大象传媒

The Barrage Balloon that I went inside at a Kenley air display before the WAR would prove to be an experience with lasting impressions on a road to close encounters in ethereal surroundings.
Having arrived early at Kenley - first, as usual - I quickly saw I was the only one inside this vast jumbo with three large ears. I was somewhat surprised too by how much light penetrated the flimsy silver-grey material: it was almost transparent, silky, slippery to the touch, and even more like liquid. It wasn't made with sheer rubber like a kid's balloon, yet was not porous material, obviously. It gave me much food for thought - and, at a later date, would test my preservation instincts to the full.
One of the many ground attractions open for viewing, the eye-catching balloon was kept pumped up by a petrol engined compressor and was entered via a smallish fabric tunnel: a hands and knees task minus your shoes.

During the War, much use was made of barrage balloons for the tethering steel cable was a fearful deterrent to low flying aircraft. Aloft over our strategic factories, important towns, and harbours along such as our south coast, Portsmouth and Dover in particular, these gas filled monsters did a useful job. German fighter pilots when unemployed, or just feeling playful, would often pick on the Dover ballons as a sporting pastime, sending dozens down in bullet ridden flames. I bet it was great fun?! However, the sky was then clear for a few dive bombers to get some useful practice.

On three occasions during the Battle of Britain, breakaway balloons came drifting across our Chaldon skies: trailing a long cable, though these lost jumbos were a nuisance to our own pilots and planes. It was then our pilots who came in for some useful target practice.

By mid June of 1944 many hundreds of barrage balloons were to be seen strung across the home counties. The fast infamous flying bombs were making for London in droves, and by one form or another their destruction became a high priority. Flying at 400mph, it was no easy job for many of our pilots flying fighters that could barely keep pace with the now termed 'doodle bugs'. Anti-aircraft guns too found difficulty initially, so shooting them down by gun fire was a chancy business. So the third and final line of defence would be a curtain of balloon cables. This had its successes too, and one day near Redhill I saw a doodle bug go streaking almost vertically skywards after hitting a cable. It was sitll going upwards when reaching the clouds, so where or what became of its end I never knew. I found the doodle bug very fascinating for I was very 'air' minded, knew every plane in the sky by name and for a long time been determined to get into the sky - one way or another.
At night the flying bombs looked even more impressive for the exhaust jet streaming behind the 'thing' with a mind of its own was very reminiscent of our pre-war fireworks of the rocket type. The noise they made was quite unforgettable too; and when you heard this loud distinctive sound suddenly cut out you'd know it was terminating its flight with a very loud bang; it was time to 'duck' or vanish quickly.

But I hadn't seen the last of barrage balloons yet for on joining the army in early 1945, I made tracks towards joining the Parachute Regiment. After first training at Lanark in Scotland, then three months in the Isle of Wight, July saw me arriving at Ringway, Manchester, for para training at the famous Parachute Training School. At last my great chance to enter the aeroplanes and sky had arrived. I was 18 years and two months old and about to know the 'moment of truth'.

After some strap hanging and mat bashing in a large hanger it was then time to make for Tatton Park, the pasture landing ground for trainee boys and men parachutists. Here we were to make two descents from barrage balloons before getting at the ample lovely Dakotas seen parked and waiting at Ringway.

The Ringway parachute course called for eight jumps to be made in order to 'claim' the very coveted Wings. The long hard path of soldier training - the awful 'bash' routines so well know to Para men - was now all behind me, and now waiting here before me at the Park, three ubiquitous balloons sat tethered to mobile lorry winches; those huge silver-grey wind-bags with their great lop-ears were ready and waiting to carry us aloft within a soft-topped box-like cage dangling on cotton-thin threads X yards below their soft, bulging underbelly.
Having watched the first groups fall their hundred feet before the 'plop' of parachute opening, then heard the relieved calls from happy pals, all too soon it was my turn and I swallowed my Adam's apple yet again.

'Seven up and five down', yelled the Sergeant dispatcher's voice to the waiting winchman, and five more of us boys went drifting upwards for the first time. It was frightening!! Straight down from an unsteady little floor hovering at 700 feet looks closer to a mile, while the big grey belly just above looks ridiculously flimsy, and even a bit flopperty. The one I went inside as a boy - at Kenley - that felt a bit flimsy! Is this the same one?! Was this one knocked-about by a doodle-bug? - or a Messerschmitt at Dover? - damaged! Have they pumped it up enough? Is it leakin' gas??! Will it 'pop' with a sudden burst - or break away to search the upper sky for an everlasting life of freedom? All such possibilities and insecurities cross and counter-cross a precariously poised junior numb-brain about to comit its body to such a foolhardy act as jumping from that mini cage.
The nail biting must stop. There's an order to 'stand to the door number three!' -and believe it or not - that moment in time had come. At the door all the world appeared spread beneath my tremblin body. - What had I done!! -
--'GO!' --

At that stage in life one has to go regardless; discipline ensures it; a big Sergeant orders you: the fear of cowardice - and what the others would think of your 'chicken liver' should you refuse, and the promise made to yourself about 'even if it kills me' - all the heart bursting training would be wasted; and yes - that extra shilling a day 'Danger' money.
Following a long sickening drop, a jerking snatch opens the parachute with a 'plop'. You are alive! You have done it!! There's nothing to it, and you've swallowed your wretched heart for nothing.
Casting a few glances around the countryside, a mere few seconds later I bounced onto the lovely grass of Tatton park.
Pretending not to feel a sharp ankle twinge, I freed myself from the chute harness and joined the others making for the tea wagon and a cigarette. I could walk without a limp, but only just. Whatever was wrong though would have to wait till later, when I could secretly inspect the damage. It was a law to report injuries;mandatory. But I didn't, and although some days it gave me hell, and silent tears! - for I'd suffered a stress fracture near my right ankle, I completed the five Dakota jumps without further damage and avoided all the 'Drop Zone' observers watching eyes. With only the final night jump from a balloon to cope with in total darkness, I kept my fingers crossed for the long, dark, drop. At least no one would see my final shielding of ankle sprawl in the dewy grass. I had successfully cheated the law, and death?
Headed - Up in a Balloon Boys - Up in a Balloon - the rest of this story is written in a book dedicated to the Paras at the Airborne Museum at Aldershot.

Later in 1945 I made two more Dakota jumps on Salisbury plains and three jumps from the four engined ex bombers Halifax aircraft at an airfield in Essex. Then followed a long period in Palestine before, in Germany, parachuting caught up with me again. Balloon jumps! I felt scared stiff, yet following a crafty bit of trickery, I made four jumps instead of the course quota of two. Up in a balloon boy.....a balloon.

end

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