RAF Wyton, Cambridgeshire

1977-1978

Located near St Neots in Cambridgeshire, RAF Wyton had two main squadrons operating in the late 1970s – 360 Squadron with its T17 Canberra bombers and 51 Squadron with Nimrod R1 SIGINT aircraft.  However, if visiting the station at that time, you could have been mistaken in thinking it was a fighter station. The main camp area lay directly under the landing path of nearby RAF Alconbury, which at that time housed USAF squadrons of Phantom aircraft. Alconbury was also subject to regular visits from other US Forces’ aeroplanes, most memorably a massive Super Galaxy transport which totally shadowed out the neighbourhood as it passed above.

Living on Wyton meant that you quickly got used to these constant overhead movements. Curiously, these were not our aircraft. The take-off and landing paths for our station were on the other side of the camp, meaning that we seldom, if ever, spotted RAF planes when looking out from the area of the married quarters. We were so used to the USAF traffic that we used to say “You can tell the visitors to Wyton. They’re the only ones who look up when an aircraft passes over”. Except when a Super Galaxy transits, of course.

Ops (EW) and 51 Squadron

I was officially posted to the Ops (EW) unit of RAF Wyton. [EW = Electronic Warfare]. This was housed in a fenced-off building near the end of the runway. Entrance to the section was controlled through an electronic door. Inside was a smaller version of the transcription room at T’Berg. During the time of my posting, there were around six linguists permanently stationed there.  To the best of my recollection, there was also an electronic intelligence (ELINT) section in the building.

Our job was to transcribe the tapes brought back from missions of the 51 Squadron Nimrods. To this end, we were often joined by Air Signallers from the aircraft, who would sometimes turn up specially to follow up on something they had heard live on a flight, or they just came by to help us clear a backlog.

For anyone who wished, there was a distinct advantage to being stationed at Ops (EW). Flights on the Nimrods of 51 Squadron were freely available. 

The initial flights to join were the regular “circuits and bumps” flown in the evenings up to twice weekly around the airfield. This situation came about because, due to the long mission durations of the aircraft, pilots needed to carry out additional take off and landing training to maintain their skills in these aspects of flying. As the makeup of the equipment inside the R1 version of the Nimrod was highly classified, it was not possible to use the squadron’s ground crew to make up crew numbers, as would be the case on other multicrew aircraft.  They did not have the required security clearance. We did.

I recall one of these evening sessions very well. Just like normal crew, we were all plugged into the aircraft intercom. We could hear all the conversations from the cockpit. After one landing, I noted a different voice come on, one I hadn’t heard before. His demeaner was hesitant, although the voice sounded mature. We took off, did a couple of circuits, before coming in to land. By now I was used to the values being called out, so I remember thinking “This is a bit quick”. Then I heard the pilot’s voice say “Oh, Bugger!” as we hit the runway and bounced along it, before performing an immediate overshoot take off. The pilot then said “Sorry in the back!”. 

We went round again, this time managing a more or less acceptable landing. The cockpit door opened and the Station Commander, a Group Captain Canberra pilot, came out. “Old habits die hard” he told us. “I’m used to faster landings” was his excuse. “I think I’ll leave it to the professionals in future” was his parting comment to us.

A Path to Aircrew

The Air Signallers of 51 Squadron had one unusual characteristic. They were totally involved in the choice of candidates to join their merry band. Just because you were good at the job was not sufficient reason to guarantee acceptance onto the squadron. To them it was more important to select individuals they were sure they could trust and get along with. They could reject a candidate without explanation. For this reason, my wish to join 51 Squadron was being considered at length. Nothing was guaranteed, even though I had all the qualifications. (Having instructed the course, it was accepted that I would not have to pass the Sigs (RC) examination). All I needed to do to re-muster – if accepted by the squadron members – was to clock up flying hours and complete an airmanship course. This was the path I was following in my early days at Wyton.

