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Post by onlyMark on Feb 21, 2016 13:47:44 GMT
Mr Devlin glared at me with narrow frustrated eyes. “Anyway, that’s not important“ he growled. “What hurts is that you’ve both been deceitful. You’ve broken a trust and is can’t forgive that. I can no longer trust you. You won’t be taking Angie out again.” “That’s not fair,” I blurted out. “We don’t deserve th…” “Fair or not,” he interrupted gruffly. “You’ll just have to accept it. You either meet Angie here in her own home or not at all. The choice is yours.”
I was about to tell him to go to hell when I noticed Angie’s moist imploring eyes. I knew she wouldn’t dare to resume our clandestine meetings each night at the end of her driveway. I figured I had no option but to shrug assent if I wanted to continue seeing her. Mr Devlin made quite sure that Angie and I were never left alone together. He would call her in after a few seconds if she came out on to the veranda with me to say goodnight. I was only permitted to visit one evening per weekend became stupefying bored with the endless card games. The only physical contact I had with Angie was when we surreptitiously touched under the table or a hasty brush of the lips when I left.
I sat my final exams at school and the papers were sent off to England to be marked. It would be months before we knew the results. My classmates and I had to more or less kill time for the short period until we received our call-up for the Armed Forces. I resolved not to wait for this to happen as conscription meant being directed into whichever branch of the Forces was deemed appropriate. If anything, I was more of a fanatic about wanting to fly than Kangy, so I volunteered for pilot training a month or so before my eighteenth birthday.
I was told to go home and wait until I was sent for. Those of my classmates who were joining the Army had obtained permission to spend several days a week at the nearest military establishment to begin partial training. Not to be outdone, the Air Force-minded ones among us requested a similar arrangement from the local Royal Air Force Commander. Didn’t we know there was a war on? He asked. Any civilians caught near his precious airplanes would be shot.
Disappointed but not defeated, we then approached the Fleet Air Arm who occupied the local airfield. I had often wondered why the Royal Navy should require a base three hundred and fifty miles from the sea. Something about ‘strategic importance’ was invariably mumbled when I enquired. The Commanding Officer proved to be very welcoming and congratulated us on our initiative. He appointed a Petty Officer to watch over us with instructions to make sure we experienced every aspect of the way the modern Fleet Air Arm operated. We had to smile at this because the only aircraft stationed there were ancient biplanes, Walrus amphibians and Swordfishes with a top speed of about one hundred miles per hour in a strong tailwind.
However, we were not ungrateful for the Commanding Officer’s encouraging attitude and set to with a will. We spent time in all the different departments assisting the store men, catering staff (peeling potatoes), control tower personnel, and engine and airframe fitters. We used ‘dope’ to stick on canvas patches to repair the fabric covered wings and fuselage. The fumes it emitted burnt our throats and made us feel dizzy. I decided I would avoid that particular task if it cropped up again. All ranks went out of their way with help and advice. We were issued with a knife, fork and tin mug and queued with ground staff in the mess hall at lunchtime. The food was almost as good as we had at home.
The best part was in the afternoons when we flew with the aircrew on the test flights and routine patrols, being sometimes outpaced when low flying by the frightened herds of stampeding antelope. We were eventually sent for by the Royal Air Force and only one of the five who volunteered failed the stringent medical and aptitude tests. We did the rounds before we left the Fleet Air Arm station and thanked all the Naval boys who had been so helpful. The Commanding Officer shook our hand and said that we still had time to change our minds and opt for the Navy instead.
We reported to R.A.F. East Leigh on the outskirts of Nairobi, each with a toothbrush and tube of paste. We swore the oath of allegiance and were issued with uniforms, which nearly fitted, and blankets and identity discs. We were given the rank aircraftsmen second class and had a white flash in our forage caps to proclaim our exalted status as trainee aircrew. We were assigned to of angled-iron beds with numerous broken springs. We were forbidden to leave the airfield for the first two weeks in order to become acclimatised to leaving home for the first time. We protested that we had the rules, the observance of which was the first lesson in discipline. We were informed that it might be some weeks before we could get a plane to Southern Rhodesia to commence flying tuition but our basic training started right now.
Our Corporal lived in a little room at one end of our hut. He assumed that as far as we were concerned, the total awesome authority of the Royal Air Force was invested in him. A thin balding Cockney, he often spoke in rhyming slang, which left us rather bemused, and frequently proclaimed that after twenty years service there was nothing he didn’t know about handling new recruits. When we innocently asked how long it took to make Sergeant, he puffed up like a bullfrog. He saw that we stripped our beds each morning and carefully folded and placed everything in immaculate straight lined order. He measured the positioning of our equipment with a yard stick and kicked it all over the floor if anything was more than half an inch out. We had two hours on the parade ground every day after breakfast and flummoxed him when we drilled like the Guards. We told him that we had done it all before in the Cadet Corps at school. Instead of pleasing him, this strangely only served to incense him further.
The Commanding Officer’s quarters happened to overlook the parade ground. After watching us drill for a couple of days, he came out and congratulated our Corporal on licking us into shape so rapidly and instructed him to cease the square-bashing and concentrate on technical subjects. Our Corporal glowered unhappily at this as it meant that he had to surrender some of his authority to other specialist N.C.O.’s such as armourers, mechanics, airframe fitters and air controllers.
However, his periods of jurisdiction over us still covered every morning before breakfast, every evening after working hours, and all weekends. I sorely missed Angie and counted the days to the first time we would be allowed home. I was up at first light when that Saturday morning finally arrived, polishing my shoes and buttons to a dazzling standard and pressing my uniform to razor-sharp creases.
A hot breeze gusted fitfully as my fellow trainees and I walked to the main gate of the airfield to catch a bus into town. Little dust devils whirled and danced and threw up bits of paper and dried leaves as they went. We reached the Guardroom and showed our weekend passes to the Duty Sergeant. Our Corporal came in from a back room and lined us up for inspection. “Your shoes are a frigging disgrace,” he bellowed. “No men of mine are going into town looking like the Portuguese Sanitary Squad. Get back to your quarters and clean them up.” “But we’ll miss the bus,” I complained. “Not if you ‘urry,” he replied.
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Post by onlyMark on Feb 21, 2016 13:49:33 GMT
We returned to the Guardroom in about two minutes flat, red-faced and panting. The Corporal glanced at our shoes. “Not good enough,” he said with a smirk. “Go back and do them proper.” We all groaned together. “Have a heart, Corp,” someone said. “Our shoes become coated with dust on the way here. We’ll polish them again with our handkerchiefs before we get off the bus.” “Oh no you won’t, I can keep mine clean,” the Corporal said, pointing down at his own shiners. “I can see my face in ‘em.” “What a ‘orrible sight,” a mocking voice piped up behind me. “Who said that?” the Corporal hissed, nearly swallowing his front teeth. No one moved. “I’ll ask you once again. Who spoke?” We stared back at him in complete silence. “Right – that’s it,” he snarled furiously. “You can all go and clean out the ablutions block. There’s another bus in two hours. If I’m still not satisfied you’ll miss that one an’ all.” We trooped out of the Guardroom, murder in our hearts.
The ablutions were partitioned into two sections by a dividing wall that stopped short of the ceiling by about two feet. On one side were the toilets, and on the other, the wash basins and showers. We were in the shower section busily cleaning away when we heard someone enter the toilets, tunelessly whistling a song we only just recognised s being ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep.’ This was our Corporal’s favourite piece and which he endlessly performed.
I picked up the high pressure hose we had been using and climbed on to a waste bin to look over the dividing wall. Only one toilet was occupied as I could see a pair of shoes through the gap under the swing doors. I signalled by a wave of one hand for the water to be turned full on. The toilet door swung back violently as the powerful jet struck it and the Corporal was blasted off his throne. He fell back against the wall and slid down to the floor, his trousers flapping around his ankles. He raised his hands to protect his face and I aimed the jet at his eyes. I kept him pinned down, wriggling and squirming for a full thirty seconds before I relented. I had the water turned off, jumped quickly off my perch and lay the hose down in a corner. We continued scrubbing out the wash basins.
The Corporal appeared around the end of the partition, spluttering and spitting and insanely glaring. This time he didn’t bother to ask who’d dunnit. He formed us up and marched us straight to the Duty Officer. Although we all agreed it had been worth it, it did not diminish our horror at the severity of the punishment we received. We were confined to barracks for a further seven days.
