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'Shemran'

Eight weeks at sea, except for a week in South Africa. A hectic journey over the breadth of India. From the cold North-East winds of England to the blazing sunshine of the tropics, and work in plenty, building a new station and preparing 'kits' for their grim work. Months pass slowly, strange maladies beset the men of 240 - some disappear, never to be seen on the old squadron again, others came back, white and thin. Sweat and work, planes coming and going - patching, replacing, no spares - made them — 'keep ‘em flying,' is the slogan - and we did! Miserable food, no comfort, nights as hot as days - what a climate! Then came the rains, the rushing floods of yellow water, sticky heat and soaking clothes. Blankets and sheets as wet as the dripping thatti of the roofs.

Christmas and sunshine once again, the steaming earth, and the miraculous blue of the Southern Indian sky. How glad the boys were to feel dry for the first time in weeks. Beds and bedding, clothing and shoes, all green with mould and damp, laid out on the hot ground.

Spirals rose, and life seemed not quite so bad, for it was the cool season, hotter than the English summer, but cool after the blazing fierceness of its Indian counterpart.

Soon after Christmas, the officers organised a dance to be held in the Banqueting Hall in Madras for the Squadron only, and all the ladies within range were invited. It was to be a treat for the boys but of course the officers must be there to keep an eye on things. There was a bar, a buffet, a band and bright lights; the Squadron was en fete. It was a grand sight that met our eyes as we walked in, Joe, Paddy and I. The lovely dresses, colour splashed around the walls, with its background of khaki, like a garden in summer. Surely all the femininity of Madras was gathered in one place tonight, young and old, sparkling and scintillating for the benefit of 240.

We made for the bar first: some people are just made that way, they gravitate naturally as steel to a magnet. I left Joe and Paddy there after one drink and wandered idly among the chattering throng.

The band started, and I gazed around; I felt fastidious tonight, I wanted to dance, but not with a giggling girl whose snaky hips and jiggling shoulders would make me feel my age! Someone who would glide smoothly but not talk too much, someone like the lady with the tip-tilted nose! I asked quietly and without a smile if she would dance. She would and could. Yes, she could dance - far better than - but she chattered. Once around the floor and we talked. At first she talked and I listened, and then to my surprise I found myself talking, telling things about my home, my wife, my baby. These months in the sun and weeks in the rain had made me lonelier and more despondent and fed up than I knew! I should not tell these things but I was to learn how difficult it is to resist when Mrs Moller sets out to do a thing.

We introduced ourselves, and after the dance I brought along Paddy and Joe; I had to!

'Have you any particular friends?' 'Yes, Joe and Paddy.' 'Please bring them to me.' Just like that. 'What, now?' 'At once.' And there you are. Round a little table, three rather awkward men and a tall, fair woman who simply radiated personality. There was another lady in the background somewhere; she did not register anyway.

Joe danced with Mrs Moller, and Paddy too. They were under the same spell though they could blame that a little on the bar, perhaps! Midnight, and Joe a little tipsy. His speech as broad as an Ashington collier and a funny little swagger to his walk. We said goodnight reluctantly, for it had been good, and tomorrow would see us back again at work, in the heat of the smithy and workshop.

We had to promise to visit 'Shemran', delightful name for a house. Why 'Shemran'? I must find out. Back at work next day, I wondered, was she really so interested or was she just being kind to a soldier sort of thing. Of course, we had to go, we had promised, but was it to be tea and little cakes and awkward silences? We found 'Shemran' in the late afternoon, standing back from the road, in its own grounds: lovely lawn, little bushes, big shady trees at the sides, and the big square house, white and serene with its deep cool veranda, beckoning a welcome after the hot dusty streets of Madras city. A figure in white ran down the steps under the porch, came eagerly towards us with both arms outstretched in greeting "I am glad to see you. I knew you would not disappoint me! " As though we were being good to her. I think we soon thawed out and were our natural selves. We admired the garden - who wouldn’t? Such a lovely place. The interior took my breath away, such lofty rooms, wide staircase and arched doorways (without doors), the cool, quiet peacefulness of it. A lovely home indeed. A lovely home for lovely people. They were all grand! Mr Moller, small, very quiet but with a sense of humour like my Dad; I liked him from the start. Marchen, ten years old, eyes like the sky in the morning and a smile quick and easy, accepting one immediately as a friend. Henrik, just a little fellow, about two or maybe a little more, very shy at first, but not for long. Skin like milk and hair like honey, prettier than Marchen in a way, but she has her mother’s charm. Mrs Moller, frank and open, intensely interested in everything and everyone, quick warm smile, but a slight weakness for running herself down in a joking sort of way. Very modest about her own accomplishments and efforts - and very charming. Obviously very much in love with her family.

