Squatters, tramps, down-and-outs and persons on the run from life, from HM Forces, from the police or from their families would sometimes hide here too.
The area covered by the old airfield was huge; remnants of the Air Traffic Control Tower remained, as did buildings which had been station headquarters, squadron offices, hangars, sleeping accommodation, etc. Many of them were windowless, some were roofless and none had been officially occupied or used for almost a quarter of a century. In the broad light of day, the airfield reeked of dereliction and decay, although the old runways themselves were in fairly good order. They were like huge modern highways which crossed and re-crossed this patch of Ryedale and they had survived surprisingly well without any formal maintenance. The area between them comprised overgrown grass, weeds and scrubland, although some of the fertile areas had been leased to a local farmer who managed to grow wheat there.
No one seemed quite sure who owned the airfield; perhaps the Air Ministry had forgotten it was there, perhaps someone had purchased it years ago and had no idea what to do with it . . . I never knew. What I did know, however, was that the deserted runways were regularly used by learner drivers, by young men who fancied themselves as racing motorists, by teenage motorcyclists who roared about the place doing crazy things with their moving machines such as wheelies or headstands on the saddles, and even by pedal-cyclists who organised time trials and races around the perimeter track.
The old notices saying ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ or ‘Air Ministry Property — Keep Off’ had fallen down and although there could have been a question of illegal use, it was not the job of the civilian police to enforce any such rules. We knew that the public, rightly or wrongly, made use of the old airfield and we did not raise any formal objection because we knew where many of the youngsters got to. They were safe here, far better using this enclosed area for racing or showing off than attempting their doubtful skills on the open road.
So we closed our ‘official’ eyes to the many trespassers although, at night, we did make routine patrols through the airfield, checking for possible lawbreakers who might dump stolen cars here, steal bits from the buildings, cause damage or perform a host of other illegal acts. Children on the run from school or home were another aspect of our searches, as were depressed folks who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts, or even to commit suicide.
One night in early May, I was performing an all-night duty, having started at 10pm. I booked myself on duty from home by ringing Eltering Police Station at 10pm and asked for any routine messages. I was given a list of unsolved crimes committed locally during the day, plus details of a car which had been stolen from Scarborough. It was a Ford Consul, five years old and a dark green colour, and it had been stolen from outside the Spa before eight that evening.
According to the police at Eltering, a villager from Stovensby had telephoned at quarter to ten to report a car with blazing lights repeatedly circling the old airfield at high speed. There was just a possibility that it was the missing vehicle in the hands of joy-riders, as other cars stolen from the coast had been found abandoned here.
I was therefore asked to check out this report.
It was a foul night with pouring rain and lingering mist as I arrived in Stovensby village. The time would be around 10.20pm and the late spring dusk had matured into a heavy darkness due to the weather. I drove the little van down to the fallen gate which marked the entrance to the airfield, the windscreen wipers having trouble coping with the teeming rain. I extinguished the van lights as I peered through the gloom, hoping to catch sight of roving car lights somewhere in that vast expanse of misery and darkness. I saw none, so maybe my own approaching lights had alerted the thieves? Perhaps they’d gone? Perhaps it was just a local lad having a fling around the place in his own car? Maybe it was thieves who had run for shelter and were hiding in one of the many disused buildings? The lights could have been anything or anyone, harmless or potentially harmful.
I waited for five or ten minutes; there was no sign of activity on that airfield, not a hint, not a light. But if a car had been seen earlier — and not all that much earlier — then a full search would have to be made.
To make a proper search, I should really walk; I should take a torch although, strictly speaking, I should make a search in complete darkness so as to surprise the villains in possession of the stolen property. In the darkness, I could creep up on them . . . But, I reasoned, if they were in a car, they could escape simply by driving off and I would be marooned in the middle of the airfield with no car, no radio and no chance of catching them. I reckoned that if I circled the airfield in the mini-van, shining my lights into and behind all the old buildings, I might flush out the thieves. Then I could give chase, and my radio would allow me to summon any necessary aid. That seemed a far better idea.
So I switched on my lights, crossed through that tumbledown gate and found myself driving along the glistening wet concrete of an old wartime runway. The rain, the mist and the darkness made driving very difficult, and without a detailed knowledge of the layout of the airfield, I really had no idea where I was heading. My only hope was to pick out the buildings one by one and then scan them in my headlights. If I did detect anything or anyone suspicious, then a more detailed search could follow.
With the excitement of the chase making my heart pound just a little faster, I located the first of the buildings and drove towards it; it was an old hangar, vast and empty in the darkness so I drove right inside, did a sweeping turn in the mini and watched as the beams explored every corner.
Old oil drums littered the floor, a few rats scuttled off at my intrusion and there was an old settee against the far wall, but it was otherwise deserted. I moved to the next location, another hangar similarly deserted. As I searched each building, the radio in the van burbled into life and I recognised my own call sign.
‘Echo Seven,’ it said. ‘Location please.’
