A LIFE FOR MEN

by

E. J. Williams

Memoir of a non-flying, non-commissioned Regular Airman. 1940 to 1953

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Introduction & Prelude Page 3

Chapter 2 The First Steps Page 9

Chapter 3 Into The Melting Pot Page 14

Chapter 4 Into The Mould Page 21

Chapter 5 Education & Nourishment Page 27

Chapter 6 Recreation & Leave Page 38

Chapter 7 Loosing The Rough Edges Page 49

Chapter 8 First Posting – RAF Bottesford Page 56

Chapter 9 Cat & Mouse Page 63

Chapter 10 Down To Business Page 72

Chapter 11 Squadron Will Move Page 80

Chapter 12 Little Staughton Page 91

Chapter 13 Never a Dull Moment Page 100

Chapter 14 Towards The Close Page 111

Chapter 15 In a New Direction Page 120

Chapter 16 Caring For The Grey Boxes Page 129

Chapter 17 On The Road To Singapore Page 142

Chapter 18 East of Suez Page 153

Chapter 19 RAF Changi Page 163

Chapter 20 Roll on Demob! Page 173

Chapter 21 Married Quarters Page 178

Chapter 22 RAF Henlow – Final Posting Page 185

Chapter 23 The Last Lap Page 191

Chapter 24 In Retrospect Page 195

Trivia Page 197

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INTRODUCTION

During the 1930's the RAF was expanding. To attract new recruits, the Air Ministry, by advertising in the daily newspapers, invited men to apply for Short Service Commissions, to join the Auxiliary Air Force or even to embark on a career in the ranks as non-flying personnel.

One such advertisement in the latter category urged the reader to join the RAF and pursue "A Life For Men". Being too young to follow this particular course of action, I was attracted by another advertisement which proclaimed the benefits that would ensue from joining the RAF as an Aircraft Apprentice. I paid heed to all that was said and, in 1939, set the process of enlistment in motion. What follows here is an account of my experiences in pursuing a career as an RAF tradesman. The narrative offers no great moments of excitement or adventure. There are no firsthand accounts of heroism or dicing with death. Hopefully, in spite of these possible deficiencies, the narrative will have its interesting moments.

During World War 2 , for every man engaged on flying duties there were at least ten men and women on the ground in support; either directly or indirectly. Little seems to have been written and published about these non-flying Airmen. This may help to fill this gap.

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CHAPTER 1

PRELUDE .

What made me think of pursuing a career in the RAF when I left school in 1939? There is not a single straight forward answer to that. My choice was influenced by several factors which, taken collectively, presented reasons for breaking with the traditional trend of ending up in an office, shop or factory. In the years between the wars, the general view of men who joined the ranks of HM Forces was that they did so in desperation, not being able to earn a living in any other way. This might be something that I would have to live down.

For a lad who was growing up m the late 1920's, and in the decade which followed, there were quite a few things going on which could foster an interest in flying. Following on World War I, aviation was developing rapidly and there was plenty to whet and sustain an avid interest in the topic.

The exploits of the Royal Flying Corps provided a rich source of material for writers of fiction and film scripts. Films such as the classical "Hell's Angels" and "Dawn Patrol" were unforgettable and the weekly publication of "The Modern Boy," which contained stories of Biggles and Algie by W.E.Johns., was always something to savour.

I can remember being taken by my parents to see the Hendon Air Display on a couple of occasions and enjoyed the flying displays immensely. Apart from such feasts of aerial activity as these displays, the sound of an aero engine would, at any time cause my eyes to look to the sky. There was always something interesting to see and on two such occasions the source of the noise was something special: first the R100 and then the R101 which were airships based at RAF Cardington.

The Newsreels shown in the cinemas at that time and the Radio news bulletins carried details of aviators making record breaking flights. (I suppose that in these days they would be said to be "pushing back the frontiers"). Names such as Amy Johnson, Jim Mollison, Charles Lindburgh, Bert Hinkler, Charles Kingsford~Smith and Jean

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Batten were familiar to almost everyone. They were as well, if not better known than most sportsmen and politicians of the day.

I also had an older cousin, who I liked and respected. He was a member of an Auxiliary Air Force Squadron based at Detling in Kent. He always gave a favourable impression of his experiences and used to send us a Christmas card tastefully embossed with the Squadron crest. The card was also decorated at the fold with a ribbon in the RAF colours. I recaIl how these cards impressed me. Any organisation which could be associated with such luxurious items as these must be something special!

I had another interest. For as far back as I could remember, my Father had been addicted to building and then tinkering with wireless receivers; crystal sets in the beginning and then sets which operated with thermionic valves. There were plenty of bits and pieces going spare so that I was able to foIlow a similar although less expensive course. This pastime was very enjoyable and I began to think in terms of making a living in this field when the time came to leave school.

From the age of 11 years I attended a Grammar School. By the time that 1 had reached 14 , I thought it was time to begin to consider seriously what to do when the time came to work for a living. The ambitions of most of my contemporaries centred mainly on following in their father's footsteps and commuting to and from London to work in an office. This did not appeal to me in the least. It would not accommodate my new interest and besides, London had no attraction for me.

There was another development which, with hindsight, could be seen as having a bearing on my choice of career. Home life was not too good. Suffice it to say that there was an increasing amount of domestic turmoil which centred on me (the only child) and any job which involved leaving home could have a large "plus" attached to it.

At school, I became aware that one or two older boys had left before taking their School Certificate exams. Apparently they had joined the RAF under some kind of apprentice scheme. The RAF was expanding in the 1930's and it was not unusual to find recruiting advertisements in the daily newspapers. In one such advert they were

4 inviting enquiries from youths who might be interested in enlisting as Aircraft Apprentices.

I replied and received, through the post, a copy of Air Ministry Pamphlet 15 which gave details of the scheme. Boys could enlist as Aircraft Apprentices between the ages of 15 and 17½. The apprenticeship lasted for 3 years during which they would be paid 1 shilling per day. They would be allowed 6 weeks leave per year; 1 week at Easter, three weeks in the summer and a fortnight at Christmas.

Implicit with enlistment as an apprentice was an undertaking to serve in the RAF for 12 years from the age of 18. Aircraft Apprentices were trained to be the elite of the RAF's ground tradesmen i.e. in Group 1 Trades. There was a choice of trades; Fitter 1, Armourer, Instrument Maker or Wireless & Electrical Mechanic. This latter category was clearly the one for me.

There were other attractions - opportunities for overseas travel; the possibility of flying training and encouragement to take part in a wide range of sporting activities. "Apprentices work hard and play hard" is a phrase that I clearly recall.

I have mentioned that the apprentice's pay was 1/- per day. After completion of training, one might end up as an AC1 (Aircraftsman 1st Class), in which case the pay would be 4/6 a day. An LAC (Leading Aircraftman) earned 5/6 a day whilst promotion to the rank of Corporal would bring a reward of 7/6 per day.

After absorbing all this, I was warming to the idea of joining up under this arrangement. There were two avenues of entry. Firstly, one could take an entrance examination, or, if one had a School Certificate this requirement could be waived. The latter course would be for me.

A.M. Pamphlet 15 gave a summary of the medical examination. Amongst other things candidates had to be able to hear a forced whisper from 24ft. and must not have hammer toes. Was my hearing up to this standard? What were hammer toes, and had I got any? Off came the shoes and socks! I was certainly taking this business very seriously.

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Candidates for these apprenticeships made their intentions known to their school who then instructed the county Education authority to submit names to the Air Ministry.

There were two entries of apprentices every year, One in January and another in September. In the summer of 1939, with my parents blessing, I asked to be nominated for the September entry, and stated my preference for training as a

Wireless and Electrical Mechanic. All I had to do now was to wait.

In the summer I sat for my School Certificate exams, passed them and left school at the end of the summer term at the age of 16. I didn't take it for granted that I was certain to be accepted by the RAF, after all - I might have hammer toes or some other disqualifying feature! I therefore started to look for a job of some sort so that, if the worst came to the worse, I would not find myself high and dry.

July and August passed and by the time that war was declared on September 3rd I had heard nothing from the Air Ministry. I decided to wait for a couple of weeks but there was no sign of any letter from them. I then took my courage in both hands and decided to use a telephone call box for the first time in my life. This was a call that is easy to remember. They told me that the reason that they had not contacted me was that they had not received any application on my behalf. The Middlesex Education

Committee had let me down. The Air Ministry told me to apply again (via the same route) and with a bit of luck I would be called for the next entry in January of 1940.

I left that 'phone box with tears in my eyes. I was terribly disappointed after having built up my hopes for so long. In later years, at times when I was frustrated with being in the RAF, I was to remember those tears and ask myself what made me feel so sad!

There was nothing to be done but tell the Middlesex Education Committee that they had messed things up and to try for the next entry in January 1940. .

Christmas 1939 arrived and by then I had received a letter from the Air Ministry to say that, due to an outbreak of Spinal Meningitis at Cranwell, the next entry of

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Apprentices had been postponed until March 1940. This was another disappointment but not an occasion for tears.

I had no success in getting a job. However, in late February the envelope that I had awaited for so long, and with quite a bit of impatience, finally arrived through the post.

I was to report to an RAF representative on Paddington Station on a day at the beginning of March and travel by special train to Wendover and thence to RAF

Halton. Above all, I must bring my Gas Mask with me and enough brown paper and string to pack my civilian clothes in if I was accepted. The clothes would be sent home free of charge.

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CHAPTER 2

THE FIRST STEPS

On the appointed day I set out for Paddington - by trolley bus from Edmonton to Manor House and then by tube train to Paddington. When I got there I found the area near to one of the platforms populated with an assorted collection of lads. They were gathered .near to a man in RAF uniform. I knew enough about RAF badges of rank to identify him as a Warrant Officer. One of the lads stood out from the others. He wore an A.T.C. (Air Training Corps) uniform and, in front of quite a large (and later critical) audience, approached the W.O. and gave him a very military salute. He was to be constantly reminded of this faux pas during the following months. (A Warrant Officer does not hold the Sovereign's Commission and is not entitled to a salute).

After being shepherded onto the train we made an uneventful journey to Wendover. We were marched or, more truthfully, made pretence of marching the mile from Wendover Railway Station to RAF Halton. On arrival we were allocated to barrack rooms and, as by this time it was late afternoon, were taken to the Airmen's Mess and given a meal of Sausages and Mash followed by tinned Peaches and Custard. In retrospect, I believe that this meal was prepared and presented with rather more care than was customary in order to give us a good first impression of the Air Force. I can only say that they succeeded.

We had the evening to ourselves and it was a time for taking st.ock. So far things were not too bad. My fellow candidates seemed quite a pleasant lot. The occupants of the dormitory were in the care of an L.A.C. who had recently completed his apprenticeship at Halton. He was very helpful and pleasant in manner.

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On this first evening I made my first visit to a NAAFI canteen, or the "Tank" as it was called by Halton inmates. This introduced me to my first taste of NAAFI tea. With time, I was to appreciate that wherever one went, year in - year out, NAAFI tea would always have its own unique uninteresting taste. However, it has to be said that the NAAFI has to be complimented for being consistent in maintaining its poor quality!

Bedtime on that day was memorable for two reasons. Firstly, one of my room-mates was Scottish and wore a kilt. We were all too reticent to make comments or joke about what might be worn beneath it but, when our Scot started to ready himself for bed, all eyes were upon him. When the kilt was removed a modest pair of dark blue briefs was revealed.

The second event, to which we all bore silent witness, occurred when the lad in the next bed to mine knelt down beside his bed, put his hands together and said his prayers before getting into bed. He ended up as a Halton Apprentice and so we soon parted company. When I remember this incident I always wonder how far into his RAF career did he manage to continue this practice. My guess is that, as soon as he and his fellow apprentices arrived at a more familiar relationship, he would find himself being mercilessly ridiculed for doing it and, consequently, change his ways.

On the following day the business of enlistment began. The key activity was the Medical Examination. From this I learned that my eyesight was below standard but would only debar me from aircrew activities. However, it confirmed that I did not have hammer toes and revealed as false the statement in AP.15 that the hearing test involved hearing a forced whisper at 24ft. It, in fact, was performed by the M.O. sticking a finger in one’s ear and turning his head away and muttering something. In retrospect this should have been a clear warning that life in the Air Force and statements in recruiting literature could be quite different things.

During the next day or two, other notable events took place the most important of which was attestation or the process of taking the Oath of Allegiance. This was conducted by a Sergeant who administered the Oath to us in groups of ten individuals. Firstly he handed to each of us a Bible which we were told to hold in our right hands. He then told us that he was going to read out a list of our names. When

9 ones name, e.g. Joe Bloggs, was caIIed one would then say aloud the words "I, Joe BIoggs - ". When all names were called we had to repeat the remainder of the oath which the Sergeant read to us phrase by phrase. After this we were well and truly in the RAF.

The Sergeant had things well in hand until he came to my name. Like many others he did not know how to pronounce the Welsh name Emrys. He dealt with this by saying "George Williams" and looked rapidly around the group to see what kind of creature would respond and help him out of his difficulty. I chirped up with "I, Emrys Williams -" and he looked quite relieved! I have no difficulty in remembering the day of attestation. It was March 5th 1940 and from time to time, in later years, I was to look back on that day and wonder whether I had done the right thing.

Now that we had been sworn in, the flavour of events changed somewhat. Orders were now given, not requests, and the tiresome process of being changed from a 17 year old youth to the lowest form of life .in the RAF was under way.

We were each given a piece of paper with our Service Number written on it and told to memorise it. Apprentices were, at that time, given six-figure numbers. As a result our young minds were not stretched too far by this task. I don't think that there can be many ex-service men who cannot remember their number even though 50 years may have passed since they last used it!

The next stage in the proceedings was to visit the Clothing Store to be kitted out. The only container of any kind that was immediately available to us was the kit bag which was part of the issue. Although it was quite roomy it was not intended to contain all the items that were issued. I just cannot recall how we moved the kit that we had received back to the barrack room. It was probably with some difficulty. Having got all the items of clothing, brushes, button stick, webbing equipment, water bottle, mess tin etc. we then proceeded to mark most of it with our brand new Service Numbers, using a set of half inch high rubber stamps and an ink pad. The metal items were marked using number punches.

A visit to the Barber’s Shop was required. Before leaving home, I had been foolish enough to have had a haircut - part of the smartening up procedure to create a good

10 impression! Needless to say, when the Halton barber got his hands on me, this made little difference and I came away feeling as though I had been scalped.

To round things off nicely, group photographs were taken against the background of the barrack block entrance. Such pictures of young men who have worn a uniform for all of three days have a unique and slightly amusing impact when viewed in later years. Their appearance is unmistakably that of raw recruits (or "sprogs" to use Air Force slang). Why this Image comes across is not clear. It is certainly not the uniform because if the same individuals are clothed in new outfits at a later time their appearance doesn't project the same image. I suspect that the way in which they wore the RAF "fore and aft" style of cap gives the raw recruits their true identity. Officially this cap should be worn with its lower edge 1" above the right ear. In those days, only a raw recruit would do that. The more seasoned airman would have the cap jammed down hard against the ear!

Within a couple of days of being sworn in and kitted out, those of us destined to be Wireless and Electrical Mechanics (WEMs) were marched back to Wendover Railway Station for delivery by rail to Cranwell. I would not hope to describe the route that was taken but can only say that we remained in the one railway carriage until we disembarked at Cranwell (a single railway line from Sleaford took us up to the Main Guardroom) after having been shunted hither and thither over an amazing length of obscure railway track. I had never realised until then that the railway companies had these inter-connecting links which made it possible to make such a journey without passing through London.

There was nothing memorable about arriving at Cranwell except that it looked less inviting than Halton. Our new home was to be one of a row of red brick, slate roofed barrack blocks that stood in a row along the Southern edge of about an acre of parade ground, better known as "the square". On the North side of the square was a boundary fence beyond which was the single track railway line from Sleaford running parallel to the main road through the camp. The South side of the square was also the location of the flagpole which, by its appearance, discreetly advertised the RAF's former naval connections. The RAF ensign fluttered at the head of the mast and the Station Commander's pennant hung at the end of a protruding jib.

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The West side of the square was bounded by a building which housed a large gymnasium and the Station Cinema. Beyond this were the NAAFI, the YMCA, Sick Bay and the road to the Main Guardroom through which all entries to and exits from the camp were made. At the East side stood the Workshop building and, further on, the complex of huts which housed the classrooms and" equipment which were to occupy the months of training yet to come. To the South of the barrack blocks was an area of ornamental garden and, at the back of this, the large expanse of one of the two airfields which were a unique feature of RAF Cranwell.

Compared with Halton it looked (dare I say it?) a bit scruffy and the buildings seemed to lack the uniformity of appearance that seemed to characterise those at Halton. Once there, we who had arrived from Halton found our numbers increased by another contingent who had gone through the enlistment process at Cranwell. We were housed, about 60 to a dormitory the classic two-storey "H" shaped barrack blocks. Each block contained 8 dormitories in the vertical elements of the H, the "cross bar" housed toilets, baths and showers.

We were, of course, allocated to specific dormitories. The beds were not like any that I had seen before. The size was common enough - 6' X 2'6" - but that was all. There were no springs. In their place were a series of steel strips running from side to side, interwoven with similar strips running from top to bottom. The legs and frame were of cast iron with the frame constructed in two sections, one of which could be telescoped into the other, thus halving the length of the bed. There were no conventional mattresses. Instead, we were issued with three separate items which, when placed end to end on the bed, filled the space as a mattress would. These items were about two inches thick, brown in colour, and referred to as "biscuits" which was what they resembled - but on a large scale. There was no pillow, in the normal sense of that word. What was termed a pillow resembled a very small bolster and was anything but soft. We were issued with sheets and, of course, blankets but would discover after leaving Cranwell that sheets were not standard issue for airmen.

We didn't really settle down as quickly as we might have done because, after about a week, we were given our first real pay (1/- a day, remember) and sent home for a week's Easter leave. This leave, as with all following periods of leave granted to

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Aircraft Apprentices, was subject to parental consent. We had to fill in a form stating the period of leave that was proposed. This was mailed to our parents for them to return with their endorsement. I was always haunted by the fear that, for some reason or other, a favourable reply might not be registered and I would have to languish at Cranwell whilst everyone else went home.

This first leave was an opportunity for showing off the new RAF uniform. It brought quite a few questions as it differed from the normal Air Force apparel in two respects - the distinctive Apprentice badge and the chequered hat band. The badge was worn on the upper part of the left sleeve, an inch or so below the standard RAF albatross flash. It was made of brass, was about one inch in diameter and looked very much like an old cart wheel with 4 spokes. It was always referred to as the "Wheel" although it was, in reality, a four-bladed propeller mounted inside a ring. The hat band was coloured red and blue in a chequer pattern and the cap badge was backed by a red plastic disc. These two items, plus the "Wheel" identified me as belonging to No. 2 (Apprentice) Wing of No. 1 Electrical and Wireless School.

While serving as apprentices we were not allowed to drink alcohol and permitted to smoke only if we were over 18 years of age. When our 18th birthday had passed we could apply for a Smoking Pass. When at Cranwell the rule regarding drink was seldom broken but whilst on leave it was a different matter. There was no problem as long as one was not picked up in a drunken state by the S.P.s (Service Police). Surreptitious smoking took place (usually out of doors where the smoke would disperse easily) at Cranwell and when on leave there were no inhibitions in this respect. At the start of this first spell of leave I bought a packet of 10 Players cigarettes. At the end of the 7 days I still had eight of them left. Almost as soon as I arrived home I developed a very sore throat and almost lost my voice. By the time that I boarded the special train at Kings Cross at the end of my leave the symptoms started to improve. Such is life!

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A fine looking bunch! The author, second from right in middle row, and room-mates during first week at Halton

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CHAPTER 3

INTO THE MELTING POT

Having returned from leave, the realities of being Aircraft Apprentices gradually became clear to us. At the time of our arrival at Cranwell there were three, more senior, entries under training in addition to ourselves. We were the Junior Entry and our formal designation was 2M3. "2" signified the year that our training would finish

(1942), "M" symbolised our potential trade (Wireless and Electrical Mechanic) and "3" the month (March) in which our apprenticeship would end.

As Junior Entry we were preyed upon a good deal by opportunists from more senior groups. As we rapidly learned, money ~ or rather the lack of it - was an eternal problem for almost everyone and we found ourselves being pressed to buy all sorts of things. Copies of The Admiralty Handbook of Wireless Telegraphy (which, had we known at the time, would be on free issue to us) and membership of The Book Club were the items most commonly foisted upon us. I succumbed to the latter and regretted my foolishness long after I had paid for the last of the contractual books.

The Senior Entry finished their course shortly after we got to Cranwell and the

Passing Out ceremonies took place in April of 1940. Officially this took the form a parade which involved the whole of the Apprentice Wing. There were, nevertheless, other aspects of the occasion which were not as well defined. It was made known to us Junior Entry lads that we should take care of ourselves on Passing Out day. It would be wise to steer clear of the Senior Entry, stay in our dormitories and, if possible, secure the doors. The problem was that, after two or three years of Apprentice training, there was a good head of steam to be released. This release would be helped on its way by the dance that was held for the newly fledged Airmen.

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After the Passing-out Parade, they would no longer be Apprentices and hence would no longer be bound by the embargo on alcohol. They were, nevertheless, strongly discouraged from drinking until they had left Cranwell but with dogged determination usually managed to consume their fare share during the Passing Out dance. Most of us were more than a little apprehensive. When the day arrived not much happened that justified these fears other than a few fairly good natured attempts to make us think that our fears were well founded!

It is worth noting that the high spirits of the Senior Entry, fuelled by a drink or two, gave rise to the wish to settle old scores with the N.C.O.s who had within their power the means to make one`s life a misery, (or so it could seem). They generally stayed well out of the way so that they would at least avoid being a witness to wrong-doing if not to suffer from it. At worst those who did fall foul of the revellers suffered from embarrassment rather than anything more serious.

During our apprenticeship the RAF assumed responsibility for our well-being, good behaviour etc. In effect, the Air Force became our guardian and the NCOs, who carried out our non-technical training, were the individuals who carried out this function. They were all Drill Instructors and, with the exception of one or two older

Flight Sergeants and a Warrant Officer, doubled as P. T. I. s (Physical Training Instructors). Their function was not to make life easy or to make themselves popular with their charges - on the contrary! For the most part they were tolerable to us and we, on our part became more philosophical about their role as time progressed. One of them, a Flight Sergeant "Nobby" Clarke stood out amongst the rest. He was, without doubt, strict and stood no nonsense whatever. He tempered this with fairness and you knew just where he drew the line. On one side life was fine; on the other there was little to be joyful about. This situation epitomised life as an Aircraft Apprentice. Life was never as cut and dried as this after leaving Cranwell.

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These N. C. O.s had their quarters in the single rooms (or "bunks" as they were called) which adjoined each dormitory and so were suitably placed to keep an eye on us. They inevitably had nicknames and these generally reflected their place in our esteem. "Grandpa" and "Daddy" were at one end of .the scale and "Louie the Rat" and Beatty the Bastard" at the other!

There were also N.C.O. Apprentices; Leading, Corporal and Sergeant Apprentices who wore (respectively) one, two or three diminutive stripes. The scaled down badges of rank made sure that they would not be mistaken for the genuine articles. The function of these N .C.O. Apprentices was mainly to march us about the camp and be responsible for the general discipline, cleanliness and tidiness in the dormitories.

Each individual, with the exception of the N.C.O. Apprentices, had a "room job" which had to be carried out every morning between returning from breakfast and being marched off to Instruction. These jobs included cleaning taps and washbasins, sweeping the main floor area followed by time spent on "floorpads". This was the standard RAF method of polishing floors. It involved placing a pad, made of a piece of old blanket, under each foot, then moving over the floor by moving from side to side, opening and closing the feet. The jobs were rotated on a weekly basis.

Friday evenings required a much more comprehensive range of chores to be performed in readiness for a Saturday morning inspection which was preceded by a weekly parade attended by the whole of the Apprentice Wing. Added to the normal morning tasks, floor polish was applied, windows cleaned and everything imaginable was dusted; wooden tables, benches and bedside lockers were scrubbed and dustbins and fire- buckets (especially their insides) made to gleam. To express it in colloquial terms - Friday Night Was Bullshit Night!

Few of those who have travelled this path will ever forget the sight and smell of the orange coloured floor polish that never seemed to run out together with the acres of

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brown linoleum to which it was applied. The same applies to metal polish. Not many housewives have appreciated the uses to which Brasso or Bluebell could be put. The

Air Ministry version of these products was packed in a similar small metal tin beautifully embossed with a Crown and the letters A.M. (This symbol was used for many years to identify Air Ministry property). It served as the universal cleaner and, in addition to cleaning brass taps dustbins and fire buckets, was applied successfully to windows, washbasins and baths. It was not legitimately used to clean our brass buttons or buckles on our webbing equipment. This would have amounted to misuse of Government property!

We were each responsible for the state of our own bed space and for the tidiness and presentation of our kit. Every dormitory had on display photographs illustrating the correct layout of kit - where each item was placed and how it was folded - for normal room inspections and for kit inspections. Webbing equipment had to be "Blancoed" (RAF blue) and brasses polished. The simple, open wooden bedside locker had to be scrubbed and the specified items displayed correctly on its top and two lower shelves.

Spare items of clothing were kept, immaculately folded over pieces of cardboard, in a steel locker mounted on the wall above ones bed. The bedside locker was home to soap, towel, razor, toothbrush, boot polish and brushes, hair brush and comb etc. The locker was topped by mug and "irons" i.e. knife fork and spoon. The one pint capacity white china mug sported the RAF crest in blue. This of course had to face the front. These china mugs were frequently broken by accident. Replacements could be purchased from the NAAFI for 6d. (half a day`s pay) each. If funds were not available the appropriate part of a 7" diameter mess tin had to be pressed into service to drink from. This was a very awkward way of taking tea!

When the inspections were conducted by the Officer I/C Squadron we had to stand by our beds and were subject to as much scrutiny as our worldly belongings. The usual military standards were applied; typified by someone being charged with having a

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dirty bed space because he had dropped a sixpence on the floor. Lucky fellow to have so much money!

Many acts perpetrated in the name of good military discipline, when viewed in a detached manner seem ridiculous and to be the products of infantile minds. Be that as it may, when placed at the business end of such thinking, one cannot afford to think too strongly along those lines. The best and probably the only way to keep head above water is to enter into the spirit of the game and emulate the duck shedding water from its back! I soon developed a strong dislike for the system which treated a trivial oversight as what seemed to be a criminal act. The dislike did not stem from my falling foul of the system - on the contrary if I did transgress then I was lucky enough not to be caught. What was abhorrent to me was the fact that one could be charged with such inconsequential infringements, marched in front of the Commanding Officer and awarded some degrading form of punishment. It all seemed so petty. Was this an early sign of a possible miss-fit? We shall see.

At the other extreme, there were those who bucked the system and appeared to delight in the consequences. They enjoyed bragging about the number of days of c.c. (Confinement to Camp or "Jankers" as it was commonly known) they had been awarded. This was the embodiment of the "Get Some In" syndrome which tended to manifest itself mostly among those who had not spent a lot of time in uniform. Those who were afflicted would exhort lesser beings to:- “get some jankers in”, “get some service in”, “get your number dry”,- or even “get your piss tested”.We were a long way from being in a position to utter these last two exhortations as it was not long since our numbers were issued and when we had our enlistment medical!

Let us get back to the "crimes" with which the lowly Aircraft Apprentice could be charged. Here are a few that give the flavour of things:-

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BEING IMPROPERLY DRESSED i.e. having a button undone, greatcoat collar turned up, being without headgear, respirator not slung properly, wearing plimsols instead of boots and so on:

HAVING A DIRTY BEDSPACE (or scruffy kit).

DUMB INSOLENCE.

DISOBEYING AN ORDER.

BEING LATE ON PARADE.

SMOKING (If not in possession of a Smoking Pass).

WALKING ABOUT CAMP WITH HAND OR HANDS IN POCKETS.

EATING CARROTS WHILST UNDER INSTRUCTION.(unusuall) BEING UNSHAVEN OR WITH HAIR TOO LONG. etc. etc.

There was no excuse for having hair that was too long. As apprentices with little pay we were entitled to free haircuts at the Camp Barbers Shop. All we had to do was sign a book and endure the results. The barber, or the "slasher" as he was generally known was not very popular. He conveyed the impression that he enjoyed his work more than was fitting. You didn't get much by having a free haircut but if value was gauged by the quantity removed it would have been highly commendable. There was a way round this problem and that was to masquerade as an Airman and pay the standard charge of 1/- . That way the result was more presentable and civilised. It however entailed getting rid of the "Wheel" badge and hatband that identified us. The

"Wheel" badges were the greater problem. They were sewn to the sleeve but we soon learned to modify them to be attached by a metal screw and backing plate. This made the transformation fairly simple. One apprentice, who hailed from my home town and attended the same school as I did, got the worst of both worlds. He had been told by one of the Flight Sergeants that he must get his hair cut. He did so, but

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pretended to be an Airman and had a shilling's worth of better class hairdressing. The F /Sgt. was not satisfied when he saw the result and promptly took the lad back to the barber, took a box of matches from his pocket, removed one and broke off half an inch of it. This he gave to the barber with the request "Let's have it this long all over!".

The world can be a cruel place at times.

"Jankers" entailed, of course, being confined to camp. That was the easy part of the punishment as Apprentices seldom had enough cash to indulge in anything more than a walk in the fresh air. The worst part may have been reporting to the Guard Room shortly after Reveille ,washed and shaved with boots and buttons gleaming and with full webbing equipment including full packs, water bottle and mess tin. If the turnout didn't stand up to inspection a further charge could bring more punishment. The system was potentially self perpetuating. After the evening meal the

"jankerwallahs", or defaulters as they were properly called, had to present themselves to the Barrack Square for further inspection and pack drill for half an hour following the flag lowering ceremony. This would be followed by a couple of hours fatigues in the cookhouse where the least popular task was cleaning out piles of greasy cooking utensils. Working in the cookhouse did however bring an occasional bonus from the more sympathetic cooks who presented the defaulters with something edible and tasty to finish off their duties. Nothing is entirely bad!

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CHAPTER 4

INTO THE MOULD

About two months after arriving at Cranwell the fatherly Flight Sergeant who looked after the general management of "A" Squadron inspected our class on a morning parade. Two of us were ordered to report to him after the parade. Full of apprehension we presented ourselves at the specified time. We were surprised to be told that he had selected us to become Leading Apprentices. This was good news.

Instead of having to do all those tiresome room jobs, we would be watching others doing them. Furthermore, we would each have a "kit boy" (a fellow apprentice) to see to our personal chores such as cleaning our boots and buttons. This was quite legitimate despite the fact that, outside of these apprentice schools, N.C.O.s were never allowed such a luxury. The "kit boy" did not regard this function as demeaning; on the contrary looking after someone else's kit was preferable to polishing floors and dustbins. After a few more weeks had passed my colleague received another stripe and thus became a Corporal Apprentice.

September brought along the next intake of Apprentices. My recently promoted companion and I were moved in to a dormitory filled with the new boys to take charge of them for a few weeks and show them how things were done. In other words how to fold their bedding, correctly display their kit, glide across the floor on floorpads - and so on. We were no longer in the irksome position of being the Junior Entry; other lesser mortals had taken on this role. We stayed with them for about six weeks by which time some of them had been promoted to N.C.O. Apprentice and we then returned to our own dormitory.

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The summer of 1940 was a glorious one with what seemed to be endless weeks of blue sky and sunshine. It also brought with it Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain and the possibility of invasion. It was this last feature which brought us a unique respite from the routine of our training, to which we were now reconciled. For a period of three weeks all instruction was suspended and we were given the task of digging slit trenches at various strategic points around Cranwell's two airfields. We were divided into groups of about twenty; issued with spades and pickaxes and then marched off to the airfields. We were also equipped with another item of equipment - a tea bucket

(an item of culinary equipment of around three gallons capacity) which proved to be a piece of good fortune in view of the thirsty work ahead of us.

There were insufficient tools for us all to work at the same time and the size of the trench would not permit more than about seven of us to dig at one time. This was not a problem. We split into three teams and spent periods of twenty minutes digging and forty minutes getting our batteries recharged in the glorious sunshine. At mid-day we marched back to the cookhouse for a meal and returned to dig some more in the afternoon. The tea-bucket came into play at mid morning and mid afternoon when one of us made another trip to the cookhouse to get some tea. It is hardly surprising that nobody had any complaints about this interlude. The biggest hazard was sunburn. We had been clearly warned at the outset that anyone reporting sick with sunburn would find themselves on a charge - of inflicting injury on himself!

The barrack blocks which housed us were about 100 yards from the edge of the South 'drome (as this airfield was known) and it was here that Air Raid Shelters were provided for their inhabitants. We found ourselves in these shelters on quite a few occasions, mostly as a result of practice alerts. We had to go to the shelters wearing Anti-gas Capes and carrying respirators. The worst aspect of these practice alerts was having to put on the respirator facepieces and keep them on for about 30 minutes. Luckily we were sitting still while this went on. I could never feel envious of anyone who had to wear those things whilst exerting themselves.

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There were times when air raid warnings sent us to the shelters in the middle of the night. On two or three occasions enemy aircraft dropped some small bombs that we could hear from the air raid shelters but the nearest was quite a way off - on the far side of the airfield. The most exciting incident occurred when no warning was given - isn't this always the case? One morning, before we paraded to be marched to instruction, an aircraft flew over at what seemed to be roof-top level. This noise was accompanied by the sound of machine-gun fire. After this there was no further instance of enemy activity at Cranwell; at least during my stay. For many of us it was to be spells of leave, spent in the larger cities, this would heighten our awareness of the German bombing assault.

I have mentioned that, during our three weeks of trench digging, the possibility of reporting sick with sunburn might occur. If the need arose, one had to give ones name to the duty N.C.O. Apprentice shortly after Reveille. After a hasty breakfast ones "small kit" had to be gathered together and stowed in the issue side haversack. "Small kit" was in fact a collection of the bare essentials to satisfy basic needs if admitted to Station Sick Quarters. It included the inevitable Mug and Irons, washing and shaving gear, hair brush and the wherewithal to keep boots and buttons in the required condition. Also included were pyjamas. (Unlike proper adult airmen the

Apprentices were issued with these items and, incidentally, also slept between sheets).

At 08.00hrs. those who were reporting sick were paraded outside the barrack block and marched to Station Sick Quarters. Once there, they would sit on the wooden benches and await developments. At some time before the Medical Officer arrived, a

Medical Orderly would poke his head round the door or the Treatment Room and ask if anyone was suffering from anything like a cold or headache. In such cases he would take their temperature as a prelude to seeing the M.O.

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On the occasions when I reported sick I never felt entirely at ease when called in to see the M.O. For one thing he was an Officer and Officers were held in awe.

Secondly I used to have the feeling that, first and foremost, my potential as a malingerer was being assessed, and this was given at least as much consideration as the symptoms that I was displaying. This stems from the old established premise that, when Other Ranks report sick, there is not much wrong with them and they are really looking for ways to escape duty!

Having made a diagnosis, the M.O. would write his findings and the prescribed treatment on a chit (i.e. piece of paper) which one then took to the treatment room and handed to the Orderly. Thus, I came to learn that Nasal Pharangitis was a fancy name for a cold in the head. The treatment could be defined as so many days Medicine & Duty which meant normal duties but reporting three times a day to Sick

Quarters to receive the prescribed medicine, ointment etc. Alternatively, Light Duty could be ordered or, exceptionally, Excused Duty. A common affliction which caused people to report sick was known as Tinea. This, I understand, is caused by a fungus of some kind that causes quite severe irritation and inflammation in the skin, particularly in the area of the genitals. The standard treatment for this affliction was thrice daily application of Whitfield's Ointment which stung like hell but was a certain and rapid cure. The condition was aggravated by perspiration which, in turn, resulted from physical exertion. Thus a diagnosis of Tinea could result in Light Duties which meant no Drill or P.T. Today we would insist that the victim took a shower after such exercise but at that time, a bath taken once a week was seen to be adequate. In fact each dormitory had a "Bath Book" which everyone had to sign once a week to the effect that they had taken the mandatory bath. The book was open to perusal on the weekly room inspections that took place on Saturday mornings.

Attached To Sick Quarters but with it's own unique entrance was the E. T. Room. E.

T. stood for Early Treatment, the object of which was to reduce the chances of getting V.D. Youthful curiosity had to be satisfied and, in company with a friend I went inside

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to see what it was all about. The room was furnished with a small wash basin and a urinal. There was also a supply of small paper packets which contained two small tubes of ointment. The packet bore instructions of the procedure to be followed "as soon as possible after intercourse". The procedure involved washing the genitals using the contents of one tube and applying liberally the contents of the other. With this went the recommendation to urinate (preferably in bursts) before using the contents of the packet. Almost everything made of paper bears a Form No. in the

Services. The E.T. Packet was a Form 39A. I never saw another E.T. Room on any other RAF Station - but then I didn't go looking for one!

