Chapter Ten

We were not disappointed. The sergeants’ mess was a beauty; it had an entrance like Claridge’s and inside was even more inviting. A palatial reading room with comfortable chairs stretched to the right. From the left came the click of billiard balls. Jonesy had a look and said, ‘Jesus, four billiard tables. This is like the Union Club. What a bloody difference to our mangy mess.’1

Our arrival in our awkward flying boots carrying our gear caused a furore, and by the surprised and annoyed looks that came our way it was evident airmen arrayed in such war-like accoutrements were not regular visitors. We asked for the president of the mess and, after a period, a fat, red-faced W/O came bustling up. Snowden explained that we had been forced to return from an op and because our own station was closed, we had been diverted. He requested we be allowed to have a drink at the bar.

The W/O said he knew we were coming, but would have to find out first if it was okay for us to go into the bar, and left us standing like shags on a rock.2 After a period, he returned and told us he had been unable to contact the president and until he received his permission he was sorry we would not be able to have a drink.

‘But we’re sergeants,’ I replied, adding tactlessly, ‘fighting ones at that.’

The W/O was adamant. We could, if we wished, have supper.

‘But I want a drink,’ Kiwi protested.

‘I’m sorry,’ said our interrogator, ‘but we have our rules. Perhaps after you’ve had supper everything will be all right.’

Calling the steward, he instructed him to take us into the dining-room. This was a surprise packet, too. There were separate tables covered by tablecloths and tastefully decorated with bowls of flowers. Jonesy stared at the decorations in disbelief. ‘Different from our trestles. These bludgers don’t half do themselves well.’

The supercilious orderly took pains to let us know that supper had been served over half an hour or more. Snowden coldly advised him we had been sent in by the W/O. We were then informed we could have tea and sandwiches.

‘Gawd, could I do a grog,’ moaned Kiwi. ‘Wonder if they’ve found that bloody president yet.’

There was quite a delay and finally the sandwiches and tea were brought in. The sandwiches were tastefully laid out on a cut lettuce dressing. It was the first time I had seen lettuce in England as salads were made with cabbage, so after we had eaten the sandwiches we ate the lettuce. When the orderly returned he stared at the empty plates.

‘Hey, where’s the lettuce?’ he demanded.

‘We ate it,’ said Kiwi.

This shook him to the core. At this shameless confession he staggered off and we heard him say to a fellow orderly, ‘They ate the dressing!’

‘Christ, you’d think we’d eaten my bloody grandmother,’ said Kiwi. ‘Now for that grog.’

When we trooped out we were met by a red-faced flight sergeant who said the bar was closed.

‘Well, you can stick your beer,’ said Kiwi. ‘It’s unfortunate you bludgers don’t know there’s a war on.’

Snowden said in his precise English voice, ‘I presume you can offer us a bed; or do we sleep on the parade ground?’

The flight, obviously embarrassed, called a grey-haired orderly who was standing by and said, ‘Show these sergeants to their rooms, will you please, LAC.’

‘Rooms?’ said Jones.

‘This way, please,’ said the orderly, and led us along a wide gleaming corridor. The three rooms were a revelation. At least twelve feet by ten, they contained two beds with sheets and pillow-cases, built-in wardrobes and two tasteful writing desks.

The orderly who was arranging the blackout curtains, turned and said, ‘What planes do you boys fly?’

‘Wellingtons, Pop,’ replied Kiwi.

‘Were you on a raid tonight?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but we only got as far as the enemy coast and developed engine trouble and had to return.’ Then, recalling our inhospitable treatment in the mess, demanded, ‘Why couldn’t we get a drink? Do these blokes think we’re suffering from leprosy or something?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ replied the orderly. Then, with a furtive look, he pulled a parcel from his tunic. ‘But if you and your Aussie friend would like to have a drink on behalf of myself and the bar stewards we would be only too pleased.’ I took the parcel from him, unwrapped it and found a three-quarter full bottle of Johnnie Walker.3

‘I hope you’ll be discreet, please,’ he continued, ‘as my friends and I could get into serious trouble should the higher authorities become aware of this gift.’

We looked at the bottle and the kindly donor in amazement.

‘You bloody beaut,’ said Kiwi. ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll eat the bottle if necessary. Will you have one with us?’

‘No, thanks,’ he replied and, offering us his hand, said, ‘Good luck, boys, we appreciate what you are doing for us.’

After he was gone, we sat down and looked at the Scotch and all Kiwi could say was, ‘Well, I’ll be buggered.’

After some discussion, we decided to ask Jonesy and Williams in and leave Snowden and Ninnes out. Neither were drinkers and both were liable to have an attack of conscience. We told the other two we had snitched it as we were coming out of the dining-room. They were so astonished they never questioned this most improbable explanation.

It was a happy little interlude. There wasn’t enough to make us full but Jonesy, who wasn’t a particularly good drinker, became convulsed with merriment and subsided into uncontrollable laughter every now and then and had to have a sheet stuffed in his mouth to quieten his gurgles.

Next morning the old boy came in with a cup of morning tea and carried off the evidence. Breakfast was served by smart WAAFs and we had the choice of an excellent menu. Ninnes remarked that the high life was evidently a bit too much as we all looked a bit fagged.

Kiwi, who never let any grass grow under his feet, arranged a date for the evening with the little blonde WAAF who was serving us – if we were still there – and she also promised to arrange a comrade for me. This put a new complexion on our stay, so that we prayed the fog would hold, or the port motor would require lengthy attention. A flight sergeant at our table said, ‘You may be a bit stiff. That’s the chief’s girl you’ve dated.’4

We were informed that mechanics were testing our engines. It was our contention they worked overtime, for by 11 o’clock the fog had cleared and by midday we were told both motors were running normally and we would be able to take off immediately. So we didn’t have a chance of seeing what the decision would be when we fronted the bar at lunch-time, nor what these hard-fighting boys ate for lunch.

When we arrived back at the station Snowden and Williams were immediately summoned for an interview with the Wingco. We never heard what actually happened, but in the afternoon when they arrived back, Snowden was white with anger. Williams said, ‘Gawd, was that a bawling-out!’

We later found the Wingco had accused them of shirking their duty and failing to press the attack in the true traditions of the RAF. To Snowden’s protests that the pressure had fallen on the port motor, he had countered that the chief mechanic at Claxstone had stated the engine had reacted normally. What apparently wasn’t taken into consideration was that these worthies had worked on the engine for over four hours. The Wingco warned that should this happen again they would be both charged with LMF. This was the first time that we heard those dread initials, which we found stood for ‘lack of moral fibre’. An NCO charged with this offence could be completely stripped of his rank and dismissed in disgrace from aircrew.5

Snowden said very little about this interview, but we knew that he was deeply hurt by the unwarranted accusation.

That night in the mess we learnt an interesting point about this charge. Although non-commissioned officers could be charged with lack of moral fibre, it could not be applied to an officer. It also appears at about this time the RAF had found, through a series of incidents, there was some collusion amongst air crews, and there was definite evidence that some of them were not even crossing the enemy coast, but instead dropped their bombs in the sea and then stooged in comparative safety over the North Sea until their allocated flying time was covered, then returning with concocted stories and falsified flight plans.

Just how true this was we never knew, but shortly after this an order came out that every bomber, if not already fitted with a camera, had to have one installed and no excuses would be accepted for a crew returning without a photograph of the results of their bombing runs.

Jonesy stated that as far as he was concerned, collusion was a damned good idea and it was a pity we couldn’t get some into our own crew.6