Staff-Sergeant Roy Allan Howard

Unit : "B" Squadron, No.2 Wing, The Glider Pilot Regiment

Awards : Distinguished Flying Medal.

The following is taken from No Second Chance, by Roy Howard.

The sinking summer sun was casting long shadows across the Dorset countryside. It was shortly before 9pm double summer time on the evening of June 5 when I walked across the airfield at Tarrant Rushton and looked aloft to watch the light wind sending torn clouds across the sky.

I was relieved that there was no sign of rain: I knew that rain might well prove fatal to our mission, wiping out 21 months of training, and possibly ourselves. I was, after all the youngest of six Horsa glider pilots chosen to perform a task of unprecedented difficulty.

I walked across the airfield to encounter, for only the second time the load that I was to carry through the darkness in order that I might deposit it in a precise spot in occupied France; 28 men of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry and Royal Engineers, displaying that evening no obvious fear of the hours to come, but rather a scarcely suppressed excitement and desire to be off.

Secrecy and safety had, until only a day or two before, kept us apart, demanding that we pilots rehearse in gliders loaded with Bailey bridge sections to simulate their weight.

Our basic training as glider pilots had leant towards the kind of mass landings subsequently employed at Arnhem and the crossings of the Rhine. But this was different; for the past six weeks we learned how to find a spot in a field in darkness, with no help or guidance from the ground, and it was a technique that took a great deal of mastering.

We were exceedingly fortunate that the only casualties of our training programme were three broken gliders and two broken legs. Yet we could only guess at what it was all for.

Our objective was revealed to us three days before the mission, when we were shown a sand table, a precise model of the terrain around our destination, detailed to the last tree. We vaguely imagined that we might be part of some grand invasion plan; we still knew little of any grand design, but what we did learn from the sand table was that we were to land near Caen.

My glider was to be the last of three to land in a specific corner of a particular tiny field of rough pasture. If I undershot I would destroy my seven tons of powerless aircraft and its human cargo on a belt of 50 feet high trees at one end of the field: if I overshot I would crush us all against a 14 foot high embankment which carried the road at the other end. A not [difficult] task in broad daylight, but daunting in the pitch black of midnight, with no more than a few yards either way available for error.

As I walked to my glider that night I had no particular awareness of embarking on a feat of navigation which had not been attempted before, and which to my knowledge has not been tried since. Such an intensity of training makes you think of only the job in hand.

The Horsa was a beautifully made machine from the same design office as the Mosquito, 88 feet between the wingtips, as big as a Dakota and built in furniture factories entirely of laminated plywood section. This meant that a new section of our industry could now come into the manufacturing of military aircraft and there was no interruption in the production of all the metal aircraft so urgently needed by the RAF. Inside the overpowering but not unpleasant small was of new wood and casein glue.

The first three to take off, rumbling on their wheels at the end of 275 foot tow rope behind their Halifax bomber tugs, were destined for Pegasus Bridge, which they were to reach by a longer route to land simultaneously with us a few hundred yards away. We took off at two minute intervals; I was the last of the six, airborne at one minute past eleven.

Our tug gradually turned us away from the sunset, and we crossed the coast near Worthing to head to a more southerly horizon that was pitch-dark, allowing our eyes to adjust to night vision. We saw no other aircraft but our own Halifax tug at the front end of our umbilical line; we even lost sight of that on several brief occasions as we passed through cloud, causing a momentary flutter of worry. To steer a proper course, the glider pilot needs to keep his tug in constant view.

As midnight approached about three miles from the French coast Paddy O'Shea, the tug navigator, gave us a compass reading over the intercom and confirmed that we were on course.

"OK, you're there, go when you like", Paddy announced over the intercom. We had, in fact to go that very instant; split second timing was essential, for from this moment we would be on our own, guided through the dark only by our own powerless wings and by compass heading and stopwatch. I released the towline and the roar of air past our wooden aircraft gradually died to a hiss as our speed began to fall. The Halifax had released us at 6000 feet and had then continued directly ahead to attack its target to delude any watching enemy into thinking that we were part of a normal bombing raid on Caen rather than participants in a daring coup de main which relied entirely on surprise. The noisy metal Halifax would take all the enemy's radar and sound location devices with it whilst we dropped silently to earth.

And therein lay the difficulty of the navigational task that now faced us. From that height a Horsa would normally have glided to earth in 12 miles: my destination lay only five miles away, and to get there I had to descend at a perilously steep 45 degrees, slowing the craft sufficiently to prevent wild overshooting or a disastrous crash landing, and needing to make three changes of course by dead reckoning on the way. To do all that, I had six minutes.

