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First episode (First series) taken from The Rover No. 1704 - February 22nd 1958.

Sergeant-pilot Matt Braddock, V.C. and bar, was one of the greatest airmen of the Second World War. He antagonised every person he met, but even those who regarded him with bitter resentment and hostility admitted that in the air Braddock had no equal. I'm Sergeant George Bourne. I did my training in navigation, wireless and bomb-aiming in Scotland and on May 25, 1940 was posted to Squadron 18B of Bomber Command at Rampton aerodrome in South-East England. All I knew was that the squadron flew Blenheims.

I needn't say much about myself beyond the fact that if it hadn't been for the war I might have become a professional footballer. While playing in goal for our works team in Birmingham, I had two or three offers to sign for League clubs and might have done so when I'd finished my apprenticeship in the toolroom. However the Germans put the snuffler on those ideas. When I got to Liverpool Street Station to catch the train to Rampton, I found myself in the crush behind a burly fellow, who was using his shoulders to barge a way through to the barrier. There were indignant protests from the people on whose toes he trod, but he was deaf to them. He had the stripes of a sergeant on his R.A.F. tunic. His pilot's wings hung by a few threads. He carried a kitbag but wasn't wearing a cap. This fact was immediately noted by two R.A.F. police on duty by the gate and they pounced on him. "You're improperly dressed!" snapped the sergeant policeman. "Where's your cap?" "Where you ought to be, over in Belgium!" said the offender gruffly. He didn't keep his voice down and there were murmurs of agreement from the servicemen in the crowd. "Where are your papers?" the sergeant policeman demanded. "With my cap," growled the sergeant-pilot. "I've only got a railway ticket." The sergeant took out his notebook. "Name?" he demanded. "Braddock," drawled the pilot. "Number?" snapped the sergeant. "How should I know?" muttered Braddock. The policeman thrust his notebook into his pocket. "Fall in," he barked. "You're under arrest." Braddock uttered a scoffing laugh. "Come on," snarled the sergeant. "Quick march -" Braddock slung his kitbag on to his shoulder. It could have been accidental, but he caught the sergeant a resounding slap on the side of the head and knocked his hat off. The policeman looked as if he were going to explode from the violence of his emotions as he picked up his hat. He closed in on Braddock with his comrade. Braddock turned and winked at the onlookers. He made no attempt to keep in step as they marched him away. "He's for it," remarked a corporal. "They'll have him for every crime in the book -" The gates rattled open and there was a rush for the train. I was out of luck. The train was so crowded that the best I could do was stand in the corridor of a first-class coach, mostly occupied by officers. I was leaning out of the window watching the platform scene when a running figure burst through the gateway. It was the sergeant policeman. He legged it wildly towards the guard who was getting ready to wave his flag. He reached the guard and pointed back agitatedly towards the entrance. I thought that at least an air-marshall was on his way, but it was Braddock who ambled on to the platform. His hands were in his pockets. Behind him came the other policeman carrying the kitbag. While the guard and platform inspector were blowing their whistles, Braddock sauntered along the train. He stopped opposite me. It was the first time I'd really seen him face to face and it was at that moment I became aware of his amazing eyes. I suppose you would have called them blue, but it was almost as if a light were shining through them, for they were astonishingly luminous. His chin was strong. His mouth was big and full lipped. The nose had a distinct twist across the bridge from an old fracture. I opened the door for him. He took his kitbag from the policeman. "So long, suckers!" he said. He got into the corridor and I pulled the door shut. The train immediately began to move. He peered into a compartment in which there were two group captains, a colonel, a major, and two vacant seats. He pulled the corridor door open, entered the compartment, heaved his kitbag on to the rack and sat down. Then he gestured me in. "Take the weight off your feet," he growled. I'd come down from Scotland and was train weary. I went in and sat down. The major glared at us. "This is a first-class compartment," he snapped. Braddock yawned. "I can read," he said. The major went red with indignation. "I'm ordering you to get out!" he snapped. Braddock stretched his legs. "When did you buy the railway?" he inquired. The major shot an infuriated glance at him. The group captains shifted uncomfortably. "I shall report you to your commanding officer for disobeying an order and for insolence," the major rasped. "What's your name." "Rhymes with haddock - Braddock!" The two group captains both gave a start. They looked at each other and then at Braddock. As the train roared under a bridge, one of them spoke to the major. I could not catch what he said, but the major didn't have another word to say. In evident confusion, he opened a newspaper and hid himself behind it. Braddock winked at me and then put his head back and closed his eyes. The train put down most of its passengers at Colchester. Braddock and I were left with the compartment to ourselves. I took out my cigarette case. I did not smoke a great deal, just now and then. As I opened it, I became aware that Braddock was gazing at me. I was going to offer him a cigarette but he spoke first. "Smoking's no good for you," he said curtly. "Put your fags away." I was too taken aback to protest, and he added, "Bad for your eyes!" I shut the case and returned it to my pocket. "Going to Rampton?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. "So am I! Lousy hole. Used to be full of spit and polish wallahs, sort of twirps who thought you couldn't fly a plane unless you'd had your hair cut and your buttons polished." Braddock's lips took a sardonic droop. "Ha, ha, that's where I got kicked out." "Kicked out?" I echoed. "I was a week-end flier in those days," explained Braddock, "and we went there for a course. I lasted about twenty four hours. Then they pushed me out." I saw a dot in the sky and peered out at it. Braddock followed my stare. The aircraft was no more than a speck. "Fairey Battle," he said. Braddock was right though more than a minute elapsed, with the plane approaching us, before I was able to identify it for myself.


