Chapter Twenty-five

Back in the camp I had to put up with a certain amount of chiacking, which I didn’t mind. I was too happy to be there. However, I did notice there were no further volunteers to help with the harvest.

Life proceeded as of yore. The CO strode the earth like a God, disdaining to notice the lower forms of life. He did, however, give the pilots and navigators some hurry-up. They were embarked on an intensive night-flying program. The WAGs, for precautionary reasons, had to fly too. The gunners, being unnecessary cargo, were left behind.

The CO seemed determined to weld his crews into first-class disciplined tough airmen. As an instance, a Canadian Sergeant Pilot breached the censorship laws by writing home about the tough course they were embarked on. The CO considered that, if this information fell into enemy hands it would jeopardise the project. The entire camp – erks, WAAFS, fliers and all – were assembled in a full-dress parade. The charge was read by the Adjutant and the luckless airmen was stripped of his wings, buttons and even his Canadian insignia.

The station considered it a drastic and unnecessary action. As soon as the RCAF headquarters heard of this incident they recalled the disgraced pilot to London, granted him an immediate commission and shot him back in all the splendour of his new rank to collect his belongings, and then transferred him back to Canada on a special furlough. It was a slap in the eye for the CO and was intended as such.

One thing we admired about the RCAAF and the RNZAF was that they did not allow their members to be kicked around, which was more than you could say about our Kodak House mob.

***

Just after this episode I came up for interview on my commission. Smithy had already gone through and he and my crew gave me the gen on how to behave. My battledress was pressed. When I was ushered into the CO’s office he was busily writing and didn’t even raise his head. I saluted and stood like a ninny.

After a period, without even raising his eyes, he said, ‘You have an application in for a commission. What makes you think you have earned this honour?’

I thought for a second, and said, ‘Because I was advised by my former CO to do so. He considered I had earned it.’

‘You have done eighteen operations.’

‘Forty, sir.’

‘Your record says eighteen,’ he snapped.

I handed my log book across the table. ‘I did twenty-two operations on Wellingtons prior to coming to the squadron.’

He took my book, looked at it, and for the first time looked at me. ‘Why didn’t you complete your tour on this squadron?’ he asked.

I explained that three members, including the two pilots, had been killed on our last op and the rest had split up. He said, ‘You could take a rest if you wish.’

‘No,’ I replied quickly. ‘I would sooner continue with operations, sir.’

He looked at me with interest. ‘Why do you want to carry on?’

‘Because I hate the Nazis and all they stand for.’

I realised that it was on the false base of courage I could reach this man. I believed that, from his record, and this was borne out by the way he was to meet his death, that he was completely contemptuous of danger. There are a few men cast in this mould. It was a yardstick by which he measured lesser mortals. I expect he was surprised to find supposed evidence of it in such a low form of life as an air gunner. I do not know what actuates men like this. I certainly never got over fear of death or mutilation and sweated just as freely on my last as on my first op, and every other flier I spoke to privately admitted fear in the face of real danger. There were a few braggarts who claimed otherwise but I think for ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of men it is natural to be afraid of death.

After a few more remarks he curtly dismissed me, stating I would be advised when my interview with the Air Vice-Marshal was due. I knew by this I was through as far as he was concerned.

For all his faults I will speak of the CO as I found him. He was a wonderful pilot and airman. Strangely enough, after our interview, whenever we met he recognised me with a curt nod and I never failed to feel a sense of embarrassment, for I knew I was masquerading under a false flag. Although I did hate the Nazis, my immediate aim was an entirely selfish one, that of getting sufficient ops on the board to get back home.

I came up for interview before the AVM two weeks later. This man had a record second to none in the RAF. He had escaped twice, killing a few guards in the process. The Nazis had substantial rewards on his head. He was reputed to be a hard task driver, a brilliant organiser, an outspoken critic, but withal a human being, and because of this he received the full loyalty and co-operation of this staff.1

I marched into his office beside a ramrod stiff sergeant MP. Three hawk-eyed officers were sitting in various parts of the room. I knew they were there to note my reactions and behaviour. As I saluted and stood before him, he looked at me with keen eyes.

