EYES TIGHT SHUT
SIMON MORRIS IN SORE NEED
The presence of mountains did not help one bit. Just last night, as dusk fell, I had watched those mountains and observed strange streaks of light across the sky where the sun had gone down behind clouds. As I stood there, drinking in the atmosphere, miscellaneous aromas – orange blossom, smoke, silage – had filled the air. This was an unusual spot, I’d thought, but a fine one even so; a place with a good feeling about it, although that did not exactly help my problem.
“Just to let you know that I got back safely,” I said when I rang my girlfriend. The telephone line had been crackly but more or less usable.
“Sure you’ll be all right?” she asked
“Yes…no…” I vacillated
“Don’t leave it too long…mañana…and all that,” she said.
“I’m not in Spain,” I said.
“Where are you then?”
“I’m in Sardinia.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Lucky break. What language do they speak there?”
“What?” she said.
“I meant, good question.”
“You’re in a fix, then,” she said.
“Tell me about it.”
In spite of everything, I’d perked up after the conversation. It had seemed like a knockabout farce at times but at least it hadn’t developed into a knockabout disaster. You’re not yourself, I’d thought, but then I was suffering – and not just from an over-indulgence of Chianti.
The next day, as the sun rose, I was driven with colleagues to the airfield operations set-up for meteorological and other briefings. I was a member of 92(F) Squadron based at Gütersloh in Germany and now part of a detachment of squadron personnel sent to the Italian air force base at Decimomannu (which in Latin, so we were told, meant ‘ten miles from Cagliara’) in the southern reaches of Sardinia. During the five-week detachment we would make use of the weapons range to the west of Sardinia to fire Aden cannon fitted in the nose sections of our Mark F2A Lightnings. We would aim at a towed target – a long white flag attached behind an English Electric Canberra crewed by brave souls.
There was an air of excitement as we bumped along in the aircrew bus. By the perimeter fence were lines of tranquil trees, a curious contrast to hectic airfield activity. The landscape beyond, an incongruous mix of olive trees, cork trees, scrub, rocky terrain, was populated by folk in remote villages with modest pseudo-Byzantine villas. To the west lay the Sulcis mountain range with Monte Linas rising to some 3,500 feet. Occasionally, when not required for flying, some of us would explore the area on foot. Just now, as I stared out from the grubby windows of the aircrew bus, I could imagine the plangent tones of bells of goats and other animals roaming the foothills. To the west, a light sea breeze would wander in and out, and rustle the olive leaves so that each one flashed a tangled semaphore of dark green and silver. Ficus Carica, the Sardinian fig, best eaten straight from the tree, seemed set apart, oddly aloof. Less aesthetic were poppies and other wild flowers which would sway amid rough grasses seared by the heat of summer. Sardinian warbler birds would flit and squabble while hedgehogs snuffled beneath them, rooting around to provide providential nests of grass and leaves.
Target-towing Canberra at Decimomannu, 1974 with 19(F) Squadron and 92(F) Squadron Lightnings in the background.
Simon Morris in the near Lightning (aircraft ‘F’), Ali McKay is his number two. Note that aircraft ‘F’ was low on fuel therefore one engine had been shut down hence the higher angle of attack.
I pondered the contrast between nature’s prowess and the fiasco of war in these parts – or more to the point, the fiasco of Mussolini’s war. To the north and west of Decimomannu was a village built by the fascist government in the 1920s. Now called Arborea, the village was originally named Villagio Mussolini before being upgraded to the debatedly catchier Mussolinia di Sardegna. En route to the firing range, our transit flights would take us near Iglisias, a village where violent fascist blackshirts had held meetings in the early 1920s.
These matters, of course, were ancient history – an ignoble past. Now it was July 1974, the Italians were on our side…although some, apparently, didn’t always see things that way. “For ze next war,” a German controller back at Gütersloh had remarked one time, “it is your turn to have ze Italians.” The Germans, it appeared, still harboured bitter feelings towards their one-time ally. This became apparent at Decimomannu during conversations in messes. Along with our squadron detachment was a Luftwaffe squadron equipped with F104 Starfighters. “These people,” a Luftwaffe officer said to me in hushed tones one evening in the officers’ mess, “these Vops…” the German tongue never quite coped with the British term ‘Wop’ for Italians, “are schrecklich – terrible – nicht? In ze last war you came first and we were second. Those bloody Vops, though…they were ze great big third.” Another time, I was in our operations room when we were contacted by the Luftwaffe squadron’s duty officer. “A Vop has just crashed in the range,” he said, “nicht gut. As a mark of respect we vill not permit any take-offs…” a slight sneer seemed sadly evident when he continued: “…for five minutes.”
