2nd T.A.F. Blues
.
by Mick Davis
(Song) "Oh, I don't want no more of Air Force life,
gee ma, I want to go, but they won't let me go,
gee ma, I want to go home."
Back in the 1950s, in one of the coldest periods of the cold war, when NATO and
Warsaw Pact forces were huffing and puffing at one another from opposite sides of the
iron curtain, the men of 101 Signals Unit, Royal Air Force station Brockzetel - one of
a series of NATO radar units along the borders of western Europe - maintained a
round-the-clock watchful eye on the air movements of the communist bloc forces in
their allotted control sector. Together with a number of NATO radio monitoring stations
they were effectively what western political commentators liked to term, the 'eyes and
ears of the 'Free World'.
This was the decade during which political ideology seemed to boil down to a
simple choice of who was your favourite uncle.
Was it to be Russia's Uncle Joe, or America's Uncle Sam? These were the two
main political rivals on the world scene. Communism or capitalism - just take your
pick of one or the other. Well at least that seemed to be the choice. I can't
remember Britain having any sort of contemporary avuncular figurehead other perhaps
than Prime Minister "You've never had it so good" Harold 'Super Mac' Macmillan.
However, to be brutally honest at that particular juncture I couldn't have
cared less about political ideology. As a callow Royal Air Force Senior
Aircraftsman of late teenage years, my immediate priorities were, as I recall,
to indulge as often as possible in an excess of - and here I borrow a line from
a popular song of the era - 'Cigareets 'n' whusky 'n' wild, wild wimmin.' The
first two commodities were in plentiful supply but, to my great regret, the
wild, wild wimmin were all too frustratingly few on the ground.
Early in December of 1958, already having served a year in the signals
section at RAF Celle, near Hannover, followed by another at 2nd Tactical Ops
Centre at RAF Sundern near Gutersloh, I was posted to 101 Signals Unit
quartered at RAF Jever (pronounced, 'Yay-ver') in Friesland, north Germany.
Handed a rail warrant, I was shunted away in one of the unheated,
draughty rat-traps of a truck blessed with bone hard wooden-slatted seats
that served as a second-class railway carriage of the German Bundesbahn.
Dressed in full military rig, trussed like a Christmas turkey inside
an RAF greatcoat itself strapped over with a bewilderingly-complex system
of webbing accoutrements: heavy belt, various buckled shoulder straps,
mess tins, large and small webbing packs, the lot topped off with a huge
unwieldy canvas kitbag, thus it was - staggering under the weight of all
my worldly goods and chattels - I made my solitary way northwards.
After one of the coldest, most uncomfortable journeys of my young
life, I was met at Jever railway station by a churl of a Leading
Aircraftsman whose undeclared objective in life it soon transpired was
to paralyse with fear any innocent willing to step into his RAF
Volkswagen combi.
Depositing me - after a few truly heart-stopping, high-speed minutes
- outside the camp guardroom, his excoriating parting shot: "101 Signals
Unit? Hmmmph! Bunch of right bleedin' fairies they are, mate!" was my
cheery little introduction to RAF Jever.
Now before any newly arrived airman was allowed to commence official
duties at an RAF station, his first task was to get an 'arrivals card' -
more commonly known as, the 'blue card' - signed by the multiplicity of
heads of sections at his new station. These would include: station
headquarters; airman's mess; medical section, RAF police; sports section,
technical officer, etc., etc. This was done both for general
administrative and security purposes.
It was commonly expected the process would be completed within a day
at most. But for a dedicated skiver this was a task that could be strung
out for three or four days. However, for the truly experienced column-
dodger anything less than a week would be a contemptible failure.
For 101 S.U. personnel, the card had to be signed both at the main
camp and at Brockzetel, the radar site operated by 101 S.U., located some
20 miles distant. Ordinarily, this posting ought to have provided me
with a record-breaking skive, but for some inexplicable reason, (I must
have been sadly out-of-form that year) I'd gathered all the requisite
signatures in just three short days.
To make matters worse, my first visit to Brockzetel triggered a
small-scale security alert which, for a seasoned operator as myself
with a finely-tuned instinct for anonymity, was extremely unsettling.