As well as taking part in the “circuits and bumps” regularly, I also went on extended missions with the squadron. First on flights up and down the West/East German border, then on detachments further afield to Cyprus. I was never given any indication that my wish to join 51 would be declined, but circumstances intervened to make my plans irrelevant.

Marriage Problems Resurrected.

Although we were allocated married quarters on the camp quickly, it soon became obvious that our marriage was on its last legs. Still suffering from intermittent mental health problems, Kath was sure that forces life was detrimentally affecting her condition. When her illness was under control, we could manage. However, when depression returned, it was very difficult for her and, consequently, us. Once more she went away to undergo extended treatment in a local specialist mental health facility and, by quickly finding a local child minder, I was able to carry on working at Ops (EW).  There was another linguist in our section at that time who was the single father of five children, so I was not alone in this situation.

A Connected Child Minder

360 Canberra Squadron was one of the few joint RAF/Royal Navy ventures. For this reason, there was a contingent of Navy personnel on the camp. Indeed, probably the best new friend I made in my short time at Wyton was a Petty Officer neighbour, Colin. He and I would pop into the Sergeant’s Mess for a quick drink from time to time.

When I was directed by the Families Office to a child minder, I met the wife of one of the Navy personnel. Liz Saunders – who was adored by Suzanne and Paul – was a godsend in my situation. As I was discussing details for care with her during out first meeting, her husband walked in. And I recognised him. Yet another former Huddersfield New College pupil. Now I had the full set – Army, Navy and RAF – of recent Old Collegian servicemen.

Petty Officer Edward Saunders was to turn out to be more than a passing acquaintance. In one of those extraordinary coincidences that has featured throughout my life, he is the cousin of the second wife. We didn’t know this at the time, of course, as it was another couple of years before I met Barbara. 

Even the manner of discovery of this connection was remarkable. A few years later, Suzanne and Paul were making their first visit to meet Barbara’s parents. Joe & Molly mentioned that they had visited RAF Wyton and took out photographs to show the children. Looking at the pictures, Suzanne said “That’s Liz!” After a few minutes of disbelieving questioning, it was realised that Suzanne was correct. Edward – who they had been visiting at Wyton – was their nephew and his wife Liz had most definitely been the childminder for Suzanne & Paul. To add to the twist of fate, it was probable that their visit had happened during our time at Wyton. Amazing.

One final point I never divulged to my future parents-in-law. My Navy friend Colin, having been informed of our mutual schooldays, told me immediately that Edward was not popular on the unit. The other matelots had undisclosed reasons for not liking him, although they all had good words for Liz. As Colin said, when you’re a member of a small representative group in an unfamiliar environment like theirs, solidarity of the unit was paramount. And, for some reason, Edward was not considered a team player. 

After Wyton, I only ever met Edward once as a member of my new family and his behaviour to me was, at best, cool. Perhaps he was aware of my knowledge of this unpopularity amongst his former colleagues. But I didn’t know the background to this situation, so perhaps I am misjudging him, knowing only one side of the argument. But Liz was universally popular, particularly with my kids.

An Obvious Choice

During our year-long stay at Wyton, we had periods where we looked to be overcoming the problems associated with Kath’s health, followed by times when its depreciation was rapid and uncontrollable. Nevertheless, it was clear that her mental conditions were not going to disappear overnight. Time and patience were going to be needed. 

The net result workwise was that I could not be relied upon to offer the flexibility required of aircrew on 51 Squadron at that time.  For example, if an exercise were called without notice, sometimes the squadron would fly off on detachment for up to two weeks in duration. This required family stability, which unfortunately I could not offer then. My colleagues there were aware of my situation and were willing to wait out my predicament. No pressure was put on me from their side.

On the other hand, I became gradually aware of a distinct dislike of my situation from the Squadron Leader commander of Ops (EW).  I still don’t know why.  I had ensured at all times to be available for work, even to the extent of turning out for an exercise called in the middle of the night where the station, and our section in particular, was subject to a mock attack by the SAS and members of 42 Commando Royal Marines. I could have easily excused my participation here, due to a justifiable requirement to be available for my wife at night. But I didn’t. 

