RAF Gatow, Berlin Part 2

RAF Gatow, Berlin, Part 2

1971-1974

I joined the queue of newcomers at the desk of the station’s Families Officer as soon as I could. As we had a young baby, this gave me a slight advantage on the married accommodation waiting list. All being well, we should be able to obtain a flat on camp within six months. In the meantime, would I be interested in taking one of the available private lettings in the neighbourhood? There was a small place on offer which, although unusual, may suit our needs temporarily.

The “Gartenhaus”

I went to the given address at the agreed time. This involved a short bus ride up the road from the camp gates to the district of Kladow, which then fitted in the corner area behind the Gatow airfield and the East German border. All the houses here were well-established detached dwellings, located on pretty treelined lanes. I went thinking that language would not be a problem, as both Kath and I spoke German. In the event, it didn’t make any difference. My prospective landlady was Australian, whilst her middle-aged German husband had lived in Australia for many years. As forewarned, the dwelling for rent was indeed unusual.

It was stressed to me immediately that this was not a converted garage; it was a “Gartenhaus” [Garden House]. Call it what you want, it was still a garage in the back garden that had been adapted for living purposes. Nevertheless, with a single bedroom, small living area, enclosed kitchen and bathroom facilities, to my mind it would just about meet our short-term needs. I only had to persuade Kath that it would be suitable. I managed to call her by telephone – not the easiest thing to organise in those days – and received a “be it on your head” type of response. With this, I agreed to take up the opportunity. It was only then that I found out that we would be the first tenants in this letting.

Although not the lane that we lived on, the above Kladow street was typical for the area, very similar to our surroundings.

I did not have to worry about the Gartenhaus’s acceptability. When Kath arrived she loved the bijou residence and its surroundings. The landlords could not have been kinder. They paid out of their own pocket for a cot and the landlady provided company for Kath when I was away working.

However, they were very strict on one point – waste disposal. In days well before recycling became an everyday occurrence, West Berlin was at its forefront for economic reasons. All waste products from the city had to be exported for disposal – mainly by boat to East Germany – where payment was made according to waste volume and type. As a result, according to council instructions in the early 1970s, our landlords insisted that all cans, for example, had the ends cut off and the body then be flattened for separate recycling. I don’t believe that anywhere else demands this routine even now, fifty years later.

In accordance with these special considerations for waste disposal, local authorities also ran a scheme not encountered elsewhere: the so-called “Sperrmülltag” [Bulky Waste Disposal Day]. In line with this, once a month large items such as furniture could be left outside the property at night for free of charge collection by the council waste disposal team the following day. Certainly in the time we were there, advantage was taken by opportunists to select and take away desirable items during the night before. The local newspapers decried this situation – openly blaming the “Gastarbeiter” [Guest Worker] Turkish community for these actions – but most Berliners were of the opinion “If it’s put out for disposal, does it matter who takes it?” The latest I heard is that Sperrmülltags are still being organised, but now by charitable and environmental action groups in Berlin.

There was an unexpected advantage of our location. A baker’s shop, which opened early, was just 50 metres away. We awoke every day except Sunday to the beautiful aroma of freshly baked bread. We soon learned to follow our neighbours’ example. Whenever I was working day shifts, I first went to the shop to buy four “Semmel” rolls for breakfast. The combination of warm rolls and lightly boiled eggs was simply divine. The shopkeeper quickly got used to me popping in early in uniform. If I came later in the day in jeans and jumper, his first words would be “Keine Arbeit heute?” [No work today?]. Everyone in the area was friendly. And, yes, I did take advantage of free travel on the bus in uniform.

The only picture I have taken inside the Gartenhaus. Returning with a fresh supply of cigarettes from the Gatow NAAFI.

New Year’s Eve 1971

Provisions for the Festive Season are planned well in advance in the forces. Because of the nature of military duties, there must be a constant presence at all locations. As concerned the RAF in Berlin, preference for Christmas and New Year leave applications was given to single airmen – to offer them the opportunity to travel home if desired – whereas shift patterns and manning selections for those remaining on camp were manipulated to allow young families to spend at least part of Christmas Day at home. As New Year’s Eve was a time for celebration, the manning levels of the duty watch evening and night shifts were reduced to minimum possible numbers. To be fair to my colleagues, everyone tried their best to make sure that no-one lost out in arrangements.

