Never a Dull Moment

By Victor Collin

Victor was born before WWII, grew up during the war in England and was greatly influenced by watching the Battle of Britain first hand.
Upon completion of his education at Colfe's School he did his two years of National Service in the R.A.F. During the next four years he used his spare time and money to enroll in Jim Russell's Racing Driver's School and to learn to fly at Croydon Aerodrome.
Emigration to the U.S.A. followed, where he gained his Commercial Pilot's License, doing mostly crop-dusting in open-cockpit biplanes for three years, before being hired by T.W.A. He spent nearly thirty years with T.W.A., ending his career as Captain on the Lockheed 1011 and the Boeing 747. Foreseeing the demise of T.W.A., he flew in command of L-1011's for two years with Air Lanka in Sri Lanka, with B-747's on a HAJJ contract in Saudi Arabia and finally in charge of a private 747SP, first for the President of Kazakhstan, then for the Sultan of Brunei's family.
He is captivated with the romance of flight in all its different forms, has a passion for foreign languages, martial arts and travel, especially to China and Russia. These two countries have been in his purview all his life, they are a constant source of world political intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823003742

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ISBN: 979-8-8230-0373-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0375-9 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0374-2 (e)

Published by AuthorHouse 03/21/2023

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to my wife, without her inestimable help this would not have been possible, to Fred, who gave it a name and to fellow flyers around the globe

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Flawed Baby

Chapter 2 Growing up in War-torn Britain

Chapter 3 Come Sons of Colfe

Chapter 4 For Queen and Country

Chapter 5 Going Nowhere, in Style

Chapter 6 Carpe Diem

Chapter 7 Working for Mr. Hughes

Chapter 8 My Affair with the 747

Chapter 9 Playing with Fire

Chapter 10 Avertible Breakdown

Chapter 11 Kashmar

Chapter 12 Command

Chapter 13 The Face of Retirement

Chapter 14 Third Millennium

Chapter 15 Masha

Chapter 16 Lhasa, at Last

Chapter 17 Corona Virus

Chapter 18 Break Out

CHAPTER 1

Flawed Baby

According to my mother I was born during a wild thunderstorm at four o’clock in the afternoon, with only a midwife in attendance. This happened at 128, Falconwood Avenue, Welling, Kent, United Kingdom, because she had a deathly fear of hospitals. I remember little of my early life, until the age of five or so, however those memories that I do have seem to be vividly clear.

My parents moved to this new estate on the outskirts of London in about 1934 from Sunderland. My father had given up all hope of becoming Captain of an ocean going liner with Blue Funnel Line. In order to achieve his ambition to be master of his own vessel he joined Wm. Cory and Sons, based in London. The ships were colliers transporting coal from the north-east of England to London and other destinations in Europe.

My first recollection is being taken to St. Mary’s Convent in order to attend school at the tender age of three and a half. Mum was insistent that I should have the best education possible and as there was no alternative I was enrolled in a girl’s school. Being thrust into the arms of a frightening, hooded apparition in a black shroud filled me with horror and of course I howled my head off and demanded to be taken away. The second time I was quieted somewhat and taken to see baby Jesus, but I still cried with resentment. My lifelong atheism, I believe, commenced at this very moment.

The object, I suppose, was to learn the three r’s, but surprisingly I was introduced to French at this early age and can clearly remember singing songs in class, such as Frere Jacques. I have a French- English dictionary yet, inscribed on the frontispiece in my father’s beautiful copperplate Happy Birthday, 1940 . We used to march into class every day to the rousing tune of in an English country garden , a nun, in all her finery at an old piano, belting it out with gusto, her right foot pressing the loud pedal hard to the floor and her left tapping out the rhythm. The convent was poor, the floors plain dark wood, the walls bare and the reason they took me in, maybe, on account of lack of money. How my mother managed to swing it I cannot imagine, but the leg-pulling from the girls was at times traumatic.

I had a handsome pedal car, brought from Japan by Dad, but there is a sneaking suspicion it was a hand-me-down from Don, who had one too. I also had a tricycle, which displeased me, because under heavy cornering speeds it would tip me off, incurring crying and plasters, it in no way measured up to the proper joy of motoring.

