became blocked. The
bad weather didn't slacken and the roads in and out of
the camp remained impassable, so food and coal couldn't be
brought in and soon the only place to go where we could get
a hot drink was the NAAFI. It was so cold in our wooden
barracks that we slept in our sheepskin flying suits. The stoves
were inadequate anyway, but after the camp had been cut off
for seven days there was no more fuel for them. We resorted
to breaking the black-out frames in the windows and burning
the sticks of broken wood. We had to melt water that had
frozen in the fire buckets and try to wash ourselves with it,
one leg at a time in each bucket. After the wooden frames
were used up there was nothing.
Then a more serious situation developed. People started to
fall ill with all sorts of ailments. The sickbay became full and
patients had to be housed in the church. I was then told that
there was a call out for funeral parties, because people were
falling ill with influenza, pneumonia and German measles and
the camp was starting to experience fatalities.
It was a dreadful situation and shows just how unable the
country was to cope with the needs of wartime. We were
lucky in a way that the war in Britain had so far been
relatively peaceful, because the armed forces and the government
had still not made a full transition to a war footing. We
seemed to get no direction from the camp's officers, and
nothing was being done to evacuate the sick or improve the
food and heating situation. One of my companions in
the Fleet Air Arm,Rupert Brabner, was actually an MP, who
had been elected in July 1939. He managed to leave the camp
for London and of course went straight to the Admiralty. The
next thing that we were aware of was the arrival of an
emergency hospital train at Netheravon station. The whole
base was evacuated and we were given two weeks' leave.
When we returned, the place was much improved and so was
our position in a predominantly RAF camp. The final confirmation
of the respect we had gained came with a concert
we put on in the days before we left Netheravon. It was
the usual stuff of comedy sketches and old favourites on the
piano, the high point that I can remember being the appearance
of my Welsh friend Glan dressed in a short skirt and with
pan lids for a brassiere; the turnout was amazing.
Rupert went on to serve in various squadrons, and was on
board HMS Eagle when she was sunk in 1942, but survived.
After this he became a very young under-secretary in the Air
Ministry. He was on a delegation to the United States in
March 1945 when his Liberator aircraft disappeared over the
Atlantic, and he died at the age of thirty-three.
Just before we left Netheravon for good we were sent with
our planes to South Wales, where we did a finalbombing and
gunnery course from an RAF base called Stormy Down near
Porthcawl. This was designed to finish our initial combat-flying
training, and it also marked a watershed in my
education about the female sex. While we were at Porthcawl
we lived in a good hotel overlooking the seafront. We were
amazed by the number of young girls who were booking in as
well. They were there to work on the bombing range, operating
the cameras that filmed us as we dive-bombed the targets
floating in the bay. On a visit to a local beach I met a rather
good-looking girl in a bathing suit, who told me she was staying
at the same hotel. Our friendship blossomed and a room
key changed hands. This young lady gave me my first experience
of someone who was interested only in sex, without any
emotional feelings. This is usually thought to be a particularly
male attribute, but I am not so sure. Anyway, after four nights
of exhausting sex with her I staggered into my pilot friendDickie Chambers' room and gave him the keys to her room. I
was physically drained, I felt used, and I had become tired of
it. As I say, it was an education. Poor Dickie was killed not
long after in the Shetlands, but I gather both he and the girl
became
bad weather didn't slacken and the roads in and out of
the camp remained impassable, so food and coal couldn't be
brought in and soon the only place to go where we could get
a hot drink was the NAAFI. It was so cold in our wooden
barracks that we slept in our sheepskin flying suits. The stoves
were inadequate anyway, but after the camp had been cut off
for seven days there was no more fuel for them. We resorted
to breaking the black-out frames in the windows and burning
the sticks of broken wood. We had to melt water that had
frozen in the fire buckets and try to wash ourselves with it,
one leg at a time in each bucket. After the wooden frames
were used up there was nothing.
Then a more serious situation developed. People started to
fall ill with all sorts of ailments. The sickbay became full and
patients had to be housed in the church. I was then told that
there was a call out for funeral parties, because people were
falling ill with influenza, pneumonia and German measles and
the camp was starting to experience fatalities.
It was a dreadful situation and shows just how unable the
country was to cope with the needs of wartime. We were
lucky in a way that the war in Britain had so far been
relatively peaceful, because the armed forces and the government
had still not made a full transition to a war footing. We
seemed to get no direction from the camp's officers, and
nothing was being done to evacuate the sick or improve the
food and heating situation. One of my companions in
the Fleet Air Arm,Rupert Brabner, was actually an MP, who
had been elected in July 1939. He managed to leave the camp
for London and of course went straight to the Admiralty. The
next thing that we were aware of was the arrival of an
emergency hospital train at Netheravon station. The whole
base was evacuated and we were given two weeks' leave.
When we returned, the place was much improved and so was
our position in a predominantly RAF camp. The final confirmation
of the respect we had gained came with a concert
we put on in the days before we left Netheravon. It was
the usual stuff of comedy sketches and old favourites on the
piano, the high point that I can remember being the appearance
of my Welsh friend Glan dressed in a short skirt and with
pan lids for a brassiere; the turnout was amazing.
Rupert went on to serve in various squadrons, and was on
board HMS Eagle when she was sunk in 1942, but survived.
After this he became a very young under-secretary in the Air
Ministry. He was on a delegation to the United States in
March 1945 when his Liberator aircraft disappeared over the
Atlantic, and he died at the age of thirty-three.
Just before we left Netheravon for good we were sent with
our planes to South Wales, where we did a finalbombing and
gunnery course from an RAF base called Stormy Down near
Porthcawl. This was designed to finish our initial combat-flying
training, and it also marked a watershed in my
education about the female sex. While we were at Porthcawl
we lived in a good hotel overlooking the seafront. We were
amazed by the number of young girls who were booking in as
well. They were there to work on the bombing range, operating
the cameras that filmed us as we dive-bombed the targets
floating in the bay. On a visit to a local beach I met a rather
good-looking girl in a bathing suit, who told me she was staying
at the same hotel. Our friendship blossomed and a room
key changed hands. This young lady gave me my first experience
of someone who was interested only in sex, without any
emotional feelings. This is usually thought to be a particularly
male attribute, but I am not so sure. Anyway, after four nights
of exhausting sex with her I staggered into my pilot friendDickie Chambers' room and gave him the keys to her room. I
was physically drained, I felt used, and I had become tired of
it. As I say, it was an education. Poor Dickie was killed not
long after in the Shetlands, but I gather both he and the girl
became
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