大象传媒

R.A.F. Aldergrove, Northern Ireland, was outside Belfast. A large bustling city but, unfortunately, many districts were 'Out of Bounds' to R.A.F. personnel. Rumour had it that this was due to possible I.R.A. capers?
233 Squadron's main duties at Aldergrove were - 'Convoy Protection' and 'U-Boat Hunting'. Apart form 'U-Boats' prowling around the convoys there appeared, from time to time, the enemy's giant Focke-Wulf 'Kondors'. These were Gerry's biggest aircraft of the time - four-engined monoplanes, whose main asset was their tremendous range. Defensive armament was limited and their 'raison d'etre' was close liaison with the 'U-Boat Packs'.
Many a British convoy was scattered and often completely destroyed because of this liaison.
Shortly after 233's arrival, they were joined by a 'Long Nosed Blenhiem' squadron. These aircraft were a modified version of the 'Bristol Blenhiem-Day Bomber'. They were faster and more heavily armed and their prey was obviously the accursed Focke-Wulf 'Kondor', the Luftwaffe's convoy hunter. Sadly, after the Blenhiems first successful patrol in which a 'Kondor' was caught and shot down, one of the exuberant pilots 'shot up the drome' in a victory roll.
The aircraft failed to pull out in time, Jock and Sergeant Hutton could only stand and stare as she struck the stone built NAAFI building - six NAAFI girls and the entire aircrew perished.
Scenes like these had to be eradicated from the mind as soon as possible, and by any means. Accordingly, Jock and his new-found Dundee Oppo - A.C.1 Bert Stewart - set off for a walk that evening in search of a pub. (This was for Jock's nerves - Bert was T.T.) The first pub with any beer was in a village called Crumlin and, after thirst was slaked, the two intrepid airmen asked the local clientele for the quickest route back to the drome? Well, some two hours later, with throbbing feet and no sign of an airfield, a hamlet was reached called 'The Diamond'. Jock knocked on the door of a house bearing the insignia of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, to ask for directions. Both the oppos were invited into the Constable's home and made welcome with tea and scones. Jock couldn't take his eyes off the giant picture above the fireplace - it was King William of Orange, resplendent on a white charger!
Asked how we came to be in 'The Diamond', Jock explained the sojourn in the pub at Crumlin. You were very lucky they only misdirected you!" said their host. "These Micks were, in all probability, I.R.A. sympathisers, having a joke at your expense!"
Ten days later, an airman was picked up in the Falls Road - 'Tarred and Feathered'!
During Jock's tour of duty with 233 in N. Ireland, two specific incidents occurred which, in their different ways, were to materially affect Jock's R.A.F. career.
The first involved a certain L.A.C. Jackson, or 'Jacko', Cockney born and bred, with all the guts, cheek and generosity typical of the breed. For some strange reason or other, Cockneys and Jocks seem to hit it off - generally after crossing swords to settle who were the superior race! This argument has never been finally resolved and probably never will as long as the two breeds exist.

Anyway, Jacko needed an oppo to accompany him in to Belfast and, who better than the 'fearless' Jock! Since the Falls Road incident, going solo was out. Once in the heart of Belfast things weren't so dicey as there were always plenty of servicemen about and a call for help would be instantly answered by Matelot, Marine, Rifleman and even the occasional 'fearless airman'!

