Kenneth H. Stofer, D Squadron, N0.1 Wing, R.A.F. College, Cranwell & Odan, Scotland & mobile signals unit, #4 Operations Room, St. Thomas Mount, Madras, India & 5836 Mobile Signals Unit, 169 Wing, Chiringa, Burma, RAF, RCAF

Biography of Kenneth H. Stofer

D Squadron, N0.1 Wing, R.A.F. College, Cranwell & Odan, Scotland & mobile signals unit, #4 Operations Room, St. Thomas Mount, Madras, India & 5836 Mobile Signals Unit, 169 Wing, Chiringa, Burma, RAF, RCAF

In the late 1920's early thirties, there was an airfield on the northern city limits of Victoria, B.C., generally referred to as Lansdowne, its entrance coming off of Lansdowne Road. For a brief period it was base for the B.C. Airways. (The Lansdowne Junior Secondary School and grounds are on that site today (1992).

As a kid I used to straddle my bike, leaning against the fence watching the aircraft come and go. Oh how I wanted to fly! One day I was rewarded with a flight in a biplane. The thrill of that flight sparked my interest in flying. I wanted to become a commercial airline pilot.

The Victoria Daily Times, ran a kids column about flying, which I read with fervour. Later, as I entered my teens I joined what I vaguely recall was the American Flying Association. It wasn't expensive, about 25 cents a month for a magazine a little smaller than the National Geographic. It contained all the latest information on aircraft and flying, and gave clear and precise instructions on how to make up a pretend rudder bar and joy-stick which one could set up in the kitchen or bedroom. It then went on to teach the basics of flying. With great enthusiasm I wrote to all air schools on the Pacific coast seeking information on flying instruction. The Ryan School of Aeronautics in San Diego, California was my favorite.

I used to dream and drool over their brochures, but I didn't have a hope in hell of raising the $400 tuition fee. It was far beyond the reach of a young teenager whose only income was $12 a month from a paper route, most of which went into the family coffer.

About this time in my life, the progress of the Spanish Civil war was plastered over newspaper office windows in downtown Victoria. Adolf Hitler of Germany and Benito Mussolini of Italy were trying out their military might with aid to General Franco of Spain.

When Great Britain declared war on Germany, in September of 1939, after Germany had marched into Poland, I saw this as an opportunity for free flying lessons. I had turned 18 and sought to join the R.C.A.F., thinking they'd be clamoring for guys like me who had learned from a magazine how to fly with a broom stick. I wrote to the nearest R.C.A.F. recruiting office in Vancouver. After what seemed months, I received a letter setting up an appointment at my own expense.

I travelled on the midnight CPR Steamship, $4.50 return. Arriving in Vancouver at 7 a.m. Had the recruiting officer asked me a few pertinent questions in his letter of reply, he could have saved me some expense. Apparently they wouldn't look twice at you if you hadn't graduated from high school. After passing into Grade 11 I had quit school to find work. I also learned I was colour defective which would preclude me from aircrew duties. I was confused, as I could read red, green, amber without difficulty. I was very disappointed to say the least. I returned home a dejected young man. Many young chaps like myself had learned earlier it was very difficult to enlist in the R.C.A.F. even in the ground crew category.

I heard of Captain Biggs helping chaps join the Royal Air Force. I went to see him early in 1940 and had no difficulty in meeting his requirements. I gave him a postal note for $5 along with a photo, and he applied to Ottawa for my passport. All I needed was the money for the fare to England. An alternative was to get a job on a ship that would eventually find its way to the United Kingdom. My friend *Roy Cook and I left our names with King Brothers (shipping agents) in Victoria and in the meantime worked at any job we could get to raise the required fare, which was about $200.

Shortly before Christmas, 1940 while Roy and I were selling Christmas trees in downtown Victoria, we received word a ship was leaving Victoria on Christmas Eve, bound for Greece, Australia and then to England and we could both have jobs in the galley and sign off the ship in England. It was great - just what we wanted. However, there was a problem for us. We were still really just kids, close to our families and couldn't face leaving home on Christmas Eve. We turned it down. There were no more calls from shipping agents.

Knowing how desperately keen I was to go to the R.A.F., my mother and dad cashed in a small insurance policy they had on my life and gave me the fare to Liverpool, England. I realize (now that I am a parent) what a tremendous sacrifice they were making, and how emotional it must have been for them at the time, sending their youngest son off to war.

I wanted Roy to come with me but he wasn't financial able to leave at that time. He said, "Go ahead, Ken. Time is running out." Reluctantly I decided to go alone.

I contacted Capt. Biggs and he acted immediately. On Tuesday, April 15, 1941, I received a phone call to say I must leave Victoria no later than April 20. I was pleased, excited, scared, all at the same time.

At this time German U-boats were taking their heaviest toll of Allied shipping in the Atlantic so I prepared myself for life aboard ship and in case my ship was torpedoed. With $25 from my Christmas job I bought a pair of waterproof rubber boots, thick, warm, woollen sweaters and gloves, a rubber-covered waterproof flashlight, and a small waterproof container for matches. I would sleep in my clothes and be prepared for the worst. It seemed exciting and glamorous at the time.

