Reportedly, during my time at RAF Gatow, there was one airman who never ventured out beyond the main camp gate throughout his three-year stay. Whilst questioning why he agreed to an overseas posting in the first place (he was not a linguist), I feel for him because his xenophobia prevented him from experiencing this vibrant city. 

The inhabitants of West Berlin – essentially an inland island surrounded by communist foes – had a consequential “Live for today, for tomorrow the Soviets could march in” attitude to life. It was a pleasure to live amongst them. The West  German Tourist Office used a slogan “Berlin ist immer eine Reise wert” [“Berlin is always worth a visit”]. I couldn’t agree more.

The unique status of West Berlin was a result of a four-power agreement reached at the end of the Second World War. To ensure that Germany was not able to re-arm, it was settled in the Potsdam Agreement of 1945 that the country – and importantly, Berlin – would be divided into four zones of occupation, as shown below:

RAF Gatow – a former Luftwaffe station – was located at the western end of the city; the airfield boundary faced directly on to the fortified border between the German Democratic Republic (“East Germany”) and West Berlin. For some time we had a direction-finding hut out on this edge of the airfield; the DF operators reported hearing singing coming from the other side of the border on communist holidays.

Records, discovered after the fall of the Berlin Wall, stated that the East German troops stationed there were the ones who would have the task of taking the airfield in the event of an invasion. Typical. Even though we were a member of the four-power agreement, we wouldn’t even be offered the prestige of being attacked by our Soviet partner. We were to be overpowered by troops from the GDR, a country we did not officially recognise. This was so unfair; just not British.

Settling In

One advantage of being in a trade, where the majority of its members were based in one place, was that incoming linguists had no trouble in finding familiar faces. Our arrival, which had been published in Station Routine Orders ('SROs'), was well anticipated. By the time we first landed on the charter aircraft [‘Danair’/’Court Line’?] from Luton at RAF Gatow, our accommodation and watch allocation had already been arranged.

The first thing noticeable about RAF Gatow was the sheer size of the station. It was formerly Göring’s luxury Luftwaffe airfield. Its lavish amenities were still in place some twenty years after the end of the war. The accommodation blocks were large and well-maintained. For the first time since joining the RAF, I was allocated a single room, as was every airman on the base. Originally, I used the communal toilet and wash/shower facilities – just a couple of doors away – before moving into an end room, with its en suite services, when promoted to corporal. The Airbridge Club, containing the bars and a NAAFI [“Navy Army Air Force Institute”] shop for junior ranks, was only a few steps away across the road. Life, as they say, was good.

Cheap Cigs and Booze

I remember how disappointed I had been, when I first joined up at Hemswell, to find out that the NAAFI shops did not universally sell goods at tax-free prices. I had somehow believed that cheap drink and cigarettes was a perk enjoyed by all the armed forces everywhere. However now, once outside the UK, I could take advantage of this privilege. 

There was just one problem, however. To buy cigarettes, you needed to provide coupons with payment. The cigarette coupon cards were only available from one place, the Station Warrant Officer’s office. A visit to collect the cards from the SWO meant that, in all likelihood, you would undergo a quick inspection. It wasn’t unknown for him to insist that you first visit the camp barber – known to one and all as “Herr Kutz” – before he was willing to issue the required card.

The situation with the coupons was not that desperate, though. Many of the non-smokers, when in Station Headquarters (‘SHQ’), would automatically pick up their card allotment to pass on to their smoker brethren. Similarly, the staff in our small Airbridge Club shop would sell cigarettes without demanding the necessary coupons. They knew that we would eventually provide the missing tokens.

The coupons on the cards came as small tear-off strips, each about the top one-third size of a postage stamp. I seem to recall that the shop staff would have to cut them off using scissors. This leads to the question: Did anyone ever count these individual pieces, to ensure that the sales of stock were balanced by quantity of collected coupons? I severely doubt it. We all realised that this was a system dreamt up by someone up high in military circles to prevent large quantity purchases for re-sale and we went along with it. As long as the money taken tallied with the cost of cigarettes sold in the shop, there wasn’t going to be a problem.

BAF Notes

There was a large NAAFI Store on Theodor-Heuss-Platz, near the city centre, a bus ride from the camp. Our US cousins used to visit there to purchase our woollen goods, whereas we would venture out to the PX to buy American-made items, in particular the Levi jeans and Fruit-of-the-Loom t-shirts, available at ridiculously cheap tax-free prices.

The PX was on Clayallee in the district of Dahlem, situated just the other side of the Wannsee lake opposite Gatow, but requiring a combination of long bus and underground connections to reach. But the journey was always worthwhile. 

Deutschmarks, of course, were needed anywhere outside these establishments.

As part of the generation which had grown up playing the ‘Monopoly’ board game, it’s not surprising how quickly we accustomed ourselves to using BAF paper money, reportedly produced by the same printers who made the game’s bank notes. I have two lasting memories from this time which are directly connected to the use of BAFs:

Our junior ranks’ club (“The Airbridge”) had two bars: the back bar, where casual dress was allowed, and the function room bar, where ties and smart clothing had to be worn.  We had ever-changing staff in the bars, particularly those non-British barmen who had great difficulties in dealing with unfamiliar pre-decimalisation calculations, where there were 12 pennies in a shilling and 20 shillings in the pound. They also had to deal with the unusual printed note values – see above – of 3d, 6d, 1s and 2s/6d. It was torment for them when learning the job.

One evening, one of my mates came knocking at my door. “Quick, go over to the back bar and buy a drink. You’re guaranteed a profit!”. I went out of curiosity and ordered a bottle of beer of a new Greek barman, handing over a £1 note (as advised by my colleague). The barman gave me the bottle, put my note on the counter and, looking regularly at this, counted out my change in an assortment of BAFs of various values. Satisfied with his additions, he then placed my change on top of the original £1 note and handed the complete pile back to me. Thus, I got my beer, plus a one pound bonus. I tried it again a little later. Once more, I got my original £1 note with change handed back to me. It wasn’t too long before an airman, with purer morals than us, pointed out to the barman what he was doing. Our little money-making scheme was at an end. And the Greek barman never returned to his job after this evening. That’s a pity, because he seemed to be a nice bloke.

