大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Sarah Housden of Norfolk Adult Education鈥檚 reminiscence team on behalf of James Newby and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

Tales of Scant Respect

When I was told to report to RAF Station Blackpool I was surprised to see the address was a number in a street and not a barracks outside the town. The fun side of Blackpool still thrived and lucky were the budding Wireless Operators who were sent there to do basic training and learn the Morse Code. The ticket man at Norwich said to change at Ely, Rugby, Crew and Preston. So I arrived in the evening. Headquarters turned out to be a small corner shop. A Sergeant stood behind the counter. Over the door it still said, faintly: 鈥楬igh Class Butcher鈥�. I hoped it was not a harbinger. The requisitioned hotels were full and a Corporal said I would have to go in a civvy billet as if this was a bad thing. Mrs Mills of Park Road only had a single room left and that was mine. I expected to have to eat at some central canteen, but Mrs Mills said I was getting full board like any other lodger. As well as her daughter Joan, Mrs Mills looked after a leggy lady called Molly who was a civil servant. There were five Airmen: Bill and George, who were clerks at HQ, me and another trainee called Reg. There was also an Aircraftsman Second Class, called Albert. I did not know Albert鈥檚 trade because he reported sick each day in the firm belief that he could best serve the war effort by not being in the Air Force. Tom, the lorry driver came on Thursdays and parked his lorry outside. We would not have thought about it at all, if it hadn鈥檛 been for the fact that Mrs Mills kept insisting there was nothing in it.

The Morse Code was taught in the tram sheds. I had learnt Morse for my Scouts Signallers badge and had done some pre-call-up practice. The Corporal said to step forward all those who thought they knew it. We were tested and five of us had already reached the required twelve words per minute. We could clear off until the final test. We did not hesitate and took advantage of the close proximity of a tram. RAF men rode free and I soon became familiar with the system.

Each squad was allocated a street for marching. Half way down our street there was a pie shop. At break time the corporal halted the squad with him nearest the door. People used to pay for the corporal鈥檚 pie until they found out he got a free one anyway! Arms training consisted of one afternoon and we were allowed to fire one shot. Games afternoon was in Stanley Park where there was a good caf茅.

The day of the final Morse Code test came and eight or nine people were called out as having reached the required standard. Amongst these were the original five. This could be a comment on the original training but, to be fair, three months was a short time in the circumstances to get to twelve words per minute from scratch. There was an aircrew medical during which my ears were syringed. I was in a new dimension. Things roared until I got used to it.

We were all packed on a train for a long overnight journey to Yatesbury in Wiltshire. There were stops where WVS ladies appeared out of the night with a box of goodies for each compartment and hot drinks on the platform. The journey led to iron bedsteads in a barrack hut for the next three months. Yatesbury Camp was a step back in time. The First World War buildings were wooden and the only brickwork in the old army huts supported the tortoise stoves in the middle, which looked like later additions.

The establishment supported Number 2 Signals School which ran various courses including one for Air Operators. The other main course was for Wireless Mechanics whom we held in awe. The trainee air operators were issued with white flashes to wear in their forage caps as a mark of the elite. But they dubbed us as Brylcreem Boys and we wore them only for the official photograph and the passing-out ceremony.

The Signals School was run like a College in accordance with its pre-war ethos, so there was no marching about. Thus we saw little of our Corporal. He appeared only before breakfast when he came in to enquire as to whether anyone was sick. He was good at disappearing and sometimes did not turn up for squad activities, but could not avoid being there for special duties. He rarely inspected the hut 鈥� there was only ever one official inspection.

We worked school hours with weekends off unless there was something special. I once asked for weekend leave and went home for the first time since I had left Blackpool. I was proudly put on display at home, but the train fare cost too much to repeat the trip.

We learnt electrical and radio theory which I enjoyed. There were aircraft recognition lessons for which we had to wear glasses for several hours beforehand. There were things called Harwell Boxes which were fitted up like aircraft radio cubicles from which messages could be exchanged with the instructor. They were nicknamed coffins by those who would never be at risk. We learnt the radio telephony codes but the sets had not arrived. Training schools were always the last to get new inventions.

