The Passing Out Ceremony – RHJ (Sandy) Rowe DFM RAFVR
During 1942 I was a Leading Aircraftman Engine Fitter, attending an instructional course, with others, at RAF St Athan in South Wales with a view to becoming a Flight Engineer in a Lancaster bomber. The course included time at RAF Stormy Down near Bridgend, being target gunnery and the mechanics of turrets and also a week in the AVRO factory in Manchester.
The course was nearing its conclusion and I was looking forward to the Passing Out Ceremony. I knew about this. I had seen it once when visiting a cinema, being shown on a Pathe newsreel. The chaps were lined up wearing their best uniforms, the sun was shining, a band was playing, and a proud CO was pinning brevets on the jackets of the successful recipients. Lovely!!!
The final day arrived; the students were being sent one at a time to be assessed by two examiners. I was asked a few questions, then told that I had passed, was given a piece of paper with instructions to get it signed by the Station Dentist, then take it to the Stores to collect my sergeant’s chevrons and engineer’s brevet. It was not much of an examination and I decided that it was just a formality, the results having been previously decided, our progress through the course being closely monitored by both oral and written exams every week.
Midday was approaching and I was hungry and looking forward to the midday meal, knowing that the visit to the dentist and the Stores would not take long. The dentist did a check and announced that a tooth required removing. I protested, telling him that my teeth had recently been checked at RAF Silloth in Cumberland. My protest “cut no ice” and a tooth was removed. I was not pleased, my meal was going to be ruined with a raw gum and half my face numb from the injection. I walked to the Store and found that I was the only one at the counter. A grumpy looking counter-hand approached and in an antagonistic tone of voice said, “What do you want?” I proffered my bit of paper and told him that I had come for tapes and brevet. “Haven’t got any,” he said. “What do you mean, you haven’t got any?” I asked. “Meant what I said,” he replied, “we’ve run out.” “What must I do then?” I asked him. “Go to Cardiff and buy them,” he said.
For a long time I had been fed up with being short of money, the pay for an aircraftman was quite low, so I was quite shocked by his reply. “You must be joking,” I said to him, “I’m not spending my money on travelling to Cardiff and paying for RAF equipment.” “Suit yourself,” he said as he walked away. On my way to the Mess for the midday meal, which incidentally I did not enjoy, I considered the situation and decided that if I consulted someone in authority, I might well be told again to purchase the articles. I decided to do nothing. I now knew that I was a sergeant and had a bit of paper to prove it – it would not bother me if no one else knew it, and in any case I was not going to be in charge of anyone. That evening a small group of us, newly qualified Flight Engineers, had decided to walk to Cowbridge to attend a dance. On arriving at the dance hall, the local chemist’s daughter, Mary Williams, who had been teaching me how to dance, looked a bit askance at my relatively bare uniform compared to some of my companions with their new chevrons. I explained the situation to her, she then offered to pay for the items for which I thanked her but refused her offer. On the way back to St Athan after the dance, rather late, some chaps complained how hungry they were, no food being available at Cowbridge that we knew of. I mentioned that I had noticed that in one of the twin dining rooms each side of the kitchen, that food was sometimes kept in hot cupboards under the serving counter. We entered the camp via an unofficial gap well away from the guardroom and made our way into the dining hall, which was in darkness, taking care not to alert the large staff working in the kitchen preparing the following day’s food. We slid back one of the cupboard doors, struck a match, and behold, were trays of warm kippers. We helped ourselves to a few each, made our way to our hut, which was also in darkness with all occupants asleep, sat on our respective beds and enjoyed our late meal. The problem then was what to do with the fish carcases. It seemed that although there was no previous consultation we all had the same idea; that was to sling them along the polished floor under and around other peoples’ beds.
There was quite a fuss in the morning, particularly from one chap, who, getting out of bed, put both bare feet on a pile of sticky fish bones. Naturally I joined in the condemnation of the fellows who had done such a rotten thing. Within a day or so a small group of us were given railway warrants with instructions to report to RAF Binbrook in Lincolnshire, where we were to join aircrews and make up a crew of seven. On arrival at Binbrook, to cover myself, I checked the Store to see if they could supply my missing equipment but with no luck. I repeated this at other RAF bases with the same result. I might as well mention here that my status was never queried at any of those bases, although I must have stuck out like a sore thumb, having no badge of rank.
