Part One - The UK
In the middle of 1942, while working in the Post Office, I enrolled with the Air Training Corps (ATC), with the further intention of going into the RAF when called up for military service. It might be an aid when the time came though it meant relinquishing my membership in the Home Guard, since one couldn’t do everything. As it turned out, the ATC did very little. Based in Bodmin, of course, the only instruction that was new was a series of evening classes on elementary navigation, given by a Commander Rowe, a long retired naval man in his late seventies, with white beard and hair. I suppose it was useful, but all other activities, drill, aircraft recognition etc., had been covered during the Home Guard period, and my interest palled. Still, being in the ATC was a useful factor when I wrote off and volunteered to go into the RAF as aircrew in about November 1942. Volunteering in advance of call-up secured a place; otherwise one would be put elsewhere into the RAF, Army, Navy - whatever a Call-up Board decided.
So, in the first week of December, I was called to London, and with two days off work from the Post Office, and issued with a rail warrant, I went to some overnight accommodation before an early morning appointment at an Air Ministry building in the Euston area. There, after a short wait, one was shuffled off to join a handful of others waiting for a somewhat cursory medical examination. Once that had been completed there was a twenty-minute to half hour interview. This dealt with one’s education, interests, especially sports, and general enthusiasm for the RAF. You acknowledged that when called up, if you failed a later medical or failed to make the required grade during aircrew training, you would have to remain in the RAF in whatever trade was allotted. This might not be ideal but would act as a spur! I was accepted for future aircrew training, went through the short but curious ceremony of swearing the oath of allegiance, and came away with the “King’s Shilling”, which in effect meant that I was formally part of the RAF. Then home to await the day of reckoning without much concern. Of all the Forces the RAF had a reputation for being less rigid in its treatment of members; discipline without bullying, and training on the basis of wanting to know. Even the uniform had a civil appearance - shirts with attached collars, ties, always shoes not boots, and no restrictions on hair style. The end product was a contented Force where misdeeds were minimal.
My time as temporary Sorting Clerk & Telegraphist in Bodmin Head Post Office, with its one night a week air raid “Fire Watching” duty, came to an end nine months later, by which time I was well past my 18th birthday. I was called up on the 27th September 1943 as an aircrew cadet to undergo training under the categories of Pilot, Navigator, Bombaimer, Flight Engineer, Airgunner or Wireless Operator. The outcome was to some extent based upon aptitude tests and examinations but probably at that stage of the war was determined more upon the requirements for particular categories, e.g. a special need for navigators or a surplus of pilots.
MY TIME IN THE R.A.F., 1943-1947
An Air Mover's Story in Eight Parts
Norman Victor Quinnell, 1925-2008
It was common knowledge that air gunners were in short supply, and their courses were commensurately short, a matter of about three months’ practical, following the usual initial disciplinary and fitness training. It is curious but I barely recall anything of the day I left Bodmin for London. Once there, like dozens of others I had to report to a medical centre for further examination and suitability, and then to some sort of warehouse to be kitted-out. One was given a kitbag, two or three of each item of underclothing and socks, shirts, ties, gloves and two pairs of shoes, one pair of gym shoes with two pairs of shorts. There was a “best” uniform of belted jacket, trousers, and an additional white parade belt, and two weekday uniforms of tunics and trousers, caps with badges, and the white insert for the front of the cap, which denoted an aircrew cadet. You went off and changed into a working uniform, put civilian stuff into a box to be sent home, and filled the kitbag with the other uniforms etc., and waited for a lorry to go to the appointed billets.
(In due course I found that most people carried some memento of their home, a photo of the family or the house, a blank school notebook, even an old mug; some sort of talisman. My companion during the whole of my service was a book “A New Anthology of Modern Verse” by C. Day Lewis & L.A.G. Strong, newly published by Methuen. When working I had purchased a book each month and this was one. Another anthology, “Poems of Twenty Years 1918 - 1938” collected by Maurice Wollman, would join it about a year later but was not as pocketable as the former. Much later, when in Singapore, I would buy a book every month via the Readers Union’s postal service and a number of these books still survive.)