Having caught the early morning bus taking airmen off to the radar
site which left from the airmen's mess, I spent the journey sourly
contemplating the prospects of working underground for the remaining
six months of my tour of duty in Germany, as the flat Friesland
countryside passed before my eyes until, after some 35 minutes I saw
in the distance a large, revolving concave radar aerial fronted by a
line of smaller see-saw type aerials set at an oblique angle. At this
point the airmen began to hang small security plaques from the buttons
of their battledress jacket pockets. I noticed each plaque displayed
a photograph of the holder below which in bold type was a number which
I (mistakenly) assumed was the last three digits of their service number.
As the heavy metal gates of the main compound were swung open by a
corporal service policeman the bus turned in and stopped opposite what
appeared to be a homely-looking bungalow.
Following the line of airmen into the bungalow, I found myself
in a brightly-lit security office manned by two or three SP's one of
whom held a clipboard and pen. As each airmen trooped past him they
called out a number which the SP recorded on his check sheet. Assuming
my companions were calling out the last three digits of their service
number I duly sang out my own last three, "640", and continued
following the line of airmen through the office and down a number of
flights of metal stairs which led into the very bowels of the earth.
Some two hours later, having gained the necessary 'blue card'
signatures, I returned to the surface and re-entered the security
office to find the place in a visible state of flux. This time
there were at least half-a-dozen 'SP's' milling about, of whom two
or three were brandishing sten guns.
Spotting my presence, a sergeant SP immediately bawled at me,
Where's your photo plaque, laddie?"
I explained to him that, as a new arrival who had been getting
his blue card signed, I hadn't yet been issued with one. My
explanation clearly failed to mollify him.
"And just how did you get in here without one?" he screamed into
my face. As I further explained that I had merely followed the other
airmen down into the unit, I rapidly surmised that I was digging
myself deeper into trouble as his eyes bulged ever wider and the colour
of his face changed from mottled red to deep mauve, which was when I
began to have the acutely discomforting notion that his anger would
only be assuaged when my brutally scourged body was swinging from the
nearest gibbet. (I think it worth explaining at this point that RAF
service policemen - known occasionally as 'Snowdrops' but more often
by the derogatory title of 'Snoops' - were not especially noted for
the quality of their intelligence. Indeed, it was popularly rumoured
that the IQ of the average snoop rarely exceeded his hat size, and if
it did so then never by more than a couple of points).
Fortunately, at this point, my position was rescued by the arrival
of a Squadron Leader who soon restored an air of calm and rationale to
the situation.
It transpired that the unit operated a security/safety system
rather like that of a coal mine, where a large board held a series
of individually numbered discs coloured black on one side, signifying
the holder as Out, and yellow on the reverse for In. As the board
held just 500 discs, when it came time for the SP to transfer the
number (640) I had given him from his written sheet to the disc board,
there had probably been some serious head-scratching before the penny
finally dropped that an 'intruder' had slipped in under the security net.
Rather than allowing the sergeant to charge me with some unspecified
misdemeanour, the Squadron Leader quietly suggested he direct his ire
towards the snoop who had allowed me to pass through into the unit
unchallenged. It had been, he concluded, a useful lesson for security
staff to absorb, learn from and, he added with deliberate emphasis,
must never repeat. Then he instructed me to make myself scarce in the
unit canteen until transport could be found to take me back to Jever.
2nd TAF Blues - Part II
For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away.
(Wm Shakespeare)
Whether by accident or design, the powers-that-be at RAF Jever chose to accommodate
the three hundred or so airmen of 101 SU - up to and including the rank of corporal
- in Block number 40, a building situated at the furthermost boundaries of the main
camp - a mere stone's throw from the airfield runway.
This was a three-storey H-block building erected during the 1930s, and although the
place could be described variously as, solid, dependable, durable and functional;
'attractive' was definitely one adjective that could never feature in the list.
Indeed, had it ever been aesthetically assessed, Block 40 would have been adjudged
a gloomy failure, to be ignominiously ranked just above the likes of, say, Spandau
prison.
