Document
APPENDIX "H"
263
COPY OF ARTICLE IN SOUTH AFRICA "SUNDAY TIMES" August 13th 1944 by F/Sgt.
G.A. Carlton, a member of 21 Squadron, S.A.A.F.
THE FLYING MAN'S "TRUE LOVE" IS THE SQUADRON.
Almost weekly airmen leave the Squadron. The causes are many. Their tour of "Ops" might have been completed or they might have become casualties or died during a raid. They have done what they could and now say farewell. We discover that a flying "type" is literally wedded to his Squadron during his "Ops" period, and neither wife, mother nor girl friend can usurp the place of his "true" love - The Squadron. It is a life apart. A life of struggle wherein one runs the emotional gamut from failure to success, from defeat to ultimate victory.
In the S.A.A.F. the Squadron is a completely closed, elite society. From the O.C. to the "erk", flying "types" hold the name of the Squadron sacred. Men stand, work, fly and fight together as a complete team. Parents pay large fees to give their son entry to a social college. The only fee admitted for entry to a S.A.A.F. operational squadron is courage and efficiency in your particular job of work, whether you are the son of a labourer or of a Cabinet Minister.
You cease to be a stranger the moment you enter your Mess. Its particular traditions are made known to you and an inexorable law demands that you make every endeavour to live up to them.
When parting time arrives you leave a happy comradeship behind you with a heavy heart. After an "Ops" tour is completed you are given a change. This is essential and many are the subterfuges that airmen have resorted in order to remain with their particular Squadron, but it is of no avail; you must move on.
Your mind is busy on the wings of memory as you say your many "good-byes". You recall your arrival, when you knew not a single soul apart from the members of your own crew. The Squadron was in the desert then and "So-and-so" was O.C. A decent, sympathetic sort of chap.
There are several officers who first joined the Squadron as sergeants. Many have been decorated. You gaze at the weathered machines stretched in precise military formation.
Looking at the machines, you recall the crews you have known and the flight commanders who have come and gone. You remember U for Uncle, who returned in a desert sandstorm and couldn't get down. You think of when the skipper of G for George ordered the crew to abandon aircraft. One of the gunners promptly baled out and landed on the roof of a hospitable Italian casa.
Then there was the crew who walked back from enemy territory carrying an injured comrade. You remember carrying an injured comrade. You remember when you missed on a bombing run near Florence. The pilot did a dummy run and came round to bomb exactly on the markers. This time the bomb doors failed to open. Then you did eventually leave your 500-pounders naked to the evening sky, the target was lost again.
Once, on the way back from Ancona, the guns of the rear turret commenced to rattle. The pilot, his mind full of J.U. 88s, swerved and weaved in evasive action. The gunner reported "runaway guns".
There was the time when the heating cut-off at 25,000 feet over Rome. Everybody reached base closely skin to frozen meat. The issue brandy ration was welcome that day and you devoutly blessed "Ouma" for her thoughtful comforts.
Such dramas of the air, thrilling and vital as they undoubtedly are, are but the highlights. Such incidents are easily remembered, but it is the things that you feel that leave their mark on you. They are the greatest features of our Squadron life: Waiting to hear whether it is to be a "Stand down" or an "Ops". The haunting elusive smell of your aircraft after an overhaul. Exciting discussion as to routes to and from targets, special note being taken of enemy "ack-ack" positions.
It is all over. As you sip your final cup of sweet, hot tea, you hate like hell to go, but "orders is orders" and must be obeyed.