Foreword

Don't be mislead by the title. The "new boy" in question is in fact an "old boy " of WLBHS.- Ronald ( Ronnie) James Hardy. It is his contemporanoeus account of joining an RAF Bomber Squadron in 1941 after completing his flying training in Canada and operational conversion at RAF Upper Heyford .

I found it fascinating which is why I am sharing it here. It is a longish read so I have divided it into two parts:

Part1 "Sprogs", is the lead up to his crews first mission, from joining the sqaudron to take -off

Part 2: "Bombers' Moon" describes the mission ( next month)

Part 1 : "Sprogs"

Two short days ago I travelled down from home [Oakwood, Leeds] with Millward my Navigator, and thanks to a little map reading and frequent questioning of road sweepers and farming people on the Lincolnshire lane, we managed to locate our new aerodrome [RAF Coningsby]. Everyone seemed anxious to help, and it was not long before we sighted the large water tower which indicated the proximity of our new home.
On arrival we reported to the adjutant, and went through the depressing ritual of filling up arrival forms. Somehow the 'next-of-kin' form always makes me feel a bit wretched, and I always picture my form being taken out of the file at some future date for the purposes of confirming my home address prior to the dispatch of a telegram. Fortunately, the mood very quickly passes, but I always think it a most unhappy introduction to a new station. I was then ushered into the presence of the Station Commander, a small elderly man, with greying hair, and clear penetrating eyes, which suited well his alert manner. He seemed very glad to be getting an addition to the squadron, and the few minutes talk I had with him did a great deal towards making me feel at home, and dispelling my dreadful feeling of newness and incompetence. After informing me that the squadron was known as the 'fighting 106th, he wished me the best of luck and indicated that the interview was at an end. I discovered that I knew one or two of the squadron members vaguely, but as they were all from senior courses to myself, I sensed in them a feeling of superiority, and I hesitated to ask them what it was like 'over there', although I should have dearly loved to have heard anything they might have to say, especially in view of the fact that some of them had operated at least half a dozen times since I last saw them at Upper Heyford. There was an 'Op' on that night, and one or two of them were reading or playing shove halfpenny, which seems to be a very popular game here, and an ideal way of passing the time before take-off. I was told that they were operating frequently, as the weather is good, and it is the moon period, which makes target identification less difficult.
The next morning, I spent settling down, and meeting the Squadron Commander [Wing Cdr. RS Allen DFC] and Flight Commander, they are both first class types, and they too seemed very pleased to be receiving a new addition to the squadron. The Squadron Commander does not believe in wasting time, and he told me that he thought it would be a good thing to break the crew in right away, and that we should be flying that night. He suggested that because we were new, he would give me another wireless operator in place of my own one who had done ten trips, and who would be able to give me the benefit of his experience. I thought this a good idea, although I was very sorry to lose my own WOP. I met the new wireless operator in the crew room, and heard someone say 'Christ, are you flying with a Sprog?' The new wireless operator informed me that a Sprog was another name for a raw recruit, which made me feel a bit small, but Sgt. Lynn, that was his name, said that he didn't mind flying with me, and this rather praiseworthy show of confidence did a lot to make me feel better.

I had been allotted a new aircraft, X for X-ray, and we wandered out to look it over in order to check up on anything which might be different from the old training Hampdens I had been flying from Upper Heyford. There was one addition, the automatic pilot, and I got one of the ground crew to give me a few words of instruction on it as I had every intention of making use of it that night. The aircraft was new, and there was a grand feeling of pride of possession in the knowledge that here was our own machine which would be kept in first rate condition, and only fly when we did. The ground crew were just as enthusiastic, they were anxious to meet their new aircrew, and lost no time in giving us details of their last skipper, who apparently had the misfortune not to return. He was a good type they said, but assured us that with this aircraft, and their servicing, we should not suffer from the same trouble. We left feeling that we had been lucky in our allotment of ground crew, and also feeling pleased that we had a new aircraft with which to commence our tour of operations.

A Handley Page Hampden medium bomber from 106 squdron identical to the X for Xray flown by Ronnie and his crew in 1941.

(ZN identifies this as a 106 squadron aircraft.)

