Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
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Danny, I was there 7 years later and clearly nothing had changed. I recognise and remember (with much embarrasment) all you have described.....except the wall papering bit which I thoroughly enjoyed and put to good use (including papering a very cracked ceiling).
I was on terminal (did we really use that word) leave for my course and had long hair, beard and was determined to "shock" the plummy Ruperts in their Regimental Mess. I arrived fully kitted in leathers on my newish 500cc Honda, and headed for the reception desk to check in. En-route I was stopped by one of the plummy Ruperts and thought I'd got a bite already.
"Nice kit pal" he said "I saw you drive in just now...nice wheels......" and he went on enthusiastically. What soon to be retired numbskull aircrew mate had failed to log, was that Catterick was the home of the Army motorcycle Team (whitecaps?) and this guy was the team leader. Needless to say I had a great time there and my education re Army Officers was revised. The Teams admin manager was pretty good too, but thats another story.
I was on terminal (did we really use that word) leave for my course and had long hair, beard and was determined to "shock" the plummy Ruperts in their Regimental Mess. I arrived fully kitted in leathers on my newish 500cc Honda, and headed for the reception desk to check in. En-route I was stopped by one of the plummy Ruperts and thought I'd got a bite already.
"Nice kit pal" he said "I saw you drive in just now...nice wheels......" and he went on enthusiastically. What soon to be retired numbskull aircrew mate had failed to log, was that Catterick was the home of the Army motorcycle Team (whitecaps?) and this guy was the team leader. Needless to say I had a great time there and my education re Army Officers was revised. The Teams admin manager was pretty good too, but thats another story.
Wonderful stuff, Danny. Thank you! As I PVR'd (also in 1973) I had the same entitlement to a resettlement course as I had to a Service Pension, ie nil.
A friend of mine did so attend though and said that every day an Army Colonel attended his course wearing full No1 uniform, including a Sam Browne, and was accompanied by his batman. On the bricklaying phase by lunchtime he was splattered all over with pug, but appeared in the afternoons immaculate again. He either had an inexhaustible supply of uniforms or his batman held cleaning secrets that even Barry Scott would envy.
A friend of mine did so attend though and said that every day an Army Colonel attended his course wearing full No1 uniform, including a Sam Browne, and was accompanied by his batman. On the bricklaying phase by lunchtime he was splattered all over with pug, but appeared in the afternoons immaculate again. He either had an inexhaustible supply of uniforms or his batman held cleaning secrets that even Barry Scott would envy.
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Chugalug,
AFIAK, all my contingent were out of the service. If your chap was in uniform, then presumably he was still "in" (and he had his batman, too !). Wouldn't that have caused some discip. problems (particularly if some other course members had been "bolshie" ex-squaddies ?)
Reminds me of the old end-of-war joke about the subaltern who got C.M.d for thumping his Colonel: "I saw the Corporal kick the Sergeant, and I thought the war was over !"
No Pension ? How long were you "in" ? I thought you got some pension after 10 years (less, and you just got a lump sum). Supposed to be the reason why the longest Short-Service offer used to be 8 yrs active plus 4 on reserve (plus in my case) £1,500 Gratuity (in'49, but worth about £48,000 today).
Still mulling over the Future of this Best of Threads before committing myself to print.
Cheers, Danny.
AFIAK, all my contingent were out of the service. If your chap was in uniform, then presumably he was still "in" (and he had his batman, too !). Wouldn't that have caused some discip. problems (particularly if some other course members had been "bolshie" ex-squaddies ?)
Reminds me of the old end-of-war joke about the subaltern who got C.M.d for thumping his Colonel: "I saw the Corporal kick the Sergeant, and I thought the war was over !"
No Pension ? How long were you "in" ? I thought you got some pension after 10 years (less, and you just got a lump sum). Supposed to be the reason why the longest Short-Service offer used to be 8 yrs active plus 4 on reserve (plus in my case) £1,500 Gratuity (in'49, but worth about £48,000 today).
Still mulling over the Future of this Best of Threads before committing myself to print.
Cheers, Danny.
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Romeo Oscar Golf,
If your paper stayed up on your ceiling , then I salute you, Sir ! Yes, we did use "terminal" leave - but then an Endowment Policy will give you a "Terminal Bonus". We worked closely with the Army in Burma, and always found them "Good Types" (indeed I dare not say otherwise, or my last two ancestors (both 22-yr (long service) Sergeants with the "King's Liverpool" Regt.) will have "it in-for-me".
(Yes, I do remember Frankie Howard and "Infamy !, Infamy !")
Danny.
If your paper stayed up on your ceiling , then I salute you, Sir ! Yes, we did use "terminal" leave - but then an Endowment Policy will give you a "Terminal Bonus". We worked closely with the Army in Burma, and always found them "Good Types" (indeed I dare not say otherwise, or my last two ancestors (both 22-yr (long service) Sergeants with the "King's Liverpool" Regt.) will have "it in-for-me".
(Yes, I do remember Frankie Howard and "Infamy !, Infamy !")
Danny.
Last edited by Danny42C; 19th Oct 2014 at 00:24. Reason: Spacing.
Danny, as I wasn't there I can't vouch for the veracity of the tale other than to say that one part of the Army or another always seems to have been the exception to any rule. Strangely, I can even recall the quoted name by which aforesaid batman was summoned when required, which was Ailes. A very rare example of recall, I might add.
That brings me to your other point, to which I can only say please don't do any mulling on my behalf. This thread has, subject as ever to Mod oversight, always been a democracy. I have said my piece, and such responses as there have been were all Cons, with nil Pros. It would seem the thread will continue on that basis. As to the title, we have driven so many coaches and so many teams of horses through it that I would suspect one more will make little difference. It will simply be as indicative of its content as the title of the game Mornington Crescent, and just as informative. A very British affair indeed!
Regarding the sordid money, or lack of it in my case, it came as great a surprise to me as to you that a grateful nation was not to reward me with a Service Pension after some 13 and a 1/2 years in the RAF. But sure enough the small print in QRs confirmed that as a PC who PVR'd before my 16/38 point, I was to get just enough gratuity to pay for the IRT. The Good Lord giveth with one hand and taketh with the other, as alway...
PS, I think it was Kenneth Williams who delivered that Shakespearean punch line and not Frankie Howard?
That brings me to your other point, to which I can only say please don't do any mulling on my behalf. This thread has, subject as ever to Mod oversight, always been a democracy. I have said my piece, and such responses as there have been were all Cons, with nil Pros. It would seem the thread will continue on that basis. As to the title, we have driven so many coaches and so many teams of horses through it that I would suspect one more will make little difference. It will simply be as indicative of its content as the title of the game Mornington Crescent, and just as informative. A very British affair indeed!
Regarding the sordid money, or lack of it in my case, it came as great a surprise to me as to you that a grateful nation was not to reward me with a Service Pension after some 13 and a 1/2 years in the RAF. But sure enough the small print in QRs confirmed that as a PC who PVR'd before my 16/38 point, I was to get just enough gratuity to pay for the IRT. The Good Lord giveth with one hand and taketh with the other, as alway...
PS, I think it was Kenneth Williams who delivered that Shakespearean punch line and not Frankie Howard?
Last edited by Chugalug2; 19th Oct 2014 at 10:13.
There is another thread going on about flying training in the sixties but if the Mods let me I will put it in Danny's empire to keep it going.
I was working for the Bulawayo Chronicle when I saw an advert in the Salisbury Herald for Royal Air Force pilots. I had always wanted to join but I left school in England just as Duncan Sandys had chopped it up. My father had just left the Royal Air Force and had gone to live in Rhodesia so I decided to follow them. I wrote off and then I hitchhiked up to Salisbury for the interview with the RAF Air Attaché. I was turned down as a pilot because of something called ocular divergence with my eyes but I was offered a navigator position. My father, a long time Air Force pilot advised me that if one was to be killed in an aeroplane then one just may as well be flying it. On this I wrote to them and said that I would try and get my eyes sorted and try again.
