Chapter Thirty-three

One day a team of some half-dozen doctors arrived and made a thorough examination of myself and two other patients in the ward. A short while afterwards special charts were set up over our respective beds and two nurses arrived with whopping great flat pills. I have never been able to swallow pills of any size, not even aspirin, as they stick in my gullet.

I said, ‘Am I supposed to swallow that flaming horse pill?’ The nurse said I was, so I popped it in my mouth, chewed it up and washed it down with a glass of water. This created some consternation so two doctors were called in for discussion and, after I had explained my position, agreed that it was okay for me to chew them first.

I was somewhat flattered by the attention and interest my method of disposing created. My temperature was taken every fifteen minutes and at least two doctors, plus a galaxy of nurses, came in to watch me. After a while I began to feel like a seal doing a fish-swallowing act.

My enthusiasm waned considerably, however, when one of the other pill-swallowing patients threw a mouth-frothing fit and turned a yellowish-green. This bloke was hastily removed and was not seen again.

After this incident the checks on the other patient and myself were doubled. Over a three day period I swallowed, literally, dozens of different coloured tablets but nothing happened to either of us and after a while they had a beneficial effect on my swollen testicle.

It wasn’t till later I learned we were guinea pigs for the new sulphanilamide tablets. The bloke who turned the yellowish green was one of the unfortunates who was allergic to them.

Later I was allowed up to shave and bath. I found an interesting position existed with regard to my fellow patients who, with the exception of myself, were all Army officers. They were divided into two groups, the permanent or regular army and the men who had gained commissions in the field. Between these two was a solid wall of class distinction. The regular group completely ignored and even refused to recognise the amateurs.

I chummed up with a major who had won his commission in the Western Desert and was the holder of the inferior Military Medal (given only to lower ranks). This fellow had been a grocer before the war and, as he said, fell far below the social status of the professionals. He declared bitterly that these college-bred types, steeped in the learning and strategy of the 1914–1918 conflict, adamantly refused to listen to the practical experience of the so-called enlisted officers.

‘How the hell England wins wars I’ll never know,’ he continued. ‘The worst part about it all is that the poor bloody ordinary soldier has to take a terrific walloping whilst these college-trained military snobs are safely established at headquarters, well behind the lines, learning this new, fast-moving warfare.’

He told me my aloof bed-neighbour, the scion of a noble English family and a colonel in the quartermaster’s department, was in for his alcoholic excesses, having recently suffered an attack of the DTs. ‘Have you noticed how they put a screen around him a couple of times a day?’

I had.

‘That’s so he can have his ration of Scotch, being a part of the cure to wean him off the grog,’ he said. ‘He augments this daily ration with an arrangement with one of his officers. You have possibly noted,’ he continued, ‘that this fellow brings in the evening paper. In this is wrapped the extra drop.’

‘This dipsomaniac,’ he declared, ‘was such a complete dill that ‘even his associates speak contemptuously of him, and such a snob he refuses to speak to anyone other than his equal or superior. Because he’s senior officer in the ward he has not spoken a single word to anyone except to reprimand the nurses or complain.’

My new and interesting friend said it was acknowledged in England that in the supposed blue-blood families the dill who was incapable of doing anything else qualified for the Army.

Being a neutral, I mixed with both groups and found some of the permanents nice fellows. One day I stumbled upon an easy formula to find out what particular category a fellow patient fell into. All one had to do was ask,’What did you do before the war?’ This query brought two standard answers, ‘Army, old man,’ or the ranker-officer told you what he had been doing.

On the third Sunday some of the boys, including Tubby, came across with some personal effects. They said it had been a hard job planning the trip as visitors were not welcomed.

There was considerable laughter and light-hearted banter, particularly at the mention of my delicate injury. After ten minutes the colonel pressed for service and demanded to see the Matron. When she arrived he declared my visitors were creating an uproar, disturbing the patients, and demanded that they be ejected.

Poker-faced, the Matron said icily, ‘If it’s your orders, colonel, I’ll ask them to go.’

‘They are my orders.’

She used a lot of tact getting them out. Tubby, prior to his departure, asked, ‘Who’s that boofheaded old bastard, anyway?’ It was an apt description, and from then on, first to a few and then to most, the colonel was known as ‘Boofhead’.

