MIDNIGHT SCRAMBLE

Bay of Plenty Beacon, Volume 6, Issue 85, 29 June 1943, Page 2

MIDNIGHT SCRAMBLE

AIR RAID WARNING FIGHTER PILOTS" HOUR Midnight silence in the fighter pilots' crew-room is broken by the imperkui! summons of a telephone. - The duty timekeeper, dozing on his cot beside the telephone, pushes, a sleepy hand through his mosquito netting, and carries the received t.o his ear. A moment later and he is out, into his boots, calling 'Condition red' in a voice loud enough to wake any .sleepers. He runs lor the alarm horn. A couple of vigorous twirls of the handle .semi, waves of sound, echoing through the trees, and indignant bats, clustering in the palms, take ofl' on silent wings and circle, black against the. moon. In the ground crews' readiness tent there is sudden bustle. Noncommissioned olTicer.v and men pile out. of bed, pull on boots, and run through the vague paths that lead to the revetments. Each man has his job to do. The aircraft, had their routine inspections only a l'eiw hours before, and as each team reaches its particular machine the familiar whine of inertia starters comes distinctly back to the erewroom. One by one the big motors start, couglr the night air from their lungs, and settle down to a steady roar. Half-dressed airmen swarm over them for a last minute check, and, the man in charge of cacli aircraft looks back up the path for his* particular pilot, ready to help him clip on parachute harness and to boost him from the coral on which the machinc stands, on to the wing and into his seat.

Another phone call comes to the crcw room. I/t Is 'the aircraft controller this time, and his words are crisp and precise. "Scramble two sections." The timekeeper loses not

a moment in repeating the message, and. the first four pilots, in full Avar kit, take a final suck at their cigarettes and dive for the door.

There are no lights. Inside the cru\v_ room it is pitch black, and outside* the light of the tropjeal moon comes fitfully through a break in the clouds. Lunjbering along- under the weight of Mac West life jackets, hols.ler-belt, revolver, ammunition, water bottie, knife and a dozen other small items of essential equipment, the. pilots pull on helmets and earphones, and clip about their necks their throat microphones.

The rigger in charge of each aircraft is eager, but avoids Avith tlm ease of long experience. "All ready, sir," he reports, as he helps the pilot into his parachute harness. The pilot nod>:. his acknowledgment.

clambers ape-.ike 011 to the wing anit into his seat, and busies himself with clips and straps. His eve "anges over the instruments ■ shin-

uig under the panel lights, and his hand £oes out to set the trim. Lel't hand readies, for the throttle, tli-i big engine speaks up louder and louder, and the Kittyhawk conies •nit of tile revetment and down the line to the end of the runway. Somebody among the ground staff tries to yell "Good Luck," and for his trouble, gets a mouthful of coral dust as the big prepeller bites into the air. Over the radio conies permission to take off. The section leader talks briefly to his Number two man, the two Kittys head do\vn the runway, and throttles are opened together. Streaks of flaming particles, of carIjoii follow the aircraft for the first few yards like the tails of twin comets. There, is only, streaky flame, deep purple fringed with orange, sweeping back from the exhaust stacks. The Ivittyhawks are airborne in seconds, under-carriages fold, and the pilots go for height. From now on they are in the hands of the controllers, who direct, their every move by radio telephony.

Outside the crew room a group l'orms, and the moon, coming from behind a cloud, shows .strange shadows, as of men from Mars. Young men look like hunchbacks, with their bright yellow Mac Wests Judging about chest and neck, and on their heads arc their rad,io headsets, adding to their grotesque appearance. Chatter dies away, and everyone listens. Thinly but distinctly, from somew'here above the cloud layer, conies the. whine ol a motor. ''Sounds in a hurry," somebody remarks. Nobody bothers to identify the sound. Each knows the note of an Allison motor, and ea;'h is halljealous that lie is not there, in the tiny cockpit, with the long- pointed nose before him, 1000 horse power under his hand, and six guns looking for trouble, shoving their wick-

Ed snouts out of the leading edge of the wing. Going always for height, the pilots have llown the!'. - aircraft beyond earshot now. Waiting pilots walk to their machines, climb in. get out again, and .kick the. coral with their Hying boots. They are anxious to be off. Somebody starts his motor, runs her up, and lets her die again, with a spluttering bang. The phone rings, and the pilots start to run. "Condition greei?'," the timekeeper cheerfully reports, disappearing behind his net again. Somebody swears in the darkness.. "What a war. Why can't these Japs conic over and fight?" Then he wonders if he has '"shot a line." and is suddenly silent.

With a whistling rush, the first circuit, navigation lights blink on, and the aircraft comes in to. land. One after another they come: down, taxi back into the revetments, and are covered by waiting crews. Pilots, under their load of gear, shuffle back to the crew room. Somebody turns on the radio, and from an Australian station comes a throaty voice crooning about "Love under tropical stars." From the nearest bed comes a snort of derision, and a boot, expertly aimed, silences the singer. Outside, the moon peeps through again, and the bats, tired, of their silent circling, cluster again in the palm trees. Some unseen night-bird emits an indignant "skwark," and the little bronze and green lizards, interrupted in their play, come timorously out from under the leaves and gaze in wonder at the aircraft, monstrous and black against the tropic night.