The next instalment of my grand-uncle's memoirs.
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| Vickers Wellesley from 47 Squadron |
June
1940
The
year was progressing and then came the fateful day in June. We were
all sitting in the NAAFI tent having a cuppa
out of our modified beer bottles, listening to the Overseas BBC News
at six o'clock, when the announcement was made that we were at war
with Italy. Within five minutes SNCOs had
arrived shouting, “All back to work.”
The
NAAFI tent emptied immediately.
It
was getting dark. Flight personnel went back to their sections,
aircraft were prepared and pilots taxied their aircraft across the
sand 'drome to the bomb dump. Everyone was operating with minimum
light, I think fully expecting the Italians to bomb us. On
approaching the bomb dump one had jumped off the rear main plane step
'the wrong way,' fell over, and as he was rising was hit in the back
of the head by the tail plane and knocked unconscious.
In
the dark he was not seen and lay there for some considerable time and
in the morning it was found that the main wheel tracks had missed him
by feet, one aircraft having passed completely over him. He recovered
okay. In the early hours of the morning a lorry was placed across the
other side of the sand 'drome- it could not be called an airfield-
with its headlights full on and eight Wellesleys
opened up, made for the headlights and took off for Asmara,
Eritrea.
One
of the crew told me on his return that they had dived down onto the
airfield whilst the Italians were all lined up in front of their
hangars, as if their roll calls were being carried out. Some even
started waving.
He
then said, “We dropped the lot on them and then went around the
place machine gunning anything in sight. It looked as if
Mussolini had forgotten
to tell them they were at war.” We lost one Wellesley on that
initial raid.
We
were also told that any of our aircraft returning from raids would
approach the drome between two particular hills. This would prevent
any unnecessary panic to the air raid trenches at the sound of an
aircraft.
Many
weeks later a lone
SM79 flew over
the 'drome at about then thousand feet and bombed us with no damage.
Dozens of us were trying to get in the one small slit trench outside
the dining room tent.
A
few weeks later two Glosters Gladiators arrived
daily from Port Sudan.
They
were to sit on the ground in the event of any more Italian raids and
used to leave about half an hour before dusk to return to base.
Often, on leaving, they would shoot up the NAAFI tent, sometimes
doing a slow roll at about 100 feet. One day, something went
tragically wrong. One of them, in the middle of his slow roll,
nose-dived into the ground and burst into flames.
It
was not long before we were losing aircraft. Also the other Wellesley
Squadrons. The CR42 Italian
fighter had considerable advantage in speed, manoeuvrability and
firepower. They carried .5” machine guns. We were even told that
the SAAF Hurricanes
were advised not to 'dogfight' with them.
I
had now left 'B' Flight and joined 'Maintenance Flight.' Our
workshops were a collection of sand-filled petrol cans with a roof of
thorn bushes. Inside: one bench and a six-inch vice.
One
day we were passed an aircraft requiring a tank change, damaged by a
bullet. Being a little short of ground equipment and in order to get
the main plane to decent working height, this time we had to dig a
sloping trench to run the main wheels down into. This enabled us to
get about twenty bods around the mainplane to bodily lift it off. The
tank was then slid out.
Later
I was given the job of fitting dinghies in the port inner main
planes. A Bowden cable was
fed through the fuselage window for manual operation. Our aircraft
were obviously flying sorties
over the Red Sea.
Many
of our MT drivers had re-mustered to Air Gunners and were immediately
given the rank of Sergeant. Workshops were hard at work making large
U brackets to fit into the node joint of the geodetic construction
aft of the rear open cockpit, to enable two Vickers guns to be mounted
in tandem. Gun positions were also fitted to the side fuselage
windows which the navigator could also use. We heard also that raids
would consist of at least three aircraft to ensure that we had a
better chance with 6 Vickers firing aft and a possible extra three
from the side fuselage window. Even the air gunners were filing up
the brackets- self preservation, I guess, in mind.