Another medical institution unique to my apprenticeship at Cranwell was the F.F.I. (Free from Infection) inspection which happened immediately after returning from leave. We had to stand at the front of our beds and present the 'family jewels' for inspection by an N.C.O. from Station Sick Quarters. There is a classic tale of the Sergeant who used a pencil to lift someone's penis to get a better view of things and then, in a state of uncertainty about what he sees, sucks the end of the pencil whilst making up his mind. As with many of these classic stories, there is probably an element of truth in it.

Within the context of being kept fit by our RAF guardian there is one final item to relate. In addition to the luxuries of sleeping between sheets and wearing pyjamas we were given a hot drink - either sweetened milk or cocoa late in the evenings.

Periodically but unpredictably this innocent concoction would be laced with a tasteless but effective laxative. One would become aware of its presence in the early hours of the following morning when nocturnal activity and griping abdominal pains aroused one from sleep. Other victims were making their way urgently through the darkened dormitory to the toilets in the centre arm of the barrack block. Inevitably one joined the procession. The worst aspect of this unpleasant affair was due to the fact that everyone was similarly affected. This was aggravated by the toilets being unlit. Occasionally someone didn't get there in time and frequently some barely made it

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with the result that the toilet seats were fouled. It needs little imagination to appreciate the problems that ensued. Tales have been told of service-men's tea being laced with

Bromide but never of having their cocoa dosed with laxative!

Here at Cranwell, we all had to come to terms very rapidly with the fact that Mum and

Dad were not available to solve some of the minor but annoying problems that can occur and which are part and parcel of Service life. A good example is the problem of lost laundry. Once a week we would parcel up our dirty shirts, collars, socks, underwear, pyjamas and handkerchiefs to be sent to the laundry. We would get them back in less than seven days - that is if things went according to plan. The scale of issue of clothing was based on the concept of having one set in use, one at the laundry and a third set either awaiting use or soiled. The non appearance of a parcel of clean laundry was not good news. Apart from the question of having lost the contents there was the problem of not enjoying a change of clothing once a week. The other problem was getting someone else's laundry instead of one's own. Sods law proclaims that it is sure to be either much too small or grossly oversize! There was, of course, a routine for dealing with these problems but, as can be imagined, it was indeed very slow in working and the victims had to make do as best as they could for a few weeks until the next Clothing Parade. (Clothing Parades were the occasions when visits to the Clothing Store were made so that worn out items could be replaced.) There was little else that one could do. We had come to accept that one did not complain - for one thing, it would do no good and, furthermore, could get the complainant into someone's bad books. Early on in our time at Cranwell we had been told more than once that we had no rights at all except that of a military funeral on our demise. Situations such as the lost laundry gave us our first taste of the frustrating initiative-stifling experiences that we were likely to experience during our RAF service.

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CHAPTER 5

EDUCATION & NOURISHMENT

The peace-time Aircraft Apprentice scheme was based on a three year course of training. The outbreak of war in September 1939 created an urgent need for trained skilled personnel. The result was that our apprenticeship was reduced from three to two years. In addition, instead of being trained as Wireless and Electrical Mechanics, we were to become Wireless Operator Mechanics capable of operating equipment as well as mending it.

Instruction (which was the name used to describe our attendance at classes of one sort or another) occupied full days on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays and, on Wednesdays, only the morning. Wednesday afternoons were devoted to sports and Saturday mornings were taken up by the Wing Parade followed by a room inspection and, when appropriate, Pay Parade. Once these routines were finished the rest of the weekend was our own time except for Sunday Morning Church Parades.

We were divided into classes of about thirty people and two classes fitted tidily into one dormitory. After breakfast and performing the required domestic chores we were marched off by our N.C.O. apprentices to the hut or building in which our first lesson was to be held. According to timetable we would march between classrooms at various times during the day. At lunch time we would march back to the Barrack Block, grab our mugs and irons, and go to the cookhouse for our food. The same would apply for the evening meal.

At the beginning and ending of the working day and at lunch time music would be played over the station public address system. It was music that could be marched to and if you were to ask any of my contemporaries to name one of the tunes there

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would be more than an even chance that they would say "Sussex by the Sea". It's not that it was played more than any other melody. It just happened to be a cheerful tune that lifted sometimes flagging spirits!

The classrooms were located in groups of wooden huts of a pattern which was a common feature of many RAF Stations that were built during or soon after World War I. Huts of this type, when used as living accommodation, housed about 60 men, but in our case they were partitioned at the middle making two classrooms. Larger huts and brick buildings contained workshops and specimen equipment which was to be the base of our activities when we had finished the course. The huts were heated by coal fires, one to each room, and in the winter Apprentices were detailed to lay and light these fires well in advance of the start of Instruction.

As we were now destined to become Wireless Operator Mechanics a significant part of our training was devoted to the Operating skills. We were required to be able to send and receive Morse code at 25 words per minute, communicate visually with an

Aldis (signalling) lamp at 12 words per minute and by semaphore, using flags, at a somewhat slower rate.

Simply learning the Morse code was, in retrospect, a fairly easy task. The difficult part was to send· Morse correctly using a Morse Key, and to slowly work up to a good speed and at, the same time, send it in a readable fashion. Harder still was the business of reading Morse code at speed and being able to record it legibly on paper. We had to apply this skill to plain language text and to groups of mixed letters and figures which simulated the output of an encoding machine. The trouble with the plain language was that one could wrongly anticipate the next word from the context of the preceding text. The problem with the coded groups was that one could never beat the system by anticipation.

Practice in reading Morse was provided mostly by listening to signals generated by a Morse tape reader; a machine that had a faultless but rather boring style. Sometimes,

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however, the instructors (who were civilians and mostly former Merchant Navy operators) would send to us - perhaps taking the text from the daily paper. I grew to admire the skill with which they could use a Morse Key and liked it a lot better than the machine - particularly when the instructor threw in the occasional four letter word

(out of context) just to keep us alert and to discourage anticipation.

I am left-handed but from the very beginning of learning to be a Wireless Operator I was encouraged not to use my left hand to operate the Morse Key. It was pointed out to me that in all airborne and ground installations the position of the key would be fixed and favoured the right-handed. I would find things very awkward indeed. I followed this advice and in later years have come to regard this as a possible reason for my being, in some things, ambidextrous.

Another aspect of operating which had to be learned was signalling procedure. It was here that I was introduced to the first, and also the longest, mnemonic that I have ever met:- CODNASTE.This was an aid to remembering the structure of a message i.e

Callsign, Originator's instructions, Delivery instructions, Number of groups, Address, and so on. It is remarkable that I can still remember most of it even though I had no occasion to make use of it after leaving Cranwell. A good example of how effective this type of aid to memory can bel

Another major item in the syllabus went under the heading of "Tech." This covered basic Electrical theory and elementary principles of Wireless Communication. The course textbook was the Admiralty Handbook of Wireless Telegraphy; Volumes I & 2. This was published in 1931 was a somewhat archaic publication, typified by the fact that the unit of Capacitance used in it was the "Jar", not the Farad. In addition, the workings of the standard airborne and ground Wireless receivers and transmitters (numbering about eight items in all) were explained to us. The instructor who did his best to impart all this knowledge on us was a solemn Irishman who steadfastly refused to answer any technical query that he considered not to be part of the

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syllabus. His references to our 'Admirality' Handbooks caused us some amusement as did his way of spelling out unusual words for our benefit. A good example of this was the word "phosphor" which he would spell out for us as "Pee Haitch Oh Hess Pee Haitch Oh Harr".

The classroom treatment of the equipment was backed by practical experience. We were taught how to tune and set them up and where to find the various components. I suspect that this latter aspect had its roots in the military ritual known as "naming of parts" which was applied to weapons such as the Lea Enfield Rifle. In retrospect I firmly believe that these topographical aspects were a waste of time. After leaving

Cranwell and going out into the big wide Air Force one soon discovered that every piece of equipment had an excellent matching technical handbook. It would have been more appropriate to teach us how to use these books to our (and the RAF's) best advantage. Any time saved could have been devoted to enlarging the somewhat meagre theoretical knowledge that the course imparted. RAF policy throughout my time was to send people on courses to learn about new pieces of hardware. A more thorough grounding in the fundamentals and the encouragement to use it would have made many of these courses unnecessary.

Another facet of the practical syllabus covered the all important sphere of aircraft. We were given a brief glimpse of airborne wireless equipment in its place in an aircraft. This was backed by a lecture to explain the routine maintenance procedure applicable to all aircraft and an introduction to the Form 700. Every aircraft had a Form 700 which was a record of its routine maintenance and state of serviceability. The "700" was something which those of us who later served on a flying unit would become very familiar. Lack of a tradesman's signature in the "700" meant that the relevant aircraft was not declared to be fit to fly; a situation which, in some circumstances, could cause a lot of fuss and bother!

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Needless to say, anything relating to real aircraft was a welcomed relief from hours spent in classrooms and workshops. After all, the RAF was really about aeroplanes - why else did we join it? Our interest was thus considerably heightened when we were told that we would be given some "Air Experience". This turned out to be a half hour

"flip" in a contraption known as a Vickers Valencia otherwise known as the "Pig". This had its origins in the early 1930's and was used as a troop carrier. It had a torpedo shaped fuselage with an open cockpit at the front for the pilot. It was a twin-engined biplane which also had a biplane tail. The tailplane and mainplane were a mass of wires and struts. Within the fuselage were quaint wicker seats for the luckless passengers who looked through small windows at the quivering mass of wires etc. between the wings and did their best not to be airsick.

Any tendency towards aIr sickness was not due to the pilot performing any violent manoeuvres, the problem was that the top speed of the Valencia was about 90mph. and it was very prone to drop like a stone when it hit an air pocket. Rumours were rife about a Polish pilot who tried to loop the "Pig" but I feel pretty sure that they had no foundation.

Another topic on which an emphasis was placed was the lead-acid accumulator which was an essential and vital part of aircraft equipment. We were taught the theory and practical aspects of these items in a fair amount of detail. I'm not sure that, from the RAF's point of view, this was a good investment because my later experience showed that the electricians had prime responsibility for these items. However, most of us must have found this knowledge very useful when, years later, we became car owners and may be thankful for the time devoted to the subject.

The syllabus dealt with other sources of electrical power and we had a fortnight devoted to petrol-electric generating equipment. For the benefit of the layman it can be said that this sort of apparatus was, and is, commonly found with travelling Fairs and Circuses - and so our training was unintentionally preparing us for one of many

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possible careers in later civilian life! The Electrical generators had been already dealt with in general fashion elsewhere in the syllabus and so most of the two weeks were devoted to the internal combustion engine; how to look after it, maintain it and adjust it. At one stage we were paired off and given a selection of redundant, non functional, car engines to take apart and re-assemble. My partner and I had a fairly large

Humber engine to play with and managed to get it back together after a fashion although some of the piston rings ended up in the sump. As was the case with the training on accumulators this fortnight provided a little of the knowledge needed to tackle, in later years, some work on our cars that was not usually attempted by the average owner.

Another sizeable chunk of the syllabus went under the general heading of "Workshops". The aim of this section of the course was to give us the skills to effect repairs and, if necessary, be able to manufacture parts, where feasible, given the appropriate tools and raw materials. An essential part of this expertise was the ability to solder and to prepare and terminate the various types of wires and cables that were used in aircraft installations. We were taught to use the clumsy soldering irons of that era in association with the l/8in. thick resin-cored solder of the day. Nevertheless, that training stood many of us in good stead in later years and I doubt whether many of the casual users of soldering irons in the electronics industry of today have ever had the benefit of any training.

The bulk of the "workshops" training centred on fitting and turning. There was a menu of some 30 or more jobs to complete during the two years of training. The first of these was to file two flat surfaces, each at 90 degrees to the other, on a 2" length of brass bar o/g" in diameter. This series of jobs culminated in a Morse key of distinctively elaborate design. All of this was achieved under the genteel tutelage of a stocky plain-speaking Yorkshireman who was never seen without wearing his battered trilby hat, a khaki warehouse coat and diminutive steel-rimmed spectacles. He did not suffer fools gladly and would brook no tomfoolery. We were allowed to

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nominate one or two of these workshop pieces to take with us at the end of the course. This did not include the Morse key which was potentially the most useful item.

I have often wondered what happened to the several hundreds of them that were made over the years. I never clapped eyes one whilst I remained in the Service.

All of our instructors were, with one exception, civilians. One part of the syllabus went under the heading of "Education". In reality this amounted to telling us all about the history of the RAF with a bit of relevant geography thrown in for good measure. This was imparted upon us by either of two Education Officers: one a P/O and the other an F/O. The P/O, a dark haired Welshman from the North of the principalty, was the popular one. He made his lectures more interesting by lacing them with the occasional risque tale. Many years after this, in the late 1950s and with the RAF well behind me, I attended a series of evening lectures at our local Technical College. On the first evening I soon realised that there was something familiar about the lecturer and then realised that he was the former Welsh P/O. We had a brief chat at the end of the evening. He told me that he was not happy in his role as Education Officer at

Cranwell and had wanted to transfer to Aircrew. Apparently, because he was in the Education Branch, this was not allowed. He solved the problem by getting himself reduced to the ranks, eventually being re-commissioned as aircrew and finishing the war as a Flight Lieutenant with a DFC.

Interspersed with this technical training were several hours a week spent at physical training and pounding the square under the direction of one of several Drill Instructors. Over a period of two years we became quite adept at performing the various manoeuvres and routines contained m the contemporary Drill Manual. Given the motivation, Aircraft Apprentices could march at least as smartly as present day guardsmen. We were taught, as the guards also: seem to be taught, how to swing our arms properly. The present ungainly fashion of raising the arms forward to be almost horizontal looks somewhat ridiculous. We were taught to pull our arms back. The forward swing would then look after itself and appear more natural.

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Drill movements with the rifle were an essential part of the square-bashing curriculum. During the two years at Cranwell we were taught to perform every possible thing that could be done with the weapon except fire it. Had the need arisen we could have presented arms immaculately to any enemy adversary! The nearest that we came to the offensive uses of the Lee-Enfield rifle was to fix a bayonet on the end of it. This we learned as a drill movement. It was quite an achievement to be able to remove the bayonet from its scabbard in unison with thirty or more others and fix it to the rifle, without fumbling, so that a ragged series of clicks was not heard. Shortly after we had mastered the art, the Drill Manual was amended so that Fix Bayonets was an "in your own time" movement. Life was made a little easier after we had learned to do it the hard way!

Not all of the time devoted to some aspects of technical training was justified in terms of the subsequent use that was made of it. There was no doubt however that square-bashing would crop up quite a few times in later years. It had its practical application at Cranwell, once every week, in the shape of the Saturday morning Wing

Parade.

If the military are going to have ceremonial parades they usually arrange to have suitable music to accompany the marching. For our parades at Cranwell this need was fulfilled by a Pipe (Bagpipe) Band manned by Apprentices. Whether or not the bagpipes are demanding instruments to play is difficult for me to say but I always considered the efforts of our young pipers and drummers were quite accomplished and, if one has to do the marching, this sort of music tends to make things go with a swing. There was never any shortage of bandsmen. Playing music to which the rest of the Apprentice Wing would go through nearly every manoeuvre in the drill book was much to be preferred to participation in the event itself.

There was one other outlet for anyone who had a good pair of lungs and a penchant for things musical and that was to become a Trumpeter. For some reason or other the

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RAF does not have Buglers - it has Trumpeters instead and, apart from the name, the only difference seemed to be in the greater length of the trumpet. Being a Trumpeter had its drawback: it entailed getting up before everyone else to sound Reveille. On the plus side a trumpeter could avoid the worst aspects of ceremonial parades by only having to put in a short appearance to play the appropriate call as the RAF

Ensign was raised on the flagstaff.

The physical exercise involved in drilling and PT. plus the fact that we were growing lads, resulted in sizeable appetites for food. Because of this, our resulting interest in the products of the cookhouse far outweighed their real merit. I ate, with gusto, food for which I had no liking at all. The smell of food that filled the air close to its source always strengthened the pangs .of hunger. The food was never outstanding and, with one notable exception, was never bad. The exception was a desert of stewed gooseberries and custard which was served with bits of the bush still attached to the fruit! This may seem incredible but please be assured that it is true.

Breakfast always included either corn-flakes and milk or porridge plus something like bacon with a fried egg or scrambled powdered egg or perhaps liver. This was topped off by two inch thick slices of bread bearing a cube of margarine and a spoonful of marmalade. On winter`s mornings, when the coal burning stoves had been lit, one could have the luxury of toasting the bread - that is if you could find a place near to a fire.

The fried eggs were, in truth, baked eggs. A large flat tray containing some cooking oil had a dozen or so eggs broken into it and was then transferred to the oven. In cooking, the whole lot merged into a rubbery mass. When this was served it was cut into rectangles - hopefully with a yoke in the middle of the white.

The main meal of the day was served at lunchtime. It consisted of a main course and desert. The menus reflected the wartime restrictions on food. Meat was not too plentiful and offal, in the form of liver or heart, was served at least once a week. Meat

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pie with plenty of gravy and crust but almost lacking in meat was not uncommon. The deserts were, to most of us, more attractive than the main courses and frequently took the form of steamed pudding (better known as "Duff") with custard. This gained its popularity because of its capacity to fill the stomach and because it was quite enjoyable to eat. There was always keen competition to get served with "seconds" if any were available.

The early evening meal was in the form of a high tea. There was always the helping

(two slices) of bread with the standard cube of margarine, or butter if we were lucky, and some jam to go with it. This accompanied something hot such as macaroni cheese or cottage pie. Occasionally we were served boiled eggs. Making your way from the servery to the table, with mug and "irons" in one hand and a plate with a boiled egg rolling about on it in the other, required some concentration. Eating a boiled egg with the aid of a knife, fork or desert spoon was something else to come to terms with. Invariably the egg, which could be soft or hard boiled, ended up on bread. It was the only practical way to deal with it without the aid of an eggcup and a proper spoon.

The last and least attractive meal of the day was supper which was served around

7.30 pm. It usually consisted of left-overs from previous meals and instead of tea it was accompanied by cocoa. It has to be said that one had to be really hungry or an out-and-out glutton to regularly turn up for this meal!

The normal routine at meal times is worth a mention. With the exception of lunchtime we were allowed to proceed to the cookhouse in our own time. At lunchtime we were paraded and marched to the cookhouse with mug and irons firmly grasped in the right hand (this obviated the risk of knocking the mug against that of someone in the adjacent rank). Next was the queue to get to the servery and collect the meal. When the meal was finished we took our plates to an outbuilding and dumped any residue from the meal into a “swill-bin” and parked the plates on a table for the cookhouse

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staff to collect and wash. In this outbuilding was the facility for washing mugs and irons. It consisted of two large tanks containing water through which ran some steam pipes which, when working, made healthy rumbling noises in the water. The water was invariably either too cold to remove grease or was scalding hot. The latter was the preferred state as, with some care, it was possible to gently swish knife, fork and spoon in the water and get them clean without being scalded. There was always the risk that one or more of the vital implements could be dropped in the tank. If this happened the item was unlikely to be recovered and replacement was not an easy matter. This arrangement for serving meals to other ranks was the norm throughout the RAF. Only promotion to the rank of sergeant, or above, would lead to more civilised way of taking meals. This would be after several years had elapsed.

‘A’ Squadron Drill Squad photographed in the gardens ar the rear of our quarters

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CHAPTER 6

RECREATION & LEAVE

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The need to satisfy our appetite for food was fulfilled mainly, but never entirely, by the cookhouse. This left the NAAFI to provide a back-up, funds permitting. We had little money in our pockets. Our fortnightly pay, alternating between 5/-(25p) and 10/-(50p), gave us little scope for living it up - even if reinforced by the occasional postal order in a letter from home. Many of us, irrespective of age, enjoyed a smoke and this made inroads into our pay. At that time a packet of ten Players Medium cigarettes cost 1/- and five Woodbines could be bought for 2d. Nevertheless, everyone spent something on NAAFI food and cups of tea. A cup of tea cost a penny and a cake of some sort, cream horn, rock cake etc. could be obtained for a similar amount. A menu of hot "and chips" meals was also available; sausages or eggs, being the usual items to go with them. There was one item that I've never met with outside the NAAFI and that was Sausage and Tomato Pie. I remember it simply because, unlike most NAAFI fare, I found it rather tasty.

In addition to the NAAFI there was also the YMCA. The goods on offer here were similar to those at the NAAFI except that there was less to choose from. My clearest memory of the "YM" is that of the thick china mugs in which the tea was served.

These were clearly intended to keep overheads down by restricting breakages. I had never before seen cups made of such thick porcelain and never came across

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anything similar until visiting the United States in the 1950's where cups of this sort were the norm in most restaurants - presumably because they were "dish washer friendly"!

The YMCA had at least one other unique feature; that was to accept two I penny postage stamps as payment for a pack of five Woodbine cigarettes. This was a useful arrangement as many parents included postage stamps when they sent letters to us - not to buy smokes with but so that we could write home. My main recollections are however of evenings spent in the NAAFI. The Apprentices had a fairly large canteen for their own use. This ensured our segregation from grown-up Airmen under whose influence we could get into bad ways. (This policy was followed strictly throughout our apprenticeship.) Our canteen contained a games room, equipped with dart boards and several full sized snooker tables. This was adjoined by a reading room with some upholstered chairs (a real luxury) and stocked with a modest amount reading material, most of which was of little interest to us. The reading room lead onto quite a large area in which was the bar from which the NAAFI girls, in their white-trimmed blue dresses, served us with cigarettes, confectionary and food and drink (non-alcoholic of course!)

In addition, the NAAFI provided a little entertainment. On at least one night a week there was Tombola, better known now as Bingo. The tickets were free and the prizes consequently were modest, taking the form of vouchers for items from the NAAFI bar.

The high value prize was a full NAAFI supper.

On a different night each week the tables and chairs in the main canteen area would be pushed back and there would be dancing to music played over the canteen public address system. There were no girls to dance with - so Apprentice danced with Apprentice! In those days it was not at all unusual to go into a Dance Hall and see two girls dancing together, but never two males performing a Waltz or Quickstep together. Nevertheless, it seemed as though this was a well established practice in the

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Apprentices NAAFI and probably continued long after my contemporaries and I had left the place. Taking a detached view of this phenomenon, it seems a little strange - if not queer! It did, however, gave us the chance to acquire some ballroom dancing skills and, thus equipped, were better able to make the acquaintance of, and Impress, dance partners of the opposite sex when we went home on leave.

Music was played in the NAAFI, not only for the Dances but also on other evenings.

The records were selected from quite a respectable collection of popular music of the day and played by volunteers. As an avid listener to this sort of music I was more than happy to spend one or two evenings a week at the turntable. In that way I could be sure to hear the music that I liked!

Apart from the NAAFI and YMCA the only other source of entertainment was the camp cinema. Apprentices were admitted for a modest fee – 2d or 3d. - I can`t remember which. With one exception, the films that I saw there are long forgotten. The one remaining memory is of the original Flash Gordon serial (the one in which

Buster Crabbe starred). None of us took this epic seriously and, whilst the dramatic introductory music was playing, we would stamp our feet in time with it. This ritual was repeated at the showing of every episode. The camp cinema at Cranwell afforded my first experience of a unique form of cinema going; one in which the audience was made up exclusively by service personnel. In this environment one could savour, during the performance, a timely and frequently humorous interjection from a member of the audience. This would usually occur at a poignant moment in the story and could heighten the evening's entertainment. This rarely ever happened in the more cultured world removed from the service surroundings.

Most of what has been mentioned so far, in the sphere of leisure, involved parting with some cash. It is perhaps appropriate to mention everyone's favourite parade, in other words Pay Parade. We were paid once a fortnight on a Saturday morning, immediately after the weekly Wing Parade and/or Room Inspection. The great event

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was held in the entrance hall of our barrack block and the protocol was standard throughout the service. A wooden table, covered by a blanket, was set up at which were seated the Paying Officer who was flanked on one side by a clerk from Pay Accounts, with his schedule indicating who was to be paid and the amount, and on the other side by the Witnessing Officer. The clerk would (on the Paying Officer's behalf) call out the names. The nominee would advance smartly to the table, halt, salute the Paying Officer and say a brisk "Sir!" followed by calling out the last three figures of his service number. The clerk would then declare the amount to be paid and the Paying Officer would hand over the cash. The recipient would then do a smart about-turn and march off a little richer than when he arrived. The names were always called out in alphabetical order and with a name such as Williams there was always a long wait for 200 or more other lads who took precedence. This was a cross that us tail-enders always bore except that, later in my service, I encountered a more enlightened regime on one particular unit which used reversed alphabetical order on alternate Pay Parades.

There were a few extra special Pay Parades - those that were held immediately prior to our departure on Christmas, Easter and Midsummer leave. Whereas our normal pay was too modest to be made in paper money, these special paydays gave us the rare feel of £1 and 10 shilling notes. With a rate of pay of 1 shilling a day and actually receiving 5 shillings after one fortnight and 10 shillings after the next .The balance was retained and then paid to us just prior to going on leave. This was, by our standards, a nice little sum to take on leave. However, deductions would be made for Barrack Damages or any items of kit that we had lost. (Barrack Damages was the name given to a charge that was spread equally amongst all the occupants and covered the cost of items such as broken windows, snapped broom handles and other damage).

These big pay days and the three periods of annual leave were indeed great events. Here was our chance to sample the comforts of home, to see our old pals, go to a

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civilised cinema, dance with some real girls, drink some beer and smoke like a chimney - just as long as the money didn't run out. Thus, three times a year, armed with our modest supply of paper money and a Railway Warrant, we went home on leave.

It was a wonderful feeling when the train pulled into Kings Cross when, as a Londoner, I felt that I had returned once more to civilisation. Then to travel on the

Piccadilly Line to Manor House and, finally to what seemed the slowest part of the journey, the ride by trolley bus to Edmonton. For most people who leave home, there comes a time when they no longer regard their place of origin as home and they realize that "home" is wherever they choose to make it. This realisation takes, in most cases, several years to come to the surface and this was certainly so for me. Hence, I wallowed in the luxury afforded by these interludes during my time at Cranwell.

As I have mentioned, the activities and entertainment that would be indulged in during the break were fairly well established, in our minds, long before the leave began.

There were one or two items, however, that some of us had not bargained for. These were brought about by air raids and entailed disturbed sleep and time spent in the Anderson shelter in the garden. In this respect the end of leave and return to

Lincolnshire would provide a welcomed respite!

There are not many distinct memories, of those periods of leave from Cranwell, that still remain. The visits to dances resulted in acquiring a couple of girl friends who made the many trips to the cinema both more expensive and certainly more pleasurable. Of all the films that I must have seen during that time I can only remember one and that the first of the two girl friends kept me company on this occasion. The film was "The Wizard of Oz". The film was a classic; now established as a children's favourite. In 1940, however, adult audiences lapped it up. It was light hearted, colourful and fanciful and, as such, provided the sort of escape from wartime gloom and austerity that everyone longed for.

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These periods of leave went in a flash irrespective of whether they were one, two or three weeks in duration and all too soon I would find myself at King's Cross boarding a special train for Cranwell. To make the journey on a train carrying only unsupervised Aircraft Apprentices was a unique experience. The journey back provided our last hour or two of freedom and a last chance to .let off a final burst of steam. Inevitably, some boarded the train with their inhibitions already diminished by several alcoholic drinks. Others came equipped with bottles of beer bought from the

Station Buffet and craftily concealed from the RAF SPs (Service Police) who were always to be found patrolling the major rail termini. A stop at Peterborough provided an opportunity to make a quick dash across the platform to the Station Buffet to replenish stocks from the bar.

Modest amounts of alcohol had quite an effect on youngsters who were being reared in the near monastic environment of No 1 Electrical & Wireless School and the more generous intakes which took place on these occasions caused some really extraordinary behaviour. One of the more docile activities resulting from our high spirits involved trying to pass a toilet roll from the front to the back of the train - on the outside. This procedure was not as suicidal as it sounds. It involved carefully feeding the toilet roll out through the small ventilator that was found at the top of the larger carriage windows. The train's slipstream would then keep the lengthening paper strip close to the body of the carriage and the general idea was for someone further back to grab the end of the paper. When this was done the person at the front end would release it and, hopefully, the front end would travel backwards for another young idiot to take hold of! These attempts seldom, if ever, went beyond the first release of the paper by the person at the front. The weakness resulting from perforations in the paper ensured that it did not stay in one piece. This was clearly a rather stupid game but one which not potentially harmful. The same cannot be said of other activities which can only be properly described as vandalism. Electric light bulbs were taken from the fittings in the carriages and toilets and these, together with the occasional

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empty beer bottle, were tossed onto station platforms as the train passed through. The idea was to give the waiting passengers a fright. Other damage was done to the carriages and a friend of mine came back from one of these journeys with a complete brass handle and escutcheon from one of the sliding carriage doors. Several months later these were discovered by RAF Police during a formal kit-search. The owner spent ten days in cells for being in illegal possession of these items.

It is worth mentioning here that there were three kinds of leave that could be taken - sick leave, compassionate leave and finally, privilege leave. It was impressed upon us that we were not entitled to leave, we were only granted it as a privilege.

Furthermore, we were not entitled to anything - except a military funeral on our demise. Within this broad context, another example of the military way of thinking presents itself. Many servicemen have experienced a reprimand and responded with the words "But Sergeant, I thought that -" to be met with the reply: "Think lad? You ‘re not here to think but to do as you’re told!" Then, on another occasion to say "I didn't think, Sergeant" and be told "What do you mean - you didn't think? Next time, be sure you do think!" It is therefore not remarkable that, whilst on the one hand the lower echelons of the Armed Forces are schooled not to use their initiative, there are, from time to time, one or two who break the rule and, if there is profit from their actions, are handsomely rewarded. Few, if any decorations have been awarded to men for not using their initiative.

I was more fortunate than many of my fellow apprentices as I had a great uncle and aunt (a Methodist minister and his wife) who lived in nearby Grantham. I made quite a few Sunday visits to them during my stay at Cranwell. Although I had not met them before my arrival in Lincolnshire I had heard a lot about them from my Mother. They made me very welcome. My great aunt used to ply me with cigarettes and always gave me a good Sunday lunch. I was not able to offer much in return for this generous hospitality but on one occasion I was able to use some of my newly acquired skills to mend a minor fault on their radio receiver!

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On one occasion I experienced the novelty of sitting at the meal table in company with a Group Captain. He was the guest of my great uncle and, as may be expected, was an RAF Padre. It was a pleasant occasion - which is more than could be said of a previous meeting with a cleric in RAF uniform. This encounter happened as I set out on a previous trip to Grantham. I had walked as far as the road which lead to Ancaster and was standing on the grass verge hoping to get a lift towards Grantham. A car appeared, moving in the right direction, which came past me and halted about twenty yards away. It then reversed and stopped in front of me. The window came down and a Group Captain, wearing Padre's badges on his lapels, gave me a stiff telling-off for not coming to attention and saluting him as his car approached. He was driving a private car. We had been told that we did not have to salute cars unless they were Service cars and were flying the officer's pennant. This car did not comply and, in any case, I had not seen who the occupant was. A lowly Leading Apprentice, if blessed with any sense, does not argue with a Group Captain so all I did was to come to attention, say "Yes Sir" and throw one up. I discovered later on that he was in fact the Chaplain-in-Chief of the RAF. This was the second occasion on which I had fallen foul of a Church of England cleric. The first time was several years earlier when I attended a Church with a heavily bandaged and painful knee. I suffered a public reprimand for not kneeling properly during prayers and made to kneel in the customary manner. These events may merit some comment but, in truth, they speak for themselves. It will come as no surprise to hear that I have never been a keen church-goer!

Air Ministry Pamphlet 15 made the statement that "Apprentices work hard and play hard". These were not hollow words. There was every encouragement and ample opportunity to indulge in sporting activities. There was a well equipped gymnasium and ample equipment and space to indulge in all sorts of outdoor sports. On Wednesdays, Instruction was confined to the mornings only and the afternoons were devoted to compulsory sports.

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A serious illness in my early childhood had resulted in my parents deciding to discourage me from taking part in sporting activities whilst I was at school. Lack of experience in team games provided an adequate incentive to continue to shun them and I initially ended up with the odds and sods who, having opted out of football, hockey etc., ended up spending Wednesday afternoons doing a cross-country run. A cross country run sounds like a fairly casual affair - it was - up to a point. It was not possible, as one might think to take short cuts and make a quick dash for home. This was prevented by about four or more marshals placed at strategic points along the course. Each marshal was armed with a rubber stamp and ink pad. This was used to endorse the right forearms of the runners and, at the finish, a Sergeant checked that each participant had a full set of stamps. If any were missing then the individual concerned had to run back to the appropriate marshal and collect a stamp. A friend of mine thought that he would use a little originality and, instead of having his arm stamped, collected the stamps on his backside. When the Sergeant asked where his stamps were he dropped his shorts and bent over to display them. The result was a charge of Dumb Insolence which earned him 7 days "jankers"!

I was not particularly keen on spending every Wednesday afternoon in this fashion. Instead, I took up Fencing. This involved spending a couple of hours in the gymnasium and then a restful hour or more back in the dormitory.

On one Wednesday afternoon, accompanied by a friend I skipped the sporting scene and went to the Flying Training School hangars on the South 'drome. (Cranwell had two airfields (aerodromes), one to the North and the other to the South of the road which divided RAF Cranwell in two halves.) The aim was to find one of the instructors and ask for a trip in an Airspeed Oxford, a twin-engined aircraft used for flying training. We were successful, went to the Parachute Store to draw parachutes and climbed on board. The instructor and pupil sat side-by-side at the controls and we sat on the main spar immediately behind them. This was a real treat and, on this occasion, had the pleasure of a close look at Belvoir Castle from above. On a similar

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occasion we had a bird's eye view of a race meeting at Doncaster. The important thing was the trip in the Oxford - a rare treat.

Within the realms of leisure and pleasure one can include such things as practical jokes. Two particular events come to mind. One of the Apprentices in my dormitory had, without anyone knowing, returned from leave with a tiny pot of bright yellow paint and an artist's paint brush. During one particular night, whilst everyone else was asleep, he went from bed to bed and carefully placed a small spot of the yellow paint on as many noses as he could gain access to. No one was aware of this until the next morning when, still bleary-eyed from sleep, they looked in the mirror whilst shaving.

Reactions ranged from mild surprise to horror and then to anger when the more agile minds realised what had happened.

Another prank involved moving someone to a new location in their sleep. Each dormitory had two trestle tables. The tops were made of wood and were easily lifted from the trestles. They were also of a size that was conveniently similar to the simple iron beds that we slept on. Whilst the intended victim, having made his bed, was absent in the NAAFI or at supper, the table top would be inserted between the bed and the three-piece mattress. After Lights Out the victim was allowed to go to sleep at which point several helpers would gently lift table-top, bedding and sleeper and transport him to a new location. The table-top would then be lifted on to the trestles and the victim left to his own devices. He would eventually awaken to find himself in the toilets, the ablutions or, weather permitting, out of doors. It's not a pleasant experience to awaken and find oneself in a strange location. I remember clearly how, on one occasion, the victim made his way back to his rightful bed-space, striding down the middle of the dormitory with table top mattress and bedding balanced neatly on the top of his head!

Another piece of tomfoolery centred on one of the Emergency Water Supplies (EWS) that were dotted around the station. These were very large open topped tanks filled

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with water for use in fire fighting emergencies. NCO Apprentices were apt to get ideas above their station, or at least that was how it seemed to the rank and file of the

Senior Entry. They therefore hit upon the idea of bringing down some of the Sergeant and Corporal Apprentices down from their lofty perch in a fairly harmless manner. The nearby EWS was used for this purpose.

The individual chosen for this treatment was approached by a small "deputation" who asked if he would accompany them to the EWS. They also pointed out to him the wisdom of entering into the spirit of the proceedings that were to follow and advised him to get into some swimming trunks or any other item that he would not object to getting wet. The victims invariably took this advice and would be carried aloft on a table top to the nearby static water supply accompanied by fifty or so apprentices chanting "EWS! EWS!". On arrival the victim was ceremonially invited to walk out onto a large piece of wood which projected over the pool. When he got to its end someone would give him a shove with the soft end of a mop then splash - into the water. When his head broke surface, one of the "deputation" would anoint it with water poured delicately from a highly polished cookhouse ladle the handle of which was resplendent with a length of ribbon in the rich colours of the RAF. This was of course done to the accompaniment of much cheering and jeering. The anointed one was then carried back to his dormitory, happy in the knowledge that the next victim would be someone else.

Such pranks were not in any way traditional. They were dreamed up by some inspired individual, ran their course for a few weeks and then faded away. This kind of activity seldom came to the surface outside Cranwell - at least, that was my experience.

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CHAPTER 7

LOOSING THE ROUGH EDGES The two years at Cranwell seemed, at times, to be an eternity but, for me, they followed a fairly even course. During that .time there were some memorable events and, thankfully, none of them was at all unpleasant.

