大象传媒

If we pre-war boys considered the 1930's as marvellous chapters in the saga of wings and flight, then the WAR could prove to be our oyster. After all, flying was never classified as a cheap pastime, and neither my father or any uncles of our family ever had money enough to go flying, so what were my chances; probably nil as I saw matters. We weren't wealthy. Then there was the education hurdles to be surmounted, for academic qualifications were quite beyond my horizons.
But there was one way into the open sky that a numbskull could find manageable - the parachute back door way. And so it proved, and with my army infantry training mostly behind me by early July, the next two weeks saw the oyster transformed to Golden Oriole. At 18 years and two months I came face to face with impossible reality.
By extemporaneous circumstances and having volunteered at 171/2 years, I was on the threshold of ambitious dreams a mere four weeks before the termination of WAR. And no way - before the war or after - could a body achieve so much in two weeks as we could at Britain's Number One Parachute Training School at Ringway, Manchester in 1945; and at the Government's expence too - with pay!! What we achieved in those two weeks would today in civvy life cost a small fortune. Then you couldn't do it with such lovely 'toys' like we had in 1945. Those wonderful Douglas Dakotas. (Later, Halifax bombers too!).
With the first sessions given over to harness swinging and mat bashing - perhaps three days - we were then bused to Tatton Park to acquaint ourselves with barrage balloons that would lift us to 700 feet for our first two para descents. It was really a question of re-aquaint for me for I had actually been inside an inflated balloon at Kenley aerodrome before the War. Then aged 11 years, the vastness of silky soft fabric with three great floppy ears had been breathtakingly awesome. It was Empire Air Day the yearly air display that thrilled both boys and men, and hopefully invited some to join and participate in all functions attributal to our Royal Air Force.

Three of the jumbo balloons with box-like cages swung beneath them, sat waiting above their winch lorries at the Park, ready and willing to lift us skywards at a Sergeant's shouted command of '7 up and 5 down'. Now I was into my first ascent, and it was frightening! Straight down from 700 feet seemed like a mile! Then the first of our group of five young men jumped out and disappeared. Then it was my turn!! --'GO!!!' - And I did. At long last I was floating down to the grass of Tatton Park. Next day was another balloon jump before it was the turn of my favourite Dakotas. It was all marvellous. First we jumped 'clean', then took on kitbags with weight in them.
Between jumps the pilots gave us evasive action flights. This meant flinging the aircraft about in swings and dives as if evading flak or fighters. With no parachutes on, the twenty two of us found ourselves floating around the fuselage as zero gravity unseated us from the side bench seating. It was a strange feeling, and laughable to some of us. Others looked very sick indeed though as we alternated between colliding with the roof and floor and many uncontrolled boots and bodies.
At the weekend I volunteered my body as ballast for trainee pilots, for dropping parachutists needed a good measure of skill. But I was making sure of my money's worth of available flights. I had waited long enough to start flying and now it was all happening in two short weeks.
With the Dakota jumps behind us it was now time for the final descent - a night drop in total blackout darkness from an unseen balloon somewhere above us. It was quite a 'shock' and the bang into the grass left me a bit winded. But all was well and we gratefully collected our famous Wings.

Balloons, aeroplanes and parachutes all in a dozen days. That's good value for money - the King's in our war-time 1945.

And I can honestly say that the WAR did me a power of good and a whole string of favours.

Yippeeee

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