Alan Carol Dent served with The Parachute Regiment between 7 June 1945 and 17 February 1948. He was parachute jump trained at RAF Ringway on Course number B184. 

These are extracts from his personal diary he wrote during his service with The Regiment.  

THE ARMY

One month after my 18th birthday I received my call up papers for the army, I had to report on the 7th June 1945 to the Cavalry Barracks at Colchester in Essex. I received a railway warrant for my journey and full instructions of which articles I had to bring with me.

The barracks at Colchester were the home of the Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, which for six weeks was to be my initial training centre.

On arriving at Colchester railway station we were transported by lorry to the barracks where we gave our details and were interviewed and issued with our uniform, which was a khaki beret and battledress and a pair of heavy boots. We were also given our army number, which it is said no one ever forgets for the remainder of their life, mine was 14038759 which I still remember over 50 years later.

During the next six weeks we carried out a number of tests to find our aptitude for various jobs in the army, for example, very few people could drive or had a licence. Those who could drive would be listed for a Regiment or Corps for which this would be useful. With my experience as a trainee electrician I was a likely candidate for the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Corps, others in the bakery trade would be material for the Army Catering Corps etc.etc.

Apart from testing we of course spent hours on the barrack square being marched up and down, all of us who had been serving in Cadet Corps found this easy and did not mind being shouted at, those who hadn’t really suffered, to this day I still cannot understand how so many tried to march with their left arm and left leg forward at the same time.

None of us thought that we would be in the army for very long, the war in Europe had finished on the 8th May 1945. All our forces, together with the Americans, would be turned on the Japanese, we knew that any invasion of their mainland would involve heavy casualties but could not see them holding out for long.

It may seem strange, but all of us who had joined Cadet Organisations and trained hard in various skills and the usage of weapons found that the opportunity was rapidly fading away, this is why some of us volunteered to join elite groups to get into the action faster. My old friend John Ellis, who had served in 150 Squadron of the Air Training Corps with me, agreed to join the Parachute Regiment as it would give us a bit of flying and possibly a bit of action.

During our training at Colchester we had to put a grease called Dubbin on our boots to made them waterproof, this took the shine off the leather giving a matt finish. We lived in barrack rooms of about 30 men in double bunks, these were wood frames with a lattice of tin strips, the mattresses were three biscuits as we called them, probably filled with horse hair. We had some rough old blankets and a small course material pillow, we slept either naked or in our army shirts, pyjamas were unheard of.

We were allowed out on the town on a Sunday and I remember two very kind ladies who saw us walking round looking lost and gave us two free tickets for the theatre we were just passing, we went inside and found it was a symphony orchestra and they were playing the overture to the Barber of Seville, this was the first time I had been to a Concert and I found it very enjoyable. From then on I enjoyed listening to popular classics and bought many records after I left the army.

One of the chaps in our room was always acting a bit simple, we reckoned that he was trying to work his ticket, in other words that he was mentally unfit for army service. We had to do our own washing, and some of the lads told him that linseed oil, which we used on the wood stocks of our rifles, gave a good lather. I have never seen such starched pants and shirts; they hung on the clothesline stiff as boards.

We came to the end of our six weeks training and were posted to various army units, those of us who had volunteered for the Paras’ were taken to a transit camp at Southampton, this consisted of a number of Nissan huts behind a fence and backing onto the sea. We were allocated various huts with the familiar double bunks, there were no biscuit mattresses this time, just two rough calico bags – one large and one small. We were told to take these to another hut, which contained a quantity of straw, we stuffed the two bags with the straw and took them back to our beds. We tried getting onto the large round bag which was our mattress and various blokes rolled off and crashed to the floor, one of the camp staff then came round and made us empty some of the straw out and then a tremendous bout of karate chopping produced the desired result.

We later went to bed with a couple of rough old blankets and wearing our shirts, we were all fast asleep when there was the most terrible din with the banging of metal tins, the hut lights were put on and shouts of “get on parade”. We leaped out of our bunks but were not allowed to put on our trousers or boots and were doubled across the shingle beach by the sea, it was painful to our feet and we stood there in three rows in just our little khaki shirts and a cold draught from the sea behind us. We stood there shivering, a combination of fear and cold, Suddenly a smartly dressed figure appeared in front of us “my name is Woodward, Sergeant Major Woodward, I am a bastard and I want you all to know it. Welcome to the Parachute Regiment” after a few more remarks we were dismissed and went back to our beds, I think we all felt the same, why did we volunteer to join the Paras’, was it always going to be like this?

Early the next morning the bugle sounded reveille and we had to take our pillow and mattress and empty the straw, we went to have our wash and shave in what is called the ablutions in the army. It was quite a shock to find out that there was no hot water and I nearly ripped my face to pieces until I got used to shaving this way.

We had breakfast in the cookhouse and were introduced to the army method of washing up, you first tipped any leftovers into a pig swill bin, you then went to a tank of boiling hot water with a fire underneath, you dipped your plate and fingers into this instant grease remover, you then went to the tank next door which consisted of cold water – this was a great relief to your scalded fingers as you immersed your plate or mess tin, mug and knife, fork and spoon.

We were later taken to a ferry and sailed across the Solent to the Isle of Wight, we landed at Cowes where we unloaded our kitbags and carried them to lorries waiting outside. I managed to get onto one of the lorries and as there wasn’t enough room for all, the rest had to march from Cowes to Newport, where the barracks of the no.1 Parachute Regiment Training Centre were situated.

We were taken to our various barrack rooms, having found our kitbags we were made to lay out our kit in a uniform system on our beds. After a long day spent in being documented we had our meal at the cookhouse and the returned to the barrack rooms.

A sergeant suddenly appeared and told us that the Parachute Regiment liked shiny boots, so shiny you could see your face reflected in them like a mirror. There were two problems with this; one, new army boots were made of a dimply leather and two, we had spent six weeks rubbing greasy Dubbin into them. He was not interested in our problems but demanded that by reveille at 0600 hours our boots would be up to standard or we would be on a charge.