When we arrived back in the crew room, we found the orderly room NCO busy filling up the board for the night's effort, and it was with a tingling and a short intake of breath that I saw my name up there in the pilot's column and opposite X for X-ray.
The briefing was quite a novelty and the target, we discovered, was Aachen. Immediately after the briefing the Squadron Commander took me to one side and advised me to hang about on the edge of the target and await for someone else to get caught before I flew in and dropped the bombs. I assured him that I would do this, but felt that as I couldn't imagine what the target would look like I might have some difficulty in knowing just where the edge was. The take-off was at ten o'clock just before dark, and I had the doubtful pleasure of filling in my time from briefing until then, a procedure which I found most trying. I spent it writing a few letters, trying to picture just what it would all be like, and hoping that at least we should be allowed to complete one trip in order to make some contribution towards the cost of our training.
Getting dressed in the crew room prior to take off was an interesting experience, the most outstanding thing about it being the atmosphere of forced humour. Somehow everything that was said seemed funny, the aircrews laughed and joked with each other, and although their jokes would have received a very poor reception at any other time, here they were eagerly listened to and appreciated. One crew was on its last trip and their superior knowledge seemed to be accepted by all. Odd pieces of advice which they tendered were lapped up by other crews, especially by mine, and I found myself thinking that the first thing I would do on return would be to look out for this crew and sincerely hoped that they would be allowed to complete their trip safely. Their gunner, a little Scotsman, said that the worst trips were the first three and the last three, this was confirmed by the rest, and several cases were cited which went to prove the truth of the saying, but little to inspire more confidence into my already turbulent mind. At last, all was ready, and we piled into our trucks, strongly reminiscent of tumbrels, for transport to our respective aircraft. One by the crews got out with a final 'See you at breakfast', or 'See you in Church', until the driver shouted 'X-ray', and we were there. Our departure was more staid than the others, not because we were new, but because we were the last ones to leave the truck.

The scenes in these two photos are just as described by Ronnie:

The crew truck, driven by a WAAF driver, drops the final crew at their aircraft, RAF Coninsby 1941, Ground crew working on the aircraft.

"I was assisted by the ground crew up the short ladder, scrambled along the wing moving awkwardly on account of my heavy parachute".

The ground crews were there to meet us and we had about an hour before take-off. An hour can be a long time, but on this occasion, it seemed hardly long enough. It was a beautiful evening and round the airfield we could see the other aircraft each with its own little crowd of people, some chatting, others making a last-minute check of their machine. I had a few hurried draws at a cigarette, a few words with the NCO in charge of our aircraft, and then he assisted me with my parachute. Mine of course was the large seat type pack, whereas the others were using the smaller chest type which allowed more freedom of movement when inside the aircraft. The Hampden is a grand machine but built more on the style of a fighter, narrow and streamlined, and comfort has been sacrificed for efficiency. Once you are in there is no moving about, but if the pilot suffers from lack of space, then it is only a fraction of what the rear gunner has to endure in the "tin" [the cramped fuselage is only 3 feet wide]. Sgt. Hunter, my rear gunner, is a well-built fellow, not designed for the rear turret of a Hampden, but such is his Scottish make up that he never utters any word of complaint. Millward, the navigator, was just as excited as I, and he was busy stowing away his plotting board, maps, charts and sextant in the cramped-up compartment which was to be his domain for the next six hours. The wireless operator proved to be a worthy asset to the crew, he divided his time between giving us words of advice and singing a song which was very popular at the time called 'Yes my darling daughter', the piece about what if there's a moon Mother darling?' seemed very appropriate.

Time passed quickly, and clutching gloves and rations I was assisted by the ground crew up the short ladder, scrambled along the wing moving awkwardly on account of my heavy parachute, and with more assistance dropped down through the open hatch into the pilot's seat. As I did so the thought flashed through my mind that when I next climbed out of that seat I should do so as a different person. No longer would I be the Sprog' without a single trip to my credit, and no longer would I try to picture what a target looked like. Six more hours and I would be able to mix more confidently with other members of the Squadron and perhaps put in a word when the previous night's operation was being discussed. It was a significant moment for which I had worked for twelve months, and the opportunity to put into practice what I had been taught: it was not lost upon me. The airman helping me with my straps would not guess what I was thinking, to him I suppose it was just another trip. A last rub of the windshield, and a 'Best of luck Sir' and he was down off the wing, and helping the others to prime the engines. The remainder of the crew were in position each checking his own equipment and I settled down to the routine check of controls and instruments, and asked Millward for the first course to steer. It was a strange thing but after getting into the cockpit there is no room for imagination. The job on hand holds first priority and I knew then that the worst was over, the waiting was finished and from then on it was routine work leaving no room for any thought but that of getting the aircraft safely into the air. 'Contact' from the ground crew, 'Contact' I replied switching on, the propellers turned and the engines roared into life. The running up was over, the chocks removed, and with a final wave and a thumbs up from the ground crew we moved out.

Part 2: "Bombers' Moon" will be next months story.