by Hall, Ian
“Thank you, sir.” Ticehurst took one, and together the two men lit up. They smoked together in comfortable silence.
His CO had never before called him by his first name. Always ‘Ticehurst’ – or ‘flight sergeant’. Or indeed ‘warrant officer’ – for Macnamara had recently been able to congratulate the Canadian on his elevation. Despite the squadron’s unity in their task over the preceding year, familiarity was something neither of them had found time for. But this was a companionable moment and, despite the difference between their two roles, Ken felt a sudden comfort in their momentary closeness.
And he sensed that the squadron commander did so too. He’d never really considered the loneliness of command; he’d seen Mac with the flight commanders and the other senior officers on the station, but he’d never really thought about Wing Commander Macnamara’s unique position. He’d occasionally caught something of the personal power of this quiet man, most notably in the aftermath of the Bekasi tragedy. He’d been convinced then that, without Mac’s steadiness, the squadron could have gone to pieces. And now that he’d been allowed the time to reflect in silence, he felt comfortable in his boss’s company and ready to answer.
“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt that people don’t need to be have been killed or injured to have suffered during the war. But although many have lost what you refer to as the best years of their lives, there must have been at least an equal number who can count the friendships they have made and the experiences they’ve stowed away; those must, in some ways, have far surpassed anything that might have transpired in their mundane civilian lives. And I suppose there are tens of thousands of marriages stemming from wartime meetings that would never have occurred otherwise. So, although I don’t discount the negatives – not least the homes destroyed, the injuries and the economic distress – I wonder whether there might also be some positives in the end?”
Macnamara looked at this skipper and quietly marvelled. He knew that he himself had a reputation for distantness, but he nevertheless felt that he had always had a pretty good idea of his men. And he’d long held a high opinion of Ken Ticehurst, as he had of all the Canadian and Australian aircrew who’d boosted the effort during the conflict. Not to mention the South Africans they’d also had on strength. At times a third of the squadron had come from the colonies, and they couldn’t have done without them. But he’d never really got to know Ticehurst’s inner thoughts. You live and learn, he mused.
“Well I admire your optimism, Ken, and I can’t but agree with much of what you’ve said. We’ve had our share of tragedy, but let’s hope it will turn out well for the majority of us. Of course, it all might look a little different from a Canadian perspective. So what about you yourself? What do you have in mind?”
Ken smiled. “I’m a pilot, sir. Nothing more, nothing less. I did have high hopes of getting work with Trans-Canada Airlines, but I suppose that most of their jobs will have been snapped up while I’ve been out here. I don’t have any doubt, though, that commercial aviation will take off – so to speak – especially in view of the distances people have to travel in North America. So I’ll remain hopeful in that direction. Maybe have to buy one of your knackered old Daks and start up by myself! We’ll see. Anyway, although I sometimes feel like forty, I’m only twenty-three, so there’s still plenty of time.”
“No regrets at staying with the squadron when your government called you home last autumn?” The squadron commander was recalling the directive, issued soon after the Japanese surrender, that all Canadians should be recalled from RAF loan service. As they’d suspected at the time, the fact that Ken had remained with Thirty-One had been lost in all the other general administrative chaos.
“No, sir. Hindsight’s a marvellous thing. But this RAPWI work has been a phase I’ll never forget – and I’m sure things will work out when I eventually do get home.”
The wing commander hoped that would be so, but couldn’t help but share the skipper’s fears that many of the best jobs would be gone by now. He knew that BOAC had expanded rapidly in Britain during the past year, with huge numbers of new flight crew joining from the RAF following the end of the war in Europe. He also knew that there were thousands more surplus pilots from the European theatre on the waiting list for positions. Many of his other pilots had expressed aspirations to get their civil licences following de-mob, but Macnamara knew the way these things worked. Jobs went most commonly to those who already knew people in the profession. Many of those who’d joined BOAC in mid-1945 would already have their feet well under the table – with the brighter and more experienced ones probably already knocking on the door for management and training positions. Those who were still flying for the military in the Far East at the end of 1946 would most likely have to wait for the next round of airline expansion.
But he wouldn’t have dreamed of expressing such pessimism to his pilots, and in any case no-one could say for sure that the second wave wouldn’t follow quickly behind the first. So he echoed his men’s hopes.
“Good for you, Ken. And good luck. Anyway, your mentioning my knackered old kites reminds me of the reason I originally wanted to talk to you. We’ve been directed to ferry them home to England over the next few weeks, and I wondered whether you and your crew would like to take the first of them. It’s due to leave on Wednesday, and I think that, with nursing, it should make it all the way. How do you feel about that?”
“To England? Doesn’t the new Thirty-One in India need them?”
“No, they’ve already got a full complement of aircraft. And for their sakes we must hope that their machines are considerably younger than our poor old things!”
“Wednesday. Good grief. Three days time. That’s sudden. But I don’t really think I’d need to ask the crew before replying on their behalf. Yes please. Yes, we’ll do it.”