This I did. I used a card that was supposed to stop my eyes crossing an after a month I was OK. I then told Salisbury and I went up for another interview.
I signed the dotted line for a Direct Commission Scheme 'B' in April 1960 out there and was then flown to Nairobi courtesy of a Central African Airways Dakota. Soon after take off there was a mad rush as the cabin attendant carried luggage from the back of the aircraft to the front. On arrival at Nairobi I was met and then driven to Eastleigh and put up in the transit block for three days. Finally I was put aboard a British Commonwealth?? Britannia and flown to Gatwick.
Eastleigh had given me a railway warrant to Cirencester and eventually I arrived at South Cerney. I presented myself to the guardroom to be informed that everybody was away on Easter Grant seeing that it was Good Friday. They did not have transit accommodation for officer cadets so eventually I was given a railway warrant back to London where I would shack up with my grandparents.
I arrived at about 10.p.m. and I couldn't knock them up. Being in their eighties they had switched off their deaf aids when they went to bed. Another two mile hike and fortunately my aunt was up and I stayed there.
Tuesday came and back to Cirencester but this time there was a bus waiting for us at the station, a 32-seat flat-fronted Bedford one, which was only ever made for the British armed forces. I got in with the rest and as we negotiated the narrow streets of Cirencester I had a look at what were to be my companions for the next few months. Seventeen and a half was the minimum age, this allowed six months to enable them to get their basic training in before they reached the legal age to be killed. Most of them seemed to be about that age apart from a couple of older men who were NCOs who had been selected for commissioning. Some of them knew each other from the Aptitude and Selection Centre at Biggin Hill and they were comparing notes on who had passed and who had failed. I was lucky. When I joined the Air Force in Salisbury I was assessed by the Rhodesian Air Force and they didn’t go into crossing crocodile infested rivers with two oil drums and four planks. All I did apart from the basic intelligence test was to go through a book of instrument panel pictures and write down what the aircraft was doing. My father had given me loads of flying experience in my youth; I could synchronise four Hercules on a Halifax before I could ride a bike, so this was fairly straightforward. One youth was quieter than the rest. Apparently his elder brother had focussed his whole life on being a pilot in the air force. When his brother applied he had applied too just for the hell of it. His mad-keen brother failed and he had passed.
We left the town itself and I recognised the road to South Cerney. The same snowdrop was at the guardroom window; he was probably welded to the floor. The bus swept passed Station Headquarters and stopped outside No 1 Barrack Block. A sign outside solved one mystery, I was on No 154 Course. The door opened and everybody started to file into the building. This was different! When I did my Rhodesian national service we had to line up and get shouted at for at least five minutes before we could go inside anywhere. The two NCOs and I were last in. The barrack block was standard 1937 Expansion period. Two floors with one large barrack room either side with the washroom and toilets on the landing halfway up the stairs. This allowed half a floor, which was plenty, underneath for the central heating boilers. The ground floor room on the left was used as the admin centre. Sitting behind two desks were a couple of flight lieutenants and prowling behind them was a squadron leader with whom I took an instant dislike. It took about two minutes to establish that we were being called in alphabetical order so I had a long wait.
More to follow if anybody is interested.
I was working for the Bulawayo Chronicle when I saw an advert in the Salisbury Herald for Royal Air Force pilots. I had always wanted to join but I left school in England just as Duncan Sandys had chopped it up. My father had just left the Royal Air Force and had gone to live in Rhodesia so I decided to follow them. I wrote off and then I hitchhiked up to Salisbury for the interview with the RAF Air Attaché. I was turned down as a pilot because of something called ocular divergence with my eyes but I was offered a navigator position. My father, a long time Air Force pilot advised me that if one was to be killed in an aeroplane then one just may as well be flying it. On this I wrote to them and said that I would try and get my eyes sorted and try again.
This I did. I used a card that was supposed to stop my eyes crossing an after a month I was OK. I then told Salisbury and I went up for another interview.
I signed the dotted line for a Direct Commission Scheme 'B' in April 1960 out there and was then flown to Nairobi courtesy of a Central African Airways Dakota. Soon after take off there was a mad rush as the cabin attendant carried luggage from the back of the aircraft to the front. On arrival at Nairobi I was met and then driven to Eastleigh and put up in the transit block for three days. Finally I was put aboard a British Commonwealth?? Britannia and flown to Gatwick.
Eastleigh had given me a railway warrant to Cirencester and eventually I arrived at South Cerney. I presented myself to the guardroom to be informed that everybody was away on Easter Grant seeing that it was Good Friday. They did not have transit accommodation for officer cadets so eventually I was given a railway warrant back to London where I would shack up with my grandparents.
I arrived at about 10.p.m. and I couldn't knock them up. Being in their eighties they had switched off their deaf aids when they went to bed. Another two mile hike and fortunately my aunt was up and I stayed there.
Tuesday came and back to Cirencester but this time there was a bus waiting for us at the station, a 32-seat flat-fronted Bedford one, which was only ever made for the British armed forces. I got in with the rest and as we negotiated the narrow streets of Cirencester I had a look at what were to be my companions for the next few months. Seventeen and a half was the minimum age, this allowed six months to enable them to get their basic training in before they reached the legal age to be killed. Most of them seemed to be about that age apart from a couple of older men who were NCOs who had been selected for commissioning. Some of them knew each other from the Aptitude and Selection Centre at Biggin Hill and they were comparing notes on who had passed and who had failed. I was lucky. When I joined the Air Force in Salisbury I was assessed by the Rhodesian Air Force and they didn’t go into crossing crocodile infested rivers with two oil drums and four planks. All I did apart from the basic intelligence test was to go through a book of instrument panel pictures and write down what the aircraft was doing. My father had given me loads of flying experience in my youth; I could synchronise four Hercules on a Halifax before I could ride a bike, so this was fairly straightforward. One youth was quieter than the rest. Apparently his elder brother had focussed his whole life on being a pilot in the air force. When his brother applied he had applied too just for the hell of it. His mad-keen brother failed and he had passed.
We left the town itself and I recognised the road to South Cerney. The same snowdrop was at the guardroom window; he was probably welded to the floor. The bus swept passed Station Headquarters and stopped outside No 1 Barrack Block. A sign outside solved one mystery, I was on No 154 Course. The door opened and everybody started to file into the building. This was different! When I did my Rhodesian national service we had to line up and get shouted at for at least five minutes before we could go inside anywhere. The two NCOs and I were last in. The barrack block was standard 1937 Expansion period. Two floors with one large barrack room either side with the washroom and toilets on the landing halfway up the stairs. This allowed half a floor, which was plenty, underneath for the central heating boilers. The ground floor room on the left was used as the admin centre. Sitting behind two desks were a couple of flight lieutenants and prowling behind them was a squadron leader with whom I took an instant dislike. It took about two minutes to establish that we were being called in alphabetical order so I had a long wait.
More to follow if anybody is interested.
Last edited by Fareastdriver; 19th Oct 2014 at 20:17.
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Chugalug,
I find myself in something of a quandary here. On the one hand, I can fully understand the way in which you view the question, can see the logic of your analysis and must therfore respect your conclusion.
There is no reason to doubt that Cliff set up this Thread in 2008 with a very limited purpose in view: to enable those of us who went through pilot training between '39 and '45 to tell our stories of that training - and then bow out and give place to the next man. He therefore gave it a restrictive Title, which would limit it to the old-timers who qualified in its terms.
It must be remembered that six years ago, the war had ended 63 years before: a young man of 20 in '45 might well have completed flying training (at least to Wings stage), he would be 83 when Cliff opened the Thread. Gentlemen of that age were (and are) by no means uncommon. Cliff could reasonably expect that there would be a small, but significant number of old RAF pilots on the internet who would be attracted by this opportunity to tell the stories of their RAF training.
