Chapter Sixteen

I went up to London and saw the Lady Ryder branch in Boomerang House. I had a desire to go to a quiet country spot and lie in grass and listen to the birds in the trees.

I explained to the middle-aged woman that I had been in hospital and what my thoughts were. She stated she had just what I wanted. An old friend of hers had a lovely home down in Surrey near Haywards Heath. She had a young daughter at school, one son had been lost at Dunkirk and another, a fighter pilot, had recently been posted missing in the Middle East; the third was fighting with the Eighth Army in the Desert.

‘I’ll give her a ring,’ she said. ‘You can wander around her garden and there are some lovely woods close by.’

Mrs Weston proved everything that had been said of her. A dignified English woman of perhaps forty-five, her home was a solid two-storied Tudor style house. Her daughter, Helen, a prim little miss of twelve, looked at me with wide violet eyes but kept her place like the little lady she was. Mr Weston, a solicitor who travelled up to London daily, was a quiet, reserved man. In his house I was at home. An English sheep dog called Shaggy, who looked the same at both ends, made the fourth member. The faces of three strong-looking men, two in Army uniform, one in RAF, looked at me gravely from a shelf.

None of us asked questions. I knew and appreciated the sorrow that lay over this home like a mantle. They felt I wanted to be alone and let me wander where I wished. By day I explored the lovely woods that lay close at hand or lay on the lush grass listening to the blackbirds and thought for the first time of Kiwi and the two pilots. It was the quietest and most restful week I had ever known.

Our leave taking was undemonstrative. I said, ‘I hope you will have me again some time, Mrs Weston.’

‘You will always be welcome here, Johnny,’ she replied. ‘Good luck and may God watch over you.’

***

On my way back I began to worry about Smithy, Hally and Blondie. I’d had a few notes from Smithy but nothing for the past ten days and in that time an awful lot could happen. Also, there was a new nagging worry as to what kind of crew I would cop to finish my tour. Perhaps they would make me a spare gunner or give me a new sprog pilot – a horrible thought.

On arrival I found my fears unfounded. Just before I had left hospital the powers that be had decided Wimpys were out and the squadron was to do an immediate conversion to Halifaxes.1

The boys had even more exciting news. The four Australian gunners were to be transferred to the Second Tactical Air Force, where a new Australian squadron was being formed. Kodak House had asked Bomber Command for some experienced gunners and Groupy had recommended our transfer. We couldn’t find out what type of kites we were to fly, but what the hell did it matter?

I was astonished to hear that Ninnes and Jonesy had applied and been accepted for a transfer to a new force being formed, known as Pathfinders. Some rumours of this new striking force had been filtering through to the squadron for some time. It was to be composed of gen crews who would spear-head attacks and mark the targets with special flares. To the sceptics this appeared to be a sure way of committing suicide.

Later in the day I came across Jonesy who was rushing around like a bee in a bottle getting clearance.

‘What’s the bloody hurry?’, I asked.

‘Gawd! Am I pleased to see you!’ he replied in his quick Cockney accent. ‘Ninnes and I leave early tomorrow for our new posting. Ninnes particularly wants to see you. How about a session tonight down at the local? There’s something we want to discuss with you.’

‘Right! How about Smithy, Blondie and Hally?’

‘Bring them too!’ he shouted as he sped off.

We were waiting at the pub for the doors to open and again I felt that surge to be back amongst old cobbers. There was an unwritten rule in the RAF that after a particular friend or flying companion was lost you drank to his memory once only and then never mentioned his name again. The idea was a good one as it stopped maudlin reminiscences when the beer flowed. That night, despite the fact that it should have been a celebration for my return and that we were at least temporarily off ops, it was a sober gathering.

After I had given a lighthearted version of my visit to Crothers, I suddenly remembered Ninnes’ and Jonesy’s decision to go on Pathfinders.

‘What’s the guts on your new venture?’, I asked.

‘Well,’ Ninnes replied in his precise voice, ‘this is a purely voluntary show. They’re calling for experienced crews. Fellow Australian of yours called Bennett is organising it. Appears these picked crews will lead the way to the targets, bomb, lay down markers and otherwise identify them for crews coming behind. It should do away with this bombing by guess or by God. Jones and I applied and have been accepted; I believe they will be using Hallies and a new plane called a Lancaster. They tell me it’s a whizzer and can make thirty thousand feet.’2

‘Sounds like another way of jumping off a cliff,’ said Blondie. ‘Do you think the Jerries are going to sit back quietly while you illuminate targets? You’ll be a mark for every gun and fighter in the Reich.’