The Soviets also helped in this, as New Year was a very important holiday for them. Although there would often be increased flight action in the week before (meaning that those linguists who worked over Christmas were kept busy), activities from New Year’s Eve onwards, and well into the following week, were minimal. The only thing we tended to see was the odd Defensive Air Patrol, carried out by a fighter flying up and down the East-West German border.

Although my watch was not due to work over the New Year, leaving us free, in the spirit of festive co-operation we arranged to help out a colleague. He and his wife had bought tickets for the camp’s New Year’s Eve Party but had been let down by a planned babysitter at late notice. He was reluctant to ask our assistance, knowing we had a young baby, but Kath volunteered to step in when she heard of their situation. For this reason, she overnighted in their married quarters, whilst I stayed in our converted garage on dad duty.

This arrangement led to one of the most memorable events in my life, for reasons which I still find difficult to isolate. Come twelve o’clock local time, I found myself in the bedroom beside my three months old sleeping daughter’s cot. With fireworks sounding out locally, I toasted Suzanne alone with best wishes for 1972. A surreal situation. One which moves me even now to recall.

Married Quarters

I was told well in advance which accommodation on the RAF Gatow station would become available for us. The present tenant was on my watch, so he gave us chance to look it over before moving in. Located centrally on the camp, adjacent to the road leading from the main gates to the airfield and overlooking the newly built golf course, our modern three bedroomed flat on the middle floor of a three-storey building in the Queensway Married Quarters was ideal. It was within walking distance of all facilities, including the medical centre and NAAFI supermarket.

We also had another facility unique to Berlin – the FRIS. As a result of the blockade and Berlin Air Lift, it was decided that food stocks would be maintained thereafter by the military in the city, to be called upon should the supply obstruction situation ever be repeated by the Soviets. For this, tons of meat were held in freezer warehouses in the city, reportedly within the confines of the Olympic Stadium. After a given storage period, these supplies were sold off and new stocks brought in. The way that the ageing stock – still perfectly edible – was disposed of was through the Family Ration Issue Store = FRIS. Here families on camp could go to this outlet to obtain cut-price frozen meat joints of all types. Steak was probably never cheaper to buy. However, we learned early to follow others’ example and buy packs of meat tenderiser and use meat hammers in the preparation stage, in order to achieve anything like a normal quality of cooked steak.

We soon fitted into the way of married life on RAF Gatow. When the opportunity arose, we went out as a family for trips into the districts of Spandau and Charlottenburg for shopping and down to the Brandenburg Gate area for sightseeing. Kath had one advantage. As she was not limited by the security ban of linguist personnel, she was able to join a wives’ group visit to East Berlin. Prices in East Berlin – especially for Dresden China – were cheaper, particularly when advantage was taken of exchanging West German Marks for East German Marks at the booths on the West Berlin side. Here you could get 5 Ostmarks for 1 Deutschmark, when the official rate on the other side of the wall was 1:1. The West Berlin booths also provided an official receipt showing that you had bought them at parity prices. In buying Ostmarks [East German Marks] before you crossed, you ran a risk of either being caught and having your money confiscated or being unable to convert unused Ostmarks back on the western side. But the East Germans knew this was going on and, unless someone was seen trying to make a high value purchase, generally turned a blind eye. The experienced wives at Gatow were thus able to build up valuable collections of Dresden porcelain by buying them piece by piece over a period of time.

A Married Man’s Rugby

On the very first day of my return to Gatow I saw that the rugby team was out training on the field. As I got near, they spotted me and someone shouted “Leo, got your boots?”. Even though it was over a year since I left and many of the former teammates had moved on to other postings, they remembered me. I was delighted to be well thought of. I had a secret fear, however. Since getting married and becoming a father, my priorities were elsewhere. I knew that I wasn’t the player I was before; rugby was no longer my all-encompassing passion.

