The Iron Road

THE IRON ROAD

WILLIAM GILMOUR

William Gilmour was born in 1922 in the hill foot village of Alva in Clackmannanshire. When he was five he moved with his parents to Dunfermline where his father found work in a shipbreaker’s yard. He left school at fourteen and started work as a locomotive engine cleaner at Shore Road depot in Stirling at the outbreak of World War II. Apart from five years’ service in the RAF as a wireless operator/airgunner, he spent his entire working life on the footplate of both steam and diesel locomotives. This is his story.

THE IRON ROAD

WILLIAM GILMOUR

THE IRON ROAD An Autobiography by William Gilmour

ŠWilliam Gilmour 2009 Published in the UK by Gilmour Books 9 Castle Street, Hereford HR1 2NL All images are copyright and may not be reproduced without the permission of the copyright holder.

The paintings and drawings are the work of the author.

Photographs are from the author’s private collection.

Design and typesetting by Wilma Gilmour Myself on Hay Bluff, 2007

Edited by Malcolm James and Wilma Gilmour Printed by PIP Printing, Hereford

Front cover: Watercolour, Glenfarg in Snow

Following his early retirement in 1982 at the age of 60 the author took up motorcycling and hill walking. In 1999 he cycled from the Great Wall of China to Tiananmen Square on a Mencap charity bike ride when he was awarded a yellow T-shirt by his fellow riders. He moved in 2005 from Dunfermline to live in Hereford where he cycles and paints and is working on a sequel to this book.

July 2009

Back cover: Photograph of William walking in Scar Woods, Brobury, Hereford, 2009

THE IRON ROAD An Autobiography by William Gilmour

ŠWilliam Gilmour 2009 Published in the UK by Gilmour Books 9 Castle Street, Hereford HR1 2NL All images are copyright and may not be reproduced without the permission of the copyright holder.

The paintings and drawings are the work of the author.

Photographs are from the author’s private collection.

Design and typesetting by Wilma Gilmour Edited by Malcolm James and Wilma Gilmour Printed by PIP Printing, Hereford

Front cover: Watercolour, Glenfarg in Snow

A MEMOIR

BY WILLIAM GILMOUR of Dunfermline

Last Days of Steam: Myself (right) and fireman George Walsh in front of an LNER J34 goods train

Preface About the only thing my parents had in common was a love of writing.

My father spent many hours hunched at a corner table in our little sitting room, writing reams of bad romantic fiction. His drive to write was unshaken by the repeated rejection slips from publishers and my mother’s wry comments. She, on the other hand, was a woman with a real flair for language which she displayed in her conversation. Unlike my father, she had discriminating literary taste and devoted much of her time to reading, with Dickens her particular favourite. Miss Scott, my elementary school teacher, returning marked compositions to her class in 1934 announced, “Willie Gilmour is streets ahead of everybody else in English.” So, it is perhaps due to these three influences that after 87 years, when my main creative activities have been painting, sketching and model making, I at last publish my first book.

I’m working on my second, “The Road’s Beyond Retiral” William Gilmour February 2009

CONTENTS Part One:

Early Life in Scotland

Part Two:

Royal Air Force

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Part Three: The Far East

Part Four: Back Home to Life

on the Railways

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139

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Glenfarg in Snow, Watercolour

page

Front cover

Last Days of Steam: Myself (right) and fireman George Walsh

My mother, Katherine, with me at about 18 months old My father John

Blairlogie Village Square

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My mother Katherine with two sisters, Louise and Jean My mother, Katherine

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My maternal grandfather, William Christie RAF Raw Recruits

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My maternal grandmother, Anne Lowrie

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Halifax Bombers (watercolour)

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Koko and Kylo, Jymna Sui near Kunming Calcutta 1946

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The Great Wall of China (pen and ink)

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Fooling around with Sgt Rainers , USAAF, Kunming

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Dunfermline Abbey (pencil sketch 1957)

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‘Attacking a Snowdrift’ (oil painting 2008)

Dunfermline Railway Station (pen and wash) Firing a steam engine (watercolour)

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‘Smoke and Steam’ (oil painting 2008)

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Family camping holiday: Myself with Roy, John and Wilma My first wife, Elizabeth with Wilma, Roy and John Roy, John and Wilma, Loch Leven Camping at Fort William 1962

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My Aunt Louise and Uncle Jimmy McGregor

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Chris, my second wife Myself

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Forth Road Bridge (watercolour) My mother with my son, Glen

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Deserted mining village, Kingseat (watercolour) Dunfermline Locomotive Shed (pen and ink) Heather and Glen

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A4 Pacific Streamliner crossing Forth Bridge (pen and wash) Showing my model train to Coca Cola representative Model train made from coca cola cans

‘Black Power’ engine shed (pen and wash) Myself on Hay Bluff, 2007

Myself, Scar Woods, Hereford 2009

334 340 340

348 367

Back Cover

Part One: Early Life in Scotland Childhood in Dunfermline I was born on the 13th February 1922, a first child for Katherine and John Gilmour. There isn’t much I can say about very early childhood apart from the usual trauma of first day at school and finding myself among a roomful of strangers. This was in the late twenties during the depression when most families were struggling to make ends meet. We lived in Dunfermline, Fife in a little ‘butt and ben’ with gas lighting and no running water. My father received twenty-eight shillings a week to feed and clothe four of us as well as to pay the rent. Cooking was done on a coal fire, and a communal toilet and washplace was shared with six other families. A boiled egg on a roll was a Friday treat when he got his dole money.

During my primary school years I went through a miserable phase of being bullied before learning to retaliate. I remember my father and

mother taking me to the pictures to see Eddie Cantor in Whoopee on my eighth birthday. My mother named our kitten after the film.

1930 was a bad year for me as I remember. A baby sister arrived and I felt overlooked by my parents. Then my father was badly burned in the local shipbuilding yard. He was braced against a bulkhead using an acetylene torch when a workmate cut through the bulkhead. He spent over a month in hospital but there was little or no compensation in those days so it was mashed potatoes and turnip, bread and jam or porridge for the foreseeable future.

Then my world collapsed one evening when I came home to find my father crying with my baby sister on his knee. ‘Your mother’s run off with another man!’ For the next few days I went around in a daze thinking I would never see my mother again. The neighbours were sympathetic and brought bowls of soup and boiled rice but my father was not able to put his arm around me or to offer comfort. Perhaps he was too wrapped up in his own misery. I woke up one morning a couple of weeks later to find my mother back in the fold but my childlike trust had gone by then.

My next vivid recollection is of being twelve years old and getting ready for my first day at Queen Anne secondary school. It was the last day I would be walking out from our hovel as we were moving to a brand new three room council flat with electric light and our own bathroom. It was a great novelty at first but the new housing estate was on the other side of town and I missed my school chums and the woods where we played.

My father finally got another job in an Admiralty munitions depot and I earned five shillings a week delivering morning and evening newspapers between school hours. In spite of our new house and the extra money coming in I sensed that things still weren’t right between

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my parents. Occasionally I would arrive home to find an unfamiliar man in the house when my father was at work. I regarded this as none of my business but my resentment must have showed as the visitor usually took his leave when I appeared.

Bakery boy Although I gained first prize for general excellence at school I had no choice but to leave at the age of fourteen in 1936. Only the wealthy could afford to send their offspring to college in the thirties. I started reading the job ads. The wording was usually the same. ‘Wanted. Strong willing lad to work as. . . .’ etc. I landed a job as a bakery errand boy in a large co-operative society with a salary of six shillings a week. The job entailed an unwelcome early rise at five a.m. but there was the incentive that if I remained a loyal and diligent worker for a couple of years I might be considered for apprentice baker with better earnings. I must have measured up to these requirements as eighteen months later my boss, the dispatcher, announced that I was to start in the bakery as a junior apprentice. I was unaware that I was replacing a lad who had just been sacked for dropping a tray of fruit tarts, and that drudgery lay ahead of me. From six in the morning till two thirty there was not a moment of respite apart from a twenty minute meal break at ten.

From the first day I learned that, apart from the balancing skill of a trapeze artist, all that was required of me was blind obedience. I had to be ready to respond to everyone’s beck and call, especially to the head confectioner Pete Howeson when he gave two sharp whistles through his teeth. This was the signal for me and the other young apprentice to dash over to his table for orders which usually entailed carrying boards of pies and cakes down a staircase to the dispatch.

The bakery supplied a dozen shops as well as vans selling their wares around the town and outlying districts, and our task seemed endless.

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My mother, Katherine, with me at about 18 months old 12

On awkward, narrow, winding stairs we balanced a board containing two hundred and forty pies on our head whilst carrying a smaller tray of sixty pies supported by our other hand and pressed against our midriff. We kept this up hour after hour. To drop the odd one or two pies meant a tongue-lashing from the gaffer but to drop a full tray was an unforgivable act of negligence resulting in instant dismissal.

As the morning dragged on a mountain of trays and metal cake tins began to accumulate at our table. These had to be scraped, cleaned and greased ready for the next day. Another mountain of trays and urns caked with dough awaited us downstairs in the bread bakery and the official two thirty finish time, despite our combined frantic efforts, usually turned to three before we discarded our flour sack aprons and went out into the fresh air.

Within six months I had had as many new workmates, the others having been sacked for dropping trays. With my improved balancing skills I could probably have rivalled Blondin’s feat of crossing Niagara Falls but this didn’t gain me any advantage as I was later to find out.

Jimmy Dick, the managing director of the Co-op, was a spitting image for Dickens’s Scrooge both in looks and attitude. Short and wizened, his sinister, soft-hatted figure struck fear and guilt into everyone in his path. Even arrogant Bob the head baker would grovel in his presence.

Every pie, cake or scone was accounted for, so no one dared eat one of the products no matter how mouth-watering. One afternoon towards the end of our shift, I was scraping the stairs while my current mate was carrying a tray of raspberry tarts down to the dispatch. He slipped on the bar of soap I was using and landed in a heap at the foot of the stairway. He was on his knees desperately gathering up the scattered tarts when Jimmy Dick and the head baker appeared from nowhere.

The look of horror and disbelief on Jimmy’s face quickly changed to indignation and anger. He stood over the luckless culprit who stared up at him in wide-eyed horror. Then like a courtroom judge

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pronouncing sentence, he pointed a quivering finger at the boy and in a voice choking with emotion announced, ‘You’re sacked!’ The lad, still on his knees, shuffled towards Jimmy, threw his arms around his legs and looking up with pleading eyes begged ‘Oh, please don’t sack me mister Dick! My mother will kill me!’ Jimmy brushed him aside without the slightest sign of remorse or compassion.

I didn’t last much longer myself. With my mother gone from the house and my father off to work I overslept two mornings in succession.

Arriving ten minutes late for work gave the head baker an opportunity to show everyone in the bakery how loud-mouthed and sarcastic he could be. Thus the next time I overslept I felt I couldn’t face being the butt for his ill humour again, so I pedalled on past the bakery, went for a ten mile cycle run and never set foot in that place again. It was no surprise to see my job advertised in the local paper a couple of days later. My father never questioned how I came to lose my job and seemed to tolerate me lying around the house doing little but the shopping and some tidying up after a fashion.

The Spanish civil war was over, with General Franco now running things, but the Germans and Italians were rattling their sabres and there was talk of another war brewing. For the next couple of months I got out of bed when I pleased and went off on cycle trips whenever the mood took me.

My father had filed for divorce and the court case finally came through.

I accompanied him to the high court in Edinburgh and was called as a witness against my mother. Prior to her leaving us her behaviour had become outrageous, arriving home drunk accompanied by a male companion and demanding he stay the night. I heard the violent rows as I lay in bed. My father must have given up trying to alter the situation as one night he shook me awake. ‘I want you to look in the back bedroom,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll find your mother in bed with

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another man. I want you to see them together and state this in court.’

He quietly pushed me into the room but I couldn’t bring myself to look. ‘Did you see them, son?’ I nodded dumbly. And now I had to tell a lie in court rather than let him down. I remember standing in the witness box trying to ignore the sea of faces in the public gallery and saying ‘Yes!’ when asked the question, ‘Did you see your mother in bed with one Neil McLean?’

Summer 1939 in the brickworks Then I had a spell of loading the compressed bricks as they came out of the machine at twenty per minute. This became almost automatic and I let my mind drift into a make-believe world of fantasy to escape from the tedium of the job. The heat in the kilns was like being cooked in an oven whilst breathing in brick dust and using leather pads to lift the hot bricks. ‘Beetroot Face’ was constantly on the scene, on the lookout for any of the lads stopping for a quiet smoke. Nobody ever got the sack.

They usually left of their own accord, hence the readiness to enlist any willing applicant. At least I no longer had my father telling me that I was a drain on his finances.

One morning three Spitfires flew over the brickworks. I was enthralled. I had been fascinated by aeroplanes from an early age and used to admire the sleek Hawker Fury biplanes from the RAF airfield a few miles away as they looped and did practice spins high over the town. To me a pilot was some kind of superior human who belonged in a different world from ordinary people. Then I was brought sharply back to earth. ‘Hi, you! Get those bricks loaded!’ It was the summer of 1939 and we were basking in a heat wave which made working in the hot kilns almost unbearable.

I used to pray for the final hooter to sound when work stopped dead and there was a general stampede for the bike shed. I would go straight home, fill the bath with cold water and lie there for a while.

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Luscar Dam One afternoon I decided to cycle three or four miles to Luscar for a swim rather than have my usual cold bath at home. It was yet another afternoon of glorious sunshine and I arrived at the dam perspiring from my efforts to get there quickly. The water lay like a mirror reflecting the blue skies and the backdrop of hills beyond. It was an idyllic setting for a swim away from the dust and smoke of the brickworks.

I stood looking across the part of the dam known as ‘the quarry hole’ reputed to be eighty feet deep though probably nearer forty. This was at the outlet end of the dam with a walled sluice gate which we often used as a diving board. As I stripped off I had a sudden impulse to swim to the other side of the hole which had once been a sandstone quarry, hence the name. I waded gingerly down the steep, rocky slope which fell away quickly and began a slow overhand head-down crawl through the limpid, dark waters. The hole was eighty yards across and no great feat even for a mediocre swimmer like myself, but the thrill of challenge came from the idea of crossing over the great murky depth of water that lay below. I was barely half way across when I became aware of something brushing across my legs. My first thought was that it was a large pike as the dam was reputedly infested with them. I trod water to look about me and realized to my horror that I was completely surrounded by weeds and their long tendrils were becoming wrapped around my arms and legs. I had veered into a shallower area festooned with these long sinister tendrils and the more I moved the more I became entangled.

In my blind panic my first thought was to cry out for help but I realised that there wasn’t a house within half a mile of the place. In moments like this all sorts of thoughts race through the mind and I had a vision of my body lying undiscovered for weeks hidden at the bottom of the quarry. Then I remembered how we sometimes pushed a plank of wood or a log across a weed infested pond and how these floated

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My father John (veteran of the Battle of Jutland) in Royal Navy uniform, 1918

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across unhindered under their own momentum. So I reasoned that if I could summon enough courage to turn over on my back and stretch out in a floating position using my hands in a gentle paddling motion I might get out of this alive. It took all the willpower I could muster to turn and lie face up with those hellish weeds brushing across my face.

Staring up in terror at the blue sky I began a gentle waving motion using only my hands from the wrists, and keeping my arms close by my sides. I gradually felt a sense of movement and the weeds began to slip away from my legs and arms. My progress seemed agonisingly slow and with only part of my face above water I had no idea how much advance I was making. The weeds began to thin out but I still maintained my gentle paddling not daring to lift my head to see where I was. My shoulder suddenly touched against something solid. I had reached the stony slope at the other side. I had swum the ‘quarry hole’ but it wasn’t something I would ever brag about. Oddly enough I never related this incident to any of the lads and, being young, it was soon forgotten. It is only in later years that one comes to realise that such escapades are milestones in our lives.

War, blackberries and bikes It was the summer of 1939 and the berry-picking season had begun.

On weekends some of us would cycle out to the nurseries and pick berries more for the fun of it than for the money to be made. At tuppence for filling a two pound basket which could take up to fifteen minutes we weren’t making much but it was good fun and we ate as many strawberries and raspberries as we felt like. Then I got this idea.

Rather than sweat it out in the brickwork I could enjoy a few days off picking berries and still make enough to pay my father ‘dig money’.

The first couple of days were okay though it meant picking till eight in the evening to match my day’s pay in the brickwork. The fine weather broke and it rained so I was forced back to suffer Beetroot Face’s wrath. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been all week laddie?’ ‘I was

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sick,’ I whined lamely. ‘Sick!’ he repeated, glaring at me accusingly ‘…Sick of the job, eh?’ It was then though that he softened a little and I saw another side to his outwardly bullying nature. ‘Look, son!

I know this isn’t the best of jobs but my advice is to stick it out till something else turns up.’ But this advice fell on deaf ears. A couple of weeks later I just didn’t bother turning up for work and was once again on the dole.

The news was full of Chamberlain’s cap-in-hand pact with Hitler and I vaguely recall a cartoon depicting the prime minister releasing a flock of white doves at the meeting. But this was of little interest to a lad who spent his day cycling around the countryside exploring hills and woodlands. My father seemed to take little notice of me other than expecting me to keep up the housework and shopping and he would leave half a crown most days with instructions on what groceries were needed. Considering that eggs were sixpence a dozen and a loaf of bread thruppence I had more than enough to treat myself to a pie and chocolate marshmallow biscuits without him knowing.

My father was away at work twelve hours every day and there was no one to talk to but, being young and carefree, I was never really troubled by this. When I wasn’t out on my bike I was carving model planes from balsa wood in an empty bedroom. Our worldly possessions including a chair, an ancient chest of drawers, a green felt covered card table and a double bed, which my father and I shared, were now arranged in the living room as my mother had taken most of the furniture when she left. She had even lifted the linoleum leaving the bare boards. Looking back I can now understand my father’s morose, taciturn approach to life. He had served in the Royal Navy during the First World War and seen action in the Battle of Jutland and Heligoland Bight. He was orphaned at fourteen and his marriage had been a disaster. But at sixteen one doesn’t rationalise such things and I only saw him at the time as bad tempered and uncaring.

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Sometimes I would call on my old school chum Johnny who now worked as an apprentice baker and we would go off together on a cycle trip. His home situation and lack of comforts were similar to mine and he had recently lost his mother through illness. So we were kindred spirits as it were. The news that Germany had invaded Poland had not filtered through to us as we set off for a run to Luscar dam. It was a lovely September day and we wandered round the entire dam looking for ducks’ nests as there were still eggs to be had at that time of year.

The 3rd of September 1939 is marked in my memory by an episode that afternoon. I watched with fascination a man wade out waist deep in the dam to a swan’s nest. He carried a long forked stick and as he cautiously approached the nest the swan reared up hissing defiance, but he coolly placed the fork against the bird’s neck and began pushing it backwards from its nest. He then calmly pushed his end of the stick into the mud beside the nest and lifted an egg. He quickly waded back to solid ground while the swan kept fighting against the stick which eventually fell free. The bird took off flying low over the bushes and trees surrounding the dam but the man was obviously an old hand at this game and the swan finally gave up. I couldn’t help admiring this man’s daring but I resented what I saw as such a cold, calculating act against a noble creature merely to satisfy his own interests. Perhaps we weren’t much better looking for ducks’ eggs but we were young and thoughtless and would only take one or two from a nest of a dozen, and at least we were going to eat them.

It was almost dark by the time we set off for home and as we freewheeled down hill through Milesmark on the outskirts of town with our dynamo-powered headlamps sending white beams ahead of our speeding bikes, we thought it odd that the streets were unusually dark. Then two shadowy figures in steel helmets stepped out in our path ordering us to stop. ‘Get those lights out! Don’t you lads know there’s a war on?’ Each was wearing an arm band bearing ARP in white letters. We were completely taken aback. I looked around me

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realising that the houses were in total darkness. ‘You’d better walk the rest of the way home in case you run into somebody.’ As we went on our way, trying to take in what we’d heard, we imagined how we were about to experience first hand some of the glamour and heroic action that we’d seen and read about in war films, comics and stories.

Blackouts and bombs And so began an era of blackout restrictions with people feeling their way in pitch darkness, often bumping into each other during the long winter nights. One could pass a friend or relative without being aware of doing so. Barely a week later we experienced our first air raid when German bombers attacked the Forth Railway Bridge in broad daylight.

I had taken to visiting my mother who now lived in the village of Milesmark which stood high on the outskirts of the town. From that vantage point I had a clear view to the River Forth with dozens of barrage balloons floating high above its banks. The sound of gun fire from a nearby ack-ack battery added excitement and drama to the scene, accompanied by the distant drone of aircraft. It still seemed to me like something out of a boys’ adventure comic and it never entered my head that people could be dying at that very moment.

As I stood there watching, a lone aircraft appeared high in the clear sky heading in my direction, a twin engined Dornier 17 bomber. White puffs of flak began following in its wake. Flying at about eight thousand feet, the pilot maintained a steady northerly course as if unaware of the danger behind him. He couldn’t have made it easier for the anti aircraft battery to adjust aim. The next puff of flak appeared directly in front of the Dornier which immediately went into an almost vertical dive. At the last moment it appeared to level off and disappeared below my line of vision heading west. Desperate to see a crashed German bomber I leapt on my bike and started pedalling furiously in the direction of the crippled plane. I got as far as Culross some eight miles west and

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with fading enthusiasm asked an old fisherman working on his boat if he had seen a low flying plane. ‘It’s a German bomber!’ I announced excitedly. ‘Aye, laddie. It passed over here just missing the abbey steeple and disappeared across the Forth!’ I returned wearily home.

Next day we heard that a Dornier had crashed near Linlithgo, its crew of four dead. I could only guess that the pilot had been wounded by the flak burst but managed to regain partial control before crashing.

They were buried in Edinburgh with military honours, one of the first enemy planes to be shot down over Britain. The raid was a failure with most of the bombs falling in the river and only served to increase our own defences against further attack. Thus the Luftwaffe changed to night bombing and the air raid sirens began sounding night after night though on many occasions it was a false alarm.

But people still got out of bed and crowded into the tiny Anderson steel shelters which adorned every back garden in Fife. These corrugated sheet steel contraptions were designed for minimum comfort half buried in the earth and were often ankle deep in muddy water, but that didn’t deter the dedicated users. My father and I never once set foot in our shelter yet in one isolated case an old man was killed in Kingseat village less than three miles from our house. He had refused to use the shelter and his miner’s cottage was demolished along with two others.

On one particular November evening I had just returned home around six in the evening. My father wasn’t yet back from work and the electricity had run out. Without a shilling to restore the supply I fumbled around in darkness groping in the food cupboard for something to eat. A loud explosion caused the kitchen window to vibrate followed by a second one much louder. The third explosion shook the house and I realised these were bombs falling. I stumbled blindly along the lobby feeling for the door to the coal cellar and crouched in there with my arms over

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my head, bracing myself for what I feared would follow. What made me seek refuge in the coal cellar I’ll never know other than that it was under the stairway and close to our front door. But no bomb fell.

I remained there for a few minutes before crawling out to cautiously open the front door and peer outside. Searchlights were fanning the sky down by the River Forth and an ominous silence lay all around.

It was as if everyone was in a state of shock. Then came the babble of excited voices and the sound of running feet. I recognised my father’s voice raised in anger arguing with someone. He had stopped outside our gate to light a cigarette on his way home and was immediately set upon by indignant air raid wardens. ‘Get that bloody light out! There’s German bombers overhead!’ Knowing my old man, his only response would be a mouthful of oaths. The media was optimistic about this war saying it would all be over in a matter of weeks. The radio kept pumping out patriotic songs about ‘…hanging out washing on the Siegfried Line’ and ‘Goodbye Sally it won’t be for long!’ but we were in for a rude awakening.

Skating My father was now working alternate day and night shifts of twelve hours so we hardly ever saw one another. What with the blackout and the long dreary winter evenings I felt bored, fed up and useless. It seemed that everyone else had a job or was wearing a uniform whilst I drifted along like a ship without sail. Then I read an advert asking for applicants for engine cleaners on the railways. The job didn’t particularly appeal to me as I knew it meant shift work. The idea of working backshift was the nearest thing for me to being behind prison bars but thousands were doing it and I would no longer have to squirm every time someone asked, ‘Haven’t you got a job yet?’

I made my way through the engine shed aware of the smell of smoke, steam and warm oil and was directed to the foreman’s office

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by a friendly engineman. But there was nothing friendly about the foreman’s greeting. It felt as though I was asking him for a loan rather than a job. He grudgingly directed me to the shed master’s office.

‘He’s the one you want to see!’ The shed master was preoccupied with other duties and seemed to listen only out of politeness to my half-hearted request. At the time I believed I would never hear any more about my application.

The winter of 1939 was long and severe with heavy snow. Christmas day was just another day for me with my father at work and not a card above our fireplace. The bitter cold lasted for weeks with the odd thaw in between. With so much snow and ice around there were plenty of opportunities for the sport of sledging and skating. I watched some young people ice skating on a pond close to where my mother lived and was enraptured by the ease and skill of one lad in particular.

So when my mother’s current man-friend gave me eight shillings as a belated Christmas gift I bought myself a pair of clamp-on skates.

I strapped these onto boots from my brickwork days and trudged through snow after dark in my enthusiasm to try them out. Sitting in the snow struggling to fit the skates was a major operation itself. I managed to get to my feet and floundered a few steps to reach the ice and was thankful that there was no one around to witness the comic act. I staggered across the frozen surface with flailing arms and feet, skidding about in all directions, finally seeing stars when the back of my head hit the ice with sickening force. That was the end of my first lesson. What I did learn was that there was no fear of that ice breaking and that I had wasted my money on those bloody skates. For another thirteen shillings I could have been the proud owner of proper ice hockey boots. My father must have noticed my disappointment and I could hardly believe my ears when he handed me five shillings and told me to take out a mutuality book for twenty-one shillings and get my self a pair of ‘skating boots’ as he called them. I was over the

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moon. I took to skating like a duck to water and within a week or two was sailing around the local ice rink with the best of them.

As for our troops in France, they never did get to hang any washing on the Siegfried Line. On the contrary, the Germans by-passed the French Maginot Line and were sweeping through France itself. Our Fairey Battle single-engined bombers were hopelessly outclassed and shot down by the dozen by the Luftwaffe’s nimble Me 109’s.

Filling time, filling coal I finally got a job filling coal with the Co-operative Society at eighteen shillings a week. The Co-op had their own siding employing a dozen men and an office for the manager and teenage clerk. It was hard, dirty, monotonous work filling and weighing sacks of coal all day but not as bad as the brickworks. We worked in pairs, two men to a wagon usually emptying two each shift. My neighbour was a man in his mid fifties who had worked there since boyhood. He was worried about his son being conscripted for the army. ‘What if he declared himself a conscientious objector?’ I overheard him say during our meal break.

We took an unauthorized break when the empty wagons were shunted out by the little tank engine that worked the goods yard. I was painfully aware of my low status. I used to watch the fireman, a lad I knew from school, hanging nonchalantly out of the cab window. I felt ashamed when he nodded to me condescendingly. I had a crush on the blonde office girl but felt she would scorn the advances of an insignificant assistant coal filler. Here I was, now seventeen and had never had a girl friend. Twice daily she would walk round the coal siding noting the tickets on the wagons, giving me a smile as she passed. ‘Why don’t you ask her out to the pictures, lad?’ my mate remarked noting the wistful look in my eyes. For the next two weeks I tried to summon up the courage to speak to her but fate decided it was not to be.

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I was cycling home from work and freewheeling downhill within sight of our home when a motorcycle combination appeared from nowhere. That’s the last thing I remembered till I found myself propped against a fence with a circle of anxious faces looking down on me. Then I saw my father come running up the hill from our house in his shirt sleeves. It seems that I had gone over the handlebars and the bike had gone over my head, leaving me unconscious for fifteen minutes. I sustained two broken fingers as well as my collar bone and would be in a plaster cast for six weeks or more. Those weeks when I couldn’t ride my bike dragged by.

Starting on the railways A couple of weeks before my plaster was due to come off a letter came from the railway company inviting me to attend an interview and medical examination in Edinburgh Waverley. A return ticket was enclosed. With my arm in plaster I was in a dilemma but decided to go plaster and all. Apart from surprised looks from the two officials the interview was straightforward - a few general knowledge questions followed by a rudimentary medical with the accent on eyesight and hearing. There were more than a dozen other lads being interviewed only two of whom failed the eyesight test.

‘It’ll be a few weeks before you’re asked to take up duty which could be anywhere in the area.’ This was a novel prospect for me that I might be asked to work away from my hometown. The letter to start came sooner than promised and I was to report for duty at Stirling locomotive depot, some 20 miles away, at 8 a.m. on Monday morning.

I was expected to take lodgings within three miles of the depot but my plaster wasn’t due to come off till Wednesday morning and so I phoned Stirling locomotive office from a signal box near home, panicking that I might lose this job before I even started it. The voice on the phone sounded sympathetic saying I could begin on Thursday. My father

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didn’t seem the least bit interested that I had to leave home and seek lodgings in a strange town. I was nervous as I didn’t have two pennies to rub together but thankfully my mother stepped in and accompanied me on the train to Stirling to help me find lodgings.

Reporting at the loco office I met the owner of the sympathetic voice, a mild mannered clerk in his fifties. ‘We usually allow new lads time off to find digs.’ My mother discreetly stayed well out of sight. After all I was almost eighteen and she didn’t want it getting around that ‘God! He had to bring his mother along!’ But I was grateful for her moral support as she accompanied me from door to door seeking lodgings.

Without money up front it turned out that there was no one willing to take a chance on a complete stranger and as a last resort we took the bus to my grandfather’s cottage in the village of Blairlogie some four miles away. I suspect my mother had this in mind all along. In spite of her wayward lifestyle she was the apple of her father’s eye and he readily agreed that I could stay there.

Life at Stirling, and a death I will always remember my first day as an engine cleaner in 1940.

There is an atmosphere about a locomotive shed that leaves an indelible impression on the mind. Especially around noon on a spring morning when most of the engines are out working and only one or two remain standing with steam curling lazily from their safety valves.

It felt peaceful to me after the din and clamour of the brickworks and I felt I could be happy working here. I thought I was alone in the shed till a face appeared at one of the cab windows. ‘Are you the new start?’ I climbed up into the cab of a locomotive for the first time ever.

There were four lads there about my own age, engine cleaners like myself. They were supposed to be cleaning the engine but were having a smoke and game of cards. No one seemed to bother them though one lad kept a lookout for Bobby Tate the shed master, recognizable from

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a distance by his bowler hat. Bobby’s bark was worse than his bite but he made a show of hounding the cleaners to get on with their work. As a cleaner you needed to be surefooted, standing on the boiler handrail ten feet above the stone floor of the shed whilst leaning across the top of the boiler itself, using an oily rag in one hand and a dry cloth in the other. Between us we cleaned three engines in a shift as well as other chores that needed doing. There was no great rush to get things done and I soon fell into the swing of things. Part of the duties of the junior cleaner was to take the mail pouch containing the staff wages sheet among other correspondence to the station and pick up the return mail from Cowlairs head office. As there was usually a few minutes to hang around awaiting the arrival of the Glasgow train I would wander about the platforms watching the comings and goings of trains stopping or passing through.

Stirling was primarily an LMS main line station with powerful locomotives like the Black Five thundering through at the head of a fast freight or grinding to a halt with sparks streaming from its brakes with a Glasgow bound express. Our own LNER shed with a dozen ageing goods engines and a couple of mediocre passenger locos now seemed small beer by comparison. In those days trains from one company weren’t allowed to use the track belonging to the other unless by special agreement. Thus our depot only served the LNER branch line as far as Edinburgh via Dunfermline. On this particular morning a huge streamlined Duchess class loco rolled into the station bound for Perth at the head of a seemingly endless string of maroon coaches. It was the Euston-Perth express running behind time due to delays along the way.

The driver and fireman climbed stiffly from the cab and sauntered off in the direction of the bookstall. I stood looking in wonder at this mechanical monster with its six foot eight inch driving wheels and its towering streamlined boiler streaked with the soot and grime of its

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four hundred mile sustained effort. To command such a magnificent machine must be the pinnacle of achievement for any locomotive man. With a glance to make sure the crew weren’t returning I climbed into the cab and gazed up at the gleaming array of copper pipes, brass levers and dials on a huge boiler faceplate that reached to the roof of the cab. I peered into the gaping maw of the firebox marvelling at how one man could manage to satisfy its appetite for coal as it blasted away hour after hour with smoke and sparks shooting high into the air.

I would never feel the same about the plain Jane engines I cleaned, wishing now that I had joined the LMS. I was only there a couple of weeks when I witnessed tragedy and a lesson in the need for constant vigilance when crossing the lines. It was a wet, dreary afternoon and four or five of us were making our way back from the office to the engine shed. This entailed crossing both the LMS main lines and our own LNER lines which ran parallel for a short distance. Crossing our own lines someone noticed something lying between the tracks ahead of us. At first I thought it was a large dog but as we ran towards it this sodden bundle moved slightly. The lad leading shouted, ‘It’s old Jimmy!’ Old Jimmy was the boiler-washer, one of the dirtiest jobs in the depot, a job he was obliged to take having failed his eyesight test. He was huddled between the rails, his clothing ripped and bloodstained, with a shocked look in his eyes. I just stood frozen in horror whilst someone shouted, ‘Get a stretcher ! He’s still alive!’ The stretcher arrived in no time and two of the older men present lifted Jimmy on to it. To add to my horror I saw that one of his legs was severed and I was only vaguely aware of a voice asking me to ‘bring his leg along, son!’ I could only shake my head mutely. Someone else did the grisly task. He died on his way to hospital.

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Civilian weekends in Blairlogie Next afternoon after work I climbed Dumyat hill behind my grandfather’s house. It was a beautiful summer’s evening and as I gazed at the panoramic view below I thought of Old Jimmy and felt lucky to be young and alive. We worked a six day week in those days finishing at four p.m. On the Saturday I would take my bike on the train to Dunfermline and stay overnight at my father’s mainly to see my pal Johnny and visit the ice-rink. I would then cycle back to Blairlogie on Sunday night ready for work next morning. On Sunday afternoon we straddled our bikes and set off to wherever our fancy took us which turned out on this occasion to be Donibristle airfield which the RAF had recently handed over to the Fleet Air Arm and the home to Fairey Swordfish torpedo bombers and chunky little Sea Gladiator biplane fighters. As there was nothing to see other than buildings behind the elaborate wrought iron main gates we cycled along a side road bordered by a six foot wall that screened the airfield from prying eyes. But by propping our bikes against the wall and standing on the crossbar we had a grandstand view of what was going on.

A mere stone’s throw away stood a row of biplanes in drab camouflage.

As I had never seen an airplane on the ground and their tail-planes were facing us I mistook them for Gladiators. Then I realized they were Swordfish biplanes. I also noticed a naval rating was on duty, armed with rifle and bayonet, pacing the length of the parked planes.

I would have done anything just to see inside the cockpit of a real live aeroplane and here was one standing a few yards away. On impulse I said to Johnny, ‘I’m going over to take a look!’ He must have thought me mad but I had made up my mind. I waited till the guard was at the farthest off plane before dropping over the wall and sprinting across to the parked Swordfish. It looked enormous as I stood panting beside it.

I clambered up the metal footrests and peered inside the cockpit, my eyes devouring the instrument panel and controls.

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Then a sudden shout snapped me back to reality. The rating had noticed the figure leaning over the cockpit and was racing at the double to cut off my retreat. Fear lent me wings and I covered the distance to the wall in short time. Johnny gallantly reached down to grip my upstretched hand and helped me over. I was astride the top of the wall when the sailor stood breathless beneath us. ‘Next time I catch you over here I’ll stick this ruddy bayonet up your arse!’ He obviously saw that we were adventurous youths otherwise our actions could have had more serious consequences. That evening I said cheerio to Johnny and set off on my twenty mile ride back to Blairlogie. I rarely looked at a newspaper so I was a bit vague at the time about the 1940 evacuation of Dunkirk but everyone knew of Churchill’s speech about fighting on the beaches.

What did capture my interest was the increasing role the RAF was now playing in the defence of the country.

Railway duties and war news I now found myself rostered for shift work starting at midnight on Sunday the following week. My main duty was that of call boy knocking up drivers and firemen for early morning shifts. I also had to keep an eye on the stationary boiler which powered the pump that drew water from the nearby river to fill the water tank used by our engines. Another cleaner was detailed to show me the ropes for the first three nights, then I was on my own.

Wandering around the streets of Stirling in the dead of night, climbing dark tenement stairs with a tiny oil lamp for guidance was a lonely and sobering experience. The driver or fireman due for call out had to be knocked up an hour before taking duty. Crews had to reside within a mile radius of the depot to qualify for this service. Thus by the end of the shift I had covered six miles walking to and from the shed. In between times I would check the stationary boiler for steam and water heaving in a few shovels of coal and operating the injector to top up

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the boiler. Crossing the lines in the blackout required a keen ear and the utmost caution especially on windy nights. With the vision of old Jimmy’s death still fresh in my mind the wind blew out head lamps and carried away the sound of the Black Fives as they coasted effortlessly downhill from Dunblane.

Summer turned to Autumn 1940 and the news was all about the daring exploits of our fighter pilots battling high in the skies against the Luftwaffe during My maternal grandmother, Anne Lowrie its campaign to flatten 1920 London. If it wasn’t for the news, living in Blairlogie one might have failed to realise that there was a war going on. For one thing there had never been any street lighting where my grandfather lived and he carried on his same routine every day. As there was neither gas nor electricity in the cottage, the fire had to be kindled first thing before any cooking could be done or tea brewed. Paraffin lamps supplied lighting and the radio was worked by dry cell batteries. He kept hens which was a blessing as eggs were already a rare commodity. Working for the railways was classed as a reserved occupation so there was no fear of being called

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up for military service. Things like chocolate and cigarettes were becoming scarce though and were often kept under the counter for privileged customers.

September 1940 came and with it news that the German Luftwaffe had suffered such losses that their attacks were beginning to dwindle.

Then Churchill gave his famous speech reminding everyone how much they owed to a few hundred fighter pilots. I arrived for work one Monday morning to find a letter addressed to me: ‘As from Saturday

Blairlogie Village Square you are now redundant to requirements.’ I didn’t know what the word ‘redundant’ meant so I asked one of the drivers standing nearby. ‘It means you’re out of a job, son!’ This took me aback. All that rigmarole with medicals and interviews and having to move to another town for a measly sixteen weeks work and to think I imagined I had a job for

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life. So it was back to square one, on the dole and living off my father again.

My spirits were at rock bottom and I felt useless and inadequate. Lads not much older than myself were throwing Spitfires around the skies and winning medals and I couldn’t even find a job.

Dreary November came and two letters addressed to me. One from the labour exchange telling me to report for work on Monday at the local Morton’s sawmills. The other, surprisingly, from My mother Katherine with the railway asking me to start back at two sisters, Louise and Jean Stirling depot. I was still resentful at the way they had dumped me and also thought that as the sawmill was near home and would offer steady dayshift it was the better prospect.

So I ignored the letter from the railway and reported duly at eight at Morton’s on a damp morning. Within a couple of hours I had strong misgivings. I felt like a chicken running around with its head cut off.

‘Come here! Do this! Move that!’ During our midday break we sat around on makeshift seats of timber munching our bread and jam sandwiches with the cold damp air seeping through our clothing. The last straw came for me when I was ordered to get on the end of a twenty foot log swinging like a see saw from a mobile crane. I was to help guide it onto a pile of similar logs. But the heavy load kept see sawing and I was almost lifted off my feet then forced down on my knees as I struggled to support its weight. A strong hand gripped my shoulder and a voice growled. ‘Stand aside, son! There’s no point in two of us being ruptured!’

When the final hooter went I wearily collected my bike and headed home. In all those different jobs I can’t ever recall my father

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My mother, Katherine

asking how I got on and this perhaps compounded my lack of motivation when next morning, as dreary as the previous one, I cycled past Morton’s and carried on to Luscar dam to think things over. I stood looking across the familiar quarry hole, wondering what I should do. I idly gathered some empty bottles that were lying around and tossed them far out into the gloomy waters then began throwing stones at them gaining satisfaction when one broke and sank into the gloomy depths.

I now realized that going to the sawmill had been a mistake but thought that the railway might not take me back after failing to turn up for duty. There was only one way to find out so I gathered up my bike and headed back to town. The signalman on duty remembered me from the last time I had asked to use his phone. ‘You’re the lad who works in Stirling?’ He shook his head in mock despair when I explained my latest problem. ‘You’ll be lucky to get started this time, son!’ But good fortune was smiling on me that afternoon. The gaffer I spoke to happened to be a driver acting as shift foreman because the regular man was off sick. He wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing but told me to report for duty the following morning.

And so I was reinstated as an engine cleaner. I wasn’t sure how long I would last this time so rather than impose on my grandfather I opted to commute from home. This meant journeying by train every day, but as a railwayman I could travel free. My overalls and peaked cap were hand-me-downs from sympathetic locomen in the shed.

As it turned out I only lasted a week in Stirling shed. Bobby Tate, the eagle-eyed shed master had seen me slipping away half an hour before clocking off time to catch the train home, leaving one of my

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mates to sign me off duty. He could quite easily have sacked me but he was a decent sort at heart and I was banished to a tiny sub depot and put on constant nightshift.

Demoted to Alloa Alloa shed was a cleaner’s worst nightmare with only six ancient locos. Being such a small depot it wasn’t thought necessary to employ labouring staff so all the shed duties fell to the cleaner. From the time I signed on at eleven p.m. till seven in the morning I had a full schedule apart from a half hour’s meal break. I started off shovelling a couple of tons of ashes from the pit into a wagon that had been set for my convenience. Next there were a couple of engine gearings to crawl into and clean in readiness for the drivers who would later oil these locos. Then there were the crews to be called out for early morning turn which meant trudging through the streets in the blackout. By then it was after three and time for our meal break.

My companion was the fitter in charge who acted as foreman but also did repairs to the engines lying around the shed. Alex wasn’t a bad sort but he was an over diligent worker and expected me to be likewise. If I fell asleep in the bothy after eating he would rouse me the moment my half hour was up. ‘Come on Willie! You’ve still got that pile of coal spillage to clear up!’ Drivers and firemen had to coal their engine which entailed heaving shovels full of coal from a wagon into the engine tender. Half the coal shovelled hit the side of the tender forming a pile which yours truly had to shovel back into the wagon.

Considering that four engines were coaled nightly by the light of a guttering paraffin lamp, a mountain of coal soon appeared. I finished work at seven but the first passenger wasn’t till eight thirty so I usually cycled home, a distance of fifteen miles, most of it uphill. It’s little surprise that I slept like a log, sometimes not waking till six in the evening. The long winter nights meant that I seldom saw daylight. I

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endured the travelling for two weeks before asking my grandfather if he would have me as a lodger again. There, I would be sure of a proper dinner with only four miles to travel to work.

Bombing raids and narrow escapes Around midnight at the beginning of March 1941 I was busy shovelling ashes when the ominous beat of engines caught my attention. The nearby brewery had a stationary boiler which kept hissing away all night and at first I thought it might be that. But the sound grew louder and soon the night sky was filled with throbbing engines. One didn’t have to be a military genius to realize that a large force of bombers was heading in the direction of Glasgow. I was on my calling out duties hurrying through the darkened streets when I heard the sound of the bombers returning. They followed the same flight path on their return, following the Ochil Hills with the silver ribbon of the River Forth to keep them on track. Away to the west a deep crimson, pulsing glow illuminated the night sky. ‘I’ll bet they were after Clydebank!’ someone remarked when I got back to the bothy. The crews on early shift were signing on before making their locos ready for a morning goods train.

In a small depot like Alloa drivers and firemen had to oil and make ready their own engine, unlike large depots where preparation staff did this for them. That flickering crimson glow remained for hours as a grim reminder of the carnage and destruction that lay beneath it. Next day the news was all about the Blitz on Clydebank.

That night I was back at work lying across the gearing of an engine wiping away the grease and grime when the same ominous sound floated across the starry sky. Like winged messengers of death they passed over us unseen heading westwards. Their route must have been well planned as no searchlights or anti aircraft batteries challenged their approach. It was a repetition of the previous night with the bomber crews leaving their calling card in the night sky. Somehow it

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didn’t come as a shock when they returned on the third night having experienced little or no opposition on the previous raids. Then the stories came out about the death and destruction left in their wake during their three-day bombing spree. Most of the damage was in the dockland area with many casualties among both servicemen and civilians. A naval barracks received a direct hit killing forty recruits, one of whom was a lad I worked with in Stirling shed. When old Jimmy was killed at work this lad had pinched his boots from his locker and was sacked for theft. Without a job he was then eligible for call up and so the hand of fate cost him his own life. What I remember him for was his skill in playing the mouth organ. It was he who inspired me to buy one for myself.

One night I had a narrow escape myself. I had squirmed my way up into the gearing of a tank engine and was lying across one of the connecting rods with my back against the bottom of the boiler and my flickering oil lamp balanced on top of the other rod. The engine was inside the shed itself standing over the examination pit and I was wiping off the oil-caked grime. Next thing I felt a bump. The lamp crashed to the floor of the pit and I was plunged into darkness. I felt the connecting rod moving under me and realized that I was about to be crushed against the boiler. There was no time for panic and my instant reaction was to let myself slip straight down and drop to the floor of the pit, crouching down as the engine slowly passed over me.

Another engine had arrived in the shed and the driver who should have known better had thought to push the engine I was working on without any thought for my safety to make room for his. Youthful fitness was my saving grace and I was none the worse for wear. As usual I didn’t even think to mention the incident to Alex the fitter in charge but I felt I had to give the driver of the other engine a taste of his own medicine. I waited for my chance when he was about to leave the shed and carried a lump of coal to an overhead bridge and waited for his engine to pass

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underneath. I judged it nicely and the lump of coal clanged off the roof of his cab. There was an instant squeal of brakes and the loco ground to a halt to investigate. I scampered off gleefully into the darkness feeling I had made my point.

Eight weeks of constant nights were starting to weigh heavily on me.

The only time I saw daylight was when I came to draw my pay on Friday. On one such afternoon after collecting my pay from the station office I wandered along to the shed to check the roster sheet. The place was deserted apart from a couple of grimy old engines standing among the smoking ashes and coal spillage grim reminders of what lay in store for me that night.

‘If I only had wings’ The whistling roar of Rolls Royce Merlins made me look upwards.

Two Spitfires from Grangemouth airfield were cavorting across the skies practising a mock dogfight. I gazed upwards, following their sweeping patterns across a heavenly expanse of blue and white. A current popular tune went through my mind: ‘If I only had wings’. The Spitfires vanished into a bank of cumulus cloud and my gaze returned to my own dismal surroundings with the odour from the brewery wafting across to mingle with the acrid fumes of smoke and steam and smouldering ash.

Youth reacts on sudden impulse and before I knew it I was back at the station and boarding a local train bound for Stirling. ‘Where are you off to today, Willy?’ called one of the yard shunters. ‘To Stirling to join the Air Force!’ I called back. He gaped at me in disbelief. ‘The railways won’t let you go!’ But I had read the large posters plastered on billboards announcing that: ‘Men in reserved occupations may volunteer for Aircrew duties.’ There were several lads waiting around at the RAF recruiting office and I had to join the queue. I was given a medical exam and found

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A1. Then I was taken into another room to assess my capabilities. When asked what I would like to enlist as, I replied: ‘Anything, as long as it’s flying!’ I had taken the plunge and all I had to do now was wait for word to attend an Aircrew selection board in Edinburgh. When I blurted out my news to Alex, the fitter in charge that night, he blinked at me through his horn rimmed spectacles. ‘You’re aff yur bloody heid! You’ll be acting as fireman shortly and makin’ good money.’ But his words had no effect. All I wanted now was to join the RAF.

Shovelling and shunting I was in the pit shovelling out ashes when the bothy phone rang. ‘Willy!

Get your jacket and piece and get out to the yard pilot! The fireman hasn’t turned up!’ I ran all the way to the yard in my excitement and there stood my engine, a J35 tender goods loco awaiting my arrival.

Mounting the footsteps and ducking under the blackout tarpaulin I blinked at the sudden glare from the firebox. It was like coming out of the darkness into a cosy little room with brass and copper levers and pipes reflecting the glow of the fire. Then I recognised my driver and felt that this was indeed my lucky day. Johnny Bain was one of the most inoffensive, likeable men one could hope to meet. He greeted me with a quiet ‘hello’ and just left me to get on with it.

Fortunately, maintaining steam on shunting duties required little experience or skill as the engine only required short bursts of throttle, spending most of the time stopping to allow the shunter to couple off or couple on wagons. The main problem was in keeping the boiler from blowing off excess steam as this drowned out the whistles and instructions from the shunting staff. After a couple of hours see-sawing up and down the yard shovelling coal into the firebox now and then and working the injector, I began to get the hang of it. Then the head shunter called for our meal break. I screwed on the tender handbrake and damped down the fire then turned on the injector to fill the boiler

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up. This ensured that the engine wouldn’t blow off, disturbing the neighbourhood houses and annoying the shunters at their meal.

Big Jock O’Neil the head shunter looked at me. “How old are you, son?” When I replied he shook his head in good natured despair. ‘And I’m married wi’ a couple kids and you get ten bob a week more than me as a fireman!’ ‘But I’m only on for one night,’ I replied lamely.

‘Anyway, I’ve volunteered for the air Force.’ I added. ‘What! Ye must be daft, son!’ When we rejoined our engine and had shunted back and forth for a spell Johnny suddenly waved me over to his side of the cab.

‘Do you want to try a spell at shunting?’ I was overjoyed. Here was I with barely four hours firing duty being allowed to drive the engine.

Johnny stood over me as I nervously opened the throttle and felt the loco surge forward.

There are only three basic controls which govern the movement of a steam engine: a throttle, a reversing lever and a brake. But it’s the manner in which they are operated that marks the difference between a good driver and a bad one. After a couple of erratic shunts I became drunk with power, jerking the throttle lever open then slamming on the brakes causing the string of wagons to rattle into one another.

The shunters were being run off their feet coupling off frantically and having to race after the loose wagons before they hit the buffer end, though some hit the buffer ends with a resounding bang. There was also the danger of losing an arm or leg if they tripped whilst struggling to brake a runaway wagon. My driving lesson ended abruptly when Jock O’Neil shouted, ‘Johnny! Get that bloody laddie off the throttle before he kills someone!’ Johnny smiled at me apologetically. ‘Maybe I’d better do the driving for a spell.’ That was the first and last time he let me have the throttle.

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Firing The following night I was again sent to man the pilot. Johnny’s fireman had a drink problem and was still on a ‘bender’. The locomen’s roster sheet for the following week was pinned up in the bothy on Friday night and I was marked up for a full week firing the docks pilot, signing on at five a.m. Alex was right in his prophecy as from then on I was acting fireman indefinitely. This came about owing to one driver having a serious accident on his motorcycle riding to work whilst another driver was admitted to an institution having developed a mental disorder. I was even called out on Sunday duty piloting trains to Greenhill junction some twenty miles away. I was now averaging four pounds a week, more money than I had ever dreamed of having. I quickly saved up twenty pounds and went on a spending spree buying a sports jacket and flannels, the limit my clothing coupons would allow.

So I spent the rest on a pair of top range ice hockey boots to impress the lads at weekends.

I was now reasonably competent at firing steam engines and being acting fireman I found myself rostered with a different driver every week. Soon they all got to know me as ‘the lad from Blairlogie who wants to join the RAF’. I got on well with them with the exception of one bumptious, portly driver nicknamed The Gadgy who for some reason delighted in ridiculing me in front of others. I was a mere lad and in those days a driver’s word was law. So I simply suffered in silence consoling myself that I would only have him for a week. On one night shift, part of our duty was to assist a Stirling goods train from Alloa to Dunfermline. This was mostly uphill so I had built up the fire on the J36 engine with a full head of steam for the long haul up to Whitemyre. We were standing in the yard, steam blowing from the safety valves, counting the wagons as they rumbled past. Thirty-eight.

Then the guard’s van trundled by with its flickering tail lamps and the dark silhouette of the guard himself, shunting pole at the ready.

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When our loco came on to the rear of the train neither stopped. My driver would judge the relative speeds so that our front buffers would just kiss those of the guard’s van. The guard would then lean over and use his shunting pole to heave the coupling on. This skill is the result of months of practice. My driver would then sound a ‘cock crow’ on our engine whistle which in turn would be acknowledged by the leading loco. This was the recognized drill for both drivers to open up their throttles for the long climb ahead. This was a different kettle of fish from the yard pilot as the throttle was practically wide open, using coal steam and water at an alarming rate. The sharp blast from the funnel echoed through the night sky sending a forest of sparks shooting skywards bouncing off the roof and cab windows. The glare from the firebox together with the stifling heat under the blackout tarpaulin made me stick my head out from under it to breathe in the night air.

On one trip as we neared Whitemyre I stuck my head out to find there was an air raid in progress with searchlights fanning the dark skies.

Then I heard the crackle and crump of anti aircraft shells exploding almost overhead. At least it sounded like it. So I quickly ducked back inside the cab. What goes up must come down and I wasn’t taking the chance of something landing on my head. There were so many prime targets along the Forth with the rail bridge, the naval base at Rosyth and Crombie munitions depot all within a mile or two of each other. It’s little surprising that the sirens and searchlights were a nightly occurrence.

RAF recruitment A letter arrived in 1941 instructing me to report to the RAF recruiting office in Edinburgh for an Aircrew exam and to be prepared for an overnight stay. Although I excelled at art and English I was never good at maths and my heart sank when I looked through the exam paper. About twenty young hopefuls sat at their desks, pencils poised

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awaiting the officer’s signal to start writing down answers. ‘You have thirty minutes, starting… now!’ If it were thirty days I still couldn’t have answered half of them. I was already resigned to failure before my half hour was up. ‘I’m afraid your maths isn’t up to the requirements for Aircrew training. But you can join as a ground wireless op.’

My disappointment must have showed. ‘You can always volunteer for flying duties once you’re in the service!’ Like a drowning man clutching at straws I signed up as a ground wireless op. Back at work I told everyone that I had been accepted for wireless op airgunner which was half true.

Never held a girl’s hand On one job we stopped at Tillicoultry, dropping off goods wagons and shunting out empties as required. There were two girl porters working in the goods shed. One was engaged to a railway linesman whilst the other, a dark haired lass about my own age, didn’t have a boyfriend. Although now eighteen I had never held a girl’s hand and felt tongue-tied in female presence. I was attracted to her but she was shy like myself and all we ever did was exchange smiles. Every time I was on the Tillicoultry run I would look out for her hoping to find some excuse to talk. One driver, Davy Cook, sensed my dilemma. ‘There’s a bonny lass, Willy! Why not ask her for a date?’ But my courage failed me till one Saturday afternoon I was cycling through Tillicoultry on my way to Dunfermline. There she was walking towards me looking even more attractive in a checked skirt and blouse. She smiled in recognition so I stopped my bike and began talking, mostly trivial things though all the time I was trying to find the right words to begin a relationship. But all I could come up with was, ‘I’ll see you on Monday at work.’ Monday came, and as our train coasted over the viaduct and into Tillicoultry station I was determined that this time I would definitely ask her out. When our loco ground to a halt I sensed an air of gloom among the station staff. She had been crushed between two buffers when attempting to move a wagon using

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a pinch bar. She was dead when they found her. I felt really sad and miserable that this sweet young girl was gone from this world forever. I never even knew her name.

More aircraft, and a motorbike In the afternoons after work I would climb Dumyat looking down on Blairlogie village far below with the Wallace Monument and the bends on the River Forth snaking through the flat countryside. Spitfires from Grangemouth and Turnhouse often flew overhead and at times skimmed so low across the fields that I was looking down on them.

Occasionally a lone Wellington bomber would drone overhead and I wondered what it would be like sitting in the rear turret looking down on the world below.

One day I saw a sergeant wireless operator with an airgunner’s brevet above his breast pocket. He was standing on Alloa platform waiting for the train to Dollar. I was tempted to ask him what life was like being aircrew, imagining it must be exciting and glamorous. One driver, Johnny Blair, seemed to delight in reminding me, ‘The railway won’t let you go!’ I prayed they wouldn’t contact the RAF and learn the truth about me. One of the lads I knew had just bought a motorbike and I was smitten. The thought of roaring along the highway seemed almost as exciting as flying. With men being called up for the army there were plenty of bikes to be had, the problem being finding spare parts and petrol to run them. I was home one weekend and ended up in a dingy little shop dealing in second-hand machines. The place reeked of petrol and old oil with tools and bits of bikes lying around everywhere. The owner materialized out of nowhere peering at me suspiciously through thick spectacles.

‘Lookin’ for a bike, are we?’ It sounded like an accusation. He nodded towards three or four dubious looking machines apparently for sale.

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Two were awaiting spare parts so I asked about one with a leaping panther emblazoned along the tank. ‘A three fifty Red Panther!’ he barked proudly. ‘A fast machine ready to go!’ ‘How much?’ ‘Eight quid and it’s yours!’ I nodded eagerly, fumbling in my jacket pocket for the cash. ‘And another pound for insurance!’ He devoured the notes with his eyes whilst I counted them out. He quickly scribbled a receipt and searched out a log book and some petrol coupons. ‘You’re allowed three and a half gallons a month for this size of bike.’ Then came the bad news. I wasn’t to pick up the bike till next week as it needed a kickstart pedal and the battery was flat. I did actually get the bike the following week but without the kickstart. ‘Can’t get one for love nor money!’ he announced glibly. The result was I had to bump start or park on a slope for the rest of the time I owned the thing. On top of that the battery was always going flat which was a blessing in disguise as my month’s petrol lasted little more than a week. So there wasn’t much of a thrill roaring along the highway expecting the battery to go flat or run out of petrol at any minute. Things got worse when the gear selector went wrong and I could only find top gear which meant always having to start downhill and slipping the clutch to get going.

So it was back to pedal power. I was cycling home to Dunfermline early one Saturday morning when I heard what sounded like someone tearing strips of linen. Then I realised it was machine-gun fire. A Spitfire was chasing a runaway barrage balloon which was drifting westwards towards Kincardine. I watched them till they disappeared from view, the pilot still firing away in vain. I often wondered what the outcome of that aerial escapade was.

Autumn 1941 came with no word from the RAF and I was beginning to think that the railway had something to do with this. The current news was about a young wireless operator airgunner from Glasgow who had been awarded the VC for bravery. Fire had broken out in his aircraft after being hit by flak and the pilot had ordered the crew

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to bale out. But William Hannah had stayed behind and managed to put out the fire himself sustaining severe burns. The pilot managed to bring the Hampden bomber back to Scampton. Later there were conflicting stories among aircrews as to whether it should have been the pilot who got the award.

Call-up papers, October 1941 I was more or less a seasoned fireman now, well able to maintain steam on the different goods and coal trains worked by our engines, though I never fired any thing bigger than a J35 loco. My aunty Louise and her husband Jimmy also lived with my grandfather who was now eighty.

They treated me all right but I sensed that neither would lose any sleep if my call up papers did finally arrive. A youngster can be a disturbing influence in someone else’s home. She did appear somewhat relieved when she handed me a buff coloured letter with an Air Ministry stamp on it. Sure enough it was my long awaited call-up papers for the RAF. My aunty went about her household chores humming happily, ‘If I only had wings.’ But I was too excited to see the significant look she gave.

I took the bus into Stirling to show the letter to the Shore road office.

The clerk seemed a bit dubious. ‘It says U/T W/OP, but doesn’t mention Aircrew.’ I convinced him, as after all I had lied about it for so long that I almost believed it myself. ‘You understand that as you volunteered without the railway company’s permission you won’t get your pay made up,’ he concluded. At the time this didn’t bother me but I would feel the pinch later on. I was due to report at RAF Padgate a week from today which meant I would work three days with the remaining three as paid holidays. I was floating on a cloud working those last days on a backshift goods train shunting sidings along the Kincardine branch line. Normally I hated backshift where I didn’t get home till after dark.

But it would soon be in the past and at that moment I never imagined myself ever coming back to the railway.

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Jimmy Cook, my driver, was a friendly, easy going chap in his late forties. ‘Well, Willie, you’ve finally got your wish! Remember to waggle your wings if you happen to fly over Alloa shed!’ I intended spending my last three days in Dunfermline relying on the Red Panther to get me there. I could only get third gear and with no kickstart I needed a downhill push to get started, hoping the engine would keep going. On the morning of my departure my grandfather was down at his chicken run and I always regret not taking the time to say goodbye to him.

But I was so preoccupied with things to be done that it never entered my mind. With my meagre belongings strapped on the pillion and my aunt watching from the kitchen window I began pushing the bike to gain momentum. Then, leaping desperately onto the saddle I let out the clutch and the engine spluttered into life. Had this failed I would have had to walk a mile to wait for a bus. Before I left Blairlogie I learned that a Spitfire had crashed on the top of Dumyat and the pilot’s body brought down to Menstrie village wrapped in his parachute. Spitfires from Grangemouth were always flying over the Ochils low over the fields below Dumyat. The Red Panther conked out two miles from Dunfermline so I dumped it against a hedge and hoofed it home.

I spent these last days with my friend Johnny hanging around the local cafes or at the ice-rink. I can’t remember my father’s reactions to my leaving to join the forces. As for my mother, I didn’t know where she was living at the time. Johnny saw me off on the bus to Stirling on Sunday evening where I would catch the London express to Warrington. Standing on the dark platform waiting for my train I suddenly felt lonely and unsure of myself wondering what I had let myself in for.

Then a great dark clanking hissing shape rolled to a stop with the grinding of brakes and the platform became a hive of activity, carriage

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doors slamming and figures appearing everywhere. Most of the compartments were full, the majority being servicemen returning from leave. I found myself sharing a compartment with three soldiers none of whom seemed inclined to converse. With the stifling heat from the steam pipes under the seats I soon fell into a heavy sleep. After a while I climbed onto the luggage rack where I could stretch out though it was anything but comfortable. Ten hours passed and I awoke with my back like to break, sensing that the train had stopped at yet another station.

Then I heard a voice calling Warrington so I quickly climbed down from my improvised hammock, and stepped onto the platform and stood looking around like a lost sheep. I saw that there were several other lads about my own age standing around aimlessly. An RAF chap wearing corporal stripes and bristling with authority appeared on the scene and quickly rounded us up into the semblance of a squad. Then on his command we marched from the station in ragged formation to where a couple of Bedford lorries awaited our arrival. It was a ten minute ride to Padgate recruitment centre where we clambered over the tailboard and stood around awaiting further orders from the corporal.

We were about to have our first taste of life in the RAF.

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Part Two: Royal Air Force Civilians transformed into airmen The camp looked about three times the size of a football pitch with a large hangar and rows of billets bordering the parade ground where our transport had dropped us off. Everything seemed well organized and we were quickly allocated sleeping quarters in a hut capable of accommodating twenty or more recruits. We each chose a bed by general consent and I found myself next to a tall Irish lad. ‘What are you in as, Jock?’ When I told him he nodded, ‘Me, I’m in as wireless op airgunner.’ He said this offhandedly but it brought home the fact that I was ground staff and I felt a twinge of envy. As it turned out some of the other lads in the billet had been accepted for pilots and navigator training which added to my discontent.

From then on we were constantly being ordered out on parades.

Medical parade, clothing parade, identity parade and so on. This was 51

where the large hangar featured. Two or three hundred new recruits stood awaiting the command to step forward and be examined by three medical officers. I will never forget that moment of embarrassment when my name and number was called and I had to stand naked with arms above my head scrutinized, three hundred pairs of eyes evaluating my manhood. Next day those three hundred civilians were transformed into airmen strutting around the camp in their brand new uniforms. Before I knew it I was on the train to Blackpool with a crowd of the lads to begin training. Those recruits earmarked for pilot/navigator training were posted elsewhere. As our train steamed into Blackpool Central I saw a large hole in the station roof. A twin engined Blackburn Botha had crashed through it two days before after colliding with another Botha which went into the sea. I was now more painfully than ever aware that I was ground staff especially when u/t aircrew wireless ops were issued with white flashes to wear in their forage caps.

