Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
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Danny takes up his story again.
Now we are all settled in at Bruton St. GK, and don't care if it snows (which it did, nicely in time for Christmas). Life in the ATC "Tower" (ie a nondescript section of a terraced single story office and workshop buildings facing onto the South Taxiway) continued its leisurely way. Indeed, I can remember very little about what we actually did , except for the fact that there wasn't much of it, I can never remember being busy there.
We would have a CA/DF, of course, and so I must have handed out a few QTEs, but I cannot recall doing any QGHs. In fact, now I come to think of it, I don't think they even had a Safety Lane. (There was no other aid on the field).
They didn't need it, of course. All their "Missions" would be under Sector Control, they went over to that as soon as the wheels were up, and we wouldn't hear a cheep out of them until Sector handed them back to Approach. Mostly the navs knew exactly where they were, and disdained any assistance from us to arrive visually. If the weather were really duff,or the pilot wanted some GCA practice, we'd give a bearing to the CPN-4 and let them get on with it.
We spent a lot of Watch time companiably nattering, and as we were nearly all ex-war (or early post-war) aircrew, Approach developed into the sort of the crewroom that I now nostalically envisage in Cyberspace. Folk from other sections along the line would drift in for a cuppa and a chat.
It would be blue with cigarette smoke, and the ashtrays piled high, as was the case everywhere in those days. I was never a cigarette smoker, but had started with a pipe early in my wartime service. When, how, and why I can't remember. I suppose it was the Thing to Do at the time (if you go back to wartime RAF photos and films, look out for the pipes). Chugalug may remember my description of a typical crewroom of the period in a Post long ago, and how we agreed that anyone smoking the exotic "Balkan Sobranies" was naturally under suspicion. But now I must make it absolutely clear that this does not apply to their pipe tobacco. This was (I stopped smoking when I retired in '72) most excellent stuff, rich and fruity and well worth the money.
I can see the tins now, black and white with a Balkan country scene on the lid. It wasn't cheap, but as it was duty-free in the NAAFI shop, that took the sting out of it. (I had gently to tell my old Mother not to send it out to me as a gift, as I could get it at half the price she'd have to pay).
An even less expensive source was the unit of USAC (?) we had with us on the station. (One of their officers lived a couple of doors down from us in Bruton St). They were, of course, the custodians of the Great Deterrant, which lived in its kennel in the woods off the North taxiway. I don't think they actually had a PX on the station, but they obviously had access to one, and I could get "Robin Hood" pipe tobacco (in a big round red and black pound tin) from them for Dm4 (£6 today, or 37½p/oz.) - where would you get that today ! The stuff was more like rough-cut cigarette tobacco, with not much taste, but when "cut" 50/50 with the B.S., the blend was very satisfying indeed.
Apart from a few newcomers, all of us were ex-Volkspark or still in it, and the commute was a lively source of stories. Our relations with the Polizei were generally good - provided you stuck to the letter of the law. They were hot on speeding - the limits in the towns and villages was 50 kph (31 mph), and on the Landstraße 80 kph (50). They had quite sophisticated kit.
It was always an unmarked VW Combi van, it could be any colour. It would be parked on the grass on the nearside with backdoors open. The radar was in there. In the front was the flash camera. The radar took the reading, the thing waited a second or so for you to pass, then the flash fired.
You were "done to rights". The picture you got showed clearly the back registration number (I don't thing we had any front plates), superimposed were date/time/place and speed. There was no point arguing, you paid up (it wasn't cheap). All this I was told, you understand (I was never caught myself - but I've seen the photographs (they're good). You soon developed a sixth sense for parked Combis !
The system had an Achilles Heel. If two cars were passing at the same time (one overtaking the other), it was possible for the radar to get the faster, but the camera the slower. There was a celebrated case which reduced all Germany to tears of mirth. A dear old granny from some farm was plugging along on a tractor just as a Porche came howling past. Granny was booked at 120 kph, the Press exulted over the "Turbo-OMA" all week!
Goodnight, all, (from the Sorcerer's Apprentice )
Danny42C.
Àpres moi, le déluge !
We would have a CA/DF, of course, and so I must have handed out a few QTEs, but I cannot recall doing any QGHs. In fact, now I come to think of it, I don't think they even had a Safety Lane. (There was no other aid on the field).
They didn't need it, of course. All their "Missions" would be under Sector Control, they went over to that as soon as the wheels were up, and we wouldn't hear a cheep out of them until Sector handed them back to Approach. Mostly the navs knew exactly where they were, and disdained any assistance from us to arrive visually. If the weather were really duff,or the pilot wanted some GCA practice, we'd give a bearing to the CPN-4 and let them get on with it.
We spent a lot of Watch time companiably nattering, and as we were nearly all ex-war (or early post-war) aircrew, Approach developed into the sort of the crewroom that I now nostalically envisage in Cyberspace. Folk from other sections along the line would drift in for a cuppa and a chat.
It would be blue with cigarette smoke, and the ashtrays piled high, as was the case everywhere in those days. I was never a cigarette smoker, but had started with a pipe early in my wartime service. When, how, and why I can't remember. I suppose it was the Thing to Do at the time (if you go back to wartime RAF photos and films, look out for the pipes). Chugalug may remember my description of a typical crewroom of the period in a Post long ago, and how we agreed that anyone smoking the exotic "Balkan Sobranies" was naturally under suspicion. But now I must make it absolutely clear that this does not apply to their pipe tobacco. This was (I stopped smoking when I retired in '72) most excellent stuff, rich and fruity and well worth the money.
I can see the tins now, black and white with a Balkan country scene on the lid. It wasn't cheap, but as it was duty-free in the NAAFI shop, that took the sting out of it. (I had gently to tell my old Mother not to send it out to me as a gift, as I could get it at half the price she'd have to pay).
An even less expensive source was the unit of USAC (?) we had with us on the station. (One of their officers lived a couple of doors down from us in Bruton St). They were, of course, the custodians of the Great Deterrant, which lived in its kennel in the woods off the North taxiway. I don't think they actually had a PX on the station, but they obviously had access to one, and I could get "Robin Hood" pipe tobacco (in a big round red and black pound tin) from them for Dm4 (£6 today, or 37½p/oz.) - where would you get that today ! The stuff was more like rough-cut cigarette tobacco, with not much taste, but when "cut" 50/50 with the B.S., the blend was very satisfying indeed.
Apart from a few newcomers, all of us were ex-Volkspark or still in it, and the commute was a lively source of stories. Our relations with the Polizei were generally good - provided you stuck to the letter of the law. They were hot on speeding - the limits in the towns and villages was 50 kph (31 mph), and on the Landstraße 80 kph (50). They had quite sophisticated kit.
It was always an unmarked VW Combi van, it could be any colour. It would be parked on the grass on the nearside with backdoors open. The radar was in there. In the front was the flash camera. The radar took the reading, the thing waited a second or so for you to pass, then the flash fired.
You were "done to rights". The picture you got showed clearly the back registration number (I don't thing we had any front plates), superimposed were date/time/place and speed. There was no point arguing, you paid up (it wasn't cheap). All this I was told, you understand (I was never caught myself - but I've seen the photographs (they're good). You soon developed a sixth sense for parked Combis !
The system had an Achilles Heel. If two cars were passing at the same time (one overtaking the other), it was possible for the radar to get the faster, but the camera the slower. There was a celebrated case which reduced all Germany to tears of mirth. A dear old granny from some farm was plugging along on a tractor just as a Porche came howling past. Granny was booked at 120 kph, the Press exulted over the "Turbo-OMA" all week!
Goodnight, all, (from the Sorcerer's Apprentice )
Danny42C.
Àpres moi, le déluge !
Danny,
Epic, and I'm still laughing at the thought of the tractor bound grandmother. I knew some of those German ladies were a bit on the "fast" side
. I do though recognise the posting type. I once did a tour of two and a half years as SNCO i/c Visiting Aircraft Servicing Flight, RAF Machrihanish. The day after I walked my arrival card around the unit, they closed the runway for resurfacing. Along with my fellow aircraft tradesmen, the ATC in its entirety and all their support staff I spent the next two years learning to play golf. On re opening, the new runway gave me my next signature, that of Paul McCartney on arriving on holiday. Because of a pre employment course, I departed shortly afterwards. I can't remember actually doing a lot with visiting aircraft, we did supply the station with great bacon, egg, sausage (or any combination) of freshly cooked rolls, which paid handsomely our weekly bar bill as a section.
Exrigger,
213, as fine a bunch as I ever played for on a passing out parade (trombone in the brass (Gash) band). Not too sure about the bumper incident, non apprentice 401 by any chance ?
Smudge
Epic, and I'm still laughing at the thought of the tractor bound grandmother. I knew some of those German ladies were a bit on the "fast" side
. I do though recognise the posting type. I once did a tour of two and a half years as SNCO i/c Visiting Aircraft Servicing Flight, RAF Machrihanish. The day after I walked my arrival card around the unit, they closed the runway for resurfacing. Along with my fellow aircraft tradesmen, the ATC in its entirety and all their support staff I spent the next two years learning to play golf. On re opening, the new runway gave me my next signature, that of Paul McCartney on arriving on holiday. Because of a pre employment course, I departed shortly afterwards. I can't remember actually doing a lot with visiting aircraft, we did supply the station with great bacon, egg, sausage (or any combination) of freshly cooked rolls, which paid handsomely our weekly bar bill as a section. Exrigger,
213, as fine a bunch as I ever played for on a passing out parade (trombone in the brass (Gash) band). Not too sure about the bumper incident, non apprentice 401 by any chance ?
Smudge
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First shots, pay parades, and strange Northern practices
MPN11,
Begging your forgiveness, but as a mere crab (sorry, ex-crab) could you please describe a "kitchen rudder"?
