly good weather and the swell at our intermediate landing points had been easy.

After five very long days in the air we reached our target, RAF Largs nearby Stranrear at the south-western corner of Scotland.

I will never forget for the rest of my life the utterly surprised face of the commanding Wing Commander at RAF Largs when he recognized that the newly arrived Catalina had been flown by a woman transatlantic to his air base. He was, simply said, absolutely bewildered that anybody had given me permission for this transfer mission. I recognized that I had to learn a little bit more about British military culture when I joined ATA as an auxiliary transfer pilot.

One day after our arrival, I took the train from Stranrear to White Waltham Airfield in Berkshire to apply for service at ATA at their headquarter. RAF Largs' Wing Commander Douglas had found his composure again and became impressed by my abilities, so he wrote a special recommendation for my papers, which I added to my documents from the Boeing plant.

I must confess that the rail trip with eight transfers to connecting train and long, long waiting hours had been more stressful than my five-day-long-distance-flight. But after two days on the railroad, I reached my target.

ATA-commander's Pauline Gower reaction on my personal application was similar to my experience at RAF Largs. But after a short moment she welcomed me but pointed out that I had to pass the entrance examination like all other applicants. I was prepared for this, physically as well as mentally.

Two weeks later, I received my acceptance papers. "What I like most about you", smiled Commander Gower, "is the fact that for the first time ATA has a pilot with flying boat experience. I assume that over the next few months or years you will start significant more often from sea than from land. Good luck. Water can be rough and tough."

Over the next few weeks, I got training for a large number of land-based twin- and four-engine-powered aircrafts by all sizes. Finishing this training period I was transferred to Ferry Pool no. 4, located at Prestwick in Ayrshire, Scotland. My active service has started.

RAF Oban, Argyll & Bute, Scotland, Air base of 210

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Squadron, Coastal Command (Flying boats), April 1941

Since my transfer to the 210

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Squadron, I, Flying Officer Charles M. Watts, had been flying as a co-pilot aboard the large, four-engine Short S.25 Sunderland flying boats. Stationed at Invergordon, our primary task was to patrol the northern North Sea and its access to the Arctic Ocean, particularly on the lookout for German submarines, whose only route to the Atlantic had to pass through this region. Things changed dramatically in April 1940, when the Wehrmacht occupied Denmark and Norway. Our large but slow flying boats came under increasing pressure from German fighters now operating from Scandinavian airfields with significantly reduced approach times. In the weeks that followed, the Netherlands and Belgium fell, and France capitulated swiftly, granting the German Navy its first Atlantic ports and intensifying the U-boat threat against our merchant shipping.

This fundamentally altered enemy and operational situation led to the 210

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Squadron's relocation to the Scottish west coast at RAF Oban and a key decision to replace our Sunderlands with brand-new PBY Catalinas. Squadron Leader Sir James Booth needed considerable persuasion to convince us that this shift to smaller, twin-engine flying boats was advantageous.

"The new Catalinas have almost 50% increased range and can carry nearly double the payload of bombs and depth charges, without compromising defensive armament or anti-submarine weaponry," Sir James explained the new system. He was technically correct, but a pilot's pride was directly proportional to the number of engines on his aircraft. Only after the first two Catalinas arrived for our squadron in early April, and we received a brief introduction before deploying them, did the mood change dramatically. This flying boat was genuinely excellent -- far more maneuverable than the massive Sunderlands - and boasting a significantly faster climb rate. For us pilots, the most convincing feature was its ease of water landings, even in windy or choppy conditions, thanks to its much lower center of gravity.

By early May, I had completed my first four long-range patrols with 'my' new Catalina over the North Atlantic. During the last mission, we had been in the air for nearly 15 hours securing an incoming convoy, alerting the destroyers escorting it to two suspected U-boat targets. My co-pilot, Flight Sergeant Fred Miller, and I landed our Catalina back at base well past midnight and collapsed into bed, utterly exhausted.

It was almost noon when I headed to the small officers' mess for lunch to replace breakfast. It was a stunning spring day, unusually warm for the Highlands. The town of Oban, which lent its name to our station, lay peacefully on the other side of the Sound of Kerrera. Our base was on Kerrera Island, connected to the mainland only by a small ferry. Docked at the quay and slipway were two more brand-new Catalinas, apparently delivered earlier that morning -- evidence that the squadron's re-equipment program was proceeding rapidly.