Initial training was in London. The RAF had commandeered a massive amount of property near central London for accommodation, and I with about 60 other cadets, joined a couple of hundred already billeted in four or five storey luxury flats in St. John’s Wood. Built during the late twenties or early thirties, I’m sure they had a lot of art nouveau features I didn’t recognise at the time or are long forgotten. There were lifts in commission but we had to use the stairs. The opulence that I recall related to the bathrooms, which had green marble flooring and cladding round the baths which were half sunk into the floors. There must have been kitchens attached to the flats but they may have been sealed off; I don’t recall seeing one. Most rooms accommodated 8 to 10 recruits in upper and lower bunk beds, with metal wardrobes and, for each pair, small but adequate lockers. A pair of NCO’s, each in charge of about 30 of us, shared a small room on the same floor. We were wakened at 6.00, and assembled on the road below in 3 abreast order with someone at the rear holding a red lantern, since it was pitch black, and a regular RAF Corporal leading with a white light, while another marched alongside and barked orders to the tired and disenchanted mob. It was a 10 minute “march” to a hall where all cadets in the area had their meals, after which we were sent off to nearby rooms for initial instruction on the history and organisation of the RAF and numerous additional tests for medical conditions - eyesight, colour-blindness and physical and mental reactions.
There were also written tests to establish other capabilities or aptitudes, and I remember one puzzle, creating a square from a lot of different sized cardboard triangles within a set time. There was a hall where some attempt at drill was undertaken. Normally an hour’s break was taken for lunch and again for supper, after which we were marched back to the billet. The evening was taken up by polishing buttons, cap badges, and the brass on our heavy canvas dress belts. This inevitably created blackish smears on the belt, which then had to be re-whitened with “blanco”. The pair of shoes we were wearing and the spare pair had to have the “bobbles” in the leather pressed out by alternately blacking and then rubbing with the back of a shoe brush - a laborious process that occupied five or six evenings, and the ultimate aim was to have shoes looking like patent leather. A Corporal appeared regularly to supervise progress and grunt minimal approval. He also ensured that the lights were out at ten o’clock. Initially there was no contact with the outside world, no newspapers or radio, and nobody worried about it.
Everyone appeared to get on quite well, though only mealtimes and a half hour in the evenings were available for general conversation, and the transitory situation negated any form of friendship developing. People had all sorts of jobs before enlisting, but I was surprised to find that about a quarter had never left their home area until now.
No one was allowed out to see what London looked like until the second weekend, by which time most were fairly disciplined, tamed, and certainly tired. Rumour persisted, but was always denied, that bromide was put into our tea to deter any sexual ambitions once we were off the leash. Certainly the tea had an odd taste but its effect was questionable.
From our luxury flat in Abbey Road, St. John’s Wood, I went off to explore London. One viewed damaged buildings and empty plots as an accepted part of the landscape, but I recall the hundreds of properties, particularly in fashionable areas, with “For Sale” signs. I went to Regents Park and made a special trip to North Kensington and made a pencil sketch of No.9 North Pole Road, where Mother was born and brought up. (She later said she didn’t recognise it and I must have gone to the wrong place). I probably visited my Aunt Nance and Uncle Walter, but their son Peter would have been abroad in the RAF at this time.
One of the numerous chores at Abbey Road was the daily inspection of beds. They were two tier bunk beds. Each had three square four inch thick “biscuits” which, set out in a line, formed the mattress. Two sheets, two blankets, a pillow and pillowcase made up the rest. Each morning everything had to be put into a neat pile, the “biscuits”, then the blankets and sheets, all specially folded, and lastly the pillow. While you stood by your bed the Corporal measured the accuracy of folding and piling. If not to his liking all was tipped on the floor to start again, a horrid task if you had a top bunk. Lockers and the small bedside cabinets were given a cursory inspection for neatness, but all personal stuff was left alone. Surprisingly, throughout the time at St. John’s Wood, there were no air raids.
After three weeks, around the third week of October, thirty of us were posted to No.3 Initial Training Wing, at Torquay, to start some real learning. Almost all the large and some of the smaller hotels had been requisitioned by the RAF, so the place had hundreds of aircrew cadets. The ITWs had first been set up in Torbay in 1940 (and were closed in late1944). Although we did not suffer any air raids during our stay, the place was not immune to hit and run strikes. The Palace Hotel, an RAF hospital, was badly damaged in two raids in 1943, and St. Marychurch at Babbacombe had been bombed on Rogation Sunday, 1943, with many casualties. (The last raid, in 1944, destroyed the Bay Court Hotel.)
I was among nearly 40 billeted in St. James Hotel, a four storied narrow building in Victoria Parade, which bounded the East side of the Old Harbour. The place was warm enough with central heating of the period, but in poor repair, and had to be shared with a number of rats at night time when they emerged from somewhere and frolicked on the bare wood stairs and corridors. The rooms had the usual bunk beds and lockers, and, being a hotel, good toilet facilities. There was a Flt/Lieutenant Officer in overall charge, and under him a Sergeant, but in retrospect our lives were mostly bound to a Corporal who dealt with discipline, drill, and general matters and had a strict but kindly disposition. Sergeant and Corporal undertook a snap inspection of bedding at least once a week to view the folding and neatness, with a severe reprimand to any falling below the standard. The ground floor rooms were used for admin. by the CO and for general meetings. There was also a space for those who did limited turns of guard duty at night, since the front door was either never locked or locked very late. Any night time bang that echoed upstairs was from the guard throwing a missile at a rat. The stairs were poorly lit and a rat seemed to sit on every flight. (Now I wonder why the creatures were not poisoned.)
