 |
The Blue-job
Hornpipe
Not having been to either of the
last two airports since 1964 I can't really pass judgement on the present
situation, but, Heathrow was like a Small landing strip compared to those. They
were cities within cities.
Again we had to go through Customs
and Immigration. It didn't make sense to me seeing we were only going to be here
for about 3 hours while they did a "Turn round". Still who am I to
buck the system. However, this time I was a little more careful with my comments
when speaking to the Airport S.S.
We were pointed to a bus and
informed we were going to the International Inn. Now that sounded pretty good to
me. While on route one of the cabin staff gave us all what I initially thought
was a cinema ticket. Thicko Chatty, still in the throes of "Adrenalin
Withdrawal" casually enquired as to "What's the film love?"
This one wasn't as controlled as
my female hero from Heathrow. With a withering look that made me slip lower in
my seat, she informed me in no undue terms that it wasn't a cinema ticket, it
was a meal ticket to be used on our arrival at the Inn. "Not going to
get a lot with this, are we?".
How wrong can the uninitiated be?
We were herded into the restaurant and told to wait for the service. I was
starving, and as it turned out I'd come to the right place. The waiter appeared
with a huge leather bound Menu. "What are we allowed to choose? I've only
got this ticket"
"Anything you like Sir".
Had I heard right?, Anything I liked. I LIKED!. Between us, I think "Yorkie"
and I went through the menu like a pair of rampant tornados. Lobster, T.Bone steaks,
fries, this that and everything. We were told the Airline were footing the bill.
What a stupid thing to tell to hungry squaddies. I bet they changed that rule
before the next flight. We must have set them back a small fortune.
Before we'd hardly had the time to
finish our liqueurs, we were directed back to the bus. They spoil everything don't
they? Here I was, stoked up to the gunwales and now they were going to put me
back on board this 4 engined, aluminium stomach pump, and try and get a
rebate. Next time I'll ask for a doggy bag and save it for the journey.
By now I was becoming quite a
hardened aviator. I'd flown for all of 13 hours. I could always offer my
services as co-pilot. That would have caused a stir, I was having problems
enough with uniformed opposition. Don't push it Chatty, they'll find some way to
petrify you.
Halfway there. Honolulu then
Christmas Island. Two more take offs and two more controlled crashes.
Even I must concede that the
flight to Honolulu was so uneventful that the only point worth mention was
I managed a brief kip. Now that in itself is worth an entry in some record
book.
PING, more announcements
concerning our impending landing, The views were beyond belief, we were even given a look down one of the active volcano's. Whether that was a generous
gesture by the pilot, or a subtle warning to me, I've never found out. But I
have my suspicions.
Honolulu, the land of grass
skirts, sandy beaches, Diamond Head. What more can I ask for? All this luxury at
the taxpayers expense. I was going to make the most of this. Who was I kidding,
we had hardly hit the tarmac before we were surrounded by members of RASC
Movements. British squaddies, living in the lap of luxury who's job it was to
ensure that no one else enjoyed themselves. May their portions turn square and
fester at the corners.
No sooner was our kit snatched
from the conveyor than we were pointed towards a Military Stretch Limo. A wreck
of a 39 seater RAF coach. Destination, Hickham Field Air Force Base. If we'd
been 20 years earlier, the Japs would have got us.
We were unceremoniously shown our
overnight accommodation, I, still wary of flying took the bottom bunk. I'd had
enough of heights for the last couple of days. Sods law would have prevailed and
there's no doubt I'd have fallen out if I'd copped the top one.
It was decided that a nightcap
wouldn’t go amiss. Off we troop down to the PX with the intention of a quick
can before settling down for the night.
Those good intentions soon went
out of the window. 3 squaddies and two matelots can really cause some grief when
they want to. The Yanks couldn’t keep them coming quick enough. As each can
was consumed so the empty was stacked ceremoniously on the round table at which
we were sitting. As the evening drew on so the pyramid of aluminium grew.
We soon became the target of
admiration of all the Yanks in the PX. The
cans came, the brew was consumed and another brick in the wall so to speak. Mind
you, if it had been a decent drop of UK brew, we’d have all been on our backs
by now, but no, it was barely stronger than lemonade to us bunch of hardened
drinkers.
By the end of the session, the
stack of cans was so huge our conversations were having to be passed around the
table because we couldn’t see who we were talking to. I can’t remember
whether the Yanks applauded on our departure or not, but they were well
impressed with the volume consumed by 5 whiteys from Blighty.
They don't wake you with bugles in
the USAF. They pipe the latest music and sweetly announce that they would be
really happy if you could find the time to get up for the day. And to think,
they keep telling us they won the war.
Now I've seen some Military Dining
Halls. This was something that had to be seen to be believed. If the Japs had
hit this place during a meal the Yanks wouldn't have had enough people left to
fight a war. It was enormous, a map and compass wouldn't have been out of place.
