Kanga had everybody bluffed except Sam who seemed to have some compulsion not only to show Kanga he was not worried by him but also to keep on showing him. As a result, Sam was more or less permanent Duty Pilot or Orderly Officer, two unpopular jobs which were normally done by turn but which were handed out as punishment to officers who were being intractable or just plain bloody minded as was Sam’s case.6
For all the cadets these were full and heady days and time passed swiftly – but learning to fly could be dangerous too. There were the hazards of bumpy landings through lack of experience or judgement that resulted in damaged propellers and/or undercarriages the problems of becoming separated or lost sometimes resulting in occasional forced landings short of fuel and there were, fortunately infrequently, rough-running engines or similar mishaps. Pat was among those who did manage to ‘bend’ another plane.
On 19 October:
Had to write out a crash report today, sideslipping turn, stalled near the ground and banged A5-33 in from a great height. Major repair. Scotty must have been as mad as hell! He said the main thing in crash reports is not to incriminate oneself. Always blame the plane. Good scout.
It could even happen to experienced fliers. One day two instructors, one of them a sergeant pilot, had a mid-air collision. Their planes were observed circling the aerodrome in opposite directions, one following the circuit of the day, the other not. Both pilots were injured in the crash, badly in the case of the sergeant pilot who was not at fault. He died the following day as a result of his injuries. The accident left a dark cloud of gloom over the base for some time.
Then, all too soon, the rest of the year slipped away and summer approached. Towards the end of the course, Pat wrote to his sister Constance:
Con,
Sorry old cheese, for remembering to forget to reply to your last scrawl, but the fact I was, and still am very tired and lazy.
It’s a pity that girl friend from Coonamble couldn’t stay over till Christmas, as then perhaps we could possibly go surfing, as was our intention that day so long ago … She will be horribly cross if … I have to go to England won’t she. Or do I kid myself?
Went to Luna Park the other night and plunged bravely into ‘The River Caves’ in a small canoe. But the chappie in charge didn’t like it a bit when we rammed the blinking wall and caused a traffic block in the dark tunnel. The fleet was in and up some place a sailor had the misfortune to break my pipe.
Hartnell’s father died last week so I’m by myself now for a while.
Another dance will come off next Friday, and by all accounts seeing as it will be our last one, it will be what is termed a ‘wizzer’.
Too dammed hot to do anything today except swim and sunbake and lady am I sunburnt. I’m completely red: and by hell it is sore.
Some foul swine rigged my bed yesterday, so that when I sprang to my resting place last night the whole thing collapsed to the complete ruin of all the supporting joints.
From your letter, it appears that you are having a hell of a busy time. Me too, although mine isn’t of my own making.
Nothing more to tell you, so give my regards to Rob and his exam papers.
Love and Love.
Pat
P.S., I’m flying to Albury–Deniliquin solo on Tuesday – cross/country.7
Almost all too suddenly the course came to an end. Despite the approaching end-of-course examinations, extroverted cadets like Pat and his friends still found time for some in-house ‘fun’ in the evenings. ‘Gilbert and I and Mace offered to fight the Mess but we had to give it up when Kanga came in to take the dinner ceremonial.’ And then it was over; practical and theoretical exams were passed or failed, newly acquired flying skills were assessed and there were important decisions to be made for the future.
On 27 August:
Paget nearly talked me into going to England again tonight.8 Painted a fascinating picture of easy life, beer and women. And what beer and what women? They say 25 cadets are going so it looks as though I might even be going against my will. But speaking of wills, I think it is willed that I would (go to England I mean).
On 18 October:
They tell us that 25 out of the 31 left are going to Blighty. I would like to go very much, travel and all that but the being away from home for so long appears to be the worst part.
