Finished reading TF Neils " A Fighter in my sights". A truly great book which I recommend before BoB is out since Tom describes this fighting close and personal. Anyway, there are also many things that made me laugh out loud so I thought I should share one with you.
This episode takes place during Toms training at No. 8 FTS during a night flying sortie.
When Flight Sergeant Betty and I finally became airborne, we were one of several aircraft in the air. We took off into the night and having made several successful landings, I turned off the end of the flarepath intending to return to the taxi-post and thence, with the sanctioning green wink of the Aldis, to the point of take off at the first flare. As I bumped slowly across the uneven grass in absolute darkness, I was quite pleased with myself and much comforted by the silence of my instructor in the back.
Having reached the taxy-post, I halted briefly before the green blink of the Aldis flashed in my direction. I then opened up and, the whine of the engine rising, the Hart started to trundle ahead. But only for a second or two before the aircraft came to an untidy halt. Perplexed, I tried to edge forward again but the aircraft wouldn’t respond. Furthermore, there was the most unpleasant ‘Thwacking’ noise from somewhere ahead.
I sat and thought. Funny! Something wrong with the propeller? The engine? Or the aircraft, even? I couldn’t have taxied into anything as there was only one building on the airfield and that was miles away. I strained my eyes into the blackness but could see nothing. I was about to make some comment when I heard a flow of quietly eloquent but very unbiblical language from behind me. Good heavens! Swearing! From Flight Sergeant Betty? Surely not! What on earth had come over the man?
The ‘Thwacking’ continuing, I suggested that I might switch off and investigate. Betty agreed with a sigh, clearly crushed by the enormity of what he suspected to be our misfortune.
I climbed out and, dropping to the ground, felt my way round to the front by touch, soon to find myself treading on bits of my own propeller - and walking into the chewed-up wing of another Hart. Another Hart!
I looked up into the darkness and all I could distinguish was a pale smudge which, on closer scrutiny, turned out to be the very anxious face of Sergeant Osmand. Thereafter, there followed one of the silliest conversations I have ever had with anyone.
I heard myself saying, ‘Hello! What are you doing here?’
‘Doing here! I’m sitting in my cockpit, that’s what! You’ve just taxied into me!’
‘Me? But how did you get here?’
‘Get here! I’ve been here for ages.’
‘You can’t have!’
‘Well I jolly well have! Anyhow, I’ve just been given a green.’
‘But that was for me.’
‘No it wasn’t!’
‘Yes it was!’
Suddenly , the circumstances and the absurdity fo our exchange was such that I had to suppress a powerful urge to giggle. On reflection, it was a mercy that I did.
Can not help seeing John Cleese and Michael Palin doing this as a scetch.
Haha… Good one, thanks for sharing.
lol thanks Mram!
Must get that book ta mate that squadron sounds eerily “I had right of way!” familiar 
Thwack-thwack I thought it might be a cow minced beef
Ming
Found this from a book named Kiwi Spitfire Ace written by New Zealander jack Rae.
The episode deals with a fellow instructor at 57 OTU where Jack was posted instructing after a tour at Malta.
One of the other Czech pilots, called Ruby because his name was too difficult to pronounce, was also a delightful chap and an outstanding pilot. I am going to digress here and tell a story about Ruby that happened later during the war. He always spoke with great excitement and vivid description, and used two favourite swear words as part of his normal speech. One he continually used was the well known “f_ _ _ me”, the other wich I guess can be used in print was “bugger me” so you can imagine the former in place of the “bugger me”.
His story, told to a large group of pilots, referred to the problems that Fighter Command was having when the FW190, s started their hit and run raids against the towns and villages along the southern coast of England. The 190s came in low and fast, and by the time our fighters had scrambled they were usually already back home in France. At low level the only aircraft that had a chance to catch them were the Typhoons. The patrolling VB Spitfires were ineffective unless they had height and were already on the spot.
Ruby was one of those patrolling Spitfires when he saw a flight of FW190s attacking the coast and gave chase; but his gain on them was painfully slow. Then he looked back and saw some Typhoons behind him so he called out excitedly over the RT.