A corporal came round and showed us that by using tins of Brasso, a liquid we had for cleaning our brass buckles and buttons etc., we could burn the Dubbin off our boots. With our toothbrush handles we could bone and smooth the leather ready for polishing with Cherry Blossom boot polish, which we had to bone in as well.

We had to have 13 metal studs in the bottom of each boot and our spare pair had to be laid out on the bed daily, with the soles blackened and the studs polished.

As I looked round the barrack room, with stubs of candles, flaring matches, the smell of burning grease and leather which went on to the early hours of the morning, I once again wondered why I had volunteered.

The next day we started our training which was designed to get us fit enough to pass a number of tests to progress further towards training as parachutists. We usually started off with a two mile run before breakfast wearing PT shorts, vest and boots. Later there would be 5 to 10 mile road run and walks wearing full battle order including steel helmets and rifles, then there would be press ups, chest ups and insteps to the bar on apparatus. Then we were marched up and down the Barrack Square, any fault and you were punished by being made to run round it for so many times.

The Barrack Square is a holy place in the army, no matter how big it is you are not allowed to walk across the Square, you walk round it, if you move a yard out of line it was guaranteed that the Regimental Sergeant Major would see you, his shrill screaming voice would be heard; “Get off the Square” off you got hoping that you were not recognised.

We all had to go to the Regimental barber, who I believed qualified as a car mechanic, our haircuts were known as “short back and sides”. On the next parade the Sergeant would be standing behind me bellowing that he had told me to get my hair cut, when I said that I had had it cut, he said I couldn’t have as he was standing on it, he then doubled me off to the barber for another cut, which was bald.

A combination of the Sergeant Major, Sergeants and Corporals did everything to find fault with everything we did, we realised afterwards that they were trying to break our spirit, they were forcing us to cry or retaliate by hitting them, running away or simply saying that we had had enough and we wanted to be returned to our unit, In my case this would have been the Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry.

All this running and marching in boots with our thick woollen socks led to many painful blisters, all you could do was to prick them and rub some cream in, you dare not complain, no one was allowed to complain.

One of the many tests we had to pass was called milling, we were split into pairs wearing our PT kit, we formed a square like a boxing ring on a rubber PT mat, we then had to go in turn into the middle of the ring and for one minute we had to punch each others face to a pulp, we were wearing boxing gloves but were not allowed to turn away from each other, to block any blow or use footwork to get out of any trouble. With both arms milling away at your opponent you probably hit each other about 120 times in the 60 seconds allocated, this was probably more blows landing during a full boxing match, luckily as you were both hitting each other most of the blows were hitting each others arms, gloves etc. Anyone who backed away in this test failed and never carried on with the course.

After some of the tests we were issued with our red berets, we were then called “wingless wonders” by the camp staff who had their parachute wings and had gone through the suffering that we had gone through.

Most evenings we were allowed out of the barracks provided we were not spotted by one of the Corporals who might be awkward and decide to order us to clean out his bunk instead.

As I passed the guardroom at the entrance to the barracks very often the Regimental Police would be standing there and order me to double over to them, they would check the number of studs on my boots and my general turnout. If they were not satisfied they would send me back to barracks, sometimes they were just being bloody minded and it was all part of the treatment. Anyone caught eating fish and chips in the street, which was about all we could afford, was sent back to barracks by the RPs and put on fatigues.

We were trained to swing across water on the end of a rope and then crawl across a single rope followed by crossing using a pendulum method, we fired rifles at various ranges and did route marches all over the Isle of Wight. One of our tests was to run 200 yards in full battle order (steel helmet and rifle) carrying, using a “fireman’s lift” another soldier including his rifle. When you finished the run you swapped over and your partner had to run back with you, being carried was no joke with someone’s bony shoulder jerking into your stomach for the 200 yards.

Another test was to climb two vertical ropes a body width apart one in each hand, I think it was 10 feet, you then swung sideways onto another vertical rope which you climbed to 20 feet, you then made a controlled descent. The first part of this was very hard as you had all the weight on your arms and you could only move your hand a few inches at a time.

There were many such tests which were designed to weed out anyone who was physical unfit according too the standards laid down for the Regiment, with all the shouting and bullying we were being tested for our mental attitude, for self reliance, confidence and trust and reliance with our comrades. Extreme discipline without, in any way, becoming a robot.

It has been said many times that if all the officers and NCOs became casualties there would always be someone who would rise from the ranks to take charge and make decisions, as often happens in warfare, the decision may not be the right one, but as long as one was made and acted upon in all honesty then you would be backed by your commanding officer all the way. A bad decision was better than no decision at all.

After our three months training at the Parachute Regiment ITC those of us who had been selected had a final parade which was a march past for the commanding officer. He was, of course, accompanied by many dignitaries as a great deal of interest was always being shown in the Regiment. Never were better-polished boots, gleaming brass, better creases and standards of drill seen on any Guards Square. We marched past proudly wearing our red berets, with our chests out and shoulders back. We were it, we had passed, we were supreme.

This feeling of euphoria was very short lived when we were sent on the next part of our training to Hardwick Hall in Cheshire. After a much happier ferry crossing from the Isle of Wight we went by train to either Chesterfield or Mansfield, which were the nearest towns to our new camp.

The train was, of course, one of the marvellous old steam trains with its huffing and puffing, its clouds of steam and the clickity clack as it passed over the gaps in the unwelded rails. Into a tunnel and darkness with the smoke from the engine pouring in through the open windows, the smell of sulphur, the sound of coughing and later, burning eyes, the struggle to find and close the windows only to find we are out in daylight again. Despite this, we still look back with nostalgia to those days of travel by steam.

Hardwick Hall, I was to find out many years later, is one of the finest stately homes of England and is situated between Chesterfield, with its famous twisted spire and Mansfield. I cannot remember seeing the hall during the short time we were there as we were living in army huts in a camp well away from the hall, there was a very large lake in the grounds near the lake which I will mention later.

I would think that we arrived at the Camp in the middle of October and it was quite cold and this led to trouble on our last day at the Camp. If we thought that the training at the ITC was tough then we were sadly mistaken, here it was far worse. Apart from the daily PT and road run and walks we were made to run holding our rifles over our heads until our arms collapsed with the weight, we dug slit trenches with our entrenching tools. We spent nights in these with only our gas capes as a cover, the rain poured down the trenches and the trenches filled with water, we shivered and were soaked.

