Fighter Pilot

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Fighter Pilot Page 24

by Christina Olds


  “Well, Major,” Burne said, “welcome to 1 Squadron. Bit of a bother this damned weather, but I expect you’ll soon get used to it.”

  Turning to the room in general, with a huff and a small cough that made his magnificent mustache tremble, Squadron Leader Burne announced, “Gentlemen, this is Major Olds of the United States Army Air Forces. Major, these are the chaps. That tiny one over there is Flight Leftenant Sammy Osborne, a thoroughly useless fellow. And over there, Keith Pearch, our Turk. Here we have Patterson, a colonial from some unlikely place out in the Pacific I think. This next chap is one of yours, another Yank. Goes by the name of Dean Jones. Decent enough, but doesn’t seem to be able to leave the old RAF no matter how hard we try to send him packing. Jones, say hello to the major, and mind your manners, he’s a big one, this Yank. Ought to do well at dining-in. The rest of these scruffy chaps are our other ranks. Volanthan, good head on him. Foster, silly man wants to be an officer. Young Barton here, and our resident socialist, Flight Warrant Officer Cover. You might smile a bit, Cover, we can’t have our Yank thinking the current government of ‘jolly old England’ hasn’t a sense of humor. And here we have the backbone of the old unit, Chiefy Frazier, and his second, Flight Sergeant Bader. These two chaps keep our kites fit and ready for flight.”

  Introductions made, the CO turned toward me. He was heavyset; “portly” was a better description. His florid face and full cheeks were ample and solid support for the sweeping handlebar mustache that all but hid his mouth. He had a pronounced limp, and I heard the same squeak that had accompanied the heavy thumping steps coming down the hall of our sleeping quarters early that morning. Obviously, he had a leg off and sported some kind of prosthesis. I wondered how he flew. My own air force would have retired him forthwith, intelligence and usefulness notwithstanding.

  “That’s it then, Major. I expect you’ll want to buzz off to the adjutant’s office and get read in on squadron bumph and all that sort of thing. But first have a look at what we call ‘Pilots Notes.’”

  The squadron leader handed over a booklet about the size of a Reader’s Digest, but much thinner, perhaps no more than fifteen pages. A worn and dilapidated chair with the stuffing bunched all to one side sat empty in a corner. Going over, I thought of the rash of lessons so quickly evident. Squadron Leader Burne was a man to be reckoned with. He knew his people, and maintained a gruff, good-humored association with them. They respected him and did not resent his brand of understatement. I could tell he liked little Sammy, the Turk, Keith, and the New Zealander. He tolerated Jones and Barton. The two warrant pilots, Volanthan and Foster, were solid members of the squadron, but still “other ranks.” You knew the CO was certainly not a socialist and didn’t think much of the current government. You also knew he could barely tolerate Cover, but would never let that interfere with his sense of fair play and judgment in dealing with the man. Anyone with the squadron leader’s impairment and in his position had to be a determined and resourceful individual. I knew I would enjoy working for him, but also I sensed I would quickly come to like him as a friend. Finally, I wondered what “bumph” was and why I had been identified as quite likely to do well at dining-in, whatever that might be. All in good time, I thought.

  The cover of the booklet handed to me by the squadron leader simply said “Pilots Notes” and halfway down the page: “Meteor IV.” The first page was a general description of the aircraft. A row of them could be seen through the rain-streaked window. They sat on the grass, gray in color and notable for their high, horizontal stabilizers. Twin engines were buried in wing pods on either side of the somewhat long fuselages. Gun ports were visible in the noses, and the RAF roundel with the station and squadron identifying letters gleamed on the fuselages midway between the trailing edge of the wing and tail section. None of this, nor the first page of the book, taught me much, but the impression was good. A general paragraph about the engine came next, and I was musing at what seemed to be the quaint spelling of a device called the “carburettor” when the CO stumped over.

