The Penguin's Progress: Memoirs of a WWII Dispatch Rider in His Majesty's Royal Air Force

Table of Contents

Description

The Penguin’s Progress

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

FOR KING & COUNTRY

CHAPTER TWO

CIVILIAN to SERVICEMAN

CHAPTER THREE

THE PENGUIN FLIES

CHAPTER FOUR

GROUNDED BUT AT SEA

CHAPTER FIVE

SALAD DAYS IN THE DESERT.

CHAPTER SIX

IN THE FACE OF DEFEAT

CHAPTER SEVEN

HOLDING ONE’S BREATH

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE LONG HAUL

CHAPTER NINE

VICTORY IN AFRICA

CHAPTER TEN

INTO SUNNY ITALY

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CASSINO

CHAPTER TWELVE

FORWARD TO ROME

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHIANTI COUNTRY

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BACK to ENGLAND

EPILOGUE

A young man sat on Biggin Hill in early 1940, watching an attack on the R.A.F. fighter station. As a German bomber spun out, chased by a British Spitfire, Eric knew what he wanted to do. The day he turned 18, he volunteered at the Air Ministry in Kingsway, London. Raised in a military family, his Marine father was disappointed with his choice. But both father and son served their country with stubborn courage that brought them both back home safely in 1946.

When Eric was passed over for pilot, he was designated an air gunner. When he was later assigned as a dispatch rider he adopted the mascot of a penguin. His dogged determination kept him going through countless conflicts and close calls across North Africa and Italy. His amiable character and optimism secured friendships that would last a lifetime. These are the memoirs of Eric Thomas Merry, a dispatch rider for His Majesty’s Air Force. These accounts are also part of the Imperial War Museum’s archives in London, England.

The Penguin’s Progress

Eric Merry

Copyright Plato Publishing, 2017

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

ISBN-10:1-946560-02-2

ISBN-13: 978-1-946560-02-5

Edited by The Editing Hall

Formatting by Anessa Books

Published by Plato Publishing

CHAPTER ONE

FOR KING & COUNTRY

DURING THE WARM SUNNY DAYS of early September 1940, I used to cycle into Kent from London to watch the air war I so desperately wanted to join. For me in those early weeks, the war consisted of trails in the sky, machine gun noises high in the heavens, planes zooming about, and whistling bombs. The steady pattern of the bombers coming over was broken up by the British fighters, which dropped through the German formations like stones. The odd bomber fluttered to earth like a leaf caught in the wind. Others were hurled down like flaming arrows, leaving a funeral pall of smoke where they met the yellow corn and green grass, scarring the countryside with their machines as well as with their bombs.

On one occasion, I recall seeing several fighters sweep through a valley at zero feet. From my grassy slope, I watched an attack on the RAF fighter station at Biggin Hill. Later a Dornier bomber came through, spewing oily smoke from an engine, closely pursued by a Spitfire. I felt pride in those who became the few, as I absorbed the sights, the sounds, the smells, the roar of aircraft engines, the rat-a-tat of machine guns, the thrills of seeing the enemy going down. Now, it is hard to justify the tremendous enthusiasm it all generated in me.

On 12 September 1940, I became 18 years old. Knowing everything the world had to offer, I made my decision within days of my birthday. I volunteered for the RAF at the Air Ministry in Kingsway, London. I was allocated an appointment time for the first of many of the selection boards I would have to negotiate before being accepted. They were very fussy in the early days, and there was a selection panel to decide if you were suitable material to even take a medical.

Passing the medical allowed you to go before another panel, which would decide if you could go forward to the Air Vocation Board, which assessed you for a specific air training. At last, I was given a date and time to be at Euston House in London, a huge medical complex. My mother, Aggie, was distraught at the idea of her only son being up there and consoled herself with the thought I might fail the medical and be sent home.

My father, Edward Thomas Merry, was a Royal Marine. At the time of my enlistment, he was away helping to setting up the special R.M. Services that later became the Commandos. He had joined as a regular in 1916 and was discharged in December 1937 at 38 years of age as a pensioner. He was recalled in September 1938 at the time of the Munich crisis.

I had returned to Deal with him. He did not come out of the service again until the end of the war, ending his career in India as Quartermaster General of the Royal Marines in Asia. I had been a cadet from the age of nine. At sixteen, I became a boy marine with the view of a Royal Marine career. It was to be the bitterest pill for my father when I did not follow him into the Marines.