We waded in the water, we crawled in the mud, we were harangued, we were made to double, we were shouted at and we were screamed at.

We were then taken to a rocky, hilly area where ropes had been lowered 50 feet or more, we were taught how to put our legs either side of the rope, then holding the rope lay back in a horizontal position, we walked vertically up the cliff face. We had no safety harness and knew that if we let go of the rope it was a shear drop onto the rocks, when we reached the top we had to walk backwards down to the bottom again, after a short rest this was repeated several times. We were taught a form of abseiling by twisting a rope round our waist and then round our leg, by feeding the rope through itself you could slowly descend, this acted as a tourniquet and cut off the blood supply to your leg.

During the two week course at the Hardwick Camp we had another very thorough medical examination, a very close friend of mine was told that he needed some tooth extractions, he was frightened to death of dentists and refused any treatment, he was warned that if he did not have whatever treatment was required, he would be returned to his unit. We all tried our hardest to get him to go to the dentist, he still refused and the next day was sent to RTU, despite all the hardships he had gone through on the course and his absolute dedication, he could not overcome this fear and I lost a good friend and comrade.

Apart from the medical we had to take a psychiatric test, this consisted of a questionnaire which we had to complete by answering with the first thing that came to mind on reading the question. It was said that they could tell from your answers whether or not you were capable of jumping out of an aircraft, if they were not sure about your completed paper then you had to see the psychiatrist in person, he would then decide yes or no. Obviously we were all mad as we passed the test and were now ready to be sent for our parachute training at Ringway Airport near Manchester, this is now a civil airfield and is called Manchester Airport.

Our last day at Hardwick Camp was spent cleaning our huts from top to bottom, we cleaned the windows with old newspapers and had to return our coal supplies from beside the boiler in each hut, we blackleaded the stoves and had to paint the whitewash in the area round the boiler.

That evening we were all sitting in our barracks rooms on our beds, wrapped in our blankets, shivering with cold, someone noticed smoke coming from out of the chimney of one of the huts. The next minute our bayonets were produced and the wooden rifle racks were forced off the wall, broken up and burnt in the stove, as this supply was ran out it was the turn of the cupboards and any other available wooden object.

The next morning we were all paraded before the Commanding Officer who was not a happy man. Some of the mild words he used about us were “hooligans”, he said what he would like to do with us, this was most unpleasant. He knew, as we knew, that he could do little against a whole course which, that day, was moving for its stay with the Royal Air Force. He made sure that we did not get away with it, after we had finished our parachute training we were posted to a holding battalion, there we were told that during our stay at Hardwick Camp a sheep had been shot on a hill by someone firing a .303 rifle out of a window of one of the huts and a pedal cycle had been found lying half in the lake of the grounds I have previously mentioned. The police dragged the lake and found 200 rusty pedal cycles which had been stolen by soldiers over the years to get back to Camp, then there was our damage to fixtures and fittings, the cost of all this was added together and called “Barrack Damages”. This was divided amongst all the soldiers on the course and was deducted from our pay – over a fairly long time.

We had a Pay Parade once a week on a Friday, we stood in a line facing a table at which sat an Officer and his pay clerk. When your name was called you marched smartly forward, halted in front of, and saluted, the Officer, gave your number, rank and name and signed the pay sheet, you then saluted, turned and marched smartly out of the office. You were paid by the day and this amounted to less than one pound a week. Every week, whether you smoked or not, you were issued with a round tin containing 50 cigarettes, I didn’t smoke, so I used to give them to anyone who did.

PARACHUTE TRAINING

We were taken to the Parachute Training Centre at Royal Airforce Ringway for the final phase of our training, we were amazed and delighted to be with the RAF, Corporals spoke to us as friends, Sergeants uttered words of encouragement and not abuse, even the command “Attention” was fully pronounced and stressed in a posh manner, we were used to an abrupt “Shun”, the difference was quite remarkable.

We were shown films of the training at the school and were then introduced to the Irving type parachute, which was fully automatic being opened by an attachment to a strop in the aircraft or balloon, they were apparently not much different to the type of chute used by Army Observers in the 1914 – 1918 war. The Observers stood in a basket suspended under a barrage balloon filled with inflammable hydrogen gas, the balloon was attached to a wire hawser which was attached to a winch, whilst up in the air, using telescopes or binoculars, the Observers could see where the shells fired by their artillery were landing and by means of a field telephone could give instructions to the gunners so that their fire could be very accurate. The enemy, of course, did not want this and they sent their fighter planes armed with special incendiary bullets to shoot the balloons down, the poor old Observer seeing them coming had to jump out of the basket with his parachute hoping to get clear before the balloon became a raging inferno and fell to earth.

The first training jumps at the PTS were out of Whitley bombers, the rear gun turret was removed and a small platform fitted in its place. The parachutists were bent double in the narrow confines of the fuselage, the first one clambered out onto the small platform stood up and pulled the ripcord of his aircrew type chute, the chute spilled out and was filled with air from the slipstream of the engines, this then dragged the parachutist off the platform and he floated down to the ground. By the time each man had jumped by this method they were so far apart that the idea was not practical.

A hole was cut in the floor of the Whitley and automatic parachutes opened by strop and line was adopted as the method of leaving the aircraft. The Paras sat around the round hole, which just gave clearance for them and the parachute fixed to their back, they had to be very careful because if you did not push yourself enough for the pack to clear the edge of the hole it tipped you forward so that your face or head hit the sharp edge of the other side of the hole, this was called “ringing the bell” it was not recommended. This also occurred when facing forward if the aircraft speed was too fast, the slipstream caught your legs first, tilting you forward so that you rang the bell.

This was the dodgy system used in the first operation by the Parachute Regiment on the Aquino Viaduct in Italy, they flew at less that 200 mph in these noisy, draughty, freezing cold cramped old bombers to Malta to refuel and then on to Italy. They carried out their mission but were captured trying to make their way to the coast, one was executed, and the rest became prisoners of war.

