大象传媒

鈥淲artime crossing of the Atlantic in a Ghost Ship.鈥�

It was in the winter of 1944 when a group of potential aircrew arrived in Greenock on the banks of the Clyde and, as dawn broke, I had my first sight of the liner that was to carry us across the Atlantic to North America.
Apart from the new experience of sailing on the high seas which were still peppered with occasional U-boat activity, my apprehension was greatly increased when I recognised the four funnel vessel as the 鈥楻MS Aquitania鈥� for I had read three years earlier that she was destined for a scrap yard!

In September of the previous year I had reported to ACRC (Air Crew Reception Centre) which was housed in Viceroy Court, a prewar block of luxury apartments on the edge of Regent鈥檚 Park, and literally within earshot of the nearby Zoo. The aim of the ACRC was to take in civilians and within a short time to output fully documented, medically checked, inoculated, 鈥榢itted out鈥�, but still raw 鈥榖oys in blue鈥�. The days were long 鈥� we were roused about 6 a.m. by energetic corporals from the PE branch of the service, queued for breakfast, & then spent most of the rest of the day queuing for such essentials as medical & dental inspections, holding our arms out for vaccinations and inoculations, receiving a kit bag and filling it with the many standard issue of clothing and other items deemed necessary for survival in the RAF. Uniform was not issued on the basis of measurements but on a visual assessment by a store corporal plus the sizes that happened to be available 鈥� this resulted in my wearing baggy trousers throughout most of my three year鈥檚 service. As trainee aircrew I wore a white flash in my forage cap, and propeller badges on my shoulders that denoted the rank of Leading Aircraftsman. We also learned the basic art of each morning folding our blankets in the approved manner around our bed 鈥榖iscuits鈥� (mattresses like Caesar鈥檚 Gaul came in three parts)鈥�.but above all we learned to queue!

After three weeks we were posted to an ITW (Initial Training Wing) at Stratford-upon-Avon. Initial training for aircrew involved the 鈥榚ssential鈥� skills of drill and of marching, with and without rifles. We were billeted in a commandeered hotel whose rooms, instead of numbers, were identified by the names of Shakespeare plays. The Memorial Theatre was open but, contrary to dramatic expectations, offered a farce, 鈥淚s Your Honeymoon Really Necessary?鈥�. At least Stratford was a pleasant location.
We route marched through the Warwickshire countryside singing to well known hymns & operatic tunes though with amended lyrics that might even have shocked ribald Will. We whistled at every female encountered whilst marching 鈥� sexual assertion & harassment were in those days an accepted and even part of service and civilian mores.

The next stage of training would be the first to actually involve flying. Until this stage we had all been generic aircrew with a common training. Now we were to be assessed and assigned as pilots, navigators, bomb aimers, wireless operators, flight engineers and air gunners. Those provisionally allocated to the first three categories moved to a Flying Grading School鈥�..in my case to Sywell in Northamptonshire (still operating as an airfield). Here I was given up to ten hours of instruction in the then basic training aircraft of the RAF, a DeHavilland 鈥楾iger Moth鈥� 鈥� an open cockpit two seater 鈥榯ail dragger鈥� biplane. Clad in Biggles style helmets, sheepskin lined leather jackets and boots, and a pilot parachute 鈥� a type of parachute that swung to catch the unwary behind the knees as one clambered onto the lower wing 鈥� I clambered into the cockpit where the chute became a cushion to sit on. There was a speaking tube to communicate with the instructor who sat in the front cockpit, but hand signals proved essential as we climbed and dived, spun, practised circuit flying. As a balance to out sorties in the clear winter skies we were literally brought down to earth by turns at night sentry duty on the snow clad approach to the airfield. On the basis of my aerial performance the CFI (Chief Flying Instructor) decided, probably wisely, that I was not destined to become the ace fighter or bomber pilot that I had aspired to be. The 鈥榮ystem鈥� then decided that as I had demonstrated some skills in academic subject areas, particularly in mathematics, my further training should be aimed at the role of a navigator in Bomber Command.

From Sywell I was to join hundreds of trainee pilots and navigators at Heaton Park, on the outskirts of Manchester. Heaton Park as a "holding" unit where aircrew waited for vacancies to arise in the overseas bases where the majority of pilots and navigators received their training. It as till winter and we were housed in corrugated metal Nissen Huts. Two coke stoves were intended to provide a source of warmth in the hut. There was a ration of fuel which was augmented by "foraging" other combustible materials, and on cold nights the stoves glowed red hot whilst filling the hut with pungent fumes. In retrospect this must be have CO2 but I never heard of any fatalities. Twice a week we paraded and stood in the snow or rain (it was Manchester!) Whilst names were read out. Those names were the lucky ones who were to move abroad for the next stage of their training. Apart from these parades, a separate pay parade, and some PE and drill, it now became a matter of waiting - and waiting - and yet more waiting - until the logistics of course vacancies at the Flying Training Schools gave rise to spaces at the overseas holding stations and linked with spaces in troop ships - far apart from radio operators and airguns, most aircrew received their initial flying training either in South Africa or North American. When eventually one's name and service number was read out, security did not allow the destination to be announced. Despite this local civilian population seemed to know before we did and marginally before exercising the deductive powers of a Sherlock Holmes, we had cracked the code for bearing in mind, that this was winter time in the northern hemisphere, we were issued with either bush shirts and shorts or long johns and helmets with ear muffs. The wait at Heaton Park seemed interminable but after weeks there came that roll call when my name was one of those ordered to report to the stores to draw overseas kit. As I found myself stuffing winter clothing into my kit bag, I knew that my destination was across the Atlantic and a night or so later boarded a train that made its tedious way through blacked out countryside and unsigned stations (station signs had been removed to confuse any invading Germans who might look up a timetable and "let a train take the strain").

So back to the opening encounter with the "Aquitania". She had been saved from the breakers yard to serve as a troopship, a role which she had also performed in WW1. She had carried a full complement of GI's on their way to the soon to be opened European front, and now waited to carry a small group of trainees across the Atlantic. We were allocated to four tier canvas bunks and that evening we sailed down the Clyde, rounded Northern Ireland and then headed south west. There was no convoy and no visible escort. Information gleaned from the crew was that the "powers that be" had decided that the "Aquitania" was safer to sail alone, using its speed and contrived zip-zagging course to avoid U-boats. It had also been judged safer to avoid a direct course across the Atlantic in favour of one that went south to the Azores. There was little to occupy us on the ten-day trip apart from an allocated duty. My duty was that of sitting for a third of each day on watch beside a watertight door deep in the bowels of the ship. My instructions were simple though limited. If the ship's alarm sounded, then I was to close the door. Sitting here I was able to observe that, as the ship climbed and descended the Atlantic rollers, the door moved in opposition to the surrounding hull rather like plates rubbing against each other in an earthquake. Couple with the preknowledge of the "Aquitania" this not help my confidence in the crossing. It was therefore with considerable relief that on the ninth day our growing proximity to land was heralded by a US Navy blimp overflying the ship. We had not been told our destination but as dusk fell the next day land was sighted, and my teen-age addiction to American films off and I recognised the profile of Coney Island pleasure park. That we had reached New York was confirmed by sailing past the Statue of Liberty and sharing to an extent the combination of relief and apprehensive expectation of the future that countless emigrants must have felt.

Peter C. Love
August 2005

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