BIOGRAPHY of GULLEY JIMPSON by Prof S Ofer Draft Two

02 GILES DARWIN JIMPSON

In the Registry of Baptisms at the Cathedral Church of the Holy Trinity in Gibraltar, we may find that Giles
Darwin Jimpson was the father of Gully Darwin Jimpson and that Gulley's only known grandfather was
Duns Darwin Jimpson, 'presently of Ainwick, Northumberland'. What is not shown in these records is that
Giles' father was the owner of a successful off-license on Clayport Street. And nowhere was there
anything to suggest why his pub had become popular when its owner was so dreadfully sour – downright
unfriendly. It is easy to guess that Duns' hateful nature did have some effect on the rearing of his son,
Giles, but just how that worked out is difficult to say, considering the son's easy going manner.

Perhaps, Duns Jimpson was simply exposing the not uncommon Scottish trait of a fierce dislike for
everything British and it was this that spilt over into his daily affairs. Or, perhaps Duns had deep lingering
thoughts of some injustice, long past but never forgotten. Or it could be that he qualified for his dour
visage having been shut off the family lands in Roxburghshire, lo those many years ago. But that had
been not long after the Anglo-Scottish Wars, so it was a wickedly long time to carry a grudge – especially
over a property which was long gone by the time Duns was born in 1888.

All that could be mere gossip, but for anyone looking on as Duns unlocked the door to his establishment
that morning, it would not be hearsay to have noted that he was big enough and tough looking enough to
back up the open distaste he projected toward most everyone – except toward his wife. That being the
case, few of his patrons were likely to have shown offense at his unwarranted brusqueness. Or at least,
few would have been willing to do anything about it. Truth is, no one had the foggiest notion of what the
response might be, were Duns to be seriously confronted. Better not to be the first, however, was the
unspoken feeling. Yet, that 'first' confrontation would be seen walking through that same door a couple of
hours after Duns had opened it that day.

Meanwhile, the help girl (who was sixty years old but looked eighty) was slicing ham, onions and
sausages for lunch while Duns was finishing blowing out the lines to the beer kegs. A larger than usual
crowd had already collected in the pub and it was still an hour before lunch. Considering the feverishness
in the air, which was fairly palpable, one might have imagined loud nervous chatter. Indeed, some chatter
was evident, but it was of a quiet kind. It was done under breath and muted. Perhaps, it was because it
had been only two score years since they had last collected like this, back in 1914.

Mrs. Jimpson was cutting and stacking sandwiches made from a heavy white bread, the likes of which
would be totally lost to American tastes over the next quarter century – so dominated would the American
Cousins become by the wonder of Wonder Bread. (It is a name peppered with oxymorons which, taken
together, explained something of how Americans would lose their taste for most all wholesome foods in
years to come – the commercially grown tomato being an early indication of this decline.) But here and
now, Mrs. Jimpson's sandwiches were a delight in the making. Ham, almost hard as a rock, which the old
woman had been wearing herself out slicing thinly enough to see through it – to see a bottle cap on the
bar – ham thin and salty, layers of it set gently between buttered slices of heavy white bread on a plate
with baked beans and a slice of sweet onion – ah, it may not have had much to remind of normal Scottish
fare, but what a beautiful experience awaited those who would be blessed by that day's luncheon snack.
Unhappily, these folk were in no shape to fully appreciate such delicacies – give them a few more

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months, however, and they would be dreaming of these long gone sandwiches. At that particular moment
however, on that day, every mind was filled with the awful words of the day before.

The date was the Fourth of September, 1939, and yesterday Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, who
had so recently proclaimed Peace in Our Time, had to suffer the indignant irony of announcing War with
Germany.

It was at that moment that Giles Jimpson was very quietly and methodically hanging up his foul weather
gear on a wooden peg in the mud room inside the front door. The number of coats ahead of him indicated
that a larger than usual group had gathered that day. His mind raced. He was so nervous at facing his
father with his news that another lad could easily have turned and bolted out into the bitter wind blowing
straight off the North Sea. But nothing would be gained thereby, and it is testimony to Giles' naturally stout
Scottish heart that he went ahead, straightaway, into the bar – if quietly so.

Duns knew that his son had just come in, but did not look up. Giles' mother was still preoccupied with the
sandwiches, else she would have turned and given her only son a big squashing hug. Giles moved, not
timidly but, inoffensively, within a few feet of the side of his father -- who still offered no external sign. The
bar owner seemed to be intently working to get the lines reconnected, there being such a large call today
for the contents from these kegs.

After a bit, Giles blurted the single word: Dad.

After another bit (and clearing his throat this time) he said: Dad, I have joined as crewman with the RAF.

His mother dropped her spreading knife and turned toward Giles, eyes wide, terrified at the prospects for
his future. His dad acted as though he had not heard, but Giles knew better. So, he waited. His mother
waited. They both know that the next move was the big man's and heaven help the one who was foolish
enough to interfere with this natural order of things.

After a short time more, Duns methodically laid down his bar spanner, picked up a towel and turned
slowly toward Giles, but eyes were cast down as he wiped his hands. Giles dreaded his first look up
which was certain to come; he dreaded it so much he was about to pee down his leg. And surely enough,
here it was. But it was not the wild blazing blast of withering power that Giles had been expecting. It was,
rather, in the form of a serious question.

Duns said quite simply and logically, with such an absence of the anticipated fury that the absence itself
was unnerving: Ye know, Laddie, that ye are not yet old enough to join the RAF?

