MacDonell Aeneas Ranald Donald - From dogfight to diplomacy : a Spitfire pilots log, 1932-1958

I left my home in Swanage in September 1932, having spent an evening in a pub with my friends from the garage where I, Donald, had been working as a mechanic since leaving school. I made my journey to RAF Cranwell a few days later. My cousin Maurice Hartford who had been brought up with us was at the Imperial Service College with the intention of getting into Sandhurst and the Army and my brother Peter was still at Bryanston, a new avant-garde public school in Dorset, based on a German model, which suited his unconventional behaviour. The family had begun to split up and Mum was slowly dying.

Dad saw me off from London on the train to Grantham. Groups of parents were on the platform bidding farewell to their sons. Elderly men wearing regimental ties, rocked back and forth on their heels and made strange military sounds like Yeah! Ah-ah! Uhuh! Jollygoodluck and Bashonoldson! Thank God Dad didnt; he said very little, smoking a cigarette and just being there. The Mums were badly thrown. A few flung their arms around their embarrassed sons and kissed them emotionally. Others stood back and shook hands in a way which Mums find difficult, and had tears in their eyes when their offspring climbed aboard the train as the whistle blew. It was awkward and undignified. The boys werent going to war. Not for several years.

Most of us were relieved when the train pulled out. We began to consider each other and started to talk, except the few from the upper-crust public schools, who merely gave their names. Later, when Cranwell absorbed us into the classless regime of its two-year process of officer training, we found no difference in the merits of those from public schools or grammar schools. Though Hurstpierpoint was a public school, I was completely at home with the young men of my entry regardless of background or status. However, on the whole we broke the ice on the train to Grantham.

On arrival, the thirty-odd cadets were met by Warrant Officer Joe Beresford, the Cadet-Wing disciplinarian and drill instructor. He was on the platform when the London train drew in; immaculate in his uniform, relaxed and welcoming. Without bullshit or bluster, he projected his personality and, during the coach drive to Cranwell, he established a companionship and authority which was to sustain us throughout the time he held office. Joe was unique. He was tough, human, supportive and yet a strict disciplinarian. To him we were Sir or Gentlemen and he cared for us as a pastor for his flock. We revered him and would drill and parade to our best endeavour to receive his, Thank you, gentlemen well done.

After his retirement our squad was marching down to the hangars for flying training when we saw Joe, in plain clothes, with his daughter, standing by the entrance to the Guard Room. The cadet sergeant in charge of our squad ordered, Eyes right! and saluted Joe as we passed. He took off his hat and said, God bless you, and thank you. There were tears in his eyes and his voice was shaky. To me Joe was an inspiration. I have not met many men like Joe, in or out of the Service. To a man from a humble background the ordering and upbringing of a succession of teenage youths from varied walks of life must surely have been a daunting prospect. That Joe succeeded reinforces my belief that leadership and example are not always factors derived from privilege and class. It is the Joes of the armed forces who really forge the affinity and understanding between the officers and other ranks which characterise the unique camaraderie of the Royal Air Force. A democracy of common purpose. In my time I commanded a fighter squadron in the Battle of Britain. I was privileged then as on subsequent commands to lead a classless complement of men and women. It was Joe Beresford who showed me the way.