Typical of the madness possible in the Airbridge Club bar was a habit which emerged during my posting. One small group would start singing “I can sing a BAF note; sing a BAF note” to the tune of “I can sing a rainbow”. This was the signal for all present to dig in their pockets to find a BAF note. They then turned over the note to display the back of the note, as below:

Rugby, Gatow Style

I was never one for the social side of rugby, although I was one of the more active members of the Gatow Rugby Club. Whilst thoroughly enjoying the fraternal part of activities, I was not enthusiastic about the traditional after-game extras. I believe that these goings-on – typically singing (ranging from hymns to rude songs), drinking games, and “Zulu Warrior” enforced strips – were typical fare for Welsh rugby clubs. Welsh influence on military union teams was widespread.

The club itself was housed in a large downstairs room of one of the fine buildings which were typical for the camp. I recall once being shown a radiator grill cover with a surviving Nazi swastika emblem; I believe that this was in the cellar of building which housed the Rugby Club. The club had a reputation on the camp for rowdy behaviour, although the volunteer bar staff were ever careful to make sure that things were held in control and that the bar was always closed on time. 

Unfortunately, a year after my final posting in Berlin, a piece of horseplay got tragically out of hand in the club confines, the consequence of which fellow linguist Sgt Anthony Gerard (“Gerry”) Lapin fell to his death, reportedly from a balcony. This incident was not talked about outside the group concerned, although the consequences were naturally swift and severe. I was informed privately that the club was closed immediately and the behaviour of all involved investigated thoroughly. It is also possible that the rugby side was disbanded, as there is no record on linguist social sites about games and teams after the late 1970s. This is a shame, because, during my time, rugby matches were popular events on camp, always attracting large numbers of spectators.

Although never a player of a standard to merit regular selection for the side, Gerry had been a great supporter of our activities. I recall that he was an eager participant in a 24-hour bed push charity event the club organised in 1973, being included in the photograph and report which appeared in a subsequent issue of the RAF News. Like me, he also qualified as a referee, officiating in games between other Berlin military units. His untimely demise was all the more heart-breaking, when the fact that he was the father of four young children was taken into consideration. 

Later, I looked for Gerry’s name at the National Memorial Arboretum. Unfortunately, although he died in service, the circumstances of his passing did not allow inclusion on the memorial wall. This is such a pity. He was a proud, hard-working airman.

Although it occurred after I had finished my spells at the camp, this episode casts a dark shadow on my otherwise happy memories of rugby-playing days at Gatow. As I was known from the North Luffenham side, my reputation preceded me. Resultingly, within a week of arrival, I was playing on the right wing for the RAF Gatow XV, a position I was to retain for the next three years.

RAF GATOW XV 1968

I am second from the left on the front row. To my right is Ron Williams, a Liverpudlian radio mechanic who later became a linguist; to my left is Welshman Bill Thompson. Fellow linguist Bill was also one of my closest friends on the camp. Sadly, both Ron and Bill passed away recently.

The unmistakable tallest player in the back row is Paul O’Donnell, who was on the same Russian course as me.

Other characters here include Heiko Cooper, the team captain, in the centre of the front line. He was the station dentist. During one game I was kicked (accidentally) in the face, damaging three of my back teeth. Heiko did no more than say to his dental assistant – who was spectating – “Get the chair ready”. Straight after the game, still in our rugby kits, Heiko did temporary work on my teeth in the Station Medical Centre. This ‘temporary’ work lasted for the next twenty years.

Finally, the player next to the end of the front row is Ian Wilson. Then a sergeant, he went on to become a warrant officer, eventually being the senior non-commissioned officer in charge when 26 Signals Unit (the linguists’ troop) was closed down in 1989.  To my great joy, I have met Ian again at RAF Linguists reunions in the 2020s.

RAF Gatow was a winning rugby side. We were easily the strongest team in Berlin over my first three years at the station. Some of the regimental sides based on 18-month tours in the city – the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders, the 2^nd Battalion Parachute Regiment and the Staffordshire Regiment for example – could give us a good game from time to time, but we lost very few matches. This constantly served to shock incoming army units, who up to this had considered the RAF ‘a soft touch’. 

The only games I recall losing at home were against touring Welsh regiments and Royal Signals teams, i.e. the specialist Army Rugby sides. We also played against two local German sides – Berlin Police & SC Siemensstadt – as well as an introductory selection from the US Air Force. These foreign sides had good individual players, lacking only our cohesion as a playing unit. (This situation changed quickly; a year after I finally left, the USAF Tempelhof team won the inaugural Berlin Rugby Championship).

I and a colleague later did some coaching with the SC Siemensstadt team for a period. For them, their main interest was in the West German Championship competition, so they openly welcomed our assistance. This link led to an unexpected proposal from their managers. They found out that I had been domiciled over four years in Berlin. This made me eligible to play for West Germany. They had been requested to ask: Would I like to be considered for their national trials? I was flattered by the genuine offer, but – for many reasons – I dismissed this approach.

As far as the team was concerned, we only had one objective for each season: to win the RAF Germany Cup. Realising early that we had a good selection of players, we were well equipped to surprise the larger camps “down in the zone” (i.e. in West Germany), to whom we were still an unknown quantity.  Competing against the four active fighter stations at Laarbruch, Gütersloh, Bruggen and Wildenrath, together with the RAFG HQ at Rheindahlen, we were against camps with at least double the manpower to select from. In 1968 we were knocked out in the semi-final; in 1969 we were losing finalists; in 1970 we won the competition. From a personal point of view, the most interesting factor for me was that Linguist was the predominant trade in each of these teams.

