大象传媒

Ringway Aerodrome, Manchester

It was from Dorchester in January 1941 that I volunteered for the Parachute Regiment, a move that was to open up for me a completely new and more exciting outlook on life. It required passing a very high standard of medical examination. Out of a batch of forty or more applicants at that time from the battalion, just two of us eventually went on to take the parachute training course at Ringway Aerodrome in Manchester. This turned out to be an extensive training programme of various jumping routines, leaping through apertures that were cut in the bottom of the fuselages of obsolete aircraft to drop about twelve feet on to large coconut matting, which helped to break the impact of the fall. This helped immeasurably in building up our confidence and many hours were spent in this practice varying the techniques of the exercise from time to time, falling into forward and backward rolls. We soon developed the agility of a cat, the importance of keeping knees and feet together being continually stressed upon us by our instructors, who were personnel of the R.A.F. Parachute Training School.

We were formed into groups or 鈥楽ticks鈥� to use the parachuting term. The idea was to jump as quickly as possible after the man in front so that, in the event of an operation, a 鈥楽tick鈥� of parachutists would clear the aircraft in the quickest possible time, the advantage of this being evident when a 鈥楽tick鈥� of men landing quite close together, could assemble into a platoon or company as the case may be without unnecessary delay. The navigator of the aircraft had to work out with great precision the time allowed over the dropping zone, the name given to the area selected for dropping men and supplies. The dropping zone for most of the course was Tatton Park in Manchester. Any time wasted could result in the last couple of men out of the plane landing outside the dropping zone, perhaps into densely wooded area or possibly over water. So clearly a great responsibility rests with the navigator in giving the red light for the first man to jump to stand to the door ready, for the green light which follows as the signal to 鈥淕o鈥�. Any miscalculation, however slight, by him, with the aircraft travelling at around 100 mph could mean a considerable distance on the ground. We were taught how to control and guide our parachute as it descended and oscillated by manipulating the harness straps.

In the packing rooms, lying fully open on long tables were the beautiful silk canopies of red, yellow and blue making a wonderful splash of colour in contrast to the grey drab hangars. The packing was done by members of the W.R.A.F. who were specially trained in this very responsible work. Many thousands like me hold a deep sense of gratitude to these able and often very attractive women for the wonderful job they were doing with such a cheerful spirit, particularly when they were engaged in issuing out the parachutes prior to a drop, making a crack about bringing the parachute back if it didn鈥檛 open, assuring us that there would be no bother in us having another one instead of it. Many other girls shared in the same work as the men on the ground staff. Often, I suppose, this unity of purpose encouraged them to voice, in no uncertain terms, their views and opinions on matters regarding the war and their work as we sat around in the local with our drinks.

Although the girls appeared to be on the same intellectual and social footing as the men, one could not help remaining constantly aware of their divine difference. Such a person was Margaret, a dark and vivacious W.R.A.F. whose beautiful coiled hair was tucked neatly under her cap, framing a most attractively pleasant face. I first met her at one of the station dances. After trying for some time to muster up enough courage, which took more of an effort for me than jumping out of an aircraft, I timidly asked her if she would like to dance.
鈥淚鈥檓 sorry. I haven鈥檛 done much dancing鈥� she said.
鈥淐ome on,鈥� I replied, 鈥淚鈥檓 no Fred Astaire myself鈥�, and we shuffled out on the floor, to the bleary strains of 鈥淩oll out the Barrel鈥�, into a weaving mass of uniformed dancers, mostly R.A.F. personnel with a sprinkling of the army here and there. The faces of the dancers reflected their varying moods, many like myself displaying a devil-may-care attitude in keeping with the tempo of the music being played, others a more serious even sad look, which mirrored a picture of private thoughts of troubles, cares and anxieties, each with their own story to tell. I saw quite a lot of Margaret during the time I stayed at Ringway.

The course consisted of nine parachute descents. Two were from a balloon which had a sort of cradle attached beneath it for seating four men. The R.A.F. instructor stood behind. The balloon was taken up on a large winch driven by a motor to a height of between eight hundred to one thousand feet. I will never forget the feeling I had on my first drop. As we sat around the aperture of the cradle, waiting for the instructor to give the word 鈥淕o鈥�, we glanced across at each other with a sickly grin of assumed assurance, as if to say 鈥淭here鈥檚 nothing to it鈥�.

In a matter of seconds, I was plummeting to the ground experiencing a sort of gripping sensation in the pit of my stomach which made me want to curl up, as I sensed the mad rush of air through my mouth and nostrils as my body dropped like a stone at around 125 mph. Then, just when I was sure something had gone wrong, and I was overwhelmed with an urge to scream, a giant hand swept me up by the shoulders and a great flood of relief rushed over me, as the silk canopy of the parachute billowed open above me like a huge coloured mushroom, and there I was floating gently earthwards feeling a wonderful sense of exhilaration. The pattern of the surrounding countryside became more distinct with every second, with roadways, railway lines, houses and trees coming quickly into focus.

