Dad's war in the RAF

This a collection of anecdotes from my dad over a period of my lifetime up to his passing away. He rarely spoke about the war unless I'd got a couple of brandies down him.

My dad was born in 1920, left school at 12, and at 16 was working at Shorts Brothers in Rochester, Kent. He was an instrument technician, making instruments for Sunderland flying boats so was in a reserved occupation when war was declared. He tried to join the RAF but was rejected due to his job. He didn't want to miss out on doing his bit, so picked a fight with his foreman and got the sack.

He went labouring on a building site and signed up for the RAF in a hall behind the Earl Grey pub in Eltham, which is now a McDonald's restaurant. He had to wait six months and joined in February 1942, six days before his 21st birthday. He did his basic training at Blackpool. I think it was Squires Gate in an old holiday camp and he absolutely hated it and never went to Blackpool for the rest of his life!

I'd taken him to North Weald air show in the mid-80s and you could pay £1 each to go in the B17 Sally B. Anyway, we went towards the fuselage door and I said, "We can go in, dad," he turned as white as a sheet and walked off. Me being 20 I thought "miserable bugger" as I thought it would be a nice treat. Anyway, many years later I found out that he was ground crew on a squadron of B17s that the RAF was trialling before the Americans entered the war. He was the first ground crew to open the fuselage door and go in after it had been on a raid and both the waist gunners had had their heads blown off.

He never rated the B17 and he was always talking about fighting the yanks in pubs as he thoroughly enjoyed it especially being a boxer. He could never get his head around segregation that the black Americans suffered and they always helped them fighting the white Americans. One of their favourite ways to start a fight was to find a yank with a local girl and cut their ties off with scissors. It always made him chuckle.

His first overseas posting was to the Gold Coast (West Africa) and to RAF Takoradi. This was basically a massive base with a runway surrounded by jungle. Aircraft were shipped over in crates - they used to build them and then they were flown up to North Africa and they used to go in a Dakota to service them etc. before they were issued to frontline squadrons. They were asked to look at a Kitty Hawk as the oxygen wasn't working. Apparently, the oxygen cylinders were in a compartment behind the cockpit. So anyway dad and his mate went to investigate and found a bag of gold Krugerrands which promptly went into their tool bag. He said they had a brilliant time (wherever they were) as they normally had a few days before flying back. He said they discovered that South Africans were smuggling gold and were always checking but I don't think they found anymore.

For some reason they were in a POW camp run by the Australians and they were guarding Italians who basically were living in holes in the ground. An Italian officer kept complaining about the conditions they were living in and the Aussie said he was fed up with him winging as he hadn't stopped. So he said, "I'll sort the bugger out," and threw a grenade in the hole. Dad said they were shocked and got out of the camp.

On the many flights back to Takoradi, they used to take crates of empty beer bottles with them and when they saw a column of vehicles they used to "bomb" them with the empties as they whistled, so sounded like bombs. Whoever was on the ground would dive out and shake their fists at them. Again this always made him chuckle and he said he didn't want to kill anyone.

They worked six days a week and had Sundays off. There wasn't much to do so it normally involved drinking lots of beer and smoking local weed. Another pastime was to sign some rifles out, get a crate of beer and hire a local with a canoe to go crocodile hunting, it sounded like they just got pissed and I'm not sure if they ever got one.

They had a major problem with locals getting through the wire and stealing whatever they could find. As the camp was so big it could never be effectively patrolled so specially trained Alsatians were sent over who didn't bark or growl. So on the evening the dogs were let loose everyone sat down with a beer and he said you should have heard the noise and the stealing stopped.

He came back to the UK and was posted to 514 squadron in Waterbeach, Cambridge. The story gets a bit blurred here as we believe he was selected for aircrew on Lancasters but he would never talk about it. He was old school and used to wash and shave at the kitchen sink when I was young and he had a big scar down his back about 10 inches long and 2 inches wide. He always said he did it shaving. My mum said he had regular nightmares right up until he died and would wake up in a muck sweat.

There was an incident where a bomb fell out of a Lancaster while it was being bombed up and exploded. He was having a cup of tea with his mate in Nissan hut when the windows blew in and on going outside found a glove which still had a hand in it.

Another time they were working on a Lanc when two Italian POWs walked past on the road with two English girls. Apparently, the Italians were not deemed a threat like the Germans and were allowed out without a guard. One of them said something in Italian to dad and his mate, then burst out laughing. His mate jumped down and beat them up. When he came back, he said that the Italian said that while we're fighting and could get killed, we're shagging your women.

Airdromes are massive places and easy to get in and out off without being seen, so they could always sneak down the local pub. So late one night they had arranged with the local farmers that they would meet them on a farm and they were to bring empty drums etc. So they had parked a petrol bowser near the edge of the airdrome and drove it out to the farm, filled the farmer's drums but left some petrol in the tanker. When they got back they slightly opened the drain valve and whoever was first to it next day thought nothing of it as petrol evaporates. So all the time they were there the farmer's daughter used to meet them before the pub and give them some money so effectively they never brought a drink for the remainder of that posting. I was in the Territorial Army and managed to wrangle a visit with him as the Royal Engineers had taken it over during the 1990s. We had a lovely day and the pub was still there but I can't remember the name and had a beer for old times' sake.

After the war finished they flew over a lot of the German cities that had been bombed and he said he felt sickened at the devastation. He finished the war in India and came home in 1946.

After the war he worked in Dartford paper mills and was waiting for a bus home went a bloke went past and said, "Hello Bern, not seen you for years." Dad didn't recognise him as he was so skinny. I can't remember his name but he had been captured at Singapore and had worked on the Thai Burma railway. Anyway, dad got him a job but after a couple of hours at work each day he would just leave and go down the pub. Dad said he was seriously troubled but one day he fell down the stairs at home drunk and broke his neck.

Anyway, dad was a right character and was the life and soul of the party. He would always sing 'South of the Border' after a few beers much to my mum's embarrassment. He died in 2011 on May 8 at the ripe age of 91. Brilliant dad and much missed.

One last thing: he said it was the best and worst time of his life, but would never have missed it.