RAF Instructor

1974-1977


I arrived once more at Training Wing, North Luffenham, in April 1974. This time not as a student; I was to be an instructor in the trade side of languages. I was to be a member of the Applied Languages Flight (‘ALF’) in ‘B’ Block.


I first met the small team to which I would belong – one Flight Sergeant, one Chief Technician and three Sergeants. We were commanded for the majority of my time there by a Flight Lieutenant, who was a former SNCO linguist. It was, without doubt, a period when I was continually learning from my associates, particularly as concerned how to deal with subordinates. My colleagues were positive mentors for me in so many ways, both militarily and personally.


The first task that had to be organised was to get me on an instructor training course. I was informed one unusual aspect of this training: it would be a course normally reserved for officers. For reasons never fully explained, linguist was the only trade – along with SNCO aircrew members – where its instructors were taught alongside officers. [It is perhaps pertinent to point out here a fact about linguist tradesmen’s qualifications. It was reported to me that, when the RAF Education team did a force-wide survey of non-officer ‘O’ and ‘A’ level achievements in the late 1960s, linguists came out well in first place against all other ground trades. This may explain the decision to train us alongside officers].


Training to be a Trainer

My two-week Ground Instructional Techniques Course 2436 took place at the RAF School of Education at Upwood in Cambridgeshire in June 1974.

I am on the first left on the front row. It can be seen that we had two Army officers and two civilians on the course. One civilian was from the Met Office, whilst the other was an Air Traffic Controller from Bermuda. The airman in the back row, to the left of the Bermudan civilian, was very interesting. Around a month after this course, I saw him on TV receiving a bravery award for his work as a winchman on rescue helicopters. As could be expected of such heroes, he had made no mention of this during his time with us.

 

The Squadron Leader in the centre of the picture took me aside before the end of the course, advising me strongly to go for a commission (i.e. become an officer). I thought about this for a short while, then decided I’d be better concentrating on mastering my upcoming instructional duties before planning anything further. During the next three years, he was not the only one suggesting that I explore going down the officer line.


The two-officer instructor team at Upwood were exceptional. They involved all from start to end of the course, making everyone feel special in their individual fields. Their task was to take our specialist knowledge and to show us how best to transmit this to our future students. In this, they used two then currently modern instructing techniques: “Eliciting Concepts” and “Instructing by Objectives”.


  • Eliciting Concepts

This method of teaching requires the instructor to get all the students involved in providing answers to a series of guided queries, using the Pose – Pause – Pounce routine of questioning, to build up piecemeal the required subject knowledge. The tongue-in-cheek example given by our instructors still sticks in my memory:


An Army Instructor started the lesson by asking “What’s that wall made of?”. Soldier’s answer: “Bricks”. “How are the bricks kept together?”. Another’s answer: “Mortar”. The trainer said “Good! That’s what we’re going to talk about today – the 51mm Mortar”. 


Although meant only as a joke (I hope, as there were two Army officers on our course), this anecdote gives a good idea of the methodology used in getting students to think about an idea or situation and getting them to provide the step-by-step answers.  Although considered difficult – even impossible – to use practically by some on the course, we all had a go. Although not everything in my subject matter could be handled by employing the ‘eliciting concepts’ method, I did find later, when the technique was applicable, it was most useful in keeping students motivated and interested. However, I did employ the next introduced routine habitually:


  • Instructing by Objectives

Again, it is an instructor’s humorous synopsis of the approach which stuck in my mind. (This is best appreciated when delivered in a Yorkshire accent, as he did. Looking at me, he apologised in advance to all Yorkshiremen before delivering it): 


“Tell ‘em what you’re going to tell ‘em.  Tell ‘em.  And tell ‘em you’ve told ‘em”.


Under this system, it was first necessary to first inform the students what, by the end of the lesson, they should be able to demonstrate proficiency in. Thus, at the culmination of a session conducted utilising the ‘eliciting concepts’ technique, the students would be tested on what they had learned. Two important considerations here.  The objective is for them to demonstrate the newly gained knowledge; it is not sufficient for the objective to state “At the end of the lesson, you will have learned...” Students had to show that they had taken it in.