I soon got to know a newcomer who was to guide me back on track. Mick Labourne – the most Yorkshire of Yorkshiremen from Ossett – was now the RAF Gatow team captain. I became good friends with Mick, one of the few friendships which outlasted my time in the RAF. As he settled post-service back in Ossett, our families found time to socialise as civilians in our native surroundings.

Mick was a character; that he was a former boxer was recognisable from first sight. When an RAF Apprentice, he had battled his way to the finals of the national Amateur Boxing Association (ABA) competition. With him by my side in the team (he played centre to my wing position), it was reminiscent of having a personal ‘enforcer’ from my St Joseph’s rugby league days. We formed a strong defensive partnership and an aggressive attacking formation.

The photograph above shows the Gatow XV in an RAFG Cup Final again, this time in 1972. I am second from the right on the front row – with the silly grin – whilst Mick is third from the left on the front row. Recognisable are still a few from our 1970 cup winning side, plus once again the remarkable Wg Cdr Wynn Jones. This time we are all kitted out in tracksuits provided by my front row colleague with the ball, our camp PTI Brian McCann. We lost the final, correspondingly deciding that the tracksuits were to blame; such attire was far too posh for a rugby team. Brian had obtained these in individual sizes to suit the makeup of our side. We never saw the tracksuits again. Perhaps Brian disposed of them at one of Berlin’s Flea Markets.

Although I continued to play for the station side for the whole of my three-year posting, after 1972 we never made it to another RAFG Cup Final. Teams from the ‘Zone’ had learned not to underestimate the strength of the Gatow select, beating us narrowly on their home turf. (Due to operational requirements, representatives of the fighter stations in Western Germany were not allowed to take days off to travel up to Berlin. All Gatow’s games against other RAF teams took place away from home where the opposition thus had a full complement to select from). At least we had won the competition once. That’s all that mattered. The Gatow side continued to be dominant in games against other Berlin sides.

This time around, it suited me to be able to make excuses and leave the Rugby Club early after matches, before the personally unwelcome singing and drinking games began: I had a wife and daughter who needed my assistance at home.

Suzanne early 1972 At the Berlin Wall 1972

Christmas 1972 in RAF Gatow Married Quarters

Working ‘Up the Hill’

At the time of my return to Gatow in 1971, the full RAF linguist contingent was now permanently based ‘up the hill’, i.e. at the specialist listening station atop of ‘Devil’s Hill’, i.e. Teufelsberg. Under the old system, newly qualified in German, I would have been one of the lesser number of non-Russian specialists operating in the separate RAF section there. In the period that I had been away training at Luffenham, the expansion and complete reequipping of the British side of the building had been completed, now providing room for all our tradesmen in a single place.

As already mentioned, the station at Teufelsberg was constructed by US Forces, financed initially by the American National Security Agency (NSA). The expansion to include the RAF section was paid for by GCHQ, with UK Government support. The building – with its unmissable ‘mushroom’ aerial towers – was surrounded by a high fence with armed guards on patrol. [It was once reported that a trigger-happy guard shot dead a local pensioner who was collecting wood, but this may have been an urban myth]. The main entry was controlled by US Military Police, where the British went off to the right and the Americans to the left. Entry thereafter into our section was through an electronically controlled gate, manned by an RAF Policeman, who handed over personally numbered identity cards complete with lanyard. Each individual’s card was colour coded to denote which areas of the building he could enter.

Although we were in a building run by the US Military, our USAF counterparts were not housed with us. They had a separate station in the American Sector but were in permanent contact with us via a secure telephone link. We had little interaction with the US side at Teufelsberg – probably for security reasons – although we utilised their ‘Chow Hall’, located in an open access central section, for meals. The food there was not always to our taste (just how often can you eat hamburgers?) but I recall a couple of items I never missed, if available. They had packed “Drinking Milk” which was uniquely delicate in taste, whilst I developed a lifelong liking for meatloaf from dining there. I also recall seeing an item in the cold section which only the US Forces could offer: a packet labelled “Genuine Artificial Ice Cream”.

