‘Going to join the infantry, sir?’
‘Come on, Spy, I want to try out this Jap rifle. Let’s go and see if we can find some game around.’
They headed for the jungle.
Half an hour later, by which time they had killed several large birds for the pot, the I.O. said: ‘Sir … I have an uncomfortable feeling we’re not alone.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Lacey looked suspiciously about.
The undergrowth parted and six British soldiers darted into view. One dropped to his knees to give the others covering fire, while a companion came intrepidly forward holding a Sten gun at his hip. He halted. ‘Where are they?’
Lacey looked puzzled. ‘Where are who?’
‘The Japs, sir. We heard shooting …’
‘Have one of these vultures—or whatever they are … I expect it’ll taste O.K. if you cook it long enough,’ said Lacey generously.
Incidents like this, trivial in themselves but a vivid relief from the worries and stress of life on operations in the discomfort of the jungle and the vile climate, became something welcome to talk about; and so the name of No. 17 Squadron and its unusual commander spread far afield.
It reached two flying officers, Don Healey and Don Leighton, in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel, Calcutta, one evening. Just posted to Burma, they were in conversation with some other pilots who had recently come from there.
‘Which is the best Spitfire squadron to try to get posted to?’ Their informants were unanimous. ‘Seventeen. But you know who commands it, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Ginger Lacey.’
‘Well …’
‘Well, what?’
The experienced pilots exchanged looks. ‘Well … he’s fussy about whom he has on his squadron. You don’t stand a chance unless you’re a bit better than average.’
This made them determined to try. Arrived at Monywa, near Mandalay, they told the tired, overworked officer to whom they reported at the disposal unit they had been told to go direct to 17 Squadron.
‘You won’t last a week.’ But he gave them movement orders and let them go.
At Ywadon, they were directed to the C.O’s tent.
Entering timidly, they looked around for the legendary Ginger Lacey. There was one naked man asleep on a camp bed. Another, also bare but for a dirty towel around his waist, sat at a folding table, on which stood a bottle of gin, playing patience. His skin was very fair and his hair, which since he had shaved it Gurkha fashion had been allowed to grow again to considerably more than the regulation length, was like damp straw. He didn’t look up.
‘Er … excuse me … excuse us … we … we were looking for Squadron Leader Lacey.’
‘I’m Lacey.’ He was still playing patience, studying his cards, not even glancing at the two smartly attired new pilots.
‘We’re posted to you, sir.’ They tentatively laid their movement orders on a corner of the table. They explained, between them, that Leighton had already done a tour in Italy and shot down 1½ hostiles; and Healey had a respectable total of flying hours on various duties which included instructing.
Lacey continued playing cards. ‘All my pilots have to fit in. If you know what I mean. If not, you’ll find out. I won’t hesitate to post you if I find you aren’t up to the squadron’s standards—in every way. See that chap charping?’
They stared at the deeply sleeping figure on the other side of the tent. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s Mad Jack the Jungle Quack: the squadron M.O. He’ll give you a medical when he wakes up and make sure you’re up to date with your jabs. O.K., that’s all.’
Uncertainly, they saluted. Neither of them had ever experienced an interview remotely like this one. They were at the tent’s exit when Lacey spoke again, still in the same quiet, unemphatic voice. ‘By the way, there is no such thing as an accident on this squadron. So if you have one, you’d better kill yourself at the same time.’
There was another silence. Correctly assuming that this time they had been dismissed, they went wonderingly to their quarters. At the first opportunity they asked one of the Flight Commanders about the Squadron Commander’s attitude to accidents. He replied dourly. ‘I’ll give you an example. One of the pilots hit one of the oil drums that mark the strip, when he was coming in to land. He’s experienced, all right; but the C.O. immediately sent him back to India for further training. We don’t expect him back for at least two months.’
They had one more immediate shock to come, next time they met Lacey. ‘Incidentally, I gather you’re about due for promotion to flight lieutenant, both of you. When it comes through, you’ll continue to wear the rank badges of flying officers. The only flight lieutenants on my squadron are my two Flight Commanders. Understand?’