 

In line with this approach – gradually being introduced throughout the RAF – courses would now be re-written “in objective terms”. In this way, the objectives – the things that a student must be able to demonstrate at the end of each lesson – would form the outline of instructor’s notes. I didn’t know it at the time, but revision of instruction plans for the complete trade elements of courses – now officially “to be stated in objective terms” – was to play a considerable role in my subsequent Training Wing work.


At the end of the course, we all had to give a sample 10-minute lecture, employing all the techniques we had learned, including the use of overhead projections. My chosen lesson was the Russian alphabet, utilising a traffic signal – red, amber and green – system to demonstrate the different sounds of Cyrillic characters. As I was the junior rank present, I was the first to give my lesson to all the other course members and, of course, the instructors. It was nerve-racking but the course mates were gentle in their critique of my performance, as they knew their turn was yet to come. I was pleased that I had been deliberately given the first go. I could now relax and observe others’ efforts. Plus, I passed the course, which was the most important thing.


On the subject of training, I was coerced into taking an in-house course, much against my wishes. The WOp Spec trainees in ‘B’ block were taught to type, as their method of recording morse intercepts was by using a typewriter. It had already been suggested that eventually linguists would be required to type out their logs. It would therefore be advantageous if I – as an instructor – could become a competent typist as quickly as possible. I managed to find excuses to miss the first two offered courses, but eventually had to submit to the inevitable after a strong word from the flight’s commanding officer. It was, without doubt, the best decision in life ever forced upon me.


We learned our typing skills using old stand-up manual typewriters, encouraged to hit the keys to the rhythm of music played through headphones. I still recall the first words I ever typed: heed the dry deer. If you look at a keyboard, you will see that these letters are entered only using the left hand. Gradually different letters were introduced until both hands were being used over the complete keyboard, all still to the background of increasingly faster music beats. 


Interestingly, I still use the typing warmup phrase recommended by the instructors: now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party, although I thought that this socialist refrain was a strange sentiment to be repeating daily, considering the nature of the work we were training for at the school. At the beginning of the course we worked lower case letters only. Once we became more adept, we started to use upper case and numerals. At the end of the two weeks, we took the test. Perhaps unsurprisingly, everyone attained typing speeds well over that required. We were informed that we were at standards in excess of those acquired from starter Pitman Training courses. We all achieved levels between 20 and 40 words per minute.


The most valuable part of this training, of course, was not obvious at the time. It was only a few years later, when the use of computers became more and more required, that the significance of my touch-typing skills came to the fore. Thank you RAF for imposing this initially unwanted proficiency on me.


Married Quarters on Camp

Although the North Witham option still existed, I had one distinct advantage in applying for married quarters on my return to RAF North Luffenham – I was to be permanent staff at Training Wing. This gave me priority consideration for accommodation on camp. In line with this, we ‘marched in’ to our new quarters there within a couple of weeks. The three-bedroomed semi-detached house was on a small estate near to the disused runway yet within walking distance of all facilities, including the camp NAAFI supermarket. Although not a newbuild like North Witham, the house was fine with its sizeable garden and access to a children’s play park. We all settled in quickly.


When we later got a dog – a black Labrador which had failed gundog training on the Queen’s Sandringham Estate – I would often go for training runs with him (“Ben”) around the airfield peritrack, whilst he would spend ages in the adjacent play park playing limitless “fetch” with the local children. They would come round and ask “Is Ben playing out?”, he was so popular. 


I had taken the dog as a favour for a teammate from Oakham Rugby Club who was a gamekeeper on the Royal estates; otherwise the fate of Ben and his similarly gun-shy brother was looking grim. Much as I loved having him around – he was brilliant with the kids – it was never going to be a long-term arrangement. 


Luckily, my rugby connections came to the rescue once more, this time through a player in the station side. An Air Traffic Flight Lieutenant at Midland Radar on the North Luffenham airfield, he had recently bought a house in a local village and mentioned that he was now looking for a dog. I introduced him to Ben; there was a mutual bond at first meeting. 


