I let my house Master know that when I was 16, I would be going to work at the factory. The egg hit the fan. He tried to persuade me to not even think about it. His arguments fell on deaf ears. He was a very nice person - no heavy handed stuff.

Next stop, I was called to the headmaster’s study. He sat at a desk the size of football field and I stood in front of it knee deep in carpet. Doing the two minute power thing, ignoring me, he lifted his head, and with a look and tone of voice which would have intimidated a mother-in-law, “What is it I hear about you wanting to go to that place”? He could not use the name. There followed a long list of the wonderful careers his boys could follow. I think there may have been an Archbishop in the list somewhere. He urged me to use the head boy as an example to follow. He was a thin tall frail youth with a brilliant brain. Incidentally about five years later I saw him on leave as a private in the Army. I hope he survived because his super brain was wasted in the Army. The austere Head seeing he was getting nowhere and with a wave of his hand, he dismissed me. “On your own head be it!” as if I was going to the Bastille.

In 1935 the aircraft business was in its infancy. The only way to learn was to take a five years apprenticeship. Even the design director of the firm did that. With nods of approval from folk, “Yes it’s the coming thing.” I signed up.

In 1936 I started – clock number 917. The only number I ever remembered. There was a snag though. It was the flu season and I had it. I choked and wheezed through the first morning and my mother insisted I go to bed. The following Monday I started afresh. I noticed an absence of half the work force in the long line of work benches. Seems they all had the flu! Incidentally my first paycheck was for the first morning was one shilling and eleven pence. A skilled man would earn about £5-£6 a week.

I was put to work with a man who was a good teacher. It was in the erecting shop, where Hawker Hectors were being assembled - a bi-plane similar to all the Hawker planes. It was an Army co-operation plane. I learned to rig a bi-plane, install 48 spark plugs in a 24 cylinder Napier Engine. There were empty boxes all over the place. Next door was the experimental shop. I had to go there sometimes to borrow things and the Lysander was in there. It too was an Army Co-operation model and looked generations ahead of the bi-planes that we were building.

The erecting shop was where much fitting was done to components. Each job required getting certain small nuts bolts rivets etc. against a job number. The store was down a flight of concrete steps. A man tripped on the top step and watched as a cascade of small stuff went down the steps. He straightened himself up, hands to his sides, lifted his head and closed his eyes. He then let go with the most amazing invective - must have come from the Navy. Climate controlled cussing! I was flabbergasted and at that age I was not used to having my flabber gasted.

Next, I was moved to the rib shop. I was put to work with a group who were making root end ribs for the early Spitfires. Being light alloy, a lot of Zinc Chromate had to be used which was hell to get off ones hands. This shop was on a balcony which over looked the “Tin Bashers”, the sheet metal shop. Cowling panels were made by hand, pounded over wooden formers. Big presses had not come into use at that time - 1937. The noise was terrible.

I was soon transferred to the wing shop which was making Lysander wings, by then in full production. I enjoyed that spot and got on well with many folk.

Education. Apprentices were expected to take advantage of the education provided after hours which consisted of three nights a week in various schools and labs, followed by three nights of assignments. So after an 8 hours day, one had to take the classes. One night was drawing, one night maths and one night engineering science. I remember one time sitting with my three friends and a math teacher, in the rear of a noisy air raid shelter trying to learn calculus. Things were not easy. The course was four years. Of the fifty who started, only four of us took the final exams, and obtained National certificates in Aeronautical engineering.

My last stop was the experimental dept, working on the Whirlwind prototype.

The man I was working with was also part of the ground crew, so I went along. The plane had just done a run. We stood around as the chiefs talked with the test pilot, and air ministry nabobs. It was a cold day with a sharp wind blowing across the field. The upper folk went into the pilots’ building. The ground crew drifted back into the shop and I was told, “Son you stay and look after the plane.” I stood at the trailing edge as the wind blew warm through the in-wing Radiators. My lower limbs froze so I got in the cockpit and closed the canopy. Consider this. A top secret fighter plane, not revealed for two more years, in the care of an 18 year old youth. Imagine that today. I passed the time shooting down two bombers and three fighters.

Eventually the ground crew returned with orders to take the plane back in. I was told to sit there and work the brakes. There was a hand pump to supply hydraulics to the brakes when the engines were not running. There was a down-grade to the hanger and the pump was not enough. I was yelling that I could not hold it. Others came running and put great blocks under the wheels. I felt a slow rise and the wheels went over the blocks. We managed to slow it down before we ran into the shop and into the boss’s office. The hanger doors were not open wide enough so a wing tip was sheared off. That was the second time that it happened, but no one had the sense to put a mark on the ground as to where the doors should be opened.

Walt.

To be concluded in the Autumn “Oily Rag”