1935
After the preliminaries of signing the arrival forms at Bristol Flying School we were introduced to the head of the school, the senior staff of ground school and the flying instructors. We were still allowed to wear civilian clothes and could find our own accommodation in civilian houses off the base. For a short time I shared accommodation in a large house with Freddy Rosier, Johnny Walker and other characters who became well known later as fighter aces or distinguished themselves in other flying operations. In those days, however, sitting around listening to Freddie on his fiddle, we never talked about the possibility of being involved in air combat in the not too distant future, and certainly never imagined for a moment that Freddie would be terribly burned when attacked by a German fighter during an air battle that was to prove to be of such vital importance in the future.
There was now little time for us to engage in any activities other than our flying training. This was a time of great excitement for me, and I whole-heartedly threw myself into what had always been my ambition. I had one advantage over the rest of the fellows on the course in that not only had I already obtained a pilot’s licence but by a coincidence my instructor was the same as the one I had at Staverton, who had first given me dual instruction. He had been moved to Filton in a hurry to meet the now urgent task of training direct-entry service pilots. As a consequence of this advantage I was soon well ahead in the flying programme, having gone solo on the Tiger Moth on the fifth sortie, after two hours’ instruction. It also gave my instructor some spare flying time, when we would go off together to do some low passes over his girlfriend’s home near Painswick and return to fly up the Avon and under the suspension bridge before side-slipping off a bit of surplus height over the hedge at Filton and finishing up neatly parked among the other Tigers. With a sly grin and forefinger to his lips my instructor strolled off to the locker-room to park his flying kit.
Flying instruction continued through September and October with aerobatics, spinning and solo cross-countries to Andover. On the ground we were taught to use navigational aids (a hand-held brass calculator), how to strip and reassemble a Vickers gun, and, of course, the principles of flight and the intricacies of an aero engine. But the flying was what I revelled in. All too soon our flying training was completed, and on my last solo sortie at Filton, as I brought the Tiger Moth in over the hedge for my final landing, I suddenly recalled that visit with my mother not many years before when we watched together as Cyril Uwins approached over that same hedge in the Bulldog. The ab initio course was completed on 15 October, and we all went away rejoicing that we were now pilots, although perhaps not yet fully fledged!
But our high spirits were soon dampened as we entered the grim gates of the Royal Air Force Depot at Uxbridge for the next phase of our training. Perhaps we had not read the small print in our joining-up contracts, for it came as a rude shock that we were not entered as sergeants, as we had thought, but as almost the lowest of the low, leading aircraftmen, at least for the time being.
As we entered RAF Uxbridge there were no three stripes for us or the comfort of the sergeants’ mess. For a time I felt very disillusioned. After the euphoria of the Bristol Flying School this seemed a betrayal and a mean trick by the Air Ministry, and we all felt strong resentment. However, it soon became clear that we were not going to be in a position to complain about anything, and there was to be a great deal to complain about. The whole course was accommodated in a bleak barrack room, with iron bedsteads, three ‘biscuits’ as hard as concrete, a bedside locker in which our kit was to be laid out in precision order and all personal effects packed up and carried away. For a fortnight we were ordered around with little consideration for either our pride or our well-being. The NCOs in charge subjected us to daily drill on the square, rifle drill and marches with full back-packs, and as soon as we were released from that we were herded back to our barracks, where everything had to be cleaned, polished and tidied. This included boots, buttons, uniform, bed space and lockers, not to mention basins and latrines. This really was two weeks of unmitigated bullying in the name of discipline, and the NCOs obviously relished every moment of it. I must admit I reached a stage of deep depression and wondered if I would be able to make the grade. Luckily, we all shared the suffering together and managed to retain a fairly collective sense of humour among the course members, refusing to be cowed, much to the frustration of our tormentors.
As we emerged from those grim gates at the end of those horrid weeks it was with a feeling of great relief. At least we emerged as individuals again and could look forward to more reasonable and sympathetic treatment.
