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Di.Poppitt
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Just to put meat on the bones chaps, give a thought to those of us left at home. I used to cry every Sunday afternoon when I kissed my beloved goodbye for another week.
Today, being the age of equality, I guess the girls would also be called up.:Aah:
Today, being the age of equality, I guess the girls would also be called up.:Aah:
A.Willoughby
master brummie
I too used to return home at weekends. Well at first anyway until I found greater delights around my camp in Uxbridge, Middlesex and then it was far less frequent.
Dennis I beat your letter by eleven months but after over fifty years I feel I was done a favour.;
Will.
Dennis I beat your letter by eleven months but after over fifty years I feel I was done a favour.;
Will.
Alf
Gone but not forgotten. R.I.P.
Dennis I had one of those Dear John letters a couple of weeks after arriving in my new camp (Sent it back well me name's Alf) seriously I did have one but soon got over it with the new posting, but then you just couldn't rush home and sort it, Happy Days:tussor:
Alf
Gone but not forgotten. R.I.P.
I'm not sure if this has been posted before but its useful
https://www.britisharmedforces.org/other/other_links.htm
https://www.britisharmedforces.org/other/other_links.htm
L
lynn winterton
Guest
Hi
my dad was at catterick in 1951 anyone know him, his name was jim dowson aka brum as i suppose most were, dont know what line he was sent to though, must have a look through the stuff i have
my dad was at catterick in 1951 anyone know him, his name was jim dowson aka brum as i suppose most were, dont know what line he was sent to though, must have a look through the stuff i have
brummie nick
master brummie
Lynn, I was at Catterick in 51, it was a big camp though, don't remember the name there, but I was at school with a J Dawson/Dowson , do you know what school your Dad went too?
I was at Ada Road which latter became St Andrews.
Nick
I was at Ada Road which latter became St Andrews.
Nick
brummie nick
master brummie
George Wheeler
master brummie
One good thing about National Service was your service number. I wonder how many people today are using from more than fifty years ago the last four of their service number as their pin number? I am.
oldMohawk
gone but not forgotten
National Service ?
I recently heard some one on TV saying they should bring back National Service.
Perhaps some (men) in this section of the forum may have meekly reported for service when in their teens and early twenties.
Today's teenagers would probably simply rip up their papers, refuse to go, and carry on clubbing !
I had a fairly soft National Service, in the RAF, with all UK postings. I was in the RAF because as a youngster I joined the Air Training Corps by the Clifton cinema.
1st camp RAF Cardington in Bedfordshire
The induction centre where they issued the uniforms, and you had your last chance to try and get out by fooling them in a medical.
One guy in our billet convinced them he was nearly blind, and laughed at us as he expertly packed his bags and went home !
They also issued your number, and woe betide you if you ever forgot it. Mine 3150438 is still etched in my brain, but I don't use it as a password !
2nd camp RAF Padgate near Warrington
Reputedly the harshest 'square bashing camp' in the RAF. Initially it was a nightmare with much shouting and everything at the double.
I was an engineering draftsman before my service and a Corporal asked the flight whether there were any draftsmen in it.
I put my hand up expecting do some drawings, but he told me it was draughty and I had to shut all the windows !
3rd camp RAF Melksham in Wiltshire.
Here we spent 6 months in classrooms training to be instrument fitters. A test exam with a pass rate of 70% each week.
Less than 70% two weeks running put you off the course and you might became a cook.
We used to drink a cheap local brew called 'scrumpy', one pint horrible, second getting better, third pint you didn't care.
4th camp RAF Topcliffe in Yorkshire.
This camp had airplanes we could work on and sometimes had to fly in them to ensure we had serviced them correctly. We did have parachutes though.
I had a look at this camp a few years ago, but a soldier at the gate pointed a gun at me and rudely told me to go !
5th Camp RAF Feltwell Norfolk
Here we were clearing out RAF stuff so that the Americans could install their Thor Nuclear Missiles. There is one at Cosford Museum.
I think Thors could just reach Moscow, but took so long to fire up, the Russians would have got theirs here first.
I had a flight where the pilot told me to collect all the rubbish us servicing 'erks' had left on the floor as he rolled the plane upside down and the rubbish dropped into the perspex canopy.
We met many people from all over and could not understand why they found our 'brummie' accents so amusing, just like Anne Robinson does.
We met 'Geordies' from Newcastle - difficult to understand, 'Jocks' from Glasgow - very difficult to understand.
They were all good types and we had much fun.
Apologies to any lady forum members for this rather male oriented post, but we did use to rush home weekends on 36hr passes to see our girl friends, and if not, used to write letters, and occasionally they would send 'dear john' letters back, but we would then encourage the recipient to go out to meet the local lasses.