  “Righto, Major,” said he, “let’s go have a look at the kite.” Having seen many a movie about my heroes, particularly David Niven in The Dawn Patrol, I knew immediately that “kite” meant the aircraft assigned to the squadron. Smart lad, I thought; that practically makes me a bona fide member of the RAF. Looking at the bird, er, kite, was a great idea and would make understanding the rest of the little booklet much easier. Chief Frazier joined us as we splashed out to the tarmac. The chief carried a big black umbrella and held it expertly over the CO. I trudged along behind in the rain.

  At the aircraft, there was a wooden stand with stairs moved up against the fuselage next to the cockpit; for the CO, I thought. This proved to be right. Up he went, a step at a time, and motioned to me to join him. The first thing I saw in the cockpit was a parachute already placed in the seat. It looked to me as though it had been there for a long time. As I found when the CO invited me to climb in, both assumptions were entirely correct. I can’t honestly say that water squirted out of the parachute in every direction as I sat, but I will testify that my bottom was instantly soaked and icy water ran down the backs of my legs.

  The CO leaned over me in the cockpit. “Have a look round, Yank. All the usual stuff scattered about, as you can see. Throttles here, flap handle just there, and gear handle over there. All work as you might expect. That’s the position indicator just there, and down between your feet: the compass. Damned thing wants to swing about but the boffins are working that out at present.” I wondered, What’s a “position indicator” and who are “boffins”?

  “Oh, and here we have the … umm, ah … don’t know what you Yanks call it, but it’s quite useful.” (“Quite useful” was sitting cattywampus within its case and occupied the center place of honor on the instrument panel.) “Belts are a bit different, you’ll see. Parachute shoulder straps come over, leg straps come to the crotch and go under the loop, then all snap smartly into the quick release here on your chest. You then rotate the catch. Got that? Now, the shoulder restraints go over and into the lap belt device. Snap, and you’re snugly in. Good chap.”

  The CO was warming to his task. Leaning forward, he pointed to a pair of buttons hidden on the upper left side of the instrument panel under the glare shield. All this time the rain continued, and the canopy was open, but who cared when you were having so much fun?

  “Right you are, old boy! Advance the left throttle just past the idle stop. Good. Now, smartly press that left tit”—tit? I thought it was a button—“then reach back port side behind the seat and grasp the outboard lever, pushing down slowly, whilst watching that temp gauge over there.”

  I did as I was told and a whine grew in volume. Needles on a flock of gauges showed what I assumed to be rpm, temp, oil pressure, and fuel flow climbing. I had managed to start the left engine without blowing us up and felt satisfied that I would find the rest of my checkout easily accomplished after completing the ground training phase and successfully passing the expected written exam.

  Not to be so.

  “Now then, Yank, start the right. Same procedure, other hand, other side.”

  A horrible suspicion swept over me. The right engine started easily. I watched as the gauges settled down and the “quite useful” object in the center of the instrument panel came to sluggish life like a boat being tossed on a violent sea.

  “Jolly good,” said the CO as he handed me a leather helmet. Then he patted me on the shoulder and said happily, “Now then, old boy, off you go!”

  Off I go to WHERE, for God’s sake? Hell, I didn’t even know where the runway might be, let alone how to close and lock the canopy, how to turn on the radio, what my call sign was, whom to call, what kind of clearance to get, at what speed to take off, where to fly in this soup, and more important, at what speed this critter landed. Most of all, how in the name of all that’s holy was I ever going to find the field again in this stinking weather? The answer to these and a few other minor detai
ls didn’t come immediately to mind, so I thought I might take a while finding out how to work the radio. Maybe if I took long enough I could run myself out of gas, er … petrol here on the ground.

  It did cross my mind that the CO probably had some deep-seated aversion to Americans, and the son of a bitch was trying to kill me right then and there. Putting those thoughts aside and turning my attention to the radio, I soon found the lead wire that fastened to my helmet. I also found the oxygen hose connection. Not that I had any intention of going anyplace I might need oxygen, but old habits die hard, and the oxygen mask contained the microphone. Unfortunately, the radio was designed with morons in mind, and I realized my scheme to run out of fuel on the ground was no longer valid. A switch was clearly labeled ON-OFF. And it worked. I looked around the cockpit, trying to find any gauge telling me something was terribly awry, but that was no good, since I hadn’t a clue as to what most of them meant anyway.