And so it proved - at first ! And then the Law of Unintended Consequencies stepped in. Comments and questions flowed onto the Thread. The tales of training led inevitably into What Came After (often still more enthralling than the training story); that produced yet more spin-offs; our Moderators must have hesitated.
Clearly the Thread was going out of control. Should they lower the boom and rule out all Posts except those which directly related to wartime flying training ?
But look at what was happening. Before their eyes was developing a true, vibrant Forum. It was proving intensely popular, and spreading its net wider. First other aircrew came in, then ground trades, sons and grandsons of veterans still living and whose stories they could relay or (sadly) derive only from their logbooks, notes and diaries, and remembered tales. And yet others with something to add !
The concept of what I call the "Crewroom in Cyberspace" was taking shape. It must have beena tricky decision for our Moderators. They decided to "let lt rip" - and the rest you know. Over the last eight pages of "Military Aircrew/Aviation", the Thread has never (AFAIK) dropped below Page 1 or 2, it has the most numerous Posts and "hits" of all except "Caption Competition (which is a special case, anyway, and the Thread has 213 "hits" per Post against 125 for "CapCom").
The Moderators must be congratulating themseves (and deserve our hearty congratulations) on a very wise choice indeed. Of course, there has throughout been a tenuous connection to the Title - maintained (as a "fig-leaf") in the form of always having a genuine WW2 brevet-gainer on board; our problem now is that these are running out and we cannot realistically hope for any more. So what to do ?
In my mind the choice is stark. Either the Thread has to be expanded to bring in the next generation of Pilots, or it must be closed down. Should this be a decision of the Old Brigade ? No, it should not. I intend to approach PPRuNe Pop (if I can reach him) to examine (but no more at this stage) the possibility of amending the Title to read: "Gaining a RAF Pilot's Brevet in WWII and the Cold War" (or something to that effect). Then I bow out - it's no longer my concern (although I'v enjoyed reading it, and been grateful for the chance to contribute to it).
In any case, we are being overtaken by events. Fareastdriver has been warmly (and rightly) welcomed aboard for his wonderful Chinese stories. Chugalug, I'm sure you have as valuable a store of memories as his, and you have every much as right as he to Post here. As we've told diffident new entrants so many times: "Come on in - the water's fine !"
Cliff's original intention (to my mind) is no longer relevant. Circumstances alter cases. He could afford to restrict his "Crewroom" to the WWII brigade. We had them then. Now we don't.
Chugalug, old chap, your reticence does you credit - but many might regard it as quixotic. Please reconsider, and let us have your reminiscences ! Let the title of "our" Thread go to suit the content, not the other way round.
Danny.
PS: Pity about your Pension. Strangely enough, I got caught by the small print in a very similar way (detail in Part II of my "Addendum" coming soon).
You're right - it was Kenneth Williams !
I find myself in something of a quandary here. On the one hand, I can fully understand the way in which you view the question, can see the logic of your analysis and must therfore respect your conclusion.
There is no reason to doubt that Cliff set up this Thread in 2008 with a very limited purpose in view: to enable those of us who went through pilot training between '39 and '45 to tell our stories of that training - and then bow out and give place to the next man. He therefore gave it a restrictive Title, which would limit it to the old-timers who qualified in its terms.
It must be remembered that six years ago, the war had ended 63 years before: a young man of 20 in '45 might well have completed flying training (at least to Wings stage), he would be 83 when Cliff opened the Thread. Gentlemen of that age were (and are) by no means uncommon. Cliff could reasonably expect that there would be a small, but significant number of old RAF pilots on the internet who would be attracted by this opportunity to tell the stories of their RAF training.
And so it proved - at first ! And then the Law of Unintended Consequencies stepped in. Comments and questions flowed onto the Thread. The tales of training led inevitably into What Came After (often still more enthralling than the training story); that produced yet more spin-offs; our Moderators must have hesitated.
Clearly the Thread was going out of control. Should they lower the boom and rule out all Posts except those which directly related to wartime flying training ?
But look at what was happening. Before their eyes was developing a true, vibrant Forum. It was proving intensely popular, and spreading its net wider. First other aircrew came in, then ground trades, sons and grandsons of veterans still living and whose stories they could relay or (sadly) derive only from their logbooks, notes and diaries, and remembered tales. And yet others with something to add !
The concept of what I call the "Crewroom in Cyberspace" was taking shape. It must have beena tricky decision for our Moderators. They decided to "let lt rip" - and the rest you know. Over the last eight pages of "Military Aircrew/Aviation", the Thread has never (AFAIK) dropped below Page 1 or 2, it has the most numerous Posts and "hits" of all except "Caption Competition (which is a special case, anyway, and the Thread has 213 "hits" per Post against 125 for "CapCom").
The Moderators must be congratulating themseves (and deserve our hearty congratulations) on a very wise choice indeed. Of course, there has throughout been a tenuous connection to the Title - maintained (as a "fig-leaf") in the form of always having a genuine WW2 brevet-gainer on board; our problem now is that these are running out and we cannot realistically hope for any more. So what to do ?
In my mind the choice is stark. Either the Thread has to be expanded to bring in the next generation of Pilots, or it must be closed down. Should this be a decision of the Old Brigade ? No, it should not. I intend to approach PPRuNe Pop (if I can reach him) to examine (but no more at this stage) the possibility of amending the Title to read: "Gaining a RAF Pilot's Brevet in WWII and the Cold War" (or something to that effect). Then I bow out - it's no longer my concern (although I'v enjoyed reading it, and been grateful for the chance to contribute to it).
In any case, we are being overtaken by events. Fareastdriver has been warmly (and rightly) welcomed aboard for his wonderful Chinese stories. Chugalug, I'm sure you have as valuable a store of memories as his, and you have every much as right as he to Post here. As we've told diffident new entrants so many times: "Come on in - the water's fine !"
Cliff's original intention (to my mind) is no longer relevant. Circumstances alter cases. He could afford to restrict his "Crewroom" to the WWII brigade. We had them then. Now we don't.
Chugalug, old chap, your reticence does you credit - but many might regard it as quixotic. Please reconsider, and let us have your reminiscences ! Let the title of "our" Thread go to suit the content, not the other way round.
Danny.
PS: Pity about your Pension. Strangely enough, I got caught by the small print in a very similar way (detail in Part II of my "Addendum" coming soon).
You're right - it was Kenneth Williams !
Last edited by Danny42C; 20th Oct 2014 at 02:42. Reason: Spacing
Danny, you are very kind to say that you can understand my viewpoint, especially as it is based on a concept that you have always decried, that of the unique importance of your generation. In return I can quite see yours, for you have invested a tremendous effort over recent years in telling the story of your RAF service, and the very statistics that you quote are testament to that effort on our behalf. I'm sure that I speak for all who visit this thread when I say a thousand times thank you for making it such a successful one, truly a Crewroom in Cyberspace!
So of course you want to see it progress and stay in pole position and who could deny you? Certainly not I! I have made my point and now happily bend to the will of the majority, which is clearly for the thread to continue into post war training.
In that regard may not re-titling the thread by adding "and the Cold War" lead to problems in the future? When it gets to the fall of the Berlin Wall will it have to be re-titled again? My thoughts are to leave well alone and glory in the anachronism of a thread entitled as is eventually describing RAF Astronaut training, but if that is too "quixotic" then how about simply adding the words "and after" to the extant title? One for the Mods of course. PPRuNe Pop?
I am sorry to have caused a hiccup in proceedings and any trouble that may have caused. In my defence I think that a certain amount of taking stock when faced with significant changes is no bad idea. The baton though has now been firmly grasped by Fareastdriver who is off to a flying start.