The lads in the section were surprised to see me, however I felt that my SNCO presence was required. Besides, Kath was going through a good period, so I also needed to see if she could cope during the exercise. In the event, when we were 'stood down' in the middle of the following afternoon – after the SAS had put dummy bombs unnoticed on every Canberra on the airfield, the Commandos had breached our unit defences up to the front door, and a Jaguar aircraft had performed a simulated atomic bomb attack on the airfield at high speed and low level – everything was OK at home. I remember feeling that things were on the up after this.

Then, just a couple of weeks later, Kath had another mental health episode and was taken into hospital. I organised Liz for childminding and went, as usual, into the section. Within an hour or so, the section commander ordered me to come to see him. He started by asking me how secure my marriage was. (He had obviously read my records from North Luffenham, where my temporary ‘separated’ status was shown). I responded truthfully that it was likely that we would divorce; my priority was with the children.

He then made a statement which was to change my whole life: “You have to decide – your career or your family”.  I really hadn’t seen this coming. He told me to go away and think about it. He added that, if I were to decide to leave the RAF, arrangements could be made.

There was no debating my decision – my family would always come first. Nevertheless, I was bitterly disappointed that it had come down to this. I had demonstrated that I would not let my family situation influence my abilities as a tradesman and a SNCO. Any time I had taken off had been out of my leave entitlement; I had turned down the opportunity to take offered absence for compassionate reasons.

The following morning, as I entered Ops (EW), I was stopped by the unit Administration Sergeant. He was fully aware of my situation. He invited me for a cup of coffee in the very same office where his boss had delivered the shattering news to me the previous day. He told me that he fully realised that I would opt for family interests and, for that reason, he had been making a few telephone calls. He had spoken to the section which dealt with the Linguist Trade at RAF Records in Gloucester and gave me the name of the Sergeant contact there who could help me. 

He then left me alone in the office – the Officer Commanding was not expected in for the next few days – and I made the call. As it transpired, my contact at Gloucester knew me. We rugby players were a precious few in the RAF. He had played against me a few times when he was stationed in Germany. During the course of our telephone call, he informed me that the following could be organised for me:

• If I carried on in the RAF until the end of May, completing 12 years’ service, I would be guaranteed a deferred pension and an end-of-term cash bonus. (It was now mid-March).
• I could take compassionate leave immediately until the end of May, if I wished.
• My records would show only the 'exemplary' nature of my service to date. (At this point, he mentioned the recommendation for the BEM put forward by the Wing Commander of Training Wing, RAF North Luffenham, although he said that he was telling me only because he thought that the treatment I was receiving was highly unfair. I could not repeat this to anyone or use this knowledge as a basis for a claim against the RAF).

By this time, I had decided that, if the RAF didn’t want me, I didn’t want them. There was one thing, however, which I wished to do before my demobilisation: complete another detachment with 51 Squadron.

A Final Fling

I don’t recall clearly all the arrangements made to allow me to participate in one last detachment with 51 Squadron. Certainly Suzanne & Paul were taken care of, but I cannot remember positively whether they stayed at Wyton with Kath or went back to spend time with granny in Huddersfield. It is possible that they remained with Kath, who had initially reacted well to the information that I would be leaving the RAF.

As for the squadron, they could not have been more accommodating. Although they knew that I would be leaving the RAF within weeks, they went out of their way to find me a place on an upcoming 10 days’ detachment to Tehran.

I flew out to Cyprus ahead of the arrival of the Nimrod aircraft, travelling for the one and only time in an RAF VC-10 transport from RAF Lyneham. (The fact that I didn’t travel with the ground crew in a usual Hercules suggests that arrangements had been made a short notice for me). Ask anyone who has been a passenger on an RAF VC-10 and they will confirm the unusual format of the seating here; the seats were back to front. Instead of facing forward, as in a standard civilian aircraft configuration, the seats looked towards the rear of the aircraft. It was suggested to me that the reason for this was that the survivability of crashes was greater with this setup. I really don’t know.

