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“NO such undertaking has been received; consequently this country is at war with Germany”

As six young gardeners sitting in the Bothy, ( hostel in modern jargon) at Gassett Hall Essex on 3rd Sept. 1939 heard |P.M. Chamberlain utter these words. I think we all realised that this meant the end of the good life, a life tied up with stately homes, affluent people and freedom. For myself I had realised since the Munich Crisis in year before this was bound to come and I had already ideas of what I was going to do.

Later that same day I sat down and penned a letter to the Royal Air Force Kingsway, London offering my services. Little knowing that thousands of other young men of my age were at that very moment, doing precisely the same.

A week or two later I received a brief acknowledgement, saying I would hear from them in due course. “ The due course drifted into weeks, then months, until finally nearly a year later, a year in which I felt confident that I would soon be at the controls of a ‘Spitfire’ or at least a ‘Hurricane’. Alas this was not to be, as the letter informed me they had sufficient pilots for the foreseeable future, but would I come to train as wireless op / air gunner?

Things moved fairly quickly from then on and a few weeks later I found myself at RAF Padgate, Lancs. For my aircrew medical and a short education test. I was prepared for this and had ‘genned’ up on maths, English etc. so passed OK.

About a month later it was up to breezy Blackpool for the real thing, and after kitting out, inoculations and another medical, I was put into a ‘Squad’ for square bashing.. Only in this case the ‘square’ was the promenade. I must have covered every inch of its five miles, dozens of times. After six weeks of this we were said to have “passed out” and by this time felt like real airmen. Although to the hardened NCO’s we were still very much ‘sprogs’.

Then came the first important step to becoming a WOP-AF. The learning of the ‘Morse Code’. I found this surprisingly easy, I apparently had a good ear and a sense of rhythm, which is essential in receiving Morse. I found many of my colleagues far cleverer blokes than me, just could not tell a dot from a dash.

The starting speed for receiving Morse was 4 words a minute and each week we had test’s as the speed increased until we reached the magical figure of 12 WPM. This meant that ‘one’s’ time at Blackpool was then at an end and we were posted to a radio school for further training. A word about the test’s — these were held in a converted ballroom above Burtons the tailors, everyone got very keyed up over these and quite a few suffered from ‘Burtonitis’ or ‘Morse Madness’ as we called it. I have seen men literally cease up and sit unable to put pencil to paper, through sheer nerves, luckily I suffered no such effects and passed my “12’s” with flying colours then after a fortnight’s welcome leave I was off to Yatesbury in the heart of Wiltshire for technical training on radio an d further Morse, up to 20 WPM.

Yatesbury turned out to be a far cry from the cushy billets at Blackpool. Discipline was keen, even harsh, I suppose the idea being to get one to work hard on the course and leave as quickly as possible. Myself, I found the technical training a bit of a bind, but continued to do well on the Morse. At this stage we took to the air for the first time. The ‘Rapides’ were equipped as flying classrooms and held an instructor and six pupils. We were trained to receive and transmit messages from air to ground and also direction finding and a bit of navigation. As soon as we were proficient in this, the next stage was to go up on one’s own with just a pilot and go through all the exercises alone. More than one became lost and had to make a forced landing on Salisbury Plain or elsewhere, including yours truly.

Eventually the required standard was reached and the only reason I was sorry to leave Yatesbury was that I would miss those lovely Harris sausages from the nearby town. Incidentally I met the youngest V.C. John Hannah during my time at Yatesbury.

My next posting was up to Bonny Scotland to RAF Evanton for air gunnery course. This was a lovely spot just beside the Cromarty Firth and I fell in love with Scotland from that moment. The course took 8 weeks and I made good progress. Most of the firing was air-to-air and we flew in ‘ Blackburn Botha’ aircraft and the targets were drogues towed by ‘Lysanders’. My first effort at firing the twin ‘Browning’ guns in the air almost resulted in my shooting down our own aircraft, and I still remember what our Australian pilot called me as he cursed over the inter-com, as only an Aussie can. Things went well after that and time passed quickly, and it was a proud moment when we received our Flying Badges and sergeants stripes.
Then with the Pipe Band at our head, marched down to the station fully fledged wireless — op — air gunners- next stop OP’s!

My last memory of Evanton is standing on the tiny platform at the station and witnessing a sight rarely seen in RAF history.
The Flight Sergeant who just two months earlier had met us and marched us up to the camp with all the dash and bluster appertaining to his rank, had brought us back again, and there were tears in his eyes as he said ‘Goodbye Lads’ and ‘ Good Luck’. He knew as we should have done had we given it a thought, that more than half our number had only a few short weeks to LIVE.

This story was submitted to the “Peoples War Site by Rod Aldwinckle of the CSV Action Desk on behalf of James Drake and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the terms and conditions of the site.

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