A Weather-Guesser's Memories with the RAF
I can but endorse the welcome to what promises to be a fascinating and instructive experience as we peer behind the scenes of the personal met brief that was the luxury enjoyed by RAF Transport and Civilian Airline crews alike. Station forecasters knew their own backyard like the back of their hands and so could predict the timing of, for example, early morning fog with impressive accuracy. "What time are you due back?", About 0200, "Well don't leave it too late, Bath Eastern will be becoming fogged out by then and by 0400 so shall we", (we then being RAF Colerne). All that changed when Dunstable laid down the law and insisted that the central forecast was supreme and local forecasters were not to 'modify' it in any way, so you were just given the DS solution and the printout as though being handed holy script.
Meteorology has always been the butt of dissatisfied recipients. The BBC forecast in particular could be wildly in error, with much complaining from housewives who had taken a punt on its encouraging tone only to have their washing get an unexpected extra rinse cycle while hanging out on their washing lines. I remember my Physics master exclaiming in the late 50s that he had more confidence in his hall barometer than what the Home Service offered for the day's weather. It was a different world then and Met men indeed needed thick skins.
In truth though Met has always been an integral part of Flight Safety, and hence a force multiplier. Its product was considered Top Secret in the war, to be denied to the enemy at all costs. That D-Day forecast was a war winner in its own right.
Meteorology has always been the butt of dissatisfied recipients. The BBC forecast in particular could be wildly in error, with much complaining from housewives who had taken a punt on its encouraging tone only to have their washing get an unexpected extra rinse cycle while hanging out on their washing lines. I remember my Physics master exclaiming in the late 50s that he had more confidence in his hall barometer than what the Home Service offered for the day's weather. It was a different world then and Met men indeed needed thick skins.
In truth though Met has always been an integral part of Flight Safety, and hence a force multiplier. Its product was considered Top Secret in the war, to be denied to the enemy at all costs. That D-Day forecast was a war winner in its own right.
The following 2 users liked this post by Chugalug2:
Even now, some 12 years since I threw my flying kit in the corner, my wife still looks out the window in the morning and if the weather is c**p says "Ten o'clock clearance dear?"
The following 3 users liked this post by Shackman:
Join Date: Sep 2007
Location: devon
Posts: 5
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Thread Starter
Joyce and I and a very young army officer were ushered into one room, and everyone else into a larger. A smart RAF officer thrust a bag at me, said I was senior officer on board the RAF Britannia, so take care of this and hand it in when you arrive. Me guvnor? Apparently a MoD Met. Assistant Experimental Officer outranked a second-lieutenant by a whisker, but rank meant nothing [and never did, except for the Mess subs] so I passed the buck. The flight was my first, and was backwards [seat configuration] and took forever. Nicosia at 0600 in April was magical, the smell of pine and spices is with me still. We were shagged-out, so S Met O kindly took us for a round-the-island car tour for a couple of hours. I was the first forecaster not to be armed with a pistol, the EOKA threat having been downgraded. We were expected to wear officer-cut KD, no badges, and join the Mess. Waiting for a Quarter on station, we had a hiring in Ayios Dimetios and a new VW Beetle. My wife, now pregnant, was the only licenced driver so took me to work and back home for about a year. The job was “Airfield Met” looking after resident RAF Hastings and visiting Javelins, and also all civil flights because Nicosia was joint-user. The station commander was Mickey Martin of DamBuster fame. Every morning he did a round of Met., Ops and ATC, all neighbours. In each he would pat his pockets, search for a cigarette, accept a freebie, beg a light, exchange pleasantries, and move on. Pat, fag, light, move. He was said to be the best low-level bomber pilot of the war, and at Nicosia he used to fly a Hastings through the Kyrenia Pass. Our big problem was the sea-breeze if it reached the airfield. This came late morning if at all, and brought a wicked wind-reversal. I wangled several flights in AAC choppers to fly instruments into the breeze to get some sort of science into forecasting, with modest success.
And then a RAFP Alsatian nearly had my manhood for a snack.
And then a RAFP Alsatian nearly had my manhood for a snack.
Last edited by langleybaston; 5th Apr 2024 at 11:20. Reason: for **** read shot
The following 11 users liked this post by langleybaston:
I hope LB will forgive me for posting this but it was irresistible!
LB, I trust that your 'customers' had faith in your forecasts and didn't feel the need to turn to prayer like Patton as in this clip:
I recall a beautiful morning at Linton on Ouse, cavok. Mid seventies. All trooped into met brief, metman promises more cavok all day. Sit through atc brief, stude reads extract from flying order book.
This is conducted in a curtained briefing room to facilitate the ohp legibility.