On arrival at RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus, I was put up in the Sergeants Mess annex, a row of individual chalets on the hill overlooking the runway, with the Mediterranean Sea in the background. Without doubt, this was my favourite accommodation of all my time in the RAF. I had fallen immediately in love with the island from my very first visit; with the climate, the surroundings, and the people. So much so that we were to return there several times in later years, including three Christmas holidays in a row after the millennium. Cyprus has a magic that never faded for me.

Whilst on this detachment, I remember being awoken early one morning by the loud piercing sound of a jet engine coming from the runway area. I looked out in that direction, just in time to see the unmistakable black silhouette of a USAF U-2 spy plane take off and go into an almost vertical climb away from the base. I mentioned this to a fellow diner at breakfast, receiving the answer “What aircraft?”. I didn’t pursue the subject. After all, our Nimrod missions were not for discussion with anyone outside the squadron. Nevertheless, I can still visualise the rocket-like ascent of the aircraft that officially was not there that day. An image burned into my memory.

Our Nimrod aircraft arrived on schedule from UK, when I was informed that I would be participating on the next legs of the journey, to and from Tehran in Iran. I went with the full crew for an evening meal in Limassol, to a seaside restaurant favoured by the regulars of the squadron. I had been there on a previous visit, but this time I felt fully accepted by the assembled crew members. The full contingent there was around thirty aircrew, ranging from pilots to flight engineers, navigators, air electronics officers and, of course, linguist air signallers. I remember noticing that the pilots for the next day were not drinking alcohol, a routine followed strictly throughout the RAF.

The following morning I went through the standard preparation procedures for a mission. Meeting at the preparation area, where we got changed into flying suits. I noted that I was the only one amongst the crew who did not have an aircrew brevet sewn into the suit. We then had breakfast – a communal requirement to ensure that all had eaten before flying – before the call of “Wheels!” announced the arrival of the bus to take us to the aircraft. We then spent around an hour on pre-take off checks.

By now I had become fully familiar with procedures on the aircraft, so much so that I was allotted a position and simply left to get on with it. I had experienced signallers on both sides, available to assist in the unlikely event of an emergency. Those who have flown in the Nimrod – both the maritime reconnaissance originals and our three SIGINT variants – have nothing but praise for the aircraft and its facilities. I am one of this number.

The inside of the R1 Nimrod was perhaps what could have been expected, a flying set room. Receivers lined both sides of the voice section, each with a rotating aircraft seat. For take off the seats faced forward, equipped with racing car type seat belts. Once airborne, the belts could be unfastened and the seats rotated 90° to provide a working position. Every crew member was plugged in to the intercom, where communications from the cockpit were to be heard. These were especially interesting for me on take off and landing. Indeed, I found it difficult to get used to flying on civilian trips for some time thereafter; it had been reassuring to be able to listen in to the cockpit chatter of the crew.

The organisation on the flights was impressive. One of the crew, designated the caterer, would be responsible for ensuring that all members had a supply of hot drinks and snacks on the flight. Notably, my former student Paul Watts was outstanding in this voluntary role. Not only did he make sure that all were constantly catered for on board, he also ensured that all flying suits had been provided with a good selection of sweets, such as Mars bars and Spangles, prior to departure. While on detachment there was another duty which could be volunteered for – management of waste disposal from the aircraft. This potentially messy task attracted a bonus payment at the end of the stint.

