The Real James Herriot

by Jim Wight

  On his very first day away from Joan, he wrote to her:

  My Darling Joan,

  I have just a few minutes before lights out to write this and I’m feeling very tired after a day of tremendous activity. I feel heaps better than I did this morning; I thought it was the cold that made me feel so rotten, but it wasn’t. It was leaving my little wife that did it. Honestly, Joan, I’ve never felt so completely lousy in my life and believe me, it has been a lesson to me; I’ll never leave my little wife again. It’s funny, I haven’t known you so very long and yet you have become my whole life to me and when I left Thirsk I felt I was leaving a part of myself behind.

  He was certainly at a low ebb – but no more so than Joan. Like many other young wives, she was terrified that her husband might be killed while on active service, not a happy thought for a young woman carrying her first child. She knew that she would only see him very rarely, and it certainly didn’t help that his pay was to be a paltry three shillings per day – a big step down from the £4–5 per week he had earned in the practice. He sent as much as he could afford but it amounted to very little. With her parents having none to spare and her husband almost penniless, Joan was supported by a wartime benefit and maternity allowance amounting to about £2 10s per week.

  The multitude of letters that passed between Alf and Joan carried a similar theme – Alf, despite the pain of being away from his wife, displayed a determination to do well in the RAF, while Joan wished desperately that he could return home. It was a very sad young woman who waited expectantly each morning for the letter from her husband that would help to lift her spirits.

  Alf’s first month was spent at Regent’s Park in London where he was examined, inoculated and trained in preparation for his assignment to an initial training wing. He drilled and marched for hours in all weathers. He attended courses on maths, navigation and meteorology which were followed by test papers. To his surprise, he passed the basic maths exam quite easily.

  The standard required was not very high which, of course, suited Alf very well but it was a stern test for those who had had little education; for these men, the sitting of examinations was a frightening experience. Later, when he moved to Scarborough, he was amazed to observe the effect this had on some of his fellow trainees. Men came out in boils, some hardly slept and there were long queues for the lavatories just before the exams.

  Alf was older than most of the other men, with the experience of many years of exams behind him and, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, he was looked upon by his comrades as something of a father figure, with many of his mates approaching him for advice.

  In one letter home, he gives an indication of the intellectual level of some of the new recruits. When visiting Westminster Abbey, one young airman saw a floor-plate with the words, ‘Here lies an Officer and a Gentleman.’ The young man remarked, ‘Queer idea, burying two guys in one grave.’

  Many others, however, were well educated – with doctors, teachers and accountants amongst those who made his group of fellow trainees a true cross-section of society.

  While at Regent’s Park, he had one of his teeth pulled out; the RAF was very keen on keeping the men’s teeth in good order, as any problems could cause great pain while they were in the air, affecting their concentration. This particular dentist, however, was of doubtful assistance, yanking out the wrong tooth with a huge pair of forceps that bore a strong resemblance to those used on heavy draught horses. Alf had had few problems with his teeth before he joined up; his service days changed all that.

  Not knowing where he would be posted for his initial training, Alf applied for a posting to Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast. This was granted and, on 19 December 1942, he moved there, attached to No 10 Initial Training Wing, No 4 Squadron, No 2 Flight. His spirits soared; he would be a mere forty miles away from Joan in Thirsk.

  Alf was in Scarborough for five months and it was here that he spent his happiest times in the RAF. He trained very hard and soon became extremely fit, with long runs along the beach and up the sea cliffs, endless marching, drilling and gymnastics, all turning him into a lean, ten-stone machine. The men were billeted in the Grand Hotel where the windows were nailed open to allow the freezing north-east wind to roar around the dormitories. Far from succumbing to terminal pneumonia, he suffered few coughs and sneezes under this hard regime and felt fitter than he had ever been in his life.

  As well as the physical training, he studied navigation, morse code, armaments, hygiene and law, in addition to being taught to understand about engines and to develop basic mechanical skills. Alf passed the exams easily and began to feel that he was acquitting himself well. He looked forward to the next step in his training; he wanted to climb into an aeroplane and get into the air.