On Friday, April 18, my mom and dad and brothers, waved goodbye when I sailed on the 4:30 p.m. steamer for Seattle. That same night I left Seattle at 10:15 p.m. by train for Detroit. Although enroute to Montreal, I was travelling via the Great Northern Railway to Detroit in order to visit an aunt I'd never met.

On the train I became friendly with five National Guardsmen who were going home on leave, and two U. S. sailors off the Battleship Maryland.

One of the sailors had a portable radio (luxury in those days) and on the Sunday night we listened to the Jack Benny show.

A German refugee on the train had lots of tales to tell and I wish now I had entered more in my diary.

On arrival in Montreal I went directly to see Mr. Rowley my contact in the CPR office in Windsor Station.

I was advised my ship would sail sometime the following week. He arranged a room for me very close by in the Patricia Apts. and told me to await instructions.

On Friday morning May 2nd. I received a call to come to Mr. Rowley's office. He closed the door and motioned me to a chair at his desk and sat opposite me. He couldn't speak to me over the phone, he said, as it was all very hush hush.

He leaned over and spoke quietly, "Get all ready to leave tomorrow. Phone a taxi tonight and have him call at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Ask the driver to take you to Pier 'A'. Make sure you reach the ship before 10:30 a.m. and don't lose these, you'll need them." He handed me some papers. He didn't even tell me the name of the ship. It sure didn't seem like much information to me, but I knew he had done this sort of thing before with chaps who had preceded me, so I felt confident.

The next morning was bright and sunny. My taxi came just before 10 a.m. and I gave instructions to the rotund driver. He grunted through a cigarette in his lips and off we went.

On arrival at the docks a military-looking type guard stopped my taxi at a control gate and I was asked for identification. I produced my passport and the papers Mr. Rowley had given me. They were thoroughly scrutinized and returned to me. The guard and my taxi driver held an animated conversation, chattering fast and furiously to each other in French, with much gesticulating up and down the dock area before we were finally waved through.

We stopped in front of a ship of about 5,000 tons. "Dis de one," said my driver. Other than the grunt he had let escape the corner of his lips when I first got in his cab, this was the first time he had spoken directly to me.

Then he mumbled something that sounded like "Six bits". I gave him a dollar and magnanimously said 'Keep the change.'

I lugged my heavy, black suitcase up the gangplank. A smart-looking man in uniform spoke to me with a slight accent. "Good morning sir. Your name please?"

"Stofer," I said, "Ken Stofer." He checked a list on a clipboard he held. "Papers?" he questioned. I gave him all that Mr. Rowley had given me. "Passport?" He took and kept everything I gave him. He beckoned a crew member who took me to a stateroom. It was a two-berther which I was to share with a Lieutenant Dwight Moody of the Unites States Navy.

I learned my ship was a very fast Norwegian passenger-freighter, by name of Mosfruit. I was one of 10 passengers including seven U.S. Naval officers going to the U.S. Embassy in London, and two civilian French Canadians, one about 25 and the other 40 or so, who had an air of mystery about them. I suppose I too could have been a mysterious passenger had I not said I was off to join the Royal Air Force. But the two French Canadians were very non-committal; it was difficult to get any kind of information from them. However, their English left a little to be desired which no doubt hindered accurate communication.

By 5 p.m. that same day we were on our way, steaming down the St. Lawrence River.

All passengers ate at one long boardroom type table with the ship's captain, his first mate and a couple of other ship's company; about 15 of us.

We were kept up to date on the war news. The captain lost no time in telling us we would be required to assist in watch-keeping. We were told, as we steamed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, that we were going to "make a run for it." I think this was an expression that came out of the wartime Atlantic crossings. If a ship was fairly fast and in good condition it was allowed to sail alone. When most convoys were made up, the convoy had to steam at the speed of the slowest ship, and not at that ship's maximum speed either. "Making a run for it," meant that we would go at full speed, but follow a zig-zag course all the way across, so as to present a difficult target for marauding U-Boats.

Our captain showed us the charts on the bridge and indicated areas of possible enemy sub packs, as advised by British Intelligence. Mosfruit could receive information but was only to transmit in an emergency.

That evening we sat around listening to a very large, old fashioned (by today's standards) radio; chest wide and chin high, like a large Wurlitzer. It wouldn't work at first, just hummed. I looked in the back and made out I knew what I was doing, tapping a few tubes, maybe they were loose, and SURPRISE, SURPRISE, it suddenly burst into song. Everyone thought I was a genius.

We took 2-hour watches, scanning the ocean and far horizon with our binoculars, from bow to midship, two of us on at a time, 24 hours around. About three days out while on watch one day with Lt. Dwight Moody, we spotted a mine smack bang in front of our ship, and fortunately still some distance off. Moody yelled down the tube, "MINE DEAD AHEAD!" The ship quickly swung off course. There was much action on deck. As it drifted by the mine was "peppered" with everything that could be fired. The crew manned rifles and machine-guns. I was surprised to see that the two "mysterious" French Canadians were (uselessly) firing small arms, obviously their own. There was lots of racket. I was expecting the mine to explode as apparently they sometimes will. After a while it disappeared from sight. I hoped it had been sunk. Off duty, I had just gone below, when there was more shouting. It was another mine, and the same commotion with the guns took place.