Sorry about the length of this post now I look at it
But Rod did say we could post memories
oldmohawk
I recently heard some one on TV saying they should bring back National Service.
Perhaps some (men) in this section of the forum may have meekly reported for service when in their teens and early twenties.
Today's teenagers would probably simply rip up their papers, refuse to go, and carry on clubbing !
I had a fairly soft National Service, in the RAF, with all UK postings. I was in the RAF because as a youngster I joined the Air Training Corps by the Clifton cinema.
1st camp RAF Cardington in Bedfordshire
The induction centre where they issued the uniforms, and you had your last chance to try and get out by fooling them in a medical.
One guy in our billet convinced them he was nearly blind, and laughed at us as he expertly packed his bags and went home !
They also issued your number, and woe betide you if you ever forgot it. Mine 3150438 is still etched in my brain, but I don't use it as a password !
2nd camp RAF Padgate near Warrington
Reputedly the harshest 'square bashing camp' in the RAF. Initially it was a nightmare with much shouting and everything at the double.
I was an engineering draftsman before my service and a Corporal asked the flight whether there were any draftsmen in it.
I put my hand up expecting do some drawings, but he told me it was draughty and I had to shut all the windows !
3rd camp RAF Melksham in Wiltshire.
Here we spent 6 months in classrooms training to be instrument fitters. A test exam with a pass rate of 70% each week.
Less than 70% two weeks running put you off the course and you might became a cook.
We used to drink a cheap local brew called 'scrumpy', one pint horrible, second getting better, third pint you didn't care.
4th camp RAF Topcliffe in Yorkshire.
This camp had airplanes we could work on and sometimes had to fly in them to ensure we had serviced them correctly. We did have parachutes though.
I had a look at this camp a few years ago, but a soldier at the gate pointed a gun at me and rudely told me to go !
5th Camp RAF Feltwell Norfolk
Here we were clearing out RAF stuff so that the Americans could install their Thor Nuclear Missiles. There is one at Cosford Museum.
I think Thors could just reach Moscow, but took so long to fire up, the Russians would have got theirs here first.
I had a flight where the pilot told me to collect all the rubbish us servicing 'erks' had left on the floor as he rolled the plane upside down and the rubbish dropped into the perspex canopy.
We met many people from all over and could not understand why they found our 'brummie' accents so amusing, just like Anne Robinson does.
We met 'Geordies' from Newcastle - difficult to understand, 'Jocks' from Glasgow - very difficult to understand.
They were all good types and we had much fun.
Apologies to any lady forum members for this rather male oriented post, but we did use to rush home weekends on 36hr passes to see our girl friends, and if not, used to write letters, and occasionally they would send 'dear john' letters back, but we would then encourage the recipient to go out to meet the local lasses.
Sorry about the length of this post now I look at it
But Rod did say we could post memories
oldmohawk
Last edited:
sospiri
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
My experiences in the RAF
Hi all,
I can't remember where I had my initial medical, but at that time I lived in Kings Heath. A week at Cardington Reception Centre where I had my first taste of RAF food and almost threw up! Weak stomach!
Squarebashing at a rather decrepit RAF Hednesford, which closed a few months later. Putting down amateur radio as one of my interests resulted in my being sent to RAF Yatesbury to train as an Airborne Wireless Mechanic. A beautiful summer and I was bored to death with lectures about valve theory, etc., which I already knew, so with a couple others, I nipped over the fence and spent much time sunbathing on a hillock overlooking Devizes!
At that time Derek Ibbotson, the runner, was also an inmate.
I volunteered for overseas service, but ended up in a Maintenance Unit at RAF Stoke Heath near Market Drayton - Airborne Wireless Mechanic indeed - we didn't even have our own airfield!
Part is now an Army Camp, the rest a Youth Detention Centre. I soon learned that volunteering for night shift and joining the Station Band excused me from guard duties, fire picquet duty, and getting up at some ungodly hour! Thereafter, life was pretty cushy! 
But the band was the scruffiest outfit on parade and fortunately never got inspected otherwise I'd have still been inside and the key thrown away!!!
Oh, the picture was taken one hour after receiving our ill-fitting and unpressed uniform at Cardington!
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Hi all,
I can't remember where I had my initial medical, but at that time I lived in Kings Heath. A week at Cardington Reception Centre where I had my first taste of RAF food and almost threw up! Weak stomach!
Squarebashing at a rather decrepit RAF Hednesford, which closed a few months later. Putting down amateur radio as one of my interests resulted in my being sent to RAF Yatesbury to train as an Airborne Wireless Mechanic. A beautiful summer and I was bored to death with lectures about valve theory, etc., which I already knew, so with a couple others, I nipped over the fence and spent much time sunbathing on a hillock overlooking Devizes!
