1): WHAT IS AN AIRMAN ?
An airman is an earthly yet mysterious creature and includes many varied types of different nationalities, with no two ever alike !
They are found everywhere, in NAAFIs, messes, under and on top of and inside kites, inside guardrooms, in cinemas, on sports fields, on their beds, on trains, buses and out of bounds !
Airmen are of many colours (on arrival from UK) varying degrees of brown, pink, red and blue (with cold) and sometimes green with envy when their friends gain promotion.
An airman can be as wise as Solomon and as dim as a dumb bell, as quick as lightening or as slow as the long awaited boat.
He likes cigarettes, cards, Doris day, Marilyn Monroe pin ups and girls in general, pay parades, cartoon films, NAAFI breaks, football, test matches, motor bikes, gangster books, UK courses and letters from home.
He does not care much for writing letters, parades, guards, RAF Policemen, inspections and standing in queues.
No one is so early to bed or so late to rise and no one knows more about football and less about standing orders.
He is confident with 4 aces in his hand, impatient in a meal queue, authority with a propeller on his arm, dejection with an arrival chit and joy when it becomes a clearance chit.
No one else can stuff into one pocket, a battered packet of woodbines, a form 1250, several un- answered letters, a dilapidated comb, two blunt pencils, a few Marks, a knife, fork and spoon, a chit authorising a late or early meal and a copy of the latest Hank Janson publication !
You can always get him out of the guardroom, but you cannot move him from the NAAFI at half past ten on a pay night.
He is a composite of all the virtues and vices; a leave seeking, tea drinking individual in dirty overalls, gym kit or a blue uniform and his one ambition is always to be somewhere else !
But midway through the morning when your work is getting monotonous, you are half asleep and have only the shattered remnants of your dreams left, he can still bring a smile to your face and hope to your heart by bursting in to the office or workshop and shouting the magic words:
NAAFI UP !
Extracted from the RAF Wildenrath (2 TAF) station paper of 1954 and submitted by Robin Cheesman of 724 SU.
2): 2547455 AC2 Michael Bromfield.
We are indebted to Michael for the following extracts from the diary he kept while at Padgate and Hednesford – this is a unique record of the schedule that we all went through during induction and sqarebashing and we will put them on the www.rafhednesford and www.nsrafa.org websites.
If you wish to contact him ? Tel: 01782 630716.
I started my National Service at the end of January 1952 at the age of 19.
Like many others, I was sent initially to Padgate for a short time (induction) before being posted to RAF Hednesford for basic training (squarebashing), which I completed on 1 April 1952.
From Hednesford I was sent to RAF Prestwick for trade training and then on to RAF Pembrey where I spent the rest of my National Service time.
While I was at Hednesford (No 11 School of Recruit Training) I managed to keep a diary. It’s a fairly simple account of what we did on a day to day basis, but it may be of interest as many other young men at the time shared the same experiences. Part of the diary is printed out below, starting with Padgate – but omitting anything that I recorded after basic training was completed.
The diary has been copied as I wrote it, although it omits references to letters sent and received – usually from various family members who sometimes also sent postage stamps. My daughter thinks that it was a mistake to omit these references as, what seemed commonplace to me, would now be fairly unusual – telephone or e-mail would now be the way to keep in touch with friends and family. In 1952, we did things differently.
Wednesday 30th January 1952
Train from Welshpool to report for National Service in RAF.
Joined by two others at Llanymynech and Oswestry. Lunch at Chester Rly Station. Met more lads at Warrington and were taken to RAF Padgate Camp in RAF bus. Allotted to Flight B5 and to a billet with 20 others etc. Meal at the NAAFI.
Thursday 31st
Up at 6 for 6.45 breakfast.
Bought at NAAFI: Brasso, padlock for locker, studs, duster & fastener for kit bag. Dinner at 12.
PM: X-ray and inspection of ears etc. doings with documents. Tea 4.45.
Evening: found wood & paper at rear of cookhouse for billet fire.
Friday 1st February
Fitted up with clothes & kit. PM: Lecture in cinema by 2 officers & the chaplain.
Identification photo taken. Hair cut. Boot polishing & stamped with number shoes & boots & brushes.
Saturday 2nd
Shining boots. 11.00am NAAFI PM: More shining of boots. Had a bath.
Sunday 3rd
Up at 7. Holy Communion at the Rest Room Chapel. (Chaplain:The Revd. R.S.Meadows).
Late breakfast with 17 others. We gave billet an extra clean. Letter writing.
5.30 Camp cinema Astra to see “Between Midnight and Dawn”.
Monday 4th
We got stove to burn at last.
Collected from tailors’ hangar our refitted uniforms. Stamped clothes with service number 2547455. Sent civvy clothes home.
PM: Kit inspection. Weekly pay 30/- plus 2/- travel concession for over 5hrs travelling.
At tea I met Ian Noble (Broadstairs, Kent), old school friend.
Evening: sewed numbers on remainder of clothes.
Tuesday 5th
Cookhouse fatigues 6.30 to 11.30 (knocking waste food off plates etc.)
PM: Helped on camp laundry van. Teatime, acted as emergency server for bread.
Wed 6th
From Padgate to RAF Hednesford nr Cannock, Staffs. At entrance to Warrington Station we heard of the Kings death. Refreshments on Warrington Stn, then special train to Rugeley through Crewe & Stafford.
By lorry to camp. Am now in Hut 55. Flight 28 “G” Sqadron. 4 Wing.
Our corporal (Williams) couldn’t be any worse!
I am deputy senior man with Havinden (training chiropedist) as Senior Man.
Form filling for Cpl. NAAFI for oddments.
Thursday 7th
Lectures by CO, also on PT and one by Medical Officer.
NAAFI at 11.
PM: Inoculation & vaccination. Medical exam.
We all feel awful. Arm aching – and cleaning brass too!!!
Friday 8th
Sorted out in hangar to take part in April 1st Anniversary Parade (RAF Anniversary). Drew rifles from armoury.
PM: Lectures by Wing Commander McDunacliffe & by Flight Commander Williams.
Hat measurements taken. Cleaned billet.
Saturday 9th
Drill. NAAFI. Instruction on rifle.
PM: Inspection of inoculations/vaccinations. Had a bath after tea.
Trouble , so had to clean out the billet for failing to march to tea. NAAFI.
Sunday 10th
Up at7.45. 10am Church Parade. “Bulling” kit for rest of day.
Monday 11th
Began course for 1st April parade. Drill, NAAFI, PT.
PM: Lecture on Rights & Privileges. Drill. Cleaning all evening.
Tuesday 12th
Drill. PT. Lecture by the non-conformist Minister. PM: cross country run and a bath.
Evening: lights failed, so did brasses & blancoing by candlelight. Washed clothes.
Wed 13th
Snow. Was billet orderly (swept floor etc.) PT
PM: March-cum-run in BOOTS! Then shower. Evening: ironed clothes.
Thursday 14th
Snow. PT. Drill.NAAFI. Pay �1.
PM: Route march. Drill in the hangar. PT. Brass cleaning & blancoing as usual.
Friday 15th
Day of Kings funeral. Roy Rolf of our billet down with pneumonia.
Service in the square in commemoration of King George VI.
Lecture on trades. 2pm, 2mins silence for the late King.
PM: Route march. Bath.
Saturday 16th Bad throat. Rifle aiming etc. NAAFI. PT.
PM: Inspection of vaccinations/inoculations.
Had first pass out of camp so went to Cannock had tea and enquired of trains/buses for next weekend’s 48 hour leave.
Sunday 17th
8am communion at Station church, Hednesford.
Nothing but “bulling”. Letter writing.
Monday 18th
Drill. Maths test.
PM: Rifle drill in billet. Evening: cleaned out billet & usual “bull.”
Tuesday 19th
Room orderly. PM: route march and shower after.
Evening: Usual cleaning. NAAFI.
Wed 20th
Ground Combat Training (rifle, aiming, firing). PM: drill. Lecture on History of the RAF.
Evening: billet cleaning. NAAFI.
Thursday 21st
Drill. PT. Pay 30/-.
PM: Lectures on trades & education in the Service and the composition of the RAF. Drill. Evening: usual “bulling”.
Friday 22nd
Parade on the Square to hear sentence on Court Martial prisoner. PT.
Received passes and ration cards.
12 noon. 48 hour leave (wonderful). Bus to Cannock & to Wolverhampton. Train to Shrewsbury & then to Welshpool. With Llynclys boy to Salop & Aberystwyth boy to Welshpool. Arr home 4pm.
Saturday 23rd and Sunday 24th home on leave.
Arrived back at camp 10.30pm Sunday and had hot dogs and tea at gate.
Monday 25th
PT. Lecture on selection for trades in RAF. NAAFI.
Drill before the Station Commander.
PM: Lecture on overseas service. Drill.
Evening: cleaning billet etc. for Tuesdays usual inspection.
We did the border round the hut with bayonets. Scrubbed webbing.
Tuesday 26th
GCT rifle firing etc. drill. PM: in tailors’ fitting room.
Evening: usual cleaning.
Wed 27th
Drill test. Lecture on trade facilities in RAF. Drill. NAAFI.
Paraded on the Square to hear that our Trooping of the colour on 1st April has been cancelled owing to the Kings death but we get extra day to next 48hrs leave!!!
Film on sex hygiene.
PM: ramble down to Hednesford. Cup of tea at Caf�. Others at the tailors shop.
Thursday 28th
Fatigue week. Am carting boxes from the armoury. NAAFI break as usual at 10.
Pay parade 11.15. �1. PM: packing bayonets & oiling rifles.
Had bath & washed socks & handkerchiefs.
