1939: Christmas Donkeys and The First Pissup

The next instalment of my grand-uncle Dick's memoirs. Now in Egypt, just before the war, DT tells of some 'monumental' carnage.

Later in the year a number of Italian Air Force Savoia Marchetti bombers landed at Khartoum, on their way to Eritrea and Abyssinia. Having flown from Libya down The Nile, The Italians were obviously reinforcing their Air Force, having seen how Germany was succeeding in Europe. We very diplomatically had to help them refuel their aircraft and when they left the following day always noticed the camera doors open in their bellies as they flew over the camp to say 'cheerio.' Great Britain was at war with Germany now, but the Italians were playing their cards craftily. They joined Hitler later in June 1940. How wrong they were to do so.

Christmas 1939 was about 6 weeks away when the Senior Corporals informed us that at the weekend the whole flight would vacate the billet, lockers, beds and kit, on to the veranda surrounds outside. This was to enable the billet to be transformed and prepared for the Christmas Festivities. It appeared that each billet competed for the barrel of beer presented by the PSI after the Governor General of the Sudan had viewed them on Christmas Day and decided on the winner.

Our billet had decided to become a 'Chinese Opium Den.' The ceiling was lowered, a bar built, walls covered with dragons, bottles behind the bar with Chinese labels. Everyone had to sit on cushions on the floor; even the entrance changed. One went through a tunnel of engine covers, and up, and down three steps which gave the impression you were entering a cellar, though still on ground level. And of course everyone went down town and had a Chinese costume made with lots of pigtails, yellow ochre and mascara. Come the day we had a small four piece Chinese band plonking away on mandolins and violins in the corner.

Other sections became a 'Railway Station Buffet,' an 'Old English Pub,' 'Popeye Olive Oil and Goons in Goonland,' a 'brewery,' 'Heath Robinson's Alarm Clock,' 'Will Hay in Narkover' and others. Regarding the 'brewery,' the NAAFI Storage Yard had been raided and hundreds of beer bottles were moving around the billet on conveyor beds. The 'Heath Robinson's Alarm Clock' stated off when Knocker Knowles got into bed, pulled the trip wire and dozens of big half inch main wheel ball bearings were released to run down into a shoot, into another and finally landed on an upturned tin bath. What a din! An egg was released from a trap door, down a chute into a mug of water. Out shot a match to light the candles under the mug to boil the egg for breakfast. And so it went on, hooters, bells, etc. Finding the ball bearings was the problem for the repeat operation.

Of course every section had a fully stocked bar. The camp gates were closed for four days over Christmas, nobody allowed out. There was nothing to go out for. Everybody visited each other, drinks were free and everybody enjoyed themselves.

The camp donkey was pushed up the steep wooden steps leading to the flat top roof and was up there for about ten days until workshops made a canvas sling and used the crane to get him down. SHQ said they couldn't sleep with him clanking around at odd times of the day. He had to be fed up there.

One Corporal, riding a bicycle on the flat roof, just decided to go straight over the edge and landed in some bushes finishing up with a broken arm. One old farmer in the Olde English Pub, with his whiskers soaked in brandy, asked for a light for his cigar. His whiskers went up in flames, burning his face badly. It was Christmas overseas.

But the main topic over the Christmas was the incident concerning General Gordon's Statue down in Khartoum. It appeared that a Sergeant Pilot, a Corporal and an Airman got together, climbed over the camp wall and took a taxi down town. They climbed up Gordon's statue, painted his face with red dope and in doing so broke a large tassel off the camel's saddle. With the arrival of the Sudanese Police, luckily on foot, they escaped in their taxi.

The Army Garrison was firstly contacted in the morning but after finding the paint brush that had been left behind, with AM on it, the Commanding Officer of 47 was summoned to the Governor General's Office for a 'severe rollocking.'

The Sgt. Pilot was posted to Egypt and the other two served a period in the Army Glass House across the River Nile.

For a member of HM Forces to do such a thing to the Saviour of the Sudan was beyond comprehension.

It must be said that the Squadron put on a smashing concert for all ranks and also the civilians of Khartoum, lasting a week. On the last night the CO invited the concert party across the road to the Officer's Mess for drinks after the show.

This is where I met my doom. When the Sudanese waiter came around to serve us our drinks the chaps I was with said, “Beer, beer, beer.” My reply was “lemonade.”

“You're not having lemonade, get him a beer.”

I told them that I'd never drunk beer, so they said, “Give him a whiskey with plenty of lemonade in it.”

This was brought to me and, though it initially made me shudder, was soon downed and quickly followed by another. I was then 'glowing' and on my way.

A little later the Sqdn. Cdr. Got up onto a table to make a short speech. He once again thanked the concert party and went on to say what a smashing Squadron we were. As he stood on the table he suddenly disappeared and became about 6 inches tall. He then suddenly returned to normal size a few yards away. I was shaken rigid. A few seconds later he went off again into the distance, still talking. Back he came again.

When he disappeared again I could not contain myself and suddenly shouted out, “There he goes again!” and started laughing.

That was enough. Two of the lads grabbed me, still laughing, and frog marched me across the road, put me on my bed, draped the mosquito net over me and left me, still laughing. Those whiskies had certainly seen me off. But I had already won my 10 pound bet with my father.

It wasn't long before I joined the beer drinkers.

The NAAFI piano, which was always given a drink on paydays, was always surrounded by chaps waiting their turn to play. People in those days, 30s and 40s, played pianos, not guitars.

Every week about 10 of us went to the Navigation Room in the hangar, in the heat of the afternoon, for band practice. Saxes, clarinet, trumpets, violins. Flt. Sgt. Callaghan, who always brought a tea bucket full of shandy from the Sgt's Mess, controlled us. There was one problem: he had a terrible stutter. On a previous overseas tour he was in Pakistan and actually in the Quetta earthquake, where there was terrible loss of life. It was this awful experience which it is understood gave him his stutter.

But it often had a humorous side to it. I will always remember we were playing a tune called 'Margie,' one of the hits at the time, and when we reached the second chorus we had to syncopate it. We were suddenly stopped by the Flt Sgt. “St.. st... st... stop... You are pl... pl... pl... playing doot di doot di dootie doot. You should be... be... be... pl... pl... pl... playing it doot di doot di dootie doot dootie doot.” Everybody smiled and said, “Righto, chief,” and off we went again. We supplied the pit orchestra for the Christmas concert. Forgive me Chief.