By Bob Cox; attested by Don Charlwood
The other morning Bob Cox came in as I was finishing breakfast and put this tale on my empty weeties plate asking me to be a witness to its veracity. There was nothing to question in the first paragraphs. I have had to qualify others! D.C.
In the late 1980s a small group of ex-RAAF aircrew were invited by Doug Campbell to gather for occasional luncheons at the old Coventry Street Mess. When the Mess closed, the Empire Air Training Scheme event was transferred to the dining room at the RAAF Memorial Centre in South Yarra, and every lunch date since has been filled. It is now "first in best dressed" as the dining room only takes 130. The gatherings also have a sad side to them; we stand in silence to honour those who have passed on since we were last together.
The average age of those attending is well over 80, which makes getting to luncheons increasingly difficult. Many are no longer confident enough to drive in city traffic - no matter what they flew during the war - and have turned to public transport. Some come from as far afield as Sale and Geelong so the lunch is a major exercise.
Just over a year ago I met Don Charlwood on a stroll by the Yarra and we discussed the December lunch. At 86 Don felt doubtful that he could still drive in. I assured him that public transport was the way to go. "It's simple," I said, "the 304 bus from here to Swanston Street, then the 72 tram to Cromwell Road. I always go that way. We can have a few beers without worrying about driving. We'll get the 9.30 bus in." This was agreed; I would be both pilot and navigator for the operation.
As witness to Bob's tale I should make two points. One is that we both survived as navigators on bombing raids over Germany, the other is that he is nine years my junior.Given these circumstances it seemed perfectly logical that I could entrust myself to him on the journey from Warrandyte to South Yarra.
So we two ace navigators set off by bus under my guiding eye. We had a lot to talk about. It wouldn't be possible to talk uninterrupted at the lunch - too many others would want to get Don's ear - he has written books on flying operations over Europe. Well, the 9.30 bus was running late; it whipped into and out of The Pines before I was aware of what was going on. Don was surprised when his guide jumped up and called out, "We've got to get off!" The driver replied, "You'll have to wait till the next stop."
My memory isn't of talking - I was listening to an endless story from Bob when he leapt up. When we got off the bus he appeared lost, but, with considerable authority, led me into Reynolds Road. Then the bus we apparently should have changed to passed us down Blackburn Road. At this he seemed to re-orientate himself. He led me to a stop on Blackburn Road where we waited half an hour - with nothing to sit on, while Bob resumed the story he was telling me on the 304 bus.
A little crestfallen, I managed to convince Don that it didn't matter because I had built some spare time into our programme in case of unusual happenings. The RAAF Club bar would not open until 11.30am.
We arrived at the Swanston Street corner of Lonsdale Street about 11am, and waited for a southbound tram. In a few minutes a 72 arrived and I ushered Don aboard. There were four other ex-aircrew on the tram already - they stick out like sore thumbs: lapel badges, squadron ties and a few walking sticks. On boarding I noticed the destination read "Melbourne University 72". The plump woman driver had forgotten to change the destination for her return trip. Very politely I told her. She said, "Sorry" and proceeded to rewind it. It turned out that she thought I was a tramways inspector.
This I can understand. Bob had remained on in the RAAF after the war and had actually become a Wing Commander, which gave him all the trappings of a tramways inspector.
When the tram reached Commercial Road it failed to turn left and went straight along St.Kilda Road. It hadn't been a 72 in the first place! One of the aircrew group (one without a walking stick) jumped up and remonstrated with the driver. She put us down a couple of stops on and we had to wait for a tram back to Commercial Road. Once there we saw a genuine 72 coming towards us, about to make its left turn. As I was the youngest of the group, or the least old, anyway, I "ran" into the intersection, making signs to the driver that I, and the walking wounded behind me, needed to join him. He indicated he would wait for us round the corner. If all this had been captured on
camera it would have made wonderful comic viewing: the six old men dodging cars, waving walking sticks and arms in our efforts to get to the tram.
My memory of us, the pathetic "runners", reminds me still of so many male suits flapping uncontrollably on a clothesline in the wind, with little body weight inside them.
We all made it aboard and profusely thanked the driver. He set us down at the RAAF Memorial Centre at 11.50am, two hours and 20 minutes after leaving Warrandyte! But, as usual, it was a great day, though again there were the moments when we stood to remember those who had passed on since the last luncheon - six this time. Well, at least they and we have enjoyed a long life, in contrast with most of those we knew in war days.
Having introduced Don to public transport I felt I had an obligation to get him back home the same way. When I asked him if he was ready to go I found him with his young brother Phil, whose mate, John Ulrik, had driven in from Ringwood. John wouldn't at all mind going via Warrandyte. So, cap in hand, I asked if 1 could cadge a ride too. I didn't fancy the tram and bus. So that is how the December luncheon ended.
My young brother Phil (also wartime aircrew) noticed that I lacked the staying power for further Bob Cox travel. With his mate John we were home to Warrandyte in 40 minutes. I'm not sure that Bob noticed me get out at Everard Drive; he was occupied just then in inviting John to the local RSL. I heard him declare, "The bar will just be open!" It's great to be young - well, less old. I went in and slept.