At that time Derek Ibbotson, the runner, was also an inmate.I volunteered for overseas service, but ended up in a Maintenance Unit at RAF Stoke Heath near Market Drayton - Airborne Wireless Mechanic indeed - we didn't even have our own airfield!
Part is now an Army Camp, the rest a Youth Detention Centre. I soon learned that volunteering for night shift and joining the Station Band excused me from guard duties, fire picquet duty, and getting up at some ungodly hour! Thereafter, life was pretty cushy! But the band was the scruffiest outfit on parade and fortunately never got inspected otherwise I'd have still been inside and the key thrown away!!! Oh, the picture was taken one hour after receiving our ill-fitting and unpressed uniform at Cardington!
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
sospiri
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
RAF Hednesford
Hi Chris,
According to my service record, I entered RAF Cardington on 18th May 1955 and was there for one week. That means I would have been at RAF Hednesford from 25th May 1955 for ten weeks. And, of course, the NCOs shouted at us from the minute we got off the coach until the day we left.
I always remember walking into my new billet at RAF Yatesbury and standing to attention when addressed by the corporal i/c. His response was "Oh for God's sake stop it, we don't bother with all rubbish here!".
Regards,
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Hi Chris,
According to my service record, I entered RAF Cardington on 18th May 1955 and was there for one week. That means I would have been at RAF Hednesford from 25th May 1955 for ten weeks. And, of course, the NCOs shouted at us from the minute we got off the coach until the day we left.
I always remember walking into my new billet at RAF Yatesbury and standing to attention when addressed by the corporal i/c. His response was "Oh for God's sake stop it, we don't bother with all rubbish here!".
Regards,
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Your footsteps and experience mirrored mine, Maurice, although I was about 8 months earlier.
The kitting out at Cardington and the pleasant, gentle coach journey north were no preparation for the arrival at Hednesford. As you say, the shouting and the threats and the general intimidation started before one had walked down the steps and barely halted thereafter. When I was there it was early winter. The place was drab and dreary beyond imagination, damp and dank, everywhere shrouded in seemingly perpetual mist. You could leave the billet with immaculately polished boots, the fruit of hours of labour, and within ten minutes, before you were inspected, they would have acquired a smear of damp fungus. But it all proved to me two facts of life: first, however threateningly they acted, they couldn’t, in a civilised society, actually KILL you; and eternity doesn’t last for ever although at the time it might seem that it is going to.
I was posted for my trade training to Shawbury in Shropshire. We were given a short period of home leave. As it was only about 35 miles distant my father offered to drive me into this wilderness, an act of kindness which he must at the time have contrasted with his own unaided journey in 1917 to his Highland infantry unit; or with that of my elder brother in 1942 to Church Stretton, the first step on a road to Monte Cassino and beyond. Not that such considerations stifled my grumbling.
We were not too certain of the route but when we got past Wellington all doubt was dispelled by the sight of two silver Meteors playfully cavorting high above a distant aerodrome. They drew us quickly to the airfield itself. As my father stopped the car a respectful distance from the main entrance the two aircraft were still up there in a clear December sky, glinting in the sunshine. I got out, opened the boot and after donning greatcoat and peaked cap, struggled into my webbing and packs and picked up my kitbag. Bidding my father farewell and walking smartly - ambling was out of the question but marching would have seemed a little much - I approached the guardroom of RAF Shawbury. The RAF policeman on duty, a "snowdrop", was about as friendly as I expected. He might have been a little more welcoming if the guardroom before which he was standing, as he succinctly advised me, had not been that belonging to RAF High Ercall. Back to the car, off with the gear and then, a mile or two down the road, the same rigmarole once again. This time we got it right and I disappeared, reluctant and resentful, into the welcoming embrace of my training station, shortly to spend my first night under a Shropshire sky.
I had only been in Shawbury for a matter of minutes before, like you, I received my first indication that there was a different RAF beyond the horrors of basic training. A friendly airman in the guardroom, from the lofty height of his six months of service, gently pointed out to me that it was no longer necessary to travel all kitted up with webbing and kitbag and the rest. A large civilian hold-all was the approved method. I promptly removed my straps, never, ever to put them on again. The kitbag was rarely used again either; but has proved useful over the ensuing 53 years to store the rest of my kit. Well, you never know, do you…….
Chris
The kitting out at Cardington and the pleasant, gentle coach journey north were no preparation for the arrival at Hednesford. As you say, the shouting and the threats and the general intimidation started before one had walked down the steps and barely halted thereafter. When I was there it was early winter. The place was drab and dreary beyond imagination, damp and dank, everywhere shrouded in seemingly perpetual mist. You could leave the billet with immaculately polished boots, the fruit of hours of labour, and within ten minutes, before you were inspected, they would have acquired a smear of damp fungus. But it all proved to me two facts of life: first, however threateningly they acted, they couldn’t, in a civilised society, actually KILL you; and eternity doesn’t last for ever although at the time it might seem that it is going to.
