Oerlikon Gun - Story One
"Without warning a 20mm Oerlikon shell pushed its snout through the wall. All present held their breath, and almost instantly, everyone had cleared not only the office but the hangar as well." Click here for full story.
Oerlikon Gun - Story Two
In 1948 the Karen advance carried all before it. Soon the insurgency gained undisputed control of surface transport, which allowed them unfettered occupation of key towns in the Irrawaddy Delta and Central Burma.
Just when things couldn’t get worse the Karens over-ran Insein, a large town less than ten miles from the centre of Rangoon. It was a strategic gain, for the main northern railway terminated there, yet it had an even greater value. Its easterly boundary infringed the circuit of the main runway at Mingaladon Airport – the country’s last line of communication.
Just when things couldn’t get worse the Karens over-ran Insein, a large town less than ten miles from the centre of Rangoon. It was a strategic gain, for the main northern railway terminated there, yet it had an even greater value. Its easterly boundary infringed the circuit of the main runway at Mingaladon Airport – the country’s last line of communication.
1948 Mingaladon Airport, Rangoon, Burma. The terminal building contained Port, Health, Immigration, Customs and the Palace of Germs. Note the Avro Anson outside the schrapnel scarred hangar. (Phot: Ken Wolinski)
Though the Karens had few heavy weapons they had positioned a deadly Oerlikon gun so that it traversed the main runway. The Burmese Air Force made it a
point to never use that runway. Why stretch one’s luck?
The Karens had an eagle-eyed sniper whose sole ambition was to irritate as many Burmese as possible. From the crest of a small hill he had a field of fire that covered both the airport and the two main bends of the Prome Road.
There was no after dark movement on that vital link as his accuracy could take out the hooded headlights of any driver foolish enough to run the gauntlet. He had a particular fetish for U Sway Tin’s shining station wagon, but caused nothing more serious than the odd deep crease in the left fender. He would allow Sway to have it fixed and then crease it again in the same spot. His other joy was to make Wally Malmborg dance a merry jig on the way to his radio shack. Both knew he was merely toying with them for he was a master of his craft. They felt no animosity toward him and were inconsolable when they learned he been promoted because he wouldn’t take his job seriously – he was supposed to kill the enemy not entertain them!
point to never use that runway. Why stretch one’s luck?
The Karens had an eagle-eyed sniper whose sole ambition was to irritate as many Burmese as possible. From the crest of a small hill he had a field of fire that covered both the airport and the two main bends of the Prome Road.
There was no after dark movement on that vital link as his accuracy could take out the hooded headlights of any driver foolish enough to run the gauntlet. He had a particular fetish for U Sway Tin’s shining station wagon, but caused nothing more serious than the odd deep crease in the left fender. He would allow Sway to have it fixed and then crease it again in the same spot. His other joy was to make Wally Malmborg dance a merry jig on the way to his radio shack. Both knew he was merely toying with them for he was a master of his craft. They felt no animosity toward him and were inconsolable when they learned he been promoted because he wouldn’t take his job seriously – he was supposed to kill the enemy not entertain them!
Wally Malmborg
Radio technician Wally Malmborg started with Cathay Pacific Airways early in 1949 and having little to do, Hokum Harris seconded him to PAMAS. Then he found himself in Rangoon wet nursing the radios on the single weekly service Cathay operated. His workload remained low until Cathay loaned him to Amphibian Airways. In contrast AA’s radio equipment needed continuous attention and Wally’s days of low utilisation suddenly became a nightmarish grind.
Amphibian Airways charters quickly changed from humanitarian food drops to sinister duties. Naturally, for a price! Its planes now concentrated on carrying troops and ammunition behind Karen positions, and with the calibre of its pilots any reasonable stretch of water was an admirable landing spot.
Wally Malmborg makes a few generalised observations of those confused days.
The reasons behind the Karen rebellion began to disturb many of the expatriate airmen. Although some were outspoken, expressing where their sympathies lay, however, they continued working against their conscience. The dangling of 'thirty pieces of silver' overcame their scruples.
