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| The Somersetshire |
My
grand-uncle Dick has recently released his memoirs of his time as an
officer in the RAF, serving in Sudan, The Eritrea and Egypt. They're
too good not to share. Big Fear
was a story included in these that occurred way after the war. We
start here 7 months prior to the outbreak of World War II.
My
Tour of Duty With No.47 (B) Squadron
Southampton
It
was February 1939. We staggered up the gang plank of His Majesty'
Troopship Somersetshire, bound for the Red Sea and Port Sudan. We were laden down
with suitcases and kit bags, and had recently passed out at RAF Manston, Kent as Metal
Riggers. This was a reasonably new trade in the Royal Air Force and
was the result of the modern metal aircraft being introduced in
place of the fabric aircraft now being phased out.
In
December 1938, due to the Munich Panic, the whole of RAF
Manston was threatened with, 'No Christmas Leave, until the
seventy-odd Avro Ansons on
strength had been camouflaged' from their lovely shining silver
covering. So our first introduction to an operational aeroplane was
not an insertion repair but a two inch dope brush.
So
there we were, four decks down hammocks, packed like sardines, Navy,
Army and RAF, being fed out to all the stations from Gibraltar to
Hong Kong and bringing home the time-ex fellows. Twice a year the
troopers sailed, February and July.
Half
of our class had been posted to RAF Khartoum,
who when we arrived found that we had been allocated to No.47 Bomber
Squadron operating Vickers Vincents, a large
bi-plane.
Though
this epistle is about my tour of duty with No. 47 Squadron in the
Sudan and
Eritrea, I feel that an account
of the ten days on the Somersetshire would also be of humorous
interest to the reader.
It
was not long before we reached the Bay of Biscay and foul weather.
All the 'land lubbers' were
visiting the toilets and the side of the ship, much to the amusement
of the Royal Navy personnel who walked around with smug looks on
their faces.
The
'heads,' the naval term for the toilets, right in the aft of the
ship, ran across the ship, port to starboard and consisted of
separate cubicles with cowboy swing doors. They had a long connecting
trough beneath all of them, flushed with running water feeding out of
the ship's side, whichever way the ship rolled.
It
was not long before all the 'rookies' were caught. Old Navy Petty Officers were quietly
entering empty cubicles, screwing up pages of newspapers, setting
them alight and placing them carefully on the surface of the water in
the trough, where as the ship rolled, floated quietly under the
backsides of the occupants in adjacent cubicles warming, or should we
say burning, the cockles of their hearts.
Shouts
of pain were heard regularly until the trick was discovered and
nobody ever went into a cubicle without watching through a
part-opened door for any Navy man entering the toilet area.
By
Gibraltar practically everybody had found their sea legs and in
Gibraltar Harbour the
first batch of personnel went ashore. Similarly at Malta and after a
few days we arrived at Port Said.
The
Gulli Gulli men were allowed on board. These were Egyptian conjurers
using three inverted egg cups, finding and disappearing numbers of
chicks with their skills. No chick anywhere, lift up the egg cup, a
chick, put it down again and lift up, chick gone. Amazing, even
though we knew where they were going. How those chicks must have
suffered.
The
following day half the ship was taken on a route march around Port Said for exercise much to the
amusement of the locals.
Incidentally,
fatigues and duties were shared between three services daily and the
day we were due enter the Suez Canal it was the Army who were on cookhouse fatigues. On the fore deck a
circle of about twenty soldiers were sitting in a ring, on buckets,
with potato knives, surrounding a huge mound of potatoes. There must
have been a ton there with the numbers of troops on ship to feed.
They were part of our lunch.
We
were moving very slowly, about two knots, when suddenly the anchor
was dropped and we hove to. Everybody wondered why and on enquiring
from the Merchant Navy crew were told that a big Italian troopship
was coming out of the canal in a few minutes.
Slowly
she came past our ship, a beautiful huge shining white liner. Three
times as big as we were, only twenty yards away. On its upper decks
reclining in deckchairs were a number of senior officers, with their
wives, dressed in pure white tropical uniform with multicoloured
epaulettes. Italian troops were on the lower decks. It must have been
trooping from Eritrea and Abyssinia and it was not long before one of
our squaddies had shouted across the water gap “Up you Musso,”
and with an immediate response of “Up you Engleesie” from the
Italians.