It is notable that although the contributors on this thread cover many ranges of time and chosen branch of service, there continues to be great similarity in the "indoctrination process" we all were subject to, albeit with slight variances. I guess the system got it pretty right in the 1930's, and stuck with it through the rest of the 20th Century.
Probably like most here, I am totally enthralled by everyone else's posts. I am continually entertained and educated, and my growing respect for my peers and predecessors knows no limit. Once again, I thank you all for putting your memories down here allowing those like myself (and those completely different) to enjoy your reminisces, humour, and pain.
Just popped another Florin in the pot and have poured myself a nice cuppa out of the Baby Burco. Anyone else for a cup o' char?
Bedknobs and Bangsticks.
After considerable effort and concentration, we merry men have now progressed to the Practical and Oral SLR rifle test. Cpl Gibson of the RAF Regiment is the judge, jury and career stopper if we fail. One at a time each recruit enters the room and closes the door behind him. The rest of us cram our ears to the door to get an idea what to expect. We didn't need to get quite so close as Cpl Gibson could be clearly heard down the corridor, but we didn't want to miss anything. The victim was briefed on what was required. There was the strip and reassemble of the SLR, the unload and reload the magazine of 20 rounds in three nanoseconds, and the requirement to answer ALL the questions accurately. For the first couple of guys, things didn't go well. Cpl Gibson's voice would have challenged any DI for volume any vehemence. Then we heard "100%, WELL DONE. NEXT". So, now we knew that it could be done. The initial widespread depression was exchanged for forlorn hope. And then my turn came. Surprisingly, to me at any rate, I didn't lose any skin on the block or the slide. I managed to unload and load the magazine faster than in any practice session. I was starting to feel almost confident. And then I answered one question wrong. As soon as the answer came out of my lips, I cringed. Cpl Gibson obviously noticed this and asked the question again (an unheard of practice). Stunned, I gave what I knew to be the correct answer. "100%, WELL DONE, NEXT". I passed, and with flying colours. To me this was a major victory, and my disbelieving but beaming smile conveyed to my brethren my newfound superiority with weaponry. But, of course, we had yet to fire this mighty Bangstick.
Eventually, everyone passed that day, and we soon found ourselves on the 25 yard range (don't think Britannia had succumbed to SI units quite yet). Heavily briefed and supervised, we lay down beside our weapons six abreast. Our magazines, now loaded with ten LIVE rounds were laid beside us. On the command we loaded, cocked, and then "FIRE". Even with ear defenders, it was deafening. And if you didn't grip the rifle tightly as you had been briefed, you could be cut above the eye by the rear sight (as happened to a couple of chaps) or you could end up with a whopping great swelling on your jaw (as happened to me). At the end of our many rounds fired, scores were totted up. Surprise number two. "Congratulations camlobe, you are a marksman". ME? I had only fired shotguns before, and although I tended to hit what I aimed at, I was still stunned at this news. Well, thought I, hopefully it will balance out the black mark on my record with the dirty boots. Ahh, the nievity of youth.
One of the first things that we had the pleasure of when be arrived at Swinderby was the taking down and recording our personal details, and the form filling that this entailed. It was here that we agreed to our donations to the RAFBF and, I think SSAFA ( I need a bit of help with this as I am not sure). Next of kin details, Religious bent, and Bank details. I was surprised to find I was one of only a few out of 50 or so who actually held a Bank Account. And I had paid tax previously. Although I had held an account since the age of 14, I was 19 when I joined up, and had worked elsewhere while waiting for my join up letter. Many of my fellow recruits were 16 and straight from school.
We did have a chuckle at one of these younger lads. On the first day, the Discip Sergeant had ordered everyone to wet shave every morning. This particular lad, although 16, looked about 12, and said "but Sergeant, I don't shave". "WELL, YOU #%$+¥<# DO NOW". The following morning, our young recruit appeared on parade with his jawline covered in red blotched pieces of toilet paper.
At the end of the second week (IIRC), Pay Parade. Everyone briefed on the simple actions required. Hats on (I think) stand to attention in front of the junior Officer, full number, rank, and name, SIR. Get it wrong, back of the queue and wait your turn again. We compare our incomes. It is a small fortune. And my fortune is bigger than most. I work out it must be due to my age and perhaps because I have paid tax before, but I don't really know. I even sent some home. And because I was over 18, I was able to consume alcohol in the NAAFI. As Smudge says, happy Daze.
One night, I felt tired ( more tired than normal while in training) and decided to retire to my bunk early, probably around 2100 hours. I walked into the 18 man room and stood shocked still. Two of our Yorkshire lads were dong something that really didn't seem right. They were bunked at opposite ends of the room, and had decided that after the previous couple of weeks in captivity, they would self pleasure themselves, but to make it manly acceptable, they would make it a competition. I about turned and went and got drunk.
Camlobe
Nawt queer as folk.
Begging your forgiveness, but as a mere crab (sorry, ex-crab) could you please describe a "kitchen rudder"?
It is notable that although the contributors on this thread cover many ranges of time and chosen branch of service, there continues to be great similarity in the "indoctrination process" we all were subject to, albeit with slight variances. I guess the system got it pretty right in the 1930's, and stuck with it through the rest of the 20th Century.
Probably like most here, I am totally enthralled by everyone else's posts. I am continually entertained and educated, and my growing respect for my peers and predecessors knows no limit. Once again, I thank you all for putting your memories down here allowing those like myself (and those completely different) to enjoy your reminisces, humour, and pain.
Just popped another Florin in the pot and have poured myself a nice cuppa out of the Baby Burco. Anyone else for a cup o' char?
Bedknobs and Bangsticks.
After considerable effort and concentration, we merry men have now progressed to the Practical and Oral SLR rifle test. Cpl Gibson of the RAF Regiment is the judge, jury and career stopper if we fail. One at a time each recruit enters the room and closes the door behind him. The rest of us cram our ears to the door to get an idea what to expect. We didn't need to get quite so close as Cpl Gibson could be clearly heard down the corridor, but we didn't want to miss anything. The victim was briefed on what was required. There was the strip and reassemble of the SLR, the unload and reload the magazine of 20 rounds in three nanoseconds, and the requirement to answer ALL the questions accurately. For the first couple of guys, things didn't go well. Cpl Gibson's voice would have challenged any DI for volume any vehemence. Then we heard "100%, WELL DONE. NEXT". So, now we knew that it could be done. The initial widespread depression was exchanged for forlorn hope. And then my turn came. Surprisingly, to me at any rate, I didn't lose any skin on the block or the slide. I managed to unload and load the magazine faster than in any practice session. I was starting to feel almost confident. And then I answered one question wrong. As soon as the answer came out of my lips, I cringed. Cpl Gibson obviously noticed this and asked the question again (an unheard of practice). Stunned, I gave what I knew to be the correct answer. "100%, WELL DONE, NEXT". I passed, and with flying colours. To me this was a major victory, and my disbelieving but beaming smile conveyed to my brethren my newfound superiority with weaponry. But, of course, we had yet to fire this mighty Bangstick.
Eventually, everyone passed that day, and we soon found ourselves on the 25 yard range (don't think Britannia had succumbed to SI units quite yet). Heavily briefed and supervised, we lay down beside our weapons six abreast. Our magazines, now loaded with ten LIVE rounds were laid beside us. On the command we loaded, cocked, and then "FIRE". Even with ear defenders, it was deafening. And if you didn't grip the rifle tightly as you had been briefed, you could be cut above the eye by the rear sight (as happened to a couple of chaps) or you could end up with a whopping great swelling on your jaw (as happened to me). At the end of our many rounds fired, scores were totted up. Surprise number two. "Congratulations camlobe, you are a marksman". ME? I had only fired shotguns before, and although I tended to hit what I aimed at, I was still stunned at this news. Well, thought I, hopefully it will balance out the black mark on my record with the dirty boots. Ahh, the nievity of youth.
One of the first things that we had the pleasure of when be arrived at Swinderby was the taking down and recording our personal details, and the form filling that this entailed. It was here that we agreed to our donations to the RAFBF and, I think SSAFA ( I need a bit of help with this as I am not sure). Next of kin details, Religious bent, and Bank details. I was surprised to find I was one of only a few out of 50 or so who actually held a Bank Account. And I had paid tax previously. Although I had held an account since the age of 14, I was 19 when I joined up, and had worked elsewhere while waiting for my join up letter. Many of my fellow recruits were 16 and straight from school.
We did have a chuckle at one of these younger lads. On the first day, the Discip Sergeant had ordered everyone to wet shave every morning. This particular lad, although 16, looked about 12, and said "but Sergeant, I don't shave". "WELL, YOU #%$+¥<# DO NOW". The following morning, our young recruit appeared on parade with his jawline covered in red blotched pieces of toilet paper.
At the end of the second week (IIRC), Pay Parade. Everyone briefed on the simple actions required. Hats on (I think) stand to attention in front of the junior Officer, full number, rank, and name, SIR. Get it wrong, back of the queue and wait your turn again. We compare our incomes. It is a small fortune. And my fortune is bigger than most. I work out it must be due to my age and perhaps because I have paid tax before, but I don't really know. I even sent some home. And because I was over 18, I was able to consume alcohol in the NAAFI. As Smudge says, happy Daze.
One night, I felt tired ( more tired than normal while in training) and decided to retire to my bunk early, probably around 2100 hours. I walked into the 18 man room and stood shocked still. Two of our Yorkshire lads were dong something that really didn't seem right. They were bunked at opposite ends of the room, and had decided that after the previous couple of weeks in captivity, they would self pleasure themselves, but to make it manly acceptable, they would make it a competition. I about turned and went and got drunk.
Camlobe
Nawt queer as folk.
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Mmmm, I'll give my initial training a go, 39 years ago now!