"Bugger me the Typhoons. Come on, the Typhoons! I look back. They are catching up. I say bugger me, come on the Typhoons. They are now very close to me, I turn again and bugger me they are not Typhoons. They are more FWs. I loop the loop and I bugger off.
Ok, here we go again.
Just finished a nice book, “Young man you’ll never die” by Merton Naydler. It is an honest description of squadron life in North Africa and in Burma where he flew Hurricanes, mostly against ground targets. His honest writing describes the feelings of being in the young twenties and cut off from a civil life for years to instead be spent in the desert or the jungle. As a concequence some people became more or less “desert-happy” or “jungle-happy”. That is, slightly crazy.
The below episode took place in North Africa during a farewell party of one of the aussies. (Who seemed to be sligthly mad even before they came to join the forces).
Before each departure there was a farewell party, whether the pilot was departing or departed. One such party led to a minor war. Outside the Mess building a tall wire-less mast was surmounted by a circular platform, fifty feet up, and approached by an iron-runged ladder. At the time the germans were imitating the british Long Range Desert Groups, parties of highly trained men of great courage who operated far behind the enemy lines to destroy men and machines in surprise raids. The guards around our airfield were in consequence slightly trigger-happy, very much on the alert, for they would be the first target.
Phil Lambert, a delightful Australian on excellent terms with the world, was leaving us. After his farewell party had been in progress a couple of hours he felt the need to fulfill a longstandig ambition by climbing up to the circular platform. Anxiously we watched his slightly alcoholic ascent, but once he had arrived we returned to the business in hand. A little later ‘Drain’ Prentice, so called because his frequent visits to the wooden latrines standing shamelessly in the open sand, selected the foot of the mast to relieve himself. He was a massively-built Australian blond with a wonderfully good nature, who withstood any amount of leg-pulling. His reply to comments on his outsize backside was “Well, yer carn’t drive a ten-inch nail with an eight ounce 'ammer!” Unfortunately he chose the precise moment as Lambert, still aloft, felt the same need. There was a mighty yell of wrath from the drenched ‘Drain’ who pulled out his revolver and opened fire on the platform where Phil, ignorant of why he was being attacked and by whom, returned fire vigorously as we all rushed from the building with guns drawn, believing the germans must have sneaked a L R D G into the camp. The guards at the gate opened fire at the mast, convinced too that the Germans were there, and the two aussies returned their fire, one from atop of the mast and the other from its foot. Realising what had happened, we rushed a messenger round to the guard room to effect a truce, and eventually peace was restored without anybody having been hurt - except the damp and sulky ‘Drain’.
Sometimes I wonder how the allies managed to win the war!
Following anecdotes are taken from the book ”Spitfire offensive” written by R.W.F Sampson with Norman Franks. Here he recollect the memory of his good friend Chris Doll who in my opinion had a sense of humour.
[i]It so happened that the CO had a very young WAAF batwoman and to say she was innocent and no doubt first time away from a closeted home would be a true statement. Fifi (the CO) told us that the squadron was to be released from duty the next day and so he was going to have a lie in. As he was rather dissatisfied with our formation flying he instructed Chris and myself to spend all the morning practising. When we arrived at dispersal it was pouring with rain, with bags of low cloud, so flying was out. At 11 o´clock, the dispersal phone rang and the orderly corporal, answering, told Chris that the CO´s lady batman whished to speak to him. The young WAAF said that as the CO had not heard any aeroplanes flying, he wanted to know the reason why. Chris replied, ”Give the CO my compliments and tell him that the weather is bad and that it is raining.” Some minutes later the phone rang again and this time the WAAF said the CO wanted to know just how bad the rain was. Chris said, ”Give the CO my compliments and tell him that it is raining like fuck!”
We saw Fifi at lunch time and with a big broad grin said to Chris, ” I fully understood your message!”
On another occassion the squadron was scheduled for dusk readiness. As was normal, a WAAF Officer from the Operations Room phoned to ask the state of Readiness. Chriss Doll replied, ”Please tell the Controller that there is a problem. The lift at the end of the runway which gets us airborne has broken down!” Two minutes later, she came on again, saying that the Controller fully understood, but apart from that, presumably all was well.