Our tug has cast us off at 120 mph, and to reduce us to our planned gliding speed of 80 mph I immediately applied full flaps. But I realised at once that she was nose heavy, and even with the control column pulled right back against my chest I could not get her to slow below 90 mph.

We were dropping line a streamline brick, and I knew at once that we were not only incorrectly loaded, but over-loaded. The men had clearly armed themselves with a great deal of extra ammunition and grenades, but I suspect to this day that an extra body smuggled himself aboard at the last minute; men were terribly keen to go on the mission.

"Mr Fox!" I yelled to the lieutenant in charge of the men. "Two men from the front to the back - and quickly!" It worked. Balance was restored and once again I had full control over the aircraft.

From the moment of casting off, we were committed to landing in that one tiny field, with no room for error and not opportunity to change our minds. Ours was an almost straight descent by the shortest route, whereas the three gliders assigned to Pegasus Bridge had a gentler and longer descent, with the added luxury of circling their landing site before they went down.

We were now back on our planned descent rate of 1000 feet per minute. We held our first course of 212 degrees for the allotted 90 seconds, my second pilot Freddie Baacke, guiding us by stopwatch lit by the tiniest of hand held lights. Then we made a turn on to 269 degrees which we held for 2 minutes 30 seconds, and finally turned on 212 degrees for the run in. At our acute angle of descent the standard compass would have been useless, and we relied instead on a gyro direction indicator.

As we made our third change of course and were down to 1200 feet, I could suddenly see the parallel water ways of the Caen Canal and the River Orne glistening silver in the diffused moonlight glowing from behind the clouds. A rain squall at that moment would have blotted our all our vision and might well have proved fatal. We had no windscreen wiper, and no chance to abort the mission.

But the whole landscape was discernable, if only just, and it looked so like the sand table model that I felt that I had been there before.

I was afraid that we were still going down too fast, so I took off the flaps for a moment to flatten the glide path. I just managed to miss the tops of the 50 foot trees at the beginning of our field, and immediately employed the parachute brake, wheel brakes, and full flaps to prevent us careering into the embankment at the far end. There was one final, unexpected hazard; no one had mentioned that there would be a herd of cows in the field.

I am sure we hit a cow, which knocked off our nose wheel. It was nine minutes past midnight when, with a rumble and a final clatter, I came to rest six yards from our allotted spot, less than 100 yards from our objective of the bridge. There was the briefest moment of silence.

"You are in the right place sir," I announced to a pleasantly surprised Mr Fox, and before I could even leave my seat he and his men had flung open the door and alighted in a stampede of boots. I was aghast to observe that, of the two other gliders which should have landed before me, there was no sign.

The force that set out to capture the Orne Bridge was therefore a mere third of the size it should have been. But, within 15 minutes, they had captured it.

I subsequently learned that the second glider had landed short but safely in another field 400 yards behind us and the first, because of an error by its tug navigator, had landed by the wrong bridge on the wrong river, ten miles away. But they captured that bridge and with great courage fought their way back to where they should have been.

The night was full of noise and alarms, culminating in the ear-shattering barraged that preceded the first dawn seaborne landings. Sitting in our slit-trenches we listened as the barrage from the armada of ships swept slowly up from the beaches and we hoped that someone would remember that we were there and stop the torrent of shells and rockets before they reached both us and the two bridges. Fortunately it all stopped in time.

At 0130 hours our perimeter was reinforced by paratroopers who had dropped in the Ranville area, and at 13.30 hours Lord Lovat and his commandos reached us from the beaches.

We were among the first to set foot in occupied France, and among the very few Allied spectators at the first wave of the invasion. But our task was finished, and our orders were to return to Tarrant Rushton with all speed by any means, in order to be available to fly in a second load if required. Glider pilots took a long time to train, and there was never enough of us.

At 21.00 hours on D Day, Fred and I started to make our way to the beaches. We spent the hours of darkness resting in a field of cabbages, and continued on at dawn. We were never quite sure how well the area between the bridges and the beaches had been cleared, but the various snipers that the enemy had left behind seemed to be late risers and only made a nuisance of themselves to later travellers.

Once on the beach we were dive bombed and straffed by squadrons of Junkers 88's, having a narrow escape when our own anti-aircraft fire shot down one 88 to crash, burn, and explode very close to our slit trench.