RAF GATOW XV 1969

In this picture, taken at Easter before a game against the touring team from Treorchy RFC, seven of the team were linguists. Paul, Bill and Ron are recognisable from the team of a year earlier. We were joined on this occasion by yet another linguist from my course, Lynden Howells, who is third from the right in the front row. Lynden later became a commissioned officer, thereafter disappearing from contact with his former colleagues.

The leading light of this team, without doubt, was our captain “Red” King, third from the left on the back row. Already in his veteran era, this Flight Sergeant RAF Policeman was the glue which bound the unity of our side which eventually won the RAFG Cup.

RAFG CUP WINNERS 1970

I am pictured with my hand on the ball at the front, whilst Red holds the trophy we had just won.

The gentleman in the dark coat is Group Captain Lewis, Gatow’s station commander. If he looks happy, it’s because reportedly he had just won a £100 wager with the CO of the station we had beaten. He was the one who had bought all the beers!

The gentleman in the lighter coat and hat is another unforgettable character – Wing Commander Wynn Jones, Gatow’s Rugby Officer. A former WW2 bomber pilot, Welshman Wynn was the RAF’s representative in the four powers’ (UK, USA, USSR & France) Berlin Air Safety Centre (BASC) in Potsdam. This authority was responsible for controlling aircraft movements in the three air corridors linking West Germany to Berlin.

On one occasion, when being introduced at an official function to future German Chancellor Willy Brandt, in his then role as the Mayor of West Berlin, Wynn was asked by Willy “Have you been to Berlin before?”. “Yes” answered Wynn. “What were you doing?” Willy requested. “Building car parks” was the reply from Wynn. Reportedly Willy – an excellent English speaker with a liking for British humour – immediately cottoned on to Wynn’s reference to his wartime bombing missions and laughed out loud. The attendant army commanders’ reactions were not so understanding. Wynn was hauled over the coals for this incident, but his opinion remained unchanged. “Sod ‘em! If you can’t laugh about these things, you’ll have to cry. Anyway, it broke the boring atmosphere of the meeting.” We, in turn, continued to be astounded by the friendliness and openness of this high-ranking officer, who insisted that we called him by his first name when out of uniform. He was unique in many ways.

Although not officially on the strength of the camp – he simply resided at Gatow – Wynn was keen to become involved with rugby from the start of his Berlin stay. He adopted the role of Rugby Officer (although another junior officer was officially nominated as such) and was keen to get involved in all aspects of the club. He took on a coaching role, particularly ahead of cup games. 

I remember how keen he was to introduce a move from scrums, where our backs would pass the ball as quickly as possible to me on the right wing. I was then to run towards the opposition full-back until I had committed him to the tackle. Once this happened, my job was to immediately cross-kick the ball back into the centre of the field, where our forwards from the scrum would be up and advancing. (Such moves are now food and drink to rugby players, particularly of the league variety, but at that time were seldom employed). During training, try as I may, I could not master the technique of accurately kicking the ball on the run. The ball went too far, too short, or was even totally miskicked. We gave up on this and went on to practise another play option.

That weekend, in the semi-final of the RAFG Cup at RAF Gütersloh, the ball was shovelled out to me on the wing. Suddenly, without really contemplating the situation, I produced a perfect cross-kick on the run. Any of one of three of our forwards could have caught the ball, it was so accurate. In the event, supertall Paul O’Donnell collected it and scored his only try of the season between the posts. I looked around; Wynn Jones was jumping up and down, shouting “Leo, I knew you could do it!”. We went on to win the match, beating the firm favourites who included five or six RAFG XV representatives in their ranks. We then lifted the trophy weeks later. Wynn said that it was all down to my cross-kick; who was I to disagree?

At the time of writing, I have only spent one night in hospital. This was as a result of a clash of heads during another rugby cup game, this time at RAF Wildenrath. I was immediately knocked unconscious. The next thing I recall, I was being examined in the military hospital at nearby RAF Wegberg. I had no memory of what had happened in the previous 24 hours. I was kept in overnight for observation and the following morning was judged fit to travel back to Berlin. When I got changed, I found over $100 in my jeans pocket. I had no idea where it came from.

I was extremely fortunate that day, as someone from the hospital had rung around, asking if there were any aircraft due to go to Gatow. I was informed that, if I could get back to Wildenrath in a couple of hours, I would have my lift to Berlin. The hospital put a car with driver at my disposal and I made it to my flight with time to spare. I then spent a pleasant hour or so in the cockpit of a Hercules transport on the way back to Gatow. I arrived back home some ten hours before the rest of my teammates, who had made the journey to near the Dutch border, all the way there and back by RAF coach.

The mystery of the extra dollars in my possession was explained the following day. We had been playing cards in the back of the coach on the way down. According to my informant, I had a continuous unbeatable run at poker. I kept winning and winning, hence my booty.  I’m not a great gambler, so it really would have been nice to remember the experience of a run like that. “You were a lucky b...” he started to say, then remembered what had happened in the game. 

Afterwards I thought about this. A rare flight in an RAF aircraft and a $100 bonus to boot. Perhaps I had been a "lucky b..." 

Our team lost, by the way. This was in the days before substitutes were used.  Apparently, my teammates informed their Wildenrath opponents afterwards that the result would have been different, had our most dangerous player not been injured early in the game. Who could they have meant? Nevertheless, I’ll accept a compliment, no matter how it is delivered.

In my first three seasons playing for the RAF Gatow team, I was the leading points scorer. An average of around two tries per game, if I recall correctly. In retrospect, I recognise that this was more a result of the dominance of our team in local games, not down to my individual brilliance. One thing I realised when I left the RAF, and started playing for local teams, was that I was not half the player I believed. I was, at best, average. However, there was one aspect of my play in which I was still outstanding – my tackling.