And thus it proved: our reception at our Flying Training School at Wittering was encouraging and helpful. We arrived on the night of 7 November 1935 by train from London, and were met at Stamford station and taken to RAF Wittering by three-ton lorry. This late-night arrival in the dark was to cause me some confusion in the following weeks. I assumed that being taken on from Stamford by lorry meant travelling further north. It took me some time to get out of the habit of looking for the airfield to the north of Stamford, not realizing that on our arrival the lorry had brought us back on our tracks and south to Wittering: a strange quirk of the human navigation machinery. Wittering was alongside the Great North Road, with Stamford a few miles further north. The intensity of our training did not allow much time off the station, but occasionally a few of the more venturesome of our course walked into the town primarily to get a meal of fish and chips and a beer. I thought it was a great pity that we did not have the time or inclination at that time to explore the lovely old town. Built on either slope of the Welland valley, its houses of locally quarried limestone were fine examples of medieval and Georgian buildings which seemed to glow in the sunshine. Happily the town is now protected by a bypass, but not long ago the Great North Road ran through the middle, and athwart it was the ‘gallows’ arch of the George Hotel, one of the oldest post-houses between London and Scotland. As long ago as Norman times the Knights of St John were providing shelter here for pilgrims finding their way to the Holy Land. At one time the hostelry boasted stabling for eighty-six horses, and some forty coaches a day used to pass through the cobbled street for a rest at the inn. I remember how we had all admired this grand hotel but felt it was much too posh a place to go in for our fish and chips and a beer.
Just across the road to the east was Burghley House standing in its vast estates. The house was built by William Cecil, and its forty rooms now contain one of the finest collections of Elizabethan furniture, paintings and tapestries in the country. But to our small band of would-be fliers the treasures that lay beyond this estate wall beside which we plodded back to the airfield still remained undiscovered.
We were the junior term at the training school and would be flying Hawker Harts and Audaxes. I was pleased to have Sgt Craigie as my instructor, a soft-spoken and kindly man of considerable experience who was quite unflappable in the air. We got on well together, and after eight flights in the Hart I was sent off solo. This was another milestone in my avowed career, to fly alone in a real Royal Air Force aeroplane with those red, white and blue roundels on the silver wings, just as I had so avidly looked upon all those years ago in the Bristol hangar. And what a thrill it was, to handle what felt to me like a great big flying machine with its 500 hp Rolls-Royce Kestrel engine. I just loved every moment in the air, but even then I yearned to be on my own and looked forward to my solo flights. It always gave me a lift when I saw the mechanics carrying out those heavy round lead weights to fit onto the bars under the rear cockpit that were necessary when the back seat was to be unoccupied.
A week later I flew the Audax solo. It was a similar aircraft to the Hart, but heavier and with a more powerful Kestrel. After about twenty-three hours on the Hart and Audax, including cross-country flights to Abingdon and Upper Heyford, we were all subjected to a flight test by the senior flying instructor. I may not have realized it at the time, but this was a vital test of our flying ability that would have a profound effect on our future in the Air Force. Nevertheless I tried very hard to turn in an immaculate flight for the senior instructor. While all the course eagerly awaited the findings of the flight tests that might influence their future, the good news came through that at the start of the senior term we would be gazetted as sergeants. And more good news: on the same day there would be a parade during which we would be presented with our flying brevet. So 14 January 1936 was a proud date, and members of the senior term, at the end of the day, could not get into Stamford quickly enough to show off to the girls and boys the covetted wings proudly displayed on our chests. And for me the good streak continued, as I and a few others on the course learned that we had been selected to go onto fighters. Our elation was in stark contrast to the gloom and grumbles of the remainder of the course, who were probably committed to flying the heavies in Bomber Command or in flying-boat squadrons. This selection was of special importance to me, for it was the culmination of my ambition to fly fighters. I began to feel that my service career was really on course for the future of which I had dreamed. Strangely enough the majority of those selected for the fighter role were already my closer friends on the course.
In particular I got on very well with John Tanfield, a young enthusiast with common interests. But sadly a year later he was killed in his Fury when it crashed at Tangmere. He was only 19. We only suffered one catastrophe during the period of our course training, and this occurred because the maverick of the pupils, Mac, failed to pay sufficient attention to the briefing on the cooling system of the Kestrel and made a stupid mistake in the air, which had disastrous results. The radiator of the Hart could be moved in and out of its housing between the undercarriage to regulate the engine cooling by means of a wheel in the cockpit. When carrying out aerobatics, if negative G was applied the radiator would fall into the fully retracted position. We were specifically warned to watch out for this, and if it occurred, to remember to wind the radiator out again to restore normal cooling. Well, Mac did his aerobatics, including a slow roll, and the inevitable happened unnoticed, so that after a while the engine overheated. Finally the coolant boiled and white smoke poured out of the exhausts. Mac, in panic, assumed the aircraft to be on fire, undid his harness, turned the Hart on its back and fell out and parachuted to the ground. As a salutary lesson we were all taken out to see the wreckage. The heap of twisted metal, torn fabric and shattered glass that was but an hour ago a beautiful flying machine was a heartbreaking sight. At the time I made the rash and rather high-minded resolve always to put the safety of the aircraft first, before thought of self-preservation. As it happened, never in the whole of my flying career did I abandon an aircraft of which I had control. On 20 February Sgt Craigie led me out to the flight line, but instead of going to the familiar Harts and Audaxes he walked over to one of the Fury aircraft, and my heart missed a beat as I feasted my eyes on what must have been the most elegant of all the biplanes ever built. And, wonder of wonders, I was now going to have the chance to fly it.