From the class of 1936, twenty-five did decide to go to England for experience in the RAF – the largest contingent to leave for the UK so far. Some RAAF officers were beginning to doubt and question the wisdom of sending their brightest and best away from the service for five years. Indeed, experience was showing that when their short service commissions were up, some earlier cadets were not returning to Australia at all. Some, like Ron Lees from the January 1930 Point Cook class, opted to accept permanent commissions in the RAF. Others like Donald Bennett from the July 1930 Point Cook class resigned from the RAF and went into civil aviation or other careers in England, although they were required to remain in the RAF (not RAAF) Reserve. The RAAF was losing too many good men.
The fortunate twenty-five were:
Allsop, J. W. Boehm, D. C. Brough, J. F. T. Campbell, D. Cosgrove, R. J.
Fowler, H. N. Gilbert, C. L. Good, D. C. F. Grey-Smith, G. E. Hughes, P. C.
Hullock, C. L. Johnston, L. L. Kaufman, K. W. Kelaher, C. R. Kinane, W.
Mace, C. R. Marshall, D. Olive, C. G. C. Paine, J. Power, R.
Robinson, A. E. Rogers, K. R. Sheen, D. F. B. Wight, W. B. Yate, E. W.
‘Faber est suae quisque fortunae’. ‘Every man is the maker of his own fortune’. It was a motto Pat knew well. He and the others had chosen the path they would follow. They had all worked for it and made it happen.
All but one left for England in January 1937, sailing from Australia on P&O’s elderly liner, the 16,600-ton SS Narkunda, a regular ship on the Australia–England route. The exception was Marshall, who had departed almost immediately after he had finished in December. His intention was to meet up with the others again over there.
Before he left, Pat ‘did the rounds’ to say goodbye to his friends and members of the family. Excited by Pat’s success, and the marvellous adventures that undoubtedly lay ahead of him, Pete Pettigrew was prompted into lodging his own application to join the RAAF – he would try to get to England too!
Laurence Lucas remembered his uncle calling in to see his mother before he went:
It was in the Christmas/New Year holidays early in 1937 that Pat came one weekend to our Manly flat to say goodbye. Bill had shouted him a new ‘civvie’ outfit: a genuine Harris Tweed jacket; slacks; and a felt hat worn ‘porkpie’ style. In the three years since my sister and I had been in Pat’s company, he had changed. He was polite, reserved, uncharacteristically diffident. Perhaps it was too much for a twenty-year-old to take in: that he was leaving us all behind.
I personally don’t know if he said goodbye to his father. I hope he did.9
The Narkunda left from Sydney Harbour’s No. 21 Wharf at Pyrmont on 9 January at 11 a.m. Among those seeing Pat off were his mother, Midge, Will and Pete Pettigrew. Those who boarded in Sydney were mainly from New South Wales, Queensland and the Australian Capital Territory and included besides Pat were Gordon Olive and Desmond Sheen. Former cadets with their homes in other states joined the ship along the way.
As Narkunda sailed south towards Melbourne, many passengers took the opportunity to dash off final letters to the relatives and friends they were leaving behind. To Constance, Pat wrote:
Dearest sister,
This gondola is supposed to berth at Melbourne tonight sometime so if I get this finished you should get it pretty quickly.
I have not yet been very sea sick, only slight uneasiness around the centre, but it is quite OK at present.
It’s pretty late now as there has been a struggle around the room, listed on the notice board as a dance. Talk about a game of Rugby. The women would never pass in a beauty show as far as our part of the ship goes but down in the tourist class, w
ell! That’s different.
Going to see Hartnell tomorrow and tomorrow night, the fat thing and suppose I shall run into the rest of the chaps staying in Australia at Point Cook.
The meals are good, but very very widely spaced, as yet, but we have made one successful midnight sortie upon the pantry steward, much to his amazement.
The deck games are good, but the swimming pool is pretty small, although the water is rather clean.
Have written the Mater a letter.
Get hold of one of those photos from Paramount and see which one is the best and give it to Judith, don’t slip up on it will you, on I’ll get my throat cut.
Love and Love to both Robert.
Keep smiling. See you soon.