That does not mean that others with a story to tell from the 40s or the 50s have been bypassed, on the contrary we need to hear from you as well. So let us now all settle back in our battered but comfy armchairs, making sure of course that Danny's is reserved for his sole use, and in a non-PC swirl of cigarette smoke and over indulgence in alcohol enjoy FED's tale, as he assumes the traditional pose of leaning against the fireplace mantelpiece...
So of course you want to see it progress and stay in pole position and who could deny you? Certainly not I! I have made my point and now happily bend to the will of the majority, which is clearly for the thread to continue into post war training.
In that regard may not re-titling the thread by adding "and the Cold War" lead to problems in the future? When it gets to the fall of the Berlin Wall will it have to be re-titled again? My thoughts are to leave well alone and glory in the anachronism of a thread entitled as is eventually describing RAF Astronaut training, but if that is too "quixotic" then how about simply adding the words "and after" to the extant title? One for the Mods of course. PPRuNe Pop?
I am sorry to have caused a hiccup in proceedings and any trouble that may have caused. In my defence I think that a certain amount of taking stock when faced with significant changes is no bad idea. The baton though has now been firmly grasped by Fareastdriver who is off to a flying start.
That does not mean that others with a story to tell from the 40s or the 50s have been bypassed, on the contrary we need to hear from you as well. So let us now all settle back in our battered but comfy armchairs, making sure of course that Danny's is reserved for his sole use, and in a non-PC swirl of cigarette smoke and over indulgence in alcohol enjoy FED's tale, as he assumes the traditional pose of leaning against the fireplace mantelpiece...
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Simply adding the words "and after."
An excellent choice Sir. Well done and Thank You. Reminds me of the 'Friday Barrel' at Lyneham in the early '70s, before that was stopped!
An excellent choice Sir. Well done and Thank You. Reminds me of the 'Friday Barrel' at Lyneham in the early '70s, before that was stopped!
Rename
There is no doubt that this is a wonderful thread and whatever the intention of Cliff whwn he set it up, the fact remains that it has gone on to provide wide ranging discussions on various topics.
That being so it must be kept alive at all costs even if that involves a change of title.
As one of the few other than pilot aircrew categories who has contributed in a small way to this thread, might I suggest that the title could be amended to " Gaining an RAF aircrew brevet in WW11 and after".
Perhaps this would encourage a few more non pilot types to dip their toes in the water.
Meanwhile more power to FED's elbow, I look forward to reading more of his story
Danny,
Thanks for all your stories so wonderfully and amusingly told and hopefully we shall still all hear the odd pearl of wisdom from you .
Cheers
That being so it must be kept alive at all costs even if that involves a change of title.
As one of the few other than pilot aircrew categories who has contributed in a small way to this thread, might I suggest that the title could be amended to " Gaining an RAF aircrew brevet in WW11 and after".
Perhaps this would encourage a few more non pilot types to dip their toes in the water.
Meanwhile more power to FED's elbow, I look forward to reading more of his story
Danny,
Thanks for all your stories so wonderfully and amusingly told and hopefully we shall still all hear the odd pearl of wisdom from you .
Cheers
Surprisingly there were still four others waiting when I was called. The flight lieutenant who called me was an Australian or New Zealander, as I could tell by his accent. This did not surprise me. A lot of my childhood had been in married quarters so I knew the RAF had a very high proportion of foreign and Commonwealth aircrew. My file was thinner than the others were, there was no blow by blow accounts of how dodged crocodiles in mine. It just had a brief summary from the RRhAF and my army discharge paper.
He went through them twice. “What education have you got?”
“Six O levels,” I answered, which was true. I had taken my O levels in two different terms and I had the certificates for the first three but the others had never caught up with me, so I could only prove that I had three.
“What was your Rhodesian service like?”
“Six months basic training plus four reserve call-ups; one of them was the Nyasaland Emergency.”
He looked at me closely. “Was your father in the Air Force at Heany?”
This was the initial time that I went to Rhodesia in 1950. The Empire Air Training Scheme was in full swing then and a large proportion of pilots were trained in Rhodesia and Canada to relieve the overcrowding in the UK. My father had been posted out there and we went with him. The days of the old Union Castle liners taking two weeks to sail from Southampton have now, sadly, passed but as a result of that three years later when my father subsequently retired in 1957 he went out there again. I followed him shortly after, which is why I ended up doing my Rhodesian national service.
“Yes,” I said, “4 FTS.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I must be getting old, I remember you as a little kid.”
He looked down again. “I don’t have to tell you that you will still be liable for British National Service if you fail this course because you coming from the Commonwealth you will not. Being Rhodesian Army you won’t be crying for your mummy either. Follow the signs to stores and draw you kit, there is a corporal there who will tell you what you need.”
It was a very efficient system in stores. I was one of the last, but there was no queue. There was a long desk with half-a-dozen airmen behind.
“Shirt size?”
“Fifteen and a half.”
Crump, two woolly airman shirts and two officers pattern shirts with separate collars.
“Shoe size?”
“Eight.”
Thud, one pair of boots and one pair of airman shoes. The ones handing out underclothes and socks used the called sizes as a guide and thumped them down beside them. A pile of standard items, tie, towels and a button stick. One thrust a beret towards me, I tried it on and it fitted. The other hand produced a cloth officer badge and a white felt disk. “You’ll have to sew that on”.
I went into the next room. That was where the contract tailor was. He ran a tape round my chest and down my leg.
“Thirty six long.”
Out came an officer pattern No1 uniform and a standard blue serge battledress. I took off my jacket and trousers and put on the No 1. The jacket was fine but the trousers were deliberately too long anyway. Three steps onto a platform and the tailor marked off the bottom of the legs. I tried on the No2 battledress. They were made to size so it fitted all around but By Christ it itched. Serge was the material used for all working clothes for all three services and it was chronic stuff. Rough on the inside and outside it used to rub red marks into your thighs, never kept it’s shape and when it got wet it would stretch and take days to dry. A greatcoat was handed out; it fitted over the battledress. A white webbing belt. I looked at the brasses, they were brand new.
“Have you got one with old brasses on?” I didn’t want to spend a week buffing new brasses down.
“Yes, you’re lucky.” He passed over another one. I flicked it inside out and looked at the end hooks. They had been cleaned all right but whoever had had it before hadn’t polished the holes. Never mind it could be worse. A white canvas band was handed to me. I looked at it puzzled.
“That’s to go around your SD hat when you get it.”
I was then informed my No1 uniform would be ready in a week and I was to take my kit back to the block.
Our room was on the ground floor opposite that previous meeting place. There was no allocation of beds and of the few that were left I found one half-way down the right. The sheets and blankets were already folded on it and beside it were a chest of drawers and a two-foot wide wardrobe. This was luxury. In my army block a bed and a narrow locker was all that you got. Any other kit was stored in another room. I dropped my case on the bed and looked around to try and see what the score was. No.153 Course lived upstairs and a handful of them who knew some of the new arrivals were chatting as they unpacked their possessions. It became apparent that everything you had went into your own furniture. Not only that but once you had made your bed it stayed made until you changed the sheet, there was no folding it into a bedpack in the morning. I unloaded everything I had and shoved the case under the bed. I looked at the floor. Gratefully I saw that it hadn’t been bulled in living memory.
to be continued............
He went through them twice. “What education have you got?”
“Six O levels,” I answered, which was true. I had taken my O levels in two different terms and I had the certificates for the first three but the others had never caught up with me, so I could only prove that I had three.
“What was your Rhodesian service like?”
“Six months basic training plus four reserve call-ups; one of them was the Nyasaland Emergency.”
He looked at me closely. “Was your father in the Air Force at Heany?”
