Midnight Germany December 1942

When I came to we were flying somewhere over an unknown landscape lit by the full moon. I had lost consciousnesses for at least 15 minutes but by some strange luck the plane had held level and had drifted north from Munich where it all went wrong. It didn't feel good when the flying fortress lifted off the runway and I knew it wouldn't turn out well this time. We had been to Munich once too often and I knew the Luftwaffe would be waiting. I never saw the point of going there, the Germans had decentralized everything in Munich a year ago, there were many towns more worthwhile and Munich was just a City with a big name and little else. There were twelve of us in this plane, and five including the co-pilot, tail gunner, the bombardier were injured.

The B17 Flying Fortress, one of the legends of the war was known for its ability to fly back home even after taking heavy enemy fire, but I felt it would be different this time.  We were flying somewhere over Germany alone, and the formation of B-17’s and their supporting P-15 Mustangs, if there were any left had been separated from us. Two of the four engines were out, and part of the fuselage was torn making the wind ricochet off it making a howling noise. The altimeter, compass and all other equipment except the airspeed indicator were damaged and completely useless. Crossing the channel and reaching England now seemed a lost cause.

Without the compass I could not know where we were or even in which direction we were heading. I tried to locate our position by the stars but the constellations now seemed strange and different. Perhaps some landmark below could help so I brought her down to an altitude of 500 feet and as the plane moved forward the fields and hedges seemed to move backwards in a strange and monotonous way. Suddenly a church tower seemed to rise up towards the plane and then we were over what looked like a sleepy village. A farmyard led to a country road and suddenly we were over empty fields again and I realized the hopelessness of our situation. We didn’t know where we were and we didn’t know where we were going either, could we end up in the Arctic or in Siberia in the Soviet Union thought I.

We drifted along aimlessly but suddenly to my right I saw a Mustang. It was badly damaged but the pilot signaled me to follow him. Though I could recognize many of the pilots and planes I could not recognize the pilot or the markings of the plane. The poor fellow might have seen us drift and followed us through the night, but he seemed to be in a worse position than us for his parachute was damaged and the damages to his plane meant that it would be impossible to land her. This seemed like his last mission. But if not for him we would have to fly many miles inland and try to find an airstrip without radio, and because fuel was low it would be impossible to do so.

The Mustang had even less fuel capacity than the Fortress, it was a miracle that he took this long route and was still flying. He guided us to almost the edge of the runway, and flew low as if trying to land but at the last second climbed and flew strait ahead. As the fortress came to a halt in the runway I hoped that by some luck he would be able to save himself.

This happened in December 1942, and sixteen years later in 1958, I visited the airstrip again. What was once a busy Base used both by the USAAF and the Royal Air Force was now a deserted field that had only one operational airstrip. An old man worked in it and his only job was to switch on the runway lights when instructed to do so by the Air Traffic Controller in Chippenham, who would then guide the plane towards this airstrip in and emergency. Such an incident happened very rarely perhaps once a year.

“Heard you were once a pilot” said he. “Well, I don’t know what you would make of this, but ever since I came to work here in 1951 every December on the same day at around 2.30 at night a plane flies over this airfield, an old fashioned sought of thing, now not flown I think, a Thunderbolt or Mustang perhaps, it seems to want to land so I switch on the Run Way lights but it doesn't land, but flies strait ahead, it seems strange, what do you think it is”. “What does the plane look like” said I “are there any markings, letters, or maybe a name” “Couldn’t pick it at night, eyesight ain't good, but I can definitely say one thing, most of the fuselage in the lower part is missing.

Written by: RJX

Village in the East

A strong smell of spices mixed with petrol and kerosene wafted through the oppressive humid heat. The town of Trincomalee, which borders the sea, is only six miles from the village in the east. There was a sigh of relief as the dust covered bus finally pulled out of the depot in the middle of the crowded market place. It sped past the deserted playground which was fast turning into a scrub jungle and past the last stop railway station. As it laboured up a slight inclination, a black stone church comes into view. Against the backdrop of a shimmering turquoise sea and ancient gravestones, the church of Our Lady of Guadeloupe looms somber, yet majestic. And then, the landscape changes suddenly without warning. There are few buildings of significance beyond this point, mostly shrubby jungle interspersed with large trees and bare open land. From time to time, you would catch the odd glimpse of the sea where the road dares to run close enough to its white sandy coast.