Briefly, what was happening at Rampton was that a fresh squadron of Blemheim bombers was being hurriedly scratched together. France was in a state of collapse. Our Army was falling back towards the coast. The need for air support was desperate.

There was no time for a squadron to train for active service. What was being done was to provide experienced pilots, and make up crews with types like myself. I found myself allocated as a navigator-bomb-aimer to Flying Officer Taylor, Sergeant Ken Coe was our gunner. I noticed from the list that Braddock had a chap named Simley as his navigator. There was so much hustle and bustle on arrival that I did not see Braddock again till next morning when we were ordered to the briefing room. Since the war, many "inquests" have been held on the German tactics at Dunkirk. There has always been a mystery as to why the full weight of the Panzer Divisions (the tanks) was not hurled at Lord Gort's army. All sorts of suggestions have been made as to why the Germans seemed to hold back. I am now going to narrate what to my mind provides at least a partial explanation of the riddle. We straggled into the briefing room where Squadron Leader Peter Pitcairn was talking to the Adjutant, Flight Lieutenant Smythe. I liked the look of Pitcairn. He was lean, sinewy type, an R.A.F. regular and as smart in appearance as a Guards officer. We were told to sit down. I had a chair by Ken Coe, who had had some operational experience as a gunner. Flying Officer Taylor, also an R.A.F. regular, was just in front of us. The door was shut. Pitcairn glanced at his watch and moved so that he was standing in front of the huge wall map. "Today we have an illustration of the old saying that needs must when the devil drives," he rapped out briskly. "In the ordinary course of events, I should have been given six months to knock you into shape. But, events aren't ordinary, far from it, and we've got to be up and doing straight away. We're suffering as a nation because we've been caught unprepared. For myself I've no use for the policy of muddling through, but that's what we have to do. There's a job to do today and that's why you're here for briefing -" The door opened. I saw Pitcairn frown. It was Braddock who strolled in. He shoved the door shut with his foot and sat at the back. Pitcairn reached for a pointer and there was a rustle of maps. Taylor turned and beckoned for me to bring my chair up to his. As I moved, I looked round. Braddock wasn't bothering to open a map. "There's some very grave business on the right-flank of our rearguards," explained the Squadron leader. "Report have reached us within the past half-hour that a Panzer division is concentrating in this area -" His pointer moved to the wall map. "We have nothing to stop them with - except water. If we can demolish the lock gates at Boustrecke, here the waters will be released and flood the low-lying ground between the rearguards and the Panzer concentration. He slid the pointer through his hand and let it strike the floor with a thump. "It's our job to destroy the lock," he said. "It's going to be a tough job. The Germans know just as well as we do that it's a key point. The lock is protected by anti-aircraft batteries and we shall also have to keep our eyes skinned for German fighters. "In brief," he went on, "It's a sticky job but one that must be pressed home with the utmost determination. The Met people promise us some cloud cover on the way over. We shall attack in waves and bomb from a thousand feet with the sun behind us if there is any sun -" The hush, except for Pitcairn's voice, was broken by the sound of snoring. Pitcairn shouted in anger. "Wake that man up! Take his name." "It's Braddock," said the Adjutant. The pale-faced Simley gave Braddock a shake. Braddock blinked and yawned. "Stuffy in here, isn't it?" muttered Taylor. "One bomb Braddock!" "One bomb?" I said. "The story goes that he blew up three bridges in front of the German advance, flying a Battle, and used only one bomb each time," answered my pilot. "Maybe it's just another story." Now that Braddock had been aroused, Pitcairn went on with the briefing. It seemed like an operation which promised very little future for the man who took part in it.


