Two hours passed quickly and I hadn’t finished the third book. Leaving the squadron busily active in the Middle East in the late 1920s, I knew I would be back. Now I realized what the CO had meant by “bumph.” It meant history, pride, and tradition; something to know and to feel; a basis for my own devotion to duty within the squadron.
Clothing supply turned into a bit of a problem. Only one flight suit came close to fitting. The corporal in charge kept shaking his head and muttering about overfed and oversized Yanks. Proper gloves and a leather helmet were easier.
Then it was time for tea. Somewhat reluctantly, I went over to the mess. Tea was for ladies, or so I thought. But I knew it would be rude if I didn’t go. Besides, if I stayed away, I’d be the only one wandering about the base at that time of day. It turned out to be a wonderfully pleasant occasion. The tea was excellent and it was hot. With it we were served a slice of toast and a pat of real butter. That pat was each man’s ration for the week. Luckily, I had hit the right day. Jars of peanut butter were within reach. Though it looked plentiful, I watched the others to see how they handled things. Keith Pearch sat across from me. His butter-spreading technique was masterful. I had to admire how he managed to get it evenly over the entire area of that piece of toast. Then came the peanut butter. This, too, was spread with concentration and deliberation. The reality of controlled rationing hit home. I gained a deeper respect for the men around me, and thought how they and their countrymen had been on strict rations since the start of the war. A sense of guilt at my own country’s bountiful plenty struck hard. I pulled my knife away from the peanut butter with the determination to learn just a little more before helping myself.
Keith took a small bite, chewed slowly, had a sip of tea, and looked at me with his dark, brooding eyes. “Have a nice flight, Major?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Good kite, the old Meteor.” There, I thought, that bit of understatement ought to go over well.
Keith didn’t stare, but I could tell he was reflecting on my answer. I thought it would be best to pull back from any further show of false bravado and added, “But I confess extreme happiness at seeing the runway once again.” This brought a smile and a knowing nod. I had said the right thing.
People seemed to disappear after tea, so I went into the lounge and found a comfortable-looking armchair at the far end of the room. I didn’t opt to settle too near the tempting fireplace for fear of taking someone’s favorite seat. This, too, seemed a good decision. As the room filled, I couldn’t tell if time on station or military rank determined nearness to the fire, but there was definitely an order of precedence. I found a magazine. It wasn’t too old, about six months, and I tried to immerse myself in the social happenings in Cornwall and Middlesex. The room offered the first real warmth I had enjoyed for some time and I’m afraid I dozed. I awoke as the men were leaving. They moved as though they had a fixed destination, and I followed not knowing what else to do.
Lo and behold! Here was the bar! Pints of mild and bitter ale were had all around. Glasses clinked and voices echoed a chorus of salutations, the most frequent of which seemed to be the old standby, “Cheers!”
Squadron Leader Tommy Burne was holding forth at the center of the bar, pint in hand and mustache aquiver. He beckoned me over and made introductions with “And this is our new Yank.” That certainly let me know my arrival had been the subject of some discussion. I accepted the proffered half-pint of “half and half” (normally pronounced “arf an’ arf”) and began to feel less a stranger among these RAF men.
It was apparent that two half-pints were the norm and no one drank hard liquor. As people started to drift off, Tommy turned to me and said, “A few of the lads are buzzing off to the old Unicorn for a bite to eat. Care to join us, Major? I don’t suppose you have a motorcar as yet, so you might as well come along with me. Meet you out front in about twenty.”
I wasn’t aware of having been given a choice in the matter, but accepted eagerly, then looked for a clue as to whether or not we went as is, or changed into civvies. Civvies turned out to be the right decision. Sam Osborne met me at the front door of the mess. His baggy trousers, tweed jacket, old sweater, and RAF tie pronounced the height of casualness, so I quickly went back to my room and changed, then joined Sam out front.
Up drove Tommy in a prewar MG, which looked as though it had fought valiantly on the beaches at Dieppe. By any American standard, the thing was tiny. The torn and patched top sagged at the passenger side, and the hood (bonnet) was held down by a large leather strap. I was wondering how in the world the three of us were going to fit when Tommy said, “Righto, Osbourne, hop in the back.”
