A Weather-Guesser's Memories with the RAF
Thread Starter
LB.
Enjoying all this reminiscing, all thanks to you starting this thread.
Question for you.... I presume that in 1976 your posting was at 'The College of Knowledge' ?
Although I was not blue-blooded enough to have gone through there myself in training days, I did attend the College in April that year for the first CFS course after it'd moved from Rissie. Just my luck as I lived at Brize and was then at Sleaford Tech as an enforced retiree from Britannias thanks to the Govt Defence cuts.
After the College CFS ground school, we left after a couple of months for Leeming, where the transition to the Bulldog took place. That summer of no rain and heat was spent inside the greenhouse canopy of a Bulldog or my tatty Mini flogging up and down the A1 back to West Oxon, where I'd just bought the first two layers of bricks in a house before the defence cuts changed my life somewhat. Grrh.
We must have bumped into each other that summer somewhere I'm sure.
Looking at a course photo recently I see that Flight Magazine's David Learmount was also named at the end of my row, so he must have gone on to the JP and remained in Lincs for the whole course.
Not so happy days I'm afraid. How had I ever flown before with knowing about Reynold's Number ?
Enjoying all this reminiscing, all thanks to you starting this thread.
Question for you.... I presume that in 1976 your posting was at 'The College of Knowledge' ?
Although I was not blue-blooded enough to have gone through there myself in training days, I did attend the College in April that year for the first CFS course after it'd moved from Rissie. Just my luck as I lived at Brize and was then at Sleaford Tech as an enforced retiree from Britannias thanks to the Govt Defence cuts.
After the College CFS ground school, we left after a couple of months for Leeming, where the transition to the Bulldog took place. That summer of no rain and heat was spent inside the greenhouse canopy of a Bulldog or my tatty Mini flogging up and down the A1 back to West Oxon, where I'd just bought the first two layers of bricks in a house before the defence cuts changed my life somewhat. Grrh.
We must have bumped into each other that summer somewhere I'm sure.
Looking at a course photo recently I see that Flight Magazine's David Learmount was also named at the end of my row, so he must have gone on to the JP and remained in Lincs for the whole course.
Not so happy days I'm afraid. How had I ever flown before with knowing about Reynold's Number ?
My tertiary duty was culling squirrels ......... several foreign students were bitten when offering them food, so Stan C. the Principal gave me and my son Licence to Kill; we both had air rifles. The sighter nominated the target, we fired after 3,2,1, and always got a clean kill, they were dead before they hit the ground. This was on Saturdays when my daughter was Patsy Pony Rider at Arborfield garrison Saddle Club ......... I delivered her, we blasted away, picked her up smelling of dung [her, not us] and drove back to Yately.
Surely its your Bernoullies that matter When Mr B gives up, Sir Isaac takes over?
David
Thread Starter
RAFG next stop.
One of the rewards for folk serving as Staff at the College was either a good choice of posting after about three years, or a promotion. The latter was out of the question [not enough miles under the bonnet] but I asked for and got on to the senior roster at Main Met. O. JHQ Rheindahlen in summer 1978. Awaiting a quarter the family was welcomed into Cassels House near the NAAFI, with our shiny silver Vauxhall VX 2300 Estate moored outside the front door. The car park was a few yards away. So also was a car planted by the IRA, said to have contained 500 lbs of explosive. The detonator or timer failed and we continued in blissful ignorance for a day or two. Late one afternoon we were all turned out and sent to Salmond House. In the ensuing confusion my unattended car was side-swiped. Welcome to Rheindahlen.
We were ‘attached RAF’, shouted “Gas Gas Gas!” once a year, sported Sqn Ldr Dormant Commissions, paid appropriate Mess subs and served all British interests in BFG, thus including 1 Br Corps.
In TTW we were supposed to decamp to the caves at Maastricht, but if there was a realistic plan, I knew nothing of it. Rheindahlen would have been a very early target and was totally soft, to the extent that the public [including terrorists] could under some circumstances drive through it.
We were now a family of six and moved into Portadown Way, quite the nicest little Close of about 24 houses with some trees and shrubs in the middle for seasonal frolics: May-Pole, summer BBQs wheeling mighty Webers out, and Father Christmas on a Fire Engine. A brake parachute served as the awning.