Meals were taken at the Pavilion, a large Civic building which had, in part at least, been converted to a mess hall. On the opposite side of the harbour it was under five minutes away. I suppose mealtimes were staggered to cope with numbers, though it couldn’t have been the only mess hall. Food was good by the current standards and the quantity greater than in civilian life; eggs, bacon, sausages seemed plentiful at breakfasts, and it was similar at other meals. There must have been NAAFI premises in town for off duty leisure and entertainment but memory of these has faded. Similarly I cannot recall where the main instruction classrooms were, except that some were in part of one of the larger hotels.
A large building off Torwood Road which had been the depot for Grey Cars coaches had been converted for use as a gym - no ropes or wall bars but furnished with other gymnastic stuff and the concrete floors had painted lines for games. Mostly it was used for long periods of physical exercises. The nearby Torwood Gardens were appropriated for the practice of Morse Code signalling with Aldis Lamps. Half the class at one end of the gardens and half at the other, sending messages back and forth. Instruction in swimming took place in the Marine Spa Hotel near the pier of the New Harbour and close to St. James. The Spa was renowned for its “Vita-Glass” sun lounge, for patrons to soak up ultra-violet light, and, like the hotel generally, out of bounds to us. It may have had retired occupants, but the pool was excellent. Some 50% of us had a fair proficiency at swimming and all had to manage at least two or three lengths by the end of their stay.
Not so my other venture…. I found out that if one went horse riding the RAF paid most of the fee, a great enticement. So, with no experience, I enquired at the nearest stables (well up Torwood Road (?)). There they me told me that tuition was unnecessary, so I was given some simple rules, mounted an apparently docile creature and set off along the suggested route through the town at a slow pace. All went well for the first mile, then, the horse bolted with me clinging on in a non-equestrian fashion. After 200 or 300 yards performing a spectacle for pedestrians I was able to get it to stop. Perhaps we were both out of breath. Holding tightly to the reins, I slid off, tied the animal to the nearest lamp post. With no intention of providing a second act I went into a shop and telephoned the stables for them to collect it. Not at all pleased, someone soon arrived and took it away while I walked back to the billet. The first and last time I sat on a horse! Running was much better, and I continued with that until the end of the Torquay time. Almost as crazy was the occasion when at a weekend Gordon Harrison and I took to a short swim in the sea followed by a brisk walk.
Gordon Harrison and NVQ
I’m unsure whether hotel guests ever had access to the pool. There were some lessons in life saving, and a regular exercise was jumping from the top board wearing a life-jacket. The Spa was used by all of the cadets in Torquay for swimming lessons but it seemed that no competitions were organised between groups.
Primary instruction courses included the Theory of Flight, Navigation, Armaments - especially the Browning machine gun - Aircraft Recognition, History & Structure of the RAF, etc. Timetables were linked to specific subjects and venues where instructors spent their days dealing with groups in their various stages of learning. Twin (or quadruple?) Browning guns were standard armaments to bomber aircraft so one had to know how to strip and re-assemble them, but at this stage there was no live firing that I recall. Tests, with comments, occurred monthly, and rarely was a pupil advised to move to another “career”.
Sport was an essential part of training, at least one afternoon a week and often Saturday mornings, which were otherwise normal working times. Although there was some pressure it was a matter of choice rather than compulsion as to what one took up. A reluctant footballer was no asset to any team. Being averse to boxing and most ball games, I thought distance running seemed the preferable choice, especially as a winter sport. Not that it was always pleasant, since wearing shorts with a singlet or vest was considered rather pathetic, and in teeming winter rain one got thoroughly chilly.
From initial four-mile jogs one was soon accompanying others and a shepherding instructor on six- and then ten-mile runs. Then the function of the instructor seemed to be to hide himself at some strategic point to check that people weren’t walking or even absenting themselves. Routes went towards Teignmouth, Totnes, and Brixham. Near the end of the ITW course, perhaps late January, there was a competitive run with a few Royal Navy cadets from the clock tower by the harbour to the Naval College at Dartmouth, nearly 14 miles. At the ferry crossing I think a card was issued with the arrival and departure times of each runner that was taken to the finish point at the College main entrance. The hardest part was the uphill slog through the College grounds. Out of over 50 runners I came in 13th. For me, a memorable achievement.