Walks in Falcon Woods were something to look forward to with Skippy, my dog, a mongrel of dodgy parentage, none the less a treasure of a friend. Day to day life was much the same as any other youngster’s in that age, there were highlights though, occasions when I ran to the front gate to peer through the grill and feast my eyes on the next animal-drawn delivery to pass by. First of all the milkman came early to start the day off, with a couple of pints of Jersey or Guernsey milk, each with a thick layer of luscious cream visible at the top. The lovely old carthorse would quietly follow, keeping pace without attention, depositing once in a while a steaming mound, which Mum fell over herself in the haste of acquiring a shovel-full before the neighbours, for the roses. Then came the rest, usually once a week, at varying times. The coal-man, with his horse and cart, not pristine like the milkman, but filthy black with the dust. The tinker, accompanied by his donkey and jingle, happy to take anything metal and prepared to sharpen kitchen knives, scissors, shears and even the blades of our lawn mower, from which the sonorous sounds of the old manual type issued, so typical of a summer afternoon in those days, they will never be heard again. Last of all, the rag and bones man who would take anything, his skeletal pony dragging a dusty cart. His cry of ragabo could be heard from the kitchen, in time to catch him, for he did not hang about too long.

We had a strange family life. My mother took in P.G.’s (paying guests) all her married life and Rufus Pickles was with her in Sunderland, so he came to Welling as well. He was a delightful man, a carpenter and joiner by trade. I was encouraged to call him Daddy Rufie, looking back it must have been an awfully low blow to Dad, who was at sea for so much of his working life. I have no recollection at all of either my brother or my father at this time. Rufie built a huge aviary at the foot of the garden and filled it with exotically coloured birds from all over the world, which entranced me and left me with a great love of birds to the end of my days.

I can remember nothing else of note until the next happening - WWII. The fear that my mother felt, now that my brother and to a much greater extent my father could be in the killing zone, was palpable and was surely transmitted to me. The sounds, the smells and sights of war are all jumbled together in my mind, but the outstanding event, the Battle of Britain, is indelibly printed on my soul forever. The scratches in the sky, the noise of V-12 engines and everyone in the streets looking up and pointing had a huge effect on me. My mother was constantly telling me that those men were fighting for us and there was even one pilot with no legs (Douglas Bader) . This was a puzzlement for many years to come because I just could not imagine how a legless man could fly an aeroplane, she omitted to say that his legs were replaced by artificial ones. I was well aware, even at five years old, that something of monumental consequence was actually being played out before my eyes.

Then came the blitz, the air raid warnings and the bombings. We had an Anderson (I think) shelter erected in the living room, it was just a metal cage, when the warning sounded Mum and I snuggled together under the metal top. We were in the alley the bombers took to London from France, but much better off than the city itself, beset with heaps of rubble and frightening fires. One day there was a big bang, bits and pieces came raining down and the house became unliveable. Our peripatetic journey throughout England, following Rufie helping to build aerodromes for the next five years, began.

CHAPTER 2

Growing up in War-torn Britain

First stop was Two Gables, Hopping Jacks Lane, Danbury, Essex. This could not have been too interesting, because I remember little, however one could hardly forget the address. I do recall that it was a lovely large house, with a fair sized garden, where I went through a phase of carrying two blue/grey coloured rabbits, wrapped in bright yellow dusters, everywhere I went. The house itself had highly polished floors with throw rugs dotted around in unexpected spots. I came a cropper one day running into the study, the rug slipped away from my feet and I fell on an open electric fire and burnt my arm, causing me severe pain for some time. I made friends with Peter at school, who I made a point of recontacting in the fifties, to find that he had become a competent sports car driver, racing Lotus XI’s. Once again the memories are jumbled together and I have trouble connecting them into a logical cohesive journey. One day definitely stands out. Rufie was working at an aerodrome at Bradwell, he took me with him when he could, on Saturdays and Sundays. Fascinated by aeroplanes, I would sneak away and get into conversation with the mechanics servicing the aircraft with RAF Coastal Command, flying Lockheed Hudsons. I suppose I became a bit of a nuisance, asking lots of silly questions. One day, when they had to fly a quick circuit in order to check some work done, they persuaded the flight crew on my behalf to take me along. They stuffed me into the bomb aimers’ position and I experienced my first five minute flight. They made me promise so adamantly on a hidden tub of saint’s bones that I would not tell, I have never said a word until now. If my mother had known I would not be here to tell the tale. All I can say is that I had a lot of trouble keeping a huge grin off my face.