My early promotion to Leading Apprentice did not lead on to greater things. Clearly, I was not giving full satisfaction to the powers that be - although nobody told me why. On one occasion the Flight Sergeant in charge of "A" squadron went so far as to tell me that I was "bloody useless" but did not take the trouble to tell me the reason or reasons for this assessment. For my part, I failed to see what was wrong. The matter went further and I was marched in front of the Officer Commanding No 2 Wing who told me that I needed to buck my ideas up but again there was no attempt to tell me what was lacking. Perhaps I was a bit dim; I like to think not. I could have asked but I had the strong feeling that the query would be seen as a piece of subtle insolence and plunge me deeper into trouble.

I soldiered on, doing my best to make a reasonable job of things, until I was called to see the Flight Sergeant once again. This was to tell me that I was going to be moved from the dormitory in which other members of my Entry were housed. I was to take up residence on the other side of the block among members of the Entry immediately senior to mine. No reason was given but I think that the idea was to set me on course for a bumpy ride.

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I moved my kit and settled in. As a Leading Apprentice I would be expected to take part, along with the other Apprentice NCOs in the dormitory, in supervising the various domestic chores that had to be carried out by the occupants. I decided that, from the outset, that I would never get away with throwing my weight around and that diplomacy and leading by example would give me my best hope of a smooth passage. I was right. Gradually, I got to know my new room-mates and spent the best part of a year with them until they passed out in September 1941. I made quite a few new friends and there was never the slightest hint of resentment from anyone.

There was, as so often happens, a hidden bonus attached to the potentially awkward predicament which had confronted me. When items such as Drill or PT occurred in the instructional timetable, we used to march from the classrooms back to the Barrack Block before assembling, suitably attired, for these activities. Being in a different

Dormitory gave me the chance to skip these exertions with the excuse that I had to carry out some supervisory function in my own Dormitory. I got away with it and managed to complete my time at Cranwell as a Leading Apprentice - no further promotion and no demotion! Nevertheless, I would love to have been told exactly what my perceived shortcomings were. With hindsight I guess that some astute NCO must have sensed that I was basically out of sympathy with the military way of doing things.

One subject that was mentioned in Air Ministry Pamphlet 15 was that of "buying out" or Purchase of Discharge as it was properly called. If I can remember it correctly, should an Apprentice decide, during the first two months of service, that he would like to change his mind about a Service career then he could purchase his discharge for a token fee of a few pounds. After that, the fee was on a rising scale reaching £100 at the end of apprenticeship and staying at that level throughout the contracted period of adult service. Soon after our arrival at Cranwell one of our number asked one of the

Sergeants whether this arrangement was still in force. The reply was an emphatic "No, don't you know there's a war on?" This put any idea of buying out clean out of

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our simple and trusting minds. After the end of the war curiosity made me ask someone in authority whether this was the truth. Apparently the arrangement held throughout our apprenticeship but did not extend beyond it during wartime. In spite of this I could not envisage anyone opting to call short his RAF career at that time.

It is difficult, in these times, to appreciate how parochial the civilian population were in the 1930's. The majority seldom, if ever, travelled more than 50 miles from home and, when they did venture forth, it was usually for their annual holiday. In consequence, their contacts with people from beyond their immediate sphere were extremely limited. We hear a lot about racism and prejudice against coloured people and ethnic minorities and we relate these phenomena chiefly to people of Asian and

Afro-Carribean origin. Many of us forget that within our own "British" society there were prejudices directed against our own minorities. People with an accent and dialect that was foreign to the area in which they lived, for instance a Yorkshireman or a Mancunian residing in the south of England, could be made to feel very much out of place. My own experience of living in London and having a truly Welsh Christian name provided an early reminder of this.

One immediate benefit from going to Cranwell was that I was thrown into the melting pot together with youths from all over the United Kingdom and soon became aware that there was much more to the world than the Northern suburbs of London. In this process of enlightenment, I also became aware of some of the "tribal" characteristics with which some were blessed - or inflicted, depending on one's viewpoint. Any prejudice that I may have had rapidly disappeared. Initially, it did not take long to discover that lads from Yorkshire and, to a lesser extent, those from London considered themselves as something special. A total misconception!

On one occasion this was illustrated in a rather amusing fashion but at the expense of

Yorkshire vanity. One day, the evening meal was well under way when the Warrant Officer in charge of the Cookhouse (he happened to be from Yorkshire) came into the

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dining hall to see how things were going. He seemed in a jocular mood and asked if there were any Yorkshiremen present. Enthusiastic cries of "Yes Sir" came in response and he then said "Right! Stand up and let's take a look at you!". They stood up, looking very pleased with themselves, obviously in a mood of hopeful anticipation.

There was a pause and, with immaculate timing, the W/O from Yorkshire said "Sit down! You've nowt to shout about!" A heartless trick to play on one's own tribe!

Generally, there was a great deal of mutual tolerance exercised between us and there was a good esprit de corps. We were practically the lowest form of human life in RAF uniform and would all be together for two years. It was a case of adversity forging strong bonds. There are limits, however, to all things and shortcomings in personal hygiene were not tolerated gladly. One individual was clearly not washing himself very well. Initially this was pointed out to him in a fairly relaxed and jocose manner but he chose to ignore these gentle warnings. As a result, he had the job done for him. He was stripped and manhandled into the bath-house where he was dumped without ceremony into a bath of cold water containing a liberal amount of disinfectant. He was then given a token scrubbing with a bass broom and then left in his misery. The treatment was rough but very effective. He never again failed to keep himself clean.

Inevitably, there was a fare amount of leg-pulling from time to time. It goes without saying that it was usually directed at the more gullible members of our community. However, early on an evening In May 1941, all of us in the dormitory thought we were victims when one of our number came in and announced that an aircraft had taken off from the South 'drome and that it had no propeller. He added to the hoax by telling us that there was a hole at the front of the fuselage where the propeller should be and another hole in the tail of the aircraft. No one fell for this line of balderdash but, when the same story was delivered by several other witnesses, we began to believe it. What they had seen was the first all-jet flight in the United Kingdom. It was made by the Gloucester E28/39 powered by a turbo jet engine developed by Frank Whittle.

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Eventually all of us saw this strange aircraft either in flight or during take-off. It gave all of us a good insight to the way in which rumour develops. Initially there were serious reports that the aircraft was completely silent and, what was more, that it could hover and also move in reverse - just as· the Harrier does today! At that time even the concept of an aircraft without propeller was incredible therefore it is not surprising that many of us were prepared to accept these rumoured embellishments.

In September 1941 we became the Senior Entry and were able to assume an air of benevolent superiority over those lesser beings who began their training after us. The last few months seemed to pass fairly rapidly and we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of our Trade Test which would establish us (hopefully) as Wireless Operator

Mechanics with the possible rank of Aircraftsman 2nd Class (AC2), Aircraftsman 1st Class (ACl) or Leading Aircraftsman (LAC).

The Trade Test consisted of written examinations In Technical subjects and Signalling Procedures with practical tests in sending and receiving Morse and a

Workshop Test Piece. Practical tests were also taken in setting up Radio equipment. We did not however, have to take any tests to confirm that we were proficient in Rifle Drill and other aspects of "square bashing". There were, nevertheless, plenty of rehearsals for our Passing out Parade which involved not only ourselves but the whole of the Apprentice Wing.

As our time at Cranwell was drawing to a close, we were invited to state our preferences for our first posting. Family ties are particularly strong in wartime and it was therefore not unnatural for everyone to opt for an RAF establishment as near to home as possible. In my case, I nominated RAF Hunsdon or RAF Bassingbourn - and hoped for the best.

Passing out day finally arrived and the Passing out Parade, in the morning, went off smoothly with our Entry in the position of honour at the front of the assembly. This was to be the last occasion on which we would be regarded as Apprentices and, as

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soon as the Parade was over, we all went back to the dormitory and removed all the insignia that identified us as "brats". We couldn't get this done quickly enough! Prior to the Parade, we had been told of the results of our trade test. Only one of us had reached the pinnacle and would leave Cranwell with an LAC's propeller badge on each arm. The majority, including myself, passed out as AC1s and the remainder would become AC2s. Irrespective of rank, all of us sewed our "sparks" badges to the upper part of each tunic sleeve and thus became fully fledged Wireless Operator

Mechanics. For some reason, Signals personnel were the only RAF tradesmen (other than Bandsmen) to wear an identifying badge. The common or garden Wireless Operator wore an identical badge, but only on the right sleeve.

We were then given details of our first postings and railway warrants to take us home and then on to our new location after having taken fourteen day's leave. I looked for the names Hunsdon or Bassingbourn on my papers but was disappointed to see, instead, the name of RAF Bottesford - I had never heard of it. A quick glance at my travel documents told me that it was a bus-ride away from Grantham! I was to be no nearer to home than I had been for the last two years.

In the evening of passing out day a dance had been arranged for us. This was not in the Apprentice's NAAFI but in one of the small hangars to the north of the main road. There was a dance band to provide the music, suitable female company had been imported from somewhere and there was a bar. We were told that, although we were now Airmen, we were still part of No. 2 Apprentice Wing and still subject to its regulations. In consequence we were still not to drink alcohol. No one took the slightest notice and if the NAAFI girls who served at the bar hesitated to serve us,

.then we told them that we were buying drinks for the band! This solved the problem. We ended up back in the barrack block late that evening with our young heads, unused to beer and spirits, thoroughly fuddled. Long after official lights-out time an enterprising NCO poked his head round the door and told us to put the lights out and get to bed. The lad in the bed next bed to mine obliged in an unorthodox fashion and,

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armed with a piece of wood from the blackout frame, went along the dormitory extinguishing each light in turn by giving it a vicious swipe with his piece of wood.

More barrack damaged to be paid for! We would not be paying: those who remained would find their pay short at some time in the future.

The following morning, with thick heads, we took our leave of Cranwell and the friends that we had made during our stay; most of whom we would not see again.

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CHAPTER 8

FIRST POSTING – RAF BOTTESFORD The fourteen days leave, taken after leaving Cranwell, passed in the usual rapid fashion. It is memorable in only one respect as it was during this leave that I met the young lady who was eventually to become my Wife. At the end of my leave I made my way to Kings Cross knowing that, although I was going back to somewhere which was not far from Cranwell, I would not have to wait for many weeks before coming home again on a 48 hour pass. This time I would be able to afford the fare. As an AC1

I would be paid 4/6 (22.5p) a day and none of that would be held back. A comforting thought!

I made the familiar journey back to Grantham and, this time, travelled the ten miles or so to Bottesford by bus. It was vastly different to either Halton or Cranwell and it did not take me long to realise that I had been posted to a place that embodied about all of the worst aspects (for the inhabitants) of the many war-time airfields that had sprung up in the East of England. These were constructed by men who were enlisted as civilians from the building industry till the programme was completed. My wife and I each had relatives who were brick-layers and took part in this work.

Before saying anything more on that topic it is appropriate to mention the sort of airfields that had been constructed for the RAF during the 1930s. There were, and still are, quite a few of these. Those at Wyton, Marham and Cranfield are good examples. They are all built in a similar style and may well be due to a single architect. Virtually all the buildings are grouped at one edge of the airfield. Nearest the Airfield is a row of four large hangars and, close by, various smaller structures housing essential technical services. Then there will be the domestic and administration buildings, sick

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quarters etc. all of which are within about two hundred yards from the hangars. Near to the Airmen’s quarters there was, of course, the inevitable Parade Ground or

“Square” as it was usually called. The only facility remote from all this would be the bomb dump. This was on the far side of the airfield. The architects had clearly got it all wrong by having almost everything concentrated in one area.

The airfields built in the UK during World War II were built very differently to avoid putting all the goodies in one place and the key word in their design philosophy was

"dispersal". Bottesford was a good example of this principle. There were the inevitable hangars but these were spread around the periphery of the airfields as were several sites for living accommodation The area containing the runways was enclosed by a wide perimeter track and, leading from this, there were smaller tracks leading to concrete hard-standings for aircraft. These were called "dispersals" or sometimes "frying pans" due to the shape formed by track and hard-standing.

There was a Technical Site comprising the Operations Block, Administration

Buildings and workshops accommodating Signals Sections, Armourers, Electricians, etc. Finally there was a central Domestic Site built up from Airmen’s Mess, NAAFI, Sick Quarters and a building containing washing facilities (galvanised iron bowls) and showers. The only running water to be found on the station was on the Domestic Site. Toilets were exclusively of the "Elsan" type and fresh water for drinking was available to the living quarters in a metal churn (similar to those used in dairies), outside each hut. These were replenished every day. Bottesford was home to No 207 Squadron, No 5 Group, Bomber Command and was equipped with twin-engined Avro Manchester bombers; fore-runners to the better known Avro Lancaster.

The daily routine that was followed by everyone was governed by the dispersed living quarters and the single site where one could wash, shave, shower and eat. In the morning one would get up, dress, and then walk about half a mile to the domestic site, carrying the issue side haversack which contained everything one would need till

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returning to the living site after the evening meal: towel, soap, toothbrush razor, hairbrush and comb, knife, fork, spoon and mug. This haversack and its contents were constant companions at Bottesford. Arriving at the ablutions block on the domestic site, one could wash and shave, go to the cookhouse for breakfast then walk about a further half mile to work. At lunch time these steps were retraced to get back to the cookhouse for the meal and then perhaps have fifteen minutes in the NAAFI before walking back to work. The return journey to the cookhouse was made again, after work, for the evening meal. Still at the domestic site, one would then have a wash or a shower and then go to the NAAFI for an hour or so before finally walking back to the living site and the churn of drinking water. Not a very fulfilling existence!

Living in a hut on one of the living sites was a good introduction to the war time RAF that extended beyond the sheltered world of the Apprentice Wing at Cranwell. There we lived in a little world of our own, segregated almost completely from Airmen, particularly those who had come into the Service since the outbreak of war. The hut at Bottesford had only one regular Airman in it - and that was me. My companions came from all kinds of backgrounds and were a real hotch-potch of RAF trades. There were one or two Fitters and Riggers from 207 Squadron, the camp Tailor, a Photographer and amongst others, two Pigeon Keepers. It is well known that many Bomber

Command aircraft were equipped with carrier pigeons when they went on operations. If the aircraft ditched in the North Sea the birds could then be released to return to base with a request for help. This was a wartime innovation and the trade of Pigeon

Keeper was manned, to a large extent, by men who kept pigeons as a hobby before the war. The two individuals in my hut were from the North East of England. I thought that my time amongst the other lads at Cranwell had qualified me to understand most of the dialects to be encountered in the UK but these birdmen were to show me that I still had something to learn. Listening to these two men engaged in conversation I could understand only three words: "bords" (birds), "booger" and "fook" plus their

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derivatives. I was not alone in my ignorance and the two “Geordies” enjoyed a degree of privacy in conversation not available to the rest of us.

It was, however, quite a novelty to listen to the talk of grown-up, worldly males instead of the adolescent type of chitchat that prevailed at Cranwell. Hearing these men tell of their civilian jobs, families and their home life, not to mention their not infrequent claims of wide sexual experiences, was interesting - if not, to some degree, informative.

This listening role extended into the working environment. I had been posted to the SHQ (Station Headquarters) Signals Section. Here, I found myself in a mixture of regular and war time Airmen. On arrival I was pleased to find that Alan, an Apprentice from my own entry, had shared my fate in being sent to Bottesford. The other regulars included the Signals Officer, the Flight Sergeant, a Corporal and an LAC who was an Apprentice from an earlier entry. The Corporal wore an old style brass Air gunner's badge on his upper right sleeve, spoke with a scouse accent that you could cut with a knife and sported the name of Charlie Steinhoffel. The name and the accent were a gross mismatch! There were several wartime Wireless Mechanics. I can remember two of them: one was from London and seemed totally preoccupied with weekend passes and with his sex life. The other was a lanky East-Midlander with a wonderfully dry sense of humour which was an antidote to the somewhat tedious company of the other fellow. Our work entailed looking after the ground Radio equipment that was used on the station. This covered the R/T (Radio Telephony) equipment that the Control Tower used to communicate with aircraft and the three Radio Beacons that constituted the blind landing facility. In addition there the WIT (Wireless Telegraphy) transmitters that were operated by the D/F (Direction Finding) station together with their receiving equipment. The work could hardly be described as arduous. The Signals Officer, however, had some distinctly unique ideas about how we should pass our leisure hours. He saw the need to keep his men fit and, to this end, we had to put in several hours in the gymnasium every week. Not having any RAF experience other

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than Cranwell I did not realise, at that time, how unusual this was. Our boss was clearly a fitness freak.

His enthusiasm for ensuring that the Station Signals staff did not appear to be twiddling their thumbs went further; to the extent that he offered his staff for participation in a night exercise to test the effectiveness of the small RAF Regiment contingent whose purpose was to lead the defence of the airfield. As a result six of us were taken, in the middle of the night to a point about half a mile from the station boundary. We were supposed to make our way into the camp and make our mark on the Operations block. The RAF Regiment would be expecting us. As it happened, it turned out to· be quite good fun. It was interesting to observe, from various hiding places, the manoeuvres of the Regiment. I'm afraid that they did not do well. We succeeded in reaching our objective.

Some time before this event occurred I had to go on a week's "Backers-up" course. "Backers-up" were intended to back up the RAF Regiment should the need arise to defend the airfield from ground attack. The course taught us the bare essentials of infantry skills: the correct way to describe the location of distant targets, the fundamentals of concealment, how to stick a bayonet into a sack of straw and how to fire a rifle. The course was held at Bottesford and instruction was given by one of the RAF Regiment Sergeants.

The weeks since arriving at Bottesford soon slipped by, pleasantly interspersed with weekend passes that took me home to North London and to occasional air raids. After about three months had passed, Alan (my fellow ex-apprentice) and I were transferred to full time duty at the Transmitter Station. This was well outside the Station perimeter and was situated off a lane which lead to the Great North Road at Long Bennington. The building had running water and flush sanitation and it was good news when we learned that we would have to vacate our hutted accommodation and move in to the Transmitter Station. We joined two Wireless mechanics, one of

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whom was a Canadian, and our function was to look after two H/F W /T transmitters which had to available for 24 hours a day.

Again our task was not very demanding and, if anything, was rather boring. We did not realise that this was a first taste of the sort of work that signals personnel can be faced with; namely to be available to put things right when they go wrong. We had the consolation of having some relief from the Bottesford life style as we did not have to walk half a mile every morning for a wash and hot meals were delivered to our door.

We still had to go to the Domestic Site for a shower. One day Alan and I decided that we should use a free afternoon to take a trip back to Cranwell, taking towels and soap with us, and give ourselves a treat by having a hot bath. This we did and, in the process, renewed acquaintance with a few of the Apprentices who were still there. Although we had been bursting to be free from Cranwell some months earlier we had now come to realise that had some good points after all!

The monotony of our existence was broken when some new equipment was delivered to us. It was, in fact, complete set of airborne radio equipment identical to that which was installed on 207 Squadron's Manchesters. There was a TR9 R/T Transmitter/Receiver and a T1154/R1l55 H/F transmitter and receiver. The latter were used for long range W /T communications and the former to give a close range Radio Telephone link with Flying Control. In addition there was a pair of portable aerial masts, batteries etc. in fact all that would be needed to set up the equipment and get it working.

Apparently, when our aircraft were on operations, German night fighters were homing in on the radio transmissions from our returning aircraft when they asked for bearings to guide them back to base. They could also track the ground station transmissions. With our newly delivered equipment we were to simulate R/T and W/T traffic from a spoof squadron of aircraft. The equipment was meant to be set up on a different site on each night upon which it was used. Whoever it was that had the last word in our

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particular case decided that we would be a fixture at the transmitting station; the latter being well outside the airfield boundary.

Our "airborne" equipment was mounted in a metal frame and to this was attached an Electra-mechanical device which imparted mild vibration to it. This gave the transmissions, as heard by the receiving operator, the characteristic sound of those from airborne equipment. When 207 Squadron was returning from operations, using specially allocated hoax call-signs, we would call our local D/F Station and ask for bearings. Suitable bogus bearings would then be given. After a suitable interval we would then request landing instructions from Flying Control and then go through the verbal motions of compliance, finally announcing that we had cleared the runway. I must admit that on more than one occasion it occurred to me that an enemy intruder could very easily home in on us. The prospect was not a comforting one. Operating this spoof equipment provided the only occasion on which I would make any significant use of the hours spent training as a Wireless Operator during the preceding two years.

The weeks passed by uneventfully and in August of 1942 I was posted. I was to go to RAF Wyton and the unit that I was joining was No 109 Squadron.

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CHAPTER 9

CAT & MOUSE

I arrived at RAF Wyton, which is about 4 miles north of Huntingdon and on the east side of the main road from Huntingdon to Chateris, and was pleasantly surprised.

Whereas RAF Bottesford probably represented the worst kind of airfield in the UK,

RAF Wyton was at the opposite end of the scale. The layout and architecture was typical of the permanent RAF Stations that were built in the 1930s and provided a degree of comfort for its occupants about which it would be unreasonable to complain.

Having arrived at Wyton, it became clear that 109 Squadron (which, at that time, was part of No 3 Group, Bomber Command) was in the process of being formed. It's aircraft did not seem to be very impressive. There were two or three Avro Ansons, a couple of Wellingtons (with pressurised cabins!) and one Mosquito bomber. Not a very formidable collection! The Squadron was being formed around a unit that had operated from R.A.F. Stradishall (later better known as H. M. Prison Highpoint, from which inmates seem to escape without much difficulty.) As far as I could understand, this unit, called Wireless Intelligence Development Unit, had specialised in using off-beat electronic equipment to perform special functions. Rumour had it that bending the radio beams that the Luftwaffe used for some of its "Baedeker" raids was one such task. I believe that one of these beam-bending sessions resulted in Dublin having one or two German bombs dropped on it.

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Initially there was not a great deal to do. One method used by the Armed Forces to deal with this kind of situation is to sending people on courses. This happened to me and I soon found myself on a Ground Gunner's course. It was held on the Station and was of two weeks duration. The object of the course was to train us in the use of a small-calibre anti-aircraft weapon. This took the form of a pair of .303 Browning machine guns, of the type commonly used on aircraft, mounted on a well balanced and very manoeuvrable mounting. In the traditional manner we were taught how to take apart and re-assemble the Browning Gun and how to deal with stoppages. Then we were taken to the firing range to fire live ammunition. The course culminated in simulated firing at flying targets. This was given in a building known as the "Dome".

As the name suggests, it was a hemispherical building about 20 feet in height and would best be described as something akin to a planetarium. The inner dome was white and in the centre of the floor was a replica Lewis Gun and, close by it, the equipment which projected a very realistic image of fast moving aircraft. The system was used by aiming the dummy Lewis at the target and pressing the trigger. A loudspeaker made noises to simulate gunfire and the gun's foresight and ring-sight were projected onto the moving image. The instructor was then able to check aiming-off technique and correct our faults.

Sadly, during these two weeks, a Stirling bomber (from another Station) crashed near to Wyton, killing all the crew. This meant that a Funeral Party would be needed and where better to obtain some men for Funeral duties than from the Ground Gunner's course. Thus I had another new experience, not the most pleasant, and one that few would volunteer to partake in.

The NCO who was running the course knew the correct drill and procedures that were part of a military funeral. We spent half a day being taken through the routine including firing a salute and how to act as pall-bearers. I was selected as a bearer.

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The proceedings took up most of the following day. In the morning, three of the crew were buried with full military honours in Wyton churchyard. Later two more were interred, with the same sort of ceremonial, in a Roman Catholic cemetery on the outskirts of Huntingdon. In the afternoon, the remaining two were taken to Huntingdon railway station to travel to their families for private interment.

The day was naturally a very solemn one. It was also quite hot which added to the burden of the relatives of the deceased who`s grief was intensified by the protracted military ceremonial. In addition to witnessing the great distress of the bereaved, those of us who acted as bearers had another problem to cope with. The coffins had been resting, for several days prior to the funeral, under the roof of a garage adjoining

Station Sick Quarters. The weather was very hot and the inside of the garage was like an oven. This did not improve the condition of the contents of the coffins. Their state was not fully appreciated until we were given felt pads to place on our shoulders and warned that the boxes were leaking. Any doubts we had were dispelled by the smell that greeted us when we started to move them out. The aroma was with us all day long and for many days to come. Food, tobacco - anything at all, was tainted by its memory. After that day, I would not recommend the next of kin of a member of the armed forces to opt for a military funeral, should the occasion arise, unless they had a good appreciation of what it entailed.

Compared with Bottesford, Wyton was like a holiday camp. The barrack blocks were in the usual two storied 'H' configuration. They had flat roofs and the rooms, each accommodating about twenty men, were smaller than those at Cranwell. This made for a closer relationship between the occupants and I soon got to know them. Apart from myself there was only one other occupant who was a regular airmen. He was a Cpl Fitter and an ex-apprentice like myself but of an earlier vintage. The remainder were all "civilians in uniform" and included a taxi driver, a bus driver, one or two school teachers, a couple of bank clerks, an insurance salesman, and a market gardener. Serving in the RAF they were now Armourers, Fitters, Wireless Mechanics,

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Electricians and M/T Drivers. In the latter trade was a Corporal who had served with the RFC in World War I and who had been called back as a reservist in 1939. He was at least 50 years old and was the oldest Airman that I had met. He had his problems. Firstly he was about 6'6" tall (unusual at that time) and had very large feet. This meant that he found the beds too short and he had difficulty in getting suitable foot-ware from RAF clothing stores. His state of health was not good and we were all pleased for him when he was discharged on medical grounds.

The daily routine was much more to my liking than that which prevailed at Bottesford. The working day began, after breakfast and the domestic chores had been completed, by parading outside the barrack block and marching to the hangars with rolled overalls tucked under our arms. This parading and marching was done in a fairly relaxed manner - unlike the Cranwell style of doing things. This was the only parade of the day and we made our own way to the Airmen's mess at lunchtime and back to it again for the evening meal. During the morning and afternoon the NAAFI 'wagon' visited the hangars and various places of work on the airfield. It must be said that this was a very important event. The cry of "NAAFI up!" could be guaranteed to empty a busy hangar quicker than anything else. Everything would stop and it was not unusual to see a Merlin engine swinging idly from a hoist when the arrival of the

NAAFI 'wagon' interrupted an engine change. In addition, on the far side of the airfield, next to the Huntingdon to Chateris road was an establishment known as "Smokey Joe's". It lived up to its name. It was a primitive cafe housed in something resembling an ancient railway carriage. The civilian proprietor served mainly mugs of tea and thick slices of bread and beef dripping. Anyone who`s work took them in that direction usually called in for a break.

The 109 Squadron Signals Section, to which I had been posted, had its workshop situated in the hangar that housed its modest collection of aircraft. It was on the side of the hangar nearest to the airfield, giving us a good view of what was happening outside. Our Signals Officer was F /Lt J N Walker, a wartime officer who, as a civilian,

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had worked for Eddystone Radio and had been one of the co-authors of the version of the Amateur Radio Handbook that was current at that time. I assumed that he was chosen to serve with 109 Squadron because of its specialised work with radio equipment. There was also a Corporal, George Hayward by name, who was in reality

Walker's right-hand man where technical matters were concerned. George was nurseryman specialising in growing carnations and a keen Radio "Ham" before the war. He was also a member of the Civilian Wireless Reserve and entered the RAF as a Wireless Mechanic without any formal technical training. There were a couple of regular Flight Sergeants in the Section plus about half a dozen Wireless Mechanics (duration only). We also had a Vehicle - a soft-topped Hillman "8" van and a WAAF

M/T driver to go with it. I had not been there very long before I was encouraged to learn to drive the Hillman, aided and abetted by our WAAF Driver and one of the Flight Sergeants who had taken a fancy to her. We eventually acquired a small mobile workshop on a 15 cwt. Bedford chassis which I soon learnt to drive. It had a “crash” gearbox which had no synchromesh and required “ double de-clutching” when changing gear. I also learnt, with the aid of one of our mechanics, to perform a gearchange without using the clutch.

There wasn't any problem in settling in with my new colleagues. They were a good bunch and the whole attitude towards the task in hand was easy-going but extremely enthusiastic. I could see that I was going to like Squadron life. My liking went further when, after a month, I was asked if I had ever taken a trade test for LAC. I had not, so, without delay, I was given a trade test by one of the two Flight Sergeants. I passed and, when the formalities were completed, my pay went up to 5/6 a day and I sewed my "props" (LAC badges) on the sleeves of tunics and greatcoat. At about this time I promised myself that I would not entertain the idea of getting married until I had been promoted to Corporal – this would take my pay up to 7/6 a day.

As the weeks went by, deliveries of Mosquito bombers took place and it soon became clear that something special was going on. For starters, the bomb aimer's windows on

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our aircraft were painted over. The Radar section seemed to be well manned and had frequent visits from civilians from T.R.E. (Telecommunications Research

Establishment). Word went round that we were now part of No. 8 (Pathfinder) Group and that we were to be the first squadron to be equipped with OBOE blind bombing equipment.

Although I was to stay with the Squadron for the best part of three years, I only managed to gain a sketchy outline of what OBOE was all about. The sum and total of this knowledge amounted to being aware that it was a ground controlled bombing system. The pilot and navigator received different signals, each transmitted from one of two ground stations. The pilot’s “Cat” signal steered him on a course to the objective. This guidance began at about 15 minutes flying time away from the target. For this last phase the aircraft had to be flown at constant height (usually around

30,000 ft) and at constant speed. The navigator’s “Mouse” signal defined the management of the bomb load, culminating in the command to release it.

To bring the aircraft accurately to the point at which the OBOE system could be used a purely navigational beam was used. This was known as the Baillie Beam; named after the man who devised it. Much of my time in the latter part of 1942 was spent in helping to produce and install Baillie Beam Receivers. The leading light in this activity was George Hayward. I learned a lot from George. Between us we modified over 20 American communications receivers so that they could be fitted into our Mosquitoes: to operate on or around 56M/Hz. They were powered by a motor-generator of a type normally used to run the normal T1154/R1l55 H/F communications system that was standard on many larger aircraft. This power unit was installed beneath the

Mosquito’s dinghy and was to be the cause of many moans and groans from the riggers whenever we asked them to remove the dinghy to give us access.

The arrival of the new Mosquitoes gave us another job to do. Unlike the majority of Bomber Command’s aircraft they were equipped with R/T equipment that operated at

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VHF. Flying Control at Wyton was only equipped with HF equipment and so we had to install compatible ground equipment in the Control Tower. I could never understand why the S. H. Q. Signals staff did not attend to this. Perhaps it was in some way due to the fact that our Squadron Signals Officer, another “civilian in uniform” did not see the need adhere too strongly to the Service way of getting things done. I was quite happy about our involvement as it gave me the chance to see, at first hand, what went on in Flying Control, particularly when they were busy with incoming aircraft. I was very impressed when, on one particular evening, about eight or nine Lancasters of 83 Squadron (also based at RAF Wyton were returning from “ops” and were stacked above the airfield at intervals of 200 feet (in altitude) and then landed one by one all under the serene control of a humble LACW WAAF. It’s true that the Duty Flying Control Officer was there, but he was quite happy to let the WAAF get on with it!

While we were preparing the aircraft for the task ahead, our aIrcrews were training to use the specialised equipment that had been installed in the Mosquitoes. For my own part I was rapidly becoming acclimatised to squadron life. It did not take very long to learn where Signals personnel stood in the ground crew pecking order. We came into the category referred to as “Gash Trades. “Gash” was a piece of RAF slang and was used to describe things that were of little consequence or of low value. The term “Gash Trades” was almost certainly originated by someone who, by trade, was a Fitter I. Tradesmen in the Fitter I classification were responsible for the parts of the aircraft that really mattered; namely the airframe and engines. The majority of men in this class were ex-Halton Apprentices.

Another possible interpretation of the term would be to define all those tradesmen whose skill and expertise could not be seen as a necessary to ensuring that the aircraft could fly. Whether it could do much else was, of course another matter. Fitters and Riggers were, of course, the elite and clearly not in this category. Armourers and Electricians were lesser mortals and Instrument Makers had the benefit of the doubt.

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Radar Mechanics, Wireless Mechanics and Wireless Operator Mechanics were definitely “Gash Trades”, although the Radar people were regarded with a kind of grudging awe because they dealt with things that had an aura of mystery and secrecy about them.

Our importance did however extend to our being required to sign an aircraft’s Form 700 – it’s Record of Serviceability, Repair and Maintenance – to certify that it’s Radio equipment was serviceable. Each category of tradesman signed for his particular bits of the aircraft and, finally, the Flight Sergeant with overall responsibility for the aircraft (whilst on the ground) added his signature. Before taking over the aircraft the pilot also signed the Form 700 to the effect that he was about to use a serviceable machine. I remember that, on one occasion one of our pilots, a Wing Commander, stormed into our workshop looking for someone to crucify because the VHF Radio equipment in his aircraft did not work. He rapidly calmed down and relented when it was politely pointed out to him that the VHF set had been removed for servicing and that this was recorded in the “700”. He, and the Flight Sergeant, had not bothered to check that it had been signed up by all trades to say that the aircraft was serviceable.

Working in and around the hangars and airfield ensured that there was little opportunity for becoming bored. There was always something going on. One became accustomed to hearing the shattering roar of Merlin engines when a “Mossie” was being run up by the Fitters: the aircraft often standing just outside the hangar doors.

Sometimes the cry – “Two-Six on the Mossie!” would echo round the hangar. It would probably have been uttered by one of the Flight Sergeant or Sergeant Fitters and can be translated as “Help us to push this Mosquito!”. I believe that the “Two-Six” had its origin in the days of the RFC when aircraft (usually small bi-planes) were manhandled by eight men; one on each side of the tailplane and three on each side of the mainplane. It took a few more than this to shift our aircraft! Normally a David Brown tractor would be used, attached to the tail wheel of the aircraft by a towing bar. All trades would be seen carrying out their routine tasks. Instrument mechanics would be

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carrying out their checks and where necessary refilling oxygen bottles from large cylinders mounted on small low slung trolleys. Sometimes there would be a two wheeled truck carrying a small petrol engine connected to the aircraft by a length of cable. This meant that the Radar Mechanics were at work inside. The radar equipment needed a 400HZ supply which was provided in flight by an engine driven generator. The truck with the petrol engine provided a substitute for running the equipment on the ground.

Our radio paraphernalia ran from the aircraft’s 24V batteries. For obvious reasons we were not allowed to run on these batteries as, without the engines running, they would soon lose their charge. In consequence, when we had to do our Daily

Inspections (always referred to as “DI”s), we had to manhandle the heavy trolley-mounted 24V starter battery (called a “Trolley Acc”) to each aircraft and plug into the starter socket before beginning. When working on aircraft, problems can easily be caused by people getting in each other’s way ~ even on aircraft larger than ours there never seemed to be enough space. This was never the source of serious problems despite the limited room in the cockpit of a Mosquito. At the time I didn’t really appreciate how well everyone worked together and how a quiet undercurrent of enthusiasm was providing motivation to work as a team and get things done. I was, after all 19 years old and lacking the broader experience of human behaviour that can lead to a cynical outlook. I suppose that, at that time, I assumed that life always proceeded in this fashion. What I had seen so far of life with 109 Squadron was much to my liking. Thankfully there was more to come.

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CHAPTER 10

DOWN TO BUSINESS

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To my great surprise, in October I was promoted to Corporal. This was almost too good to be true and, needless to say, made me feel quite enthusiastic about my future prospects as a Regular airman. I had once made a conscious decision that I would not contemplate marriage until I had been promoted to Corporal and was drawing the 7/6 a day that went with it. Had I known what the future held, I would have savoured this promotion as a rare event something like Haley's Comet! In common with many of my contemporaries, it to be almost 10 years later before any more promotion came my way.

At the end of 1942, on December 20th to be precise, the Squadron carried out its first operations with OBOE equipped Mk N Mosquito bombers. Six of our aircraft attacked a coking plant at Lutterade in Holland. We were told that, in terms of proportion of bomb-load delivered within some specific distance from the target, our aircraft had carried out Bomber Command's most efficient operation, to date. This took into account the much publicised 1000 bomber raid on Cologne in which only a small proportion of the bomb load fell within a mile of the target - or so we were told. Many years after the end of the war I read that Lutterade was chosen because it was a

"virgin" target, displaying no previous sign of bomb damage. Thus it was hoped that a clear analysis of the results of OBOE controlled bombing could be made. Apparently the target was not well chosen as after our initial operation it was realised that

Lutterade had experienced previous attention from Bomber Command! Nevertheless

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it was a milestone and signalled some dividend from a lot of hard work. invested by both ground staff and aircrews.

Things were now on the move and the Squadron was on operations for 15 nights during January of 1943. It was during this period that we started to deliver 250lb

Target Indicators (known as "TI"s) to the chosen targets. The "TI"s looked very much like bombs but were in fact formidable pyrotechnics intended to mark targets for

Bomber Command's Main Force aircraft. The range of the OBOE ground stations limited operations to targets in the occupied countries and to the Western parts of Germany. This included the Rhine-Ruhr industrial concentrations which meant that there would be plenty of targets to keep our aircraft busy!

