At this point in time I was instructed to report to the Air Force headquarters located underground at the teachers training college in Mt Eden and also was underground to have an interview with one Air Commodore Wallingford re a commission, as I had been selected for one along with two other bods. And so to the top command I go and was walking down the corridor when I passed an officer who upon seeing my rank asked me if I knew a Warrant Officer Pearce.
“Yes Sir," I told him, “That's me."
“Well about that trip to Gisborne, just come with me.” And with that he went into a room where another officer was seated. This was not what I had expected. This one being a Kiwi whereas the other one was a, dare I say it, a POM. On entering, the officer who stopped me said to the seated officer, “This is the pilot who flew down to Gisborne and caused all that ruckus. I think we should charge him.” When he said that I drew myself up to me full height and said in reply, “Just what can you charge me with, as I did nothing wrong. I even signed the low flying book at Gisborne and what's more I had a valid met report.”
The Kiwi said that as far as he was concerned I was indeed clear but the Pom, bless him, still argued that I should be charged, whereas the Kiwi asked me why was I was here in the high command inner sanctum.
“Oh, I'm here to see Air Commodore Wallingford, so if there is any hold up you can explain to him why I have missed his appointment.” Enough said, I was ushered out smartly with the parting words from the Kiwi, “Don't worry about anything, cause nothing's going to happen.”
The other officer was all for charging me but common sense prevailed. So on to the appointment with the great man and we got down to talking. We had a great session when he discovered that his old man and my old man were old mates, and he said that he had met my old man. A small world.
On the 23rd of June 1944, I, together with my colleagues from 17 Squadron and also the bods from 22 Squadron, were sent up to a place called Swanson, which just happened to be the place that I went to school [primary] and also spent most of my growing up at, so I was very familiar with the area. My old man was employed at the Waitakere Filter Station which as the Crow flies [but we had to walk] was a three mile hike.
The reason for going there was to a camp called Redwood Park, which had been turned into a Commando training camp where, upon arrival, we were given a pair of overalls and told that at this camp rank would not be recognised and we could consider ourselves as just one big happy [or not] family. And that our instructors, which were mostly Corporals, would have full power over us. So what's new!?
As the overalls carried no rank of recognition whatsoever, you can see we were at the mercy of these sadistic b******* who took very great pleasure in doing their damnedest to make life, as we knew it, very uncomfortable. We had to do unarmed combat in which we had nothing but the instructors did in the form of a bloody long wooden stick, which they used on us with great vigor. To say that we carried a few bruises at the end of the day would be putting it mildly.
We also had to go swimming, no not in the pool or creek but in a large pool filled naturally with water but as an added bonus a fuselage of a Lockheed Hudson in which we would have to dive in the pool and go in one end of the damn thing, glide gently through the inside and come out through another opening. And all this without panicking as you were also wearing overalls and what was called jungle boots. One concession that they made was to have a trained swimmer ready to dive in to rescue anyone who had managed to get himself into trouble. This swimmer had of course only swimming trunks on. See they did have our interest at heart. The fuselage of the aircraft had fortunately had all its interior removed so there was just no chance of getting snagged, or at least that is what we were told.
They also took us, or rather sent us, out into the bush and just to make things interesting if anyone was caught lingering about, a thunderflash would be flung at your backside. These thunderflashes made one hell of a noise and if landed near you it certainly made you jump. *
Now, of course, I just revelled in being sent into the bush as remember that this was where I had been brought up. Our task, should we accept it, and we did, was to get through the bush without being caught by the enemy [the instructors] and as I said I just loved beating the enemy, which to my satisfaction was every time we were sent out. This of course annoyed the “enemy” who thought they were the cats pajamas. Pity the poor cat though as it wasn't till the end of the course that they were informed of my upbringing. More on this later though.
We were also taught how to kill our enemy if we had been lucky enough to survive whatever the circumstances was. This consisted of killing silently with our jungle knives which we would be carrying with us when flying. In other words this was survival and for our protection, for make no illusion - we were in this dangerous game of killing or be killed in earnest. So for our own protection this was not a game to be taken lightly but was in dead [no pun intended] serious mode. You learnt and digested all you could as later on it could save your life.
It was on a glorious Friday morning that again we were bundled into two trucks - covered of course - the rear cover being firmly tied down and we were driven off up the Northern end of the Scenic Drive, along which we stopped and were told to dismount.
In getting out we were divided up into two groups and was told that our group would be led by one Dave Blakeley, a F/O, while the other group would be led by non other than the Instructor [he had a hidden agenda] and our assignment was to get back to the camp which he pointed out lay in that direction and the first ones back could go on leave. We were not permitted to use any roads all movement to be carried out through the bush. With these instructions firmly in our minds he strode off taking his gang with him. When he had got out of sight and as we had not moved yet, I asked Dave if he wanted to get back to camp very quickly.
Dave looked at me and asked me what I had got in mind.
“You see those four houses down there to our right well that was where I lived and was brought up in for over ten years and I know every track around here. And not only that but a track to my old home is less than 50ft [see I still can remember the old measurements] from where we are standing."
With that information Dave promptly handed over the command to me and so we took off, me leading and going like the clappers as it was my intention to get those leave passes in our sweaty hands smartly.
So it was onwards and downwards smartly and it was only a few minutes before we reached the Eastern end of the tunnel which ran under the ranges. This in those days had a railway line running from the filter station up to the dam and the method of propulsion was by horsepower, and not the mechanical type but good old fashioned four legged ones.
Now this tramway was a veritable playground for us kids when we were growing up as we used to take a four wheel truck and push it up to the tunnel mouth then hop on it for the ride back down to the filter station. The method of stopping was very simple just a piece of 4 x 4 jammed under one wheel and pressing down on the other or if we wanted superior brakes we would jam a piece of wood in the spokes of one wheel and just let it slide. This was OK providing that the wood didn't break which it invariably did and in that case we would just jump off and let the truck go it's merry way. We knew it would either jump off the track at the last bend, or else do the dirty on us and go right to the end and run into the shed for which we kids would receive a good tanning on our backsides, generally with a razor strop.
But to get back to the original story. As we were on foot and the path was well defined we made good time till we got to the filter station where we had to get onto another track that went behind my old house, and followed a new pipe line down into the valley and so on down to Swanson. Boy were we making good time and on arrival at the camp gates we asked if any one else had arrived
“No Sir, you are the first.”
“Right get our passes ready,” we replied. In for a good shower and then into our best blues, which we had not seen for a week, then out to the gates to pick up our passes as the train to Auckland would be leaving in a few minutes. As we got to the gate we heard voices raised in song and marching along in great style was the instructor and his band of merry men. It was a shame to put a dampener on their merriment but war is hell so we cheered them into the camp until they realised that they would not be getting the train. Tough cookies.
