ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝

MY “COOK’S TOUR”

When we were very young I am sure most of us held secret dreams as to what we would like to happen when we “grew up”. I was no exception. I had two wishes. One was that I should have my own mare, breed from her and school and ride her offspring myself. This I have been able to do more than once.
The other ambition I never realised—I wanted to own and pilot my own aircraft. You must remember that in the days when I was young (1930s) it was long before flying abroad for summer holidays in the sun was normal practice for thousands of people as it is now. You had to be rich to fly.
I believe that, occasionally, (Sir) Alan Cobham brought his “Flying Circus” to the West Common at Lincoln and on these occasions the public could pay 5/- (25p) for a short flight in an elderly biplane. Even if I could have afforded a flight I doubt if my parents would have given their consent for me to do such a “risky thing!”
Anyway, I had no cash to spare for such “flights of fancy” as it was all I could do to scrape enough money together to keep my pony, Peter, (predecessor of Bridget) as his grazing cost five shillings per week and I only got 6d (2½p) per week pocket money from my father plus another 6d for mowing both the front and back lawns with the old push mower—no labour saving motorised lawn mowers in those days. When the caterpillars were busy devouring the cabbages I could earn an extra penny for each fifty that I destroyed and a similar amount for removing daisies from either lawn. They soon became virtually extinct as my father usually discovered them first and dug them out with the blade of an old kitchen knife. I regularly used to play croquet with my father on the back lawn for a penny a game to the winner. That was expensive for me too, for although I was allowed some bisques as he was the better player, I usually lost most of my pocket money back to him each week. Grazing in a field for Pete cost 5/- (25p) per week and the blacksmith charged 5/- for a set of new shoes for him (Bridget’s feet were a little larger so her shoes cost 6/- for a set.) Therefore all Birthday and Christmas money received from friends and relations at Christmas and Birthdays went on their upkeep.
It was not until I had my first job, which was at the R.A.F. Recruiting Centre at Newport Barracks in Lincoln and my first wages (ÂŁ2 10s. per week ), that I could afford the unaccustomed pleasure of buying a Mars Bar, or something similar, every day for lunch! However, this was a short-lived luxury, for no sooner had I got used to this daily treat than sweet rationing was introduced which put a stop to it.
I have no idea why flying interested me so much. I used to read “Flight” and “Popular Flying” in Lincoln Public Library. At Boarding School at Ambleside, in the Lake District, the pupils in my Form had to choose a subject and give a twenty minute talk on it. I chose “The History of Flight” and illustrated my talk with the aid of an epidiascope. How bored my fellow classmates must have been! I well remember going to Bainbridges (or was it Mawer and Collinghams ) department store in Lincoln with my mother to choose a new winter coat. One was almost exactly Air Force blue in colour. Despite my mother favouring a different garment, I eventually had the one of my choice without giving away my secret that it was only the colour which made me choose it. I was far too shy to admit that to anyone. When I stayed with relations at Leadenham I used to ride several miles to a field on the High Dyke near Cranwell to watch the budding pilots flying Hawker Harts and Hinds over a field bordering the grassy track of the old Roman Ermine Street. Sometimes they flew very low over us which was very upsetting for the young three year old horse that I had borrowed.
I was thrilled to read about the formation of the WAAF and I longed to be able to enlist and eventually I was old enough and began my WAAF life on 1st January, 1941. However, it was not until shortly after V.E. Day that my chance to fly came about. At that time I was at R.A.F. Morton Hall near Lincoln. On a Notice Board was pinned a statement that some WAAFs would be permitted to fly over Germany in a Lancaster to see the bomb damage. Numbers were strictly limited and we were to sign the list if we wished to fly and would be told at a later date whether or not our application was successful.
Because Thomas Cook was the initiator of holidays abroad “to see the sights” these flights became known as “Cook’s Tours”. I was delighted when I found that my name was on the list of those permitted to fly—provided that we could first survive a flight in a small two-seater biplane to test whether or not we were likely to be airsick on the long flight over the North Sea to Germany and back in the Lancaster. I knew full well that this would be a difficult test for me as I always had to sit in the front seat of a bus or car or I soon felt sick. On a rare visit to a fairground on its annual visit to Lincoln two of the lesser stomach-churning rides were all I could stand without feelings of nausea coming over me. However, I was absolutely determined that I was going to fly in that Lanc—come what may.
It was a lovely warm sunny day when a group of us were taken over to R.A.F. Swinderby for our trial flight. I thoroughly enjoyed flying over my home town of Lincoln and seeing the Cathedral from the air and all the little houses around about. Nevertheless, by the time we landed at Swinderby again, I was feeling very sick. The WAAF Officer in charge of us asked how I felt and I replied “Fine, Ma’am, just fine”. Luckily I was able to make my escape to the long fresh green grass and tall cow parsley at the base of a friendly hedge and hid in its shade until I had recovered sufficiently to be able to join the rest of the group to go back to Morton Hall. No one had discovered my guilty secret—my chances of going on a flight in a Lanc were good!
The list went up on the Notice Board of those who were permitted to take the flight. Thankfully, mine was on it.
We were to fly from nearby R.A.F. Skellingthorpe, which was a Bomber Station opened in November 1941 among the birch woods on the southern edge of Lincoln, where Birchwood housing estate now covers much of the area. As it was after V.E. Day there was no need to have a full crew on the Lanc as there was no danger of enemy attack. A lorry from R.A.F. Skellingthorpe collected us from Group and ferried us back to Skellingthorpe where an Aussie crew member took us over to the Parachute Section to be fitted with parachutes before our flight. I was quite surprised to find how heavy they were and uncomfortable to walk in. I was so pleased that we were to be with an Aussie crew or part of one. (Ted Richardson tells me we might have flown with 467 Squadron of which he was a member as they did fill in a short time there doing such tours for WAAFs.)
