ALONE
I FLY by Sgt BILL BAILEY
Chapter
extract - No extracts may be published without permission from the copyright
holder.
TO
BUY A COPY OF ALONE I FLY (£6.99) CLICK HERE
|
T |
he air crackled with tension as the air-crews entered
the shabby dusty tent that was being used for briefing. As we filed in, each of
us tackled our fear in our own way, some of us turning within ourselves,
walking like zombies, stumbling over guy-ropes, as with tight lips we thought
about our loved ones at home; others talked incessantly in a loud nervous way,
and yet others laughed raucously over unfunny stories. I was among them, a boy
who had more reason than the others to be afraid; for it would be my first
operation against the enemy. I could feel the tension in the air as the other
air-crews sat, each occupying their own collapsible bench, waiting for the
briefing to start. Suddenly, as one man, a crew stood up, and the tail-gunner,
sitting at the end, was thrown to the floor as the counterbalancing weight of
his crew members was removed .A gale of laughter passed through the crowd at
this ridiculous childhood prank. Any weak joke, any prep-school action seemed
enough to lighten the atmosphere
And
yet this all brought back memories to me of a time when I was once again
frightened. It was my first day on the training ship Warspite. We had finished scrubbing the upper deck with bare feet
and cold
A
few minutes passed and then there was a crack and three of us boys found
ourselves sprawling on the deck as the bench collapsed from underneath us. A
roar of laughter from the rest of the boys greeted us as, embarrassed, we fixed
the bench again.
A
hush fell over the audience as a procession of senior officers made their way
to the front.
“Any
bets it’s Tobruk,” whispered the wireless op as we all stood up. There was a
rustle as half a dozen air-crews balanced their weight once again upon the
shaky seats.
I
watched with interest as the officers climbed up on to the ramshackle platform
made of tables. A little man with the four rings of a group captain waited
impatiently for the noise of the platform party to cease, and then he looked at
the air-crews who were still chuckling over the discomfort of their
tail-gunner. I felt a dislike for this man, who seemed so full of his own
importance.
“The
programme tonight,” he said eventually, “is similar to last night. I’ve been
informed that a heavy build-up of forces is threatening in the Tobruk area, and
we must do everything we can to stop it.”
There
were no smiles or chuckles now. The marquee was silent and still while the
distant roar of an engine under test built up to a crescendo before dying away.
I could sense the atmosphere, even though I did not know that Tobruk had more
defences per square yard than
“I
know,” went on the group captain in his bumptious way, “that some of you took a
pasting last night. Well,” he shrugged his shoulders, “we must expect it. I think that’s all… Oh no, I nearly forgot:
crew of P for Peter should be congratulated, damn fine show…” All this was over
my head, although it did remind me of the Headmaster’s assembly at school, when
the football team were congratulated by a Head who really did not give a damn.
“No,
I’ll leave all the details to your Flight Commander. Good luck, chaps, and keep
a cool head.” He jumped down into the sand and stomped away.
Was
it my imagination, or was there really a look of irritation upon the face of
the Flight Commander as he moved forward? I watched as he pinned up a strange
map drawn upon a grid of concentric circles. The easel was designed to be kept
stable by a length of rope, but this had disappeared long ago and so it slowly
began to do the splits He paused, pulled the easel up to its full height and
started again.
“We
are operating against Tobruk and so the target map is the same as last night.
There is only one slight difference. You don’t need me to tell you that this
target is very hot.” He paused and looked around. Was I imagining that his gaze
lingered a little in different parts of the tent?
“To
make it a little easier, we have organised a blitz period. At 6 minutes past 3
I want all crews to make their run at the same time. This should help, for they
cannot concentrate on more than one aircraft at a time. 50 squadron and 106
will be operating, and as this means that eighteen aircraft will be in the
area, a good look-out must be maintained at all times. 125 squadron will be at
15,000 feet to give you fighter cover.”
“
“Bombing
height will be the usual 6,000, and all aircraft will do one photo run after
bombing. Are there any questions?” No one answered, so the Flight Commander continued.
“Take-off time, 22:45. All crews to be at readiness and engines tested by
22:13. Order of take-off will be alphabetical: Apple, George, Johnnie, Sugar,
X-ray. You have already been assigned to aircraft.” He sat down and his place
was taken by the tall, bony figure of the Engineering Officer.
