Chapter Twenty-six

On a three-day pass to London Smithy and I bumped into Clarkey in the Codger’s Club. He still had his gunner’s beret and sergeant’s stripes and was drinking with three or four Kodak House types. The place was full of them. ‘The Codger’s Club?’, commented Smithy, ‘They should call it the Bludger’s Club. Look at all those shiny bums!’

Clarkey came over. He was half-full and boastful. Life was wonderful, the rackets better and bigger and he had never had it so easy. ‘Plenty of women, grog and opportunity.’

I said, ‘If you’re feeling so well, why don’t you get back on to flying? There’s plenty of room for a good gunner with guts.’

He was too full to see the insult. ‘They’ll never get me into a plane again,’ he declared. He insisted on shouting and pulled out a roll of notes that made us both goggle. We knew he never gambled.

‘Been skinning them at cards?’, Smithy asked.

Clarkey gave a drunken leer. ‘Cards, nothing; I’m on something better than that.’

We played dumb. Smithy said, ‘I know you’re a smart cookie. How about letting a couple of mates in on it?’

Clarkey looked around and then, dropping his voice, said mysteriously, ‘Black market. There’s a packet to be made if you know how.’

‘But what do you sell?’, I asked.

At this, a foxy-looking sergeant, who had been watching us from another group, came over. He had seen Clarkey flash his roll and realised he was full.

By way of conversation I asked, ‘What section are you in?’ The sergeant, Baxter, replied, ‘Mails.’

Clarkey said, ‘Beaut little working mate. Smart, too.’

The foxy one trod on Clarkey’s toe but he was too full to realise Baxter was trying to shut him up. ‘Get off me bloody foot!’

Baxter said, ‘He’s full. I’ll take him back.’

‘He’s all right,’ I replied. ‘He’s a cobber of ours. We owe him a drink anyway.’

It was obvious Baxter didn’t want his working mate left alone, so he stayed on and, a short while after, led Clarkey away. ‘I’d like to know what those bludgers are up to,’ said Smithy. ‘Obviously that sergeant didn’t want to leave Clarkey alone with us.’

‘Perhaps they’re getting whisky or food from the mess,’ I hazarded.

Next day when I was at Headquarters I called around to the mail section. The mail clerks there were very good and would go to no end of trouble to see if there was any mail.

There were no letters but there was a whopping big parcel from my mother. I picked it up and envisioned the delicacies inside. The clerk said, ‘It’s a beauty.’ I weighed the possibilities of carrying it back to the station with me, but decided against it; after all it would only be a matter of four or five days’ delay and would lose nothing in anticipation. I said, ‘Send it on.’

Back at the station someone said, ‘I see you’re missing, presumed dead.’

‘How come?’, I enquired.

He showed me the paper. A Sgt. J. Bede was on the list. ‘Strange’, I said. ‘There must be two dills in the Beede family, only this one is missing an “e”.’

‘Looks as though he’s missing, period.’

As the days went by I looked hopefully for my parcel. When it hadn’t turned up at the end of ten days I wrote to Kodak House querying its non-arrival. After a period I received a notice from the mail section advising that there was no record of any parcel being received at base for the past six weeks.

I then wrote direct to the Adjutant, stating that a friend and I had seen the parcel, the only reason I had not brought it back with me being its size and weight.

After a further period I received a second letter stating that after a thorough search and enquiry they were sorry to advise no record could be found of any parcel arriving at the time stated but they felt in view of the thoroughness of the investigation that the matter could now be closed.

I was as mad as a hornet, but what could I do? Both Smithy and I felt that there was a connection between Clarkey’s drunken boasting and the missing parcel. If we hadn’t seen the parcel we wouldn’t have worried, nor been any the wiser if it hadn’t turned up. Lots of letters from home referred to parcels but as the latter generally arrived months after the mail, it would be difficult to pinpoint a particular parcel.

However, we formulated a plan to see if we could get to the bottom of the mystery. Clarkey, given enough grog, we felt, was a moral to talk. As a part of the plan we procured a bottle of Scotch from the sergeant’s mess at a prohibitive price and put it aside for future use.

About that time two events of importance came up. Smithy’s commission came through and a week later I was notified that mine had also been granted. Almost simultaneously the gunners received orders to transfer. We were given the choice of going to the Middle East or to a TAF Boston squadron somewhere down in Surrey.

