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I
was doing
graduate work at McGill University in Montreal. I
was on the staff of the English Dept, and got leave-of-absence to
accept a job in El Salvador to tutor the two daughters of a Canadian
woman
married to a Salvadoran. It was for three years. She was in Montreal
for the
summer of 1939 and we set sail from New York about a week after
September 5th , when Canada joined Great Britain
in declaring war. I had protested that with a war on I should stay and
join up,
but of course I was committed to fulfill my agreement.
In the summer of 1942 the British Government
set up a scheme for British subjects to sign up for service and get
passage to
England. Every Englishman in Salvador applied, but it was decreed that
they
were serving the country better where they were. In the end, I was the
only one
accepted.
Along with three
Free-French volunteers, I sailed in a coastal steamer from El Salvador
to
Panama. There we crossed the isthmus by train and waited for a British
ship. A
New Zealand freighter, loaded with mutton, came through the Panama
Canal,
picked us up and headed for Guantanamo, Cuba. There we joined a convoy
and
sailed up the coast of America to New York. After lying at anchor a
couple of
days while a convoy formed, the ship started
for England. It took two weeks, dodging
U-boats, before landing at
Liverpool. Only
in recent years have we
learned that November, 1942, saw some of the worst losses in the
Atlantic.
From
Liverpool it was on to Victory House in London, where the only WAAF
openings
were for cooks and drivers and something called Special Services. When
I asked
what that was I was hustled along. So I assumed it must be secret
indeed. It
actually included all the interesting jobs. Then it was off
to Morecombe for “square
bashing”, and to Blackpool for driver
training.
I was stationed at Honeybourne OTU, near
Evesham, during the summer
and fall of 1943. Our WAAF Officer was a New Zealand woman. I
complained
bitterly that I was fed up doing railway station runs, radar outpost
runs, and
suchlike. An Operational Training Unit was all very well, I said, but
I didn’t come all the way from Central
America, cross the Atlantic in convoy in 1942, as a British Overseas
Volunteer,
joining the RAF - not the R.C.A.F., as I should have done - not to
contribute
more actively. In fact, go where the action was. She was quick to agree
and for
much the same reasons. Not too long after, she was posted to Coningsby
and I to
Oakington.
No-one ever heard of this new 627 Squadron. All
focus was on the famous “7”. There were
three of us WAAF MT drivers: Cpl. Fran Clark (Knobby, of course),
“Willie”
Wilmot and the Canadian, Jo. In the MT hut we were regaled with stories
of the
Lancaster hero-pilots, the long and illustrious Squadron history, the
huge loss
of men when a Lanc did not return. For me, it was short runs around the
base,
and since the run to the radar site went past Caxton Gibbet, there were
girls
who refused to do it, particularly in the dark, with all the signposts
taken
down, in preparation for an invasion. By the following April we were
glad to be
on our way, convoying our vehicles to Woodhall Spa.
Once again we were the new kids on the
block, overshadowed by the
famous Dambuster squadron. The gossip centered around the top-secret,
brand-new
mission for 627; the hand-picked pilots and navigators, many with
lengthy
tours. It was a far cry from the green-as-grass young men at the OTU,
anxiously
wondering what
kind of a team they would
join
We were impressed with the sleek beauty of
the Mosquito, its
silhouette in the sky rivaling that of the Spitfire.
The fact that there was a crew of only two
created a bond between pilot and navigator, and as drivers we soon
thought of
the crews as a single unit.
They were known as: DeVigne and Lewis;
Goodman and Hickox; Peck
and Davies; Bartley and Mitchell; Topper
and Davies; Thompson and Harris; Mallender and Gaunt; Boyden and
Fenwick;
Gribbin and Griffith, who successfully ditched in a Mosquito! and many
more - cheerful, enthusiastic, often full of fun, quick to hide their
apprehensions. None of the bickering and undercurrents of resentment I
had
witnessed on other stations. In addition there were the Flight
Commanders,
Squadron Leaders Norman Mackenzie and “Rocky” Nelles. To me, a lowly
LACW, they
all seemed like beings from another planet.
Then there was Wing Commander Roy Elliott,
our Squadron CO, always
courteous, always shy and considerate, never failing to inquire after
our
well-being. There
were other Flight and
Squadron Commanders, of course, who came and went. But these men left
their
mark on this special RAF unit.
One of the first things W/C Elliott did for
us was to inform the MT
Section in no uncertain terms that these WAAF drivers were on the 627
complement and were to drive exclusively for the Squadron. The
MT Section thought they would fix us.
They assigned Knobby and me to 24-hour duty on the aircrew coach. We
were delighted. Pretty
soon we were in hot water when we had
to get replacements for lunch and supper. The coach would be gone.
“This will
never do” came down the chain of command and our rations were
transferred from
the airmen’s to the officers’ mess. What could be better!