However, for the next few months this was to be my home, and therefore my most
immediate task was to obtain a serviceable bed (in airman's slang: a 'pit'). This
meant a surreptitious recce so as to secure the combination of not just a decent,
well-sprung bed-frame - one whose springs were all properly connected, and not just
to the frame but, equally importantly, to each other - and a clean, firm mattress, not
the stained, saggy, well-used variety of dubious history whose qualities were guaranteed
to make you feel worse in the morning than you had been last thing at night.
Experience and cunning were required in this little enterprise. Where no readily
available decent quality example was on offer then it became a simple case of stealthy,
unobserved substitution where one 'relieved' another airman of his bed whilst he was
away on duty or on leave. (At one or two stations I served at during my ten years with
the RAF this practice was so endemic that prized beds and mattresses could circulate
almost as speedily as ugly rumours or dirty jokes.)
I'd found a vacancy in a pleasant three-man room at the end of a second-floor
corridor with a fine view of the airfield and beyond, which on initial inspection
appeared to be a good move, but on the morning after my very first busy night duty at
Brockzetel, extended by the thirty-five minute return bus journey to Jever, which left
me sorely in need of sleep, I was to discover I had dropped a clanger of considerable
dimension, for no sooner had my grateful head sunk on to the welcoming pillow and I had
blown a mental kiss towards the photograph of a pouting Brigitte Bardot sellotaped to
my locker, than the air was suddenly rent with the most ear-splitting, hellish crescendo.
Windows rattled, metal lockers and beds shook and appeared almost animatedly excited;
an empty mug on the bedside locker vibrated like a demented alarm clock, and the dead-tired
(in this instance, me) were raised to life as though shocked by a high-voltage charge..
Within milliseconds my feet were back on the floor.
The source of this dreadful racket was soon obvious. Staring out of the window I saw
a pair of Supermarine Swift aircraft hurtling into the sky from the end of the runway,
leaving in their wake a fiendish shimmering mixture of high-octane exhaust fumes in
concert with a hideous storm of decibels sufficient to cause milk to instantly curdle,
babies to cry, birds to turn to stone and fall to earth, and one dog-tired airman to feel
like kicking himself for being such an ignorant, short-sighted fool.
Curiously, before the end of the first week of night duties, I found myself able to
mentally shut out all intrusive aircraft noise - even the notoriously noisy Swifts - and
sleep the sleep of the righteous without any trouble whatsoever. - it was just a matter
of acclimatisation, and I count myself fortunate in being able to sleep anywhere (my wife
has long said that I'm the sort who could even sleep on a wire).
Pretty soon I'd settled comfortably into life in Block 40. The sheer variety of
interests and hobbies enjoyed by the disparate (and occasionally, desperate) characters
who inhabited the building rarely ceased to fascinate me.
They ranged from skilled model makers, photography buffs, radio and electronic
boffins who assembled a variety of clever and useful gadgets; there were artists;
musicians, amateur dramatics enthusiasts, language students etc. The list was long and
richly varied, we even had one character who grew rare cacti warmed by an infra-red lamp
all contained within a large spare locker.
A clear majority of Block 40 inhabitants were National Servicemen doing their obligatory
two years in the armed services. These were men from every corner of the British Isles, drawn
from all trades and professions who brought with them a wide variety of skills and talents.
Most were distinctly unhappy to have had their lives and careers interrupted by compulsory
military service. Many kept finely detailed 'demob charts' on which were hand-drawn,
multi-coloured calendars listing the remaining days and weeks to be served before demobilisation.
These charts were maintained with meticulous care, each day and week being ticked off with
ritualistic glee. It was very common to hear a 'demob-happy' airman calling out the precise
number of days and hours remaining until the great day of his release back to 'civvy street'.
Equally routinely, we regular airmen were subjected to merciless ribbing by the national
servicemen, and thus had to develop pretty thick skins to withstand a fusillade of provocative
questions such as, "Now, tell me, Mick - just how many more years have you got to do?" I had
a stock of well-rehearsed retorts including, "People have been me asking that old chestnut
since long before Pontius ever became a Pilate" or, if I was in a more aggressive frame of mind,
I'd make mischievous reference to the miserable pittance a national serviceman received in
weekly pay - which at that time was approximately thirty shillings (£1.50 in today's money) -
about two-thirds less than a regular airman's pay. "Don't spend it all at once when you get it
on pay day," I would add, twisting the proverbial knife in a little further, but mostly it was
just friendly banter.