The road is deserted and full of pot holes. The trees that accompany the road are large and wild and perhaps many hundreds of years old. We drive past many a Banyan Tree with its eerie aerial roots hanging from spreading branches. Would that be a Ficus benghalensis or a religiosa I wonder? I smile remembering the many carefree childhood walks that were transformed into tedious botany lessons by my father, much to the utter dismay and exasperation of his offspring…..benghalensis I decide, for religiosa, as its name implies would be the sacred Bo tree.

The bus stops abruptly at a dull structure that looks like cement box, rudely interrupting my pleasant reverie.  I grab my backpack and use my elbows to create a path to escape. All around me, as far as the eye can see, is what looks like sea sand, though the sea is almost two miles to the east. It could be mistaken for a desert, had it not been for the low lying areas in it that were filled with water. An occasional spiky tree that looked like a small model of a coconut tree with spikes at the tip of the leaves broke the monotony of an otherwise flat landscape. Not a soul, not even a damn villager in sight…… and for a moment I felt like running after the bus.  After some thought, I gathered enough courage to walk along the meandering road that would lead me to the village in the east. I had been walking for nearly 2 miles when the sand pit desert turned into a shrubby bush jungle and eventually to tall trees.  Out of nowhere a large house appeared. Who on earth would build such a good house in the middle of nowhere, then a jungle again followed by barbed wire fences where  creepers with bright pink flowers had grown so profusely that it looked  like a wall. More signs of life now, the odd mud hut and bare bodied little children playing with discarded tyres. I pass the village shop, its outdoor benches occupied by wizened old men doing nothing in particular. I returned their curious glances with a friendly wave. I pass the village school which was bigger than I expected and finally arrived at the four acre compound. The welcome party was already in place as I turned the little sandy culvert that lead to the land.

For a moment it looked as if the whole village had turned up to greet me. On closer inspection I realized it was just the family. There was Raghavan, his wife, their 8 kids and of course his mother-in-law, his sister, her husband, their two dogs and a passing Billy goat. The eldest was an eighteen year old girl, and the youngest was a toddler comfortably nestled on his mother’s hip. It was a mud hut, just one small room with a roof of dried thatched palmyrah leaf. The floor too was made of mud, it was very cool inside and though dark it had a good earthy smell. The husband was a fisherman who mostly didn’t fish but drank, a very pleasant man who in a different world would have become a stock broker. The woman too was generous (but if provoked would scold so loud that it could be heard a mile away), and the food and the tea from the pitch black kettle was tasty. The landlord had allowed them to stay without rent to look after the chillie and onion plantation.

Being just 5 degrees north of the equator this is a very sunny country and this eastern part of the island is known to have the highest temperature. But the term dry zone is not very accurate, for when the north-east monsoon blows in, the landscape transforms unexpectedly, with luscious green vegetation sprouting up as far as the eyes can behold.

I went to the onion harvesting land where the eighteen year old worked. She was a big made mouthy girl, bigger than her father, who tried to dominate anyone who came her way including me. She asked the most difficult questions I have ever faced. How do you stop rodents from climbing coconut trees (why would a rodent want to climb a coconut tree)? How do you water a large estate of water melon (Ask bloody Aristotle, maybe his water screw will help, that is if you can’t afford a water pump)? “I heard you are an expert on trees” she remarked casually. “What is that tree out there and what can you do with it”. I really didn’t know, but I should have for it is a large tree with smallish leaves and with a wonderful bark that had a nice design to it.  “Muthirai” she replied knowingly and somewhat sarcastically, “the wood is dark red, and it is much better than teak”.

We finally arrived at the onion land where many women were harvesting, row upon row of sage green stalks tipped by dainty white flower heads, a lucrative crop where even the damn leaves could be eaten as a salad. I strolled to the edge of the barbed wire fence where a large Tamarind tree grew. And on the opposite side was another large land with another barbed wire fence, beyond that another and it goes on and on like this forever until you meet the very edge of the sea. Around here the biggest threat was a wandering stray cow eating the plants and so a barbed wire was all that was needed. Nobody invested on walls. 