Friday 29th
AM; cleaned out the bathhouse.
PM: cleaning & pressing before going to coke compound guard (We slept in the wing Guard Room)
5pm: Parade at Main Guard room. NAAFI 8pm.
On duty 10-12pm and 4-6am with another lad. Supper at 12.
Parade 8am again at Main Guard Room.
Saturday 1st March
AM: aptitude test. 12 cookhouse fatigues. 4 new boys in billet.
Pulled up about hair cut. NAAFI.
Sunday 2nd
Wrote letters. Stayed in billet all day. Bed early.
Monday 3rd
Billet orderly so collected the coke. Hair cut. NAAFI.
PM: Personal selection interviews. I chose Clerk Organization & Personnel, Operations Clerk, Clerk Movements surface, telephonist, fighter plotter.
“Bull” night for Tuesdays usual inspection.
Tuesday 4th
AM: Worked in cookhouse cleaning out the two dining halls & took down the curtains for washing.
PM: Served out dinner. Had two dinners myself. Filled weekends 72 hr pass.
Station library. Evening: Cleaning in the wing HQ.
Wed 5th
Boots back from repairers. Worked in the food factory. Cleaned out meat refrig. Washed floor. Cleaned windows etc. Padres Hour (lecture).
PM: Food factory again. In lorry taking fish & provisions round the camp messes.
2nd innoculation. Had a bath and washed “smalls.”
Thursday 6th
Wet. All feeling bad after innoculations. Drill. NAAFI. Pay parade. 10/-.
PM: we spent (wet) pm in billet asking the corporal questions on the service.
Evening: Cleaning & pressing.
Friday 7th
Wet. Took our rifles to the armoury & fetched greatcoats from tailors shop.
Cleaned out ablutions. 12 noon 72 hour pass.
Saturday, Sunday & Monday on leave
Tuesday 11th
Drew our rifles from the armoury. Drill. NAAFI. PT.
PM: drill. Padre. Film on flying. Educational lecture on the press.
Evening: Usual cleaning & pressing.
Wed 12th
GCT. Range cards & firing discipline. NAAFI. Drill.
PM: Ten of us went in a bus to RAF Stafford camp to see rugby match (Pleasant way of spending a lazy afternoon). Usual cleaning at night.
Thursday 13th
C.O.s parade on square. NAAFI. Drill. Lecture on the fitting of gas respirators.
Pay parade 10/-. PM: Lecture on first aid. Drill. Had bath.
Friday 14th
PT. NAAFI. Two educational lectures on the Resources, power and forces of Russia. And on the Western powers.
PM: Our photos taken in groups on the march. We collected our best blue uniforms from the tailors.
Saturday 15th
PT. Drill. NAAFI. Lecture on the RAF during the war.
PM: Stayed in billet rest of the day & kept fires going while most of the others went out.
Sunday 16th
9.30 church. Letter writing. Evening: Made toast over the stove.
Monday 17th
Lectures on : gas equipment; formation of RAF; and rights & Priviledges. Drill. PT.
GCT – the crawls & the Bren gun. Bull night. Working on plots outside billet.
Tuesday 18th
Lecture on different gasses. Hair cut. PT. Drill. PM football.
Evening: working on plots outside billets.
Wed 19th
PT. Padres Hour. Lecture on Spain and films about public opinion and oil.
PM: Most lads went to Wolverhampton to see the Army beat RAF at football.
Had bath & got cleaning done.
Thursday 20th
AM Shooting on the range. Pay 10/-.
PM: working on plots around the billets & drill.
Friday 21st
Filling ammunition clips at the range & unloaded railway sleepers.
Drill for rest of day. Had photos which were taken last week 4/-.
Saturday 22nd
Lecture on south East Asia & 2 films. Drill. 36 hour pass.
Sunday on leave.
Monday 24th
GCT lectures on stalking. NAAFI break. Drill. PM: in sports stores.
Tuesday 25th
Lecture on likelihood of war with Russia, also on Middle East.
Assault course. PM: drill in the wet.
Evening: General Service knowledge test and a few boys to be posted overseas.
Wed 26th
Drill. PT. Padres Hour. PM: drill and GCT test.
Evening: extra bulling for tomorrows COs parade & drill test. Am in running for best recruit with 10 others.
Thursday 27th
Very cold. COs parade. Drill test. Pay �1. PM: PT & drill.
Tea at 3 Wing Mess while ours (4 Wing) is under repair. Issued with gas masks.
Pressed uniforms while others had pass out party in the NAAFI.
Friday 28th
Bitterly cold with wind and snow. PT. Drill and in billet for first 2 periods.
PM: Taken up to the (tear) gas chamber but key was missing so we returned respirators. Hair cut ready for pass our parade.
Evening: Cyril Davies (the laugh of the flight) dressed up as a corporal and fooled some new recruits!!!
Saturday 29th
Had a cold time 8 – 11 clearing rubbish near the hangars.
Stayed in rest of day and some of the others went by coach to Trentham Gardens, Stoke-on-Trent, some went to Cannock and they returned tipsy and they tipped us out of bed.
Sunday 30th
Snow in drifts. 6pm Evensong in the station church
Monday 31st
Slushy. Drill. PT. Pay & leave money �3.
PM: Free from infection (FFI) medical inspection. PT. Pass out test. Drill.
Evening Preparations for the Pass Out Parade. Had a meal and cider at the NAAFI.
Tuesday 1st April
Parade rehearsal. Sing-song in the NAAFI.
Informed I am to be posted on 16th April to Prestwick in Ayrshire (Air Traffic Control Centre near the airport).
Dad and Auntie Doll came to see me Pass Out & then to speeches etc in camp cinema. Returned rifles to armoury.
To Edgmond. Arrived home evening 2nd April.
John Kent and Pat Honey went through this same experience at Hednesford starting on 5th September 1952 and leaving on November 5th.
Hut 112. 4 Flt. “A” Sqd. 1 Wing.
Now together again after all this time and both agree it did us no harm !
3): RAF Hednesford, (No 11 School of Recruit Training).
The very name conjures up visions of unspeakable horrors…shaving in cold water at 6 o’clock on dark, frosty mornings in unlit ablution blocks. “Dig those heels in…Keep in step…Left, right, left right…Swing those arms…Get them up, get them up…Shoulder height, shoulder height…Left right, left right!” On and on it went, day after day for nine weeks, interspersed with kit inspections, billet inspections, rifle inspections, webbing inspections, was there no end to it? Didn’t we just love those corporal drill instructors, our beloved DI’s, who moved heaven and earth to mould us into a smart, disciplined, marching unit?
Remember their hot breath on your neck and the subsequent snarl, “Am I hurting you, I should be, I’m standing on your bleeding hair…get a hair-cut!” How about the order to fix bayonets when you couldn’t feel your fingers, never mind the bayonet?
But, there was always the NAAFI at the end of the day: a haven of comfort with real, live, young ladies to serve those delicious bangers, chips and beans, and oh yes, rock buns…if you had any money left from that whopping 28/6d, that is! Remember ‘coppering up’ with your mate and sharing a plate of chips?
One thing I remember about Hednesford with fondness was the snack van that pulled up outside the camp main gate every night. I still remember the delicious coffee and hot dogs we queued up for at that van, to take back to the billet.
Then it was a night of ‘spit and polish’ boots, blanco webbing, polish brasses, clean rifles, and oh yes, polish the floor until it shone, mirror-like. After that, it was a case of, “Watch the floor,” to any one entering the billet and, “use the felt pads or take your boots off!”
On and on it went for weeks until suddenly, we were marching in step, backs were straight, rifles correctly sloped, we halted as one and obeyed drill commands as they were meant to be obeyed. Those hated DI’s had once again miraculously turned their latest intake of raw recruits into a cohesive, disciplined unit…they had turned us into airmen. Anon.
5013240 LAC Graham Johnston. 1956 – 1958.
I crossed the threshold of RAF Cardington wearing maroon corduroy jacket, a pair of charcoal grey drainpipe trousers and a luxurious head of dark hair worthy of a rock’n roll wall poster.
What came out a few days later was something else.The transformation in one bitingly cold February week was agonising and traumatic. A trendy follower of 1950s fashion re-emerged as a humble AC2 ‘sprog’ in rough blue serge and grieving over the loss of cherished sideburns that disappeared in two cruel sweeps of the barber’s clippers.
Memories dim after more than half a century but many experiences from my two years’ National Service from 1956 to 1958, when men were called up at the rate of 6,000 every two weeks, are etched on my soul for life.
How could I possibly forget those ghastly days at sea on board the floating hell of a troopship en route to Cyprus; the fear of a terrorist attack on our tented camp beside Nicosia air base; food so atrocious that it led to questions in the House; the stinking communal thunderbox toilets at Episkopi; a stomach-turning flight in a Gloster Meteor jet; and the joy of relaxing on a deserted sandy beach at Happy Valley long before tourists found it.
Back to where it all began. Cardington, famous for its airships, was the reception centre to which RAF conscripts reported to undergo a torrid introduction to an alien life, dominated firstly by ferocious drill instructors screaming abuse in that inimitable style that has enriched the lives of servicemen since Bosworth Field.
It was here, while members of the Parachute Regiment practised jumping from air balloons, that I became 5013240 and we were issued with bedding, kitbag,mug, eating irons and two uniforms – one best blue for stepping out beyond the camp gates,with peaked cap, brass buttons and buckle, and one working blue, later worn for six weeks of ‘square bashing’ at RAF Padgate, near Warrington, where we learned to march, with kind and gentle words of encouragement from the DIs!