Nearly all of the boarding houses in Blackpool were now accommodating RAF recruits and I found myself one of nineteen lads billeted in Hull Road. Having over a thousand trainee wireless ops in the area must have entailed a lot of administration and organisation.

I was one of a squad of forty under training wireless ops, only two of whom came from the billet I was in. We would spend the next three months drilling on the promenade or route marching to Stanley Park as well doing morse code training in the Winter Gardens. Before starting our wireless training we were assembled in an annex of the Winter Gardens and a voice called, ‘Anyone wishing to volunteer for aircrew raise your hand!’ A forest of hands shot upwards with mine among them. So the recruiting officer in Edinburgh hadn’t been having me on after all. Our names were taken and all I could do now was wait and hope. Back home I wasn’t even aware that such a place as Blackpool existed and already I was roaming around the streets in the evenings as if I’d known the place all my life. During our ‘square-bashing’ along

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the prom we learned to march in unison thanks to the painstaking efforts of our drill instructor. We began to take pride in responding to his commands and on the word ‘halt’ the sound of forty boots echoed like a pistol shot along the prom.

I had a natural aptitude for reading morse and passed the four words per minute test at the end of the first week. Although we were allowed three tests on each speed I passed six wpm the following week spurred on by the thought that it would stand me in good stead when I was called by the aircrew selection board. The 8wpm morse test included interference - that is having to pick out the main signal whilst a fainter background signal kept butting in. This proved to be a main hurdle for would be wireless operators to cope with. Again I passed with no trouble whilst three lads from our billet failed their third try at four wpm and were taken off the course and posted to another camp to be re-mustered to general duties. This could mean anything to a young lad with his heart set on becoming aircrew.

Three new replacements arrived each wearing the coveted white flash in his cap. All three were Londoners and I soon struck up a friendship with two of them. Bert was a marvellous jazz pianist whilst the other chap Ron Dexter was an easy-going, likeable Cockney lad. The fact that I was a ground staff trainee was never mentioned. Then one morning on parade our drill instructor barked out my name along with half a dozen others. ‘You lot are to report to the medical centre to find out if you are fit for aircrew duties!’ Although we had already been classified as Al the aircrew medical was much more exacting. Listening to the whispers and comments in the waiting room about what they put you through had me gripping the sides of my chair. The worst part I found was having to blow into a tube keeping a column of mercury above a certain mark for a period of one minute. The second hand seemed to crawl round the dial and by the time my minute was up my head felt fit to burst with the strain of holding my breath.

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Anyway I passed and was handed a certificate to put in my pay book stating that I was fit for all categories of aircrew including pilot. Talking of pay I now earned two shillings a day from which a compulsory allotment of four shillings per week was deducted. This was paid to the next of kin, in my case my mother. Thus I got ten shillings, a week a pittance compared to the four pounds I earned as a fireman. I remembered the clerk’s words about not getting my pay made up. But there was no point in crying over spilt milk. I had a room to myself in our billet in a tiny attic four flights up, though most of the other rooms were sharing.

The big news in December 1941 was that the Japs had bombed Pearl Harbor and America was now at war with both Germany and Japan. The Russians had also thrown in their lot with Britain so we now had two powerful allies to back us up. On my next morse test I passed ten wpm which was all that was required on this part of our wireless training. So now I could sit back whilst others were still struggling with six words per minute. Then came the big day when I was called to the aircrew selection board. I remember walking into the waiting room sensing the strained atmosphere among the lads already there. Our whole future depended on the officers doing the interviews. I already knew how it felt to be turned down and my stomach muscles churned at the thought of it happening a second time. When a lad was summoned to one of the rooms his friends would give him a thumbs up sign of encouragement.

Then as he came out all eyes were again on him as it was obvious by his expression whether he had passed or failed.

When my name was called it felt as if I was entering an execution chamber. The two officers were relaxed and friendly, the senior one a flight lieutenant in his forties. I kept answering their questions, always finishing with the word ‘Sir’. Then I was asked to write down a short explanation as to why I wanted to become aircrew. This was right up my street, English being my best subject at school. Both seemed

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satisfied with my efforts. Then the older officer asked me what aircrew category I particularly wanted. ‘Wireless operator airgunner, Sir!’ ‘Wouldn’t you like to be a pilot?’ I hesitated for a moment, thinking this was some form of trick question. ‘No sir! I’m doing well at morse, sir!’ Both men exchanged glances. ‘All right then. We’ll put you down for wireless op air gunner.’ I was over the moon. It wasn’t till I got back to the billet and one of the other lads said, ‘I’ll be leaving you chaps! I’m off to train as a pilot!’ I then realized that I was being offered pilot training and had stupidly turned it down. However I was elated at being aircrew which is what I had originally hoped for. Now I could wear the white flash in my cap to prove it.

Ten shillings didn’t go very far in a place like Blackpool. Fortunately the local cafes and entertainments gave special discounts for servicemen.

We would walk the length of the prom to sample the rides at the Pleasure Beach. Admission to the Tower was sixpence including all the amenities such as the aquarium and the circus. My mother now wrote to me regularly having learned that I had joined the RAF. Every week another couple of lads failed their morse test and were taken off the course so our squad of forty dwindled to thirty four. I passed an unofficial eighteen wpm test which seemed to bother one or two of the chaps. ‘You’re learning too fast, Jock! When you go on to Compton Bassett you’ll go stale!’ The majority finally passed the expected ten wpm and before we knew it we were being given ten days’ leave prior to going on to Compton Bassett in Wiltshire. I said goodbye to Ron Dexter and Bert the pianist who still had a couple of weeks training to do.

First leave, in the snow Arriving home on my first leave was a bit of a let down. It was mid January with three inches of snow on the ground and freezing cold.

My pal Johnny didn’t finish work till after three by which time it was almost dark. I spent most of my time sitting in the house rather than

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trudging around the snow covered streets. My father didn’t seem particularly glad to see me and never once asked what I had been doing since I joined up. The significance of the white flash in my cap wasn’t appreciated either. ‘What’s that thing in your cap?’ someone asked. One evening at the pictures with Johnny we watched a newsreel entitled, ‘Birth of a Lancaster’. This was the new four-engined bomber that was going to flatten Nazi Germany. It was actually a variation of the ill-fated twin-engined Manchester bomber which could barely struggle above eight thousand feet with a full bomb load and literally fell out of the sky if one engine stopped. On the last day of my leave I bumped into Pete Moyes, one of the lads we ran around with during our errand boy days. He was always a tall, good looking lad and now he was a sergeant pilot in the RAF. ‘Long time no see, Willie! Someone told me you had joined the RAF.’ That was the last time I ever saw Pete. A year later his Lancaster was shot down over the Ruhr. He left behind a young wife expecting their first baby.

Compton Bassett After a boring ten days I was glad to be returning to service life.

Compton Bassett signals school reminded me of Padgate with its rows of wooden barracks surrounded by the usual barbed wire fencing. Just inside the entrance gate stood an imposing gun turret bristling with four browning machine guns. It looked similar to the rear turret on a Whitley bomber. I never ever saw anyone manning it though I assumed it was there to fend off low flying enemy aircraft. There must have been five hundred trainee wireless ops there divided into four wings, with each man doing a twelve week course at the end of which he would hopefully graduate as a fully fledged ground wireless operator.

The lad in the next bunk was strikingly handsome, a cross between Ronald Coleman and Douglas Fairbanks. No woman married or single was immune to his polished charm. He also had a way of manipulating

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naive characters like myself, coaxing them to take his turn at guard duty so that he could meet some damsel in distress. In spite of this one couldn’t help liking Norman though we saw little of him after classes as he was out of camp every night, reporting back at the last minute.

Though I never ever set eyes on our C.O. he must have been a lover of military music as an elaborate tannoy system was set up throughout the entire camp blaring out Souza marches from dozens of loudspeakers.

He also had a rule that between classes all pupils would march in time to the music. Instructors were posted at various vantage points to make sure that this was carried out. Anyone caught running or taking a shortcut was immediately apprehended and put on fatigue duties.

In the mornings and afternoons pupils were allowed a fifteen minute tea break. This meant that if you weren’t among the first hundred to reach the NAAFI canteen you had no chance of getting tea and a wad (bun). It was an unforgettable spectacle, reminding me of the charge of the light brigade, watching five hundred young men marching to blaring music converging on the canteen whilst eagle eyed instructors hovered behind every hut ready to pounce. The music would suddenly stop and that’s when the charge began. I later wondered if our C.O. was ever aware of the chaos his love of music created. The instant the music ceased there was a mad headlong rush to be among the first hundred blokes though that canteen door. To add to the congestion this door was at right angles to their headlong approach causing the leading lads to be swept beyond the door by sheer weight of numbers.

Some were slammed against the canteen, the thuds vibrating through the timbered wall.

I was on NAAFI fatigue duties one morning with a couple of other lads when it approached time for break. We downed tools and took our positions at the windows to savour the spectacle. Even the NAAFI girls joined us to watch. With the music blaring from a battery of tannoys we watched large groups of airmen marching

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My maternal grandfather, William Christie 1930

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in step converging on the parade ground. Then sudden silence and all hell let loose. A sea of charging figures swept towards us their boots drumming on the tarmac. I instinctively stepped back from the window. Then one of the leading runners tripped and fell headlong in the path of the charging mob. Almost instantly a bulky figure stopped and stood astride his fallen mate warding off others as he stooped in a fighting crouch to protect himself from being trampled.

I recognized the brave lad as Bill Moss, one of the men from our squad. I myself almost had my arm broken on one occasion when I was crushed against the wall by sheer weight of numbers.

The tiny village of Compton Bassett seemed dead after Blackpool, boasting a couple of pubs and with hardly any girls around. One of the few highlights in this rather dreary backwater was when a pair of Westland Whirlwind fighters flew low over our camp several times just to let us know there was a war going on. I didn’t excel at wireless theory, finding it quite boring ,but I passed a 22 wpm test in sending and receiving morse after my third week We were also given instruction on semaphore, that is sending messages using flags as well as the Aldis lamp.

The weeks dragged by and I spent most of my time in camp in the evenings trying to memorise technical phrases and understand electrical diagrams. My problem was that if I had no interest in a subject I wouldn’t make the effort to study it. I was relying on my morse to see me through the final exam which indeed it did. I passed out as a wireless op second class. My morse would have gained me leading aircraftsman status but my theory let me down. I wasn’t particularly elated to be now wearing a radio operator’s badge on my sleeve, especially when I learned that I would be assigned to ground duties for at least six months. It could have been worse. Some of the lads were kept behind for a further two weeks revision. It didn’t surprise me that Norman was among them.

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Bawtry Hall After a week’s leave I had orders to report to a signals unit at Bawtry and my pay more than doubled. Bawtry Hall was a stately home requisitioned by the RAF as the wartime headquarters of No 1 group bomber command. Thus the arrival of an insignificant aircraftsman second class wireless op passed unnoticed among the steely eyed decision making officers based there. I was just another nonentity, there to salute them. I shared a billet with a dozen other chaps, two of whom were corporals. It seemed they were a close little clique and I was referred to as ‘the new bloke’. I was assigned to the teleprinter room and for the first week I sat around doing nothing. The teleprinter was gradually replacing the radio in areas where it was possible to link cables for communication. So my training as a wireless op was more or less redundant here. Most of the operators were WAAFs and one of them took pity on me, inviting me to sit with her as she operated the teleprinter.

The teleprinter machine was a cumbersome metal box with a keyboard clattering away noisily when in use. The operator typed out a message which also appeared on dozens of other machines linked to it throughout the country. The coded heading and routing was similar to that used by wireless operators transmitting messages. So all I had to do was learn to type which is what seemed to be expected of me. During a break in transmissions Irene, the WAAF operator, would allow me to type out painstakingly short sentences, showing me how to place my fingers on the keyboard. She told me she was engaged to an army corporal serving in North Africa but I felt she had taken a shine to me.

Bawtry Hall was set in beautiful surroundings with sweeping lawns bordered by flowering shrubs and rose beds. There was also a large boating pond with a diving board for any one fancying a swim. The warrant officer in charge of our section was a cricketing fanatic

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and always on the lookout for a budding Don Bradman among any newcomers. ‘D’you play any cricket, lad?’ When I informed him otherwise he lost all interest in me. But it was quite relaxing to sit at the side of the pitch listening to the crack of leather on willow and watching him play umpire to groups of young hopefuls running around in white flannels. In spite of the high ranking officers around the place, the war could have been a million miles away.

After a month I became thoroughly fed up with the way things were going. One of the other wireless ops had been here for over six months waiting to be recalled for aircrew training. ‘I’m beginning to think they’ve forgotten all about me, Jock!’ The thought of spending the rest of the war listening to the clatter of teleprinters was unthinkable.

Again responding to impulse I went to the camp education officer and told him my problems. ‘And I would like to remuster to pilot, sir!’

He seemed a decent sort and understood the impatience of youth.

‘You say you were already offered pilot training?’ I nodded. ‘Then I must put you through an intelligence test again before I can make a recommendation.’ Less than a week passed before I was summoned to yet another aircrew interview. He had another officer with him and I underwent the usual questions such as ‘Why do you want to be a pilot?’ It all seemed so casual and relaxed that I answered the questions confidently and felt no surprise when the education officer announced, ‘I think we can recommend you for pilot training.’ A fortnight later I was summoned to the orderly room. My spirits soared but came back to earth with a thud after I reported to the orderly room clerk. ‘You’re being posted to Snaith!’ ‘Is it for pilot training?’ The clerk looked at me as if I was mad. ‘What`s this about pilot training? You’re posted there as a ground wireless op!’ It was of little consolation when he added, ‘But you’re on a forty-eight hour pass before reporting.’

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There wasn’t time to travel home so I decided to spend the time in York to see what the town looked like. I had never ever seen a walled city and was fascinated by the narrow cobbled streets and the quaint, picturesque buildings and old churches. The pubs were doing a roaring trade with servicemen everywhere, many of them aircrew from the bomber stations in the area. That night as I lay asleep in a YMCA hostel the familiar wail of air raid sirens woke me. No one in our room paid much attention till a series of explosions rocked the building. ‘Jesus Christ!’ a voice shouted. Memories of that evening in my father’s house when I cringed in the coal cellar flooded back. But I wasn’t going to show my fear in front of strangers and just lay still.

Then came another couple of explosions, this time farther off. Then all was silent. I slept little after that though I had to be up early to catch a train to Doncaster en route to Blyton.

A real live airfield I arrived at York station lugging my kitbag and respirator to find the place in uproar. The station had suffered a direct hit on the platform just inside the main entrance. Twisted metal and smoking debris lay piled high across the platform and staff were too preoccupied with clearing up to listen to my inquiries about trains. Amazingly enough the lines themselves were virtually undamaged, and trains were running an emergency timetable. I jumped on the first train heading south which luckily stopped at Doncaster. It seemed that most RAF camps were built in the middle of nowhere and Blyton was no exception, but at least it was a real live airfield with Wellington bombers standing in the morning mist on the outlying dispersal pans bordering the main runway.

The corporal service policeman at the main gate looked me up and down as I handed him my paybook and travel warrant. His expressionless eyes lingered on the white flash in my cap for a moment before studying the contents of my paybook. The letters S.P. adorned the armband worn

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by the dreaded RAF police, Britain’s answer to the Gestapo. It was a well known fact that anyone who joined the RAF police ceased to be a member of the human race. Hence the pun: ‘What is the definition of a bastard file? A row of S.P.s queuing for pay parade! ‘You’re not entitled to wear that thing in your cap, airman! This isn’t a training camp!’ Reluctantly I took the offending white flannel from my forage cap and stuck it in my coat pocket. ‘All right, airman!’ he growled, obviously content at having taken me down a peg, ‘Report to the orderly room!

RAF Raw Recruits (myself, front row, 2nd from left) Blackpool, October 1941 Blyton wasn’t what I imagined a bomber station to look like. For one thing there was plenty of mud around and many of the ground crews wore rubber gum boots rolled down to expose the canvas linings. Our billets were corrugated metal nissen huts with a door on either end and a metal stove in the centre of the floor with the pipe sticking through a

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hole in the roof. They were also grouped in sites well outside the airfield perimeter. This meant having to trudge through a couple of fields to get to the cookhouse. This time I landed the role of electrician in the accumulator room attending to the charging of low tension batteries for the aircraft radio transmitter sets. Because the place reeked with acid fumes, whoever was unfortunate enough to be in charge was allowed a pint of milk daily. I put it on a par with working in the brickworks kiln but without the heat.

For the life of me I can’t remember the number of the squadron based there but I knew the kites to be earlier Pegasus engined Wellingtons with twin gun rear turrets and a swivel browning poking out either side of the fuselage. These Mark 1c versions were known to shed a wing now and again due to a weak main spar. It began to look as if half of the earlier wartime aircraft suffered design faults making them potential death-traps. This was probably partly due to the aircraft builders’ desperate need to fill their order books and the air ministry’s readiness to accept anything that would fly. I was shown how to charge the accumulators and use the hydrometer to test the acid, all in a space of ten minutes. And to think that the lives of the entire squadron could depend on batteries charged by someone who hadn’t a clue what he was doing. To have a wireless op doing an electrician’s job shows how round pegs are put into square holes.

Defence course A new branch of the RAF had just been created: the RAF regiment.

These lads wore army battle dress with the winged albatross and RAF regiment insignia on their tunic shoulder. Their job was to defend the airfield against enemy ground troops. To justify their existence a scheme was devised by which they ran a training course for other ranks such as myself so that we too could face up to invading troops. I was among the first batch detailed for this instruction. This must have

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raised sighs of relief from the wireless op airgunners on the squadron as several aircrew had brought back accumulators complaining that they hadn’t been charged properly. My incompetence had quickly come to light when batteries went flat halfway to the target. Some of the wireless ops now made a point of coming to the charging room and personally testing several batteries before selecting one of their choice. They could quite easily have made an official complaint but the esprit de corps amongst airmen stopped them from deliberately getting a comrade in trouble.

This defence course lasted a week during which we were shown how to throw hand grenades and made to do bayonet practice. We also had to endure an assault course by running the gauntlet along a shallow valley carrying our rifle and bayonet at the ready. For added effect some of the RAF regiment chaps enthusiastically hurled huge firecrackers down on us from various vantage points. There were the usual route marches to toughen us up.

One day it started to rain and the instructor ordered us to ‘trail arms’ forgetting we had our bayonets fixed. I felt a sudden stab of pain in the ball of my leg when the lad immediately behind accidentally stuck the point of his bayonet in it. His ‘Sorry chum!’ went unnoticed amid my howl of pain and anger and the squad were ordered to halt. The sergeant examined my wound which proved little more than a small puncture. A strip of plaster was applied.

Embarrassed at his lack of foresight he gruffly ordered us to unfix bayonets before resuming our march.

Control tower with a film extra Our week’s training over, I was back in the accumulator room and thanks to my combat training I found myself detailed for aircraft guard one night. This entailed trudging round the aircraft dispersals carrying a rifle

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and bayonet in the small hours of the morning, prepared to challenge anyone lurking in the darkness. There were six of us, two lads being on guard whilst the others slept. This meant two hours on and four off with the duty officer calling twice nightly to ensure that this was carried out to the letter. But one of the lads had a better idea. He had the key to the armoury where the rifles were handed in after use. So we drew lots to see which two lads could go back to their own bed in the billet whilst the rifles went back in the armoury. Thus when the orderly officer came round he found four guards asleep. He naturally assumed that the other two were out on patrol doing their duty.

When the ‘Wimpys’ or Wellingtons took off on ops they were watched by some of the ground crews, especially the flight mechs who serviced them who were often on first name terms with some of the flying crews.

One early evening at the end of May 1942 after seeing our crews take off in the fading daylight I became aware that the sky seemed alive with the drone of engines. A group of us stood watching near the main hangar and we could make out dozens of silhouettes dotted across the clear evening sky. I recognized the shapes of four-engined Stirlings as well as twin-engined Wellingtons and Manchesters, even one or two ageing Whitleys hanging almost motionless in space as they drifted high overhead heading eastwards.

‘By god, there’s something big on tonight!’ remarked one of the flight mechs. We gazed upwards trying to count how many planes we could make out as they droned purposefully onwards. ‘There must be hundreds of the ruddy things!’ gasped another voice. His estimate wasn’t far wrong. It was the night of the first thousand bomber raid on Cologne and a shot in the arm for the RAF’s lagging morale. This was Bomber Harris’s new strategy, to put as many bombers as possible over a target in a constant stream creating maximum damage and relying on a safety in numbers policy to minimize bomber losses. The raid was hailed a success. The city of Cologne was said to be engulfed

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in a firestorm with the loss of only forty out of the one thousand aircraft bombers which took part. Quite a few of the crews were from operational training units, or OTUs as they were known. Rumour had it that Anson trainers were used to make up the number. The papers made a meal of it and the bomber crews now ousted the fighter boys from the limelight. American airfields began to appear in south east England as part of the build up of a massive bomber offensive against the Third Reich. Then came the news that the Russians had halted the German advance at Stalingrad. Likewise, General Montgomery’s Desert Rats had stopped Rommel’s Panzer divisions at El Alamein.

I was transferred to the flying control tower to fill in for an R.T. operator who was off sick. My job was to receive and pass messages between the flying control officer and the pilots. This usually entailed landing and takeoff instructions as the range of transmission was little more than five miles. These radios depended on my batteries as well as the intercom unit aboard the plane. I was now learning the importance of making sure those batteries were properly charged.

The Control Officer was a really decent guy, treating those under him as equals. He was an American in his mid thirties and had worked as a film extra in Hollywood before joining the RCAF. Many Americans moved to Canada so that they could get into the war. After we saw the bombers on their way we had five or six hours to sit around awaiting their return. The C.O. usually stayed around watching the take offs then retired to his quarters, leaving us to hold the fort.

The controller and I would chat away about life in general. He was over age for flying training but had been accepted as an officer cadet.

He told me he had played the part of an Arab tribesman in the film Beau Geste. ‘I was the guy who got shot by Gary Cooper as I climbed over the ramparts!’ he joked. One night we were so engrossed in some tale or other that the first of the returning Wellingtons were droning

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round the circuit calling for landing instructions. In the confusion some of the bombers were landing downwind. It was the first time I saw him get excited. Fortunately there was hardly any wind that night.

I was sorry to leave the control tower but the other chap had returned from sick bay. I paid more attention to seeing that my accumulators were fully charged after that. So something good came of my stint in the control tower.

The weeks dragged by and I had almost given up hope of ever being recalled for aircrew training. Then one dreary wet morning whilst I was in the latrines a voice called, ‘You in there, Jock? You’re wanted down at the orderly room right away!’ I made my way along the muddy pathway wondering what they had in store for me now. ‘Your posting for aircrew training has just come through.’ My heart leapt. ‘Is it for pilot training?’ I asked dry-mouthed. ‘The WAAF shook her head.

‘Airgunner training I’m afraid!’ I felt a twinge of disappointment and hesitated before replying.

Should I sit tight and wait for my pilot training to come through? But what if it never came and I now turned down airgunner training? I’d be stuck here for the duration. So I signed the acceptance form. ‘Collect your travel warrant in the afternoon and have your kit packed ready to leave tomorrow morning’. I had to call at Lindholme near Doncaster to collect flying kit. One of the lads in the billet with whom I had struck up an acquaintance surprised me by almost pleading with me to stay. ‘You’ll only end up getting yourself killed, Jock!’ But by now I had made up my mind that I was going. It was a novel experience being issued with flying boots, sheepskin gloves, a helmet and goggles as well as all the other odds and ends that went with them. My warrant was for St. John’s Wood, London where I was to report to the Aircrew reception centre. It was dark by the time I arrived in King’s Cross station and lugged my two kitbags along the station platform.

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St John’s Wood Though it was after ten in the evening the main booking hall was quieter than I expected. I was about to ask one of the porters how I would get to St John’s Wood when a voice called my name. I could hardly believe it when I turned to find Ron Dexter and another lad heading towards me. They were bound for the same destination and with Ron being a Londoner finding the place was no longer a problem. After exchanging greetings we headed for the Underground. It was a stroke of luck bumping into Ron. I would have been completely lost in the labyrinth of passageways and escalators, not to mention the different lines that ran under the city. Ron kept chatting in his cheery Cockney voice telling me he had been attached to the Army since leaving radio school. ‘I was a wireless op on armoured cars. It’s a great life driving around the countryside on exercises and manoeuvres. The army are a great bunch of lads!’

It was a novelty for me sitting in a carriage rattling along in the bowels of the earth. ‘There isn’t a station at St. John’s so we’ll have to hoof it part of the way!’ We didn’t know that an air raid alert was on till we left the subway exit. Searchlights fanned the night, their white fingers searching for enemy bombers. The streets were deserted and in the darkness we had difficulty finding Grove Court, where we were to report. A woman’s voice hailed us, hearing us in the darkness. She was one of the locals and asked if we would mind sitting with an elderly widow who lived on her own and got very frightened during an air raid. ‘I’ve been with her for a couple of hours but I’ve to get back to me own ‘ouse!’ We couldn’t really say no. We sat in the old lady’s tiny living room for nearly an hour till the all clear siren sounded. She made us a cup of tea but we declined the offer of biscuits as her cupboard looked bare.

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Grove Court had been a rather posh set of flats taken over by the Air ministry to accommodate aircrew cadets. There wasn’t a soul around.

Not even a guard at the entrance. It looked as if everyone was still in the air raid shelters. When someone finally appeared we were shown to our quarters and for the first time we found linen sheets on our beds. We spent almost three weeks there doing little or nothing other than attending dental and medical exams. We sometimes paraded at Lord’s cricket ground, and we underwent a night vision test. Ron and I spent a lot of evenings travelling around on the underground just for the fun of it.

Aircraft recognition and Strauss waltzes For some reason or other we were issued with brand new greatcoats.

We were then posted to yet another training camp at Bridgnorth in Shropshire. I had hoped to see some training aircraft there. But as we marched up the hill from the station my heart sank when all I saw was the usual collection of barrack room huts and not a plane in sight. We spent four weeks there learning all about the Browning machine gun and naming its parts. By the end of the second week we could assemble the gun blindfold.

There was a large hangar that served as a church and housed an impressive reed organ. One of the sergeants was a marvellous player and I enjoyed listening to his stirring music playing Strauss waltzes. He would play for hours most evenings. Bridgnorth itself was a lovely old town with a unique cable railway that linked the high town with the low. It cost one penny for a return ticket though we only rode it for the novelty as climbing a hundred steps was no effort to a young man. I met a girl in town and took her to the local cinema a couple of times but she already had a regular boyfriend.

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We were taught aircraft recognition which was right up my street and were finally given a written test to assess what each of us had learned during our time there. We were told that though there would be no failures the results of this exam would be taken into account during future training.

Two days before leaving I got a letter from my mother saying that my grandfather had died. I felt a stab of remorse remembering how in my rush I had left Blairlogie without making time to say goodbye.

Airborne at Madley A wave of excitement swept through the billet when word got out that we were being posted to Madley for flying training. ‘Just think, Jock, flying at long last!’ chortled Ron. We travelled by train to Hereford where we piled excitedly into a waiting Bedford truck for the six miles ride to Madley. No 2 Aircrew Wing was once again the usual collection of wooden billets with no sign of an airfield.

Then somewhere in the distance came the sound of revving engines.

After we were billeted we had to assemble in a small field which turned out to be a makeshift parade ground. We were issued with blue discs to attach to our respirator case to identify which wing we belonged to. Our site lay in pleasant rural surroundings and only a short walk from the village with its solitary pub.

The first two weeks were spent in the classroom listening to dull wireless theory. Unfortunately there was a written test at the end of this so we were obliged to stay awake, scribbling down notes to jog our memory. I was already dreading the written exam as I couldn’t seem to grasp the subject. I wondered if the other lads were having the same difficulty. I handed in my completed exam paper convinced I hadn’t a hope of getting a pass. I excelled at morse and aircraft recognition and I knew all there was to know about the

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Browning machine gun, but amps and ohms and electrical circuits left me cold.

While awaiting the results of our exam, Ron and I took a walk to the airfield one afternoon. A Mustang fighter had belly landed the previous day and now lay forlornly on the churned up earth with tufts of grass still clinging to its bent prop blades. The story was that the pilot had forgotten to drop his undercart. This might seem like gross negligence but it did happen if a pilot lost concentration for a moment. A row of trim single-engined Percival Proctors stood near the main hangar while three or four twin-engined De Haviland Dominis were parked beyond them. These were the aircraft we would be flying provided a miracle occurred and I passed my exam.

Next morning we paraded in front of our flight sergeant instructor.

‘You’ll all be heading for the airfield this morning to begin flying training!’ I was taken aback. What about the examination, I wondered?

We fell into marching order and set off for the flying field. Strangely enough nothing was ever heard of those results. Perhaps, after all, knowing how a magnetic field created electrical current wasn’t going to be much use if a night fighter got you in his sights.

It was an exciting moment to be climbing into an airplane for my first flight. Five of us were assigned to each of the four Dominis with a sergeant w/op airgunner instructor in charge of each group.

The Domini was actually a De Haviland Rapide passenger plane converted to wireless op training. A biplane with distinctive daggerpointed wings, it was one of the most recognizable planes in the sky.

There was one well worn radio transmitter unit aboard where each pupil would take turn trying his hand at receiving and transmitting messages to ground operators. There was also a large tin on the floor for anyone suffering from airsickness. But I took little of these details in, being in the grip of excitement at this being my first time up in

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a plane. After the engines fired up and the Domini started bouncing along the grass towards the main runway, I could scarcely believe that I was actually about to climb into the wide blue yonder and gaze down on the world below.

I sat staring out of my side window in nervous anticipation as the Domini swung onto the runway and the pilot lined up the aircraft for take-off. The whole airframe shook as the engines burst into full song and we were bounding along the tarmac gathering speed by the second.

I looked down at the runway racing past, waiting for the moment. The wheels lifted off the ground and before I realized it we were in the air, buffeting and swaying as the pilot gained height. The runway fell away behind us and it felt to me as if we were slowing down. As we climbed higher the impression of speed was gone and we seemed to be drifting over a patchwork quilt of green fields dotted with tiny sheep and cattle. The farms and cottages looked no bigger than matchboxes and in some ways reminded me of my afternoons on the summit of Dumyat. The difference was the awareness of being suspended in space with nothing below us. What I did notice was that the horizon remained at eye level.

Our instructor decided it was time for the first pupil to try his hand at contacting one of the ground stations. He allowed each of us fifteen minutes’ practice at tuning and exchanging simple messages using the 1082/1083 transmitter-receiver unit. This set, like the aircraft itself, was obsolete and now used mainly for training purposes. We had our first experience of air turbulence as our plane started buffeting and shaking, causing me to feel ill. Then one of the others asked for the bucket and was violently sick. This only made me feel worse. All I wanted was to get back on the ground and stretch out on the cool grass. I was in no fit state to take a turn on the radio. The flight back to the airfield seemed to take for ever. We did three more flights in Dominis with nobody becoming sick and I managed to take my turn

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on the radio. But I was having problems picking out the signals from the ground station and the instructor kept helping me out. He reminded me that I’d have to cope on my own when I went on to fly Proctors.

‘So you’d better get your finger out, chum!’

Three attempts, then…

It was early autumn with balmy summer days and ideal weather for flying. But as I lay on the grass outside the flight office waiting my turn to fly I was dry-mouthed and apprehensive. Ron Dexter lay stretched out nearby, idly searching for four-leafed clovers. ‘What’s bothering you, Jock old son?’ I told him I was worried about this fifteen minute ruling we were warned about. It seemed that if the pupil wireless op didn’t make contact within fifteen minutes after take-off his pilot had instructions to land the plane. The pupil had then failed the exercise and was allowed two more attempts. To fail a third time meant being taken off the course and posted back to ground duties. This deadline policy applied in every aspect of training in the RAF. There wasn’t time to spend on slow learners and they were discarded like faulty products on a conveyor belt. At that moment a Proctor’s Gypsy engine coughed into life and my name was called for the next flight. I gathered up my parachute and wireless logbook and hurried across the grass. ‘Take it easy Jock!’ Ron gave me a reassuring grin and the thumbs-up sign.

The pilot was a Polish sergeant who barely spoke a word of English but looked friendly. I climbed in behind him facing forward with the radio equipment between us.

The drill was that after take off I would reel out a fifty foot trailing aerial and commence my radio exercise. Once on the runway the throttle was rammed wide open and I felt myself pushed back in my seat. The Proctor climbed steeply and I felt as if I had left my stomach behind. He was acting as if it were a Spitfire he was flying. We finally levelled off and I went through the motions of reeling out the aerial and

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switching on the set. I managed to pick up the ground station and was tuning my transmitter onto his frequency when a muffled bang came from somewhere under the fuselage. Next thing the trailing aerial wire came coiling back up on the floor.

I knew instantly that the lead weights had gone. I half rose to see over the top of the radio to check what height we were flying. The Proctor was skimming a meadow at thirty feet scattering sheep in all directions.

I tapped the pilot on the shoulder frantically indicating that he should start climbing. The trailing aerial had obviously shed its weights when it hit a tree and now I couldn’t get a signal on my receiver. I was too worried about failing the exercise to be angry with the pilot. He must have just stuck the nose down when he saw the sheep to have a bit of fun. Or did he make a habit of this?

Back at the airfield they were going to fine me one pound, assuming I had forgotten to reel in the aerial before landing. The Polish pilot was finally able to grasp the situation and accepted responsibility for losing it. But I still failed the exercise. I should have switched over to the fixed aerial and continued transmitting. Ron Dexter had no trouble making radio contact on his trip. ‘A piece of cake, Jock!’ I related my own sad story. ‘Never mind. You’ll show them next time!’ I wished I felt as confident. Next morning I got a red haired sergeant pilot who looked as if he was just out of flying school. He turned out to be an unpleasant character. He started off by insisting that I address him as ‘sergeant’ and that I inform him on everything I did during the flight.

Because of his attitude and still worrying over yesterday’s failure I became flustered. I couldn’t relax and tune in to the ground signal.

Worse still, he kept looking round and asking if I had made contact.

Next thing I knew he reached back and switched off my radio set.

‘Your fifteen minutes are up, airman!’ A few minutes later we were back at the flight office where I reported another failure.

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That evening I went into Hereford alone, not wishing to talk to any of the other men. I wandered aimlessly along the river bank and sat on a park bench staring disconsolately across the Wye at a large building which proved to be the city hospital. As I sat idly looking around I noticed a young girl walking in my direction. She passed by giving me a coy look and I sensed that she wanted to talk. We shyly exchanged greetings and she came and stood by the bench telling me she worked as a nurse, ‘… in that building across the river,’ indicating the one I had been looking at. It never entered my mind till later that she had probably seen me from her window and had engineered our meeting. I was soon pouring out my tale of woe while she listened with a sympathetic smile. ‘If you want something badly enough it will happen,’ she reassured me. We sat for over an hour then I walked her back as I had to catch the last bus to Madley. I felt much better from having met her. She seemed a sensible, likeable girl and we had arranged to meet on her next day off.

The following morning I could hardly eat breakfast worrying about my next flight. As we marched to the airfield I felt butterflies in my stomach. Today would be my third and last attempt and I dreaded the thought of going up in a Proctor again. It was a beautiful morning with a cloudless sky and we lay around on the grass watching the Proctors being made ready for flying. As usual, Ron and I were killing time looking for four-leafed clovers. ‘I’ve found one!’ I exclaimed, as if it were some rare artefact. ‘And I’ve just found my third!’ chortled Dex.

A little encouragement can work wonders At that moment something in the sky caught my attention. A mass of white vapour trails were moving slowly across the blue sky and at such height that we could barely make out the aircraft that were creating them. ‘God! There must be hundreds of them!’ gasped Dex.

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We knew they must be American Flying Fortresses and this was a mighty armada bound for Germany. It was a thrilling spectacle. At that moment I felt I would have given anything to have been up there as a crew member.

A tall Australian flight sergeant stood lounging against the wing of the Proctor awaiting my arrival. ‘You’re all right with him, Jock’.

Dex gave me an encouraging wink. ‘I’ve flown twice with him. No sweat!’ I was still feverishly twirling the tuning dials long after my fifteen minutes were up. ‘Sorry mate, but I’ll have to take you back down.’ In desperation I asked if he could fly a bit nearer to the ground transmitter. He immediately stood the Proctor on one wing. ‘There’s the bloody thing right underneath us, mate!’

As our Proctor touched down and swung off the runway, I felt that my training days were over. Ron Dexter knew by my expression that things had gone badly wrong and that this wasn’t the time for words of consolation. Then a voice announced, ‘Cadet Gilmour! prepare for another flight!’ I stopped in my tracks. My pilot was a mature flight lieutenant, a veteran of sixty bombing trips. I poured out my tale of woe to him as we clambered into the plane. ‘Not to worry! I’ll let you have an extra ten minutes so don’t panic!’ His words were like a shot in the arm. I completed the entire radio exercise in no time and proudly gave him the thumbs-up sign. To celebrate he took me for an aerial sightseeing trip round the city of Hereford and I gazed down on the cathedral and the river Wye where I had sat beside my young nurse. I couldn’t understand how I had experienced such difficulty on my previous flights. I had no problems with the flights that followed, which goes to show how a little encouragement can work wonders.

I met my nurse a couple of times after that and usually missed the last bus back to camp. It meant a six mile hike which was nothing to a fit lad of nineteen. We arranged to meet again a couple of nights later but

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it was not to be. Word came through that we had completed our flying training and were now leading aircraftsmen and were to have our kits packed and be ready to leave. We were being posted to No 7 airgunner school in Stormydown in South Wales. I would always look back on Madley with fond memories in spite of my initial difficulties.

Airgunner School, Porthcawl We travelled by train though I can’t recall the journey, my memory blurred by excitement at being a step nearer to getting my wing and three stripes. The airfield was barely three miles from the seaside resort of Porthcawl which was a smaller version of Blackpool. Although the normal airgunner course lasted six weeks we wireless ops were being given a ten day emergency course. This meant we would have to absorb all the technicalities of airgunnery in a quarter of the time but with no actual flying involved. This was disappointing as I was looking forward to flying in the rear turret of a Whitley bomber, blazing away with four machine guns at a drogue target. But the thought of leaving the camp in ten days wearing sergeant’s stripes and a wing more than compensated for this.

On arrival we were ordered to hand in our tunics to the camp tailor to have airgunner brevets and three stripes sewn on. The idea was that it was easier for the three or four lads who failed the course to take these off again rather that than have ninety plus uniforms being handed in to have stripes sewn on at the last moment before the owners went on leave. So by the end of the second day a row of tunics bearing brand new sergeants’ stripes hung proudly along the billets, with the exception of myself and another pessimist who, like me, felt he couldn’t bear the risk of having to take them off again.

Our training in Bridgnorth stood us in good stead. The Browning was no problem and I already excelled at aircraft recognition. This latter was an

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important factor for a gunner who needed to know the wingspan of an attacking enemy fighter in order to calculate its range on the illuminated ring-sight. We were taught about gravity drop and the curve of pursuit.

Both gravity and air resistance affected a bullet from the moment it left the barrel affecting its velocity and trajectory. After six hundred yards a three-o-three bullet practically fell out of the sky so there was little point in opening fire on an enemy fighter until he came closer. Our instructor smiled. ‘Keeping in mind of course that the Jerry fighter is already pumping twenty millimetre cannon shells into you’.

Ron Dexter was my constant companion both in the classroom and off duty. We usually walked into Porthcawl and spent most of our time and money on the fairground rides. Sometimes we would walk around the airfield examining the cumbersome Whitley bombers standing in the dispersals. These ageing machines had been the mainstay of bomber command during the earlier part of the war, being the first bombers fitted with a four gun turret. They were now relegated to gunnery schools.

We would watch the Hawker Henley target tugs, each towing a large yellow drogue, weaving majestically around the slow flying Whitleys, presenting a target for the trainee airgunners. The ammo was dyetipped to identify which aircraft had scored hits on the drogue. Some drogue pilots swore that their job was more dangerous than flying ops over enemy territory. We did get our moment of glory manning a fourgun turret blazing away at a plywood airplane as it tore round on a rail similar to that on a greyhound track. It gave me some consolation to see bits of plywood fly as my tracers found their mark. But it was all over in little more than a minute and that was the full extent of our gunnery practice.

To make up our total of rounds fired we each had to queue and take our turn at firing a fixed Browning into a clump of sandbags. When it

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came to my turn I stepped forward and pressed the firing button. The instructor then ticked me off for having fired two hundred rounds!

On the day of our final exams everyone was keyed up, painfully aware of how much was at stake. That afternoon I felt like being on my own so I slunk out of the billet without telling Ron and walked into Porthcawl, brooding about the results along the way. ‘What if I’ve failed?’ I couldn’t bear thinking about it. That night in the billet everyone was whispering about tomorrow’s results. Some bright spark had been in the orderly room, claiming to have seen a copy of the results. He was showered with inquiries. The chap next to me asked how he had fared. ‘You’re okay, Harry! You’ve passed!’ ‘How about me?’ I asked hoarsely. There was an awkward pause. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see your name, Jock.’

Sergeant’s stripes and airgunner’s brevet Next morning a hundred young men stood quaking in their shoes on the parade ground. Before them the commanding officer was seated at a bench with a junior officer in attendance on either side. This was the long awaited ‘wings parade’ where each successful pupil’s name was called and he stepped forward to receive his wing and sergeant’s chevrons. As usual, the lad with the highest marks was called first.

I remembered him as the lad who noted everything the instructor uttered. Ron and I made a joke of this. ‘The sergeant just coughed make a note of that!’ We watched enviously as the lad marched up to the table, saluted, shook hands with the C.O. and was presented with the cherished airgunner’s brevet and sergeant’s stripes.

Three more names were called. Then I could hardly believe my ears.

‘LAC Gilmour!’ I was fifth out of a hundred cadets and the top of my class of twenty-five. Six lads failed the course, one of whom was Harry, the lad in the bed next to mine. It must have been an even bigger

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blow considering that someone had mistakenly informed him that he’d passed. He was sobbing quietly on his bunk when I came to pick up my kit. I felt awkward and could find no words of consolation so I left him to his misery.

Outside the billet the lads were jubilant and eager to be off on leave to show off rank and airgunner brevet. I singled out Ron Dexter chatting to a couple of fellow cockneys also heading for London. ‘Well? We made it, Jock old son!’ Almost two years had passed since we first met as raw recruits in Blackpool. ‘I’d almost given up hope,’ I confessed.

‘Did you ever hear from Bert?’ ‘No’. ‘He couldn’t half play the piano!’

As we shook hands and wished each other luck I felt that this was the end of a chapter in my life. Dex was being posted to an advanced flying unit near Wigtown whilst I would go on to a similar unit at Dumfries after leave.

It was a big moment when I stepped off the train at Dunfermline Upper station lugging my two kitbags aware of my sergeant’s stripes and airgunner’s brevet. But as usual, my homecoming was a bit of an anti-climax and, rather than basking in their admiration, I heard my friends’ concerns about how long I would survive. Johnny my old school chum brought me up to date on some of our classmates who had gone missing. ‘Remember Charlie Philp? He was shot down over Essen!’ I thought I detected a note of glee in the telling. While wandering through Pittencrieff Glen I met a lad who told me his older brother had been lost on his twenty-ninth operation. He went on to say how his mother had visited a fortune teller who assured her that her son was alive and would return after the war. His name is on the local war memorial now. At last I had some recognition from my father who seemed quite pleased that I had made something of myself, and was concerned because of the worrying news of loss of lives about how long it would be before I went on operations.

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The RAF was making the headlines these days with ‘Sixty Five Bombers Missing!’ etc. It made exciting reading at the breakfast table but pretty dismal news to the lads in the sergeants’ mess. I wouldn’t be flying over Germany for some time yet but the remarks did begin to get to me. I met a lad finishing his shift as a railway fireman and experienced a twinge of envy realising that I had given up the security he enjoyed. Perhaps his wasn’t such a bad life after all. I had dreamed of this moment: to come home and swagger down the High street as a sergeant airgunner, and now I was allowing doubts to creep in, imagining that it might only be a matter of time before they would be saying, ‘I hear Willie Gilmour’s missing!’.

Docile old planes in Dumfries In July 1943 I reported back to the AFU at Dumfries and had the experience of entering the sergeants’ mess for the first time. I felt a bit nervous and self-conscious, half expecting to hear a voice telling me to get out. But no one paid the slightest attention apart from a group of older ground staff NCOs who sat at their own table looking disdainfully at these jumped-up aircrew who had only been in the RAF five minutes. Some of them had waited ten years to get their sergeant’s rank whereas a lad of eighteen could now attain that rank within four months of joining up as a rear gunner. One difference was that some of these lads would be lucky to see their nineteenth birthday.

We flew in twin-engine Ansons, docile old planes with a cruising speed of little over a hundred knots. We would be stationed there for a month gaining air operating experience before going on to OTU. The crew consisted of the pilot, a trainee navigator and myself and an experienced wireless op to ensure we didn’t get lost over the Irish Sea. Before each trip I had the experience of sitting at a briefing listening to the navigation officer as he pointed out our flight plan on a wall map of the area. The Anson was a pleasant aircraft to fly in with its large greenhouse-like side windows and leisurely progress. The Wireless

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instructor seemed happy to man the radio most of the time so I just sat back and enjoyed the view below.

Being at the bottom of the pecking order aboard the plane, I landed a horrible chore before take off. Every aircraft had to taxi around the perimeter to reach the main runway for take-off. The perimeter track was in a bad state with cracks and potholes appearing everywhere, to the extent that repair work was in progress. Pilots had been warned that aircraft must not exceed four miles per hour whilst taxiing following a near collision between an Anson and a steam roller. To ensure that this restriction was adhered to one of the crew, namely the trainee wireless op, had to walk ahead of the starboard wing till the aircraft reached the main runway.

Unaware of what lay in store for me I turned up at the briefing in full flying kit complete with fur lined boots. I must have looked foolish plodding along in front of the plane on a warm afternoon with an oxygen mask dangling from my helmet. Then the pilot decided to speed things up a bit and before I knew it I had to dodge to avoid being hit by the wing. I was then out of the pilot’s line of vision and as a taxiing aircraft requires bursts of throttle it is difficult to maintain a steady speed. I was now having to run like mad to keep up and in desperation I grabbed hold of the navigation light on the wing tip. At that moment the offside wheel dropped into a pothole causing the starboard wing to tilt upwards. I was lifted off my feet still holding on to the navigation light. The plastic light fitting snapped off still clutched in my hand and trailing wire from the wing itself. To my relief we reached the main runway and stopped, enabling me to get back aboard where I omitted to mention the broken wing light.

Our flight usually lasted three hours, flying mainly down south as far as Warrington and back along the coast. Sometimes I was given a spell at map reading sitting up front beside the pilot. He would test me out

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by asking me the height of some hill or other causing me to feverishly consult the map. The Anson had no hydraulic system for raising the undercarriage so it had to be pumped up manually. This required about fifty strokes, an arduous effort.

‘Gilmour of the Dams’ I met another character from Compton Bassett days. Norman, the handsome Casanova had somehow managed to flannel his way into passing his exams and was now also a sergeant. We went into town one afternoon and ended up in a pub drinking with some army types. The news was full of the daring raid on Mohne dams led by Guy Gibson.

Norman with his customary charm had the soldiers believing that we had taken part in the raid. ‘Yes lads!’ he announced, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘They call my friend here Gilmour of the dams! But he doesn’t like to talk about it!’ His audience nodded understandingly and one of them said, ‘Jock! I’d be honoured to shake your hand!’ I felt a fool. ‘It’s only for a bit of fun!’ Norman whispered seeing my embarrassment.

That month went by too quickly. Then came the sobering news that I was being posted to No. 9 operational training unit in Lossiemouth.

This time there was no leave and six of us were dropped off with full kit at Dumfries railway station. As we stood waiting for our train I saw by chance on the opposite platform some of the lads from Wigtown whom I recognized from gunnery school days. ‘Where’s Dex?’ I called. One of the lads shook his head. ‘He and Darby were lost over the Irish sea about a week ago!’ I was deeply saddened by his words.

Darby was the other lad who was with him when we first got together at King’s Cross station.

I arrived at Stirling station feeling miserable and lonely waiting for a connection to Perth. A lot had happened since I stood here two years ago waiting for the train to Warrington. I had an hour to wait so I left my kit

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and walked down the line to the loco shed to say hello to the lads there.

It was after dark and the engine shed looked silent and deserted as most of the engines were out working. A couple of fitters there remembered my face, greeting me like a conquering hero though I certainly didn’t feel like one. One of them got on the railway telephone to Alex, a fitter at the Alloa shed, announcing that, ‘Flight Sergeant Willie Gilmour would like a word with you!’ He handed me the phone. Alex sounded a bit formal till he recognized my voice. ‘Shot down any Jerries yet?’ Same old Alex, I thought. We only spoke for a couple of minutes as he had work to do and I a train to catch. Nothing had changed.

The train to Perth was surprisingly busy with few empty seats. I managed to squeeze in between a burly army sergeant and an attractive woman in her thirties. As the train clattered on through the darkness I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift back over the past two years.

The news about Dex was still foremost in my mind. I could still hear the sound of his laughter. His four leaf clovers hadn’t brought him much luck. I hoped his end had been quick and that he hadn’t suffered a lingering death alone on an empty sea.

Hanging around a railway station at night during wartime was not the most cheerful experience and Perth was no exception. The Inverness train didn’t leave till one in the morning but the empty coaches were already standing in one of the docks. Thanks to my railway experience I was able to figure this out and had the whole train to pick a place to sleep. Within an hour the compartments started filling up, mostly servicemen and women, and once again I was sharing my seat with others. I seldom find I can get a proper sleep aboard something moving, especially when woken up at every stop thinking it may be yours. I changed trains at Aviemore and stumbled off at Lossiemouth half asleep, dragging my two kitbags behind me. I was one of a dozen RAF types getting off and waiting for transport to the airfield.

A couple of the others were junior officers obviously commissioned

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while at training school. Four of our lads had been commissioned at gunnery school. I myself had been interviewed during the course. But commissions were granted on personal bearing and background so I had little chance.

Wellingtons and parachutes at Lossiemouth The airfield was little over a mile from the station and half way there I could see the Wellington bombers in drab camouflage in the outlying dispersal pans. I noted that these were the latest versions with Hercules engines and four gun rear turrets. They looked ominous and forbidding, and deep inside I didn’t relish the thought of having to fly in one. Two things had never entered my head when I volunteered for aircrew. One was my claustrophobia and the other I had just became aware of: I was scared of flying. Being trapped inside a burning plane and unable to get out combined the two. But I had made my bed and decided that I must try to hide my newly discovered fears. Strangely enough the thought of flying over Germany and being blown out of the sky in a blaze of glory was something I could live with. But the fear of being trapped inside a plane unable to get out horrified me.

Arriving at the camp, we were quickly allocated billets and I found myself sharing one with a mixture of pilots, navigators and bomb aimers along with a couple of wireless ops. There were also straight airgunners whose sole job was manning the rear turret.

This was only a six week course compared to the wireless op’s nine months. Yet we only got a shilling a day more than they did. We were told there would be a two week ground course followed by an assessment test. For those who failed there would be a further two weeks’ revision while the rest would team up as crew members by mutual choice. If a pilot liked a wireless op he would invite him to join his crew and so on. This was a sort of ritual known as ‘crewing

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up’, the idea being that every crew member was then happy with his mates. Considering that their lives could depend on each other it was a good system.

We did parachute drill and I accidentally pulled the ripcord inside the plane. ‘You’d really be in the shit if you’d been baling out over the Ruhr!’ remarked our instructor dryly. We were introduced to the 1155, the standard radio/transmitter with ‘magic eye’ tuning and now standard equipment in bomber command aircraft. This radio unit made tuning back child’s play compared to the finicky little dials on the Proctor and Anson radios. We were also taught how to use the new Gee radar navigation aid. It was amazing seeing three radio waves appearing on a small screen and to be able to strobe them together and find our aircraft’s exact position. On a more ominous note we were issued with a life light, a buoyant red flashing beacon to be attached to our Mae West in the event of ditching. We also wore a whistle attached to our battle dress lapel to attract the attention of rescuers.

One evening in the sergeants’ mess I heard someone at the piano.

There was only one person I knew who played jazz so well. Sure enough there sat Bert from Blackpool days still with the inevitable fag dangling from the corner of his mouth. But it wasn’t the same devilmay-care Bert I remembered. He showed no enthusiasm at seeing me and was non-committal even when I told him about Dex. He said that one of his eyes was causing him problems and thought it was due to cigarette smoke. I guessed that he was hoping to use this as an excuse to be taken off aircrew. He was married with a family and I sensed that his nerves were getting the better of him. I never saw Bert after that evening so I’ll never know how he fared.

With thoughts of the dangers of war still playing on my mind, I met a WAAF nurse in town and took her to a cafe for tea. As she sat opposite me eating a cream cake she spoke about how an airman’s body had

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been washed up on the beach and brought into the camp morgue. ‘He’d been in the sea for weeks so we couldn’t identify him. But they think he was Canadian!’ She looked across at me inquiringly. ‘If you don’t want that cream bun, I’ll ‘ave it!’

I became friendly with a Canadian sergeant pilot and a likeable navigator with a great sense of humour and had hopes that the three of us would end up in the same crew. I passed the ground course by the skin of my teeth but as only ten wireless ops were required I was one of four held back till the following course. The CO didn’t believe in wasting manpower so we four were leased out to the local farmer as potato pickers. Most of the workers were girls who thought it a bit of a giggle having four young aircrew sergeants working in the fields with them. None of us was amused having to do such menial labour. And to add salt to our wounded pride the CO had us mixing cement to repair the path outside his office. As a consolation we were promised six days’ unofficial leave if we finished the job properly. The day before we were due to go on leave a Wellington bomber stalled on takeoff and crashed on the local golf course. A plume of black oily smoke told its own story and only the pilot got out alive.

I didn’t enjoy that leave, imagining it might be my last. I could now see how folks at home saw aircrew sergeants as glamorous devil-maycare lads. I once thought this myself but had come to think otherwise.

Most wartime aircrew masked their fears by putting on a bold front and drinking to escape reality. Returning from leave, I met a glamorous red haired WAAF in the canteen in Perth station. She was stationed at Kinloss as a teleprinter operator. We seemed mutually attracted to one another and travelled together as far as Aviemore. I arranged to meet her later but forgot her name and never got in contact.

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Crewing up Back in the billet I found the new intake had arrived and a Welsh pilot about my own age approached me as I sat on my bunk, introducing himself as Philip. ‘Would you fancy joining my crew?’

My response was casual, ‘No, I’ll just hang on till the next crewing up session’. He was taken aback by my bluntness. He seemed a decent lad but I didn’t feel like committing myself with a total stranger. After all I would have to fly thirty trips over Germany with him at the controls. After OTU I kept looking for Bert, the pianist, in the mess but it was always someone else at the piano.

That was something I would have to get used to as time went on: faces disappearing from the mess or billet yet life going on as if they had never existed.

A few days later we were called for the ‘crewing up’ ceremony, about sixty assorted aircrew consisting of pilots, navigators, bomb-aimers, wireless ops and straight airgunners from which would emerge twelve bomber crews. The meeting was conducted by three senior officers who maintained order as well as noting names of each pilot and crew. Some of the pilots were keen types like Philip who had already enlisted crew members from lads they had met in the mess. He had found himself a wireless op who came all the way from Trinidad to join the RAF. I sat second row from the front staring nonchalantly straight ahead to give everyone the impression I wasn’t interested. Finally, someone tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, ‘That chap over there wants to know if you would be his W/op?’ I glanced round in the direction he indicated at a lean-faced Canadian sergeant pilot. ‘Tell him okay!’ I replied curtly and resumed staring at the blackboard where one of the officers stood chalking up names.

Next morning after breakfast we were ordered to get our kit together and were later driven out to the dispersal where we bundled everything

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into a Wellington. This was the first time I had ever climbed aboard a bomber about to take off. In spite of its size I thought it quite cramped inside mainly because of the cables, rods and other equipment hampering one’s passage through the fuselage. Entry was through a hatch under the nose using a short ladder stowed aboard after use. The Vickers Wellington was of geodetic construction and canvas-covered so that, between the vibration and the roar of the Hercules engines, the noise inside was deafening during take-off. I decided there and then that I could never enjoy flying in a bomber.

We were hardly five minutes airborne before landing on the runway at Milltown, a satellite ‘drome four miles from Lossiemouth. A Bedford truck took us to our billet, a metal nissen hut that would be our home for the next three months. Two crews shared a billet and I soon got acquainted with the other members in my crew. Tom the pilot was my age whilst the navigator, who was also from Canada, was thirtytwo and the oldest member. Geordie the bomb-aimer hailed from Newcastle and had washed out after six months’ pilot training. Tony the rear gunner was twenty-eight and already a sergeant cook before re-mustering to aircrew.

The pilot of the crew sharing our billet turned out to be Philip Collins, the lad who had asked me to join his crew when I came off leave.

He had another Welsh chap as his navigator and, of course, Sergeant Rother his wireless op from faraway Trinidad. I soon realized that I had little in common with the other members of my crew other than flying in the same aircraft and struck up a friendship with a navigator from the next billet.

Before any flying we as a crew had to learn how to scramble into a rubber dinghy in full flying kit wearing a Mae West. There was a pool specially made for this purpose and even as a fit young man I found it quite exhausting trying to haul myself into the slippery dinghy. Then

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Tom had to learn to land and take-off the Wellington with its eighty-six foot wing spread. He had gained his wings on twin-engined Cessnas in Canada which were less than half the size and quarter the weight. On practice take-offs it wasn’t necessary for a navigator or bomb-aimer to be on board but the wireless op was needed to keep in touch with ground control. The rear gunner mainly provided ballast to give the trainee pilot the feel of someone in the rear of the plane.

After only three circuits and landings the instructor told Tom, ‘I think you’re ready to solo, sergeant!’ Sitting behind them in the radio operator’s position near the main spar I was able to monitor any conversation aboard the plane. The Wellington halted at the end of the main runway with engines idling to allow the flying officer to get out of the aircraft, leaving Tom alone at the controls. He sounded calm and relaxed as he called control for permission to take off. ‘Roger, C for Charlie! You are cleared for takeoff.’ The reply was distorted by the hiss of static. Two twelve hundred horse power Hercules radials burst into full song. I was rammed back in my bucket seat and we were bounding along the runway accelerating by the second. I could see nothing of what was happening seated at my tiny desk, hemmed in by cumbersome radio equipment and trapped inside this vibrating alloy cage. But in my mind’s eye I could see the runway flashing beneath us at ninety miles an hour and the propeller tips missing the fuselage by a foot. The vibration suddenly died away and I felt that familiar floating sensation and an easing off from the engines, telling me we were airborne. Tom made a perfect landing and went on to complete three more circuits and landings. With the RAF’s growing need for bomber crews he was then deemed capable of handling the Wimpy on his own. We were then ready to embark on cross country navigational flights during daylight.

This is where I made the acquaintance of flight sergeant Frankie Reid, a veteran of sixty operations over enemy territory. Frankie was

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on rest after his second tour of ops as a screened wireless op at OTU. His job was to accompany rookie wireless ops such as myself on their first cross-country to make sure they didn’t get lost. The navigator’s work depended a lot on the fixes and radio bearings obtained by the wireless op during bad visibility. Up till now I hadn’t realized the importance of being a competent operator. A bomb-aimer could miss the target by a mile and not jeopardize the crew’s safety but a wrong bearing from the wireless op could send the plane heading out to sea till it ran out of fuel.

First trip…. with Fry’s five centre chocolate Frankie was to accompany us on our first trip and we were to become close friends. Unfortunately he taught me more about drinking off duty than operating the radio in the air. At the briefing the signals officer told us W/ops all we needed to know about ground stations to contact and beacons to tune into. Every half hour we had to tune into a master radio station for what was known as ‘base broadcast.’ This was a coded message about any change of plan for all aircraft involved. We were supplied with code and a book to decipher these messages. We were also responsible for switching on the I.F.F. unit which transmitted a signal so that ground stations could identify us as friendly. ‘Don’t reel out those trailing aerials under a thousand feet. And the same applies reeling in.’ I remembered my fiasco at Madley. These aerials were two hundred and forty feet long, the standard length for bombers.

Our trip lasted roughly six hours flying dog legs from the Moray Firth down, through the Yorkshire coast, then back up the Irish Sea, over Tiree and the outer Hebrides and back to base. Frankie stood over me for a while then, seemingly satisfied that I was coping, he disappeared. I found later that he had been flying the Wellington with Tom keeping an eye on him. I never had time to leave the radio except to use the Elsan. Luke MacKenzie the navigator kept asking for radio

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fixes. Between that and decoding the half-hourly base broadcasts I felt chained to the set. All round it was a boring trip with the only human contact being the navigator’s hand reaching for a bearing I had jotted down. Tony the rear gunner must have felt worse sitting alone in the rear turret but at least he could see outside. The endless drone and vibration became part of one’s very being.

As wireless op I had to eliminate this from my mind in order to pick out one particular morse call sign from several others jamming the frequency.

Every ground station had its own three digit call sign very much like the modern day postcode, the general idea being that an aircraft would call up to request a bearing or position fix. The ground station would then take a bearing using his loop aid and pass it to the aircraft. There were also numerous transmitting beacons around Britain allowing the air operator to take a bearing using its own D/F loop. This wasn’t how I imagined flying would be, cooped up in a tiny cubicle tasting rubber from my oxygen mask and bombarded by morse and engine noise in my ears. The best thing about the flight was our navigator passing round the flying rations with the inevitable bar of Fry’s five centre chocolate, then the sweet milky coffee to wash it down. It felt great back on the ground after six hours of confinement to breathe fresh air again.

When we weren’t flying we attended lectures about what to expect when over enemy territory. These talks were by intelligence officers and screened aircrew with operational experience. ‘The latest FW190 can literally hang on its prop whilst pumping cannon shells into the belly of your bomber. So you’ve no chance when one of these beauties finds you.’ He spoke casually as if it were of no importance. Not to him anyway, being the intelligence officer secure in his neat office.

‘Another thing, gunners!’ he continued, ‘Bomber command now operates four-engined aircraft only. So if you see a Wellington moving up on you, shoot it down!’ He nodded knowingly. ‘Jerry has captured a few of these and may have converted them to night fighters.’

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After lunch to get away from this doom and gloom I agreed to visit Elgin with Frankie. He had already downed a couple of rum and peps before boarding the bus and was in boisterous mood. Our first port of call was the nearest pub and after a couple of rounds it was off to the next. He certainly knew his way around the local bars and by the time we staggered into a cafe he was becoming out of hand. He grabbed one of the waitresses and pulled her on his knee. ‘You just sit with me a while, darlin’,’ he mumbled. We were asked to leave the premises.

I followed him out of the restaurant with my ears burning expecting someone to call the police. But no one voiced any objection. The RAF was in the limelight and aircrew could get away with anything short of murder during the war. After that most of our drinking sessions were confined to the sergeants’ mess. We would romp around smashing empty glasses against the wall, toasting mates that Frankie had lost during his sixty ops. ‘I wonder if you’ll survive two tours, Jock’?’ I shook my head solemnly. ‘Not a chance, Frankie!’

The majority of our pilots were Canadian, three actually Americans who had moved to Canada to enlist. This was prior to America entering the war against Germany and Japan. One of them hailed from Texas and answered to ‘Tex’. We flew six daylight cross- country trips during which one of our crews ran into a mountain near Aviemore trying to find the airfield.

On our last daylight flight I noted that we would be passing near Stirling and kept a lookout from the astrodome in the hope of seeing some familiar landmark passing beneath us. Our designated height for this trip was eight thousand feet, well above any mountains but low enough to pick out rivers or groups of houses. I stood looking out over the port wing thinking I might spot Dunfermline or the Forth Bridge.

Sure enough the twisting ribbon of the River Forth appeared below and I picked out the faint shape of a bridge. Then I recognized it as being Alloa swing bridge and judging by our position we must have

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been flying over Blairlogie. It gave me a strange feeling remembering how I used to dream about flying with the RAF. Now I was wishing I was back there working at Alloa shed.

