by C S Gibbs
“Well, mate, I did it! I made it in – passed the medical and the exams, then got sent out to Canada for me training. Did Tiger Moths and Harvards – I bet you did, too?” Ben nodded.
“I got on a Typhoon squadron just after D-Day and did some serious tank busting in France – oh, aye, that machine's a right rasper, mate! I showed them that I was one of the best pilots on the squadron and was given lots of duties in terms of organization, administration and the like, but when I asked them just before Christmas if I could be promoted above flight sergeant, the CO just turned around and said, 'Not with an accent like that, you oik!' and told me to get back in my box. Some of those RAF brass hats don't want the likes of you and me being officers, you know.
“So, when I saw that the navy wanted pilots and I saw that I could have a commission, I threw my name in the hat and they took me, with my common accent and all!”
“So you gave up your Typhoon for a Seafire, then?” asked Ben as he supped at his pint.
“No, mate, I'm on a Corsair squadron, so I've swapped one beast for another. We did the raids on Soengi-Gerong in Indonesia, a few months back – that's wiped out the Jap's oil supply. They'll be lucky if they can fly paper aeroplanes, now.
“Since then, we've been tearing around the Pacific, trying to knock out their airstrips to keep those bloody suicide attackers off the backs of the Yanks.”
Ben nodded with fascination. He had heard of these so-called kamikazes, but mostly through gossip and rumour. The idea of a man flying his own aircraft in to a ship as a human bomb seemed barely believable. It also sounded terrifying. Tom glanced around at the surrounding Americans. He lowered his voice and continued.
“Y'see, the Yanks don't want us here – they want to take Japan all for themselves and take all the glory. You know what they're like, all mouth and trousers. They think they're the only ones that've been wronged by the Japs, but I'll tell you what – they bloody well need us here. Sure, they've got amazing carriers, more than twice the size of ours, with some fantastic aircraft and men, but they've got wooden decks. So, just one of those Jap suicide attacks can wipe them out for months.
“Our carriers are smaller, but we've got armour plated decks. We've had a few of them suicide attackers hit us, but I'll tell you what – they just bounce off us! Sure, they make a bloody mess and you'd best get out of the way, but the first time we got hit, we were back in action within an hour! We had a Yank on board and he couldn't believe it! One of our lads on deck found the Jap pilot's arm – he put it in a bucket and threw it over the side!
“So, they need us here to help keep up the numbers in the air. Mind you, we need them to keep us at sea – this lot don't go anywhere without taking the kitchen sink with 'em – they're stocked up to the eyeballs with food, fuel and ammo. It's like they've never heard of rationing!”
Ben tried to drink in all of the information along with his beer.
“How was Argentina, then? Did you pull some nice lass on the Pampas, then?”
How to answer that? Vagueness seemed the best policy, given where the two men were heading.
“Yeah, I met a nice one.”
“Are you still in touch?”
“I'm trying to, but it's hard to get the letters through, especially with all of this travelling around.”
“I know what you mean. I'll tell you what, the brass hats don't like us to have girls, you know. They reckon that we take more risks when we don't have a missus and kids to worry about. Hey! Why don't we give those two girls at the bar a pull? They don't look too keen on those squaddies that are chatting 'em up – we could be in, there!”
The words of Doctor Jennings suddenly sprang forth in Ben's mind, but the thoughts of Setsu came through even stronger. He had not heard word from her in months, but that was no reason to believe that she was not still thinking of him as much as he was of her.
“I tell you what, mate, I really need to get to my ship and show my face. You go and knock yourself out. Let's try and meet here, again, before we sail, eh?”
The two men shook hands and Ben set off for the Indefatigable, wondering if Tom faced greater peril in the arms of Sydney's working girls than he did in the skies of the Pacific.
***
After finding his new home moored at number three jetty and then showing the appropriate paperwork to the officer on watch, Ben made his way on to the Indefatigable and reported to the commanding officer of his squadron. Lieutenant-Commander Paul Rydall was a man for whom the adjective phlegmatic was created – from his firm handshake and re-assuring eye contact, to his measured tone of speech, he made the young pilot feel that he was in the hands of a seasoned veteran.
