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This story was submitted to the People's War Website by Eddy Hornby of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Leslie Landells and has been added to the site with his permission. He fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

During early 1943 I had received another setback. I contacted a rather virulent strepocci/strepoccus throat and chest infection. I had got up from my bunk and just collapsed. The next I knew, I woke up in Sick Bay.

For what seemed interminable days, I had a raging fever. My throat particularly, was agonizing. I could hardly swallow liquids much less food. I rapidly lost weight and during the nights particularly, the pain was almost unbearable.

After what seemed a never-ending period of time, in the dark early hours of one morning, I felt I could not stand the extreme pain any longer. I prayed for relief, one way of the other.

I then must have gone into a deep sleep, the first since I first collapsed. During which I dreamed I had entered a long tunnel. The walls of which were white. As I cam towards the end, I saw an extraordinarily bright ‘light’. I had nearly reached it when my dream must have ended. A short time afterwards I woke up. Unbelievably there was no pain or discomfort whatsoever. I felt completely cured although not surprisingly, very, very hungry. I rose from my bunk and walked along corridor after corridor seeking something to eat. Alas all the cupboards were locked. Eventually I fond a crust or two of bread and wolfed them down. I then returned to my bunk and slept soundly.

During all this time, I heard no sound or encountered another soul.

I have faith so cannot discount this incident as only a vivid dream. I can only add I believe it to be associated with the power of prayer. Otherwise how could I have been cured almost instantly? The RAF medical staff could not or would not offer any explanation. Without being critical, I think they were only too pleased to see a budding RAF Pilot recovering, to continue flying. As were the ‘top brass’. For it cost many thousands of pounds to train one pilot. Quite rightly and properly they and the country needed valuable and necessary return on their investment.

As it was my weight had reduced to less than eight stone and I felt rather weak, to say the least. However, I was discharged within a day or two without my weight being checked. Then a few days later I was called to the flight section. To my amazement I was on the roster to fly circuit and bumps and practice spinning. I did not query the order as I did not want anyone to question my capability to pilot a plane. As of course I wanted to gain the coveted ‘wings’ at all costs.

Actually I can’t remember if it was during this first flight but I think it was, that I ground looped on landing. But I do know that during the flight I was covered in sweat and very light headed. The plane was obviously damaged (I have a photo of it). Very shortly after I was ordered to the Squadron Leader’s office. All he said and confirmed in writing was ‘inexperience ground looped after landing’.

Over the ensuing years I have not altered my own opinion, which was, he took one look at the pasty faced skeletal airman in front of him and thought and decided something didn’t add up. He then made enquiries and wisely decided the matter should rest, as far as I was concerned. But I feel fairly certain that some of the medical staff ‘caught a rocket’. After all, apart from me nearly killing myself, I could have killed others and there was the substantial cost of an aircraft write-off.

I was very sad then to find I had been transferred to the next course. How I missed my friends of many months.

Gradually I gained weight and strength but it was a struggle to keep on top of the required standards to gain my ‘wings’.

The ‘Buchan Clan’, as I affectionately nicknamed them, were a tower of strength in my recovery. To this day I cannot thank them enough. They were a credit to their Scottish ancestry and Canadian adoption. I kept in touch with ‘Tiny’ by letter for some months, but other demands and duties intervened. She enrolled as a nurse and, I heard later, although how I cannot recall, she made a good one and in time gained the position of Matron.

I only ever met two of the pilot trainees from my original course again.

One was called Gordon Leighton who was one of the middle class types. I thought we got on quite well. After the war ended I was travelling to work on a bus along Oxford Road in Manchester. I saw him enter the lobby of an imposing building which housed the head office of the Tootal Tie Company. So I wrote to him saying I would be pleased to meet him again and exchange reminiscences. I never received a reply.

I cannot remember the name of the other airman, but he looked very much like Ian McShane, the actor who played the role of the antique dealer in the TV series. He seemed to be a similar ‘jack the lad’ character. He actually married a very wealthy ‘merry widow’ in Calgary. No-one could find out how he received the RAF’s permission to marry, as they were very strict about such things. He was only aged I would guess, around 23/24 years of age at the time and the widow seemed to be a fair bit over 40 years old.

Their wedding took place in one of the top hotels in Calgary. Quite a few of us on the same course were invited to the reception. No expense was spared and the wine and spirits flowed freely. At one point the happy couple left for a while. On their return, it was said he regaled some of the guests with what transpired. Apparently they had indulged in rather torrid lovemaking in the hotel’s largest bathtub.

The next time I saw him was on a bus in Cambridge in August/Sept 1943. I was in Cambridge on an instructor’s course. He didn’t look at all well. Then I remembered he was known to drink more than was good for him. I spoke to him and mentioned Calgary. I don’t know if he made the connection, as he was moving along the bus to get off — then he was gone.

On my new course I took up where I left off with intensive training on the ground and in the air. Piloting Harvard II single engined monoplanes manufactured in the USA. Also Anson twin engined aircraft on cross country flights and my first training for night flying.

There was a Master single engined monoplane on the airfield. A powerful machine used for training up to Hurricane and Spitfire standards. Most of us thought we would be flying this aircraft before passing out. But apparently it was only used by the very senior flying instructors. In any event the air war in Europe was going our way. The enemy fighter force was deteriorating very fast. The need was for us to increase our bomber squadrons and replace aircrew losses. So as far as I know, we were all assigned for twin and four engined bomber training. Although it turned out that a few including myself, were selected for training as instructors on Tiger Moth and Magister, single engined aircraft.