However, on the appointed day and time, I presented myself at Euston House and was immediately handed a not-too-large towel and told to strip. For the whole of that day and the next, dozens of hopeful young lads and I ran from one room to another, submitting to this test here and that test there. I remember a medical orderly telling me my sugars were out of balance and advised me to drink quarts of water to flush it through. I drank and drank until I nearly burst, it was so important to me.

At the end of two days, I was adjudged A.1. fit for aircrew duties. I crawled back home to Camberwell with the grand-daddy of all colds. I said to my mother, If I hadn’t been told how fit I was, I would be sure that I was dying. Before I left Euston House, I was given orders to be at the Kingsway Air Ministry at the crack of dawn on 11 November 1940.

At Kingsway, I appeared before another Board that would finally decide how I was best suited to help win the war! The Air Vocation Board consisted of a terrifying group of senior air force officers arrayed behind a great long table. I recall the impression that my lack of academic achievements, and the fact that they had never heard of the Royal Marine School of which I was so proud, proved to be a drawback. I was not, therefore, considered pilot material. They did, however, offer me the chance of flying in the capacity of Wireless Operator/Air Gunner, which I readily accepted.

After waiting around for what seemed ages, I was ushered into a room laid out like a classroom with about two dozen other young hopefuls. There were bibles on the desks, and an officer asked us to pick them up and repeat an oath. We were being sworn in when he stopped abruptly and asked us to stand to attention for the dead of the last war (1914-1918). The whole of The Great War seemed to go through my mind as I stood there: pictures of the trenches, mud, mutilation, death, WW1 tanks, aeroplanes, airships, and graves. Then a voice returned me to the present.

Gentlemen.

At exactly two minutes past eleven on the 11 November 1940, I swore to serve my King and Country. As the officer remarked, we would always remember that precise moment, and I have! As I left, I was given a piece of paper with my name and number on it. The number was 1381917. From another room, I was given a leave pass, a ten-shilling note, and a rail ticket to Cardington.

My mother cried when I told her I was officially in the air force. She had secretly hoped they would not take me and had not mentioned it to my father in her letters. Quite by chance, he came home for the weekend.

When I said I had signed on, he laughingly asked me, What took you so long? From the tone in his voice, I have always suspected he knew something was amiss.

I was 18 years and two months old.

When I told him I had to report to Cardington (not to Chatham, Portsmouth or Plymouth—Royal Marine depots) the realisation that I had actually joined the RAF and not the Marines hit him like a sledge hammer. He turned away and hardly spoke a word to my mother or me before he went back to his war. Timothy, a pet name for Dad but Tom to most people, went to Havant in Hampshire before going north to the Isle of Arran for the development of the Commando concept and the Green Beret. I went to Cardington and thence to Morecambe for square bashing—learning how to march and drill. That was to be followed by Gunnery School and some preliminary wireless training at Calshot near Southampton.

It was at Calshot that I met Cyril Morgan. Through him, I met his sister Berenice, who became my life partner after the war.

***

WHEN TIMOTHY AND I left to go to war, Aggie had given her all. Her husband had returned to the Royal Marines and her only son to the air force. Then she did a really brave thing but typical of her. She packed up our home and returned to her native town of Harwich. With the support of friends and family, she began the hopeful process of preparing a place for her men to come back to. She didn’t know that it would be nearly five years before we were to meet as a family again. Or if we would ever return again for that matter!

So off to Cardington in Bedfordshire to become an airman!

CHAPTER TWO

CIVILIAN to SERVICEMAN

AN ASSORTED GROUP OF CIVILIANS assembled on the windy parade ground of the RAF depot at Cardington in Bedfordshire. We were to begin the transformation from private citizens into a crew of uniformed airmen. We started the conversion by going through the old R.101 airship hangar to collect our ill-fitting uniforms, big boots, as well as all the other paraphernalia of a serviceman. Our civilian clothes were then parcelled up and sent home without a covering letter. Heaven alone knows what effect that had on my mother!

Cardington was my first introduction to the army hut, although the battleship grey linoleum of a barrack room was no stranger to me. Lino so deeply polished that it looked as though the whole floor was a sheet of glass and squeaked as one walked gingerly across it. The coal scuttles with their shiny, dusted, and correctly sized pieces of coal that no one ever burned. The tall cast-iron ebony black round stoves on their white washed surrounds stood like proud sentries at each end of the hut.

Drawn up outside the huts, the forty new inmates of the squad listened to the corporal’s first list of do’s and don’ts. Behind my back, I idly slipped my china mug from one finger to another. Just as the