  Alf’s most enjoyable times at Scarborough, however, were when he visited Joan in Thirsk and this is a part of my father’s life that I find intriguing. He was always a man who played everything by the book; the idea of breaking the law in any way was unthinkable. Throughout his years as a veterinary surgeon he never pocketed a single penny away from the eyes of the Inland Revenue, nor did he smuggle as much as a thimbleful of wine through customs during his holidays abroad. As far as the law was concerned he was a total conformist yet, during the months of January and February 1943, he went absent without leave several times to visit his wife.

  He must have been desperate to see her as the consequences, had he been found out, could have been very serious. The need to see Joan was heightened by the strange fact that he experienced odd pains in his stomach as the birth of his first child approached. His letters to Joan at this time refer to these weird pains.

  He ‘deserted’ for the third time on 13 February 1943, to visit her on the day that I was born. As he later wrote in Vets Might Fly, he received a severe shock on seeing his son for the first time. He was used to gazing upon new-born animals – usually most attractive and appealing little creatures – but the sight of a freshly-minted human being presented a vastly different picture. His surprise was greeted with waspish indignation by the midwife, Nurse Bell, who promptly showed him another equally grotesque little form in the next room. It was only then that he felt a little calmer.

  Shortly after the birth of her son, Joan returned to live with her parents in Sowerby, a village adjoining Thirsk. Alf visited her whenever he could, reminiscing in his later years about the delectable meals she prepared for him. His favourite was egg and chips.

  One of the privations of the war years was, of course, rationing. Such staples as eggs and butter were in short supply but Joan had connections with some local farmers while Donald would sometimes slip a little butter and a few eggs her way. Alf was always a man who loved his food – and, in the far-distant future, would eat in some of the finest restaurants in the land – but he would experience nothing that could beat the memory of savouring those plates of fresh eggs and home-made chips.

  There were some enterprising individuals in the Thirsk area who made the most of this war-time rationing, with thriving businesses springing up, especially in the farming community. Eggs, butter, bacon and ham were there in plenty, if you knew where to look – and were prepared to pay. As Alf remarked later, ‘Aye, it was a black day on some of the farms round here when peace was declared in 1945!’

  Following the birth of his son, Alf felt much happier, but he was soon to be posted further away from Joan to begin his flying instruction. On 20 May, with a swollen face – the RAF dentists having raided his mouth again, hauling out two wisdom teeth and filling several others – he arrived at Winkfield aerodrome near Windsor. By now, he had graduated to the rank of Leading Aircraftsman, second class (LAC2) and his pay had shot up to seven shillings per day. Not only was he looking forward to flying, but his financial status was healthier; he had the sum of £9 in the bank and, even better, Joan had £14. Although Alf did not like heights and invariably experienced severe vertigo when perched on the top of a cliff, his days in the air at Windsor held no fear fo
r him. He learned to fly in small single-engined planes, Tiger Moths, and he loved it. Out of fifty men, he was one of only four who were allowed to fly solo after less than two weeks. His first solo flight was on 7 June, and he managed to land successfully first time, while the others made repeated attempts, watched with rising tension by the instructors on the ground.

  Alf was making a real success of his RAF career, the only blot being his constant state of homesickness and worry about his wife who, he knew, was still missing him desperately. In addition, Joan’s only brother, Joe, of whom she was extremely fond, was serving in Gibraltar and she worried about him, too. Alf tried continually to raise her spirits, exhorting her to think of the happy times that they would have when he returned to civilian life. A letter written from Windsor, just prior to a day or two of leave, illustrates very eloquently his memories of life at home.

