大象传媒

NOSTALGIC RAMBLINGS OF A "WEB FOOTER"

by

GEOFF WALKER, G3ZDO (RAFARS 852)
(First published in the RAFARS Journal, 'QRV', Spring 1993.)

The Autumn 1991 issue of "QRV" contained an entry in the "Silent Keys" columns which made me realise that I had better get cracking and pen a few lines of dimly remembered personal RAF service history whilst the remaining "little grey cells" were still holding their charge!

I refer to the sad passing of Laurie O'Loughlin, G8AXC, (RAFARS 696) in Cyprus. We were members of the small group, a dozen or so, radio mechanics in the RAFVR posted in May June 1940 to Martlesham Heath for the very first airborne radar course (so we were informed). The equipment which was to be entrusted to our tender care comprised ASV Mk 1 (Air to Surface Vessel) and AI (Airborne Interception) together with some ancillary test gear.

It was quite a relief to get involved with bench work together with the complete change of scenery, after enduring the various "jabs" gleefully administered by the Medical Section at Saughall Massey, Padgate. This had been combined with hectic "square bashing" for a fortnight, which seemed far longer, as we were confined to camp!

Unfortunately, we didn't have group photographs taken at Martlesham or elsewhere, possibly because of security restrictions, so I cannot remember all the names of our band perhaps "QRV" readers can fill in the gaps. Apart from Laurie, the names which come to mind are Bill Hoyle, Cliff Scothern, Jimmy Donaldson, Charlie Newton, Bill Kelsey and Bert Ward.

The nightly air raid sirens meant, of course, a mad dash for the shelters. As decent and honourable radio types, our group was, naturally, detailed to the WAAF/NAAFI shelter to protect the frightened young girls from the enemy hordes. Fortunately, the Nazis must have been scared off at this news, as they only dropped bombs and not paratroops!

After a brief couple of weeks or so, absorbing the many intricacies of the ASV gear, especially the versatile red Mullard EF50's and the "Micropup" Tx valves even silver plated Lecher lines we felt we were getting somewhere. Our "Special Equipment" was later to be named "Radar" after we shared our "gen" with the Americans when they eventually joined the fun.

During our Course, trying the patience of those longsuffering instructors, of whom I can only remember placid Flight Lieutenant "Taff" Hughes, it was rumoured that Dr Watson Watt, the "Father of Radar" once visited our lecture/ workroom during the height of our arguments, discussions, experiments and other activities. Apparently, he rapidly departed with an ashen face and nervous "tic" no great surprise!

The only flying activity noticed was when a couple of sleek twin engined Whirlwind PR aircraft would suddenly appear on the tarmac at various times. Possibly they were prototypes on test.

We actually had some evenings off, usually visiting nearby Ipswich and ending up with a brief "jar" in the popular White Horse pub, before the frantic dash back to camp.

Eventually, we were posted for flying training to No 1 COTU, RAF Silloth on the Solway Firth, an area noted for State run pubs, with no alternative choice of beer to the usually flat product of the Carlisle Brewery.

The Hudson aircraft used for radar training were flown by "flak happy" Polish ex fighter pilots who delighted in wave hopping down to Blackpool and banking tightly round the Tower, much to the discomfort of the red faced radar trainee desperately trying to hold the rubber visor of the CRT in place and focus on the faint blips on the sea returns mush of the green trace. This with the heat and the hot oil fumes in the bucking aircraft combining to inspire queasiness in the strongest stomachs. The only consolation was seeing on the screen the large echo reflected back from the massive steelwork of the Tower, proving the ASV actually worked. But, would it be effective with the small area of a U boat conning tower? The other outstanding memory of Silloth was the large number of wrecked aircraft around the perimeter, ranging from Hudsons (!) to massive Stirling bombers.

After the requisite number of flights, we were posted to various squadrons. Laurie, I believe, was posted to 224 Squadron at Aldergrove. Bill Hoyle and myself were fortunate in joining 204 Squadron, with Sunderlands, then based at Sullom Voe in the Shetlands (now the centre of a giant oil terminal).

