75th Entry Window in St George's Church

When we had our Annual General Meeting in St George's Church in October it was noticed that there appeared to be faint vertical bands running down the window.

After discussing the construction of the window with John Hardie it would seem that the etched glass is sandwiched between two other sheets of glass for protection. The problem appears to indicate that dampness has got between one or both of the outer sheets.

The other windows close to ours appear to be constructed in the same way as double-glazing units whilst ours is not!

At the Annual General Meeting it was agreed that further investigation was required before making a decision as to the way forward to correct the problem. On discussing the matter with Min Larkin he tells us that the person who installed our window has retired and that he would be only too happy for us to donate the window to the museum as is and replace it with a new one.

This will not happen until every member of the Entry has been consulted, this may not be for a couple of years but we need to get this right!

Colin Malam has kindly agreed to try and locate the people who are now installing windows in the Church to get their view and Keith Knight (he has just become a guide at a National Trust property) is discussing the problem with the glass conservator for the National Trust in the Norfolk area.

Obviously John Hardie will be the first person to be invited to comment on the future of the window prior to the matter being thrown open to all the members. All I can say is watch this space and we will keep you all informed.

 

This is to ask "How Wise Are You?"

and is almost entirely to do with road traffic:

1. Why do motorists overtake cyclists and then immediately turn left?
2. Why do motorway motorists drive in the middle lane when there is nothing to overtake?
3. Why do local councils think that tyre-tearing, suspension-shattering speed humps are a good idea?
4. Why do motorists park on grass verges?
5. Why do railway-crossing barriers always come down just as I get to them?
6. Why do cyclists use the pavement?
7. Why do drivers wait until they get to a junction before indicating?
8. Why do Sat Navs never lose their temper?
9. Why do pedestrians not wait for the lights to change in their favour after they have pressed the button?
10. Why do motorists, more often than not, drive up to 10 mph less than the given road limit in built-up and rural areas?
11. Why don't speed cameras zap cars going the other way? (Because they don't, cars regularly overtake me when I am cycling adjacent to the camera and a keep left sign by driving to the right of us both!)

Peter Algar

Chairman's Notes.

Soldiers

I know this is meant as a joke but in many ways I really think it makes sense!!!!!!!!!! I know I would rather be the one to be killed than one of my children or grandchildren...........
Drafting Guys over 60----this is funny & obviously written by a Former Soldier-

New Direction for any war: Send Service Vets over 60!
I am over 60 and the Armed Forces thinks I'm too old to track down terrorists. You can't be older than 42 to join the military. They've got the whole thing ass-backwards. Instead of sending 18-year olds off to fight, they ought to take us old guys. You shouldn't be able to join a military unit until you're at least 35.

For starters: Researchers say 18-year-olds think about sex every 10 seconds. Old guys only think about sex a couple of times a day, leaving us more than 28,000 additional seconds per day to concentrate on the enemy.

Young guys haven't lived long enough to be cranky, and a cranky soldier is a dangerous soldier. 'My back hurts! I can't sleep, I'm tired and hungry' We are impatient and maybe letting us kill some asshole that desperately deserves it will make us feel better and shut us up for a while.
An 18-year-old doesn't even like to get up before 10 a.m. Old guys always get up early to pee so what the hell. Besides, like I said, 'I'm tired and can't sleep and since I'm already up, I may as well be up killing some fanatical SOB....

If captured we couldn't spill the beans because we'd forget where we put them. In fact, name, rank, and serial number would be a real stretch.

Boot camp would be easier for old guys. We're used to getting screamed and yelled at and we're used to soft food. We've also developed an appreciation for guns.. We've been using them for years as an excuse to get out of the house, away from the screaming and yelling.

They could lighten up on the obstacle course however. I've been in combat and didn't see a single 20-foot wall with rope hanging over the side, nor did I ever do any push ups after completing basic training. Actually, the running part is kind of a waste of energy, too. I've never seen anyone outrun a bullet.

An 18-year-old has the whole world ahead of him. He's still learning to shave, to start up a conversation with a pretty girl. He still hasn't figured out that a baseball cap has a brim to shade his eyes, not the back of his head.

These are all great reasons to keep our kids at home to learn a little more about life before sending them off into harm's way.

Let us old guys track down those dirty rotten cowardly terrorists. The last thing an enemy would want to see is a couple of million pissed off old farts with attitudes and automatic weapons who know that their best years are already behind them.

OR *** How about recruiting Women over 50 .....with PMS !!! You think Men have attitudes !!! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh my Lord!!! If nothing else, put them on border patrol....we will have it secured the first night!

John George

Lincoln RF398

RF398 was based at Lindholme from 1957 to 1960 making its final flight in 1963 before becoming a static exhibit at Cosford.

