In the Spring of 1945 I was serving as a Flight Engineer on No 171 (SD) Squadron based at RAF Station North Creake in Norfolk. How did this come about?

 

I go back to December 1943 when our crew were screened after completing a tour of operations with No 76 (Bomber) Squadron, in Yorkshire. Then I was posted to No 1663 HCU (Heavy Conversion Unit) at RAF Station Rufforth, near York. My duties were instructing F/Es in new crews which were converting to the four engined Halifax heavy bomber.

 

In October 1944 I found myself carrying out similar duties at 1669 HCU, at RAF Station Langar, near Nottingham. It was here that I met another F/E whose name was Bob Ledicott. Bob came from the IOW. We chummed up and often we would go out together to the nearest pub for a few beers. The end of the war in Europe was getting nearer and so there was much speculation on what was going to happen to us aircrew. Again, we were both getting fed-up with life on these training stations.

 

Now usually when we were downing the odd pint, Bob and I came to agree that we would be safer from being grounded and suffering some routine jobs if we were back on ops. It was when Bob was on leave that a notice came out asking for volunteers to serve in a new Squadron being formed for special duties. This is our chance, I thought, and I found myself in the CO’s office. He seemed very pleased at my offer to go, but couldn’t tell me anything about the new Squadron. I took my chance: ‘I’m sure that Flight Sergeant Ledicott would also wish to go, Sir, but he is on leave at the moment.’ ‘Fine’, he replied, ‘I’ll put him down.’ I saluted and retreated.

 

A few days later, Bob returned. ‘Good news’, I said. ‘We’re back on ops’. I explained. Bob nearly exploded. ‘You idiot!’, he shouted (among a torrent of unkind words). ‘I’ve just got engaged.’ After we had got to the Mess bar, he calmed down and became resigned to his fate. In December we found ourselves in Norfolk on No 171 (SD) Squadron. RAF Station North Creake.

 

Bob had a motorbike and on this we used to tour the nearby Norfolk countryside, calling in at the occasional village inn for a re-fuel. It must have been about March 1945 when I became the owner of a small sports car and so, often, we would go our separate ways.

 

Then tragedy for me when a rear drive half-shaft sheared and my little car became immobile. As a trained car mechanic, I soon had the hub in my hand, the small part of the shaft tuck in it. How to get this broken piece out? Someone suggested going to a blacksmith who had a Smithy in a nearby village. On Bob’s bike we followed instructions and arrived at the Smithy. Inside was the Smith, a medium sized man and, strangely dressed in a suit. I seem to remember that he wore a countryman’s cap.

 

I explained my problem and he looked at me, then at Bob. ‘Are you chaps married?’ he asked. ‘No’, we replied. Bob looked across at me and I guessed he was thinking – ‘And thanks to you, I probably never will be!’ I looked away. The Smith continued: ‘This is my advice, when you go looking for a wife, forget the pretty faces and figures; look for a girl who can cook and keep a clean house; one not afraid to work. Too many young fellows are led astray by a pretty face and live to regret it. Now I have to go off’, he said. ‘There’s the anvil, sledgehammers and tools, help yourselves.’ ‘What about paying you?’ I asked. ‘When you have finished, go to my house over there,’ was his reply; and off he went.

 

I placed the car hub on the jaws of a large vice; Bob picked up a sledge and gave the end of the broken shaft a mighty thump. Out it shot. We both went over to the house which the Smith had pointed out. I banged the knocker. Footsteps – the door opened – and I was looking at one of the loveliest women I had ever seen. Her smile radiated serenity as she asked ‘Yes?’ I managed to blurt out that the Smith had told us to call when we had finished and, how much did I owe? ‘Oh, nothing,’ she replied. ‘He said you boys were welcome.’ I asked her to thank her husband for his kindness. Again came that enchanting smile. ‘I will’, she said, and with that she stepped back and closed the door. I looked at Bob and he stared at me. We both had been expecting to see a very plain looking lady, at best. ‘What was all that lecture about?’ I asked. ‘Search me’, said Bob.

 

Is the blacksmith still alive and could he now tell me what motivated him (with his lovely and I feel sure, efficient wife), to lecture us so?

 

Now I can’t say for sure, but I read in a magazine called ‘Intercom’ some years ago that Bob had passed away. He did survive the war and I hope he enjoyed many years of happy married life. All this is a true story, now told in my own words. If any reader living in the area of North Creake can add to this, I’d be grateful.

 

By Ernie Hughes

 

 

This article is from the Summer 2010 issue of Confound and Destroy