National Service
My Country Needed Me (Really !! ): Part One
A whimsical look at his National Service.
by Alan Davidson.
Once upon a time the government announced that they had great need of young, strong, handsome men to help out the Regular forces. I knew they meant me of course, so I duly registered at the local Labour Exchange. The clerk there asked me which branch of His Majesty's armed forces I would favour with two years of my life, and when I said RAF he quipped " I suppose you want to be a pilot?". I told him I would love to be a pilot, but I did
not think that many of them wore glasses as I did.
They would not take my word for it that I was a perfect specimen of manhood and insisted that I have a medical. So, the day after my 18th birthday I turned up for that ceremony at the Medical Board in Newcastle. Here I was poked, prodded, made to jump up and down off a chair, but they finally had to admit that I was right. Later they confessed and gave me a card to prove it.
The registration number of this card was---GFN22431. Was this some secret code? Had they classified me already as ;--Good For Nothing ???
Three months later (now I know how Julius Caesar felt about the Ides of March) came that well known envelope marked O.H.M.S. Inside was a lovely letter asking if I would help them out. How could I resist? My country needed me. So I went.
With it was a warrant for rail travel, and instructions for getting to Padgate, in Lancashire, for our Basic Training (posh name for square bashing ). And so I eventually arrived at those well known gates (not the Pearly ones, RAF Padgate), along with a few lads I had met on the train.
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Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
My Country Needed Me : Part Two
We passed through the gates, entering a new and strange world where every one except us shouted, at us of course. The shouting seemed to be mandatory and it went on all the time.
I can remember my first meal in the RAF,---pickled gherkins,which looked to me like a big fat caterpillar, floating in
grease.
Next day we were kitted out, and that seemed to provoke the loudest shouting of all. The kitting out took place in a large wooden hut which was lined with tables, before which we trembled in file(the RAF has lots of large wooden huts for all sorts of purposes). The Staff behind those tables gave us a quick glance and decided what size we were. That did not make much difference to the size they gave us, but eventually we had a full set,
including a "hussaf"(short for housewife), a little bag containing needles and thread and blue wool. Surely they did not expect us to do our own mending? Yes, they did.
We spent some time marking our kit with our service number, and it was stamped on everything, especially our minds. No serviceman will ever forget his number.
They did not let us out of camp for three weeks because, they said, in that charming way they had, we were not fit to be seen in public until we could dress properly, and walk as if we knew how.
We learned to march, (easy for me as I had learned in the Church Lads' Brigade), drill, salute the right people, say Sir when appropriate, or Sergeant or Corporal when we had learned the difference. That did seem to be important to them, so we humoured them.
My brilliant career, and my life, almost came to an abrupt end in the fourth week of training. We wore webbing belts with bayonets attached most of the time, but were not allowed to wear bayonets at meal times (did they think we might attack the cooks?). Running down the path between the billets (wooden huts in which we lived), one lad realised that he was still wearing his bayonet, so he stopped, very suddenly. I ran into him and
the lad behind ran into me. Unfortunately the lad I hit was the anchor for the station tug of war team and weighed about sixteen stone. As I weighed about ten stone wet through I just bounced off him and was knocked down by the lad behind me. When we got up we were both bleeding , him from his thumb, me from my neck.
(he had been carrying knife fork spoon and a china mug which probably broke on me). I had a cut about two inches from my jugular vein, which I believe is quite important.
So off we went to the M.I.Room (a sort of surgery). Sadly the M.O. (a sort of doctor) had gone to lunch, so we went for ours. The bleeding did not impair our appetites. Then after lunch I watched fascinated while the M.O. stitched up his bleeding thumb. I'd never seen this done before and was suddenly stricken with terror as I realised that he was going to to this to me. I sat on a chair with wooden arms, and I'm sure I left my fingerprints on the arms as he put three stitches in me. He apologised for not giving any anaesthetic, which he said would hurt more than he would. I was more concerned when he sprinkled the wound, and most of my uniform, with Sulphanilamide
(a war-time discovery, very anti-septic). He then gave the coup de grace by sticking elastoplast from my chin round on to my hair. Can you imagine what it was like getting that off after a week? Hair -raising to say the least.
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My Country Needed Me: Part Three
Talking of hair, there were hair-cuts. These were not a form of hygiene but a form of discipline and punishment. Whenever you committed a misdemeanour, however small, it was "get your hair cut". A favourite trick of D.I.'s (drill instructors) was to stand behind you and whisper in your ear "am I hurting you? I should be, I'm standing on your hair, Get it cut."
There was one lad in my billet who seemed to have forgotten that washing is sometimes necessary. After a while we noticed his strange custom, and it was changed by a few lads who washed him; in a bath; in cold water, with a broom. He soon changed his routine.
