大象传媒

The date - September 3rd, 1939
The occasion - Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain's speech to the Nation from London by radio.
The location - N.A.A.F.I. Canteen, R.A.F. Leuchars.
The assembly - as many airmen as could be spared and packed into that canteen, including Jock and Arthur.
As soon as the National Anthem finished there was a mad dash to the Guardroom to 'book out' and catch the first means of transport to Dundee for a last final fling. Unfortunately, the R.A.F. Service Police were not in a very co-operative mood that day! Jock and Arthur were advised, in the best English an S.P. Sergeant could be expected to muster at such short notice, to "F--- Off back to the Barracks. Don't you know there is a war on?" - patting his newly strapped on Smith & Wesson .38.

So it was back to the NAAFI for Jock and Arthur for a cuppa 'char' and a wad! This grave turn of events required calm deliberation and cool analysis, aided by a fag and some NAAFI brew.

"Well, Johnny, this is it," says Arthur. "It would bloody well have to happen to us! We join up when everything is quiet and peaceful and all we have to do is precisely what we are told. Save up as much as possible until we are 'Time Expired' then back to civvy street loaded with dough. But No! Some stupid German bastard goes and cocks it all up!"

At that precise moment, Jock's thoughts were elsewhere as he pondered how a tea leaf could possibly be floating around in a cup of NAAFI brew? "Must have escaped," Jock mused to himself.

War is a serious business and Arthur's mood called for some wise and comforting words. Unfortunately, these words were not forthcoming and Jock's response was delayed for two or three years by Flight Sergeant Hughes' stentorian voice shattering the air! "All 224 Squadron, down to dispersal, right away, Jildi! Jildi!"

Tea cups cascaded on to the floor, priceless NAAFI chairs were cast aside as some 200 erks made a hasty exit to shouts of "Cheerio! Jock/Arthur/Geordie/Bill etc etc - see you in the Old Bank Bar!" The mass exodus was almost a reflex action. After all, it was the first Active Service command the majority of those erks had ever heard and to their tea-sodden brains it came through as the order to "Charge!"

Arthur's "Cheerio, Johnny!" was more or less the last time Jock was to be called by his childhood name, until 1945.
The dispersal area was at the far east end of the drome between the River Eden and the wooded area known as 'Tentsmuir'. Strangely enough, the old panic mentality of peace-time manoeuvres vanished - the erks got stuck into the respective duties with alacrity and a few wisecracks. Engine covers were whipped off, picket ropes untied, chocks kicked firmly into position, windscreens wiped clear, controls unclocked. Wasn't this what 'Practice Camps' were all about? (Yes, the system was still good - and still working!)
Eventually the tractors towing their trolleys complete with cargoes of - Depth Charges, 250lb Bombs, 500lb Bombs and crews of desperate looking armourers - arrived.
To shouts of "Two Six" (the origin of this strange battle-cry is lost in the mists of R.A.F. folklore, but is roughly the equivalent of the Royal Navy "All Hands"). In such instances all airmen rally round to manhandle the bomb load into the approximate lifting positions, whilst the armourers dealt with the more sophisticated techniques of inserting fuse pins, checking hook-ups etc.
Somehow, to Jock, armourers always looked 'desperate'. Perhaps this was because handling high explosives for any length of time bred an apprehension or fear, or respect, unknown to the less sensitive fitter/rigger types.
Later that day, 'C' Flight of 224 was airborne on their first 'Active Service' operation and, for Jock and his fellow ground crews, there followed the long wait for the 'kites' to return. The monotony was broken only by the arrival of the NAAFI wagon, to shouts of "Tea Up!" During this particular tea break, speculation was rife! Where were they off to? North Sea Patrol? Norway? Kiel? The aircrews had given away nothing, not even some of Jock's best oppos like, Rear Gunners, Joe Burnside, Stan Lane and Wireless Ops. like Jackie Fisher, Bunny Taylor and Alan Dowson. Jock was soon to learn that this was the way it was going to be from now on. Returning crews were even less forthcoming and only the occasional crumbs were offered such as 'piece of cake' or 'dicey'.