The view was unrestricted, presenting an incredible sight. Trees and shrubs, bare open land, noisy insects, the smell of sand, a yellow flowering shrub that had a strong heady aroma, birds of the brightest hues, a sun so bright that it burnt the skin, what would Vincent van Gogh have painted had he been born here.

I met the Post Master a man of maybe 55, with graying hair combed neatly behind and a constant toothy grin. To me he looked like an insurance salesman. He said “there was an American who lived in the house you would have passed on your way here, he was a rich man, well connected, he was here for about one year but left about two years ago”. “He was an adventurer, did scuba diving everyday, well, when he left he gave me this telescope” he added, handing me a polished leather box. It was a Meade Telestar, a wonderful refracting telescope and possibly one of the most advanced of its size. Built by the Cornelius Corporation of the United States, it was practically a complete observatory.  It can easily achieve a magnification of 250 times and could be used to get spectacular close ups of the moon. It would have cost a fortune, why on earth would the American given it to him?

I set the telescope on a large rock in the beach, the rock pushed partly into the sea but I was safely out of reach from the surging of the waves. I turned the telescope to the horizon and right at the rim of the world, all I could see at first was foam. There was obviously a rock or a reef out there and as I moved further right there was a fishing boat. Although ten miles into the sea I could see the fisherman, but because the atmosphere danced with heat only intermittent glimpses of the scene were afforded. A clear image appeared only to disappear immediately into a blur as the intense heat faded the vision. It was a Dhoni, a boat very long and hollowed in the middle and balanced from rolling over by another wooden log attached by two poles. There were three men, the sail was down and the boat blobbed aimlessly, up and down on the deep sea.

I turned it to the left and spotted an old wreck, rusted stern and all.  It was a fair distance into the sea, but it made a large image in my telescope. There is no doubt it was a large ship, probably a war ship. Then I caught sight of a sea bird which I could not identify but looked like a tern. Next something I thought was an eagle, but lost it as it dived to catch a fish. I turned the telescope to the extreme right and there pushing majestically from the coast was the mountain from which the town got its name. Right on the very edge of the distant cliff was the ancient Koneswaram temple, one of the most revered shrines on the island.

A leaflet fluttered out of the box which had held the telescope and I hastily stepped over the rocks to retrieve it. It turned out to be the instruction manual for the instrument. The Meade Telestar I learnt was very popular among amateur astronomers. I avidly read the instructions with a surging feeling of childlike excitement. I realized I was wasting this instrument on terrestrial viewing. With the magnification it was capable of, I would be able to see not only the stars, constellations and moon craters but even the four largest moons of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn. I decided to miss the only bus that comes in the evening at 5.30 pm and stretched back on the smooth rock surface, waiting for sunset.

Written by: RJX

How I Made a Wooden Tri-plane

Many years ago I visited a shop to by a walkman which cost about 700 Rupees. In the same shelf there was a plane that had a price tag of 1500 Rupees. I asked the salesman what it was and he showed it to me. It was a small model Aero-plane with a wing span of just 10 inches. It was not a toy for it was an exact model and had to be carefully assembled together. I wondered who on earth would buy such a thing, and then I realized it was a collectors item. Perhaps a man who worked for an Airline as an Engineer would use it to show his friends about a plane he used to repair, or perhaps the retired Air Force General would keep it on his table, or a collector who had a fascination with planes.

I decided to make a plane like it with wood and sell it for 1000 Rupees. The trouble is I knew nothing at all about woodworking, and I didn’t know anyone whom I could ask. But in the library I found a book about woodworking, it was a wonderfully written book with clear pictures. The tools you need are simple. There is the hand saw which is used to cut planks but this is usually not needed when making small items because the wood can be cut to size in the wood mill. But its cousin a small saw that resembles a hacksaw but is much smaller and cheaper than it, is still needed. The chisel which is used to sculpt wood by hitting the handle with a hammer or applying pressure is a basic tool for woodworking. (But I didn’t use it much for I used the saw to cut the wood to size and the Rasp to shape it). A rasp which is actually a sought of file, but with bigger grooving. When used in a similar way to a file it scrapes off wood very efficiently. Although it was not mentioned in the book I found the normal file, which is usually used only on metal is very useful for smoothing the surface. And the vice which is tightened to the table is used to hold the wood firmly when cutting it with the saw, or working on it with another tool. The vice is usually quite a heavy tool, but a small vice which cost only about 250 rupees is perfectly adequate for this purpose. A hand drill is useful, and of course the hammer which was already there.

