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The ferry trip from Thurso to Stromness was dreadful. The Pentland Firth must be one
of the roughest stretches of water around the British coast. Did the trip, either way, eight times and was fortunate in being sick only once. Sea-sickness was the most devastating experience I can ever remember - just wanted to die. On the first trip was picked out by the Captain to man the Lewis gun by the bridge. He pointed to a Walrus aircraft and asked me what it was and when I replied "Don't know" he wasn't at all impressed. It was going along far too slowly to be aggressive except perhaps to
submarines.

There was one ferry boat called "The Earl
of Zetland" that was guaranteed to make at least half the passengers and crew wish they had never been born. On one trip we battled against the sea for about an hour, near 'The Old man of Hoy' - every now and again the screw would come out of the water and the whole boat would shudder as if ready to give up the struggle. Have since read that, just a couple of days before Christmas, about a year after I left the Islands, a ferry turned over in the rough seas and several hundred service men and crew were drowned.

In the First World War a number of the approaches to Scapa Flow were blocked by old boats that had been sunk. Early in the Second War a German submarine did get through the blockade to sink a warship "The Royal Oak".

Churchill ordered that the Italian prisoners-of-war should be employed building a concrete causeway between a number of the Islands, to block access and to provide a road system between the Islands.

The Italians were quite happy to do this work but they sorely missed a place of worship. They were allowed to place two Nisson Huts, end to end, in order to build a church. They could only use locally available materials to construct, what was to become, a beautiful work of art. For example, corned beef tins were made into elaborate lanterns, plaster board became intricate marble and tiled walls, paintings were fit for any Cathedral, etc.

Since the war the church and the Churchill Barrier has become a populat venue for tourists and other visitors to the Islands. As for the prisoners they seemed to be so happy there that, when the time came, they may have resented going back to Italy.

In January 1942 I was posted south to one of the main 'Battle of Britain' stations - 'Biggin Hill'. This station was constantly in the news because it was ideally placed to intercept the German fighters as they came towards London.

Fighter Command under Dowdings cool leadership, exerted desperate efforts to prevent the Germans gaining air supremacy over southern England. Bomber Command also made a significant contribution by preventing invasion by the enemy, in it's successful campaign to sink the barges on the other side of the Channel.

It was widely thought that the majority of enemy aircraft were shot down by Spitfires. Actually the production of Hurricanes started earlier and greater numbers were available during the battle. These accounted for the higher proportion of bombers destroyed and on one day in September they and the Spitfires shot down well over one hundred of the 'Huns'.

Biggin Hill was a wonderful posting because it meant I could cycle home whenever there were longer spells off duty. Some of the hills were rather steep but, perhaps, the worst part was going through Blackwall Tunnel. It was two way traffic through a single tunnel. Going in was alright because it was downhill but towards the other end it wasn't so pleasant cycling uphill with a lorry two inches from the rear mudguard.

Biggin Hill first opened as a Wireless Research Station and later had some fighter aircraft for protection. In time it became a Fighter station for the 91热爆 Defence of London.

During the Battle of Britain, the operations Room and Signals Section were bombed and two WAAF's were awarded Military Medals for remaining at their posts whilst the building was being attacked. Relocation meant 'Operations' were moved to a house called 'The Rookery' a few miles from the camp.

The building contained the Sector Control for a large part of south-east England. Here the movements of the incoming aircraft were plotted on a map painted on a large table together with the positions of British fighters being sent to intercept them. Teleprinter Operators were receiving plots from the Radar Stations as well as from Observers who were posted in the south. In addition the Operators were receiving signals relative to the operation and administration of the RAF Station.

Later we moved to another house, near Bromley, and stayed there for two or three months. Shortly after we returned to the Rookery the house near Bromley was blown up. There have been reports that a number of German spies elected to work for the British rather than be executed. They were carefully controlled and a lot of deceptive information was sent to the enemy in their names. To give them credence it was necessary to allow them to report successes and one of them might well have been that they blew up Biggin Hill Sector Control building near Bromley causing a lot of distress to Fighter Command.

Whilst at the Rookery I was sent to West Drayton to take a trade test as a Teleprinter Operator and passed AC1. There were three grades of proficiency in any trade AC2, AC1 and LAC. The Officer in charge asked me if I was satisfied and I told him "No, I tried for LAC." A Sergeant, sitting nearby, sprang to attention ready to march me off to the Guardroom. The Officer told him not to worry and told me he would back-date my test by three months so that I could take a further test when I got back to camp. I did and got my LAC. Then I applied for remustering as a Radar Mechanic.

Early in 1943 I was posted to RAF Station Great Ashfield in Suffolk which seemed to be a non-event because there was no sign of aircraft. As the airfield was being built we were engaged in organising various tasks without any apparent purpose in being there.

Can remember being Camp Orderly when the telephone system had broken down. Consequently I was cycling around, a widely dispersed camp,delivering messages to various buildings. This went on during the day and most of the night and when I came off duty was only too pleased to go to bed. We had a Sergeant who was formerly a Wireless Operator/Air Gunner who had been grounded, probably through lack of moral fibre as the RAF liked to label them, who had three months to prove he was fit to be a Sergeant or else he would be reduced to the ranks.

During the morning this Sergeant came into the hut and told me to get dressed as I was on a charge. Appeared before the C.O. later that day and he told me to explain why I was in bed - told him I'd been up all night delivering messages around the camp - and he said I was admonished. That was about the height of excitement, there was little to do and life became most boring.

There was a flooded gravel pit, nearby, which was reputed to be sixty feet deep. I don't swim but used to go along and hold on to some planks which were tied to oil drums. One time the lads decided to tip up the raft and push it below the surface. I was suspended from the bottom edge and the pressure in my ears was intense - certainly cleared the wax!

Then the yanks moved in, by the thousand, and things changed overnight. Apparently there had been some delay in their coming and we had been left in limbo.

Worked in the Signals Office and helped with signalling liason. It is tempting to think of a typical American but I was struck by the fact that the Americans, coming in from so many of the different States were as mixed a bunch of people as you could hope to meet anywhere.

Walking through the camp I saw one of them as he cycled by and stuck up my thumb to him. He stopped and asked what I meant by that and I told him "Everything's OK". He said that in his counrty that was quite an insult and told me what it meant. I responded by sticking two fingers up at him and he was quite happy with that.

Great Ashfield really became "Great" because we were allowed to use the camp 'Post Exchange'. Cigarettes were 2/7 (13p) for a pack of two hundred and there were lots of precious goods on sale that were unobtainable outside the camp.

Went on watch, one day, realising I had left my cigarettes in the hut, and asked a Yank for a cigarette. He threw a box of 200 across to me and when I protested, he said "Aw shucks - forget it". They really were generous but they were earning so much more, than we were, I suppose they could afford to be.

All good things must come to an end and on the 30th of August 1943 I was posted to RAF Station East Kirkby in Lincolnshire.

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