Dramatis Personae
The new intake of pilots were a mixed bag. There were half-a-dozen of us, all Sergeants. I think three had come from Hurricane OTUs, three from Spitfires. To the best of my recollection, two were RCAF ("Red" McInnis and "Bud" Yates), two RAAF (whose names escape me now, as does the one RNZAF), and myself, the only RAF representative. Three went to "A" Flight under Flt.Lt. (actually he was still waiting for his "Acting" until April) Topley; three to "B" Flight under Flt.Lt D.J. Ritchie, RAAF.
During all my time in India, we were always a mixture of all the Dominions and the Mother Country, and at the end I had formed a pretty firm opinion of the various national characteristics. Canadians were a cheerful lot, a straightforward hybrid of the British and American, with the virtues and vices of each. The New Zealander was by far the closest resemblance to a Briton (in accent and manner) - indeed, he was often mistaken for one. I only came across one South African out there; he was a very nice chap, but, accent aside, seemed rather dour - rather like a Scot. The Aussies were, of course, sui generis as always !
(That should bring something raining down on my luckless head !)
Later in the war, I served several months on 8 Squadron of (for a very short time) the Royal Indian Air Force. There is no such thing as an "Indian"(ethnically speaking). There are hundreds of different races, with different beliefs, practices and mother tongues (I read somewhere that there are more different spoken languages in the subcontinent than in the rest of the world put together).
Of course, in the RIAF we all spoke English, and in those days we had Muslim and Sikh (Hindu) pilots and crews happily serving together. Sadly, a few years later, they would be at each other's throats in the first of four wars.
110 Squadron had only been at at Madhaiganj a few weeks, had just got their new aircraft, and were puzzling out what to do with them. There were more Vengeances - it may have been 84 Squadron - and some American C-46 Curtis "Commandos". This was a sort of big, fat Dakota. What they did, I dont't know, it may have been just a holding unit. They must have had their own Messes over on the far side, for we never came in contact with them.
There seemed to be little or no Station organisation, I cannot remember any Wing Commander or Group Captain. The Squadron commanders seemed to run the place as they wished. There must have been some sort of S.Ad.O. to supervise the Govt. of India Works & Bricks people and the contractor who would do all the catering for the Messes. Everthing else would be done at Squadron level; we had our own M.O. and his minions, our own Accountant Officer, our own M.T. , etc. The simple domestic tasks - like the bhisti, the punkah-wallah and dhobi-wallah - were organised by your "bearer", and that was a matter of personal arrangement.
The Sergeants lived communally, about a dozen to a basha. We got ourseves organised. Two sergeants would share a local "bearer" between them. The Rs20 a month we paid him (between us) was a fleabite on our pay (about Rs280), but as much as a local Indian doctor might hope to get.
Your bearer was your "Jeeves". He looked after your kit, your laundry, cleaned shoes and buttons (not that there was much of that), made your bed, ran errands and generally made life easy for you. He had the miraculous faculty of being able to make a char-wallah appear on demand at almost any hour of day or night. We ate quite well in the Sergeants' Mess, even if there was a lot of curry and it was better not to ask what creature had been sacrificed.
Our daily routine didn't vary much. At sundown you stripped off the sweat-soaked bush jacket or shirt, shorts and socks of the day, showered and changed into clean (long-sleeved) shirt or bush jacket and slacks, and you were ready for a John Collins in the Mess before dinner. (There was no need for underwear; and it would only give you "dhobi rash" if you wore it. This affliction was treated with "Gentian Violet"; in the showers you would give a display colourful enough to rival any baboon's backside).
At this point I should mention that we were very happy wearing shorts, even if we did look like an overgrown troop of Boy Scouts. They are far more comfortable than slacks in the heat of the day; our American allies greatly envied us in this respect.
It was a rule that ankles and wrists must be covered after dark; they are the favourite points of attack for the malaria mossie; I suppose that the superficial veins there are easier for the beastie to dig down to. Even with all the precautions and the daily mepacrine tablet, everybody got malaria at least once, and some several times, while out there. It was regarded as no more serious than
(and felt like) a bad dose of 'Flu. It put you on your back for a fortnight, and you weren't much use for a week or two after that.
On which cheerful note,
Goodnight, all,
Danny42C.
Keep on taking the tablets !
Last edited by Danny42C; 5th May 2012 at 19:10.
Reason: Add Title.