Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
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Walter (your #8387),
Having scrutinised your excellent pics, observe as follows:
No.1 The one for the girl friend ! How debonair a pipe makes a chap look (I had one exactly like it - same reason).
No.2 Half Naked ! (Get those buttons done up, you 'orrible little man !) What happened to the wings ?
No.3 Camp follower ? (like the hat).
No.4 Now this is/was a Tunic in Khaki Drill. Hardly fit for parade, though. A Bush Jacket would be in cellular material, with just a shirt collar and buttons.
Danny.
Having scrutinised your excellent pics, observe as follows:
No.1 The one for the girl friend ! How debonair a pipe makes a chap look (I had one exactly like it - same reason).
No.2 Half Naked ! (Get those buttons done up, you 'orrible little man !) What happened to the wings ?
No.3 Camp follower ? (like the hat).
No.4 Now this is/was a Tunic in Khaki Drill. Hardly fit for parade, though. A Bush Jacket would be in cellular material, with just a shirt collar and buttons.
Danny.
Not only does Dad still fit his RAAF uniform (he will be leading his Odd Bods again in uniform this year in the ANZAC Day parade in Melbourne) but he still has this old jacket in fine condition
Plus a sleeveless pullover and a shirt which came as part of the Red Cross parcels to POWs, marked 'Brasil'. Remarkable how these items of clothing have lasted 70+ years across Europe and Australia
ANZAC Day Parades
Those photos of RAAF Veterans forming up to parade on ANZAC Day remind me that last year I joined former members of the No 36 Sqn RAAF Association in Sydney with the same aim in mind - to march past the Cenotaph and the huge supporting crowds that were there to help mark the event. On these occasions the applause is seemingly unending and a succession of bands provide cheerful marching tunes to help keep the veterans going. Our contingent got the 'go-ahead' from the parade marshals some two and a half hours after the Naval contingents had started off, but the crowds were still there as we marched past - and earlier that day there had been 30,000 at the Dawn Service! I felt great pride in being part of that very special, centenary commemoration of the landings at Gallipoli and the formation of Australia as a nation.
As an RAF pilot, my involvement came about because I had the very good fortune to obtain an exchange posting to the the Squadron in the mid 1960s (half a century ago, now!!!) and participated in all that our unit undertook in and around South East Asia. I have happy memories of flying our C130A Hercules into all sorts of airfields/airstrips with the best bunch of professional aviators it has ever been my privilege to serve alongside.
I plan this year, as in former years, to join up again with the ANZAC contingent to march past the Cenotaph in Whitehall where a short Service is supported by a Guards band and attended by the two High Commissioners, the Heads of the UK Armed Forces and the Secretary of State for Defence. This will then be followed by a most fitting Service in Westminster Abbey where the national flags of the UK, Australia, New Zealand AND TURKEY will be laid on or alongside the high altar. Oh yes, and a Dawn Service will be held at the Australian and New Zealand War Memorials at Wellington Gate, should anyone wish to participate! All events attract large numbers of young Australians and New Zealanders, for ANZAC Day is so very special to them.
"Lest we forget"
As an RAF pilot, my involvement came about because I had the very good fortune to obtain an exchange posting to the the Squadron in the mid 1960s (half a century ago, now!!!) and participated in all that our unit undertook in and around South East Asia. I have happy memories of flying our C130A Hercules into all sorts of airfields/airstrips with the best bunch of professional aviators it has ever been my privilege to serve alongside.
I plan this year, as in former years, to join up again with the ANZAC contingent to march past the Cenotaph in Whitehall where a short Service is supported by a Guards band and attended by the two High Commissioners, the Heads of the UK Armed Forces and the Secretary of State for Defence. This will then be followed by a most fitting Service in Westminster Abbey where the national flags of the UK, Australia, New Zealand AND TURKEY will be laid on or alongside the high altar. Oh yes, and a Dawn Service will be held at the Australian and New Zealand War Memorials at Wellington Gate, should anyone wish to participate! All events attract large numbers of young Australians and New Zealanders, for ANZAC Day is so very special to them.
"Lest we forget"
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Old Comrades.
John (your #8404),
So it is a Bush Jacket, after all. But in a heavier material than our cellular. Must have been very hot and sticky to wear.
When did the RAAF give up the dark blue for the RAF blue ? (the dark looked much better IMHO). And I'm a bit puzzled about the uniform. He is wearing an officer's cap, but I can't see any badges of rank anywhere. The jacket has no belt, and no patch pockets below (where does he keep his sarnies, pipe and baccy ?).
Gongs could do with being hung a smidgen lower, as they are hiding his wings.
Whatever, I'm sure he'll do you proud on April 25th !
Danny.
So it is a Bush Jacket, after all. But in a heavier material than our cellular. Must have been very hot and sticky to wear.
...he will be leading his Odd Bods again in uniform...