We moved next to Hungerford, a small town on the Kennet & Avon Canal. A quiet place normally, I remember the front door opened out directly onto a narrow pavement and at that time a busy road. The traffic was invariably military in nature, lorries and armoured personnel carriers were the common fare, interspersed with tanks grinding and clanking along, filling me with excitement. Here I recall nothing of my school, not surprising, since I went to thirteen different schools between 1939 and 1945. The only vivid memory I have was of a bout of scarlet fever which laid me low, maybe even dangerously so; any heart problems I may have now could stem from this illness. More than the fever this episode is imprinted on my mind because all of my books and toys had to be burnt, this was tragic, in that few toys were coming my way for the next few years. We were extremely lucky, as we had Rufie’s car, a Standard, available to us for moving about, his work was essential, so we always had petrol. I spent many long hours, lying on the back seat, watching the telephone wires and electricity cables going up and down between the poles, or so it seemed, dreaming.

There must have been a hiatus, because the mists close in. The United States Army Air Corps was becoming more visible and the quantities of troops and vehicles increased alarmingly until the end of the war. My first introduction was pleasurable and so typical of the humour and kindness of American forces all over the world. We were living in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire in another big house, famous in my mind for colourful rhododendron bushes. I was playing football and to my dismay the ball rolled gently down the driveway into the road, to be promptly flattened, with a loud bang, by a passing jeep full of US soldiers. It was a moth-eaten ball at best, therefore I was most surprised when they stopped, picked me up, deposited me in the back and drove me to the PX store. This was like going to heaven, these happy young men taking me to Merlin’s Cave. It was bright and filled with a cornucopia of equipment. They told me to hold out my hands, first came a new football, then they thought I would like a baseball bat, and what about a softball and of course a glove. As if that were not enough they threw in a pile of candy and the inevitable chewing gum. When we arrived back home my mother was in tears with a combination of anger and hysteria, but suitably mollified, she gave them a big kiss and they drove out of my life.

We then moved to Green Gates, Lechmere Crescent, Hallow, Worcester, there may well have been other addresses, where we remained until the end of the war. It was a delightful country house and I could take advantage of all that the English countryside has to offer. It was here that brother Don and cousin Elsie visited us, on leaves from the army and air force, respectively. Don met his future wife, who was living with a family across the road from us. I got involved with all sorts of things zoological, from studying the habits of bees, including lots of stings, to transferring spawn from from the pond to a tank and watching evolution take place from egg to frog. Mum continued her work with the Women’s Voluntary Service and Dad followed his highly dangerous assignments conveying materiel, mostly ammunition, petrol and aircraft to the Russians in Murmansk and our allied forces in the Mediterranean. My mother liked to get away whenever she could and her town of choice was Droitwich, which was decidedly upmarket. It is a Spa and even in wartime it purveyed an ambience of serenity. Droitwich baths had a grand swimming pool, it was here that I learned to swim, unfortunately the breast stroke instead of the more macho crawl.

As ever, I was assigned to classes in which I was at the least two years younger than the average age, leading to a surfeit of desire for excellence from me, I was pushed by my mother and bullied by my fellow schoolboys. I joined a primary school on the other side of the River Severn, which required rowing across the river every day, leaving the boat, and rowing back in the afternoon. It was called Sunnyside and the head mistress had a sunny smile for all her pupils as she dished out portions from a huge chocolate pudding for lunch. Quite a treat in those days.

