Chapter Thirty-five

Bullshit Castle was an appropriate title. The station was situated in Norfolk and, while not headquarters for the Second TAF, was second in line. Its mess buildings were even better than Beltwell although single sleeping quarters were reserved exclusively for the base wallahs.

Temporarily retired aircrew quarters were still very comfortable. On an operational squadron an officer fended for himself, but here you shared a batman with another officer. Pete, a quiet, likeable Canadian navigator, and I held a joint interest in a middle-aged Scotsman called Scotty. Because I have always liked the Scots and treated him like a human being, he repaid it in a number of extra attentions which were often embarrassing.

Another feature of this establishment was the colossal amount of saluting that went on. For almost three years I had neglected this aspect of RAF life. I was brought to heel very early by a lecture from the adj on the necessity of setting a proper example to lower ranks and maintaining a standard of efficiency. Being aware of my shortcomings and having no desire to fall out with anyone, my arm worked like a railway signal at Clapham Junction.

A further function that had been missing from active service station life was parades. I would not have attended four in the past three years. Here they were a daily occurrence at 8 am, with roll-calls and all, till Pete and I hit upon the bright idea of appearing each alternate day and answering each other’s name. This was later increased to include an English gunner which reduced our public appearances to one in three.

Despite these minor pinpricks it was a good station to be on. As usual with all headquarters the food and the mess arrangements were excellent. It was also a happy station – the transients were at least one-tour men, being blokes who were given to enjoying life. At night it was hard to realise you weren’t back on a squadron. Card games, drinking and wenching flourished.

An interesting arrival at the Castle one day was the straight AG of the crew I had learned had been recommended for bars to their DFCs. He was wearing the bar so my information was right. We had always got on well together so he came across and told me his troubles. He was having a bad time as most of the boys were critical not only of the second award but that the crew had been credited with two tours after twenty operations.

‘What the hell can I do? I didn’t organise this racket.’

What he was really mad about was that the pilot and navigator had been posted direct to training schools. The WAG had gone on a special course and he alone was left to face the criticism from his ex-flying comrades. I had always found him a nice little fellow and could see his point of view. He further declared it was his intention, at the earliest possible date, to seek a new crew and do another tour, and so wipe out this slur on his fighting honour. I heard later that he did just that.

One evening as I was drinking at the bar a tall Wingco came up. I had seen him in the mess before. He had dark wavy hair, stood over six feet tall and looked like a matinee idol. ‘Would you have a drink?’ he asked.

What intrigued me was his accent, till I learnt he had been born in Northern Ireland, reared in England and had spent several years in Canada. His voice thus had a faint hint of the Irish brogue, coupled with the definite leavening of a Canadian drawl.

I should have wondered why the hell he, a Wingco, wanted to talk with me but he was such a pleasant bloke I merely thought he was interested in having a few grogs. I afterwards realised he must have known a good bit about me as he told me I had done two tours and even knew the squadrons I had been on. We had a pleasant session and by closing time I was, if not full, at least merry.

Around this time he revealed he was getting a crew together for a Mitchell squadron. He already had an observer and WAG but wanted a top gunner. Bars have always been my downfall in more ways than one; they seem to raise my fighting blood and drown my natural caution. I remember saying my headquarters had put me under the dog act and I was not allowed to do any more operational flying.

‘If I could fix that would you fly with me?’

I thought of Dale and his sarcastic comments and replied, ‘Boy, you would have a job in front of you.’

Before we left he got me to agree that if he could fix it with Kodak House I would fly with him. Candidly, at the time I didn’t think he had Buckley’s.

I had completely forgotten my discussion with the Wingco when a fortnight later he came to see me in the mess and, with a wide grin, said, ‘Well, I’ve fixed it.’

‘Fixed what?’

‘You’re flying with me.’

I looked at him warily, ‘It’s not much good fixing it with Group, it’s Kodak House who wield the stick.’

‘It’s okay with them; there’s a signal through. You can check it in the morning.’ This was a surprise as I didn’t think he had a chance.

‘Come and meet the crew,’ he said, and lead me to two English airmen nearby. They rose as I approached. One was a six-footer with a lean, tanned face and the navigator’s flying ‘N’; his name was Ted Allington. He shook my hand firmly. He had a shy smile, something like Smithy’s. I liked him instantly. The other was a well-set-up WAG with a DFM and an aloof English air. He looked me over critically, ‘How many ops have you done?’

‘Fifty two.’