However, when still at RAF Calgary on a day off, I decided to see how the poorer citizens lived. Calgary city centre looked impressive and prosperous. As were the suburbs where the ‘Buchan Clan’ lived. It was a long walk from the centred of the extreme outskirts. The further out I walked the less salubrious the houses. I then came to the prairie itself. I walked on for a while until I was out of sight of the last of the dwellings. When I looked up, I saw that the Northern Lights were coming on. As the strange and weird movement across the sky increased, I suddenly became slightly afraid as by then, it was nearly dusk. I couldn’t see any buildings and with turning around to view the lights, I was disorientated. The vast expanse of the sky and prairie brought on an overwhelming sense of isolation. I looked around and knew I had to make the right choice of direction, for the wrong one could leave me stranded somewhere on the prairie. I prayed and thankfully I chose the correct direction and within a few minutes I saw some lights. As I walked along the dirt road between rather ramshackle buildings, I felt for the inhabitants and thanked them for having their lights on and showing me the way, even if they only seemed to be oil lamps.

Ever since then when visiting towns and cities, in the UK or overseas, I have always tried to visit the poorer areas. It helps me to accept how fortunate myself and my family have been over the last 60 years or so.

At the end of April 1943 I received my wings with the rank of Sergeant Pilot. The ‘Buchan Clan’ came to the presentation ceremony, ‘God Bless Them’.

May 1943

Eventually I was posted back to Monckton. We travelled along the Canadian Pacific railroad, stopping occasionally as before, including Winnipeg. Next stop was Montreal where we were given a 24hr pass to see the city. A most beautiful and cosmopolitan city. There was no sign of a world war in evidence except for some posters here and there. The French language and signs were very obvious. But all in all, the city and its citizens were very acceptable.

We boarded a much smaller vessel for our return to the UK, than the former converted luxury liner on the outward voyage. We arrived in Liverpool within 3.1/2 days or so. In much less time than the outward trip due it was felt, because we were gaining the upper hand in the ‘U’boat theatre of war. Later we were told we had taken the shortest possible course, hence the short duration of the voyage. There was also no naval escort as previously.

I was then sent to Harrogate, Yorkshire to await my next posting. We were billeted in the usual good class hotel (stripped to bare essentials). Again, I cannot recall all that transpired. But we were drilled and marched with the usual tea breaks. There were limited sports facilities. We also had to undergo all sorts of aptitude tests. Harrogate, as is well known, is a lovely town so our stay was a pleasant interlude from the war. Actually I may have mentioned before, that I was stationed in Harrogate more than once between RAF stations. It has just come to my mind that I may have been sent to RAF Padgate on this occasion before my posting to Harrogate. (Incidentally one day we were all directed to march in a ‘Wing’ for a Victory parade in Leeds).

July 1943

I was posted to No.4 Flying Instructors School (Elementary) in Cambridge.

Again there were new techniques to be learned and more aerial training to be undergone. I had a most satisfying time as far as the flying was concerned. The weather was almost perfect and like many other Pilots, I flew low over the River Cam and had sailing boats in our slipstream leaning over at most acute angles. We also engaged in aerobatics of every kind.

One day on the airfield I saw an officer pilot whose face was terribly scarred. He was still flying Tiger Moths and Magister planes, I think he was an instructor.

Once again, after more than 3 years in the RAF it was back to the war for me.

I passed my flying instructor tests with an ‘average’ rating. But failed the teaching standard required. I was a hands on person and, to a large degree, still am. Not like my eldest son, Stephen, 53 years old, who was the Head of the Science and Technology department at our local comprehensive school, Werneth High. Teaching was a vocation to him.

Sadly he died this morning at 11:30 am, Friday 26th August 2005 as I was adding to my war memoirs.

His last words to me, with a deep sadness in his eyes, were ‘I loved teaching Dad, especially when actually teaching the children.’

He was highly regarded and thought of by his pupils, their parents, teaching colleagues, friends and all who knew him.

As was confirmed by the overflowing attendance at the funeral at St Chads Church, Romiley, our local C of E church. From there we went to Stockport Crematorium. The cortege then drove past Werneth High School, Bredbury where he taught for 32 years.

The wake was held at The Old Rectory, in the local hamlet of Haughton Green. (A most appropriate and peaceful venue).

As a family and along with many of his friends we were shocked to find out that he had been treated for 9/10 years for irritable bowel syndrome. Then 2/3 months ago after seeking a specialist’s opinion, he was told he had cancer.

So now I will continue with the story of our bomber crew. But first let me say that I will once again be attending the airfield reunion of 12 and 626 Squadrons next Sunday, 11 September 2005 with my wife and some members of our family. Our Bomb Aimer, Boris Threadgold, as always, will be there with members of his family (all the way from Alton, Hampshire).

We are very sad at the moment but at least our son had 53 very happy and contented years. He would appreciate that our fellow comrades had so little time to live.

But we have faith enough to believe in destiny and God’s Will and that we will all meet our beloved ones once again. And as Nelson Mandela said, ‘What I have learned from life is being grateful for being alive and can serve society’.

Our son, through his chosen vocation certainly did that and most willingly. It has been said that he was a latter day ‘Mr Chips’ from the novel by James Hilton.

Go to, "Bomber Pilot Training in the UK 1943/44" by Leslie Landells

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