  The radio was a four-button VHF set, very similar to those in the States. I pressed button A and listened to the familiar hum, then an open silence as the set cycled to that frequency. Not knowing who or what might be on the receiving end, I timidly said, “Hello?”

  A cheery voice came back immediately. “That you, Yank? Tangmere Flying Control here. What can we do for you?”

  What I wanted him to do for me was not printable or speakable, so instead I said, “Uh, what’s the active runway?”

  “Runway 27,” said he. “QNH 29.87, ceiling 100, vis 500, light rain. You are clear to taxi.”

  Taxi where, I thought? And what in hell is QNH? Ceiling I can see, but vis 500? Five hundred feet or 500 yards? It sure as hell wasn’t 500 miles! He must mean yards. I can see that, too. Holy mackerel, what am I doing? Make a plan—now!

  “Uh, Tangmere Tower … I mean Control … uh, just where is the runway?” (Damn it, it’s not my fault I sound so stupid!)

  “Yank, this is Tangmere Flying Control. Turn left from your present position and taxi east. Further instructions to follow.”

  This was strange. Making a left turn put me out in the middle of the flying field. Nothing but grass. With rain puddles. And much splashing. Maybe one of the engines would suck up enough water to quit. Or maybe I could find a nice patch of mud and get stuck. Might be embarrassing, but I’d be alive tonight. No such luck. That expanse of macadam on my right … oops, starboard … was obviously the missing runway. I taxied on east till I saw the end, turned onto it, and held the brakes. A lot had happened during the past six minutes. I had taught myself to use the differential braking system connected to the rudder bar and operated by a hand lever on the stick grip. I had discovered “quite useful” was the RAF version of an attitude indicator. The horizon line had happily bounced up and down and waggled side to side as I lurched along on the grass. It was plain to see that the set of needles, one pointing more or less up and the other more or less down, was the British equivalent of the American needle and ball. I knew how to operate the radio and oxygen system. The engine instruments, though giving me indecipherable information, were at least telling me something as opposed to nothing. I had learned to close and lock the canopy. And I had told myself the rest of the gadgets didn’t matter.

  What did matter, and what I didn’t know, was how to get this beast back on terra firma in such weather. Come to think of it, I hadn’t flown instruments for a long, long time. It was back there in sunny Southern California. Was there a ground-controlled approach unit? I hoped so. There had to be. What was its radio frequency? At what speed did one fly the pattern? How slow or fast did you operate the gear and flaps? Those were minor considerations compared to the problem of getting back to the base. If I could just find the damned runway and get lined up, I felt sure I could get down in one piece.

  Well, I thought, here goes nothing, and released the brakes.

  “Tangmere, Yank is rolling.”

  “Righto, Yank, have a good flip.” (Flip?)

  I pushed the throttles forward, made sure I was aligned, glanced inside for the engine and oil gauges, couldn’t find them, and peered through the heavy front glass at the runway ahead. The Meteor IV accelerated smoothly and the stick grip came alive. Experience told me when the elevators began to bite, and the nose rose easily with a slight aft stick movement. Now we skimmed along nose high, gaining speed rapidly. The jet felt eager to fly, and I no longer gave a damn about the rain smearing my windscreen and the dank clouds just feet above my head. The wheels left the earth and I immediately and instinctively pulled back the throttles, raised the gear, and lowered the nose. Not fast enough. We sailed up into the murk and I was in a dark gray bottle of milk. But things felt good, and “quite useful” was steady and level. I inched the power back a tad more and eased the stick forward very slightly. Keeping my eyes over the leading edge of the left wing, I watched for Mother Earth to reappear. Sure enough there she was, just where I had left her, trees and all. I settled into a very low and very slow cruise, and did a gentle 90-degree turn to my left, er … port. I knew that would bring me to the south coast near Bognor Regis, as I had done some map reading as soon as I knew of my assignment. After four minutes, more or less, houses appeared in the murk and I had to make a correction to avoid a large natural-gas storage tank in the town. Good landmark, I thought. A port turn paralleling the beach just above the waves and I was beginning to enjoy myself. I had time to wonder at the nature of a people who could enjoy a stroll on the esplanade in such weather, when it occurred to me they were probably thinking similar thoughts about the crazy pilot overhead. I guessed that made us even. Another ten minutes of this and it was time to tackle the hard part. I made a 45-degree turn to starboard and watched for the beach again. There it was! A 45 back to the west and soon enough, there was my storage tank. Turning around it and heading back north, I dallied along for about three minutes, put the gear and flaps down, slowed to a crawl, said a silent prayer, and watched over my starboard wing for the end of the runway. Suddenly, there it was! I didn’t care that I was looking at the wrong end; a runway was a runway. And under these circumstances, any end would do. A hard, careful bank to line up, back on the throttles, and I made what would probably be my best landing for the entire rest of the year.

