No. 2 Initial Training School was situated on what is now the Bradfield Housing Settlement just north of the Lane Cove River and to the west of Lady Game Drive which runs down to Fullers Bridge.
In 1942 the whole Bradfield Park complex embraced not only No. 2 I.T.S.which was devoted to the training of air-crew and whose trainees wore a distinctive white flash in their service caps but also a Recruit Depot for the induction and training of ground staff, a ‘six -week wonder’ school where specially selected and qualified men suited to administrative duties were trained in the rudiments of air force practice and then sent out as commissioned officers, and an Embarkation Depot.
So, all in all, taking into account the permanent staff of men and women along with the trainees it was quite an establishment housing, in all, perhaps a thousand people.
Most, if not all of the buildings were of timber construction, hastily erected to meet the exigencies of the war. There was a large parade ground on the edge of which, outside of the admin. offices stood a yellow Tiger Moth securely tied down against the weather, which, rumour had it, the Group Captain Station Commander, an old World War 1 pilot, might any day take up. In our innocence and ignorance, we eagerly anticipated such a happening.
I arrived on Saturday the 20th June, after a train journey from Brisbane through all of the previous night – the first of many such journeys to be endured in the soot belching steam trains of those days where one slept only fitfully propped up by the bodies of fellow travellers on each side unless one was small enough to fit into a luggage rack and quick enough to capture one.
I recall one trip later in the piece from Sydney to Narrandera on the Western Mail. Already the train was packed when we arrived at the station and the guard had closed the carriage doors. Jim Tudberry and I got into the train by climbing through an open window and then could advance no further than the corridor as all of the compartments were full.
We managed to find just enough space to lie in the corridor when it was time to sleep and by the time all the other corridor dwellers had done likewise there was no floor space left. I was awakened in the early morning with a foot in my stomach as a woman from the nearby compartment made her progress to the toilet, a progress which was accompanied with shouts of abuse as she walked, no doubt as gently as she could, but still weightily on other bodies down the length of the corridor.
I had been ordered to report to the Creek Street, Brisbane, Recruit Depot on the previous Friday morning. I well recall the spring in my step and the excitement in my heart as I said good-bye to my parents at Wavell Heights and marched off to catch the train at Nundah Station which would take me to the city. My Dad had his emotions well under control having been a soldier himself but my mother was near to tears as she said, “Now, you will take good care of yourself Alan, won’t you?” Creek Street Recruit Depot
At the Recruit Depot I found myself in company with ten other men. Later in the morning we were all sitting naked on benches around the room awaiting our turn for our final medical inspections before being formally sworn into the R.A.A.F. We had, some six months previously, been sworn into the RAAF Reserve but this was now the real thing.
I chummed up with one man in the group, a young man like myself – some of the men appeared much older – and he, Pat McNulty whose parents owned a hotel at Beenleigh, became my first Air Force friend and stayed such until his death in a flying accident in 1945 after having completed his operational tour.
Pat had contacts in Sydney on Sunday so I was left to my own devices on the station. We were told that our course was not to start till the Monday when the main body of recruits would arrive from the Sydney recruiting centre. We were sent from Brisbane to make up the necessary numbers whilst the rest of the 29 Course intake at Brisbane were sent to 3 I.T.S. at Kingaroy. One discovery which surprised me was to find a picture theatre on the station with billboards advertising coming attractions. I was going to enjoy this new experience as I was something of a picture show addict.
Monday came and I was up bright and early and standing by the side of the main drive as the Sydney men marched in. They had been railed to Lindfield station and had marched from there. What joy it was to see the smiling face of Jim Tudberry in the group and how amazed he was to see me standing there. We had been the best of mates at Toowoomba Grammar School – had shared escapades and the resulting chastisements -and now we were together again for further adventure and excitement.
We grabbed adjoining beds in the long hut which was to constitute our living quarters for the next four months. There could well have been some twenty men of diverse ages in our hut: old men of twenty-eight -the maximum age for air-crew – and youngsters like ourselves. Some came from university -two were engineering students who had failed to pass the year and were therefore excluded from continuing with their studies; several were married and letting everyone know how much they were missing their wives. And we all had to shake down together and become a composite flight.
Our sergeant was Sergeant Wood -a man in his thirties and an old airforce hand. It was his job over the next six weeks to turn us from civilians into service personnel. The time-honoured method by which this was done was by drill on the parade ground. And so we learnt to march: arms swinging, tit high, eyes straight ahead looking at the neck of the man in front responding to the orders to wheel, to about-turn, to halt and, an innovation which the Sergeant had introduced, to stand at ease on the march. This involved a double crack of the boots on the ground as we first halted by slamming down the right boot and then shooting out the left to the stand at ease position.
