Akyab 1945
Thank you Danny for pointing me towards your #2983. As a comparative newbie I can see I will have to go back and catch up with your older postings - something to look forward to during the coming winter!
Your Indian transcontinental journey was indeed an epic. Re gauge breaks, I believe the problem is usually solved today by having wheels that can be slid along the axles and locked in position as required; another, more ponderous, method is to lift the carriages and replace the bogies. Apologies if this already known....
Today being 11/11 it seems not inappropriate to post my next 'episode', as it covers the final ending of another great conflict:
On the upper part of the Bay of Bengal, the July-August period sees the peak of the south west monsoon period. Rain, frequent and usually torrential, sometimes continuous for hours on end and often accompanied by strong winds, lightning, and intense thunder, was often our lot – nowhere else have I heard thunder reverberate so threateningly, booming and echoing endlessly among those monstrous pillars of cauliflower and anvil-headed cloud that generate it. These phenomena usually occurred as part of a broader weather pattern, being mixed up with and concealed from view in more innocuous stratus-type cloud, and were a constant and much-feared in-flight hazard - for it was commonly believed that the turbulence they generated could overstress an aircraft to destruction.
Now while some aircraft did indeed come to grief in this way, it has always been open to dispute as to whether this was due to mis-handling placing strain on the aircraft additional to that already generated by the rough air, or straightforward airframe failure on its own. At that time there was no agreed ‘best technique’ for flight in such conditions, the later proven method of riding the storm using smooth, gentle control inputs to maintain attitude rather than ‘fighting the controls’ being only one of several methods advocated by sundry local ‘experts’; so yes, little doubt that poor handling might have been responsible for at least a few of the losses that occurred, as experience since then has shown that thunderstorms can be penetrated without necessarily coming to grief. Nevertheless the practice is, without doubt, best avoided for it is impossible to predict exactly what they may contain and even flight adjacent to them can be hazardous - as I discovered to my cost in later years, with assault by hailstones (in clear air) resulting in a seriously damaged windscreen.
A typical day’s work would start about an hour before dawn, being shaken rudely awake by an RAF policeman on his early call round. Following an inadequate, greasy breakfast of ill-tasting powdered egg, beans (if lucky) and one of those detestable triangular soya link sausages, a slow and bumpy ride standing in the back of a 3-ton truck delivered us to the flight line. Here we went through the usual, rather basic, pre-flight procedures, having first been told of our task for the day. This was invariably to deliver a load of stuff such as food rations, drums of petrol, general cargo or sometimes passengers, to any one of a small selection of airfields in the central Burmese plain about ninety minutes flying time away. Then followed the formality of a meteorological briefing, when the forecaster would warn in general terms of the high probability of storms over the coastal mountain range we had to cross (a statement of the obvious), after which we would walk out to the flight line to our allotted aircraft. No doubt a flight plan was drawn up at some stage, but there was little point really; one just took off and climbed up heading in a vaguely ENE direction, knowing that, on breaking cloud after passing the high ground, one’s destination was readily found by using certain prominent landmarks that were easily picked out in the clear conditions prevailing east of the mountains. No fuel load calculations were needed as more than enough was carried for the return flight, the standard (and highly wasteful) procedure being to brim tanks prior to departure..
Daylight was usually breaking as our stream of Daks taxied towards the runway, the psp (*1) rattling and clanking beneath, while it was most likely raining as well. Given an all-up weight that invariably approached the 31,000lb maximum, considerably above the normal (I think) peacetime limit of 26,500lb, - see below), take-off was always a protracted affair - just as well that our Pratt & Whitney engines were so reliable! Climbing up through the rain and cloud, one scanned anxiously ahead for any lightening of the murk that might indicate a break into clear air, but might equally well be glare reflected off large storm clouds lying just the other side of said break; for with search radar long in the future, avoidance of rough stuff was a mixture of luck and instinct with (most of the time) the former predominant. Too often, emergence into clear conditions revealed a line of towering cumulus right ahead; trying to out-climb their rapid build-up was futile, leaving only two options - turn left or right and fly along the wall of cloud looking for a gap, or turn back. In practice this latter course was seldom if ever taken, and eventually a likely-looking spot would probably appear and one would turn hopefully towards it with crossed fingers.
What happened next was like a toss of the dice, either light rain and a slight bump or two at one extreme or at the other an impression of flying through almost solid water, accompanied by the roughest of rough rides. Being unpressurised, water leaks were a constant nuisance - indeed it was said that Dakota pilots were always recognisable from their oil-stained trousers, the incoming water having picked up fluid that had escaped from the hydraulically driven windscreen wipers. But eventually one broke out into clear air, so soon it was time to think about descent towards our destination – during my brief period at Akyab usually Myingyan or Meiktila, then little more than dusty landing strips in the central plain.
Now while the Dak was a viceless bird it was, like all others, subject to the normal laws of aerodynamics and thus could, if mishandled, catch out the unwary; so on my first attempt at arrival I was both surprised and highly mortified when, instead of our wheels kissing the runway as expected we struck the ground an almighty thump, bounding back into the air so vigorously that it was necessary to apply full power and go 'round again' for another attempt. The experienced pilot accompanying me (normal procedure for a 'new boy'), after pointing out that a heavily loaded aircraft was a different animal from the near-empty ones I had been accustomed to, recommended that a trickle of power be kept on during the flare and idle power only selected after positive main wheel contact.
