大象传媒

Part 7 Arrive at RAF Manston 1941

It was a fortuitous day to arrive. Everything was quiet. The most important change the feeling of space that stretched for miles. It was open as it could be, this was RAF Manston, and again he was lucky the worst bombing days there were over.
A main road that skirted the airfield was still open. Not too far away administration and general service buildings. Things seemed to be normal as the RAF personnel looking pretty smart as they walked around; it must have looked strange to them to see troops arriving on their soil in converted Lorries the wheels of the day. The Buff's arrived with little ceremony giving that feeling that they didn鈥檛 want this gang of youths running about their airfield. Here they were and they had to be billeted some where. Officers from both services came together with their official plans.
His platoon was moved into the cricket pavilion on the edge of an unused field. Catering arrangements were made to feed the troops in their own area. It would have its own cook and mess arrangements for the first time the food was edible and he didn鈥檛 have to spend anytime to get used to it.
Army routine early bugle calls were not used. Getting out of that nice warm bed was just as early. Luxuries of the official RAF hadn鈥檛 percolated down to this detachment of the Buff鈥檚. For some reason that he, Charlie g didn鈥檛 understand why it wasn鈥檛 considered a necessary requirement for ordinary ranks of the army.
It was only a short time before he settled in having space to breathe in, only a little of the Bull had survived from the Shorncliff Barrack days, it was the earliest of days and every thing was so much better.

With every opportunity he walked around the aerodrome in a space that seemed to fill the world, now he could be anything he wanted. The warrior figure within him grew, there were not enough medals in the whole world that couldn't be his if he wanted them then looked at the apparatus of war around him with the young-man's envy that he was just a member of PBI.
Placed in and around the airfield were bombers and fighter planes. In other parts of the air field huts with pilots sitting in or relaxing in the forecourt of the hut in their yellow jackets, ready for action. He looked and sighed, any man with his wings displayed on his blue uniform was a god to him. Powerful Hurricane and Spitfire fighters were parked in their three sided pits for some sort of protection. Other aeroplanes of all types were taking off; others lay motionless with men carrying out different types of maintenance. From within its silence the engine banged into life, an engineer barely visible is sitting in the cockpit revving it up and testing the engine. The lad saw no danger in that world of roaring engines and high-octane 鈥攕pirit, life was good. For a time he stood there, imagination again running its flight of fancy. There would be no help for the Enemy, none would be spared; such dreams are wonderful things when they are only dreams. For a time boredom had been replaced, If only he was one of them as he looked at his khaki uniform.

Time had arrived to go walkies, started off in the usual way standing there and just wanting to be a part of the picture. Stationary fighting planes with maintenance crew working on them were more than interesting to him. It was a great chance and nosed in on their operations with the usual pleasantries. It was his lucky day, during the talking he joked and offered to help. He was given the chance to sit on the tail of a Spitfire while the engine was being tested. He grabbed at the chance, at least, if only for a short time he was a part of that Spitfire. Making sure of the offer he ran to the tail as fast as he could and hoped that once in position there would be no change in theirs. One of there lads sat on the other tail, all set and it was off. What a great experience, it was a one off that could not be repeated. Once the engines started to turn that propeller it was a case of holding on as tight as possible to the tail with his hands. With no ear protection he wished that he could sprout another pair of hands.
Things changed around Charlie g; his physical structure no longer existed, now the only thing that held him together was a one-tone noise, it was like a block of air encased in sound and felt that he was in the centre of it. There was no choice now he had to sit there, with his head bend down as if to make room for the disturbed air to pass over his head and body and not through him.
There was a change to the smoothness of the sound, it had been broken by a cracking noise that seemed to find its way through this upheaval of this mechanical madness. Even though he enjoyed the experience, the engine noises had almost put an end to his endurance. Relief from it came when they eased off and stopped.
It was a bit of a laugh for some of those watching the lad鈥檚 performance. The noise still hung on in there, with Human voices yet to hear and legs that found it hard to move in the right direction. There was no regret in doing it, but the relief of standing on terra firma. Breathing in fresh air laced heavily with the sweet smell of high-octane fuel was overwhelming. Smiles all round, the only thing he can do is give the thumbs up as a thanks to the RAF men. Whatever the outcome he would cherish that experience for the rest of his life. How many people could boast that they had sat on the tail of a SPITFIRE with its engine blasting away? Conversation was still difficult between them as he parted company with them and their fighter- plane. His infantry man roll was now backing to its dull roll.
It had at least had one out-come, he vowed volunteering for anything in the future were out. This Youth has short memories, anything a bit unusual and he was back again volunteering.

Aircraft of all types used Manston for emergency landings. As time went on the real problems and their uses was made real to him. Crisis landings were always preceded with bells and sirens of the Red Cross ambulances and fire engines racing across the field to meet the aircraft. People of all kinds followed in other vehicles. Clearly marked Ambulances competed for first place with the fire fighters, each rushing to the stricken plane then to come to a sudden halt. Within a short time one, then another would move off with their survivors and casualties.
He was new to the scene and had never been involved in scenes of death. It was his early days and in the main viewed the whole thing through Holly-wood eyes. Nobody died, its hero surfaced with bandages in the best position to enhance his face and having the brow stroked by a pretty nurse. From a distance as he watched this real world of destruction he was starting to break into that world of make believe, good men were being lost for ever.