Jock and Jacko spent a pleasant afternoon strolling around Royal Avenue until hunger necessitated a visit to the Y.M.C.A. for 'bangers 'n mash' also to book a place for the night. The 'Ancient Grudge' satisfied, the next move was to find a pub, have a pint and discuss the prudence of a possible visit to the Floral Hall in Bellvue. This dance hall had all the virtues of a reputable establishment, except one. The safety/security arrangements were non-existent.
Decision made, our heroes set off, on foot - in the blackout - for this terpsichorean paradise. Alas, Fate and Adolf Hitler decreed otherwise, for after about five hundred yards en route all hell was let loose! At what appeared to be simultaneous and synchronized action, anti-aircraft guns, sirens, enemy bombs exploded in a hellish cacophony of terror!
Everyone seemed to be running in different directions - everyone, that is, except Jock and Jacko who, for at least three long seconds, stared at each other and, in that particular 'slow motion' action, so realistic in bad dreams, pulled off their caps and replaced them with steel helmets (the system was still working!)
Not a word was spoken, not even a lip moved - it would have been superfluous anyway in all that din! In probably the greatest understatement of the war so far, Jacko snarled, "That's f------ it!" Jock's only response was, "Let's get to hell out of here!"
The question of WHERE to go was decided by two young boys who were standing terrified at the corner of the street. The two R.A.F. oppos grabbed the boys and bundled them into the nearest doorway. Someone was bawling, "In here! In here!" - so a mad dash was made for the second doorway which turned out to be some sort of side entrance to a small hotel. The stairs led down to a cellar now rapidly filling with all sorts of human flotsam.
Jock and Jacko handed over the boys and made to go off again, only to be stopped by their Host/Rescuer/ARP Warden(?) saying, "At least have a glass of courage before you go!" There was enough 'courage' in that mug of whiskey for our heroes to dash out and tackle the Luftwaffe on their own.

No point in going back to the 'Y.M.' - there was an anti-aircraft machine gun unit up on the roof blasting away at the Hun, just begging for retaliation! Our heroes' two-bob bed deposits' would have to be sacrificed in the interests of a longer life!

Right! Make for Victoria Prison and 'book in' thus ensuring they would be accounted for to Squadron Headquarters and at the same time make themselves available where help was needed. The Police Sergeant was delighted to see them but up to the neck directing A.R.P. Wardens and Ambulance Crews to 'direct hits'. There was nothing for it but to muck in with the First Aid men, holding casualties steady, tearing open bandage packs and generally making themselves useful.
Suddenly, someone must have thrown the switch? All went quiet? No Ack-Ack, no sirens, no bombs - just an eerie silence and, away in the distance, the crackle of burning wood. Then the human shock waves swept around Belfast just as dramatically as the sudden silence - "Stretchers!" "Ambulance!" "Doctor!" "Firemen!" "Hoses!" The cries and moans of the injured drowned out by the yells for the Emergency Services.
Time to get back to the Squadron and whatever fate awaited them. Transport was out of the question, so it was all the way back on 'Shank's Pony', arriving back at 09.10 hours and not a hope in hell's chance of breakfast . The two erks' last solid meal being 'bangers 'n mash' at 18.00 hours the previous day.
"L.A.C. Jackson booking in Sarge, after hold up -----" Jacko was cut off in midstream!
"Oh! So our two bloody heroes have decided to rejoin us," sniggered the Sergeant S.P. - "Anyway, who the hell do you know high up in the Belfast police? Tell me later, here is a chitty, go and get some breakfast, shit, shave and a shampoo - you are in front of the Old Man at 10.00 hours - double!"
An order like that is a delight in any airman's life - to get the hell out of it without a 'bollocking'! But there was something odd going on? Why weren't our oppos automatically 'stuck on a charge'? Why, "In front of the Old Man"? Normally this would have been "UP in front of........!" Further, what was the Sergeant yakking on about the Belfast Police for?" Anyway, wash and breakfast and all would be revealed - at 10.00 hours.

In what was becoming known as 'Jock's Luck', it appeared that, despite all the chaos and panic the night before, the Police Sergeant at Victoria Prison had not only booked our lads in, but had contacted Aldergrove Guardroom in the morning with a report, wherein, the facts were completely submerged in 'Blarney'! Maybe the Sergeant had had more than one mug of that 'Irish Courage' during that wild night!

Gerry had two more 'Go's' at Belfast during Jock's stay. Rumour had it that some British boffins interfered with the enemy's radio navigation system, resulting in some bombs being jettisoned over Dublin? On the next bombing raid, rumour did not come into it! A squadron of 'Beaufighters' (night fighters) had been rapidly deployed to Aldergrove and were virtually waiting for the Heinkels and Dorniers. Several of the enemy never saw the Fatherland again!