These business-like activities were carried out against a background made up of the leisure and relaxation that were available to us. It was possible to get a 36 hour pass fairly regularly and it was thus possible to get home every two weeks or so. I soon became very familiar with the journey by rail to Kings Cross or Finsbury Park. Finding ways of cheating the railways by avoiding payment of the proper fare was a common pastime of many servicemen - so much so that railway ticket collectors mostly took it for granted that you had not paid your fare.

The aged ticket collector who was on duty on Sunday nights at Huntingdon Railway Station had an unenviable task. The late trains from Kings Cross were crowded with airmen and other servicemen, many of whom were keeping down their travel costs by not bothering to buy tickets. When they arrived at Huntingdon they would crowd through the ticket barrier, pushing anything that barely resembled a rail ticket, for example, bus tickets, tube tickets, cloakroom tickets or even pieces of cigarette packets, into the poor old fellow's hands, ignoring all his protests and attempts to do his job! Others used to find alternative exits from the Station which usually involved climbing walls or fences. Close to the railway station was a services canteen operated by a voluntary organisation such as the Salvation Army or the WVS. Many of us took

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the opportunity of having a hot cup of tea before making the journey back to camp. We would not be able to get any refreshment when we returned because the NAAFI shut at 1O.OOpm and the cookhouse shut up shop immediately after serving supper in the early evening.

Frequently I used to walk the 3 or so miles back to Wyton and, similarly, would sometimes walk into Huntingdon during the evenings, go to the "flicks" or spend some time in the many pubs that were to be found in the town. It was during one of these evening excursions that I first encountered the men of the United States 8th Army Air Force. I'm afraid that, in common with many other people at that time, I did not gain a very favourable impression of them.

Troops of any nationality, including our own, finding themselves in a foreign country, do not make good ambassadors and frequently behave in a fashion that will not endear them to the natives. My first encounter with our American cousins was in a Huntingdon pub. It was not in their nature to be unobtrusive and quiet. The image of them waving fists full of pound notes at the bar staff and complaining about having to drink warm beer instead of whisky, whilst treating everything around them with derision, got them off. to a poor start. It is worth mentioning that, many years after the war and no longer in the RAF, I found myself living in Boston, Massachusetts as one of a group of British engineers seconded to work at an American electronics manufacturer. One of our number placed the boot on the other foot. He frequently embarrassed us by pointing out to our American colleagues the faults in their way of living and comparing it unfavourably with our own. Whilst I agreed with most of his criticisms, I enjoyed a quiet admiration of the placid manner in with which our hosts reacted to him. I believe that they succeeded in making him think, mistakenly, that they were grateful for his advice!

Returning to evening visits to Huntingdon, there was one occasion on which I was very thankful to have been there and not back at RAF Wyton. To set the scene for this

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particular evening I must refer briefly to the Bomb Dump Guard. This was a duty that no one enjoyed and those detailed for it assembled at the Station Armoury at 17.30 hrs. Here they were issued with a Thompson Sub-machine Gun and one magazine of ammunition. There followed a five minute lecture on how to load and fire the weapon and where to find the safety-catch. Later in the evening, a lorry would take the Guard to spend the night at a rat infested hut on the outskirts of the airfield. The usual two hours on and four hours off routine of patrolling the Bomb Dump went on until around

7.30am on the following day. In keeping with tradition, the Orderly Officer made routine visits to the guard during the small hours. This they did with a great deal of nervous caution. They were scared stiff that someone would get jumpy and accidentally let go at them with his “Tommy” Gun. This fear was not without justification.

On this particular occasion an MIT Driver, who was amongst those with whom I shared a room, collected his Tommy Gun in readiness for guard duty later in the evening. I had left earlier to spend the evening in Huntingdon. When I returned I soon learned that, shortly after my departure, our Driver was sitting on his bed with the magazine fitted to the gun and was exploring the action of the cocking lever and safety catch! This was a recipe for disaster and resulted in the complete magazine being accidentally discharged. The bullet marks on the walls bore witness to this. Luckily, only one or two other men were in the room at the time and no one was hurt. Although the barrack block was right behind the Guard Room no one came to investigate. I was very glad to have been in Huntingdon. Surprisingly, nobody in authority discovered this near tragedy. The Corporal in charge of the room was an Armourer. He cleaned the weapon and managed somehow to "fiddle" the used ammunition so that a full magazine could be returned to the Armoury.

It was, of course, not necessary to visit Huntingdon in order to find some way of occupying ones spare time. There was no Camp Cinema but there was an excellent NAAFI with a proper stage that was filled once a week by the Station Dance Band.

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During these weekly concerts time was allotted for members of the audience to display their talents. As can be expected, a group of people with such diverse backgrounds provided entertainment in the broadest sense of the word. Some were polished and professional - and some were simply awful! Even when formal entertainment was not arranged there was always the NAAFI piano ready and waiting for someone to strike its keys. Again, there were good and bad players. I have pleasant memories of one of the better players. He was "Larry" Lamb one of our

Fitters. He would sit at the piano, always wearing his cap, pushed to the back of his head, and play popular music of the day in a delightful relaxed style . He was too good to have been an amateur and would skilfully drift from one tune to the next - great stuff to listen to!

Just off theSt. Ives road, half a mile from the Main Gate, was the Blenhiem Cafe.

"Smokey Joe's" would have been a more fitting name for this establishment than for the makeshift affair at the edge of the airfield. It provided a change from the rather predictable fare served by the Airmen's mess or the NAAFI. The atmosphere within was so thick with smoke and fumes from it's kitchen that the clothes of customers reeked of fried bacon and cigarette smoke for hours after leaving the place. Pubs in the local villages were, of course, well patronised and provided a steady stream of customers for the Blenhiem at closing time. The "Jolly Butchers" at Houghton, or the ''J.Bs'' as it was usually called, is one that comes to mind. The garden at the rear backed onto the River Ouse and it was very pleasant on a fine summer evening to take ones drink outside. On one occasion, a few of my colleagues from the Signals Section had enough to drink to make them believe that there were fairies at the bottom of the "JB's" garden. I wonder whether the present licensee has ever seen them!

During April of 1943 the Squadron received the first of its Mk IX Mosquito Bombers.

These were fitted with more powerful Merlin engines (equipped with two-stage superchargers) than the Mk lV versions with which we had started out. The Mk IXs

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could fly higher and faster than the older aircraft. This increased the effective range of the OBOE system and lessened the threat from flak and enemy night fighters. By

June of that year we had about ten Mk IXs.

By this time I was well accustomed to being with 109 Squadron and to being in the company of the wartime intake of airmen who formed the bulk of my companions. It was an education. I'm sure that if they had all been regular Airmen things would have been vastly different. What would have been missing was the variety of experience of living a normal civilian life that my companions had to relate. Some may say that they were a bad influence on someone such as myself. My own verdict is that I am eternally grateful to them for giving me a broader vision of life than the company of regular airmen would have afforded. I'm sure that it was at this stage the first seeds of discontent with an RAF career began to germinate, to spring to life soon after the end of the war.

There are two more memories of RAF Wyton that I must mention. The first has stayed with me because, to me it symbolises the problems experienced by some of our aircrews. One evening I returned early from a trip into Huntingdon. I travelled by bus and alighted at the crossroads which were about a quarter of a mile from the Main

Gate. As I made my way in that direction I met a F/Sgt Air Gunner. He took no notice of me, the reason being that he was well and truly drunk and was devoting his attention to knocking a small stone along with a piece of stick broken from the hedge at the roadside. He was swinging the stick like a golf club and missed the stone as often as he hit is. He was not happy but was clearly getting some satisfaction when he managed to make contact with the stone. I have to admit that, at that time, I didn't think a lot of the spectacle. Later I came to gain, indirectly, some appreciation of the stresses which Bomber Command aircrews underwent. As a consequence, I revised my perception of the F /Sgt. Air Gunner and felt a little guilty about my less than sympathetic first impression of him. Who was I to pass judgement ? A few years ago I came across this poignant verse by R.W.Gilbert:--

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REQUIEM FOR A REAR GUNNER

My brief sweet life is over, my eyes no longer see,

No Summer Walks – no Christmas Trees – no pretty girls for me.

I’ve got the chop. I’ve had it, my nightly ops are done,

Yet in another 100 years I’ll still be 21.

That says it all.

Since then it has often occurred to me that our aircrews and, for that matter, those of the Luftwaffe, lived a very unusual existence. Like the F/Sgt Air Gunner they could be at one moment in a very friendly, peaceful and familiar world; then several hours later would find themselves over enemy territory with all the attendant dangers and uncertainties that it offered. This sudden switch between the two environments must have imposed a great deal of stress which people such as me could not appreciate at that time.

The second recollection is of an entirely different nature. On May 26th of 1943 King George VI and Queen Elizabeth visited RAF Wyton. The visit took place during the afternoon. During the morning, representative aircraft from the units which comprised

No 8 Group arrived and were formally lined up for inspection Surprisingly there was not much in the way of "bull" to prepare for the occasion - just a good tidy up and a sweep for the hangar floor. Just prior to the King and Queen's arrival everyone not actively involved in the event had to vacate the hangar and went to line both sides of a narrow road leading from the hangars to the Main Gate. Officers were placed at intervals amongst us lesser beings. The officer nearest to me told us that eventually the Royal car will travel this road with the Royal party after the inspection was over. We were told that, when the car was close enough, he (the officer) would call for three

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cheers for King George and Queen Elizabeth. We waited and after about half an hour the novelty of a change in routine and the excitement of the prospect of a close up view of the Monarch and his Consort had both waned considerably. The thought taking prime place in our minds was that the afternoon was passing by and, if we stayed where we were for much longer, we would miss the usual visit to the hangars of the NAAFI wagon. It doesn't sound very patriotic and airman-like, does it! However that's the way it was. Eventually the staff car flying the Royal Standard could be seen approaching and the officer called for three cheers. I'm afraid to say that the response was feeble. Most of us stood with open mouths, somewhat surprised by the sight of the couple sitting in the rear seats of the car. They both looked immaculate and almost too good to be true. We were lucky, the NAFFI wagon had postponed its afternoon visit so that we all had a mug of tea and a "wad" before getting back to work

In July of 1943 the Squadron was to move to RAF Marham in Norfolk.

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CHAPTER 11

SQUADRON WILL MOVE

Moving from one Station to another is usually a rather lonely business but to move as part of a complete unit is a vastly different matter. Everyone is in the same boat and, in this case, transport was provided virtually from door to door. Throwing ones kit on the back of a lorry, climbing up after it and being driven to ones new home took some beating. There was no problem in coping with a route across the railway network that had been devised by a well-meaning but often incompetent Orderly Room clerk. Neither would one have to find some way of travelling the last miles from the railway station to the final destination. That move to Marham was sheer luxury.

Having arrived there, we found RAF Marham to be very similar in layout and architecture to that of RAF Wyton, both being the products of the years between the wars. At Marham, however, there were no concrete runways - only grass, making the airfield unsuitable for heavy bombers such as the Lancaster or Halifax. It was therefore not surprising to find that, prior to our arrival, the station had been home to two Mosquito Squadrons; No.s 105 and 139. Both of these units had been engaged on low-level bombing operations over Europe. 139 Squadron had moved out in order to make room for us. The reason for the re-shuffle was that 105 Squadron was to convert to OBOE operations. Shortly before the move, our strength had built up to 31 aircraft and some of these were transferred to 105 Squadron to enable their crews to work up to operational standard.

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It did not take long for the Squadron to settle in and to resume its operational activities. We found ourselves working in hangars which, seen from within, could have been those that we had occupied at Wyton. Because of the specialized Radar and Radio equipment that was used in OBOE Mosquitoes, the Signals and Radar

Sections of both Squadrons pooled their resources. There had been little or no Radar equipment in 105 Squadron's low-level Mosquitoes and so the Radar Section was manned almost exclusively by 109 Squadron personnel.

The Radar Section was built around a core of about half a dozen Canadian Radar Mechanics who certainly appeared to be doing a first class job. After a little taste of

USAAF personnel the Canadians were a refreshing contrast. They were easygoing and unobtrusive and kept themselves to themselves. I spent a month on loan to the Radar Section and got to know them and like them. One of them must have been a

French Canadian, his surname was Desjeans. His colleagues showed little respect for his ethnic origins and pronounced his name as "Dezgenes" or, more kindly, just "Dez". These normally quiet and sober Canadians were, however quite capable of letting their hair down. When Christmas came, bottles of whisky appeared from nowhere and they diverted their application to work to the task of getting drunk and staying in that condition for a while. At that time, I shared a room with one of them, a chap called Bev Rutter who aspired to become a successful artist. I enjoyed his company and he left me with one vivid memory. He had been with his Canadian pals, taking part in their Christmas drinking spree, and returned to our room complaining that he was in danger of sobering up. He tackled the problem by drinking a bottle of after-shave.

The few weeks that I spent with the Radar Section did not result in my gaining anything more than an appreciation of the bare essentials of "Gee" (a navigation aid). Much of the time was spent in doing "D.I”.s (Daily Inspections) which involved pushing the petrol engine driven 400Hz generator, needed to power the equipment, from aircraft to aircraft. Before taking part in these activities I was warned that the key

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parts of the Radar equipment were fitted with small explosive charges which were triggered either manually or by shock resulting from impact. The intention was to prevent vital parts getting into enemy hands. Care had to be taken during Daily Inspections to ensure that these charges were not accidentally fired. I saw the results of one such accident - the charges were very effective and left the equipment in a sorry state when they went pop.

It was during the Squadron's stay at Marham that Target indicators began to appear less frequently in the bomb loads. Their place was taken by 500lb bombs. I believe that the reason for this was that the "heavies" were now attacking targets well beyond

OBOE range and that our Mosquitoes were assigned to attacking specialized plants, such as power stations and steel works, in Western Germany. The Mk IX Mosquitoes were able to carry six 500 pounders - four in the bomb bay and one on each wing. I did not know it at the time but these raids were extremely successful and 80% of the bombs carried fell within 100 yards of the aiming point; all dropped from around 30,000 feet. The ability to operate successfully from this altitude together with the

Mosquito's speed (in excess of 300mph) resulted in a loss due to enemy action being a rare occurrence. 105 Squadron must have appreciated their new role using OBOE. Due to the merging of the Signals Sections of the two units we were able to see a record of 105 Squadron's low-level operations. The entry FTR (failed to return) frequently appeared amongst the entries in the log.

It was during our time at Marham that I had my first experience of being part of the Duty Crew. The Duty Crew was made up of representatives of all trades and had to be available, outside "normal" working hours, to see that aircraft got away on operations on time and were available to deal with any problems right up to the time when the last aircraft had returned. Any problems reported by the aircrews would then have to be sorted out to leave the aircraft serviceable in readiness for the following day.

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Men who were on Duty Crew took an early .evening meal and returned to the hangars before the rest of the ground crews might expect to finished work for the day. This last statement indicates the civilized manner in which the bulk of RAF ground personnel lived whilst conducting our part of the war. We took it all for granted that, unless there was urgent work to be done, we would have the evening to ourselves. We were inclined to forget that there were others, like ourselves, stationed overseas who were finding things rather different. On cold winter's nights we were temporarily issued with one of the old fashioned "Sidcot" one-piece flying suits. It was nights such as this that provide my clearest memories of these duties. We would see our aircraft off during early or late evening. This could take some time as there were appreciable intervals between departures; the reason being that the Oboe Ground Stations could not handle more than one Mosquito at a time. (This was to change as the system was developed.) Between the last departure and the time that the first aircraft was due to return there would be a dead patch of a couple of hours or so. This interval was either in the late evening or, more likely, in the early hours of the morning and it provided the opportunity for the Duty Crew to retire to the cookhouse and get some hot food and drink or an "Ops Supper" as it was known. After that we would make our way back to the hangars and wait. The returning "Mossies" taxied back to the hangars after landing. After the engines had stopped we would move up to the aircraft and wait for the hatch to open, ladder to be put in place and the crew of two to descend. If there were any problems we soon got to know about them. On the very cold winter nights, despite the protection given by the "Sidcots", it was always good to be near enough to the hatch to enjoy a brief waft of warm oxygen-rich air when it opened.

During these early morning stints there were occasional moments that were memorable. There was the navigator who, on descending the steps from the cockpit, was surprised to find that his backside had provided a home for a small piece of flak. Apparently his parachute had absorbed most of the impact. On another night, one of our Mosquitoes returned with a 500lb bomb still in position on one of the wing

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bomb-racks. It had failed to release over the target because of icing and eventually detached itself as the aircraft touched down on landing. Luckily it didn't explode but its presence in the path of following aircraft caused quite a panic. Again, good fortune prevailed and all the remaining aircraft landed without mishap.

On yet another night, several of us were standing outside the hangar watching the first of several aircraft returning from ops. One could see the flames from the exhaust stubs as the Mossie made its approach and could hear the crackle of its engines as they were throttled back. We were then surprised to see that, as we thought, the next to land was making his approach much too close to the preceding aircraft.

Concentrating our attention on the newcomer we suddenly saw some flashing lights and heard the unfamiliar sound of cannon fire. This was not a Mosquito but a German intruder which had followed our aircraft in, hoping to make a kill with a sitting duck.

Thankfully he was a rotten shot. We, who had witnessed this from afar, stood there outside the hangar with our mouths hanging open in surprise - too dim to think of finding some cover in case the intruder turned his attention to the hangars. Had he done so he could have inflicted quite a lot of damage.

The hours of daylight were not without their dramatic moments. On one afternoon, one of our aircraft took off for a test flight following completion of a major inspection. On these occasions it was not unusual for the pilot to be accompanied by one of the ground staff who had done the work. This time it was an LAC Rigger who, in civilian life, had taught at a Bournemouth school.

The pilot wore the smart dark blue uniform of the Royal Australian Air Force which made RAF clothing appear rather drab. All went well with the flight until the time came to land. Only one of the two undercarriage legs had descended fully. The other one stopped about 30° short of the locked position. It did not take long before almost everyone became aware of the problem. The Mossie made quite a few low level passes in front of the Control Tower to enable those within to report the state of the

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undercarriage to the pilot. We in the Signals Section were able to listen in on the conversations between pilot and Controller and thereby became aware that the pilot was asking permission to bump the good undercarriage leg on the ground in the hope that the shock would free the other one. This was received with nothing short of horror by the Controller who told him that they should try using the hand pump to power the hydraulic system in the hope that this would do the trick. The Mossie circled the airfield for about a further half an hour when the controller reported that the undercart now looked good. The aircraft landed safely and taxied up to the hangar where it disgorged a quite calm looking Australian and a very hot and bothered but thankful LAC who had been pumping away solidly for about 30 minutes.

The locality of RAF Marham did not afford much in the way of opportunities for leisure. The nearest towns were not accessible by regular bus services. The only buses available were privately operated and did not appear to run to any recognised timetable. Kings Lynn lay to the north and to the west was Downham Market. Kings Lynn was beyond comfortable walking distance and Downham Market was not considered to be worth walking to except perhaps to board a train for Liverpool Street. This meant that we relied mostly on what was offered by the NAAFI or looked to weekend passes to provide a break from the service surroundings.

There was at least one good thing which could be said about the journey home from Marham and that was that it made a change from travelling on the LNER East Coast line into Kings Cross. The trip to London from Kings Lynn took me to Liverpool Street via Downham Market, Ely and Cambridge. The railway line also passed within 300yds of my final destination in Edmonton. This was not to my advantage. On the contrary, it caused frustration. It would take at least an hour, from the time at which the train was nearest to home, before I would eventually get there. The train would crawl for the last few miles to Liverpool Street and then there would be a 40 minute ride on a trolley bus to complete the journey. This would of course be repeated in reverse on the return journey. On arriving back at Kings Lynn one would be met at the station by the strong

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aroma of fish, then one would have to queue for one of the little single-decker private buses for the trip back to Marham.

I got a bit fed up travelling to Kings Lynn to get the train and followed the example of a colleague and acquired a bicycle and used it to cycle into Downham Market. Cycles could be left in safety at the railway station for a small fee. In present times it will be hard for some younger people to believe that they would not be stolen! The cycle ride from Marham took one alongside RAF Downham Market which was a short distance from the town. Downham Market was one of about three airfields equipped with equipment known as FIDO. This was a system for dispersing fog by burning umpteen gallons of paraffin in special burners placed along the length of the runway. These

FIDO equipped airfields were invaluable in providing places where landings could be made on nights when thick fog blanketed the East Anglia and South East England.

Another of the FIDO equipped airfields was RAF Manston. This being closest to the Continent was used mostly by aircraft that were damaged and in difficulties.

A common feature of the BBC new bulletins was an item stating that a strong force of Bomber Command aircraft had attacked targets in Western Germany and then giving the number of aircraft that were missing. One of the most heartless acts that I came across during the war years happened at Marham. A Corporal, who was not a member of 109 Squadron, decided to organize a sweepstake. The object was to forecast correctly the number of aircraft that would be reported missing on the following day's BBC 8am news bulletin. I regret to say that he managed to find a few punters but interest faded after about a week. If I had not been a witness to this action I would find it very difficult to believe that this could have happened.

My time at Marham was notable in at least two aspects. Firstly, in the September of 1943 I got married. Of lesser consequence was the fact that our Squadron Signals

Officer decided to recommend me for a Commission. He called me to his office one day and asked me if I had ever considered applying for a commission. I said that it

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had not occurred to me but after a chat I agreed to have a try. The ball was set rolling but did not go very far. I had successful interviews with our Squadron Commander and then with the Station Commander. Shortly after this, I was notified that my application had got as far as Group Headquarters but rejected because I was too young. That was that. Perhaps a little disappointing but comforting to know that one or two people thought that I had what it takes!

In early March of 1944 two years had passed since I left Cranwell. Life was going well; I had interesting and satisfying work to do, good companions and workmates, had my ego massaged by the commission application, got married and had been promoted to Corporal. This latter event, which occurred in October of 1942, created the situation which brought an end to my euphoria. I was told to report to the Squadron Orderly Room where I learned that I was to be detached to RAF

Cardington for four weeks to attend a Junior NCO's Course. I did not receive this news with much enthusiasm.

RAF Cardington lies on the southern outskirts of Bedford and is notable for its association with airships. This culminated around the year 1930 with the R 100 and the RlO1 which were built and housed in the two massive hangars that dominate the station. Cardington also had a plant for producing hydrogen - essential in those days if in the airship business. It was also home to an RAF unit which supported the barrage balloons which were a part of our air defences and to a part of Training

Command specializing in putting raw recruits through their initial "square-bashing". Affiliated to this latter enterprise was the Junior NCO's School.

Arrival at Cardington was a step back in time to a regime very similar to that which typified the least attractive features of my time at Cranwell. It was back to the world of nasty military haircuts, carefully folded kit, highly polished floors, parades and square-bashing - in a few words, back to bulIshit in abundance. My fellow trainees were all Corporals but were all "duration only" personnel who had only had the

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standard 6 weeks initial training at Padgate or some other similar recruiting centre. For the four weeks duration of the course we effective lost our rank whilst on the station. We were given khaki denim battle dress to wear without our corporal's stripes and had to address all the instructors as "Staff" irrespective of their actual rank.

These instructors were a mixture of ex-Army or ex-RAF Regiment men, most of whom had spent less time in uniform than I had.

Inwardly, I did not feel very happy about finding myself on this course, especially after two years of Cranwell discipline behind me. I did not suffer any illusions about the ability of 109 Squadron to function without my help but my return to Marham couldn’t happen soon enough for my liking.

Practically the first item on the agenda was a visit to the Station Barber for one of those free but unwelcomed haircuts. The barber, a civilian, had rather a menacing demeanour and seemed to take a sadistic delight in carrying out his task - a typical "slasher"! A kit inspection was held once a week and the bulk of the month was spent drilling on the square. We had to take turns in drilling the squad, formed by the members of the course, under the supervision of the instructors. A small amount of time was devoted to weapons training including priming and throwing a live hand grenade. There was a morning's route march along the Shefford Road to Hayne's turning and back and the whole thing seemed to round itself off by a day on the Assault Course with more sacks of straw suffering under our bayonets.

Easter of 1944 fell at the end of the third week of the course and we were hoping to be able to get 48 hour passes to get us home for this weekend. Unfortunately this did not materialise. At that time there was plenty of speculation relating to the timing of the seemingly inevitable invasion of Europe. We were told that because of the possibility of the event occurring over Easter we would not be permitted anything more than an overnight pass limited to Bedford. It seems an unlikely excuse. Who would see fit to tell a bunch of RAF Corporals that D-Day might occur over a particular

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weekend! Regardless of this we were stuck with this ruling and, in company with two other Corporals who came from London, I obtained 36 hour pass to span the night of

Easter Saturday. We then set about finding somewhere to spend the night with our Wives and somehow gravitated towards the houses near to Midland Road Railway

Station. Close by the Station was a theatre and several of the nearby houses provided "digs" for the performers. We were successful in making suitable arrangements and then contacted our wives and arranged for them to travel up to

Bedford. The scheme worked well for all three of us. In my case we spent the

Saturday night on a Put-U-Up type setee in the small sitting room of the lodging house felling rather out of place amongst the other lodgers who seemed to live up to the popular image of theatre folk.

The course thankfully came to an end. I had not enjoyed it - it. seemed to me a waste of time and was not going to help me or any of the other trainees contribute to winning the war. However, as with all such situations that one encounters in the Armed Forces, the only way to survive is to enter into the spirit of the thing whilst it lasts and then forget all about it when it is all over.

We were given Railway Warrants and travel routings to return to our units. I was surprised to find that instead of going back to Marham I was being sent to a place called Little Staughton near to St. Neots. When I queried this I was told that my unit, ie 109 Squadron, had moved during my stay at Cardington. It was good to know that someone, either in the Squadron Signals section or in the Orderly Room had remembered that I was on detachment. Had they not done so I would have been sent back to Marham, only to be told on arrival that 109 had gone to Little Staughton.

I had a good look at my travel instructions and found that, although St. Neots is only 12 miles to the north-east of Bedford, my railway journey was to involve two changes of train - Cardington to Bedford (St. John), Bedford (St. John) to Sandy, then Sandy to St. Neots. This seemed ridiculous and by this time I felt that I had a bellyfull of RAF

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Cardington and decided that I would make my own way to St.Neots, at my own expense, by United Counties bus.

We were required to leave Cardington correctly dressed wearing full webbing equipment and back-packs with anti-gas cape neatly rolled and stowed on top of the pack, ready for instant use. Thus attired, I left the camp via the Guardroom and crossed the road to the bus-stop to wait for a bus into Bedford. As I waited, somehow the release string on the Anti-gas cape came adrift and the thing descended to the ground. This was the final straw and I then shed the webbing equipment, packs etc which ended up on the pavement beside my kitbag. The bus arrived and tossed the whole lot into the luggage space under the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief as I settled down to the short trip into Bedford. At the Bus Station I soon found a bus toSt. Neots and in half an hour disembarked in St. Neots market place. Within two minutes had managed to get a lift to Little Staughton in an RAF truck.

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CHAPTER 12

LITTLE STAUGHTON

Little Staughton was, like Bottesford, a wartime airfield. Thankfully it was built to a much higher standard and, unlike Marham, it possessed runways. It was, of course a dispersed airfield and its design embodied the same basic principles that were found at Bottesford. On each of the Domestic Sites there were facilities for washing and showering and the supply of running water meant that the only 'Elsan' chemical toilet to be found would be in the backend of a Lancaster bomber. There was even a

Station Cinema. I suspect that this superior standard may have had something to do with the fact that the previous occupants of the station were the U.S. 8th. Army Air

Force. Apart from the hangars and the huts which were the living quarters, the buildings were either of brick faced with cement or 'Nissen' huts. The hangars were clad in corrugated galvanized iron sheeting and like all other buildings bore the major part of the well-weathered camouflage paint that was applied when they were first erected. The huts we lived in were frail but functional. The walls were made from a framework of 2"x4" timber covered on both sides by a layer of roofing felt which was reinforced with integral wire netting. This produced a crude attempt at a cavity wall. These huts were heated in the winter by two slow combustion stoves. I was told that when the RAF took over from the Americans they found most of the buildings locked and the keys had been placed, many without labels, in a box! The one clear indication of the identity of the previous tenants was the presence of a little building with an enormous sign in front of it bearing, in large letters, the words "BOMBSIGHT

STORE". It seems that the USAAF regarded their bomb-sights as something extra special, to be treated with great respect . This is not to say that we of the RAF were

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offhand in our treatment of such vital equipment: we just didn`t make so much fuss about it.

The airfield lay about 5 miles to the west of St. Neots and took its name from the small village which was near to the north-west corner of the airfield. I believe that the large flat expanse of land occupied by the airfield was, and still is, known as Staughton Moor. Within the boundary of the station were one or two small farm buildings which had been swallowed up and there was also part of a lane which was then blocked by barbed wire. The official way in and out of the Station was by the main entrance. To travel to St. Neots using this route added a good mile and a half to the trip· and the popular but unofficial way in and out was via a hole in the hedge at the south-east corner of the airfield then into town via Duloe and Staploe.

I had not been at Little Staughton very long before my attention was drawn to the Station Warrant Officer. He was a slim dapper figure, extremely smart and sported a neat black moustache. To me, he was instantly recognizable as one of the Sergeant

Drill Instructors from Cranwell and he was evidently enjoying his promotion and the job which, in effect, placed him at the top of the non-commissioned pile - a situation that he obviously relished. I was to meet him face-to-face about eight years later when I went to draw bedding on my arrival, one evening, at RAF Locking. He was still a Warrant Officer and seemed to be in charge of the Bedding Store, clearly no longer enjoying the lofty status of Station Warrant Officer. When I signed for my sheets, blankets, etc he recognised my service number as being that of an ex-apprentice and was pleased to see someone who remembered him.

By the time that I had arrived from my course at Cardington the Squadron had settled in to its new surroundings. We shared the Station with No 582 Squadron which was equipped with Lancaster Bombers. I found myself assigned to a hut that was occupied, for the greater part, with assorted Signals personnel; those belonging to 109 and 582 Squadrons and also those from SHQ Signals. Almost everyone at Little

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Staughton was issued with a bicycle without which movement around the camp would have been costly in terms of time wasted. In April of 1944 there was a very good reason for making things run smoothly and efficiently because D-Day and the invasion of continental Europe were only about ten weeks away. We were, of course, not aware that this was going to happen on June 6th but everyone had a pretty good idea that we were on the run-up to something special. When the day eventually arrived we would have a total of 34 aircraft; one Mk IV, six Mk IXs and twenty seven Mk XVIs, the latter having pressure cabins. Some of these latest models had enlarged bomb bays to accommodate a 4000lb "Cookie". This was accomplished by modifying the external contours of the bomb bay, thus giving it a pronounced bulge. Inevitably these aircraft were generally referred to as pregnant Mossiesl

In the early part of 1944 the Squadron started attacking V-I launch sites in France and also gave attention to night-fighter and other airfields in Holland and Belgium. Attacks were also made on the railway networks in this area and in France as part of the preparations for the land assault which was to come. Finally on the night of June 5th gun emplacements on the Normandy coast were marked for an attack by the heavy bombers. During March, April and May of 1944 the Squadron flew a total of 718 sorties and, in that June alone, 367 sorties were flown. During one of the attacks on the V-I launch sites, made early in May, one of our Mossies completed its one hundredth sortie. This was the second aircraft to do so. The previous one unfortunately celebrated its one hundredth trip by crash landing on return from it.

Not only were we and our Mosquitoes busy, the Lancasters of 582 Squadron were also working hard. The working day for the ground crews was based on the general principle of beginning after breakfast and finishing just before the evening meal. However, for continuity of effort, selected groups went early for their mid-day and evening meals and returned to work before the remainder left to take their meals at the normal time. During the mornings D.I.s (Daily Inspections) would be done and

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minor adjustments and repairs made to the aircraft. Although Little Staughton had its hangars, located at several points around the airfield perimeter, aircraft were only housed in them if they were undergoing some kind of major repair or inspection. Normally, when not flying they were to be found parked on the hard standings at the various dispersal points which were accessible from the perimeter track. In addition to aircraft taxiing to and from the runway-in-use the "peri"(perimeter} track was used by vehicles and cyclists who were making their way around the airfield. At the end of the runway-in-use was a caravan, prominently painted in black and white and equipped with green and red lights, which controlled movement of aircraft and vehicles at the intersection of runway and perimeter track. A leisurely drive round the perimeter track during the afternoon of a day on which both Squadrons would be preparing for night operations would provide a good idea of the scale of activity that took place. By the time that the midday meal had been taken, the targets, bomb loads and scale of the operations would be established by Bomber Command and the whole station would be working towards having everything ready in time for take-off.

There would be flying during the day; mostly by way of flight tests. At almost any time one could find aircraft standing with cowlings removed from an engine and fitters at work standing on a step ladder if the aircraft was a Mossie or on a high platform in the case of a Lancaster. “Trolley Accs” and generators would be standing by and bomb doors would be hanging open in readiness to receive the night's load. "Bowsers" would also be seen refuelling aircraft with pale green 100 Octane petrol. On even moderately warm summer days the dull camouflage paint on top of the black fuselages made the insides of the aircraft become like slow ovens. They were not pleasant places in which to work. In times such as these the standard of dress adopted by ground crews fell considerably short of that required by King's Regulations and Air Council Instructions! Headgear and collars and ties were discarded and frequently plimsolls and PT shorts were the order of the day.

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I think it is fair to say that the tradesmen with the sternest physical tasks were the Armourers. The Bomb Dump was in the south-west corner of the airfield and the bombs were collected by the Armourers on low-slung bomb trolleys, each of which carried four 500 pounders or in some cases a 4000 pound "cookie". A tractor would haul a train of about three such trolleys around the perimeter track to the waiting aircraft with the Armourers riding on top of the load. This practice was not according to the book but it provided an efficient, albeit slightly dangerous, way for the

Armourers to be at the place where they were needed. We did have one accident when an airman fell off the trolley whilst it was moving and was dragged along the ground with one of his knees trapped under a wheel. When they reached the aircraft they would have to release the trolleys from the tractor and manhandle the heavy trolleys beneath the open bomb bays. Once there, the load would have to be painstakingly winched up to the bomb racks by hand. On busy afternoons it was not unusual to see the Station Commander touring round in his car to see how work was progressing. He was not averse to lending a hand if necessary and I remember seeing him get out of the car and apply an ample shoulder to a bomb trolley full of

"cookie" which was reluctant to move into place under a “Lanc”. Aside from the sheer hard work involved in bombing up there was always the risk that ops would be "scrubbed" (cancelled) or that the target would be changed. In the former case the weapons would have to be removed from the aircraft and returned to the Bomb Dump. A change of target might result in the bomb loads being changed and that really made the Armourers' s day! I never failed to be impressed when these men had done their job and one could look up into a Lancaster's bomb bay and see the awesome load of death and destruction that someone was due to receive.

Amongst the lethal assortment that made up the bomb loads there was a type of delayed action bomb. During the process of transporting the weapons from bomb dump to aircraft it was somehow possible for the delayed action cycle to be triggered.

If this occurred, the bomb would be taken to the north-west corner of the airfield and

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lowered into a large hole prepared to receive such items. It would be left to run it's course. During the day, the public address system would broadcast warnings to stay clear of the area between certain times. Everyone was well aware when the delay mechanism had completed its run.

It was during these busy summer days that a new Squadron Leader (Admin) arrived on the Station. No one at my level could say where he had been stationed prior to this but we were all certain that it was not an operational station. Within several days of arrival he made several trips around the airfield during the really busy times. He was not there to give encouragement or help to push a bomb trolley. He was there to tighten up the sloppy demeanour of the hatless, half dressed airmen that were to be found in abundance preparing for the night's operations! His technique was to demand that the miscreant should hand over to him his Form 1250 (Identity Card) which he confiscated. The immediate consequence was two-fold. Firstly it gave the S/Ldr. the man's name rank and number and, secondly, made it theoretically impossible for him to leave the Station. This "new broom" did not sweep for long. I assume that the Squadron Commanders and, for that matter, the Station Commander soon got to hear about this. Within a week, nothing more was seen or heard of this S/Ldr (Admin). Word went round that he had been posted, hopefully to a place where his skills would be fully appreciated.

If the Armourers job demanded the most sweat and tears then the task of those of us in Squadron Signals was one of the least demanding. Daily Inspections were simple. A visual check on the equipment, in the cockpit and in the rear fuselage, plus making test transmissions with Flying Control or our workshop were all that was required.

Radio equipment reported faulty by our pilots was given first priority and replaced if necessary. We carried out any repairs in our workshop plus any re tuning that was needed. We were also responsible for repairing and maintaining the headphones and microphone that were incorporated in each aircrew member's helmet. The microphone was mounted in the oxygen mask and there was a gauze screen fitted in

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front of it to protect it from moisture which, if it froze, could render the microphone useless. Part of our routine was to apply a thin film of grease to this screen. It was not unusual to be handed a helmet and mask in which a thin rubber membrane had been substituted for the screen. This membrane had been fitted by the user and was, in fact, a piece cut from a condom. Although an un-official modification, it was very effective and an improvement on the greased metal screen. When handed a helmet and mask modified in this manner we were always given strict instructions by the owner not to interfere with the rubber.