The next day there was a great hullabaloo set up as much flotsam was spotted in the water. Our ship practically stopped, and bouncing around like a cork in the heavy sea nosed its way through the contents of a ship probably sunk a day or so previous. Crew members on the lowest deck were poking at some of the wreckage with long poles. An empty lifeboat tossing on the waves was given close scrutiny. Satisfied there were no survivors amongst it all, the Mosfruit resumed speed and we carried on.

The U.S. Navy officers gave me the nickname, The Lone Eagle, knowing of my intention to join the R.A.F. Cockily, (and possibly to show how brave I was), I had once said aloud that I'd like to climb up to the crow's-nest. Lt. Moody mentioned this to the captain one day at breakfast. Smiling, the captain agreed and all turned out on deck to watch me ascend the mast. Moody held my camera to record the event.

It was comparatively easy climbing the first stage of the mast, which was a firm ladder, but then I reached a spot just below the crow's nest where I had to step on to a swaying cable ladder. From my position, each roll of the ship seemed to swing me several feet one way, and then the other. At this point I looked down and all I could see far below was water. The deck looked about two inches wide. I was fast losing confidence. I put one foot on the loose ladder and heaved my weight up. I had two feet on the loose ladder. The ladder swayed only inches, but it seemed like feet. I couldn't bring myself to climb to the next step. I held tight and looked down at the tiny white, fingernail-size, up-turned faces of those below. They sensed I was hesitating. Everyone began to wave me down. I gave a brave wave back and then climbed down. I wasn't quite so cocky after that.

As we neared the United Kingdom we began to receive the B.B.C. on our radio in the lounge. The resonant tones of the English news announcer's voice, mixed with static and a strange humming sound eerily came and went in waves of increasing and decreasing volume. Excitement mounted in me.

We were scheduled to dock at Liverpool. A few hours out a British Cruiser passed us; the first ship we had seen since entering the Atlantic. Later, a pilot boat came alongside to inform us that due to heavy air raids on Liverpool the previous night, Mosfruit would be unable to dock there.

We changed course and at about 3 p.m. that afternoon anchored at a point just off Holyhead, North Wales.

At 10 a.m. the next morning a large Dutch tender came out and bobbed up and down alongside while our luggage was lowered to the tender. We followed down Jacobs ladders.

On arrival in Holyhead I went directly to a telephone and sent a cable to my parents: "Arrived safely - Ken."

Hooray I’m in England

On passing through customs and immigration, I was questioned at length and my camera and all film was taken from me. I was told it would be returned to me at my aunt's address in London. Then I noticed something strange in connection with my two French Canadian friends who were next to me. Just a few quick glances by officials at their papers and they were waved through. It is something that I have wondered about over the 50 years since that day.

A train was leaving for London at 2 p.m. I was to have been met at Liverpool by an R.A.F. recruiting officer and here I was in Holyhead, Wales. I didn't have sufficient money for the fare to London. Lt. Dwight Moody paid my fare and I reimbursed him many weeks later after joining up.

There was much evidence of air raids around some of the junctions we passed through. I noticed scores of little airfields all along the route dotted with aircraft of all types. The sight of them got my adrenalin flowing.

We arrived at Euston Station, London, about 9 p.m. I didn't want to find my way out to my aunt's at Cockfosters, North London at that time of night.

The U.S. Navy officers and the French Canadians were going to spend the night at the Cumberland Hotel at Marble Arch corner. Knowing my financial circumstances Lt. Dwight Moody offered to pay for my room for the night. I gratefully accepted.

We saw a great deal of bomb damage as we drove through London on the way to the Cumberland Hotel. Before we arrived I heard the sirens sounding the ALERT.

After checking in, the youngest of the two French Canadians and myself, went out for a walk to experience our first air raid. There was lots of noise from anti-aircraft guns and the distant thump of bombs. We were stopped by a British bobby who advised we go back and enter a surface shelter we had just passed.

"Do we have to?" we asked. We were told it was our necks. We carried on and as we walked we realized the bombing was much closer. We heard a very loud swoosh and flopped on the sidewalk, and not far back of us there was a terrible CRUMP! Our curiosity got the better of us. We retraced our steps to see what damage the bomb had done. Long before we got to it the sight gave us cause to swallow and gulp. Our surface shelter was now just a lot of dust and rubble. So much for fate. We turned from it, realizing how lucky we were and deciding we'd had enough, headed for our hotel.

I had been asleep for some time in my 8th floor room when the ALERT went again. It was 3:30 a.m. Soon the ack-ack was blasting away at the raiders and once again I heard distant thumps. I walked out into the hall to see what everyone else was doing. It was quiet out there. Hotel guests were either already down in the basement shelter or so accustomed to raids by now, fast asleep in their beds. I went back to my room to a fitful sleep.

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the U.S. Navy officers and my French Canadian friends, I lugged my heavy suitcase to the Marble Arch Underground Station. After spending ten pence on the Underground train I found myself 30 minutes later at Cockfosters. A few inquiries later and I was at my aunt's at 46 Sussex Way. Needless to say she and my three female cousins were very pleased to see me. This was to be my home from home, no matter where I served in the U.K.