We were briefed to fly well clear of Rosyth and the Forth Bridge as even with the Identification Friend or Foe switched on anti aircraft batteries around that area would shoot first and ask questions later. Having completed our quota of daylight trips, Tom was back doing circuits and bumps, this time during darkness. Again he had no problems and flew solo after three or four circuits with the instructor. Then it was like being back on nightshift again. We started our night cross-country trips, taking off after ten and returning about four in the morning. We usually slept then till noon.

One night Tex and his crew failed to return. A couple of days later his wireless op and navigator appeared in the mess, the only survivors after ditching off the west coast of Scotland. The Wellington had developed engine trouble and Tex was forced to ditch. I remember that night as being stormy. Tom had had difficulty landing our Wimpy due to a blustering crosswind. In Tex’s case we learned that he had managed to put his plane down in choppy seas and the dinghy had inflated okay though still attached to the plane by a cord. Four crew members managed to scramble aboard with Tex last to leave being the crew’s captain. He made the mistake of cutting the cord before leaving and a wave swept the dinghy out of reach. He jumped and disappeared under the waves. Two of the crew dived into the water in an attempt to rescue him but all three were lost. The wireless op and navigator were able to relate the story. It says a lot for the wireless op himself that he was able to send out an SOS message and the aircraft’s position before ditching.

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Another crew lost A week later we lost yet another crew, this time in a horrific crash.

Our crew were not flying that night, but Philip Collins who shared our billet was. It was almost midnight and we had just put out the lights and crawled into our bunks. Next thing we knew there was a terrific roar that literally shook the nissen hut. Seconds later came a loud bang like a bomb going off and everyone sat up in stunned silence. The darkness was suddenly lit up by a giant fireworks display of leaping flames and exploding ammunition. I ran outside with the others to witness a blazing inferno less than three hundred yards away. Tracer bullets and exploding flares were fanning the night sky.

The Wellington had crashed into a small wood having missed the roof of our billet by twenty feet or less. Throwing on our greatcoats and shoving on wellies we galloped across the stubble field to the scene of the crash. The Wimpy had ploughed into young fir trees and one engine had torn free from the wing leaving a trail of shattered trees in its wake. The fabric had burned away exposing the grim scene inside.

Silhouetted against the flames sat a blackened caricature that had once been the pilot, his charred fingers still clinging to the controls. Behind him near the radio position lay two more crew members, one curled around the mainspar, the fat from their bodies feeding the flames.

It was only after some minutes that I glanced up as one of the onlookers pointed at the trees. Another body hung from one impaled on a branch, dangling like a scarecrow. The rear gunner usually turns his turret sideways during take-offs and landings. He had been catapulted out during the crash. Already more than a score of silent onlookers had gathered at the scene of the crash unable to do anything other than gaze in helpless horror. Some of the trees had been set alight, sparking and crackling, the stench mingling burning rubber and roasting flesh. I saw the navigator’s duffle bag lying a few yards from the wreck with

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its contents scattered around. The crew’s flying rations were among this with five chocolate bars still with their wrappers intact. How that bag had got out of the plane unscathed was a mystery. Word came from the control tower that Sergeant Collins had been flying that plane. This came as an added shock. These lads shared our billet and sat beside us in the mess. As I lay on my bunk later I remembered Philip asking me to join his crew. It could easily have been me lying in that burning plane with Sergeant Rother looking on.

Mock dogfights Next day we were detailed to take part in a fighter affiliation exercise, a mock dogfight with a Curtis Kittyhawk from a nearby fighter airbase making attacks on our Wellington. This was where the rear gunner came into his own as he gave the pilot a running commentary on the fighter’s pursuit tactics. During its final attack he would give the command to, ‘Turn to port and dive!’ whereupon Tom would throw the Wimpy into a vertical bank shoving the nose down in a dive. I felt quite jittery during take-off with last night’s crash still in my mind. I placed my parachute in front of me to cushion my head in the event of a crash. Once in the air my stomach muscles relaxed and after switching on the intercom I was more or less a spectator, so I left my w/op’s position and went to the astrodome to see what was happening.

We were over the Moray Firth and I could see the Kittyhawk bobbing gently with the air currents, flying on a parallel course less than half a mile to starboard. Suddenly he whipped over in a vertical bank and dropped behind us. This is what is known as ‘the curve of pursuit’ in gunnery school terms and when a fighter is most vulnerable. The Wimpy shuddered as Tony let fly with his four Brownings, at the same time shouting to Tom, ‘Dive to port!’

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The Wimpy stood on its port wing and I felt I was floating as we dropped like a stone towards the steely grey waters of the Moray Firth. Then my legs felt like lead as Tom brought the nose up with the engines roaring their heads off. I felt too excited to be scared and realized that I was actually enjoying this experience. The fighter suddenly shot past in a blur and I gazed around everywhere to find where he had gone.

There he was back on his parallel position ready for a second attack.

After half an hour of this he moved in within a hundred yards of us and I could see his face smiling across as he gave Tom a friendly salute before hauling back the stick and disappearing skywards. Tom was down in the dumps when we landed back at Milltown, wishing with all his heart that he was flying fighters. Tony wasn’t too happy either when the camera film was developed. He had never once scored a hit on the fighter but we ourselves had been shot down three times!

Geordie wasn’t having much luck with his bombing exercises, missing the target by a mile. Thankfully we were only using ten pound practice bombs. (But a local farmer put in a claim for some dead sheep in his fields a mile beyond the bombing range.)

Geordie persuaded Tom to let him have a go at landing the Wellington.

After all he had soloed on twin engined Cessna Bobcats in Canada before being dropped from pilot training. His attempts at landing had the rest of the crew sitting on the edge of their seats with Tom having to take over the controls at the last moment. I came to the conclusion that Geordie was naturally hamfisted, whatever he tried his hand at.

Bomber Command had formed an elite group known as the Pathfinder Force using battle-tried crews who had distinguished themselves on operations. With the exception of Tom, our skipper, I couldn’t ever see any of our crew aspiring to such heights.

One morning six four-engined Stirlings landed at Milltown having been diverted from their base in Yorkshire owing to bad weather.

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They had returned from a mine laying operation along the Norwegian coast. In spite of its size the Stirling’s bomb bay was too narrow to accommodate the two thousand pound ‘cookies’ and ‘blockbusters’ carried by the Lancasters and Halifaxes. It also struggled to reach fourteen thousand feet making it vulnerable to flak, so they were now used on less hazardous targets in the interest of morale among the crews who had to fly them. Standing in the dispersals, they towered over our Wellingtons with their cockpits twenty feet above the tarmac.

Their crews spent the night in the camp and a rip roaring party was held in their honour in the sergeants’ mess. Later we invited them to take part in an attack on some mock anti-aircraft batteries manned by dummy soldiers wearing paper maché helmets.

It was late autumn and our night flying programme was nearing its end. A flight sergeant pilot approached me saying he needed a wireless op with him for circuits and landing revision. He said his name was Hitchen and he had just returned from sick leave. It turned out he was the pilot who had survived the crash on the golf course a few months ago. Tom was practising blind flying in the ‘link trainer’ and as I was at a loose end I reluctantly agreed. With his instructor beside him his first landing nearly jarred my teeth out. The next was even worse to the extent that the instructor called a mechanic to check the legs on the undercart. Needless to say Hitchen didn’t solo that day. Next morning he appeared in the billet asking me to repeat the favour but with his track record and yesterday’s performance I turned him down.

He became annoyed and abusive hinting that I was scared to fly which indeed I was. That was the last I ever saw of him.

Talking of ham fistedness, the report stated that Philip Collins was responsible for the crash that night in the trees. The flaps handle was found to be in the ‘up’ position indicating that the Wellington had gained speed rather than height with disastrous results.

Conversion to four engines, Lincolnshire

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Then word came that we were going on leave and going on to a conversion flight at 103 squadron in Lincolnshire. That last night I took the bus to Elgin on my own and went to see a film, Orchestra Wives, starring Glenn Miller and George Montgomery. I missed the last bus back to camp and walked home in the dark passing the clump of trees near our billets, imagining the spirit of Philip Collins and his crew floating around the charred wreckage of their plane. Tom and Luke decided to spend a couple of days in Edinburgh, only 15 miles away from my home in Dunfermline, before going on to York. My father had moved back into a tiny gas-lit hovel now that he was alone and I felt too embarrassed to invite them there.

The Germans had unleashed a new weapon of destruction, the V1 or ‘flying bomb’. This was a rocket-powered unmanned basic aircraft with just sufficient fuel to reach London. When the motor stopped it just fell out of the sky exploding on impact. This was even worse for the people of London as these were being launched at all hours with no respite for those dreading the sound of yet another as its motor cut out over the city.

As for myself I didn’t particularly enjoy going on leave these days. It seemed that half the lads I went to school with were either in reserved jobs or were unfit for military service. The war was something they read about and watched on newsreels and I felt that there was little point in relating my experiences to them. To make matters worse I now felt that each leave was probably my last so I was silent and morose in their company.

I wasn’t due to report back till one minute to midnight but arrived at Barnetby railway station around noon and began trudging uphill having been informed that the airfield lay in that direction. After lugging my kitbags for a bit I stopped for a breather. A sudden pulsating roar made me look up. A huge angular black shape filled

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the sky above me. I recognized it as a Halifax and felt a pang of disappointment and a feeling of dread at the thought of flying in one. It looked so cumbersome and ungainly as it climbed slowly away with the engines bellowing their heads off. On the ground they looked even less aerodynamic with slab-sided fuselages and crude, solid-looking undercarriages that must have created enormous drag during takeoff.

I reported to the orderly room and was directed to one of the aircrew billets with several empty bunks to choose from. Tom and the others hadn’t arrived yet and as it was lunch time I headed for the sergeants’ mess. Every few minutes came the sound of a Halifax taking off. I learned that pilots arriving on the squadron were attached to ‘Con’ flight for three weeks before going on ops.

Hence the constant activity practising circuits and humps. Part of this included three engine take offs and landings. I sensed a rather subdued atmosphere in the mess following the news that fortythree bombers were missing after last night’s raid on Bochen. Two Halifaxes from Elsham had been lost.

Lying dead in a pea field I returned to the billet to see if any of the others from my crew had arrived. The main runway was little more than three hundred yards from our billets with the control tower somewhere in between. The C.O.’s Tiger Moth biplane stood there in pride of place. Another Halifax thundered along the runway and began clawing its way skywards. It began climbing steeply then seemed to hang almost stationary in the air with the engines bellowing on full power. Then to my horror it began to fall slowly tail first from about three hundred feet disappearing from view. Then came a dull muffled thud and almost instantly a huge mushroom of black oily smoke billowed skywards.

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There followed a mad stampede with people jumping into trucks and others running towards the scene of the crash. The Halifax had crashed less than half a mile from the runway, landing tail first in the middle of a field of peas. By the time I got there the wreckage was burning fiercely. It lay with its back broken like some prehistoric bird.

Already there were a couple of dozen spectators standing around. An ambulance had arrived on the road at the top of the field which was too steep to drive over. The flames came mostly from the wing tanks and hadn’t reached the fuselage.

Without thinking I was able to walk right up to the jagged hole and look inside. Six young men lay huddled together in the rest position with hardly any visible sign of injury on them though they were obviously dead. Two of them were staring open-eyed, an expression of bewilderment and disbelief on their faces. Then there was a loud bang as one of the huge tyres exploded with the heat and I joined another mad stampede to be well clear of burning fragments of rubber. Two RAF regiment lads managed to somehow fish the six bodies out of the fuselage using metal poles. In less than ten minutes ten bodies were laid out in a row among the peas. Another three crew members were still inside the plane. It seemed that the six lads in the rest position were new arrivals like myself. They must have been keen types, eager to try a flight in a Halifax with the crew practising circuits and bumps.

Some joy ride. I walked slowly past the row of bodies, pausing to look at each face, thinking I might recognize someone from training days.

None of them had any visible injuries other than bruising around the eyes. I thought about their families back home unaware that their son or husband was lying dead in a pea field being gawked at by strangers.

Our curiosity satisfied, most of the onlookers began drifting away from the scene of the crash, a few munching peas. By the time I got back to the billet, Tom and the rest of the crew had settled in. There were a couple of new members to our crew, a flight engineer and a

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chirpy young cockney mid upper gunner straight out of gunnery school with six months RAF service. He had already attached himself to our pilot like a devoted spaniel calling him ‘skipper’ and bursting with enthusiasm. I never mentioned the crashed Halifax. The squadron were losing an average of three crews per week on operations so it didn’t arouse much interest in the mess.

Conversion Training in Halifaxes As we were now operationally trained by November 1943 the conversion to four engines was mainly pilot training and for the flight engineer.

The latter’s duties were to keep tabs on the fuel and temperature gauges and transfer fuel to maintain the balance of the aircraft. Bob Harvey had served two years as a ground mechanic before remustering to flight engineer. He struck me as a steady, reliable chap who didn’t say very much. After a couple of days of lectures on flight procedures and escape tactics in the event of having to bail out over enemy territory we were taken out to the dispersal for our first trip in a Halifax. I was now familiar with the crew layout, the wireless op’s position being behind the navigator’s cubby hole. Both of us were seated below the pilot and engineer positions and were more or less looking up at their feet. It felt like being inside a huge metal box vibrating like a mad thing as the four engines were being run up. I could hear the instructor reciting the cockpit drill and Tom repeating it like a parrot.

Then we were taxiing along the perimeter with occasional bursts of throttle before swinging onto the main runway accompanied by the mournful wailing of brakes. The engines clattered noisily as we waited for permission to take off. A fleeting vision of the row of bodies laid out beside the burning wreckage flashed through my mind and a wave of panic flared up inside me. Two minutes from now I could be lying dead in that same field. Then I thought about young Terry in the midupper turret enjoying every minute of this. I became aware of our

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instructor acknowledging permission to take off and seconds later we were bounding along the runway with engines roaring. The tail came up; then the now familiar floating sensation of taking off. But from where I sat I could see little of what was happening outside. I sat tensed listening for any change in the note of the engines, knowing I could relax when the revs eased off. For the others the flight was short and uneventful. A few minutes later we were back on the runway, braking before turning off on to the perimeter track, and after a couple of landings the instructor allowed Tom to take over the controls.

I heard him warn Tom about the danger of rudder stall at low speeds.

‘That’s what caused the crash the other day!’ continued the instructor.

‘The pilot must have used the rudder just after take-off. It’s a fault in the design of the 1 C’s.’ We then did a few three engine take-off-s and landings. Next day Tom was allowed to fly solo. Geordie the bomb aimer asked Tom if it were much different from handling the Wellington.

Tom seemed non-committal, no doubt hoping to discourage him from asking for a go himself. Less than a week after the crash in the pea field another Halifax crashed killing the crew and the instructor. The crew were doing three engine landings and take-offs with a warrant officer instructing. He was reputed to be one of the best pilots on the squadron and had just completed his tour of thirty operations. Flying over the airfield at three hundred feet, another engine had cut out on the same side as the one already feathered. The Halifax’s wing dropped and at this height the trainee lost control and ploughed into the ground.

One afternoon I watched a couple of replacement Halifaxes arriving flown

by ATA civilian pilots. Both made perfect landings, taxied to the maintenance hangar and cut their engines. Out stepped a bald-headed chap in his fifties.

The other pilot was a handsome blonde in black silk overalls. We always knew when ops were on by the arrival of a twin engined Anson on the airfield. The battle orders for every raid were delivered to each squadron by hand rather than risk the lower security of phone or teleprinter.

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I heard that Rex, one of the American pilots from Lossiemouth days, had gone missing on his first trip over Germany. It was RAF policy to send pilots who had completed four engine conversion on a raid with a seasoned bomber crew to give them a taste of things to come. So Rex’s crew would be looking for another pilot.

As Tom gained experience flying the Halifax I still couldn’t relax, always imagining that a wing was liable to fall off at anytime. To add to my fears I had a grandstand view of another crash less than three hundred yards from where I was standing. It was Sunday afternoon and we weren’t flying that day. I was wandering around outside the main hangar watching riggers patching a jagged hole in the tail fin of a Halifax. Next thing, I saw the fire tender racing across the airfield.

My eyes noticed a trail of black smoke low in the sky approaching the field. It was one of our bombers with smoke and flame streaming from its port inner engine. It swept across my line of vision less than fifty feet from the deck with flaps down and wheels retracted. My first thought was, ‘Thank God I’m not inside that thing!’ The pilot had no alternative but to make a crash landing and hope for the best. It hit the grass with surprisingly little noise and was immediately shrouded in white vapour as the fire extinquishers went off. Four black shapes shot high in the air disappearing from view. They were the laminated wooden propeller blades sheared off on impact. The plane continued skidding across the grass half hidden in a cloud of dust and steaming vapour. Miraculously the crew escaped unhurt but I imagined they wouldn’t sleep too well that night.

We did a couple of trips over the Humber coast to familiarise ourselves with the Lincolnshire area. We also did fighter affiliation with an American Y38 Lightning twin boom fighter. These sleek looking aircraft were fast and manoeuvrable. It wasn’t till the crews assembled in the briefing room that the target for that night was disclosed. But some of the old hands among the ground crews such as the armourers

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and fitters had a good idea by the amount of fuel and bomb load required for the trip. They also had the unpleasant task of applying glycerine paste along the leading edges of the wings to prevent icing.

The station group captain was an ex Spitfire pilot who had flown in the Battle of Britain. He was a strict disciplinarian yet used to cadge a flight in a ‘Spit’ from visiting fighter pilots. One afternoon he was watched by several of the squadron members as he made three or four attempts at landing. ‘I hope the old bastard writes it off!’ remarked a voice. On one occasion he had the entire squadron personnel standing on the parade ground to witness a court martial. A young sergeant airgunner was being charged with desertion. It seemed that the unfortunate lad had been caught after living rough in a gypsy camp for several weeks. He was marched bareheaded between two RAF SPs, who seemed to be relishing their part, to where the group captain sat at a table commandeered from the mess hall, grimly studying the accused’s charge sheet. He was flanked by the station adjutant and three other officers to witness the hearing. Not a sound came from the five hundred RAF men and WAAFs lining the parade ground as the group captain continued to appraise the papers before him. Then he looked up, studying the man before him with a cold, impersonal stare before reading out the charges against him. I then realized that a tannoy speaker had been set up so that everyone present would hear the proceedings.

It seemed that the lad had been on the run for three months before being apprehended. When asked if he had anything to say for himself the lad simply shook his head. Asked if he was prepared to accept punishment for the error of his ways he nodded silently. After a quick debate with the adjutant next him, the C.O. stood to pronounce sentence.

‘I hereby sentence you to one hundred and fifty-six days’ detention.

Furthermore you will be stripped of rank and no longer entitled to wear an airgunner brevet!’ The lad, staring straight ahead and flanked by his two escorts, was marched off. Back in the billet no one spoke

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about the event. I felt sympathetic towards the young deserter but we were in an environment where chaps were killed and posted missing every other day and displaying sentiment wasn’t the done thing.

That night the squadron were over Bochum in the Ruhr valley and two Halifaxes failed to return. One of the pilots was a flight commander and news came that he had ditched somewhere off the Lincolnshire coast.

Three of our Halifaxes took part in the sea search and a dinghy was spotted twenty miles off the coast. Sadly, the air-sea rescue boats never found the dinghy and the search was called off. The other Halifax had an allAustralian crew on their second trip. I remember one of the crew excitedly relating their experience during their first trip when their Halifax had been literally thrown upside down by the blast of exploding shells. ‘The ruddy Elsan toilet emptied itself on the roof of the Kite!’ he laughed.

We were now on the last stages of our conversion training and I had a sinking feeling in my gut wondering how many operations we would survive. As for Tom, our pilot, he seemed to be champing at the bit to get into action, seemingly unaffected by what was happening to others. We had completed our night flying exercises with Tom now qualified for three engine take-offs and landings - and then he got his wish. He was to fly as second pilot on the next squadron operation to familiarise himself with conditions over the target area. Then we as a crew would become operational. I already had butterflies in my stomach at the thought of it. Tom and I seemed to have drifted apart socially. Perhaps he sensed that my heart wasn’t in the job and I suspected that he would now prefer having another wireless op. He and Bob Harvey the engineer seemed to have hit it off, but then Bob was a conscientious bloke who went out of his way to explain any questions that Tom might have on the fuel system, etc.

I watched a couple of replacement Halifaxes arrive on the airfield followed later by the inevitable Anson which meant that ops were on

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that night. Tom was scheduled to fly with a Flight Sergeant pilot from ‘A’ flight. Obviously he wouldn’t confide in us where the target was but it turned out to be Bremen and all eighteen Halifaxes returned safely. ‘Piece of cake!’ Tom announced excitedly, flushed with joy at having completed his first op. There had been a lot of cloud over the target area but they had managed to bomb on the marker flares dropped by the pathfinders.

A couple of new crews arrived to start the conversion course and as usual couldn’t wait to have a ‘flip’ in one of the lumbering Halifaxes, practising circuits and landings. I wondered how many more aircrews would come and go before the war finally came to an end. Somehow I always took it for granted that Germany would be defeated as in the last war. One of the pilots, a flight sergeant with sixteen or more ops behind him was taken off flying and was acting as duty pilot in the little checkered van at the end of the runway. His job entailed keeping in contact with the control tower and giving the green light to aircraft waiting to take-off. The story got round that he had been jettisoning his bomb load in the North sea en route to the target, thus gaining greater altitude and manoeuvrability. The photos he brought back from the target area gave the game away. He later disappeared from the squadron and I wondered how the rest of the crew fared, as they must have known what was going on.

First operation: Dortmund One afternoon after lunch I was playing table-tennis with another wireless operator when the tannoy announced that all crews should report to the briefing room. This was it. By the time I got there Tom and the rest of our crew were already seated near the front of the room.

I found a seat as near to them as possible and signalled my presence to Tom who nodded disapprovingly. All around me was a hum of excited voices speculating about where the target might be. The old hands with

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a dozen or more trips behind them sat nearer the back of the briefing room, seemingly unperturbed. Facing us were the briefing officers, each ready to take his turn at imparting his technical knowledge to the anxious eyed crews.

Wireless ops were briefed to maintain radio silence during a raid, their main duties being to listen in for base broadcasts every half hour and listen out for R/H exchanges between German radar operators and night fighter crews tracking the incoming bombers. During training we had listened to recordings to give us an idea what to search for. We would then tune our transmitter onto their frequencies and transmit a blast from a carbon mike fitted near one of the engines. The wireless op also dropped ‘chaff’, or tinsel as they called it then, out of the flare chute to confuse enemy radar. On the afternoon we were scheduled for ops I felt dry-mouthed and apprehensive as I was about to venture into an unknown world with an uncertain future where luck played a crucial part. Some of the lads were blessed with devil-may-care optimism. I unfortunately saw things in a different light, expecting the worst. On top of that, I was scared of flying.

Later the tannoy summoned all crews to the briefing room. One could feel the tension and nervous excitement among the hundredodd young men milling around, finding seats beside their own crew members. Facing us were the briefing officers and behind them hung a large map of Germany with a dogleg ribbon marking the route to our target: Dortmund, about three hundred and fifty miles away across sea and hostile land.

The station commander breezed into the room and everyone rose to attention at a curt order from one of the briefing officers. We had gone through this ritual during our operational training days with each officer explaining what was expected from individual crew members whether they be pilots, wireless ops or navigators. Thus we wireless

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ops mainly listened to what the signals leader had to say and so on.

The station commander sat quietly through the briefing but took his cue towards the end to give a short speech telling us to do our best and that the country was relying on us to win the war etc. We were allocated G George, a Halifax from B flight and a veteran of nine ops.

I accompanied Tom and the others out to the dispersal for a half hour test flight. This was the usual procedure before going on ops. It later transpired that the German radio stations used to pick up dozens of landing and takeoff transmissions during bomber test flights and so had early warning of a raid that night. Many of the chaps would write a letter before going on ops to be posted home if they failed to return.

In spite of my pessimism I never thought to do this.

Dortmund was a pretty formidable target and roughly a four hour round trip crossing the Dutch coast west of Wilhelmshaven, not that I would be seeing much of anything hunched over the radio equipment in the bowels of the Halifax. Few of us left the camp when briefed for ops, some sitting writing letters or playing snooker or table-tennis in the mess, leaving the armourers and flight mechs to fuel and install the bomb loads. The sense of excitement and expectancy hung in the room among aircrews and groundcrew alike before takeoff. At the time we didn’t realise it, but it was history in the making. Near the fateful hour we were back in the crew room being issued with escape money and parachutes, donning flying equipment and Mae West lifejackets. To think that a couple of years ago I had been methodically shovelling coal on the footplate of a steam engine.

As we clambered aboard the Bedford truck I could hear the roar of Merlin engines starting up in the dispersals in the darkness. Our Halifax stood, a dark ominous silhouette, its pugnacious snout thrust skywards as if anxious for the fray. The flight mechs were there in attendance, ready to plug in the trolley ace to boost the batteries for turning over the engines. Tom and Bob Harvey, the flight engineer, made their way

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through the aircraft to the cockpit while I climbed down to the radio position directly under the navigator’s cubby hole and switched on the intercom unit. Plugging in my head phones I could listen in to conversation among the other crew members or isolate myself in order to operate the radio or transmitter.

Tom was going through his flight check with Bob Harvey while I busied myself checking out my radio and making sure I had my code book and log book handy. The fuselage quivered as Tom pressed the starting button for the port outer which burst into life with a throaty roar. Soon all four engines were racketing away, then run up individually to full revs. Tom checked each crew position on the intercom and then, using bursts of engines, we began rolling out on to the perimeter track. All I could see through my tiny side widow was the blue marker lights slipping past.

We swung round onto the main runway and stopped, the four Merlins idling noisily, mingling with the muffled roar from another Halifax struggling with its bomb load, having just taken off ahead of us. This was the moment I dreaded more than anything. I eased my parachute from under me and propped it against the transmitter in front of me imagining that it might cushion my head in the event of a crash. Then the duty pilot gave Tom a green and we were bounding down the dark runway with engines bellowing their heads off. I sat cringing expectantly with the memory of crashes I had seen racing through my brain. With a full bomb load on there was no question of easing back on the throttles till we had gained a considerable height.

Then Tom’s voice came over the intercom reassuring us that everything was fine. I reeled out the trailing aerial and tuned in to the base broadcast frequency. Luke could get his position fixes on the GEE radar screen whilst I listened out for night-fighter R/T transmissions and prepare to jam them. We were climbing steadily East heading for

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the rendezvous point to join the main stream of bombers, the idea being safety in numbers over the target to confuse the enemy defences. But losing fifty or more crews in one night wasn’t reassuring. Tom called me to make sure the LFH was switched on. This automatic transmitter sent out a signal to our ground defence system that we were friendly.

‘When do we test our guns, Skipper?’ I recognised Terry the mid upper’s piping Cockney voice over the intercom. ‘When we’re over the coast!’ ‘And watch you don’t shoot the bloody rudder off!’ came the rear gunner’s voice. ‘Alright, gunners, keep your eyes peeled for other aircraft!’ Tom cut in.

We were now at eight thousand feet and using our oxygen masks, supposed to improve our night vision. The wireless op is vulnerable to buffeting and yawing as the Halifax hits turbulence, positioned barely eight feet from the port inner and suffering the constant roar from the engines which vibrate through his eardrums. Though there were seven of us cooped up in this winged monster, I felt very much alone with darkness ahead. Then we were over the coast and joining the main stream, heading in a south easterly route towards the Dutch coast.

The fuselage vibrated as Terry let off a burst with his four Brownings, followed by a burst from Tony’s rear turret. The ammunition pans were located below the mid upper turret feeding both turrets via conveyer belts and causing the most awful racket. ‘Let’s hope that’s the only time they’ll need to use them!’ I thought.

‘Keep your eyes peeled, gunners! We’re approaching the Dutch Coast.’ came Tom’s Canadian drawl. I felt my stomach muscles tighten, as I wondered what lay in store for us. Tom had been before so at least he knew what it was all about, or at least I hoped so. We were now at fifteen thousand feet and still gaining height. I tuned in for the next base broadcast, then when I switched back to intercom I heard Tom announce that we were now over the Dutch coast east of Wilhelmshaven. At least I didn’t have to keep the navigator supplied with fixes, thanks to GEE.

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Geordie the bomb-aimer was already preparing to crawl into the nose for his bombing run. ‘I can see searchlights in the distance, Tom!’ In his excitement he forgot the term ‘skipper’. ‘Start throwing out window!’ came Tom’s nasal voice. This was the tinfoil strips which we carried in bundles and fed down the flare chute. They fluttered slowly down and when dropped by hundreds of aircraft, created a cloud which we hoped confused the enemy radar tracking stations. Add to that the wireless op’s jamming signals and it made things difficult for the German night-fighter crews. It had all seemed so exciting and glamorous on the news reels but the grim reality was quite another thing. ‘What’s those twinkling flashes, skipper?’ piped Terry the mid upper. ‘That’s flak!’ replied Tom, ‘but it’s a long way off.’ ‘Roger, skipper.’ Dortmund was only fifteen minutes away and everyone was tense. ‘Keep a look out for the target markers!’ ‘We’ll be bombing on greens, skipper!’ ‘Blimey!

It’s like a ruddy fireworks night.’ That was the first time I heard Bob Harvey speak.

I got out of my seat and climbed into the astrodome position to see what was happening. Ahead of us was a flickering glow with searchlights weaving across the sky like long white fingers. Crazy patterns of flak probed through the darkness punctuated by occasional bright flashes.

The smell of cordite filtered through the fuselage. I crawled back into my radio cubby-hole, thinking what I didn’t see I wouldn’t worry about. Geordie was now in his prone position, sighting his bombsight in preparation for the run-up to the target. ‘Five minutes from target.

I see the markers ahead!’ Tom sounded surprisingly calm. I felt a buffeting and whistling noise as the bomb doors were opened. The Halifax commenced lurching and buffeting and I didn’t realize at the time that this was due to flak exploding in the darkness around us. I sat there tensed and expectant, listening to Geordie calling out directions to Tom in that broad accent.

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Watercolour, Halifax Bombers This was when the bomber itself became a target for the flak batteries concentrating their fire on the marker flares dropped by the Pathfinders.

The rest of the crew were silent, listening apprehensively to the bombaimer’s monotonous voice reciting ‘Left, left a bit. Steady.’ I felt like a blind man crossing a busy road in darkness. There were stories about crews who dropped their bomb load miles short of the target rather than run the gauntlet of a box barrage. But Tom was above such things, dedicated to doing the job. I had learned that much about him.

After what seemed an eternity Geordie’s excited voice could be heard announcing, ‘Bombs gone, skipper!’ Relieved of its load of incendiaries and four thousand pound Cookie, the Halifax reared upwards then banked steeply away from the target area. Through the tiny window beside me I got a glimpse of the inferno below our port wing. There

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was a feeling of unreality as if it were something out of a bad dream.

Then Tom’s voice brought me back to reality. ‘And you wonder why they call this Happy Valley?’ Now it was a matter of hightailing it back to the coast, keeping alert for prowling fighters.

The gunners later reported seeing the glow from the target forty miles away. ‘I think I saw a bomber go down a couple of times over the target area,’ remarked Tony over the intercom. Crossing the North Sea the gunners still had to stay alert as long range fighters would follow the bombers back home, catching unwary crews even as they approached their home airfield. Two hours later I was reeling in the trailing aerial and Tom was calling Elsham control tower for permission to land. I had completed one op and apart from the anxious moments over the target area it hadn’t been all that much different from our OTU training flights.

But there were still another twenty-nine trips to go and we wouldn’t always be so lucky. As it happened, we lost one Halifax from ‘C’ flight.

The crew were on their tenth trip. It was more or less like Russian roulette as far as the chances of completing a tour of ops went. The worst part was the constant thought that this might be the last day in this life. It could enter your mind sitting in a cinema watching John Wayne or walking along the high street. The worst times were returning from leave and registering the missing faces in the mess hall.

Second op: Cologne Our next trip was farther south to Cologne in the very heart of Happy Valley. This time we didn’t get off so lightly. On the approach to the target area the Halifax shuddered as it was hit by flak shrapnel somewhere along the starboard wing. I had visions of the petrol tank catching fire but Tom remained calm, got the bomber back on even keel and carried on to make his bombing run. Our Halifax was out of commission for a couple of days while the riggers patched up a hole near the wingtip the size of a football.

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The bomber offensive was stepping up with the American 8th Airforce bombing by day and the RAF by night. It must have been nervewracking flying over enemy territory in broad daylight and their losses were high in spite of their close formation firepower. I struck up a friendship with a sergeant pilot who was just completing his conversion training. He was telling me in the mess that he was rostered to fly his first op as an observer before going it alone with his own crew. He asked me what it was like. I told him that as wireless op I didn’t see as much of the action as he would from the cockpit.

Hamburg Our next briefing was Hamburg and we flew with a pilot from another flight. Their Halifax was one of two lost that night. With three ops behind me I didn’t feel any less apprehensive than I did on the first and I found myself envying the ground wireless ops who didn’t have this Sword of Damocles constantly hanging over them. My vivid imagination coupled with the fear of enclosed places played havoc with my dreams. I would be spiralling earthwards amid a barrage of flak pinned down in my seat by the centrifugal force with a hysterical voice shouting, ‘Bale out! Bale out!’ I would wake up in a cold sweat in the darkness of the nissen hut hearing the snores and heavy breathing of’ the others. One afternoon a Lancaster from another squadron arrived on the airfield. The rumour was that we were to be equipped with Lancs in the near future. I walked out to the dispersal to have a look at it. Compared to our cumbersome Halifaxes it looked slim and elegant like comparing a racehorse next to a farm stallion.

Magdeburg Our next trip was Magdeburg on the river Elbe and barely a hundred miles from the big city, Berlin itself. Somehow I felt that the fear and uncertainty caused by thinking about what could happen once

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we boarded the aircraft was as unnerving as the trip itself. There were so many different fates in store for the unlucky bomber crew ranging from falling through the night sky with a ‘chute that would not open to drifting alone in the cold dark waters of the North Sea. On this trip the heating packed in on the return from the target and I remember condensation dropping from my oxygen mask and freezing into little drops as they landed on my radio log book. Luke the navigator was subject to frost bite, a legacy from a hunting trip in Canada. He had difficulty using his navigation instruments and I had to operate the Gee set.

Fifth op and a weekend pass After our fifth op we were given a long weekend pass but I didn’t feel like going home as I would spend half my time getting there and back.

So I travelled to York, a popular port of call for airmen from the many air bases in the area. The railway station still bore the marks of the night it was bombed but I found the city itself quite fascinating with quaint narrow streets and its impressive perimeter walls. I ran into one of the lads from our squad during our Blackpool training days.

I remembered he had failed his morse training and had gone on to airgunner training. He had already completed twenty-two ops and was now a flight sergeant flying as reargunner on Lancasters. I envied his optimism and enthusiasm as he spoke about completing his thirty trips by the end of the month as if it were all cut and dried.

He took me to Betty’s Bar for a drink, a popular place for aircrew types.

It was noisy and crowded with all the talk about ‘so and so’s missing’ or ‘Poor old Harry, he bought it on his thirtieth op!’ I wasn’t in the mood for getting drunk and had came to York to forget about the dangers of flying.

It seemed that there was no getting away from it and the only way to forget about it was by getting drunk. So I spent the next couple of nights drinking rum and pep and arrived back on the squadron with a dull headache.

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Back to operations We flew two more ops in the following week, bringing my total to seven. Then bad weather cancelled flying for a couple of nights.

Several new faces appeared in the mess and I recognized one from school days. Stuart Harper had been in my class at secondary school though we were never more than passing acquaintances. He was now wearing sergeant’s stripes and a navigator’s brevet. I don’t think he would have recognised me if I hadn’t gone over and spoken to him. It seemed that his parents were English and the family had moved back south not long after he left school. ‘What’s it like on ops?’ he asked suddenly. I tried to sound off-handed which was the usual thing to cover up one’s fear and anxiety. ‘I’ll be happy when my thirty trips are over,’ I finished lamely.

That afternoon the Anson arrived on the runway heralding that operations were on that night. The target this time was ‘Happy Hamburg’ further south in the Ruhr valley, the popular choice when weather conditions were poor. Since I had arrived on the squadron we had lost nine crews three of these in crashes just outside our airfield circuit. That afternoon Tom took our Halifax up for an airtest. As wireless op I was dutybound to fly with him as was Bob Hanley the engineer. Young Terry, ever eager, came with us manning the rear turret in the absence of Tony who was playing billiards in the mess.

Even on this short routine trip I sat tensed and apprehensive as the pilot opened up the throttles and began his take-off run. As usual my stomach muscles didn’t relax till we had gained height and the Merlins were eased back to a steady pulsing drone. In those days there was no such term as ‘fear of flying‘. After all, anyone who volunteered for aircrew must enjoy flying, so I continued to live with my constant fear. To admit it meant being branded as a coward. Tom levelled off at two thousand feet and our Halifax droned steadily over

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the flat Lincoln countryside dotted with farms with the river Humber wending its way towards the coast. Fifteen minutes later we were taxiing around the perimeter and onto the dispersal pan. The flight mech was waiting for Tom to sign the Form 100. ‘Any snags, Flight?’

Tom grinned shaking his head. ‘Engines running fine, chiefy!’ The armourers would soon be on the scene with tractors pulling laden bomb trolleys to load up the eighteen Halifaxes scheduled for the operation that night.

As the late Autumn dusk fell over the airfield the bombers stood like grim sentinels. They exuded a sinister and ominous presence like dark birds of prey perched ready to strike. Takeoff was scheduled for 2130 when each Halifax would bound down the runway as soon as the previous one had cleared the ‘totem poles’ at the far end of the airfield.

Each aircraft would commence a gradual climbing turn, engines roaring, striving to gain altitude when weighed down with bombs and high octane petrol. I can still vividly remember my anticipation beforehand of sitting with the familiar dry mouth in that cluttered little radio position, starkly aware of being surrounded by high explosive and volatile fuel, the din from the engines vibrating through my head added to my fear and apprehension. With these thoughts seething through my mind I watched a part of The Road to Morocco showing at the camp cinema. During the briefing we were sworn to secrecy, not to mention our target to anyone outside the room. ‘Careless talk costs lives’ warned posters all over the country. The war was now into its fourth year with no sign of it ever ending.

‘…all aircraft return to base.’

After supper we began heading towards the crew-ready rooms to be issued with parachutes and various items thought necessary in the event of baling out over enemy territory. The gunners wore sheepskin jackets and trousers as the turrets had no heating and were more or less

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exposed to the elements. Some were issued with electrically heated flying suits. The wireless position was the warmest part on the plane.

As I rode in the back of the crew truck on the way to the dispersal I thought, ‘God! This is only my eighth trip, and I still have another twenty-two to do!’

‘Cheer up Jock!’ called Tony the reargunner sensing my despondency.

‘It might never happen!’ ‘You talkin’ about lasting thirty trips, Tony?’ called a voice from the inside of the truck. Piling out, lugging our parachutes and other gear, we waddled across to our waiting Halifax standing silent and forbidding in its matt black under paint. The ground crew were standing by ready to plug in the starting trolley with its tiny engine sputtering away merrily. In the darkness Merlin engines were bursting into life around the airfield adding drama and urgency to the scene. I found myself perspiring in spite of the chill in the night air.

Then I was following the others into the dimly lit interior with its familiar mixture of smells that seem hard to define. I checked that the IFF was switched on and plugged in my helmet lead to the intercom unit. An isolating switch enabled me to use my radio and transmitter equipment. The w/op’s position was directly below the navigator’s making it easy to pass on radio fixes or bearings. The fuselage shook as one of the Merlins turned then burst into life, quickly joined by a second, then the third till all four engines were bellowing their defiance at the night sky. Tom’s voice, distorted by the noise, came over the intercom checking on each of his crew members. ‘Okay wireless op?’

‘Roger, skipper!’

I felt the aircraft move as we slowly trundled out of the dispersal onto the perimeter track. The airfield was in darkness apart from the blue neon markers keeping pilots from veering into the grass verge. As Tom swung the Halifax round on to the main runway and throttled back we could hear the distant, muted roar from the Halifax that had

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just taken off filling the night sky. As we were on strict radio silence we got our takeoff signal from the duty pilot standing outside his tiny cubicle beside the main runway. A red aldis lamp held us in readiness awaiting the green for takeoff. I always felt that this moment of waiting for the green was one of the most nerve-racking experiences of the trip. More so when hunched forward in that cramped cubicle unable to see what was happening and entirely dependent on the pilot’s skill and concentration.

The four engines suddenly swelled from idling to a deep-throated pulsating roar and my back was pressed hard against the bucket seat as the Halifax accelerated down the dark runway. I sat there, instinctively gripping my parachute with both hands for moral support, my ears straining for any change in the engine note. I imagine that Tony the rear gunner would have had some witty comment if he were able to see me at that moment. I felt the jolt of the undercarriage retracting as we gained height over the airfield perimeter commencing the long, slow climb towards the coast.

We usually plugged into oxygen at eight thousand feet. It was supposed to improve our night vision and sharpen the reflexes. I also remembered to reel out the two hundred and fifty foot trailing aerial. ‘We’re over the coast now, gunners!’ This was Tom letting Tony and Terry know that they could test fire their Brownings. Almost immediately the mid upper turret vibrated to the sound of four Brownings as a stream of orange tracers hosed the night sky. Tony in the rear turret made a point of waiting a few minutes before opening up.

It was time to tune in for the ‘Base broadcast’. I was having a bit of difficulty picking out the signal due to static interference. At the time I wasn’t aware that we were flying through cloud. I managed to pick out the signal and took down the coded message and reached for my cipher book. The message read that pathfinders reported clear skies

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over the target area which I passed on to the pilot. We were now at twelve thousand feet and still climbing, hoping to make sixteen by the time we crossed the enemy coast.

Suddenly there came a muffled banging. Tom’s voice sounded over the intercom. The starboard inner was overheating and misfiring. He was conferring with the flight engineer whether to shut down the engine and feather the prop. This would slow us down and lessen our chances of making sixteen thousand with a full bomb load. My mouth felt dry so I sucked one of the barley sugar tablets we were issued with.

Tom decided to shut down the failing engine in the hope that it could be restarted later. We were now in the bomber stream with dozens of other Halifaxes and Lancasters heading for the Dutch coast. There were fewer Stirlings now, these having been relegated to softer targets such as mine-laying due to their limited performance. Bob Harvey the flight engineer had just done a fuel transfer to help balance up the aircraft and suggested that Tom try restarting the starboard inner. It seemed to be running ok whatever the trouble had been.

I realised that it was time for the next base broadcast and pressed the I/ C switch. I turned the tuning dial, carefully searching for the signal and finally recognised its distinctive tone and steady morse transmission. I felt a twinge of panic realising that I’d missed the call signs and part of the message but managed to scribble down the coded message in my logbook, waiting for the message to be repeated. Then came the end of transmission signal. I realised that I had missed the first transmission and just managed to get part of second. At least I had got the main part and reached for the decoding book. Translated the message read ‘all aircraft return to base’.

My first reaction was surprise followed by relief. This wouldn’t count as an op but at least it was a temporary reprieve. ‘He who turns and runs away lives to fight another day.’ I read the message to Tom who

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asked me to repeat it slowly. At first he was sceptical. ‘You’re sure you got the goddam message right?’ I insisted I had. ‘That’s it then guys!

We jettison the bombload and hightail it for home!’ Like Tom, the others in the crew were frustrated and angry at having to turn back as they were keyed up for this op added to which it wouldn’t count as part of our total. I felt shamefaced knowing I was pleased about it.

As we lost height nearing the Lincolnshire coast we encountered heavy cloud causing static on the radio. Luke wasn’t sure of our position and asked me to get a radio fix but I got nothing but static in my headphones. Tom became agitated, complaining that he had a navigator who couldn’t find his way and a wireless op who couldn’t work a radio. ‘We’ll keep losing height till we pinpoint our position. Let’s just hope we’re over Lincolnshire and not the bloody Cairngorms!’

At five hundred feet he spotted the familiar outline of the Humber estuary shining faintly in the darkness below which would guide him to Elsham and home. As we climbed stiffly out of the aircraft I had an uneasy feeling. The ground crew were obviously puzzled at our early return. Worse still, there were no other Halifaxes to be seen. Obviously something was far wrong.

Grounded until further notice We were driven to the flying control where the station commander stood waiting, red faced and angry. Tom got the brunt of his wrath whilst hostile glances were cast in my direction. I stood wishing the floor would drop from under me. Though Tom was questioned thoroughly I was more or less ignored. Tom let me have it when we sat in the mess hall for our aircrew supper of egg and bacon. It seemed that the recall signal had been addressed to one particular squadron and not the entire bomber force. I had obviously missed that part of the message. I should have carried on till the following base broadcast if I wasn’t sure of the message.

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Next morning the whole crew was suspended from flying whilst I was taken into the radio room where I was given a morse code test and questioned by the squadron signals leader. He asked me if I was happy about flying. It was decided that I would be grounded till further notice while Tom and the rest of the crew would carry on with a replacement wireless operator. I was detailed to work in the parachute room issuing ‘chutes to the crews going on ops. This added to my humiliation having to face the lads and worse still my own crew. Off duty I made a point of staying away from the mess and our billet as much as possible.

I don’t think I spoke a dozen words to Tom or the others in the two weeks I spent issuing and collecting chutes. I felt miserable and alone, my sullen attitude alienating me from lads who had been my comrades and friends. To get away from it all I took the bus into York a couple of times wandering aimlessly through its narrow streets or sitting in a cinema to take my mind off things. I had already made up my mind that I didn’t want to fly any more but wondered if I had the courage to face the commanding officer with this. Even Luke McKenzie, our navigator, who had treated me as a younger brother from the time we became a crew seemed to distance himself from me.

Looking back on this, I now realise that he was probably wondering what this was all about.

‘I don’t want to fly any more, sir.’

At the end of my two week quarantine I was called to the C.O.’s office for the dreaded confrontation. ‘Well sergeant! Have you sorted yourself out and feel ready to rejoin your crew?’ I was intimidated by his overbearing presence. ‘I don’t want to fly any more, sir!’ His features reddened with anger and astonishment. He paused for a moment weighing his words. ‘You realise what this means, sergeant?’

I stood to attention awaiting his next words. ‘You will be sent away

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from this squadron to a place where you will be stripped of sergeant’s rank and reduced to AC 2!’ His eyes bored into me. ‘What do you say to that?’ ‘Nothing, sir,’ I replied in a humble voice. This seemed to anger him even more. ‘Furthermore,’ his voice was now loud and strident, ‘I will recommend that you be transferred to the infantry and you will probably end up in the front line in the trenches! Then what will you do?’ I made an effort to look him in the eye. ‘I’ll take my chances on the ground, sir!’ He gave me a scathing look before replying. ‘Thank God the Airforce isn’t manned by men of your calibre.’ Then with a look of disgust, he added, ‘Get out of my sight!’

In spite of this verbal tongue lashing I left his office feeling that a load had been lifted from my shoulders. Next morning I was asked to report to the orderly room to be issued with a travel warrant and instructed to have my kit packed and ready to leave the squadron at six a.m. the following morning. After dinner I took the bus to York and spent the whole day there, returning late when the rest of the billet was already in bed. I crept under the sheets not wanting to disturb anyone but couldn’t sleep, thinking I was no longer one of them.

Early next morning I slipped out of the billet quietly while the others were still asleep. Luke had given me a harmonica which he had asked his wife to send from Canada. I left it beside his bunk feeling that I didn’t deserve to have it. That’s the last I ever saw of the members of our crew, then I was juggling my two kitbags in darkness on my way to the station. The travel warrant read: A.C.D.U. Chessington, London. I wondered what this place had in store for me. It was quite a downhill hike to Barneby railway station hampered by two kitbags and the inevitable respirator in its shoulder case. It was still dark when I arrived at the tiny station and apart from the booking clerk and an elderly porter the place was deserted. The next train to Doncaster wasn’t due for half an hour so I sat outside the waiting room, brooding about my future. Later an RAF truck arrived and dropped off a couple

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of WAAFs, obviously going on leave. I was too consumed by my own problems to bother making conversation and was relieved when the faint sound of a train whistle floated through the darkness.

I found an empty compartment and sat staring out of the window watching the first streaks of dawn appearing in the east. To think I had dreamed and hoped about one day becoming a sergeant airgunner and now I was about to throw it all away. The months of striving to pass exams were all for nothing. I must have dozed off, awakening with a start every time the train squealed to a halt at some station or other. I needn’t have worried as our train terminated at Doncaster.

Three hours later I was in King’s Cross and finally found my way to Chessington in south London. I arrived in the late afternoon of February 1944 and reported to the guardroom where I was directed to the administration block.

Air Crew Disposal Unit The camp was quite small consisting of three or four large barrack rooms, a couple of mess halls and an orderly room. My arrival hardly caused a ripple. I learned to my surprise that there were over two hundred sergeant aircrew already here awaiting the same fate as myself. There were fighter and bomber pilots, gunners, navigators and so on all having asked to be taken off flying duties. A couple of the lads were sporting distinguished flying medals and several others were Australians. They all seemed the same high-spirited lads that one found in any RAF squadron and didn’t seem to give a damn what fate had in store for them.

‘You’re here about three weeks,’ one Aussie navigator told me.

‘Then they ask you if you want to rejoin your squadron!’ He paused for effect. ‘If you say no, then you get the chop, mate!’ ‘What happens then?’ I asked though I had already guessed the answer.

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‘You get busted right down to AC plonk with LMF stamped across your pay-book’. LMF stood for ‘lack of moral fibre’ so the station commander wasn’t far wrong when he bawled me out. Some of the lads had been wounded by flak, others had survived crashes or had to bale out, unable to land the crippled bomber. They had legitimate reasons for refusing to fly again whilst some like myself were just frightened of flying.

During our time there we could do pretty much as we pleased, playing snooker etc, and organised football matches. One afternoon we were invited to play a team composed of warders from a nearby mental asylum. I was one of the supporters who tagged along to cheer our team and it was an experience that I’m not likely to forget. The asylum was less than a mile from camp and surrounded by a high wall. A warder opened the huge wrought iron gates to allow us inside. It was like stepping into a different world. A large, ominous looking sandstone building stood surrounded by well kept lawns bordered by trees but with little sign of life. As we wandered in a group looking around us, one of the lads pointed to a ragged figure peering at us from amongst some trees. He began beckoning to us to join him and was obviously one of the inmates.

Then as we neared the building itself we were obliged to walk between two parallel, high, mesh steel fences similar to a zoo. As we entered the building itself we passed a row of padded cells each with a tiny glass window. I walked over to look through one of them.

It was like a scene from a horror film. Crouched on the floor was this wretched, unkempt figure, unshaven with long matted hair and tattered clothing, looking more animal than human. He looked up suddenly aware of being watched and I found myself looking into bloodshot staring eyes. Next thing he scrambled to his feet, hurled himself at the door of his cell and began clawing at the tiny window.

I instinctively drew back in alarm, intimidated by those maniacal

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hate-filled eyes. A warder appeared behind me. ‘Best not look in the windows, lad. It only upsets the patients.’ A couple of our lads had also been taking a look in one of the cells.

We moved on and arrived in the main dining hall. The scene here was another revelation as the inmates were having lunch. The tables were heavy benches as in a butcher’s shop, which was just as well as some inmates were standing on them throwing lumps of bread at one another. One chap was hunched over his plate mouthing prayers whilst his companion was jeering and pointing at him shouting. ‘The bugger’s daft!’ Another poor chap had a leg amputated with the bare stump showing through a ragged hole in the seat of his trousers. I was shocked at seeing so many of the inmates in ragged, tattered clothes.

Surely even with wartime rationing more should have been done for their welfare and I sensed that the authorities weren’t aware of the conditions in this place.

I eventually found myself watching the match. The warders all seemed big hefty blokes and I think our lads lost the game. There was also another mental institution next to this one but for women. I wondered what conditions would be like in there.

Some new arrivals appeared in the mess. I recognised one lad from my home town. In fact we had shared the same classroom at secondary school. He was a flight engineer and had decided to pack in flying after the wing of his Halifax came loose during a routine air test. The pilot had ordered the crew to bale out then tried to land the thing on his own and was killed. We teamed up together and visited London several times. The Germans were sending over V1 ‘Doodle Bugs’ by this time but one didn’t duck as long as its engine kept running like an old Harley Davis motor bike. When the motor stopped it fell almost vertically. Fortunately we were never in the vicinity and London is a big place. Every day a couple of lads would be called into the admin

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office when their three week ‘rest period’ was up. Then it was my turn together with a flight sergeant pilot who had been a sergeant cook before training as aircrew.

The two officers who interviewed me were quite matter-of-fact about the whole thing, explaining that I would lose my sergeant’s stripes if I refused to return to flying duties. I said I was prepared to do this, and that was it. The pilot also refused but retained his sergeant cook status whereas I reverted to the lowest rank in the airforce. We left the camp together, this time with only one kitbag, having handed in our flying gear. ‘I’ve a wife and two kids,’ the pilot remarked, ‘so she’ll be happy now!’

Teleprinter op, Altrincham My travel warrant was for Altrincham near Manchester. I was being posted there as a ground wireless op. It turned out to be a munition depot with mainly civilians working on the various sites. There was no signals section, thus no need for wireless ops, so I was detailed to work in the NAAFI canteen scrubbing floors and tables. Worse still, I had to go around the sites pushing a trolley laden with buns and scones and a large tea urn selling my wares to the women working there. I hated every minute of it but I had made my bed and had to grin and bear it. The billet corporal must have read my file as he went out of his way to make things awkward for me, picking fault with everything I did and giving me a kit inspection every other day. I thought about the lads back on the squadron and wondered if my own crew were still around. Given the chance I still wouldn’t want to go back in spite of the miserable existence stuck in this camp. Most of the lads in the billet hadn’t even seen an aeroplane close up. One lad in particular had been cleaning toilets for the last couple of years whilst another ran errands for the orderly room and officers’ mess. I shared no common interest with any of them and kept pretty much to myself, resigned to a situation of my own making.

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After a couple of weeks making the rounds as a tea boy I was told to report to the teleprinter room. As there was no radio equipment on the camp it had been decided that I should learn to operate the teleprinter.

There were two machines there manned by civilians and as I couldn’t type I was more or less an onlooker. The two civvies were decent lads.

The older one in his fifties had served in the army during the first war then in the North West frontier in India. His companion was a mild mannered chap around forty and was obviously impressed by the older man’s experiences. The three of us got on well together with plenty of time to sit and drink tea between messages coming in on the machines.

Frank, the old soldier, had us both hanging on his every word with his tales of life in the trenches. He had a blunt, matter-of-fact way of describing the grim situations that one never tired of listening to. I began to realise that flying in a bomber was nothing like the misery and carnage the infantry endured in the first war. They also coached me on learning the teleprinter and allowed me to practise typing exercises.

I found myself looking forward to my days there.

Ringway One afternoon an attractive young WAAF officer came into the room to look around. She asked what I was doing there and I gave her a brief account of how I had ended up in my present situation. She seemed quite sympathetic and arranged for me to be transferred to nearby Ringway to brush up on my wireless operating with a view to promoting me to leading aircraftsman. Ringway where I was to be based for a fortnight was a paratrooper training airfield with Dakota aircraft. The signals officer there took me under his wing and placed me on one of the transmitters with the understanding that he would put me through an exam at the end of the second week so that I could gain my LAC rating. He was a handsome thirty year old and I sensed that I was here as a favour on his part to the attractive blonde officer. With the build-up for the long awaited D Day, droves of young hopefuls were arriving daily for training as paratroopers.

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I never met a wilder unruly bunch of lads, though what else could you expect from men who were prepared to jump out of an aeroplane for an extra one and sixpence a day? After a week or so of ground training they did one jump from a stationary balloon followed by three more jumps from a Dakota. Then they became qualified paratroopers entitled to wear the winged parachute on their shoulder.

I wangled a flight in a ‘Dak’ and got a close-up view of the lads as they sat nervously as we approached the drop zone. I felt I could never summon up the nerve to jump unless the plane was on fire. My two weeks soon passed but I didn’t pass the LAC exam. My morse receiving and sending was good enough but radio theory was not my strong suit. I passed as aircraftsman first class which was something and gained me another ninepence per day. In some ways I was glad to be back in the teleprinter room with my two civvy pals. This was shortlived however as a week later I was called into the orderly room and told that I was being posted to a maintenance unit near Carlisle.

I wondered what kind of dump that would turn out to be. I had made a date with a girl who worked in the NAAFI canteen and in meeting her I missed the last train from Manchester to Carlisle with the result I arrived eight hours late having had to sit all night in Manchester station waiting for the early morning train.

Carlisle, this RAF Backwater Like most RAF camps getting there entailed a two mile hike from the station, in this case Carlisle, lugging my kit. Unshaven and bleary eyed I reported at the guardroom manned by MOD civilian police. They seemed a friendly lot and the chap who examined my travel warrant told me that the orderly room had been asking if I had reported yet.

‘I’m afraid they aren’t too pleased at your late arrival, son!’ The orderly room clerk proved to be a man bursting with self importance, flaunting his corporal stripes like battle honours. ‘Ex aircrew, eh?’ he remarked

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seated behind his desk examining my pay book. ‘Well, airman, you are eight hours overdue which means you are AWOL, thus I have no alternative but to charge you with being absent from duty!’ I could tell that he really loved his job.

So I spent my first two weeks confined to camp and cleaning out the latrines. I was allocated a billet which I shared with twenty other lads, one of whom was the billet corporal who was a wireless operator. This meant that he would be my superior both off and on duty. He took an immediate dislike to me and was to make things awkward for me over the next few months. The one ray of sunshine was a lad in the far end of the billet, Stan Proctor. Stan was another wireless op and like myself had been aircrew so we had much in common. I soon discovered Stan to be a great lad and we quickly became close friends which made all the difference in this RAF backwater.

The camp itself was mainly a large stores depot with hangars filled with radio equipment and aircraft parts. Most of the RAF lads were on general duties doing manual labour. Stan and I along with four other ground wireless ops and the corporal, of course, took turns manning the strange-looking signals cabin which looked like a space capsule. It must have been intended to survive a direct hit from a bomb as the walls were almost a foot thick with one small porthole made of thick toughened glass. The small entry also had a massive door which could only be locked and opened from inside so God knows what would have happened if the chap inside fell ill. The radio equipment was the old 1082 set which we operated during training at Madley but it all seemed pretty futile as during the two months I operated the set I can’t recall receiving one message. I think it was there to justify having wireless operators on the camp as there was a teleprinter room which handled all the communications.

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Stan and I went into town often during our time off, walking back along the river bank and crossing the railway bridge as a shortcut to camp.

One day we followed the river to the north and came upon a lad about our own age living alone in a gypsy caravan. It seemed a carefree life and I suspect that the local authorities weren’t aware of his existence otherwise he would have been called up for military service. We never thought to question his affairs and enjoyed chatting and sharing a pot of tea and a scone. During the long summer evenings we would watch a lone Halifax bomber circling high over Carlisle on a cross country trip and from the security of my present situation I was able to feel a twinge of regret, and wonder again how my old crew were faring.

And all over a little morse key One afternoon I did bump into one of the rear gunners from my old squadron. He was home on leave and had completed twenty-two operations. To my surprise, he was really pleased to see me and took me to meet his mum and dad who lived in a small house in the main street in town. ‘Tom still speaks about you, Jock. I think he misses you.’ It never entered my mind to make contact as I still felt guilty about my actions.

Returning to the billet one day I found the military police were conducting a search of everyone’s kit. They arrived at my bunk just as I did and my mind went to an aircraft transmitting key that I had kept as a memento. It seemed though that some lad in the billet had reported his wrist watch missing and suspected that it had been stolen.

Most of the others had already had their kits turned over and now the two MPs were standing on either side of my bunk watching me empty my kitbag. Their attention immediately focused on the Morse key with the Air Ministry stamp on its plastic casing. ‘How did this come to be in your possession, airman’?’ I explained that I had salvaged it from a crashed Halifax. ‘Would you mind stepping outside for questioning?’

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It seemed that they had drawn a blank with the missing watch so here was something to justify their efforts. I was duly charged with theft and possession of Air Force property and made subject to court martial proceedings. I was struck by the ludicrous injustice of the situation.

The morse key was valued at eight shillings and sixpence whilst Bomber Command was losing an average of twenty Lancasters and Halifaxes a night at fifty thousand pounds each. Two days later I stood before two grim faced senior officers who no doubt had read my file.

One of them eyed me coldly before they gave their joint verdict. ‘Do you accept the punishment or are you prepared to face a general court martial?’ I was astonished. They made it sound as if I was being tried for high treason. I nodded mutely unable to find my voice. ‘We hereby sentence you to twenty one days detention with loss of pay during that period.’ I was escorted to the MoD guard room and locked in a cell to await transfer to a detention centre. The civvy policeman was quite sympathetic about having to lock me up in the tiny whitewashed cell with one small window set high up on the wall. Being claustrophobic I felt trapped and apprehensive, not being able to see outside. I was allowed a visitor and my pal Stan came to see me. He was upset at seeing me locked up like a caged animal. ‘For Christ’s sake Jock it’s not fair! And all over a little morse key!’

Early next morning I was bundled into a van with an RAF policeman to keep me company and driven twenty odd miles to another RAF station.

This was actually a Beaufighter operational training airfield where my residence for the next three weeks was a cell in the guardhouse. This time my cell had no window apart from a small inspection hatch set in the door leading to the main guardroom. The only furnishings were a mattress on the floor and a small cupboard. I had to scrub the cell floor every morning, and then an armed guard would accompany me to the washrooms then to the mess-hall for meals. I had a different guard every day of the week and it seemed ridiculous that with a war going on seven men were assigned to prevent the escape of a petty thief, if

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indeed the holding on to a morse key for sentimental reasons could be deemed as such. One afternoon I accompanied my guard around the aircraft dispersal pans looking for stolen bicycles missing from the WAAF’s quarters. Some for the guards were quite friendly and I would ask what my guard for the following day was like. ‘Oh. So and so’s a funny bugger so don’t get on the wrong side of him!’ On my last day I got this grim looking corporal who eyed me up and down while he checked the rounds in his service revolver. I thought, ‘For Christ’s sake! I’m not likely to make a break for it on my last day!’ Thinking back, it was an experience and I can see the funny side of it, being treated like a dangerous felon over a petty offence.

Ten sets per day After this ordeal I was taken back to my own station where Stan and I went out on the town to celebrate my return. But it seems I should have reported back to the orderly room so next morning that nice corporal put me on a charge of failing to clock in. I reported to the flight sergeant for punishment. He shook his head when he read the charge sheet.

‘Forget it, lad!’ Stan and I were assigned to assist the civilian wireless technician who showed us how to alter LFF radio transmitters to a later mark by simply replacing a small resistance unit. This entailed a bit of elementary soldering and after watching one of the civilian chaps doing this a couple of times we were assumed qualified. We were expected to alter at least ten sets each day which wasn’t beyond us. The civvy lads could easily do four sets in an hour but then their pay was four times what Stan and I were getting.

The job became boring after a couple of days so Stan discovered a large sheet of inch plywood which would be ideal for playing table tennis. We set it up on a crate behind the storage hangar and spent hours practising with the result that our quota never exceeded ten sets per day. We also discovered a beech tree growing inside the eight

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foot barbed wire fence which surrounded the entire camp. One of the branches extended over the fence which meant that it would be quite easy to shin up the tree and along the branch and drop down outside the camp. As the guardroom was on the far side of camp we could slip out whenever we felt like it and save ourselves a half mile walk when going into town. The only snag was that we would have to think up some story for the guard when we reported back at night.

The last thing I expected While I had been languishing in the guardhouse the D-Day landings had taken place on June 6th 1944 and radio and newspapers were full of stories about the epic struggles to gain ground from the beachheads.

As for Stan and I, it looked as if we were destined to spend our war playing table tennis and sneaking out of camp. One morning the billet corporal, looking smug and pleased with himself, told me I was to report to the orderly room. I knew it couldn’t possibly be good news but it was the last thing I expected. The orderly room corporal could barely hide his pleasure. ‘Get your kit packed airman. You’re going on an ocean cruise to the far East!’ Then grudgingly he added. ‘Here’s your travel warrant for six days’ embarkation leave’. Stan was disappointed. ‘Pity we couldn’t have gone together. We had our last evening in town and saw a film, The Court Jester with Danny Kaye. Back in camp I spoke to a dark haired girl who worked in the NAAFI. I had admired her for some time but had never summoned the courage to approach her. I told her I was being posted overseas and she promised to write to me. During the war years it was considered the done thing for a girl to write to some lad who was going overseas. A sort of morale booster. Naturally I would have to write to her first to let her know where I was.