I'd always wanted to join the RAF, being brought up on Sunday afternoon b/w war films of the Angels 15 ilk. I am of that generation where my father and his brothers (and his sister) fought in WWII and my grandfather and his brothers fought in WW1. You could say I heard a war story or two and tales of derring do while growing up...
My father and I used to make a different Airfix model each week and visited anything aviation related, particularly the Finningley BofB days which gave me my greatest (and still greatest) aviation memory. Not of aircraft but of the smell of freshly mown grass and burnt avtur. I only have to smell that now and I'm watching white Vulcans at Finningley. The whole raison d'etre of the RAF was appealing, a bunch of guys with a common purpose and aircraft to play with. Those airmen were like Gods to me, a breed apart, men of courage and integrity. What more could a young man want? The seed was sown and I knew one way or another I would finish up in the RAF.
Being of an academic bent I sailed through the 11 plus, went off to Grammar, did well in my 'O's and was half way through my 'A's when two Vulcans flew over my school very low and very loud. I could stand it no longer, I had to join up. I convinced mater and pater that I wasn't going to university no matter what and the RAF was for me. I've had mixed feelings about the Vulcan ever since...They knew that their pleading had fallen on deaf ears so off I went to Doncaster CIO and was told the the very highest aspiration of any young man was to be a Nav Inst Mech.
'Does that mean I'll be in the proximity of or even on aircraft?' I asked. 'Oh yes' said the smiling officer. That'll do for me then chum I thought. I went home and the blue letter arrived on very thin paper saying 'Dear Mr Wilson, arrangements have now been made for you to enter the Royal Air Force.' How nice I thought, arrangements have been made, all very laid back.
On the 14th of May 1974 I attested at Sheffield CIO. I was now Aircraftman DJ Wilson with a blue travel warrant and a big smile. I also had hair half way down my back, flares and a tie die t-shirt. Probably didn't look the part looking back. Two days later I had my little brown suitcase clutched tightly waiting for the No 14 bus to Doncaster outside Ardsley Crematorium. I proudly passed the driver my warrant, he took one look at me and shook his head slowly, gave me my ticket and the journey began...
I caught the train from Doncaster to Newark, having had the sense to have my hair cut to about bottom of neck level and not wear my Che Guavera t-shirt, looking out for any other suitcase hogging bright eyed souls. I met up with a couple and of course we said we would look out for each other and almost signed the deal in blood. We decamped at Newark and there was a big blue bus and a man with stripes. I thought I would cover all bases and just call everyone I saw in RAF uniform 'Sir'. Couldn't go wrong I thought. I of course thought wrongly as the chap with the stripes educated me as to who and what he was in a friendly manner although I'm sure he had hearing difficulties. Too many hours spent near jets obviously poor chap.
We arrived at Swinderby in a disorderly fashion and I well remember spending the first few days marching around in civvies as there was a hold up with the uniform. The one event that everyone was looking forward to was The Flight. A transport a/c dropped in each week to take the trainees on an air experience flight. Ours was cancelled due to a fuel shortage...the good old 70's. Eventually we were issued with what were called 'Hairy Marys'. These were course cloth uniforms that itched like buggery. Having sensitive skin I hated them. We were also one of the first intakes to be issued with the new jumper, the crew neck one that you will all remember. That was a bit smarter. We were measured for our number ones, the shapeless bags that were issued at the time. Who the hell designed those I know not but they weren't a patch on the old style number one.
Training continued with wooden full size toy rifles for drill. I have to say that I was enjoying every minute of it, I was light years away from the louch young man who held forth on politics and literature only a couple of weeks before. Of course I was an expert being a teenager. There was drill and more drill, I took to it like a duck to water, feeling bereft one day when I got something wrong and was bawled at by my drill corporal. I addressed him as 'Sir' as well to compound the issue...
After a whole week we were given a week's leave. I didn't have a clue as to leave entitlement at this time so thought that this was really living in the land of the lotus eaters, plus I was getting £33 a week, a not insubstantial sum at that time. Just before we went on leave we had our No 1's issued. Of course I didn't take the thing off the whole week I was on leave, visiting various family members who looked at me with what I now know to be 'But you were a long haired hippie a fortnight ago' look but which I thought was 'My what a glamorous young man' look. I also found out that the ladies liked a chap in uniform, albeit one that still smelled of new cloth.
On returning from leave we were introduced to RAF law and customs and it was during one of these lectures that I was called out and told I had to go for an x-ray as there was an abnormality in my heart. I was shattered, not because of fears for my own health but for the fact that I might have to leave the RAF. My drill sergeant who was an absolute top bloke called Sgt Jacks (hello Sgt Jacks if you are still with us) told me and he did his best to allay my fears. It turned out that my heart is a bit lopsided and only beats at rest at around 40bpm. It had never caused me any problems and never has, the RAF said I was good for a trip so I returned to Swinders walking on air.
The lecture rooms were next to the airfield and on occassion we would hear a Chipmunk taxi past. Everything stopped as a room full of would be airmen pressed their noses to the window to see a real live RAF aeroplane that was part of the same organisation as them. Good feeling.
We were eventually let loose with real rifles, the good old SLR. I thought over the years that it was a tremendous rifle, very simple and easy to maintain with a hell of a punch. I became a good shot and enjoyed shooting. Later I joined the station shooting teams at various units I was at if possible and became handy with weapons. It was about this time that one or two people started to disappear, one of them a young lad from Sheffield that I had become good friends with. One day he had gone, I asked what had happened to him but no one would tell me. That was the end of him. A new determination took hold as I realised that this wasn't the boy scouts. Magazines had to be filled in a minimum time, I was the fastest. Running down the main runway and back I always won. I wasn't going to be someone who disappeared overnight.
Eventually we went on camp, which as I remember was a few days in the Sherwood Forest area (correct me if I'm wrong) under canvas. I enjoyed this but found out a flaw that I've carried with me since although I think I can hide it to some extent now. If I think someone is going about something the wrong way I tell them, then I tell then the way I would do it which is of course the right way...This Is Not The Way The RAF Operates...
I digress a second but many years later as a techy corporal I was listening to a senior officer discussing a technical matter. He made a mistake in what he was saying and I said words to the effect of 'Hang on sir, if you do that blah will happen and you need to do this' etc. He took me to one side later and said 'Corporal, I know you are right but don't ever tell me I'm wrong again.'
There was an inscrutable logic there that I'm still searching for. I think it was the 'Your career is over' sort of logic.
Anyway, back to Aircraftman Wilson. The six weeks, which incidentally was conducted in the most gorgeous weather, it never rained once, was coming to an end. All preparation was for the passing out parade. We marched this way and that, slow marched, presented arms. Loved it all. We did do a 'wet' rehearsal although looking at the blue skys of the last 6 weeks we paid it little heed.
Come the day and it hammered down, rained for Noah. Anyway we got polished up, shoes bulled, belts blancoed, adrenalin rushing. We did the event in the hangar, my parents were there and it was one of the proudest moments of my life.
I have to say that Swinders was one of the best six weeks I had in the RAF, I loved every second. It was challenging and intense but that's the sort of stuff I enjoy.
Retrospect:
Some years later I had my pilot's license and flew over Finningley, now Robin Hood Airport or something equally as daft. (When you speak to Doncaster Approach when crossing the class D it's always referred to as Finningley, the NDB is still FNY) It was a very moving moment for me, all of my life had been directed by attending those airshows and watching those heroes of mine flying their impossibly fast silver jets through the blue. Now here I was, looking down and I wondered what if that kid would have known that forty years later I would by sailing across that blue.
I'd always wanted to join the RAF, being brought up on Sunday afternoon b/w war films of the Angels 15 ilk. I am of that generation where my father and his brothers (and his sister) fought in WWII and my grandfather and his brothers fought in WW1. You could say I heard a war story or two and tales of derring do while growing up...
My father and I used to make a different Airfix model each week and visited anything aviation related, particularly the Finningley BofB days which gave me my greatest (and still greatest) aviation memory. Not of aircraft but of the smell of freshly mown grass and burnt avtur. I only have to smell that now and I'm watching white Vulcans at Finningley. The whole raison d'etre of the RAF was appealing, a bunch of guys with a common purpose and aircraft to play with. Those airmen were like Gods to me, a breed apart, men of courage and integrity. What more could a young man want? The seed was sown and I knew one way or another I would finish up in the RAF.
Being of an academic bent I sailed through the 11 plus, went off to Grammar, did well in my 'O's and was half way through my 'A's when two Vulcans flew over my school very low and very loud. I could stand it no longer, I had to join up. I convinced mater and pater that I wasn't going to university no matter what and the RAF was for me. I've had mixed feelings about the Vulcan ever since...They knew that their pleading had fallen on deaf ears so off I went to Doncaster CIO and was told the the very highest aspiration of any young man was to be a Nav Inst Mech.
'Does that mean I'll be in the proximity of or even on aircraft?' I asked. 'Oh yes' said the smiling officer. That'll do for me then chum I thought. I went home and the blue letter arrived on very thin paper saying 'Dear Mr Wilson, arrangements have now been made for you to enter the Royal Air Force.' How nice I thought, arrangements have been made, all very laid back.
On the 14th of May 1974 I attested at Sheffield CIO. I was now Aircraftman DJ Wilson with a blue travel warrant and a big smile. I also had hair half way down my back, flares and a tie die t-shirt. Probably didn't look the part looking back. Two days later I had my little brown suitcase clutched tightly waiting for the No 14 bus to Doncaster outside Ardsley Crematorium. I proudly passed the driver my warrant, he took one look at me and shook his head slowly, gave me my ticket and the journey began...
I caught the train from Doncaster to Newark, having had the sense to have my hair cut to about bottom of neck level and not wear my Che Guavera t-shirt, looking out for any other suitcase hogging bright eyed souls. I met up with a couple and of course we said we would look out for each other and almost signed the deal in blood. We decamped at Newark and there was a big blue bus and a man with stripes. I thought I would cover all bases and just call everyone I saw in RAF uniform 'Sir'. Couldn't go wrong I thought. I of course thought wrongly as the chap with the stripes educated me as to who and what he was in a friendly manner although I'm sure he had hearing difficulties. Too many hours spent near jets obviously poor chap.