I was allocated to D Watch this time around, now continually working on a 28-day shift cycle. I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived on the first day. I hang around waiting for German work, when the watch Warrant Officer told me not to be choosy; he’d prefer me to concentrate on Russian. This suited me. Within a few days I was back on the main navigation frequency. I remember that, in this position, I more than once had two log pads on the go at the same time; one with Russian, the other with German. This could only be done at quiet periods, otherwise it would send you crazy. The accepted routine was that, if the operator on the frequency heard a transmission in another language, he’d yell out “GC on Main Nav!” for German [GC=German Communist] or “PL on Main Nav!” [PL=Polish]. A specialist in the particular language would then let it be known that he’d got it and the operator could go back to concentrating on the Russian intercepts. In the event, it was soon as if I’d never been away – only the watch had changed. In the duration of this posting, probably less than 10% of my work completed was on German intercepts.

Towards the end of my three-year stint, it was decided by NSA & GCHQ that perhaps it could be worthwhile looking into the matter of duplication of work by the two separate US & British SIGINT units in Berlin. To this end, a two weeks’ experiment was undertaken, where the possibility of mutual use of an American rapid reporting routine was tried. I was one of the team of eight SNCOs from the British side chosen to take part.

In preparation I went to visit the USAF listening base at Lichterfelde to familiarise myself with their system. Unlike us, they employed a senior, experienced “Line Walker” who was constantly monitoring the work of his team, whilst walking up and down the set room. He was in microphone contact with both his operators and his analysis colleagues. He would report any significant happening to his backroom team, who would pass the message to a waiting teleprinter operator to send off to NSA immediately via a secure link. It has to be admitted that their methodology had ours beaten for speed of action. However, it must be added that their system was not foolproof. Mistakes were sometimes made and significant events missed. Our reporting system was correspondingly slower, but we were more thorough in the analysis and validity of our conclusions. A combination of both approaches – if feasible – therefore made sense.

Two SNCOs per shift were trained in working this technique, where I tended to be the leading administrator on our team. The USAF sent over a teleprinter operator – complete with his own machine – who worked the same shifts as us for continuity. In this joint operation – called “Division of Effort” – my job was to pass the brief activity messages to him for transmission. In accordance with standard US Forces routine, these were called KLIEGLIGHT Reports. The operator was used to the required style and content, so this helped considerably. All this was going on whilst the rest of the watch worked in our usual procedure. However, they were all aware of what I was doing and so assisted me throughout, without us having to go to the extreme of copying their ‘Line Walker’ system.

After the completion of the experiment, the USAF teleprinter operators left us and we went back to normal operations. I believe that the results of our co-operation trial were sent to both NSA and GCHQ for analysis, but as I never returned operationally to Gatow after 1974, I do not know if our efforts led to any amendments of operational procedure on either side. The one thing I do remember was the comment of the American teleprinter operator at a busy time during the test: “God, you guys are good!”. I’ll take that as a positive.

1973 – A Year to Remember

1973 was a most significant year for me.

A Brother for Suzanne

It all started in late 1972, when we were delighted to find out that Kath was once again pregnant. All progressed well until late May 1973, when she was taken into the Military Hospital at the Olympic Stadium for observation. Remembering the false alarms that had happened at North Witham, plus the fact that her due date was early June, we both decided that it wasn’t necessary for me to take immediate leave. I would work one final day before starting my planned holiday. Suzanne was safe with a trusted childminder.

At the end of my final shift, the RAF Transport bus from Teufelsberg was stopped at the Main Gate by the Orderly Corporal of the day, who just happened to be my friend Mick Louth. “Is Leo on the bus?” he shouted out. Seeing me, he announced “Congratulations! Kath had a baby boy this afternoon. BMH has just rung up to tell you.” In this unusual way, I was informed of the birth of my son Paul James Leonard at the British Military Hospital, Berlin, on 28 May 1973.