Soon it was evening on D+1 (June 7th) and at 19.30 hours the local Beachmaster found us an empty landing craft that was returning to the UK.

We seemed to cruise about in the channel all night long, but by 06.30 hours on D+2 (June 8th) we were entering Newhaven harbour. A reception area was well prepared, and showers and hot meals were available before we returned by road to the Glider Pilot Base. We were home, ready to fly in another assault. But such was the success of earlier operations that no second lift was needed.

END.

Of his subsequent experiences during Operation Market Garden in September 1944, he wrote in 1997:

I was in 'B' Squadron for the whole of my time, but was temporarily posted to 'D' Squadron at R.A.F. Keevil for Operation Market Garden only. No idea why!! I was a S/Sgt, 1st Pilot and met Sgt Davy (my 2nd Pilot) on the 19th September for the first time and never saw him again after that fateful day. The glider load was 1st Polish Brigade, and we flew from R.A.F. Keevil...

I never met the crew of our Stirling tug aircraft and after getting half-way to Arnhem the tug pilot said that he had mechanical problems and returned to U.K. This probably saved my life as the 3rd lift on 19/09/44 was shot out of the sky on arrival across the Rhine. In fact the whole operation was a complete shambles, unlike the 'D' Day and Rhine Crossing jobs which went well having been much better planned...

After 'D' Day I was ordered to go round the factories, making Horsa Glider's, to tell the workers how well the Horsa performed in action. This started me on 53 years of talking to interested parties, both civilian and military, upon 'Operation Deadstick' as the job to capture the Orne River and Caen Canal Bridges was called.

Over the years my talks have included the 'Staff College' and more recently the 24th Airmobile Brigade at Colchester last year.

END.

The following article, Portrait of a Pilot, was published in The Eagle, in 1989.

After matriculation at the Westcliff High School in Sussex, Roy left school in 1939, aged 16, and became a Local Government Officer. Changes of home location due to the war resulted in a spell at EMI Ltd and then another year or so in Local Government before joining the Army early in 1942, aged 19.

Infantry training was at Albany Barrack (now part of Parkhurst Jail) on the I O W and after some six or seven weeks Roy found himself posted to the Royal Corps of Signals at Trowbridge in Wiltshire. There followed six months training for Radio Intercept work and this was not at all to Roy's liking. To spend the rest of the war looking at a high powered radio set was a forbidding prospect and when Glider Pilots were called for, he hastened to apply.

After an Aircrew Selection Board at Oxford he was accepted for glider pilot training, although he admits that at this time he had no idea what a glider pilot was or did.

In due course a posting to Tilshead arrived and the dust of the Royal Corps of Signals was shaken off for good.

Tilshead in September and a wet October in 1942 followed and it was during this time that the Chief Glider Pilot - Col. Rock - was killed whilst night flying in a glider and Roy found himself selected for the official escort and firing party for the full military funeral which followed.

Many run-marches and much blancoing later, the impatiently awaited posted to EFTS appeared and on the 4th November, 1942 Roy had a very cold truck ride to the 29th EFTS at Clyffe Pypard in Wiltshire, where followed four months of a most enjoyable flying training of some 108 hours flying time. Probably because it was warm and dry as well as challenging, Roy liked the Link trainer and he received an above average rating in this subject which perhaps had far reaching effects a year or so later.

After EFTS, a delay of 3½ months at Tilshead (because of mis-routed documentation) before GTS was a great anti-climax, but on the 23rd June, 1943 a posting to 3 GTS at Stoke Orchard saw Roy on the next stage of glider pilot training.

Two months later on being posted to 'B' Squadron at Stoney Cross in the New Forest, he received his wings from Major T I J Toler.

September, 1943 was spent at the glider pilot exercise unit flying Tiger Moths and Hotspur Gliders with Arthur Shackleton and, at last, on the 8th October the first flight in a Horsa was made. On this flight, and on many others in the next four weeks, Roy flew as second pilot to Arnold Baldwin and still recalls some of the advice received from 'father' (little of it repeatable).

The month of November was spent at HGCU at Brize Norton and at last he was a fully qualified 1st pilot, Heavy Gliders, with an above average rating. Total hours so far were some 245.

Back at Stoney Cross (on the 28th November) Roy crewed up with Fred Baacke who was to remain his second pilot until the Arnhem lift nine months later.

Operational training commenced and many exercises and schemes took place before 'B' Squadron left Stoney Cross on the 14th March to move, with its tug-squadrons (296 & 297) to Brize Norton. (No longer the home of the HGCU).