I had little enthusiasm for going on leave having not been home since I lost my stripes, so I wore my civvy clothes most of the time. My mother lived with someone in Perth but she stayed a couple of nights at my

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father’s to see me off. It was one of the worst leaves I ever spent. I had to report back to a unit near Blackpool to be fitted out with overseas kit and to endure inoculations and vaccinations. I remember spending my last evening there strolling alone along the beach wondering what lay ahead of me, feeling once more lonely and miserable. Next morning we were herded into trucks and driven to Blackpool Central station where a special troop train stood. Everyone started piling into the carriages under the watchful eyes of several redcaps. There was always some character who couldn’t bear the thought of leaving old England’s shores and tried to make a run for it. There were eight of us crammed into the compartment with everyone chattering away speculating on where we were going. ‘They say the Japs use prisoners for bayonet practice!’ said one. ‘I got married on embarkation leave!’ announced another lad. A married man did three years abroad against the single lad’s four. ‘Rather you than me, mate!’ The engine whistle shrieked and the carriage jerked and we were on our way with smoke and steam wafting past the window. We had each been issued with a packed lunch which meant a long trip ahead of us. Now and then I could hear the sharp blast of the loco’s exhaust as it laboured up a gradient and I pictured the fireman standing legs apart on the swaying footplate whilst heaving shovels of coal into the glaring maw of the firebox. My thoughts switched to Stan wondering if he would find a new partner for our table tennis sessions behind the hangar. It was good to know that we would stay in touch as he had been a good pal when I needed moral support.

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Part Three: The Far East Troopship in Glasgow In 1944 our train actually passed through Carlisle barely a mile from my old camp. It was obvious that we were heading for Glasgow docks although no one had mentioned where our final destination might be.

As part of our tropical kit we had been issued with ‘Bombay Bowlers’, huge sun-helmets like something out of Clive of India.

When our train finally steamed slowly into Glasgow docks I was awed by the enormous white troopship that dwarfed our carriages with hundreds of tiny figures staring down on us from its decks. No one spoke as our train ground to a halt alongside another which was already unloading its human cargo. There seemed to be dozens of red caps around making sure that the embarkation proceeded in an orderly fashion. ‘No sobbing on the gangplank!’ ‘Mummy’s no here to hold your hand!’ could be heard amidst the chatter of excited voices as we 139

climbed out of the carriages. There were two or three gangplanks rising steeply into the ship with ribbons of men filing slowly towards them, each lugging two kitbags. When it came my turn to climb the plank I suddenly realised how high above the water I was with only a rope on either side to stop me from falling. I felt quite vulnerable, especially needing both hands to hold on to my kitbags, but I was also painfully aware of the forest of eyes looking down from the decks enjoying the spectacle. It was a relief to arrive on deck thirty feet above the dockside and blend in with the others.

I was allocated a bunk in a hold with a hundred other RAF types, mostly wireless ops like myself. The bunks were tiered four high two feet apart, the lower ones being used as steps to reach the topmost.

The passageway between the tiers was little more than two feet so one can imagine the tension that could develop over a period of weeks in such confinement. In such tightly packed conditions one only got to know those lads close by, though I did come to recognise some voices from the other passageway. The first thing I became aware of was the smell of cooking and when the tannoy announced that meals were being served I realised how hungry I was. The mess-hall was crowded but the food was an improvement on RAF mess-halls in general. After a meal of German sausages, potatoes and vegetables followed by a sweet and a mug of tea I joined the spectators hanging over the railings looking down on the lines of figures still mounting the gangplanks. Things weren’t looking so bad now and I began to see this as a new adventure bound for a far away land. After the previous evening wandering along the beach feeling sorry for myself I felt my spirits rise. Late that afternoon the gangplanks were withdrawn and a couple large tugs appeared in readiness to tow our ship, the Athlone Castle, away from the dock and into the Clyde estuary. As the ship eased away from its berth I remember seeing groups of figures staring up at us from the quayside, among them the red caps satisfied in the knowledge of a job well done.

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The land fell away The Athlone Castle was one of several Castle line ships converted to troop carrying. I remember it as being six hundred feet in length and eighty feet across sporting two large funnels. It was carrying five thousand troops and about a hundred crewmen including naval gunners for defence in case of air attack. The ship was now coasting majestically down the Clyde with the docks and shipyard derricks giving way to green countryside and fields of ripening corn. As the river widened I could feel the power of the engines as we increased speed. The land fell away and became a distant coastline with a stiff breeze roughening the waters. We passed by some Catalina twin engined flying boats tethered to buoys bouncing at anchor in the choppy seas. The ship’s engines died away and we were more or less coasting towards several other large boats dotted around in the distance ahead of us. We had reached our rendezvous and were about to join the convoy of vessels bound for foreign shores. In the fading light we were at anchor surrounded by a dozen or more vessels ranging from troop ships to oil tankers and supply boats. As darkness fell it became quite chilly and with blackout regulations above deck we were glad to return to the confines of the hold. Even the lighting in the hold was restricted to low wattage bulbs which made reading a book difficult.

Next morning we were awakened by Souza’s military music blaring through the tannoy system and it became a close quarters melee to get to the washrooms and shaved before joining the crush for breakfast.

Seawater was used for toiletries and we were issued with a special soap that was supposed to lather in such conditions. But it wasn’t really effective. Again breakfast was an improvement on RAF stations though I found I had to share my knife, fork and spoon with three other lads at our table, they having lost theirs. I was already aware that the ship was in motion and when I finally got up on deck we were forging along through rough seas with no sign of land around us. We

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were doing around eight or ten knots keeping station with the slower vessels dotted around us, the nearest being almost a quarter of a mile off our beam. I knew we must be somewhere along the Irish Sea but it was to be nearly two weeks before I saw land again. Up till now we had been sightseeing spectators but knowing the RAF I felt there had to be a catch to our life of ease. Later as we headed towards the Bay of Biscay the seas started to get really rough and, huge though our Castle liner was, the decks began to rise and fall like a fairground ride making it difficult to find our footing. I spied a school of porpoises leaping through the waves and once a whale spouting in the distance.

Already some of the lads in the hold were being sick and I found it better to stay up on deck in the fresh air. There was a constant queue to use the toilets which had no doors fitted so any act of modesty was treated with derision by those impatiently waiting their turn. There were two or three fast escort destroyers patrolling back and forth among the convoy keeping a watch for German U-boats and sometimes passing less than a hundred yards from our ship, butting through the waves like a roller coaster.

The Mediterranean in a freezer Then one morning we found ourselves in the comparative calm of the Mediterranean which looked a beautiful clear blue with a hot sun beating down on the decks. Everyone started stripping off to his shorts and picking a spot on deck to lie sunbathing. As I lay with bodies all around me a shadow suddenly fell across my face and I blinked to see two grim faced sergeants staring down at me. ‘Have you been detailed for a work party, airman?’ It sounded more like an accusation than a question. In growing dismay I realised that these were members of the dreaded press gang whose duties were to round up malingerers for a range of unpleasant duties for the duration of our voyage. The worst of these chores was being assigned to cookhouse

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duty. Galley slaves was a fitting term for this. I had already seen lads manning the dishwashing machines with sweat pouring down their faces but had assumed them to be part of merchant navy crew. I was fortunate to land a job assisting the butchers down in the very bowels of the ship where everything was deep frozen.

The part of the job I dreaded was being locked in the huge freezer wearing a camelhair coat for protection. ‘We have to keep the door locked, mate!’ the butcher explained. ‘Otherwise the meat would go off!’ ‘How long do I have to be in there?’ Claustrophobia was welling up in me. ‘No more than fifteen minutes, chum! Don’t worry we won’t forget you’re in there!’ There were scores of frozen chickens hanging on hooks but the troops never saw them as they were strictly for the officers’ mess. I was there as a general help to carry meat etc from the huge freezer while the butcher and his helpers prepared it for the cooks four decks above us. This was taken up through a hatch by a block and tackle arrangement operated manually hand over hand. This was a risky business for the lad topside who had to stand astride the open hatch using both hands to haul on the rope. I had done a spell at this and to me it came a close second to being locked in the fridge. As it happened two days later a lad straddling the hatch pulled on the wrong rope and plunged thirty feet to his death. His body was ferried ashore to Gibraltar.

One good thing about working with the butchers was that we dined with them, sharing the choicest of food. Unfortunately seasickness caught up with me and I couldn’t look at food for three days.

We were approaching the German held island of Crete and news got around that there were U-boats waiting for our convoy. Sure enough our destroyer escorts were racing past our ship with smoke belching from their funnels. Some time later when I was back in the butchery it suddenly felt as if someone was striking the ship with a giant sledgehammer. This was the depth charges being laid by our destroyers which must have been over a couple of’ miles away. Rumour had it

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that one of the German subs had been destroyed. After dark I used to go up on deck to get some air and would lean over the rail watching the flashing phosphorous in the dark waters below. I imagined how terrifying it must be to fall overboard and watch the ship disappearing into the darkness.

Every evening a bottle of lime juice was left on every bunk and as I got back to the hold an argument was in progress beside my bunk. The lad above me hadn’t got his bottle and was accusing a Glasgow chap of stealing it. The Glaswegian lost his temper and smashed his own bottle on the metal surround of my bunk and lunged at his accuser. Then all hell let loose with one chap grabbing the Scot around the waist and others joining in. In the narrow confines there was little room to struggle and I suddenly found myself on my back flat on the floor with this huge Yorkshire bloke on top of me. His bare sweating chest was rammed against my face, squashing my nose and making it impossible to breathe. Unable to turn or heave his body off me and knowing I was about to suffocate I sank my teeth into his flabby breast. He let out a roar of agony and heaved upwards. ‘You bit me! You Scots bastard!’

‘And you nearly suffocated me!’ A few moments later everyone was back to normal and the incident forgotten. Tension had been building up over the past few days. What with the heat and the crowded conditions it only needed something to trigger it off.

Suez Canal Then one afternoon we got our first sight of land. Alexandria lay shimmering white on the distant skyline and I wondered what this exotic foreign land was like. With the sweltering head in the holds troops were allowed to sleep on deck provided they didn’t cause an obstruction to crewmen patrolling the ship. Finding a vacant spot wasn’t easy and some of the more daring lads slept in the lifeboats which was a punishable offence if they were caught. Then one morning the military music blasted

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out over the tannoy to mark our arrival at Port Said at the mouth of the Suez Canal. A monument to its creator greeted us at its entrance and some of the charm of the East swept over me. Our ship docked in the harbour at the edge of the city and gangplanks were run out. But there was no way that any of the troops were allowed off ship yet. I felt I would have given anything to have been able to walk down that gangplank and wander through the streets of this strange new world so different from anything I had ever seen before. From the rail off the ship I could see little beyond the dockside but with the beckoning lights flickering in the warm night air I sensed an atmosphere of intrigue and mystery in the streets beyond. Maybe we had been cooped up aboard ship so long that I was seeing things through rose tinted glasses. Reluctantly I left the ship’s rail and returned to the sweltering heat below deck.

Next day after my stint down in the butchery I went on deck to stare at the activities going on in the harbour. Supplies were being loaded aboard and several small craft were sculling around with their Arab crews constantly tacking the large single sail in order to make the most of the slight breeze. Dozens of Arab youths were swimming around our ship shouting ‘Come on now, Mister MacGregor? Bakshees!’

Some of us threw coins into the water and the lads disappeared below the surface after the sinking coins. They could swim like fish and the water was so clear we could watch their efforts ten or twelve feet down. It seemed that this was regarded as begging and soon a couple of policemen wearing Turkish fezes appeared in a rowing boat. As one man rowed the other leaned over the side lashing out at the unfortunate lads with a bamboo rod.

The ship cast off and we were on our own, coasting slowly along the Suez Canal which was said to be eighty yards across and eighty miles in length. From the deck of the ship the canal seemed to be constructed of stone blocks sloping outwards towards the top. I was unable to see over the rim of the canal and I did not realise that a road and railway

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ran along its banks. There was some activity on the lower deck at the stern of the ship. Somehow an Arab rowing boat had attached itself to the ship and its two occupants were doing a roaring trade selling leather purses and boxes of Turkish delights to some of the lads. The goods were pulled aboard the ship using a cord arrangement with the money sent back in a pouch provided by the vendors. Our ship seemed to be moving slowly yet the Arab boat was bouncing along behind like a speed boat. How they managed to become attached to our ship I’ll never know.

One amusing incident sticks in my mind. Our passage up the canal created a large bow wave that rose to three or four feet below the lip of the embankment riding a hundred feet ahead of the ship. I just happened to be standing among dozens of others on the bows catching the slight breeze from the ship’s passage when a figure appeared on the lip of the canal some distance ahead of us. He crouched down with his back to us looking over the top of the lip unaware of our approach and was obviously answering the call of nature. He suddenly got the shock of his life when the bow wave swept over him and an even bigger shock when he scrambled wildly up the embankment and realized that a hundred eyes had been watching him! It took over ten hours to sail through the canal before the estuary widened into the Red Sea.

Red Sea to Aden We were now a lone ship sweeping along through the limpid, ominous looking water. The heat in our hold was unbearable and it was almost a relief to be working down in the refrigerator. I would fill bottles with drinking water and leave them in the fridge then share them later with some of the lads in the hold. At night I would take a blanket hoping to find a vacant spot on deck. Sometimes the only space was close by the ship’s rail and I lay there listening to the dark waters rushing past thirty feet below. One night I found a dark spot and spread out my

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blanket and lay down. Then I became aware of a nasty smell and felt my blanket getting wet. No wonder the place was deserted. I was lying against the plywood wall of the toilets with urine seeping through onto the deck. I bundled up the sodden blanket and heaved it over the ship’s rail and returned to endure the heat down in our hold.

Next day the anti aircraft gunners got a bit of practice firing at a weather balloon. The hazy blue sky became dotted with puffs of flak and ribbons of trailing white cordite smoke, a welcome diversion to the empty expanse of sea and sky surrounding us. The noise must have carried for miles in the still, humid air. Shoals of’ flying fish would go shooting ahead of us, sometimes remaining airborne for over two hundred yards before flopping back into the water. There was scarcely a ripple on the oily brownish surface of the sea which gave it a sinister, almost frightening look. I wondered what fearsome creatures lurked below the still surface. Then when the galley slaves began dumping slops and leftovers into the sea the waters suddenly boiled with activity.

Scores of large fish were scavenging the food thrown overboard and then the predators arrived. Huge greenish white shapes came lunging up from the depths, with water streaming from rows of gleaming white teeth. These were the upturned bellies of sharks as they attacked the other fish feasting on the slops. I got a grandstand view of them from a lower deck and stared down in fascinated horror. Some of the brutes must have been close on twenty feet in length as they broke surface showing their dark upperside with its well known dorsal fin cleaving the surface. ‘Fancy a swim, Jock?’ called one of the lads from our hold.

Over half a century on I can still visualise that awesome spectacle as clearly as if it were yesterday. We often saw schools of dolphins cavorting in the sea around us keeping station with the ship as if they enjoyed our company.

The story went that the Red sea was so named because of the reddish brown silt from the shores that spread across its surface. The heat gave

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us a constant thirst and, surprisingly, hot tea helped quench our thirst better than iced water. I became quite chummy with the merchant navy lads in the butchery and we would swap stories on our different lifestyles whilst having our meal together. The senior officer had joined the merchant navy almost twenty years ago and was married with three kids. ‘I spend a lot of time away from home but the kids all look like me!’ he joked. A few days later land appeared on the horizon and we found ourselves approaching the barren coasts of Aden. We dropped anchor in the bay less than half a mile from the town itself. Perched on the rocky backdrop the town looked more like a penal colony, barren and inhospitable. I felt I would have hated to find myself stuck in that baking hot wilderness. Arab dhows zigzagged across the bay which must have been a slow, painstaking operation for the crew, constantly swinging around the huge sail.

With our ship at anchor the sun beat down on us like an anvil and the hours dragged by with everyone longing to be on the move again.

Moored not far from us stood a rusting old cargo boat being loaded with coal by a human conveyor belt of coolies, each carrying a sack on his back. Every man had to carry his sack from a tethered barge and climb up a twenty foot rope ladder to dump his load in the hold of the boat, then down another ladder for his next load. In the blistering heat this must have been back breaking, soul destroying work and it went on during darkness with swaying light bulbs accentuating their miserable plight. It made my past hardships trivial by comparison.

Indian Ocean One could almost feel the sigh of relief when the sound of the anchor being raised two days later heralded our departure. Then it was off across the Gulf of Aden and on to the Indian ocean. There were rumours that Japanese submarines would be in this area but this was hearsay. We saw a variety of birds in the large expanse of water and I

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marvelled at some land birds no larger than a pigeon skimming across the waves. Some small birds would land on the cross spars high up on the masts, some even on the lifeboat davits. The troops would lie around the decks or lean against the ship’s rails looking for something interesting in the vast expense of water surrounding us. Sometimes I would stare over the stern looking down at the huge vortex from the churning propellers creating a broad white wake marking our passage as far as the eye could see. We still had friendly dolphins cavorting in the seas around us but no sign of flying fish.

We were becoming adjusted to life aboard a troop ship and I seldom heard anyone complaining about the daily monotony or the cramped conditions. Friendships sprung up between lads who, two weeks before, had never met. I became pally with a Welsh lad and we would swap stories about our lives before joining up. He tried teaching me some words in Welsh but I could hardly get my tongue around some of them. We spotted some patches of bright green seaweed drifting past which looked as if they had recently been turned up from the sea bed.

‘We must be getting near land, Jock!’ One imagined that one could smell the sandy beaches with their waving palm trees. We passed a strange fishing boat that looked to be deserted, drifting aimlessly with no one at the helm. I wondered what chain of events had led to this. It looked so forlorn being left to drift endlessly till the elements claimed it. The men on our bridge must have seen it so maybe its plight had been radioed to port authorities. Seagulls appeared wheeling around the ship searching for scraps, a sure sign that land wasn’t so far away.

Some of the lads were crowding along the bow railings hoping to catch their first sign of the land that would be our final destination.

Beau Chumps in Bombay Then suddenly there it was, a faint greyish cloud on the horizon. My pulse quickened trying to imagine what it would be like to set foot

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on this strange land. My mind went back to some adventure stories I had read as a boy about the Khyber Pass and the Bengal Lancers.

I thought about our neighbour’s son George Cairns who had spent five years in India, then to be recalled for duty at the beginning of the war and later killed in Dunkirk. The faint cloud developed into a coastline and soon we could see patches of green vegetation and a ribbon of white sand. The great throbbing engines went quiet and Land of Hope and Glory blasted through the tannoy system as a sort of farewell gesture to the troops about to embark on a great adventure.

We all lined the rails as the ship eased into dock keeping well clear of the crew members engaged in the mooring operations. It was early morning and still pleasant before the sun reached its zenith. Several Hindu dockworkers were milling around on the quay below wearing folded loincloths We were instructed to wear our sunhelmets before disembarking and I became aware of how ridiculous we must appear with these enormous hats stuck on our heads, looking every bit like inverted coal scuttles. We might best be likened to Laurel and Hardy in Beau Chumps! I think the Japanese soldiers would have died laughing if we had to confront them.

In spite of this I felt mildly elated tramping down the gangplank with a kitbag on my shoulder trailing the other behind me. A phalanx of Bedford trucks stood in readiness and I heaved my kit over the tailboard and scrambled in after it along with a dozen or so other lads.

Next thing we were whisked away from the dock area and along wide streets in the suburbs of Bombay. From under the tarpaulin I could only see behind us but the area we were driving through seemed quite pleasant with rows of tall palm trees lining the streets. I did notice that there were scores of people lying asleep on the sidewalks and huddled in doorways. They seemed content with their lot and in this climate it didn’t seem like a hardship. We soon arrived at Worli as our transit camp was known, a large sunbaked compound of long barrack rooms with straw roofing. These would be our homes till we were sorted out

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and posted to our final destinations. With twenty or more of us to each billet there was still ample room between our bunks or charpoys as they were known. These charpoys were solid wooden affairs strung with coarse hemp which formed the mattress. On top of this was a bamboo frame to support the all-important mosquito net. Two or three large four-bladed fans hung from the ceiling wafting the hot, humid air around which compared to the troop ship was luxury.

That first night as we lay under our mosquito netting a brilliant blue flash followed by a terrific bang silenced the banter among the lads in the billet. This heralded the start of a thunder storm but we hadn’t heard anything this loud and unexpected. And there wasn’t any rain with it.

This was a natural occurrence in tropical climates and we soon grew accustomed to these electrical storms after dark. The food wasn’t a patch on that aboard ship and the manner of cooking it made one tread carefully before eating it. I found weevils in my porridge and recoiled at the sight of dozens of raw eggs being dropped into a cauldron of cold cooking oil - before the wood fire was lit under it. The result was that the cooked eggs were dished up swimming with grease and with a texture like rubber.

‘Trouble with your hearing, sergeant?’

We paraded just as the sun was slanting across the parade ground but within minutes it was beating down relentlessly. A pay parade was held in the square with two or three hundred troops lined up before the paymaster and his assistants seated behind a makeshift table. Each man’s name, rank and number was called at which he repeated his name and last three numbers and stepped forward and saluted before being paid. When it came to the Gs I heard Sergeant Gilmour being called so I ignored it thinking it must be someone else. This was repeated twice and more loudly before I stepped forward. Before I had time to say anything the officer gave me a reprimanding look. ‘Trouble

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with your hearing, sergeant?’ ‘No sir!’ I stuttered feeling confused. I automatically saluted and lifted sergeant’s pay from the desk, then did a quick about turn. My mind wrestled with this dilemma. Should I explain that there must have been some mix-up with my documents?

Then I thought, bugger it! It was their mistake so let them sort it out! The worst that could happen was that my pay would be docked till they recovered the difference but I had a further surprise when my posting came through. I was being sent to join 52 squadron as a sergeant wireless op. Now the fat was in the fire but I steeled myself to wait and see what developed.

Three of us went into Bombay itself which was about a ten minute taxi ride. ‘I didn’t realise you were a sergeant, Jock!’ One of lads remarked.

I mumbled something about it being a long story. One would never dream there was a war going on walking through the streets of Bombay with its shops displaying all manner of goods and with every shop owner trying to coax us to buy something. It’s surprising how quickly one adjusts to a strange new environment and we swaggered around the streets looking in shops, haggling with the turbaned owners as if we had been doing this all our lives.

Kite fighting and Bombay Bowlers Next morning on the parade ground the officer in charge asked if anyone fancied going to the beach for a swim. There were few takers as we all knew that this was an old service ploy to entice ‘volunteers’ for some unpleasant duty or other. Again I felt like taking a chance and put my hand up. Barely a dozen of us clambered aboard one of the Bedford trucks and were driven away from camp. True to the officer’s invitation, about fifteen minutes later we found ourselves on a beautiful sandy beach with waving palm trees just like a scene from a Dorothy Lamour film. We ran into the sea bounding through the gentle surf then swam in the clear blue green waters of the Indian

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ocean. The water itself was pleasantly warm but after a few minutes splashing about I felt stinging sensations all over my legs as if tiny creatures were biting. I peered down into thee clear water but could see no sign of anything but it became so painful that I was glad to get back on the beach in spite of the hot sun. One of the locals appeared pulling a small cart laden with mangos and bananas and soon had a brisk trade going. As an added attraction, he had a pet monkey wearing a tiny red fez on its head and playing around his cart. Back in camp we foolishly told the others what a great time we had. Next morning I couldn’t get near the truck for volunteers. There was another beach with a broad promenade quite close to our camp but this was a different kettle of fish. I use this term as Worli beach stank of rotten fish and human excrement. When the tide went out it left a muddy morass littered with blackened seaweed and jagged stones. In spite of this unsavoury panorama a row of posh flat-roofed villas stretched along the facing promenade. I could only assume that the owners had no sense of smell.

Kite fighting is a popular pastime in India with cups and trophies awarded to winners of this exciting sport. Some of the inhabitants would take advantage of the evening breeze to fly these kites from the rooftops striving to gain advantage over their next door neighbour’s kite and ‘shoot it down’. Actually the victor was the man who cut his opponent’s kite adrift as these were cheap to replace, similar to our golf balls. Part of the line was coated with powdered glass which could cut through the opponent’s line near the kite itself. There only seemed to be a single line attached to the kite and I marvelled at the aerobatic prowess of the owners of these tiny craft darting around in the evening sky.

It was surprising how quickly one picked up a smattering of Hindustani words and phrases mainly through the old sweats around camp. I visited a large modern swimming pool some fifteen minutes walk from

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camp having heard about it from some of the lads. It was on a par with Derby baths in Blackpool but open air of course. I remember hiring a large bathtowel which someone soon pinched while I was in the water. Wearing my Clive of India hat made me a prime target for the old sweats quick to take advantage of a newcomer. It wasn’t surprising that half of these Bombay Bowlers ended up floating in the ebbtide. Wandering along the prom in the cool of the evening we hardly noticed the smell. We would buy a coconut from one of the vendors who lopped the top off with a practised sweep of his machete before handing it over. I drank the cool milky liquid with relish, then threw the shell into the mud.

A local football team invited us to a friendly game and out of five thousand troops there must have been a few skilful players. With little better to do I tagged along as a spectator to a sun baked pitch as hard as cement surrounded by squalid looking tenement buildings.

The local team thrashed our lads six goals to nil - and they played in their bare feet! Our side were at a disadvantage, what with the heat and the hard ground. They were also out of condition after the long sea voyage. We were also pumped full of various drugs to counteract cholera, typhoid, smallpox and malaria to name a few of the ailments that could befall us.

Across India to Calcutta A batch of two or three hundred were scheduled to move out next morning with my name among them. Two or three of the lads I met aboard ship were posted to a radio station outside Bombay itself whilst the rest boarded a troop train bound for Calcutta on the other side of the country. I took this with mixed feelings, glad to be heading towards the forward areas and worried about the outcome of my unexpected promotion. Conditions aboard the train were pretty basic with open plan carriages and wooden spar seats the backs of which folded down

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to serve as beds. Thus four of us shared this tiny compartment for the next three days and nights, eating, sleeping and staring out at the changing landscape. The long train lumbered slowly away from the station climbing in a wide curve into a belt of lush green jungle with smoke and steam wafting past the slatted windows. The labouring staccato beat of the huge engine’s exhaust echoed across the silent landscape bringing back memories of my days on the footplate. There was usually a crew of three on these powerful long haul locomotives: two native stokers and an Anglo-Indian white skinned driver. These Anglos were very touchy about any reference to their not being full blooded ‘white sahibs’ and frequently referred to their native counterparts as ‘bloody wogs’.

We passed dense plantations of banana trees and I had visions of huge spiders, snakes and scorpions lurking among the foliage. The airconditioning comprised of sacks of ice dumped here and there along the carriages. These turned to water quite quickly and had to be renewed at every stop along the way. The toilet facilities were no better, with one at the end of each carriage consisting of a small circular hole in the floor and metal hand basin with a single cold water tap. Needless to say none of us bothered to shave during the entire journey. For food we survived on K rations supplied to us before leaving the transit camp and we supplemented this with fruit and bananas from vendors who swarmed around the train at every stop. Standing in some unknown station at three in the morning we would be roused from sleep by an insistent voice calling ‘Garum chai, Sahib?’ (hot tea, mister?). The windows had no glass so it was possible to pass a mug through the wooden slats from outside. This made us feel quite vulnerable knowing that a hand could reach our throats as we lay there asleep with our head next to the window. Between the heat, not being able to wash or shave, and sleeping in our clothes I began to feel sticky and uncomfortable after the first day and these small sweet bananas were playing havoc with my stomach.

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We were now rolling across a vast wilderness of parched desert wasteland where only the vultures seemed to survive, fighting over the remains of a dead buffalo. Staring out into the distance my eye fell on a rare sight: a camel train wending its way majestically in a westerly direction. I marvelled at these unknown travellers braving this vast wilderness and wondering if this was part of the silk road route I’d read about once. Occasionally we journeyed past a collection of mud hovels with scrawny looking natives with their gaunt listlesseyed buffaloes eking out a meagre living. Survival in such hellish surroundings made our privations seem negligible.

The track became single lined and we sometimes had to stand for half an hour or more in the darkness waiting till the train from the other direction reached our passing point. On one such occasion I climbed down from our carriage and walked along to the engine, glad to be able to stretch my legs. The huge black loco stood with steam hissing gently from the safety valves accompanied by the slow beat from the Westinghouse pump. The crew were topping up the tender with water from a large tank fitted with a buffalo skin hose pipe. How often had I done this same thing during my railway days. The driver standing below the tender regulating the water flow looked at me and in sing song English asked where I came from. ‘Scotland!’ he repeated. ‘I should like to visit that place some day!’ The urgent note of an engine whistle floated through the night and I hurriedly excused myself and rejoined my companions.

Calcutta It felt like a lifetime before we finally clanked into Calcutta station.

There were two or three engines standing around, one in particular being a wood burner with a huge pot bellied chimney and its tender stacked high with lengths of wood and pit props. It must have been some task heaving battens of wood into a firebox which burned away

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more quickly than coal, showering sparks in all directions. Leaving the train I noticed an object lying across the track nearby. It was the body of a man sprawled across the line. He had almost been cut in two by a passing train and no one seemed particularly interested in having his corpse removed. We were driven through the streets of the city en route to a transit camp. From the back of our truck Calcutta looked little different from Bombay. Our billet consisted of a huge three-storey tenement flat obviously taken over by RAF. I was allocated a charpoy on the second floor with thirty other lads sharing the large stone floored room. For the first ten minutes all that could be heard was a series of loud bangs as each lad lifted one end of his charpoy above shoulder height then let it crash on the floor: the time honoured procedure for dislodging bed bugs. After three or four bangs I found several of these loathsome insects crawling on the floor and flattened them with determination. They could give a nasty bite in their quest for our blood. The beds were four feet apart and there was a battery of rotating fans to help keep us cool. This was better than most of the billets I had slept in back home. The cookhouse and dining area lay nearby surrounded by other tenement blocks similar to ours. The flat rooftops were lined with kitehawks or ‘shithawks’ as the lads called them. To me this was an undeserved term as these were magnificent looking birds and an impressive sight in the air with their four foot wingspan and rich plumage. Both cookhouse and dining area had thatched roofs with an L-shaped passage connecting the two. This was also thatched and used by the troops carrying their food trays to the seating area. I didn’t see the point in following the passageway so I cut straight across the courtyard. Next thing, I felt a glancing blow on the shoulder and the tray was knocked out of my hands amid a chorus of laughter from the dining area. I looked around and there was a Kitehawk soaring skywards with a part of my breakfast clutched in its talons. This happened regularly with newcomers to the camp and was a source of entertainment to the others.

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Waiting for our posting we had plenty time for sightseeing. Three or four of us would wander along Chowringee, the Princes Street of Calcutta, marvelling at the strange sights, pushing through the crowds in the narrow back streets, or riding on tram cars along Chowringee just managing to hold on to the handrail and unable to push any farther into the crowded tram. Baboons roamed about the park staring at the passing traffic then leaping up the nearest tree at any sign of danger.

The shops and stalls smelled of leather wares and incense with intricate ivory carvings and glazed brass ornaments of all kinds. This seemed a wonderland to a lad like myself who had been brought up in poverty and experienced the rigour of wartime rationing. There were also revolting scenes, especially the beggars who abounded in the streets, crippled and deformed almost beyond belief, some of the injuries having been deliberately inflicted by parents in order to make a living as a beggar.

One poor devil crawled around like a crab, his parents having beaten his hands and feet that had then healed like flippers on a seal.

We accidentally ended up in Calcutta Swimming Club unaware that this was an exclusive establishment reserved for upper crust whites and high ranking officers. No one thought to question the three of us when we sauntered into the place and we were issued with huge monogrammed bathtowels by a smiling white-turbaned sikh. There were two pools to choose from and we cavorted around in the water, splashing colonels and diplomats in friendly horseplay. They would have been horrified to know that we were lowly enlisted men.

Dumdum Dakotas My posting to 52 squadron based at Dumdum came through and I was driven by Jeep through the crowded streets of Calcutta, a sea of humanity which miraculously opened up like the parting of the Red Sea to make a passage for our speeding Jeep. The driver made no effort to brake or slow down and the crowds closed in on our wake

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as if we had never happened. I reported to the orderly room feeling apprehensive and was directed to the flight commander’s office. He was a tall, easy going flight lieutenant who quickly put me at ease. ‘I see you served in number one group bomber command, sergeant?’ To which I nodded not wishing to elaborate on the subject. ‘We mainly fly supply missions so that should be a piece of cake after the Ruhr.’

Dumdum was a dusty airstrip surrounded by jungle with a collection of steel nissen huts covered with straw to help insulate them from the hot sun. I later found this to be a hazard as after heavy rain the straw would generate heat and during the night one of the huts would suddenly burst into flames with the occupants having to rush outside and throw buckets of water over the roof. The Dakotas were well spaced out around the airstrip, some covered in camouflage netting as until recently Japanese troops had been preparing to cross the Bramaputra and invade India. Out here discipline was much more relaxed with a closer relationship between officers and men. At night the air was hot and humid and alive with the frantic buzz of mosquitoes. I was issued with mosquito boots and a supply of mepacrine tablets which were supposed to thin the blood making it easier to survive malaria. The radio equipment on the Dak was the same as that on the Halifax so there was no problem there. My first trip was a supply drop about forty miles inside Burma with a pilot who came from Blackpool. The crew consisted of a navigator and a couple of leading aircraftsmen to heave out the bundles with parachutes to slow their fall. Other than flying over an endless sea of jungle to a clearing marked for our arrival, there was nothing to it.

Over the Hump to Kunming Two days later I was marked up for the long trip to Kunming, China, flying over the Himalayas, or The Hump as it was known, with supplies for the army unit in Chungking. This felt like an exciting adventure

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and oddly enough I felt no qualms about going. The detour across the mountains was necessary to avoid the Japanese fighter station based at Mytchina. It was a six hour trip flying at eighteen thousand feet and I remember calling up the RAF signal station in Kunming to report our ETA. Our aircraft had been flying above overcast cloud and on descending I looked out of my side window at the reddish brown landscape below. In all my young dreams I never ever imagined that I would one day be flying over China. As our pilot made his approach a huge expanse of water slid past under our wing. I later came to recognize this as Lake Danchi which is almost forty miles in length. As we taxied off the runway we passed a row of American P51 fighters and beyond these stood a similar row of barrel shaped P47 Thunderbolts.

The airfield was a hive of activity with jeeps raising clouds of dust as they raced to and fro among the huge four engined C54 transports.

I stared open mouthed. I had never seen so many different types of aircraft in one airfield in my time in the RAF. It was obvious that this was mainly a US Airforce base and the RAF’s presence here was a drop in the ocean.

A Jeep with RAF markings arrived at our dispersal in a cloud of red dust and a tall Cockney lad invited us to hop aboard. Bouncing along the rough road from the airfield my eyes were everywhere gazing in wonderment at this strange new land, passing coolies in straw hats working in the fields and little hill ponies hauling crude wooden carts laden with rocks. I remember bumping over a level crossing on a narrow gauge single track railway before arriving at a village where the RAF camp lay. Lofty spun the wheel with practised ease and our Jeep swept through an open gateway into a compound with a weathered RAF flag hanging limply from a bamboo pole. As we piled out with our duffle bags a couple of large Alsatian-cross dogs wandered over to check us out. They obviously knew the pilot well, rubbing against him and wagging their tails as he stooped to stroke each of them.

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The place had obviously been a large farming commune with several buildings surrounded by a high wall. This and the buildings themselves were built with the same red clay that seemed the main feature of the landscape around us. The camp itself seemed almost deserted apart from two Chinese workers sawing wood using a crude bandsaw. Our sleeping quarters were upstairs and along a wooden veranda with four or five rooms reminding me of a saloon in a wild west fi1m. I was told that there were sixty men stationed here and that this was mainly a signals unit whose purpose was to relay messages between the army in Chunking and headquarters back in Calcutta. Discipline seemed almost non existent with no morning parade or officer’s inspection.

The C.O. who ran the camp had been a captain in the Hong Kong police and had escaped capture by the Japanese. It was reckoned that the Japanese were only thirty miles away. Kunming had been bombed several times with quite a number of civilian casualties. This would explain the rows of American fighter aircraft back at the airfield. I got the feeling that RAF Kunming was simply there to show the British flag, as a once a day trip from Calcutta wasn’t going to have much impact on the war.

Next morning after a satisfying breakfast of bacon, eggs and fried bread, and a bumpy ride back to the airfield, we were winging our way over Lake Danchi climbing towards the mountains. I was captivated

by Kunming in the short time I had been there. For one thing it was free from humidity and intense heat with the airfield standing six and a half thousand feet above sea level. The thought of arriving back at Dumdum and lying awake with my hair wet with sweat, listening to the angry buzz of mosquitoes trying to get under my net was a daunting prospect. In the flight office I was met by a puzzled flight commander who asked me to follow him into his office.

‘Some information has come in about you, sergeant - or should I say airman?’ My past had finally caught up with me and I had visions of

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landing in Lucknow prison. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself, airman?’ I stumbled through my excuse about not being given a chance to point out the paymaster’s error back in Worli. ‘But you had every opportunity to explain that when you arrived here!’ I decided to make a clean breast of it saying that I felt I wanted to fly again and wasn’t bothering about having sergeant’s rank again. I judged him to be a fair-minded chap unlikely to make things deliberately hard for me. ‘It was a clerical balls up, I admit. You should have reported this to me but as no real harm has been done I’m prepared to go out on a limb for you.’ He decided to hush the incident up but had no alternative but to send me back to the transit camp in Calcutta for posting as a ground wireless op at my proper rank. ‘You will have your pay docked till the difference is recovered of course.’ ‘I understand sir, and thanks for your consideration.’ I saluted smartly and left his office relieved to have had the matter cleared up and to have got off so lightly. So it was back to Baligunge camp and the kitehawks swooping down on their unwitting victims - and in the same room but a different bed.

Lady Luck decided to smile on me. On my third day there I was taken as a replacement for a wireless op who had been taken into hospital with an infection in his lower spine caused by a kick during a football match. He was one of four being posted to, of all places, Kunming! I was delighted at my good fortune. By coincidence, the lad I was replacing was the self same Glaswegian who had smashed the lime juice bottle during the brawl on the troopship. The three others were billeted in the same room as myself and I recognized one of them from troopship days. We naturally stuck together during the rest of our stay there.

A week or more passed with no definite word of us leaving for Kunming. It now seemed as if there were doubts about our being sent there with news that the Japanese were now advancing on that city and the airbase could fall into their hands. My heart sank at the thought of being stuck in Calcutta indefinitely. A second week of

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frustration dragged by with news that we may still be going, then told that our posting was cancelled. Every other day we reported at the British Embassy all coming away feeling downcast though I imagined that I was more keenly affected than the others. At the end of the second week, to my bitter disappointment, we were told that the posting was definitely off.

Back to Kunming in sheer luxury Next morning, out of the blue, we were told to report back to the Chinese Embassy where we were issued with air tickets for the CNAC flight to Kunming that night. I remember each ticket costing twelve hundred rupees - nearly one hundred pounds, a small fortune in those days.

Around eight p.m. we were driven to Dumdum airfield, this time to another part from which the Chinese airline operated. Before boarding the DC3 we had to go through a customs check along with twenty or more civilians most of whom were high ranking officials. One of them was highly indignant about being subjected to this treatment. ‘I’m a Diplomat!’ he protested angrily. ‘Empty out the contents of your bag, sir,’ insisted the customs officer, ignoring his outburst. When it came to my turn the same officer just nodded, indicating that I pass on through.

The interior of the CNAC Dakota was sheer luxury compared to the military version with comfortable armchair seating, padded interior and carpeted flooring.

Starting up the engines, the pilot wasted no time in getting airborne, not bothering to line up at the end of the runway but just swinging off the perimeter track and taking off into the darkness. There was no steward aboard or any food or refreshments to be had so I just lay back on my comfortable seat and soon dozed off. I vaguely remember a bumpy landing at Dinjan a couple of hours later, then we were off again climbing to clear the mountains around us. I never knew if the passenger area was pressurised but I soon fell into asleep. I awoke

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hours later with a dull headache to find sunlight streaming through the window beside me. The other RAF lads had seats allocated in different parts of the cabin and I don’t recall seeing any of them during the flight. The engine noise fell away and I felt my eardrums popping as we began to lose height, then once again I was back on Chinese soil taxiing towards the large maintenance hangar. An American C54 transport roared down the runway then lifted off into the morning sky. I felt tired and the dull headache persisted but I was elated at the thought of being there. Lofty didn’t appear with his Jeep as our arrival hadn’t been reported, so we hung around a waiting room watching our fellow passengers being picked up by friends or associates. I now felt really hungry, not having eaten since the previous evening.

Looking idly around I noticed two dilapidated P38 Tomahawk fighters with Chinese markings and sharks teeth painted on either side of their engine nacelles, relics of the Flying Tigers flown by American mercenary pilots paid by the Chinese government when Japan first invaded their land.

Different worlds It looked as if we were going to have a long wait till a jeep with French markings painted on its bonnet drove to a stop beside us. The driver was a member of the French military mission whilst his companion looked like a clergyman. The latter, obviously English, invited us to climb aboard and we soon discovered that he actually was of the clergy and in charge of a mission in the city itself, where we were taken.

Driving through the narrow side streets of the town was a revelation.

Again, misery and poverty was glaringly obvious. Here and there ragged figures lay in the gutter either dead or dying, unheeded by the seething crowds going about their daily business. Our jeep stopped outside a double wooden doorway with large Chinese symbols and with a square inspection hatch just above eye level. This latter swung

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open after our missionary friend knocked and a face appeared behind it. The main door was immediately opened and we were ushered in by a bowing Chinese servant. It was like stepping into a different world, an oasis in the wilderness, as the door was closed behind us to block off the squalor outside.

Around us was a scene from Madam Butterfly with carefully groomed shrubs and plants amid a setting of ornate paths and stonework.

Goldfish swam lazily in a pond half covered in huge waterlilies. We wandered through this Shangri-la gazing around us in wonderment and were politely guided by a young, shy Chinese girl in a lovely crimson dress to a bright room with two tables set for meals. ‘I thought you lads might care for some breakfast,’ announced the missionary inviting us to sit. I thought ‘what a friendly considerate bloke’ yet I wondered what the true purpose of his mission was. It obviously had little effect on the miserable wretches on the other side of those doors, but I suppose his efforts would be like a drop in the ocean among the teeming crowds in the city. We were served an English breakfast of bacon, eggs, beans and toast which tasted delicious after the Baligunge transit camp cooking.

I felt so relaxed and at ease there, listening to our host relating some of his experiences as a missionary, that I felt reluctant to leave when Lofty arrived in his jeep to run us back to camp. This was a three mile trip and as we approached the level crossing we heard the frantic wail of an engine’s whistle nearby and slid to a dusty halt to await its passing. A moment later the engine clanked by, shrouded in steam and smoke, pulling a string of open trucks crowded with Chinese soldiers crammed together like pit props. The loco, with its potbellied chimney and huge headlight in front of the boiler, was barely travelling ten miles an hour so I had ample time to compare it to the trains back home. I was amazed to see people sitting huddled on the front and along the side: refugees hitchhiking to Hanoi some six hundred miles

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away. God knows how long a journey like this would take through mountains and endless tunnels and how many times would they have to change trains.

Forwarding address: Kunming We finally drove through the camp gateway and I was billeted in a large airy room with five other lads, two of whom had arrived with me. We had the usual charpoy bunks with their mosquito netting and we were so tired that the three of us lay down immediately and slept till the afternoon. We awoke in time for tea which consisted of bully beef deep fried in batter and banana fritters fried in the same oil and we devoured these with relish. As it turned out battered bully beef was a regular feature in our menu though sometimes the batter wasn’t cooked properly and we found ourselves biting into white soggy dough. There were three transmitters in the signals room, one of which operated twenty-four hours with a complement of eleven wireless ops plus a sergeant in charge. A pre-war regular with a cockney accent, he seemed to take a dislike to me and I wondered if this was because he had read my past record. ‘One of these bloody aircrew sergeants with five minutes service!’ Now that I had a forwarding address letters from home would be directed here. The war in Europe was still going on with the Allies advancing into Germany itself but held little interest for the lads out here. I learned that no pay parades took place and records of money due were kept in Calcutta. This resulted in a thriving blackmarket operation to put money in our pockets in which I soon became involved.

The basic system was to have someone from home send six hundred cigarettes, preferably Senior Service which cost one pound, as a gift to servicemen abroad. These could then be sold for eight thousand yuan or dollars. This once-a-month bounty gave us ample spending money some of which could be used to buy saleable goods from the

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camp canteen such as toothpaste and glucose. So we lived comfortably without touching our pay.

There was no ceiling in our room, with bamboo rafters supporting the tiling, which meant that there was plenty of ventilation for the charcoal fire that stood on bricks in the centre. Surprisingly the roof never let in any rain which could be torrential during the monsoon. I felt at home and the five of us got on well living and sleeping in one room and we had our privacy by merely dropping our mosquito net. All the other rooms were small, sleeping two men, but I preferred ours. Breakfast was eggs, bacon, beans and fried bread - a luxury back home but taken for granted out here. There must have been a couple of dozen Chinese employed cooking, cleaning and doing odd jobs around the buildings.

Koko and Kylo, Jymna Sui near Kunming, China 1941

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Most of them seemed to live on the camp though I never saw their sleeping quarters, the camp itself being bigger than I first thought.

The sergeant soon had me doing shift work in the signals room. There were three receivers spaced along a table and I was put on the SEAC channel receiving and sending messages to stations all over Burma, Ceylon and India. This was a twenty-four hour channel with four hour watches and an eight hour nightshift. I soon got into the routine after a day or two getting adjusted to sending and receiving morse much faster than that on aircraft. Some of the Chinese workers spoke a smattering of English and I began to pick up a few Chinese words and phrases. This was handy when negotiating a deal on the black market.

The story went that our cigarettes ended up being smoked by Japanese and I could well believe this. The wash room was pretty basic, hot water having to be brought from the cookhouse and poured into a zinc bath, reminding me of childhood days. Preying mantis insects stalked around the floor of our billet and were left alone by the sweepers as they helped keep down bugs and other vermin. On the water tank outside huge fat spiders hung from their webs with bodies as big as a walnut silhouetted against the evening sky. Others though not so large seemed to enjoy the dampness in the latrines and clung motionless on the walls of the toilet, too close for comfort.

I boarded the jeep trailer one evening bound for the American camp cinema. Lofty drove through the darkness at his usual headlong pace and the three of us perched on the trailer were bounced around like rag dolls. We arrived at the cinema, a large barrack room capable of seating around two hundred G.I.s which was full to capacity, and I managed to squeeze in between two large G.I.s who towered above me. The film was one of the latest releases called The Keys to the Kingdom starring Gregory Peck as a missionary in China. The opening scenes of him arriving in a Chinese village brought a chorus of groans from the audience. Such films were shown here months before they appeared in

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Scotland and I would write home telling my mother what film was worth seeing. Suddenly a klaxon hooter started blaring and the screen went blank.

Then the lights went out and all hell let loose. Men were shouting and chairs knocked over in the wild stampede to get out of the building. Some were even smashing windows for a quicker exit. I was confused and infected by the panic of the figures milling around me and imagined hordes of Japanese soldiers pouring into the camp bayoneting every one in their path.

Some were shouting ‘Three bail! Three bail!’

‘What does that mean?’ I gasped struggling to reach Calcutta 1946 an exit. ‘Enemy aircraft overhead, mister!’ came the answer. My panic turned to contemptuous surprise. A bloody air-raid! I thought. All this hullabaloo about an air raid! These Yanks obviously had never seen a London blitz. We piled into our Jeep and trailer with one G.I. joining us. ‘Where are you going, mate?’ inquired Lofty. ‘Anywhere! As long as I get the hell out of here!’ shouted the American. We joined the general exodus and drove back to camp. Overhead, Black Widow night fighters were climbing

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into the darkness to intercept the enemy planes. Apart from one or two distant explosions there seemed no evidence of an air raid in progress and back at camp we found the lads playing darts and table tennis.

‘Gillman the Hillman’ and Koko Kia Lo, our alsatian guard dog, gave birth to three boisterous puppies and one of them, Koko, became attached to me; a man and his dog relationship developed between us during the remainder of my time in China. On my afternoons off the two of us would roam the surrounding countryside earning me the nick name, ‘Gilman the Hillman.’ During these long hikes I came to came to love and admire the panoramic beauty around us. The lush green of the paddy fields stretching into the distance bounded by distant mountains. And Lake Danchi, a shimmering jewel stretching for forty miles dotted with brown-sailed fishing boats. In stark contrast the ochre coloured hills behind our camp were covered with thousands of grave mounds stretching as far as the eye could see. This gigantic cemetery must have been the result of long forgotten warring Chinese and was still a burial ground for Kunming and the surrounding villages. Between disease and starvation dozens, mainly infants, died every day and passed by the gate of our camp en route to the burial ground. Depending on wealth or importance these bodies were carried in enormous black lacquered coffins needing six men to carry them, with bowls of rice or a chicken tucked into a recess so that the deceased wouldn’t go hungry on the way to heaven. Further down the scale the departed were laid out in crude affairs built like orange boxes. The destitute corpses were simply wrapped in straw matting, sometimes two together.

Like flowers on a grave I came to know China as a land of beauty and sorrow, like flowers on a grave. In Kunming itself the misery and hopeless poverty was glaringly

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apparent even to someone who knew what it was like to be poor. I found that most American troops treated the Chinese with open contempt, often shouldering a coolie out of his way whilst swaggering along the sidewalks.

‘Slopies’ was the term most of them used for the Chinese on account of their slanting eyes. Near the airfield lay a large compound surrounded by an eight foot barbed wire fence with machine guns mounted on platforms on two corners. This was a military prison for offences ranging from desertion and black marketing to murder. Several dozen prisoners stood or wandered about in full view, most looking subdued and resigned to their fate. I heard that some of the sentences were as high as ninety nine years for murder. A mile from our camp was a leper colony, a grim looking red clay building with tiny windows with bamboo for bars. I was surprised to see children among the inmates, mostly clothed in filthy rags with patches on top of patches. It seemed that the government paid them a small stipend to encourage them to stay there.

I was passing one afternoon and saw some of the inmates playing cards outside the building. Apart from the filth and rags they looked normal. One of them shouted a greeting. ‘Ding how, ingwou!’ and waved, inviting me to join in their game of cards. I returned his wave but kept going and gave the place a wide berth after that. Stray dogs would roam around the graves foraging for food and were seldom disappointed. After a heavy shower which washed away the earth covering recent corpses these dogs would gorge themselves on the rotting flesh. In Kunming itself the authorities paid coolies to collect the dead lying around the streets and transport them to this graveyard three miles from town. Thus two coolies would carry three bodies laid head to feet wrapped in straw matting and tied to a bamboo pole.

Having made this back breaking journey it’s not surprising that they then just dumped their putrid burden leaving the dogs to clean up the mess. I’ve seen a large dog making off with an arm in its mouth. Even our well fed guard dogs were attracted to the stench and would roll on

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a stinking corpse and have to be subjected to a vigorous soapy scrub on return to camp.

Once a month a long string of ponies, each laden with charcoal logs, would arrive down from the hills to replenish our camp supplies. They must have travelled many miles to get here and I will always remember the clatter of their small hooves and the melodious tinkling of bells around their necks as they were led into the compound. The drovers seldom spoke to one another and the whole unloading operation was carried out silently. After their leader was paid they left immediately and set off for wherever it was they came from. I always felt a sense of mystery about this silent band of men and ponies, wondering what kind of life they led and how much of their life was spent gathering and processing charcoal.

The ponies were small yet willing workers and this was exploited to the limits of their endurance by the Chinese. These gallant little creatures were often harnessed to crude wooden carts laden with over a ton of rocks quarried from the hills with the added weight of the driver perched on one of the shafts. I remember seeing a driver beating his pony mercilessly because it had lost its footing and was down on its knees. Two of us grabbed the shafts and helped the animal regain its feet. On the subject of cruelty, the Chinese cooks would amuse themselves by throwing bread to the sparrows around the camp then would throw boiling water over them as they landed. They then picked up the helpless birds and tied silk cords to them attaching the other end to one of our guard dogs’ tails. They laughed and yelled in obvious delight at seeing the dog snapping at the fluttering birds and I found myself thinking, ‘What a bunch of sadistic bastards!’ I remember getting an opportunity to show my displeasure at this senseless cruelty. Two of us were out in the hills having ‘borrowed’ a couple of G.I. issue automatic rifles and a box of ammunition. We also carried several empty cans to use as targets out of earshot from

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the camp. As we rounded a bend on the rough path we came upon two Chinese soldiers having ‘fun’ with a stray dog. One had the dog’s head between his knees holding the whining creature by its ears while his companion forced a thick rubber band over the dog’s muzzle. I ran forward and booted the one holding the dog then stuck the barrel of my rifle between the other soldier’s eyes mouthing ‘I’ll kill you, you bastard!’ while my companion levelled his gun menacingly. He didn’t understand my words but their meaning was obvious. The dog bounded off and the soldiers slunk away looking bewildered by our furious outburst. I hoped, perhaps futilely, that our shocking response might make them think twice in future.

The Chinese code of behaviour was so different from ours. In spite of their stoic acceptance of death and suffering and apparent cruelty towards animals the average Chinese peasant was a friendly, hardworking individual but because of the language barrier we never understood their values and way of life. They did not tolerate adultery. I’ve seen a man being chased and stoned by the people from the village because he had been caught sleeping with another man’s wife. On Sundays the villagers would fly kites of all shapes and sizes.

Not fighting kites but objects of beauty and craftsmanship, swaying serenely in the cloudless sky. I remember one particular shape, looking for all the world like a giant oak leaf.

Many of the farmers cultivated their own small paddy field having to carry fertilizer from the village to his land which could be over a mile away. This ‘fertilizer’ was human excrement from a communal toilet in the centre of the village. The farmer would fill two large wooden buckets and carry these slung across a bamboo pole. The fields rose in tiers up the hillside some standing six feet above the other and one afternoon I watched two coolies walking carefully along the narrow retaining dyke, each balancing his load of ‘night soil’ on his shoulders.

(The term I think may have been coined because people tried mainly

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to use the exposed toilet pit after dark for the sake of privacy.) One of the coolies lost his balance and fell six feet onto the field immediately below. I was impressed by his stoicism as, winded and covered in night soil, he got to his knees and calmly began scooping up what he could back into his buckets before continuing to his own field. When rain flooded the fields these farmers would bring buckets of small live fish from the canal to dump in the fields. These grew very rapidly and when the paddy field dried out the fish died and became fertilizer.

I became fascinated by the Chinese way of life and spent my off duty times exploring the countryside for miles around, hiking alone or with Koko as a companion. I remember him diving into the canal and struggling desperately to scramble up the walled embankment to rejoin me on one occasion. Early one hot sunny afternoon I set off alone on my day off, intent on climbing a mountain ridge some ten miles away. This western hill dominated the skyline and its tantalising pale blue outline stirred my youthful sense of adventure. I set off without mentioning my intentions to anyone, looking like Crocodile Dundee with my bush hat and khaki shorts. I didn’t even bother carrying water or food in my rash enthusiasm, reckoning I’d be back in three or four hours at most. The terrain was flat most of the way though I did have to back track to get past a huge area of paddy fields some of which were under three feet of water.

Less than half a mile from the foothills of the mountain range I was confronted by a major obstacle: a fast flowing river some twenty feet wide with no visible way of crossing. With paddy fields on the far side I reasoned that there must be some way the farmers could cross.

I searched the embankment and sure enough partly hidden by long grass was a couple of ropes slung between bamboo poles embedded on either bank. It looked a perilous contraption having to stand on the lower rope whilst clinging to the other some four feet above it.

Looking back, I must have been bloody daft. If I had fallen into the

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silent fast flowing river with nothing but reeds to cling to on either side I would never have got out. But my desire to climb that mountain was strong so I ventured on. Halfway across the rope sagged and I was barely two feet above the brown surface of the river. Then I lost my balance and next thing I knew I was horizontal with my behind almost touching the water. It was a moment of panic similar to being trapped in the weeds of Luscar Dam as a boy. My youth and agility saved the day as I somehow managed to keep my feet on the rope while pulling myself upright by sheer effort.

I reached a village where a company of Chinese troops were encamped with their mules tethered to some bushes. As I passed these my eyes fell on a pathetic scene. Three or four dead children not more than two years old were lying beside the bush with the tethered mules trampling and defecating on the tiny bodies. Christ almighty! Common decency should have made them bury these children or at least tether their mules elsewhere. I felt hatred and contempt for these soldiers as I made my way through their encampment heading for the foothills leading to the mountains. Toiling up a steep grass-covered slope I came upon two young lads no more than ten or twelve years old sitting there munching slabs of rice cake. All around the hillside several cattle with copper bells around their necks grazed and these boys were there to see that they didn’t stray. They each had long poles with a leather loop on one end presumably to deter their charges from wandering off. I sat with them for a few minutes and though few words were exchanged other than the usual ‘Ding How’ we parted exchanging friendly waves. Ten minutes later I paused to look back and there far below me two tiny figures were waving. I finally reached the top of a ridge only to find a deep valley grading up to a second higher ridge. My enthusiasm began to wane, then finally petered out when I scrambled to the top of the second ridge only to be faced with another valley which possibly rose to the final summit of the mountain.

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Suddenly I became aware that time was against me and to carry on meant that I would be re-crossing the rope bridge in near darkness. I gazed upwards ruefully knowing that I would probably never return another day. Then something glinted in the setting sun far below in a rocky ravine that disappeared into the heart of the mountain. There I could make out a Buddhist temple perched on a cliff overlooking the ravine. I noticed tiny brown robed figures moving around the walled courtyard. I was amazed to see such an elaborate structure built on an extremely remote and precarious location. How on earth did they get the materials down there and what Herculean efforts must have been needed to build it. I stood gazing down on this monument to human endeavour for several minutes wondering if I were perhaps the only European who had ever laid eyes on it. Long shadows were already stretching across the mountain spurring me on down the hillside, anxiously thinking about the river crossing ahead. Oddly enough I have no vivid recollection of re-crossing that rope bridge but I recall that it was dark by the time I reached the outskirts of the village beside our camp. My long absence was not noticed and as always I never thought to mention my outing to any of the lads in camp.

Life in camp and town One afternoon in camp the skies suddenly became overcast with dark gun metal clouds heralding the approach of a violent thunderstorm.

Then I realized that what looked like the start of a heavy snowstorm was actually millions of large white moth-like insects running before the storm. Immediately after came deafening peals of thunder followed by vertical green lightning flashes and then it rained, an almighty deluge of hail stones and water that had every living thing running for shelter.

The moths had no chance and were battered out of the sky, choking drains and gutters to a depth of a foot. Later, after the storm subsided, the camp servants were kept busy shovelling cartloads of dead moths that lay like snowdrifts around the camp. Where these creatures came

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from I never knew and I wondered how a species could survive after such horrendous losses.

Wandering through town one day I met a young American lieutenant who told me he flew P38 Lightnings and had done several strafing attacks on Japanese troops. He had been studying to be a dentist before joining the air corps and his one thought was to get his missions over and be shipped home. He confessed that during his strafing attacks he didn’t risk doing a fly over to determine whether the troops below were Chinese or Japanese knowing that on his second run the gunners would be waiting for him. ‘All I want is to get my missions in and go home!’ I knew just how he felt but at least he was able to increase the odds in his favour whereas my chances of surviving thirty ops had depended mainly on our pilot.

We arranged to meet a couple of days later at the airfield where he took me on a short air test in his P38 Lightning. It was an exciting experience squeezed behind him in the cockpit and skimming over the paddy fields at twice the speed of any bomber I had ever flown in. I never saw him again in town although we had an arranged meeting place and I wondered if some Japanese gunner had got him in his sights after all.

Most of the big four-engined C54 transports brought supplies from Karachi in central India and a story was run in an Airforce magazine about a Chinese refugee who had stowed away in the wheel well of a Skymaster and survived the long trip to India. I began to suffer severe headaches which stayed with me for two weeks or more. This was an early symptom for cholera and being a natural worrier I became convinced that I had contracted this killer disease. One evening in the billet I confided my fears to Jack Beadles one of the radio mechanics.

He laughed saying it was probably too much sun but I sensed that he was taking me seriously. We only had a medical orderly in camp but rumour was that a doctor was being posted here shortly. ‘He might

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arrive too late for me,’ I said solemnly. Next morning I awoke with no sign of a headache and was never bothered after that.

I became friendly with one of the flight mechs from Dumdum who always insisted that I take him on a tour of the town visiting the bars.

On one of these trips I, being unused to alcohol, got so drunk on Yuno wine that Jock and his pal had to lead me through the crowded streets.

I had a vague recollection of becoming separated from the others then waking up sprawled on top of a high wall with rain battering down.

I remember being sick and falling asleep. It must have been hours later that I was awakened by a dog barking somewhere in the darkness below. This animal was trying to jump up at me, probably protecting its owner’s property. On the other side I could make out the glimmer of water with what looked like a narrow pathway running beside the wall.

I was now sober enough to realise that I was completely lost and had to find my way back to camp. Then my eye caught the flickering light of the airfield’s revolving beacon which seemed to be miles away and I figured out that this must be the canal below me. I dropped carefully on to the narrow path on the canal bank and headed in the general direction of the beacon.

Shi Shan or sleeping princess It was daylight before I finally stumbled through the camp gates and, once again, my presence had not been missed. One morning our missionary friend arrived in his jeep, inviting some of us who were not on duty on a trip to the western hills. I was one of the first to step forward. Lofty volunteered to follow in his jeep so that two of us were able to make the trip. This was a marvellous experience sitting back speeding towards the same mountain range that had taken me hours to reach by foot. Then we began climbing steeply round narrow hairpin bends, looking down sheer cliff faces with nothing to stop our jeep from plunging over. We had to make the final ascent on foot, walking

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through a narrow passageway over two hundred yards long and hacked out of solid rock. The missionary explained that it took eighty years to make this passage with room for only one man at a time taking turns hacking away at the rock. Through the openings in this passage we were able to look straight down almost a thousand feet to the shores of Lake Danchi. ‘The mountain is named Shi Shan or sleeping princess with her hair flowing down to the lake,’ our guide said. ‘And this is the only area where you can find orchids growing wild. But a greater surprise awaited us on top of Shi Shan. A buddhist temple was built on the rock face very much like the one I had seen on my solitary trek, and inside were dozens of brown robed monks, kneeling and chanting prayers before an enormous gold painted buddha. None of them paid us the slightest attention, with the exception of one lad no more than ten or twelve who turned his head to stare at the strange visitors. It seemed that these monks spent their lives chanting and banging gongs surrounded by billowing blue smoke from incense burners.

Our missionary led us into another room filled with beautifully carved human figures of all shapes and sizes, each with a different expression.

‘This is known as the room of a thousand images,’ explained our friend, ‘portraying that all kinds worship the Buddha.’ What amazed me most was how the monks managed to bring all the material to build the statues through that narrow passageway. The legend went that at one time water had to be carried up from the lake but after a leading monk died a spring appeared on the spot where his ashes lay. As we spoke the chanting was drowned out by the roar of P51 Mustangs flying over the lake having just taken off on a strafing mission. Were these monks aware that there was a war going on or were they too immersed in their way of life to even care? I will always be grateful to our missionary friend for an experience I might never have known and did not imagine that I would return to visit again half a century later.