Giles was positively giddy inside to have gotten this far without being destroyed by those great fists. He
was giggling that the question was precisely the correct one to be asked, for it was the one to which he
had the ultimate answer. On the outside (Giles hoped his innards did not give him away) Giles seemed as
poised as his father. This skinny red cheeked kid with wiry hair who finished Secondary School only three
years ago, was standing there telling his father, and no less his mother as well, that their pip squeak man
child was old enough to go off and kill other kids. For indeed, the hounds of war have been loosed.

The whole National thing was just too awful. Even an explosion of Duns' infamous anger would be lost
amidst the horrible imaginings now being generated in everyone's mind. Only Giles was elated. Yes, Dad,
he said (hoping that his elation does not show). I will need your permission for my sign-up at the
recruiter's station.

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There was real concern in Duns' eyes, if not his voice, as he mused audibly but quietly: And I suppose if I
do not give ye permission, ye will just lie about your age?

Giles was caught off guard by the forthright question. Yes, he half choked on the answer. His mum was
crying quietly, wiping her eyes with her apron.

When will ye go, then?

Report the Sixteenth, was Giles' brusque answer to an unexpectedly civil question.

Duns turned back to his work. All the patrons returned to their beers, and Giles and his mum hugged each
other.

That was that. This small portion of the war had come off without the shedding of blood.

Twelve days later, on a bright crispy Saturday morning -- the last beautiful day to be seen for some time --
Giles reported to the recruiting officer in Newcastle. Four other lads from Ainwick were there, but there
were lots and lots of young men from all over the North counties. Most of the new recruits wanted to be
pilots. Many were hopeful for a naval posting and a few wanted to be marines. Only Giles avidly wanted
to be a gunner. Perhaps, that is why he was the only one of this group sent to the air field at Little
Rissington in the Cotswolds, known officially as '6 Service Flying Training School (SFTS)'.

Upon reporting to Little Rissington, Giles gave up his civvies and received a new uniform and kit in return.
As the days grew darker and colder he drilled, mostly in the hangers, and attended lectures on
maintaining his gear, on the nature of airplane engines and on what to expect from hydrolic systems. He
learned about the danger involved in changing landing-gear 'tyres' and how to manage trim tabs. He even
learned to shoot the Lee-Enfield .303 bolt action rifle he had been issued. He had to learn other important
things as well, such as how to pin campaign ribbons to his jumper (were he to receive any) and where
and how all the emblems are to be sewn. Most important of all, he was taught the very precise and
unbelievably demanding art of displaying all his new military possessions for inspection. After that there
were other issues as well, for we all know that flying is a complex business and errors are often dealt with
harshly.

One thing of which he seemed to be getting less instruction than anticipated had to do with a bomber's
armament. Where was the serious stuff on becoming a gunner? Giles' maintainance classes did offer a
mock up of a pair of 30 caliber tail/nose guns set in a revolving turret. This was touted as the newest thing
in protecting the Lancaster's rear – it would soon become painfully obvious to the RAF how ineffectual this
presumed protection would prove to be. But Giles' concern was more than that. For some reason Training
Command failed to take seriously his passion to serve as a gunner.

The time had come when it seemed he should take this matter up with his company commander, Sergent
Prithrough. As the Little Rissington station was rapidly expanding to take in more trainees and hundred's
of new planes, Sergeant Prithrough had been given an 'office' in one corner of Hanger 2 marked off by
barrels of hydrolic fluid on the one side and crates of Spitfire parts on the other. But he did possess the
one essential item to mark his status: A desk. The Sergeant took Giles to this sanctuary when it became
known that a problem was brewing.

Prithrough listened to the short description of Giles' growing fears, and nodded. Hmmm, he said. Then:
Yes, I understand, accompanied by more nodding. Before long the Sergeant stood up and invited Giles
to follow him. Down the row at another intersecting space between parts and other things, the Sergeant

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entered and took some equipment from behind a tin of engine lube. It was a set of darts; three of them.
The Sergeant handed them to Giles and told him to stand behind the tape laid on the floor. Now, he said,
hit the target. 'The target' was a dart board tacked to a cabinet. In the gloom of poor winter light coming
from clerestories, Giles had failed to notice that it showed a FW-190 flying directly toward you, with the
round of its head-on radial engine fitted exactly over the dart boards two inner circles.

FW-190 Lancaster Turret

Green as he were, Giles had had enough instruction on following orders to know not to question his
commander. He fired off the three darts, one at a time. The second two landed within the board.
Prithrough said: So, you've never done darts before? Try it again, please. This time all three of Giles
throws hit the board and two of them were within the Focke Wolf's engine. Clearly, it was mostly a matter
of throwing speed to overcome the pull of gravity.

Giles thought he was catching on to something there: Did all this mean that he would make a good
gunner?

Giles put the question to Prithrough: Perhaps, the Sergeant replied. Not sure. But it does mean you have
good hand-eye coordination. Physically you could probably be whichever you chose to be.

Giles was smiling as they walked back to Prithrough's 'office', but the succeeding conversation failed to go
as anticipated. Let me put it this way, the Sergeant said: There are a few of you lads who will make good
pilots and there are more who will be top gunners. The problem is that we have lost so many brave souls
defending London and the East Counties that many gunners cannot fly because there are no pilots to fly
them. You see, Boy, without pilots, it fails to matter where a person's greater preferences may lie. Do you
understand what I am saying?