Wellington bombers were to replace the Whitleys, which still had the hole in the floor exit, when it had come to our turn we were lucky that we would be jumping from Douglas Dakotas – converted American passenger aircraft. These had a side door on the port side and could hold 20 paratroopers in comfort plus the RAF aircrew.

Most of our ground training was held in a large hanger, the floor was covered with thick rubber mats, there were mockup fuselages of a Dakota and Wellington together with many trestles at various heights which we were expected to jump from onto the mats practising our parachute landing roll. There were harnesses in which you could be swung and dropped to simulate a landing in various directions and there was also the Fan. We climbed a ladder up to the roof of the hanger where we walked along a gallery to a jumping point, here a RAF Instructor strapped you in a parachute harness, this was attached by rope to a spindle which had been wrapped around many times, it was similar to what you would find at the top of a well for raising and lowering the bucket, except that instead of a handle there was a propeller or fan. You jumped from a platform beside the fan and as you fell the rope unwound spinning the blades, the wind resistance created by the blades of the fan slowed your descent down to a safe landing speed.

The parachute harness was fastened to our bodies by two shoulder straps and two leg straps, the leg straps came between our legs and the metal tag ends were pushed into the bottom half of a circular quick release box, the shoulder straps fitted into the top half. If you wished to release your harness you turned the top of this box a half turn clockwise and gave it a smart bang with your fist, all four straps would fall out automatically. One of the first things you did was to adjust the leg straps after the chute had opened, due to the sudden jerk of the chute opening these straps were pulled tight into a most uncomfortable position.

We had been issued with a denim smock, which had been specially designed for Paratroopers, this was made of a camouflaged material and was put on over our head like a pullover. It had large pockets with press-studs and at the bottom was a strip of material which we pulled between our legs and fastened with two press-studs, this was to prevent the smock riding up when jumping.

As soldiers, we always wore a back pack to carry equipment in, we had to wear this with one of the shoulder straps around our neck so that it hung sideways on our chest, this left room for the parachute to fit on our backs where it was level with our shoulders and down to our bottoms. When we were fully equipped, before putting our chutes on, we had another garment shaped like a large waistcoat which covered our pouches, which were on our belts, and the backpack on our chest, this was to avoid having bits and pieces projecting from the body which might catch in the chute whilst it was opening.

There were various things that could go wrong when jumping with a parachute, the worst is that it doesn’t open and trails out behind the doomed jumper like the flame of a candle, this is why any unopened chute is referred to as a candle. Years before, when silk, which is highly flammable, was used, a thrown rigging line would sometimes strike across the canopy of the parachute like a match with the friction caused igniting the canopy material, this was called a “Roman candle”, fortunately we had a mixture of Rayon and Nylon chutes which did not have this problem.

A thrown rigging line, which is one of the many lines connecting the canopy to the four lift webs on the harness could catch across the top of the chute and would narrow the canopy into two segments, this would increase the speed of the descent and cause serious injury.

Twists were a major hazard and were caused by the jumper being caught in by the slip stream and put into a spinning motion, as the canopy and rigging lines were being pulled out of the parachute pack the rigging lines would become twisted together. If the twists occurred at the top then the air would not be able to enter and fill the canopy, lower down you had more chance, the thing was to realise what had happened and take remedial action. This meant assessing which way the lines were twisted and then rapidly bicycle pedalling in the air to unwind the lines, when the lines had unwound you would be spinning and to prevent the lines twisting the opposite way you had to force the two lift webs apart with all your strength holding them out horizontally. Once you had cancelled the twists you then had to take care of the next hazard, which was oscillation.

Oscillation always occurred when jumping from an aircraft, as you fell with the strop and static line pulling the chute out of the pack it would come to the last tie where it was connected to the centre of the canopy. The tie would snap and the unopened canopy would be whipped over your head by the slipstream from the engines, it would be filled with air with a cracking noise and you being at an angle would swing under and past it like a pendulum. To ensure a safe landing feet first we had to cancel the swinging motion by pulling our front of rear lift webs fully down to our chests and we held this position until we hit the ground, our elbows into our chests and our feet and knees together. By pulling the lift webs down to our chests we spilled air from the chute which cancelled the oscillation, we, of course, whilst swinging, had to assess which direction we were travelling, forwards or backwards, and pull our canopy down against the wind.

Unlike modern parachutes we had absolutely no control of the chute and would land forwards, backwards or sideways and do the best you could, once down on the ground if there was a strong wind we would be dragged along the ground, we were trained to roll over onto our back and hit the quick release box to detach ourselves from the harness. Relieved of your weight the canopy collapsed, if it wasn’t too windy you could either lie face down and drag the rigging lines on the ground towards you and collapse the chute or run round the chute spilling the air from it.

In addition to the normal method of parachuting we also had to jump, on all operational descents, with a kit bag containing; weapons, ammunition, explosives etc. This kitbag had a hollowed out portion at the bottom to fit over our right boot and stood as high as our knee, it was fastened to the right leg by two straps, which could be released by a quick release pin. Coiled up on top of the bag was a 20 feet length of hemp rope running through a short pliable sleeve, one end of the rope was fastened to the kitbag the other was fitted with a clip for attaching to our parachute harness. We carried this kitbag by a handle fitted to the top, the maximum weight of the bag and contents was 54 pounds, walking out to the aircraft wearing full battle gear plus parachute and kitbag was no mean feat, climbing into the aircraft even more so.

We boarded the plane keeping to our previously detailed stick number, highest number first in and furthest up the aircraft. Once we had all sat down facing each other on our long row of sideways facing seats, in sequence starting from the highest stick number, we connected our static line, which protruded from the top of our chute, to the correct strop on the starboard side of the aircraft by a locking pin. All the strops were fitted with a “D” ring which had free run on a steel cable running the length of the cabin. Having connected our chutes we then had to fix the kitbag to our right leg by fastening the two straps, we then took the end of the rope, which was on top of the kitbag and clipped this to our parachute harness. Having carried out the pre check drill we were ready for the jump, the problem was lifting the weight of the kitbag with your right hand which also lifted your right leg and getting this into a swinging motion as you gallop down the cabin heading for the door. The plane is throttled back and swaying from side to side, your ears are popping with the altitude changes and you get to the wide open door, you give one final heave on the bag and yourself to exit the aircraft. With the opening of the chute you reach down and lift the sleeve in on hand and with the other pull the quick release pin for the straps and tip the bag off you foot, you lower the bag at a controlled speed by using the sleeve until it was finally swinging 20 feet below you, you then commence your normal landing drill for a safe descent. The only difference on landing was that the kitbag hit the ground first and this caused a bobbing of the chute before landing because the extra weight was taken off the chute.