As luck would have it, we were told that a plane on its way to Southern Rhodesia would pick us up two days after our period of punishment expired. We were each granted a thirty-six hour pass to say our farewells to family and friends. I hadn’t seen or heard from Angie for nearly a month despite writing several letters. I was dying to show off to her in my new uniform but it was only fair that I spent most of the day with my own family. I waited impatiently until late afternoon before jumping into the little Ford Prefect and going round to her house. As I drove between the stone entrance pillars, Angie and her dog stepped out of the shrubbery. I stopped the car and opened the passenger door for her.
She closed it without getting in, her hands so unsteady that it took several attempts to shut it. “Turn the car round and wait for me,” she said tonelessly. “I’ll take Bruno back to the house and tell Mum and Dad I’ll be talking to you for the next few minutes.” “Hold on, I’ll come with you,” I called out. “She shook her head. “No – stay there. I shan’t be long.”
I switched the engine off after I had done as she asked and sat wondering, feeling completely deflated. She hadn’t smiled a greeting or remarked about my uniform and how I looked. I put it down at first to annoyance because I hadn’t been to see her, but she knew why I hadn’t. I had written and explained everything. Perhaps her father had intercepted my letters and not passed them on. That I could believe.
I heard Angie’s returning footsteps. She opened the car door and got in beside me. “We can’t be long,” she said breathlessly. “I’m expecting Father Donelly.” “Then he’ll have to wait,” I said, putting my arm around her. She pushed me away. “I thought you’d be glad to see me,” I said. “Of course I am,” she replied, her eyes downcast as she picked at the hem of her dress. “Well, you certainly aren’t showing it. What’s wrong, Angie? Didn’t you get my letters?” “Yes – I did.” I heaved a sigh of relief. “At least you can’t be mad at me. You know why I’ve not been to see you since enlisting. You could have written.” “I’m sorry, I should have done,” she said, continuing to fiddle with her dress. “It’s just that I’ve had such a lot to think about lately.” Her whole dismissive attitude suddenly irritated me. I wanted some positive reaction even if I had to hurt her. “We’ve got to say goodbye, Angie. I’m leaving for Rhodesia tomorrow. I don’t know how long it’ll be but I want you to marry me when I come back.”
I thought I heard a stifled gasp. She sat hunched forward, staring at the floor, her hands twitching in her lap. I waited, thinking that perhaps she needed time to control herself. I pulled the windscreen blind down to shade our eyes from the last brilliant flare of the setting sun. A sudden chill gust teased her hair. She touched my hand at last. “I’ve been dreading this moment,” she murmured unhappily. “It’s come sooner than I expected so I’m going to tell you now rather than in a letter later on. I’ll be getting married a few days after you’ve left.”
I rocked back in my seat, shocked into silence. My stunned mind rejected it out of hand. “Don’t joke about this, Angie,” I managed to croak eventually. “I would know if you’d been seeing anyone else.” “It’s not anyone I’ve been seeing. It’s someone I talk to.” “I don’t understand!” “I don’t expect you ever will but that’s how it is when a nun takes her vows. She marries Jesus.” “A nun? You’re not serious.” “Yes, I really am,” she said, raising her head and looking me full in the eye. “I’m going to join the Carmelite Order.” “I don’t believe this! Oh Angie, you’ve no idea what you’re letting yourself in for. You can’t do any good if you shut yourself away from everyone. What’s the point?” “Because only through seclusion and contemplation can I really be fulfilled.” When I heard this psychobabble, I knew I’d lost. I still made one final effort. “Didn’t I ever mean anything…?” “It’s Father Donelly,” she interrupted suddenly as a car turned into the driveway.
She slipped out of the little Ford before I could stop her and walked around to my side. Leaning forward and taking my face in both her hands, she brushed the centre of my forehead with gossamer lips. “Bless you,” she whispered softly. “May God bring you back safely to your family. I’ll say a special prayer for you every day.” With a quick toss of her head she turned away and her gorgeous mane of lustrous, perfumed hair caressed my cheek. She ran down the driveway and into the house without a backward glance – and out of my life!
CHAPTER 10
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Post by questa on Feb 22, 2016 5:01:46 GMT
Oh Boy, Your Dad could certainly pick the impossible ones.
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Post by onlyMark on Feb 23, 2016 13:33:09 GMT
Sorry about the delay in this. I seem to not have enough time, or internet access. I promise I will do more as soon as I can.
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Post by onlyMark on Mar 25, 2016 22:45:04 GMT
I've not forgotten about this and I'll finish it off when I get back from Lisbon in a week or so.
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Post by questa on Mar 26, 2016 3:03:24 GMT
Enjoy Lisbon, keep safe. Just think, you could have been descended from a nun !
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 3, 2016 9:09:27 GMT
To eventually finish this off -
CHAPTER 10
As our Dakota transport plane took off from Nairobi and headed south for Bulawayo in Southern Rhodesia, I experienced a strange mixture of elation and sadness, the latter emotion being predominant. My recent farewells to my relatives, who were fearful they might never see me again, plus my shatteringly unexpected loss of Angie, were however, not the only cause of my mood of gloom. We rose high above the rim of the Rift Valley and I could see its lakes and mountains and all the places associated with my wondrous childhood, shimmering like a mirage in the rising waves of heated air. An involuntary shiver needled down my spine and I attempted to shrug it off as being of no consequence. Everything would be the same when I returned, I tried to reassure myself. Nothing could change the fantastic variety and beauty of this unspoilt land of my birth, yet the uncanny feeling of impending evil persisted until we landed at our overnight stop in Lusaka, Northern Rhodesia.
My companions and I spruced ourselves up and hitched a ride into town, eager for the bright lights of civilisation. The few dim street lamps that worked flickered intermittently. We heard singing faintly at first which gained volume as it came closer, then out of the gloom of the deserted street appeared about a dozen uniformed young women with their arms linked and stretching in a line right across the road. We had to squeeze up against a shop window to let them pass. We called out to them but they ignored us and continued marching and singing until they disappeared. It was just as well that Lusaka was as dead as a Sunday morning in rural Wales.
One of my fellow trainees who was half polish, recognised the patriotic song they were singing. We found out later that they came from a nearby Army camp and had not yet learnt enough English to fraternise with the locals. This unusual encounter made me realise that this was the beginning of an exciting new adventure and unexpected experiences, and I consciously relegated all thoughts of home and family and Angie to the back of my mind.
The Initial Training Wing (I.T.W.) situated on the outskirts of Bulawayo bore no resemblance to an Air Force station. A central parade ground was encircled by a complex of barrack blocks and lecture rooms. All were enclosed by two barbed wire perimeter fences running parallel and separated by a four feet wide patrol path. There was no sign of an airfield, hangars or planes much to our disappointment. We were issued with bedding and shown to our quarters for the next three months. I chose a bed at random and began to make it up.
“I shouldn’t do that until you’ve checked for lice,” said a voice behind me. I turned round. A black-haired man in his mid-twenties lay stretched out on the next bed regarding me with a lazy half-smile on his swarthy features. The mattress consisted of three separate kapok-filled squares called biscuits, which were placed end to end along the length of the bed. I turned each one over and subjected it to a detailed scrutiny. “I can’t see any lice,” I said, noticing his shoulder flash, which indicated that he came from India. “Have you found any in this hut?” “My name’s Edwin,” he said, sitting up and shaking my hand. He raised one of the biscuits. ”Put your finger there, on the bedrail,” he instructed. “What for?” “You’ll see.”
I placed my forefinger where he told me. Within seconds, three or four little beetle-like insects, light brown in colour and about a quarter of an inch in diameter, appeared from out of nowhere and scurried towards my finger licking their lips in ghoulish anticipation. I shuddered with revulsion and snatched it away. “That’s brought them out,” Edwin crowed triumphantly. “They can smell your blood.” “Spare me the details. I’ll find another bed and ask to have this one fumigated.” “That’s a laugh. All the beds are infested. You’ve got to exterminate them yourself.” “How the hell do I do that? I don’t even know what chemicals to use.” “Have you never seen bed lice before? They’ve quite common where I come from.” Edwin grasped one end of my bed. “Here, help me turn it upside down.”