Gongs could do with being hung a smidgen lower, as they are hiding his wings.
Whatever, I'm sure he'll do you proud on April 25th !
Danny.
He is wearing an officer's cap, but I can't see any badges of rank anywhere.
....except on the shoulder straps perhaps?
Whatever, I'm sure he'll do you proud on April 25th!
Hear! Hear!
Jack
....except on the shoulder straps perhaps?
Whatever, I'm sure he'll do you proud on April 25th!
Hear! Hear!
Jack
Danny,
The RAAF wear shoulder boards, and they ditched the dark blue back when Pontius was a pilot. At least, a long time ago
The bush jacket is a very lightweight material, the iPhone photo may not show that very well. It would suit a hot climate, of that there is no doubt, but still being wearable after 73 years is a tribute to the standards in those days!
I'll have to talk to ToM about the medals and wings
The RAAF wear shoulder boards, and they ditched the dark blue back when Pontius was a pilot. At least, a long time ago
The bush jacket is a very lightweight material, the iPhone photo may not show that very well. It would suit a hot climate, of that there is no doubt, but still being wearable after 73 years is a tribute to the standards in those days!
I'll have to talk to ToM about the medals and wings
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Nugget90
Those photos of RAAF Veterans forming up to parade on ANZAC Day remind me that last year I joined former members of the No 36 Sqn RAAF Association in Sydney with the same aim in mind.....
I had the privilege of being in London last year, guest of the Royal British Legion at the Cenotaph on 8 May and in Westminster Abbey on 10 May, then parading with beterans past cheering British crowds to our lunch in St. James Park. It was only 2 weeks after I had led my Odd Bods through Melbourne on 25 April, and gave me great pleasure. I fulfilled a long-held wish to be in London for the 70th anniversary of VE Day in 1945, shortly after my arrival from POW life in Germany.
Danny 42C.
The RAAF gave up our dark blue uniforms in 1972/73 and dressed us in the badly designed light blue until I retired. My old uniform was donated to the local Dramatic Society in Werribee Vic, my former home. A switch back to dark blue was made some time ago, much to everyone's satisfaction.
Walter 603
Those photos of RAAF Veterans forming up to parade on ANZAC Day remind me that last year I joined former members of the No 36 Sqn RAAF Association in Sydney with the same aim in mind.....
I had the privilege of being in London last year, guest of the Royal British Legion at the Cenotaph on 8 May and in Westminster Abbey on 10 May, then parading with beterans past cheering British crowds to our lunch in St. James Park. It was only 2 weeks after I had led my Odd Bods through Melbourne on 25 April, and gave me great pleasure. I fulfilled a long-held wish to be in London for the 70th anniversary of VE Day in 1945, shortly after my arrival from POW life in Germany.
Danny 42C.
The RAAF gave up our dark blue uniforms in 1972/73 and dressed us in the badly designed light blue until I retired. My old uniform was donated to the local Dramatic Society in Werribee Vic, my former home. A switch back to dark blue was made some time ago, much to everyone's satisfaction.
Walter 603
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Walter,
Of course ! I see the 'scraper' now. My apologies, Sir.
Glad you've gone back into dark blue. The Aussies were always sui generis, and variety is the spice of life after all. Are the wings gold lace ? (shades of the 1951 new pattern horror jacket, which, mercifully, didn't last long). Buttons bulled to perfection - or are they Staybrite ? And the No.1 gong is a new one on me: presume an Australian decoration.
All in all, you are a credit to your country and to our generation ! I'm only a year older, but I don't look 10% as good and am practically housebound. There must be something in the air down there !
Happy April 25th !
Danny.
Of course ! I see the 'scraper' now. My apologies, Sir.
Glad you've gone back into dark blue. The Aussies were always sui generis, and variety is the spice of life after all. Are the wings gold lace ? (shades of the 1951 new pattern horror jacket, which, mercifully, didn't last long). Buttons bulled to perfection - or are they Staybrite ? And the No.1 gong is a new one on me: presume an Australian decoration.
All in all, you are a credit to your country and to our generation ! I'm only a year older, but I don't look 10% as good and am practically housebound. There must be something in the air down there !
Happy April 25th !
Danny.
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It's the Order of Australia Medal, Danny42C. 'General Order', the 'Military Order' has gold stripes outboard.
(I only know that because I went and Googled it!)
No luck with the unmounted 'dangler', I'm assuming a Commemorative or similar.
(I only know that because I went and Googled it!)
No luck with the unmounted 'dangler', I'm assuming a Commemorative or similar.
Danny,
It's the Prisoner of War Medal, but Dad has much more of his story to tell before we get there so I'll get GBH of the ear'ole tomorrow at lunch for putting this out of sequence
Yes, he has the Order of Australia Medal, the OAM.