Yes, tea and little cakes, but with a difference - no awkwardness - just as natural as my own home. It was grand to have the children at the table; it does a man good to watch them. Their smiles, their talk, their bright young faces. If there was a lump in my throat at times, I don’t mind admitting it; I am sentimental. There was, it appeared, a special cake in our honour - it was very special - but who cared when there was bread and strawberry jam? I think Paddy made a pig of himself, and anyway, I couldn’t keep on asking for the jam when he kept it so close to his elbow! Dinner was even better: steak and kidney pie! What pie crust!! Paddy and Joe talked about it all the way back to camp. I kept quiet and just thought about it. The ice cream was wizard, with chopped nuts and chocolate sauce. I hope we did not make it too obvious but it was grand. I’ve wondered since, what did they think of us? But there was some excuse, for it was the first really good food in months.

Of course we had to go again - no getting out of it even if we had wanted to. A little red book came out, will it be this day - that day - or when? But it had to be fixed before we left. I think we all three felt the same: we did not want to impose upon good nature and kindness, but Mrs Moller made it seem as though we were doing a favour by going. 'You will come, won’t you? You won’t disappoint me?' What can a man do in a case like this, and of course we did want to go again and not for the food either! Such a happy home, such happy people, after an afternoon and evening there, one could face the week with a different spirit. India did not seem half so bad or half so far away.

One Starry Night

We knew that this was going to be a very important job - but we were really fed up with it! Even the CO himself came to us in Workshops and told us how serious it was. We worked hard. Only a few days notice to plan and fit plane dampers to be used in a special mission on Burma. So we worked night and day in relays when we could, but even then putting in twice as many working hours as we should, and we were all feeling the strain. At last they were ready for air test and I was to fly on this along with the sergeant i/c Workshops, and of course, the crew. I was too tired to go ashore for a feed and a wash - so I laid on one of the bunks in the 'Cat' (Sunderland flying boat) while waiting for the aircrew. Just after dark, the power boat woke me up as she came alongside. A few minutes later we were airborne and climbing to the stars.

It had been decided that three hours would be sufficient and we were to be observed from the ground as well as by a sister ship, which took off somewhat later. We cruised around the camp at 1,000ft and then circled Madras, away slowly over a neighbouring airfield, watching the twinkling lights from the city and scattered villages. But I liked best to look at the stars, so near and yet so coldly remote. The moon rose palely from a bank of fluffy cotton wool and the earth became a map in dark relief. Climbing to 5,000ft we swung away from Madras, through little puffs of cloud; like a cloud we seemed to drift slowly over the countryside. Bewitching night! My thoughts became detached. I was a stranger in a dream world, and time stood still. Entranced by the cold beauty of the marvellous night among a million twinkling jewels, I felt a strong sense of annoyance when Sgt. Berry nudged me, and told me that our lights were out - we were making our run! We came in from several miles north of the camp, the silver lake agleam in the moonlight, and patterned yellow squares showed up the compound of the airmen's quarters. To one side, and slightly below, drifted the navigation lights of 'J', her flaming exhaust stacks like flashing eyes, she banked and turned, but did not follow; we were not seen! We swung slowly over Control. The lights on the tower blinked, but not at us, and I could imagine the many pairs of eyes straining upward, watching for the tell-tale glare of flaming exhaust gases. They could hear us, but we were invisible. I thought of the nights in Blighty, in the old slit trenches while Jerry had circled just like this. How plain it all was, if we were out to bomb, how easy it would be. First, Control, standing alone tall and white in the moonlight, its shadow pointing like a finger of doom, and then the airmen’s camp, so sharply silhouetted, and the 'Ship', with its busy workers under the floodlights - how easy to destroy it all!

