‘Oh for God’s sake shut it!’ I told him irritably.
‘Sorry, sir.’
I regretted that immediately, ‘No, carry on – it’s not your fault . . .’
‘Don’t worry, sir. You’ll love the Jack o’ Diamonds – she h’ain’t let us down yet. Never.’
The Jack o’ Diamonds came into sight seconds later. It was squatting close to the ground in front of one of the old blast pens. If ever an aircraft looked as if it was taking a shit, this type did. Her fat belly looked as if it was scraping the floor. She was silver in colour, but that was where the similarity to my stolen ride ended. The York I’d been promised was silver because her metal surfaces had been lovingly polished. Jack o’ Diamonds was silver because her fabric had been painted silver. Yes, that’s right – fabric. She was an old Wellington bomber converted to the transport role. She had our nice new RAF three-ring roundels, a large black letter J on her flanks, and a neat picture of the Jack of Diamonds playing card under the sliding clear screen beside the pilot.
One of the things I’ve never told you before is that I’d flown a dozen training trips in Wimpies – that’s what we called them – from my OTU before I was posted to a squadron. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to forget them. I wanted to forget them because every time I had flown in a Wellington I had been violently sick. I leaned towards M’smith and whispered, ‘I feel sick.’
‘I know what you mean. We’re certainly going to be.’
Oh well, at least he’d been around the block a few times.
Wellington bombers are not like other aircraft. They are not made of nice metal sheets riveted onto a nice firm metal frame. They are made of a metal latticework of narrow spars and tubes stitched together in diamond shapes, like a lace doily, and then covered in painted canvas. In flight the whole fuselage – which is where we had to sit – flexed. It flexed from side to side, end to end, and up and down. And the wings flapped like a pregnant bird. Some people, I’m told, learned to love the Wimpy. I never actually met one. Bollocks.
After we had stepped down from the Commer, it made a turn but only managed about a hundred yards, trailing thicker clouds of black smoke, before the engine gave way with an enormous crash and a clatter. I should have felt sorry for Whistling Rufus, but I wasn’t.
There was a small mob of aircraftmen being contained by a patient SAC close to Jack’s fuselage door. They were all dressed for travelling. Our fellow passengers looked young and excited. National service types I guessed. I wondered if any of them had flown before, and if they knew what they were letting themselves in for. The SAC said in a voice loud enough to echo among the dreaming spires miles away, ‘The officers are ’ere, lads; let ’em through, let ’em through. Mind outta the way. Now we can get off.’ After a rather smart salute, he asked us, ‘Where would you care to sit, sir?’
I told him, ‘Up the front. As near to the main spar as is humanly possible.’
‘It can be a little noisy up there, sir. Between the engines.’
I wasn’t going to be taken in. ‘We’ll take a chance on it, OK?’
‘Ridden the Wimpy before, ’ave you, sir?’ I liked the way he said ridden; as if the Wellington was something you mastered, like a bucking bronco, rather than something you rode in.
‘A few times; a few years ago.’
I might have been mistaken but maybe the ghost of a smile crossed his face for a second. ‘Very good, sir. If you’d care to mount up now, I’ll get the men loaded after you.’ There it was again: mount up. Maybe the SAC knew Wimpies even better than I did. No looking back now. As I climbed up into the belly of the beast I asked M’smith behind me,
‘Any idea where they’re taking our original transport?’
‘Yes; Stanstead, apparently.’
‘Stanstead?’
‘Yes.’
‘That can’t be more than thirty miles away.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You mean that because the gaffers have to get to somewhere they can see even before they’ve taken off, we have to fly halfway round the world in a twenty-year-old aircraft made from hairnets, pipe-cleaners and brown paper?’
‘That’s right. Ain’t peace wonderful?’ If he saw the funny side of everything, he could probably get on your nerves.
The SAC got his mob seated, in equal numbers on bench-type seats on either side of the aircraft. The kitbags were stowed neatly beyond them, nearer the tail. His briefing was about as far away from the flight-safety briefing you get from a bored stewardess today as it was possible to get.
‘Listen up, lads, and pipe down. These are the things you need to know. The small box on the fuselage by the hatch you came in is full of brown paper bags and pieces of string. They are paper bags, airsickness for the use of. Once you have used them, and you will use them, tie them off with the string and place them beneath your seats. The reason you will be sick is that you have the honour to be riding in a Wellington bomber, and a Wellington bomber is not a fixed platform like other aircraft. If you look to the rear when we are in flight you will gain the impression that the fuselage is moving independently up and down, and from side to side. Your impression will be correct, and when you dwell on that fact, and you