The 'monotonous waiting periods' were wiped out after the first few early 'Ops' by over-zealous N.C.Os organising 'Aerodrome Defence' practices. R.A.F. ground crews were never particularly enthusiastic about crawling around on wet grass or jumping down giant sand dunes (some as high as three feet!) with rifles and fixed bayonets. These hazards were then followed by the suicidal practice of - HURLING LIVE GRENADES!

But Jock was selected to be trained in a key defence strategy? Some demented boffin had designed a piece of ordnance called the 'Smith Gun' - rejected by both the Army and the Royal Navy - the Junior Service fell heir to this weapon of self-destruction (naturally!)

The 'gun' consisted of a hollow tube, laughingly called the 'Barrel' At one end of this tube was a hook for towing by tractor, at the other end was a sort of Breach-Block arrangement controlled and guided by a pair of motor-bike handlebars! The whole apparatus was contained in a pair of wheels shaped like dustbin lids. On arrival at the 'Defence Post' the 'Gun' was turned on its side with one wheel serving as a base plate and the other as a head-shield. A grenade was popped into the breach and the crew was now at a state of readiness. Unfortunately, the Manual omitted to mention that the infernal machine was prone to jump two or three feet in the air when fired - with the possible results of two shattered kneecaps for 'No.1' - the Gunner!

Needless to say, there was a chronic shortage of volunteers for the 'No.1' position. Jock himself never volunteered, he was 'recommended'.
Within the first few months of the War, Jock was to witness several incidents, some amusing - some grim. There was the first genuine 'Red Alert', all ranks were already a bit apprehensive from the 'Purple Warning' although, the ground crews carried on with their routine duties of ensuring the aircraft were properly dispersed and concealed as best as possible from overhead snoopers. Covers on engines and turrets, chocks in position, starter trolleys at the ready. Then came the 'Red'.
There had been 'Reds' before and they had all fizzled out, but there was something ominous about this one? There was absolutely no aerial activity, the sky was clear and sunny and cold - and quiet? Everyone moved quietly to their allotted 'Action Stations.' One could see the 'Ground Gunners' gathered round their Lewis Guns at various points around the aerodrome perimeter. These 'Ground Gunners' were a new species to Jock and his R.A.F. oppos, but very welcome nevertheless. They relieved the ground crews of 'Defence Duties'.
The whole atmosphere that afternoon had suddenly changed to an 'Action Imminent' feeling, the silence broken only by the 'GG' fitting ammo pans, cocking breaches and - dropping the occasional steel helmet!
All ears were strained, all eyes turned skywards. What exactly was happening? or, Where was it happening? Jock, like his mates, was clueless. But 'It' had hit the fan somewhere!
A lone figure suddenly came into focus - it was Corporal Cooke on the flight bike - with news!
"Gerry is bombing the Fleet at Rosyth and having a 'Go' at the Forth Bridge. The 'Gen' is, he's being engaged by 602 and 603 Squadrons. Keep on your toes, we may get a couple of strays looking for somewhere to jettison their bomb loads!"
The thoughts of all the 'erks' exploded in one voice - "the cheeky bastards!"
History would show 'Cookie's' information was not 100% correct - but near enough. There was an attack in progress and the enemy had done their best to hit something, but with less success than one would have expected from the 'Heroes' of Guernica, Warsaw, Rotterdam! Whether this was due to the Luftwaffe myth or the understandable desire to get the hell out of it, was a moot point. In the end it came to the same thing - the R.A.F. had given the Luftwaffe a taste of things to come!

As so often happens, the euphoria of 'First Blood' soon wore off and by about 1600 hours that day, everyone was beginning to settle down when the shout went up, "Here's one now!" Every pair of eyes on the drome swung skywards and something like ten Lewis Gun teams were suddenly pointing towards the North Sea! Sure enough, a twin-engined, low wing monoplane - not unlike a Heinkel 111 - was heading towards Leuchars. However, Jock was relieved to see the undercarriage down and what turned out to be an Avro 'Anson' came for a landing - a very bad landing!