Pilots and engineers were gathered together in a room and the officer in charge opened the proceedings by asking who wanted an old man for an engineer. P/O Douglas Finlay raised his hand, the old man it seemed, was myself, aged 26. I’ve no idea how the proceedings continued as I left the room with Douglas to be introduced to the rest of the crew, which included an Australian mid-upper gunner, also recently acquired. I explained to them why I appeared to be an aircraftman instead of a sergeant. The following day the seven of us were taken to RAF Blyton to learn how to handle Lancasters. I was feeling ill, and on arrival at Blyton dumped my kit bag on a bed in the Nissen hut allocated to us and set off in search of a doctor. He diagnosed influenza and I was immediately taken to hospital at RAF Hemswell. I spent just over a week at Hemswell, which turned out to be an unusual experience. I was treated well but all staff and patients in my ward were Polish. I heard very little English spoken during my time there.
The Finlay Aircrew Ground Crew and WAAF Driver - Doug Finlay at top of ladder with Sandy Rowe next down to the right
On being returned to Blyton I was instructed to draw flying kit from the Stores as we were scheduled to fly that night. The rest of my new crew had done a considerable amount of flying. I had never flown in an aeroplane. What a night it was. I was still not fully recovered from the ‘flu, the night was very dark, it was raining and visibility was poor. As we took off into the murk all sight of the ground and the airfield lights disappeared. After a short time the instructor with us radioed the airfield cancelling all flights that night. How they, my new pilot and the instructor, intended to find the airfield I had not the faintest idea, but it did not seem to be any problem and we landed safely. Oddly enough I had felt no fear. The crew oozed confidence as if flying in those conditions was quite normal. However, as a first flight in an aeroplane it left a lot to be desired.
Our training proceeded satisfactorily and we were passed fit to join a squadron. The only incident of note was that one of the new engineers who had travelled with me from St Athan was involved in a crash landing some distance from the airfield. As far as I can remember none of the crew was injured.
We were transported to Elsham Wolds to join 103 Squadron and allocated temporary accommodation in a Nissen hut. Other beds in the hut appeared to be in use but we saw no signs of the occupants not even when we retired for the night. I assumed they were in Scunthorpe or similar, living it up. I was mistaken, they came in sometime in the night, and although not noisy, I did wake up, and, listening to their quiet conversation was horrified to learn that they had just returned from Pilsen. I knew where Pilsen was, but had no idea that our bombers travelled such distances. They discussed the hazards of their journey, which sounded quite ominous and I began to wonder for the first time what I had let myself in for.
Obviously Bomber Command was quite different from Coastal Command to which I had been attached. My new crew and I settled into the squadron routine and made our first flight to the Italian port of Spezia followed by other flights to Germany. I was lucky, I could not have wished for a better pilot and crew. After a few trips into enemy territories my little troubles come to a climax one afternoon at a crew briefing. There were somewhere between 100 and 150 of us in a room sitting each side of a centre aisle facing a stage with the room entrance behind us. Eventually the “top brass” arrived and started walking down the aisle led by the squadron CO, Wing Commander Slater followed by the Station Commander Group Captain Dicken and other officers. As they proceeded W/C Slater was looking from side to side casting a fatherly eye over his chaps and on turning in my direction stopped dead, his followers nearly falling over him. “What are you doing here?” he asked me in a loud voice. “Er, waiting for the briefing to commence, Sir,” I replied. “What are you?” again in a loud voice. There was a dead silence and heads were turned, this was quite new for a briefing. “Flight Engineer,” I replied. “Whose crew are you in?” I told him. Then “Why aren’t you wearing rank badges?” I started to tell him of the bases where the items were not available and as I did so I got the impression that he was wishing he had not started this nonsense. He cut me off in mid sentence and told me to report to Stores in 2 days’ time. He was obviously an optimist expecting me to return from Germany that night. The briefing then resumed as normal.
I visited the Stores as instructed and, would you believe it, all the items I needed were there waiting collection. A kindly WAAF did the sewing for me, and, at last, there I was, a proper sergeant complete with all my new bits and pieces. And that dear friends concluded my version of a Passing Out Ceremony. (I doubt if any parades took place during those war years. What I had seen in a cinema was probably a bit of a peacetime ceremonial.)
This excellent account was written by Sandy Rowe in 2007. Photos from my archive
....................
|
