大象传媒

I was born into a mining family in Cinderford, Forest of Dean, in 1921. Life then and in subsequent decades was frugal to say the least. The 1921 strike followed by the 1926 strike devastated everyone in the Forest of Dean. Leaving school at 14 the need was there to add to the family purse. I was the youngest of three boys and one girl. And at that tender age I found myself working at the coal face, Eastern United Colliery, Cinderford, winning coal with pick and shovel. I remember working on my side in 18 inches seam, in the dark. It wasn't too cold as it got progressively warmer the further down you went. I started on a Sunday night shift earning 4 shillings per 8 hour shift. We considered it enough to get by on - there wasn't anything else, so needs must. In those days the law said no winding coal until after midnight on Sunday nights.

I had decided to leave the pit and go further afield as soon as I was 18, because then I could draw a man's wage to be able to pay board and lodging. But that was the year the world went mad - 1939. I recall listening to the radio with my mother on September 3rd, 1939, when war was declared. She burst into tears and said, 'My God I have three boys of military age.' And then turning to me she said, 'Thank God you won't have to fight, you are in the pit.' She didn't know that I was already making plans to get out of the pit. I hated working in the pit so much, that even though war had been declared I was determined to get out. A favourite expression of mine at the time was, 'I wanted to see the sun rise and set on the same day.' I realise if I didn't act quickly mining would become a reserved occupation and I would be trapped. So I left. Everyone said I should have remained in the pit for the duration of the war then leave but I couldn't think that logically at 18. Most of my friends did stay for the duration of the war. I joined the RAF within a few months. I wanted to fly. I was kitted out at Padgate, Cheshire and given the number 1531538 AC2 Worsfold, which has remained imprinted on my brain ever since. Two months of drilling on the promenades of Blackpool and Morecombe turned me into an Airman. It was an adventure - everything was an adventure at 18. My mother was devastated when I joined up. I was posted to an airfield in Bedfordshire and found myself holes for latrines. This was supposed to be an airfield defence job. When they asked for volunteers for a new trade I stepped forward. Anything was going to be better than digging holes. And the trade we had volunteered for was PAC Operators - Parachute Assisted Cables. When we first heard the word 'parachute', we associated it with what the airfield was being used for, which was parachuting agents into occupied France. We thought, 'what have we let ourselves in for'. But soon we were reassured. Parachute and Cable was a form of airfield defense against low flying intruder aircraft. It consisted of electrically fired rockets and cables. When fired the rockets fired to a height of 70-80 feet, carrying a length of cable coiled in a drum alongside. Having reached its full height the rocket head exploded releasing a parachute some 6 or 7 foot diameter suspending the cable vertically. If the leading edge of an attacking plane struck the cable, another parachute housed in a container at the bottom end of the cable deployed and the theory was that the resulting pull of the two parachutes, would cause the plane to crash. A typical layout was 20 rockets in three rows. The PAC Operator's job was to identify the attacking aircraft; estimate its height and speed; wait for the aircraft to be in a vulnerable position in relation to the lines of rockets; press the firing button after selecting one, two or three lines. I never saw it put to good use. I prefer to remember it as yet another Heath Robinson idea dreamed up during those dark days.

To become a PAC Operator I had a course of training on an airfield on the Kent coast. Realising how lucky I was to be in the garden of England I also realised I was only 20 or so miles from the enemy over the channel should the expected invasion take place after Dunkirk. The whole country was now looking Navy, Army or Airforce colour - everyone was in uniform. There was defeat after defeat and a tremendous loss of shipping; doom and gloom was everywhere. But I was still feeling excited. I had been working in the dark of the pits and after this everything was an adventure. The PAC course completed, I was ushered up to Scotland, Greenock, and put on board a troop ship bound for I know what where. I had made friends that remained for life. There can be nothing more bleak than sailing into the Atlantic in winter. The troop ship was the SS Sythia. There were hundreds of us on board. I noted that we were one of forty-odd other ships of various patterns in the convoy. Three days at sea we were reduced to half speed by a breakdown and for reasons of safety had to keep going at speed. I have to believe that the navy was shadowing us for the next two weeks when German U-Boats had supremacy, when we rejoined the convoy at Freetown, West Africa, known as the White Man's Graveyard. For a young man from Cinderford to be travelling to all these places was like being let loose - I was elated. Repaired, the convoy continued to Durban, South Africa, then up the Indian Ocean on the crack liner of the day, the Ile de France. Now we had the luxury of bunks; on the previous ship we had had hammocks. We were packed like sardines. We ate on mess tables and slung our hammocks overhead ready for sleep time. There was an art to getting into a hammock. Every time the ship rolled then all the hammocks would move in the same direction. We arrived in Egypt and I met my brother three days later. We hadn't arranged to meet. He was in a position to know when the convoys were arriving and my mother had written to him saying that all they knew was that I had been issued with a tropical kit. It was 12 months since we had seen each other and it was marvellous to meet up again. My brother was engaged in getting ammunition and supplies up to El Alemein ready for the push, which threw the German forces out of North Africa. When I first met my brother he informed me that my Grandfather had died. I was very sad to recive this news. The last words I heard my Grandfather say before I left for the war was, 'Bloody war, bloody war.'

