The aircraft would then zoom in low, hook beneath, hopefully avoid slashing open the glider’s roof, then catch the cable extended between the poles. These would fall apart, the cable would quickly close into a double strand and when taut would pull the glider along and into the air behind its abductor.
To mount this operation successfully needs practice; this was undertaken frequently during one fine fortnight at Brize Norton. The position of the posts, the strength and elasticity of the cable, the shape of the triangle, the weight of the glider, all had to be tested. Pilots had to practise aiming to catch the cable without any possibility of being able to see their hook. Some men wittily, if crudely, described it as trying to investigate a certain part of one’s anatomy which requires a rear view. Doing something like that at a couple of hundred miles an hour swooping over a stationary glider, ready to slap on full power at a particular split second showed how skilful they had to be.
The effect upon the glider was not acceleration from zero to two hundred in a second or so. As the cable first tightened it was catapulted forward, but momentarily the impetus slackened because the glider partially overtook the stretching force in the cable, thus lessening the strain. Then it shot forward again as the pulling force took over once more. The effect was a quick start, a brief slowdown, then a rapidly increasing pull as it became airborne.
The predatory Dakota circled the airfield day after day as different pilots practised their skills. Occasionally men were detailed to sit in the glider to make things truly realistic. They came back with grins or pale faces having experienced a novel form of funfair ride. Some said the landing was more violent than take off. Neither did much for the state of the airfield grass.
At this point I insert a note that in 2013 I saw an old documentary film which showed an early attempt in 1945 to pick up a glider from a jungle clearing. The glider cables were slung on simple poles designed to collapse when pickup occurred. The Dakota sported a trailing cable on the end of which the hook was attached. The Dakota had to land the cable on the static cross cable, enabling it to slide until the hook connected. So what transpired at Brize Norton was obviously Phase 2.
A Dakota was used for other experiments. Dropping things out of aircraft is sometimes necessary to supply men on the ground where use of parachutes is not recommended, such as jungles. Aiming a parachute at a small clearing is tricky and likely to result in hapless recipients having to shin up trees to rescue stuff from ‘chutes caught in branches. Jungle trees tend to be tall and climbing them is best left to monkeys. So many experiments were conducted just dropping things.
Sacks containing various kinds of white powder were favoured. It wasn’t revealed exactly what the powders were but they were supposed to represent flour. Because rationing was getting tighter, much worse than during the War, and bread was rationed for some years, I doubt normal flour was used. Probably it was duff stuff that had become contaminated and therefore unfit for human consumption which is what you tried to avoid eating during the rationed years. Strangely, old tyres were another favourite - for dropping, not eating. These tended to fall upright, given a few moments in the air. Then they bounced spectacularly and hopped, skipped and jumped around the airfield. It was not a good idea to get in their way.
A Dakota was adapted for these exercises. Obviously things to be dropped had to be stacked inside and someone had to throw them out. The side door was removed to assist this process which meant air rushed by. Some rushed in as well producing a sucking effect, so it wasn’t a good idea to stagger over to the door space holding a heavy sack or a tyre, otherwise the exercise would include testing the dropping effect on a falling airman. To avoid this unintended addition a very clear curved white line was painted on the floor and men were adjured not to cross it on pain of death, obviously. So you held on to bits of the plane’s structure and kicked things out. The Dakota didn’t have a nice smooth fuselage inside so there were plenty of handholds.
I imagine that someone, somewhere, produced masses of data from these experiments, such as height/strength-of-bag/weight-of-bag/speed-of-aircraft/wind-weather/skill-of-pilot ratios. I wonder if the results came into their own in the Korean War which was in the pipeline we call history - when we’ve passed along it.
The easy going ambience of the station no doubt emanated from the Commanding Officer, a Group Captain, though very ordinary airmen such as we didn’t meet such eminence. Very rarely there was a parade and we saluted him. If we ever thought about it we were grateful to him for making our lives pleasant. One day we had even greater reason to thank him. The occasion was a Transport Command Sports Day.
I had learned from such events at my schools as well as College that I had no skills in athletics. I enjoyed cross country running so long as there was no competitive element in it. Running across the countryside was pleasant - full stop. But other men had excellent athletic skills so there were a number representing the Station at the event which was being held at another one not very far away. The CO decided our people needed support. He could, of course, have called for volunteers who would have the day off and sent them by road. But he did not.
I imagine something of the man could be seen in the varied aerial experiments undertaken at the station. Certainly it was revealed in the way he ensured adequate support for the Brize Norton representatives at the Command Sports. Leaving just the essential minimum, he airlifted the entire Station to watch and support. We yelled, hollered and cheered both our team and our CO!
Dakotas played quite a part in our work at BZ. We serviced them and flew on airtests in them and watched them in their experimental antics. But one in particular we came to know very well. By we I mean Ken, me, and two other guys. One day a rather sorry looking Dakota ambled shyly near the control tower giving every indication of being embarrassed by its appearance, just as you wouldn’t want to gaze at yourself in the mirror if you had measles. Of course, it didn’t have measles but it certainly had a nasty skin condition. Someone had sprayed it but the process had gone wrong. The result was a dull grey film of rough paint, as though sand had got into the mix. Furthermore it was patchy. In places the paint had come off leaving the original metal. But there weren’t many clean patches. We looked at it, sympathised and walked away grieving for its plight.
