On with the story
Cliff, you brought back many happy boyhood memories when you mentioned looking down on Liverpool Bay. We lived in Liverpool and then moved to Birkenhead when my Father took over the Scala Cinema in Argyle street. We used to go to Thurstaston for days out, New Brighton, of course, and Rhyl. We spent the school holidays on a farm in a village called Calcot near Holywell. Funnily enough we went there in the family car,which was also a Calcot, complete with "Dicky seat" where my Granny sat clutching the feather bed mattress that she would never leave home without. So where were we ?
We were soon shipped out of Georgia. We were all,now, Sergeant Pilots. The ones who were commissioned stayed behind to become Instructors. The USA pilots could never understand the British method of non-commissioned Pilots and neither could we.
We entrained for Moncton where we stayed for a week before going on to Halifax where we boarded the old Dutch steamer, "SS Vollendam" which, as I mentioned before ,had already been torpedoed, cut in half, put together with the half of another ship and loaned to the British Navy. After one of the escorting destroyers had been blown up with the loss of all hands there were no further incidents and we landed back in Glasgow on a damp, dismal day around Feb. 19th. 1942 where a train was waiting to take us the entire length of England to Bournemouth where we had to wait until April before passing on to our various stations. In my case I was eventually posted to a little grass airfield in Oxfordshire called Brize Norton, for a conversion on to twin engined aircraft.
The waiting in Bournemouth was by no means unpleasant as I was billetted in a lovely block of flats that had been requisitioned "For the duration" as the phrase went. The block was called "Bath Hill Court" and we were only two to a self contained apartment, earning thirteen shillings and sixpence per day with all food and accommodation paid for.
We were also given lots of leave and I returned to Blackpool to show off my wings and stripes to the thousands of new recruits who were doing their "Squarebashing" on the five miles of promenade at their disposal.
Much to my delight and my Mother's disgust, the "Avalon" was still full of WAAFS and I did not endear myself to her by refusing to be paraded in front of her Bridge Club cronies. My Father, now a Flying Officer, Signals, was home on embarkation leave for Egypt and we had some nice evenings out before he went on his way to Helwan.
Eventually the good times came to an end and I received my railway warrant to proceed to Brize Norton where the aptly named Oxford was awaiting my gentle touch, or so I hoped. Actually it was a very versatile aircraft, not too easy to handle at first but an excellent all round training machine. I was introduced to my Instructor, a Sgt. Holloway and also from Blackpool. "How many hours have you got ?" he asked me "200" I replied. There was a silence . "Oh, well I've got 35 so let's get stuck in" he said . At the risk of being repetitious I soon found out that the training I had received in the US. was superb, probably the best available in the world at that time. True we had to learn how to navigate as there were no water towers with names of each town on them. Even flying by "Bradshaw"(reading the names on station platforms) was out ,as all these, together with road signs, had been painted out for the "duration" in order to bamboozle the expected landing of German paratroops.
In July 1942 I was posted to No. 17 OTU at Upwood, near Huntingdon for operational training on Blenheims. Upwood was the OTU for 2 Group of Bomber Command and 2 Group were the specialists in low level daylight attacks on shippimg and special targets with light, two engined bombers , mostly Blenheims Mk.IV. I soon found out that the Blenheim was a very awkward aeroplane to fly and even getting in and out of it was a nightmare. You had to climb up on to the wing and then lower yourself in to the cockpit. This, in full flying gear of Irving Jacket and flying boots together with strapped on parachute was a feat in itself. The cockpit layout was a hideous mixture of sharp edges, knobs and levers with no logic or reason or cohesion about them at all. After takeoff, you reached behind you with your left hand to change the pitch on the two-pitch propellors. Next to these levers were two identical ones which were the fuel shut off valves to the two engines. 'Nuff said !
The Blenheim had been developed from a private venture "Britain First" monoplane. Unfortunately by 1942 it was outdated and outclassed by the German fighters which easily, overtook its top speed of about 190 mph (in a following wind !). Casualties on the Squadrons were extremely high but, once again, I was to find that throughout my career , luck would intervene. We were sitting out at dispersal playing cards, whilst waiting our turn to fly one sunny day, when there was a burst of machine
gun fire and a Junkers 88 flashed across the airfield at nought feet. We all dived under the table then burst out laughing as we saw that we had all grabbed our cards and money as well. The German had hit our Crewroom, killing three airmen. Later in the day the most fantastic aeroplane that any of us had ever seen flashed across the airfield even lower than the nought feet of the Junkers and much, much faster. Luckily we could see the roundels of the RAF and we realised that this was the much talked and, hitherto, unseen Mosquito. It disappeared into cloud, after performing an upward roll with one engine feathered and I knew,there could be no other aircraft for me.