Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
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Gaining An R.A.F. Pilots Brevet in WW11
Thank you Chugalug and Geriaviator. I was paired with a Flying Officer at Brize and we stayed together for nearly a year. He had already done two weeks on the Hotspur at Shobden so the emphasis was on him for the Horsa and Hadrian training at Brize. Suffice to say at Brize we had 1 hour 55 mins dual then 25 minutes (two landings) just us. Night flying was 40 minutes dual then 15 minutes and ten minutes just us. Next day 4 dual landingsl and two just us, and that included 2 dual and one us on the Hadrian - 1 hour 35 minutes. Total for Brize was 5 hours and 5 minutes. Hampstead Norris was even less, i hour and five minutes, -not a lot! Then we joined our Glider Pilot Regiment Squadron - "F" at Broadwell.
We were welcomed by our new comrades, most of them had been on D-Day and Arnhem, some on the disasterous Sicily one. They said that they didn't carry passengers, and they trained us in weapons and explosives, taught us to drive jeeps and motor bikes and to generally make ourselves useful to any passengers/ loads we would be carrying.
We were dropped off at night in the wilds and had to evade troops sent to look for us. But the emphasis was on fitness and weapon training.
Broadwell had two resident Dakota Squadrons, 575 and 512. They were heavily engaged in taking supplies in and wounded out fro m the Second Army who were fast approaching the Rhine.
We were issued with khaki battledress, boots and gaiters, Denison Smocks and we wore blue berets and were known as the R.A.F. Element of the Glider Pilot Regiment. We had an Army C.O. at that time who said that we were to wear Army wings and blanco khaki tapes and to wear our battle dress buttoned to the neck. I went to see the Group Captain and he sorted it out, and we were to wear our RAF Wings and tapes and collars and ties. It was no hardship to wear the khaki and smock and it kept us warm in a very cold winter.
We were welcomed by our new comrades, most of them had been on D-Day and Arnhem, some on the disasterous Sicily one. They said that they didn't carry passengers, and they trained us in weapons and explosives, taught us to drive jeeps and motor bikes and to generally make ourselves useful to any passengers/ loads we would be carrying.
We were dropped off at night in the wilds and had to evade troops sent to look for us. But the emphasis was on fitness and weapon training.
Broadwell had two resident Dakota Squadrons, 575 and 512. They were heavily engaged in taking supplies in and wounded out fro m the Second Army who were fast approaching the Rhine.
We were issued with khaki battledress, boots and gaiters, Denison Smocks and we wore blue berets and were known as the R.A.F. Element of the Glider Pilot Regiment. We had an Army C.O. at that time who said that we were to wear Army wings and blanco khaki tapes and to wear our battle dress buttoned to the neck. I went to see the Group Captain and he sorted it out, and we were to wear our RAF Wings and tapes and collars and ties. It was no hardship to wear the khaki and smock and it kept us warm in a very cold winter.
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Ormeside28 ... What a fascinating insight you are giving us. 
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Danny remarks on the vagaries of Memory.
I have from time to time in my Posts referred to a peculiarity of my memory which I have named the "Carlstrom Syndrome" (from its association with the Carlstrom Field in Florida, where I did my Primary Flying training in'41). Here the subject was the view from the air of the domestic camp and hangars, etc. (now long demolished) of the airfield.
During my two months there, I flew 60 hours from it on the "Stearman" trainer, and must have looked down on that camp area a hundred times. Obviously it would have been as familiar to me then as the back of my hand. But two years ago, when I began my story, I was utterly unable to visualise any details of it, not even the plan shape (it was a circle in fact). Not all that surprising, after 70 years, you might think.
But then Chugalug found and printed out on Post an aerial photograph of Carlstrom Camp in its heyday. You would expect my reaction to be immediate, pleased recognition: my memory of it to be instantly refreshed as new. On the contrary, I looked at it baffled, as of a place I'd never seen before. It was as if my memory stubbornly refused to "reinstate" it in its "files", and that still continues: it is as if I'm seeing a strange place for the first time.
