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Roberta Cowell’s Story

An Autobiography

A wonderful story, about a fascinating life of a Spitfire Pilot of WW2, who found he was actually a she.

It is also interesting from the point of view that it was written in the early 1950s and clearly shows the type of beliefs, both socially and medically, about "Change of Sex" and how "Transsexualism-(Harry Benjamin Syndrome)" was erroneously classified as being "Transvestism" or a variation thereof.

The medical views she expresses in this book were, at the time of printing - 1954, considered to be the best and most up to date medical and psychological knowledge of the time, BUT, much of it has changed a great deal in the last fifty years of medical, biological and psychological research and "Transsexualism-(Harry Benjamin Syndrome)" and "Transvestism" are more clearly separated, as distinctly different conditions, with differing aetiologies, and "Transvestism" is no longer considered to be of homosexual origins. And the entire concepts of "sex and gender" are at the centre of many medical debates now that new evidence is coming forward which no longer makes the assessment of sex by gonads, phenotype nor chromosomes possible.

For a PDF version of this Story: Roberta Cowell’s Story - 1.9MB

Roberta Cowell’s Story

By Roberta Cowell

British Book Centre, Inc., New York

first published november 1954

Copyrighted 1954 © by

British Book Centre, Inc.

122 East 55 Street, N.Y., N.Y.

Manufactured in U.S.A.  by

Book Production Co., Inc. 

New York, N.Y.

To my parents, my doctors and nurses, Lisa, Douglas, Charles

and the Canon, this book is humbly and gratefully dedicated.

“So God created man in his own image .  .  male and female created he them.”

                                                                                                      genesis i.  27.

REUTER’S DISPATCH, April 17, 1954.  (Salvator Mundi Hospital, Rome, Italy)

Professor George Randegger, M.B.E., head of Rome’s leading International Hospital, where Roberta Cowell had spent three weeks, told Reuter:

“From the hormonic, physical and psychological point of view, Miss Cowell is now absolutely a woman. 

“Her voice, mental attitudes and sexual attributes are entirely those of a woman. 

“What is so extraordinary, making her case practically unique in medical literature, is that the change-over should come when she was an adult.  It is not infrequent at puberty. 

“She has obviously suffered hell, and she now needs all the sympathy that people can give her.”

Professor Randegger, confirming the existence of menstruation, said, “It is remarkable that menstruation began before any sort of operation had been performed.”

He added, “I understand Miss Cowell intends to devote her life to science.  She will be able to give a most valuable contribution. 

“She is of a high intellectual level, her father is a surgeon (Gen. Sir Ernest Cowell) and she herself has always been interested in medicine.  When she first came to the Roman Catholic Hospital, the nuns who were to attend her were almost shocked.  Now they are full of admiration of her character and her courage.  They loved her and had the greatest sympathy with her.”

Preface

Two or three years ago a writer in a medical journal, dealing with the subject of sex-reversal, began by remarking that “the history of sex-reversal, founded on speculative thought, may be judged best by the human passions it has provoked.” I realized plainly when the present book was first projected, and feel even more clearly on reading it now, that to arouse passions of any sort was about the last idea in ‘the mind of the writer.  Whatever purpose she had in mind from the first, and followed consistently, it was not that, as indeed her readers will perceive for themselves. 

That there is a history of the subject at all is significant, though even today the fact is very imperfectly understood.  It begins a very long way back, and my own first dim awareness of its existence goes back to the construe of a Latin poet in my distant school days.  It is also one which demands careful disentanglement from masses of superstition and mythological accretions.  That is a work which lies altogether outside the scope of this book: but the indication remains that it is not the problem that can be called new, but our attitude of mind to it, and the scientific knowledge and the surgical skill coming increasingly to our help in finding the answer to it.  Our concern is with a new answer to an old problem; and it is quite essential that the new answer should have the broadest possible basis of solid fact.  That is to say, evidence is needed, and evidence is what Miss Cowell has supplied, or at the least clearly indicated.  That degree of qualification is perhaps necessary since part of what she has to say points the way into provinces of highly specialised research, where the surgeon and the endocrinologist alone can assess its value.  Part again yields information, the full significance of which, as psychological data, can be appreciated solely by the trained observer in that field.  Yet the general reader can hardly fail to be impressed by the dispassionate way in which the writer records her own observations of herself, and the courage with which she has faced the business of presenting them.  Neither task can have been easy; but I fancy she would ask no better reward than the consciousness of having done something to furnish material for the medical psychologist and the geneticist, and to help toward a fuller knowledge of the psyche with its mysterious workings and of the biological foundations of intersexuality. 

The matter does not end with that.  There are very extensive moral and theological implications which I am deeply conscious I must try to think out.  This is not the place for their discussion, and in any case there are many others far better qualified for that than I: but it is only fair for me to say that I owe a very real debt to the writer for the confidence and friendship she has given me since we first met some time ago.  If her book brings me into touch with others who have had comparable experiences, the obligation will be greater still.  There must be many such; and if nothing else had been gained, the openness of such a story as is told in these pages could be of immense help to them in their own struggle, which in the nature of things is likely to be a single-handed one.  Reticence is a very desirable thing, but secretiveness can sometimes be a very dangerous one. 

“The past is forgotten, the future doesn’t matter.” In one sense Roberta Cowell and I will differ amicably about that.  In that sense the past is generously recorded and the future will show those people who will owe happier and more balanced days to one whom a correspondent of mine recently described as “this gallant lady.” And perhaps she herself comes very near the heart of the thing when she writes, “Instead of bawling .  .  .  I spoke quietly.” She speaks quietly in this book—and calls for sober reading and sympathetic understanding. 

Canon

a. r. millbourn.

The Cathedral,

Bristol. 

Illustrations

Roberta Cowell’s Story

Chapter 1

For The First Thirty-Three Years Of My Life I was Robert Cowell, an aggressive male who had piloted a Spitfire during the war {WW2}, designed and driven racing cars, married and become the father of two children.  Since May 18th, 1951, I have been Roberta Cowell, female.  I have become woman physically, psychologically, glandularly and legally. 

This incredible thing was not an overnight change.  I had always known that my body had certain feminine characteristics.  My aggressively masculine manner compensated for this, at least as far as normal men and women were concerned, but homosexuals invariably took me for one of themselves.  I was not a homosexual; my inclinations, as they developed, were entirely heterosexual.  I was horrified and repelled by homosexual overtures, and this loathing included any boy who showed the slightest sign of being a ‘sissy.’ I could be friendly with other men, but I could not bear any form of physical contact with them.  It was impossible for me to stand having someone link his arm in mine, and even shaking hands was unpleasant. 