The belicose welcome by a sergeant when we piled off the bus on arrival has stayed with me for 54 years. As we lined up on the parade ground he spotted that I was chewing gum. Of course I should have realised that this was his cue for a classic one-liner, delivered with the all the venom he could muster. ‘Where do you think you are, Burtonwood?’ (The United States air base nearby).
Tins of Duraglit wadding for keeping the shine on all that brass and floor polish to keep the hut floor lino gleaming became as much a part of my life as double egg and chips at the NAAFI to supplement meagre cookhouse offerings and the tortured sound of ‘Ma, He’s Making Eyes at Me’ when the hit parade was relayed into every hut.
One colleague who preened himself in front of any mirror he could find was convinced he was the living double of Hollywood film star Aldo Ray but he conspicuously failed to win a starring role on the drill square.
Padgate was famous for its ugly black iron water tower from which some conscripts were said to have thrown themselves when it all got too much. Whether it actually happened is open to doubt but it became a chilling part of the induction process for every new arrival.
‘If it moves salute it, if it doesn’t paint it’, was a safe maxim for anyone keen to survive the purgotary of squarebashing.
Getting home to Southport, just 25 miles away, was no problem, except that until we had put in two weeks’ service we were banned from stepping beyond the camp gates for fear of damaging the image of the service, but being confined to camp was not always such an ordeal, especially when the Merseysippi and the Mick Mulligan Jazz Bands, plus blues singer George Melly, played in concert.
I learned to survive by making sure the corporals who delighted in making our lives a misery never knew me by name. Those who drew attention to themselves for whatever reason could count on being targeted with a relentless torrent of verbal abuse for the rest of their time on the drill square.
Passing out parade could not come soon enough. We had mastered not only marching but firing a Lee Enfield 303 rifle and Bren and Sten machine guns, though months later I shuddered to think what could have happened if one of Col George Grivas’s EOKA terrorists, grenade in hand, had seen me laboriously loading up while on escort duty in a remote corner of Cyprus.
On reflection we were hopelessly ill-equipped to deal with a guerilla attack and constantly ran the risk of being added to the toll of British casuallties.
Before my spell of active service I was lucky enough to spend nine months in the picturesque setting of RAF Credenhill, near Hereford, where, between shorthand and typing classes, we found time to discover some low-beamed character pubs and the powerful after effects of local rough cider at eight old pence a pint. Surely the cheapest hangover in town.
For the first time, life became more civilised, with no Stentorian voices ringing in our ears. We had time to explore the nearby city and hitch-hike home, in uniform of course, so that I would be noticed by sympathetic motorists and get home in time to make the Saturday night dance with my girl friend.
My father was involved in the Sunday ritual of handing me my rail fare back to Hereford. An early morning rush hour is nothing compared with the frantic scramble across the platform bridge at 4am to fight, risking life and limb, for a seat on a Yeoman’s bus operating a shuttle service to Credenhill at least four miles away. Miss the last one and it was a long trek in the dark to get back in time for a shower and a swift breakfast.
By the time of my posting to Headquarters Middle East Air Force in Cyprus, I was nearly half way through my time in uniform but nothing prepared me for the miserable sea voyage via Algiers, Malta, and Tripoli.
Grey skies over Liverpool matched the mood of 650 servicemen and some families as the steam train pulled up at the dockside where MV Cheshire, a grim rustbucket of a ship, was ready to set sail on its final voyage before an overdue date at the breaker’s yard, having twice been torpedoed by U-boats in the war.
Seeing the stunning city of Algiers and walking the narrow, friendly streets of Valetta offered some relief from the claustrophobic conditions on board. Algiers, still under French rule, was tense and riot police were on hand to make sure we were safe to walk the streets. Some troops were so relieved to get back safely on board that they showered them with money and cigarettes.
Back at sea, I saw a colleague being banged up in a cell after a punch-up and I couldn’t wait to bid farewell to E2 deck (I still have my berthing card, masochist that I am) and hit dry land, even with the prospect of a close encounter with EOKA guerillas once we reached the rain-drenched port of Famugusta and the rantings of the waiting NCOs.
It warmed one’s heart to watch Army wives throw themselves into the arms of their husbands waiting on the quayside – the same wives who, to relieve the boredom of the voyage, had cavorted drunkenly in what passed for a bar each night with amorous squaddies who knew they were on to a good thing.
Home on the island was a makeshift tented camp beside the Nicosia air base, which was used for bombing raids at the height of the Suez crisis. We aroused the envy of colleagues because we shared a tent with a cook who kept us supplied with egg and bacon sandwiches as we watched films from chairs perched on tables in the dining mess.
When off duty, curiosity lured me into the glamorous Ledra Palace Hotel, where. despite the bombings and shootings on the notorious ‘Murder Mile’, British officers, clearly believing that the fun must go on, dined out in style and used the hotel’s luxurious bars, swimming pool, ballroom (with resident orchestra) and tennis courts as if they were on a prolonged sunshine holiday.
Off-duty trips gave us the chance to see the island through tourist eyes, especially in what has since become a top tourist centre, Kyrenia, and the fairytale castle of St Hilarion, said to have been the inspiration for the one at Disneyland.
Eventually we were moved to the new headquarters on the joint services sovereign base of Episkopi near the coastal town of Limassol and settled into another primitive tent resting on paving slabs and equipped with six iron beds,lockers, a table and chairs, a single light on a pole in the middle and a big empty jam tin we used for brewing up on a paraffin stove.
There were good reasons to give the dining mess a wide berth. When the food was edible we often walked the mile from our tent lines to avoid the heart-stopping ride in RAF buses driven by power crazed psychos competing for the title of causing the most terror and sending up the biggest dust cloud when they screeched to a halt. As for the food, suffice to say it was bad enough for questions to be asked in the Commons, after which there was a small improvement but not before the catering officer was given the heave-ho.
Hot summers meant a 7am start in the newly built MEAF offices and an early finish so that we could crawl through a network of rocky caves and passages to the shimmering beach with waves crashing on the golden sands. Here it was hard to believe we were in a war zone.
The reality check came with regular guard duty through the night (two hours on, four off) .Three men each did two stints patrolling a defined area of the huge MEAF complex and the one who drew the short straw was stuck with the dreaded graveyard shifts from 10pm-midnight and 4am to 6am.
A lone conscript guard had no chance against an explosive EOKA attack but we survived countless high-risk nights, hugely envious of colleagues quaffing Keo beer in the NAAFI.
Bus rdes into Limassol could be shared with goats, chickens and ducks but at least the journey took us to back into the world of shops and bars and we could sit back and enjoy as many whisky sours as we could afford from our meagre pay.
The first flight of my life – and what a flight – was in the rear seat of a Gloster Meteor jet fighter piloted by my desk-bound boss,Squadron Leader Charles Eric Butterworth, who needed to get some flying hours in. It was the most exhilarating experience I can remember as we spun around the blue Mediterrean skies over RAF Akrotiri, even though I have to admit feeling decidedly queasy when I climbed out , wobbling unsteadily across the tarmac.
Perhaps it was a reward for typing all those formal letters, most of which ended with the absurdly grovelling ‘I Have the Honour To Be, Sir, Your Obedient Servant.’ Surely such servile jargon has been consigned to the dustbin of RAF history.
My second flight was a more sedate affair on a scheduled service to Heathrow after my girlfriend made the ultimate sacrifice by selling her bike to help pay my return air fare so that we could spend my leave together.
I was airborne again four weeks later but nearly missed the flight back to Cyprus when my future sister-in-law’s ancient car ground to a halt on the way from Lancashire. Anxiously looking at my watch, I realised that unless something happened, I was going to face an AWOL charge. My brother explained my plight to a policeman who stopped to investigate and he promptly waved down the next car, asking the driver if he would drop me off at Heathrow. Luckily he agreed to do his bit for Queen and country and I made check-in just in time.
With a ceasefire in place, cheap fags and the biggest oranges I have ever seen, life at Episkopi was as tolerable as it was ever going to be in such a high testerone community in which men outnumbered women by at least ten to one. We were all engaged on tedious clerical duties, but I remember being told in hushed whispers that behind one heavily guarded door, was a safe containing the Baghdad Pact, an Anglo American Cold War agreement aimed at keeping the Russians at bay in the Middle East.
It was eventually offered a place in one of the big accommodation blocks. It was like giving the keys to a penthouse suite at Claridges to a a lost tribesman from the Amazon jungle. Thanks, but no thanks. I had gone native and with just weeks to go I was not ready for a sudden burst of civilised living.
The personally engraved GSM (General Service Medal) with Cyprus clasp arrived in the post a few months after demob and remained in its box for more than 50 years until its one and only outing two years ago for a fancy dress party with a war-time theme.
I have met plenty of people who dismiss their National Service as an unjustified intrusion at the prime of life. I beg to differ. How else would I have learned how to fold blankets and sheets into a regulation bed pack or know what to do with an empty jam tin?
And to this day, my wife of 53 years never lets me forget that she sold her bike to bring me home!
Now where’s that maroon corduroy jacket….?
I now live near Preston, if anyone thinks our paths crossed please get in touch: Tel: 01772 816342.
4): The ‘Band’ at WEST KIRBY by Tony Stack-Hawkley
“We arrived by train at West Kirby from RAF Cardington, about one hundred of us with large blue bonnets on our heads. We assembled in a village, the name of which after fifty years, I’ve forgotten. We were met by a spotty-faced Pilot Officer whose manner I have not forgotten. He with the help of loud, rasping drill instructors, cobbled us into a rough approximation of a fighting machine. This was quite difficult as the DI’s looked smart with their immaculate, white webbing belts glittering with gold and knife-edge creases in their trousers. Their bulbous boots had a mirror-like finish and shone in the cold, Autumn afternoon. In dire contrast, we had ill-fitting, creased uniforms and blue ‘plates’ on our heads. We looked like the teenagers we were.