Every half-hour, our Control Room sought our location in this manner, then plotted our movements on a map so the most conveniently-positioned vehicle could be directed to any incident. It was also a means of checking our individual safety; if we failed to respond, we might be in trouble.
‘Echo Seven’ I spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Stovensby Airfield.’
‘Received. Echo Nine?’ the next car was requested.
As locations were sought from every mobile on duty, I continued my search. Sometimes, I walked in the light of those headlamps, sometimes I drove around a block or behind the more remote buildings, but I did make sure that every possible hiding place was examined. As I progressed, I found it was becoming more difficult to see the buildings ahead; the rain and mist obscured them and so I found myself having to drive at a crawling pace in the gloom. From time to time I’d leave the van with its engine running and lights blazing as I fought my way through the thickening mist to a building with a difficult access.
I must have searched every conceivable nook and cranny without finding anything remotely suspicious, by which time I had decided that no stolen car was hidden there. There was nothing and no one lurking on that deserted airfield. Of that, I was positive.
I radioed Control. ‘Echo Seven,’ I announced. ‘Have completed search of Stovensby Airfield for reported stolen vehicle from Scarborough. No trace. Am resuming patrol. Over.’
‘Received Echo 7. Control out.’
With the windscreen wipers assailing the tumbling rain, and the dense fog now blanketing the entire airfield, I screwed my eyes against the white screen outside. While I had been busily searching the buildings, the fog had dramatically intensified and now I could barely see the runway ahead of me. I could not determine the edges of the concrete . . . I moved to one side, swerving to catch a glimpse of the runway’s extremities. I failed. The twin beams cut into the fog like two long shafts of solid light, but they did not penetrate it. The light simply reflected back at me. I was moving at less than walking pace now, my head out of the window hoping to se
e where I was heading . . .
But I was hopelessly lost. I’d lost all contact with the buildings which had, to some extent, broken the fog’s density and I was encircled by a thick white blanket of dripping clinging mist. I was somewhere inside a dark fog-bound wilderness and had lost all sense of direction.
I found myself fighting the onset of panic; I knew that I was only a few miles from home and from civilisation, but at the same time, could not find the route which led off this old airfield. It was almost like being trapped, like driving through a black, unlit tunnel and into a massive blockade of cotton wool; the mist was so thick that it had become a wall of brilliant white through which nothing could apparently pass. Although I was still driving, I had no impression of movement or distance for I could see nothing but the reflected glow of my headlights. I was upon a featureless plain and the headlights would not even pick out the surface of the runway. I had no idea whether I was in the middle, on the edge, doing a circuit of the perimeter track or simply driving around in circles on an expanse of featureless concrete. I have never been so helpless. It was like one of those nightmarish dreams that childhood worries can cause and there seemed no immediate relief.
I knew it would become easier in daylight, but dawn was hours away, and I felt such an idiot. I was lost within such a small patch of England . . . but I could not stay here all night. I had to find a way off, and so I kept moving. Once or twice, I ran off the edge of the runway, but fortunately the ground was solid enough to carry the weight of the mini-van, and after each mishap I managed to regain the solid surface. I had no idea how long I’d been looking for the exit until my call sign sounded from the radio.
‘Echo Seven, location please,’ asked the voice.
I must have been chugging around for nearly half an hour! I did a rapid mental calculation. If I failed to reply to this request, Control would think I was missing or injured, and a search would be established. And in this fog, more officers could get lost as they hunted for me! Furthermore, at the last ‘locations’ I’d already said that I was resuming patrol and if I now announced that I was lost in the airfield, I’d look a real idiot in the eyes of our Control Room staff.
Surely I would soon find the exit? I’d been going round in circles for ages, and must have covered miles, however slowly I’d been driving.
‘Echo Seven, not receiving. Echo Seven, location please,’ repeated the voice.
‘Echo Seven,’ I decided to pretend I was patrolling normally and made a guess about where I might have been if I’d emerged from the airfield. ‘Echo Seven. A170, travelling east and approaching Brantsford. Over.’
‘Received, Echo Seven. Echo Nine, your location please,’ all cars were now being asked this question.
As the half-hourly ritual continued, I renewed my efforts to drive off the runway. Travelling at less than walking speed in the darkness, often with my head out of the window for better vision, I continued to search. But it was hopeless. By the time of the next ‘locations’ call, I was still on the airfield. But I daren’t admit it.
When Control Room next asked Echo Seven for its location, I said, ‘Echo Seven. Eltering towards Cattleby.’
‘Received Echo Seven,’ responded the voice. ‘Echo Nine?’
And so it continued. I daren’t halt the vehicle for any length of time in the fog to search on foot in case the battery could not cope with the demands upon it from the combined effects of the heater, radio and the lights; I did not feel inclined to switch off the lights in this ghastly silent world. So I continued to drive around; in any case, I wanted to find my way out! For each half-hour, therefore, I provided a fictitious location when asked, and when the time came for my refreshment break at 2am, I took a gamble.