An unhappy Giles said he understood all too well. From that moment on he also understood that he must
develop a different set of mind for the remainder of his instruction. Somehow, things never seemed quite
so happy-go-lucky after that. Also, there was the weather.
It was nearing Christmas and Giles had not yet
flown in one of the twin engined Airspeed
Oxfords which Little Rissingham had acquired
for bomber training purposes. Normally, he
knew that in pilot training he should have had
several hours of flight time by then, but the
weather was horrid. Even in Ainwick by the
North Sea he had not experienced a Winter like
this. He doubted the Cotswolds had ever seen two feet of snow before. And still it was falling.

Finally, the sun started doing just a bit to warm up the packed snow and ice; and then it became obvious
to the recruits that flying was still a long way off. The landing field at Rissi was grass. Or mud, to be
correct. It would be a long time before it might support the weight of an 'Ox-box'. But their sister field at
Windrush was in better shape. So, by mid January Giles was taking the occasional flight with his

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instructor – finally, working in the 'office', so to speak. He learned quickly and had a sensitive touch on the
yoke, which the Ox-box demanded. Giles, a Scottish country lad, was becoming habituated to the
exhilaration of flying.
By early March (1940) Giles was graduated from SFTS
and sent to No 7 Bomber Squadron at Leeming, on the
road to Leeds. They were waiting for their compliment
of Britain's first four engined bombers, the Short built
Stirling. Giles did not mind the waiting, for in the mean
time 7 Squadron was flying the twin engined Hadley
Page built Hampdens. He became a true fan of them,
and who could tell what problems the new planes might

Hadly Page Hamden bring with them.

In April, 7 Squadron moved to Finningley, about half way between York and Nottingham. Four months
later they received their first compliment of Stirling Mk1s. By then Giles did not look forward to the new
'brutes'. His hesitation was prescient of the difficulty that this airplane would be for himself and everyone
who flew it.

Giles was checked out in the second officer's seat of the Stirling by Fl. Lt. Peter Corkland, the first pilot.
Corkland was Giles superior, even though the latter was by now a non com corporal, But Giles was
learning that whomever was scheduled as first pilot became the unquestioned commander of the plane
during flight. A sergeant was often thus commander over a lieutenant – or even higher rank – during
operations. Corkland was a well spoken young gentleman from South of London and Giles liked him
immediately. Perhaps their mutual respect was encouraged by their common struggle to fly the brute.
With only a couple of weeks of practice flying the Stirling, Corkland and Jimpson found themselves
scheduled for a night raid on Rotterdam – or more properly, they would find themselves trying to get their
load of ordinance off the deck and over the first row of trees. After that, anything else would seem a
breeze (well, sort of).

Their routine would become repeatedly drummed in. First, the whole aircrew would report every morning
at 1000 hrs, to find out who was scheduled for 'ops' and who might 'stand down'. The pilots then met with
their ground crews (who serviced the planes) to go over any recent or perceived problems. It was then
common for the aircrew to takeoff and fly a set circuit to test repairs and check for new leaks – Giles
hated this; he felt that every successful lifting off put him that much closer to one which would not make it.
(Many had not.) At least on these test circuits they were lightly loaded.

If there were an operational flight scheduled for them that day, the aircrew would muster again at 1400
hrs, wherein the Commanding Officer would give each flight its destination and time for takeoff. At that
early point in the War, bomb runs were individual assignments, each plane with its own orders.

From there each crew reported to a series of specialists for information peculiar to their tasks. Normally,
the Intelligence Officers would come first, offering their best understanding of flak densities across the
map of operations. The Signals Officer might then brief the crew on airfield identification beacons and

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colors, on German radio frequencies, enemy radar locations, enemy night fighter expectations, and any
significant changes in code that might affect them. It was most important that they understood prevailing
weather conditions, so the Meteorologist Officer briefed them, especially on what to expect over the target
and anticipated wind conditions upon return to England.

Normally, that would be the signal to muster again for an, 'any questions' final session. After that,
Navigator was free to prepare his route to the target, observing the mandatory 'point of departure'. All
flights dispersed through this common point in order to confuse the enemy and take advantage of the one
opening in antiaircraft defenses. The Captain then brought the aircrew together and gave his pep talk,
especially reminding crewmen to keep their oxygen bottles in tow when they moved about the craft, and
also going over escape and evasion information, were they to be shot down.

Crews then were taken to their waiting aircraft which was being warmed up by the ground crew. (Unlike
the movies, one does not simply jump into a cold plane and fly off.) Since assignments were individual
(formation flying would become the big thing when the American Eighth Air Force began its daylight
operations), departures being individual, were sporadic. Then upon return the aircrew was debriefed and
fed a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs. Normally, it would be a day or two before the next scheduled
bomb run.

Bomber Command insisted upon night raids, and Peter and Giles were happy with that decision. Their
Navigator guided them through the flak free point of departure and then returned to it in the dark, but that
was not so difficult – although missing it could be costly. Over the target they received some protection
from the blackened sky, and if their own gunners stayed alert, they were in less danger from the Luftwaffe
than during daylight raids. Had they had their own fighter protection during the day, perhaps it might have
been different. As it were, night raids suited them.

Still, man-handling the Sterlings was so different from his twin engine training that Giles became overly
preoccupied with the stubbornness of the brute. Peter never let on if it affected him as deeply, but Giles
was becoming a bit morose. Night after night of struggling to get the Sterling over the top of the trees; and
then once over the target, waiting for the bounce up, signaling that the bomb load had departed – starting
his bank even before the bombardier announced “Bombs Gone” – all of this affected everyone; but Giles
seemed to take it rather personally – as a broken promise, or something of the sort. And it was becoming
noticed by the rest of the crew.

