大象传媒

Adventures of a WAAF Driver

Now that I had qualified as an ACW2, I was pleased to find myself posted to 80 Signals Wing HQ at Radlett, part of Bomber Group 100. My friend and colleague Nan鈥檚 family lived in London, which was only half an hour鈥檚 train journey away, so everything looked set fair. However, we were surprised and not a little disappointed to find that it was not an aerodrome! No flying, and even worse, no aircrew!

Many of 80 wing鈥檚 men drivers had been posted away, and our party of about eight rookies were sent there to replace them. Allocating the various vehicles and tasks to us probably caused quite a headache for those in charge; quite apart from the fact that there was something secret going on at Radlett, and here were a bunch of fresh faced, inquisitive young women who had virtually no experience of military methods and traditions.

The first thing was to be given a vehicle each. Mine turned out to be a 15cwt Bedford truck, a tough looking brute with its bull bars, plastic side windows and canvas cover. It was our responsibility to see that our vehicles were ready for the road at all times, and a daily inspection signed for. The radiator had to be drained each night 鈥� we had no such thing as anti-freeze 鈥� and refilled the next morning. If we had to leave our vehicle off camp, we had to immobilise it by removing the rotor arm, to carry with us until we returned. We drivers were easily recognisable by the protrusion in our breast pockets!

My first job was to make a delivery to the RAF College at Cranwell in Lincolnshire. I checked the map and headed North. All road signs had been removed in case of invasion, as had all place names on Post Offices and shops, so navigation could be very hit and miss. Somewhere, instinct told me to take a right fork. I drove for mile after mile, doubting my navigation more and more with every yard. Then, what a relief! I spotted two airmen on bicycles. Before I could catch up with them, they were joined by many others, so I just followed them right into the college grounds, checked in at the gate and found the delivery point. I got myself a meal at the mess, switched from one petrol tank to the other, and took the road back to HQ, around trip of over 200 miles.

When I checked in, the corporal on duty reprimanded me for doing the trip in one day. 鈥淵ou should have stayed at Cranwell overnight. Don鈥檛 let the men know you did the round trip.鈥� Many of the men would do the trip, then go home for the night, claiming their 4/6d overnight allowance and checking back in at Radlett the next day. One of the tricks of the trade! Never mind, I felt good anyway. It was my first solo trip, and I had done it without asking for help.

---ooo---

I grew to be very fond of my Bedford truck despite (or perhaps because of) its idiosyncrasies. It had to be started with the handle, which had a real kick for the uninitiated. There was a knack to it 鈥� a couple of slow turns till you could feel the pressure, then with the handle at the bottom, a quick snatch to the top and it would oblige.

After the successful trip to Cranwell, I was given a longer run. I had to pick up a bundle of small brass rods which were to go to Manchester, and then, before setting off, collect an officer and his wife from the officers鈥� mess. They were going to Alderley Edge in Cheshire. I collected the rods 鈥� I remember thinking that it seemed a large truck for one small bundle of rods 鈥� and collected the officer and his wife. I got them aboard and seated them on the wooden rear wheel covers (there was nowhere else for them to sit) and stacked their cases carefully around them. They looked so precarious sitting there, and I set off gingerly, knowing that they were likely to be thrown around at the slightest lurch from me.

The route included a series of sharp bends and hump back bridges. I did my best, but eventually we went over a particularly steep bridge followed by a particularly sharp bend that took me by surprise. Howls of protest erupted from the back as passengers and luggage were thrown in a heap.

There was more to come. I had expected the fuel in the first tank to get us to our destination, where I would switch tanks for the return trip. But no, the first tank drained completely and the engine stopped. No problem, I thought. I switched tanks and tried to start it. I swung the handle 鈥� no response. I swung and swung, but it wasn鈥檛 having any of it; the engine was drained of fuel. The more I swung, the more frustrated the officer became, until eventually he could stand it no more. He motioned me out of the way and took over. Now he swung and swung, with no more success than I. He took off his cap, and swung the handle. He loosened his tie, and swung some more. Eventually, red in the face and looking dishevelled, he gave a final throw of the handle and the engine roared into life. Glaring at me, the officer snatched up his cap and returned to his seat on the wheel cover.