However, comes the next week and the corporal got his own back on me. Again we were bundled into trucks but this time we were accompanied by boxes of hand grenades and taken to the beach, and not for a swim either, but to learn how to throw the things.
The beach of course was Bethel's Beach. Here we unloaded the grenades along with their primers to which we were taught how to fit them to the grenades, and then we were ready for action. So each pilot had to go up to a safety area where you were taught how to throw the things away from you and not have them come back to you like a boomerang. Well things progressed well until it was time for lunch and so as the slurp {food} wagon had arrived, it was down tools for one and all except for one poor sucker who had to guard the boxes of grenades. Guess who that sucker was - go ahead just try and guess. Yes you would be right as the corporal turned to me and said
“You can stand guard. Let no one near them, and we will return when lunch is finished.”
Where have I heard that phrase before? So apart from shewing the Seagulls off, as I was not to let anything near them, I just twiddled my thumbs until the group came back.
“Oh good I can now go and get my dinner,” I said to the instructor.
“Oh sorry, Sir, but I forgot about you and have sent the truck back to base. You will just have to hang on until we get back.”
This of course was to punish someone for having beaten him home and I was it.
Still life in the Air Force was not meant to be a bed of roses, although at times you wished that someone would smile down on you.
Now it wasn't until we were to finish our course that the instructor found out how we had got back so quick, so Dave had the pleasure of telling him.
“You know where you put us down, well W/O Pearce was brought up down at the filter station and you had put us down pretty close to a track he knew and so that was where we headed.”
This of course upset the instructor as according to him he thought that he knew all the tracks in the area. Not so, buster.
Well this course lasted from the 23rd of June until the 7th of July, when it was back to Ardmore to form up as No. 17 [F] Squadron, where we went through all the paces of unit flying. Now we had one great character with us. He was seconded to us from the RAF and he sprouted a huge mustache and of course was known as “Auntie.” He had already received a DFC for action over Germany, but he was very, very heavy handed when it came to handling fighters as he was used to flying heavy bombers which of course were not as responsive as a fighter. On one occasion we wanted to light our belly stove and he went outside to get some fuel. On his return he opened the top and poured some fuel from the container onto the wood that was already there, then putting the top on and now opening the front of the stove he handed me the matches and in his best upper class Pommy voice said to me,
“Here, you light it." So without any more ado I bent down to see where I would throw the match and struck it and promptly threw it into the stove, whereas a great sheet of flame shot out and took all the hair off my right arm as well as demolishing very effectively, both my eyebrows. As I stood up and amidst laughter from the other pilots he said in his upper class voice, “I thought that was 100% octane and not kerosene that I found.” Still we did get the fire lit.
On another occasion when we were re-equipping with the mighty Corsair it was general practice for the CO to fly a new type first, and then the senior NCO. Well this is exactly what happened with the CO going up first and then it was my turn. After that the next senior Officer which was “Auntie” was detailed to take it up. Well he took it up alright but on landing he had the misfortune of selecting dive brake position instead of undercarriage down and so landed with his tail wheel still retracted but the Corsair had a skid ramp just for such an occasion. When we went out to him in the ever present Jeep to collect his fine - oh yes we had a system of fines that we imposed on any pilot that had left a switch on or had forgotten to raise his flaps etc, etc. All the money collected went into a drinking fund prior to going on tour. Every misdemeanor had a different charge and the highest had a 10/- [ten shilling] fine and so we charged him the full amount - and all he said was, “Aren't I a big ****”
But at least it boosted our drinking fund. Now, when flying with “Auntie” [don't ask me how he got that name as I don't know] was an experience in itself, as he was used to flying heavy bombers and so as I mentioned earlier all his movements were over- correcting which made you keep on your toes as one minute his aircraft was over there and next he was heading straight for you and so you reacted very, very fast and let him pass underneath you. And of course you then had to try and catch up with him who by this time was on his way back towards you. This was when we were doing what was called weaving and scissoring and was used in fighters to weave below or above the bombers you were escorting as the fighters were flying faster than the bombers and so to maintain station and still keep up the speed this is how it was accomplished.
It was very dangerous as No. 3 and No. 4 had to do the same, but they also had to pass under No. 1 and No. 2, and the risk of a collision was very real. So you can imagine just how much you had to stay awake when flying as No. 2 while “Auntie” was at No. 3 or 4, to my knowledge he never did get it right but he was well liked by one and all.
Now not long after we had received our Corsairs we the pilots were given the task of starting the engines first thing in the morning. Simple. WRONG, as these aircraft started with a starter called a Kaufman starter, which had a cartridge very similarly to a shotgun shell, inserted in the breach by the ground staff as it was on the outside of the aircraft. When all was ready the pilot just flicked a switch and fired the cartridge, which in turn turned the motor over a couple of times and hopefully the motor fired.
Now we were told that as we did not have the right type of cartridge available, we the pilots were made to hand start the motors. "Hand-start a 2000 HP motor?" I hear you say. Yes that's right, hand start them.
This was accomplished by a very unique and simple system, and that was by using a very thick piece of rope which had at one end another piece joined some few feet from the immediate end and on which was attached a couple of leather cups which slipped over two of the propeller blades and attached to the other end was a large number of pilots ready to do a fast heave whilst in the cockpit laughing sat one of the ground staff who had the honour of switching on the ignition at the right moment.
This was just to let the pilots know that they were not above everyone else but it was quite a joke amongst us. Now as I said earlier on, I was to fly one of these new machines after the CO had been up .On going solo in the P-40 I had been checked over by pilots who had got many hours in them and so it was second nature to them to pass on their knowledge, but in flying the Corsair there was only one man available to give us any information and that was the official test pilot who wrote on a blackboard in the flight office all relevant data concerning this aircraft.
And so when the CO came in from his flight he just stopped the aircraft but not the motor and I climbed in. Now, because this was a aircraft designed for the Navy it lacked parking brakes for a very good reason. Just think that on an aircraft carrier if you had to push the aircraft over the side you would not want to have to try and find the parking brake release. So a wooden chock was thrown under each wheel. Ye gods just how big is this thing? The first thing that I noticed was that there was no floor boards only a couple of channels for the feet to slide in and if you were to step down into the well, my head would have just come up to the pilots seat .
Now there was a reason for this, because at the bottom of the fuselage was quite a large clear panel that was supposedly for the pilot to look through when he was dive bombing, but it was later established that it was easier to look over the long [13ft] nose to aim and not only that it was generally covered in oil. Where the P-40 felt very snug, especially for a short arse like me, the F4U-1 [Corsair] was just a big, big monster but every thing fell to hand nicely. On getting out to the take off point and doing the take off checks I was ready to try and tame this thing.