During my stay in bed I had often heard the bark of staccato commands and the distant drumming of heavily shod feet. One day when wandering around I found a little balcony that gave a view of half of what I thought was a parade ground. What interested me was that the instructors out-numbered the trainees by two to one and, as far as I could see, all orders were executed at the double; everyone except the instructors ran.

I mentioned this to my major friend and he said, ‘Oh, that’s the punishment square. All those men are being punished for some misdemeanour or other and all orders naturally are done at the double.’

Next day I went to my lookout with some interest. I found there seemed to be several forms of punishment. Some offenders were put to work removing a large pile of stones or earth by wheelbarrow, over to another spot out of my view. After they had completed this job, they moved it back to the first area and vice versa.1

On this particular day four soldiers, laden like packhorses, were doing continuous circuits under the watchful eyes of three burly instructors equipped with truncheons or rubber hoses. As I could see half the area, I guessed that there were another three on the other side.

These four unfortunates galloped awkwardly around the square. If they looked like lessening their pace they received a good wallop with the truncheon over the legs or backsides. This really must have hurt as it galvanised them into renewed effort.

After forty-five minutes their pace really began to slacken. This brought their overseers swinging into action. As time wore on their energies began to evaporate; even the threat of the truncheons began to fade, but their oppressors countered this with stinging strokes as those poor devils began first to stagger and finally totter from sheer exhaustion.

There was one agile little bloke who must have had a phobia about being hit, because even the threat of a wallop galvanised him into nervous leaps forward. His sadistic tormentors realised this and every time he passed they would go to make a swipe at him. He must have been a power-house of energy because even after his three companions had collapsed insensible to the ground and were dragged away, he was still going.

Finally, even the nervous energy that propelled this harassed creature began to fade. His steps began to falter and then he started to stagger. Even though I was a hundred yards away I could sense his gasping breath, his contorted face, as he tried to gulp air into his overworked lungs. It was then the instructors swung into action. I did not see the first stroke, but I heard the high-pitched cry. He came into view. The poor fellow was striving desperately to keep his stride. As he passed each MP, they walloped him and, as they did, he let out a piercing scream.

I watched this brutal, sadistic spectacle and found I was shaking with emotion and rage. The little bloke staggered out of sight and three more cries pierced the cold morning air. When he came into view again it was apparent he was at the end of his physical and mental resources and in attempting to evade the first truncheon swinger he staggered and fell in an exhausted heap.

The MP moved forward with the apparent intention of striking the fallen wretch again. It was then that an involuntary shout came from within me; ‘Leave that man alone!’, I bellowed.

The effect was instantaneous. He stopped in his stride and the three heads swung around simultaneously. They could see me on the balcony but couldn’t make out who I was. I saw them look at each other and could imagine them saying, ‘Who the bloody ’ell’s that?’

The first bloke moved toward his victim uncertainly, so I shouted again, ‘Leave that man alone.’ I had the advantage of surprise, anonymity and the Pom MP’s respect for an officer’s command.

I could imagine them reasoning: ‘It’s coming from the officer’s quarters, it must be a bleedin’ officer,’ so without further ado one picked up the fallen man by the shoulders and the other by the ankles and carted him out of sight.

Repercussions followed smartly on the heels of my intervention. An enquiry must have been started immediately to find who had given the unofficial and highly unethical order, and in a matter of thirty minutes I was summoned to the superintendent’s office. A cold-eyed MP major wearing rimless glasses, who was a dead ringer for Himmler, was in attendance.

After verifying my name, designation and rank, the superintendent asked if I had been on a certain balcony some thirty minutes before.

‘Yes.’

Had I interfered with the normal duties of military personnel by giving an unauthorised order?

I said I had.

My candid reply staggered them both. Whether they had expected me to hedge or lie I don’t know. The superintendent looked in a non-plussed way at my papers. He asked, ‘You are recovering from a plane crash, Pilot Officer?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

He looked at his cold-eyed companion as if to say, ‘The poor fellow’s got wheels, he’s mentally deranged.’ Then he said, ‘Your conduct is inexcusable and highly unethical. We do not want a repetition of it.’

The officer MP was more direct, declaring, ‘You have interfered with the duties of members of His Majesty’s forces.’ He warned he did not want this to happen again, hinting darkly of unpleasant consequences.

Back in my ward my effort received a mixed reception. The amateurs were delighted, the professionals so extremely displeased they put me in the doghouse and refused to have any further truck with me. My friend the major confided to me that consensus of opinion was, ‘The fellow’s a damned Bolshevik.’