So when he visits the UK he is truly an OAM away from 'ome. He'll be there in a month or two, please get the order in for some decent weather
It's the Prisoner of War Medal, but Dad has much more of his story to tell before we get there so I'll get GBH of the ear'ole tomorrow at lunch for putting this out of sequence
Yes, he has the Order of Australia Medal, the OAM.
So when he visits the UK he is truly an OAM away from 'ome. He'll be there in a month or two, please get the order in for some decent weather
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John,
I stand ashamed ! (did not know of the medal - served 23 years in the RAF after the war and never heard of it. Why not ? God knows).
What a clever touch, the barbed wire motif !
British weather is in the lap of the Gods, as ever. Why do you suppose our forebears went forth and colonised all the continents (bar Arctic/Antarctica) ?
Because they couldn't stand the bloody weather back here any longer, of course !
Will probably be a blizzard on ANZAC day (hope not).
Danny.
I stand ashamed ! (did not know of the medal - served 23 years in the RAF after the war and never heard of it. Why not ? God knows).
What a clever touch, the barbed wire motif !
British weather is in the lap of the Gods, as ever. Why do you suppose our forebears went forth and colonised all the continents (bar Arctic/Antarctica) ?
Because they couldn't stand the bloody weather back here any longer, of course !
Will probably be a blizzard on ANZAC day (hope not).
Danny.
Last edited by Danny42C; 30th Mar 2016 at 11:32. Reason: Spell !
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Unofficial POW medal ... glad to see it's not been mounted with the real stuff
See also ...
https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/REL34162.008
See also ...
https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/REL34162.008
Getting a bit slack.
Where were we? Just turning the toe of Italy and heading East.
A quick conference between we remaining two and we decided where to load him up so that we would have equal fuel and take two Javelins each as at that time he did not have enough to reach Cyprus. We would transfer fuel to him just before the final refuelling bracket to reduce the possibility of our hose kinking on rewind as the hose was new and not fully broken in.
About five minutes before the bracket we streamed our hose and he settled in behind. He connected and took his share of the fuel just as we reached the beginning of the slot. He moved well away taking his pair with him and streamed. Once all four had finished with us they flew ahead to get a better height and speed for them than we could offer. We flew as a pair until about one hundred miles from Akrotiri when we slowed down to give him some spacing in the letdown. It would have been nice, and impressive, for us to come in and do a formation break like everybody else but in Bomber Command enjoying yourself was very much frowned upon.
There was no cloud worth speaking about as we viewed Cyprus from thirty thousand and John handed it over to me for the landing. At the top of the descent the dregs of fuel being tossed out of the underwings must have surprised a few people on the beach down below but the rest of the letdown was straightforward. There was a twenty knot crosswind on the runway so I used the technique of crabbing the aircraft just above the runway until it was about to drop and then booting the rudder to line it up to land. The RAF had by then decided to teach the dropped wing technique. They went through about a thousand tyres before people got the hang of it.
Akrotiri and Episkopi, the SBA (Sovereign Base Area), occupied the southern lump of Cyprus and they were little more than a big airfield, most married personnel living in Larnaca up the road. The officer’s mess wasn’t very big; as we were in transit we had to live in dreadful shacks known as Twining huts, two of us sharing something that was little bigger than an air raid shelter. Dave Wright, being a sergeant, had to put up with having his own air-conditioned room in the sergeants’ mess. We decided that as we were in the Mediterranean we had to swim in the sea so we got out our swimming gear and headed off south. We found a path and followed it to the edge of a cliff. That was it in this part of the island, a small bay festooned with rocks and a minuscule beach. With the stiff breeze driving the sea in it did not look like the safest place to swim in either. Undeterred we followed the steep path down and surveyed the scene.
Pride of place was a large coffin shaped rock and somebody had spent a long time engraving. ‘Here lies Black Mak’ on the top, an obvious reference to Archbishop Makarios, the religious leader of the ENOSIS movement. Using this edifice as a wardrobe we splashed about for an hour in the warm though cloudy water. Our skins were already starting to redden in the sun so we packed it in and went back to our huts. Our No1 aircraft landed whilst we were on our way back so after we had showered we were just in time to welcome them to their accommodation and disappear off to the bar.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny so after breakfast I cleared up my mess bill and got a load of useless Cypriot Milles in change. We all went over to the station briefing room for the days brief. Most of the briefing was routine and we co-pilots all agreed between us that the three-engined safety and the stop speed were the same. The take of roll was 7,800ft. but if the temperature reached 29°C the roll was 8,100ft which was our limit. This was because the runway was 9,000ft. in length and we had to have 900ft. left over. Should the water methanol not engage on any engine the take off would be stopped. Even if it was working in these conditions the co-pilot held the throttles open hard against their stops. The first refuelling bracket was just over the water in Turkey, the second turning south just over the Turkish/Iran border and the third at the head of the Persian Gulf. All four of the tankers would get away together otherwise there was no way they could catch up. All sorted we loaded ourselves and our kit into the transport and went out to the aircraft. We went through the normal ceremonies and then we strapped in and waited for the order to start. The tanker leader confirmed that all the Javelins and we were ready so on his signal sixteen Avons and eight Sapphires strained into life. We taxiied in a long line to the runway, the four Javelins following us and as there was still a reasonable cross wind we took of at ten-second intervals. I held the throttles forward on cue and as the water meth went in I made sure that we were getting everything we were supposed to. The acceleration check was good and at 113 knots I called stop and safety and we were on our way. The combination of four Valiants and four Javelins taking off must have made every window in the SBA rattle for five minutes.