The duty forecaster was responsible for producing at HH = Zero the Significant Weather [SigWx] chart every six hours, to cover 24 hours starting at HH + 6.
The area was all UK , all NATO down to N. Italy, and well into the Warsaw Pact. We were totally independent, and now had use of Bracknell numerical predictions of rainfall on a grid of about 100 km** square all over our area and beyond. Rain amounts were as shown as numerals 1 to 9 and heavier rain used A to Z. Heavy rain we called “raining alphabets”. We received polar-orbit satellite cover in real time.
There was also responsibility for hour to hour supervision of the outputs from our people in the Clutch, Gutersloh and AAC Detmold.
There were two different main building passes; RAF blueish, Army reddish. There were two entrances of course, one for each tribe. Like everyone else, one of my assistants hung his ID on the mirror off shift, and on the bench when at work. His wife was employed by the army. One morning at work Colin was due to go walkabout in the building. “Sh1t!”. The Army pass had successfully entered past the RAF police on the door.. He rang his wife, who also said “Sh1t!” as she looked at the blue pass, having successfully …………. There was a hasty meeting and exchange in Leystrasse. Security was not impressive, so to speak.
I was nominated the TACEVAL man: this involved some higher clearances than PV and some indoctrination, although that seemed to overdo my role. The team evaluated anybody except Brits, and my detachments to the team were short-notice, drive yourself in an RAF car [F658?] and find the airfield at the zero dark 30. Dutch, Belgian and German at least.
TACEVAL is worth a chapter on its own.
** not sure ……. Small enough to be useful, too big for showers.
One of the rewards for folk serving as Staff at the College was either a good choice of posting after about three years, or a promotion. The latter was out of the question [not enough miles under the bonnet] but I asked for and got on to the senior roster at Main Met. O. JHQ Rheindahlen in summer 1978. Awaiting a quarter the family was welcomed into Cassels House near the NAAFI, with our shiny silver Vauxhall VX 2300 Estate moored outside the front door. The car park was a few yards away. So also was a car planted by the IRA, said to have contained 500 lbs of explosive. The detonator or timer failed and we continued in blissful ignorance for a day or two. Late one afternoon we were all turned out and sent to Salmond House. In the ensuing confusion my unattended car was side-swiped. Welcome to Rheindahlen.
We were ‘attached RAF’, shouted “Gas Gas Gas!” once a year, sported Sqn Ldr Dormant Commissions, paid appropriate Mess subs and served all British interests in BFG, thus including 1 Br Corps.
In TTW we were supposed to decamp to the caves at Maastricht, but if there was a realistic plan, I knew nothing of it. Rheindahlen would have been a very early target and was totally soft, to the extent that the public [including terrorists] could under some circumstances drive through it.
We were now a family of six and moved into Portadown Way, quite the nicest little Close of about 24 houses with some trees and shrubs in the middle for seasonal frolics: May-Pole, summer BBQs wheeling mighty Webers out, and Father Christmas on a Fire Engine. A brake parachute served as the awning.
The duty forecaster was responsible for producing at HH = Zero the Significant Weather [SigWx] chart every six hours, to cover 24 hours starting at HH + 6.
The area was all UK , all NATO down to N. Italy, and well into the Warsaw Pact. We were totally independent, and now had use of Bracknell numerical predictions of rainfall on a grid of about 100 km** square all over our area and beyond. Rain amounts were as shown as numerals 1 to 9 and heavier rain used A to Z. Heavy rain we called “raining alphabets”. We received polar-orbit satellite cover in real time.
There was also responsibility for hour to hour supervision of the outputs from our people in the Clutch, Gutersloh and AAC Detmold.
There were two different main building passes; RAF blueish, Army reddish. There were two entrances of course, one for each tribe. Like everyone else, one of my assistants hung his ID on the mirror off shift, and on the bench when at work. His wife was employed by the army. One morning at work Colin was due to go walkabout in the building. “Sh1t!”. The Army pass had successfully entered past the RAF police on the door.. He rang his wife, who also said “Sh1t!” as she looked at the blue pass, having successfully …………. There was a hasty meeting and exchange in Leystrasse. Security was not impressive, so to speak.