Obviously, Sammy had done this before, and I watched in amazement as he wormed his way into a narrow space and sat cross-wise on what seemed to be a loose assortment of tools. I then scrunched down as much as I could and tried to slip backward into the left front seat. It didn’t work. I turned and entered the other way, having to put my head practically across Tommy, turn, pull my legs in, turn again, put my feet as far up under the dash as I could, then sit with my knees drawn up near my chest and practically under my chin. I hoped the Unicorn was not too far.
Off we went with just a small lurch as Tommy hefted himself around, accommodating his game leg. As it was still pouring rain, I was beginning to wonder when he would start using the wipers when he reached up in front of the wheel and manually flipped a small handle back and forth. This very nicely worked the one and only wiper blade. After a bit, we reached an impressive speed on a very narrow and winding road. Moments of discomfort came when Tommy passed other cars as though he knew no one would dare appear around the next corner. Since he passed absolutely everything, my moments of discomfort turned into sheer and continuous terror. It was a huge relief to enter the town of Chichester and finally arrive in front of a two-story structure with a sign proclaiming it to be the Unicorn. Putting aside all thoughts of the return trip, I unfolded myself, stretched my cramped legs as unobtrusively as possible, and entered the “Old Uni” behind my two new friends.
It turned out the old pub had been a favorite hangout for the Battle of Britain pilots flying out of Sussex. The walls of the upstairs bar held photographs and marvelous drawings of young faces with dates and names. These men were already legends when I entered the war in 1944. I saw Sailor Malan, Cocky Dundas, Douglas Bader, Ginger Lacey, Stanford Tuck, and others, all heroes to me as a young cadet back in 1940. I had to admit, I still held them in awe.
Another half-pint, then a quick visit to the WC, and we settled down to a relatively excellent meal. I say “relatively,” thinking of the two breakfasts I had experienced in the mess. I can’t say the choice in the Unicorn was large. The menu offered a variety of lamb and mutton, a meat pie (contents unspecified), soup, and a dessert called “trifle” or something like that. I opted for the lamb and was glad I had done so. The mint sauce was tasty and the potatoes were filling. I don’t know what the greens were and knew it didn’t matter. Tommy and Sammy ate with appreciation. I had been given another subtle lesson. Things were still grim in jolly old England, but one absolutely did not speak of it, or even notice.
The evening was enjoyable and went quickly. Tomorrow would be another flying day and we did not tarry. The ride home was somewhat less terrifying, and I thought to myself how right Tommy was. Not only would I get used to the weather, I would get used to many things. I looked forward to them all.
A final and most blessed sign of my acceptance greeted me as I entered my room back in the quarters. A small coal fire glowed on the grate and the place was actually comfortable. Grateful for the thoughtfulness of the communal batman, I slept in peaceful warmth.
The next morning, Flying Officer Pearch and I walked over to squadron ops after breakfast. It was still gloomy and misting, but I saw the clouds had lifted somewhat. The ceiling seemed to be about 200 feet this morning and the visibility was a good mile. There were about 350 questions I wanted to ask Keith about instrument pr
ocedures here at Tangmere and in the UK in general. Somehow or other, it didn’t seem the time for that. Keith was musing about generalities. I knew he was avoiding discussing the very normal questions any pilot would be asking. There must have been a reason, so I hunched my shoulders and trod on.
Chief Frazier was busy filling out some forms when we arrived. I guessed it to be the aircraft lineup for the morning. Flight Lieutenant Sam Osborne was at a small table scribbling something with a pen in a large logbook. The CO arrived, threw his RAF trench coat on a peg, and stumped over to the logbook. He glanced over Sammy’s shoulder, pointed, mumbled something, and beckoned to me.
Well, I thought, perhaps now I’ll get to hear a flight brief for a training mission under these weather conditions. Not to be.
Tommy pointed to the logbook and explained, “Here we have the day’s lineup, old chap. Fellow just has to have a peek to know what’s up.” I peeked. There, quite plainly, was a flight of five with aircraft identifying letters, a takeoff time, and pilot names. My name was opposite number Five.