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What the doctor ordered The long awaited medical officer arrived sporting flight lieutenant’s bars on his laundered khaki drill tunic. This and his double barrelled surname should have told us something about the man. As it turned out he had enlisted soon after gaining his medical degree, being automatically promoted to officer status. He soon made it clear that he was more concerned about maintaining officer distinction than tending the wounded. Two of us were heading into town one morning wearing bush hats and rumpled khaki drills and sporting a three-day stubble when the camp jeep roared past and skidded to a halt. Thinking it had stopped to give us a lift we ran towards it. ‘Who are you people?’ I recognized Vernon-Smith the new M.O. with Lofty driving. Barney and I stood taken aback by the cold tone of his voice. ‘I thought you were a pair of hobos!’ He then went on to lecture us saying we were ambassadors in the eyes of these people and should set an example to them. ‘You’re letting the British nation down looking like a couple tramps!’ I was inwardly mocking his outburst but he knocked the sly grin from my face when he ordered Lofty to take down our name rank and number before putting us on a charge.

Back at camp our C.O. was obliged to look concerned as he listened to the M.O.’s indignant account of the incident. Further, he was obliged to stand by a fellow officer’s word and so Barney and I were sentenced to three nights aircraft guard. This task was normally carried out by three or four lads with no trade qualifications and known as ‘general duties.’

This guard duty was not to protect our aircraft from Japanese attacks, but from Chinese soldiers who used to hack chunks of rubber from the tyres to use as sandals. Privates were issued with straw sandals rather than boots which were reserved for the officers. Thus the soldiers had to improvise when the sandals wore out. It got pretty chilly at night on the airfield so after standing around the Dakota nursing our sten guns Barney and I decided to get in the aircraft and make ourselves

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comfortable till morning. We lashed ropes round the door handles to make sure some Chinese soldier didn’t decide to cut our throats before ransacking the equipment on board, then lay down under a pile of blankets. Next morning we were up and awake before the jeep arrived to pick us up and the D.C.’s tyres were still intact.

Our third night didn’t go so well, at least not for Barney. As we were preparing our makeshift bed the night sky suddenly struck up with the sound of air raid sirens followed by the roar of engines warming up for take off. ‘We can’t go to sleep now, Bill!’ Barney called excitedly. ‘We have to keep a look out and report which way the Jap bombers attack from!’ Although Barney was a head taller than me I was the dominant individual and challenged him, ‘We won’t even see the bastards! You can stand and shiver outside, but I’m going to sleep.’ Barney wasn’t convinced so I shut the door from the inside and roped it securely before nestling down in my pile of blankets. Daylight streaming through the windows awakened me and I quickly unroped the door and got out of the plane. Poor Barney was asleep huddled beside one of the landing wheels. I shook him awake feeling guilty at shutting him out but he was like a big faithful dog accepting my treatment without complaint.

‘I didn’t see any enemy planes, Bill, but I think I heard some!’

Chinese soldiers would also break into our camp by digging a hole in the walls which were of baked mud and straw. A coolie on the inside must have told them where the canteen was situated as this was their main target. One night the alarm went out that three soldiers were in the camp grounds. Some of the lads grabbed sten guns and in the heat of the chase I was one of them searching the darkness for movement. Sure enough my eye caught two shadowy figures darting among peach trees in the garden. I automatically pressed the trigger and the sten gun bucked wildly in my hands. My aim was wild and next moment the two fugitives were scrambling over the wall illuminated by one of the lads using a powerful inspection

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lamp. Someone else let fly with a sten gun but the soldiers had vanished over the wall. Later when my adrenalin stopped pumping I felt relieved and glad I hadn’t hit one of them. After all their intentions were little different from my own when as boys we used to plunder a neighbour’s orchard. But this narrow escape didn’t deter the soldiers as two nights later three of them were caught inside the canteen itself. Someone heard a noise coming from there and a couple of armed guards quickly ran outside and stood waiting by the hole till the soldiers crawled out, laden with spoils. They were marched into camp to the mess hall with their hands tied behind them, an armed guard facing them. Most of us wandered in to have a look. They were little more than boys looking dejected, sitting silently with lowered heads, resigned to whatever fate awaited them. I felt quite sorry for them.

Then at that moment Vernon-Smith strutted through the door viewing the scene with pursed lips. ‘We’ll hand the blighters over to their own lot to deal with them!’ ‘We’ve already contacted them, sir. They’re sending a detail to pick them up in the morning.’ ‘Well don’t be giving the buggers any food! And that’s an order!’ He then strutted to the far end of the mess hall and filled a mug with water. I thought, ‘He can’t be that bad offering them a drink.’ None of the soldiers would lift his head to look at him so he emptied the water over one of their heads. And this was the man who lectured Barney and me about setting an example to these people! Next morning a grim faced Chinese officer with half a dozen armed men marched into camp. The officer said something to the prisoners then struck each of them across the face with his cane.

They were escorted a hundred yards down the dirt road and summarily shot. I wondered what the good doctor thought about that.

But the incident was soon forgotten and I was due to start my four hour stint on the aircraft channel. This was a relatively easy job as the RAF only flew two Dakotas daily on the Hump Route so I had

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very little sending and receiving to do. The Americans on the other hand flew endless transport missions from Karachi in the build up for a major assault on Japan. It was said that a plane took off or landed every two minutes from the airfield twenty four hours a day. Our radio transmitters were situated about a mile from our camp. This consisted of a concrete building with two wireless mechs to maintain the electrical equipment. It stood at the side of a dirt road surrounded by graves and paddy fields. A forty foot radio transmitter mast with a tattered RAF flag hanging from the top completed the scene. This unimpressive display of RAF must have amused our American allies.

Sometimes I would be detailed to do nightshift duty though there was little radio activity. There were no windows in the hut so I would sit with the double door wide open, looking out at the darkness, watching fireflies dancing in the warm night air and listening to the bullfrogs croaking in the flooded paddies. Now and then the faint sound of machine gun fire answered immediately by what sounded like an old Vickers came to my ears. But these noises seemed far away and remote, merely adding to the atmosphere of mystery and intrigue. A flickering lantern appeared and began moving like a will o’ the wisp over the paddy fields. This was accompanied by the plaintive banging of a gong. I learned later that the mysterious apparition was a coolie from the village paid to frighten away evil spirits from the village as it didn’t have a ‘Dragon gate’ to protect them. Kunming had two such gates in the city centre, huge imposing affairs which were works of art both in wood carving and decoration. There was something peaceful and romantic about being alone at night in a strange land, listening and looking out into the velvety darkness with a thousand stars twinkling above my ears tuned to the sounds of the night. At moments like this I felt I could stay here forever.

A new face appeared on the next flight from Calcutta, a flight mech with whom I struck up a conversation in the mess hall. He

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was fascinated by my description of the area being an enormous graveyard and as he wouldn’t be flying out till next morning asked if I would show him around. We duly trekked up the hillside and he got busy with a camera taking snaps of corpses in varying stages of decay. We came upon a half exposed boxwood coffin. To my surprise and discomfort he started kicking the lid till it splintered, exposing a shrivelled blackened body with grinning teeth. He took several snaps then moved on like something out of Burke and Hare. I never asked what he intended doing with the snaps and he left next morning.

Thankfully he never returned.

The lads in camp were like one big family with very little argument or discord. We played cards and monopoly and held table-tennis tournaments in the mess. The officers joined in, rank forgotten, the most popular being Paddy a one-time Battle of Britain Spitfire pilot who now flew an army general’s DC3 shuttling between Calcutta and China. Another visiting officer was a tall remote squadron leader who hardly ever spoke to anyone. It was rumoured that he was a secret service agent who spent most of his time behind enemy lines gathering information. Over six feet, he must have stuck out like a sore thumb among the Japanese, I thought.

Merrill’s Marauders – and promotion again Unknown to me our signals sergeant had been making inquiries among the other wireless operators about my competence. He came into the signals room one afternoon and stood behind me watching me at work. When I finished receiving an incoming coded message he gruffly announced that he had recommended my promotion to leading aircraftsman. I was duly put on the ‘Chungking channel’ communication with the Army based there. Their standard of morse was much higher than the RAF’s with speeds of twenty two words a minute and with a constant stream of coded messages coming both

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Pen and Ink Drawing, The Great Wall of China

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ways I was mentally exhausted by the end of my watch. It was a relief to get back to the eight words a minute aircraft channel for a spell.

Most American G.I.s acted more like conquering troops than allies, treating the Chinese with open contempt, as on the day they arrived outside our camp with a bulldozer. This was driven up the hillside, digging a trench through the graveyard, sending earth and splintered coffins flying in all directions. Surely the Chinese authorities couldn’t have given permission for such desecration. They were laying a pipeline to the top of the hill where two huge fuel tanks were already under construction. Back home it seemed as if the war in Europe was almost over with the Allies and the Soviet armies converging on Berlin, though no one in camp seemed excited about this. We were more concerned with the consignments of cigarettes from home to supplement our wages.

Arriving in town one day I found the main street lined with thousands of Chinese, many carrying flags and colourful banners. Armed police were keeping the crowds back to make way for some procession or other, looking as though ready to shoot if necessary. At the far end of the street flags began waving and wild cheering could be heard as a cloud of dust appeared in the distance. Merrill’s Marauders, a crack infantry unit, were about to enter the city. It was a thrilling, impressive sight to behold. A long convoy of jeeps, lorries and armoured vehicles crammed full of grinning G.I.s and travel weary Chinese soldiers showed no response to or enthusiasm for this royal welcome. These troops had spent almost two years battling eight hundred miles through steaming jungles and over mountains laying a pipeline from Hanoi into Kunming. The Chinese soldiers did most of the manual labour whilst their American allies fought off Japanese troops and air attacks.

It was a magnificent achievement by the men involved and to witness their triumphant arrival was something I wouldn’t have missed for all the tea in China.

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Their arrival transformed the city into a wild west show. Hundreds of G.I.s wearing combat infantry badges swaggered through the streets literally taking over the bars, brothels and eating houses. In one popular hotel a dozen G.I.s were sitting at a large table ordering endless drinks, smashing their empty glasses on the floor and trampling them underfoot. Occasionally one G.I. would fire a colt automatic at the ceiling. Amazingly the Chinese staff took it without complaint and probably charged the damage to the bill. One soldier got his eye on me and waved me over. ‘You, Limey!’ His voice slurred. He looked me over for a moment. ‘Ever been to Guadalcanal?’ I shook my head. ‘Ever been to Okinawa?’ My head again shook. He paused for a moment to puff on a huge cigar blowing the smoke in my face. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ I felt there was no point in replying and this turned out to be a prudent move as he immediately became friendly, inviting me to join the group. I was gaining the impression that all Americans were born actors, putting on a tough aggressive front or acting friendly as the mood took them.

Germany surrenders…but war goes on Then came the news that Germany had surrendered unconditionally on 7th May and the war in Europe was over. This made little difference to our daily routine and I can’t remember anyone celebrating the event. But the Americans were gearing up for a major onslaught on the Japanese mainland with coolies labouring to extend the runway to accommodate B29s. The rocks for the foundation for this were quarried from the base of Shi Shan, gangs of Chinese prisoners chained to boulders as big as houses where they toiled and slept. The rubble was then ferried across Lake Danchi in sampans and transported by cart to the airfield. I remember seeing the first B29 arrive. This was an awesome machine dwarfing our Dakota and the Halifax bomber, now reduced to flying supplies.

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There was always some strange or shocking sight which caught one’s attention in town. A soldier lying dead in the middle of a muddy pond with several women around him washing clothes and seemingly oblivious to his presence. Or a line of mentally retarded coolies in rags roped together by the neck like a string of chestnuts with one keeper hauling on the rope and his assistant bringing up the rear with a bamboo stick. Outside the town cinema some enterprising Chinese had purchased a whole row of seat tickets and was selling them at a profit. In some of the cafe bars prostitutes would enter and sit on a customer’s knee offering him sex on the spot. The waiters continued supplying drinks, ignoring their antics.

I became friendly with an American sergeant who looked after the huge fuel tanks nearing completion on the hill behind our camp.

He lived alone in a makeshift shack armed with a short carbine and food supplies. It must have been a lonely vigil for him and I couldn’t understand why his superiors allowed him to go it alone. Anyhow he was glad of my occasional visit and offered me coffee and doughnuts.

Two weeks later the tanks were completed and the pipe line connected up. The sergeant was no longer needed there and his hut lay derelict.

One afternoon out with Koko I saw a group of Chinese soldiers in the distance. Two of them were standing before the main group with an officer shouting and waving a cane at the two men. Suddenly some of the soldiers levelled rifles at the pair and a ragged volley rang out.

Both men fell, one of them feebly trying to raise himself on one arm before collapsing beside his comrade. I made a hasty retreat from the scene panicking that they might decide to use me as target practice.

On another occasion out hiking with Koko I heard a soft thump and a puff of dust flew from the earth a few yards away. Then came the sharp report of a rifle causing me to look in its direction. There on the hillside a grey-clad figure was kneeling probably in the act of stuffing another charge in his muzzle loader. Nearby some coolies were planting rice

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shoots in a waterlogged paddy and I ran there splashing through ankle deep water to stand in their midst. They didn’t even pause to wonder at my sudden arrival. I waded to the other end of the field keeping the farmers between me and the unknown marksman. I once had occasion to try out one of these ancient long barrelled rifles though I had to get the owner to load it for me. I found it to be extremely accurate in spite of having no rifling in the barrel. These unnerving incidents made me think twice about venturing too far from our camp.

Another narrow escape With the completion of the Ledo pipeline Kunming and the surrounding area became alive with thousands of Chinese soldiers. Every other male in town wore a uniform, many mere boys in their mid teens. In the hillside behind our camp a network of trenches and dugouts were being made similar to those used in the first World War. I ventured into one of the dugouts which was large enough to accommodate a dozen soldiers. This was well constructed with lookout slits in the wall giving defenders a wide range of fire. A rough wooden bench with several crudely built model aeroplanes in various stages of construction lay around it. These were made of split bamboo covered in rice paper and obviously made to relieve boredom as they couldn’t possibly f1y. Yet I admired their ingenuity in building these models using what little material they had to work with. Jack Beadles and I ventured up to where the huge metal fuel tanks stood at the end of the pipeline. A fine jet of clear liquid was escaping through one of the joints. ‘God! Are they pumping fuel through already?’ I exclaimed.

Jack struck a match and held it to the leaking joint. The flame was extinguished. ‘No! It’s water, Jock.’ We then realised the enormity of what he had done. If it had been petrol we would have been blown sky high and been awarded a posthumous medal from the Japanese government. The fact was that water was being pumped eight hundred miles from Hanoi to test the pipeline for leaks.

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Japan surrenders Three days later on 6th August 1945 an atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima followed by a second on Nagasaki. Both cities were devastated with horrific loss of life and the war was over. Everyone was stunned by the suddenness this. The American aircrews were geared up for a bombing campaign against the Japanese mainland and those two long years spent laying the pipeline had been for nothing. Merrill’s triumphant entry into Kunming was of no consequence. It was as if the curtain had gone down in the middle of a play with everyone wondering, ‘What happens now?’ Personally I felt a pang of regret realising that the war, in spite of the terrible death and destruction, had been like a gigantic, exciting game and now it was over. But VJ Day was a day of celebration and everyone got roaring drunk. I vaguely recall downing a pint glass of gin and lime and feeling that I was about to die from it. I vowed to stop drinking after that. The Yank fighter pilots gave an aerial display to celebrate victory with six P38 Lightnings flying follow my leader, doing ring-of-roses in the sky. Two P51 Mustangs collided in midair killing both pilots, two young men excited at the thought of going home who now lie buried in Kunming.

…and another war begins But the celebrations were short-lived. Eight days after the Japanese surrendered another war suddenly erupted. Chang Kai-shek and Mao Tse-tung had buried the hatchet in joining forces against their common enemy. Now as political enemies they again embarked on their own private war. The nationalist leader ordered an attack on the communist forces around Kunming sending in thousands of’ troops from Chungking and Peking by road and rail. Kunming became a city under siege with gun fire echoing through the streets and the surrounding countryside. As if by magic the hill behind our camp was swarming with grey uniforms, whether Communists or nationalist troops I will

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never know; both sides wore identical clothing. The only difference was a small red or blue arm band which was barely distinguishable from more the thirty yards. With this in mind, our C.O. Wing Commander Leys announced that no one would leave the camp until further notice and that we would be placed on iron rations. The wireless ops still took their turns of duty having to cross the compound to the signals room under the watchful eyes of the Chinese troops on the hillside. Having seen how unpredictable these boy soldiers could be with a gun in their hand I inwardly to cringed every time I came on and off duty.

The Americans on the other hand decided to support the Nationalists by sending Mustangs in, strafing the beleaguered Communists. The struggle continued for two or three days till late one afternoon a terrific barrage of gunfire came from the direction of the town. Even at a distance of three or more miles it was alarming and frightening in its intensity. Everyone stood listening in stunned silence sensing that this was some major attack and that hundreds were dying at this very moment. This barrage lasted for almost fifteen minutes, then came the swelling cry of angry voices, like hearing the roar from a modern day football stadium during a cup final. There followed an ominous silence that continued into the night.

Next morning the troops on the hillside had gone, followed by the surprising news that the communist troops against all odds had triumphed, with the nationalists now in full retreat. The local general didn’t look too kindly on the Americans lending air support to his enemies and sent him an ultimatum: ‘All American troops out of Yunnan one month from now, or face internment!’ We British troops were allowed an extra month’s grace having remained neutral during the conflict. So it looked as if my days in Kunming were numbered.

But with this uneasy truce hanging over us we were now painfully aware that we were no longer the conquering heroes and had to keep a low profile when venturing into town or roaming the hills.

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Army surplus My next visit to town was my last. The evidence of slaughter and damage to buildings was shocked and depressed me. This was a far cry from Merrill’s triumphant entry less than two months before. The Americans had already started their exodus, their huge cargo planes now ferrying troops back to India. Our C.O. left to resume his job with the Hong Kong police, flown there by our Halifax. Some of our lads took advantage of the daily flight to Hong Kong on sightseeing trips.

But, much as I would have loved to see Hong Kong, the memories of those aircraft stopped me from going.

As well as ferrying out men the Americans set about destroying much of their fighter planes and equipment rather than leave them to their ex allies the Chinese. Any one of us could buy a gleaming Mustang or Thunderbolt fighter for fifty American dollars, a jeep for twentyfive and a Harley Davidson motor cycle for five dollars. For the more ambitious, a four-engined Liberator bomber went for two hundred and fifty dollars. Some of the American pilots bought fighters, planning to fly them to Hanoi then island hop back to the States. The rest were crushed by bulldozers and the gun barrels bent. The Yanks did more destruction to their own planes than ever the Japanese did in this area.

Lorry loads of tinned food, mainly bully beef and K rations, ran in convoy to some remote area where they were first sprayed with gunfire before being doused in petrol and burned. Scores of hungry women and children stood watching, hoping to salvage something from the charred remains. They also burned hundreds of sheepskin flying jackets and trousers. It all seemed like sheer wanton waste to me.

As the American exodus continued their dwindling numbers soon became evident, making us feel more exposed to the growing hostility from communist troops who seemed to be everywhere. The shoe was on the other foot with the latter now the swaggering conquering heroes.

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And who could blame them after years of deferring to their American allies? Bands of grey-clad soldiers would suddenly appear on the skyline then charge downhill amid shouting and whistles blowing, attacking some imaginary target. This was quite unnerving especially having to sit and watch their antics while on duty in the transmitter hut a mile from our main camp.

Then the fruits of their recent battles began to appear outside the main gate of our camp compound. Scores of soldiers were given the task of transporting the dead to the cemetery with two soldiers carrying three bodies bound together hanging from a bamboo pole. Sometimes a convoy of thirty corpses would go swaying by having been carried for three or four miles in heat and dust. It’s not surprising that their bearers sometimes stopped for a rest just beyond our main gates. I leave the stench and the clouds of blue flies to the imagination, yet in spite of this one enterprising woman from the village had set up a small table selling rice cakes and buffalo milk to the passing troops.

I passed one afternoon en route to the transmitter hut to find a dozen soldiers squatting around the woman in a semi circle munching away, their grisly loads lined along the road. The woman sat there seemingly unaffected by the scene, chatting to one of the soldiers while breastfeeding her baby.

One evening Jack Beadles and I walked to the American camp cinema taking a short cut which cut almost a mile off our usual route. We were just about to cross a bridge over a dried stream when we heard the sound of a gun being cocked. Next moment we were surrounded by communist soldiers and the muzzle of a Thomson machine gun was jammed into my stomach. My knees felt like jelly, thinking my last moment had come. The soldier with the gun was obviously the leader with three or four others armed with ancient muzzle-loaders. None of them uttered a word as I stuck my hands in the air and croaked Dinghow, Inquow: It’s all right, we’re English! My smattering of

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Chinese probably saved our lives as if the officer had thought we were nationalists our fate might have been different. He nodded then motioned with the gun for us to proceed across the bridge. As Jack and I walked like robots along the flimsy structure Jack whispered behind, ‘For god’s sake don’t run, Jock’. We duly arrived at the camp but had lost enthusiasm for Humphrey Bogart’s Casablanca. The hall was almost empty which didn’t help our morale. We made a wide berth around the bridge area on the return journey and that was our last visit to the cinema.

Jack and I had another frightening experience while together on duty in the transmitter room. He one of his fellow wireless mechanics were doing some minor adjustments to the relays while I was listening for incoming aircraft signals. With free time on our hands I began building a kite using bamboo strips and silk from a damaged parachute.

I unravelled the lines, knotting over a dozen lengths together, and between the three of us we actually got our kite in the air.

As I stood there holding onto the line and gazing up proudly at my handiwork swaying gently in the breeze, I became aware of a whipping sound around my head. I looked in the direction of the noise and there, racing towards us in a cloud of yellow dust, came two trucks laden with Chinese soldiers. Then came the noise of gun fire and we realised that the whipping noise was bullets passing overhead. In blind panic I let go the kite and bolted for the shelter of the transmitter room. But Jack and his mate propelled by terror were already inside and had locked the door to barricade themselves against the attack. The trucks were now almost on us so I ran half crouching behind the hut and threw myself face down among some grave mounds praying that they wouldn’t notice me. I was convinced that the Communists had taken matters into their own hands and had wiped out the lads in our main camp and had now come to finish us off. The stark vision of being shot like a dog with no means of defending myself was the most inglorious fate imaginable.

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I felt a wet tongue licking my cheek. I had forgotten about Koko being with us and he was now standing over me wondering what was going on. The trucks roared on past, still blazing away with their rifles. It felt like a last minute reprieve from the gallows and it dawned on me that the men in the trucks were shooting at one another and we were merely irrelevant bystanders caught up in the crossfire. Jack appeared in the doorway looking sheepish and after some heated comments between us we began to see the funny side of the incident. Soon afterwards we heard a truck returning and ran back into the hut until it was safely out of sight. We never learned the fate of the other vehicle.

Last sight of Kunming and Koko The first batch of lads were flown back to Calcutta a few days later and it was only a matter of time before our camp would be taken over by the Chinese. Yet we continued to maintain radio communications with the network of stations in South East Asia command. I was contacted by a Dutch KLM aircraft already back in service and bound for Singapore. The operator on board probably contacted me more out of curiosity as I couldn’t offer him much navigational help.

I was scheduled to join the next batch leaving for India. Jack and I decided to risk a last trip into town in daylight for old times’ sake.

It wasn’t the Kunming we once knew. The aftermath of the fighting was still painfully evident yet the people themselves still went about their daily lives as if nothing had happened. Dead bodies floated in the canal and maimed wretches crawled in the gutters, some with festering wounds and no hope of recovery. One woman lay dead in the crowded street with a baby crawling over her trying to feed off her limp breast. No one gave her a second glance and in despair I asked Jack if there wasn’t something we could do for the child. ‘You mean, like take it back to camp!’ He exclaimed in mock astonishment. I could see the futility of suggesting such a thing. We had already seen enough of the town and left.

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The morning before I left for Calcutta I took Koko for a last walk through the paddy fields. I felt miserable and sad thinking what might become of my friend. I had known him since he was a boisterous puppy and watched him develop into a fine Alsatian dog who would follow me through thick and thin. The fields were green with young rice shoots and the distant mountains looked more inviting than ever.

Two hours later I heaved my kit into the jeep and cast agonised eyes at Koko lying asleep in the courtyard, blissfully unaware that his master would never return. After we took off from the airfield the pilot made a low level pass over our camp and as we swept past the compound I caught a last glimpse of him still asleep in the middle of the yard.

With the war over there was no need to fly over the mountains and our route was mostly over endless miles of jungle at a height where I could make out clearings and the evidence of the war in Burma.

Staring dejectedly out of the window I wondered if there might be lads still lost in that vast foliage below, trying to find their way through that green hell and waving in vain to attract our attention. We sat in silence, each alone with his thoughts, mine mainly on the land we had left behind for ever. Those last eighteen months had been a revelation, experiencing life among a people whose values and traditions were so alien to our own. In spite of my views towards their disregard for animal suffering they accepted death and mutilation among themselves in stoic silence. This and their blind obedience to authority made their soldiers a daunting adversary.

In my mind’s eye I could still visualise that breathtaking ride up the mountains to the Buddhist temple with a thousand-foot sheer drop to Lake Danchi. I felt I could have spent a lifetime exploring the scenic beauty of the surrounding mountains, but I would never again get the opportunity as the Communist regime was to close its doors to all foreigners. Now we were heading back to the

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sweltering heat of Calcutta, a city that I had been glad to see the back of eighteen months earlier.

Back to Ballygunge, with some compensations The Dakota droned on, passing over the Salween river then later the Irriwady wending its way through a sea of dense green jungle that faded into the horizon. Our final landmark would be the Bramaputra delta beyond which lay our destination, Dumdum airfield. The thought of where I would then end up made my heart sink, knowing it could never compare with Kunming. A wave of clammy heat met me as I scrambled out of the plane and we stood around while native workers unloaded our kit and heaved it onto a Bedford truck. Once again I arrived at Ballygunge transit camp awaiting our next posting. There was some speculation among the lads about some being posted to Japan. I cherished the hope that I might be one of the lucky ones chosen. But there were eighteen of us and only six were needed for this. The last group of lads from our camp arrived and I anxiously inquired about Koko. The good news was that he had been taken in by our friend the missionary and would be well cared for, but the Communists were becoming more aggressive, ready to take over the camp the moment we left. ‘I was bloody glad to get out of the place, Jock!’

One evening eighteen of us held a farewell party in Firpo’s restaurant, the best in town with liveried waiters and a twelve piece orchestra. I resolutely refused to drink any alcohol after my antics on VJ night. We were buying rounds with everyone ordering double rums etc. but in spite of not getting my money’s worth I stayed with lemonade. A five course meal including a large T-bone steak cost seven rupees, little more than ten shillings. Then our flight lieutenant announced the six lucky guys who would be going with him to Tokyo. My name wasn’t among them and to compound the disappointment I was being posted to a signals communication centre barely a mile from our transit camp.

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The prospect of being stuck in Calcutta till my demob number came up felt like a prison sentence and hoping for an early parole I moved into a nissen hut some three hundred yards from the signals block. There were about a dozen of these corrugated steel huts set in a parched grass area with the cookhouse some distance away, surrounded by tall coconut palms and other trees giving the place a jungle-like appearance.

Returning from the cookhouse to our huts we had to run the gauntlet of a colony of baboons which would swing down from the trees and stand in a group menacing us till we handed over scraps meant for the stray cats around our huts. Some of these formidable brutes stood about three feet high but we found that if we lifted an imaginary stone to throw at them they would scatter screaming defiance. The nissen huts were covered in a mattress of straw to insulate us from the ovenlike heat but after a shower of rain the straw would suddenly burst into flames due to chemical reaction.

Fooling around with Sgt Rainers, USAAF, Kunming 1945

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The one consolation in this sweltering environment was reporting for duty in the operations block which had air conditioning, especially doing nights when the humid heat made life almost unbearable. I remember lying on my charpoy lathered in sweat, dead tired yet finding it almost impossible to fall asleep. In the Ops block signals room we had four channels going and I was the only white male, the other three wireless ops were Air Force women, usually Anglo-Indian. There was very little signal communications during night shift and I spent most of the time sleeping using a cushion to pillow my head on the desk.

Now and then one of my admirers would shake me gently offering me a mug of char. In spite of the cool air, mosquitoes still found their way into the place and I would wake up with my face and arms covered in red blotches. At least these ones didn’t carry malaria virus and the swellings only lasted a few hours.

Some evenings they would have an outdoor film show with chairs and benches from the canteen set in rows before a large screen suspended between two coconut trees. I still recall two of the films, The Portrait of Dorian Grey with Angela Lansbury in one of her first roles, and Rhapsody in Blue with Robert Alda playing the much troubled Gershwin. A myriad of insects danced around in the hot night air, caught in the flickering beam of the projector. I remember walking through the trees back to our nissen hut and standing on something that seemed to roll under my boot like a rubber pipe. Next day on my way to the canteen I found a small dead snake. I must have trod on its head.

One morning while I was languishing on my charpoy a familiar voice called my name. It was Stan Proctor, my close pal from Carlisle days.

I knew from his letters that he had been posted to Colombo in Ceylon and now he had just arrived at Ballygunge transit camp en route to Changi in Singapore. It was a marvellous reunion and I was able to show him around Calcutta during the two weeks he was there. It was

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really great to be together again visiting the cinemas, the swimming pool and even a golf course. Not that either of us knew the game but General Wavell had generously allowed British servicemen to use his private golf course with its facilities free of charge. We even had a couple of Hindus caddying for us and their work was cut out retrieving lost balls. We both landed a ball in a deep water hole which meant that one of the caddies had to dive into the clouded water to find it.

He would break surface shaking his head in despair which meant we had to fork out half a rupee to replace the lost ball. I drove one into a clump of thick undergrowth and again the head shook sadly. ‘Snakes, Sahib!’ Another half rupee. We abandoned the game at the tenth hole, reluctant to fork out any more cash.

On another occasion we were walking through town heading towards Chowringee when a rickshaw passed us with two attractive Anglo Indian girls seated side by side. Suddenly the rickshaw wallah stopped and the girls both stood up gesticulating wildly. Next thing a taxi hit the rickshaw driver a glancing blow causing him to let go the shafts and the rickshaw toppled backwards catapulting the two girls on to the road. Our gaze turned to the cause of the accident. A tall shambling figure with a vacant grin on his face was strolling towards us wearing nothing besides a grubby blue turban. Our startled eyes focused on the reason for the girls’ alarm. His nakedness exposed the remarkable size of his male member. ‘God! just look at the size of that thing!’ I blurted in surprise. ‘And what a waste!’ sighed Stan taking a more amused view. The poor man was obviously mentally unwell and oblivious to the incredulous reactions his appearance provoked.

We often visited the cinemas showing modern films such as State Fair and Johnny Frenchman. One cinema in particular was actually a five tier music hall and the only seats available that evening were up in the gods (we climbed over a hundred stairs to reach the top balcony). Stan and I entered the door at the back of the hall and I felt as if we were

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standing on the edge of a precipice. The rows of seats were staggered downwards at an angle of forty-five degrees with the balcony little more than three feet high. We gingerly made our way down to our seats imagining that one careless step could result in one of us toppling over a seventy foot drop. The screen itself looked like a postage stamp below us and after a few minutes we left in disgust.

We travelled everywhere by rickshaw, or gharries as the locals called them, as it was too hot to walk any distance. These rickshaw wallahs certainly worked for their money keeping up a steady trot accompanied by the sound of a little bell strapped to their wrist. Many of them looked in their forties or more and the sweat streamed down their glistening backs. There were plenty of taxis driven by Sikhs but this mode of travel was much more expensive. Occasionally we boarded a crowded tram, having to hang on to the rail outside as it was impossible to get beyond the running board.

At the far end of Chowringee there were two identical swimming pools, one for British troops and the other for Yanks. But the difference inside certainly didn’t make us feel proud to be British.

We each paid half a rupee entry fee and the bare facilities in the British pool were a springboard and diving steps. Whereas in the American pool everything was free including coffee, iced tea and doughnuts. They also had a variety of games as well as rubber rafts and flippers for the swimmers.

One morning Stan was gone without warning and without the chance to say goodbye. I missed him a lot but made friends with another wireless op, a London Jew whose mother ran a hairdressing salon. Although Jewish lads tended to stick to their own creed we got on well together and being bored with life in Calcutta, both volunteered for Sarawak in Borneo. We had no particular notion to go there, our decision being governed by the outlook of anything for a change. We never heard

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nothing more about our request. Then one afternoon the list went up on the notice board with the latest demob group numbers. It was up to forty-three and I was group forty-one and due to go home. I was called into the signals office and asked if I would consider staying on for another six months with promotion to corporal. If this had been Kunming in the old days I would have jumped at the chance but I respectfully declined his offer. My London friend was sorry to see me go but we agreed to keep in touch.

Waiting in Worli for a troop ship Three days later I was back on the train, this time heading west for Bombay. In spite of the knowledge that this was heading back home the three day trip across India was monotonous and dreary. It was like the end of an exciting adventure and the lads around were more or less strangers to me. I spent long hours with my head out of the carriage window making the most of the breeze from the train’s passage across the hot dry wastelands, with smoke and steam from the locomotive wafting around me. The old familiar smell reminded me of my days as a fireman back home. As we neared the eastern coast the parched deserts gave way to dense green jungles and on our next stop our steam loco was replaced by an electric unit. The difference in speed was remarkable with the countryside racing past at sixty miles an hour.

My thoughts kept returning to the happier times in Kunming with singsongs among the lads echoing through the night from the mess and Koko bounding towards me when I returned from the airfield.

Now it was as if it had never ever happened and it was hard to accept that I would never see or hear from any of them again. It was a sombre thought and going home was of little consolation at that moment.

During the two weeks hanging around Worli waiting for a troop ship I never once bothered to go sightseeing in Bombay itself, having seen

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enough of street life in Calcutta over the past six months. Besides, I hadn’t made any friends among the lads in our billet and didn’t fancy wandering through the city on my own. We were more or less free to come and go as we pleased in the transit camp though one evening I was put on sentry duty with another lad. We were supposedly guarding an admin building and armed with wooden truncheons we each took two hour spells outside the doorway while the other got his head down inside. The beach, if you could term it such, stank as always yet I still wandered along the promenade watching the local residents flying their fighting kites. One lad in our billet had a wind up gramophone on which he played the same record over and over, with the words, ‘leave the dishes in the sink, Ma!’ by a hillbilly group called The Hoosier Hotshots. The song is engraved in my memory.

I now had a great metal trunk as well as a kitbag which I had brought all the way from Kunming and needed help lugging these around. When embarkation day arrived our kit went on board before us so climbing the steep gangway was no problem. Our ship was the Orion and similar to the Athlone Castle but the situation was devoid of the mystery and excitement of sailing to a strange land. Still, I had no regrets at seeing the coastline disappear below the horizon. I personally was never called upon to do any duties on this return voyage and spent my days lazing around the decks reading or watching the ocean roll by.

Crossing the Red Sea, we passed quite near to the coast of Africa where row upon row of army trucks and vehicles lay parked on the sand awaiting their fate. The Orion had just been fitted with new engines and was running at reduced speed and each day a raffle was held to see who could guess the miles travelled. This time there was no convoy needed and we were a lone ship crossing the Mediterranean.

The air became noticeably cooler as we headed up towards the French coast and the tannoys began blaring out ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ to remind us that we were on our way home. The nearer we got to

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dear old Blighty the less enthusiastic I became at the thought. Grey clouds and a steady drizzle didn’t improve matters. Back to the same dismal weather! And this was the middle of June! I hurriedly changed into my best blues more for comfort than appearance and as we tied up in Liverpool docks hundreds of discarded bush hats, light jackets and shorts were thrown over the side to the waiting stevedores and labourers.

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Part Four: Back Home to Life on The Railways ‘Dear old Blighty’ I have very little recollection of the train journey back to Blackpool other than the driver and fireman of the train staring at us as we scrambled into the carriages at the docks. We spent three or four days in a demob centre a few miles from Blackpool where we were issued with civilian clothing. I took a bus into Blackpool and visited the Tower ballroom, too shy to ask anyone to dance and envious of the lads who did. Not having seen English girls for over two years I stared longingly at their shapely calves and attractive, smiling faces. Then I remembered that I had promised to visit the Naafi girl who had written faithfully during my time overseas. She lived in Bolton with her parents and I was to meet them and spend a few days with her before I travelled on home to Scotland. We were given the choice of three different suits so I chose 205

one in pale grey with the wide lapels which were all the fashion then.

In the billet I struck up a friendship with a Scots lad from Linlithgow and when we were finally kitted out and issued with leave passes he coaxed me to ‘chum’ him all the way on the train to Edinburgh. ‘You can always come back and see your girl later on.’ I reluctantly agreed, never dreaming that this momentary decision meant that I would never get to see my girl in Bolton. We met another couple of RAF lads on the train heading north and the four of us passed the time playing cards although I wasn’t particularly interested, my thoughts still on the girl I’d let down solely to please a chap I hardly knew. Now he had three of us to keep him entertained on the train. Arriving at Edinburgh Waverley we went our separate ways without a backward glance.

‘Hello, son. Is that you back again?’

The view from the railway carriage window as we crossed the Forth Bridge was a novelty after so long an absence, but as we approached Dunfermline my feelings at seeing the drab outline of the town remained the same. Dunfermline was well named ‘the auld grey toon’ and the sight of it has never failed to depress me. Perhaps it was the memories of a childhood spent roaming through the silent ill-lit streets at Christmas time staring longingly in toyshop windows at train sets I could never have. The train squealed to a stop and amid the banging of carriage doors and a porter calling ‘Dunfermline Lower!’ I stepped onto the platform lugging my kitbag on my shoulder. Time hadn’t changed the place and it was as if I had never left. I stood outside the station hoping for a taxi and saw that an attractive girl was about to board the only one available. She gave me an apologetic smile then on afterthought called out to ask me where I was going. It happened that my father’s house lay on her route home so she invited me to share her ride. It was barely a five minute ride and out of keeping with my usual reticence I had made a date to see her the following evening before stepping out of the cab.

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It was only a few yards to the dreary tenement block with our tiny ‘butt and ben’ stuck in the middle. As I hesitated before opening the front door I heard a train whistle shriek and an ancient goods engine hauling a string of coal wagons lumbered across the sandstone viaduct which was a mere thirty feet away from our front door. There was now some late afternoon sun but the light never penetrated into our tiny living room, and as I pushed open the door there in the dimness sat my father scribbling away as usual at his table. At that moment my thought was, ‘God! Am I going to spend my future stuck in this dump!’ He looked up in mild surprise. ‘Hello, son, is that you back again?’ I was already wishing I had taken the offer to stay on in Calcutta, heat or no heat!

My father rose from his chair and got my bank book from the same old chest of drawers. ‘Your mother handed it in when she heard you were coming home. I think she’s been using it,’ he added with embarrassment.

I opened the book and felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. There was a balance of eleven pounds remaining from the two hundred and fifty I had saved over the past two years. The dream I had nurtured of owning a brand new three-fifty BSA was destroyed. ‘Your uncle was here a couple of months ago and pawned your suit,’ he added. Some lads I knew would have gone ‘ballistic’ at such a homecoming; instead I just stood there feeling hopelessly miserable and disillusioned.

I left the house, bought myself fish and chips and sat eating on a park bench, brooding over the situation. To think that I had given my mother a voluntary allowance for five years which many parents would have saved for their son’s homecoming. Not only had she kept this but she had used nearly all of my savings. The following evening I kept my date with the girl in the taxi and saw her every evening for the next two weeks. On the spur of the moment and probably with an inner desire to get back at my parents I proposed marriage to a girl I hardly knew and she accepted. We were married a month later and I moved into her parents’ house which seemed a palace compared to our own.

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My father didn’t attend the ceremony though my mother was there, smiling to conceal her disapproval. Later I learned that her verdict on the lightning courtship was, ‘Billy married a pair of legs!’ She was partly right though some of the blame lay with her squandering my savings. Betty and I were married on Friday and I started back on the railway the following Monday. We both soon realised that our marriage was a mistake as we found we had little in common.

Fireman at Stirling I reported back at Stirling shed to find I was now a fireman and next in line to go through a driver’s exam due to wartime increase in rail traffic. Having just returned from the services I was put on an eight till four shift doing shed duties for a couple of weeks till I got back into the swing of things. On my first day I just wandered around the shed renewing acquaintance with some of the drivers and firemen I recognised from my first days as an engine cleaner of six years before. Most of them were friendly though there was the odd one who seemed to have a chip against ‘brylcream boys’ with the idea that the lads in the RAF spent most of their time strutting around with a girl on their arm whilst they worked night and day to keep the trains running.

On my second day I filled in for the shed fireman who had called off sick and my driver happened to be one of those critics. Our job was to turn the locos, then coal and prepare them for the next train crew. This also entailed me cleaning the fire while the driver oiled the big ends and coupling rods. Unused to handling the long handled clinker shovel I was struggling to draw the glowing hot ashes from the firebox, dumping shovelfuls out of the cab door onto the ashpile. Bathed in sweat and sticky ash I kept stopping for a breather. ‘Come on there, glamour boy! You’re not strutting down the High Street now!’ He was a chap in his forties, too young to

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have served in the first war, with no idea what life was like outside his own little world. Perhaps that was what really bothered him and others like him.

For the first few days my new bride came to meet me in Stirling at the end of my shift but that was before we started to find fault with one another. Realising that I would be working shifts, I visited Halfords in Stirling after my shift and paid fifteen pounds for a heavy Raleigh three speed bicycle using some of my ninety pounds gratuity money. Rather than take the train I cycled the twenty-one miles to Dunfermline, partly for the novelty of riding a brand new bike and to see how long the journey took me. Fifteen pounds represented more than three weeks’ wages at that time and my purchase was regarded as an extravagance by my wife.

Another day I was detailed to fire a pilot engine assisting a passenger train on the uphill climb from Stirling to Dunblane. My driver was a tall, dour individual who obviously wasn’t happy about having a rookie stoker with him. I remembered him as the driver of the engine that killed Jimmy the old boiler washer on my second or third week on the railways. With a Black Five on the head of the train we were assisting, we had to run like hell to keep up with it. But the train got away from us just as we entered Dunblane tunnel and my driver was forced to ease back for fear of running into the rear carriage. Naturally, he blamed me for not maintaining a good head of steam. I sensed that I was seen as a liability due to my lack of experience on the footplate and wasn’t too surprised when the shift foreman approached me saying, ‘Look, son, there’s a vacancy for a fireman at Alloa shed and it’s nearer home for you.’ Although I didn’t particularly relish the thought of going back to that one horse outfit with half a dozen engines, at least it was seven miles less to cycle on awkward shifts.

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Alloa Shed It was like history repeating itself, being banished again to an obscure sub depot rather than stepping on the footplate of a Black Five or a gleaming Gresley Pacific on a main line depot. I was rostered with Johnny Bain the driver who I had my first firing turn with on the yard pilot. Now he was on the goods link and once more I was shovelling coal on a J36 on the Devon valley run to Milnathort. Passing Balado airfield I saw rows of gleaming Tempest fighter planes waiting to be cut up for scrap. These were arriving daily, flown from factories in England to be broken up and loaded into wagons bound for the steel mills in Glasgow. We usually picked up half a dozen wagons at Milnathort loaded with wings and fuselages and brought them back to Alloa yard en route to the Aluminium Works in Grangemouth. We had two night shift jobs starting around ten pm.

One week we shunted out a train of coal wagons in Devon colliery sidings which took the better part of a couple of hours. During this monotonous seesawing operation all we saw of our guard was his handlamp swinging to and fro or flashing red, signalling the driver to stop. The sidings were in total darkness and it must have been a taxing and dangerous job for the guard stumbling between the rows of wagons constantly coupling on and off and having to read the destinations on every wagon ticket in order to sort out his train. Shunting operations required little effort by the fireman with only a few shovels of coal needed to keep the steam up, and as the guard worked on the driver’s side I mostly sat staring out into the darkness or drowsily nodding off. From Devon pit to Alloa yard was all downhill and as we had a loose coupled train of between thirty and forty wagons we made the three mile descent at little more than walking speed. Johnny used to place an oil handlamp on the tender, shining on the embankment to keep check on his speed. In all my future years on steam locos he was the only man I ever encountered

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doing this. When we finally disposed of this train in Alloa yard we picked up a train of empties for Devon then shunted out a second load, arriving back in Alloa just before our eight hour shift was up.

On the other night shift job our roles were reversed with me as fireman having to shovel coal all the way to Sighthill yard in Glasgow while our guard sat in his van with his feet up. This was a long, dreary shift being constantly shunted into sidings along the way due to the pile up of mineral and freight trains heading west. Fife was the heart of the coal fields supplying the steel mills and docks in the Clydebank area.

I guessed Johnny to be around fifty and he had never married or even had a girlfriend. He was a mild mannered inoffensive chap who never made conversation or ever swore. We usually clocked ten to twelve hours every night on this job, and with a silent companion like Johnny sitting across the cab I sat alone with my thoughts on happier times.

On Saturday I had to bring my bike on the last train from Dunfermline as there were no trains when I finished my shift on Sunday morning.

On the early morning shifts I was also obliged to cycle fifteen miles to work, sometimes having to get up about three in the morning to allow time for the journey. I used to allow myself just over an hour and dreaded a strong head wind or driving rain. I’d arrive at work soaked through and would stand in front of the firebox door with steam rising from my overalls. I found the Raleigh a bit heavy so I traded it in for a Dawes racer. This latter cost fifteen pounds and I was allowed ten for the Raleigh although the dealer would probably sell it on as new.

Betty was now expecting our first child. Looking back, I think that we had each privately come to the conclusion that our marriage in haste was a mistake but we did not openly confront our feelings and so made the best of our situation. The weeks dragged by and the novelty of firing a steam train through the picturesque scenery along the Devon valley line to Kinross no longer had any appeal, especially with the

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prospect of a fifteen mile bike ride at the end of the shift. My days became a treadmill of working, cycling and sleeping with no light at the end of the tunnel, and it must have been equally difficult for my young attractive newlywed wife. In desperation I applied for an assisted passage to Australia, dreaming that we could make a new life out there away from the dismal climate. But strangely I had no reply whereas I heard that my friend Johnny, whom I seldom saw these days, was accepted. And he had never been in the forces, who were supposed to get preference. Christmas and New Year were working days in the railway’s eyes and I remember occasions leaving home for work as the bells were ringing in the New Year.

My gratuity was now gone and we were living on four pounds six shillings a week from which I got five shillings pocket money. A pair of working boots cost two pounds five shillings, more than half a week’s wage. These had to be leather with rows of tackets to provide grip when scrambling over the coal in the tender. Due to the rough treatment they got standing on hot cinders, ripped by jagged coal and subject to the glaring heat from the firebox, the boot soles would split in a matter of weeks. To make do I inserted bits of cardboard inside them till I could afford a new pair. I tried mending them myself by nailing on leather soles but my feet still got wet and so I would take them off and dry my socks on the boiler face plate much to the amusement of one driver.

Wellwood muck Johnny Bain was a good mate but had one fault that started to irritate me: his unquestioning obedience to authority. If the railway company had ordered Johnny to jump over a cliff he wouldn’t have hesitated to carry out the order. The mention of Wellwood coal sent a chill through every loco crew who ever had the misfortune to find it piled high on the tender of their engine. This was a soft, powdery coal that quickly stuck to the firebox bars creating a granite-hard clinker that

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choked the fire. The result was that engines were sticking on hills due to lack of steam and no water in the boiler while the sweating fireman battered away using the straight poker, vainly trying to break the clinker. Alloa had its fair share of Wellwood muck and a tender load of it greeted us when we signed on for the nightshift Sighthill job. The first two nights were sheer hell, sticking on every gradient we came to. The clinker shovel turned red hot, bending like a bit of cardboard, and I had to drag it over the tender and plunge it into the water tank to cool. It took us over ten hours to reach Glasgow and we limped home with the guard’s van. After the second night Johnny vowed that if there was Wellwood on the tender he would go back home. Anyway, there was Wellwood muck awaiting us next night but Johnny said nothing. Instead he got me to shovel a ton of the stuff over the side of the cab then stopped our loco alongside a wagon of Devon coal. I then had to climb on top of the wagon and heave lumps of the superior coal across onto our tender for the next ten minutes.

‘I think that should do us. Anyway we better get going before they come looking for us!’ I repeated this performance for the remainder of the week and I wondered how many other crews were daft enough to resort to stealing coal for the railway company’s benefit!

Cycling through snow drifts in 1947 In spite of all this strenuous labour and having to cycle an average of a hundred and fifty miles each week to work I would set off on a forty mile cycle run on Sundays to get away from the tensions of living with my in-laws. The drudgery and monotony of worked coupled with the our cramped living conditions really got me down and I look back on that period as the most miserable era in my life. My mother was now back living with my father but I didn’t look for moral support from them. If I had had any initiative I would have re-enlisted in the RAF but with my wife now pregnant I felt duty bound to be based at home. February came and I was now twenty-five. With it also came the

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Pencil sketch, Dunfermline Abbey 1957 214

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worst snow storms for many years making getting to work a bloody nightmare. Incredible as it might seem I never once failed to report for duty during those three weeks of snowstorms. With snow drifts up to twelve feet deep in places traffic was at a standstill on the roads, and the town of Kinross was completely cut off for a week. The icy winds were actually my salvation in getting to work as the snow froze solid and I was able to cycle on packed snow almost a foot deep.

One morning I left home about three a.m. hoping to get to Alloa by five thirty. It was bitterly cold but at least it hadn’t snowed and as I pedalled through the white wasteland I felt as if I were the only being on the planet. I passed two cars abandoned in drifts and was reduced to shoving my bike up a long incline to a wind-swept plateau about a mile beyond Bogside station. Part of this road had only a thin covering of frozen snow swept clear by an icy wind and I was able to remount and pedal frantically in the hope that I might still get to work on time.

I had barely gone a hundred yards before I was faced with a three foot snow drift blocking the entire road in front of me. In desperation I lifted my bike above my head and resolutely ploughed waist deep through the drift gasping for breath with the effort, my feet breaking the thin crust with every step. It must have taken ten or fifteen minutes to flounder and force my way through it and all hope of reaching work on time was gone. To crown it all I suddenly became aware that my front tyre had gone flat but I kept riding the bike as best as I could, finally arriving an hour for my shift. Our train had been cancelled due to drifting snow but the line to Glasgow had been cleared, so instead of spending the shift huddled over the bothy fire Johnny and I were detailed to run an emergency passenger service to Glasgow Queen Street with four carriages.

But worse was to come. All we had was a J36 goods engine to run the job and as the turn table was snowed up we would have to make the

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trip running tender first. It was of little consolation that the tender had been filled with good quality coal, though knowing Johnny he would hammer the guts out of the engine to try to run to time.

We got under way with sparks flying from the funnel and the icy blast from the wind numbing our faces, bombarded by coal dust from the tender. We clattered over Alloa swing bridge changing single line tablets with the signal men at either end and made our first stop at Airth station. There wasn’t a soul got on or off the train and little wonder with a twelve foot drift overhanging the platform and only the top of the signal sticking above the snow. As is often the case with an engine working flat out, the blast from the firebox kept the fire dancing on the bars and I had no problem maintaining steam provided I kept the shovel going. The result was that we coasted through the tunnels into Queen Street barely ten minutes late which was good going for a humble J36 goods engine. I’d hoped that this would be a one way trip but the station inspector was so impressed by the way we had run the train he decided that it would be a good idea to let us run the train back to Alloa. They ran this train for the rest of the week with another crew using a Glen class passenger loco on loan from Eastfield shed.

The snow storms finally came to an end but drifts still lay around for weeks after. I remember seeing walls of snow higher than the engine when we were back on the Devon valley run to Kinross with dozens of dead sheep lying in the fields. Spring came and it was almost a pleasure cycling to Alloa with the dawn breaking and the still morning air filled with the song of blackbirds, though the thought of doing this for the next forty years was unthinkable. I had already put my name down for a house in Alloa when one of the drivers, Jimmy Syme, suggested that I should apply for an accommodation transfer to Dunfermline shed. ‘It would make your life a bloody lot easier, son!’

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I took his advice and made my application but the weeks went by and I gave up hope. Then in April a letter awaited me when I arrived by bike one morning for the Alloa-Kincardine morning goods run. My transfer had been granted and I was to take duty at twelve noon the following Monday at Dunfermline Shed. The thought of no longer having to cycle to and from Alloa made my head swim with delight. I told Johnny the good news and he seemed genuinely pleased for me.

‘You’ll have to give us a wave when you pass through.’ He never ever used my name when addressing me but this was due to shyness on his part. I thought of the time I had cycled home on a Sunday morning and actually fallen asleep on the bike, finding myself lying on the grass embankment. No more of those days, thank God! That last Saturday morning cycling to work conditions were ideal with a slight tail wind so I decided to make this a record breaking run and set off at a brisk pace. My best time to date was fifty five minutes and I completed the fifteen mile ride that morning in forty seven. Not bad for someone wearing working boots and overalls on a standard bike.

Alloa was a tiny sub depot with a handful of men aware of the others’ habits and idiosyncrasies yet I was so elated at the prospect of working close to home that I had no regrets about leaving. I duly reported for duty on Monday to find I had been temporarily placed on the spare link until I could be given my rightful seniority position with the result I was treated like a new start with no firing experience.

New start at Dunfermline depot When I was transferred to Dunfermline shed most of the drivers there treated me like a new start, unaware that I had seven years’ railway service, albeit five of them spent as military. So, imagine my resentment and anger at being told ‘Put a fire on lad’ or ‘Watch your water level, son.’ It wasn’t in me to enlighten my driver unless this came out during conversation. The truth was I no longer felt the youthful enthusiasm

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for riding on the swaying footplate of a steam locomotive which must have been obvious to any driver I worked with. Up till and during the war years an engine driver was a highly respected figure with double the wages of a junior fireman or goods guard. The railway companies placed great value on promotion by seniority rather than ability, thus a man, providing he had the intelligence to learn the facts necessary to gain a pass in the driver’s test and had served his time, could become a top link passenger driver . There was no fast route to promotion on the basis of talent. Perhaps it was the result of my wartime experiences, but life as a railway fireman now seemed to me a menial monotonous chore coupled to soul-destroying shiftwork.

I bitterly regretted dismissing the opportunity to train in new skills which had been offered on demobbing from the RAF. I had briefly considered becoming a draughtsman but this meant travelling each day to a college in Edinburgh, and now struggling to support a family on a meagre allowance, such an idea seemed out of the question.

Dunfermline depot operated over fifty steam locomotives of all shapes and sizes with several huge 8F WD Austerities capable of hauling three times the load of the J36s I was used to. There were almost three hundred names on the loco roster sheets including twenty engine cleaners. There were also sixty or more ancillary staff consisting of fitters, boilerwashers, firedrawers, shed labourers and coalmen most of whom were conditioned to hard work, sweat and grime. Jock Young, the shift foreman who looked more like a morgue attendant, eyed me up and down disdainfully. I vaguely remembered those hostile eyes from the time I had gone there looking for a job seven years ago. ‘You’re the new boy from Alloa? You go with Harry Black on Inverkeithing Pilot!’ he ordered as though he were a judge pronouncing sentence.

I had to go round to the crowded bothy to ask who Harry Black was and as it turned out he was one of a group of four playing cards. He seemed a decent chap telling me to sit and relax as we wouldn’t be

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leaving the depot for another hour. Our engine was a J35, a bigger brother to the J36 and was one of three based in Inverkeithing sidings in constant readiness to assist heavy freight and mineral trains up the steep incline to the Forth Bridge through two lengthy tunnels. The smoke and exhaust steam in these tunnels was suffocating. Already filled with the acrid, sulphurous fumes from the leading loco, our own smoke and steam made things worse, and even with the glare from the firebox we could barely see one another in the cab. Worse still was when the engine developed wheel slip caused by wet soot landing on the rails and we had to hold a wet sweat rag over our mouths to filter out the choking fumes. Running the gauntlet of smoke on these pilots in winter was to experience the two extremes of conditions in a matter of minutes. Having endured the heat and choking fumes of the top tunnel the engine suddenly emerged to be met by an icy blast of freezing air sweeping across the bridge itself. It’s little wonder that pilot crews were plagued by colds and chesty coughs. Half way through our shift we were given a duties break if you could call it so.

During this half hour period the fireman had to clean the fire, ashpan and smokebox hoping it wasn’t windy, otherwise he was blinded by swirling grey ash. The driver meantime had to crawl into the engine gearing to oil the big ends and piston rods.

The railway company’s system of training firemen Harry was a decent mate, originally from Dundee, and we got on well together. But being on the spare link I could be utilised to fire for any other driver whose fireman was off sick. So the following week I was instructed to go with Bob Drummond on the morning Perth goods.

I climbed up into the cab of the huge 8F Austerity and stared at the enormous boiler that reached almost to the cab roof. A short, thickset figure sat in the driver’s seat puffing away at a pipe, eyeing me with doubt and suspicion.

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‘You ever fired one of these engines before?’ he demanded in a highpitched voice. I shook my head glumly. ‘Have you ever been on Glen Farg before?’ Again I shook my head. He paused to give weight to his reply. ‘Well! Do you see that needle?’ he asked, pointing an accusing finger at the steam gauge. ‘Ye see that needle? Well, if it goes below a hundred and eighty coming up the Farg, you’re finished!’ This was typical of the kind of advice from many drivers to rookie firemen and didn’t say much for the railway company’s system of training. There were never any handbooks or organised instruction on how to fire a steam engine. It was all left entirely to the driver’s own discretion and many of them had never been competent firemen themselves.

I slid open the firebox door and stared inside. The firebox stretched ten feet with the bars sloping down towards the tubeplate with a kindling stacked behind the door. I heaved down the twelve foot clinker shovel from its rack along the tender, struggling to manoeuvre it into the firebox, and spread the hot coals down the entire length of the grate.

It was everyday procedure spreading the fire at the start of a shift but I had not encountered one of such gigantic proportions. I commenced shovelling methodically, building up a good fire for the trip ahead of us. Bob sat puffing on his pipe watching my performance with a critical eye. ‘You’ll have to shovel harder than that wi’ forty wagons at your back!’ and I thought ‘What a crabbit old bugger’. I later learned that he was nicknamed ‘the carter’ as he was more suited to leading a dray horse pulling a cart. The Austerity tender carried four thousand gallons of water and eight tons of coal and I had already used a ton building a good bottom in the firebox.

Bob consulted his railway issue pocket watch for the tenth time before announcing, ‘Hand brake off! It’s time we were off the shed!’ I hurriedly leapt to the tender using both hands to unwind the brake handle whilst Bob stood up putting his shoulder under the throttle lever to ease it open. The huge loco moved slowly forward, steam hissing from the

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cylinder cocks and a huge mushroom of sulphurous yellow smoke belching from its squat funnel. These engines were prone to wheel slip when starting off, causing explosive bursts of exhaust, and with much clanking and hissing we moved majestically past the office buildings and up the slight incline towards the outgoing shed points. I already knew to drop off the footplate and phone the signal box requesting the signal and points set for the main line.

Ten minutes later we backed onto our train in Townhill north yard and I left the cab to couple on. By this time the fire was burning well and a feather of steam was coming from the safety valves on top of the boiler. Bob lost all interest in my activities and was now leaning out of the cab talking to our guard. The latter seemed a jovial type with red cheeks and curly white hair, like Santa Claus in railway clothes I thought. As we pulled out of the yard with a heavy train behind us the slipping and roar from the funnel was more pronounced due to the common problem of Austerities being notorious for clogging up.

But after a few minutes the Austerity found its feet and settled down to a steady, rhythmic beat, clanking resolutely up the long incline to Cowdenbeath. Other than getting used to having to swing the shovel so that the coals reached the front of the firebox I found there was more leeway in maintaining steam and keeping water in the boiler. But the ride was uncomfortable with every stroke of the big ends sounding like the blows from a sledgehammer vibrating through the sheet metal cab.

Worse still were the downhill runs with the throttle closed, causing the tender to bump against the engine itself and filling the cab floor with coal and dust. The vibration was so bad that it felt like sitting on a bucking bronco and I stood rather than suffer the discomfort.

We finally arrived at Glen Farg which was the start of a one in sixty downhill run for the next seven miles. With a heavier mineral train we would have been obliged to stop to allow our guard to pin down wagon brakes as a precaution, but in this case our hundred ton

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loco had ample stopping power provided the speed was kept low.

‘You can have your piece, now!’ This was Bob telling me to eat my sandwiches during the downhill run but I had already scoffed my two slices of bread and cheese followed by the two remaining raspberry jam sandwiches. This was to be my staple diet for the next five years.

Bob applied the steam brake fully, allowing me to put extra turns on the tender handbrake for the long downhill ride, never allowing the train to exceed fifteen miles an hour. At this controlled descent the oscillation from the tender hitting the loco was less violent. All I had to do for the next twenty minutes or so was to hang out the cab with my arm resting on the side window gazing at the grandeur of the Farg scenery rolling by. With the water in the gauge glass bobbing on the halfway mark I had ample room to top up the boiler using the injector every time the safety valves started to blow off steam.

Keeping the engine from blowing off steam on downhill stretches was just as important as maintaining full boiler pressure on uphill gradients. Excessive blowing off numbed the eardrums in confined places such as stations and - more so - tunnels, and wasted as much steam and water as half throttle working.

Bob seemed to be more relaxed and almost friendly in his attitude towards me now. ‘So you were firing at Alloa for six months?’ He gave what could have passed for a chuckle. ‘And here’s me thinking ye were a new start!’ An hour later we clanked into Perth north yard, I dropped off to uncouple the train and our guard appeared carrying his kit. The three of us rode tender first back to the South yard where Bob whistled for the points into Perth loco shed where we could turn our engine and fill the tank. Bob leaned down and looking into the firebox with an experienced eye, he prompted, ‘Do ye think the fire needs cleaning, son?’ The Austerities weren’t fitted with drop grates which meant a side delivery, a term for having to heave the ash from the firebox out the cab door. I had cleaned J35 and J36 fires but the thought of handling a twelve foot clinker shovel loaded with

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Oil Painting ‘Attacking a Snowdrift’ 2008 hot cinders was a daunting prospect. ‘I don’t think the fire needs cleaning, Bob,’ I replied in a strangled voice.

Perth shed was an LMS stronghold boasting almost two hundred locomotives, many of them Black Fives, and my eye fell on a mighty Duchess class which had made the long trip from Crewe the night before. The English crew would now be asleep in their hostel resting for the long trip home that night. These men lived in a different world from our own short haul goods and mineral trains, blasting through the night at high speeds and covering hundreds of miles during each shift. The crews were paid mileage, probably earning three times what we did, and kept pretty much to themselves. After we turned our loco I went over to the Duchess while our tank was filling, remembering the last time I had seen one almost seven years before at Stirling station.

They had now taken the streamline covering off which was mainly

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for show and only caused maintenance problems but it was still an impressive sight with its seven foot driving wheels and travel stained maroon livery. ‘D’ you think you could keep steam on one o’ them, lad?’ Bob taunted me as I climbed up on the Austerity tender to check if the tank was near full.

Seven mile slog up the Farg After picking up a train and leaving the yard we entered Friarton tunnel which was nearly a mile long, me shovelling steadily to build up a good fire for the seven mile slog up the Farg. The idea was to attack the twisting gradient with a full boiler of water and two hundred and twenty-five pounds on the steam gauge, remembering Bob’s words, ‘below a hundred and eighty, you’re finished!’ But by the time we passed Bridge of Earn and began our ascent the pressure gauge was hovering at two hundred in spite of all my efforts. I was beginning to regret not having made some attempt to clean the fire instead of gaping at the Duchess. Apart from the long twisting climb, half way up the line ahead lay two tunnels. Both harboured damp and water and the constant dripping from their arched roofs coated the rails below with slime which caused excessive wheel-slip, often causing a train to come to a stand. The Austerity was fitted with steam sanders which were more bother than their worth as the steam caused the pipes to clog up so that no amount of banging would free them. In the end it was left to the fitters back in the depot to try clearing the pipes with heat from a blow lamp and if this failed the entire pipe had to be disconnected and the sandbox emptied then refilled.