The sight that met my eyes sent creepy crawlies down the back of my neck. A heaving mass of lice was clinging in the angles of the iron bedrails. Edwin fumbled about in his locker and produced a box of matches and a candle. We turned the bed back on its legs, and kneeling on the floor, he lit the candle and slowly ran the flame along the underside of the iron framework. With a crackling and a popping and clouds of evil smelling smoke the barbecued lice dropped to the floor kicking feebly in their death throes. Edwin told me to finish off when he had done one side of the bed. Everyone in the hut ran outside while the new arrivals and I incinerated the obscene little creatures. We opened all the doors and windows yet the stench had us retching all over the place. We eventually managed to settle down and unpack our kitbags after minutely examining our lockers as well. As I thanked Edwin I noticed that all four legs of his bed stood in old baked bean tins. He advised me to scrounge some from the cookhouse. “Fill them half full with creosote and you’ll never be troubled by bed-lice again,” he said.
We began a course of lectures next morning on navigation, astronomy, meteorology, the theory of flight, aircraft recognition, the principles of internal combustion engines, aircraft construction and electrical and hydraulic systems. We also had to learn the Morse code off by heart and radio speak for each letter of the alphabet. The pass requirement in each subject was eighty-five percent and failure in any one meant outright rejection for further training. It was impressed upon us that this rule applied to every aspect throughout the pilot’s course.
This really put the wind up Bob Peters who had enlisted with me in Nairobi. He just could not master the Morse code despite his academic brilliance. He had never been able to read out loud at school, yet when reading to himself, could scan and memorize every page of a full length book in half an hour. It seemed that the formation of speech was too slow a process to keep pace with his impatient brain, which was already absorbing the words at the bottom of the facing page.
We all started off only capable of about three words a minute, but our speed in receiving and transmitting gradually increased and we left Bob far behind. He lapsed into a desperate despondency that was almost suicidal. I suggested that we work together after lectures in order to try and overcome his problem, as I owed him many favours from our school days for his whispered assistance in countless examinations. Making out to our instructor that we were keen to achieve perfection, we asked if we could borrow a Morse key to use in our spare time. We shut ourselves away in an empty hut every afternoon for an hour or so tapping out messages to each other. It paid off because Bob managed to synchronise his hands with his brain just in time to scrape through the final exam. He was so grateful that he treated me to an enormous meal of steak and chips in the best hotel in town.
Few enjoyed I.T.W. very much. We were impatient to commence flying and soon became fed up with all the concentrated swotting and not an airplane in sight. I lost ten pounds in weight, as the food was inedible. We had offal and rotten vegetables, mostly Swedes and turnips which I hated, and black potatoes served up three or four times a week. I had to eat in the cafes in town until my money ran out, then live on peanuts and chocolate until the next pay day. We all suspected that the catering Sergeant bought reject food at the open market and pocketed the surplus cash he was allocated for his purchases. We couldn’t prove it and no one dared to complain and draw attention to themselves.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 3, 2016 9:10:39 GMT
The hungry rumblings in my stomach gave me enough courage to do the unthinkable one day and challenge the Duty Officer when he came round on inspection at meal time. He strode along between the trestle tables in a purposeful manner that defied anyone to speak. He stopped so suddenly when I accosted him that the Head Cook and Duty Sergeant collided with him from behind. He picked up my fork and prodded the lump of cold gristle on my plate. We had sheep’s hearts that day.
“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he said, with a look that made me feel as if I had crawled from under a stone. “There’s a month’s meat ration there for the people back home. Think yourself lucky,” Whose home? I nearly said, but coincidence or not, the sheep’s hearts and liver and kidney disappeared and we had real meat and fresh vegetables for a week after that. Luckily, it did not affect me so much when the food deteriorated once more as by then I had struck up a friendship with a young war widow, a wonderful cook, who lived in Bulawayo and whose delicious meals put all my lost weight back on again.
The one thing we all enjoyed was the Link Trainer, an aircraft in miniature that simulated flying in cloud or fog, the nearest thing we could get to actual flying. It had little stubby wings and a mock tail assembly and a full-sized cockpit covered by a black hood that prevented the pilot from seeing his surroundings and forcing him to fly by instruments alone. The whole thing pivoted on a pedestal bolted to the floor. It was fitted with a basic instrument panel and would stall and spin round and round just like a real plane if the indicated speed was allowed to drop too low. An instructor sat at a desk and gave the pilot courses and heights and speeds to fly over the intercom. A small red-inked wheel traced the pilot’s reactions on to the glass-topped instructor’s desk so that the pilot could then see the evidence and the assessment of his skill, or the lack of it, after the exercise.
“I’ve got a date with a girl in town tonight,” Bob Peters told me after lectures one afternoon. “Trouble is, she wants to bring her sister along. You know what they say about three being a crowd. Come with me and make up a foursome.” “I’m not too happy about blind dates. You never know what you’re taking on.” “Oh, come on. I’d do the same for you. If she’s anything like her sister, she’ll be a corker.” “I’m not interested. You know who I see whenever I can.” “Look, we’ll go round to your widow’s place first and I’ll explain that you’re just helping me out. She won’t mind just for once.” “That’s all you know,” I said. His eager expression collapsed into one of surprised disappointment. I hesitated. After all, Bob was a lifelong friend who had always responded whenever I needle help. “You’re in luck as it happens. I’m not seeing her tonight,” I told him. “Okay, I’ll come with you, but it’s got to be a one off.”
We waited over an hour past the appointed time in the foyer of the hotel in Bulawayo that night. Bob slumped lower and lower in his chair as the minutes ticked by. “I’ve had enough,” I said. “I’m going.” “Just a little longer,” Bob implored. “What’s the use? You might as well admit that we’ve been stood up. We’re wasting the evening. Let’s go to the dance at the Naffy Club.” I waited outside while Bob checked round the foyer once more. We ordered drinks when we got the Naffy Club and stood with our backs to the bar to size up the possibilities. Bob suddenly drew in a sharp breath and grasped my arm. “Well, just look at that,” he said, dumbfounded. “That’s my date over there with Hector.”
I had already noticed Hector dancing with a dark-haired girl at the far end of the dance-floor. They were clasping each other in a close embrace and swaying sensuously in a small area of the floor. Hector Dominic was one of our fellow trainees. An ex-army lieutenant, he had re-mustered to the Air Force a couple of years after graduating from Sandhurst in order to become a pilot. He was universally admired for resigning his commission to enable him to do this.
“Are you sure you got the right hotel for our rendezvous?” I asked Bob. “Perhaps your girl has been waiting at a different one, got fed up as we did and come on here before us.” “Not possible,” he replied. “We always meet at the same one.” “What’s she doing with Hector then?” “I think I can guess. He came over and sat at our table the other night. I introduced him to her, fool that I was. She probably had no intention of meeting me tonight. I’ll bet her sister isn’t here either.” “There might be some other explanation. Why don’t you go as ask her?” “If she can’t tell me herself, I don’t want to know.” “She hasn’t seen us yet.”
I turned round to look at Bob when I got no reply. His beer glass was still three-quarters full on the bar and there was a gap where he’d just been standing. I glanced across to where Hector’s slim shoulders and well-groomed blond head protruded above the crowd. He saw me and waved and smiled, his white teeth gleaming even from that distance. Bob was still awake in the next bed when I eventually crawled into our hut. He said he didn’t want to talk.
Bob and I were with Hector in the same detail when it came to our turn to do a week’s guard duty on the night shift. The Sergeant of the Guard looked us over and appointed Hector as the senior cadet. “Pair you men off and see that they do two hours on and two off,” the Sergeant told him. “Don’t disturb me unless it’s urgent or the Duty Officer comes round.” He issued us with old .303 rifles with the firing pins removed.
Hector allotted us the three to five slot, knowing that this was the most disliked period when spirits were at their lowest ebb. What Hector didn’t realise was that we actually preferred this time in the morning when the windless air magnified every sound and the dawn chorus was just beginning. We set off to patrol the path between the inner and outer wire fences that encircled the camp. We were at the furthest point away from the buildings on the last patrol of the night having a quiet smoke when we heard a low curse and a scuffling noise. We saw a shadowy figure in the half light wriggling through a small gap in the outer perimeter wire. Bob rattled his rifle bolt and shouted a challenge.
“Keep quiet you fools,” the dark figure hissed forcefully. I shone my torch in his face and we recognised a Corporal in the Air Force Police with a reputation for indefatigable pursuit of any cadets foolish enough to be in town after the midnight curfew. “Why don’t you walk in through the main gate?” Bob asked. “You don’t have to observe the curfew.” “Not as early as you, but we have to be back in camp by two o’clock when were off duty,” the Corporal answered. Bob and I hesitated, not quite sure what to do next.