Number Five? I thought. Then I saw the word “Cinegun” under the column labeled “Mission.” Cinegun? What in hell is that? I asked myself.
Tommy explained. “Command’s laid on a Lanc. Be at twenty-two. Mock attacks for the lads, with film, y’know. Taxi out in twenty.”
Oh, OK. Sure, I thought to myself.
I watched the other pilots as I struggled into my flight suit. All took leather helmets and gloves and a Mae West, some took a neck scarf, and each went over to another small table and picked up a 16 mm film pack, just like those we’d used in our P-51s some time ago. I picked up mine, scribbled my name and flight number on it, and followed the flight members out to the tarmac.
Not one word had been said about formation, radio frequencies, join-up, climb-out headings, attack parameters, fuel minimums, recovery procedures, emergency procedures, alternate bases, weather forecasts, or anything like that. Well, the CO had said, “All in good time,” but I couldn’t help thinking this time was as good as any.
I climbed in my assigned bird (KITE, damn it!), and a ground crewman helped me strap in. The gun camera was right in front of my face, so it was easy to load the film. Since I didn’t know if the guns were loaded and armed, it was a bit of a panic to figure out the armament switches so I made sure I learned how to pull the trigger and squirt film instead of 20 mm shells. That done and the radio on, I turned and watched the CO. He soon waggled a finger over his head, and I almost gave a nervous giggle, thinking of The Dawn Patrol. The start procedure went easily and the CO taxied forward. Each of the others followed in order and I fell in behind like the smallest duckling.
As we taxied out to the active runway, I made a momentous decision. Number Four was going to have a Siamese twin. I would shadow him like glue. He was going to be my support to home plate. If he landed safely, so would I. If he goofed and ran us into the English Channel, I’d splash right behind him.
The flight lined up two and two on the runway. There was no room for me beside either Three or four. OK, so be it. I stuck the nose of my Meteor right between the two of them 20 feet aft and held the brakes.
Flight Lead called Flying Control and was cleared for takeoff. With a great spray of water kicked up by their twin exhausts, Lead and Two accelerated away. Three and Four ran up their engines and, covered with blinding water, so did I. When I saw them move I let go the brakes and stayed not 30 feet behind. Aside from the water, and the fact that I could barely see the two aircraft so close ahead, it was really not too difficult. Three, with Four close on his right wing, cleared the ground. I kept my bird rolling for just a fraction longer in order to have room to slide over beneath Four. As his gear and flaps retracted, so did mine. But my timing was not that good. Before I could get close enough in trail, Four disappeared into the soup.
There went my ticket home. This was the moment of truth, as they say. If I lost him, I hadn’t a clue how to get back on the ground in one piece. I knew this with certainty. What the hell, press on! Since my last perception of him was a good steady closure with a safe vertical clearance, I held what I had. After what seemed an eternity, but in reality was only a few seconds, Four loomed ahead of me and slightly above. His misty image in the thick cloud was one of the prettiest things I had ever seen. It was a great relief to move right up underneath his tail and just below his tailpipes.
We climbed quickly. As the clouds grew brighter I could see that Three had latched onto the lead aircraft’s right wing. I wondered if he had used the same closure technique as I had. Damn, I sure had a lot to learn. These lads could teach me a thing or two about formation instrument flying.
We burst out of the clouds and into a bright blue sky. The CO, who had been working the radio for some time and obeying ground control instructions, now made a turn to the north. Gaining more height and following the calm voice coming from some radar center far below, he soon called out a tallyho on the Lancaster bomber, which was our cinegun target. It was on a reciprocal heading, 1,000 feet below us, about 3 miles out and at our ten o’clock position. Even tucked under number Four, I could see we had been vectored into perfect position for our mock attack.
Chalk up one for the pros, I thought as the CO reminded us to check proper switch positions and follow him down and to the left for a high-side attack.
Two, Three, and Four took interval as they followed the CO down the chute. Not Five. By God, Four was my ticket home, and I wasn’t going to let him get more than 50 yards away from me.
