Dutch Treat

In my last missive, I spoke of the Dutch freighter that rescued a Canadian crew from the ocean after they had to ditch their plane.  This event made me decide it was time to learn to swim.

After consulting with a friend who told me the best way to learn swimming is to teach yourself, I walked over to the inland lake adjoining the airfield where we kept a little two-man sailboat.

I pushed off the boat with the intention of walking alongside until the water was deep enough to use the side of the boat to hang onto while kicking my legs.

Unfortunately, the boat moved more quickly than I did and washed out ahead of me. Then suddenly there was no ground beneath my feet. I was in over my head and knew I was drowning. Thrashing about madly, I managed to find footing.

Seeing the boat now far off in the distance, I gave up and made my way back to land. I didn't want some official having to send word home to my mum that her brave son, after flying halfway across the world to fight in a war, had drowned in a lagoon while attempting a dog-paddle.

I never did learn to swim and now in my 90s have decided it's not worth the effort.

Anyway, back to the Dutch. I've heard that Dutch pilots are considered some of the most skilled in the world. From experience, I can certainly vouch for that.

It was a couple of weeks after VJ day, while we were packing up to leave camp, that I was duty officer in the watchtower along with Tug Wilson.

Tug was an interesting fellow. His cultured manner of speaking and vaguely foreign accent contradicted his name.  He confided to me that he was actually prince regent of a European principality and had been attending private school in England when his country was overtaken by the Nazis.

Using a pseudonym, he had signed up with the RAF and here he was now, out in the jungle with me. I may have been a naïve teenager and Tug may have been tugging my leg, but I never doubted his word for a moment.

As Tug and I idly discussed models of cars we'd like to own once we demobbed, an emergency call came over the loudspeaker that a Dutch transport plane had lost an engine and was looking for a place to land.  Our field was in line, but had already shut down all electric runway lights.

We put out the alarm and the ground crew, bless them, immediately jumped out of their beds and frantically looked for oil lamp goosenecks to line the runway so the pilots could find their way in.  They had scarcely got it assembled when we heard the plane.

I jumped into one jeep and an officer jumped into another. With headlights blazing we raced up and down the runway in opposite lanes to provide as much light as possible.

The Dutch pilots made an absolutely marvelous landing to a cheering crowd.  Before the wheels had even stopped turning, the plane door opened and out poured the passengers; 12 Dutch nurses all dewy-eyed from their harrowing experience en route to the Dutch East Indies.

This was a great surprise, especially when the nurses quickly swarmed over us kissing and hugging their gratitude. I presume the two Dutch pilots got their due "thanks" as well.

Fortunately for us, the nurses had to stay for a couple of days until a new engine came in.  However, this did present a bit of a problem. As you know, it was a jungle station comprised of all men and we were unaccustomed to having any females around camp.

In the normal course we would bathe in tin tubs on a veranda then walk to our billet to dress. The prospect of jumping naked into brush laden with malaria bearing mosquitoes to avoid an encounter with a wandering nurse was unappealing.

As it was, a couple of fellow squadron members and myself had been in our respective tubs when the other two quickly made haste to their billet.  I, on the other hand, lagged behind to put on my boots in case I trod on a snake.

Sure enough, there I stood unclothed save for my boots when a couple of nurses came walking around the corner. Oh, the humiliation.

The powers that be quickly came up with a solution. There were a few bicycles at camp used for getting from one end to the other and we loaned them to the nurses, asking them to please ring the bell as they approached. Watching them peddling around reminded me of Nurse Potter, the local midwife in my hometown.

As for me, having shown everything else, I was too embarrassed to show my face, but a nurse sought me out and exclaimed "You silly boy! We've seen more naked men in one day than you will in a lifetime!" That was me told.