Looking back now at my life as Robert Cowell, I can see how many of my ambitions, dislikes and prejudices came from my realisation of my physical abnormalities.  I was passionately enthusiastic about motor-cars and motor-racing.  It was the be-all and nearly the end-all of my existence.  I did not suspect, until I was psychoanalysed in 1948, that racing was for me a symbol of courage, power and virility.  Unconsciously I knew I was not a normal male, and I desperately needed my symbol as a reassurance.  When I finally understood the full truth about myself, both mental and physical, that tremendous and all-pervading enthusiasm for motor-racing vanished completely. 

From a very early age I had had a deep-rooted fear and hatred of monstrosities in any shape or form.  This dated back to a visit to a little museum down in Sussex, when I was a very small child.  There were some horrible things in glass bottles and show-cases and these affected me strongly.  If I ever came across a book with an illustration of one of these things, such as a two-headed cat, I would fling it away from me, and feel violently ill.  I made a tremendous effort to get accustomed to such things, but the phobia still remained as strong as ever.  Because of this I had to give up my early thoughts of becoming a doctor like my father.  I was also very squeamish about dissection. 

This fear must have been due to an instinctive knowledge of the abnormality of my own body, because when at last my dual sexuality was resolved and I became a complete and normal woman, the terror and loathing of these things disappeared, leaving no trace. 

As to my relations with women, I had known many girls, and I had a lot of fun getting to know them.  My interest, however, lay in the search for the rainbow, and not for the pot at the end of it, even if it did contain gold.  Once I had met the admired girl, and got to know her a little, I was off again on the chase.  Sometimes I would meet a girl and make a real friend of her; once or twice I suspected, probably quite wrongly, that she was ‘falling.’ When this happened I would drop her like a hot brick and leave her severely alone from then on. 

It is easy to see the reasons for this, and for the unhappiness of my unfortunate marriage.  It is acutely embarrassing for me now even to think about my marriage, but its failure, and the falseness of my feelings for other women, should be recorded.  When my female libido developed, it was a perfectly normal one. 

I could probably have gone on as an apparently normal male, compensating more or less consciously for what I knew I lacked, and taking such obvious precautions against embarrassment as avoiding communal dressing-rooms, if it had not been for a violent emotional shock I experienced after the war.  This undoubtedly upset my glandular system, and my feminine characteristics began to grow more marked.  I had to acknowledge the extent of my physical abnormalities then, and I finally stopped fighting against my femininity.  I became a feminised male, then a boyish woman, and finally a feminine woman.  It is extremely difficult for me to realise now that I was once a Spitfire pilot with a liking for pretty girls. 

It has taken me three years to become entirely adjusted to being a woman.  It was comparatively easy to accept my new face and body, although I feel sometimes as if my mind had been transplanted into another person.  But it was not easy to accept my altered temperament or my new general outlook and interests.  While I was still adapting to these changes, there were times when I would amaze myself by automatically reacting in a feminine and not a masculine way.  Now that the adjustment is complete, I am contented with the kind of contentment I never felt as a male. 

This is the story of how I lived and felt as a man, and then learned to live and feel as a woman. 

* * *

My parents were both wonderful people.  My father was a surgeon and a colonel in the Territorial Army.  He was also an artist, sculptor, writer, lecturer, naturalist, and a good violinist.  Mother was very interested in social work, and was a fine pianist and singer. 

There were three children, two boys and a girl.  We were of widely different temperaments, and this showed in everything we did.  When Father allotted us little garden lots, in which we could each do exactly as we liked, my sister grew flowers, my brother vegetables, and I commenced furious digging in an attempt—unsuccessful—to reach the centre of the Earth. 

We had a nurse, for whom I conceived a passionate loathing which I am sure was mutual.  She was about fifteen feet high and seemed to have come straight out of the Book of Revelation.  I was told that when I grew up I should feel only love and gratitude towards Nanny for looking after me so well.  But when I met her a few years ago I was gratified to observe no noticeable diminution of my hatred towards her. 

Ours was a strict religious and moral upbringing, and this resulted in my being rather anti-religious for many years.  Sunday was always hell on earth.  It dragged by interminably, shrouded in gloom.  When I was very young, I had to go to morning service, and then to the children’s service in the afternoon.  The very moment I was old enough I was taken to evening service as well; off I went, in a tumbril disguised as a motor-bus.  Many and ingenious were the methods I employed to avoid going to church, but they availed me little.  My nurse was the daughter of a missionary, and on Sunday morning her eye would gleam with fanatical zeal.  When the great day finally came and I was considered mature enough to go to the early morning service in addition to all the others, my nurse’s cup of joy was running over, but I felt as though I were having to dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 

Church services were the epitome of boredom to me.  I enjoyed them only when we were visited by an elderly Bishop, who gabbled the prayers at an enormous rate.  There was always the chance that he might make a mistake or even, if we were exceptionally lucky, make a spoonerism.  Another source of enjoyment was a preacher who had a loose tooth which caused him to whistle in the most fascinating way.  Once we were visited by a gentleman who played the trombone in the pulpit.  Occasionally we had a special evangelical service on a Sunday evening, at which the congregation was worked up with the aid of lantern slides and theatrical lighting effects into a state of mass hysteria.  This sort of thing seemed to me to be definitely wrong in some way, but at least it relieved the boredom. 

I was apparently expected to believe the Bible quite literally word for word, from the Creation and Adam and Eve up to the rider on the White Horse with the sharp sword going out of his mouth. 

When you died there seemed to be two grim alternatives: either you went to heaven, and spent eternity wearing long white robes and playing a harp, which was your reward for leading a good life; or you were damned to everlasting Hell Fire, which was very unpleasant indeed.  In order to avoid going to Hell you had to have faith, and ‘believe.’ I completely failed to see how I could have faith in something that I just did not believe in, and I did not see how I could possibly make myself believe in something which seemed to me to be unreasonable. 

I was considered a soul damned to everlasting torment.  But I was assured that I need not worry.  Even if everything else failed, the day I faced eternity I should repent.  It was a false prophecy; I tested it during the War when I was at the point of what was apparently certain death. 

I knew most of the church services by heart, but only dimly comprehended the meaning of the words.  What little I did understand often seemed unreasonable.  Why was I a miserable sinner, asking for mercy? Why did I need to be delivered from evil? Was I really born in sin? I found especially difficult to understand why we should be conceived and born in sin.  It just did not ring true, even though I did not know, nor could I find out, what the word ‘conceive’ meant. 

Later it was made clear that although, most unfortunately, there seemed to be no way of procreating other than the conventional one, the operative word was procreation and most certainly not recreation. 

When still quite small, I was given a scooter.  I took this straight to the top of a fairly steep hill, and launched down the incline, making suitable noises which were intended to resemble the engine of a motor-cycle.  On reaching the first bend my attempts to emulate the speedway riders’ technique were unsuccessful.  My unconscious body was picked up by a livid Nanny, thrust into a pushchair, and propelled homewards.  En route we met an old lady, a friend of the family.  By this time I had regained consciousness and I can still remember vividly how upset I was when she made some pithy comments about little boys who at the ripe old age of five still had to be pushed about in wheel-chairs like little girls. 