Pat10
Bob Cosgrove, Pat’s former roommate, was the very last to board the ship in Melbourne on the 12th. He was apparently delayed in Tasmania by his father who had not taken the news of him going very well at all, but it was Bob’s decision. Whatever happened to him from now on would be on his own head.
The Narkunda sailed on and all too soon they lost sight of land. What was ahead of them all now?
3
ENGLAND
The voyage to England by ship early in 1937 was a colourful and varied experience, particularly for twenty- and twenty-one-year-olds who had the world at their feet. In the hot summer the boys put the ship’s smallish swimming pool to good use, Pat usually grouping with Des Sheen and Bob Cosgrove. The route was by way of Colombo, Bombay, Aden, Suez, Marseilles and Gibraltar. It was their first time outside of Australia and their transitory glimpses of the East were just enough to whet their appetites for more. The strange places and foreign languages made quite an impression on them all.
One of the personalities on the ship was a much-travelled youngish Englishman of about thirty years of age who was an army officer by profession and had spent many years in the Dominions. He was an excellent companion and took a lively interest in the ‘education’ of the young pilot officers. Although he gave the impression that the young Australians were the first live pilots he’d actually met, he’d had a brother in the air force for years.
He went out of his way to show the Australians around Colombo and promised something special in Bombay. This turned out to be an offer of taking them on an after-midnight conducted tour of the native vice dens of the city. An Indian Army Colonel of more mature years on the ship heard of the plan and severely warned against the idea. He told them not to be such idiots as they could almost certainly end up with their throats cut at the very least. He viewed their interest in the dare with the gravest misgivings. They assured him that they were merely curious and not attracted to the enterprise in a biological sense. The colonel still insisted on cautioning them not to go.
In the long run most of the boys heeded the colonel’s advice but six, being young and foolish, ignored it. With their English guide they left the ship for the native quarter at about 11 p.m. When they returned the stories they told were chilling.
It was not long before they became uneasy about the sights and sounds of their surroundings. They were the only non-natives among teeming thousands of men and women. Some wore European clothes but mostly the men had on a toga-like native sheet or were just wearing a loincloth or shorts. A great many of them were drunk. Fights were breaking out frequently and their foreign curses were mingled with feminine screams.
In Grant Road, the location of the houses of ill fame, women of all ages from what appeared to be their late sixties to teenage adolescents were caged up behind huge steel grills, gates or trellises. Entry to the houses was only possible after paying a door attendant. Inside, the interiors were poorly lit and the occupants so obviously disease ridden that the young Australians only entered a few establishments for fear of being ‘done in’ for the few shillings they could be carrying. There appeared to be hundreds of these establishments and they seemed to stretch for miles. In reality, they only stretched for a few hundred yards but it seemed unbelievable that there could be so much squalor and filth. The stench of degradation was indescribable and by merely seeing it they felt in some way contaminated.
As the night turned into the small hours of the morning the streets grew quieter. Drunks and exhausted natives slept together on the foul pavements with rats crawling among them and over them fossicking for something to eat. All the time as they walked past the women behind the bars continued to scream and put their arms through the cages-like bars to try to grab them. They looked and were treated like monkeys in cages – it was hard to believe that these poor creatures were humans too.
Eventually the ‘tour’ was declared over. They eagerly left the slums and headed back to the ship. By the time they arrived back they’d seen enough of the East to last them for quite some time. After a bath at 5 a.m. to strive to somehow wash away the squalor and contamination somehow they turned in to try and sleep. Each only had a fitful and troubled rest at best.
At 10 a.m. the Australian pilots were scheduled to visit Bombay in daylight. The half-dozen who had ventured out during the night saw a very different city. They were all conducted to first-class hotels where clean Indian servants served them long glasses of cold beer. It was difficult right there and then to realise that the other side of the Indian penny actually existed. It seemed more the stuff of nightmares than harsh reality.