“All
aircraft,” he started, “have been filled with 90% fuel load, which should be
plenty for this run. With a 4,000-pound bomb, that should give you a maximum
altitude of around 6,500. You have all tested your aircraft. Remember to sign
the Form 700 before take-off. Oh, and there is one further point…” He paused
and looked at the Flight Commander, who gave a slight nod:
“Can
I ask you to stop pissing on the tyres of the aircraft”? Grins appeared
everywhere, much to his annoyance. “You may think it is funny, but the urine is
having a serious effect upon the rubber. You can remember what happened to
B-for-Bertie when a tyre burst on take-off.” The audience was hushed. They were
only too aware of the hole in the sand, and the ingots of molten aluminium.
The
next to appear was the Met officer. Aussie, our wireless op, leaned forward.
Holding his hand over his mouth, he attracted my attention.
“Now
he’ll tell us all about his big toe.”
By
this time the Met man had pinned up his collection of synoptic charts and was
rapidly explaining the weather situation.
“Wind
at 6,000 will be 035, 10 knots. All other winds will be available to navigators
later. And so, in conclusion, gentlemen, may I remind you that approaching low
pressure will cause your altimeters to over-read. Remember stratus cloud is
coming in thick from the south and may very well reach here by tomorrow. This,
incidentally, is confirmed by my big toe, for today it has begun to ache.”
There were polite smiles everywhere but most were too wrapped up in their own
thoughts to be worried about his big toe.
The
last person to speak was the Intelligence officer, who explained at length the
details of the target, the alterations in the defences and the spine-chilling
statistics of the amount of anti-aircraft defence we would encounter.
“To
end, may I remind you that in case of an accident always keep your parachute;
and above all, make certain that you always have your goolie chit.”
As
we filed out of the marquee, I kept close behind my captain. “What’s a goolie
chit?”
“It’s
a card written in four or five Arabic languages explaining that you are an
important member of the forces of the white king across the sea, and that if
anything happens to you, then the white king across the sea will have their
guts for garters.”
“But
why is it called a goolie chit?”
“Because
natives around here have a nasty habit of cutting off the testicles of any
prisoner. They add them to the stew, you know; airman’s balls are the main
delicacy.”
“You’re
pulling my leg,” I said nervously. “Have you known it happen to anyone?
“Only
once, and then the chap was accused of rape. Still if you haven’t got one,
you’d better see the brains department and they will issue you with one. See
you later, and then we’ll take the crew-bus together.”
The
time seemed to drag and the hands of my watch seemed to be quite still during
the hours after briefing, but gradually the time went and I joined Frenchie and
the two gunners for the pre-flight check. Aussie was away attending a wireless
briefing and
“What’s
she like aerodynamically when that great hole is open to the slipstream?
“Not
a great deal of difference,” said Frenchie, as he moved an aileron to and fro.
“She becomes a little nose-heavy perhaps, but when we drop the bomb we lift
vertically for about 500 feet.”
I
noticed that the normal bomb-beam had been removed, and that the seeming
collection of oil drums was being winched up by a cable around its centre of
gravity. It was a bit crude, I thought, as I watched the armourer winding it
into place. I looked up to find Frenchie had climbed into the cockpit, and so I
continued my idle tour of inspection by strolling under the front turret. As I
looked up, I could see the gunner sitting in his perspex bubble 15 feet above
me. I watched as the gunner rotated the barrels of the twin Brownings to test
for the full range of movement, and I wondered if it was true that the average
life of an air-gunner really was 6 weeks on ops. Certainly these two had lasted
longer than that, as they were nearly time-expired. They must be either clever
or, as they put it, damn lucky.
We
all met again in the dining marquee. Supper was the only good thing of the
night. Most of us were not very hungry, and the meal was a quiet, subdued
affair. We stayed there having a last cigarette until the crew bus took us to
the crew room.
Carefully
I emptied my pockets, placing all my personal effects in my locker. I then
checked that I had my new goolie chit, and anything else that would be useful
if I met the enemy.
Many
others did a similar thing, I discovered; why, even Frenchie kept a sheath
knife tucked in the top of his sock, probably a souvenir of his life in
“It’s
a job I’ve always wanted,” I overheard, “The one belonging to the chap at home
who lights all the red lights around a hole in the road and then sits all night
in a hut warming himself with a coke-burning stove.”
“Not much future in that.”
“You think there is in this?”
The
speaker dropped his cigarette, stood on it, and walked into the crew-room.
Meanwhile,
Roy the navigator had just finished his flight-plan and was checking his
equipment. Charts, maps, star tables, Met forecast, two pencils, two dividers,
rubber, encoding machine, and sextant were all there. He rammed them all into his hold-all and for
a moment looked through the flap of the tent. A flurry of wind whipped up the
sand and set the guy-ropes rattling against the canvas. If everything went well
we should be back by five in the morning. Sky, he thought, was clear, air
stable; there should be no difficulty over astro. Arcturus was ideal for a
90-degree position-line.