The normal DZ (dropping zone) was usually a large, flat grass covered field for training purposes, in an operational jump, although similar types of area were chosen, many things could go wrong and often did. We were trained for various hazards, one of which was landing in water. Rivers, lakes and the sea have all taken toll on the Regiment. If landing in water, we had to disconnect our parachute harness using the quick release box, pull the leg straps free and then hold onto the chute by the lift webs then just before entering the water let go and fall clear of the chute which could drag us down as it filled with water. We were told that quite a few Paras had died in France when, in the semi darkness, they thought they were landing in the sea and carried out this drill, it was not the sea but a ground mist, they let go of their chutes at between 50 and 100 feet and plunged to their deaths.

If, on landing, we were heading for the branches of a very large tree we ignored the instructions of keeping our feet and knees together, instead we crossed our legs, if you didn’t, a large bough travelling at around 20 mph would not do you any good. If the chute caught in the top of a tree and we were jumping with a kitbag we could release the harness and descend 20 feet nearer the ground or swing in towards the trunk, if we didn’t, then it was hard luck.

To obtain our wings as fully qualified parachutists we had to complete eight jumps, three from a tethered barrage balloon and five from an aircraft, one of the jumps had to be at night and this would be from the balloon. On our first jump we were taken to a point on the Ringway Airfield where a barrage balloon was tethered to a winch, hanging underneath the balloon was a rectangular box, the bottom half made of steel and the top half consisted of a canvas roof and side panels. There was an open doorway at the end facing away from the mooring cable, the cage, as it was called, was resting on the ground. Four of us were detailed by our RAF Instructor, Cpl. McLean to climb aboard and he followed. We stood in the four corners of the cage and he stood in the doorway, we connected our static lines to the strops in the balloon and were then slowly winched up to our operational height of between 700 and 800 feet. There was a saying at the school of “seven up five down” this meant 700 feet up and 5 men down.

The balloon came to a jerking halt when the winch stopped running, we in the cage below swayed about then settled on an even keel. Our Instructor reminded us of our drill when jumping, then ordered the first man to the door, as he walked he changed the balance and the cage swayed for a short time. The pupil was then given further orders by the Instructor beside him who then shouted “go” and slapped him on his left shoulder, he suddenly disappeared and the balloon and its cage, relieved of his weight, jerked and swayed alarmingly. I was then called forward and stood in a jumping position in the open doorway, half the sole of my left boot was projecting in space, my thumb was in line with the fingers of my left hand outside the door and touching the frame, my right knee was bent and my right hand was clutching my trousers above my right knee, my head was held high and I was wearing a sponge rubber safety hat, which was used for all parachute training at that time.

I could see various buildings and little figures of men walking about, there were toy cars and lorries and little cart tracks through the grass. I felt no fear at this time as I was so busy concentrating on getting everything right. When the dispatcher shouted “go” I jumped with all my strength, the next minute I realised that by jumping hard the static line, which was at the top and back of me, had pulled me backwards and I was dropping like a stone, I fell in a horizontal position seeing the balloon receding very rapidly and my boots up in front of my eyes. There was a sudden jerk and a cracking noise like a sail filling with wind, I adjusted my leg harness after checking that the chute was fully open, I found what a beautiful experience parachuting was, it was absolutely silent, I was floating along as free as a bird with a wonderful view of the country. I had adopted my correct parachuting position by pulling down on my rear lift webs and was prepared for a forward right landing, as soon as I jumped I had to bring my left hand across my body to hold my right wrist until the chute opened.

As I have said there was this wonderful relaxing experience of floating, which turned in an instant to the ground rushing up towards me at breakneck speed. With a thud I hit the ground and went into a parachute roll, as soon as I landed I had to collapse the chute, I then folded the sides into the middle to the same width as the parachute pack, I then rolled the chute up into a bundle and plaited the rigging lines together whilst I knelt on the rolled up chute, I pulled the lines towards me, plaiting then coiling them until I had reached the lift webs and empty pack. The chute and rigging lines were then placed in the pack and carried back to the parachute store.

Although I was never shown the parachute packing hanger I understood that our returned chutes were hung up at full length to completely dry, they were then stretched out full length on very long tables where every bit was checked for damage, if still in good condition they were then repacked ready for us to use again. All the packers were women serving in the WAAF, we, of course, had to have absolute trust in their work and records will show that the failure rate of chutes due to a fault in packing was very low, all parachutes have a number and this is recorded on a form filled in by the parachute Instructor or Stick Commander, this gave your rank and number, weight, number in stick and parachute number. This meant that any fatality and the chute could be traced back to the person who had packed it from records kept by them.

We understood that in the event of a parachute failure the whole group of WAAFs on that particular shift would be sent on a Parachute Packer’s course, no one would be singled out for blame.

Being men we of course had Regimental songs like, “I’d like to meet the WAAF who packed her knickers in my chute, as I ain’t going to jump no more” the last verse began with “They scraped him off the tarmac like a lump of strawberry jam and he ain’t going to jump no more”

Parachute training is very dependent on the weather, if the wind was too strong then a jump would be cancelled, you obviously can’t train people whilst they are in hospital. As far as I remember we were pretty lucky and went through our course in the time scheduled.

My second jump was in the afternoon from the balloon, none of us were looking forward to it as the first time we did not know what to expect, now we knew that we would fall 150 feet on our backs before enough air pressure was generated to fill our canopies, everyone hated balloons, it was far better to jump from aircraft. We were told parachute jumping was taking place all day long with various instructors having been allocated their own group of trainees. On the morning of my second jump a rumour spread round the camp that someone had been killed about an hour before when his chute failed to open when he jumped from the balloon, we were a bit uptight about this and asked our NCOs, they told us that this was one of the things that went on with someone starting a rumour just to upset everyone.