All troop out again, braced for searing sunshine only to find a pea souper.. 15 minutes transition. Only saw it the once.
Shouts for a new met brief went ignored.
This is conducted in a curtained briefing room to facilitate the ohp legibility.
All troop out again, braced for searing sunshine only to find a pea souper.. 15 minutes transition. Only saw it the once.
Shouts for a new met brief went ignored.
Thread Starter
In those days all junior forecasters were passed as observers so the tradition was to allow the observer an hour sack time 0001 to 0100 Zulu when observations from all sources were staggering in. The forecaster did both jobs. We all had RAF airfield passes on lanyards and habitually took them off once inside the office. Even at Nicosia there was sometimes low stratus so the height of cloud base needed to be measured by cloud searchlight. One dark night I made my way to the post holding the sighting alidade, on a little roundabout, disguised by shrubs and with the mandatory white kerbstones. After noting the degrees, I was taken a bit short so decided the bushes were as good as anywhere. The dog’s hot breath interrupted my flow. With button flies agape and no ID, and only a stupid tale to tell I was escorted to the Met. Office, where there was nobody awake to vouch for me. The snowdrop saw the funny side of it, we had a coffee, and the dog a saucer of milk.
The sting was that I had forgotten the angle, so had to repeat the more conventional part of the exercise.
On more serious notes [and almost unbelievably] I cannot recall any flap, any awareness even, of the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. No unusual movements, no tightened security, zilch. The news of the assassination of President Kennedy was broken at a party on OMQs in Comet Crescent. The party ended, some in tears.
Bloody Christmas 1963 , when Greek v Turk communal violence broke out in Nicosia and spread rapidly, disturbed RAF Nicosia like an anthill poked by a stick. Only two other forecasters lived on camp inside the wire, but they were not current, C Met. O. and his deputy. Within hours all personnel off base were told to stay indoors, and not a few forecasters had bullet holes in walls and broken windows. They were sustained by armed convoys carrying huge Union flags over the next few weeks. The Regiment emplaced a Vickers .303 at the bottom of my garden in Comet Crescent, and a Bofors next door but two. Thus we stocked up with NAAFI tea, coffee, sugar, milk and Jammy Dodgers and adopted ‘our’ gunners.
C Met. O, a Scotsman’s Scotsman, was unwisely outside the wire one day and was stopped at a Greek roadblock, shoved against a wall and frisked. “Ah, English, is OK, you can go!” To his shame he confessed to being English.
Workwise the three remaining Met. Men kept the airbridge supplied with forecasts. Large numbers of military were trooped in, and families near TOUREX were compulsorily sent home after some very cursory march-outs. These included my little family [a daughter and son had been born] and that is when my daughter learned to swear like a sailor. I went to live in a Mess bungalow [two to a room] and the Turkish orderly kindly offered me one of his very clean daughters, because I must be in need of solace.
We worked 8 hours on, 16 off for what seemed like a long, long time, and I have no idea what arrangements were made after I flew out exactly three years after arrival, April Fool’s Day. In those circumstances one doesn’t look back.
Leeming next stop.
The sting was that I had forgotten the angle, so had to repeat the more conventional part of the exercise.
On more serious notes [and almost unbelievably] I cannot recall any flap, any awareness even, of the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. No unusual movements, no tightened security, zilch. The news of the assassination of President Kennedy was broken at a party on OMQs in Comet Crescent. The party ended, some in tears.
Bloody Christmas 1963 , when Greek v Turk communal violence broke out in Nicosia and spread rapidly, disturbed RAF Nicosia like an anthill poked by a stick. Only two other forecasters lived on camp inside the wire, but they were not current, C Met. O. and his deputy. Within hours all personnel off base were told to stay indoors, and not a few forecasters had bullet holes in walls and broken windows. They were sustained by armed convoys carrying huge Union flags over the next few weeks. The Regiment emplaced a Vickers .303 at the bottom of my garden in Comet Crescent, and a Bofors next door but two. Thus we stocked up with NAAFI tea, coffee, sugar, milk and Jammy Dodgers and adopted ‘our’ gunners.
C Met. O, a Scotsman’s Scotsman, was unwisely outside the wire one day and was stopped at a Greek roadblock, shoved against a wall and frisked. “Ah, English, is OK, you can go!” To his shame he confessed to being English.
Workwise the three remaining Met. Men kept the airbridge supplied with forecasts. Large numbers of military were trooped in, and families near TOUREX were compulsorily sent home after some very cursory march-outs. These included my little family [a daughter and son had been born] and that is when my daughter learned to swear like a sailor. I went to live in a Mess bungalow [two to a room] and the Turkish orderly kindly offered me one of his very clean daughters, because I must be in need of solace.
