Category: Real men
Jack Mann during wartime: the LRDG ranged over huge distances, travelling behind enemy lines to gather intelligence for the 8th Army – Courtesy of family
Jack Mann, who has died aged 100, served with the SAS and the Special Boat Service (SBS) and was believed to be the last surviving member of the Long Range Desert Group (LRDG).
Mann volunteered to join the LRDG as a radio operator in January 1943. The unit was born of the expertise of a small number of prewar desert explorers. It ranged over huge distances in North Africa, travelling behind enemy lines and navigating with the aid of the stars and a sun compass – a primitive but effective device – to gather intelligence for the 8th Army.
Primarily a reconnaissance unit, the LRDG did not seek confrontation, but if it ran into trouble its vehicle-mounted machine guns proved highly effective. Mann was responsible for receiving and deciphering the double-coded messages that directed operations over great distances.
Using modified No 11 sets, housed in cabinets on Chevrolet and Ford trucks, he had to contend with high desert temperatures and sandstorms which degraded equipment and disrupted incoming signals. As the enemy’s range-finding equipment became more sophisticated, transmissions became increasingly hazardous.
The LRDG made the desert their accomplice. Their patrols believed that they could always outwit the Axis forces on the ground. Mann, however, hated the desert. “Don’t talk to me about sand,” he used to say. “I’ve had it in my eyes, my mouth, up my nose, in my food, everywhere.”
He served with the SAS in North Africa and Italy before moving to the RAF Ramat David camp in Palestine, then under British administration, where he took a parachute course. The training included jumping out of a truck at 20mph and leaping from the top of a 15ft ladder without a harness.
As a radio operator he had to contend with high desert temperatures and sandstorms which degraded equipment and disrupted incoming signals – Courtesy of family
Mann subsequently moved to Nahariya, the base camp of the Special Raiding Forces, and transferred to the newly formed Special Boat Service as a radio operator – one of its original members. It was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel George Jellicoe, the son and heir of the 1st Earl Jellicoe, a naval commander at the Battle of Jutland and Admiral of the Fleet in the First World War.
Mann was seconded to the Greek Sacred Squadron, which had trained with the SAS and seen action in North Africa. The Squadron used small boats and took part in hit-and-run amphibious operations against German garrisons in the Eastern Mediterranean, the Aegean Sea and the Dodecanese islands.
These islands off the coast of Turkey were controlled by the Italians up to Italy’s surrender in September 1943; Turkey then claimed sovereignty over them. Churchill, who hoped to bring Turkey into the war on the Allied side, committed substantial forces in an attempt to seize the islands as a springboard for an attack on mainland Greece. The Dodecanese operation failed primarily because of lack of air cover.
Mann was involved in reconnaissance missions using kayaks and a camouflaged hide-out near Bodrum on the Turkish coast. On other raids, Royal Navy motor torpedo boats and launches took members of the squadron to Turkey, where they were transferred to fishing caiques. Their rations were sometimes supplemented by wild boar, and fish dynamited in the sea.
On one occasion, Mann had just finished preparing a meal when an officer pushed his way to the front. When Mann told him to get back in the queue, he was arrested and marched off to a military prison.
In his paybook, however, he had given his nationality as Russian Orthodox instead of Jewish and, using his language skills, he persuaded his jailers that he was a Russian and insisted that he be allowed to appeal to the Soviet authorities. They decided that he was too much trouble and returned him to his unit.
One night, Mann was asleep in his hide-out on the island of Chios when he and a comrade were awakened by a German “E” Boat, a fast motor torpedo boat, approaching the shore. The two men, armed with rifles but in their underwear, greeted the German crew in Greek.
Mann, middle row, fourth from the right, with his LRDG comrades in 1943 – Courtesy of family
The crew surrendered but they tried to be friendly, claiming that they were all Anglo-Saxons. Mann retorted that he was a Jew, ordered them to cut off their swastika badges and had them placed in the local prison. There they were made to clean a local building of faeces left by the occupying German forces.
Jack Mann was born Zacharia Zuckerman in Cairo on September 23 1925. His father, Zachary, who had died two days earlier, was an eminent dental surgeon from Bucharest in Romania who had gained his degree in dentistry in France.
His mother, Victoria, née Warshawsky, from Odessa, was Russian, spoke French and came from a well-to-do family. Mann’s uncle, Henry, was also a dental surgeon and treated members of the Egyptian royal family.
Mann spent the first years of his life living in Paris before returning to Cairo. He was educated at the Cairo Lycée Français, where he learnt Arabic, English, French and Italian. By 1942 he was learning from his relations in Europe that fellow Jews were being rounded up and sent to concentration camps.