Cathay Pacific had two sets of stencils for the aircraft’s fuselage. When it engaged itself in humane drops of salt, rice and flour, we used the Cathay stencils.
Later, when the same aircraft carried ammo and troops a frantic ground crew would change the stencils from Cathay Pacific to Air Burma. Yet, this musical chair type shuffling meant little. Nobody thought to change the Hong Kong registration letters to Burmese ones. That, at least, would have paid lip service to an operation that was an insurance broker’s nightmare.
My working conditions were beyond imagination. The radio workshop was in a very inaccessible place near the old control tower. It was a bamboo structure with a thatched roof. My workbench was a couple of planks supported by two packing cases. The dirt floor was invariably under several inches of water and I learned the art of balancing on a plank supportedby house bricks. The power supply to run this 'technical wonder' was an old aircraft battery. Looking back now I wonder if anyone else would have stuck it out!
At this time the Karens held Insein, a large town about 2 miles from the end of our main runway. Karen Oerlikon artillery kept us aware of its presence. Anything that moved on the airfield got its undivided attention.
Amphibian Airways had engine and airframe engineers aplenty, but I was the lone radio technician and consequently the weak link. The Karens decided to remind me of this. My walks to work gathered speed as I avoided their pot shots. Naturally, this did little to bring on a bout of enthusiasm. When I complained about this somewhat one-sided contest Captain Phillips belittled the danger. He took delight in reminding me I was paid salary plus 50 percent war loading to take risks.
I reminded him that he was paid on the same basis. Henceforth he would have the privilege of driving me across No-Man’s-Land, to my luxurious laboratory. I assured him I would not complain if he could tickle supersonic speed. To show the absurdity of my demand he doubled up with mirth until he realised I was packing my spare spanner.
For two days he manfully drove me to and from work. To show his versatility my friendly sniper added windshield shattering to his already extensive repertoire. Phillips decided the replacement of windshields would make him a pauper. He gleefully entombed me in another location. It was no more sumptuous but far less dangerous.
Radio technician Wally Malmborg started with Cathay Pacific Airways early in 1949 and having little to do, Hokum Harris seconded him to PAMAS. Then he found himself in Rangoon wet nursing the radios on the single weekly service Cathay operated. His workload remained low until Cathay loaned him to Amphibian Airways. In contrast AA’s radio equipment needed continuous attention and Wally’s days of low utilisation suddenly became a nightmarish grind.
Amphibian Airways charters quickly changed from humanitarian food drops to sinister duties. Naturally, for a price! Its planes now concentrated on carrying troops and ammunition behind Karen positions, and with the calibre of its pilots any reasonable stretch of water was an admirable landing spot.
Wally Malmborg makes a few generalised observations of those confused days.
The reasons behind the Karen rebellion began to disturb many of the expatriate airmen. Although some were outspoken, expressing where their sympathies lay, however, they continued working against their conscience. The dangling of 'thirty pieces of silver' overcame their scruples.
Cathay Pacific had two sets of stencils for the aircraft’s fuselage. When it engaged itself in humane drops of salt, rice and flour, we used the Cathay stencils.
Later, when the same aircraft carried ammo and troops a frantic ground crew would change the stencils from Cathay Pacific to Air Burma. Yet, this musical chair type shuffling meant little. Nobody thought to change the Hong Kong registration letters to Burmese ones. That, at least, would have paid lip service to an operation that was an insurance broker’s nightmare.
My working conditions were beyond imagination. The radio workshop was in a very inaccessible place near the old control tower. It was a bamboo structure with a thatched roof. My workbench was a couple of planks supported by two packing cases. The dirt floor was invariably under several inches of water and I learned the art of balancing on a plank supportedby house bricks. The power supply to run this 'technical wonder' was an old aircraft battery. Looking back now I wonder if anyone else would have stuck it out!
At this time the Karens held Insein, a large town about 2 miles from the end of our main runway. Karen Oerlikon artillery kept us aware of its presence. Anything that moved on the airfield got its undivided attention.
