Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  ‘There’s a man who takes care of his boots. Give him a job in the Wing Office. Parade, dismiss.’

  The orderly approached. ‘You’ll like this, much better than the cookhouse. Any good with paperwork, you know, writing letters and so on?’

  ‘Yes, er, actually I’m a qualified teacher. Did advanced English at College....’

  ‘What the f*** are you doing in Pool Flight?’

  I explained. He was delighted at having someone else in his office with some literate skills. He suggested I got rid of my overalls, which I did with alacrity, and returned wearing my uncomfortable, saviour boots. Never had I loved them more.

  The orderly explained he was the Leave Clerk. All applications for leave came through him. Each week he had to organise all the leave request chits for the WO to sign. All permanent staff on the Wing were allowed 36 hour passes every weekend unless they were on guard duty but they all had allowances of a number of 48 hour passes and other leave entitlement each year. His job was to keep all necessary records.

  ‘So it’s dead easy for me to slip in a 48 hour pass request of my own into the pile each week. I’ve been doing it for months. The WO always signs them. The office isn’t open on a Saturday and he isn’t here either, so no one is any the wiser. I’ll put one in for you each week as well.’

  I admit this minor piece of nefarious activity appealed. I’d been able to escape Pool Flight most Saturday afternoons and Sundays because everyone was free then, though we were on a rota for duty weekends, but the charms of post war Manchester in the winter soon palled. I had nowhere to stay outside camp and certainly couldn’t afford even a modest guesthouse even if I could find one. I knew what some people got up to each weekend but I had no intention of embarking on those activities.

  The world suddenly seemed a happier place. Each morning I went to work in an office. It was clean and didn’t smell. Everyone was friendly. The work was amazingly simple. With a weekend 48 hour pass I could leave after work on Friday and get a train home, returning on Sunday evening. Even the Pool Flight billet didn’t seem so dirty and unkempt. I can live with this,I thought. Maybe I’ll stop chasing up HQ for my posting.

  Two days later I saw my posting was on Station Orders. At least I enjoyed one gash weekend at home.

  Chapter 18

  RAF Cosford was a smart station, as it is to-day where it houses the RAF Museum on an active airfield. I went to be trained as an Airframe Assistant for the reason I’ve mentioned. I was sure my stay would not be long; I’d spent six weeks in Pool Flight at Padgate whilst they found my records. Surely a vacancy would soon arise for the Education Sergeants course and they would post me again?

  Had I given the matter a scrap of thought I could have worked out the logistics. All stations had one Education Officer assisted by one Education Sergeant. Because all stations more or less had their complement, vacancies on stations would occur very gradually. Demand, therefore, would be a very few replacements a month, perhaps slightly more if you took overseas stations into account. But candidates for training were two a penny because of the fact that all teacher training colleges had turned out qualified teachers that year, running well into four figures, virtually all of whom were on deferment. No doubt quite a proportion had opted for the RAF. So the idea of there being a queue from which candidates would be taken in turn was ridiculous. Most were simply side-lined, as I was.

  As with basic training, trade training was very well structured over eight weeks. We were taught various aspects of metalwork, especially relating to aluminium. Much of it I’ve found useful in home DIY over the years for which I’m duly grateful.

  We learned other important skills, such as how to stitch tears in fabric covered wings because such planes were still flying, notably the Tiger Moth. I had met this excellent aircraft on previous occasions. The first was on the sands near Rhyl in 1933 when one, or rather its pilot, offered flights along the coast for five shillings a time. My father took me, despite the extremely expensive cost! We flew along the coast, waved to Mother sitting in isolation on the prom at Prestatyn, turned round and flew back.

