Chapter Eleven

Shortly after this episode, an unusual figure appeared in our flight room. He was a rather short young fellow in a blue Australian battle-jacket, the only insignia showing was an Observer’s ‘Flying O’, commonly known as ‘the flying arsehole’.

This fellow swept floors and seemed to lead a quiet introspective existence. His duties appeared to lie between cleaner and general message boy. He had no signs of rank and domiciled with the ground crew, who seemed to accept him readily enough. Obviously he had been aircrew, but had suffered a terrific fall from grace. What intrigued us was that he went his unconcerned way oblivious of the inquisitive glances of fliers, particularly from the Australians.

Enquiries finally revealed he had been an observer, had been appointed to a bomber crew on another squadron, had done all his initial training, and then, after briefing for his first op, had calmly sat down and declared he wasn’t going to fly, despite the pleading of his crew and the threats of his superiors.

For this, he was court-martialled and stripped of everything but his observer’s insignia. If he had been a member of the RAF he would have been shot. The Australian, New Zealand and Canadian governments would not permit the shooting of aircrew for cowardice. Thus, a kind of social outcast, this little fellow did the menial tasks and went his unobtrusive way.

After a while, he blended in with the station and mixed in with the gunners, probably because they were more democratic and easy-going, and often joined us in our card and dice games as we whiled the hours away up at flight. We discovered his name was Barnes but as he never discussed any of his private business, no-one enquired into the reason why he had refused to fly, and strangely enough I never heard of any of the hard-boiled gunners, or, for that matter any aircrew, tease or deride him. Mac expressed our viewpoints in a nutshell when he said, ‘I’d like to do what Barnes is doing, only I haven’t got enough guts.’

Periodically, it seemed, this reluctant flyer was subjected to a brain-washing by the Wingco, who ran through the full gamut of honeyed words, promises, abuse, threats and finally complete frustration in his endeavours to convert and rehabilitate this affront to the prestige of the RAF. We understood he made frequent representations to have Barnes removed from the Squadron as he was considered bad for morale.

Probably because I was older than most of the others, and was interested in what had prompted this stubborn little fellow to make his stand, I often had a word with him and built up an accord so I could talk to him.

One night, while we were having a few beers at the local pub, I asked him straight-out why he wouldn’t fly. Whether he told me the truth or not I never knew, but he stated the night before his first op, he had a most vivid dream in which he saw his plane with all its crew crash in flames and felt then, if he once flew, he would not come back.1

This phobia was given further impetus when his crew were all killed on their second operation. His words were grimly prophetic when he said, ‘There are lots of men in the RAF who would like to do the same as I did, but they haven’t got enough courage. This war won’t last forever, and I will be living when thousands of the men on this station and others like it will be dead.’

As long as he was on the station, he never flew. Not long afterwards the Wingco’s endeavours were rewarded, and he disappeared. We understood he had been transferred to the Tactical Airforce where, after a period, he agreed to train with a crew, did all the initial training and then, after they were briefed for their first op, repeated his act again, sitting down and refusing to fly. For this he was stripped of even his ‘Flying O’, and transferred to a RAF prison ‘somewhere in England’.2 I afterwards heard he had been released and, strangely enough, killed by a flying bomb in London towards the end of 1944.

The advent of Barnes had a forceful impact on Mac. If it were possible, he genuinely debated his intention of refusing to fly, just like the little observer. ‘He’s got the right idea’, he declared, ‘he’ll be bloody-well alive when we are either pushing up daisies or feeding the fish.’ The boys listened to him with a kind of disinterested sympathy. Generally, after one of his doleful sessions, someone would tell him, ‘Aw, for Christ’s sake go on strike. At least we won’t have to listen to your whingeing then.’

One morning, Mac arose and reported with a slight note of pleasure, that ops would be off because it was blowing half a gale. For once his predictions were wrong for, to our surprise, at midday the usual announcement of early meal times was given and it was on again.

The met boys stated that, despite the inclement weather at the station, it would improve over Germany and we could expect clear skies over the target. It was the lousiest weather we had ever flown in and the Wellington behaved like a bucking bronco from the time we took off, quivering and shaking, rising and falling in two-hundred-foot bumps, so that I spent most of my time clinging desperately to the guns to stop cracking my head on the top of the turret. As we came into the target area, a great expanse of cotton-wool covered the ground and the German gunners, secure in this all-enveloping security, kept their guns silent.

