Читать книгу Our Father's Generation - F. M. Worden - Страница 11

It was the saddest day in my entire life, up to that time, to see my Allie crying. She knew as I did what we were in for. As we sat in our car listening to the car radio, I could only hope this coming war would be over soon. Little did I know then what was in store for me and my family?

Allie, the baby and I flew to the ranch for Thanksgiving; all the news was of the fighting in France. The Germans had overrun Belgium and the Netherlands. France and England were having a rough time keeping the German Army from taking France.

My Dad and Popie were beside themselves that Germany would go to war again. All of them were worried sick about Brother Frank. No one had a word from him in weeks. I tried to console them by telling them that he could take care of himself. That didn’t seem to help a bit. Mother and Michelle would tear up at the mention of Frank’s name. I kept telling them, “He will be okay.”

My Dad took me aside and wanted to know what my plans were about the military. I told him I had no plans, he advised I should think about joining a service before I got drafted.

“I’ll look into it when I get home.”

Back home I went to see the Navy recruiter; he said I could join, go to boot camp then take my chances about flying. “Maybe you can go to flight training, but right now we don’t need pilots.” I tried the Marines, same story. “We need good strong guys like you, but we need Infantry.”

Not me, no Infantry for me. I got the same song and dance from the Army, I could go to basic training, then I could try for pilots training. I kind of said to hell with it, I was too young to be drafted at this time. Allie wasn’t really happy about the whole thing, she just didn’t want me to join at all. I told her I would have to go sooner or later. She said she knew that but wanted to prolong it as long as possible.

The month slipped by, Christmas and New Year’s came and went. We had spent the time with Jack, I was at the airport helping one of Jack’s mechanics clean up an engine when three guys who had been pilots in the air shows flew in and landed, I walked over where they were talking together.

“Hi guys, what’s up? What brings you boys to this bird nest on a day like this?” It was cloudy and getting ready to rain.

Big Jim said, “We’re waiting to meet a plane to take us to Canada; we have decided to join the Canadian Air force. How about you, Tommy, you want-a go too?”

“What’s the deal?” I asked.

“Any licensed U.S. flyer can join if you can pass the physical.”

I had found my calling. I called Allie on the phone to tell her, I wanted to join the Canadian Air Force. To my surprise, she said, “Go for it.” That’s how I joined the Canadian Air Force.

In Canada I spent three months training, it was called “a quick up.” I spent most of the time learning about how to be a military person. After finishing the course, I was made a Flight Sergeant. We received new blue uniforms, with flight wings over the left breast pocket, and a Canada patch on the left arm at the shoulder, I was pronounced a fit combat Fighter Pilot.

Allie and Elsa had spent two months with me while I was in this training. That made life a lot better for me.

Orders came down that fifteen pilots were to be in England ASAP. I was made the CO of the detail; we were to fly two Lockheed Hudson twin engine aircraft to England.

Allie booked a flight to San Diego; I saw the baby and Allie off at the airport, it was a sad day to see Allie crying so hard, as she entered the plane; I threw a kiss and mouthed, “I’ll be back.”

We left the next morning, we landed at Nova Scotia to refuel and flew across the Atlantic to an airdrome in central west England. There I was posted to a Patrol Squadron at the tip of northern Scotland. I was to patrol the North Sea looking for submarines and other German sea going vessels, I complained. “I came here to be a fighter pilot, not a sub chaser.”

The C.O. told me. “We need experienced pilots to instruct the others, you are our best.”

What could I say but, “Okay.”

My duties started as soon as I unpacked, the Hudson was the ideal aircraft to use, it carried ten, one hundred and ten pound bombs. We patrolled sunup to sundown. My first go was fourteen hours, and then we would get eight hours on, eight hours off. A month of this and my butt was dragging. We hadn’t spotted one sub, I was beginning to think the Huns {as the Brits called the Germans} had no subs in the North Sea.

If I hadn’t been getting letters from Allie and Mother, I would have gone berserk. Funny how news from home will make a guy feel so good. Allie said she was working at the Lockheed Aircraft Company in Santa Monica, California, I kind of figured she was building airplanes. Little did I know she was a test pilot for the aircraft Lockheed P38? It was several years before I learned about it, what a gal I married. She was in more danger than I.

