From school to the RNZAF boot camp
Post no. 2 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
I had spent the vital days during the Battle of Britain in 1940 at school in Auckland. Old boys, who only a year or two before had stood where I was now standing, died daily in the ferocious conflict being played out in the indifferent European sky. To experience this period in history filled me with a determination and forged in me a resolve to get into the air and into combat. With hundreds of other hopeful youngsters I volunteered to fly with the Royal New Zealand Air Force. I was certain that I would be chosen and certain that I would eventually become a fighter pilot. I would, I must, wear those wings.
I entered the RNZAF in 1941 but did not start my training until March 1942 when with some 150 other bewildered boys I stoically suffered the wrath of numerous NCOs who marched, ran and bullied us for hours every day. The object of their performance was to “make men out of us”, they said. One particularly brutal Flt Sgt marched and ran us, on one occasion, to almost total exhaustion. He was built like a gorilla, with short black bristles atop his flat skull. With his neanderthal brows, his half hidden cold blue eyes, and his murderous mouth, he presented a formidable sight. He marched us, he taunted us and then dressed us down, telling us what we were and what our mothers probably were. He gave a short character description of the fathers that we obviously would never have known, then he called us to attention, yelling at us to stand like men.
“Look proud!” he screamed.”Don't look at me you idiots! Look above me, look at the sky. That's where you are going. Don't look at the ground, that's where I'm staying”. His last words were quieter, a softness came into his voice, almost compassionate. I looked at him with interest. Had he at one time dreamed of being a pilot? Had he wished for a life in the air? How many boys had he marched, frightened and bullied? Did he read the casualty lists daily, and recognise with sorrow many of the names? Did he perhaps weep? For an instant he looked almost human but the moment was short-lived. He barked, obviously embarrassed at the humanity he had shown, and quickly returned to his revolting disposition, returning us to the barracks at a fast trot.
The days passed. We continued to run, march and study for hours each day. It was two or three days before we finished the physical part of our ground training course when 'Neanderthal' marched us round the town and into the Government Gardens, where he halted us and adopted his most truculent position. I suddenly realised that we were halted in front of the Ward Baths, between the baths and a large ornamental pool. I felt uneasy.
“Now”, said this unpleasant man, “word has reached me that someone among you has decided to throw me into this pool. Would that person please step forward and throw me into the water?” There were a few mumblings and shuffling of feet but nobody took up the invitation. The sergeant removed his shirt, displaying a gross and hairy body that made him look like his cave-dwelling ancestors. “No sergeant's stripes, no rank difference, we are all the same. Now's your chance”, he bellowed. Still nobody moved. “Right! Any two of you?” he screamed, reaching a killing frenzy. Still we stood in silence. “Right!” he screeched, almost apoplectic. “Attention! Right turn! Quick march, double march, left right left right, move it!”
It was a subdued group that was dismissed at the billets. I felt that he hid his pleasure in this little victory rather well, but I noticed creases of amusement round his eyes. What a pitiful man! Give him a gun and his opponent a gun and see who was the tougher then. Make it even, take away all physical advantage. Doing him over had been considered, but it would have been at time and place of our choosing. He bluffed us, he had total control, and that made him feel good. But it didn't make him popular.