Stop laughing - this is serious
Few of us can honestly say that we have never laughed at the discomfort of others, particularly when the incident was amusing and only pride was injured. As a child I giggled at the antics of Punch and Judy, Laurel and Hardy, and the Marx brothers. Years passed, and adults would laugh at Candid Camera, beamed at embarrassed victims while viewers watched behind the anonymity of the idiot box. Depending on your point of view, the show was either puerile or funny. A keen appreciation of the ridiculous has plagued me ever since, and occasionally it has landed me in trouble.
Take for example the case of my Commanding Officer at RAAF Base Townsville. It was 1960 and he was a Wing Commander with a bristling black moustache, and a no nonsense dynamic personality. He was variously known (behind his back, of course) as Big Julie, The Old Man, The Boss or simply, The Wingco. The radio callsigns of our Lincolns all started with J for Juliet. For some reason, the CO would shorten this to Julie - hence he became Big Julie.
The Wingco had flown Beaufighters during the war and while shooting up some Jap floatplanes in Timor was himself shot down by Zero fighters. They were determined to finish him off as he swam for the shore, but he managed to duck under the water every time the Jap pilots fired at him.
After a long swim in shark infested waters, the Wingco finally made it to shore, only to be betrayed a few days later by a local native who was after a reward. He was shipped to Japan, and like most prisoners of war suffered great hardship before being repatriated in 1945. Later he flew Dakotas during the Berlin Airlift.
I first met the Wingco when he took over command of No.10 Maritime Reconnaissance Squadron which was equipped with Lincoln Mk 31 bombers. The Lincoln was a larger and more powerful version of the well known Lancaster bomber, while the Mk 31 had an extended fuselage forward of the cockpit which contained submarine hunting equipment. Our version was known as the Long Nose Lincoln.
As the squadron flying instructor, I was responsible for the conversion and instrument rating training of pilots newly posted to the squadron. On the day in question I had been flying with the Wingco as part of his conversion to the Lincoln, and had just completed a period of circuit training - known as crashes and dashes. The Wingco had a fairly gruff manner at times and in deference to rank I still addressed him as "Sir", even though I was his instructor. In turn he was scrupulously fair to me, and despite my throwing simulated emergencies at him during his training, he never complained. Except this once - and the emergency wasn't simulated this time..
The day was hot and humid. In the circuit the pressure had been on, but Big Julie had coped well with two engines out on one side and sundry other bits of bastardry associated with learning to fly the Lincoln. The aircraft was not airconditioned and we sweated under lightweight flying suits and protective helmets known as bone-domes. At the end of the sortie we taxied back to the tarmac and parked facing into wind. The idea was to change over with another crew who were waiting outside the main servicing hangar nearby.
Leaving the Wingco in the left seat guarding the brakes and watching the engine temperatures, I folded the instructor's seat and moved forward to remove the escape hatch situated in the nose. This hatch was also used as the crew entrance, as well as a parachute bale out point. A waiting ground staff member then placed a long ladder against the open hatch and signalled me to disembark. Carrying my parachute and nav bag, I climbed carefully down the ladder and sauntered towards the starboard wing to wait for Big Julie who would be following shortly. The replacement crew then climbed up the ladder under the watchful eye of the airman standing by the nose of the Lincoln. Shielding my eyes from the sun glare, I could see the Wingco changing seats with the incoming pilot and then make his way into the nose compartment to follow me.
The four Rolls Royce Merlin liquid cooled engines were idling at 1500 rpm, while the park brake held the aircraft from moving forward. The high idle revs on these engines were essential to keep propeller slipstream passing over the huge radiators which cooled the water glycol agent. If the revs were too low, and the Lincoln not faced into wind, the glycol would soon boil, causing engine damage.
The Wingco had just stepped on the ladder, when suddenly the Lincoln started to move slowly forward. Either the air pressure in the brakes had fallen to dangerous levels, or the parking brake had been knocked off during the changeover of pilots. Either way, the situation was serious, with the Wingco caught halfway down the ladder and 30 tons of aircraft closing over him. Looking up at the cockpit fifteen feet above the tarmac, I could see that the new pilot was busy with cockpit drills and obviously unaware that the aircraft was moving.
I waved frantically to attract his attention and heard the Wingco cursing as he found himself trapped halfway down the ladder which was now passing beyond the vertical. With commendable speed, the airman who had been standing by the ladder, bent double and grabbed the bottom rung. With a mighty effort he lifted the ladder from the ground, and calling for the Wingco to jump clear, staggered backwards at the same rate as the aircraft was moving.
I was still trying to attract the attention of the pilot, when I became aware of the arc of the starboard outboard propeller slashing within inches of my face. I stepped backwards just in time to avoid a close shave - literally. The airman (who subsequently received rapid promotion), continued to walk grimly backwards holding the ladder clear of the ground. Fortunately there were no other aircraft nearby.
From inside the aircraft the pilot heard the commotion and looking up realized that the Lincoln was moving. He immediately locked the brakes. This jerked the Lincoln to a dead stop, causing the Wingco to be thrown clear of the ladder. On the way down he side-swiped the unfortunate airman and both men landed in a sprawling heap.
You will understand that I had never before seen a senior officer in such an undignified position. One second he was hanging from the top rung of the ladder like a hairy ape, and the next second he was hopping around on one leg like a demented frog yelling that he broken his ankle. His bone-dome had fallen over his face and the language was something to hear. The airman was highly indignant, having been entangled with the ladder and flattened by Big Julie in free-fall. My near decapitation by the No.4 propeller instantly forgotten, I found myself helpless with laughter at the scene in front of me and was forced to turn away lest the Old Man spot my tears of mirth.