I was seriously delving into the art of making model aeroplanes, selectively fighters. At first I took the model kits and just stuck them together, thinking I had it knocked, Rufie then took me aside and explained that the wood had to be shaped into aerofoils and the fuselages rounded, which was easy enough, given the soft balsa wood. I made all the great fighters of the allies, the spitfire, hurricane and mosquito from Britain, the mustang, lightning and thunderbolt from the USA and for some unexplained reason I fell in love with the bulldog-like stance of the Russian Polikarpov I-16. The skies around Worcester abounded with the sights and sounds of DH tiger moths, ab initio trainers for teaching the novices to fly and Rufie put my efforts to shame by building a magnificent model of one in trainer yellow, which I am sad to say is no longer.

I was once again shoved, at the tender age of eight, into a form of ten year olds at a lesser known public school, the Kings’ School, Worcester. I actually won a scholarship, beginning my higher education in very pleasant surroundings. I enjoyed French and Latin because I had good teachers and was particularly impressed with reading H. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, tickling my interest in travel and adventure.

The war was finally swinging in our favour after the Normandy landings and the family was planning to return to 128, even though the work on the house had been proceeding at a snail’s pace. This halted when we received news that a V2 rocket had landed about a hundred yards away, blowing the roof off the house once more. Reconstructions of bombed properties had much improved by the end of the war and ours was ready by April 1945.

The stay in Green Gates was the best part of the six years. There were some memorable trips, a lovely holiday in the lake district was one, based in Keswick. We took many walks through the scenic countryside and along the lakes, the smells surrounding us, the soft rain mixing with the pungent odour of the fir trees created a lasting impression to this day. Then there was another journey to Sunderland for the last Christmas of the war, staying with Auntie Gerty, visiting Uncle Lance on Mum’s side and Uncle George on Dad’s side. While I was in Sunderland I went for a walk by myself to Tunstall Hills, a beauty spot on the outskirts of the town. I stood by idly, watching some silly children throw bottles at the rock face, wondering why they had to do such a thing. Suddenly I saw a flash of sunlight, something flew straight at me at great speed. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground and blood was spurting out out of my mouth in copious amounts, a piece of glass had hit me in the upper lip and cut through an artery. A woman close by grabbed her baby out of its pram, bundled me in and half walked half ran, carrying the baby, pushing the pram all the way back to 8 Oakwood Terrace. As she ran she urged me to press a blanket on the wound to stop the bleeding. The family doctor was called, a man in his eighties, who proceeded to sew me up, I can still see his hand shaking as the needle came toward me. This little event goes to show how much luck plays a part in all our lives, three inches higher and my life would have been a world apart from what it is.

When we first arrived at Green Gates we had had to make the long trip to Inverary in Scotland, to see my father in hospital. He had just off loaded a cargo of petrol and ammunition at Split in Jugoslavia when his ship received a direct hit and he was blown from one side of the ship to the other. He saved the ship by getting her back into port and then collapsed from loss of blood, caused by a piece of shrapnel lodged near his spine, some of which he carried to his death. He was in pretty bad shape and it was a joy to see his face light up when we walked into his room. Our last days at Green Gates were marred by the death of Rufie. He had just sold his trusty Standard for thirty pounds, the money was still on the table in those old large white five pound notes, when I arrived home from school, he was dead from a major heart attack. This was my first exposure to death and it did not improve my relationship with religion.

At last we returned to 128 and were only just settling in when we heard that the war was over. On VE day the British went quite mad, releasing all the pent up emotions of six years on the edge. Mum had already acquired a new PG, one of the workers who was still finishing off the repairs to the house when we moved in. He was an Irish Liverpudlian, very low class and someone I disliked intensely. It was decided that the three of us should celebrate VE Day by going up to town by train and to congregate at Trafalgar Square with several million other idiots. When we arrived at Charing Cross station I was dubious and as we approached the square I was downright scared. We were carried in a press of bodies, people were mostly drunk, shouting and singing at the tops of their voices. My feet were a foot off the ground and did not touch until we were back, breathless and terrified, at the station. I am fearful of crowds to this day, we did not reach the square.

Now I was preparing to enroll at Colfe’s, a boy’s school in Lewisham, SE London. Kings’ School had begged my mother to let me stay as a boarder, but being a control freak, she refused and all my records were transferred to Colfe’s. The serious business of educating Victor was about to start.