204 Squadron was originally formed at RAF Mountbatten flying boat base on the Solent. The majority of the personnel came from the West Country and together we were a really happy, friendly "mob". The Sunderlands were quite a revelation in all respects, especially in the large amount of internal space which was fortunate during DI's, when all the various trades assembled on the jetty to be ferried to the aircraft moored out in the Voe by the patient Marine Craft Section.

Airborne calibration and other tests were a fascinating experience the initial taxiing prior to take off, the thrill of 25 tons of elegance hurtling across the sea, the dense clouds of spray from hull and floats and the unmistakeable roar of the four Pegasus engines. As the aircraft rose on the hull step at about 90 mph and finally lost contact with the sea, soaring up and away, engines throttled back to the cruising speed, a feeling of relief was evident. I think any ex Sunderland squadron member should consider it a privilege to have been associated with these beautiful aircraft!

To return from the sublime to the reality of maintenance.

The ASV Tx aerials were mounted in a vulnerable position on either side of the front gun turret, which had to be retracted by winding a small handle in order to gain access to the antennae mounting insulators and the coax feeder. When the aircraft took off and landed, salt spray enveloped the nose and, of course, the antennae. Regular washing off and recoating with sticky lanolin grease was essential.

If the coax feeder became suspect, replacing it was a nightmare. Picture the scene a dark, rainy night, the flying boat tossing in a heavy swell. But, the "highlight" was using a "Mox" soldering iron weighing several pounds, attempting a neat joint between the coax and the antenna without melting the insulation. The "Mox" soldering iron was a fiendish contraption which had to be loaded with a circular cartridge containing a quantity of magnesium oxide compound. A special type of barium match was ignited and thrust into the centre of the cartridge and the iron shutter had to be closed before the whole device erupted into a roman candle of white hot particles! In due course, the copper bit heated up and the attempt at soldering was completed, if lucky, before the first "Mox" cartridge expired.

The camaraderie on the Squadron was excellent with all Sections "mucking in" together when help was needed. Bill and myself were attached to the Signals Section, where we were entertained almost nightly by "Chiefy" Rance with his saxophone practising, or else we joined the various discussion groups. The memories of Sullom Voe are many and varied, to include the brilliant "Northern Lights", the high fluorescence of the dinghy wake in the evening journeys between jetty and flying boat and the really marvellous sunsets. On one occasion a .group of us were smoking the usual pipes, using up the weekly ration of "Players Best" and watching one of the Sunderlands being refuelled out on the Voe. There was an unusually oily, calm sea. Suddenly, there was furious activity, with men jumping off the flying boat and from the refuelling barge into the sea, with dinghies dashing out to the rescue. Then we saw the reasons for the "panic" orange flames spreading slowly over the aircraft. Now the powered barge had reversed away at top speed (at least 5 mph). Finally, the aircraft was a mass of flames from bow to stern and sank like a Viking ceremonial galley, but with no warrior "chiefy" lying in state, fortunately.

Another dramatic occasion concerned a Heinkel bomber coming in low in an attempt to sink the Sunderlands at their moorings. However, a Bofors AA battery had been strategically located at the end of the small bay. As the bomber levelled out, the stream of Bofors shells reached their target which left the area rapidly, streaming smoke and finally crashing into the sea a couple of miles away. The Bofors gun crew and the fascinated RAF audience burst into loud cheers at this satisfactory conclusion, with both the Sunderlands and personnel being left unscathed.

In due course, my leave became due in early December, so I embarked on the mv St Clair for the Lerwick to Aberdeen crossing, then headed south by train. Near the end of leave, a telegram arrived with orders to report to a RAF transit camp at Greenock, on the Clyde. On arrival there, it turned out to be a large granite building, Adamton House, with very basic facilities. Shaving in a mug of warm NAAFI tea was quite typical as there was no hot water for such luxuries as washing and shaving! The freezing Scottish January had put paid to the antiquated plumbing system. The Orderly Room "bods" told me that I had been posted to 95 (Flying Boat) Squadron, then located in Alexandria. I was to fly out in one of the three Sunderlands shortly due to complete their major servicing at the Scottish Aviation workshops on Clydebank.

