first glance it may seem surprising that wartime flyers engaged in ‘magical’ thinking – or the belief that ritual acts or charmed objects could affect events beyond their control. After all, airmen generally came from among the more highly educated segments of the population, and multiple investigations have shown that in the modern world it is the least well-educated who tend to be the most superstitious.
However, there are situations in which rational analysis takes a back seat to irrational behaviour even among the best and the brightest; specifically in life-or-death situations where those involved feel they lack control over their destiny. This was the case for many of those who flew wartime operations in the Royal Air Force.
From virtually the first day of the war to the last it was obvious to RAF aircrew that the enemy were doing their best to kill them. As aerial combat continued, the odds against survival tended to shorten.
Tour limits were set on the number of flying hours or sorties an individual would have to endure. But this did not obscure that fact that flak and fighters could pose a deadly threat on almost every operation. For those inclined to do the calculations, it was evident that the likelihood of being shot down during a tour was often statistically greater than making it through unscathed.
The sense of youthful invulnerability and self-confidence among highly trained wartime aircrew tended to erode as it became clear that even the most competent and admired among their fellows were being downed by the enemy. This was where magical thinking entered the picture. If expertise and skill were not decisive factors, then death or survival could seem mostly a matter of luck. When fate seemed arbitrary, solo pilots or whole crew often tried to impose some control by resorting to superstitions.
Evening the odds
Already accustomed to preflight tests of their equipment, aircrew did not find it too hard to add ritualistic actions to their checklists. These varied tremendously, but often involved a strong sense that survival depended on doing exactly the same things in the same order as on an initial successful sortie; however inconsequential this might seem.
Klaus Adam, flying Typhoons, always turned the signet ring his parents had given him three times before taking off, while Spitfire pilot Bob Spurdle purposely fiddled with his scarf in a particular manner, without fail, before starting up.
There were also rituals that were common to entire crews, particularly in Bomber Command squadrons; above all the habit of urinating on the tailwheel “for luck” before clambering aboard, as Lancaster pilot Peter Russell put it.
At least as common was the adoption of special charms. Some popular goodluck items, such as rabbits’ feet and replica horseshoes, had a longstanding talismanic history. But just about anything, from small trinkets and soft toys to individual pieces of clothing or headgear, could come to embody good fortune in the mind of the possessor, not least if he had received it as a gift.
Superstitions: Gremlins were fictitious devilish spirits which first appeared in the RAF during WWII. A variety of aircraft malfunctions would be blamed upon the work of malicious gremlins. Airmen would combat this by carrying mascots of lucky ones, such as this, carried by Flight Lieutenant Gerard Lewis DFC © RAF Museum
Doug Newham DFC, air observer and navigator on Wellingtons and Halifaxes, recalled that: “A pair of the notorious WAAF heavyweight underwear – the chastityenhancing, unassailable and unglamorous black knickers known as ‘blackouts’ – would regularly appear in my Halifax bomber. While never seen on test or local flights, they were always there on operational missions, hung in the wireless operator’s compartment. Were they his lucky charm? His talisman? We all respected each other’s foibles in such matters, and I never asked him. Perhaps they were a kind WAAF’s way of wishing him good luck and a safe return. Regardless of their origins, in that respect they worked a charm!”
Hurricane fighter pilot John Ellis always wore a small boomerang pendant sent by a favourite aunt, and Lancaster gunner Bob Pierson stuffed a knitted doll in his tunic while on ops, given to him by the daughter of a friendly publican.
Individual charms might also be adopted by a crew, such as the stuffed panda always stowed aboard the Lancaster flown by Joe MacCarthy. Quite a few men carried more than one charm to further boost their survival chances, such as Lancaster bomb aimer Les Bartlett. He wore a chain from which hung not only a rabbit’s foot but also a silver thrupenny bit, a Lincoln imp, and a Cornish pixie.
“For us, having our lucky charms with us was as important as having ammunition for the guns or fuel for the engines,” recalled wireless operator Reg Payne, who flew in Lancasters with 50 Squadron. “[They gave us] something that would help us survive the terror we faced every time we took off to battle with fighters, searchlights, flak, mechanical failure, collision, bombs from above, even the weather, and all in an aircraft packed with high explosives, incendiaries, ammunition, petrol and electric sparks. In these circumstances charms, mascots and rituals were all immensely important to each individual, often to the point of obsession. And to each crew as a whole; bad luck for one was likely to be bad luck for all.”