Amphibian Airways had engine and airframe engineers aplenty, but I was the lone radio technician and consequently the weak link. The Karens decided to remind me of this. My walks to work gathered speed as I avoided their pot shots. Naturally, this did little to bring on a bout of enthusiasm. When I complained about this somewhat one-sided contest Captain Phillips belittled the danger. He took delight in reminding me I was paid salary plus 50 percent war loading to take risks.
I reminded him that he was paid on the same basis. Henceforth he would have the privilege of driving me across No-Man’s-Land, to my luxurious laboratory. I assured him I would not complain if he could tickle supersonic speed. To show the absurdity of my demand he doubled up with mirth until he realised I was packing my spare spanner.
For two days he manfully drove me to and from work. To show his versatility my friendly sniper added windshield shattering to his already extensive repertoire. Phillips decided the replacement of windshields would make him a pauper. He gleefully entombed me in another location. It was no more sumptuous but far less dangerous.
Wally in foreground and 'Mox the Ox' in background
Capt. Cobley’s Airways Burma Avro Anson 1948.
She is tucked tidily into Mingaladon’s shrapnel
scarred hangar. (Photo U Sway Tin)
Oerlikon Gun - Story Three
One day a diminutive and effervescent Frenchman landed at Mingaladon. He worked for Aigle Azure (Blue Eagle) Airlines and hailed from Nice. Bob Smith started on some engine maintenance for him. With the job completed he expressed his thanks and said he’d be off, pointing to the southern end of the main runway. Bob told him Karens with lots of guns, were down there. With an expressive shrug the Frenchman told him not to worry. He flew in the war and a few guns didn’t impress him. He taxied down, turned for his engine check and then began rolling.
Suddenly one wing went down and he shuddered to a stop. Through his binoculars, Bob saw the whole crew scramble out the door and gather around the port wheel. A couple more crumps started them running back along the strip. The diminutive captain began last but arrived first, so the war obviously had taught him something!
He screamed, Zey ave don eet, zey ave don eet! Zee Oerlikon gun, boom! boom! Bob reminded him of his warning and he calmed down. Oui, zey are down zer all right. Ave you ze olio he politely enquired.
Bob, lapsing into the dialect of the moment, replied, Oui, I ave zee olio, ze jack, I ave ze men, but zey no go down zer.
Zis, excuse me, this was music hall at its very best. Here were a couple of the finest song and dance men that never trod the boards.
The Frenchman was a game little devil. Down he rushed fired up his engines and brought the DC-3 back on one flat tyre, which took a lot of guts!
When Bob checked the plane he found the tyre was the least of the Frenchman’s worries. A gaping hole, ten inches in diameter, was in the starboard wing. The Oerlikon’s shell had gone through the mid-section, grazed the fuel-tanks, skidded off a spar cap, and emerged through the upper surface of the wing.
Bob suggested he should check things more closely. The Frenchman decided that was overdoing things. Bob then suggested that he would smooth out the edges of the hole and cherry rivet a metal patch on it. Adamantly the Frenchman exclaimed that was going to extremes!
His solution was; Get ze snips and ze fabric and ze dope. Zat will be okay! Bob, trying to reason with him, said, Zat is a beeg ole.
Mais non,’ said the Frenchman, In ze war I fly ze DC-3 wiz ole in wing zis beeg! He held his arms to indicate a three-foot circle.
Realising he had met his match, Bob put on a fabric patch, gave it a hefty coat of dope, then added two more coats as an after thought. The Frenchman extracted his crew from a place fraught with far more danger, La Palais de Germs and off they went for France.
Bob said that he came back a few weeks later with a gigantic bottle of cognac. For you, mon ami, ze ver bez cognac, and managed to guzzle about half the bottle before Eric Aylward decided his medicinal needs were much greater.
The day the Karens surrounded Mingaladon brought another nail-biting experience to Cathay’s resident ground engineer. Bob Smithy Smith recalled,
Earlier in the day the Karens blocked the Prome Road. That meant we were stranded at Mingaladon. We did, however, get warning the Karens were advancing on the airport and managed to fly most of our aircraft and personnel to Bangkok. Yet one Cathay DC-3 remained on the tarmac needing an engine change. That morning Johnnie Riordan had returned with a feathered prop. Checking found it had a failed master rod bearing. Eric Aylward, a guy named Jacobs, and a couple of others had stayed to help me work on it.