The grandly named Air Operating Section consisted of five Domine biplanes which were the RAF version of a ten-seat passenger plane called the De Havilland Rapide. The section boasted a Wing Commander in charge. My first flight was on February 5th 1941. Of the five trainees on board, two or three were usually ill, so I got a good share of the apparatus. At the passing out parade I was presented with my log book which recorded a total flying time of 5 hours 20 minutes and said I was capable of 18 words per minute Morse Code.

We were given leave at the end of the course. On the bus to Calne Station a Warrant Officer sat next to me. I trembled, but he was a charming man. I told him I was a bit worried about what I had let myself in for, and in that fifteen minutes he gave me all the encouragement I needed.

There was a bottleneck at Gunnery School and we were kindly sent to wait as near to home as possible. I was to report to Sutton Bridge near King鈥檚 Lynn. Getting off the train at Sutton Bridge Station I saw some fighter planes stood out on the muddy fen. RAF Sutton Bridge was a flying school. The aircraft were Hurricane fighters and the trainee pilots were ex-Polish Air Force. I was supposed to help with the radio telephone sets but ended up doing all sorts of jobs. The flight was often stood down because of water-logging and I spent a lot of time at home thanks to lorry drivers and the MGN Railway. I had a billet with a nice old lady in the village. She gave me breakfast on days off but the sheets sometimes looked used and I slept there as little as possible. I said nothing because she needed the money.

Early one morning I had to wait for the guard to open the gates along the embankment at 6 o鈥檆lock. 鈥淒o you know the password? He asked. 鈥淵es鈥� I said without saying it, and he let me in!

One day we had to turn the gravel stones clean side up because the Duke of Kent was coming. All available airmen were lined up on the parade ground ready to go stiff. His car swept past to the Officers鈥� Mess and swept past again an hour or two later.

On moving to RAF Stormy Ground in South Wales, my accommodation consisted of a groundsheet in a bell-tent. We were there three weeks and often walked to Porthcawl in the evenings.

Number 7 Gunnery School used ancient pre-war Whitley Bombers which were shaped like a coffin, with a mid-under turret. It was said that if you rotated it too many times to the left, it would unscrew and fall off. At the end of the course we were presented with our wings and Sergeant鈥檚 stripes.

鈥淢ilitary aircraft are not safe to fly in鈥�. This was the opening sentence of the speech of welcome made by the Commanding Officer of Number 11 Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourne in Cambridgeshire. It was his way of telling us to be careful. After some training we were crewed up, apparently at random. We did not form the popular image of the crew, and most of them I only saw when we were on duty. We were allocated to 鈥楧鈥� Flight and flew from the satellite airfield At Steeple Morden three miles away. We were issued with bicycles.

A wireless operator was wanted to take a plane to the Vickers works at Staverton. I offered because I wanted to keep my hand in. The repair to the Wellington would take several days and we were given rail warrants to get back. We were in our flying gear 鈥� sheepskin jackets and all that so we got some fruit on the London Underground: That parachute wont help much down here mate!鈥�. The next morning we were told the Wellington was ready and were flown down to get it. But the work hadn鈥檛 been finished and we had to stay the night without any money. The navigator could play the piano, and that was the only time I gathered round a piano in a pub like the aircrew do in films.

On my 7th Operation, the Germans took exception to my presence in their airspace. They cut my parachute harness where it was four layers thick and bruised my shoulder. I was peppered with small pieces of Perspex from the observation window. I must have looked a sight because the navigator gave me a knock-out injection. There was a tear in the collar of my battledress which I did not mend, as was the custom. I did not think I was a hospital case but the Medical Officer was not sure he had found all the bits of Perspex and I was sent to the RAF hospital at Ely. They found a bit in my eye. I was there for three weeks which automatically grounded me for six months. I was given two weeks leave. My mother was expecting a wounded hero. When I got back to Honington, the Squadron had gone to Waddington in Lincolnshire to convert to Lancasters. I reported to Station Headquarters and they kept me busy around the station, but could have disappeared.