Now that is weird enough (are there any psychologists in the House ?), but the story I'm going to tell now seems to indicate that there is a sort of "inverse" Carlstrom in play.
In '65 or '66, the 403 was showing the first signs of age. Specifically, the silky-smooth power take-up from standstill of the "Coupleur Jaeger" was becoming "lumpy" and "snatchy". I am no electrical (or any other kind) of engineer, but the Coupleur was a very simple mechanism, and I knew that the "iron filings" between the two parts of the clutch, were "excited" into scrumming-down together (and so transmitting the drive) by an unregulated voltage from a third brush on the dynamo (no alternators in those days). As the motor speeded-up, so did the dynamo; the voltage increased and 'Bob's yer uncle'.
Clearly the dynamo was the place to look, I had it off and on the dining table (well, it was chilly outside - and I'd put a couple of sheets of newspaper down underneath). I inspected the three "portes-balais" (brush carriers -["broom" carriers in Googlese]). The two main ones were all right, but the third (smaller) job was a poor design. The carbon brush was held down by a sort of bent paper-clip, the bare metal loop on the clip bore directly on the friable graphite brush, the top of this had crumbled; there was my problem.
Clearly some sort of conductive pad was the answer; the morning's milk bottle top was rescued from the gash-bin, washed and a piece cut out, folded to size, and put between paperclip and brush. Put all back: we had our Rolls-Royce once again. "Shame on Peugeot", I thought "I'd always found their engineering to be first-class". Then of course, it struck me. It wasn't their fault at all. Motor manufacturers buy in alternators, starters, batteries and all sorts of electrical widgets from outside firms (in those days Lucas was a prime supplier for British cars). So what French equivalent had done this sub-standard job for Peugeot ? Who cared ? What did it matter ? Why would I even want to find out ? So the matter rested for 50 years, until I got the idea for this Post.
A day or two later, I was thinking about something entirely different. Two names popped up, unbidden, bright and clear - Ducellier and Paris-Rhône ! Checked with Google/Wiki: they're still in business.
Why, oh why on earth, should these two names, which I had no possible reason to remember at all at the time , let alone for a half century, have stayed intact for so long on a sort of dusty old shelf in my memory, when there was absolutely no conceivable reason for them to do so ? Beats me.
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C.
"......and now I come to think of it....!"
During my two months there, I flew 60 hours from it on the "Stearman" trainer, and must have looked down on that camp area a hundred times. Obviously it would have been as familiar to me then as the back of my hand. But two years ago, when I began my story, I was utterly unable to visualise any details of it, not even the plan shape (it was a circle in fact). Not all that surprising, after 70 years, you might think.
But then Chugalug found and printed out on Post an aerial photograph of Carlstrom Camp in its heyday. You would expect my reaction to be immediate, pleased recognition: my memory of it to be instantly refreshed as new. On the contrary, I looked at it baffled, as of a place I'd never seen before. It was as if my memory stubbornly refused to "reinstate" it in its "files", and that still continues: it is as if I'm seeing a strange place for the first time.
Now that is weird enough (are there any psychologists in the House ?), but the story I'm going to tell now seems to indicate that there is a sort of "inverse" Carlstrom in play.
In '65 or '66, the 403 was showing the first signs of age. Specifically, the silky-smooth power take-up from standstill of the "Coupleur Jaeger" was becoming "lumpy" and "snatchy". I am no electrical (or any other kind) of engineer, but the Coupleur was a very simple mechanism, and I knew that the "iron filings" between the two parts of the clutch, were "excited" into scrumming-down together (and so transmitting the drive) by an unregulated voltage from a third brush on the dynamo (no alternators in those days). As the motor speeded-up, so did the dynamo; the voltage increased and 'Bob's yer uncle'.
Clearly the dynamo was the place to look, I had it off and on the dining table (well, it was chilly outside - and I'd put a couple of sheets of newspaper down underneath). I inspected the three "portes-balais" (brush carriers -["broom" carriers in Googlese]). The two main ones were all right, but the third (smaller) job was a poor design. The carbon brush was held down by a sort of bent paper-clip, the bare metal loop on the clip bore directly on the friable graphite brush, the top of this had crumbled; there was my problem.
