Old Comrades
There came a few more days leave, then it was off again to "Service Flying Training" on 30th August. I went to 6 S.F.T.S. at Little Rissington, Gloucestershire, famous as the home of the Royal Air Force Central Flying School. Our training continued on Airspeed Oxfords, that were twin-engined, single wing aircraft with quite large fuselages, capable of carrying several passengers (except there were no passenger seats fitted). My instructor at this school was Flying Officer Foxall (called "Foxy", of course).
We did most of our training from another satellite airfield at Windrush. The training consisted of many cross-country flights, elementary bombing runs over a special monitoring device in a corner of the airfield, and other exercises to improve our general airmanship. Classroom work consisted of engineering, principles of flight, airmanship, navigation, etc. On this course I clocked up about another 100 flying hours, and finished by being awarded the "Badge of Honour" for being the most proficient pupil on the course of about 40 students.
A day worth mentioning at Windrush quite early on this Course was when we were all sprawling about the flight hut, studying, reading, smoking mostly on the floor because there were only half a dozen chairs provided, when a fresh-faced young Pilot Officer (admin type!) cae bounding in. Speaking about some event strange to most of us, he tore strips off us, and said that as “the culprits” had not owned up, we were all to be punished with 100 lines each.
There was an astonished silence for one or two seconds. Then a concerted bellow from all pupils. The noise nearly lifted the hut’s roof. Short ending to the incident. A Flight Lieutenant appeared half an hour later and quietly cancelled the punishment.
If anyone wants to be enlightened on how to relieve oneself in an Airspeed Oxford on a long cross-country solo, when the unreachable urine bag is hanging on the other side of the cockpit, send me a money order and I’ll give you a few laughs. No pictures, unfortunately.
The December weeks before Christmas were our time of great excitement. We had the "Wings" written exams to be taken and passed, as well as the flying tests, before we could put up those coveted golden wings (brevets) on our left breasts. Eventually, the great day came - 23rd December 1941.
The results were posted up on the notice board. Our best tunics had been lovingly prepared weeks before. Some lucky ones were selected for commissioned rank. The majority of us were promoted to the rank of Sergeant-Pilot. In spite of the very cold day no one found it necessary to put on a greatcoat. We strode around waiting for the final parade, with Wings blazing from our chests, and sergeants' stripes gleaming on our arms. What a Day!
Last edited by Walter603; 6th Dec 2015 at 04:56.
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