I was nominated the TACEVAL man: this involved some higher clearances than PV and some indoctrination, although that seemed to overdo my role. The team evaluated anybody except Brits, and my detachments to the team were short-notice, drive yourself in an RAF car [F658?] and find the airfield at the zero dark 30. Dutch, Belgian and German at least.
TACEVAL is worth a chapter on its own.
** not sure ……. Small enough to be useful, too big for showers.
The following 4 users liked this post by langleybaston:
My tertiary duty was culling squirrels ......... several foreign students were bitten when offering them food.
Tabs please !
I had forgotten about the stream 1 and stream 2 segregation. You could always tell an extrovert stream 1 as they would look at your shoes when talking to you. Half of them wore slip on shoes which obviated the manual task of mastering shoe laces. The joke was that HQ was the ideal place to have a coronary given you were never more than ten feet from the nearest doctor.
Tabs please !
I was present at the "College of Knowledge" when one chap from the former empire was being tasked with entering data into a computer. It was like trying to push string uphill. The instructor helpfully advised that it was just like a typewriter. The inevitable response came......."what's a typewriter ?". No doubt he was sent home with an "Outstanding" rating to avoid awkward questions.
Thread Starter
Some students were "interesting" to put it mildly. A special loo had to be installed after the "bog standard" bog was found to be too much of a challenge. This elicited the memorable instruction to "sit like a princess and not like a frog". Alas the proverbial hit everything but the pan.
I was present at the "College of Knowledge" when one chap from the former empire was being tasked with entering data into a computer. It was like trying to push string uphill. The instructor helpfully advised that it was just like a typewriter. The inevitable response came......."what's a typewriter ?". No doubt he was sent home with an "Outstanding" rating to avoid awkward questions.
I was present at the "College of Knowledge" when one chap from the former empire was being tasked with entering data into a computer. It was like trying to push string uphill. The instructor helpfully advised that it was just like a typewriter. The inevitable response came......."what's a typewriter ?". No doubt he was sent home with an "Outstanding" rating to avoid awkward questions.
Thread Starter
TACEVAL.
My first was to learn the ropes with John D., the previous incumbent. We went to Liege, clutching the TACEVAL Olivetti portable and the relevant passes. Hotels were pre-booked for the team, which was led by an RAF Wg Cdr. The billet was near the railway station, in the middle of the red light area. John and I went walkabout after dinner and ‘shop’ after ‘shop’ along the road had a skimpily dressed tart in the window, enough to rival Amsterdam or Hamburg. Our circular walk took a loop through the back streets, with a duty harlot on most corners. Spoiled for choice, early night and ready to pounce at 0400 next morning.
Every phase had to be written up and reported on immediately it finished. It was pointed out that harsh criticism, however deserved, would be watered down by the leader. Being the only civilians on the team there was constant strife with the home unit, and a fair bit of weapon waving. Entry to briefings was doubly fraught. In retrospect the Met. officer would have been much better off in some sort of uniform. An intractable problem on every evaluation that I did.
One Dutch office had some interesting vegetation growing on the window sills. “Yes, it is a little cannabis but that’s OK”. Really?
Whereas the British airfields had an Alternate everything, including Met., only the Germans had an impressive one. It was a really good, well-equipped office on a hard-standing surrounded by earth walls. But what were the wheels for? “This is the Altermet for all north Germany, we tow it to wherever there is a TACEVAL”.
I included US bases but the only memory is the impression that there was much reliance on central products, one size fits all, and the forecasters seemed to have secondary jobs such as ATC or hydrology.
By the time I left the role I was resigned to ‘tempering the wind to a shorn lamb’, we just could not apply the demanding RAF standards to most inspections.
Wildenrath denied.