On Monday, May 19, 1941 I went to the Air Ministry at Kingsway, London, where I was introduced to Squadron Leader Showen. He was so pleased I had come all the way from Canada to join up that he took me to the head of long lines of hundreds of chaps in various stages of undress, en route to the Medical Officer.

The medical officer confirmed that I was colour defective. I had secretly hoped it might be overlooked. I could not become a member of air crew. I was shattered! In letters I wrote to my parents, this news had the opposite effect. While sympathetic with my disappointment, they were delighted my chances of surviving the war had improved considerably.

I elected to take a trade and selected the wireless section as a good choice for possible post-war use. I was paid an advance, the magnificent sum of seven shillings and sixpence, ($1.80), given travel vouchers and eight days leave to wrap up my affairs.

On Thursday, May 29, 1941, I reported to Cardington, Bedfordshire, where, with a lot of other civvy-looking type recruits, I was placed in hut # 412. Cardington was a fitting-out depot. My hair was cut much shorter. My photograph was taken and affixed to an identification card called a 1250. I also had identification discs to wear around my neck. I was issued with two sets of R.A.F. blue uniform, a very heavy duty greatcoat, all the necessary accessories, and a long white kit-bag with a drawstring top, into which I neatly folded the clothing I wasn't wearing. My civvies were shipped in my black suitcase to my aunt in Cockfosters. On my kitbag I stencilled my rank, number (1390801) and name. Once this was done with I had time to enjoy myself with new-found friends until the next posting.

Cardington had huge dirigible hangars and had been the home of the famous R100 zepplin. At this stage of the war it was a balloon barrage centre where many W.A.A.Fs (Womens Auxiliary Air Force) were making balloons and learning to handle them. Designed as a defensive shield against enemy dive-bombers and low-flying planes, the balloons hung like silver sentinels thousands of feet in the air, a veritable forest of steel wires above vulnerable centres all over Britain. Each balloon with thousands of feet of cable was a complete mobile unit. A lorry with power-driven winch handled the balloon and cable. A trailer carried the supply of gas with which the balloon was inflated. The system enabled the whole pattern of the cable forest to be altered day-by-day if necessary. The system forced the enemy aircraft to launch their attack from a higher altitude which afforded the anti-aircraft gunners a better target and reduced the area of sky space that must be patrolled by the defending fighter squadrons.

On June 3, 1941, 200 of us were posted to Great Yarmouth on the east coast of England for disciplinary training, commonly referred to as square bashing, or foot-slogging. We were billeted in seaside homes taken over by the Air Ministry. There was no fooling around here. Discipline was strict. In 30-man squads we marched everywhere; to breakfast, lunch and dinner. Standing by our beds each morning we had inspection after inspection and God help us! if our kit was not laid out correctly or blankets not folded just right. Our boots had to be spit and polished and positively glow shiny black. Our brass buttons had to sparkle so that ones reflection could be seen in them. It was a ritual that grew to become habit. All drilling was done on the promenade.

Over the next eight weeks we learned how to salute, handle a rifle and march like soldiers, with straight back, chest out, head erect, arms swinging.

Gerry made occasional single plane nuisance-raids over the harbour. The ships in port blew their whistles erratically as an air raid warning.

As a part of our drill, should it ever be necessary (anywhere), our instructor had taught us, on command, to scatter to the roadside and fall flat on our stomachs. One day an amusing incident occurred at Great Yarmouth during our drill. The ships started hooting and then a single Gerry plane came low over the promenade with machine gun belching. The command was given and we were quickly on our tummies.

Just after Gerry had passed over and while lying there with head sideways on my arm, eyes open and facing the other side of the street I saw a lady nonchalantly pushing a baby-buggy, glancing at all the boys in blue lying on the road.

Finally we were considered trained and the day came for a massive PASSING OUT PARADE with brass band and dignitaries present. We strutted our stuff for over an hour. It was very impressive and we were all very proud. We were now gentlemen of the Royal Air Force, proud of our uniform and fit to be left on our own in public.

It was a sad time. Many new friends had been made only to be parted as we were posted to our different trades in various parts of the United Kingdom; some overseas for aircrew training. Others were off to be lorry drivers, cooks, mechanics, photographers, police, armourers and myself to wireless school at R.A.F. College, Cranwell, where I reported one blistering summer day in July.

I was assigned to 'D' Squadron, N0.1 Wing and billeted in a hut in East Camp. I learned here that my crash course in wireless would take about two months, during which time I would learn how to service any radio equipment I might be called upon to use. I would learn the Morse Code at 8 to 12 words a minute on both Aldis lamp and key. In addition I would be required to learn a long list of terminology and abbreviations, for all oral communication R/T (radio telephone air to ground) must be recorded in a log book. My work would take me into operations rooms, control towers and mobile signal units. It all sounded very exciting and certainly interesting.