Smithy and I talked it over. The Middle East had its attractions, but as he had thirty-nine and I forty ops up, we thought it unlikely the RAF would be kind enough to release us as soon as we reached fifty, so plumped for the Boston Squadron. This good reasoning was later confirmed by the boys who went to the Middle East. These misguided souls, expecting to find glamour, mystery and exotic delight, found only sand, fleas, iron rations and in many instances, death.

While I do not think the flying in the Middle East was as tough as in the European theatre, at least we had some degree of comfort, good food, the fleshpots of London and adjacent towns. All you had to do to enjoy these delights was to stay alive.

After the big catastrophe there were sixteen straight gunners left on the squadron. Eleven of these fell for the lure of the East. Tommy, a Kiwi; another Tommy, a small Australian from Sydney; a big farmer from the Riverina called Stan, Smithy and myself made up the Boston contingent.

Prior to our departure, Smithy and I went up to London to be fitted for our uniforms and greatcoats. It appeared that before you could officially become an officer you had to be suitably attired as one. We were fitted by an exclusive tailor in Saville Row. In those days a budding officer received one very good light royal blue uniform and a second a little bit darker, plus a bobby-dazzler of an overcoat. It was 4 pm when the fittings were completed.

We had decided that this was an opportune time to test our Clarkey theory, so had taken our bottle of Scotch with us. We rang Clarkey and told him we had something we felt would interest him, and arranged to meet him at 5.30 at a little pub in Kingsway.

On the way, we dropped into Kodak House, where Smithy met an old school pal, saying, ‘You go along and meet Clarkey, I’ll be along in a few minutes.’

I arrived with our Scotch carefully wrapped. After a few grogs, Clarkey asked, ‘What’ve you got that will interest me?’

I said, ‘It’ll keep. Let’s have a few grogs.’ I knew he was a two-bob drunk and felt sure of my capabilities, if necessary, to drink him under the counter. When he had been primed to my satisfaction I said, ‘You told me last time we met, you were in the black. I can get plenty of Scotch, four or five bottles a week. Take a look at this one.’

He examined the Johnnie Walker with avaricious eyes. ‘Gawd,’ he said after a painstaking examination. ‘It’s genuine, too!’

‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘What’s it worth?’

Without hesitation he replied, ‘I’ll give you six quid for every bottle you can bring along.’

As this represented almost two hundred per cent profit on the price I had paid, it was my turn to goggle. ‘Right, I’ll be in that. But before we strike a bargain I want to come in on the parcel racket too.’

Immediately, despite his half-lit condition, he was cautious. ‘Where did you hear that rot?’

‘Baxter told me,’ I replied.

He said incredulously, ‘Baxter! Why, that bastard’s always on my back for talking too much!’

‘He didn’t talk too much,’ I responded. ‘The agreement is that I supply a minimum of five bottles of Scotch a week, but in return Smithy and I are cut in on the parcel proceeds. I’ve been cooking this up for some time. Perhaps you’re not supposed to come in on the whisky deal. Maybe I’m speaking out of turn?’

‘I’d bloody well better be in it,’ he declared. ‘I do most of the parcel work anyway. All he does is cop his share easy.’

‘Sweet racket. Who thought up grabbing the parcels of blokes posted as missing?’

‘Well, he did,’ he said grudgingly. ‘We get the various lists before they go into the newspapers, but I’m the one who disposes of the loot. He’s clever. What I can’t make out is how he came to discuss this with you. He’s always telling me to keep our mouths shut.’

‘How many in it?’, I asked nonchalantly.

He was about to reply when he looked over my shoulder and said, ‘Talk of the devil, here’s the bludger now.’

I turned my head and, sure enough, there he was. Baxter came up to us in his unsmiling, foxy way. Clarkey said gaily, ‘Hi, Bax! Just having a drink with our new partner.’

Baxter ignored the greeting and we nodded coolly to each other. It was my shout but I did not attempt to buy him a drink. What I wanted to do was get rid of him and concentrate on Clarkey. I said pointedly, ‘We’re having a little private chat. See you later, fellow.’

‘So I see,’ he said non-committally, but made no attempt to move. My companion must have sensed something was wrong; that there was a marked lack of cordiality between his partners. Perhaps he felt he was being frozen out.

He said, ‘Johnny’s just been telling me the news.’

‘What news?’, asked Baxter icily.

