That first launch was unforgettable. The machine lurched forward, the instructor pulled the stick hard back on the stop and we were suddenly climbing skywards at an impossible angle with the wind rushing in our ears. We soon reached our optimum height, about 700 feet, and levelled out, buffeting slightly before releasing  the line. The rushing noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun and we were floating in virtual silence. I became aware of the Instructor shouting in my ear. We carried no intercom and had been told that, while the Instructor could converse with us by shouting, it was useless trying to answer him as he would not be able to hear due to the slipstream. I still believe that this was not strictly true, but it did prevent backchat and loss of concentration. The instructors' shouted comments could also be heard clearly on the ground, a cause for much merriment among the other pupils when later in the course the language used became quite colourful. What the local residents made of it I can't imagine. I expect they were used to it as the airfield had been there a long time.

We completed the circuit, with the Instructor explaining the procedure, and then we were on the approach. The ground seemed to rush up to meet us before we flared out and made a beautiful, gentle touchdown, rolling on for ever  until the wing slowly dropped, the tail bumped and the glider came to rest. We remained seated as the recovery team Land Rover arrived and towed us back to dispersal. Then we were off again, this time with me on the controls for the circuit. Due to the complete  lack of vibration it was necessary to tap the glass on the instruments to make sure they were working correctly. The absence of an artificial horizon was no problem due to the position of the pitot head mounted in front of the windscreen. All one had to do was keep this lined up with the horizon for level flight. On the third launch I was allowed to do all but the landing. then it was out and someone else's turn. On checking the log I discovered that my total time in the air after three launches was precisely seven minutes!

After all the pupils had experienced their first three launches it was time for lunch. The canteen had prepared packed lunches for us and we sat in the sunshine and swapped stories while we ate our sandwiches and smoked cigarettes. It was truly idyllic. After lunch we resumed in the same fashion. There was to be no let up, as, when we were not flying, we took turns at recovering and handling the gliders, retrieving winch cables or controlling the signal desk. The winches were operated by regular airmen and the recovery vehicles driven by regular WAAF drivers. It was a wonderful set-up.
     
The weather had turned out to be glorious and would remain so all week, but it did have a disturbing affect on my flying. The first day had started out foggy, and being of a nervous disposition, I had donned my RAF issue wellies at the start of the day, leaving my shoes in the briefing room. Us Attrells believe in being prepared for anything! After about three attempted landings, which I had been very proud of, my instructor asked, "Why do you insist on fishtailing your rudder on the approach?" I was rather hurt, not having been aware that I had been fishtailing my rudder or, indeed, any other part of my anatomy, and muttered something to that effect. Being a particularly kindly man, and seeing that I was upset, my Instructor enquired as to what kind of footwear I was sporting. When I indignantly replied that I had on my rather smart RAF wellies, he told me not to be silly and to put on my shoes at once. "You can't fly in those bloody things, haven't you got any decent shoes?" were his actual words.  Not wishing to appear foolish, I replied; "My shoes are in the briefing room, Sir, shall I go and get them?" As this would have involved walking several miles around the perimeter track, he took pity on me and suggested that I fly in my stockinged feet, which cured my fishtailing problem once and for all.

By the end of the day, I had experienced about twelve launches and was looking forward to the next day's flying. The minimum amount of launches required before being sent solo was, at that time, twenty. Then after three successful solo flights we would gain our licences. There was a certain amount of friendly rivalry between us as to who would go solo first. We gathered in the NAAFI later that evening  and, flirting outrageously with the novice WAAFs over our pints of blackcurrant juice, smoked countless cigarettes and swapped stories of our experiences. The only absent member of our group was an adult Warrant Officer  who stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb, or its much ruder ATC equivalent. He seemed a bit of a stuffed-shirt but I suppose it must have been awkward for him on the course, a complete beginner like the rest of us but, as a Regular NCO, billeted separately and dining alone in the Sergeants Mess. As all our Instructors were Regular Officers he could not mix socially with them either. Had we realised this at the time we might have been more sympathetic towards him, but due to his general air of aloofness he was not universally popular. He was finally brought down to size.

Almost finished - See Part 4