We eventually arrived at our destination, his parents鈥� house. His father welcomed us. I was dismissed, but Father wouldn鈥檛 have it and insisted I came in for tea. While the conversation flowed, I sat in embarrassed silence until, seeing my plight, Father took me under his wing and kept me in conversation.

Eventually I was released, and made my way to Manchester to deliver the brass rods.
I don鈥檛 like to think what sort of report my passengers might have made to my section 鈥搃f they ever did. Why couldn鈥檛 they get travel warrants like the rest of us, and travel in comfort on the railways? Later, when I told Dad about the incident, he grinned and said 鈥淚f it happens again, switch tanks, pull out the choke and hang on to the starter; it will kick in.鈥� Bless him, but it never happened again.

---ooo---

Radlett was unlike anything I had experienced or expected in my short time with the RAF. There was some big secret going on to which I had no access. I appealed to my corporal. She said 鈥淛ust don鈥檛 ask questions. The work here is under wraps and stays that way.鈥� It was only after the war, when much information was declassified and books were being written that I learned that the work centred on signalling and radar. We had our own cipher clerks, and a team of scientists, mostly civilian, some of them famous in their own field.

On one occasion I was told to take the Humber and collect a Professor Salisbury from his site at Sizewell on the Suffolk coast. Look after him, I was told, he鈥檚 complained before. The Humber was a big car with a faulty starter, and no replacement available, so it had to be started with the handle. It also had the sharpest clutch I鈥檇 ever come across. On the way to Sizewell I tried various ways of changing gear to make it smoother. Eventually I found the best way was to trail the clutch for longer. With practice I eventually mastered the thing to perfection.

The professor, I was to learn, had worked on the team that split the atom at Harwell. He was an American, a delightful character, small, rotund and humorous. On our first day he took out a box of enormous chocolates, and, passing one to me, said that would be the last one I would get, as chocolates were a part of his diet. He asked if I smoked, and when I said yes, he gave me 200 Camel cigarettes. So we were both content, he with his chocolates, I with my cigarettes. We left the field where his huts and caravans were sited and set off for Malvern in Worcestershire.

As usual, there were no road signs, so I had to navigate from the map, with help from the professor. Leaving Stratford-upon-Avon, I suspected I had taken the wrong road and decided to turn the car round in the road, which was long and straight. I stalled in the middle of it and climbed out to start swinging the handle. Out of the blue there sailed towards us the answer to a maiden鈥檚 prayer. A great big open Bentley tourer swept majestically onto the scene, and out stepped about half a dozen Free French servicemen resplendent in their smart, dark blue uniforms and peaked pillbox hats. With lots of sign language and encouraging sounds, they indicated I should get into the car. I promptly returned to the driving seat and put the car into gear, keeping the clutch down while my new-found heroes pushed us up to speed. I released the clutch and the engine burst into life. Back in their own car they swept past us with waving hats and goodwill gestures. That was one time I really appreciated personally the co-operation of our allies! But my sympathy was with our American ally who had had to remain in his seat throughout the incident.

Under normal circumstances, on arrival at Malvern I would have to find my own accommodation, but the professor insisted I stay at his hotel and accompany him to meals, all at his expense. I was his driver for about two weeks, and we parted good friends. He gave me a parting gift of a blue glass bowl with a gold filigree design on the lid. I shall always have happy memories of that trip.

---ooo---

After two years service, I was posted to an airfield at Gaydon in Warwickshire. There I had to learn a new set of rules. Gaydon was a Canadian training unit. The Canadian instructors were a well-seasoned, much decorated team. By contrast, the trainees were noticeably less cool. But they were all a good lot, easy to get on with and fun to be with, officers included. The driving was less varied. The MT section had the usual collection of vehicles; small cars, vans, the Bedford 15cwt truck, Commer 30cwt lorries and some ancient crew buses which required wrestler鈥檚 strength to steer.