In the usual English progression, I was sent to three schools.  My kindergarten career was uneventful, except that I jibbed at such unmanly occupations as needlework and pressing flowers. 

At my preparatory school, for boys only, I distinguished myself by winning a medal at a boxing tournament.  I won on points by crying slightly less than my opponent.  At this school I discovered, to my extreme embarrassment, that I had an aptitude for mathematics.  Fortunately for me, the other boys soon realised that my success was very far from being attributable to swotting.  It was simply that by some occult means I managed to get the right answers, though often I could not write down the step-by-step working.  They were decent enough to forgive me for this, and I made up for it by being bottom of the form in most other subjects. 

The next rung of the educational ladder was the public school. 

By this time I had grown rather fat, and was extremely sensitive about it.  Naturally, I was teased unmercifully.  My first nickname was ‘Circumference.’ When I reached the age of fifteen, I slimmed down a little, but I was left with a large pelvis and feminoidal fat distribution.  This earned me the distinction of a new nickname, borrowed from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  I was now called Bottom. 

Public school added a large number of rude words to my vocabulary.  It was only with the greatest difficulty that I managed to refrain from using them at home.  I initiated my small brother, still at prep school, into their use, and he made quite a reputation for himself at a croquet party by letting out a round oath when he missed the ball.  I thought it most unfair that I was the one to receive the blame for this regrettably stupid lapse on his part. 

We were at the age of earnest sexual education.  Mine was furthered by a school friend who was a clergyman’s son, and a veritable mine of misinformation.  Some books on the subject were purchased, not without a good deal of difficulty, and surreptitiously perused by an anxious little group in an otherwise empty form room, with someone keeping ‘cave’ outside.  

One morning, during the Latin class, a day boy suddenly gave a sharp cry and sped from the room, without even observing the formality of requesting permission of the master to leave the room.  Through the window we could see him dash to the bicycle shed, and then pedal madly down the drive. 

We were all most curious to know the reason for this odd behaviour, and many and varied were the theories put forward.  It transpired later that the poor fellow had been reading in bed an epic poem on the subject of one ‘Eskimo Nell,’ and had completely forgotten that he had left it under his pillow until the Latin class.  His frantic dash home was all to no purpose, though.  His mother had found it. 

My favourite sports at school were tennis and fencing, but I scraped into the school Rugger fifteen, as a wing three-quarter.  The communal baths after games and turnouts were a source of acute embarrassment.  I was uneasy among so many naked males and did my best to use the big bath when it was unoccupied. 

I am naturally left-handed, but I was not allowed to write with my left hand.  The result was that I became ambidextrous, and unable to write well with either hand.  I usually played tennis right-handed, but could drive forehand on either wing. 

When nature took away some of my rotundity at fifteen, I received in exchange a crop of pimples.  My eyelashes grew longer and longer until I had to cut them to avoid comment.  They were so long that they used to touch the glasses which I had to wear.  I hated those glasses, which were supposed to correct my long sight.  Someone told me about the Bates system, so I threw my glasses away and started eye exercises.  There was a marked improvement in my eyesight, which became exceptionally good, and I have never worn glasses since. 

I had a phlegmatic nature, and never lost my temper.  I had many girl friends, and found them far easier to understand and get on with than boys.  I preferred their company, but unlike the other boys, I never fell in love.  The only thing that could really move me was good music, so I was careful not to listen to any. 

A school friend who disliked music heartily surprised me one day by saying that he was off to a Promenade Concert.  “I always thought you didn’t like music,” I said.  “I don’t,” he replied, “but my parents insist on my going, so I am taking with me a good book and a pair of earplugs.”

One thing I could never understand about schoolboys was their universal passion for stamp collecting.  It always struck me as a complete waste of time, and seemed a remarkably stupid hobby.  Personally, I sedulously collected match-box tops.... 

Among my other hobbies was photography.  I was interested in film-making, and formed a film club at school.  We made several short films on 9.5 mm film, and then decided to attempt a two-reel epic.  The story was about gangsters and involved much brandishing of firearms.  One of the boys had borrowed a revolver from his father -a most realistic-looking weapon.  The thought that it might he loaded never seemed to occur to anyone.  Whilst the others were firing off blank cartridges at each other he clicked the trigger and was rewarded by a most impressive report.  The revolver almost jumped out of his hand with the recoil.  At the same moment the soft felt hat of the boy whom he had aimed at fell to the ground.  As it turned out, we were lucky that it was not the boy who fell to the round, because his hat had been drilled clean through by a live bullet! It had passed about an inch above the crown his head. 

I was extremely annoyed; nobody had filmed this exciting scene.  The boy who had been used as a target was very annoyed indeed; he had borrowed the perforated hat from his father. 

From a very early age I had shown an aptitude for mechanical things.  Between the ages of twelve and sixteen I spent most of my spare time, including a great deal of the school holidays, in engineering workshops, particularly the machine shops of Trojan Limited, of Croydon. 

My ambition was to become a racing motorist, but I also wanted to design my own cars.  Oddly enough, I never wanted to be an engine driver.  Perhaps I disliked the thought of having to proceed along ready laid lines, without any choice as to direction and destination.  I wanted to fly fighter aircraft, drive fast cars, and perform other feats.  In my daydreams I would be the schoolboy’s idol, heroically doing fantastically courageous things and then nonchalantly signing autographs. 

I had immense enthusiasm and never doubted for one moment that I should ultimately achieve that which I so ardently desired.  I was a devoted member of the school Motor Club.  One of the other members was John Cunningham, later to become a famous test pilot.  The club members would drive a variety of decrepit motor-cycles and cars around the school grounds.  We were, of course, far too young to hold driving licences. 

While still at school I joined the Officers’ Training Corps, and eventually became a non-commissioned officer.  We had field days, and an annual camp at Aldershot or Salisbury Plain.  I did not enjoy these affairs very much; it seemed to me that the male animal became even more male and a lot more animal when away from home.  Most unfortunately, I never managed to learn to smoke, but with practice I could drink beer without actually making a face.  The shudder which invariably shook my small frame after a draught of the nauseating stuff was more difficult to hide.  In order to make up for my distressing unmanliness in drinking and smoking, I managed (with the courteous assistance of the Regular Army) to acquire an enormous repertoire of extremely doubtful jokes.  This made me acceptable to the cognoscenti. 

Towards the end of my schooldays, a school friend and I spent most of a summer holiday visiting Belgium, Germany, and Austria.  In Austria my friend purchased some small but revolting-looking cheroots, lighted one, and puffed away at it persistently.  I was unable to think up a good reason for not indulging in this manly pursuit, so I lighted one and puffed away as well.  My absence of relish was marked.  A short while later I had my first view of the romantic Danube, but was too occupied in being sick into it to notice whether it was beautiful or blue. 

