The 81st Entry
RAF Halton Aircraft Apprentices
Sept 1955 - July 1958

ISSUE No.20 - AUGUST 2009
81st ENTRY NEWSLETTER
Editor: Mike Stanley

Life after Halton. Cranwell 1958-1960
by Sach Goodwin

Just before our ex-Halton leave finished, Mick Dilloway came knocking at my door in Portsmouth with a problem. The address on his leave pass was in one of the Channel Islands but he had decided not to go there, instead, remaining in Pompey. Naturally, his railway warrant didn’t start at Pompey and the station staff refused to change it. I suggested that we go to the recruiting office and they would do the business. The only joy we got was the stroppy sergeant threatening to charge Mick with not being in the place his pass said he should have been. Whether he got his warrant changed, I can’t remember.

A few days later, I was on a train heading for the wilds of Lincolnshire and Sleaford Tech. I was originally posted to 2 TAF but swapped with Mike Stanley. My old mucker Ben Harris was posted to the Tech but didn’t think he would pass out, so to give him a boost, I swapped my posting. We had visions of sitting in the armoury learning the banjo. As it transpired, Ben didn’t pass out, I just scraped into the lower order and neither of us learned the banjo. I arrived at the old railway station that served as the guardroom and was put into transit, a wooden hut as I remember, how have the mighty fallen! Arriving at the same time was Dave Beston and Bert Hall plus a few other non-armourers I can’t recall. Brian Kennard was already there as an SAC (having failed one of his inters) as was Dave Stokes. After arriving the next day, the SWO decided that we would be delivering notes to the officers married quarters on the north airfield. I remember it was a beautiful sunny day, so it was not too much of a chore. On the way back, the Station Commander stopped and gave us a lift in his Standard Vanguard, my first ride in such a luxury vehicle. Luckily for us, Dolly Gray the armament chief convinced the SWO that we were desperately needed to play with aeroplanes and that was the end of the SWO’s working party. The beauty of Cranwell was that it revolved around the cadets. No one gave a toss for the troops so life was good.

Bert and Dave disappeared into 2nd line and I found myself at the sharp end on 1 Sqdn with a row of Vampire 5, 9 & T11’s to play with. My arrival at the Sqdn billet was on a bull night, which, after Halton, was something of an eye opener. The room was like a hangar, 45 occupied beds with some spare. The walls were plain whitewashed brick, no frills in those days. All the beds and lockers were in the middle of the room and the lads were riding their motorbikes round the perimeter and up the steps out of the room over a trestle table top. My first job as a plumber occurred when Winky Warren, the engine corporal asked if I was doing anything. Like a fool, I said no and was marched down to our tin hangar and directed towards a shining jet. We opened the top and bottom butterfly panels; he gave me a wooden rack with holes in it and showed me how to remove a burner from the engine. He than said remove the remainder put them in the rack and see me when you’ve done. I was then given a rack of shiny new burners and told to fit them, lock wire and reconnect the electrics. Winky gave my efforts a cursory once over, I signed the 700 and he over signed. I don’t think you’d get away with it these days.

The offerings in the mess at the time were pretty grim, Well, with an ex flight sergeant air gunner running the place, I suppose it was to be expected. One day the word went round that there would be a hunger strike. We were advised by the barrack room lawyers that we should go to breakfast as that was a parade and we would all give lunch a miss. Apart from a few SHQ wallies putting in an appearance, it was a total success. The afternoon was spent with meetings all over the station and sections were told to send a representative to an emergency messing meeting. Our strike seemed to have the desired effect as the quality of the food did take an upturn.

A short time later I witnessed the aftermath of the tragic crash at Syerston. We had sent four of our jets (the aerobatic team) to the Battle of Britain open day and were awaiting their return to refuel, replenish and put them to bed. The phone call came through that they would not be returning and we would have to go to Syerston and bed them down for the night. The sight that greeted us was horrific. It seemed that the length of the runway was strewn with what looked like shavings from a wood plane, but were in fact pieces of aircraft skin. At the end of the runway was the still smouldering wreckage not only of the Vulcan, but also the runway caravan and the fire truck. (Look on the net for an account of the accident and photos).