”Unfortunately, no,” replied Chris, ”Please tell the Controller that the night-flying petrol hasn´t arrived yet!” The Controller then came on the telephone himself and said, ”OK, Chris, you have had your childish fun, I presume that we can now get on with the war?” [/i]
Nice stories you had there, Mram! Very fun to read!
lol… “I fully understood your message!”:roflmao:
and…"OK, Chris, you have had your childish fun, I presume that we can now get on with the war?”:roflmao:
Great stuff, mate!:w00t:
Thanks for the replies guys! (Probably a new record in late reply)
Anyway. Here comes a few lines heard over the RT. Found it in W.G.G Duncan Smith´s book “Spitfire into battle” and takes place in Italy, as the allies push towards Germany.
[i]One of the units taking part in the air offensive was the 79th American Fighter-Bomber group operating with DAF. Amongst the squadrons was the 99th, all-Black Squadron, commanded by an exceptional officer, Major Davis. They flew Thunderbolts and we both saw and heard them during their strikes in the Anzio area. They were always very cheerful and chatty, and produced some devastating forthright comments on the RT as they searched out their targets.
While on patrol one day I heard the voice of a flight leader:
‘Red leader to red two - are youh with me?’
’ Red leader, I say again, are you behind me red two, if youh are, waggle youh wings man, cause youh shur look like a Focke-Wulfe.’
Silence.
Oh-oh - you´se a Focke-Wulfe.’
On another occassion:
‘Red leader callin’ - target three o´clock below get ready to dive bomb - Blue leader go on down first - over.’
Silence.
‘Red leader callin’ Blue leader - ain´t youh heard me - dive bomb - go.’
‘Blue leader to Red leader - man look at all that flak - youh all go on down - you´se got the Distinguished Flyin´ Cross so let´s see youh do some ditinguished flyin’!’[/i]
Ok, I am cheating a bit here and post a story I have previously posted on this forum. It was some time ago though and I think it could fit into this thread.
Picked up from the book An Ace of the Eight by Norman Fortier when he is on escort to a bomber formation attacking targets south east of Berlin. It was obviously a long flight…
Later, Chuck Lenfests microphone button became stuck in the on position and he began a long monologue. Since his transmitter was on, no one else could use that channel. Of course, Chuck didn´t realise that he was transmitting.
”Look at those poor #@$%& bombers!” was his first observation. ” I wonder if they know where the #$&%@ they´re going. I sure as hell don´t.”
There was no mistaking Chuck´s slow Idaho drawl. It was useless to try to transmitt to him, so Mendy eased in close and tried to signal with his hands that the mike button was stuck. Chuck looked at him and said, “Look at old Mendy! What does that silly sonofabitch think he´s doing?” Mendy gave up. The group was next treated to a few bawdy songs and more comments on the progress of the mission. “Why are we headed back? I don´t want to go home yet!” And “where in hell is Jeeter? I hope they didn´t shoot his ass off back there.” And "what a long #%$@ing mission this is! My old ass is plenty sore! “I think I´ll drop down to ten thousand so I can light up my old pipe.” He kept up his running commentary of the mission, his fellow pilots, the bombers, the germans, and the weather, and he had a captive audience throughout the performance,which went on for more than thirty minutes. When Chuck finally realized there was something wrong with his radio, he stopped talking. But the damage had already been done. Jeeter´s comment after the mission was typical.“I was laughing so hard, even the flak didn´t bother me.” When Chuck entered Gremlin Villa, red-faced and smiling sheepishly, he was greeted with a storm of good-natured heckling. For once he was speechless.
lol thanks Mram
“I think I´ll drop down to ten thousand so I can light up my old pipe.”