  Joan my darling,

  Tomorrow will be the first of June and it brings back memories of the last two Junes. Two years ago this time, I had just realised I had met the only girl and was walking on air and living in a land of beautiful dreams. Country dances and long nights under the moon, a little print dress and a yellow Laburnum tree. Days of sunshine and longings and jealous frettings, the most wonderful ecstasies and the most dreadful glooms. What a summer that was! And the next year, quiet happy days in our little room, tomato growing, little fights and ‘not speakings’, trips to York, broccoli on Sundays and over everything a wonderful sense of peace and happiness.

  I must away to bed now. I wish my wife was here to cuddle but it won’t be long now! Goodnight sweetheart.

  If Alf’s time at Windsor represented the high spot of his Air Force career, his days of success and achievement were numbered. Henceforward, they would be ones of frustration and disappointment.

  From Windsor, he was posted to Salford, near Manchester, where he was due to be classified as a pilot and it was there that his Achilles heel struck. The anal fistula began to give him such pain that, reluctantly, he had to seek medical advice. Despite the doctors showing considerable concern about the condition, he managed to persuade the authorities that he still felt fit to progress to the next stage of his training. He remained keen to do well but his optimism was misplaced; with the RAF adamant that anyone going on to fly combat aircraft had to be one hundred per cent fit, he was now a marked man.

  He was posted to Ludlow in Shropshire where the men were subjected to a ‘toughening up’ course – digging ditches, erecting fences, constructing a reservoir, and helping the local farmers with their harvest. The exercise instilled a sense of fitness and well-being once again, and he soon began to feel as fit as he had been in Scarborough. His hopes of continuing his flying career were dashed, however, when he was summoned to see a specialist in Hereford in July. Three days later, he underwent an operation on the anal fistula in the RAF hospital at Creden Hill, Hereford.

  Alf, who remembered the pain of those operations all too well, often used to wonder whether he could have progressed further in the RAF had the Air Force surgeons just left him alone. The operation in Hereford was a disaster; far from curing his condition, it merely added to the pain and he very soon realised that a fulfilling career in the forces was never going to be possible. As he watched his trainee comrades depart without him for Canada to continue their instruction, he felt deep disappointment and failure.

  He was sent to a convalescent home, Pudlestone Court Auxiliary Hospital near Leominster, where he had a pleasant but rather aimless existence. Pudlestone Court was a fine old country house, and he was told by the old matron in charge that he should relax as much as possible, taking a little exercise by walking in the beautiful parkland, playing clock golf, tennis or croquet, or just lounging in the deck chairs on the lawn. The food was excellent, he reported to Joan, and he was able to have a hot bath each night.

  During his two weeks there, he occupied his time teaching some of the other men to play the piano and spending many hours tending the garden. The hours of working the soil behind 23 Kirkgate had turned him into a very capable gardener and the matron was extremely impressed with his work.

  His gentle existence at Pudlestone Court was in marked contrast to the exacting regime in Scarborough but his spirits were sinking lower with every passing day. Still in a great deal of discomfort, he was examined at the hospital at Creden Hill where, to his despair, he was operated upon yet again. The operation was another pain-racked failure. To further compound his feelings of misery, it was discovered that the tooth that had been pulled out eight months before still had some of the root left embedded in his jaw. Realising that, in the eyes of the RAF, he was an invalid, he knew that he would never progress further in the quest to serve his country. He had had enough – he wanted to go home.

  On 23 August he was sent to Heaton Park, Manchester, where he was assigned to ‘stores’. Here he was put in charge of the stocks and distribution of mountains of clothing and footwear. It was a mercifully brief assignment. In Vet in a Spin, he sums up his feelings perfectly, writing: ‘Somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice kept enquiring how James Herriot, member of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons and trainee pilot, had ever got into this.’

  While he was at Heaton Park, he went before the Medical Board again, and this time it was decided that he was to be ‘grounded’. He was declared, officially, as ‘unfit for aircrew’, and on 28 October he was sent to Eastchurch in Kent. This was a discharge camp, a great ‘filter tank’ of the RAF, from where, in a letter to Joan, he described his feelings about it: ‘All the odds and sods of the RAF are here and there are plenty of scroungers and hard cases but plenty of laughs going on too, I must say.’

