R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

By

Geoffrey Adams

Geoffrey Adams © 2006 www.wabbrown.co.uk/

Geoffrey Adams 1 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

CHAPTER ONE

Joy was her name and she certainly lived up to it that evening, being quite unconfined. When she finally made her way home to Married Quarters, she left, much to our delight, an exciting imprint of her bare bottom on the red plastic bar stool seat. Married to an older Flying Officer, she seemed rather to enjoy the company of us young National Service officers. As in all the recently built radar stations, the bar in the Officers' Mess of R.A.F. Seaton Snook, where I was to spend the last year of my service, had a pre- fabricated air to it. Two fluorescent tubes, only partially hidden by a hardboard frieze, cast a hard, bright glare that did little to add to the atmosphere. The few bottles that stood on the glass shelves behind the steward's back were reflected in the mirror that covered that entire wall, as were our own youthful, red-cheeked, grinning faces. Leaving the smoky bar and pretty much the worse for wear on Merrydown cider – the cheapest way to get spifflicated – we finally staggered off to our separate, sparsely furnished, rooms. I lost my balance several times as I undressed and when I finally pulled on my striped Wincyette pyjamas and clambered onto the thin mattress and slipped between the cold sheets, the way the bed looped the loop, as I tried to keep my eyes focussed on the ceiling, reminded me of my very short flying career in the Royal Air Force. My National Service had begun a year before. Going straight from school, after a fortnight's gliding course at R.A.F. Detling in Kent, I'd become

Geoffrey Adams 2 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

2590671 Aircraftsman 2nd Class (AC2) Adams. Prior to my call-up, I'd been graded A1 at my medical and passed an aptitude test at Adastral House in Kingsway, London and been considered worth training to become a pilot. The powers-that-be soon realised that two years was insufficient time to train a pilot from scratch to the necessary standard to become operational and ready for squadron service. However, along with a few hundred other young men, I was fortunate that there was this brief window of opportunity and I was more than happy to grab the chance it offered. After passing through R.A.F. Cardington so quickly that my feet hardly touched the ground, within a fortnight I was posted to Number One Initial Training School at R.A.F. Kirton-in-Lindsey in North Lincolnshire, as an Officer Cadet. Only six or seven miles south of Scunthorpe, the landscape surrounding the station was pretty bleak. In our four months there we were to be changed from civilians into fully trained R.A.F. personnel, before we continued on to a Flying Training School. Our time at Kirton was perhaps less rigorous than it would have been at a normal square-bashing camp, but nonetheless the discipline was strict. We had to keep a daily diary intended, and I quote, to train Cadets in: a) The power of observation. b) The power of expression. c) The habit of orderliness. I have that diary still. Here is the entry for the day I arrived:

Tuesday 20th October 1953 This day I arrived at Kirton-in-Lindsey. The bus got in at about 12.00 Hrs in thick fog. The first impression was one of desolation. The atmosphere in the bus had been very cheerful thro'out the journey, although as we neared the Station there was an appreciable tension in the air. I naturally felt a little apprehensive about the future; but I think I also felt a little relieved – for at last I was going to stay somewhere, which, for me, had some slight permanency. We had lunch as soon as we arrived, in the pleasantly decorated mess. The stories we heard from the outgoing cadets, if their word was to be taken, promised us an extremely varied and full programme! The evening was

Geoffrey Adams 3 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

spent in one of the huge hangers – filling in forms. I informed the Royal Air Force, at least nine times, of the name of my next of kin! The rest of the evening was spent in preparing for a full kit inspection on the morrow. Retired to bed at 23.00, with plenty to think about. Whilst a straight re-print of the entire diary would become exceedingly boring, it does allow me to get back inside the head of a young man, who had left boarding school at seventeen and a half and been thrown into service life. I was very naïve and unworldly and some of my comments, especially about Current Affairs, which we had to include along with our report of our own daily doings, are, when read today, rather embarrassing. However it does remind me of things long forgotten. As officer cadets we surrendered our airman's webbing kit – heavy packs, festooned with webbing and buckles, and were given white tabs to sew onto our collars and a white band to go round our peaked hats. A diary note at the end of my diary, just prior to the Passing Out Parade, notes: My SD (Service Dress) hat is a bit wobbly and inclined to shake and slip when I do arms drill. I hope it doesn't fall off at the parade – 'cos I'm in a rather conspicuous position. That may have been because my surname began with A or perhaps because, being 6' 2”, I always ended up at the right hand front pole position, when the drill sergeant shouted: “Tallest on the right, shortest on the left!” We were at Initial Training School to be inculcated into R.A.F. routine both on the parade ground and in the classrooms, where we were taught regular, school-type subjects. Ten days into the course, I noted: Maths: Arithmetic finished; onto Trig. No Physics yet. English: Done filing systems and onto various different types of Service letters. General Duties: Progressing through R.A.F Organisations. GCT: Done weapons cleaning and had a lecture. I remember the Service letters. There were Official letters, Demi-Official letters and others, called Informal letters, but most ended: 'I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant.' Very Civil Service!

Geoffrey Adams 4 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

In G.C.T, Ground Combat Training, we were instructed in the use of the rifle, Bren and Sten guns and the mortar. To add to the excitement, we had Initiative Tests periodically throughout the course and played games – hockey, football and rugby. It really was very like school. Living at a time when World War Two had only finished some eight years before, and with the legacy of Baden Powell, all public schools had a Combined Cadet Force (C.C.F.) and at Charterhouse I had become familiar with drill routines, how to handle a rifle and had been on day exercises that involved map reading and the use of a compass. I, and several others, thus came to service life with a basic understanding of much that must have been quite new to many of those entrants who had been educated in the state sector. Our day started early. Many of my diary entries note: Rose at 06.00. Usually followed by the words: to prepare for inspection. Parades were at 08.30 and woe betide the recruit who fainted because he'd missed breakfast. Fainting on parade was a chargeable offence and might well have resulted in extra guard duties or even the loss of a 48 hour pass. I fainted once. One moment I was standing there, the next I felt a whack on my head as I hit the ground. “Take that man off parade”, came the cry from the officer and the two cadets either side of me jerked me to my feet and, with an arm each under mine, they half carried and half dragged me to the grass at the edge of the parade ground, where I sat on a low wall with my head between my legs. I got off that time, swearing I'd had breakfast – which I hadn't. I didn't make that mistake again. The most enjoyable parade of the week was Pay Parade. Each section lined up in one of the hangers. The Accounts Officer sat at a table, with a book and open cash box. As your name was called you jumped to attention, screamed out: “2590671 Officer Cadet Adams – SIR!” and then marched smartly forward to the table. Staring at the wall above his head, you threw up a dramatic salute (one was, after all, being watched by the Drill Sergeant, Section Commander and Flight Commander as well as all your chums) and waited for your pay to be pushed towards you. Picking it up you saluted again and about-turned back to your place.

