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One day, whilst pondering over what to do with this lot, Jock was called to the C.O's office, there to meet his fellow Senior NCOs and be given some indication of their 'raison d'etre'. Roughly, Air Casualty Clearance was held in abeyance (naturally, as there had been no invasion to date!) and, until these Services were required, St. Mawgan would act as a 'Staging Post'. This would handle whatever tasks were asked of them, e.g. passing aircraft on, fully serviced, to the next stage of their journey. Handling Bomber Squadrons which had been diverted, either returning from Ops or assembling for a mass attack.
Handling any aircraft, no matter where they were coming from or where they were going! In common with all Transport Command Operations, this meant 25 hours per day and 8 days per week!

Jock made many friends at St. Mawgan and one in particular fell into the category of 'Most Unforgettable Character' - Sergeant Eric Starling (called 'Peter' for no particular reason!) His qualifications - Fitter One, ex Boys' Service, over six feet of ambling good nature, and the only person Jock ever met who always saw the other guy's point of view! (Quite exasperating at times!) Like all 'characters', Peter had an odd quirk? It was an uncontrollable desire to eat the petals of any convenient Chrysanthemums - especially after the third or fourth pint!

There was Sergeant 'Freddie' Ward, a Mens' Service 'Regular', like Jock. 'Freddie' was his own man in every way. A kenspeckle figure with his distinguished hook nose and ever present 'Peterson' briar pipe. A very dry sense of humour, coupled with a super sense of comradeship, made him popular in the Mess and on the drome.

And then, of course, there was 'Jeannie'? A diminutive perky figure of a WAAF Physical Training Instructor, properly known as L.A.C.W. Woolles. Suffice to say, at this stage, all four were 'Good Comrades'.

So the scene was set for whatever the High Command demanded of this dedicated group of 'Professionals' and 'Enthusiastic Amateurs'. These demands came quicker than expected with the sudden arrival of 18 Short 'Stirling' Bombers - 6 to each Site.
As far as Jock knew, this was part of a massive attack on 'Fortress Europe' by all of this Squadron within 24 hours, weather permitting. All aircraft were serviced and 'topped up' and ready for the 'Off' by midnight on the day they arrived.
The 'Ops On' message was received at 21.00 hours next day and by 22.00 hours engines had been started up, tested and shut down, ready for the 'Go'. The aircrews started arriving at 23.00 hours and, at 24.00 hours the first of Jock's 'Stirlings' taxied out on to the perimeter, making for the main runway and joining the line-up of their sisters from 'Red' and 'Green' Sites. All ground crews, A.C. 'Plonks', Corporals, Senior NCOs and WAAFs stood silently watching their charges take off in the chilly small hours of the morning. Only L.A.C. Wilcox mouthed the thought in all their minds 'poor bastards'!
This scene was oft repeated, sometime 'Lancasters', sometimes 'Liberators' and the occasional flight of vicious-looking 'Mosquitos'. To Jock and his fellow ground crews these night-flying operations were always hectic and by dawn - an airman's best friend was his 'McDonald', regardless of rank!
However, there were a few humorous incidents, such as the one that came Jock's way when a 'Boston' landed and taxied up to 'Blue Site'. Whilst the ground crews were chocking up and filling up, Jock clambered aboard to see if the pilot needed anything? "Yes, I need a pee - before I burst!" pleaded the pilot.
"No problem!" said Jock. "Come over by the dyke." When they got to the dyke, Jock was more than a little dismayed to see curls cascading on to the shoulders as the pilot removed 'his' helmet! Jock's pilot was a lady in the Air Transport Auxiliary - a Ferry Pilot. Sergeant Jock had no word for such a situation, so discretion came to the rescue, and he scuttled back, leaving the lady to the tender mercies of the stinging nettles!