  Despite shafts of humour from his assorted comrades, with whom he spent most of his time playing football or going to the pictures, he was by now thoroughly depressed. As a final insult, his pay was clawed back to three shillings per day after which, having taken stock of his financial position, he reckoned that he had the sum of four pennies to his name!

  His feelings of despair at that time were not helped by the news of the death of his beloved old dog, Don. Don had remained in Glasgow when Alf went south to earn his living as a vet; although it was a wrench to leave him, he decided it would be kinder to leave him at the home he knew. Alf’s parents had looked after him so well that he had reached the age of fifteen before finally succumbing to renal failure. Alf, who had rarely failed to ask after Don in his many letters home, learned of the news with great sadness as his mind strayed back to the countless miles the ‘old hound’ had run by his side.

  As he looked out across the flat, grey landscape of Eastchurch, Alf reflected upon those happier days he had spent in the green dales of Yorkshire and on the fine mountains of Scotland. He was at a low point of his life; one that seemed to be going nowhere.

  Wondering how long he would be condemned to his futile existence, Alf applied for discharge from the RAF. To his dismay, this was rejected. He was so desperate to re-start a life of meaning and hope, he re-applied. His requests were finally heeded and on 10 November 1943, to his profound relief, he left the Royal Air Force. LAC2 Wight, J. A. had completed his war service for his country. It had lasted for just under one year.

  In his books, Alfred Wight wrote amusingly about those final weeks in the Royal Air Force but, in reality, they were some of the most miserable of his life. He was a reject – something that was hard to accept for an ambitious man who took a great pride in all he did.

  The reading of his old letters has been a moving experience. Those to his parents during his courtship were like a cry for help and understanding, while those to his wife during his time in the RAF displayed the soul of a man torn apart by conflicting emotions. His early days in the RAF were full of expectation but, as his Air Force career began to crumble, his feelings of hopelessness became more apparent with every letter. Through no fault of his own, his attempts to serve his country in its time of need had failed but he left feeling that, at least, he ha
d tried.

  His time in the forces contrasted sharply with that of his old Glasgow chums, Alex Taylor and Eddie Hutchinson. Both had been called up into the army, and both spent years abroad – Alex in North Africa and Italy, while Eddie served his time in the Far East. They would look back on their army days with pride and satisfaction but Eddie paid a price for his. His experiences fighting the Japanese in the jungles of Burma left scars that were never to heal, and he would never again be quite the carefree lad with whom Alf and Alex had spent so many happy times in Glasgow.

  His Air Force career, frustrating though it had been, left no scars on Alf; indeed, the affectionate and amusing accounts of his Air Force days that appear in his books hint that he did not consider them a total waste of time. He had met many interesting people from all walks of life and had experienced that feeling of great comradeship common to so many who have served their country in times of war.

  Had he not been invalided out, his whole life could have been so different. I remember him saying to me, years later, ‘Who knows, much as I have cursed that fistula, it may have saved my life!’

  On his return to civilian life, Alf still had a job. He had maintained correspondence with Donald who, with the help of Brian – albeit still unqualified – had managed to keep the practice going and now welcomed Alf back. His days of marching, drilling and playing football were at an end. Many years of hard work stretched before him but they would be times of happiness and achievement. No longer an unwanted man, he could now restart his life as a veterinary surgeon – the life that he loved best.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After his discharge from the RAF, Alf Wight travelled straight up to Glasgow. His parents were still living at 694 Anniesland Road, which had been rebuilt after the German air raid of almost two years before, and Joan, baby son and Auntie Jinny, from Sunderland, were staying there with them. By this time, Alf’s mother had mellowed towards Joan who had visited her in-laws twice during her husband’s time in the forces. The proud presentation of her baby to the grandparents contributed greatly towards improving the relationship between Joan and her mother-in-law, one that would become easier as the years passed by.