Thursday 22nd October The £1 note arrived just in time. Most of it seemed to disappear very

Geoffrey Adams 5 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

quickly, to purchase such articles as: cleaning equipment, academic materials and the like. But now purchased, I hope they will last for a while. With no extraordinary expenditure, I find that my pay is barely adequate – but adequate. It is the extra items that tend to upset my budget. Much of our free time was spent 'bulling' our equipment. That meant polishing the brasses on our belts, our buttons and cap badge, blancoeing our white belts and getting a high shine on the toe caps of our boots. The surface of our thick leather boots, when first issued, was covered with tiny pimples. Those on the toes had to be smoothed away with a hot spoon and then layers and layers of boot polish rubbed in with added spit. Eventually a deep gloss was created. Too much and it cracked in use; too little and the necessary 'see your face in it' wouldn't be achieved. On parade our Drill Sergeant Wood would be quick to spot the difference. A kindly man, we were more fortunate than most of the other sections but he had a sharp voice to go with his ramrod back and would brook no idleness. A poor inspection would reflect badly on him and he made sure we were up to scratch. The barrack blocks were two storey, with four large dormitories, each with twelve beds. In the middle of every room there was a cast iron stove heater, surrounded with a ridge of concrete leaving enough room for the coal scuttle and shovel. In the bitter cold winter months of October, November and December, we used to stoke it until it glowed red in the darkness, after lights out at 23.00 hours. Apart from our own kit we also had to keep the block and our room spotless. A regular corporal was in charge of each block and he kept on our heels, incongruously having to end each sentence of reprimand, we being Officer Cadets, with the word: “Sir!” As in: “This place is a h'absolute shit-pit and you'll all be on jankers (guard duty) unless h'it's spotless by the time I come back in h'eight minutes – Sir!” To which we all chorused: “Yes, corporal!” The brown linoleum had to be highly polished and to avoid marking it we removed our boots when entering and shuffled round on pads made from old grey blankets. This had the double benefit of providing added polish with each step. High jinks on a Saturday night often resulted in us raiding, or being raided by, other blocks. The blind eye of authority was usually turned on these occasions but when one particular night fire extinguishers were set off and sprayed around, the

Geoffrey Adams 6 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

eye turned back and the hand fell heavily. There were daily inspections of our rooms. The coarse grey or brown blankets had to be folded in a special way that showed the rounded front of three, wrapped around with the fourth, with all ends tucked away. Sheets and pillow cases were hidden under the blankets. Spare items of clothing, denims, mug, knife, fork and spoon and every piece of issued equipment had its own spot on the bed. When the corporal's shout echoed down the corridor: “STAND BY YOUR BEDS!” we scrambled to attention at the foot of the bed – under which we pressed our trousers each night - and waited with trepidation for the officer to saunter in, with beady eye ready to spot any shortage or misplacement.

Wednesday 28th October Rose at 06.00 hours to prepare for C.O.'s Inspection. Was well under way by the time the dulcet tone of Mr. Tannoy informed us that it was a good morning and that the time was 06.30 hours. Had the room ready just in time to parade at 08.30. The last 5 minutes sees most work done. The room always manages to be perfectly immaculate (to our eyes!) by the parade on any morning. But a few minutes before one wonders how everything can be finished. The rooms were inspected after the parade, which, but for the march past, did not seem too bad (again to us!). However things did not reach the Wing Commander's high standards and we were promised an extra parade the following evening. I think the rooms were up to a jolly high standard. It is a very satisfactory feeling to stand by your bed and equipment, knowing that the inspecting officer will have to look jolly hard to find anything wrong. Just before this particular inspection I dropped my bayonet onto my mug, carefully in position, smashing it. The large bare space was, however, unnoticed. The Initiative exercises were organised to fill any spare moment. Here is another diary entry.

Monday 2nd November

During the afternoon we had exercise 'Magpie'. We had to find several objects – mostly very peculiar. Craigie and I had to find out who owned the

Geoffrey Adams 7 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Bendix washing machine on the station and also an empty Chianti bottle! We discovered the former quite easily but even after a search through all the pubs in Kirton the latter eluded us. We also joined in the search for the return bus ticket to Lincoln and boiled two pints of H2O on a North Pole stove! John Bates and Jeremy Cockayne both used very cunning ways to obtain a lip-sticked cigarette and Sqn./Ldr. Smith's neck size. We got all but the bottle and the ticket in the end. Thoroughly enjoyed this exercise. We were not surprised to see that 2.79 inches of rain had fallen the previous day.

We were even asked to fill the role left vacant by the demobilised landgirls.

Monday 26th October: Routine work during the morning. Potato picking during the afternoon instead of games. We didn't have to work very hard, although we kept pace with the machine, which uncovered the potatoes. The farmer-chap seemed rather impatient at us. Actually if anyone was slow it was the tractor! We made the most of our weekends and on the very first one five of us set off for Lincoln.

Saturday 24th October We set off soon after lunch, feeling very smart in our No.1 uniforms. We walked for about 2 hours; our plan being to catch a bus at some stage on the road. But there did not seem to be a bus route along the road we chose, so on advice from some local inhabitants we turned off the road, to the little village of Bishop Norton. We stopped at the village Post Office-cum-Groceries-cum- confectioneries and refreshed ourselves with ice creams, sweets and Swiss rolls. (Perhaps that's where the money goes!) After a longish wait we caught a bus at 4.10 (16.10). We arrived at Lincoln at 17.00. I had been to the town twice before – once, several months ago, from a C.C.F camp and from Cranwell. We rediscovered the excellent N.A.A.F.I. there. I had a lovely shower followed by a very good meal. Also 'phoned home (having failed to get through on

Geoffrey Adams 8 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Friday night). We went to the cinema and saw a puerile Abbott and Costello film and a good Western. After the film we returned to the N.A.A.F.I. Club for a cup of coffee, before catching the 10.10 bus for Kirton. The bus conductress was very helpful and friendly and determined us to pay a visit to Scunthorpe, which she assured us was far superior to Lincoln, as far as entertainment went. Slept very soundly this night – as indeed I find I always do here. The day after our Lincoln visit, late in the afternoon, after some cleaning of equipment, Jeremy Cockayne, Jeremy Threlfall, Berry and I sought out the famous town of Scunthorpe. Bus was half an hour late and the town, on a Sunday, was deserted. Not a very satisfactory visit. Could imagine that on a weekday it might be quite a good town, from the entertainment point of view. Arrived back early. A pleasantly restful day. The following Saturday we went back to Scunthorpe, where we made a complete inspection of the town, including the station and iron/steel works. Gosh! No doubt about it, Scunthorpe certainly had lots to offer! In the evening we went to see “Moulin Rouge”, the much talked about film of the life of Toulouse-Lautrec, the French painter. It is interesting to note that the larger towns situated near camps all boasted a N.A.A.F.I. - the initials stood for Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes - offering both regulars and National Servicemen very good facilities. I note elsewhere of enjoying a hot bath in Scunthorpe after the cold water of Kirton. There was also a N.A.A.F.I. on the station, where one could purchase all one’s daily needs. There were tables where we could sit and enjoy a mug of hot tea and a snack – much like a large School Tuck Shop. This was, no doubt, when the bromide was added to our tea – a myth that flew about. The bromide intended, it was said, to reduce any sexual urges that might remain after the never-ending stint of short nights and long days and, more importantly, the lack of opportunity. The working week was strictly Monday to Friday, although the days started early and Lights Out wasn't until 11 o'clock. Thus, apart from keeping our equipment bulled, the weekends were our own. Like all young men we wanted a 'good time' but we were limited by how much money we had to spend.

