During a recent visit to the RAAF Museum at Point Cook
near Melbourne I was most interested to see Supermarine
Walrus HD 874 under restoration, a fine effort by dedicated
craftsmen. This aircraft was the last Walrus to fly with
the RAAF, so I was informed, and was recovered from Heard
Island in Antarctica where it had been abandoned after
a flying incident.
Gazing at the venerable old "Shagbat", as the
Walrus was nicknamed, my thought flew back to a time in
World War 2 when my mate Bob was WOP/AG (wireless operator/
airgunner) on a RAF Walrus operating with the Air Sea
Rescue Service.
He told of many hairy rescue sorties, of being shot at
by trigger happy matelots from his own navy, necessitating
a blistering reply via the Aldis lamp, and of one particular
rescue in the Channel in the Summer of 1944.
They had plucked a ditched American flyer from the drink
and arranged to put down alongside an USN cruiser. The
Walrus had suffered minor damage from either friendly
or enemy gunfire thus it was decided to hoist the aircraft
on board, unload the American pilot who was in reasonable
good nick despite having imbibed several tots of rum,
and check the Walrus if O.K. for further operations.
A crane was swung out, Bob then clambered atop the upper
centre section, secured the sling cables and the Walrus
was hoisted on board. As the pilot and co-pilot alighted
in front of gawping members of the ship's company, one
of the Americans reverently removed his cap and in awed
tones enquires: " Uh, the Wright Brothers I presume?"
Bob vividly recalled his somewhat bemused Pommy skipper
exclaiming" "I say, steady on, old chap - we're
not that ancient y'know" However, the hospitality
shown by the US Navy, he added was quite memorable.
Bob, a wiry little Eastender, was a sheet metal worker
in Civvy Street and trained as a rigger in the RAF. As
we shall see later, his skills with metal, wood and fabric
would be put to good use. Hankering for more excitement
he re-mustered as a WOP/AG and certainly got it when he
joined the pilots of the aforementioned old amphibious
biplane. Incidentally, the -Walrus was probably the oldest
basic aircraft design to participate in the war and rescued
more than 5,000 aircrew around Britain and over 2,500
in the Mediterranean theatre.
The skipper, Percival "Chalky" White, a lanky
dropout from a top public school, unflappable and genial
of nature, loved his ancient kite. His co-pilot, Charles
4~DustY5~ Miller, was a stocky laconic Aussie from Outback
Queensland, hard as nails and rock steady in a crisis.
On their last sortie as the war drew to a close they were
bounced by a JU88 and instantly went into a tight defensive
circle. Dusty got cracking with the forward Vickers MG
while Bob manned the rear gun. The Junkers was taking
some pretty accurate pot shots, holes appeared in the
wing fabric and Chalky got a 7.92mm round in his right
thigh. Dusty's gun jammed and Bob ran out of ammo, so
things stared to look a trifle dicey until a red tailed
P51 Mustang hove into sight. The JU88 put up a good fight
but gave up the chase after receiving "the whole
nine yards" of the Mustangs' 0.5in ammo. The Walrus
crew waved and cheered like billy-oh as the black American
pilot gave them the OK sign and then vanished from view
at a high rate of knots.
A year after the war ended found Chalky in residence at
a large rambling old house on the Sussex Downs in Southern
England, close to the site of the pioneering glider launches.
His new wife Harriet had inherited the ancient mansion
and estate from an eccentric uncle, a student of the feminine
form and painter of dubious talent. Dusty had got hitched
to a former WAAF and was now ensconced in the nearby seaside
resort of Brighton, thus he was a constant visitor to
the home on the Downs.
The two men, avid aero-modellers from their youth, hatched
plans to build a full sized glider, however, much to their
chagrin, Harriet wad dead against the idea, citing her
husbands dickey leg and threatening curtailing of the
jolly old conjugal if he went ahead with his silly idea.
One evening as she left for her bi-weekly game of Scrabble
with local girlfriends, the men, failing to observe the
strange gleam in her eyes, stared gloomily into the glowing
log fire. Suddenly Chalky leapt to his feet. "Colditz,
that"s it - bloody Colditz!" he yelled. Dusty,
startled out of his reverie, looked up in alarm. "You
alright mate?" Chalky grinned. "Couldn't be
better, old fruit. Here's the gen. Remember those POW
bods at Colditz Castle? Built this glider in the attic,
quite undetected, y'know. They were liberated before it
flew. Just as well, perhaps - the launch method seemed
a trifle dodgy. Follow me!"