‘You know what the bloody news is. And don’t think you’re going to leave me out of this deal. I’m the one who does all the work and takes all the risks; I want my share of the Scotch too.’

Baxter never took his eyes off me. He said, ‘I think you must be drunk, Sergeant. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve had no discussion with this person at any time and if he states differently he’s a lying bastard.’

I thought, Where’s bloody Smithy. I’ve got no witnesses. Fancy this bastard walking in at this moment.

In a split second I made my decision. ‘Clarkey’s just been telling me of your cute little brainwave of robbing the dead.’

He spat something at me and as he did I hit him with my favourite right rip to the guts. I wasn’t worrying about his partner; I knew he was yellow. As Baxter crashed on his back I whirled to crown Clarkey but he was already in full flight for the door.

I knew I’d never catch him in the blackout, so in a desperate effort I clicked his heels together with my foot. As he skidded along the floor I took a brief look at Baxter. He was clutching his belly, trying to get up. I thought, ‘He’ll keep, I’ll bash the illegitimate first’. I made a dive at the prostrate sergeant. I didn’t make it; I was grabbed from behind by a pair of muscular arms and a burry Scotch voice said, ‘Take it easy, Aussie. Take it easy.’

I made a valiant effort to toss the interloper over my head and, failing, tried to rake his shins with my heels, but he was a tremendously strong and skilful opponent and held me easily, making soothing Scottish noises. Clarkey picked himself up and dived into the night while his cobber, holding his stomach, his face contorted in pain, was close on his heels. Even after they were gone, I was still held in that vice-like grip.

The voice said, ‘Fancy ye fightin’ wi’ yer freends.’

I knew I would never catch or find them now. ‘Right, let me go.’

If I had any ideas of going on with it they were smartly doused when I turned around. He was a Scottish sergeant in kilts and six feet of muscle and brawn. An equally tough corporal nearly as big stood behind him.

‘I’m sorry, Aussie, but I didnae want to see you fighting your friends.’

‘Friends – nothing! They’re the biggest pair of bludgers in the world; one is too yellow to fight and the other worked out a smart little racket of robbing parcels mostly, I would say, from the dead and missing.’

He said, ‘It’s fash I am at stopping yer wee brawl then; if I would have known that, I’d have helped you.’

He had an honest, craggy face and a friendly grin. ‘Will yer have a dreenk with us?’ he asked.

I found they were both in the 51st Scottish Division and had fought backwards and forwards in the desert and had been brought back for special duties.1

Next morning, Smithy, suffering a terrific hangover, explained he had fallen in with further friends from his home town and in the end had completely forgotten about our arrangement. He was particularly mad at the fact that he had not been present to give me a hand in the dust-up as he craved to hang just one on Clarkey. That he had escaped scot-free was a cause for singular remorse.

We discussed what we should do. That a racket was going on was obvious but then it was only my word against theirs. It was decided in the end that I seek an interview with the Groupy and lodge an official complaint for, if no endeavour was made to stop this little game, it would flourish unchecked. We both felt if the two birds were innocent they would lay a charge of assault, but if they laid low and did nothing they were obviously guilty.

If I had known what this decision was to let me in for I would have let the matter drop, and I didn’t remember the old saying, ‘Fools rush in’. We went up in the morning and soon found getting an interview with the CO was comparable to trying to see JC himself. It wasn’t a case of just dropping in and spilling the beans to the big boy. Full details had to be given for reason for interview and it was no good stating ambiguously that it was a matter of grave importance, or for personal reasons. Finally, after a lot of backing and filling the reason went down as ‘information of grave malpractices with regard to service mail’, and I was told to be back at 3 pm.

Arriving on time I was kept waiting for an hour and then escorted into a room. There were two officers there, a Squadron Leader and a F/L. The former was a fat, bull-necked personage with a smug, self-satisfied air called Dale from the legal department, the other was a dark, sharp-looking type obviously there as an observer.

I was told to take a seat and naturally thought this was a preliminary to my interview with the Groupy.

The fat one advised that he was connected with the legal side of the service and if I had some information to give on the subject in hand to state it. If I had had any sense I should have stuck to my application and insisted on seeing the Groupy, but as Fatso seemed to be labouring under some deep emotion, and I thought this was the taking of preliminary evidence for a later interview, I started to spill the beans.