Peter mentioned Giles' increasing depression to the Squadron Leader and before long Giles was called
up to administration to meet with Group Captain. Giles had no idea why the meeting had been called, and
afterward, he still did not know. But before too long Major Clapperton asked Giles if he would like a
transfer – more particularly, transfer to a new squadron being formed under the Coastal Command in
Gibraltar.

The new squadron would patrol over the Straights, and after his Stirling duty Gibraltar might serve as a bit
of R&R for Giles. By the beginning of November (1940) Giles had dropped his bombs on 24 targets, and
that in turn indicated that he had not only flown a great many missions in a short time but that he had had
the exceptionally bad luck of an awful lot of clear weather. At this point in the War they were instructed to
return with their undropped ordinance, whereas before too long they would start dumping in the Channel.
As it stood then, it was just as well that you dropped your load over the target because in any case you
would get flak, foul weather or no, and the lighter load on the return sometimes made the difference in
reaching home – not to mention making a safer wheels up landing if they were shot up.

Upon his agreement to the transfer, his orders came through very nearly immediately.

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********
[mid November 1940]
Giles sat on the topmost deck of the packet boat, absorbing the last of the sun. He had only just finished a
nice lunch but it would not be long before the sun would “dip below the yard arm” in these Northern
latitudes. One had to grab one's sun where one could. Slouched back on his uncomfortable bench, arms
spread out over the back on either side, he was pleased to wait for the packet's sailing to Pembroke
Dock. There was no hurry.

The sun was making him drowsy as he absently watched one particular sea gull coming in on an angle
toward the boat from the eleven o'clock position. By this heading it would cross the packet's port bow
going several yards in front of Giles. Yet, hours of straining at little specks in the dark sky, which too often
turned out to be the notorious Messerschmidt, had prepared his intuitions and at the moment they were
saying that something is amiss with this bird. Giles did not move a muscle, but he was no longer given
over to restful alpha wave musing. In fact, leaving off his earlier lethargy he had transferred to a state of
readiness.

Surely enough, at the last moment the bird banked right onto a line headed directly over Giles, who was
taunt but waiting to make certain. Then just as by now he knew it would, the wicked bird let fly a depth
charge from about four paces. Being forewarned by his own radar, Giles easily moved aside. Still, he had
to admire the aim of the little beast. The small white bomb plopped exactly where Giles' butt had been.

Well, not taking that seat again. Anyway, the engines of the packet were now turning over and since it was
growing chilly, Giles moved below. He took a cabin seat which was both warm and commanded a good
view. They had to swing out of the dock at Portishead at Avonmouth and beat into the rising tide and its
sea breeze toward the Mouth Of The Severn. Turning due West, they should round Barry Island on the
Welsh North shore and set a West North Westerly course along the coast line, drawing even with
Swansea perhaps by 0200 hours in the morning. If that reckoning held, they might just be pulling up to the
boom nets at Milford Haven before 0700 hours in the morning. It would then be only a short run to the
Pembroke Docks, probably in time for breakfast.

Giles was navigating thusly in his head based upon a

hand drawn map he had held earlier. Hopefully, it was a
plan that would guide him to births for the new
Sunderlands. The old shipyards of Pembroke Docks
had shut down after the last War, but now the area was
opened up as the largest flying boat basin in the World.
His plan was to catch a ride on one of the new Sunderlands being ferried to Gibraltar for 202 Squadron.
The 202 was his own next assigned station, where he should make himself useful while waiting for new
big bombers from the US, the brand new Liberator B24s, which would prepare the way for the invasion of
North Africa. All that in due time. First, the overnight trip up the coastal waters to Pembroke Docks.

The pounding of the waves and the hum of the engines did not take long to sing Giles to sleep. He
stretched out across his bench, head on his hand bag, and almost immediately was far away. The first
mate woke him at 0630 hours as they were slowly navigating the last of two boom nets. He could see
ahead in the early light that the harbor was filled with the dark spots of boats and sea planes. But he
failed to spot the Sunderlands he had anticipated. Perhaps he could just make one out anchored a couple
hundred yards off shore near the Harbor Master's station – where, he could see, it had been topped with
a brand new control tower to direct the comings and goings of all manner of flying boats.

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Giles sought out the harbor master's center and showed his orders to a yeoman, who then told him the
bad news: The Sunderlands have not yet arrived. The single plane he could see from the harbor master's
office was experimental, not operational. And of course, no one knew when they might come in.
Suggestion was made to find a detachment of the 202 crew which was in port at the moment. They would
be shipping six Swordfish float planes back to Gibraltar soon. Maybe Giles could wait for that convoy?

So, what to do? He could wait for the convoy to leave, perhaps in 30 days (the actual date was not only
changeable, but secret), or.... he could put off a decision and have breakfast. The stomach won that
debate.

Sitting at a nice sunny table overlooking the harbor and already given over to indecisiveness, Giles, left
the decisions up to his waitress for his breakfast. Thus, he received first a laverbread porrigde, mixed with
oatmeal, fried . Well, it beat the heck out of haggis. Then he received cockles, also fried. It was beginning
to sound like the South of England. After consuming these delicacies, he decided to break into the
waitress' plan of action and ask if she might produce some arbroath smokies and scones? Perhaps, she
replied. What he actually got was not smoked haddock, enriched in heavy peat smoke, but good English
kippers. Also the scones. After that he ordered two eggs fried with tomatoes and mushrooms. And since
the kitchen had decided that he was English, they included on the plate a large helping of baked beans –
all of it floating in a quarter inch of bacon grease.