I was posted for my trade training to Shawbury in Shropshire. We were given a short period of home leave. As it was only about 35 miles distant my father offered to drive me into this wilderness, an act of kindness which he must at the time have contrasted with his own unaided journey in 1917 to his Highland infantry unit; or with that of my elder brother in 1942 to Church Stretton, the first step on a road to Monte Cassino and beyond. Not that such considerations stifled my grumbling.
We were not too certain of the route but when we got past Wellington all doubt was dispelled by the sight of two silver Meteors playfully cavorting high above a distant aerodrome. They drew us quickly to the airfield itself. As my father stopped the car a respectful distance from the main entrance the two aircraft were still up there in a clear December sky, glinting in the sunshine. I got out, opened the boot and after donning greatcoat and peaked cap, struggled into my webbing and packs and picked up my kitbag. Bidding my father farewell and walking smartly - ambling was out of the question but marching would have seemed a little much - I approached the guardroom of RAF Shawbury. The RAF policeman on duty, a "snowdrop", was about as friendly as I expected. He might have been a little more welcoming if the guardroom before which he was standing, as he succinctly advised me, had not been that belonging to RAF High Ercall. Back to the car, off with the gear and then, a mile or two down the road, the same rigmarole once again. This time we got it right and I disappeared, reluctant and resentful, into the welcoming embrace of my training station, shortly to spend my first night under a Shropshire sky.
I had only been in Shawbury for a matter of minutes before, like you, I received my first indication that there was a different RAF beyond the horrors of basic training. A friendly airman in the guardroom, from the lofty height of his six months of service, gently pointed out to me that it was no longer necessary to travel all kitted up with webbing and kitbag and the rest. A large civilian hold-all was the approved method. I promptly removed my straps, never, ever to put them on again. The kitbag was rarely used again either; but has proved useful over the ensuing 53 years to store the rest of my kit. Well, you never know, do you…….
Chris
Alf
Gone but not forgotten. R.I.P.
On National Service Forum I think Dennis reminded us that we had an award for our service to the country in the form of a Verterans Badge, If any has not got one, I'm hoping one of the lads on this Forum still has the address.
Its a Free phone call all you need is your Service No. and Details try its worth it.
Its a Free phone call all you need is your Service No. and Details try its worth it.
R
RayD
Guest
sospiri
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
RAF Shawbury - a bit of a long posting!
Hi Chris,
There's a strange coincidence! Being a pianist in my spare time and not particularly caring for what the Stoke Heath cooks called "the evening meal", I would venture over the road from our domestic site to the NAAFI at 5:00pm instead of heading for the cookhouse. The NAAFI didn't open until 7:00pm, but the managerss used to kindly let me in to practice and I would generally continue playing during the early part of the evening when the place was open.
One evening I was playing away when a guy in civilian clothes came and sat down beside me listening for a few minutes. When I took a break, he explained that he was the Station Bandmaster, a Flight-Sergeant, and not allowed in our NAAFI, hence the civvy clothes. "How would you like to join the Station Band?", he said. My first reaction was to tell him to **** ***, but I thought better of it and asked "Why me?". He explained that they needed a pianist for the dance band for the Officers Mess & other gigs, and if I consented, I would get extra 48 & 72 hour passes, no guard or fire picquet duties, etc. "Count me in", I said, and he told me to attend band rehearsal the following morning.
At the rehearsal he added the bits he had left out. To get all these perks I also had to play at Station Parades once a month and he asked if I also played trumpet or clarinet as I couldn't take a piano on parade. "No", I replied. "In which case you'd better learn to play 'baritone'", he said, "go into my office and I'll be with you in a minute".
I had visions of a baritone sax and Gerry Mulligan (you jazzers will know who I mean!) until he turns up with a baritone horn - shades of the Salvation Army! He blew a couple of scales, showed me the fingering and left me to it ..... for three weeks. Meanwhile, the band were rehearsing selections from the shows and marches out in the bandroom and I was in his office supposed to be practicing scales on this awful conglomeration of plumbing every rehearsal day! After a couple of days I was bored and out of breath and took a paperback with me. Hence for the next couple of weeks, I sat reading my book whilst the band blasted away outside until one day he came in and caught me.
"You don't like this, do you?", he said. "No, I ****** well don't", I replied.
"You'd better go on parade and play cymbals", he said, and that's what I did for the next 18 months! But to get to the point of my opening sentence, RAF Shawbury had a band comprising just four musicians - not even enough for a parade. Accordingly, for the rest of my service, once a month, I and some of my fellow musicians went to Shawbury and joined the four musicians just so that the C.O. could have a proper parade!