At the time these boy soldiers had the job of guarding some of the crash sites of damaged aircraft. Perhaps khaki and blue didn鈥檛 mix for later the RAF replaced all of them with their own RAF Regiment. If the offer had been on the table for him he would have snapped it up, he liked what he saw about the RAF. Nice blue uniforms and better conditions. Whatever his views there was no possible change, he was stuck with his khaki and the PBI. It had to come; people on patrol duty were away from the pavilion the rest of the platoon was sleeping. Little did he realise that within a short time he would become involved in one of these crash landings? Night-time added to the drama, the platoon's only protection was the wooden walls of their billet of the cricket pavilion.
Night time relaxation in this place was restricted to taking and sleeping, its blackout restrictions religiously maintained with the minimum lighting inside and the blackness of the night outside. Those not on duties found the best place to be was in the bed. He was no different from the others and followed the general stile of an early bed. His mind had been turned off and drifted into a deep sleep. First of all it seemed like a part of a bad dream, suddenly from the depth of his unconscious mind he sensed a bang and the bed shake. Things had happened yet the disturbance was not enough to get the mind working. Reaction to it was enough to get the body into a standing position.

Zombie like and for a short time that was all he could do. It seemed like an eternity before the room and things became a part of his living world. He with the rest were standing and just stood staring at one another. One started to speak, then another before they got themselves together and went outside the building.
Outside the wreckage of a Wellington Bomber was tangled up in the barbed wire. She must have touched down some distance away and slowed down considerably. Coiled barbed wire like mechanical springs strung out between the landing area of the airfield and its outer perimeter had helped to stop it from wrecking the pavilion.
What seemed like seconds ambulances and the fire service were milling around the plane. What had to be done was done. The stricken- craft had missed the water tower and had barely missed us. God had been good to us that night.
When things subdued and the morning light came, the extent of the damage to the aircraft showed how close we were to having or names entered in stone. No night there was the same again, morning light even more beautiful than ever before. It was different now; noises of the siren warnings seemed to be targeting him no matter where he was. Noises of aircraft were much louder at night. Conversation often limited to guessing whether it was one of ours. Enemy German planes seemed to have a noise of their own. Anti- aircraft guns at most time confirming it. It was a throbbing noise that appeared to get into places no other noise could

As a young man watching the air battles going on over head it was thought that every plane that fell from the skies was German. Sadly the wreckage on the ground proved other wise. Material damage didn鈥檛 have the same effect on him as seeing the destroyed human contents

Days passed and things began to be routine. Organised Entertainment within the aerodrome was almost negative. The nearest civilian enterprise to the army billet a small Post Office. It was another first; he became the proud owner of a real live Post Office Savings Book. Manston and signature printed in bold letter proclaimed it as his prize possession. His hopes that the Deposits would grow never materialised; that odd shilling handed over the counter hardly kept up with the with-draw, the important thing for him was that trip to the post office, then queuing to pay his few shillings, for a very short time it gave him a feeling that he was a civilian and not having to wave his hands about in homage to the unseen authority here he was treated the same as everyone else in that Post Office. Anyhow it was better than going stagnant lazing around the platoons RAF鈥檚 pavilion billeting place.

Waking up the place was beaming over with sunshine; it was a good day to be alive. Getting up and carrying out the daily chores were not grudgingly being undertaken. He with the others not on duty sat outside the billet to soak in Natures greatest source of life energy to brown off the skin. Action was taking place; excited fingers were pointing to the sky. Man and machine were one. It was the un-mistaken sound of a Spitfire racing about the skies. Dream manoeuvres by the pilot sent the plane into deep dives over the aerodrome then scream within its elements to climb back into that deep blue sky, still not satisfied it rolled into a 鈥榲ictory roll鈥�. It took on the appearance of slow motion as she rolled then seemed to fall away and unsupported by the air around her, noises from the engine no longer smooth and health but coughing and spluttering. It was dying; smoke trailed from her as it dropped from the skies and hit the ground.