“Any of you play musical instruments,” the boy Pilot Officer chirped shrilly?
About ten of us foolish recruits confessed that we did indeed play a musical instrument.
“Right, you are the band,” he piped triumphantly. “You, and you are the drummers, go to the head of the flight,” he waved vaguely up the road. He was quite excited.
“The rest of you are trumpeters,” he went on, then as an afterthought, He pointed to Taffy. “You, the big one, you are to play the bass drum, stand in the middle of the band and pick up the drum.” Taffy, with great solemnity, picked up his imaginary drum and strapped it onto his big chest. The DI’s were now very conspicuous by their absence, whilst the boy officer strode to the front of his ‘band’ and piped, “891 intake, by the centre, quick march.”
The villagers gazed at us in amazement as we picked up our imaginary instruments and marched off. The SP on the gate came to attention and solemnly saluted the intrepid boy Pilot Officer, his ‘band’ and the new intake, as we marched through the gates of RAF West Kirby, with the trumpeters ‘toot tooting’, the drummers ‘drum drumming’ and the bass drummer hitting his imaginary bass drum and shouting at the top of his voice in a strong Welsh accent, “Boom, boom, boom, you bastard.”
Then there were ‘bull nights’.
There is always one in any flight. Our’s came from Skegness. A nice young lad and as thick as three bricks. It was Friday evening, ‘Domestic Evening’ and we, the airmen, were busy sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows and generally ‘bulling-up’ the billet. His head poked out of the ablutions, “As anybody cleaned the revolutions,” he shouted, then ducked as brooms, felt walking pads, buckets and other missiles showered him.
That Time in Kenya?
I was in Kenya, which used to be called Keenya, but somehow one day got changed to Ken-ya. We ten airmen were on patrol with the army Greenjackets. This was not that unusual. It seemed that the army had run out of soldiers and we were quickly reminded that we were first, highly trained fighting serviceman and second, skilled tradesmen in the Royal Air Force. So there we were, in the White Highlands in darkest Africa, chasing the Mau Mau for our Queen. We were not used to patrols, our longest walks normally being to the NAAFI for egg and chips, we were airmen, not ‘squaddies’. We were not used to marching. It didn’t really matter as it happened, because we, well we walked everywhere, quite casually really, not at all like on the movies, like when Errol Flynn saved the British Empire and from memory, I think the United States too, shooting from the hip and that.
We had our own officer too, yes you guessed it, a pimply-faced Pilot Officer about twelve. He was quite useless. He carried a swagger stick, yes, a swagger stick, until one of the airmen carefully lost it for him. We stood on top of a hill looking at an immense valley that we had dropped leaflets on from an old World War Two Lancaster. The leaflets advised the Mau Mau to give themselves up and be incarcerated in a military concentration camp, or maybe to be hanged.
We all stood on top of the hill like schoolkids around teacher. The Pilot Officer, drawing himself up to his five foot six, reached for his loud hailer, a prized possession that he had been longing to use and putting it to his lips, he shouted in his best Oxford accent that we all hated.
“Give yourselves up, there’s good chaps, you will all be well-treated and be given food and shelter.”
From across the beautiful valley with Mount Kilimanjaro in the background, through another loud hailer, came the casual reply,
“Get stuffed white man.”
We all collapsed in helpless laughter as the boy Pilot Officer choked and changed colour to bright red. We all got the East African Campaign medal for that. Life’s funny, isn’t it?
Washing the ‘irons’?
Does anyone remember the dirty, swilling, boiling water outside the Airmen’s Mess where we washed our ‘irons’ (knife, fork, spoon and mug)? I dropped mine into that seething cauldron once. I had to go back to the Mess later in the morning to retrieve them and be bollocked by the Mess Sgt. I was amazed to note that they changed the water. I thought that muddy, stinking mass was never changed!
Sick Parade.
When at RAF Weeton, I went to Blackpool by myself to see Doris Day in ‘April in Paris’.I wasn’t feeling too good but I went anyway. I got progressively worse and went back to camp to sleep in the draughty hut that was called a billet.
The next day, after a restless night, I knew that I had the flu bad. I got my small pack together, including toiletries and a change of underclothes and went on ‘sick parade’.
I stood in the pouring rain with other sufferers. I was swaying a little as my temperature soared. ‘Sick Parade’ is a service ritual that assumes that the serviceman is a malingerer and is dodging work. We stood in the pouring rain for half an hour waiting for the Medical Officer. We all got soaked and those of us with the flu got progressively worse.
He arrived in a staff car and putting up his umbrella ran inside to dodge the rain. He gave us a wobbly salute and his hand hit his brolly.
After he had had his coffee, he started his surgery. My very high temperature ensured that I was immediately sent to the base hospital where I was admitted and got the best of treatment.
Later, in bed and still not feeling too well, one of the RAF nurses asked me if I wanted any sugar in my coffee. I said, “No thanks,” and she tossed her head and flounced off.
The bloke in the next bed said I was crazy to refuse an invitation for her to get into bed with me after ‘lights out’. It was the code you see. I didn’t know the code!
Tony Stack-Hawkley
THE FOUNDING OF 751 SIGNALS UNIT CYPRUS 1955.
By x 4135842 Willoughby Burgess. Mech. Eng.
Shortly after returning to Egypt and RAF Abyad in the canalzone from UK leave, I was posted to Cyprus on active service. Arriving at RAF Nicosia, I was given a room with all facilities but no explanation as to why I was there. After a good night’s sleep and an excellent breakfast a call came to report outside where I was confronted by about 85 airmen and a row of vehicles.
The Commanding Officer was Flt Lt. Taylor. In addition there was one sergeant and three Corporals, (me being one of them) and various other ranks. The briefest of instructions were given:- The NCO’s were given rifles and ammunition and allocated to certain vehicles; the CO was to be in a Land Rover or Jeep and the rest were to be passengers in or on the other vehicles. The order “Follow me” was given, the vehicles formed a convoy and off we set to who knew where ?.
After about forty miles the convoy was halted outside a roadside caf� whose car park was not adequate causing us to use the roadside verges. The few locals in the caf� were sullen to say the least and seemed to resent our presence; needless to say we did not stay long but left them to their tiny glasses of extremely strong coffee and glasses of water.
Looking across at the main convoy I was amazed to see one erk casually smoking a cigarette whilst sitting atop a fortygallon drum obviously containing fuel of some sort and surrounded by other forty gallon drums! The air turned blue whilst he was suitably admonished. The convoy re-formed and the “Follow me” order given again. Aware of the attitude of the locals in the caf� we rifle bearers were noticeably more alert.
About forty miles further on we arrived in the vicinity of Limasol where Fl.Lt.Taylor directed us to turn right off the main road onto a smaller one which was uphill. It became steeper and steeper causing the vehicles to go slower and slower thus increasing the tension. I had noticed that the two largest vehicles were mobile radar units and eventually things began to click into place! The road became even steeper as we drove towards Pano Kivides and only later did we realise we were driving up Mount Troodos.
From my position in the convoy, I could not see the lead vehicle so I was surprised when we were directed to turn left off the road and into scrubland bumping and boring along well away and out of sight of the road. Once more we came to a halt on a fairly level piece of land and our CO informed us that this was IT and would be known as 751 Signals Unit (later it would be known as Cape Greco). We were first of all to set up sufficient tents to shelter and sleep all of us. Knowing that EOKA were active we slept with loaded rifles to hand. Not a good night’s sleep.
The following day was spent erecting tents for storage, and the positioning of all the service vehicles except the radar heads. Being the only Mech. Eng. in the party, I soon learned that I was to be responsible for the 3 x 50Kva mobile generator units which would supply the unit with electricity both to power the radar units, the radar ops room and the radio station ops room as well as providing a single lamp in each tent.
The water supply was a bowser with slatted side rails and taps above enamel bowls for all to stand alongside each other to do the necessary. Needless to say after days of hard graft (everyone seemed to muck in) something more sophisticated was needed. Luckily someone discovered a supply of fresh clean spring water some distance below camp site level. A wooden plug was discovered protruding from a vertical rock face below which was a stone trough containing water. On removing the plug a good supply of water poured forth. Amongst the stores was a ‘tin bath’ which was duly carried down the track leading to the spring. Groups of 2 3 or 4 airmen took it in turns to take the bath and have a jolly good clean up which was greatly appreciated by all. Sadly it all came to an end when one particular party who whilst enjoying a splash were confronted by a herd of goats needing a drink and their goat herd. The figure swathed in black from head to toe was, yes you’ve guessed it, a woman!! Meeting 3 naked airmen was not appropriate and communication from the local hierarchy demanded that we stop the practice of alfresco bathing. From then on better water supplies were provided, a field kitchen was set up, a large mess tent erected and toilet facilities were constructed over a long deep trench.
Come the time to get to grips sighting the radar heads. Much shunting forward and backward with the largest unit resulted in failure because the head could not swivel without hitting at least two small trees. A saw was produced, the trees were cut down and the path was cleared allowing the radar head to swivel through 360 degrees. Cables were laid from one of the generating units and work started by plotting activity at sea over many square miles.
To the best of my knowledge there were two radar units as above, one radar ops room, one radio ops room, one engineers workshop, three 50 KVa generating plants and one armoury. The reason the armoury was last to come into service was as follows. The fact that we had felled two small trees had come to the notice of the local populace from the nearest village. (I found out later that permission had to be sought before even the smallest shrub could be removed, something to do with the erosion of land). This resulted in the first attack of the camp albeit by the villagers wielding a variety of weapons from shot guns to pitch forks. (Not EOKA terrorists). The order came for me to man the armoury and issue a rifle and five rounds to everyone. Fortunately no shots were fired and diplomacy ruled. The hundred or so attackers dispersed on the promise that no more trees would be cut down.
