All thirteen recruits of our course arrived within days of each other. We were not billeted together but spread around one of the five or so 12-men rooms dedicated to language students. In this way, we found ourselves from the beginning mixing with the ‘old hands’ who were able to pass on their advice – both good and bad – from their experiences to date. Additionally, we were billeted with serving airmen who were in the process of re-mustering to linguist from other trades in the RAF. 

The atmosphere was surprisingly lax for us newbies, who were still operating in the straitjacket frame of mind from basic training. We soon adopted their ways, particularly when we started to get to know airmen from other sections on the camp. It was just the best introduction to the RAF way of life. And, yes, the food was good.

On the first day we went through the standard arrival procedure of having our personal form details noted and signed by various sections on the camp. These included the station warrant officer (‘SWO’), the medical centre, the main stores and the armoury. Having collected all the required signatures, we made our way to Training Wing.

Training Wing was slightly away from the main camp area. Located behind the Officers’ Mess and consisting of two separate two-storey buildings, it was a short walk along the ‘B’ road which ran past the main gate. It was to be our workplace for the next 12 months.

“Square Pegs in Round Holes”

My first impression of my fellow students – an opinion which was to stay with me – was that they were different in the extreme. All kinds of accents could be heard, from Northern Irish to Cockney, with a preponderance of Geordies and Scots. They also differed in background. One on our course was the son of a WW2 bomber pilot hero, another the son of a Jewish fashion retailer from London's East End, whilst a third came to us after a life spent in children’s homes. A student on another course was an ex-public schoolboy, who would regularly wear his red school blazer at weekends.

Individual upbringings dictated our initial hesitant dealings with one another but, similar to the experience of basic training, once we had the common goal of passing the language course, our relationships clicked and continued to flourish. We made a good team, supporting one another easily where needed.

What makes someone decide to become a linguist in the RAF? This was a question we discussed over a pint or two for many years. One thing for sure, we were not your archetypal recruiting stock. In many respects, our trade was about as far as you could get from the classic roles of flying, controlling or servicing aircraft. The only thing we had in common with these tradesmen is that we wore the same uniform.

The phrase which summed it up for me, quoted on my first posting to Germany, is that “Linguists are square pegs in round holes”. Probably best described as ‘characters’, some of the volunteers on short term commitments were the most un-airman-like airmen you’ll ever meet. Certainly, they were intelligent – many went on to achieve post-service university degrees, including a ‘double first’ in Russian & German and an MA – but trained killers they could never be.

My considered opinion is that they had used their time in the RAF to discover what they really wanted in life, just like I was later forced to do. In the meantime, they were great fun to be with! Even the more career-orientated airmen, who went on to serve full life terms, still look back at the deeds of these eccentrics with pleasure. Not that all the characters departed the RAF prematurely; the trade was all the richer by still having them represented in their ranks.

It was surrounded by these personalities that I addressed the task at hand, learning Russky.

Positive Vetting

Our language training at the school was made up of two parts: Academic and Applied. The first segment – nine months in duration – was devoted to learning Russian from scratch. The second phase of three months – providing the academic portion had been passed ­– would teach us how our newly-gained language skills were put into operation for RAF purposes. For this reason, Training Wing was divided into the open ‘A’ Block, where academic language instruction took place, and the secure ‘B’ Block, home to the applied language training section.

It was made clear from the very start that the contents of the second segment were secret. To this end, all candidate linguists went through positive vetting whilst in the first stage of training. Positive vetting (also known as ‘PV’) was the process of checking the background of each candidate, to ensure that the individual did not have lifestyle, personal, or family connection weaknesses that could be adversely exploited by others.

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The initial PV interview took place early on, as the scrutiny process took months to fulfil. The person taking the interrogation was an older retired RAF policeman whose style of questioning reminded me of a gentle discussion with a school headmaster. I informed him that I had once been told that one of my Irish relatives had been interned as a member of the IRA. He simply nodded, as if he already knew. (I was later unable to confirm this fact through in-depth genealogy investigations; perhaps his sources were better than mine. Or maybe he was simply acknowledging that I was trying to assist). Whatever the truth, my candidacy was ultimately approved. Other students were not so successful. At least two were “de-coursed” during my time, having fallen at this security investigation hurdle.