I had laid out my facts in some detail and I felt gave a coherent and lucid account of events leading up to my discussion with Clarkey the previous evening. While I spoke I noticed that the Squadron Leader did not even look at me but doodled viciously while his assistant lay back and watched me with hooded eyes.

I did not mention my attack and, after I had finished, there was what might be termed a pregnant silence. Then, my interviewer raised his eyes and said in a somewhat strangled voice, ‘Is that all you have to say, Flight Sergeant?’

As the interview had progressed, I noticed his complexion had changed from a normal florid one to a deep purple and thought, ‘This bloke is going to blow his top soon.’ And blow it he did, but not in the way I had expected, for in the next five minutes I was subjected to a vicious tongue-lashing.

The gist of this diatribe was I was making vicious and unfounded accusations against conscientious and hard-working members of the Mail Service Department. My testimony had no supporting evidence except the vague support of a companion who was probably as drunk as I was. That a parcel of mine had disappeared had no bearing on the subject. This could have been lost anywhere along the line after it left Kodak House. My testimony of last night’s discussion was of small consequence and even if it did take place, the two persons concerned were obviously pulling my leg.

After a lot more in this vein I was informed that (A) nothing further was going to be done in this matter, and (B) he understood I had recently been granted a commission and as my actions did certainly not constitute those of an officer and a gentleman, a heavy hint was conveyed that, if I was unwise enough to pursue the matter further, either at Headquarters or in my own private sphere, some unpleasant repercussions might come from it.

During the onslaught I went through a variety of emotions, in each of which I decided on a different course of action, ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime. Luckily, he talked so much when he made his final pronouncement I had my wits back, so when he advised I was dismissed, I said, ‘I’m sorry you take this attitude, Sir, but as I considered this was a preliminary to an interview with the CO I have some evidence that completely refutes your attack on my motives. These I intend bringing forward at an appropriate time.’

I then saluted smartly and left the room. I thought as I went out, ‘Even though that’s all bull it will give the bastards something to think about, and should stop any precipitous decisions with regard to my commission.’

Smithy was waiting. He said, ‘How did you go?’

I said, ‘Up to poop. I took an earbashing, but if we’re to get any mail at all we’ve got to work fast. Wait a while, then follow me into the mail section and discreetly ask me how the enquiry went, but loud enough for everyone to hear.’

I was at the counter when he came in and although I felt the young LAC attendants weren’t in the racket I knew they would know something was cooking. My declaration for an interview with the CO would be common knowledge.

Smithy carried out instructions perfectly and asked the question. At this, silence fell over the room. I said, ‘Good, they’re putting the whole thing in the hands of the Service Police. There’s going to be a few traps set. Someone’s in for a rude shock, I think.’

I knew the grapevine would work smartly and that there would be some very careful people around for a long while.

We went to a pub and despite my wrath we laughed like hell. We felt we had won the last round anyway, but as an extra precaution decided to write home and request our people to number all parcels in the future.

Smith had got on to a couple of popsies the previous evening who had a flat and he had arranged to bring a cobber along. We still had the bottle of Scotch Clarkey had left in his hasty departure, so the future, despite a wasted day, was tinged with pleasant anticipation.

On our return we found things had moved swiftly. The pilots and observers were in the process of packing in preparation for their departure to a Mossie squadron. They were destined for Pathfinders. To me this was ominous news as I remembered Ninnes and Jones.

Wilbur came over and suggested that we go up to the local that night and have a few farewell grogs, stating Smithy’s pilot and a few others were also going. The evening, despite half-hearted endeavours to create a party spirit, was a flop. There was an air of despondency over the gathering: a crew, once it has done a few ops and gone through a few shaky do’s, develops a sense of comradeship that is hard to define. I couldn’t get over the similarity of the parting with my last crew and a feeling persisted that this was indeed a farewell party.

Jack, at one stage, made a strange announcement; ‘What are you looking so glum about, Johnny? I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. But I’m not so sure about us three.’ Someone said, ‘That’s a cheerful thing to say.’

Even a recounting of our adventures in Kodak House failed to raise a laugh, but it did bring a decision from all Australians present that they would arrange to have parcels numbered.

In the morning, word came through that the adventurers to the Middle East were to leave next day. They had already received various needles and carried out the intricate and involved proceedings that go with a movement from a station. This touched off a really riotous party.

Two days later the five gunners left for their new station and the Ventura squadron was no more.2