We arrived at Swinderby in a disorderly fashion and I well remember spending the first few days marching around in civvies as there was a hold up with the uniform. The one event that everyone was looking forward to was The Flight. A transport a/c dropped in each week to take the trainees on an air experience flight. Ours was cancelled due to a fuel shortage...the good old 70's. Eventually we were issued with what were called 'Hairy Marys'. These were course cloth uniforms that itched like buggery. Having sensitive skin I hated them. We were also one of the first intakes to be issued with the new jumper, the crew neck one that you will all remember. That was a bit smarter. We were measured for our number ones, the shapeless bags that were issued at the time. Who the hell designed those I know not but they weren't a patch on the old style number one.
Training continued with wooden full size toy rifles for drill. I have to say that I was enjoying every minute of it, I was light years away from the louch young man who held forth on politics and literature only a couple of weeks before. Of course I was an expert being a teenager. There was drill and more drill, I took to it like a duck to water, feeling bereft one day when I got something wrong and was bawled at by my drill corporal. I addressed him as 'Sir' as well to compound the issue...
After a whole week we were given a week's leave. I didn't have a clue as to leave entitlement at this time so thought that this was really living in the land of the lotus eaters, plus I was getting £33 a week, a not insubstantial sum at that time. Just before we went on leave we had our No 1's issued. Of course I didn't take the thing off the whole week I was on leave, visiting various family members who looked at me with what I now know to be 'But you were a long haired hippie a fortnight ago' look but which I thought was 'My what a glamorous young man' look. I also found out that the ladies liked a chap in uniform, albeit one that still smelled of new cloth.
On returning from leave we were introduced to RAF law and customs and it was during one of these lectures that I was called out and told I had to go for an x-ray as there was an abnormality in my heart. I was shattered, not because of fears for my own health but for the fact that I might have to leave the RAF. My drill sergeant who was an absolute top bloke called Sgt Jacks (hello Sgt Jacks if you are still with us) told me and he did his best to allay my fears. It turned out that my heart is a bit lopsided and only beats at rest at around 40bpm. It had never caused me any problems and never has, the RAF said I was good for a trip so I returned to Swinders walking on air.
The lecture rooms were next to the airfield and on occassion we would hear a Chipmunk taxi past. Everything stopped as a room full of would be airmen pressed their noses to the window to see a real live RAF aeroplane that was part of the same organisation as them. Good feeling.
We were eventually let loose with real rifles, the good old SLR. I thought over the years that it was a tremendous rifle, very simple and easy to maintain with a hell of a punch. I became a good shot and enjoyed shooting. Later I joined the station shooting teams at various units I was at if possible and became handy with weapons. It was about this time that one or two people started to disappear, one of them a young lad from Sheffield that I had become good friends with. One day he had gone, I asked what had happened to him but no one would tell me. That was the end of him. A new determination took hold as I realised that this wasn't the boy scouts. Magazines had to be filled in a minimum time, I was the fastest. Running down the main runway and back I always won. I wasn't going to be someone who disappeared overnight.
Eventually we went on camp, which as I remember was a few days in the Sherwood Forest area (correct me if I'm wrong) under canvas. I enjoyed this but found out a flaw that I've carried with me since although I think I can hide it to some extent now. If I think someone is going about something the wrong way I tell them, then I tell then the way I would do it which is of course the right way...This Is Not The Way The RAF Operates...
I digress a second but many years later as a techy corporal I was listening to a senior officer discussing a technical matter. He made a mistake in what he was saying and I said words to the effect of 'Hang on sir, if you do that blah will happen and you need to do this' etc. He took me to one side later and said 'Corporal, I know you are right but don't ever tell me I'm wrong again.'
There was an inscrutable logic there that I'm still searching for. I think it was the 'Your career is over' sort of logic.
Anyway, back to Aircraftman Wilson. The six weeks, which incidentally was conducted in the most gorgeous weather, it never rained once, was coming to an end. All preparation was for the passing out parade. We marched this way and that, slow marched, presented arms. Loved it all. We did do a 'wet' rehearsal although looking at the blue skys of the last 6 weeks we paid it little heed.
Come the day and it hammered down, rained for Noah. Anyway we got polished up, shoes bulled, belts blancoed, adrenalin rushing. We did the event in the hangar, my parents were there and it was one of the proudest moments of my life.
I have to say that Swinders was one of the best six weeks I had in the RAF, I loved every second. It was challenging and intense but that's the sort of stuff I enjoy.
Retrospect:
Some years later I had my pilot's license and flew over Finningley, now Robin Hood Airport or something equally as daft. (When you speak to Doncaster Approach when crossing the class D it's always referred to as Finningley, the NDB is still FNY) It was a very moving moment for me, all of my life had been directed by attending those airshows and watching those heroes of mine flying their impossibly fast silver jets through the blue. Now here I was, looking down and I wondered what if that kid would have known that forty years later I would by sailing across that blue.
Last edited by Dave Wilson; 9th Dec 2013 at 23:28.
For some unfathomable reason that splendid expression Danny used some while back, revenons à nos moutons, comes to mind.
Bearing in mind the title of this amazing thread, these pseudo-nautical reminiscences must be some of the best example of thread-drift of all time, although I do have to say that I have been greatly amused by the reflections of those who had the pleasure of spending a short while in dark blue.
Sandhurst or Aldershot, anyone?
Jack
PS Camlobe - Much enjoying your light blue tale and there's quite an interesting discussion on the Kitchen (never Kitchener, despite the thread title!) Rudder at The Kitchener Rudder - Ships Nostalgia
Bearing in mind the title of this amazing thread, these pseudo-nautical reminiscences must be some of the best example of thread-drift of all time, although I do have to say that I have been greatly amused by the reflections of those who had the pleasure of spending a short while in dark blue.Sandhurst or Aldershot, anyone?
Jack
PS Camlobe - Much enjoying your light blue tale
and there's quite an interesting discussion on the Kitchen (never Kitchener, despite the thread title!) Rudder at The Kitchener Rudder - Ships Nostalgia
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Smudgsmith,
Smudge,
Re bumpers, yes indeed ! I don't think any recruit in any service doesn't treasure that healthy indoor exercise in his memory. And I can still recall the smell of polish (Ronuk? in a big tin) on the linoleum. One Poster describes the things as cast iron, I think small blocks of concrete were also used, and we always had pieces of scrap blanket underneath - it gave a better finish. The paper under the bed feet is a new one on me, though.
I was a bit surprised by that picture of the two chaps bumping bare pine boards. Floorboards are for scrubbing , and I'm well versed in that art, too. Bumping is for linoleum (or parquet - and whoever saw that in the RAF ?)
Shooting my own fox: one evening at Linton a chip pan fire started in an AMQ. This was ratherr embarrassing, as it was the F/Sgt Fire Section Chief's house. But there was a fire alarm close by, the glass was bust (always use your elbow ), the button pressed. And they waited...and waited.
All these alarms are wired to the Guardroom, they call out the Fire Section or (if flying is in progress) the civil Brigade. But the Guardroom did not react in this case until a panting messenger staggered in from the Patch. By the time the Professionals arrived on the scene, the fire was going very well indeed.
At the subsequent Enquiry the cause came to light. The Alarm connection was plugged into a socket on the Guardroom skirting boards. There had recently been a "blitz" on the Guardroom lino - the plug had been knocked half out.
Red faces all round. Moral: leave the lino alone. Danny
Smudge,
Re bumpers, yes indeed ! I don't think any recruit in any service doesn't treasure that healthy indoor exercise in his memory. And I can still recall the smell of polish (Ronuk? in a big tin) on the linoleum. One Poster describes the things as cast iron, I think small blocks of concrete were also used, and we always had pieces of scrap blanket underneath - it gave a better finish. The paper under the bed feet is a new one on me, though.
I was a bit surprised by that picture of the two chaps bumping bare pine boards. Floorboards are for scrubbing , and I'm well versed in that art, too. Bumping is for linoleum (or parquet - and whoever saw that in the RAF ?)
Shooting my own fox: one evening at Linton a chip pan fire started in an AMQ. This was ratherr embarrassing, as it was the F/Sgt Fire Section Chief's house. But there was a fire alarm close by, the glass was bust (always use your elbow ), the button pressed. And they waited...and waited.
All these alarms are wired to the Guardroom, they call out the Fire Section or (if flying is in progress) the civil Brigade. But the Guardroom did not react in this case until a panting messenger staggered in from the Patch. By the time the Professionals arrived on the scene, the fire was going very well indeed.
At the subsequent Enquiry the cause came to light. The Alarm connection was plugged into a socket on the Guardroom skirting boards. There had recently been a "blitz" on the Guardroom lino - the plug had been knocked half out.
Red faces all round. Moral: leave the lino alone. Danny
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Floorboards are for scrubbing , and I'm well versed in that art, too. Bumping is for linoleum (or parquet - and whoever saw that in the RAF ?)
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Union Jack - Thanks for the KR links
And thanks to all the other recent contributors. Oh, what jolly fun we had in those early days of our careers
On the subject of bumpers I am surprised that nobody has mentioned the pile of squares of carpet underlay or old blankets stacked by the door, on which one slid around on the gleaming linoleum like an inept skater. Nobody EVER walked on the lino, except the staff of course. Oh, except when we moved on, at which stage we would all contentedly scrunch around in our hobnailed boots to ensure there was a well-scratched surface for the next course to get to work on
And thanks to all the other recent contributors. Oh, what jolly fun we had in those early days of our careers
On the subject of bumpers I am surprised that nobody has mentioned the pile of squares of carpet underlay or old blankets stacked by the door, on which one slid around on the gleaming linoleum like an inept skater. Nobody EVER walked on the lino, except the staff of course. Oh, except when we moved on, at which stage we would all contentedly scrunch around in our hobnailed boots to ensure there was a well-scratched surface for the next course to get to work on
Last edited by MPN11; 10th Dec 2013 at 08:56.