This was the initial time that I went to Rhodesia in 1950. The Empire Air Training Scheme was in full swing then and a large proportion of pilots were trained in Rhodesia and Canada to relieve the overcrowding in the UK. My father had been posted out there and we went with him. The days of the old Union Castle liners taking two weeks to sail from Southampton have now, sadly, passed but as a result of that three years later when my father subsequently retired in 1957 he went out there again. I followed him shortly after, which is why I ended up doing my Rhodesian national service.
“Yes,” I said, “4 FTS.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I must be getting old, I remember you as a little kid.”
He looked down again. “I don’t have to tell you that you will still be liable for British National Service if you fail this course because you coming from the Commonwealth you will not. Being Rhodesian Army you won’t be crying for your mummy either. Follow the signs to stores and draw you kit, there is a corporal there who will tell you what you need.”
It was a very efficient system in stores. I was one of the last, but there was no queue. There was a long desk with half-a-dozen airmen behind.
“Shirt size?”
“Fifteen and a half.”
Crump, two woolly airman shirts and two officers pattern shirts with separate collars.
“Shoe size?”
“Eight.”
Thud, one pair of boots and one pair of airman shoes. The ones handing out underclothes and socks used the called sizes as a guide and thumped them down beside them. A pile of standard items, tie, towels and a button stick. One thrust a beret towards me, I tried it on and it fitted. The other hand produced a cloth officer badge and a white felt disk. “You’ll have to sew that on”.
I went into the next room. That was where the contract tailor was. He ran a tape round my chest and down my leg.
“Thirty six long.”
Out came an officer pattern No1 uniform and a standard blue serge battledress. I took off my jacket and trousers and put on the No 1. The jacket was fine but the trousers were deliberately too long anyway. Three steps onto a platform and the tailor marked off the bottom of the legs. I tried on the No2 battledress. They were made to size so it fitted all around but By Christ it itched. Serge was the material used for all working clothes for all three services and it was chronic stuff. Rough on the inside and outside it used to rub red marks into your thighs, never kept it’s shape and when it got wet it would stretch and take days to dry. A greatcoat was handed out; it fitted over the battledress. A white webbing belt. I looked at the brasses, they were brand new.
“Have you got one with old brasses on?” I didn’t want to spend a week buffing new brasses down.
“Yes, you’re lucky.” He passed over another one. I flicked it inside out and looked at the end hooks. They had been cleaned all right but whoever had had it before hadn’t polished the holes. Never mind it could be worse. A white canvas band was handed to me. I looked at it puzzled.
“That’s to go around your SD hat when you get it.”
I was then informed my No1 uniform would be ready in a week and I was to take my kit back to the block.
Our room was on the ground floor opposite that previous meeting place. There was no allocation of beds and of the few that were left I found one half-way down the right. The sheets and blankets were already folded on it and beside it were a chest of drawers and a two-foot wide wardrobe. This was luxury. In my army block a bed and a narrow locker was all that you got. Any other kit was stored in another room. I dropped my case on the bed and looked around to try and see what the score was. No.153 Course lived upstairs and a handful of them who knew some of the new arrivals were chatting as they unpacked their possessions. It became apparent that everything you had went into your own furniture. Not only that but once you had made your bed it stayed made until you changed the sheet, there was no folding it into a bedpack in the morning. I unloaded everything I had and shoved the case under the bed. I looked at the floor. Gratefully I saw that it hadn’t been bulled in living memory.
to be continued............
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Rename.
Chugalug,
Thank you for your kind and gracious words of praise for the achievements of my age-group, but I must take issue with my : "concept that you have always decried, that of the unique importance of your generation" .
This goes to the heart of the thing. Far better than I could have put the point, the D.Tel. obituarist expressed it as: "They were ordinary men who did extraordinary things", and this was trumped with Wg.Cdr. "Bob" Doe's: "We do not wish to be remembered as heroes"...."We only wish to be remembered for what we did".
Our generation was certainly of "unique importance", but we were only unique in the sense that we happened to be there when the balloon went up - not for any unique quality in ourselves. A later generation of Britons would have done just as well in the circumstances, I'm sure (just as our fathers had done before us).
Turning to the matter of a possible 'rename', I think that adding "and the Cold War" will take it 46 years on ('45 to '91) before somebody else has to worry about it ! I wouldn't lose any sleep.
Now you've caused neither hiccup or trouble. "Free and frank discussion" has always been a feature of our Crewroom (although it sometimes means "a good punch-up" - which of course will never happen here). As for the crewroom itself, it was here when I arrived, I did not create it, I may have added a topic or two to it, I leave it flourishing. I am gratified that you are granting me Emeritus status (and a comfortable chair near the stove) in it. Perhaps I may be allowed to dig out my old pipe, and combat the fag-smoke with the fragrance of "Balkan Sobranie"? (and to bring in a tinnie or two of soi-disant "Draught" Guinness ? - as Eight Hours from Bottle to Throttle no longer applies to me).
Cheers, Danny.
Thank you for your kind and gracious words of praise for the achievements of my age-group, but I must take issue with my : "concept that you have always decried, that of the unique importance of your generation" .
This goes to the heart of the thing. Far better than I could have put the point, the D.Tel. obituarist expressed it as: "They were ordinary men who did extraordinary things", and this was trumped with Wg.Cdr. "Bob" Doe's: "We do not wish to be remembered as heroes"...."We only wish to be remembered for what we did".
Our generation was certainly of "unique importance", but we were only unique in the sense that we happened to be there when the balloon went up - not for any unique quality in ourselves. A later generation of Britons would have done just as well in the circumstances, I'm sure (just as our fathers had done before us).
Turning to the matter of a possible 'rename', I think that adding "and the Cold War" will take it 46 years on ('45 to '91) before somebody else has to worry about it ! I wouldn't lose any sleep.
Now you've caused neither hiccup or trouble. "Free and frank discussion" has always been a feature of our Crewroom (although it sometimes means "a good punch-up" - which of course will never happen here). As for the crewroom itself, it was here when I arrived, I did not create it, I may have added a topic or two to it, I leave it flourishing. I am gratified that you are granting me Emeritus status (and a comfortable chair near the stove) in it. Perhaps I may be allowed to dig out my old pipe, and combat the fag-smoke with the fragrance of "Balkan Sobranie"? (and to bring in a tinnie or two of soi-disant "Draught" Guinness ? - as Eight Hours from Bottle to Throttle no longer applies to me).
Cheers, Danny.
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Rename ?
Taphappy,
Thanks ! Glad you enjoyed my tale. You may well hear more from me in the future whenever a particular bee buzzes loudest in my bonnet.
Good Point ! ("Gaining a RAF Flying Brevet etc.") should meet the case, I think, after all we were all on the same side !
Danny.
Thanks ! Glad you enjoyed my tale. You may well hear more from me in the future whenever a particular bee buzzes loudest in my bonnet.
Good Point ! ("Gaining a RAF Flying Brevet etc.") should meet the case, I think, after all we were all on the same side !
Danny.
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It took about two minutes to establish that we were being called in alphabetical order so I had a long wait.
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SE Asia 1945-6
Hello Danny and all other friends, here is the first part of my (immediate) post-war tale which describes the journey from UK to India; nothing remarkable in itself, but I think deserves a place here for by then Transport Command was operating a service on that long route at an intensity unknown previously, using aircraft which by modern standards would be considered hopelessly unsuitable for the job but which nevertheless got it done.
With Germany now utterly defeated, it was fairly obvious that our departure for the Far East could not be long delayed; Japan had vowed to carry on the war alone, but its increasingly shaky bamboo empire was a brutal nightmare for numerous oppressed peoples while there was very good reason to fear for the safety and well-being of our POWs. Now the entire might of the allies could now be turned against this last enemy, with every probability that my crew & I would form a (very) tiny part of the total effort.