Giles refused to let these strange tastes from the English Southern Coast deter his appetite and ate the
whole lot. He then ordered a strong cup of tea, and upon refilling, he requested a large slice of apple pie.
He felt this should hold him until he found resolution to his transportation problem. (Unknown to him, it
would not be long before he could not order an egg at all in a public restaurant in the UK.)

On his third cup of really strong tea while looking out over the harbor, he began to ponder alternatives to
the convoy problem. He was getting tired of doing nothing productive. He asked about making long
distance phone calls, but he was told his chances of getting a line during the day time were slim. He
decided to go back to the Harbor Master Center and see if he could wire his group leader at Finningly.

The reply, after sitting around for a couple of hours,

was that Group Captain Clapperton was not on the
station at the moment (they were forbidden to say
that he might be on a mission), but upon his return,
Finningly said, the Major would be notified of
Corporeal Jimpson's predicament. Giles asked the
Swordfish "TSR.II" Torpedo Spotter Reconnaissance
was often fitted out with pontoons as for No.202 local yeoman to be on the lookout for his return wire
or phone call, and then he set off to find the blokes
from the 202 who were preparing the Swordfishes
for convoy.

As he was leaving he was asked by a Warrant Officer who was also headed out, if Giles might like to
accompany him on a tour of the flying boats. It was the WO's daily duty to check the boats to make sure
everything was ship shape while they were under command of the Harbor Master, and especially make
certain that the correct crew got to the right boat. Being the man about town, so to speak, the WO was
also able to tell Giles where to find the packing crew from No202.

Together they went down to a small dock and climbed into a whale boat manned by four oarsmen and a
marine coxswain. First they went out to the moored Sunderland, and Giles was able to see what he had
missed by not finding the new ones in port.

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Giles followed the WO as he stepped up into the flying boat's anchor room. Even from here, it was clear
to Giles that this plane was far more spacious than the Stirlings – and he thought those had been huge.
He was surprised that these flying boats had such large anchor chains. Four fixed machine guns also
backed into the anchor hold, just below the front turret with its rotating pair of guns. Moving aft, they
passed from the Ward Room into the Galley, from where he looked up a run of stairs to the flight deck and
bridge. However, the WO took him further aft into the bomb hold, which was a massive two stories high.
The WO explained that bombs, depth charges and mines were jettisoned through side door racks into the
sea, not dropped vertically as from land plane bomb bays. After the upstairs inspection of various
fascinating devices and mechanisms never before seen by Giles, the WO had him dropped off at a pier
and told where to find his new mates from the 202.

Giles found his future crew mates were headed by Sergeant Ian Pepper from York. They took a short
break from working on the Swordfishes to discuss with him the peculiarities of his new post. But soon they
had to return to work to meet their deadline, so Ian and Gulley went off to find a pub and a sandwich.
Over their pint they discussed the North Country, a bit about the War and how loose was the organization
of the 202 compared to Bomber Command. They shook hands and Gulley made his way back to the
Harbor Master Center about mid afternoon, as the sun was looking for a place to back out of sight.

Gulley was thinking, as he walked, that except for flying, since he had dodged the gull poop this time
yesterday he had never gone such a far distance overland. He could see what a country lad he had been.
Yet, this has always been the way of the English and the Continentals. Even today many folk in small
towns, only a hundred miles from their capitol, never make the trip.

At the Center, Giles was pleased to find that a wire had been returned. Major Clapperton said he had
reassessed the situation and was cutting new orders for Giles. They would be routed to him through the
Harbor Master Center, and if Giles had any questions the Major might be reached by phoning the
squadron HQ during the night, two days hence. (Nocturnal phone lines did seem fairly reliable.) Of
course, Giles was all ablaze with curiosity over his new orders. But no help for that. He would just have to
wait it out. So he found where to check in for a transient berth for a few days. He ended up in the NCO
barracks on Barracks Hill – a high spot with a lovely view over the harbor -- a harbor, he noted ruefully,
lacking the planes he had come to find.

The following day the beautiful weather was holding. Anxiously, Giles made it to the Center without
bothering to stop for breakfast. And surely enough, his orders had arrived. Major Clapperton's handwritten
letter explained it had been fortunate for Giles that the Sunderlands were behind schedule. Instead, there
was a wonderful opportunity for him to see a secret new plane undergoing testing outside Edinburgh at
East Fortune Airbase. The Major had a school chum high up in that program and had received permission
for Giles to be flown to Nutts Corner Airfield, Ireland, in one of these very same experimental models.
Ostensibly, Giles would be checking out this new X plane, so the Major expected a report from him
afterwards.

Giles' head was whirling. What in the world did all of this have to do with getting to his next duty station?
Surely, Bomber Command was not switching to these new strange planes made of wood? Clapperton
sent a few statistics on the new craft – very hush hush stuff, but it was OK now that Giles was officially
involved. Truly, the plane was made of thin sheets of Ecuadorian balsa wood sandwiched over an equally
thin sheet of Canadian birch. This plywood skin was pressed into concrete molds forming left and right
fuselage halves. The two halves were screwed together and covered with doped Madapolam, a very fine
cotton. It all sounded too bizarre.