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Similar but different, and thank you.
Dave Wilson,
I chuckled a few times reading your post as so much of it is familiar. Not just the joyous Basic Training, but the lead up to career choice and the CIO, but more of that later.
Union Jack,
Thank you for your 'steer' regarding the not unfamiliar principles of the Kitchen Rudder. One-armed wallpaper hangar images come to mind.
With regard to the Senior Service, my dealings with them have been confined to an issue with one of Her Majesty's submarines, (but more of that later), and I find myself totally engrossed in, and respectful of, the Dark Blue's way of things. Some stories from my past included being advised by a Light Blue colleague of mine visiting a friend at an RN shore base. Thou shalt not walk, but wait for the Liberty Boat aka bus. And being knocked out by a life buoy following a shout of "MAN OVERBOARD"...the perils of walking on Navy grass. And watching two ratings regularly walking along the block corridors with torches looking closely at the floor, ceilings, and doorways (passageways and bulkheads?). When asked why, the matter-of-fact reply of "leak checks" left him amused. Practice on land puts you in the correct frame of mind at sea, I would guess.
And thank you for your feedback. The last few evenings, I have been anxious in case my transfer of mental ramblings into type would be considered out of place here. You have helped ease my mind.
Speaking of out of place, back in the '80's, a still drunken camlobe is awoken by a chap who quietly knocked at the door and brought me a most welcome coffee, apparently ordered on my behalf. I arose out of the slumber to take in rather unfamiliar but obviously military surroundings. Opening the curtains, I had to blink a number of times before I realised that the view was very well known to me, but most certainly NOT from this angle. The coffee downed, the stealthy and discrete camlobe snuck out the back and managed to avoid the many familiar faces who would have questioned why Cpl camlobe was exiting the OM Annex.
Tony MP, where are you now?
MPN 11,
You brought another smile to my face. I had completely forgotten about the 'carpet skating' antics on the freshly bumped floors.
It is the continual comments of the little things which have helped me compile my drivel, as I made no written notes whatsoever of my career. I have relied entirely on my rather fallible memory. And I think we all chuckle at the 'little things' as much as the major faux pas.
Camlobe
Pull back, houses get smaller. Keep pulling back, houses get bigger...QUICKLY.
I chuckled a few times reading your post as so much of it is familiar. Not just the joyous Basic Training, but the lead up to career choice and the CIO, but more of that later.
Union Jack,
Thank you for your 'steer' regarding the not unfamiliar principles of the Kitchen Rudder. One-armed wallpaper hangar images come to mind.
With regard to the Senior Service, my dealings with them have been confined to an issue with one of Her Majesty's submarines, (but more of that later), and I find myself totally engrossed in, and respectful of, the Dark Blue's way of things. Some stories from my past included being advised by a Light Blue colleague of mine visiting a friend at an RN shore base. Thou shalt not walk, but wait for the Liberty Boat aka bus. And being knocked out by a life buoy following a shout of "MAN OVERBOARD"...the perils of walking on Navy grass. And watching two ratings regularly walking along the block corridors with torches looking closely at the floor, ceilings, and doorways (passageways and bulkheads?). When asked why, the matter-of-fact reply of "leak checks" left him amused. Practice on land puts you in the correct frame of mind at sea, I would guess.
And thank you for your feedback. The last few evenings, I have been anxious in case my transfer of mental ramblings into type would be considered out of place here. You have helped ease my mind.
Speaking of out of place, back in the '80's, a still drunken camlobe is awoken by a chap who quietly knocked at the door and brought me a most welcome coffee, apparently ordered on my behalf. I arose out of the slumber to take in rather unfamiliar but obviously military surroundings. Opening the curtains, I had to blink a number of times before I realised that the view was very well known to me, but most certainly NOT from this angle. The coffee downed, the stealthy and discrete camlobe snuck out the back and managed to avoid the many familiar faces who would have questioned why Cpl camlobe was exiting the OM Annex.
Tony MP, where are you now?
MPN 11,
You brought another smile to my face. I had completely forgotten about the 'carpet skating' antics on the freshly bumped floors.
It is the continual comments of the little things which have helped me compile my drivel, as I made no written notes whatsoever of my career. I have relied entirely on my rather fallible memory. And I think we all chuckle at the 'little things' as much as the major faux pas.
Camlobe
Pull back, houses get smaller. Keep pulling back, houses get bigger...QUICKLY.
All these tales of the treatment meted out to raw recruits makes me so glad that I was one of the chosen 'cream of British youth' types selected for RAFC Cranwell and a General List commission, rather than that wretched Secondary Modern place in Bedfordshire.
I recall travelling down to Grantham from King's Cross in 1968 with another chap who was also joining that day. HM had given us warrants and the journey passed quite amiably.
Upon arrival at Grantham, a kindly SNCO introduced us to our batmen, who took our luggage off to Cranwell while we were driven to College Hall in staff cars. We were greeted at the steps by a delightful chap termed the 'Cadet Wing Warrant Officer', who told us that we should make our way to the bar for pre-dinner drinks and that dinner would be served at 1900. A pleasant evening chatting to our instructors, then a 3 course meal served by the mess staff, with some very palatable wine. After coffee and port, our cars arrived to take us to our rooms next to the aerodrome, where our batmen had unpacked our luggage and turned down our beds. We were told that, as it had been a long day, breakfast would be at 0900 after which we would receive a formal welcome from the Commandant......
OK, OK - it was nothing like that! After Grantham, we were herded into a fleet of those wheezing old 32-seat coaches and driven direct to the South Brick Lines. A few minutes allowed to drop our kit in our 5 man rooms and report to 'Slasher' to be shorn like convicts, then we were fallen in and marched up to the College in our civvy clothes (jacket and tie)...plus wretched civilian hat. A few introductory words, then march back to the SBLs and get to know your room mates.
We were left alone for 24 hours apart from the usual marching, saluting and being politely yelled at by the squadron Sgt - dear old 'Uncle' Les Rodda (RIP) in my case. But then we were introduced to the delights of 'crowing'. Each night after a hurried dinner, we had to don those pale blue track suits before cleaning and polishing everything in the hut and our own RAF kit. Boots were spooned, windows polished with allegedly 'streak-free' Windowlene (it wasn't) and the floor polished with that yellow gunk and a bumper. But in our bat cave, we discovered an electric floor polisher! Thinking this would save us time, it was plugged in and switched on - only to disgorge clouds of dust and to score the bumpered floor. Ba$tard thing! Another polishing was required...
Then entered members of the Senior Entry. We had to call the hut to attention and freeze wherever we happened to be. As well as demanding answers to 'general service knowledge' and requiring us to recite 'The role of the RAF College is to provide the Service with Officers of character and ability...etc...etc', we also had to answer daft question such as:
The answers to which were:
If you answered "I don't know, Sir" to question 2, you were told to double off and find out. Some people actually did count the blasted things, but actually it was an excuse to disappear for 30 minutes and come back with the 'Entry answer'.
We also had to answer several other silly questions. The Senior Entry pilots looked down on the Senior Entry navigators, so we were instructed to answer "They eat dung and live in caves", when asked what navigators did in the RAF. Which was a bit tricky if your interrogator happened to be a navigator!
After a week or so of this, one night I was asked the stupid question about the weathercock. I looked the non-aircrew SFC in the eyes and answered "To indicate the direction of the wind I suppose, Sir!". He was too chicken to contradict, so then asked "And what do navigators do?" - knowing full well that a navigator was listening, as was a pilot and they clearly wanted to find an excuse to yell at me. "They tell pilots where to go, Sir!", I replied. To my amazement, pilot and nav fell about and the SFC muttered "Hmm....good answer" and went to find an easier target.
The purpose of all this would have been termed 'team building' today. But it was also a cheap and easy way of weeding out those who couldn't stand any pressure. Which included my train journey partner, who left after the first day!
Crowing lasted about 5-6 weeks; when we were considered worthy, we were awarded 'privilege', which meant that we could use the bar and TV rooms, rather than just the ante room - and could even leave the college once per week for the first term. But only if wearing jacket, tie...and that wretched hat if in Lincoln, Sleaford or Grantham.
I remember thinking "If blokes did 3 years in Colditz 25 years ago, I can put up with a few weeks of this" when things were getting too much - and the ever present sound of Jet Provosts kept us going as we knew that one day we'd be doing that too!
After 6 months in the SBLs, we moved to the blocks which abutted the Junior Mess Parade Ground - the JMPG was well known to us as we marched back and forth upon it many, many times. In the second year, cadets moved to College Hall; however, I was one of the many who went up to university for a much better paid, more comfortable life of lechery, Chipmunkery and the occasional lecture. I didn't return to RAFC until 1973 - by which time cadet training had ended and the Graduate Entry scheme was underway. It seemed rather alien - the SBLs had been demolished, the JMPG was now a car park, we lived in comfortable single man rooms in College Hall (now known as College Hall Officers Mess), we wore No 1 uniform for working instead of hairy blues - but the instructors seemed generally a nastier breed of officer than those we'd known in cadet days. We arrived as Plt Offs from university with varying levels of backdated seniority. Ex-Flt Cdts had a year, those with honours degrees a little more and ex-apprentices even more. But we all did 6 months after leaving university as Plt Offs - which meant that some people who arrived in the final entry of the year did so as Flt Lts without having completed Officer Training - one chap arrived actually outranking his acting Flt Lt Admin(Supply) Flt Cdr, for example! Another ex-app went from Plt Off to Flt Lt overnight during the groundschool part of our course.