Cranwell was a huge regular peace time station usually referred to as a bullshit station, and had certainly not "let its hair down" since the outbreak of hostilities. It was just as well I had come directly from my disciplinary training. One had to be very careful how one behaved around the station. No running, no lingering, always properly dressed, DON'T WALK ACROSS THE SQUARE - salute the flag when passing, not to mention the officers whom one constantly encountered. Every Sunday there was a huge Wing Parade and quite a rigamarole with flights and squadrons lining up, squaring off etc., with many shouted commands.

Led by rousing band music we marched down the tree-lined road that divided the two camps. It was "a show of strength" the locals adored, which culminated with the church service in one of the huge hangars. One does not easily forget Cranwell.

After passing my course late in September I was posted and spent my time between Peterhead on the east coast and Oban on the west coast of Scotland, working out of mobile tenders, homing aircraft. I had a memorable experience at Peterhead when a Stirling bomber squadron made its home with us. The Stirling was a giant of a four-engine plane that stood nose high, 22 feet from the ground and was 87 feet in length. A special R/T test was to be carried out one day and volunteers were asked for. I couldn't miss an opportunity like this, so jumped at the chance, and for several hours flew over the North Sea. We were close enough to the Norwegian Coast to encourage some target practice by the occupying German forces. As a point of interest, one of the Stirlings was named MacRoberts Reply, after Lady MacRobert who had lost two sons in the R.A.F.

At Oban I was stationed in a mobile homing van on top of Pulpit Hill and had a commanding view of the pretty harbour below. One day I was summoned to my C.O.'s office. He read me a letter received from radio station K.I.R.O, Seattle, Washington. I was to go to London to present clothing, toys and candy to bombed out British Children in St. Andrews Hospital. My mother was a member of a radio club, a folksy "do good" type of program where people phoned in problems, while others helped with radios, books, clothing etc. for shut-ins. My mother had sent my name in as a member of the club. The Americans, although not in the war at this time, were interested in hearing from a member of their club who was overseas. Mom sent some of my letters for them to read over the radio describing conditions in the U.K. In one letter I asked for chocolate for the kids who stopped me on the street, "Oi Canada! Any sweets?" The radio station picked up on this and in no time there were three 800-lb. crates of clothing, toys and chocolate on their way to England, "and would my C.O. give me some leave" (to represent the generous-hearted Americans).

Due to shipping problems a Christmas presentation was fouled up, but on February 12, 1942 I reported to the St. Andrews Hospital, Bow, East End to be a Santa Claus in blue. I was taken to a very large ward. At one end hung British and American flags. Long, gaily-decorated tables ran the length of each side of the ward and contained a variety of nice things for kiddies to eat. There were about 120 children present, with many nurses in attendance. In the centre, and forming a triangle, three other tables were covered with toys of all types for boys and girls. The children filed by and I gave each an appropriate toy. Later, with toys and goodies on a large trolley, I visited the wards of those children who were unable to leave their beds. It was a wonderful day.

In June of 1942, I was posted overseas and with two thousand other guys boarded the 17,000 ton Durban Castle. Our ship waited in the River Mersey for five days while forming up an 18-ship convoy.

On July 2 we anchored off of Freetown, Sierra Leone for further supplies. Here, to my great surprise, two young Canadians I had met, supposedly in the R.A.C., were taken off the ship as stowaways.

We docked at Durban, South Africa on July 20. This modern city looked spick and span. Large, glistening-white, waterfront apartment buildings suggested the good things in life and seemed a far cry from the drab wartime colouring of the U.K. we had left behind us. Durban appeared to be the factory city where all the beautiful, bronze-skinned, perfect-figured Hollywood starlets were made. It was a paradise. Shows you what a few days at sea will do.

We were billeted in tents at Clairwood Camp, eight miles out of town.

During our stay we rode around the city in rickshaws pulled by colourfully-dressed, well-muscled giant Zulu lads who charged bare-footed down the street, bells jangling around their ankles. They blew whistles - their horns I suppose - as if to say, "Look out! Here I come." For sixpence one could get quite a ride.

We saw all the sights; Valley of a Thousand Hills (Zulu reservations), beautiful beaches at Isipingo, and Amanzemototi. For three weeks it was a great life.

The order to pack kit, came as a surprise to everyone. On Saturday, August 15. Reveille was 5 a.m. Breakfast was a very hurried affair.

We marched in our 'blues' and full kit (and it was hot) to a rail-siding at Clairwood and boarded a train. It was stifling inside.

It seemed an eternity (it was several hours) before our train pulled out. We missed lunch and it was 3 p.m. before 1,440 of us we were at the docks in Durban, alongside the ugly 7,000 ton Empire Woodlark, built in 19l3. Surely we weren't going to embark on this tub? It seemed hardly large enough. There was more delay in getting us aboard. While we stood in the sun, sweating under our blues and full-kit burden, we heard rumours. Rumour #1 - The Woodlark had just unloaded Italian prisoners of war. Rumour #2 - The Woodlark's crew were leaving the ship as they felt it was unsafe, or unseaworthy. You can imagine none of the above brightened our day.

We boarded the ship and took an instant dislike to it. What struck us most was the lack of above-deck space, which was covered with parts of aircraft and crates of military equipment. If we were bound for India, 20 days away, (and it turned out we were), then we wondered how much fresh-air-time above deck we would get; and in shifts at that.