 An hour later, we were crossing the Channel, at 4000 feet, we were over a thin layer of cloud. From my seat on the starboard side of D for Don, I could see C for Charlie, Braddock's machine. Forward was the bombing station into which I should lower myself when the time came.

Ken Coe was isolated from us in the gun turret, midway along the fuselage. Our two Mercury engines were giving us an air speed of 240 miles an hour. Taylor was a good pilot and through it was our first ride together, I felt confidence in him. We were carrying a stick of three 350lb bombs. I was strung-up but not in a funk. I'd been scared stiff of making a hash of my job but I'd settled down all right and had a good pilot to nurse me along. Before we took off, the C.O.'s last words had been that the attack must be pushed right home, regardless of opposition. The cloud lay over the sea and we ran into clear sky on approaching the coast. To the north-east, vast columns of smoke were rising. Our target was twenty miles inland. The canal, a railway and a main road formed a triangle. The village of Boustrecke and the lock were at the southern apex. Taylor's voice rasped in the phones. "Where's C for Charlie off to?" he snapped and, when I glanced to starboard, I saw that Braddock had broken away and was going on his own. From that moment onwards, I was too busy to think about Braddock. Ken yelled, "fighters!" and I had a glimpse of three Messerschmitt 109's flash past, apparently on their way to attack our following aircraft. We droned across a flat green and dun landscape with dykes and roads as straight as rulers. Along one of the roads crawled a motorised convoy seeming to stretch for miles. I did a quick check-up and unless I'd made a bad mistake, the converging railway lines I could see indicated that we were approaching Nieuval Junction and that the target was five miles ahead. I reported this to Taylor. He said "Nice work! You'd better get down now." I unfastened my safety belt and slid down into the bomb aimer's station. I looked down through the bubble of perspex at the ground and had the old queer sensation of floating in space. I saw a huddle of houses, a glint of water and a bisecting railway line. A few moments later, I saw the lock and a tiny target it appeared. Taylor's voice was calm and unhurried. "I am going to turn into the target now," he said. "Bomb doors open." "Bomb doors open!" I answered. From that moment, it ceased to be practice stuff. Tiny pinpoints of flame winked below us. The air filled with the smoke smudges of exploding shells. I felt the Blenheim shudder as if it had been flown into an invisible obstacle and then resume its forward progress. I did not blink as I kept my gaze glued to the bomb-sight, my hand on the bomb release button. Smoke wreathed us. There was another crash, another terrific vibration. Our speed increased as Taylor put the nose down and levelled out. We still seemed a long way from the target. I saw a blazing plane, a Blenheim, plunging like a gigantic torch. I saw another staggering away, leaving a trail of oily black smoke. All round us were flashes and puffs of smoke. We nosed in towards the target. My mouth was dry - steady, keep her steady - then, as I pressed the release - BOMBS GONE! I felt the Blenheim give a leap. It shuddered again at the moment of turning. Then I saw columns of smoke and flame gush up as our bombs exploded. I shouted in bitter exasperation. We had straddled the lock without hitting it. Taylor was throwing the kite about as he tried to get out of the barrage. In one of the turns, we again saw the lock - untouched, penning back the water that had to be released to stop the tanks. It was then I had a startling glimpse of a Blenheim hopping over the roofs of the village. Its outline was blurred in the smoke as it flew just over the canal towards the lock. I saw that Blenheim's bombs go down. Then three flashes like forked lightning sizzled in the smoky murk, and I couldn't see the lock for smoke. I heaved myself out of the bomb-aimers station and scrambled back to my seat. I looked across the fields. The lock had gone. There was a huge gaping hole from which the water was gushing like a cateract. Louder even than the roar of our engines was a terrific explosion just under us. Our Blenheim turned clean over. The hatch was blown out. Objects flew round me. We looped the loop and when we came out of it, the plane was diving and Taylor hung in his straps with his head lolling like an apple on a twig. I unhooked myself, reached over, grabbed hold of the stick and pulled it back, hampered by Taylor's limp body. I gritted my teeth, braced my legs and put my weight on the stick and it shifted. The horizon started to fall away. Slowly the Blenheim came back on to an even keel. Looking back, I don't know how I got Taylor out of his seat and into it myself. I tried to speak to Ken, but the intercom was not working. Nothing seemed to be working. The compass needle had jammed and according to the altimeter we were at 17,000 feet. I had flown a plane before but was nowhere near a pilot's proficiency. During training, I had handled an Anson in the air though I'd never landed or tried to. Except that Belgium was underneath, I'd no clear idea of my whereabouts. All my charts had blown away through the hatch. The Blenheim was flying erratically. It kept dipping and rising, dipping