大象传媒

THE SERVICE YEARS
On May 3rd, 1937, twenty four hours after his old civvy street buddies (Alfie, Bill, Alec and Jimmy) had bundled him on to the train at Taybridge Station, Johnny took the oath to Defend King and Country and the Empire Overseas! This somewhat less than inspiring ceremony took place in a large shed at the R.A.F. Recruiting Centre, West Drayton, Middlesex.
As a token of appreciation of such vows, Johnny and his fellow recruits were marched off to the Station Inquisitor - laughingly called a barber. This machochismic wretch was, undoubtedly, the off-spring of an unholy union of some ancient Borgias and Draculas. He would, occasionally, stop when he drew blood - presumably to relish the sight! For enduring this ordeal in (petrified) silence, Johnny was then classified 'Aircraftsman - Second Class'. (Fortunately, the R.A.F. did not recognise, nor admit to, 'Third Class'). Soon they were on their way, by truck, to R.A.F. Central Depot, Uxbridge, to be moulded into respectable members of His Majesty's Royal Air Force - no mean task!

Three months 'square-bashing' at Uxbridge belied the generally held belief that this was some kind of remedial treatment for morons? On the contrary, Johnny found he was to be regarded with respect by his fellow recruits, sometimes with a slight degree of wariness. Gradually, this respect was reciprocated, evolving into a camaraderie seldom found in civvy street. (In short - the system worked!)

Three months after being dumped from that truck on to the Uxbridge Barrack Square, Johnny was able to comport himself, 'in a smart and airman-like manner' for the great British Public to admire - and see what the hell they were paying for! The Air Ministry then decreed Johnny should be posted to R.A.F. Manston, Kent. There to be initiated into the first degree of Aeronautical Engineering - code-named 'Fitter's Mate', (no doubt to confuse any potential enemy). Six weeks later, and only after exhaustive concentrated training, Johnny was able to sweep any hangar floor in the United Kingdom and could tell, almost at a glance, water from oil, the sharp end of an aeroplane from the blunt end, an airscrew from a rudder and sundry other highly technical items.

Probably due to Johnny's display of technical acumen and mental fortitude, the Air Ministry decided to 'win or lose it all' and posted this intrepid airman to R.A.F. Henlow, Beds., there to be finely tuned into a 'Flight Rigger!'
These Air Ministry chaps certainly knew what they were about, either that or they were completely impervious to the misuse of Public Funds.
For the next nine months Johnny took on board the intricacies of, airframe rigging, cable splicing, pneumatics, hydraulics aircraft taxying - coupled with extra-curricular activities of boxing, running, fatigue-dodging and other nefarious skills.
It was during this period that Johnny caught up with his old civvy street buddy, Arthur Lyall, thereby, picking up the threads of a life-long comradeship. They had both known the hardships, privations - and joys - of life in Dundee during 'The Hungry Thirties'. It followed that anything the R.A.F. could throw at them would be 'a piece of cake'. From being buddies, Johnny and Arthur became 'oppos' (old R.A.F. slang and a much more meaningful expression). This re-union was celebrated on a weekly basis in various hostelries from Arlesey to London and at every opportunity they met for the rest of their lives - until Arthur was called to his 'Last Parade'.
Before venturing into 'Squadron Life', Johnny and Arthur spent their last evening together reminiscing on R.A.F. life, so far, at Henlow. Amazingly enough, there had been some enjoyable incidents - event at times hilarious! For instance, there was the time when Johnny allowed himself to be conned into sneaking away early on a Friday afternoon, in order to get the early bus to London and the Union Jack Club. Johnny's con-man was an old sweat, who answered (sometimes) to L.A.C. Charlie Trainell. With over three years service, he was regarded as an authority on how to beat the system. All Johnny had to do was to go to the toilet at precisely 14.00 hours, meet Charlie at the corner of the main hangar and the two culprits would sneak down the side of each hangar, in the crouched position, until clear of the Admin. Offices, then run like hell for the bus - nothing could be simpler!

All went well for the first 200 yards - then the heavens were split asunder with the roar of one word - "AIRMEN!" - Johnny froze in mid stride, but Charlie kept scampering on. This was the 'con' - Johnny would get caught - thus enabling Charlie to escape and catch his bus! But Charlie had not reckoned on the proud possessor of this stentorian voice. Flight Sergeant Hards (real name and nature) was lovingly (?) known as the 'Brown Bomber'. A Senior N.C.O. who was in the R.A.F. when Pontius was the only Pilot! Several years defending the Empire overseas had left him with brown parchment for skin, eyes that could burn their way through granite and - a filthy temper!