Off Duty spells meant visits to the nearest metropolis -Newquay, where, if one knew the ropes, a certain 'Smokey Joe's' had occasional sausage and egg on the menu! (one of each). One shilling and sixpence - including chips! The Good Life! There were only two pubs of any consequence, the 'Headlands' or the 'Pentire' and the beer usual dried up before 20.00 hours. But in the summer the beaches made up for a lot and were a welcome break from the madhouse of the drome.
The 'Liberty Wagon' was a privilege granted by the Station Commander for Fridays and Saturdays. A three-tonner Bedford 'Troop Carrier' would leave from Newquay town centre at 23.30 hours under the charge of a Senior NCO.
As most of the 'passengers' were 'erks' who had imbibed, rather unwisely, this responsibility could be boring or amusing and sometimes a combination of the two! One incident illustrated this state of affairs perfectly.
After struggling for about twenty minutes, trying to ensure those who boarded stayed aboard, the Sergeant roared a final warning. The trouble was, the 'erks' kept jumping off for final amorous farewells to their 'fiancees' of that particular evening. Others simply fell off due to Gravity overpowering Alcohol!
One especially intrepid birdman fell off three times. On a unanimous vote he was left to his own resources, sitting by the kerbside. On arrival at the Station Guardroom the 'Liberty Wagon' was greeted by this same would-be 'parachutist' and, once again, he tried to clamber aboard! How our hero reached base before the 'Wagon' remains a mystery to this day!
The extent of the activity on the drome was bound to cause some 'dicey' moments and, inevitably, some tragic accidents.
On one particularly heavy day, at about 16.00 hours, Jock was sitting atop a 'Stirling' mainplane monitoring his ground crews servicing a gaggle of 'Libs' and 'Daks'. It was a beautiful day with perfect visibility as Jock spotted the Vickers 'Warwick' slowly taxying around the perimeter track, heading in his direction.
A small 'Standard' van with a WAAF driver was stationary by the side of the track, waiting to take three Wireless/'Radar mechanics back to the hangars. To Jock's mind there was not a single, earthly reason for the disaster about to happen!
One minute there was only the preoccupied bustling of the ground crews, but the next minute was full of thrashing, glistening propeller blades trying to decimate the little van and its occupants! From the top of a 'Stirling's' wings to the ground was some twenty feet but, without hesitation (or thinking), Jock hit the deck and dashed for the 'Warwick'. Leaping up he grabbed the starboard aileron and worked it up and down like a madman - to attract the pilot's attention.
In the cabin, the pilot had only felt his aircraft 'dragging' to the right and had promptly opened the throttle to clear the 'obstruction', unwittingly hastening the destruction. Feeling his Control Column jerk violently (due to Jock's efforts) he looked to his right and, for the first time, saw the mess. The engines were immediately shut down and the aircrew came tumbling out. First out was the Navigator who took one look and promptly 'threw up'. The rest of the crew could only stand and stare - shocked into silence.
Meantime, L.A.C. Davis had alerted the Control Tower and the Crash Tender with Ambulance careered straight across the airfield - within minutes! With their arrival Jock cleared the area of 'non-essential' personnel.
L.A.C. Pocock and the W/Op Mechanic sitting next to her were killed instantly. The other two mechanics, sitting in the back, miraculously escaped physical injury but, along with some members of the aircrew, were whisked off to Station Sick Quarters for shock treatment. The accident findings were released on a 'Need to Know' basis only.
By the end of that week, another 'Warwick', returning from an Air Sea Rescue Mission, overshot the runway and crashed into a tiny cottage, setting both ablaze. Fortunately, the old couple who owned the cottage were down in the village at the time. With the help of Jock's ground crews, the entire aircrew scrambled clear, battered, bruised and singed - but all in one piece!
Such tragic and humorous events were sometimes spiced with 'peculiar' or 'what was that all about?' happenings. For example, one of the few nights that Jock went to bed reasonably early, it started to snow, (despite the Cornish locals insistence, "It don't snow 'ere lads, not in Cornwall, Arr, Arr!") The 'Good Comrades' seized the chance of a good night's sleep. The billet was quiet, the stove was burning merrily and the 'McDonald' welcomed her mate.

Within what seemed like a micro-second, someone was shaking the hell out of Jock! "Come on, Jock, move your arse! Let's 'ave yah!" It was Chiefy John, complete with storm lantern!
"Wassamatta?" just escaped Jock's lips when he was tipped out of bed.
"On your feet, Sergeant. Gather up all your Duty Crew and get up to drome - NOW!" This was no barrack room lark, Chiefy meant business! "Pick up ten or twenty bass brooms and start clearing the Runway Contact Strip - the Duty Officer will give you all the gen up there!"

Chiefy John's rough handling dispelled any possibility of a nightmare! Whatever it was, it was serious. Jock mustered his full Duty Crew complete with bass brooms and 'at the double' they reached the Contact Strip - forty minutes after the panic call. The information from the Duty Officer was that Bomber command was in big trouble! Several hundred heavy bombers had been on 'Ops' over Europe and the weather had suddenly clamped down with blizzards over most of the U.K. Only three or four dromes were 'open' and St. Mawgan was supposed to be one of them - despite the fact it was snowing all over Cornwall!

The Contact Strip was the first two or three hundred yards of a runway, with large circular lights set into it up each side. A pilot in any sort of difficulties knew if he could put his kite down on the Contact Strip he would have a whole runway in front of him, with an excellent chance of survival. But the snow had to be cleared from both the runway and the lights first! With all the erks and the Corporals spread across the width of the runway and sweeping like men possessed - the battle was on between Man and Nature.

It didn't take long to realise who was losing the battle. Reinforcements were desperate and, as far as Jock was concerned, they had to come from the best equipped source - the United States Air Force - located at the far end of the drome, known as Trebelzue. On the field telephone Jock got through to the Top Sergeant on duty and explained the situation.
"Yeah, we bin watchin' youse guys thru' the binocs. From way over there it looked like all youse Limeys had gone nuts!" Top Sergeant Carib's response was kindly and slow drawled, but his action was immediate. "Keep at it, we're on our way!"
Jock peered across the drome as the Yanks' hangar doors opened to their fullest extent, brightly illuminating the whole area - apparently the black-out restrictions did not apply to the United States Armed Forces ! Two gigantic bulldozers emerged from this haven of light and trundled towards the Limeys . This happy band of snow sweepers could only stand and gape as the bulldozers drew up and Top Sergeant Carib told his Pfc. To unload two urns of coffe and two haybins of steak sandwiches.
" Okay, youse guys, get the hell outa the way, we'll clear this mess up in five minutes", said the American Gentleman with the baseball cap and the huge cigar, " Meantime, help y'selves to the grub "
The RAF guys instantly dropped their brooms and attacked the unexpected feast. True to their word, the Yanks cleared the Strip in five minutes (nearly) just as the rumble of 'Merlins' approached the drome. At somewhere around ten thousand feet the bombers were invisible and the driving snow muffled the usual roar of exhausts. By this time, Jock had been joined by Sgt. 'Pete' Starling and Sgt. 'Freddie' Ward. "Better get the ground crews dispersed around the Sites, Jock" said big Pete. "These boys circling around up there are bound to be pissed off and once they are cleared to land they'll come in lake bats out of hell - there could be the odd prang!"
The RAF lost seven 'Lancs' that night, spread over the U.K. - none due to enemy action.

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