By using this technique it was easy to achieve a 'greaser' every time but it had its drawbacks, most notably an increase in the landing run – especially so as, to ensure a greater delicacy in elevator response, one tended to use less flap than for a textbook landing. In a combination of ignorance and laziness I adopted this method as standard, for it worked fine on runways of adequate length but, in less favourable conditions, could be a potential trap for the ignorant or stupid such as myself. This I found out the hard way when one day, confronted with a runway considerably shorter than normal, my gross mishandling placed myself and crew in a near-fatal situation - from which we recovered only by instinct, good luck, and an instant response from Messrs Pratt & Whitney. A lesson was duly learned, though only later did I realise my learning had been flawed and I was duly steered in the right direction by older and wiser aviators (in the best traditions of the comic press, for a full account don't miss the next issue – or maybe the one after!). There is also the point that we were operating at weights probably not envisaged by Mr Douglas and his design team; for aside from the usual over weight condition at takeoff, there can be little doubt that, on short sectors anyway, we must have been well above any sensible landing weight limit too.
The return flight back to Akyab was almost invariably without payload, reduced weight allowing the aircraft a more nimble performance. Taking advantage of this we would sometimes indulge in a little (illegal) low flying, before having to climb and confront again the coastal mountain range and its storm clouds that had usually been re- invigorated since our outbound run; so once more we bumped our way through the murk, rain lashing the windscreen and again soaking our trousers, guided by the steady needle of the radio compass that indicated base lay dead ahead. With luck we might break free of solid cloud, commencing descent homewards through a grey and overcast sky as the three-pronged Baronga islands appeared distantly through the murk, thus signalling we had not far to go; probably it would still be raining, if hopefully light enough for only rivulets to run diagonally across the glass rather than those almost solid walls of water of a few minutes before.
With July shading into August it was apparent that, with our task in Burma visibly diminishing, we would soon be engaged in the next stage of our war i.e. the reconquest of Malaya. There was much speculation as to what form this might take, but was in any case obvious that it would not be an easy task. For geographical reasons, any notion of an overland advance down the long, thin isthmus linking Malaya with Burma and Thailand was hardly feasible, leaving an air-supported amphibious operation as the only alternative. For us this would mean a flight of at least several hundred miles to the most likely area of assault, probably on the mainland near Penang – but the most interesting unknown was, then what? There & back was at the limit of (if not outside) a Dakota's operating range, while en-route diversion airfields were either inadequate or non-existent; perhaps our invading forces would concentrate on capturing the airfield at Butterworth before we ran out of fuel? Much hot air was expended in consideration of what the future held for us, until the (literal) bombshell of August 6th reverberated round the world; yes the war continued for a few days yet, but the destruction of Hiroshima made it obvious that Japan had to yield.
As indeed it did, nine days later. All work ceased on the news coming through in late afternoon, the various bars filling to capacity in a remarkably short space of time with life becoming rather hazardous as sundry firearms were discharged in a sort of disorganised 'feu du joie”. I regret to say I joined in, fortunately having the presence of mind to point my revolver skyward while doing so before subsiding (like many others) into an alcoholic stupor; yes disgraceful I know, but we were young and now knew we could be reasonably sure of survival into a post-war world.
Although aware my crew was scheduled for an early flight the following I had stupidly assumed that, with the war now virtually over and Victory celebrated world-wide, all tasks would be cancelled for at least a day or two; but no, I was roughly shaken into life at some ungodly hour to undertake whatever our masters had laid on for us. Following the accustomed bumpy ride to the flight line, in the company of many other gin-soaked crews, we were told to take a load of rations to an unfamiliar destination - Toungoo, an isolated spot some distance north of Rangoon, and in an area covered largely by secondary jungle. As this reputedly contained isolated pockets of Japanese troops, I felt some disquiet as we dragged out the latter part of the flight at low altitude; might they take some pot shots at us? An unworthy idea of complaining to our navigator for miscalculation of the descent point did occur to me, but was soon dismissed – for, beyond doubt, was he not suffering the same withdrawal symptoms as the rest of us?
Over the next two weeks the daily task grew ever more slim, so it was no surprise to be informed that the whole sub-cheese (*2) - all the Akyab based squadrons, not just us – would move en masse to Mingaladon, Rangoon's main airfield about 20 miles north of the city; so, come the day, we piled into our Daks, air and ground crew all mixed up together, and set off on the fairly short flight further south wondering what the future might hold.
Notes:
*1: Pierced (or perforated, according to preference) steel planking, a real war-winner used worldwide for construction of temporary airfields, was a thoroughly brilliant invention consisting of steel planks approx 8ft x 1½ ft which were little more than a series of holes connected by metal; they could be slotted together endlessly (and in multiple layers if necessary, for added strength) to quickly make roads or runways that required little maintenance. Like the barbed wire pickets of WW1, still used to this day in some parts of rural NE France, PSP lingered usefully long after WW2 and may yet be found in some out of the way locations. It had its drawbacks of course, being skid-prone when wet while tyre damage could result if adjoining plates became unfastened.
*2: Sub-Cheese: An Indian word (probably Urdu, which I think was a language that might loosely be termed 'military Hindustani') meaning 'everything, the whole lot, etc', here spelt phonetically; I never saw it in writing so am unable to do any better, but perhaps Danny can provide some enlightenment!