I was posted to RAF East Wrentham near Thetford where I was attached to Flying Control and put in charge of the landing strip caravan. I was pleased to remain close to flying and it wasn鈥檛 long before I joined Number 1678 Conversion Flight which owned five Lancasters. My first flight with them was on May 7th 1943 and I stayed with them in their various guises until the end of the European war.

The grass at East Wrentham got worse and worse so we were moved to Waterbeach for eight months. As casualties rose we were required to carry out acceptance tests on an increasing number of aircraft. There was a new type of dinghy with a sail and a radio and I found myself in charge of training. I was promoted to Warrant Officer, the best rank in the air force: All the privileges and none of the pain.

The Group Captain came to the party to open the new aircrew domestic site. His daughter looked a comely eighteen. I asked her what she wanted to drink and she asked for Scotch, but by the time I got back with it her mother had arrived, and the girl said 鈥淚 meant Squash鈥�. The Group Captain grinned.

My future wife Jean came to the party. She was stationed at Tilbury Fort. The Wren鈥檚 job was to check that passing ships were not magnetic. They were quartered at the vicarage from which the incumbent had been tactfully removed. It was easy for us to meet there or in London although we seemed to go dancing quite often at the 鈥楽amson鈥� in Norwich. I bought her engagement ring in Greys, close to Tilbury. We were married in our parish church on 29th January 1944 by the same Rev Ellis who鈥檚 Sunday School I had attended. Jean brought the cake which had been cooked at the vicarage and there were extra food coupons for weddings, although these could not have provided the spread we had. We had arranged to go to a boarding house in Matlock and took the evening train to London. As we approached there were flashes in the sky and at Gidea Park the train ground to a halt. The line had been hit. After a long diversion we eventually arrived at Liverpool Street Station in the early hours of the morning. We had to carry our bags to the hotel in The Strand. The train to Matlock three hours later was a much more pleasant ride and we had a good stay.

In time I applied for and received a commission, and witnessed new technologies coming in such as the GH positioning system which used a cathode ray tube. After the end of the war in Europe our missions changed to dropping food over Holland. I began to think about the future as demob seemed near. Then an unexpected and unwelcome development. All available Lancaster crews were to report to Transport Command at once. The need was to establish rapid communication with the Far East. We were down for our first trip to Calcutta and were issued with revolvers. There was a slip-crew system in force but this didn鈥檛 always work and we were back in a record three weeks. We had flown over the pyramids and the Taj Mahal.

When we got back to Holmesley, we learnt there had been two crashes. Also, my best uniform had been stolen! I think I worried about that more than the crashes. The RAF Police seemed unconcerned even though it had been their job to secure our room.

Jean was out of the Wrens and we hired a room in Christchurch from a landlady who liked us to be in by ten. My discharge papers came through for 1st April 1946. I had some leave due and took it back to March 22nd. The King鈥檚 acknowledgement of my contribution to his cause was in the form of three service medals and the Aircrew Europe Star.

I wrote the following about some of the work we did dropping propaganda leaflets over France:

The Fine Art of Leaflet Dropping
1) Open the first box, undo string and put a handful of leaflets down the flare chute;
2) Express frustration when leaflets blow back and cause a snowstorm in the fuselage;
3) Consider technique while crew complain about the delay;
4) Stand on full box with arm right down the flare chute before releasing leaflets. Achieve 50% success;
5) Grab sliding boxes when pilot does a tight turn;
6) When navigator says 鈥�5 minutes鈥� stop bothering to untie string. Discover later that this is approved method.
7) Spend next half hour crawling round in dark collecting handfuls of leaflets. Crumple into balls before putting down the chute;
8) As last leaflet goes, hope residents of Clacton can read French.

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