Geoffrey Adams 9 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Everybody smoked. At this stage I suspect that we smoked Woodbines or Players’ Weights. Made no doubt from the factory sweepings of the more expensive brands they were the cheapest cigarettes on the market. These we plucked from our pockets whenever we were told to: “Fall out for a smoke!” It was about this time that I experimented with a pipe. I purchased a normal straight one – nothing Sherlock Holmes-like – and an ounce of Players Virginia tobacco, together with a yellow flat plastic envelope in which to store it. Hurrying back, it being close to Lights Out, I changed into pyjamas and settled myself on my bed. After filling the bowl and tamping it down, as I’d seen other people do, I held a match over the tobacco and coaxed it alight. Once the thing was aglow, I drew a generous lungful of smoke, as I would with a cigarette. After a long moment, when I presumed one obtained the full flavour of the tobacco, I slowly exhaled. My exhalation turned into a frenzied coughing fit. My cheeks turned puce. My chest was racked with pain and I think I fainted. When I came to, I laid the pipe, still glowing, down on my bedside locker and never touched it again. Next time I bought cigarettes, I upgraded myself to Players’ Airmen, which had the comforting R.A.F. roundel on the packet. Surely a guarantee of quality. For in-house entertainment there was an Astra cinema on the camp. One sat on narrow benches and the double bill was usually a Western and an English comedy. In my diary I note: In a festive mood decided to pay a visit to the Astra. Saw 'Redhead from Wyoming' and 'Made in Heaven', a very good English production starring David Tomlinson, Petula Clark and A.E.Matthews. Outside the Astra, after the show, The Salvation Army dispensed piping hot tea and coffee from the opened side of a Commer van, which bore their distinctive red shield. Interspersed with the lessons and lectures, the drill and kit inspections, various Initiative Tests continued regularly. Designed to promote leadership, we took it in turns to be 'in charge'. Thus, in Exercise Babel, I headed up a seven-man team to erect a ten-foot high tower made from a pyramid of steel pipes. Two managed to climb it to semaphore our success. Two days later, we had Exercise Ferry, where we had to assemble the materials we were given, make a raft and cross a canal. My diary noted: although the raft turned turtle and ducked one of our chaps as soon as it was put in the water, we still managed to have got 3 or 4 men over, before any of the others were even launched. The water was icy cold

Geoffrey Adams 10 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

and one had to dangle ones feet in the water during the transitory operation. Our weakness lay in the thinness of the string that we had for retrieving the raft and we were unfortunately beaten by teams that could haul theirs back at a greater speeds. Good fun was had by all. Marched a couple of miles back to meet the lorries. Singing certainly makes light work of marching. Please note the crossing described so eloquently as a transitory operation! We were given inoculations and vaccinations, presumably in case we needed to be sent abroad at short notice. They made our arms stiff and left us with 'flu like symptoms the next day; but we still turned out for The Remembrance Day Service and Parade. We had a Church Parade each Sunday morning. Brought to a halt outside the church, the cry rang out: “Jews and Catholics – FALL OUT!” Even had I been one or the other I'm not sure I would have responded. I have a feeling that I was then, and probably still am, not one to want to appear different. If I thought about it at all, it would have been to wonder fleetingly why the Jews and Catholics couldn't join in the ceremony like the rest of us. As a Pisces I would have swayed with the prevailing religious wind during the troubled Tudor period. Later I would have been the guy the Non-Conformists rebelled against. John Cairns had an old 250 c.c. Royal Enfield motor bike and one weekend we were able to visit an uncle of his, who lived on the outskirts of Derby in a large, timbered country-house. I remember the huge Scotch whiskies he gave us in heavy, scratched, cut glass tumblers when we arrived on the Saturday evening and the thick stew with dumplings that we had later for dinner. During the night there were heavy flurries of snow but we still went out before breakfast to shoot rabbits. John got one with his twenty bore but my ancient .22 rifle was only good for rooks. I remember the satisfying squawk as I hit one high in a tree but was shocked when it plumped into the snow at our feet feebly flapping its wings. It lay there like a huge black bat, crying piteously, before I shot it again in the head. On the way back, after a late lunch, we crested a humpback bridge only to see the icy road on the other side veering off to the right. As John turned the front wheel the motorbike began to skid and John put it down on the road. We both stepped off as it slid away from under us into the verge. Needless to say neither of us was wearing a helmet.

Geoffrey Adams 11 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Jeremy Cockayne, an old Etonian, purchased a large Citroen saloon. It looked like the square-boxed automobiles that American gangsters drove. We later painted it a pale blue, presumably in memory of Jeremy's old school. It could carry seven at a pinch and was the favoured car for visits to the town. We no longer had to rely on the unreliable bus service. I recall one night, returning from Scunthorpe, along one of the dead straight roads that bisected a huge open field of turnips. The car was swaying with its load of excited teenagers. Suddenly a set of headlights in the distance began to approach with a closing speed that, even in those days, must have exceeded 120 m.p.h. When the two sets of headlight had mingled blindingly, I still remember Jeremy's cry: “Which side is the ****** going!” Fuelled by a couple of beers, our shrieks of mock horror and delight might so easily have been cut short and six or seven aspiring young pilots never have made it into the cockpit of a plane. Not to mention the innocent farmer, driving home. You may well ask how, with all this gadding about, I managed on my £1 a week pay. Well, actually my pay as an Aircrew cadet should have risen to £2. 9s. but one had to be eighteen and I was still five months short of that. However I did have my savings. These were recorded in a buff Post Office Savings book, with the Royal coat of Arms on the cover and my name inside: Master G.T.Adams. The first deposit was for ten shillings on 10th January 1938. There followed small but regular deposits over the years, usually the result of small denomination notes folded inside greetings cards by loving aunts and uncles, or a half crown pressed into my little palm by a visiting god-parent at Christmas time or for my birthday in early March. Ten shillings was the norm but there were some entries of 5/- and 7/6, perhaps the result of my saving up pocket money. Peaking at £52 in 1952, I had already drawn out £17 during my last year at school. By the time my National Service began it had shrunk to £35. During this period the book shows that I visited the Post Office in the town seven times to draw small sums. Obviously I was balancing the books with some precision, since they vary from 7/6 to 13/- and on 19th December, I suspect to be able to buy Christmas presents, the huge sum of £2. 10s. Before the end of the two years, it had all gone. Initially just to make ends meet but latterly I suspect, to cover the shortfall on my Mess bills. That Merrrydown cider, while cheaper than beer, still had to be paid for. However, when one thinks of the huge debt that saddles university graduates today, the

Geoffrey Adams 12 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

blowing of my small nest egg – although it shamed me somewhat at the time – seems chicken feed. To put it in perspective, I recall that my ambition when I was demobbed in 1955 was for a job that gave me £1,000 a year and a car. £20 a week seemed quite a fortune to someone earning only a quid. Even the basic pay of a Squadron Leader, equivalent to an Army major, was only £14. 14s. 0d., and he needed flying pay of £3. 3s. 0d. to bring his weekly pay up to seventeen guineas. If married and over twenty-five an officer received an additional £6. 9s. 6d. For the under 25s this was only £2. 16s – set at a scale that was presumably intended to discourage officers from marrying too young.