These helmet and mask checks and the location of our workshop (opposite to

Squadron Headquarters) resulted in those of us who worked there coming into contact with our aircrews. All of them were commissioned and had completed at least one tour of operations before joining the Squadron. They were, with one exception, easy to get on with, did not stand on ceremony and above all, respected. The exception was a Squadron Leader who was a sullen individual. In his dealings with us "other ranks" he did not hesitate to remind us of his exalted position. He didn't suffer fools gladly and would not accept the possibility that he could be wrong about anything. Something eventually occurred which brought about a great change in him. He was taxiing his Mosquito towards the end of the runway to take off on a test flight.

About a hundred yards from the runway, the undercarriage retracted, putting the Mossie belly down on the tarmac with a pair of very bent propellers. Rumour had it that instead of selecting "flaps down" he selected "undercarriage up". Whatever the reason for the mishap, the pilot was a much nicer fellow after this event. One might even say that making his aircraft unserviceable was character building! I think it is quite fair to say that, since the Services are populated by members of the human race, one is certain be found, at any level of rank, who suffers from a lack of simple common sense.

As No. 8 Group developed, the numbers of Mosquito aircraft which it operated grew considerably and in 1944 there were at least seven units equipped with them. To

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cope with the amount of major servicing which was needed personnel were creamed off from each unit to form a Mosquito Servicing Unit. This was located at RAF

Upwood. Whilst waiting for a lift, towards London, on the Great North Road near toSt. Neots, I met an ex-109 Squadron Fitter who had joined this unit at Upwood. An obliging lorry driver gave us both a lift and during the journey the Airman told me all about the Upwood "mutiny". For some petty disciplinary reason the Engineer Officer in charge at Upwood servicing operation had decreed that no weekend passes would be authorised. This was not well received by the men concerned. On the morning following the announcement they assembled for working parade and were marched to their place of work, i.e. to the hangar. When they arrived there they were, as usual, dismissed. After this they would normally get into their overalls and start the day's work. On this day they did not do so and, instead, just stood in small groups with rolled overalls under their arms and chatted. A Sergeant (formerly from 109 Squadron but not greatly missed) came into the hangar and wanted to know what they were up to and ordered them to get on with their work. They ignored him and his subsequent shouting and threats were met with a similar silent rebuke.

Seeing that he was getting nowhere, the Sergeant decided on action and telephoned the Guard Room. As there were only two Corporals on duty at that time, they were unable to help him but suggested that he could contact the RAF Regiment unit residing on the Station. It was not long before a Flight Sergeant and around a dozen armed men arrived at one end of the hangar. At this end, the doors were wide open but the doors at the far end, where the "mutineers" were chatting, were closed. The RAF Regiment Flt/Sgt deployed his men in s single line across the breadth of the hangar and placed himself about three yards ahead of them. He then commanded them to advance slowly towards the far end of the hangar. When they had travelled about half the distance he instructed his men that, if the miscreants at the far end tried to rush them, they should fire at their legs. He then clipped a full magazine into his

Sten gun and the advance continued. Eventually they reached their goal and were

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completely ignored by the offenders who continued chatting amongst themselves as though the RAF Regiment squad were not there. Stalemate!

At this point, further stupidity and embarrassment were forestalled by the arrival of the Officer I/C RAF Regiment Flight who came looking for his men and wanting to know what they were doing. Having got a grasp of the situation he stormed off to find the Engineer Officer. The Engineer Officer's clerk heard most of what was said when they met as he was in the adjoining office with his ear glued to the door. The RAF

Regiment man was not polite and when he got to know what was at the root of the trouble he told the Engineer Officer that, if he had any common sense, he should reinstate the weekend passes and forget the matter. His advice was taken. This is the only occurrence of this kind that I have heard of but it is probably not unique. Skilled tradesmen, who were probably all civilians before the war, would not take kindly to the whims of authority especially when the men concerned were probably working all hours to get the Group's Mosquitoes back into service.

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CHAPTER 13

NEVER A DULL MOMENT!

The high level of activity on the ground at Little Staughton during the late summer of

1944 was matched by what was going in the skies above it, particularly in the mornings. On most days B17 Flying Fortresses of the US 8th Air Force could be seen circling, with occasional signal flares being fired, as they waited to join formation before departing eastwards for their mission over continental Europe.

On one such morning I had just finished breakfast and was cycling from the Airmen's Mess towards the airfield and the Technical Site to start the day's work. I had not traveIIed more than a hundred yards before I noticed that a B17 bomber was approaching the airfield from the North with undercarriage up and appeared to be making a shallow descent. If its undercarriage had been down I would have thought that it was about to make a landing. As this was not the case my immediate reaction was to ask myself what on earth this aircraft was doing. Was the pilot a bit of a show-off and trying to "shoot-up" the airfield to let the RAF see how things should be done? The answer came when the B17 disappeared behind some trees and an almighty crash was heard.

I continued my cycle ride towards the airfield with a sense of urgency, joining the perimeter track and making my way to the point where it met the north-south runway. Close to the end of this runway was our ‘A’ Flight dispersal with several of our Mosquitoes on the hard standings, a Nissen hut and a smaII brick building which was the toilet. One or two of the Mossies showed signs of minor damage and the corrugated asbestos roof was missing from the toilet. Between our dispersal and the

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end of the runway were strewn the remains of the B17, including bomb load and ammunition. Luckily it had not caught fire. I was standing , open mouthed, along with the ‘A’ flight personnel who had arrived at work when a US Air Force Jeep, carrying two USAF personnel showed up. Their words were few but relevant - "So this is where it got to". They were clearly aware that it was going to crash and must somehow have been directed towards its final destination.

There were no bodies to be seen in and around the debris. The aircraft had been abandoned - somewhat like an airborne version of the Marie Celeste. It made final contact with the ground about 20yds to the east of the North/South runway and its path of descent had been more or less parallel to it. It occurred to me and probably a few other witnesses that, if there had been a crew on board, they could have landed it. Someone told me that it was not unusual for our US allies to bail out of an aircraft with problems rather than risk landing it with a full load of bombs and fuel. It was a pity that this particular one could not have been coaxed to head for the North Sea. As things were there was a serious clearing-up job to be done, repairs to be made to our damaged Mosquitoes, the roof to the toilet to be mended and the serenity of one of our Fitters needed restoring! At the time when the Fortress made its impact he was sitting in the toilet with trousers around his ankles, smoking his pipe and contemplating the day ahead of him. It must have been a dreadful shock to him when the roof came off!

Thankfully, the only other time when I had a close-up view of a B17 it was to be in one piece. This opportunity came about when one made an emergency landing at Little Staughton. It was quite impressive, literally bristling with guns when compared with our Lancasters. Another notable difference was the endless squealing that its brakes made when the pilot was taxiing it. It is worth noting however that the B17s bomb load was not much greater than that carried by our latest Mosquitoes.

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There was another occasion on which a low flying aircraft caused a few raised eyebrows. This time it was a DC3 Dakota. It flew leisurely across the airfield at about

100 feet. The door on the port side of the fuselage was open and a man could be seen hanging by his hands from the door sill with his legs thrashing the air, no doubt struggling for dear life. He was still in the same situation when the Dakota disappeared over the horizon. We shall never know how he fared.

To return to topics without the strong flavour of life and limb being put at risk, let me say that being stationed at Little Staughton offered better opportunities for leisure than those available at RAF Marham. There was, of course, the camp cinema and the

NAAFI but as almost everyone was equipped with a bicycle it was a simple task to go intoSt. Neots where there were a couple of cinemas and the inevitable cluster of pubs in and around the market square. Off the north side of the square there was an alleyway which broadened into a wider covered area. It was here that for a small fee one could leave the service bicycle in someone's care for the evening whilst visiting the pubs or the "pictures" happy in the knowledge that the bike would be there when you wanted it.

Naturally 48 or 36 hour passes were highly valued. We could expect to get a "48" about once a month and if, we were lucky, an additional "36". I made the most of these opportunities and went home to Edmonton. There were three ways in which to make the journey. The RAF ran one of its "crew buses" to Bedford Midland Road railway station late on Friday afternoons. This vehicle would then be waiting there to meet the late train from St. Pancras on Sunday evenings. This scheme was limited by the seating capacity of the crew bus and was enjoyed only by those lucky enough to secure a seat. The simplest way to travel was by cycle to St. Neots railway station. Again a bicycle could, for a small fee, be left at the station and one could be confident that it would be there when returning from pass. There was one possible snag to this route and that occurred if one went to get an early morning train. There was every possibility that, in cycling to the railway station, one would encounter the muck cart

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which had been servicing some of the earth closets that were still in use in the town. Once sniffed - never forgotten!

The third way of travelling on pass involved making ones way out to the Great North Road which was about two miles in the direction of St. Neots. This usually entailed walking. Once there, free travel up or down this trunk road was no problem and, once there, it was seldom more than twenty minutes before some vehicle or other stopped to pick one up. The journey could be in the comfort of a saloon car or, at the other extreme, on the back of an open lorry. I made one such journey on the back of a "Queen Mary" that takes some forgetting. "Queen Mary" was RAF parlance for the

60ft long articulated vehicle that was used for transporting aircraft by road. The bed of the trailer was low slung and very exposed to wind and weather. I climbed onto this vehicle, joining three or four other hitch-hikers already on board, on a winter's afternoon and headed southwards. It was bitterly cold. There was virtually no protection from the wind and after we had travelled about 10 miles it started to snow. It was not a pleasant journey and we were extremely thankful when our driver pulled in to the Jack's Hill Cafe just to the north of Stevenage. What a relief it was to enter its warm smoky atmosphere and down a bacon sandwich and a hot cup of tea. Having thawed out, it was time to climb back on the "Queen Mary" and feel the cold biting into us once more. By the time that we reached South Mimms, where I got off the "Queen Mary", the tea that I had drunk at Jack's Hill was making urgent calls to be released. I had to find a toilet and went to the filling station at the crossroads. This was fine, but there was a snag - my hands were too cold to undo my greatcoat and fly buttons. I struggled and eventually managed to manipulate what, under normal circumstances are the simplest of fasteners. What a relief! A memorable journey!

The piece of paper which was a leave pass was the Form 295. It was used traditionally to authorise overnight absence from camp, ranging from a 36 hour absence to weeks of leave. To obtain such permission the 295 and its counterfoil was filled in with number, rank, name, dates of start and finish of absence and address

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during the period of the pass. This would be endorsed by the Officer I/C Section who would pass it to Squadron Headquarters for signature by the Adjutant and then the

Orderly Room stamp. From there it would go to the Guard Room ready for collection at or after the time at which the pass became valid. The counterfoil would be retained by the Service Police, to be reunited with the rest of the 295 on return to camp.

During my time at Little Staughton, the Air Ministry introduced the Form 295A which was designed to simplify the procedure when authorising the ever popular 36 hour passes. The 295A was a piece of folded card with space for the holder's name, rank and number on the front and with a simple arrangement of columns and rows which would simply show the times of start and finish of the pass and an authorising signature. One would fill in the details whenever a pass was wanted, get it signed by the Officer or NCO I/C Section and that was that. This was, to use modern phraseology, a "user friendly" arrangement. It did not have to carry a stamp, and the user did not need to go near to the Guard Room, unless he obeyed the rules and went there to book out of camp. Furthermore, it was easy to get hold of a blank 295A which could then be authorised with some fictitious signature on occasions when an unofficial absence was taken. On one occasion I made the rail journey from St. Neots to London in a compartment occupied with several other airmen. As we travelled southwards one airman produced a Form 295A and asked if someone would oblige him by signing it. Within the space of a minute the rest of us had produced our own spare 295As which were interchanged and signed. A very convenient arrangement!

In the normal course of events I would get my pass signed by the Warrant Officer who had been posted to our Section soon after our arrival at Little Staughton. He was a pleasant easy going man from somewhere in the north of England. I think that it did not take him long to see that our Signals Section was working properly and he did nothing to change our way of life. On the contrary - he hardly spent more than a couple of hours a day with us. Eventually it was discovered that he was very keen on shooting and had struck up a friendship with another W /0 who worked in the Station

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Armoury. This association enabled him to borrow a .22 Rifle and obtain ammunition to go with it. He then spent quite a lot of time in the fields outside the station boundary where he shot rabbits. On one Saturday morning, I was hoping that our rabbit hunter would show up in time to sign my pass so that I could go off at mid-day. He did and when I asked him to sign my pass he agreed and pushed into my hands a piece of test equipment and asked me to wrap it up as a tidy looking parcel. I grinned at him and expressed surprise that he found such an item attractive. He smiled back and replied "I'm not interested in that damned thing - but I know someone who will give me a bloody good gun in exchange for it.”

An important constituent of the process of growing up is our exposure to our fellow humans and their ability to surprise, or even shock, us by their actions. Serving in His Majesty's Forces provided a wealth of opportunities of this kind. At Little Staughton, one small event occurred which rates fairly highly in terms of the impact which it made upon me. It occurred by the courtesy of three members of the WAAF. Firstly I must explain that the Domestic (living) sites each housed a mixture of Officers, Senior

NCOs and Other Ranks. They were discretely segregated - as would be expected. Officers unlike lesser mortals were tended by batmen or, in this instance by bat-women. On our domestic site, the tiny building allocated for their use during daytime was close by the hut which I occupied . It will not come as a surprise when I say that, from time to time, dialogue took place between the occupants of our hut and the three WAAF bat-women who worked in the little building. The general flavour of these conversations lead to these three young ladies being known amongst us as the Three Wise Virgins. Wise, perhaps, in a worldly way but Virgins - well, who could say?!

On the day in question I was cycling towards the Airman's Mess, or cookhouse as it was usually known, on my way to an early lunch. The last quarter of a mile of the journey was along a lane that wound gently up a slope at the top of which was the cookhouse. The lane was deserted except for three WAAFs, heading in the same

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direction. As I approached them from behind I could see the queue of Airmen tailing away from the door of the cook-house . I also noted that the WAAFs were none other than the three bat-women from our domestic site. They must have also seen the queue because, just as I was about to pass, them one of them turned her head and said to the other two "Oh s**t, we've got to queue up for our f***ing grub again!" I have to admit that, as a result, the front wheel of my bike wobbled a little. I had never before heard such language from the lips of a woman and I had the feeling that, at that moment, I had come of age.

I have mentioned that the Domestic sites at Little Staughton housed a Mixture of

Other Ranks, NCOs and Officers. The huts all looked the same from outside but it seems hardly likely that the insides of the Officer's huts would be as spartan as ours. During the winter of 1944/5 there was a particularly cold spell - to the extent that the supply of water in the ablutions block was always frozen in the mornings and keeping warm in bed at night was a bit of a problem. To help with the latter problem we managed to find enough fuel to keep either one or both of the "tortiose" stoves in our hut burning all night. The frozen water was different matter but there was a small degree of relief gained by putting a bucket of water on the top of each stove late at night. The water was drawn off during the day, when the pipes had thawed, and warmed up gently overnight. These two buckets of water provided what was essentially a token morning wash for about thirty men. Needless to say, first up had the best deal! For the rest, better than nothing at all.

There was one occasion, during this cold spell, when I awoke in the early hours of the morning to find the lights on, the bed next to mine empty, and an abominable stench wafting around the inside of the hut. The occupant of the empty bed appeared through the door at the end of the hut with a knowing grin on his face and explained what had happened. Apparently, he was one of those people who take a long time in getting off to sleep. After lying in bed for an hour or so he began to smell something burning and somehow came to the conclusion that the roof of the hut had started to

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smoulder. He put his greatcoat on over his pyjamas and went outside to investigate. Sure enough, a spark from the chimney had settled on the roofing felt and ignited it.

With great presence of mind - and also with a full bladder, he climbed onto the roof and urinated on the scorched roofing, successfully dowsing the fire.

Our emergency firemen was one of several Telephonists, from Station Headquarters who lived in the hut. Known as "Dickie", he was a quiet spoken man from

Bournemouth and was not without a sense of humour. Before coming to Little

Staughton he was stationed at RAF Molesworth (a place better know in more recent times for its association with the controversial Cruise Missiles that were located there). In 1944 it was occupied by the USAAF and was home to the unit of which

Clark Gable the movie actor was a member. Despite Molesworth being a USAAF base it had a vestigial RAF contingent which included the Telephone Operators. This explains Dickie's presence on the station. He was always ready to relate his story of the Molesworth Cocktail which centres on a Station Dance at which the bar served this concoction. What none of the drinkers knew was that someone had laced the drink with neat alcohol taken from Sick Quarters. It seems that anyone who imbibed found it to be a memorable drink - particularly when they awoke on the following morning.

Another occupant of the hut, who also was a Telephonist, had been the landlord of a pub in Islington in North London. When he joined the RAF his wife took over as licencee but he appeared behind the bar whenever he went home on a weekend pass. On more than one occasion, when he returned late in the evening from pass he would rummage in his haversack and produce a full bottle of Johnny Walker Red

Label and told the rest of us that, if we wanted a dose of his "medicine", we should have a suitable receptacle for it when he arrived at ones bedside. This was a welcomed treat as whisky was not very plentiful in those times.

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Strong liquor, that could be indulged in free of charge and unofficially, came also in the course of being detailed for Duty Crew at Little Staughton. In the small hours of the morning when our aircraft were returning from operations we now met the Aircrews in the Intelligence Block, not as they left their aircraft as was the case at

Wyton and Marham. Together with the Met. Officer and an NCO from Engineering

(dealing with airframe, engines etc.), we sat in a room immediately outside the office occupied by the CO and received the Aircrew's reports before they went in to see him. Before seeing us they collected mugs of coffee laced with rum or, occasionally rum without the coffee.

It was quite in order for those of us who were waiting for the crews to get a mug of coffee and sometimes the NCO who was looking after the beverages looked kindly upon us and splashed a bit of rum into our drinks. It often happened that the Aircrews, who were waiting to see the CO, often did not finish their drinks and left their mugs on our table. These remains together with our illicitly fortified coffee made it possible to develop a very mellow and relaxed frame of mind. I shall always remember one occasion cycling from the Intelligence Block back to the Domestic Site at about 4 o'clock in the morning, after all the aircraft had returned and everything was quiet. There was a full moon on a crystal clear, cold, starry night and the silence was broken only by the song of a nightingale. This serene situation, helped by a few doses of coffee and rum, produced a wonderful euphoria. I got back to the hut, undressed and climbed into bed. I went to sleep very soon after my head touched the pillow without a care in the world.

Apart from the rum and the nightingale there were other things of interest in attending

Aircrew interrogation, today referred to as "de-briefing" - a more placid term. One crew at a time would be called into the CO's office, the door of which was always wide open. He would listen to their general comments on the trip, ask a few questions, and then speak to a nameless person at the far end of a "scrambler" telephone. After the call ended he would then tell the crew how successful they had been. What was quite

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remarkable to me was that he was able to say how far from the target their bombs had fallen, giving distances e.g. 50yds, 100yds, which in themselves, were to me, equally remarkable. I could only assume that this information originated from agents operating in enemy-occupied territory and provided to our CO by the Intelligence

Services.

On some nights, when operations were of particular importance, the AOC arrived in the Intelligence Block, having flown across from RAF Wyton. Air Vice-Marshall

Donald Bennett would come into the office and chat freely, without fuss or ceremony, to all and sundry and, on one occasion ruffled my hair as a parting gesture. Those were the days when much military protocol and formality went by the board. It must not be thought, however, that this set the scene for a slap-dash approach to the job in hand. On the contrary A.V.M. Bennett, for example, had the reputation of knowing his own and practically everybody`s job backwards.

December 1944 saw the second anniversary of the Squadron's first operation with

OBOE equipped Mosquitos. The event was celebrated by a party, (for all ranks), which was held in the WAAF NAAFI - yes - the WAAFs were normally kept away from the men when not on duty! The Station Dance Band from RAF Warboys did the honours and the whole thing was a success, except perhaps, for the distribution of the cake which had been prepared by the NAFFI to honour the occasion. This cake was a single tier affair measuring about 2'6" by 2'6" and four inches thick. It was basically a simple sponge cake liberally decorated and suitably inscribed with a creamy concoction. When the time came to sample this delight the party had been going for about two hours and everyone was, to say the least, light hearted. Everyone thronged round the table bearing the cake and the Squadron Commander said a few appropriate words and made a token cut in it, handing the knife to someone else to do the job properly. Whoever this was failed to do the job quickly enough for all who were clamouring for a piece and things got out of hand. Someone else took over and proceeded to carve the cake into strips about two inches wide. These messy strips

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were passed back to hungry mouths over the heads of those nearest the table and fairly significant amounts of the creamy topping ended up on uniforms and in hair. I managed to get a taste of the thing but didn't find it worth all the fuss!

My stay at Little Staughton brought me and experience for which my two years at

Cranwell had not prepared me. Here, someone had dreamed up a unique way of establishing a pool of spare manpower to do odd jobs around the Station. On return from leave, those of the rank of Corporal and below did not take up their normal duties immediately. Instead, on the following day and for that day only, they went into this labour pool. When I fell foul of this scheme I spent the day with two others feeding a large and hungry concrete mixer. I don't recommend it. It's only merit was that it sharpened my own appetite. The “life for men” broadens ones horizons!

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CHAPTER 14

TOWARDS THE CLOSE.

The last months of 1944 saw a high level of operational activity being maintained. In

August the Squadron's operations peaked at 509 sorties for that month and in the remainder of the year 1457 sorties were flown. Attacks were made in support of the Allied ground forces in France, on the Dortmund Ems Canal, Coastal gun emplacements, airfields and German oil producing installations. Some of these operations now took place during daylight.

During the weeks leading up to the end of November the Squadron acquired a Lancaster bomber. This aircraft actually belonged to 582 Squadron with whom we shared Little Staughton airfield. This Lancaster was duly fitted with OBOE equipment,

Baillie Beam Receiver and VHF R/T equipment as was standard on our Mosquitoes. This Lancaster took part in a target marking operation in an attack on Cologne on

December 23rd. The pilot, S/Ldr. R.A.M Palmer and the navigator were from 109 Squadron and the attack was made in daylight from about 17000ft. Heavy flak set fire to the aircraft but it managed to complete its bomb run before crashing to the ground.

For his actions on this, his final, operation S/Ldr. Palmer was posthumously awarded the V.C. The combination of the altitude, the low speed of the Lancaster and the daylight formed a fatal recipe for this event. To lose a 109 Squadron Mosquito was a rare event but we lost one, piloted by F/Lt Carpenter DFC, which was acting as a reserve for S/Ldr Palmer's Lancaster. Apparently, he was flying behind and slightly above the Lancaster with undercarriage and flaps lowered to slow the Mossie down to

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match the pace of the larger aircraft. He was a sitting duck and was shot down in flames when attacked by enemy fighters.

As the Squadron was not accustomed to loosing aircraft and aIrcrews these events put the damper on spirits for a short time. This was little compared with the gloom that accompanied the losses of 582 Squadron on a night in December. This month has never been associated with the best of weather and, like November, it is often synonymous with mist and fog, particularly during the hours of darkness. There was a period of about ten days when the weather was really foul but, nevertheless, the Lancasters of 582 went off in it and for the most part came back and managed to land safely in the fog. On one night during this bad spell, a number of Lancasters failed to return. I cannot recall the precise number but it was at least three or maybe four. The three days that followed this event were the gloomiest of all those that I spent at Little

Staughton. One of the worst aspects was the sight of the lorry visiting the Domestic Sites and collecting the kit and personal belongings of the crews of the missing Lancasters. The whole tragedy was brought home with a vengeance when an Officer in a hut on my Domestic Site used his service revolver to commit suicide. It was said unofficially that the strain of the recent operations and making landings in the mist and fog was too much for him.

There were also instances of damage to aircraft that managed to return. After one night's operations I saw a Lancaster with a damaged Mid-upper gun turret. The

Perspex dome had been shattered. Worse still was the presence of the fragments of the gunner’s head which clung to the remains of the Perspex. I have to stress that these sights and events were thankfully rare for those of us at Little Staughton. I'm sure that there were many other Bomber Command Stations where these things were more commonplace.

Amongst the aircrews of 582 Squadron there was one officer that was instantly recognizable by his distinctive uniform. He was Captain Swales, a member of the

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South African Air Force. The SAAF uniform was khaki and worn with a Sam Browne belt. In late February of 1945 whilst acting as Master Bomber for an attack on

Pforzheim Captain Swales' aircraft came under repeated night fighter attack. Despite this, he managed to complete his duties and ordered his crew to bail out before being killed as the aircraft crashed to the ground. As in the case of S/Ldr. Palmer he was awarded the V.C. Of the many RAF Stations in the UK there were not many which served as base for recipients of this award and there were certainly few indeed which could claim two holders of the award.

I have to admit that, to find oneself in the situation where these men were familiar figures, touches off a small feeling of pride to have been in the place from which they made their last departure. The best that those of us who stayed behind can do is try to imagine what life was really like for the aIrcrews. It was very seldom that they showed much indication of the stresses to which operations exposed them. They did however let off steam and, from the vantage point of our Signals Workshop which was opposite to Squadron Headquarters, we were able to witness a few examples of the safety valve in operation.

There were no NCOs among our aircrews. All of them were officers and one or two of them were fortunate enough to possess and run a car of some sort. Among these vehicles, which were parked during the daytime outside Squadron Headquarters, was a very early model of Austin seven. It was a tiny four-seater with a canvas hood which made it look a little like a motorised perambulator.· The owner was never sure what he would find if he left the car for any length of time to do a spot of flying. Whilst he was aloft in his Mosquito a few of his colleagues back on the ground managed to conjure up some piece of tomfoolery that could be enacted which involved this car. On a snowy day during the winter the owner returned to find that the car had disappeared buried under a mound of snow. On another occasion we witnessed about half a dozen of the owner's fellow officers manhandling the car to balance it carefuIly on four up-ended bricks, one under each of the wheels. The unfortunate

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driver had to beg with them to help him get it off the bricks. This added enormously to their amusement.

In the spring of 1945 the Squadron was still operating at over 300 sorties a month. The invasion of Europe and the advances made by the Allied Armies made it possible for OBOE ground stations to be established on the continent, enabling targets further east to be attacked. Things were going well and I think that our aircrews had sensed that the war in Europe was drawing to a close. They seemed to be more relaxed and latched on to another means of meeting a challenge and finding a diversion from possible boredom. Someone had the bright idea of using the contents of Very Signal cartridges to make fireworks. The Signal Cartridges were carried on every aircraft and what followed resulted in their consumption making a dramatic increase. The business of devising and making pyrotechnics was taken up and pursued with great enthusiasm by a small group of officers. Our workshop was conveniently near to Squadron Headquarters and the devotees frequently asked if they could use a bit of bench space to do their work. Our familiarity with their efforts did not end there as they tested their products on the spare ground in the vicinity of our Nissen hut. Thankfully the emphasis was not on making loud bangs but on making spectacular and colourful displays. The golden rule of never playing with fireworks or matches applies not only to the young but also to more mature and responsible individuals. The inevitable happened and the hopeful maker of one device went back to it to see why it had not gone off. He was standing over it when it suddenly ignited. Thankfully he was not seriously hurt and this resulted in our Squadron Commander placing a veto on further experiments.

One further act that we witnessed from our workshop involved nothing less than a cat. During our stay at Little Staughton the Monarch, King George VI signed a heraldic document approving and granting a Crest to the Squadron. I will not attempt to describe the crest in heraldic jargon but essentially, the badge's centre piece was a rather fearsome looking feline standing erect on its rear legs (rampant?) and

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breathing fire. The motto beneath it was "Primi Hastati" which I am told means "First in the Chase". It was, of course, a proud occasion for the Squadron to be honoured in this way. In true military tradition, a replica of the Crest was constructed from pebbles in the small flower bed that graced the small patch of grass outside the Headquarters building. It was well done, in fact quite a labour of love. It had not been there very many days before we witness a sad but also slightly amusing sight. The cat which had made its home in the Headquarters building felt the need to relieve itself and chose for this purpose the elegant Squadron Crest. In doing so it disturbed quite a few of the carefully placed pebbles. Some may have thought that the Headquarters “moggie” had taken a dim view of the splendid beast which formed our unit's Crest.

During the last few months of the war something happened which caused me some anxiety. Together with another member of Squadron Signals I put in a 92 hour week modifying all of our aircraft to provide a button on the control column which the pilot could press to transmit on the aircraft's VHF radio. Prior to this, the pilot would have had to take his left hand away from the control column and operate a switch in the radio's control unit which was mounted on the fuselage. It was a straightforward job entailing fitting the button to the control column with a clip and then running about a yard and a half of rubber sheathed twin cable from the button to the control box, finally making connections at each end. After the first two or three the job became repetitive and a little boring - hence we were glad when it was completed. I did not give a thought to all this until about a week later. As one of these modified aircraft headed eastwards towards Europe on operations, ground radio stations heard snatches of conversation between the pilot and navigator in which details of the target and other sensitive topics were heard. Fortunately the Mosquito in question returned safely and, after landing was immediately impounded under guard pending investigation. This revealed that the flexible cable connecting the control box to the press-to-talk switch had about two inches of bare conductor at the point where it entered the button on the control column. When these wires touched together the

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VHF radio would transmit. Then came the question of who had fitted the switch and cable. The record showed that I had done the job. Whilst I had a clear conscience regarding the quality of the work that I had done I was more than a little apprehensive about the outcome of this situation. If it was considered that I had been negligent the ensuing charges would be somewhat more than being accused of having a dirty bed space. It would have been a technical offence and would probably entail a court martial. Happily it did not come to that, because it was decided that the cable that was issued for the modification was defective. It did not take much flexing to make the insulation run back to expose the conductors. The movement of the control column during flight was sufficient to achieve this effect. My clean sheet had been maintained and I breathed a large sigh of relief.

Although the business of the Squadron was to perform its intended task, of operating against the enemy, in a thoroughly professional manner, much military protocol was pushed well into the background. No one suffered Repetitive Strain Injury as a result of too much saluting! It is well known that aircrews used first names over the intercom whilst flying even though the practice was strongly discouraged by at least one Air Officer Commanding one of Bomber Command's Groups. This did not arise on 109 Squadron, all our aircrews being commissioned, but there were times when familiarity between air and ground crews occurred. One of our Flight Commanders, a Squadron Leader had found a boozing partner in an LAC rigger who we shall refer to as Taffy. When the S/Ldr. met Taffy on the airfield his greeting would be something like

"Morning Taff, how's it going?" The reply would be "Fine Jimmy, how are you today?"

Seen from the lofty viewpoint of peacetime military standards, many of the happenings I have talked about seem fanciful. Fortunately wartime is not the normal condition; but when war comes it is real enough and this reality can be harsh at times. War has little to commend it but one of the few qualities that it may have is that of bringing out the best from people. I think that it was this, combined with having a recognizable purpose and sensible priorities, that made service with a Squadron

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more than tolerable for those who were in the RAF "for the duration". For me it was to be the most enjoyable part of my RAF service and was, incidentally, the time during which I worked hardest and with the most enthusiasm.

There was, nevertheless, towards the end of my stay with 109 an event which was an significant omen concerning my future career in the RAF which had another eight years, at least, to run. I had been a Corporal for about two and a quarter years. This seniority was typical of other Corporals around me most of whom were not regular airmen. Before the war in Europe came to an end details of the scheme under which wartime personnel would be demobilised were made known. At the same time I think that the Air Ministry had an uneasy feeling that the RAF would be embarrassed by the departure of so many experienced men and a sudden spate of promotions began among the candidates for "demob" presumably with the hope that they might seriously contemplate a career for themselves in uniform. This inevitably made people such as me somewhat resentful. We, after all, had embarked on RAF service as a career and might expect advancement in preference to those who had not. This, of course, was naive thinking. The truth was that, having signed on for 12 years, men such as me were safely in the net and did not need to be tempted by lures and bait. It was at this time that it dawned on me that I had virtually no control over my future and that that was going to be the situation for as long as I was wearing the uniform. Several years later I met quite a few ex-apprentices who found themselves in a similar situation and had to wait many years for promotion from Corporal to Sergeant.

At around this time there came another thought. When the war came to a close most of these men with whom I had mixed with and worked with would be back in their civilian environment and I would still be there in different company. I was going to miss these wartime airmen and I suddenly found myself working out what demob number my length of service would merit - if I had not been a regular airman. This of course was pure pie in the sky, but it brought home to me the realization that my plunge into an RAF career at the age of 17 may not have been the best move. I tried

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to visualise what things would be like when serving on a Squadron in peace time. It would not be at all like the time that I had spent at Wyton, Marham and Little

Staughton. There would be aircraft flying and most of the things that went with them but it would lack the meaning that went with wartime operations. In peace time, the

RAF would essentially be going through the motions, nothing more. The easy going regime would rapidly depart and there would be room inspections, parades and other activities that were, to me, a necessary but unpalatable part of the military philosophy.

Victory in Europe came in May 1945 and a week before this key event I was told to report to the Squadron Orderly Room to receive details of posting. I was posted to

RAF Stanbridge, which was part of No 26 (Signals) Group to attend a six months course dealing with Automatic High-Speed Morse Equipment. I did not realize, at that time, what a complete change was about to occur. When I went out of the Main Gate at Little Staughton for the last time I was never again to come within the proverbial "stone’s throw" of an aircraft during my RAF service. I did however leave 109 Squadron knowing that I would miss the men with whom I worked most of whom were relishing going back to their families and civilian jobs. I was glad to have been in their company.

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This marker was erected at the roadside at the western end of what was the Little Staughton airfield by the Little Staughton Pathfinder Association. One of the hangars can be seen in the background.

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CHAPTER 15

IN A NEW DIRECTION

Until I arrived at RAF Stanbridge, all of my service had been spent on RAF Stations which incorporated an airfield and where flying of some sort went on - after all, what else was the RAF about other than flying? Stanbridge was something completely different. There was no airfield and it was located on the outskirts of the town of Leighton Buzzard. It was a Signals Centre, if not the Signals Centre in the UK. The

Commanding Officer was Group Captain Evans-Evans, or "Fifty-Fifty" as he was nicknamed.

Until now, I had not given any thought to the existence of an RAF communications network. All that I had been aware of was the fact that telephones were available to enable one RAF unit to talk to another and that there were W/T and R/T links between ground and air. It had not occurred to me that there would be radio links between the UK and the various overseas Commands that would be unique to and run and maintained by the Armed Services. In fact, the Navy, Army and Air Force each had their own independent radio communications. The RAF, in those times, had units stationed in many parts of the world - Malta, Gibraltar, Egypt, Cyprus, Aden, Colombo, India, Singapore, Hong Kong - in fact in almost every part of what was known as the British Empire. Radio Communication between the UK and overseas RAF commands was by means of W/T (Wireless Telegraphy) using the Morse code. Messages were sent and received by automatic or semiautomatic signalling equipment and employed radio transmitters and receivers which were designed for civil Radio communication systems. As such, these pieces of equipment were well outside the normal RAF training syllabus. The course on which I had been sent was

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intended to impart enough knowledge of these items to enable one to repair and maintain them.

There were about twenty five students attending the course. All except two were ex-apprentices the majority of whom were from my own entry. The remainder were from following entries. The two airmen who were not from our elite band of youthful regulars were "war time" airmen equipped with demob numbers and awaiting the day when their lives could revert to their normal routine as civilians. We one-time apprentices were quite elated with the prospect of spending six months together - it would be quite like old times and we could bore one and other with accounts of our service lives after leaving Cranwell. Two of us were now Sergeants and the bulk of the remainder (which included me) were Corporals.

We stayed at RAF Stanbridge long enough for the members of the course to assemble and then set out in our own transport (a Ford "crew bus") for RAF Cardington. I cannot say that I was excited by the prospect of returning to this place.

The month that I had spent there in 1944 on the Junior NCO's Course had not been a happy time. My gloomy thoughts were, however, unjustified because it soon became apparent that we would not come under the influence of with the awful square-bashing, bullshit-dispensing part of Cardington's activities.

RAF Cardington is unique. Between the wars it was the home of the last of the British airships - the R100 and the R101. The two giant sheds that housed these cumbersome monsters stand side by side on the airfield and are a landmark. The buildings that made up the living quarters, administration buildings and others that are the normal part of an RAF station were grouped on the northern edge of the airfield. Several hundred yards to the south of the airship hangers was the site of the mooring mast and administrative buildings associated with the operation of the dirigibles as passenger carriers.

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It was these buildings (or rather, those that remained) in which the classroom and equipment which was the subject of our course were located. Our living quarters were in a wooden hut which was one of a group adjoining a service road which formed the northern boundary of the airfield. These huts were of a type which was not uncommon on the longer established RAF stations. They were built during, or soon after the end of World War I. They were heated in winter by two slow combustion solid fuel stoves. Toilets and washing facilities were in outbuildings at the rear of the rows of huts. It did not take very much time after our arrival to discover that one of the two huts which flanked ours was filled with WAAFs. This was somewhat of a novelty as the usual arrangement was to maintain strict segregation of airmen from airwomen. I have to say that the time spent in the presence of these female neighbours was not without its interesting moments. It soon became apparent that most of these girls worked in the kitchens of the airmen’s and Sergeant's messes. As such they were not regarded at the time as the most cultured members of their service. These particular ladies were certainly capable of giving a sharp riposte to any shafts of wit that went in their direction.