The assault course was another delight they had for us. It was a series of obstacles designed to strike terror into the hearts of raw recruits, and it worked. It was exhausting as well as frightening. We had to carry rifles and wear tin hats. The first obstacle was the favourite (of instructors) two tree trunks over a pool of water. The safest way to cross these logs was to run, if you walked you fell in. Then came a large ramp, about ten feet high, with a sudden drop on the other side. This is where the tin hats came off. Few lads finished the course
wearing the same hat that they had started with. Other delights were; tunnels to crawl through, steel ladders placed horizontally about ten feet above a large pit.(I came to grief on that one), a rope ladder attached to a large wooden structure like a goal post. One lad, six feet tall and fat as a pipe cleaner, while climbing the rope ladder, froze halfway up, and could go neither up nor down. His hands had to be prised off the rope before he could be helped to terra firma(much less terra when you are on the firma). But near the end of our six weeks square bashing we ran round the assault course twice in one lesson, just for fun. It had lost it's terror, and we were
much fitter by then.
Rifle drill was something new for all of us. Did you know that a Lee Enfield 303 Rifle weighs only ten pounds (real
pounds, none of this metric stuff)? There was always one clever dick who could lift it up by the muzzle(that's the end where the bullets come out). To me it felt more like ten stone. Another experience was to fire the wretched things, not the ones we drilled with, they were old and not safe to fire.
Off we went to the butts, a wooden two tiered structure you had to lie down on to fire. Picture the scene;-ten lads on the bottom tier, ten on top, all wriggling about trying to get comfortable to fire this young cannon.
The dust fell down on me and my rifle, and instead of a smooth action it became very gritty. And, count carefully along and make sure of your target. I was number five, and when we had blasted away our ten rounds we all went up to the targets and examined them. Imagine my horror when I realised that mine had not one hole in it. Number six was delighted, his had twenty holes in it, what a score!!!
The Parade Ground seemed to be sacred, and woe betide any one who walked upon it outside of parades. Ceremonial Guards were a necessity, for which honour we had to compete.
Eventually came our "Pass out " parade, when we showed off our new found skills to some high ranking Officer. Of course, until that day we were the worst Flight that any instructor had had to bear with (telling us that was supposed to inspire, or frighten, us to do better, and it probably did both).
Then we had to decide what our future in the Service would be, what trade would we learn. A list appeared showing which trades were trained and where. Lots of lads chose a trade that was trained near their home, but as nothing was trained any where near mine, I asked to be a Wireless/Teleprinter Operator, or in RAF terminology a Wop/Tele Op. When asked why I had chosen that trade I said that I MIGHT sign on, but only AFTER I had done my two years National Service (and I hadn't even kissed the Blarney Stone then !! )
Do you remember lads that first leave? How we showed off our new uniforms? What handsome dashing figures we cut. Didn't we? During that leave they sent me another of those nice letters, asking if I would mind going to Compton Bassett (I wondered where that was) to become a Wop/Tp/ op.
So began that long journey to Wiltshire (that was down south somewhere, wasn't it? ). Train from Newcastle to Bristol, only 8 hours. Then to Chippenham and Calne. The last train had carriages with wooden seats length wise, like a tram-car, and candle brackets on the walls. It stopped at what looked like a wooden bus-shelter called Black Dog Halt, and waited for a man who had walked across the fields to meet the train, at about half past five. What service. Come back British rail, all is forgiven.
Then by taxi (actually they called it a three ton lorry) to the camp at Compton Bassett, my home for the next nine months. That was on a Wednesday, and by Saturday I was on guard duty. They gave us a bicycle built for a man nine feet tall, and told us to guard the camp, which we had not seen in daylight.
My training lasted through a bitter winter, it was so cold we burned anything we could lay hands on, in one of those cast iron stoves. Late one night my pal Ken fed this stove so enthusiastically that he tipped it over, and it rested on the concrete surround (white-washed of course). The chimney, not having the stove to support it, fell down at the foot of my bed. I did not waken, (my wife is never surprised at that.)
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Part Five
My Country Needed Me: Part Four
We had weekly progress tests, and they gave us little chits to record our success, or failure. Did I mention that the RAF has chits for every purpose. We were taught touch typing on old manual typewriters with steel covers over the keys so we were typing blind. Three weeks was all we were allowed to gain the required speed,
which was fifty words per minute. The essential speed for sending and receiving morse was 18,(Words per minute, a word being 5 characters) to pass as AC2, 20 for AC1, and 22 for LAC. We were also taught procedures for signalling, and a lot of technical stuff, about how the radios worked and that sort of
thing.
