freddie who? 03

Freddie who? (Part 3)

The only other stories that spring to mind concerning Freddie indicate what an absolute idiot the RAF had entrusted with a Queen’s Commission, and how well he was liked by his land locked comrades.

The Main Camp Bus

Every day the blue-bodied, white-roofed 39 seater purgatory wagon would make its journey to the Main Camp and Airfield. Not usually an exciting journey, but under normal circumstances an uneventful one.

At least it was uneventful until Freddie became airborne.

As I’ve said before, anything moving was a fair target. If it contained innocent victims, all the better.

I suppose it’s only fair to say at this point in time that regardless of his absolute stupidity Freddie must have been a fairly good pilot, because although he performed the next move on numerous occasions, neither he nor the bus ever came to a catastrophic end.

Picture the journey. Nice weather, reasonably comfortable ride. Chatting away to your mates about last night’s bender or forthcoming adventures. In fact it could be quite a pleasant experience. Unless of course you know who was in the air.

Bloody eyes like a hawk. He could spot movement miles away, and the white roof of a 39 seater bus didn’t take a lot of finding.

The hum of the engine, the cool air streaming through the open window - what’s that noise? It’s not the noise you have to worry about, it’s what’s attached to the noise that matters. CRUNCH. The bus wobbles, swerves gracefully from side to side. The driver, with eyes like organ stops, fights to control the bus.

Suddenly, through the front windscreen of the bus you can see the arse end of an Auster fighting to gain height and avoid onrushing coconut palms. Freddie Flit has done it again. Not for the first time has he used the white top of the bus as a temporary landing strip.

In fact, on close inspection, the top of the bus had quite a few black rubber skid marks indicating the regularity with which it was attacked.

Just think, next time you climb aboard your holiday flight to Spain or some other exotic holiday destination. Freddie Flit could be your pilot.

My Finale On Freddie (for now)

I only recall this event happening on one occasion. Sadly I was not one of the lucky ones involved, but the story did the rounds during many a heavy session in the various drinking establishments on the Island.

Picture a vehicle hurtling along the “A1”, corner approaching, change down, ease off the accelerator and -

Bloody hell, there’s a plane sitting in the middle of the road. Standing next to this now impotent piece of machinery is a Blue Job frantically waving his arms.

Could this be Freddie? Oh, the joy of all concerned knew no bounds. Gotcha you little creep. Isn’t it strange how servile a Bluey can be when surround by ex targets? Not just any Bluey but as luck would have it THE Bluey.

“I say chaps, got a small problem, run out of juice,” followed by a series of strange noises later identified as Officer type guffaws of strained laughter. “Any chance of a lift to the Field to get a couple of cans?”

“Sorry Sir, can’t overload the vehicle, we’d be in dead trouble.” Can’t overload the vehicle, there’s a first.

“We could always pop into the Field for you, Sir, and tell someone you’re stranded.”

Needless to say, no one told anyone anything. Rumour has it that this conversation and lack of pity was the order of the day. As far as I know he eventually had to walk a few miles to report his predicament.

Nemesis had struck.