BRITAIN AT WAR

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 87, Issue 21, 27 January 1943, Page 6

BRITAIN AT WAR

FLYING THE ATLANTIC R.A.F. FERRY COMMAND (Broadcast by Stanley Maxted in the 8.8.C.’s Short-wave Service.) I don’t know if you’re one of those people who like to take a look behind the scenes—to peek in and see what makes things tick, but me, J rather like it. I’d heard vague rumours about the lads who ferry aircraft across the Atlantic, but all I’d heard only made me more curious. So what should ± do but hop on a train and go—get the “inner gen” right from the horse’s mouth. On arrival at my destination □. found myself at one of a chain of huge terminals of what used to be called the Atlantic Bomber Ferry Command—and now is the Royal Air Force Ferry Command. I stood out by the runway fascinated by what I saw. Mouth open—l was like a kid in a toyshop at Christmas. All day, all night, aircraft are coming in from the Atlantic Ocean. They’re checked over and refuelled and then whisked away to where they’ll be manned by a little team of Royal Air Force youngsters who’ll take them out over Europe to blow Hitler’s dreams hundreds of feet into the air.

I’d been met by an officer of the R.A.F. who constituted himself shepherd, guide, and trouble-shooter—be-sides keeping me from getting myself into trouble. He let me gape around for a few minutes at this aerial Time Square traffic jam, and then suggested that we go into the mess and eat. We did, and I found myself in the only messroom of any Service where all ranks feed together. As soon as we’d fuelled up (that’s pilots’ talk for feeding the inner man) we went out again just in time to see, coming over the rim of high ground beyond the runway, a succession of giant four-engined aircraft. This runway incidentally is one of the longest in Europe. The leading aircraft had just touched down—and doing it as gently as you would lay an egg on a marble slab, and was taxi-ing toward us? What a size they are! 8,9, or 10 hours ago they took off from the other side of the ocean. What a row they kick up! Their air-wheels are about as tall as I am.

A door near the pilot’s cockpit onened, and out came a tousled head with a weather-beaten face underneath, split by a grin. He handed down his papers, and while this was happening my Squadron Leader escort told me that he was Duke Schillerone of the famous names of American aviation. Do you remember the Bremen crashing on Greenly Island in the late 1920’5? Well, it was Duke Schiller that flew In among r.he ice to take out the four stranded Germans that flew her over.

Then roaring down the runway came Captain Dick Gentry. Gentry has a lot of firsts: he brought across the first flight of Lockheed Hudsons and the first Catalina Flying Boat. As soon as the ferry crew was clear, the ground crew took over. Swift, deft and accurate—that’s the only way to describe the movements of the ground crews. I found out a lot about these guys and gals irom tne Squadron Leader. Yes—guys and gals—because half of them are young women. They have each aircraft for only a few hours, but •during that time they adopt it. We went back into the lounge, at one end of which is a bar. Standing along the bar are men—some of them in uniform of the R.A.F., some of them in the dark blue of the Air Transport Auxiliary, but more of them in the uniform of the Royal Air Force Ferry Command. One ol the things that strikes you is the age of these men. They look to be mostly in their late 30’s or, anyway, in the 40’s—grey-headed and hard-bit-ten. I never saw anything so casual as their comings and goings. In through the swing doors comes a chock headed guy in a white leather windbreaker. He lifts an airy hand in salute to the men around him. Somebody says: “Have a good trip?” “Yeah—not bad—left about an hour after you, Dick. Give me a ginger beer Sandy.” Another bundled up bear of a man rolls through the swing doors and somebody moves over from the bar and grips his hand, and slaps him on the back: “Hello Joe, you old son of a gun. I haven’t seen you since yesterday.” They had met, in Montreal the day before. I noticed a lot of pink faced kids sitting around, with whigs up, and Canada on their shoulders. They didn’t seem lo quite fit this picture, but my pal explained that they constituted the crews on the West to East trips for these ferrypilots. They have just finished 1 railing ever in Canada and their first job is to bring one of these Leviathans across the ocean. Duke Schiller had a cre»v like this and I asked him if that didn't put a pretty heavy load on his shoulders. "Load noth ing.” said Duke, “that little navigate” set his course and landed me smack on a pin-point. The same with all the rest of ’em.” Around this room we were in were pictures of aircraft flying--good ones, beautifully done. I learned they were painted by a boy on the staff here. Take a look at these guys leaning up against the bar or sitting in the deep worn armchairs reading the papers. They look like a pretty hardbitten lot. don’t they? A sissie's no good for this job and yet my pal tells me they're just a bunch of softies after all. Each of these pilots has his own little private charity over here. Sometimes when they come in they get a hot drink, a good hot meal, a few hours sleep, and away back again

westward. But if they have a bit of time before going back they will go to a dance—meet some of the nurses from the hospitals around, and learn about who’s really in need of what, and the next, time they come they’ll have gone without some of their bag-

gage allowance lo bring something over that someone can really use. One fellow brought a bunch of bananas (you never see one over here now) for the people who work in an explosive factory. The workers appreciated this but- -well—they just auctioned it off. They got. £250 which they gave to National Defence. Then the chap who bought the bananas turned around and gave them to the k'ds in a hospital. One grey-headed *Ty pilot has found the old folks' settlement, hereabouts, ancUhe always brings them something.* The old hands go back each time with a shopping list and leave it. to be filled in Montreal. They are only allowed so much baggage', but they'll sacrifice their own comfort to bring little delicacies for people over here who reed them.

\eah—they’re just softies, these era pi-. Their age won’t mt them into th? cockpit of a screaming lighier with all guns going hut after you ge< to bed at. night, ’t you bar pur to wake up, there'll be a stream of them ’at various points over the Atlantk doing something that not so rrmny years ago used to make headlines ano heroes. If you happen to think of it. you might cock i then b up for those softies, because that Atlantic is awful big. awful deep awful cold and awful wet but. .you never hear of those big bo- ; >heii failing to arrive here, do you?