The effect of it all was the one towards which it was all aimed: to make us work as a unit in which the individual became absorbed in the larger body. No longer did he operate unilaterally. He was a part of something bigger than himself and he found his identity only as such. Here it was a drill squad, later it would be a flight, a squadron and, in the ultimate, a service – the Service to which he belonged. Thus his highest praise was to be an honour to the Service and his greatest shame to be its disgrace.
This at least was the theory. It did not sit completely well with a civilian air force in which reasonably intelligent and committed men were prepared to go so far but only so far. They embraced the spirit of it without conforming totally with the letter and this did cause some friction with those officers, few though they be, who had a martinet mentality.
The men in our hut all constituted one ‘flight’ -I think we were “K” Flight. After ablutions and breakfast we all formed up outside the hut and marched as a group to the first of the day’s activities, be it lectures, drill or whatever. I never knew why one of our group named Jack always assumed command of the flight, called us to order and marched us off. He was a rather pompous, pushy type but he seemed to enjoy his role in command and he didn’t particularly worry me.
However, it soon became apparent that he worried some of the older men in the group who found it hard to tolerate his presumption – after all, he was an equal among equals yet he presumed to “exercise dominion” over the rest of us with some suggestion of arrogance. The older men began to question amongst themselves, “Whence had this man this authority?” And they learned on further inquiry that he had it from himself.
Apparently, having an eye to the future when some of our number would be commissioned off course, he had volunteered himself to our sergeant as one willing and capable of taking charge of the flight for these little activities of marching to and from the various venues, and the sergeant had accepted his offer. Once this was known a conspiracy was set afoot to divest him of his power and authority.
Came the morning when Jack gave the order, “B Flight, by the left, Quick March!” and, to his acute embarrassment, he alone took off. The rest of the flight remained where they were. No amount of remonstrating or cajoling on his part could induce any movement on the part of the flight. There might even have been certain comment from the older men to add to his exasperation. Finally, he took off to find the sergeant while the rest of us delighted in seeing his bubble pricked.
Sergeant Woods arrived on the scene wanting to know what it was all about and was told by some spokesman that Jack no longer enjoyed the confidence of the flight; that there had been no consultation with regard to his appointment; and that we were entitled to democratically elect our own leader from amongst our members. We had, of course, all been civilians but two weeks ago and saw no reason why the Air Force should not be run on democratic principles. The sergeant was wise enough not to disillusion us so early in our careers and said, “O.K. Go ahead and elect your leader, but do it now and get off to your assignment!”
Bill Smoothy a quiet, steady affable type, probably the oldest man in the group, was immediately nominated, unanimously elected and marched us all, including poor Jack, ignominiously reduced to the ranks, off to our lecture.
Our initial course was of six week’s duration. During this period we were inducted, kitted out -our working gear which we wore almost continually. Our blue-black overalls, a beret and black boots-inoculated against tetanus, typhoid and small-pox, drilled to the accepted parade ground standard, and taught ground subjects such as Hygiene, Air Force Law, Electrical Science, Armaments, Maths, Aircraft Recognition, Morse Code.
Having come virtually from school into the service I had no difficulty with any of the subjects and I think that my good showing in the final exams contributed towards my being selected for pilot training.
This selection was made by a panel of officers who constituted a Categorisation Board. Everyone wanted to put on a good showing before the Board because most trainees aspired towards one of the more interesting roles of pilot or observer and yet, all knew that only a percentage of the course would be selected as such.
Our flight was the first in the Course and, alphabetically, I was first in the flight. I was therefore the first to front the board. I well remember the long march from the front of the hut to the table where the Board members sat. Like all the others I had made sure that my uniform -the dress uniform on this occasion -was spic and span, shoes clean, cap on at the right angle. I marched as though on parade, came smartly to attention and saluted the senior officer. Later on at Brighton I had similar entrances but was marched in by a corporal with my cap off in case I threw it at the officer -but that is another story.
I was asked the usual questions: “What would you like to be?” “Why?” “Can you ride a horse?” “What is your second preference?” and so on. These days there would be all sorts of aptitude tests given but then everyone was flying by the seat of his pants and how the Board determined who would make a good pilot, observer or wireless-air gunner I do not know.
