A Spitfire Pilot. Part 1
Verbatim transcription of tape-recordings by Flight Lieutenant RJH R*******n RAFVR DFC, made in 1984, just after the birth of his first grandson, James. Transcribed by John R*******n, April 2007. In order to make the text more understandable, I have included notes, in italics, to clarify places, characters and timings.
Munich 1938 – March 1940
Hello John, this is about the longest letter or dictation that I shall make to you or to young James. It’s something we’ve discussed on various occasions, and it’s not supposed to be a line-shoot, but merely to give you and young James, in future years, some idea of what it was like in the early part of the war. This won’t be full of exciting doings, there were long periods of complete boredom and you may find it boring to listen to half the time, but for what it’s worth, here goes.
After the Munich crisis in 1938 it was becoming more and more apparent that war was going to break out sooner or later, and whereas companies hadn’t been too keen on staff joining the TA (Territorial Army) or RNVR (Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve) or RAFVR (Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve), it became patriotic to suggest that no objection be raised if all the keen types joined something or other. So far as the RAFVR was concerned, by joining it meant that we’d attend evening lectures and be away one weekend in two or three and have a fortnights camp. This was on top of the normal holiday to which one was entitled. Previously companies hadn’t been overjoyed at the prospect of losing most of their young men for long periods and also to have to continue paying them. As you probably know, my one ambition was to join the RAF. In those days to get to Cranwell it was necessary to be brighter than I claimed to be and to have at least a small private income. Other than that there was a short term commission normally four years. As was pointed out to me, “What would happen after four years, what sort of a job would I be likely to get, if any” It was a time when money was short and jobs scarce, hence the pressure to remain where I was in insurance, poorly paid, but safe.
Obviously this new look at the situation was a heaven-sent opportunity for me to apply to join the RAFVR. So in April 1939 I went down to the nearest recruiting base at the Palmera Towers, Westcliffe. We were a large number of chaps of similar age and qualifications, in my case practically nil apart from an ambition to fly. We were given various tests, maths, map-reading and a selection board consisting of three officers. I was fortunate enough to pass these without a great deal of trouble and then came the question of a medical. It certainly didn’t worry me, but unfortunately there was no means of getting that done at Westcliffe, there was no doctor in attendance, which seemed quite odd at the time. It often makes me wonder how anyone joined anything in those days. In fact in the very early days it was said that you had to have influence to join any of the Services, apart from the army. We all returned to our peacetime activities and I spent the next few months writing to Westcliffe asking when I could have a medical. Eventually I received a formal letter from Westcliffe, saying that due to various factors medicals were being delayed, and a hand-written PS on the bottom, saying “Personally I think it may be anything up to two years!” And this was in August 39!
Finally, after much binding, I received a letter in duplicate saying I had been accepted into the RAFVR and was only awaiting a medical. If I was called up under my age-group before the RAFVR pulled their finger out I was supposed to present this letter to the draft board and I’ll be whisked into the RAF without further bother.
On 3rd September 1939 it all happened and recruiting offices sprang up all over the place. There was an RAFVR place in the Strand, to which several chaps from The Ocean presented themselves and having passed the various tests mental and physical were immediately made sergeants, given uniforms, and told to return to their place of work until called! I was told that as I was already on the books, there was no way they could entertain my application but I was just to go away until I was called up for a medical. I must admit I was pretty livid, but could do nothing about it. My one consolation, albeit somewhat half-hearted was the fact that two chaps who’d worked with me sat in The Ocean, (The Ocean Accident & Guarantee Company, where RJHR worked from 1935 -1975. It eventually became the Commercial Union and was subsequently taken over by Norwich Union, now part of Aviva) complete in uniforms, working like slaves, me in civvies; both failed their flying tests and were turfed out.