An interesting tale was at the fledgling Cosford museum the threat that RF398 might go to Manchester for display. Those involved at the time decided that the only way to prevent this was to establish the fact the museum and in particular RF398 was a popular attraction and in so doing the A/C would remain at Cosford. So the committee concocted the story that the Lincoln was in fact haunted and this story was taken up by the press. The result was that more visitors came through the doors establishing its future at Cosford. What came as an embarrassment was the fact that a priest offered to exorcise the ghost. By this time the ghost story was linked to a reported comment by the last pilot to fly RF398 that it was his favourite A/C and when he died he would come back to haunt it. Ironically this same pilot was killed in a flying accident a few years later.

Things were now getting out of hand as there had been reports by staff of unexplained sounds while working in the hanger in the late evening. One member decided to place a number of recording devices within the Lincoln overnight to establish once and for all whether there was any substance in these reports. The results were quite surprising as nothing was expected. Firstly there were a number of bumps and clicks the latter ratified by an ex-serving officer as the sound of switches during pre-flight checks. What was more amazing was the sound of an electrical device last in use in the 1950's ---- oooooh!

I can't be certain but I probably worked on this A/C in ASF and ground ran the engines on test. I would love to get my hands on a set of the A.P's for these aircraft, but I imagine they would all be destroyed once a type becomes obsolete.

I hope you enjoy the following tale based on a story by G.Baczkowski

Dave Bowen

THE VISITORS

Autumn fog had laid a thick grey blanket over England. In the days that followed, in an era of a coal fired Britain of the 1940's and 1950's, the detritus of industry and a million home fires had turned the fog to a noxious, sulphur laden, yellow smog; the last great smog of the century. By day, movement in England slowed to a crawl. At night all movement ceased, and a heavy silence descended on the country, but not completely.

Outside the little inn, somewhere to the east of Doncaster, lost in the fog, a coal train from one of the local mines strained, heaved, rattled and groaned against its heavy load and yet another sound was heard, the staccato bark of a powerful engine. To the discerning ear an aero engine, but to the expert, the throaty crackle of a Rolls Royce Merlin. The engine was being run at the nearby RAF Lindholme at full power, straining against its chocks, eager to haul the airframe in to the air. The engine crackled and popped as it was throttled back, then grumbled contentedly as idle was checked. A slight increase in power; a brief pause, and another interruption as magnetos were checked, and a deepening change of note again. Feathering checked, the engine was again returned to a grumbling idle, and then with a sweep of an unseen hand, silenced, returning the night to the fog. All four of the Lincoln Bomber RF398's engines having been checked the order was to stand down as the weather had closed in.

All this went unnoticed in the little stone built inn, its single door closed tightly against the outside fog bound world. Located near a tiny hamlet it served as a watering hole and place of rest for those who worked the waterways, and the lonely agricultural workers in the neighbouring fields. Inside, the air was as thick as that outside, the single square bar packed with working men, it's ceiling as yellow as the fog outside from a century of labouring man's visitations. A crackling wood fire spat the remnants of an old apple tree, its smoke blowing back to mix with that of now long forgotten brands of cigarettes, Craven A, Woodbines, Capstan and Players, these combining with the heady brew of warm, stale, beer from John Smith's and The Hull Brewery companies.

The atmosphere inside was lively, under the watchful eye of George the landlord, a short rotund man with black balding hair, in rolled up shirt sleeves, and trousers held up by a thick leather belt. There was no barmaid, but from time to time the landlord's equally plump and long-suffering wife collected the empties, and spirited the glasses away for washing.

In one crowded corner a darts match was in progress, the quiet concentration of the players broken only by the rhythmic thuds of the darts. Around two tables on the other side of the bar, a group of noisy locals was enjoying a game of dominoes. The clacking of the dominoes broken by the occasional slamming down of a piece, followed by a triumphant shout from the victor. Laughter; the shuffling of the pieces, and then the silence of concentration as a new round was begun. All watched over by a solitary retired labourer, sitting close to the fire, talking quietly to his patient Border Collie, curled by his feet, close to the door, but warmed by the fire.

Nobody saw the door open. Nor indeed, close, for it had not been opened for some time. No fog rolled in, but there was, perhaps, just a flicker from the fire as it responded to an unseen and unfelt breath of fresher air, but all became aware of the three airmen that had entered. There was no doubt they were airmen, for two were dressed in cumbersome, flying suits, and carrying helmets with goggles and masks attached. The third was an officer in RAF uniform. A tall, solidly built man with a broad forehead, and bushy eyebrows over laughter lined eyes. He wore pilot's wings; red flashes on his shoulders and his sleeves carried the two and a half rings of a Squadron Leader.