Despite all of this, nowadays the members of the Italian air force seemed efficient, the set-up at Decimomannu providing an effective facility used by many of NATO’s air forces.
Before long, when the bus drew up at the operations centre, we disembarked to make our way to the briefing room. In the background we heard the enthusiastic tremolo of a would-be opera tenor practising his scales; I glanced at a fellow pilot who shrugged as if to say: ‘we are, after all, surrounded by Italians, are we not?’
Our contingent of pilots now walked along corridors before filing into the briefing room where we sat down to listen, first of all, to the Italian weather man. This character, with his accented English and sleeveless jersey, droned on and on as seemed to be the habit of quite a few weather men. He discussed the menace of the Mistral winds, pointed a finger at swirly charts, meteorological models, convoluted analysis of this and that which amounted to a scientific synopsis of a good day with nice weather. The range officer spoke next. On a local aviation map he highlighted the range boundaries, talked about safety issues and explained current regulations. Take-off slots for range users, we were told, were rationed to a ratio of 70% for the Italians, 20% for the Germans and 10% for the Brits. I cogitated the reasons for this discrepancy – inversely proportional, so it seemed, to the ‘results of ze last war’, but such speculation did not get me very far.
On conclusion of the main briefing, we stood up to leave for the squadron’s allocated building where we would conduct our own squadron briefings. As I was scheduled to lead a pair of Lightnings for the range sortie, I had to brief my fellow Lightning pilot on our specific procedures. The Lightning provided a stable platform for cannon firing, especially if just two cannons were employed; the concurrent use of all four cannons tended to induce excessive air-frame vibration. We discussed this and other matters before gathering up our bone domes and Mae West lifejackets ready for the ‘off’. Soon, having signed for our Lightnings, we performed external checks then clambered into cockpits for start-up and take-off procedures.
Quickly underway, we now flew towards the range. Sound airmanship dictated the need for a good ‘lookout’ – heads, in other words, had to remain firmly out of the ‘office’. Occasional glances down to check cockpit instruments would last no more than a second or two, sufficient time, even so, to record like a camera the engines’ oil pressures and temperatures, the aircraft fuel state, the oxygen reserves, the airspeed, the altitude and a dozen other items before, from force of habit, we resumed our search of the skies.
The transit flight did not take long and soon, having checked in on the aircraft radio with the range officer, it was time for proceedings to begin. At the pre-briefed height, I scrutinised the white flag that trailed behind the English Electric Canberra. The Canberra itself, daubed in ‘Dayglo’ red paint, held a steady heading. The sun was bright and from certain angles the white flag and the Canberra, Dayglo or not, were difficult to see. In turn, I peered anxiously at the flag, at my flight instruments, at the area ahead. From a ‘perch’ position above and to one side of the flag, I needed to judge the correct moment to commence the attack profile. I had to fly an accurate airspeed, height and heading: this was key – precise flying meant the difference between a good or bad result, success or failure. I felt keenly worried about failure – of letting down my squadron colleagues. Such thoughts caused my mind to churn and my throat to feel dry. Time, though, was short and, anxious or not, action was required.
At what I reckoned to be the right instant, I applied a high angle of bank. Simultaneously, I initiated a descent towards the target. Events happened fast. In a blur of weaves, turns, dives, pulls, speed adjustments and range assessments, the white flag hurtled towards me in no time at all.
Later, I would ruminate on the disparity between these controlled conditions and those faced by the Battle of Britain pilots. The contrast could hardly have seemed greater: we were well trained, well briefed and operated in a well regulated environment. The Hurricane and Spitfire pilots of 1940, on the other hand, had been hastily trained to be thrown into a scenario of merciless, messy combat – a mind-boggling hiatus, a desperate, dog-eat-dog affair where luck, as much as anything else, could prove crucial as a pilot struggled to close onto an enemy machine.
At present, however, such musings were not on my mind as I focussed on the job in hand. I squinted determinedly through my gunsight. The gunsight’s cross had to be placed in the central area of the white flag. With harmonisation between the Aden 30mm cannon and the gunsight set at 300 yards, I counted down the range…900 yards…700 yards…500…400. At just over 300 yards, still closing fast, I used my right forefinger to squeeze the trigger on the control column. At once, I was aware of a crashing sound and sudden airframe vibration as the Aden cannon spat ‘ball’ ammunition at the target. In hostile operations the ‘ball’ ammunition would be replaced by high explosive rounds; just one round would be sufficient to down an enemy machine. My trigger squeeze did not last long – a mere half second or so. Then I applied a steep angle of bank to break away hard to avoid collision with the flag.