We were supposed to take our refreshment breaks at police stations and not in our vehicles; I knew Ashfordly was unmanned at night and hoped no one would attempt to contact me there by telephone. So, when I would normally have broken my tour of duty for refreshments, I radioed to Control ‘Echo Seven, refreshments Ashfordly. Over.’
‘Received, Echo Seven.’
I halted in the gloom and had my break at the wheel, in contravention of Sergeant Blaketon’s rule about not eating or drinking in the mini-van. I kept the engine running and the equipment and lights operating, for I needed light and heat, and then, after enjoying my sandwiches and flask of coffee, I decided to risk a brief exploration on foot. I’d leave the lights on and the engine running so that I could retrace the van. Perhaps this would help me find the exit?
With my hand torch, I tried to determine my whereabouts but failed. In whatever direction I walked, I found nothing but more featureless expanse of runway and the thickest fog I’d ever encountered. I daren’t stray too far from the car either, in case I failed to re-locate it. And so, at 2.45am at the official termination of my break, I had no alternative but to recommence my circuits of the airfield.
‘Echo Seven,’ I introduced myself. ‘Resuming patrol at Ashfordly, towards Gelderslack.’
‘Received, Echo Seven,’ acknowledged Control.
And so the second half of my shift began. The rain had ceased now, but the fog had not lifted and the darkness was just as intense, but I knew that before my knocking-off time at six o’clock, daylight would arrive. This would help me find a route off this awful place.
For the next two and a half hours or so, I continued to provide fictitious locations, listing places I would have visited during a normal night patrol. Happily, it was a very quiet night and I was never directed to any incident. And then, soon after I’d given my final location at 5.30am, the fog lifted. A gently breeze had risen as dawn was pushing the darkness aside, and I saw the distinct movement of the thick fog. Wisps began to float away and then, with remarkable speed, it began to disperse. In the daylight, I could now see the outline of some buildings and hazy roofs of the village on the edge of the airfield.
And I was less than a hundred yards from the exit!
I need hardly express the cheer that I felt as I drove out of that old gate, and with considerable relief, I made for home. According to the log-book which I had to complete, I had covered nearly forty miles around that airfield, a useful distance for a night patrol. My eyes were red-rimmed and sore with the strain of staring into that wall of fog, and I was mentally shattered.
I arrived home at six o’clock to find Sergeant Blaketon and PC Clough waiting for me. They were in Sergeant Blaketon’s official car. Clough was to take the van out from 6am until 2pm, and on this occasion, Sergeant Blaketon had decided upon an early visit to both Ken Clough and myself. And he had undertaken to ferry my colleague to Aidensfield Police House to collect the van.
‘Morning Rhea,’ he said as I emerged, bleary-eyed and very anxious to get some sleep. ‘All correct?’
‘All correct, Sergeant,’ I managed to say.
‘The duty chap at Eltering said something about you searching for a stolen car on the old airfield?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I searched for it just after commencing my shift. It wasn’t there.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, Sergeant!’ I snapped the answer. ‘I searched every possible place. The airfield was deserted.’
‘Good, I thought you’d have done a thorough job.’
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
‘It’s just that Eltering Police Station got one or two calls during the night from residents at Stovensby. They reckoned cars were running round the airfield all night. They reported seeing lights and hearing engines in the fog. Eltering’s sending a car to have a look in daylight — apparently, a road-traffic car attempted to investigate last night but turned back because of dense fog.’
‘I’ve just come from there, Sergeant,’ I decided to tell him. ‘I did a final search myself, in daylight with the fog thinning. I saw nothing — that was only half an hour ago.’
‘They must have imagined it, Rhea. So, nothing else to report, eh?’
‘No, Sergeant,’ I said with determina
tion.
‘Good, then sleep well,’ and they left me.
It was a long, long time before I returned to Stovensby Airfield and I never ventured there during a fog!
Mind, there were times when I wondered how those wartime pilots had coped with these Stovensby pea-soupers. Perhaps they had never become airborne, pretending instead to fly upon long circuitous missions into enemy territory?
* * *
There was another occasion when a duty trip in the little van caused something of a headache, and again it involved a journey which would certainly have caused Sergeant Blaketon to consult his book of rules. Happily, he never learned of this particular mishap.
Like so many memorable incidents, this one happened through a chance conversation. I was on patrol in the mini-van with instructions to deliver a package to a member of the Police Committee who lived on the edge of my beat. The package had come from the Chief Constable via our internal mail system and I was the final courier in this postal routine. I think it contained a selection of local statistics and pamphlets required for a crime prevention seminar in which she was to be involved. She was out when I arrived, but I spotted a gardener at work in the grounds of her spacious home and he told me to leave the mail in the conservatory. She’d find it there, he assured me. He pointed me towards the door and then, eager for a moment’s respite, asked me how my family and I were settling in. I did not know the man but saw this as yet another example of how the public knows the affairs of their village constable!
As I’d been at Aidensfield for a year or two by this time, I was able to say we were very happy and enjoying both the area and the work.
‘Got the garden straight, have you?’ he asked with real interest, and perhaps a little professional curiosity.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 37