��ѿ��ý

Walthamstow Wanderer 1

By

Albert Augustus Crisp
November 1911 — June 2001

War — Joining Up and Training

It all began for me at the back end of 1941, at the age of 30, with an interview and a medical at the "Territorial Headquarters" at Whipps Cross. I was asked what school I had been to and various academic questions such as how to calculate the volume of cylinder. I was asked what service I wanted to go in, I said the RAF (didn't fancy the army although two brothers and a sister were in it), he replied yes.

The next stop was to report at the R.A.F. Station at Uxbridge to be kitted out and sent on to Bridgenorth in Shropshire for "square bashing"; all sorts of drill and marching etc. Whilst there I was promised a 48 hour pass for one weekend. I was told of a way to get home quickly and that was to call at a Co-op dairy, where lorries went to London, in the early hours of the morning. I saw the manager and he made me promise to be there on time, as he had been messed around before.

After all the talk, he was let down and I felt bad over it. My 48-hour pass was cancelled and I had to leave at 05.00 hours. Hope the driver isn't still waiting! If you were in London early enough, there were milk trains and lorries and paper trains that would always help any serviceman on his way. Interesting place was Bridgenorth. It boasted a high and low town.

Morecambe was the next place, for a "riggers” course, from where most emerged as 1st class after an exam. Previous to that it was 2nd class, the lowest form of animal life! Of course, you received a huge pile of coppers pay rise per day. At Morecambe we were billeted with families.
Morecambe was nice enough, but five of us came unstuck. The man of the house had a brother who ran a cafe. Our dinners arrived from there, in the back of a van and at first just about warm, looking like leftovers. We had to think of some way to fill up the system so at teatime left over bread and scrape was discretely pocketed for evening time. I had the worst room in the house - a loft room, with a sloping ceiling that ended a foot above my bed at the wall side. Being at the top and visited less often, it was voted that the bread went in my chest of drawers.

The object was to buy fish cakes [different to ours, they put the fish between two slices of potato (otherwise they are the same)] and have a nosh in my room at night. All went well for a few nights, then several nights on the trot; the fish shop had no fish cakes and the bread mounted up. For some reason or other, it wasn't fancied on its own. It was suggested I throw it all out of the window, over the back gardens. My window was very small, like an old fashion toilet one, hinged both sides, in the middle. This and the ceiling must have restricted my throwing, plus the fact that there was an aerial near the window, which at the time, I didn't know about. Though I seemed to vary my aim, mostly to the gardens either side of our own, the bread had, in most cases, hit the aerial and landed by the back door. As you can guess, the balloon went up, when it was found next morning. The boss man threatened to report us if we did anything else that annoyed him. It did, in the shape of George Atkins, who was caught coming in past midnight, and another incident concerning a young lad of about nineteen. This lad kept to himself, stayed in every night and also had a long face. We tried to cheer him up and suggested that he go out and try to enjoy himself. So, out he went one evening and on returning past midnight, just pressed the doorbell as though he owed it one, and woke everyone up. We got shifted; George got "jankers" and us a lecturing.

When the course finished we went to Locking in Somerset. The people down there were good to us; we got invited out to tea some Sundays. One day, as we were returning to the camp (we had been to Weston Super Mare), there was an air raid. It was said that "jerry" must have been looking for the camp. We weren't allowed in the camp until the "all clear", so we spread-eagled in the hedges. A couple of small bombs fell, but not on the camp. The next time of being in the village, I met an elderly Londoner who had moved down there, after being bombed out. He copped one of the bombs, but no one was hurt. At this drome, two of us got chitties to allow us to get a quick joy ride around the airfield. We had to go over to "A" flight and got a short trip in a "glasshouse" or an Anson. We didn't know at the time, but they were only training and would then go on to faster planes. Surprised they allowed us to go up in that case. Didn't do a lot there worth writing about. It almost seemed a stopgap until we went to Blackpool, on a fitter’s course. After the exam, some chaps stopped at 1st class and some went to L.A.C. (leading aircraftsman), that got you a bit more money. Can't think what my wages were.