‘Could be,’ Ninnes agreed. ‘But remember, there will be several squadrons and they’ll all be gen crews with top-line equipment. I was hoping you’d come along with us, Johnny. We know each other’s ways and could form the nucleus of a good crew.’

Before I could reply, Hally asked, ‘Is it true you have to do a straight sixty ops for a tour?’

‘That would be bloody silly,’ I said.

Ninnes hesitated for a while and said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘What!’, we exploded, ‘Sixty ops for a tour? What dill thought that one up?’

‘Sixty ops on twenty-two would be eighty-two!,’ I exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t have an ice cream’s chance in Hell of getting through. Cripes, forget about it.’

For the next hour we drank, arguing on the merits and demerits of this new venture. We agreed that it was a wonderful idea, in fact one of the best that had come out of the war so far; if this plan could successfully be carried out it would mean the end of the old haphazard bombing and the senseless loss of lives and planes for little gain. But it was evident the top brass were not behind it, for why the imbecilic stipulation of sixty straight ops? This was enough to chill the enthusiasm of any experienced crew member. Thirty wouldn’t have been so bad, but sixty – even with all the advantages that Ninnes offered it still looked like certain suicide.3

We tried to argue them out of their decision.

‘Why, they’ll be getting Hallies here,’ said Smithy, ‘and you’ve only got to do another eight and you’re finished.’

But Ninnes was adamant and Jonesy followed him like a docile dog.

‘I’ll never be flying another op from this squadron,’ he said, ‘not under that bastard, anyway.’

We were all pretty full by this time, Ninnes more so than I had ever seen him. At this remark the four gunners looked at each other in awkward silence.

Then Hally said, ‘Don’t be bloody silly. Forget the past, do your eight ops and then you can tell them all to go to bloody hell.’

‘No!’, Ninnes replied with drunken obstinacy, ‘I’ll never fly from here again. If it wasn’t for that unjust bawling out Peter got he would be alive today. If those dirty mechanics at Number Five HQ had made a true report and hadn’t wanted us off their conscience and station those men would still be with us.’4

This was the first mention of our dead crew members and made a gloomy party even gloomier.

‘Anyway,’ said Smithy, more for something to say than anything else, ‘he should get a posthumous gong.’

‘He’ll never get a gong,’ declared Ninnes. ‘He didn’t crawl to the CO enough. You never see fellows like Snowden getting gongs, do you?’

‘You’re right,’ said Blondie. ‘You’ve got to be a crawler to get the odd gongs that are going. Peter wasn’t built on those lines, he was a fine pilot and a gentleman.’

It was generally agreed in those days that a crew, when they finished a tour, should receive decorations. In view of the small number who achieved this distinction, this was well-merited. Yet every squadron knew instances where crews were denied this reward because they were not popular with the powers that be, while a crew whose pilot drank and played bridge with the Wingco or Groupy with less than thirty trips would be recommended for decoration.

It was apparent as the night wore on that Ninnes blamed the Wingco for the loss of Peter, also that he had shot his mouth off to such an extent that he would have very little chance of getting on in the squadron. His experience and ability merited that he be given at least a commission and, in the eyes of most navigators, it was considered he was the logical choice for the squadron navigator leader.

He had been informed if he wanted to finish his tour he would have to do it with a sprog crew. This was the deciding reason why he and Jonesy were transferring to the Pathfinders. In addition, I think he had a consuming desire to get even with Jerry for the loss of his friend.

Perhaps if either Ninnes or Jonesy had been close personal friends, or if I had their problems, I would have gone with them; but quite truthfully, when I came to analyse my associations I found the only one I had a close relationship with in the crew was Kiwi. In addition, I was going to a new Australian squadron along with three staunch and tried cobbers.

When closing time came we had to be thrown out, and later parted from Ninnes and Jonesy with drunken avowals to keep in touch.

That was the last I saw of either of them. I did hear from time to time of Ninnes’ progress. His ability was quickly recognised and he became chief navigator for his squadron. Many months later we heard his crew were missing and as far as I knew, neither he nor Jonesy were ever heard of again.