For my first two seasons, my good friend Welshman Bill Thompson played full-back in the Gatow team. He too was justifiably proud of his tackling. In a move which bordered on arrogance, Bill and I started a competition. No matter what the score or game, we would ensure that no-one ran past or through us on our side of the field. In this game-within-a-game, we were seldom, if ever, beaten. Our defence was renowned, resulting in repeated selection in our positions for the Berlin Garrison Combined Services XV for games against visiting sides. In all honesty, I was never the same without the security of knowing that Bill was behind me. It was probably the best partnership I ever formed in this sport where team spirit is paramount.

One final point on my tackling. (I promise). When we received a visit from the Treorchy RFC side at Easter 1969 (invited by Wynn Jones from his hometown), we were informed that their star centre had just represented Wales Youth. I was told to keep an eye on this short and stocky individual and not allow him to get into his stride. 

Within a few minutes of the start he came flying at me with the ball; I hit him smack on with my best shot. It was like trying to stop a runaway truck. I still remember how solid he was. Without doubt, the strongest contact I ever endured throughout my rugby days, including league games. I think that the result could have been called ‘honours even’, although I couldn’t show any reaction at the time.

After the game, he made a point of finding me and congratulating me on my play. “That was one hell of a tackle. You’re as good as they said”. He explained that, in the club the night before the game, their team managers had been searching for information about our team. One of the Gatow supporters had told them that “Leo is our star tackler”. Having been shown who I was, he had made a point of testing my abilities. Whilst I was looking out for him, he was simultaneously seeking me. Our resultant clash was thus pre-ordained.

The next time I saw this player was on TV a few years later, where he was playing full-back for Neath. I cannot now remember his name – just that it was typically Welsh – but I do know that he then went on to represent Wales at full international level. From Harlock to a future Welsh international; my tackling had a career of its own.

In order to put our work into context, a few words of explanation are useful. As professional eavesdroppers, we were in a unique position: we were situated smack in the middle of the Soviet Union’s largest concentration of troops and aircraft. The Group of Soviet Forces in Germany (GSFG) had around fifty permanent and dispersal airfields in the country. At the peak of the Cold War, these housed nearly one thousand combat aircraft and a similar number of helicopters, backed up by transport aeroplanes of various types. Their stated mission: to provide aerial support to Soviet forces in the event of an invasion of Western Europe.

There were also Soviet aircraft based in Poland and Czechoslovakia, whose VHF voice transmissions we could also intercept. This was in addition, of course, to the native East German and Polish air forces, whose interests were covered by our colleagues ‘up the hill’. We could, from time to time, hear Czech language transmissions, but I only knew of one linguist previously trained in Czech.  He conveniently forgot his skills, and this was never questioned. We had enough on our plate with the Russian aviators.

The Soviet Air Order of Battle (AOB) in the GDR was divided into two Fighter Corps – North and South – roughly divided along a line level with Berlin. The Northern Fighter Corps consisted of one Fighter Division (interceptor aircraft) and one Fighter-Bomber Division (ground attack aircraft). The larger Southern Fighter Corps was made up of two Fighter Divisions and one Fighter-Bomber Division. 

Each Division contained three separate Regiments, where each Regiment had its own airfield. In this way, there were fifteen separate fighter/fighter-bomber stations in an area one-fifth smaller than England. Additionally, the country housed three bomber stations, three transport aircraft bases and numerous helicopter locations. 

Every fighter/fighter-bomber regiment consisted of three flights, each holding up to twenty aircraft. At regiment level only two bespoke VHF frequencies would normally be used; one for take-off and landings, the other for tasks away from the airfield (practice airborne intercepts, ground attack, etc.). In the event of joint missions, third or fourth frequencies would be employed. 

All these regiment frequencies were subject to change every couple of months, often as a precursor for military exercises. When frequencies were changed, station callsigns and aircraft numbers were also amended. As can be imagined, the cry of “Frequency Change!” brought about a hive of activity in the set room, with operators frantically searching out frequencies and analysts identifying the discovered units. When this happened, the large AOB board in the analyst section behind the set room was wiped clean. It is to our credit that this visual record was generally recompleted within hours, such was the competence of our operators and analysts.

As an example, I once immediately recognised the accent of one of the pilots after a callsign change. It had a distinct central Asian lilt. I had heard the voice only the day before; I remembered his previous number. I immediately informed my superior. The chief warrant officer analyst soon came over, checked my story, and said “Great! That checks out. We know which unit it is”. And I wasn’t the only one who did something similar. Sometime pilots would forget about the change and start to give their old numbers; this hesitation was noted by operators and often was all that was needed for us to identify them. I think it’s fair to say that all operators enjoyed this game, playing their part in adding pieces to the AOB jigsaw.

Like Digby, we worked a shift system on 26 SU. At the beginning this was organised on a simple four-day rota: Day One – Evenings (5pm to 11pm); Day Two – Days (8am to 5pm) & Nights (11pm to 8am); Day Three – ‘Sleeping off Nights’; and Day Four – Off Duty. This system – which was the fall back regime in time of need – was soon replaced by a monthly-based calendar where shifts were adjusted to guarantee one weekend off a month. This was achieved by working consecutive evenings, days and nights in a pattern which, once you got used to it, was a great improvement. It meant that you had to work two night shifts in a row – once a month three – but you got a greater number of days’ rest after the final night stint.

There were four watches – designated A, B, C & D – between which the work was divided 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. I was allocated to C Watch. I like to think that this was the best bunch. It’s difficult to remember exactly, but I believe that each watch had around thirty linguists, headed by a warrant officer and various SNCOs. 