By some strange quirk of telepathy a sergeant picked up these vibes and suggested we try to do something to assist the forlorn kite. Like rubbing off the duff paint. We commiserated but felt that nothing on earth would remove it short of a miracle. We should have realised we were lining ourselves up to supply the miracle.
It so happened there were plenty of very large tins of metal polish in the stores. By big I mean gallon tins. There were dozens of them. Someone had grossly overestimated the number of buttons requiring polishing on the Station. Rags, also, were plentiful it seemed, so armed with these necessities we tried rubbing a small part of the Dakota. After an extensive period so engaged, followed by a lesser amount of polishing, the offending rough grey paint disappeared and gleaming, sparkling aluminium was revealed in its pristine glory. I have to say we were impressed. So was the sergeant.
‘Great, lads,’ he enthused. ‘Carry on.’
We did, for many days. The weather was glorious. We stripped to the waist and revelled in it. To be fair, no one pushed us to finish in a particular time. In fact our work attracted quite a lot of attention as various people wandered along to see the gradual emergence of a very sparkling aircraft, the like of which had certainly not been seen before. Despite the effort expended we also became very proud of the result. We certainly followed the sergeant’s admonition and carried on right to the end.
I have no idea whether someone, somewhere, planned the dénoument. It was so unexpected that I believe it was, though achieving it would have taken real Machiavellian scheming. An Anson of the King’s Flight arrived with due ceremony and a duty crew member, no doubt as instructed, parked it near the
control tower next to our Dakota. King’s Flight aircraft were au naturelle and were supposed to have gleaming skin.
Talk about putting something in the shade! That’s exactly where the Anson appeared to be, with our Dak vastly outshining it. The King wasn’t in it of course. Probably it had called just to pass on a diplomatic bag, or refuel, or some such fiddling reason. In any event it left quite soon - but not before a number of smirking officers had walked past it and its temporary gleaming companion.
Weeks rolled into months that spring and summer as our pleasant, easy going life settled into routine. Five and a half days not very taxing work each week, home for much of the weekend, very few duties, plenty of badminton, even a spot of cricket on the airfield on summer evenings and plenty of intelligent conversation in the billet. Kings’ Regulations, which governed every aspect of life in the Forces, stated you could discuss anything except politics and religion, so we discussed religion and politics. Given the result of the 1945 election and the importance of the Forces’ vote in that tidal race of change, plenty of men and women discussed politics throughout the Services.
Gradually my impatience waiting for a posting for education training eased. I passed the date when I could expect to be in the RAF for just a year more, given reasonable quiet on the international scene. Simultaneously Stalin blinked so tension generated by the highly successful Berlin airlift eased. I decided I could stick with the life I had.
Suddenly that life changed. Brize Norton bade farewell to Transport Command and welcomed Training Command - or rather the Station was welcomed back into it where it had been years before. That meant pilot training in training aircraft; single seater affairs as a step to combat fighters. Quite a number of these were to be flown in with an attendant number of pilots on courses, with associated support personnel and all their equipment...the list of changes entailed was very extensive. Also training meant people had to be kept up to the mark - and that meant bull****. We all knew what that involved. Parades. End of laid back life. We knew the extent of the change-to-come when a new Station Warrant Officer appeared on the scene, set up his office and roamed the station to assess what he saw. It was obvious he didn’t like it.
The Station WO was the key man in disciplinary matters. The previous one had taken his cue from the CO. This one didn’t. Or perhaps the new CO agreed there had to be changes. However parades at 08.00 hours became the norm. We had to walk smartly wherever we went. Ambling was out. There were billet inspections at random.
Life changed in the hangar as well. In place of varied aircraft of all shapes and sizes there was now a considerable number of small, single engine dual seat trainers. Their arrival had meant to impress and it succeeded. We watched a squadron of nine fly round the airfield in a vee formation, then they crossed it and one slipped sideways, rolled, circled half the field and came into land. It was quickly followed by a second, and third...until they all landed in a close line. As the first reached the end of the runway it turned on to the perimeter track, followed by the others in a tight line. As the first neared the control tower it turned neatly and pulled up facing the hangers, followed by the others in turn which stopped alongside it, all engines still running. Then, simultaneously, all engines stopped. It was an impressive show. There wasn’t a duty crewman in sight.
We, of course, were to be involved in servicing the busy bees. It was immediately obvious that schedules would be tight and work would increase exponentially. We then met Sergeant Robinson, W, who was to organize the schedules. Quickly he installed a very large and long blackboard on one wall of the office we had regarded as our lounge where we ate and drank when on tea breaks, or read when there was nothing to do. It remained as such but there were no longer times when there was nothing to do.
Sergeant Robinson was, in fact, most pleasant and courteous, and thoroughly organised. He quickly interviewed all of us. In so doing he found I was a teacher.