One almost "end of career" incident occurred. We went on field training, which meant taking a portable radio set (
portable if you have a three ton lorry to carry it) out to the airfield at Yatesbury, where a howling gale was b lowing. This was the airfield from where they flew Gloster Meteors, one of the earliest jet fighters, it could fly at 600 mph, which was much faster than anything else at that time First we had to erect a bell tent. This was easy I thought, I had erected many of those in the CLB.. First you lay out the canvas, pop in four tent pegs, pop the pole in and stand it up. The wind had other ideas and began to pull out the pegs. The Corporal in charge put his foot against one peg and said "knock it in further". I did try, honest, but instead of the peg I clouted his foot ! He was
wearing wellies! I thought that this was the end of a promising career, but he contented himself by running quickly through his extensive repertoire of naughty words. It was most educational. By the time we had the radio set up we were soaking wet, and I sat down on a little stool, got the radio going and signalled back to camp that we were operational. As I sat there the water was trickling down into my boots. When we got back to camp we were allowed one hour off duty to dry out and change.
There was very little entertainment on camp, so we made our own. One idea was burial at sea. We persuaded one lad to take the star part, so he lay down on a wooden form, we covered him with a sheet and carried him shoulder high with great solemnity down the billet. Then, unrehearsed and unknown to him, we opened a window, rested the end of the form of the window sill and, yes we did, we tipped the form up and he slid silently out into the
cold dark wet night, in his pyjamas. We quickly closed the window and tried something else. A few minutes later he came in the door, soaking wet and not too pleased with us, and we found that he had learnt a few of the Corporals naughty words.
Another home made entertainment, for dry week-ends, was the assault course. This had long been abandoned, and was overgrown with grass and weeds. There was a tree stretched across a small ravine, and we crossed it, sitting astride and clinging tightly. But one lad in civvy street was a Ballet Dancer, yes a genuine ballet dancer. He was a nervous lad, somewhat effeminate, but very fit, and he just walked across, perfectly balanced. You
should have seen him trying to make ballerinas out of us. Of course we were heavier than most ballerinas, and he had some difficulty lifting us over his head, so we used the bed springs to help us get there. After his national service he returned to his ballet dancing and had a successful career in Edinburgh.
This was the lad who, early in the course while listening to morse code through earphones (at only about 4 words per minute) suddenly threw his head-set on the desk and burst into tears. We thought that this was not the done thing, but the instructor was not at all surprised, and just told him to go for a walk and come back when he felt better. This instructor came to me and said "where did you learn morse code"? I was very surprised, and he would not tell me how he knew, but he was right, I had learned in the C.L.B.
It was here in Compton Bassett that I had my "moments of glory", and discovered how frightening they could be. There was a large NAAFI building, complete with delicious goodies on which we spent most of our pay, and a stage. This had curtains, usually closed, and behind them was a piano. I discovered that I could sneak behind the curtains and play away on the piano and nobody would take any notice. Or so I thought. One evening I was
playing away, quite alone, when a voice above me said "Ah, you can play in the concert." I was shocked, was this God speaking directly to Me?. No, it was just a corporal fixing the stage lights. I grabbed my music and was off like a shot, I wasn't going to play in public! But my friend Ken, bless his cotton socks, told the corporal who I was, and I was "persuaded" to play. One other chap would play, but he was quite keen. Fortunately he was the same size as I was. Fortunately because there was only one evening suit, so we both wore it (at different times of course). I was first on, and when I walked on in full evening dress, bow tie, white shirt, claw hammer coat, there were cries of " what's this the Ritz" and so on.
All I could see was a huge rectangle of dazzling lights, and when I sat down to play I was shaking. I played
three short pieces that I could play from memory; Poem by Fibich; Etude by Chopin; A sprig of Lilac by A.N.Other; and when I stopped between each piece my hands were shaking. When I had finished there was a ghastly silence, and I thought "how am I going to get off this stage with some dignity?". But it was only a few seconds and the applause rang out (thunderous? Not quite). I bowed quickly and left the stage. The corporal was very
pleased "they liked it , play some more". But I was already taking off that suit, ready for the other chap to wear. That was my second public performance, the first had been at school. I still don't like playing in public.
At the end of this fascinating period of training I duly "passed out" as Aircraftsman 1st class (much superior to AC2) and my pay went up from 7 shillings per day to 14. (that's about 70 pence in new money).
That magnificent sum was paid 7 days per week, out of which I had to send 7 shillings home to Mam, and pay for "barrack damages". Damage the barracks? ME? of course not.
Then I was posted to Bushy Park, the grounds of Hampton Court Palace, and the Headquarters of Transport Command. We had little cards like library tickets which, if they were in the box in the Guard room meant we were in camp. If they were not in the box we were out. As signals bods worked twenty four hours each day we had two cards, one for normal hours and one for other times. But, silly me had both cards out at the same time, so I was
AWOL. When my sin was discovered I was made to clean out the store room where all the paper from the signals was kept, and of course, get a haircut. At Bushy I worked on the telly/op part of my training, that is on teleprinters (they were later called telex machines). The Russians kept me busy by blockading Berlin. The airlift started, and for every aircraft that flew into Berlin a signal was sent, in code, detailing it's cargo, so we had lots and lots of signals.
