NO MUSTARD ON THE FRANKFURTER

By

Douglas D. Walker

As the spring of 1945 drew near, the weather began to warm-up and the days grew sunnier, our 8th Air Force Base became a brighter and cheerier place to live. We had been flying clandestine night missions throughout the severe winter of 1944-45 from Harrington, England. I was on a Carpetbagger Crew, flying black Liberator bombers with the 856th Bomb Squadron of the 492nd Bomb Group. We dropped OSS agents into France, Belgium, and Germany--as well as munitions and supplies to the underground Resistance forces in Nazi occupied Europe.

During the winter months, I had learned that one of my Hempstead High School (Long Island, N.Y.) chums--Joe Uzmann, was a bombardier on a B-17, flying out of an 8th Air Force Base near Bury St. Edmunds. I wrote him a letter and established contact. In April 1945, I traveled to his air base and we had a happy reunion—relieved that, so far, we had survived the vicious air war. (After the war, Joe served as my best man when I married my high school sweetheart, Jacqueline Cannon.)

Joe and I decided to get away from the 8th Air Force for the weekend and traveled north by train to a prewar beach resort on the North Sea called Skegness-On-The-Wash. A friend of mine, the Radio Operator on Lt. Donald F. Reran's aircrew-Sgt. Donald J. McHale-was the "wit" of our 850th Bomb Squadron. Noting the abundance of descriptive British place names which were "on" something such as "Richmond-On-The-Thames",-- It-Stow-On-The-World"--"Stoke-On-The-Trent"--etc.--, McHale would bedevil and confuse the British railway ticket sellers, when we were traveling to London on a pass, by asking for a ticket to “No-Mustard-On-The-Frankfurter -or-“No-Onion-On-The-Hamburger."

When Joe and I arrived at Skegness-On-The-Wash, on a Saturday afternoon, we quickly settled into a Bed and Breakfast home and prepared to go out on the town.
As we left the B&B, the proprietor warned us rather stuffily that he locked his door at precisely twelve midnight--and, if we "weren't in by that time, we would be out of luck for a place to sleep.

We roamed the beaches of Skegness that afternoon, most of which were covered with barbed wire, steel tank traps, and other anti-invasion paraphernalia. After a restaurant supper , we found the local Palais-de-Dance and danced with some of the damsels. Because we weren't alert to the time, we suddenly noticed it was about 12:10 A.M.--just past the Cinderella hour given us by the proprietor. We ran back to the house--a mile away--and arrived about 12:30. Sure enough--the place was dark.

Bound and determined to sleep in the beds we'd rented, Joe and I leaned on the doorbell for several minutes , with no results. The proprietor was obviously in no mood to co-operate. We then searched the front of the house and decided to try and enter through a window. I cupped my hands and gave Joe a lift up so that he could try and open a window. Just then, while Joe was teetering on the sill, a flashlight beam spotlighted us, a commanding English voice said, "What are you lads doing up there?"

To our embarrassment, an English "Bobby" was standing there, glowering at us. We explained our predicament and with a smile he reckoned us to follow him and began banging on the front door with his nightstick--loudly calling for the proprietor. The door soon opened and, to our amusement, there stood the proprietor dressed in a tasseled nightcap and a flannel nightgown--peering at us from behind a candle, like a character out of Dickens. The "Bobby" asked if we were staying at his B&B. When he said, "Yes"--the policeman said, "Alright then, sorry to waken you, but the lads are ready to sleep now-so why not be a good chap and let them in?" As we walked by the policeman, he gave us a sly wink and said, "Good night Yanks-sleep well."

Footnotes:

1) “They Flew by Night”, author – Col. Robert W. Fish (Ret.) – Pages 77 thru 78