Rare WW2 Flt Sgt Chiefy Powell (617 Sqdn) Signed Signature Piece, With Photo, Mounted Professionally and Framed ...

Rare WW2 Flt Sgt Chiefy Powell (617 Sqdn) Signed Signature Piece, With Photo, Mounted Professionally and Framed to an overall size of 12 x 7 inches approx. Powell was the NCO Ground Crew Who Buried Guy Gibsons Dog Nigger. Good condition.

Signature Flt Sgt George Edward "Chiefy" Powell Famous member of No 617 Sqn, rare signature Did not fly but was the Squadrons "Mr Fix it" Helped Gibson build the Squadron and made things happen Flt Sgt George Edward "Chiefy" Powell Born in Wrexham and named George Edward after two British kings, Powell had joined the Royal Air Force in 1928 and was by trade an administrator, although he'd served as an air gunner with Coastal Command during the early part of the war. The RAF provided Powell with both home and family. He was an organiser with natural talent for overcoming difficulties. He also had a fair knowledge of aerial combat. But he understood little, nothing at all in real terms, about either bomb-bays or bomb release mechanisms. His trade was airframe technician. It has to be admitted this deficiency had not troubled him much until that afternoon but was immediately acknowledged completely, if with irritated impotence. Powell therefore glared at the bomber with malevolence and as he did so, swore silently, lengthily and comprehensively. But 'bloody hell', were the only words he spoke aloud. There was nobody to hear him. Powell stood alone, in sole charge of the bomber, forage cap cocked rakishly over his right eye, clad in battle-dress, the blouse open at the neck. Legs astride, hands hips, he stared at the aeroplane as though willing it to eject the 'egg' hanging below its belly, by the sheer force of his considerable personality. You bastard!' he snarled, investing the expletive with all the venom Flight Sergeants traditionally direct at anything causing them serious problems. The 'egg' was a dummy - a massive cylinder, made of concrete, weighing 10,000 lbs, an enormous lookalike garden roller - the exact size & weight of a new weapon Chiefy Powell's new squadron was being formed to drop on enemy targets, previously impossible to attack with conventional weapons. The only problem, Chiefy Powell ruefully reflected, was that the bloody weapon would not fall out of the bloody aeroplane, which in turn meant that unless he, Chiefy Powell, got it bloody sorted there would be no bloody raid, either. 'And, ' he concluded gloomily to himself, wiping the toothbrush of a moustache clinging to his upper lip with the back of his right hand, 'I've no doubt that it will all be my bloody fault.' Chiefy Powell did not know whether the weapon was a bomb, mine, or what. He did know it was secret. VERY secret. So secret that Guy Gibson, already a legendary figure in Bomber Command and one of the RAF's youngest and most successful Wing Commanders, was about to be given the job of training an elite squadron just to drop it - always providing, of course, Chiefy Powell and his happy band of Erks could solve the problem of persuading the bloody weapon to fall out of the bloody aeroplane. But at 16.30 that Saturday afternoon Wg Cdr Gibson was far from Chiefy Powell's thoughts. Powell's concentration was focused on the miscreant weapon. A None flyer who with Gibson helped to form the original Squadron

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