“Good. I knew you’d jump at the chance. So you can consider yourselves off the routine flying programme – such as it is now – with immediate effect. That’ll give you time to plan your itinerary.”
“Fine. Is there a timescale for this trip? Any deadline? A preferred route?”
A shrug of the shoulders and a wink. “My directive is that you should just get the bloody thing home. I’ll leave the rest to your discretion. But, in view of the dearth of transport going that way I’d be grateful if you’d allow me to load you up with a few of the groundcrew who’ll be heading home for de-mob.”
Ken smiled. “You can fill it to the rafters, sir, if it helps the men to get home!”
“Good. With a bit of luck, you’ll be there in time for Christmas.”
“Home in time for Christmas.” The Canadian mused. “It’ll all be over by Christmas. Where have I heard that before?”
Macnamara caught the skipper’s train of thought. Wars were always going to be over by Christmas, weren’t they?
“Yes, Christmas ‘46 of course. 1945’s festivities kind of passed us by, didn’t they?”
The two men reflected on Bekasi. Christmas 1945 had indeed been entirely lost for everybody at Kemajorang in the aftermath of the tragedy – and memories still lay not far below the surface. After a moment’s silence Macnamara resumed.
“Well maybe this time Christmas will mean something. Although for you I can’t guarantee to get you any further than England. Which will still leave you several thousand miles short.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle the Atlantic myself!”
“I’m sure you can. Anyway, you might as well take ‘Sugar’. She’s served you well out here, I think?”
“She certainly has. We’ll do just that.”
“In case I don’t get a chance to sit down with you again, Ken, let me say now that it’s been a great pleasure working with you. My sincere thanks for your support during what has been a difficult and demanding tour. And don’t forget: if you should ever need a reference for that elusive job with the airlines, I do have a number of good contacts from my days in the Air Ministry. So don’t hesitate to ask.”
CHAPTER 29
And so it was that a somewhat subdued crew boarded their aircraft on a Wednesday morning in early December 1946 before taking off on the first leg to Singapore. Subdued following the final squadron revelries of the preceding evening in Batavia’s ‘Black Cat’ bar – and also in acknowledgement that the work they had done was now ended. All those liberated POWs. All those lost lives. All those memories.
And somewhere in the crowd waving them off was that a portly figure in scarlet and white with over-long trousers crumpling over his boots? And was he smiling? Would their brief tableau with that local warlord one day form a small piece in the jigsaw which would record the political evolution of the embryo Indonesian state? They couldn’t be sure – but they liked to think so.
Now, they craned their necks to get a last look at the city of Batavia, already knowing that its new name, Jakarta, would soon be more familiar to the world, marking the newly independent status of Indonesia long before any of them would ever return. So the rebels would have got their way. The right result, most would say – if not by altogether the right means.
They hoped their friends on the squadron would get their passages home soon, and they wondered at the future of the remaining Japanese on the island. Most of all they thought of those they’d left behind, buried in that foreign land. And they wished them peace.
Freddie Underwood glanced back at the passenger compartment from his radio position. Apart from Arthur Brownlow, who had stuck with the crew throughout, there were another ten happy airmen heading for home and de-mob. Including, as it happened, their old air bomber Nobby Clark, who had somehow wangled his way aboard.
Also amongst the passengers Freddie noted Jock Patterson, who had been in the forefront of the rumoured trouble. A changed person since that almost-forgotten event and now, in the eyes of the squadron members, thoroughly one of them. As far as Freddie understood, Patterson had subsequently signed on for a full career and was now heading for a peacetime posting in the Outer Hebrides. An assignment, mused the WOp, which would certainly try any airman’s loyalty! But no matter, the man seemed entirely happy at the prospect of his future, as indeed did his fellow passengers at the thought of the long flight ahead.
And that would take them first to Singapore for a couple of nights, followed by Butterworth, near Penang, for another.
****
Following Ken’s initial revelation of the news of their ferry flight, the crew had sat long into the night in a smoky bar planning their itinerary. Although they were all keen to get home, they were nevertheless conscious that this would almost certainly be the last ever time that they’d have a blank cheque authorising sole and exclusive use of one of His Majesty’s finest transport aircraft. So they were determined to make the most of it.
“Bali. I’d love to go there. I’ve heard that the girls don’t wear all that much. Or what about Hawaii? That’s always sounded terrific.” Bernie, their young co-pilot, had colourful visions of the entertainment to be had en route.
“Where did you learn your geography, son? We’re going west-about, not east.” He was put firmly in his place.
“I’d like to see some of the old spots in Burma and India again,” countered Dusty.
And unsurprisingly, although they’d not all served with the squadron during its earlier incarnations, they could all readily agree with that. So they’d settled on a route which would continue northwards from Butterworth, retracing Thirty-One’s steps through Burma and then westwards across India to the Middle East and onwards to the Mediterranean. The kaleidoscope would revolve as it had on their outbound flight all those months ago, although this time in reverse. Jungle would give way to desert, and then to temperate landscape. They’d stop for several nights at stations they took a fancy to, and press on post-haste from the less salubrious staging posts. It was going to be a memorable flight.
