Chugalug2,
Although I had the pleasure of 'just being along for the ride' in a couple of different 4-engined taildraggers, grass excursions off the Tarmac happened on a couple of occasions. Fortunate each time to still have our tail wheel on the ground at the end, but more of that later.
Airborne_artist,
Had a look at my push bike a couple of weeks ago for about 15 seconds. Then lit up a cigarette. I'm 55.
Educated Armourer,
I sincerely believe that during my time, the RAF was the best flying club in the world, and I even had the pleasure and the privilege of being a member of the Best Flying Club in the best flying club in the world for my last tour, but that is another story for later. My only visit to Cosford was around 10 years ago, and it was to the museum after inspecting a friends aircraft. Good cafe and exceptional museum. The Trade Training School (No2 SoTT IIRC) churned out some excellent people in many disciplines of aircraft engineering.
Danny, BEagle et al,
On the few occasions I visited Germany, it was in the '90's. None of the stresses you gentlemen have mentioned. However, I quickly realised that the safest place on the autobahns was the inside lane as the fastest cars in Europe were all flat out in the outside lane. Of course, by this time, there were not even any border controls. The buildings were still in place on the border between Holland and Germany, but they were abandoned and the barriers removed.
Fareastdriver,
They don't make 'em like that any more, but at one time, they seemed to be fitted to everything. Even the Comet prototype. And at around 900 lbs each with brakes fitted, I'm glad they don't.
Halton (contd)
As well as being the Premier SoTT
, RAF Halton had the previously mentioned hospital (ahh, nurses), and it was also the training school for Dental Nurses. During the early classroom work sessions, I was given a card. "Report for Dental Parade etc, etc". Camlobe duly turns up and awaits the 5-minute checkup. Not today. A most striking beauty, approaches me, calls me by my name...and I forget the rest. I was dumbstruck at my luck. Unfortunately, just when I really needed to make a favourable first impression, my tongue went on strike. And to top it off, I carried out a majestic trip against the magazine table. No doubt, the angelic girl would be mightily impressed with my break-dance recovery, but her modesty prevented her complementing me on my efforts. By the time I had sat down, my deft and cool persona was still in the waiting room. The girl was a Dental Nurse trainee. We got chatting and after a couple of minutes, I felt certain that my charm had completely erased my earlier faux pas from her mind. She asked me about my dental history, and became extremely interested to hear about the private dental treatment I had endured in my early teens. After a quick root (sic) around my mandibles, she became quite excited. I had just been elevated from "nothing new here, next" to "this will make my coursework far more interesting than anyone else's". I returned a number of times to allow her to drool over my gnashers, and to my eternal dismay, this was the only part of camlobe that she found interesting. And as for my charm attempt, the passing remark of "mind the table" every visit left me very deflated.
Although the Bull Nights were regular, they were less often than in Basic training. However, the standards were still high. The only real leeway we were given was the allowance of private bed covers and quilts. This worked extremely well as the bed pack would remain in the bottom of the cupboard, and would only see the light of day for the Bull Night inspection. Marching was confined to the trip down hill in the morning, back up again at night, and every other trip we did while in uniform e.g. SHQ, Dental, gym.
Our instructors were all serving or ex NCO's. The fact that these gentlemen had been there, seen it, and done it made a considerable difference to us sprogs. It is far easier to respect someone who has done it and teaches it, than someone who just teaches it. Through the whole nine months of our technical training, there was only one instructor who didn't come up to scratch compared to all the others. I met this individual 18 years later, and he hadn't improved, but that is another story.
Our first sojourn out of the classroom and away from mathematics, basic physics etc, was to the Basic Engineering or "hack and bash" workshop. This shed was for some, a torture chamber, and for others a challenge, but I don't seriously think that any of the thousands who had been here before found it easy. Hack and bash was where the instructors gauged your hand skills with basic tools. And I mean basic. A hacksaw, a file, a square, and a vice. Over the next few days (?) we had to create a lump that was cut, filed, drilled, riveted, and generally sworn at. It had to be perfect. I foolishly thought that, because I was quite skilled at working with tools on woodwork and metalwork, I would be able to produce the required standard in record time. After having my attempts rejected at each and every stage, I seriously thought I was about to have my career ended here at the first technical hurdle. However, after settling down and trying to produce the workpiece through patience and precision, not speed, it started to slowly meet the standard, although I am sure it was only the minimum.
Thirty years before, a number of gentlemen have advised me, the workpiece was a bit different. Everyone started with a block of steel approximately one and a half inches rough square. They then had to reduce this to a cube of one inch square, accurate to one thousandth of an inch, and all corners square. My respects to my predecessors.
The Discip Sergeant happily informs us that AOC's is coming. Oh, joy. More Bull Nights. And it is my old friend AVM Pete Bairsto again. Twice in a matter of weeks. I should get the beers in.
Every morning and afternoon, we enjoy a short break. One of the sheds is empty, and at each break, two NAAFI wagons park up, swing up the rear, and allow mayhem to commence. The tea is terrible, the coffee slightly better, but the 'snake and pigmy' pies are to die for. A couple of hundred guys chattering while filling their faces is the same sight and sound whether at a rugger match, a barbecue, or a shed. The clothing may be different, but the topics of conversation are the same. Work, girls, cars, sport, beer.
We are given a bit of a tour around the shed complex. At one end is the riggers training ground. The shed seems to be filled with Sea Vixen's and Whirlwind Helecopters. In the middle ground is the general familiarisation area with ejector seats and Gnats. The engine shed is full of engines, both turboprop and jet. In one corner, there are a number of piston engines, and I linger here far too long. An number of Alvis Leonides radials, a Rolls Royce Merlin, and I seem to remember a cutaway of a Bristol Hercules. The Hercules looked to be the most complex engine I have ever seen. There are also propellers, including one that had been fastened to one of the sheds vertical stanchions. I once witnessed three Malaysians attempting to use the five foot long Acrotorq torque wrench to tighten this propeller up. The three of these slim and light chaps could not make the torque wrench 'break'. They were assisted by one of the instructors. Then they had to reset the torque wrench. When the roller snapped back in, three flying objects departed the torque wrench. I believe no great harm was done.
Having successfully completed "hack and bash", and another round of exams, we moved onto the real deal. Engines. This course was to be the first not to undergo piston engine training as most of the RAF aircraft were powered by jets (actually this had been the case for some years). The RAF got this one wrong, really, because a number of years later, I returned for my piston engine course, but that is for another time.
Camlobe
Merry Christmas to all our readers and contributors.