  The second flight was rather more exciting, though I was unprepared for the thrill. On a day’s ATC flight experience at Elmdon airfield - much later to enlarge into Birmingham International - we were handed over to a pilot with a Tiger Moth. He told me, as the cadet in charge, to strap a lad into the rear cockpit. Both are completely open, of course. This involved ensuring a strap came up between the legs from its anchor point below the seat and ensuring the two shoulder straps came over tightly, with their chrome rimmed eyelets placed over a strong pin on the leg strap and a large retaining pin inserted to ensure the straps couldn’t come away. He didn’t supervise me at all because he remained in the front cockpit. Nonchalantly I watched the plane take off and do a simple circuit of the airfield. Instead of landing as I expected, it then went into a steep climb, which went up and up, then got even steeper. Finally to my horror it completed a tight loop, dived down, landed and taxied back across the grass to our group.

  ‘Next!’ yelled the pilot over the noise of the engine. I extricated a rather pale faced cadet and fitted the next one in, taking an age over the straps.

  ‘Hurry up!’ yelled the pilot. Finally I backed away, crossing my fingers and watched the plane repeat the flight and manoeuvre We all asked the first lad what it was like and were assured that, after the first moment of shock, it wasn’t too bad because you are wedged in the seat by centrifugal force. I was greatly relieved.

  Finally, after everyone had flown, I clambered in, strapped myself in reasonably contentedly, silently blessing Newton and his laws of motion, the first especially. We took off, flew around the field, then the pilot called over the very simple intercom,

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘We’ll soon alter that,’ was his response. I waited for the climb. Then suddenly the plane rolled sideways....and kept rolling until it was inverted. Centrifugal force does not operate in such a circumstance and I hung in the straps. As we rolled I grabbed anything I could and my first fingers of each hand extended along two very thin wooden strips running along the cockpit. As a hold, of course, it was absolutely useless. My cheeks fell upwards towards the earth which I could see above me.

  ‘OK?’ asked the pilot. I managed a strangled grunt from somewhere in my throat which was nowhere near its usual place.

  ‘Good,’ he replied and continued the inverted flying exercise.

  Later an officer asked me how the boys had enjoyed their flying experience. I said it had indeed been an experience.

  ‘I’m pleased about that. That pilot has rather a reputation. We all call him ‘Crash’ because of the number of kites he’s wrecked. He’s been reduced to simple flying activities.’

  What price Health and Safety Acts? Or supervision of young people? Had any such considerations been operative we would never had the chance to boast about our experience for the rest of our lives. So I had an affinity of sorts with Tiger Moths and determined I would patch carefully any wounds they might suffer.

  The Commanding Officer of the training unit was rather akin to a headteacher. He had a number of officers in charge of sections, like heads of departments, who in their turn had subject teachers. These, we discovered, were civilians and some indeed were qualified teachers. So we had a different teacher each week as we progressed through the subjects. We had both written and practical tests at the end of each week and the results were posted on boards for all to see. Our progress, therefore, was carefully monitored.

  The CO also circulated a book and invited anyone who wished to make any comments about any aspect of the course to write notes therein. At first we all ignored it, so a blank book was returned to him. This, he let it be known, was a pity as courses could only improve through responses by those taking part. After the fourth week I noted a
fairly obvious point for comment in the marking system. Everyone’s marks for that week were much lower than previously, yet we knew that wasn’t because we had all performed less well. It was due to the simple fact that the week four teacher marked more stringently than the others. It happens everywhere when marking systems aren’t moderated. Popular television shows demonstrate this very well. Strictly Come Dancing comes to mind, though subjecting the judges to the procedure would lessen the mayhem and hence the programme’s appeal.

  So after week four I contributed a small essay on mark moderation, suggesting that were the process to be activated, course members would have a better standard with which to assess their week by week process. In the present instance, I pointed out, an individual couldn’t accurately assess whether his week four mark meant he really had performed worse in that subject.

  After a few days I was asked to review the response in the book. Someone assumed that I was niggled because my week four mark was lower than for those preceding. Because I had reviewed everyone’s marks I realised they hadn’t got my message, so I wrote a much longer essay in reply, with aggregated marks for each week, demonstrating the drop for week four.