They were beginning to understand.
Everyone on the squadron had to earn his place and the right to be considered fit to hold it. Lacey could look after himself and he expected everyone else to be capable of doing the same: especially when they flew as No. 2 to him. But, in many ways, it made life simpler.
Healey, flying with him on a low level sweep, reported tracer coming from a palm tree standing by itself; and got permission to break off to investigate, with instructions to rejoin. Pulling away, he opened fire on the treetop and saw a man’s figure, blasted out of it, tumble fifty feet to the hard ground.
Lacey was nowhere in sight and eventually Healey landed alone, before his leader. As soon as the latter was down, he was met by an apologetic Number 2, who had already convinced himself that he would be sent away from the squadron for losing his leader. Lacey silenced him. ‘That’s all right, Healey. Any patrol which arrives back within fifteen minutes of each other must have been a good one!’
But 17’s jokes were not always kindly. To one of the pilots is attributed an acid comment on the R/T which can have done nothing to encourage the friendship of the Indian squadrons. Flying on an operation during which they had all been briefed to maintain R/T silence, a faltering Indian voice was heard.
‘Hallo Wiper Leader. I say, what colour are we: Blue Section or Green?’
There was no answer. Wiper’s Indian leader was not going to break silence.
The same voice bleated again. ‘I say, Wiper Leader, are we Blue or Green?’
An unidentified 17 voice, in exasperation, gave him the answer. ‘You’re black, you so-and-so.’
There was an injured quality about the ensuing silence.
CHAPTER TWELVE - From Burma to Malaya
The operations of No. 17 Squadron were maintained at forcing pace.
The pilots flew well over 2,000 operational hours in February 1945. During one twenty-four-hour period, they shot down three Japanese aircraft: the only ones they were to see during four months.
The ‘regimental’ Athlete with whom Lacey maintained a running battle, visited the squadron during the height of this period of activity: and complained that a passing corporal had come on duty unshaven. 17’s C.O. was pleased to point out that the man in question had been working without a break for the past twenty-eight hours. If the men worked long, wearying hours, it was not without recognition from their Commanding Officer. When there was less work to be done he would put a three-ton lorry at the disposal of those who were free and let them go where they pleased for recreation. The Athlete thought it would have been better if he held parades.
Most of their work was patrolling over the bridgeheads established over the Irrawaddy by the Fourteenth Army, and carrying out offensive sweeps over Japanese troops and positions.
The Spitfires had to be inspected after every thirty hours of flying, and the ground crews would work all day and night without rest if necessary.
Ground strafing had an exhilaration of its own and offered some variety. It may not have been the role for which fighter pilots felt themselves traditionally cast and it certainly lacked the thrill of combat aerobatics; but it had its points. Sometimes they flew as low as twenty feet above the ground with palm trees reaching up
ten times as high flashing past their wingtips. Often they had to dive steeply into a small clearing and pull up vertically to climb out of it without ploughing into the jungle. Now it was a gunsite, next a convoy of trucks, last time perhaps some railway wagons, that they fired at. When they gave close support to the infantry they could see them charge forward in the wake of the Spitfires’ shells and bullets; and they could see the Japs streaming out of their foxholes and the undergrowth to go rolling over and over as their fire swept witheringly over them.
Lacey still has, as a memento, some palm leaves which he scooped up with his radiator when attacking a small group of basha huts used by the Japanese. After attacking three times without setting them on fire, he held his run a trifle too long the fourth time and skimmed through the top of a tree on his way out.
On the 18th-19th February the squadron enjoyed several memorable events.
The first occurred when Pilot Officer Connell, on an air test, heard an Operations Controller on the 101 vectoring another Spitfire towards a Japanese reconnaissance aircraft whose exact position was unknown.
Willing to lend a hand, Connell, who had just passed through a few exciting moments himself, called: ‘What is reported position of Hostile?’
‘About Angels thirty, over Monewa.’
Connell, who had apparently picked up one or two of Lacey’s habits, informed the Controller nonchalantly: ‘That is where I happen to be at the moment.’