Each watch also had a nominated watch officer, who was attached to the unit for two to three years. Although language-trained, they were not linguists. These were normally Flight Lieutenants, who had finished aircrew duties. What they were now doing was known colloquially as “flying a desk”. We had a spate of Vulcan crew members coming on to the unit, if I recall correctly, following the reduction of the RAF V-Bomber force in the late 60s. Their job was administrative. Most realised immediately that it was the warrant officers/SNCOs who made the unit tick and were happy to sign whatever was put in front of them. 

From time to time a new officer would come in and question the analysts’ way of working. They soon learned that this was a foolish path to follow; on one occasion GCHQ sent a request for one newcomer watch officer not to interfere. (Our long-serving seniors had influential friends everywhere). The unit’s Wing Commander read the riot act to the officer concerned and peace was restored.

Talking of watch officers, one stands out in my memory. Flt Lt Bob Moss was my first watch officer at Gatow. A fellow Yorkshireman, he was popular with everyone. He took great interest in all our work. He once tried to replicate our efforts, but soon gave up, expressing deep admiration for our skills. Most of all, I recall one time in the middle of the night, when we were extremely busy (and watch officers were normally asleep in the back), he came round asking whether we wanted tea or coffee. Assisted by the watch warrant officer, they then made hot drinks for everyone. This gesture added even more esteem to our valuation of him.

The set room was laid out in rows of receivers with attached tape recorders. Each receiver was tuned to an established frequency. Should a message come through on its loudspeaker, this activated the tape and it started recording. Until we ran out of operators, we would log every frequency ‘live’. Thereafter, should there be more active sets that available operators, the frequency would be passed over to the large bank of recorders at the side of the set room. Here one of our linguist crew was responsible for ensuring that all frequencies were being recorded correctly. He would put an announcement on the beginning of the tape and write the required details on the tape envelope. These tapes would be then be transcribed later, once the live traffic had receded. 

In summer months, we could spend all night going through tapes in the separate transcription room and still not finish the backlog before the Russkies started flying again the following morning. We all got a mid-shift break, of course, but concentration could easily waver after hours of transcribing. But the longer we did it, the more we got used to it and the quicker the shifts passed by. Moreover, if there was no work to do – in periods of bad flying weather and during Soviet holidays – the SNCO in charge of manning the set room would send several away. This was called “stand down” and his lists were meticulously followed; we always knew when it was our turn to be ‘stood down’ next.

Up to now, mention has been made only of airmen. This is because, up to 1978, the Linguist trade was 100% masculine. The first WRAF recruits started language training around the time I left the RAF, so I had no experience of working alongside female colleagues. There was one exception, however. During my second stint at Gatow, we had one female watch officer. She was a Squadron Leader, the daughter of an Air Vice-Marshal. I now admit that – after Bob Moss – she was my second-favourite watch officer. She had a great way with subordinates, which is not a factor that could be attributed to some other officers with whom I worked.  It’s just a pity that I cannot now remember her name.

The RAF Gatow camp itself had been totally male dominated until early 1970, when the first batch of WRAF personnel to be based there arrived.  I remember the day clearly as, just by chance, it coincided with my first duty as Orderly Corporal on the camp. One of my allotted tasks in this role was to ensure that the bars in our Airbridge Club were closed at 11pm. When I entered, I recall noting how many airmen – unusually for a weekday evening – had put on collar and tie to drink in the functions room. For the next few months, until my departure, it was common for the WRAF ladies to say “Hey, it’s the Orderly Corporal” when they saw me.

Back in Hanger 4, to assist us in our work, we had so-called “Frequency Boards” available for each target unit. (Every regiment had a recognition code for our AOB, beginning TBxxxx. TB101A, for example, was a fighter regiment in the Southern Fighter Corps. This recognition code would be the title of the board). These aids would contain the temporary callsign of the airfield’s controller (a random Russian word) and the list of three-figure numbers used by the pilots of the aircraft on the unit’s strength. The information on these large cards was helpful in our work, but the best entertainment came from reading the comments which had been added by linguists on the back. The contributions were rude and highly personal at times, but very funny. 

The aforementioned Flt Lt Bob Moss once spent a whole night reading every one of the boards. His constant laughter could be heard around the set room. My favourite from memory, which neatly sums up our efforts in Hanger 4, reads:

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.

As time went by, there were two things that animated me: new carbon sheets and tinned tomatoes.

The act of logging and transcribing was completed by writing what we heard on A4 size landscape pads. At the top of each page was a section where details including the intercept station number (26 SU was UKA277), operator number (mine was 780), frequency, date, and page number were to be filled in. Lined boxes underneath were used for writing in the received text and time. The pad pages were thin, to allow two carbon sheets to be inserted. In this way, three copies of each page were generated. We used the bottom copy internally to generate analyst records, so the better the copy you made, the easier it was for colleagues to read. Also, experience showed that new carbon sheets gave a firmer base for writing on. Worn carbons were therefore to be avoided. If I came across a new box of carbons, I would often sneakily take extra sheets to hide beneath my desk. I became very fussy about this.

By six o’clock in the morning on a night shift, you were already thinking about breakfast. Full English, of course. Most of all, whether there would be tinned tomatoes on the buffet. All the other items were constantly available, but for some unknown reason, tomatoes only made it around two days in seven. I had a colleague on another watch who also craved tomatoes (especially good when combined with fried bread). If he was on the day shift taking over from us, he would let me know “yes” or “no”. The affirmative message would ensure that I went to bed happy; a negative report temporarily depressed my spirits.

Such small things as fresh carbons and tinned tomatoes were therefore highly important to a fully-fledged linguist.

I was now getting better and better at the job. Before my time, the trade used to run a system of “Star Operators”. The very best loggers were known as ‘5-Star’. I soon achieved (an unacknowledged) ‘4-Star’ level. The capabilities of each individual were known; the fact that I was requested with increasing regularity “Can you listen to this?” by others during transcription work indicated my growing status amongst colleagues. (I was not pretentious about this. I would similarly ask for others’ interpretations of questionable messages. We worked as a team).

