Storm at Sunset Read online

The squadron commander clambered onto a trestle table to address his troops.

  “Chaps, a couple of hours ago I received some momentous news from headquarters.” He held up a piece of paper. “This signal tells us that the war in Europe is over.”

  A ragged cheer arose from the ranks, subsiding to an excited buzz of chatter. The CO waited a few moments, allowing his men the chance to digest the news. After what he judged to be a suitable interval, he raised his hand and silence once again descended over his audience.

  “Now you’ll have many questions, and I’ll try to pass on to you all I can. But I warn you that the information I have is pretty limited.” A further stir subsided quickly.

  “Anyway, here goes.” The squadron commander went through a brief summary of the events of recent months: of the Soviets advancing on Berlin from the east while the Americans and British had closed from the west; of Hitler’s suicide; and of the final collapse of the German war machine and the enemy’s surrender.

  He concluded by turning to the subject he knew to be closest to their hearts, observing that they’d all be relieved that their loved ones at home would at last be completely safe. Although the threat of invasion had long passed and the blitz was but a distant memory, flying-bomb and V2 rocket attacks had continued intermittently until the recent spring, leaving smoking craters and devastated families. Thousands of miles distant, there had been nothing whatsoever the men could have done to protect those back home. So it would be a relief for them to know that at least one danger was over.

  “Now I know that you’ll be wondering what all this means for us, what we as a squadron will be doing in the future. And the answer, until I’m told anything different, is that we continue with what we’ve been doing for the last three years, namely supporting the army as the troops continue their operations against the Japanese.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m afraid that’s all I have for you, but of course I’ll pass on any further information as it becomes available. Even though the victory relates to the western theatre and another enemy, I think we all have families, friends, relatives and former comrades who’ll be relieved tonight that their own part in the action is over. And we can allow ourselves to share in the celebration. So enjoy the evening. But after that, we need to remember that for us it’s business as usual.”

  He stepped down and left with a couple of his flight commanders. Wing Commander Brian Macnamara, known to his men behind his back as Mac, was a career officer who’d already been fighting this war for five years. He’d won his spurs as a fighter pilot in the Battle of Britain, and had been flying the Dakota since 1942. He understood that the men would be wondering what the future held, both for the squadron and for themselves as individuals, but he also knew that there was nothing else helpful he could have told them at that juncture. Perhaps the Japs would surrender soon and it would all be over – but he somehow doubted that. Maybe the end of the European war would allow replacement personnel to be sent eastwards, thereby releasing his longer-serving men. He simply didn’t know at this point, although his instinct and experience warned him not to expect too much to happen in the short term. He fervently hoped that he’d have some good news for them before too long, but for now he – and they – would all just have to wait.

  ****

  And his first prediction was fulfilled – that it would be business as usual. Number 31 Squadron had travelled with the 14th Army – the ‘forgotten’ army – since its formation in 1943, supporting them loyally throughout their valiant campaign against the Japanese in the jungles of Burma and at the epic battles of Kohima and Imphal. They’d joined in the American support of the Nationalist Chinese across the notorious terrain of the eastern Himalayan ‘hump’. They’d flown in terrifying weather, and now they were still supporting the troops as they chased the enemy southwards, clearing the Arakan Hills, re-opening the vital Burma Road supply route to China, and closing on Rangoon.

  The groundcrew had maintained the aircraft under the most trying of conditions, and had turned their hands to every unexpected job that had turned up. And not all as a result of enemy action. The previous week they’d been out re-grading the landing strip following the overnight ploughing efforts of a herd of elephants.

  They’d lost crews for all sorts of reasons: shot down by Japanese fighter aircraft; as a result of mechanical failure; in bad weather; and because of inexperience. Some had simply disappeared in the mountains and jungle with no cause ever being found.

  The groundcrew had shared in the casualty toll, too. Only yesterday, Macnamara had sat down with sadness in his heart to write a letter home to the young wife of an airman who had been killed by a tyre which had exploded as he’d been inflating it – probably as a result of minute and unseen damage occurring during landing and taxiing across the hideous surfaces they’d been forced to use. Or, not impossibly, as a result of sabotage by the local dissidents who always posed a threat. They would never know. What was certain was that the man’s name would never appear in any conventional book of heroes. But he had, nevertheless, made his own valiant contribution to the endless effort.

  They’d worked with precious few days off, and in any case it was seldom safe to leave the confines of the camp. There was little capacity for the squadron to set up formal recreational facilities. So, although the odd one or two individuals had found themselves hobbies which suited the local environment, the majority would be limited to playing darts or taking largely futile pot-shots with their service revolvers at the local pigeons. Other than that, it was a question of trying to make themselves comfortable in their hammocks under their mosquito nets while writing home.

  Ablution facilities were makeshift in the extreme, so they were well used to washing and shaving in the muddy rivulets that crisscrossed the camp. There was no privacy in the hastily dug latrines, which took the form of a row of oval holes cut through a rough plank covering an open ditch. There were snakes, mosquitoes and biting ants to trap the unwary. Overall, what with the relentless intensity of operations, the men’s sentiments were chiefly of overwhelming weariness, fatigue and resignation.