Although unusual, the airmen's appearance caused only passing interest as Lindholme was close by. The inn lay on a quiet route between the Vulcan bases in Lincolnshire and RAF Finningley. Crews transiting had sometimes called in, as had airmen from the local station, but Officers were rare. Certainly, the landlord expressed no surprise at the entry of the three, but quietly picked up three pint glasses, and proceeded to fill them with his best bitter.

The Squadron Leader leaned heavily on a stick supporting a leg injured in an earlier flying incident. Like a gentleman, he removed his hat, and tucking it under his left arm, bowed slightly to the gathering, then ushering the two airmen to the bar, where transferring his weight to his good leg, he reached in to his right pocket, pulled out a pipe, and lighting up, drew heavily.

The landlord, a man of few words, nodded in greeting to the three airmen, and proffered 'The usual?' 'Please' answered the Squadron Leader with a strong, eastern European accent, and the three drank deeply, engrossed in a conversation that was lost to all around. They appeared sad, but not disheartened, with the odd wry smile of those far from home, exchanging some passing memory. The glasses slowly drained, as around the three airmen the inn resumed its normal life.

The Squadron Leader looked at his watch, and as the landlord looked at the large round clock above the bar, the three airmen turned to leave. At the door, the Squadron Leader turned to the bar and its occupants. Resting heavily on his stick he placed his hat on his head, and bowing slightly, he and the other airman passed through the doorway into the night. The door did not open, and neither did it close. No puff of wind ruffled the feathers of the dying fire, although the embers returned to life again, glowing and sparking briefly. No fog rolled in. The Border Collie raised an ear, opened one eye, and curled into a tighter ball, while his master, sitting quietly by the door, noted again the red flash on the Squadron Leader's shoulder, which he knew bore a single word 'Poland.'

A silence descended on the inn, for all had observed that the door had neither opened nor closed. The landlord continued wiping glasses, for 'Time' had been called. He acknowledged the airmen's farewell, as indeed had his wife, who had appeared from the scullery to add her goodbyes. 'That's three pints', the landlord confirmed quietly to his wife, 'On the Squadron Leader's tab'. Three pints added to an increasing tally, carefully entered in an old black notebook by the landlord's wife. The landlord wiped another glass and looked at his audience of expectant faces, his tea towel now wet and limp from the evening's labour. The darts had ceased flying, the dominoes were stilled, and the last of the beer was drained from the glasses.

'They come here every year', he explained, 'About this time when the fog rolls in'. The silence continued, the audience expected more, but none was forthcoming.
The old retired labourer and his dog stirred and rose. The landlord looked again at the old clock, its hands now firmly on the hour.

'Gentlemen, it's time please', he repeated, wiping another glass.

Outside, the fog was lifting on the first stirrings of a chill winter's wind, and the stars began to appear for the first time in days.

Footnote

A Wellington bomber from a Polish Squadron was based at Lindholme, during the war. The Squadron Leader was their CO. He went with the crew for a jolly, apparently a training flight. The fog rolled in, they circled for hours trying to land, and eventually they crashed on the moor, the bomber sinking in to the marsh. There were no survivors and at the time only the bodies of a Squadron Leader and two others were recovered from the five man crew.

Ponder on these imponderables for a minute:

1. If you take an Oriental person and spin him around, does he become disoriented?
2. If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren't people from Holland called Holes?
3. Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
4. If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
5. If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?
6. Why is the man who invests all your money called a broker?
7. When cheese gets its picture taken, what does it say?
8. Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist but a person who drives a racing car not called a racist?
9. Why are a wise man and a wise guy opposites?
10. Why do overlook and oversee mean opposite things?
11. Why isn't the number 11 pronounced onety one?
12. 'I am' is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that 'I do' is the longest sentence?
13. If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn't it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, cowboys deranged, models deposed, and dry cleaners depressed?
14. What hair colour do they put on the driver's licences of bald men?
15. I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks so I wondered if Chinese mothers use toothpicks?
16. Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are we supposed to do, write to them? Why don't they just put their pictures on the postage stamps so the postmen can look for them while they deliver the post?
17. You never really learn to swear until you learn to drive.
18. No one ever says, 'It's only a game' when their team is winning.
19. Ever wonder about those people who spend £1 on those little bottles of Evian water? Try spelling Evian backwards: ?
20. Isn't making a smoking section in a restaurant like making a peeing section in a swimming pool?
21. If 4 out of 5 people SUFFER from diarrhoea, does that mean that 1 enjoys it?
22. Why if you send something by road it is called a shipment, but when you send it by sea it is called cargo?
23. If a convenience store is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, why are there locks on the door?