‘Whacko!’ Said the Controller excitedly, ‘Can you see a Hostile ?’
‘Yes. I can see it. It’s an “Irving”.’
‘Are you going to attack?’
‘What—again?’
‘Message not understood …’
‘The “Irving” is on fire. I’ve just shot it down …’
Their least favourite senior officer came to call; but even his sourness could not spoil the effect of this casual victory.
The pilots had adopted the widespread R.A.F. habit of wearing bright scarves to soak up the sweat that plagued them; and, of course, there was rivalry to wear the gaudiest.
The exalted visitor did not approve. ‘Really, Lacey, can’t you stop your squadron from going around dressed like Harlequins?’
Lacey said that he wouldn’t dream of trying. And ostentatiously pulled his own dazzling neck cloth from a pocket and knotted it about his neck.
The next morning Lacey was on dawn patrol with Warrant Officer Sharkey as his No. 2. He liked flying dawn patrols because his fair skin was painfully susceptible to the heat and later in the day the Spitfires’ cockpits were like ovens. Sharkey, an Australian, was his regular No. 2 and he describes him as the finest No. 2 he has ever flown with. ‘Whatever I did, I knew I’d never lose Sharkey. He just stayed on my wing-tip like glue.’
The sun was coming up quickly and not far ahead Lacey spotted a dozen flitting shapes in the sky.
‘Red Two. See them? Twelve-o’clock, about 2,000 ft below.’
‘Yeah, I’ve got ’em.’
‘Let’s go.’
They jettisoned their long range tanks and opened their throttles. The Spitfires had great superiority of speed over their prey, which Lacey and Sharkey recognized as ‘Oscars’ the Japanese Army fighter.
The tactics of the ‘Oscar’ when attacked were well known. It was a small aircraft with an amazing rate of turn. On being attacked, the ‘Oscar’ pilot would not increase his speed, but on the contrary, reduce it. Watching in his mirror, he would wait until he saw the flashes at his attacker’s gun ports which indicated that it had opened fire. Even turning at this late moment, the ‘Oscar’ could whip round fast enough to deliver a head-on attack which took its pursuer by surprise and at a lethal disadvantage.
As the two Spitfires dived on the twelve Japanese fighters the pilots saw the latter’s combat flaps go down: they had been spotted. The Spits were by now gaining at about 150 m.p.h. and the ‘Oscars’ evidently gauged that they had better not wait for gun flashes before turning. Just before Lacey and Sharkey were in range, the formation in front began to turn: except for the last aircraft, which lingered. Then, a few seconds too late, it followed the others; but not in a tight enough turn.
Lacey touched off a half-second burst with his cannons.
He saw two explosive bullets slam into the ‘Oscar’s’ starboard wing; one hit the fuselage; and one hit the Perspex hood, which was shattered into a myriad glittering fragments. The little fighter rolled onto its back and went into a vertical dive. The two British pilots shot up in a fast climb to get above the rest of the enemy, who were approaching rapidly from abeam. Looking down they saw Lacey’s victim hit the ground with a streak of flame and a gout of smoke.
The enemy now split into two sections, obviously hoping that the Spitfires would attack one of them; thus leaving themselves vulnerable to the guns of the other. But Lacey led Sharkey home. When he had made his combat report, the leader turned to his No. 2. ‘Did you get anything? Did you shoot?’
The Australian shook his head. ‘No. Why should I shoot? I was just watching you—lost in admiration!’
Looking back, his C.O. says, ‘Not a very useful No. 2 that time! But I’d still rather fly with Sharkey on my wingtip than any No. 2 I ever met during the war.’
They were in the basha crew room with the rest of the pilots, reliving the episode, when a worried-looking flight sergeant fitter came in. ‘Excuse me, Squadron Leader Lacey, sir …’
‘What’s your trouble, Chiefy ?’
‘Are you sure you got that Jap, sir?’
‘Ask Mr Sharkey! Anyway, why ask at all?’
‘Well, sir … it’s just that you can’t have hit him, sir … you’ve only used nine rounds of cannon.’