Despite an unearthly silence they knew the Karens were biding their time and would soon overrun the field. This kept them interested in their work. Bob estimated the engine would be installed soon after dark. Then all they had to do was to replace the cowls, give it a quick run, get Riordan from the RAF Mission across the strip and take off for the flesh pots of Bangkok.
Smithy and Eric went across to the Palace of Germs to bring back something to eat. The lights were on but there was no sign of Moutrie or his minions. They had scuttled off at the first smell of trouble. The tables were loaded with food and something that brought a thoughtful gleam to Eric’s face - the bar had been left wide open.
Smithy filled a large cardboard box with food. With slightly different priorities Eric filled two massive crushed ice buckets with grog and the group had a banquet beneath the aircraft’s wing. Soon nobody gave a damn when the Karen’s would come or how many.
They finished the job in the dark using cardboard tubes to restrict the light spread of their torches. Their progress was good until a barrage of shells whined overhead and crumped behind the civilian hangar. The Karen artillery repeated their barrage every ten minutes. However, between each barrage racing hands were getting the job done. When a star shell turned the night to day, Smithy’s mob decided that enough was enough. They scuttled into the paddy fields across the runway, and there between the waving stalks of rice they had had a front-row view of the bombardment.
Eric wanted them to sneak back and fly the DC-3 away. He didn’t care about its lack of cowls or no run-up – he just wanted to get out. Smithy asked who would fly it. Eric sneered. Smithy, you keep telling us you hold a flying licence, so fly the bloody thing. Bob Smith was a fine pilot who had trained at the same flying club as I at Mascot, but he hadn’t handled anything as big as a DC-3 and sensibly refused to take the bait.
Just before dawn a platoon of Karens politely knocked at the door of the BAF hangar. Suddenly, figures were seen jumping from windows and dashing across the runway, achieving the difficult feat of changing from uniforms into mufti on the run. The Karens screamed with glee at their antics, and with the last man dwindling into the distance the Karens smashed the controls and bayoneted the fuel tanks of the Airspeed Oxfords.
Smithy said, It surprised us when the Karens didn’t burn the Air Force aeroplanes. Later they took part in the final defeat of the rebels. The VHF radio sets were all they removed. They used these to good advantage by establishing a good communication network at their Toungoo headquarters.
When one considers the extent of the shelling there was very little damage. It flattened the International Aeradio premises and added a few more shrapnel scars to Cathay Pacific’s hangar.
The Aeradio fellows were a good bunch and did not deserve to lose everything. What a blessing if the shells had erred just a few yards. They would have eliminated the Palace of Germs. A blessing to everyone!
Suddenly one wing went down and he shuddered to a stop. Through his binoculars, Bob saw the whole crew scramble out the door and gather around the port wheel. A couple more crumps started them running back along the strip. The diminutive captain began last but arrived first, so the war obviously had taught him something!
He screamed, Zey ave don eet, zey ave don eet! Zee Oerlikon gun, boom! boom! Bob reminded him of his warning and he calmed down. Oui, zey are down zer all right. Ave you ze olio he politely enquired.
Bob, lapsing into the dialect of the moment, replied, Oui, I ave zee olio, ze jack, I ave ze men, but zey no go down zer.
Zis, excuse me, this was music hall at its very best. Here were a couple of the finest song and dance men that never trod the boards.
The Frenchman was a game little devil. Down he rushed fired up his engines and brought the DC-3 back on one flat tyre, which took a lot of guts!
When Bob checked the plane he found the tyre was the least of the Frenchman’s worries. A gaping hole, ten inches in diameter, was in the starboard wing. The Oerlikon’s shell had gone through the mid-section, grazed the fuel-tanks, skidded off a spar cap, and emerged through the upper surface of the wing.