A Family Visit

One advantage for military personnel posted to all camps in Germany was the possibility of having family to visit and stay in married quarters. Charter flights – which were also used to ferry soldiers and airmen on leave – flew from Luton to all RAF bases in the country, including to RAF Gatow. To take advantage of this, it was first necessary to receive official permission to visit, then to book a suitable flight. Under this arrangement, my mum and Carole came out to visit us in Berlin from Tuesday 24 July to Tuesday 31 July 1973. The received visit permission document is copied here.

They flew in on the now long-defunct Court Line Airways. This was the first time that my mother and Carole had ever flown. As I was on babysitting duties with Paul, I left it to Kath to go down to the Air Movements building on camp to meet them on arrival. I recall hearing the aircraft landing and then, after what seemed only a matter of minutes, hearing the happy voices of my mother and sister on our stairs. It’s a memory that has stayed with me down the years. Although we had planned this, it all seemed so improbable. It was a delight to be able to actually greet them both in our realm.

The Start of an Ongoing Illness

Kath had told me from the very start of our relationship that she had suffered from mental illness from time to time in the past. Although she had periods of what we called “feeling down” during our time together to date, it was generally controllable. However, soon after our successful family visits, signs of her depression-led illness really came to the fore. Initially it was believed that this was Post Natal Depression (PND) and, although this may have had an influence, it was soon apparent that the reason for her behaviour was more deep-rooted than this.

The British Military Hospital had a resident psychiatrist who led her treatment with suppression medications. Whilst she took these, she was somewhat quieter, but otherwise fine. Unfortunately, she had a habit of insisting that she did not need these medicines after a period of feeling better and, unknown to me, she would stop taking her prescribed tablets. I soon began to recognise when she had done this, as she would become hyperactive for a time, then almost immediately be totally subdued. The worst part of this came around early in January 1974, when she started to hallucinate, so much so that we had to call an emergency ambulance to take her to BMH.

After this, she continued her medication without break and the situation returned to more or less normal. However, she decided then that perhaps she could get better treatment back in the UK. After discussion, it was agreed that she would travel home prior to our allotted return date. Accordingly, we arranged for Kath and the children to fly home in March, whilst I would live in the Sergeants’ Mess for the next few weeks, until my end of tour date in April. I already had my next posting: back to Luffenham, this time as an Applied Language Instructor on Training Wing.

With the wisdom of hindsight, it is now obvious that Kath had a bipolar condition with massive mood swings. Although BMH had a psychiatrist, it should be remembered that this was at a time when an admission of mental illness would often by greeted by a “Just sort yourself out” reaction, especially in the military. (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder [PTSD], for example, was only really taken seriously after the millennium, initially in soldiers returning from Afghanistan). The military medical solution to mental illness at that time was twofold: mask the symptoms with medication and then get rid of the individual as quickly as possible. I believe Kath had sensed this, hence her wish to return home early.

Although I did not really know how to treat her when her illness came through – there was no-one to advise me – I tried my best to be sympathetic to her condition. There was however one thing I should say here: at no time was there a danger that she would harm or neglect the children. She was always very caring for them. If there was one thing that did concern her, it was that her troubles would detrimentally affect my career progress. I told her not to worry. We’d get through it.

Promotion

Exactly four years after receiving accelerated promotion to Corporal, on 1 December 1973 I was advanced to the substantive rank of Sergeant. At the age of just over 26, for a short period I was reportedly the youngest Senior Non-Commissioned Officer in the RAF who had joined up direct. There were a few younger ex-apprentice and aircrew Sergeants around, as well as others holding the ‘acting’ (unpaid) rank, but the linguist trade was by far the one for quickest promotion from ‘civvy street’ direct entry to fully paid-up SNCO.

The first shift to be worked in my new rank happened to be a night stint. As we had an early fall of snow that evening, I decided to wear my great coat (blue woollen overcoat) to go down to catch the RAF coach at the main gate. (Although I did not use my great coat often, experience had shown that sometimes in snowy conditions the bus could not make it up the winding road to the top of T’Berg, so it paid to be prepared for the long walk uphill on arrival there). To this day, I can recall clearly how the brand-new stripes seemed to shine in the snow-laden streetlight beams. I made the walk down to the main gates highly aware of the illuminated badges on my arms; it made me feel proud and totally content. It was probably at this moment when I felt most strongly that I had at last achieved something notable, despite my stumbling start in life. [Some forty-five years later my RAF Association membership card detail was amended to show my last serving rank, i.e. Sgt B Leonard. Not everyone was in agreement with this move by RAFA management, sending their card back to be changed to Mr, Mrs, Miss, or Ms. I, on the other hand, was highly gratified that my RAF achievement was now still on show in this way].