A group of "erks" in various trades spent the next few days wandering round the town, finding that a Scottish pub is a very serious place where a "half and half" is not a combination of mild and bitter ales, but involves ale and whisky and at a much higher price!

One night we heard the sirens howling and, in the manner of feckless youth, decided to view the activity, wandering along the deserted streets. We heard the sound of aircraft, to be followed by bombs falling. It was the start of the Clydeside "blitz". We huddled in doorways as ARP wardens screamed at us to "depart with alacrity", or words to that effect. We decided to try and return to the billet, as by now everywhere had become a mass of flames and falling masonry around us. Finally, the air raid eased off and we got back to Adamton House, only to find properties on either side were just heaps of smoking rubble. Most of our roof and the centres of the various floors were missing, due, so we were told, to a direct hit by a bomb which had failed to explode. We rapidly departed to another billet, in the hills, and next morning reported to a temporary Headquarters. All the communications with Glasgow had been cut, so we were sent on temporary leave. Naturally, we were very disappointed that our volunteering to be despatch riders (such youthful folly) had been turned down. I heard later that the Sunderlands of 95 Squadron were a total loss in the "blitz".

Eventually, a signal arrived at home with orders to report to Headquarters, Pembroke Dock. A twenty four hours train journey covering just 100 miles, due to constant air raids, culminated in arrival at the West Wales base to find a large portion of the town in ruins was Adolf still on my trail? A weary trek through the rubble littered streets to Headquarters only found these deserted, apart from the faithful Orderly Room staff.

Apparently, there had been several nights of enemy attack when sea mines on parachutes, destined for Milford Haven, had drifted on to the town and base. Practically all RAF and WAAF personnel had volunteered to spend the nights away from the camp, sleeping with blankets on Bush Hill. I was directed to a large hut in the camp and found it to be a WAAF billet! I had the choice of about twenty made up (but empty) beds. The sheets and pillows were cool and delightful after the previous hectic journeying. Reporting the next day, I was given a seven days leave pass and informed that I was posted back to 204 Squadron at Sullom Voe.

Returning to Pembroke Dock from leave, I spent the time doing maintenance on the aircraft radar and going along as a passenger on several test flights along the Cornish coast. We then left Pembroke Dock en route to the Shetlands, landing at Stranraer to spend the night there. The next day we landed at Sullom Voe, but no sign of 204 Squadron. Huts were deserted and everywhere were signs of a hurried departure. A message arrived from Lerwick and, to our great surprise, we were instructed to proceed to Iceland. After an uneventful flight via the Faeroe Islands, we flew along the rugged coast of Iceland. Here was a dramatic panorama of lunar scenery and high, snow capped extinct volcanoes on which to gaze down.

At last, we touched down at Havnafjiord and saw our new base the mv Manela (the Manela and her sister ship Dumana were purpose built for flying boat maintenance on the Indian coast during the pre war period). When the ballast tanks were flooded, the ship sank low enough in the water to enable the beaching gear equipped aircraft to be towed and secured in the aft part of the vessel, similar in lay out to a dry dock. When the ballast tanks were pumped out, the vessel rose sufficiently out of the water to enable major aircraft servicing to be carried out, as if it were on dry land. All 204 Squadron personnel, equipment, etc and the various Sections were located, with quite reasonable working quarters, throughout the ship. Sleeping in hammocks was a new experience. By June, we were enjoying the 23 1/2+ hours light of the Icelandic summer. Patrols searching for U boats, routine maintenance and other duties, with occasional liberty runs into Reykjavik became the squadron pattern of life.

The Icelanders were not very happy with the British Forces, as district central heating projects, using geyser steam, were being installed by German civil engineers. Pumping stations were built and trenches in the street had been dug ready for the network of pipes to be laid. The whole project was hurriedly abandoned when the British Army arrived to secure Iceland as a base!