Up to this time we had been guarding ourselves on a rotation basis but this soon changed when the RAF regiment arrived and they soon had the area surrounded by barbed wire and guard posts at strategic points and a guard room (tent) by the entrance. The pressure on the rest of us lifted somewhat allowing us to get on with the job in hand – looking out for EOKA terrorists bringing arms in via the sea.
One of the three generator units was running constantly, resulting in it breaking down from time to time. The cause of the trouble was the cooling fan belt breaking or becoming stretched due to its type, it being segmented ie made up from small pieces of flat webbing type belting about 3″long and 3/4″ wide, slightly tapered with steel pegs riveted in place in line with keyhole shaped holes or slots. This system allowed each piece of belt to be joined to the next by using a tool similar to an old fashioned button hook and each piece overlapping the next by two thirds of its length. The resulting fan belt would have about one hundred segments in it. To make up an endless belt it had to be offered up to the engine, jointed and then levered over the pulleys. Under heavy use as in this case, they were subject to stretching or breaking at any time day or night as they frequently did. Spare belts were requisitioned but none arrived during my stay with the unit, consequently the other 2 generators donated their belts to keep a regular supply of electricity flowing. This may seem to be an odd way to run things but it was much quicker to change belts than to switch generators.
The NCO’s tents were in a row (see picture). It became customary for the occupants to gather in one tent each night in the absence of NAAFI, NCO’s mess or any other place in which to relax.
On one occasion four of us decided to ask for 48 hour passes. After some pressure was applied to the CO he relented and the passes were approved which was just as well as we had already decided how to use the time. We would hire a car and tour the island. What else? I happened to be the only one with a UK driving licence with me. Brandishing this, a visit to Limasol was arranged and a call at the police station resulted in me getting a Cypriot driving licence.
A car hire company was visited and a Morris Minor was driven back to camp.
Our first objective was to visit Nicosia but before we left camp one of the regiment lads offered to lend me his blazer (I was the only one without smart civvies). The badge on the pocket was W.A.B.B. (The Welsh Amateur Boxing Board) and as my initials are WAB this was good enough. On arrival in Nicosia we booked into the Palace Hotel and enjoyed the joys of luxury living. Some time later suitably dressed in ‘our’ smart civvies we walked along Ledra Street looking for somewhere to relax but all seemed strangely quiet. Cafes were closed, there was nobody about at all except two large MP’s (Red Caps) heading in our direction
“Where do you think you are going? Don’t you know there is a curfew on”?
Using a rather posh accent one of the party replied
“We are looking for somewhere to eat”
Mistaking us for officers, we were directed to the Officers’ Club where we spent the evening before returning to our hotel. I often wondered if the MP’s knew what they were doing in sending us there. They did say that it was the safest place in town.
The following morning we set off for Kyrenia. I don’t think we knew what risks we were taking until we were driving through villages whose walls were plastered with EOKA signs, by which time it was too late to worry so we kept going despite the aggressive attitude of some of the natives.
Our one stop was to visit St. Hilarion Castle, a memorable visit where I believe background scenes for the film Snow White were shot .
On arrival at Kyrenia we booked into the Dome Hotel owned by the Katsellis family. We were told that they also owned farms and other businesses in the area accounting for full employment and stability. The hotel accommodation was splendid as was the food AND we were waited on hand and foot. At the front of the building was a jetty jutting out into the sea.
After our evening meal we ventured into the harbour area of Kyrenia and visited the yacht club but found it crowded, managing to get to the bar only once, so we redeployed to another club in the town. I have forgotten its name but can describe it as follows. A single door led off the street and up a fairly narrow staircase which opened out into a large room in the centre of which was a horse-shoe shaped bar. Behind this bar was a female, perhaps in her late forties, who turned out to be retired from the previously popular radio programme ‘Monday Night at Eight’. I think she was the pianist. Next morning we headed north finding the terrain flat and uninteresting compared with the mountainous southern area of the island. We continued across country to Famagusta (see pic) stopping briefly before returning to Limasol and returning
the car to its owners, ourselves down to earth or rather camp, and the daily routine of life in Her Majesty’s Forces.
The RAF employed local people for clerical and maintenance work and despite the language barrier some interaction was possible. I noticed one such person who when eating his lunch every now and then took a sip from a small bottle. He refused to let me try some but the following day he came to my tent with an even smaller bottle of the same clear liquid. In broken English he advised me to drink it slowly. There wasn’t even an eyeful but having sipped it I don’t remember anything until tea-time and never did find out what it was!
Another thing that sticks in my memory is of a Vidor radio in the form of a very small suit case. Inside the lid, underneath the inner lining was a flat wound wire aerial.
On advice from one of the radio ops I constructed a similar wound
wire aerial using fine cotton covered wire and sticky tape. This was placed on top of the original aerial and the inner lining replaced trapping the two together but with the two ends left protruding. Attached to one of the ends was a short length of wire which was connected to a metal tent peg to form an earth and to the other end a longer length was trailed across the tops of tents forming an improvised aerial This allowed us to listen to the BBC Light Programme and the 7oclock news which was a favourite as it gave us more news of what was happening around us in Cyprus than we could have found out ourselves. Also it drew our attention to the risks we had taken on our excursion round the island in a Morris Minor.
One evening a lightning storm occurred out to sea. From our elevated view point we could see lightning forks striking the sea resulting in many mirror like discs on the water. Spectacular. This was followed by strong winds which blew down part of our mess tent.
My nemesis occurred some nights later when another storm, this time with heavy rain and high winds blew up. Rain water from the sloping ground behind my tent poured in and flooded my humble abode. My bedding must have acted like a wick because sheets, blankets and mattress were soaking wet. As for me I too was wet through and rigid. My legs and arm joints were set solid. I could not move and was in great pain. Lots of activity followed and resulted in me being placed on a dry mattress on the back of a lorry and taken to Episcopi and from there on to BMH Nicosia. It was assumed that I had rheumatic fever. Whilst there I was visited by one of my colleagues (whose name I cannot remember) who brought me news of what had been happening back at 751 Signals Unit.
One evening shortly after I became ill the camp came under attack from EOKA terrorists ( a good record of it is posted on the web site “Britain’s Small Wars) The NCO’s tent line took the brunt of the attack followed by the guard post. My tent, now empty, was shot up but the one where the NCO’s were gathered that night was unscathed because a tree happened to be in the line of fire. Shortly after this visit I was told that I would not be returning to my unit as I had been recommended for discharge on medical grounds.
I was transported back to the UK in a RAF Hastings fitted out to carry wounded or injured. On arrival at Lynham , custom officials boarded the plane and addressed us all.
“You have only got the legal quantity of cigarettes. You have not bought cameras or jewellery or any other declarable items have you?”
Silence.
“WELL, HAVE YOU?”
No duty was collected.
All of us were taken to the hospital where a posse of reporters was waiting.
One army person had been out of camp one evening when he was shot at. The bullet struck him in the chest but before he had left camp he did something out of the ordinary. He took with him his army issue jack-knife in his top pocket. That is where the bullet struck him. The knife was passed
around for all to see. It was folded in two and the bullet was still stuck to it. A label tied to it telling this story was signed by his CO.
Another army lad was seriously wounded having been shot in the head. The bullet had entered at his left temple, rattled round the inside of his cranium to be removed from the right side of his head. It was no wonder that the paparazzi were waiting.
BBC radio was also in attendance. They carried out interviews which were broadcast live as the rest of us were listening to it on the 7 o’clock news by hospital headphones. I wondered if pals back at 751 Signals were listening to the same live broadcast on the old Vidor radio?
If, as a result of reading this, anyone who wishes to contact Will, his Tel No is: 01257 483007.
4121757 SAC Douglas Sims.
I joined the RAF for 3 years regular service and reported to Cardington, Beds. on 6 Feb 1953 for induction and kitting out with uniform.
Met other National Service recruits there in Hut 463. Our group in new uniform dress were then transported by train from RAF Cardington to West Kirby near Liverpool on 9 Feb 1953 with Corporal J. Wilson our DI in charge.
At RAF West Kirby, we were Intake No. 189. C. Squadron. Hut C.24. for 8 weeks squarebashing under supervision of Cpl. J. Wilson, who shouted and installed much discipline and respect into us all before our Passing Out Parade.
After 4 weeks training, we were allowed out of the camp and I visited Liverpool at the weekend.
After time at West Kirby, we had some leave before joining stations elsewhere for trade training.
On 22 April 1953, I travelled from home in Fulham, London, to Hereford, and reported to RAF Credenhill for typist training course at No. 2. School of Admin Trades. Training course completed on 8 Aug 1953, then back home to Fulham for leave.
On 19 Aug 1953, posted to permanent station at Watchet, Somerset, a training station for RAF Regiment being the L.A.A. Gunnery School, Doniford Camp, RAF Watchet, Somerset. I was not RAF Regiment but worked in station H.Q. as typist. My nickname at Watchet was ‘Elmer’ rimless glasses and crewcut, but now a bald 74 year pensioner.
A year later 4 Aug 1954, I returned to Credenhill for training course for Clerk General Duties. On 4 Nov 1954 returned back to RAF Watchet and continued working in H.Q. as Clerk G.D.
Became SAC in March 1955 and after 3 years service, demob came in Feb 1956 when I returned to Fulham, London.