We worked 8 hours on, 16 off for what seemed like a long, long time, and I have no idea what arrangements were made after I flew out exactly three years after arrival, April Fool’s Day. In those circumstances one doesn’t look back.
Leeming next stop.
Last edited by langleybaston; 5th Apr 2024 at 11:21. Reason: for **** read shot
The following 16 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Gentleman Aviator
1980s, Vale of York. Fog at CF - 10 O'Clock clearance said the metman (every day). The crewroom clock had 10 for every hour digit. Lovely people; terrible liars!
"What time is the 10 o'clock clearance today?"
The following 2 users liked this post by teeteringhead:
Thread Starter
Meanwhile, what of the Ferranti Mercury [ours was called Meteor] forecast outputs using a three atmospheric level model operating on Europe and the western Atlantic? Whereas the essential equations [including those of water, always a big problem] were known, there was zero operational value. There were two problems, insuperable at the time, and originating in the slow and limited valve computer. One was the finite boundaries, from which errors spread alarmingly into the area of interest. The other was slowness; by the time a model run was completed, real time was past the time of the prediction. We were still in the steam age, albeit international leaders. A faster computer was needed.
I arrived Home with a Cypriot driving licence, not valid here. That was understandable; such licences were only gained by the driving instructor bribing the examiner with my NAAFI whisky. The instructor then bribed the professional queuer [yes, truly, they occupied half the long queue] at the Licence Office with yet more whisky plus cash. I also came home with a car, a big deposit for a £2800 three-bed semi and two genuine Rolexes. I still have the watches but cannot afford maintenance. My £140 Seiko keeps better time.
The posting to Leeming was very fortunate. The S Met. O Roger was a well-spoken, well-dressed good man to work for. The customer was 3 FTS with their new JPs, and I am certain that we dealt with more than a few Meteor night fighters with cockpits like greenhouses. Roger did the lecturing [later it was called ‘teaching’] and three young forecasters covered whatever hours the flying programme demanded. I learned a harsh lesson in responsibility by going home to Thirsk an hour before the last night flight landed. The justifiable rollocking beat the arrogance out of my “but I was confident the weather would remain gin-clear”.
The boss’s morning entry at 0800 was routine: burst door open, break wind, and attempt to throw his brown trilby across the room on to the MoD hat-stand. His mood thereafter depended on failure or success. All the eastern Flying Training offices from Acklington through Leeming, Linton, Dishforth, Church Fenton, Strubby and Manby fell under the Main Met. Office at Manby. This office issued twice daily guidance which was habitually taken with a pinch of salt if one was a long-term resident at the relevant station. There was a permanent but manageable shortage of junior forecasters, so detachments of a couple of weeks were very frequent. In three years I served at nearly all, driving our only car and stranding my family. The early starts and late finishes would not be tolerated these days. Like most others, we had no telephone.
Promotion to Experimental Officer was not considered possible without about five years’ experience, and without suitable reports. Reports were not open then, and not for many years. Out of the blue I was sent on the Advanced Forecasting Course, a precursor to promotion. As I was only 27 this attracted a lot of comment, and I could only suppose that C Met O Nicosia had written something exceptional about me in the emergency, and Leeming and Manby failed to correct that impression. [For context, an XO, later called Higher Scientific Officer, paid Flt Lt Mess subs].
Flying and forecasting was tricky in westerlies, the dreaded ‘gap wind’ and lee waves causing nasty gusts and direction reversals. The best forecasters were the long-timers of course, and this included the RAF on the longer tours. I co-authored a research paper to de-mystify the phenomenon. Perhaps it helped.
Meanwhile a new and much faster computer was running on a tuned version of the old model and producing sensible, if not always reliable, surface pressure forecasts. Like all models, there was a constant incompatibility between the need to produce a forecast quickly enough to be useful, covering a long enough period, and at small enough scales to be other than broad brush. The peasants in the outfield were not privy to this output, and the advanced course merely filled in the empirical knowledge of broad-scale development and gave a chance to fail exams. So I came second again. To a Chinese if you wondered.
Topcliffe next stop
I arrived Home with a Cypriot driving licence, not valid here. That was understandable; such licences were only gained by the driving instructor bribing the examiner with my NAAFI whisky. The instructor then bribed the professional queuer [yes, truly, they occupied half the long queue] at the Licence Office with yet more whisky plus cash. I also came home with a car, a big deposit for a £2800 three-bed semi and two genuine Rolexes. I still have the watches but cannot afford maintenance. My £140 Seiko keeps better time.