My first was to learn the ropes with John D., the previous incumbent. We went to Liege, clutching the TACEVAL Olivetti portable and the relevant passes. Hotels were pre-booked for the team, which was led by an RAF Wg Cdr. The billet was near the railway station, in the middle of the red light area. John and I went walkabout after dinner and ‘shop’ after ‘shop’ along the road had a skimpily dressed tart in the window, enough to rival Amsterdam or Hamburg. Our circular walk took a loop through the back streets, with a duty harlot on most corners. Spoiled for choice, early night and ready to pounce at 0400 next morning.
Every phase had to be written up and reported on immediately it finished. It was pointed out that harsh criticism, however deserved, would be watered down by the leader. Being the only civilians on the team there was constant strife with the home unit, and a fair bit of weapon waving. Entry to briefings was doubly fraught. In retrospect the Met. officer would have been much better off in some sort of uniform. An intractable problem on every evaluation that I did.
One Dutch office had some interesting vegetation growing on the window sills. “Yes, it is a little cannabis but that’s OK”. Really?
Whereas the British airfields had an Alternate everything, including Met., only the Germans had an impressive one. It was a really good, well-equipped office on a hard-standing surrounded by earth walls. But what were the wheels for? “This is the Altermet for all north Germany, we tow it to wherever there is a TACEVAL”.
I included US bases but the only memory is the impression that there was much reliance on central products, one size fits all, and the forecasters seemed to have secondary jobs such as ATC or hydrology.
By the time I left the role I was resigned to ‘tempering the wind to a shorn lamb’, we just could not apply the demanding RAF standards to most inspections.
Wildenrath denied.
The following 4 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Thread Starter
Wildenrath denied.
One major omission on the CV was being a S Met O. Apart from running courses at the college, my managerial experience was limited to running a shift of four people. When the usual three years were ending I applied for the Wildenrath job. Apart from anything else, it was possible to retain the quarter because there would always be officers from Wildenrath posted to JHQ wanting to commute.
My C Met O put a spoke in the wheel by reporting that, whereas I was ‘a very good weather forecaster’ I had shown ‘no inclination to integrate with the customers’ and therefore should stick to forecasting. Thank you boss. So playing cricket for the office, RAF sidesman at church, Rheindahlen 40km Marches and Portadown Way BBQs were inadequate.
Events then took a genuinely startling turn. Out of the blue the promotions board invited LB to a Principal Scientific Officer interview, quite unheard of with only six years’ seniority. Colleagues suggested that I should attend, try not to disgrace myself, and have another go in three more years’ time. With plenty of annual leave allowance some preparation was needed: the Chairman was always the Director General, whose expertises were the mechanisms of thunderstorms and the theory and practice of satellite Met. Two other members were unknowable, plus one Treasury mandarin.
Seen by a fly on the wall, the interview [Inquisition] must have been entertaining. After 30 minutes I developed agonising calf cramp from the tension. The DG noticed and suggested that I walk it off. So I imitated Groucho Marx or John Cleese for a cabaret turn. Recovered, we were deeply into satellites, all was sweetness and light, but the next question prompted an idiotic exchange.
“Sir, I will answer the question, but then I would like to answer the question that I think you meant to ask”. Long silence, then stunned nodding.
That done, it fell to my old mentor, Fred Bushby, to give me an easy ride on thunderstorms, and the inevitable “Any questions” and “No thank you”. There was always another chance in a few years’ time.
Chaos Theory.
One major omission on the CV was being a S Met O. Apart from running courses at the college, my managerial experience was limited to running a shift of four people. When the usual three years were ending I applied for the Wildenrath job. Apart from anything else, it was possible to retain the quarter because there would always be officers from Wildenrath posted to JHQ wanting to commute.
My C Met O put a spoke in the wheel by reporting that, whereas I was ‘a very good weather forecaster’ I had shown ‘no inclination to integrate with the customers’ and therefore should stick to forecasting. Thank you boss. So playing cricket for the office, RAF sidesman at church, Rheindahlen 40km Marches and Portadown Way BBQs were inadequate.
Events then took a genuinely startling turn. Out of the blue the promotions board invited LB to a Principal Scientific Officer interview, quite unheard of with only six years’ seniority. Colleagues suggested that I should attend, try not to disgrace myself, and have another go in three more years’ time. With plenty of annual leave allowance some preparation was needed: the Chairman was always the Director General, whose expertises were the mechanisms of thunderstorms and the theory and practice of satellite Met. Two other members were unknowable, plus one Treasury mandarin.