We spent a few days in a little village on the Rhine.  Nearby towered a forbidding-looking mass of rock.  It was a direct challenge to our adventurous souls, and we decided that the very next day we would climb to the summit or perish in the attempt.  No doubt the Germans would be amazed to discover that the two intrepid English boys had scaled the heights; it was quite obviously extremely unlikely that any mere German had ever managed to get more than half-way up. 

We left at dawn, and after a hazardous and arduous climb, involving the use of a great deal of climbing equipment, we reached the summit about mid-afternoon.  As we laboriously but triumphantly drew ourselves over the ledge on to the top, dead tired and aching in every limb, we were most annoyed to find what was apparently a Teutonic Sunday School treat in full swing.  Small children were everywhere.  To add insult to injury, not only was there a comfortable tea-house, but there was also a small mountain railway which ran merrily up and down the far side of the heights. 

In Frankfurt I managed to get myself arrested for taking cine-camera films of Nazis drilling.  I was put into a cell in the local police station, and was released a few hours later when I had ostentatiously destroyed some unused film stock.  The films of the Nazis drilling came out quite well. 

At this time my knowledge of the German language consisted of the very useful words “Ein Eis, bitte” (one ice-cream, please).  Fortunately for me, my arrest encouraged me to learn German.  The next time I was in Frankfurt my knowledge of the language undoubtedly saved my life. 

School ended for me when I was sixteen, and that summer I entered for a series of tennis tournaments.  In the first of these I came up against a well-known player in the second round of the Open.  He beat me, but let me take a set off him.  He suggested that we team up to play together in the doubles in some of the future events, and offered to give me advice and practice.  Naturally I was pleased and flattered at his interest in my game, and it was arranged that we should meet for tea in a London hotel on the next Sunday to discuss arrangements. 

He was staying in the hotel, and the tea was served in his room.  To my complete horror it was soon apparent that the interest was not so much in my game as in me.  I shot out of the room, sped downstairs, and never spoke to him again. 

Looking back at the episode now I can remember that he was quite young and attractive.  However, rather than have him or any other male lay a finger on me I would have died of shame and revulsion. 

After this I wanted to appear as virile and masculine as possible.  I bought myself a pipe, together with a box of matches and a packet of ‘pipe refills.’ My first essay in the art of pipe smoking was, very misguidedly, in a railway carriage.  Inserting a refill into the bowl of the pipe, I put a light to it, and was rewarded with a nauseating whiff of smoke.  After a few tentative sucks at the thing I lost my head and blew into it.  The plug of burning tobacco shot into the air, creating alarm and despondency amongst the other occupants of the carriage, which appeared to be filled with experienced pipe smokers who seemed to resent the intrusion of a newcomer into their ranks. 

The man next to me, however, proffered a few kindly words of advice.  He suggested that the tobacco be tamped into the bowl of the pipe, and if I must use a ‘refill’ it was usually better to remove the paper from it first.  He was then kind enough to offer me a Cigarette.  I felt that in the circumstances I could hardly confess that I did not smoke, so I took one, inhaled vigorously, and a few minutes later was distributing my breakfast all over the outside of the carriage.  I got out at the next stop. 

The desired appearance of virility must have been enhanced by my clothes.  Just as some men are always extremely elegantly dressed, so I was invariably revoltingly scruffy.  I had a genuine dislike, bordering on hatred, of new clothes.  I usually wore an old sports coat, spotted with gravy, chemicals, oil, and paint.  My trousers had a series of horizontal accordion pleats, my shoes were badly trodden over, my socks flapped round my ankles, and my shirts were usually of a broad checked pattern, chosen to clash as far as possible with the rest of the ensemble.  I never wore a hat, and when I wore a raincoat it looked as though it had been used as an overall on some particularly dirty work, as it often had. 

Even amongst college students, not renowned for sartorial elegance, I was considered rather ill dressed. 

My intention was eventually to become an automobile engineer, but it was essential for me to have a knowledge of aircraft construction principles and methods.  I arranged to work through the shops of General Aircraft Ltd., of Hanworth.  Starting in the detail department, I advanced to the service shop. 

I also needed the practical experience of working as a mechanic on racing cars, but this was hard to come by.  The problem was solved by turning up at the Brooklands race track with a bucket and a pair of overalls.  I donned my overalls, filled the bucket to the brim with water, then carefully carried it into the paddock past a gatekeeper who prided himself on never letting anyone in without a pass.  Once inside it was easy to find someone who needed assistance, and I would often happily work throughout the night when a car was urgently needed for practice or a race. 

The moment I was legally old enough to drive on the road I started competition work.  After my seventeenth birthday I drove as much as I possibly could.  I entered for the London-Land’s End trial and then for other similar events.  This was all excellent practice in driving in front of a crowd, and great fun, but it was only the first rung of the ladder.  I decided to enter the R.A.F. on a short service commission.  I should learn to fly, be well paid, and could go on motor-racing during my two months’ leave. 

I joined the R.A.F. as a pupil pilot in 1935.  My initial training was at Desford, near Leicester.  I was very proud when I got my commission; I was the youngest officer in the Service at the time.  There was one drawback, however; flying made me feel extremely ill.  When I left Tiger Moths, on which I had trained, and went on to service aircraft, my airsickness got even worse and I was stupid enough to mention it.  The result was that I was examined by a medical board and was promptly invalided out.  The log-book endorsement said that I was permanently unfit for further flying duties with the R.A.F.

I was not very upset about this; compared with motor-racing, I found flying a bore. 

The day the final verdict came through from the Air Ministry I left Grantham training field.  I put on my civilian clothes, climbed into my sports car, and started for London.  Half-way home the oil-pressure began to fail, and an ominous clatter from the engine told that a big-end was disintegrating.  There was a garage in the vicinity, but the proprietor refused to let me borrow his facilities and repair the car myself, even when I offered to pay whatever he would have charged to do the job himself.  In those days I would never have confided my cherished engine to the ministrations of a garage, so the car was left there and a lift was thumbed to London. 

The driver of a Bedford lorry very kindly took me to the metropolis.  I was just about to get out of the lorry, and was wondering whether to offer him five shillings or ten, when he gave me a two-shilling piece.  This may give some slight idea of the nattiness of my personal appearance. 

The period from the end of 1936 until the outbreak of the war was mainly occupied by engineering and motor- racing.  I studied engineering at University College, London, and drove racing cars in races and speed trials.  Motor-racing proved to be all I had expected and more. 

I was delighted to find that most of the drivers, irrespective of age and fame, seemed to be capable of behaving like over-grown schoolboys.  I never actually found any of them using stink bombs, but few could have been trusted with a bag of itching powder or a couple of Chinese crackers. 