‘What on?’

I felt like saying, ‘What the bloody hell has it got to do with you?’, but in the interests of harmony told him. He replied, ‘Hmm’ in a way that suggested he didn’t think much of my flying efforts. I thought, ‘I don’t like this bugger much.’ The Wingco, sensing the rift, said, ‘This is Fred Archer.’ We shook hands diffidently, like two strange dogs exchanging perfunctory and slightly hostile greetings.

The Wingco said, ‘Let’s have a drink,’ feeling, no doubt, a little grog would help matters. Archer in civvy life was a gentleman farmer and let us know it. In addition, he was a self-opinionated joker and from the beginning it looked as though we weren’t going to get on very well. One point in his favour was he had done three tours; this would be his fourth.

Ted had done two tours in the Middle East, one on Blenheims, the other on Wellingtons. It looked like a gen crew. The only one who didn’t give any details of his flying life was the Wingco, but I surmised he was reticent. You didn’t get to being a Wingco in the RAF without some operational experience.

We grogged on till closing time; it was evident we all had one thing in common – a liking for the amber liquid. As we were leaving the mess the DFC and Bar English gunner pulled me aside and said, ‘Are you flying with the Wingco?’

‘Subject to a signal being in the office from Kodak House, I think I am.’

‘Johnny, don’t be a bloody fool, pull out. He’s never done an operation in his life.’

The rest were going, so the Wingco called out, ‘We’ll see you in the morning.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘He’s a bloody Wingco isn’t he, and you don’t get far in this outfit without doing your share.’

‘He’s never done an op,’ he insisted. ‘He was three years in Canada on the Empire Air Training Scheme; he was transferred across here and was in charge of some training base for another year. The RAF have now decided that to hold their rank, all flying personnel must do at least one tour. I know what I’m talking about, Johnny. Don’t fly with him; pull out in the morning.’

This was disquieting news. I decided I’d resolve the matter next day. Before I went to sleep I gave the subject some deep thought. In the morning I went around to the office to see the signal. It stated I had permission to fly with Wing Commander Smith for the duration of his tour.1

I had long ago made a practice of putting my problems down on paper, listing for and against. I was getting tired of the bull-laden existence of the Castle and the prospect of returning to the carefree life of an operational squadron appealed to me. Also I felt this opportunity would not occur again; the signal specifically named the Wingco and this meant he had somehow pulled some strings somewhere, despite Dale’s flat statement. Also, there was an elite amongst air-crew. The three-tour men looked condescendingly on the two- and one-tour boys.

A friend in Australia who evaded all service life declared that ego and personal aggrandisement were the motivating forces that attracted me towards the proposition, that I was subconsciously jealous of Archer’s sixty-five ops and was after the public adulation that went to a man who could throw out his chest and say nonchalantly, ‘I’ve done three tours.’ There may be some truth in this. At the time I may have kidded myself three tours must put me in the front line for a return passage home. In addition they should keep me out of the Pacific War. When I got back I wanted to stop there.

The decision devolved on the pilot, so the best way to decide this was to see him. I found the Wingco at headquarters. I said, ‘Could I see you, sir?’

He must have known what I was going to ask because he lead me outside. ‘What is it, Johnny?’

‘I might as well come to the point. I was told last night that you had no operational experience. Is that true?’

He thought for a while. ‘In a way, yes. But does it make any difference?’

‘Yes. Because I’ve survived fifty-two operations to date and don’t feel like putting my neck out too far.’

‘Look! If you have changed your mind and want to get out of your agreement it’s okay with me, but let me tell you this. I have flown almost every plane in service with the RAF. I was a civil pilot and owned my own airline before the war. I have planned and taught both flying and evasive tactics for years. The day of the individual bomber pilot is over; today a squadron flies formation; success in this particular phase of aerial warfare depends on a pilot’s ability to do just this. I’m after the best crew I can get and I feel you will fit into it, but it’s up to you.’

His arguments were logical and convincing. To get to the rank of Wingco a pilot must have done a lot of flying.

He continued, ‘I’m taking a plane up this morning. Fly with me if you like and make up your mind later – kind of try before you buy.’

The way he put it made me feel a heel. Not many gunners get a chance to fly with a wing commander. This position carries many privileges.

‘No, I’ve made up my mind now,’ I replied. ‘I’ll join your crew. The only point I’d like to make clear is that should I wish to retire when I get to sixty-five ops that I be allowed to.’