The course consisted of metallurgy, rivets and their allowances for making heads like the manufacturers, bend allowances etc. Then you had to do a test piece - steel. A base, narrower one end than the other, then two holes in it drilled and tapped to take two pieces, similar to cotter pins, only threaded both ends. When screwed into the base, the other ends had to have a sort of collar slipped on and screwed into place. Nice set of taps and dies. Which reminds me, sometimes, while on the fitter's course, there were times when you could idle around. These times were spent making various things such as; Perspex shaped into a pendant, with bevelled edges, into which, the wings and crown cut from your forage cap, would be sunk in with a hot iron. Cigarette lighters were also made, the body being a large nut with a halfpenny inserted in each side. I made a plane, on a stand and base, with three farthings. One farthing was bent in half, a small part of the straight edge, enough to form the fuselage, was gripped in the vice. Then, the rest was opened up and hammered out flat, spreading out enough to shape the wings. The back end was then flattened out to form the tail plane and rudder. All these out of one farthing. The second farthing was cut and filed to form the shape representing lightning, with a perpendicular piece top and bottom. The base took care of the third farthing, which was shaped into an oblong. The underneath of the fuselage and the middle of the oblong were drilled to take the perpendicular pieces of the "lightning".

The thing that sticks in my mind most about Blackpool was a happening during a march. There were between one hundred and one hundred and fifty men, four abreast, with the N.C.O. half way along the ranks. It was a lovely day and lots of girls lining the pavement calling to the chaps. Some of the front chaps were complaining at the fast pace, saying we would be at work too quickly and not lapping up the things about us. The front four wouldn't slow down, so we, the second four, did and kept on at the front four, to do the same. We thought they would, but a gap developed. It got big enough for the N.C.O. to see or he twigged by the laughter. He stopped us and sorted it out but wouldn't make too much fuss in public. (Forgot to mention, we were in private digs in Blackpool also). He threatened to get our leave stopped, but didn't.

George Atkins was in trouble again here for getting in late. We would stop in some nights, to write home or play cards, where George was always out. Though we were still friendly, as he was a very likeable chap, we grew a bit distant from him. He was always after "redheads". He used to sidle up to them and say "how are you red" and it always seem to come off. He was very good-looking but prematurely grey.

Sutton Bridge was next; I was there for only six weeks on Hurricanes. The main road in Long Sutton had a lot of, well, more like pub parlours. It seemed that every other place was a pub. I went with the lads; there wasn't anywhere else to go. One of the chaps said his mate had a good voice. After a lot of pressure, they got him at it. A bit out of place there though (might have been the reason for him not wanting to sing) because he sang classical. What a powerful voice for such a little man! He was very good and the locals wanted more and got it. Wasn't a bad night really.

To get back to the camp goings on. I thought that I would be shown around, where the stores were, how to get the things I wanted etc. I'd only had schooling, sort of. I reported to the flight mentioned and to the Officer, who passed me on down the ranks. Then I stood more or less hanging about until a lad (not an N.C.O.) said to me, "is your name Crisp?" When I said that it was, I was told that I had a kite out on the airfield. I was standing with others outside a hut and in another one was a big board with numbers on and opposite them names. Mine was up there. Then I made for the plane, ducking and diving, as the others seemed just over my head when taking off. They weren't that low, but I wasn't used to all this. When I got there, it turned out the pilot was a Pole, not in too good a mood, and didn't want to listen to excuses. I wanted copper locking wire and a little drop of caster oil. When I went to the stores, I was told Mac had the locking wire and the oil was in the tent. I went and found the lad who had contacted me and fortunately found a sympathetic and helpful mate, because I was now almost at panic stations. Mac was an engine fitter and had all the wire wrapped round a piece of wood in his toolbox. The oil (stressed on the course to be perfectly clean) was in a NAAFI cup, about a third full and a couple of bits of grit floating in it.