"F" for "Ferdinand" (T9072) came back from patrol one day and, taxiing to the moorings, struck an uncharted reef, with unfortunate results to the keel area. The skipper beached the aircraft at full throttle before it could sink in the icy fjord, so a great deal of valuable and scarce equipment was recovered. There is a photograph of "Ferdinand" on p51 in the excellent book by Chaz Bowyer, "Sunderland at War", but the caption wrongly places the location as Bathurst, West Africa, instead of Iceland.

It was very pleasant to have an occasional break from Squadron duties and visit Reykjavik. We enjoyed excellent meals at the Hotel Borg; and sampled the wonderful, delicious cream cakes in several small cafes in the town. The "Gamla Bio" and the "??? Bio" were two cinemas, with good entertainment, and super clarity of vision, as smoking was banned, fortunately!

When the North African landings were imminent, there was an immediate "controlled panic" to get all the aircraft at Havnafjiord serviced in a hurry. They all took off for West Africa, via Gibraltar, to patrol the convoy routes. The only exception was "Ferdinand", which looked rather forlorn as we sailed away in the Manela, back to the UK. It was mostly an uneventful voyage, apart from a "panic" one sunny day when the escorting corvettes picked up a sonar echo which sent them circling, blowing sirens and dropping depth charges. An interested audience on deck, in greatcoats and lifejackets, we were rapidly becoming aware of the creaks and groans of the ship, as the hull objected to the battering of the underwater explosions. An Aldis lamp signal was flashed to the corvettes, requesting them to cease their attempts to sink us accidentally. They agreed and the rest of the voyage to the Clyde was free of incidents or further U boat scares.

After embarkation leave, we assembled in Liverpool and joined the Northumberland, a scruffy ex meat refrigeration ship, normally used on the South American UK meat cargo run, obviously an ideal troop ship! It was packed with Army and Free French personnel, with 204 Squadron as a very small contingent. But, we had no problems as all became involved in "card schools" until the weather became too hot to stay below. Then the decks resembled an active ant hill, but we were frequently reminded that anyone reporting sick with sunburn would be put on a charge forthwith! We were all glad to get the first sight of land at Aberdeen Point, West Africa, with the background of palm trees, golden sands, blue seas and white surf (but, no trace of Dorothy Lamour and handmaidens running down the beach to welcome us not even a mirage of "The Road to Zanzibar"). Nevertheless, it was a very pleasant sight of land after the boring three weeks voyage, apart from calling at Gibraltar en route.

We entered the vast Freetown Harbour which was packed with shipping, but instead of going ashore with the others, we were transhipped to the Abosso, a coastal passenger ship with much better facilities and certainly more room. Several days later, having travelled up the coast, we pulled into Bathurst harbour, at the mouth of the Gambia River. Lining the rails, we were eager to see our new base, but loud jeers and moans went up as we saw the familiar lines of the Manela's sister ship, the Dumana! (Both the Manela and Dumana were originally owned by the India Steam Navigation Company, Manela dating from 1921 and Dumana from 1923. Dumana was sunk by submarine between Port Etienne and Takoradi on 24 December 1943, but Manela survived to go to the shipbreakers in 1946.)

Eventually, we were ferried across and took up residence in identical quarters to the ones on the Manela. But, the temperature was somewhat warmer than previously, so after a couple of stifling nights below decks, we all moved on deck and made up our individual beds on the hatch covers. It was very pleasant under the canopy of brilliant stars in the black, velvet sky, smoking "free issue" tobacco and drinking Dow's beer whilst listening to Signals Section's PA system (I wonder what became of Don Beresford, leading light of "Sigs"?). The most requested record was that of Deanna Durbin singing, appropriately, "Harbour Lights".

We became accustomed to the bread at mealtimes, with the 50/50 ratio of weevils to flour, but the rabbit stew served up was rapidly thrown overboard to the family of sharks waiting patiently alongside. They, at least, seemed to thrive on this delicacy(?)!