Below deck our quarters were cramped; parts of the ship were actually rotten; the 'walls' and 'ceilings' were covered with condensation. Cockroaches were in abundance everywhere.

By 5 p.m. and we had not eaten since our hurried breakfast 12 hours earlier. Hunger, coupled with rumours and the living conditions we now faced, lowered our morale considerably, and fast. A buzz started, gradually increasing to a loud chant of discontent: "We want a ship - we want a ship!"

Troops surged to the top deck and by sheer weight of numbers, forced the orderly officer at the gangway to give way to the pressure. We swarmed off. About 200 left the ship before someone, somehow, managed to stop the flow.

We stayed together on the wharf, quite orderly, almost in ranks, waiting to hear the outcome of our action. Later, for some unknown reason, more of the lads were allowed to trickle down in small groups, and soon we had near to 1,000 on the dockside.

It didn't take long for word to spread. Hours passed. Crowds of locals lined the wire fences ringing the docks. Obviously sympathizing with us they handed us fruit and candy.

A local army unit put in an appearance and took up a position between us and the dock gates. They looked ready for action.

Soon a few officers were circulating amongst us. We were very orderly allowing ourselves to be formed into groups. We were very disciplined in that respect, as our beef was with the ship, not the Royal Air Force. I recall it was a very man-to-man situation with Wingcos offering erks cigarettes and chatting about family and home and stating conditions would be improved if we went back on the ship. Similar conversations took place in small groups all over the wharf. Gradually the lads filtered back up the gangway.

There were now only about 100 of us left. There was one other Canadian with me and we stuck together, refusing to board. After more talk we were told if we boarded now no action would be taken against anyone who had left the ship, and our request for a better ship would be considered. It was after midnight. We weakened and rejoined the ship. Tea, corned beef and crackers were waiting for us and we spent the night aboard the Woodlark.

In the morning, Sunday, August 16, not only was our breakfast not so great, but a very strong rumour became fact. Many of the crew leaving the ship because of its condition, told us the Woodlark was to be taken away from the wharf and anchored to await a new crew. This was confirmed when we felt the throb of warming engines beneath our feet. It was also noticed that the gangway had been raised. Panic set in immediately. We felt we had been tricked. Men rushed to the side of the ship. Jacob's ladders were dropped and over the lads went. I guess cool and sensible heads prevailed among the ship's C.O. and staff, because the Woodlark didn't pull away from the wharf and the gangway was quickly lowered; no doubt to prevent injury to the hastily departing troops. Fifty of us reached the wharf before the flow was once again stopped. I suspect many of the 1440 men were still below deck and were prevented from leaving. I can't be sure of that though.

Once again there were hours of constant negotiating between senior officers and servicemen. Again, quite a few of the lads, swayed by a better offer, returned to the ship. About 20 of us were now left including my new Canadian friend, and we were given one last warning to board. We refused. We were marched away from the ship to a point out of earshot of the crowds at the fence.

We noticed the local army unit of the previous day were now almost encircling us to assert their authority. Searching my memory of that time 50 years ago I seem to recall fixed bayonets. We were joined by senior Army and R.A.F. officers with one or two senior N.C.O.'s. We were paraded in two columns. The same procedure was followed as in an inspection, however the senior officers stopped in front of each man at which time name, rank and number were taken, along with each airman's pay book. I remember the remark of the local army officer who said to me, on seeing my CANADA flashes: "A Canadian eh? I might have known it."

The next thing that happened really shook me, as I am sure it did all of the lads who were standing there. The Riot Act was read to us and then in a short talk the local Army Commandant reminded us in no uncertain terms, there was a war on, and we had sworn allegiance to the King. If we refused to obey the order to board the ship and to stay on the ship, and go to our designated war zone, we could, at the worst, be shot, and at the best, go to prison for at least the duration of the war. Up to this point I don't think any of us had given any consideration as to the outcome of our actions. The crowds of locals at the fence had now increased. They must have sensed our dilemma. We could hear a buzz of support for us, then a cheer, and several called out: "Give the boys a break."

We were stood at ease and then quite suddenly all senior officers and N.C.O.'s departed, except for one sergeant.

At that particular moment I think we must have convinced ourselves they were bluffing, not realizing that we could be faced with the firing squad or prison. On looking back on that day, I don't think they knew what to do with us, nor did they wish to do anything to us.

The sergeant chatted with us, asked our trades and where we were from, interspersed with: "You stupid buggers. What you want to get in this mess for?" Every so often he would say, "They're not kidding you know."

A considerable time lapsed and then from across the wharf came the cry, "Sergeant!" He left on the double to join a small group close to the bottom of the Woodlark's gangway. Twenty minutes later he doubled back carrying our pay books. He called out our names, returned our books as we answered. He had a big smile on his face. I can't remember his exact words, but they were something like: "Everyone is being taken off of the ship. You're going back to camp."

Back at Clairwood Camp, we were paraded in front of the C.O. We were told we were a disgrace to the Royal Air Force (probably true).

That night, or soon after, we heard Lord Haw Haw on the radio (remember him?) and he told of the mutiny on the Empire Woodlark. The spy network worked well in South Africa. No doubt many were among the sympathizers who fed us fruit and candy through the fence.