As briefed the lead tanker flew separately with his gaggle so they would not get confused. As John was flying there was not a lot for me to do except look at the stark scenery of Turkey and wonder how anybody managed to live there, not only that it was supposed to be the cradle of civilisation. However, back to work, the four fighters topped themselves up and we three moved in to take on all his spare fuel. Despite the fact that we were last he still had enough fuel to top us up so that we were now back to maximum weight. With that he turned back to Cyprus.
As we approached the middle of Turkey the scenery got even more mountainous and forbidding. We all switched off our navigation radars as we were getting close to the Soviet Union and there was no point in them refreshing on our bombing radar frequencies. The solitary Lake Van came up with its little township and airfield and soon we crossed into Iran and turned south. At the second bracket the Javelins shared between two tankers to save time and at the third bracket the first pair took their load and went on without waiting for the other two to finish. The last two were done and they scurried off into the distance.
The heat and humidity were oppressive when we got out. It was like going into a steam room without the steam. I dived back into the cockpit with the others and replaced my flying kit with KD shirt and shorts. I, being there for the first time, looked out of place wearing black shoes. All the others were wearing buff suede footwear known as desert boots or brothel creepers dependent on your outlook on life. We all piled into buses, leaving our ground crew to look after the aircraft so as to give our crew chiefs a break. Apart from catnaps in the bomb-aimers position, they had been going non-stop since we had left Honington.
I had never been to the Arab world before and the thing that struck me was that everything was, or looked, covered in dust. The four Hunters detached from Aden looked as if they hadn’t been washed for months but I found out subsequently that the paint they used for aircraft used to take on this hue in the sun.
The RAF station at Bahrain was all on one level. As we went into our accommodation the chill of the air conditioners was a relief and in no time I was showered and dressed for the bar. We had lost a couple of hours on the clock and the view from the bus had suggested that there was very little else to do. I walked out of the building with my issue sunglasses on and very quickly found out as the world disappeared that sunglasses fog over when they come out of air conditioning.
I met one of my fellow students from my Vampire days who was up from Khormaksa (Aden) with his Hunter. He told me a story about one of their pilots who was on alert after a heavy squadron dining-in night. An army convoy in the Radfan with a newspaper correspondent in tow had been fired on by some rebels from a hill about two hundred yards off the road. They had called up for air support and he had gone for the hill with rockets. Unfortunately, or fortunately in this case, his gunsight was set to guns so when he fired he saw to his horror that the rockets were dropping short and going for the convoy. They just missed it and landed in a wadi about twenty yards away. There was a massive explosion and then there was this fountain of old guns, arms and legs etc. Apparently this group were waiting for the troops to charge the hill so they could pop up behind. The Army was delighted, they thought it was deliberate and the newspaper reporter filled two columns with glowing praise of the Royal Air Force.
To be continued-----------------
Where were we? Just turning the toe of Italy and heading East.
A quick conference between we remaining two and we decided where to load him up so that we would have equal fuel and take two Javelins each as at that time he did not have enough to reach Cyprus. We would transfer fuel to him just before the final refuelling bracket to reduce the possibility of our hose kinking on rewind as the hose was new and not fully broken in.
About five minutes before the bracket we streamed our hose and he settled in behind. He connected and took his share of the fuel just as we reached the beginning of the slot. He moved well away taking his pair with him and streamed. Once all four had finished with us they flew ahead to get a better height and speed for them than we could offer. We flew as a pair until about one hundred miles from Akrotiri when we slowed down to give him some spacing in the letdown. It would have been nice, and impressive, for us to come in and do a formation break like everybody else but in Bomber Command enjoying yourself was very much frowned upon.
There was no cloud worth speaking about as we viewed Cyprus from thirty thousand and John handed it over to me for the landing. At the top of the descent the dregs of fuel being tossed out of the underwings must have surprised a few people on the beach down below but the rest of the letdown was straightforward. There was a twenty knot crosswind on the runway so I used the technique of crabbing the aircraft just above the runway until it was about to drop and then booting the rudder to line it up to land. The RAF had by then decided to teach the dropped wing technique. They went through about a thousand tyres before people got the hang of it.