Towards the end of April, 1944 Roy found that he and Fred Baacke were one of eight crews detailed for special Remote Release (6,000 feet) and spot landing training. When this training moved on to the 'heavy load' stage, it was found that the Albemarles of 296 and 297 squadrons could not cope with 6,000 feet tows so the whole operation was transferred to Tarrant Rushton the Halifaxes of 644 and 298 Squadrons had the necessary extra power.

Through the next six weeks this special training became more intense and moved into full-load, remote release from 6,000 feet instrument approach at night with spot landings with no lights on the aircraft, nor on the ground.

This special training was, of course, for the 'Coup-de-Main' operation to capture the River Orne and Caen Canal Bridges at night, some six hours before the Seaborne invasion took place on 'D' Day, 6th June, 1944.

This operation took place so early (before the Germans had realised that the invasion had started) in the 'D' Day activities that there was no-one (by way of 'friends') on the ground earlier to give any form of guidance to the six Horsas involved.

A blind-flying approach had to be made with only gyro-compass and stop-watch added to the standard Horsa instruments to help the glider pilots make spot landings from a height of 6,000 feet over the French coast.

As a decoy measure, and most unusually for glider tugs, the Halifax bombers towing the Horsas carried a small load of bombs, too, and when the gliders released at the appointed spot, just off the coast between Cabourg and Merville, the Halifaxes flew straight on, no change of course, height or speed to bomb a target in Caen. In so doing they drew the enemy sound locating and radar defences with them and maximised the Horsa's chance of achieving complete surprise. However, this meant that the flight from England was made at 6,000 feet - an excess of height for the gliders and one which called for very special measures on the landing approach.

Roy flew glider no.6 which was the last of the three targeted onto the Orne River bridge.

From the cast-off point (common to all six gliders) these three gliders had a direct approach path to their bridge. This involved an immediate application of full-flap at cast-off in order to lose height as quickly as possible and a descent on instruments alone whilst flying three times changes of course to line-up on the small field adjacent to the river bridge.

Any inaccuracy in flying the timed courses or in the rate of descent would mean that the glider would not be at the correct place or the correct height to land accurately and safely in the target field.

Roy's tug pilot did his part exactly right and so the release was made at the right spot - although Roy wasn't to know this at the time - only an accurate landing would prove that his tug pilot had been spot-on.

Roy had trouble with the trim of his over-loaded glider and had to send two men from the front to the back in order to trim the Horsa and get speed down to 80 mph and still have enough control left to make a safe landing.

On the third course, with the height down to 800 feet, Roy looked out of the cock-pit for the first time since cast-off and saw the river, the bridge and a small landing field dead ahead - but rather far away! All flap was taken off and the glide was stretched so that they were able to land in the right place. But instead of finding two other gliders there before them (nos. 4 & 5) they had the field to themselves alone. Thus it was up to the troops in Roy's glider to capture the Orne river Bridge on their own. The bridge was soon taken and the victors were soon reinforced by a second platoon from Stan Pearson's glider (no.5) which had landed in the adjoining field.

Roy says there then followed a "busy and interesting" 40 hours until he and his second pilot, Fred Baacke, arrived on the beach near Ouistreham and at 19.30 hours on D+1 caught an LC1 which brought them back to Newhaven for breakfast on D+2. For this operation Roy was awarded the DFM and Fred Baacke the Croix de Guerre.

For the next three months Roy was shuttled between Tarrant Rushton, Brize Norton, Shrewton and back to Brize Norton, only to be posted to Keevil on the 9th September. After several false starts, operation 'Market Garden' began and he found himself detailed to fly one of a very small number of Horsas due to go to Arnhem on the 3rd lift on September 19th. The load was a Polish Paratroop HQ party, none of whom had any English at all so communication was by nods and winks. None of the GPs liked the look of things at the briefing and history shows their fears to have been justified. On the 19th, with a new and inexperienced second pilot, Roy set off for his first and only two behind a Stirling, destination Arnhem. When about half-way there  he was amazed to hear the tug pilot muttering something about mechanical problems and finally to say "I'm going back". This he promptly did by turning through 180° and steaming back against the stream of Stirlings going out in vics of 3 to do a resupply drop. On landing back at Keevil - at about the time he should have reached Arnhem - Roy had visions of another Stirling being produced and then having to set off alone some 2½ hours after the main stream. However, after a nail-biting half hour on the tarmac, the order to 'unload' was received and Roy retired to the Mess, practically the only GP left at Keevil.