One point difficult to understand in modern times is that smoking was permitted on our Nimrod flights. In theory, it was the decision of the aircraft captains to allow smoking but, to the best of my knowledge, they seldom enforced a ban. However, on the eventual journey back to UK from this detachment on a Hercules transport, we only found out that just about all on board were smokers after we had landed and parked. Waiting for our transport, its passengers gathered away from the aircraft and took out cigarettes. Then the pilot, navigator and flight engineer came by and promptly joined our impromptu smoking group. “If I’d known you were all smokers, I would have given permission to smoke on board” informed the pilot. This after a forced abstinence for seven hours. How things have changed in the last forty years.

There was a shopping area just up from our hotel. To reach this, it was necessary to cross a six-lane highway with no apparent traffic signals. I was instructed “Just walk straight ahead; the traffic will avoid you”. Frightening as this proposition appeared, it was correct. As long as you didn’t step out without warning or stop suddenly, cars would indeed drive around you. After a few days, I was used to this technique, scaring the life out of others who came with me and experienced this routine for the first time. (Many preferred to walk south into the city, thus negating the need to cross the major highway outside our hotel).  Truth be told, I quite enjoyed it. This training was also to stand me in good stead for successfully crossing similar highways later in the cities of Eastern Europe and Central Asia.

In one shop I saw a small fold-away table with a circular metal top and wooden legs. The top’s design featured attractive middle eastern painted patterns. I thought that this would make a good home decoration or gift. It had the advantage of being small enough, when folded down, to fit easily into my hand baggage. I asked he price. He said “1,000 Rials” (around £35 at the time). This seemed acceptable to me, so I said “OK”. He then stopped and looked me in the eye. “You are a foreigner, so I will help you with some information. When I say “1,000”, you say “300” and then we bargain on the final price. Do you understand?” Suitably chastened, I nodded and walked away. 

Armed with this information, I carried on looking around. There were quite a few other attractive pieces in the shop but I eventually came back to the original table. “How much is this?” I asked once more. “1,000 Rials” he informed again. “300 Rials” I responded, at which point he went into a practiced diatribe: “300! You insult me! I have a wife and three children to support. Do you want to take the food out of their mouths? I will do you a special deal. 800 Rials.” Then he slowly smiled. I now fully realised the rules of the game. I think that we eventually settled on 600 Rials, but the cost was incidental. I had got the item I wanted but had also learned a valuable lesson.

I was to come across the requirement to barter for goods years later during my extended stay in Central Asia, although I tried to avoid these situations wherever possible. However, by that time I had a basic rule from business experience in my negotiating kitbag – never be afraid to walk away from a deal if it is not satisfactory. Armed with this background, I proved to be a skilled practitioner of the bartering art. I recall my last such transaction, on a 2014 excursion from a cruise ship to Casablanca in Morocco. In the bazaar I saw a leather satchel I liked. The original price offered was 80 Euro. I ended up with a 25 Euro purchase, having twice walked away.  I was followed by the store-holder with decreasing offers, eventually coming down to a sum I was willing to pay. This quality Moroccan leather item – otherwise known as a ‘man bag’ – is still stored in my bedroom, having only been used once. But a bargain is a bargain, thanks to my Tehran tutor.

My last ever flight in a Nimrod, from Tehran back to Cyprus, remains lodged in my memory for additional reasons. The captain for this leg was a popular Irish pilot with a bit of a reputation on the squadron, as I was about to find out. We taxied out as usual and lined up on the runway. He then went through the “Brakes Off”; “Rotation” (nose wheel off the ground); “V1” (commit to fly); “V2” (take off safety speed) procedure. Once airborne and having retracted the undercarriage, he then added an unusual report: “Hang on to your hats!”. With this, he put the Nimrod into a high power almost vertical climb, so much so that equipment rattled in the cages. My highly experienced Master Air Signaller neighbour mouthed to me “Bloody Hell!”. If he noticed, it must have been unusual. Much as I would like to think that this was for my benefit, it’s probable that it had been decided to show the Iranians the capabilities of their potential purchase. Well, it impressed me...