There was a demonstrable way of proving your operator status, however. That was when you were trusted to ‘live log’ the main navigational frequencies. These air traffic channels had fixed, unchanging frequencies. The callsigns used by the stations were also permanent. As far as we were concerned, there were two channels: “Internal Nav” on 135.25 MHz and “Main Nav” on 124.00 MHz. Internal Nav covered the GSFG air movements within the area of East Germany; Main Nav was used for flights by all air forces within the Warsaw Pact area. 

Less than a year after joining 26 SU, I was the watch’s chief operator on the Internal Nav channel, although I could just as easily switch to Main Nav. At busy times, it was sometimes necessary to ask a capable colleague to double-bank with you, to allow you to catch up. The logging routine meant that, at times, a stack of half-completed pads would accumulate. Your colleague’s assistance would allow you to go back over the logs and fill in the gaps; rip off and file the completed pages; then prepare another stack of pads with fresh carbons for further use. This completed, it was your partner’s turn to catch up, when you took back control. This was teamwork at its very best; just a taster for what was to happen in late August 1968.

Warsaw Pact Invasion of Czechoslovakia

On 21 August 1968, following a watch day off, our members we were all rudely awakened individually at around two in the morning and told to report immediately to Hanger 4. “They’ve invaded Czechoslovakia” we were told. When my colleague Mick Clubley (of Chelsea supporting fame) was informed, he answered “Have they invaded Berlin?” “No” he was told. “Then wake me up when they do” was his response. Nevertheless, he joined us all shortly afterwards in a crowded set room.

The chief warrant officer analyst soon arrived and ordered “Put the best operators on the navigational frequencies”. Although this wasn’t my watch, I was directed to the Main Nav console. I was only a Junior Technician with just over one year’s experience, whilst others around of superior rank had longer service. I was delighted that I had been chosen, yet anxious lest I failed to meet their confidence in me.

Although other frequencies were active, as their air forces backed up the Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia by Warsaw Pact countries, it was the messages on the main navigation channel which gave the leading indications of the actions of the invasion armies. This was the reason why particular attention was being paid to this frequency.

One thing was immediately apparent when I plugged in my headset; I could hear normally inaudible ground stations. For the first, and only, time in my linguist career, the Soviet Air Force had put an airborne relay aircraft in a circuit above the Czech border. Its effect was to double the VHF communications range for our radio intercepts.

Although I hadn’t had a lot of sleep, I was wide awake during my work. Without doubt, this was my “finest hour”.  I had to get a colleague to help with preparing and separating my log pads; the radio chatter was non-stop. Sometimes he took over for a short period whilst I caught up, but I was generally in the driving seat. All the time I was aware that groups were standing behind my position. They were taking my log copies as soon as they appeared and were analysing events on the run. When things started to calm down, I took a break. The watch warrant officer came over to say “Well done!” to me.

The section had two so-called “Spec Transcribers” on the permanent day shift, whose job it was to transcribe messages of special interest. These were the modern-day equivalent of the former ‘5-Star’ operators. I was later informed that one of them had been simultaneously listening in to the frequency on another receiver. Reportedly he said “Leave Leo there, he’s doing OK”. This, from one of the spec transcribers, was the nearest thing to words of praise you would ever get out of them.

Just over a year later, I received accelerated promotion to the rank of Corporal. Normally this took three years at the earliest after qualifying as a Junior Technician. I was promoted after two-and-a-quarter years. Although it was never stated, I am convinced this happened because of my input during our intercept coverage of the Czechoslovakia Invasion of August 1968.

Two examples of my logging skills of special significance still stand out in my memory. 

One time, a transport pilot, having landed, sent out a weak message “Order meals for four persons”. Such comments from the ground were often ignored or missed by operators, but I managed to make it out. Shortly thereafter, the chief analyst came by and queried “Is this right?”. I answered that I believed so. He had it checked by a spec transcriber and made a point of coming back to say that I had heard correctly. This was an important detail. Knowledge that four crew were involved helped him identify that this was a new type of helicopter now active in East Germany. He was very pleased and thanked me once more for my good work.

Later, it was believed that a fighter-bomber had crashed and we were asked to keep an ear out for any search activity on the navigational frequencies. Then I heard a message “The pilot xxxx near the lake”. I couldn’t make the missing word out when live logging, but a quick spec transcription confirmed the word: it was “perished”. I had found the desired crash reference.

If I didn’t know this before, I now was convinced that I had found that missing thing which, at last, I was good at. I could have gone through life never experiencing this satisfaction. The Army used to have a recruiting slogan “If you have it in you, we’ll bring it out of you”. This applied equally to the Royal Air Force.

Berlin Entertainment

As indicated before, Berlin was unique in many ways. After President Kennedy’s “Ich bin ein Berliner“ [I am a Berliner] speech in front of the Wall in June 1963, the special status of the city was guaranteed through the speech’s implied protection by the USA. In many ways, Berlin thereafter became a fulcrum of the Cold War activities. For example, the Americans encouraged and supported their best-known artists to perform in West Berlin. The Soviets did the same in the eastern sector of the city.

When the Berliners’ inherently independent view on life was taken into consideration – Berlin was surprisingly the final area council to be taken over by the National Socialist Party in the 1930s – and added to a “live for today” attitude, this combination made the city lively. There was always something to do. The city zoo was acknowledged as one of the world’s best; the Egyptian Museum in nearby Charlottenburg contained the bust of Nefertiti; the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Herbert von Karajan, was acknowledged as the leading symphony ensemble of the era. It was at night, however, that the city really came to into its own.