The first thing you noticed was the 13ft long nose blocked your view of the runway, and not being happy with that, the makers had shifted the cockpit back by 3ft to enable them to fit the main fuel tank in front of the pilot. This position was not dangerous as the tank was a rubber tank and self sealing and took the tanks out of the wings. As the cockpit was now 3ft further back the visibility forward was diabolical and it was imperative to make sure that you took off by using the DI [directional indicator] until the tail had come up which surprising was rather quick.
Control was, to me anyway, very easy and I was soon off the ground, and what power was coming from these 18 cylinders, so I decided to climb up, eventually stopping at 30,000 ft. Prior to the climb up, I tried a few manoeuvres and found the aircraft a most enjoyable machine to fly. Of course I was no stranger to 2000hp as the Bolingbroke had not one but two 10000hp motors which required good handling on take-off, but this machine was something different. After getting to know the machine I did my climb up to the said 30,000ft using oxygen of course, [For myself, not the aircraft, which was on supercharger].
After I had looked around to admire the view I did a wing-over and headed for the ground bloody fast and boy was this thing getting up speed, and then a terrific vibration set in and I find that no matter what I do the aircraft has a mind all of its own, and speed is well over 600mph or should that be knots as the AI [airspeed indicator] was in knots - this being made for the US Navy.
Boy, were we going down and oh brother the ground was coming up just as fast. Still struggling and now well down below 20,000ft I noticed that the vibration seemed to be easing off and eventually ceased altogether and now all I had to do was to get this thing levelled out. Eventually at just below 5000ft I had control of it again. All the way down of course I had the stick all the way back into my stomach.
Upon landing I went into the flight room just in time to hear the check pilot say to the pilots who had not yet flown not to exceed I believe 650 knots under any circumstances.
“Why's that, Sir?" I asked “As I have just done over that and I experienced a lot of vibration”
“Ground that plane," he ordered.
He then went on to say that there had been many accidents in the USA where the pilots had died and they wanted to examine the aircraft to see if there was any apparent damage, as most of the aircraft that they had examined had been involved in crashes. Now if you can cast your mind back to those days, it was just becoming apparent that these aircraft [Corsair, Typhoon and even the Spitfire] were getting up to the speed of sound, and that is what I apparently encountered. And of course up to this stage the method of getting out of the situation was still an unknown factor. So it was just good luck that I had got out of the dive in one piece.
Now as I lived not far from Ardmore it was natural for me to go and circle my house whenever I could just to say hello. This of course was what the selection panel was afraid of when they asked me where I lived and when told them Auckland, they looked at one another and then said that it would probably be alright. What they were afraid of was of course me beating up home. As if I would.
Well on one occasion while flying the beast I went over to home and when I saw everyone was out watching me, I turned and climbed out over Rangitoto then turned and went straight down fast towards home and passing over them I thankfully did a gentle climb away from them. More on the reason for the gentle climb later. And so the training went on and we were also being equipped with ventilated helmets these being of use in the tropics as I believe it gets hot up there. As if I wasn't aware of the heat having been through the tropics twice before.
So comes the 7th of August 1944, and we were given our new orders which was to leave in the morning from Whenuapai, not flying the aircraft up as was usual but this time we would be flown up by transport. This was because of a change in the method of servicing of the aircraft.
So early next morning we were loaded aboard a Lockheed Hudson, all our kit bags were laid out in the center of the aircraft while we would occupy the very luxurious seat that ran along either side of the fuselage with our feet raised up on our luggage. At least the seats had a recess into which one could stick ones bum before putting on the restraining belt. As these seats were of the most luxurious type having been painted a dark green colour, which of course made them sooo much softer to sit on. Unfortunately on this trip the Air Force forgot to give us a flight attendant who could have served us tea and biscuits. No, it was a case of a do it yourself trip.
So after only 3 ½ hours we touched down at Norfolk Island, having got a good view of the magnificent coral reef, the Great Australian Coral Reef. And all this for free. Here at Norfolk we could at last stretch our legs. What's this I hear you say? You've only been flying for 3 ½ hours so you should be OK? This may be alright by today's standard, but you try traveling feet up level with your body and your backside sitting on a bloody hard seat for that time and a longer trip was still ahead of us. As the aircraft had been refuelled and we had also been fed, we re-boarded the aircraft and settled down as best as one could, and off we went again into the wild blue yonder - and I don't mean the sea.
Now after 5 ½ hours of looking at the in-flight pictures, watching your fellow pilots dropping off to sleep, we arrived at our destination, Espiritu Santo, where we would be flying from for the next three weeks.
At this point in time we were now being made to work hard as we were in the front line and, theoretically at least, we could be attacked by the Japanese, although this was very unlikely as they were being pushed back dramatically.
But it would be foolish to think that you could not be attacked and so you still had to be on your toes. In this time we were visited by none other than BOB HOPE and his party of gorgeous girls. It was on the occasion of his performance that I upset my CO. Unintentionally I might add [so I will ]. On this occasion I had as my hangers-on a couple of Flight Sergeants, and of course on arrival at the concert seats and standing room were, to say the least, hard to get. However on seeing me one of the M.P.'s [military police USA}, who are a law unto themselves, saw me and told me to follow them - and who was I to argue? It was not my rank that they had noticed. Oh no. Just that I was a, Goddamn it, a KIWI and a pilot to boot, so;
“Please sir, follow me.” They took the three of us right up to the front of the area and put us into the good seats {tree trunks with the bark still on].
As we sat down a voice behind us said, “How did you manage to get there?!” and on turning around I saw that the voice came from my CO who was sitting in the third row with all his officers and here was I a lowly W/O with a couple of F/Sgt’s in tow sitting ahead of him.
“Magnetism, Sir, pure magnetism.”
And with that I sat down and prepared to enjoy the antics and wise cracking of BOB HOPE. And what a performance he put on. As well as Bob there was another group there at the same time and they were the RNZAF's very own Air Force Band, and boy what a band. They were able to play anything to perfection, be it band music, jazz, symphonies, and solo playing. There was just no stopping them, and they had more Yanks in the audience than Bob Hope had. It would be very hard to describe their playing to give them the accolade that they deserved. But they, along with Hope, certainly boosted the troops morale.
Apart from the daily routine of flying we were also treated to a trip into the jungle to learn how and what one could do to stay alive. The jungle was not short of food or water if you knew where to look and that was the idea of this little exercise. But just going into the jungle by only a few feet was surprising just how dark things got. Also what food was found, be it a snake or some other horrible thing, it wasn't exactly “Gordon Blue!” food but it was á la what you got stuff. After all these jungle restaurants were open all hours, and of course you never knew just when you might require the knowledge that you were about to digest.
It was surprising just where one could get water from once you were shown where to look.
