Ted Gordon's Life in the RAF -Part 6: Chapters 18 to 20

Ted Gordon's Life in the RAF -Part 6: Chapters 18 to 20

By Actiondesk Sheffield

People in story: Ted Gordon, F/O Hooper – Navigation, F/O Red Evans – Flying Control and Radar, Warrant Officer Nicklin, Group Captain Groves, Mrs. Barbara Standeven, Tony Brooke
Location of story: RAF Valley, North Wales
Background to story: Royal Air Force

CHAPTER 18
PUT OUT TO GRASS
This for fliers must be split into categories; the post operational fliers, the instructors who did no operations and those newly qualified awaiting postings. In my case, I can only remark on the first category.
Being put out to grass was a situation difficult to deal with, for the experiences you had encountered come rarely in anyone’s lifetime. The physical and psychological aspects were a shock to the system. The strain of night flying was foreign, the expectation of the unexpected was always around and this was foreign. To say you always lived on your nerves on operations is a masterly understatement. This was the cause and the effects were variable, dependent upon the individual and this was where the difficulties started.
To escape the torment, which affected your nervous system, took time, for time is always the necessary healer. Medication helped to achieve stability but unfortunately the average general practitioner did not really understand the problems.
The only ones who did were the medical officers who had served on Bomber Squadrons, or had similar positions with other branches of the Armed Forces e.g. S.O.E. Commandoes, Paratroopers and such like.
The ability to concentrate, academically, was the hardest part and from this you had to find some escapism. For me having discovered that I had the knack of getting on with the young lads helped and having been the Air Training Corps Liaison Officer at the Conversion Unit at Sandtoft, I was able to pursue this at RAF Valley, North Wales. This aspect for me was the road back to normality.
In all honesty, the Air Training Corps cadets were great and throughout this time rarely gave trouble. Their eagerness to learn about flying in all its aspects showed no bounds; my colleagues who helped me willingly, F/O Hooper – Navigation, F/O Red Evans – Flying Control and Radar, in particular.
Red Evans, I recollect, was lucky for his work on Radar with the ILS system which was the only one operational at the time, made him a pioneer in his field and later on, after demobilisation, he went to Heathrow.
The worst case of this inability to come to terms with the post operational syndrome was a Warrant Officer Pilot. He was just a “scruff”, always in trouble with his Squadron Leader, a non-flier in charge of Flying Control. One day this Squadron Leader came to me for help for we were due on Commanding Officers’ Inspections and everyone had to wear their respective decorations.
On investigation this Warrant Officer Nicklin, I determined had the Distinguished Flying Cross and Distinguished Flying Medal, along with others. We managed to get all his ribbons together, had them sewn to his uniform and ready for the parade.
The AOC spoke to him during the ceremony, much to the disgust of the Squadron Leader, for he never knew of these awards. Was his face red when he saw them! After all he was a penguin who never really understood fliers, only tolerated them.
Poaching was his hobby; for he was a Lincolnshire man, and he taught me how to catch ducks with no trouble at all – a delightful meal.
During this period, I was able to undertake courses on odes, Ciphers, Fire Fighting and Flying Control, when not dealing with the Air Training Corps.
The latter course, Flying Control, said you had to fly at night to know about airfield layouts; this provoked yelps of laughter, for we were mostly operational fliers.
On this course we had the only flier I ever met who had the Air Force Cross, which he won as a Flying Instructor in Canada. Apparently he was awarded this for landing two Ansons, which had crashed on top of one another in mid air. The Canadian and American press reported the story, the moguls of Hollywood rewarded him in their usual way by giving him the biggest party he ever had. All the stars of the day were on the photographs he showed us, including Betty Grable, Shirley Temple, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Jayne Russell, Don Amichie, Spencer Tracey, to mention just a few.
