Chico Roberts died on 29 July 2011 aged 93. Born on 19 April 1918, he was educated at King Edward’s School, Birmingham. He volunteered for the Fleet Air Arm, was trained to fly as a Naval Airman 2nd Class, and commissioned into the RNVR in 1940.
On 12 August 1942 he was the Flight Commander of the two Walrus seaplanes carried by the Town class light cruiser Manchester on Operation Pedestal, a convoy to supply the besieged island of Malta, when Manchester was torpedoed by Italian motorboats off Cap Bon.
Roberts was standing immediately above the area where Manchester was hit, saw the torpedo tracks and remembered a great flash, but had no memory of what he did for the next few hours until he came to carrying ammunition to the ship’s pompom guns, known as the Chicago pianos. The ship was drifting without power and listing heavily when the order was given to abandon ship and she was scuttled. He remembered the stink and the taste of oil fuel mixed with sea water as “utterly disgusting” and something which gave him nightmares for years.
312 of Manchester’s crew were picked up by the destroyer Pathfinder, but Roberts was in a gaggle of men surrounding a raft which they were paddling and pushing towards the coast, when, the following dawn, an Italian motorboat swept up and fired her guns over their heads. The Italian’s repeated demands of “What is the name of your sheep?” and “Any officers?” punctuated by bursts of machine fire were greeted by dead silence, until a sailor – Roberts thought it was a Leading Seaman Hawkins – stood on the raft, shook his fist, and told the “Marconi-eaters” with a number of Anglo-Saxon obscenities to “Go away!” Roberts tried to lower himself in the water, expecting a fatal burst of bullets, but to his amazement the Italian turned away.
When they reached the shore, Roberts and his fellow survivors were treated without compassion and interned by the Vichy French in appalling conditions at Laghouat in southern Algeria, where several prisoners, weakened by starvation, died of disease. He was rescued by the advancing American army in November 1942.
After his internment, he recuperated by flying target-towing and trials aircraft before being appointed personal pilot to Vice Admiral Sir Lumley Lyster, the Flag Officer Carrier Training, and, in 1944, qualified as a batsman and in 1944 he joined the escort carrier Trumpeter on Artic convoy duties and mine laying duties off Norway.
At the end of the war he decided to join the permanent Royal Navy and gained his bridge watchkeeping certificate in the replenishment carrier Vindex. By 1946 he was an acting Lieutenant Commander in the light fleet carrier Glory, and in succession senior pilot of 815 NAS, and commanding officer of 813 and 767.
By the Korean War, ten years later, he was one of the most experienced Fleet Air Arm pilots, and commanding officer of 825 NAS flying the Fairey Firefly. Roberts’ squadron, flying from the carrier Ocean, saw some of the busiest operational flying of the war. Between May and October 1952, his squadron and 802 NAS flew 5,601 sorties, a total of 10,340 flying hours, and Ocean set a new daily operating record for light fleet carriers, flying 123 sorties in one day. Tirelessly Roberts led his squadron in rocket and bomb raids on road and rail bridges, railway turntables, gun positions and warehouses.
However, operations had started badly, and nearly fatally so for Roberts. On the morning of May 16, after an unsuccessful attack on a radio station he made a second pass to photograph the target and was hit by small arms fire. Oil covered the windscreen and fire licked round Roberts as he gained a little height and then dived out to sea. The flames went out as he switched off the fuel and his engine died and his Firefly dropped quickly, but he made a perfect ditching five miles off the coast. Twenty-five minutes later a US amphibious aircraft picked him up and he returned to Ocean by teatime. But he and his squadron had learned a very sharp lesson, not to make a second pass over any target: a lesson which in part accounted for the very low casualty rate in Ocean during ensuing sorties.
He was forced to make two other emergency landings, once in Seoul when his tail hook refused to lower, and another time when he was hit by flak, his engine malfunctioned and he made an emergency landing on return to Ocean.
He was promoted to commander and awarded the Distinguished Service Order for services off Korea, and 802 and 825 squadrons were jointly awarded the coveted Boyd trophy for the most effective feat of aviation during the previous year.
After the Korean War, he was loaned to the Royal Australian Navy as Deputy Director Naval Air Warfare to help build up the Australian Fleet Air Arm. On return to Britain, he spent his entire naval career with few exceptions in flying appointments, he commanded the naval stations at Eglinton 1958-59, Portland 1962-64 and Culdrose 1964-65, and was Flag Officer Naval Flying Training in 1968-1971 when he was appointed CB.
In retirement he farmed in Somerset in the 1970s before emigrating to New South Wales in 1979. There he listed his recreations as sitting in the sun, drinking plonk, and watching the sheilas go by. He rejected his former life, once writing angrily that he no longer wanted anything to do with the Royal Navy, not even the First Sea Lord’s annual newsletter, though when asked if this applied to his pension, he agreed to make an exception. At the time of his death, he was the oldest Fleet Air Arm admiral, and had been on the Retired List for 40 years.