Craigie had already given me a full briefing on the aircraft’s flying characteristics and switches and instruments in the cockpit, and as I climbed in it already felt familiar to me. However, I was mindful of the vicious swing on take-off that the aircraft was reputed to have, although I guessed it had been exaggerated by my fellow students still flying Harts. What a thrilling sound the Kestrel made on start-up, with its stub exhausts spitting flames and smoke, and how responsive I found the engine to even small throttle movements. The long sleek nose impaired forward visibility a little while taxiing, but gently swinging the aircraft from side to side was made easy with the use of the new toe brakes once I had mastered them. At that time Wittering was just a large grass area with a large dip at the north end. With no runway to line up on it was necessary to pick a conspicuous mark on the far boundary to aim for. I turned into wind and chose a gap in the trees as an aiming point, and firmly moved the throttle forward. Acceleration was exhilarating, and anticipating the swing I applied gentle but firm pressure on the right rudder pedal even before the nose had time to wander from the gap ahead. With the slightest backward pressure on the stick, the Fury leapt into the air and rocketed into an impressive climb. Even though I was very inexperienced I found that I was already beginning to appreciate the fundamental characteristics that made up the performance of an aircraft. I sensed that the Fury flew as well as it looked with its light powerful controls, well harmonized to give superb manoeuvrability and a dazzling performance, making it an ideal aerobatic aircraft.
I revelled in every moment of that flight, my first in a Royal Air Force fighter; another milestone passed and ambition achieved. I returned to Wittering by reference to the plume of white smoke from the Ketton Cement Works, a landmark that we found useful in locating the airfield. I joined the circuit with reluctance, but was thrilled by the crackle that came from the exhaust stubs as I throttled back the Kestrel over the hedge, and found the approach and landing straightforward and the brakes a joy to help park the aircraft back on the Fury flight line. Envy showed on every face as I returned to the locker-room, and I couldn’t find the words to express my elation.
The Fury was designed by Sidney Camm and was said to be his favourite aircraft; with its good looks and enhanced performance it was a worthy predecessor to the Hurricane. The specification given to Hawkers was for an interceptor fighter that would dispense with the perceived need for standing patrols. It must therefore have a good turn of speed, a high rate of climb and good manoeuvrability. The Fury achieved all these in full measure, and was, in addition, a beautiful aircraft. As it went into squadron service its charisma made it the perfect vehicle for pre-war fighter boys, for it exuded the glamour that came to epitomize the lifestyle of the breed who, all too soon, were to be faced with the brutal realities of air combat. Several future ‘Aces’ and many of those who paid the ultimate price were nurtured in the Fury’s cockpit.
I found the following weeks a thrilling time, enjoying to the full the superb manoeuvrability of the Fury in aerobatics and formation flying. When I was not flying or at lectures, I started to play serious rugby again, soon being picked for the station’s team, and I was most fortunate to be selected as stand-off half to Tom Morgan at scrum-half who later was to play for Wales. He was a wonderful inspiration and without doubt helped me on the rugby field, and I began to play a reliable game and enjoyed it immensely.
As I became more familiar with the Fury I enjoyed flying it more and more. Returning from a flight one evening I became aware, perhaps for the first time, of the significance of the two .303 Vickers guns sitting on either side of the decking in front of me. It came as a rude awakening to me that the ‘fun’ flying must now give way to the real purpose of my training. I was flying a fighting machine and must treat it as such. A few days later this realization was confirmed when the senior term of our course was taken up to the Armament Training Camp at Catfoss for gunnery training. From the start I did not enjoy firing guns, and it soon became clear that I could fly much better than I could shoot. Despite my best efforts, my results in firing at an airborne sleeve towed on a 200 feet wire behind a Fairey Gordon were barely average, and just when I began to obtain better results our flight was ordered back to Wittering to make way for another squadron needing gunnery practice. But I soon realized that a good aim was going to be vital for survival in the years ahead, and so I took every opportunity to practise shooting, and eventually became a passable shot.