Chapter Thirty-two

Smithy’s accident really shook me. He had been as certain as I was he would come through, and I began to wonder if my premonition of survival was based on sound grounds. I had done fifty ops. ‘This’, I argued, ‘was enough, but how the hell could I get out?’ After some consideration I started to kid myself my eyes weren’t too good. Prior to joining the RAAF I had used glasses for study and reading. I still had these with me. Furtively using them now and then behind a paper I was soon able to convince myself I was half-blind and a dolt to be flying at all.

It was a short step to a visit to medical with a complaint that my eyes were playing up. Our section did not have the means of a thorough test so I was despatched to the military hospital at Aldershot. The eye specialist was a grizzled colonel. Possibly in his day many thousands of applicants had had their hopes of a quick retirement from the services dashed against his rugged interrogation and knowledge. He asked why I felt my eyesight was not up to flying standard. I said my eyes had been playing up. I found it necessary to use my civvy glasses when reading.

He didn’t muck around. ‘I’m going to put you through certain tests; don’t try to fake your replies because your answers will only laugh at each other.’ At the end of the tests he deliberated for a while, then said, ‘You say you use glasses for reading. Show them to me.’ He tested the glasses and laughed.

‘Do you know what they are?’

‘No,’ I said, with a sinking heart.

‘You are one of the lucky ones in this world. You have almost perfect eyesight. These glasses are plain glass, so someone must have been having you on.’

I said, ‘But I have to use them for reading.’

‘Throw them away. How many ops have you done?’

‘Fifty.’

We had a chat and I found he wasn’t as tough as his exterior indicated. He said, ‘It’s not your eyes that are the trouble, it’s your nerves. I think you need a rest, Aussie. I could make a recommendation on these lines if you wished.’

I gave this some thought. It was a temptation, but I could imagine the boys laughing at me. Finally, I said, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m a hero or a fool as I don’t think I am either. I’ll push on for a while longer.’

A week later I was called in to medical quarters. The MO commented that I hadn’t got far with my eye test. I said nothing, but looked at the ferrety-faced little chap with displeasure. As the interrogation progressed I realised his opening remarks were intended as an unpleasant crack and this was some sort of an interview for rehabilitation planning upon my discharge from the RAAF, because he was wading through a mass of questions. When I had got the gist of what it was all about I said, ‘You won’t have to worry about me if I ever come out of this alive.’

He said acidly, ‘This is a test under the direction of the Air Board. Will you please answer the questions, Pilot Officer.’

When he asked details of my previous occupation, I said, ‘Sales manager’, and gave my firm’s name. ‘Salary?’

‘A thousand a year.’

This might have been big-noting myself to a degree as the sum included some allowances. It was not till I thought the matter over later that I realised that a thousand pounds a year to the average Englishman at that time was a princely sum.

He looked at me with his beady eyes and said, ‘It is intended that these questions be answered truthfully. You can forget the flights of fancy.’

I felt myself getting hot under the collar. ‘I have no reason to exaggerate my earnings. They can be checked with my company. We have a branch here in England.’

He looked at my papers and said sarcastically, ‘You are now twenty-seven. That means you were twenty-four when you came into the air force. They must appoint executives at an early age in Australia, Beede.’

‘They do, Doctor. In fact, if a man has any brains and a desire to work he can almost write his own ticket. I have informed you that I am in no need of assistance when I receive my discharge. I would, however, suggest you give some thought to your own rehabilitation problems, as I feel you will be in need of considerable assistance when you quit the shelter of service life. Remember, you will not have the favour of a CO to carry you through. It is also possible you may even require some attention for your knees.’

They were insulting words. I felt he wouldn’t have the guts to do anything about it.

He wrote across the form viciously, ‘Officer refuses to co-operate’, and, looking at me with smouldering eyes said, ‘The interview is closed.’

I had an uneasy feeling that I had opened my mouth too wide. That night in the mess I saw the MO peering around at me as he poured his tale into the other’s receptive ear. I thought, ‘Damn ’em both. If I can come out of this alive these two bastards won’t worry me.’

A few days later Bill and Jock went down with flu, both spending a fortnight in hospital. While I was grounded, the boys reported a strange incident while they were doing over a French target. They ran into heavy flak which concentrated on the rear box. One plane, badly hit, turned back. Two parachutes mushroomed below, showing the observer and bottom gunner Tubby Evans, had made it. The top gunner panicked and, instead of going out the safe bottom hatch, went out over the top, pulling his cord as he went, and became entangled in the tailplane. Unaware of his gunner’s predicament, the pilot made an endeavour to crash-land the plane but smashed into the forest below, killing both himself and the trapped gunner. This unfortunate incident was to be the start of some strange adventures for the little Australian gunner.

***

In the meantime Christmas came almost like any other day, the only difference being the traditional morning in the sergeants’ mess, and serving the airmen their dinner.

During this time we had some of the worst weather I’d seen in England – sleet, snow, fogs, in which long stalactites of ice hung from the telegraph and fence wires. The cold made life a misery and, what was worse, seriously interfered with the love life of the squadron, till someone found the flight buses offered a good refuge from the inclement ground conditions.