We were taken to the jumping site on the airfield that afternoon, we were winched up in our cage after carrying out the same drill as our first jump. The Instructor, Cpl. McLean, called me to the door as the first to jump, I walked across the floor as the cage swayed with the movement and stood in the exit position ready to jump. I was waiting for him to give me the order to jump, instead he told me to look down at the ground and pointed out a very small square of green canvas off away to the left of the balloon, he then told me that that was where the man whose parachute had failed to open had been killed. He then shouted “Go” and thumped me on the shoulder and I was gone, it was a replica of the first jump with falling on my back and watching my feet, this time I did have a churning in my stomach because of the sheer drop I knew I would experience.

The third jump was to be by being flown to the DZ at Tatton Park in Cheshire in a Dakota aircraft. We boarded the aeroplane at Ringway after having been given our stick number by the Instructor, the highest stick number boarded first followed in sequence down to the lowest number and nominal stick commander no.1. We sat on a row of metal seats in the form of a bench running down each side of the aircraft, we were ordered to connect up our static lines from our chutes to the strops connected to the steel cable running the length of the starboard side of the aircraft. As we neared the DZ we were told to check equipment, we stood up in line in the centre of the cabin, no.20 checked that he was connected to the furthest strop and that his static line was clear of his lift webs, no.19 checked no.20, who did the same for no.19. This in turn went on right down the aircraft to no.1. Running along the ceiling of the cabin was a wire which you could hold on to steady yourself, the RAF dispatcher, who was giving the orders, stood by the open door wearing a harness connected to a strop which would prevent him from falling out or being pulled out of the aircraft.

The dispatcher shouted “Tell off for equipment check”, the last one in the stick shouted back “20 OK” and so on until we reached no.13 who shouted “12a OK”, this continued down to no.1 who shouted “ 1 OK, Stick OK”, this told the dispatcher that everything was clear for jumping. We had been told on boarding that we were in fact jumping in sticks of 5 for training purposes so we knew by our numbers which group we would be in as the aircraft circled the DZ dropping us in turn.

By the open door of the aircraft was a box with red and green lights, when the pilot throttled the engines back and descended to about 800 feet on his approach to the DZ he switched on the red light, when he received a signal from the ground that he was in the right position he switched on the green light to commence jumping. The RAF staff on the DZ had released smoke flares to enable us to judge the strength and direction of the wind and make allowances to ensure we landed in the correct place.

Up in the aircraft we saw the red light come on and the plane was swaying from side to side, dipping one wing then the other. The dispatcher shouted “Red on, stand to the door”, no.1 in the stick then stood in the open doorway in exactly the same manner as we did from the balloon, and the other four in the stick shuffled up close behind him. The green light came on and the dispatcher shouted, “Go” and thumped him on the shoulder, he went. The dispatcher allowed a slight pause then thumped each one in turn pausing in between, the reason for this was that if you went too quickly your parachute could tangle with someonelse’s which would be curtains for you.

When it came to my turn I leapt out and the parachute seemed to open almost immediately instead of that stomach churning drop from the balloon, I adjusted my

harness after checking that the canopy was fully deployed, I was swinging like a pendulum and there was this wonderful floating feeling. The aircraft had gone and it was absolutely quiet, suddenly I heard a voice with a very educated type of RAF accent coming from the ground, if it had been coming from above I would have been worried! He shouted “no.1 pull down on your rear lift webs now”, he called to all of us in turn making sure that we carried out the correct procedure, if I remember correctly I was told to pull down on my front lift webs as I came in for a backwards landing. We all, of course, had to spill air from our chutes to correct the oscillation, I made a pretty good landing as did the others, the aircraft came back again and five more of our group jumped out. I heard the voice again shouting instructions as they floated down and saw that there was an Instructor standing by some equipment which had a load speaker on top and he was standing there with a microphone in his hand shouting as they floated down. One of the stick didn’t seem to want to land and stayed floating along at the same altitude until the others had landed, he had been caught in a thermal which delayed his descent.

We only did one jump a day and I think the fifth one was the night jump from the balloon at Ringway, apart from it being pitch black with just the odd light showing on the ground, I did not find it very daunting. I jumped clear and after the chute had opened I looked up to check it, but of course it was invisible, I pulled down on my rear lift webs and adopted the landing position, peering down into the darkness. I suddenly saw a darker mass rushing towards me, I tensed myself for a landing that wasn’t, relaxed, then hit the ground with a bump.

On all the jumps at Tatton Park we rolled up our chutes and carried them to the assembly area where lorries were waiting to take us back to Ringway, always there was a refreshment van belonging to the WVS, the dear ladies served us with a free cup of tea and a cigarette and boosted our egos by telling us how marvellous we were.

I think it was my sixth jump, on the morning of which, I woke up feeling very ill, the symptoms were very like influenza and I had no strength at all. I couldn’t report sick as this meant that I would be back squadded (the course would carry on without me) I would lose all my friends and comrades. This is one of the things that you find in the army and is beyond price, comradeship. They helped me get dressed and onto the transport and later, how I boarded the aircraft with the weight of the chute I will never know. I can’t remember what position I was in the stick but I remember I did not have the strength to jump, I stepped out and immediately felt the bottom of my chute hit the floor of the aircraft, I was tilted forward and hurt my left arm as I was thrown against the fuselage. I went to look up and check my canopy and found my head was forced down onto my chest, I reached up to the back of my neck and found the lift webs were twisted together, this was why I couldn’t raise my head. I felt which way they were twisted and then bicycle pedaled in the air to unwind the twists.