As swiftly as possible, I turned to reposition on the perch. Meantime, the other Lightning initiated his run against the flag. So it was that, in sequence, the two Lightnings spent some thirty minutes of target practice before another pair of Lightnings took over. At the end of the session, the Canberra would fly the white flag back to Decimomannu for inspection. With each pilots’ ammunition dipped into different-coloured dyes, individual scores could be counted up. These scores, a disappointing three to four percent at first, were progressing gradually towards a more satisfactory 20 percent level as our skills improved and as the armourers tweaked the harmonisation between gunsight and cannon.
Just now, at the conclusion of the allotted 30-minute slot, I called the range officer to say that we intended to return to base. As I banked towards Decimomannu and began a climb to some 5,000 feet, I searched ahead for the 3,500 feet summit of Mount Linas – a distinctive navigational aid. The other Lightning quickly took up a loose formation position to the starboard side of my aircraft and at the designated point we both changed radio frequency to ‘Roma Control’. It was shortly after this, subsequent to our check-in with the new controller and as we were about to cross the Sardinian coastline, that trauma struck. As if hit by a bullet destined for that recalcitrant white flag, I felt a sudden stab of pain in one tooth. I had experienced trouble with this molar before – the occasional twinge – and shortly before the squadron’s departure to Decimomannu, I’d received temporary treatment…evidently a little too temporary. On the phone to my girlfriend the previous night I’d discussed the potential problems, but I’d not anticipated anything like this.
As best I could, I fiddled with my oxygen mask, attempted to wobble the tooth into some sort of submission, struggling to manipulate the jaw as one does. But it was no good: the torment persisted; the dreaded toothache showed no signs of receding. I therefore informed the other Lightning pilot of my problem and instructed him to speak with Roma Control. Then, without delay, I descended towards an adjacent valley: by flying as low as possible I hoped to ease the pressure differential which, no doubt, was exacerbating the toothache.
As I dived down, and despite my state of preoccupation, I picked up my colleague’s conversation with Roma Control:
“The other Lightning has descended to low level,” he said.
“Descended? Why? ’as he crashed?”
“No, no, he hasn’t crashed.”
“Where he crash?”
“He has not crashed.”
“Why he crash?”
“I repeat…he has not crashed.”
“What he doing then?”
“He’s descended to low level.”
A pause before the controller went on: “Why he descend?”
“If you must know,” my colleague sighed. “He has toothache.”
Another pause. “Toothache? What is this?” The controller appeared to be floundering. “Wait one,” he said.
A further pause during which, from time to time, the controller’s microphone appeared to become live. We heard the intermittent rustle of pages being turned and the odd guffaw in the background. When this developed into more obvious shrieks of jovial cackling, I realised that the controller and his colleagues must have consulted an Italian/English dictionary. At last, it seemed, they understood my problem. It might have been a good joke to them, I mused, but personally I felt in no mood at all for laughter.
Meantime, back at base, the squadron operations officer had been informed about my difficulty. Decimomannu soon came into view and I followed my colleague into the local airfield circuit. Before long, after I had landed my Lightning and signed the technical and operations logs, the operations officer sidled up to me. “Good man,” he said cheerily, “I heard that you managed not to crash.”
“A-hah,” I said, for the lack of any intelligent remark that came immediately to mind.
“This surely bodes well for the future of mankind,” he said.
I gave him a sideways look. “A-hah,” I said with a frown designed to indicate disinterest in conversation let alone tiresome wisecracks.
“Your chariot is ready,” he said as he pointed at the aircrew bus that was waiting to whisk me off to the base medical centre for emergency dental treatment.
Once there, it did not take me long to deduce that the Italian dentist could speak no English – not a word. No English, I thought, not a word? Ridiculous! What’s wrong with the fellow? No wonder you came a great big third; my Luftwaffe friend was correct: these Vops were schrecklich all right. The dentist stared at me. He appeared to fix me with small wicked eyes and his expression suggested: ‘we’ll soon have you sorted, sunshine. Just try to relax, ho, ho.’ His dental drill then headed south towards my open mouth. Meanwhile, I had my eyes tight shut.