We (myself, navigator & radio operator) had originally met and coalesced at Wymeswold (Part 6), with a co-pilot joining at Leicester and a flight engineer at Ibsley, the latter’s sole purpose being to operate the winch used for snatching gliders as described in Part 8. Our training now completed, after two weeks’ embarkation leave we reported back to the familiar surroundings of Morecambe but this time there was no lounging around, and we very soon found ourselves heading south again to Lyneham for passage east.
From mid-WW2 until 2011 one of the best-known RAF air transport bases, Lyneham was then in its early youth and little more than a collection of nondescript huts on top of a windswept plateau (the huts may have now gone, but not the wind!). For all that it was a busy place, and so in the pre-dawn chill of a damp June morning we boarded a Dakota for the 2 1/2 day flight to India. Mercifully fitted with rudimentary passenger seats, so sparing us the excruciating discomfort of those dreaded paratroop “buckets”, it was even so a fairly arduous experience. By modern standards aircraft of that period were slow, noisy, and of limited range, but despite that the service to India was operated in a thoroughly modern “round the clock” manner with only brief stops for refuelling & crew changes; thus Cagliari (Sardinia), Tripoli, & Cairo West all passed in an increasing blur of fatigue, the afternoon of the second day seeing us fetch up in the oven of Habbaniya, a long-established RAF base in the Iraqi desert. Graciously allowed a twelve-hour “rest” here, so unaccustomed were we to the tremendous heat that sleep was minimal and resumption of our onwards progress not unwelcome.
Less welcome was the uninspiring view beneath. Endless desert had already passed below as we droned slowly eastwards from Cairo but here was yet more sand, to be eventually supplanted by the grey-green waters of the Persian Gulf – which somehow looked different from any other sea, as if the blistering sun had leached its true colour away. A brief stop at Sharjah was like a descent into Hades; heat even less bearable than Habbaniya’s, exacerbated by hordes of flies, drenching humidity, a coarse, gritty desert with a few dirty, mud-walled buildings scattered around, sundry unpleasant-looking locals and various foul smells whose origins were best not thought about. After an uneatable “meal” I was never more glad to leave anywhere, and a close view of jagged, hostile mountains below as we climbed out towards Karachi simply reinforced my instant dislike of that part of the world, a dislike that remains to this day despite its incredible economic growth, towering skyscrapers and vast wealth. After several hours’ flight along the dreary Iran/Baluchistan coast, giving distant views of an even drearier desert, we finally arrived at Karachi's Mauripur airport late on the third day (a trip now easily accomplished within eight or so hours non-stop from London). First impressions were of more flies, smells and the inevitable heat but, as they were to be part of daily living for the indefinite future we tried (more or less unsuccessfully) to ignore these less pleasant aspects of our new life. Fortunately the vast transit camp that was to be home for an unknown period, a sea of large tents pitched on the inevitable dirty sand, was not far from the airfield; allocated an empty one we tumbled into it, grateful that the interminable flight was at last over.
The words “my crew” having already appeared several times, a description of our motley band might be appropriate. In common with most WW2 aircrew we were indeed a pretty mixed bunch, with myself (as Captain) at 20 years of age the youngest and so there were of course inevitable differences in outlook and temperament. But this was a familiar scenario, already encountered and accepted and we generally got along pretty well with only an odd spat, or perhaps the occasional inferred dig at my background that was best countered with indifference.
My co-pilot was not only some years older than I, he was an ex-policeman with a young family at home and thus with considerable experience of real life under his belt; I think he sometimes found my relative naïvety rather trying. In retrospect his feelings are easily understood, for he was in fact a second pilot rather than co-pilot; that is to say, in common with many others in the same position, he had received virtually no type training and was supposed to pick things up as we went along. However, since no provision was made for any further official training at squadron level such people were not very well placed, and he most likely resented having to serve under a callow, youthful and doubtless sometimes incompetent toff such as I - for which he can hardly be blamed.
The navigator was a Yorkshire lad slightly older than myself, whose quiet exterior belied a predilection to northern obstinacy, while the signaller (radio operator) was a middle-aged New Zealander and thus the Daddy of our crew - or would have been, except that for some long-forgotten reason he travelled from UK on a later aircraft and had subsequently been refused boarding at Habbaniya on account of his inebriated condition. He was to reappear some weeks later after we had arrived in Burma, by which time I had temporarily acquired a young, ginger-haired cockney as substitute. The final member of our famous five was the so-called flight engineer, a well-intentioned and earnest young man who suffered from being a member of the Salvation Army (or was it the Band of Hope?), a significant disadvantage in our rather mixed company. Supposedly he was to be the winch operator should we find ourselves performing the glider pick-up duties for which we had been trained, but of course this never happened and so he fairly soon dropped out of the picture.
Now I have always had great respect for the “Sally Ann” for, while the majority of servicemen (myself included I fear) paid little or no attention to their spiritual message, they were well known for providing reliable, hospitable canteens to be found in all sorts of out-of-the-way places that sold better (and cheaper) fare than any available elsewhere – especially so as compared to the much-derided NAAFI. But living with one of them was something else; language normally acceptable in our exclusively male company was viewed with disapproval, so that one often felt subject to constant moral assessment (probably unjustly), whilst as for having a teetotal member of crew----whatever next?
But, willy-nilly, we had to make the most of it and I recall no serious fracas or falling-out. Our main enemy at Karachi was boredom, for there was little to do except drink (when the bar was open), or savour the dubious delights of the city. A dusty, dirty place like most other Indian conurbations (this was pre-Pakistan remember, not that it would have made any difference), it had little to offer; cheap tailors, importuning shopkeepers offering tawdry goods, beggars, smells, too many people - nothing that inspired confidence in the Orient’s supposed allure. A couple of weeks of this was quite long enough, so we were not sorry when word came to move eastwards to Calcutta; one step nearer joining an operational squadron, achievement of which would justify our apparently endless years of training.
Since I have previously briefly described the subsequent flight to Calcutta (by flying boat) in #5818, the next instalment will cover onwards movement to Burma.
With Germany now utterly defeated, it was fairly obvious that our departure for the Far East could not be long delayed; Japan had vowed to carry on the war alone, but its increasingly shaky bamboo empire was a brutal nightmare for numerous oppressed peoples while there was very good reason to fear for the safety and well-being of our POWs. Now the entire might of the allies could now be turned against this last enemy, with every probability that my crew & I would form a (very) tiny part of the total effort.
We (myself, navigator & radio operator) had originally met and coalesced at Wymeswold (Part 6), with a co-pilot joining at Leicester and a flight engineer at Ibsley, the latter’s sole purpose being to operate the winch used for snatching gliders as described in Part 8. Our training now completed, after two weeks’ embarkation leave we reported back to the familiar surroundings of Morecambe but this time there was no lounging around, and we very soon found ourselves heading south again to Lyneham for passage east.
From mid-WW2 until 2011 one of the best-known RAF air transport bases, Lyneham was then in its early youth and little more than a collection of nondescript huts on top of a windswept plateau (the huts may have now gone, but not the wind!). For all that it was a busy place, and so in the pre-dawn chill of a damp June morning we boarded a Dakota for the 2 1/2 day flight to India. Mercifully fitted with rudimentary passenger seats, so sparing us the excruciating discomfort of those dreaded paratroop “buckets”, it was even so a fairly arduous experience. By modern standards aircraft of that period were slow, noisy, and of limited range, but despite that the service to India was operated in a thoroughly modern “round the clock” manner with only brief stops for refuelling & crew changes; thus Cagliari (Sardinia), Tripoli, & Cairo West all passed in an increasing blur of fatigue, the afternoon of the second day seeing us fetch up in the oven of Habbaniya, a long-established RAF base in the Iraqi desert. Graciously allowed a twelve-hour “rest” here, so unaccustomed were we to the tremendous heat that sleep was minimal and resumption of our onwards progress not unwelcome.
