大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War Website by Elizabeth Perez of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Ted Holdsworth and has been added to the site with his permission. He fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

During the war, I was an engine mechanic in the R.A.F. Some airfields' names make me smile: "Sealand", "Half-penny Green", "Moreton-in-the-Marsh", and in Wales, "Llandrog".

I once travelled by train to another posting, and in the early hours, while alighting from an unlit non-corridor compartment, managed to put my foot in the gap between the train and the platform. As I went down in a heap, followed by my kit-bag and haversack, I became very much awake! A kindly policeman escorted me to a waiting-room and cleared a large table, where I lay till daylight, surveying the many sleeping forms of different uniforms and nationalities in the gas-lit room.

I remember when one camp I was in was transferred from the north of England to Worcester, in the south. The aircraft (Wellingtons) were flown down in formation with just the pilot and one mechanic, complete with tool box. The only place I recognised was a smokey Birmingham, and I had some misgivings, when my pilot finally indicated what seemed like a football pitch as our destination.

When I was in Wales, one of our duties was on mountain rescue, with many trips made in mist and rocky hills, to bring back bodies and salvagables. It put me off climbing for good. I could never understand why all of the dead crews' flying boots were not in place on the feet, but lay scattered among the wreckage.

A visit to a Nuffield Centre (like a YMCA) in London, enabled me to witness GI soldiers performing their remarkable Jitterbugging - a truly amazing experience!

Back on the airfields, returning aircraft were often met at the end of the runway, the crews transfeered to Jeeps, and the mechanics taxied the planes to their perimeter bases. It was at this time that I earned the dubious nickname of "Flash", for my ability to position my unwieldy noisy machines as closely together as possible for re-fuelling. This was no easy feat on a grassy field, in the dark as well as daylight. I draw a veil over the many mishaps (the blame conveniently put elsewhere).

Boy appretices at Aylesbury would march to the cook-house every day, white pint mugs in their right hand, eating "irons" in the left. They had their own brass band, which was led by the goat mascot, who had his own place at the table, where he ate breakfast, unguarded caps, bootlaces and anything else within his reach. I was at this camp on VJ night, and will always remember the N.A.A.F.I. piano being played on the square at midnight by the commanding officer, and the goat had become very drunk!

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