Akrotiri and Episkopi, the SBA (Sovereign Base Area), occupied the southern lump of Cyprus and they were little more than a big airfield, most married personnel living in Larnaca up the road. The officer’s mess wasn’t very big; as we were in transit we had to live in dreadful shacks known as Twining huts, two of us sharing something that was little bigger than an air raid shelter. Dave Wright, being a sergeant, had to put up with having his own air-conditioned room in the sergeants’ mess. We decided that as we were in the Mediterranean we had to swim in the sea so we got out our swimming gear and headed off south. We found a path and followed it to the edge of a cliff. That was it in this part of the island, a small bay festooned with rocks and a minuscule beach. With the stiff breeze driving the sea in it did not look like the safest place to swim in either. Undeterred we followed the steep path down and surveyed the scene.
Pride of place was a large coffin shaped rock and somebody had spent a long time engraving. ‘Here lies Black Mak’ on the top, an obvious reference to Archbishop Makarios, the religious leader of the ENOSIS movement. Using this edifice as a wardrobe we splashed about for an hour in the warm though cloudy water. Our skins were already starting to redden in the sun so we packed it in and went back to our huts. Our No1 aircraft landed whilst we were on our way back so after we had showered we were just in time to welcome them to their accommodation and disappear off to the bar.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny so after breakfast I cleared up my mess bill and got a load of useless Cypriot Milles in change. We all went over to the station briefing room for the days brief. Most of the briefing was routine and we co-pilots all agreed between us that the three-engined safety and the stop speed were the same. The take of roll was 7,800ft. but if the temperature reached 29°C the roll was 8,100ft which was our limit. This was because the runway was 9,000ft. in length and we had to have 900ft. left over. Should the water methanol not engage on any engine the take off would be stopped. Even if it was working in these conditions the co-pilot held the throttles open hard against their stops. The first refuelling bracket was just over the water in Turkey, the second turning south just over the Turkish/Iran border and the third at the head of the Persian Gulf. All four of the tankers would get away together otherwise there was no way they could catch up. All sorted we loaded ourselves and our kit into the transport and went out to the aircraft. We went through the normal ceremonies and then we strapped in and waited for the order to start. The tanker leader confirmed that all the Javelins and we were ready so on his signal sixteen Avons and eight Sapphires strained into life. We taxiied in a long line to the runway, the four Javelins following us and as there was still a reasonable cross wind we took of at ten-second intervals. I held the throttles forward on cue and as the water meth went in I made sure that we were getting everything we were supposed to. The acceleration check was good and at 113 knots I called stop and safety and we were on our way. The combination of four Valiants and four Javelins taking off must have made every window in the SBA rattle for five minutes.
As briefed the lead tanker flew separately with his gaggle so they would not get confused. As John was flying there was not a lot for me to do except look at the stark scenery of Turkey and wonder how anybody managed to live there, not only that it was supposed to be the cradle of civilisation. However, back to work, the four fighters topped themselves up and we three moved in to take on all his spare fuel. Despite the fact that we were last he still had enough fuel to top us up so that we were now back to maximum weight. With that he turned back to Cyprus.
As we approached the middle of Turkey the scenery got even more mountainous and forbidding. We all switched off our navigation radars as we were getting close to the Soviet Union and there was no point in them refreshing on our bombing radar frequencies. The solitary Lake Van came up with its little township and airfield and soon we crossed into Iran and turned south. At the second bracket the Javelins shared between two tankers to save time and at the third bracket the first pair took their load and went on without waiting for the other two to finish. The last two were done and they scurried off into the distance.
The heat and humidity were oppressive when we got out. It was like going into a steam room without the steam. I dived back into the cockpit with the others and replaced my flying kit with KD shirt and shorts. I, being there for the first time, looked out of place wearing black shoes. All the others were wearing buff suede footwear known as desert boots or brothel creepers dependent on your outlook on life. We all piled into buses, leaving our ground crew to look after the aircraft so as to give our crew chiefs a break. Apart from catnaps in the bomb-aimers position, they had been going non-stop since we had left Honington.
I had never been to the Arab world before and the thing that struck me was that everything was, or looked, covered in dust. The four Hunters detached from Aden looked as if they hadn’t been washed for months but I found out subsequently that the paint they used for aircraft used to take on this hue in the sun.
The RAF station at Bahrain was all on one level. As we went into our accommodation the chill of the air conditioners was a relief and in no time I was showered and dressed for the bar. We had lost a couple of hours on the clock and the view from the bus had suggested that there was very little else to do. I walked out of the building with my issue sunglasses on and very quickly found out as the world disappeared that sunglasses fog over when they come out of air conditioning.