Charles, a very well-known and successful driver, once turned up in the club-house at Brooklands with a dangerous-looking pistol.  With a cry of “Hands up,” he pointed it at a group of members, pulled the trigger, and, in perfect silence, a small pennant unfurled itself from the barrel of the weapon, bearing in large letters the word ‘BANG.’ This went down rather well, and later in the evening he was called upon to repeat the performance.  He pointed his fearsome-looking at the group, now augmented by friends, who had all been told that something amusing was going to happen.  This time when he pulled the trigger there was a deafening explosion and a cloud of smoke.  Never have so many people jumped so high. 

Perhaps Charles’s finest effort was at Donington, on the occasion of the visit of the German Grand Prix teams.  Before the race the cars were drawn up on the starting grid.  Massed bands were playing, flags fluttered, the sun shone, and the vast stands built at the starting line were packed with thousands of people, eager to see the great spectacle.  The drivers were lined up and introduced to the Duke of Kent and Herr Huhnlein, the German Sports- führer.  The Duke got into a beautiful new twelve-cylinder Lagonda, with Dick Seaman as driver, and the car glided away to do a lap of the circuit.  Herr Huhnlein stepped into a magnificent Mercedes-Benz, to be driven around the course by Carracciola, the German champion.  As the starter button was pressed there was a violent explosion and a cloud of black smoke from under the bonnet.  Charles had put squibs on the plug leads.  He was never known to have the slightest respect for personages. 

It was during the practice period for the Donington Grand Prix, in which I was acting as a mechanic, that I had my first really narrow escape.  I had been testing a Maserati, and had been driving it at maximum speed, about 140 m.p.h., down the long straight.  It was all I could do to hold the car at all, which made it all the more unnerving when I was passed on both sides at once by a couple of Mercedes.  They shot by doing at least thirty m.p.h. more than I was!

As I pulled into the pits, I slowed down to walking pace, using the full power of the brakes.  One front wheel slewed inwards and the car stopped dead with a jolt.  One of the two independent steering boxes had sheared a key, leaving one front wheel flapping loose.  Had this happened a few minutes earlier I could hardly have survived. 

Nineteen-thirty-nine was my third season of racing.  I was just twenty years old, and from March until August took part in at least one event every week-end.  May of that year was an especially busy month.  One Saturday I was at Brooklands; the following day at Wetherby, near Leeds; two days later I was in Antwerp, practising for the Grand Prix the following Sunday, after which I returned to Brooklands for another race the same week. 

During this period I kept three cars, maintaining them myself with little outside assistance.  Naturally, I would often get very tired.  One day I arrived home at Croydon at five p.m. after a meeting at Shelsley Walsh.  I went upstairs to change.  A wave of tiredness swept over me and I lay for a few moments face downwards across the bed, still fully dressed, with my feet on the floor.  It seemed only a few moments later when I discovered I had dozed off.  My watch told me it was seven o’clock, but somehow something seemed strange.  I soon discovered what it was— it was seven a.m. next morning and I had slept for fourteen hours!

I had long since given up playing tennis, as it occupied too much time.  To keep fit I used to skate at Purley ice-rink.  My instructress was very keen on flying, so one day I took her up in an open two-seater.  She clutched both sides of the cockpit and screamed loudly over the intercom whenever I banked slightly.  “Take me down, take me down,” she screamed, “I know I’m going to tip out.” After a few minutes of this I turned the plane on to its back, and we hung by our straps.  Hers were a bit loose, but she stayed in, and from that moment onwards enjoyed every moment of it thoroughly.  I did all kinds of acrobatics, and only stopped when I felt too ill to continue. 

It was about this time that I acquired a new and very beautiful girl-friend.  Naturally I took her down to Brooklands to show her off, and she was a sensation.  During a saunter around the paddock we stood behind the exhaust of a car which was warming up its engine, emitting the most delightful crackle and a wonderful aroma of burning castor-oil and nitro-benzene.  I stood there, inhaling deeply with an “Ah, Bisto! ” expression.  Rather irritably, she said, “Do let’s move on, and get away from this horrible smell.”

In a moment my feelings for her changed entirely.  Had she suddenly grown another head I could not have regarded her with more horror and dislike.  I left her absolutely flat, then and there, and never saw her again.  I have no idea how she got home, though I can hardly imagine her having much difficulty. 

Throughout the war I carried with me, amongst my personal effects, a tiny bottle filled with racing fuel and oil.  I would often sniff it, and would be wafted in my imagination straight back to the race-track. 

Chapter 2

Until My Active Service In The War, the nearest I had got to making history was the time I almost ran over Mr. Neville Chamberlain while he was crossing Parliament Square.  The old boy was remarkably spry and leapt to safety.  I ignored the advice of the other occupants of the car who suggested that I make the turn again and have another go.  Perhaps it might have been better if I had…

In September, 1939, I was twenty, and the job I wanted—because it seemed to me the best and most responsible job to have—was that of a fighter pilot.  I bombarded the Air Ministry with applications, requests for interviews, and telephone calls.  Even though I knew I had been declared “permanently unfit” for flying after my short stretch as a pupil pilot with the R.A.F. in 1935, I persisted.  It was three months before I was convinced that the Air Ministry didn’t want anyone with a medical history like mine, not at the moment, anyway. 

I then approached the War Office.  They gave me the option of an immediate commission in the Ordnance as a mechanical engineer, or I could join the Royal Army Service Corps and get commissioned through the ranks.  I chose the latter as it seemed to offer more opportunities for advancement.  In January, 1940, I enlisted and was sent to Aldershot for training. 

The proceedings started on a slightly morbid note.  When we were sent to the stores to draw our kit, we were each issued two identity tags.  Someone asked the warrant officer why there were two.  He was told, “Tie one round yer neck and the other round yer body, then when yer bloody ‘ead gets knocked orf we’ll know ‘oo it belongs to.”

It was this same warrant officer who was in charge of our first church parade.  Each man removed his hat as he entered the church, except one, who forgot.  He ambled down the centre aisle, looking extremely foolish in his new forage cap, which was slightly too big for him and was dead straight on his head.  A stentorian whisper from the warrant officer reverberated round the church, “Take yer ‘at orf in the ‘ouse of God. . . runt!,,

In one way life in the barracks was very strange, and it was a way I never really got used to.  The inevitable accompaniment to this kind of life is a flood of sadly imaginative bad language, but this was merely monotonous.  The real difficulty for me was the lack of privacy.  This was complete, and completely unpleasant. 

In many other ways, the barracks reminded me of school.  What we talked about and made much of was not our training but the offshoots of our training, such as ways of making army life go smoothly, and occasions when someone’s army life was very rocky indeed.  Quite early I was told two golden rules by the more experienced.  One was: Never admit you can do anything.  The other was: Always look busy, especially when you have nothing to do.  At first these rules struck me as being singularly stupid and inept, but it was not long before I realised that there was quite a lot to be said for them. 