His mouse-brown hair was matched to his sailor's beard that had been allowed to grow for the past two weeks, whilst the Indefatigable had been in dry dock for repairs.
“You're here for Bradley, aren't you? He had a nasty prang just before we got back to Sydney – bad landing-on when his wheels gave out. The poor chap broke an arm, three ribs and fractured his skull, so he'll not be back for a while, yet. I read that you trained in New Zealand – that's a rarity for an Englishman. Most chaps have been at Gosport and then off to the States, but you were at Schofields, weren't you?”
Ben nodded.
“Hmm, we've had one or two from there and some of them don't tend to last long. I don't think they're getting them ready, there. Tell me, how much carrier practise have you had?”
“Well, I've done over a dozen take-offs and landings-on, Sir.”
“That's not bad . . . have you crashed a Seafire, yet?”
“No, Sir.”
“Ah . . . you will. Or rather, don't be surprised if you do. Anyway, come with me and I'll show you your quarters. You'll be sharing with Morrison. You should have plenty to talk about with him – he's a New Zealander – very quiet and efficient fellows, those Kiwis, if a little rough around the edges.”
Eventually he found his shoebox of a cabin and Rydall left him to his own devices. Under the metal frame of the bed he stowed his satchel bag and faithful cardboard case, the same one that he had carried with him at the railway station in Derby (he had grown quite attached to the battered old thing and felt that it needed to make the whole journey with him, wherever that might ultimately end up).
The bunk opposite to his was neatly made up but there was no sign of his room-mate – there were still a few hours of shore leave and most were away making sure that they used up every minute. However, Ben felt that he had an opportunity to explore his new environs and set off in search of the main hangar, in which, of course, he would find his new Seafire.
The Seafires took up the least amount of space in the hangar, with their elliptical wings folded upwards above the cockpit. This slender and elegant fighter had become a symbol to the British of their defiance in the face of Hitler's horde, a sign that a struggling nation on the back foot could still produce a world beating piece of technology and the men to fly it. However, it was never meant to put to sea – once in the air, the Seafire could reign supreme with its swiftsure agility and deadly finishing, but it was getting up there and back that was the problem. Taking off and landing on the lush green fields of England was one thing, but thumping on to the swaying, cast-iron deck of an undulating aircraft carrier was nothing less than a dreadful prospect.
Elsewhere in the hangar sat the Seafire's more sea-worthy shipmates: the muscular Fairey Firefly, which was also a fighter, and the barrel-chested Grumman Avenger bomber. Both lacked the Seafire's turn of speed and manoeuvrability, but they were robust machines and boasted more than double the endurance times and a seat for an on-board observer to help find the way home across empty miles of ocean.
Two aircraftsmen were opening up the panels on a Seafire's engine, when one of them caught a glimpse of Ben.
“Ah, can I help you, Sir?” asked the smaller of the two, a man in his mid forties with a skinny frame, thinning black hair and the rumpled complexion that can only be achieved by a singular dedica
tion to unfiltered cigarettes.
“Yes,” replied Ben, “I'm the new pilot on the squadron and I'd like to have a look at my Seafire, please.”
“Oh, you'll be the one to replace Mr Bradley, then?” exclaimed the small man with what was proving to be a big, broad Geordie accent from England's North East.
“Well, this was his kite and it's yours, now. He made a right hash of his landing-on and rattled his brains a wee bit. Typical of them Schofield's pilots we've been getting.”
“I've just been training there.”
“Oh, aye . . . of course, well, I'm sure that you're going to be fine, Sir – far better than Mr Bradley was. Sorry, Sir, what is your name?”
“Ben Hutchinson . . . Sub-Lieutenant, that is.” Ben had actually not got used to the idea of being an officer and found it strange that a fellow working class man who was twice his age should be addressing him as 'Sir'.
“A pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Sir. I'm Leading Air Mechanic Archie Pettit.”
The pair shook hands and Archie gestured towards the other engineer.