As a deliberate policy to contrast with the drab decorations of East Berlin, the centre of West Berlin was brightly illuminated. Bars, restaurants and clubs were busy until well into the morning. The one nightclub which was popular with German students and members of the US and UK military was the “Eden-Saloon”. This cavernous building was divided into several rooms with loud music and cartoons and black-and-white films playing silently in the background. Often with an overpowering smell of cannabis [I have never taken any form of recreational drugs in my life], its successful makeup was the brainchild of Rolf Eden, an entrepreneur who funded this first club with a war reparations payment he had received on behalf of his Jewish family ancestors. He ensured that his staff retained good relations with the military forces and police, arranging that any drunken soldier or airman was dealt with quickly and tolerantly.

Rolf Eden later went on to open several establishments, including the first Playboy Club in Germany, before selling them all and retiring on the proceeds after the millennium.  I recall seeing him regularly driving around central Berlin in his open-topped Cadillac car. He loved to be recognised, playing up his playboy reputation to the hilt.

Like any major city, Berlin could be expensive. Nevertheless, there were plenty of reasonably priced restaurants and eateries in the city centre. We soon sussed these out. When money was tight, we also followed the simple maxim of eating where the students ate. There was a 24-hour buffet near the Zoo underground station, for example, which sold a filling “Erbsensuppe” [Pea Soup] with bread roll for a couple of Deutschmarks. Just the thing on a cold winter’s day! We also learned to love the Berliner favourite – “Currywurst mit Kartoffelsalat” – a large roast sausage covered with curry sauce, with a side helping of potato salad. These were available at booths around the city and were delicious every time. The potato salad in Berlin is, in my humble opinion, the best available anywhere. My taste buds are still excited at the memory.



World stars all included Berlin in their tour itineraries.  Although I did not get to see many artists performing in the city, I was nevertheless able to buy tickets for some visiting stars.  

After this enjoyable event, I was then able to take advantage of the ticket office run by the US military at the Dahlem PX. They obtained a wedge of tickets for every major concert. On production of military identity cards, British forces were permitted to buy them at their specially reduced prices. The first concert I went to under this arrangement was to see Ray Charles.  When I went to the PX to book this ticket, I was offered two further shows at a greatly reduced package price. In line with this, I then was able to attend concerts by Sammy Davis Jr and Ella Fitzgerald. 

When I arrived at the Ray Charles concert, I found my seat in the middle of a US military group. I sat next to a huge Afro-American soldier, who was fascinated to talk to a fellow serviceman from another country. When the show started, I remember that I closed my eyes, to listen only to the voice of Ray Charles. I was astounded that he sounded just as he did on his records. This delighted me. Then, later in the concert, it was the turn of my neighbour to be delighted. Ray started to sing “Georgia On My Mind”, at which point my new US friend shouted “Georgia! That’s my home State!” and gave me the biggest bear hug. He wasn’t embarrassed, so who was I to complain? As we left the concert, it seemed that the whole of his platoon wanted to shake my hand. Music is a great friend-maker.

One interesting point about this concert. A few minutes into his performance, Ray Charles introduced us to his backup pianist/organist. “He’s the next star” he predicted. The person he presented was Billy Preston. Billy was later famous as being “the fifth Beatle” on their rooftop live recording of “Get Back”. He also went on to have a best-selling song with Syretta “With You I’m Born Again”, but for me the best ever performance he delivered was his version of “My Sweet Lord” at the “Concert for George” tribute to George Harrison in 2002.

The next concert of the trio I attended was that given by Sammy Davis Jnr. Without the special offer, I would not have gone to this show. Although he was known as an all-round entertainer, I was not over-enthused about him, either before or – unfortunately – after the concert. That I was most impressed by his gun-slinging exhibition sums up my attitude to his overall performance. People used to pay fortunes to see his one-man show in Las Vegas. Thank goodness I saw this cut-price.

On the other hand, the third show of the offer – with Ella Fitzgerald – was spellbinding. Already in her fifties, Ella had the audience in her hand from the beginning to the end of the show. At one point, a drunken German made his way onto the stage. Although minders rushed on to assist, Ella just carried on singing towards him, wishing him “Goodnight” as he was escorted away. What a professional! She ended by performing “Every Time We Say Goodbye”. This is how I like to remember her; perfect in pitch and song choice.

I cannot finish this piece about Berlin Entertainment without mentioning the home-grown talent that was abundant on RAF Gatow. Musicians, for example, flourished here. The camp had numerous guitarists who formed the nuclei of two or three thriving groups at the end of the 60s. These groups played not only on camp but also at various locations around the city. One, which included fellow linguists Colin Hall and Phil Boyle, even went on to produce a record after the pair had left the RAF and remained in Berlin. The station also had an Entertainments Club which put on regular shows. A colleague’s wife was a trained opera singer, whilst there were individuals who were natural comedy actors. One fellow linguist, however, stands out in my memory. Bill Gibb reportedly could master any given instrument, but it was his skills on the acoustic guitar which impressed me most. One day, whilst relaxing in his room, I witnessed him playing Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”. It was breathtakingly beautiful.  If this was not the start of my eclectic taste in music, it certainly contributed to its formation.

A Spy in our Midst

When I was preparing for my promotion examinations to corporal, I was told to go and see the unit’s trade training instructor, Cpl Geoffrey Prime. I recall that he had a separate section in the mezzanine structure of the hanger. There was nothing extraordinary about him, just a person who preferred to keep himself to himself. The next time I saw him was a few years later, on a 1976 visit to GCHQ. I was there with another instructor from Training Wing at North Luffenham. My colleague said to me “Do you remember Geoff from Gatow?”.  By then Geoffrey Prime had left the RAF and had worked his way up to a Higher Intelligence Specialist position at Cheltenham. I remember that Geoff just nodded to us and went back to the paperwork he was reading. As I said, he was not the most communicative of people.