In due course, the civilian Works and Bricks "wallahs" proudly produced a shore based series of concrete, walled huts located on a large, empty area of land surrounded by native huts. The spot was named "Half Die" by the locals, as of previous detachments of Army personnel before the war, half the number had perished with the various diseases endemic to this part of Africa (known as "the White Man's Grave"). We never found out if this was truth or legend. But, we did find out why native huts were absent from our patch of ground. When the rainy season arrived, our huts were located in a large shallow lake! The constant roar of the bullfrogs, enjoying the facilities provided, was unbelievable perhaps they were welcoming the intruders to their ancestral habitat. Doubtless, the Works and Bricks "top brass" would receive "gongs" for their initiative in so siting the camp. We heard later that they had been warned by the village "elders" about the site problems, but had replied "Rhubarb", or something similar!

No longer did we have time for the simple off duty sports experienced on the Dumana, such as betting on giant cockroach races, with no shortage of willing competitors eager to devour the baked bean prizes (not true, that they bit open the tins themselves!). Another source of much hilarity was igniting the gentle, and sometimes not so gentle, puffs of methane gas produced by the aforementioned beans, by a lighted match strategically placed adjacent to the KD protected jet. My great regret is not having photographic proof of this most fascinating tropical pastime, as it is difficult to convince unbelievers how effective it is to relieve boredom in the outposts of Empire (that was). Occasionally, we were able to take a swim in the warm, muddy waters of the Gambia River, with lookout, plus rifle, posted to keep a watch for crocs or sharks, which were never seen which was fortunate, as the lookout may have been swigging some of the local palm wine.

In due course, I was posted to 95 Squadron, located on the banks of a large creek at Jui, some miles from Freetown in Sierra Leone. Flying down the coast from Bathurst was very interesting, with the dense jungle spreading as far inland as could be seen. The narrow strip of beach along the coast had small fishing villages dotted here and there, complete with outrigger canoes and a few natives splashing about in the white surf no sign of Tarzan and Jane, though! The Sunderland was flying at 2,000 ft, as was normal, so details below were very clear. After landing in Freetown harbour, I was ferried by a pinnace to Fourah Bay College, which had been requisitioned as a transit camp. It was about twenty minutes walk into Freetown, along a lane lined with native huts and thickets of palm trees. Outside one hut, but chained to a tree, was a "baby" twelve stone gorilla, treated as one of the family. It appeared to be happy and well fed, as the transit camp inhabitants provided it with bananas and light conversation in passing.

In Freetown, the focal point for Servicemen was the Wharf Bar on Kissy Street, with iced lager, chicken and chips and more lager as the standard menu. Recently, this year, I saw a newspaper photograph of the centre of Freetown and I was amazed to see the mass of skyscrapers symbolic of a modern city. I remembered Freetown as a rather sprawled out collection of insignificant buildings and native huts.

After a week at Fourah Bay, an MT Section truck took me to Jui. The journey was through lush vegetation and steamy heat, skirting native villages and passing alongside the famous waterway in the valley the source of many Service songs about the laundry maids and their gyrations!

I found the Radar Section to be staffed by friendly, laid back Canadian radar mechanics, who didn't seem to resent too much a "Limey" taking over, instead one of their own tribe. Normal routine work was carried out on the flying boats without any dramatic incidents. We had a weekly liberty run to Lumley Beach, by courtesy of RAF transport, for a day at the seaside. It was quite a change from Blackpool, being a tropical paradise of white surf, golden sands, waving palm trees and a warm ocean, plus Service rations. A string of shark nets kept us safe from "Jaws", but not the dreaded Portuguese Man O'War jellyfish. There were no problems diving down through the clear water to the coral and the shoals of friendly fish probably thought that we were vegetarians.

Occasionally, we had visits to the Aberdeen Point radar station, overlooking Freetown harbour. West Africa Group gave us permission to rig up a Mk 1 Radar Tx and Rx system, plus a much modified IFF unit (minus the detonator, of course) and the complete system used an old automobile differential assembly plus steering wheel and gearbox, a Yagi antenna on a rotatable mast, a perspex pointer coupled to the mast and rotating to give the antenna bearing on a board map of the area between Jui and Gibraltar. The IFF was an airborne transponder ("Identification Friend or Foe") which gave a coded identity response when it received an interrogation signal from ground radar. The detonator was wired up to a Gravinette switch, which would, in theory, trigger the charge and thus destroy the IFF "innards" in the event of a crash landing it could also detonate under other circumstances of a mysterious nature! However, with this set up we could pick up and identify one of our aircraft taking off from Gibraltar. On the fourth or fifth vertical trace our coded IFF sending "JUI" would be picked up by the radar operator on the Sunderland. A great time would be had by all, as the Heath Robinson (alias Fred Flintstone) system actually worked without any failures, the navigators had a fairly relaxed time on those runs and the enemy must have thought it was a hoax if he picked up the signals.

