Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  What we did get with 16 Flight was the day when decisions had to be made about our postings to other stations. This implied selecting jobs, because the next move would be for trade training. In looking at the list available to conscripts - soon to be National Servicemen - the one we latched on was in the Education Branch. This involved teacher training - again - and becoming sergeants after a mere eight weeks. Obviously this was the thing for all us qualified teachers. I thought at least it would be a good second best for a POM.

  Ah, they said, unfortunately the course is full at present. Understandable, we thought, there’s a lot of us about, so what do you suggest? Ah, choose another trade, doesn’t matter which, then as soon as there are vacancies on the course you’ll be sent for. Fair enough, seems reasonable, we said....

  How naïve could we be? But at the time we hadn’t learnt how Service bureaucracy worked, so Alisdair and I looked for a trade that trained at a station nearest to home. Thus we decided to become Airframe Assistants, training for which was at RAF Cosford. We had both taken Craft at College, so perhaps similar skills would be involved. We’d also made lots of model aeroplanes, hadn’t we?

  One event in our basic training particularly stands out in my memory because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing - or rather not seeing. We were marched out on to a drab field on a wet November morning with distant clinging mist. Patches of long grass flattened by recent rain were overlaid in places with wisps of dead grass left from desultory summer haymaking. Two very shallow channels crossed the space, hardly disturbing the surface, no doubt for drainage. We were informed we were to have training in camouflage.

  Smiles spread around. The chances for concealment in this landscape were nil, we felt. It was just another of those events you had to go through because it was all laid down. Six lads were selected, the rest of us, rifles in hand as ever, were lined up across one end of the field and turned away from the open space, and adjured not to look round. Two NCOs ensured we did not. The others, we were told, would conceal the six snipers. We would then turn round, advance slowly in line and challenge at any point where we thought someone was concealed.

  I imagined we would soon spot six lumps of disturbed dead grass, rather as one did when playing hide and seek with young children on summer days. We got the order to turn and gazed in raw astonishment. Everything seemed exactly as before. Then we got the order to walk slowly forward.

  Absolutely determined to spot at least one concealed body I glared from side to side as I moved. I’m sure most of the others did the same. Yet as we crossed the open ground not a single challenge pierced the dripping air. Finally we were told to halt. I felt sure there was a catch somewhere. Perhaps they hadn’t been hidden for some as yet inexplicable reason. Then we were told to turn round. We did so and still the field seemed devoid of human life. After a salutary tirade of ridicule directed at us, the concealed lads were told to stand up. Each did so, shaking off quite small amounts of grass from places over which we had walked. By chance no one had trodden on one, but had that occurred it would have demonstrated even more strongly how inept we were at penetrating the simplest camouflage. What made this all the more amazing was that we were wearing normal beige fatigue overalls, and certainly the snipers had nothing smeared on their faces. I think we all realised that had that been for real we would have been picked off with ease. We marched off duly chastened about the seriousness of some training exercises and with enhanced respect for the skill of our battle hardened NCOs.

  Immediately after our passing out parade, at which 16 Flight did rather well, we collected our rail warrants for Christmas leave and paraded for our posting papers. Boringly name after name was called out, papers were taken and the recipients made a dash for the gates and the railway station. Then only a few were left.

  ‘Trust mine to be last,’ I thought.

  But I was wrong. Mine wasn’t there at all. The NCO distributing the documents looked nonplussed as he and I faced one another.

  ‘What’s your name, airman?’ I gave it, and my full number rather than the usual last three digits. He scanned the list. ‘You’re not on it.’

  It was urgent I also dashed for the train and home. ‘What do I do after leave?’

  He wanted to get away as well. ‘Report back here to Pool Flight.’

  ‘What do I do then?’

  ‘I dunno. Ask someone in Records in Station HQ.’ He disappeared rapidly. Kitted up, everything dismantled in our billet, HQ closed, railway warrant in hand, I shrugged my shoulders and dashed off to the train which I caught by the skin of my teeth. On it Alisdair commiserated with me.

  ‘What did he tell you to do?’

  ‘Report back to Pool Flight.’

  ‘Hell, that’s awful!’

  ‘I know.’ We all did. Pool Flight was an odd assortment of weirdos that did various odd jobs around the camp. Who or what the members were was never openly discussed. ‘Never mind, I’ll worry about that after Christmas. I wonder how long they’ll take to call us for Education Branch training.’

  ‘Only a month, I should think.’

  We were still babes in arms in Service know-how!

  Christmas was absolutely great that year. The family, Church, the weather, civilian clothes again, much better bed, super food despite rationing - which was getting worse, they said. But two things niggled. One was the Berlin Airlift, the other was my impending return to Pool Flight with concern about why I hadn’t been posted. I confess the latter loomed larger, though neither I nor anyone else ignored the former.

  In the international posturing following the end of the War, Stalin, having been allowed to capture Berlin, decided he wasn’t going to put up with the four power division of that city which mirrored the setup in the whole of Germany. Berlin was well inside the Russian sector which meant that supplies to the English, French and American parts of Berlin had to be sent through it by road and rail. So, expecting the other three powers to knuckle under rather than risk armed confrontation, he closed all overland routes to Berlin and awaited the expected outcome; full Russian control of the city.