  A few days later I was ordered to go to an office in HQ. There I was told by an NCO to wait outside a door, then, with no further explanation, told to go inside. The room was full of officers, seated, caps on their laps, facing the bareheaded CO at his desk. Momentarily caught on a very large hop, I pulled off my cap. The CO was charming and told me to sit on a vacant chair where all eyes were upon me. He then asked me explain the points I’d written, which I did. I was pleased to see he accepted the notion. I agreed it wasn’t easy to get a number of people to use the same mark spread on a scale. He thanked me and told me to wait, then dismissed the officers. Each in turn put on his cap, walked smartly to the front of the COs desk, saluted, smartly turned right and walked out of the room. Whether it was an exercise in protocol for me I couldn’t guess, but I got the message. When just the CO and I were left he asked me what I did in civilian life. When I told him he threw his arms in the air, laughed, and said he had absolutely no idea I was a teacher. He had no reason to, of course. For a split second I wondered whether to broach the subject of a posting to train for the Education Branch, but chickened out. I did manage to put on my cap, walk smartly to his desk, turn, salute, turn and walk smartly out.

  I’ve no idea whether an attempt was made to moderate marks across the weeks after that, but most of us continued at about the same individual standards for our remaining stay. Then we reached the final practical test which we did individually with an NCO from another part of the station. We understood that based on the results and our performance over the next six months, our ranks - and therefore our pay - would be confirmed at Aircraftsman Second Class (AC2), as we all were, or elevated to AC1 or even Leading Aircraftman (LAC).

  The NCO giving me my test seemed to ask a range of questions that had no connection with anything we had done on the course. He took me to a display of tubes and other devices which seemed the kind of things that went into aircraft engines. There was a separate course on the Station for Engine Assistants. In a panic I was about to ask him whether he realised I was on the Airframe course. Then he took me to a piece of fabric covered wing and asked me to stitch up a tear and cover it with the regulation dope. At least I managed that well.

  Afterwards we exchanged views on the practical. I said mine was awful. A friend said he’d overheard one of our NCOs say to my examiner, ‘Grill him.’ The result of my grilling was medium; I passed as AC1-to-be. No one became LAC. Cheaper? Or am I being cynical?

  I was posted to RAF Brize Norton, another station that has a long and continuing history. To-day it has an excellent website. Then it was in the wilds with a small village outside where many of the permanent staff lived. It was part of Transport Command, having been transferred to it from Training Command at the end of 1945. More accurately it was a development unit for the Command and was an interesting place to be during the wonderful summer of 1949. I went there in spring and was delighted to be assigned to quarters in real buildings, constructed just before the war. They were spacious and airy.

  I soon made friends with various other young men. I had relinquished my teenage years whilst enjoying my brief spell in the Wing Office at Padgate. There were quite a few in the billet who were intelligent and out to make the best of their conscript years. Occupying the next bed to me was Ken Steerman, almost the same age as me. We became firm friends for the duration of my stay.

  Because its raison d’être was development, many interesting aerial projects were being tried and tested. The ambience penetrated the entire station, so life became reasonably easy going. Parades were few; duty rotas the same. The working day was 09.00 to 17.00, beyond which time was our own. The working environment was one of the large hangars into which aircraft of various sizes were pulled by tractor, or simply manhandled if they were small enough. Mainly they came for routine inspections. These were undertaken in increasing depth depending upon the number of hours flown. The range was from a short check after each flight to a 1200 hour service when virtually everything was taken to pieces, examined, renewed where necessary, then reassembled.

  All aircraft have two main parts, the airframe and the engine(s). The people who worked on these were Airframe or Engine Fitters. They were assisted by the appropriate Assistants, i.e. the recently designated National Servicemen. Us. We couldn’t become fitters....unless we signed on permanently and made the RAF a career. So there was obvious class distinction, especially so because many of the career men had been through part or all of the war. They were also older and more mature. We, however, were more numerous - greatly so.