Seen by a fly on the wall, the interview [Inquisition] must have been entertaining. After 30 minutes I developed agonising calf cramp from the tension. The DG noticed and suggested that I walk it off. So I imitated Groucho Marx or John Cleese for a cabaret turn. Recovered, we were deeply into satellites, all was sweetness and light, but the next question prompted an idiotic exchange.
“Sir, I will answer the question, but then I would like to answer the question that I think you meant to ask”. Long silence, then stunned nodding.
That done, it fell to my old mentor, Fred Bushby, to give me an easy ride on thunderstorms, and the inevitable “Any questions” and “No thank you”. There was always another chance in a few years’ time.
Chaos Theory.
The following 6 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Keep it up LB (and other contributors), this is a real expose to service life - not everyone was at the sharp end.
(I'm also following the "Did you fly the Vulcan" thread which is terrific!)
(I'm also following the "Did you fly the Vulcan" thread which is terrific!)
Thread Starter
Close encounters of the wing commander ops kind.
1. Gutersloh. Weather vile, stacked exceot for battle flight c. 1968. All jobs jobbed. Office cricket time, played with a miniature bat, waste paper bin wicket, and a practice golf ball. Pitch was either carpet [which took spin] or floor boards aiding pace. LB batting for Sussex. One run for contact, four for ball hitting far wall, six if wall above floor level.
A very inviting [underarm] full toss outside off-stump was square cut immaculately a foot above floor level and shot like a bullet into wg cdr ops hands as he entered right. Followed by station commander, who congratulated the catcher, and gave me out caught.
What bloody marvellous good blokes we were working for.
1. Gutersloh. Weather vile, stacked exceot for battle flight c. 1968. All jobs jobbed. Office cricket time, played with a miniature bat, waste paper bin wicket, and a practice golf ball. Pitch was either carpet [which took spin] or floor boards aiding pace. LB batting for Sussex. One run for contact, four for ball hitting far wall, six if wall above floor level.
A very inviting [underarm] full toss outside off-stump was square cut immaculately a foot above floor level and shot like a bullet into wg cdr ops hands as he entered right. Followed by station commander, who congratulated the catcher, and gave me out caught.
What bloody marvellous good blokes we were working for.
The following 3 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Thread Starter
Chaos Theory.
Two weeks later the Head of Personnel phoned “You will be pleased to know ………….” And offered me two managerial Principal posts and no forecasting ones. [There were about 20 Stream 2 forecasting posts: CFO, Strike, Heathrow and Intervention. There were some 10 managerial posts: RAF Groups and Weather Centres].
Actually no Arnold, I am not pleased. My wife is very not pleased. My teenage children [one reading Maths at Leeds, three at Queen’s School JHQ] are not pleased. But turning down a promotion meant automatic blacklisting for three years, so with a heavy heart we packed for HQ 1 Group at Bawtry. If you can't take a joke, don't join.
Whereas I could not be trusted to run one outfit, total 15 staff, I could apparently cope with a Main Met. Office and eleven RAF outstations each with 15, ranging from Leeming to Marham.
It was 1981, a time of great change for us and for our RAF customers. My handover took less than an hour, my predecessor had nothing worthwhile to tell me except the safe combination. The task of Regional Met Officer Bawtry resembled a horse designed by a committee: a camel. First the on-site Main Office had morphed into two teams, one fed by Strike providing guidance and operational supervision to all eleven RAF outstations, the other one under CFO for Civil Aviation and Public Service. Unbelievably, the “story” running that day might be rather different between teams. The first reform was to order an 0900 internal briefing to ensure coherence. The air staff brief each morning was also badly done, and a senior forecaster needed removing from that task asap. I took over the briefing every Friday.
Secondly, primitive computers, glorified word-processors, had been issued to all stations but there were no central protocols or formats for output. That needed addressing.