A couple of weeks later my officer colleague picked me up on camp and took me out to see how the dog had settled in. On arrival there, we were told that Ben was not around. He was in a neighbouring cornfield. We looked over and then I saw just the tip of his tail weaving above the corn as he chased rabbits backwards and forwards through the undergrowth.   I told them not to call him over; the sight of his tail above the corn was sufficient for me. Considering his precarious recent past, Ben had now found his ideal location – my colleague’s kids adored him – and we were all delighted at this outcome.

Back in the Old Rugby Routine

It didn’t take long to reacquaint myself with the rugby teams at North Luffenham and Oakham.  I played for the station side during the week and the local town side at weekends.  However, my participation at Oakham was not as ardent as previously.  I fluctuated between the first and second teams there.  I was generally happy with this situation.  My married family status was already influencing my approach to playing the game; rugby was no longer a primary consideration.


Nevertheless, I was delighted by an initial success achieved with the station side. Playing alongside a completely new set of teammates in the traditional start-of-season tournament at RAF Binbrook in North Lincolnshire, our team of strangers turned out to be easy winners of the competition.  The contest, arranged in knockout format, featured all RAF sides from the Midlands and the North.  Games lasted 10 minutes per half, with a final of 15 minutes each way. 


The picture shows our selection group for the tournament, photographed afterwards at North Luffenham with the “Binbrook Bomb” trophy.  Only after this success was it was found out that at least four of the side had represented the RAF Rugby XV at various times.  Interestingly for me (positioned in the middle of the back row), six of this team were current or trainee linguists.


The Binbrook tournament is still going, even though the camp was closed down a long time ago.  The competition we won was for full 15-a-side teams; soon afterwards the name was transferred to a 7-a-side contest.  As recently as 2010 the “Binbrook Bomb” name was resurrected for the RAF’s Annual 7s Tournament at RAF Halton.

An Instructor More Theoretical than Practical

Although not a natural teacher, I thoroughly enjoyed my time on the Applied Language Flight. Within days of arrival it was clear that, although I was now the Wing’s resident German Instructor, I would be encouraged to become involved in all aspects of our activities. There was only one German course scheduled per annum, therefore I would have at least three-quarters of my time in which to follow other pursuits. 


In my three years on ALF, I instructed only two German and two Russian courses full time. The rest of my stay there was taken up with teaching specialist small-scale courses and – in my majority out-of-classroom periods – completely rewriting various course instructing notes, i.e. transforming their contents into “statements in objective terms”, as taught to me at RAF Upwood.


The specialist courses in which I was active were different in contents. 


First, I was tasked in putting together a course to train the first official “Spec Transcriber” in German. For this programme I was able to obtain German Communist recordings from secret sources. I interspersed these with standard air-to-ground intercepts, making a most difficult final transcribing test. In retrospect I now realise that I did this simply because I could. I had been advised by my ALF colleagues to make this as tricky as possible; I went too far. The candidate on this course was my old friend Brian Scott. In theory, he failed his final test, due to the complexity of my contributions. However, this made no difference whatsoever to his subsequent posting and duties back at Gatow, thank goodness.  Brian died early in 2020 but I had time to apologise to him for my actions, having regained contact with him a few months previously. I am relieved that I was able to do this in time.

A second specialist course taught – for which I first reworked the teaching objectives framework – was of colleagues who were training to become Air Signaller aircrew on Nimrod R1 aircraft of 51 Squadron, then based at RAF Wyton.  Together with my most trusted colleague Flight Sergeant John Kenyon, we introduced my friends Al Robson, Paul Watts and Ben Ridley to the kind of Russian communications traffic they would be likely to encounter during their future flights around Europe and beyond.


By the time I instructed this 5 Air Sigs (RC) Course in 1976, I had already decided that I wished to apply for consideration to become an Air Signaller on completion of my instructor duties.


One interesting factor in their training was the promotion consequences of re-mustering to Air Signaller.  As aircrew, promotion is guided by the total years served.  In this way, due to their previous service, once on the squadron Alan and Ben went almost instantaneously through the promotion steps Sergeant – Flight Sergeant – Master Aircrew.  I think Paul had to be satisfied with becoming a mere Flight Sergeant.  