  But awareness of the importance of the job they were doing sustained them, and each turned willingly to the task of getting the 110 per cent required out of each of their aircraft. Natural British humour had often come to the rescue throughout the long campaign. And it would certainly be needed now, thought Mac, for he sensed that there would be no early answer to the main question now on everybody’s lips, which was, quite naturally, “When are we going home?”

  And nothing altered when, just two weeks later, the answer came to the question of where the squadron would go from here. There was to be another move. This time their commander didn’t feel the need to gather the whole company and address them. There had been too many moves – as many as a couple of dozen over the past few years as the land war had ebbed and flowed and as the task had been modified – for news of another one to be anything other than routine. No sooner would they get themselves comfortable in one campsite than they’d be ordered to up sticks and move on. That had been their way of life for, seemingly, as long as they could remember.

  This time it was to be India – again. But although there would be a continuation of similar work, he knew he would have to keep a wary eye on morale. For many of his men had been in the jungle for four years now, and the news from Europe would inevitably have got their thoughts heading westwards anew. Their expectations were natural. Indeed Macnamara couldn’t avoid having similar aspirations himself, and his thoughts had turned increasingly during the past days to his wife and to the child he had never seen. But he nevertheless recognised the potential danger of unfulfilled hopes, and he’d warned his flight commanders and senior engineers to keep a weather eye open for signs of distraction.

  The operational directive he’d had from HQ had opened with a résumé of the strategic situation in the Far East theatre. The Japanese were still resisting strongly in the Pacific, but their three-year incursion into Malaya
, Thailand and Burma was beginning to go into reverse. Although there would be a continuing need for casualty evacuation and for ferrying former internees to safety, that job would be handled in the future by other RAF units. And the order he now had in his hand contained details of his squadron’s new mission.

  He briefed his flight commanders: “You’ll know, chaps, that the Japs are pretty well spent as a force in Burma. That’s due in no small measure to our efforts. But they’re still thick as flies all the way up the Malayan peninsula, and the army is going to have to clear them out. And of course there’s still Singapore to liberate. So the next item on the agenda is likely to be an amphibious landing on the west Malayan coast, and we are to be heavily involved dropping troops and supplies. To that end, we’re going to be redeployed in a couple of weeks to India to prepare for the job – ‘Operation Zipper’ as it will be known. I’ve been told that our new base is likely to be Tilda, towards India’s eastern plain – perhaps together with a couple of satellite stations.”

  “I don’t know how much work there will be in setting up the new camp, but the good news is that we’ll at least be out of the front line until the op starts, so that should give us the chance to draw breath and reassess our situation. Perhaps during this period of relative lull we’ll be able to do something by way of getting our longer-serving members on their way home.”

  “Anyway, I know we’re all looking forward to this thing being over. But as we already know there’s still a job to be done here. The army still needs supporting, and we can’t possibly leave the troops in the lurch. So that’s what we’ll do, and I want you to put the word about. At the same time we must remember that our men are weary, and most of them are conscripts. It shouldn’t be too hard to motivate them, but the end of the war in Europe is bound to tempt their thoughts westwards. So they’ll need a firm hand but plenty of understanding. Any questions?’

  A shake of heads, and they dispersed to their respective sections.

  Around the camp, resignation greeted the news. They’d been in this position before. They’d be starting again, hacking living spaces out of undergrowth and digging storm drains and latrines at yet another new base. As he toured the various sections during the ensuing days, Macnamara looked at his men with a trace of sadness in his features. An image of his own wife, whom he’d not seen for over three years, swam into his mind. Yes, he understood their feelings very well.

  CHAPTER 3

  Three weeks after VE Day, Flight Sergeant Ken Ticehurst reported to RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire with his crew to pick up a Dakota. They had orders to ferry it to the Far East and deliver it to 31 Squadron. Following this they were to join the squadron, which, they were told, had spent the war supporting army units across the Indian subcontinent and Burma.

  Ken hailed from Halifax, Nova Scotia, a Canadian who’d joined up three years earlier. After qualifying as a pilot he’d been posted as an instructor at one of the many bases in Manitoba, and had spent the best part of his air force time in the Prairie Provinces. Although instructing had brought him a wealth of experience – for there are few quicker ways to learn than by watching others make mistakes – it hadn’t been what he’d joined for, and he’d long hankered for an operational posting. When his wish was eventually granted, he’d returned to the east coast to say goodbye to his parents before embarking on the Queen Mary for one of the great liner’s renowned trooping trips across the Atlantic. Following their docking at Liverpool, he’d spent the past couple of months converting with his crew to the Dakota. Now, three long years after joining up, he felt well qualified and ready to go.

  His crew members had come from various directions. Co-pilot Sergeant Ray Fox and bomb-aimer Sergeant Nobby Clark had met and crewed up during their conversion to Lancaster bombers a year ago. But as the Germans had begun to fall back and the war in Europe had altered character there was now a reduced requirement for replacements. Thus the two men had been re-directed to transports. A bomb-aimer could just as well be employed as a dispatcher – one who saw to the release of air-dropped cargo – which seemed to Nobby to be the aim of the game in the Far East, so he was happy to re-orientate his recently acquired skills. And, with their Lancaster captain required elsewhere, the two of them had had no difficulty in teaming up with Ticehurst at the Dakota school at RAF Leicester East in the English Midlands.