Another lifesaving exercise that we had to perform was getting into a small rubber dingy with all our equipment on just as if we had bailed out of the aircraft and had landed in the sea. As they didn't want to ruin good gear they gave us equipment that the use-by date had already expired on, and so when your turn to leap into the water came you wore all your equipment, including your Mae West [life saver]. And just to make you work harder they gave you an unraveled parachute with which you were expected to get rid of and swim [or drown] as you got to the bobbing raft. Now comes the fun part as that raft has a mind of its own and you either finished up with the damn thing flipped over onto you or else the thing was shooting away from you at a great rate of knots. This exercise had a two fold purpose; [1] to teach you how to get into the bloody thing and [2] do some aqua PT.
Believe me, it was not easy and was a great deal of amusement to those pilots who had already performed this task. Still it just had to be carried out. Once this exercise was out of the way, we could concentrate on the job in hand.
Of course there was always something going wrong and on one occasion my undercarriage failed to lower and no amount of hand pumping seemed to work so it was a case of using the CO2 bottle to persuade the undercarriage to lower. But as fate would have it someone had forgotten to tighten the nut to the bottle and so I got a cockpit full of CO2 and was told that I could either gain some height and bale out or try a landing. I decided to try a landing and just as I flared out for the touch down I heard click, click as the undercarriage locked into place! PHEW!
On another occasion I was just leaving the flight line when I saw the F/S in charge of maintenance come running out waving his arms frantically telling me to stop which I did. He came up to me and asked me was the wing folding mechanism in the locked position and I replied that yes it was and also the wire was still in place. He then asked me to break the seal and quickly move the wing lever back and then forward again, to which I complied with, and then he just waved to me and then said that everything was now OK. Being a curious bugger, I asked him what the hell made him come over to me .
“Oh, this aircraft has just come out of maintenance and I noticed that the wing lock mechanism indicator was still showing,” he said nonchalantly.
“Where the hell can you see that?" I queried.
“Oh there's a small flap on the wing that must be flush with the wing to show that the wing is locked in the down position,” he replied.
Now we the pilots were never told about this indicator as we were not permitted to fold the wings or unfold them and to make sure that we didn't when the wings had been unfolded after being in the workshop the actuating lever was put into the lowered position and wired shut. If I had taken off at some stage of my flight the wings would have folded over my head and no doubt I could have been heard singing Nearer my god to thee while awaiting the inevitable crash. So you see, someone smiles on you sometime or other.
After that little episode I always checked that little flap prior to take-off. This just goes to show that no-one could take things for granted. But of course it doesn't matter how smart you thought you were, there was always something that would unmake your day, and so on another occasion I was ordered to do a scramble with three others and I would be No. 2 and with doing a scramble you had to take-off darn quick.
Well the worst thing about being on scramble duty was the hanging about awaiting a call as you were all kitted up in full flying regalia, and the temperature being up high you sweated and sweated and although you only stayed on ready alert for one hour you were always glad to finish your one hour stint. Of course this was not the end of your misery as you then went on to stand-by, but of course you could take your flying gear off. Well on this occasion we got an alarm and dashed out to our aircraft which normally had been started but for some reason on this occasion the motors were not going.
So hopping into the cockpit and strapping myself in with the help of one of the ground staff, I set everything ready for the start-up and sang out to the other ERK standing by the starter mechanism to stand by, and I then promptly pressed the starter switch which in turn fired the motor. BUT the motor only turned over without doing me the courtesy of starting up. No problem as the Erk quickly opened the starter and pushed another cartridge in. Again pushing the button and firing the cartridge the motor turned but did not fire. This exercise was again repeated but again no response.
Now our orders were on using three cartridges do not try again but just let the system cool down, but on informing my flight leader of my situation I was told to keep trying as they of course were already in the air one man short [I was not called Shorty for nothing], and so signalling the man on the wing to put another shot in the cotton picking thing, I again tried but it took 13 cartridges to get the thing started.
So having got mobile I took off and informed the leader that I was now airborne and would he mind telling me his position if it was not too much trouble as I would like to join him for the rest of the exercise.
“Hit the water injection,” came the reply.
Now not one to disobey I slammed the throttle all the way forward through the wire and then all hell broke loose as another 250hp kicked in and we were off climbing very rapidly. Now this extra boost would only last for 12 minutes and I also had on board a belly tank [full of course], which was not supposed to have been fitted on the aircraft assigned for fast interception. So after finding the rest of the crew I joined in for the rest of the exercise. As you are no doubt aware, to be sitting on your own was not a healthy place to be especially when in enemy territory, although at this period of time the Japanese were well contained but it would be foolish of one to assume that you were perfectly safe so it was prudent to be cautious.
Upon landing, the aircraft was immediately impounded as apparently the motor would have to be changed after having so many cartridges fired and also I didn't help matters by using the water injection. What annoyed the maintenance staff more was the fact that this particular aircraft had only been unpacked the day before and here it was about to have a motor change.
So as I said before, sometimes it pays not to get out of bed but fortunately for me no blame was attributed to me for the [A] starting and [B] hitting the water injection. I got the feeling that someone, who I do not know, was interested in how the water worked and so I was able to tell the rest of gang how the aircraft performed
On one day when some of us had gone down to the beach for a lay in the sun we were close by a couple of Yanks who had managed to get a couple of nurses [theirs not ours] to accompany them and were feeding them all the ******** that they knew of when along came two RNZAF Corsairs virtually chewing up the sand and pretty close together.
“Boy, can our boys fly,” one of the yanks said.
“Hell yes, they're the best in the world,” the other one replied.
Well we being KIWI's couldn't let that statement go unmolested and so one of us said in a superior voice,
“Pull your head in Yank, they're KIWI's flying those planes, can't you recognise the markings?" And with that two very crestfallen Yanks picked up their gear and departed, with the girls still in tow of course, otherwise they would not be Yanks would they!
Also at this stage we had to do a shooting test using our revolvers, a massive .38 caliber Smith and Wesson that had a good kick. Now when we were issued with these guns we were given only six bullets for them, although we had on our belt a pouch to hold extra bullets.
When I was issued mine I asked why only six shots.
“Oh, five shots are for the enemy and the last one you can use on yourself,' was the sardonic reply.
“Well I have no intention of being taken prisoner alive so you can issue me with some more,” I answered and with that was given another six shots. So out to the range the two squadrons went and naturally there was going to be a strong rivalry between us. Well, all went well as the two parties were shown how to fire these guns and hit the target [or miss] and so it came my turn to have a go.
Now you have probably seen in many movies how the experts hold their guns for accurate shooting but we were still using wild west methods. I stood up to the firing area and when all was deemed safe, I started firing, not resting between shots but just banging away until I had fired the mandatory six shots.
“You'll never hit anything shooting like that," the range Sergeant said to me, but when the target was brought up for examination it was discovered that all the shots - yes the whole six of them - had landed within a very small area and all very close to the bullseye.