My colleagues were most generous in passing on their congratulations. In line with custom, a few days later I was introduced into the Sergeants’ Mess by the senior Warrant Officer from my watch. I was of course pleased to be part of this group, with its well-defined traditions, but my general dislike of formal occasions came to the forefront here. As someone who prefers to stay in the background and contribute as anonymously as possible, such events were just not for me. I only went to one formal “dining in” event – buying a used-once-only mess dress – and this was sufficient for me. I’m pleased to say that, in the following years, I met other SNCOs who also preferred to miss out on these occasions, so I was not alone.

New Year’s Eve

Although I had worked one Christmas Day on my first tour in Berlin, prior to flying back to UK on Boxing Day, I only worked one New Year’s Eve during my six years at Gatow. Our watch was scheduled to be on night shift from 11pm to 8am. In the event, I made arrangements with my counterparts on other watches to allow one to finish his evening shift early and another start his following day shift late. In this way, my shift for New Year’s Eve 1973 started at 8pm and finished at 12 noon. This was to give my colleagues the chance to have a few celebration drinks at the planned parties on camp. As it happened, I probably partook of as much alcohol as they. And I was on duty!

It was decided that the watch would be reduced to one Flight Sergeant, one Sergeant (me), three Corporals and a couple of Junior Technicians. We were secure in the knowledge that there would be no work for us to cover – other than drunken Russian singing on one frequency early in the morning – so made ourselves comfortable for the long haul. Just before midnight, I mentioned to my Flight Sergeant that I had considered bringing drinks in to celebrate the New Year but had thought better of it. At that point, my normally strict disciplinarian Irish superior put his hand below the desk and pulled out a blue RAF cloth bag. It contained three champagne bottles. His comment was “If we are not allowed to be rewarded for our sacrifices tonight, then the rules are all wrong.” We opened the bottles. All present toasted the local New Year and then, an hour later, the UK and Ireland event.

When my Flight Sergeant colleague went to the American Canteen for dinner during the night, he came back with a US Master Sergeant he knew. He had the right identity card to access our section, so there was no security problem. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and plastic cups in the other. “I suppose you guys are also not supposed to drink on duty, but what the heck, it’s New Year” he said. We all toasted our relative 1974 starts, as by now it was getting near to midnight in the USA. He then invited us to the chow hall, where he promised more liquor was available. He was right. Even when we went back for breakfast, there were still some US soldiers who were celebrating the coming of the New Year in their home states.

We all made a point of drinking coffee practically nonstop for the last few hours of our shift, lest our incoming replacements thought us to be drunk on duty. When they arrived, they declared regret that we had had to work and not been able to celebrate. We told them not to worry. We’d had an unforgettable night.

Additional Years

Once comfortable in married life in the RAF, the joint decision was made to make this my career and “sign on for life”. “Life” in those days was a 22-year engagement. I made the application, receiving the disappointing response that the complement for my year of exit was full; the best full-term engagement that could be offered at that time was 25 years. I was surprised and disappointed by this proposition – a quarter of a century! That was just too large a commitment for us to accept.

After some horse trading on my behalf by the Admin Sergeant at Gatow (through his friend who dealt with our trade group at RAF Records in Gloucester), it was agreed that I would add 6 more years to my term of service - bringing it to 15 years in total - with the option to apply again for a full-term engagement in the future. As I would be serving more than 12 years in any case, I would become eligible for an RAF Pension from the age of 60.

Having committed to extra years, I was now able to apply for the next desired career move – to become an instructor. With sufficient service in the bag, I was now able to devote the required three years to this task. I volunteered for the role and, to my surprise, was immediately accepted. There was a vacancy for a German instructor on the Applied Language Flight at Training Wing.

