75 Squadron Sumpies 1971 - 1974

I arrived in Butterworth on the 22nd September 1971 - four days after my 21st birthday - and spent the next two and a half years as a 75 Sqn Sumpy. Those sumpies were a great bunch of blokes. Those that spring readily to mind include John Mantel, Bob Anderson and Shorty Messer (19 intake), Jack Clarke (21 intake) Curly Knight, Butch Connolly, John (Hoot) Gibson and Des Walker

75 Sqn flight line. Sumpies - and possibly a few

others - hard at it.

It was shortly after I arrived that I bought my first bike - a 1964 500cc Norton Dominator. Less than a week after I took possession of this - I had not attempted to ride a bike until I arrived in Butterworth - I flipped it end for end. There are two different versions of how this happened, and I don’t know which is the truth. The first is that I hit a mound of dirt in the road and the other that I went into an uncovered manhole. All I remember is being flung from the bike and then a couple of mates picking me up. It was night, I had been on the turps and because the alternator was not charging, I decided to go for a ride with only the parking light on. All I was wearing at the time was a pair of toweling shorts, a toweling shirt and pair of thongs. Fortunately, I still had enough sense to put my lid on properly. I ended up with a broken collarbone, a large toenail mostly worn away, and multiple abrasions. For weeks after I was covered with Mercurochrome from head to foot.

One day shortly after this happened John Mantel said to me ‘You bastard, you cost me money. The blokes were running a book on how long you’d last before you came off and I bet you’d go more than a week’. He must have forgiven me because he and his wife Lyn made me welcome in their home on many occasions after that.


Butch Connolly and Des Walker would often go to the mess for lunch. For weeks I’d hear Hoot Gibson call out ‘Can you bring me back something to eat?’ ‘What do you want?’ Butch would ask. ‘A dog shit sandwich will do’. After fetching the daily sandwich over months Butch and Des had decided they would teach Hoot a lesson. There were a number of Kampong Terriers on the base which hung around the mess, so Butch had no difficulty gathering the ingredients for that special "dog shit sandwich. Nicely wrapped in a mess serviette Hoot Gibson got in position to devour this special mates supplied meal when Des Walker started spewing and shouting " Don't eat it it's got dog shit on it" 

Hoot failed to see the humor in this. The reprisal ensued for months, and some very horrible things happened to Butch Connolly's locker and his boots.

My best mate at the time was Zeke Behm off 23 intake. Zeke arrived shortly after I did and for most of the time we were the only singlies (single) in the section. I had the privilege of being best man at Zeke’s wedding to Angel in September 74 shortly after we both returned to Australia. Coincidentally Zeke and I shared the same birthday although I was 3 years older.

Most of the baggers (married blokes) lived on Penang Island and many of these relied on chartered buses to get them to and from work. If they missed the bus at stand down (cessation of work) they would have to wait for an hour for the next one so Zeke and I would usually do the mopping up at the end of the day to let them get home on time. And they reciprocated. Fridays were usually non-flying days and so the time was spent catching up on maintenance and general clean up. Often we were told on Thursday afternoon that we weren't wanted on Friday, or if we did come in we would be the first to stand down. This had been the practice before I arrived for I remember Bill Noble (20 intake), another singly, cluing me up just after I got there.

And they looked after us in other ways. Many were the times we spent enjoying the hospitality of them and their wives. This, even after they had their Christmas rudely interrupted at 3 or 4 in the morning with a group of drunken singlies singing Christmas Carols on their doorstep and looking for a reward for our caroling efforts - a donation of beer to keep us going.

Sadly for us things started to change towards the end. These blokes started returning home and those that replaced them took it for granted that we would do the mopping up at the end of the day. When it came to Fridays they did not have the same generosity towards Zeke and myself.

I have many happy memories of Butterworth, especially my first trip. And the blokes I served with in 75 Sumpies played a big part in making it a great time.

The Pie Cart

Our introduction to the theory and practice of sumpology was on the Gypsy Major, a power plant that had been in use from the early 1930s. It was mainly used in the Tiger Moth. Here we learnt the theory of the four stroke engine and all about fuel-air ratios, the Bernoulli principle, ignition timing and spark plug gaps. We were told about the importance of the tension wrench, using the right tool for the job, and the evils of the shifting spanner. That ex-thick I remember from 38 Sqn in the mid-seventies who always went for the largest shifter he could find had obviously never been properly trained. 

Engine section was just over the railway line that ran through the base and it meant we were closer to the mess and living quarters than some of the other trades.

Memories of engine section include:

• The engine display in the front of the hanger, neatly arranged on polished floor boards.
• The offices on the left as we entered and the stairs leading to the upper level. I think the WOE (Warrant Officer Engineer) resided in the lower office and the Engineering Officer upstairs. Twice I stood in front of the Engineering Officer, hat removed, to have judgement passed on me for sins I had committed.
• The tool store on the ground floor behind the office.
• Smokos in winter. Four of us would lay on the grass arranged in a square, each with our head placed on the stomach of another. It was common to hear ‘That sunlight has come 93 million miles just to get to me, and now you’re stopping it making the last two feet’ as some one’s shadow would pass over one of us. And then there was the struggle to get to our feet if an officer approached, only to hear ‘As you were’ - or was it ‘Carry on?’
• Flight Sergeant Charlie Goodchild who took us through the workings of the Gypsy Major and had lost his teeth as a result of a collision with a hockey stick.
• Sergeant Killer Courtney, the Pom who took us through the workings of propellers and governors. In the period after lunch some of us had a tendency to nod off. Killer had the remedy. A propeller blade stood on its base on the wooden floor. He would wait until enough of us had dozed off and then knock the blade over. While the sound that reverberated around the room may not have been enough to wake the dead it certainly aroused sleeping appys and the associated rush of adrenalin made certain we were alert for the rest of the afternoon.
• Most, if not all, of our theory exams were multi-guess (multiple choice). A flight would learn one engine type, B flight another and then swap around. We had this arrangement where each of us would remember three or four specified questions (1 to 4, 4 to 8 etc) and swap these between us. And there was this other rule for multi-guess - if in doubt, try C. 

John Carpenter had decided by the time that we commenced our specific trade training that he and the RAAF were incompatible. By this time the only way out was to fail. Our first exam was multiple choice. John finished this in about 10 minutes but to his dismay, and everyone else’s amazement, he passed (rather well from memory). But he almost had his wish to leave granted quicker than he could have imagined.

Part of the curriculum for the Gypsy Major was a requirement for each of us to start it by swinging the propeller. To facilitate this an engine was set up in a specially designed stand - known as the Pie Cart. I remember this as looking something like a cross between a phone box with one side removed and a horse float. The engine was set up in a frame that protruded from the front, the stand pivoted on two wheels, and the whole arrangement was secured by either chains or ropes to anchor points behind. The operator stood in the box.

We were shown how to stand with our left hand behind our back and to pull the propeller down and our arm out of the way to make sure that we did fall into the propeller’s arc. On his first attempt John’s head moved forward into the propeller’s path. Fortunately for him, and us, the Gypsy Major always seemed to start on the second attempt.

John departed shortly after that. As far as I can remember the rest of us graduated. At least one of our number, Pete Smith, returned to RSTT to impart knowledge to another generation of apprentices. And while those days are now a distance past and the memories hazy, friendships were formed and cemented, and we learnt skills that were to carry us through our service careers and beyond.

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