Clearly some sort of conductive pad was the answer; the morning's milk bottle top was rescued from the gash-bin, washed and a piece cut out, folded to size, and put between paperclip and brush. Put all back: we had our Rolls-Royce once again. "Shame on Peugeot", I thought "I'd always found their engineering to be first-class". Then of course, it struck me. It wasn't their fault at all. Motor manufacturers buy in alternators, starters, batteries and all sorts of electrical widgets from outside firms (in those days Lucas was a prime supplier for British cars). So what French equivalent had done this sub-standard job for Peugeot ? Who cared ? What did it matter ? Why would I even want to find out ? So the matter rested for 50 years, until I got the idea for this Post.
A day or two later, I was thinking about something entirely different. Two names popped up, unbidden, bright and clear - Ducellier and Paris-Rhône ! Checked with Google/Wiki: they're still in business.
Why, oh why on earth, should these two names, which I had no possible reason to remember at all at the time , let alone for a half century, have stayed intact for so long on a sort of dusty old shelf in my memory, when there was absolutely no conceivable reason for them to do so ? Beats me.
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C.
"......and now I come to think of it....!"
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Danny both of these companies you mentioned are still in business and when I worked for Fiat in Australia used to supply us with alternators and distributors.
Paris Rhone turned out to be an old fashioned company who did all of their business contact by mail.
On one occasion I had contact with them about pre war stuff for the vintage car club here. Material was no longer on the shelf but they set too and hand built it and sent it down by air at no extra charge. I sent them a book on Australia and after that they bent over backwards and always helped.
Some pictures of their factory they sent was like a step back in time.
Regards
Col
Paris Rhone turned out to be an old fashioned company who did all of their business contact by mail.
On one occasion I had contact with them about pre war stuff for the vintage car club here. Material was no longer on the shelf but they set too and hand built it and sent it down by air at no extra charge. I sent them a book on Australia and after that they bent over backwards and always helped.
Some pictures of their factory they sent was like a step back in time.
Regards
Col
Ormeside28
I will pass your experience of becoming a glider pilot onto my Dad. He was disappointed to be posted as an instructor but I am sure that the possiblity of becoming a glider pilot would have helped him come to terms with it!
Did you actually take part in any offensive action. From your post I believe that the only major glider action left was the Rhine Crossing?
HF
I will pass your experience of becoming a glider pilot onto my Dad. He was disappointed to be posted as an instructor but I am sure that the possiblity of becoming a glider pilot would have helped him come to terms with it!
Did you actually take part in any offensive action. From your post I believe that the only major glider action left was the Rhine Crossing?
HF
Ormeside, many thanks for the stats. The words deep-end and thrown-in come to mind! The dual and solo landings were, I assume, following being towed airborne. Or were they? The cost and complication of such an arrangement makes me wonder if a mega-winch launch, a la Air Cadets gliders, could have substituted for the Dak etc. No doubt a gauche and laughable suggestion, but it just goes to prove my ignorance in these matters.
The Hastings I think was designed in part as a Glider Tug, the release eye being stowed in the rear lamp cluster, or so I was told. It was certainly required by the Army to be a tail wheel aircraft, in contrast to its civilian sister, the Hermes, perhaps for that reason and also because that gave the clearance between the main wheels to hang a beam from which in turn could be hung a 25pdr(?) gun and jeep to tow it. The load was released, and hence the parachute deployed, by means of a lavatory chain affair above the co-pilot position. He hung onto this chain on every take off in this role, and if so much as a cough was heard on i/c he evidently quickly pulled it, because an engine failure below Safety Speed was very bad news anyway but in this config would have been certain death.
In commemoration of D-Day, Avialogs have an Air Assault package designed for you personally, Ormeside:-
Latest documents published | Avialogs
Simply click on the appropriate link and the Horsa Pilots Notes etc will be revealed, to scroll through as required (only subscribers though can download them).