The posting to Leeming was very fortunate. The S Met. O Roger was a well-spoken, well-dressed good man to work for. The customer was 3 FTS with their new JPs, and I am certain that we dealt with more than a few Meteor night fighters with cockpits like greenhouses. Roger did the lecturing [later it was called ‘teaching’] and three young forecasters covered whatever hours the flying programme demanded. I learned a harsh lesson in responsibility by going home to Thirsk an hour before the last night flight landed. The justifiable rollocking beat the arrogance out of my “but I was confident the weather would remain gin-clear”.
The boss’s morning entry at 0800 was routine: burst door open, break wind, and attempt to throw his brown trilby across the room on to the MoD hat-stand. His mood thereafter depended on failure or success. All the eastern Flying Training offices from Acklington through Leeming, Linton, Dishforth, Church Fenton, Strubby and Manby fell under the Main Met. Office at Manby. This office issued twice daily guidance which was habitually taken with a pinch of salt if one was a long-term resident at the relevant station. There was a permanent but manageable shortage of junior forecasters, so detachments of a couple of weeks were very frequent. In three years I served at nearly all, driving our only car and stranding my family. The early starts and late finishes would not be tolerated these days. Like most others, we had no telephone.
Promotion to Experimental Officer was not considered possible without about five years’ experience, and without suitable reports. Reports were not open then, and not for many years. Out of the blue I was sent on the Advanced Forecasting Course, a precursor to promotion. As I was only 27 this attracted a lot of comment, and I could only suppose that C Met O Nicosia had written something exceptional about me in the emergency, and Leeming and Manby failed to correct that impression. [For context, an XO, later called Higher Scientific Officer, paid Flt Lt Mess subs].
Flying and forecasting was tricky in westerlies, the dreaded ‘gap wind’ and lee waves causing nasty gusts and direction reversals. The best forecasters were the long-timers of course, and this included the RAF on the longer tours. I co-authored a research paper to de-mystify the phenomenon. Perhaps it helped.
Meanwhile a new and much faster computer was running on a tuned version of the old model and producing sensible, if not always reliable, surface pressure forecasts. Like all models, there was a constant incompatibility between the need to produce a forecast quickly enough to be useful, covering a long enough period, and at small enough scales to be other than broad brush. The peasants in the outfield were not privy to this output, and the advanced course merely filled in the empirical knowledge of broad-scale development and gave a chance to fail exams. So I came second again. To a Chinese if you wondered.
Topcliffe next stop
The following 12 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Thread Starter
Topcliffe next stop
RAF Topcliffe was very near to home in Thirsk and I had served a few detachments there looking after the Air Electronics school and Northern Comms squadron aircraft, a mix of Varsities and old Ansons if memory serves. During one such attachment I forgot where I was and answered “Duty Forecaster Leeming”. The caller knew me as David, was briefed, went back from his coffee to the JP and had a nasty moment of disorientation as he strapped in. Clearly not Leeming.
The staff at Topcliffe were exceptionally good, Jack the S Met. O had a difficult face-twitch having been torpedoed and sunk twice. Fatherly and kind, he was very well-read and achieved high authority. Ken was an alarmingly keen and accurate forecaster. Ken told me that I was coasting: “if you want to be 10% better, you must put in 100% more effort”. Thereafter he was cruel to be kind, and I thank him. Effing George was famously foul-mouthed, as was his six year old son.
Our customers included S/Ldr Tommy, with exquisite greatcoat and scarlet silk lining, and two Poles, who answered approximately to Sh1tslinger and Smackyourarse. For V Force dispersals they flew to Maccrihanish and brought us back boxes of kippers to order.
I was posted to Little Rissington without discussion. Being neither the most recent arrival, nor the most junior, nor alphabetically extreme, I pushed back. We were about to buy the dream 4-bed detached in Thirsk. The posters were obdurate, so I outflanked them by volunteering for RAF Gutersloh, cited my German ‘O’ level, had the right seniority, had a passport and …………….
RAF Gutersloh next
RAF Topcliffe was very near to home in Thirsk and I had served a few detachments there looking after the Air Electronics school and Northern Comms squadron aircraft, a mix of Varsities and old Ansons if memory serves. During one such attachment I forgot where I was and answered “Duty Forecaster Leeming”. The caller knew me as David, was briefed, went back from his coffee to the JP and had a nasty moment of disorientation as he strapped in. Clearly not Leeming.
The staff at Topcliffe were exceptionally good, Jack the S Met. O had a difficult face-twitch having been torpedoed and sunk twice. Fatherly and kind, he was very well-read and achieved high authority. Ken was an alarmingly keen and accurate forecaster. Ken told me that I was coasting: “if you want to be 10% better, you must put in 100% more effort”. Thereafter he was cruel to be kind, and I thank him. Effing George was famously foul-mouthed, as was his six year old son.
