1956 "The Wild Blue Yonder Beckoned"





With the war barely ten years over and my head filled with the exploits of airmen of that war, I very much wanted to be a pilot. Most of all I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I'd read "Reach for the Sky" and "The Last Enemy" and "The Dam Busters" and all the rest.

With 'the dream', a strong urge to get away from home and armed with just enough education I applied, was summoned and went. I wasn't alone of course and became a member of a group of perhaps eight young dreamers.

R.A.F. Hornchurch was the Aircrew Selection centre. In Essex, north of the River Thames, it had appropriately been a fighter base during the Battle of Britain.

The selection (or rejection) process took three days I think. I have a feeling that the methods of then were probably much as they'd been at the end of WW2. No doubt the methods of "today" are very hi-tech and, by comparison, my 'aircrew selection' experience was pretty basic stuff.

The medical was, as might be expected, pretty rigorous, and I draw comfort from the fact that I passed. We knew we'd passed that because they didn't send us home.

Similarly I passed the mental aptitude tests. Lots of hand/eye coordination stuff. I only remember fragments from these few days:

A hangar full of obstacle courses where we were presumably tested for our leadership skills. For instance, two huge concrete blocks with a supposed bottomless chasm between and the only means of crossing: two planks, both too short to span the gap and a length of rope. We were supposed to get ouselves across. Much chaos I do remember, much shouting and much plunging into bottomless chasms.

There were interviews where our backgrounds were probed. We had to give a talk on a subject of our choice. So it went, discussions such as: "A baby, an aged composer and a young woman trapped in a burning building. If we could save one ... which." And our examiners would argue that with us and of course there's no right answer.

When this was all over we went home and no doubt waited with great nervousness.

Finally, a letter: "We regret etc. etc. etc." The leter then suggested that I try for a 'trade' in the R.A.F. As history records I did just that, thereby sealing my life's future course.

Why did I fail? Three reasons I suspect (they didn't tell us, merely said we were not suitable);

1. Immaturity ... well at seventeen and a half, what do you expect?

2. Poverty ... an R.A.F. officer's life was an expensive one and 'independant means' were pretty much a pre-requisite. My step-father was an out of work violinist and my mother was selling saucepans in a department store so .....

3. Culture or rather, lack thereof. With my south London accent and the slang and language that went with it I doubt I was seen as a future asset in the circles of the commissioned ranks. The rest of our little group even called me "the Southend cockney"( bcause of where I lived and how I spoke!).

Sadly, I just didn't belong with the 'brave and lucky few'.

Sometimes I see myself as a victim of the British Class system. Sometimes I see it as a lucky escape. Who knows?

As an interesting footnote, while I was at squarebashing (boot camp) a mere six months later, I was brought before my squadron commanding officer and asked if I'd considered applying for a commission. Apparantly some keen eye had looked at my records and I'd been singled out as POM: Potential Officer Material.

Still smarting no doubt, from the aircrew rejection, and now perhaps feeling I was "one of the lads" I declined. So turns fate's wheel. We forge or break our own shackles.