Danny, the human brain is complex and unpredictable. However, I am long since resigned to being a '20 minuter', ie when trying to remember the name of someone who crops up in conversation the trick is to give up trying to do so and 20 minutes later (give or take) it suddenly comes to mind. In that respect alone it can be both annoying and predictable!
PS, After a brief Google, this should show the latest satellite image of Carlstrom, with a brief history of the site since your time. I believe that the juvenile correctional facility has now closed as well:-
http://wikimapia.org/1620714/Desoto-...tional-Complex
http://wikimapia.org/#lang=en&lat=27...rmpoly=1620714
The Hastings I think was designed in part as a Glider Tug, the release eye being stowed in the rear lamp cluster, or so I was told. It was certainly required by the Army to be a tail wheel aircraft, in contrast to its civilian sister, the Hermes, perhaps for that reason and also because that gave the clearance between the main wheels to hang a beam from which in turn could be hung a 25pdr(?) gun and jeep to tow it. The load was released, and hence the parachute deployed, by means of a lavatory chain affair above the co-pilot position. He hung onto this chain on every take off in this role, and if so much as a cough was heard on i/c he evidently quickly pulled it, because an engine failure below Safety Speed was very bad news anyway but in this config would have been certain death.
In commemoration of D-Day, Avialogs have an Air Assault package designed for you personally, Ormeside:-
Latest documents published | Avialogs
Simply click on the appropriate link and the Horsa Pilots Notes etc will be revealed, to scroll through as required (only subscribers though can download them).
Danny, the human brain is complex and unpredictable. However, I am long since resigned to being a '20 minuter', ie when trying to remember the name of someone who crops up in conversation the trick is to give up trying to do so and 20 minutes later (give or take) it suddenly comes to mind. In that respect alone it can be both annoying and predictable!
PS, After a brief Google, this should show the latest satellite image of Carlstrom, with a brief history of the site since your time. I believe that the juvenile correctional facility has now closed as well:-
http://wikimapia.org/1620714/Desoto-...tional-Complex
http://wikimapia.org/#lang=en&lat=27...rmpoly=1620714
Last edited by Chugalug2; 11th Jun 2014 at 15:51. Reason: Added link to Wikimapia
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herkman,
Col, it is nice to hear of a firm behaving in the way nearly all firms did 70 years ago. The Customer was King then: the ones who chose to forget this soon went out of business...D.
Ormeside,
The whole glider business has always seemed highly fraught to me. A forced landing every time ! Not for this child !......D.
Chugalug,
Thanks for the two links. It is nice to see that the first pic in the first one was of a Stearman over the WW2 camp, and I suppose a "Juvenile Correctional Facility" was not all that far away from a USAAC Flight School !
There has been an enormous amount of new building in the second link, but an outline of the old circle was still visible, but I couldn't see the old swimming pool, which was in the exact centre as I recall. But it was all a long, long time ago; and memory does play strange tricks, as we both know all too well....D.
Cheers, all. Danny.
Col, it is nice to hear of a firm behaving in the way nearly all firms did 70 years ago. The Customer was King then: the ones who chose to forget this soon went out of business...D.
Ormeside,
The whole glider business has always seemed highly fraught to me. A forced landing every time ! Not for this child !......D.
Chugalug,
Thanks for the two links. It is nice to see that the first pic in the first one was of a Stearman over the WW2 camp, and I suppose a "Juvenile Correctional Facility" was not all that far away from a USAAC Flight School !
There has been an enormous amount of new building in the second link, but an outline of the old circle was still visible, but I couldn't see the old swimming pool, which was in the exact centre as I recall. But it was all a long, long time ago; and memory does play strange tricks, as we both know all too well....D.
Cheers, all. Danny.