Our customers included S/Ldr Tommy, with exquisite greatcoat and scarlet silk lining, and two Poles, who answered approximately to Sh1tslinger and Smackyourarse. For V Force dispersals they flew to Maccrihanish and brought us back boxes of kippers to order.
I was posted to Little Rissington without discussion. Being neither the most recent arrival, nor the most junior, nor alphabetically extreme, I pushed back. We were about to buy the dream 4-bed detached in Thirsk. The posters were obdurate, so I outflanked them by volunteering for RAF Gutersloh, cited my German ‘O’ level, had the right seniority, had a passport and …………….
RAF Gutersloh next
Last edited by langleybaston; 5th Apr 2024 at 15:13. Reason: for **** read shot
The following 12 users liked this post by langleybaston:
LB, your keyboard efforts are hugely appreciated, so keep the memories coming! I am enjoying your reminiscing, and when able to recall, in my mind's eye, a few of the places you mention, the stories come even more to life. Great stuff! 👍🏻
Thread Starter
The Forum is replete with those who say that Gutersloh was their dream tour. Amen to that.
1967 found me, aged 30, briefly living in the famous Mess on this old Luftwaffe station, with a shiny new car. My new S Met O was disinterested, his successor was no better, and what I learned not to do if I ever became a boss was valuable. Very early on we had a big station Open Day. On flyaway day I was on the morning shift, walking through the woods towards ATC/ Ops/ Met when I beheld a comely young woman who had clearly enjoyed a good evening and a rough night. Did I perchance wish for a rapid procreative encounter? The very idea! Duty calls.
It later transpired that she was a new assistant manager in one of the service charity shops, just arrived. She subsequently had a dalliance with a very senior pilot and they disgraced themselves. ‘Some recollections may vary’.
The office was 24/7/365 and our Lightnings were on QRA [called battle flight I think]. We had two large squadrons, 19 and 92, the runway end being very near 29 Zeppelin Strasse, our OMQ on the top patch. The very noisy noise of freedom. Not to be outdone, 2 and 4 squadrons operated beautiful Hunters. Flt Lt R A F Sandy Wilson was a near neighbour, but his career prospered rather better than mine. We also had resident choppers and handled Trooping Flights so boredom was never a risk.
The weather was difficult, with Ruhr smoke trapped for days between the hills and under inversions. The winters were harsh, worse than any I had known in UK. Rain ice could be spectacular: wind the car window down and a sheet of transparent ice remained unbroken.
Unfortunately ’Personnel’ [not ‘HR’ yet] had not made any attempt to pick quality staff. The observers were fine [many went on to high rank] but my colleagues only went through the motions without enthusiasm or commitment to this sharpest of sharp-end locations. One such, a married man, ‘went to bed’ every night shift, climbed out of the ground floor window fully dressed, drove towards the first lay-by, pleasured his girl-friend, drove back, went to bed, and was truly grateful when awakened with a coffee. All RAF Gutersloh knew, a splendid advert for Met.
Participation in Mini-, Maxi- and TACEVAL was cringeworthy. LB made himself very unpopular, having failed to force through reforms, because he bent a few pilots’ ears over a pint and OC Ops told S Met O what he wanted. The simplest and best reform was to always prepare a complete suite of Warsaw Pact-facing forecasts every six hours. Hitherto they were generated on demand when the hooter sounded, thus hindering briefings and creating headless chicken responses. My confidential reports, unseen, could not have flattered.
When Czecho was invaded in August 1968 the office was thus better prepared than many. All was peaceful in the small hours, LB had sent the observer for a rest, and then an American chopper landed very near to the closed ATC building. Met was the first door on the right and the captain broke the news of the invasion. The station slept on. Taking a deep breath I phoned the station commander and introduced the pilot. Light the blue touch paper and watch!
All the forecasters had to have Dormant RAF commissions as Flt Lts, to be activated in TTW. I was the only one to ever wear combats because my secondary duty was as understudy to S Met O 1 Br Corps. Every field deployment found him [funny old thing] on leave, so I spent a lot of time in NBC gear and respirator in the Teutoburgerwald. I once managed to sleep for about eight hours in the respirator.
All good things come to an end, RAF Finningley next.
1967 found me, aged 30, briefly living in the famous Mess on this old Luftwaffe station, with a shiny new car. My new S Met O was disinterested, his successor was no better, and what I learned not to do if I ever became a boss was valuable. Very early on we had a big station Open Day. On flyaway day I was on the morning shift, walking through the woods towards ATC/ Ops/ Met when I beheld a comely young woman who had clearly enjoyed a good evening and a rough night. Did I perchance wish for a rapid procreative encounter? The very idea! Duty calls.