Less welcome was the uninspiring view beneath. Endless desert had already passed below as we droned slowly eastwards from Cairo but here was yet more sand, to be eventually supplanted by the grey-green waters of the Persian Gulf – which somehow looked different from any other sea, as if the blistering sun had leached its true colour away. A brief stop at Sharjah was like a descent into Hades; heat even less bearable than Habbaniya’s, exacerbated by hordes of flies, drenching humidity, a coarse, gritty desert with a few dirty, mud-walled buildings scattered around, sundry unpleasant-looking locals and various foul smells whose origins were best not thought about. After an uneatable “meal” I was never more glad to leave anywhere, and a close view of jagged, hostile mountains below as we climbed out towards Karachi simply reinforced my instant dislike of that part of the world, a dislike that remains to this day despite its incredible economic growth, towering skyscrapers and vast wealth. After several hours’ flight along the dreary Iran/Baluchistan coast, giving distant views of an even drearier desert, we finally arrived at Karachi's Mauripur airport late on the third day (a trip now easily accomplished within eight or so hours non-stop from London). First impressions were of more flies, smells and the inevitable heat but, as they were to be part of daily living for the indefinite future we tried (more or less unsuccessfully) to ignore these less pleasant aspects of our new life. Fortunately the vast transit camp that was to be home for an unknown period, a sea of large tents pitched on the inevitable dirty sand, was not far from the airfield; allocated an empty one we tumbled into it, grateful that the interminable flight was at last over.
The words “my crew” having already appeared several times, a description of our motley band might be appropriate. In common with most WW2 aircrew we were indeed a pretty mixed bunch, with myself (as Captain) at 20 years of age the youngest and so there were of course inevitable differences in outlook and temperament. But this was a familiar scenario, already encountered and accepted and we generally got along pretty well with only an odd spat, or perhaps the occasional inferred dig at my background that was best countered with indifference.
My co-pilot was not only some years older than I, he was an ex-policeman with a young family at home and thus with considerable experience of real life under his belt; I think he sometimes found my relative naïvety rather trying. In retrospect his feelings are easily understood, for he was in fact a second pilot rather than co-pilot; that is to say, in common with many others in the same position, he had received virtually no type training and was supposed to pick things up as we went along. However, since no provision was made for any further official training at squadron level such people were not very well placed, and he most likely resented having to serve under a callow, youthful and doubtless sometimes incompetent toff such as I - for which he can hardly be blamed.
The navigator was a Yorkshire lad slightly older than myself, whose quiet exterior belied a predilection to northern obstinacy, while the signaller (radio operator) was a middle-aged New Zealander and thus the Daddy of our crew - or would have been, except that for some long-forgotten reason he travelled from UK on a later aircraft and had subsequently been refused boarding at Habbaniya on account of his inebriated condition. He was to reappear some weeks later after we had arrived in Burma, by which time I had temporarily acquired a young, ginger-haired cockney as substitute. The final member of our famous five was the so-called flight engineer, a well-intentioned and earnest young man who suffered from being a member of the Salvation Army (or was it the Band of Hope?), a significant disadvantage in our rather mixed company. Supposedly he was to be the winch operator should we find ourselves performing the glider pick-up duties for which we had been trained, but of course this never happened and so he fairly soon dropped out of the picture.
Now I have always had great respect for the “Sally Ann” for, while the majority of servicemen (myself included I fear) paid little or no attention to their spiritual message, they were well known for providing reliable, hospitable canteens to be found in all sorts of out-of-the-way places that sold better (and cheaper) fare than any available elsewhere – especially so as compared to the much-derided NAAFI. But living with one of them was something else; language normally acceptable in our exclusively male company was viewed with disapproval, so that one often felt subject to constant moral assessment (probably unjustly), whilst as for having a teetotal member of crew----whatever next?
But, willy-nilly, we had to make the most of it and I recall no serious fracas or falling-out. Our main enemy at Karachi was boredom, for there was little to do except drink (when the bar was open), or savour the dubious delights of the city. A dusty, dirty place like most other Indian conurbations (this was pre-Pakistan remember, not that it would have made any difference), it had little to offer; cheap tailors, importuning shopkeepers offering tawdry goods, beggars, smells, too many people - nothing that inspired confidence in the Orient’s supposed allure. A couple of weeks of this was quite long enough, so we were not sorry when word came to move eastwards to Calcutta; one step nearer joining an operational squadron, achievement of which would justify our apparently endless years of training.
Since I have previously briefly described the subsequent flight to Calcutta (by flying boat) in #5818, the next instalment will cover onwards movement to Burma.
The sound of activity at the door. In walked the two flight lieutenants, the squadron leader and behind them was the station commander. I, the two NCOs and the members of No153 course stood to attention. There followed a hesitant shambling to their feet as the others followed suit. The CO had an artificial leg and used a stick to get around. Four rows of ribbons on his tunic showed why.
“Welcome to RAF South Cerney,” he boomed. “I am Group Captain Fennel and I run this station. Just a word to introduce myself and wish you all the best of luck in your careers.”
With that he turned and departed, a man of few words. The Squadron Leader took over. He then gave a run down on what the rules were, when we were moving to the new cadet’s mess and the necessity of wearing a hat when we went into Cirencester. I was amazed, we were working a five and a half-day week and apart from this week we could go into town in the evening. That Friday the service tailors from London would come down and we would be given £10 to buy a proper SD cap, shoes and brown leather gloves. All officers had to be saluted and as The Central Flying School’s helicopter unit was also on the station that included them as well. This applied to me anyway as an officer cadet because I was a substantive AC2 but I had seen a few uniforms put away with pilot officer’s rings on them so those with instant University Air Squadron commissions weren’t going to get away with it either. The Squadron Leader continued that we were to be ready, in uniform, for the indoctrination period at 0830 hrs. It was now teatime so we all walked in a big crowd to the airmen’s mess where the corporal’s dining room was reserved for cadets. This was very different; I had always been marched around to meals. The food was standard RAF fare, chips with everything.
The evening was spent tidying up my service kit, I had brought some Brasso with me so I polished up the brasses on the belt, and as it had a plastic finish it did not need blancoing. I thought about boning the pimply finish on the shoes smooth but that was unnecessary, as they were not going to be used for posh parades. Some of my companions were trembling in anticipation, this being what they had dreamed about for years. The visitors from upstairs seemed to indicate that it was a pretty soft life. There was not a lot of running about, the drill was pretty straightforward and most of the time seemed to be spent on making sure that everybody’s brain worked in sympathy with their educational qualifications.
I had been used to sleeping in a barrack block so the odd disturbances during the night didn’t stir me at all. Lashings of bacon, eggs and chips started the day off though some were a bit late as they were still learning how to put a uniform on. At 0829.59 precisely a flight sergeant walked in.
“Good morning gentlemen,” he barked. “Will you form three ranks outside?” This was the first time a seargeant had ever called me a gentleman, usually quite the opposite. We formed up outside. He called out the name of the elder of the NCOs followed by his fellow and me.
“Flight Sergeant Morris, you will march this lot about whenever they move. The other two will be the right markers until they get some idea of what’s going on.”
We took up our positions. The flight was brought to attention and as I did so I brought my knee up to the horizontal as I had been taught in the army.
Flight Sergeant Thomas glared down at me.
“We don’t do that in the RAF.”
Just my luck, I had just set a precedent for my entire Air Force training. I was always the first to be bullocked on every course I went on.
South Cerney had the standard three curved hangar layout with CFS using the western one. It was one of the few airfields remaining with no runways, just a perimeter track around the outside, which is why it was ideal for helicopters. We marched, in a fashion, to the centre hangar where our course classroom was. We filed in and were introduced to the instructors on the course, most of them were Education Branch and their job was to bring us up to speed on the three Rs. Further documentation followed. Photographs were taken for 1250s, (ID card), next of kin etc.etc. We then went into the hangar for a session of drill to try and get some sort of rhythm to our marching. I soon learned to march the air force way; it was a damn sight more relaxing than the army was. Then an old fashioned tea break with the NAAFI wagon.