When
the war started we had to tramp right across the other side of the
airfield. That was not too bad, but we had to carry rifle, fifty
rounds in a canvas bandolier,
gas cape,
water bottle (filled) and gas mask. We were worn out well before we
started work, especially after the return after breakfast when the
temperature was well up, well over 100F (38C).
Sand
devils were annoying running through the camp, not large ones, but
big enough to suck up an empty petrol can and throw out the top,
smothering everything in sand.
The
odd time, when it rained in the evening, we all rushed outside and
got a lovely shower. Half inch hailstones once.
Later
on we were allowed to discontinue carrying all the equipment except
for the water bottle which was certainly needed throughout the day's
work.
Our
working dress was a one piece khaki overall, short sleeve, short
legs. With no laundry facilities, when we needed a change, we drained
a few gallons of petrol out of an aircraft, stripped off, washed them
and stood naked behind a bush then laid them out to dry. In less than
a minute we shook the shower of lead dust out of them and put them on
again. I think it was good for prickly heat.
Some
of the lads had pet chameleons which they carried around on their
pith helmets tied with a piece of string around their bare legs.
Flies were a nuisance. There was no shortage of chameleons, plenty in
the bushes.
And
scorpions and huge desert spiders. The flights had their own
champions and challenged each other regularly for supreme champion.
Frequently, following a field telephone call, you could look across
the drome and see a dozen bods in single file. The Flight Commander,
Adj aircrew and ground staff on their way to do battle. They were
often put together in a town end ring, the exhaust ring, where
however fast they ran, they always met each other again and finally
had to fight it out. The scorpion was invariably the winner with that
poisoned tail. A gallon of beer was the prize.
We
heard the story of an incident concerning the Sudanese Railway engine
based at Summit Railway Station. This small engine was the pride and
glory of an old Sudanese. The brass handrails, in fact everything on
it, shone like gold. At certain times of the day he had to get steam
up and proceed along the line to meet the main train for Port Sudan or
Atbara, come in from a side line,
and help push the heavy train over the steep part of the Red Sea
Hills. This done he would relax until the next train. Summit was 3000
feet up at the peak. One day when he had already got steam up, he was
deliberately enticed away from the engine by a couple of RAF Summit's
airmen which enabled another couple, one a Corporal, to board the
engine and make off down the line. They were obviously drunk.
They
shot off down the line for about 20 miles, waving to all the amazed
locals as they passed through their villages, until they ran out of
steam, blowing their whistle the whole way.
The
snag was that the engine should have gone the other way because the
main train from Port Sudan was now waiting patiently at the bottom of
the hills for the extra engine to help it up the steep gradient to
Summit and beyond.
It
was not known how long it had to wait for help to arrive or wherever
it managed to to struggle over the hills itself. It was also not
known what happened to the airmen. No doubt, disciplinary action
followed.
Three
miles east of the camp up the sand track was the Erkowit Rest Camp for
government officials etc. It was situated on the edge of a precipice,
a drop of thousands of feet which was called Kitty's Leap.
It was said she jumped to save her honour. Silly girl!
What
this has got to do with 47 Squadron history, I do not know!
Doing
the guard one night with Jock Robinson, he was suddenly taken ill
with appendicitis. The
MO
was called and a Wellesley later taxied up to take him to Port Sudan
Hospital.
He
lay on the stretcher and an attempt was made to get him into the
aircraft. Fuselage windows were too small. It was also not possible
to gain entry through the rear spring loaded perspex canopy cockpit,
again too small for a laden stretcher.
In
the end it was, “Jock, would you get off your stretcher, climb
aboard and lay on the fuselage floor?”
This
he did and off they went to Port Sudan.
The
year progressed and part of the Squadron moved south to
Gedarif to bomb further
targets unobtainable from Erkowit. As Owen Clark the Historian
(possibly this man)
stated in the Crane Courier (no reference of this publication online)
eight Wellesleys and
two Vincents
were destroyed by Italian
CR42s.
Whereas
we thought that we were going to surprise the Italians the tables
were turned.
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