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Gaining An R.A.F. Pilots Brevet In WW11
Thank you Chugalug for the Horsa Pilots Notes. The Hastings did have a "tow rope" position in the tail, but by the time it came into service all the gliders had gone. We did, in fact have a jeep and trailer on a carrier under the nose, and I went to Abingdon as a co-pilot for the trials and then we dropped them in an exercise in the Canal Zone in 1952, but it was not a happy load and caused a lot of "waffle", but I will get back to Broadwell in January 1945.
We flew for 4 hours and 50 minutes in January, 9 sorties of which two of 1hour 30 and 1 hour 35 were "Balbos" using a number of our Horsas and landing en masse on Broadwell. The other trips were just single circuits. It must be remembered that it took quite a lot of effort to line up the glider and tug and there was a lot of waiting to fly. I managed a couple of trips in a Dakota to experience the problems of towing. On take off it was necessary for the Horsa to be kept as low as possible until there was definite climb from the Dakota. Once airborne and settled the technique was to use the clear vision panel and position the dakota as an artificial horizon. You would lower the Horsa until slight buffeting from the slipstream of the Dakota under the Horsa and then fly the clear vision panel. That was in the high tow position. Attached to the tow rope was a cord which was connected to an instrument in the cockpit (Horsa) known as the "Angle of dangle" to be used in the low tow in cloud and would give a reasonable indication of an horizon. The tow rope on the Mark 1 Horsa was attached to a connection in each wing, and to release the aircraft must be in "High Tow or the cockpit would be clobbered! In the low tow the technique was to come up until buffeting was felt on top! The Mk 2 Horsa had a single connection in the nose.
February we did 3 hours 25 on the Mk 1 and 15 minutes on the Mark 2.,all day and including another "Balbo" of 1 hour 30.
We still kept up our trips to the ranges, and escape and evasion etc.
By March we knew that an Operation was looming. We did another "Balbo" then an exercise carrying 21 members of the Parachute Regiment who decided that they would rather jump. A final rehearsal for what we "knew" was to be the Rhine crossing where we took a jeep and a trailer and eight members of the Royal Ulster Rifles for a two hour trip. We wer given leave from which I was recalled. My father took me to the station, put his head in the carriage window and said, dont forget, keep your head down. He had been in the 14/18!!
We flew for 4 hours and 50 minutes in January, 9 sorties of which two of 1hour 30 and 1 hour 35 were "Balbos" using a number of our Horsas and landing en masse on Broadwell. The other trips were just single circuits. It must be remembered that it took quite a lot of effort to line up the glider and tug and there was a lot of waiting to fly. I managed a couple of trips in a Dakota to experience the problems of towing. On take off it was necessary for the Horsa to be kept as low as possible until there was definite climb from the Dakota. Once airborne and settled the technique was to use the clear vision panel and position the dakota as an artificial horizon. You would lower the Horsa until slight buffeting from the slipstream of the Dakota under the Horsa and then fly the clear vision panel. That was in the high tow position. Attached to the tow rope was a cord which was connected to an instrument in the cockpit (Horsa) known as the "Angle of dangle" to be used in the low tow in cloud and would give a reasonable indication of an horizon. The tow rope on the Mark 1 Horsa was attached to a connection in each wing, and to release the aircraft must be in "High Tow or the cockpit would be clobbered! In the low tow the technique was to come up until buffeting was felt on top! The Mk 2 Horsa had a single connection in the nose.
February we did 3 hours 25 on the Mk 1 and 15 minutes on the Mark 2.,all day and including another "Balbo" of 1 hour 30.
We still kept up our trips to the ranges, and escape and evasion etc.
By March we knew that an Operation was looming. We did another "Balbo" then an exercise carrying 21 members of the Parachute Regiment who decided that they would rather jump. A final rehearsal for what we "knew" was to be the Rhine crossing where we took a jeep and a trailer and eight members of the Royal Ulster Rifles for a two hour trip. We wer given leave from which I was recalled. My father took me to the station, put his head in the carriage window and said, dont forget, keep your head down. He had been in the 14/18!!
Ormeside,
Smashing post sir, and your use of the terms High and low tow, will definately resonate with those of us who have flown gliders through the years. I'm sure there's more to come, keep it going please.