and rising like a car on a switchback. Another Blenheim appeared to starboard. It was C for Charlie. I turned my head and saw Braddock. He lifted a hand and signalled that I was to follow him. He led me across the coast and over the sea. When I had time to look, I saw there were holes in his port wing and the rudder was chewed-up like a boxer's ear. Just the same, It was Braddock who nursed me across the Channel and led me to an aerodrome. My heart was in my mouth as I pulled the lever to lower the wheels. There was no red light, no warning wail. Unless the warning devices had also packed up, the wheels were down and locked. But I should have forgotten all about the flaps if Braddock hadn't flown ahead of me and put his down. Well, I made it. Beginner's luck, I suppose. I bounced the Blenheim as I pancaked but the aircraft squatted squarely next time and we were home, chased down the runway by the fire tender and ambulance. They got Taylor out and rushed him away. Ken Coe pushed his head out of his hatch. "A bit rough" he said. "Once or twice I thought we'd had it." We watched Braddock land his plane amid frantic apprehension from the firemen. They needn't have worried. He wouldn't have spilled a cup of tea had it been on the wing. He dropped to the ground and pulled off his helmet. "Nice work, George," he said, unruffled, laconic. "Where's the canteen? I want a cuppa." His navigator Simley, lowered himself from the cockpit. He was as white as a sheet and could not control his trembling. Braddock turned his back and strode away in search of the canteen. Simley tottered towards us. His eyes were big and staring. "He's crazy, crazy!" he gasped hoarsely. "He flew so low that a blast from our bombs turned us over. We were flying upside down not twenty feet from the ground." Later in the day, we were flown back to Rampton. We arrived to hear that of the eleven Blenheims which had gone out, only five had returned to base and all had been damaged. But, thanks to Braddock, the Panzers were held up. It was on the following morning that the tannoy loudspeakers ordered "Sergeant Bourne" to report immediately to the Squadron Commander. Squadron Leader Pitcairn was alone in his office when I went in. "You did very well yesterday, Bourne," he said. "I'm pleased to tell you that the A.O.C. Group has sent his congratulations on your bringing the aircraft home -" "I guess it was the instinct of self-preservation, sir," I replied. He smiled and then became serious. "We're having to shuffle the squadron about," he said. "Sergeant Braddock has asked for you as his navigator. Any comments." He did not give me the immediate chance of answering. "Flying with Braddock isn't everybody's cup of tea," he went on to say. "Some might think there's very little future in it." I was hardly listening. I'd already made up my mind. I got a tremendous kick out of the fact that Braddock had asked for me. "I'd like to be in his crew," I said. You can have a night to think it over," replied Pitcairn. "No I'll go with him," I said. That was how I became navigator to Braddock. Navigator - to a pilot with a sense of direction like a homing pigeon! It makes me laugh to think of it. Still, what's in a name? I flew with Braddock. I found him in the Sergeants' mess slinging darts at the dartboard. "Do you play this game?" he asked. I gave a nod. I was good at darts. "The C.O.'s just had me in to tell me I'm going with you." I exclaimed. "Fine," grunted Braddock. "Ready?" I selected a set of darts. As we were getting ready to play, Flight-Sergeant Harman came in. He was an R.A.F. regular, a hard-bitten looking fellow of 26 or 27. He sat on the edge of a table and watched. We decided to play 301 up, starting and finishing, of course with a double. Braddock hardly seemed to take aim. His first throw was a Double Twenty which set him off. Then he threw a Treble Twenty, went for it again, just grazed the wire and scored a Twenty - a total of 120. Harman laughed. "You've caught a tartar, George," he said. "I shall see he gives me a start next time," I smiled. The game was a foregone conclusion, Braddock won easily. Harman had the next game with him, but didn't do much better. Another pilot, Charlie Black, saw most of it. "You'll have to take your darts down to the Hen and Squirrel, Brad," he said, referring to the village inn. "They have a champion who plays there." Braddock looked interested. "A champ, eh!" he grunted. "He won some tournament in Birmingham," said Charlie. "They keep his cup in a glass case." "I'll have a game with him," remarked Braddock. "Forget it!" Harman exclaimed. "The place has been out of bounds for a week." "Then it shouldn't be," growled Braddock. "I never drink - it's bad for the eyes - but why should I be barred from having a game of darts?" "Because it's orders," retorted Harman. "There was too much careless talk. Walls have ears and all that!" "Lot of rot!" said Braddock. Harman dismissed the subject with a shrug. "Do I have to remind you chaps that there's a lecture this evening?" he exclaimed. "Attendance is compulsory." "That's a bind," said Charlie Black. "First I've heard of it!" snapped Braddock. "It was given out in orders and it's on the notice board," stated the flight-sergeant. Braddock made no comment. He laid three darts on the palm of his hand and propelled them off with a flick. He scored three bulls-eyes.