Two WAAF were to fly in each aircraft and I was paired up with a girl whom I had never met but I did not have a chance to talk to her because she chose to go down into the Bomb Aimer’s compartment with a book and I did not see her again until we landed.
As Roo, my Aussie friend of 97 Squadron, had been an Observer (Navigator) I chose to sit at the Navigator’s table as my base and visualised to myself how he must have sat so often in a similar position but in very different conditions.
As we flew eastwards towards the coast it was quite chilly and cloudy. Then we flew higher through patches of warm bright sunshine and then back again through thick chilly cloud—I was surprised how immediately one felt such a great change in temperature between when flying in full sun and the damp “foggy” cloud. We then flew for quite a long time over the North Sea in bright hot sunshine with the thick clouds spread out beneath us like a grubby grey carpet, obscuring the sea below. I was fascinated and it reminded me of going for a walk in a school “crocodile” up the steep Kirkstone Pass in fog and we suddenly got above it and saw the peaks of the Lake District mountains poking through it and we were in bright sunshine. I remember thinking at the time “so this is what it must be like to be flying above the clouds.”
In those peaceful far off days at Ambleside it would have been impossible to have imagined that the next time I was in sunshine above the clouds, although I should still be wearing a uniform, it would not be a school one and the aircraft which was transporting me had never taken part in carrying passengers to eagerly awaited holidays abroad for relaxation in the sun. I digress.
After a time the heat from the sun was so great that it was like sitting in a greenhouse on a hot summer’s day, so it was suggested that I discard my parachute. It was certainly much more comfortable without it and I could move about the aircraft more easily.
In due course, by dint of hand signals, as the noise of the engines was so great that communication by speech was virtually impossible, I was invited to go and stand by the pilot and look down below as we were approaching the Friesian Islands. They appeared to be flat and grassy, dotted with farmhouses and with numerous black and white dairy cows which took their breed name from those islands and are now commonly seen in this country too. On hearing the approach of the aircraft everyone rushed out to wave a welcome to us or waved brightly coloured towels out of upstairs windows—they were all obviously delighted to see a Lancaster of the Royal Air Force. By then we seemed to be flying so low and just skimming over the hedges that the cows were fleeing with their tails in the air—I guess their milk output was low for a few days afterwards or, perhaps even curdled! I thought “Oh, Lordy, Lordy, I haven’t got my parachute on”. Then quickly told myself not to be so stupid—we were flying far too low for a parachute to be of use even if anything did go wrong.
Having “done” the Friesian Islands we then flew north for quite a long time and I returned to sit at the Navigator’s table as there was little to see except the sea, as all the fog had dispersed earlier.
After some time had elapsed, and as we were flying straight and level, I thought it would be a good opportunity to venture down the fuselage to see what it was like to sit in the Rear Gunner’s turret, as my mate Tom Whiteley occupied such a place on ops. Having received permission to do this, I laboriously climbed up and over the main spar and eventually managed to reach the gun turret which seemed to be swinging about a bit on its axis but I eventually managed to get inside it and sit down. It was very cold and draughty but I had a superb all-round view. I almost felt detached from the rest of the world—as if I were sitting in a soap bubble suspended in space with the earth spread out below me like a map. A truly amazing sensation although a very lonely place it seemed to me.
Unfortunately when I got to the gun turret the timing coincided with our arrival at Heligoland for we immediately flew round and round that beastly island, first on one wing tip and then on the other, at varying heights until the crew became, presumably, bored by their antics and flew straight and level once more. After a period of level flight I thought longingly for the comparative comfort of the Navigator’s table and seat as, not surprisingly, I was feeling very sick indeed from my airborne gyrations.
On my return journey the distance from the tail to the main spar seemed to have trebled and it took a great effort to climb up and over it again. I had planned to call in at the Mid Upper Gun Turret position on my way back up the fuselage to the Navigator’s table, as my Aussie mate Ken Muir of 460 R.A.A.F. Squadron at Binbrook was a mid Upper Gunner. However, it looked such a tricky climb up into it that I felt such clambering would be the “last straw” for my heaving stomach and, above all, I dare not risk being sick over the crew’s beloved Lanc—this was not a peacetime holiday flight when all passengers were automatically issued with “sick bags”. Thankfully I reached the Navigator’s table at last and I sank down on the seat, resting my head on my folded arms on the table to try to recover my composure and let my churning insides settle down.
It had been intended to fly down the infamous Ruhr valley which the R.A.F. had visited so many times with terrible losses, but once we had reached land the fog became increasingly thick. One of the crew motioned me to go forwards and then look down towards the fog enshrouded earth below, shouting out what memorable sight it was that we had flown all this way to see but his words were drowned by the steady roar of our Merlin engines and I have no idea of our exact position or what I should have seen if the fog had not been there. We continued like this for a while but the fog showed no sign of lifting, so the rest of our “Cook’s Tour” was aborted and we headed for home.
By the time we were flying across the North Sea again all the fog had cleared and we were flying in sunshine once more but with a layer of cloud below us obscuring our view of the sea. We made no exciting detours on our way back, merely flew steadily, straight and level all the way. For which I was devoutly thankful. So by the time we landed again at R.A.F. Skellingthorpe I was feeling much better. The other WAAF re-appeared from the Bomb Aimer’s position, clutching her book, presumably refreshed after several hours of reading and dozing. On getting out of the aircraft I was asked by a WAAF Officer how I felt. I said “Fine, Ma’am, just fine”. An Aussie voice drawled “She was as green as the graaass”. True, but it was one of the most memorable days of my life—memories which I still treasure to this day.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.