Dave Bowen

The Lyneham years
Further memories from Peter de Frere

Meanwhile, back at Lyneham, it seemed to me that my experience of the compass swing had not endeared me to the Boss and I felt that I was given the jobs that others would not want. Perhaps, in hindsight, I am being unfair to him but it is a fact that I seemed to be given the opportunity to consolidate in Cyprus rather more frequently than others in the team. Having said that, I was seeing the world, especially the shittty bits, and I was gaining in confidence all the time. No matter what job was thrown at me, I could take it in my stride, that is until a Beverley went U/S in Cyprus and I was sent out to fix it; fortunately I was not to be alone. My instructions were to report to the BEA desk at London Airport where I would meet a Chief Technician who was 'a Beverley expert.' This I did and was given a ticket to fly to Cyprus much to the annoyance of one passenger who was kicked off the flight to make room for me. When he asked me what was so important about me that I was given his seat, I simply claimed diplomatic immunity.

We arrived at Nicosia after a pleasant flight and were greeted by the Technical Officer. Unfortunately he decided to speak to me before speaking to the Chief Tech. Even more unfortunately, I had neglected to ask the Chief about the Beverley and its problem, so when the Tech Officer asked me for my views on the fault, I was stumped. I didn't even know what fault had been reported. Looking back, I don't think I made a good first impression. Eventually I managed to get the Chief alone and ask about the stricken 'plane, but he would only say that there was an injector fault on one engine. Now the Beverley was a great big tall thing and you needed enormous access platforms just to reach the engines. In the heat of Cyprus it was not a lot of fun manoeuvring that sort of equipment and even less so when it gradually dawned on me that the Chief probably knew less than I did about Beverleys. As a result, we spent about a week in Nicosia fiddling about until they got fed up with us and sent us home. I believe Abingdon later sent a team to Nicosia to change the engine but, by that time, I was past caring.

This episode naturally made me the MSF Beverley expert and I was given a job escorting one of these slow, imperious flying machines all the way to Mamphe in the British Cameroons. The small, grass airstrip near this West African township had been used as the base for some British troops on a jungle exercise and it was time for them to come home. Our job was to take them there.
When I tell you that we were in the air for 48 hours, flying to the Cameroons and back, you will understand just how slow the Beverley was. In fact, when we flew across France, we were overtaken by a train. The trip took us to Gibraltar where we stayed for one night and on to Kano in Nigeria where I think we had two nights. I can remember to this day seeing the vultures perched on the fence at the end of the runway when we came in to land, a most sobering sight. Fortunately they went hungry on that trip.

Now I don't wish to malign anybody who might have been a Navigator but this trip certainly opened my eyes. It seemed that the crew did not know exactly where Mamphe was located and all they had to guide them were written instructions from the aircrew who had delivered the troops there a few weeks earlier. This was fine, you would have thought, except that the troops were flown out in the dry season and the return trip was to be carried out in the wet season. Apparently nobody had thought of that. Hence, when we reached the fork in the river as stated on the instructions, the river was in full flood and had more forks than Uri Geller. (Yes, he bent forks as well as spoons). In addition, the cloud base was very low and once, when we dropped below it to see where we were, I looked out of the window and came face to face with an African boy who was standing on the river bank with a look of astonishment on his face. He had the whitest teeth I have ever seen.
We did find the airstrip eventually and landed safely, with the aid of reversing propellers, on what must have been the shortest and wettest grass strip anywhere in Africa. The ground was very soft so we put some PSP under the wheels while the aircraft was being loaded and hoped it would do the trick. There was no question of a night stop, so we had to load up and leave as quickly as we could. This didn't take long, presumably because the soldiers had had enough of the place but, once the military gear was on board, some natives filled the remaining space with bananas which they carried on poles just as you see in the Tarzan films.

By the time we were ready to roll, the Beverley was at the top of its weight limit and we had to reverse it until the tail was protruding into the jungle to get the maximum take-off run. However, one thing about the Beverley was its ability to lift off the ground with a full load and we soared into the air with at least three feet of runway to spare. You must be wondering what I did on this trip to earn my keep? I can now reveal the truth after all these years. The Centaurus engines in the Beverley used quite a lot of oil and it was possible to replenish them in flight. My job was to enter the wing, yes you could, and with the aid of a hand pump refill the oil tanks. So, all that Halton training was not wasted after all.