Apart from your officer’s duties, other jobs came along and for me being in charge of fifty German POWs was one. Here I was fortunate for the senior prisoner was a Sergeant and a former Instructor at the German Military College for Army Officers (Berlin).
They were mostly older men and old enough to be my father. They were ably led and only too willing to do any job they were allocated. I had no trouble with them and one became batman to Hoppy Hooper and myself. He was great, particularly when we gave him a place of his own, with all the necessary facilities.
Strangely enough, being a flier did not seem to bother them, for they realised we were all in the same boat and it was not of our making.
Language was no barrier, for the Sergeant spoke good English and I was thankful for that. Rank was observed and a room of his own allocated and this he appreciated.
RAF VALLEY
At this station we had a flying controller called Flight Lieutenant Sony Albertine a former Battle of Britain pilot and to all intents and purposes his physical presence would be called normal until one evening whilst sitting in the bar, playing records of the time, the tune “Stardust” dropped onto the table. Everything appeared normal until suddenly tears streamed from one eye and it was only then the story unfolded that Sony had lost one eye on a dog fight, needless to say this record was accidentally broken on purpose.
Group Captain Groves, Station Commander had a lady car diver, Mrs. Barbara Standeven, a widow whose husband an Army Major had been killed in action.
She was not a W.A.A.F. but a member of F.A.N.Y. an elite group of drivers for Senior Officers, she was a wealthy woman being a member of the Standeven family of Halifax, Yorks she of the largest mill owners of the time. An occasion arose when I had to go to the Air Ministry in London and I accidentally met Barbara, who along with a group of friends took me to a Ball at the Grovenor House Hotel in aid of the “Westminster Boys Fund” and lo and behold I won a prize in the raffle a 3lb box of Black Magic, something we had not seen for years. This I gave to Barbara, in return for her kindness of inviting me. After the ball we adjourned to her flat in Park Lane and here I saw a picture of her mother-in-law and this proved fortuitous for some years later at the Royal Hotel in Scarborough I found myself seated at the same table and having revealed this fact to her we had an enjoyable holiday. It’s a small world.
Another guest was Tony Brooke of the Brooke Bond Tea Company a navigator who Barbara later married.
Whilst in essence I have said the A.T.C. boys were very good, the only incident of note occurred here. A case of “boys will be boys” that from their point of view went wrong.
Early one morning the telephone by the side of my bed rang. The station police reporting a disturbance, so I put my greatcoat over my pyjamas, I jumped into my jeep to investigate. Quietly and unobtrusively, I saw the boys having a ding-dong of a pillow fight and the corporal in charge was getting a good old bashing. Noting it was becoming boisterous I quietly opened the door, only to get covered in water. A bucket had been lodged at the top of the door. Within seconds you could have heard a pin drop, a few choice words and everything was normal.
They were left wondering and worrying what the next day had in store. The station police were told to forget all about it, which they did. The corporal came to me and apologised and a sigh of relief was all that remained, after all they were all on holiday at the Annual Camp.
Another joke we played occurred with the “Rapide”. We were flying down “Red Wharf Bay” a beautiful beach, when one of the cadets spotted a tent in which his sister and boyfriend were enhanced. We flew low right over the top of it and suddenly two people in bathing costumes hurried out, not quite knowing what was going on. I only got to know this some time later when I met the cadet and his sister in Bangor.
The cadet got a rollicking from his parents but his sister was a good sport and we all had a good laugh.
Customs Officer was another little job, for by this time the station was now Transport Command and categorised as an emergency field for aircraft in trouble. With 364 flying days per year this was a natural solution.
Fortunately I was only called out twice, once to a Dakota of Aer Lingus and secondly and American Liberator from the Azores.
The busiest day I recall was the day we helped send Fortresses of the 8th US Airforce on their way to Newfoundland and thence to America. Every dispersal was full, as were parts of the perimeter track. F/O Hoppy Hooper and Ned Evans did a magnificent job, with three Fortresses on the long runway at one time.
