The First Great Air War
Page 37
“The flying training schools are sausage machines these days. Can’t expect the wartime system to produce polished flying. The end product doesn’t really learn how to avoid killing himself or other people until he gets to a squadron.”
They were happily in accord: the squadron commander a product of the R.A.F. College, Cranwell, and Howard of the long training given to pre-war short service commission pilots.
Kennard returned to his chair. “You know Bisto Lambert, my A Flight commander.”
Howard looked amused. “I didn’t know he was on the squadron, Bobby.” He had paid his dues with a “sir” on reporting and would scrupulously so address his C.O. on duty and in others’ presence in mess or anywhere else; but it was not expected in private between former equals, friends. “Is he the same?”
“Bisto’ll never change.” It was said with a laugh.
Flight Lieutenant Lambert had earned his nickname as a newly commissioned pilot officer. He was tall and lissom, astonishingly handsome and very much of a dandy. His early life in the Service could have been made miserable but for the fact that he was an R.A.F. cricket and squash “blue”; an elegant batsman and devastating fast bowler. Lambert was ardently pursued by young women: one of whom, a peer’s daughter, had ensnared him into an engagement; and given him a present of a large bottle of after-shaving lotion. Few Britons used such a product in those days, and in the fighting Services that kind of indulgence was highly suspect. Poor Jimmy Lambert was reluctant to apply his fiancée’s expensive Mayfair-concocted gift to his skin. She insisted crossly. His nickname was instantly born. The engagement was brief, the bottle was still half-full; and Lambert had acquired a liking for its contents. When it was empty, he had bought another. Nobody held it against him: he was popular, not only because of his prowess at ball games but also because he was amusing and a good pilot.
Bisto Lambert was someone else with whom Howard had served in the Battle of Britain: different squadron, same station, but not the one at which he had first known Kennard. Lambert had also been on the course ahead of Howard’s at flying training school.
“Where is he?”
“Airborne: doing P.Is with one of the new boys.”
Practice interceptions under the close guidance of a ground-control-of-interception radar station were a valuable part of any fighter pilot’s constant training, even the most experienced.
“Which G.C.Is do we work with? Wartling and Sandwich?”
“Mostly Wartling. They’re both good.”
“I’d better get myself airborne with them this afternoon.”
“Let’s go along to dispersals and I’ll introduce you to the chaps. I’ll let you form your own opinions of your flight: we can talk about them in a week or so. You’ve got a very sound deputy flight commander: Megson, a Canadian; and a Frenchman and one Pole.” Amusement showed on Kennard’s face again. “I won’t say any more.”
Howard knew what that portended. “Both a bit round the bend, are they?”
“Harpic, old boy.” This was a famous brand of lavatory cleaner whose advertising slogan was “It cleans round the bend”. The R.A.F. had typically adopted the brand name to refer to anyone regarded as notably wild or mad: clean round the bend.
“Oh, God!”
“You’re not an orphan, as the Aussies say: A Flight have got the same enfants terribles, another Frog and Pole. I keep them apart. By the way, you’ve got the Squadron Aussie, as well.” Kennard fell abruptly silent.
Howard looked at him. “And?”
“And nothing. As I said, I’ll leave you to form your own conclusions.” Kennard braked his Austin Ten staff car outside the crew room. He spoke casually, but his look lost all trace of amusement. Even the updrawn side of his mouth no longer suggested it. “Have you heard we’re getting a new station commander this afternoon?”
“No. Who?”
“Gus Northam.” Kennard looked straight ahead as he spoke. His tone was flat. Howard wondered whether he disliked Northam as much as he himself did or whether Kennard had heard something that had prompted him to spare a friend’s feelings.
Whatever the reason, Howard experienced several unwelcome sensations and the recollections that had been bothering him a short while earlier came crowding back.
“Why? What happened to Groupie Jones?”
“Heart attack early yesterday morning. He’ll be in hospital a long time.”
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[1] The same day, 156 years later, is now celebrated as Battle of Britain Day.
[2] Later Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Longmore, GCB, DSO.
[3] Later Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir Edward Ellington, GCB, CMG, CBE.
[4] The “Phoney War”, the “Sitzkrieg” experienced by the BEF and the RAF squadrons in France in 1939, was much the same.
[5] The haste and hurly-burly, the confusion and uncertainty were all to be experienced again by the RAF squadrons and Headquarters in their retreat across France in May and June 1940.
[6] He might have written the same about a fighter airfield in the early 1940s, substituting only “grass” for “straw”.
[7] Later Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding, GCB, GCVO, CMG, who, as Air Marshal Sir Hugh, commanded Fighter Command in the Battle of Britain.
[8] Both were future Commanders-in-Chief of Bomber Command and retired as Air Chief Marshal Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt and Marshal of the Royal Air Force Lord Portal, respectively.
[9] Bomber raids by the RAF and Luftwaffe in 1939 and 1940 did not produce much better results.
[10] Later Air Chief Marshal Sir Cyril Newall, GCB, OM, GCMG, CBE, AM, Chief of Air Staff.
[11] Henderson omitted the figure, presumably for his staff to supply. The only Triplane squadrons were in the RNAS.
[12] Jim “Ginger” Lacey, the RAF’s top-scoring pilot in the Battle of Britain, who became a squadron commander, has said: “It’s always the best pilots who break the rules and get into the most trouble.”
[13] They did not have it their own way in 1939-45. Douglas Bader hated and despised them as McCudden, Mannock, Bishop and other famous fighter pilots did. This hatred of the aggressor seems to be what distinguishes the best from the general run. Pilots in the Second World War were more reticent than their predecessors about speaking their feelings, but have admitted to a similar loathing.
[14] In the Second World War the term “dogfight” was commonly applied to two fighters each trying to get on the other’s tail or into some other killing position.
[15] Shooting down an aeroplane with four bullets might sound incredible, but Squadron Leader “Ginger” Lacey did the equivalent in 1945 over Burma, when he shot down a Japanese Nakajima Ki43 (“Oscar”) fighter with a half-second burst from the two 20-millimetre cannon of his Spitfire VIII: nine rounds. Allowing for the disparity in rate of fire between a machinegun and a cannon, and the range — Lacey fired at 200 yards — the comparison is close.
[16] Who, as an air vice marshal, commanded No. 11 Group of Fighter Command in the Battle of Britain. This was the Group guarding the hardest pressed area: south-east England. He retired as an air chief marshal with a knighthood. It gives pleasure to record that in this dogfight, when an Albatros attacked him, he hit it in the petrol tank and it exploded.
[17] He was not the only short pilot to gain fame. There were many in both world wars who were less than five feet six inches tall: Richthofen among them. The smallest — and little known — RFC or RAF aircrew was V. C. (his initials, not the decoration) “Shorty” Keough, one of the many Americans with a civil flying licence who came to England in 1939 and 1940 to volunteer. “Shorty” was four feet ten inches and nearly failed his medical, but demonstrated that, seated on two cushions, he could see out of a cockpit. He flew Spitfires in the Battle of Britain and was killed a year later.
[18] As Messerschmitt 109s and Hurricanes were used as fighter-bombers from late 1940.
Richard Townsend Bickers, The First Great Air War