So I was now the true Beverley King on MSF and I received my just rewards with the next trip which was six weeks in Germany where intensive flying trials were being carried out on an Argosy. I can tell you now that I have worked for a civilian airline specialising in holiday flights so I really know about intensive flying. We operated fourteen Viscounts between Southend, Essex, and Ostende, Belgium, right through the summer months starting at 6am and finishing at around 6pm before sending them off to the Spanish resorts on their night flights. In addition we had four Avro 748s flying between Southend, Portsmouth and Guernsey on an all-day shuttle and a few other bits and pieces such as a Heron doing local flights. To cover all these aircraft on the operating line we had a team of five engineers including a Team Leader, so we were kept quite busy. However, this pales into insignificance compared with the RAF. The Argosy trial consisted of two flights a day between Benson and Wildenrath, one at midday and the other at midnight, for six weeks. Our job, for I was not alone, was to turn the aircraft round at Wildenrath on each occasion. As far as I can remember there were two of us on this job, an instrument fitter and myself. If there was a reason for this, it escapes me after all these years but it seems to have been an unusual combination.
Don't get me wrong, because the Argosy was a great little 'plane, but in the early days there seemed to be some reliability problems and of course the trials were affected by the weather. During our six week stay its appearances were, shall we say, infrequent and it became our habit to enquire about its arrival during the early evening, while dressed ready to go out on the town, so that no drinking time was wasted. We drank quite regularly on that job and also saw action in parts of Holland, Belgium and Germany because we were well looked after by Robin Taylor, who was based at Wildenrath and became our unofficial chauffeur in his big, American Mercury Sedan. Thanks Robin, your kindness has not been forgotten.

Lyneham was a very busy base but it was also a nice posting. Unlike Colerne there were no guard duties and you could come and go when off duty as you pleased. Chippenham was about ten miles to the west and Swindon a similar distance to the east, although most people preferred the latter for their recreation. If you were a serving member of HM forces, you were free to use the Swindon Working Men's Club where the beer was quite reasonable and almost drinkable. Why they called it a Working Men's Club beats me because most of the men I met there were idle to say the least. However, it was not a bad place to start your evening off before hitting the high life at the Locarno Ballroom or McIlroys if you went posh. We were also made welcome in the RAFA Club and usually called in on a Saturday evening for a drink and a joke with the ex-RAF people who frequented the place.

Meanwhile, back at the office, commonsense prevailed and my friend Mick Ortega and I were sent on a course, in fact on several courses. We were to be trained on the Rolls-Royce Dart engine, the Rotol propeller, the Rover gas turbine starter/generator and the Armstrong Whitworth powerplant for the Argosy. It was just before Christmas in 1961 and I was quite chuffed to think that we were going on all these courses and staying in different towns. Not so Mick. By this time his remaining period of service could be counted almost in minutes and you did not need an instruction course on any aircraft to help you to become a taxi driver. Nevertheless we had a great time seeing wonderful places like Derby, Coventry, Solihull, (posh place that), and of course Cheltenham. We learnt a lot too, especially at the Rover factory in Solihull where they were not quite ready to teach us about the gas turbine starter/generator so gave us a conducted tour of the production line where they were producing Rover 3-litre cars.

By 1962 I was really finding my feet and the work came through thick and fast. I recall going on a Polar Trainer, when we flew a Britannia up to the North Pole on a navigation exercise, then stopped for one night at the USAAF base at Thule in Greenland on the return journey. Nothing remarkable about that except that it was daylight when we entered the bar at 7pm and still daylight when we left, slightly tipsy, at 1am. The Yanks are such good hosts.
Bermuda was a lovely place to visit and I went there on two occasions. The first time was a bit fraught because we hit severe icing conditions whilst flying down the US coast and the Britannia's Proteus engines began to flame-out. Icing was a problem on the Proteus which had reverse flow combustors. To overcome the problem in flight, the engine relight switches were armed so that, in the event of compressor stall, the engine would reignite immediately. That was the theory anyway. On this trip the icing was very bad and we could hear the engines faltering. The pilot called the US controllers who responded by sending a Neptune Maritime aircraft out to shadow us and, presumably, make a note of where we would ditch. However, we eventually landed safely in Bermuda but with only three engines running, one having automatically shut down in flight. Fortunately, or not, depending on your point of view, an inspection of the compressor showed no damage and we were able to leave Bermuda on schedule the next morning. I would have liked to have spent a little more time there waiting for a replacement engine but it was not to be.

On my second visit to Bermuda we were booked into the Bermudiana Hotel, a popular place for American tourists who arrived on the cruise ships. It was here that I saw my first automatic entrance doors where I spent some considerable time, just like a little kid, jumping in and out to make them work. We didn't get the chance to see much of Bermuda but it was obviously a very nice place to live. There was a blanket speed limit of 20mph throughout the islands, which was a surprise to us but also a very sensible rule. We were also amused by the Bermuda shorts worn by the majority of men including the Police. It was most odd to see a Policeman on duty wearing the same uniform as those in this country except for the trousers which were cut off just below the knee. Nowadays surfers wear shorts of a similar style and nobody thinks it at all odd

 

Apple does it again!

Apple announced today that it has developed a breast implant that can store and play music. The iTit will cost from £499 to £699, depending on cup and speaker size. This is considered a major social breakthrough, because women are always complaining about men staring at their breasts and not listening to them..

These are from signs seen in Colombo this time last year,
1. Have a GRATE Christmas (I assume this alludes to Santa's arrival down the chimney - unless it is a spelling mistake!)
2. Look out for Santa's SLAY (does this mean some of his little helpers are in for the chop - or is it just another spelling mistake?!!)