“Hell where did you learn to shoot like that?" the Sergeant said!
“My old man used to work at the old shot tower in Mt Eden and they used to test fire in the old quarry below A.G.S [Auckland Grammar School], and the owner of the shot tower showed the old man how to shoot a revolver accurately. And when I got a rifle [to shoot rabbits to augment our food supply] the old man impressed upon me the importance of being safe with firearms and also showed me the best way to fire a revolver [as I had a real live wooden one] when we played Cowboys and Indians, and even though it was wooden one always treat it as if it was real loaded.”
After that I was not known as Wild Boy Hiccup for nothing!
Now another strange thing was how coincidences happen because I believe that the man who showed the old man to shoot was a person called Wallingford [Remember who I had to see regarding my Commission] and this person was a descendant of the man my father knew - in fact he was the father of the man that I had the pleasure of going before at the training college.
So having gotten the highest marks for shooting all I had to do now was to improve my shooting skills in an aircraft, or failing that if I was attacked by an enemy I could always slide back the canopy and lean out of the cockpit and fire off my revolver. Maybe, just maybe, I was wise to get those extra bullets! As who knows what would happen.
We had done our time at this island and it was time to move on to the next island which was Guadalcanal. Ever heard of it? At least we were taken up there in style in a good old Gooney Bird [C-47 or Dakota, whichever way you want to imagine it]. This was a relatively short journey as it lasted only four hours. We still had the same luxurious seating arrangements that being kit bags in the center and anything else that needed to go, and we pilots sitting on the metal seat lining the sides of the aircraft.
The landing at Henderson Field was just another landing, but in hindsight we were stepping into history in the making, as many a story has been told on the sacrifices made at Henderson Field and the number of men, both Yanks and Japanese, that gave their lives to achieve command of this field. When one looks back it was possible that we who were stepping onto the field on a spot where someone had given their lives and so it was expected of us, the surviving ones, to make sure that those who had given their lives would not be let down by us. It was a very humbling experience indeed.
When one studies history today we go back hundreds and sometimes thousands of years yet here we were with history still in the making. But at this stage in time we were more interested in what we had to do. Now, we the Kiwi's were not to be stationed on Henderson Field but were shifted to a place called Kukum Field which was just two landing strips carved out of a palm tree plantation. It had two strips, one just coral and the other one covered with Marsden matting, and in between them an air conditioned [jungle style] control tower, with for the ground staff a volley ball area and also the place the meat wagon [ambulance] and fire truck could park in the most advantageous spot to get a spot of sunbathing and also get to a plane in distress in a hurry.
Now it was normal practice to take off on the coral strip and land on the matting but not always as it all depended on the wind which was normally pretty balmy. On one occasion I taxied out to the take-off area together with the other pilots for this flight and when I swung the aircraft around to sit at 90º to the runway, the aircraft went lopsided on the port leg.
“You're stuck Shorty," the flight commander said to me. On being told this I replied with some dignity, “I don't think so.”
“You bloody well are from where I'm sitting,” came the reply.
“Oh well I'll just rev it up and it should lift itself out,” I answered thinking about the 2000 horsepower that I had under my left hand.
Yes well the more I gave it hell the more it seemed to sink further into the mire. Wait a moment, there shouldn't be any soft ground here. But there was believe me. And so I had to wait for a tractor to come and pull me out. Oh the humility of it all. But I was told not to cut the motor and so the poor tractor driver was going to have to feel his head to see if it was still attached to his body after he had hooked up and of course after he had unhitched me.
So after that little kafuffle we finally got underway. While at this field we did get to fly from Henderson Field when we did night flying and what's more we did it flying as a four flight group and without lights, just by the exhaust glare, much to the amazement of the Yanks. Mind you it was very scary flying.
One of our main tasks was to do constant submarine patrols amongst the numerous ships that were lined up over at Tulagi. I have never seen so many ships before or since. There were literally hundreds lined up in row upon row and we had to fly between them looking for any tell-tale sign of a submarine. Now we flew with No. 1 doing the search whilst you as No. 2 covered his arse and also attempted to look for signs. The scary thing about this was the fact that we were not worried about any Japanese gunners as there just none about, but we were flying amongst trigger happy Yanks who would as soon as fire at you if they thought you were an enemy, and who knows what went on in their minds.
You ask surely not, as they could recognise you? We were shown photos [aircraft recognition] on one day showing a picture of an aircraft [a TBF Avenger] being shot at by both rows of ships. There was no mention of what happened to the aircraft nor if anyone was hurt on the ships as the gunners were firing across at each other. So you see one flew with trepidation when on one of these missions.
It was on one of these patrols that a tragic accident happened. The No. 2 of one particular flight had complained of the engine on his aircraft had an intermittent misfire, but on checking the motor very thoroughly I might add nothing untoward was found [remember the episode when I was at Saskatoon?] and so it was cleared for flying. Well as I had just come back from patrol I headed up to base camp which was on a small hill overlooking the strips and as I wanted to go “places” urgently I went over to the air conditioned toilet block which was constructed very hygienically and very robust as well.
This consisted of a long trench with the obligatory wooden seat for you to crouch on. All this was kept very clean by the use of diesel fuel [well it was cheap] being poured the full length of the trench. Surrounding you was a mosquito net and on top of that a roof. Now without giving anyone who just happened to be resting in this building a warning, someone would light the fuel and with a whoosh amid large amounts of black smoke you were left to your own devices to get out into fresh air, which I might add one did in a hurry.
Well as I sat down there was a terrific bang which nearly made me fall backwards into the mire. This came from the strip and on peering through the netting I could see a very thick pall of black smoke on the runway, whilst at the same time the sound of exploding ammunition filled the air.
Quickly pulling my pants up I grabbed a jeep and went back down to the strip to find that an aircraft carrying a 500lb bomb had exploded and that was the bang I had heard. It transpired that on take-off just as the pilot had started to raise his undercarriage the motor faulted, [yes it was the same aircraft that had been reported earlier as having a misfire]. Unfortunately the pilot, recognising the danger as the aircraft was sliding along on the bomb he was carrying and because of the very abrasive nature of the coral had undone his straps and was pushing up on the sides of the cockpit ready to abandon ship.
The aircraft in its wild dash was going slightly at an angle facing right. Behind him was a trail of gunpowder as the bomb had split. Still safe at this time until just at the last moments of the mad ride the aircraft swung to the left with the tail going over the gunpowder resulting in the powder igniting. Of course the ensuing explosion threw him back into the cockpit. Even at this stage it was possible to get to him until the ammunition started to explode which sent everyone hiding from the bullets that had a mind of their own. Naturally he was killed. So what had happened? Well it appears that on take off he had reached flying speed and had just lifted the aircraft off the ground and being a seasoned pilot he quickly moved his undercarriage lever to the raise position and the undercarriage had already started to retract when the motor had a misfire, causing the aircraft to drop slightly with the end result of his prop hitting the ground and consequently dropping him in it so to speak.
