COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER FIVE WINTER IN FLANDERS
cobbled streets. The last leg of that hazardous trip passed close to 35
Wing which occupied the far side of the airfield. We drove gingerly
past and they looked at us as if we were mad. Perhaps we were, or
maybe it was just a passion for things aeronautical.
The prototype skid indicator, clamped to my gunsight by an
oversize jubilee clip, was easy to use and it seemed to help. So Stan got
his fitters to make up a batch for the Squadron.
The gyro compass was a different matter. As an unauthorised
modification to the Typhoon's electrical system the E.O. 3 would have
none of it. But one of our pilots, Bill Hurst, an ex Brat4 , decided to fit
one regardless. He wired up a master unit and cockpit repeater, ran
them off a battery and inverter, proved that they worked and then
carried out his own installation. Every pilot who flew with it wanted
one for himself. But Bill would not oblige. He was in enough trouble
already with the E.O!
In the centre of Antwerp the heady post liberation days had gone
forever. The New Century, a hotel which had seen its share of wild
and spontaneous parties was virtually out of bounds. Crowded with
base wallahs who seemed to be taking over all the best places in town.
But not, let it be said, before the Wing had made its mark. 197
Squadron, aggravated by the hotel orchestra's failure to create the right
sort of music, had already distinguished themselves by decorating its
members with a selection of potted plants.
By the time we felt able to go there again the base wallahs had
arrived in strength and were occupying most of the upper floors,
including those above the ballroom where our parties usually started.
All went well until the backwoodsman in Felix Cryderman suddenly
reasserted itself. Out came his revolver and his soft laughter, always
a sign of danger, was lost in a fusillade of shots as he tried to destroy
the chandeliers over our heads.
We shouted at him to put the bloody thing away - which he did
with surprising speed, and not a moment too soon, as a bunch of
indignant brass hats stormed into the room. Felix looked up at them
from the depths of his armchair, wreathed in gunsmoke, oblivious to
the atmosphere of menace.
"Some fat drunken Canadian pilot" he said softly "He went that
way" - and then, more audibly - "serve the buggers right - most of
them look shit scared."
After that we took our custom elsewhere. To 'Scabby Gabby's', the
noisy saloon bar near the airfield - or to other more discrete if dubious
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