All the news was of the fighting in France. The Brits had sent a force {with fighter planes - Hurricanes - no Spitfires} to stop the Nazi advance. Seems they were having no luck stopping the Germans.

Two of our pilots were called to Fighter Command, they were older chaps. I felt cheated for weeks, I said so too. I was to feel better soon.

It was on an early morning patrol, we had been out for an hour, when the observer called on the intercom, “Sub dead ahead.”

Sure enough, I could just make out a Sub on the surface coming our way, what luck! I banked the Hudson hard right and at full throttle we climbed into a dense cloud bank. At 15,000, I leveled off and turned north, every once in a while we could get a peek at the Sub through a break in the clouds. She was steaming right along on the same course. Apparently, their lookout had not seen or heard our aircraft.

I gave it five minutes, dove down and a few feet off the water headed for our target. At five hundred yards, I climbed above the Sub. “Bombs away!” She never knew what hit her, the hundred-ten pounders hit square on the deck, what a shot! As we climbed away, I banked left to get a better view. The Sub jumped out of the water and broke in half, in two minutes, the Sub was gone. I had total remorse; I knew a hundred men had just died. War had come to me in a striking realization.

After the patrol, a celebration was had in the village pub. Now there were fourteen crews patrolling the North Sea from our airdrome. Our Commanding Officer, Jeff J. Jones, a tall Scott, came to me that night and told me I had been posted to Fighter Command, I almost broke down as I wanted that so bad.

“Tommy,” he said “You will make one great Fighter Pilot.” He had been one in the first war. “I wish you the best in the world, England needs you now.” Boy, oh boy, did he make me feel good; I had a lot of respect for this man.

The news was of the retreat of French and British forces. They were trapped on the beaches of a French coastal town - Dunkirk.

Two days later, I was on a train bound for Fighter Command. I was to report to Air Vice-Marshal Park at Uxbridge, Group 11 Headquarters in south east England. I arrived at Park HQ at seven a.m. He welcomed me with open arms. “We need fighter pilots. You will be a member of Squadron 29 at Tangmere Airdrome, it’s the hottest group we have.” He was a no nonsense guy.

“We need pilots,” he said again, “Not heroes. Follow the orders of your squadron leader.”

I said I would without fail.

The news about Dunkirk, France was that the Brits had taken most of the soldiers back to England, 250,000 in a flotilla of civilian small boats. That was an impossible feat, to say the least.

I was given a ride to the Tangmere Airdrome. In the dispersal hut; I met my Squadron Leader, a chap named Flight Officer Major Sailor Martin. A stern looking individual, he looked to be about thirty-five years old, Six feet tall about one hundred eighty pounds. He was a friendly fellow and introduced me to a good number of my brother pilots, most were young as I. I met my wing man, Lee Johns, an Aussie, tall, blonde, dark blue-eyed, handsome, weighting in at about a hundred and sixty pounds. a really good looking young guy. He told me he had been with the squadron all of three days. “I have four hours of combat time, No kills but some misses.”

“I’ll get one soon,” he told me with much confidence.

Major Martin asked if I had ever flown a fighter aircraft.

“I have a few minutes in a Navy f4f Grumman Wildcat and an old Pea-shooter, a Navy Officer let me fly them at an air show we were giving at a Navy field; nothing to brag about.”

Major Martin the Squadron CO and I walked outside and over to a Hurricane fighter plane parked in the dispersal area. Four ground crew men were busy working on it.

The Sq. CO said, “This is your aircraft, it has just been refurbished at the factory. These men are fueling and putting a few finishing touches on it. The ship was shot down and the pilot killed, may you have better luck with her.”

I must have looked a little apprehensive. He told me. “She’s as good as new.”

He introduced me to my ground crew chief, Corporal Jason Smith. “She’s all ready to fly, sir.”

The Corporal looked really young, maybe nineteen at the most. He was a rather tall, lanky chap with a smooth face and a friendly smile. I could see we were going to get along fine. He gripped my hand and said. “We’ll get a lot of Huns, won’t we Sir?”

“You bet we will.”

“Your airplane is in good hands, I’ll take good care of her and you, Please call me Smithy, everyone does.”

“I sure will.”