With the blower hard on and using the straight poker to churn up the choked fire I was sweating profusely by the time we laboured uphill towards the mouth of the first tunnel. In between shovelling I kept glancing anxiously at the steam gauge now hovering at a hundred and eighty, the ultimatum Bob had warned me of, but in spite of his words

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226 Pen and Wash, Dunfermline Railway Station

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228 Watercolour, Firing a Steam Engine

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the engine still managed to keep going. He never once offered advice or criticism and sat hunched in the driver’s seat with one hand resting on the throttle lever. Steam and smoke was still floating around the tunnel mouth from a previous train, creating an ominous look to the place hemmed in by towering rocks. Next minute we were engulfed in smoke and steam and deafened with the blast from the funnel in the confines of the tunnel walls, making communication impossible.

The glare from the firebox pierced the voluminous smoke matching a vision of Dante’s Inferno. The wheels soon lost adhesion on the greasy rails and went into an uncontrolled skid creating an explosive burst like an artillery barrage, hitting the tunnel roof as the footplate danced beneath our feet. Now I appreciated Bob’s concern when he had asked me, ‘have you ever been on the Farg?’ He was up on his feet with both hands on the throttle, continually opening and shutting the lever to counteract the wheel slip. Slowly we continued, slipping and struggling, through the choking depths of the tunnel and I willed for a glimmer of light to show ahead of us. The violent oscillating effect seemed to have stirred up the ailing fire as the steam pressure was holding its own, though I wouldn’t be able to see the gauge till we emerged into daylight.

Our loco emerged from the tunnel mouth, belching and shrouded in smoke and steam with the harsh bark from the funnel reverberating triumphantly against the surrounding hills. With barely time to fill our lungs with clear mountain air we were into the second tunnel, but having run the gauntlet through the first I knew what lay ahead and at least our loco didn’t slip so often. The steam gauge had actually risen to two hundred and I got into a steady rhythm in using the firing shovel and maintaining a safe water level in the boiler. I sensed that Bob was beginning to feel a grudging respect for me, having come through my baptism of fire reasonably well. The remainder of our week together passed reasonably well and we were chatting away like old comrades by the time our last shift came.

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‘Wully Gilmour’s making toy airplanes.’

The following week I was rostered for Kelty pilot with two hours’ travelling expenses for the return journey getting there. The supplement of a Sunday shift gave me over ten pounds for a wage without the dreary cycle trips to Alloa every day. I was able to take up my old hobby of building and flying model planes and now I had extra cash to buy balsa wood and a small diesel engine. John, our baby boy was born while I was working a much needed Sunday shift, but I felt as though I was treated more like an interested bystander, my mother-in-law deciding what was best for her daughter and new grandson. I was partly to blame for my lack of family involvement, becoming absorbed with building a flying model powered by an engine, spending what little extra cash I had and all of my free time on this. Word got around at work that ‘Wully Gilmour’s making toy airplanes. And him a married man wi’ a bairn!’ To the old time drivers whose world revolved round seeing the match on Saturday and going for a pint, anyone who neither drank nor smoked, nor bet on the horses was a bit of an oddball. I tended to keep my own counsel but listened in to their conversations. The main topic of interest in the shed at the time was that the Labour government’s first priority had been to nationalise the mines and the railways. This meant that all four railway companies would amalgamate and now be known as British Railways. ‘That means we’ll be getting Caley engines arriving at the depot!’ One thing I learnt that interested me was that some of the older drivers had served in the trenches during the first war. One driver, Wull Bower, was a bit of a loner who like me sat apart from the others in the mess hall seldom engaging in conversation. I was his fireman one afternoon and on learning that I had served in the RAF he became talkative. He had been bayoneted in the trenches during a German attack and ended up a prisoner in one of their hospitals. ‘The German nurses were quite bitter towards us. When I asked for a drink of water one girl would place the mug just out of my reach,’ he told me.

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As my wife and mother-in-law grew fully occupied with our baby boy and I was left to my own devices, I became more involved with building and flying model airplanes and the memories of China and my RAF days faded from my mind.

Passing the ‘drivering test’ I was finally given my rightful position on the roster sheet, moving up into what was known as the conditional link. There were twenty different shifts at all hours of the morning or night, mainly hauling coal traffic from the pitheads to the docks or seasonal potato trains from Perth to Leith docks. I was rostered with Jimmy White, a diminutive, serious-minded chap who gave the impression that being a driver was akin to winning an academy award. My apparent lack of interest irritated him, and when he learned that I was one of eight firemen due to sit the driver’s exam he scoffed at my chances of passing it.

He wasn’t overbearing but his snide remarks, such as suggesting that anyone who wasn’t interested in the job should find other employment, were a dig at me. He was very friendly with a fireman senior to me and was giving him his personal tuition preparing him for the ‘drivering test’. ‘Eck’s a first class fireman and he’ll have no bother passing.’ He actually asked me to swap places with Eck so that he could give him his full attention. I declined as this meant moving onto the goods link with even worse shifts than ours.

Jimmy wasn’t old enough to have served in the first war so any mention of military service was naturally taboo. One thing in his favour was that he never interfered with my work as a fireman and although there was this dryness between us we never fell out. The practical part of the driving test was to run a stopping passenger train from Dunfermline to Edinburgh Waverley with an inspector breathing down your neck judging your performance. I was at some disadvantage having never been to Edinburgh on the footplate and never once been allowed to

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drive an engine since I came back from the RAF. Our engine was a Glen class 240 pulling six coaches and as the inspector and I mounted the footplate at Dunfermline Lower the regular driver stood aside to allow me the driving seat. I felt nervous and awkward with three pairs of critical eyes watching my every move. The guard’s green flag fluttered and I awkwardly pushed open the throttle causing a wheel slip. But the Glens were prone to this with their high wheels so there was no cause for concern. We had five stops before reaching Waverley, during which the inspector kept prompting me when to close the throttle and apply the vacuum brake. I felt in a kind of daze by the time we squealed to a halt in the Waverley, thinking I had made a right mess of it. I was amazed and relieved when I was told, ‘You did fine, son!’

Two days later I was back with two inspectors upstairs in the Waverley, this time to attempt the verbal and written questions on rules and regulations which would be the final deciding factor as to whether I was qualified to act as driver. I had spent the last couple of months stewing, pouring over a booklet on questions and answers for the driving test.

Night after night at home I would get my wife to read the questions whilst I supplied the answers. Most of the other lads would attend the mutual improvement classes where a volunteer driver explained the workings of the walsheart gear, injectors and steam brake systems.

I also had a book on these and quickly absorbed the information and now was able to recite the rules and basic workings of a steam loco like a parrot, with the result that I passed as a driver.

Next day on the footplate with Jimmy I did not mention how I had fared in the exam but he already knew that six out of the eight had passed as drivers. One of the lads who failed was Jimmy’s protégé and it must have been a blow to his ego, and exasperating, that someone who seemed so uninterested in the job as I had passed. He wasn’t the only driver taken aback. Due to my constant habit of sitting apart sketching during breaks and slack times in the shed in preference to

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234 Oil Painting ‘Smoke and Steam’ 2008

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discussing railway lore, it was generally considered that I had somehow managed to ‘fool’ the examiners. ‘They likely took pity on him being an ex-serviceman,’ was one comment. This to me was ridiculous as no inspector was going to risk his job passing someone who was unfit to drive a passenger train. It must have been even more galling for Jimmy when his understudy failed his retest and was then on his last chance of becoming a driver. But I had been rostered with another driver by the time this transpired.

Short, sharp commands Jock Mercer was a different kettle of fish from the mild mannered Jimmy. He had the piercing eye of a kestrel and a voice like the crack of a whip. Our conversation was restricted to short, sharp commands such as ‘Sand!’ ‘Handbrake on!’ ‘Couple off!’ and so on, and I got the feeling that he saw me as an extension of the firing shovel. He drove his engine relentlessly, cutting running time in order to get home to his beloved vegetable allotment which was renowned for its shallots and leeks. I secretly nicknamed him ‘pheasant eyes’ but because of his phobia about making sure the sanders were working before leaving the depot the lads dubbed him ‘Sahara Jock.’ Often he would come striding into the mess hall to order out the shed fireman to, ‘Fill those bloody sand boxes properly.’ Some shed firemen, knowing it was Jock’s engine they were preparing, would sprinkle a handful of sand on the rail under each sandpipe to kid Jock that they were working. I fired to Jock for three months yet we never got round to as much as remarking about the weather, let alone having a conversation. In spite of this I found him to be a competent driver who could speak his mind and take no nonsense from guards or yard staff who often took advantage of easy-going loco crews by overloading their trains.

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Bryce Thomson Loco crews were constantly split up due to a driver retiring and a fireman being promoted, with the result I landed with yet another mate whose name was a byword because of his outrageous lifestyle. Bryce Thomson was unique as a railwayman as he didn’t give a damn for authority but was tolerated because he was a first class engineman with a sound knowledge of railway working. He was a womanizer, liked a good drink and in his own words, ‘I’m a better driver drunk than half of them sober!’

He had long been divorced and lived alone in a tiny attic about half a mile from the depot and had a homespun philosophy on life that was both practical and amusing. Many of the other drivers looked on him with veiled contempt but I found Bryce to be one of the best mates a fireman could ask for. Having gained experience on the footplate, I was now able to separate the men from the boys when things went wrong.

One of the most frightening experiences is to have a gauge glass burst in the middle of a tunnel. There are two gauges set high on the boiler, each consisting of a toughened glass tube encased in an armoured glass casing half an inch thick. This latter was to protect the crew in the event of the gauge glass bursting, the second glass being a backup.

These gauges were the visual means of knowing how much water was in the boiler and consequently were under high pressure. When a glass burst it was like a bomb going off in the cab. A screeching bang was followed by a jet of high pressure steam and water filling the cab. The initial reaction was to dive into the tender for safety but one of the crew had to isolate the steam and water cocks. This meant reaching up into the jet of steam and risk being badly burned. Some drivers used their caps to protect their hands; others took the precaution of attaching lengths of cord to the handles, pulling on these rather than feel for the cocks.

Spare glass tubes were kept in the tool box as it was advisable to replace the broken glass as quickly as possible since the other glass could go

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without warning. This event did occur when we were halfway through the second tunnel on Glen Farg and I was thankful to have Bryce as my driver as he competently dealt with the situation while I just cowered in terror. Later on I was able to isolate a burst glass myself but never in the depth of a tunnel, thank goodness.

There was never a dull moment having Bryce as a mate. One winter’s evening we were sent down the single branch line to Valleyfield colliery with our engine and guard’s van to assist ‘conditional’ with a train of coal for Methil docks. Bryce decided he needed a pint so we stopped halfway down the branch near Torryburn station and he left me to mind the engine while he and the guard headed for the hotel. They arrived back twenty minutes later half drunk and we set sail for Valleyfield. An irate train crew fuming at the unnecessary delay pounced on us on arrival and the signalman was upset thinking our engine had become derailed. ‘The control wants a word with you on the phone, Bryce!’ Everyone knew the reason for the delay but couldn’t disprove Bryce’s glib excuse: ‘The steam brake valve stuck and it took us a while to free it!’

On early morning shifts Bryce would adjourn to the guard’s van for a kip leaving the guard to drive the engine with me firing and keeping him right. On one occasion we pulled into Leith docks with thirty van loads of potatoes and were relieved by a St Margaret’s loco crew leaving us to make our own way back to Dunfermline but Bryce had other ideas. Despite my self-imposed ban on alcohol and against my better judgement, we ended up drinking and passing a couple of hours in a bar in the Greyfriars area. Bryce took an additional advantage of this time to visit an old flame who lived closeby. When he rejoined me, we staggered back together to the Waverley to catch a passenger train to Dunfermline, which I just about managed despite being feeling light-headed and not in full control of my faculties. It was one of those old non-corridor trains and the pair of us were alone in a compartment.

Crossing the Forth Bridge we were both taken short so Bryce dropped

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the window and I followed suit at the window opposite. There we were the both of us pissing out into the night air with the girders of the bridge rushing past and the River Forth gleaming far below. To share moments of levity like this, contrasting with the endless struggles aboard the footplate, created a lasting bond between driver and fireman. Someone once asked Bryce what he would do if he won seventy-five thousand on the pools. ‘I’d put a pound to it and clear my debts!’ he quipped.

Ordered to leave the house Although I was fortunate to have such a mate in the workplace, things weren’t going well at home. Our wee boy was now three and becoming a bit boisterous which added to the strained relationship among the adults sharing the confined space. My wife was going out regularly in the evenings as she needed some form of enjoyment to balance the difficulties of our poor relationship and the cares of domestic life. My mother-in-law, left to babysit when I was on nightshift, was finding it harder to cope and this led to a heated row during which I found myself being ordered to leave the house. With heavy heart I was obliged to ask my mother, who was now back living with my father, if they could put me up for the time being. She seemed pleased to have me back in the fold though obviously my father didn’t share her enthusiasm, especially with my twenty-year-old sister already sharing their tiny room and kitchen.

I left with only the clothes on my back one dreary November evening, my mother having purchased a folding camp bed from a local scrap merchant for a pound. The sleeping arrangements were that my father slept in a tiny bed recess in the living room with my mother and sister sharing a bed in the other room. From my folding cot I could easily have shaken hands with my mother lying opposite. My sister was working as a bus conductress and with my father working in Crombie naval depot, my mother at least had the house to herself when we were

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all out at work. We were quite a tolerant lot so there were few flair-ups sparked by the close confines of living together during that period.

I was pretty miserable mostly, missing my little boy and nursing a resentment towards my wife and mother-in-law. I was at least cheered up by Bryce’s support. ‘Women can be more bother than they’re worth and if you feel like a bit of company there’s plenty others around!’

Trust Bryce to see the lighter side of the situation.

There was no room to continue my aero-modelling hobby at my parents’ house and I returned to cycling whenever the weather permitted. I also opened a savings account with the railway bank in which I deposited two pounds a week deducted straight from my wages. I had revived my earlier idea of saving up for a motorcycle. Just as I was beginning to feel a little less downhearted I lost Bryce as a mate as he was moved up into the top goods link. This came as a blow as I was sure that my next driver wouldn’t hold a candle to him. And I was right.

Frankie Tait wasn’t really a bad chap but he was the most interfering bugger who ever stepped on a footplate, and worse still we were destined to spend the next five years together. It made no difference to him that I had passed my driver’s test, constantly finding fault with the way I held the shovel and telling me when to put on a fire and so on. I soon found that the reason for all this was his uncertainty and lack of confidence in himself. Apart from his allotment his only other hobby was his bankbook which he carried around with him at all times giving me updates on how much he had now saved. ‘That’s seven hundred and sixty three pounds in the book now, Wull!’ I would give a grunt of acknowledgement. Then on a more serious note, ‘But you know, Wull, that’s only ten years’ rent after I retire!’ Sadly enough, Frankie only lived for six months after he did retire.

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Bad steamers Like a lot of drivers Frankie never took into account the mechanical and other faults that made engines ‘bad steamers’, blaming the fireman for this. Most of these were due to bad or careless maintenance either by the fitters themselves, by shed staff such as boilerwashers and blacksmiths or by shed labourers such as fire-drawers. If the fire or ashpan wasn’t cleaned properly the fire couldn’t draw enough air to burn freely and if a fire-drawer forgot to replace a couple of firebars half the coal would fall into the ashpan as the fireman was struggling to maintain steam. Broken piston rings or a badly aligned blast pipe in the smoke-box and badly adjusted brakes also created problems for the footplate crew.

A driver was supposed to fill out a report on faults for the attention of the fitting staff at the end of each shift and it surprised me how clumsily worded some of these reports were. This was ammunition for some of the more astute fitters, some of whom looked down on locomen as brainless, glorified labourers.

One fitter who kept reminding locomen that he had fought in the African campaign whilst they stayed at home made a point of airing his views on enginemen in the crowded mess hall during meal breaks.

‘I’ve an eight year old niece at home who could drive an engine.’

One afternoon he picked me as the butt of his humour. ‘While I was sweating it out in Libya you were sitting in sidings for hours piling up overtime.’ ‘I wouldn’t know about that, Ernie!’ I replied airily. ‘I was too busy flying over the Himalayas!’ For once Ernie had no reply.

Later we were to become friends.

One night stand as driver Working with Frankie constantly breathing down my neck made life on the footplate irritating. After all, I was a man approaching thirty

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who resented being treated like a fourteen-year-old. I could easily have cut him down to size but I sensed that beneath the show of authority lay uncertainty and lack of confidence. Never absent, never late and an obedient railway servant who never questioned authority, he was the kind of worker that made his bosses’ work a pleasure. Till one morning the unthinkable happened. Frankie overslept for the 3.30 a.m.

Inverkeithing and Cadder coal train. Worse still, there was no spare driver to take his place and, as I now had my driver qualification, the shift foreman was reluctantly obliged to put me on the job. My actual driving experience was limited to moving the loco a few yards in the shed in order to fill the tank which made me the last resort. Fortunately for me, the lad taking over my job was a spare fireman rather than one of the young engine cleaners hanging around the shed. Our loco was an 8F Austerity and as we clanked into Inverkeithing yard the assisting pilot engine was already on the rear of our train and our guard standing with his handlamp waving us in. My mate dropped off to couple on the train while the guard came forward to tell me how many wagons made up our train. ‘Where’s Frankie?’ he asked, surprised to see me hanging out the driver’s window. ‘He slept in!’ I replied with an amused grin.

‘God! I’ve heard it all now! What happened? Was his wife lying on his shirt tail or something?’

The fireman was busy with the shovel preparing for the climb to the Forth Bridge and after allowing the guard time to walk back to his van I glanced at the water level before whistling for the points to the main line. A moment later the disc clattered to the green position just as the safety valves roared on full pressure. I blew a ‘cock crow’ on the whistle answered by a ‘double crow’ from the pilot loco, this being our sole means of knowing when both engines were ready to go. The night sky echoed with the combined blast from both funnels as the locos danced and skidded over the greasy yard rails, struggling to gain as much forward motion as possible before entering the bottom tunnel.

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Only a locoman who has experienced these conditions knows the sense of drama and dry-mouthed apprehension when thundering headlong into the murky, suffocating depths of a tunnel. These mineral trains hauling extended loads in order to lessen the volume of traffic using the bridge were constantly sticking in both tunnels. With this thought in mind the crews of both locos would resort to cat and mouse tactics to make sure that it wasn’t their loco that got stuck in the middle of the tunnel. Thus if the assisting locomen realised that the train was struggling to maintain forward motion, the driver would deliberately ease back on the throttle before entering the tunnel mouth, leaving the leading engine struggling desperately to get out of the choking fumes into fresh air. One or two crews would resort to urinating on a shovelful of coal knowing that the pilot crews would redouble their efforts to get clear of the added stench of roast ammonia. Officials took a dim view of this, giving the culprit a three day suspension if found responsible.

Bryce was one of their prime suspects. But on my one night stand as driver we showed the dreaded tunnels a clean pair of heels and finally pulled into Cadder yard two hours later. The return trip went without incident and when we finally coupled off in Inverkeithing yard the guard came forward and boarded our loco for a lift home. ‘You ran the job better than Frankie!’ he remarked jokingly. The story got back to Frankie who spluttered with indignation at this slight on his ability. ‘I’m no believing that for a minute!’ But it didn’t curb his interfering ways.

You’re daft to go back I had now been separated from my wife for six months and had adjusted to living in my parents’ home with its gas lighting and cramped conditions. Furthermore, I had managed to save over seventy pounds towards buying a second hand motorbike and was becoming as much obsessed with saving as Frankie but without realising it. I returned from a forty mile cycle run one evening to the news that my wife had visited the house asking to speak with me. I assumed that she might be

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looking for an increase in the allowance I paid her for our son. ‘I think it’s more serious than that, Billy!’ my mother said. She wasn’t wrong.

It turned out that my wife was six months pregnant and insisted that I return to fulfil my obligations as father to our children. My visions of roaring around the countryside on a motorbike suddenly faded. I didn’t relish the idea of being under my mother-in-law’s roof again but being a pliable type I agreed to return on the condition that I waited till two weeks before the baby was due. This was agreed but my own mother disapproved. ‘You’re daft to go back after the way they threw you out!’ A month later I threw caution to the wind and selfishly spent eighty pounds on a second hand 250cc BSA knowing that otherwise my savings would soon be absorbed by practical family needs. The bike became my pride and joy to the extent that I wouldn’t use it to travel work, thinking that short runs would be bad for the engine.

An eleven-day fortnight hauling coal The Labour government had introduced a five day week for mineworkers, now under the collective title of NCB. The railways soon followed suit but to a lesser degree, allowing an eleven day fortnight. This met the need for eight extra loco crews in our depot in order to give us a rest day. Unfortunately the reshuffle didn’t rid me of Frankie though I could now look forward to having a spare driver once a fortnight. During the miner’s annual holidays with no coal being produced the ‘conditional’ trains were still kept busy storing empties in unused branch-lines with sometimes three or four hundred wagons standing buffer to buffer stretching for what seemed like miles through open countryside. Because of the single line, the guard’s van had to be left at the branch-line junction, the guard obliged to stand in the leading wagon waving the loco on, pushing forty or more wagons before it. This was essentially a daylight operation, especially with blind curves on the line hidden behind embankments and overhead bridges obscuring the end of the wagons already stored

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there. After the holidays the whole process had to be done in reverse ready for coal production.

The Fife coalfields stretched from Blairhall to East Wemyss with dozens of pits and mines in between, most of which were centred around the Kelty and Lochgelly area and worked by Thornton and Dunfermline conditional link crews hauling the coal to docks, power stations and steel mills as far apart as Clydebank and Aberdeen. Kelty yard had its own sub depot with three pilots working continuously around the clock bringing loads from the pit sidings and supplying empties. These were short-haul trips with the engines working flat out hauling full loads up the steep gradients, often requiring assistance from a second engine when the load proved too much for one. I spent two weeks firing on a Kelty pilot when our own job was temporarily suspended. It was the hardest fortnight I ever spent with no respite other than the half hour meal break.

Bonus kings To encourage train crews to speed up the movement of coal from the pits a bonus system was adopted where conditional crews were paid extra for running trains faster. For instance, if the allotted time for uplifting a train from Blairhall pit to Oakley yard was two hours, and if the crew could knock half an hour off running time that was half an hour’s extra pay. The Dunfermline crews accepted this system readily but the Thornton men turned it down saying it would create redundancies. This added to the already existing animosity between the two depots which turned to open hostility when it became known that some Dunfermline crews were doubling their wages as a result.

The story went that when two trains passed in opposite directions if it was a crew from their own depot the driver would remark, ‘Oh! that’s a Thornton lad!’ But if it happened to be one of their rivals it was, ‘There goes they Dunfermline bastards!’

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This G3, as the payment was termed, was manna from heaven to the likes of Frankie, but he lacked the confidence to take the reckless chances that some of the drivers took to boost their bonus payments, a small group of whom became known as ‘bonus kings.’ Of the twenty plus conditional jobs only three were non-bonus branch line goods and Frankie used to swap with another driver who preferred an eight till four dayshift to extra cash. I came to dread these swaps as I found Joe Paton to be one of the most selfish, hard-headed men imaginable.

I had thought that Sahara Jock was a hard nut but this man’s existence was centred entirely on his own personal needs. He wasn’t a bully or one who interfered with his fireman’s work but it would have required plastic surgery to put a smile on his expressionless face.

One job in particular, the 11.15 a.m. Perth goods, showed him at his worst as he hammered the engine on full throttle on every uphill gradient in order to get back to the depot as quickly as possible. One afternoon leaving Perth with a full load, the throttle was wide open as we entered Friarton tunnel after leaving the yard, with me shovelling like a maniac trying to build up a fire for Glen Farg. Our engine was a J38, a powerful 6F, newly back from a major overhaul and should therefore have sailed up the Farg without problem. Even with the injector on constantly I was dismayed to see the water level bobbing at the bottom of the gauge glass when we thundered out of the half mile tunnel. If looks could have killed, the shed would have been raising a collection for Joe’s widow but he ignored me, staring like a sphinx looking ahead for Bridge of Earn distant signal. I never stopped shovelling till we clattered past Glen Farg station and the throttle was reluctantly closed for the downhill stretch to Mawcarse. Once over the top the water level surged to the front of the boiler, then barely covered the lead plug on top of the firebox. If this plug was uncovered for a few seconds the lead melted allowing steam and water to escape into the firebox itself, dousing the fire. This was a safety device to prevent the boiler cracking or exploding with the heat, known as ‘dropping

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the plug’ and for a crew to allow this to happen meant one week’s suspension without pay. Any sensible driver would stop his train when the water level was dangerously low, allowing the injector time to fill up the boiler, but Joe was prepared to keep going. It meant an anxious time for the fireman struggling to keep water in the boiler during downhill and level stretches.

We duly arrived back at the depot two hours before our booking off time, meaning we would have to sit in the bothy for that duration or until the foreman decided he had no further use for us. The foreman happened to be Jock Young or ‘The Presence’ as some lads called him due to the silence that fell whenever he entered the bothy.

Knowing him, I was resigned to sitting sketching for the whole two hours. But after a few minutes Joe disappeared with no sign of returning. An hour later one of the drivers entered the bothy and on seeing me asked why I was sitting there. ‘I met your mate Joe at the top of Townhill Road on his way home!’ Joe had sidled off with the quiet permission of Jock Young, a fellow mason, leaving me to sit out my two hours in the mess room. This was typical of Joe’s ‘man mind thyself’ attitude and I wondered what kind of home life he had. Oddly enough for all his vehemence about wishing for a steady dayshift, after he retired he took a job clearing glasses in the railway club working till 11 p.m. every night.

One of the drivers, a real character named Ronald McDonald, finally retired. He had once driven the royal train into Rosyth dockyard from Inverkeithing, a distance of three miles. Since then he regarded himself as number one driver, holding up a forefinger to other train crews on the passing. He sported a Charlie Chaplin moustache with his overalls always immaculate. As a passenger driver he took pride in polishing the copper and brass fittings on the boiler faceplate which gleamed in the light of the fire. He was one of those drivers who would be remembered for a long time, whereas there were others whose passing was hardly noticed.

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Back on the home front my deadline was up and I reluctantly moved back with my wife and in-laws. Roy, our second baby boy was born.

He was named as usual after her side of the family. Things turned out to be not so bad with both Betty and her mother fully occupied with the new baby while I took John, now four, on the tank of my motorcycle.

A practice which in those days went unnoticed by the police. Looking back, I realize how tolerant my in-laws were during the four years they had us living with them. In a two bedroom flat they managed to house a bedridden mother in one bedroom with themselves in the second, which meant that the main living room had to double up as a bedroom for myself, Betty and our two children at night and as a sitting/dining room for all of us in the day and evening. Fortunately for all concerned, not long after my thirtieth birthday we were given the key to our own home, a prefab in Kingseat. It stood on the main street, built on the very spot where the bomb had fallen in 1940 killing the old man in his home. But we soon found that having a place of our own wasn’t the answer to our problems. With rent and heating, not to mention two children to clothe and feed, we were struggling to make ends meet. I used my bicycle to work loading the carrier with coal to help our heating bill, taking great care not to be seen doing this as the penalty was instant dismissal.

‘I’ve got your job in my hands’ There is no such person as a decent boss or as Bryce used to say: ‘They always pick a rotten bastard for a gaffer!’ This certainly seemed to be the case as Jock Cartledge who appeared every bit as nasty and vindictive as Jock Young, except that Young was taller. Cartledge was little over five feet and wielded his authority like a cricket bat to intimidate selected victims. The word was that if you were a hard swearing loudmouth who liked a dram then Jock would turn a blind eye if you helped yourself to a sack of coal or pinched a gallon of paraffin. But God help ‘the queer bastard who liked to draw things’

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or ‘the nutcase who sat in the bothy pouring over his bible.’ However, Jock Cartledge’s slow, stork-like pace with hands clasped behind his back as he stalked into the mess room didn’t have quite the same chilling effect on the general company as Jock Young’s corpse like stare. This was because everyone knew that Cartledge targeted those who didn’t conform to his views on how locomen should behave, so if ‘Bible John’ or I with my sketchbook happened to be around the rest could relax, knowing they were safe. He always addressed me as ‘you’ though occasionally I got my full name out of necessity, ‘Tak Wully Gilmour with you!’ when ordering some driver out on a job. At such times I always felt that my name left a bad taste in his mouth.

During the winter months it was my regular practice to drop off a lump of selected coal opposite the bike shed before leaving our loco to hand in the tool bucket and sign off at the foreman’s office. I would collect this later to take home with me for the fire. Unknown to me, Jock Cartledge had taken note of this and was planning to teach ‘Picasso’ a lesson. My first hint of this was when I showed my face to the timekeeper prior to picking up my coal. I saw Jock raise his eyes from his desk and, rising abruptly, hurry out of the office.

Fearing his intentions, I raced back the length of the shed to the coaling point and grabbed the lump of coal continuing with it across to the bike shed. My stomach muscles churned when a shadowy figure materialised from the darkness. ‘What’s this you’re up to, eh!’ How this wizened little man got there before me both shocked and amazed me. ‘Just getting a bit coal for the fire, Jock,’ I muttered lamely.

‘I can fuckin’ well see that!’ he announced triumphantly followed by, ‘You know what this means. I’ve got your job in my hands!’ I mumbled something like, ‘I’m sorry Jock.’ ‘Aye! You’ll be sorry all right when you’re signing on the dole next week!’ He ordered me to put the lump of coal back where I had found it and I cycled home with heavy heart.

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The rest of that week I was left worrying about the outcome of our encounter. Frankie announced airily on the footplate one night that a ‘certain fireman’ had been caught pinching coal, ‘And he said he was sorry!’ Frankie added with a knowing smile. I didn’t take any coal the rest of that week, knowing I was being watched. Then, as I walked to the bike shed late on Saturday night a voice hailed me from the cab of an engine which had been laid up for the weekend. It was Jock. ‘About that business the other night…..Don’t lose any sleep worrying about it! And the next time you tak a bit of coal dinna act as if you’re robbing a fuckin’ bank!’ Under that frosty exterior was a hint of understanding and human kindness, as left to the mercies of the railway police I would have been out of the gate looking for another job. It seemed that maybe there was some good in everyone and that I had been too hard in my assessment of Jock.

A unique occupation Earning a living as a footplateman was a unique occupation compared to other, conventional work. For one thing shift work could start at odd times such as seven minutes to midnight or six twenty-three p.m. depending on what time the job was booked to leave the yard.

The goods link had twenty-six different shifts meaning that a crew ran one particular job twice yearly. And being bounced around on a vibrating footplate in all weathers, constantly struggling with heavy trains and ailing locomotives created a breed of men who accepted hardship and adversity as part of the job. Once aboard the footplate they were their own masters, hoisting a plume of smoke and steam into the morning sky with the staccato blast from the exhaust echoing across some lonely moorland or the shrill, urgent note from the whistle as it entered the dark mouth of a tunnel. A fireman’s hands became calloused and partially immune to the searing heat when accidentally touching steam-filled copper pipes and hot clinker shovels. Standing before the glaring heat from a firebox while shovelling coal into the

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white hot inferno blistered the skin and seared the eyeballs. Running tender-first exposed him to the icy blast from winter winds and he was half blinded by coal dust bombarding the cab and getting into his straining eyes. All of this to the accompaniment of a cacophony of noise and lurching jolts from the swaying footplate and oscillating tender. Then the all-consuming roar from the safety valves which reduced conversation to sign language. Yet relatively few locomen would have traded jobs with an eight till four office or factory worker facing the same humdrum daily routine, as no two days were alike.

9F Austerity ten coupled locos Ex LMS crews based in Polmadie shed, one of the biggest depots in the Glasgow area, now worked trains to Oakley yard arriving with a long string of empties and returning with loaded coal for the steel mills. This was the first time I had seen a 9F Austerity ten coupled loco. It dwarfed our J38s and measured six feet more than our 8Fs and had a thirty-six square foot firebox. Because of its length the centre driving wheels had no flange, allowing it to negotiate crossovers and winding yard sidings. As the existing turntable in Oakley was too small a Dunfermline crew brought these engines back to our shed to be turned, watered and coaled as well as serviced by the shed staff while the Polmadie crews lounged around Oakley having their meal break.

These lads knew their rights and wouldn’t take any nonsense that they considered as violating their working conditions. Our older drivers still had this long-term rivalry between LNER and LMS, referring to them as ‘Johnny Caleymen’, recalling the Caledonian railways.

When Frankie and I were rostered for a week on the Oakley exchange we made two runs daily bringing the 9Fs back to the shed for servicing and often, when the Glasgow men were running late, having to work a loaded train as far as Larbert and change over there. In spite of their size and cumbersome appearance, these huge engines were surprisingly

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nimble and free-running, providing a far more comfortable ride than their eight-coupled counterpart. One informed driver told me that odd coupled locos always gave a smoother ride due to their balanced wheel arrangement, a prime example of this being the four coupled three cylinder Shire passenger loco which could shake the liver from the unfortunate crew. Firemen working regularly on these sometimes developed a stiff walk and were known as Shire wrecks. I found firing the 9Fs much easier as their steaming qualities were more efficient owing to the square firebox, similar to the Gresley Pacifics and LMS Duchess class. But I found the Polmadie firemen to be untidy and careless with equipment, leaving the cab floor littered with coal, broken gauge-lamps and missing clinker shovels. Sometimes a cab window was broken with an oily rag stuffed into the hole to keep out the draught. Yet they expected us to return their engine with everything in order, even climbing on to the tender to check the coal and water to make sure they were filled to capacity. ‘Typical Glaswegians. We are the Boys,’ mimicked Frankie. Occasionally they arrived with a Stanier Jubilee passenger type loco which was hopeless at pulling a heavy coal train with its six foot six driving wheels.

A prefab, a Norton and a sidecar Living in a prefab was fine in summer but the sheet asbestos and metal construction walls provided little or no protection against winter conditions with condensation running down the windows and turning to sheet ice on the living room wall and floor. The heating system was a joke, probably adequate for the south of France, and even huddled against the tiny coal-fired stove one couldn’t escape the bitter cold. I bought a Valor stove to supplement this but its meagre benefits only increased the condensation problems and gave off a smell of paraffin. On Thursdays there was little to eat in the house barring bread and margarine and I would sneak into a farmer’s potato pit digging away the frozen earth for some spuds so that we

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could have chip butties for supper. Cycling home from work was barely three miles but it was one long uphill grind with nearly half a hundred weight of coal distributed on the bike carrier. On some day shifts where it wasn’t safe to take coal I was forced to make a special trip in darkness if supplies were running low.

With the better weather arriving and bonus payments increasing, I finally managed to trade in my two fifty motor cycle which had lain all winter in the air-raid shelter that served as a garden shed. I then became the proud owner of a five-hundred Norton with my sights set on adding a sidecar to take the family around in. I duly picked up an old chassis for two pounds ten shillings and fitted it to the bike. All I needed was a body to fit it. I drove my bike and chassis down to Ward’s shipbreakers yard. Having shunted wagons out there I was a familiar face to the foreman and was allowed to board one of the ships to look for suitable wood to build my own sidecar. I drove home delighted with the load of wood strapped to the chassis. I then bought some sheet aluminium from a local coachbuilder and in three weeks completed a reasonable body using one of our tiny bedrooms as a workshop. This homemade contraption served its purpose and we were able to visit the beach and go for picnics around the countryside. This era in our marriage was probably the nearest to contentment we would ever have together. Betty was now expecting our third child. To help furnish our home my mother-in-law offered us an armchair. I cycled home with it balanced on my head, supporting it with one hand, and my neck muscles ached for days after.

Death on the line That year, 1954, two deaths occurred on the line in our region. One of our drivers committed suicide by stepping in front of a passenger train coasting downhill to Dunfermline Lower station. His wife was too upset to identify the body but sent their fourteen year old son in

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her place. Some weeks before when I was firing to Joe Panton on the backshift and he was hammering along as usual through Cowdenbeath on our return trip from Perth, I noticed of all things a coffin lying beside the track with a group of uniformed police around it. I moved over to Joe’s side of the cab to tell him as the curve on the line blocked his view. Next minute we were thundering past with barely time to see what was happening. ‘They’re shovelling the body into the coffin!’ remarked Joe in a matter-of-fact voice. I later heard that it was a pensioner, said to be partially deaf, who had been gathering bits of coal from the track.’

The bonus link The big money we were making on the bonus link, as it was now known, was causing much animosity among the rest of the locomen.

On certain jobs a driver, fireman and guard could earn almost twice their basic wages, resulting in an open meeting with a view to altering the link structure so that everyone could have a slice of the pie. These meetings were held in the ambulance room which on this occasion was packed to capacity and was more like a riot with heated arguments and tempers rising. The bonus link men were overwhelmingly outnumbered by passenger and goods link crews resulting in bonus and goods link amalgamating and then being split into two sections.

The only good thing about this was Frankie and I parted company, but we now worked flat rate goods trains every other week which meant lean times again. I found myself firing to Cubby Brown, a large, ponderous, dull-witted man whose feeble attempts at sarcastic humour infuriated me. As a driver he lacked skill and confidence and god knows how he passed the written exam though possibly they didn’t have one in his day. He had a phobia about running short of water and would order me to check that the shed crew had filled the tank properly every time we left the shed. On the Oakley and Dundee nightshift goods he would stop at every water column along the route

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to top up the tank, blaming me for losing water through the injector overflow pipe and allowing the engine to blow off coasting downhill.

In anger I pointed out that Bryce Thomson could run to Dundee and back on one tankful. ‘Aye!’ he sneered. ‘He’s a brave boy wi’a bellyful of whisky in him!’ ‘It isn’t about being brave!’ I retorted scornfully.

‘It’s about knowing the bloody job!’

One night when the two of us were struggling to turn our loco on a turntable in Cadder yard that was known to be out of balance he accused me of leaning on the handle letting him do all the shoving on the far side. I had been stretched out almost horizontally in my efforts to keep the thing moving and lost my temper at his unjust insinuation.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ I fumed. ‘I know you are,’ he jibed in a sneering tone that maddened me. I lost my temper and challenged him to fight. He immediately backed down, ‘I’m no a fightin’ man, Wullie.’ Happily we were only together for a few weeks before I landed with another mate.

Strikes and bitterness In the summer of 1954 the ASLEF locomen’s union called for a strike whilst the NUR of which I was a member voted to carry on working.

ASLEF members had a two to one majority over the NUR men who were then obliged to run the gauntlet of picket lines when reporting for duty. At first most of the jobs were cancelled. Then the foremen, immune to the situation, started putting spare crews together to work special mineral trains. The sight of these trains thundering merrily along incensed the watching pickets one or two of whom climbed onto railway embankments or overhead bridges to take photos of the ‘scabs’ at the controls. As the strike went into its second week, anger and resentment blossomed into aggressive behaviour. Some of the NUR lads capitulated and joined ASLEF. ‘Pay your shilling and be respected!’ was the call. This was the easier way out but when I

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overheard the boasting comments like, ‘He was easy meat to win over!’

I grew determined to stand my ground. After all our union official told us to keep working although I dreaded having to face the taunts and veiled threats from lads whom I knew and worked with.

On the last day of the strike I was warned that the next time I entered the gate, ‘You’ll be off that fuckin’ bike!’ My stomach muscles were in knots as I cycled to work the day after, steeling myself for the worst. With an outward show of unconcern I pedalled nonchalantly through the entrance to be greeted by two firemen around my own age. They made no move to bar my way, someone quietly remarking, ‘There’s Willie reporting for work.’ I remember detecting a note of resignation in his voice and suddenly I felt ashamed of my actions and was nearer to joining the strikers then than during the harrowing times of intimidation and verbal abuse.

The sad thing was that little or nothing was gained from the strike other than a lasting bitterness between the two factions with one-time friends ignoring each other in the mess room and friction aboard the footplate.

Drivers would deliberately hammer their engine if their fireman was in the other union to ‘soak his arse’, speaking only when necessary. I had already experienced drivers like Joe who acted like this in normal times so it made little difference when my present driver Tommy took this course of action. Tam, nicknamed, ‘The Mighty Atom’, was short, self-important and sarcastic, and took full advantage of his authority as a driver. Over the next month I was probably shovelling twice as much coal as I normally would, with Tam constantly reminding me of how he and his fellow strikers had endured financial hardship whilst I drew full pay, prepared to accept the fruits of their gallant stand. The truth was that though some of the firemen with young families were forced to seek social benefit, it was known that Tam had a healthy bank account to draw upon. He kept up a verbal campaign to get me to join his union which he said would regain the respect of my fellow workers

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but this only served to make me more determined not to. I wasn’t going to be intimidated. Fortunately I only had to suffer his nagging for a few weeks before changing mates.

Baby girl and a new motorbike Our third child, Wilma, was born in September while I was watching the Battle of Britain airshow at Leuchars airbase. I had set off with the two boys aboard my bike and sidecar as my wife took the bus to the maternity hospital. A Hawker Hunter jet broke the sound barrier over the airfield and I still remember hearing the double boom like the sound of a canon echoing across the cloudless blue skies. After the show I drove straight to the hospital to learn that a baby girl had arrived to join our family. A month later we moved into a brand new three-bedroom council house in the lower part of town. The novelty was exciting at first, having upstairs bathroom and sleeping accommodation but with four houses in the block we had to allow backdoor access to the neighbours in the middle. This soon caused problems as our particular neighbours owned two motor bikes and would drive past our living room window continuously. We had words about this, resulting in both families eventually ignoring each other and creating an awkward situation.

We had a long summer that year with eight weeks of continuous sunshine and we made full use of the sidecar to visit the beach or Loch Leven regularly. When I was on night shift I didn’t bother going to bed after work, preferring to get some sleep lying on the beach while the boys paddled in the sea and Betty nursed the baby. Our youngest son Roy was due to start school after the summer holidays and my mother-in-law told us that a family living in her street was interested in an exchange for a house in our area. The accommodation on offer was an upstairs flat but given the awkward situation with our present neighbours we were over the moon at the prospect. The summer over, I traded in my Norton and sidecar for a 650 BSA Golden Flash

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twin capable of a hundred miles per hour. I took out a hire purchase agreement in order to obtain this, the bike of my dreams though I couldn’t afford to license and insure it for weeks after buying it.

Negotiation for the house exchange had encountered delays and winter came with snow and frost arriving earlier that usual. Now struggling to pay a recent increase in rent for our present house and having the added burden of hire purchase payments for the gleaming Golden Flash (lying in mothballs for the duration of the winter) , I was once again reduced to sticking bits of cardboard in my boots till I could afford a new pair.

Jack Slorrance’s league table My present driver Jock Slorrance was a decent lad and we got on well together in spite of his doubts about my capabilities as a fireman. He had this imaginary league table, grading every fireman he had ever worked with, which he delighted in reciting to me. ‘Jimmy Smith is at the top of the first division’ or ‘Darky Allan is a close second to Bob Cunningham!’

All this in a humorous vein and when I asked where I stood he responded with a contemptuous snort. ‘Where dae ye think? The bottom of the third division!’ He was a keen fan of Robert Burns, often quoting the bard’s lines, and he loved listening to pipe bands, attending competitions whenever possible. ‘I’m five foot nine and twenty three I think a soldier I will be!’ On the Glasgow runs I noticed a scarecrow in a field near Larbert dressed in an old kilt with a Tam o’ Shanter bonnet on its head.

I pointed this out to Jock saying it looked like a Cameron Highlander.

From then on every time we rumbled past that field Jock would stand to attention and throw a mock salute to the ‘tattie boggle’.

Before commencing the long uphill climb to Greenhill junction he would warn me, ‘I’m going to put the big hammer on her now!’ meaning full throttle. ‘And there’s a cookie in my lunch box if you keep the white

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feather at the safety valves!’ I would bother him by answering meekly, ‘There might be a deficit of fifty pounds on the steam gauge, Jock!’

‘There bloody better no be!’ he would roar in mock alarm. During heavy snow falls trains were sometimes cancelled due to some lines being blocked and a couple of engines were fitted with ploughs to clear the worst areas. Kinross Junction was notorious for this with drifts up to ten feet deep making the branch line to Rumblingbridge impassable.

Jock and I were detailed for snow plough duties, which was like being sentenced to solitary confinement with the hellish conditions aboard the footplate. Apart from the spectacular effects of seeing mountains of snow cascading over the engine, bombarding the roof and footplate with a shower of white, the lasting memory was of how wet and miserable it felt. The engine was like a bull charging the Matador’s cape, launching itself at full throttle at the waiting drift , ploughing into it till it ground to a halt under the weight of snow. We would back off a couple hundred yards then charge again, gaining a few more feet with each fresh assault. This would go on for hours if necessary till a hole was eventually punched through the blocked area.

Meantime the crew were cold and wet with steam rising from their overalls in the futile heat of the fire which didn’t burn too well with a mixture of snow and coal being shovelled into it and the ash-pan blocked with compressed snow. We were glad to leave the engine beside the drift for a welcome meal break in the comfort of the nearby signal box, though we had to keep an eye open for the ever watchful station master. This man, promoted from clerk, now considered himself lord of all he surveyed and was known to treat the porters and station staff like bonded slaves. He even had one porter tending his garden during working hours. His authority didn’t extend to loco men but if he caught us having a meal break with the signalman he pointed out that we were only allowed there on official business, and must not use it as a bothy. Quite a few local children travelled to Perth daily to attend school taking their bikes in the guard’s van. The stationmaster

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decided to charge them an extra shilling per trip resulting in most of them giving up the train and taking the bus.

The snows finally gave way to patches of green dotted with colourful clumps of crocuses and humble snowdrops but the joys of spring faded when the Housing Inspector called to tell us that the Board had turned down our application for an exchange. Our hopes had been pinned on this for three months and now it looked as if we would have to resign ourselves to staying where we were.

The Bulsher Falkirk tunnel had long been a problem as it ran under a canal which seeped through the roof creating really wet conditions. It had also been crudely constructed with rough stonework jutting out along its length, missing the driver’s window by barely a foot. With all this, the constant dripping of soot-laden water falling like rain from the roof meant that no one in their right mind would stick their head out of the cab. But at last a major operation to rectify this meant that the tunnel would be closed for two to three months with trains diverting through Polmont and Grameston. This created an extra Sunday passenger job for Dunfermline crews running a train from Inverkeithing to Glasgow St Enox station. I was booked on this one Sunday morning with a driver nicknamed ‘The Bulsher.’ He was a real character with a wry sense of humour reminding me of W.C. Fields. He even looked like him. Our Engine was a Thompson B1 with six foot two driving wheels and was the LNER’s answer to the LMS Black Five, though for my money it couldn’t hold a candle to the Hiker, lacking the raw power and giving the crew a rough ride. It could also chew through coal faster than an Austerity and with eight coaches I knew I was going to work hard for the extra money. One could recognise a Bl long before one saw it, with its loud metallic clanging when coasting downhill.

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We started off with a six mile uphill slog to Whytemyre with sparks bouncing on the embankments, then it was easy going down to Alloa allowing me to fill up the boiler and slam more coal into the firebox ready for the next gradient. I hadn’t fired a B1 on a passenger job and felt frustrated by its insatiable appetite for coal. We picked up a young Grangemouth driver at Larbert who took over the throttle as the Bulsher was unfamiliar with the LMS route into Glasgow. After disposing of our train we ran ‘light engine’ to St Rollox shed to have the fire cleaned and the tank filled. It looked a rough place to work in with a group of cleaners lounging around with their overall trousers sewn up in the Teddy Boy fashion. We had six hours to cool our heels before starting the return trip and were signed off. The good part was that we would sign on again giving us two shifts pay which was fine by us.

A short, wiry driver from St. Rollox was detailed to drive our train as far as Larbert. I later thanked my lucky stars that I would probably never see him again. He drove the train like a madman with the engine swinging and lurching like a wild thing, making if difficult to keep my balance while shovelling desperately to maintain steam. The water level dropped to the bottom of the glass and I was fighting a losing battle, thinking we would have to stop for lack of steam and water.

We rattled into Larbert station ten minutes quicker than our booked running time which was just as well as I needed every minute of it to build up a fire and top up the boiler. The Bulsher gave me a quizzical look. ‘How would you like him for a steady mate, Wull?’ I was too busy shovelling coal to bother answering. It was dark by the time we disposed of our coaches in Inverkeithing yard and I felt sick and tired of shovelling coal as I heaved off the engine coupling and we headed back to the depot.

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A move, a holiday and ‘Wully Gilmour owns a car’ I finally paid off the balance on my Golden Flash and picked up another cheap sidecar chassis, planning to make use of it bringing lengths of wood from Ward’s, determined to build a fence separating us from our estranged neighbours. Armed with a saw and screwdriver during my rest day I headed off to board one of the ships in the breaker’s yard. I made three trips home loaded with suitable spars, piling them in the back garden prior to building my fence. Then a surprise letter arrived from the Council office stating that our exchange had been granted after all. Our joy and excitement at the prospect of moving gave a temporary lift to family life. We had two weeks to be out with umpteen things to be seen to.

It all went reasonably well and as a young couple we didn’t mind the twenty-odd steps from the street to the top stair of our threebedroom flat. My mother-in-law lived four blocks away and with her husband being a miner we would never go short of coal. The previous friction between us was forgotten.

I landed with yet another driver, Bob Whyte, on the six a.m.

Rumblingbridge goods run which stopped to shunt every siding and goods yard along the way. Bob was all right as long as things were going smoothly but when he became flustered and ill tempered he vented his wrath on the fireman. Experience had taught me how to cope with this and there was never any lasting bad feeling between us. On this job we got to know every porter and signalman along the route by name and shunting. Balado sidings for example was more like a social visit bartering coal from the tender for a dozen eggs or a sack of potatoes.

One signalman in Rumblingbridge used to make his own whisky in a still of his own making, offering it with pride for our appraisal. ‘It’s as smooth as silk, lads!’ Though not a drinking man I sampled it out of curiosity and found it quite pleasant, slightly sweetish and lacking the burning sensation that I remembered from wartime binges. But

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Family camping holiday: Myself with Roy, John and Wilma, Glen Coe 1957

My first wife, Elizabeth with Wilma, Roy and John, Loch Lubnich 1957 263

he must have offered it to the wrong man on some occasion as later the station master advised him to keep his hobby at home.

I took the plunge and bought a brand new sidecar body for fiftyone pounds, paying two pounds weekly to the manufacturer, a Glasgow firm. I drove there to pick it up and was charged an additional five pounds for fitting it to the chassis. Now I could once more take the whole family to the beach again. When Roy, John and Wilma, Loch Leven my annual holidays came we in background 1957 decided on a camping trip in the Fort William area with only a tiny linen tent to sleep five of us. The weather was ideal for the first couple of days, then came the rain which felt as if it was never going to stop making it more like a survival exercise than a holiday. We drove home in driving rain with the children huddled in the sidecar and the windows steamed up. We looked on with envy when an old Ford passed us with the occupants sitting high and dry.

The very next day we drove up to Kinross to a garage run by a Polishman who dealt in motor cycles as well as cars. He offered me a 1939 Austin Eight in a straight swap for my combination which was worth far more than his car. The memory of our drive back from the camping trip fresh in my mind, I became the proud owner of my first car. I had never driven a car and there was the problem of getting it home but the dealer, eager for the sale, volunteered to drive it clear of the town and gave me a lightning course on how to change gear. After

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five minutes showing me the gear arrangement and demonstrating its movements he drove us to the outskirts of the small town and I got into the driver’s seat. He again went through the clutch sequence then stood back waving me off with a smile of encouragement. The car lay on a slight downhill slope and I stalled the engine a couple of times before lunging forward without stopping. With the car wandering all over the road I managed to get into second gear but had to depend on my wife in the passenger seat to tell me how far I was from the verge.

I was never out of second gear during the entire journey home and my wife reminded me of an RAF bomb aimer during the run up to the target with ‘Left a bit! Now right a bit!’ as the car went weaving along.

Fortunately there was little traffic at that time of day and more by chance than driving skill we made it to the lane leading to our street.

It just so happened that it was market day and the one-armed drover and his collie were herding a couple of dozen cattle towards this very lane to the slaughterhouse. At the sight of the milling beasts ahead of me I stalled the car and we sat watching till they disappeared inside the double gates which were quickly closed by the drover. But the car wouldn’t restart as the battery went flat so we walked home leaving the car till the following afternoon. I finally got it moving and by the end of the week I was driving around without L plates with no one any the wiser. Back at work word got around that Wully Gilmour owned a car, the first fireman in the depot able to boast of such a thing. Jimmy, my driver, was flabbergasted. ‘I’ve a bigger wage than you, Wull, but I couldn’t afford to run a car!’ The truth was that neither could I but I found this out the hard way.

The most exhausting shift I ever worked With the link shake-up we now had to take our turn on the most dreaded job in the depot, the 1.55 a.m. Kelty and Aberdeen coal train. The job itself was bad enough and getting out of bed just after midnight made it worse. We changed over with the Aberdeen crew anywhere

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between Forfar and Arbroath depending on how far on the other train had got. With a ten p.m. nightshift one could sleep through the day but to start work at one in the morning made it difficult to adjust one’s sleeping routine. The result was that I was shovelling coal in a trance most of the time, finding it an ordeal just staying awake, and by the time we faced Glen Farg tunnels on the return trip I was physically and mentally exhausted.

It was Jimmy’s rest day that morning and I had a spare driver with little experience on this particular run. In spite of this Tommy Clews ran the train well, arriving in Forfar just as the Aberdeen men rolled to a stop at the water column on the adjacent line. Jimmy on the other hand would have been hammering on, adding another twenty miles to the journey.

When we changed over I immediately checked the condition of the fire as the Aberdeen men often handed it over choked or clinkered.

My heart sank when I saw the tell-tale blue glow in the firebox, a sure sign that the fire was hopelessly clinkered. I tried breaking it with the straight poker as the tank was being filled, but to no avail. The road back to Perth was mainly level or downhill but I was fighting a losing battle to maintain steam and water every mile of the way. The result was we began the long one-in-sixty climb up the Farg with no hope of keeping going. That morning we broke the record for having taken the longest time ever to reach Glen Farg station. I lost count of the times we came to a halt en route, standing ten minutes each time poking and digging at the fire to coax some life into it, and my arms ached with wielding the heavy clinker shovel, having to drag it onto the tender and stick it in the water tank to cool.

As we stood licking our wounds outside the top tunnel the station master arrived on a light engine thinking our train had been derailed and offering us assistance. I was taken aback when Tommy refused assistance. ‘It’s alright, Mister Stewart. We’re over the worst and we’ll manage on our own.’ The station master looked dubious. ‘You’re quite

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sure, driver?’ Then he left aboard the other loco. We had only just struggled out of the top tunnel and still had a three mile climb ahead of us. After sticking another five or six times we limped into Glen Farg station over an hour later and I felt like throwing myself off the footplate in despair when we were told that the yard sidings were full and we would have to struggle on to Kelty hauling our train. That was the most exhausting and frustrating shift I ever worked and to crown it all both of us were charged with disrupting the passenger train service between Perth and Kinross: Tommy, for refusing to accept assistance and myself for failing to maintain adequate boiler pressure. I had worked like a Trojan doing my utmost to keep the train moving and this was our reward. It seemed to me that the clerk who worded this report, considered himself a cut above those who earned their keep by the sweat of their brow and manual labour.

Preferential treatment This dividing line between officials and workers has been strictly maintained through our system, extending into the police and armed forces where the worker or the soldier automatically springs to attention at the sight of authority. It then rubs off on the corporals and engine drivers who in their turn order around their lessers. Bob Bonnar, one of the firemen in our depot wrote a novel at the age of twenty-five and later became a member of the NUR executive board in London. Sadly enough he had a drink problem which eventually led to an early death. I met other drivers who had a high degree of intelligence but lacked the desire to further their education, content to remain one of the workers. I got a stiff reprimand from the shed master over my alleged incompetence, he having been made aware of my bad timekeeping and tendency to ‘draw things’ at every opportunity.

‘You know, Willie, I’ve been hearing things about you from some of the foremen and it’s time you realised that this is your livelihood!’

Talk about giving a dog a bad name. I knew myself to be as competent

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as the next man, though my indifferent attitude and late arrivals didn’t inspire confidence with some drivers.

But thinking about Tommy ‘nursing the throttle’ to conserve steam and water during our disastrous trip on Glen Farg, if that had been Jimmy my regular mate, he would have kept the throttle wide open and between the increased blast and my feverish efforts with the straight poker I might have managed to break the clinker, letting air through the firebars and keeping the fire burning freely. I don’t recall ever sticking for lack of steam with Jimmy, probably because of this.

The railways always gave their salaried staff preferential treatment and benefits such as first class travel passes and more, but the train crews bringing in the revenues with everyone else including clerks and maintenance staff dependent on them saw nothing of these perks.

An agreement had been reached between the unions and B.R. where a fireman with fifteen years’ service would now be paid first year driver’s rate which meant another twenty five shillings a week. But because of the wording my five years’ war service wasn’t counted.

Six other lads were similarly affected. This was a bitter blow, coming just after my reprimand for ‘incompetence’ so I told my union rep what he could do with his card, backed by the other lads concerned.

I’m sure Jimmy my mate took pleasure in this state of affairs, inwardly resenting the idea of a lowly fireman being paid driver’s rate for shovelling coal.

Things weren’t going badly at home with my wife and me not on speaking terms again. We never had a proper row but instead we would stop speaking, keeping up our silence for anything up to three months at times. Perhaps our relationship would have been better had we aired our grievances openly. Recently she had taken up part-time cleaning work and I suspected that this was mainly to get out of the house as there were shifts when I hardly saw her. Keeping the car running was

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becoming a headache, constantly needing attention or breaking down miles from home. The first time I took a driving test the thing ran out of petrol at the start of the examination with the examiner having to push the car clear of other traffic. I sat a retest a month later and passed.

There was no MoT needed at that time, otherwise my car would have been scrapped years before.

The union finally won our claim for driver’s rate and I was awarded six months’ arrears amounting to eighty pounds. I spent most of it on another car from the same dealer who ‘generously’ took my Austin back in part exchange. I soon realised the folly of my action when driving uphill from Kelty. ‘There’s a cloud of blue smoke behind us, dad!’ called my elder son from the back seat. I soon discovered that the engine needed a pint of oil with every gallon of petrol resulting in me having to put it into a garage for major repairs. The garage owner wouldn’t give me the car until I paid the sixty pounds for parts and labour which I didn’t have.

Hospital, home life and back to work I became plagued by blinding headaches brought on by stress and worry. I got out of bed one sunny morning for a six a.m. conditional job with Jimmy Allan, making up my sandwiches with my wife still asleep. As I was about to leave the house I felt a strange sensation in my abdomen but put it out of my mind as I cycled off to the depot.

Jimmy was already aboard the Austerity, straining at the bit when I climbed up the footplate steps. ‘It’s time we weren’t here!’ he snapped glancing at his watch. I quickly unwound the tender brake and hauled down the clinker shovel, plunging it into the firebox to spread the kindling. Jimmy had already eased the throttle open and we moved slowly off towards the shed points, blowing steam from the cylinder cocks. As I swung the clinker shovel back onto the tender I became

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aware of this strange sensation again and my legs felt like rubber.

Knowing Jimmy, there was no point in complaining so I climbed down the footsteps ready to run ahead of the loco in order to shift the points lever. I pulled on the lever using both hands and felt an excruciating pain as if someone had stuck a knife in my stomach causing me to sink to my knees. Jimmy on the far side of the cab kept on going, expecting to see me climbing back on board, then realising something was wrong he applied the brakes and looked out to where I was doubled up in agony. He quickly reversed the engine back to the shed leaving me there, then came back on foot with two or three other lads. I was carried to the mess hall, an ambulance sent for and I was given an anaesthetic injection.

I woke up hours later in hospital still with my railway overalls on. It seemed I had a stone in the kidney and for the first three days I was continually put to sleep to relieve the agony. Then a different kind of pain assailed me, diagnosed as lumbar pneumonia brought on by shock.

Around two a.m. one morning I felt my last moments had come and pressed the buzzer, whispering feebly to the nurse that I would like to see my family before I died. She left to inform the doctor who never appeared but she came back and gently lifted my head to give me a few sips of water. She accidentally spilled some water over me water which caused me to sit up suddenly with a yelp of alarm at the sudden shock of cold on my fevered body. The girl was mortified, but I consoled her by managing to gasp, ‘It’s all right, you’ve revived me!’ I had four injections daily for the next ten days to combat my lung infection before they could give me a renal tract examination to check the kidney blockage. Now physically and mentally at a low ebb I began to think I would never get out of hospital, staring longingly from my cot at the blue skies and swaying tree tops outside the windows of the ward.

My wife would visit me most evenings but I sensed that this was out of a sense of duty. It’s said that the first sign of recovery is when the

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patient starts wanting to get outside and I felt like someone reborn when I took my first few faltering steps through the French windows onto the hospital lawn. Tests showed that the stone must have passed through my kidney and with my course of injections over I was on the road to recovery. I was released from hospital five long weeks after my dramatic admission, arriving home by taxi. It was great to be with the children again, especially as they had only been able to see me once during my internment.

It was four more weeks before I was fit to resume work during which my wife was out much of the time leaving me to look after the children.

It was now late Autumn and already there was a chill in the air which kept me from venturing out as I still felt weak and dispirited. We had money problems with me being off work for more than two months and I decided that I could no longer afford to keep the car. One dreary wet evening I left the house in the depths of despair and walked to the Glen bridge and stood looking down at the dark waters of the stream.

For a brief moment I found myself thinking if I jumped, all my troubles would be over but I thought about the heartbreak this would cause and slowly made my way back home. When I arrived the children were still seated round the television, unaware of the dark thoughts that had passed through their father’s head.

I started work the following week firing to Jimmy on a local goods train which shunted Ward’s shipyard and Rosyth dockyard and which required relatively little physical effort standing around while the guard checked out wagons to be shunted and so on. Jimmy seemed a bit more concerned than his usual impatient manner, asking how I was keeping, but the following week on the nightshift to Dundee he was back to his old self. On cold frosty nights the heat from the firebox of an 8F Austerity was a welcome relief against the icy blast swirling through the open cab but when stuck in loop sidings to make way for fast freights, the fire died down making the cab cold

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and miserable. Condensation would form inside the cab roof causing large blobs of soot-laden moisture to drip on our heads. To counteract this happening I would dig a shovelful of smoking coals from the firebox and hold it near the cab roof to dispel the condensation. And it actually worked!

Family Break-up It was in the late December of that year, 1960, that the situation between my wife and I worsened. We had an angry confrontation on Christmas Eve and she left home before I awoke on Christmas morning, taking Wilma with her. The empty Christmas stockings hung, dangling over the cold fireplace, but immersed in my own emotional turmoil, I was unable to give much thought as to how the two boys must have felt with their mother and sister gone. That first week was sheer misery for the three of us with me struggling to adjust to the shock of separation and having to manage the practical domestic demands as a single parent. The boys were left to look after themselves whilst I was out at work. That February, just two months later, Betty and I attempted reconciliation and she returned home but in a matter of a few weeks the discord returned and she left again.

I now threw myself into work, determined to improve life for me and the boys. With the new G3 bonus system payments beginning to appear in wage packets, this changed the behaviour of crews, giving them an incentive to pick up a train in the shortest time possible, with the fireman often running around shifting points and coupling up wagons to assist the guard. I had already embarked on a new tighter budget at home in order to pay off existing debts, and I had decided to save for another motorcycle. My bank balance now increased appreciably with the G3 extra pay and over the months I succeeded in clearing off our outstanding debt.

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By the summer of 1961 I was averaging twelve pounds a week in wages after tax. With my savings burning a hole in my pocket and not having had many luxuries as a boy or a young man, I took the decision to indulge my motorbike interest again. One Sunday afternoon I cycled with John, now fourteen, to Kinross to visit Ginter’s Garage where a 650cc BSA Gold Flash in a metallic gold livery took my fancy, on sale at seventy-five pounds. After a trial run with John on the pillion I decided to buy it, thereby reducing my savings to twenty pounds.

I returned on the bus next day to collect it, and drove home on my gleaming mount, proud as punch. I spent the following week touching up the paintwork and polishing the chrome, and used the remainder of my cash to license and insure it. I returned the following week to Ginter’s to show him how my handiwork had improved the bike’s appearance and was caught again, this time by a gleaming red 650cc Roadrocket, less than 2 years old and selling for one hundred and fiftyfive pounds. Ginter, ever the businessman, invited me to take it for a ride and I was hooked the moment I opened the throttle. It certainly lived up to its name as the acceleration was almost frightening until I got used to it. Before I knew it I was arranging a part exchange for the Gold Flash which meant that I had to enter into a credit agreement to pay up the balance over a year. So much for clearing off my debts.