The Corporal observed us with growing alarm. “I could lose my stripes over this,” he pleaded. Bob looked at me, then back at the Corporal. “Okay,” he said. “We haven’t seen you.” “Thanks pal,” the Corporal uttered gratefully. “I owe you.” He repaid the debt sooner than he thought when he caught us in town after curfew some weeks later and hurried away down a side street. We had a good laugh about him coming through the wire with the others when we returned to the Guardroom at the end of the shift.
Hector sat down at a table, reached for a pen and began to fill in a form. “I’m writing out a report about this,” he informed us. “I appointed you senior cadet, that’s all,” the Sergeant told him. “I’m in charge. If there’s any reporting to be done, I’ll do it.” “Well, I hope you do,” Hector said. “If this was the Army, these two would be on a charge for dereliction of duty.” The Sergeant snatched the form off the table and tore it into pieces. “We’re here to protect the camp from thieves, not the permanent staff,” he said.
Towards the end of the I.T.W. course we had to do a series of cross-country navigation exercises starting with a five mile hike through wild scrubland and ending with a thirty mile all day trek. Hector had led our section in all the previous exercises and was again nominated by the Navigation Officer for this, the final one. “Why don’t they give someone else a chance?” Bob complained bitterly. We were split into four sections, all starting from different locations and converging on a common rendezvous, no more than a clearing in the bush, which had no special features to facilitate identification from a distance. The Navigation Officer placed four compasses on his desk at the initial briefing and invited each section leader to choose one.
The transport lorry dropped our section off at our particular start point after a two hour drive out from Bulawayo. We set off, each man carrying iron rations and a canteen of water and strict instructions to avoid big cats and large horned animals. We were in a valley between two parallel ranges of steep boulder-strewn hills and had to proceed in single file owing to the thick scrub and thorn trees. Hector led the column with Bob and I at the rear.
I remembered from looking at the map back at base that the first landmark was a deep cleft in the range of hills directly in front of us. I noticed after about a mile that Hector was still leading us along the valley floor instead of across it. He stopped and consulted the map and compass a few times before pressing on again. We had a break after a few miles and rested and drank sparingly of our water.
“Hector, it’s time someone else had a turn at navigating,” Bob said. “Leave it to me,” Hector replied, getting to his feet. “I had plenty of experience in the Army. You chaps are comparative novices and we want to be the best section and first at the rendezvous.” “That’s all very well but how are we going to learn unless we take turns?” “Okay, we’ll see. I’ll hand the map and compass over later on if we make good time.”
As we continued the march I saw occasional flashes of light from the tops of the surrounding hills. I looked at the others, and as no one else seemed to have noticed, I decided to say nothing in case it was a trick of the shimmering heat haze or just plain imagination. “When are we going to stop for something to eat, Hector?” someone called out as the sun reached its zenith. “We should be coming to a stream soon. We’ll rest when we get there.” Half past one and still no stream. Hector nearly had a mutiny on his hands and grudgingly agreed to halt in the scanty shade of some acacia trees.
“You know as well as I that Hector hasn’t a clue where we are,” I said quietly to Bob. “Don’t you think it’s time we told him?” “Yeah, we’ll do it now,” bob replied decisively, popping the last piece of a chocolate bar into his mouth and washing it down with a final swig from his water bottle. I got up and followed him to where Hector sat. “Let’s have a look at that map, Hector,” Bob demanded. “What for?” “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I want to check our position.” “Why?” “You said we would come to a stream two hours ago. Where is it?”
Hector spread the map out on the ground and indicated a wavering line. “That’s it there,” he said. “Just a slight miscalculation on our walking speed. We’d have crossed it when I said if we’d kept up a good pace.” Bob extracted a pencil from the top pocket of his shirt and scribed a small cross on the map. “That’s our time position,” he said. “About six miles off course.” “Rubbish, you’re just guessing.” “Look around you. You see that sharply pointed peak on that range of hills? It should be three miles east of us, but it isn’t, is it? It’s west. We’ve been travelling south-east instead of due south.” “Impossible. How can you know where we are?” “Bob knows the route by heart,” I interrupted. “We all had a good look at the map at briefing. He’s got a photographic memory.” “I don’t believe it,” Hector exclaimed contemptuously. “I don’t much care whether you do or not,” Bob said. “I want to know if you’re going to change course and get us back on the right track.” “Not a chance. I know what I’m doing.” “You can count me out then. This is where we split. I’ll find my own way.” “And I’m with you,” I said. “Let’s take a vote on it,” someone called out. Bob won hands down.
“You’re acting like a bunch of civilians,” Hector stormed, jumping to his feet. “I was appointed section leader. You can’t do this.” “We’ve just done it,” I chuckled. I looked back when we had gone a hundred yards. Hector was hurrying to catch us up. We made the rendezvous just before sunset, the last section to get in.
“What took you so long?” the Navigation Officer asked, enveloping us all in his sweeping gaze. We glanced at Hector. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard before opening his mouth. “The compass isn’t reading correctly, Sir,” Bob jumped in quickly before Hector could say anything. “We were some time getting back on the right track when we found out.” “Hm-m-m, you did quite well considering the circumstances,” the Navigation Officer conceded. “Although I hoped you would correct your course earlier on. You’re right about the compass. It’s ten degrees out. It’s the luck of the draw that your section chose the only inaccurate one. We slip it in occasionally as a test of initiative. Don’t think you were abandoned, however. You’ve been under continual observation.”
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Post by htmb on Apr 3, 2016 17:10:51 GMT
Thanks for getting back to this, Mark.
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Post by mossie on Apr 3, 2016 20:45:09 GMT
My I.T.W. experiences were rather similar, except that potential pilots and navigators went to the same station on the Isle of Man. When the course ended those who had survived were sent on to Elementary Flying Training School if they were to be pilots, and possible navs went on to Navigation School. The chop rate, i.e. those who were failed along the way was quite high, only about a quarter of the initial intake finally got their wings. I do remember those inedible biscuits, not the best things to sleep on if you were restless.
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Post by questa on Apr 3, 2016 23:37:31 GMT
Thanks Mark, I have been waiting 'all agog' for more.
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Post by bjd on Apr 4, 2016 5:52:45 GMT
We heard singing faintly at first which gained volume as it came closer, then out of the gloom of the deserted street appeared about a dozen uniformed young women with their arms linked and stretching in a line right across the road. We had to squeeze up against a shop window to let them pass. We called out to them but they ignored us and continued marching and singing until they disappeared. It was just as well that Lusaka was as dead as a Sunday morning in rural Wales.
One of my fellow trainees who was half polish, recognised the patriotic song they were singing. We found out later that they came from a nearby Army camp and had not yet learnt enough English to fraternise with the locals.
I didn't know that there were Polish soldiers in Northern Rhodesia too. My grandmother was in a camp there but I had always thought it was only for civilians.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 4, 2016 7:15:40 GMT
What kind of camp? Not a prisoner one surely as being Polish? A refugee camp?
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 4, 2016 7:26:11 GMT
Aha! Wikipedia says, "In October 1942 the Director of War Evacuees and Camps of Northern Rhodesia, Gore Browne, expected only around 500 Polish refugees on his territory. They were coming from the Middle East. In August 1945 the number of Polish refugees in Northern Rhodesia was 3,419 of which 1,227 stayed in camps in the capital Lusaka, 1,431 in Bwana Mkubwa at the Copperbelt,164 in Fort Jameson at the border with Nyasaland and 597 in Abercorn in the Northern Province."
I'd be a bit confused as to why the women were in uniform but I suppose it's possible My dad mentions it is an Army camp but I presume he means a camp run by the Army rather than a Polish Army camp. It is also possible, however remote, that your grandmother was one of those passing him by whilst singing.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 4, 2016 7:40:00 GMT
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Post by bjd on Apr 4, 2016 8:24:15 GMT
No, my grandmother was not in uniform and singing. She was a civilian and in Bwana Mkubwa camp. This was one of the camps set up by the British in their various African colonies to house families of soldiers in the Polish Army that was formed in the Soviet Union. My mother and grandmother had been deported together in 1940, my mother enlisted (age 16 but she lied to say she was 18), so her own mother was also transported out of the USSR.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 4, 2016 11:51:46 GMT
I see that that camp was way in the north. I never realised the UK had these camps in Africa. I'll have to look into it more out of interest. Must have been a grim time from the USSR to there. What happened then to your grandfather? Where did your mother and grandmother go to from Zambia?