If you were still there Chris, you would have heard me and I didn't play a single bum note! Crash, bang, crash, crash, crash!!!!
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Hi Chris,
There's a strange coincidence! Being a pianist in my spare time and not particularly caring for what the Stoke Heath cooks called "the evening meal", I would venture over the road from our domestic site to the NAAFI at 5:00pm instead of heading for the cookhouse. The NAAFI didn't open until 7:00pm, but the managerss used to kindly let me in to practice and I would generally continue playing during the early part of the evening when the place was open.
One evening I was playing away when a guy in civilian clothes came and sat down beside me listening for a few minutes. When I took a break, he explained that he was the Station Bandmaster, a Flight-Sergeant, and not allowed in our NAAFI, hence the civvy clothes. "How would you like to join the Station Band?", he said. My first reaction was to tell him to **** ***, but I thought better of it and asked "Why me?". He explained that they needed a pianist for the dance band for the Officers Mess & other gigs, and if I consented, I would get extra 48 & 72 hour passes, no guard or fire picquet duties, etc. "Count me in", I said, and he told me to attend band rehearsal the following morning.
At the rehearsal he added the bits he had left out. To get all these perks I also had to play at Station Parades once a month and he asked if I also played trumpet or clarinet as I couldn't take a piano on parade. "No", I replied. "In which case you'd better learn to play 'baritone'", he said, "go into my office and I'll be with you in a minute".
I had visions of a baritone sax and Gerry Mulligan (you jazzers will know who I mean!) until he turns up with a baritone horn - shades of the Salvation Army! He blew a couple of scales, showed me the fingering and left me to it ..... for three weeks. Meanwhile, the band were rehearsing selections from the shows and marches out in the bandroom and I was in his office supposed to be practicing scales on this awful conglomeration of plumbing every rehearsal day! After a couple of days I was bored and out of breath and took a paperback with me. Hence for the next couple of weeks, I sat reading my book whilst the band blasted away outside until one day he came in and caught me.
"You don't like this, do you?", he said. "No, I ****** well don't", I replied.
"You'd better go on parade and play cymbals", he said, and that's what I did for the next 18 months!
But to get to the point of my opening sentence, RAF Shawbury had a band comprising just four musicians - not even enough for a parade. Accordingly, for the rest of my service, once a month, I and some of my fellow musicians went to Shawbury and joined the four musicians just so that the C.O. could have a proper parade!If you were still there Chris, you would have heard me and I didn't play a single bum note! Crash, bang, crash, crash, crash!!!!
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Great story, Maurice! Thanks for it.
No, you never advanced my musical education, regrettably. I was only at Shawbury for a few weeks and then on to my only permanent posting, the most easterly RAF aerodrome in the UK, in Lincolnshire, and like Siberia in winter. But that's another story.....
I find myself in RAF Shawbury every couple of years or so. It has much changed and I find it difficult to find anything which I remember. It's not generally appreciated but during the war there was almost as great a concentration of airfields in Shropshire as there was in parts of East Anglia. They were mainly large organisations with around 2000 personnel based at each. A number had closed by the mid-1950s, but as you will recall too, many were still operational in one role or another in a diminished form, such as Sleap, Chetwynd, Tern Hill, High Ercall, Peplow and of course Shawbury and Cosford which still survive today. There was a lot buzzing around up aloft at that time - there still is, but they are mainly helicopters now.
Chris
No, you never advanced my musical education, regrettably. I was only at Shawbury for a few weeks and then on to my only permanent posting, the most easterly RAF aerodrome in the UK, in Lincolnshire, and like Siberia in winter. But that's another story.....
I find myself in RAF Shawbury every couple of years or so. It has much changed and I find it difficult to find anything which I remember. It's not generally appreciated but during the war there was almost as great a concentration of airfields in Shropshire as there was in parts of East Anglia. They were mainly large organisations with around 2000 personnel based at each. A number had closed by the mid-1950s, but as you will recall too, many were still operational in one role or another in a diminished form, such as Sleap, Chetwynd, Tern Hill, High Ercall, Peplow and of course Shawbury and Cosford which still survive today. There was a lot buzzing around up aloft at that time - there still is, but they are mainly helicopters now.
Chris
George Wheeler
master brummie
Not so musical
My C.O.s musical experience occurred at 71 MU Bicester during barrack room inspection November 1955. I was in hospital having being knocked off my motor cycle by a stolen car outside RAF Gaydon. Seeing the empty bed he pulled open my locker door, he was slightly less than pleased when my banjo fell on his foot and the soprano sax hit him slightly higher up. I avoided his wrath when returning ten weeks later by getting a quick transfer to a ward at RAF Halton, then on to a rehab unit at RAF Collaton Cross near Plymouth and finally being discharged from the RAF hospital at Wroughton, near Swindon
I think his career was blighted by the fact that his name was Sqd Leader Tony Hancock, you can imagine what we called his working parade on Saturday mornings.
