 |
Emperor
Haile Selassie
|
Another segment of my grand-uncle Dick's memoirs.
I
was now back with 'B' Flight and my last unusual experience was due
to happen.
I
had been promoted Corporal and one of our
Wellesleys was due
back from Addis Ababa It was
August 1941 about 4 o'clock in the afternoon. There was myself and
two lads waiting for the old Wellesley to arrive, sitting outside the
hangar.
The
war in this area was practically over and the Squadron, as well as
isolated bombing of pockets Italians, scared to surrender to no-one
but the British and South Africans, we were also carrying out quite
an amount of VIP and Communication work.
She
duly appeared over the edge of the plateau, as previously stated 7000
feet up, landed and taxied up to the hangar.
The
normal crew of the Wellesley was the pilot, navigator and rear
gunner. On this trip there was no gunner but a passenger instead.
Since there was no air opposition, she did not have to protect
herself.
The
old Pegasus engine wound slowly down, the cockpit hood slid back, and
the pilot climbed out onto the top of the wing. Fg Off. James was a
tall, dark youngster, about 6'2, a bachelor, the latter perhaps being
one of the key facts of the story. The step was unfolded, and the two
lads busied themselves with chocks, fitting of control locks and
getting the covers ready. I mounted the step and opened up the
heavily-loaded spring perspex canopy. Looking into the fuselage I saw
a young Army Captain getting his kit together prior to disembarking.
“Afternoon
sir, good trip?” A fleeting glance trying to locate the sickness
bag.
“Yes,
fine thanks.”
“Pass
your kit out, Sir, and we'll run you and the crew up to the mess in
the OM.”
OM
were the initials on the front of the little Italian jeeps, a number
of which we had 'requisitioned' from the Italian Air Force. What they
stood for I cannot remember now. (ОМ-32 Autocarretta da Montagna)
Four wheel drive, four wheel steering, hard solid tyres with a four
cylinder, two stroke engine; an amazing little vehicle. They towed
Bowsers,
the lot.
My
own time was then occupied with getting a brief from the pilot and
filling in the Form 700. This done James turned and shouted to the
mid-fuselage window position.
“Sling
my hat out, Bonner.”
Bonner
was his navigator; a sergeant married with children, another fact
which has quite a bearing on the story.
No
hat duly arrived, nor any answer to the request. James then jumped up
on the step and put his head in through the window and peered fore
and aft, up and down the fuselage tunnel. Finding no navigator, he
turned and looked in the direction of the hangar, fully expecting to
see Bonner standing quietly facing the hangar wall with a blissful
and serene look on his face.
Once
again a blank, so he turned to the ground crew in general and said,
“Anyone seen the nav? Where's he gone?”
None
of us had seen him. There was only one other person to ask: the
passenger.
James
turned to face the young Captain, still passing down his kit. I can
see him now: a good looking chap, dark, with a small Clark Gable
moustache. And the conversation went like this:
“Where's
the navigator?”
“He
bailed out about 300 miles back.”
“He
what?”
“He
bailed out about 300 miles back.”
“What
the hell for?”
“I
don't know, he came through the tunnel, clipped his chute on his
chest, put a bag of desert rations over his shoulder, a water bottle
over the other, said 'Excuse me,' opened up the hatch and bailed
out.”
“What
did he do that for?”
“Don't
ask me, I thought that he might be on a secret mission.”
We
all stood there dumbfounded. The Army Captain too, as soon as he
realised that the pilot was just as much in the dark. Until then,
whilst unloading, he hadn't been in the least perturbed. But now he
too became transfixed. Nobody moved for a moment, then we boarded the
OM and drove to the mess with not a word being spoken.
For
my part in the incident gradually faded in importance over the next
few days until Sgt Bonner turned up with quite a growth on his chin.
He had been picked up by Abyssinian patriots who, though he had a job
in finally convincing them he was on his side and not an Italian,
finally took him to a British Forces post. From there he hitched
transport back to Asmara and to the Squadron. It appears that his
'Goolie Chit' was the only
thing that saved him.
Well
what had happened? After climbing out of Addis Abba James had,
instead of climbing to his regulation height, decided to have a bit
of a change and fly along the valleys. But Bonner, a married man with
children, had other ideas. He knew the capabilities of the Wellesley,
cruising 160 knots, one single little Pegasus in the front, rate of
climb at 10,000ft about nil, and he did not fancy the idea of
suddenly around the next bend, being confronted by a mountainous
cul-de-sac.
It
is said the conversation went like this:
Nav
to Pilot: “Come on, get up top, above these mountains.”
Pilot
to Nav: “Who's flying this kite?”
Nav
to Pilot: “Either you get up, or I get out.”
Pilot
to Nav: “?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!”
Nav
to the Army Captain: “Excuse me. Sir.”
A
few weeks later I started packing my kit. So I never knew of any
repercussions. I think that many such instances in those days were
allowed to be quietly forgotten. Especially when both aircrew were
partly to blame. I hope so.
 |
| Goolie Chit |
Incidentally a 'Goolie Chit' was a
slang name for the document carried by British Servicemen, especially
air crew, in this area. Written in Sudanese, Eritrean and Abyssinian
with the stamp of the Abyssinian Emperor Haile Selassie, who was then
sheltering in England having lost his country, it stated that the
holder was a member of a friendly country and should be taken to the
nearest military establishment wher he would be rewarded.