We curved in a slow bank over the lake, and our lights came on. Sparks flicked out his message to Control. A request to land granted in a moment. We made our circuit and swung in towards the flare-path down with the grace of a swooping gull (effortless and easy, fifteen tons or more) to touch the water and skim with foaming wake across the placid lake. The pilot throttled back and we lay, floating serenely among the moon-shot wavelets. The sergeant told me to nip up smartly onto the mainplane, and observe the dampers while still hot. A very foolish order, and I, as foolish, carried it out, realising as I finally got there, just how dangerous it was. The pilot had not been told! He did not know that a man was perched high on the mainplane between the engines, and he opened up the throttles just as I reached the petrol tank vents between the narcelles. The 'Cat' tore across the lake again, at something like 70 miles an hour. I held grimly on to the two thin pipes, feeling them bend as the slipstream thrashed my body. The thunderous roar from the exhaust dampers on each side of my head deafened me, made me cower inside myself, and the pungent gases filled my throat as I fought for breath in the tumult of shrieking air and roaring engines. For a few horrible moments I thought he was about to take off again, but almost as soon as the thought, the message must have reached the pilot, for he throttled back and drifted gently towards the mooring buoy. The brilliant searchlight from the powerboat picked me out, perched high on the mainplane, my clothes flying in the slipstreams blast, and my crouching body hugging close to the slender vents, which afforded such precious but such precarious grasp on life. I sobbed out a deep breath of relief, as the whirling props, so uncomfortably close, flicked and died, then I looked up to the stars and laughed. It was treated as a joke by all but beneath the laughter and banter was a little shaky tremble and thankfulness that it had not been worse.

We had done a good job they said, we had flown unseen through the moonlit night, over and round the camp; our sister ship had seen no sign of us. The work was done, and we could rest until the next time!

Life in Madras

I arrived at No.2 S of A.7.T.T. on 2 Dec 1943. The journey from Madras was, of course, the usual uncomfortable business and the only food we were able to get during the 24 hours of travel was eggs and toast. Our new camp was far from impressive, and it was only after considerable trouble that we finally secured a bed for the night.

The next day was spent getting organised. After the usual visits to the M.O. Pay Accounts and Stores and so on, we called on the C.T.O. and were told of our new duties. Two days later, we were at work, instructing I.O.R. trainees with the promise (or the threat!) of an Instructors Course in the offing.

My particular job was to teach the removal and installation of Merlin and Mercury engines into Hurricane and Henheim aircraft. Facilities weren't too bad: a model aerodrome to work on, sheer-legs, a blackboard and a cupboard, also an old canvas sheet for shade from the ever-blazing sun. The work was quite interesting but for the most part I found the average trainee rather dull, and in a lot of cases, stupid. The language difficulty did not make things any better, great patience being needed in explaining the simplest of words and phrases, and the technical vocabulary of the average trainee was practically nil.

The weeks rolled past, and I took my course in lecturing, passing out top of the class with an A certificate. This was considered quite good, and back I went to instructing. Interesting work for the most part, the classes only lasting a week, not really long enough to teach a B.O.R. how to install a Mercury engine properly, let alone an I.O.R. However, the weeks seemed to pass more quickly with having fresh faces each Monday morning. The hours were light with Wednesday afternoon and all Sunday off, and of course with such a lot of spare time, sport became very important. Football, tennis and badminton clubs were organised as well as swimming. The powers that be are very keen on the men having as much exercise as possible it is so necessary to physical fitness in a country such as this, and so every facility was granted.

So after nearly eleven years I played tennis and football again - not very good at first, but improving with every game.