Then came the landing, for which I had had weeks of practice, knowing that the impact with the ground was equivalent to jumping off a wall twelve feet high. When parachuting though your body is oscillating as well as descending which presents some difficulty in judging the swing as the ground rushes towards you. It is not unusual, particularly when there is a brisk ground wind, to see the trainee dragged roughly along the ground for many yards before being able to take control and collapse his parachute. This is done by turning the developed canopy into the wind by manipulating the guide lines of the harness, thus allowing the air to spill out. The harness is also fitted with a quick release box, which, when screwed completely round and given a sharp knock would spring open enabling the parachutist to drop out of his harness in the event of landing in trees or over water, when it would be essential not to be bogged down with equipment.

The parachute takes longer to open when jumping from a balloon than it does from an aircraft, as the falling body has to create its own slipstream for the parachute to develop with air, whereas in the aircraft the speed at which it is travelling gives the necessary slipstream for the parachute to develop fairly quickly.

Most of our training drops were from the old Whitley bombers popularly called the 鈥楩lying Coffins鈥�. When taxiing along the runways of Ringway Aerodrome prior to take-off, with the roar of the engines rising to a screaming crescendo as they built up their revs, the whole aircraft shuddering and vibrating, you would think the bodywork was coming apart and it was necessary to shout to make yourself heard over the noise. The smell inside the fuselage coming from the chemically treated lacquer with which the Whitley was sprayed was nauseating. We sat on either side of the fuselage which had a large aperture cut away in its underside to enable us to jump from the aircraft but this method proved not too satisfactory as often the trainee would fail to push himself forward enough to allow the pack of his folded parachute to clear the edge of the aperture. Consequently he would be tilted forward with the danger of knocking his face on the opposite side which could easily result in a broken nose.

Our stay at Ringway Aerodrome, although very interesting and exciting, was marred by tragedy, when two Polish trainees fell to their deaths when their parachutes failed to open. This was known as a 鈥楻oman Candle鈥�, when the silk canopy for some reason or other fails to open - but this was quite a rare occurrence. All parachute practice was suspended for forty-eight hours while an inquiry into the tragedy was held. Then the course was resumed and everything carried on as normal, with, strangely, very little reference to the accident by the other lads undergoing training at the time.

Hardwick Camp, Chesterfield

A new life had begun for me. I was to join the 1st Parachute Regiment at Hardwick Camp in Chesterfield. It was with a great deal of pride and a sense of accomplishment that we stepped out on parade for the presentation of our 鈥榳ings鈥�, which carried with them a two shillings a day pay increase, a substantial rise by army standards then. The wings were blue with a parachute centre piece and were to be worn near the shoulder on the right sleeve of the tunic. We were still wearing the uniforms and badges of the original regiments from which we had volunteered, as it was not until sometime later that the airborne forces were issued with the divisional signs and flashes of the Army Air Corp and what was to become the famous Red Beret.

We certainly were a strange-looking bunch when assembled on parade, with lanky guardsmen and stocky little fusiliers marching alongside each other, but we measured up to each other in every other respect. Plenty of jibbing went on; a wee five foot Scot would crack to Corporal (later Sergeant) 鈥楲ofty鈥� Adcock, 鈥淗ey Lofty, is it cold up there?鈥� to which 鈥楲ofty鈥� would reply with mock malice, looking down as if he were viewing some kind of insect, 鈥淐ome out of that hole and see for yourself鈥�.

We had a rigorous training programme whilst at Hardwick Camp, with gruelling marches, cross-country runs and hard physical exercises with a team of A.P.T.C. instructors, headed by C.S.M. Driscoll who it was said, was related to 鈥楶eerless鈥� Jim Driscoll, the master craftsman of the boxing ring. Apart from the obvious benefits of physical conditioning, we were mentally conditioned by a sadistic approach in many exercises designed to induce in us a philosophy of hate - 鈥淭he only good German is a dead one鈥� - it being imperative that the image of the German as an enemy to be loathed and despised was firmly impressed on the minds of young soldiers before going into action overseas.
The whole of the 1st Parachute Brigade moved to the Tidworth area of Salisbury Plain. We, the 1st Battalion, were stationed at Carter Barracks in Bulford, near to the famous Stonehenge, a place of great historical interest for me. Often, our man艙uvres took us close to Stonehenge, where the strange effect of the changing light of an autumn evening would stimulate the imagination and emotions so that you would almost see the ghosts of ancient priests awakened by the constant tramp, tramp, tramp of army boots, gathering together from out of the mists rising on the plains in readiness for some ritual of worship.

Not many weeks passed before we were all assembled at the huge camp gymnasium for an address by the Divisional Commander, Major General F.A.M. 鈥楤oy鈥� Browning, whose wife was the author, Daphne du Maurier. After congratulating everyone on the amount of hard work we had put into the long and severe training programmes of the previous months, he assured us that the time had at last arrived for this to be put into operation on a grand scale. Wishing us all every success and Godspeed he took his departure.
I was assigned to the 3rd Mortar Platoon where I was destined to spend the next year or so with a fine bunch of lads, some real characters amongst them, including Section Sergeant Tucker, Norman Geekie, Dolly Grey.

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