But I was fortunate to be selected for pilot training – or more accurately, selected to be given a chance to become a pilot for many more were selected than the Air Force required they knowing full well that one in four would not make it through the next stage.
Jim Tudberry was also categorised as a pilot and it was a joy to both of us to know that we were, for the moment, still together. There was another four week’s of training ahead at Bradfield Park devoted, in the main, to learning something about Navigation. After that, there would be a posting to an Elementary Flying Training School and we hoped we would go to the same one.
Apart from Jim my closest friend was David Sandell. I met him first when, one night, I was part of a detail assigned to wash the floor of one of the huts. As we finished, he and I got talking to one another and there seemed to be a measure of bonding between us.
Temperamentally we were quite different and that may have been part of the attraction but I think that the initial attraction was in discovering that we were both ‘believers’. David had grown up within the Church of England, a wholesome, upright, young Christian man who was now thrust into a world of men from all sorts of backgrounds – although aircrew trainees were somewhat select in that they were generally of an age -none could be older than twenty-eight- and all had to have an educational standard of at least Intermediate or Junior Certificate as it was known in Queensland.
I had had three years at boarding school and was quite at home in the company of other men. David was still finding his feet and eagerly looking for companions who could share his outlook on life and support him in his beliefs. He persuaded me to come on occasions to a ‘squash’ -nothing to do with the game but rather an apt description of the closeness of the company that attended -conducted by a Church of England chaplain named Donald Begbie. This gave rise to frequent discussions of religious topics in which we each aired our immature views. I think I tended to be something of a dogmatist -it is easy to be such when you know so little – but I think that David, though less sure was more sincere in his beliefs.
He had a close mate who had come into camp with him in the person of Jack Ellis.
They had both been sea-scouts, in the same troop in which, I gather, David had risen to a higher rank than Jack because Jack was always calling him ‘skipper’. On one leave, when David took me home, the two of them got a hold of a boat from their local sea-scout troop at Concord and took me out for a sail on some part of Sydney Harbour.
They were carrying on with all their rigmarole of sea-scout talk: “All ship-shape Mr Mate?” “Aye! Aye! Skipper!” while I sat there as the sole land-lubber, mildly amused at their seriousness. When all was ready we launched into the deep.
David took the tiller (that was the skipper’s job), Jack grabbed ropes and gave me one to hold as we sat up on the windward side and off we went skimming across the surface of the water out into the middle of the reach.
For the few moments it lasted it was exhilarating but the next thing I knew was that these two competent sea-farers were about to land me in the drink. The side of the boat on which we were sitting rose higher and higher into the air as the mast and sail dropped lower and lower towards the water and then, with a shout of “She’s gone!” we were all pitched into the sail as it sunk below the surface and the boat filled with water and floated upside down.
The land-lubber was quite useless in this situation not that the sailors could do very much. But there was a lot of diving down underneath to do something or other, probably to release the sails to give us some chance of righting the boat. But right it we did, not until it drifted towards the farther shore and we were able to scramble out in front of the Gladesville Mental Hospital, a place to which I was quite ready to consign the doughty crew.
David and Jack were always communicating to each other in scouting signs only one of which I can clearly recall. It was a circle with a centre dot and it meant “I have gone home.” It would be left by one or the other in some prominent place which the other was likely to see, to convey its message. Interestingly, I have learned recently that it appears on the grave of Baden-Powell the founder of the Boy Scout movement. A devout Christian, he has left his message for the Scouting world more graphically than any words could convey.
David contracted measles towards the end of our I.T.S. course and missed his final exams. This meant that he dropped back into 30 Course and that he would not be leaving Bradfield with me. We did not know at that stage whether we would meet up again but we did for a season at Narrandera, my next station, and, after a further break of seven months, on the ‘Queen Elizabeth’ en route from New York to Scotland.
Most week-ends we were given leave and I spent them either with Jim or with David. Mrs Tudberry lived at Willoughby and the Sandell family home was in Concord West. Apart from the one sailing venture the week-ends were spent sight-seeing around Sydney, going to picture shows, meeting up with young people at church dances and picnics and in the general enjoyment of being young and alive and free, though within a disciplined environment, and on the threshold of a great adventure.
Our course finished on the 26th October 1942 and Jim and I as part of a contingent of one hundred and four who had been selected for pilot training, out of a course of some six hundred, departed on that day for 8 E.F.T.S. Narrandera.
460 Squadron - Bomber Command WW2 