He falsified his age in order to enlist in the British Army to fight the Nazis and joined the Royal Corps of Signals as a radio operator. He was subsequently recruited by the Intelligence Corps and tasked with infiltrating a POW camp to glean intelligence from captured Italians. He decided, however, that his Italian was not fluent enough to maintain his cover.
In 1945, after several more months liberating islands from German control, the Aegean Raiding Forces were disbanded. Mann moved to a naval base near Alexandria in Egypt, where he rejoined the Royal Signals. After the end of the war, he resigned from the Army.
Jack and Helga Mann at Cannes in the 1960s – Courtesy of family
As a Jew, he had been determined to fight the Nazis, and then to help the Jewish diaspora and displaced Jews of Europe when the war ended. In November 1947, the UN passed a resolution to divide British-ruled Palestine into separate Jewish and Arab states.
Israel declared independence in May 1948. Arab armies invaded in what became known as the Arab-Israeli War and Mann joined the conflict to help establish a state of Israel. He was given the rank of major and put in charge of communications on the Southern Front.
During a crisis in which he had to get to HQ urgently, he commandeered Moshe Dayan’s jeep. Ignoring the fact that the commander of the important Jerusalem Front was sitting in it, he ordered the driver to take him straight to HQ. The war ended in 1949 with an armistice agreement.
Mann moved to Britain and worked in a shipping business based at Southampton. He subsequently became European sales manager for two leading chemical companies, a job which involved him in extensive travel. In his spare time he enjoyed swimming; he also had a passion for music and played the piano by ear. He also worked as a Samaritan and supported a number of charitable causes.
He remained closely involved with the veteran associations of the Special Forces in which he had served, and at his funeral his coffin was escorted by standard-bearers from the SAS Regimental Association, the SBS Association and the Association of Jewish Ex-Servicemen and Women.
Mann had a host of friends and a fund of amusing stories and was the best of company. On his 100th birthday last year he received a handwritten letter from the King, together with a bottle of champagne.
Jack Mann married first, in 1950, Elizabeth Fine. When the marriage came to an end, he married, in 1965, Helga Jorgas. She survives him with two daughters from his first marriage and two daughters from his second.
Jack Mann, born September 23 1925, died August 13 2026
A burning Vickers Wellington was coming apart over Holland when Sergeant James Ward did something almost impossible. He crawled outside the bomber at 13,000 feet and went after the fire himself.
Between 3 and 6% of the general population suffers from acrophobia. That’s the doctor word for fear of heights. Most normal people are rendered a bit uneasy if exposed to a high place, particularly without reliable safety measures.
The military weaponizes this. Back when dinosaurs roamed the plains and I was training to become an Army officer, we had to walk along a long board set up on cinder blocks maybe eight inches off the ground. The objective was to step over a big wooden box mounted in the middle. At the time, we thought that a fairly ridiculous exercise.
Then we climbed a tall tower out over a deep lake and had to do the same thing. This time, however, the long plank was secured forty feet above the water. What had been a bit of a lark down on terra firma became a gut check that high up in the air.
That exercise was supposed to teach us something, though I don’t recall exactly what. It did, however, leave an impression on me.
Even though I am not in that 6% myself, I still wasn’t too crazy about having to clamber over that big box suspended forty feet above a lake. While we can likely all agree that a modest fear of heights is pretty physiological, a WW2-era aviator named Sergeant James Allen Ward did not seem so encumbered.
Table of contents
- James Ward: The Kiwi Sergeant Who Was About to Redefine Brave
- Vickers Wellington: The Fabric-Skinned Bomber That Refused to Die
- Vickers Wellington Mk IC Specifications
- 8 July 1941: A Bf 110 Turns the Wellington Into a Fireball
- 13,000 Feet Up, James Ward Climbs Onto the Burning Wing
- Victoria Cross Glory, Then a Brutal Final Mission
- James Ward’s Victoria Cross Story Still Defies Belief
- Related Reads from GunsAmerica Digest
James Ward: The Kiwi Sergeant Who Was About to Redefine Brave
James Ward was born on 14 June 1919 in Wanganui, New Zealand, to English parents Percy Harold and Ada May Ward. He attended Wanganui Technical College and trained to be an educator. Ward had just accepted his first teaching position in 1939 when World War 2 kicked off. He volunteered for the Royal New Zealand Air Force and was accepted for flight training.
At this point in the history of the British military, pilots could be either commissioned officers or sergeants. James Ward was the latter. Additionally, unlike their American counterparts, most British multi-engine bombers were typically configured to fly with a single pilot. Even the massive four-engine Lancaster flew with a single pilot alongside a flight engineer who was trained to manage the flight controls in an emergency. When a unit had enough pilots, they would take along a spare whenever possible, but it wasn’t necessary. This was, however, important for new inexperienced aviators just learning their trade.
