大象传媒

THE ABBEVILLE KID

Early in 1944 I was good heartedly nicknamed 鈥楾he Abbeville Kid鈥� by some of the squadron pilots. Paradoxically having survived so long, I was at almost twenty-two, by then one of the oldest members of the squadron with an operational record enabling me as a Flight Sergeant to be an established Section Leader. It was not uncommon for an experienced NCO to lead less experienced officers into battle in the air. I also had an aircraft of my own. Lettered OV-X, it apparently didn鈥檛 mark the spot for the masses of German gunners aimlessly firing from below. I felt uneasy if my aircraft was unservice-able and had to use another, but I guess most of us were a little super-stitious.

Abbeville is a small town lying some thirty miles inside France on the North side of the River Somme, a river of some repute from a previous catastrophe. The nickname of the Abbeville Kid originated from my many sorties over and around this landmark, with its large marshalling yards, small and well-camouflaged VI launching sites, and nearby active fighter airfields. It attracted Typhoons like wasps to a nest.

This section of Northern France, with its variety of military targets was heavily defended, like many other parts, stretching all the way from the Pas de Calais to the Cherbourg Peninsula and beyond round to Brest. The concentrated fire of the light and heavy flak from the ground batteries was frightening to behold. It was like flying through oncoming snow or patches of little black clouds. A physical sense of relief and well being permeated the body each time we came through the ordeal. However, not too many of us experienced that enlightened feeling too often. No sooner had some pilots arrived to replace those missing, then they themselves were missing. They seemed to come and go so quickly, either within a few short days or were even killed on their first mission. We became impersonal and unfeeling in behaviour when these new pilots we barely knew did not return.

As 鈥楧鈥� Day drew nearer, the tension mounted as softening up operations for 鈥淥verlord鈥� were about to begin. There was a tremendous flood of activity as the wide scale air offensive continued unabated and increased in intensity. The frequency and ferocity of the attack, wreaking havoc on all types of communications, was essential to paralyse the close concen-tration of radio and radar installations, expertly camouflaged and con-cealed along the whole northern coastline of France.

The results of these attacks by both Fighter and Bomber Commands of the Allies certainly softened up the defences, and supposedly they were very satisfactory to higher command, but they also had a detrimental effect on the nervous system of some Fighter Bomber pilots. Most of these radio and radar sites were utterly destroyed before the great day of the invasion arrived. While accomplishment of these prime objectives, was undoubtedly successful, it was also debatable whether the sharp increase in mortality and overall losses of pilots and aircraft was justified. From the pilot鈥檚 point of view when discussing, questioning and assessing the tactical value and strategy, in light of the risks involved the imbalance probably favoured some reduction or even curtailment of those type of semi-kamikaze low level and dive bombing attacks.

Nevertheless, the morale of the Typhoon squadrons remained fairly high in those punitive, momentous days in the run up to the invasion of Europe. During the evenings at spontaneous convivial gatherings, in the messes or elsewhere, with or without a piano, the rendering of many wartime, and other bawdy songs was heard throughout the neighbourhood at evening stag parties as we relaxed from the tensions of the day.

Gregarious, lively, given to wild enthusiasm, we ostentatiously drove the fully loaded squadron jeep on pub excursions into Chichester and spent many a glorious evening in The Dolphin, The Ship, The Unicorn and The Nags Head. Sometimes we went only as far as the local Tangmere Arms. The licence granted was considerable. I guess we were considered somewhat eccentric. As the night progressed, revelry continued. It was wonderful to feel irresponsibility creeping over me. The imbibing of large quantities of alcohol, usually pints of black and tan, cushioned and converted fears into convulsions of laughter and it was no great dilemma to consider what might happen tomorrow. In euphoric boisterous mood we brushed danger cheerfully aside. No one knew or cared which party might be his last. No one thought of the future and I didn鈥檛 give a damn. The songs also quelled the noisy garbled loquacity of the party. One song from the repertoire that was frequently heard in unison was the 鈥淎irmen鈥檚 Lament鈥�.
We sang the ballad, bright eyed with much feeling and vigour, the chorus being particularly appropriate. The words went something like this:
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Oh, a young aviator lay dying,
He鈥檇 cracked up his very last plane,
When asked if he had any message
He mournfully sang this refrain.

Take the cylinders out of my kidneys,
The spark plug remove from my brain,
From the small of my back take the crankshaft,
And assemble the engine again.

When the Court of Enquiry assembled,
To find out the reason he died,
T鈥檞as a flat spin that closely resembled,
The maximum angle of glide.

So stand by your glasses steady,
Here鈥檚 good luck to the man in the sky,
Here鈥檚 a toast to the dead already,
Three cheers for the next man to die.

Cast away from the land that bore us
Cast away from the land that we love
All the best have gone before us
Good luck to the next man to die

So stand by your glasses steady,
Here鈥檚 good luck to the man in the sky,
Here鈥檚 a toast to the dead already,
Three cheers for the next man to die.

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