  After that adventure, my taxi-in and shutdown were a breeze. I trudged up to squadron ops feeling somewhat proud of myself and secretly glad I hadn’t had to bail out on my first sortie under RAF colors. I walked in, not knowing what to expect from my new squadron-mates, perhaps hoping someone might clap me on the back and remark joyfully on my return to the land of the living.

  The place was empty. Flying had been canceled and they had all gone off to lunch.

  * * *

  The next morning I sat at breakfast with decidedly more confidence. Several members of the mess actually said a cheery good morning. This offset a noticeable rattling of newspapers in other quarters, a sound oddly conveying irritation. It made me remember those occasions during the war when I would settle into a seat in a first-class carriage on the Ipswich–London 810 train. All of us were aware of the Englishmen’s opinion of Yanks. They looked upon us as very young, and very American. We were regularly described as oversexed, overpaid, and, worst of all, over there. Nothing personal was meant by this at Tangmere, but the hunching of the shoulders, the slight turn toward the window and, most of all, the rattle, clearly conveyed a message: “Don’t crowd me, don’t intrude on my morning routine, don’t be rude by trying to speak to me.” The reaction was one anybody feels when a stranger hogs the armrest at the movies or starts talking to him at a lunch counter, but there is something unique about the way an Englishman rattles his paper, especially when he feels put-upon. The action is totally eloquent and the message is clear.

  Breakfast and the weather matched each other, equally depressing. I hoped the CO was right, that I would get used to it. He meant the weather and I meant both. I realized I was thinking selfishly, so I turned my mind to other matters.

  After the previous day’s fligh
t the afternoon had been relatively busy and productive. Over in the Orderly Room, I had met the squadron adjutant, who turned out to be the New Zealander, Flight Lieutenant H. W. B. Patterson. He had duly “posted” me in, as it was called. I was then invited to sit at a table on which were lying what looked to be four large photograph albums. These were numbered and carried the squadron insignia and motto, “In omnibus princeps” (First in all things). Opening the first volume, I realized I was looking at the handwritten history of the unit. Patterson explained it was the adjutant’s responsibility to enter events as they occurred and photos when they were available.

  To tell the truth, I felt as though I were back in high school and our English teacher “Skinny” Lewis had just announced we were going to read Chaucer. I thought how my own air force unit histories were dry statistics and about as exciting and readable as legal notices. To my knowledge, no one outside some obscure person in the Air University had ever even glanced at one, but these RAF volumes turned out to be marvelous.

  I saw how the squadron came into being in the second half of the 1800s as an observation balloon company. Proud men stood stiffly at attention next to their horse-drawn equipment. Pictures showed them going aloft in baskets, looking for all the world like those used later in World War I. But these fellows wore swords with cross-belts, epaulets, high collars, and shakos with chin straps. The penned entries told of daily events, of mishaps, of postings in and out. A record existed here of every man who had ever been in No. 1 Squadron. Not for the first time, I thought how wonderfully different was the British sense of history. I had always thought it unfortunate that our own American squadrons didn’t have the same regard for their heritage.

  Going on to the second volume, I found myself deep in the agony of the First World War. The book told of missions flown, of men lost, and of their aircraft. A scrap of doped linen with a bullet hole gave testament to the end of a German opponent. There were old photos with young faces, grim and fatalistic. It made me recall my dad and his friends talking of those times and how a new pilot had a life expectancy of something like six hours on operations.

 

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