Ben was outstanding in another manner; to my knowledge he was the only Air Signaller ever to also display paratrooper’s wings on his uniform.  Prior to joining the RAF, he had served several years in the Parachute Regiment.

Another course I was involved in from time to time was the introduction to linguists’ activities for officers who had completed Russian language training in ‘A’ Block. Although their future duties were unknown at the time – some perhaps would become watch officers at Digby or Gatow – they all had a sufficiently high-level security clearance to be given any information they wished to know. I found these short courses most fascinating, if only to observe the gradual respect we linguists obtained from these officer class representatives. On request, I would let them have a go at live logging; the results were often hilarious.


One final specialism I inherited was Soviet aircraft slide shows, to be given to all ‘B’ Block students nearing the end of their courses. The previous presenter of this topic – Chief Technician Frank Hamilton – was a fountain of knowledge; my task was to absorb as much of this as I could prior to his departure. My first such presentation alone was, to be honest, a disaster. I gave this to a WOp Spec course, endeavouring to remember as many of Frank’s interesting anecdotes as possible during its progress. I announced incorrect names and details. Then at the end, I invited questions. I was inundated with queries; they hadn’t noticed my errors. Or, if so, they were not admitting it. Eventually I was to improve my aircraft types presentation, but I was comforted that Frank was not around to critique my performance. He would, without doubt, have had a comment or two to add in his inimitable, gritty and witty Scottish style.


Visits Away

Before he left on posting, Frank told me that the aircraft slide collection was due an update. He gave me the details of the department at the Ministry of Defence who could assist. I contacted them and was given a time and date to go down to London to inspect the available pictures.


I arrived at MOD in Whitehall (in civilian clothing) at the allotted time and gained entry by showing my ID Card to check against the appointments register. After a few minutes I was collected by a Squadron Leader of the Australian Air Force who escorted me to his room. Once there, he literally opened all his files to me, warning me that some of the items on display were labelled TOP SECRET, therefore I would have to be careful to whom I showed them.


With his assistance we sorted out a most interesting selection, adding notes against each photograph number for my later reference. It was then arranged that the items we had chosen would be copied onto 35mm slides, to be sent to Training Wing with my notes by secure diplomatic bag. At this point, my helper suddenly remembered something: he had forgotten to check my identity. Having already shown me many highly sensitive images, this all seemed a little late in the day. He commented that the fact that I had successfully got past the entry desk indicated I was who I professed to be. I pondered this on the train back. Perhaps I should have volunteered proof of identity immediately on meeting him? Nevertheless, I was left with a feeling that security at the heart of MOD could have been tighter.


On the subject of visits away from Training Wing, another trip stays in my mind, but not for military reasons. My fellow instructor Peter England and I paid one of our infrequent visits to Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) in Cheltenham. The aim of such trips was to be brought up to date with topics which may merit adding to our training schedule, as well as picking out recordings potentially useful for playing to trainees. (It was on a similar visit that we encountered Geoffrey Prime, in addition to later selecting unusual German Communist transmissions for use on the “Spec Transcriber” course). 


Pete was driving, there and back along the picturesque Fosse Way old Roman road. On our return route, we decided to call in for a bite to eat at a roadside pub in Gloucestershire. On entering, it was found out that we were too late for a hot meal, but sandwiches were available. We sat in the empty bar of the pub, getting into conversation with the friendly landlord. I noticed that the wall of the room was filled with cricket photographs and memorabilia. By now Pete was in conversation about where the landlord came from, the North East. He then looked around and said “Do you like cricket?”  The landlord simply laughed. I had already spotted that we were talking to Tom Graveney, one of England’s greatest ever batsmen. [He was enrolled in 2009 in the ICC Cricket Hall of Fame]. This was simply lost on Pete, who was not in the least sport orientated. Even to this day I chuckle inwardly at the thought of him asking this legend if he liked cricket. It is to his immense credit that Tom Graveney continued the conversation without mentioning who he was. He was known as a gentleman. We could now confirm this from personal experience.