  The three of them got on well. Ray, an Australian, found similarities in his and Ken’s backgrounds, while Nobby brought an irreverent outlook which chimed well with that of his new comrades. On the other hand their navigator, Flight Lieutenant Dusty Binns, was a slightly older man with a more serious outlook on life. A maths graduate, he’d left a comfortable teaching career to do his bit. Like Ken he’d been plucked out to instruct for a couple of years, and was now coming to the front line for the first time. In his well-ordered mind, this was the correct way to do things, and he was looking forward to the challenge. On the surface he was as different from his new comrades as chalk from cheese, and initially they’d ribbed his rank. But they’d already come to respect his calm maturity.

  There had been another crew member. A wireless operator. But he’d fallen at the last hurdle, so to speak. The night before their departure they’d made for the nearby town of Swindon to drink a final glass of warm English mild ale and to see a film. As they’d clattered down the cinema’s steps afterwards, the WOp had tripped and measured his length on the pavement. The result had been a broken leg, and as the doors had closed on the ambulance Ken had gathered the others around him.

  “He’s not going to be coming with us tomorrow. I can’t see any possibility of a replacement being found in time. So the likelihood is we’re going to be delayed.”

  “I can’t be doing with that.” It was Ray. “I’ve had long enough hanging around. I need to be on my way.”

  “Agreed,” echoed Nobby. “Listen, Ken, I’ve picked up a good deal of this radio stuff throughout the training process. There’s not going to be much dispatching to be done during the transit east so I can easily handle the radio.”

  Dusty was a little more cautious, but he nevertheless agreed in principle. “Well yes, I’ve done lots of wireless work too during my time as an instructor. I should have plenty of spare capacity if necessary. But I doubt if the powers that be will allow an incomplete crew to take the aircraft.”

  Ken considered this, and came to a decision. They were now, after all, in the operational world. No more training. This was a mission that had to be done, and it was for them to make do with what they had.

  “Well, I’m keen to press on, so if you chaps are happy we’ll give it a go without a WOp. But I agree with Dusty: our cause won’t be helped if we ask the question. So we must say nothing. The chances of anybody querying our crew complement are, I would think, less than that of Hitler rising again and taking the salute at Buckingham Palace.”

  And so the following morning, which was misty in the typical way of an English early summer’s day, saw the crew reporting to ops. As Ticehurst had anticipated, the local staffs had more to do than check his crew’s composition and they were ushered without question to their aircraft.

  ‘S for Sugar’ had just come out of the pool, and anything less sweet they had yet to see. Stains, scratches and dents indicated that the twin-engined American transport had already seen a good deal of service, but the supervisor was used to the doubtful looks of crews who came to pick up one of his aircraft, and his words were reassuring.

  “Now take no notice of the way it looks, boys. It’s fine, and it’s the first of a series of replacements we’re sending out to the Far East. They’ve apparently been crashing some of theirs. Not servicing them properly, I shouldn’t doubt. Very careless; I can’t think what they can have been doing. Out there in all that lovely sunshine – should be a doddle. They should have seen operating conditions back here – now that was really tough. Anyway, the war’s practically over now and this one’s yours. It’s been busy in Europe already but we’ve given it a th
orough check over.” He wiped away a stain with an oily rag and scratched with his thumbnail at some unidentifiable muck emanating from a drain pipe in the engine cowl. “It’s as good as new.”

  Again he caught Ken’s doubtful look. “Don’t worry, it will get you there. You’re bound for Thirty-One, aren’t you? I’ve no idea exactly where the squadron is, but our orders say you should proceed to the RAF base at Dum Dum, near Calcutta, and pick up further instructions there.”

  ****

  “If they’ve given this crate a check-over, I’d hate to see one that’s not been checked.” They were aboard now, and Dusty was distastefully brushing away the crumbs and mouldy crusts of an old sandwich into a waste bag. “Good grief, I can still see what the last crew had for tea.”

  “We’ll just have to make the best of it,” replied Ken. “We’ve got plenty of time en route to clean it up. Meanwhile, all of you, let me know if there’s anything seriously lacking – anything that could stop us going.”

  The crew members busied themselves checking their respective systems. Eventually content, they reported in and Ken proceeded with the start sequence. As far as they could see, everything in the machine that mattered seemed to be working, and the skipper called for taxi clearance.

  As the transport made its ungainly way out of its dispersal, Ray’s attention was caught by the sight of an airman running, gesticulating wildly, across the grass on their right hand side. With a kitbag in its hand, the dishevelled figure was waving frantically.

  “Skip, hold on a minute. There’s somebody trying to attract our attention.”

  Ken brought the aircraft to a halt and Nobby went aft and opened the cabin door. After a moment he came forward and leaned over the captain’s shoulder.

  “He’s a pilot, skip. Posted to Thirty-One as well. The movements people have told him to hitch a lift with us.”

  “Has he got any papers?”