大象传媒

I was a Spitfire pilot on a fighter squadron stationed in Mingaladon Rangoon, Burma during the last few months of w.w.2
From the defensive roll we experienced prior to the invasion of Rangoon, we had turned round to a tactical offensive roll and most of our time was spent on army co-operation; bombing and strafing the retreating Japanese and carrying out special duties for which the Spitfire was ideally suited.
On one such operation, something happened to me which has been a source of great amusement when ever I have related it, although at the time, I was certainly not amused; I think you may find it amusing, indeed even interesting, because it concerns a situation which every鈥攐ne experiences at some time, albeit in circumstances less difficult than those I found myself in at the time.
The duty myself and a flight lieutenant with considerably more flying experience than myself, were told to carry out, was to take supplies of vital radio transmitter batteries, small arms ammunition and other vital supplies to a group of gallant army personnel known to us as the V Force, and who were operating some three hundred miles behind the enemy lines carrying out sabotage and reconnaissance, vital to the rapid progress of the war. They were of course better known in history as the Chindits.
Dakota transport aircraft with large amounts of supplies that would last the V Force many weeks normally carried out this duty, but the monsoon rains and storms had made the drops in a valley near the Salween river impossible for Dakotas to make the journey safely, as the space between the two mountain tops and the valley below would have been too small to allow a big aircraft to turn. The rains and mists had reduced the flying area to a 2000ft. mountain on each side of a narrow valley with a thick rain and mist top.
The exercise had to be visual: only a small aircraft could carry out the operation and this is what I was engaged in when the incident occurred.
Each aircraft carried two long-range drop fuel tanks ( our standard fuel tanks only held enough fuel for one and a half hours flying) the supplies were contained in a ten feet long container with a parachute, fitted into what was normally the bomb rack.
All went well on the one and a quarter hour flight to the dropping point. The recognised visual signal from the ground appeared as expected and after some hairy flying to turn and witness the disappearance of the parachutes and supplies we headed for home, relieved to be out of the dangerous valley and to start flying back at a height above the weather.
We flew in open formation about 50 yards apart with the aircraft trimmed to fly hands off, relieved when the excitement was over, then it happened; I was in need of relief of another kind and I knew I couldn鈥檛 wait.
The RAF makes provision for this emergency, in the form of a flexible urinal! Tucked away below the undercarriage lever was\a small funnel with a flexible rubber tube which discharged below the body of the aircraft. I quickly removed my flying gauntlets and located the funnel, placing it in a convenient discharge position. The next stage was far from easy; we did not wear flying suits or jackets, just long green service drill slacks and a long sleeve shirt, but on top of this there was a full four belt parachute harness, an inflatable Mae-West life jacket, a wide arms belt with a loaded Smith and Wesson revolver and twelve spare bullets inserted into the belt, cowboy style. The belt also supported a 12inch sheafed jungle knife and an emergency food pack and an escape kit. Finally the four belt safety belt was fastened by the mechanic and one felt like a firmly wrapped parcel.
To add to my problems service issue trousers didn鈥檛 have zipped flies; just difficult to open brass buttons instead.
I鈥檓 sure male readers will appreciate the difficulty I had trying to negotiate all these obstacles especially as I had to continue watching my fellow pilot who was doing the navigating.
To my intense relief I found contact with the funnel and had started the liquid flowing.
A quick glance to see everything was working, then to my horror I saw that the cup had runeth over; the pipe was blocked and I was soaked. I quickly abandoned the operation, dropping the loaded funnel on the cockpit floor, leaving things to be sorted when I got back to base.
I got some rye remarks from my fitter who released my straps when I returned and he almost split his sides with laughter when he said he would have my parachute dried and repacked and promised to have the services of a plumber to attend to the blockage.

I never attempted to use the Spitfire Loo ever again
An excerpt from my book PUKKA GEN, as yet unpublished.

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