Joyce and I and a very young army officer were ushered into one room, and everyone else into a larger. A smart RAF officer thrust a bag at me, said I was senior officer on board the RAF Britannia, so take care of this and hand it in when you arrive. Me guvnor? Apparently a MoD Met. Assistant Experimental Officer outranked a second-lieutenant by a whisker, but rank meant nothing [and never did, except for the Mess subs] so I passed the buck. The flight was my first, and was backwards [seat configuration] and took forever. Nicosia at 0600 in April was magical, the smell of pine and spices is with me still. We were shagged-out, so S Met O kindly took us for a round-the-island car tour for a couple of hours. I was the first forecaster not to be armed with a pistol, the EOKA threat having been downgraded. We were expected to wear officer-cut KD, no badges, and join the Mess. Waiting for a Quarter on station, we had a hiring in Ayios Dimetios and a new VW Beetle. My wife, now pregnant, was the only licenced driver so took me to work and back home for about a year. The job was “Airfield Met” looking after resident RAF Hastings and visiting Javelins, and also all civil flights because Nicosia was joint-user. The station commander was Mickey Martin of DamBuster fame. Every morning he did a round of Met., Ops and ATC, all neighbours. In each he would pat his pockets, search for a cigarette, accept a freebie, beg a light, exchange pleasantries, and move on. Pat, fag, light, move. He was said to be the best low-level bomber pilot of the war, and at Nicosia he used to fly a Hastings through the Kyrenia Pass. Our big problem was the sea-breeze if it reached the airfield. This came late morning if at all, and brought a wicked wind-reversal. I wangled several flights in AAC choppers to fly instruments into the breeze to get some sort of science into forecasting, with modest success.
And then a RAFP Alsatian nearly had my manhood for a snack.
Last edited by langleybaston; 5th Apr 2024 at 11:20.
Reason: for **** read shot