大象传媒

Sealand in the spring of 1942 looked very bleak, with its red brick barrack blocks, each named after a First World War battle-field. The complex was divided into three main parts, two of them connected by a bridge, were across the main road, they consisted of the aerodrome, hangars, workshops, airmen鈥檚 barracks, dispersal fields and across the railway line was the civilian M.U. On the other side of the road were the H.Q., the sick bay, the engine and propeller workshops, Salvation Army canteen, W.A.A.F. quarters and another mess. Initially, we had to walk about a mile or so to get our meals. However, we did eventually get transferred to a mess near our block on the airfield side, but the food was awful until a visiting catering officer paid us a call and put matters to rights.
A large contingent of Polish ground staff in the next hangar to ours was also carrying out major servicing on Wellingtons. This involved a complete strip down, wings removed and fuel tanks pulled from same for inspection, hydraulics stripped out and sent to specialist workshops, engines and undercarriages overhauled, but worst of all was peeling the cracked dope off the wings and fuselage with improvised tools such as old hacksaw blades slightly modified, which from time to time went through the fabric committing the lot to be renewed. One wondered if the war would wait for such lengthy maintenance. In fact, we were paraded outside the hangar one day to be told that our production compared unfavourably with the Polish contingent next door, no doubt they had more incentive having had their country invaded and experienced the war at first hand.
I was quite pleased when I was given a promotion board and made up from A.C.1 to L.A.C. and moved to a Receipt and Dispatch flight looking after Beaufighters and Mosquitoes. These aeroplanes were mostly newly arrived from the factories for equipping as night-fighters with radar sets and aerials before being dispatched to the squadrons. We worked in pairs, that is, an airframe and engine fitter carrying out Daily Routine Inspections, rectifying any defects that we found, then signing 鈥楩orm 700鈥� back at the flight hut certifying that the aircraft was fit to fly. We also attended on the Pilot before flight, removing the undercarriage locks; plugging in the external batteries to start and run up the engines; and removing the chocks when he was ready to move off, or taxi.
It was whilst carrying out such an inspection on a Beaufighter that was to lead to my being put on a technical charge. I had discovered that the brake air pressure for steering on the ground, controlled by the dual relay valve, which itself was operated by the rudder bar, did not register on one side of the gauge; and having no spares, I suggested to the sergeant and got permission to use one from a crashed aircraft. I proceeded to do this with the aid of my engine fitter. Whilst I was in the cockpit coupling up the hand control cable to the column, he 鈥榟elped me鈥� by standing on the steps at the nose and coupled up the air pipes; but unbeknown to me he 鈥榰ncrossed鈥� the port and starboard two which had definite sets in them. After running up the appropriate engine which drove the compressor and checking that the air pressure registered on both sides of the gauge, we put back the armour plate and the nose cone. It was now getting very late in the day, so we just had time to get back to the flight hut and sign 鈥楩orm 700鈥� and then on to tea, this being a Friday night.
On Monday morning we discovered that an Air Transport Auxiliary pilot had endeavoured to taxi the plane prior to delivering it. However, we could see by the skid marks on the ground that he had had a very confusing time. I was told to go and rectify the fault and then to write a statement which I did but I could hardly blame my engine fitter, as it was my responsibility, so I was put on a technical charge, to be later marched in front of an officer: 鈥淟eft, Right, Left, Right鈥�, and my cap knocked off onto the floor. I was awarded seven days 鈥楯ankers鈥�, that is seven days confined to camp with some arduous duties thrown in, such as scrub out the Guardroom floor at 6 a.m. and parade in full marching order at 10 p.m. , but saved from the worst evening fatigues by Sgt. Griffith technical. This hardly endeared me to Sealand and when a notice was displayed in the flight hut calling for volunteers to be Servicing Commandos I put down my name, not knowing what was involved, but it seemed more like active service; especially as my cousin who had enlisted with me had now started training for flying duties as W.O.P. /A.G. (Wireless Operator Air Gunner), at Blackpool.
My main recollections of Sealand are going out with Bob Armstrong to Chester of a Saturday afternoon and having tea at the W.V.S. canteen. This was always very enjoyable. For some reason he would always have a wash and brush up before we did a round of the pubs, then going on to a dance when possible; dancing at which he excelled. On another occasion, we went to see the epic film 鈥楪one with the Wind鈥�, at Chester. Going out with a couple of W.A.A.F.s and having a day out in Liverpool. In the camp at Sealand I contracted boils and scabies, which was horrible, the latter I blamed on sleeping in dirty blankets whilst on Fire Piquet duties in the old morgue, on the civilian side of the M.U., across the railway line.
There was also the time when I was placed on guard at the scene of an incident when an Instrument Maker was shot dead whilst he was changing the oxygen bottles in the fuselage of a Beaufighter. He was shot by the Cpl. of the Sector guard out on the dispersals. The latter had been playing about with a rifle aiming at the roundel when it went off. The bullet passed through the outer ring of the roundel. Had he scored a bull鈥檚 eye, he would have missed the airman inside.
I also had my first flight in a Wellington on test over the Wirral Peninsula; it was quite thrilling to look out of the astra dome and down the wing tip to the ground, as the plane banked round.