After returning to Brize Norton on the 22nd September, he and one or two others waited anxiously until it was time to prepare a party for the small remnants of 'B' Squadron who returned from Arnhem.

He then became involved with a small group of pilots who travelled to a number of airfields where reserve gliders were packed and ferried them back to the East Anglian airfields where the Regiment was to be re-formed and trained for the next operation. Numbers had been so reduced at Arnhem that 1,500 pilots from the RAF aircrew pool joined the GPR and, along with others, Roy was soon involved in teaching the RAF pilots the niceties of flying combat gliders and then becoming soldiers on the ground.

For the month of January, 1945, Roy, who was now Flight NCO in 'B' Squadron, took his flight from Earls Colne to SLEAP, a satellite of WEM in Shropshire, where they flew Horsas behind Wellingtons, which was the only time Roy saw Wellingtons being used as tugs.

On the 21st February Roy commenced a conversion onto Hamilcars at Earls Colne and on the 25th he went solo in Hamilcar NX 831.

Shortly after this, the first Horsa Mk.2's began to arrive and it became obvious that 'B' Squadron would fly the next operation in Horsas and not Hamilcars after all. Much relief!

After several more training trips with a variety of second pilots, 'Operation Varsity' suddenly arrived and Roy found that he had an RAF officer for second pilot (F/O Daniels) on the day.

The trip to Germany was uneventful but the landing with lots of Monty's smoke to hide the ground, and lots of flak, was rather hairy and Roy was pleased to get down on the ground, unload and send his load on its way without damage or casualties.

Then followed quite a busy five days on the ground near Hamminkeln, after which 'B' Squadron returned to Down Ampney via Eindhoven.

'B' Squadron was now at Keevil but Roy soon went off on a refresher to Booker, returning on 2nd May.

'VE Day' was celebrated in Trowbridge but the chilling thought remained that we would have to go to fight Japan and sure enough there came a conversion course onto Hadrian (Waco's) Gliders but the dropping of the Atomic bomb on Japan removed the threat of GP's being posted to the Far East.

Now the Squadrons were all being reshaped and Roy, at 22, found himself with the younger group in 'A' Squadron and a posting to Shobden for yet a second refresher on Hotspurs. Roy was not happy in 'A' Squadron and on the 10th October was pleased to be posted to Fairford to Major Jackson's 'N' Squadron.

A month later he was at Finmere and remained there until January, 1946 when 'D' Squadron went to Wormingford in Essex where he had his last Horsa flight in the GPR.

There followed an interesting four months as SQMS until he was posted to the Para Barracks at Bulford to prepare, along with 23 other GP's under the command of Lt Col, Ian McArthur, for the Victory Parade which after ten days under canvas in Hyde Park, took place on the 8th June.

Then followed Bulford Camp and Fargo where Roy stayed as SQMS until finally being demobbed at the end of 1946.

On return to Civvy Street, now aged 24, he joined the local firm EK Cole Ltd and became a salesman in the Business Forms Printing Industry.

The urge to fly again became too strong and early in 1949 Roy joined the RAFVR at Hornchurch where he flew as a weekend pilot for another five years.

Then after becoming National Sales Manager, Roy took early retirement for health reasons in 1983.

As readers will know, Roy now serves as RQM for the GPRA and finds great interest in writing to members all over the world on goods ordered from the 'shop'.

END.

The following obituary was printed in The Times on the 1st April 1999.

Roy Howard, DFM, wartime glider pilot, died on March 22 aged 76. He was born on August 28, 1922.

As part of what was perhaps the most spectacular airborne action of the war on either side, Staff Sergeant Roy Howard piloted a Horsa glider which landed in Normandy just after midnight on D-Day and spearheaded the capture of the Ranville Bridge over the River Orne.

In the annals of the Normandy glider operations, historians have concentrated almost exclusively on the capture of the Pegasus Bridge over the Caen Canal, which lies 200 yards to the west of the River Orne. Indeed, photographs of the steel girders of the canal bridge have become part of the iconography of D-Day. And the name of the overall commander of the operation, Major John Howard, is also part of the D-Day story.

But without the simultaneous capture of the bridge over the Orne, which runs parallel to the canal, the operation would have been pointless. Both bridges had to be captured intact, since the road they carried would be the only supply line from Sword Beach to the 6th Airborne Division, which was to land east of Caen and protect the left flank of the entire Allied invasion force. It was an airborne assault which required pinpoint accuracy of flying, against all odds of bad weather and low cloud.