“And this lummox, here, is called Aircraftsman Donald Roddick, but you can call 'im 'Stilton'.”
The subject of the conversation turned his huge frame around. Comfortably over six feet three and boasting the solid frame of a young man used to hard graft and hearty eating, he gave a warm smile across his face, which had full, round features – especially the chubby, high cheekbones and the sparkling, piggy eyes. He offered an oil-stained hand and spoke with his jolly, Devonian accent, which immediately conjured images of tranquil English farms.
“Much pleased t'meet yer, Sir.”
“I have to ask why you're called 'Stilton'?”
The big man suddenly looked a little sheepish. “It weren't moi idea, Sir, but that's what they all calls me.”
“That's because,” cut in Archie, “We all have to bunk down with 'im and 'is feet stinks like old cheese! You count yourself lucky, Sir, that you're bunking away from that!”
“Oh, give o'er, will yer?” grumbled Stilton, “Oi can't helps it if moi feet smells a bit – it's bein' in 'ere in the tropics – it gets so hot and sets 'em off, I tells yer!”
“Alright, Stilton, alright. We cannot stand around all day chatting, can we?” reasoned Archie, “We'd best give this engine a good test.”
Ben could not resist the chance to learn a little more about the maintenance of his new Seafire and asked if he could watch the two men work. On explaining that he was, himself, an engineer, Archie felt a sense of camaraderie.
“We can get you a spare pair of overalls. Let's get stuck in, Sir!”
The three men spent the next hour running and tuning the Rolls Royce Merlin engine to make sure that it was fully capable of running without any danger of faults. Ben's life would depend on this engine.
All seemed satisfactory and the trio began to tidy their mess, when another Sub-Lieutenant approached them. This man was stocky, with a round face and a dour expression.
“You men! Pettit, Roddick . . . and you!” he barked, pointing at Ben.
“When you've finished with that kite, I want you to double check the engine on my Seafire – the bloody thing stalled, last time out, and I don't want it to happen again!”
Both Archie and Stilton acknowledged the officer and headed off in search of the Seafire in question, while Ben continued to wipe oil from his hands with a rag. The officer strutted towards him.
“Well? Jump to it, then. You've just been given an order by an officer,” he nagged. There was a time when Ben would have tugged his forelock to such men and attitudes, but things were different, now.
“That's no way to speak to your men. Your life is in the hands of these fellows.”
“And who are you to talk to an officer in this way? Don't you know your place?”
Ben retrieved his officer's cap from the top of his Seafire's wing and placed it on his head.
“Sub-Lieutenant Ben Hutchinson. I arrived today to replace Bradley. I believe he had a bad landing. Sorry, I didn't get your name?”
“Ah . . . Sub-Lieutenant Raymond Cully – same squadron as you. Are you from up north? You sound like a bloody coal miner?”
“Well, me dad bloody was, for your information.”
“Er . . . oh, of course . . . but you shouldn't be mixing with the lower ranks. It's not the done thing.”
“Well, it's the thing I've just done! They're a good bunch of lads and I've got a lot of faith in what they can do with my kite. Look, I'm going to get cleaned up and settle in to my quarters.”
“I'm surprised that you don't just want to bunk down with that lot, there. You seem to be one of them,” blurted Cully.
“Hey, can you tell me where you keep your brush?” asked Ben.
“What brush?”
“The same one that you use to tar everybody with? I'll catch you later.” Ben made a hurried exit for the washrooms, less than impressed with, but more than wary of this new comrade.
On returning to his cabin, he took the time to compose a letter. Rumour had it that the ship was to sail in a couple of days' time, so it was important to get a message out.
He opened his suitcase and lovingly took out the precious bundle of letters that were tied together with Setsu's silk hair ribbon. All were stamped and postmarked from Argentina, bearing Vero's handwriting on the envelopes, but with Setsu's letters within, save for the last few, which also contained Vero's letters. Nothing had been forthcoming from Japan since March, but he had to write. Taking Setsu's pen and giving it a kiss, he set about the letter. Knowing that what ever he wrote would be read and possibly censored, he chose his words carefully.