The course got under way and we found ourselves learning about the inner workings of various items of electro-mechanical equipment that were essential to producing perforated paper tape and converting it into high speed Morse signals. Similarly, we became familiar with the devices at the receiving end which would enable these signals to be decoded and presented as text. In addition the radio transmitter and receiver which were commonly used to provide the radio link were also explained - plus a diesel-electric generator, of modest capacity, from which the equipment could operate if a power failure occurred.

The RAF had a bad habit of investing time and money on training its personnel to work on equipment that was obsolescent. As the course progressed, It soon became apparent that the items that had been dealt with thus far were all in this category. We were told that we were now to be taught the technicalities of teleprinter equipment

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and of the radio links designed especially to be used with it. Whereas the Morse code was introduced primarily to be sent and received by the human being, the teleprinter used a more complicated system of coding (the Murray code) which was devised specifically for automatic or semi-automatic methods of transmission. This then was to be the coming technology upon which the RAF's inter-command signals links would be based.

Hence we set about discovering how a teleprinter worked. We learnt about the automatic transmitter that could be used instead of the teleprinter keyboard and about the perforator which was used to prepare punched paper tape by which data was fed into the transmitter. We then focused our attention on the radio link and got to know the workings of the single-sideband, suppressed carrier equipment which would be used at either end of the radio link. This part of the course was of particular significance for me. Up to this time I had been too absorbed with my time spent with 109 Squadron to give any time to the future and to advance my knowledge in field in which I had chosen to specialize; namely that of radio communications. Being taught about the intricacies of and the theory behind this radio teleprinter equipment (which, at that time, was fairly advanced in terms of its technology) aroused in me a keen interest in radio engineering and a healthy appetite for more knowledge. I have wondered (on more than one occasion) the direction that my subsequent career would have taken if this awakening had not taken place. Considered in retrospect, the event was both timely and fortuitous.

The teleprinter, in those days, was essentially a piece of Post Office equipment. Similarly, the other items of equipment that served as the prime interface between the teleprinter and the main communication link also had their origins in the Post Office. The common link used with Post Office teleprinter circuits was the ordinary telephone line intended primarily to transmit speech. The signals generated by the teleprinter were transformed into tones within the audible frequency range, sent down the telephone line and, at the far end, translated back into a form to which the receiving

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teleprinter could respond. The equipment which achieved all this was also part of the radio teleprinter equipment covered by our training. To learn about this equipment we were detached for four weeks to the Post Office Engineer-in-Chief’s Training School in St. Andrews Street in Cambridge.

This was a very novel arrangement for us. We were completely removed from the RAF environment. There was no one in charge of us. We were allocated to various lodgings in Cambridge, paid for by the RAF. In these lodgings we slept, took our meals and took in what was going on around us. The course was well conceived and took the form of lectures interspersed with unsupervised periods of "private study" and discussion. The discussions that took place had little to do with the equipment we were learning about. Foremost was the topic of how the previous evening was spent and the very strange civilians with whom some of us shared our lodgings. Those whom I shared with were quite commonplace. The accounts rendered by others however were related to people who were quite bizarre. The descriptions of these odd characters and of their antics kept the course entertained for hours. During these periods of private study the blackboard was frequently adorned with text or diagrams which had absolutely nothing to do with our training. For example, there was the occasion when the four words "WELL OIL BEEF HOOKED!" were printed in large capitals across the width of the blackboard. The Post Office lecturer who first saw it failed to see the hidden meaning which was a pity because we all thought it was worth a laugh.

The staff at the Engineer-in-Chief’s School were very much aware of our presence. Our easy-going manner and readiness to ignore protocol and authority, which stemmed from our absence from the service environment, did not go down well with our civilian tutors. The situation came to a head when we all trooped down to the canteen to listen to a commentary on one of the horse racing classics on the radio.

For this we received a good talking-to and displayed appropriate contrition in return.

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We were not disposed to appear glum or crestfallen when confronted by the excellence of Post Office engineering or by the disapproval of the instructors. There was one particular instructor whose manner towards us was disdainful. His function was to tell us about the sophisticated electrical relays that were an essential part of the equipment and to teach us about the complicated and precise adjustment of these items. He was in the midst of a demonstration which involved handling the small tools that were used for these delicate procedures, taking care to refer to the tools by their correct names. At one stage he held up, between thumb and forefinger (little finger gracefully extended), a small metal lever for us to see and said "Now - we take Spikes Capstan No 3 and - - ". Before he could say any more, a voice sweetened by a gentle

Wiltshire accent interposed with the comment - " We don't use things like that in the Air Force ". The instructor responded with a sigh and strong hint of sarcasm – “ And just what do you use in the Air Force?" The reply came - "A bloody great sledgehammer of course!" The poor man was not really amused but managed to produce a feeble but unconvincing smile.

It would be presumptuous to make any comment on how the staff of the Post Office Engineer-in-Chief’s School regarded our stay with them. For our part we quite enjoyed it. It was a brief excursion into the world of the civilian and provided a welcomed break from RAF routine. Nevertheless, we were all interested enough in the course to move on to the next step - perhaps with the exception of the two members who were not regulars. We found it difficult to come to terms with the reason for their presence. Neither of them had the least intention of making a career of the RAF. Understandably, getting "demobbed" and picking up the threads of civilian life was what mattered most to them. They apparently had no difficulty in blending with our band of ex- apprentices. One of our two demob candidates had the misfortune to wear a pair of boots, one of which squeaked abominably. He was continually teased about this and urged to remedy the problem. it was eventually cured by one of our ex-Cranwell fraternity who managed to get hold of an oilcan. He

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quietly crawled under the table at which Tom (the wearer of the squeaky boot) was sitting and, without his knowing, carefully applied oil all along the welt of the offending article. It was instantly effective. From that time onwards Tom's boots were silent.

After the month at Cambridge we returned to Cardington to spend more time in the classroom. We were taken to a transmitting station at Dagnall to spend the day becoming familiar with the larger breed of Radio Transmitters that we were now likely to encounter. This was supplemented by spending a week at RAF Chicksands, where some receiving equipment was located and a further week at RAF Stanbridge where the terminal Post Office equipment was housed.

For me, this latter week at Stanbridge expanded into almost a three week stay.

Stanbridge is on the eastern side of Leighton Buzzard and during our stay we were allocated sleeping quarters in a large house on the western fringe of the town. We were issued with bicycles with which to make the journey across the town. For the fit and healthy there was no problem with this arrangement. For me, there was a problem - I developed a large and painful boil on my backside. As is the case with these items, it became more and more painful and there was nothing for it but to report sick and let the MO take a look at it. There was however the west-east transit of

Leighton Buzzard to negotiate. I managed somehow to cycle the couple of miles across the town. Thankfully the road into the town was downhill and I managed to ride the cycle with an awkward posture such that the saddle supported only the painless part of my rear. I managed to adapt this style to pedal the gentle upward slope of the second part of the journey.

I reached Sick Quarters and booked in. To my surprise, instead of the usual stark wooden benches, there were padded seats and even a couple of armchairs to sit on whilst waiting. Alas, these luxuries which were mainly for the benefit of the profusion of WAAF personnel, were of no use to me - sitting on any type of seat was far too painful. Even standing did not relieve the awful throbbing and I was glad when my

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name was called. I had not expected to confront a female Medical Officer. Our conversation went along the following lines - "What's the problem Corporal?" - "I've got a painful boil Ma'am". "Where is your boil Corporal?" - "Here Ma'am" (pointing to left side of buttocks) - "Let's have a look at it then!" And so it was that my first encounter with a lady doctor resulted in my showing her my bare backside

Without any hesitation, she took one glance at my problem and dispatched me to

Station Sick Quarters where I found some relief from pain and treatment to bring matters literally to a head. In all I spent ten days "in dock" and towards the end I remarked to a fellow patient that I would be most amused to see another patient arrive with the same problem as mine. Lo and behold it happened on the last day of my stay but, in truth, I reacted more with sympathy than amusement.

It was during my time on this course that I experienced another rather unusual journey. We did, of course, have all of our weekends free so that I made frequent trips to and from Edmonton where my wife lived. It was the return from one of these weekend passes that featured an unusual set of coincidences. As was usual, the first leg of my journey was made by Trolley Bus from Edmonton to Manor House. As a smoker, I inevitably travelled on the top deck. Whilst travelling along Tottenham High

Road, the driver of the bus had to swerve violently in order to avoid hitting a young child on a kiddie’s tricycle who had suddenly decided to leave the footpath and make for the middle of the road. This was a breathtaking manoeuvre for the passengers, particularly for those on the top deck as the bus tilted onto two wheels and, thankfully, righted itself with a noisy thump from the tyres as they renewed contact with the road.

The next part of the journey, by Underground from Manor House to King's Cross, also had a mild flavour of calamity. Soon after the train departed from Manor House I became aware of a faint, but familiar, smell - that of overheating electrical insulation.

As the journey progressed the aroma intensified. When the train stopped at Caledonian Road the door to the motor compartment, at the end of the carriage,

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opened. Through this door the Guard emerged, wreathed in a cloud of acrid smoke, and uttered the simple words "All change please!" I was becoming concerned about travelling by London Transport!

The third stage of my journey was by LMS train from St. Pancras to Bedford. This was uneventful until, a mile or so before reaching Luton the train halted and remained stationary for over half an hour. To pacify the clientele, the guard walked the length of the train announcing that the locomotive had broken a connecting rod and that we were awaiting a fresh engine from Bedford. Arriving, eventually, at Midland Road Station in Bedford, I decided that I would do well by avoiding public transport and walk the mile or two to Cardington – and keep my fingers crossed whilst doing so!

The course was nearing its end and speculation regarding our future was occupying our thoughts. The very nature of the equipment that was the subject of our training made it clear that there was more of it in overseas locations (notably in Cairo and Delhi). This indicated a strong possibility of an overseas posting for a large proportion of the course members. Since I was one of the minority who had not yet served outside the UK I felt pretty certain that I would soon be "on the boat" - as the saying went. (Overseas travel was at that time conducted exclusively on troopships.) There was often little logic displayed by those who made decisions of that kind and so, when the time arrived for the course to end, I found myself posted to RAF Weyhill near Andover in Hampshire. I was to be accompanied by Frank Woods (better known as

"Timber") from the apprentice entry following mine.

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CHAPTER 16 CARING FOR THE “GREY BOXES”

The village of Weyhill is located about three miles from and to the west of the town of Andover in Hampshire. RAF Weyhill was situated a mile or so to the west of the village and comprised three buildings and a considerable acreage of adjoining countryside which was taken up by aerial arrays which were supported by countless wooden lattice masts. Weyhill was a transmitting station, one of the two which served the Signals Centres at Stanbridge and Bletchley. Of the three buildings, one was a small wooden hut close to the entrance gate. It housed the Air Ministry Policeman who was currently on duty together with a rather grumpy Alsatian Police Dog. Their function was to deter unwelcomed guests.

The second building was a modest single storey brick structure to which had been added quite a large, single storey, flat roofed extension. This was the transmitter halI which was rectangular in plan, about fifteen yards wide and around forty yards long. On its southern side there was a noticeable bulge about half way along its length which housed an "aerial exchange" - a cunningly devised arrangement whereby anyone of the twenty or so transmitters could be connected to any of the many aerials via long stretches of open wire transmission lines. The older brick part of the building housed power distribution and associated switchgear, two offices (one for the CO and the other for the Senior NCO), storeroom, kitchen, toilets and a bathroom.

The third building, sited about a hundred yards from the transmitter hall was a large version of the well-known Nissen hut. This housed the stand-by power supply in the

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form of a large Crossley diesel-electric generator which was said to have sufficient capacity to supply the town of Andover .

Our living accommodation was several miles away, on the western outskirts of that town and comprised one of a group of wooden huts. These were located in open ground fifty yards off the A303 trunk road. At the junction between the site entrance and the main road was an establishment called the "LingaLonga" Cafe. Meals were taken at RAF Andover a little further out of the town. RAF Andover also provided all other facilities such as NAFFI, Camp Cinema, Sick Quarters.

A single hut housed all the personnel of RAF Weyhill except, of course, for the

Commanding Officer (a Flight Lieutenant) and three Senior NCOs who were domiciled in the Sergeants Mess at RAF Andover. All the personnel baring one, an

M/T Driver, were Signals staff - either Wireless Mechanics or Wireless Operator Mechanics. All of us excepting the CO, Senior NCOs, the M/T Driver and a couple of others, worked a shift system, or to use the nomenclature of the day, worked as watch-keepers. Each watch was made up of four or five men, at least one of whom would be qualified to drive. This was necessary in order that on-coming and off-going watches could be transported between the living quarters behind the Linga-Longa and the Transmitter Station at Weyhill.

The watches were Day (0800hrs - 1700hrs), Evening (1700hrs - 2359hrs) and Middle

(2359hrs - 0800hrs). The shift pattern was based on a ten day cycle during which there would be two distinct breaks - one of 48 hours and one of 36 hours. This was quite attractive even though one of the breaks started at the end of a Middle (night) watch. The work consisted simply of keeping the transmitters on the air and in good order. The telephone was, in effect, our master or, to be more truthful, the people on the other end of the telephone line called the tune.

The transmitters were the essential part of the outgoing radio links, or "circuits", as they were called, between the RAF in the UK and RAF Headquarters in places such

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as Gibraltar, Cairo, Delhi, West Africa, and even Melbourne. The UK operating staff, i.e., those who actually dispatched and received messages, or "traffic", to use the correct jargon, were located at Stanbridge or RAF Chicksands. It was the senior operating staff who phoned us to ask for transmitters to be set up on different frequencies, or to carry out checks to assure them that our equipment was working properly. We, on the other hand, would advise them that we had done as asked and keep them in the picture regarding breakdowns and progress of resulting repairs. All these events and their timing were recorded in the Log, upkeep of which was the responsibility of the NCO in charge of the Watch. It was in that capacity that I spent my time at Weyhill.

In general, watch-keeping at Weyhill was not too demanding a task. Time on duty was essentially spent by waiting around for something to happen, interspersed with fairly straight-forward routine. Our transmitters all operated in the Short Wave band i.e. at frequencies between 3 M/Hz and 30 M/Hz. For the benefit of those not versed in the art of radio communications let me say that a successful radio link depended upon the transmitted signal being reflected from the ionosphere (an ionised layer many miles above the Earth) to reach its final destination. The way in which the ionosphere performed this function was, to some extent, predictable but was affected by random phenomena such as sunspots. Regular cyclic changes in the ionosphere required that, in order to maintain communication, the frequency at which each transmitter operated had to be changed at least once during a 24 hour period.

Generally a lower frequency was chosen over the hours of darkness.

Requests for us to change frequency on which any of our transmitters operated came direct from the supervisor at the Signals Centre. Depending upon the type of equipment, this was usually accomplished in about five minutes or, where more complex equipment was concerned, in about 15 minutes. Under normal circumstances all this constituted a fairly leisurely occupation but, when the dear old ionosphere started to act out of character, things became somewhat hectic.

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Communication between Signals Centre and distant terminals would be lost and the supervisors at the Signals Centre would take frantic action to restore the situation to normal. This involved trying each and every frequency allocated to each circuit. This meant that we could spend a hectic hour or so until things returned to normal.

From time to time equipment breakdowns occurred which demanded our attention. All of our transmitters contained thermionic valves of various sizes. Any user of these archaic devices will know that they have finite lives as do simple light bulbs. It was quite a simple matter to change a valve with the exception of a pair of large valves, in one transmitter, which had water-cooled anodes. Replacing these called for a bit of plumbing!

More serious breakdowns sometimes happened. On one occasion I returned from a

72 hour pass and arrived in the transmitter hall, ready to start the evening watch, to find that one of the transmitters was getting a great deal of attention. Everyone, including the CO, was standing around it looking anything but happy. The transmitter, part of the link between the UK and Cairo, had been "off the air" for most of the day. Every time an attempt was made to switch it on it blew all three mains supply fuses in a spectacularly noisy manner. The cause remained obscure and I think that everyone concerned was becoming very tired and frustrated by their failure to sort the thing out. I happened to be the NCO in charge of the watch and so I was thoroughly briefed about what had been done and instructed by the CO to take specific and somewhat drastic action should we be unable to make any progress.

At this point the day watch and the day staff, including the CO, departed. We were quite glad that they had left us to tackle the problem with fresh (and open) minds. Bearing in mind that the day staff and day shift had spent quite a few hours looking for the cause of the fault, it was extremely gratifying for us when, after about twenty minutes, we had solved the problem. We were, to say the least, very pleased with ourselves. It had been all too simple. A small metal disc, about the size of a 50 pence

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piece, had parted company with its proper location and had fallen down between two terminals carrying two of the three phases of the mains supply and thus short circuiting them. Things rapidly returned to normal and the CO was elated to find his problem gone when he phoned during the evening to ask how things were going.

Why were we able to achieve, in twenty minutes, something that others had been struggling for hours to attain? The reason was that we applied logic to the problem.

During our two years at Cranwell there had been no attempt to teach us a correct and sensible approach to fault-finding. In fact they did not teach us anything more than the location of components - presumably based on the established military ritual of

"naming of parts". This lead to the good old "hit or miss" approach being widely adopted. By its very nature, this way of doing things can bring quick results - if you are lucky - but more often than not it leads to protracted frustration. We had used our small ration of grey matter and thought carefully before acting and were duly rewarded. In fairness I must say that, several years later, during a short stay at RAF Locking (at that time the home of Signals training) I heard one of the staff make comment about "logical fault-finding". This cheered me greatly!

There was another event which served to illustrate a salutary and basic lesson. All but two of our transmitters operated on wireless telegraphy circuits - in other words they produced a simple Radio Frequency wave which was interrupted by signals, in Morse code, which came to us by land-line from the Signals Centre at Stanbridge. The exceptions were a pair of single sideband transmitters which emitted a complicated audio signal which was generated by a six-channel teleprinter system. These two transmitters were a great deal more complicated than the others and each of them was connected to a drive unit of GPO design. The handbooks relating to these drive units were quite comprehensive and included a complicated routine for checking and re-aligning their circuits as part of scheduled maintenance.

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It was decreed that we should follow these procedures after the prescribed running time had been achieved by each unit. Maintenance was carried out on these two transmitters during the night watch because at that time there was very little traffic being passed. Thus it was the task of one night watch to tackle this chore. Thankfully it was not my watch who were on duty when this started. From the very beginning the exercise was a disaster. Following the equipment maintenance schedule and handbooks the equipment could not be restored to the level of performance that it had before the maintenance began. The equipment was off the air for two days before the

CO had to make arrangements for a GPO engineer to come and sort things out for us. It took him about half a day to sort things out and things returned to normal.

However, the CO made it very clear to all concerned that not under any circumstances were we to attempt adjusting these equipments as long as they were working satisfactorily. Here we had a classic illustration of the wisdom of the adage -

"If it ain't broken, then don't try and mend it!"

And now for a few words about the "grey boxes". These two simple words were conjured up by one of our Wireless Mechanics to describe the transmitters which lined each side of the transmitter hall. They adequately defined their shape and colour. The medium to dark shade of grey was uniform to all types of RAF ground

Radio equipment. Our "grey boxes" were all products of Marconi's Wireless Telegraph Co Ltd and had type numbers generally SWB8, SWBll and eventually SWBlO. The smallest was the SWB8 which stood about 6ft high, 4ft in width and 4ft deep. Its power unit was housed in a somewhat larger, separate, cabinet standing on one side. The SWBll had a similar power unit but the transmitter itself was in a bigger, wider box than the SWB8. The SWBIO was the largest of the family which had water cooled valves, a pump room and cooling radiator in an external building and a much larger and more elaborate power unit. There were also two transmitters, similar to the SWB8, which bore the identity TFS31. Apparently, these were types peculiar to the

Royal Navy, and were on loan to the RAF. During my stay at Weyhill our CO received

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a signal from the Admiralty concerning these two items. It was addressed to The Commanding Officer, HMS Weyhill. This caused us some amusement and one or two of our number complained of sea-sickness!

Returning to the largest of the grey boxes - the SWBIO - this was installed during my time at Weyhill. The work was carried out by a fitting party of RAF mechanics under the supervision of a civilian engineer from the Marconi W. T. Co Ltd. He was a Mr.

Vivian, with greying hair and probably in his early 50's. He had doing this sort of installation work for many years and travelled the world in the process. He was a quiet man and much respected, having accumulated a wealth of knowledge and experience.

One thing that he had come to terms with was the safety aspect of working with these transmitters. The high voltage, high capacity, power supplies used in these equipments were potentially lethal and the high power Radio Frequency output could cause serious burns. Under normal circumstances the risks were small because access to the space within the transmitters and power units was controlled by safety switches which ensured that the entire equipment would shut down as soon as a door or a panel was opened. When things went wrong and faults had to be investigated the safety circuits sometimes had to be over-ridden and great care had to be exercised. If Mr Vivian happened to pass by during one of these episodes he was often able to stop and tactfully point out to us some hazard or other that we had not taken into consideration. No one ever resented what might have been construed as interference on his part - on the contrary - we were grateful to be enlightened. Sometimes his sense of what was right and proper was outside the bounds of safety and advice was offered on simple working practice. On one occasion he pointed out to me that many tradesmen did not know how to get the best out of a common or garden screwdriver. He made the point that the width of the screwdriver blade should always be as great as the diameter of the screw head or if practical a little wider. How right he was! I don't recall being told this during my two years training at Cranwell and in subsequent

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years, having observed the way in which many trained technicians operate, I lead to conclude that many others are unaware of this simple rule.

Another fact that I became aware of whilst at Weyhill was that I was able to smile at my own stupidity. This awareness came about as the result of the weekly trip, to RAF

Bletchley, that was made by our 15cwt truck. This was a routine event which enabled the M/T driver to attend to the needs of his vehicle and to pick up spares and any other stores essential to the running of the transmitters. The driver set out immediately after breakfast and returned during the late afternoon or early evening. On one such day I was on evening watch and received a 'phone call from the nearby

Army establishment at Tidworth. The caller identified himself as the Officer I/C Motor

Transport and told me that our RAF vehicle had broken down on its way back from Bletchley and that they had been asked to loan us a replacement for a couple of days.

The caller then went on to talk about the kind of vehicle that was acceptable to us. After a bit of vague negotiation he asked me that he did not have much that he could offer us other than a Humber staff car - would this be any use to us? With visions of driving this magnificent vehicle to take the watch on or off duty I was quick to take up the offer. Some further negotiation followed at the end of which the caller identified himself as LAC Smith - an off duty member of our staff who had the reputation of being a bit of a joker. He was very convincing in his role as bogus Army Officer and I took his bait hook, line and sinker! I was gratified to discover that I was able to laugh at my error as much as all the others who were listening to my part of the conversation.

The times at which specific meals were served was not designed with the welfare of watch-keepers in mind. The concept of serving meals just in advance of or following the specified times was well established. This covered most of our needs except that of the night watch. In the morning, immediately after the end of the shift there was the normal breakfast, to be taken in the Airmen’s Mass at RAF Andover. Then it was back to the hut behind the "Linga-Longa" cafe and to bed. If one felt that the main meal of

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the day was essential it was necessary to get up just before mid-day and walk a mile or so RAF Andover to the Airmen’s Mess. One could then walk back to the hut and carry one with one's shut-eye. No one ever did this. They either did without the main meal or spent money they could ill afford on a meal (something or other with chips) in the cafe. The "Linga-Longa" had some good customers living in our hut. In reality it was a small double -fronted shop that had been converted into a .modest transport cafe. Customers were served either by the owner's wife or by a young lady blessed with the name of Zena. I'm afraid on one occasion she was a victim of LAC Smith (our joker) who succeeded in convincing her that we would be holding a small prayer meeting in our hut at 7.00pm on a particular evening and warmly invited her to attend.

Let us return to the subject of food. The Day Watch were ,of course, unable to leave the station to take their mid-day meal. This was collected, in a "haybox", from the cookhouse at RAF Andover by our M/T Driver and consumed in the transmitter halL Rations for the Night Watch were also collected from the same cookhouse during the preceding day. These were in generous portions - tea, sugar, milk, bread, butter, potatoes, eggs, sausages and bacon. During the small hours, the Night Watch would use these goodies to cook themselves a reasonable "and chips" meal. There was always some to spare the excess of uncooked rations were stored and periodically shared among the Watch members to take home to their families - quite practical but strictly illegal!

Tea was brewed frequently. During the evenings and over night the Air Ministry Policeman, accompanied by "Fritz" - the Alsatian dog, appeared in the transmitter hall in the hope that tea had been or was about to be made. Fritz would be on a lead and, while his handler was taking his refreshment, would approach one or other of us and give us a good old sniff. He showed no signs of doggy pleasure at being in our company and we regarded him with a little apprehension. After all, what good was a

Police Dog who could be friends with everybody?

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At one stage, we had a new Warrant Officer posted to WeyhilL It did not take him long to become aware of the constant flow of tea that that watch-keepers provided. Thus he would appear in the transmitter hall at regular intervals and present a grotty looking pale blue enamelled mug in which we were to pour his drink. After a short time he did not even bother to wash the thing and left it on the supervisor’s desk. It became revoltingly filthy and was anything but a joy to behold. Eventually one of us took the mug outside and flattened it with a single blow from a sledge hammer. We left the wreckage on the W/O's desk. He soon came back with a new mug but took care not to leave it in the transmitter hall!

The civilians who looked after the stand-by diesel powered generator were also frequent visitors to the transmitter hall and, as with the A.M Policemen, came in the hope of a mug of hot tea. There were three of them and, like ourselves, worked a shift system. The fellow who had been there longest was known to all and sundry as "Diesel Pete". To me he was the least likeable of the trio. He had a lot to say which said very little. His language was in need of a good wash and brush-up - not that we were offended by it - it was just boring. Its perpetual feature was reference to people as "square-headed f***pigs". The other two men were vastly different. One was a local and conformed to the popular image of a farm hand. He was quiet spoken, of considerable physical stature, had a likeable personality and knew his job.

The third of the trio was Dick. Dick was a Londoner and had lost his home during a wartime air-raid. Homeless, Dick and his wife walked from London to Andover and somehow managed to set up home again. When Dick was on duty in the diesel shed he was always accompanied by his small dog and, when on night duty, an acoustic guitar. This guitar was unlike any that I have ever seen. In shape it looked like any other instrument of that kind but the sound box had been treated to quite a few coats of gloss paint. Dick had a simple explanation for this. It was there "to keep the weather out". Before being bombed out Dick had spent a lot of his time in Soho and scraped a living as a busker, playing this weatherproof guitar. It was often

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entertaining to walk over to the huge shed that housed the diesel engine and have a breath of air and if Dick was there to hear him playing. The vastness of the shed seemed to resonate with its sound. Although he generally had not got a great deal to say he was likeable to all and, if he felt disposed, he would entertain us with anecdotes featuring some of the odd and colourful characters whom he had met in

Soho.

If, for any reason, the civilian staff could not man the stand-by diesel then the watch on duty in the transmitter hall had to be able to start the engine and get the generator working. In those post war days power cuts and periods when the mains voltage was uncomfortably low were not uncommon. The diesel engine was a monster - one of those with a ladder on one side which lead to a walk way around the cylinder head. It was surprisingly easy to start. Housed in the shed together with the engine were spacious fuel tanks and compressed air bottles. The compressed air was used to start the engine. It was a fairly simple procedure. First of all one had to turn on a valve which connected the air bottles to the starter. At the side of the engine was a lever with three positions designated START, STOP and RUN and this had to be moved from STOP to START to admit compressed air to the cylinders. When the engine had gained momentum all that remained was to push down another lever which activated the fuel injectors and then move the first lever to the RUN position. The problems arose after this point had been reached and involved replenishing the compressed air supply. This was done by starting a relatively small single- cylinder diesel engine which drove the air compressor. Easier said than done! This simple little engine was a pig to start and was the one feature of the whole procedure that made the prospect of running on stand-by power a daunting one.

Heating for the building was by means of a large coke burning boiler which fed hot water to radiators. Outside of normal working hours it was the responsibility of the duty watch to tend this boiler. This was done by us watchkeepers not only in the interest of our personal comfort whilst on duty but to avoid horrible embarrassment of

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handing over to the relieving watch a boiler that had to be re-lit. Everyone took turns tending the boiler. My time at Weyhill encompassed the notoriously cold winter of

1947 when there were power cuts and solid fuel was in short supply. I remember well one interlude in which our supplies of coke were running dangerously low. I started a night watch when things were on a knife edge. Fuel was promised for delivery on the following day, but the amount we had in hand was not going to see the night out. It was freezing cold and, if the boiler went out there was going to be an awful problem with frozen pipes and all the trouble they can bring. In desperation two of us took the

15cwt out, in the middle of the night, to the "aerial farm" where we knew there would be several wooden lattice masts in pieces on the ground. We loaded these onto the truck and, with them, managed to keep the heating ticking over till the coke was delivered on the following day. That 1947 winter was a bitter one - one which few will forget.

As I had, so far, spent all of my RAF service in the United Kingdom I had, on being posted to Weyhill, thought it unlikely that my stay would be a long one. I had still not learnt that there was little logic in the way in which the Service managed things like overseas service. At least that's how it seemed to me when I considered my departure to foreign parts to be long overdue. I was not enthusiastic about the prospect as an overseas posting would entail a long separation for my wife and myself. My stay here lasted for about two years until in February 1948 I was told that I was "on PWR". PWR meant Preliminary Warning Roll - and was a signal to take 14 days embarkation leave prior to moving to RAF Burtonwood from whence one would be shipped to wheresoever the faceless ones had selected. I took my leave and returned, not to Weyhill, but to RAF Bletchley and hence to Burtonwood.

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The Weyhill transmitter hall. In left foreground is an SWB11 transmitter (nearest) and Power Supply cabinet.

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CHAPTER 17

ON THE ROAD TO SINGAPORE

"The Road to Singapore" is, of course, the title of an old film featuring the talents of

Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour. Their trip was a light hearted affair, not without its fair share of comic drama. I would not venture to describe my journey in the same way but will declare here and now that it was memorable - a word which, without qualification, evokes neither pleasure nor pain. Let me say no more than that, for the moment and deal firstly with the run-up to my voyage to the Far East.

It is worth mentioning that, due to my not having served overseas, I had arrived at Weyhill some two years earlier with every expectation of spending only a short time there. It seemed inevitable that an overseas posting would follow within months of my arrival. Obviously I was somewhat naive in my belief and should have realised that the Service can be, and often is, unpredictable and illogical in its actions.

Shortly after my arrival at Weyhill my wife had managed to secure some minimal unfurnished accommodation in our home town of Edmonton. I had not thought it worthwhile to get my name on the waiting list for Married Quarters at RAF Andover. This had been a big mistake. Despite having been married for over four years we had not spent more than fourteen days in succession together without being separated by the demands of RAF life. There were, of course, frequent weekend passes which enabled us to be together but by the time that this overseas posting came along I was beginning to become more and more disenchanted with the prospect of another five years service.

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I regarded the two years that I had spent at Weyhill as being, on the whole, good years. Whilst there, I was far removed from the world of parades, Kit Inspections and other forms of military discipline. The work had some purpose to it. We were ensuring that the essential world-wide communications links were maintained. This was also work which provided experience that would be useful in finding a civilian job when the

RAF and I parted company. The nature of the job - short periods of intense activity with long intervals of waiting for something to happen - afforded the chance of improving my technical knowledge and qualifications. In spite of the two years grind as an apprentice at Cranwell there was no qualification to be gained that would mean anything outside of the RAF.

I decided to aim for various City and Guilds Certificates in Radio Communication and elected, with the aid of a syllabus, to embark on a programme of private study. During one seventy two hour pass I paid a visit to Foyles in Charing Cross Road and bought some text books. I did not find it too difficult to tackle the task that I had set myself. Above all, I was genuinely interested in the subject that I was studying. I even worked my way through a textbook on Differential and Integral Calculus, finding it truly fascinating.

During my stay at Weyhill I sat for and passed Parts 1 & 2 of C. & G. Radio Communications. When I got to hear of my overseas posting I was preparing for the Final Part 3 and began to wonder how and where I would be able to sit for the examination. I was becoming acutely aware of the one big luxury that I had unknowingly sacrificed when I enlisted, namely, the freedom to act in one’s own best interests. The scheme whereby, in pre-war days, one could purchase ones discharge had not been reintroduced. Had such an option been available at that time I would have grasped it without hesitation. In retrospect I could see that work that I had done since leaving Cranwell could have been carried out by a civilian and that, logically, I should be capable of finding work of that sort without wearing the pale blue uniform.

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The military environment did not appeal to me at all. I did not know it at the time but my dislike of things "regimental" would be intensified by events that were to follow.

The prelude to travelling overseas was a stay at RAF Burtonwood near to Warrington in Lancashire. Burtonwood was a PDC which, if my memory serves me well, stands for Personnel Dispatch Centre. Even if this is not entirely correct the name adequately describes the purpose of this establishment. All movement of RAF other ranks to destinations abroad was centred here. Accompanied by Frank Woods (from Weyhill) I arrived at Burtonwood early in March 1948. Once there, we met up with Denny Hill - another ex-apprentice who we had last met, in 1945, on the course which we attended at Cardington. Denny was .also posted to Singapore and we soon learned that we were to join the Signals Centre at RAF Changi. We spent several weeks at Burtonwood "waiting for a draft" - to use the correct terminology. During that time we were kitted out with "KD" (khaki drill) uniforms and given a course of inoculations against typhoid, typhus and small-pox. These activities did not take up too much time and we found the regime relaxed but boring.

Each morning at around 9.OOam we paraded for roll call and, if there was nothing specific on the menu for the day, were dismissed until the following day. In practice this meant that we had most days to do whatever suited us. This often meant trips into Warrington, occasionally to indulge in the luxury of a civilised meal and visits to the cinema or, once in a while, go by rail to Liverpool or Manchester where we could attend a theatre. Passes were always available at weekends and the journey from Warrington to Euston became a familiar routine.

The trains from Warrington were always fairly crowded at weekends. Faced with the prospect of standing in the corridor for three hours or more, we sometimes parked ourselves in an empty First Class compartment. This was fine - until the Ticket

Collector found us and ejected us. On one occasion this did not happen. Instead the Ticket Collector came into the compartment and politely informed us that, because

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we had not paid First Class fares, we really ought not to be in a First Class compartment. However, since there were not any passengers with First Class tickets standing in the corridor, he was happy to leave us where were for the time being. He would be along to see us later. This he did soon after the train passed Watford

Junction. He poked his head through the compartment door and gave us all a pleasant smile and then said "Well, have you all had a nice comfortable journey? Much better than standing in the corridor, wasn't it? Saved you quite a bit of money as well!" Apart from holding out an open hand he could not have made it plainer that he was seeking a reward for good behaviour! There were about ten of us, each crossing his palm with silver at 2/6 a time. It made the Ticket Collector 25/- and gave us a comfortable journey. Everyone was satisfied.

During the return journey to Warrington I again became involved with one of the

Ticket Collecting fraternity. In common with many people who made frequent journeys by rail, I found that from time to time, I would accumulate the odd unused half ticket, either in a pocket or in my wallet. So it was on this particular occasion. The train was crowded and, not having found a seat, I was standing with other unfortunates in a corridor. When the Ticket Collector arrived, with the usual "Tickets please!", I mistakenly handed him the return half of an Underground rail ticket instead of the correct one which was in my pocket. Unlike the beaming but unprincipled individual from the previous journey, this one took his work very seriously and reacted somewhat abrasively to my mistake. He threatened me with just about every sort of retribution that one could imagine and refused to accept the correct half ticket and my explanation that I had made an innocent mistake. In retrospect I don't really blame him because Servicemen had generally earned for themselves a terrible reputation for swindling the railways out of their fares. However, this was something which I had never done. This, together with the fact all this fuss was occurring on what I knew to be the last journey that I would be making on this route for a year or so, made me anything but pleased. In the end I told him to take the correct half ticket and do his

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worst. He took it and went on his way. It was quite an interesting interlude. The lesson to be learned was that, because two people wear the same uniform (in this case, that of a Ticket Collector) they may have entirely different characters and contrasting moral values!

News of the coming journey overseas had broken shortly before these rail trips. Frank, Denny and I had been assigned to a draft of around 100 miscellaneous RAF personnel and told that we were to travel on a troopship called the Empire Halladale.

On the evening of the day of departure from Burtonwood bearing kitbags, packs and the usual military accoutrements, we boarded a train at Warrington which took us, overnight, to Glasgow. Again, finding seats for the journey posed a problem and we ended up in the guards van and settled down for the night resting on a pile of kitbags. The next morning, on a day in April 1948, the train discharged us on the dock-side in

Glasgow. The side of the Empire Halladale loomed high above us as, loaded with our kitbags and equipment, we were herded up the gangplank on to the ship. We were ushered, by Army personnel, on to one of the "troopdecks", the name given to the accommodation for other ranks. Older troopships than this one provided only hammocks for the common herd to sleep in. The Empire Halladale, although not a new ship, was relatively new to trooping. It was originally the Antonio Delfino, a

German Hamburg-America Line vessel, which had been appropriated (presumably as part of reparations) by the War Office at the end of the 1939/45 war. Instead of hammocks it was equipped with "standee bunks" which were simple canvas and metal affairs (similar in size to a stretcher) mounted in three tiers on metal frames. The bunks could be folded up when not in use.