It wasn't until days later when another pilot had a misfire, not in our group, but in another squadron that on pulling the motor down the fault was discovered. This was due to coral getting into the supercharger housing and so causing trouble. This of course was the fortunes of war which one just had to accept.
On one occasion on returning from a patrol I landed as No. 2 landing on the right of the runway when all of a sudden I was off the runway and going through brush, etc., and heading for the volley ball court [the players hastily getting out of the way].
Coming to a stop without any more damage or so I thought I climbed out and found that I had a flat tyre, but also I had thrown a piece of coral up and through the flaps for which I received a red endorsement in my log book. After all the shenanigans that I had done to get one at this stage of the game was humilifying to say the least. And of course this endorsement meant that it had to stay in the book for all times. I must say that the ride over the rough ground was not the best as I had thoughts of hitting something and flipping over.
It was at this field that I had a chance to prove my marksmanship, as it had been arranged for a Hudson to tow a drogue and that we would do a four flight attack on it. So it came to pass that I was No. 2 to the flight leader and as we went over to attack this so called enemy drogue I being No. 2 was told by my leader to “pull it in tighter.” So next time round the same thing happened and this went on for the next couple of times around except that on the last pass I had gone over with the leader and was right under his tail and when he pulled up to watch the rest of us attack he started to sing out for “No. 2 pull it in tighter”
Now I was sure that it was not me he had been watching so with dignity I said, “Excuse me, Sir, but if you look to your right you will find me sitting there as I have not fired a shot for the last two passes.”
With that he looked around and yes I was sitting there.
“Back to base,” he commanded and so we returned to base. Upon landing I was again ordered up but this time with a different leader, and so up again we went I was still in he No. 2 position. So when the target aircraft was in position we proceeded to do our attack. No. 1 went over and did his run and then it was my turn, so over I go and after about a three second burst from my six guns [no not a six gun} I pulled up alongside the leader while the drogue slowly drifted down to the sea as I had shot it off..
“How's that for shooting?” I cockily sang out, “Bet I can get the next one on the first shot," to which the leader just went,
“Hmmth.”
So after the new drogue was redeployed the leader again went into his dive and I followed him as soon as he had cleared the area. I pressed the firing button but after only a second of firing the drogue again started a gentle flutter earthwards.
“There I told you I only needed one shot!” I gleefully sang out. Remember that a one second burst would send quite a few shots away as all six guns were in use.
“Bloody fluke!” was Bob's reply.
From the towing aircraft came a very terse reply, “Don't shoot so much off the bloody wire as we can no longer stream any more drogues as the wire is too badly damaged”
So it appears that I have at last found my shooting eye. Upon landing and going into the flight room, as we got to the door Bob stopped and leant against the door and announced so all could hear,
“The tin arse b****** shot the drogue off not once but twice!” And with that he walked into the flight room and I followed and gave the Flight Commander a real smart sneer as if to say, “So there, I can shoot”
However he did not hold a grudge as I always flew as his No. 2 when we flew together. I must have been alright as I was often sent up as leader.
Now a thing or two on what we were required to wear on our person whilst flying. First and foremost of course we normally only wore a pair of khaki issued shorts, over which you put your flying suit which was supposed to be flash proof, in other words they would theoretically save you from a light fire. On your feet you wore the latest in footwear fashion, fairly light jungle boots into which you put your khaki clad feet - only one per boot of course - and which were covered with light socks.
On the suit were numerous pockets into which you put numerous objects. In one pocket on your leg you could put your sunglass metal flocked lined container. These glasses were made by Bausch and Lomb and were huge but they were true Polaroid and I found it very necessary to wear them when you were near the coral as the glare from the coral was terrific. Then you had a waterproof map of the area along with a screw top tube containing shark repellent which was sometimes replaced by a dye [sea marker] and also another one with matches in and the screw top contained a small compass.
Also you could put a yellow skull cap in the lower pocket. This would be used if you were forced down into the water and was to make you more visible. Why these pockets were low down was because it was easier for the pilot to reach down to retrieve things rather than trying to undo the straps over the top half of your body.
Over the top of your body you got into a designer style life jacket “Mae West”, which was a rubberised jacket which was un-inflated of course. On the left hand side was a small CO2 bottle which could be accidentally triggered with the end result of the jacket suddenly inflating while you were still strapped in the cockpit. Not a thing you wanted to happen.
If the CO2 failed to work you had a tube on the right hand side that you could stick in your mouth, not to get refreshments but to blow the vest up. Around your neck was your throat mike that fitted over your ADAMS APPLE that enabled you to talk if you had your oxygen mask on, or heavens forbid you had been damaged at the mouth by enemy fire. On your head you wore your ventilated helmet to which your oxygen mask was attached and on your helmet you wore your flying goggles which were American issue and were polarized.
Round your waist you wore your wide web belt, to which you had attached your faithful 38 S&W revolver, which was secured to your body via a cord looped over your head along with the small container into which you could put your spare ammunition. On your right side you had your trusty Commando knife. Now to complete the ensemble you fitted onto your back [you see you still had plenty of room for your gear] what was loosely [not the kit] called the survival pack. This pack contained the most amazing assortment of gear and was sealed with a small piece of lead and which the doctor checked each day prior to us flying just to make sure that the contents were still intact.
This was because there were two ampoules of morphine included in the contents along with some sulpherthamilihide tablets which were used to combat infection, and boy were they huge! Also in the kit was a Verey pistol complete with cartridges, fishing hooks and cord together with strips of dried bacon to use as bait, matches of course and a very large and sharp machete for you to do an amputation job on yourself if required or to shave if you were game enough. Along with dried or as we knew it dehydrated food, supposedly just enough to keep you alive until you were either captured or were able to fend off the land or water on your own or thankfully saved by your compatriots. To top all this off you wore soft chamois leather gloves which you generally wore all the time around the aircraft as it got very hot standing in the sun.
They say that you could fry an egg on the metal wing but this was not true as there were no chickens around to try out the theory.
To top it all off, slung over your shoulder was a canteen filled generally with water but I used to fill mine with either ships lime juice or iced tea, whichever was available - this liquid becoming quite warm due to the heat but it was liquid.
We also used the Corsair for dive bombing and I found it to be a very easy machine to dive bomb as the best method of sighting was by using the long [13ft] nose as the target sight.
