Flying boat travel, + AFU
Warmtoast, many thanks for pointing me towards that 1940 account of a journey in Caledonia, I shall enjoy reading it.
Danny42C & Ian BB - Neither myself nor my crew were remotely of VIP status when we did that Karachi- Calcutta trip in a C-boat, indeed we were 100% NCO. Why we were so privileged I don't know, but it certainly beat crossing India by train!
Below follows a description of my time at 21 AFU:
Following a further two weeks at Harrogate after return from pre-AFU near the end of June '44 came notification of posting to No.21 Advanced Flying Unit at Taten Hill, my only regret leaving behind many friends from Canadian days - never to meet again alas, as was the way of things at that time. A few miles north of Burton-on-Trent, my new unit was situated in pleasant Staffordshire countryside not all that far from Burnaston. Its location had one distinct plus, for by this stage of the war a considerable beer shortage had developed but with Burton being the centre of English brewing we were quite well placed. A further pleasure was meeting up once more with the Oxford, not the beaten-up old stagers remembered from transatlantic days, but relatively new specimens that performed and handled nicely although very little altered in detail. To my surprise radio was still conspicuous by its absence, although a few aircraft did in fact have the prehistoric TR9. It worked rarely, useful only for practising R/T procedures and quite unsuited for any form of ATC; so perforce, control by Aldis Lamp & Verey Pistol was yet again order of the day.
Aside from being refreshed with the niceties of twin-engined handling and proper instrument flying, there was really little new to learn except that UK navigation consisted of rather more than following an occasional railway line straggling into the distance. Radio beacons were non-existent, D/F (usually) required a wireless operator and new-fangled gadgets such as Gee were for bigger boys than us; ergo, map-reading assisted by drift sight and DR plus a spot of luck was order of the day. Being July/August there was little trouble with the dreaded UK weather despite 1944 being a somewhat indifferent summer, but with the English landscape so crowded with detail it was quite easy to get lost away from the familiar local area and especially so if visibility was below par. In those far-off, pre-motorway days the narrow winding roads were not easy to identify from the air, so one's map-reading progressed largely by reference to railways, rivers and large landmarks. Seventy-plus years on, it is difficult for those not around at that time to comprehend the extensive railway network that once interlaced the land; indeed in some areas the system was so complex and widespread that map reading became a confusing exercise in discrimination, the much-maligned Dr.Beeching thankfully unknown in the distant future.
Given reasonably clear weather, and with the black-out now a thing of the recent past, cross-country work was actually easier at night. A plethora of airfields lay everywhere, with nearly all having full "Drem" lighting systems plus a red beacon (Pundit) flashing the field ident in morse; said Drem system being a circle of upward-pointing lights round the 'drome that accorded with the "official" circuit, capable of being switched so that aircraft were "funnelled" towards the threshold of the runway in use. With perhaps half a dozen of these lighting systems plus many pundits visible either side of track, to become lost at night was an exercise in idiocy (in good weather, anyway).
On general handling details the Oxford's greater speed and range allowed more prolonged and detailed exploration of a wider area than had been the case with the Tiger, thus facilitating such pleasures as teaming up with a USAAF B17 Flying Fortress heading eastward through the area; almost flat out at about 160 mph indicated, the Oxford was hard pushed to keep up and after a while I peeled away, afraid of being led into unfamiliar territory. During my time at Taten Hill a great explosion occurred in a subterranean ammunition dump nearby, resulting in the appearance of a huge smoking depression in the local countryside; for some time after, the sky above was full of haphazardly circling aircraft, a considerable collision risk.
Taten Hill was my first encounter with a "dispersed aerodrome", the pattern to which all wartime-constructed airfields were built and which should have been applied to pre-war RAF ones as well; for while the conventional practice of grouping hangars, domestic offices and accommodation fairly close together may have made life convenient for the inmates it also greatly facilitated any enemy pilot's job. The dispersed system went to the other extreme; not only were (aircraft) parking pans and associated facilities dotted randomly off the perimeter taxyway, they sometimes even wandered off into surrounding fields and woods. Domestic accommodation was similarly scattered, and might occasionally infiltrate the back end of a local village. The various mess buildings, besides being well away from the airfield itself, were widely separated from each other while sleeping quarters would be in small groups of huts likewise dotted all around. Apart from an occasional small bus or 3-ton truck circling the taxyway no transport was provided, so bicycles were essential being issued on loan to all who asked; but many preferred to use their own, almost any old "grid" being superior to the ponderous and ill-maintained official article. All domestic buildings were bungaloid, usually either Nissen huts of various sizes or crude shacks with corrugated asbestos roofing, "heat" theoretically provided by dreadful coke stoves for which there was never enough fuel. Entirely devoid of insulation, too hot in summer and in winter offering gulag-like conditions to the unfortunate occupants, amazingly some of these jerry-built structures survived for years after the war as accommodation for farm animals or squatters.
