A Spitfire Pilot. Part 13.
111 Sqn moves from North Weald to Debden – November 1941
In November we moved from North Weald to Debden. No one was particularly pleased about it. I certainly wasn’t, because it was a long hike from Debden to Woodford, whereas from North Weald it was a piece of cake. Anyway, we were there and that was that. By this time I was sharing a room with Tony Johanson**, the only Icelandic pilot in the Air Force and the papers made a big thing of him. He was always being asked to go out to his aircraft and stand there and pose for pictures and we got inundated with pictures of Tony Johanson. There’d be Tony Johanson, standing on the wing, looking out for enemy aircraft, Tony Johanson taking off, Tony Johanson landing. He used to get the Mickey taken out of him like mad, but he was an awfully nice bloke, very quiet and he thought these paper antics a bit much, but he had to put up with it for the sake of the publicity.
I’d said what a bind it was getting from Debden back to Woodford. Well one day I got away fairly early in the evening and caught the train I hoped would get me back to Woodford fairly well. Anyway, by the time I’d got up to London and back again to Woodford, it had gone half past ten at night. There were no lights on at 76 Kings Avenue and I knew Mum was in bed at the back, so I went round the side and kept flinging my hat up at the window to wake her up. I didn’t wake her, I woke Ferdie, (Ferdie F*****n, FAF, father-in-law-to-be-of RJHR) who came along to find out what the noise was. Anyway, I saw Mum for a little time, I think we had a cup of tea or something and at about 11 or 12, I started coming back to Debden. I missed all the trains that would have got me there and I eventually got the first train to the nearest station to Debden about five o’clock in the morning from Liverpool Street, hitch-hiked from the station to the aerodrome, got there just in time for breakfast.
**
In 1993 I was working for IBM in their London offices at South Bank, just by Waterloo. I had a very pleasant, modern office, overlooking the Thames, with floor to ceiling glass walls on the inside. When I moved there I took a number of photographs with me to brighten up my environs. Family shot, an F-4, naturally, and a picture of my father shaking hands with King George VI at Biggin Hill in 1942. Somewhat incongruous, I know, given the plethora of PCs and other hi-tech kit that abounded. One day a chum of mine, Malcolm Lillie, was visiting the floor and noticed the photos. He popped his head round the door and asked about them, "Who's that, then, JF?" When I explained, he said, "My uncle was at Biggin Hill about then, ask your Old Man if he ever came across him? He was the only Icelander to fly in the RAF!"