Squadron Commander, Flight Officer Major Martin said, “I want you to take your Hurricane up. You need to get the feel of her before you go into combat.”

Smithy told me, “She’s full of petrol and ready to go, no ammo though”

“Go south out to sea, give her a good jolly go, you have an hour. Watch for enemy aircraft, the Huns are lurking about.”

I climbed into the cockpit. This aircraft had more instruments than any plane I had flown. He stood on the wing giving me instructions I needed to fly my Hurricane. “When you turn upside down, the engine will spit a few seconds. She has a carburetor, it takes a second for the fuel to catch up. Remember that, the enemy has fuel injection, so you are most vulnerable at that time.” When he got down, Smithy helped with my seat and parachute harnesses, I was ready to fly my Hurricane.

As I was flagged out and taxied to the take-off area, I tried to run over in my mind the instructions Officer Martin had given me. There was no runway here, just a grass field, the ground was somewhat soft. At the end of the field, I turned into the wind, set the brakes and revved the engine, I released the brakes and she leapt forward in response. Away we went, back on the stick, in a split second we were airborne.

“What power this baby has.”

I circled the field two times, climbing all the time, I needed to get my bearings. At three thousand feet, I banked right and headed south. Climbing all the time, I was out over water in a few minutes. I put on the oxygen mask at twelve thousand feet, and flattened out, all the time watching for enemy aircraft. None, I never saw any all the time I was out when I figured I was out about twenty miles, I put her through some aerobatics.

WOW, what an aircraft this was! If I had done some of the same stuff in the old biplanes in the air shows, I wouldn’t be here, this plane could take it. Loops, rolls, spins, she climbed like crazy. I had never flown a plane like this before, I was having a ball, what fun! When I checked my instruments, I only had a few minutes fuel left. The gauge was clicking on “E.” I was at fifteen thousand feet, I rolled her over and went into a steep dive.

WHOA! The Hurricane began to shudder and kept in the dive, I was pulling back on the stick with all my strength, I was sweating like a run-a-way horse. She pulled out at one thousand feet, Whew! Hooray, I was about to relieve myself—pee in my pants.

Back at the airfield, I sat her down as gentle as a baby buggy. Smithy helped me out of the cockpit. “How ya like her?” he asked.

“This is a real aircraft.”

He grinned and shook his head yes.

A lorry pulled up next to the Hurricane, a young female in a blue uniform got out and started to unload cartons of 303 ammo. I asked Smithy about her.

“She’s a WAAF, we have lots of girls like her, and they do everything for us. Drive lorries, tractors, you may see them with a shovel filling bomb craters after a raid, mostly they work on the tracking tables.”

“Tracking tables?” I asked.

“Yeah, they track the enemy as soon as they take off in France; track our fighters as they intercept them. You will have to go see, it’s something to see, we can’t do without them, they’re wonderful.” He introduced me to the WAAF, her name was Sarah. I learned more every day, about Fighter Command.

I walked past the dispersal area, there sat eight pilots waiting for the call to scramble. They were lounging in lawn chairs, one got up and introduced himself. “My name is Patty,” he said as he shook my hand. He told me the seven other chaps’ names. “How do we call you? We give nick names to everybody.”

“My name is Tom. I’m called Tommy at home.”

“Tommy is an English Bloke, we need one better.”

One of the pilots chimed in. “Let’s call him Yank.”

“That’s okay by me. “

“Yank you are,” Patty said. “The CO wants to see you.”

“See you chaps later.” I walked over and entered the dispersal hut, there were three pilots and Officer Martin sitting around a table.

“Come on in,” Officer Martin said. “How was your flight?”

“Great, that’s the most powerful aircraft I’ve ever flown.”

“Did you have any trouble at all?” he asked.

“She was a little hard to take out of a steep dive.”

“Ha, ha,” Martin said laughing. “You forgot to trim. Many first timers pull the same thing, you won’t forget again.”

I assured him I wouldn’t.