Course Compiling Expertise

As the latest person to complete the Instructional Techniques Course, there was only one natural candidate to start the required transition of existing training course notes to statements in objective terms – me. I was keen to prove my worth amongst my highly experienced colleagues, so I welcomed the challenge. Encouraged by the section commander, Flight Lieutenant Peter Radford, and my senior instructor Flight Sergeant John Kenyon, I got stuck into the task, starting with my German course.


It should be added that, at the time, we did not have the advantages of computers. Not even electric typewriters. I had to prepare all the statements by manual typing the text onto copying stencils. These stencils were then placed on a Gestetner machine for printing out, where the ink ran through the indentations formed by the typing, to produce a copy onto the blank sheets of paper introduced into the machine.


Tricky as this operation was at the best of times – stencil correction fluid was a precious commodity – we also had the considerations of security to bear in mind. Blank stencils were numbered and their details recorded when handed out. All had to be answered for, even those with mistakes which were bound for the bin. These had to be handed in at the secure safe room on the Wing, where the only civilian working there would record the progress of all documents. She was responsible for organising the destruction (or shredding) of classified items, as well as overseeing the quantity of copies produced on the Gestetner, which was also located in her office. Not a single sheet of paper containing classified information went uncontrolled. It may seem overkill looking back, but we all knew the reasons for the measures and quickly adapted to the regime.


Having completed the draft of my German course in objective terms, I showed this to my superiors. They were most satisfied with my efforts, encouraging me to expand my operations to involve just about every course covered by ALF.  As I was not trained in the language, I couldn’t work on Polish and, until I had passed the Q-SIG-AN analyst course, I couldn’t deal with that. I joined the analyst course – for SNCO linguists – in January 1975, after which I was directed to revise its objective guidelines too. By the end of 1976, I had completed a total rewrite of all the courses I was qualified to tackle.


“Walks on Water”

I knew that I was well thought of on ALF, as the unit’s Wing Commander called me into his office one day to inform me that, if I were to apply, he would give me a personal recommendation for a commission. ALF’s boss Flt Lt Peter Radford, who had already completed a similar move from SNCO linguist to officer, also repeated this offer. I am sure that this all came about following my successful work to amend the linguist applied training programmes in the manner demanded by the RAF Education Branch. Unfortunately, personal circumstances were to dictate that a move to officer remained only a pipe dream.

In 2019 I exercised my right to demand a copy of my RAF service record.  I hoped that it would clarify a few points which had bothered me since leaving the RAF in 1978.


The extract shown left covers my promotion dates and – most importantly – a record of my yearly personal assessments.  I have tried to determine the significance of Assessments A, B & C, without direct success.  My best guesses for them are:

A = Trade Capabilities

B = Supervisory Competence

C = Personal Abilities


I spoke to a RAFA colleague recently about these assessments.  As a former RAF officer, he had experience of compiling them.  His general comment was “Anything over 6 average is acceptable.  Anyone receiving a 9 walks on water”. As can be seen, I received a maximum evaluation for my last fully completed year of service.  This includes my final days on ALF, when I was being advised to apply for a commission.  What was also remarkable for me was that under the “Promotion Recommend” column, I was awarded a FIT/SPEC REC response.  This denoted that the officer assessing my performance believed not only that I was fit for promotion, he gave an additional special recommendation for an advance in rank.  I know from experience that such a special recommendation for promotion can only be given by a junior officer with the endorsement of a senior officer, in this case the Wing Commander at Training Wing.


As will be seen later, the shift from this exalted opinion to having to leave the RAF came about within a short 12-month period.  I still cannot understand why was more effort not extended to keeping me, if I was such a high-flyer?  What makes this even more curious is a snippet of information I was given privately by the Sergeant at RAF Records handling my discharge. According to him, the Wing Commander at Luffenham had proposed me for a British Empire Medal (BEM).  We shall never know.