This was the position I was to fill after the end of my Gatow service in April 1974. However, there was an unexpected occurrence to deal with before my departure.

Home Fire

For reasons that I cannot recall now, it had been decided that I would work the night shift which ended the morning before Kath and the kids were due to fly back to UK. Perhaps it was to keep my leave entitlement as full as possible. After all, we had packed all bags the night before and, as the flight was in the afternoon, I still would have time for a short sleep before they set off. Whatever the cause, it was a decision I was to come to regret.

As I was walking back from the transport bus with a colleague, we saw one of the station’s fire engines parked outside the Queensway Married Quarters. “I wonder where that is?” asked my friend. “It’s our flats!” I realised. And it was. By the time I got to the entrance of the building, I first heard the noise of the oxygen equipment used by the firemen, then noticed smoke billowing out of our flat. “Kath’s here with the children. They’re OK” said one of my neighbours.

The Station Warrant Officer soon arrived and let me know that there had been a fire in the settee in the living room, but it was now fully extinguished. In view of the situation, we decided that it was best for my family to continue their plans to fly home. A room for me would be found in the Sergeants’ Mess. I first saw Kath and the children off at Air Movements – still in uniform from the night before – and then came back to the flat to survey the damage. (Their packed cases had been standing in the hallway near the door and were therefore unspoiled).

On entry to the flat, the first thing noticeable was a lingering smell of burning, although all windows were open for ventilation. Luckily, it appeared that the effects of the fire were confined mainly to the front room. Although this was completely covered with soot, a closed door had apparently ensured that other rooms – although temporarily inhabitable – were saved from severe smoke damage.

Within minutes of my arrival back at the flat, the place was crowded with workmates who had come to assist me in cleaning up the flat. I can never fully express my appreciation of their voluntary help at this time. Many from my watch – who could not have slept their full after-nights session – arrived armed with brushes, buckets and cloths. I have an abiding memory of one of my colleagues – a large build individual – halfway up a ladder cleaning the walls, absolutely black with soot from head to toe.

The Families Office staff were marvellous with their reaction to my situation. They arranged the full renovation of the flat and its contents without the slightest mention of compensation payments from me. They even allowed me a sneak inspection of the fully restored flat, before it was handed over to new tenants.

I also spoke to the Sergeant in charge of the Fire Section, who informed me that the cause of the fire was probably a discarded cigarette. (Both Kath and I were smokers). He told me not to worry, as such things could happen to anyone. He would, however, be distributing a letter to all tenants in married quarters, warning of the dangers from discarded cigarettes. He told me not to take this personally; others on camp would know of what happened to us. It was therefore an opportune chance for him to repeat the reminder which he gave out from time to time.

He added a personal point. He told me how his, mainly German, fire team had returned to their airfield base pumped up with excitement. Due to the nature of their main designated role – standing by for aircraft fires – their life tended to be made up of repeated training and maintenance of equipment. For most of them, this was the first time they had used oxygen equipment in fighting a genuine fire. He wasn’t going to go as far as to thank us for providing the opportunity, but he was proud of the professional way in which his team had reacted throughout.

One final point I have never mentioned before. When I was reunited with the family, I picked up Suzanne and Paul to comfort them. It was then that I noticed that Paul had a small amount of crinkled hair on the back of his head. It is quite possible that, at some time, he had been near to the seat of the fire, which had caused this singeing. The consequences did not bear thinking about. But he was safe and well. Aware of Kath’s delicate mental condition, I did not reveal it, neither at the time nor later. I could, after all, have been wrong in my judgement.

Sergeants’ Mess Accommodation

As a result of the unforeseen incident, I moved into the Sergeants’ Mess slightly sooner than anticipated. What a different life this was. My single room was large, well equipped, and with en suite facilities. From later experiences of accommodation in other Sergeants’ Messes, Gatow offered outstanding amenities, but I wasn’t to know this at the time. The thing that I enjoyed was that meals were served by waiters or waitresses. No more queuing at the buffet for me. And the bar was only a few steps down the corridor. Yes, I could get used to this…

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