Chapter Thirty-four

When I returned to camp I found I was almost a stranger. In the previous six weeks a new crop of replacements had arrived. While I was busily hunting up my belongings, two new Australian gunners wanted to know if I had just joined the squadron. ‘Christ, no,’ I replied. ‘I’m just getting out. I’ve finished my second tour.’ Despite Dale’s official statement, as far as I was concerned, it was going to be two tours for sure. This statement was received with some scepticism but, when confirmed, created quite a furore. A two-tour gunner was rated a very rare bird indeed.

In my absence, with the help of FIDO, operations had been constant; casualties, whilst not high, had been steady. What you have to realise is that even a five per cent loss per operation gives a constant cumulative loss of aircraft and men. Statistically, this should mean that at the end of twenty ops a squadron would be wiped out. It didn’t work out this way, however, as the high losses generally came from the new crews.

Amongst the missing was Tubby Evans. Put in with a sprog crew, he had ‘gone’ on their second op, so that all his luck in parachuting safely and his trip into Spain went for nothing. Basher was crewed up again and very unhappy about his pilot; Bill was in a RAF hospital somewhere in the Midlands, his leg had been so badly smashed that complications had set in and, despite all possible care, had finally been amputated. He was very upset over this, but as Basher said, ‘What the bloody hell. Even though his flying days are over, he’s alive’ – a condition, judging from his morose comments, he himself didn’t expect to be in for long.

It wasn’t till I talked to Basher and Bill that I realised I didn’t have to fly again. I’d been so busy psychologically conditioning myself after my London interview I’d forgotten this angle and suddenly felt as though a great weight had been lifted. I thought, ‘God! No more butterflies, no more sweating it out, no more freezing trips with the tears turning to ice on my cheeks.’ Even though I wasn’t going home, I was alive and well. What did I have to whinge about?

After lunch I received a message that the CO wanted to see me at 3.30 pm. This was a sobering bit of information; no doubt Boofhead’s report had come through. Still, I thought, what the hell! Arming myself with my log book I presented myself on the dot. I could see he was in a stinking mood so let him do the talking.

‘Your crew had an accident, Beede, and you have been in Aldershot.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He fiddled with some papers and continued. ‘You will be directed to a new crew. We have two who want gunners.’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

He looked at me, colour rising in his cheeks. Probably he thought it was a case of rank mutiny. ‘Why not?’, he snapped.

‘Because I have just completed fifty-two operations, or two tours, sir, and my headquarter’s orders are that I am to go on an immediate rest.’

Evidently his records weren’t up-to-date or he hadn’t bothered to get my papers, but it gave me great pleasure to see his mounting irritation.

‘You have only done twelve operations here.’

‘That’s true,’ I replied sweetly, ‘but I also did eighteen on Venturas and twenty two on Wellingtons. Here’s my log-book, sir.’

He examined it for a while, grunted, ‘Humph’ and sat toying with his pencil; then said, ‘Beede, I have a report here on your behaviour while you were in hospital.’

‘A report?’, I asked innocently.

‘Yes, a personal report from Colonel XYZ who was, I understand, a patient in the same ward; in fact his bed was next to yours.’

As he spoke I could see his anger mounting. He informed me I was a disgrace to my commission and squadron, that he was indeed pleased I was leaving the station.

I used the same tactics I had with Dale – I didn’t say anything. After he had disposed of this subject to his satisfaction, he continued, ‘Also, there was, I believe, an infamous group of which you were one of the leaders, which had its primary aim the, er, ahem! debauching of the er, ah! virtuous women of this station.’

I nearly laughed at this and thought of an oft-repeated airman’s joke that all the maidens of the station had got together to have a meeting but they were looking for a smaller room for the next one because they found the telephone box too large.

I thought of Happy’s efforts on our first squadron and decided I’d give his tactics a go. ‘Do I understand, sir, that you are accusing me of being a member of some group, or club, that has for its objective the moral downfall of the women of this station?’

He said flatly, ‘I do.’

I was indignant. ‘I take gross exception to your statement and intend to carry this matter further. I will, in fact, report your unwarranted accusation to my headquarters (if he only knew!) and I feel they will, without doubt, take this matter up for me.’

This stopped him and his back-pedalling merely confirmed my opinion of him – he was a gutless wonder. A strong officer would have battered me down. The main effect of this manoeuvre was to halt his dissection of my character and when he stated he was sorry he had wrongfully blackened my reputation we both let the matter drop.

Later, the adj told me I was being posted to the Group’s rest home known amongst aircrew as Bullshit Castle. I lost no time getting my clearance in order and taking myself off to the train station.

One interesting piece of information I learned prior to my departure was that the crew who had tailed us in on the Brest attack had been recommended for decorations, then, after doing a further seven ops, had been taken off and been further recommended for bars to their DFCs.