There were American airmen at Bushy, and when they came on watch they arrived in great big cars. But when those tough, not so well paid, British airmen came on watch we arrived either on foot or by bicycle (we did not need cars !!! ). There was not such signals traffic between us and the Yanks, but one day they sent a particularly long signal, and not having the same confidence that we had then sent s little signal saying "did you get that long signal OK?. Of course our reply was---"what signal"?
I remember with some satisfaction, a morning when we were all sleeping soundly ,the door burst open, and an over-zealous corporal gave that awful war-cry "wakey wakey". He was quietly told that this was a signals billet and he apologised and withdrew. I can't remember any other perks we had.
By this time we had become quite domesticated, you might even say house-proud, because we had learned to polish everything; our buttons (not like these modern softies who have lacquered buttons); the floor of our billet. Yes we did, we polished the lino on the floor. We had pieces of felt, about a foot square, and we walked around the billet on these, developing a shuffling sort of walking. And woe betide anybody who forgot;- "don't forget the polisher" was the agitated cry. We had even learned to iron our shirts and press our uniforms, though probably not
in a method approved by Mams. And, I could even darn socks, and oh boy did they need it. The shirts had separate collars, which came back from the laundry starched and curled up in a tight circle about three inches in diameter, so they had to be opened up before we could put them on.
While at Bushy it became clear that my expert services were needed elsewhere. We were asked were we willing to serve overseas. Willing, I could hardly wait to get there, anywhere. So I said yes, my pal Ken , who was then at Abingdon, said no. So, he went to Fontainebleu in France and spent most of his time there arranging entertainment for the troops(he was a great amateur actor), while I went to Changi in Singapore.
When you leave one RAF station for another you have to get your clearance chit (I did tell you that they had chits for everything ?) signed by every section, just to make sure you don't owe anything. On presenting ourselves at Sick quarters the clerk there led us to a table covered with forms, and began picking up quite a few. Naturally we asked why, and he just grinned and said that each form represented a jab that we were about to get. So we were inoculated against practically everything, except those nasty social diseases we had had warning, frightening films about. I was well protected against small pox, cholera, typhoid, yellow fever to name but a few. The yellow fever was the worst- a syringe like a stirrup pump, the vaccine put in frozen; it hurt, and I had to go up to London
to get it!
On embarkation leave I visited my former office and the girls knew that NYLONS could be bought out there, so I sent a few pairs of 15 denier nylon stockings home (and they paid me when I returned).
So I arrived at Southampton, to board a troopship. Yes, a troopship, I thought the RAF flew everywhere, the indignity of it all. There were only 50 or so Airmen, all the rest were the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders on their way to Korea. The ship was called the Empire Trooper, and had been a German Liner, captured early in the war by the cruiser H.M.S.Belfast (now a museum on the Thames). It had been refitted as a troopship on the Tyne, used during the war and had been shelled by a German warship. As troopships went she was fairly comfortable,
three tier bunks to sleep in, and a dining room. The air conditioning had outlets everywhere and you could smell when the bread was being made.
The first time we went for a meal we were given a disc, say round and green. Next meal time we exchanged that disc for one of a different shape and colour, to prevent us having two meals. After a while, when delicate stomachs had asserted themselves, the colours of the discs became very mixed, as meals were missed. My brother, who had been in the Royal Navy had warned me that I must eat even if I did not feel like it. It was difficult to remember his words while sitting in the dining room, unable to bear the sight of food, and looking through the
porthole, seeing first sea, then sky, then sea, endlessly. But we survived. There was a sort of café on the ship where we bought a mug of tea for a penny,(real pennies, not this metric stuff) and a packet of biscuits by Carr's of Carlisle for another penny. As soon as you picked up your mug a voice would say "will you get one for me?" and you ended up carrying four mugs. It was okay going up with empty mugs but tricky coming down when each hand held two mugs of steaming hot tea..
Fresh water was only available twice per day, one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening. There was endless supplies of salt water, and we were issued with salt water soap! This did not work very well in salt water, but it was very good in fresh water. I'm not sure whether it was this soap or the salt water, but it narf made your hair curl.
So off across the Bay of Biscay, smooth as a mill pond, those tales of rough seas were exaggerated.
Past Gibraltar through the Med to Port Said, where we changed our blue uniforms for tropical kit, a light sandy colour. The ship had run out of Carr's biscuits and bought Egyptian ones, which were awful, made out of sand , and they have plenty of that out there. We were allowed ashore for a few hours, where we could buy anything. Every street urchin seemed to have a sister for sale, temporarily of course. We had been warned never to buy water melons anywhere but in the NAAFI, because they said, once cut off it's stalk a water melon when placed in water would absorb that water, whatever state it was in.