The days were continuous studies, with Saturday afternoons for running, but evenings were free, and Sundays, after the compulsory Church Parade and Service where we joined other groups, all in best kit, following an inspection on the quayside. It was assumed that one was C of E, RC, or OD (other denominations), who could be accommodated within a Methodist church. Jews were allowed to find their own synagogue if there was one. Any non-believers were put onto deliberately onerous tasks, such as cleaning and washing floors, so it was pleasanter to go along to church. Marching had to be of a high order, and this was reached in the first month by hourly periods of intense drill on the promenade outside St. James’. I found it quite enjoyable, particularly since it often incorporated “Swedish Drill”, when we went through a long series of movements without orders, simply by memorizing the number of paces or counting seconds between each new action. These drill lessons usually attracted a considerable number of onlookers, doubtless waiting for any mistakes and the Corporal’s bellow. Unlike school, where the woodwork master would shout out “You’re a fool boy!” and hit you with the nearest piece of wood, the Corporal rarely singled out an individual for opprobrium, rightly assuming the individual knew of his mistake, and shouted at the group.
Free time was mostly taken up with walks and visits to pubs and the cinema, plus any NAAFI entertainment, but I don’t recall any ENSA concert coming to Torquay. Once I bought a ticket to a recital by the pianist Solomon. It was held in a small hall with an audience of under a hundred but a very good evening, and not just because I went with a local girl, Zoe Drew, whose parents had invited me to tea previously. (Quite unrelated to a school ex-girlfriend with the same surname).
Christmas loomed. I posted presents home, of which I only remember a silver RAF brooch for Mum and a riding crop for Muriel who had taken up at a riding school at Nanstallon. I have forgotten what I received - perhaps some cigarettes and books. The RAF laid on a good Christmas dinner and festivities (preceded on Christmas Eve by pub visits, which meant a lie-in on Christmas morning). No doubt we were waited upon by Officers, as customary, but no details remain in the mind, and I am sure a few pupils accepted invitations from families in the town.
New Year’s Eve was a bit like Christmas Eve, but with no special meals to follow on New Year’s Day, which was not a holiday. Three of us, singing the German version of “Holy Night”, taught by the one who knew German (Harrison I think) walked to the clock tower. Typical teenage stupidity, since there were people about who certainly had reasons to detest anything German, and some maybe a little drunk. Singing ceased abruptly however when, near midnight, we were confronted by a camel at the clock tower. Coming out of the darkness (there were of course no street lights), it was, as intended, a complete shock, organised with a keeper in attendance by Paignton Zoo. The keeper had walked with the animal from the zoo through all the main streets to get to the clock tower by midnight, after which they would return straight to the zoo. Although it was treated as a minor amusing story in the local press; the slant would be much different today, disrupting a camel’s sleep.
January 1st. had the usual classes, with slightly later start perhaps. For days it had been very cold with a calm sea, and much of the Inner Harbour was covered with ice. Our drill Corporal was a short man, in his late twenties, with a neat moustache, immaculate dress, and a sharp temper; nevertheless he was very fair and much liked. (In a good mood he would chat about his full time career in the Service, and occasionally produced photos of earlier postings, and sometimes nudes of a beautiful woman, he claimed was his fiancée.) However, for New Year’ Day, he elicited the assistance of a Sergeant swimming instructor and announced that “volunteers” were required for a swim in the morning - in the Inner Harbour. The names of about 20 fairly proficient swimmers were read out to the assembled course, from which nearly a dozen foolhardy idiots came forward, of which I was one and Harrison another.
Strict instructions were issued. No person was to swim more than, I think, 15 yards from the harbour wall, and to leave the water immediately upon any feeling of uncertainty. We had all been given lifesaving instruction during swimming lessons, and on the quayside there was a lifebelt and ropes, as well as our two NCO’s with a few blankets. It may have been a drill period that was used for this escapade, but mid morning, to a cheer from the throng, the swimmers emerged from St. James, crossed the road, ran down the steps set in the harbour wall and jumped into the water with its ice that fragmented and floated about.
After a few seconds of shock I found brisk overarm swimming relieved the tension, but within about 4 or 5 minutes we were all called out and sent to have hot showers. Very temporary celebrities - though I, like most, was not going to volunteer for any second experience.