Thirdly the mix of roles of the eleven stations was absurd. Nearby fighter stations Wittering and Coningsby were not my responsibility but Binbrook was. The V force and its support at Waddington, Scampton and Marham was included, but so also were the Training locations of the Vale of York, Finningley and Cranwell. Wyton needed special attention and more clearance and indoctrination. Cottesmore was the Tornado trials station and that too was up to me. Added to which every Eastern civil airport and little airfield had to be inspected annually.
My great good fortune was to inherit a very good deputy in Bob Ward and an excellent admin team. Had it been otherwise, the foolishness of my posting would have been fully exposed. If I had heard about stress and mentalelf I would have thrown a sickie. [The entire Met. ethos excluded sickies, they just meant some other poor sod had to do one's work. This contrasted sharply with other parts of MoD where sick leave was habitually added to annual leave].
The Office was becoming commercial, such that work for civil customers, hitherto regarded as paid for by taxation, was to be charged. Hence the need for a commercial manager, and hence some very unhappy erstwhile customers. Doncaster Royal Infirmary refused to pay for weather warnings [affecting ambulances and patients with fog, frost, ice and snow]. They had received these buckshee since Bawtry opened. Commercialism sat heavily on us all .......... viewed as vulgar trade.
The light note of the week was happy hour, when AVM Mike Knight would sometimes demand that the Bawtry song book be dished out and the piano played by an unblushing female officer.
The Falklands, the miners and the closure.
Two weeks later the Head of Personnel phoned “You will be pleased to know ………….” And offered me two managerial Principal posts and no forecasting ones. [There were about 20 Stream 2 forecasting posts: CFO, Strike, Heathrow and Intervention. There were some 10 managerial posts: RAF Groups and Weather Centres].
Actually no Arnold, I am not pleased. My wife is very not pleased. My teenage children [one reading Maths at Leeds, three at Queen’s School JHQ] are not pleased. But turning down a promotion meant automatic blacklisting for three years, so with a heavy heart we packed for HQ 1 Group at Bawtry. If you can't take a joke, don't join.
Whereas I could not be trusted to run one outfit, total 15 staff, I could apparently cope with a Main Met. Office and eleven RAF outstations each with 15, ranging from Leeming to Marham.
It was 1981, a time of great change for us and for our RAF customers. My handover took less than an hour, my predecessor had nothing worthwhile to tell me except the safe combination. The task of Regional Met Officer Bawtry resembled a horse designed by a committee: a camel. First the on-site Main Office had morphed into two teams, one fed by Strike providing guidance and operational supervision to all eleven RAF outstations, the other one under CFO for Civil Aviation and Public Service. Unbelievably, the “story” running that day might be rather different between teams. The first reform was to order an 0900 internal briefing to ensure coherence. The air staff brief each morning was also badly done, and a senior forecaster needed removing from that task asap. I took over the briefing every Friday.
Secondly, primitive computers, glorified word-processors, had been issued to all stations but there were no central protocols or formats for output. That needed addressing.
Thirdly the mix of roles of the eleven stations was absurd. Nearby fighter stations Wittering and Coningsby were not my responsibility but Binbrook was. The V force and its support at Waddington, Scampton and Marham was included, but so also were the Training locations of the Vale of York, Finningley and Cranwell. Wyton needed special attention and more clearance and indoctrination. Cottesmore was the Tornado trials station and that too was up to me. Added to which every Eastern civil airport and little airfield had to be inspected annually.
My great good fortune was to inherit a very good deputy in Bob Ward and an excellent admin team. Had it been otherwise, the foolishness of my posting would have been fully exposed. If I had heard about stress and mentalelf I would have thrown a sickie. [The entire Met. ethos excluded sickies, they just meant some other poor sod had to do one's work. This contrasted sharply with other parts of MoD where sick leave was habitually added to annual leave].
The Office was becoming commercial, such that work for civil customers, hitherto regarded as paid for by taxation, was to be charged. Hence the need for a commercial manager, and hence some very unhappy erstwhile customers. Doncaster Royal Infirmary refused to pay for weather warnings [affecting ambulances and patients with fog, frost, ice and snow]. They had received these buckshee since Bawtry opened. Commercialism sat heavily on us all .......... viewed as vulgar trade.