The ship gave a lift to two Arabs by hoisting their little boat on to the Davits. We all watched fascinated while they
smoked their hubble bubble pipe (tchibouk I think it was called). Down the Suez canal and out into the Red Sea. It was so hot there that we were allowed to sleep on the open deck. I woke up one morning to find that I was covered in spots, there wasn't room for even one more spot. In no time I was surrounded by a group of lads(at a respectful distance) who were all afraid that I had some dreadful tropical disease (the same thoughts were in my mind). But I was relieved to here them saying, oh so have I, and it soon became apparent that nearly everybody was affected. The MO said, if that's all that is wrong don't bother me, I can't do anything about it. It was just the heat which caused it, and the spots disappeared quite quickly, to every one's relief.
The distant land looked barren, uninhabited and faintly pink, which could explain why they called it the Red Sea. Next stop was Aden at the bottom of the Red Sea, but we did not get ashore here, not that there was anything to go ashore for, why anyone would fight over that desolate place, as the Yemeni tribesmen did, I do not know, though I suppose it was Home to somebody.
Then on into the Indian Ocean, where the fun started. The waves do not break in this Ocean, but that did not stop them coming right over the top deck of the ship. I sat near the bows and watched the moon sliding up and down the mast, no stabilisers on that old ship.
We called at Trincomalee in Ceylon (now called Sri Lanka ), and were allowed ashore for a few hours in the evening. This caused some fun, the soldiers had to have their sleeves rolled up, but the Airmen
had to have theirs rolled down (must stick to regulations no matter how hot it was.). We dashed up to the NAAFI, and spent all our money on cold drinks (there were no cold drinks on board).
In a brightly lit street, with all the shops open, there was a man sleeping rough in a doorway, and the biggest spider I have ever seen just walking about the street. It had a body as big as my fist, and legs at every corner. We granted it the respect it deserved. And so on to Singapore. While the ship was moving at sea there was a slight breeze, but as soon as it stopped in the harbour at Singapore the heat bore down on us very oppressively. They told us that in this heat our blood would thin down in three weeks, and take three months at home to get back to
normal. There was a band there to greet us, and we could see the sweat running down the base drummers face. He was wearing uniform, a tiger skin, and carrying a huge drum.
A lovely coach was there to take us to Changi, about 14 miles away, and en route we had to cross the runway, and all ducked as we saw a Dakota thundering down the runway at us.
And so began my short stay in Changi. There was a shortage of Wireless operators, so we worked 7 days per week, a different shift each day. I enjoyed the work very much, communicating with other operators all over the place;- Butterworth up in Malaya, Kuala Lumpur (KL), Iwakuni in Japan, Ceylon (well we had to get the football results somehow), and even once to Australia. We worked in morse code, in code and plain language, but morse is a little out of date now, it is so out of date that my computer's spell checker does not recognise the word. At Butterworth they had dodgy electricity, and often had to use a little generator for their transmitter. This was low powered so we had to turn the volume on our receiver up. Then without warning they would revert to mains electricity, the power was suddenly much greater and nearly blew our heads off.
We sent signals in code and plain language. When we were on night duty we would start at midnight with perhaps a pile of signals to send, but there would be quiet spells and these were hard to bear. But just to make sure we did not fall asleep we had to communicate with the distant stations every 15 minutes. This made sure that the channels were always open, and the operators had not gone to sleep.
I sent a plain language message one day saying that a Sunderland flying boat had crashed while taking off from
Seletar. The next day I sent a signal saying that the pilot had had both his legs amputated. This was quite upsetting.
Another time I was put on the distress frequency. A squadron of Spitfires had set off for Hong Kong and they had lost their skipper on the way. I had to listen, turning the receiver dials this way and that, hoping to catch his Mayday call. Aircraft radios were not so reliable in those days and it was quite stressful, knowing that if I missed his call it could lead to his death. He was never found.
When we were on night shift, midnight till eight am, we had a break at three, and enjoyed a trip upstairs to the canteen where a very sleepy Chinaman sold us a fried egg sandwich and a pint of orange juice.
There was a lad there with us, we called him Yank, because he talked and walked like a Yank. He was English but had been evacuated to America at the beginning of the war. He was a trained wop/telly/op, but one day when there was little work to do, the Corporal in charge saw that he was bashing away on his morse key. On enquiring, what are you doing (or words to that effect) Yank said "I'm just practising, but it's ok I've turned the dial". The dial was on his Receiver, and he had not affected the transmitter at all. So he was transmitting his practice to the whole of the far east. His practice was extracts from the book For ever Amber, the spiciest book around at that time.
Another little incident I quite enjoyed concerned a flight sergeant. He had recently come from England where he had not done any operating for some time, he said he had been keeping pigs for his C.O.
He wanted to try his hand again, so I signed off in the log (I was not going to take the blame for any of his possible mistakes). After a while a Q signal came through. Q signals were for operators only, groups of 3 letters meaning operating messages. QRS meant send slower, QRQ meant send faster. But the Q signal which arrived while this flight sergeant was operating meant "put a competent operator on". He did not know what this meant, so I had to tell him as tactfully as I could. Thankfully he accepted that he was no longer competent, and signed off.