Ninnes reported, ‘Should be over target now but I can’t see anything.’

We stooged around for a while and then he said, ‘Think we’ll have to return.’

‘Well, drop your bloody bombs,’ said Kiwi.

‘Can’t do that,’ he replied, ‘unless we can see a worthwhile target.’

‘Well, what are you going to do with them?’ asked the incredulous gunner.

‘Take them back, of course,’ replied Ninnes. ‘Those are orders.’

As the bomber stream turned for home, the fighters arose en masse, fortified with the knowledge that the bombers were still heavily laden and hindered by the prevailing headwind. They would be easy victims.

We received three attacks, but each was beaten off with timely evasive action. The last proved one dedicated bastard, and this fighter made four separate passes before he either ran out of ammunition or petrol.

On this abortive op, four planes failed to return. Hally said, ‘Four kites and twenty-four crew just to bring all our bloody bombs back. It doesn’t make sense.’

***

If possible, with the passing of time, Mac had become more doleful. He seemed to hold me responsible for the fact that he was on the squadron and would come to my bed and bleat out his fears. He was a coward, he declared. ‘It’s impossible for anyone to complete a tour.’

In the afternoon, Mac sat on my bed again. His voice was querulous, his jowls quivered, there were bags under his eyes and he looked more like a melancholy blood-hound than ever. ‘This bloody racket,’ he declared, ‘is just plain suicide. I’m going to the MO to tell him I’m not going to fly again. They can classify me as LMF if they bloody-well like, but in five years’ time I’ll be alive, sunbaking at Bondi while the rest of this outfit’s bones are bleaching somewhere in Europe. What’s an LMF anyway? Did you know two weeks ago? If you told someone in Australia you had got an LMF they’d congratulate you. They’d think it was a bloody decoration. Barnes had the right idea. He had the guts to tell them he wasn’t going to fly. Everyone is packing them, only they’re too bloody frightened to say so.’3

Perhaps he was right and I knew I only had to say, ‘well, go and see the MO. Tell him you are not going to fly’, and he would have done it. All he wanted was someone to give him that nudge, but I was edgy and irritable. Consciously or subconsciously we felt his piking would cast a reflection on the rest of the Australians in the squadron. So I did nothing to help him.

Talking to Hally I said, ‘I know I pack them while I’m out in the blackness and I feel that, although you talk tough, you do too.’

He was completely frank. ‘My bloody oath I do, but I’d sooner be dead than let anyone know.’

‘Supposing,’ I continued, ‘a man packs them a thousand times, perhaps ten thousand times more than we do. If you were in his shoes, how would you face up to it?’

‘I’m buggered if I know, but if it was as bad as that I’d get off ops.’

‘That’s the way I think Mac is.’

‘Then tell the silly bastard to give it away,’ he said, ‘but don’t worry me about him. I’ve enough troubles of my own.’

I thought, ‘Mac’ll raise the subject again and I’ll not only advise him, I’ll take him up to the MO.’

We were both on the battle order that night. We sat together in silence going out in the bus. As we got out, I gave him a reassuring pat and said, ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ I couldn’t see his expression in the glow of the little blue light but he gave a sepulchral laugh and said, ‘Perhaps there mightn’t be any tomorrow for either of us’.

It was a hell of an op. The weather was lousy and Jerry turned it on from the time we crossed the coast and kept it up all the way to the target and back. It was seven hours of hell and suspense.

As we came back over our coast, Kiwi said, ‘What a bloody night! I’m completely fugged. Will I be glad to get into bed!’

Somehow I couldn’t get Mac out of my mind. ‘This’, I thought, ‘will be the end. He’ll give it away after this.’

Hally was already in when we arrived. ‘What a bloody op’, he said, ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d made it.’

We searched around to see who was missing. He said, ‘I can’t see Mac.’ We stayed long after the time limit for the plane and crew to arrive. The bus waited until the occupants and driver grew impatient. After sundry tootings and irritable queries, one of them said, ‘Let the silly bastards walk.’ The driver called, ‘Are you blokes coming?. ‘No,’ replied Hally, shortly.

As we walked back, a new day was breaking. The mists were rising from the flat, grey countryside and a cold breeze from the east blew in our faces. I didn’t sleep for a while, wondering and worrying how the reluctant gunner had met his end, three miles up in the blackness of the night. Fatigue finally took over and I fell into an uneasy slumber.