People watching could do nothing but stand in silence. A fireball heralded the end of another fine man. Both pilot and plane were scattered over a large area. Orders came to dress; he with the others had to guard the pieces until the site was cleaned up. It was to be the boy's first experience with violent death.
As the war developed the macabre and gruesome scenes became common place, such happenings wouldn't raise an eyebrow.
In the main things apart from this terrible accident life was pleasant enough, unavoidable guard duties were only a part his life, a change to the aerodrome routine the route marches, welcomed for their change of scenery. Another advantage was that the ground was reasonably flat and easy for route marches. Within the short time of service he had become accustomed to his equipment and most importantly to the boots and being fitter now was more able to cope with army life.
Sometimes a route march would take them into the hop area. Families mainly from London were working the hop fields; in some sort of way the new faces and their waving brought some sort of inner relief
What he saw of the hop fields and the people working within them sharpened his appetite to pay them a visit if the opportunity came. It did come, a special concession was made to allow soldiers in their spare time to work on the farms and hop fields. Freed from army discipline, even for a short time was wondrous. The main work details came from the farmer and were put under the watchful eyes of his regular farm workers and land girls. He and some of his mates were put to work with the girls loading farm carts.
Other groups were formed up and sent to another part of the farm to help in the hop picking. Weather was still 鈥楬oliday Weather鈥� with the good feelings of being young with the Army relaxed hold on him and the others, discipline was lot softer, rigid clothing regulations relaxed. Shirtsleeve order was the dress of the day. It was a tonic for all those soldiers鈥� working at hop-picking or on the farm, within a short time he had paired of with a land-girl that seemed to want to eat him. During the stand easy times there were plenty of places to relax; sitting there and fondling her had stirred them both.
He wanted another dozen pairs of hands to gain the real benefit and she only one other thing. The young Welshman was about to take some lessons. She was doing all she could; he was tearing at her Jodhpur鈥檚 she was doing her bit, at last the loosened waistband could slide over her big bulbous bum, he had the appetite for it but with his lack of experience would he have the time? He was touching bare flesh; he was vibrating all over, the 鈥榡ohn thomas鈥� was out of control. The last hurdle had yet to be removed. That long john鈥檚 she was wearing were still in place, the blasted thing鈥檚 seemed to stick to her. Getting them off was too much for his staying power. He slid off her; the biggest moment was impossible. It was a big laugh; it was a woman having fun with a boy. It was a great time for all.
Most were London families returned each year to their same spot? Everybody in the family played a part in collecting the hops; they were great to be with and the stays with them too short.

Further London hospitality was to be extended to him by two of his army friends. Leave had come around each had made arrangements for him to visit their homes. Sid Robert鈥檚 home was in Islington and the other Jack Powney in High Gate. Their homes were different in style and the parents came from different walks of life but both took him into their homes and made him welcome. He had been full of apprehension before the visits but within a short time it proved to be wrong; both were especially hospitable and friendly

One mother was a real Cockney. She looked at them as they arrived, and said as only they can, "you poor little bleeders. For God鈥檚 sake you look as if you need a good feed.鈥� This destroyed the lad鈥檚 picture as the fully blown soldier of the King with polished boots but loved every moment of it. His newfound Mother was saying all the right things and making him 鈥榝eel at home鈥�. All stops were pulled out for the son and his new friend that he had brought into the house, first a splendid meal and then down to the pub with the Dad of the house. Things went well.

The High Gate parents were different but equal in welcome and warmly welcomed him into their home. His Dad had something to do with the Law. As a favour he took time off to take them on a tour of the Law Courts. The visit was long and filled with a planed detail of this particular Legal establishment.
They started by visiting the different courts; the Appeal Court was not in session for the more specialised visit of the Appeal Court the father had to obtain permission to have a tour of the place. Every step impressed him; when they reached this very special and somewhat awe-inspiring area they were then allowed too see the small wooden panelled cubicles. In this small place the prisoner would await the results of his appeal.
Prisoner showed their tension by the doodling etched into the wooden panels. What they must have used to etch it in was anyone鈥檚 guess. Their thoughts were spread at different heights around the wooden walls and were short on words, but each a complete story in its self. One, read 鈥榦nly twenty years to do鈥�, must have been in anticipation of what he expected. The whole atmosphere of the place left the lad wondering what the sentence eventually was.
Interested with the many writings he tried to press his friend鈥檚 Father for more history of the people that would have written them. It was fascinating, just to get the effect of waiting for the result of the trial the outside cubical door was closed. The smallness of these cubicles with the added darkness of the wood was the most depressing thing about the visit. Agony of sitting there on their own must have concentrated the prisoners' thoughts on their immediate future. The majesty of the courts was there to try to erase the failings of the society and wonders? It had the feeling of an old church that had its justice way above his understanding, a lot of time was spent trying to explain it, but there you are, what the visit did for him was to create an interest in the outside free world. Understanding it was impossible; fearing that roll of that place was another thing.
What did he get out of the visits to his friends homes? It opened his eyes anew; the meeting with people with such differences in their lives that gave their all to him the total stranger was truly amazing. It was to be another learning curve in his life and was to regret that within a short time this happy trio would have to go their different army ways.
His days with the 70th Buffs were drawing to an end with the usual confusion of information. The only thing that was true about it was it was the time to move to new pastures. What was surprising to him was that he was on a solo posting to a different Regiment. In some ways it was a kindness for him, he would never know what was to happen to them.
New postings were up on the board and it was from Kent to Dorset to join the Welsh Regiment, the last get together was a bit boozy and sad. The young soldier鈥檚 no longer raw recruits browsed over the good times and the bad in his first Regiment.
The Buffs would always be his Regiment; he had their regimental number of seven digits 6297283. It鈥檚 a bit like the first car, there be that something about it that the others wouldn't have, and that never changed. The Welsh Regiment was equal in every way, and the comrades within it as good as any that could be found, but there you are, that鈥檚 the way it was.

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