The neighbours must have thought I was rolling in cash when I roared up on what looked like a brand new bike. No doubt due to this misleading appearance of comfortable financial circumstances, my estranged wife approached me with a request for an increase in child support. The ensuing wrangle over money led to another sudden change of events when one Sunday I called at her house to discuss matters. A heated argument led to challenge and counter challenge, with Betty saying that she could not manage to keep Wilma on the present allowance, whereas I argued that I was already paying the recommended amount and could not afford to increase it. In the heat

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of the moment we decided that I would have Wilma back to live with me. It must have been confusing and bewildering for a seven year old child listening to her parents bickering over her fate, yet she stood dry-eyed awaiting the outcome. Betty took her inside and they reappeared carrying a bag with a few belongings. Wilma, well conditioned to moving from pillar to post, climbed on to the pillion and clung on behind me as we rode off back home to Barrie Street.

A further interlude followed when Betty’s sister, Joanne, offered to have Wilma to live with her, but this was not a success and after some months she returned to live permanently with me. I was now finally in the position I’d feared I couldn’t manage – that of a full time shiftworker and single father with three children and no help.

Rain, sun and mountains That summer during my annual holidays I set off for Fort William with the three children on a camping holiday. This seemed like a grand adventure driving through lovely scenery with the Road Rocket climbing the Black Mount effortlessly and across Rannoch Moor with the backdrop of mountains framed against the afternoon sunshine. We set up camp in Glencoe in idyllic conditions on a grassy area beside the river leaving the motorbike and sidecar in a makeshift layby some hundred yards away. That night it rained heavily and continued for the next two days until eventually it slackened to a constant drizzle.

We were trapped in the miserable confines of our tiny waterlogged tent existing on what little food we had with a small primus stove to boil water and help dry out the canvas tent a little. A couple who were camped nearby along with their son kindly offered John to share one of their tents which gave us a bit more space. On the fourth morning as the drizzle slowed I decided in desperation to head on for Fort William as we were heartily sick of our dismal scene. We carried our sodden tent and belongings back to the sidecar stuffing everything inside with just enough space for Roy and Wilma to squeeze in. We roared off

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into the rain with John huddled behind me on the pillion. We had only covered ten miles before the rain began to ease off and wisps of blue appeared in the leaden skies.

By the time we rode into Fort William the morning sun was blazing from a cloudless blue sky with steam rising from the wet streets. After stopping for groceries and petrol we headed down into Glen Nevis and found a convenient spot beside the river with Ben Nevis looming over us. After draping our soaked clothing over the branches of a nearby tree we put up the tent which soon dried in the warm air. For four days the warm weather and clear skies continued and we had a relaxing holiday amid marvellous mountain scenery. With the sidecar we were able to explore the area riding down the Great Glen to the sheer face of the Ben. I set off with the three children thinking we could climb to the top, blissfully unaware that this would entail a six or seven hour stint. We set off in the afternoon armed with nothing more than a bottle of water and some Mars bars, failing to appreciate the enormity of the climb ahead. After an hour of uphill slog Roy and Wilma became tired and complained that they couldn’t go any further.

Accustomed to being left for long periods they calmly accepted their father’s instruction to stay and wait whilst John and I carried on to the summit. With hindsight I realize that leaving an eight year old girl and her eleven year old brother on a rocky slope a thousand feet above the Glen was highly irresponsible, but at the time I thought nothing of it and was spurred by my desire to conquer the Ben and I carried on resolutely, hoping to catch sight of the summit with John struggling to keep pace. After an hour of scrambling feverishly up rocky scree we were came to a zig zag rocky path that soared endlessly upwards and I reluctantly decided to abandon the attempt. When we reached Roy and Wilma they were sitting waiting, miserable but safe.

That evening we drove into Fort William and bought fish and chips as a special treat. The glorious sunshine continued the next day but I was

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forced to pack up and start the journey home due to the onset of an excruciating headache. Riding through the Glen, my head swimming with pain I felt some raindrops and within minutes the mountains were blotted out in cloud and driving rain. Again we were soaked through and John clung to my back as we crossed Rannoch Moor with no sign of let up. It eventually brightened up as we reached Callander, but tired and wet I decided to drop in on my aunt and uncle in Blairlogie village. They were concerned by our bedraggled appearance and after a hot meal suggested we spend the night. This welcome offer lifted my spirits and it was sheer luxury to lie down in a warm comfortable bed again. Strangely, my recurring headaches never bothered me again but the experience had dampened my enthusiasm for motorcycling and a couple of days later I spotted a smart looking A30 van in a small garage near Kinross. I took it for a trial run and half an hour later we drove off leaving my sidecar outfit in exchange. Now John and I could look out at the rain in comfort with the two younger children perched on cushions in the back.

John left school that summer and got a job on a horse drawn milk cart as a delivery boy. The co-op had a fleet of these carts used for bakery and creamery rounds with more than a dozen horses stabled in Castleblair Lane. Out in all weathers, huddled beside his driver with only a flour sack draped over his head and shoulders, and jumping off and back on the cart at every door, John didn’t stand the job long. He proudly announced that he had signed up as a boy entrant in the army and two weeks later I saw him off on a train bound for Inverness to report for duty at Fort Augustus.

Death of my Father With John gone, I now faced the problem of leaving two children under twelve to their own devices, and it felt like skating on thin ice with the social services at the back of my mind. Every knock on the

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Camping at Fort William 1962 door might be the police or a welfare official, but the children fended for themselves and attended school regularly whilst I was at work and we managed well enough. It was at this time that my parents moved from their tiny hovel which was due for demolition to a spacious upstairs flat in Inglis Street a quarter of a mile away. This was a great improvement having electricity and large airy windows. The disadvantages were the climb up the outside staircase and having to heat the high-ceilinged rooms. With autumn on its way I made a point of calling in regularly to deliver large chunks of coal to help stock up for the winter ahead. My father, a life long smoker, had damaged his lungs and I felt bitter against a system that kept pensioners such as him below the poverty line. Ironically, because of his bronchial problems he was taken into hospital in intensive care where the nourishing food meant that he returned home looking healthier than

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I’d seen him for some time. He had been forced to give up work early through ill health after contracting lead poisoning from inhaling paint fumes when working as a burner cutting through bulkheads in the shipbreaker’s yard.

As a result he and my mother had struggled for many years to make ends meet.

Towards Christmas I became worried by my father’s regular bouts of coughing.

Christmas was a dismal affair and I My Aunt Louise and Uncle Jimmy wasn’t looking forward McGregor, Blairlogie Village to New Year’s Eve as the neighbours in the flat below would be celebrating into the early hours. As it turned out I took the children to my parents’ house to see in the New Year and my father became almost jovial – an unusual sight for family members. That was to be his last New Year as he died three weeks later. We had a record cold snap that year referred to as the Big Freeze – 40 days of frost. With no antifreeze in my van the engine froze up and was out of commission for some weeks. I had to fall back on my bicycle for transport. I remember cycling through icy streets with frozen snow piled high on either kerb on

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the night when my father’s condition worsened and my mother sent me out to fetch the doctor. Only the doctor’s wife was home and she seemed more irritated than concerned by my urgent request for help.

When the doctor did arrive an hour later my father was gasping for breath and, unable to witness his distress, I stayed outside his room.

Twenty minutes later my father died of what was said to be a cerebral haemorrhage but my mother, sister and I wondered whether a prompt response by the doctor and an ambulance might have saved him. The funeral was a basic affair at a cost of fifty pounds with my mother agreeing to pay the costs off over twelve months. Only my sister and I were at the graveside. My mother didn’t attend the service if I remember rightly.

The big freeze, 1962 The big freeze made the headlines. Wildlife struggled to survive. I recall a blackbird hopping in desperation into our messroom in search of food and showing no fear of the workmen sitting there. It was the coldest spell I’ve ever experienced. One nightshift at the beginning of March, working on the Oakley to Dundee coal train I tried to keep warm by huddling against the boiler faceplate during the breaks in between shovelling coal. On the return trip I was frozen to the marrow and welcomed the long uphill climb to Lochgelly when I was able to enjoy the searing heat as I shovelled coal into the white hot fire. As the train entered the Fulford tunnel, renowned for its dripping wetness, there came a sudden salvo as our boilerfront ploughed into a formation of hanging icicles, some as thick as my arm. I had never experienced this before and I remember making a mental note of the date – the 4th of March 1962. I was surprised that my driver, Jimmy Allan, made no comment on the weather, seeming only concerned to get the job done as quickly as possible. It had been a long, bone chilling, ten hour shift and I was thankful to get home to a warm bed.

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My mother moved that spring into a smaller flat downstairs in the same block. Although it was not so lightsome, it felt cosier and the passers by outside on the pavement made it seem less isolated.

Meanwhile I had moved up the seniority ladder to fireman on the ballast. This was a constant day shift job with regular Sunday work enjoyed by the senior driver and fireman in the depot. Apart from getting out of bed at 4am seven days a week I now enjoyed having every afternoon off and did not have the worry of leaving the two younger children alone in the house at night. They were both well used to putting themselves off to school in the mornings. As well as the extra money I now had a really grand chap as a mate – Dougy Horne was a first class level headed driver and a pleasure to work with. Barely five foot six he had the easy confidence to put blustering six footers in their place without raising his voice but if you played the game he was a loyal friend.

The Royal Train In the spring of 1962 when Rothes Colliery was completed at a cost of more than eight million pounds, word got around that Her Majesty and Prince Philip would be arriving by train for the opening ceremony.

This meant that a driver and fireman had to be chosen, either from Thornton Depot which was within shouting distance of the twohundred-foot glass-fronted twin towers dominating the flat landscape, or from the farther flung Dunfermline shed. Being chosen to man the Royal Train was considered the ultimate honour for locomotive men, and Thornton Depot being larger and on the doorstep of the new colliery assumed they had the job in the bag. Imagine the anger and indignation there when the powers that be decided to use a crew from Dunfermline, their hated rivals. Dunfermline Shed was jubilant but with the seniority system such an honour automatically fell to senior passenger driver and fireman. These two men were Jock Donaldson

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and me – an uncouth, foul-mouthed driver with a drink problem and an uninterested fireman with a reputation for daydreaming who spent any spare moment sketching. The two least suitable candidates for the job.

This created consternation. ‘God, what a pair to be entrusted with the Queen’s safety!’ This view was especially held by the shift foremen and shed master as I was known for always arriving late for duty.

Seniority was the governing factor and it would be the greatest insult to ask the longest serving driver to step down in favour of someone thought to be more appropriate. However, a fireman was of less consequence so I, the unreliable dreamer, was invited to forfeit my right by the shed master. I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the role but this obvious slight to my competence in shovelling coal got my back up and I quietly refused. I could tell that the shed master was visibly upset by my non-compliance but the seniority rule mean that he had no power to do anything about it.

Being aware of Jock’s poor reputation and not knowing him personally, I assumed he would not take the role of driver of the Queen seriously – but I was wrong. A second crew was chosen to man the assisting engine needed to haul the Royal Train. This consisted of eight heavy steelbodied carriages complete with an entourage of sixty camp followers to cater for the royal pair’s every whim. This included a uniformed young man whose sole duties were looking after and exercising the Queen’s corgis. I was unaware of all this when I stood in the shed master’s office being briefed on the additional responsibilities of being fireman of the Royal. I got my first insight into a different Jock who was waiting for me outside the office. ‘I hope you were payin’ attention to what the man said. And, forget about your bloody drawings!’

A week before the big day, two Black Fives, fresh from a major refit and resplendent in their new livery, coasted silently into the shed. A team of engine cleaners were detailed to spend the week polishing

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and scouring till the brass and copper fittings gleamed like gold. The cab floorboards were cleaner than the mess room tables and the fitters rechecked every nut and bolt on both locomotives. At the time I never gave thought to being one of the leading actors in all this activity though there must have been many who envied my hour of fame. It was suggested we wear white shirts and ties which I felt was ridiculous when firing a steam engine. I was the only one who didn’t conform. In the event it didn’t matter as it might just as well have been chimpanzees on the footplate for all the attention the Queen paid to us.

On the morning of the event I made a special effort to arrive early for duty, knowing full well that a fireman would be standing by to fill my shoes should I be a few minutes late. We were the centre of attraction with several spare loco men and fitters standing around as we climbed aboard the footplate. Jock looked agitated, frowning as he noticed I wasn’t wearing a tie and studying his watch as if it were an explosive device. Before I could say anything a bowler-hatted inspector joined us on the footplate.

He would ride with us on the engine on the thirty mile trip to Larbert travelling tender first, this being necessary as all points were clamped over the whole route to eliminate any chance of a derailment. Dave Bennet, the driver of the assisting loco, had a more relaxed attitude. I had fired to Dave on occasions and would have preferred him as my mate.

Travelling tender first was never a pleasant experience. Covered in coal dust, we looked like the Christie Minstrels by the time we coasted through Larbert Station. ‘Cashy,’ our inspector, looked as if he’d just come up a colliery pit shaft, and all the polishing and scouring during the past week was for nothing. Cashy’s presence on the footplate became clear when we came to a stop at Carmuir’s Junction where he supervised the unclamping of the points leading to a branch siding next to the Glasgow main line where we awaited the arrival of the Royal Train. He would remain there till after the engine changeover, making his own way back to Dunfermline.

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Standing there, our locos simmering quietly a stone’s throw from the main line, Jock could barely control his anxiety, pacing the cab like a caged lion, glancing at his watch and casting an occasional disapproving glare at my obvious lack of concern. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for Them arriving!’ I nodded obediently then I decided to have one of my cheese sandwiches washed down with tea from a half pint whisky bottle kept hot on the boiler faceplate. My side window facing the main line, I was first to notice the almost silent approach of the Black Five displacing four white headlamps – the recognized symbol of a royal train with no heavy gradients on its route from Glasgow.

Only one engine headed the train which came to a gentle stop fifty yards from where we stood. ‘That’s them arrived, Jock,’ I mumbled, my mouth full of bread and cheese. ‘Eh!’ Jock stopped his agitated pacing to stare out of the cab. Then his tortured gaze fell on me seated in full view of the new stationary train with a whisky bottle in one hand and a half eaten sandwich in the other. With a swipe of the hand he knocked both bottle and sandwich from my grasp. ‘Put that away!

And dinnae let them see you eatin’!’ ‘For Christ’s sake, Jock! They’re only human, like you and me!’ I was now really annoyed by Jock’s servile attitude. Surely consideration for a fellow workmate was as important as springing to attention at the proximity of someone who probably wouldn’t notice his existence.

Still fuming, I watched as a uniformed individual dismounted from one of the carriages to walk two corgi dogs along the length of the train.

The Glasgow crew meantime had uncoupled their loco and moved off.

Then a couple of officials arrived on our footplate to install a telephone linked to the Queen’s carriage and give instructions on verbal procedure in the event of it ringing. ‘If it’s a female’s voice, you must address her as ‘Your Majesty’. A male voice should be greeted with, ‘Your Royal Highness’. Cashy was on hand to supervise our exit from the siding on to the Royal Train. Jock was panic stricken at the thought of having to answer the telephone. ‘You better speak to them, Wull!’ It was almost

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a relief when we finally started off on our epic journey. But this was a temporary respite as Jock began criticising and correcting everything I did. ‘Don’t make black smoke!’ or ‘Watch you don’t let the engine blow off !’ ‘They’ll never hear the bloody thing, Jock,’ I protested.

To have a driver continually interfering with a fireman doing his best to maintain steam is both annoying and insulting. But in retrospect I realise that Jock was overcome by the close presence of Royalty and terrified of the consequences had we put a foot wrong.

Along the entire route to Markinch, police were placed at every overhead bridge and viaduct which gave some indication of the numbers engaged over the entire journey from London. Not to mention the legions of railway staff and officials involved in transporting Her Majesty - for an opening ceremony lasting one hour. With high grade coal and an engine in top condition, I found it difficult to keep the Black Five from blowing off excess steam. So when Jock shut the throttle for the downhill stretch from Lumphinnans Junction to Thornton, the safety valves let out an explosive roar. ‘You’ve done it now,’ bellowed Jock, almost drowned out by the added din on the swaying footplate.

‘They’ll never hear it for Christ’s sake!’ I yelled, exasperated by his constant bickering. I was met by a backward glower and he resumed his anxious vigil of the line ahead. All was quiet between us after that as we coasted serenely past Thornton loco shed, viewed by baleful stares from locomen gathered there out of curiosity. Jock was now keyed up for the precision stop required at Markinch platform where the door of the Queen’s personal coach had to stop exactly in line with the red carpet laid across the platform.

Clanking cautiously towards the bunting-decked station, Jock hanging half out the cab window, hand on the brake, eyes fixed fearfully on the patch of red, the platform edged closer. I was likewise intent on making sure that the safety valve didn’t burst into song at that moment. As Her Majesty stepped on to the red carpet, followed

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by an attentive Prince Philip our view was interrupted by a stiffcollared official who glibly uttered, ‘Well done chaps!’ By then the royal entourage had disappeared through the gaily ribboned station entrance. A crew from Thornton Shed had their brief walk-on part by manning a Pacific class engine which hooked on to the rear of our train. This was to tow us back to Thornton yard where the carriages would be cleaned and refurbished for the return trip. Two Thornton crews relieved us in the yard where a meal lay prepared in Thornton shed canteen.

As we entered the mess hall I could almost feel the resentment and hostility already fanned by the sight of a special table laid for our convenience. Conversation suddenly dropped to guarded whispers amongst the men gathered there. David Bennet, driver of the second loco, seemed unaffected by our frosty reception. ‘It looks as if one of their mates has just died!’ Jock, on the other hand, still shellshocked from driving the train, muttered, ‘Keep your voice doon, Davey. We’ve still got the run to Princes Street to worry about!’

With my sharp hearing attuned to the background whispering I heard one comment that I was later to incorporate in a twelve verse poem describing the event. This referred to the Dunfermline crews being paid handsomely on the new G3 bonus system.

It was almost a relief to finish our meal and slink out of the mess room followed by hostile eyes and muttered comments. I could well imagine the explosive burst of conversation that followed. The two Black Fives stood gleaming in a nearby road having been coaled, oiled and watered. Naturally there were no friendly waves as we steamed slowly from the loco sidings. Again, there was the supervised ritual of coupling on to the Royal train, this time with only the sixty-odd staff aboard. Our first stop would be Lochgelly Station where the Royal Pair would arrive by Rolls Royce from Rothes Colliery. We stood almost an hour at Lochgelly awaiting their delayed arrival. Little did I know

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that among the spectators thronging the road was Christina, a young woman who I was yet to meet by chance a few years later and who was to become my second wife.

Jock remained agitated still pacing the cab and asking if there was any sign of Them arriving. Lochgelly station stood on a steep incline referred to as Lochgelly Bank, which meant that we would need to have a good fire and full head of steam for the climb ahead. Not knowing when the Royal Entourage would arrive and with the No Black Smoke or Blowing Off Steam ruling, my fireman’s skills and experience with regard to boiler management were tested. A cavalcade of black limos suddenly materialised on the road below, led by a gleaming Rolls bearing the Royal pennants fluttering in the breeze.

Our engine was standing on the bridge giving me a bird’s eye view as the cars passed under it on their way to the station entrance. In my attempt to ensure that our loco wouldn’t blow off at such a significant moment, I moved over to Jock’s side of the cab to get a close-up look at the Queen as she boarded the train. Jock, on the other hand, stayed half hidden in the cab dreading the possibility of having to speak to her. I never saw such a transformation of anyone so outspoken and argumentative. Lochgelly station looked like a Mardi Gras festival with decorations and ribbons everywhere and had the red carpet laid out opposite the second coach.

Again, the Queen didn’t even glance in our direction as she moved sedately over the carpet followed by Philip and others. Three or four security staff were hovering around, eyes darting everywhere. With everyone aboard, the guard dressed like a general gave an elaborate flourish of his green flag. Now it was up to Jock and Dave on the second loco to do their bit for Queen and country. What followed must have been the most agonising moment of Jock’s railway career. A standing start on a steep gradient often caused wheel slip, especially with a Black Five hauling a heavy train, hence the

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use of two engines to eliminate the risk. But both Jock and Dave had little experience in handling Black Fives or ‘double heading’ passenger trains. The result was that they didn’t co-ordinate their throttle openings and our loco developed an almighty wheel slip which sounded like an artillery barrage. In the confusion between both drivers the entire train slid backwards for several yards before jerking to a standstill. Jock was cursing like a trooper, blaming Dave for, ‘Fucking it up!’

I suppose it was easy for me to see the funny side. After all I was merely the guy who shovelled the coal. There was a mention in the local press about the incident. The Queen was reported to have said, ‘Our train seems to be going in the wrong direction!’ I paid for my moments of merriment as Jock was determined not to blot his copybook after the event and he fell to warning me constantly about black smoke and blowing off steam. Crossing the Forth Bridge, I was so exasperated by his heckling I handed him the shovel saying, ‘Fire the bloody thing yourself, Jock.’ Little did Her Majesty know that her safety was in the hands of a crew who were nearly coming to blows. Twenty minutes later we clanked majestically into Princes Street station amid ranks of uniformed soldiers and the blaring of brass bands. Major ‘Mad Mitch’ V.C. stood rigidly to attention at the head of his company and Jock had another attack of stage fright.

As our engine came to rest against the buffers he moved over to my side of the cab and hung his head out of the side window. ‘You sit in the driver’s seat, Wull, because I’m no’ talkin’ to them!’ This business of seniority had been proven to backfire on the railway.

Jock’s immediate junior, Dougy Horne was a man who would have had no qualms about chatting up the Queen and would have been by far the better man for the job.

I watched as their Rolls glided past us and Philip gave what might have been interpreted as a nod in my direction. Then they were gone. A top-

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hatted official approached our loco and proffered me a white envelope, announcing, ‘Driver John Donaldson?’ I shook my head saying, ‘No, that’s him there!’ Jock made no sign of having heard so I said in a loud voice, ‘Somebody wants you, Jock!’ From the startled look in his eyes, I think he expected to see Her Majesty standing outside the cab. The official, anxious to get this matter over with, handed him the envelope and in turn gave an envelope to me. Jock’s contained a cheque for one pound whilst mine was for ten shillings. My first reaction was, ‘Bloody hell! They’re hearty when they laugh.’ And to show my disdain for such meagre reward, I cashed my cheque at the booking office at Dunfermline Upper station, giving no thought to its historic value in later years. My irritation at Jock’s behaviour inspired me to write a twelve verse poem the following day. Jock is probably the only driver who never read it.

The Royal Train From the Howe of Fife to the Banks of Loch Goil I’m known to all as ‘Driver of the Royal,’ My fame will live forever and a day, Which is more than can be said for the extra pay.

I remember the day, I remember the hour I surveyed my engine wi’ worried glower, Then mounting the footplate and into the cab, I ordered my mate, “Get the fire spread my lad!”

A look at the gauges, a glance at the steam Everything must be just right for the Queen, A few more commands I addressed to my mate, Then up with the throttle as we dar’ny be late.

Knee deep in coal and blinded by stoor We arrived tender first, in just under an ‘oor, At the rendevouz in the Denny Branch To await the Official Avalanche.

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A train with four headlamps appeared from the west And my heart started pounding under my vest, In a flurry of orders we hooked onto the train, To resume our Epic journey again.

Past fields, through towns and official array And a wave from the shed where we draw our pay, To a passenger stop at the Carpet of Red, And a smile from our chief, “Well done, lads!” he said.

Like Hillary and Tensing of the Everest Team We sat down to our piece in Thornton Canteen, The natives were hostile, of that I’ve no doubt – As a whispered remark sounded more like a shout.

But I had not time for such trivial things I was driving a train, the Conveyance of Kings!

But I’ll quote one remark – “Jim, it jist lets ye see, If they’re no’ drivin’ Royalty, they’re makin’ G3!”

Our piece-time over, so with a full belly We set off in our train for the station Lochgelly, There to stand and sweat and stare For a glimpse of the Rolls and the Royal Pair.

With Liz and Philip just aboard All of a sudden the safety valve roared!

I glared at my fireman but he turned his back Just then the train slid twa yards back!

Panic and Shame brought the tears to my e’e I had spurned the honour bestowed upon me!

The Queen must think, “This driver’s a clown,” I had let the British Railways down.

But our worries were over by a round of the clock As at Princes Street Station we ground to a stop, An Official appeared with a letter in hand, But his speech was drowned out by a passing brass band.

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Now I’m retired but the vision’s still green Of that glorious day I served country and Queen, And as I pass by the bothy my pension to claim, They’ll point out and say, “He drove the Royal Train!”

For a few days after the big event I took some ribbing from the lads in the mess room. ‘Attention for the Royal Fireman!’ and so on. Jock was still touchy about his part in the proceedings and no one dared make frivolous comments in his presence. Behind his back he was the subject of ridicule thanks to my lyrical account of his behaviour.

He didn’t deserve being the butt for my ill humour as behind that churlish, glowering exterior lay a decent man who would never do anyone wrong.

With the holiday season starting I found myself rostered for driving turns, often with an inexperienced engine cleaner acting as my fireman who didn’t know the right end of the shovel, let along how to maintain steam. I now realized how some drivers became bad tempered and interfering. The railways were to blame for making no provision to train the lads on boiler management and, as I was never one to give orders, I often ended up both firing and driving the loco myself as well as sticking my head out to look for signals. This was neither fair to the lad or to the next driver who landed him as a mate.

Word soon got around and I was approached by the shift supervisor.

‘It’s your job to tell these lads what their duties are. And to make sure that they do them!’

Engines and their characteristics During this period steam reigned supreme. Little did we know that five years later diesel power would take over and thousands of steam locomotives would be broken up for scrap. The J38 heavy goods loco had been the mainstay of our depot for over thirty-five years, hauling coal trains from pit sidings to freight yards, docks and steelmills in 290

the west. After the Second World War these were supplemented by the huge 8F Austerity locomotives bought cheaply at around £500 each from government surplus. In spite of their size and eight coupled driving wheels, the J38’s all-up load from Valleyfield Pit was only two wagons less. The WD Austerity’s main drawback was wheel slip due to poor sanding on wet or greasy rails. Fitted with steam sanders, the pipes became clogged with steam condensation, making them useless.

Furthermore, the heavy reverser mechanism required Herculean efforts by the driver which made shunting operations a backbreaking ordeal. The eight-foot firebox required strenuous effort by the fireman, demanding brawn rather than firing skill. It was also a rough rider when coasting down hill, thanks to utility coupling between loco and tender. In spite of its drawbacks, I preferred it to the J class locos as its large capacity boiler and firebox gave a fireman more legway. One full boiler and big fire meant that he could sit and relax for a spell on level pegging. Its big sister, the 9F, had ten coupled drivers, the centre wheels having no flange to enable the loco to negotiate crossovers or tight curves. This engine was four feet longer than the 8F and rode smoothly by comparison. British Rail got their money’s worth out of both these types as they served well all over Britain from the late forties till the end of steam. The 9F sometimes headed passenger trains during emergencies.

I found the bigger the engine, the easier it was to fire and drive. The tiny saddleback tank engine 8101 with its loose coupled, improvised wooden tender, was the most finicky engine to fire. The water level had to be constantly watched. Adjusting the tiny injector to work properly required the delicate touch of a safe cracker. I only fired it a couple of times whilst on a spare duty turn – thank heavens. But it stands out in my mind as the most harrowing of experiences, especially as the driver, Paddy, was renowned for his bad temper. Dunfermline was mainly involved in coal and local goods traffic, boasting only eight passenger jobs which ran between Stirling and Edinburgh, or Dunfermline to

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Thornton and Leven. To run these, we had two V3 tank locos and a couple of Scot class 4 coupled passenger engines, the most famous being Black Duncan. Later a couple of B1s arrived, but I found the V3 tank a more versatile loco in spite of having to top up at water columns along the route. The B1 was Thompson’s answer to the LMS Black Five, but couldn’t hold a candle to the latter, giving a rough ride and chewing through coal like nobody’s business.

I recall being 2 a.m. spare driver, having to conduct a Grangemouth crew working a mixed goods train to Thornton yard. I joined their loco at Oakley, taking the throttle from there to Thornton and back.

Usually a Black Five on the third night, I stepped on that occasion aboard a Standard Five, the Black’s British Rail counterpart. Blasting up Lochgelly Bank with a full load, the Standard lacked the power of the Stanier in spite of its reputed improved design. I had admired the Black Five from the day I started as an engine cleaner in Stirling, as they charged past, shaking the stone foundations of our bothy as they headed up the climb to Dunblane. Being LMS locos, they were engines that I then thought I would never ride on. Yet, here I was twenty years later experiencing the exhilaration of being in charge of one of these marvellous locomotives. Open to the elements, riding aboard a lurching, coal-strewn footplate amid a cacophony of bangs and metallic screechings, dominated by the steady exhaust blast from its squat funnel, has left an indelible imprint on my mind. More so on dark winter’s nights with snow and sleet and exhaust sparks shooting high into the night sky. It is sharing such moments, isolated from the world as it were, that creates a mutual bond between driver and fireman, despite personal differences away from the footplate.

But I had never really adjusted to shift work, having to rise in the small hours in the dead of winter, or setting off for work on a glorious summer’s afternoon when others were sitting on the beach. I felt as I was shunting in dreary pit sidings, or spending hours sitting in some

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featureless loop en route to Glasgow till the signalman saw fit to run us between passenger trains that valuable time was being wasted. I often sat reliving my days in China until the driver would jolt me back to reality. ‘That’s the road, Wull. Get the tender brake off!’ There were times when I thought about changing my job for steady day shift work.

I even made a half-hearted attempt to take up a course on teaching art but I lacked the necessary personal conviction and self-discipline to embark seriously on such an undertaking. Now, in my one parent situation, the prospect of changing jobs died a death. Perhaps it was the artist in me that had always viewed the old NB locomotive, such as the J class, as ugly and unappealing to the eye. With the arrival of Black Fives and B1s in the depot however, I found a renewed interest in the job. Even the large, cumbersome Austerity had an air of purpose as it attacked a gradient, hoisting a plume of smoke and steam into a clear morning sky.

To add to the hardships on the Glen Farg run described earlier, a couple of antiquated K2s had recently been dumped on our shed, cast-offs from an Edinburgh depot. Built around the turn of the century, these 260s had been used for mixed traffic on the West Highland route. It was therefore assumed they would be an ideal workhorse for the 11.15 a.m. Perth goods. Up till their unwelcome arrival, we usually had a J38 or 8F WD, but the K2 with its higher wheels would run better time on the level stretches along the route. Furthermore, the train was usually light with its load of farming implements and goods vans picked up at wayside sidings along the way. Apart from being the most difficult engine to fire, with the driver sitting on the right side of the cab, the K2 lacked the power needed for heavy gradients like the Farg and its shallow firebox became choked with ash causing poor steaming. Perth yard staff were quick to add on a few extra wagons to make up our load. Fortunately, the 11.15 Perth only came round once every sixteen weeks. The K2s were finally replaced by Thomson B1s, the LNER answer to the Black Five, but this too had a long shallow firebox and

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could chew through coal like nobody’s business. One could always tell a B1 by its loud metallic clanging as it coasted downhill, whereas the Black Five was said to coast ‘in its stockinged feet’.

Drivers were now being trained on diesel units consisting of three coaches powered by four 1150hp engines, two at either end of the unit. These would replace all of our local passenger trains and sounded the death knell of the Glens and Scott Class 440s, among which was Black Duncan – our only named passenger engine. The diesels would also do away with ten firemen in the depot who would revert back to work as engine cleaners. These unfortunates faced the alternatives of redundancy or moving to another depot.

The end of the annual holidays meant that eight relief drivers would go back as firemen, adding to the surplus of engine cleaners. Two or three left the job disheartened by their low prospects. I had now been a ‘passed Fireman’ for fifteen years with barely a dozen driving turns to my credit. A driver’s vacancy list appeared on the noticeboard every month which several lads took advantage of, but this usually entailed moving house, often to some remote depot in the south of England. Glasgow crews from Polmadie Depot began working coal trains from Oakley yard to the steel mills, bringing back the empties.

Work was already in progress laying a turntable. In the meantime, three temporary jobs known as ‘the Oakley exchange’ were created.

Their duties were to relieve the Glasgow crews and bring their loco back to Dunfermline where it was coaled, oiled and watered and the fire cleaned. It must have been a cushy number for the Glasgow men sitting at ease in Oakley messroom, awaiting our return.

Sometimes a Jubilee 5XP would arrive and occasionally we would have to meet them at Alloa Station to change over. The Jubilee was a larger-wheeled version of the Black Five intended for express passenger rail work, but in spite of it being a three-cylinder job it

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was sluggish on hills hauling forty-five empties from Alloa to Oakley.

In their BR green livery they made an impressive sight clanking majestically into Dunfermline shed for servicing. My favourite one was ‘Cyclops’ the one-eyed.

A visitor to our shed was ‘North British’, the only 9F I knew to have a nameplate of its own. The 10-coupled 9Fs gave a more comfortable ride than our 8-coupled 8Fs. With the miners now working a five-day week Sunday work in the depot dropped off, reduced to ballast repairs and track-laying operations. Thus, most of the engines stood cold and silent over the weekend apart from a couple needed for shunting dead locos around. This was a source of great irritation for the shed disposal crew, the fireman in particular, having to jump in and out of half a dozen engines to unwind the handbrake as well as coupling each loco up to the live engine every time a shunt was necessary. Then on Sunday night the ‘steam raisers’ were hard at it carrying long clinker shovels of hot coals to 30-odd dead locos as kindling, usually three to each engine. At this early hour the shed was a hive of activity amid the clanging shovels and loud exchanges and banter of those engaged in the preparations for another week.

Changing attitudes The change in attitudes since I had first started as a cleaner in 1940 when a driver was captain of his ship held in high esteem meant that now we were all ‘Jock Tamson’s bairns’ and a lonely engine cleaner could tell a driver to get lost. This new freedom of speech emerged after the war years and had its good and bad points. The old school of thought created many overbearing drivers who treated their firemen like serfs, having themselves in turn endured this treatment in early service. But the war years having created extra work where a fireman could become a driver before he was thirty meant that the drivers-only bothy was replaced by a common mess hall for all grades, which must have been

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galling for those who clung to their driver status. A fireman’s skills had depended to a great extent upon the calibre of the drivers he worked with, but no recognition had been made of this by the railway companies themselves. It was ironic that only during the last years of steam a stiffbacked manual on boiler maintenance with coloured diagrams on steam combustion was issued to locomen for the first time, some with twenty years’ firing experience.

Half the drivers I encountered had no real knowledge of the technical aspects of steam combustion. Piling more coal into the firebox was the usual remedy for lagging boiler pressure, and this often had an adverse effect. When BR finally issued this comprehensive handbook on steam combustion in 1962 I learned things that had eluded me during 20 years on the footplate.

With diesel traction on the horizon, goods engines no longer got the full service during major overhauls, arriving back at the depots having had only basic paint jobs and makeshift repairs. Our 8Fs would run for weeks with a blowing cylinder-head gasket and broken piston ring which made the fireman’s lot harder.

A whiff of diesel in the air The arrival of two railcar units allocated to our depot caused mild excitement. No one gave a thought to the loss of Black Duncan and its Scott class companions or the half dozen engine cleaners who left the service with fifty pounds redundancy payment. Over the years I had fired to dozens of drivers, some for a week or even a day, some of whom I’ve mentioned, but to describe each would double the length of these memoirs as no two were alike. Oddly enough, some of my short term mates created a more lasting impression than those I spent months or even a year with. One driver in particular earned, justly, the nickname ‘Sure as Death’. Apart from driving his train at

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a snail’s pace and double checking every shunting movement, Jimmy kept his firemen on tenterhooks, having to repeat everything twice.

The complete opposite was Harry Black who hadn’t a care in the world, careering down Glen Farg at the head of a load of coal with no worries about stopping it. Oakley yard turntable was now completed, enabling Polmadie crews to make the return trip and doing away with our Oakley exchange jobs. So I found myself six steps down on the promotion ladder, with the less chance of becoming a driver than I had had five years previously. It looked as if I’d be shovelling coal for the duration of steam.

With diesel units now running the local passenger services, passed firemen were now being trained to replace a driver who had called in sick. It came my turn for the two weeks’ course, travelling daily to Leith Central which was now a diesel-only depot. There I got my first sight of the new class 47 diesel loco which was undergoing road trials. The cab, with its padded armchair seats seemed the lap of luxury compared to steam locos. I could never imagine one of these impressive giants arriving in our shed. The DMUs we trained on were more like a bus with passengers partitioned off behind the driver. Nevertheless it was a stimulating experience driving one for the first time, accelerating to over 70 mph in less than half the time of any passenger loco.

The following week I was back shovelling coal aboard an ancient J36 on a local goods train. These engines were known as the General class, many named after First World War battles or high-ranking officers.

Joffre being our mount on this occasion, we set off from Townhill yard with an assortment of loads comprised of farm implements and coal for merchants along the Kincardine branch. Wull Gillespie was my driver, a genial easy-going chap whose only vice was overtime.

Otherwise he was a pleasure to work with. En route we would drop off or pick up empties at Cairneyhill, Torryburn and Culross, then clatter

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along the line following the shore to Longannett which was then a munitions depot: twenty sidings dotted with dozens of concrete store rooms housing shells and other munitions.

The loads had to be positioned outside one or more specific buildings which entailed a good deal of shunting movement. Then with our train reversed for the return trip we set off for Elbow End junction, down another branch to Charleston ship-breakers and Crombie naval depot. This wasn’t a strenuous job compared to the Glen Farg route but it entailed plenty of jumping on and off the engine shifting points, opening crossing gates and coupling on and off. That week, wheels cantering through Culross towards Longannet, I happened to look down at the sleepers racing past when a dog’s head suddenly appeared between the tender and cab. I could only watch in horror as the tender wheels passed over its body, causing its jaws to open and shut convulsively. I recognised it as a golden lab which often accompanied its master along the shoreline. On our return he was standing in full view shaking his fist in anger and despair. Though I felt deeply sorry for him there was nothing we could have done to avert the tragedy.

Back at Elbow End junction we had to reverse our train for the two mile trip to Charleston breakers yard and limeworks. This line ran through Lord Elgin’s estate with farm crossings, one of which had no gates so we had to be on the alert for tractors. On one occasion a tractor stalled on the line and my driver, known for his dithering manner, failed to stop the train. The tractor was pushed along the track but no one was hurt. Lord Elgin took a dim view of this and the 5 mph board and whistle sign were repainted. He had an interest in steam locos and occasionally appeared as we shunted out loads in the breaker’s yard.

He’d been known to ride the footplate and take the throttle under the apprehensive eye of the driver.

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For these tight bends and dilapidated tracks the only suitable loco was the lowly J36 which had to be driven flat out up the sharp incline from Charleston sidings. Furthermore, a set of gates had to be opened and closed en route. Rather than stop the slow-moving train, the fireman would sprint on ahead to open them and scramble aboard as the engine laboured past. The guard would then drop off to close them, running after the van as it slowly disappeared round a bend.

Firing the J36 on this job was a grind for the fireman as apart from continually jumping on and off to shift points there was little respite on the uphill haul to Townhill yard.

The breakers yard with its shallow draught dock could only handle relatively small craft such as fishing trawlers and modest cargo vessels.

Occasionally a wartime submarine or a couple of motor torpedo boats would appear, one of which was acquired by the Sea Scout cadets, but the cost of running twin Rolls Royce Merlin engines was beyond their means so these were replaced by an old Austin Ten car engine which reduced the sixty knot craft to a canal barge. The guard usually decided when and where we had our meal break, Charleston being the ideal choice, where an hour or so delay could easily be accounted for. Having an inquisitive nature, I usually roamed around the bustling yard watching the workers crouched over acetylene torches, sparks flying, cutting through rusting steel plating. The air resounded from hammers on metal under the constantly watchful eye of Bob Scullion, their granite-faced gaffer. Railwaymen needed his grudging permission to board his ships, the best way being to defer humbly in his presence. ‘Well awright! But if you get hurt, I didn’t allow you!’ ‘Thanks, Mister Scullion!’ I ventured down the conning tower of an old sub and felt claustrophobia welling up at the stark, narrow confines below.

On one occasion half a dozen old Aberdeen steam fishing boats, with their tall single stack funnels, arrived. I explored the vessel

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nearest the dockside with a gangplank attached to the pier.

I remember a plate bearing the name Avonside riveted on its rusting bow and later did a pencil sketch of it, together with its two sister ships.

Exploring Avonside, I came across foodstuff lying around in the skipper’s cabin along with the ship’s log and a black metal cashbox. I still have these last items lying about the house. In spite of experiencing the hardships of life on the footplate, I was shocked by the sight of the crew’s sleeping Chris, my second wife, mid 1960s quarters aboard ship: four metal bunks riveted against the tapering bows with barely an inch of steel plating between them and the raging North Sea. I shuddered to think what it must have been like down there in that hold with no lighting, being tossed by waves.

Areas of rust were reinforced by cement rather than the expense of welding new plates. I spoke of what I had seen to my driver, a droll, taciturn footplate veteran. ‘They’d be so bloody tired after loading fish, they’d sleep anywhere.’

Such hardships tempered the character and resolve of our breed, something that seems to me somehow lacking in this modern-day lifestyle of computers and company cars. I savour in my memory the good moments of toasting our bread and cheese sandwiches on the firing shovel before adjourning to the guard’s van for a friendly blether. My old dream of becoming a draughtsman or art teacher

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would never have reaped such down to earth rewards.

Now in 1963 in my third year as a single parent I met Chris, the young woman who had been one of the crowd lining the road in Lochgelly while I looked down from the footplate on the head of the royal train, watching for the approach of the Queen’s Rolls Royce. Two years later, with our divorces behind us, we were Myself, mid 1960s married in the register office, an aero-modelling acquaintance and his wife being witnesses to the occasion. We had our differences and had some fiery rows but these helped to cement a lifelong relationship, and we went on to share adventures in far-off places we’d never dreamt of when we first met.

The last passenger train from Stirling to Dunfermline With the miners now on a five-day week the volume of coal traffic slackened off, resulting in train crews sitting round spare every Saturday and Sunday, work practically non-existent. I found myself on the shed disposal link, coaling and watering locos returning from their working shifts. This was a monotonous job, confined to shunting engines around, and I used to envy crews setting off for the main line.

The good thing was that we worked two Sundays out of three with a Saturday night shift thrown in. With Chris and her four-year-old daughter to support in addition to my own children, the extra cash was most welcome.

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Then out of the blue they decided to close the passenger service between Dunfermline and Stirling which meant the loss of the railcars and eight drivers. As it happened, one of the drivers called in sick and I, having the driver qualification, stood in for him, working the backshift service between Edinburgh and Stirling. I had the minor distinction of driving the last passenger train from Stirling to Dunfermline on the eve of the closure. Four of the railcar drivers took early retirement, the others went back on goods link working, displacing the junior men.

This resulted in me finding myself back firing trains, which was all right apart from the drastic cut in pay on the disposal link.

But this was only the beginning of industrial changes creating a domino effect on the railways. Railwaymen now faced an uncertain future. Pits in the area faced closure with the writing on the wall for the aluminium works in Grangemouth and the steel mills in the west.

It had always been railway policy to be prepared for breakdowns and emergencies and every loco depot had its spare link and a couple of engines on standby all round the clock. Dunfermline had eight crews, one signing on at two-hour intervals, often doing nothing the entire week. In the latest cut-back this was done away with, leaving a 2 a.m. and a 6 a.m. set, mainly to cover a man sleeping in. The days when an engine cleaner did call out duties were long gone. Our complement of locomen was now two-thirds of what it had been when I had first arrived and my hopes of becoming a driver as distant as ever.

Chris gave birth to our baby girl, Heather, in September 1965. In spite of our financial hardship Chris’s cheerful, carefree disposition meant that we had a happy relationship.

Diesel training at Haymarket Big depots such as Haymarket in Edinburgh were now partly equipped with diesel locos and I envied Perth firemen thundering up Glen Farg,

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lounging nonchalantly back in the padded seat of a Sultzer loco. These were only used on passenger and vacuum braked trains, lacking the stopping power of steam locos. I finally had my first experience of this during a two week course at Haymarket.

Like our railcar training, the first week was spent in the classroom writing notes and listening to boring lectures on the seemingly complex electrical system needed to transmit power to the wheels. Thanks to my wireless training I was familiar with terms like solenoids and magnetic fields. Although called diesel, with the new Deltics rated at 3300 hp, the engine itself merely turned a huge generator which fed traction motors attached to the wheels.

Like the steam locos, there was no gear system, this being compensated for by a centrifugal load regulator governing the generator output.

This I found interesting and could understand but had a tendency to nod off while the instructor droned on about the intricacies of the brake panel. It must have been an ordeal for the older drivers brought up on steam, most of them unaware of how a petrol engine functioned. My habit of falling asleep in the classroom created amusement among the other students, particularly when the instructor ordered me to sit at the front of the class to keep me awake. ‘You’re not the stupidest chap I’ve had in my class, but you’re the least bloody interested!’

The second week was a holiday in comparison. Under the guidance of our instructor, four of us each took a spell at the controls of a 1200 hp Sulzer speeding effortlessly down the coast to Berwick on Tweed.

There we’d spend a couple of hours in the town. I became friendly with one of my fellow trainees, a lad from Dalry Road Depot. He had just returned to work after recuperating from a brain tumour operation.

‘I collapsed with a blinding headache and woke up three days later in hospital recovering from the operation.’ He had a quiet, easygoing

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manner and we would wander along the river walkway chatting whilst the others joined our instructor in his favourite bar.

The first diesel at Dunfermline When I signed on for duty the following week, there stood the first diesel loco surrounded by curious onlookers. This was a 900hp Mann diesel.

It turned out that it was only to be there for a few days to determine its performance on Glen Farg. A makeshift vacuum-braked tender had been attached to increase stopping power. Eck Cameron, although a junior driver, was thought more suitable to run the tests, being well known for his expertise with cars and motorbikes. When asked later in the mess room how it went he seemed unimpressed and was noncommittal. Having to share his engine cab with officious, questioning white collar engineers who had no practical experience themselves of driving trains had put his nose out of joint. Later these Manns became notorious for breaking down due mainly to a poor cooling system, and were soon replaced by English Electric Class 22s.

With the dwindling work at the depot, drivers over 60 years old were invited to consider early retirement. Some, who were unhappy about having to adjust to coping with a bewildering range of faults, decided to call it a day. The result of this for me was that my name appeared on the next appointments list as one of three firemen promoted to driver.

The downside to my new status of junior driver was that I automatically landed the lowliest, dirtiest jobs in the depot.

The preparation link consisted of a three shift rota and entailed oiling engines in readiness for their next run. It was a thankless, soul-destroying task that involved scrambling along high slippery footplates with an oilcan in one hand whilst hanging on to the boiler handrail with the other, enduring complaints from drivers about the cab floor not being swept. Though this was my fireman’s

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responsibility, I bore the brunt of any complaints. We were allowed one hour’s preparation time for each loco which often involved setting the engine for oiling to enable me to wriggle into the guts of the gearing with my back rubbing the grime from the boiler. Locos were often standing outside the shed and were oiled where they stood which meant using a plastic sheet to lie across or having to sweep snow off the footplate with numbed fingers. Being promoted to driver didn’t immediately improve my financial situation, with no bonus or overtime to be made on the preparation link.

Over the past years I had never taken advantage of free railway travel till Chris, who had never been out of Scotland, suggested we should go somewhere south during my next annual holidays. This being less than a month off and having no savings I agreed with some misgivings, settling for a camping holiday at St Bee’s Head. I had gone there by car a couple of years back with the kids who loved the beach and pleasant campsite. Chris and I set off with four children, Heather the youngest just ten months old. Laden with two suitcases and a large kitbag we changed trains at Edinburgh and Carlisle. Chris’s excitement and enthusiasm kept us going and we finally set up the tent in glorious afternoon sunshine in a secluded corner of the site for the princely rate of six shillings per day. The weather was glorious during our four-day stay and will always remain as one of the happiest times in my life in spite of having little to spend.

Returning to work I learned that one of our goods guards, Hughie Guild, had been killed when crossing the lines on his way home after finishing his shift. He was sixty-two and we often worked together on various trains. As he was killed after having signed off duty the Railways declined to pay compensation to his widow, adding that he should have used the proper exit from the premises. Then fate favoured me when a senior driver failed an eyesight test and was taken off the main line to do shed duties, the result being he took over my job on

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306 Watercolour, Forth Road Bridge

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the preparing link whilst I became spare driver. On any week I would be driving railcars, shunting the yard on a 350 diesel, or struggling to control a lumbering 8F slipping in Glenfarg tunnel. Being newly promoted with a fireman little younger than myself it was taken for granted that I took the shovel for half the shift.

‘You were feard’ I had an alarming experience with one crazy fireman, which almost cost me my life. It was in late November 1966 and I was driving an 8F hauling thirty loose coupled loads of coal from Monkton Hall to Kincardine Power Station via Alloa Yard, my mate a twenty-four year old motorcycle fanatic with a reputation for outrageous behaviour had very little footplate experience as apart from the odd firing turn he was still a cleaner. To the entire yard, he was known as ‘The Cowboy’.

He was one of a dozen cleaners left in the depot, getting the odd firing turn but with no hope of ever being promoted. They worked a three shift rota of cleaning duties, reduced to washing down gearings with paraffin, shovelling ashes and assisting the firedrawers, with the transition of steam to diesel lurking on the horizon. They knew their days were numbered and couldn’t care less about authority, getting up to all sorts of escapades to relieve boredom. With his outrageous behaviour, the Cowboy was their self-styled leader. He relied on his friendship with Jock Young, the stony eyed shift foreman to intimidate those under him, myself included.

Due to our common interest as fellow bikers he regarded me with a familiarity that meant he felt able to ignore the instructions I gave.

He had no idea of the gradients along the route, shovelling coal as he thought fit, the result being we were struggling uphill with the steam dropping or the safety valves roaring their heads off on downhill sections. I wouldn’t trust him with the throttle fearing that he’d end up wrecking the train. Approaching the Forth Bridge from the Dalmeny

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My mother with my son, Glen 1971, Woodmill Crescent side, I sensed he was annoyed at being reminded about low water level in the glass or the need to stoke the fire. I was seated with my head and left shoulder sticking out the side window peering ahead in darkness through billowing smoke and steam, straining to distinguish the signal on the bridge. A hundred and eighty feet below the pier lights were reflecting on the dark waters of the Forth. As the 8F lumbered noisily along the approach viaduct, the next thing I knew my rump was lifted bodily from the narrow seat and I was being dangled helplessly out of the window desperately clawing at the cab. The Cowboy had bent down putting his shoulder under my hip, then straightened up propelling me out of the side window. I began shouting, ‘pull me in for Christ sake!’ knowing that a couple of hundred yards ahead lay the entrance to the bridge proper which cleared the car by two feet. But the stupid fool was enjoying my terror and didn’t respond till the last moment. I must have been ten seconds from leaving my brains sticking to the girders of the bridge when he gleefully hauled me to safety.

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‘You were feard!’ he chortled as I howled abuse at him, threatening to stop at the next signal box to phone the police. I could see that he treated the whole thing as a joke with no sense of responsibility about his actions. I let the matter go and was relieved to find the regular fireman on the job the following day.

It took me a long time to discover how to handle the Cowboy, which was to tell him simply to get lost, and it worked.

New arrivals: A loco like a wartime bomber and a son In 1967, the first of our diesel locos arrived: two brand new 1750 hp English Electric monsters with a cab on either end fitted with leather armchair seats, the controls and dials reminiscent of a wartime bomber.

That same year we moved from our flat to a house in Woodmill Crescent and Chris gave birth to our son, Glen.

The 1750hp diesel locos would be used on the Oakley and Clydesmill coal trains replacing the 8F Austerity and drivers would be given a week’s instruction under Sandy Justice, now given the status of driver-instructor. I felt mildly excited when four of us reported for our first day with Sandy. Travelling light to Oakley I was impressed by the smoothness of the ride after enduring years of lurching, bucking footplates and draughty cabs. The guard coupled us on to our train of thirty-six loads which was more than the 8F could handle on this run. The only drawback was that the guard had to walk forward and pin down wagon brakes on downhill stretches. Later, the fireman or ‘second man’ as he became known would do this, saving the guard a long walk. Standing behind the driver’s seat, I was anticipating my turn on the throttle of our Class 37 which swept on effortlessly, the thunder from its exhausts reverberating across the quiet countryside matching the volume from a hard working 8F Austerity leaving Larbert. The long climb from Carmuirs to Cumbernauld normally meant sustained shovelling, but the ‘37’

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sailed up the seven-mile twisting gradient with the speedometer hovering at 36 mph.

Driving these 100 ton monsters was child’s play, a throttle, brake and reverse just like the old steamer. Knowing the gradients and allowing for the weight of the train behind you came with years of experience. With forty odd loose-coupled wagons between your engine and the guard’s van, to brake suddenly could send the guard sprawling headlong on the van floor. I finally got my turn on the throttle on the return trip from Clydeshill. With 45 empties behind us there was no need to pin down brakes but coasting downhill still entailed keeping the speed below 20 mph to maintain control, with constant use of the sanders to eliminate wheel slip. By the end of the week I managed to absorb some of what big Sandy had been tirelessly drumming into us about fault-finding procedures and possible remedies. I learnt that it seemed like child’s play – until the engine suddenly conked out - which could be for any number of reasons: a fuse, fuel blockage, or most commonly being an ‘over speed trip’ activated by sudden wheel slip.

On our final day an inspector known to all as ‘Elliot Ness’, complete with rumpled soft hat, boarded the footplate. He was there to assess our driving skills and bombarded each in turn with terse questioning before pronouncing us fit to take charge. With six of us in the cab there was no escape from his probing eye. Gone was the lighthearted banter and relaxed atmosphere. Sandy had warned us to bring our rulebooks and bardok lamps. ‘He might ask you to produce them!’ After we dropped the inspector off at the upper station on our way back to the depot, Sandy announced that each of us had passed. ‘He wasn’t too happy about you Willie, but I put in a good word.’

On my first trip driving a ‘37’ with a junior fireman as mate we were hauling a full load bound for Mossend Power Station. I opened up the throttle as we entered Carmuirs tunnel with the exhaust bellowing

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in the confined space. Suddenly, the engine died and we came to an ominous halt in inky darkness. I opened and closed the throttle a few times, trying to conceal my panic from my bewildered mate.

My logical thought was affected by my claustrophobia, but at least I had the presence of mind to apply the air brake to hold the train from running backwards. It dawned on me that it must be an ‘over speed trip’ caused by excessive throttle in the wet tunnel. Fortunately, the interior lighting worked as I stumbled through the engine compartment to investigate. I vaguely remembered Sandy laying his hand on a long chrome handle saying ‘and this is the reset lever’. I hauled on it in desperation, surprised at how much effort it needed before it clicked back into place. Returning to the cab I pressed the starter button and after a few chassis-shaking revolutions the 1750 hp diesel burst into life. We had spent 15 minutes in the tunnel frantically figuring out how to get the thing restarted but this was nothing compared to the ordeals we had experienced on Glenfarg.

The enclosed cab, being reasonably isolated, protected us from the choking diesel fumes which could be more harmful than smoke and steam. Easing the throttle open and giving short bursts on the sanders, our class ‘37’ gathered momentum and cleared the tunnel. With the lever against the stop, we thundered uphill gaining speed with ease. I glanced across at my mate lying back in his padded seat with his feet against the cab window whilst I poured myself coffee balancing the cup on the instrument panel. He was tired and sound asleep. I could already visualise the demise of a breed of locomotive men who accepted hardship and adversity as part of their working life. Coasting along from Cumbernauld, sitting at ease, freed from the vagaries of steam power I could view the passing scenery in a new light. What had till now been fleeting impressions seen through billowing smoke and steam were suddenly farm cottages, street names and people. We passed a scrap yard littered with steam locos in various stages of demolition, many of which were Stannier Black Fives. Seeing those once magnificent engines with

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boilers ripped open amid piles of piston rods and cut up driving wheels seemed a sacrilege to memorable engineering.

I wondered if one of these forlorn hulks might be our gleaming mount that pulled the royal train. Perhaps my artistic flair made me view this with a wave of nostalgia and regret and memories of those far off days as a cleaner envying the firemen on a Black Five stoking our bothy as it thundered past on its way to Perth. A few days later four class 37s arrived in the depot to swell the ranks of progress. One of them was used to tow four of our 8F Austerities on their final journey.

The Beeching Axe and more changes The cull on steam also heralded a landslide of redundancies including in line work and in signal boxes. A crusading figure, Dr George Beeching, had been enlisted by the Transport Minister, Ernest Marples, to mastermind this streamlined railway system, and there were no half measures. Old branch lines were closed all over the country and faces began disappearing from our midst as entire categories of workers, such as firedrawers, ash plant attendants and steam raisers were served with redundancy notices. These duties were given to the engine cleaners for the handful of locos left. These consisted of two BI’s kept mainly for the morning and evening dockyard workers’ train and an ancient J36 ‘Joffre’ which was suitable for the Charleston branch line. The B1, with its six foot driving wheels totally unsuitable for shunting in and out of sidings, was yet still used on coal trains when no Class 37 was available.

One bitterly cold December evening I had the undesirable experience of shunting out a train of loads from Glen Craig colliery sidings.

Hanging half out of the cab window watching the guard’s swinging lamp in the dark sidings was a far cry from the warm comfort of a diesel. Hauling a train up the greasy rails leading to the main line was never easy, but with the six-foot wheels spinning uselessly our

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guard was forced to reduce our load to a dozen wagons. Then, he returned from calling the signalman and announced we would have to wait where we were. ‘There’s been a bad accident in Thornton Yard and they’re not taking traffic. Something about a driver being run over! Anyway, Control’s not happy about us lifting twelve loads.’ Traffic Control based in Burntisland was responsible for the movement of all rail traffic in this area, making arrangements to meet consumer requirements. Suppliers’ orders would then be passed on to loco depots which would allocate suitable engines and train crews. A similar principle to Air Traffic Control, controllers were mainly recruited from the drivers and yard foremen with an aptitude for organising: practical men who appreciated the conditions and difficulties train crew met with which could cause seemingly unnecessary delay.

But a new breed of office bred young administrators were being introduced to whom pits and yards were merely names on a board with no allowance made for gradients or weather. It was obviously one of these youngsters who was asking our guard to reduce our load by half during our wait. I was called to the signal box and handed the phone. A clipped voice enquired ‘Is there something wrong with the loco?’ Trying to explain the difficulties without mentioning the number of futile attempts we made to get clear of the pit sidings, fell on deaf ears. ‘You are being relieved at Thornton Yard where your engine will be taken to Thornton Loco Depot for examination!’ I thought, ‘What a railway!’ We finally got a green from the signal box.

Skidding and struggling out of the sidings with our dozen wagons we headed into the freezing night bound for Thornton Yard. Rolling into the reception signs and uncoupling our engine, a voice came bellowing over the tannoy system. ‘The 8.15 Dunfermline engine proceed to the loco shed.’ An agitated yard inspector stepped up our footplate. ‘One of your drivers has just lost a leg and an arm and has been rushed to hospital!’

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He was obviously moved by the experience of standing by helplessly seeing Jock Craig’s life blood congealing on the rails. ‘He lay for two hours in the freezing cold waiting for the ambulance.’ He went on to commend Jock’s calm acceptance of his horrendous injuries. His fireman was screaming for the ambulance to appear whilst Jock, who was conscious of his predicament, kept consoling him. ‘It’s all right Bob, it’ll be here soon enough.’ The freezing conditions and the weight of wheels severing his limbs and compressing his wounds sealed off the loss of blood.

Meanwhile, we were relieved by a Thornton crew and instructed to take charge of Jock’s class 37 diesel which was already on the end of a train bound for Oakley. It was an eerie experience making our way on foot in darkness past ranks of wagons towards the idling diesel, knowing that Jock’s limbs lay buried under the frozen ash nearby. It seemed he had climbed down from the loco to couple on to the train when he was hit by a wagon rolling silently by during shunting.

Arriving back in our depot after ten hours duty, I was immediately pounced on by Jock Young, our shift foreman. Waving a report sheet in my face he announced ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, refusing to use an engine which isn’t defective’. Cold and tired and upset over Jock I replied in anger ‘a man’s just lost his leg and arm and you’re more concerned about a fucking old engine!’ Ignoring the report I stormed out to the bike shed and made my way home. True to form, the powers that be decided that Jock’s accident was his own fault as he had no occasion to leave the diesel as it had toilet facilities. He never received a penny of compensation after almost forty years of service. I never heard any more about my refusal to drive an engine.

The steamers had all but gone during the next week or two and I had my last experience driving Joffre, the J36 which had served the depot from the beginning of the century. With only the guard’s van behind

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us we set off for the Alloa Swing Bridge solely to supply coal for the boiler room controlling it. Positioning the tender directly under the bridge cabin a bucket was lowered by chain, filled and then hoisted up.

Transferring a couple of tons of coal took considerable time and effort during which I took the opportunity to climb up into the bridge boiler room. I was taken aback by the ‘spit and polish’ grandeur inside. The boiler itself was a work of art with its gleaming brass-ringed gauges surrounded by burnished copper pipes and control cocks shining like gold. With little else to occupy their time the two attendants had made this boiler house into a private haven overlooking the murky waters of the river Forth with panoramic views along the river against a backdrop of the Ochil hills. I had passed beneath this place countless times over the past twenty five years in all weathers imagining it as a dreary, isolated existence for its occupants. Sadly enough, their world was about to collapse. The line and bridge itself were destined for closure within the next two years.

I was rostered to work a Saturday morning ballast train from Perth yard to Oakley using a class 37 diesel. Travelling there light with the guard’s van we hardly noticed Glenfarg tunnels as we coasted through, isolated from their inky darkness. We picked up a full load of prefabricated rail sections which would have been a formidable task for an 8F Austerity. I was looking forward to comparing this with that of our class 37, my only worry being wheel slip in the tunnels. We entered the first tunnel with 30 mph registering on the speedometer and using the sanders our speed never faltered. Yet somehow I felt a sense of loss as the challenge of the tunnels, the Farg and myself, was gone. I glanced across at my mate lying back engrossed in a paperback oblivious of our surroundings. I smiled ruefully remembering faces and incidents shared with mates long gone from the scene and imagining their reactions and comments at seeing their stoker reclining comfortably with a cigarette and a book in his hand. With steam now gone four more diesels arrived

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though two or our class 37s were transferred to Polmadie Depot.

Thus a complement of eight plus four 350 AP shunters now replaced forty-odd steamers.

The new arrivals were odd looking contraptions with a huge cab in the centre and a 450hp engine compartment on either end. Their performance soon made them unpopular with their crews. Suited only for modest loads they had an inadequate cooling system that earned them a reputation for shutting down without warning. I remember conducting an Edinburgh crew bringing a train to Alloa. I waited for their arrival at Dunfermline upper as their ‘Parman’ finally struggled up there. As I took over the controls the driver greeted me with, ‘The bastard who designed these should be hanged!’ It wasn’t long before I began to share his views when handling the main problem which was that their load limit was rated well above their capabilities.

However, with a light train they performed smoothly and with an all round panoramic view were ideal for shunting. Seated in a huge wellheated cab between two well-sprung sets of bogies made it the most comfortable loco imaginable.

The coaling plant, a landmark seen from afar and used as a viewpoint by the more adventurous to watch the match on the nearby football ground, was razed to the ground along with the ash plant and turntable.

Staffing was whittled down to sixty odd loco men and a handful of fitters and mates. On weekends the shed became a silent ghost town with a dozen diesels huddled in the gloomy shed. During cold spells a driver and mate would be rostered to fire up the locos on weekends to keep the oil fluid. I had this dreary task one New Year’s Day which entailed starting the locos every two hours, allowing each to run for half an hour. Rather than sit around in a cold silent bothy I cycled home each time. Finally, I gave in and I let them run continuously; after all a gallon or two would never be missed from an 800 gallon tank. When the diesels first fired up in the confines of the shed, the

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Watercolour, deserted mining village, Cant’s Dam, Lasoddie, Kingseat, 1961 accumulation of choking fumes was almost worse than the being stuck in the tunnels. I was forced to retreat outside holding a cloth over my nose and mouth.