Towards 19.00 hours, seven o'clock in the evening, here was a move towards the briefing room in which the lecture was to take place. To me, there were many unfamiliar faces among the fellows who were lining up to go in. In addition to 18B, Rampton had a second Blenheim Squadron and a third was in process of formation.

Harman and another flight-sergeant ticked off our names as we went in. I was looking forward to the lecture. It was to be given by Group Captain Halder, a staff officer at Group, and we understood he was going to talk to us about Bomber Command's part in the present emergency. We all stood when Group Captain Martingley, the Commanding Officer, walked in. When I saw Group Captain Halder I knew I'd seen him before. He had been in our compartment on the journey from Liverpool Street. Squadron Leader Pitcairn and other officers moved to their chairs, The doors were shut. The Commanding Officer briefly introduced the speaker whom, he said, had just returned after liaison work with the French Air Force. Halder stood and moved towards the blackboard. "First of all, I must congratulate Squadron 18B on the very good job they did in destroying the lock at Boustrecke," he said crisply. "The army are very pleased about it. I hear that Sergeant Braddock applied the finishing touch " He paused and looked round. "Is Sergeant Braddock here>" he inquired. "He should be," said Martingley and looked questioningly across the room. Harman's voice rang out. "No sir, he's not here," he reported. There was a brief tense pause and then Halder started to give us his talk. "We're in a tight corner," he said. "In a few days' time, we shall have been thrown out of Europe. The only attacking weapon then left in our hands will be that of Bomber Command. We are the only people who can hurt the enemy on his own ground. While Fighter Command will be fighting hard to withstand the inevitable attacks by the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force, we'll still be able to hit the Hun where it hurts." "Believe me, we're going to have a vital job in stopping Hitler, the German dictator, from becoming a modern William the Conqueror. We shall halt him, don't fear that, but only if we pull out all the stops. First, we have to help to get our army off the Dunkirk beaches " I found Halder's talk of absorbing interest. He left us in no doubt as to the grimness of the situation. Our attacking arm was weak. We had a few squadrons of Whitleys and Wellingtons for long-range probes. We were fairly well off for Blenheims, though Coastal Command also needed them, and replacements would be meagre because of the demands of Fighter Command. "Believe me, you are not expendable," he said earnestly. "It's common sense, isn't it? We are short of machines, and we are short of air crews. You won't be sent out on suicide operations, but when you are given a mission you must look on it as vital and bang it right home." Much of the lecture was technical. The recent air fighting had provided much valuable "gen" about the Luftwaffe. He told us, for instance, that though the Messerschmitt 110 had great speed and rate of climb, its maneuverability was poor and its tail unit was dangerously weak. He made the point that the Germans' ground to air communications were poor. "It's extraordinary, but the Hun appeared to think he could do without ground control," he said. "Now he's finding out that he can't. He'll catch up in time, of course, but it's a weak point at the moment." The lecture, with answers to questions, lasted fully two hours. Discussing what we had heard, we gradually filtered out. I saw a motor vehicle, with the label "R.A.F. Police" on the windscreen, enter the aerodrome. Harman flung up an arm and pointed at the truck. "Braddock's been pinched!" he exclaimed. I broke into a run and was not far away when the vehicle stopped outside the hut occupied by the Provost Marshall for the area and his staff. Braddock without a cap and with his hands in his pockets, got out. Two service policemen closed in on him. There was an angry scowl on his face. "A chap can't have a game of darts now," he groused. "Be quite!" barked the police sergeant. "Right turn, quick march!" With Braddock out of step, the three men vanished inside the hut. His few words gave the clue as to what had happened. He had dodged the lecture to play darts at the Hen and Squirrel and had been picked up by the R.A.F. police. It was about half an hour later when Harman came into our hut. "Where's Braddock?" I asked anxiously. "They're keeping him," he said. "He's in the cooler. He'll stay there, too. He's stretched out his neck a bit too far. The C.O. is hot on discipline. We've seen the last of Braddock for a long time." "Yes, they might have only torn a strip off him for missing the lecture, but they'll take a dim view of his breaking bounds!" exclaimed Charlie Black. I slipped a slab of chocolate into my pocket. I knew Braddock liked chocolate and since he had missed his supper I guessed he would be hungry. Then I ambled out. By a bit of weaving, I came up behind the brick detention hut without being observed. There were a number of small windows, each covered by a grill. Behind the bars, the windows could be opened for the sake of ventilation. I found three or four bricks to stand on and, by lifting myself on tip-toe, was just able to look through the first window. It gave access to a narrow cell. I saw a pair of legs of legs stretched out on the bed. When I tapped the glass, the legs vanished. A moment later, Braddock was looking through the bars at me. When I held up the chocolate he grinned and pulled at the window. It was stiff and, when it did go, opened an inch or two with a rasp. I hurriedly pushed the chocolate through to him. "Thanks, George," he said, "Hurry up and beat it -" I heard footsteps coming and legged it in the opposite direction. As I banked on hard rudder to turn the corner there was a gruff shout of "Got him," and a service policeman with a grip like a gorilla flung his arms round me.



