NigG (your #244),
...Before leaving the topic of Hill Stations, Danny, Arthur had a special memory of one of these places. The background to the tale was that, wherever they were posted, he always made a point of seeking out suitable priests to administer to the squadron...At Ranchi, he came across a Catholic priest by the name of Father Jacquemotte. He was a Belgian in charge of a Mission in the vicinity...
The RAF adopted that as policy in RAF(G) in 1960. Not enough RC chaplains to go round. At Geilenkirchen they recruited a Pater Gregor (a Cappuchiner [sub-species of Franciscan] from the monastery of Watersleyde just over the border in Holland). A genial white-haired, tough old Bavarian from Ulm, he spoke perfect, accent-free English (POW ? - never asked, should've done, he might have been in a Me109 in 1940 - so would have had a good long time to learn English).
Of course, the RAF paid him a stipend (which his Order would pocket - for he cannot
sell his services) - and sent transport there and back for him on Sundays). Often had him for lunch with us. Knowing I was trying to learn colloquial German, he got his Abt to invite me over for a few hours one evening a week, where they put me in with a monk who knew no English (no mean feat in Holland) and left us to get on with it. Final triumph: told him the legend of St. Swithin and the forty days of rain (July 15th coming up, btw ?) The legend, it seems, not then known in Germany. It is now.
We could hear Mass in the RC Church in town, and it was still the Tridentine in Latin, but the first fruits of Vatican II were coming in. Sermon had always been in German, but now Epistle, Gospel and Paternoster too. But the Masses were of a formality strange to us: men one side of the aisle, women and children on the other. A robed Beadle with a massive rod of office stalked the aisle, marshalling newcomers to the correct side. A fearsome boss on his rod made it clearly inadvisable to argue.
...Down below, was a sight to behold. All the nuns, priests and other staff came rushing out, madly waving sheets and aprons...
Long excerpt from my "Pilot's Brevet" p.151 #3019 (the rest of it may be of interest):
...My debut at Cholaveram did not go down too well. Besides our Calibration Flight, there was another Flight of some kind on the field, and for the life of me I can't remember what they did. But to do it they had one Vengeance, among other types. It so happened that a snag on this aircraft had just been fixed. It needed an airtest and their own pilot was away. Could I do the airtest for them? Of course! Now it was a point of honour for the mechanic who had done the repair to fly as a passenger on the subsequent airtest. Not only for the obvious reason, but because the lads did not get many opportunities to fly, and enjoyed those they did.
My chap was keen, I organised a chute and a helmet for him, strapped him in, and off we went. I later found that their driver was non-operational, hadn't many hours on the thing, and was quite happy to get it from A to B straight and level and land. He'd ask no more from an aircraft on test. An operational Squadron pilot, on the other hand, would put a Vengeance through all its paces. After all, the next trip may well be a bombing sortie: if anything's going to fall off, you may as well find out now.
I told my passenger what I intended to do. He was agreeable, so after satisfying myself that the original fault had been fixed, I took it up to 12,000 ft, did a couple of loops and rolls, then finished off with a dive down on my passenger's Flight HQ. It was a good vertical dive, too, if I say so myself.
Now seven tons of metal screaming straight down on you at 300 mph, the row amplified by the slatted dive brakes and open bomb doors, is enough to make the stoutest heart quail, even if not followed by the thick end of a ton of bombs. (I believe the Stukas used this technique to stampede refugees off the roads in advance of their armour, and they had some sort of siren to make even more noise).
Our old squadron ground crews would take this racket in their stride, and not even bother to look up. But these people weren't so hardened. I don't suppose their Vengeance had ever been dived. It hadn't occurred to me, and if my passenger had thought about it at all, he kept quiet with a wicked grin. I scared the life out of them. Those indoors dived under tables, sending files, ashtrays and glasses of tea flying. In the open, they dropped flat, convinced their last hour had come. Their sweepers, char- and punkah-wallahs ran like rabbits, and it took days to round them up.
I was persona non grata there after that. They chalked up a notice on their crewroom blackboard: "VENGEANCE - NO AEROBATICS, NO VIOLENT DIVES" Then their own chap came back and managed to write it off (he was unhurt). Some wag added: "NO VENGEANCE". They complained to Freddie, but got no change out of him. The Station Commander/PMC reproved me with a broad grin.
...There [Ranchi - in W. Bengal], the pair took the narrow-gauge 'Toy Train' up into the hills to arrive at the Hill Station of Darjeeling...
The would have taken the overnight broad-gauge train up to Siliguri first, at dawn changing to the narrow-gauge "toy train" of "switchback railway" fame to complete the journey.
...They were guests in the Bishop's Palace and...
Jammy ! The best I could do was to meet the Assistant Principal RC Chaplain while recuperating in Calcutta. As a Group Captain, Fr. Feeny was allowed temporary membership of the Bengal Club, which turned away anyone under the rank of full Colonel or equivalent. He invited us to lunch there as his guests. Snag: "Stew" was still a Warrant Officer. Solution: borrow somebody else's cap and P/O's shoulder cuffs, "Stew" takes off his wristband with the "Two Dogs Fighting". Very reprehensible, of course, and the padre would have been chucked out of the Club had it been discovered, but we got away with it, had a superb lunch, and "Stew" was commissioned soon after anyway.
...They walked to a viewpoint and there before them was a panorama of the mighty Himalayas. Most prominent was the snowy peak of Kangchenjunga bathed, exquisitely, in the orange light of the rising sun...
Marvellous pic ! Went up to Darjeeling once (night train from Calcutta Sealdah station), got up at sparrow-fart and climbed (?) Tiger Hill. Everest in cloud, see nothing, waste of time, might just as well stayed in bed and bought postcard.
Have a little b/w print (94x40mm) in logbook, taken by "Stew" from back of VV at 10,000 ft one morning on Nepal boundary (70 miles south of Everest - whole story somewhere on my Posts).
...The following day, a wooden box appeared on Arthur's desk. Inside was three bottles of vintage red wine, with a note that said 'NOT FOR MASS!.
There was a good (true ?) story about the affinity between the juice of the grape and the RC clergy. Airfield in Burma is soon going to be overrun by advancing Jap troops in 1942. Squadron is getting ready to pull back. RC Padre is heartbroken by thought of leaving the Messes' stocks of wines and spirits to fall into enemy hands. Son of the soil as he was, he digs hole, buries the lot in Mess garden, and reinstates turf so expertly that no sign of any disturbance.
Tide of battle turns, Squadron and Padre comes back to same place. Padre grabs spade and digs. All there still - but all labels have come off and rotted. Only thing to do now, open them all and taste. Well, it's an awful job, but someone's got to do it....
Finished as a Monseigneur, I believe (honorary award, sort of "Long service and Good Conduct" badge). Well merited, I would've said. Should have been put up for a MBE.
(your #247),
...You Danny, of course, have that gift, as your many descriptions reveal...
Spare my blushes ! All it is, of course, is just the "Gift of the Gab" which comes with my Irish ancestry. Any one who has it can "
talk the hind legs off a donkey", as my dear old Mum used to say.
Too long, sorry, Mr Moderator.
Danny.