The food here was also free, but there was no way we'd have even dented the
surface of their menu. They say an Army marches on its stomach. This lot must
have spent the entire careers face down on the floor.
The names of some of their dishes
left a lot to be desired. The one that comes to mind was S**T on a Raft. This
turned out to be savoury mince on buttered toast. Strange choice for a breakfast
menu. In saying that they're a strange lot any way. However, I must say it was
very tasty.
The walls were fitted with so many
different kinds of Drinks Dispensers (sadly no beers) that I still wonder
whether they'd even made up a few names just to fill the gaps. Our favourite was
the Milk Machine. Especially a year later on our return, but that's another
story.
Fed and watered we were directed
back to our rooms to get our kit ready. The last stage of our journey was about
to begin. No BOAC this time. Transport Command were doing the honours. VC10?
Comet? I wonder what we're going on, it's only 1300 miles so it should be over
in a flash. Wishful thinking is the understatement of the decade. A Hastings. (see
photo)
These things weren't built to fly were they? If I'd done one of my
maintenance checks on this bird, I'd still be finding faults now.
What little confidence I'd had was
destroyed the minute I saw this so called plane. In fact I'm hard pushed to even
call it a plane. 4 propellers, aerials sticking up all over the place and
I swear to this day there were bits of string and tape serving some mysterious
purpose.
No messing around here, no nice
stewardesses doing their best to make you feel at ease. Just a case of get on,
sit down and "don't touch nuffin"
Door slams shut, 4 ancient piston
engines struggle to come to life, bangs, pops, huge quantities of smoke coming
from everywhere and this was meant to get us across 1300 mile of shark infested
sea. Who were they kidding?
We eventually trundle, yes I said
trundle. (There was nothing elegant about this thing.) to the end of the runway
and the "Hostess" who just happened to be a hairy RAF type with a
mustache, started to give us the Safety Briefing. Now this was one briefing that
I was really going to listen to and take in.
It was a case of, "If this
thing was going to crash I wouldn't be on it", "I've flown hundreds of
hours on these and I'm still here", "we don't fly high enough to cause
much damage when we ditch" not a case of "If we ditch" but
"when we ditch". This chap was a born confidence builder. Obviously a
failed Psychology student. "This flight will take approximately 6-7 hours
according to wind speed and weather conditions"
6-7 hours, I could have bloody
swum there quicker. The only advantage they had over my method was they knew the
way. I could see I was really going to enjoy this trip.
Either we had permission to take
off or the wind just happened to catch the pilot unawares. This aluminium shark
bait feeder started it's struggle along the runway. It was that slow I was
beginning to wonder if we were actually going to take off or go by road. After
what seemed like a lifetime we eventually took off. In fact I often wonder if
the runway just didn't lower itself to give us a chance. Look out of the window
to see how high we are only to see a seagull keeping pace.
I think we took at least an hour
to reach cruising altitude. At least we were airborne. We never had the luxury
of a meal/drink trolley. A plastic tray carefully carried from the galley at the
rear, strategically placed a couple of feet from the toilet.
Plastic cup, paper plate. A packed
lunch consisting of sandwiches, a Mars bar, Biscuits, and fruit. Oh for the
International Inn. Cups were only half filled. When questioned on the short
measure I was informed that with the amount of "bumps" we were going
to hit during the flight, half a cup caused less scald injuries.
It was purgatory. The wind was
coming in through gaps in the fuselage, and that's the honest truth. I don't
suppose that matters in an unpressureised plane. A visit to the loo was in
itself an education. It turned out to be a camping toilet, insecurely attached
to the floor of the air craft. Cleverly camouflaged by a couple of loose fitting
curtains. Thank goodness there were only 9 of us on the flight none of whom had yet
contracted dysentery.
Just over 6 hours after we
struggled off the ground at Honolulu, we were in sight of Christmas Island. All
we had to do now was get this thing onto the ground. The pilot, a "Biggles"
if ever I saw one, kindly gave us an airborne tour of the Island. He banked over
and just kept it there while we did a complete round trip. I was too busy
praying and hanging on to care what it looked like. I had 12 months to find my
way round without his help.
The plane? eased its way towards
the ground and then THUMP, we hit. I said to Alan, "That wasn't a bad
landing" before the words were hardly out of my mouth the other wheel hit.
We went down the runway like a drunken sailor doing a hornpipe.
After we'd eventually ground to a
halt, we were told to remain in our seats until ordered to disembark. Rather a
posh word to use considering what we were sitting in. During this brief wait,
the pilot eased himself from the seat and came into the "cabin".
"Sorry about the landing
chaps, not too bad considering I've not flown one of these for a year".
CHRISTMAS ISLAND, THANK GOD, I'VE
MADE IT!
|