The Course continued with its varied subjects, and I’ve only listed those I can remember; there were several others. Towards the middle of January examinations were held, at the end of which we were allowed around ten days leave. Although there had been letters home there was much to talk about, and friends to visit - the few who were not in the Forces or, in the case of girls, those not scattered around the country in their careers. I gleaned news from the parents of particular friends, Desmond Burton, a Midshipman Met. Officer in the RN, and David Zimber, a Navigation Officer in the Merchant Navy. There was also, of course, the unwelcome information about those who were now missing or dead, most of whom I had known only by sight in Bodmin or Lanivet, but some as seniors at school.
On return to Torquay we had our results within a day or two. Most pupils were within the required standards for going on to PNB (Pilot, Navigator, Bombaimer) courses. The others could accept training as Airgunners, Wireless Operators, Flight Engineers or go onto ground duties. As a fitting end the whole Course was photographed.
Passing-out photo at end of Initial Training at Torquay; NVQ at back row, 2nd from left
So, by the start of February I was posted to an EFTS (Elementary Flying Training School). There were a number throughout the country, and RAF Winkfield, near Windsor, was a very small satellite of Marshall’s Flying School at Woking, a former civilian flying school which had been taken over by the RAF. Indeed, Mr. Marshall still ran it with the rank of Wing Commander, and I believe the main school was called Fairoaks, Woking. Winkfield airfield was simply a large pasture field with a handful of Nissen huts and two or three hangars. It was a mile from its eponymous village, about five from Windsor and a dozen miles from the long established Fairoaks. An adjacent field to the east was occupied by a smallholding. Next to this, turning left from our entrance gate and along the main road, was “The Jolly Gardener,” a roadhouse pub which became our primary focus when off duty. There were few permanent staff, and not all lived on site. A Flt/Lieutenant was in charge and had a half dozen flying instructors - Flt/Sergeant and Flying Officer (FO) pilots; a Sergeant with three or four air mechanics, and a couple of Corporals who sometimes manned the tiny gatehouse. Of pupils there were perhaps thirty, but not one from my Torquay course. There were a number of Flying Training Schools and though some may have gone to Fairoaks it appears to have been a general policy to split groups up whenever possible.
For a week or two there was classroom instruction on the Tiger Moth aircraft, its instrumentation, capabilities, foibles, etc. This was followed by landscape lectures with particular reference to the local area, landmarks, power lines, chimneys and so on, and these must have included map reading. One was going to get 13 hours of flying, and only if a solo flight was permitted and satisfactorily accomplished within that time would a pupil go on to an AFU (Advanced Flying School).
The Tiger Moth was I think, an early 1930’s design of a De Havilland aircraft, a two seater, where the occupants sat in separate, in-line, open cockpits. In the training version there were dual controls and an “intercom” system with headphones. A biplane with fabric covered wings and an aluminium body, it had no claim to speed but could withstand gross mishandling. Because of its relative simplicity it was a popular aircraft for pre-war fliers as well as a training plane.
The day came when I sat in the front cockpit (instructor behind), and familiarised myself with the instruments , controls, and starting procedure. The latter involved a groundcrew mechanic, since the propeller had to be swung by hand until the engine fired. Then there was taxi-ing practice; trundling the plane around the airfield, using the rudder and brakes. For a grass field it was surprisingly smooth, and I suspect that it was grazed for a day or more between Courses. There was a lot of waiting between bouts of training, when lining up for taxi-ing, and there was a limit of perhaps only three planes operating on the field in such circumstances.
Flying only took place when the weather was reasonably good, so a lot of time was spent waiting around, and persistently poor weather resulted in indoor classes, which included basic information on aero engines, some meteorology, visual navigation, and the inevitable aircraft recognition. Written work must have been associated with all this, accompanied by tests.
After the taxi-ing came an extended period of take-offs and landings over three or four days, with very few aircraft involved at a time. The instructor did the first couple while the pupil followed by gently holding his own linked controls. Then, gradually, the pupil assumed more and more of the operation, almost without realising it, unless a mistake was made, when pressure on the controls became obvious, accompanied by a raised voice over the intercom.
Those who had driven cars seemed to find the whole exercise much easier. The pilots, mostly seconded from active duties, had great patience and cool nerves, though I never heard any stories of panicking pupils.
Next came proper flying - take-off, climbing, straight and level flight, turns and descent. Sometimes one half hour lesson a day, at others two a day. This progressed to the more “dangerous” exercises, rolls, loops, and stalls. The latter was probably the most unsettling. Power was cut off until the aircraft went into a vertical dive, slowly spinning to left or right, and increasing speed towards the ground. The corrective measures, using the joystick and rudder bar, took quite a few seconds to obtain a response, even with the voice of the instructor ringing in your ears. You concentrated on the controls and instruments and didn’t look outside! But the normal, visual navigation flights, map reading to three or four specific points, were really fun.