Johnny found himself standing to attention in front of the Brown Bomber, trying hard to stop the knees trembling, and awaiting the 'late' Charlie Trainell. Charlie had at one time been a drummer and his full height of 5ft.3ins. had never altered from those days. Despite his apprehension, Johnny was looking forward to the coming confrontation, which went something like this -
"Why didn't you come immediately I called you?"
"My name ain't Herman!"
"I never said Herman, you F----- Idiot!" (the wrath was awesome!)
"Sounded like Herman to me, wot do you fink, Jock?"
"I said, AIRMAN! AIRMAN! AIRMAN! and you will not question this miserable little person when I am addressing YOU! Show me your Pass!"

This had to be the 'piece de resistance!'
Charlie withdrew from his top tunic pocket something closely resembling a piece of fine lace. It must have been a Pass issued in World War One! In complete silence, the Brown Bomber reached forward and, with a curious flexing of one hand, reduced this ancient relic to fine dust!
"The both of you will report to me Monday 08.00 hours for 'Taxying Drill'. Now get to hell out of it - AT THE DOUBLE!"
This fearsome N.C.O. had little effect on Charlie who immediately dashed off to catch his bus, leaving Johnny in a state of shock and barely able to mutter the mandatory reply, "Yes, Flight Sergeant!" But even as Johnny went to 'double off', did he detect - for a mere nano-second - the hint of a Machiavellian twinkle in the Brown Bomber's piercing eyes? Johnny retreated to the sanctuary of his barrack hut and the comfort of his oppo Arthur's company. The bus had gone and he had missed his weekend in London and the Union Jack Club. L.A.C. Trainell had not!
While Johnny related his nerve-wracking experience to a sympathetic (and highly amused) Arthur - the Brown Bomber was regaling the Sergeants' Mess with his account of the whole distressing incident!
Monday morning 08.00 hours the two hapless victims awaited the execution of their punishment. To the uninitiated, 'taxying drill' is a series of ground manoeuvres, using whatever aircraft is available. Two airmen take up position, one on either side of the machine, with firm holds on the wing-tip hand grips. The aircraft is started up, engine warmed up, and at a signal from the pilot (in this case Flt. Sgt. Hards) it's "chocks away" and the aircraft rolls forward. The victims, clinging tenaciously to the wing-tips, keep their eyes on the pilot for his hand signals. Left arm outstretched to port side, indicates 'Turn to Port', right arm, in similar fashion, indicates 'Turn to Starboard'. Right arm straight ahead means precisely that.
Nothing complicated about that except this was a punishment drill and, after about twenty minutes twisting from port to, ahead to, starboard and so on and so on, at 20/25 mph our lads were not only experts at taxying - they were also absolutely knackered! To break the monotony 'Chiefy' would make the occasional straight ahead burst, at 30 mph causing his victims to assume a near horizontal position while hanging on for dear life!
The engine of the Avro 504K died suddenly. Johnny and Charlie had no idea where they were. "O.K. you two twits - back to your classes!"
The sight of those two bedraggled lambs was too much for even the battle-hardened 'Brown bomber'. He burst into laughter - accompanied by all the erks who had been brought out to witness the spectacle!
"Miserable bastard!", muttered Johnny to his fellow conspirator.
"Oh, 'ee is orlright, is 'Chiefy Hards', reely. We were together at 'Quetta'. 'Ee was a hero at the rescue op. That's why 'ee 'as them gongs below 'is brevet." Thus spoke L.A.C. Trainell, no bitterness, no rancour, only the true cockney's philosophy. But then Charlie got his weekend in London. Johnny didn't! Nevertheless, another lesson was learned - 'shut up and get on with it!'
( Quetta ? A small township on the border of Afghanistan and India , at that time, 1935. A severe earthquake had devastated the area and the R.A.F had mounted a rescue operation, Chiefy Hards was the hero of the hour !
Once again, the 'high heid yins' up at Adastral House, Whitehall, made a brilliant strategical move by posting Johnny and Arthur to different squadrons - a bold decision, stretching the R.A.F's resources to the very limit!
To the unenlightened, 'Squadron Life' is a nebulous term, but to the reluctant erk it means 'El Dorado' (anyway that is what Corporal Young told them at the Depot?) While Arthur's posting was to Bomber Command, Johnny's was to the Fleet Air Arm - Headquarters Flight, H.M.S. Furious, at R.A.F. Donibristle, Fife, SCOTLAND! The shock of a possible life at sea was offset by being so near home, and a certain young lassie called Gracie? (But that tale has Saga status and will be dealt with elsewhere).
A peculiar change started evolving with the introduction into 'Squadron Life'. The name "Johnny" gradually matured into "Jock" bringing with it a maturity in the youth himself.
"Jock", in the service at least, seemed to command a respect not previously experienced. Most of Jock's comrades at 'Doni-B' were 'Old Sweats' with several years of service, many on overseas stations with mystical names like Shaibah, Habbaniyeh, Mespot, Basra, Hong Kong, Singapore etc. Therefore, it was a tremendous boost to young Jock's ego to be treated as an equal by such Empire Heroes! (Subsequent events were to produce a few fallen idols).
R.A.F. Donibristle seemed to confirm Corporal Young's propaganda that Squadron Life was indeed 'El Dorado'. Working on various types of aircraft - Swordfish, Ospreys, the occasional Magister or visiting Walrus, was food and drink to young Jock. The station itself had a mixed complement of Royal Marines, Royal Navy and R.A.F. personnel. Within the year the R.A.F. would hand over all 'Carrier Borne' aircraft and the Royal Navy would assume command of this Service - as The Fleet Air Arm.
But, in the meantime, Jock was in his element - rigging airframes, servicing control systems, patching fabric, checking out deck arrester gear etc. His first task, on the direct instructions of 'Chiefy' himself, and he learned later, the strongest possible recommendations by his 'old sweat' heroes - was to replace the elevator control cables of six 'Fairey Swordfish' of 822 Flight. These cables passed directly under the compass and were suspected of causing navigational errors, therefore, had to be replaced by stainless steel, non-magnetic cables. The task involved changing two cables per aircraft with two splices per cable - a total of 24 splices covering the six Swordfish! Halfway through the operation it slowly started to dawn on Jock why his old sweat heroes were so enthusiastic in their recommendations? With blistered and bleeding hands - a few of Jock's idols had started to fall. Another lesson had been learned!