S.A.C. Wheeler (RAF retired)
My C.O.s musical experience occurred at 71 MU Bicester during barrack room inspection November 1955. I was in hospital having being knocked off my motor cycle by a stolen car outside RAF Gaydon. Seeing the empty bed he pulled open my locker door, he was slightly less than pleased when my banjo fell on his foot and the soprano sax hit him slightly higher up. I avoided his wrath when returning ten weeks later by getting a quick transfer to a ward at RAF Halton, then on to a rehab unit at RAF Collaton Cross near Plymouth and finally being discharged from the RAF hospital at Wroughton, near Swindon
I think his career was blighted by the fact that his name was Sqd Leader Tony Hancock, you can imagine what we called his working parade on Saturday mornings.
S.A.C. Wheeler (RAF retired)
sospiri
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
RAF Colchester
Hi George,
Colchester? Did they eventually catch up with you then, George?
I seem to remember that was the home of the RAF Prison.
Very amusing story, thanks for posting it. Left to our own devices, we RAFaelites could keep this thread going forever! :Aah:
Regards,
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Hi George,
Colchester? Did they eventually catch up with you then, George?
I seem to remember that was the home of the RAF Prison.
Very amusing story, thanks for posting it. Left to our own devices, we RAFaelites could keep this thread going forever! :Aah:
Regards,
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
sospiri
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
In a more serious vein, the main problem with National Service was the sheer cost of it. I spent 18 months or so servicing Marconi Radio Compasses and on one occasion, in our more-often-than-not idle moments, we set about doing a few calculations.
Assuming all compass faults to be equal (which, of course, they weren't), the cost of our mere-pittance-wages (totally ignoring all other costs such as food, site upkeep, etc) divided by the number of items we serviced equalled an average cost per fault of over 800 quid. (A massive understatement, of course, when all those other overheads were taken into account).
The cost of buying a brand new compass from Marconi at that time was 365 quid! So the cost of maintaining this massive "free" workforce of National Servicemen and a handful of regulars was not insignificant. The Government of the day would have done far better to drop the compasses straight into the bin and buy new ones! Some time after I got demobbed, the whole station was closed down and moved to RAF Sealand in Cheshire where it was then staffed by civilians who, despite being paid a decent civilian wage, would have probably done the same job much more efficiently with much lower staffing levels. Just a thought!
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
Assuming all compass faults to be equal (which, of course, they weren't), the cost of our mere-pittance-wages (totally ignoring all other costs such as food, site upkeep, etc) divided by the number of items we serviced equalled an average cost per fault of over 800 quid. (A massive understatement, of course, when all those other overheads were taken into account).
The cost of buying a brand new compass from Marconi at that time was 365 quid! So the cost of maintaining this massive "free" workforce of National Servicemen and a handful of regulars was not insignificant. The Government of the day would have done far better to drop the compasses straight into the bin and buy new ones! Some time after I got demobbed, the whole station was closed down and moved to RAF Sealand in Cheshire where it was then staffed by civilians who, despite being paid a decent civilian wage, would have probably done the same job much more efficiently with much lower staffing levels. Just a thought!
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
barrie
master brummie
Very few N.S. men had a "worthwhile" job, myself included. A large proportion of men were involved in dealing with the paperwork, all of which was generated by the few that actually did anything of any use to the defence of the realm. My considered opinion is that N.S. for most blokes, was a complete waste of their time, and the nations money
This is where I spent 20 months of my golden youth, https://www.controltowers.co.uk/S/Strubby.htm
shovelling paper around (as Barrie says), making the tea, monitoring radio frequencies, manning the switchboard, logging aircraft movements and all the rest. (Probably I had it easy - I could instead have been crawling through the undergrowth looking for Mau Mau in Kenya or getting blown up in Cyprus).
Much as I loathed and resented it all, I wish I could turn the clock back and have another go at it. In hindsight there was so much of interest there, the buildings, the organisation, the equipment, the procedures, the evidence of the recent past and, not least, many commissioned WW2 ex-aircrew now on Air Traffic Control duties and with goodness knows what experiences under their belt. These ancient men, in their early to mid-thirties, we regarded (I confess it with shame now) with contempt for having got marooned in the service and found nothing better to do with their lives. My only excuse is that one or two of them - by no means all - earned our opprobrium by tending to regard us as something unpleasant they had stepped in and to treat us accordingly. We were an under-used resource, and expert on doing the minimum possible. With better man-management it could have been very different and both sides would have benefited. But where would a superannuated bomb-aimer flight lieutenant have acquired such skills and insight?
