My tale opens another page.
Naturally we had to hide the blatant breach of US neutrality which this entailed. Obviously we couldn't wear uniform in the States, but had to pretend to be civilians, and wear civilian clothes to back up the story. (We'd only need to keep this up for a few months, but of course we did't know that at the time).
And so it was that LAC ******* J.D. (****877) went up to Blackpool, was billeted out in a tatty South Shore boarding house, and kitted out with white shirts and a Thirty Shilling Tailors chalk-striped suit. This natty ensemble was capped by a beret. Now there are heads which suit berets (spherical ones), and plenty more which don't. I looked like Holbein's Henry VIII. I never wore the thing and disposed of it as soon as possible. I painted code letters on my kitbags (ATTS/TRAILL), had embarkation leave, went up to Gourock (Clyde) and dumped my kit in a four-berth second class cabin in a liner whose name I forget. Of my four wartme sea voyages, this was the only time I had a cabin in a troopship - when I was in my lowest rank.!
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(This means "work in progress". I put it in as an incomplete Post, because I am sick of this infernal machine of mine losing all my text while drafting a Reply. Put in as a Post, what I've done so far seems to be safe. If the next bit of draft vanishes into cyberspace again, this way I only lose the last bit. I can get what went before back as an Edit. I'll do this from now on). Danny.
We put to sea, dodged the U-boats, and a week later landed in Halifax; then straight on to one of the Canadian Pacific Railway's "Colonial" trains. These were very basic coaches formerly used to take immigrant families to their new homes out West. They were short on comfort, I remember that the berths were very solid wood indeed, and I don't think we had any mattresses. But the food was good and the scenery magnificant as we followed the St.Lawrence upstream into Canada. This was very French country with place names to match, like "Riviere du Loup".
Our destination was Toronto, then a holding centre for aircrew trainees going to the Canadian flying schools or (in our case) down to the States. Our trip was enlivened (if that is the right word) by a train crash (only a little one, I hasten to add). Our dozey driver, following closely behind a goods train, luckily only at walking pace, managed to run into the back of it. There was a severe jolt, enough to throw people off their feet, and quite a bang. There were a few bumps and bruises, but no real harm seemed to have been done, and we continued on our way to Toronto. That city has a permanent Canadian National Exposition Centre, where every summer a country-wide Agricultural show was (and still is) held.
They saw no reason why a war should interrupt this, and it was in full swing when we arrived. They had the buildings to accommodate us, so long as we didn't mind sharing with the prize livestock. Actually, it wasn't too bad, except that in late summer the smells were a bit ripe. There wasn't a great deal of " bull" in our Exposition quarters - just the odd roll call, kit inspection and Pay Parade, and one memorable occasion we had a "Short Arm Inspection". It was not then a service offence to acquire a STD (then "VD"), but it was to conceal the fact, and not report for treatment.
To deter concealment, parades were held when, on command, slacks were dropped, and the Medical Officer and his orderly came round to check. The MO, armed with a sort of large spatula, cast an expert eye on each set of "crown jewels" in turn as he worked down the line. On this occasion the process was in full swing, well away from public gaze in some out-of-the-way corner of the building. Not out-of-the-way enough! A dairymaid picked the wrong door, to be met with a sight not usually vouchsafed to young ladies. She squealed, dropped her (empty) pail and bolted; we, modesty outraged, did our best with cupped hands. It made a change from normal routine.
Parades and drills were organised for us in the Fort York Armoury (like a Territorial Drill Hall). This was down by the lakeside and the air much fresher. The juke-box top numbers of the day were "Amapola" and "Yes, my Darling Daughter", and those tunes always take me back to the Armoury. (My daughter was in Toronto a few years ago, it was still there).
I think we spent two or three weeks there, and then, thinly disguised as civilians, boarded a train for Florida. The generous pilot training which the Americans offered us must have been of enormous value to the RAF at that stage of the War. After Pearl Harbor, they provided even more, in the shape of British Flying Training Schools in the south-western States (there was no need for concealment then. we were Allies)
Bedtime now, more anon.
Danny42C
Get yer knees brown!
Last edited by Danny42C; 13th Feb 2012 at 22:40.