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Post by bjd on Apr 4, 2016 14:13:36 GMT
In September 1939, my grandfather went to family in Warsaw with their 2 sons, leaving my grandmother and mother in Eastern Poland to close up the family business. Then the Soviets arrived and there were 3 massive deportations of Poles. They were taken on the last one in June 1940. My grandfather and one son eventually returned home, but my grandfather was deported in 1944 for being anti-Soviet and was not released until 1956. The younger son was outside after curfew in Warsaw so was caught and sent to work on a farm near Berlin for the duration of the war.
My mother joined the Polish army and ended up in Egypt and then Palestine until 1947. She had met my father, also in the army in Egypt, and they eventually married in England in 1947. My grandmother arrived in England in 1948 by ship. The two brothers found each other after the war and went to work in Belgium before emigrating to Canada in 1952. My grandfather was never able to leave what had become Belarus when the borders were moved west, so he never saw his family again. He didn't live long after 12 years in a Soviet camp anyway.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 4, 2016 14:44:28 GMT
Amazing story. Maybe someone should write a book?
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Post by htmb on Apr 4, 2016 16:16:45 GMT
Bjd, your family story is extremely interesting.
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Post by Deleted on Apr 4, 2016 16:39:21 GMT
I have never come across refugee stories that were not interesting, because you never know what is going to happen next.
Even my own French family, although they were only internal refugees in the country, never had any idea where they were headed from one day to the next and spent countless nights in the cellars of strangers as bombs fell on the city.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 5, 2016 13:22:54 GMT
Hector never acknowledged Bob’s intervention on his behalf. His arrogance seemed undiminished. He passed all his written exams with above average marks and went on to commence flying training. Soon after he went solo he did a ground-level beat up of Bob’s ex girl-friend’s house in a moment of reckless euphoria. Someone took his number and reported him for dangerous flying over a built-up area. He couldn’t argue as he had some wisps of tree foliage wrapped around his undercarriage when he landed back at base. He was grounded permanently, but we heard he had friends in high places and was sent back home to rejoin his old regiment. Bob’s ex girl-friend contacted him soon after Hector left and Bob resumed his relationship with her, much to my disgust.
Only two cadets on our course failed to graduate from I.T.W. The rest of us went north by train to E.F.T.S., Elementary Flying Training School, near Salisbury, a pleasant sprawling colonial town much more attractive than Bulawayo with its boring regimented square blocks layout. Apart from the excitement we felt at the prospect of at last starting to fly, things really began to look up. We each had a room of our own instead of sharing a hut with ten others, small and poky perhaps, but nevertheless a peaceful corner in which to study.
The ablutions were modern and clean so we had some incentive to keep them that way. We began to feel that we had climbed a few rungs up the ladder and that our efforts were being recognised. The food improved almost to small hotel standards and I no longer had to starve or go into town for meals. With the money I was now able to save I could pay the train fare back to Bulawayo to stay with my young widow occasionally. An added bonus was sometimes being able to hitch a lift both ways on an Air Force plane.
On the second day at E.F.T.S. I had a pleasant surprise when I bumped into Spencer who had joined the R.A.F. from school sometime before me. He was such a gifted pilot that he had been kept on in Rhodesia as an instructor rather than risk losing his tutorial skills in aerial combat. He took me up a few times on test flights during my off-duty hours and allowed me to take the controls and familiarise myself with that type of aircraft, Fairchild Cornells which were single-engined low wing monoplanes.
On one test flight he had to stress the plane’s control surfaces in a series of violent aerobatics. He told me to shout a warning if I felt nauseous, then slide my canopy back open and throw up over the port side. He said he would side-slip the plane to starboard and the resulting crosswind would blow my vomit outside instead of back over him in the rear cockpit. I felt my stomach bubbling after several screaming vertical dives and loops and spins and flick rolls, so I shouted loudly and slid then canopy open. Trouble was, I forgot which side he had told me to vomit and leaned out to starboard. Poor old Spencer’s flying jacket looked quite colourful when I eventually turned round to look at him. He aborted the test flight immediately and landed back at base, expressions of extreme annoyance ringing in my ears.
I had to spend the next hour washing out the rear cockpit and cleaning his flying jacket. It brought back memories of when I polished his shoes every night for a year back at boarding school. We both had a good laugh about it afterwards and in all the thousands of hours I subsequently flew, I never once felt sick again. It was as if that one incident had purged my system.
My numerous flights with Spencer gave me a head start over the other cadets, but my regular instructor took no account of this and very properly taught me the basic principles of flying all over again. He showed me how to execute gentle and steep turns and recover from stalls and spins and develop such a feel for the controls that the plane virtually flew itself. I became able to trim and balance it so finely that the palm of an open hand stuck out into the slipstream would cause it to go into a turn.
Then it was endless take-offs and landings, or ‘circuits and bumps’ as they were called. I had entered six hours flying time in my pristine log book and was halfway through the seventh, when we landed as usual and taxied around the airfield perimeter for the next circuit. I stopped and parked crosswind at the edge of the take-off. I heard a knocking on the Perspex canopy beside my head. I turned round and my heart jumped into my throat when I saw my instructor standing outside on the wing root.
He gave me the thumbs up signal. “Right, she’s all yours,” he shouted above the noise from the engine. “Take her round once. I’ll wait here for you.” He jumped off the wing, and hoping he hadn’t noticed how much blood had drained from my face, I slid the canopy closed with shaking hands. I checked again for landing aircraft then swung the plane round into wind. Fixing my eyes on a point on the horizon, for the airfield was mown grass with no runway to gather speed.
Two hundred yards and I eased the stick forward. The tail came up, already flying. The plane felt light on her wheels as if impatient to fulfil her role, the grass blurred into a smooth green carpet, a nudge back on the stick and she was off, smoothly airborne. I stole a disbelieving glance backward to the empty cockpit behind as I climbed away from the ground. A sharp mixture of fear and elation played havoc with my stomach. There was no one to take over if I lost my nerve. It was totally up to me now. The plane responded instantly, subservient to each and every touch, and my confidence flooded back as the ground fell away and vehicles on the airfield dwindled and shrunk into little boys. I shouted and whooped and punched the air in an ecstasy of sheer delight and wonderment. I knew this moment would be permanently etched on my brain. My first solo flight!
I levelled out at one thousand feet and eased the throttle back to cruising speed. I began talking to myself in an effort to clear the euphoric haze in my mind and focus my concentration. ‘A ninety degree turn to port now, keep the nose level with the horizon. Right, straighten up again. Scan around for other aircraft. Another turn to port now on to the downwind leg. How’s my position, am I the right distance from the edge of the airfield? Yes, this seems pretty good. Halfway along downwind leg now, start doing cockpit check for landing, brake pressure, fuel, flaps, mixture, trim. That must be my instructor lying flat on his back in the long grass at the edge of the touch-down area. He looks relaxed, anyway. What the hell, the airfield boundary is already disappearing under the wingtip. Come on, concentrate. Turn to port on the crosswind leg, throttle back and lose height, flaps down another notch. Five hundred feet now. Make the last turn to port and line up for the middle of the landing area. Flaps full down now – ground’s coming up fast – too low, you fool – too low – pull her up – pull her up – more throttle – nose up – no, no – not so much – hell – she’s juddering, about to stall – stick forward – get the nose down – hold it – hold it – speed okay now – phew ! That’s it, keep her there, judge the height, wheels nearly touching, flatten out, come on, a bit more, stick back a little, don’t let her bounce, the grass is slowing down, I can see every blade, stick right back, can’t be more than a foot off, she’s on point of stall, cut throttle why is he floating so long? Ah, I can feel the wheels rumbling. She’s down, I’ve made it, yippee ! She’s swinging to starboard – quick – port rudder – port brake – she’s veering too far the other way – don’t overcook it – idiot – a touch starboard rudder and brake – gently – gently – keep her straight – that’s it, both brakes now, centralise rudder, steady on the brakes or you’ll have her nose dig in, right, slowed right down, taxi to end of airfield and round perimeter to pick up instructor. God, it’s hot in here, slide canopy back, my shirt’s dripping wet!
