Taking a leaf out of Sean's book I dug this out as threatened. I wrote it a few years ago when my memory was better than it is now. If nothing else it will give you some idea of how things were in good old Blighty back in the far less complicated days of my youth. It also bings back a lot of fond memories for me.
My First Solo
by Doug AttrellFor as long as I can remember I have been fascinated by anything that flies. My only ambition as a boy was to be a pilot. I had been brought up on stories of the exploits of the Battle of Britain heroes and longed desperately to join the RAF and fly a Spitfire. It was therefore no surprise to my long-suffering parents when I joined the local ATC Squadron, 1440 Shoreham, as soon as they would have me, at the tender age of thirteen and a half. I was disappointed to learn that I would have to wait an eternity before being eligible, at sixteen, to qualify for a place on the prized ATC gliding course.
Several wonderful years in the Cadets were to follow during which I attended the annual camps where I had my first flight in a Miles Marathon four-engined navigational trainer at RAF Topcliffe in Yorkshire and flew in DH Chipmunks at RAF Swinderby in Lincolnshire and with the 'Air Experience Flight' at Hamble. By the age of sixteen I had achieved the rank of Cadet Flight Sergeant, the youngest in Britain at the time, and was at last eligible for the next available Gliding Course. The great day arrived at last, the first week in June 1959, and Pete Mills, George Walker and I, armed with rail warrants, set out for RAF Hawkinge, the famous Battle of Britain base near Folkestone in Kent.
We arrived at Hawkinge at around four o'clock in the afternoon and after reporting to the guardroom were shown to our billet where we met several cadets from all over the country who had arrived earlier. I was rather relieved that there was another Cadet Flight Sergeant among them who was a couple of months senior to me and gratefully relinquished the somewhat dubious honour of being Senior NCO into what I hoped were more capable hands. After choosing our bunks and settling in, we set about exploring the camp, which was a typical post-war RAF station with substantial red brick administration and barrack blocks and a grass airfield bounded on one side by Hawkinge village. Being Sunday afternoon there was not much activity in evidence and we decided to repair to the canteen for tea.
After tea we returned to the billet, where we met a few late arrivals. On each bedside cabinet was the inevitable 'blood chit', to fill out. On the form, you had to give personal details including name, address, religion and next of kin. I suppose this was required in case there was some terrible accident and they had to call for a priest or something, but being young we never thought about that. We then went for a quick wash before searching out the good old NAAFI to spy out the local talent. I forgot to mention that at that time the station was a reception centre for 17 year-old fledgling WAAFs who outnumbered the airmen, who must have thought that they had died and gone to heaven, by fourteen to one! Needless to say, fraternisation was frowned upon and the women's quarters were strictly off limits, but they couldn't stop you looking. Another unusual piece of useless information concerned the Station Commander, Group Officer Conan Doyle, who, besides being the only female example of her rank, was the niece of the late Sir Arthur, creator of Sherlock Holmes. We turned in early that night after meeting a few latecomers to our course. There were now ten of us.
Part 2 to follow:
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