Nice One Cyril

With the exception of Flight Lieutenant Derrick, Officer Commanding, who gave infrequent lessons in “Airmanship”, all our instructors in the Academic Language Flight were civilians. And a diverse mix they were: Mr Humphreys, British, married to a Russian; Mr Boris Surshykov, Ukrainian by birth; his wife Mrs Rada Surshykova, Belarussian; Mr Fred Fyodorov, Cossak*; and Mr Bykovsky, nationality uncertain, but reportedly a Count and a former RAF bomber pilot. 

* Details of Fred Fyodorov are contained in Daffyd 'Toby' Manton’s excellent paperback about his RAF linguist life “I was a Cold War Penguin”.  His book is dedicated to Fred, a unique character, unforgettable to anyone lucky enough to have met him.

Our course was designated 9L1. By the time that Russian language training ended at North Luffenham in 1989 the cumulative number had advanced to 88L1. WRAF female linguist candidates had been introduced with effect from course 57L1 in 1978.

Each student was given his copy of the thick ‘Joint Services Russian Language’ textbook, which was to be our constant companion for the next nine months, sometimes longer. I kept my dog-eared copy of this A4 size publication after leaving the RAF. I was therefore devastated when, in my ex-wife’s keeping awaiting collection by me, it was destroyed in a house fire. I have read many Russian language instruction books since that time. None came anywhere near the quality of this services-provided guide.

Mr Humphreys took us for our initial instruction; contact with native Russian speakers was to come later. We started on the first day with the principles of the language, commencing with the Cyrillic alphabet. The modern Russian version of the alphabet, first formalised by the Greek St Cyril in the 9^th Century, consists of 33 characters.  In order to progress, a grasp of the individual characteristics of each letter had to be quickly absorbed.

I was later to give an ‘Introduction to the Russian Language’ lecture by using a traffic signal guide:

• Some letters, looking and having roughly the same sound as in English, can be considered a GREEN light;
• Others, completely different in appearance and sound, are a definite RED light;
• But beware those few letters which, despite having a similar appearance, have a completely different sound. Called “false friends”, these are denoted with a cautionary AMBER light. E.g. The letters in the English word “pub” are pronounced “reev” if read as Cyrillic characters.

Within a day we were familiar with the sounds generated by the individual letters, already starting to read combinations in the form of words. Around this time, Mr Humphreys gave an information lesson regarding with the use of patronymics in Russian society. He explained the way that reference to fathers’ forenames is shown in the '-ovich' form of male Russians’ middle names. He illustrated this by asking us students what was our name, and that of our fathers. When he came to me, he asked these questions and received a response he certainly would not have expected. As a naïve young airman who only wanted to please and not tell lies, I answered truthfully “I don’t have a father”. He blustered something like “That makes you Brian Brianovich” and moved on quickly to the next point. I would imagine that he rethought his approach to teaching this topic to future courses.

Progress Exams, Vocabulary Tests, Language Laboratory  ..and Fred Fyodorov

Once the basics had been completed, we slowly but surely built up our grasp of the language.  More a marathon than a sprint, the pace nevertheless was relentless, interspersed with weekly vocabulary tests and periodic progress examinations. It was made plain that anyone failing to achieve the required pass mark in any of these checks was in danger of being dismissed from the course. We lost two of our number for this reason.

As concerned vocabulary tests, we regularly quizzed each other on their content the evening before in our barrack room.   I also picked up a habit from the courses before us of listing new words in two columns on a sheet of paper, Russian on the left and English on the right. This was then folded down the middle, leaving only the Russian visible. I would go down the list and try to recall the English meaning. The procedure was then repeated from the English back into Russian. Although there was always the chance that I would remember the meaning or translation of a word purely from its position on the page, it was still an effective learning procedure. I was to employ this technique in all future language studies, even using it to improve my knowledge of specialist technical terms in later employment. 

To paraphrase what I admitted earlier: Not only did I now know how to fire the weapon, I was also remembering to load the ammunition.  It is said that you need to master over ten thousand words to be completely fluent in a foreign language; four thousand gives you a good working knowledge. The best students on the course were well on their way to achieving the four thousand word threshold by the end of training.  We all sailed through our GCE ‘O’ Level Russian examinations (I achieved an ‘A’ pass), but this was expected.