Apart from that short sharp shock, times were still fairly pleasant at 'Doni-B'. Cycling around Fife on half-days off, the occasional trip into Aberdour or Dunfermline with squadron oppos for tours of the local hostelries. Every four weeks or so, with a bit of luck, a weekend pass would come Jock's way, then it would be a bee-line for Dundee and home to 'Ma's' and a rendezvous with 'The Boys' that same evening - the 'jiggin'' was a must! In those days Dundee was a virtual Mecca for the terpsichorean fanatic. Something like 24 dance halls for a city of 185,000 population. Those idyllic weekends were actually preludes to Jock's attempts at 'going steady'. Only Grace can testify how alluring these attempts were. The passage of time proved them successful!

In comparison with the first eighteen years of Jock's life, the Service years were almost Paradise - but now strange ominous rumours were circulating? One Friday night/Saturday morning, in September 1938 these rumours hardened into reality! A Station Dance had been organised for 'all ranks' of the three services stationed at Doni-B. A wonderful time was had by all and, although most of the 'revellers' were feeling no pain, the gradual disappearance of certain officers and Senior N.C.0s did not go unnoticed? Jock and his oppos eventually staggered back to their billets, collapsing in little heaps on their respective 'Macdonalds' - still slightly bemused at the disappearing N.C.Os and Officers?

At 02.00 hours all was revealed - with the banging of doors, blowing of whistles, bellowed commands of, "Out of your Pits! Feet on the Deck! Everybody, down to the hangars - at the double!" Everyone scampered down to the 'drome, as silently as possible. Theirs was not to reason why. The scene there was only a minor improvement on Bedlam, until old 'Chiefy' took control of the situation.

"All aircraft to be aboard 'Furious' by 06.00 hours. The P.M. is having a problem with Adolf - move it!" For the next hour Jock was cranking Inertia Starters on 'Swordfish', direct cranking R.R. 'Kestrels' on 'Ospreys', pulling away chocks from aeroplanes and dodging particularly vicious airscrews! At approximately 0 6 .05 hours the drome suddenly fell silent - the half-drunken nightmare ended. Cold reality slowly filtered through. Were they at war? To Jock and his oppos this episode was, henceforth, known as 'The Munich Panic'. By 06.30 hours with the first streaks of dawn silhouetting the Bass Rock, H.M.S. Furious nosed her way silently down the Forth. The douce citizens of 'Auld Reekie' just starting to stir for their day's labours were blissfully unaware of this prologue to coming events.
Within little more than twelve months the first enemy invaders, since the English, would perish by her shores - at the hands of her sons!

If our Jock ever thought of such possibilities, it was not at that particular time! Despite all the hectic activities, it had been a long night and an alcoholic hunger was making its presence felt!
In the dining hall, the radio made the most of how Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain had procured a magic 'piece of paper' which would ensure 'Peace In Our Time' (?)
Not long after the 'Munich Panic', various Air Marshalls became involved in what appeared to be a cross between 'draughts' and 'find the squadron', one of the end results being - Jock was posted to Bomber Command and, reluctantly said goodbyes to his first real squadron comrades. Some very good friends, some hard men, and some rascals (such as those who conned him into the splicing 'sting'!) All of whom had, knowingly or unknowingly, contributed to knocking young Jock into a fair imitation of a Professional Serviceman.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.