Having freed the twists, I looked down and found that I was badly oscillating and near the ground. I could see the RAF Instructor standing by his loudspeaker equipment with, I believe his microphone in hand, staring up at me, he appeared and disappeared as I was swinging and dodging about. The next minute I hit the equipment with my left rear and crashed in a heap on the ground, there was no wind and the chute collapsed over both me and the Instructor and we had to fight our way out. He was not a happy man, he gave me the biggest bollocking for not exiting the aircraft in a proper manner. I was very lucky that the twists were at the bottom and not the top of the rigging lines or the chute would not have opened, also, with the twists in the rigging the canopy area was reduced increasing my descent speed. The strange thing was that whatever I was suffering from had disappeared although I wouldn’t recommend this cure to anyone!

The next jump was in sticks of twenty with kitbags, this was pretty much the same as I have previously described except that I will never forget being in the last half of the stick trying to run down the fuselage, with my right hand lifting this very heavy bag and my right leg which was attached to it and the literally chucking myself out of the door.

On the completion of my eight jumps I was presented with my wings, the Army, being what it is, says in my AB64 “Granted Parachute badge 30th November 1945”. In addition to the cloth wings, to be sewn onto the top part of my right sleeve, I was presented with a silver brooch by the GQ Parachute company to say that I had tested their chutes, and they worked!

We all had a very big celebration on getting our wings, no longer were we “wingless wonders”, we could now say to other soldiers, which we often did, “Get some slipstream service before you talk to me”, you could guarantee many a fight in a pub with this remark, later, when we returned from the Middle East, we would add “And get your knees brown”.

Once you had qualified as a Parachutist you were given, I believe, an extra 2 shillings a day for your qualification. In today’s money-10 pence.

Very often in our barrack rooms in the evening, perhaps confined to Camp for some reason or other, we used to rely on “Sing Songs” for entertainment. I have written down three of the Parachute Regiment songs that we used to sing, the word “Tatton” refers to Tatton Park in Cheshire which was the Dropping Zone for Ringway airfield.

To the tune “Mountains of Mourne”

Oh Mary this Tattons a wonderful sight, with Paratroopers jumping by day and by night

They land on potatoes and barley and corn, and there’s gangs of them wishing they’d never been born

The say they would rather bale out from the moon, than stand at the door of that ****** balloon.

To the tune “Bless 'em all”

They say there’s a Whitley just leaving Ringway

Bound for old Tatton Park

Heavily laden with Parachute troops

Bound for the jump they adore

There’s many a soldier that’s jumped once before

There’s many a one that’s had a fall

But you get no promotion if your chute doesn’t open

So cheer up my lads Bless 'em all

Bless 'em all, Bless 'em all

The parachute packers and all

Bless all the sergeants and their paratroops

Bless all the packers and their static chutes

‘Cos were saying goodbye to them all

As out of the Whitleys we fall

You’ll get no promotion if your chute don’t open

So cheer up my lads, bless 'em all.

To the tune “Red River Valley”

Oh, come sit by my side if you love me

Do not hesitate to bid me adieu

But remember the poor paratrooper

And the job he is trying to do

When the red light goes on we are ready

For the Sergeant to shout “Number one”

Though we sit in the plane close together

We all tumble out one by one

When we’re coming in for a landing

Just remember the Sergeants advice

“Keep your feet and your knees close together

And you’ll reach mother earth very nice”

When we land in a certain country

There’s a job we will do very well

We will fire old Goering and Adolf

And all those blighters as well

So stand by your glass and be ready

And remember the men of the sky

Here’s a toast to the men dead already

And a toast for the next man to die.

HOLDING BATTALION

On the 27th December 1945 we arrived at a new camp at Knaresborough which I believe consisted of nothing but old Nissen huts. The only thing I can remember about this camp was that having been allowed out in the evenings, some of us decided to go to the local cinema. In Oxford, and as far as I knew everywhere else, the cinema programs were a continuous performance, you walked inside in the middle of a film and sat there until the film came round to where you came in. We paid our money half an hour before the end of the main picture, and when the film ended everybody left except us, we were then told to leave as they only did separate performances. We complained that we had not been warned about this and were ejected, we thought that this was pretty poor treatment as we received very little money at the time. Knaresborough was a dirty word for a very long time.

Fortunately on the 2nd January 1946 we were moved to another Holding Battalion camp near the village of Piddlehinton near Dorchester in Dorset. Here the discipline was not so strict now that we were fully qualified Paras, the training was just as tough with route marches and PT in our vests and shorts in the middle of Winter. We turned out for the morning parade wearing our greatcoats and woollen gloves and carrying our rifles, you always carried your rifle. You were told that your rifle was your best friend, time and time again. It had to be looked after like your wife, one day your life could depend on it. Unless there was a new issue, you had the same rifle all the time you were in the army, Every weapon had a serial number and this was listed on your records. Frequent inspections were carried out at any time by both Officers and NCOs, they peered down the barrel as far as the breach mechanism where the bullets went up the barrel, you had to put your thumbnail there to reflect the light. A dirty weapon and you were on a charge, usually meriting 7 days CB (confined to Barracks), this meant reporting to the guard room at 6 pm every evening and being given any dirty job they chose to give you, Saturday and Sunday were all day fatigues.

As I said we turned out on parade every morning with a Sergeant in charge, sometimes the Company Sergeant Major would appear and give us drill instruction, I can well remember us standing there in the freezing cold with the frost hard on the ground. He stood in front of us and slowly, with great deliberation, said “ Take those f******* gloves off”, we took our gloves off and our hands got colder and colder against the cold metal of the rifle, there was a clattering noise as a rifle fell from the frozen fingers of one of the Platoon. “Fall in two men” the Sergeant Major barked, the unfortunate was then doubled off to the Guardroom on a charge of dropping his rifle.

We went on the rifle range, which gives you your only chance to improve the accuracy of your shooting and to make sure that the weapon is accurate and zeroed to your eyesight. If you are a reasonable shot all your hits on the target will be in a small group, if they are in the centre of the bull, then you have perfection. If the group was some distance from the bull, higher lower or on one side or the other then the Company Armourer, who accompanied us, would adjust the sights of the weapon until we had the accuracy we required.