Tommy the Kiwi was an active member of the Rooters’ Club. He was also a rabid card player and a mighty tippler. The combined effects of all these dissipations finally reduced him to a white-faced, shaky, bleary-eyed wreck. Having a minimum of faith in the local MO he waited until he obtained leave and went to his own headquarters in London in search of something, as he later explained, that would perk him up a bit. After the examination the amazed MO immediately classified him as a case of extreme battle fatigue. Within a week he was off the squadron and in less than a month on his way home. The rest of the boys looked on his good fortune with open-mouthed envy. As one commented; ‘Its the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone rooting himself out of the Air Force.’

Just after Tommy’s departure, Tubby arrived back on the squadron. He had a remarkable story to tell. After he had bailed out he had fallen into the arms of a section of the French Resistance while his navigator had been nabbed by the Nazis, even though they had fallen not more than five hundred yards apart. These doughty Resistance fighters had immediately spirited him away to a branch of the escape group who helped Allied airmen escape, generally through Spain, back to England.

At the first farmhouse he had been hidden in there was a French Canadian gunner who had crashed six months previously. This worthy had holed up with a very charming little French widow. He spoke French fluently and adamantly refused to budge from his happy little nook. A special officer, on his twelfth drop, had been parachuted in to dislodge this Lothario but, as far as Tubby knew, without success.

The men belonging to the special parachuting service were remarkable fellows. They travelled in and out of Occupied Europe as though it were peacetime, only now they came from the clouds. The reason for these frequent hazardous trips was to clear up little problems such as this, and to see that the escape route was operating properly and hadn’t been taken over by the Gestapo. The penalty, if they were caught, was torture and death.

This little incident amused the boys. The picture of this gunner, happily holed up with this little French charmer and defying authority, tickled our fancies.

Tubby was loud in his praises of the courage and skill of these special men and the French civilians of the Resistance who risked extermination not only of themselves but of their friends and relations if caught. The Gestapo frequently dropped English-speaking agents dressed in RAF uniforms, who went the full length of the escape route and then handed the information gained over to this dread organisation. Despite such terrible reprisals as the wiping out of entire families, new cells would soon be formed and new escape avenues opened.1

Tubby, supplied with clothing and a false passport, had a remarkable but almost uneventful trip along the escape route that took him to Paris, by train to Toulouse, and finally a trip hidden in a hollowed bale of hay close to the Spanish border. Here he was handed over to a grizzled Spanish mountain guide who took him and an escaping fighter pilot by devious and secret paths up over the Pyrenees down into Spain. He told us the most dangerous part of this trip was when they had crossed into Spain, as Franco’s gendarmes and tough militia, equipped with savage dogs, hunted the escaping airmen more relentlessly than the Nazis. It was God help both the hunted and their guides if they were caught in the inhospitable mountain highlands because nothing would be heard or seen of them again.

This part of the trip had taken them three weeks as they dodged patrols and made their way through these dangerous areas, helped by peasants and farmers, until they arrived in Madrid.

Even then the dangers were not over. The front of the British Embassy was covered by the militia, who were liable to apprehend any civilian whom they considered might be making for the Embassy. If caught by these toughs, it meant anything from six to twelve months in filthy, lice-ridden jails whilst the Ambassador sought their release.

In this instance a fake fight was started by some sympathetic friends of the guide, and whilst the attention of Franco’s toughies was temporarily distracted, Tubby and his mate had slipped smartly inside. Even in the sanctuary of the Embassy it had taken a fortnight’s planning to get them to Gibraltar and a waiting warship.

Tubby stated that in the sick bay of the boat was a skeleton-like lice-weakened wreck of a man, a New Zealand pilot, who had been grabbed in Madrid and had spent nine months in Franco’s notorious jail. This poor wreck, then three-and-a-half stone, was normally a twelve-stone man. So much for Franco and his pleasant playmates.

***

The squadron had gone back to attacking ground installations. These were mysterious and extensive works reported by the Resistance. Sometimes these objectives were reasonably docile targets, while at other times they were veritable hornets’ nests, ringed with concentrated and highly efficient ack-ack fire.2

It was on my fifty-second op that we struck trouble. We were to bomb at nine thousand feet. On the run in we struck a wall of highly concentrated flak. It was so close you could see the wicked red flash as the black rings mushroomed and smell the cordite and gunpowder. I heard Jock say, ‘Bombs away,’ and then felt the tremendous heat and concussion of a bursting shell. Bill said, ‘Port motor out of action’. Jock reported, ‘I’ve been hit by shrapnel in the face and shoulders’ as, simultaneously, Bill said, ‘Port motor on fire. I’m diving to extinguish flames.’ Above us I could see the remnants of our box battling their way out.

Bill reported, ‘Fire extinguished’, and then, ‘How are you, Navigator? Are you badly hit?’ Jock’s soft Scottish voice was full of agony as he replied, ‘Aye! I’ve been badly hit.’