I met one of my fellow students from my Vampire days who was up from Khormaksa (Aden) with his Hunter. He told me a story about one of their pilots who was on alert after a heavy squadron dining-in night. An army convoy in the Radfan with a newspaper correspondent in tow had been fired on by some rebels from a hill about two hundred yards off the road. They had called up for air support and he had gone for the hill with rockets. Unfortunately, or fortunately in this case, his gunsight was set to guns so when he fired he saw to his horror that the rockets were dropping short and going for the convoy. They just missed it and landed in a wadi about twenty yards away. There was a massive explosion and then there was this fountain of old guns, arms and legs etc. Apparently this group were waiting for the troops to charge the hill so they could pop up behind. The Army was delighted, they thought it was deliberate and the newspaper reporter filled two columns with glowing praise of the Royal Air Force.
To be continued-----------------
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Fareastdriver (#8417),
JENKINS (#8418),
I don't think I wore my black shoes more than once or twice during the 3½ years I spent in India. The rest of the time they collected mould at the bottom of my 'tin box'. Knocking around camp I'd wear chaplis ("Jesus" sandals), over knee-length woolen stockings by day. Flying, and in the evenings, I'd wear "brothel creepers". Ours were invariably made in sambhur skin, very soft and pliable. The 'brothel creeper' name derived from the thick sponge rubber soles (to insulate your feet from the hot ground and hot wing surfaces).
Operationally, I wore a pair of basketball (baseball ?) boots picked up in the States. You might have a long jungle walk back home; it didn't matter if they got wet wading streams, for the sides were strong canvas and they had thick rubber soles (I believe the Jap infantryman wore a similar thing, with a separate compartment for his big toe).
All "gone with the wind", now of course.
Danny.
...I, being there for the first time, looked out of place wearing black shoes. All the others were wearing buff suede footwear known as desert boots or brothel creepers dependent on your outlook on life...
...Desert Boots,
Also known as 'desert wellies.' I have enough, unused and in boxes, to last me 'till I pop my clogs. Even flew in airlines in black desert wellies...
Also known as 'desert wellies.' I have enough, unused and in boxes, to last me 'till I pop my clogs. Even flew in airlines in black desert wellies...
Operationally, I wore a pair of basketball (baseball ?) boots picked up in the States. You might have a long jungle walk back home; it didn't matter if they got wet wading streams, for the sides were strong canvas and they had thick rubber soles (I believe the Jap infantryman wore a similar thing, with a separate compartment for his big toe).
All "gone with the wind", now of course.
Danny.
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Happy Accident.
Fareastdriver,
Well, you can't lose 'em all, can you ? - you must win sometime ! (I hope nobody spilled the beans).
And what a saga, getting those four Javelins to where they could do most good - but at what a hideous cost.
Minor cavil: a few dates would be helpful, FED.
Danny.
...The Army was delighted, they thought it was deliberate and the newspaper reporter filled two columns with glowing praise of the Royal Air Force....
And what a saga, getting those four Javelins to where they could do most good - but at what a hideous cost.
Minor cavil: a few dates would be helpful, FED.
Danny.
Danny. we departed Honington on the 26th Oct 1962 and arrived in Bombay on the 28th.
The next day was a fairly early start so that we could take off before the temperature started rocketing. My Chief Tech had bought me my brothel creepers at my request from the NAAFI so I felt more of a world traveller. The Javelins now had a pair of Firestreak misssiles fitted so they were down to two underwing tanks each. We followed the same procedure as the day before and noticed with concern that the first tanker did not seem to take off. When the runway ran out he appeared to carry on just above the water. They had not worked out the humidity penalties for take off so at unstick it would get airborne but there was virtually a zero rate of climb for some time. As we lined up I found that I could not see the end of the runway, most of it was hidden by a glistening sheen which was the damp cold air effect near the ground.
This time the throttles were really jammed forward as we had a gap of seven knots were we could not stop or go and judging by the rate at which the airspeed indicator was moving this was going to be for some time. All went well but when John rotated and pulled it into the air it just seemed to sit there and head for the horizon. The ASI was just starting to show some real interest in moving when the water meth ran out and threatened to sink us into the sea. We climbed at 190 knots until we got some proper separation before cleaning up and getting away. The first refuelling bracket was as we cleared the Persian Gulf and this was followed by a top up as we approached India. We then said bye-bye to our chicks and sent them off to war.
Fifteen minutes separation, Bombay Santa Cruz International Airport wanted, so we orbited for forty-minutes until our turn came. On the final approach we appeared to be flying over a scrap heap of tin shacks and slums. The runway was appallingly bumpy and as we rolled down it I noticed a loose line of men with green shirts standing on either side. I found out later that their job was to persuade the cows to get off the tarmac. We taxiied to the hardstanding in front of the terminal building and we in turn were surrounded by a sea of humanity being vainly controlled by a baton-waving bunch of policemen. We got down from the cockpit and the crew chief started guarding the pannier as a lot were showing an unhealthy interest in the contents. They were trying to sell us everything from jewellery to water and I made sure that my flying suit pocket with my passport and wallet was zipped up securely. Eventually the crowd was driven back and an aged AEO came up. It was the RAF organiser.