Not only was one's trusty bike essential for life on camp, it also provided virtually the sole means of escape; private motoring was but a distant dream and bus services extremely meagre, so one pedalled everywhere. Normal off-duty destination was of course Burton, an unlovely place crammed with renowned breweries and their myriad associated pubs. A visit to Bass, the largest and best-known, found it a stronghold of tradition with many horses in evidence, its products put into barrels of its own manufacture (metal casks as yet unknown), while around town traffic was often held up by chubby, well-polished little engines towing trucks full of casks, hops or whatever around a complex network of private railways. Over everything was that pervasive and characteristic aroma of brewing, a whiff of which even now carries me back instantly to those far-off times, and is indeed probably the only feature of the town remaining unchanged today.
With only Sunday free, again the faithful bike was usually called upon to carry me to the station for a quick trip home the evening before. Normally taken along so as to provide transport the other end, alternatively it could be left in the station cloakroom and arrangements made for my brother to meet me with the family tandem at Oxford; however this required prior arrangement, so was not always possible. These short trips home were a most welcome break from the general discomfort and indifferent fare provided on camp, for I was no doubt disgracefully spoilt by my mother. In this context it must be remembered that all food was strictly rationed, and available only on coupon to which as an unofficial week-ender I was not entitled; so anything I consumed came out of the meagre household stocks plus whatever could be produced in the garden, i.e. eggs, the occasional old chicken plus fruit and vegetables in season. Although vaguely aware of this at the time, I doubt I was sufficiently appreciative other than retrospectively, and then only much later in life.
A variegated lot, my companions were mostly slightly older and included a high percentage of Australians plus a lesser number of New Zealanders and Canadians. Although the Aussies tended to stick together I got on well with most, often joining them in forays to local hostelries; however, a sad event midway through our course forged a closer bond. Detailed for a solo flight one dark evening, I waited in our dispersal crew room for an "engines-running change" with an Australian already airborne on the same exercise; but the appointed time came and went, and after a while the duty instructor told me to push off as it appeared my colleague had "gone in" somewhere. Next day our worst fears were confirmed, and some of us cycled out to the crash site a few miles off where pieces of Oxford were strewn liberally around near an isolated house; the inhabitants of which had apparently been much surprised on awakening to find themselves surrounded by wreckage, unbelievably hearing nothing of the accident. The whole affair was a complete mystery; no evidence of technical failure came to light, and since my colleague's demise occurred at an hour when I should have been airborne in his place there was cause for deep reflection. Oddly enough I was to have a similar experience eleven years later at Dishforth, when a Hastings and its crew met another unexplained and violent end while I was awaiting my turn to fly it.
The inevitable aftermath was my first experience of a funeral. About fifteen of us were flown up to an airfield in the Wirral, there to be taken in hand by a kindly Warrant Officer obviously experienced in his morbid task. Saluting the open grave at a bleak, windswept military cemetery I considered the pointless loss of a young man who had come halfway round the world only to be struck down before he could even begin the task for which he had left home; now laid to rest without benefit of family or relatives, only our small party plus the crew of a passing goods train witness to what was, after all, a fairly frequent ceremony at that time. Despite having attended many funerals since, the poignancy of that first one will always be with me as will the gratitude expressed for my attendance by the victim's fellow-countrymen; for shamingly, aside from the W/O, I was the only Brit present.
Later on a party of us were detached for a week of specialised training. Following a slow and overcrowded train journey typical of wartime we ended up at Shawbury, a permanent RAF airfield north of Shrewsbury and home of the grandly-named Empire Central Navigation School; but it was a more humble unit known as No.534 Beam Approach Training Flight that awaited us, this latter being devoted solely to interpretation and use of the Standard Beam Approach System. Primitive by present day standards, it provided the first accurate and dependable method of landing aircraft in conditions of very restricted visibility, being the forerunner of the modern ILS; but, being only aurally interpreted, it was demanding and difficult to use. A brief description follows, any readers not interested are advised to skip the following paragraphs.
