“BOG RAT”

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 60, Issue 36, 22 November 1939, Page 2

“BOG RAT”

AUCKLANDER IN AIR FORCE, DESC&IP+IQN OF THE TRAINING i (Special to the “ Guardian.”) AUCKLAND, November 21. “This pen is held by one of the most junior pilot-officers in the Royal Air Force. Colloquially lam known as a ‘bog rat’—but there was never a more enthusiastic one I” writes Pilot-Officer Delamore, an Auckland member of the Royal Air Force, in a letter received by the latest mail. Educated at Wanganui College, Pilot-Officer Delamore was. successful in securing a nomination for the Air Force training school at Cranwell. As the only New Zealand nomination in 193 S was not available, he took advantage of the fact that he had been born in Malaya to compete for the annual nomination offered to candidates in the Crown colonies, and this he secured against wide competition.

The course at Cranwell was to have been for two years, but war was declared when he had been there only eighteen months. However, he had made such rapid progress with his studies that the young New Zealand candidate, who was only 19 years and three months, was immediately granted a permanent commission, his “wings,” and the rank of pilot-officer. “We Prepare to Bomb.” In his letter, Pilot-Officer Delamore describes how lie underwent a special course of bombing and gunnery instruction. Rising in the dark, at 6.30 a.m., the trainees washed, dressed and breakfasted and had donned flying kits before 7.15.

“ ‘Magnificent’ does not describe the scene below. We climb into the clean, fresh air. We get down to business. Wind is found. We run over the target, and find the signals in our favour. We prepare the bomb and set our sights. Temperature, pressure, height, speed terminal velocity, direction and wind arc computed and £et on the sight. “The attack begins. With precision the bomb-aimer says ‘left’ or ‘right’ until he brings the target into'his line of sight. The sight is levelled and the bomb selected. As the target passes the pointer, the bomb-aimpr shouts, ‘Bomb away!’ and he presses the button. The bomb can be seen to d'etaoh itself from the aircraft. It speeds forward and downwards, lagging a little behind the aircraft. Ten thousand feet below, and more than a mile ahead, a tiny yellow target floats on the water.

“Breathlessly the crew watch the bomb go down. It grows smaller and smaller. It seems to be falling short. As it nears the ground, it suddenly appears to shoot forward as its forward speed becomes apparent in relation to the ground. Twenty seconds have elapsed. It must hit soon! Actually the tiny target, a triangle, has a side of 25 yards.

Good Marksmanship. “There is a flash, and a cloud of smoke springs up behind the target. Twenty-five yards error! Damn good! If that triangle had been a ship’ the crew 1 would be manning the boats, assuming the bomb had begn a big one. . . . !So it goes on, until all eight bombs have been dropped. We throttle back and lose height, but just yet we steer clear of the aerodrome. “After the concentration of a bombing exercise a little pleasure flying is welcome. Back again, we examine the results of the bombing, and are allotted another duty. Perhaps it is dive bombing. Perhaps low level. Perhaps machine-gun attack on ground targets, or perhaps an attack on the targets towed in the air. “There is half an hour off for lunch and the same period for tea. Flying finally finishes with the dark. In the evening we might go into the town to the pictures and a pint, of go to bed early in preparation for an early morning. 500 m.p.ht Night Fighters.

“I was posted to a twin-engine night fighter squadron. It operates entirely by night, taking over the duties of the day fighters. I am afraid we will get more and more work as, the days get shorter and the nights longer. We are off duty from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., which is not much of a rest. <

“At the beginning of next-year we are to be re-equipped with something magnificent—a new twin fighter with a speed of nearly 500 miles an hour. It will he one of the fastest and most formidable service aircraft in the world. At the moment we are engaged in settling in and getting to know our work and machines. There will be no question of France, worse luck, for many months.

“You can picture me hurtling through the inky blackness w r hen all good folk are abed. When you arise in the morning you will know that a wretched squadron of night owls will be beginning a sixteen-hour tour of duty. Tho throttles are opened and tho heavy machine begins to hump across the ground. Faster and faster it goes, and outside the cabin the pilot can see nothing but the flame from his exhaust. He watches his instrument and feels his craft. When speed is sufficient ho lifts her off the ground and pulls up his undercart. Into the Darkness. “Off lie roars into the darkness to relieve the pilot on the sector. Hour after hour he flies, checking position by radio. Below is blackness. Above is blackness. Nothing hut blackness. The pilot is glad of the company of the radio. He keeps hoping for Bosche bombers! At last his time' is up and he returns to his aerodrome, glad of that coffee waiting for him in the crew room.

“No sooner had I arrived at the squadron than I was posted to a course in parachutes. It’s damned boring, but I suppose someone has to be parachute officer of the squadron. I was to have done a test descent by being pulled off

the wing of an aeroplane."Unfortunately tho pilot' crashed - the.-bally aeroplane before I arrived, so the fun is off. As the parachute officer I will always be able to demand a jump some time in the future; so it matters: little now.”

The letter contains a paragraph typical of a healthy young New Zealander: “We had a mixed grill in the mess, and what wizard sausages! Generally English sausages are so gritty, , but these were almost the equal of those you used to buy, Gran. Memories flooded back of deliciously browned chickens, sizzling in thick gravy, of sausages and onions, of peas and mash—a feed impossible to beat. When the war is over I am coming home to gorge myself as of old.”

The letter was written to Mrs Frank Rhodes, of Clonburn Road, Romuera.