Aircrew: The Story of the Men Who Flew the Bombers by Bruce Lewis Page B

Havilland Tiger Moths. These delightful little biplanes were like machines from a bygone age. They could be spun and stalled with impunity, and however much pupils mistreated them, their wood and canvas construction nearly always stood up to the strain. Reg was convinced he had found his vocation – he was a natural pilot. But when he reached SFTS atCranborne, near Salisbury (now Harare) he was faced with one of the most frustrating situations of his life. Here the advanced training aircraft were rugged North American Harvards. Built on a much more generous scale than the diminutive Tiger Moth, they were also very noisy, with large, ‘ungeared’, single radial engines.
    Reg was convinced he could handle the Harvard, or any other aircraft for that matter. Eagerly he strode out to the flights alongside his instructor. Full of enthusiasm he hauled himself up the metal side of the fuselage, stepped over the lip of the cockpit and sank out of sight into its depths. To his dismay, at 5 feet 4 inches, his head was below the level of the windscreen. He was unable to see out. Even worse than that, the rudder bar was beyond the reach of his feet!
    For a moment his chagrin knew no bounds. He cursed all idiot aircraft designers who based their cockpit dimensions on the measurements of giant Texans. Then his mind raced – seeking a solution. Explaining the problem to his sympathetic instructor, he rushed off to the Sergeants’ Mess and grabbed a couple of cushions. Returning to the Harvard, he placed one behind his back to move himself forward towards the pedals, and then sat on the other which he placed underneath his parachute. ‘AH right now,’ he assured the pilot, ‘Let’s go!’
    But it was not all right. It proved quite impractical to try to control the aircraft in an efficient manner when perched so precariously. Those in authority were very sorry; they admired this man who had voluntarily forfeited a safe post in order to go to war. They did their best to allay his bitter disappointment, and offered him a variety of alternatives: either to join a long queue of cadets waiting to complete their pilot training on Oxfords – aircraft in which the seats were adjustable, and where the pilot sat in a cabin with all-round visibility, rather than a small confined cockpit, or train as a navigator, or forget the whole thing and return to his ground trade as an administrator.
    Reg had made up his mind to fight in the air in some capacity, so his answer to the last alternative was a brief, ‘No thanks.’ Yet he knew for sure that the other two offers would lead to delays and extended periods of further training. Navigators particularly, unlike in the earlier years, were now receiving a long and comprehensivecourse. The war might well be over by the time he quali-fied.
    After a moment’s thought, he asked: ‘Any vacancies for air gunners?’
    ‘Always.’
    ‘How long to wait?’
    ‘Immediate acceptance.’
    ‘Duration of course?’
    ‘Six weeks.’
    ‘That’s for me,’said Reg.
    His erstwhile mates safely back in the office must have found his behaviour quite incomprehensible. Reg, on the other hand, was perfectly happy to be moving positively in the direction he wanted to go – back to England to see some action.
    Gunnery School at Gwelo Moffat was stimulating enough. Flying in Oxfords fitted with turrets, he blasted away at drogues, long sausage-shaped canvas objects towed by intrepid airmen in airborne tugs. He studied the mysteries of ‘deflection’, dismantled Browning.303 machine guns, and re-assembled them until he could do it in his sleep. He fired at targets on the ground and studied film of fighters approaching from all conceivable angles. Mentally he absorbed the shapes of models, representing friendly and enemy planes, which hung from the ceilings of every classroom.
    After the six-week intensive course he had qualified. Proudly sporting his new air gunner’s brevet above his left breast pocket, a single