The daily routine of springing lightly from under the "mozzy" nets, having checked first for snakes, etc by leaning over one side of the bed and bashing a shoe on the floor before dashing to the showers and then a glass of water with a dash of Dettol in it, drunk to wash down the issue yellow Mepacrine tablets, kept most of us free from the dreaded "lurgi". Of course, the most potent remedy was the weekly bottle of Johnny Walker or Bourbon no germ could live in those concoctions!

I greatly regretted not having a camera, as there was so much West African wildlife to record. Without photographic evidence, no one back in the UK would believe the descriptions of the varieties of snakes, giant ants, centipedes and double barrelled hornets "kipping down" in the radar equipment on the work bench if the covers were left off. For a down to earth and full description of Service life in Sierra Leone, the novel by John Harris, "A Funny Place to Hold a War" (ISBN 0 09 155030 0) is very readable and will doubtless rekindle various memories of the Coast for ex wearers of the pith helmet or "Bombay Bowler".

There were, of course, sadder moments. In January 1943, one of our Sunderlands took off from Jui on patrol, but crashed in the jungle. It took days to reach it and, unfortunately, there were no survivors.

Two years or more after arriving in Freetown harbour, and before getting our knees really brown, a small group of time expired types set off home to Blighty on board the four funnelled, coal burning Empress of Russia. There were massive wood panelled dining rooms of cathedral like proportions, delicious meals served by respectful waiters, with first class service. For three weeks we were living in a dream world, with a remarkably peaceful voyage, until the harsh return to reality, as we docked in Liverpool in rain and fog.

A few days were spent in a transit camp before going on leave, days spent shivering in camp beds with heaps of blankets trying to combat the damp chill. The long promised pint of cold English beer in a pub was far too cold and really "gut chilling". The transit camp Orderly Room "bods" were organised enough to discover that I was posted (after leave) to 228 Squadron at Pembroke Dock.

Soon after arrival, I was detached to Cranwell for a conversion course on 1Ocm radar, lasting six weeks (anyone remember the best pub in Sleaford, the Grapes?). There was then the return to Pembroke Dock and the modern radar section located in a couple of large prefabricated buildings sited on the waterfront and overlooking the Haven. We had about twenty RCAF radar mechanics among the group. 大象传媒 involved servicing and flight trials for an Australian and a couple of British squadrons, plus visiting aircraft. At this time, I was transferred from 228 Squadron to SHQ, Pembroke Dock.

For security reasons, our location was out of bounds to everyone else but, we still got "roped in" for Station Duties, despite vigorous protests! Life in Pembroke Dock became relaxed as the European War came to an end. There were many pleasant cycle rides through the beautiful Pembrokeshire countryside and chances to explore miles of deserted beaches. Swimming in the refreshingly cool sea became almost a daily routine with our group. It sounds like a trailer for "Wish You Were Here", but it was an idyllic time. The war was now drawing to a close and it was at this time that I met my future wife Jean, an attractive Land Army girl with RAF family connections her cousin Bill, GW8QI (RAFARS 3426) and her brother in law Phillip, G0SDG (RAFARS 3449).

I was "demobbed" via Squires Gate, Blackpool in early 1946, but I have often regretted not accepting offers to sign up for further tours of duty in the Service. Apologies must be made for any errors or omissions in this narrative, but, unfortunately, I did not find time to keep a diary. However, I hope that my ramblings will trigger off many happy memories recalled of individual experiences during our Service years, if ("dear reader") you have had sufficient fortitude to press on to the end of my ancient saga!

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