Now when we stepped up another island [this time Bougainville] our base for operations was the strip called Torokina. There were a couple of other strips further inland called Piva North and Piva Uncle, and one was used by the Venturas operated by the RNZAF and surprise, surprise, one of the crew with them was my old friend Johnny Bayliss. As soon as we had made contact with one another, we soon got a few drinks under our belts. Now how do you think we made contact after not knowing where each other was? Well it was simple really. You see we the fighter pilots were stationed just a stone's [or coral] throw away from the beach and it was while I was having a dip that Johnny and some of his crew had come on down for a swim and so we bumped into one another. So there.
This beach sloped fairly steeply and one only had to take a few steps into the water and you would suddenly disappear so the Yanks under whose control we were had decided to put up a life saving observation tower just to keep an eye out for anyone drowning or doing something stupid like that. As if we would...
As the Japanese were entrenched only about three miles away from us and apparently the Yanks up to this stage had not been able to move them any further inland, or heaven forbid have them surrender, it had been decided that to take the pressure off the Yanks and allow them to move up to the main body of their command and it would be better to shift some Aussies in to take over their duties.
So when the Aussies arrived naturally they wanted to surf or swim and down to the beach they came. Now as this beach was very similar to theirs at home the Aussies were in their element and proceeded to swim way out into the bay, in fact so far out that the Yanks must have thought that they were trying to desert and so amidst much blowing of whistles to attract the attention of the Aussies who were having a great time and to hell with the sharks, the Yanks went into swimmers-in-distress mode and so dispatched some of their best swimmers out to rescue the “drowning” Aussies.
On arrival at the swimmers in trouble, the Yanks suddenly found out that apart from not being in trouble, the Aussies were one hell of a long way from shore and safety, and besides that the swim out had exhausted them and they were now the ones in trouble. There was no problem here as some of the Aussies had done lifesaving duties in Australia and so much to the amusement of us Kiwis and to the humiliation of the Yanks gathered on the beach, the so called Aussie drownees brought the lifesaving Yanks back to shore. After laying out the “bodies” on the beach they proceeded to stride up the beach just as if they had been competing in a competition.
Now when the Aussie hordes had arrived they were still on “Hard tack rations”, which if you have ever sampled or indeed tried to live on them you would appreciate having a good hot meal even though it was dished up to you on a tin plate and so come “chow” time in the Yanks' kitchen there appeared amongst them some weirdly rough looking characters collecting - no, not the dole - but good old hot Yankee food, much to the disgust of the Yanks themselves as by the time the rest of the food line had moved up there was a distinct lack of goodies.
This type of operation was soon put a stop to as after all weren't the Yanks our allies! You couldn't have them going hungry just because the Aussies wanted feeding
So after this small episode of the beach Johnny and I decided, a joint decision I might add, that it would be a good thing to have a look at the firing line as neither of us had heard a shot fired in anger - seen them yes but not heard them. So as the front line was only three odd miles away, let's go on up and have a look. And so authorizing a 4 x 4 truck to myself we set sail, or rather drove, up the road [tracks] till we came to a small amphitheatre in which the resident Yanks were playing netball or some other weird game and did not appear to have anyone on guard duty as such.
“Where's the Japs?” I asked nonchalantly [see how cool I am man] just as if we knew what we were doing.
"Over the hill," came the reply, with not so much as a look towards us as if this was an everyday request.
Seems OK to us Kiwis so lets climb up and have a look. On reaching the top, which was a pretty steep climb, we both stood up to admire the view which was spoilt because of the thick jungle in front of us when voices and not from above but below us sang out;
“For C***** sake hit the dirt Kiwis!” See they did know who we were.
Now it was a well known fact that when an order like that was issued you obeyed it rapidly and explicitly, and with those words still ringing in our ears both Johnny and I threw ourselves over the bank rolling down to the bottom rapidly just as the ground where we had been standing erupted. Boy those earth worms just don't like being disturbed do they?
“What in Gods name did you think you were doing standing up there? The bloody Japs are only 100 odd yards away and they would not be expecting any stupid b******* standing still just for them to have target practice. You were bloody lucky not to have been shot!“
Let that be a lesson to you, as it certainly was to us two silly buggers. Of course what we did not realise was that as well as the Japs having snipers in the trees so did the Yanks, and so for quite a few moments afterwards there was an exchange of fire between the two groups. And all they wanted was a quiet and lazy afternoon. So we had got to hear shots fired in anger.
As we had achieved what we had set out to see we went back to my drinking hole and partook of some fairly heavy drinking as was usual we did not know what tomorrow would bring. Well after a few drinks Johnny decided to go back to his barracks and so we started to go out to the 4 x 4 but by this time Johnny's legs gave out and he became what one would call legless.
No problem, as all I had to do was to get him into the truck. However that was easier said than done as I could not get him into the truck. So what was I to do? Oh that was easy, just drop the tail gate lay the top part of his body onto the tray and lift his legs up and around then raise the tailgate. Easy!
Having gotten him on board I took off for his camp. Boy it was a good job that we did not have any check points for drinking. On arrival at the camp I asked a MP [Military Police} did he know where Johnny's hut was and he pointed me in the right direction and begging me to “please be quiet as there are people sleeping.”
So what, they weren't disturbing me.
Now the only problem now facing me was how to get one very intoxicated Johnny off the back of the 4 x 4. The solution was easy, I just have to drop the tail gate and roll Johnny off evenly when he would only have a couple of feet to fall and as we had just had some rain the ground was quite soft where he would land. So it was no use thinking about it, just do it, and with that I gave Johnny a two handed push, one with my right hand at his head and the other at his legs. And over the side he went, oh so slowly, and landed very gently in the mud. At least he was facing his tent.
“You can't leave him there,” said the MP, or was it the SP? He did seem very concerned.
“I got him here so you can get him to his bunk, if you can't shift him just give him a boot up the arse and he'll move. Just make sure he is headed in the right direction.” And with that I left a very bewildered Yank surveying one prostrate Kiwi and one Kiwi departing rapidly.
Safely back home and the truck back at the motor pool, I went to bed to sleep the sleep of the innocents. After all, what did I do wrong!?
Before leaving the canal - no not the Panama but Guadalcanal - we had a going away fireworks display, and it was not even Guy Fawkes day, when some clown must have hit the end of a shell with a hammer and the ensuing explosion woke everyone up in the immediate vicinity. A great show for a while as it was a bomb dump going up.
One of the things it was imperative to do and that was to take your Poncho with you when going out on the town or even for a walk as you never knew when it would rain which was pretty much every day or night. So on this one night that I went down to watch a picture I decided to sit in the good seats - those tree trunks that still had bark on them - and as I had my Poncho with me what better use than to fold it up and sit on it? Comes the start of the show and one Dave Blakeley comes and sits next to me, I don't have any reservations about letting an officer sit down alongside me as long as he didn't smoke as I do not like smoke being blown into my face.