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The plane had wooden flaps too, but at least the designers relented and allowed aluminum ailerons. The
new plane had two huge in line engines and could fly 400mph, it was said. It was classified as a small
bomber and it could carry 4,000lbs of bombs.

The Major gave instructions for locating the inside man who was setting up Giles' test flight and added the
kicker that since he would be headed for Edinburgh, he may as well stop off and see his family for a few
days. Enclosed with the orders was a public order for his necessary military transportation, and just in
case, he was also given a chit, or script, for public transportation while on military duty.

The Major was so excited over prospects of flying the new plane that he forgot to reveal why this round
about. Giles' could see that the experimental flight was really for the purpose of taking him over to Nutts
Corner Airfield, which was becoming a huge hub as the center for American transportation. But upon
digging into the new orders, Giles found that a flight of three Hadley Page Halifaxes were being prepared
at Nutts Corner for ferrying to his new squadron in Gibraltar. It had taken a great deal of devious planning
and no little circumspection, but finally, Giles' move to Gibraltar seemed to be emerging as a reality.

The meeting and parting with his mother was as tearful as it should have been, no more. All that might be
remembered of his father's conversation over the three days was, Ye 're filling out Boy. Are ye becomin' a
man? Giles was now as anxious as the Major to see the new planes, so he could wait no longer to catch
the train to Edinburgh. Once there, he made telephone contact with the Major's school chum wherein
instructions were given on procedures for accessing the secret flight area. If he hurried, he could just be
in time for a new test flight this very afternoon.

A staff car was sent, and the Sergeant driver was a bit huffy with his v.i.p. kid passenger. Giles sat up
front, although the Sergeant protested – but only a little. That gave the Sergeant courage to ask if Giles
were some sort of MI5 bloke, traveling incognito? Giles, with his head turned looking out the window,
mumbled: Something like that. This made the Sergeant much happier, which was a good thing, for it took
a great deal of starting and stopping, papers being passed, calls made, and gates opened for Giles to
reach his destination. He could not have made it without the wholehearted help of his driver.

He drove directly into a hanger – normally a no-no where Giles had been – and was met by a middle
aged test pilot in full fur flying gear. Giles was given a set of flight skins while handing over his own gear
to a ground crewman to be lashed down inside the bombay racks. He had not had a chance to even look
over this amazing craft, and since the engines were already warming on the apron in front of the hanger,
he would have to wait for a closer inspection upon reaching their destination at Nutts Corner.

They immediately taxied out to the duty runway, the pilot (of whose proper name Giles was unsure) went
through his final checkoff, and receiving the go-ahead from the tower, called over to Giles: Now watch
this!

The warning hardly preceded the effect, as Giles was immediately pinned to the back of his seat. Even
four engined aircraft could not develop that much thrust. But the pilot was referring more to the short
takeoff than the sensation of G forces. Within 500 yards the wheels were up and they began climbing at
45 degrees. A quick barrel role and then the test pilot swung down to gain speed for on a full loop that
would obviously be a tree skimmer at the bottom. S loops and roll combinations and so many other
maneuvers that Giles had never experienced. They all came and went quickly: it occurred to Giles that
the pilot was hoping to make Giles vomit – but that would be foolish. No one wanted to be in a cockpit
floating in vomit. (That is why they were told to vomit inside their flight overalls if the need arose.)

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This was the first true 'wringing out' that Giles had ever
gotten and he discovered that there was no urge at all
to throw up. Thank God. Before this arrogant test pilot,
that would be unthinkable. But the flight was far more
than he could have imagined. As a finale, the plane
was taken straight up until it finally stalled and fell off
into a spin, wherein Giles was shown how to
maneuver ailerons and epinage to counteract this
potentially disastrous impasse. Even as they leveled
out the pilot was calling the tower at Nutts Corner for
Mosquito B Mark IV Series 2, DK338, c. 1942
landing clearance.

Giles had had no urge to throw up, but he had come close to blacking out while pulling some of the G
forces during pullouts. They taxied to a very private spot, and climbed down. Pulling off his borrowed kit,
Giles asked the pilot about blacking out and was told: Yes, one had to be careful not to exceed a certain
force. The plane could take it, but not the pilot. Giles walked around the ship, studying its details. In some
places he could spot the brass screws used on the ship in profusion – some 30,000 of them. He studied
the wooden flaps and the aluminum ailerons and other control surfaces. But by now the service trucks
were moving in. The pilot had to gas up for a real test flight going back to their origin at East Fortune
Airbase. So Giles recovered his own kit and went in search of the Halifaxes destined for 202 Squadron in
Gibraltar.

Boy, he was thinking. That was an amazing experience. No way could he get that in flight school. It made
him want to understand better every plane he flew. He was much more conscious of what a planes'
limitations might be. This was not dry talk from an instructor reading the aircraft manual. He wanted to
really know what kind of damage made an aircraft fail in flight – during a bomb run. There were rumors
that the Luftwaffe made a point of shooting at the Stirlings right behind the wings because it was known
(to them, at any rate) that the plane would more easily break in half at that point.

From the air Giles had barely the time to notice what a huge field was this Nutts Corner. He could see
perhaps a dozen different types of aircraft as he flagged a ride with a maintainance truck. Most of the
aircraft he could see were American in origin. Clearly, this was the staging point for aircraft destined for
England from the US.