After one more day of developing skill and confidence in take- offs and landings, my flying education broadened out to include long complicated navigation exercises, formation flying, aerobatics, forced landings and low flying. About half the time was spent with an instructor and the other half I flew solo. On these latter occasions I first carried out the pre-set programme then reserved the last half hour for some illegal aerobatics well away from human habitation. We had a certain amount of low flying but were not permitted below fifty feet. I found that skimming through the cloud tops gave me the same thrilling sensation of high speed. They were my playground, an enchanting dream world that ignited the imagination.
Cumulus and Cumulo-nimbus, all different shapes and sizes, drifting in the high places beyond humanity, beckoning, inviting me to plumb their depths. Mountains and ravines and sheer cliffs. In their company I lived on the edge of the universe, becoming a super being with instant reactions, master of my environment and enjoying pleasures denied poor underprivileged earthbound folk.
There is a fascination about flying that is impossible to resist. Adrenalin seems more powerful than any narcotic, and when you get it in there, it takes over. I looped and twisted and spun and rolled and dived into dark, silent, clinging worlds of softness and disorientation, then burst through and out into clear sunlit reality. Stick hard forward and scream vertically down the side of a sheer misty canyon, reach cloud base then stick right back into the stomach. G-force like a giant hand pressing me down into my seat, a grey veil over my eyes for split seconds as the blood drains form my head. Upwards, ever upwards, standing on my tail, ghostly wraiths of vapour flicking by my Perspex canopy. I’m having a love affair, it’s ballet, freedom, isolation, joy, escape, utterly subliminal elation, something wonderful that begins in the pit of the stomach and blossoms until it permeates the whole being.
I was the only one to volunteer for the ‘Dawn Patrol’ as it was irreverently called because it entailed getting out of bed at four in the morning to collect weather data for the Meteorological Officer. The others didn’t know what they were missing. It wasn’t a chore to me, just pure pleasure. A quick splash of the face in cold water then down to the mess hall for a mug of hot coffee and a slice of hot toast and marmalade. Full flying gear of fur-lined leather jacket and boots to ward off the cold. Sign for a plane at flying control tower and take off in the dark. Enter a cloud layer around a thousand feet, keep climbing another thousand through the gradually thinning murk that gives way to a translucent pink glow that brightens and reddens until you finally emerge into clear air and float on golden wings in a breathtaking world of crimson cloud tops and brilliant blue sky. It tingles the spine and blurs the eyes and you wonder why you especially have been singled out to experience such spiritually awesome beauty.
My course had lost another five members by the time we completed our elementary flying training. Poor old Edwin, the Anglo Indian at I.T.W. who had helped me with the bed lice, was killed in a low-flying accident. Two more failed the written and navigation tests and two were unable to reach the required standard of competence to fly solo in the maximum time allowed of fifteen hours. Of those who were left, most went on to train further on single-engined Harvards to become fighter pilots and the remainder were posted to Secondary Flying Training School near Bulawayo flying twin-engined Airspeed Oxfords to become bomber pilots.
I was quite disappointed at not being selected for fighters until I was told that those who were chosen for bombers had the necessary qualities and sense of responsibility for flying large expensive aircraft with half a dozen crew members. However, I suspected that this was just a morale booster and decided that if I did graduate and get my wings I would set my sights on flying Mosquitoes, a wonderful, twin-engined fighter/bomber as manoeuvrable and fast as a Spitfire.
Our training became even more advanced, concentrating especially on night and instrument flying and high and low level bombing techniques where we had to double up with another cadet to take turns at being pilot or bomb/aimer-navigator. Several more fell by the wayside during this final training phase. Of those who started with me at I.T.W., about ten percent failed to graduate.
Came the day of the passing out parade. Each cadet, buttons nearly busting off his jacket with pride and a sense of achievement, marched up to the podium as his name was called out and had his hard-won wings pinned to his chest and congratulated by the Air Officer Commanding the Empire Air Training Scheme. The ceremony ended with the newly fledged pilots scrambling to our waiting aircraft and doing a formation flypast over Bulawayo and the airfield. We finished by tilting our wings almost to the vertical and doing a peel-off as if going into an attack, then landing one after another back at base.
Our Instructors treated us to a night on the town and a celebration booze-up. Mine gave me a congratulatory hand-shake and popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. “I hereby christen these wings and may God help those who have to fly with them,” he said, to a chorus of cheers and laughter. He shook the bottle and aimed the spouting contents at my chest, dousing my pristine wings and soaking me to the skin.
He became a bit maudlin as the evening wore on and hung on to the lapels of my jacket to steady himself. “I hope you appreciate,” he said thickly. “That you are now - hic – a member of that select few, that fraction of the world’s population, that privileged band known as the Brotherhood of Pilots who have a twinkle in the eye and a special knowledge that marks them out from other mortals. We all have that look, and by that look, you will always be recognised. He released his grip and slid gently to the floor.
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Post by questa on Apr 5, 2016 14:03:10 GMT
Stupendous! what a gift of words to give us the feeling of flying solo.
Mossie, have you tears in your eyes?
Mark, had you heard this before?
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 5, 2016 15:50:47 GMT
Heard or read? I've certainly read this before and when as a kid my dad would speak of his enjoyment of flying.
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Post by bjd on Apr 5, 2016 15:52:39 GMT
I too wondered how Mossie enjoys reading this.
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 6, 2016 19:31:41 GMT
Our names were on the notice board next morning on the postings list to the United Kingdom. Once again I had the perturbing experience of highly charged emotionalism as I took leave of my young war widow at her home in Bulawayo. We had both realised all along that this day would eventually come, but the sadness of parting was in no way diminished by it. We promised faithfully to write to each other, yet we guessed that the longer we were kept apart, the more likely would our memories wither and fade. Despite the realisation of this possibility, we both thought at that time, that we could never love another and that somehow, somewhere, we would be re-united.
We spent two days and three nights on the train south to Capetown travelling through sparse, brown countryside dotted with native kraals and European owned subsistence farms. It was the biggest and most modern city I had ever seen and was so excited and awestruck that I wandered up and down the shopping and business centre for hours gawping at the huge expanses of plate-glass and buildings soaring up to unimagined heights. I had never encountered such wonders. It was a paradise with warm sun and wide beaches, swimming, surfing and exotic dance halls where girls outnumbered guys by five to one.
The first night I hired a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the hottest place in town where I could find plenty of action. He dropped me outside ‘Del Monico’s’ a circular-shaped neon lit dance hall cum café bar. When I got inside I gazed up astonished at stars glimmering through misty, slow-moving clouds. I nipped outside again when I thought no one was looking and the sky was covered by thick grey cloud. It was only then I realised that the place had a solid roof with a night sky effect that was brilliantly done.
Our contingent of newly qualified pilots waited six weeks for transport to England and secretly hoped that the ship would never arrive. The days were spent at beach barbecues or picnics in the lush surrounding countryside or a trip by cable car to the top of Table Mountain. We were invited every evening to someone’s house for a party. The people’s hospitality was absolutely incredible.
We eventually docked at Southampton after a long, plodding journey when the ship was blacked out each night and no one was allowed to smoke on deck. We sailed far out west into the Atlantic to avoid U-boats. We travelled up north to Harrogate in Yorkshire where we were billeted in the Aircrew Transit Camp, a large hotel near the town centre. As the train puffed through town after town my first impression of England was an endless forest of chimneys, little ones on houses, large fat ones at power stations and tall thin ones on factories. All belched thick black smoke, which deposited dirt on already soot-grimed buildings, thankfully confined to the larger cities. My spirits started to rise, however, as we chugged through pretty, pristine little villages, over sparkling streams and rolling green countryside.
It was all exciting new experience for me and I hugely enjoyed my week’s sojourn in Harrogate, a clean country town set in pleasant parks with trees and flowerbeds. I had my first taste of English draught beer and was as drunk as a coot on only two pints. I had never really liked the locally brewed beer back home in Kenya. It was bottled light ale called TUSKER with, would you believe, an elephant logo, and was dry and sourish to my taste. I looked forward to English beer with great trainee pilots in Southern Rhodesia. I found I didn’t like it very much either. I continued to drink it in moderation because the alcohol gave me Dutch courage when talking to girls and I hoped that I would become used to the taste and grow to like it. I could never consume spirits. They all tasted like quinine to me and made me sick.