I also learned to play Solo Whist in the barrack room.
Eventually a posting for three of us to join the 3226 Servicing Commando Unit arrived. As we were doing the rounds and getting cleared, we witnessed a Court Martial being acted out on our tractor driver for some demeanour he had committed off camp. He was having his sentence read out in front of other airmen, forming a three sided square; before having all his buttons and badges ripped off his uniform to emphasise his disgrace.
At last we were off via Chester, Crewe and London to Cambridge, arriving in the evening. We were picked up by a truck and delivered to the satellite airfield of Bottisham, shown to a room at the end of a hut where we managed to make up a bed of sorts for the night.
Next morning we followed the old hands of the unit and piled into one of the trucks with them. This took us down to the cook-house about a mile away in the village. Also in that area were the N.A.A.F.I., canteen, hall, sick bay and the W.A.A.F. quarters.
Later on that morning the C.O. Flt. Lt. Fairburn saw us in his office and after a little chat, allocated us to our flights. I went to 鈥淏鈥� flight under Flt. Sergeant Taylor 鈥� he was a sparse ruddy faced individual with a sharp nose. Having once attempted to construct a tank trap he had become known as 鈥楾ank Trap Taylor鈥�. He was respected but not well liked.
We were issued with army uniforms, greatcoat and denims; this in addition to our 鈥淏est Blue鈥� airforce uniform. We were also given Combined Operation badges to sew on our upper sleeves. I was later issued with a Sten gun when I became a driver, as a secondary trade. Drivers were in short supply and as I held a provisional licence I was given a test drive round the perimeter track, then appointed second driver on one of the 鈥楤鈥� flight鈥檚 trucks. This truck was a Bedford Q.L. Four Wheel Drive (F.W.D.).
We now had some aircraft weapons training, especially on 40 m.m. tank busting cannons. These cannons were now being fitted to some Hurricane fighters. At this time route marches were also a regular feature of our training.
It was from Bottisham that we went on a day out to Mersea Island on the Essex coast to carry out some Twin Lewis gun anti-aircraft firing at a drogue; a kind of wind sock towed by light aircraft. There were some civilians gathering shellfish on the beach and so the instructor said he had better move them, and suiting action to words he fired a short burst down the beach and they made off in some haste.
Along with the result of our shooting we learned that the aeroplane had also collected a few bullet holes. We did not seem to have much food with us that day as I remember being very hungry, however we did manage to buy a loaf of bread on the way back in a small village.
At Bottisham we spent evenings either at the Bell or the Swan pubs and sometimes in the hall opposite the N.A.A.F.I., where one of our cooks by the name of Vic. Cole would sing songs such as 鈥楾he Legion of the Lost鈥� from the musical 鈥楧esert Song鈥�. We would all join in the chorus fancying ourselves as members of the French Foreign Legion, I imagine. There was certainly a great feeling of Espirit de Corps in the unit as we were nearly all volunteers and our Air Force badges did look good and unusual on our Army uniforms.
We had a bit of rivalry from 654 (Army Co-operation) Squadron also stationed at Bottisham, but we did assist them to fit armour plating to their Auster Artillery observation aircraft.
Our lone plane was an American Mustang fighter which we messed about with. It has an inertia starter which was a bit of a novelty to us. This consisted of a kind of heavy flywheel that has to be wound up, the handle could only be turned slowly to begin with, but after much effort would hum like a top, then someone pulling a lever engaging it with the engine, resulting in a few desultory turns of the propeller, a cough, some smoke but little else.
Being around November/ December time the ground around the huts was very wet and muddy and I became ill with tonsillitis and had to go into the sick-bay, which was a house in the village. The house had real timbered walls and ceiling and it was whilst there that I first heard Bing Crosby sing 鈥業鈥檓 Dreaming of a White Christmas鈥� on the radio. The year was 1942.
One of the big thrills was at meal times when as many of us as possible would pile into a truck to go to the cook-house, as we were all stood up it swayed alarmingly, of course the more facetious amongst the crowd would shout: 鈥淚t won鈥檛 tip over!鈥�
Christmas 1942, the turkey and Christmas pudding were served up as usual by the Officers and N.C.O.s. On the way down to dinner I met up with the W.A.A.F., called Rona, I had been going out with. Her Sgt. who was there took exception to me having my forage cap in the shoulder strap of my battledress instead of on my head and threatened to put me on a charge, even though I was not of his unit. I had not much choice but to comply; which was damaging to my ego. I put it down to jealousy and complete lack of Christmas spirit on his part.
The landlord of the Swan was more accommodating inviting the two of us to sit by the fire in his front room, to have our beer and cheese and pickle sandwiches. We eventually exchanged cap badges as she wanted a commando one as a souvenir. I had filed and polished my one smooth so had to start all over again on a fresh badge to make it look like I had had years of service.
Shortly after the New Year we piled everything into our trucks and headed south-west to a temporary base at Sawbridgeworth near Bishop Stortford, but I did manage to pay Rona a visit afterwards, hitching a lift back to Cambridge; I was too late for the last train and so spent an uncomfortable night on the bedsprings in the R.T.O.鈥檚 office at the railway station for my troubles.

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