With the RAF being so small nowadays, it might make sense if a modified version of the cadet system was reintroduced - including training to Wings standard on proper aeroplanes.
It certainly didn't do me any harm!
I recall travelling down to Grantham from King's Cross in 1968 with another chap who was also joining that day. HM had given us warrants and the journey passed quite amiably.
Upon arrival at Grantham, a kindly SNCO introduced us to our batmen, who took our luggage off to Cranwell while we were driven to College Hall in staff cars. We were greeted at the steps by a delightful chap termed the 'Cadet Wing Warrant Officer', who told us that we should make our way to the bar for pre-dinner drinks and that dinner would be served at 1900. A pleasant evening chatting to our instructors, then a 3 course meal served by the mess staff, with some very palatable wine. After coffee and port, our cars arrived to take us to our rooms next to the aerodrome, where our batmen had unpacked our luggage and turned down our beds. We were told that, as it had been a long day, breakfast would be at 0900 after which we would receive a formal welcome from the Commandant......
OK, OK - it was nothing like that! After Grantham, we were herded into a fleet of those wheezing old 32-seat coaches and driven direct to the South Brick Lines. A few minutes allowed to drop our kit in our 5 man rooms and report to 'Slasher' to be shorn like convicts, then we were fallen in and marched up to the College in our civvy clothes (jacket and tie)...plus wretched civilian hat. A few introductory words, then march back to the SBLs and get to know your room mates.
We were left alone for 24 hours apart from the usual marching, saluting and being politely yelled at by the squadron Sgt - dear old 'Uncle' Les Rodda (RIP) in my case. But then we were introduced to the delights of 'crowing'. Each night after a hurried dinner, we had to don those pale blue track suits before cleaning and polishing everything in the hut and our own RAF kit. Boots were spooned, windows polished with allegedly 'streak-free' Windowlene (it wasn't) and the floor polished with that yellow gunk and a bumper. But in our bat cave, we discovered an electric floor polisher! Thinking this would save us time, it was plugged in and switched on - only to disgorge clouds of dust and to score the bumpered floor. Ba$tard thing! Another polishing was required...
Then entered members of the Senior Entry. We had to call the hut to attention and freeze wherever we happened to be. As well as demanding answers to 'general service knowledge' and requiring us to recite 'The role of the RAF College is to provide the Service with Officers of character and ability...etc...etc', we also had to answer daft question such as:
- How often does 'Winking Willie' (the inland lighthouse on top of the college) flash?
- How many railings are there in front of College Hall?
- Why is there a weathercock on top of College Hall?
The answers to which were:
- It doesn't flash, Sir - it rotates at 3.47 rpm.
- 2. ?
- 3. Because if there was a weather**** (rude name for a specific part of a female..), the rain would get in and the Senior Entry carpet would get wet!
If you answered "I don't know, Sir" to question 2, you were told to double off and find out. Some people actually did count the blasted things, but actually it was an excuse to disappear for 30 minutes and come back with the 'Entry answer'.
We also had to answer several other silly questions. The Senior Entry pilots looked down on the Senior Entry navigators, so we were instructed to answer "They eat dung and live in caves", when asked what navigators did in the RAF. Which was a bit tricky if your interrogator happened to be a navigator!
After a week or so of this, one night I was asked the stupid question about the weathercock. I looked the non-aircrew SFC in the eyes and answered "To indicate the direction of the wind I suppose, Sir!". He was too chicken to contradict, so then asked "And what do navigators do?" - knowing full well that a navigator was listening, as was a pilot and they clearly wanted to find an excuse to yell at me. "They tell pilots where to go, Sir!", I replied. To my amazement, pilot and nav fell about and the SFC muttered "Hmm....good answer" and went to find an easier target.
The purpose of all this would have been termed 'team building' today. But it was also a cheap and easy way of weeding out those who couldn't stand any pressure. Which included my train journey partner, who left after the first day!
Crowing lasted about 5-6 weeks; when we were considered worthy, we were awarded 'privilege', which meant that we could use the bar and TV rooms, rather than just the ante room - and could even leave the college once per week for the first term. But only if wearing jacket, tie...and that wretched hat if in Lincoln, Sleaford or Grantham.
I remember thinking "If blokes did 3 years in Colditz 25 years ago, I can put up with a few weeks of this" when things were getting too much - and the ever present sound of Jet Provosts kept us going as we knew that one day we'd be doing that too!
After 6 months in the SBLs, we moved to the blocks which abutted the Junior Mess Parade Ground - the JMPG was well known to us as we marched back and forth upon it many, many times. In the second year, cadets moved to College Hall; however, I was one of the many who went up to university for a much better paid, more comfortable life of lechery, Chipmunkery and the occasional lecture. I didn't return to RAFC until 1973 - by which time cadet training had ended and the Graduate Entry scheme was underway. It seemed rather alien - the SBLs had been demolished, the JMPG was now a car park, we lived in comfortable single man rooms in College Hall (now known as College Hall Officers Mess), we wore No 1 uniform for working instead of hairy blues - but the instructors seemed generally a nastier breed of officer than those we'd known in cadet days. We arrived as Plt Offs from university with varying levels of backdated seniority. Ex-Flt Cdts had a year, those with honours degrees a little more and ex-apprentices even more. But we all did 6 months after leaving university as Plt Offs - which meant that some people who arrived in the final entry of the year did so as Flt Lts without having completed Officer Training - one chap arrived actually outranking his acting Flt Lt Admin(Supply) Flt Cdr, for example! Another ex-app went from Plt Off to Flt Lt overnight during the groundschool part of our course.
With the RAF being so small nowadays, it might make sense if a modified version of the cadet system was reintroduced - including training to Wings standard on proper aeroplanes.
It certainly didn't do me any harm!
Last edited by BEagle; 10th Dec 2013 at 15:18.
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From Cardington to El Adem An interesting read which took all of yesterday evening. Skipped the more technical bits.
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“Chocks away”, as MPN11 joins the 20-minuters ...
... or, more accurately, MPN11 joins the 9h 55m community. However, at least he has the air beneath his wings!
Prequel. It was in July 1962 that MPN11 first staggered into the air as a student. Not a virgin, exactly - he had already acquired a Gliding B Licence, and several hours Air Experience, with the cadets. But this was the start of his PPL course, on an ATC Flying Scholarship at Oxford/Kidlington. In a Piper Colt … a non-punchy little American armchair flying machine, with a nose wheel undercarriage, two seats and the ability to bimble around fairly safely. My early instructors, Messrs Johnson and Murphy, showed me which end was up (the Colt is non-aerobatic, so that was easy) and after 5h 35m, I was deemed fit to perform my first solo C&L.
Blah, blah, blah … usual stuff, which included one 30m sortie in a Chipmunk to do Stalling, Spinning and Aerobatics properly, instead of managing the Colt’s general inclination to mush in a downwards direction if you got things badly wrong. Eventually, on 15 Aug 62, I passed my FHT and that was effectively that. I were a Pie Lot. With 30h 15m under my belt!
_____
Anyway, reality arrived on 20 Nov 63, when our BRNC course started the Flying Grading phase at Roborough. Was I bovvered? Did I look bovvered??
We were introduced to our steeds, aka the De Havilland D.H.82A Tiger Moth. At the time, they were fairly new. BB694 and BB814 were ex-civil registrations, impressed into service in 1940, whereas T8191was part of a batch of 2,000 built by Morris Motors in the same timescale. Oh, come on, they were only 23 years old … look at some of the stuff the RAF is still flying!! This one was “mine’ for most of the time (link to avoid copyright issues) with three stripes of Dayglo on the cowling … De Havilland DH.82A Tiger Moth, T8191, Royal Navy
And, so equipped, we set off to perform Serials 6,7,8,9,10 of the syllabus (I assume 1-5 involved things like reading Pilots Notes?), which was the usual stuff … effect of controls, climb, descend, balanced turns, stalling and spinning. Then an Interim Test with the Senior QFI, and then Serials 11 and 12 which were repeated endlessly - I’m guessing that was Circuits and Landings. Round and round, like moths around a candle, we buzzed our way round the Roborough circuit with the brief respite of Serial 14 (whatever that was, with a different QFI - more spinning?) and a Final Test before yet more 11 & 12. “Summary for Course 9h 55m”, and on 6 Dec 63 that was that, the end of the Flying Grading Phase. Nothing was said - it was just another step on the road. And we returned to boat work, studies, running everywhere and generally being ‘victims’.
_____
Sadly, despite my previous massive experience, I discovered that the Tiger Moth displayed an irritating reluctance to land properly. Above 50ft agl, everything was fine … reasonably accurate, balanced and generally “OK” from my POV. But could I land this dainty, tail-dragging, bouncing flying machine? Awful - simply awful. My time on a docile tricycle gear Colt didn’t help at all - the Tiger just kept bloody flying!
Now I don’t know what ‘training strategy’ was being employed (if any) but after the third trip I was given to a new instructor (they were all civilians). Mr L**** P was the son of the Boss (Mr L**** L) of the grading outfit. And he was a shouter. He bellowed at you to “Get in the bloody aircraft, we haven’t got all day!”, “Get the bloody straps done up, we’re supposed to be flying!”. You get the drift? So, Mr L**** P and I thrashed around in “his” T8191 doing the usual stuff … ‘Upper Air’ work, Stalling and Spinning, C&L. Well, not a lot of “L” to be honest, as that usually resulted in a bellowed “I have control. Christ, they’re sending me bloody tram drivers these days.”
You will easily envisage that, by this stage, all my confidence in the ability to fly an aircraft (or at least land one) was becoming a distant pinprick on the horizon. I don’t recall much in the way of ‘teaching’ either, just a case of “Do it again and get it right this time.” The couple of check-rides with his father (Mr L**** L) In BB694 were less stressful in one sense, in that he didn’t shout and scream, and more so in the obvious other.