So it went. The rest of the flight made half a dozen or more practice attacks, keeping an interval allowing each to close and fire off film as though he were actually attacking. Somewhere in this aerial ballet, the CO called, “I say, number Five, move it out a bit, old boy.” I pretended complete language barrier syndrome and possible radio failure and kept sticking close to Four.
Eventually the CO waggled his wings, signaling join-up, and started a shallow left turn, allowing the rest of the flight to cut the corner and move into close formation. This was no concern of mine. I was already as close to Four as I could get.
Now comes the fun part, I thought. Let’s see how we get home.
At his signal, we changed radio frequencies with the CO. “Tangmere Control,” he called, “Red Flight requesting a steer and a QGH.”
“Right you are, Red Flight, pick up a heading of 150 and descend to angels 20. Oranges are sour but vis has picked up a bit. Should be no bother.” I was delighted to hear that bit of news.
Tommy responded with, “Tangmere, Red Leader here. Heading 150, letting down through 24 to angels 20. Airspeed 350 slowing. Three and Four are on my right wing.” (Hey, what about Five?)
“Red Leader, turn left 145, level at angels 20.”
“Roger, Tangmere Control. Steady at 145, airspeed 250, and leveling at angels 20.”
Obviously, Control was taking a fix on the CO’s transmissions and was vectoring us toward home plate. We stayed at angels 20.
A few more transmissions and responses and Tangmere announced, “Red Leader, you’re overhead. Turn right to a heading of 240. Hold angels 20 and 200 airspeed.”
A moment or two, then, “Red Leader, start your descent. Heading 240, airspeed 200.”
I reduced throttles when Four did and held my position under his tail. Down we went and soon entered the soup. All the while, Tangmere Control verified our headings and the CO responded with altitude, heading, and airspeed. When we reached 10,000 feet, Tangmere Control ordered a descending left turn to a heading of 005, to descend to and maintain an altitude of 3,000 feet.
So far so good; I could tell what was going on, and holding my position on Four was easy. I didn’t have to glance at the instrument panel to feel us level off. Throttles were not advanced and I knew we were bleeding the airspeed down to a point below 200.
A few minor heading corrections after verifying altitude and speed and Control turned us over to GCA.
A new voice came on the ai
r. “Red Three and Four turn right 095. Descend to one thousand five and maintain.”
Red Three banked smoothly right to the new heading and let down. We were still in the soup. Thirty seconds later GCA ordered Red Lead and his wingman to turn to the same heading and to maintain the same altitude. We were now two elements on parallel courses on the downwind leg of our GCA pattern. Soon the controller turned Red Lead left to a heading of 005. Seconds later the three of us in the second element were turned to the same heading. The turn onto the final approach heading was accomplished in the same fashion. This put the Lead element directly ahead of the three of us with about a 2-mile separation.
A new voice came on the air. “Red Lead, Final Controller here. How do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Control.”
“Righto, Lead. Gear should be down. You are approaching the glide path. Turn right 278 and begin descent.”
The rest was routine. Control efficiently and smoothly brought all of us down the chute. For me, it was a breeze. When Four’s gear started down, so did mine. Same with the flaps.
We broke out of the clouds at about 300 feet. I could see the end of the runway dead ahead under Four’s belly. I pulled back on my throttles and concentrated on landing in the first few feet so that Red Four would touch down well ahead of me. It worked and we all rolled down the runway together, slowing to taxi speed before turning off onto the perimeter track.
As we walked into ops, the CO turned to me and grinned. “Good show, Yank.”
What greater praise could a man want? I grinned back.
My entire year with No. 1 Squadron in England was a dream. Many adventures were had and new friends were made. Much time was spent in various pubs and roaming the countryside in my own little MG. Visits were made to theatres in London. It was a pleasure to wander on the streets at night under brightly lit streetlamps and to see the graceful old city rebuilding itself. How different this experience was from a mere four years earlier! Over several decades after this great assignment, No. 1 Squadron mates continued to keep in touch, and we visited each other often.
Fighter Pilot Page 25