Roy Howard's mission had begun the previous evening in Dorset, when his Horsa glider, carrying 28 heavily armed men of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, moved out across the airfield at Tarrant Rushton behind the four-engined Halifax bomber which was to act as the towing aircraft. It was one of a force of six. The first three gliders to get airborne were destined for the Pegasus Bridge. Of the three bound for the River Orne, Howard's was the last.

He had been studying his landing ground from a precise scale model for the past three days, and well knew the difficulty of his mission. He had to clear a belt of 50ft trees with his heavy glider and its precious cargo, and get safely down and come to a halt on a small area of rough pasture without smashing into the 14ft road embankment at the other end.

After a flight in which thick cloud made it difficult for the gliders to keep station on their towing tugs flying 275ft ahead. Howard's glider was released just before midnight, three miles short of the French coast. The Halifaxes had come in at 6,000 feet to delude the German radars and observer corps into thinking that this was just another bombing raid on Caen. This height had to be lose in little more than five miles, which meant a perilously steep angle of descent for the heavily laden Horsas.

As it transpired, losing height was not to be a problem. Howard felt his glider dropping like a barely streamlined brick, confirming his previous suspicion that his enthusiastic passengers had loaded themselves with far more than the regulation ration of ammunition and grenades. In the nick of time he yelled to two of the soldiers crouched behind him to get to the back of the aircraft, so improving its trim and arresting the well-night suicidal plunge.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, Howard picked out the silvery gleam of the Caen Canal and the River Orne ahead and below him. Seconds later he was skimming over the belt of trees, deploying the parachute brakes and miraculously touching down in one piece. Intelligence had been perfect - except for the minor detail of a herd of cows which were slumbering on the pastureland. Stampeding as the glider clattered and screeched its was noisily to earth, one of these knocked the Horsa's nosewheel off.

Howard's Horsa was the only one of the three scheduled for the Orne bridge attack to land in the right place. The second had landed in a field 400 yards back, and the first to take off had, through a navigational error from the towing Halifax, landed on the River Dives, ten miles to the east. The Orne force was therefore down to a third of its strength. But what the Ox and Bucks men lacked in numbers they made up for in the sheer savagery of their assault on the bridge. They had landed at 0016hrs. By 0026 both objectives were in British hands, all three gliders having landed at the Pegasus Bridge.

The impact of this small-scale operation was incalculable. Thereafter, for the German forces all movement between the east and west banks of the Orne had to be via Caen - a six-hour detour. For his brilliant effort, Howard, one of the first Allied troops into France on D-Day, was awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal.

Roy Howard was born in Westcliff-on-Sea, Essex, the son of a police sergeant. He had suffered badly from asthma in his youth and after leaving Westcliff High School at first worked locally and served in the Home Guard. In 1942 he was called up into the Army, going t the Royal Corps of Signals after basic infantry training. For six months he served at the Army's Y Service station, intercepting German signal traffic for analysis at Bletchley Park.

But he found this work tedious and in October that year he volunteered for the newly formed Glider Pilot Regiment. From the spring of 1944 onwards he and a group of fellow pilots were in intensive training for landings at night in small, enclosed spaces. However, it was not until three days before D-Day that the glider pilots were told the precise nature of their mission.

For the attack itself, Howard became an infantryman as soon as the glider had touched down, supporting the assault and bringing up ammunition. But when it was over he was required to get himself back to Britain as soon as he could, to be available for further glider operations. Making his way to Sword Beach he found a landing craft to take him out to a warship, and was back at his base by June 8.

In September 1944 Howard took off as part of Operation Market Garden, Montgomery's attempt to capture the bridge at Arnhem. On that occasion his towing aircraft developed an engine fault and had to return to base. But in March 1945 he was again in action, carrying glider-borne infantry into battle as part of the assault crossing of the Rhine.

Returning to civilian life in 1946, Howard worked first for a local radio firm, then on computer stationery for Waddington and from the mid-1960s for the British Printing Corporation as a sales manager. When the company was taken over he worked briefly on the sales side of a local newspaper and in 1979 went to HM Stationery Office, finally retiring in 1983.

In his leisure hours he enjoyed rallying with the Thames Estuary Automobile Club and, when road rallying became impossible owing to the increase of traffic on public roads, was an active member of the Benfleet Yacht Club. He was also Quartermaster of the Glider Pilots Regimental Association.

He is survived by his wife Pamela, and by two sons, one of whom is secretary-general of the Glider Pilots Regimental Association.

Back to The Glider Pilot Regiment

Back to Biographies Menu