At the start of April we had a casual air raid, when a single plane exiting from the London area unloaded a few dozen incendiary bombs early one morning. The station guard activated the alarm and we quickly dressed and prepared to go to a brick air raid shelter. Outside, it was obvious the aircraft had gone and, while none of the huts or perimeter buildings had been hit, a number of isolated incendiaries were burning. All were ineffectual, save at the smallholding beside the airfield where a hut had caught fire. While most of us went through a sort of fire drill, extinguishing the burning airfield bombs with buckets of sand, a handful investigated the hut. It had been a chicken house, and among the panicking birds were some which were catching fire and these were thrown into an adjacent pond. This I was told later; certainly a complaint was made by the farmer to the CO that some of his chickens had drowned. With daylight we started collecting all the bombs that, by simply hitting soft turf, had not detonated. A very interesting interlude.
A cheerful Flt/Lieutenant armaments officer arrived and set up shop in the corner of a small empty building. From the line we assembled on the grass outside he took one bomb at a time, unscrewed the base, removed the detonater, then tipped the thermite powder within into a bucket. Having made the bomb completely safe, the base was screwed on again. To those who expressed an interest, each was given one as a souvenir. A couple of days later an admin. Corporal got wind of this and issued a notice that they were not to be taken off the camp. By then, of course, some had gone. For my specimen the only easy method I could devise was to pack it up in a parcel, and post it home with a covering letter to Mum explaining that it was safe to keep it for me. Hence my incendiary bomb, which has always been kept, though the base cannot now be easily unscrewed.
From the first days at Winkfield I linked up with Ray Parslow, and much of our spare time was spent together. His home was close (Uxbridge), from where he collected his motorcycle, which we used at weekends. It was not the sort of thing that would get approval on the camp so it was stored at a house a short walk away. Petrol was available but strictly rationed. Having never been on a motorcycle before it took two or three trips for me to adjust to the necessity of leaning with the angle of the bike, but Ray was pretty patient. He had been employed at Denham Film Studios, initially as a “clapper boy”, but was a third assistant cameraman when he joined the RAF. (Subsequently he returned to the film industry, since I’ve seen him credited as Cameraman in at least one postwar film.) For a brief period he had worked with a small company which made short documentary travel films of Britain, used as programme fillers. Consisting of the owner and two or three technicians, a lot of the documentary was created by the direct filming or panning of enlarged postcards bought in the area to reduce or avoid the costs of visiting or staying there. Somehow the copyright owners of the cards remained blissfully unaware. I once knew the name of the company and recalled seeing a film on the Windrush River.
On a day that everyone had off we took the motorcycle to Denham Studios and I was given a limited tour. Then, while he talked to colleagues, I went on to a stage to watch a scene being shot for Noel Coward’s “Blithe Spirit”. For about an hour there were a whole series of takes of a maid entering a room, none of which appeared in the final film. A very good day out.
Schoolchums Desmond Burton, NVQ and David Zimber
It was now towards the end of April and we were sent on something like a week’s leave. During this period both David Zimber and Desmond Burton also had leave and, as in the past, we were together as much as possible. We had been well known as a trio for years in Bodmin. It was Alan Date who had a pharmacy in Turf Street, who took some photos of all three of us - one or two still around today. Desmond was then a Midshipman Met Officer, based in the UK; David, a navigation officer with the New Zealand Shipping Co. had belatedly returned from New Zealand on the SS “Rangitiki”, with a cargo of butter. The ship had been torpedoed, then repaired in the Azores, before getting to Liverpool. He had only just got home and had some interesting stories of low dives in the Caribbean, while waiting to join a convoy, as well as life on board a ship of melted butter.
Anyway, to return to the Course… Almost always one had the same instructor, but at the end, after 12 hours’ tuition, we were each given a new pilot for a final test. This consisted of a period of questions followed by a half hour flight in which one went through all that had been taught, especially stalls and spins. Apart from issuing instructions for specific tasks there was no real communication and it was difficult to detect what, if any, involvement the pilot had with the controls. I know I came in rather too high on my first attempt at landing and had to make another circuit. After landing you were dismissed with no idea whether you were going to be allowed a solo flight, the key to the future. The following day, after all had done their flying test, and the instructors had discussed their markings, a very short list of about four names was posted on the admin. board of those who would go forward with a solo flight and continue with pilot training. For the rest of us there would be further training in a different category, and for all part of it would be abroad.