Something was wrong with that kite? The pilot did his best to taxi towards dispersal but he needed help. With the ground crew war cry of "Two Six", all the airmen in the immediate vicinity dashed over and manhandled the aircraft to a safe dispersal point. Jock ran round to the starboard side of the plane to open the cabin door and climb in - but stopped short? The fuselage had been raked from stem to stern by machine-gun fire!

The scene inside the aircraft was a bit startling - blood on the floor, some solid matter with what looked like teeth, and some discarded bandages. Two of the aircrew were standing by the Wireless Operator in a protective attitude and the poor bugger looked as if he had 'bought it'. The call went out for "stretchers!" but the 'meat wagon' was already on the spot and an armed guard in position! In a peculiar sort of detached manner Jock thought to himself, "By geeze, the old R.A.F. can move when the chips are down!" Yes, it was a comforting thought.

The epilogue to this incident was even more depressing?
As Jock slowly made his way across the drome towards 'C' Flight hangar, a lone 'Spitfire' came hurtling in, hit the deck twice before executing a very 'dicey' landing and rolled bumpily in Jock's direction. The canopy was right back and the pilot waving frantically. "What the F--- is up with him?" Jock thought to himself as he scampered towards the 'Spit'.
"Are you O.K., Sir?" Jock was about to ask until he noticed the pilot's bewildered look? Obviously, this 19 year old 'driver' was NOT O.K. The 'Merlin' was still revving pretty high and the kite was inching forward, so Jock reached into the cockpit, pulled back the throttle and applied the brakes then released the pilot's 'Sutton Harness'. For several long seconds he appeared to be stone deaf, then he blinked a few times and asked, "Has an 'Anson' landed here within the last half hour?" A voice from somewhere cautioned Jock - careful - "Yes, Sir, he is over there on the far side of the drome." The pilot made to release the brakes, "No, Sir, you can't go over there just now. Here is your transport."
"Is the 'Anson' in a mess? Are the crew O.K? What the f**k were they doing there in the first place?" out tumbled his questions.
"Take it easy, Sir - the 'Anson' is O.K. and all the crew are up in the Sick Bay, as is normal when you've had the shit scared out of you!"
The pilot's transport - another 'meat wagon' - drew up and a Squadron Leader jumped out. "O.K. Airman, we'll look after him, you look after the aeroplane."
"Sir!" returned Jock automatically, wondering to himself once more, "How did they get here so quickly?" Fighter Command Communications must be something special!
When the grapevine finally released the story, it went something like this :
During the scrap over the Forth Bridge, the Fighter Boys had been advised that all friendly aircraft had been cleared from the Action Area and that any aircraft sighted would be - enemy. Somehow, this intelligence never registered with the 'Anson' crew who were now floating blithely through the Scottish skies!
Meanwhile, our boy pilot was after a 'Heinkel' like Bruce going for De Bohun! 'Gerry' dashed for cloud cover and our 'Anson' sailed right across the 'Spitfire's' sights. The burst of fire lasted only three or four seconds and, in that time, the 'Anson' had been ripped from nose to tail and Spitfire and Heinkel were miles apart, in different directions! The 'Anson' stuck his nose down, frantically searching for a landing spot. The 'Spitfire' was searching equally frantically for his prey to ensure the 'kill', but the 'Heinkel' was getting to hell out of it as fast has his two 'Jumos' could take him!
The wounded Wireless Operator recovered in the annointed hands of Professor MacIndoe.
Some three months later, R.A.F. Leuchars received a letter thanking "All Personnel" for the treatment he had received at the Station, with a special thanks for the Ground Crews.
Following the German occupation of Norway, the frequent glances skywards developed into a kind of operational 'upward twitch!' When all the 'Ops Flights' for any particular morning had taken off and silence shrouded the drome, the first sound of aircraft in flight caused approximately 500 heads to, literally, snap upwards!

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