The light note of the week was happy hour, when AVM Mike Knight would sometimes demand that the Bawtry song book be dished out and the piano played by an unblushing female officer.
The Falklands, the miners and the closure.
The following 6 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Join Date: Mar 2010
Location: Often in Jersey, but mainly in the past.
Age: 79
Posts: 7,810
Received 136 Likes
on
64 Posts
I remember losing out on an acting rank promotion, as in accordance with the rules I did not meet the job spec for the appointment. A year or so later, I got substantive promotion, and ... guess which job I was posted to? 
The following users liked this post:
Thread Starter
Fair to say that Thatcherism was driving matters towards charging the customers. Neither I nor my lads and lasses were at all happy. At about the same time Station Commanders were being asked "is your Met. Office really necessary?" Somewhere up in the clouds way above Group Captains and R Met Os there was some hard talking. Fortunately I never had to be aware of budgets.
Thread Starter
The Falklands, the miners and the closure.
Arriving at work 0830 I was greeted with “C Met O Strike [my Lord and Master for most military matters] has been ringing for you every ten minutes!”
I rang to be greeted by “the bastards have invaded!” Of course we were aware of the threat but the islands were a long long way away. My question was “what is the plan?” Plan there was none. The boss said that the current assumption was that there was little that the RAF could do. How wrong they were, although like a lot of people my personal contribution was less than I wished. Beyond ensuring that Waddington, Marham and Wyton were fully supported [if necessary to the detriment of the training stations] and increasing the briefings to the air staff I was a frustrated witness.
Air Commodore Carver was SASO, and was about the only member of the staff to wear glasses. This led on more than one occasion for Mike Knight to ask to borrow ‘the air staff glasses’. Meanwhile I had the good luck to have a senior forecaster who was a very frequent attachee to Falklands Met., such that he spent six months down south, six months back at Bawtry. His knowledge was better than any text book for me. The six months periodicity meant he went from winter north to winter south for several years.
My home was behind the church in Beckingham near Gainsborough. Senior daughter was teaching maths in Gainsborough, son became a trainee Sainsbury manager and Rock Ape reservist [Scampton], middle daughter became a Metropolitan Police cadet at Hendon, and junior was at school, suffering badly from change of syllabus and the conversion from Grammar School to Comprehensive. She did well enough to study nursing at Nottingham and later passed several degree courses, so the damage was not permanent.
B. G. of the Met. team providing qualified forecaster / presenters for BBC TV and Radio came talent spotting. He reminisced that, as a 19 year old, he was attached to Bawtry, justly famous for its young ladies. “They used to take me down to the pond at the bottom of the grounds. When I left after a few months I was 29!”.
Far too soon came the news of 1 Group moving from Bawtry Hall in 1984, and the founding of a Regional Weather Centre [Leeds WC!] at Leeds. This turmoil coincided with the miners’ strike. The RAF left a little before we moved, so for a short time I was squire of Bawtry Hall.
Because Leeds had nothing to do with the RAF, and subsequently neither did Cardiff WC., I will not cover the dull years until 1989, when the good fairy asked me if I had a valid passport and would I please run Germany as C Met O, traditionally a Stream One post.
Would I?
Arriving at work 0830 I was greeted with “C Met O Strike [my Lord and Master for most military matters] has been ringing for you every ten minutes!”
I rang to be greeted by “the bastards have invaded!” Of course we were aware of the threat but the islands were a long long way away. My question was “what is the plan?” Plan there was none. The boss said that the current assumption was that there was little that the RAF could do. How wrong they were, although like a lot of people my personal contribution was less than I wished. Beyond ensuring that Waddington, Marham and Wyton were fully supported [if necessary to the detriment of the training stations] and increasing the briefings to the air staff I was a frustrated witness.
Air Commodore Carver was SASO, and was about the only member of the staff to wear glasses. This led on more than one occasion for Mike Knight to ask to borrow ‘the air staff glasses’. Meanwhile I had the good luck to have a senior forecaster who was a very frequent attachee to Falklands Met., such that he spent six months down south, six months back at Bawtry. His knowledge was better than any text book for me. The six months periodicity meant he went from winter north to winter south for several years.