Two or three days before we left we were to be included in a large parade and inspection of RAF personnel to be held at Fairoaks. Consequently there was drill practice on the little concrete that existed at Winkfield, and on the day we were driven over, with our NCOs and Officers and lined up on the airfield tarmac with hundreds of others. I have no idea who the inspecting dignitaries were apart from recalling the stocky figure of the CO, Wing Commander Marshall, the owner of Fairoaks, but it must have been for someone special. I do know, however, that I felt waves of faintness while standing still for two hours or more on a runway, an affliction that has always presented itself in similar conditions.
I don’t recall how I was introduced to Mavis, to whom Ray may have been related, and lived in Windsor. Clearly I went out with her once or twice, and he later photographed her in a punt, but have no memories at all of her house, family, or where we went, but probably walked beside the Thames or even hired a punt.
Ray himself had an astonishingly good looking girlfriend, Shirley, who worked at Denham in some creative department, and the only time I briefly met her was during the Denham visit.
NVQ and Mavis
Mavis in a punt
Heaton Park, July 1944, Doug Marshall, NVQ, George Bailey, Blackshire (Blackie), Lucas, George Smith, Threadgold, Ernie Palmer, Pickering, May
The regular movement of personnel initiated an abundance of gossip and rumour as to when and where groups had gone or were going. Facilities for training PNB pupils existed in South Africa, Rhodesia, the USA and Canada and a group was normally confined to camp a day before leaving and never told its destination until it had embarked upon a vessel.
I did a bit of running, and Ray and I used the swimming baths and joined a water polo team. I was a fairly fast but far from stylish swimmer, but could keep going for what now seems a surprising time. There must have been something like 8 or more teams in the place, of which 2 or 3 were women’s, and quite formidable. Physical Training Instructors arranged the matches so that every team played twice a week; they also did the refereeing. The changing rooms invariably provided some entertainment, since the boarding between the men’s and women’s had large cracks and knot holes. It usually resulted in lots of “cor”s on our side and giggles and laughter on the other, sometimes accompanied by a meeting of eyeball to eyeball.
The first month was a period of settling into a sort of dull routine, broken by the announcement of the D-day landings. After breakfast on the morning of June 6th everyone was called on parade, several hundreds, to hear special addresses by the CO and the padre, accompanied by prayers and it was certainly very impressive at the time.
After the leave I had to report to London for three or four days, living in a small former hotel. Once more there were further medical and aptitude tests. I can only think there was a lot of psychological experimentation at the time to search for qualities that they wanted in navigators and air bombers. There had been a combination of both under the title of Air Observer who served in planes with small crews, but in large aircraft the responsibilities had been split. Whatever the reasoning behind the days of puzzles and questions the evenings were our own to wander around London. I don’t remember any but think it was around the time that the “Doodlebugs” started landing on London. Then it was a train to Heaton park, Manchester.
Heaton Park was an extraordinary place, a massive holding unit for RAF personnel due to be sent overseas. A large park, with municipal buildings, including Heaton Hall, about 2 miles North of the city centre, it was no longer really Civic, but had been largely commandeered, and dozens of Nissen huts constructed. A sort of transit barracks whose occupants had little to do but wait - and wait they did!
It was in the first week of May when I, Ray Parslow and others arrived, were allotted a hut and told where to attend the usual morning parade and roll call. Among our group was a Flight Sergeant who had remustered as a cadet from ground duties. He retained the stripes and crown of his rank but had no real authority; to us he went by the nickname of “Chiefie”. Since the place was a long-term transit camp there were numerous sports facilities, and there was a library, but virtually no lectures or classes in any subjects, and people were often at a loose end. The Park was enclosed with high railings, and during the day a pass was needed to go past the guardroom entrance and into town.
In the morning, following breakfast, we gathered for a roll call and instructions. Told, as by now we had guessed, that we were bound for Canada, there were a number of duties to keep us occupied until we got there. Most were mundane and are long forgotten, though one remains. Throughout the vessel, at the bottom and lower decks, there were sets of watertight doors normally open for free passage along corridors. Each would be manned by one of us on a shift basis, with meals and sleep fitted in accordingly.
Around the 21st July we were told that a move was imminent, followed by confinement to the camp and on the 23rd 50 or 60 of us marched to the nearest railway station in the early afternoon, singing popular songs of which one, “When it’s Springtime in the Rockies” stays in my mind, although we had no inkling as to where we were going. I find it difficult to understand why we were allowed to sing. After nightfall the train arrived at Greenock and we were swiftly put on board the “Queen Elizabeth”, given a meal and shown to our quarters, rows of hammocks slung from the ceiling of a vast barren room, two or three decks down. Kitbags were put along the sides. Washrooms and lavatories were adjacent, and meals would be taken on a deck above. A roster of times for meals, and where and when to meet for information and duties was posted up.