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Part Five
My Country Needed Me: Part Five
There were electrical storms very often, and they were not welcomed by Wireless operators, they created too much noise in our head-phones. The cables to those phones were the old fashioned braided kind which absorbed some of the damp atmosphere (Singapore is a very humid place ) and if we had made ourselves comfy, ready to send a long signal (perhaps 500 words long) the cable would perhaps be resting against our cheek, and as soon as we touched the morse key we would get an electrical shock.
Not serious, just enough to make us jump, and interrupt our transmission. I learned to swim out there, where the water is always warm, and very buoyant, but not too healthy. Some of my friends offered to teach me. They told me to jump in the deep end, and promised to teach me how to swim once I was in the water. This method I believe originated in Japan, but I did not fancy this Kamakasi method, so I declined their generous offer. But one quiet lad said that he could teach me in about a foot of water, and he did. I wasn't very good, I could not manage the breast stroke, seeming to breath when my mouth was under water instead of on top. But I developed a satisfactory side stroke, which kept me afloat for the rest of my stay in Changi.
When I returned to England I went to the Shipcote Baths, to show off my sun-tan and my ability to swim and dive. This was a mistake! My friend Ernie Johnson went with me, he dived in first and pronounced it lovely. So in I dived. The water was FREEZING compared to the water in Changi. I came out rather quickly, and have never been back. I should have remembered that I hate cold water. Another happy occasion I vaguely remember was to take a bus trip to Seletar, about 30 miles away. The bus was an old Chevvy, driven by a native Singaporean, obviously a direct descendant of Ben Hur. He hurtled along at what seemed suicidal speed, remembering that the jungle came down right to the edge of the road. His method of negotiating a village was simply to sound his horn all the way through it, and chickens and people ran for cover.
There was some kind of fair on at Seletar, but I can not remember much about th at. But the return journey, in the dark, was even more scary.
One lad, a fellow wop/telly op, got on Fairly well oiled and carrying a pint glass full of beer, yes a glass not a bottle, and my concern was that he would spill it all over me. But he didn't and had drunk most of it by the time we got back to Changi. I picked up a germ from the water in Changi (the swimming pool, or pagar, was simply part of the sea fenced off) and this caused a fungus to grow on my ear-drum and made me deaf. A deaf wireless operator is not a lot of use, so I spent a week in hospital, being pumped full of penicillin. We were paid extra for being over seas, one Singapore dollar per day, that was two shillings and four pence. When jankers (punishments) were being dished out the sentence was doubled because we were on active service. It dawned on some bright lad
that we should have some of the perks of being on active service. So we were issued with a tin of 50 cigarettes each. As I did not smoke I was suddenly very popular.
There was a chance to go on leave to Penang, a few hundred miles away, but to go there I had to draw a rifle and fifty rounds of ammunition, just in case the train was attacked by communists. This was a regular occurrence and as the train took more than one day to get there you had to sleep, with the bolt of your rifle clutched in your hand as this was the part the thieves wanted most of all. I did not think this was much of a holiday so I did not go. We played football, in the evening as it was too hot even for mad dogs and Englishmen to play in the mid-day sun, against a local team who played in their bare feet.
There was a big parade for Battle of Britain day, September 17th, and it started at 5 a.m., because by 7 it was too hot for parades. Dawn did not creep gently over the window-sill, it leapt up into instant bright day-light, hurtful to our sleep laden eyes. The sun came up at the same time every day, started instantly hot, and just got hotter as the day progressed. There was a native village at Changi, but we were not allowed to stray off the main street, but spent many a happy hour in Tong Sing's restaurant, when we had any money left. Thursdays were pay-days, once per fortnight, and it seemed strange to be paid for two weeks work with one bank note, for 45 dollars (£5.5.0d). this did not seem quite right as I earned sixteen shillings and four pence per day, which should have amounted to £11 plus, less of course those infamous barrack damages. Or did I pay income tax?. I did not worry about tax in those days.
But we went straight down to Tong Sing's and had steak egg and chips followed by pear berry fantasy. This was simply tinned pears, ice cream smothered in a purple sort of juice which in England we called monkey's blood. But we could walk on the beach, and sometimes the local Ladies of the night would be there, and as we passed (and we always did pass, remembering those awful films) they would shine a torch on themselves, what a sales technique ! The notorious prison at Changi was outside the camp and village and I never saw inside it. Nowadays it is a tourist attraction, as well as a prison, but then the war was too recent (this was 1949) to let any one inside just to have a look.
During the war British prisoners were forced to build the airstrip, and of course they sabotaged it, so it needed repairing. There were Chinese women working on the airstrip, carrying a yoke with a basket on each end, filled with stone or rubble. They looked as old as my grandmother. Other Chinese women sewed for us, shortening our shorts, which when issued came down to our knees, but nobody left them that way, so "Sew-Sew" made some money altering them for us. We employed a Bearer, and paid him two shillings and sixpence per fortnight to clean our room and make our beds (well you did not expect us to do that ourselves did you ?). He was Indian, black as night and wore t-shirt and shorts, no shoes. But after he had swept the dusty floor he stood on the bed with nice clean sheets to fasten the mosquito net. He was I think Hindu, and went mad if we stood on an insect, it was the spirit of his ancestors.