After a while we got used to the heat but sand storms were terrible. The sand got everywhere.

I was soon posted to Cyprus to help set up a PAC unit at Nicosia airfield. At about the same time PAC became obsolete as I was sure it would and its operators automatically remustered into the then very young RAF regiment taking on army duties, route marches and assault courses. Now if I had wanted that I would have joined the army! So once again it was time to diversify. I had long nursed a desire to fly and now was the chance by volunteering for flying crew.

Things seemed to happen quite rapidly. Before we knew it, me and my friend Philip Margate were on our way by plane to Jerusalem for medical and selection board. I failed the medical for pilot but was fit for all other aircraft duties. Initially I was disappointed but was ready to accept any flying duties. I knew then that I was heading for Bomber Command and was persuaded to opt for air gunner. I was persuaded because air gunners were not living very long for obvious reasons. But then I didn't really worry too much about it. While in Jerusalem I took advantage to visit the Biblical places of interest, Mount of Olives, Garden of Gethsemane, Bethlehem, all very commercialised even then. Back to the Suez Canal area for extensive gunnery training then onto OTU, Operational Training Unit. To relax we had a drink together in the Mess. We had instructions not to mix with locals. I was crewed up with a South African aircraft crew, which was short of gunners. I was still with my friend Philip Margate. After a period on Wellington Bombers we were given Sergeant Stripes and a Half Wing Flying Brevet. I was very proud. Before I left I promised my Mother I wouldn't fly, but this gave the game away. We had to convert to Liberator Bombers to do the same training again, this time with four engines instead of two and .50 calibre machine guns in the turrets instead of 3.03.

Several weeks later I found myself at Foggia in Southern Italy, still with Philip, at an airfield recently captured by the Allies, ready to fly for real with number 31 South African Heavy Bomber Squadron. Suddenly the war seemed very close. I was advised once to choose a pilot who had a family. That way he would not take unneccesary risks and would get us all home safely. So I chose a pilot with a family. His name was Basil Benjamin,and he came from Johannesburg. Under canvas, six to a tent, we were about to experience the worst winter that Italy had ever known, snow previously unheard of. With a crew of 7 we approached our first operation with some trepidation, realising that, for obvious reasons, this would be the one to be remembered above all others, as indeed it was. The target was Ferrari in Northern Italy, a vital rail junction for German supplies and heavily defended. Carrying 10/1000 bombs we located the target and started the bombing run through terrific anti-aircraft fire. Now I could hear the bomb aimer going through his routine of instructions to the pilot - left, left, right, steady, steady, steady. When we were all hoping to hear, 'bombs gone', we heard him say, 'sorry, skipper, they are not gone.'

Our training told us that we must go around again and bomb on the same compass heading so once again through the intense flak. Once again the bomb aimer went through his usual routine and the bombs still had not gone, and the pilot jettisoned all ten bombs at once and sent the plane into an upward lift suddenly much lighter. Then we were turning for base not even taking the obligatory photo of the bomb burst. That was the first and there were still 39 to complete the tour, each one with a memory of an incident or another. I don't think any us really thought we would get shot down, it was always something that happened to someone else. Our losses were about 15%. In the plane during bombing missions we tried to keep it as orderly as possible, but sometimes it would get hectic. The South African crew would sometimes revert to talking in Africaans. I was always glad to get back after each bombing mission. There was one incident when Philip, who was in the tail turret, went silent. The pilot asked me to go back through the fuselage to see if he was all right. When I opened the turret doors he was slumped over his guns. I thought he was dead. But he was actually dead drunk. He had taken a bottle of gin, for dutch courage, and had drunk the lot. A lot of this was done.

I arrived back in England in April 1945. I had got engaged on my last leave before being posted abroad in 1941. We got married a week after I got back. My wife had prepared everything. We had a 'rainbow' wedding. Weary of war, but I was very relieved that I had got through safely. I applied for a class B release from the RAF to work back in mining in the Forest of Dean. This happened very quickly and I remember thinking my life has turned full circle and I was still only 24 years old.

We are looking forward now to our Diamond Wedding in April 2005, surrounded I hope by my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It is difficult to realise that all this happened over 60 years ago.

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