To make sure it couldn’t happen again the door to the balcony was locked, so I never got around to seeing any more of the doings on the square, although from the commands and the pounding of heavily shod feet, it was evident the games still went on.

One day my old friend the eye specialist came into the ward on some duty. He must’ve had a good memory, for as he passed my bed he looked, stopped, and said, ‘Hello, Aussie, what are you doing here?’

‘Had a crash, sir.’

‘You didn’t take my advice, then.’

‘I will now,’ I replied. He was a nice fellow and dropped in several times after that to say ‘hello’ and pass derogatory remarks about Boofhead who received his cracks in stony silence.

Finally the time came for my discharge. I had been there a month and had made some good friends, but was still in the doghouse with the professionals. I had dressed and packed my bag and was making a last inspection of my locker to see if anything had been left.

The ward doctor was doing his rounds with two sisters and Matron in attendance. As I straightened up I found the colonel had turned his head and had me transfixed with his monocle.

Then, wonder of wonders, he spoke in stilted, clipped Army English, ‘I wish to remark I view your going with extreme pleasure; the air in the ward will be the fresher for your departure. I am aware of your libellous comments regarding myself, and your reprehensible conduct. The full details will, in due course, be forwarded to your commanding officer.’

I looked at his glittering idiotic monocle, his mottled horse-like face. The doctor and his attendants were at the next bed and I thought, ‘Why not?’

I spoke so that all could hear. ‘You, my good major (that made him shudder) should have no anxiety about air because you pollute it with your whisky-laden breath. You have little to worry about, for there will always be a plentiful supply of Scotch for you and your kind, and an unlimited supply of young men from all over the world to fight the war while you lie in bed and bludge. I would, however, suggest to the doctor here, that he investigate the young lieutenant who brings in your supply of whisky wrapped in a newspaper every evening and removes the evidence by the same means next morning, because I feel your actions could lay a basis for a court-martial on a self-inflicted wound charge.’

The medical group, together with the rest of the ward, listened in open-mouthed silence to this exchange of pleasantries. As a closing shot I said, ‘I’m sure you’ll look into this matter, doctor.’

I got to the sliding doors, turned and looked back. All heads except the colonel’s were turned my way. I gave them a nonchalant wave and walked down the corridor. The eye specialist had asked me to drop in and see him before I left. He said, ‘A little drink won’t hurt you before you go,’ and mixed me a stiff whisky, adding, ‘The doctor who has written your report is a friend of mine. He has recommended that you be given fourteen days’ recuperation leave. Don’t let them gyp you when you get back to your station.’

Back on the drome I got my leave and thought, ‘I’ll go up to Kodak House first and put in an application to go home.’ Fifty-two ops plus my crash, in my opinion, constituted a good reason.2 On the way up in the train I decided to add a compassionate one to bolster my case. My mother, a widow, was seventy-nine and had been seriously ill. I felt reasonably confident that with a little salesmanship I would soon be back in Australia, meeting friends and relatives, listening to the boom of the surf, feeling the surge of the big boomers once again. It was an exciting prospect – God, how I wanted to get home!

I found I first had to make a written application, stating reasons why I considered I should be granted a priority, and then wait for an interview. The latter, the sergeant clerk stated, might take three to five days. I solved this problem by passing over a fiddly, with a promise of a second if my call came up earlier. I was asked to come back later in the afternoon when I found my interview was listed for 3.30 pm the following day.

I was right on time waiting for my call. An orderly called, ‘Pilot Officer Beede, interview with Squadron Leader Dale.’ The name struck a chord – I stopped and exclaimed, ‘Christ, not Squadron Leader Dale!’ The orderly pushed me ahead, opened the door and said, ‘Pilot Officer Beede.’

I looked at the fat figure at the desk; it was him all right. I thought, ‘this bastard must fill every role in Kodak House.’ He sat writing and ignored me for five minutes, the time-honoured custom of twirps. He finished, looked at me and said, ‘Pilot Officer Beede.’

‘Yes.’

‘You have an application on compassionate and service grounds for return to Australia.’

‘Yes, sir.’ I thought, ‘If I have to crawl to this illegitimate I’ll get lower than a snake’s belly.’

He examined my papers and asked, ‘Are there any particular reasons why you feel your application should be considered?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I listed my mother’s health, and that I had done fifty-two operations without rest and, finally, my crash and a month’s stay in hospital.