  The only alternative route was the aerial one. Tentatively supplies were flown in using the good old transport workhorse, the DC3. This was successful to an extent and soon a steady flow of these aircraft flew in and out round the clock. However, no matter how many were used it soon became apparent that demand far outstripped the maximum possible supply. Soon the danger of starvation was a very real threat to Berliners of whatever nationality. No doubt Stalin did the arithmetic as well, and sat back awaiting the inevitable.

  Much bigger planes were available in large numbers because they had been trundling in and out of Germany with increasingly large bomb loads until very recently. The snag was the size of the runway in Berlin’s Tempelhof airport. To enlarge it needed brilliant logistical planning to supply the materials and a massive labour force. Both were forthcoming; the first provided by the Allies, the second by the close-to-starving German Berliners. The result was that airlift logistics gradually became weighted on the side of the Allies who then demonstrated they would go on flying in supplies for ever and a day if necessary. So, finally, Stalin blinked. Although forcing him to back down precipitated the Cold War, nevertheless it showed that appeasement wasn’t the best way to respond to bullying tactics. If only the powers-that-be had taken the same attitude versus Hitler in the thirties!

  But during the Airlift confrontation no one could foresee the outcome and there were many who thought it would beget the Third World War. Had that been so, those of us then in the Forces would have been looking at a much longer time in uniform and, no doubt, far more action. The airlift operated from June 1948 to the end of May 1949, so at home on my first leave for Christmas 1948 I was unsure about how long my time in the RAF would be. Stalin was a long way from blinking.

  After the festivities I returned to Pool Flight and saw a diff
erent side to RAF planning than my experience of the highly organised basic training. Or rather, I didn’t see, because there was absolutely no planning about Pool Flight. I knew the billet where the individuals comprising the Flight lived, so I wandered to it. It was mid afternoon and a few lonely souls were lying on beds. In marked contrast to the spick and span billets I’d been used to, where bull was the order of the day - and night - Pool Flight billet was disgraceful. I asked one lad, about my age, who was in charge.

  ‘No one. We like it that way.’

  ‘What, no NCO?’

  ‘Nope’

  ‘What do you do here?’

  ‘Anything we’re told in the morning.’

  ‘Who tells you?

  ‘The Admin WO’

  ‘When does he do that?

  ‘On parade. We go on the square at oh nine hundred.’

  ‘What duties do you get?

  ‘Anything they want. Cookhouse usually.’

  ‘Why are you in the Flight?’

  ‘Medical. They’re wondering whether to chuck me out.’

  ‘What’s wrong....oh, never mind. Do I just pick any vacant bed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Feeling very despondent I did so. I then took myself off to Stores to collect bedding. Another lad about my age was on the issue side of the counter. As he slapped biscuits, blankets and sheets on it, I explained why I needed them.

  ‘Pool Flight? Bloody hell, that’s the sink.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Why are you there, mate?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. When everyone in our Flight was given postings after basic training there wasn’t one for me. No one seemed to know about me, and HQ was closed. I’m going to ask them about it all to-morrow.’

  ‘Cor,’ came the response. ‘If they’ve lost your papers you could just hop it. Wish they’d do that for me.’

  Laughing at the suggestion I walked off clutching my bedding. But as I made up the bed in the dismal and not at all clean barrack hut, the thought returned. It was to resurface a few more times during the next few weeks.

  I suppose that night was the worst I spent in the RAF. Looking back it wasn’t all that bad, but I was certainly cheesed off. The members of the Flight were a disparate bunch, sent there for one reason or another, mainly medical but some verging on the mental. It was simply a holding Flight for misfits. Whilst the wheels were put in motion - wherever they were hidden - to decide what to do with each individual, everyone was employed on any necessary odd jobs. The cookhouse had regular needs, not for cooking but for washing up. When I joined the single file parade next day, wearing drab fatigue overalls as instructed by everyone else in the hut and collected from the room at the end, I soon found that was the norm. The Warrant Officer General Duties- WO GD for short - merely counted a number and we were off. He took not the slightest notice of there being a new face in the sparse ranks.

  In the cookhouse I’d seen men on the dirty dishes counter grabbing the returned plates, thumping them over a gaping hole to remove uneaten food, then stacking the plates in a large wooden rack and pushing it beyond the heavy leather flap that concealed the automatic washing machine. That was simply a very strong shower bath of very hot water. At the other end the plates were grabbed again, as they cooled they were returned to racks for re-use. I’d wondered who the people were who did this unpleasant chore. Now I found out.

  There were two shifts. The first began at 06.00 hours and finished at 14.00, the second overlapped, from 12.00 to 20.00 because midday was the busiest time. After a few shifts clothes and boots became sodden from the washer and the buckets of water we had to slosh over the concrete floor afterwards and mop clean. The only drying facility was the stove in the billet and in January people got near that, not clothes. These were slung over chairs near it when we went to bed, but the fire died down. You weren’t allowed to keep it going all night; austerity and all that.