Smudge
Smashing post sir, and your use of the terms High and low tow, will definately resonate with those of us who have flown gliders through the years. I'm sure there's more to come, keep it going please.
Smudge
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Vultee Vengeance?
Just watched
an account of Griff Rhys Jones father's WWII story.
At 32:00 there is a brief bombing sequence. Three different types of aircraft, is the 2nd one a Vengeance?
At 32:00 there is a brief bombing sequence. Three different types of aircraft, is the 2nd one a Vengeance?
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Gaining An R.A.F Pilots BrevetinWW11
We were flown in our Dakotas to Gosfield in Essex where me met our new Mk 11 Horsa's, our passengers and load and our towing crew who we knew already. We were very well briefed and assured that the 2nd Army would have established a bridgehead on the east bank of the Rhine before we took off. The first twelve gliders of "F" Squadron were to contain Coup de Main parties to capture the bridges over the Issel Canal to stop German heavy armour getting towards the beachhead on the Rhine. We and the remainder of the Squadron were to take units of the 6th Air Landing Brigade. Our load was a mortar section of the Ox and Bucks Regiment and comprised seven men and a Lieutenant, a Jeep and trailer and a motor bike. It was easy to load the Mk 11 as the whole cockpit swung.There were two metal troughs in the aircraft to take the Vehicles and two troughs which fitted on to the front of the open fuselage to enable them to be driven up and secured. The two troughs were then disconnected and laid alongside the ones containing the vehicles and, we hoped, properly secured!! Take off was at 6 am on March 24th 1945, and off we went to war.
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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.
.
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.
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.
.
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.
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Hummingfrog,
Nice pictures - takes you back ! Just a few words of comment, perhaps - and I'm sure your Dad will bear me out:
The panel:
Note the hole in the top right corner. In the AT6A, this housed the 0.300 Browning, with its cocking handle sticking out back in the cockpit.
Lower left: the rotary mags/battery isolation switch. It read: "Off-Bat-L-R-Both". All the US radials I flew behind had this arrangement, one twist and you could kill everything (useful at times !)
Second from left at top: this panel-mounted (and usually incorrect) thing was all you had to navigate with: it was a wonder we ever found our destinations ! Even at the best of times, all you could do was set it to the nearest 5 degrees and guess the rest for the DI setting.
Note the "double ball", which so puzzled me in the Mk.IV VV. (Why, for pity's sake ?)
Note "cage-ing" (or was it just the setting ?) knob for the AH (this could prove interesting on a night T.O. if you'd forgotten to uncage it and were relying on it for attitude).
"Landing ?" I hope not ! (No flap, stbd leg looks dodgy to me). Think it's the T.O. a few seconds earlier.
Happy days ! Danny.
Nice pictures - takes you back ! Just a few words of comment, perhaps - and I'm sure your Dad will bear me out:
The panel:
Note the hole in the top right corner. In the AT6A, this housed the 0.300 Browning, with its cocking handle sticking out back in the cockpit.
Lower left: the rotary mags/battery isolation switch. It read: "Off-Bat-L-R-Both". All the US radials I flew behind had this arrangement, one twist and you could kill everything (useful at times !)
Second from left at top: this panel-mounted (and usually incorrect) thing was all you had to navigate with: it was a wonder we ever found our destinations ! Even at the best of times, all you could do was set it to the nearest 5 degrees and guess the rest for the DI setting.
Note the "double ball", which so puzzled me in the Mk.IV VV. (Why, for pity's sake ?)
Note "cage-ing" (or was it just the setting ?) knob for the AH (this could prove interesting on a night T.O. if you'd forgotten to uncage it and were relying on it for attitude).
"Landing ?" I hope not ! (No flap, stbd leg looks dodgy to me). Think it's the T.O. a few seconds earlier.
Happy days ! Danny.
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Pom Pax,
No (the fin/rudder outline is wrong - VV is much bigger and angular). But not sure what it was. Anybody ? EDIT II: (as no offers yet - P40 ?)