On one of these practice shoots we were all sitting on the grass in front of the “Butts” as they were called waiting for our turn to move forward and take the positions of those that were shooting. I suddenly felt a violent blow to my forehead which really hurt, I started mouthing off to those round me accusing them of throwing stones, they all denied this strongly. I felt about in the grass just in front of me where I had seen something fall immediately after the blow, I picked up a .303 bullet of the type that we were using, it was split open down one side and was still warm. I showed this to the Sergeant, as it was obviously a ricochet from the Range, we all moved back to a safer position. Despite the jagged side of the bullet it never left a mark on my head.

When we were on Route Marches there was usually a stop every half-hour, the Sergeant would say that everyone could smoke if he could smoke, there was an immediate rush of cigarettes proffered to him and most people lit up. We had to lie on our backs with our feet up in the air to allow the blood to drain back from our feet into our bodies, or so we were told. When I see adverts today showing fly killer sprays and the flies with their legs twitching in the air as they lay on the ground, it always brings this to mind.

One day we were called on parade and told that there had been a riot at the Army Detention Centre at Shepton Mallet in Somerset, we were placed on standby then on the Sunday we boarded our Bedford 3 tonners and were transported to the village of Street in Somerset. We were off loaded and told to stay in the village until further ordered, most English villages are pretty dead on a Sunday and Street was no exception, there must have been about 50 of us there just wandering around. We heard from someone, no doubt a villager who wanted to get rid of us, that just up the road was the village of Glastonbury which had a cafe that was open on a Sunday. We understood that one village more or less joined into the other so a few of us decided that it would be an honest mistake if we accidentally found ourselves in Glastonbury. The group I was with hadn’t been there very long and were still looking for the cafe when we heard from some villagers that our officers were there and hunting for us, we went across several people’s gardens, ran round the corner of a house and smack into them, they took our AB64’s and sent us back to the village of Street.

The next morning I appeared on OC’s orders on a charge of disobeying a lawful order and being out of bounds, I was stood outside the office in the usual manner with the other offenders, we were then marched in one at a time at a speed and in a manner which is hard to describe, being bellowed at by the CSM “Left, right, left, right” in almost a gabble. You shoot through the door almost skidding over with the sharpness of the turn and brought to a halt in front of the desk where the Officer is sitting, you stand there as rigid as a ramrod, quivering with fear and breathless from the violent exertion. The charge is read out to you and the Officer asks if you have anything to say, you open your mouth to say something and you feel the CSM’s stick rammed into your back, he says in a tone full of malevolence “Shut up”, you remain silent, the Officer says “168 hours detention”. Once again you are marched out at high speed and handed over to the Regimental Police, I was trying to work out how long 168 days was as I had been frightened and confused with what was going on, I was then told that it was hours not days and managed to work out that seven times 24 hours was 168 hours, how complicated can you get!

I spent the next week being locked up in a cell with five others all having to bone our boots and polish and clean our kit to standards to standards previously unheard of. During the day we “doubled” everywhere, cleaning out the lavatories, heaving coal, scrubbing floors etc. It was often said in the Army that you were not a proper soldier until you had been in detention, if so, I was now qualified.

A strange thing about the Army is that when Officers ask you a question, such as in the dining hall when you are having a meal “Is everything alright?” or “Is the food ok?” You open your mouth to tell them how awful it is or the cook would make a good mechanic and a stick is poked in your back and you hear those words “Shut up”. The Officer goes on his way knowing what’s going on but not in the least bit interested.

When you had finished your parades for the day you had to do your washing and ironing, we always had a long table and a plain electric iron provided. We pressed our trousers by soaking our handkerchief in water and then pressing hard on the creases, some used to smear soap down the inside of the crease and this gave a knife edge effect to the crease. This method was subsequently banned when someone on Parade had his trousers split wide apart along the creases, the soap had rotted the material over a period of time.

Our backpack, pouches, anklets and belts, together with the webbing, had to be “Blancoed” every day to keep it clean, The Blanco was in various shades of khaki green. We used no. 103, which was a solid block of chemicals, we wetted a brush, rubbed over the block, then scrubbed our kit with it. When it dried it made everything clean and smart.

There were brasses to polish and boots to clean, then you took out your “Housewife”, which was a roll of material with pockets, this contained sewing and darning needles, wool and thread, spare buttons and a pair of scissors. There were no man-made fibres about so we were constantly darning holes in our socks, this caused bumps in the socks which in turn caused blisters.

Fortunately when we were in camp we had a battledress uniform made of denim material which we wore most of the time for dirty work and no one worried about the ragged state they used to get into. I can remember queuing up for the cookhouse with my mug, knife, fork and spoon, the queue was very slow moving and everyone was getting fed up, someone lit the ragged end at the back of someone’s trouser pocket. We watched it very slowly burning its way upwards until the wearer became aware of the heat on his posterior, the yell as he pulled his trousers off was thought to be very funny. If you went to bed early in the Barrack room someone coming in the worse for drink would spot your foot projecting from the end of your blankets and would give you a “hot foot” with a lighted match resting between your toes, the subsequent acrobatics and bad language of the sleeper was a source of entertainment.

We had no radios and had not even heard of television, we spent most of the time we had spare going to a cinema or various Public houses in Dorchester. At the weekend we used to travel further afield to Weymouth where there was a very nice White Ensign Club, this has really for the Royal Navy, but was open to all members of HM Forces.

Apart from the training I have already mentioned we had lessons, including practice on Amatol plastic explosive with various types of fuses, slow and fast burning and electric. Hand grenades with four and seven second fuses, in various war films you will see someone take out a hand grenade from where it was stored in a wooden box, pull the pin and throw it, and off it goes with a bang. In real life the grenade had a screw base plate which you had to remove, you them inserted a pliable fuse with a detonator at each end, one went directly into the explosive and the other end under the firing pin, this pin was held away from the detonator by a small handle which is locked in position by a retaining pin. When throwing, you held the handle against the bomb and remove the retaining pin. When the bomb is thrown the handle, which is spring loaded, moves outwards allowing the firing pin to hit the fuse detonator, this burns for the required 4 or 7 seconds and then ignites the main detonator and the bomb explodes.

We also practiced with a phosphorus grenade which was shaped like a Brasso tin of that era; long and round with a screw top. The top was made of bakelite and when removed revealed a tape with a lead