Alongside superstitious actions aimed at bringing good fortune, efforts were made to avoid the opposite. Things traditionally considered unlucky, such as occupying the bed of the recently deceased or wearing a piece of dead man’s clothing on operations, were to be avoided. “Nothing would have made us sleep in those beds,” observed Wellington navigator Arthur Hoyle. Lancaster bomb aimer Miles Tripp would never wear a fur-lined jacket that had belonged to an airman killed in action except while on the ground. It could also be seen as tempting fate to have a crew photo taken before the end of a tour.
Occasionally airmen would thumb their noses at superstition by embracing traditionally unlucky symbols, such as broken mirrors or the number 13, but this kind of overt disdain was rare.
Superstitions: Wartime RAF life jacket. Black cats were popular choices as mascots due to their reputation for bringing good luck © RAF Museum
Superstitions: Laughing in the face of superstition, this Hurricane pilot’s ‘coat of arms’ incorporated several unlucky signs: the number 13; a broken mirror; walking under a ladder; and three cigarettes lit with one match
Jinxes and Jonahs
Specific aircraft might acquire the reputation of being unlucky. If it seemed that aircraft painted with certain identification letters were less likely to return than others, then aircraft with these letters were avoided. Likewise, to circumvent the unlucky 13th operation, superstitious flyers would often label it 12B in their logbooks. Attempts were also made to infuse an aircraft with good fortune by painting a lucky symbol somewhere on its exterior.
“Our surefire method of warding off all evils, especially flak and fighters, rested in the person of [navigator] Jack Walton,” remembered B.G. MacDonald, a wireless operator and air gunner with 103 Squadron. “We insisted that he board H-Harry for ops in full officer’s uniform; no battledress allowed. It had to include flat hat, white shirt and black tie. The rest of us climbed into the kite in all manner of sloppy attire, but Jack had to be immaculate.”
Superstitions: The original design of the aircrew brevet for air gunners had 13 feathers, but this was reduced to 12 to avoid bad luck © RAF Museum
Superstitions: When flying through flak,survival could seem mostly a matter of luck. This American B-17 received a direct hit over Yugoslavia
In contrast, if certain people became associated with bad outcomes they were often shunned. This was particularly true of young women, including members of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Any woman who had the misfortune of going out with more than one RAF airmen who failed to return from operations was dubbed a ‘chop girl’, and avoided thereafter.
Just how prevalent superstition was among wartime aircrew is difficult to say. No studies of the phenomenon were undertaken at the time and, among those who survived, opinions varied wildly. Those who admitted to superstitions tended to argue that it was quite common, while those who avoided magical thinking often claimed it was quite rare.
The frequency with which the subject comes up in various personal accounts does indicate that superstition was a significant feature of life on operations. Even those who flew aboard a Halifax bomber named ‘Friday the 13th’ might find themselves beginning to believe it bore a charmed life; as it did, surviving to the end of the war.
Superstitions: Modern replica of the wartime Halifax ‘Friday the 13th’, based at Yorkshire Air Museum
For those RAF aircrew who did resort to magical thinking, their level of faith in the supernatural could be quite strong. Crews could insist that one among their number stop seeing a chop girl, for instance, or delay a scheduled take-off to allow a crew member to retrieve forgotten charms or engage in missed rituals.
What also seems clear is that superstition was generally more common among bomber crews than among fighter pilots, most likely a result of their differing situations. When confronted with flak and fighters, fighter pilots could evade and engage, relying on their skill to be masters of their own fate. Life aboard a bomber, however, often meant flying straight and level, and taking whatever was thrown at you.
There is a paradox surrounding those who tried to increase their odds of survival through superstitious acts. Practically, magical thinking did nothing to aid survival. Yet indirectly it may have helped aircrew to believe that they had a greater control over their fate. As modern studies of superstitions among athletes show, the resulting self-confidence can boost performance.
Something similar may well have been true for wartime aircrew. As 50 Squadron’s Reg Payne stated: “Whether these mascots really worked doesn’t matter…what did matter is that we believed in them. They gave to each of us as individuals something that we clung to, something that we believed would keep us safe, that would bring us back each time.”
Percy the penguin, mascot of bomb aimer Stan Chapman. When Stan baled out of his Halifax and was taken prisoner, Percy was confiscated. Later Stan’s captors returned Percy, and the two returned home at the war’s end (© RAF Museum)
P. MacKenzie is a professor in the Department of History at the University of South Carolina. He is the author of Flying Against Fate: Superstition and Allied Aircrews in World War II.
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