After an overnight at Akrotiri, I turned up for my early morning flight home, in a Hercules transport with a Lightning aircraft engine already loaded into its hold. Originally there were only two or three casual passengers of the aircraft. Conveniently I had recognised the Hercules’ Sergeant Air Load Master as yet another from the RAF rugby community. We soon got into conversation about my imminent departure from the RAF, when he received an intercom call. “We’ll have to hang on a bit – extra passengers”. Within an hour a car turned up at the back of the aircraft and three soldiers – grubby and unshaven with large rucksacks – climbed on board and, after short hellos to us, immediately selected a place each in the hammocks built into the aircraft walls. We soon took off, after which our taciturn fellow travellers climbed into the hammocks and went straight to sleep. My ALM friend just raised his eyebrows; I got the message.

The journey back was notable, particularly when flying over France and the Alps. It was a clear blue sky, allowing my colleague to point out landmarks to me along the way, particularly the Mont Blanc mountain over which we appeared to pass directly with only a few hundred metres to spare.

After landing back in UK at RAF Brize Norton, we were told to stay on board to await possible Customs clearance. This was not required, however, of our new passengers. Almost immediately after the aircraft was shut down on the parking area, a long base Land Rover drove up. To the driver’s question “Three for Hereford?”, the soldiers immediately disembarked, threw their kitbags on board, and the car drove off. This had most likely been a close encounter for me with members of the Special Air Services, who at that time were active in the Trucial States of Oman.

Once they had departed, any Customs clearance requirement was forgotten and we were allowed to walk away from the aircraft a suitable distance for a smoke break, to await our transport. Within minutes my lift to Wyton had turned up and my military flying days were finally over. My last detachment experience had been remarkable from beginning to end.

Work Experience, German Style

I was asked if I wished to take advantage of the work experience or training opportunities offered to those leaving the services. My initial reaction had been to ignore these options, wishing only to finish as soon as possible. I wasn’t enamoured with the RAF at this time – still smarting from the treatment I had recently received – so I didn’t want to feel obliged to the authorities for anything. However, one evening I remembered that my close friend former linguist Colin Hall was now living and working in Munich. Perhaps I could wrangle a visit to him as work experience?

I called Colin and he came back to me to say that I could spend a couple of weeks with his music company, assisting in the public relations department. I put this option to the administration staff at RAF Wyton and, having received a confirmatory letter from Colin, was surprisingly allowed to take up this work experience offer. There was a last-minute hitch. Although Colin had agreed to put me up in his flat in Munich, the responsible admin staff had noted that the US Forces had a base near the city. They first needed to check whether this military accommodation option was possible. After a couple of days, the Americans got back to us with a polite refusal. I cannot say that I was disappointed.

I took the sleeper train all the way to Munich and was met by Colin at the station, driving a large Audi car with the registration MUZ 1. It’s “Musik unserer Zeit” [Music of our Time] Colin told me. I was confused. “That’s the name of the company I work at” he said. It wasn’t the company’s title I had originally been given – as repeated in my official documentation – but what the hell, I was here and who was going to check?

The music company occupied a floor in a building in the centre of Munich. The building itself was owned by the Warner Electra Atlantic entertainment conglomerate. It also contained a recording studio. MUZ’s large office area featured around six large, glass-separated cells on the back wall. Each independent cell was kitted out with a telephone, typewriter, and a collection of the latest playback equipment. I was shown to one, which was to be my workplace for the next couple of weeks. 

MUZ concentrated on administering performing rights’ income from the songbooks it controlled within the German market (and possibly Austria).  There was a gold disc on display at the entrance, past which I was hurried on arrival. It was only when I asked that I was shown the details. The disc was from sales of the record “Una Paloma Blanca” by the George Baker Selection. This song, by the Dutch artist George Baker, had sold over 2 million copies worldwide in 1976, being especially popular with holidaymakers to Spain (as it remains even to this day). It was this connection that was embarrassing for the seriously minded professionals at Musik unserer Zeit.