Thursday 29th October A very foggy day. The hockey match against N0.5 Squadron to which I had been looking forward was unfortunately cancelled – as was the rugby and swimming. We played basketball in the gym instead – a good substitute. Had extra parade and inspection in the evening. We were issued with our rifles today. Jeremy, John Bruton + two others in our Squadron had theirs pinched from their lockers. Much panic. I was to experience the same panic, when two years later I came to hand over The Armoury inventory, which I had taken pretty much on trust from the previous holder, to another officer and one rifle was found to be missing. As a result I served two years and three days in the R.A.F. before finding it hidden in an Airman's locker because he'd got some 4 by 2 wadding jammed in the barrel. Our diary entries had also to include current affairs. These help to remind one what was going on at the time. Under Home Affairs I record that: All rationing is to end next year – this statement was made clear in a White Paper published yesterday. The meat trade is to go back to Private Enterprise. I have my father's Ration Book for 1953 – 1954. A wonderful piece of bureaucratic memorabilia, it was issued by the Ministry of Food and printed on poor quality buff re-cycled paper and shows that meat, eggs, fats, cheese, bacon, tea and sugar were all 'on ration'. The holder of the book was required to register with a retailer for each of these items. At the back of the book there were four pages of PERSONAL POINTS (SWEETS). In the event of the book being lost, there was a request - IF FOUND RETURN TO ANY FOOD OFFICE. The fact that most of

Geoffrey Adams 13 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

the little coupons are still intact shows that rationing did indeed end the following year. But there were other problems in the air. The Tories under Churchill, had been returned to power in 1951- Queen Elizabeth coming to the throne the next year - and the workers were becoming restless. Two and a half thousand servicemen were ordered in to take over the task of delivering petrol when workers went on strike. The petrol strike was broken by this intervention but other unions, many led by Communists, were flexing their muscles. There were riots in Trieste, when President Tito of Jugoslavia stood up to Italy, and in the Near East Mosaddeq was put on trial in Tehran. President Dwight Eisenhower had succeeded Truman and Four Power talks were always trying to be organised. Each of the Four now had the Atom Bomb and my diary shows that it was a time of considerable tension. However we were young and living life to the full and had I not had to keep a diary I doubt whether any of it would have impinged on me very much. At the end of November the Squadron C.O. took me up in a Chipmunk and once we were airborne let me take the controls. I note that it was a very pleasant aircraft to fly – far easier than a glider, but more sensitive than a Link Trainer – a flying training machine, one of which we had at school in the R.A.F. Section and which we all queued up to use. Suddenly December came and with it our mock exams. I hoped to have done quite well but found my marks lower than I'd expected. Only 42% for Maths. You had to achieve a 50% mark to pass the course, so I was worried. Only 47% for English, principally for writing the wrong type of Service letter. General Duties were better at 72% but I was nevertheless thrown into a bit of a spin and, after an interview with Squadron Leader Dutton, I decided to buckle down to my revision. He kindly suggested that if any of us required a quieter environment to revise we were welcome to use his dining room, which several of us did. Quite by chance I met S/L (by then an Air Commodore) Dutton in the Royal Air Force Club many years later and introduced myself. He pretended to remember me. Based on the trial exams, it being assumed that they would all pass, those in the top half were told that their flying training would take place in Canada. An element of uncertainty hung over the rest of us. December turned very foggy again and Lincolnshire was badly affected.

Geoffrey Adams 14 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Games were cancelled. The rest of the month flew by with the usual parades and in preparation for the Finals. Before we broke up for our Christmas leave, we had a Christmas dinner in the mess hall. As Kirton was the only Initial Training School for pilots, there would have been more than a hundred chaps, all at different stages in their courses, and those who signed my menu would not necessarily have been those on my Flight or Squadron. One at least was an old school chum, Nick Eeley, who passed out a little later than I did, before going on to R.A.F. Feltwell and later, when he had won his wings, to R.A.F. Worksop, to fly Meteors. Some nine years later he was the best man at my wedding.

The menu had a cluster of red-berried holly leaves at each corner and was laid out thus:

The Commanding Officer, Officers, Warrant Officers and Senior N.C.O's wish you all . . . A Happy Christmas.

ROYAL AIR FORCE KIRTON -IN-LINDSEY

Christmas 1955

Cream of Tomato

Fried Fillets of Fish Game Chips

Roast Turkey York Ham Force Meat

Geoffrey Adams 15 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Roast Potatoes Creamed Potato Brussels Sprouts Garden Peas

Xmas Pudding Brandy Sauce

Mince Pies, Cheese and Biscuits, Fruit, Nuts

Beer Minerals Cigarettes

The signatures that cover the menu are: John Bates, Stan Baugh, Arthur Bosley, Alan Bradley, John Bruton, Barry Budge, Mike Butterworth, John Cairns, Jeremy Cockayne, Ray Craigie, Reg Cooper, Nick Eeley, William Egan, Clive Elton, Anthony Gledwell, H.Johnson and H.Parsons; although there are other names which occur in the diary, who didn't sign and they include Freddie Dawson, a Don, a Sid, a Mick and someone with initials K-G. The short Christmas break at home rushed by. My parents and I went up to London one evening to see The Crazy Gang. A sort of grown-up pantomime. Then it was back to Kirton in time for New Year's Eve and the first snow of the winter. Temperatures dropped, creating clouds of steaming breath, with much stamping of numbed feet, while we waited to be called onto the parade ground. This was when we appreciated our stiff, heavy greatcoats, which we also used as extra bed covering at night against the cold. Then, at last, the final exams proper. Much to my relief I managed 60% in Maths and 74% for Science and was placed 41st out of 67. A nice comfortable position, which being an optimist I call half way up, although in reality it was two thirds of the way down, which is where you end up when you don't apply yourself sufficiently. A 'could do better' sort of place. We had the Squadron Dance at the Berkeley Hotel in Scunthorpe. Some of the staff joined us – our Squadron Commander with Mrs. Dutton, Flight Commander and Mrs. McCullock, with Sergeants Wood and Bates. The next day we were issued with our flying kit. My diary notes: Just like Christmas! There would have been a lightweight grey, zip up flying suit, covered in pockets, with an especially large map pocket on the thigh, a soft, head-clinging helmet, with built-in headphones with a hanging jack plug, a clip-on oxygen mask with its long corrugated rubber tube, as well as goggles, gloves: white silk and soft kid leather – pilots for the use of - and two pairs of cotton long johns, Polaroid

Geoffrey Adams 16 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

sunglasses, a watch and, best of all, a splendid pair of fur-lined flying boots. Our Passing-Out Parade, for which we had practised so assiduously, was the final set piece of our twelve weeks and then suddenly we were saying good-bye to Kirton-in-Lindsey. For some reason my diary notes that we hoped to be posted to Moreton-in-Marsh but I and several of my good friends were sent instead to R.A.F. Ternhill up in Shropshire – and a very happy posting it turned out to be. We were given our rail warrants for the journey and, after bidding farewell to those who were bound elsewhere, we grabbed our suitcases and the bulging, sausage-like, canvas, issue kitbags, threw them all into the back of a truck and, valiantly hanging on to the cross bars, careened our way down to the railway station. At last it was time to learn to fly.