That first night in Harrogate I walked a girl home to her garden gate. Not being used to drinking what to me was such a large quantity of beer at one sitting, I swayed a bit from side to side and could feel and hear all that liquid slopping about in my stomach. While we were kissing, the girl pressed her hips forcefully against mine and compressed my stomach, which made me feel as if I was about to burst. I wanted to break off and relieve myself. I thought she might be offended so I hung on. The inevitable happened, I could hold it no longer. Piss burst from me like a breached dam and cascaded down the inside of my trouser leg to form a puddle at my feet. The girl only wore light shoes and her feet became soaked. There had been no rain for several days. She realised what had happened, uttered disgust, slapped my face and ran into her house. I somehow didn’t care. The relief I felt as I shed the load was pure heaven. However, it taught me to visit the urinal more frequently when I was out drinking.
I soon found out that I invariably had to travel around several pubs before being served because being a stranger in town and beer in short supply, the Publican would drape a towel on his beer pump handles and tell me he had sold out as soon as I entered his establishment. Five minutes later I’d pass by the same pub and see the regular customers inside with full pints. I soon learnt the trick of waiting outside until a civilian entered then walking in close behind him. I had to become selective about which pub I used as I also found out that some Publicans had different beer pumps for regulars and strangers. The beer dispensed from the strangers pump was sour, cloudy and with gunge in the bottom of the glass.
In the days following my arrival in Harrogate I had to fill in numerous questionnaires, had more aptitude tests and several interviews with Senior Officers. As a result, myself and five others who had trained with me in Rhodesia were sent to various Operational Training Airfields in the Midlands and East Anglia to do familiarisation exercises on different types of aircraft. These places were called O.T.U’s (Operational Training Units) and I was directed on to flying Douglas D C 3 Dakotas, originally American airliners converted to transporting troops and supplies. After a short period proving that I could handle such a large aircraft (for those days) in all conditions, I was posted to an Operational Squadron providing a shuttle service to the Allied Forces as they advanced through France and Germany. The British and American Air Forces had almost total domination of the skies over Europe by this time and any German fighters that tried to attack our Dakotas were soon seen off by our fighter boys. It never ceased to make my stomach loop the loop, however, when we sometimes landed back at base to find bullet holes in the wings or tail plane.
The war in Europe ended with the major German cities, industries and fuel installations reduced to rubble. The war had mostly been won by the Allied Air Forces before the invasion of the Continent by our Ground forces in 1944. By the spring of 1944 the German War Machine had ground to a halt, their Air Force and Navy fragmented. On V.E. Day (Victory in Europe), during the frenetic celebrations in every British town and village, I vividly recalled Angie’s blessing and prayer as we parted for the last time on that warm, starlit African night that seemed such a long time ago, and thanked my maker that I had come through physically unscathed.
For several months I continued ferrying supplies and troops to and from the Continent until these activities became more or less redundant. I was assigned to various airfields around the country, never staying in one place more than about three months. Apart from sporadic periods of navigation exercises at night and simulated landings in fog and low cloud using radio beams transmitted from ground beacons, I had no specific duties to perform and it was left to my own initiative to do any further flying providing I obtained permission from the Duty Flying control and Meteorological Officers before take off.
All the airfields I now served on were in remote rural areas in Somerset, Staffordshire, Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire. The few pilots who were still on the strength seemed to have lost interest and were eagerly awaiting their return to civilian life. I was issued with a bicycle to enable me to get around the widely dispersed facilities on the airfields. Motorised transport was seldom available now that hostilities had ceased and petrol was still rationed. I purchased a 250cc B.S.A. motorbike for a knock-down price from another pilot who owed money. He had a one-night-stand with a girl who became pregnant and claimed that he was the father. Her parents demanded that he pay an exorbitant sum every month for the upkeep of the forthcoming child. They threatened him with legal action and he received a letter from a Solicitor.
Everyone on the airfield knew that the girl concerned was promiscuous and anyone of a dozen could be the father. The poor chap was naïve and desperate and told me that he felt it was his duty to pay up and do the ‘done’ thing. He was skint and had to raise money from somewhere. I advised him to ignore her Parents threats and deny all responsibility. I told him it could not be proved definitively that he was the father of their daughter’s child. It could be established that he and the baby shared the same blood group, but then so did hundreds of thousands of other men. He didn’t seem fully convinced by what I told him and I suspected that the money I gave him for the motorbike went straight to the girl’s parents. I never found out what the outcome was because I was posted to another airfield and we lost touch.
I managed to scrounge a few gallons of 100 octane aviation fuel from the maintenance engine fitter for my B.S.A. and the old bike went like a rocket for a few months before the engine blew up. The fact that the lights didn’t work either never prevented me from spending most evenings riding down surrounding country lanes to nearby villages where the local public house or dancing in church halls were the main forms of entertainment. I was often the only male present under the age of forty and consequently became the focus of very pleasantly lavished female hospitality. The villagers became politely curious when the read the word KENYA embroidered on my shoulder flashes. I would be asked, with a charming innocence, if I knew their cousin Jack or perhaps Uncle Fred who had immigrated to Pretoria or Timbuctoo or somewhere. They had absolutely no concept of the vastness of Africa.
It was a period of total delight for me. The days were even more enthralling. On every airfield I was posted to there were a few Airspeed Oxford twin-engined training planes for the use of any pilots who wished to maintain a high standard of flying. My routine every day was to have an early breakfast. Then, weather permitting after consulting the Meteorological Officer, I filed a flight plan with the Duty Air Controller and signed for a parachute from stores. I also signed for a serviceable aircraft to be rolled out of the hangar and took off after doing all the necessary checks which included walking round the plane checking condition of the fuselage and control surfaces and undercarriage and finally all necessary checks.
I remained airborne for as long as my fuel allowed. After lunch, a frame or two of snooker in the Aircrew Mess and waited on at table by pretty young W.A.A.F.’s (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) then flying again all afternoon. I had to make out I was brushing up on my navigation skills and always flew the flight plan I had filed as I had to report back on my radio at frequent intervals and my position could then be verified by direction finding techniques if the Commanding Officer so wished. However, I always found time to play about diving and climbing and twisting amongst the cumulus clouds, darting in one side then out of the other. When I came across a sparsely populated part of the coast I especially liked skimming low over the sea a mile or two out from the shore. Fishing boat crews always waved as long as I didn’t get too close. They shook their fists if I let that happen.
Luckily, I had the sense to realise that this state of affairs could not last forever so I spent every spare minute in the air. I couldn’t believe my luck. Here I was, being given a free hand to indulge my addiction for flying, and best of all, being paid for it. There were few parts of the British Isles that I did not explore from the air. Every green hill, sparkling river and main line railway became so familiar that I knew where I was most of the time without the aid of maps. The Commanding Officer at one airfield I server on was so pleased that my activities kept the Ground staff on their toes that he appointed me as his personal pilot to ferry him around on Air Force business.
For about a year after the end of the war I had the impression that most of the population, drained by the concentrated effort to achieve victory over the last five years, needed a period of rest and recuperation from strict discipline and regulation before bucking down once again to the unexciting and tedious business of earning a living and returning to normality. Many never did resettle as their adrenalin would not subside and flittered their time away seeding spurious excitement and a life-style that tried to recapture their wartime experiences and the sense of living on the edge.
The powers that be eventually caught up with me after about nine months of this fabulous existence and posted me to an airfield in Nottinghamshire to resume flying Douglas Dakotas for the benefit of the Para troop Regiment recruits. I was informed that I was eventually to be posted to Karachi and the North West Frontier District India to commence training Ghurkha Paratroops.
That first day at Syerston Airfield in Nottinghamshire I met my new Aircrew and was invited to spend the evening with them in a lively pub they frequented nearby. I assumed they would be going into Newark, the nearest country town. However, they led me across the main runway and down a steep slope to the River Trent in the valley below. Someone rang a brass bell dangling from a post and the Landlord of the Elm Tree Public House on the opposite bank came over in a boat and rowed us back across, his wooden leg, a legacy from World War I, thumping down on the bilge-boards at every stroke of the oars. He bragged that in the last five years he had only lost two people overboard, one was drunk and the other had disappeared when the boat overturned one dark night in a rushing flood wave.
The Pub was bursting at the seams with jitterbugging male and female R.A.F. and American Air force personnel to the loudest band I had ever heard with a strong brass section, which insisted on playing discordant notes that crucified my ears. Five minutes in there and I had to run outside, my brain reeling from the noise and my shirt soaked in sweat. It was like that every night, right into the early hours.
In those days few ordinary people had a car and there were only two buses a day, the last one back to Nottingham leaving at 6 p.m. The village and pub were virtually cut off from the rest of the world every night, which made it possible for the local Policeman to park his bicycle behind the Pub and join in the festivities. The Landlord became a rich man and wisely retired when he discovered that Syerston Airfield was closing down some years after the war ended.