I don’t recall having any specific tasks to perform; the public relations description had just been a cover to get me there. I helped as much as I could, eventually spending most of my time listening to new albums sent to the office. From time to time during my short period there, first draft recordings were sent to the company for appraisal. I remember seeing one of a Michael Jackson record marked “Not for Public Release”: how much would this be worth nowadays?

One day I was in the office alone, when an American arrived at the door looking for a music press journalist who came by from time to time. The visitor was due to have an interview with him at our office. Whilst he waited, I offered him a cup of coffee and we sat and chatted for a while. The visitor told me he was called Johnny Cougar, a name vaguely familiar to me. He was later to be highly successful in the USA, being nominated for numerous Grammy Awards as a singer-songwriter using the name John Cougar Mellencamp. I just remember him from that time as a very nice bloke.

Colin and his American wife had a flat in an apartment block on Dachauer Strasse, on the road from the centre to the Olympic Stadium. We went on bike rides up to the stadium from time to time. The block was also located next to the Löwenbräu Brewery, which also housed a pizza restaurant where beer could be obtained straight from the brewery’s vaults. Colin and Diane also took me on weekend trips up into the nearby Bavarian Alps where – without referring to a map – small picturesque villages, invariably with their own locally brewed beer, were encountered. 

On one mountains’ visit, I recall we got into discussion in German with a local brew master at an open-air village restaurant. He asked our nationality, to which I replied “English” and Colin “Scottish”. After this, Diane and I may just as well have departed. Our host was fascinated with Colin, totally ignoring us. After receiving responses to customary questions about wearing a skirt, etc, he was disappointed that we – especially Colin – had to leave. This had obviously been a memorable visit for both sides.

By the end of my time in Munich, finances were tight. I had not bought a return ticket and I worried that I might not be able to afford the journey by train. Then I heard about a service offered by a company in the city which paired up drivers with passengers for trips throughout Europe. I called in, to be informed that there was a possibility the following day for a journey to London. In this way, I shared the 700-mile journey home with a young student and two other German passengers at a cost of around £30. A very reasonable travel alternative.

Where Next?

Apart from a visit to say goodbye and have discharge documents signed, I don’t think that I went back into the Ops (EW) section to work. My detachment to Tehran had definitely been my last trade input. I wasn’t inactive though. I now had to face up to the reality of life after service.

Around the middle of May, I recall that Kath once again went away for treatment at the local mental health clinic. This left me to sort out the handover of the house and plan for future residence alone. I had considered going back to Huddersfield, but that was one option that Kath did not wish to follow. Although the divorce probability was still high, I didn’t want to desert her in her present condition. The alternative I chose to follow up was that of living locally. 

Once more, the camp’s Families Office came to my rescue. They first informed me that, although I should officially leave the married quarters before my final service day, they would give me 28 days after this to sort out new accommodation. By giving me this official ‘Notice to Quit’, they were effectively rendering our family homeless. With the document, I could now approach the local Huntingdon District Council and request emergency accommodation. Everything from then on went by without a hitch. By early June we had been allocated a council house in nearby St Neots.

On the day before my mid-June departure from Wyton, a junior rank representative from Stores knocked on my door. Carefully addressing me as “Mr Leonard” (I was now once more a civilian), he politely asked could I return the flying suit I still possessed, signed out in my name? Damn! That was the one piece of uniform I wanted to keep. I had already handed in my great coat, but I thought I’d got the flying suit loan past them.

As I had no desire to keep any other uniform items – apart from my boots for some reason – I asked if he could dispose of them for me. He agreed, coming back with a car later that day to take everything away. At the time I was so infuriated by the treatment I had received at the hands of the RAF, I just wanted to get rid of all personal reminders of my service. This was a decision I was later to regret, but understandable in the circumstances.

After the smoothest “March Out” I had ever experienced, my ordered taxi arrived. I picked up Suzanne & Paul from the childminder and together we drove out of the RAF Wyton’s main gates, heading towards an uncertain future.

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