Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 3

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 3

During that winter of snow and frost, I had time to get used to my companions. It will be realised that the influx of eighteen year old Sheffielders very much improved the morale of the unit, which, with some exceptions, had more than its fair share of rogues and rascals! I, several times, witnessed the Battery commander sending some one or two of them to the “glasshouse”, usually for absence without leave.
I was fairly soon requested, by Sgt. Green, to read his correspondence, discovering that he was almost illiterate. This was a new experience for me. I, during the next few years, wrote letters for many soldiers, thinking illiteracy was rare, which I suppose that, in the U.K., it was. I had a rude awakening, in 1945, when I could not find, in a camp of 3000 Russians, anyone who could read and write sensibly! The good sergeant handed me a letter, on the subject of maintenance, for some “ex”, requiring an answer to the Lincs County Council. I looked at it and said “It’s not for you, Sarge, the name’s different ”’ He closed the door and told me that it was, in fact, for him, the name on the letter being his true name! After wrestling with this bombshell, I asked for an explanation, finding out that he had deserted from the Army, in WW1 and assumed a new name, to avoid capture. Subsequently he rejoined under his new identity, using his real name for civilian purposes. He will now be long dead, but I often wonder how he ever sorted out this tangled web!
Buster did not come with me to Scampton, staying at Battery H.Q. at the Old Barracks, in Lincoln. He had been singled out, his public school was in the battery’s catchment area, and his confidence, inherited from “Ting”, had, of course, no bearing on his early promotion to Lance Bombardier!
One of the members of the troop, in his mid twenties and called Rhodes, hailing from Rotherham, was a frequent evening visitor to my little sanctum. He was a motor engineer, and had done a university course. I cannot remember how such an intelligent chap had managed to get himself in this unit, although I suppose he told me, at the time, had a “Wolsely Hornet” open top sports car, with a twenty gallon petrol tin, under sacks, in the back seat. When we had the opportunity, we would speed down the, dead straight Ermine St. to Lincoln for a night out. Nowadays, Ermine St. has a large kink at Scampton to accommodate the new longer runways, needed for Lancasters, later in the war. Lincoln was bursting, every night, being the centre of a large group of airfields, including Scampton, Hemswell, Digby and Waddington, plus many others and pubs and cinemas were always full.
“Dusty” Rhodes fascinated me, talking of his experiences for hours, and describing the working of the Wilson, epicyclic, automatic gearbox, using lots of my office stationery for the diagrams of “Sun and Planet” gears.
An event happened, during that hard winter, which became a nine days wonder, with me at the middle of it. I retired to my bed in my office, about 10 o’clock, having stoked up the stove, put a drop of navy rum in my mug, got my book, laid my packet of cigarettes, on the floor, by the bed, and settled down for the night. The stove stood on a concrete base with a raised edge, fitting into the corner, and surrounded .by two large sheets of asbestos cement.
Later in the night, I woke up in a smoke filled room, choking and fighting for breath. I crawled out of the door and could see flames, rising high above my window, and then the fire engine bell announced the arrival of the RAF fire tender which put out the fire very quickly. The heat had cracked and broken the asbestos surroundings. Later, next morning, two civilian officials came to investigate the source of the fire and suggested that I had probably started it by throwing a burning cigarette end into the hearth, which had dropped between the asbestos and the wooden wall. This I denied, pointing out that the asbestos had been cracked, before the fire and that the heat from the stove had, because of the crack, ignited the wood. I told them that I was not in the habit of throwing lighted tab- ends about. Eventually, they departed, with sceptical looks on their faces. Later in the day a Clerk of Works bricklayer arrived, bricked up the wall behind the stove, and they replaced the asbestos.
Next day the C.O. arrived and ordered me to write a report on the incident. I advanced the story about the cracked asbestos and added, gratuitously, that perhaps a stove should never have been built, a mere 3 inches from a wooden wall, even though “protected” by asbestos sheets. I interspersed the report with a smattering of long words, using “conflagration”, instead of “fire”, and “combustion” instead of “burning”. A few days after the report, part two Battery Orders announced that I was thereby promoted to Lance Bombardier and I never heard any more about the fire.
I tell this story, just as it happened, and leave you to make your own conclusions, but I took the precaution of getting a large tin lid, for an ashtray, so that the there was no chance of a lighted tab end, as had been suggested by the experts, ever starting a fire!
Sometimes, I would wander out to the gun sites, having a look at the Hampden bombers, being loaded with sea mines, this being the height of the “Phoney war”, The Hampden was a slow, flimsy, bomber and not liked by the aircrews, but the big, four engined, bombers had not yet arrived on the scene.
During the early spring, we heard about the pathetic attempt by the government, to invade Norway, in order to prevent the Germans from annexing the country. Large amounts of war material were landed by the Royal Navy, together with thousands of ill prepared troops. The enemy was well prepared, having already started to infiltrate the coast line, and having Norwegian collaborators in strategic positions. A first class cock-up followed, with the navy, unable, despite great efforts, to supply the troops, was required to evacuate them from the ports not yet in German hands. All the war material, desperately needed, at home, was destroyed or thrown into the sea! The Nation began to appreciate the realities of a war against an efficient and ruthless enemy and the feeling that we hadn’t a clue!
Then the devastating news arrived, the world’s biggest and proudest battleship, the “Hood” had been sunk, in a matter of minutes, taking with her, all but three of her crew. This, following on the Norwegian fiasco, depressed us all. Churchill was recalled to the Admiralty, and although the Hood was avenged by the sinking of the Bismarck, we wondered when the next bad news would arrive?
For some reason, our troop was moved, from the relative comfort, of the pre war, ivy clad Scampton, to the new Nissen hutted, muddy camp at Hemswell, further up the arrow-straight Ermine Street at Caenby Corner. This was a move we could have done without and which depressed us even further.
My good fairy came to the rescue; a signal arrived from Battery, ordering Lance Bombardier Yates to report to Battery HQ at Lincoln, forthwith. So, with my kitbag, I arrived at the Old Barracks, (Now an agricultural museum), to be reunited with Buster Bell, and to be told, by the Battery captain, that we had been selected, to go on a course to become acquainted with the Bofors gun predictor. This was interesting, as we had never even seen a Bofors gun, never mind a predictor!
So began another chapter in my army progress, another step into the unknown!

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