_____
And so, some 3 months later, to the end of course Exams. I did fairly well, it seemed, out of our little band of 21 … 1st in Science, Navigation, Torpedo/Anti-Submarine, 2nd in Supply, 4th in Communications, Naval History, Seamanship … a disappointing 9th in Maths, Mechanics & Theory of Flight (I used to teach that stuff as a CCF/ATC cadet!) and a dismal 15th (but a pass) in Gunnery. However, the roof fell in. Without an “Admiralty Warning” or two, which was apparently the norm, and with just 3 days to go to Graduation parade, I was binned. Period. Pack bag and go (one bag and a pillow-case, actually - how sweet). Goodbye … and I see that my Course Summary in my FORM S.1175 Pilots Flying Log was dated 26 Mar 64 - and left unsigned by Lt Cdr Air. Thanks for that, Andrew
The only bright moment was during clearing with the GIs, when PO McCurragh observed “I assume you will no be needing those boots of yours, Mr MPN11? I wonder if I might have them?” I have this vision, still, of my immaculately bulled boots, shining like glass (even along the welts and on the sole) being held up as a example to terrify future intakes into achieving a better standard
Subsequent correspondence with the RN, involving our MP (ex-Guards and SAS), led to an apology from Dartmouth and an admission that they hadn’t handled my case very well. Apparently I should at least have been offered a further 3 months to provide an opportunity for ‘further development’. I was subsequently offered 3 months at sea with the Dartmouth Training Squadron, with the prospect of becoming a ship-driver - but no further attempt at Flying Grading, as they he'd decided my flying was not up to the required standard. Stuff that - I wanted to be a pilot (flying) and not a driver (ships). And so I declined their less-than-generous offer, and became theoretically RN (Retd). However, it appeared that Mr L**** P also spun in, and was not further employed in the “Flaying Grinding” role, so I guess that was 15-15 … and I now needed another career.
Bitter? No.
Pi$$ed off? Yes!
Did it get better? YES!! I went into the RAF!!
Prequel. It was in July 1962 that MPN11 first staggered into the air as a student. Not a virgin, exactly - he had already acquired a Gliding B Licence, and several hours Air Experience, with the cadets. But this was the start of his PPL course, on an ATC Flying Scholarship at Oxford/Kidlington. In a Piper Colt … a non-punchy little American armchair flying machine, with a nose wheel undercarriage, two seats and the ability to bimble around fairly safely. My early instructors, Messrs Johnson and Murphy, showed me which end was up (the Colt is non-aerobatic, so that was easy) and after 5h 35m, I was deemed fit to perform my first solo C&L.
Blah, blah, blah … usual stuff, which included one 30m sortie in a Chipmunk to do Stalling, Spinning and Aerobatics properly, instead of managing the Colt’s general inclination to mush in a downwards direction if you got things badly wrong. Eventually, on 15 Aug 62, I passed my FHT and that was effectively that. I were a Pie Lot. With 30h 15m under my belt!
_____
Anyway, reality arrived on 20 Nov 63, when our BRNC course started the Flying Grading phase at Roborough. Was I bovvered? Did I look bovvered??
We were introduced to our steeds, aka the De Havilland D.H.82A Tiger Moth. At the time, they were fairly new. BB694 and BB814 were ex-civil registrations, impressed into service in 1940, whereas T8191was part of a batch of 2,000 built by Morris Motors in the same timescale. Oh, come on, they were only 23 years old … look at some of the stuff the RAF is still flying!! This one was “mine’ for most of the time (link to avoid copyright issues) with three stripes of Dayglo on the cowling … De Havilland DH.82A Tiger Moth, T8191, Royal Navy
And, so equipped, we set off to perform Serials 6,7,8,9,10 of the syllabus (I assume 1-5 involved things like reading Pilots Notes?), which was the usual stuff … effect of controls, climb, descend, balanced turns, stalling and spinning. Then an Interim Test with the Senior QFI, and then Serials 11 and 12 which were repeated endlessly - I’m guessing that was Circuits and Landings. Round and round, like moths around a candle, we buzzed our way round the Roborough circuit with the brief respite of Serial 14 (whatever that was, with a different QFI - more spinning?) and a Final Test before yet more 11 & 12. “Summary for Course 9h 55m”, and on 6 Dec 63 that was that, the end of the Flying Grading Phase. Nothing was said - it was just another step on the road. And we returned to boat work, studies, running everywhere and generally being ‘victims’.
_____
Sadly, despite my previous massive experience, I discovered that the Tiger Moth displayed an irritating reluctance to land properly. Above 50ft agl, everything was fine … reasonably accurate, balanced and generally “OK” from my POV. But could I land this dainty, tail-dragging, bouncing flying machine? Awful - simply awful. My time on a docile tricycle gear Colt didn’t help at all - the Tiger just kept bloody flying!
Now I don’t know what ‘training strategy’ was being employed (if any) but after the third trip I was given to a new instructor (they were all civilians). Mr L**** P was the son of the Boss (Mr L**** L) of the grading outfit. And he was a shouter. He bellowed at you to “Get in the bloody aircraft, we haven’t got all day!”, “Get the bloody straps done up, we’re supposed to be flying!”. You get the drift? So, Mr L**** P and I thrashed around in “his” T8191 doing the usual stuff … ‘Upper Air’ work, Stalling and Spinning, C&L. Well, not a lot of “L” to be honest, as that usually resulted in a bellowed “I have control. Christ, they’re sending me bloody tram drivers these days.”
You will easily envisage that, by this stage, all my confidence in the ability to fly an aircraft (or at least land one) was becoming a distant pinprick on the horizon. I don’t recall much in the way of ‘teaching’ either, just a case of “Do it again and get it right this time.” The couple of check-rides with his father (Mr L**** L) In BB694 were less stressful in one sense, in that he didn’t shout and scream, and more so in the obvious other.
_____
And so, some 3 months later, to the end of course Exams. I did fairly well, it seemed, out of our little band of 21 … 1st in Science, Navigation, Torpedo/Anti-Submarine, 2nd in Supply, 4th in Communications, Naval History, Seamanship … a disappointing 9th in Maths, Mechanics & Theory of Flight (I used to teach that stuff as a CCF/ATC cadet!) and a dismal 15th (but a pass) in Gunnery. However, the roof fell in. Without an “Admiralty Warning” or two, which was apparently the norm, and with just 3 days to go to Graduation parade, I was binned. Period. Pack bag and go (one bag and a pillow-case, actually - how sweet). Goodbye … and I see that my Course Summary in my FORM S.1175 Pilots Flying Log was dated 26 Mar 64 - and left unsigned by Lt Cdr Air. Thanks for that, Andrew
The only bright moment was during clearing with the GIs, when PO McCurragh observed “I assume you will no be needing those boots of yours, Mr MPN11? I wonder if I might have them?” I have this vision, still, of my immaculately bulled boots, shining like glass (even along the welts and on the sole) being held up as a example to terrify future intakes into achieving a better standard
Subsequent correspondence with the RN, involving our MP (ex-Guards and SAS), led to an apology from Dartmouth and an admission that they hadn’t handled my case very well. Apparently I should at least have been offered a further 3 months to provide an opportunity for ‘further development’. I was subsequently offered 3 months at sea with the Dartmouth Training Squadron, with the prospect of becoming a ship-driver - but no further attempt at Flying Grading, as they he'd decided my flying was not up to the required standard. Stuff that - I wanted to be a pilot (flying) and not a driver (ships). And so I declined their less-than-generous offer, and became theoretically RN (Retd). However, it appeared that Mr L**** P also spun in, and was not further employed in the “Flaying Grinding” role, so I guess that was 15-15 … and I now needed another career.
Bitter? No.
Pi$$ed off? Yes!
Did it get better? YES!! I went into the RAF!!
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Spray that again?
BEagle,
How dare you, sir. Your intro is responsible for my soaking wet iPad. Had me in stitches. The non-fiction version was still eye opening.
Camlobe
How dare you, sir. Your intro is responsible for my soaking wet iPad. Had me in stitches. The non-fiction version was still eye opening.
Camlobe
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Yes BEagle had me going there for a moment with his intro. (Alright for some, mutter, mutter)
Probably what he thought it would be like, before reality kicked in.
The shock when getting off the coach, at my squarebashing camp, to the sight and sound of screaming DI's was quite a frightening experience
)Probably what he thought it would be like, before reality kicked in.
The shock when getting off the coach, at my squarebashing camp, to the sight and sound of screaming DI's was quite a frightening experience
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MPN11,
I couldn't read your #4721 without a pang. The USAAC "washed out" 40% of the British cadets they took in on the Arnold Scheme. I am absolutely sure that on a RAF EFTS almost all of these people would have gone on to become successful Squadron pilots - and how we needed them at that stage of the war !
So you bounced around a bit in a TM. Who didn't ? (I recall my lamentable performance in one, flying it for the first time, having just been converted onto the Meteor).
Across the years, you must still feel it. I can only commiserate, sir.
Danny.
P.S. Fine Pic: (The Ace of the Base)
I couldn't read your #4721 without a pang. The USAAC "washed out" 40% of the British cadets they took in on the Arnold Scheme. I am absolutely sure that on a RAF EFTS almost all of these people would have gone on to become successful Squadron pilots - and how we needed them at that stage of the war !
So you bounced around a bit in a TM. Who didn't ? (I recall my lamentable performance in one, flying it for the first time, having just been converted onto the Meteor).
Across the years, you must still feel it. I can only commiserate, sir.
Danny.
P.S. Fine Pic: (The Ace of the Base)
Last edited by Danny42C; 10th Dec 2013 at 15:27. Reason: ADD TEXT.