In all we must have had around one hundred aircraft and I am sure the people of Holyhead and the surrounding villages must have wondered what was going on.
During this period the only accident occurred early one morning. Due to wind the sand had built up to form a hump near the shore on the short runway. A Liberator came in, hit the hump, broke its back and finished up in two parts. Nobody was particularly hurt, only shook up and the only job I had to do was check for fire and fuel leaks, internally that all fuel switches were off and advise the Air Ministry that the airfield was unserviceable for use.
Another day of note was the first Open Day to the public. We gathered together as many aircraft as we could to thank them for their support and they came in their hundreds and the ATC cadets gave us their valuable support, as they do today.
Much of what is in this section happened towards the end of the World War II, until the time of demobilisation but what happened when you wanted to be a flier and eventually succeeded.
Once again you were left in a situation similar to finishing operational flying, the only basic difference being time had healed many of the wounds you had incurred; the basic difference being what do you do with the many who had been through six and a half years, lost all experience of youth and incurred more knowledge than the average man does in a lifetime.
This was the last problem you faced on being a flier. What did you do? You did the best with what you had and proceeded to carve a new life for yourself. Some went back to University; others back to worn out industry. Part of the tragedy of these men was that there were no suitable jobs to use the vast experience they had gained. What a waste!
CHAPTER 19
NO WEEPING NOW - J R WALSH 1976
I went back to the lonely wolds, the fens and the empty sky, I saw the tall gaunt elms, heard the calling rooks,
Now time has passed me by.
Grass has grown on the runways, in the hangars stood rusty ploughs,
The dispersal points were empty, just starlings and grazing cows,
The Watch Office stood deserted,
Or maybe the ghosts of men,
Stood and watched as I walked, remembering,
For I said I would come back again.
The Windsock stood in tatters, forlorn in the cold damp air,
Then I thought “what does it matter”, there is nobody here to care,
The crew huts were but ruins, rotting timbers and sagging floors,
Not a voice to break the silence, just the wind and the creaking door,
Then I recalled these once were billets,
Full of life and the noise of men,
With the crackling roar of Merlins,
Or the whispering scratch of a pen.
So I stood quite still to listen, was there a message there for me?
In shadows would they remember, had they left me a sign to see?
If they had it was too elusive, made dim by he veil of years,
And I recalled all the purpose and courage,
Till my eyes were blurred by the tears.
I turned away downhearted for this was not the field I had known,
Not the brave home of my memories, fool I was for the years had flown.
CHAPTER 20
POSTSCRIPT
I wrote this story purely for something to do, not just personal satisfaction or anything like that. Surprisingly, fifty years on, it came back so easily, one thought triggered another memory and so on.
The disappointment for me today is that subsequent generations have had so much, the nuclear deterrent has seen to that and they do not recognise their luck. They are avaricious, insolent and lack understanding and good manners and I wonder, in view of this, whether all my fellow fliers paid a price that was ever worthwhile.
The only consolation was, it was “war” and we did not start it.
The areas of Lincolnshire where we were stationed during this period had their faces altered from cornfields to a mass of airfields, attached to villages, which had hitherto only been specks on a map.
The village churches took on a new meaning and for many a sad one, for its attendant churchyards. Today there is hardly a churchyard, which does not hold the remains of a flier, some, many fliers of different nationalities and in these churches tattered old flags, a reminder of the squadrons who served nearby.
In this respect Lincoln Cathedral, a rallying point for gaining height on operational nights, has a greater significance, for within its walls is the “Aircrew Chapel” and a book of all the aircrew who perished in these fateful days.
A page is turned every day - “A tribute to the fallen”.
Other fliers could write a story similar to this, with often graver and more disastrous results, not only for themselves and their families, so in many respects I suppose we do count our blessings and are thankful to the many people who did their best for us and in return we hope after flying was done we did the same for the fliers who followed us.
“PER ADRUA AD ASTRA”