(Part II)
First task would be to secure our belongings. The ambulance crew had reported back to the Squadron what they'd seen when they'd picked us up, but of course it had taken them some time to reach us and I'd been bleeding like a stuck pig all over everything in the meanwhile. So the tale they told was pretty gruesome; the general opinion was that they'd seen the last of me.
No use my kit going to waste. My DIY bed was a prize legacy, they had a draw for that. The rest was shared out among the others; there was no use trying to send stuff after me, it wasn't worth it and the chances were that it wouldn't reach me if they did. (This was standard procedure - anything personal or of value would, of course, be secured for safe keeping by the Adjutant or Intelligence Officer - we are talking about clothing, bedding and towels etc., which you could quickly and cheaply replace).
Six weeks later the bad penny turned up. A shamefaced procession turned up with various items of my kit: "
Sorry about this, old man - didn't think you'd be needing it any more!" And of course I recovered my bed - not that I would need it for long, for all six Vultee Vengeance Squadrons were ordered to cease operations in June '44, and we would shortly be moving out from the Arakan (as it happened, never to return).
"
Worse things happen at sea !"
That done, we went off to Calcutta for our leave (transport no problem, you could always cadge a ride on one of the many 'Daks' which were continually shuttling Cal-Chittagong-all points- east and back. I will not describe our leave now, as I plan to make a separate Post out of Calcutta; it is worth a Post on its own
Back on the squadron, the engineers debated. The engine troubles which had plagued the first Vengeance the year before had mostly been cured, and the most likely explanation for the failure was a lucky shot hitting an oil tank, cooler or line. But in the condition I left the aircraft, it might have been hit by a 3.7 AA shell and look no worse ! They returned an open verdict.
In an earlier Post I have worked out that the Sqdn finally moved to Samungli (Quetta) on 6.8.44, so it stayed on in the Arakan doing nothing much for three monsoon months. Early In that time it must have left whatever 'kutcha' strip it was on and fallen back on a paved strip (I think Chittagong or Dohazari) or they would never have got the aircraft out of the mud to fly away. And both these places were rail points, from which the ground party could move. I have only vague memories of that time, but I flew a couple of times (non-op) in July, and I think I was loaned to 244 Group in Chittagong to do some paperwork, so I wasn't altogether idle.
Once the decision had been taken to stop VV operations, there was absolutely no reason to leave us in the Arakan a day longer. For although there were dozens of 'kutcha' strips, there were relatively few with a paved runway and drainage: these should have been left for the Hurricanes, Beaufighters and Mohawks who could still do useful work even in monsoon conditions. We were just cluttering up the place.
We became entitled to a "Wound Stripe" apiece. This daft and short-lived thing may have been peculiar to India. I never heard of it after I came back. The idea was similar to the American "Purple Heart", at which we poked much fun (it was said that you could get it for being nicked by the camp barber!) But it was entered on our records, and I seem to remember that I had an inch-long gold lace stripe to sew on my khaki tunic sleeve. As we never wore tunics (only bush jackets or shirts), it didn't seem worth bothering with.
"Stew" and I had been amazingly lucky: we both knew we'd live the rest of our lives on borrowed time. It's a pity that no photographs were
AFAIK, taken of the wreck - it would have been quite a memento in my logbook. But then, after all, down the years I've had a reminder every time I've looked in a mirror!
(He and I parted soon after this, as I was posted away from Samungli, but were reunited the following year, when he rejoined me as my "Adjutant" in Cannanore. Having come out to India much earlier, he went home earlier. I looked him up once (in Southend) after the war, but then, I'm sorry to say, we lost contact).
Many years later I watched a TV documentary about an oil sheikh's new racecourse complex somewhere in the Gulf. The architect was mentioned. There couldn't be two of that name! He appeared. Incredulous, I looked at this little, bald, fat chap - a far cry from the wiry young man with the Byronic looks I remembered. (Ah, the ravages of time !)
There is a present-day slant on the tale of my crash. In any forced landing a pilot has to make the best of a bad job. He can do no other. In two cases which have hit the headlines in the last year or so (the 777 which just managed to flop over the fence into Heathrow and the Airbus ditched in the Hudson river), the pilots concerned have been surprised to find themselves publicy fêted as "heroes".
My case was the same as theirs (in kind, though much smaller in degree). Naked self-preservation was the name of the game. Three questions arise: Did I do a good job? - Yes! Was I "incredibly" (in the true sense of that now much abused word) lucky? - Yes! Was I a "hero", in any sense? - Sorry folks, but No! I did what had to be done, and so did they, and we all got away with it, and there's no more to be said.
That's all for the moment, Goodnight, all, Danny42C.
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EPILOGUE
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Since that February morning in Burma, long, long ago, I've often looked back on it and it's become obvious where I went wrong. I should never have decided, in the absence of other symptons, that the oil pressure gauge was at fault. I should have "played safe", assumed the worst and acted accordingly. I should have hung on to my 3,000 feet to the end, dumped my bombs "safe" (there was no provision for dumping fuel), and perhaps lowered 20°-30° flap (which would have given me a lttle more gliding distance if the engine failed).
The coast was not far away, I could have followed the shoreline North until I was close to base. There were miles of sandy beaches. Apart from a few inshore net fishermen, these would be mostly empty, if necessary a wheels-up landing should be easy.
Then I should never have come down into the circuit, but kept my height until overhead the strip (as it happened, the engine would have kept going till then), and used the "90° Left" or "270° Left" procedure taught me in the U.S. for forced landings. (How many times had I practiced this at Carlstrom Field in Florida !) From 3,000 ft, wheels down and 120-130 mph, it should have been child's play to dead-stick it down at one end of the strip or other (there wasn't much wind anyway, just a light sea breeze across the runway in any case).
Instead, you know what happened ! It was amazing luck that I wasn't killed (but if I had been it would have been my own fault). But poor "Stew" (who survived with me) wouldn't have deserved to die on that account.
But then, isn't hindsight a wonderful thing ?
Danny.
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