Then the disadvantage of the separate compartments of the Boston became evident because Basher and I, untouched by the blast, were unable to go to his assistance. It was a nightmare trip back. Twice more the motor caught alight and was extinguished by Bill’s flying. Jock had lapsed into unconsciousness, now and then giving a sepulchral groan. It was almost a repetition of that nerve-wracking night flight across the channel in S for Sugar. By the time we reached our coast we were down to five hundred feet and Bill warned us to attach our parachutes in case the starboard motor gave out. He instructed, ‘If I say “Jump”, bail out immediately.’

We made the drome safely. Bill called and was granted an immediate priority. He said, ‘I hope no bloody Froggie’s going to jump our claim.’

‘If he does I’ll blow him out of the bloody sky,’ I replied.

We made our approach. The motor appeared to be holding, the plane was straight and level, the trees slid below us. We were perhaps fifty feet with a thousand yards to go for a touch-down when the plane gave a peculiar lurch. For a matter of seconds I had a sensation as though I was going down in a fast lift. I never felt the crash; the world just seemed to black out.

***

It took me a long while to figure out where I was. I knew I was in a bed. I could see a dimly-lit high-domed ceiling. What I couldn’t fathom was why I was in that particular spot. What was real was an all-consuming ache that seemed to envelop every part of my body. It felt as though someone had set to and belted me with a cricket bat.

The next time I looked at the ceiling it was daylight. I must have said, ‘That’s funny,’ because a very English voice beside me said, ‘He’s conscious’, and I became aware of a long serious face looking into mine. I went to turn my head but a terrific spasm of pain checked that.

The voice said, ‘Don’t try to move. You’ve been in a crash. Take it easy.’

I gave this consideration but it still didn’t make sense, so I asked, ‘Where am I?’

‘Aldershot Military Hospital,’ the voice replied. ‘You crashed in a Boston in the hospital grounds.’

Then I remembered that momentary going-down-in-a-lift feeling and thought of Bill, Basher and Jock. ‘What happened to the rest of the crew?’

The voice said, ‘Don’t worry about them,’ and it didn’t seem to matter much for I felt as though I were drifting away on a cloud. What I didn’t know at the time was that they were pumping dope into me to soften the pain.

At the end of the week I had recovered sufficiently to start taking an interest in my surroundings, though I still couldn’t turn my head. What I did find was that I was as near to black as it was possible to be. This, the doctor said, was extensive bruising from the shock of impact. I learned poor Jock had been killed in the crash. Bill had a broken leg and Basher, who was lying flat, had escaped almost Scot-free.

At the end of eight days I found, by careful manoeuvring, I could turn my head slightly to the left. In doing this it brought into view a somewhat remarkable-looking person propped up comfortably on pillows. A special bookrest with its own light meant he did not have to hold the book he was reading.

It was the face that interested me, elongated and horselike, of a purplish mottled hue. It was a caricature of the faces seen in cartoons of English aristocrats. What really highlighted this comparison was the fact that he was reading with a monocle. Now, how the hell could you read with a monocle?

Feeling the need for a little light conversation, I said, ‘How are you?’

At my greeting, the horsy face turned toward me and stared in astonishment. The look was that of a well-bred collie gazing at a stray mongrel which had been so presumptuous as to bark at him. After a brief, cold survey he shook himself and, with an explosive, ‘Hurump’, turned back to his reading.

It was a dirty rebuff and I felt like saying, ‘You snobbish bastard, what’s biting you?’

With the passing of time the blue bruising started to turn grey. I had no broken bones, but as one doctor explained, extensive bruising often took as long to get over as a break.

One uncomfortable aftermath of the crash was that the right member of a pair that testify to one’s manhood had swollen to the size of a cricket ball and refused to go down. This caused a deal of medical speculation and was the cause of some private joking on the part of the nurses.

One side of the ward was medical and the other surgical, which meant if a bed was transferred from the medical to the surgical side the unlucky occupant was due for an operation or amputation.

One morning, after I was able to sit up and give a bit of cheek, three straight-faced nurses came in and, after tidying my bed, wheeled it across to the surgical side. I said, ‘What the hell are you putting me over here for?’

One said, ‘Oh, specialist’s orders.’

‘But,’ I replied, panic setting in, ‘this is the surgical side.’

‘That’s right. I believe you’re scheduled for this morning.’

‘Like hell,’ I replied. ‘No-one’s going to get me into any operating theatre.’

Then a nurse skipped into the ward and said, ‘Matron’s coming!’, and back my bed went at the double to its correct side.

This little joke caused a laugh till my horsy companion reported the three jokers to Matron, declaring there was too much horseplay going on in the ward for proper discipline.

When I was able to use my hands I wrote to Kodak House enquiring how Smithy was. I didn’t want to write letters if he was dead. After a period they replied, saying he had been moved to Crothers. I knew then that he was behind that wicket gate. I pondered for some days on what kind of letter I should write. I tried to imagine if I was in the same plight what type of letter would please me and came to the conclusion I wouldn’t want any mail at all.

Finally I wrote a short note explaining my position and enquiring how he was doing. I didn’t say anything regarding our last row as it now seemed so unimportant and foolish.