On parade one day the sergeant called, “Anybody here drive a Rolls-Royce?” I opened my mouth, then remembered Rule One and shut it again.  An eager voice behind me said, “Yes, I can, sergeant.” “Right,” said the sergeant, “then you can double off and clean the latrines.” On another occasion someone who admitted to being a professional xylophone player was given the job of mending a vast heap of duckboards. 

I used Rule Two to good effect after the sergeant caught me wandering around the barracks with nothing to do and condemned me to a few weeks of potato peeling.  Once I was free again I went around with an armload of documents and an intent expression.  After a week of this I managed to get attached to a nearby training school as a workshop instructor, and I received a local, temporary, unpaid, but by no means unwanted stripe. 

All of us developed a marked appetite for the absurd.  I still am fond of the story of the man who received three days’ compassionate leave because his house had been bombed with his grandfather in it.  “It was the most amazing thing,” he told us on his return.  “The old boy was buried underneath the debris for three whole days and nights, but when they dug him out there was not a mark on him, not one mark.”

We all expressed surprise. 

“Yes,” he continued, “he was perfectly all right.  Dead, of course.”

Anecdotes that made the army command ridiculous were especially cherished.  We knew at once that something was up the time we were ordered out on special parade, and observed that our commanding officer was accompanied by the lady in charge of a detachment of the Auxiliary Territorial Service housed nearby.  Two other A.T.S. officers were with her. 

Slowly the little party walked up and down the lines of men, peering into each face.  There were few who managed to avoid looking guilty.  At long last all three A.T.S. officers identified a tall young soldier as being undoubtedly responsible for the dastardly crime, whatever it was.  He was marched off, and later confined to barracks under open arrest.  Steadfastly he refused to tell us what his ‘crime’ was. 

Next morning he was up before the Commanding Officer.  The charge was this: Section 40 of the Army Act; conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline, in that he did walk up and down outside the A.T.S. quarters after lights out, ringing a handbell and shouting the word “Crumpet.”

I stayed at Aldershot until January of 1941, when my commission came through at last.  It had taken twelve months instead of the fortnight which the War Office assured me was the longest it could take.  I was posted to a unit in Cambridgeshire with the rank of captain, and there put in charge of mobile workshops. 

In May of 1941 I married Diana Margaret Zelma Carpenter, a girl I had met some years before when both of us were at London University.  She had the degree of B.Sc.(Hons) in Engineering, and was an automobile racer herself, in a small way.  In spite of our mutual interests, I think we knew almost at once that the marriage was not going to be a happy one.  We had about two weeks together before the War Office posted me to Iceland as Officer Commanding Heavy Repair Shops. 

Iceland was full of fascinating surprises.  I stayed at an army camp where every morning my batman would dip a bucket into a riverlet, and, lo and behold, it was immediately filled with boiling hot water, straight out of the ground. 

When I was taken out to see the geysers I observed an earnest little group of senior army officers dismounting from their cars.  Following them was an orderly carrying a sack.  The contents of the sack were dumped into the aperture of the largest geyser, after which everyone retired to a safe distance.  A minute or two later a jet of boiling water shot high into the air, and all were highly delighted.  The sack had contained soap, which precipitated the eruption.  They told me that the effort of the day before, when they had used a different soap, had been much more impressive.  Tomorrow they would try again, with soft soap. 

On the way back I was shown a lush growth of banana trees, in a greenhouse heated by a natural hot spring. 

The island is forbiddingly bleak.  It has almost no trees, and very little vegetation, which is probably why nearly every other shop seems to be a chemist’s.  It seemed to me that the Icelanders took so many pills that they should rightly have rattled when they walked. 

There are very few towns, and even Reykjavik was less than imposing, especially to the Americans.  An American sergeant was overheard, while standing in one of the main streets of the capital of Iceland, to ask the way to the nearest town!

The docks, however, were really alive.  Something was always happening, and more often than not it was something that shouldn’t.  The dockers were remarkably adept at picking out crates which contained the more attractive type of cargo.  A crane sling would be attached to a large, square wooden box, and the following instructions would be given to the crane driver: “Dahn a bit, dahn a bit.  Not too ‘ard, not too ‘ard.” Then CRASH.  The box would crash from a height of about six feet, amid cries of “Too ‘ard.” The boards would splinter, the contents scatter. 

A few minutes later everyone would be smoking a fat cigar. 

I certainly did not envy the officer in charge of this job.  He took it very seriously.  A trailer was being carefully backed on to a small jetty by a Royal Army Service Corps driver, who obviously knew exactly what he was doing.  “Left hand down,” shouted the dock officer.  The R.A.S.C. driver firmly put his right hand down even further and continued to back the trailer exactly down the centre of the jetty.  “If you don’t put your left hand down at once,” shouted the officer, “I shall put you on a charge.”

The driver obligingly put his left hand hard down, accelerated violently, and the trailer went clean over the edge into the water. 

The officer apologised to the driver—he had not known that when backing a two-wheel trailer it is necessary to turn the wheel in the opposite direction to normal.  The trailer was hauled up, and the status quo generally restored. 

A few minutes later along came another trailer, with another R.A.S.C. driver towing it.  He, too, began to back gently, and with the utmost precision aimed the trailer straight for the jetty.  His judgment was superb.  Most unfortunately the officer, who had now learned all about backing trailers in one easy lesson, noticed that the driver was on the wrong steering lock.  “Right hand down,” shrieked the dock officer.  The driver took no notice.  The officer thrust his head into the driver’s cab.  “Put that right hand down,” he said.  The driver obliged, and gently backed the trailer into the water.  It was a four-wheel trailer, and when backing you must steer these the same way, and not the opposite. 

One day a vehicle caught fire while refuelling, and a large fire extinguisher, of the foam type, was brought into action.  The extinguisher itself immediately burst into flames and began to burn like a flame thrower.  Some over-enterprising aircraft hand had filled the water compartment with an anti-freeze solution, consisting mainly of alcohol.  This practice ceased forthwith!

My few months in Iceland were thoroughly frustrating.  The Heavy Repair Shops had a vast amount of work to do, but my own duties were almost entirely administrative.  Instead of getting into the war, I was further away from it than I would have been in England, and I was not even able to use my technical knowledge and experience to the full.  I was still determined to become a fighter pilot.  With great difficulty I managed to get transferred to the R.A.F., and I sailed for home. 

Again I appeared before the all-important medical board, but by this time I was experienced.  I had picked up some valuable tips on how to score well in the various tests.  I could stand on one leg with my eyes shut for minutes at a time, could hold my breath for what seemed like hours, turning a pretty shade of beetroot the while, and could blow up the mercury column and hold it with the best of them.  The board passed me for further training. 