He married Audrey Elias in 1940, with whom he had four sons.
Jan Stuart writes:
‘I was saddened to read of the death of Chico Roberts on page 44 of the January 2012 Fly Navy News Sheet. I was lucky enough to have served with him when he was CO at Portland, then again as CO at Culdrose and finally when he became FONFT. I wrote this article in March 1958 when Charles Manning was trawling for things to put in his Millenium book, The View from the Cockpit, but he did not use it.’
Weekend Sailor?
From 1964 – 1966 I was the Operations Officer at RNAS Culdrose. The Commanding Officer was ‘Chico’ Roberts. We both had a passion for sea fishing and often at weekends we would set out from Falmouth in his boat to do battle with the denizens of the deep. Chico was particularly fond of dogfish, commercially known as rock salmon, and once we had caught a few mackerel for bait this is what we would hope to catch. I was not a great fan of this fish because although it was quite good to eat it was a sod to skin. I could only manage it with two pairs of pliers.
On this particular Saturday afternoon we nosed out of Falmouth and trolled across the bay, soon hauling plenty of mackerel on board, and then set off for the mouth of the Helford river which was good dogfish territory. We anchored and took up our allotted stations, Chico aft in the cockpit and me up forr’d, and we put our lines into the water. It must have been about 1400 by then and soon a light fog began to form. It wasn’t long before Chico hooked a doggie and called for me to go aft to get it into the net and bring it inboard. I can see that doggie now swirling backwards and forwards on the hook just below the surface, looking like a baby shark. As I lowered the net into the water the fish slipped off the hook and headed off into the depths. It was my fault of course, RHIP even when fishing but there were no harsh words and I made my way forr’d again, hoping that maybe I could hook one and give it to the boss. The fog got thicker, it got very quiet but the fish were not biting and we had decided to give it another half an hour before going back to Falmouth.
Just then a faint noise came through the fog from seaward. It had to be another boat and Chico pulled in his line, stood up in the cockpit and bellowed,
“Boat ahoy.”
From the fog,
“Boat ahoy, what sort of vessel?”
“I am a motor boat.”
“Then please give way, I am under sail.”
By now we could clearly hear the sounds of sail but could see nothing in the fog. The other vessel was certainly not far away and steady on the bearing.
“I can’t give way, I am at anchor.”
“What a stupid place to anchor.”
“I am fishing.”
Just then the yacht hove into view a few yards off our port quarter. As she glided by a loud voice came from her skipper,
“You bloody week end sailors give me the shits.”
There was just a chuckle from behind me (or was it a strangled scream.)
Jan Stuart writes, (Fly Navy Feedback January 2013)
‘In 1965/66 I was the Operations Officer at RNAS Culdrose and was lucky enough to have had Captain I.G.W. Robertson as my Commanding Officer. He was very much a ‘hands on’ station commander and used to visit the operations room once or twice a week, possibly influenced by the fact that my staff were all rather attractive WRNS who also made good coffee.
The weather in mid-January 1966 was just one gale after another and a force 10 was blowing on the 20th when the German bulk carrier Kremsertor found herself in trouble south of the Lizard when her cargo shifted and her engines stopped as she began to take in water. She called for assistance and Falmouth coastguard took up the case as she drifted, listing, across Falmouth Bay. It was not lifeboat weather, although a boat was launched, and RAF Chivenor was unable to respond so the call for help came to Culdrose.
Chico came to the Ops room where I had assembled all relevant information. We had a squadron of Wessex V helicopters in residence at the time, quite capable of handling the weather, lousy as it was. The Captain said he would leave the Go/No Go decision to me, with his backing if needed. I had a chat with the CO of the Wessex squadron who was happy to accept the task. I said Go and 4 helicopters were soon airborne and shortly afterwards were in sight of the stricken vessel. They lifted the crew off safely and brought them to Culdrose.
Following the rescue the owners of the vessel expressed their gratitude via the German Embassy and donated a clutch of engraved self-winding wristwatches, one each for the helicopter pilots and one for the Captain. He said I was the one who had made the decision to launch the rescue and gave his watch to me. I still have it and it is still working.’
Martyn Dean adds, (feedback Fly Navy January 2013)
‘I have fond memories of Chico. Occasionally he would invite all young aircrew to the Wardroom Mess at RNAS Yeovilton for a slap up informal lunch with many large jugs of beer on the table. I sat with him on the top table once. I will never forget the ambiance of the occasion. Having read his Obituary, I now know that he would have picked up this custom from his time with the RAN.’