As we progressed in our training, it became increasingly apparent who would pass the academic side without major problem and who would have difficulties. I believe that, because of my Latin ‘O’ Level GCE experience, I had a distinct advantage. Russian shares a quality with Latin in that it is an ‘inflected’ language, where words change their endings, dependent on their grammatical structure. Therefore, when encountered, the concept was not unfamiliar to me.  (English is probably the least inflected language out there, so students who had not seen these modifying rules elsewhere had initial difficulties). And great emphasis was placed on gaining an understanding of Russian grammar, in line with the rigid methodology employed in language teaching at that time.

However, there was still time to practice the ‘Berlitz’ technique of learning a language by repeating and responding to spoken phrases. To this end, we spent many hours in the school’s language laboratory. Here we would listen to taped lessons and give our answers in Russian. Whist this was going on, a civilian language instructor – sitting at the front control desk ­– would be listening in to our efforts, breaking in to comment on and correct our answers where required.

Keeping it Hush-Hush

I do not recall ever physically signing the Official Secrets Act. Perhaps I didn’t. Irrespective, like the rest of my trade-mates, under its “need-to-know” principle, I never divulged anything about my duties to anyone outside our narrow clique. Those not informed included my closest family, friends and other servicemen.

Over forty years have passed since I 'left the club’, during which time our military linguist activities have long since been declassified and written about in many articles. Nevertheless, it is still with hesitation that I approach this open admission of my then work. The engrained secrecy, which was simply a way of life, is even up to the present time difficult to ignore. However, consider the wording of the following current RAF recruitment advertisement for the role of Intelligence Analyst (Linguist):

“As an RAF Intelligence Analyst (Linguist), you will interpret foreign language transmissions using state-of-the-art surveillance systems, providing vital intelligence to support military forces deployed around the world”.

There is no hiding the modern-day role and methodology of a military linguist here.  But this is only a follow-on from our activities. Nowadays the target languages are chiefly Arabic and Farsi; in our case we listened in to transmissions in Russian by the Soviet Air Force. We then analysed their routines and capabilities. The resultant signals intelligence (‘SIGINT’) was passed on to the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) in Cheltenham for dissemination to authorised parties, including close cooperation with the National Security Agency (NSA) of Fort Meade, Maryland, USA.

There, I’ve stated it. 

It was obvious to any political observer from the time that we would do it, just as the Soviets would do it to us. The only difference is, they didn’t know how good we were at our job. And we were good. Very good. Hence the need for security.

To digress slightly, much later in life I was to work with a Russian who owned a company which arranged for certification to relevant Russian Standards for engineering equipment. Such documents were required to import goods, of the type manufactured by the British firm for which I worked, into his country. He spoke very good English. When I asked him how he had picked up our language, he admitted openly “I learned it in the military, where I was the commander of a Soviet unit which listened to the transmissions of US and UK air forces aircraft”. 

My still functioning confidentiality shield ensured that I made no comment in return. Andrey Nikitin – my counterpart’s name – now lives in the USA most of the time, where his daughter graduated from a leading American university. Additionally, one of my stand-in chauffeurs in Uzbekistan once told me that he was formerly a Soviet helicopter pilot based in East Germany in the 1970s. I had possibly unknowingly come across him at that time. It just goes to show that it’s a small world in signals intelligence.

I wore the given cloak of secrecy easily. It helped to be surrounded by colleagues with similar undertakings. When the inevitable question “Are you a spy?” was asked by anyone outside our circle, I quickly learned to smile and say “No, not at all” and change the subject. In retrospect, my answer was 95% correct. I do, however, recall the names of a couple of military colleagues who went on to work for MI6, much nearer to the classic idea of a spy.

Quite a few years later, when I was in the large glass enclosure which made up one of the departure gates at Moscow Sheremetevo airport, I thought that I recognised a fellow passenger waiting for a British Airways flight. I looked across, when I saw him give me an almost imperceptible shake of the head. He then turned his back to me. I got the message. He, like me, was aware that the ceiling at the airport was bristling with microphones and cameras. I recalled instantly from where I knew him; he had done the right thing. I didn’t see him on the flight and he had disappeared before I got to the passport gate in London. 