The undercarriage legs wanted more air in them, I think it was a 112lbs/sq in. The pump affair had no gauge on it (as it had done on the course). My mate said "You just pump until you see 9" of piston showing. Once again I think it was 9.

When the engine fitter tested the Hurricane engine, under maximum power, the chocks were put in front of the wheels and someone had to straddle the fuselage down near the rudder "head pointing that way" and hang on for all he was worth, or get blown off, as it was, your coat would get blown over your head.

It was an officers training unit and they had a few prangs because they had come off slower planes and some had a job to handle the Hurricanes. The slower ones were Oxfords and very noisy ones, I think, (lot of thinking) Harvards. What surprised me was, in spite of this there was plenty of "bull shit whatsit". Crack of dawn, just, you formed up on a cement square, the N.C.O. inspected your boots and if dirty you were on a fizzer. He had to use a torch to see them properly, and then you stepped straight into the mud on the airfield. I was glad to get away from there.

I went to Ramsey in Huntingdon, you had to add England if you wanted to receive mail; or else it might have gone to Ramsey on the Isle of Man. This station had huge hangers, containing Gypsy Moths, Fairy Battles and Bristol Blenheims. Reminds me, when the old Blenheim flew one wing low a bit of flex put under a piece of fabric and doped onto the top edge of the aileron would lower that one and if the plane yawed - went from A to B, but crab wise, the same treatment, on the tail rudder, would put that right. There was also a fault with the Blenheim. On selecting undercarriage down, there was hell of a jolt; they could cause damage, as it fell sharply for perhaps 8". This was caused by a time lapse, before the hydraulic fluid reached the piston that operated the undercarriage. To get over this they fitted a lot of "aero elastic" to take up the initial downward drop. I formed a pretty good relationship here with some of the chaps. This was better in a lot of ways, and it got Mum down there, a family named "Rule" put her up.

The man was the village smithy and a very jovial and friendly chap. The only thing about that which wasn't so good, it was a hell of a way for me to tramp back to the camp, after seeing Mum. I enjoyed it there, up to a point. I won a couple of 5-mile road races and got into the final of the 100 yards, then blew it! Tea breaks were badly organised; lots of cups of tea on a stall, filled from an urn and getting cold, by the time the last of the lads got served. This caused threats of trouble for the lads, when chaps were caught knocking off from work before the buzzer sounded hanging about the hanger doors, waiting for the buzzer to go.

So we formed a stable, first one there got four teas. It was generally me, but one time it was fortunate that it wasn't. You see, a very big load of coke was delivered and heaped against a wall. The bottom came out so far that it left only a small gap to pass through. As the front runners arrived, a flight sergeant walked across and got piled up and considerably grazed on the coke. They couldn't stop because it was a grim matter, this cold tea, so it was grab your hat off your head and go hell for leather for the stall.

It was from here that George and Les Atkins, (not related), put in for aircrew, thereby leaving the camp. Thereafter I lost touch completely; to this day I have no idea if they succeeded. We were taught all about "Flying Wires", "Landing Wires" and turnbuckles etc on the Gypsy Moths - goodness knows why - never had anything to do with them after, nor Battles for that matter, but at least they were more like aircraft. Went on leave with Bob Beaumont of Enfield and to his parents’ place with Mum, invited to tea - nice family. Went to Broxbourne and had boat out on Lea. We messed about a bit, had two of us on one seat, to get a bit of speed to the rhythm of "Yo Ho Heave Ho". Doing the knots there was a hell of a bang, enough to break the boat in half. His girl was supposed to be guiding us, but must have been miles away. Mum was in the sharp end. On parting the reeds, we were almost half a boat in, what an eyeful; Mum was spread eagled with her legs in the air and her clothes almost over her head! Mum and I went to the couple’s address after the war but they were gone and no one knew where.

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