However,
Tobruk was a target that filled everyone with dread. Rarely did the squadron
escape without some casualties. Yet it was easy to ignore it, or to pretend to
ignore it. After all, we went off one aircraft at a time and we came back one
at a time – or we didn’t. There were always these empty places in the mess,
always the same excuse, but everyone knew that chalk marks in the control room
at Group had recorded the disappearance. Sometimes over the target they would
see a Wimp falling earthwards, a plume of flame streaming from the fuselage,
but it was best not to think of such things. After all, it would never happen
to them. Frenchie was an inspired pilot. He could throw the plane around like a
Tiger Moth, and he had an original mind that always came up with something.
“What say to walking out? Our aircraft is only just
over there.”
As we strolled along, I helped
“Are you frightened?” he enquired.
“A bit.”
“Don’t worry; you’ll be all right with us.”
The
others had walked ahead. When they arrived at the aircraft, it was obvious to
me that something was wrong
“It’s
all right, Frenchie, for him to say that,” moaned Nipper the gunner, “but
things won’t be the same if we don’t.”
“That’s
just a superstition,” retorted the Canadian.
“You’ve
been the first to remind us in the past.”
“Tell
you what,” drawled Aussie, “can’t we go through the motions without actually
using the wheel?”
“Good
idea,” said Frenchie, quick to realise the possibility of a compromise, “we’ll
use the starboard wing. Come on, crew – form a straight line with Nipper
outboard.”
I
had no real idea as to what was going on, but the others were quick to catch
on. Nipper walked to the wing-tip, followed in turn by Nipper the front gunner.
“It
won’t be the same,” he grumbled, shaking his head, “it just won’t be the same.”
“Of
course it will,” said
“I’ll
stand next to you – and Bill, you next. About 2 yards apart should do it.”
Slowly
the line formed up under the huge wing. The corporal fitter sat on the starter
trolley and watched to see what was going on.
“Right,
men,” shouted Frenchie, “Atten-tion.” The crew jumped to attention as far as
their parachutes would allow.
“On
the command ‘Go,’ you release your parachutes.”
“One,
two, three, go.”
As
one man, they brought their right hands over to snap the quick release buckle.
“One
pace forward march. On the command ‘two’, you will take another step forward.
On ‘three’ you will open your flies, and on ‘four’, you will present your prick
for inspection. Pissing by numbers, begin.”
Like
airmen on parade they shouted, “One, pause two, pause three, pause four.”
Timing their actions as Frenchie had instructed.
“Good
men, good, now piss.”
I
found I could urinate as well as the others. Perhaps it was the tension.
Meanwhile
the Corporal sat on the trolley grinning. Still, he’d seen this sort of ritual
before. If they thought it helped, then good luck to them. Rather them than me, he reflected, thinking of his drinks in the
N.A.A.F.I...
“O.K.
men, chutes on,” ordered Frenchie, “Its time we were aboard.”
As
second pilot, I was the last to enter the plane. I watched as, one by one, they
climbed up the five aluminium rungs to disappear into the bowels of the
aircraft. I knew exactly what I would discover. I knew that the ladder went up
through the floor into the cockpit, and that if I were to walk toward the tail,
then I would pass the navigator’s table and the wireless op’s chair. Poor
Aussie, he had to face forward with his head only inches from the brightly
coloured knobs of his radio. Going further aft meant clambering over the main
beam that took the weight of the wings, and entering rather an empty section
with a camp bed, a chemical toilet, and a chute for photoflashes. There was a
window on either side here which at one time, I believed, had been used for gun
positions. Now, with the goedetic construction breaking up the perspex into
diamond panes, it gave the place an almost arty-crafty look.
The
front gunner, I knew, would have to crawl forward, while the captain and I
would sit at the controls above the entrance hatch, which when closed formed
part of the bomb-aimer’s position.
I
followed Frenchie up the ladder. Why did all aeroplanes smell the same? It was
an odd smell of oil and plastic that was common to every aircraft in the world.
Carefully I pulled up the ladder and closed the hatch. Now we were ready to
start.
From
where I was sitting I could see over the starboard wing, with the round cowl of
the Pegasus engine jutting out from the leading edge. I gazed across at the
other Wimpies, their propellers beginning to move in a staccato fashion, as
each cylinder went into compression at top dead centre.