  Our trade training had been good so I soon found I could undertake the jobs that came my way - unscrewing panels, screwing them back again, sweeping up, collecting items from stores for the fitters, cleaning up oil spills, helping to open the huge hangar doors by shoving with many other shoulders whilst someone wound a handle...largely our work was a matter of odd jobs with little responsibility. So it came as quite a shock when I first joined in the rota as Duty Crew.

  The hangars, obviously, were close to the perimeter track of the airfield. Near our hangar was the control tower and near its base was a very small wooden hut. This was the abode of the two people designated Duty Crew for the day. With remarkably little further instruction beyond what we’d had on trade training, in turn we spent a day on this duty which was interesting, certainly responsible and, at times, quite hairy. On my first day with another tyro I wandered out to the hut and tentatively opened the door.

  ‘If you can hear this, come outside and give a thumbs up sign,’ a voice proclaimed. We identified the source as a small tannoy inside. I obliged the voice as requested.

  ‘Put on the yellow jackets,’ came the next instruction. These were on hooks, so again we obliged and looked hopefully up at the control tower.

  ‘Now come through the door into the tower, come up the stairs and wait.’ Again we followed the instruction and found ourselves looking at a panoramic view of the field, an array of instrument panels and busy operators. For a time we were ignored, then an officer turned and demanded,

  ‘Have you been Duty Crew before?’ We assured him we had not.

  ‘That’s what I was told. Did you have the duties explained on your training?’ We assured him we had.

  ‘Good. The bats are in the hut. Whenever we want you to park a kite we’ll call you. Each time give the thumbs up when you’ve heard the instruction. Off you go.’

  He turned back to his desk and we pottered down the stairs and into our small garden shed and waited. We rehearsed to one another the simple bat signals required. Held out side by side horizontally bat faces towards the aircraft, then pulled up and over each side of your head and repeated signified Approach Me. Then, when the pilot of the taxying plane has seen you, go quickly to
where you want him to turn the aircraft, point either the left or right bat towards one wheel and wave the other from a widely outstretched arm back over your head and repeat to signal Turn. When the plane has turned sufficiently and you want it to move forwards again, extend the bats in front of you and pull them up over your head. Walk backwards doing this if necessary until the plane is where you want it. Then cross the bats over your head to signal Stop. Then draw one arm across your throat to signal Cut Engines. All quite simple...in a lecture room. Suddenly we felt the weight of responsibilty. This was no odd job.

  Only one crew member was required for each plane, so we tossed to decide who would bat first. I lost. Suddenly the tannoy crackled.

  ‘There’s a Lancaster coming in. Park it on the grass to the right of the control tower. Let me see you’ve heard this.’

  I grabbed the bats and shot outside. A sixth sense made me wonder whether he meant right of the control tower from his point of view or from the pilot’s when his plane was facing it. So I stuck one thumb in the air and pointed to the right hand side from his view. I was relieved to hear the tannoy crackle,

  ‘You’ve got it, airman.’

  I turned hurriedly but there was no aircraft in sight, nor could I hear one. I gazed skywards, then picked up a very slight drone. We’d been alerted well in advance. In due course the aircraft landed and turned at the end of the runway. Incredibly it seemed to be looking for something...someone....and awareness hit me. Bats, wave, I’m here, here, look.... Then even more incredibly the plane seemed to spot me and came trundling in my direction.

  I knew Lancasters were large. In the ATC I’d sat in the tail gunner’s turret of one on the ground and turned to look at the wide metal road that was the top of the fuselage stretching away into the distance. But the thing bearing down on me at that moment was gigantic and it wanted me to tell it what to do next. I then realised the obvious. You had to judge how far to let the plane move down its track before you indicated a turn because its wingspread seemed much greater face on. So it would be easy to let it over or undershoot. On this first occasion, fortunately, there were no other parked planes, so I had the field to myself. All I had to do was judge when to turn it to finish on the right of the control tower.