Lacey lit a cigarette, taking his time. In silence, his pilots watched him. He did not even look at the flight sergeant. ‘Oh, really, Flight? As many as nine? You surprise me!’
In the roar of laughter that met this retort, the red-faced N.C.O. fitter withdrew and a new Lacey story was born to go on its rounds with all the others.
One of these was that he and Flight Lieutenant Jackson, the M.O. used to extract the gold teeth from all the Japanese corpses they found and that Lacey would take them to Calcutta from time to time where an agent sold them! There were even people who could describe to you the little canvas bags in which these two officers stored the Japs’ gold fillings.
Another had Lacey selling the broken glass from his jeep’s tail light to an American colonel who had never been further east than Calcutta, as ‘genuine uncut Burmese rubies.’
The doctor was something of a character in his own right. An apocryphal story about him alleged that he used to collect Japanese skeletons, clean them, and despatch them to the respectable vaults of Cox & Kings, in Calcutta: to take home for sale to medical schools!
Lacey did nothing to discourage the yarns that were told about him: a legendary Commanding Officer was something which made the squadron feel different from and superior to others, and anything that helped to keep morale high was acceptable to him.
On the same day that he destroyed his first and last Jap (the only one he ever saw when in the air himself) Pilot Officer Irvine brought down another ‘Oscar’: three in twenty-four hours; there was nothing that could have pleased Lacey more.
A few days later, Flying Officer Rutherford claimed a probable ‘Oscar’.
At the end of February the enemy was driven from Meiktila and the patrolling pilots saw the town in flames with smoke rising to a height of 5,000 ft.
On the 2nd March, 17 Squadron began to carry out patrols from the Meiktila airfield. But although the Fourteenth Army now held the town, they had to regain possession of the air strip every day: they lacked the troops to occupy it during the night. At each sunset, the force withdrew to the protection of its barbed-wire box; the Japanese, knowing the airfield was left undefended, stubbornly returned to it. With first light, an attack was put in (usually by the R.A.F. Regiment) to clear them out. As soon as the airfield was rep
orted to be back in British hands, No. 17 Squadron flew in. Invariably, they had to help in removing enemy corpses from the runway.
The R.A.F. Regiment won bloody renown in the fierce fighting for repossession of the landing ground every humid morning. One day that the squadron remembers, one of the aircraft dispersal bays was full of the bodies of R.A.F. Regiment officers and airmen awaiting burial.
The Japs were dealt with with a bulldozer. First a pit was dug, then the corpses were scooped into it and the earth was bulldozed back.
The sourly cloying stench of fast-decomposing flesh hung over the strip and a great area around it.
One morning, the signal that Meiktila airfield was fit for operation came prematurely. Lacey was the first to land. As he turned at right angles to the runway towards his dispersal bay he heard a loud report unpleasantly close at hand and jerked his head round to look for the gun, at the instant that there was a metallic thud and his aircraft shook. Sparks flew from the propeller spinner. A second later, a 75 mm. shell that had passed through the spinner exploded fifty yards away in an ugly grey, orange-streaked boil of steel, smoke and flames. A couple of hundred yards from the end of the runway, dust was settling around the gun which had tired it. The strip was clear, but an enemy gun still commanded it. ‘I never taxied so fast in my life: I went into an aircraft bay with my tail wheel off the ground.’
If the gun had fired three seconds sooner it would have sent its shell into his engine; a second later, and it would have hit the cockpit beam-on.
On the 9th April the squadron moved permanently to Meiktila, which was no longer menaced by the enemy at night. There were two pleasant lakes nearby, which provided welcome swimming; for a while. It had to stop after a few days, on account of the Japanese bodies which were floating to the surface: wearing full kit, they had to grow very bloated indeed, with the gas of decomposition, before they were buoyant enough to reach the surface.
Four days after the move, Lacey was stung three times by a scorpion, which produced a huge, poisoned swelling on his leg, kept him off flying for a week; and did not put him in the best of tempers: as Flying Officer Healey and Flight Sergeant De Silva found out.
Ginger Lacey: Fighter Pilot Page 18