The field of journalism suited John Drewery, and though he was among the first graduates of Carleton’s journalism school, he didn’t come to the profession by conventional means. He was not one to remain deskbound to write editorials – he always found a way to insert himself in the center of a good story, frequently in uncertain or hazardous areas. Many refused to believe such a youthful looking chap had flown bombers during World War II and was often challenged on his chest of wings and ribbons, which included the distinctive diagonal stripes of a Distinguished Flying Cross. When the war in Korea began, he signed up with the Army as a lieutenant, leaving years later with the same rank. “The Army didn’t have much of a sense of humor,” he quipped.
PFORZHEIM RAID
The night sky over Germany was unforgiving, a vast and endless void filled with the distant flicker of anti-aircraft fire and the silent menace of unseen enemies. In that darkness, Lancaster bombers droned towards their targets, their crews knowing that survival was as much a matter of chance as skill. Among them sat young Johnny in the nose of one such bomber, gripping the controls of his turret, anticipating swarms of fighters over his target. He would soon face an enemy unlike any he had imagined, an aircraft so advanced and fast-moving that some whispered it was not of this world.
As a flying officer, Drewery arrived in the United Kingdom on April 11th, 1944 as part of the steady influx of Commonwealth airmen reinforcing Bomber Command. As a boy in Stouffville, Ontario, he spent hours assembling model aircraft, captivated by the aircraft and promise of adventure in the skies. He had just finished high school when he enlisted in 1942 and trained for over a year with the Royal Canadian Air Force to earn his Air Bomber Badge. He was loaned to the Royal Air Force and assigned to 101 Squadron. His first mission came on November 30, 1944, as part of a Lancaster crew operating under the squadron’s unique and highly classified role in electronic warfare. As the bomb aimer, John sat in the bubble nose of the ship, his world framed by the endless night sky, poised for the moment he would press the button to drop the payload. When his eye was not pressed to the sight, he was also responsible for manning the nose turret, hands ready on the trigger should anything threaten the aircraft.
The most successful four-engine strategic bomber of the Second World War, the Lancaster had a bomb bay that stretched over two-thirds of the length of its fuselage, allowing it to carry far greater loads than any other bomber in the European theatre. The Lancasters of 101 Squadron carried a crew of eight, as opposed to the normal seven, the extra man being a specialist radio operator who spoke fluent German. Among those who flew alongside Drewery were three Canadians, Flying Officers George Withenshaw, their pilot, L. B. LaPointe and Sergeant John E. Stead; the other ranks from the Royal Air Force included Sergeants A. H. Halliday, A. Parsons, and W. H. Robinson.
Their eighth member, the special operator on the Airborne Cigar (ABC) jamming system, was Pilot Officer E. Graumann. To operate the ABC, the German-speaking specialist operator would sit at a desk in a curtained-off area on the port side of the aircraft. In order that he was not distracted, he was cut off from the rest of the crew, and his intercom was disconnected, except for a red ‘call light’ which would be operated by the captain in the event of an emergency. The operators did not feature in media, particularly those taken for propaganda purposes, and in many cases he was encouraged to change his identity before he joined the Squadron, especially if he had a Jewish-sounding name. To the family who ‘adopted’ the crew during their time in England, he was known only as Mortimer.
On missions, Drewery rarely saw the ABC operator. In a bulky electrically-heated suit, fleece-lined boots and gloves to protect against the European winter, when temperatures could fall to minus 50 Celsius at 20,000 feet, he waited in one of his two glass bubbles – the dual .303 browning just above the bombsight or lying prone in the nose compartment and using a bombsight to direct the pilot.
While many Lancasters were lucky to see even a small number of operations before being lost, only two from 101 Squadron achieved over a hundred missions while flying from Ludford Magna. Lancaster DV245 SR-S, affectionately known as 'The Saint', was one to surpass the hundred-mission mark, including nine trips to Berlin and the raid on Nuremberg. Such a Lancaster flying toward a target like Berlin would have to first run the gauntlet of flak, often flying straight through heavy shelling for minutes at a time. If it survived, the bomber would then face waves of night fighters, which operated using radar guidance and searchlight traps.
For 101 Squadron, their ABC jamming missions made them an even bigger target—Luftwaffe pilots were often directed specifically to seek out and destroy the jamming Lancasters first, leading to even higher losses within the squadron. Among the deadliest threats were Messerschmitt Bf 110s equipped with Schräge Musik—deadly upward-firing cannons that could rip through a bomber’s belly undetected. Junkers Ju 88G night fighters, with their advanced radar and heavy armament, stalked bomber streams like hunters in the dark.