At the Empire Flying Training School at Anstey, near Coventry, I was taken up by the chief flying instructor.  The purpose was to test my stomach, and evidently he had no intentions of using half-way measures.  He went through a most alarming series of aerobatics.  I turned pale green, but fortunately had the presence of mind to shut my eyes.  When it was safe to open them again I was immensely gratified to find that the instructor had made himself so ill in the process that he was even greener than I was. 

Following a routine practice, our group of pilots in training was photographed and a copy of the print was hung at the end of a line of similar photographs strung out along a wall.  Only our rows of unsmiling faces were unadorned; all the others had either bowler hats or ellipses pencilled on.  One of the instructors explained that the bowler hats had failed the course.  The ellipses were haloes; those men had been killed.  I resolved that no bowler hat was going to appear on my head, and no halo either, if I could possibly avoid it. 

During my training at this field I saw the ignominious end of what must once have been a brilliant defensive scheme.  In order to prevent enemy gliders from landing on the field after dark, a fleet of second-hand cars, bought for this specific purpose, was driven out on the field at dusk every evening and parked all over the landing ground.  At first these cars had been driven under their own power; later one or more vital parts in each had been appropriated by persons unknown.  A carburettor was missing here, a distributor there.  First some had to be towed out, then all had to be towed.  Finally they began to lose the very tyres off their wheels and had to be dragged out and back by tractor. 

One night just after dusk a Bristol Blenheim circled the field.  Ignoring the frantic shower of red Very lights from the control tower, he landed nonchalantly among the cars, taxied to the watch office, dropped a passenger, and took off again.  After that no one bothered to drag the cars out at night. 

At Anstey we were taught to fly Tiger Moths, and were then posted to Cranwell for further instruction.  At Cranwell my hoped-for career as a fighter pilot received another setback.  I was put on to twin-engined aircraft— the preliminary to becoming a bomber pilot.  It was pointed out that I would be less prone to airsickness in a bomber.  I protested vigorously, and proved my point by going up in a twin-engined aircraft and being sick.  After a while I went on to Miles Masters, single-engined fighter trainers, and was a step nearer achieving my ambition. 

When I first started flying and found that it made me feel very ill, I used a variation of the Coué method of autosuggestion.  Saying to myself firmly, “I will not be ill, I shall be perfectly all right,” I would get airborne and be very far from all right.  Later some intensive reading made me realise that I was invoking the law of reversed effort.  Instead of will-power, I tried using imagination.  I would try to imagine myself as an iron-stomached individual, and did my best to keep this picture firmly in my mind’s eye.  With the aid of a broad, tight belt, and generous doses of glucose, I managed to cope well enough.  But I never completely got over the tendency to feel sick. 

The Miles Master was much more complicated than the Tiger Moth.  There was an elaborate cockpit drill to be learned.  One day, after carrying out some flying practices, I was on the last leg of my approach to land when I saw a red flare.  A cadet was always detailed to be on the aerodrome perimeter when flying training was in progress, and if anyone came in to land without remembering to put his wheels down, the cadet was to shoot off a red light. 

I suddenly realised that the warning horn in the cockpit was nearly blowing my head off, which meant that I was about to land with my wheels up.  I pushed everything forward, went round again and landed.  Feeling a little shaky after almost making a complete fool of myself, I reached down for the lever to pull up the flaps.  A raucous, shatteringly loud noise and two bright red lights informed me that I had pulled up the wrong lever and had started the hydraulic mechanism which retracted the wheels.  Like a flash I pushed the lever down again so quickly that the aircraft still remained on its wheels.  Such behaviour was technically known as ‘finger trouble,’ and I had been very lucky indeed to escape being awarded the “Most Highly Derogatory Order of the Irremovable Finger.” After this I always tried to fly with my finger well out. 

‘Wings’ Parade came at the end of this course, and I was sent to an Operational Training Unit.  Here I flew my beloved Spitfires at last.  They were all I had hoped for, and more. 

This last stage of training, I realised very soon, must have accounted for quite a few of the haloes pencilled in on the group pictures on view at Anstey.  I had a very narrow escape from crashing into the sea during some air-firing exercises.  It was a very hot, hazy day.  The sky was the exact blue of the water.  I lost sight of the horizon in the haze, and after making my attack on the target started to dive towards the sea, having mistaken it for the sky.  Somehow I saw what was happening just in time.  It was a nasty moment. 

Another anxious moment came a few days later.  I was not in the best of moods to begin with; two hours earlier a member of my course had failed to get airborne at the end of the runway.  The plane crashed at high speed and ploughed through hedges, across a road, and into a wall.  The pilot was very dead indeed.  Apparently he had not carried out his cockpit drill properly, and had tried to take off with the airscrew in coarse pitch.  This is like trying to drive a car away from a standstill in high gear, and then immediately trying to climb a hill before it has gained speed. 

Now I was taking off in the same sort of aircraft, an unfamiliar type.  The engine was detonating badly.  A glance at the revolution counter showed that the airscrew had suddenly gone into coarse pitch of its own accord, although the pitch lever was fully forward.  I was more than halfway along the runway and nearly at flying speed.  Before I had time to throttle back and wait for the crash the pitch suddenly changed again into fully fine, I got airborne, and landed safely.  The trouble had been caused by a minor defect, easily rectified, but not in time to prevent one man being killed and another forcibly reminded of the proximity of the next world. 

Not every bit of carelessness had such unhappy results, of course.  An expensive but otherwise amusing bit came to light one Saturday afternoon when aircraft were being shown, as they often were, to young cadets of the Air Training Corps.  A Wellington bomber had been wheeled out and was being inspected.  One of the cadets climbed inside and found the flare gun.  Naturally he had to fire it off inside the fuselage, and the Wimpey caught fire and was reduced to a blackened skeleton.  The captain of the aircraft was beside himself with rage, and was in favour of hanging, drawing and quartering the little lad responsible.  His feelings at that moment were as nothing compared with how he felt when they court-martialled him for not having made certain that the flare gun had been unloaded!

My first day with this squadron found me in the unusual position of being comparatively neat and tidy while everyone around me dressed for comfort—though, I thought, not without a certain studied inelegance.  The next day the wire came out of my cap; I undid my top button and never buttoned it again for the rest of my service career.  I acquired the white turtle-necked sweater that was de rigueur for wear under the tunic.  The desirable battered effect of the cap, I discovered, was obtained by flying with it crammed down the side of the cockpit.  The ensemble was not complete if one was not conspicuously in need of a haircut, or unequipped with high black leather flying boots, worn with a map stuffed into them. 

These boots were of a special ‘escape’ variety.  The tops were designed to be cut off by means of a small knife which was sewn into the leather.  With the tops removed they made an excellent pair of shoes.  As I took a six, and the smallest size was seven, I had to wear two pairs of socks inside mine.  Later on I was to be glad of this. 

