Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 15

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 15

Life at Thirsk was fairly humdrum. We had no guns, but our correct allocation of vehicles, which were used to perform mobility exercises. A favourite spot was Sutton bank, a famous incline very close to Thirsk. Generally speaking the 30cwt and 3 ton Bedford trucks were underpowered and, with a load, made heavy weather of the fearsome gradient. The drivers had to learn how to reverse up the hill, the reverse gear being much lower than first gear, on any vehicle. We managed to borrow a gun and Tractor, and had fun and games trying to get the combination backwards up the bank. The answer was to use the steel winch cable, which was at the front of the tractor, as a towline, attached to the gun. It would have been impossible to push the gun, backwards, round the hairpin bends. At this time, I had a week’s leave and was able to catch up on news of brother Don. He was up in the Northumberland region and according to sister Gladys, expecting to go abroad. Route marches were an easy way of keeping the troops busy and twice we went a long way up the road to Northallerton. The battery commander insisted that the NCO’s had to do a foot inspection of our men and report any abrasions and blisters to the medics. The unpleasantness of this task was in direct proportion to the age of the socks! I recall an amusing incident when we sat on a grassy bank, eating our corned beef sandwiches, when someone declaimed “Are you aware, my fellow soldiers, that this kind of meal was invented by that well known Italian gourmet, Al Fresco”
News came that we were to go off on yet another firing camp, prior to getting our guns and tractors. The destination was Penhale, in Cornwall, a desirable place in late April, but before we handed over the camp, in Thirsk, out of the blue, came a signal, ordering Sgt. Yates F. to report to the Royal Signals Lines, at Catterick camp, a t 09.30 on a date, two days after the unit was to depart for Cornwall, to attend a “WOSB” (War Office Selection Board).
There was no point in my travelling with the unit, so I was put in the charge of the incoming people, who undertook to look after me and arrange for me to get down to Penhale.
I was wakened, by my hosts, at 05.30 and prised my way, reluctantly out of bed, wishing that I could forget the whole thing and get back between the sheets! At the time of writing these notes, I do not sleep too well, but, in 1942, I did not wake too well!
I had a careful shave, had breakfast and set off with a driver and a P.U. car, to Catterick. The place was like a town, the Signals’ lines were just a district among many. The whole complex was the site of H.Q. Northern Command.
When I was called in, I found two elderly Lt. Colonels and a younger major. After a smart salute, I was invited to take my cap off and sit myself down. Then the inquisition started!
I can remember most of the questions and they went like this; - “What school did you attend?” My Grammar school probably got a so-so mark on their score sheets.
“Did your school play Rugby or Soccer”? When I answered that Rugby was hardly known in Sheffield and, in any case, my game was Tennis, I imagined that my score was on the low side of the scale.
“What does your father do?” When I told them that he had been a “Little Mester” and had ground table forks, I reckoned that my stock was now zero and I might as well tell them what they would like to hear.
“Who was the disciplinarian in your family, your father or your mother?” Even though I was not aware of anyone being a disciplinarian, I made the obvious answer, in Dad’s favour!
“Would you like to take a pretty girl to a dance”? As I quickly thought about this mind bending question, I answered enthusiastically that I would. Nothing queer about Frank!!
“Who is your favourite historical character?” I thought about Wellington or Nelson, obvious answers, but I said "Leonardo da Vinci”. They, with one voice said, “Why?” I told them, why, with impressive detail!
“What is the importance of Murmansk?” Whilst on recent leave, I had met a naval officer, Gladys’s friend Connie’s husband Dick. He had been on an Arctic convoy, so I was able to smugly tell them that it was the only White Sea port, ice free all the year round and always open to convoys. (Gold star for me)
“Where is Port Moresby?” This had been recently in the news and I was able to tell them that it was in New Guinea. After asking a few questions about my Army experience, the boss man said “Thank you sergeant.” After my smart salute, I was halfway to the door, when he said “Oh sergeant, if we were to recommend your transfer to a Commando Unit would you enjoy the change?” The sixty four dollar question! I lied and said that it could be exciting and a challenge, while thinking that, in reality, I would run a mile. A much needed cigarette and back to Thirsk, after being told that the findings of the board would be sent to my Unit in due course.
I was given a railway warrant for Perranporth and a lift to Thirsk station, with my kit bags. Now to consult my railway timetables! The ticket office at Thirsk thought that my best route was via King’s Cross and Paddington, but I explained that if I went via Bristol, I would not have to lug my bags across London. I didn’t bother to mention that the Midland route went through Sheffield!
After a night at home I was in time, next morning, for an early train to Bristol, changing, at Temple Meads, for the “Cornishman” As this was the first time that I had seen a “Castle” class engine, or indeed, anything to do with the GWR, the journey was full of interest. The guard would not let me take my two kitbags into the compartment, and put them in his guards van. He assured me that they would be labelled and would not get lost. After we had crossed the bridge at Plymouth, the line was very tortuous and, from the window, I could see, round the bends, several of the original Brunel wooden trestle bridges. The ticket collector warned me to alight at Chacewater, and when I did; my bags were missing from the guard’s van. The guard said “Oh, they’ll have been put off at Par” and told me not to worry. After a journey behind a little tank engine, winding our way between white china clay spoil heaps, the train arrived at Perranporth, where my two kit bags were waiting on the platform! It appeared that the loop line from Par goes through Newquay, Perranporth and rejoins the main line at Chacewater. To this day I am mystified as to why they didn’t send me the same way as my bags!
The porter/station master rang the camp for transport while I wandered outside, to the beach. I was astounded, a marvellous stretch of golden sand with “Torquay” palm trees, in profusion and not a soul on the beach, baking in the sunshine. There was a little café next to the station and I went in and ordered a milkshake, a fashionable drink, at the time. I eulogised to the café lady about the beauty of the place and she provided me with another milkshake, on the house!
The truck arrived to take me to the camp, a pre war chalet camp, behind the sand dunes, at Penhale Point. My first welcome was from the Troop Commander who wanted to know where I had been, in fact, he wanted to know where the b****y hell I had been! I explained that the WOSB had taken longer than expected and it would have been pointless to arrive in the middle of the night. He didn’t pursue the matter and Bert Hawkins showed me to my quarters where, once, pre war holiday makers had slept.
It was a pleasant place, the weather was brilliant, the firing practice was painless, and we felt a bit like those departed holidaymakers. One distressing incident took place, however, An ailing Beaufighter, trailing smoke, flew over our sand dunes, disappeared from sight and we heard a “crump” accompanied by a column of smoke, About ten of us crossed the dunes until we found the wreck in a field, surrounded by stone walls. The aircraft was virtually non existent, a pile of white, glowing ash, the magnesium and aluminium alloys oxidising with tremendous heat. Then we saw an astonishing sight. As we looked towards the road, from which police and RAF people were running across the next field, we saw an airman, wearing an officer’s blue uniform, a flying helmet, but bare feet, half sitting half lying, against a stone wall, shaking violently. We left it to the RAF and retreated. It was some time afterwards that I realised that I had not seen either of the aircraft’s engines. They must have finished in another field. I hope the officer survived. If he did, it would have been a remarkable escape.
I was called into the troop office and shown a signal from the War Office. The WOSB results were in four categories, A, B, C and D. The notes indicated that A and B categories could expect to be transferred to OCTU forthwith, D candidates would not be required but I was a “C” with no indication of prospects, so it looked as though I would be soldiering on as usual.

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