According to the report on Wikipedia, Geoff first contacted the Soviets, offering to act as a spy, by throwing a message to a sentry from the British Military Train in 1968. He insisted that he was making his offer due to ideological motives. Apparently, he received training from the KGB whilst still in the RAF in Berlin. (This meant that I was on the same camp as him when this was happening). When he left the RAF shortly thereafter, the KGB encouraged him to join GCHQ. It was here where he would carry out the bulk of his espionage work.

He resigned from GCHQ in late 1977, although there is a suspicion that he carried on his spying work until 1982. What is most amazing about this story is that, when he was arrested that year, it was because his escalating paedophile activities had driven his wife to contact the police; his espionage (which she also knew about) was secondary to her at that time. 

With his depth of knowledge, there is no doubt that Geoffrey Prime’s disclosures caused major damage to UK’s intelligence gathering efforts, as well as causing severe relationship problems with our US partners at NSA. His case was the subject of a Security Committee investigation and report.

He was sentenced in total to 38 years’ imprisonment, being released halfway through in 2001. Now permanently on the Sex Offender Register, he must register with police wherever he lives. At least two of his secret locations have been discovered, although there is no record from recent times.

What makes this case so interesting to me is that, sometime during 1969, a major RAF Police investigation of the personal lives and connections of some linguists took place at Gatow. We never knew the trigger for this, but it coincided with a short article written by a former Russian linguist in the controversial ‘Oz’ magazine of that time.  The only person singled out from questioning was one linguist who admitted that he was homosexual. He was then quietly taken from the station and allowed to leave the RAF. (Although homosexuality was not against the law then, it was still reason for instant dismissal from the military, particularly where classified work was concerned, as it was judged that the individual could be open to blackmail or coercion. In this case, we all believed that our former colleague “pulled a fast one”, as we knew that he was desperate to leave the RAF. He saw an opportunity and took it). Nevertheless, if this investigation included all those connected to our trade, was an opportunity to perhaps head off Geoffrey Prime’s activities missed here?

Travel around the city was easy and relatively cheap. For the longest of journeys, for example from Gatow to the American PX at Dahlem, a “Doppelumsteigerkarte” [Double Change Ticket] could be purchased from the bus driver on departure. This ticket allowed you to change buses and use the underground       [U-Bahn] for your journey. From Gatow you caught the bus to Ruhleben, where the underground system was entered. Just about all the places of interest were then within walking distance of an underground station. Although we were allowed to travel for free in uniform (a perk very few of us ever used), there were two rules we had to abide with: Travel on the West Berlin portion of the overground S-Bahn [Street Rail] was banned, as the system was run and controlled by East Germany, whilst U-Bahn journeys on the section of the Alt-Mariendorf to Tegel line which ran under the wall were also prohibited. Although we linguists were banned totally from entering East Berlin – either above or below ground – most of us did this journey at least once, just for the experience. When the train pulled into the single stop behind the wall at Friedrichstrasse, its long platform was lined with armed East German soldiers in grey uniforms. On my trip – after a few drinks, later in the evening – I don’t recall anyone getting off, just that the doors seemed to take an interminable time before briefly opening and closing, the standard departure routine. I’m glad I did it, but there was no reason to ever repeat the event.

Although I visited the airport part a couple of times, it was the US Air Force base – also housed in the same building – that was my main point of interest. It was like no other military camp I ever visited. Even my American friends admitted that it was unique. The function rooms there were cavernous and links to other floors were served by devices I have only experienced here – paternosters. A two-entry paternoster lift is one which is continuously moving in a loop; one side going up and the other coming down. I have seen pictures of similar lifts still in operation, but whereas modern versions have been updated with grab handles, the cabins in the Tempelhof lift were plain wooden boxes without any form of support. I was always reluctant to use these, especially after partaking of a few drinks in the USAF Airmen’s Club on an upper floor.

On the square leading to the main entrance of the international airport is the Berlin Airlift Memorial. (Officially called “Monument for the Victims of the Airlift”). This was built in 1951 to commemorate the Berlin Airlift of 1948 to 1949, when the Soviets had blockaded land and canal transport to the western half of the city. The only way to replenish stocks for its inhabitants was by air. Tempelhof was the main airport used in this undertaking, although Gatow and Tegel were also involved heavily. (The Airmen’s Club at Gatow was called “The Airbridge” in recognition of this operation). There is a similar memorial located in Frankfurt – the main US supply airfield for the exercise – which completes the arch of the notional air bridge. The Four Powers map shown at the beginning of this section shows the airfields involved in the Berlin Air Lift and the directions aircraft took on the inward and outward legs.

Christmas Dinner

There was a tradition throughout the military that a Christmas Dinner would be organised on an evening of the week before – to allow those who were going home on leave to attend – where the traditional fare would be offered in the Airmen’s Mess, with waiter service provided by the station’s senior NCOs and officers. A barrel of beer was included to encourage a party atmosphere. The seniors serving on were all in No 1 uniforms; the airmen would be in best civilian attire.

I was later to perform this waiting duty at one Christmas Dinner when promoted to sergeant. There was always a surfeit of senior staff volunteering for this traditional duty. It was great fun, with plenty of good-natured banter going backward and forward.

Afterwards at Gatow there was a party organised in the Airbridge Club, with one of the camp’s groups providing the entertainment. The photo below – taken in 1969 – shows me in the centre of a group of friends in my best made-in-Huddersfield worsted double-breasted suit. The clock behind us shows a time after midnight; bar opening times were extended for this special occasion.



One comment about this picture: The young man on the right is Welshman Mick Louth, a fellow linguist – now unfortunately deceased – who went on to become a senior security advisor for the US Forces in the Far East.

During my time at RAF Gatow, I had increased my service commitment from six to nine years. This additional term would allow me to take another language course and still have enough service left to complete a standard three-year posting after training. With this taken care of, I was accepted for the next available German course at North Luffenham. 

I left Berlin in April 1970 and returned to UK for a new start: marriage, language course and fatherhood.

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