I soon became fed up with the Elm Tree Pub and reverted back to my previous custom of using an Air Force bike to visit surrounding villages for my night’s entertainment where music was played at a reasonable decibel level and I could talk to the girls I met at dances without having to make myself hoarse by shouting at the top of my voice and the atmosphere was warm, gentle and full of promise.
I visited Nottingham several times. The only trouble was that the Air Force transport lorry left at 10 p.m. and if I missed it I had to find a lodging house for the night and pay for bed and breakfast. The first time I ever stayed in one was on Shakespeare Street near the City centre. Thinking she was giving me a wonderful treat next morning at breakfast, the Landlady floated towards my table like a four-masted schooner under full sail and deposited in front of me, with a dramatic flourish, a huge dinner plate entirely covered with a succulent Haddock steak. The poor soul didn’t know I hated fish and the smell wafting up my nose disgusted me. She hovered about in anticipation expecting me to dove in wielding my knife with ecstatic glee. I sat staring at it for a minute trying to summon up courage.
I took the plunge and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t like fish. Have you got bacon and eggs?” Including the Landlady there were nine people in the dining room. I heard ten, long drawn out, intakes of breath. The Landlady’s whole demeanour changed from warm friendliness to open hostility. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the KENYA flashes on my shoulders. “Where’s that?” she gritted. “Africa,” I said, cringing. “What do you have for breakfast in Africa?” Her eyes glinted a warning. I decided to brazen it out. “Fruit, then maize-meal porridge following by eggs, bacon and tomato and to finish, guava jelly on toast and a hot cup of ground Kenya coffee.” “Don’t you know that we still have wartime rationing?” she said defensively. “We have got porridge though. Made from Scottish oats.” I felt sorry for her. “That’ll be lovely,” I said.
I scalded my throat eating my porridge too quickly while the others almost squabbled over the size of their portions of my haddock. I just wanted to get out of there. I soon found though that Nottingham had all the qualities I desired. A clean town with white buildings unsullied by black soot with a compact shopping and entertainment area. Very lively in places, quiet in others and not too far from the Airfield.
I once walked it all the way back to Syerston and it took me all night. It had the reputation of nurturing the prettiest girls in all Britain. It was there that I found my Aphrodite, the loveliest by far. I married her in the winter of 1947, one of the coldest and bleakest on record. The sky was blotted out for months by a thick, grey blanket of cloud and the earth buried under six to ten feet of freezing hard packed snow. The starkest possible contrast to the enduring light, warmth and beauty my sparkling bride brought into my life!
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Post by onlyMark on Apr 6, 2016 20:15:53 GMT
Everything must come to an end, and that is it. My father swore blind for many years that he'd write more, but never did. Probably because his life in the UK wasn't by far as exciting as the times leading up to it. He married my mother, the Aphrodite mentioned, and they stayed married until the death of my mother sixty three years later. My father died four years after that in 2013.
Upon marrying they emigrated back out to Kenya on a ship via St Helena and Capetown. In Capetown all their wedding presents in a trunk were off-loaded accidently, never to be seen again. They stayed in Kenya for four years or so, eventually leaving as the situation deteriorated there and after an upsetting incident whereby my mother was called to Court because of the murder by shotgun of a friend by her husband. Also the sisters ‘ganged up’ against her and made her life quite uncomfortable. They felt my father had lowered himself by marrying what they called “a common factory girl”. In the UK they took various jobs, at one time running a pub when I was around ten years old. But mainly my father worked down the coal mines as at the time it was well paid and secure. My mother, a Nottingham girl, wished to stay around that area which was also a factor.
My father met my mother when she was dragged along after the death of her then fiancé, a merchant sailor when his ship was sunk, by a friend who my father was dating. Apparently my father ignored his date and spent the whole time talking to the ‘friend’. They agreed to marry after just two weeks of stepping out together, my father though being sent back abroad and then being de-mobbed in Kenya or Tanzania, I can’t remember which, whilst my mother waited in the UK. They married a little before their twenty second birthdays and waited until their thirties to start a family. Unusual in those days, but they wanted some years just for each other before being devoted to their children.
He passed on many of these stories to me and also told them to entertain my kids when they were young. He was a good story teller and would make all the animal noises and different voices of his friends. As with all parents, it isn’t until they’ve gone, and this includes my mother, that you realise you should have asked more questions. Reading back on the thread as I’ve posted it brings to mind several million I should have asked at the time.
His family ended up as follows. The father, my grandfather, died as mentioned above, we think from typhoid. His mother lasted a good few more years and married again but the new husband also died young. She went to live with her daughters after that. Lance died as mentioned also above when his troop ship was torpedoed. Arnold, the eldest brother, moved to New Zealand not long after the war, eventually dying in 1984. All the sisters moved at one time or another to South Africa where they lived for many years, marrying and having children. Two of them in later life moved to the UK, the only one alive now is Raquel, the youngest, who recently moved to Australia to be with her children.
If you imagine a dapper ex-Royal Air Force pilot with Brylcreemed hair, with the requisite moustache he kept until his death, who spoke BBC English, always had a compliment for a pretty girl which usually resulted in a punched arm from my mother, who was devoted to her and would bring her tea in bed every morning, was never depressed or had an angry word to say about anyone, would start on a story at the drop of a hat, took everything in his stride……….. that was my father. I wish I was half the man he was.
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Post by mossie on Apr 6, 2016 20:59:51 GMT
Well, my training was really nothing like that. Of course I was destined to be a navigator so we did all sorts of classroom work learning how to plot a course and how all the instruments worked and which end of a sextant to look in and a hundred other things. Not to mention Service writing, i.e. how to lay out a letter and write reports, and Air Force Law, and Airmanship, or how to use a compass. Our flying training was done in twin engine Ansons which could carry 5 or 6, but we flew in pairs of trainees doing set exercises. One was designated first nav and was responsible for the navigation, while the other carried out various tasks to help. The exercise would be repeated on the next trip with the roles reversed. We were also being taught to be officers, regardless of the fact that the ruffians like me would eventually be found wanting in the knife and fork department, and would become sergeants. We also did plenty of square bashing and always drilled with rifles so we became very good at parading. We were also informally taught how to drink, and to "hold our drink".
I was never actually airsick, although at times I felt pretty bad. It all stopped after a few years when I had to have my appendix removed in an emergency operation, this was soon after I joined my second squadron. I was a confirmed drinker by then and used to get these bad stomach pains which I blamed on the drink. One weekend was quite bad, and on the Monday morning we ere briefed for two low level flights. I managed the first one, but felt so bad I told my pilot I would have to cry off and go sick. So I humped my parachute back to the crew room and reported to the Medical Officer. He examined me and pronounced acute appendicitis and put me to bed to await an ambulance to take me to the local hospital for the operation. I did not fancy being cut about and protested "Doc, I've been drinking all the weekend, it is just my stomach playing up", but it was no good and I drifted off to sleep. The ambulance carted me off to Ipswich hospital and I had the embarrassment of a teenage nurse shaving off all the hair she could find round my nether regions. I could have enjoyed it if I didn't feel so bad. I came round from the operation while I was being transferred back into my bed, and a nurse stuffed a bowl under my chin saying "be sick in this". I protested loudly and said "I don't want to be sick, give me a cigarette". After an argument they at least came up with a cup of tea and I went off to sleep.
Sorry to hijack your excellent thread Mark, but it brings it all back.
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Post by htmb on Apr 6, 2016 22:08:14 GMT
Mark, your father's story is a great one. Thank you so much for sharing it with us. Of course, the reading of your dad's tale also reminds me of mine who was of the same generation, even down to the Brylcream, or was it Vitalis? I wish mine had written more down, but so glad your father did!
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Post by questa on Apr 7, 2016 1:15:25 GMT
One thing has emerged from this story for me...We must all write down our 'story' for our descendants. Our own kids know so much about us that they may not be interested until they are older, our grandkids only know what they have heard or have faint memories of being with their grand parents. To find a manuscript like this opens a new world as they discover a young man or woman with all the joy and angst of youth.
Thank you so much, Mark, for taking the time to type this all out and sharing it with us. I feel greatly privileged to have seen part of your father's life for a short while. I would love it if you could tell us parts of your story as you seem to have had an interesting life so far and you write so well.
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