He sat with his lips pursed, the tips of his fingers together. ‘Yes, but have you any valid reasons?’

I had an uneasy feeling that I wasn’t doing too well. ‘Sir, I have done twenty-two operations on Wellingtons, half of the crew were wiped out on our last operation. I then completed eighteen on Venturas, the crew was disbanded because of the heavy loss of these planes, and the pilot and observer were dead. I then transferred to Bostons and completed a further twelve, and on our last operation the navigator was killed and the pilot broke a leg. I have now completed two tours. My mother is seriously ill; this can be verified in Australia. The reason I ask to be returned is because I feel I have done my bit, and also on compassionate grounds.’

He still sat with his fingers together. ‘Beede, you don’t seem to realise that there are thousands of young Australians in England who want to return home. I can nominate a hundred RAAF members in Kodak House who have service equal or better than yours. We do not receive applications from these airmen to return home.’

I thought, ‘No, because the bastards never had it so easy.’ Aloud, I said, ‘But I have done it the hard way, sir; I have completed two tours.’

‘Everyone has a duty to do. I have been in England as long as you; don’t you think I want to go home? Don’t you think ‘X’ (a high-ranking Australian officer noted for his amorous entanglements) would like to go home to his wife and children?’

At that particular period, ‘X’ was openly engaged in a romantic entanglement with the wife of a well-known London publican. I knew it was delicate ground but couldn’t resist saying, ‘I do not think “X” is missing any of the amenities of home life, sir.’

Dale looked at me steadily. ‘I can see no reason at all why I should grant your request. Why, if I granted every request to airmen who want to run home to their mummies, we soon wouldn’t have anyone left in England.’

I replied, ‘Your simile is a little astray, sir, as my mother is seventy nine and has been seriously ill. This can be verified in Australia.’ I knew I was fighting a losing battle. This was repetition, not salesmanship, and he knew he had the whip hand.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is not of great consequence. There are literally thousands of seriously ill people in Australia; many close relations of men here in England. As for your fifty-two operations, you appear to have done these against the express orders of the RAAF. Just how you have managed this I don’t know. As far as your records go, I will certainly recommend that they be treated as one tour.’

I looked at him and thought, ‘Some day I’m going to meet you in civvy life and I’m making myself a solemn promise now that when I do, I’m going to get stuck into you.’

For the next fifteen minutes he proceeded to dress me down and cover my shortcomings as an officer. I had made unwarranted charges against members of the mail section and abused an officer in public (Dag’s little episode); I was a troublemaker and generally not fit to hold the King’s Commission. I felt at the time, and still think now, that he was endeavouring to provoke me into some unwise verbal and physical action. What I did was to stare stonily at him and say nothing, an effective counter to this type of person because where there is no argument they run out of words. He finished with, ‘You will do your instructional period the same as all other one-tour air crew, so you can forget this application and, I warn you, Beede. Watch your step.’

I have a cobber in Australia who used to declare, ‘Everything happens for the best.’ That was the philosophy I tried to apply to this setback because I suffered a kind of nervous reaction. Perhaps it was a combination of the aftermath of the crash and all my hopes going bust but anyway, I felt awful, both mentally and physically.

It was then I thought of Mrs Weston and her quiet Surrey home. Luckily I had written to her from hospital telling her of my accident. I telephoned her from the club. She said, ‘I’ve been expecting to hear from you. When are you coming down?’

There was magic in that soothing, motherly English voice. I said, ‘Now, if I may.’

‘Your bed is ready,’ she replied. ‘I’ll meet you at the station.’

When I met her I said apologetically, ‘I only seem to come to you when I’m recovering from something.’

‘There could be no better time, Johnny.’

She had the car out and must have somehow begged or borrowed some petrol because the ordinary civilian did not get a petrol ration. In that quiet English home amongst this gracious family I spent the most restful ten days I had known for a long, long time. The woods were beginning to show the magical return of spring. I used to take my ground sheet out and watch the birds flit amongst the budding trees.

One episode that testified to the care and watchfulness of this woman was one day when I had gone to sleep, lulled by the sighing of the wind in the almost bare branches and the song of the blackbirds, I woke to find myself covered with a rug. How she knew where I was and that I was sleeping I never knew.

At the end of my leave I had got back some of my joie de vivre. When I thought of Smithy, Hally and Blondie, I realised I had nothing to beef about and could even reflect with wry amusement on Dale’s bawling-out.