Ancestral Acres: World War II Service

Georgia, USA, in the Army and Brief Encounter

By James Arnott

Georgia, U.S.A.

I mentioned earlier the splendid work of Charles Sweeney, father of Her Grace the Duchess of Rutland, in recruiting American airman to join the R.A.F during the war.

There was a time, when a little to my surprise, I found myself training with the United States Army Air Force; to explain I shall have to go back a little in time.

On the 4th September 1939, the day following the declaration of war, I joined the Army, expecting to be given a rifle and bayonet and sent to France to fight the foe. But that did not happen and it was weeks before I even had a uniform. Then the Territorial Army unit which I had joined, The royal Army Service Corps at Smethwick, moved north and for the next couple of years I was driving a lorry, delivering ammunition to A.A. gun sites in and around Manchester and, on occasions, rations to some rather isolated searchlight sites a little further a field.

There came a time when the R.A.F. was short of pilots and it was then possible to transfer from the Army to the R.A.F. So I applied and was accepted and was then posted to Stratford-upon-Avon, where we were billeted in the Washington Irving hotel in the main street of the town. (The hotel is no longer there, having been replaced by one of Marks and Spencer’s stores).

It was about this time that I received word that one chap I had been at school with, who on leaving school had joined the R.A.F. and become, in due course, a member of that rare band of Battle of Britain pilots, had been killed. At school we had taken part in a production of Sheridan’s “The Rivals” in which I had played the part of Sir Lucius O’Trigger of Blunderbuss Hall or, as Mrs Malaprop, referred to him – Lucifer O’Tiger, and my friend with his boyish good looks and fine complexion the part of the maid, Lucy. But three or four years after leaving school he had died in the service of his country. Such a tale of course can be repeated endlessly.

At the beginning of the war, America was decidedly isolationist in its attitude – it did not want to be involved in the war in Europe. But gradually, with Franklyn Delano Roosevelt as President, the situation changed and the American government began to show an interest in the fate of the countries overrun by the might of the German Army.

One result of the change was that the United States Army Air Force took on the task of training R.A.F. Personnel. So after some initial training in the R.A.F., along with many others, I boarded a fine ship – the Strathdon – at Gourock on the Clyde and sailed for Canada, where in due course we arrived safely at Halifax in Nova Scotia. From there we got the train to a Royal Canadian Air Force base at Moncton in New Brunswick and later travelled to Montreal (where all public signs and notices were in French and English) and on to Toronto. Whilst there, a party of us were taken by some kind souls down the Queen Elizabeth Highway to Niagara Falls which we thoroughly enjoyed. Later we continued our journey crossing the border at Detroit and heading for the Deep South by way of Cincinnati, where there was a splendid station, and Chattanooga, to a small town in Georgia called Americus. Here I would mention that we were kitted out in civilian clothes and on our passports we were described as “aeronautical students”. The United States of America at that time was still a neutral country, not at all involved in the war in Europe.

On the way to Americus, the train stopped at a station – I have forgotten the name of it – where we were all told to get off the train. Later we were told to get back on again – but this time white passengers were told to get on at the front of the train and black passengers at the back. Sadly, segregation was a fact of life in some southern states of America at the time.

But this life was not pleasant for all us British boys. True, at Souther Field, the Air Force base at which we were stationed, we had to do American army drill, salute Old Glory twice a day, and anxious to get on learning to fly, had to listen to lectures intended to turn us into gentlemen as well as officers. Etiquette, I recall, was an important subject – it was apparently essential to know how to hold your knife and fork at dinner – and your partner on the dance floor. But the people of America were most hospitable and I remember once, at a party, dancing with our hostess, a charming lady of about forty, who asked me to hold her closer. Forgetting at that moment the instructions we had received on the subject, I promptly did so.

In the Army one spent a lot of time polishing badges, buttons and boots, but in the Air Force one wore shoes, and at Souther Field there was someone to clean them – a coloured gentleman who went around proclaiming: “Dime a Shine, get a gloss” and he would readily, for a small charge, polish your shoes.

There is another phrase which comes to mind, which was used when having settled in the cockpit of the plane, with the instructor behind, prior to taking off on a short training flight, one called out to the mechanic on the ground, “Gas on, switch off, throttle closed”. Over half a century later, the words remain in my mind.

I remember too, the full moon golden in a velvet sky, a splendid sight in the quietness of the night, the stillness of which was broken only by the sound of crickets (or something of the sort) chirruping in the background.

How peaceful it all was: how seemingly remote from the terrible war in Europe.

It was at Souther Field that Charles Lindbergh made his first solo flight, and there is a statue there in his memory.

Here I have to admit, I did not make my solo flight. In those days one was expected to fly solo after eight hours instruction, but I did not manage that so was given the option of re-mustering as an observer or navigator or other aircrew member (tail-end Charlie perhaps?).

In the Army

But I chose to return to the Army and so with some regret left Georgia and returned to Canada on the way back to Britain, where some fifteen months later I was commissioned at the Royal Military College, Sandhurst.

Months later I found myself in a field near Bayeaux on the way to join my unit: the 43rd Reconnaissance Regiment. A few days after D Day – the 6th June 1944 – the regiment had set sail for France along with literally thousands of other men, but the weather conditions were such that it was not possible to land where intended. So the ship – the Derrycunihy- with all the men aboard – was obliged to stay in the English Channel, during which time the ship was struck by a German acoustic mine as a result of which 180 men were lost and another 150 injured. This tragedy cost the regiment the equivalent of more than a squadron in dead and missing.

But in due course I caught up with the Regiment in Holland where, unfortunately, on patrol; along the banks of the Waal Canal, on the 10th October 1944, I was wounded and taken prisoner. But only fortunately, for six months or so, during which time, along with many other P.O.W.’s we were incarcerated in what had been a Luftwaffe barracks, not far from Brunswick at a place called Braunsweig-Querum.

It was there, at Oflag 79 we were liberated by an armoured unit of the American Army (the 125 Cavalry) on the morning of Thursday 12th April 1945, most of the German guards by then having disappeared.

But the relief of being free was reduced somewhat when next day, at 10 o’clock in the morning, on BBC radio, we heard that President Roosevelt had died the previous day, that is on Thursday April 12th 1945.

It was a moment of great sadness to all those American soldiers present at the time, to all of whom we could but offer our condolence.

Brief Encounter

On my first visit to Moncton in New Brunswick I was introduced to a young lady with whom, by some process, which I will not pretend to understand, I got on well. Or to be more precise, we both got on well with each other. But after a time I had to leave to join the U.S.A.A.F. down in Georgia to which I have already referred.

But some weeks later I returned to Moncton when I was able to renew our friendship. For about six weeks we were able to meet quite often, every occasion a source of great joy to both of us.

But, inevitably, the time came when the “exigencies of war” (horrible phrase) meant that I had to return to England. And so the day came when we were obliged to bid farewell.

Some weeks later, back in England, I received a letter from my friend in Canada containing these words:

‘Time flies – but when it flies from thee, my love, it flies on wounded wings.’

I had to turn to Shakespeare to reply:

‘When to the session of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.’

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