James Ward was eventually assigned to No. 75 Squadron flying twin-engine Wellington bombers. At the time of his arrival, No. 75 Squadron only had a single flight position remaining open. Ward earned the posting on the strength of a coin toss.
Vickers Wellington: The Fabric-Skinned Bomber That Refused to Die
The Vickers Wellington was called the “Wimpy” by the men who flew it. 11,461 of these tough twin-engine bombers were produced. The plane carried a crew of five and evolved through several marks. The Wellington Mk IC was 64 feet long and sported an 86-foot wingspan. Maximum takeoff weight was 28,500 pounds, and the plane would carry 4,500 pounds’ worth of ordnance.
The Wellington Mk IC carried two.303-caliber Browning machineguns in each powered turret in the nose and tail. There were fittings for two more .303 Brownings in waist positions. The plane’s maximum speed was 235 mph, and the service ceiling was 18,000 feet. The Wellington had a maximum range of 2,550 miles. The plane remained competitive with similar German, Japanese, and American designs.
The Wellington was curious in that it was formed around a geodetic skeleton covered in doped fabric. This made the airframe strong but light and was a cost-effective way to build airplanes. However, the fabric covering was not as substantial as aluminum. It was also quick to burn.
Vickers Wellington Mk IC Specifications
| Aircraft | Vickers Wellington Mk IC |
|---|---|
| Length | 64 feet |
| Wingspan | 86-foot wingspan |
| Maximum Takeoff Weight | 28,500 pounds |
| Ordnance | 4,500 pounds’ worth |
| Maximum Speed | 235 mph |
| Service Ceiling | 18,000 feet |
| Maximum Range | 2,550 miles |
8 July 1941: A Bf 110 Turns the Wellington Into a Fireball
By mutual acclimation, the British bombed at night, while the Americans operated during the daytime. This kept the pressure on German air defenses around the clock. However, the Germans quickly adapted. Particularly early in the war, their day and night fighter forces were without peer.
On 8 July 1941, Sergeant Pilot James Ward was flying with his commander, Squadron Commander Reuben Widdowson. This was Ward’s sixth combat mission with this pilot and crew. Their objective was the Dutch coast. Everything went smoothly until Ward and Co turned the big plane for home.
Out of the darkness, Ward’s Wimpy was attacked by a German Bf 110 night fighter. These aircraft eventually carried their own radar and variable geometry guns optimized for the night fighter mission.
At this point in the war, however, German night fighter pilots usually received rough guidance from radar ground controllers and then finalized their attacks, keying off of the small yellow flames emitted by the target planes’ exhaust stacks.
The Bf 110 carried four 7.92mm rifle-caliber machineguns tightly clustered in the nose along with a pair of 20mm cannon fitted in the belly and boresighted to fire alongside the smaller machineguns. This extreme concentration of firepower brought down many an Allied bomber.
On the evening of 8 July, this Bf 110 raked the Wellington along the right wing root. The fuel tank in the starboard wing ruptured and began spilling gasoline. This fuel caught fire and threatened to burn through the aircraft’s structure.
The tail gunner was hit in the foot, though he did successfully shoot down the marauding Messerschmitt. However, in short order, the plane’s fabric skin began conflagrating. The crew hacked a hole in the fuselage to access the fire and expended all of their onboard fire extinguishers fruitlessly. They even threw their coffee onto the flames in an unsuccessful effort at putting out the stubborn fire.
With the fire spreading steadily, Squadron Leader Widdowson ordered his crew to bail out while he still retained control of the aircraft.
However, Sergeant Ward made one last suggestion. What if he could crawl outside the airplane and then use an engine cover to smother the flames? This operation would be unimaginably dangerous. However, it might just prevent the crew from spending the rest of the war in a prison camp or worse. Widdowson relayed his bailout order.
Nobody had ever done this before, and the plane was not designed to support a NASA-grade EVA (Extra-Vehicular Activity) in flight. Ward just had to make this up as he went along. He removed the astrodome navigation port and harvested a length of rope from the onboard survival dinghy. Once he had the dinghy rope secured around his waist, SGT Ward crawled out of the airplane. The hole was too small to accommodate a parachute.
13,000 Feet Up, James Ward Climbs Onto the Burning Wing
The Wellington stalls at around 65 knots or about 75 miles per hour. That number goes up if the flaps and landing gear have not been deployed. Ward somehow fitted his parachute while also clinging to the exterior of the airplane. With the slipstream tearing at his face and hands, SGT Ward actually crawled along the outside of his airplane heading to the right wing root that was actively ablaze.
There was nothing to hang on to, so Allen punched foot and handholds into the Wellington’s fabric skin with a fire axe…while also being buffeted around at 13,000 feet over Holland in the dark.