The best food on the Base, eggs and bacon at
2, 3, or 4 in the morning when the crews were all down and safely
delivered to
de-briefing and then the Mess.
Conditions were not always safe on the
airfield. One
day when things were fairly quiet, with
no ops planned, I was returning from dispersals to Flight HQ with an
empty
coach. At a runway crossing I received a green light from the caravan
and
proceeded across. I looked to my right and here coming very fast was a
very
large aircraft. Quicker to go forward than to try to reverse that
coach, I
stepped on it. Reaching the Flight offices I soon heard about it.
The pilot, a visitor, let me know that he
had
had to lift his aircraft to avoid me
(These stupid WAAFs). I thanked him and told the group about the green
light. I
believe it was Rocky Nelles who
went straight out to the caravan and confirmed my story.
Nights could
be very dark out
on the perimeter. Headlights were shielded. You were lucky if you could
see ten
feet in front of you especially in fog. One late night when crews were
finally
in and there was a general feeling of tenseness, we started round the
perimeter. Suddenly a Mossie loomed up right in front of the coach.
Nothing to
do but swerve violently to the right onto the grass. There was a
good-sized
drop and a few large bumps. Gear came tumbling down from the racks,
shaking
everyone up. Most didn’t see the plane taxi by. It turned out to be
“one of
ours” which was reported to have landed elsewhere. My apologies to the
crews
simply didn’t hold water because sitting up front with me was Gerry my
husband-to-be.
I would like to say a word about Knobby and
Willy. Fran ( Knobby)
came straight off a farm in Norfolk, unshakable and full of wry
remarks. She
came to our wedding in Scunthorpe
and
brought an almost unheard-of wartime treat—a dozen fresh eggs. Gerry’s
mother,
a superb cook, had visions of special Sunday morning omelets. I shall
not
forget her face when she found the eggs were all hard-cooked. “It was
the only
way I could carry them safely,” said Fran. We all had a good laugh. She
never
changed and was a wonderful friend.
Willy had a remarkable history. She had been
a switchboard operator
at, as I recall, Biggin Hill. When the station was under a heavy
bombing attack
she, with others, remained at her post. When she was finally rescued
she
learned that an air-raid on London, at the same time, had taken the
lives of
her parents, leaving her the sole support of a teenage sister and a
young
brother. Her sister was injured
and
traumatized. Willy went through a lot of medical treatment and was
finally told
the best thing she could do was to go back into active duty, but she
must work
outside. Willy richly deserved the BEM conferred upon her. I am sorry
we are
unable to get in touch because she really knew all the latest gen about
627 and Woodhall.
While we were still at Oakington I had a
run-in with the famous
Station Commander, “the fierce Group Captain” of Benny Goodman’s story. Our
WAAF CO was none other than Squadron
Officer Daphne Pearson, known throughout the WAAF as the first of only
two WAAF
recipients of the George Medal. One day the luck of the draw had me
delivering
empty bomb boxes to a storage area. Here I was tossing them off the
back of a
flatbed to a couple of unwilling “erks”. Along came our CO with a group
of
imposing women, "bags of scrambled
eggs”
on their caps. “This is what I mean, Ma’am. Under-use of over-qualified
personnel,” said Miss Pearson. I
was
soon ordered to report to her. She was determined that I become an
instructor
on the celestial navigation trainer, of all things. It must have been her
secret desire. She gave me books to brush up on my maths.
Then an order came and she accompanied me
before the Station CO, “I am putting you in for a commission in
Administration.” “Sir,
not for the
instructor?” “No,
the position
is closed at this time.” “You
mean, Sir, I shall be telling WAAFs
their hair is too long, their lisle stockings are inside out (they
looked so
much better that way, we thought), and they are half-an-hour late
coming in to
camp?” Explosion! I thought to myself, there are so many charming young
women
who do that sort of thing beautifully—and who also don’t care to drive,
but all
I said was, “ I really would rather stay where I am.” Apoplectic
explosion. Only my Canada
“flashes” saved me. (These
Colonials!)
As we went out, I was full of apologies but Miss Pearson cut
me short with, “Good for you. I wish I
were still a corporal on my old station. I really felt I was being
useful.” The
orders to proceed to
Woodhall Spa came shortly after.
When we look back at the heroism, the
courage and determination, the
resourcefulness and the high jinks of the aircrews, and a similar
courage,
determination and resourcefulness from the ground crews who kept our
heroes
flying, our WAAF lives at Woodhall Spa seem very tame indeed. But it
was a time
of sharing, of “we’re all in this together,” of putting up with living
conditions that belonged in Canadian Frontier days. Never for a moment
did the
thought cross my mind that the war would not be decisively won. And I
really
thought that the wish I had back at Honeybourne
had come true.
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