North Coates was a permanent RAF station, situated right on the North Sea about ten miles south of Grimsby. It had only one paved runway which ran East-West. Most mornings a thick fog hung low over the shore line which meant that when the aircraft took-off towards the East the pilot usually found himself in the middle of the fog by the time he got the undercarriage up. The little village of North Coates had a quiet, peaceful air about it. There was only a general store, Anglican church and a few cottage style homes, all in a pastoral setting with cattle grazing happily in the lush green fields and turnips, cabbage and brussel sprouts coming along quite nicely - worse luck!

The aircrew were certainly pampered. In addition to the lovely accommodation, my bat-woman would wake me up each morning with a cup of hot tea. She also kept the room spick and span, and I expected her to start tucking her charges in pretty soon. Our operational routine although quite flexible at times was in some ways very strict. We were on duty for six weeks followed by one week's leave. Our only time off during the six weeks was when flying was scrubbed due to bad weather or unserviceable aircraft. That is not to say we didn't have a lot of leisure time while still being available for ops.

Our area of operations stretched along the enemy coastline from the south of Norway to the north of France. Early each morning before daybreak and again just before dusk, two Beaufighters would be dispatched to fly along the shoreline in search of enemy shipping which would be trying to reach or leave port under cover of darkness. If, as and when sighted the reconnaissance aircraft would radio back to base to call into action the full strength of the squadrons strike wing. In about ten minutes, depending on the sighting, any number from five to fifteen aircraft would be over the target. The attached pictorial description gives a very accurate account of an average coastal command shipping strike.

One warm spring evening, I rode my bike into Grimsby and back which was about a 25 mile round trip. I enjoyed the ride along the narrow winding roads - although I noticed a big difference in the people. In Scotland every second person would call out to you, while here you were lucky to raise a smile from the Land army Girls let alone anyone else. I didn't think much of Grimsby even though I was told it was quite a summer resort. It was too old and too dirty and like numerous cities it showed the scars of war with many buildings either completely destroyed or badly damaged. I dropped into a little country store on the way back to buy some bread and I never saw so small a place sell such a variety of merchandise - everything from bicycle tires to ladies girdles. I had to push my way into the place.

One Friday afternoon Art and I managed to hitch a ride down to Windsor to spend a weekend with his family. It was great to enjoy the home cooking, comfortable beds and the lovely scenery of the Thames valley. On Sunday afternoon we took the train to London and stayed over at the Strand Palace to take in the Palladium show that night. Later on we were awakened by the air-raid sirens. A few V-2" rocket bombs had been sighted and rather than get dressed and get down to the subway shelters, Art and I tried to catch a glimpse of the small pilotless planes. Their rocket motors would cut out at a preset time and about ten seconds later the aircraft would crash and explode, Most of these German indiscriminate raids would be intercepted before reaching London. This night a couple managed to elude the defenders and the distinct rocket sound, bright flare and subsequent loud explosions were something you wouldn't forget in a hurry.