HMS Indefatigable
Thursday, 5th of July, 1945
Dear Vero,
I know that this letter will find you and I hope that all is well for Hector and you. As I write, I cannot tell you where I am, what I am doing, nor where I am heading, but I am sure that you can imagine the answers to all of them.
I am now in a new squadron and have met some of the chaps – some fine, whilst others have not made the best of first impressions, but it will take time to get to know them all. One thing is for sure: we are all going, quite soon, to be very much be in the thick of it.
I only hope that this war ends as soon as possible so that we (all of us) can be together again. Please, please, let me know if you have any news from afar.
Your letters are so very important to me and I am always happy to receive them. Somehow, what ever you send to me will find its way here, so write as soon as you can. I will write as often as time allows, but things might get a bit hectic, soon.
Oh, there is not enough room on these aerogrammes to say a great deal more, so all I can write is that I send all of you all my love.
Yours,
Ben
No sooner had he finished his signature than the door opened and in stepped Morrison.
“You must be Hutch? The CO said that you were here. I'm Jack Morrison – the fellas call me Jacky.”
This was turning in to a day of introductions and the two shook hands.
“You met any other boys from the squadron, yet?”
“A couple of engineers and a chap called Cully.”
“Oh, him? I tell yer, mate, there have been a couple of times when I wished I could shoot him down. He thinks us New Zealanders are second class. Bloody English snob. Oh, sorry, no offence, mate!”
“None taken! We're not all Little Lord Fauntleroys, you know.”
Morrison gave a gruff laugh that suited the rest of him: swarthy and strong looking, with jet-black hair and thin lips. He noticed the bundle of letters.
“Just been writing home, eh? Is that to family or your special girl?”
“Er . . . yes, she's my special girl, that's for sure.”
“Well, she must mean a lot to you if you've had that many letters off her. Come on, I'll show you whe
re the NAAFI is and you can get that posted off. Then I can show you where the bar is on here.”
“There's a bar on board?”
“Too bloody right, mate. The Yank ships are all dry – no booze on board, can you believe it? Let's go and knock the tops off a couple of beers and I'll fill you in on the rest of the boys.”
Ben hastily put the letters and pen away and followed his new comrade.
Chapter Thirty-four - Fly-Boy
It had all seemed so glamorous in the newsreels and the way that Tom had talked about it, and now Ben was living the excitement of being a real-life fighter pilot on the front line.
There he sat, flying at 3,000 feet in his Seafire – one of the fastest fighters in the Pacific Theatre – and already he was bored.
At first, Combat Air Patrol had sounded daring, but due to his being the greenest pilot on the squadron, he was not being used for the attacks on the Japanese mainland and this was his fifth turn of uneventful duty in as many days. After an hour of circling the fleet with no sign of any change in the weather or circumstance, there was little to do.
Upon Indefatigable's rejoining of the British Pacific Fleet and rendezvous with American forces, Ben was astounded at the sheer size of the combined fleets – over one hundred ships were on view and stretched to all points of the compass. His jaw dropped further when Jacky had pointed out that what he could see was just a fraction of what the Americans were currently using against Japan.
“This British fleet is the biggest one in the history of the Royal Navy, but compared to the size of what the Yanks have got out here, it's nothing!” marvelled the young kiwi.
The sky on this late July day was a clear, unsullied blue and the vast fleet, below, looked like toy boats on a flat, shimmering lake of glass.
This was far too tranquil for a war. As with the previous patrols, he was flying huge circuits as one of eight aircraft, which were in groups of four. To make matters worse, he was one of a tail-end pair and had been partnered with Cully. At least the insistence of radio silence wherever possible spared him having to talk with the stuck-up twit.
However, any chance of avoiding Cully was ruined when he manoeuvred his aircraft closer to Ben's and tried to communicate through the system of morse code hand signals known as 'zogging'. Ben smiled and nodded at Cully, feigning interest for want of anything better to do. He even gave a few responses, just to show willing – but something far more interesting suddenly presented itself.