Dusty, mystified, tagged after his gangling pal, up a
winding staircase, along dusty creaking corridors, finally
emerging into what proved to be a huge attic studio, lit
by large grimy skylights. Finished and half finished canvases
lay against the walls. Dust covered easels and artist's
bric-a-brac littered the floor. "Struth!" breathed
Dusty. "Look at these flamin' nudes!" Chalky
laughed. "The old boy certainly had and eye for the
ladies. That lass there is now our local Mayor!".
He then outlined his idea. "Draw up the plans, work
on the glider whenever Harriet is away. Bob Harris married
a London scrap merchant's daughter and can scrounge all
the war surplus stuff we require and provide technical
help to boot." Dusty's face lit up. "You beauty"'
he enthused.
The studio was situated above the old stables a door at
the far end of the room gave access to a sizeable granary,
which to the men delight possessed a loading platform
with pulley beam protruding above the wide opening to
the outside world. The glider was to be a basic slab sided,
strut braced high wing open cockpit job, nothing fancy.
If the project panned out ok then bigger and better things
next time. When the coast was clear Bob delivered the
goods in a large trailer and soon the project was under
way. Work proceeded apace at every opportunity. Harriet
returned after each outing to find the three men, oddly
flushed of face, yarning about old times.
The months went by, Christmas drew near and Dusty became
increasingly uneasy. The studio floor creaked ominously.
"The place is full of bloody borers!" he warned.
Chalky cheerfully reassured him. "Finest English
oak, old boy, good for another hundred years!"
Snow began to fall on Christmas Eve and Harriet was due
to return after a week with her old school mate June.
The glider fuselage, now neatly covered, sat on trestles,
the mainplanes also covered were stacked against a wall.
Bob surveyed his handiwork with pride. Doping would be
done in the spring. Dusty had taken photos at each stage
of construction and now sat the beaming Chalky in the
cockpit, stepping back to take a long shot. Meanwhile
Bob had nipped downstairs to ferret out a bottle of champers.
As the camera clicked there was a sudden loud crack, followed
by the dreadful sound of rending timbers. Before Dusty's
horrified gaze the fuselage, complete with its startled
occupant, disappeared from sight, followed by a dull thud
and clouds of choking dust. "Bloody hell!" he
gasped and shot off to pick up Bob in the kitchen below.
"Chalky's had it mate! To the stables at the double!"
The panting duo arrived at the stables just as Harriet
drove up in the old Bentley. "What's going on?"
she demanded as the men wrenched open the doors. There
before them was the fuselage on the flattened pile of
straw with a sheepishly grinning Chalky still in the cockpit.
"Seems we've been rumbled, old darling", he
said. Hands on hips Harriet glared at him and then softened.
"Oh you silly boy - you could have killed yourself."
Bob and Dusty turned to hide their grins.
Later in the big warm kitchen over hot toddies, Harriet
said quietly: There was no need for all this, you know.
I was organising a surprise for Christmas." She smiled
as the three old friend's eyes her curiously. "At
this very moment" she continued, "sitting in
June's garage are two large cases sent by her husband
Jim, a Squadron Leader stationed in Germany." Harriet
paused for effect. "It seems he souvenired a nice
little Baby from Herr Schneider's glider factory in Grunau
before the Ruskies got there and believe it or not, you
bunch of nutters, it's all yours!"
Bob was the first to break the stunned silence. "Blimey,"
he muttered. "What a turn up for the book!"
They were still laughing as Christmas Day dawned and the
countryside lay peaceful under a mantle of snow. Soon
thoughts would turn to Spring and with it the glorious
prospect of silent flight.
Footnote: The little Grunau Baby glider presented
to our heroes in the above account was the most famous
product of the factory of Edmund Schneider at Grunau in
Silesia. First flown in 1931 of which, in various marks,
more than 4000 were built, more than any other sailplane
before or since. Edmund and his family emigrated to Australia
arriving in Melbourne, working first for the Royal Aero
Club of Victoria, but later establishing a sailplane factory
near Adelaide. A series of designs were produced and marketed,
the glider breaking various records, especially the ES
60 Boomerang which became very popular with Australian
clubs.