  Of course I went to HQ at the earliest opportunity. In the enquiry office I explained my predicament. The orderly clerk told me to wait. I did so and sat down. He was away for a good ten minutes. Then he returned.

  ‘Give me your 1250.’ This was your personal document, your ID, which you were supposed to carry at all times. I handed it over. He disappeared again. After another ten minutes he reappeared.

  ‘Mm, this is odd. I can’t find your records at all.’

  The notion of disappearing through the gate never to return floated in my consciousness, but dissolved rapidly because I’d alerted him to my physical presence even if I didn’t exist as far as the RAF knew.

  I threw him an explanation and told him about two of us moving between Flights 14 and 16. I also explained that had caused no problem for A/C2 Sington, A.

  ‘Ah, that must be it,’ he said, relieved, and disappeared again. After an even longer delay he returned with a fixed expression.

  ‘OK, that’s fixed.’

  ‘You mean I’ll now get a posting for trade training, then be called for Education Branch training?’

  He looked blank. ‘Yes, I imagine so.’

  Thinking of the cookhouse, I pushed him. ‘Please, can you make sure I’m on a list for posting to Cosford?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Can you do that now?’

  ‘Oh no, it’ll take some time.’

  ‘How long?’ I urged.

  ‘Some weeks, but you can come back in a couple of weeks and ask where you are on the posting list.’

  I realised my stay in Pool Flight was going to be extended. I could see there was nothing more I could do then and there, but I took him at his word and returned every few days. I was beginning to see how the bureaucracy worked.

  Occasionally the motley collection of oddities comprising Pool Flight had to march somewhere and when this rare event occurred a miniscule character took charge. He stood no more than 5’3” but filled his uniform very adequately. He also possessed a most adequate pair of lungs and could shout and bawl every bit as well as the training flights drill instructors. In an idle moment I enquired his reason for being assigned to Pool Flight.

  ‘Awaiting posting for DI Training,’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘and getting into practice with us lot.’

  ‘Yep, and I get any other job they need doing. Last week I took a bloke to the glasshouse.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Colchester. The RAF uses the Army place there.’

  Surveying the tiny but well proportioned form of AC Ashe I tried to envisage him taking charge of a hefty man who’d fallen foul of Service law to a serious extent all the way from Padgate to Colchester, but couldn’t quite conceptualize the scene.

  ‘Didn’t he try to escape....?’

  The miniature form of AC Ashe exploded. ‘Not f******* f****** likely. No one puts f****** anything on me.’ His transformation into a dervish was instantaneous and complete. I realised he had more than a streak of venom in his character. Probably someone had been unsure of his ability to exercise self control and so he was drafted to Pool Flight for observation.

  But he had an unsuspected vein of humour. One day he came into the barrack hut grinning widely and responded to the obvious question.

  ‘They gave me a bunch of WAAFs for PT. They hadn’t got anyone else for some reason. Told me to take ‘em out on the drill square.’

  I formed a vision of the someone who was indeed testing AC Ashe’s self-control. The drill square was the most public space on the camp.

  ‘What did you actually do with them?’ I ventured.

  ‘Usual stuff, like we all do. Four lines, jumping together, feet astride, arms out, back in. I just walked round yelling out the time.’

  Knowing the kind of yelling we received in training in similar circumstances, I couldn’t resist pressi
ng him as to his calls.

  ‘Left titty, right titty, double titty, BOUNCE. They quite enjoyed it....’

  I assumed that would be the last I’d ever hear of him, but it was not. Seven years later when I was on the staff of a secondary school a colleague and I reminisced about our days in the RAF. He was two years younger so had joined up that much later. I enquired whether drill training had changed much and found it had not. Then he said,

  ‘We had one absolute devil of a DI, little chap, I’ll never forget him. Corporal Ashe. Cor, he was a cruel sod.’ Obviously he successfully beat the system to get his desired niche.

  One freezing day, clad in my smelly and dirty overalls, I walked past the drill square and watched 14 Flight on their passing out parade. They were brilliant. From the unusual number of officers clustered on the small saluting base in the distance I guessed they were being shown off. I experienced a longing to be with them - everyone enjoys being part of team success. Then I laughed inwardly as a very fussy Warrant Officer marching alongside, barking quite unnecessary urging to improve posture, slipped and fell on the ice. He leapt to his feet too quickly and fell again. He even managed the trick a third time. Mentally I complimented my erstwhile companions on keeping straight faces.

  After three weeks my clothes were as sodden from cookhouse chores as were my spirits. Then one day I paraded in a pair of boots that were dry. These were my square bashers - the ones you slaved over to get beautiful shiny toecaps with much spit and polish and anything else you could get away with. Mine weren’t at all comfortable, but they were dry. So I appeared on parade in my wet and mildewy overalls beneath which gleaming toecaps shone obtrusively. For once something about me caught the WO’s eye. He turned to his orderly.