Ward described his experience outside on the wing of the aircraft while exposed to the slipstream, as “…being in a terrific gale only worse than any gale I’ve ever known.” He did, however, eventually reach the engine along with the part of the wing that was fuel-soaked and burning.
The plane’s navigator, SGT Joe Lawton, kept tension on the dinghy rope while Ward was crawling around on the outside of the big flaming airplane.
They had previously been using the padded engine cover as a seat cushion. Cushion in tow, Ward crawled three feet down the fuselage to get to the wing and then slithered another three feet hand-over-hand to reach the fire. Now he was oriented right behind the screaming prop that was trying desperately to blow him off into space.
Ward used the engine cover to smother the fire and discovered a gaping hole in the plane along with a severed piece of tubing that appeared to be the source of the fuel leak. He attempted to plug the hole and staunch the leak with the cushion. However, a gust tore the cover out of his hand, and it was lost.
Now utterly exhausted, Ward clawed his way back through the astrodome. However, the fuel line was still leaking. As they neared their home airfield, accumulated gasoline flared up again but miraculously burned itself out without reigniting the wing fabric. Despite the severe damage to the airplane, Squadron Leader Widdowson and Sergeant Ward successfully wrestled the big machine safely to the ground.
Victoria Cross Glory, Then a Brutal Final Mission
On 5 August, SGT James Ward was awarded the Victoria Cross, Great Britain’s highest decoration for gallantry in combat. SGT Ward was one of only three New Zealanders to earn the VC during World War 2.
The award was presented by Winston Churchill himself at 10 Downing Street. Once in the presence of the Prime Minister, Ward found himself unable to speak. Moved by the young man’s discomfited state, Churchill said, “You must feel very humble and awkward in my presence.” Ward replied, “Yes, sir.”
Churchill continued, “Then you can imagine how humble and awkward I feel in yours.”
While on leave to receive the award, Ward attended a formal dinner in his honor. Someone spilled fuel from a cigarette lighter onto Ward’s hand and inadvertently set it alight. The injury was trivial, but Ward fainted. Realizing the emotional trauma that the young man had clearly endured, Ward’s treating physician drafted a note to keep him off of flight duty. That note was never passed up the chain.
I wish the tale ended there. However, SGT Ward kept flying combat missions. Upon his return to his unit, Ward was given his own plane and crew. On his second mission as aircraft commander, Ward’s Wellington was engaged by a German night fighter.
The plane caught fire in short order. Appreciating that the machine was doomed, Ward held the aircraft steady and ordered his crew to bail out. Two of the five-man crew did so and were made prisoner. Ward and his other two mates rode the plane in. James Ward was 22 years old at the time of his death.
James Ward’s Victoria Cross Story Still Defies Belief
There is brave, and then there is “climb outside a flaming aircraft to save your buddies” brave. James Ward was next level. His amazing sacrifice ultimately helped drive the Allies to victory. Now, better part of a century later, I am legitimately in awe of the man.
The Battle of Gaines’ Mill, Virginia and some mighty hard fighting men!
Yeah his Dad was that Theodore Roosevelt! Sadly only Terry Allen survived the war as both Patton & Roosevelt died. TR from a heart attack after he was awarded the M.O.H.. Patton died from a car crash. They just don’t build them like they used to! Grumpy
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Theodore Roosevelt Jr. was never meant to be a distant figure on D-Day. A brigadier general and assistant commander of the 4th Infantry Division, he refused to stay behind. At 56 — older than most men in the invasion — and burdened by severe arthritis and a weakened heart, his superiors urged him not to go. He ignored them.
Roosevelt insisted on landing with the first wave at Utah Beach on June 6, 1944. He believed a leader’s place was not in safety, but beside his men—especially at the moment it mattered most. It was a principle his father had lived by, and one he felt bound to uphold. Cane in hand, he stepped onto the landing craft.
When they hit the shore, nothing went as planned. The troops had landed nearly a mile south of their intended position. Units were scattered. Confusion spread under enemy fire. It could have unraveled quickly. Roosevelt didn’t panic. He took one look at the situation and made a decision that would define the day. “We’ll start the war from right here.”
With that, he moved forward — personally directing troops, reorganizing units, and pushing the assault inland. Amid the chaos, his calm presence became an anchor. Soldiers who recognized him saw not just a general, but a man sharing their risk, standing exactly where they stood. What could have been a disaster became a coordinated advance.
Roosevelt survived the landing. But the cost followed him. Just over a month later, on July 12, 1944, he died of a heart attack in Normandy. The strain of the campaign had been too much. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions on D-Day. Today, he lies buried at the Normandy American Cemetery — beside his younger brother Quentin, who was killed in World War I.
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