November the fifth and another demob party. Whilst we were all getting ready, one of the lads let off a firework. Someone turned off the lights and soon there were rockets, roman candles and sparkly fountains going off all over the place. When the pyrotechnic display ended and the lights were turned on, there were singed blankets, burnt curtains and holes in the lino. The door opened and there stood the orderly corporal with an RAF plod asking if there were fireworks being let off. By this time, the room was full of acrid smoke, but our pleas of innocence were accepted. The barrack damages cost us dear.

Bert and I volunteered to share duty armourer over Xmas (those were the days, a .303 and ten rounds and woe betide anyone trying to get in). Our efforts were rewarded with a couple of weeks free leave. I was on duty Xmas Day with a Cpl Guard Commander and two guards. The Station Commander arrived with two sergeants who were ushered into the armoury to relieve us and we were transported to the mess. After a mountain of food and booze, we were driven back to resume our duties. In our absence, a further mountain of food and booze had been delivered, so we settled down for the rest of the day. As I recollect, that was the only time I was ever drunk in charge of an armoury.

One of the duty armourer’s duties was to carry out a physical count of the weapons in the armoury. The WO gave you a printed sheet listing all the different weapons and you wrote down the totals against the respective weapons. The majority of the weapons were kept in locked cupboards, the keys of which (and there seemed to be hundreds of them) were on a large ring. It became standard practice to ask someone who worked in the armoury if there were any discrepancies from the norm, which there never was. One day I asked the relevant question and was told all was as before. I dutifully filled in the totals, waited the time it would have taken me to do the check properly, then triumphantly handed my list to the WO. He took one look at it, handed me back the keys and suggested that I go and open the cupboards (this man was no fool, unlike myself). On opening the cupboards, I found to my horror that nearly 2000 No 4s were missing. The chap who gave me the OK had apparently been on leave and in his absence, these guns had been returned to the MU. I learned two things from this incident never believe what you are told and always carry out your duties thoroughly.

A couple of stories concerning Goodwin, Hall, Beston and Kennard.

A sergeant was selling his 1938ish Morris 10 for £35 on near offer. Brian Kennard offered him £40 and became the proud owner of a maroon limo. Coming back from a night on the pop in Sleaford, Brian driving, Dave in the passenger seat, Bert in the rear nearside and myself in the rear offside, we came across a mate pushing his push bike back to base. He had no lights and the night was pitch black. Being knights of the road, we decided we would give him a lift. I opened the rear door and exited the limo. What I didn’t realize in my drunken state was that we were still doing 30 or so. I was left hanging onto the door handle being dragged along with the rear wheel occasionally running over my foot. We all had a good laugh, threw the bike on the roof, hung onto it through the windows and went home. The only damage, apart from my pride, was a hole or two in my trousers, a badly grazed knee and one shoe worn away.

On another occasion, the same crew went on the pop in Market Rasen, We had been told there was plenty of “spare” to be had, but they must have gone to Lincoln for the night. After the pubs threw out we staggered back to the limo; big problem, it wouldn’t start. We flattened the battery and reverted to the starting handle, still no joy, so we climbed in and went to sleep. Some while later, a policeman woke us up and asked the usual questions. We gave the usual answers and he offered to give us a push. With four of us aboard, he pushed us a fair distance, then said he was going off shift and goodnight. We went back to sleep. In the early hours, Bert woke up with a pain in his side and rummaging in his pocket, found the rotor arm that he had removed to immobilise the limo. Rotor arm refitted, a quick push and we were back in time for breakfast.

A new cadet entry arrives for their jet training (having learnt to fly the piston Provost at Barkston Heath) and big problems. One of their number was on the tall side and would not be able to eject from a T11 without smashing his knees on the windscreen frame. A Meteor Mk8 and a T7 were borrowed from Manby and he was able to continue. Little did I realise that this tall chap I used to strap in became the Chief of the Air Staff – Air Chief Marshal Sir Richard Edward Johns GCB, KCVO, CBE. Where did I go wrong?

I’ve just been revisiting the sixth edition of the Journal and an entry by Mal Binks caught my eye (I seem to remember a Mal Binks on 1 Sqdn, was that you Mal?) where he makes reference to a Sgt Knocker Knowles. Knocker was somewhat punch drunk and one fine day drove his tractor through the closed, newly hung doors of the engine bay. Knocker will feature in my next instalment.

I could probably write a book about my time at Cranwell but that is for another time.

May 1960 and I’m on a train heading for Harwich and 2 TAF.