After a few preliminaries he shot the question I knew he asked every applicant: ‘What would you do if you were escaping from the enemy and a guard stood in your way?’

‘I’d kill him, if necessary,’ I replied.

He looked at my records. ‘I see you have played football, boxed and done some wrestling, all good tough sports.’ He eyed me for a while and added, ‘I also see you were born in Ireland. What part?’

This really shook me as I thought someone’s let the cat out of the bag, but replied as nonchalantly as possible, ‘Cork, sir.’

He then asked, ‘If you’re an Irishman, why did you join the RAAF, seeing that the Irish are neutral?’

I knew these officers were watching my reactions, so decided to bluff this one out. ‘I left Ireland when I was three, sir. I feel I am now an Australian. All my roots are there. Besides, I hate Nazism and all its doctrines.’ (This was true.)

He seemed keenly interested in my Irish ancestors. Had I been back? What did I think of the place?

I replied I had not been back, but intended going on my next leave. This interview was conducted on an easy conversational basis. I felt he was trying to find out something. At the time I was nonplussed and when he dismissed me forgot to salute. As I reached the door the sergeant murmured, ‘Salute,’ so I wheeled smartly and gave a ripper before I went out.

That interview had me worried. I had expected him to examine me on my operational life. His unexpected interest in my bogus Irish birthplace was disconcerting to say the least. It wasn’t till I returned to the camp and discussed this matter with Jack and Wilbur that I learned he was a Southern Irishman and had been born in Cork.

After this the summer days went pleasantly. No-one seemed to be worrying unduly about us. We would report each day to flight and then discreetly take ourselves off to quiet retreats and our favourite spots, where we sunbaked – when the sun shone! – played cards and generally bludged. It was just what Smithy and I wanted, for it was a complete rest.

We filled in a week of this lay-off period by doing a two-week refresher course at the Group Training Station. This was later to pay dividends.

***

About this time a new sprog replacement pilot named Vincent Collins arrived on the station. He was built on Hally’s lines and was the roughest bloke in speech and general behaviour that most of us had ever met. In addition, he used the two Australian adjectives with unusual freedom. He had originally been a steel worker in Newcastle. Just how he had graduated to a pilot was a mystery.

Someone said, ‘He looks like a wild bull.’ And ‘Bull’ he was henceforth.

He didn’t take long to fall foul of the CO. It was rumoured, on being reprimanded for his language by the Wingco, that he had told him what to do. Whether it was his lack of social graces, his flying, his free use of the great Australian adjectives, or a combination of all three, he was banished from the squadron and immediately teamed up with the gunners – ‘the only bastards,’ he declared, ‘who have any guts.’

He soon proved he was a worthy addition to our ranks by his drinking, fighting and leching abilities. In fact, it was agreed he had missed his vocation in service life.

Night diversions in the long twilight evenings consisted of visits to a nearby village and the pursuit of local wenches or, when the mood took us, adventuring by bike to the small country pubs whose drinkers were the local farm workers. These yokels rightly took a dim view of furriners drinking their beer. When aircrew were sighted the doors were locked and the publican would declare, despite the clink of glasses and sound of merriment from within, that beer was off.

A counter to this was to wait in the shadows till someone with the right knock came along and, as soon as the door was opened, to push in after him. Bull was the spearhead in all these forays and was he a fighter! I have seen him flatten three unsociable drinkers intent on tossing us out in as many seconds.

After a few such exhibitions it was obvious that he was the equal of Hally and in some respects even better. Had those two ever met in combat it would have been a fight of the century. Bull could drink prodigious amounts of beer and we found his tough, direct approach in matters of horizontal refreshment had amazing success.