By now, the action had brought some of the troops out of the hangar, and although they had missed the first few seconds of the drama, they were delighted witnesses to the Wingco still hopping in circles complaining bitterly about his damaged leg, and the sight of the poor airman trying to untangle the ladder about his person.
As it turned out, the Wingco had only twisted his ankle during his fall. I was still biting my tongue to stop the laughter when the Old Man came at me like an express train with a "What the bloody hell are you laughing at, Flight Lieutenant?" I managed to to get out a "Who - me Sir?" - followed by a mumbled apology, before he said- "Get this in the Flying Order Book immediately - In future I want chocks in front of the bloody wheels for all turn-arounds." And that became the fastest Air Force Flying Order that I have ever written.
ROOM WITH A VIEW
Some weeks later it was my turn to look a right twit, this time during a flight from Townsville to Darwin. The Lincoln was indicating 160 knots at 7,000 feet on a bumpy summer day. There were seven crew members including a newly graduated sergeant pilot who was the co-pilot. He needed handling experience on the heavy bomber, so I put him in the captain's seat while I walked back to the rear of the aircraft to stretch my legs. Leaving my headset in the cockpit, I squeezed past the navigator who was taking a sun shot with his sextant through the astro dome. I asked him to keep an eye on the co-pilot and that I would back in a few minutes.
The Lincoln was equipped with three electrically operated gun turrets. The rear turret could also be turned manually via two handles, and was situated at the tail of the aircraft between the two rudders. When turned, the turret would protrude into the slipstream. This caused the aircraft to yaw slightly, especially if the turret was not central for take-off. Entrance to the turret was from inside the fuselage via two small sliding doors. After entry, the gunner would close the doors and secure his lap-strap. It was a cramped and lonely position which could be bitterly cold at high altitude. In an emergency, the gunner could bale out by simply turning the turret sideways, opening the doors behind him, and fall out backwards into the sky. Hopefully he would have first remembered to clip on his parachute.
On my way to the rear of the aircraft, I paused to have a brief chat to the signaller seated behind his high frequency radio sets and a morse key. Each member of the crew were required to be proficient at sending and receiving morse code. This included flashing light signal messages with an Aldis lamp.
Clambering over the wing main spar I finally reached the rear turret, opened the sliding doors, and squeezed inside. The view from the turret was magnificent, although wartime rear gunners would have had little time to appreciate the scenery. In their isolated position they were sitting ducks for enemy fighters and they suffered high casualties.
Mornington Island, which is situated in the Gulf of Carpentaria, passed behind us. Through gaps in the clouds I could see the desolate coastline of northern Australia as we crossed the border between Queensland and the Northern Territory. There were big salt water crocodiles down there, and rumour had it that the mosquitos were even bigger than the crocs.
It was getting bumpy and the aircraft was rolling and skidding as the inexperienced co-pilot overcontrolled on the rudders. The tall fins on the stabilizer were flexing in the turbulence and I began to feel the sweating signs of air sickness. My sympathy was with any rear gunner stuck with a rough pilot, and it was definitely time to return to the cockpit before I disgraced myself.
The turret doors were still open (I had forgotten to close them earlier), and while elbowing myself backwards from the confines of the turret I thought I heard the whine of an electric motor over the deafening noise from the engines and slipstream. To my dismay the turret began to traverse, and in fright I grabbed at the machine gun breeches directly in front of me and held on grimly. Over my shoulder through the open turret doors, I could see the shark infested waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria far below.
The slipstream pulled at my flying suit through the open turret doors and I forced back that dreadful compulsion to fall over the edge that one experiences when looking down from a tall building. Up front and oblivious to the fun and games occuring at the rear of the Lincoln, the co-pilot was thoroughly enjoying himself dodging around clouds, while I hung on to the rear guns, scared witless and unable to fasten my safety belt. I couldn't bear to look down outside the aircraft.
While trying to exit from the turret, I must have inadvertently touched one of the buttons that energized the turning mechanism. Not having been trained on the turret operation, there was no way I was going to release my grip on the guns in order to rectify the situation. Without a headset, I was unable to contact the rest of the crew who remained blissfully unaware that their captain was up the proverbial creek without a paddle. The wind blast through the open door was cold and I was not a happy little vegemite.
After a lifetime, someone realized that the captain was a long time gone, and when attempts to contact me on the intercom failed, the signaller was despatched to investigate. Signallers were also qualified as gunners, and some had occasionally found themselves in a similar fix to myself during their early training.
Arriving down the back, the signaller soon twigged to my predicament, and doubling up in laughter, he happily reported to the rest of the crew that the captain was stuck in the rear turret with the doors open and his bum over the edge. Sure enough, the navigator just had to have a look and he too almost wet himself with laughter.
The new pilot was still gleefully horsing around the cloud tops, and finally the navigator (bless his cotton socks) decided it might be safer for all concerned if I was back in the left seat. The signaller called at me to let go with one hand and attempt to manually wind the turret back to centre. I tried not to notice the ocean far below, and bravely disengaging one cramped hand from the gun breech, eventually managed to wind the turret to a safer position.
After thanking the signaller for his help, I returned to the cockpit and turfed the co-pilot from the left seat. Having regained my lost dignity, I suggested to him that in future he should ensure that all turns should be smooth and well balanced. I added that ham-fisted flying could make the rest of the crew airsick - especially the bloke in the rear turret...