“Two critical moves you must make when you dive in a Hurricane trim her and don’t forget to switch on the firing button when you go into combat. Also, you only have nineteen seconds of ammo. Try to use two second bursts, watch your tracers, they will tell you where your hitting. We recommend starting firing at two hundred and fifty yards from the target. We use the Hurricane for the bombers; let the Spits take on the German fighters. Our tactics as of now are to dive from above, out of the sun if possible. Try to pass thru the enemy formation, firing as you pass by. Climb as soon as you can and get in position to make another pass. I know it sounds simple, it’s not. Most of all, you will have to train yourself. We all do, we don’t have the time to train to shoot. Most of the pilots never shoot their guns until they go into combat.”

“I understand, I’ll try not to spend ammo.”

Major Martin then introduced the three pilots, all three where NCO’s. “These men are your bunk mates. Flight Sergeant Adolf Lyseek, he’s Polish” He was a rather short husky individual, with a ruddy face, balding head and a strong hand shake, my hand will never be the same. He spoke good English when he welcomed me to the squadron. Officer Martin told me Sgt. Lyseek’s story. He had come over to Great Britain a year ago with five other pilots from Poland. Sgt. Lyseek interrupted the Major.

“Yes, we came to England as we saw the Germans marching; my country’s aircraft were obsolete, we could not fight the Germans with them.”

Officer Martin continued, “He was with us in France, his wife and two young sons were killed in the bombing of Warsaw.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I felt sadness for him.

Sgt Lyseek said, “She would not come to England with me, I should have made her. She did not want to leave her parents.” He bowed his head as he spoke.

I really felt sorry for him to lose his family that way.

“This fine fellow is from South Africa, Flight Sergeant Lee Rolland.” Sgt Rolland came and shook my hand.

“Glad to have you aboard, Old Chap, Please call me Lee, I like the name.” He laughed saying his name.

Lee was another good looking young guy. Looked to be six feet tall, brown neatly combed hair, brown eyes, weighed about one-seventy or -eighty pounds. Looked like the kind you would want to be your friend.

The last NCO was standing next to Lee. He looked young, maybe seventeen or eighteen.

“My name is J.W. Allison, call me JW.” He was very handsome, reminded me of the American movie star Tyrone Power, I could see he was full of himself. You have to be that way to be a fighter pilot. He shook my hand. “Glad to meet you.”

Officer Martin said, “Your gear and kit are in your hut, these men will show you where. The NCO mess is open all the time, If you have any questions, feel free to come and ask. You will not fly until tomorrow morning, we rise at four a.m., be ready to scramble by five a.m.”

The three Sergeants led me to our hut. The hut was primitive to say the least; it had four cots, a wall locker for each, a clothes hanger, four chairs and a small writing desk. A small lamp hung over each cot.

I had letters from Allie and Mother lying on my cot. I waited a while to open them.

We four sat and talked awhile, I wanted to get to know these men. I asked Lyseek about his time in France. He wanted to talk, he told of the fighting in France, he was hit by ground fire and had to bail out, he landed in a field near a road that was being used by hundreds of refugees. He told of the German aircraft bombing and strafing the road. There were people and animals killed all along the road, it was pure slaughter. “I was lucky not to have been killed. It took two days to get back to my airfield, I shall never forget that time.” He showed a lot of anger in himself. Who could blame him?

The pilots left and went out to the dispersal area as they might have had to fly at any time.

I was alone and got to read my letters. Allie said all was good at home, the baby was growing like a weed. She enclosed two pictures, I would not have recognized our little girl. Mother said Popie had been sick with the flu and Uncle Bob was getting bad with cancer. They were worried about Frank, they had no word from him in weeks. Boy, oh boy, I hoped he was all right. The last they heard he was somewhere in Europe trying to get to Italy.

I spent the last hour before mess writing letters. After mess, we all returned to our hut. As I was finishing my letters, my wing man, Flight Officer Tim, came by and asked if anyone wanted to go to a pub. J.W. was ready so I decided to go along. Tim said we would be back by ten p.m.

Tim has an English Ford four-door sedan. JW and Tim got in the front seat; I sat in the rear seat behind the driver Tim. We were pulling out of the airfield gate when four WAAF’s in blue uniforms waved down our auto. One of the girls called, “You chap’s going to a pub?”

Tim, through the open driver’s window answered, “Yeah. You girls want-a go with us?”

One of the ladies yelled back, “Yes, we do.”