Leaves and coal on the line In spite of the effortless power heavy diesels floundered helplessly on wet leaves in Autumn and we regularly had to assist such monsters as a 3300 hp Deltic up a tree-lined cutting near Hillend where leaves piled high on the rails. I felt a sense of loss when the ‘Beeching axe’ closed down the Glenfarg line between Bridge of Earn and Kelty, leaving only memories of its scenic grandeur. With diesels becoming much less of a novelty one became increasingly aware of their

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shortcomings. Knees became stiff with sitting and the continuous noise from compressors and generators together with the numbing roar from the mighty engine, left me with a ringing in the ears. I began using cotton wool to deaden the sound.

It wasn’t long after this that one of our drivers heading for Oakley with a loose-coupled train of coal was exceeding the 25mph speed limit approaching the Baldridgeburn viaduct. He was unaware that the leading wheels on one wagon had mounted the guard rail and were now bouncing along the track chewing up sleepers with the throttle wide until it finally yawed across the track demolishing part of the stone parapet of the bridge, snapping the coupling and sending twenty one tons of coal cascading down onto the street below.

Jimmy’s first indication was when his class 37, freed from most of its load, suddenly shot forward. To the inhabitants living across the narrow cobbled street who were quick to take advantage of the shed load, it must have seemed a stroke of good luck, after they recovered from shock, of course! Repairing the viaduct meant unwarranted expense making it easier to single line the route as far as Kincardine Junction, closing a couple of signal boxes with it. Jimmy was later promoted to Shed Foreman. ‘If some driver causes a lot of damage, they usually make him a Gaffer so he won’t cause more!’ was the general opinion.

Most of the old time drivers such as Bryce Thomson, Jock Donaldson and Harry Black were now gone from our midst. Driving diesels had already become boring, without the sense of achievement one felt stepping from the footplate of an 8F Austerity after a hard shift. I found myself prone to coughs and colds, aggravated by diesel fume drafts sucked in by the compressor fan. In winter my legs were roasted by surrounding heater elements while icy drafts fanned the neck and shoulders.

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320 Pen and Ink, Dunfermline Locomotive Shed

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A miners’ strike Retaliating against the increasing pit closures, the National Union of Mineworkers called for an all out strike to highlight the country’s need for coal, using the onset of winter to strengthen their claims.

This proved to be a lengthy struggle between the miners and the Government, the latter retaliating by what I suspected as unnecessary power cuts, in order to gain public support against the ‘power crazed’ union. And it worked. Stories of frail pensioners and hospital patients shivering in unheated rooms presented them as monsters holding the country to ransom. As days became weeks picketing at pitheads was extended to power stations. Now locomotive crews were targeted with accounts of pickets laying old sleepers on the Valleyfield route to Longannet. Claims by crews of having things thrown from overhead bridges created feelings of anger and apprehension amongst crews running coal.

With these disturbing thoughts in mind I was ordered to run coal to Longannet power station one afternoon. In spite of sitting high above the maddening crowd with a 100 ton loco to back me up, the anxiety of what lay ahead reminded me of my RAF days. My mate kept asking what I would do if a group of pickets lined the rails leading into the complex. Not wishing to show my concern I off-handedly replied, ‘We’ll just keep going, Dave! I can’t see them waiting to be mown down’. He looked at me in surprise. ‘Anyway,’ I added jokingly, ‘they’d be trespassing on railway property.’ It turned out that our fears were unfounded, but as we began dumping our load in the plant itself we could see a dozen or more pickets staring across outside the main entrance used by road traffic. At that time my mother was a terminally ill patient at the West Fife Hospital which added to my anxieties during this period.

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The majority of miners, as with all bodies of men, looked to their leaders for guidance but there is always an element of hotheads who thrive on violence using some dispute or other to give vent to their aggressive attitude. Violence begot violence, resulting in physical struggles between pickets and the police, there to control them.

Naturally, the media enjoyed a bonanza using such headlines as ‘Ramracing picketers battle with police’. Frequent power cuts angered the general public who naturally turned their back on the miners. The Government took advantage of the situation to close down more pits.

Finally, after what felt like months rather than weeks the NUM reached some sort of agreement which made the headlines with ‘Scargill sells out the miners’ reminding me of the footplate men’s strike in 1955 when little was gained. ‘Throw the workers a few crumbs and they’ll end up eating out of your hand.’

I was shunting out a train in Oakley Yard one afternoon in April 1972 when I was called to the phone. Chris had left a message saying my mother was dying and asking to see me. I drove ‘light engine’ with the class 37 doing sixty on our way back to the depot. Arriving at the hospital I found Chris by the bedside but my mother had died minutes earlier. In spite of her wayward lifestyle during her earlier life I had always looked to her for moral support and sympathy. She was a highly intelligent, sensitive woman whose natural talents were lost amongst the type of people she chose to consort with. I would miss her a lot. My father had made a totally unsuitable husband for her, with his heavy stoicism and unapproachable temperament which perhaps explained her futile search for a kindred spirit. I feel I inherited her artistic bent along with my father’s stick in the mud philosophy. Her funeral was a pathetic affair with only five of us at the graveside, including my children. I’ve since attended funerals as one of almost a hundred mourners for some departed soul who could never match her blithe spirits.

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Merry-go-rounds and coals to Newcastle My life as a railwayman was ever changing with a kaleidoscope of characters already described, leaving an indelible impression.

Angus Guthrie for instance, a bluff outspoken yard foreman whose world revolved around his work to the extent of applying railway jargon to everyday life. ‘I saw you in the high street the other day.

You were only three wagon lengths in front of me!’ And of course the irrepressible Bryce Thomson, the ‘Mister Single’ of the footplate relating how, after finishing backshift one winter’s evening a young woman approached him outside the depot. He told us, ‘She flung her arms around my neck, kissing me, saying Jimmy darling I love you!’ and he replied, ‘But my names no’ Jimmy!’ ‘It’ll no’ matter,’ she said and kept on kissing me!’ This brought yells of derisive laughter which Bryce took good naturedly.

As I got to know the men around me and ex LMS locos began to appear in our depot a renewed interest stirred inside me. With a genial driver as a mate and an increasing variety of locos arriving I looked forward to reporting for work. At first my drawing habit had been seen as childish and odd but as my sketching improved criticism had changed to grudging respect. The railway staff association held an annual art exhibition in Glasgow and I gained second prize for a pencil sketch of Dunfermline Abbey. With the steam and most of the likeable old timers now gone life on the footplate of a diesel returned to a humdrum existence losing the satisfaction of a job well done when stepping down from the footplate.

Shunting wagons in all weathers, especially during the steam days, was a dangerous job. A shunter had to be constantly on the alert at all times. To relax for a moment could cost a man a forearm, his foot or perhaps his life. Imagine running after loose wagons in darkness and lashing rain unable to see the ground under you,

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stumbling over loose coals or being literally dragged along trying to slow a careering wagon using a brake stick. I had witnessed a number of both serious and fatal accidents in my time. There were also some lucky escapes. I recall hanging out of the cab window idly watching shunting operations in Townhill yard while our guard checked our load. The yard pilot was shunting off a train with wagons gravitating into various roads being chased by brakemen.

Chick Young, our guard, had just completed his check and was standing directly below looking up at me with his back dangerously close to the next road. Next thing I knew he was hit by the buffer of a wagon rolling silently down on him. Too shocked to react I watched his body somersaulting along the ash track where he lay staring up in bewilderment. By sheer luck he had been thrown clear of the rails. Other yard staff quickly came to his aid and happily he recovered apart from severe bruising.

Word got around that Dunfermline Shed was definitely closing and what locomen were left would be transferred to Townhill Wagon Repair Depot along with a minimum number of diesel locos. I felt glad in a way, as the forlorn atmosphere in the shed had become depressing.

It seemed too that we would be losing our Class 37s and ‘Submarines’ to be replaced by 1000 HP English Electric Class 20s and a couple of 1100 HP Sultzers. I’d miss the effortless power of the 37s in spite of the noise and drafts in the cab. Its big brother the 2000 HP Class 40 weighed over 120 tons and with its larger bogie wheels was intended mainly for Inter City Passenger Trains, but used on mineral trains lacked the tracking effort of the 37s and was notorious for the poor braking qualities. Our main traffic would now consist of running coal to the power stations on a conveyor belt system named merry-go-rounds or MGRs in which the locos remained attached to their train during the working day, hauling bulk loads of forty-one hopper wagons each holding thirty tons. Three class 22s were needed to haul a massive load weighing 2000 tons with two locos coupled together on one end and a

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single engine on the other. This meant the use of two drivers and mates who communicated by radio telephone. Fitted throughout with discs and air brakes we could coast downhill at speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour, yet bring this man-made avalanche to a halt in a quarter of a mile. Train crews were rostered for the double or single loco and due to one comic, became known as ‘the blunt or sharp end.’ This same driver, one of the surviving old school, gained a reputation for his outrageous comments over the radio, even holding the microphone to his behind and farting. ‘You’re a rude man!’ objected one offended listener. ‘You’re lucky, Herbert! You can’t smell it!’

Loading such trains, either from Seafield colliery or an open cast site took almost an hour, the latter from a mountain of coal with two huge Volvo Dumpsters each loading a wagon with five ton scoops.

Arriving at the power station, the driver set the slow speed circuit as the dumping operation hadn’t to exceed half a mile per hour. In theory this sounded okay as this took an hour, an ideal time to take our meal brake. Unfortunately, it had its shortcomings with the speedo shooting up to 3 mph causing alarm hooters and stop lights as a precaution against damage to the ram mechanism. If this happened more than twice the driver’s name was taken by the plant supervisor who passed it on to the railway authorities. Nobody was sacked or thrown in a dungeon but having to endure a severe dressing down from some office-bred know it all with no practical experience was punishment enough. The move to wagon shops was a straightforward affair for train crews and simply entailed driving the locos a mile to our new premises. We were allocated two roads for stabling and maintenance where a fuelling point had already been installed outside the depot entrance. The wagon shop itself was big enough to contain our old shed several times with nineteen roads leading from a huge yard containing hundreds of wagons waiting repair. There was a staff of over two hundred workers and clerical staff, looked over by a Depot Engineer from his own elaborate office.

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We felt like the poor relations who had arrived homeless. The two storey complex had been built ten years before and had an impressive entrance with plate-glass frontage complete with lawn and waving pampas grass. We had also been allocated half a dozen tables with window views of the lawn in a mess room as big as a ballroom. This didn’t go down too well with the natives, some of whom were barred from their favourite seats. ‘I’m bloody sure I’m not giving up my seat for a bunch of drowsy loco drivers’. Their hostility was glaringly obvious especially when one or two hotheads ignored the order and were told to move by an officious head clerk. Not many of the workers appreciated the fact that those ‘poncey drivers’ had spent most of their lives shovelling coal on a swaying footplate.

We still retained a couple of class 37s as taking coal to Newcastle (literally) was now on our traffic agenda. These massive loads of over two thousand tons needed the combined weight of two 37s developing three and a half thousand horsepower. I remember setting off with one such train from Townhill Yard with the throttles wide, the roar from the engines shaking the office windows and echoing back from Kingseat Hill. The sense of power from merely opening a lever made driving an 8F Austerity seem tame. I recall leaving Townhill Loop driving one of these trains with the throttle wide, the spasmodic backfiring from both engines echoing like cannon fire against the plate glass windows of the nearby wagon shops. There was an exhilaration at controlling such power by a mere twist of the wrist in contrast to the manual effort needed to handle an 8F Austerity. A load such as this would have taxed the efforts of three 8Fs. With nearly all signal boxes gone, points and signals were now controlled from Edinburgh with our train rumbling on relentlessly making a long detour through Thornton, following the coast route past Kinghorn and Burntisland, then coasting downhill past Petticur Sands. People on the beach scarcely bother to look in

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our direction. In steam days children would run towards passing trains waving wildly, excited when a driver tooted the whistle in acknowledgement. The tunnels leading up to the Forth bridge were no longer a formidable challenge to a sweating fireman. I inwardly hoped that we would continue on to Newcastle stopping at Haymarket to pick up a conductor driver. But on seeing a loco crew on the station platform I knew we were being relieved from duty. The Haymarket men weren’t going to allow Fifers to take over their patch. These coal trains were soon taken over by Haymarket and our 37s were transferred to an English depot. Other than the working merry-go-rounds we were now down to three goods trains and a local train to work Rosyth Dockyard and Crombie Depot referred to as the ‘Cracker Factory’ by one guard. This particular character, Davy Roe, was in turn dubbed ‘Oh Dee Roe’ thanks to his high pitched wailing tone of voice.

As a precaution against some future financial crisis I began secretly stashing part of my wage in my locker in the mess hall. As the months passed I found myself with enough to embark on a more ambitious holiday. When I announced that I was thinking of taking our family to Jersey, Chris was over the moon. We had made one trip to London travelling on the night train from Edinburgh and returning the following evening, but this would be for a week with a six hour boat trip from Weymouth. With my railway passes our outlay for the entire journey came to three pounds for Port Tax.

Diesel: pros and cons Back at work one became increasingly aware of the need for increased vigilance when crossing or walking on the Permanent Way because of the speed and silence of diesels coasting downhill.

Most locos wore a drab green livery that almost blended with the railway embankments. Following several accidents the front of

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all diesels was painted bright yellow with ‘sound horn’ boards on blind bends and walled cuttings. In spite of this I remember shunting ballast material in Ladybank Yard sidings when news of a terrible accident reached us. The team of surface men were working on the line at Falkland Road Station with a lookout posted on an overhead bridge over a wall cutting. It seems the lookout was distracted by something, failing to sound warning to his colleagues, as a fast goods bound for Dundee swept downhill. The workers, with no warning or time to scramble onto the platform, had no chance. Three of them were mown down by the 2000 HP diesel. Two of the men came from Dunfermline, one of whom I knew by sight.

Diesel locos were more awkward to climb in and out of, the driver having to lean backwards taking all his weight on his forearms, while looking down at the narrow footsteps. In steam days a fireman could ride on the footstep with one hand nonchalantly holding onto the rail. With our Class 37s and Submarines gone and our activities mainly confined to MGR block load trains supplying Long Annet and Cockenzie [Edinburgh] Power Stations we were left with a batch of Class 20 English Electrics and a couple of Class 22 Sulzers. Compared to the Deltics and Class 47s based in depots like Haymarket our Class 20s seemed more like metal boxes with an engine. Furthermore their single cab had no insulation or lining and in spite of heaters felt like sitting in an ice box during winter.

Crews resorted to stuffing newspaper into the doorways to keep out penetrating drafts. Suffering long periods of this together with having to sit for hours on end inhaling diesel fumes was more detrimental to health than smoke and steam.

After closing most of the branch lines and signal boxes in the area, ‘single manning’ was introduced on many trains, thus pioneering the term ‘two for the price of one’. This was a mixed blessing not having

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to share an already fumes-laden cab with a chain smoking mate or being obliged to remind certain overbearing individuals that you were the man in charge. The downside was the boredom and sense of loneliness plus for me the loss of a chance to improve my sketching with a reliable mate doing the driving. The thought of the night shift Mossend goods run began filling me with apprehension bordering on dread. Signing on duty at a few minutes before midnight, I was already half dazed from lack of proper sleep having up till then relied on a mate to share the long vigil. Now I was obliged to go it alone.

Thanks to an alert young mate, Brian, who today drives Inter City express diesels, we had managed to avert a spectacular derailment on this same run a few months earlier. We had set off from Oakley Yard finding great difficulty in propelling our load on to the running line.

Our guard, an unreliable character known to fortify himself with a few cans, was waving a lamp from the van. ‘I’ll bet that bastard hasn’t released the wagon brakes, Brian!’ Brian dropped off the slow moving diesel to check this out, returning to say this wasn’t the case.

When we gained the running line the signalman diverted us down the running loop because of another train approaching from Alloa.

Crawling cautiously at walking pace, braking continuously, well aware that only a flimsy buffer end stood between us and a hundred foot drop into Blairhall Burn. But our sixty ton Class 22 was no match for a three or four hundred ton loose coupled load. With every jab on the brakes the speedometer dropped to zero meaning we were sledging along on the greasy rail. Worse still, the brakes took agonising seconds to release, with our speed increasing alarmingly.

Half way down the loop we were doing fifteen miles per hour with no hope in hell of stopping. ‘I’ll bet he hasn’t bothered to use his van brake!’ With visions of plunging down the gully with tons of coal cascading after us I made a desperate decision. ‘Let’s bail out, Brian!’

Instantly recovering from the shock of this war comic phrase, he

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quickly followed me through the cab door and we landed scrambling on the soft ash ballast.

‘Try to get some wagon brakes down!’ Between us being dragged along feverishly dropping heavy brake levers and inserting the retaining pins we managed to slow the train enough to lessen the impact of hitting the buffer end. It was mainly Brian’s youth and determination that succeeded in doing this. Count how many wagons that ‘Krack’ has hung on our train!’ It turned out we were eight wagons over our load, the equivalent of a hundred tons. Our guard appeared wondering what was up and I leave you to imagine our reply. Even more annoying than his drinking on duty was his way of putting the blame on others by lying through his teeth. I dubbed him The Treacherous Guardsman.

Now, single manned, with the difficulty of fighting off sleep and boredom while staring into darkness for the next signal, I found myself thinking that I’d rather be back shovelling coal on Glenfarg. Our load from Mossend usually consisted of heavy molasses tanks for Alloa Brewers, or agricultural lime and explosives for Bobside Sand Quarries.

With a five-mile downhill gradient from Cumbernauld, snaking through woodlands and a long wet tunnel, this had to be approached with caution after a fast approach from Bailiston, braking progressively to reduce speed to fifteen miles per hour. I never exceeded this speed on this downhill stretch but with the weight of the train, the leaves covering the rails and the wetness of the tunnel it required careful braking to control momentum, somewhat like trying to slow a toboggan on ice. After a short application of the brake the speedo would drop to zero meaning the wheels were sledging along the rails. Fighting the urge to increase brake pressure I’d force myself to release it, watching the speedo needle suddenly spring to life, registering 20 mph. I frantically stamped on the sander button, again applying the brake with the same result. The diesel swept through the dark confines of the tunnel now travelling at 30mph with my anxious eyes willing the next signal to show green. Green Hill

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Heather and Glen, 1973, my two children from my marriage to Chris junction lay two miles ahead where this line would converge with the main line from Glasgow Queen Street. There was a fifty-fifty chance that my train would be diverted into a dead-end loop with slip rail.

Better to derail a runaway goods than have a collision with a passenger train. Luckily the signals were in my favour.

These conditions only existed for a week or two during the autumn but human failing could be equally alarming. Falling asleep whilst driving a train sounds unforgivable but this little admitted situation happened occasionally especially with characters like myself who burned the candle at both ends by not having adequate sleep at home.

On this same downhill stretch I’ve awoken with a start to find the needle at 30mph. Fortunately, dry conditions made it possible to bring the train under control. To combat this overpowering urge to drop off I would stand up, stamping my feet, humming a tune with the cab

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window wide open. In contrast, our MGR trains were double manned, the second man having to couple on and off between trips from the collieries and power stations. The forty-one block loads required the combined efforts of three class 20s, two in tandem controlled by one driver with a single loco assisting on the other end. Thus we were a crew of five including the guard, with radio contact to keep everyone informed at all times.

Naturally, the novelty of having phones invoked banter and humorous sayings such as ‘the blunt end’, ‘sharp end’ or ‘wagons roll’. Fuelling and checking the radiators became seeing ‘the horses are fed and watered,’ a term passed on from steam days. These two way conversations served to relieve the boredom of sitting in a vibrating cab making the same journey to and from the power stations day after day. Loading fortyone wagons meant crawling at a snail’s pace through the weighbridge, with another half-mile-an-hour, nerve-wracking crawl dumping coal in the plant. I say ‘nerve-wracking’ as our speed was critical. A sudden surge could cause extensive damage to the unloading mechanism, which would be charged to British Rail.

Before entering the plant the second man on the double loco would duck between the buffers of his locos to isolate the power, reversing the procedure after the entire train was clear of the plant. This simple operation resulted in a terrible accident early one winter’s morning.

Having cleared the plant the leading loco applied the brakes whilst the driver on the rear dropped off to open the isolating cock allowing his second man to drive. He automatically took over his duties. As he squeezed between the locos the leading driver released the through brake causing the wagons to surge back. The tensioning of forty odd couplings caused a sudden backward surge of almost fifty feet, enough to send the rear loco back onto the extended steel rams in the plant.

Alfie was caught unawares and crushed between the footplate and the ram, dying instantly. Crews were shocked by the news and much

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334 Pen and Wash, A4 Pacific Streamliner crossing Forth Bridge, 1992

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speculation was made as to who was to blame. A private enquiry was held, the results of which were never revealed. The crews involved remained silent about it. From then on drivers were reluctant to perform this simple duty, just as in the old days of steam when drivers weren’t expected to couple up engines.

Ageing mysteriously Reporting for duty one morning in 1972, a brown envelope bearing my name and staff number was pushed through the sliding office window.

It contained a return ticket to Glasgow with a short note instructing me to report to the medical officer for my fiftieth birthday examination.

‘Fifty! God!’ I suddenly became aware that I was a middle-aged man with only fifteen years working life ahead of me. I remembered during the war regarding our group captain who was forty as an old man.

When I first met Chris who was eleven years my junior I had knocked five years off my age not wanting her to think me too old. My plan had been to discreetly add a year now and then to build up to my true age!

I did not like hearing someone remark, ‘I see you’re fifty now, Will!’

I still had a desire to ride motorcycles. When one of the drivers had an accident on his year old 175 cc Bantam he decided that he no longer wanted to ride it, though repaired and looking like new. ‘Anyone can have it for fifty quid!’ he announced. I promptly took up his offer.

Impressed by the machine’s pristine condition in its crimson metallic livery, I drove it home proudly, hardly noticing Chris’s ill-disguised lack of interest. After all, the money could have been put to more practical use and we already had a car and I think she saw my interest in motorcycles as isolating. She would be left with the children whilst I swanned around on my new toy. But after a few weeks of riding aimlessly around the countryside with no real destination in mind I sold the Bantam for what I paid for it and instead later planned a holiday during the summer. We also began making regular short term

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visits to London where my eldest daughter now lived and worked.

With Chris employed as a cook we were able to afford minor luxuries such as a fridge and a three-year-old car.

My boredom with being a diesel driver reached a peak, compounded by the dwindling variety of work, thanks to the closure of most branch lines in the area. With jobs being cancelled crews would spend a working week sitting around the mess hall dozing or playing cards.

One positive outcome was that, always with a sketch pad and pencils to hand, I produced some detailed, painstaking drawings of steam locos which I would never have tackled sitting at home. The wagon shop staff had now come to accept us as fellow workers and one lad, Taffy, remarked one day, ‘I never see you drawing a diesel, Bill?’ Taking up his challenge I spent half my shift standing sketching a class 26 Sulzer which did have some character to it. I pinned my finished drawing on the Mess notice board but it disappeared next morning. Later, I was approached by the depot engineer, normally a remote figure who spent most of his time sitting in his private office. ‘I was so impressed by your drawing Willy that I now have it on the wall of my office.’

Return Visit to Lossiemouth I had told Chris tales about being stationed in Lossiemouth during the war. As a surprise she booked an eight-berth caravan near the south beach in Lossiemouth for our next summer vacation. At first, I wasn’t too pleased, preferring the milder weather in the Lake District. But as we drove past Aberdeen heading for Elgin memories came flooding back and I experienced a growing sense of nostalgia. Branching off towards Lossiemouth through endless belts of fir trees, we passed the entrance to a cemetery a mile outside the village. My mind went back to that night when the Wellington Bomber just missed our billet crashing into trees. After picking up the keys from the site manager, a friendly young man who rode around on a scrambler motorbike, we

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parked beside our caravan which proved better than expected. Little more than a stone’s throw from the beach, the site was pleasant and secluded with a wooden bridge spanning a shallow stream leading to an endless expanse of silvery sands. This stretched into the far distance curving around Moray Bay. Our manager friend said he often rode six miles along the firm sands to Buckie.

The weather was kind to us and the children spent most of their time on the beach. I drove up to Lossiemouth RAF station standing outside the same main gate we were driven through after being picked up at the station more than thirty years before. When buying some postcards I asked the elderly shop keeper if she knew where any RAF men were buried. She suggested Elgin or Kinloss. ‘There’s also our local cemetery about a mile out of town on the back road to Elgin.’ The next morning I left Chris doing a crossword in the caravan, and walked the pleasant woodland road to the cemetery gates. I was surprised at the well-kept neatness with glass covering porcelain flowers still intact and the orderly paths and elaborate headstones. I walked along glancing at headstones realising it covered quite an area.

Then continuing on a downward slope I came upon row after row of plain granite headstones each bearing the Royal Air Force crest with name rank and numbers beneath. Now dry mouthed with emotion and growing excitement I scanned each carved epitaph as I passed. Sergeant Pilot Robert Allan, Flight Sergeant Air Gunner Walter Rutland and dozens more, the dates spanning six years, mostly in groups of four and five showing that an entire crew had perished together. The realisation that most of these young men had died in training accidents made clear the awful scale of lives lost throughout the country, of those not listed among the fifty-five thousand who perished in bomber command operations.

I came to the last row of graves thinking that the lads I sought must be buried elsewhere. Then my heart leapt when I read Sergeant Philip

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Collins pilot died 8th September 1943. I had a mental image of his eager young face with its gentle Welsh accent asking me if I would like to join his crew. Next to him was Sergeant Rother, his wireless operator from Trinidad. I swallowed a lump in my throat remembering his raucous voice; and to think he could be lying in his place. I stood longer looking around in sadness at the neat rows of headstones, listening to the birds chirping and gazing at the peaceful surroundings which contrasted with their violent end trapped in a blazing bomber.

There was no sign of Hammond, his Welsh navigator. Some of the relatives must have insisted on having the remains of their lost son or husband sent home. I looked up suddenly startled by an ear-shattering road as two Buccaneer jets hurtled over the tree tops. Lossiemouth was now an RNAF base. Leaving the cemetery I stopped to look back at the silent reminder of those eager faced young men. I returned to the campsite in a sombre mood which was soon dispersed by Chris’s cheery greeting.

Next day, out of morbid curiosity I went back to the scene of the fateful crash at Milton Airfield, now a radio satellite station, surprised to find it was little more than two miles from the cemetery I had visited. It was a bigger surprise to find the Nissen Huts and Sergeant’s Mess Hall still standing. I recognised our own Nissen Hut standing at the edge of the field with the fateful clump of firs on the far side. My haste to reach those trees caused a nasty incident. Rather than scramble through the barbed wire fence I made a hurried detour around a tight bend in the narrow side road. Next thing I knew was a car cutting the corner coming straight at me. I instinctively threw myself onto the sloping embankment, cutting my hands on tangled brambles. The driver never bothered to slow down. At the time I saw this as an irony of fate: almost killed revisiting the scene of others’ remembered deaths.

In the crash area the shattered tree stumps were long gone with new trees filling in the gaps. But poking around with a stick I uncovered

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Showing my model train to Coca Cola representative 1979

Model train made from Coca Cola cans 340

fragments of aluminium and what looked like part of the cowling of one of the Hercules’ engines. I sat down on a tree stump and ate a cheese sandwich which I had brought with me, idly enjoying the blue sky and warm sunlight shafting through the trees. It all seemed so long ago and hard to believe that it really happened. Then a brightly painted Hawker Hunter appeared in the sky and began making successive low level runs over me. Surprised at seeing this now obsolete fighter still in active service I remembered that Milltown was now an early warning radar station and this was a training exercise for the ground operators.

Next day I made a visit to nearby Kinloss airfield, which operated Nimrods and Shackletons. The latter was a cumbersome, four engine prop-driven aircraft, descendant of the Lancaster Bomber and slowly being replaced by Nimrods. In my efforts to get near the main runway to take photos of the Shackletons I came across a derelict area, obviously a dump for damaged aircraft and equipment with the wreckage of a Shackleton dominating the scene. What excited me more was the still recognisable remains of an old wartime Whitley Bomber which trained OTU crews serving there.

I remembered watching them doing ‘fighter affiliation’ with Kitty Hawk fighters during my time at Milltown. As the fighter made its attack the lumbering Whitley would drop his undercarriage and apply full flap almost at a standstill, causing the fighter to overshoot before the pilot could line him up in his ring sight. This relic must have lain here forgotten since the end of the war. On my way back to our campsite, I noticed the cemetery there and stopped out of curiosity.

Again, I came across several hundred RAF graves, and among them the crew of a German Reconnaissance Bomber which had been shot down over the Moray Firth.

I recalled reading a newspaper article in 1944 when the pilot of a high altitude spitfire shot down a high-flying bomber over North East

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Scottish coastland. The media exaggerated this pilot’s account of the action quoting ‘the air was so thin that the pressurised spitfire barely reached the bomber, and the sky had become dark mauve, but he managed to get off a burst causing the bomber to spiral earthwards’.

Years later I read French pilot, Pierre Clostermann’s ‘Big Show’ in which he describes shooting down this very bomber in his book. We live in a small world and I never dreamed that half a century after the war I would go on meet Group Captain Johnny Johnston, the top scoring fighter ace, in person at a model aircraft display held at Balado Airfield a few miles from Dunfermline. Returning to the caravan Chris remained her happy self, never complaining about my wandering absences whilst she looked after the children.

Guests on the footplate During the steam days, inspectors and the like would turn a blind eye to what went on aboard the footplate provided it didn’t result in accidents or excessive late running. Drivers on goods or even passenger trains would allow farm workers or factory girls to ride on board the footplate sitting in the driver’s seat whilst he stood behind keeping an eye on them. The diesel changed all this frivolity resulting in what had once been a common occurrence becoming regarded as a lifethreatening violation of rules and regulations - which almost got me sacked. In the good old days I recall taking my eldest son John, then twelve years old, on Oakley Yard Pilot where I was acting driver for a week shunting wagons. Though steam still reigned supreme, yard shunters were being replaced by 350hp English Electrics which could be driven by a child under parental guidance. John spent hours at the controls with me in close attendance with no complaints from the yard staff though they were fully aware of this.

Thus twenty years later I decided to ignore regulations to take my youngest son Glen, on a trip on our Millar Hill Backshift Goods.

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Driving a class twenty diesel (apart from its 70 mph top speed) was as simple as its 350hp counterpart. He remained in our car while I signed on duty then, doubling back to the car park, I led a bewildered Glen on a back route to the outside shed where my loco stood idling in partial darkness. As I guided him up into the cab I glanced towards the floodlit area at the inspection pit and fuelling point where several silhouetted figures were serving another diesel.

I felt a sudden twinge of anxiety realising that I too must have stood out against the nearby yard lights. With the cab lights out and telling Glen to keep out of view I moved off towards the yard to pick up our train and guard. Backing on to our train, my first hint of foreboding was the guard’s obvious reluctance to climb into the cab calling out the weight of our train, etc standing below. Beside him, Jock the wagon examiner who lived in Inverkeithing and usually got a lift home with me, called up, ‘I’ll be getting the bus home tonight, Willie’. This seemed odd, Jock being careful with the pennies and now prepared to make two separate bus trips. As we rolled out of the yard, the yard inspector had left his office to stand watching our exit, hurrying back inside as the train snaked onto the running line. Glen now sat in the opposite seat wearing one of my railway caps, staring out into the darkness.

Coasting past an Asda car park at twenty miles per hour, I gave no more thought to the attitude of the guard and yard staff.

Leaving Inverkeithing, I allowed Glen in the driver’s seat standing with a careful eye behind him and within easy reach of the controls.

As it was all uphill to the Forth Bridge he sat with his hand on the wide open throttle, thundering through both tunnels which must have been an unforgettable experience for an eight year old. With all signals showing green I eased back the throttle for the speed restriction over the bridge. Crossing this famous bridge for over thirty years in all weathers, it was routine to me but I felt pleasure at being able to give my son an experience that most boys would never have. We arrived

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at Millar Hill Yard without incident and sat in the cab having our sandwiches whilst the yard pilot shunted out our train for the return trip. I remember wondering why a 1,350hp shunter stopped opposite our cab for a couple of minutes with three occupants staring across at us in the darkness. On the climb back from Dunfermline Lower to Townhill Yard I had a premonition, wondering if I should slow the train to walking speed, allowing Glen to drop off at Woodmill at a point barely a hundred yards from our house. But the lad was asleep and I felt this would be unfair.

Coupling off our engine I was surprised when the shunter announced that the points were all set for the fuelling point. With Glen still asleep, I coasted to a stop under the arc lights just as two figures converged on either side of the cab. The cab doors flew open and two grim faced plain clothes police closed on me. ‘You’ve been caught allowing a juvenile aboard your locomotive causing danger to the travelling public!’ Waiting below was the shift supervisor. ‘You’re really in big trouble this time!’ One of the officers led me bewildered from the loco.

A mixture of dismay and anger welled up as I grasped what I felt to be a planned conspiracy from the moment a ‘responsible employee’ had reported seeing a small boy climbing into the cab. I felt that the whole incident could have been resolved at the start of the shift by the yard inspector saying, ‘We know you have your son in the cab, we’ll take him home ‘. Instead, they played me like an angler with a fish!

On impulse I threw my heavy bardic lamp as hard as I could, hitting one of the steel doors outside the shed shouting, ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be needing this thing anymore’.

I was allowed home after an interrogation where I was told I could report for duty next evening but would be confined to the mess room till an enquiry was held. Naturally, everyone in the depot knew about my blatant disregard for authority with most of the lads reluctant to ask me about it. My obvious attitude of suspicion and anger,

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wondering which workmate had reported the incident, didn’t help things. My faith in human nature took a further dive when I was called into the Area Manager’s office. ‘I don’t want you bearing a grudge against your fellow workers!’ and he explained that while he had been walking his dog in Asda car park my train had rumbled by.

He continued, saying, ‘I could see that one of the crew was a small boy’. I knew instantly that this was impossible. Only an owl could have picked out the occupants of a diesel rushing past in darkness some thirty yards distant. But one doesn’t call the Area Manager a liar so I nodded resignedly. He rounded off by saying he didn’t want to see me being dismissed and that I should submit a report explaining my actions before my fate was decided.

I left his office feeling distrust and even more nauseated by the closing of ranks among my so called workmates. A week went by with me confined to sitting around the mess hall during which I wrote a letter admitting to being an over-indulgent father who wanted to give his son something to remember in later years. I was again called into the shift supervisor’s office. Mick had been a driver himself and so was popular with the men, being regarded as one of the lads. ‘You can’t put this into the Manager’s office, Willie! It’s like saying “Yes I did it, so what?”’ ‘I was being honest about it, Mick!’ I protested. ‘Those bastards won’t see it that way!’ he replied. With that he tore up my letter and dropped it in the waste basket. ‘Here’s what you have to do!’

Mick then came up with a melodramatic story like something out of a People’s Friend romance. ‘You had a blazing row with your wife and she left you and moved in with her parents leaving you with the kids!’

I stared at him in bewilderment. ‘You had no one to keep an eye on your eight-year-old son so you were forced to bring him to work with you!’ He spread his hands in a gesture of problem solved awaiting my approval. ‘But that’s bull shit, Mick!’ Mick’s eyes hardened. ‘I know! and they’ll know! but I’m only trying to save your job!’

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I’d seen so much underhandedness over the past week, what did a few more lies matter? I felt a right idiot sitting writing this sad tale with Mick standing over me dictating its wording. I remember that the morning I was due to appear for sentencing, the Rail News magazine ran an article about Jimmy Savile with a coloured snap of the man himself smiling from the driver’s seat of an Intercity 125 as it hurtled along at 100 mph. I was duly given a mild reprimand from the Area Manager. ‘And I trust your domestic problems have been resolved.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’ I wondered what Bryce Thomson or some of the other old time Footplate Men would have had to say about this whole business.

Model trains and a model colleague With the demise of steam depots were closing down, with Alloa Shed, Stirling and Grangemouth already gone. I was conducting a Perth driver from Larbert to Edinburgh and he mentioned that Townhill Depot was destined for closure within the next six to eight months. Taken aback, I said we had never heard anything about this. ‘I’ve seen it in black and white that Thornton is to be the only depot in Fife.’ We were about to disappear like the miners in the area. I still had a few working years ahead of me and the thought of looking for another job didn’t appeal.

Anyhow, I had just escaped from being sacked so at least I would be one of many now.

The aesthetic beauty I saw in Stanier’s LMS Engines as a rookie engine cleaner in Stirling had left an indelible image which never faded over the years. Not satisfied by constantly sketching and painting Black Fives and Duchess Class engines I decided to build a relief model of a ‘Duchess’ using wood and mounting card. Having constructed model aeroplanes and with rudimentary draughtsmanship I completed the eighteenth scale ‘Duchess of Rutland’ in twelve weeks, painted in LHS maroon livery and mounted in gold framing. I took it to work

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on request having described my efforts to workmates. Who better to judge its authenticity? Naturally, there was the odd severe critic with comments like, ‘That gold lining on the tender looks a bit Waverley,’ but one comment, though made in all innocence by our Depot Engineer who was due to retire, really deflated my ego. ‘That would look nice hanging in my cottage in West Scotland. I’ll give you three pounds for it.’ The frame itself had cost me ten pounds never mind the three months of workmanship. But one doesn’t tell his boss to get stuffed!

The months rolled by with no sign of our shed going under the hammer. In fact we were running additional coal trains from Seafield to Cockenzie Power Station, south of Edinburgh. This made a welcome diversion from the monotony of shuttling to and from Longannet. I was fortunate to have a reliable mate in Alan Reid who took the job seriously and was friendly and obliging with it. One disgruntled second man I had words with remarked in anger, ‘Alan Reid spoiled you! He let you sleep or draw all day while he did the driving!’ I remember answering, ‘Well one thing’s certain, George, you won’t ever touch the throttle when I’m in charge!’

Engrossed by my artistic endeavours at home I had developed a habit of working late into the night when the house was quiet and the rest of the family were in bed. I often arrived for a shift having had insufficient sleep. Coasting downhill from the Forth Bridge, heading back to Seafield one evening, I was sound asleep in the secondman’s seat with my feet up on the window ledge with Alan at the controls. I became aware of being gently shaken, blinking awake with Alan looking down on me. ‘Sorry to disturb your sleep Will, but we’ve just lost an engine.’

After several failed restarts this now meant we had barely two minutes to decide on stopping at Inverkeithing and being shunted into the yard rather than risk the climb to Aberdour on one engine. ‘We’ll give it a go, Alan!’ This meant taking the slow curve through Inverkeithing in excess of 30 mph to maintain momentum for the two mile gradient

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348 Pen and Wash ‘Black Power’ engine shed, 1978

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ahead. I struggled with drowsiness, and was barely aware of our class twenty bellowing its head off on full throttle, struggling with the added dead weight of its sister loco. Staggering over the summit at barely 10 mph Alan breathed a sigh of relief closing the throttle for the downhill sweep to Burntisland. Again, an even tighter curve through the station before a shorter uphill slog to Kinghorn Tunnel. It was a disappointment when a change in rosters landed me with another mate, which could mean being cooped up with a chain smoker or some senior second man who felt that he, really, should be the driver.

Arriving in Inverkeithing Loop one afternoon on a local goods bound for Rosyth Naval Dockyard and Wards Shipyard I was surprised to see four or five Britannia Class Steam Locos standing forlornly in the yard sidings. These had found their way here from well south of the border. Names like Oliver Cromwell and William Shakespeare had never appeared in this area. With time to spare I climbed one footplate with the intention of trying to salvage the nameplate before it fell victim to acetylene torches. But this was flush riveted on and beyond my efforts. They must have survived as years later they adorned the walls in York Museum.

Pleased with my efforts in building the Duchess Class wall plaque I thought, ‘Why not build a full model?’ I set about sketching diagrams on the method of construction along with 18th scale plan views of ‘Kolapur’ a 5XP Jubilee Class loco that I had actually fired and driven during the Oakley exchange days. This again would be a static scale model with refinements learned from my wall plaque. I’d first thought that this would merely entail twice the number of wheels with a full boiler and tender but as work progressed I found there was a lot more to it than that. For one thing the wheels would all have to fit squarely on the rails, with the Walshert gear in different positions on either side.

On the Duchess I had used thin card perforated to show rivet effect.

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This time I hit on the idea of using McEwans export tins cutting them to size using Swiss army knife scissors. The finished model adorned with McEwans tins took over eight months to complete. Mounted on rail with cardboard sleepers it was a work of art, even though I say this myself, with minute details such as sand pipes, brake bearing and hand rails. I sent snaps to McEwans who sent a photographer and rep to the house. An article appeared in a trade magazine and I was given four dozen tins of lager, and I don’t drink! Later I painted the model in LMS maroon.

Age, dams and a wedding I awoke one morning. Another birthday had arrived and thinking of the ‘three score and ten’ yardstick, I thought, ‘God, I’ll be a pensioner in seven years time!’ Up till now, growing old was something that happened to other people, but like a roller-coaster ride the finishing point was looming ahead. There would also be the awkward moment of having to explain to Chris how our age gap had ‘suddenly widened’ by five years. Advancing years aside, driving diesels was beginning to take its toll on my physical condition. My then thirteen and a half stone was well above average for five foot seven, and not bothering to diet or exercise wasn’t helping.

During a cold snap with freezing temperatures I dug out my ice skates and drove to my old stomping ground, Luscar Dam, together with Glen, now twelve, and my eldest boy, John. Naturally, Max our springer spaniel came along. It was a beautiful mid-February day with the inviting expanse of ice mirroring a cloudless blue sky. I hastily laced up my boots, clumping awkwardly onto the ice before gliding off across it. Though three or four inches thick, it clearly showed the weeds covering the dark green depths below my speeding blades. The sense of lurking danger coupled with the exhilaration of effortless motion filled me with breathless excitement. Then I realised that Max

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was bounding along behind me, skidding across the ice as he tried following my sudden turns. The two boys were sliding around some distance away. I remember glancing behind to see how Max was doing and felt a stab of alarm as he was nowhere to be seen. I shouted his name and suddenly saw his head appear through a hole in the ice.

I skated frantically towards the hole, my shouts attracting the boys who came shuffling towards me. Max’s wide-eyed head reappeared, his forepaws scrambling desperately on the jagged ice. I threw myself face down as near the hole as possible, digging my skates into the ice and grabbing desperately at the struggling animal. To my horror he again disappeared under the ice, his sodden coat slipping through my clutching fingers. I felt a wave of heart-rending despair as I gazed into the empty icy depth. Then as if by a miracle his head erupted above the surface and I dug my fingers into the nape of his neck holding on like grim death. I felt hands grabbing my ankles as Glen and John came to my aid. Between us we somehow managed to drag the heavy, exhausted dog onto the ice and found myself sobbing with relief. It was bitterly cold and Max’s sodden body was already beginning to freeze. We carried him quickly back to the car where I rubbed him down with a blanket. Next day he was none the worse for his ordeal.

Luscar Dam in spite of its dangers seemed to have an irresistible attraction for me. That cold spell lasted for several days during which I continued skating, polishing up my long forgotten skills, but I left Max at home. I became so carried away by skating that I would arrive at the dam after dark, and glide across the frozen expanse feeling a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration, reliving my boyhood days of taking part in some dangerous prank as a ‘dare’. At least I now took the precaution of carrying a long six foot pole in both hands to support me should the ice give way.

My eldest daughter, Wilma, had been living and working in London since the early seventies. Chris and I had travelled by train to see

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her, and on these trips we visited Museums and Art Galleries and of course Buckingham Palace with the changing of the guards, etc. In 1982 Wilma got married in Marylebone Register office and I travelled alone to London to visit her before the ceremony. When we parted I had several hours to pass before heading back to Scotland and so I took the underground to Hendon Air Museum. I wandered around reliving the past, gazing pensively at wartime reminders such as the Wellington, and the Lancaster Bomber which seemed to stand aloof, surrounded by admiring enthusiasts. I spoke to an American couple on holiday and we exchanged some experiences, he having been a navigator on B17 Flying Fortresses during the massive daylight raids over Germany. On the trip back to King’s Cross our train was stopped for almost twenty minutes in the middle of the tunnels. I felt claustrophobia building up in me and had to fight the urge to get off the train and stumble towards daylight.

Resourcefulness and redundancies Back at work I was on a goods train shunting out empty tanks in a chemical works sidings at Polhaise, near Stirling. I was driving a Class 37 taking great care as the track was in terrible condition with rotting sleepers bouncing under the weight of our 100 ton loco. Moving at walking speed I felt the engine start to shimmy and shake, followed by a sudden jolt. The guard was shouting in alarm as the rails spread from under the front bogie wheels and they began chewing up the sleepers. Slamming on the brake I dropped off to view the damage.

The entire six wheels were now dug into the splintered sleepers which looked like a job for the steam crane. ‘What happens now, Will?’ asked the guard, who knew too that calling out the crane would mean being stuck here for hours. I had an idea. With the second man helping we dragged several sleeper off-cuts lying around the sidings and began packing them around the grounded wheels. I remembered how we had re-railed a 900 WP Submarine in Alloa Yard some years before. But

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the Class 37 weighed almost twice as much. Climbing into the driving seat with the guard and second man keeping an eye on the grounded bogie, I gently increased the throttle till the engine was almost on full power. I felt the cab lurching, with blue smoke coming from the spinning wheels of the other bogie, as they clawed for grip on the rusted rails. ‘She’s moving!’ came shouts from below, as the grounded wheels threw up ash and splintered wood digging a trough through broken ‘chairs’. ‘Whoa!’ I slammed the throttle shut and applied the brakes. ‘She’s back on the rails, Will!’ More by luck than skill our engine was back on track thanks to a bit of practical ingenuity which otherwise could have been a costly operation involving inspectors, men and the use of the steam crane. The railway turned a blind eye to such acts of resourcefulness by lowly employees provided it didn’t merit disciplinary measures being taken. The resulting repair to the track was a mere morning’s work to a few surface men based nearby.

The wagon shops had lost their contract for building wagons and were now reduced to repair work with the resulting loss of jobs.

With Barassie Works closed one could see the writing on the wall for the future of Townhill Depot. So it came as no surprise when official word came that our loco department was on the hit list. Speculation had it that drivers and second men would have the option of transferring to Thornton or Haymarket Depots. The air of despondency in the mess room reminded me of the days when Dunfermline loco shed was doomed for closure. It was a far cry from the old steam days which then looked to last forever. I wondered how some of those old time drivers who lived for their work would have reacted to this. When I spoke of the possible closure to Chris she however was quite enthusiastic at the prospect. ‘We could put in for a house exchange in Cardenden!’ where her relatives lived.

A new idea known as ‘Tops’ became the latest act of sabotage by the college-reared office staff who now ran the railways. On local

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trains the guard now had to report to the ‘Tops Clerk’ to pick up a detailed account of every wagon on the train we were about to lift.

Each wagon serial number and details were listed with the result a guard could spend up to an hour waiting on this coming through the computer. In the old days we could lift a coal train from Valleyfield Pit in ten minutes. The guard also carried a list stating a specific time for having our ‘Personal Needs Break’. With signal delays, that break was sometimes due when we were racing down Lochelly Bank at forty miles an hour. For years I had been friendly with a second man, Jock, some eight years my junior. We got on well together and shared the same brand of dry humour which can be a comforting barrier against the increasing officialdom and the ‘Yes Sir, No Sir’ individuals who played by the rules.

We were together one week plying between Bowhill and Seafield, running coal to be washed. Our guard Georgie, dedicated to his job and studying the ‘Tops Sheet’ like Holy Writ, had a nasty temper, especially if his local crew showed little interest in listening to his chanting instructions. Jock and I had been reminiscing on some past events when something heavy struck the cab door. I slid open the side window and there was Geordie glaring up at me banging his shunter’s pole against the cab. ‘You two buggers had better pay attention. I’ve been waving like a silly bugger for ten minutes!’

‘Sorry Geordie!’ ‘Aye, well stop blathering and pay attention!’

Jock smiled across at me, ‘Geordie seems a bit annoyed?’ My knowledge of Geordie went back to the early fifties when he first became a goods guard and I a young fireman. I always saw him as a cap-in-hand employee respectfully deferring to authority.

A driver in those days was a force to be reckoned with, Geordie practically grovelling in their presence. I regarded his threats like a husband with a nagging wife accepting his indignant outbursts with resignation. The wartime epic, ‘Tora! Tora! Tora!’ was showing in the local cinema that week and whenever Geordie bore down on us

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with an angry glint in his eye, I would call out to my mate, ‘ Jock, look out! Geordie! Geordie! Geordie!’

Out of step, again In the face of all the closures the ASLEF Union called for a series of one day strikes with last minute notice as to what day these would take place. Apart from losing a day’s wages every week I found it annoying having to ask the Union Rep when the next strike would take place. I found his offhanded ‘you’ll see it on the news tonight’ irritating and asked, ‘What if I don’t have the news on?’ ‘That’s your problem!’ In the heat of the moment I replied, ‘Well, if I don’t see it, I’ll be reporting for duty’. ‘Suit yourself,’ he replied. The result was I turned up for work and was informed that I was the only ASLEF man who had reported for duty. Torn between the thought of being branded as a scab or laughed at for leaving the office with my tail between my legs I chose to sign on duty.

With a relatively small number of ASLEF men left in the depot, picketing wasn’t deemed necessary and I drove through the gates unhindered. But I was met with a frosty reception as I reported for duty with the Shift Supervisor reminding me, ‘ASLEF man! Turned up to work?’ I hesitated, wondering if I should turn tail for home. But the thought of driving out of the main gate under a battery of amused stares from the group of NUR members watching from the Mess Hall windows was unthinkable. It would also man backing down in the cynical eyes of our ASLEF representative. ‘Sign me on,’ I said, and the Supervisor did so after a searching look. I mounted the stairs to the mess room to await orders. Being morning break for the Wagon Shop Staff the mess was quite busy with a hum of conversation which faded as I entered. A dozen or so NUR locomen sat by the windows glancing towards me as if I had just arrived from another planet. One outspoken wagon shop lad called, ‘Are you not an ASLEF man, Will?’ I nodded

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silently. ‘You won’t be too popular with your mates then!’ I found an empty table and took out my sketchbook and pencil, aware that the NUR lads had no intention of fraternising with a strike-breaker. With all our trains cancelled at least I wouldn’t be taking an active part in undermining the strike.

But I was wrong. Sitting idly sketching amid an awkward silence, the mess door flew open as the Supervisor came breezing in. Control had ordered a train of loads to be run to Longannet Power! ‘Willy Gilmour, you take Donald Sinclair as second man and work the job.’ I could almost hear the note of gleeful satisfaction in his voice. An ex driver and devout ASLEF man himself I could almost sense him thinking, ‘I’ll sort that bastard out!’ The usually jovial Donald looked solemn and uncomfortable as he reluctantly rose to join me, backing the locos onto the train. Our guard must also have been notified of the situation, remaining aloof and non-committal. The trip was uneventful and with no trains running we arrived back at Townhill with our empties. But Control, eager to get their pound of flesh, asked the guard to carry on to Thornton and lift another train of loads for Longannet. ‘That’s all right by me but it depends on the driver!’ I realised that by doing this I would probably end up working overtime which was unthinkable during a strike. With a dozen spare drivers in the bothy I felt that this was rubbing my nose in it so I refused point blank.

After Coventry, the hand of fate in York.

Next day it was back to normal apart from being sent to Coventry by other ASLEF men. I was obliged to join the NUR, happy to win over a convert. These one day strikes continued for several weeks, seemingly ignored by the railway authorities. My long term friend Jock, himself an ASLEF man, was one of the few who bore no animosity over my action. ‘I admire you Will, for having the guts to stand by your decision!

I myself think these strikes are a waste of time.’ We discussed the

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proposed closure and the prospect of moving to another depot. ‘What about the big money driving the 125s to Newcastle, Will?’ ‘I suppose I will settle for Thornton rather than travel to and from Haymarket,’ I said. ‘ I feel I’ve had my bellyful of railways, Jock!’ ‘You’re not thinking of packing it in?’ he asked. ‘That depends on what they offer me.’

With that thought in mind Chris and I later visited York on a long weekend break staying in a bed and breakfast in the town centre. Our bedroom window gave us a close up view of York Minster and was an ideal base for sightseeing. We stopped to buy an old Toby Jug from a second hand shop. The elderly lady who ran it had the wise look of a fortune-teller about her and when I mentioned that I was an engine driver contemplating early retirement, she mused, ‘Perhaps you should. It may open up a new life for you!’ I had never thought of retiring as a new way of life, more like the end of the road. Suddenly the idea of being free to do as you please without bending to authority was something to think about. ‘Call again to let me know you made the right choice.’

The decision wasn’t easy. Glenrothes was not a town I wanted to live in but then again it would be a struggle to manage on a railway pension till I turned sixty-five. The railway was bent on thinning the ranks and displayed notices stating that any driver considering early retirement would be given an interview where all the pros and cons of a settlement would be fully explained. My purchase of the Toby Jug had a lot to answer for. I was marked up for this interview the following week. Several other drivers and a couple of guards had the same idea though I was the only one under sixty. It was a solemn occasion, sitting facing two inspectors thumbing through a sheaf of documents. I had a start of surprise on recognising one of the inspectors who was none other than Alex whom I had know as a friendly engine cleaner from Stirling shed days. The last I saw of him was during my runs to Cockenzie Power Station a year or

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two before. He was then a driver based at Millerhill Depot. I could sense that I was being encouraged to accept retirement as each of them pointed out the advantages. A lump sum of £12,000 plus a variable pension of £25 pounds a week didn’t sound much of a generous offer. ‘You’ll also get unemployment benefit for a year,’ Alex added cheerfully. An expectant silence filled the room as I sat trying to assess the balance: the advantages of a life of freedom against surviving on limited means. ‘You could always take up another job!’ one of them remarked. ‘Anyway, you have two weeks to think about it.’

Next day I was back on the job running coal from Seafield Colliery to Longannet with Jock as my second man. ‘What have you decided about finishing up then Will?’ We were rumbling along towards Longannet at 40mph with Jock at the throttle while I lay back in the ‘second dickey’ with my feet up idly watching the ancient burgh of Culross sweep past. ‘I’m still thinking, Jock!’ ‘How does Chrissy feel about you lying around the house while she goes out to work?’

The line followed the shoreline on the Forth, all the way from Torryburn to Kincardine with Bo’ness and Grangemouth clearly visible across the wide expanse of river. ‘D’ you think you’ll miss it, Will?’ ‘You’re talking as if I’ve already retired, Jock!’ I replied jokingly. During the remainder of that week I still hadn’t come to a decision but the thought of moving house to Glenrothes was now a grim prospect.

Still in two minds, I was working a special train, shunting bogie bolsters for weekend ballast work in Ladybank sidings. Our guard was none other than Geordie and my second man was an interfering pain in the neck who contradicted everything I said. He was six years my junior and bursting with self-importance. The combination of having to endure this pair for a week prompted my decision to opt for freedom and take the money. I handed in the completed form

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before signing off duty towards the end of the second week and the die was cast. Word quickly spread through wagonshops. Four drivers and a couple of guards had taken ‘the golden handshake’.

One cynical driver who had two jobs outside his railway work and a wife who earned a salary as a head clerk remarked, ‘Knowing Willy, he’ll have squandered his lump sum in less than six months!’

Then ASLEF, realising the futility of their one day strikes decided on an all out strike as a last resort in pushing their demands. As I was now an NUR member it looked as if I would spend my final days as a driver looking out the mess room window among the NUR men, staring down at the ASLEF pickets standing outside the main gate. These unfortunate pawns in the ASLEF could only reason with their NUR workmates, appealing to their better nature to join their cause, with little success. As for myself I was glared at in silent contempt as a turncoat who used the NUR as a refuge.

Supervisors were in the happy position of being salaried staff and above such activities as strike action. But as luck would have it, Jimmy the one time ASLEF driver was on duty when I signed on for work, as were a dozen other drivers or second men sitting around the mess room. I had hardly settled down with my sketch book open when Jimmy appeared. ‘Control is running a passenger special from Edinburgh to Dundee.’ His eyes were already on me.

‘You, Willy Gilmour and Donald Sinclair will relieve the Haymarket crew at Inverkeithing!’ Donald and I left the mess hall in silence though I sensed a sigh of relief from the others that this unenviable task had fallen to someone else. One of the fitters drove us by van to Inverkeithing where I half-expected some flying pickets to welcome us. ‘I hear those Dundee lads are pretty hot-headed, Will!’ muttered Donald. ‘Probably why the Haymarket men want relief,’ I said dryly.

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A class 27 Sulzer hauling six coaches came coasting into the station with its characteristic asthmatic idling engine beat. Two locomen dropped on the platform and hurried away without a word. ‘Sociable buggers aren’t they?’ said Donald as we mounted the cab. The guard came forward handing me a note with the required stops along the route. ‘The train is empty!’ he announced. As usual, the passsenger public hadn’t been informed that this special would be running.

Sitting at the controls with the Sulzer bellowing its song as we climbed away from Inverkeithing, I was saddened by how things had changed over the years. During the last days of steam I used to envy the Haymarket men sitting high and dry in this same type of diesel while I shovelled coal exposed to the elements. Right now, the last thing I wanted was to be driving this train, aware of the disturbing hostility and questions of morality attached to doing it. I tried consoling myself with the thought that I had already accepted retirement and that this was no longer my fight. It never entered my mind what my mate on the other side of the cab might be thinking nor did we discuss this. We made all the stops to Leuchars where two passengers, probably RAF servicemen, boarded the otherwise empty train. It was more or less a journey for nothing apart from a gesture of defiance from British Rail.

Lumbering across the Tay Bridge at 25mph with the remnants of its ill-fated predecessor still visible amid the swirling muddy waters below, I could well imagine how such a narrow spindly structure was swept away, plunging a passenger train to its doom. I braked for the tight curve dropping down towards Dundee where we would pass in full view of the locomotive depot sidings. This was the moment we had dreaded since boarding the engine at Inverkeithing. All seemed quiet but we knew that the station platform would be the most likely strategic point for any ‘welcoming committee’. We sat in silence, eyes glued to the platform ahead of us. Again this was deserted apart

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from a soft-hatted official, who tersely informed me that we would be working this train back to Edinburgh in an hour’s time. Donald duly coupled off and we rounded our carriages then backed our train into the station ‘dock siding’. Our return trip went without incident, with a feeling of relief that the chances of a hostile confrontation were now unlikely. The same loco crew relieved us at Inverkeithing having sat around awaiting our return. Again, we changed over in silence, each with his own thoughts.

This was a far cry from twenty years back when I had gained the distinction of being fireman on the only ever royal train worked by a Dunfermline crew. Today, I was the only ‘bloody driver’ in East Scotland to work a passenger train during an all out strike.

Thankfully, I wasn’t asked to repeat this, spending the next couple of days languishing in the mess hall. But it seemed that fate was determined to make my remaining days as uncomfortable as possible.

Out of the blue the NUR decided to back up ASLEF by joining their strike action. This placed me in the unenviable dilemma of either jeopardising my redundancy settlement or reporting for duty and becoming possibly the most despised railwayman in recent history.

It didn’t occur to me to wonder what the others who had also decided to take early retirement would do. Driving to work next morning, my mind racing and wondering how I would deal with the picket line which would surely be out in force, I felt a wave of helpless anger that fate had put me in this awful predicament only a few days before retirement.

The depot gates were set back from the road and hidden from view till one actually turned into them. Thus the line of six or more figures came as a mild shock as I turned slowly towards them and came to a stop. I knew every one of them. Rolling down the car window to state my case, I tried to sound matter of fact about this not being my fight as I had already accepted early retirement. These wagon shop lads were

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quite understanding, allowing me to pass through without argument.

‘Carry on Willie.’ Though relieved at having got off so lightly I still felt shamefaced at having used my retiral to advantage. But before long my actions would be just a memory.

The following day I drove through the gates with only an acknowledging nod from the picketers and signed on duty with barely a glance from the Supervisor. I spent the time scribbling away with little interest in my aimless drawings.

Later the Supervisor came into the mess hall and pinning up a notice he remarked dryly, ‘You won’t be sitting on your own much longer!’

I waited till he left before reading it. The railway company had really thrown down the gauntlet spurning the unions’ powers in a manner that was unheard of till now. The essence of this was that any employee who failed to report for duty within the next twenty-four hours could consider himself dismissed from employment. I couldn’t believe that this new regime running the railways was prepared to adopt such drastic tactics to undermine the unions’ resolve. Next day, the supervisor’s comment proved right as the mess room was well attended by silent, humbled locomen afraid of losing their jobs. I gained some satisfaction from now being one of many prepared to ignore their union’s decision.

Now others would appreciate what it felt like to have their own future on the line. In spite of this turn of events I wasn’t welcomed back into the fold, being given the cold shoulder by many, most of them ASLEF men who still saw me as a union turncoat. But then I had always been regarded as unsociable, preferring to sit apart sketching while everyone else chatted and played cards and discussed football, so was well used to keeping my own company.

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Reflections during my last week I had not planned to be a locomotive man, having originally applied for an engine cleaner’s job because it seemed better than filling coal sacks or slaving in the local brickworks. It was only after seeing the beauty of the LMS Stanier locomotives thundering past the cleaners’ booth in Stirling that I began to view railways in a new light. All I could do was admire their majestic power, the blue overalled figures who manned the footplate, and the swirling steam and smoke. It was not until much later that I was able to sketch such a complex mechanical beauty. The LNER had no such engines and I wished I had joined the LMS, little knowing that one day these railway companies would become one.

My last week was spent sitting around awaiting orders in the mess hall till the final shift when I was detailed to run a special ballast from Slateford Yard in Edinburgh. I left the shed with Tom Yates as second man driving a Class 22 Sulzer. Tom had started off as a yard shunter before becoming a guard. After five years he applied for the loco department and trained as a second man and now had a sound knowledge of railway working. We picked up a guard and van then drove to Slateford to learn our train would consist of a special vehicle for examining bridges. Our destination: the viaduct spanning the river Devon near Clackmannan. It seemed fitting that I should be driving this train on the very branch line I had ridden as acting fireman on the footplate of a J36. That was forty-one years ago during my first experience aboard a goods train. Travelling along the single line branch line, we passed through the long forgotten, overgrown station platforms such as Culross, Kincardine, Kilbagie and Clackmannan.

How often I had scrambled on and off the footplate shifting siding points and throwing on couplings to assist the guard. Our guard must have mentioned my retiral to the bridge inspector in charge, as he came forward to wish me luck for the future.

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Examining the viaduct entailed positioning the vehicle in various points on the span to enable the inspector to swing out and under the supporting pillars in a special bucket attached to the articulated arm of the crane. I found it fascinating seeing him disappearing under the bridge itself where he was able to chip away at the brickwork testing its condition. I was tempted to ask him to allow me to join him as the bucket itself was a robust structure. He spent over two hours doing his tests during which I wandered along the track towards the site where Kincardine Signal Box had once stood. I remembered a well-mannered lady signalman being in charge there when I first returned from the Airforce in 1947 and wondered what became of her. Finally, the inspection being completed, the crane was made secure and we set off back to Slateford. I was aware that this was the end of an era, watching the changing scenery drift past as I drove along the branch line for the last time. Disposing of the crane in Slateford we headed back to Townhill Yard where we dropped off our van.

As our Class 22 rolled towards the Wagon Shop sidings Tom remarked: ‘Well, this is the last time you’ll ever drive a train!’ I nodded glumly, wondering if I had made the right choice. Climbing down from the footplate we made our way through the silent workshops. It was almost five, and the workers had long gone home. Tom made his way upstairs to the mess room while I, with no reason or inclination to say goodbye to whoever would be sitting there, showed myself to the shift supervisor who signed me off duty, probably unaware that this was my last shift. I paused for a moment to glance at the noticeboards, then walked through the swing doors heading for the car park. Starting the car engine, I drove slowly past the main buildings.

I passed through the gates for the last time without as much as a backward glance. The thought of being retired felt like entering a different world where one was no longer of any consequence in society. Little did I know what adventures, undreamed of at that moment, still lay ahead of me.

The Road’s Beyond Retiral.

The End

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