Progress (if rather slow)
Greetings Danny42C, Chugalug2 and all other friends - here follows the next instalment. If my scribblings seem to sometimes state the obvious or ramble a bit, please bear in mind that they were first set down for the benefit of family and close friends, who are usually less knowledgeable on aviation and service matters than us cognoscenti; as it is, I have lightly edited them.
PART 4----MARKING TIME.
As seen from the Louis Pasteur's promenade deck in early April '44, even by northern standards wartime Liverpool looked exceptionally grim. However the port was probably busier than ever before (or since), it being common knowledge that the long awaited Second Front was not far away; shipping of all shapes and sizes lay everywhere, while on the crowded quaysides tiny tank engines banged trucks endlessly to & fro, their diminutive size exciting some ribald comment from our Canadian fellow passengers.
But to us Brits the Mersey scene looked just GREAT, for not only was it Blighty, we would soon be off this accursed Frog tub on which we had just passed the most uncomfortable week of our lives. Possessing an unenviable reputation for breakdown due to its temperamental Gallic machinery (a highly undesirable trait when crossing U-Boat infested waters), the French love of mechanical complexity for its own sake as expressed by the ship's electric transmission was probably too much for simple British seamen. We would be glad to wave the Pasteur good-bye anyway, for it rolled far worse than the Queen Mary of fond memory, while its crowded mess-decks and dreadful food had made wartime UK seem like a paradise in anticipation. As for the delights of sleeping in a hammock with neighbours' unwashed feet to either side of one's face, or the unspeakable sanitary "facilities" where the ship's roll had to be nicely judged prior to entry, the less said the better.
Despite docking in late afternoon, disembarkation was not until the following dawn, the first thrill of the day to encounter HM Customs. A large force of tough-looking and uncompromising officers, plainly more accustomed to dealing with merchant seamen of the rougher sort, minutely examined our few miserable possessions before grudgingly permitting re-entry to our own country; following which, our crowd of weary but happy young hopefuls boarded a nondescript train drawn up at the Riverside Station.
During our toiling passage up through a long and noisome tunnel I must have fallen asleep, for my next clear memory is of passing through what must have been Manchester Exchange station; after which the mind goes blank again, until the next recollection is of emerging from another long tunnel and running down an industrialized, smog-filled valley towards Leeds. However following a halt in one of the city’s cavernous stations the aspect became increasingly pleasant during the final run to Harrogate, where the RAF had a large holding facility for newly-qualified aircrew awaiting advanced training. Presumably officialdom had chosen this spa town because of its large number of now-redundant hotels, so I was not unduly surprised to find ourselves marching to the Majestic, Harrogate's largest and certainly one of its most prestigious. An unlovely turn of the century building of rather grimy red brick, it occupied (and still does) a good site overlooking the central valley just off the Ripon road, well placed for the town centre and whatever it might offer.
This included large numbers of bars and public houses of a superior nature, pleasant gardens and fairly genial inhabitants; just as well, as it soon became clear that for most of us the wait would be a long one. The BCAP's efficient mass production of aircrew had considerably exceeded operational losses (horrendous though they were), so the net result was a gross bottleneck that would apparently keep us sitting around for many months yet. Thus it was with mixed feelings that I found myself assigned as a potential flying instructor; like most of my ilk I would have preferred operational duties, on the other hand those selected as possible QFI's were destined to pass on from Harrogate fairly quickly as compared with the rest. One's vanity was also flattered as only those with above average assessments were thus chosen, and so I accepted my likely fate without demur.
To keep us occupied, and also moderately proficient in our newly acquired skills, some so-called pre-Advanced Flying Units had been set up at various now largely redundant EFTS's. Equipped as they were with the ubiquitous and ever-green Tiger Moth, these establishments excited some derision from us their customers while at the same time they no doubt provided a diet of endless boredom for our long-suffering instructors who mostly would have much rather been on "ops". However they served a very useful purpose, enabling us to maintain sleight of hand and eye whilst simultaneously making use of large numbers of surplus training aircraft at comparatively small cost. Thus in company with about thirty others I found myself at No.16 EFTS Burnaston, about halfway between Derby and Burton-on-Trent. Fated nearly a half-century on to become a greenfield site for Toyota's British factory, it was a long-established school of flying now commanded by its wartime-commissioned owner-manager, a highly convenient if questionable arrangement for both man & RAF. Here, for the next three weeks, we renewed acquaintance with the doubtful joys of open-cockpit flight.