The rest of the week passed much in this way with two drill sessions a day between the academics. Not all the course were going to be pilots, half were going to be navigators or air electronics officers so sometimes they were split off to mess about with wriggly amps and suchlike. We pilots then had lessons on aerodynamics and it is amazing how people who had set their heart on hurling about the sky for so long had such an appalling ignorance about what keeps an aeroplane in the air. Friday lunchtime came and we all lined up to collect our money to buy our hats, gloves and shoes.
The tailors had already unloaded their vans into the admin room in the barrack block. Gieves, Moss Bros. and R. E. City were the three firms. Hawkes was an Army and Navy specialist. Shoeboxes identified the Poulsen shoe man and surrounded by piles of hatboxes was the Bates rep. These were the hats that everybody wanted. Oversize crowns enabled them to be wrapped in a wet towel so that the material flopped over the headband almost to the ears, very much like a Luftwaffe cap except the cloth was softer. They were a pound more expensive than the tailor’s versions so by the time I had my Bates hat, Moss Bros. gloves and Poulsen shoes I had disposed of twelve pounds. The tailors were of course, trying to sign everybody up for budget accounts so they would be trapped with them for the rest of their service life but I had been warned by my father to avoid this. Some of the cadets were getting measured up for No.1 uniforms at their own expense, an action I considered very optimistic because if you failed the course you became an instant airman and officers uniforms are no use then. Three went the whole hog and ordered them with red linings, then a Fighter Command prerogative. Within five years two of them were buried with what was left of the remains of their owners.
Saturday morning came and on Saturdays there was a parade and a barrack block inspection. The block wasn’t too bad, there was a rumour that we would be confined to camp if it was manky but the three NCOs and I managed to get them to clean the right places and being the junior course we were responsible for the washroom. My old sergeant major would have failed it at one hundred yards! The precaution of getting old brasses for my belt paid off as all the others with new ones toiled ceaselessly to bring up any sort of shine. We all paraded and were inspected. The usual comments about haircuts and whose uniform are you wearing then we all went inside for the block inspection and my experience of knowing the right places to clean saved us as he ran his fingers along clean pelmets and so on. So that was that, we were free until 0900hrs Monday morning.
“Welcome to RAF South Cerney,” he boomed. “I am Group Captain Fennel and I run this station. Just a word to introduce myself and wish you all the best of luck in your careers.”
With that he turned and departed, a man of few words. The Squadron Leader took over. He then gave a run down on what the rules were, when we were moving to the new cadet’s mess and the necessity of wearing a hat when we went into Cirencester. I was amazed, we were working a five and a half-day week and apart from this week we could go into town in the evening. That Friday the service tailors from London would come down and we would be given £10 to buy a proper SD cap, shoes and brown leather gloves. All officers had to be saluted and as The Central Flying School’s helicopter unit was also on the station that included them as well. This applied to me anyway as an officer cadet because I was a substantive AC2 but I had seen a few uniforms put away with pilot officer’s rings on them so those with instant University Air Squadron commissions weren’t going to get away with it either. The Squadron Leader continued that we were to be ready, in uniform, for the indoctrination period at 0830 hrs. It was now teatime so we all walked in a big crowd to the airmen’s mess where the corporal’s dining room was reserved for cadets. This was very different; I had always been marched around to meals. The food was standard RAF fare, chips with everything.
The evening was spent tidying up my service kit, I had brought some Brasso with me so I polished up the brasses on the belt, and as it had a plastic finish it did not need blancoing. I thought about boning the pimply finish on the shoes smooth but that was unnecessary, as they were not going to be used for posh parades. Some of my companions were trembling in anticipation, this being what they had dreamed about for years. The visitors from upstairs seemed to indicate that it was a pretty soft life. There was not a lot of running about, the drill was pretty straightforward and most of the time seemed to be spent on making sure that everybody’s brain worked in sympathy with their educational qualifications.
I had been used to sleeping in a barrack block so the odd disturbances during the night didn’t stir me at all. Lashings of bacon, eggs and chips started the day off though some were a bit late as they were still learning how to put a uniform on. At 0829.59 precisely a flight sergeant walked in.
“Good morning gentlemen,” he barked. “Will you form three ranks outside?” This was the first time a seargeant had ever called me a gentleman, usually quite the opposite. We formed up outside. He called out the name of the elder of the NCOs followed by his fellow and me.
“Flight Sergeant Morris, you will march this lot about whenever they move. The other two will be the right markers until they get some idea of what’s going on.”
We took up our positions. The flight was brought to attention and as I did so I brought my knee up to the horizontal as I had been taught in the army.
Flight Sergeant Thomas glared down at me.
“We don’t do that in the RAF.”
Just my luck, I had just set a precedent for my entire Air Force training. I was always the first to be bullocked on every course I went on.
South Cerney had the standard three curved hangar layout with CFS using the western one. It was one of the few airfields remaining with no runways, just a perimeter track around the outside, which is why it was ideal for helicopters. We marched, in a fashion, to the centre hangar where our course classroom was. We filed in and were introduced to the instructors on the course, most of them were Education Branch and their job was to bring us up to speed on the three Rs. Further documentation followed. Photographs were taken for 1250s, (ID card), next of kin etc.etc. We then went into the hangar for a session of drill to try and get some sort of rhythm to our marching. I soon learned to march the air force way; it was a damn sight more relaxing than the army was. Then an old fashioned tea break with the NAAFI wagon.
The rest of the week passed much in this way with two drill sessions a day between the academics. Not all the course were going to be pilots, half were going to be navigators or air electronics officers so sometimes they were split off to mess about with wriggly amps and suchlike. We pilots then had lessons on aerodynamics and it is amazing how people who had set their heart on hurling about the sky for so long had such an appalling ignorance about what keeps an aeroplane in the air. Friday lunchtime came and we all lined up to collect our money to buy our hats, gloves and shoes.
The tailors had already unloaded their vans into the admin room in the barrack block. Gieves, Moss Bros. and R. E. City were the three firms. Hawkes was an Army and Navy specialist. Shoeboxes identified the Poulsen shoe man and surrounded by piles of hatboxes was the Bates rep. These were the hats that everybody wanted. Oversize crowns enabled them to be wrapped in a wet towel so that the material flopped over the headband almost to the ears, very much like a Luftwaffe cap except the cloth was softer. They were a pound more expensive than the tailor’s versions so by the time I had my Bates hat, Moss Bros. gloves and Poulsen shoes I had disposed of twelve pounds. The tailors were of course, trying to sign everybody up for budget accounts so they would be trapped with them for the rest of their service life but I had been warned by my father to avoid this. Some of the cadets were getting measured up for No.1 uniforms at their own expense, an action I considered very optimistic because if you failed the course you became an instant airman and officers uniforms are no use then. Three went the whole hog and ordered them with red linings, then a Fighter Command prerogative. Within five years two of them were buried with what was left of the remains of their owners.
Saturday morning came and on Saturdays there was a parade and a barrack block inspection. The block wasn’t too bad, there was a rumour that we would be confined to camp if it was manky but the three NCOs and I managed to get them to clean the right places and being the junior course we were responsible for the washroom. My old sergeant major would have failed it at one hundred yards! The precaution of getting old brasses for my belt paid off as all the others with new ones toiled ceaselessly to bring up any sort of shine. We all paraded and were inspected. The usual comments about haircuts and whose uniform are you wearing then we all went inside for the block inspection and my experience of knowing the right places to clean saved us as he ran his fingers along clean pelmets and so on. So that was that, we were free until 0900hrs Monday morning.