****
Half an hour before their departure an airman from the admin office had come scampering up and pressed a letter into Freddie’s hand.
“Glad I caught you, sarge. This has just come in.”
It was from Nelli, postmarked England, and Freddie had hardly been able to resist ripping it open there and then. But the crew had been busy with their pre-flight preparation and there was no time.
Reluctantly, he’d stuffed it into an inside pocket. But now, with them safely settled on track to Singapore, he had time for his letter.
Following their wedding Freddie and his new wife had had only three days together before she’d sailed, and he was now hoping sincerely that her voyage hadn’t been too awful. He had heard horror stories of the SS Otranto since she had been trooping on the East Indies run. Of overcrowding to the point of there being standing room only. Of unbearable temperatures en route, especially on the stretch from Aden through the Red Sea and the Suez Canal to Port Said. And of terrible sea-sickness as the old tub had battered and wallowed her way up through the Bay of Biscay.
And on this particular voyage he’d been mortified to find that the ship had broken down even before leaving the harbour at Tanjong Priok. She’d had to be towed back by tugs for repair at her berth before setting sail once again two days later.
He hadn’t expected to hear from Nelli before he left, what with the length of the voyage and then the time for mail having to find its way back out to him. So this letter was something of a surprise. Peacetime services must really be resuming, he thought; things are certainly looking up.
He tore open the envelope and devoured the contents. His lips moved rapidly as he scanned the lines of her young, neat script, smiling occasionally at her unique use of the English language. And yes, the voyage had gone perfectly. She was well, and so was her father. Freddie knew that she’d been afraid for him making the trip in his frail state. He also knew that the old man hadn’t been at all certain whether he should go west at all. Java was his home, after all. But after seeing what he had of the new régime he’d decided that he must go.
“This is no place for Dutch people now,” he’d said. “I have relatives in Nederland. They will look after me. And now, after being apart from my Nelli for so long, I must stay close to her.”
So it had been decided. They wondered how his still-delicate system would take to the European weather, and they also knew that there would be hardship and uncertainty ahead. Not least there was the oddity of their travel arrangements, with the two of them on the same ship, but segregated. Each alone. And now Freddie himself was, without his wife, essentially alone in a Dakota. But never mind; so far so good, and they’d be reunited soon. The airman turned back to the letter.
“I looking forward to completing our marriage, Freddie, with a Dutch formal …”
The WOp smiled to himself. Her English, by now pretty well immaculate, sometimes relapsed at moments of excitement. It had, as expected, proved impossible to find a Dutch pastor in Batavia to share the formalities. Like most of the rest of the colonial administration they were apparently still underground following the occupation and were showing few signs of re-emerging. Nelli had already spoken to him of her desire to have the union blessed in the eyes of her homeland.
“… So we could either travel to Nederland to visit my father, or perhaps have the consul in the London embassy officiate. What do you think, my darling?”
Anxious though he was to please his new wife, he thought that such details could probably wait. He read on.
“And you’ll never guess what, Freddie. I’ve met your mother and father.”
How had she managed to arrange that in so short a time, he wondered? Not for the first time he marvelled at the resourcefulness of his young wife.
“He’s a funny man, Freddie. You know what he said?”
Oh no; he well knew his dad’s habit of putting his foot in his mouth. What could the silly old duffer have done now?
“He said ‘Of course, y
ou don’t know what the hardships of war were. We’ve had rationing, you know. In fact some things are still rationed.’ Freddie, is this another English joke?”
Good grief, what an idiot his father was. Freddie wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. But, relieved that she seemed to have taken the thoughtless comment kindly rather than erupting and throwing things, he supposed that he’d got away lightly.
He was nearing the end now, and Nelli’s letter closed with expressions of hope that they’d be together before too long, with fond love, and with wishes for safe flying.
Now, conscious that she’d no idea that he’d probably be home within a fortnight, he made a mental note that he’d have to send something by way of a telegram at the first opportunity. For now, stuffing the letter back in his inside pocket, he concentrated on making the radio position report that he knew was due.
CHAPTER 30
Airborne from the new RAF Changi airfield in Singapore, ironically built largely for the Japs by the labour of allied POWs, the crew were now well on their way up the west coast of the Malayan peninsula. They’d shopped in Orchard Road, picking up garish souvenirs of their visit, and had ‘done’ Bugis Street the evening before, marvelling at the infinite variety of humanity on display and for sale. Now Ken was surveying the beaches on his right, idly wondering which one they’d have been dropping their troops over had ‘Zipper’ gone ahead. Looking at the jungle further inland, he said a little prayer of thanks that the troops hadn’t, after all, had to fight their way through it, for it looked impenetrable.