It later transpired that she was a new assistant manager in one of the service charity shops, just arrived. She subsequently had a dalliance with a very senior pilot and they disgraced themselves. ‘Some recollections may vary’.
The office was 24/7/365 and our Lightnings were on QRA [called battle flight I think]. We had two large squadrons, 19 and 92, the runway end being very near 29 Zeppelin Strasse, our OMQ on the top patch. The very noisy noise of freedom. Not to be outdone, 2 and 4 squadrons operated beautiful Hunters. Flt Lt R A F Sandy Wilson was a near neighbour, but his career prospered rather better than mine. We also had resident choppers and handled Trooping Flights so boredom was never a risk.
The weather was difficult, with Ruhr smoke trapped for days between the hills and under inversions. The winters were harsh, worse than any I had known in UK. Rain ice could be spectacular: wind the car window down and a sheet of transparent ice remained unbroken.
Unfortunately ’Personnel’ [not ‘HR’ yet] had not made any attempt to pick quality staff. The observers were fine [many went on to high rank] but my colleagues only went through the motions without enthusiasm or commitment to this sharpest of sharp-end locations. One such, a married man, ‘went to bed’ every night shift, climbed out of the ground floor window fully dressed, drove towards the first lay-by, pleasured his girl-friend, drove back, went to bed, and was truly grateful when awakened with a coffee. All RAF Gutersloh knew, a splendid advert for Met.
Participation in Mini-, Maxi- and TACEVAL was cringeworthy. LB made himself very unpopular, having failed to force through reforms, because he bent a few pilots’ ears over a pint and OC Ops told S Met O what he wanted. The simplest and best reform was to always prepare a complete suite of Warsaw Pact-facing forecasts every six hours. Hitherto they were generated on demand when the hooter sounded, thus hindering briefings and creating headless chicken responses. My confidential reports, unseen, could not have flattered.
When Czecho was invaded in August 1968 the office was thus better prepared than many. All was peaceful in the small hours, LB had sent the observer for a rest, and then an American chopper landed very near to the closed ATC building. Met was the first door on the right and the captain broke the news of the invasion. The station slept on. Taking a deep breath I phoned the station commander and introduced the pilot. Light the blue touch paper and watch!
All the forecasters had to have Dormant RAF commissions as Flt Lts, to be activated in TTW. I was the only one to ever wear combats because my secondary duty was as understudy to S Met O 1 Br Corps. Every field deployment found him [funny old thing] on leave, so I spent a lot of time in NBC gear and respirator in the Teutoburgerwald. I once managed to sleep for about eight hours in the respirator.
All good things come to an end, RAF Finningley next.
The following 10 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Thread Starter
It was now 1970. The IBM 360/195 computer was being installed at Bracknell, and all the war-dispersed HQ cells had come home to roost. The 10-level Bushby-Timpson model, was based on the scheme formulated by J. S. Sawyer. My old heroes Fred Bushby and John Sawyer of Dunstable days were still leading world science. The model was a massive advance but was still not hemispherical. Useful rainfall numerical prediction was at hand.
RAF Finningley had a rather benevolent weather peculiarity: ‘reconnaissance rain’. When an active warm front was behaving, chugging along steadily from the west, the arrival of rain was very likely to be two hours early, briefly, followed by dry, followed by the rain.
6 FTS was the main customer, training navigators, there were also loadmasters, engineers and air electronics responsibilities. Met. was housed upstairs in 3 hangar [I still have the brass key tag for the ablutions] when I arrived. S Met O was Mac, a hugely experienced and unflappable Scot, very well-liked by staff and the RAF. He led the extensive teaching programme but the demand meant that a second body was needed. We went in turn to the Ground Instructional Technique course at Upwood, the best course that I ever attended. The second teacher was taken off forecasting for six months at a time, this was universally unpopular because the shift-working premium was lost. Teaching relied on the Overhead Projector, and the navigators suffered about 40 hours of dry adiabatic lapse rates and clear air turbulence. The Duty Number Two decamped to the Nav school and shared an office with two screen navs. One such, married to an RAF doctor, took the bold step of selling both cars and made a long-term arrangement with a local car hire firm, apparently saving a lot of money.
Met. moved to the Air Electronics building quite soon: the transition must have been silky smooth because neither I nor any of the surviving movers can remember any detail. It just happened.
Low-level nav. was flown in JPs, high-level in Varsities and later in Dominies. We saw a goodly number of Vulcans dropping in, and there was still a SSA which S Met O was cleared to visit in order to check the conditions, so I imagine the cupboard was not bare.