“…I figured I was running on fumes so a smoke didn’t seem out of the question”
He could fly for the EAF
Ming
This text is from “The best of luck. An autobiography of luck, mostly good, some not so good” written by Dennis Conroy. Dennis started his career as armourer, became rear gunner by chance in Hawker Audax two-seater biplanes, retrained to pilot, flying Hurricanes and Typhoons and finished the war as armament officer educating people on explosives and the art of booby traps(!) As for WWII flying the book has its moments but it is the funny episodes and also the early days of the war in North Africa who makes it stand out. From the book somewhat edited to shorten it:
The RAF contingent at Worthy Down had a very good social relationship with the city of Winchester… During 1936 there was some kind of special anniversary to be celebrated by the city and this ancient anglo-saxon capital invited its neighbouring RAF station to participate. Our senior officers responded enthusiastically and organised an aerial fly-past, a firework display and a torchlight procession… The officer in charge wisely decided to have a full dress rehersal a couple of days before opening night. At the same time it was decided to have a practice run of the firework display, timed to start when the torch light procession came to a halt at a point near the display area. Naturally, the armourers, being the pyrotechnic experts, were organizing the fireworks… My job was to let off the rockets. It should be explained that the RAF habitually employed some mighty powerful pyrothechnics. My rockets were used for signalling to aircraft and were large and heavy, capable of soaring to a thousand feet and bursting with a big explosion while scattering an impressive amount of brilliant stars around the upper atmosphere. In our eagerness to please the worthy citizens of Winchester we had collected service pyrotechnics of every possible variety; all intended to produce effects ranging from cascades of pretty lights to eye-searing flashes and ear-bursting explosions. My type of signal rocket was normally launched from a metal tube, firmly driven into the ground, just as puny little civilian rockets were launched from beer bottles…(jumpin to rehersal and when time to launch) Suddenly I was faced with a problem, my rockets were there alright in a neat row on the ground, but there were no metal launching tubes. The band led the torch-men resolutely in our general direction; the procession was to halt some fifty yards in front of our position and then, to a final roll of drums, we were to start our magnificent firework display… Time was getting terribly short and I had no launching tubes…I felt I just couldn´t spoil their fun by reporting that we were unable to use the rockets so I decided to do my own thing. I pushed the rocket stick into the somewhat soggy earth as far as I could manage. They were slightly off vertical as I estimated that on ignition they would fly over the top of the torch-bearers and burst triumphantly above them at a reliable height. My neat five foot high row of rockets looked grimly efficient in the gloom. I was pleased with my launching method, being convinced that such powerful items, by their sheer force, would streak into the air in the direction they were pointing at the moment of take-off. Who wanted launching tubes? I was equipped with a port-fire, a tube filled with a powder that burned like a large match, very suitable for lighting rockets. All I had to do was pull an abrasive tape and the port-fire was alight. I noticed that my rockets had started to sway in the breeze but I had no time to worry about that because the torch-team had halted, the band had stopped and the starters whistle had blown! I rapidly applied the port-fire to the base of each rocket. Each rocket slowly started to fall over due to the soft earth and the strenght of the wind. With tremendous flashes the rockets took off at two second intervals. The first three were a trifle lower than intended but performed magnificently. By the time the fourth rocket was airborne the area was alive and throbbing with the flash and roar of blank cartridges, verey lights, mortar shells and the rest. All this streneous activity was outlined against the great row of burning torches solemnly held aloft by a partially charred row of airmen, now looking in our direction in some trepidation. The fourth rocket had gracefully leaned over to a dangerous angle and took off directly towards the band and actually graced the drum majors busby, incinerating the attached plume. To my horror the last two rockets were completely horizontal before they started on their last journey. I stood transfixed in impotent indecision as they rapidly advanced towards their illuminated targets, constantly changing direction due to the friction of the earth. The airmen directly in their path did not panic, rather did each think of self-preservation. It just looked like panic. The earth-bound missiles shot amongst them causing torches to be dropped, cascades of molten pitch, cries of terror and crasches of cymbals backed up by an intermittent muffled drumming as the band joined in the general stampede. Through the hubbub I thought I could hear a faint whistling noice. This must have been our respected leader trying to regain control of the situation. I did not stop to discuss the matter. The last rockets exploded at the end of their erratic courses and I merged rapidly with the gloom in the shadow of the big hangar. In other words I abandoned my post. Not, I must emphasise, in the face of the enemy but rather as a sensible precaution to avoid the immediate wrath of my superiors…
I had lost this thread!
Ty for sharing Mram loved it!
Thanks Jimmi! I too had lost the thread. Took me a while to find it…