Well Dave didn't smoke and so we just sat there until the projector broke down at the same time as it started to rain. Now as he was a gentleman of the Air Force he knew that he did not require his Poncho as it would be undignified to be seen carrying it. But taking pity on him I asked if he would like to share my Poncho. Would he what! What a stupid question to ask and so he sidled up under my offer of protection.
Whilst awaiting the film to again start he got talking and I asked him just what he had against me as I had done nothing to him that I was aware of. He then told me that he was jealous of little old me as I had a large amount of different aircraft flown under my belt as well as having trained on multies, a type he would liked to have been involved with. So after getting his grudge off his chest so to speak we shook hands and low and behold at that precise moment the film started again. It was important for us to be friends as he flew as No. 3 in my flight while I was No. 2 and so he actually covered my tail.
This shaking of hands and making peace with each other had a profound effect on my life just a few days later. It all began when we were ordered to do a recce around some of the hot spots but if possible stay out of trouble. However, if there was an opportunity, to shoot up anything that was of interest to us. And so we flew in fairly loose formation searching for targets but we skirted the most heavily defended harbour defences just staying out of range [we hoped] of their guns but just as we were skirting one harbour and not finding anything of interest No. 4 sang out, “They've got Dave!"
And on looking over to where he should have been there was just no sign of him, and the only thing that was visible was a disturbance on the water where something had gone in. Now we were flying with No. 1 closest to the shore while I at No. 2 was behind and slightly lower, and further out No. 3 well over to my left but on the same level and slightly behind with No. 4 again slightly below No. 3 and to his left. And yet the defences managed to get Dave and so the shell that did the damage must have passed bloody close to my arse which just goes to show that when your number's up, it's up!
I felt a great sadness for this loss as I had just made, as I thought, a great friend but this was not to be. Do I think of this tragedy at all? Oh yes, all the time, as there is not a week goes by without me thinking of Dave but for me he will always be remembered. This is also true of another of my Army mates who transferred over to the Fleet Air Arm after he had passed the 21 assignments, and so the last I can remember of him was when he set sail for England and the last I saw of him was as he waved goodbye from the ship he was on.
He eventually became a pilot in the Fleet Air Arm and the last I heard of him was him being captured and amidst controversy beheaded as I understand it after the surrender of Japan.
There is never a week goes by that I don't see or hear him laugh, as he had the most amazing smile and laugh which was very infectious. Funny I do not have to close my eves to see him standing in front of me, his Lemon Squeezer hat set at a jaunty angle and then comes his grin followed by his laughter. I know that some people will think that this is pure fantasy but believe me these “apparitions” are very real to me and are a reminder that it could have been me in either of these two circumstances, so you could say that they gave their lives so I could live. Think about it.
Now there was another incident that happened while I was still at the Canal. Three other NCO's and myself decided to go to the movies one night the open air, air conditioned cinema, being in the Yanks' territory. So off we went and decided to take a shortcut through the Officers' camp and just as we had got about 50ft into the camp a very old [at least 22 years old] came out of nowhere with his 45 pistol drawn and cocked and pointing straight at my head, which I can assure you was not a pleasant sight [the pistol that is, not my face] !
I drew myself up to my full 5'4” height and asked him in a most hurtful voice
“What the Hell are you doing Yank? We're Kiwis!” and showed him my W/O badge which was clipped on my right arm. I did not inform him of the other pilots ranks as this would no doubt upset him more. At this he lowered his pistol and then apologised and said that he “thought we were Japanese! Which just goes to show how paranoid some of them were and also made us realise that we had two enemy to fight in the area.
We did get to see a film though.
Oh such excitement one had to endure.
A few days after Dave's demise, two of the squadron went out on what should have been a routine patrol. Now generally radio silence was called for, and also when going out on this type of patrol we could go whichever way we wanted to go just so the enemy could not anticipate our movements. Now this was known as an Island Patrol, where one plane flew just above the ground whereas the other flew behind at 1000ft and when or if a target was sighted the pilot at ground level would immediately pull up doing a climbing 360º turn heading out to sea and then at 1000ft would take up the top cover while the other plane should have seen the target and fired on it. However if he failed to see it he would just carry on low down and assume spotting duties.
At no time should these two aircraft be together nor if there was a good target should they attack it a second time. ONE PASS and one pass only was the instructions for a very good reason. You might surprise the enemy once but believe me they would be waiting for you the next time around.
So it was, and I believe it is still true today, when the two aircraft were due to arrive back they did not show up and nothing has been heard of them - not even enemy records have shown up what had happened to them One of the pilots involved was domiciled in my tent and I had the job of cleaning out his gear. So what did happen to them? Speculation went wild while I was there but nobody could shed light on their disappearance.
At Bougainville we lived under the watchful eyes of the See Bees who looked after us like we were royalty, making sure that our huts were cleaned out, the beds made, and our washing had been taken care of as after all we were Kiwi fighter pilots who looked after their boys, Goddamn it, so they took care of our needs while we were flying.
Now whilst flying one day I was struck by this giddiness again and now flying this huge fighter I knew that I could not afford to make a mistake so upon landing I casually told the MO [medical officer] what I had experienced and he was not amused and promptly grounded me.
After examining me and giving me the third or fourth degree he decided that it was too dangerous for me to keep flying and so I was permanently grounded and sent home. On arrival back in NZ I was examined by a very high ranking medical man who decided that as the war was now definitely coming to an end I should be discharged
And so it came about except that in the postwar period I suffered from massive headaches and indeed I used to have four or five Aspro sandwiches a day to try to relieve the pain which on some days got so bad that I would press my head against a wall very hard to try and get relief. And on one occasion my family sent for the doctor who upon seeing me leaning up against the wall told me to drop my trousers and promptly gave me a jab in the backside and then told me to get into bed as I would be legless for a couple of days.
But as I now felt marvelous I told him that I could go to work .He just looked at me as I started to walk towards the door and finished up on my face at the bottom of the bed.
“See I told you you’d be legless," quipped the doctor and so for the next couple of days I was confined to bed, but boy oh boy did I feel good. Whatever he used I want some of that [Morphine]. Now I know why the doc up the Islands always checked our survival kits.
However as I was not getting relief I was sent to a high class medical consultant who really got down to business and he eventually came up with an answer and promptly recommended that I be given a small pension.
To this day I still get these dizzy spells but thank goodness I am now on the ground and can anticipate them. These hit me at least once a week and can happen even if I am laying in bed or watching the TV, and I also get headaches for which I have a good supply of pain killers as these headaches will last for days.
So one day I will have a dizzy turn and someone with all the authority in this world and the next to which no-one is able to resist will advise me that now is the time to stop the world so that I can get off and then the final chapter will have been written and I will receive my permanent wings and no exams to sit.
Finito
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Note 1: A Thuderflash is a firework like an oversized Double Happy