We were paid every second week always on a Thursday in Block 40, in two group sessions -
the first bunch being those with surnames A to K followed by the L to Z's.
Pay day was eagerly awaited, and as the appointed hour drew near, airmen could become
noticeably excitable, and some went around muttering to anyone within earshot, "The golden
eagle flies today". (Though to be candid, 'flies' was not commonly the verb of choice).
A couple of tables covered with blankets and chairs were arranged in the large main entrance
hall for the visit of an accounts officer and two sergeants from station headquarters. We were
required to form orderly lines. When your name was called you would march a few paces forward,
call out the last three figures of your service number to confirm your identity, salute the pay
officer, at which his sergeant would consult the pay list and state the correct amount to be
handed over.
Payment was made in notes of military script, which in our case were British Armed Forces
Special Vouchers. The notes ranged through about seven different denominations all the way
from threepence to one pound, and were commonly referred to as, 'Baffs'.
Baffs were also exchanged for Deutschmarks at pay parade. The rate of exchange was then
a very handsome twelve DMs to one pound and six pence, and the DMs had to be pre-ordered. The
trick was to try to ensure you arranged for sufficient to cover the next fortnight's 'rest
and relaxation' away from the air base,
Usually, each pay day I would exchange somewhere between a third and a half of my wages
for Deutschmarks, and I was also putting away about 25 shillings a week in savings. Average
deductions from an airman's pay were then fairly minimal but at Jever I discovered there was
one punitive subtraction that was sadly all too frequently levied on each and every airman in
Block 40 and which came under the title of 'barrack damages'.
Every month a senior N.C.O. would make the rounds of the block checking every fixture and
fitting, noting each item that required renewal or replacement be it damaged or missing. This
could be something as small as a sink or bath plug, a light fitting, a broken window or other
damage to the structure of the building attributable to carelessness or general vandalism. The
cost of repair and replacement would be assessed; this amount was then divided by the number
of block residents before each airman had his share of barrack damages deducted from his
monthly pay.
At other RAF stations at which I'd served barrack damages were an intermittant nuisance
but at Jever they were as woefully predictable as, say, the outcome of a drunken weekend spent
in the Saint Pauli district of Hamburg - though it should be pointed out the latter activity
was costly in more ways than one.
Just who was responsible for barrack damages was something of a mystery though most of us
thought we knew who could be counted as being among the 'usual suspects'. The block's dustbins
were a regular target for abuse, and for a certain few of the block's inhabitants it had become
almost a tradition, when returning late at night, to carry the dustbins to the first floor
before hurling them over the landing railings with an accompanying cry of, 'Geronimo!' as the
bins made their crashing return to the ground floor..
But undoubtedly the most expensive month for barrack damages occurred after an incident
late one night when a crowd of 'tired and emotional' cooks (whose motto, as we shall see -
might have been, 'Through adversity to the stairwell'), and who lived on the upper floor of
Block 40 - returned home with the station sports' section's handcart in tow.
Dragging it through the main doors of the block and up the couple of flights of stairs
to the first floor landing presented them with little difficulty; it was only when they
attempted to manoeuvre it through the somewhat narrower entrance to the second floor
stairwell that the fundamental flaw in their plan became apparent.
At first all must have seemed possible, because the shafts and the front section of
the handcart passed comfortably through the doorway. However, the handcart's axle together
with its heavy hubs was marginally wider than the door frame and thus its upward journey
came to a sudden halt.
Sadly, the seemingly uncompromising resistance of the frame to the hubs failed to
register in the befuddled collective consciousness of this drink-fuelled crew and so they
persisted, and because this was a well-built - not to mention, very well-fed - group of
men, they persisted with considerable vigour to the point where the hubs became firmly
embedded in the door frame, but by now having completely exhausted themselves the cooks
finally conceded defeat and retired to bed.
In the following few days they made repeated attempts to extricate the handcart,
but their efforts were by now half-hearted and lacklustre and so, Excaliber-like, the
cart refused to budge and remained stuck fast there to mock them all until it was
officially discovered and orders given for it to be dismantled by a couple of M.T.-section
mechanics who severed the axle with an oxy-acetylene cutter.