Suddenly,
a big potato became airborne and smashed into the side of the Italian
Trooper, and then another, another and them within a matter of
seconds the huge potato pile was aloft in the air and on its way to
the 'enemy ship.' Then The Somersetshire raised their elevation
directing it at the upper deck officers. They had to quickly duck
into their cabins with their wives and families.
The
rain of spuds travelling through the air was likened to the English
arrows at the Battle of Crecy.
Hundreds and hundreds. Corned Beef only for lunch- no spuds, but one
up to the British.
And
so we passed into the Canal. Incidentally the world had not forgotten
how Mussolini had conquered Abyssinia from Eritrea
with the use of poison gas in 1936. They were generally hated. As we
steamed down the canal the Captain decided to exercise the troops. It
was the only time that I had ever seen a tug of war match where both
teams were pulling aft, out of sight from each other, behind the
superstructure. A long rope around a big pulley was ran around the
bow of the ship.
When
the RAF team was losing ground two or three spectators jumped on the
rope until, instead of a team of eight, thirty or forty were on each
side. The RAF even wound their rope end around a bollard. Still, all
good fun.
The
day before we were due to disembark at Port Sudan we were told over
the tannoy to collect our deep sea kit bags and be ready to disembark
in the morning, in No.1 Khaki Dress.
When
we took our KD out of our kit bags and changed into it you had never
seen such a sight in your life. Nothing tailored, shorts below the
knees, tunics too big, black boots instead of shoes, topees too big.
(It's possible he means 'toupees.') Dad's army was never in it. (I'm
assuming he's retrospectively referencing the TV show produced
1968-77.)
The remarks came thick and fast. “Why should Britain tremble?”
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
And
when we walked down the gangway and were met by a bronzed reception
party from The Port Sudan, RAF Squadron, we realised how awful we
looked.
We
spent the next eight hours in the Seamen's Mission (chaplain's room?) and
finally embarked on the Sudanese train at six in the evening on our
forty-eight hours journey to Khartoum.
The
next two days were spent, firstly winding our way through the Red Sea Hills and finally out into the
desert, via Atbara, to
Khartoum and 47 Squadron. Every
so often we pulled into small village stations where we were pestered
by sellers trying to get us to purchase eggs and awful-looking bread.
We had previously been instructed not to buy any native food. We had
a good supply of service food, even though the butter and the corned
beef poured out of the tins.
Finally,
at about 6 in the evening, two days later, we arrived at Khartoum.
The railway line ran past the camp gate, fifty yards away. Uncoupling
our coach, the train steamed on to Khartoum Main Station.
We
de-trained and offloaded all of our kit. A Sudanese came out of the
camp gate leading a donkey, accompanied by two others with brooms.
The entrance reminded me of the old fort gates and ramparts of the
old Beau Geste
films.
The
Warrant Officer in charge of our party was asked to mount the donkey
and slowly he was led in and under the camp gate. All of the time the
two Sudanese were sweeping the road in front of the donkey. Later
when asked why they swept the road we were told that 'It was to
ensure that the donkey did not trip up and that the new draft arrived
safely.”
As
we walked under the archway we saw the Squadron on the roof and they
rained hundreds of beer bottle tops down on our topees.
Inside,
we were located by the chap we were relieving and taken to our
billets with information to “Get a meal and then up the NAAFI for a big party.”
Later
we climbed the stairs to the NAAFI, the only two storey building on
the camp, dining room underneath, and were met by the Padre at the
door. “Welcome to the Squadron. You'll find it quite hot, but you
will get used to it. You've joined a smashing Squadron.”
We
mingled with everybody, drinks flowing, piano going non-stop, and in
a matter of an hour everybody was well on their way. Then all the
squadron songs were starting to be sung and very rude they were.
Salomi Somersetshire, the lot. (I can find no reference to this
online.) In the corner, with a
pint in front of him, was the Padre singing away.
F----
them all
F----
them all
The
long, the short
And
the tall
I
was shocked, but found out later that he was a Cpl. Policeman posing
as the padre. He certainly fooled us.
In
passing, we found out that a barrel of beer had been voted from the
PSI two weeks previous in readiness for the new draft's arrival. Beer
was flowing the day we arrived and two weeks ago. And so it went on.
Any excuse for a 'booze-up.'