CHAPTER 3

Come Sons of Colfe

The school was founded by the Rev. John Glyn in 1574 under a Charter from Queen Elizabeth l, refounded and endowed by the Rev. Abraham Colfe in 1652. Its continued existence was due to the kindness and generosity of the Worshipful Company of Leathersellers, one of the Guilds of the City of London. They funded the purchase of the original buildings on Lewisham Hill and the acquisition of huge playing fields with a pavilion in Lee Green. At the end of the war the school was in ruins, so the London County Council allocated shared buildings to us in three different places - Beacon Road School, Hither Green, Brockley County School and Ennersdale School. Colfe’s reopened in September 1945 under the leadership of the G.W. Morris, headmaster since 1928. Thus the school lacked laboratory accommodation and apparatus, lacked text books, had no gymnasium, no library facilities, no swimming pool and no changing rooms at the playing fields.

I enrolled in the lower fourth form at the reopening, again two years at least under the average age, shuttling between three grotty schools and the playing fields on Wednesday afternoons. The buildings were old, dirty and lit by gaslight, the desks were falling apart, we were lucky if we had a blackboard and the toilets were nothing short of disgusting. On top of all that there was a dire shortage of teachers, the quality of those we had was doubtful. This situation lasted for four long years. The Christmas after the end of the war, Uncle Bill and Aunty Gerty visited us from Sunderland, free from the strain of six long years. All of us went to the large army base at Woolwich, in fact the Artillery Theatre, where I saw my first Pantomime. It was very therapeutic for me, henceforth I became a lifelong devotee of live theatre, Tony Hancock gave an outstandingly funny performance and I followed his career with great interest as he progressed to radio, TV and films.

The journey to school involved taking the 89 bus over Shooters’ Hill and then a rattling old tram to one of the three schools. Later on, when I was taller Dad bought me a Raleigh bicycle which I sometimes rode to school, but I was never a devoted cyclist.

My relationship with my mother reached a low. I always felt that she was disappointed with me because I was not a perfect baby. I was born with six toes on my left foot, the doctor had advised her to leave it until I reached seven before having it removed, as there was a chance the bone would grow again. She could not stand the slight on her motherhood, so she had it removed immediately and, true to form, it did grow some more. This caused me a great deal of pain and inconvenience, because all my shoes had to be of an extra wide size and wearing them in, until a suitable nest in the inside sole was formed, took time. I was unable to walk normally in bare feet, which put a stop to some sporting endeavours. The other medical problem I had was asthma. I had recurring bouts of this which my mother absolutely refused to recognize as such, calling it bronchitis. I even threw a doctor out of the house because his medication did nothing to relieve the very unpleasant feeling of not being able to breathe. Much research had yet to be done toward the alleviation of discomfort for asthma sufferers. The next couple of years I adapted to the miserable school conditions while the country slowly recovered from the effects of war, we were still on severe rationing and London was a large bomb site. My school reports were average but my place in the class slumped lower, due to my lack of concentrating my brain power and possibly incompetent teachers. Sports days were marred by the attitude of the old fashioned PT master who could only think of rounders and boxing, a sport which I despised. It is interesting to note that when I joined Colfe’s in 1945 the whole educational system was contrived in order to train us for positions in the British Empire either at home or abroad, when I left in 1952 there was damned little of it left.

After two years things began to look up. First of all, I got rid of Alec, not only was he low class, he was also a homosexual and I found out the hard way. I can remember standing in the room, shaking with anger, telling my mother either you get rid of him or I go. Next, Dad came home from the Seaman’s Hospital in Greenwich, released as fit to return to work with William Cory and Sons. This was when I finally and joyfully started to get to know my father, who was a lovely man, I never heard a bad word spoken of him. Following hard on his heels Don came back from the middle east as a Captain in the 15/19th Hussars, Tank Corps. We had been communicating by post but at last I became acquainted with him. Almost the first words out of his mouth were that he intended to marry Marion, which did not go down well with Mum. There was another girl down the avenue, called June, who had her eye on him, but he was adamant. I knew and liked June and I confess I was a little disappointed.

All sorts of changes were occurring at school, H. Beardwood became headmaster in September 1947, he had a dynamic personality, took a first class honours in mathematics and later an MSc. He began by putting pressure on all concerned for our return to Lewisham Hill and initiated designs for our new housing in coordination with Messrs E.H.Smith and Sons and the LCC, this was to take two more years before it came to fruition.