At that time the general feeling was that as long as we were well disciplined in the air what we did on the ground was not so important.  This attitude embraced administrative work, too.  Our squadron leader hated office work, but of course it had to be done.  The adjutant would periodically give him stacks of papers to sign: reports, letters and orders.  One day this notice appeared on the board: “I, the undersigned, hereby declare that I never read a damned thing that is put in front of me.” It had been duly signed by the squadron leader. 

Our aircraft deliveries were carried out by the Air Transport Auxiliary, a very fine group of pilots.  A woman pilot of this organisation, holding the rank of third officer, was going to have a baby.  They wanted to stop her flying when the baby was well on the way, but she knew the importance of the job she was doing and insisted on carrying on, claiming that there was nothing in the regulations to stop her.  One day a notice went up on the board, stating that according to regulation No.35 she must cease all flying duties forthwith.  Regulation No.35 was looked up; it read, “Third officers are not allowed to carry passengers.”

We were in a busy sector where we often made contact with the enemy.  Long hours would be spent at readiness; then a telephone call from ‘ops’ or perhaps a double red flare from the watch office would send us scrambling into the air in hot pursuit of the attacker.  Every time we stopped an enemy aircraft we knew we had prevented British civilians from being bombed. 

It was a great thrill to be able to take an active, personal part in the war.  I had always regarded air fighting as a return to war as it should be, the object being either to kill or be killed.  I do not think I was a particularly morbid person at this time, but it just never occurred to me that I might survive.  Several of my closest friends were killed, and I regarded it as just a matter of time as far as I was concerned. 

We never forgot, when we were in the air, that we were linked by radio to our excellent ground control.  (Oddly enough, the Germans used a radio frequency very near ours, and we could sometimes hear German voices on our R.T.) However, on the first occasion that I needed ground control desperately, my radio packed up and I had to fend for myself. 

I had been on a long-range mission with one other plane, which was shot down over the target.  The weather closed in as I was returning to base and I was flying too low to use the radio.  I climbed up through the cloud and called up the controller, but the radio was quite dead.  I should have to find my own way home without radio aid. 

It was only possible to estimate my position very roughly indeed, as the ground was quite invisible, but I set an approximate course for base and when my estimated time of arrival came, plunged down into the cloud, which filled the sky without any sign of a break.  Down and down, visibility still zero.  The altimeter finally showed two hundred feet above the level of the home base, which was at sea level, I knew.  Still no sign of a break.  By now I was flying in fully fine pitch, as slowly as possible, with wheels down and full flap.  Without losing sight of the blind flying panel I tried to discern a break in the cloud out of the corner of my eye, but still no sign. 

At length the altimeter showed minus fifty feet, and I still hadn’t hit anything.  Finally, still letting down very slowly, I caught sight of waves a few feet away, a very nasty moment indeed, and instantly climbed up into the overcast again.  The altimeter reading was minus two hundred feet.  I re-set it—obviously the barometric pressure had altered since I set the instrument on the ground before take-off, and thus a false reading had resulted. 

The next problem was which direction to fly in order to reach land.  I might be over either the North Sea or the Channel, so England lay somewhere between north and west, but which way? If I were over the Channel and flew west I might not hit land, and if I were now over the North Sea and flew north I shouldn’t strike land either.  I flew west, and a minute or two later, cautiously descending again, saw dry land beneath.  A drizzling rain was falling and the cloud was almost down to the ground, so I made a precautionary landing in a field which, as it turned out, was on the edge of a cliff.  As I taxied the aircraft the engine spluttered and died.  Fuel had run out.  

A car drove up a few minutes later, and it was only then that I knew for certain that I had landed in England.  When I notified operations by telephone that I had landed they were very upset because I had not been plotted by radar.  “Perhaps,” said the controller, “you were flying rather low?” I agreed that perhaps I had been. 

Narrow escapes were a daily event, of course; we would go through them and then dismiss them, at least from our conversation.  Luckily, other things were always turning up to break the monotony of danger, and provide subject matter for thought and talk. 

One day, having just returned from a sweep, I was examining my aircraft for possible damage when I looked up and saw a pair of piercing eyes, beneath bushy brows, watching intently.  They belonged to an elderly gentleman wearing R.A.F. uniform with stove-pipe trousers, and with the largest number of gongs on his chest and the most scrambled egg on his hat that I have ever seen.  He seated himself on a shooting-stick and told me to carry on.  He turned out to be Marshal of the R.A.F. the Viscount Trenchard, Knight Grand Cross of the Bath, Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order and it was he who had founded the R.A.F. 

The squadron flew off to an armament practice camp for some air-firing exercises.  Exploring the local countryside one evening we came across an attractive inn.  Drinks were ordered, but when the time to pay for them arrived, the cost was simply terrific.  The manager was sent for, and he explained that the reason for charging five shillings for a single whisky was because Clark Gable was staying at the inn.  The squadron leader, who was renowned for his ‘line shooting’ exclaimed, “Well, I’m Squadron Leader X., D.S.O., D.F.C. and bar, and have shot down twenty-eight enemy aircraft.  Now put the price of the beer up four-pence.  Clark Gable, indeed!” As he finished speaking, the great Gable himself, wearing riding clothes, entered.  He proved to be a very good sort, and we afterwards met him several times. 

There was an excellent rough shoot nearby, and I paid a visit to the owner to see if permission could be obtained to use it.  His wife told me that he was bedridden at the moment, but that he would be delighted to see me if I cared to come up to his bedroom.  I was ushered up into the bedroom, where the gentleman was sitting up in bed drinking a large whisky and soda.  He was three parts drunk, and by the side of his bed was a large table laden with a vast number of bottles.  I have frequently seen public bars with a far smaller stock.  He offered me a drink and was most kind and helpful.  It transpired that he was kept in bed by a severe attack of gout, caused by excessive drinking, and I could readily believe it when he cheerfully told me he expected to be confined to bed for some time. 

Sitting round in the mess one evening we were drinking hock, out of tankards, when somebody said:

“Do you realise we are drinking hock?”

“Why not? It tastes as good out of a tankard as out of a glass.”

“No, what I mean is that it’s a German drink.”

 “So it is; still, don’t worry—we’re interning it, aren’t we?”

I was never fond of dancing, but my flight decided to visit a local ‘hop’ and so, of course, I came too.  Dancing with a pleasant-looking young girl, I noticed that her hair smelt very strongly of hospitals.  On being asked if she were a nurse she replied that she was, but how did I know? I replied that I thought she must be a nurse because she had such a kind face, and obviously a very sympathetic nature.  She tittered at this rather laboured compliment, and told me that she worked at the local children’s hospital. 

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I’m on duty tonight in the ward.”

“How on earth did you manage to get here, then?”

“Oh, it was easy.  I just put some dope in the cocoa, and there won’t be another peep out of the little b—s until morning!”

There was another occasion when I slipped up rather badly on my judgment.  We were flying at the time from an aerod