On September 12, 1941, the entire squadron (242) boarded a train, on which they spent the night before arriving at R.A.F. Valley in North Wales. The nearest town was Holyhead, about seven miles away.
R.A.F. Valley had a runway and dispersal pens, with control tower in one place, and hangars about a quarter mile away. Billets, six huts to a site, were isolated, about a mile away, hidden in the sand dunes. Mess hall, NAAFI, showers and baths, were on yet another site. Everyone had to walk a considerable distance to eat or wash. The lads weren't too happy with their new surroundings.
In the communal site were four or five huts all higglety- pigglety in the middle of nowhere. The first was a long battery of well-used toilets. The second, a block of wash-basins and baths all awash and smelly from over-use. The third, with row upon row of wooden tables and benches, was a very large mess hall. There were huge coke stoves down the centre, each one glowing red hot. They were surrounded by an army of (erks) busy slapping slices of bread against the outside shell of the stove. The bread stuck to the stove until it toasted brown and then, if the owner wasn't alert, it fell off into the surrounding ash. It was quickly whisked away and liberally smothered in margarine and dollops of thick orange marmalade. The entire place was a-buzz. There was a substantial breakfast for anybody who wanted it, with urns full of steaming tea. Victor felt much better after eating.
The fourth hut was called the gymnasium. On entering, one was confronted with a huge dormitory lay-out. Beds and "bodies" were all over the place, end to end, wall to wall. Sitting and sprawling here and there was the backbone of the famous 242 Squadron, the ground crew veterans of the Battle of Britain, part of Douglas Bader's elite Wing. Rumour had it they were here for a rest before their overseas posting. "Who are they kidding," remarked Victor, "With all the walking we have to do."
One evening there was a sing-song in the gymnasium and for the first time Victor heard the words to the squadron song. It had many verses but another one had just been added to fit their new locale: "Now here comes good old 242,- We'll show you a thing or two, - We can put your daughters in the stew. Ask the girls in Holyhead, Who took all their maidenheads,- I asked one and what she said was: Good old 242."
A few days later Victor was moved with a few others to accommodation in Holyhead. It was a convent school. After climbing some long steps they reached a large hall and were assigned beds set out dormitory style. There was very little privacy, it was so crowded, but it had the advantage of being close to town.
Here he met some new mates Taff Simmonds, a slim comical Welshman, Harold "Mac" McDonald, Ernest "Ray" Raybould and Pat Cowle, all about his own build, and age.
Nearby were pubs, cinema, a promenade along the waterfront and a busy railroad station, which housed the terminus for the Holyhead to Ireland ferries. The local Y.W.C.A. became a meeting place with its ample supply of tea, buns, sandwiches and cakes and the use of a small reading room.
One night Taff, Ray, Mac and Victor went to see the film Down Argentina Way, with Don Ameche, Betty Grable and Carmen Miranda, who sang `Sous American Ways'. Victor was getting to know the boys more as he was no longer near relatives. One night while walking through the camp he met an old chap from the NAAFI and started to chat. The Australian Beaufighters were buzzing around in the dark, and the old man told Victor of his experiences in the Great War when he was taken prisoner. Victor wasn't to realize his own destiny at that time. [became a Jap p.ow.] The 242 lads were given work to do on the aerodrome. The ride to work in the morning was in darkness and no one said very much. They hadn't washed, their stomachs were empty and their mouths had that morning-after taste. They weren't a cheerful lot. However the return trip heading back to town and civilization was the exact opposite. Everyone was a baritone or a tenor and they sang the top ten hits of the day, one after the other, while the bus rocked and swayed its way into Holyhead. Everyone knew the words to Ama Pola - I've Got Sixpence - Quartermaster's Stores - Run Rabbit Run - We're Going to Hang our Washing on the Siegfried Line, and of course Good Old 242.
The next few days became hectic. Ray, Pat and Victor had to have 12 Hurricanes always ready for flight. The new pilots were practicing short take-off and landings, between two white lines drawn across the runway, presumably in preparation for use from aircraft carriers.
New material was arriving daily - spare parts - portable latrines - portable stores. It was checked and packed in crates that immediately went by rail to be loaded on to cargo ships. One day all pilots took off in their cannon-fitted Hurricanes and flew to the south of England, from where (it was rumoured), they would fly to join their groundcrews at some overseas destination. Fate changed these plans. They never saw their squadron pilots again.
The lads were paraded to the clothing stores and issued with tropical kit; khaki shorts, slacks and jackets and a topee, and SURPRISE; black oxford shoes instead of boots and an extra blue- banded kitbag on which they had to ink their name and service number. This kitbag was filled with extra items and stored in the ship's hold. In the next few hours they had a bit of fun while each tried on their gear parading for the benefit of the others. Some looked like walking coat-hangers, no features visible and everything covered by an oversize topee. Later, much official snipping and sewing of uniforms turned them into a respectable group. Victor turned 21 on the 2nd of December, 1941 and coincidentally received a big parcel from home.
Shortly after Victor's 21st birthday, the entire squadron, a great mob of airmen, burdened with full webbing and bulging kitbags, smothered the tiny railway platform at Valley, North Wales. They clutched packed lunches of curled up sandwiches, a circular pork pie and an apple, to feed their growling stomachs on the journey. A long troop train, steaming and snorting in the dark, waited to receive them.