It wasn’t just conventional German fighters they feared. Rumors spread of strange, silver aircraft cutting through bomber formations with unnatural speed. To many airmen, they seemed almost supernatural—some even whispered they were foo fighters, eerie aerial phenomena reported over battlefields. With speeds surpassing anything the Royal Air Force had encountered before, they appeared and vanished like ghosts, their 30mm Mk 108 cannons tearing through bombers before dissolving into the clouds. Gunners struggled to track them; by the time one was spotted, it was often too late. It was rare to see one—rarer still to survive an attack. For those who witnessed it, the sight of that silver arrow flashing past left a gnawing unease.
On the night of February 23d, 1945 Drewery and his crew in The Saint were detailed for an attack against Pforzheim, a heavily defended industrial target. Just after dropping their payload and still above the target area, a spectral silver streak emerged from the darkness. The craft was closing in at a velocity no conventional fighter could match. The crew barely had time to call out the threat before it was upon them, its tracer fire slicing through the night.
Johnny clambered into the nose turret and called out the combat maneuver to George. Withenshaw threw the Lancaster into a steep dive toward the oncoming threat, now just 2,000 feet away. Drewery tracked the target with a long lead, anticipating its incredible speed. Instinct and calculation fused as he squeezed the triggers. A stream of rounds tore through the night sky—once, twice, three times—until tracer fire struck home. The Me 262 erupted in flame, disintegrating in a burst that lit the landscape below. The jet burst into flames, spiraling out of control before disintegrating in an explosion that briefly illuminated the earth below. One of the Luftwaffe’s most fearsome weapons had just been brought down by a steady hand and an unshakable nerve of the young flying officer.
That night, George Withenshaw relayed an epilogue to the day when they went to celebrate their astonishing victory – for how often had a bomber taken on a fight, no less a jet, and come out victorious? On returning from the local English village, tracers streaked past them just as a German fighter roared in behind them. As they were certainly not in any position to take on another fighter, they dove for a muddy ditch just as his cannons blasted the corner of a house just yards away.
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For this decisive action, Drewery was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, citing his “vigilance, promptitude and good shooting” and that he was “a most devoted and fearless member of aircraft crew.”
Of the several Lancasters the crew flew during the war, most were shot down and only DV245 made it past the hundred mission mark, only to be lost on its 119th mission, a raid to Bremen on 23 March 1945, which saw the aircraft being the last No. 101 Squadron Lancaster lost during the war. Fortunately for the Withenshaw crew, they were flying a different plane that day. Their tour was not without incident, however. Three times Withenshaw flew back from missions with only three engines, one of which being the Misburg attack in which their engine went out on the way to the target. Determined to make the run, they bombed the target on only three engines and made the return trip, for which George also received a Distinguished Flying Cross.
By war’s end, 101 Squadron had sustained some of the highest casualty rates in Bomber Command, their jamming aircraft invaluable but highly vulnerable and viciously targeted. Drewery and the crew had survived unscathed, but he remained quiet about his war in the air as he grew older. After his transition into journalism and broadcasting that would make him a household name in Canada, still few knew the details of his adventurous exploits and were surprised to know he was even old enough to have flown during the war.
RADIO NOMAD
While soldiers advanced through frozen valleys and fortified ridges, another kind of battle unfolded by men armed with cameras, typewriters, and recording equipment. Among them was Lieutenant John Drewery, who arrived in Korea on January 12th, 1953, with No. 25 Canadian Public Relations Unit. Their duties were to document the war, control the narrative, and ensure that stories of Canadian soldiers reached audiences at home. Drewery’s role was as varied as he liaised with journalists, escorted war correspondents to active fronts, and coordinated radio broadcasts that carried soldiers' voices back to Canada. He recorded interviews, preserved testimonies, and made sure the daily reality of those stationed in Korea’s unforgiving terrain was not lost in the politics of war.
The duty extended beyond morale – it also shaped public understanding and influenced international press. The Unit embedded itself deep in the conflict, moving between regiments and battle positions, capturing moments in the field, and sending dispatches to waiting newspapers. Their work did not come from the safety of the rear; they followed the troops into the cold, into the dust, and into the line of fire and into the elments where the air cut like a blade, temperatures plunging below -20°C. Frostbite was common, metal equipment burned to the touch, and cameras froze mid-operation. Drewery and his colleagues worked through it, chipping ice from their lenses, layering their hands in cloth before handling film reels, all while ensuring that each image captured the stark, unfiltered face of war.
