Danny gets more than he Bargained For (Part 2)
(Follows Part 1 on #3609 p.181)
Chiefy seemed to be able to convey orders by some kind of thought transference. No word was said, but two steaming mugs of Earl Grey (poetic licence) appeared as if by magic, a tin of sugar and the Duty Spoon were found; soon we could feel again the hammer of the Indian sun and hear the mournful cry of the char-wallah, as we exchanged reminiscences of our years in the subcontinent.
We'd just about finished our tea when the phone rang. They'd found my stuff, they were sending it over. I expected to see a lad on a bike, but instead a 15 cwt turned up. The driver rummaged about in the back and with difficulty dragged out two very large cast iron brake drums - must have been for a 3-tonner at least. Carrying one of these under each arm, and the paperwork between his teeth, he dumped them at the flight hut steps, and came in: "Sign here please, sir".
Chiefy and I looked at these things in dismay. Where on earth are we going to put them ? Two of his chaps carried a drum apiece and the little party went out to my Spitfire. First we took off a wing panel and tried the (empty) gun bays. No good, the drums were just too big to fit any way we turned them. The radio compartment behind my head ? - no room there either. There's nowhere else. Chiefy shrugged. "They'll have to go in the cockpit with you, sir".
Sir did not like this idea one little bit. A Spitfire cockpit is, shall we say, "snug" (it is better to be not taller than 5' 10" and BMI no more than 20). But as our last great "Statesman" was wont to say: "There is no alternative". So we tried.
The seat back is right on the armour plate. You can't put them down the sides, there's too much gubbins down there already. On the floor (was there a floor in a Spit, or just foot rails under the double-decker rudder stirrups ? - Can't remember), they'd curtail the "Free and Full Movement of the Controls" - and what would you anchor them to ? Impasse. Chiefy frowned.
Then he brightened. He sent a lad off for some half-inch rope. Had he flipped his lid ? Was he going to lash the things onto the structure somewhere, to carry them as external stores ? Reason tottered on her throne. But he'd had a better idea than that. They cut a length of rope, enough to form a loop through both centre holes of the drums. "Hop in, sir".
Sir hopped and strapped in with grim foreboding. Then they lifted this monstrous garland over my head (I think it needed a chap on each wing for the job). The two enormous breastplates clanged and chimed like mad church bells. It was a good thing that I wasn't wearing a Mae West, or I would have had difficulty reaching the spade grip, never mind fly the aeroplane.
They'd left the knot behind my neck so that the loop could be adjusted. Too small, and the weight would bow me down: Valley would have the "Hunchback of Notre St. Athan" on my return. Too big. the full weight would fall on my lap, acting as a tourniquet on my femoral arteries, (gangrene would probably have set in before I got back !).
"You'll be all right, sir !" Sir sincerely hoped so.
By now the melodious (?) chimes had drawn wider interest. Had Mr Whippy come round ? A little knot of spectators watched our struggles with some amusement. Chiefy pushed the cockpit door closed, I managed to get the thing started. The mag switches were a bit hard to reach, but I got them on, and the fuel cocks. Luckily. it was still quite warm, for I couldn't get across to the "Kigass" (primer) in the far right corner. I flicked the covers off the two black buttons (Start and Booster) more or less in front of me, pulled the stick as far back as I could, splayed two fingers on my left hand, and poked. It fired straight away.
I pulled out of the line, merrily clanging, and swung onto the taxiway. Not only the marshaller, but the whole bunch of sightseers gave me an ironic salute ! I returned it grimly (morituri te salutamus ?)
Now you are all delightedly waiting for the inevitable disaster to overtake Danny. Sorry, folks, but it didn't happen. It was a bit awkward map reading, but all I had to do was to aim a bit west of north and I must end on familiar ground (Snowdon helped, too). I got back with no trouble at all. I must admit that the airman who marshalled me in had a rather puzzled look (never heard a Merlin make a noise like that - a ring broken ?) and was even more startled when the door flew open, and a Tin Man bawled: "Get these bloody things off me" (he had to summon assistance).
I stamped into the Flight Office to confront a very apologetic Willie. "If I'd known they were that big, you could have had the Harvard". Now he tells me ! It later struck me that, if I'd crashed on the way back, the Court of Inquiry would have had the strangest case of F.O.D. in the history of aviation.
So, all you young "steelies" remember: NEVER, on any account, agree to carry any cargo unless you know exactly what it is and how it is to be stowed.
Goodnight, chaps,
Danny42C
Heed the Gypsy's warning.