One day I was offered the chance to fly again, something which I was beginning to think was a thing of the past. However, there I was at a neighbouring aerodrome with the opportunity to fly as passenger in a Tiger Moth. I have always liked light aeroplanes and always wanted to fly in one - here was my chance, and I took it.

The pilot was an Indian Officer and he asked me what I wanted, so I told him to take me on a tour of Secunderabad and Hyderabad including the Nyams [sic] Palace, fort, tombs and so on. We cruised over these places in bright sunshine and I enjoyed every moment of it. Then he asked if I would like some aerobatics. Naturally I told him to go ahead, for Tiger Moths are renowned for their start capabilities. I was securely strapped in and we were at 2,000ft when he began.

A slow wing-over and into a spin, three and a half tons of tremendous sensation, the earth below spinning in an amazing fashion. The altimeter read 500ft when we finally came out with a sickening zoom. Every wire and strut was singing and the blood pounding in my head like a big drum. We screamed our way up, the propeller clawing at the air and the engine revving like a mad thing and then sudden peace, the throttle back and the aircraft drifting like a feather over the countryside. My heart settled down again to normal rhythm, my head readjusted itself as we climbed in slow spirals back to 2,000ft.

Then down went the nose, the throttle wide open, engine singing full-throatily and the earth rushing up. I fought for breath as the earth reeled out of sight and we began to loop. My hands and feet went solid; everything seemed rooted and I was pressed hard against my seat as the earth came back again into view beneath my head, far, far below. I shut my eyes and clenched my teeth, and gripped my seat hard until my hands hurt. I felt very sad and sorry for one brief moment, then the exhilaration, the wonderful birdlike feeling flooded through me again as we swooped earthward out of my first loop. I promised myself, 'I will keep my eyes open next time', and before I was able to ask for another loop, I realised we had already started it. The earth was out of sight, and up, up, up she went and over. My eyes remained open with an effort but what a thrill!

And so into the third loop: I felt it was almost commonplace by now, and for the little moment we hung on top, upside down, I looked around almost nonchalantly. Thrills were coming thick and fast! Out of the loop and into a breathtaking side-slip and whip over on to our backs: flat spins, stalls and slow rolls and half a minute of inverted flying, a most peculiar experience. All my weight was on my Sutton harness and my feet waving about above me.

By this time I felt almost saturated with sensation, nothing the pilot could do would bring back again the marvellous moments of that first spin or the first loop. He kept asking me how I was, and if I wanted more. I told him just to keep it going. I think he must have finished his bag of aerial tricks for he told me to hang on for a spot of ground stooffing [sic] next, and down we went into the scrub-jungle north of the camp. Often our wheels seemed to touch the ground in those small clear patches, great boulders flew past our wing tips, palm tops swished by above, until at last, tiring of this fun, we turned for home. We climbed to around 300ft and side-slipped into a perfect three-point landing.

When we got out I thanked him very nicely. He looked at me closely, seemed rather disappointed about something, and said that he was glad I had enjoyed it. And I had.

No wonder John Gillespie Magee wrote the lovely poem High Flight. My poor pen cannot describe the beauty of flight. Whether in a light and fairy-like Moth or a 15-ton Catalina, the beauty of cloudland can only be known to those who have journeyed there, who have drifted among the stars with Lady Morn for company, or darted along the cloud lanes, or sailed serene, along the cloudless blue of an Indian sky with the sparkling ocean far below.

Man becomes another being, nothing seems real, the very air one breathes is wine, heady and strong. Time means nothing: for a minute can seem a day; a month, eternity; and the cockpit clock is just another instrument, it means something! Or does it? One forgets. One doesn’t care! Nothing matters way up there in the blue.

A Working Day in the Hot Season (Secunderbad)

We rise at 5.30, and the first thing one notices is the wet and sticky feel of the sheets. It is still dark, except for the pitiful yellow glow of a couple of oil lamps, and I groan as I ease myself up and prepare to begin the daily round. Of course, like the rest of the men, I wear only underpants and a towel wrapped round my tummy during the night. The first thing is a wash in tepid water. (Wouldn’t it be grand to have a cold shower?) Then change those underpants, so wet and sticky and uncomfortable. By this time a cup of tea has been produced and I gulp it gratefully.