Soon after boarding we were given breakfast. The first impression of the food was favourable - a slight improvement on the usual RAF standard. This was understandable as the meals were prepared by cooks employed by British India, the shipping company who ran the vessel on behalf of the War Office. The passengers, who were all either Service personnel or Service families, were the War Office's

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responsibility. This mantle was assumed in the person of the O/C Troops, a Lt/Colonel, aided by the Ship's Adjutant and the Ship's RSM, plus a handful of lesser mortals in khaki uniforms.

When all troops had embarked we were very rapidly paraded and assigned various domestic chores to be carried out during the voyage. I found myself in charge of half a dozen Airmen with whose assistance I was to ensure that the starboard promenade deck (normally out of bounds to other ranks) was swept clean three times on every day of the coming voyage. This prospect caused me no end of wild excitement. From the time of leaving Cranwell until boarding this ship (excluding the awful NCO's course at Cardington) I had managed to steer clear of such non-technical responsibilities such as this one. Such is life!

The Empire Halladale sailed at around 5.00pm. The evening meal having been consumed, the evening was ours to fill as best we could. One highlight of the day was my first purchase of duty free cigarettes - wonderful - a box of 50 Players Medium for

1/6. We were also allowed to buy beer, rationed to one half-pint of McEwans Export each day. Sailing southwards, through St. George's Channel, I began to feel the effects of the gentle motion of the vessel but, thankfully, experienced nothing worse than a headache. After the first night on the troopdeck, we awoke to find the motion of the ship had increased and some of my fellow travellers were looking decidedly unwell. We were crossing the Bay of Biscay. I was fortunate. I did not feel comfortable but the heaving and rolling of the ship did not make me sick. I managed to consume and retain my meals. The first morning on a troopship brought to us an introduction to an activity which was to take place on every day of the voyage - beer and liquor carrying. This involved replenishing the various bars from which booze was served. The restocking took place in the mornings and seemed to be carried out largely by the RAF contingent. I became rapidly aware of one simple fact. Whilst being a Corporal of some six years seniority commanded, in the RAF, a small degree of recognition that one was not of the common herd, to the Army it meant precisely nothing. I concluded

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that two stripes in the Army had little permanance. and that if a “squaddie” didn't get promoted to Sergeant fairly rapidly, the chances were that he would lose his two stripes and end up where he started.

Thus it was that we three Corporals - Denny Hill, Frank Woods and myself were obliged to take part in carrying endless cases of beer, wines and spirits from the bowels of the ship along passage ways and up narrow stairs. As these activities were organised and supervised by our khaki clad fellow travellers we RAF personnel rapidly realised where we stood in the pecking order - at the bottom!

I have mentioned that there was a small naval contingent on board. They consisted of a Seaman Chief Petty Officer, a Petty Officer Stoker and a handful of ratings. (We later discovered that the surname of the P/O Stoker was Furnace and not surprisingly he had acquired the nickname of "Fiery".)

This little group seemed to be immune from being detailed for any of the irritating chores that we had to put up with. They were left to their own devices. I suppose it made sense - after all the Navy is the Senior Service! I am quite convinced that this was the thinking which caused the Army to conveniently forget about them. This being so, we RAF people were in the Junior Service and were frequently made to realise this as fact.

The passengers which have been mentioned so far all had one thing in common - they were accommodated on the troopdecks and confined were strictly segregated from the remaining cabin class passengers. The latter had exclusive use of the promenade deck and the bars and lounges which we only saw when making daily deliveries of booze. Occupants of the troopdecks could purchase their meagre daily ration of beer from a small "tuckshop" type of establishment overlooking the aft well-deck which was the only deckspace that was not out of bounds. Here we could also buy our duty-free cigarettes and confectionery.

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The fortunate cabin class travellers included all Officers and Warrant Officers, Nurses, WRNS, ATS and WAAF officers. In addition there were significant numbers of Service families en route to join their husbands. Surprisingly, Other Rank's families travelled cabin class. It had not always been that way. Several years later I was to meet a retired Sergeant Major from the 4th Hussars. His wife travelled by troopship to join him in India in the years between the Wars and, from her description, made the journey in troopdeck accommodation.

The trip into and across the Bay of Biscay was, for most of us our initiation into the down side of travel by sea. Those, like myself, who survived with little or no adverse effects gained confidence in their ability to cope with rough seas. The less fortunate who suffered badly were left only with apprehension concerning the rest of the voyage. The Empire Halladale had also succumbed to the rigours of the Bay of

Biscay. There was a noticeable drop in the ship's speed in the later stages of the crossing and it soon became common knowledge that the ship might have shed a blade from one of its two propellers. On its previous voyage the vessel had been used to repatriate the last contingent of British troops from India. Whilst mooring at Karachi, the port of embarkation, the stern had come into contact with the quay and one of the propellers had suffered possible damage.

This situation resulted in an unscheduled call at Gibraltar. We moored in the harbour whilst a naval diver in the full suit and round metal helmet went below to confirm suspicions. Sure enough, the propeller blade was missing. Repair, however, entailed a spell in dry dock and nothing was available at Gibraltar. The consequence was that the ship would have to continue its slow progress, this time to Malta. Although we were in Gibraltar for only an hour or so we did at least have a good view of the Rock and also a grandstand view of the USS Valley Forge, a large aircraft carrier which was also in port.

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The ship made its way to Malta and moored in Valetta harbour which still displayed the masts, funnels and upper parts of vessels that had sunk there during the war. On arrival, the bulk of the passengers were disembarked and sent to accommodation at various military establishments on the island. A handful remained, including myself and Frank Woods, to provide some sort of security during the vessel's stay in the hands of civilian workers in dry dock. Remaining on board, we enjoyed a grand-stand view of the process of dry docking. I will not attempt to describe it in any detail but it was fascinating to watch the dockyard workers do their stuff. They were understandably well practised in this procedure which did not take a great time. It was simply a matter of an hour or so before the ship was high and dry, held in the vertical position by large numbers of timbers of assorted lengths, wedged between the ship's sides and the walls of the dry dock. We also witness a dockyard crane lift a spare propeller blade from the bowels of the ship ready to fit when ready.

The work of removing the remains of the broken propeller blade and installing a replacement took about four days. Those of us on "boat guard", as we called it, spent periods of 24 hours on board alternating with 24 hours ashore. When ashore, we were accommodated at AHQ (Air Headquarters) Valetta, a building of medieval style and proportions. This enabled us to take a welcomed break from the confines of the troopship and to see a little of Valetta.

For myself and Frank Woods this was our first experience of the world beyond the shores of the United Kingdom. Apart from the fact that the locals spoke an alien language and looked somewhat different from British civilians we were immediately struck by the almost complete absence of trees and grass. We were able, for the first time since the early days of the War, to buy sweets and chocolate off-ration. I remember distinctly buying (for a shilling) and consuming a 16oz. bar of Nestle milk chocolate. It was most enjoyable.

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Work was still being done to repair or replace buildings in the town that had suffered from the wartime bombing. It was fascinating to see the way in which craftsmen worked the relatively soft pale yellow stone from which most of the more recent buildings were fashioned. There was little evidence of any "soft" material having been used in the really old structures which were dotted about the town. They were literally as solid as rock.

The weather during our stay was delightful - warm and sunny with a pleasant onshore breeze during daylight hours. Apart from sight-seeing there was not a great deal to do unless, of course, one was a serious drinker. In this case there was ample opportunity for making a pig of oneself in one or more of the various watering holes which catered for the tastes of Service men, notably the Royal Navy.

In Valetta everything appeared to be geared to the RN. Late in every evening they ran a kind of delivery service for inebriates. A 30 cwt lorry, crewed by a Petty Officer and a couple of ratings, toured the streets collecting anything wearing one of His

Majesty's uniforms who was lying in the gutter or staggering about the streets and delivering them to the nearest appropriate Service establishment. In this manner one or two of our "boat guard" companions arrived back at our quarters at AHQ. They had discovered a beverage bearing the label "Spanish Wine", contained in used Johnny Walker whisky bottles. It cost 2/- a bottle and had the potential to render one senseless in no time at all.

We made acquaintance with an establishment called the Vernon Club - not a shady night club but a Services club patronized mainly by Royal Navy other ranks. The game of Tombola (or Bingo as known in civilian circles) seemed to run continuously in the Vernon Club and it was rather sobering to witness the intensity with which some addicted naval ratings applied themselves to scratching out numbers on a card.

Whilst drifting through the streets of Valetta Frank Woods and I fell foul of a couple of patrolling RAF SPs (Service Police). We were committing the terrible sin of walking

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about with hand or hands in pockets. Rather than dismiss us after a telling off, they decided to take us to their nearest office to take full particulars and so on. On arrival, we were ushered into the Flt/Sgt's office. Who should we find there but Flt/Sgt "Nobby" Clark, one of the Drill/PT Instructors from Cranwell. Having started to take down our details he immediately saw from our service numbers that we were ex-apprentices and there the matter ended. We all had a pleasant chat about the old days and what we had done after leaving Cranwell and then we went on our way.

Good old Nobby!

When the time came to return to the ship we found it was out of dry dock and moored in Valetta harbour. We were taken out to her on some kind of lighter and, wearing greatcoats and full kit (packs, webbing etc) we had to go up the ship's side by climbing a rope ladder. To do this for the first time is rather daunting but to do it, attired as we were, was terrifying. One false move and we would have fallen off and sunk like stones to the harbour bottom. Of course, we made it and when the full complement of passengers had finally embarked (climbing up proper steps) the

Empire Halladale left harbour and sailed eastwards towards Port Said.

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CHAPTER 18

EAST OF SUEZ

The passage from Malta to Port Said was not a smooth one. The sea was as rough here as it had been in the Bay of Biscay. It made me realise that the dream holiday, epitomised by the idea of a Mediterranean cruise on a P&O liner, might fall short of expectations. Most of those unfortunates who had suffered with sea sickness had acclimatised to the motion of the ship and we had all settled down to the daily routine that went with the voyage. The food continued to be reasonably good and the daily booze carrying and deck sweeping continued ad infinitum. There were occasional lectures given by some of the Army officers which dwelt heavily on the state of emergency that existed in Singapore and Malaya and the rules that were in force to ensure security. The problem was caused by the activities of Communist bandits

(mostly Chinese) who were killing and intimidating the workers on the mainland rubber plantations. The troops on board (mainly the 1st Battalion Devonshire

Regiment) were heading for Malaya to counter the terrorist threat. Their Commanding

Officer was a Lt/Colonel Pine-Coffin - a name, perhaps, to instil fear into any wrong doers!

One of the Officers who had already spent some time in Malaya told us a few facts about the lifestyle of the Malay people. I always remember that he described them as

"nature's gentlemen". They were basically lazy and seldom did more than was necessary to achieve whatever goal they were aiming for. I can't say that I find this too outrageous because the climate that prevails in the tropics is conducive to an

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easy going approach. Many of us who were used to more temperate environment tend to regard our way of doing things as the only way, wherever we may be.

However, our enlightened officer drew our attention to a Malay word - "te'dapa" being, I believe, a way of saying "teada apa" meaning "no knowing". This was commonly used to convey the message "I should care" or "Can’t be bothered". It is no coincidence that many cultures, indigenous to the hotter parts of the world, have their own versions of "te'dapa" and, for some strange reason, British servicemen always manage to add these phrases to their vocabulary.

The Empire Halladale, with its damaged propeller repaired made good progress to

Port Said. We were steaming between 200 and 240 nautical miles per day. This we learnt as a result of the daily lottery that was held, based on the ship's daily mileage. By the time we arrived in Egypt the weather was noticeably warmer, bordering on hot and the order was issued to change into "KD". This was the term used to describe the Khaki Drill tropical kit which we were to wear for the next two and a half years.

KD comprised a bush shirt, shorts and knee length khaki socks. After dusk the shorts would be replaced by khaki drill slacks - the reason being that sunset was the time of day after which nasty insects such as mosquitoes went hunting for blood. The slacks ensured that they did not take any from ones knees! The bush shirts had the RAF albatross badges at the tops of the sleeves. These were in black on a scarlet background instead of pale blue on black which were worn on the blue uniform. The brass buttons gave way to black plastic replicas. The standard "fore and aft" RAF cap was retained, the solar topee and the broad brimmed bush hat no longer being in vogue. In retrospect I can see that the bush hat, and the shade it provided from the sun, had much to commend it. In later years, some of those who had spent time under the tropical sun would find that they had developed one of the forms of skin cancer. The hat with the broad brim would have helped to avoid this. At the other extreme, the length of the shorts that were issued to us was such that not too much flesh was exposed above the knees .

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Thus, the RAF contingent on board the Empire Halladale were clad in identical KD uniforms the only difference being badges of rank. We did not see anything odd about the way we were dressed. Until, that is, we reached our destination. We would then see that, to our fellow airmen who were long resident in Singapore we would look like

(and sometimes smell like) creatures from another planet. Bush shirts with sleeves cut short and plain khaki buttons and badges of rank formed from white tape would replace those issued at Burtonwood as soon as the latter were worn out. The leggy shorts would become objects of derision and would be shortened drastically to end about six inches above the knee.

Having docked in Port Said we were getting our first real taste of being away from the

UK. Unlike Gibraltar and Malta, Egypt was not a British colony. We spent several hours tied up within sight of Ferdinand de Lesseps' statue, whilst an extremely large lamp, with a diameter of about three feet, was attached to the bow of the ship. This was in preparation for our passage through the Suez Canal. Every vessel which made the journey was thus equipped, the lamp being removed at the far end.

This short stay at Port Said provided our first encounter with "bum-boats". These were simply small rowing boats carrying one man and whatever goods (cheap souvenirs, cigarettes, etc) he had for sale to passengers on the ships which tied up at the quayside. They plied their trade by positioning themselves under the side of the ship displaying their wares to the people high above them who were leaning over the ship's side. Purchases and cash would be exchanged by means of a crude sort of basket attached to a length of rope. The waterborne vendor would throw the rope up to the buyer who would the haul his goods aloft and then return the basket with the appropriate cash inside it. A notice displayed on board ship warned the troops not to throw things down on bum-boats. This instruction was mainly followed but it did not deter some men from throwing the empty basket back without paying for the goods or, taking the basket and rope and disposing of them over the other side of the ship.

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Needless to say, both buyers and bum-boat men were at risk of loosing out over these transactions.

We left Port Said and entered the first section of the Suez Canal. One had to marvel at the relatively narrow waterway which demanded that the ship made very slow and steady progress. The canal banks were literally a stone's throw away and at one point we encounter quite a few of off-duty British troops who were enjoying themselves by shouting derogatory remarks to the troops on the ship. "Get your knees brown" was the gibe which was most frequently encountered.

We made our way through the Canal and the Bitter Lakes into the Gulf of Suez finally reaching the Red Sea. Temperate, equable weather was rapidly becoming a memory as the heat and humidity became an uncomfortable reality. To be on deck whilst the ship was travelling at about fifteen knots was not too bad. Despite the hot sun the movement of the vessel provided a refreshing breeze. The problem was its worst below decks - particularly at night on the troop deck with far too many restless bodies trying to find sleep. The solution to this problem was however quite simple and practical. Sleeping on the upper decks (those areas in bounds to the common herd) was permitted. One went up on deck at bed-time, clad in night attire, armed with three blankets. One to sleep on, one folded to serve as a pillow and the remaining one to use as cover. There were problems. The deck was, of course, hard and was scrubbed down at around 6.30 am by members of the ship's crew. Nevertheless, I found that I enjoyed rather more restful sleep than I had been enjoying in my bunk below decks. Those of us who took to this practice continued it for remainder of the voyage. The abiding good memory associated with it is of laying on deck watching the stars above on a clear tropical night, enjoying the gentle breeze and listening to the swish of the water against the ship's side.

We had been told soon after leaving Glasgow that we would be stopping at Port Said, Suez, and Aden before eventually reaching Singapore. We had already made two

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unscheduled stops at Gibraltar and Malta and, whilst sailing through the Red Sea it was announced that, before Aden we would be calling at Masawa ,in Eritrea, to take on board a contingent of Sinhalese (Sri Lankan) troops for passage to Colombo and yet another stop that was not on the menu.

The journey down the Red Sea produced a noticeable increase in the level of discomfort caused by the heat and humidity. A daily shower in salt water, using "salt water soap" (issued free) helped to make things more bearable but our clothes were rapidly becoming contaminated with stale sweat. There was no laundry service provided and with the aid of the free issue soap (intended to produce a lather in sea water) we had to do our best to freshen our clothes. At the time, we regarded our efforts as successful Later, after we had been in Singapore for a few months we became very much aware of the stale repulsive odour that emanated from new arrivals who had just got "off the boat". Our awareness was heightened by the realisation that we ponged like that when we arrived!

Our arrival in Masawa produced a reminder that in addition to the increasing heat and humidity we were seeing few, if any, trees and virtually no grass as we got further from home. Masawa was a grim looking affair. All we could see from the ship were endless dirty, ramshackle warehouses and sweating native stevedores. We arrived at Aden a few days after leaving Masawa. The location of our mooring was known as Steamer Point. Once again, the landward vista was bereft of any grass or trees. The ship took on water, fuel and other supplies before heading eastwards across the Indian Ocean towards Colombo. Two days after leaving Aden, quite a few of us fell victims of a rather violent tummy bug which caused pain and very urgent and frequent trips to the toilet. I was one of these unfortunates. I reported sick and was given the usual slip of paper specifying treatment to hand to the Sick Bay Orderly. The drug I was to receive was Sulfaguanidine of which I watched the Orderly counting out ten tablets slightly larger in size than the standard aspirin. He handed them to me and I asked how many I was to take at a time. I was shocked to be told to take all ten

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tablets at once and to return twice more on that day for two more doses of ten. This sounds rather drastic but thankfully it did the trick.

The changing climate was having effects in areas other than the digestive tract. The passage into and through the Red Sea has, I had been told, an effect on female passengers. To be blunt, it is said to make them randy. This can possibly be attributed to the free and easy, relaxed, lifestyle of cabin passengers combined with unaccustomed hot weather and an intake of cheap alcohol. We became aware of this phenomenon as the ship started it's progress eastwards across the Indian Ocean.

The Ship's RSM instituted a new guard duty which was arranged so that the cabin area housing female passengers would be patrolled regularly between 22.00 hours and 0700 hours. The reason was that some of the female passengers who might be wrongly suspected of suffering from the Red Sea syndrome had complained about their cabins being entered by male cabin passengers. These were, of course, officers and were said to be the worse for the demon drink and making improper suggestions to the ladies.

It was not long before I was detailed for this guard duty and, being a Corporal, was designated Guard Commander - a noble title meaning he who carries the can. On the night in question things well - at least, that was how I felt about it. There was only one minor incident in which a very sober Lieutenant made a genuine mistake and opened the door of someone else’s cabin. He immediately realised his error, apologised and went to his own cabin. This hardly seemed to be of any significance in terms of potential "hanky panky" and I did not report the incident. This was a mistake. Shortly after breakfast on the following morning I was instructed, over the ship's public address system, to report immediately to the Ship's RSM.

I had not realised that the cabin whose door had been mistakenly opened during the night had been that of an A.T.S officer who had considered the incident worthy of reporting. The meeting with the RSM was memorable. He ranted on about sex crimes

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and attempted rape and demanded to know why this serious event had not been reported. I started to answer but was interrupted by a Pipe Major from some Scottish

Regiment who yelled at me to stand to attention and address the RSM as "Sir". Needless to say, I complied with his wishes, but my submission that it was a minor incident outside the context of a "sex crime" was greeted with a tirade which left me in no doubt that I had failed miserably in my duty as Guard Commander. I would have to go before the O/C Troops.

I was marched in, true regimental fashion, to face a Lt Colonel who listened quietly and politely to what I had to say. Compared to the RSM, he was a gentleman, accepting my assessment of the incident and dismissed me without further ado. This encounter with the RSM and his Pipe Major accomplice was a sharp reminder of the strictly military aspects of serving His Majesty in one of the Armed Forces. I suppose that I had been spoilt by having been employed on duties which, to be carried out properly, were best carried out without saluting and stamping of feet. Be that as it may, I was becoming convinced that I would prefer, after all, not to make a career in the RAF. Furthermore I was beginning to think that the sooner I was able to tear myself free of the blue uniform the better it would be for me and, doubtless, for the Air Force. I liked the technical aspects of the life but was completely out of sympathy with the "bullshit" which was an essential ingredient of service life. I had much to think about. In truth, since the war ended in 1945, I had been wishing that I could terminate my 12 year engagement and try my luck in "civvie street". However, there was little point in thinking too strongly in that direction as the pre-war purchase of discharge scheme had not yet been reinstated. Furthermore, there appeared to be little hope of this happening in the immediate future.

There was at least one other factor which had made me wonder seriously about the career which I had chosen. During my time at Weyhill I had been studying seriously to obtain City and Guilds Certificates in Radio Communication. Whilst there I had also sat for and successfully passed the examinations in Grades I and II of this subject. I

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had continued studying and had planned to take the final Grade ill examination during this particular year. My disquiet was caused by the fact that, at the time when the examination was held, I was bobbing about on the Indian Ocean. There would be little or no opportunity of sitting for the exam in Singapore, hence I would have to wait for the first opportunity after my return to the UK which would be in about three years time.

The Empire Halladale made its progress steadily across the Indian Ocean towards

Colombo. We now were well and truly in tropical waters. This was clearly apparent when we could over the ship's side and see flying fish breaking from the bow wave and small groups of barracuda swimming alongside. No one spent more time below decks that they were obliged to. It was far too hot and uncomfortable.

This part of the passage was a smooth one. Sleeping on deck became more popular and one had to lay claim to a sleeping place early in the evening. It was quite pleasant leaning on the ships rail looking out to sea. Frequently the lights of other vessels could be seen and, when they were conveniently close, would exchange pleasantries by Aldis lamp with the crew of the Empire Halladale. Having spent two years at Cranwell learning to signal by Morse code we were able to identify these passers-by, added a little interest to what was becoming a tedious voyage. Almost four weeks had passed since we sailed from Glasgow and keeping oneself clad in reasonably clean clothes was becoming a problem. There was no laundry service available to the troopdeck travellers and the best option was to take dirty items to the showers and wash them as well as possible in sea water which does not produce much, if any, lather. The wet washing could then be taken on deck and dried in the sun. Items such as shorts and bush shirts being rather bulky did not lend themselves readily to makeshift methods and hence became more smelly as the journey proceeded. Since ones fellow passengers were similarly clad, the aroma was not too troublesome. We did not realise that, on arrival in Singapore, we would find ourselves in the company of men used to wearing a bush shirt and shorts before changing to fresh clean

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garments. As I have already mentioned, to these fortunate people we would seem very smelly indeed!

We eventually arrived in Colombo where the Sinhalese troops, that had embarked at Masawa, left the ship with smiles on their faces - they were home! During the stay in

Colombo harbour we were allowed ashore for a couple of hours. Stepping onto the quay, we found that our first few steps were distinctly wobbly. We had obviously acquired our "sea legs" after nearly a month at sea. Without a great deal of money in our pockets and with limited time available there was not much else to do but stretch our legs by wandering along the sea front and making a short excursion into the town.

I can't recall much of what I saw other than the countless small red stains on the pavements and in the gutters. These were caused by saliva spat out by the many chewers of betel nut among the native population.

We returned to the Empire Halladale not filled with enthusiasm for Colombo or, at least, for what we had managed to see of it. The ship continued its easterly progress across the Indian Ocean and, after several days, rounded the north westerly tip of Sumatra and entered the Straits of Malacca. The established daily routine continued. There were no more naughty happenings to be reported among the cabin passengers. (They no doubt had learned to be more discrete.) The troop deck personnel were now highly skilled in carrying cases of booze from the bowels of the ship up to the bars whose customers must, by now, be thoroughly adept at drinking it!

Since leaving the UK all the land that had come into view was dry and dusty looking. At best there might be a few palm trees and a bit of scorched grass. Our progress down the Malacca Straits brought forth a sight for our sore eyes in the shape of lush green vegetation and splendid green leaved trees. This was to be the normal state of things for the remainder of our overseas tour. (I use the word "tour" not in the the context of lie surely travel but as an abbreviation of "tour of duty".)

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Five weeks after sailing from Glasgow we eventually set foot on the island of Singapore. From the beginning, the voyage had been punctuated by unscheduled stops and diversions. Running true to form, when we were due to arrive in Singapore there was a dock strike in progress and the ship was diverted to the Naval Base at

Seletar on the northern side of the Island.

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CHAPTER 19

RAF CHANGI

After disembarking at Seletar, those of us in the RAF contingent who were destined for RAF Changi heaved our kit and our somewhat smelly selves onto an Air Force lorry and were driven some ten to fifteen miles to our destination. These few miles afforded us an opportunity to take in the environment which was to be ours to enjoy, or suffer - as the case may be for the following two and a half years. (This was the normal duration of overseas tours at that time.) The heat and humidity were not new to us - we had experienced them since leaving Suez. The road along which we travelled was lined with vegetation which most of us would have seen either in the cinema or in the tropical house in Kew Gardens - not to be marvelled at when one is only ninety four miles north of the equator. Palms of various sorts were prominent, including the ubiquitous coconut palm and the distinctive fan shaped traveller's palm. Everything was green and lush.

Our arrival at Changi was an eye opener. The name of Changi is, today, synonymous with Singapore's international Airport. In the years immediately after the war Changi went with Changi Gaol and with atrocities inflicted by the Japanese on prisoners of war. The RAF station was unlike any of the few others that I had visited. It covered a great area in the north western corner of the island. There was, of course, the airfield which in the passing years has become Changi International Airport. During my stay at Changi my awareness of the airfield was destined to be limited to hearing the sound of aircraft taking off or landing and occasional distant glimpses of Douglas Dakota transports on the ground. The buildings which comprised the administrative and living quarters were characterised by pale cream coloured stucco walls surmounted by gabled roofs of reddish pantiles. They were mostly three-storey structures with continuous balconies running round each floor. Windows, as we know them were non-existent. In their place were louvred wooden shutters more often wide

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open and hooked back to the walls to afford maximum ventilation. These and other woodwork, including doors were made of unpainted hardwood - painted woodwork was rarely seen.

The roads through the station were well kept and trees and shrubs abounded. I clearly recall someone's first impression voiced as "Just like being posted to Kew Gardensl" The coconut palm was present but not in profusion. Other types of tree were just as prominent and included tall Ablizias and Flame of the Forest with dark green leaves contrasting a never ending display of bright red flowers. There were Hibiscus and Frangipani - the latter being more like a small tree than a shrub - bearing masses of richly perfumed white flowers. Bougainvillea was also in abundance.

Ground occupied by neither trees nor buildings was grassed. One did not need to spend much time here before recognising the rapidity with which things grew in this tropical environment. One gained the impression that, if a twig were broken from a tree or bush and stuck into the soil, it would take root immediately and grow a yard high in a fortnight! The rough grass, or 'lallang' as it was properly called, displayed this rapid growth. Several gangs of Malay labourers were employed to keep it under control. Their work was never ending - rather like that of the painters on the Forth Bridge.

There were around six men in each gang, dressed in the customary grubby shorts and loose fitting, short-sleeved shirts. On their feet they wore the simplest of sandals and their other extremities were protected by headgear which consisted of either a

"coolie" style hat or a sola topi. (The latter was quite popular with the locals. I only ever saw one European wearing this particular type of hat.) These grass cutters were each armed with an implement best described as a broom handle with a metal blade, about ten inches long, protruding at an angle of around 110° from its end. This would be held in one hand and rotated continuously at arm's length with the blade slicing

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through the grass at the bottom of the circle. The gang would advance across the ground in echelon, pausing only briefly to take a drink or a bite to eat. They would keep this up all day long. When the arm got tired they would simply change whilst keeping the blade moving in its circular orbit.

Clearly this technique of grass cutting was not of European origin. It is a classic illustration of the simple relaxed ways that people, who are indigenous to hotter climates, have of doing things. It is all designed to avoid working up unnecessary perspiration and our lallang cutters were using the principal that continual motion involves less wasted energy than a reciprocating movement which we might adopt!

We were assigned to one of the three storey barrack blocks. This particular one was next to the cookhouse (Airmen's Mess to use the correct name for it). Thus located we did not have to go far for our meals, As with cookhouses in the UK the smells of food in preparation were abundant in its vicinity and I have to say that although the aromas were different they were neither more nor less appetising than in home establishments.

I found myself sharing a small top floor room with another Corporal who was one of my Cranwell contemporaries. On the ground floor were two other Corporals - both ex-Cranwell and last seen on the course at RAF Stanbridge and RAF Cardington. Fresh - but far from smelling fresh - from the troopship we found that our UK issue khaki drill shorts and bush shirts bore little resemblance to the clothing worn by the personnel who had been at Changi for some time. The long sleeved bush shirts with their red albatross shoulder flashes gave way to a short sleeve version without these flashes. Whereas our Corporal's stripes were a khaki version of those worn on our blue UK uniforms, those of our friends were a miniature version - fashioned from plain white tape which was half an inch in width. Their shorts were much shorter than ours - with the bottoms of the legs about six inches above the knee. Their shoes were soled with crepe rubber instead of the traditional leather. Headgear was the one common

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factor, being the standard RAF "fore-and-aft" cap. Special head wear to keep the sun off was now out of fashion. Within a month or so we, who were newcomers, would have adopted a similar appearance.

RAF Changi, which was located on the north-east tip of Singapore Island, had no distinguishable boundaries other than the sea shore which defined its northern and eastern limits. Within the camp area, at the north-easterly extreme, was Changi

Village. To the south of the village, bounded by the eastern shore was the vast expanse of the airfield. The remainder of the station was taken up by barracks, Married Quarters, an RAF Hospital, Messes, the WAAF Site and many administrative buildings. One of these housed Singapore Signals Centre (SSC), the unit to which I had been posted.

SSC was housed in a three storey which, from the outside, was built to the same pattern as the barrack blocks. It was located on rising ground about two hundred yards from the seashore. This space was occupied by a sports field and, at the beach, by a shark -proof enclosed area where swimming could be undertaken in reasonable safety. The view from my new place of work was very pleasant - far better than any other workplace I have known either in the RAF or in later civilian employment.

Having arrived at SSC - and acquired an awareness of its pleasant situation we, that is Frank Woods, Denny Hill and I, soon discovered what our purpose in life was to be. We were to install the terminal equipment for a six-channel Radio Teleprinter link between RAF Changi and Colombo - in what is now Sri Lanka. This would form part of the RAF's inter-command communications network. The Signals Centre in Singapore already had established Radio links (or "circuits" as they were called), to Melbourne and Hong Kong and the new link to Colombo, thence to the UK, would complete the picture.

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Our boss in this particular enterprise was a F/Lt. who was in Singapore for this specific task. When the installation was completed, his job would be done and off home he would go. He was a fair man to work for. From the outset he made no pretence about his scant technical knowledge of the equipment and it was obvious that he was to rely on us, not only to do the donkey work, but for taking the lead in solving any operational problems that arose. We had no complaints on this score. It gave us a degree of freedom and a sense of responsibility.

We made a start on the job on the ground floor of the building. Here we would put in place and wire up half a dozen racks full of Post Office equipment - each over eight feet high - with control desk, monitor Teleprinters and telephone lines.

Had we been civilians, able to command payment of overtime at normal industrial rates, then we would have earned a considerable sum in carrying out this work. We worked the basic RAF week plus Wednesday afternoons (as in the Cranwell tradition these were reserved for sport) Saturdays and sometimes on Sunday. There was clearly some urgency about the job apart from the Officer I/C’s natural desire to see the thing finished and get back to the UK.

Despite the long working weeks we managed to achieve a little relaxation in the evenings. I must explain here that, in locations some 90 odd miles from the equator the sun rises and sets more or less at the same times throughout the year. This meant that darkness began soon after the evening meal. Hence we made ourselves familiar with the bright lights of Changi village, the NAAFI, the Chalet Club and the Malcolm Club during our free evenings. The latter establishments were, of course, there for the unique use of Service personnel (other ranks) and served beverages , light refreshments and beer. In Singapore beer was synonymous with 'TIGER' - a lager brewed on the island by Fraser & Neave Ltd.

Part of Changi Village was out-of-bounds to Service personnel - presumably because prostitutes plied their trade in that area. The in-bounds section comprised about 300

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yards of the main road on either side of which, and set well back from the tarmac surface, were wooden boardwalks backed by rows of shops and several restaurants.

All were single storied and built behind false fronts similar to those often depicted in western films. The shops were well lit and open fronted i.e. without windows or door but having a shutter to close down at night. The shops were largely devoted to clothing, footwear and household textiles. One of two sold food and drink, two dealt in cameras and photographic equipment and a small number catered for the unique needs of the local populace.

We had not spent much time at Changi before it became clear that, as new arrivals, we lacked any form of civilian clothing to wear in our leisure hours. As soon as funds allowed, we were off to the village and bought white shirts (the American 'Arrow' brand were favourite with breast pocket and choice of sleeve length), got measured for a pair of tasteful worsted slacks and for civilian shoes and chaplis (sandals). Ready-made outer clothing and foot-ware were unheard of in Changi village; it was better and cheaper to have these items made to measure. For off duty daytime wear the white shirt was worn with neat white shorts, off white knee-length socks and brown shoes. A word about the shoes - leather soles were out, being replaced by crepe rubber Malaya being a major source of natural rubber.

The shop-keepers were exclusively of Chinese origin or had their roots in the Indian sub-continent. They did not stay quietly inside their shops waiting for customers to come to them - on the contrary - they would be at the front or on the boardwalk declaring how attractive their prices were and begging us to come inside and have a good look around. Once inside, it was normal practice to haggle over the prices and finally leave in the belief that one had acquired a bargain. I, and many others like me, always had the feeling that we had not knocked the price down as much as we could have - if we had stuck to the task! During the bargaining phase, the potential customer would often be plied with soft drinks or with one of the more expensive

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brands of cigarette and ushered to a comfortable seat. All of this was very strange at first experience but it did not take long to adapt to this way of trading.

The process of settling in to this fresh environment went along fairly smoothly. However, after about three months, my contributions towards the installation work a the Signals Centre came to a halt when I awoke one morning with a painful lump behind my left ankle and a reddish streak running up the back of my calf. Reporting sick, I was informed by a female Medical Officer that I had Thrombo-Phlebitis and that

I would need to go into to Hospital for a couple of weeks. This was the second occasion on which I had seen a female MO and in each case I had ended up in

"dock".

I went back to the barrack block, got my "small kit" together and walked up the road to

Changi Hospital. When the medical authorities found out that I had walked there I was reprimanded for having done so. In my condition walking was dangerous as I might shift the blood clot in my leg. How on earth was I to know!

I was ushered to a bed and did not get out of it for about six weeks. Almost all of that time the problem leg was restrained by a splint and Kaolin poultices were applied to the location of the clot twice a day. Prior to this treatment a Surgeon came to see my leg and pronounced that surgery was not appropriate. It was ironic that during my six weeks in bed, another airman appeared with an identical problem to mine. The surgeon decided to operate on him and he got away with less than three weeks in hospital - and not all of that under "strict bed", as the regime was known. It was not a pleasant experience. One of the least attractive features of it was the fact that bed baths had to take the place of shower baths. The humid environment was bad enough when one was up and about and able to take showers, but confinement to bed made it infinitely worse.

Without elaborating further on this episode, I will just say that I eventually left the hospital with a limp which was not there when I entered the establishment. This was

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caused by my leg· having been immobilised and, despite physiotherapy persisted long after the two weeks sick leave which I had earned. Another by-product was a reduction in weight from lOst. 5lbs. to 9st. 5lbs. This loss was not to be restored for quite some time.

On the lighter side, during my stay in Changi Hospital, I had learned how to "lie to attention". When the inevitable Matron's daily rounds took place we obliged to adopt this ridiculous simulation of standing to attention, in response to a command delivered in the best military tradition! In this context a word or two about the hospital staff hierarchy is appropriate. The doctors and surgeons were all commissioned officers.

The day to day nursing activities were carried out by RAF nursing orderlies under the supervision of a PMRAFNS (Princess Mary’s Royal Air force Nursing Sister). These ladies were of similar commissioned status as the Medical Officers. Matron was the senior Nursing Sister.

At the end of my sick leave I returned to my colleagues in the Signals Centre to find that the installation work was nearly completed. When this happened we had to take over the running of the installation which, to give it its proper title, was the Technical Control Centre. In it was all the Radio Teleprinter terminal equipment, monitor teleprinters and a control desk. It was, in effect, an interface between the Operating Staff, on the floor above, the remote Transmitting Station at Jurong and the remote Receiver Station at Chai Kang. From this control desk we could telephone each of these separate units. Our basic purpose in life was to co-ordinate the technical operation of the various communication circuits and to secure continuity of service for each link.

