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“WAITING FOR MORTIMER”

HOMECOMING OF BOMBERS. ON NORTH AUSTRALIAN FRONT. The sun was well up in a cloudless sky as I drove through the gates of an aerodrome near an undisclosed operational base, writes a staff correspondent of the “Sydney Morning Herald” from somewhere in Australia. A few high-ranking Allied air officers waited about, and there was a subtle air of expectancy. Soon the cause revealed itself in a dull drone away to the north. A plane came into view —just a speck in the sky. We knew it for an allied bomber, returning from a mission against Japanese bases somewhere oyer the tropical mountains of New Guinea. As the first} dot turned gradually into an aircraft', other dots appeared far, far off, and then for ten minutes the air was filled with the roar of fast, powerful bombers throttled back to prepare for- their high-speed landings. The crews whom I had seen idling near hangars sprang into, life as each spotted its own particular baby and watched anxiously and affectionately as their own particular pilot brought his ship in to make his landing. I stood with one Crew as they waited for their charge. “I wonder how old Mortimer is going to look this time?” says the crew chief, his eyes never leaving the approaching planes. “She took a bit of a pasting last time.” Mortimer, perhaps I should explain, is a bomber, a 826, or to Australians wise in their aircraft, a Martin Marauder. Miortimer is neuter gender, but apparently may be called he or she at will. “There he is, the Goddam old so-and-so,” says another mechanic, and they all watch closely until his wheels touch down safely on the far side of the field, then all begin to move after them, just to see the flying crew as they step from the plane. As the ground crew seizes the wings of the almost stationary giant, I get a wave from someone in the pilot’s compartment, perched high above the nosewheel, which makes the bomber look something like a giant Airacobra. A small door swings open outwards, and one by one the weary crew tumbles out. There is a chorus of “Hiya, Joey,” “Hiya, Pat,” then some backslapping and hand-shaking, and the crew go away to make their report. This same little scene is being played in a dozen places nearby.

Permanent link to this item
Hononga pūmau ki tēnei tūemi

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/WAITA19420804.2.30

Bibliographic details
Ngā taipitopito pukapuka

Wairarapa Times-Age, 4 August 1942, Page 3

Word count
Tapeke kupu
394

“WAITING FOR MORTIMER” Wairarapa Times-Age, 4 August 1942, Page 3

“WAITING FOR MORTIMER” Wairarapa Times-Age, 4 August 1942, Page 3

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