Belfast now had the chance to lick its wounds, recover for a few weeks and, eventually, pay Gerry back in kind by building new warships, also contributing to the R.A.F's ever increasing demands for aircraft.
In between times, Northern Ireland welcomed the occasional Nazi 'U-Boat' - compliments of the R.A.F. or the Royal Navy!
Jock was involved in another weird assignment before the Squadron left Northern Ireland for good? 'Hudson' aircraft were required to undergo a Major Inspection every 120 hours. This involved close inspection of several characteristics not normally checked on other inspections. Jock and his buddies were busy dismantling the two rudders of 'A/C No.83' when Chiefy Hudson (same name as the aircraft, but no relation) appeared looking for Jock and L.A.C. Foreman (known as 'Junior') with orders to organise 'full marching order', and be ready to join the Squadron Commander's aircraft by 18.00 hours. Complete tool kits were required and any necessary briefing would be given by the C.O. (Squadron Leader Kydd) before take off. Jock and Junior were there on the dot (what else?) and the briefing was delegated to Flight Lieutenant Winnicot.

"Right, you chaps, we are going over to R.A.F. Grantham where you lads will be the guests of the Station Commander! You will be billeted in one of the barracks, in a room of your own. You will, at all times, conduct yourselves as members of '233 Squadron'!" (Jock thought to himself, ('what a wide remit')
"Furthermore, you will not discuss this assignment with anyone, not even in letters home. You will meet Mr. Kendall and Mr. Kennedy at 09.00 hours in the allotted hangar. These gentlemen are specialists in aircraft armament and are Directors of the local company known as 'British Manufacture and Research Company' (BMARCO). You will comply with their instructions at all times during this assignment. Do you full understand these orders?"
Our two technical wizards answered in one voice, "Yes, Sir!" Simultaneously thinking, 'For Christ's sake! - someone tell us what the F---- 'assignment' is!')
In his zealous efforts to impress on our lads how important his orders were, Flt. Lt. Winnicot omitted to tell them what it was they were expected to accomplish!
Eventually, the team landed at Grantham and taxied up to the most remote hangar on the airfield - whereupon, everyone jumped out and had a much needed pee, officers included!
"This will be your working locale until further notice." Squadron Leader Kydd had deigned to talk to our two 'other ranks'. "Remember to run the aircraft engines twice daily and ensure she is kept fully serviceable during your stay. Finally, keep out of trouble - Remember! You Are 233 Squadron!"
Jock and Junior sprang to attention, threw up the mandatory salute - then watched in dismay as their fearless leaders boarded the transport and headed for the Officers' Mess. Junior voiced both men's thoughts, "This thing is so damned secret they won't even tell the guys who are supposed to do it!"
"Oh, so there you are!" it was a voice they both recognised from a dim and distant past! Flight Sergeant Mitchell - now Warrant Officer Mitchell and still the proud bearer of the sobriquet, 'Suicide Mitchell'!

Apparently, he had been advised of the 233 Squadron activity on his patch and decided it was time to renew old 'friendships'. In the event, 'Suicide Mitchell' turned out to be a good friend, despite his fearsome reputation with the Service Police at R.A.F. Leuchars.
With the able assistance, and the undoubted influence, of Station Warrant Officer Mitchell, the two oppos were installed in an empty barrack-room - well, empty except for a certain L.A.C. (G.D.) Slater? L.A.C. Slater's sole aim in life seemed to be looking after the Barrack Block in general and Room One, in particular. He was a cheery wee soul and never once asked what Jock and Junior were actually up to. He was never loathe to talk of his civvy street career and his longing to return. His family motto was oft repeated to our oppos - "You can beat a big drum, but you can't beat Wee Slater!" In happier days he ran some side-stalls in the travelling carnivals!

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