Out of the mouths of babes.......
(Danny at Hawarden)
It was not the only time I would be put firmly in my place. I was sitting in the cockpit, waiting for the "trolley-acc" to start me. The cockpit flap was open, a warm breeze from the Welsh hills mixed with the petrol and hydraulic fumes; a lark sang in the heavens. This idyllic scene was interrupted by the appearance of a small, serious bespectacled face in the cockpit opening - "Harry Potter" to the life, half a century before his time.
This was no surprise. A class at the local primary school had swapped a Nature Study day for a trip to our airfield. The teacher (probably a young lady) found being chatted-up over a coffee in the crewroom a nice change from droning on about some nondescript creature or shrub in a muddy field. She had turned her charges loose, she could afford to do this. The young lad of that era had proper respect for property and adults, well knowing the stinging clout round the ear coming his way if he misbehaved. Besides, just to touch a Spitfire was Heaven for a small boy. They would not stray far.
I beamed down on the little lad. Now I would be in line for a nice dollop of hero-worship. He might even want my autograph, and we were sometimes asked "How many have you shot down, Mister?" (the little blighters knowing full well that we hadn't fired a shot).
"Sir", piped this one, "what is the reduction gear ratio between engine and propeller on this aircraft?" I gaped at him dumbfounded. I'd no idea. I knew, of course, that the prop wasn't just splined onto the shaft, and would guess at 2:1 if I had to. But I'd been a small boy myself and knew exactly what this little devil was up to. He'd come across this information somewhere, mugged it up (probably to three decimal places), and was now revelling in being "one up" on every one of us he could find to catch.
Mr Nicholas Soames recalls that, as a small boy, he'd wandered into the library and found the great man busy at his desk. "Grandfather", he'd asked, "is it true that you're the greatest living Englishman?" "Yes", said Churchill testily, "Now bugger off!" My tormentor got similarly short shrift. "That's a military secret! You shouldn't ask! Clear off!" He grinned and disappeared. But of course he knew that I didn't know, and that I knew he knew. Later I learned that I was by no means his only victim that afternoon. (He'll go far, that lad - the farther the better - he should start at once).
We lived in reasonable comfort in the Sergeants' Mess. I don't recall that we had any Pilot Officers on our Flight. Housed two to a room in the huts, my room mate was Alan Morley. He'd been a Metropolitan policeman, a reserved occupation. Aircrew service was the sole exception, he was allowed to volunteer for that, but nothing else, and he'd grabbed the chance. (Later I met a pilot who was a qualifed veterinary surgeon and had got in the same way). Alan was older than most of us, married, with a spell-binding fund of stories about the old East End. We got along very well together, we were both tidy souls by nature and kept our room in strict regulation order. There's no point in trying to buck the system. On a photo in my log book he's perched next to me on the back of a Spitfire. What happened to him I don't know, but I hope he survived. He was a good chap.
Our C.F.I. was a Wing Commander Farmer. We didn't see much of him, but he had one idea which would stand all of us in very good stead. Whenever he was out of his office (which seemed to be most of the time) he'd jump into "his" Spitfire. This had a very distinctive white spinner with a spiral painted on it. In this he'd roam around looking for lone Spitfires. Any that he found in the area would almost certainly be his. Finding one, he'd try to "bounce" it - carry out a mock attack. Catching one napping, he'd haul alongside and note the aircraft letters. There would follow an uncomfortable five minutes in front of your Flight Commander, and a "fine" of a day's pay. If, however, you'd "kept weaving", never flying straight and level for more than a few seconds at a time, watching your rear-view mirror and screwing your neck round* to spot any stranger behind, you'd see the CFI coming. Waiting till he came into firing range (about 400 yards), you'd turn tightly into him - the standard defensive parry. He'd waggle his wings to say "Cheers" and fly off to find another victim.
It drove home the most valuable lesson a fighter pilot must learn - Watch your back! - you'll never see the aircraft that shoots you down! It recalls an old saying (from the WWI trenches) "You never hear the shell that kills you!" There is a romantic myth that air fighting was a knightly combat, and of course there was some like that, especially in the large scale dogfights of 1940. But a much more effective way is to creep up on your man with a piece of lead pipe.
This "fine" business was highly irregular, there was nothing in King's Regulations to warrant it - but nobody objected. All minor flying misdemeanours were similarly punished, and the "kitty" paid for the Flight party at the end of the course. There was a tariff of fines for the things you forgot when leaving the aircraft. First flights were a rich mine for the "kitty", the offender being in such a state of euphoria from having got down safely that he could hardly remember his own name. Taxying in with flaps down was expensive at 10/- (there was some point in this, over grass a stone could be flung up and damage them). Leaving the Radio or Fuel cocks on, and Not caging the gyros earned lesser penalties. I think my first flight cost me 15/- from then on, Nil - you learned fast.
* This was much easier on the neck if you took off collar and tie, and wound a silk scarf, or anything else silk you could beg or borrow, round it.
The witching hour! Goodnight, all
Danny42C
Leader? - he couldn't lead the pigeons round Trafalgar Square!
Last edited by Danny42C; 24th Mar 2012 at 00:35.