Merry Christmas - Peter Algar

Editors Note, - this was submitted by Dave shortly before his passing (see Obituaries).

A ONE-SIDED HORIZONTAL INTERVIEW

In Issue 54 of the 'Haltonian' Journal I read the article on the Car Racing Club - in which several in our Entry were prominent, and wondered whether my collision with the pavement in Wendover had seriously skewed my memory: TCW (Tindal Carol aka 'Firkin') to be replaced by Air Cdre Tom Coslett -surely not? Let me explain!

In '56 - along with Barrett and Grimston - I had attended Daedlus House RAF Cranwell for a series of exercises/assessments for a Cadetship and, unlike Jerry and Derek, had failed abysmally. Among my many shortcomings, I had not grasped the significance of being stranded on the horizontal of a 'goal post ' alongside several team members, and foolishly laughed aloud at our predicament, to the growing annoyance of the Directing Staff. (I believe, even today, 'role play' is used to identify leadership qualities in similar Game Shows - including Alan Sugar's aptly named 'The Apprentice'.)

Hence, I was not too surprised when I was ordered to see the Air Cdre - but, E D McKay-Nelson, rather than Coslett. The former appointment was verified, when I 'googled 'M-N', in a hilarious article from my old 4 SofTT colleague, Seamus 'Willie' Hamil Keays, on the 81st website, and by a potted history of events surrounding the 76th, on their equivalent site. The 81st site is well worth a look if you are into nostalgia and odd humour!

Why did it matter? Well hobnail booted, soaped creases, etc, I was marched into the Great Man's presence by the SWO (Joe Ballard?). Coming to a smartly executed halt, I skidded ignominiously on the carpet strip laid on the highly polished floor and finished up beneath M-N's desk. Rising inelegantly, I was the recipient of a one sided discussion about appropriate behaviour, before he then - magnanimously - pronounced that 'against his inclinations', I was to be promoted and sent to Swinderby as a Cpl, rather than to RAF Germany, as a JT. Even so, I hadn't got the message, and continued to argue for RAFG- before being invited to leave. M-N must have dined out on the story for years and - as I learned later - most generously ensured I remained on the 'Confidential Register'. A gentleman.

Later, at Finningley I set up similar interviews with an old mate, WO Ben Bennett, for 4 ex-Brats, as they attempted to justify their accelerated promotion to Cpl. Fortunately; they kept their feet on the ground and - eventually - were promoted ahead of their peers. I wonder how they would have coped with the recalcitrant NS erks employed to refuel and re-oil our Vampires at Swinderby?

Dave 'olcroft

A VISIT TO K.L

by Pete Algar

I am sorry not to have kept up with your demand for Newsletter Contributions and that it has resulted in the demise of the June edition. With apparently similar lack of support from Peter de Frere (not normally known to be lost for words and up with whom I would not attempt to keep) I think "we're doomed, I tell ye!" to coin a phrase by John Laurie in his undertaking role in Dad's Army. When I was in the Halton PT (or was it PE in those days?) team I went to a number of Saturday afternoon fetes in the locality (Chalfont St Peter to name but a few). One of these events was opened by none other than John Laurie himself. Looking through my photographs taken at that time, including one of JL, I have found one of Phyllis Calvert who opened another fete on another day. Looking even more closely I see standing right behind her is Eddie Godley (does he spell his name with 2 or 3 Es?). I don't recall that he was part of the display team and can only think that he was there just to pose whenever a photo-opportunity presented itself (not an unknown characteristic of his, I imagine, given his initial appearance on 15th September 1953 - do you remember? Duck's Arse coiffured hairdo, day-glow orange knee-length jacket with black roll collar, bootlace tie, drain pipe trousers and, of course, the ubiquitous Brothel Creepers. What a field day Sweeney Todd and Paddy Ore must have had with him when he turned up!).