After five more glorious weeks in Durban we were shipped on the Oronsay for Cape Town and transferred to the Johan van Olden Barnevelt and departed for India and Burma.

I was posted to an operational training unit at Risalpur in the Northwest Frontier Province [Now Pakistan] operating Hurricanes, Buffaloes, Harvards and Lysanders, working from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m.

In preparation for Forward Area deployment (Burma) I was assigned to take a ground defence course taught by experienced 14th Army sergeants. It was quite an eye-opener for me. We were taught bayonet fighting, unarmed combat, firing Lewis and Sten guns and grenade throwing. From my years of being a fairly accurate baseball pitcher I found it difficult to lob the grenade. I wanted to hold it a little longer and throw it directly at the target area. My instructor said he didn't care how accurate I was, he wanted it done "by the book." The course was a break from routine.

I met a Canadian pilot instructor by name of Courtenay, who had the nickname of "Waltzing" Courtenay, because of the way he landed his Hurricane, slipping from side to side as he descended to the runway. I was constantly on to him about learning to fly. One day he asked if I would like to go up in a Lysander and handle the target drogue for air-to-air firing. He genned me up on the procedure which was quite straightforward, got me settled down in the Lysander and then said he'd be back in a few minutes for take-off. While he was gone I called (a buddy) in the ops room and practised my R/T procedure.

I heard someone climbing into the Lysander, assumed it was Courtenay and waited for his "permission to become airborne." Then I heard "my pilot" call the tower. He had a decided accent. It wasn't Courtenay.

The flight itself was harrowing enough, with keen young pilots, mostly Indian, diving on our drogue and rat-a-tat tatting with their machine-guns. Some were way off the mark and I thought much too close to us.

Eventually it was time to fly low over the field and drop the drogue so they could check the scores the pilots had made. On our first attempt to land, the ops room warned us off as we were about to overshoot the field. With a great roar of engine the Lysander gained altitude and came around again. Talk about over-correction. On our second attempt we touched down on the very outer scrubby edge of the airfield, just missing a wire fence and I'm sure hundreds of iguanas popped back into their holes as we bounced, bounced, then bounced again finally coming to a full stop.

On leaving the aircraft I noticed my pilot was a smiling, very handsome young Indian chap about my own age.

I saw Courtenay later that evening and with a big chuckle he asked me if I still wanted to fly. He had purposely made the switch. He made up for it later, giving me an hour or so flip in a Harvard and a few minutes on the controls, which I found to be quite different to the broomsticks I had "trained" on three years ago in my bedroom.

Time came to move on and instead of the expected posting to the Forward Area I was sent down to Madras in southern India. Here I was on a mobile signals unit attached to #4 Operations Room, St. Thomas Mount. There was a mish-mash of aircraft here; Liberators, P38's, Mitchells, Blenheims, Beaufighters and Hurricanes.

The things I remember about Madras are a bad flood in which many of us lost a lot of our belongings; having to drive a total of 18 miles a day for all three meals; meeting a very nice Canadian family the Chaves from Vancouver and getting a terrible sun burn over my entire body. I was in hospital for two weeks and charged with self-inflicted injury, a serious offence in wartime. Fortunately my C.O., a Battle of Britain pilot who had suffered burns in a crash, and whose present facial skin had once been his buttocks, was very sympathetic and my punishment was one weeks loss of pay. Also while at Madras I put in for transfer to the R.C.A.F., as I learned this was now possible.

I was later posted to the Forward Area, 224 Group, Chittagong, with a brief stop at Calcutta. I was delayed here and missed my posting to a mobile signals unit near Akyab. Great piece of luck. The unit became prisoners of the Japanese.

One night, during a torrential rainfall, I departed Calcutta by train, about 11 p.m., heading farther east. The coaches were jammed with an outfit of West African army, huge giants of men. I had to sit on the floor knees to chest until 7 a.m. the next day, when we arrived at Galundaghat, on the bank of the Ganges River.

Galundaghat seemed to be the end of the railway line. We waited two hours on the train, out of the rain, until the ferry came in. At 10 a.m. we boarded the ferry and headed down the muddy, fast-flowing river. At 5 p.m. we docked at Chandpur. From this point we had to slog through mud quite some distance to yet another train. Fortunately there were lots of coolies about, for by this time in my tropical life my kit was now in a large tin trunk and much heavier.

We had to wait until 8 p.m. that evening before our train pulled out. While waiting we were entertained by little beggar boys, who, to my surprise were singing, "Hold tight, hold tight, want some sea food momma," a popular American tune of the time.

There were no lights on the train so I lit some candles I had bought in Calcutta (I guess I must have been forewarned). We broke open our rations of bully beef, crusty weevil-laden bread, pickles and cheese, all of which was washed down with condensed milk diluted with water in our mugs. The next morning about 5 a.m. we arrived at Chittagong in the still pouring rain. Before we could shower and shave we had to wait for water to be brought in by truck. Home was looking better by the minute.

