and sounded so much better, be overlooked in favour of him? His depression set in again with a vengeance. This had to be a waste of time. Why had he been so foolish as to think he would be considered for the ultimate privilege to fly?
Some thirty would-be aviators were left in his group. And of course one of them felt he should make conversation. Bill didn’t want to chat. He was so nervous he needed to pee about every ten minutes. Why is there always one bull shitter in any group?
The chap continued to prattle on non-stop despite no one listening to anything he had to say. So much so, Bill began to feel sorry for him.
Then, one-by-one each of these assured, knowledgeable and robust champions, many who perhaps had more guts than common sense were weeded out for supper duty.
Soon the only candidates who remained were the pimply faced, round-shouldered, unfit looking specimens with Bill ably leading this questionable group.
Each and every one of them had one thing in common. They were cowards.
No typical gung-ho types remained. No smart-arse bravado types at all. Certainly there were no heroes. Cowboy Joe was gone. His President Roosevelt hadn’t helped him.
And with him, tattoo Aussie. No testosterone filled, gold medal gods remained. Only a few frightened young men, who for their individual reasons, had decided they wanted to fly. From this un-inspirational looking group, final selections for pilot training were made and to every-one’s amazement, most specimens squeezed through.
One common denominator remained. They were seriously afraid.
Bill asked an officer why?
‘They were eliminated because they were fearless or stupid. True courage is to be scared stiff, but keep going anyway,’ he sneered.
Bill had never considered this aspect although he realised fear drove his feet.
‘So, to control fear means you’re truly brave.’
‘You’re smarter than you look, which probably isn’t a good thing,’ said the Officer. ‘Anyone frightened shitless, who performs his duty is a brave man indeed.’
I’ve got the frightened shitless part by the balls. All I need is the follow through.
Bill felt sure he now had a chance. He’d scraped through their exams and survived their weird discriminating processes. He was in. The boy from the slums of Notting Hill had beaten the odds.
Tuesday 20 January 1942 was another milestone for Bill. He was selected for pilot training thirteen days before his nineteenth birthday.
March 1942 saw the first raid by the new Avro Lancaster over Essen in the central Ruhr Valley but for Bill, next came the breaking-in weeks.
‘I want three volunteers who can play a piano,’ announced the Corporal.
Absolute silence.
‘Come on, lads. Surely some of you are musical.’
Not an eyelid flickered. Then a young man weakened. ‘I can play the accordion, Corp.’
‘Well done, lad. Another two.’
‘I’ve had lessons, Corp,’ said another. ‘I can play a tune on a recorder,’ offered a third.
‘That’s capital, lads, capital. Now I’ve my three, and I never had to resort to nominating anyone.’
His eyes glistened with anticipation. ‘Get your kit up off the floor and follow me. There’s furniture to move. That includes a piano.’
Boot camp had the usual basic disciplines, drill and constant yelling of orders by corporals. There was a lot of shouting and marching in the RAF. Shouters had smiles like brass plates on coffins. Every now and again, Bill saw a Sergeant.
One in particular was Sergeant Matthews. He was an unsmiling disciplinarian of colossal innate charisma, all gaunt six feet six inches of him. A caricature for who discipline came before talent. His thickset shoulders under his craggy countenance augmented Bill’s opinion of him. Corporals dealt with minor transgressions but watch out when Sergeant Matthews became involved. A far more daunting experience than addressing smarmy officers in their handmade uniforms as ‘Sir.’
Marching, physical training, and lots more marching with a high measure of verbal abuse in the primeval form of control was doled out to excess. Those who shouted had extraordinarily powerful voices. For sheer volume they’re bloody impressive, thought Bill.
The marching felt endless. In between were lectures and physical training, then more marching and more physical training. Shoes had to be shined until they glowed but on the upside; meals were plentiful. Another downside was inoculations.
Bill winced and turned away as the needle penetrated his skin. ‘I won’t look, Doctor.’
‘Only one of us has to,’ said the doctor.
Young men who watched invariably ended up unwell. They toppled from their chairs to lie in crumpled heaps on the floor, amid the merriment of others.
At the commencement of a typical day’s march, everyone groaned.
‘Come on, lads. Not far today,’ chirped the corporal.
No one believed him anymore. He’d said that every day for a week.
Bill badly needed a rest and a smoke, as did Oliver.
‘Aye, my name is Ol-iv-er,’ he beamed. ‘But as I want to spare you effort for marching, Bill. You can call me Olly.’
They laughed.
Olly was a clear skinned ruddy-faced young man from the Yorkshire Dales. He had cheerful brown eyes that danced when he spoke and carefully groomed red hair.
His principal problem was his rosy complexion, which fought hard against creases of a tan. ‘Aye, I’m not built for warmer weather, Bill.’
Olly had not been exposed much to fresh air. At Glasgow Veterinary College his days were spent locked away in a dilapidated three-storey building, once a pumping station. There, within the confines of their less than hallowed walls, he’d been too busy studying to venture out.
He looked dependable enough. Pity his Yorkshire Dale’s brogue was contaminated with Scottish. Otherwise when he spoke Bill conjured pictures as stodgy and unromantic as Lily’s puddings. Usually Olly had a lazy grin that seesawed across his face, but not today.
‘Aye, I hope it’s naught much further, Bill,’ grumbled Olly. ‘We’re nowhere near end of day and already I’m history.’
‘I heard that, lad,’ shouted the corporal. ‘Come on, lads. Lift ‘em up. Faster. At the double, now- one, two, one, two. And once more we go around the park. Let’s go! Lift them feet. You’ll thank me for this later on.’
‘It’s hard to appreciate his style of kindness,’ gasped Bill. He understood their passion for shrieking abuse as that ensured no one dozed off. What he couldn’t understand was why, if he was going to fly a plane, the need for so much marching.
‘Thank Christ we’re not foot soldiers. There might be an element of fitness involved, but we won’t be carrying the damn aeroplane on our back.’
‘Aye, this running is a sure waste of energy, Bill. I’ve never heard of anyone outrun summat like a bullet.’
Bill’s new boots gave him hell. His feet suffered and he developed athlete’s foot but he was so proud of his new boots and socks he refused to part from them.
‘Best cure ever for sore feet, Son, is to pee on them,’ Fred had said.
Bill turned his nose up.
‘Well, it is only your pee, Son, it’s not as if it’s someone else’s. And it’s clean when it leaves your body.’
Olly agreed their daily marching was relentless.
‘I’ve