CHAPTER TW0 We arrived at No. 6 Flying Training School R.A.F. Ternhill, on 10th February 1954. We were now Aircrew and commissioned as Acting Pilot Officers (on probation) – how temporary can you get? As officers we could use the facilities of the Officers' Mess but the lessons and lectures went on. We were tutored in aerodynamics, navigation, meteorology, instrument flying and more. Outdoor exercises and games continued but principally we would be taught how to fly an aeroplane. We were very fortunate that we had the new piston engined Percival Provost, which had only become the standard basic trainer for the R.A.F. in 1953. Side-by-side seating with dual controls, it was equipped for all weather operation, fully aerobatic with a high rate of roll (more than 90° in a second – Wooaaahhh! - and a top speed of 200 m.p.h. We didn't waste any time. Having arrived on a Wednesday, we had our first flight the following Monday. It must have been foggy, because we didn't fly on three days that week; but the following one we flew two flights a day, each lasting about three-quarters of an hour. After basic instruction on handling the 'plane, which included controlling a spin and many near landings at a little practice airfield nearby – circuits and bumps - we began full take-offs and landings. On Monday March 8th, after eleven hours and forty five minutes of dual flying, my

Geoffrey Adams 17 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

instructor calmly pulled back the canopy, stepped out onto the wing and, before dropping to the ground, said: “ O.K. You're ready. Off you go.” Grinning stupidly and feeling almost light-headed I pointed the 'plane down the runway, opened the throttle and felt the 'plane leap eagerly forward with one less body to carry. In a moment the rumble of the tyres and the bumping stopped and the ground fell dramatically away, leaving my stomach behind for a second. Levelling off at 1,000 feet I pushed the stick gently left, while my left foot briefly stroked the rudder bar. I banked round 180°, until looking down I could see the airfield below. Straightening up parallel to the runway, I checked the throttle and mixture controls and settled the speed at 120 m.p.h. I grinned again and started to hum. I moved the stick forward as the speed dropped and suddenly, with a lurching heart, noticed that the altimeter showed I was dropping. That shouldn't have been happening. On the downwind leg, level with the runway at 120 m.p.h. I should have been at 1000 feet. Why was I losing height? The Provost had dropped to 800 feet before my eyes flicked across the dials and seeing the reading on the R.P.M. dial, I realised that I'd set the mixture control too weak. I frantically moved the lever that controlled it forward until we were doing the required 1,500 revs per minute. The aircraft won back the lost height and settled at 1000 feet just as the runway went over my shoulder and I turned to start my crosswind leg. Mouthing my crosswind checks: Trim, Fuel, Flap, Instruments and Hydraulics, I began to throttle back, losing 500 feet before I made the final turn-in. Pointing the nose down the runway, I lowered the flaps. As they extended the aircraft juddered and lost more height. Watching the speed and keeping it some 20 m.p.h. above the stalling speed of 80 m.p.h. the 'plane dropped towards the end of the runway. As the tarmac skimmed just a few feet below me, I cut the throttle entirely and lifted the nose into a stall. The tyres squealed and bumped as terra firma once again exerted its gravity. When the tarmac speeding either side of the aircraft slowed down sufficiently, I applied the brakes in little dabs as I'd been taught. Thinking I was going slowly enough I turned onto the grass to take a shortcut back to the perimeter track where Flt./Lt. Taylor, the senior instructor was waiting. Too late I remembered the caution that morning: Not to use the grass as it was too soft. As the ground gripped the tyres and slowed me down I tried to gun the throttle only to feel the tail wheel lift ominously. Deciding that discretion was the better part of

Geoffrey Adams 18 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

valour, I cut the engine and waited for a frowning instructor to come out to me. “What happened on the downwind leg?” he asked and then, “Why didn't you stay on the tarmac?” I made my excuses and apologies and, notwithstanding my somewhat inglorious start, I was alternating dual and solo flights from then on. By the end of three months I'd done thirty hours on my own and already knew that exhilarating feeling of breaking through the clouds from a dull grey airfield into brilliant sunshine, where the tops of the cumulus spread out like a gleaming white eiderdown to the horizon. It was like driving a high-powered sports car across a limitless and un-bordered road. It was only when one climbed higher and the clouds tops fell away below you that the sensation of speed diminished, until you felt suspended. I would rock my wings in jubilation to prove I was still moving and maybe execute a quick barrel roll – or a slow roll, during which, with no g. force, all the dusty bits and pieces on the floor of the cockpit would cascade around one's head and you hung in your straps. It was only the need to locate a gap in the clouds to descend to find out where the hell I was that prevented me flying away to that horizon. As one dropped back into the billows of cloud, any rain came at the windscreen like little shiny spears travelling at 200 m.p.h., to be swept away by the windscreen wipers and instantly replaced. Suddenly, back into the murk, there, spread out below like an aerial photograph, were the fields and roads and railway lines that would lead one home to safety. The large hump of The Wrekin was an invaluable landmark, being visible from many miles away. Before we took to the air, we had to go through the routine of pre-flight checks. We walked slowly round the ‘plane, checking that the brightly coloured canvas cover on the pitot head, that gave us our airspeed, was removed and that all the locks on the controls had been taken off. Then we kicked the tyres and climbing up the protected part of the wing, swung a leg into the cockpit. A member of the ground crew strapped you in, plugged in the jack for the radio and gave you a thumbs-up. For a moment you enjoyed the unique smell of metal, plastic, rubber and oil, mixed with a peculiar electrical aroma. Then we did the pre-flight cabin routines, checking that all the instruments were working properly and that the rudder and ailerons correctly answered the pressure on the joystick and

Geoffrey Adams 19 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

foot controls. Then the cartridge was fired that exploded and kick-started the engine. The propeller turned jerkily a couple of times and then, with a cough, and puff of white smoke, the engine leapt into life and the prop became a blur. The chocks from each tyre were waved away and, after a quick look around, you moved the ‘plane out of the parking area onto the perimeter track and ‘motored’ it round to the end of the take-off runway, testing the brakes in squirts as you progressed. Closing the rubber oxygen mask that had the transmitter control and speaker at the front, you called up the tower for take-off clearance. Given this, you lined up on the end of the runway. Then, holding the brakes, you gunned the engine for a moment to check that the oil pressure didn’t dip at full revs. Then with brakes off, you opened the throttle again and began to roll down the runway. John Bates’ family lived close by in Market Drayton. His father worked in a senior position at the Coal Board and they had a very pleasant five-bedroomed house on the edge of the village. We got to know them all very well. His sister Sue was latterly my girlfriend and I saw a lot of her, after I was demobbed, in Hampstead, where she had a bed-sit. I probably became a little inattentive and sometime in 1957 she got engaged and later married a guy who wrote pamphlets about Flying Saucers. I wasn't asked to the wedding. Every time those of us who went to John's house at the weekends took off, our first port of call was his house. There we would dive down and buzz the property until either his mother or Sue came out, usually flapping a tablecloth. The ritual completed, which must have grown increasingly irritating for them both, we climbed back up into the clouds and away to conduct the exercise we'd been given. Aerobatics perhaps, or a cross-country flight. We found that we had little need to venture out during the week. We had an Astra cinema on the station but we'd mostly spend the evenings in the Mess. All food was free and pretty good too and the cost of drink and cigarettes was heavily subsidised. Why go out and pay full price when you could enjoy life on the cheap? Almost everyone smoked. Players made a circular tin, which held fifty, and one removed the lid and pressed a sharp triangular cutter forward, which sliced around the rim. Lifting the lid off, you decanted a handful into a flat cigarette case, with an elastic strap across each side. A silver one would have been preferred but mine was a shiny hammered alloy and perfectly functional. However I doubt it would