One day the sergeant looked into our restroom where some of us drivers were waiting for orders. 鈥淚鈥檝e got two Bedford 3-ton troop carriers out here wanting drivers. Any volunteers?鈥� Conditioned never to volunteer for anything, most didn鈥檛 reply. One other girl and I volunteered and it was the best thing we could have done. From then on fetching and carrying aircrews to and from dispersal points was a joy.

These vehicles were huge. To climb into the cab, you would put one foot on the wheel hub, the next on the tyre, then onto the step and up into the driving seat. That was the hardest part of driving the thing. The engine was in the cab with the driver sitting next to it over the front offside wheel. Unlike the crew buses, steering was a delight. The gears and handbrake were conveniently within reach, the side mirrors were well placed to give good views, and everything was so compact and close to hand it felt as if the cab had been made to measure.

Reading DROs (Daily Routine Orders) was a must. Depending on wind direction and runway in use, landing aircraft would have to circulate clockwise or anti-clockwise, and, naturally, motor traffic would have to follow suit. Woe betide any driver who got it wrong!

At that time there were a lot of heavy bombing raids over Europe; aircraft would often return severely shot up, with damaged or inoperable landing gear. We had been spared that; our twin engined Wellingtons were only used for training, and were suited to our relatively small airfield with its shorter runways.

Then one day, fog covered most of Eastern England and the Midlands, and Gaydon was cleared for landing the bombers returning from raids. We were warned to expect four engined aircraft, which turned out to be American B17 Flying Fortresses. They had been diverted from their own base in Eastern England; they had been shot up and were almost out of fuel. Because of this, normal landing routines were abandoned as the bombers followed one another straight onto the runway. As one turned off the end and onto the perimeter track, another would be landing almost right behind it. There was a huge amount of activity all over the airfield, and everything seemed to be happening at once. I鈥檇 collected the eight-man crew from one plane, and was taking them back for debriefing, going clockwise round the perimeter track. I looked to my right and saw that the airfield was in a state of chaos. One bomber had overshot the runway and finished, right side up, in a ploughed field. Another had landed on damaged landing gear and had slewed to the left and stopped, with one wing tip pointing to the sky. There was a third beginning to land, - and then I saw it. One bomber had landed and turned anticlockwise onto the perimeter track. It was heading straight for me. I could see the pilot waving frantically at me to get out of his way. His massive wings stretched right across the whole perimeter before me, and the four great propellers were still turning. I wasn鈥檛 prepared to argue about rights of way. I stopped for a second to decide which way to turn. I couldn鈥檛 go to the right, onto the airfield 鈥� there was too much happening there. On the left was green grass, disguising what I knew to be a bog; it would have to do. I turned left and drove onto the bog. The truck travelled a few feet into it, sank up to the axles and stopped. Was it far enough? The next few moments were the longest I鈥檝e ever known. This enormous monster, four engines throbbing, bore down on us and passed so close that I could almost touch the wingtip. Still, a miss is as good as a mile, and now the only problem for me was to get out of the bog. To a man, the aircrew I was carrying behaved like the heroes they were. After hours of flying, being shot up by enemy fire, and battling the elements all the way home, they leapt out of the truck and, sinking up to their knees in their beautiful flying boots, heaved us out of the bog and back onto the track. Back at the crew room, they all hugged me in turn, and one swapped his khaki scarf for my air force blue one. Gladly I let him, it would be his lucky scarf from now on.

The next day, wearing the scarf, I was reprimanded by a WAAF officer for being improperly dressed. Fortunately there were no injuries, though my husband-to-be, who was on ground duty, had had to fling himself to the ground to avoid being run over by one aircraft. The rear wheel had clipped his boot as the tail went over him. The angels were with us that day.

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