One of PRU’s most effective tools was Radio Station NOMAD, a military-run broadcast service that provided Canadian troops with a connection to home. Drewery worked closely on its programming, helping to produce “Chuck Wagon Jubilee”, a show that allowed Canadian soldiers to share their stories over the airwaves. In February 1953, he assisted in recording a special segment by Major Fraser, Senior Protestant Chaplain of the 25th Canadian Infantry Brigade, who delivered a message of hope to the troops through “Chapel Call”.
Public Relations men were not exempt from danger. With a Unit photographer, John traveled to the Royal Canadian Regiment’s position to record the aftermath of a Chinese assault. The shattered landscape was littered with churned earth, blasted hooches, and battered equipment, a testament to the fierce fight that had taken place. As soon as the gunfire subsided, he moved in, interviewing soldiers who had fought through the night, recording firsthand accounts before memory blurred into exhaustion. His dispatches made it to Canadian newspapers, a direct line from the battlefield to those reading at breakfast tables half a world away.
Life near the front meant being constantly on edge. Even in the rear echelon sectors, caution ruled. Drewery had grown particularly wary after reports of enemy infiltrators sneaking into camp under the cover of night. One morning, as Captain George McElroy returned late after midnight from counting his two jeeps, he found himself at the wrong end of Drewery’s pistol. “Lay that pistol down, Johnny,” McElroy had said with a grin, “It’s only me.”
There was reason for such vigilance. Thieves—some suspected guerrillas—had been slipping into camp to steal whatever they could carry. One officer returned from dinner to find his entire tent stripped of gear. Even in the relative quiet of the rear lines, the war had its dangers, and Drewery, like many others, slept light, his sidearm never far from reach.
As the war shifted toward negotiation, Drewery’s work followed. He was sent to Munsan-ni to record the return of Canadian prisoners of war, including Lance Corporal Dugal of the Royal 22e Régiment. His reports—radio and photographic—captured the emotion of these reunions. He attempted to observe Panmunjom negotiations, and though denied access, gathered impressions from Commonwealth troops, capturing the uncertainty hanging over the fragile peace.
When an official ceasefire and end of hostilities finally came, John began to document the transition to a tense peace—how soldiers withdrew, how outposts were abandoned, how the war’s final movements settled into history. He filed reports on demobilization, recorded testimonies of those preparing to leave Korea, and captured the silence that followed years of gunfire.
The dedicated work of No. 25 Public Relations Unit ensured that Canada’s role in Korea was not relegated to footnotes. The war itself might have been overshadowed by greater conflicts, but through the Unit's work, the faces, voices, and actions of those who served remained preserved. Drewery’s records, interviews, and dispatches stitched together a significant collection of Canada’s military memory.
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After Korea and several more years in the Army where is ‘daring humor’ seemed to be a likely cause of not rising beyond lieutenant, John found his career in journalism. He carried the same unflinching dedication to the truth that had defined his war correspondence, ultimately transitioning into television reporting. His was a career spent chasing stories from the halls of Parliament to the most dangerous corners of the world. Whether covering politics in Ottawa or reporting from war zones, he refused to remain a passive observer—he immersed himself in every story alongside those he covered.
While covering a CBC report, surrounded by starving children in Biafra, he openly wept on air. He never broke composure, never stopped reporting, but in that moment, his deep empathy was evident. The devastation, mass starvation and disease were the tip of the humanitarian crisis he covered in the report. It was a rare display of emotion for a reporter and one that he was remembered for.
During the same period in Nigeria, Cameraman Bert Plimer told of Drewery coming to his rescue when he was tied to a tree by armed men in the jungle, certain he was about to be killed. Drewery, traveling with a Nigerian minder, talked the rebels down and walked Bert free.
Even at home and in later years, odd situations had a way of finding him. A former Air Force crewman once delivered cremated ashes to his door, hoping Drewery would handle their disposal. True to form, he obliged—scattering the ashes on Parliament Hill lawn, risking arrest to honor a last request.
John Drewery spent his life ensuring that others' stories were heard and seen. He brought light to moments the world might have otherwise missed. His story, too, is one to remember.