February 24th is a date I'll not forget in a hurry ! - for on this day 72 years ago I came within a whisker of the Pearly Gates. I told my tale here in three separate Posts some 3½ years ago, but as many of our newer readers may not have read the originals, I've now edited and combined them into one story (and added an Epilogue). Even so, it's still much too long for a single Post, so I've split it into two parts. Here's Part I:
Today in '44, in the Arakan in Burma. "Stew" Mobsby and I took off on our 53rd sortie, flying No. 3 (wingman on the left of) the leader, Bill Boyd Berry. We were going some way down south (Donbaik ?), and the formation was climbing more slowly than usual, as we had plenty of time to get up to our bombing height. I think we took off from Ramu II, but cannot be sure - there were so many places, we were moving all the time and they all looked the same.
So quite soon after taking off we passed over the battle area (the Second Arakan campaign was reaching its climax) fairly low. Johnny Jap would take a pot at us, of course, but then he had a go every time we came back from a sortie and did no serious damage, although it was not unusual for aircraft to land back with small arms hits. On this occasion, I felt and heard nothing out of the ordinary, and neither did "Stew". Twenty minutes into the climb, I had a look round the instruments. Oil pressure was zero.
Engines don't run long without oil, and I didn't fancy life as a Japanese prisoner. I signalled BBB (drew my hand across my throat, and pointed to the engine - we kept R/T silence), and started back. I warned "Stew" to be ready to bale out; we were at 3,000 ft and could easily manage it. The next few minutes were nail-biting, but then we were back over friendly territory again.
I was thankful, but starting to have doubts. The engine was still running smoothly. What was more, neither oil nor cylinder head temperatures were rising. I began to think that all I had was a dud oil gauge. With every mile my suspicion grew. By the time base was in sight (there was nowhere closer to land), I'd convinced myself. My screen was clear of oil, so the prop can't be throwing it out. "Stew" said we weren't making smoke, so we can't be burning it through the engine. The two temperature needles hadn't shifted. It
had to be the oil pressure gauge, and I felt a bit of a fool.
Even so, I might have put it down off a straight-in approach, but these were awkward and difficult in a Vengeance because of the very poor forward view at low speeds. So we normally flew circuits. As there seemed to be no hurry, I did so now.
Bad mistake! Downwind, I dropped the wheels and started my checks. The engine seized.
It had shown no sign of distress. Now there was just dead silence and a stationary propeller blade staring at me. The Vengeance was a poor flying machine and no glider at all. It went down like a brick. It was doing just that from a thousand feet - too low to bale out and no time even to think of dumping bombs. I took a last look at the strip, but it would have been suicide to try to get in from where we were with no power.
Nothing for it but crash-land straight ahead. I yelled "Brace" at "Stew", lifted the wheels and cut the main switch, to stop the fuel pumps and isolate the battery to avoid sparks. I can only remember thinking "I must keep 150 on the clock to have any hope of rounding-out at the bottom". Then my mind goes blank.
A mile or so away was an RAF Repair and Salvage Unit. I would think that most of its trade was in salvage. They did not have to go far to collect mine. As far as they could see, I was making for their clearing, but sank into trees before I got there. I must have rounded-out all right, for the aircraft survived touchdown to go skidding through the open jungle. They told me that the tail unit came off first, then trees removed both wings. So far things may have been fairly tolerable inside, if a bit bumpy, for we were having a ride in a sort of high-speed bulldozer. Then the engine broke out.
Deprived of its battering-ram, the relatively light remaining structure hit something hard, broke apart just aft of the gunner's cockpit, and stopped abruptly in the shape of an inverted "V". The front fuselage and cockpits remained intact, the bombs stayed good as gold and the fuel did not go up. Thank God for the brick-built Vengeance! (anything else would have disintegrated and killed us!)
We'd had a lifetime's entitlement of luck in the last few seconds, but were in no position to appreciate it, both knocked out in the crash. My luck had stretched even further. I'd been wearing my "Ray-Bans" under my helmet, with my goggles pushed up on my head. When we hit the final obstacle, the cable retaining my shoulder harness snapped and I jack-knifed face first into the instrument panel.
(The P-40 recently found in the Saraha has the "Needle & Ball" glass smashed. It's dead centre of the panel: it's the only broken instrument glass - (cf 682al's pic on #2709 p. 136) - every picture tells a story).
By rights, the glass lenses should have shattered into my eyes and blinded me. But, as far as we could make out, the goggles had taken the first impact, in the next millisecond the lenses must have jerked out of the frame and away from my eyes. The frame buckled, scooped the bridge off my nose and ploughed into my forehead and left cheek. And that was the total extent of my injuries !
"Stew" had been facing forward, braced head down on his navigation table. He broke a bone in his left wrist and got a bang on the nose, leaving him with an odd disability - he couldn't smell. This was no great loss out there and he got scant sympathy on that account, but it earned him a nice lttle lump sum from the War Pensions people later.
The RSU people ran over to pull us out; watchers at the base had seen us go down and sent the camp ambulance. I came to briefly as they were loading me on a stretcher, and remember the hot sun on my face. I couldn't see as my eyes were full of drying blood. "How's Stew?" - "He's all right". I looked a lot worse than I actually was, and that had an amusing sequel.
I came to fully in a Mobile Field Hospital at Cox's Bazar. They'd had mostly malaria and dysentery cases, and were quite chuffed at getting two proper "battle" casualties. "Stew" got a big cast on his arm and his nose shrank to normal size over the next few weeks. The enthusiastic medics sewed up my face and a surgeon made up a new bridge for my nose out of a patch from my thigh. Kept in place by a "saddle" of dental plastic, this wasn't perfect, but has done very well.
We were looked after quite efficiently by a staff of RAF nursing orderlies, fiercely dragooned by a P.M. RAF Nursing Service Matron for the three (I think) RAF wards. (The Army, of course, had the lion's share of the Field Hospital: it was an Army surgeon who did my job). We must have spent about a month there, then "threw away our crutches" ("Stew's" cast and my nose 'saddle'), and prepared to go off to Calcutta on convalescent leave.
(With me so far ? - Part II in a day or so)
Danny,