Tim invited them to hop in. Three of them got in the back seat with me. The other one opened the door next to me and popped right in onto my lap. She remarked, “You’re the Yank all the girls are talking about, right?”

“Yeah, I am.” She was the WAAF with the ammo I met at my plane.

“Hope I’m not too heavy?”

“No, you’re just fine.”

The WAAF who stopped us said, “I’m Maggie.” The one next to her said, “I’m Edith.” The other one said, “I’m Ginger.” The one on my lap said she was “Sarah.”

I told them, “I’m Tom, the Yank.”

“Are you a single man, Tom?” Sarah asked.

“No. I’m not, but I like pretty girls just the same.”

“Look out Sarah,” Ginger quirked, “He’ll have you in bed shortly.”

“No way,” I said.

Maggie looked in the dim light to be in her late twenties, rather husky and sharp featured lass.

We arrived at the Red Barn shortly and our entire group entered a typical English pub. There were three men and two ladies at the bar. Sarah, Edith, Tim and I sat at a table, Sarah sat next to me. Maggie, Ginger and JW went straight to the bar. Maggie ordered a jinn, she took off and laid her cap on the bar exposing her short cropped man’s hair cut. I thought, “That woman is the bossy kind.”

Edith was a very quiet sort; she was pretty, five-two and nicely built. Ginger was the party type, a beautiful blonde with blue eyes and a well-built body that even the blue uniform could not hide, she was a real butterfly. Sarah was pretty with her dark brown hair and flashing brown eyes, full lips and gorgeous smile. A most pleasing voice, I liked her immediately. She reminded me of a woman in the American movies, darn if I could remember her name. I could see Sarah wanted to talk. The waiter came; I asked Sarah what she would have to drink. “I’ll have a pint,” she replied. I ordered the same. And I put money on the table, she said in no uncertain terms, she was paying. She was so forceful I put my money away.

I asked her how she became a WAAF. “I wanted to be a nurse, but my father talked me out of it. You see he was a Doctor, a Surgeon, in the first war in France. He was gassed by the Germans in a field hospital. All the time he was with us, he was kind of sickly. He told me he didn’t want me around sick people, so I trained to be a WAAF, my father died when I was fifteen. I have a little Brother, who will be ten this year. I was born in a small hamlet north of London, I want to hear about you. How come you came over here to fight?”

“I know America will have to soon be where I am.” I asked, “Where are your Mother and Brother now?”

“They moved in with my Mother’s Brother as soon as the war started. They live on a farm in the center of the country. I hope they won’t get bombed there.”

We made small talk for over an hour, I really like her.

Maggie announced, “We have to go, we must be back in our quarters by ten fifteen.”

Tim got to his feet and said loud and clear, “Drink up, we’re leaving.”

We all returned in Tim’s auto. We sat in the same arrangement as before with Sarah on my lap, Sarah put her left arm around my neck and whispered, “I like you Tom,”

“I like you, too, Sarah.” She rubbed her cheek against mine.

Ginger heard it and said, “O-o-o-o-o what’s going on here?”

I said, “Nothing, Ginger. We two are just being friends.”

“I bet, if I were her, I would like it.” Ginger was laughing.

Tim turned, “I better get to know you Ginger.” We all laughed.

We dropped the girls off at their quarters. Sarah waved and called, “I’ll see you again Tom.”

As we pulled away I remembered, “Teresa Wright,” I said out loud. “Teresa Wright. You chaps help me to remember that name.” They both said they would.

At our hut, Tim let JW and I off. Inside, the black-out curtains were pulled, Lee and Lyseek were both in bed. Lyseek was snoring the roof off. I got out my pj’s, robe and slippers and a set of ear plugs. I undressed, put on the pj’s and robe, grabbed my kit and went to the wash room. I brushed my teeth, washed up and hurried back to the hut.

Lyseek was still snoring, with ear plugs, I went to bed. I turned my lamp off, dark as sin in the hut. I lay in bed thinking I had a good day. When I fly, it is always a good day. When I had shut my eyes, I could see war planes in my mind, black ME 109's, lots of them. All of a sudden I was tired, I felt a little guilty about Sarah, what would Allie think if she knew? Oh well, tomorrow I fly my first combat scramble. I adjusted my head on the pillow to get more comfortable and soon fell asleep.