It was less than ten years earlier that as dawn broke over the North Sea each morning, this same building had welcomed back flights of Lancasters from the Ruhr and Berlin. I wish I had thought about all that more at the time.
Chris
PS Don't tempt us, Alf - there's plenty more where all this comes from!!
shovelling paper around (as Barrie says), making the tea, monitoring radio frequencies, manning the switchboard, logging aircraft movements and all the rest. (Probably I had it easy - I could instead have been crawling through the undergrowth looking for Mau Mau in Kenya or getting blown up in Cyprus).
Much as I loathed and resented it all, I wish I could turn the clock back and have another go at it. In hindsight there was so much of interest there, the buildings, the organisation, the equipment, the procedures, the evidence of the recent past and, not least, many commissioned WW2 ex-aircrew now on Air Traffic Control duties and with goodness knows what experiences under their belt. These ancient men, in their early to mid-thirties, we regarded (I confess it with shame now) with contempt for having got marooned in the service and found nothing better to do with their lives. My only excuse is that one or two of them - by no means all - earned our opprobrium by tending to regard us as something unpleasant they had stepped in and to treat us accordingly. We were an under-used resource, and expert on doing the minimum possible. With better man-management it could have been very different and both sides would have benefited. But where would a superannuated bomb-aimer flight lieutenant have acquired such skills and insight?
It was less than ten years earlier that as dawn broke over the North Sea each morning, this same building had welcomed back flights of Lancasters from the Ruhr and Berlin. I wish I had thought about all that more at the time.
Chris
PS Don't tempt us, Alf - there's plenty more where all this comes from!!
sospiri
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Hi Chris,
I know what you mean. Years later I developed an interest in RAF history and started to write a book on the airfields of the New Forest. The basic notes for RAF Ibsley are still on the Web somewhere. I stopped when they formed an RAF Ibsley Historical Society and instituted an Open Day every year, bringing over many American guys who had flown from there. Well, you can't compete with first hand experience, can you? Unfortunately, the guy who started up the website disappeared and whilst the Society is still in existence, it seems to have lost its momentum and the website has effectively folded.
I agree that with better man management, National Service could have been powerful force, but the guys in charge had not got today's MBAs or been on personnel courses and they were being asked to do something for which they really had no proper training.
Like many things in life, hindsight is a wonderful thing and most of us would have taken a greater interest had we known what we know now. But I don't regret the experience nevertheless. The only thing I regret is that I have had very little joy in trying to trace the guys that shared the experience with me.
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
I know what you mean. Years later I developed an interest in RAF history and started to write a book on the airfields of the New Forest. The basic notes for RAF Ibsley are still on the Web somewhere. I stopped when they formed an RAF Ibsley Historical Society and instituted an Open Day every year, bringing over many American guys who had flown from there. Well, you can't compete with first hand experience, can you?
Unfortunately, the guy who started up the website disappeared and whilst the Society is still in existence, it seems to have lost its momentum and the website has effectively folded.I agree that with better man management, National Service could have been powerful force, but the guys in charge had not got today's MBAs or been on personnel courses and they were being asked to do something for which they really had no proper training.
Like many things in life, hindsight is a wonderful thing and most of us would have taken a greater interest had we known what we know now. But I don't regret the experience nevertheless. The only thing I regret is that I have had very little joy in trying to trace the guys that shared the experience with me.
Maurice at The LONGMORE Pages
https://www.msheppard.com
I don't regret it either, now. Except that the benefits I got out of it would have been acquired in six months, without the need to waste a further 18 months of my life, and at £1.40 a week. A number of lessons were learnt which have been useful in later life. Here's about no.4 out of goodness knows how many.
Picture the scene. It's early February. The aerodrome is a vast, bleak, open expanse in the middle of nowhere, the North Sea only a couple of miles away. It's a clear night, about 2.00 in the morning and bitterly, bitterly cold. Nothing is stirring.
Four of us are down for Security Picquet duties tonight. This comes around every few months. Each of two pairs has to patrol the base, two hours on, then two hours off in the guardroom taking a kip. We are armed with a stave, clearly sufficient to deter intrusions by Soviet special forces and the local peasantry. We are given a timetable, which hangar doors, which minor buildings, which windows to check at what time, throughout the entire area. This is a boring and not particularly comfortable exercise but we are well wrapped up in greatcoat and woollen scarf and mittens, and so it is tolerable. And surprisingly, not particularly spooky either, bearing in mind the base's Bomber Command history. I have found from previous experience that the best way to get through this and to make the time pass less slowly is to stick rigidly to the timetable and route, trying to do everything to the letter.
