Danny goes for Demob.
The end came very swiftly. I could not have got home before 12 June. But although I started my disembarkation leave immediately, I could not exist in a vacuum as far as the RAF was concerned - I must be posted somewhere. The choice fell on Middle Wallop (don't ask me why). So after enjoying my leave in Southport for a fortnight, I went down there until the end of the month, when my demob number came up. During that time I did absolutely nothing.
However, for the moment we are in Southport. Among the many attractions of that fair town is a Lido. It was a bright, breezy day. I decided on a swim. The Lido screening walls sheltered me from the half-gale off the Irish Sea, the sun shone and the water glittered invitingly. I might have noticed that there weren't many in the water. I dived in.
I thought I was dead - the cold hit me like a blow - it was absolutely freezing. I rose from the water like a Polaris missile and got ashore - I don't think I swam, but must have run on top of the water across to the side. There, wrapped in towel, it was about twenty minutes before my teeth stopped chattering. Then, and only then, did I look at the blackboard. It read 55°F or something like it. Bit of a change from my last swim !
I spent quite a bit of time at the Lido, but contented myself with topping-up the tan I'd come home with (and leaving the water alone !) It was during this time that I was surprised to see M. Giroup (oux ?) plying his trade in the old Fox Moth, coming over every four minutes (and earning £2 a time). (Fredjhh and I exchanged reminiscences about this many Posts ago).
I never thought that the "five-bob" flights would do much business after the war, but really the vast majority of people were no more air-minded than they'd been in 1939. It was only the small minority of WW2 aircrew who thought no more of climbing into a cockpit than hopping on a bike. The era of mass air transportation was many years in the future.
The two weeks were up, I went down to Middle Wallop. There must have been some paperwork involved, and after a week or two I went from there to the Demob Centre about 1st July. And where was that ? I can offer Wilmslow, Padgate, Warton - but all are guesses. But wherever it was, they must have taken in my 1250: there were no ranks any more now. IIRC, I got a pork-pie hat, a raincoat, brogues (?), sports jacket and flannels, a white shirt (and tie ?) and a cardboard suitcase to put it in. Goodbye and Good Luck !
Of course I was still on strength; they paid me up until 31st August (Demobilisation Leave). They gave me a gratuity (about £150, I think). With this, added to the £500 Banker's Draft I'd brought home, I opened my first Bank Account. This was a very useful buffer, for my income position was not so rosy.
The Government of India had been paying me the rupee equivalent of about £60 p.m., but of course that ceased the moment the ship cast off in Bombay. The RAF took over at the rate of 24/- a day (for a Flt.Lt.), which in my arithmetic is about £36 p.m. Scarcely had I adjusted to this change in my fortunes when they got rid of me and I had to earn my keep in the Civil Service on a princely £25 p.m. (it is hard to get an accurate comparison with the present, but a ratio of 38:1 is not far out).
And at that I was luckier than many. In the course of my efforts in the Resettlement Advice Office (a Physician who could not Heal Himself), I heard heart-rending tales of many who were really on the breadline after demob, and I did what I could to shoe-horn them into the TMC III (Temporary Male Clerk) vacancies which were cropping up in the wartime evacuated Govt. Departments which still filled most of the big hotels. These posts were not overpaid, as you can well imagine, but the poor devils were pathetically grateful for my efforts, and I made many friends in that way.
Passports started to be issued again; the Ministry of Labour and National Service got in on the act, but only to the extent that we took applications in for a quick check before passing them on to the Liverpool Passport Office, who were snowed under. As my Resettlement Advice Office (a rather dignified double-fronted former shop in Lord Street) was rather less squalid than the Labour Exchange, I collected the job, which really boiled down to helping the functionally illiterate (very few in those times) and looking out for photos endorsed by "Michael Mouse, Esq." and the like. The days passed pleasantly enough.
For my leisure hours, I'd joined the Territorial Association Rifle Club. At weekends we went out to the nearby Altcar ranges. I was no William Tell, but once managed to win a "Spoon Shoot" (I must have been very lightly handicapped !) The little silver coffee spoon has stayed with me for years.
Gun control hardly seemed to exist at all. I don't think I even had to have a gun licence for the P.2 (?) Canadian long-barrel, five-round-magazine .303 I had. It was kept in the umbrella stand in the hall (minus bolt, of course). Nobody turned a hair.
They had a 25-yard miniature indoor range at the Drill Hall with Webley and Parker-Hale "Match rifles". The tiny "long-rifle" rimfire .22 cartridges were fed into their old pattern Martini-Henry single-shot actions. This mechanism dated back to the nineteenth century; it was used in the British Army before the introduction of the Lee-Metfords and Lee-Enfields which were the weapons in issue for both World Wars. The indoor range was open most weeknights in the winter. Your only expense was the ammo.
G'night, all,
Danny42C.
POSTSCRIPTS
lasernigel,
The "Prince of Wales" - the Savoy of Southport ! My Resettlement Office (ex-shop) was on the same side of Lord St, and just the other side of Portland (?) St. The "Royal" was the Ministry of Something or Other. Their canteen did a good lunch. Digress away to your heart's content !.........D.
Yamagata ken, Divert away likewise !.........D.
dogle, Drift ditto !......D.
cockney steve,
My W/Wheel was half-price (£12.10) ex "Exchange & Mart". For that only got the Wheel, had to add old bike (15/-), front wheel (£1 or so) and moped saddle (£ ?) for comfort. SATCO had Cyclemaster, licked him hollow on race round taxiway........D.
All's grist that comes to the mill ! (or my Virtual Clubroom)......D.