My seven years at Finningley were interrupted by major elective surgery for the duodenal problems. The straight-laced Methodist Lay-Preacher, C Met O Wilf of Manby, on being told there was only a 10% fatality rate, took the news well and asked how soon I would be back at work.
Pay and conditions had become very poor and there was a well-supported strike which fell on my sleep day after a night shift. Mac was ordered to send in a list of strikers so I asked my name to be included. “Don’t be bloody silly, no!”
The most nerve-wracking forecasts were for the end of course nav flights to Gibraltar. This was because diversions were few, and landing in Spain was diplomatically a very poor idea. I think about four Dominies went, carrying students and screens away for the weekend. The TAFs issued by possible diversions were often difficult to believe, but the saving grace was that satellite images were readily available to us. Nevertheless the go/no go decision, made by OC Flying, was heavily influenced by the forecaster, and both over-optimism and over-caution would inevitably cost a great deal of money and time. I felt the weight of responsibility higher than ever before on those early Friday mornings.
At age 38 I now had 11 years seniority, and the field for promotion to Senior Scientific Officer opened at 12 years. Nevertheless I was summoned, took leave, swotted and appeared before a Board chaired by Fred Bushby of all people. After being put through the mangle for 90 minutes I was set free, the tick in the box, six weeks leave, and 1st class rail travel on duty.
And bloody Bracknell.
RAF Finningley had a rather benevolent weather peculiarity: ‘reconnaissance rain’. When an active warm front was behaving, chugging along steadily from the west, the arrival of rain was very likely to be two hours early, briefly, followed by dry, followed by the rain.
6 FTS was the main customer, training navigators, there were also loadmasters, engineers and air electronics responsibilities. Met. was housed upstairs in 3 hangar [I still have the brass key tag for the ablutions] when I arrived. S Met O was Mac, a hugely experienced and unflappable Scot, very well-liked by staff and the RAF. He led the extensive teaching programme but the demand meant that a second body was needed. We went in turn to the Ground Instructional Technique course at Upwood, the best course that I ever attended. The second teacher was taken off forecasting for six months at a time, this was universally unpopular because the shift-working premium was lost. Teaching relied on the Overhead Projector, and the navigators suffered about 40 hours of dry adiabatic lapse rates and clear air turbulence. The Duty Number Two decamped to the Nav school and shared an office with two screen navs. One such, married to an RAF doctor, took the bold step of selling both cars and made a long-term arrangement with a local car hire firm, apparently saving a lot of money.
Met. moved to the Air Electronics building quite soon: the transition must have been silky smooth because neither I nor any of the surviving movers can remember any detail. It just happened.
Low-level nav. was flown in JPs, high-level in Varsities and later in Dominies. We saw a goodly number of Vulcans dropping in, and there was still a SSA which S Met O was cleared to visit in order to check the conditions, so I imagine the cupboard was not bare.
My seven years at Finningley were interrupted by major elective surgery for the duodenal problems. The straight-laced Methodist Lay-Preacher, C Met O Wilf of Manby, on being told there was only a 10% fatality rate, took the news well and asked how soon I would be back at work.
Pay and conditions had become very poor and there was a well-supported strike which fell on my sleep day after a night shift. Mac was ordered to send in a list of strikers so I asked my name to be included. “Don’t be bloody silly, no!”
The most nerve-wracking forecasts were for the end of course nav flights to Gibraltar. This was because diversions were few, and landing in Spain was diplomatically a very poor idea. I think about four Dominies went, carrying students and screens away for the weekend. The TAFs issued by possible diversions were often difficult to believe, but the saving grace was that satellite images were readily available to us. Nevertheless the go/no go decision, made by OC Flying, was heavily influenced by the forecaster, and both over-optimism and over-caution would inevitably cost a great deal of money and time. I felt the weight of responsibility higher than ever before on those early Friday mornings.
At age 38 I now had 11 years seniority, and the field for promotion to Senior Scientific Officer opened at 12 years. Nevertheless I was summoned, took leave, swotted and appeared before a Board chaired by Fred Bushby of all people. After being put through the mangle for 90 minutes I was set free, the tick in the box, six weeks leave, and 1st class rail travel on duty.
And bloody Bracknell.
The following 14 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Wonderful stuff LB, humorous and fascinating.
I liked the point about the forecaster drawing the transept with Constable cumulus. In the days of BEA Tridents into Gibraltar in the early 1970s the three of us front end trooped up to the met office with the English newspapers and received in exchange an absolute work of art of what we should expect on the return flight. The skipper trousered it but I would like to have had one of those on my study wall in later life. Professionalism personified.
