Extract from auto-biography. Joining the RAF

Chapter 3.
The Royal Air Force, U.K.

In the autumn of 1940 my “call-up” papers arrived. I had to report at R.A.F Uxbridge.

Uxbridge was the R.A.F. Reception Centre for all recruits - from the meanest and crudest to the “officer material”.

At Uxbridge it was made perfectly clear to us that we were all regarded by the regular staff as the lowest of the low.

We suffered the usual familiar leering attentions of the drill sergeants and corporals, and heard language hitherto unknown to my tender ears. We had the usual demeaning “medical examinations” and were kitted out in rough battle-dress and service gas masks, before being “streamed” according to our recorded abilities.

I remember the typical instruction from the quartermaster sergeant in the stores. “Them as ‘as boots wot don’t fitem and don’t wantem is to give ‘em to them as ‘asn’t wot duz”.

By the grace of God I remained at Uxbridge for only two days. I was graded as Aircraftsman Second Class (Flying Cadet), and was sent off home on leave until space would become available in the enormous aircrew training programme which, at that time, was stretched to its limits to absorb new pilot entrants.

Meanwhile I re-joined my friends at the A,R.P. Centre.

The night bombing of London was in full swing when I received a letter, complete with railway warrant and instructions to report to an I.T.W. (Initial Training Wing) at Newquay in Cornwall.

There was a tearful farewell from my mother when, using our precious petrol ration, my parents deposited me with my kit-bag at Edenbridge station to catch the evening train to Victoria, and transit to Paddington for the night Cornish Riviera Express to St.Austell.

The journey was, however, not so straightforward. London was being fire-bombed, and no trains were operating further than East Croydon, There we found ourselves dumped on the platform.

By great good fortune I found a taxi. The driver agreed to have a try to get to Paddington.

By this time there were some twenty to thirty folks from the train, and together we collected a party all wanting to get to Paddington. I think there were at least some nine or ten of us in or on that taxi as we made our way towards London.

That night was unforgettable. As we approached central London, the sounds of anti-aircraft fire interspersed with the “crump” of bombs and the ringing of fire-engine bells and ambulances increased in intensity. There seemed to be fires everywhere and little need for the shrouded head-lights of the taxi. We ran over a piece of shrapnel in a square and had to wait while our cabbie changed the punctured back wheel.

As he did so a cluster of incendiary bombs landed in the square. One of our number - an army officer - rounded us up to try and extinguish the bombs with sand-bags from a wrecked building.

We worked our way from the periphery of the square back to the taxi; and were about to extinguish the nearest bomb when the cabbie - a true Cockney - pleaded “’Arf a mo’, guv’!” “I ain’t finished yet!” ‘Ow’d yer fink I’m goin’ ter be able ter see ter change this bloody wheel?”

Full marks for spirit!

Eventually we arrived at Paddington and clambered into the train, squashed in like sardines. After what seemed like an age (we were all keen to get away from London) we all felt relief as the train slowly crawled out of the station.

The sounds of bombs and the gunfire gradually receded and, as dawn broke we

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