Anyway, I digress for it seems that our adventures post Halton are the order of the day. Well, now, where did I get up to or, perhaps more to the point, what did I get up to? When I wrote to you last I recalled my days on 66 squadron and your readers will remember that that was in (no, not 1964) Kuching. Remember now? Actually, it WAS 1964 and I think I'm due for a medal currently being awarded by the Malaysian Department of Handing-out Medals (does anyone know the address and procedure?). Whilst at Kuching I lost the chance for a freebie flight to Hong Kong literally because I was caught with my trousers down and someone else got there first. The (second) best I could manage was a flight to Singapore and then a train all the way to Penang changing at Kalua Lumpor no, sorry, Kaula Lumpur no, oh, sod it! KL. I decided that, as I would have about 2 hours to spare between trains, I would take the chance to look around the place so, arriving at KL at about 5am, I got a taxi. Armed with a camera off we set. What the taxi driver thought I can't imagine for the day was barely light and the mist was really heavy. I was able to see the 18 storey Standard Chartered Bank up to about the 3rd floor but the photo came out very well and I was able to show my family the other 15 storeys of mist which my badly aimed camera took. The sad thing about all this is that, having travelled in a sleeper up to KL and not wishing to lose them, I had placed my vacination certificates and passport under my pillow where they remained. I boarded the next train and it was not until I got to the other end that I discovered their missingness. So, once on the Island of Penang, my 2 week stay with friends (Wally - he was in the RAF stationed at Butterworth - and his wife) was punctuated by a visit to the local Medical Centre to get re-vaccinated and to the Australian Embassy where I was able to get a passport albeit, and not surprisingly, Australian and valid for only one year.

I had a brilliant 2 weeks which included excursions to places beyond MC and AE. We took in a visit to the Waterfall Gardens where monkeys all roam freely and rode on the funicular railway up St George's Mount - the higher you go the cooler it gets (so the wealthier you are the higher living standard you have). There are, of course, plenty of Temples to visit all over Penang and a particularly popular one is the Snake Temple. Everywhere is covered in snakes which are kept drousy by the constant burning of incense - Jossticks. More photographs. Exotic plant life - still more. In fact, I found these photos a great source of inspiration for letters home. I would enclose about half a dozen each time and write an account about each. This idea I felt preferable to the old chestnut of listing everything one had for breakfast, lunch & dinner. Some evenings I found myself in the presence of a couple of army officers who were addicted to the game of Risk. If any readers know the game then they will understand why, when my leave was up with the game unfinished (an element of nuclear warfare had been introduced which prolonged the game) I left a wrapped-up prize for the winner. I would have loved to have seen their reaction when the prize was exposed - a pair of
dice! Wally (actually his name was Warwick) belonged to the Penang Swimming Club so had access to an excellent pool. The water in the pool was nothing more than filtered sea water so had such a bouyancy as to make it virtually impossible to sink. Thus, albeit rather late in the day, I learnt to
swim.
Back in Kuching once more and we were variously invited to Ex-Pat parties. Mine was hosted by the Chief Minister of Sarawak. It was really like taking a step Through The Looking-Glass for I met the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Minister for Foreign Affairs (I had one of those once - she was German!), the Minister for Funny Walks and several others all of whom seem to be called Joshua followed by some totally unpronouncable surname.
Full of confidence about my newly acquired swimming skills I now ventured into one of the many flooded disused gold mines. To render them no longer usable as such these gold mines were flooded with sulphur impregnated water. It was like being in a matchbox so intense was the smell. With the additional hazard of stepping into the water at its edge and then almost immediately encountering a shear drop my confidence left me no longer to return all the time I was in the Far East.
The next exciting instalment will be about my fairly recent trip to Sri Lanka but you'll just have to wait a bit for that.....

New Alphabet

A is for apple, and B is for boat, That used to be right, but now it won't float!
Age before beauty is what we once said, But let's be a bit more realistic instead.

Now The Pensioners Alphabet:

A's for arthritis; B's the bad back, C's the chest pains, perhaps car-d-iac?
D is for dental decay and decline, E is for eyesight, can't read that top line!

F is for fissures and fluid retention, G is for gas which I'd rather not mention.
H . high blood pressure--I'd rather it low; I . for incisions with scars you can show.
J is for joints, out of socket, won't mend, K is for knees that crack when they bend.

L 's for libido, what happened to sex? M is for memory, I forget what comes next.
N is neuralgia, in nerves way down low; O is for osteo, bones that don't grow!

P for prescriptions, I have quite a few, just give me a pill and I'll be good as new!
Q is for queasy, is it fatal or flu? R is for reflux, one meal turns to two.

S is for sleepless nights, counting my fears, T is for Tinnitus; bells in my ears!
U is for urinary; troubles with flow; V for vertigo, that's 'dizzy,' you know.

W for worry, NOW what's going 'round? X is for X ray, and what might be found.
Y for another year I'm left here behind, Z is for zest I still have-(in my mind).

I've survived all the symptoms, My body's deployed,
I keep twenty six Doctors, fully employed!

John George

THREE CHEERS FOR THE MAN ON THE GROUND
By Flight Mechanic Eric Sykes (1942)

Wherever you walk, you will hear people talk, of the men who go up in the air,
of the daredevil way, they go into the fray; Facing death without turning a hair.

They'll raise a big cheer and buy lots of beer, for the pilot who's come home on leave,
but they don't give a jigger, for a flight mech or rigger, with nothing but "props" on his sleeve.

They just say "Nice day" - and then turn away, with never a mention of praise,
for the poor bloody erk, who does all the work, and just orders his own beer - and pays !