'Cadet Wing Warrant Officer', who told us that we should make our way to the bar for pre-dinner drinks and that dinner would be served at 1900 - BEagle
Appreciating that the opening part was a wind-up, 1900 sounds more like high tea!
Jack
Appreciating that the opening part was a wind-up, 1900 sounds more like high tea!
Jack
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AOC's and parades, oh, and a flight.
MPN 11,
What a dashing figure you cut, with Mk 1 bonedome, complete with cloth inner. Must have been an excellent piece of good quality, high value, great performance equipment as we were still using these operationally almost 30 years later!!
I think it was very accommodating and decent of the Dark Blue to give you some free flying before you moved on to better things.
The Piper PA 20 Colt. A very popular machine these days for many grass strip Private Pilots. I have a great liking for its big brother, the PA 22 Tri-Pacer. Four seats, flaps, three choices of larger engines, 135 hp, 150 hp and 160 hp (as opposed to the Colts 108), but all manufactured in the 1950's. The Tripacer is a true short-strip, load-lugging delight to fly.
Ahh, Chipmunks...a bit later.
Goudie,
It worked on me. It was the first time in my pleasant and refined upbringing that someone was shouting AND swearing at me all day, or so it seemed.
Back on track.
Around the fourth week of our fully paid for holiday camp, the Discip Sergeant and Corporal smiled in the same way I am sure a vulture lets it's next meal know its future. We are advised just how fortunate we are in having the Annual AOC's inspection soon, and how we will make sure that everything will be ready for his visit. The pathetic standards we had employed up to know regarding our block would no longer be acceptable, and we would have to pull out all the stops to make everything perfect. The only thing we were pulling out was our hair. How could we possibly better the immaculate standard we had reached through blood, toil, tears and sweat? The answer, of course, was "Practice". And on top of this wonderous news, we were gong to be carrying out our new found skills in Drill for the AOC's Parade, but only after...you have guessed it...Practice. My memory of this next week or so is a blur of Bull, Drill, Bull, Drill...you get the picture. We are advised that the AOC is only just below the Almighty, and therefore a very busy person, and as such, if approached by said AOC, our answers are "Yes, Sir". No smiling, no engaging in long diatribes, and "MAKE #$<*+? SURE YOU ARE STOOD AT ATTENTION". And then, we are advised, if anyone of us would like to speak directly to the AOC about anything at all, apply in writing in triplicate, be interviewed by the whole chain of command, and if then approved, you can ask the AOC your question. Strangely enough, everyone declined the offer.
Come the day of the AOC's annual Inspection of RAF Swinderby. AVM Peter Bairsto, like one or two members of out crew room, started his service in the Royal Navy, and then saw sense two years later (camlobe seeking cover now), although he did initially join the RAF Regiment, he later went GD (wiki is your friend). The weather was dry, so our parade was outside, and I think there may have been a flypast, but I don't remember. Strangely, I have no recollection of anything flying at Swinderby, but I believe Chipmunks were based there at the time, and indeed were many years later. Perhaps I was too busy with Bull, Drill etc to remember. My only recollections of my first AOC's inspection were, I'm sure he never saw our block, let alone inspected it; and in the mess for lunch, I can remember a few eager recruits running into the mess...well, actually, into the AOC. The first recruit looked up with absolute and abject horror, froze, and then gave the fastest salute in history. Pity the moment was spoilt by his lack of headgear.
Some time probably nearer the beginning of our introduction to the RAF, we piled onto those wonderful and asthmatic Bedford Buses, and headed off camp, along the Lincoln Road, and passed one of the most awe inspiring sights of my aviation career. Acres of mighty AVRO Vulcan bombers spread over, I think, RAF Waddington. I couldn't count how many there were, it must have been at least ten thousand, must be. What a eyeful. Britain's airborne nuclear deterrent, laid out for me to gape at. Then I heard a "WOW". I wasn't the only one gobsmacked by this majestic view. And then we turned into the main gate. We were going to get even closer. The faithful old bus took us to VASF where we had our next shock. There, parked in its spotless and gleaming glory was a Vickers VC10. It was huge, and ginormous, and just...big. And WE were going flying in it. US. Wow indeed. The rearward facing seats were a surprise (but genuinely far safer than the norm), but we didn't care. Don't ask me how long the flight was, or where we went. Don't remember. But I do remember the thrown forward against the seat belts on initial acceleration, and the thrown against the seat back on reverse thrust. Our first introduction to a small (in those days) part of the RAf's fleet had left a deep impression.
All of a sudden, it's our turn to be passing out. Rain, so we are inside. The echo ruins any chance of the flight at the front being in step with those further back, especially with the bands inputs. But we march in perfect time like a graceful machine because we know that we are the ones in step. The Reviewing Officer takes the salute, mingles and enquires. No memories of a flypast. Then meeting mother and father, who came to watch, hopefully with pride.
We made it. We are in the RAF now. For me, it is the first part of a lifelong dream. The journey has been long and there were some incredibly difficult hurdles to overcome. But, I MADE it.
Camlobe
Come in number 9, your time is up. Boss, we only have 8 boats. Number 6, have you any difficulties?
What a dashing figure you cut, with Mk 1 bonedome, complete with cloth inner. Must have been an excellent piece of good quality, high value, great performance equipment as we were still using these operationally almost 30 years later!!
I think it was very accommodating and decent of the Dark Blue to give you some free flying before you moved on to better things.
The Piper PA 20 Colt. A very popular machine these days for many grass strip Private Pilots. I have a great liking for its big brother, the PA 22 Tri-Pacer. Four seats, flaps, three choices of larger engines, 135 hp, 150 hp and 160 hp (as opposed to the Colts 108), but all manufactured in the 1950's. The Tripacer is a true short-strip, load-lugging delight to fly.
Ahh, Chipmunks...a bit later.
Goudie,
It worked on me. It was the first time in my pleasant and refined upbringing that someone was shouting AND swearing at me all day, or so it seemed.
Back on track.
Around the fourth week of our fully paid for holiday camp, the Discip Sergeant and Corporal smiled in the same way I am sure a vulture lets it's next meal know its future. We are advised just how fortunate we are in having the Annual AOC's inspection soon, and how we will make sure that everything will be ready for his visit. The pathetic standards we had employed up to know regarding our block would no longer be acceptable, and we would have to pull out all the stops to make everything perfect. The only thing we were pulling out was our hair. How could we possibly better the immaculate standard we had reached through blood, toil, tears and sweat? The answer, of course, was "Practice". And on top of this wonderous news, we were gong to be carrying out our new found skills in Drill for the AOC's Parade, but only after...you have guessed it...Practice. My memory of this next week or so is a blur of Bull, Drill, Bull, Drill...you get the picture. We are advised that the AOC is only just below the Almighty, and therefore a very busy person, and as such, if approached by said AOC, our answers are "Yes, Sir". No smiling, no engaging in long diatribes, and "MAKE #$<*+? SURE YOU ARE STOOD AT ATTENTION". And then, we are advised, if anyone of us would like to speak directly to the AOC about anything at all, apply in writing in triplicate, be interviewed by the whole chain of command, and if then approved, you can ask the AOC your question. Strangely enough, everyone declined the offer.
Come the day of the AOC's annual Inspection of RAF Swinderby. AVM Peter Bairsto, like one or two members of out crew room, started his service in the Royal Navy, and then saw sense two years later (camlobe seeking cover now), although he did initially join the RAF Regiment, he later went GD (wiki is your friend). The weather was dry, so our parade was outside, and I think there may have been a flypast, but I don't remember. Strangely, I have no recollection of anything flying at Swinderby, but I believe Chipmunks were based there at the time, and indeed were many years later. Perhaps I was too busy with Bull, Drill etc to remember. My only recollections of my first AOC's inspection were, I'm sure he never saw our block, let alone inspected it; and in the mess for lunch, I can remember a few eager recruits running into the mess...well, actually, into the AOC. The first recruit looked up with absolute and abject horror, froze, and then gave the fastest salute in history. Pity the moment was spoilt by his lack of headgear.
Some time probably nearer the beginning of our introduction to the RAF, we piled onto those wonderful and asthmatic Bedford Buses, and headed off camp, along the Lincoln Road, and passed one of the most awe inspiring sights of my aviation career. Acres of mighty AVRO Vulcan bombers spread over, I think, RAF Waddington. I couldn't count how many there were, it must have been at least ten thousand, must be. What a eyeful. Britain's airborne nuclear deterrent, laid out for me to gape at. Then I heard a "WOW". I wasn't the only one gobsmacked by this majestic view. And then we turned into the main gate. We were going to get even closer. The faithful old bus took us to VASF where we had our next shock. There, parked in its spotless and gleaming glory was a Vickers VC10. It was huge, and ginormous, and just...big. And WE were going flying in it. US. Wow indeed. The rearward facing seats were a surprise (but genuinely far safer than the norm), but we didn't care. Don't ask me how long the flight was, or where we went. Don't remember. But I do remember the thrown forward against the seat belts on initial acceleration, and the thrown against the seat back on reverse thrust. Our first introduction to a small (in those days) part of the RAf's fleet had left a deep impression.
All of a sudden, it's our turn to be passing out. Rain, so we are inside. The echo ruins any chance of the flight at the front being in step with those further back, especially with the bands inputs. But we march in perfect time like a graceful machine because we know that we are the ones in step. The Reviewing Officer takes the salute, mingles and enquires. No memories of a flypast. Then meeting mother and father, who came to watch, hopefully with pride.
We made it. We are in the RAF now. For me, it is the first part of a lifelong dream. The journey has been long and there were some incredibly difficult hurdles to overcome. But, I MADE it.
Camlobe
Come in number 9, your time is up. Boss, we only have 8 boats. Number 6, have you any difficulties?
I well remember us taking the Hastings and later the Hercules to Waddo for recruit flying. I suspect the hour down the back of the Herc did not exactly have the effect their airships hoped !