I wondered where I could buy these tools, and found a stretch of road about a kilometer long, and on both sides of the road there are shops that sell only wood working tools. I bought all the tools I need for less than 1500 Rupees. I found it incredible that a man could start business in one of the main areas of commerce by reading a book, or by getting a few tips from a carpenter, and buy all he needed for just 1500 rupees. If as I hoped I could sell my plane for 1500 rupees, I would have most probably covered all the cost in the first transaction, but the tools would still be there so from the second plane onwards I would make a big profit.

The next step was to find a plane to make. I have an old encyclopedia which has pictures of aircraft and under “Historic Aircraft of World War I” I found a red Tri-plane (three wings) that particularly appealed to me. It was the Fokker Dr. 1 Tri-plane flown by Baron Manfred von Richthofen (1892-1918), the World War I German flying Ace, who as leader of an air group called the “Flying Circus” personally shot down 80 Allied planes. Richthofen served in the cavalry and infantry before entering air service in 1915, and was known as the “Red Baron” for the color of the plane he flew, but was shot down in aerial combat possibly by Captain A. R. Brown of the British Air Force. 

I first built a plane to get familiar with the tools, considering I worked on it without a plan it still looked quite good. To build an exact model I needed details like the wing span, the length and width of the fuselage, size and shape of the tail fin and other details. I wondered from where I could find such specialized details. Incredibly in a book I found in the Library on Aircraft there are diagrams of planes giving these details. I drew these diagrams by hand and set out building the plane. I wanted to build a plane with a wing span of 10 inches.

I used mahogany for it is easy to work on. I bought a plank from the wood mill but it was too thick. There is a machine in any wood mill called a Plainer-thicknesser that is used to plain wood to the required thickness. I plained it to a fraction of an inch and drew the three wings on it, held it in the vice and used the small saw to cut it. Then I used the rasp for the slight tapering effect on the top of the wings, and the file to smooth it. In a similar way I cut the tail sections, the propeller and all the other sections except the fuselage from the same plank of wood. The tail sections were a little thinner so I used the rasp and file to make it thin. I bought a square pole and used the thicknesser to make it to the size of the front end of the fuselage. The fuselage tapers up and becomes smaller as it nears the tail section, all I had to do is to cut this part with the small saw and use the rasp and file to shape it.

The small teeth of the small saw cuts the wood rapidly and does not hold the wood and get stuck like the hand saw. The design simplicity of this plane is amazing, a big plank could be used to cut any amount of wings and other parts except the fuselage, and the fuselage itself is just a square pole, so any amount can be cut from a long pole.

Many people think to cut a wheel you need a wood lathe, but it is not so. I drew the wheel on the plank and cut slightly around the line of the wheel, and a few stokes of the file towards the line made a really good wheel. The axel was also made in a similar way, and I used the hand drill to make a hole and connect the wheel to the axel. The wheel and the propeller were movable parts.

I pasted all the parts with glue and painted it red, and when I painted the Iron Cross on the wings, fuselage and tail it looked incredibly good. I felt really happy at having made a model plane that actually had the same energy of the real Fokker Dr.1 flown by the “Red Baron.” The next day I wanted to take it to shops and show it as a sample of what I could build if they were willing to sell. But that evening a friend visited me with his son, and when I showed it to them, his son pleaded with me to give him the plane. I reluctantly gave it thinking that I would be able to make another for now I knew how it was done. Soon after they left I felt a great sense of loss, and sadly never built a model tri plane again. For something more important came up and soon responsibilities overwhelmed me. And I lent some of my tools which were never returned. I feel the wooden Tri Plane is just at the edge of my hands, but I never really manage to make one. But one day when I am a little less busy I will make one for my son, and I am sure I can make many more and sell at a profit.

Written by: RJX