This was just about my only brush – tentative as it was – with the world of espionage. Apart from the time when a local Special Branch officer asked me if I would report on Iranian students at Huddersfield Polytechnic when I was a mature student there. I told him, justifiably, that I had already ‘done my bit’ as a military linguist and was not interested in any further involvement, a statement he accepted without dispute.

Logging In with Uncle Les

Courtesy of our Applied Language Instructor – Sergeant Les Osman – I took my first steps to becoming an expert logger. Not the lumberjack type, of course. ‘Logging’ was the term used in military linguists’ circles for the process of making instant written copies of transmissions as heard. As using shorthand – like a newspaper reporter – was out the question, we did the next best thing. We employed a system of accepted abbreviations to keep up with flow of words. Eventually every ‘operator’ (as we were known) was to devise his own system which worked for him. As long as the resultant record was legible and understandable to others, no strict system was enforced. All our records (‘logs’) were hand-written in Russian.

Les Osman was a long-serving airman who was seeing his service time out as an instructor. An avuncular Londoner – of possible Turkish heritage judging by his appearance and surname, although never divulged – he was our first contact with a real-life linguist. We all liked him. Not at all the dictator we had expected, he was more like a favourite uncle, the first to admit that his language knowledge was not what it should be for someone in his position. But he got the best out of us.

The Applied Language Flight at the RAF School of Languages (on which I was to serve a mere seven years later) consisted of an officer commanding and five or six senior non-commissioned officer (SNCO) instructors. The instructors took it in turn to teach a course for its three months’ duration. From what I learned afterwards, we were lucky to be allocated to Les.  At least one other SNCO working there had a reputation for intimidating ways.

On this ‘B’ Block side of Training Wing, in a separate building with a secure entrance controlled by a Ministry of Defence policeman, was also located the trade training flight for Wireless Operator Special (WOp Spec) recruits. These tradesmen worked in conjunction with us linguists, where their task was to intercept and record Morse communications. They also shared our H-block accommodation. Many WOp Specs came over later by re-mustering to the languages side. Our pay and promotion conditions were far better than theirs.

Sgt Osman went through his training routine by playing genuine taped recordings of transmissions to us, which we listened to through individual headsets. The recordings covered all known Soviet pilot routines and techniques, from take-off and landings to aerial combat, ground attack and bombing. 

We did not make notes of given facts; everything had to be remembered without a crib copy. We employed a strict ‘clear desk’ policy at the end of each day, where any practice logs we had made were taken away for storage or destruction in the section’s huge built-in safe. (Its combination was known only to few and was changed every time an instructor left). 

The wing’s staff also had a regular task: a duty SNCO instructor and student made a daily ‘clean sweep’ of all rooms at the end of each day, as well as an early double-check the following morning. Security was taken very seriously. We once held a visiting Squadron Leader trapped in between the two electronic entry doors because something about him didn’t seem right. It’s a good job we did; he was a disguised RAF policeman, with a false ID card, sent to test our security.

Once again, when we got into the swing of things, I found that – to my delight – I was a natural logger. I seemed to be capable of making out things in the played recordings that my course mates missed. My problem was that I just couldn’t write it down quick enough. However, on advice, I started the routine of putting in a letter or two of the words as we went along, going back to fill them in when the session finished. I gradually finessed this technique in subsequent service to the extent that – with no false modesty – I came to be acknowledged as one of the best ‘live’ loggers in the trade. I am convinced that it was this quality which led to my early accelerated promotion to the rank of corporal.

Les once admitted that he foresaw no problems for me and a couple of my classmates in our regular progress tests.  Here we were presented with new recorded material to log, which was then marked on the basis of how much of it we had captured correctly. Typically for him, he preferred to concentrate on assisting the weaker performers. In this manner, he succeeded in getting us all through the final examination.  This test was marked by an independent instructor who had not been involved in our training. It had to be organised in this manner because, in effect, this was the end-of-course promotion examination to the rank of Junior Technician (‘JT’).

Les knew how to keep us in good moods. Once, as a break, he played us recordings of both sides of an intercept from April 1963 carried out near Berlin by Soviet fighters on a light aircraft flown by well-known TV personality Hughie Green. Hughie, a Canadian former RAF pilot, had chosen to co-pilot a light aircraft to film a programme with the British Army Garrison in Berlin. His request for official permission to fly through East Germany on the southern air corridor was somehow mismanaged by the military authorities. He almost paid the ultimate price for this oversight. He later received an apology and damages from the powers that be.