A very narrow radio beam was transmitted along the runway centreline, out to about 15/20 miles back down the final approach path. No more than about one degree wide, it gave a steady signal in one's headphones when lined up dead central; inbound, if the aircraft tracked off-centre one heard dots for a leftward deviation with dashes if off to the right, these signals being of course reversed if proceeding outbound from the field. Fractional misalignment put the aircraft in one of the two "twilight zones"; here either dots or dashes were audible as appropriate with the accompaniment of a background note that became stronger as one regained centreline, until finally the steady signal was heard again. On the other hand, continued excursion into the twilight zone resulted eventually in hearing only clear dots or dashes with no sound in between and so, by correct interpretation of the audible signal, it was theoretically possible to fly down to deck level without sight of the ground.
Unfortunately, as is widely known, theory and practice are two entirely separate entities and so it proved once more in this instance. First the beam had to be located, and with the Oxford possessing nothing so modern as a radio compass the only means available was by making use of D/F bearings transmitted from the ground; which in itself was an advance on any previous experience, as were the two-way radios fitted to our BAT Flight Oxfords. Having been homed to an approximate overhead, one then flew outbound on the ‘back beam’ for a period timed according to the forecast wind (often inaccurate) and then carried out a procedure turn inbound for beam capture, imminence of which was hopefully announced by the steadily strengthening "twilight" signal. On receipt of a steady note heading was then adjusted accordingly, but as estimated drift seldom accorded with that prevailing in the real world one usually slid back outside the beam or shot straight through to the other side. Constant small heading adjustments were then required in order to maintain the equi-signal zone, an increasingly difficult task as the beam steadily narrowed with decreasing range.
The other problem was knowing one's distance from the runway, essential for maintenance of a correct descent profile; timing was a vague procedure at the best of times, the inherent errors thereof being magnified with each passing mile, but any form of distance measuring equipment or glide slope information lay in the future and there was no ground radar. Two fixed marker beacons were therefore provided along the beam, the outer one at 5 or 6 miles from touchdown and the inner close to the runway threshold; these radiated fan-shaped signals upwards, high-pitched dashes for the Outer Marker and similar dots for the Inner. Correct technique was to hold a prescribed altitude (usually 1500 ft QFE) while completing pre-landing checks inbound, then commence descent on crossing the Outer at a rate commensurate with estimated ground speed; hopefully one would then cross the Inner at the published height (exactly what I don't recall), achievement of which promised a safe landing provided that the ground was then visible. Arrival at the minimum height too soon necessitated flying level until reaching the marker, while being too high could mean missing the runway.
The prevalence of fog most mornings added realism, and provided tangible proof of SBA's usefulness. Whilst the navigators of ECNS preferred practicing their esoteric art in the safety of lecture rooms, daily we trudged out to our barely-visible Oxfords and flew off into the murk, re-emerging time after time to brush wheels onto a runway that usually became visible only during the last few seconds of flight. Pretty much as now, in "real" weather it was then probably illegal to descend below the Inner Marker crossing height without sight of ground, however I clearly recall flying blind right down until a brief, last-moment, sighting of the runway - not as dangerous as it sounds since all flights were dual, i.e. with an instructor. The sense of achievement was satisfying, but it was a highly demanding task to shoot several satisfactory approaches one after the other and fatigue could soon set in; flying an accurate course along the steadily narrowing beam, while simultaneously maintaining a correct descent rate based on close control of airspeed, grew progressively more demanding, the constant noise in one's ears so stupefying that mis-identification of dots v dashes became a very real hazard as the detail progressed.
Fortunately the instructors also could only take so much, and following burn-off of the fog some airborne exploration of the beautiful Shropshire countryside was usually in order. Relatively unspoilt even today, over half a century ago it was positively arcadian in the smiling August sunshine and especially so towards the Welsh Border and around the Wenlock area, while the north western part of the county appeared to contain a remarkable number of remote and attractive country houses. All a very pleasant way of passing time, in complete contrast to the horrors of attempting (for instance) the mastery of back-beam approaches, about which the less said the better.
Our week over it was back to Taten Hill for completion of the course, after which I was sent west once again to spend a few days at Perton, a now long-vanished satellite airfield just north of Wolverhampton while higher authority made up its mind as to our future – which was not long in coming. Apparently the RAF now had a sufficiency of QFIs, so instead I found myself destined for Bomber Harris's mincing machine,