The friendly colonel was obviously relieved to see them back again in one piece and cautioned once more never to do such a foolish thing again. It was obvious now what he had meant. He went on to explain that there were parts of Indian life which the British were unable to do anything about. British influence only touched the higher administrative levels of the nation. Efforts by tens of thousands of Britons to alter the ways of the people were simply swamped and lost amid the teeming, overwhelming hundreds of millions on the Subcontinent.1
*
Aden was incredibly barren. There was no green of plant life to be seen anywhere, only bare, infertile rocks and heat. At first sight the scenes were fascinating in a way and impressive, absolutely nothing like the deserts of Australia. Everything looked so uninviting and alien.
Once through the Suez Canal the weather turned very cool, even cold. It was winter in the northern hemisphere and in January the supposedly sunny, warm Mediterranean was neither warm nor sunny.
The Australian boys found it too cold to stay out on deck for long and had to abandon outdoor activities for an indoor existence for the remainder of the trip. This they found very tedious and by the time they reached London even best friends were becoming a trifle cranky and argumentative. Except when working, the majority of Australians spent by far the greatest part of their waking life out of doors usually at some form of sport or pastime, summer or winter. Any lengthy period of enforced confinement in a house due to bad weather brought frustration in its wake causing squabbles and petty irritations.
The Narkunda called in at the great naval base at Gibraltar. Many of the ships of the Royal Navy were in harbour, no doubt reminding the Spaniards, currently waging a civil war, that there was no need to become too ambitious about the Rock. The great, massive battleships and their many smaller destroyers made an impressive sight. It seemed obvious that Gibraltar had a water supply problem as great areas of the Rock were covered with corrugated iron. This was presumably to catch water for drinking and domestic use. Coming from a dry continent, the Australians knew something about that.
A few miles away across the Straits of Gibraltar was Tangier. Narkunda stopped there for a short time and found another fleet. It flew the Italian flag. The ships had a modern and streamlined look which made them appear to be much more impressive than the British fleet over at Gibraltar. They looked fast and efficient – more than a match for the obsolescent Royal Navy vessels. When this was pointed out to the friendly young Englishman, he said, ‘Oh no! They’re not so hot really. Saw over them once, wasn’t impressed, all covered with rust, verdigris, olive oil and spaghetti.’ He dismissed them contemptuously. N
evertheless, the Australians could not help recalling that the Italians had recently defied the League of Nations by invading and conquering Abyssinia despite general condemnation. The members of the League had just looked on and said, ‘Tut! Tut!’ They wondered, were the British really as decadent as Mussolini claimed?
Narkunda passed through the Bay of Biscay in full fury – there was an angry gale whipping up enormous seas. For two days the ship pitched and tossed, then the gale subsided but a steady light rain fell from the low grey skies. The seas, rain, sky, all were grey and leaden. It was impossible to tell one from the other. It stayed wet and windy in the English Channel and it was still wet as the ship tied up in the docks at Tilbury the next morning.
The spirits of the Australians were heavy as they struggled with their baggage and passed through customs. They emerged into the same biting wind and soaking rain to board a dirty, sooty train. It might have been Melbourne in winter as they were transported at an unimpressive speed through some rain-sodden marshland on to the endless dreary wilderness of London in February. It was hard to imagine anything much more dispiriting than entering London on such a day from such a direction, yet nothing could have been more typical of an English introduction.
The arrival in London was wet and cold, and the newcomers were miserable. At other ports of call there had been something impressive, something unique. The teeming hordes of Ceylon and India; the incredible barrenness of Aden; the excitement of visiting Port Said, Marseilles and Gibraltar – but not London. It seemed drab, dirty, mouldy, wet and cold. The buildings were not tall and impressive – there were better in Melbourne and Sydney. Nowhere else had they seen as many chimney pots, which gave an impression of bleakness. It all looked so alien, and wet! Back home it would have been summer and hot. February was always hot, but not here.2
A Spitfire Pilot's Story: Pat Hughes: Battle of Britain Top Gun Page 5