At Chittagong I was informed I was to join 5836 Mobile Signals Unit at Chiringa in Burma. At 4 a.m. the next day I was roused to eat a hurried breakfast with a jeep driver and his dog. He took me and my luggage to the ferry. It was a miserable dark morning and still raining. At the ferry there were a dozen or more lorries waiting to unload West African troops. A coolie grabbed my kit, I said goodbye to my jeep driver, and slogged through mud to board the ferry.

We pulled out at 7 a.m. and by 3 p.m. were anchored off of Cox's Bazar. In relays we were loaded, baggage and all on to several invasion barges which took us about a mile up a narrow canal to a jetty where we unloaded. There were no coolies here and we all had to carry our own kit. It was no easy chore.

I learned the ‘road’ through to Chiringa was washed out due to floods and so I had to spend a day or so at Cox's Bazar. It couldn't have worked out better as here I met two old chums from Peterhead.

Finally the road to Chiringa was declared passable and off I set one day by lorry. It was a harrowing, hair-raising trip. I don't know how the driver distinguished the ‘road’ from the countryside around it. Everything looked a wet, soggy mess to me. The camp roads were covered in very heavy wire mesh, such as the Americans used on their airfields. All fresh water at the camp was brought in by trucks and we each had a ration of one full water bottle a day, for washing and drinking.

I met the lads who were to man 5836 with me and we proceeded to operate three Beaufighter squadrons, 27, 177 and 211, and any other aircraft requiring assistance.

We lived in bashas; huts with bamboo windows, open in the hot season. No electricity, just lamps, candles or flashlights. Some chah wallahs (tea & goodies) who could freely roam the camp were bribed by friends of the Japanese to toss grenades in the open-windowed bashas. During my time there I didn't hear of any deaths as a result of this. It didn't happen to me in my basha. Some lads elected to sleep on the ground between the bashas. This (grenade) situation was short-lived and soon corrected.

One New Year's Eve, our camp was very low on liquor with which to celebrate the event. Some Indian gin had been brought in by aircrews returning from Calcutta, but insufficient for a 400-man station. Unknown to most of us at the time, the quantity had been increased with the addition of 100 octane.

On New Year's Eve, men carrying a huge metal wash tub filled with "booze" visited each basha, where mugs were filled with the unquestioned but definitely intoxicating beverage. Other than the teetotallers, every man on the station became sloshed. Most became very ill and many ended up in hospital. The station was out of service. There was hell to pay!

Three of us "wireless types" set up a radio station in the wireless hut with speakers in the canteen, hospital, maintenance huts, and the bashas. With help from our C.O. we obtained a gramophone and many 78 records from the Yanks. Each evening we made up a little program, told jokes, played music and took requests, doing our best in a corny way to entertain the 400 lads stuck in the middle of nowhere. It was a lot of fun. We had been well into it for several weeks when we were summoned to attend the C.O.'s office in our best uniforms. On arrival he took our names and particulars. We were then introduced to the Earl of Bandon a kind of public relations type working under Mountbatten, who was visiting all R.A.F. establishments in the area. He congratulated us on the running of C.R.S. (Chiringa Radio Station), saying, "You're doing a damn fine job, keeping up the morale of the troops." He went on to say we would not be overlooked for our efforts - whatever that meant.

Our mobile signals unit was required, at a moments notice to service many aircraft in many areas, but that entails many stories that will have to be told another time.

On April 8, 1945 I was called to the Orderly Room and advised I was to be transferred to the R.C.A.F. and had to be in Bombay by the 15th. You can imagine the joy I felt at that bit of news. I was soon on my way.

The war in Europe ended while I was in Bombay and a couple of weeks later my transfer was finalized and I departed India on the Queen of Bermuda. It was a pleasant trip back to England, through the Suez Canal and through the Mediterranean.

After a short stay in Bournemouth, England I boarded the Louis Pasteur for Canada. Our ship was the second ship since World War 1 to arrive at Quebec City. It was a hot August day. What a reception! Whistles and horns of all boats blasted. Fireboats shot streams of water high into the air. Beautiful girls in bathing suits lined the decks of hundreds of pleasure launches waving to us as they circled our barely-moving ship.

Servicemen threw English coins down on to the launches below. Hundreds of balloons (blown up condoms) drifted down from all areas of the Louis Pasteur. The ships P.A. system boomed out patriotic music and I doubt there was a dry-eye aboard.

Across Canada all next of kin of the homecoming servicemen had been notified in advance of the time the train would reach their particular town and at every railway station there were crowds of people, bands, cigarettes, candy, magazines, girls, AND KISSES. I got the best deal of all because I shared in all the stops all the way home to Victoria, B.C.

It was a very emotional experience to walk down that CPR gangplank in Victoria and see my dad standing back while mother rushed towards me.

Oh what a long hug that was. It was great to be home again. I met a lovely girl and married and we had a boy and a girl - now married. Almost 65 years later, after retiring from a government job, having three married granddaughters and writing two books and many articles for a local papers it has been a pleasure for me to provide [anyone who happens to read this] a different glimpse into those war years.

* * ** Roy Cook became a pilot and was shot down [and died] after his 13th trip flying a Lancaster bomber.

----- Ken H. Stofer

Email: mr.write AT shaw.ca

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