My home was behind the church in Beckingham near Gainsborough. Senior daughter was teaching maths in Gainsborough, son became a trainee Sainsbury manager and Rock Ape reservist [Scampton], middle daughter became a Metropolitan Police cadet at Hendon, and junior was at school, suffering badly from change of syllabus and the conversion from Grammar School to Comprehensive. She did well enough to study nursing at Nottingham and later passed several degree courses, so the damage was not permanent.
B. G. of the Met. team providing qualified forecaster / presenters for BBC TV and Radio came talent spotting. He reminisced that, as a 19 year old, he was attached to Bawtry, justly famous for its young ladies. “They used to take me down to the pond at the bottom of the grounds. When I left after a few months I was 29!”.
Far too soon came the news of 1 Group moving from Bawtry Hall in 1984, and the founding of a Regional Weather Centre [Leeds WC!] at Leeds. This turmoil coincided with the miners’ strike. The RAF left a little before we moved, so for a short time I was squire of Bawtry Hall.
Because Leeds had nothing to do with the RAF, and subsequently neither did Cardiff WC., I will not cover the dull years until 1989, when the good fairy asked me if I had a valid passport and would I please run Germany as C Met O, traditionally a Stream One post.
Would I?
Last edited by langleybaston; 11th Apr 2024 at 18:55. Reason: for sh1t read shot
The following 11 users liked this post by langleybaston:
Tabs please !
Fascinating stuff. My chums and I became quite pally with our lecturer at the "College of Knowledge". He bemoaned the fact that no longer getting shift allowance, downsizing from East Anglian bliss to a Thames Valley shoe-box and the severe disruption to his family life were having some quite serious effects on his domestic happiness. Being slightly skilled in predicting the future, we read our tea-leaves and developed an unnatural interest in the job pages of the broadsheets.
I was often under the impression that Met O.10 (HR in civvy speak) hated everyone else. An SO colleague with absolutely no HR qualifications nor interest in his charges, was moved there to look after all ASO staff. A more ill-suited individual would be impossible to imagine.
I was often under the impression that Met O.10 (HR in civvy speak) hated everyone else. An SO colleague with absolutely no HR qualifications nor interest in his charges, was moved there to look after all ASO staff. A more ill-suited individual would be impossible to imagine.
LB’s jolly recollections have stirred my grey matter. Like the standard Aldergrove met forecast: “If you can see the Sperrins, it is about to rain - if you can’t, it already is”.
Or the morning I phoned the duty Ops man at Bessbrook to check the weather before I launched, to be told that the weather was fine. I asked him what the visibility was and he repeated “fine”. I then asked him how far he could actually see, to which he answered “I can see the guardroom”.
Or the RN Met Man (schoolie) who used to issue warnings of thunder, despite the fact that we told him, repeatedly, that we fighter pilots and
not scared of loud noises.
Mog
Or the morning I phoned the duty Ops man at Bessbrook to check the weather before I launched, to be told that the weather was fine. I asked him what the visibility was and he repeated “fine”. I then asked him how far he could actually see, to which he answered “I can see the guardroom”.
Or the RN Met Man (schoolie) who used to issue warnings of thunder, despite the fact that we told him, repeatedly, that we fighter pilots and
not scared of loud noises.
Mog
Interesting recollections LB, keep them coming.
I'm a little surprised that nobody has yet mentioned how a Weather-Guesser could be replaced with a simple stone placed on an outside window ledge.... allegedly just as accurate!
I'm a little surprised that nobody has yet mentioned how a Weather-Guesser could be replaced with a simple stone placed on an outside window ledge.... allegedly just as accurate!
I did Environmental Science in my first year at University, which included Meteorology. It was enough to convince me not to want to continue with that particular topic I still shudder at the phrase "adiabatic lapse rate" and I wasted a whole afternoon waiting for some supercooled raindrops to freeze.
Tabs please !
Those lapse rates are very useful for estimating cloudbase. Get the temp and dewpoint from your nearest station and work it out in your head. You can then place bets at the local airfield with the nearest guess getting a free beer for later when the plane has been put to bed. 