Worked in Knightsbridge travel agency for 6 weeks, then a visit to New York from Southampton in the old Cunard ‘Queen Mary’ in March 1956 and a few weeks in Toronto, Canada, before returning to England on the Cunard ‘Saxonia’ from Montreal to Liverpool. Returned to travel agency in Knightsbridge for 9 years until moving to Exeter, Devon, in Sep 1965.
Now retired after 46 years in retail travel in London and Devon.
Devon is beautiful where I now live with my wife and nearby family.
On reflection, my 3 years service in the RAF during National Service time was enjoyable. It gave me the opportunity to meet different colleagues, appreciate discipline, understand and obtain respect for each other, trust and friendship, and trade training. At Watchet, I remember typing personnel occurrence reports on stencils and after officer signature distributing copies around the station. RAF Watchet had an excellent football team especially in 1954-55 when the team won all four trophies they completed for. The late Brian Clough was in RAF Regiment and excellent footballer at Watchet. I did not know him personally but remember being on guard duty with him one night.
In Dec 2007. I wrote a letter to Lord Corbett of Castle Vale (Robin Corbett) which I sent to the House of Lords.
I enclosed photos taken at RAF Watchet on Thu 18 March 1954, which was the date when Robin Corbett was demobbed from the RAF after his 2 years National Service. The photos included colleagues John Oscroft, Ray Palmer, John Shinner, John Jackson, Dave George, Frank Lay, Dave Dumbar, Brian Dancey, Robin Corbett and myself. I received a reply from Robin and was invited to House of Lords on Thursday 26 June 2008. It was a memorable visit for me as I had not seen Robin for 54 years since his demob. At the House of Lords meeting. I was also pleased to see former colleagues from RAF Watchet, Ray Palmer (Runcorn, Cheshire) and Bernard Donovan (Port Talbot, West Glamorgan), who I had also not seen since 1954.
Robin Corbett (Baron Corbett of Castle Vale) after completing his National Service, became a journalist until his election to parliament in 1974.
He was elected Labour Member of Parliament for Hemel Hempstead at the October 1974 general election, but lost the seat at the general election in 1979. He then returned to journalism until being elected to parliament in the 1983 general election, representing Birmingham Erdington as the Labour M.P. He held this seat until retirement from the House of Commons at the 2001 general election, and was raised to the peerage as Lord Corbett of Castle Vale, of Erdington in the County of West Midlands, in 2001.
In Dec 2008, I contacted by phone another RAF Watchet colleague. Brian Dancey who lives in Bath, Avon. After 54 years, it was great to speak to Brian again, and we plan to meet up again in Bath or Watchet later this year.
I have some photos that may be of interest to ex-RAF colleagues taken at Cardington and West Kirby and will try to get them on to the NS (RAF) Association website in due course. I have also a photo taken at House of Lords reunion which hopefully may appear in ‘The Astral’ magazine.
I am pleased to be a new member of the National Service (RAF) Association. Look forward to hearing from anyone that may remember me. So please feel free to make contact. Best wishes to you all.
Douglas Sims. email: dsjsims@tiscali.co.uk 44 Tollards Road, Countess Wear, Exeter, Devon, EX2 6JJ
One Day I’ll Fly Away.
On the morning of Tuesday 15th October 1957 the SATCO drew up to the tower just as the Trabant left to check the airfield. He had just sat down to his coffee when he had a disturbing message from the Trabant and phoned the Chiefy on the 59 Squadron line and asked if they had lost a Canberra. The Chiefy looked out of the window and saw no gaps in the line and said he didn’t think so.
A few minutes later the SATCO called again and asked doesn’t Canberra XH204 belong to your lot? The Chiefly guardedly agreed that it may belong to them. The SATCO smoothly pointed out that the self-same aeroplane was at the far end of the airfield bogged down in the grass off the peri-track with both engines running.
When 59 Sqdn staff went down to inspect and recover the Canberra B (I)8 they found the door open and a suit-case in the cockpit. It appeared that the suitcase belonged to J/T John Neville, an Electrical Fitter.
This was the beginning of a bizarre adventure and a troubling time for the powers in charge, I mean, was this the start of a trend for ground crew to borrow a kite to nip home to the UK for the weekend if they were homesick? If so, most National Servicemen would be on the first available plane
In the Beginning.
In October 1957 Fingers was 20 years and one month old. He had gained the nickname Fingers at Melksham on his Fitters Course when he pressed the wrong button and discharged an aircraft battery with a loud bang.
He had recently purchased from a local scrap yard some second hand tyres for his car and had subsequently been interviewed and questioned by both the RAF SIB and the German Polizei on the provenance of these tyres and they had impounded his car.
The next Saturday he removed his car from the compound on camp with spare keys and went to a local dance. When he left much later he found that someone, reportedly from the car parked next to his, had let his tyres down. As the tyres were the same size as his, he and his companion jacked up and removed the wheels and replaced the deflated ones on his own car. He put his own wheels in his open boot; all of this was to the cheers and encouragement of the local Germans.
The world seemed to be his oyster until he ran out of petrol on the main road a few miles short of the camp and the German police stopped to check it out. Well, here was a car supposedly impounded and subject to an investigation about stolen tyres on the public highway with a boot full of wheels. Not good news.
Over the next couple of days Fingers considered his situation not only with the police of two nations but also his current problems with his girlfriend and decided drastic problems merited drastic solutions and he decided he would borrow a Canberra.
His master plan included taking off from Gutersloh, flying to RAF Dishforth in Yorkshire, landing on the North/South runway parallel to the to the A1, taxiing to the boundary fence and jumping over it to hitch a lift to North of Manchester where his family lived. It should be piece of cake really he had a key for Canberra’s and had studied the Pilot Notes.
In the early morning of 15th October 1957 he went out, taking with him a suitcase and small pack, onto the airfield to the 59 Sqdn line and removed all of the covers and external attachments of Canberra XH204. He set up all of the necessary switches to start up on internals, did not arm the ejection seat and at 6:30 pm when Reveille sounded he threw the master battery switch thereby masking the noise of the start-up.
When the canopy had de-misted and the engines settled at 2700 revs he released the parking brake and started to move forward. He immediately found difficulty in steering with the engines and toe brakes but was making good progress until approaching Runway 09 when the combination of a slight slope and a curve in the track caused him to swing onto the grass and bogging down. Now panic set in and he thought there would be a hue and cry so he decided to abandon the aircraft and run to the boundary fence which he scaled and a German on a moped gave him a lift to Herzebrock Station.
He did not need to hurry because it was almost 2 hours after start up before the missing Canberra was discovered by the Control Tower and 59 Squadron initially denied they had lost it.
When they entered the Canberra cockpit and discovered the suitcase, the police quickly put two and two together and decided the documents in the case may lead to the identity of the tyro aviator.
These events led to a major investigation with more snowdrops on the ground than at Kew in January
It was the beginning of a bizarre and at times python-esque series of events with a surprising ending.
On the Run.
During this period AVM Ubee the AOC of 2 Group made an indiscreet and probably miss-quoted reply to a question from the press concerning the capabilities of the Canberra bombers recently stationed in Germany to deliver nuclear devices.
This in the context of the recently completed WWII, where tens of millions of people had been killed or injured by the Russians and Germans was political dynamite. This was at the height of the Cold War when there was a possibility of escalation into WWIII.
It was also in the context of the UK testing of thermo-nuclear devices in the Pacific. Many fellow airmen were returning from Megaton Tours with suntans and loud Hawaiian shirts.
So when one of these nuclear-capable aircraft came close to being removed from a first line military airfield (this was the closest active station to the Eastern Block) it was a major incident. The first thing to be established was if the perpetrator had a political motivation or had there been some financial incentive. Where was he now? Was he going to appear at a press conference in East Berlin with an adoring blonde ballerina on his arm stating his disaffection with the basing of nuclear weapons in Germany?
A major investigation began at RAF Gutersloh with Tannoy messages asking for anyone with information about or knowledge of the whereabouts of John to contact their Officer i/c immediately.
A large number of interviews were conducted by strange men with large feet, blazers and bad haircuts. The interviewees were told that they would soon get him, checks had been instituted on all road, rail, air and sea exits from the area.
The organisers of the activity at Gutersloh were F/Lt O’Niell and F/Sgt Clitheroe from the SIB in Sundern.
We had left John in the Herzebrock area on the morning of 15th October where he caught a train to Bielefeld and another one from there to D�sseldorf (it passed through Gutersloh station). In D�sseldorf he went to the BEA office and bought a services rate single ticket on a Viscount to Heathrow using his 1250 ID.
On arrival in the UK he went on the shuttle to London and booked into the Union Jack Club overnight before going by train to Manchester and booking into digs.
John loved the RAF and loved his job in it and it was always his intention to re-join it when he returned to the UK. To achieve this he visited the Manchester Recruiting Office and filled in the forms to join the RAF but was told he needed a National Insurance Number. The local Labour Exchange gave him his old number but were puzzled that he had not been called up for National Service. He went back to the Recruitment Centre to take tests but felt nervous and moved over the Pennines to Leeds where he went to the Recruitment Office there and again applied to join the RAF as a regular. He was told it would take a week or so before he would be called for tests etc.
Money was now running low so he hitch-hiked to RAF Dishforth where he showed his 1250 told the Cpl in the guardroom there that he was on leave from Germany visiting his brother and could he stay in the transit block. He was issued with bedding and was happy until he found a note on his bed asking him to report to the RAF Police Office. He then moved on to RAF Topcliffe and went through the same routine until he learnt that there was a letter and warrant in the Leeds Recruiting Office instructing him to report to Cardington on 20th November.
At Cardington he reported that he had some knowledge of electrics and Canberra systems and was sent to Melksham in civilian clothes for a trade assessment.
The result of all of this and much more detail was that on 28th November 1957 the absconded 4168649 J/T Neville J. was now the newly recruited 4235478 J/T Neville J. He from that point on kept his 1250s taped together with the most recent one on top.
After the issuing of kit and the necessary jabs John was collected together with a group of other new recruits and sent on 3rd December to RAF Wilmslow for square-bashing again.
Back in the Fold.
John had a heavy cold when he arrived at Wilmslow and a few days going through the mindless routines of square-bashing convinced him that he should return to Gutersloh and face the music, get it out of the way and get on with his life. His current quality of life was pretty dreadful.
So on the evening of 6th November he packed some belongings and jumped over the fence to catch a 31 bus into central Manchester.
He found out that the next sailing date for Germany from Harwich was on the evening of Monday 9th November and on that date he reported with his 1250 to the ticket office at Manchester station and reported he had lost the return half of his ticket to RAF Gutersloh. He was issued with a ticket to London and advised to report to the RTO at Liverpool St for further ticketing to Germany. He told the same story at Liverpool St and was issued with a ticket to Harwich and advised to contact the RTO there.
In Harwich when he reported to the Sergeant in the RTO office he showed his 1250 and repeated his story. He was asked to wait and the Sergeant left the room with his 1250. The Sergeant returned with a Corporal, a Flying Officer and two RAF police He was asked “Are you 4168649 Junior Technician John Neville or are you 4235478 Junior Technician John Neville?”. He replied “Yes, yes”. He was arrested and escorted onto the ship to the Hook of Holland.
At the Hook he was met by F/Sgt Clitheroe and Sgt Hockey from the SIB at Sundern and driven back to Gutersloh where he was housed in the Detention Block (D Block) opposite the guardroom by the main gate along with two other prisoners.
He was in the next few days interviewed by F/Lt O’Niell and F/Sgt Clitheroe from the SIB in Sundern and he made a full statement 12 pages in length.
John was marched to the Mess each day to be fed and I well remember the cheering which took place. He was something of a folk hero especially amongst the National Serviceman. He also intermittently appeared in the NAAFI on some evenings apparently unescorted. He was bought many beers by the homesick and disaffected.
In this period his other kit was moved to D block along with the tools from his car, he now had two sets of uniforms with him.
The Court Martial was convened on 11th February and he was convicted and his services were no longer required. The findings were confirmed and he was transferred for a holiday at RAF Uxbridge which lasted with time deducted for that being served in D Block at Gutersloh until May 1958. He was on leaving paid a cheque for the time he was away from Gutersloh.
There were two really surprising things at the end of this affair, firstly that the evening trips to the NAAFI during his time in D Block were unaccompanied because they used his car tools deposited there to cut through the bars of a cell. This allowed the residents to go out in the evenings. This comfortable arrangement could have continued but the other two went out on the town and were discovered missing which caused search parties to be raised but they returned by taxi and demanded their beds back.
The major surprise was to find out that John had replied to a newspaper advertisement by English Electric of Preston for ex-RAF technicians to work on Canberra aircraft on RAF stations in the UK in their “out-working” teams. He was interviewed in late May and accepted for employment but could not start until September because he was under 21 years of age.
His first job in September 1958 was at RAF Upwood and for the next three years he worked on many other stations on both Canberra’s and Lightning’s. He was accommodated in the Sgts Mess. He met many people he had known in the RAF. They must have been surprised to see him.
Signs of the Times.
I lived through the periphery of the bizarre and at times fantastic events previously described and had forgotten about them until recently. When I now look back 50 years I see that they should be placed in context.
Before WWII my grandfather was a miner and did his patriotic duty in raising 12 children to replace the losses of WWI. They lived through the Depression Years and their lot in life was for the boys to go down the pits and the girls to go into service. The girls worked 61/2 days a week for �1 a month all found.
In the war years my Grandmother and her daughters went to work in the munitions factory at Thorp Arch. They were well paid, respected and their services were valued; none of the family ever went into service again.
In the immediate post war years the Education and Health Acts were enabled and children were guaranteed further education if they could pass exams.
As a result of this we were, in the 1950s, the first generation with the opportunity to become upwardly mobile. This did not mean that we had cars, flats, a lot of money or many clothes. Most of us lived at home; our social life was the pub, the dance and local sports.
Girls were always of interest but they just did not permit sexual activity unless there was a deep commitment. The best you could hope for with decent girls was a tentative fondle of the breast OUTSIDE the twin set whilst having tea and cakes in the front room (with the door left open) and listening to Songs for Swinging Lovers.
The pubs closed at 10:30 pm and then you went home. You did not normally leave your own town except for seaside holidays and shopping trips to the big city.
To get out of this loop it was possible to join the forces and get an independent life with overseas travel and trade training. A number of us took this option mainly to get some experience of life.
In Germany the war had only been over for 10 years when we began to re-arm them as part of NATO and we based bombers capable of dropping atomic bombs from German bases. The Russians were not happy and the Cold War was at its height.
There was also a shortage of young men and a surfeit of young women in Germany.
When a number of us who joined the forces for adventure were posted to 2 TAF we were not enthusiastic, we yearned for tropical climes and dusky maidens.
What we found was a place where we had duty free liquors and cigarettes, second hand cars cheaply available, cheap petrol subsidised by the West German Government, a fixed exchange rate of 12DM for £1=0=6, local girls who were ready willing and able (and we were glamorous figures, even the woolly uniform was admired). There was little or no supervision; if you did your job competently you were left alone.
If you were on a Squadron and wished to be respected you were expected to hold your drink and boast of servicing your share of ladies. Most of the people in positions of power had seen war-time active service and had an intolerant edge.
So here we were, teen-age warriors, servicing aircraft and enthusiastically pursuing wine, women and song in the evenings.
On 79 Sqdn the nose covers of their Swifts when laid out on the grass made excellent sleeping bags for the hung-over airmen. Profitable weekend runs with supplies of duty-free cigarettes and condoms were made to Enschede in Holland. In the early part of the week, when money was low, you could chase hares along country lanes and knock them over for a reward of 5DM in the local pubs who would sometimes allow you credit until payday
There was a collection for a German girl who did the bottle trick in the Malcolm Club at Christmas. Drunken driving was the rule rather than the exception (I knew of one person whose young wife was killed in an accident in the early hours of the morning). Women were regularly taken back to the barrack blocks. If you had dangerous tyres you went to a scrap yard in Gutersloh and ordered some “second hand” ones which arrived a couple of days later. The Avtag from defective drop tanks was siphoned into cans and put into cars; it worked at the right mix. The “redded” petrol for visiting piston aircraft was regularly removed and the figures adjusted on the next re-fuelling. The RAF Police went out drinking with us and legends were built by the antics of the aircrew on escape and evasion exercises
So when someone tried to nick a Canberra to solve a short-term problem it was a surprise but not really earth-shattering. The subsequent events were reported with glee and John became a folk hero especially for the National Servicemen who felt the government was stealing two years of their lives.
In this context John had run into a problem which snow-balled and he did not really have anyone to turn to.
I believe a major cause was poor supervision of the immature by the WWII veterans who encouraged laddish behaviour.
It may interest you to know that when John left English Electric he worked for various companies and managed to purchase his first aircraft. This led to him becoming a commercial pilot, a profession he continues to pursue with 12,000 hours flown. His two sons are also commercial pilots.
For me they were truly golden days, a magic and unrepeatable part of my life.
Some Other Quotes-One.
Quote from Swift Justice by Nigel Walpole pages175-176
“Before 59 (Canberra) Squadron left Gutersloh in November 1957, a junior technician reputedly on the run from the civilian police decided that there was nothing to this flying business and that he would return to the UK in a Canberra. He knew how to get into and start up the aircraft and bluffed the night guards into helping him to prepare and position the aircraft for an early morning sortie. He then managed to taxi it to the end of runway 09 before slipping off the perimeter track into the mud, where it was found during the early morning airfield inspection, empty but with its engines still running. Exactly what this aspiring aviator had in mind and how long he remained at large after escaping across the fields is not clear, but it was certainly fortunate that he did not get airborne in the direction of the married quarters and the town of Gutersloh. Ian Waller believes that he rejoined the RAF under an assumed name and, after retraining, was on his way back to Germany when he surrendered at the Hook of Holland on hearing that his posting was to Gutersloh”
I have just bought the book on the internet. I was amused by the aptness of the title.
CHAOS REIGNED – ORDER RESTORED.
I reported to Padgate on the 7th May 1947, then on to West Kirby for SB. Trade training was at RAF Hereford as a Clerk Pay Accounts, not my choice but somebody had to do it.
We were allocated to Sgt Dudley, he was a first class instructor who over the 8 week course ensured we had a sound knowledge of the complexities of RAF accounting, we were ready for anything, I even got AC1 from the exam.
My next posting was to RAF South Cerney which was part of 23 Group Flying Training Command, this was the home of the AAU (Aircrew Allocation Unit) which was responsible for re-mustering ex aircrew who remained in the service after the end of the war.
All their accounting was carried out at South Cerney as this was the holding station, however we rarely, if ever saw the bods.
They were detached from us to training stations throughout the UK and paid on detachment payrolls by their host stations.
All finance related events had to be notified to us such as leave for ration money and stores transactions etc which meant inevitable delays and omissions.
Also some were entitled to special payments such as War Excess Allowance which was a hangover from the war years.
Another problem was Income Tax.
Amongst the higher ranks some were required to pay tax which was complicated by the location factor (no emails then) HMRC is probably still investigating?
A further complication we faced was the change in the aircrew rank structure which came about in July 1946. Instead of Sgt, F/Sgt, and WO aircrew there was now for example Master Pilot, Navigator 1, Air Gunner 3, Flight Engneer 2 and so on .
These ranks proved very unpopular and were abandoned in 1950 in favour of present aircrew ranks
Our senior accountant officer was – wait for it – Squadron Leader C A Proffitt – it’s true- who according to the London Gazette retired in July 1951 .
He was a great guy and worked hard to keep the ship afloat, not helped sadly by an ex aircrew officer who seemed to have an affinity with “Bacchus” and rumour had it “enjoyed the sport of kings”
This assistant eventually disappeared without trace together with a senior NCO.
Next stop RAF Cranwell a great posting where I saw how the other half lived. Across the road was The RAF College, for the first six months cadets had a really tough time living in huts on our side of the road.
After that came hard but superb training at the college in all areas, social and technical. It was also necessary to qualify as a pilot. A few failed the flying training and moved to RAF Digby for training as admin officers
My second brush with the upper crust was volunteering to act a beater at a pheasant shoot at a very large country house in Lincolnshire to which two of our officers had been invited. Six of us went, our dress was denims and heavy boots, we would get 5 shillings for the day plus lunch (bread and cheese plus beer) served by the head gamekeeper.
About 50 yards ahead the ‘toffs’ were tucking in from large picnic baskets and corks were popping. We must have covered half the county but it was great day out.
Finally my own brush with power. 5 junior NCO’s were required in the section so I went from AC1 to LAC on 1st Jan 1949 then to Corporal on the 14th Jan 1949 (no SAC then).
I had a great time in the RAF and wouldn’t have missed a minute of it.
3103099 Derek Browning List 35.
SUEZ CANAL ZONE: FROM Ex 4065424 L. A. C. BEACH J. M.
SERVED AT R. A. F. ABU SUEIR, EGYPT FROM AUGUST 1951 UNTIL DECEMBER 1953.
My job was Clerk Organisation, working in H. Q. (Unit) MEAF.
This station was operational and had Meteor and Lightning jet fighters.
The camp was situated alongside the “Sweet Water Canal”, which ran alongside
the road from Ismailia into the desert towards Tel-el-Kebier, where there was a large Army Depot.
The road to our Camp and onwards was nicknamed “Sten gun ally”, where a lot of convoys and single vehicles were attacked as they used that road.
The local village, outside our camp perimeter was a ‘hotspot’ of terrorist activity and at one stage for our defence; the army tanks were brought in to sortie through the mud huts of the village. That kept them at bay.
One of the unfortunate repercussions was the withdrawal of all the civilian personnel, so we lost all our dhobi whallers, cleaners and chai whallers etc.
I recall one scary night whilst on guard duty (and remember I was only a clerk), we were called out to support an army signals patrol who had come across a party of Egyptian ‘terrorists’ digging up the communications cable from underground alongside the canal roadway. This was at least five miles down the road, away from our camp, so I was not pleased being taken out of the camp when I had not had any experience or training in warfare. During the initial skirmish with the patrol a number of perpetrators had been shot and were lying by the side of the canal.
When we arrived on the three tonners at the area, two others and myself were deployed (ordered) to set-up a control point one hundred yards up the road. This again must be seen in true context – it was pitch black in the middle of the night.
We slowly moved about 20 yards away from the vehicle before standing back-to-back, very much afraid to go any further. Dead bodies on the ground and me only 18 years of age. Boy was I scared and I have never forgotten that scene.
I was given the dubious position as escort to the A. O. C., who had the rank of Air vice Marshall on one of his trips to R.A.F. FAYID. I had to turn out in ‘best blue’ and have my rifle with 10 rounds of .303, 5 rounds in my belt pouch and 5 rounds loaded. with safety catch on, (not one up the spout) and a six inch ‘pig sticker. This was to protect a very senior officer.
L.A.C. Douglas J. Findlay, in his book “White Knees Brown Knees” may have mentioned that all officers had a price on their heads if they were to be killed by the ‘terrorists’. The price to be paid increased accordingly with the higher the rank of the officer killed. This one I was guarding had the top price.
There was a story about RAF DEVERSOIR, which came around the Canal Zone, that they had just erected a new-tented area of some 20 tents, near the perimeter wire. From the time the two guards had walked their beat (stretch of wire) and back again, the tents had disappeared through the wire. ( I cannot confirm this story).
I hope this will assist you with the new book and that it will help to recognise those who served in the ‘Canal Zone’, during the ‘Abrogation of the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty, 1951 to 1954. Perhaps it may persuade the Government to issue a medal to commemorate that ‘battle’ and all whom lost their lives and suffered hardship during that time.
John M. Beach Copyright reserved
18th November 2002. Amended 1st October 2013
Telephone 01792 369320 email beachj@btinternet.com
See Gallery: RAF Abu Sueir.
Joining Up ( Conscription)
It all began with a buff envelope via the Royal Mail postman a few days after my 18th birthday.[12th august 1946] it had across the top O.H.M.S. On opening it I found the contents to hold a request to call at our local recruiting office as His Majesty wished my presence in one of His armed forces.This I promptly did. On an interview with the nice sergeant chap in charge I was asked which branch of His Majesty’s forces I would like to become a member off. I thought as father was in the R,F,C, and that the R.A.F. fellows wore shoes and not boots the R.A.F should be my choice [ what a surprise in store for me the issued boots must have weighed pounds and a very dull black in colour]
The next question was what would I like to do,well, having just obtained my driving licence
[no driving test in those days two years provincial] I said that the MT section would be my preference. He said I’ve plenty of chaps for that so what job have you now. Well we left school at fourteen in those days, though I was allowed to stay another two terms just to study in the science lab.Electrcal engineering was my scean and it was there I made my first electric motor. Driven by a 2.2 volt lead acid accumulator as they where known then On leaving school I went into the electrical industry during the day and spent 3 evenings a week at night school usually from 6pm till 9pm [ S1 then S2 City & Guilds ] so having told the nice sergeant that he promptly put down as an electrician.
After what seemed a short period of time another envelope arrived with a request and a ticket to take a train from my nearest railway station to RAF Padgate I believe it was 5th sept. 1946 The train left High Wycombe around 10 oclock heading for Crewe thence a change to Warrington somewhere in the outback of Lancashire. I was fortunate to board with another local fellow whose father owned a garage nearby so the adventure to uncharted areas north of the Watford gap where less daunting [ getting comradeship already!!] We were collected from the railway station in a military truck and on entering the gates of RAF Padgate where jeered at with comments from the internees such as ‘you’ll be sorry’ Anyway we were ‘kitted out’ uniform, boots, toiletry requisites and so on , swore allegiance to the King and given a service number [you never forget] Then in to MO [Medical Officer] Take your clothes off examined all over [can’t have any unfit airmen] and then given an inoculation and vaccination that apparently prevented us from suffering anything health wise[except self inflicted hangovers] for the rest of our service days.The first of the hangovers was soon to take place on one of the few occasions when we were allowed out of camp, I vaguely remember somewhere in town of Warrington an introduction to ‘black and tans'[guiness and bitter] of which I believe I consumed 7 or 8 pints {all a bit vague]
The first evening in the billets was a bit embarrassing sofar as Collin and my self were concerned It was due to the fact our Mums had packed in our little cases pyjamas
[Two of us out of about thirty] There was more to come as far being in the forces was concerned. The corporal in charge of the billet ran a raffle 6d a go for a wallet, tickets were sold numbers drawn none of us really knew each other and it was not for sometime later that we found all numbers were the same and the guy that won was one of his mates [starting to learn!!]
Food tasted better than it smelt.But we had at least the N.A.AF.I. To go to in the evenings and they always looked after us well
My vaccination apparently worked as one moment I was cold and the next perspiring. I was put in to the sickbay for five days, with my blue uniform white shirt and red tie, so no way could one escape. The bonus was the matron said I could have five days sick leave Having been away for such a short time, first comment from father was what are you doing home already?[and Mothers when are you going back?]
Early morning parades were really early like 6-oclock then march of to the cookhouse for breakfast taking your mug and eating irons [knife fork and spoon] with you .’Bull’ meaning shinning buttons,blanco’d webbing and polished boots [you could see your face in] was how your time spent most evenings.
We were issued with 303 rifles [with 5 rounds of ammunition ] and two bayonets [one for show 14″on parade, and one for killing the enemy [6″][ Sacks stuffed with straw hanging on a rope] Some times we went into the Lancashire hills [slag heaps] Here we were shown how to take a hand
grenade apart and thence to throw it at a wooden post..Having all ready got into a perspiration state, behind the sand bags, we had to wait whilst the grenade started to emit smoke before we told get our heads down rapid!! Bits of shrapnel went every where and the end cap could still make your head ache if it hit you at 200yds.Another ‘jolly’ whilst in the outback of Lancashire was the firing of a Stengun. This was difficult to aim, as when you pulled the trigger it had a tendency to fire up in the air, and not only was dangerous from the enemy point of view [like a sniper]but if you were not careful the ejecting bullet case could take the top of your little finger.[we did have some fun!!!] The assault coarse really consisted of things we used to do in our
youth, climbing fences swinging on ropes over streams [some times falling in] creeping through the under growth [one up on cowboys and Indians] we did wear coveralls so as to keep our working ‘blues’clean
The 6 weeks of ‘square bashing’ as it was known eventually ended with a ‘passing out parade’ and I must admit it had all been worth while. Marching to the R A F band
I felt at least 6″ taller with buttons and boots all polished and webbing blanco’d I was ready to defend King and Country
Simmons T.E.H. 2321810 A/C 1. No.1 St Mary’s Court. Main Road. Brighstone. Isle of Wight. PO30 4AH.