Suddenly it is light. In a matter of two or three minutes darkness has flown and the sun has begun its deadly journey. As I go to work, for we start at 6am, I can already feel the heat from those long, golden, slanting rays, as they strike through the scattered trees in the compound.

Sleep, during the hot season, is not refreshing. I feel jaded and weary after a restless night, sweating and tossing beneath my mosquito net, and the thought of another long day of blazing sunshine and breathless heat makes me feel no better.

It is hard work talking, I stand in front of my class with my throat dry and soon the sweat trickles down my face, my back, my legs and arms, and worst of all, saturates my shirt and shorts around my middle. Flies buzz around incessantly: one particular kind most irritating, being very small indeed, they buzz around the eyes and very often go right in, causing much discomfort.

I wait impatiently for breakfast time, and the hot tea, which I know will make me sweat more, but relieve my painful throat. What stupid people the trainees are! What silly questions they ask, how hard it is to make them understand a simple point!

The sun ascends, and for a little while, a fitful breeze plays around, choking us with fine dust, as fine as my lady’s face powder but not so smooth, gritty and painful.

Breakfast period at last! 8.45 until 9.30. Tea, porridge, soya with beans, and bread, sometimes a wee scrap of bacon as a treat! Change of clothing and back to work. Talk, talk, talk: engines, propellers, oil and petrol systems, round and round; the same words which I used last week and will use next week, and the next, and the next. And it's hot. A pitiless, glaring, blazing sun. Heat from the ground like an oven, and a breeze like the breath of hell!

How my eyes ache, and if I glance at the sky for a moment, how they smart and water. The heat hangs over everything; an object twenty yards away shivers and fades, or are the eyes playing tricks? The aeroplane, which I use for instruction, is under a torn and tattered old cover, poor protection from the Indian sun, and when I’m not busy with the engines, I hold my class beneath the mainplane and belly of the bomber, which, incidentally, has seen good service in North Africa and on the Burma front. The mounting sun grows fiercer. By midday the heat is unbearable; my brow is corrugated and my eyes screwed into wrinkled slits. Clothes saturated and the longing for a long cool drink something beyond description.

At 2.30 the whistle goes for cease work, and I parade my class and march them away. March! What a hope. A shuffling walk with clouds of dust rising and hanging in the still air, choking and blinding, the gritty particles making the eyes red and sore, and all the while the heat pressing down on one like a heavy load.

After dismissing the trainees I go to tiffin, usually a mug of cool water, sometimes iced, and corned beef, cheese and onions. Then a shower - warm water - but it takes away the sweat and dust and off to my 'charpoy'.

From then onwards, until six in the evening, the camp is like the grave - not that one sleeps - it is much too hot - we lie and sweat and irritably swat at the ceaseless flies that pester us. No covering except a couple of towels to absorb the sweat. As soon as one is wet it is put aside to dry. By the time the next is really wet the first is dry again. The whole place is an oven. The ground outside the billet scintillating with heat waves, and the errant little breeze, which lazily wanders through the hut occasionally, is a breath out of hell, carrying with it the inevitable fine red dust.

At six we have another shower, go to dinner (usually more corned beef with mashed potato and pumpkin) followed by a sweet (usually oranges or bananas with what is supposed to be cream). Made with flour and water I believe, the cream looks and tastes like paste for sticking bills! Then we sit on the veranda step until the sun goes down. With the setting of the sun one must wear clothes, long trousers and long-sleeved shirts during the hours of darkness when the mosquito reigns. There seems to be very little difference in the temperature during the night, for the ground throws back the heat, which it absorbed by day.

Most of us go to the canteen, to drink weak and tepid beer or still more tepid lemonade, which by the way, tastes only very faintly of lemon and is totally devoid of fizz. So we talk and smoke and drink until 9.45, then back to the billet and bed, perchance to sleep, perhaps! And if we do - to dream for sure - of that boat which will be leaving Bombay.

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