“Welcome to India,” he started. “Get your kit into this truck that’s coming with six Indian air force blokes with guns and then move you aircraft over to the Indian Air Force patch over there,” he pointed to an area of tarmac with four Valiants and a few DC 3s scattered about.
We queried whether we should refuel it first.
“No way,” he declared. “That’s what we did with the first four but the tarmac over there is so soft we couldn’t get the aircraft off this bit until we had defueled it some." Our first aircraft had already started and was moving away so we waited for our turn for the ground power unit. It arrived and we looked at the generator towing vehicle in amazement. It was somewhat battered mid-twenties Rolls Royce; its angular radiator still pristine but surrounded in steam from a leaking core. It was an open four seater, its hood having disappeared years ago, with the cracked and soiled rear seat covered with junk and old tools. How it came to belong to the Indian Air Force was no mystery. At the beginning of the Second World War lots of old dowagers and lower aristocracy in the UK had donated their surplus Bentleys and Daimlers to the British army and they had all ended up rotting in a field in Devon, so presumably some maharajah had done the same with this. The big difference being that over twenty years later it was still being used.
The power unit only just coughed up enough volts for us to start the first engine and then we followed the others around to our temporary parking area. Whilst the captains were completing their paperwork I strolled over to the DC3 next door. There were a couple of IndAF corporals working on it and it was obviously past its time and being used for spares. There was a few panels missing and both wing fillets had been removed, you could see the main spar cuffs through the gaps. I waved to the airman and went back to my group. Tthen a bus pitched up and we climbed in. We were just about to drive away when I heard the unmistakable sound of a radial engine being started. The scrap DC3 was starting up and smartly uniformed gentlemen were getting in the back. They were going to fly it!
The bus took us round to the terminal building where we went through immigration and customs. Customs seemed a waste of time as our kit had gone already. We went into another office where there was our RAF AEO chatting to a colleague from the IndAF. A third was something to do with the government and he looked as if he was just about to pay off his mortgage. We lined up and went through the procedure. An ornate form was filled in with our name and passport numbers, we signed each in turn and with a final signature and a bang with a stamp that was it. We were all registered alcoholics in the state of Maharashtra. It was apparently the only way that one could get around the rules. The only other alternative was a tourist licence that entitled you to one bottle of beer or light wine a day. This was no use to us and to be certified for unlimited consumption this procedure was required which was why we were going through this pantomime. We had to wait whilst our crew chiefs finished tidying up and went through the same procedure so I went up to the terminal area out of curiosity. After five minutes of being hounded by hawkers and beggars I retreated back downstairs.
The formalities completed we climbed into the bus and drove to the hotel. Every time it slowed to a walking pace a barrage of hands would be tapping on the glass. The inside was stifling hot but it was better than taking a chance and opening the windows. As with most Westerners my idea of India was marble palaces and simple agrarian scenes. I wasn’t prepared for the appalling poverty on the road from the airport. All the permanent buildings were packed with faces; endless shacks built from whatever was available and even trees had platforms built on them holding whole families. On more than one occasion you could see a vegetable stall owner standing by helplessly by whilst a cow was demolishing his produce. Before the Partition of India there was not such a problem, they could employ Muslims, who had no compunction about booting cows, to drive them away. Another thing that shocked me were the carts with one or two men almost yoked to the shafts. I had never, even in Africa, seen human beings used as beasts of burden. Fortunately the scenery improved as we neared journeys end as I was getting quite depressed and we turned into the Sun & Sand hotel by Juhu beach.
The saga will continue..................
The next day was a fairly early start so that we could take off before the temperature started rocketing. My Chief Tech had bought me my brothel creepers at my request from the NAAFI so I felt more of a world traveller. The Javelins now had a pair of Firestreak misssiles fitted so they were down to two underwing tanks each. We followed the same procedure as the day before and noticed with concern that the first tanker did not seem to take off. When the runway ran out he appeared to carry on just above the water. They had not worked out the humidity penalties for take off so at unstick it would get airborne but there was virtually a zero rate of climb for some time. As we lined up I found that I could not see the end of the runway, most of it was hidden by a glistening sheen which was the damp cold air effect near the ground.
This time the throttles were really jammed forward as we had a gap of seven knots were we could not stop or go and judging by the rate at which the airspeed indicator was moving this was going to be for some time. All went well but when John rotated and pulled it into the air it just seemed to sit there and head for the horizon. The ASI was just starting to show some real interest in moving when the water meth ran out and threatened to sink us into the sea. We climbed at 190 knots until we got some proper separation before cleaning up and getting away. The first refuelling bracket was as we cleared the Persian Gulf and this was followed by a top up as we approached India. We then said bye-bye to our chicks and sent them off to war.