Geoffrey Adams 20 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

have stopped a bullet, which was the other service that a cigarette case in the battledress breast pocket was supposed to serve. An Acting Pilot Officer should have been receiving £4. 4s a week but one had to be 18½ and again, not quite closing the age gap, I suspect that I was therefore paid less. Thus the steady drain on my savings continued. Between February and May another £16. 15s went out of my Post Office savings book. To put our pay into context it is worth noting that Country Life at the time was advertising a six-bedroomed house, with stables and four acres in Surrey for £6,250; and that in Buckinghamshire, for only another £250, you could have bought an eight bedroomed Georgian Manor House with a moat. All of the properties would be proud to boast: Electric light and Main water, gas and drainage. If installed, CENTRAL HEATING, was printed in capitals. On being commissioned we were given a small uniform allowance to purchase better quality officers' shirts and a Service Dress peaked hat. Today from Herbert Johnson this would cost £130. Applying the same scale of property inflation, they should have cost only 50p but I suspect that they were nearer £2. The first thing we did on getting our new peaked hats was to remove the wire ring that kept the brim stiff. We then wrapped a belt around the whole hat to bend the edges down and left it in the bath for a couple of hours. Dried out it looked like the hat worn by Guy Gibson or one of ‘The Few’. The only problem was that mine shrunk so much that forever afterwards it was an exceedingly tight fit until eventually I had to cut the leather sweatband inside to be able to get it on. During the day we wore our serge battledress with the very thin pale blue strip, with the A for Acting, sewn on the epaulette to denote our rank. Our berets also had an officer's badge. Many National Service officers didn't buy the two- piece No. 1 uniform. Made from a fine barathea worsted, each of the four patch pockets was fastened with brass buttons and the belt had a brass buckle. Fortunately one of the uniform suppliers, who visited the Mess to take our orders, had a secondhand one that fitted me and I bought it at a much-discounted price. It came with a small cigarette burn hole on the sleeve and, judging by the faded marks of rank, still evident, the previous owner had been a Squadron Leader. When we were in mufti we had to be able to return an airman's salute, so the wearing of a hat was de rigeur. I bought a particularly unflattering green pork

Geoffrey Adams 21 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

pie. You may remember the advertising slogan issued, no doubt, by the Hatters' Association, “If you want to get ahead, get a hat”. Well, thinking no doubt that I needed no assistance, I suspect I stuffed mine down the back of the wardrobe when I was demobbed. Each time we flew we wore a bulky parachute. Strolling out to the aircraft, hung decorously over our shoulder, we only buckled it on just before we clambered clumsily into the cockpit, where it fitted into the well of the seat, making a comfortable cushion. We had received basic training in its use at Kirton. Sliding down a wire, from a twenty-foot platform in the gym, we learnt how to roll as we hit the mat. Whether I would ever have managed to leap from a doomed aircraft, pull the ripcord and make a landing without killing myself, I fortunately never had to discover. One day, lunching in the large dining room of the Mess, we heard a horrendous sawing noise, followed by a loud crash. Rushing to the window, we saw two Provosts in flames on the runway. Apparently they had both come in to land at the same time and, on receiving a red Verey flare from the caravan parked near the approach, which indicates the necessity of 'going round again', the one below, unsighted, pulled back on the joy stick and went into the bottom of the one above. Two pilots were killed. They were on a different Flight and we didn't know them well. After lunch, when the wreckage had been cleared away, flights resumed. I flew that afternoon and all that remained was a large scorched area on the runway. It may seem callous not to have been more upset but that's the way it was. I guess pilots, and soldiers and seamen too, would have felt much the same way during the war. The cast of chaps at each stage of training subtly changed, like characters in a play. As a group exited left, another lot came on from the wings on the right. Thus, at Ternhill, although sticking with old chums, I made new friends. There was a guy who became a founder member of The Temperance Seven, and Russ Bell, who was later engaged to Svetlana Beriosova, the ballet dancer, and Tony Walton who lived next door to Ted and Barbara Andrews and was the childhood sweetheart of, and later married, their daughter Julie. When as a successful stage designer, with a wife who had just made The Sound of Music, I casually wrote to him in 1965, I, not surprisingly, received no reply. He was probably quite busy.

Geoffrey Adams 22 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

I also chummed up with Harold Dawes. His family was one of the first to cash in on the pedal cycle and their product became a classic example of mass production. Harold had been 'deferred', which meant that other training for the future had been allowed to take precedence over National Service. He had gained an Engineering degree and while awaiting his call-up, at the advanced age of twenty-two, had become involved in motor racing. Whether he worked with Raymond Mays and B.R.M. or perhaps another team, I cannot now remember. Having already been in proper full-time employment, he had, however, been able to buy a magnificent motor bike, which he handled with great elan. It was a Vincent Black Shadow. With an engine capacity of 998 c.c. it was an exceedingly powerful machine. Again with no helmets, he carried me off, on the pillion, into the highways and byways of Shropshire. Unlike John, to whom the sudden appearance of a problem, resulted in us falling off, Harold always said that at every corner one should always look for a place where you'd prefer to land – thus avoiding uncertainty but, not necessarily, the actual accident. We never had one and I have to say I greatly enjoyed his competence and the immense power of the bike, when he wound the accelerator on the handle to its full extent. Restored versions of his bike, of which only a few hundred were made, now fetch £50,000. The routine of our flying training continued. To train us in instrument flying an amber screen on our side of the cockpit in the Provost was dropped and we donned blue goggles. This simulated flying at night, forcing us to use instruments and beacon signals to land. It all became quite complicated and suddenly it ceased to be a game. I am sure I was pretty immature and probably lacked the motivation to persevere. Ten years before I would have probably been one of the sprog, newly trained pilots, sent straight into combat, who would have roared off down the runway in a Spitfire or a Hurricane to defeat the Hun in aerial combat and been shot down on his first flight. At the beginning of June, I had three hour long sessions of dual flying, the last with Sqd./Ldr. Garden, who was, no doubt, giving me a final assessment. The rubber stamp in my log says: WITHDRAWN FROM AIRCREW TRAINING DUTIES ON 3rd JUNE '54. I was told that if I were to sign on for a Short Service Commission, the R.A.F. would persevere with me but, unprepared to make that commitment, my flying days were over. I can't say that I had not faced the