To celebrate father’s return to the fold, in the summer of 1947 we three went on the ferry to the island of Jersey staying at a place called Quiberon. It was my first real holiday and did I have fun. At last I found a beach without barbed wire and mines, it was such a pleasure to relax, run on the beach and swim in the sea, eat French food and get brown as a berry. At the end of two weeks Mum and Dad had to return home, but at my earnest pleading I was allowed to stay an extra two weeks. They gave me some pocket money and I promised to be good. I earned some extra money by picking tomatoes, for which Jersey was justly famous. Staying at the guest house was a pretty girl called Jill, about the same age as myself and we got on like a house on fire. I quickly became aware that there was no age limit for purchasing alcohol in the Channel Islands, so, with a little encouragement I sidled up to the local bar and purchased a bottle of Creme de Menthe and the two of us got quietly smashed, sitting amidst the sand dunes, the next day we paid a heavy price. A grand idea had come to mind towards the end of my idyll, which I hurried to put into practice. I took the bus into St. Helier and sought out a travel agency in which there was a kindly looking lady. I explained that I possessed a return half of a boat ticket to Southampton, that I needed to exchange it for an air ticket, would that be possible? I pushed the limits of my acting ability to give my face a picture of urgency. To my utter delight she concurred that it would indeed be possible, if I left the ticket with her, I could pick up the airline ticket tomorrow. Now I was beset with the problem of how to break this somewhat startling news to my parents. I carefully thought through my plan of attack. I called them the night before I was due to return and quietly informed them that I would not arrive at Southampton as planned, that I would be on Flight such and such and gave them my ETA at Northolt Airport, quickly hanging up the receiver. You can imagine the happy faces of Dad and Don, and Mum’s, a grimace of anger and relief as they greeted the errant one, grinning from ear to ear. I had my first experience of watching the pilots through the open cockpit door of a DC3 Dakota, the thrill of the engines pulling full power on takeoff, the glorious sight of the twinkling lights of London as we came in for the night landing, was intoxicating.

For some time Mum had been telling me that a boy who lived in 118, Falconwood Avenue would be returning as soon as his house had been rebuilt after the flattening it had received from the rocket. It took a while, but finally the whole family arrived, we were united and it was to be a lifelong friendship. Peter Kent was a couple of years senior to me and went to Eltham College, however we came to share many interests and spent a lot of time together. His passion was country and western music from the USA, the humorous type, and he had his mind set on a five year apprenticeship with a City and Guilds scheme to become an instrument maker.

As to my health, I found an Indian doctor who was able to offer me some respite and who gave me a pill which did help the asthma. (Ephedrine). Unfortunately, he explained that it could only be a stopgap, because it stressed the heart and should not be taken over a long period of time. He gave me a detailed lecture, basically informing me that my life was solely in my own hands, that I had to grasp the nettle and exercise the body to such an extent that I controlled it, not the other way around. It was a turning point, I owe him my healthy life, because now, at my late stage in life’s journey, I realize that I did beat it and asthma is the very least of my worries. His name was Chaudhuri, we spent quite a bit of time together and he even gently encouraged me to adopt Hinduism, without success. That winter of 1947 was one of the coldest on record, Don, Marion and I managed to go skating on Danson Park Lake.

The next year I started on the path to a more complete life and recovery from the deadening effects of the war. I joined the under thirteen rugby and cricket teams and got involved with athletics and swimming at school. Peter K and I took up tennis and taught ourselves to play at the local hard courts, just around the corner, by the woods.

In 1948 Peter K and I went to the Motor Show at Earl’s Court. This was a real eye opener and changed my life for ever. The exhibition was well done and obviously designed to tickle one’s fancy, bright lights and exotic presentations were a sight to behold after the sheer dullness of Britain at the time. I was entranced with the glam and glitter of all the cars, especially the American Cadillacs and Packards. But it was the British sporty cars that really bowled me over, the Bentleys, Bristols, Alvises, an Aston Martin Spa Special and the Jaguars. My heart stopped when I saw the XK120, it just astounded me, I had never seen anything so beautiful and I have not changed my mind since.