With the unflustered assistance of an American air traffic controller at Tempelhof airport in Berlin, aided by cloud cover, he eventually made it through unscathed. It was reported that he was fired on, a fact somewhat embellished by Hughie in subsequent press conferences, but we heard nothing on the tape to support this. He flew the aircraft back home a few days later, early in the morning via the shorter central air corridor, on a flight made officially “at his own risk”. There was no repeat of an intercept attempt by Soviet fighters on this occasion.

As JTs, we had been accepted into the esteemed Order of RAF Linguists. It was now up to us to put our knowledge into practice in defence of the realm.

The Queen’s Escort

When it came to organising formal occasions at RAF North Luffenham, there was one advantage for the camp authorities. It had Training Wing, from where there was a ready supply of young airmen with relatively recent square-bashing experience. For this reason, the school habitually provided a Guard of Honour – complete with rifles and bayonets – to greet the arrival of the Air Officer Commanding (AOC) on the occasion of his annual inspection of the station. It also formed a main body in the attendant parade.

During our trade training period we received an exciting piece of information: we were to parade for the Queen. She was due to make an official visit nearby Oakham on Friday 12 May 1967 and we would be there to greet her. In the event, our contribution was not that conspicuous. Along with representatives from Cottesmore – Rutland’s other RAF base – we were to line the route of her drive up to Oakham Castle, where she would present a traditional horseshoe for the display there. 

Dressed in No. 1 uniforms, we were placed at carefully measured separations along the road well in advance of arrival of the party. When the Queen’s Rolls Royce, containing her and Prince Philip, eventually drove past, I was on strict orders to look straight ahead only. The result – I only got the briefest glance of the royal party in the vehicle.

I recall that we were then asked to form three ranks near the castle, whilst the visitors were inside. In the event, the departing group went off in the other direction, therefore we played no further part in activities. Even so, less than a year after joining the RAF, I could say that I had been a member of a military escort for the Queen. Well, sort of. 

A Different Game of Rugby

I was looking forward greatly to the beginning of my first rugby season in the RAF. Even before official training began in August, I was already taking part in preparation activities. As trainees, we had sports afternoon every Wednesday and the camp was well equipped for anyone who wished to keep fit. Two others on my course – six foot five Paul O’Donnell and barrel-chested Welshman Lynn Howells – confessed to being rugby players, so I already had ready-made companions in my exercises. I had talked constantly about my abilities in the game; perhaps too much. Now it was time to prove my words.

Around twenty turned up for our first camp rugby training session. I was pleased to note that I was not shamed by the fitness of others. After the session, we started to get to know one another. When asked about my rugby background, my new teammates reacted as if there was a bad smell under their noses. “Don’t broadcast that around” I was told. Why? Because I had quite truthfully mentioned my rugby league background.

Nowadays, at a time when top class rugby union players have been paid for several years, it is perhaps difficult to recall that – in living memory – there was a long period when, outside the north of England, the league version was considered to be fully professional, and bad, whilst the union version was totally amateur, and good. Thus, no respectable union team of that time would knowingly have a league player in their ranks. Obviously, the military was an exception to this perception, but I learned there and then to be careful to whom I revealed my rugby league heritage. 

Even when chosen later for local and representative union sides, some things were still better left unsaid. This was particularly true of the first local side for which I played – Oakham RUFC. The club – whose first team was half made up of RAF players from nearby Cottesmore and North Luffenham – also had close connections with Oakham School, an independent establishment formed in the late 16^th Century. Its public school tradition included rugby union on the curriculum, probably the last place where knowledge of having a league outcast in their midst would be welcomed. 

Once a year a charity game was staged between Oakham RUFC and Oakham School Old Boys (their best ex-students played for Leicester RUFC). For the programme, I was asked to provide my club and/or school details. As I knew that I couldn’t put St Josephs RLFC, I added Huddersfield New College. Therefore, I was representing a school team for which I couldn’t even get a trial. How ironic. This happened again later when I played representative rugby union in military games. I’m pleased to be able to say that this prejudice has since disappeared; the RAF now even enters a team in the Rugby League Challenge Cup competition.