From the left seat of the war-weary B-25C the Limey brass nodded out the open window to a “little” dirt strip off to port. Nestled on the lee side of a hill, from 500 feet it looked more like a cart path through an olive grove than a fighter strip. Letting go of the wheel, he pointed and ordered, “Land at that Spitfire strip, old chap.”
I almost asked “What!???....there?” as my common sense roared, “You gotta be out of your bloody ‘limey’ mind.” That dirt path looked like a tight fit for an L-5 as I hurried to drop the flaps and roll into a dragging, slow approach while thinking, “How the hell did I get into this?”
An hour before I'd been lounging in the shade outside squadron ops, back at Comiso. We had been waiting since morning to scramble on a close support mission, but the target kept changing. I had been half asleep when our operations officer Homer Howard called, “Hey, RM! There's some limey brass on his way, and he wants to be taken up toward the bomb line somewhere.”
I didn't care who the limey was; it got me off stand-by and sure as hell beat flak and fighters. As I approached my plane, or 8A, an open British staff car with pennants flying and a roar of escort motorcycles slid to a stop. A top-ranking limey officer with shoulders full of pins and ribbons to spare bounced out of the car, walked toward my feeble highball, and scrambled up the ladder into the aircraft. Since I was to be his chauffeur, I hurried to follow. Before I could get up the ladder, he had tossed his briefcase on the deck, jumped into the left seat, hit the starter switch for the left engine and asked, “I say, old chap, I haven't flown a Mitchell for years . . . do you mind?”
Now I ask myself, “How th'hell does a 2nd Lt. say no to an ‘ol’ boy' wearing all that brass?” Before I could even get myself settled in the right seat, he had both engines running, and kicked off the brakes as we started to roll. This left Sgt. Mario Vuotto, my crew chief, racing underneath, trying to get up the hatch when my pilot asked, “I say, which way to the strip?” I managed a curt, “Turn left, sir.”
By then Mario, panting like a marathon runner, tapped my shoulder with a thumbs-up. At the end of the runway the “ol' boy” didn't look for traffic, slow down, or check the mags. On the run he rammed the throttles to the firewall and let her go. Before I could get booster pumps, manifold pressure, etc. cleaned up, he horsed 8A into the wild blue with no flaps, and at minimum speed in the hot August air. Needless to say, we weren't climbing too well! We were a yard behind the power curve with the hilltop town of Comiso directly in front of us, and way above eye level. Now, I'm not Catholic, but silently reciting a Hail Mary, I sneaked on some flaps and tried to reset my pucker factor below the red line. We roared right up Main Street, level with the second floor while “Pizon” waved wildly from their balconies.
At 500 feet, we wandered aimlessly along the bomb line looking at the sights like bloody tourists. I didn't mind the tour, only the ground fire we were drawing. After twenty minutes of gawking, we flew a few sweeping circles and he pointed out that short — I mean short little Spitfire strip in the olive grove. Suddenly with his seat back, a half-mile short of touchdown, he turned the controls over to me, and it was “all mine!” He was ready to get out.
I slammed her down, nose high, full flaps and full power just short of the markers, and while braking hard, slid round a ground loop at the end of the strip in a boiling cloud of dust. Before I could even shut her down, the ol’ boy was in the car and motioning for me to hurry. Leaving Mario to clean up, I rushed for his waiting car. Like a scalded cat, we took off to race through dusty back roads, roaring through a couple British roadblocks, then through two dozen MPs into an olive grove surrounded by a stonewall, and crowded with rank.
In front of a familiar-looking caravan was a long table with white linen and full silver service. I recognized Monty standing aloof amid a dozen white-coated waiters serving drinks. I knew the drill. Standing aside with a drink, I watched my ol' boy being welcomed like a long lost son. With a warm Scotch and water in hand, I sniffed the aroma of good food while trying to blend in with the hired help.
Halfway through my second Scotch, the mess bell rang. To my amazement, the ole boy motioned for me to be seated with all that rank! Me, a “second john” needing a shave, wearing an old 50-mission crush, and in sweaty, dirty suntans with the sleeves rolled up!
Once seated, I recognized General Montgomery sitting at the far end of the table. He had briefed us a few times back in the desert before an operation. But, then I gaped. I couldn't believe it. The head of the table was awash with Monty, Churchill, Sinclair, Wilson . . . then, I heard my ol' boy addressed as Air Marshall Tedder!1 I had only read about him, and wasn't too sure that the Scotch wasn't playing tricks on me. Me, at the lunch table with all that brass — like a page in a history book, and I was looking at it.
Head swimming, I listened to the conversation, and it was then I understood what was going on. I was sitting in on a coordinating meeting of the British High Command as they reviewed final plans for the 8th Army and RAF in Sicily. They were discussing the tactical and political plans for Italy. The lunch lasted two hours.
After one more toast, the Air Marshall and I were roaring back to the aircraft. On the speedy drive back, he was pouring through a sheath of papers and scribbling notes on the margins while I was figuring how to get ol' 8A off of 1,000 feet of dirt and over the ridge at the end of the strip. This time, when the Air Marshall bounded into the aircraft he settled in the right seat and continued working on the papers. After I had started the engines, he suddenly looked up as if he had just discovered where he was.
Talking to no one in particular, he directed, “Take me to Malta.”
At full power with a running 180-degree turn, I headed down the strip, hauled 8A into the air at the last moment, and we were on our way to Malta.
With no charts, the heading to Malta was by the TAR formula. Remember? You hold up a thumb, sight along it, and guessing, say, “That's About Right.” Again, the flight was in complete silence. The Air Marshall, deep in paper work, was probably planning missions for ol' 8A. I didn't care. I was enjoying the memories of that first-class Scotch and chow back in the walled courtyard.
As we made landfall on Malta, I pointed out Spitfires queuing up and, just to be sure, dumped the wheels to show my intent as we went straight in. It was then I remembered the IFF hadn't been turned on all day. I swung 8A around and parked beside a batch of MS's at a staff car beside the sandbagged entrance to operations. The Air Marshall again rushed to get out, but this time the ol' boy waited in front of the aircraft as the props wound down. I thought, “Uh-oh. What now?” as I hurried out.
Walking toward him, I tried to put some words together, but he beat me to it. Holding his right hand out, he stepped forward and said, “Thank you, ol' chap, I'll be on my way now . . . good luck!”
I shook his hand and managed to say, “Thank you, sir!”
I gave him a typical British high ball. Just as he had arrived in the morning, with MP escort, sirens wailing, and pennants snapping on the fender, he disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
I filed a clearance, turned on the IFF, and Mario and I headed ol' 8A back to Sicily. With Mario doing the flying, and me feeling a bit relieved, I recounted the lunch story. Then I jokingly added, “Damn! I wish I had asked all them ol' boys to sign my short snorter.”2
What is a short snorter? It was defined as the bond of friendship amongst the crewmembers or comrades in arms, and it existed typically as paper money signed by two or more men and then separated (torn) so that when all were together again they would still have the money for a drink. It has also been defined in similar terms but consisting of a roll of bills, each from a different man and/or place, and all attached to the next. The Short Snorter has also been described as a sort of drinking club. In order to join, one would have to buy a round of drinks for everyone in the club at the time. If you were in the club and another member slapped you on the back and asked if you were a “Short Snorter,” your response would have to be, “You bet your sweet ass I am,” and you would have to have the bill to prove it. If you could not prove it you were obligated to buy a round.
Bill Chapman's Short Snorter bills.