Once or twice a week we would meet for an evening in town, and always at weekends as foursomes, sometimes walking in Blackley Clough, a small wooded valley. Once or twice Ray brought his camera. I became quite fond of Jean, and we decided to maintain the association by letters when I went abroad.
Jean Edwards
Ray's temporary girlfriend and Jean
Ray and I had been casting about for some form of personal occupation and eventually produced an idea. One of the large brick halls in the Park was used for meals. It had cream coloured walls, which I thought would be suitable for painting murals. We put this to whoever had authority, with me saying I nurtured ambitions to be an artist after the war (it may have been on my documents), and to our surprise we got permission to go ahead. They were to be landscapes etc., no dancing girls or “pin-up” types! The great thing about the scheme was that there was no difficulty in getting passes to go into the city to buy materials with the limited amount of money we were given. A shopping trip could take a whole morning or afternoon, and we returned with some paints and a brush or two.
Naturally, to extend the project, work proceeded slowly, and only once did anyone visit us with comments and suggestions. Of course nothing could be done at mealtimes when the place was full of people. Over the next month or a bit more I think we completed three panels, each about five feet long and four feet high. One depicted a fully rigged ship under sail, the others mountains, streams, etc. They were certainly not memorable or even particularly good. I doubt if they lasted very long.
Nevertheless, we were very happily occupied, and on occasions escaped the confines of camp. Others devised schemes to similar ends, and there were various “Societies” for music, drama, sports, etc., with constantly shifting members. Manchester was not a greatly impressive city, perhaps because of bombing, since part of the central shopping area was ruined. At night there were cinemas, pubs, and dancehalls, but, combined with the blackout, most were not inviting. Also, pay (was it 4 or 5 shillings [20 or 25p] a day, or less?) restricted activities. Among events in camp was a Saturday night dance, held in a large NAFFI hall. Neither Ray nor I had much ability in dancing though, with the beer, it was a companionable place. Anyway, it was here we met two very pleasant girls and started going out with them in the evenings. I have now forgotten the name of Ray’s non-serious one but not that of Jean Edwards. Both girls were friends and lived in the same suburb of the city, probably Blackley. Jean, slightly built, with black hair, had a faintly Welsh accent derived from her father, and worked as a solicitor’s secretary. Her parents were still in Wales. A delightful person, she lived in a small Victorian terrace house where she shared a flat with another girl.
To be continued...
After three days it was evident we were in the Southern Atlantic. The sea was calm with shoals of flying fish, and others, alongside the boat, and there was a considerable rise in temperature. Curiously, since some of us were on deck during much of the day, no other vessel was seen at any time until two days before we arrived, when rumour said we were somewhere off the Florida coast of the USA.
The crossing was confirmed in a glorious manner around six in the morning of the 1st of August. Following shouts of “Come up on deck!” we got there to find a pink sun above a low level morning mist, and rising through it in the distance, the Manhattan skyscrapers. Quite unforgettable. As the liner slowly nosed into the bay, the mist dispersed.
Passing the Statue of Liberty, and assisted by tugs, we gradually progressed up the Hudson River to tie up at, I think, Pier 90, used by all Cunard liners. Somehow, the overpowering size of the adjacent Manhattan buildings did not evoke the beauty of that magical distant view in the mist. I think it was a pity that the POW’s were not brought up to share the experience.
Anyway, downstairs to breakfast, pack personal items, and await further orders.
Some doors were quite large, and all were equipped with rubber seals, but could be swung and locked without difficulty when an alarm sounded. I suppose one hoped to be on the right non-water side of the door if a torpedo struck. Off duty, there were specific areas of open and enclosed areas of deck where we could walk or sit.
The “Q.E.” left Greenock at night, probably the 25th, and we started our guard shifts. I wasn’t alone in pondering the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the door when the emergency occurred.
There were other RAF units and some military on board and, to our great surprise, about 40 German POW’s. A few may have been captured in France since D-day, others in Italy. Some had clearly had amputations, but all were long term wounded and by sending them across the water with a couple of medics spaces were freed in British hospitals. I suppose they had been given some inkling as to their destination. Kept somewhere in the bowels of the ship, on the second day the weather was a bit stormy but all those who could walk were allowed up to a segregated area of the promenade deck, under a token military guard. Everyone soon knew of their response. Appalled that the ship had no Navy escort, they were convinced that a liner of such size could not avoid being torpedoed, and feared for their lives. Yet every day those capable arrived for an hour or so on deck, assisted by one or more medical staff and accompanied by the solitary guard. Although we could see them the separation zone was wide enough to prevent any physical or vocal contact.