He was introduced to the Field Operations Officer, Sir Giles Morris, but was told to call him Taffy. Giles
responded, Yes sir., but did not reference his name after that. Taffy sent him with a courier who was able
to navigate the amazing maze of that which is Nutts Corner, and in spite of the apparent odds against
finding them, he was indeed planted in the midst of the folk who called themselves, “the 202”.

The Flight Leader was an Indian pilot whom everyone called, Richard. He told Giles that in two days they
would form up in a three plane flight for the fourteen hundred or so miles to Gib. Giles said he had not
realized that the Halifax had such a long range.

It surely does not, Richard said and smiled at the questioning look he got in return. Actually, Richard said,
we could probably make it because we carry no ordinance (he said, 'orrr dee-nance' in that sing-song way
people had who speak Hindi). But for safety, each plane has many hundred miles of extra fuel in reserve
tanks carried in the bombay.

Giles was anxious to get on with next leg of his life; but Richard had him come meet his fellow pilots.
Giles was tired from traveling and flying that day, and was a bit absent minded as he met his traveling

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companions – that is, until he shook the warm small hand of the third pilot. Her hair was up in her leather
helmet, but the startling beauty of her dark face took Giles breath away. The straight perfect teeth were as
white as the eyes were black and sparkling.

Giles drifted back into the world to hear the name of Lady Qormi pronounced in the rolled Rs of an Hindi
accent. Trying to clear his head about this “lady”, and unfix his stair upon her extraordinary beauty, he
realized she was laughing at his confusion. It was such a lovely laugh he did not mind that it was at his
expense.

Giles blurted out the question: Are you in the 202?

Everyone laughed at that. No, Richard said. Lady is a ferry pilot we picked up for the trip because our own
third pilot has come down with the mumps. You will fly with her. Do you mind?

Of course he did not mind, Giles spoke out -- but he was wondering if this beauty could really fly? Lady
knew he was thinking as much, but merely smiled. Richard told everyone it was almost dinner time, so he
asked Lady to show Giles to the NCO barracks and then to the chow hall.

By the time they arrived at the chow hall, the

others were finishing up, so Giles and Lady sat
by themselves and got acquainted. She was
from Malta and had been flying since she was
14. Giles estimated she was 21 or 22 – maybe
even 25 -- so she had a lot more experience
than himself. Lady was not telling her age, but
were it known that she was only 17 as they sat
Hadly Page Halifax
there, Giles would have opted out (no matter
how beautiful she was) and she would have lost her lucrative ferrying job.

Much had to be done the next day to finish preparing all three planes for the long difficult journey. All three
planes were test flown until leaks were fixed and then spare parts were packed on board. Before
daybreak the next morning everyone 'mustered' with their various picnic lunches in tow, hot thermoses of
coffee and chocolate. They thanked their local ground crews for the superb work they had done, and
everyone climbed aboard. If every thing went well they would report for evening mess at Gib. The warm
up check completed, the three Halifaxes then lined up on the taxi way at the head of the duty runway, and
waited for permission to take off.

In the air the three bombers grouped and headed South, Richard leading and Lady trailing. Once on
board Giles could see the result of the shortage of pilots. The Halifaxes were built with only one set of
flight controls. The so called 'second pilot' was really a jack of all trades. He handled throttle during takeoff
while the pilot wrestled with the heavy controls, he worked as wireless operator and navigator, and he
was also the bombardier. And if that failed to keep his dance book filled, he also operated the forward
machine gun.

Giles learned all this after Lady asked if he could work the wireless. He could, and since there was a fold-
up seat to one side of the pilot Giles strapped in to it during takeoff, handling the throttle while Lady
struggled to keep the nose in line. Actually, she seemed to be doing a better job than Giles might have.
Once auto pilot was set, Giles used this time to improve his poor dead reckoning skills. Unhappily, these
planes did not yet have radar, so they could not navigate according the call number of Gibraltar. However,
Richard's flight technician was a good navigator, so there was not much worry about them turning to the

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BIOGRAPHY of GULLEY JIMPSON by Prof S Ofer Draft Two

East too soon and landing in Franko's unfriendly Spain, or turning late and hitting Vichy Morocco.

When Giles was not busy with his navigating, he was admiring Lady – how she kept the trim, how she
adjusted the mixture by the sound of the engines, how she stretched and yawned, how she kept a
constant look out for Luftwaffe above and ships below, and other things. Mostly, it was 'other things'. He
had never seen a woman with such well tuned masculine skills (at least the masculine skills required to fly
these clunky airplanes), and mostly he had never in his life expected to be sitting beside such a beautiful
woman in bomber's cockpit. The confidence she exuded gave Giles the feeling she could do anything she
chose. Giles wondered what were her foibles; but really, the doubted there were any.

As the hours droned by, ears long ago plugged and ringing from the pounding of engine noise and wind,
Lady asked Giles to take the yoke while she went below to take a pee. Giles wondered how she faired
with the impossible relief tube. That is what stopped him from drinking coffee when flying. Once his penis
touched the cold relief tube, with even colder air being siphoned through it, his member shrank to a tiny
sausage and there was no way it could pass water in such a miserable state. Of course, her problems
would be different wouldn't they?

Lady came back up and sat down in the auxiliary seat, taking out an oil skin bag. It contained a
dampened astringent cloth with which she wiped her face and hands. She took off her leather flight
helmet and brushed her hair. Giles had never seen such black thick and shiny hair on a person.
Everything about her was amazing.