A Worsening Illness

Within a few months of settling into life at North Luffenham, my wife Kath’s mental illness problems increased. During the time we were there, her condition fluctuated considerably, with periods of depression followed by phases of normal behaviour. Her treatment was covered by local hospitals who gave her various therapies, ranging from strong antidepressant medication to electroconvulsive therapy. During her worst periods, she spent weeks in a mental health clinic. (Generally the RAF medical service was not involved). With her habit of refusing to complete prescribed courses of drugs once she felt better, her health continued to experience low lows and high highs. At the beginning we were optimistic that a cure to her ills would be found; later we allowed the path of her condition to direct our lives.


As stressed before, my wife was never a danger to the children, although when ill she could neglect their care. My colleagues at Training Wing – particularly my superiors Peter Radford and John Kenyon – were aware of my situation and provided constant personal support. My work was important to me: it acted as a safety valve in the situation. I did not want to take up the offers of having time off. Also, continued rugby playing allowed me to vent any pent-up emotions. (In retrospect I realise that continuing to play a potentially dangerous contact sport was not the best choice to make in the circumstances, but I did not pay any attention to this at the time. Thank goodness I was never injured in these games).


In the periods that Kath was away in hospital, or on her annual two weeks at Wimbledon, I was able to obtain a child minder on camp for Suzanne and Paul. The children were great during these periods. They had quickly got used to the prevailing conditions. On occasion I was able to take them back to Huddersfield to spend time under Granny’s care; they loved that.


After a couple of unpredictable years, things came to a head. Although Kath was relatively well and had taken a job as a barmaid at the local pub, relations between her and me were strained. Perhaps influenced by her illness, she became promiscuous. I found out about her adultery and, after a discussion, it was agreed that we would separate. She would go to live with a friend in London, whilst the children would stay with me. At this time, my marriage was officially categorised as “separated” on my RAF documentation, giving me certain advantages in military matters. (I would not be called up for Orderly Sergeant duties, for example).


After a couple of months away, Kath came back and we agreed to try to sort out our problems. I was offered a short detachment placement in Germany, where she would live at home with the children in my absence. This arrangement worked well and so, when it came to sorting out my next posting, it was agreed that we would face this together. There was an agreement in the RAF where, as far as possible, individuals would receive the posting of their choice after completing an instructor duty at a training establishment. We didn’t want to return to Gatow, so it was decided that we would go to RAF Wyton in Cambridgeshire, where I could follow up my wish to be re-mustered to Air Signaller on 51 Squadron’s Nimrod aircraft.

 

Filling Time

Early in 1977, it was clear that my time as an ALF instructor was coming to an end. New training staff were scheduled to be posted in, whilst I had completed all the previously available out-of-classroom work. However, Training Wing staff were keen to assist in easing my situation. With the tacit approval of the Wing Commander, they found ways to keep me occupied until the termination of my three-year posting, reasoning that I would be better supported by people who knew me at North Luffenham, rather than departing early to a new camp.  In this way, two time-filling roles were found for me.


The Academic ‘A’ Block of the Training Wing had a traditional position for an Administrative SNCO, who manned the office with entry desk and was responsible for all disciplinary matters in the building. The Sergeant manning the position was waiting for a replacement, to allow him to undertake overdue knee surgery. With me taking his role for a couple of months, he was able to obtain an early surgical appointment. On handover to me, he pointed out one advantage of the position – it came complete with bike.


This work – after the demanding routine of the ALF – was a breeze. The administrative side of operations was fixed, requiring little input from me. New trainees were often surprised to hear the Desk Sergeant talking to the civilian instructors in Russian and German; I hadn’t the heart to let them in on the secret. (This position was normally filled by a Clerk Admin SNCO, not a Linguist). 


As for the bike, this was a blessing. It reduced the ten-minute walk from my quarters to a leisurely few minutes’ ride. Probably wartime issue, painted black with an RAF roundel and serial number, riding the bike took me back instantly to my days as a paper boy in Huddersfield. I was disappointed when I had to hand it over to my replacement.


