大象传媒

Brought up in south east Essex, around Leigh on Sea. I was seventeen when the war started, and worked as a messenger in the ARP. I remember when the first raids started, the Germans laid magnetic mines along the Thames. By about May 1940 though, the south and east coasts were designated as evacuation areas and I went to a village near Buckingham for nine months. During this period, on September 7th 1940 in fact, I went back to London to attend a wedding in Ilford. The docks were bombed heavily that day, and I watched them burn through the night. I decided then that I wanted to be a Night Fighter pilot. As soon as I was old enough, I joined the RAF.

I went to Blackpool for basic training for six weeks. We used to do exercises on the beach. I remember that the braces we wore had very little, if any, elastic I them and the cotton that was used was of rather poor quality. We also had metal buttons in those days. Well the strains on these resources got too much, and when the chaps bent over during exercises, you could be bombarded with metal buttons flying off in all directions.

Via airfields at Ouston, North East, South Cerney, Glos, and Catterick, Yorkshire, I was moved to Torquay for Initial Training; six weeks of theory, before moving to Booker near High Wycombe. Here we learnt to fly Tiger Moths. I went solo after about 8 hours, which I think was average. On my second solo flight, I decided to pay a visit to the village I had stayed in. All went well until I followed the wrong railway line on the way out and saw a balloon barrage straight in front of me. I thought I recognised Wembley Stadium, just a little out of my way (!), and, as fighter pilots aren鈥檛 renowned for their navigational skills, turned and headed north and then west. Eventually I saw a lake near Amersham that I recognised, and hugged the twisting road all the way back to base. My fuel was nearly out by the time I got back. The Flight C/O came over, and seeing my face decided I had probably learnt my lesson already, and so sent me for lunch.

From here it was off to Service Flight Training School in Shropshire, which ended up flying Hurricanes, before going to Operational Training Unit for Fighters in South Wales. This was my introduction to the Spitfire. It should be noted that previous courses had experienced a number of prangs, and the C/O was getting a little brassed off about it. Well, I hit a pile of drainpipes while taxiing. It鈥檚 one thing to have a problem in the air or during take off or landing, but during taxiing is a little embarrassing to say the least! My excuse is that in a Spitfire, you can鈥檛 actually see over the nose. You have to zigzag in order to see at an angle. Anyway, someone must have moved the pipes in front of me! Needless to say, I was called in to see the Wing Commander who was sitting there with his dog. He explained his frustration at the number of accidents, and ordered me to report to the Guard Room at 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11pm. He then asked if I had anything to say. Well, I suppose you can call it the innocence of youth, or just stupidity, but I replied that 鈥淚鈥檓 usually in bed by 10 Sir鈥�. Both the C/O and the dog seemed to rise into the air together鈥�

It wasn鈥檛 held against me as I got a posting to an operational unit, 242 Squadron, Douglas Bader鈥檚 old unit. It was May or June 1941 and the Battle of Britain was over, and the threat of invasion had eased. I was only with 242 for about a month before being posted overseas.

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