Lady took this opportunity to check over the craft, going down to the bottom deck and walking carefully on
the narrow ledge through the bombay, checking the turret and especially the electrical and hydrolic lines.
As she started back toward the cockpit the plane slid into a left banking turn. Lady was surprised by the
course change, but Giles could not reach her because she was unplugged from the intercom. As soon as
she could reach the flight engineer's nest she plugged in and heard Giles explain that Richard had
waggled his wings and immediately started a banking left turn.

OK, Lady said: He has reached the point in line with the Azores, where we go East to begin the approach
to the straights. If you will please put it back on autopilot I will take over and start earning my keep.

After the slow bank leveled out into a due East heading, the little squadron started a descent from 12,000
feet. Surely enough, Richard's flight engineer was dead on. With visibility taxed at 30 miles they could
make out the straights dead ahead, their altitude 5,000 feet. They heard Richard speaking to North Front
Airfield Tower requesting permission to bring in three chicks. Tower said: Chicks? We thought you were
coming back with ducks. Chuckle.

Wind was 10 to 12 knots from the North West, so they had to circle to the East of the Rock and approach
on a Westerly heading. A tricky problem, because the wind would be pushing the planes as much South
as it was helping to slow them from the West. If they had plenty of runway that would be OK, but
Northfield had only just finished the first phase of its all weather surface and it was horribly short.

Richard radioed that they would make a pass over the runway at 100 feet, circle and then come back in
for a landing. They were glad to get a look at the short strip and to feel the force of the wind sideways.
Small as it were, still they would have to 'crab' in against the wind pressure, aimed slightly to the North but
flying on a due West heading, to counteract the force of the South vector. Coming from the Spanish side,
the wind was more level and even than if were from around the Rock, but still, each pilot would have to
carefully work to hold the line in crab fashion, and set down by turning straight ahead immediately to the
center line and then lock the tail wheel. No room for give here, and that said nothing about bringing the

17750491.odt 13
BIOGRAPHY of GULLEY JIMPSON by Prof S Ofer Draft Two

craft to a safe stop. Whew. Giles did not feel up all this.

As the three circled back, flaps at full, nose up and just about stalling, they flew about two miles apart.
Richard almost landed in the water but was glad to have the extra room to stop. However, the middle
plane cut power too late and did not hit the deck until he had used up a quarter of the runway. He burned
out his brakes and slid into Algeciras Bay at the far Western end. Lady took a waveoff and slowly cruised
over the scene, where the big twin rudders were sticking up out of the water. Emergency personnel were
racing to retrieve the airman.

The pilot of number two plane had flown with no flight engineer, and that many hours in the air must have
tired him, even with autopilot for the straight stretches. Given the wind force from the starboard quarter
and coming down into the setting sun on a short runway, these poor odds just caught up with him.

Finally the tower invited Lady to land. Given that much time to ponder the consequences, Giles was
nervous as a cat. By now the runway was lit but the increasing darkness removed many vital depth cues
while the sun was still in their eyes. Landing is a matter of judging one's distance to the ground. Seeing
the ground is essential. Giles wanted to take over, but not really. For him, it was just white knuckle time.

Lady preferred to run throttle herself this time because the heavy plane was so close to stalling. She
brought that beast around to line up with the runway lights, far out at sea. Thank God, this leeward side
was totally unrestricted. It seemed like forever as she coaxed the beast, struggling to keep the heading
and carefully jiggling the throttle, blades at maximum pitch. Giles was amazed at the perfection of her
descent from such a long distance. He would have preferred a relatively quick turn himself because it was
so difficult seeing over the nose in this attitude. But Lady preferred this long adjustable glide into the
groove. And groove it was.

The tower said afterward that she made a perfect three wheel drop onto the deck with the tail wheel ten
feet from the water. Pumping the brakes methodically, she did not burn them out but was slow enough at
the far end to swing the tail around with ten feet to spare – right where their companion's tail was pointing
up to the darkening sky from its very wet berth. Lady had conquered the nasty little strip of 1100 yards at
North Front and given it back 'ten feet of change' at each end. Giles was totally wrung out. For Lady, it
was all in a day's work. That is what they paid her to do.

By the time they had given their planes over to the ground crew, they had missed chow. But this failed to
bother those whose life had just been handed back to them. They found the NCO barracks, a miserable
Nissan hut, but even that failed to bother them. Lady was given the company commander's private room
and the rest of the guys had double bunks partitioned off, one bunk per partition. The showers were not
running, due to the shortage of water in Gibraltar, so they all put on swim suits or shorts and bathed
outside in the Mediterranean at the East end of the runway. They did receive a small tin of fresh water to
rinse off the salt, and that too suited them well enough.

Clean clothes felt wonderful in spite of the salt water bath – after all, they did have salt water soap. So,
instead of reporting to the squadron, the crew went into town for dinner and cocktails. The whole town
looked like a cemetery, given the blackout, but behind the scenes there was considerable life. What made
it all seem most strange was the absence of towns people. All the women and children had been shipped
out a few months earlier, so Gibraltar was stocked with military personnel only – except for the shop
keepers who remained.

After a bit they located the Universal Club, where Ivy Benson with her All Women's Band was on tour.
Liquor was becoming difficult to obtain in Britain but here it was plentiful, and the Halifax crews did their

17750491.odt 14
BIOGRAPHY of GULLEY JIMPSON by Prof S Ofer Draft Two

part in drinking up as much of it as they could hold. The next day was Sunday and no one heard a peep
out of the Halifax bunch until late in the day.
[Sunday 05 January 1941]:: 17

9,464 word count

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