Geoffrey Adams 23 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

prospect of night flying with some trepidation and it probably didn't come as too much of a surprise when I was chopped, as we called it. I had flown a total of 72 hours at the R.A.F.'s expense – just thirty of them solo. I understand that, even then, it cost the Ministry of Defence £40,000 to train a pilot up to a level where he became of use. Bearing in mind that we were only in the R.A.F. for two years it cannot have made economic sense and I am only glad that I was able to enjoy the brief opportunity to take to the air. I had made some splendid friends during those few months and although we had shared the ups and downs of service life for a winter and a spring, I don't think I had any especial feelings of sadness when I left Ternhill. I took the 'phone numbers and addresses of my closest chums but don't remember making contact with them during the rest of my National Service, although I did see one or two of them after I was demobbed. I guess that, unlike schooldays where one shared the common experience of growing up, the friendships in the R.A.F. were centred on a single mutual interest. When one no longer shared that interest, you became one of the bit actors who exited left and walked off the stage into the wings and out of everyone else's lives. Even today it never occurs to me that people will talk about me when I'm not there and I suspect that my going went unremarked. As far as I was concerned, I just moved on to the next phase in my two years' service. I do however remember the lonely feeling when I walked through the gates of R.A.F. Alverston – the Aircrew Allocation Unit. It was not the sort of place where you made much attempt to get to know people. The nearest town was Derby and another £2 was drawn from my P.O. Savings book – probably to pay my bar bill, where I expect I drowned my sorrows. I remained there for a fortnight, taking some tests to see whether I was suitable for training as a Fighter Controller. I'm not sure if I chose the job or whether the R.A.F. did it for me. A controller's job is to guide a fast moving fighter onto the tail of his target, which might be flying at the same speed or slower. Imagine that you are left wing on a football or a hockey pitch, standing on your touchline, level with and facing the centre spot. Your target sets off from the right hand corner flag on the other side of the pitch and walks steadily up the far touchline. After he's gone twenty yards you start off at the same speed. The idea being that your paths will cross somewhere on the far touchline, before he reaches the other goal. You don't

Geoffrey Adams 24 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

walk directly towards him but rather at an angle, slanting leftwards, so that he is always over your right shoulder. If you have judged his speed accurately and started out on the correct vector you should come gently up behind him without either breaking into a run or having to slow down. This would be a successful 'interception'. Try it, it's actually much easier than it sounds. However, on a football field the guy you're hoping to intercept is on the same level as you. In the air you are operating in three dimensions. You have to know his height. You also have to react if he changes direction. An aircraft that spots that someone is after him will probably change both speed and height. It is therefore essential that the controller, interpreting the signals on his radar screen, must be able to advise his pilot how high and how fast and in what direction his enemy is flying. More on this later. I then moved to R.A.F. West Malling, in Kent, a transit posting, where I stayed until the end of June, waiting presumably until the timing was right, to be posted to R.A.F. Middle Wallop, in Hampshire, to begin a Fighter Control course. We shared the base with the Army, who were being trained to fly spotter Auster aircraft for the Royal Artillery. There would have only been thirty of us on our training course. Three of them were Canadians. Flight Lieutenants, they were regulars in the R.C.A.F. and much older than most of us. Their uniforms, I recall, were beautifully tailored. They were all gregarious and easy company. They reminded me of the Americans I'd met, when evacuated to friends of friends of my parents in South Wales, during the summer holidays from my boarding school in Somerset. Sent there in that period of the war when the capital and suburbs were being bombed. One of them was lodged in the same house. He'd be collected by a brash and noisy bunch in a Jeep each morning. Large fruity sweets shaped like the Polo mints of today, called Lifebouys, were handed out to children and I expect their English girl friends all got silk stockings. Our training at Middle Wallop was much more relaxed and, when the days work was done, we sometimes explored the local pubs. It was then that the Canadians, disenchanted no doubt, by the weak, warm English bitter beer, introduced us to the potent mix of Rum and Coke. It's probably for that reason that, even today, driving down to the Test for a day's fishing, none of the pub signs awaken any sense of deja vu.

Geoffrey Adams 25 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

At the end of two months I qualified. I was confirmed in the rank of Pilot Officer, the appointment appearing in The London Gazette on 13th September 1954. When asked for a posting preference I listed in descending order: The Far East, Near East or Germany. I wasn't too overjoyed therefore to be posted to R.A.F. Seaton Snook.

CHAPTER THREE. Royal Air Force Seaton Snook was situated on the bleak North-East coast road, near the seaside resort of Seaton Carew, half way between Middlesborough and West Hartlepool. On the horizon you could see the tall chimneys of Billingham power station belching out their acrid smoke. The Fighter Control station, surrounded by a high wire fence topped with barbed wire, had three large radar aerials turning and nodding in the grassy wasteland above the underground bunker. The living quarters of the camp were a mile away. The men were housed in low brick-built huts. There was a single story dining hall with kitchens behind and a small parade ground in front of the guardroom, to which the armoury was attached. In front of the guardroom, there was a square area, surrounded by white- painted stones, from which sprouted a white flagpole. From it, the pale blue standard, with the union jack in one quarter and the R.A.F. roundel towards the other edge, raised each morning in the presence of the Officer of the Day and four airmen, would flap and crack tautly in the cold, salty wind. The concrete, stuccoed blocks that contained the officers' single rooms were built around rough-mown grass squares, surrounded by concrete paths. The four, well-spaced lamp standards threw a weird orange light across the desolate scene at night. The entire camp had only been built three or four years before - just five years after the end of World War II. The Officer's Mess was not unlike the clubhouse of a small golf club. The dark brown leather armchairs in the sitting room and against the wall around the snooker table were made to the same design as those in which the young fighter pilots had lounged, during the Battle of Britain, while they waited for the telephone to ring.

Geoffrey Adams 26 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

The camp probably housed no more than a couple of dozen officers and some two hundred airmen and N.C.O.s. For the first time I was one of the staff and no longer a pupil. We were divided into three watches, with a Flight Lieutenant in charge of each. The Station Commander was a Squadron Leader. Many of the officers were regulars who had stayed on after the war ended, as their medal ribbons and wings – earned as either pilots, navigators or observers - showed. Probably less than half of us were National Service. Each day those who were on duty struggled the half mile along the coast road, leaning into a gusty sea wind, holding on to our caps. If we were lucky, we hitched a lift in one of the air force blue Standard Vanguards that shuttled between the living quarters and the operations bunker; often with an Alsation guard-dog barking through the wire mesh behind one's shoulders. Once there and through the gates, we walked down a long, linoed, gently sloping passage until we reached some heavy metal doors. Once through them, we went to one of the four control cabins, each allocated a colour – Red, Yellow, Blue and Green. Opposite them were several rooms filled with incomprehensible machinery dripping with wires and staffed by earnest young airmen with qualifications in electronic engineering. There were separate rest rooms for officers and other ranks and toilets. Our rest room was fairly basic. A few small easy chairs, with wooden arms. A couple of low tables, with ashtrays scattered about. The coffee from the machine in the corner was pretty nasty and the room smelled of stale cigarettes. If you happened to be ensconced in the toilet, when you were called over the two-way loudspeaker system to relieve someone on watch, others would shout back that you were “in Brown cabin!” The operations cabins overlooked a floor with a map of our quarter of the United Kingdom laid out on a table. It stretched from Spurn Head in the south up to the Scottish border. This covered the area that our radar could reach. The table was manned by A/Cs, both men and women, who, when there was a flap on or an exercise in progress, would shove plaques around with long pushers, like croupiers, to show the whereabouts of incoming 'enemy' and our own intercepting fighter aircraft. Not very different to those tense scenes in old black and white war films. Most of our time was spent in guiding fighters to intercept each other. Control would tell us that we had two Meteors from R.A.F. Thornaby, near

