There were about 40 of us at Halton awaiting a draft to 2nd TAF. For a couple of weeks after coming back off embarkation leave we had kicked our heels, using tricks, learnt through the 3 years as apprentices, to dodge working parties set up by the bog men's WO.
Eventually the happy day arrived and we set off from Wendover station to London. I can't remember if there was any one put in charge of us, probably the first name on the list was given the paper work and told to give it to the RTO at the appropriate points. I also don't remember much about the trip to Liverpool Street station, where we waited for the troop train to Harwich. We had arrived just as the 'Rush Hour' was starting and spent a happy time ogling the nubile (and some not so nubile) ladies catching trains home after a hard days work in The City.
The troop train eventually pulled in, filled up, pulled out and finally deposited us at Parqueston Quay at Harwich.

It was dark when we arrived and we stepped off the train into a scene straight out of Dante's 'Inferno'. Thousands of wretches, dressed in khaki, were being tormented by hundreds of demons, dressed the same but with stripes on, and pace sticks under, their arms. The poor wretches were screamed and shouted at by voices that were hideous to hear. Open ordered, inspected, close ordered, wheeled to the left, wheeled to the right, and, for all I know, formed into squares to repel cavalry. All this took place under the menacing eyes of the colour sergeants (red faces, blue language) and the floodlights of the quayside.

Above this maelstrom of a tortured khaki sea we floated, a serene, light blue, cloud.

We moved in an orderly heap towards a cookhouse, where we were to be fed before boarding our luxuriously appointed cruise ship for the trip across the North Sea to The Hook of Holland. Approaching the cookhouse we heard the usual litany as the cookhouse sergeant cursed and blasphemed at the poor pongos being hustled through the feeding station. They had scarce time to get their food from the servery before being hurled out the far end of the building, back into the waiting arms of the demons.

The cookhouse sergeant bared his fangs at us in what for him passed as a welcoming smile. " Come in lads, get your food and sit over there ". He waved us into our seats like a Maitre D'. We sat and ate a leisurely meal, looking out of the window at those lesser mortals (as it seems the Army believed) being inspected yet again and then marched hither and yon.
Eventually we finished our meal and left, waving a cheery goodbye to the cookhouse sergeant, who was back, snarling like Cerberus, at the cookhouse door.

I didn't leave a tip.

We proceeded to our cruise ship, the' Vienna', pride of the fleet. I struggled along the quayside with my kit. I had kitbag, side pack, suitcase, together with my prized LP collection, in a record case. As I transferred suitcase and record case from one hand to another a voice behind me said" I'll give you a hand with that mate" and took my kitbag from me. The Royal Military Policeman, a Lance Corporal, walked with me to the gangway, chatting away, carrying my kitbag. When I recount this to ex pongos they don't believe me, but I swear on everything I hold dear that it happened. Obviously our single stripe of a J/T put us on a par with a lance jack according to the army, but I admit it was an extremely rare example of solidarity with rank.

Down into the bowels of the ship we went, ending up in our stateroom. I was on the top bunk of a tier of three, in a group of six; a garrulous piper from one of the Highland regiments occupied the top bunk next to mine. It was a fairly one sided conversation, what with his accent, and a fair few drams, judging by the wafts of Grant's Stand Fast drifting over me. He would growl something, I would say" yes", he would then growl louder and angrier so I would say "no". He finally gave up on me, going to sleep muttering about "Sassenachs" and " Brylcream Boys"

Arrival at The Hook was pretty much the same as at Harwich. The pongos were chivvied by every rank from L/Cpl upwards; we trundled along the road in our usual orderly heap but this time we fell under the wrathful eye of an RSM. He was not best pleased by our appearance and proceeded to tell us what he thought of us….. He was a very rude man.

We did our best to march in step, swing our arms shoulder high and all the other pongo type things but it was difficult with all our kit, no friendly Redcap to give me a hand this time and I didn't like to ask the RSM if he would help with my kitbag.

The army units were marched into the gymnasium for their next movement orders, the RAF ambled into the NAAFI for theirs. Which clearly demonstrates the difference between the blue and the brown. As we pushed open the door to the NAAFI a languid Wing Co, sat up on the stage, welcomed us with "Good Morning chaps, come in and make yourselves comfortable "

It was good to be back home!

From the warmth of the NAAFI at the Hook we were assigned to trains (I think Green but I could be wrong) and I found myself travelling through Holland en-route to RAF Wildenrath, where our final destination would be given. It was very pleasant rolling through the Dutch countryside; we had breakfast and then I settled down for a doze, it had been along journey from Halton.
I woke up with a start as we slowed down to pull into a station and I saw, with some apprehension, all the trappings of a 2nd World War POW camp, gleaned from the many war films I had seen.

First there were the red and white painted poles and guard towers (always at the entrance of every POW camp as shown on the silver screen). There were armed men in greenish uniforms (Werhmacht!!), there were the obligatory pine trees with German trucks {Magirus - Deutch} alongside. Alsatian dogs and barbed wire completed all the clichés of the POW camp, as written about, and seen on the pictures;

Blimey! I had travelled back in time and was now at Stalag Luft II!

It was with some relief that I saw the white hats and webbing of RAF police (I never thought I'd ever say that!).
The railway station, the rail head for RAF Wildenrath, was right on the German/Dutch border; the red/white poles and watch towers were the border crossing, the armed men Dutch and German border police, the Magi's were to take us to RAF Wildenrath some miles away.

At Wildenrath I was given my posting, ...RAF Geilenkirchen......" Run that past me again...... Gylenwatsit?"

Those of us posted to Geilenkirchen (we tried pronouncing it aloud and it didn't sound any better) had to wait for transport. Eventually a bus turned up, en route to Geilenkirchen with blokes on board from 96 Sqdn, who had been on a course at RAF Bruggen They regaled us with tales of death on the roads of Germany, and as we drove out of the camp a damaged tree near the entrance bore silent witness to where 2 RAF lads had died on a motor bike after a repat' party the day before.

It was a grim and more prophetic welcome than any of us could realise.....