December 2021

UNFORGETTABLE 60s CHARACTERS

Why did anyone become an RAF Linguist? A question, I recall, debated over copious Schultheiss portions in the Airbridge Club over the years. The favourite description heard on my first Gatow tour: “Linguists are square pegs in round holes”. That still just about sums it up for me.

Like many others, at the age of 18, I came from a backwater to commit myself to the military experience. What I’d expected, I really don’t know, but I treasure the memories of those unforgettable characters I came across during my first four RAF years which concluded the sixties. Many I have not met since, so they will remain in their prime forever in my recall.

As this was a period of direct entry to the trade, the vast majority of Training Wing A Block students were inexperienced in the ways of the RAF. There were times at the beginning when I know that I simply tried too hard to toe the line, but it wasn’t long before the absurdity of students senior to our 9L1 grouping prevailed. And I was inextricably drawn in.

In 1966 the popular satirical magazine ‘Punch’ published a special joint issue with the Soviet ‘Krokodil’ periodical. The magazine’s title was styled ‘РИЛСЧ’ for this edition only. Shortly afterwards – courtesy of Course 7L1 – blackboards and anything capable of being temporarily written on at Training Wing were surreptitiously tagged with a ‘РИЛСЧ’ calling card. Ridiculous, but enjoyable. Particularly on the occasion when Fred Fyodorov came into our classroom, saw the caption at the bottom of the blackboard, grunted, and silently wiped the word away. 

Other courses tried later to make up their own callsigns, but none came anywhere near 7L1’s original. For me, the daftness die was cast.

It is shaming to recollect how widespread was the smoking habit of my youth, especially encouraged by the low cost of the NAAFI shop supplies at Gatow. It was common to offer round a packet of cigarettes when sitting with colleagues, a totally incomprehensible habit now. Nevertheless, there were still some amongst us who were inherently tight-fisted and would light a cigarette unnoticed, so as not to have to join in the distribution. This action was explained by one of my favourite sayings of that time “He could peel an orange in his pocket”.

Upon arrival at Gatow, realisation that characters abounded there was immediate. This might have had something to do with release from the constant work pressure. More probable, however, it was the result of bringing together a similar group of unlikely but intelligent airmen in the vibrant cauldron of late sixties’ Berlin. Humour was a constant safety valve.

For example, does anyone remember Pete Emsley and his pet introductory question? There really was no correct response to his “Who’s your favourite impresario?” query. Besides, he was often on his way as you prepared a riposte. Nonsensical yet unforgettable.

In a similar fashion, anyone who saw hilarious renditions of “The Warsaw Concerto” by Ron Williams and Paul Bean on rugby tour military train journeys down to the zone experienced Reeves and Mortimer style madcap humour well before their time. You really had to be there to appreciate it.

Then there was the case of Mick Clubley, who was woken in the middle of the night with the news that the Soviets had invaded Czechoslovakia and that he should go into work. “Have they invaded Berlin?” he asked. “No”. “Well wake me when they do”. But he made it in.

I once injured my nose by running into Sean O’Farrell’s flexed elbow in a planned move for the RAF Gatow rugby team which went completely wrong. I came to the touchline where the doctor (Dr Mole?) told me I’d broken it. This was in the days before substitutes. I started to make my way back to the changing rooms. “Where are you going?” the doctor said. “You’ll not break it again”, pushing me back into the field of play. I spent the rest of the playing time getting rid of the ball as soon as it arrived. Indeed, some intimated that this was one of my better games, although I don’t recommend a broken nose as a precursor to performance improvement.

It wasn’t just the comedians who impressed. I was astounded by the abundance of class musicians in our midst, too many to name fully. Of course, there were the resident group members Colin Hall, Phil Boyle, Mick Carpenter, Mike Hancock, Jock Melville and others. I recall particularly experiencing the exquisite fingerstyle acoustic guitar skills of both John Young and Bill Gibb. John introduced me to my lasting fondness for the music of Bert Jansch, whilst Bill’s moving private rendition of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” was without doubt one of the musical highlights of my life. 

So many of these gifted individuals are sadly no longer with us, but the impressions they made on me are enduring.

The main memory trigger for resident ridiculousness at Gatow does not come from a person, however, but from a thing. To assist our labours at Hanger 4, numerous frequency boards were available. Covered with plastic on one side, on which erasable details were added, the treasures of the freq board were contained on its reverse.

The comments added permanently to the card back by unknown individuals were sometimes personal, often rude, and very funny. One night our watch officer Bob Moss started to read the backs of the freq boards. He made his way through the full collection – a considerable undertaking. We all recall how, in the midst of our night-time exertions, the peace was shattered regularly by Bob’s loud laughter from various parts of the room. The contents had universal attraction.

Apart from the omnipresent ‘РИЛСЧ’ which also found its way here, it’s difficult now to recall many of the entries. Besides, they were often funny only in the context of our erstwhile situation. Nevertheless, there were some plays on song titles with colleagues’ names which still resonate.

The Four Tops’ “If I were a carpenter (and you were a lady)” was parodied in the entry “If I were Mick Carpenter and you were Frank Brady”. Similarly, Manfred Mann’s “Semi detached suburban Mr James” was represented as “Semi demented burbling Stephenson”. [Sorry, John]

The item which stands out though is a poem I found one evening:

What did you do in the war, Dad?

Did you shoot at the Reds with a Sten?

No, I sat in a hanger at Gatow, Lad,

And logged them to death with my pen.



Brilliant. Take a bow, unknown author!

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