I also joined the Air Training Corps, becoming an enthusiastic member. Over the next four years I learned so much about navigation, meteorology, map reading (beginning a lifelong affair with maps) signalling (the morse code and the war time phonetic alphabet, not the modern one), aircraft recognition, shooting and gunnery. I thoroughly enjoyed the two week detachment to RAF Stations each summer at Manston, Thorney Island and Oakington. We did marching drills, shooting and enjoyed flights in all sorts of aircraft from gliders to four engine transports.

The next stumbling block would be the School Certificate Examination, introduced in 1918 and a requirement in order to proceed to the sixth form and higher learning. One had to obtain Matriculation Exemption, which necessitated at least a credit in five subjects, including English, maths, a science and a foreign language. The subjects were graded Fail, Pass, Credit, Distinction.

Matriculation Exemption was also required if one wanted to apply for a Short Service Commission in the RAF or RN, recruitment notices for which were becoming more and more apparent, because of the increasing tensions between the West and Russia and China. This brings me to another facet of my ever changing attitude to life, the stirrings of love for books and reading about adventure and travel and the fascination with these two countries which I have avidly followed all my life.

My French pen friend and I did spend a couple weeks in each others’ houses for the next two years. Far be it from me to confess Francophobia, but my opinion of the French originated from these visits and developed further on, leaving me with the impression that they are two-faced and untrustworthy. If you were to read the short story Balls of Fat by Guy de Maupassant all would be revealed.

In June 1949 I took the School Certificate Exam at fourteen, the minimum age for which was sixteen, however this requirement evidently was not set in stone. I did fairly well but not well enough, because I did not achieve matriculation exemption due to a pass grade only in maths. Therefore I was consigned to Transitus class for 1950. The education system was undergoing a huge upheaval in Sept. 1949, the all new General Certificate of Education was introduced and the Ordinary Level was not graded, it was just a pass or fail. So with the help of Mr Beardwood himself and some extra lessons from a gentleman in Bromley, I tried hard to improve my chances in mathematics. Once again, in 1950, the minimum age was sixteen, but at the last minute the authorities capitulated and at fifteen I passed ten O levels including English, maths, a science and a foreign language.

September 1949 and the great day was upon us, We moved out of the dark ages and into the new buildings on Lewisham Hill. The top site had all the laboratories, assembly hall and administrative offices, alongside the gymnasium and swimming pool from the old school; these had been completely renovated and furnished with all the necessary equipment. On the bottom site were fourteen classrooms, albeit prefabricated buildings, but new, light and airy and such a breath of optimism after the four years we had just endured.

In Transitus I met Peter Rayner, we shared our plight together with good humour, and this friendship was to flourish throughout our lives. He wanted to be an opera singer or a professional tennis player, however his forte was languages and he finally achieved four advanced levels in English Literature, French, German and Latin later on in the sixth form.

So, at fifteen I stood at the threshold, my academic life was on track, my body health was improving in leaps and bounds, but I had no mentor and I had no plan. All I was really interested in being was a pilot or a racing driver, rather childish you may say. The streams in the Upper Fifth, one of which I was required to choose prior to progressing to the Sixth Form, were Arts, Science, Medical and Modern. I could not take Arts because I had no German, so I opted for Science, being lazy, I thought it would be the easiest.

CHAPTER 4

For Queen and Country

The choice of subjects for the next two years was paramount and dependent on the school being able to fit it into their programme, which left me in a quandary. When a person has no plan he can only pull ideas out of a hat, like a magician. I chose randomly the subjects that I liked and thought I could pass - Geography, Geology, Biology and Maths. After much less than a year it was patently obvious that the teacher was woefully inept and that I had gained no idea what calculus was all about, so I dropped maths like a hot potato.