Fifteen minutes separation, Bombay Santa Cruz International Airport wanted, so we orbited for forty-minutes until our turn came. On the final approach we appeared to be flying over a scrap heap of tin shacks and slums. The runway was appallingly bumpy and as we rolled down it I noticed a loose line of men with green shirts standing on either side. I found out later that their job was to persuade the cows to get off the tarmac. We taxiied to the hardstanding in front of the terminal building and we in turn were surrounded by a sea of humanity being vainly controlled by a baton-waving bunch of policemen. We got down from the cockpit and the crew chief started guarding the pannier as a lot were showing an unhealthy interest in the contents. They were trying to sell us everything from jewellery to water and I made sure that my flying suit pocket with my passport and wallet was zipped up securely. Eventually the crowd was driven back and an aged AEO came up. It was the RAF organiser.
“Welcome to India,” he started. “Get your kit into this truck that’s coming with six Indian air force blokes with guns and then move you aircraft over to the Indian Air Force patch over there,” he pointed to an area of tarmac with four Valiants and a few DC 3s scattered about.
We queried whether we should refuel it first.
“No way,” he declared. “That’s what we did with the first four but the tarmac over there is so soft we couldn’t get the aircraft off this bit until we had defueled it some." Our first aircraft had already started and was moving away so we waited for our turn for the ground power unit. It arrived and we looked at the generator towing vehicle in amazement. It was somewhat battered mid-twenties Rolls Royce; its angular radiator still pristine but surrounded in steam from a leaking core. It was an open four seater, its hood having disappeared years ago, with the cracked and soiled rear seat covered with junk and old tools. How it came to belong to the Indian Air Force was no mystery. At the beginning of the Second World War lots of old dowagers and lower aristocracy in the UK had donated their surplus Bentleys and Daimlers to the British army and they had all ended up rotting in a field in Devon, so presumably some maharajah had done the same with this. The big difference being that over twenty years later it was still being used.
The power unit only just coughed up enough volts for us to start the first engine and then we followed the others around to our temporary parking area. Whilst the captains were completing their paperwork I strolled over to the DC3 next door. There were a couple of IndAF corporals working on it and it was obviously past its time and being used for spares. There was a few panels missing and both wing fillets had been removed, you could see the main spar cuffs through the gaps. I waved to the airman and went back to my group. Tthen a bus pitched up and we climbed in. We were just about to drive away when I heard the unmistakable sound of a radial engine being started. The scrap DC3 was starting up and smartly uniformed gentlemen were getting in the back. They were going to fly it!
The bus took us round to the terminal building where we went through immigration and customs. Customs seemed a waste of time as our kit had gone already. We went into another office where there was our RAF AEO chatting to a colleague from the IndAF. A third was something to do with the government and he looked as if he was just about to pay off his mortgage. We lined up and went through the procedure. An ornate form was filled in with our name and passport numbers, we signed each in turn and with a final signature and a bang with a stamp that was it. We were all registered alcoholics in the state of Maharashtra. It was apparently the only way that one could get around the rules. The only other alternative was a tourist licence that entitled you to one bottle of beer or light wine a day. This was no use to us and to be certified for unlimited consumption this procedure was required which was why we were going through this pantomime. We had to wait whilst our crew chiefs finished tidying up and went through the same procedure so I went up to the terminal area out of curiosity. After five minutes of being hounded by hawkers and beggars I retreated back downstairs.
The formalities completed we climbed into the bus and drove to the hotel. Every time it slowed to a walking pace a barrage of hands would be tapping on the glass. The inside was stifling hot but it was better than taking a chance and opening the windows. As with most Westerners my idea of India was marble palaces and simple agrarian scenes. I wasn’t prepared for the appalling poverty on the road from the airport. All the permanent buildings were packed with faces; endless shacks built from whatever was available and even trees had platforms built on them holding whole families. On more than one occasion you could see a vegetable stall owner standing by helplessly by whilst a cow was demolishing his produce. Before the Partition of India there was not such a problem, they could employ Muslims, who had no compunction about booting cows, to drive them away. Another thing that shocked me were the carts with one or two men almost yoked to the shafts. I had never, even in Africa, seen human beings used as beasts of burden. Fortunately the scenery improved as we neared journeys end as I was getting quite depressed and we turned into the Sun & Sand hotel by Juhu beach.
The saga will continue..................
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Fareastdriver,
Phew ! So many points in the story that I can relate to ! Stand by for a fuller commentary later.
First fruits of the dates: the Javelins' 'War' would be the Indonesian Unpleasantness, I take it. Was on standby myself for that, got a set of jabs and a lovely new blue and gold passport from the RAF, but they managed without me somehow.
Danny.
Phew ! So many points in the story that I can relate to ! Stand by for a fuller commentary later.
First fruits of the dates: the Javelins' 'War' would be the Indonesian Unpleasantness, I take it. Was on standby myself for that, got a set of jabs and a lovely new blue and gold passport from the RAF, but they managed without me somehow.
Danny.