Incidentally,
I was still a strict teetotaller. My father, who prior to his
retiring, ran a public house, had bet my three sisters and myself
that there would be ten pounds for not smoking and ten pounds for not
drinking until we reached the age of 21. I was the only one that had
stayed 'pure' and my 21st was 3 months away. So I watched
everything soberly.
In
the morning I joined 'B' Flight, 47 Squadron and was given a Vickers
Vincent bi-plane to look after, together with a fitter. She had a
crew of 3; pilot, navigator and air gunner. All open to the weather
and sun. Powered by a small Pegasus she sometimes carried a 50 gallon
long range tank slung under the fuselage. Fuel was pumped up to the
header tank behind the engine by a wind-driven propeller pump in the
tank's nose. Starting was by a handle which wound up an inertia
flywheel which the pilot engaged by pulling a cable. It was tough
going winding up the engine at temperatures of 120F (49C) in the
shade. Before the aircraft taxied away from the sand apron the pilot
checked the engine and magnetos
and we, the ground crew, had to hang over the leading edge of the
tail plane to hold it down. The sand blast on the back of our legs
was painful, sometimes enough to bring flecks of blood to the skin.
The
air gunners were tradesmen, fitters, rigger and wireless mechanics
and were called Part Time A.G.s. They received extra for flying.
Often we flew in the rear open cockpit and over the period of a month
also added a few shillings to our basic pay.
Just
inside the camp gate was the hockey pitch and the station parade
ground. When swimming had finished, about 5 o'clock on Sunday, the
contents of the pool were pumped into a channel about 2 feet wide and
fed right around the grass pitch and released onto the grass. By
Monday morning it was a lake, Tuesday it had disappeared and on
Wednesday afternoon we played hockey. It was the Station Warrant
Officer's pride and joy and he even had fifty airmen running all over
it banging tins in an attempt to ward off a plague of locusts which
suddenly appeared one day.
A
couple of weeks after I arrived we were given a free cinema show in
the NAAFI. Cpl York, the Squadron goal keeper was the supplier. He
had been given a cinematic projector and camera by Alexander Korda the film producer. The very
first Four Feathers film
had just been completed at Khartoum, near the big native village of
Omdurman. Cpl York had been
loaned to Korda to radio Egypt and UK for supplies. Not being
permitted to be paid, this was the way Korda had thanked him. Yorkie
used to hire old films from Egypt and give these free shows once a
month. And very funny they were. We used to hiss the villains, cheer
the heroes and boo when the film broke.
And
so we settled down to the routine of the Squadron. Woken up by the
billet boy at half past five with a mug of tea and a chunk of fruit
cake and work by six o'clock. Breakfast, eight to nine, and with
topees, back to work until one o'clock. A light meal, tiffin, and a
quick shower and into bed. All shutters of the billet had been closed
by eight o'clock in the morning, with six big fans in the ceiling
trying to keep us cool. Peace reigned until four in the afternoon
when the sportsmen got up to pursue their different pleasures.
Khartoum
had a small zoo, two cinemas and on the river outside the Governor
General's Palace was moored a small gun boat, used by Lord Kitchener
when he reconquered the Sudan with the final Battle of
Omdurman.
It had been transported across the desert in sections and reassembled
further up The Nile.
The
big native village of Omdurman was allowed to be visited by parties
of six only.
The
Squadron was occupied in routine flying, visiting and checking on
landing strips in the Southern Sudan. Shortly after arriving at
Khartoum three Vincents, with myself in the rear cockpit anchored by
a monkey chain, flew to Kassala
on the Eritrean border. This was a huge mountainous mound of rock
jutting out of the desert and was the first and only Sudanese village
to fall to the Italians in the first few days of the war in June
1940.
It
was quickly recaptured. Later in the year we camouflaged the silver
Vincents with dark green, light and dark earth distempers.
Across
the other side of the aerodrome was the Imperial Airways hangar where
our mail used to arrive by big four-engined bi-planes. Handley Page HP42.
Later in the year the mail arrived by Short Flying boats landing on
the River Nile. It was with us within 2 hours of landing.
We
had a visit from the engineer running the Imperials Airways Flight
requesting help with an engine change. A Corporal Fitter was loaned;
they worked all night and the aircraft took off early the following
morning on time towards South Africa. He was rewarded with fifty
pounds, an absolute fortune on those days.
Come
back next week for some elephant watermelon bombing, and further war
stories.