We had four uniforms, and wore one each day, then they were washed by the local Chinese laundry. Can you imagine washing shirts, shorts and undies for 1500 men every day. After washing they were starched, and left the seam inside very rough, causing some problems in the most delicate of places.
One incident I will never forget. Wilf and I were alone in our room when we heard a kitten crying. It had been locked in another room, but when Wilf called to it puss puss, it ran at him and sank it's teeth into his outstretched hand. Muttering naughty pussy, or something like that, he walked to the door and threw the kitten into the darkness. After he had gone on watch at midnight I was alone in my bed, just below the window, which was just an opening, no glass in it. I was wakened by the howling of a cat, and there on the window-sill, silhouetted against the moonlight was the biggest cat you ever saw It was forty feet long, twenty feet wide, with claws everywhere, honest ! I thought it was the kitten's Mam come for revenge, and lay terrified, I had not put down my Mosquito net and was wearing only shorts, and vivid pictures flashed through my mind of my tender flesh being torn apart by this monster. But it left me alone. I never liked cats. We left on the first of December to come home, on the good ship Devonshire, which had been built as a troopship and was not nearly so comfortable as the Empire Trooper. Christmas day was spent on board, and we had extra good meals, served by RAF officers, whom we had not previously seen on board.
There was a stop at Port Sudan in East Africa. Ashore we found that it was not a nice place at all, where the beggars maimed their babies so they would have more appeal as beggars as they grew, what ambition. The red light district (I don't mean the street lights) we were told was nearly as big as the town. While in port here we saw two men walking along the quayside, they looked like father and son. I think they were "fuzzy wuzzies" because of their thick mop of curly hair. They wore only a European shirt and each carried a spear. No one laughed at them. Back up the Suez canal to Port Said, where we changed back into Blue uniforms, the wind off the Med was very cold. We called at Valetta in Malta, but were not allowed ashore.
There we listened to a little radio, which was playing Grieg's piano concerto no 1. I used to like it, but it does not sound the same when the ship's telegraphist is blasting out signals in morse code at the same time. The Devonshire had only hammocks to sleep in, and we had started off in Singapore sleeping in them in shorts. By the time we arrived at Liverpool we were sleeping on the deck wearing everything we could. The beautiful blue Med was anything but, and there was a violent storm. The ship (remember no stabilisers) rolled and pitched it's way through the storm, the screws thrashing the surface of the water at times. But we arrived at Liverpool safely, it took several hours to disembark, 1500 men walking in single file down the gang-plank, through customs to the waiting trains. We docked at two in the afternoon and I did not get off until eight in the evening, standing waiting impatiently on the open deck all that time. We became hungry, and one lad found a little room down below where
someone had prepared packets of sandwiches, and we helped ourselves. Well they were for us weren't they? They had just forgotten to tell us. R.A.F. sandwiches are a meal in themselves, just two slices of bread with about a month's ration of corned beef between them, and a slab of fruit cake. Very satisfying. Off we went to Kirkham in Lancashire, where we were "demobbed" during the night. We were x-rayed at four o'clock in the morning! I had to pay £6 for my uniform to come home in, the only civvies I had were shark-skin shirt and shorts, hardly suitable for England in December. So I arrived home at twenty minutes to midnight on New year's Eve, no longer required. My country could manage without me at last. Or so I thought. A few months later came another letter, they had realised
that really they could not manage without me and would I mind helping them again. Of course not, so I went as requested for another fortnight. New uniforms were issued, and I went to Patrington, near Hull. The camp was on that little promontory of land sticking out near the river Humber, beyond the light-house, in tents. That was where we lived, we worked on the mainland, and were driven each day in a lorry along the single track road. The driver had obviously driven that road many times before, and new every bump and pot-hole. It was bad enough in the day-light being driven at high speed, wondering when he would tip the lorry over or put it in a ditch, but in the dark it was quite scary. By that time I was courting and spent most of my free time writing to my girl-friend. But a fortnight isn't long, and my National Service came to an end.
The motto of the Royal Air Force is ----Per Ardua Ad Astra,
--through hardships to the stars.
had a little of that ardua, but I never quite reached those stars.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
National Service Memories
1948 - 1950. 3118070. L.A.C.Keen P.R.
November 1948 letter arrived informing that I was to join the Royal Air Force and to report to RAF Padgate, Near Warrington. Enclosed was a travel warrant and a postal order for 4 shillings, my first day's pay.