They've never been told, of the hours in the cold, that he spends sealing Germany 's fate,
how he works on a kite, till all hours of the night, and then turns up next morning at eight.

He gets no rake-off, for working 'til take-off, or helping the aircrew prepare,
but whenever there's trouble - it's "Quick at the double", the man on the ground must be there.

Each flying crew, could confirm it as true, that they know what this man's really worth,
they know that he's part of the RAF's heart, even though he stays close to the earth.

He doesn't want glory, but please tell his story, spread a little of his fame around,
He's just one of a few - so give him his due, and "Three Cheers for the man on the ground

OBITUARIES

David Holcroft (589047, Engines) (Wg Cdr, Retd, OBE)

I cannot remember ever meeting up with Dave at Halton even though we spent three years in close order there. In a way it is hardly surprising I suppose as he was training to become extremely proficient at avoiding getting saturated in used engine oil whilst changing spark plugs and I was learning how to keep Her Majesty's front line aircraft airborne by diligent use of the Herringbone stitch. Furthermore, Dave's 'off-duty' time - what there was of it- was apparently spent in sporting mode whilst I, in comparison, spent much of what should have been my leisure time in the tin room of No1 Wing Mess, working off yet another totally undeserved three, five or seven days jankers.
Our paths never crossed either during our time in uniform, for me it amounted to thirty seven years whilst Dave easily surpassed that. Even when we both gave up the struggle and joined that strange company of people known as 'civilians' neither of us knew that the other lived less than a mile away along the road.
We met for the first time in rather a strange way..
The chairman of Shrewsbury Town Football Club had embarked on a campaign to move the club in its entirety to a new venue close to where I live, much against the wishes of some of the club's directors. Not prepared to raise their heads above the parapet for fear of being 'black-balled' - as is often the case in such circumstances - one of them asked if I would write a letter to the local paper querying the wisdom of such a move. Like Daniel wandering into the lions den I duly obliged; the letter was printed with the result that the paper was saturated the following week (and for months afterwards) with derogatory missives from angry fans calling my sanity and parentage into question. What to do?

I decided to retaliate in similar fashion and did so, the final sentence reading "I have recently completed almost forty years service in the Royal Air Force and have been messed around by experts, you guys don't bother me at all!" This was picked up by Dave who immediately located and phoned me. We had a good laugh, a long chat, and a great friendship was born.

As many will know, 'olcroft was, for some considerable time, the welfare co-ordinator for the RAFHAAA, a position that he held with great pride not only for the financial assistance and friendly counselling that he was able to give to those who sought or were offered advice, but also for the trust placed in him to ensure that the Association's assets were handled with due care. It was whilst attending a meeting at Halton some two years ago that Dave suffered the stroke that eventually compelled him to hand over the reins and attempt to take life a little easier.
Nevertheless, he continued with welfare work by involving himself with SSAFA where he 'flew the desk' for one morning each week. Previously, he had been on the team of our local Citizens Advice Bureau but, as I understood him to say, Dave had disagreed with the introduction of some paid members into management positions and so had resigned rather than cause a stir. As you may gather, he believed passionately that those who were able to should give their time and services freely to those less fortunate than themselves.
Never one to make mention of his achievements in life, Dave had absolutely no swank about him in any way. Perhaps, when hard pressed during one of our many 'discussions', he may just mention that he was one of an elite few who left Halton with the rank of corporal, forcing me to remind him that I was the only one who left there a fully trained dual tradesman - Airframe Fitter/ Scullery Maid!

Many people that I know from all walks of life had enormous respect for Dave Holcroft. He made friends easily and most certainly didn't suffer fools gladly. He enjoyed a pint, a political argument and a good laugh (except on the occasion when I proposed him for membership of a 'gentleman's dining club'. Asking me the form that his initial attendance would take I jokingly told him that he would be expected to give a brief account of himself. On the night, when
introduced and to everyone's amazement he gave a typical OC Eng Wg's speech relating his life from primary school to pension book, holding up the meal for some twenty minutes. I was never forgiven!)His reliability in everything he did and promised was unquestionable and it is one of life's sad ironies that those who deserve the greatest consideration should be taken from us too soon.
He leaves behind a lovely family and many, many friends. We all miss him terribly.

Tony Page

Gordon Clift (589147, Armourer)

Gordon passed away on 23rd July 2009 at his home in Llangadfan, Powys peacefully after a short illness. The following information was sent to us by his son, Tim Clift.
Dad told me that he served in Cyprus, Malta as well as Norfolk & the North East of England, but I'm not sure of the names of the RAF stations. Dad served in the RAF until 1962, shortly before marrying my mother. After the RAF he joined ICL as a Computer Engineer. He stayed with ICL until he retired & moved to Wales in 1994.

 

The Editors Bit