Italian Bombers, Sand Devils and Drunk Train Hi-Jacking

The next instalment of my grand-uncle's memoirs.

 

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.