There was a snag. There were only four of us to run a 24 hour servIce. It only needed one of us on duty at a time, and we could run a four-shift system provided no-one fell sick -or went on leave. I was the only one to have had a break from work by virtue of my hospital stay and sick leave. The other three were in need of a break and this was

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achieved by changing to a three-shift routine thus allowing one absentee. This was a punishing routine to follow for anything but a short spell. My stay in hospital had done very little for my general state of health and I soon found myself back 'in dock' for ten days with some kind of fever. Soon after this, we gratefully acquired some more help to run the enterprise, returned to the more civilised four-shift pattern and settled into a routine.

Running the Technical Control Centre was not an arduous task and only needed one person to man it. As I have indicated, the work was to act as interface between the operators on the first floor of the Signals Centre, the transmitting and receiving stations at Jurong and Chai Kang and the technical controller at the far end of the radio-teleprinter circuit in Colombo. It was a case of being available to deal with things as and when required. One often had cause to monitor incoming and outgoing traffic on our monitor teleprinter either because of some problem or out of sheer interest to see what was going on.

I remember one or two items that I saw on the monitor. One concerned an airman’s wife who had declined the offer of a passage to join her husband in Singapore. Her reason was that, having never left Sheffield in her life, she did not feel able to undertake a journey to Singapore! Another concerned a mishap with an RAF Sunderland flying boat which occurred whilst it was being “bombed up” prior to an operation against the terrorists in Malaya. The Sunderland was moored off-shore when one of the bombs dropped into the shallow water. On reaching the sea bottom it exploded. One or two members or the Sunderland’s crew were on board at the time. The signal that I saw on the monitor gave a list of casualties. Among them was a

Warrant Officer Green whose service number I immediately recognised as that of a Cranwell apprentice. It was, in fact, Ron Green a classmate of mine. The signal stated that he was in RAF Changi Hospital.

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I visited him in hospital and found that he was not seriously injured. He had only been affected by the blast from the bomb and this had adversely affected his lungs. He was awaiting repatriation to the U.K. to recover which, in fact, he did.

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Below.

Here we have the radio-teleprnter operating staff on night watch. Note that, at night, shorts are not worn and long sleeves should be worn to reduce risk of mosquito bites.

Monitor teleprinters in the Technical Control area of Singapore Signsls Centre.

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CHAPTER 20

ROLL ON DEMOB!

"Roll on Demob" was a sentiment which had its roots in, and was frequently expressed by, serving men who were 'in for the duration.' It was also adopted with enthusiasm by the National Service personnel who were in abundance at this time. I have to confess that my own feelings were, by now, running firmly along these lines - but, I still had about 5 years to serve .

Since the end of the war I had been fortunate enough to be doing work that kept me well away from the more tiresome of the military facets of RAF service. The same situation applied in my current role at Singapore Signals Centre. However my journey by Troopship had provided a sharp reminder of those aspects of service life for which

I now had little time and brought home the realization that a career in military uniform was not what I really wanted. I wanted to become a civilian doing a civilian job - and the sooner the better. Of course, the essential ingredient in this distant way of life would be the ability to live with my wife as most civilised beings would do. In five years of married life we had not spent longer than 14 days together at any one time.

Soon after arriving in Singapore I discovered that, during my voyage eastwards in the Empire Halladale, purchase of discharge had been reintroduced. Under the rules prevailing at the time of my enlistment I should be able to buy myself out of the RAF for £100. I would of course have to travel back to the UK at my own expense. Being married on a Corporal's pay did not allow much margin for saving money, particularly

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since, like most of my contemporaries, I wasted money on smoking about 20 cigarettes a day. I badly needed some money to make the break that I had decided upon.

Since I joined up in 1940, I had written regularly to my parents. My father was not the easiest of men to get along with and our relationship was somewhat distant. Nevertheless, on this occasion, I had to write to him and seek some financial help to achieve my goal of becoming a civilian. He refused my request. I cannot remember his reason but it was not because he could not afford it.

The fare home was the straw that broke the camels back - financially, that is. Before I could find another solution to this problem, the RAF firmly slammed the door on my hopes. Apparently, when the buying out scheme was reintroduced, there were quite a few men such as myself who were waiting for the moment, and struck whilst the iron was hot. The sudden unscheduled departure of skilled tradesmen proved an embarrassment and the Air Ministry took action to stem the tide. In my particular trade, now designated Wireless Fitter, purchase of discharge was barred to Corporals. Had I been a Sergeant, things would have been different. I could not apply to be promoted, and I could not take an examination to get that extra stripe. All I could do was wait and hope. To round off the situation I received a letter from my father telling me that he was not disposed to make me a loan with which to buy my release from the RAF. This was the first - and last occasion upon which we exchanged letters.

To return to the topic of promotion - I had been a Corporal since October 1942 and was in my own humble view long overdue for a lift up in the world. I was not unique in this respect. There were quite a few like myself who were supposed to be carving out a career in the RAF who found ourselves stuck as Corporals. The fundamental problem was that the RAF had us where they wanted us. We had no choice and no redress. If we had been Radio Fitters (covering Radar as well as Radio equipment) then we would have been Sergeants by this time - or so we were told!

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There was nothing for it but to soldier on. As soon as I had arrived in Singapore I got my name on the list of men awaiting allocation of Married Quarters. I was not enjoying the prolonged separation from loan, my wife. Married Quarters were allocated on a points system in which having children weighed heavily in favour of a short wait. We had no family and I was told that it would probably be at least 18 months before we would get to the top of the list.

All this was not doing much for my state of health. The time spent in Changi Hospital and the long hours of work on the installation in the Signals Centre had taken their toll. Added to this, the watch-keeping routine with its variable sleep, work and eat pattern did nothing to alleviate things. I continued to feel under the weather and ended up seeing a Medical specialist back at the hospital. He, I believe in retrospect, had a notion that I was malingering trying to "work my passage home".

This Medical specialist told me to report back to Station Sick Quarters where suitable treatment would be given. This I did but no one seemed to know anything about any treatment for me - and that was that - at least as far as they were concerned. At the time, I knew that something was not as it should be. I was right in this respect because, although I did not know it, I was hovering on the verge of a nervous breakdown. However, this was not to become clear to me for some time and was an experience that is best forgotten.

I soldiered on as best I could, waiting for the day when I would have news of having got to the top of the waiting list for Married Quarters. I felt that, once my wife was able to join me, all would be well with me.

In the mean time, life continued in what seemed the inevitable way. By this time I had been involved in the watch-keeping routine for the best part of four years, since I was posted to Weyhill. It had its good points. One avoided quite a lot of the boring routines such as parades, guard duties and, kit inspections etc. but there was a marked price to pay for this. As is usually the case leisure facilities and so forth were naturally

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geared to the concept of a normal working day and one was often at a loss to pass the free mornings and afternoons that were available. There was not a great deal to do at these times. Visiting Changi village soon lost its novelty, it was, after all, within the station boundary and the only reason to go there was to shop or have a meal in one of a few restaurants that were to be found among the small shops. This meant having money to spend and this was in rather short supply. Being in the RAF and married and having to support ones wife back in the UK was not the best financial deal. To be living together made for a more economical use of one’s resources.

Trips into Singapore were a luxury. In addition to the bus fare there was again the cost of eating out. Again there was not a lot to do that was affordable. There were a couple of Services clubs where cheaper fare was available and sightseeing was available without cost. One of the clubs - the Union Jack Club - had a hair-dresser’s shop that provided me with an enjoyable indulgence. This took the form of a haircut and shampoo followed by ice cold towels. The Asian hairdresser finished off the proceedings by a ritual thumping of the back of the neck and gentle massage of the shoulders. This was wonderfully relaxing and after leaving the Union Jack I would feel a fit and well human being for about fifteen minutes until the effects wore off and the heat and humidity got to me once more.

As far as leisure facilities within the Station were concerned RAF Changi had a little more to offer than the typical Station in the UK. In addition to the inevitable Astra

Cinema and NAAFI canteen there was a Malcolm Club and the Chalet Club, both for the use of other ranks. These latter institutions were however little more than glorified NAAFI canteens. For outdoor pursuits there was a Yacht Club - open to all ranks and a simple golf course. A shark proof enclosure on the beach near to the Chalet Club provided the means to take a dip in the luke-warm sea.

I could not find a great deal of enthusiasm for any of these things, probably due to my state of mind. I did however pay a few visits to the Yacht Club where I helped Denny

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Hill (one of my colleagues) with work on his boat, the "Water Witch". This involved applying a fair quantity of red anti-foul paint to the hull below the water-line. This was carried out with the boat beached and afforded me the opportunity to observe, at close quarters, the commissioned members taking their leisure. In some respects, this was both interesting and amusing.

Being open to all ranks, the members included quite a few senior officers including the Commander Far East Air Force, the AOC Malaya - both of Air Rank and quite a few Group Captains and Wing Commanders. Since everyone was informally dressed at the Yacht Club Differences in rank were not immediately apparent. Occasionally a situation occurred when it was not difficult to recognise the more senior officers.

Such an occasion arose as a result of an aluminium hulled yacht, made by Fairey

Aviation, and which was not kept at a mooring which was normal practise. Instead the aluminium hull was brought ashore when its owner had finished sailing. The owner was either the C-in-C Far East Air Force or the AOC Malaya - I can't remember which.

Either way, the owner of the Fairey yacht was a very important person - particularly to the senior officers on the staff of these Commands.

When our C-in-C or AOC, whichever, arrived at the yacht club to do a bit of sailing, he needed to get his yacht off the beach and into the water. Dressed in sandals, a rather scruffy shirt and shorts he would look around at those who were still ashore and politely ask if someone would oblige by helping him to put the boat in the water. Those of us like me and the other humble, non commissioned members would, of course, begin to respond to his request. However, we were never able to move as quickly as the Senior Officers who fell over themselves in their hurry to provide the service. It was easy to see who had most to gain and least to lose by obliging the great man!

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CHAPTER 21

MARRIED QUARTERS

My name progressed slowly towards the top of the MarrIed Quarters waitlng list until finally, in late July of 1949. I received the good news that I had been allocated a

Married Quarter which would be available in the following September. At some time in August, my wife boarded the troopship Empire Ken at Southampton and about four weeks later arrived in Singapore. This was to be a milestone for us - the first opportunity to spend more than 14 consecutive days together since our marriage in

1943.

On the day before she was due to arrive, I went through the formality of 'marching in' to the Married Quarter. This sounds very military and basically rather odd since all it means is checking the inventory of, and signing for, the contents of the house. Trust the armed forces to make it sound like a parade!

The Airmen’s Married Quarters at Changi were in terraces each comprising about six dwellings. On the ground floor was an entrance hall. a spacious lounge, and a kitchen at the rear. From the entrance hall a stair led to the first floor which housed two bedrooms, a bathroom and toilet. At the front was a first floor balcony whilst at the rear, a separate single storey building ran parallel to and about two yards from the houses. This provided simple basic accommodation for servants or 'amahs’.

The furnishings were simple but generally adequate. The kitchen, in addition to the inevitable sink, housed an icebox and a cooker which, when first seen, was such as to cause eyebrows to be raised.

It was made by Valor - a company at that time noted for making a simple form of paraffin heater which comprised a reservoir for the fuel, a wick and a chimney designed to produce a blue. non-smoke. flame. Our cooker comprised three such

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burners fed by a common glass fuel container. Two of these burners could be made to heat a simple oven which was placed on the top of the contraption when needed.

Surprisingly, once one became accustomed to its limitations, it wasn't as bad as it looked.

In common with all other buildings on the Station, our M.Q. (married Quarter) had no glazed windows. Instead, the windows consisted of wooden louvres which were seldom closed. Access to the rooms from the front hall and the stairway was via pairs of louvred swing doors of the type that one associates with Saloons in Western movies!

Our row of M.Q.s was off the road at the top of a grassy bank which was home to some· shrubs and trees. Immediately outside our abode were a Hibiscus shrub and a glorious Frangipani tree whose heady scent filled the air after dusk. Altogether it was as pleasant a location for an RAF Married Quarter as one would hope to find.

We soon settled down to the novelty of spending rather longer than 14 days leave together. Initially, I had a few weeks of normal day duties. After this I went back to the watch-keeping routine (shift work) that had been a feature of my life in recent years.

I soon discovered that living as a married man with his wife in Married Quarters is much kinder to ones finances than living under separation. We found ourselves with ample funds to support our humble life-style. Trips into Singapore were few and far between. Apart from sightseeing there was little on offer other than the Union Jack Club and, possibly a visit to the cinema. We made good use of the Astra, the RAF cinema at Changi, but made only one visit to a more up-market cinema in Singapore. This was memorable. We made an afternoon visit to the Adelphi to see a film called 'The Inspector General' starring Danny Kaye. We were dressed to feel as comfortable as possible in the steamy heat of the city - in my case, a thin shirt and shorts, knee length socks and shoes. We had not known that the auditorium was air conditioned with the result that we spent a couple of hours in an ambient temperature of 65· F.

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Although initially refreshed, we soon began to feel distinctly chilly and would have been much happier it had been ten degrees warmer. However, we tended to regard the experience as a novelty and, on leaving the cinema, we headed for a cup of hot coffee to warm ourselves up!

The mainstay of our leisure was found in the company of two other couples Jean and Ted Smith and Phyl and 'Gerry' Ranson. Ted and Gerry were also from SSC and as in my own case were on similar watch-keeping duties. Gerry had spent two years at

RAF Cranwell as an apprentice. We were both in the same class. We regularly spent evenings together enjoying a bottle or two of the excellent Anchor pilsner beer sold in the NAAFI Stores and indulging in board games such as Monopoly and Ludo or even a wild game of tiddley-winks! We always enjoyed these meetings which invariably embraced a fair amount of laughter. (It is worth mentioning here that Gerry and I met more of our Cranwell classmates whilst at at Changi than at any other time. One was a F/Lt. another a Flt/Sgt. – now both pilots - and three others all Corporals as were Gerry and I.)

A new kind of life-style had established for us and we settled to it willingly. It could hardly be described as exciting - on the contrary - but it was one which afforded simple pleasures.

During one of our infrequent trips into Singapore we saw, from Collier Quay, the frigate Amethyst which was on its way home after its arduous and perilous stay on the Yangtze River in China. It had been tidied up a little but still bore the marks of damage inflicted by the Chinese gunners. This is a reminder that, at that time, relations with China were bad. This was a reflection on the Emergency in mainland Malaya and the Korean War. This caused a delay in our return to the U.K.

The normal overseas tour was of 2 ½ years duration. If this had applied, we should have returned in the September of 1950. Because of the troubles in the Far East my

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tour was extended so that we made the trip back to the U.K. towards the end of November of that year.

We travelled on the Empress of Australia and once again came under Army discipline and environment. There were only about twenty RAF non-commissioned personel on board. After embarking we were, of course, separated from our wives. I, along with the rest of the 'other ranks' went down to the troop-decks and the wives went aloft to their cabin accommodation.

The RAF contingent was small and, apart from myself and one other Corporal were all Senior NCOs. We were allocated a small area partially secluded from one of the spacious troop- decks. I was glad that I had managed to stay with my fellow airmen but my joy was short-lived because, as soon. as the Army authorities became aware of the fact that Corporals were sharing accommodation with Sergeants and Flight Sergeants, they moved me and the other Corporal to share a troop-deck with their own kind- typical !!

After one night with the Army it was time to look for something better. Together with my fellow corporal I did a bit of exploring and found an empty troop deck. Here there was plenty of space and peace and quiet and in these improved quarters I happily spent the remainder of the voyage bedded down on the floor under one of the mess tables. Before the end of the trip we were joined by one or two other kindred spirits who did not like sleeping in a hammock in the company of Army personnel!

The inevitable troopship chores that were the lot of all ranks excepting Senior N.C.O.s prevailed throughout the journey home. Thus I renewed the career, in carrying cases of beer from the bowels of the ship to the upper decks, that I had begun on the Empire Halladale on the outward trip. There was another duty that came my way in the shape of guarding psychiatric patients in the ship's sick-bay.

The jungle war against the Malayan terrorists had taken its toll in stimulating mental disorders in a few of those who were involved. This resulted in their early repatriation

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to the U.K. Part of the sick~bay on the Empress of Australia was set aside to house five such unfortunates. As they were diagnosed as mentally unstable, they were regarded as a danger to themselves and to their fellow patients. Therefore a close eye needed to be kept on them. This was provided by the 'Sick- bay Guard' and I was one of those who fell for this duty on two of three occasions during the voyage.

The guard was mounted in pairs. One guard to be in the locked cabin with the patients and the other sitting outside to answer any call for help from within. The two men on guard duty changed over positions several times in each shift. All of us who were detailed for this chore were initially lacking in enthusiasm for spending time locked up with several 'head-cases'. However as time went on we became more at ease and established a rapport with the patients. This was yet one more experience that I had not bargained for when I enlisted!

During the voyage, the Empress of Australia called in at Colombo and Aden and, when we reached Malta, anchored in Valetta harbour. Only at Aden were we allowed to go ashore to spend an hour or so at a Services Club on the sea shore. Most of us took a dip in the sea which, compared with the equatorial waters off Singapore, was rather chilly. Between Aden and Malta we made our way through the Bitter Lakes and the Suez Canal. In contrast to the outward journey through the canal there were some British Forces personnel to be seen on the Canal banks but they had nothing to say regarding 'getting our knees brown' - on the contrary a few remarks were shouted from our ship to the effect that they ought to go to the Far East and get their knees properly tanned!

Our sea journey ended at Liverpool. It was early December and the weather was cold and misty. We had changed from our khaki shorts and bush shirts to our normal blue uniforms on our way' through the Suez Canal. It was noticeably cooler than the environment we had been accustomed to. It was a darned sight cooler in Liverpool!

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We disembarked and went to the Customs shed to see our baggage through

Customs. Apart from our immediate baggage there were three larger items that had travelled in the hold of the Empress of Australia. During the voyage we had completed Declaration documents which listed the contents of each container. These were shown to the Customs Officer who gave smiling approval. That, we thought, was that. These three bulkier items would not travel with us to my parent's home in north London. They would be dispatched to us in a few days time.

We arrived at my parent’s home in Edmonton on a cold misty day. This set the pattern of the weather that prevailed throughout most of the four weeks disembarkation leave which followed our return to the U.K. In no time at all we both developed stinking colds, the first we had suffered for quite a time. Of the three items of baggage that were left at Liverpool for later delivery only two arrived. The third which was missing contained the more valuable items in our baggage. Perhaps this was pure chance - but I could not rid my mind of the fact that the Customs Officer at Liverpool was the one person , apart from ourselves, who was aware of this. Be that as it may, although we had our goods insured, many of the items such as photographs were irreplaceable.

When I was about two weeks into my leave I was notified by post that I was to report to RAF Henlow when my leave expired. Back to reality!

Above Left:- Airman’s Married Quarter with Hibiscus and Frangipani tree outside.

Above Right:- The Empress of Australia.

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Above Left:- The Valor paraffin cooker in kitchen.

Above Right:- General view of some of the Airmen’s Married Quarters. Note the “monsoon drain” at the side or the road.

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CHAPTER 22

FINAL POSTING - RAF HENLOW

My first impressions on arriving at Henlow were not at all favourable. After having spent most of the years after leaving Cranwell on Bomber Command operational

Stations and on Signals Units providing round-the-clock services, I found myself posted to a Unit which was relatively low key. Unlike previous postings there would be nothing about my work at Radio Engineering Unit (R.E.U.) which would keep me away from the Parade Ground and other non-technical features of RAF life. The routine here was to be a “ nine-to-five” arrangement with lots of time available for the military ethos to feature strongly.

Henlow was a mixture of the old and the relatively new. There were barrack blocks and administrative buildings which were brick built in the now familiar style typical of between-the-wars RAF expansion. At the other end of the scale there was an abundance of wooden huts, used as accommodation for other ranks, probably going back to WW1. Several hangars, of similar vintage were at the edge of the grass airfield together with many spacious sheds housing the various engineering activities carried out by R.E.U. There was, of course a Parade ground with which I would become familiar.

When I arrived, I was assigned to one of the wooden huts and found myself sharing living accommodation with about thirty airmen and one other Corporal who was NCO i/c hut. Thus I was fortunate not to be primarily responsible for the cleanliness of the

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hut and. the behaviour of its occupants. I found my situation interesting. I had a good insight into the workings of the National Serviceman’s mind. Their world was centred mainly on two things, firstly the weekend pass which would take them back to their families and secondly, their 'demob' date when they could resume civilian life. I found myself comparing their outlook with the National Service airmen at the Signals Centre in Singapore. Week-ends at home were out of the question for them and for most of them they got on with living their lives as well as the service environment could allow.

I now had the opinion that those who did their National Service overseas were more fortunate and lived better lives than those who stayed in the U K.

I found myself designated to a section of REU known as Radio Repair Flight. A more accurate definition of its function would have been 'Refurbishment' rather than 'Repair' as its work consisted of making used equipment look like new. More than fifty percent of the personnel were occupied in stripping down ground radio equipment, sending the appropriate parts to the Plating Shop or Paint Shop and then re-assembling them. After this treatment, the various transmitters, receivers etc. had to be tested to specification to ensure correct function had been achieved. I was assigned to the Test Section which performed this function. In addition, the Test Section carried out acceptance trials on equipment which had been refurbished by civilian sub-contractors. Finally our work was subject to scrutiny by RAF personnel acting for AID (Aeronautical Inspection Directorate.)

About a month after I started working in Radio Repair Flight I was called to the CO's office. He wanted to know how it was that I had not risen above the rank of Corporal after so many years. It was a good question! I explained to him that others would be able to answer that better than I could and that my situation was not unique - being able to point out that I knew of others in a similar predicament. Our interview left him a little wiser and me grateful that someone should show interest.

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Shortly after I arrived at Henlow I paid a visit to Station Headquarters in order to have my name added to the waiting list for Married Quarters. The individual responsible for arranging allocation of “MQs” was a civilian, albeit a retired Squadron Leader. In my dealings with him I could not help feeling that he would prefer “other ranks”, such as me, to stand to attention when addressing him and call him sir. I`m afraid that I disappointed him!

I learnt that the waiting time for a Married Quarter was 9-12 months. We decided that we should follow the living out option. This was normally available and gaining permission was a simple formality. The nearest town to Henlow is Hitchin, so we advertised for furnished accommodation in the local newspaper. A quick response to the advertisement placed us in touch with an elderly couple who offered us a furnished bedroom and living room with shared use of kitchen and bathroom. We wasted no time and were soon installed and settled down to a new sort of existence.

I cycled the four miles to RAF Henlow every morning in every kind of weather and returned to Hitchin in the evenings. Our landlady worked as a secretary for the manager of a company which distributed children’s books and she found a job for my wife Joan. Her husband was, between the wars a regular soldier in one of the cavalry regiments He was a farrier and left the Army as a Sergeant Major. He and his wife saw service in India in the 1930s. We were lucky in finding them and they treated us very well.

At Henlow ceremonial parades were held at least once a month and airmen’s quarters were inspected once a week, on Saturday mornings before the start of the week-end 36 hour passes. As I was living out of camp I did not get involved in the inspections. I did, however, have to take part in the parades.

These parades were held on the Parade Ground – a large tarmac area, complete with flagpole which featured on all of the peacetime RAF stations. The culmination of these parades occurred when the AOC (Air Officer Commanding) held his annual

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inspection of the unit. The AOC’s Parade was preceded by quite a few rehearsals and had, of course, a band to play the usual marches etc.

The bulk of the airmen, (excluding NCOs), were National Service men and would not have suffered these parades gladly. I can clearly recall one of them who made his feelings known in a dramatic fashion. We were about half way through one of the rehearsals and the parade was stood at ease. The band was at the corner of the

Parade ground and also at ease. All was quiet until one of the airmen put his hand into one of his pockets, took out all his small change and threw the coins to the ground shouting “There! Now you’ll all be rich!!!.” After this he ran across the parade ground to the band and kicked the bass drum which was standing on the ground. The lad was quickly restrained and, if I remember correctly, received some sort of medical treatment which was more appropriate than disciplinary action.

It was during my first year at Henlow that the RAF came to recognise that, in promotion of its skilled tradesmen as NCOs was based, not upon technical knowledge or experience, but purely upon military skills. As a result the Technician grades were introduced – Junior Technician, Cpl Technician, Senior Technician, Chief Technician and Master Technician. These corresponded to LAC, Cpl, Sgt,

F/Sgt, and Warrant Officer respectively but subject to Trade Tests and were better paid. Technicians were recognisable by wearing their stripes upside down i.e. with chevrons pointing upwards. I wasted little or no time in opting to take the Technician branch, took a Trade Test at Henlow and became a Corporal Technician with pay somewhere between Cpl. and Sgt.

Having moved to the Technician path, I discovered that after waiting a few months, I could apply to take the Senior Technician’s trade test. To do this, I had to spend a couple of days at RAF Locking which was now the home of No. 1 Radio School, formerly at Cranwell. I duly arrived at Locking and, after the usual arrival formalities, visited the Bedding Store to obtain blankets and bed linen. To my surprise, I found

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that my wants were attended to by a Warrant Officer who, when I last saw him, was the Station Warrant Officer when I was at Little Staughton during my time with 109

Squadron and prior to that was a Sergeant Drill Instructor at Cranwell during my apprentice service. It was indeed a small world.

Whilst at Locking I was also to meet another Warrant Officer from the past. This one I had met at Weyhill. His function there did not seem to be very we defined except that he acted as an assistant to the Flight Lieutenant who was the C/O of this small outstation. He was also at Locking to take a trade test and get his foot on the Technician ladder. Having had limited “hands-on” experience during his years as a

W/O he was not very confident of a successful outcome.

As for me, I was fortunate enough to pass the trade test without undue difficulty. It involved written exams which my past studies for City & Guilds certificates proved to be well worth while. There were also practical tests including an exercise in diagnostic fault finding. This was designed to reveal if the candidate used this approach or floundered in hit-or-miss guesswork. At the end of the tests I was informed of my success and told that my results were good enough to qualify for accelerated promotion and to apply after 12 months.

So - at long last I was able to wear three stripes on my sleeves – albeit inverted! This meant that I now had Senior NCO status and was a member of the Sergeants Mess.

Better late than never!

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CHAPTER 23

THE LAST LAP

I was allocated a Married Quarter within a year from arriving at Henlow. During that year we had been living in the accommodation that I had found in Hitchin. We found it quite a pleasant town with plenty of character - and also characters. My wife had found a job in the town and continued working there after we moved to RAF Henlow.

My membership of the Sergeants Mess enabled me to get a lunch in a manner very different from the “mug and irons” style of having meals in the Airmen’s Mess. It was quite a treat to have my meal brought to the table after more than 10 years in an RAF uniform. Apart from these lunches and attendance at one or the Sergeants Mess dances I made no use of its facilities. These included a Bar and I discovered that Sergeants, and those of equivalent status i.e. Senior Technicians, took turns at running the Bar for a couple of months. Although I enjoyed having a drink the thought of acting as a barman and cellarman did not appeal to me at all.

Another duty that came with the three stripes was to be responsible for the cleanliness and general good order of a hut full of Airmen on weekly inspections. This involved placing men on a charge, for some lack of proper order in their kit or bed-space, as directed by the inspecting officer. I must admit that this was not a favourite activity of mine.

After a year or more at Henlow I realised that, since leaving Cranwell, I had been fortunate enough to be employed on units - 109 Squadron, Weyhill, and Singapore Signals Centre- where operational efficiency was of prime importance with no time for

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parades and other similar functions or, to be blunt, no time for “bull-***”. The work carried out at RAF Henlow lacked any sense of urgency that I was aware of and, I suppose, this was typical of a peacetime RAF Station.

I was getting nearer to the end of my “12 years from the age of 18” service and had started to have serious thoughts about my future with the realisation that, if I signed on for a longer term of service, I would risk spending a lot of time under similar conditions as those at Henlow. Shortly after becoming a Senior Technician. I met an officer who was in charge of RAF Weyhill during my time there. He remembered me and we had a brief chat during which he suggested that I could gain advancement by applying for a “Branch Commission”. This would offer limited scope for promotion as an officer. This did not appeal to me in the least because it would remove me completely from “hands on” work on equipment which gave me satisfaction. I did not give this any further thought.

It was obvious that I should seriously consider leaving the service at the end of my term and try and make my way in the world as a civilian. Life as a civilian would be vastly different to that as a regular service man – particularly one who had joined the service straight from school. In almost all respects leaving the RAF would entail a big change to our way of life- so why not consider working in another part of the world than the UK

Our spell of living in married quarters in Singapore had made us realise that home is where one makes it and thus we were able to contemplate my finding work abroad. Whilst we were at Changi we were aware of the presence of the Royal Australian Air

Force and also the Royal New Zealand Air Force. who each had a squadron of transport aircraft stationed there during the Malayan terrorist emergency. The RNZAF airmen blended in with us RAF men in both their appearance and demeanour but the same could not be said of the RAAF. Whilst the RNZAF uniforms were the same as ours, except for a small New Zealand badge at the top of the sleeves, the RAAF

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uniforms were entirely different and put one more in mind of Americans. The Aussies seemed less able to fit in with the RAF ways of doing things. When we were at Henlow considering the future these impressions made us rule out Australia as a place to live in but made New Zealand worthy of serious consideration.

I wrote to the N.Z. Department of Posts & Telegraphs enquiring about the possibility of finding work in an engineering capacity. Their reply showed some interest but it was clear that I would have to go to New Zealand for an interview. I would have to think about that. I also replied to an advertisement by the Shell Oil Co. who were looking for telecommunications engineers to work in their exploration work in the middle east. Their reply showed some possible interest when I finally left the RAF. I realised that I was naive regarding the ways of the civilian world. This, of course, is not surprising considering the way my time had been spent since leaving school.

Soon after my promotion to Senior Technician I was placed in charge of the Test Section of Radio Repair Flight. In addition to the RAF personnel, the Test Section staff included three civilian test engineers. Chatting with one of them about my future, he suggested that I might do worse than apply for a job with a firm in nearby Letchworth which made punched-card accounting machines and which was developing electronic versions of them. He told me that a friend of his worked there and was earning £11 a week.

This sounded quite interesting but I was very uncertain about the money. Having no other experience of remuneration other than that offered by the RAF, I found it difficult to put other wages or salaries into perspective. I decided to bear this information in mind. At this point it is worthy of note that the company in Letchworth was linked to IBM and over the years to come it would eventually evolve into ICL (International Computers Ltd). I was destined to find a job there and then spend

22 years in their employment. However , let me continue with my final days in uniform.

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Having more or less decided to leave the RAF to the end of my service, I began to realise that if I relied entirely upon my training and experience in Radio

Communications then I would restrict my opportunities to what could become a narrow field. With this in mind, I purchased a book “The Theory and Application of

Industrial Electronics”. I found this very interesting . It is worth mentioning that the technical training that I had experienced in the RAF was very narrow in its scope. For instance, teaching of theory of Radio Communications was only sufficient to support familiarisation with specific items of equipment, learning by rote to identify component parts. After initial training, introduction of new equipment often required sending men on courses. My experience after leaving the RAF showed me that a sound and thorough understanding of theory and basic principles plus a well-written hand book would make these courses unnecessary. Luckily, the time that I had spent in studying for City & Guilds certificates had been well spent made up for these deficiencies.

With all these points considered I ended my RAF career in June 1953. I did dither about my decision to do so on one occasion. I visited the Orderly Room for some purpose or other and, out of curiosity, I asked the Flight Sergeant in charge what the procedure would be if I wanted to re-enlist. He told me it was very simple – only a couple of forms to fill in and opened a filing cabinet drawer to get them for me. My inward reaction to this was enough to confirm that I really wanted to part company with the RAF and I told him that I would think about it.

A memorable day followed shortly after this when I visited the Clothing Store dressed in civilian clothes and dumped my RAF kit on the counter. This was something that I never forgotten – it marked the end of a way of life and the beginning of a fresh chapter. I was glad to become a civilian but have never regretted having joined the RAF. My only regret was that, after the war ended, I had to complete my 12 years service.

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On discharge I received a small booklet giving brief details of my service history such as medals promotions and conduct. Under the latter category I was rated as

“exemplary” i.e. I had never been put on a charge. The truth is that I was never caught!

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CHAPTER 24

IN RETROSPECT

At Cranwell I was taught to send and receive messages in Morse Code using a Morse key or an Aldis signalling lamp. I never had occasion to use the latter and use of a Morse key was minimal. I was also taught Semaphore (to signal with flags) and never had cause to do so. I was also trained to use a lathe. On the one occasion when I needed to do so I was refused access to the only one available by the Flt/Sgt in charge of the Instrument Section at Wyton. He insisted on giving the job to one of his own staff who happened to be an ex-apprentice.

I left Cranwell trained to do almost everything possible with a rifle but fire it but, gladly, never had need to do so except on a rifle range.

So much for the negative view. Although I was very keen to leave the RAF after WW2 had ended I had no regrets about joining as a Apprentice . First of all it got me away from home and placed me amongst other lads from all parts of the UK. Whatever hardships were suffered applied to all of us and were easily coped with. Had I not done so then, with the outbreak of war, I would have been conscripted and given no choice of service or of trade – if any.

When I went to Cranwell I was almost 17 years old and at the end of the war in Europe in 1945 I was almost 23. These were fruitful years for me. The war years were spent in the company of men who were not regular airmen and came from all walks of life – Bank clerks, School Teachers, Hairdresser, Bus Driver, Taxi Driver, Nurseryman, Tailor, Photographer - and so on. Had all my uniformed acquaintances been regular Airmen I would have noticed a vast difference, the latter would have had a narrower outlook and less interesting. After the end of the war came National Service and a younger but no less interesting brand of “civilians in uniform”. I considered it a privilege to work with and live under the same roof with such a variety of men.

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How did I earn my living after leaving the RAF? Well – I spent all my time in an R&D environment in the electronics industry. The first 22 years with a Computer manufacturer - see picture above - and the remaining years till retirement with BAe.

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TRIVIA

Naval Influence.

As the RAF was formed from the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service it comes as no surprise that a little naval terminology has carried over to the RAF. For example, the ground is “the deck”, if one is admitted to Sick Quarters then one is “in dock”. I believe that a Leading Seaman’s badge was an anchor or “hook”. Hence an

Apprentice being promoted to Leading Apprentice was said to have “got his hook”.

Structure

Command (e.g.Bomber Command)

|

Group (e.g. No.3 Pathfinder Group)

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Squadron (e.g. No. 109 Squadron)

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“A” Flight “B”Flight “C”Flight

Ground Crews

Each Flight had a Senior NCO who was responsible for ensuring that all tradesmen concerned had completed their D.I.s (Daily Inspections) and signed each Form 700 to record that the Aircraft was serviceable. More often than not, the Senior NCO was a Flt/Sgt Fitter 1 and an ex-Halton apprentice. During my time with 109 Sqdn. It was quite in order to address him as “Chiefy”.

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Ground Crews were made up of EngineFitters, Airframe Fitters Instrument Mechanics, Armourers, Electricians and Wireless and Radar Mechanics. The latter were often referred to as “gash trades” inferring that they were of minor importance.

Slang

“Gash” - free, easy to acquire, of minor importance.

“Mug and Irons” – Large china mug (tastefully adorned with RAF crest) and stainless steel knife fork and spoon without which a visit to the “cookhouse” or Airmen’s Mess would be a waste of time.

“Clapped out” - Suffering seriously from wear and tear

“U/S” – Unserviceable

“Ops” – Operations – nothing to do with surgery but in modern terminology (copied from the USA) would be called “missions”.

“Forty Eight” or “Thirty Six”– A 48 hour or 36 hour pass.

“Cookie” – A 4000lb soft cased high explosive bomb.

“Trolley-acc” – A trolley carrying two high capacity 12volt accumulators. This was plugged in to an aircraft to provide power to start its

“Bowser” – A mobile tanker carrying aviation fuel to aircraft dispersal points or to wherever it was needed. The name was that of the tanker manufacturer.

“Wad” - Slang term for a cake or a bun. “ Tea and a wad please “ was a phrase often uttered by customers of a NAAFI wagon.

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Chee biy lam chow!

The meaning of these, presumably Chinese words is a mystery to me but I suspect that it is not polite. The barrack block housing the Signals Centre other ranks was very near to the Airmen’s mess at Changi. Some of them found it amusing to shout these words to the female Chinese who worked in the mess. In the 1970s I met another ex-apprentice who was at Changi 10 years or more after me. He told me that nothing had changed and he didn’t know what these words meant either.

Squadron Will Move ------

These three words were the beginning of parade ground commands e.g. “Squadron will move to the Left - Left Turn!

NAAFI wagon

Mobile NAAFI canteen which would visit working sites on an Airfield to sell tea and cakes to Airmen at work – usually staffed by two NAAFI girls in their blue, white-trimmed uniforms - always a welcomed sight.

W.A.A.F

Women’s Auxiliary Air Force – Now the W.R.A.F

A.T.S

Auxiliary Territorial Service The army female members – equivalent to the WAAF

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