I became obsessive with sport. During the last two years I was in the first fifteen at rugby and the first eleven at cricket. It just so happened during this time we had an excellent team and won most of our fixtures, not on my account, I hasten to add. I started in rugby as hooker, being younger and smaller than the others, I progressed to wing forward when I increased in size and finally moved to full back, where I was happiest of all. A safe pair of hands. In cricket I soon slipped into the wicket-keeper’s role and usually went out to bat next after the openers. We did not have many swimming fixtures, in those that we had I featured as the breast stroke soloist. The school P.T. instructor was new, fresh out of Loughborough college, bound and determined to set a good example to us all. John Atha made all the classes qualify for their life- saving medals, encouraged us to try all the different disciplines in gymnastics and got me personally interested in track and field athletics. I experimented wildly, first with the 100, 220 and 440 yard sprints, then I even tried a mile run, however I did not set the world on fire. Next was the pole vault which only resulted in pain and ignominy. In the end I settled on throwing things, something that has always appealed to my sense of abandon. In the under sixteen events on sports day I managed to win putting the shot and broke the school record for throwing the discus, for which I was able to put the Victor Ludorum cup on the mantlepiece for a year. I was keen enough to take part in a symposium sponsored by the AAA on the latest methods in training, especially using weights, which I have used ever since. Whenever possible I would compete in ATC events, I treasure one memorable day when I happened to win the hundred yard sprint and the throwing the javelin event. As if that were not enough my friend John Herring (always called Kipper) inveigled me to join him in forming a basketball team. Of course, this was an absolutely new sport to Britain and the only fixtures we could rustle up were with local army, navy or air force teams, enjoyable, but they played a pretty tough game.

On top of all this my long summer evenings and weekends were taken up with tennis. Peter K and I had joined the Shooters Hill Golf and Tennis Club where we spent many hours and made many friends in that happiest of clubs. Tennis was probably the game I enjoyed the most and shared this enthusiasm with Peter R who was way above my league, having become Kent Junior Champion. We did have a regular mens’ doubles match arranged for every Saturday morning at his club, whenever possible, when we would take on any challenging pair. They were good times, but I need to relate a story which disabused me of any egoistic thoughts I may have had about my ability. I met a young Swedish visitor to the club one day and he asked me if I would care to have a game. Well he beat me 6-0 and 6-0 and as we were walking to the bar for a well deserved drink, he apologized for not being on form, because he had recently hurt his normal right arm and had had to play with his left.

As you can imagine my academic studies suffered somewhat, but I take full responsibility for the failure I incurred when it came to the Advanced Level Exams in June 1952. I had no motivation to study hard enough, because I just could not see my way to following any of my chosen subjects into a professional career.

I continued to take my ATC attendances seriously and begged at every opportunity our officer in charge, Ft Lt Matthias to be considered for a flying scholarship. My rank of Warrant Officer reflected my overall participation in the general duties of our school station.

The end of term arrived, the ceremonies duly completed, Matthias walked up to me and informed me that my scholarship had finally come through and I stupidly said Well, it is too bloody late . He was also my history master and I had scant regard for his abilities. It was lodged in my mind that I must still be in school in order to qualify for this great bounty. If only I could have taken the time to reason that it was not possible to obtain a private pilot’s licence until age seventeen, which would account for the delay, That this clown did not grab hold of me, shake me, and point out my mistaken assumptions, I cannot for the life of me explain.

Mr Beardwood had made arrangements for a party of us to go to Switzerland for a couple of weeks, including free passage for himself and his wife, of course. This was to be my swan song with Colfe’s, my father had kindly paid the bill and I was determined to enjoy it. We took the train across the channel and on to Basel. My eyes opened wide when I saw all the shops. the bright lights, the orderliness of a country that had been without war. The culinary delights started immediately on arrival at the station. Duly warned, the restaurant had prepared a magnificent breakfast, a large table burgeoning with all the tasty treats that I now love so much, baguettes, fresh butter, croissants, chocolate eclairs, all enveloped in the aromatic smell of coffee. This was such a revelation, because I had never tasted proper coffee with cream and had always disliked tea, with a passion. The sensations did not stop there, a bus picked us up at our final destination, Luzern, and conveyed us through the majestic countryside to an idyllic hotel in Gersau right on the shore of Vierwaldstatter See, surrounded by mountains and bathed in sunshine. Peter R and I tramped the countryside, played tennis and took the steam ferry into Luzern, which is still my favourite Swiss city, all the while we were being fed in a