I Flew with Braddock 31 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1414 1444 (1952 - 1953)

I Flew with Braddock 22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1445 - 1466 (1953)

Braddock Flew by Night 11 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1473 - 1483 (1953)

I Flew with Braddock 54 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1484 - 1495 (1953 - 1954) 

I Flew with Braddock 59 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1542 - 1590 (1955)

I Flew with Braddock 31 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1597 - 1627 (1956)

Born to Fly 18 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1646 - 1663 (1957)

Braddock of the Bombers 22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1664 - 1685 (1957)

Braddock and the Secret Weapon 28 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1763 - 1790 (1959)

Braddock and the Red Daggers 22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1791 - 1804 (1959 - 1960)

Braddock and the Wolves of War 12 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1805 - 1819 (1960)

Braddock and the Big Bad Wulf 25 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1821 - 1845 (1960)

Braddock the Bomber 17 episodes appeared in Rover and Adventure issues 1 - 17 (1961)

Braddock and the Black Light 12 episodes appeared in Rover and Adventure issues 20 - 31 (1961)

Braddock and the Crimson Dart 16 episodes appeared in Rover and Adventure issues 36 - 51 (1961 - 1962)

I Bombed with Braddock 22 episodes appeared in Rover and Adventure issues 52 - 73 (1962)

Braddock and the Whispering Death 18 episodes appeared in Rover and Adventure issues 88 - 105 (1962)

Braddock and the Black Rockets 13 episodes appeared in Rover and Wizard issues 161 - 173 (1964)

The Battles of Braddock 16 episodes appeared in Rover and Wizard issues 201 - 216 (1964 - 1965)

Braddock and the Thunderbirds 18 episodes appeared in Rover and Wizard issues 234 - 251 (1965)

Braddock Fought the Flying Saucers 20 episodes appeared in Rover and Wizard issues 270 - 289 (1966)

The above list has not included the various repeats.

D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd 

Vic Whittle 2003