Could the first be a Lockheed Lightning ?
EDIT I: Of course not ! 1 and 3 are B-25 "Mitchells".
At around 31.00 note the (very useful) Monsoon Cape. And a bit later the back-pack "Flamenwerfers" (to dig out dug-in Japs)
Danny.
No (the fin/rudder outline is wrong - VV is much bigger and angular). But not sure what it was. Anybody ? EDIT II: (as no offers yet - P40 ?)
Could the first be a Lockheed Lightning ?
EDIT I: Of course not ! 1 and 3 are B-25 "Mitchells".At around 31.00 note the (very useful) Monsoon Cape. And a bit later the back-pack "Flamenwerfers" (to dig out dug-in Japs)
Danny.
Last edited by Danny42C; 14th Jun 2014 at 16:29. Reason: Add Text.
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harrym,
I'm sorry the Customs in my home city "did you over" so comprehensively on your return to UK. Perhaps you should have copied my plan (and arranged to have a case of vaccination-resistant smallpox in the "Louis Pasteur" on the way home).
They couldn't get rid of us fast enough. They didn't check a thing. Our feet didn't touch the ground in the Customs shed !
Is there anyone among the "WW2 Brevet Gainers" who didn't do some time in the "Majestic" ? (now returned, I'm told, to its pre-war glory).
Great stuff ! (and Hummingfrog, Ormeside, Ian B-B et al, of course).
Cheers, Danny.
I'm sorry the Customs in my home city "did you over" so comprehensively on your return to UK. Perhaps you should have copied my plan (and arranged to have a case of vaccination-resistant smallpox in the "Louis Pasteur" on the way home).
They couldn't get rid of us fast enough. They didn't check a thing. Our feet didn't touch the ground in the Customs shed !
Is there anyone among the "WW2 Brevet Gainers" who didn't do some time in the "Majestic" ? (now returned, I'm told, to its pre-war glory).
Great stuff ! (and Hummingfrog, Ormeside, Ian B-B et al, of course).
Cheers, Danny.
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Hummingfrog, your pic of the AT6 panel and its haphazard instrument layout is a reminder that was one thing we Brits did better - our standard 6-dial IF panel, common to all UK aircraft, was vastly superior to the then usual US shambles of a layout that not only varied from one type to another, but often between aircraft of the same type. Also, that rotary ignition switch of the kind that had a master 'off' postion always seemed to me a disaster in waiting; for what would happen if there were a short or similar fault in the switch or its connecting cable(s)?
Having said that, I did find the Dakota's cockpit to be a far more comfortable environment than that of any home-built bird, as will be seen later on in this saga.
Danny42C. No our contingent on the Pasteur arrived in good health, despite the indifferent fare provided on voyage! Anyway, later experience has proved that other countries provide Customs officials notably worse than those of Liverpool - for instance, ever experienced the US variety on a bad day?
Having said that, I did find the Dakota's cockpit to be a far more comfortable environment than that of any home-built bird, as will be seen later on in this saga.
Danny42C. No our contingent on the Pasteur arrived in good health, despite the indifferent fare provided on voyage! Anyway, later experience has proved that other countries provide Customs officials notably worse than those of Liverpool - for instance, ever experienced the US variety on a bad day?
Danny.
You entertained us with you stories about your trusty Bond Three-wheeler.
Sculling around China I was in Chongqing for a few days and the three-wheelers there are still going strong as the Chang An. This one was private but a lot of them were used as taxis.
The sound footprint suggested that it had a motorcycle engine in the back but as Chongqing is very hilly it can obviously cope with four up.
Where there is a need there is a way
You entertained us with you stories about your trusty Bond Three-wheeler.
Sculling around China I was in Chongqing for a few days and the three-wheelers there are still going strong as the Chang An. This one was private but a lot of them were used as taxis.
The sound footprint suggested that it had a motorcycle engine in the back but as Chongqing is very hilly it can obviously cope with four up.
Where there is a need there is a way
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Don't mock small cars ... I have a Peugeot iOn 