Geoffrey Adams 27 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

Stockton-on-Tees, 'coming to play'. We were given their radio frequency and we tuned in and waited for the laconic voice over the intercom: “This is Red Leader, we are airborne, vectoring one nine zero and climbing to 20,000 feet.” We knew where Thornaby was and suddenly two blips would appear close together. We made contact, using our call sign and asked for their height, which we then checked with our radar. Then we split them up and began. These games provided the pilots with experience, whilst we honed our skills and became used to the equipment we had at our disposal. We had a Type 7, which gave the range. It turned a complete revolution four times a minute. It delivered a curved sausage-like signal on our screens concentric with the middle of it. At extreme range this was nearly an inch long. Nearer to, if not hidden in the ground clutter at the centre, it shrank to less than a quarter of an inch, which made plotting much more accurate. Each time the radar head revolved it painted a signal. In the darkened cabin, another operative read out the height on a screen linked to the Type 80. A map showed up on the cathode ray tube. Once one had established which of the blobs was 'your' fighter – which sometimes entailed asking him to make a turn to establish his identity – you marked each signal as it appeared, in the middle, with a black chinograph pencil on the glass screen. After several sweeps of the Type 7 you could begin to plot his flight path. Each time the path of your two black lines brought the two aircraft into close proximity, you waited anxiously for the report of a visual sighting. “Your target should be”, one said, a little uncertainly, “dead ahead, same height or slightly below you.” Silence for what seemed like ages. Then the casual voice would cut through the ether and announce: “Roger. Contact. I have contact,” and then that perhaps clichéd but nonetheless eagerly awaited phrase: “Tally-ho!” as he went in and closed up with his target. When exercising two aircraft from the same Flight, you would bring them together and then split them again for another practice interception. All the black marks that had been joined together to give a track were then wiped off and the next exercise began. During that summer, we had a four-day exercise. This entailed the station being on duty from dawn to dusk. Being so far north there was only half an hour between the setting and rising of the sun. We were then ‘stood down’ – the

Geoffrey Adams 28 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

phrase that meant we were off duty. Canberras, the current fighter-bomber that could reach 45,000 feet or more, provided the ‘enemy’, pretending to be Russian Bears. Assembled far out over the North Sea, we would be alerted to their presence by our radar, picking them up as smudgy, incoming blips on our screens. Headquarters were quickly advised and fighters scrambled to intercept the threat. Meteor NF 11s, the night fighter version, or standard Meteors or Vampires were the aircraft of the day. Much more hectic than the straightforward games with amenable pairs of friendly aircraft, this was more like the real thing and became very tense. An air of excitement pervaded the bunker and those off duty squeezed into the cabins to watch the action over the shoulders of the controllers. When there was a lull and we had done our stint, we were stood down and relieved by the other Watch. Returning to the Camp, regardless of the time of day, breakfast was always served in the Mess. What today is called The Full English. Then, depending how tired we felt, we either went to bed or, I remember on one occasion, we played snooker. Having stared at the radar screen for so long it was the first time I experienced a mild migraine. This only became apparent when half the balls on the table disappeared into a blank space and became invisible. Then it was time for bed. Three of us clubbed together to buy a car. A black Morris Eight, it cost less than £20 and we lovingly polished it, ignoring the patches of rust around the wheel arches and, while a guy named McMath delved under the bonnet and got his hands greasy, I painted the brittle leather upholstery a shiny red. Not having passed my driving test I had two plastic L-plates to tie onto the corroded chromium bumpers, when I took the wheel. The Morris gave us transport when we needed to venture into the fleshpots of West Hartlepool. Driving out past the wind-swept golf course at Seaton Carew, where the summer season only lasted a few short weeks and the boarding houses and entertainment kiosks along the benighted sea front briefly welcomed hardy visitors, we found ourselves in a dirty industrial town. Usually ending up finding a seedy pub and sitting in a vast, poorly-lit public lounge bar, reeking of stale fags and yesterday’s beer, with torn and stained leatherette bench seats around the walls, we’d order our pints of luke-warm bitter and wonder why

Geoffrey Adams 29 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

we’d bothered. The summer passed and autumn came and with it the end of my two years National Service. On 3rd October 1955 I was officially released from active service. Enduring the anxiety of the search for the missing .303 rifle, my last day of service was gazetted on the 26th. The following day I became a member of the Royal Auxiliary Air Force. Back went the ‘A’ but this time on the lapels of my tunic – the one with the cigarette burn on the sleeve. I served for four years until 1959, with 3604 R.Aux.A.F. Fighter Control Unit, whose motto was Mitto Quo Postulat Usus. Translated either, correctly, as: I put where most useful, it could also be put in ruder terms, which I leave you to guess. During that period I attended weekend training, making the journey down to south coast radar stations – Hope Cove or Beachy Head – where we re-lived our service experiences. We also met, once a week for ‘training’ at the London headquarters near Russell Square, where I spent the evening in the bar and then caught the last train from Waterloo home to Surbiton. If I missed that, there was a later one to Kingston, which then entailed a three mile walk home, long enough usually to sober me up. After a year I was promoted to Flying Officer, which meant that my very thin stripe became slightly wider. A high spot of my Auxiliary service was a fortnight in August 1956, when we went to Germany for summer camp at R.A.F. Wildenrath. I’m sure we did some staring into radar screens, wondering whether the Russians were coming but my memories are of a trip down the Rhine on a pleasure boat to The Lorelei and wild evenings in the Mess, smoking Black Sobranie cigarettes and ordering the amazingly cheap, duty-free, cocktail of Double Pimms with a Cointreau. It’s amazing what a tolerance to alcohol we had in those days. If nothing else my service taught me how to hold my drink. On 15th February 1957 I was temporarily placed with 7205 Reserve Flight, recorded in my service record as a War Appointment. The Suez Crisis had occurred the previous November but whether there was some escalation in the Cold War that made this necessary or whether it had something to do with the Franco- Algerian war at the time, I cannot now remember. Suffice to say it was short-lived. My service, fighting for Queen and Country, finally ended on 31st March 1959, when I was transferred to the Emergency List. In July 1964 even my

Geoffrey Adams 30 R.A.F. 1953 to 1955.

commission on this List was relinquished All these experiences happened, of course, during a formative period in my life. I guess it was all part of growing up. I am sure the things I did must have influenced my attitudes and views in some way or another; but all I can say is that I emerged unscathed from them, remembering, mostly, the happy times of laughter that were only occasionally interspersed with any real tension or concern for my safety. Strangely the abiding impression of my two years’ National Service is the one left by Joy’s delectable derriere on the red seat of that bar stool.

Geoffrey Adams 31