But on this occasion I am blessed with a comrade who is blowed (or words to that effect) that he is going to walk all that way, and blow them all too, etc., etc. So how do we spend most of the two hours? Seeking out, not without difficulty in the dark, an earth closet in some remote corner of the aerodrome. There we sit side-by-side, on the only available seats, those with a hole in the middle. He sits reading yesterday's Mirror, illuminated by a weakening torch and then a series of matches for as long as the box lasts. I sit gazing into the blackness, rigid with boredom, getting colder and colder, willing the time to pass. And trying to breath through my mouth in order to avoid the perfumes which waft through the air, generously bequeathed by the previous day's visitors. About the only thing I have to think about is the series of unchecked doors and windows and a vision of the Orderly Officer, uncharacteristically waking from his gin-sodden slumbers and deciding to check, not on them but on us.
So Lesson No.4: there are people on this earth who in order to avoid doing what they are supposed to do, are prepared to expend more effort and ingenuity, and accept more discomfort and risk, than they would have done by simply undertaking the task in hand and sticking to the rules. Almost on a point of principle. A self-evident lesson no doubt, but one which was novel to me at the age of nineteen.
Chris
Picture the scene. It's early February. The aerodrome is a vast, bleak, open expanse in the middle of nowhere, the North Sea only a couple of miles away. It's a clear night, about 2.00 in the morning and bitterly, bitterly cold. Nothing is stirring.
Four of us are down for Security Picquet duties tonight. This comes around every few months. Each of two pairs has to patrol the base, two hours on, then two hours off in the guardroom taking a kip. We are armed with a stave, clearly sufficient to deter intrusions by Soviet special forces and the local peasantry. We are given a timetable, which hangar doors, which minor buildings, which windows to check at what time, throughout the entire area. This is a boring and not particularly comfortable exercise but we are well wrapped up in greatcoat and woollen scarf and mittens, and so it is tolerable. And surprisingly, not particularly spooky either, bearing in mind the base's Bomber Command history. I have found from previous experience that the best way to get through this and to make the time pass less slowly is to stick rigidly to the timetable and route, trying to do everything to the letter.
But on this occasion I am blessed with a comrade who is blowed (or words to that effect) that he is going to walk all that way, and blow them all too, etc., etc. So how do we spend most of the two hours? Seeking out, not without difficulty in the dark, an earth closet in some remote corner of the aerodrome. There we sit side-by-side, on the only available seats, those with a hole in the middle. He sits reading yesterday's Mirror, illuminated by a weakening torch and then a series of matches for as long as the box lasts. I sit gazing into the blackness, rigid with boredom, getting colder and colder, willing the time to pass. And trying to breath through my mouth in order to avoid the perfumes which waft through the air, generously bequeathed by the previous day's visitors. About the only thing I have to think about is the series of unchecked doors and windows and a vision of the Orderly Officer, uncharacteristically waking from his gin-sodden slumbers and deciding to check, not on them but on us.
So Lesson No.4: there are people on this earth who in order to avoid doing what they are supposed to do, are prepared to expend more effort and ingenuity, and accept more discomfort and risk, than they would have done by simply undertaking the task in hand and sticking to the rules. Almost on a point of principle. A self-evident lesson no doubt, but one which was novel to me at the age of nineteen.
Chris
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oldMohawk
gone but not forgotten
When I was at work, us National Service guys used to start talking about it, and the young ones in the office used to moan that they (us) had got our 'tin hats' on again ! When I left peaceful Cardington, the NCO's from RAF Padgate met us there at the nearest railway station and we sat to attention most of the journey to Cheshire. We went into a billet just like the one in the photo I've attached (look at the reflections on the coke bin) , and thought not much cleaning to do here, until the NCO's upended our coke bin and ground the coke into the polished floor. Team building started from then with much polishing for next day's inspection.
3150438
oldmohawk
3150438
oldmohawk
oldMohawk
gone but not forgotten
Hi,
I was at Padgate in Sept 1956. Below you can see some of the Corporals.
The dreaded thing at Padgate was if you got 'back-flighted' a few weeks, because you could not march properly or something like that.
The Corporals could not stand what they called 'tick-tock' marchers.
The Corporal on the right had a favourite saying that he would back-flight you so far back, 'bows and arrows would be secret weapons'.
They all had their witty shouts at us, and probably used them on all new intakes, but the problem was if you smiled you were still in trouble !
oldmohawk
I was at Padgate in Sept 1956. Below you can see some of the Corporals.
The dreaded thing at Padgate was if you got 'back-flighted' a few weeks, because you could not march properly or something like that.
The Corporals could not stand what they called 'tick-tock' marchers.
The Corporal on the right had a favourite saying that he would back-flight you so far back, 'bows and arrows would be secret weapons'.
They all had their witty shouts at us, and probably used them on all new intakes, but the problem was if you smiled you were still in trouble !
oldmohawk