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An Aussie Nav Sgt, from an all officer crew arrived in the hut. After a month or so he went sick, with non-stop hiccups and could keep no food down. Off flying, he spent most of the day lying on his bed and visiting Sick quarters twice daily. He rapidly lost weight and I half wondered if he would be left to die. The hard bomber world had no time for unfit aircrew. So I had a chat with him once or twice a day to keep his pecker up. Some ten to fourteen days later the hiccups ceased and he quickly recovered enough to go back to flying. Some time later he asked me what I was going to do after the war? I said that I hadn't given it a thought.

'Look myte,' he said, 'You were a dycent bearsted to me when I was crook, and I'm offering you a job in Oz. Sydney, where the old man has a chain of butchers shops’. He gave me his address, I don't know if he survived the war.

A parade of aircrew took place on the perimeter, to witness a Flying Officer Nav being reduced to the rank of airman. He had done 30 Ops before going instructing for a period, during which time he got married. On recall to Ops he came to 189 Sqdn but refused to fly. His wife said she would commit suicide if he went back on Ops. This led to a Court Martial on a charge of LMF (lack of Moral Fibre) and he was sentenced to being reduced to the ranks. The parade, at seeing his officer rings cut off and cap removed felt great resentment. 'Leave the poor bastard alone -he's done his bit,' was an audible comment.

The head of No.5 Group, Air Chief Marshall Sir Ralph Cochrane, was tee total, and on return from an Op there was no tot of rum in the cup of tea at de-briefing. The rest of the Bomber Group were given an issue. At a tot per Op, I'm sure I'm owed a bottle of rum. Cochrane caused a spot of excitement when he made a snap inspection which took place at 1.30 pm. We first knew about this at noon, so getting lunch, shoe shine and button rub was a rush.

Cochrane went down the officers, feeling their hats. A wire ring inside supported the top. TakIng this out gave the owner a rakish look, as the crown of the hat drooped over his ears (taxi-driver fashion). No ring meant that the men's names were sent to the Officers' Mess' where Cochrane gave them the works. Our pilot, Jim, was now taking his responsibilities more seriously, and was in the clear. Happily, Chochrane ignored the NCOs!

We Air Gunners went to other ‘dromes in the Group for half a day's training. One exercise was Aircraft Recognition in the dark. We wrote on a wire-lined pad the names of aircraft flashed on the screen for a second, ½ second, 1/50th second, 1/100th second, in a mix. A sixpenny sweep was won by the man with the best score. 90% of these wins were by a lad named Whitfield, whose accuracy led me to think that he could see in the dark! Having been with him in earlier training camps I often had a chat to see if I could achieve the same night vision.

The last time I was with him was in the White Hart Pub in Newark Square. A feature here was a Bar some 15 yards long in a narrow room, with only two tables at the far end. This was where Whitfield and I were seated. Noise from the door led us to follow the others. Some two or three were walking along the Bar. The landlord was shouting and attempting to get to the door, where an ATS girl had decided to brighten things up by doing a striptease! Sadly for us, her friends got to grips with her before things got out of hand.

Visiting Newark some 20 years later it was depressing to find that The White Hart was a clothes shop.

By now we had become a pretty solid crew, aided by the stable finances of our engineer, Ralph Cooke. He was a non-smoker and in the main T-T, and was good for a loan of between half a crown and ten bob, to see us through to pay day. He was the crew banker. In the world of here today and gone tonight, borrowing had to take place in one's own crew.

The skipper reached the position of Deputy Right Commander, which would have astonished S/Ldr Ward of 57 Sqdn fame. This resulted in a minor backlash on us. We were told that he would like a little more shine on our shoes; buttons could be brighter -'You might put a clean collar on 'etc We had our own back by pre-arranging with two or three ground staff that the bomb aimer would line us up at the steps to the aircraft and shout 'Attention! the pilot is boarding the plane'. Looking surprised, he went up the steps and turned to us from the doorway with a large grin and said 'You bloody shower!'

By now we had done some 24 Ops, and felt that we could make 30. A severe blow to this confidence came when the top brass announced that an Ops tour was to be increased to 36. It felt like almost a death sentence to me, as I had little hope of shouldering this extra load.

Without doubt, this was my worst period in the RAF After two or three days I came out of this black cloud and got on with it. Some 10 days later the tour was reduced to 33, and a week later again it was back to 30. Even now I feel deep resentment against whoever thought this up. Even crews 'going for a Burton' didn't get to me like this. (Pre-war, Burton's the tailors offered a made to measure suit for 50 shillings. In RAF language 'going for a Burton' meant a wooden box made to measure!)

We had almost finished Ops, when going to the Mess for tea I saw W/O 'Jock' Hunter, of Bridgnorth 'Deflection' fame [see my story, All Lads Together, part 1]. I did not get the chance to speak. As he was alone I assumed that he had come to our Station to do an Op and be updated on the ever-changing and improving equipment, before returning to instructing. This was common practice for instructors and most unpopular!

This story was entered by Jenni Waugh, ´óÏó´«Ã½ People's War Outreach Officer, on behalf of Bernard Lazenby, who accepts the site's terms and conditions.

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