He replied, ‘That’s okay, Johnny. By then there should be some good gunners available. Let’s go for that flip.’

He must have told the others of our discussion because when we went over to flight Archer, by a couple of remarks, hinted I was a choosey customer.

It was only a training Anson but the moment the Wingco took over the controls it was evident he knew his work. There’s a feeling of surety and confidence about a capable pilot.

Back on the ground Archer said, ‘Any complaints?’ It wasn’t said in a jocular way but I let it pass. I thought, ‘this self-opinionated bastard and I are going to cross swords one day; it’ll keep. No use having a stink now and getting myself tossed out of the crew.’

In the afternoon the Skipper – that was the term by which he was henceforth known – made arrangements to take up one of the two training Mitchells on a nearby satellite field. I had never seen one and was interested to find they were a solid American two-engined job with two .5s in an upper turret and two in a contraption under the plane that could be worked by the WAG for rear attacks.

I had never seen .5s before. Beside them the .303s looked like pea-shooters.2 The Skipper was out to impress us that day. He took that kite off the ground so smoothly we were a hundred feet in the air before I was aware of it. He flew to about five thousand feet in a smooth, curving climb. After he leveled off he said, ‘Hang on, I’m going to see if this kite can really fly’, and for the next fifteen minutes he threw it around the sky like a single-engined fighter. He then took it earthwards at such a bat my head was forced against the turret perspex. Levelling off, he gave an exhibition of low flying, skimming hedges and trees, that was blood-tingling. Without a doubt this bloke was a champ.

For the next two weeks we flew on every available occasion. He seemed more than anxious to gain as much experience as possible prior to our transfer to the squadron. We also found as a formation the Wingco was without peer. Two other crews were in training and the three of us practised together. He seemed to be equally at home whether flying as Number One (leader), Number Two (left of leader) or Number Three (right of leader). He could tuck his wings in within inches of the other planes and follow every manoeuvre the pilots made.

During this period I expounded my thoughts on the clock system as opposed to the standard starboard and port terms. It looked like developing into a ding-dong argument as Archer espoused the old nautical terms till we learned TAF had swung over to the clock system anyway, and was to be standard patter.

After this little matter was decided we settled in as a crew. It was soon evident that, in addition to our pilot, we had a first-class navigator. Ted was, I decided, the equal of Ninnes. He had the same quick, sure brain; navigating came naturally to him. His pin-points, whether by day or by night, were always bang on. Archer, too, was a top-class wireless operator. We often had our differences on the ground, but in the air we were as one. This was really a first-class crew.

In getting to know each personally over this period I found the Skipper was happily married with three children. Ted had married only five months previously on his return from the Middle East. His wife was already in the family way and he was still in the first ecstasies of his honeymoon. Archer was married but separated, which didn’t surprise me at all.

One thing that stuck out was the Wingco’s irresistible attraction for women. As with all headquarters, there were a number of WAAF officers in the mess, some of them top divisioners. The combination of rank, good looks, unusual accent plus a pleasant, winning personality had the girls in a dither and they flocked to him like moths around a candle. In this regard he was no slowcoach; he made Bourke Malloy look a rank amateur. It was never my good fortune to have females falling over themselves to please my slightest whim; I generally had to battle for my femmes. One result of his charm was, as he could only manage to accommodate one at a time, there were some very pleasant little crumbs to be picked up occasionally, especially as I had no competition from Ted, who was remaining faithful to his new bride. Archer was so egotistical and self-opinionated I could easily go under his neck. His mode of operation was to sit with his chest out and his chin in and expect the girls to fall for him.

Another interesting point was the Skipper’s inexhaustible supply of money. He was as free with his money as he was with his love. There was the usual game of cards in the mess every night. Fortunately the players were not in the same street as Pete and his Canadian professionals, so that in a two-month period, aided by a lucky streak, I won close on two hundred pounds.

I had learnt something from Pete the Canadian. He believed in lucky runs and good and bad nights. If he sat in a game and played for an hour or so without winning, he would give it away. I never had the willpower to vacate a game even when the cards were running against me. On the bad occasions, however, I played it easy and did not try to push my luck. On the other hand, when the breeze was behind me I played it hard.

This two hundred pounds was a handy buffer for the Skipper’s free-spending ways, and allowed me to come in on some interesting parties I would otherwise have had to stay out of.

At the end of a hard three-week training period we were posted to a squadron and here again the fruits of flying with a Wingco were shown as he wangled a seven-day leave pass.