Whilst on this duty at ‘A’ Block, I was asked if I was willing to undertake a temporary detachment to 54 Signals Unit. This month-long time away was to test the feasibility of working with an Army unit in Germany. 54 SU was a recently formed mobile unit, designed to add flexibility in the field to the RAF’s SIGINT capabilities. Equipped with Land Rovers, the unit could be called upon to move tented location at any time in the maintenance of its voice intercept operations. On this occasion, however, we would be based for the duration at a small, fixed Royal Signals/Intelligence Corps camp. [Daffyd Manton’s “I was a Cold War Penguin” book contains his comical findings of working on 54 SU at a later date, when the emphasis was most definitely on maintaining the mobility of its tented bases].


I picked up my driver and our Land Rover at RAF Digby. In line with the nature of our detachment, for the first time in my career I was dressed in a camouflage uniform, complete with RAF boots, recently retrieved from the back of my wardrobe. Forewarned, I had purchased an RAF Stable Belt, with its dark blue, red and light blue stripes. Topped off with a beret, I now looked a genuine military man. So attired, with Sergeant’s stripes in my epaulettes, we set off on the journey to the ferry and on towards our target – Gross Gusborn.

Gross Gusborn was situated in the promontory of West German land which extended into the border area with East Germany, as indicated in orange on the map. (This area was known by us as “The Dannenberg Bulge”).  The unit itself was first built by the US Army and then handed over to 13 Signals Regiment in 1974. There was an equivalent West German Bundeswehr signals unit further up the road.


We drove all the way across West Germany on the autobahns, first calling in at the British Army of the Rhine (BAOR) headquarters at Rheindahlen to pick up money and fuel coupons. My unusual appearance for the time – the RAF was first to display NCO stripes in shoulder epaulettes – made more than one British soldier salute me. They had never seen this before. I stopped the last one, explaining that I was an RAF Sergeant, not an officer, and told him to let other soldiers know. He said “Yes Sir!”, saluted me again, and turned on his heel.


On arrival at our end destination, I was surprised to meet someone I recognised from the Royal Signals. Sergeant Denis Weir BEM had gone to Huddersfield New College with me. I had encountered him a few years earlier when playing rugby in Berlin, before he had moved down to Gross Gusborn. A German linguist, he had earned his British Empire Medal in recognition of his work in building relationships with the local community.


The camp was commanded by an infantry Captain, whose was known from time to time to stand in the middle of the grassed area with his hand on his head. Apparently, this was infantry code for “Formate on me!”. We were told to approach him immediately if we saw this. Happily, he did not expect the “Brylcreem Boys” (we were still called that from time to time) to know this, so we were exempt from participating in his game. 


I was soon joined on the camp by another RAF linguist friend, Sergeant Ken Parkin, a native of Leeds. Yorkshiremen were slowly taking over the establishment. VHF receivers were provided for Ken and me and we set to our work. The nearby border area of East Germany was inundated with helicopters, allied to the numerous Soviet army units based there. As I was freshly out of the training school, my memory-held knowledge of the army units to which the helicopters belonged was most useful here. I heard the account of a helicopter crash in intercepted communications and reported this to the Gross Gusborn unit commander, informing him to which army unit it was attached. He was astounded by my depth of knowledge and told me so. To be honest, it was just pure luck that it was from a unit about which I recalled full details, but he wasn’t to know that. He gave us a glowing report and I arranged for a recording of the crash to be sent by GCHQ to Training Wing on my return. Overall, not a bad outcome.


The most memorable thing about this all-too-short detachment was the good relations we established with our Army equivalents and the locals in the nearby town of Dannenberg. We got to know Bundeswehr soldiers doing the same job as us – although obviously not discussing this – and felt fully at home there. No wonder that Denis got the BEM. He had done a great job. And, to cap it all, the star striker with Dannenberg’s football team was the Scottish cook from Gross Gusborn. It was so friendly there that we even got to know the neighbourhood buzzard which stood regularly on guard, atop a small tree, on the approach road to the camp.


At the end of these welcome diversions, my desired posting to RAF Wyton came through. For the first time in my career, I was to serve on an active station. That is, one with permanently based aircraft.  (Discounting, of course, the lone resident Chipmunk at Gatow).



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