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Despite its diminutive size the Tiger Moth was a hard taskmaster, and in bashing it endlessly about the skies of Derbyshire we no doubt acquired further skills in basic handling whilst simultaneously cursing its wayward nature. May 1944 weather was typically bleak and also rather brisk, so the acute discomforts of aviation en plein air had to be stoically endured as we braved the icy draughts and diabolical seating of this airborne instrument of torture. No small aircraft is pleasant to fly in rough conditions, the Tiger less so than most, and its skittish behaviour allied to extremely light stick forces demanded delicate handling if it were to give of its best. Sadly our motley lot were I fear often found wanting in this respect, however the opportunity was there for those who cared.
Given the Tiger's combination of insufficient power and tricky flying qualities, plus an antipathy to inverted flight common to both myself and aircraft, I tended to avoid aerobatics when solo, instead finding it preferable to head north and go cloud-bashing in the area around Dovedale and Ashbourne. Due to the predominantly showery weather there was usually no shortage of nice cumulus cloud around which to turn, twist and dive, and when tired of that the scenery below was magnificent, a delightful contrast to the prairies of recent memory; less enjoyable however, was instrument flight training, in the Tiger an experience that might have been dreamed up by the Spanish Inquisition. Basic in the extreme, flight instrumentation consisted of airspeed indicator, altimeter (single needle), turn & slip, and magnetic compass; nothing so modern as artificial horizon or directional gyro, so that (in turbulent conditions especially) any attempt to maintain accurate progress became an exercise in refined torture. What with the compass swinging wildly at every control input, altitude deviation detectable only by speed excursions (the altimeter so insensitive as to be useless for this purpose), turn & slip needles skidding about at every bump and the instructor binding away down the "Gosport Tube", IF was dreaded and loathed by all; whether or not it served any useful purpose when practiced under such primitive conditions is open to doubt.
The war was now approaching its peak, with D-Day occurring soon after our arrival, however up here in the North Midlands there was little or no sign of the tremendous fleets of aircraft frequently observed when on leave down South, These were normally of two types; either USAAF bombers en route to a job or transport aircraft (many towing gliders) practising for an airborne forces operation. Additionally, at all times myriad aircraft of all shapes and sizes crisscrossed the sky, and so keen awareness of other traffic when in flight was a necessary prerequisite for survival; indeed it remains a constant source of amazement to me that there were so few collisions, I suppose the relatively low speeds of those days had a lot to do with it. Everyone seemed to fly cross-country at 2000ft. QFE, except when forced higher by terrain (and then not always), right of way usually going to the boldest and to hell with rules of the air. Later on, when flying (say) an Oxford or DC3 in cloud one often felt the characteristic wallowy bump of someone else's wake turbulence, disregarding it with an insouciance appalling by present-day standards.
Two episodes from this time stick in my memory, both while on leave at home (Oxford). In the first instance I recall as if yesterday a bright spring morning when literally hundreds of B17's and B24's in tight groups of about thirty each wheeled and circled above the city as they clawed for height, before finally setting out for some target in one truly massive formation - it was one of the most impressive sights I have ever seen, enhanced by the knowledge of witnessing history in the making. As may be imagined, with hundreds of big radials running at high power the noise was quite indescribable, it was as if one was entirely encompassed by overwhelming, earth-shaking sound. But such occasions had an inevitable down side, and it was not uncommon to see stragglers returning home later in the day well shot up, with gaping holes and feathered props, well away from their East Anglian bases and probably lost into the bargain.
Another spectacle, common during the pre-invasion period and also prior to the Arnhem & Rhine operations, were vast loose formations of Dakotas plus (sometimes) other types such as the Albemarle or Halifax flying at a few hundred feet and often with gliders in tow. Once I watched such a fleet pass over Oxford at dusk, all i/d & navigation lights illuminated, and as US-built aircraft customarily carried profuse external lighting the effect was that of a giant Christmas tree.
Our three weeks at Derby over, it was back to Harrogate* and the Majestic; soon after which, one unfortunate suffered a sad end. In theory supposed to return to the hotel by 10 pm or thereabouts on pain of some mild penalty, most of us preferred to avoid any beady-eyed RAF Police at the reception desk by scaling one of the exterior fire escapes. Like the majority using this facility, the gentleman in question was fairly well stoned and had no doubt experienced a loss of equilibrium when near the top; following which, higher authority appealed (vainly) for potential defaulters to use more orthodox methods of entry and accept the consequences in proper British fashion.
* Oddly enough I had strong family connections with the town, for not only had my father been born there, my paternal grandfather had been one of its GP's when the Spa was at its Edwardian zenith. The doctor who later took over the practice from him was still there in the same house, and with the same housekeeper; to me he was very hospitable, and thanks to him I enjoyed several outings or parties that made a pleasant change from the routine of daily boredom. He is now of course long gone but the house is still there, somewhat truncated and sadly converted to offices, but another link to the past survives in my uncle's name inscribed on the town's war memorial as a 1916 victim of WW1.