I liked the point about the forecaster drawing the transept with Constable cumulus. In the days of BEA Tridents into Gibraltar in the early 1970s the three of us front end trooped up to the met office with the English newspapers and received in exchange an absolute work of art of what we should expect on the return flight. The skipper trousered it but I would like to have had one of those on my study wall in later life. Professionalism personified.
The following users liked this post:
LB, your story is not only about you, or your family, or the Met Office, or the various RAF Stations you were posted to. It is all of those things and much more; times, places, events, that were common to most of us. So perhaps we could share your journey? I have in mind the gentle meanderings we enjoyed with Danny42C; the by-the-ways, obscure details of cars, pubs, messes, railway journeys, etc, etc. In other words, blatant, defiant, and inexcusable thread drift! I think that Danny was briefed by his predecessor on the Obtaining an RAF Pilots Brevet in WWII thread to pace it out. Let the audience do its own reminiscing too, asking questions, answering them, and generally wander around at leisure. By which time they are eager to read your next episode. In other words, keep 'em waiting! I only offer this as a humble suggestion because you need to know that your story is important; to those who were your customers then, and to those who came after and are interested in what the RAF was like then, and what it was like being a civilian so intimately involved in its core activity, the flying!
Hopefully others may concur with my view that this thread should run and run. I'm not suggesting that it would compete with the hallowed thread that is pinned to the top of our Military Forum, but there is no reason that it cannot take it as a model. As I say, this thread is not simply your story, it is our story: those who served in the RAF then, those who serve in the RAF today, and those who did neither but are interested in its story.
Perfectly willing to be poo-pooed of course, your call Sir!
Hopefully others may concur with my view that this thread should run and run. I'm not suggesting that it would compete with the hallowed thread that is pinned to the top of our Military Forum, but there is no reason that it cannot take it as a model. As I say, this thread is not simply your story, it is our story: those who served in the RAF then, those who serve in the RAF today, and those who did neither but are interested in its story.
Perfectly willing to be poo-pooed of course, your call Sir!
The following 14 users liked this post by Chugalug2:
Thread Starter
Wonderful stuff LB, humorous and fascinating.
I liked the point about the forecaster drawing the transept with Constable cumulus. In the days of BEA Tridents into Gibraltar in the early 1970s the three of us front end trooped up to the met office with the English newspapers and received in exchange an absolute work of art of what we should expect on the return flight. The skipper trousered it but I would like to have had one of those on my study wall in later life. Professionalism personified.
I liked the point about the forecaster drawing the transept with Constable cumulus. In the days of BEA Tridents into Gibraltar in the early 1970s the three of us front end trooped up to the met office with the English newspapers and received in exchange an absolute work of art of what we should expect on the return flight. The skipper trousered it but I would like to have had one of those on my study wall in later life. Professionalism personified.
All are Legal artefacts. Only in old age did I become vain!
The following users liked this post:
Thread Starter
LB, your story is not only about you, or your family, or the Met Office, or the various RAF Stations you were posted to. It is all of those things and much more; times, places, events, that were common to most of us. So perhaps we could share your journey? I have in mind the gentle meanderings we enjoyed with Danny42C; the by-the-ways, obscure details of cars, pubs, messes, railway journeys, etc, etc. In other words, blatant, defiant, and inexcusable thread drift! I think that Danny was briefed by his predecessor on the Obtaining an RAF Pilots Brevet in WWII thread to pace it out. Let the audience do its own reminiscing too, asking questions, answering them, and generally wander around at leisure. By which time they are eager to read your next episode. In other words, keep 'em waiting! I only offer this as a humble suggestion because you need to know that your story is important; to those who were your customers then, and to those who came after and are interested in what the RAF was like then, and what it was like being a civilian so intimately involved in its core activity, the flying!
Hopefully others may concur with my view that this thread should run and run. I'm not suggesting that it would compete with the hallowed thread that is pinned to the top of our Military Forum, but there is no reason that it cannot take it as a model. As I say, this thread is not simply your story, it is our story: those who served in the RAF then, those who serve in the RAF today, and those who did neither but are interested in its story.
Perfectly willing to be poo-pooed of course, your call Sir!
Hopefully others may concur with my view that this thread should run and run. I'm not suggesting that it would compete with the hallowed thread that is pinned to the top of our Military Forum, but there is no reason that it cannot take it as a model. As I say, this thread is not simply your story, it is our story: those who served in the RAF then, those who serve in the RAF today, and those who did neither but are interested in its story.
Perfectly willing to be poo-pooed of course, your call Sir!
The following users liked this post:
As neither an aviator nor a meteorologist, but a professional client of our civilian 'weather guessers', I'm enjoying these tales immensely - please keep 'em coming.
The following 2 users liked this post by Hydromet:
So, a not dissimilar experience to yours in Cyprus, LB.
The following users liked this post: