1950s: Learning the ropes in the RAF

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IT was a strange beginning. I was an indentured apprentice engineer at British Celanese, Spondon, which meant I was deferred from call-up until I was 21. During my time at the “Cel”, I formed an ambition to join the Merchant Navy as a junior engineer.

The “Cel” management kindly agreed and placed me, every six months, on plant which would enable me to be graded for the Merchant Navy. I worked in the boiler house, fridge plant, compressor house, general heavy duty and so on.

With help from ex-Merchant Navy engineer Bill Sinclair, who worked in the fridge plant, I passed Grade 2 and obtained a post with Clan Line Steamers.

I was to join my ship, SS Clan Cameron – a freight and passenger ship – at Birkenhead to sail to South Africa in early July 1954.

So, having sold my motorbike and piano accordion, and said my farewells to family and girlfriend Brenda (later to be my wife), I arrived in Liverpool, ready for my new life on the ocean waves. All I had to do was undergo a routine seaman’s medical... They failed me on colour blindness. I was stunned.

Twelve days later, I was called up for my National Service and was among the lowest of the low – an aircraftman II in the RAF, being kitted out at RAF Cardington, Bedfordshire.

I was given the number 3143953 and posted to RAF Bridgenorth for square-bashing. During my eight weeks there, I was probably the fittest I’ve ever been. The intake was roughly half National Service and half regulars. The great fear was of being sick or injured as it would mean being put back to a later intake and repeating it all.

I missed a week under canvas, due to our intake being ordered to join the Battle of Britain parade at nearby Kidderminster, so we did route marches instead.

On sports afternoons, the drill instructors would play us National Servicemen off against the regulars. I was captain of the basketball team as I had played a bit during my studies at Normanton Road Technical College.

Life was constant bull – boot cleaning, cold water shaving, no heat, except when you were doing cook house fatigues. It was only place where you could keep warm, although lugging half carcasses of beef about was not very agreeable. Everywhere we went was at the double.

Then there was job selection. I was barred from several trades due to my colour blindness. My first choice was aerial erection. It sounded like a cushy, fresh-air job, but it required me signing on for three years, so I finished up choosing to train as an airframe mechanic.

Towards the end of eight weeks, I was nobbled to do night duty with some MPs, in Bridgenorth. They caught an aircraftman in a pub and told me to guard him outside. His mates came out and threatened a visit to my billet if I didn’t let him go. When the MPs came out, they were not best pleased when I told them he had run off.

Finally, the day of our passing-out parade arrived. Afterwards, Dad, Mum and Brenda came to pick me up for the weekend.

I was then posted to a large camp, RAF St Athan, south west of Cardiff, for three months’ training in engine and airframe mechanics and PT instruction. It had very good sports facilities so I got in some swimming and badminton – I used to play for the Racqueteers in the Derby District Badminton League – in between studying for my exams.

The entire time I was there, I only got two 48-hour passes. Both times, I travelled back at night, catching the Newcastle-Bristol train. It was jam-packed with service bods, which meant standing most of the way. I had to change at Cheltenham for Cardiff, landing back at camp about 6am, feeling like a walking zombie.

I finally passed out a fully qualified aircraftman I airframe mechanic and was posted to RAF Wittering, near Stamford, on the A1.

I spent my first night in a transit billet, which must have been the dirtiest place in the RAF. You could not see from one end of the room to the other for coke fumes and fags. They never had bull nights because everyone was on the move.

I joined 61 Squadron Lincoln Imps Bomber Command, which had recently returned from Kenya, where they had been dealing with the Mau Mau. They had transferred from flying Lincolns to Canberras, which were light bombers. The airframe and engine assistants’ billet was full, so I was put in with administration and armourers. In hindsight, it was the best move I ever made.

Unfortunately, early on, I was collared for fire picket duty for a week, which meant spending every night sleeping in the guard house cell and doing the rounds of the station after work. The one advantage was that I saw a different film every night at the camp cinema, for free.

Our dispersal point was approximately two-and-a-half miles up by the runway, which was three miles long. In my second week, Senior Aircraftman Peplow and myself were ordered to give a plane a primary star check.

This was the biggest check we could do at squadron level. Peplow told me to see that it was all clear.

So, I got out of the cockpit and looked around. There was nobody about. Peplow then selected the flaps down and started to hand pump the engine. It was hard, so I gave him a hand. He suddenly stopped and rushed out. The locks were still on in the main plane and the flaps. We both were put on a charge and went before the Station Group Captain, who found us guilty.