‘Marvellous, Flaxton. You can keep the board records up-to-date. You should be able to do that neatly.’
The Eleventh Commandment again! I agreed I could, then wondered what else I would be doing. He soon assured me it would be a full time job. We recorded the reference numbers of all the aircraft across the top. In a vertical column down the left hand edge we wrote the names of every possible form of service they could undergo, mostly hours flown. With the help of the largest pieces of straight edged strips of aluminium I could find I carefully painted masses of thin vertical and horizontal dividing lines. As detailed I collected packets of coloured chalk from stores and plenty of clean rags. Sergeant Robinson then inducted me into the arcana of aircraft logbooks and the groundcrew logbooks of services into which everyone who did anything on an aircraft had to record what he’d done and when and sign it. Entries had to be countersigned by whichever NCO was in charge of whatever was done and the matching aircraft logbook had to be updated. The state of what was happening at any one time for that aircraft had to be displayed on the board in whichever colour we decided was to be used for whatever. I soon realised I was going to be busy as there were usually about twenty-five aircraft in action or being attended to.
Once again I was quite content with the work, in fact rather more so because time passed quickly as I was fully occupied. But one evening I went down to the Education Section. This was a single hut with a lecture room where everyone occasionally went for a lecture on whatever was deemed necessary to improve our general knowledge. The staff comprised the single Education Officer and his assistant, the single Educational Sergeant. There were also displays of posters, pamphlets, and a small library. If you wanted a book for study they could get one quite quickly from the main RAF library housed as I knew, but had not been able to visit, at Cosford.
I can’t remember how the conversation developed but at one point, when talking casually to the EO, I mentioned I was a teacher and originally hoped to go on the course to become an ES, but it had been full. I said I had naïvely imagined they really would call me when vacancies occurred.
‘They’ve got vacancies now. I heard that recently. The supply of trained teachers has dried up with the introduction of National Service, because now everyone comes into the Forces immediately after school, if they stay into the Sixth Form that is. Anyone wanting to teach would have to do that, of course. If you still want to try for a posting I’ll enquire whether they would take you.’
Suddenly my dormant ambition resurfaced and I agreed. Given that I now had less than a year to complete if all went to plan, I didn’t really expect any result. However, shortly afterwards I was told I had to attend an interview at Command HQ in deepest Lincolnshire. This was to be with a Group Captain and I was suitably impressed. It was booked for a few days ahead so I was further impressed by the speed of the accomplishment.
I rather expected Training Command HQ to be an impressive, modern, spick and span station, so I was taken aback to find it was largely housed in a series of Nissen huts - the kind that had corrugated completely curved roofs and really were scattered deeply throughout a wood. No doubt a result of being on the eastern side of the Country during the war when it was useful to remain hidden. I found the hut to which I was summoned, checked the nameplate on the door, knocked politely and heard a warm and very friendly voice say, ‘Come in.’ Obviously an orderly, I thought. I opened the door to find a man in civvies sitting behind a desk. Ah, they have civvy clerks here, I thought again.
Most senior officers of such a rank, seeing an airman attending for interview, wandering in without saluting would have given a blistering dressing down. But not this man. He smiled benignly and invited me to sit down, which I did.
‘AC Flaxton, isn’t it?’ he enquired equally benignly.
‘Er, yes Sir, er....’ I latched on to the fact that this was the Group Captain and I’m sure reddened at my blunder. A fleeting thought raced through my brain. Forget the sergeants’ course, you idiot.
He
couldn’t have been more pleasant. In fact, when I gave him details of School and College and the reason for my love/hate relationship with Latin, it transpired he had a son almost exactly my age in similar circumstances. So we simply gelled. It was a very pleasant interview at the end of which he said he wouldn’t promise anything but he would see what he could do. He told me where I could get a cup of tea and something to eat, then brought matters to a close. I put on my cap, saluted, he wished me well and I left.
Back in the billet at BZ I recounted the day’s events to Ken. ‘It was a very enjoyable day out. I’m sure they won’t do anything but at least I can always say I did chase up the chance.’ I also reported back to the EO.
A couple of weeks later whilst on a step ladder inscribing details on the aircraft serviceability board I overheard Sergeant Robinson say to someone, ‘You’ll have to take over here because Flaxton’s posted.’ And I was. To RAF Wellesbourne Mountford, hiding in another arboreal setting near Stratford on Avon. It housed a WAAF Photographers’ Course and the Education Sergeants’ Course; a cosy serendipity.
Chapter 19
The eight week course, typically, was very well organised. For me, also typically, it began inauspiciously. Having found the right billet, collected bedding, bagged a bed and started filling my locker, general chatter spread around all the other newcomers. They had all come from one of the four basic training camps so, with the first week’s initiation added in they had nine weeks service behind them. Inevitably I was asked which camp I’d come from and responded, ‘Brize Norton’. In a very short time my bed space was surrounded and I was effectively holding court, giving accounts of my experiences as a very ordinary airman on an extraordinary station. It was patently obvious I was an oddity.
Greetings Noble Sir Page 24