Frenchie
had his oxygen mask unclipped at the side and was shouting through the window
at the corporal below.
“Brakes
on, switches off,” he shouted, starting the usual litany of procedure.
“Contact,”
he cried, as he pressed the starter button with one hand and flicking up the
two ignition switches with the other, making the engine roar into life.
“Contact
starboard,” he repeated and soon the propeller on my side became a blur of
movement. The corporal unhitched the starter cable and moved it to a safe
distance while the Wimp’s engines ticked over, until the oil temperature and
pressure seemed correct.
Then
there came the chance to escape. Roy and Aussie looked over my shoulder at the
trembling instruments. Would there be a big rev drop at this last moment? If
there was, then the operation would be cancelled and we could sleep safely in
our beds for another night.
Frenchie
leaned forward, adjusted the throttle friction nut and carefully increased the
revs of the port engine. I knew that each engine had two ignition systems
complete with their own sets of sparking plugs, and each set controlled by its
own ignition switch. The needle of the rev counter moved upward and the roar of
the engine increased. At 1000 revs, Frenchie took his hand from the throttle
and reached for the ignition switches. Who would not run away if a chance was
given? Frenchie operated one switch: there was no drop in revs, so he switched
it back on and then tried the other. The engine still roared away as if nothing
had happened. Quietly, he throttled back and repeated with the other engine.
The others lost interest, and returned to their stations while Frenchie the
captain clipped on his mask, switched on the R.T., and called Control.
“Hello
Caesar, hello Caesar, S-for-Sugar ready and clear to taxi from dispersal?
Over.”
“Hello,
Sugar – you may taxi to Control. Direction of take-off 32, Q.F.E. 004. Over.”
“Hello Caesar, S-for-Sugar, wilco, over and out.”
He switched back to intercom.
“O.K. you shower, we’re on our way.”
He waved the chocks away and glanced to right and
left. The corporal was right ahead by this time, and by following his
instructions the Wimp slowly swung round to point its nose at the
black-and-white chequered control hut parked on the perimeter.
We
bumped our way over the sand as the other aircraft took off in a steady stream.
“Flash
S for Sugar on the downward indent,” ordered Frenchie. I leaned forward and
tapped the three flashes.
I
had always been fascinated by flare-paths. They seemed to go on, and on, to the
very horizon, where lines of lights slowly converged with perspective. I turned
my attention to Frenchie, who was doing his pre-flight check. Pitch, flaps,
throttle control nut, direction indicator on nought, and brakes hard on. Slowly
but surely he opened both throttles until the whole plane shook and vibrated as
the roaring engines strained against the locked-on brakes.
“Here
we go boys, say goodbye to
I
am sure we were all scared. The moment of take-off, particularly with a
4,000-pounder, was fraught with danger. I clenched my hands until my knuckles were
white as the plane seemed to take over with a life of its own. The tail was up
and there was that strange unstable feel, when suddenly there was a roar and
everything disappeared in fog. Many times I had taken off in my short career,
but never before had I lost visibility at 90 mph. It was like racing at night
with no brakes, and then hitting a bank of fog. All sense of direction left me.
Were we on the flare-path, and above all did we have enough speed to become
airborne? In a flash, I remembered the post-man saying that once we took off
with that sort of bomb there was no turning back. I sat frozen with horror.
As
suddenly as it had fogged, so the visibility returned, the vibration ceased and
Frenchie, hiding his relief, leaned forward and selected “Undercarriage Up”. As
in a nightmare, I watched the little
green lights turn to red as the wheels came up to lock in the fuselage.
“What
the hell happened?” cried Aussie.
Frenchie
looked at me and pointed downwards. I looked down between my legs and was astonished
to see the lights of the outer circle shining through a hole. There was nothing
but five hundred feet of air between my seat and the darkened landscape.
“You
didn’t close the hatch properly; you could have killed us all, you silly
bastard. Better get down and shut it and make certain it’s properly closed or
we may fall out.” My face red with shame, I unstrapped myself and carefully
closed the hatch. When I finally plugged in again to the intercom I heard the
cries of protest from the rest of the crew. I looked around and noticed that
the throttle assembly was covered in fine yellow sand. Had I looked behind me I
would have seen
Later
that night, while I was sitting in the captain’s seat concentrating upon my
direction indicator, the compass and the artificial horizon, I had time to
think. To think that carelessness upon my part had brought us to the brink of
disaster, saved only by the experience of Frenchie who could lift the aircraft
off blindfold, and by feel alone. I glanced at the muffled figure to my left
and wondered whether I too would soon be like that.