Bob suggested he should check things more closely. The Frenchman decided that was overdoing things. Bob then suggested that he would smooth out the edges of the hole and cherry rivet a metal patch on it. Adamantly the Frenchman exclaimed that was going to extremes!
His solution was; Get ze snips and ze fabric and ze dope. Zat will be okay! Bob, trying to reason with him, said, Zat is a beeg ole.
Mais non,’ said the Frenchman, In ze war I fly ze DC-3 wiz ole in wing zis beeg! He held his arms to indicate a three-foot circle.
Realising he had met his match, Bob put on a fabric patch, gave it a hefty coat of dope, then added two more coats as an after thought. The Frenchman extracted his crew from a place fraught with far more danger, La Palais de Germs and off they went for France.
Bob said that he came back a few weeks later with a gigantic bottle of cognac. For you, mon ami, ze ver bez cognac, and managed to guzzle about half the bottle before Eric Aylward decided his medicinal needs were much greater.
The day the Karens surrounded Mingaladon brought another nail-biting experience to Cathay’s resident ground engineer. Bob Smithy Smith recalled,
Earlier in the day the Karens blocked the Prome Road. That meant we were stranded at Mingaladon. We did, however, get warning the Karens were advancing on the airport and managed to fly most of our aircraft and personnel to Bangkok. Yet one Cathay DC-3 remained on the tarmac needing an engine change. That morning Johnnie Riordan had returned with a feathered prop. Checking found it had a failed master rod bearing. Eric Aylward, a guy named Jacobs, and a couple of others had stayed to help me work on it.
Despite an unearthly silence they knew the Karens were biding their time and would soon overrun the field. This kept them interested in their work. Bob estimated the engine would be installed soon after dark. Then all they had to do was to replace the cowls, give it a quick run, get Riordan from the RAF Mission across the strip and take off for the flesh pots of Bangkok.
Smithy and Eric went across to the Palace of Germs to bring back something to eat. The lights were on but there was no sign of Moutrie or his minions. They had scuttled off at the first smell of trouble. The tables were loaded with food and something that brought a thoughtful gleam to Eric’s face - the bar had been left wide open.
Smithy filled a large cardboard box with food. With slightly different priorities Eric filled two massive crushed ice buckets with grog and the group had a banquet beneath the aircraft’s wing. Soon nobody gave a damn when the Karen’s would come or how many.
They finished the job in the dark using cardboard tubes to restrict the light spread of their torches. Their progress was good until a barrage of shells whined overhead and crumped behind the civilian hangar. The Karen artillery repeated their barrage every ten minutes. However, between each barrage racing hands were getting the job done. When a star shell turned the night to day, Smithy’s mob decided that enough was enough. They scuttled into the paddy fields across the runway, and there between the waving stalks of rice they had had a front-row view of the bombardment.
Eric wanted them to sneak back and fly the DC-3 away. He didn’t care about its lack of cowls or no run-up – he just wanted to get out. Smithy asked who would fly it. Eric sneered. Smithy, you keep telling us you hold a flying licence, so fly the bloody thing. Bob Smith was a fine pilot who had trained at the same flying club as I at Mascot, but he hadn’t handled anything as big as a DC-3 and sensibly refused to take the bait.
Just before dawn a platoon of Karens politely knocked at the door of the BAF hangar. Suddenly, figures were seen jumping from windows and dashing across the runway, achieving the difficult feat of changing from uniforms into mufti on the run. The Karens screamed with glee at their antics, and with the last man dwindling into the distance the Karens smashed the controls and bayoneted the fuel tanks of the Airspeed Oxfords.
Smithy said, It surprised us when the Karens didn’t burn the Air Force aeroplanes. Later they took part in the final defeat of the rebels. The VHF radio sets were all they removed. They used these to good advantage by establishing a good communication network at their Toungoo headquarters.
When one considers the extent of the shelling there was very little damage. It flattened the International Aeradio premises and added a few more shrapnel scars to Cathay Pacific’s hangar.
The Aeradio fellows were a good bunch and did not deserve to lose everything. What a blessing if the shells had erred just a few yards. They would have eliminated the Palace of Germs. A blessing to everyone!