We lost a week’s pay and went down a rank. It meant I lost 30 shillings but go not be demoted any lower. But Peplow, a regular, was docked £6 6s and put down from senior to leading aircraftman.

It was now early 1955 and still winter. The station decided to have a security exercise, involving the RAF Regiment (Rock Apes) and the local ATC attacking the squadrons. I was No 2 on the bren gun, posted by a hedge, looking up a large hill with a wood at the top.

There was deep snow everywhere. About 1.30am, we watched three dark shapes crawl all the way down from the wood. We sat quietly and waited, and arrested them as they came near.

Fortunately, they were ATC and gave no trouble but, elsewhere, the regiment boys were making it very realistic – letting off fire crackers and generally cutting up rough. Out of our 10 planes, only four survived.

On my first 36-hour leave, I stepped outside the main gates and, before I could put up my thumb, a big, red Lagonda drew up. It was Mr Simpson, personnel manager at British Celanese.

He recognised me as an ex-apprentice and took me all the way to Long Eaton, giving me £2 as he dropped me.

After that, it was back to hitch-hiking via Stamford, Oakham, Melton and Hathern until I had another spot of luck.

At that time, the Derby firm, Gee Walker and Slater, was building the perimeter track for the MoD at Wittering. The driver who picked up the workers from Derby was Bob McCandlove, a pal of my dad’s. He started to give me a lift, picking me up about 6am on Monday morning from Chaddesden. We would get back to Wittering just before 8am. It was great while it lasted.

I had now become a leading aircraftman and started sitting exams and tests to become a senior aircraftman.

About that time, our whole squadron was transferred to RAF Upwood, near Huntingdon. This was to make way for the first of the V Bombers –“Victors” – as Wittering had a three-mile runway to take them.

The transfer included everything movable, including the aircraft. Half the ground crew was sent to Upwood to receive them while the other half saw them off from Wittering.

By this time I was on good terms with the rest of my billet. They included Curly and Fred from London, Taffy Evans from Cardiff, Monty Banks from Northampton, Dixie Dean from Lincoln and Bob Camm from Nottingham.

Upwood was further away and off the beaten track, but the facilities were first class. The billets were modern and warm and the cookhouse menus were a treat, with at least five choices for both main and sweet courses.

It used to be one of our jokes, if an Army lad was travelling with us from Derby Friargate via Nottingham to Grantham, to talk about the food. You could see their eyes pop open.

From Grantham, we generally caught the London train to Peterborough, then waited for the Upwood village taxi service to fetch us – although I had, during my Wittering days, got off at Grantham and walked up to the A1 transport cafe, where I thumbed a lift with a lorry driver. Now, hitch-hiking was a lot harder.

One very cold, snowy winter, we got stranded in Peterborough station after snow blocked the roads, about 1am on a Monday morning.

There were literally hundreds of service bods returning from leave, with no shelter or food. It was dreadful. We just kept walking round until about 11am when our VW mini bus got through. We left crowds still waiting to get back to stations in Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire and East Anglia.

Squadron night flying was good fun. If planes stayed up until 1am, the duty ground crew would get the following day off. Thursday night was generally the night for late flying.

Dixie, in admin, would tell me the duty crew rota for the following week. Then, I would nip down to station HQ and see the duty officer and say that I hadn’t had a Thursday night duty for ages. More often than not, he would alter rota in my favour.

Some nights, we used to get on a David Brown tractor and chase rabbits round the field.

One night, half the duty ground crew, including engine mechanics, responsible for marshalling the aircraft, had gone for supper. We were in a little tin hut near the perimeter track when one of our planes landed and came rapidly round the track.

As there were no lights, apart from sunken perimeter lights, we couldn’t see its number. It went past to the next squadron down track, who we knew would turn it round and send it back.

However, another plane had also landed and was coming round. I had to stop it or there would be a crash. With some effort, I managed to bring it to a halt and, opening the hatch, shouted to pilot, above the din, to hold on.

The other plane, meantime, came back and I just managed to turn it into one of our pans. Its wing tip cleared the nose cone of the stationary aircraft by no more than 10ft.

I then sent the other squadron’s plane down to its own dispersal. My ground crew mates had left me alone because they thought a crash was imminent. I put in a protest about our pilot to our chief and my mates got some tongue from me.

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