Having
been born and raised in a town nine miles from Waterloo Station and later
stationed as a police constable in the notorious "east end", most of
my recollections of England involve the London area. Yet, some of my fondest memories
of England are of the North Country.
After
much pestering, the RAF finally accepted my application. I was a seasoned 17
year old eagerly embarking on a journey to gunnery school at Walney Island
airfield, just outside of Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria, to earn my rear air
gunner wing. War was raging and I was raring to get to it.
I
was in a class of 20 keen lads ready for action. Our training had
commenced at a school in the south of Wales for ground training and Morse code
before heading north for flying training at Walney Island.
Most
of my fellow trainees had previously belonged to a youth movement, similar to
boy scouts, where they had received rudimentary training with firearms, codes
and plane spotting. I had wasted my time in other pursuits and was
starting off fresh.
The
base was equipped with a couple of Airspeed Oxfords
(nicknamed the 'Ox-box'), that could train pilots, navigators, bomb aimers,
gunners and radio operators on the same flight – beauty planes in their prime
but a bit outdated by then. I do believe they were also used on occasion to
drop British agents into occupied France.
We also had a lumbering Avro Anson,
which was like going
on the Big Dipper at Southend (London cockneys would know what that is).
Two
pilots were on staff to assist us in our gunnery practice. One pilot
would man the 30 foot long drogue sleeve towed behind the aircraft and used as
an aerial target for our practice, while the other would be flying the
plane. I trust there was a safety guide system to take the bullets as I
never heard of a tow plane ever being shot down.
Barrow was probably best known during
World War II as a target for the German air force looking to disable the town's
shipbuilding yards. What became known as the "Barrow Blitz" was a
series of attacks that took place in the spring of 1941, resulting in much
destruction including numerous civilian deaths.
The people there treated us
wonderfully. Naturally wartime food rationing was in effect, but unlike the strict
rationing of London, this was "the country" where food was plentiful
and the farmers and townspeople very generous with it.
Barrow-in-Furness
itself was famous for its fish and chips and I soon learned why and agreed
wholeheartedly. I also recall flying out to nearby Isle of Man to be treated to
sumptuous breakfasts of eggs, bacon and bread fresh from the oven. I can tell
you I sorely missed those breakfasts after I was shipped out to the Far East!
Regular
dances were held and while I wasn't old enough to drink (18 being the minimum
allowable age) you could always find a barkeep who would top your glass of
ginger ale with a bit of ale to make a tepid shandy.
I
liked to listen to the music, but had no interest in dancing. I can't dance now
and I couldn't then, but one night an older woman of about 23 wouldn't take
"no" for an answer, insisting that she could teach me.
I
bought myself some time by fetching her a drink and then managed to pawn her
off on an officer who turned out to be as adept as Fred Astaire. They made for
a handsome couple out on the dance floor, but I made a quick getaway in case
she decided to target me again.
When
I finally received my wing, a friendly local WAAF offered to sew it on for
me. She was very nimble with a needle, so to show my appreciation I
offered to buy her a drink to reward her for her efforts.
She
was quite elderly, around 35, and I was surprised to see her knock back several
Burton Brown Ales while I nursed my usual weak shandy. I feared her handiwork
might suffer and hoped she hadn't promised to sew on the wings of any crew
members that night!
Ed Pearson