In the mess, I noticed two pilots and two co-pilots in the uniforms of the ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary). For over a year, the ATA had handled delivery flights for all kinds of new RAF aircraft from factories to their operational bases. During the height of the Battle of Britain, much had been said about the heroic efforts of ATA pilots, especially the female "Attagirls," some of whom delivered up to four fighter planes a day to the southern frontlines. I settled into a club chair, ordered lunch and a strong tea, and glanced over at the ATA quartet.

Then it hit me like a thunderbolt: one of the Second Officers, unusually, wore her hair longer and was obviously a slim, stunningly attractive woman.

"A woman flying a flying boat?" I murmured to myself. "Never seen that before. Flying boats are Class 6 aircraft -- Attagirls don't fly those. How is this possible?"

I must have stared long enough for her to notice, as she suddenly met my gaze and held it confidently. She smiled, then gave me a subtle nod.

At that moment, the steward arrived with my lunch, sparing me the embarrassment of failing to hold her gaze.

After finishing my meal and tea, curiosity got the better of me. I stood up and approached the ATA pilots' table.

"Did you deliver two new Catalinas to us today?" I asked the visibly eldest pilot in what I hoped was an innocuous tone.

"Indeed, Flying Officer. Fresh off the line from Iceland, straight to your station," replied ATA Captain Frank Reich, an experienced flying boat pilot who had flown for Imperial Airways before the war. He invited me to join them, and I pulled up another club chair. Whether by chance or design, I found myself sitting next to the female pilot. Captain Reich, clearly a seasoned hand, introduced his team, and I learned that the woman beside me was ATA Second Officer Patricia Justin.

We spent over an hour in lively technical discussion about the aircraft, our experiences with it, and anecdotes from our respective careers. To my delight, Patricia participated without hesitation in this typical pilot banter. I learned, almost by chance, that her father was the factory manager at Boeing in Vancouver, where our Catalinas were built -- a connection that explained how she came to fly flying boats for the ATA. The four ATA pilots were waiting for the ferry to Oban and a train to Glasgow, where they would return to their official ferry pool base at Prestwick. The three men wandered off to play a game of billiards, leaving Patricia and me alone.

"Have you flown the route from Iceland here often?" I asked, genuinely curious to learn more about her.

"This was my fourth Catalina delivery to the RAF," she replied with a smile. "The first trip was by far the longest -- we ferried a Catalina from the factory in Vancouver to Largs in five legs. I stayed in the UK to do my part for the RAF, joined the ATA, and spent the past year delivering mostly twin-engine bombers and the occasional fighter. Two months ago, I started flying flying boats again."

"Fascinating. You seem to know these machines very well."

Patricia laughed warmly, a laugh with depth. "My father practically assembles them on a production line. I flew numerous seaplanes and flying boats across Canada before the war, so when the RAF had a pressing need for flying boats, it made sense for the ATA to let me represent the Attagirls in this class. Even though that's technically not allowed. But there aren't many pilots in the ATA with flying boat experience -- except for someone like Captain Reich."

Our conversation was open and engaging. When I noticed that the other ATA pilots had finished their billiards game and were calling Patricia to leave, I asked her one last important question. "Do you know when you'll next be flying to RAF Oban?"

"Yes," she replied with a smile. "Captain Reich and I are delivering four more Catalinas here." She took out a small pocket calendar and gave me the planned delivery dates.

"I'll try to make sure I'm here and not out over the Atlantic on those days," I said as we parted. "I'd like to see you again."

"The pleasure would be all mine," she replied before joining her colleagues and heading down to the ferry dock.

I watched her until she disappeared from sight. Only then did I snap back to reality. Her charming presence in uniform had a magical effect on me. Or was it simply the fact that I hadn't seen or spoken to a truly captivating woman in months? Since the intensification of the Atlantic U-boat campaign, my life had followed the relentless rhythm of flying, eating, sleeping, and flying again. The few social diversions at RAF Oban were of little interest -- and afforded even less time -- for active pilots like me.