I spent a week there getting kitted out and doing an induction course. We were measured and given three numbers then taken to the clothing store where we shouted out our three numbers and our shoe size whereupon we received 2 uniforms, an overcoat, 2 pairs of boots, miscellaneous shirts, underclothes etc, a forage cap and beret and haversack, webbing plus a kit bag to put it all in. At the end of the week we could march and were all dressed in uniform, our civilian clothes having been parcelled up and sent home.
We were taken to the railway station and put on a train to West Kirkby on the Wirral. When we arrived all our kit was put on lorries then we formed up to march the 3 miles to the camp. Nearing the camp we were met by the Band who played as we marched the last 200 yards through the gates.
RAF West Kirkby, set on the top of a hill in an isolated position, was a cold cheerless place especially as it was winter. Here we spent 8 weeks doing our Basic Training. We lived in wooden huts heated by two cast iron stoves, which could only be lit, after we finished work for the day. A metal sprung bed with 3 square 'biscuits' small straw filled mattresses, 4 blankets, a cylindrical pillow with case and 2 sheets was provided for our comfort. Each morning the bed had to be stripped and the bedding made into a neat bundle, across the bed a clean towel was laid out and on this you arranged your mug, knife, fork and spoon together with you shaving kit. All this was lined up with all the other beds on your side of the hut. Woe betide the poor soul whose kit was dirty or out of line.
The days were filled with foot drill, rifle drill, lectures, P.T., route marches, assault courses and of course the endless'Bull'. This consisted of polishing and cleaning everything in your kit or in the hut. Hours were spent polishing your boots to a mirror like finish. Every day inspections were made and every fault brought down the wrath of the Corporal, the Sergeant or God forbid, the Flight Sergeant.
After 8 weeks we were considered good enough to present ourselves for Passing Out. The Passing Out Parade was held in front of the C.O. who decided whether our Flight was of the required standard and we went through a routine of drill manoeuvres both with and without our rifles. We passed the test and the relief was unbelievable We had taken a number of aptitude tests and had been interviewed regarding the trade for which we would be best suitable to train. I chose to train as an armourer.
RAF Kirkham. I spent 10 happy weeks learning all about guns, bombs, fuses and explosives. How to use them, look after them and repair them. Everything from a pistol to a 4000 lb bomb. We could now go out of camp when not on duty. This was great because Blackpool was only a few miles away! The Salvation Army ran a canteen on the camp where we could get good cheap meals and relax in nice surroundings. When the course was completed and we had passed all the tests two of us were told to go to RAF Coningsby in Lincolnshire.
RAF Coningsby was an operational station with 3 squadrons of D H Mosquitoes. They were the Pathfinders for No.1 Group Bomber Command. After a couple of weeks we were tested again and as a result I was promoted to Leading Aircraftman (LAC). I was sent to work in the Bomb Dump at the far side of the airfield. It was here that all the bombs, ammunition, fuses and explosives were stored. Our main job was to prepare the bombs that the planes were going to drop that day or night. We put the fuses in and put the tails on before they were taken up to the dispersal sites to be loaded onto the aircraft We mainly used 250 lb Target Indicators which didn’t contain High Explosive but Chemicals which burnt in various colours to illuminate the targets for the real bombers. None of our aircraft were fitted with any guns and the only guns we had on the camp were revolvers, rifles and sten guns. These were only used for Guard Duty and on Ceremonial Parades so we didn’t spend much time dealing with these.
My time at Coningsby was very happy especially as later because of a shortage of N.C.Os. I was put in charge of the Bomb Dump with an acting rank.
In 1949 there was a National Dock Strike and the Services were called in to help out in the emergency. We were sent to London to work on the Royal Group of Docks in the East End. We were housed in an empty aircraft hangar at RAF Hornchurch and we were taken by lorry into the docks every day. The Navy operated the cranes whilst the Army and the RAF did the unloading of the cargo. It took a bit of getting used to but in time we became very efficient and even, to the horror of the dockers, broke the record for the unloading of cargo. At night and at weekends we had to be careful, only going out in civilian clothes, as we were not very popular with the local dockers!
Another time I spent at Clevedon in Somerset acting as a decoy party for a bombing exercise. The target was Bristol Power Station. We were supposed to confuse things by lighting up an area similar to the Power Station. The pilots then had to decide which was the real target and which was the decoy.
Our squadron of Mosquitoes was sent out to Egypt for a period and we had to go with them as ground crew. I spent about three months at RAF Shallufah, near the Suez Canal. It was a great experience but a bit dodgy as it was at the time when there was trouble with King Farouk. All vehicles, leaving camp, had to carry an armed guard and me being an armourer, and knowing about guns, was quite often given the job of riding shotgun on a van or lorry.
Eventually in 1950 it came near to the time for me to be demobbed. Many anxious weeks were spent waiting for my demob number to come up. At last it did and I said farewell to RAF Hemswell, where I was now stationed, and set off for RAF Wharton to be demobbed.
I left with a uniform, shirt, tie, underclothes, a pair of boots and many happy memories. I do not regret the time I spent in the RAF doing my National Service.