It was nothing

The Halton Chronicles

It was nothing, I only did my best. As I always do.

It could be said that I had considerable experience of what to expect when I joined the Royal Air Force, I had been in the Air Training Corp for two years and had spent a very enjoyable week of the previous summer at RAF St. Athan in Wales, but it had been a view through rose coloured spectacles. My years in the ATC had shown me only the positive aspects of the force I was about to join. There were a few things I hadn't quite bargained for and distinctly disliked.

I left home on the 18th January 1960 for RAF Halton to become a 'Trenchard brat', full of enthusiasm and the expectations of youth. We had been the first entry to undergo the selection process at RAF Cardington in the previous December. The massive Hangers at Cardington had been home to the ill fated R101 Airship. Over two days we were put through continuous aptitude tests and a very stringent medical examination. They had even tried to change my mind about becoming an armourer by showing some of us around RAF Locking, the RAF's radio and radar school, at Weston-Super-Mare. I was adamant about becoming a ‘plumber’. If I had had better sense I would have changed my mind, but I had visions of working in bomb disposal. At the end of it all only 196 out of the 2000 interviewed made the grade to become Apprentices at No 1 School of Technical Training, and I was lucky enough to be one of them.

I caught the Cornish Riviera train at Truro up to London and from there crossed the underground on the Bakerloo Line to Bakers Street. Journeys end would be at Wendover in Buckinghamshire on the Metropolitan Line, an hour up the line from London. It was a journey I would repeat many times over the next three years. I remember that waiting on the platform at Bakers Street Station there seemed to be a lot of young men waiting for the train - all looking very apprehensive.

We were met at Wendover by RAF personnel, who directed us to a coach in the car park. When it was full, it took us the few miles down the road to our barracks. There wasn't much to see in the fading light, but the driver pointed out the 3 Wing HQ of Maitland Barracks and most importantly of all, the Apprentice’s Mess. After identifying ourselves we were shown to our rooms. Everybody was extremely civil, one corporal even called me ‘sir’. My bed was in Room 5 of Block 1, on the top floor, so were the beds of nineteen other would be armourers. Our immediate thoughts were aimed at food. It had been a tiring trip and a meal was laid on for us. For most of us it would be our introduction to RAF cooking, a somewhat dubious honour.

Back at Room 5 new faces appeared most of the evening, introducing themselves and then disappearing off to the Mess. About 11:00 a corporal came in and suggested we all go to bed and turn the lights off as we had a heavy day ahead of us. Twenty young men thrown together from all parts of the country with differing social backgrounds are hard to suppress. There’s bound to be a few comedians among them and jokes and laughter flowed like a babbling brook in the inky darkness, but soon tiredness took over and there was silence. We would all await the dawning of a new day with some trepidation.

Reveille was at a quite civil time on the first morning, that certainly wouldn't last. After breakfast we were told to congregate in Room 1, on the ground floor. Rumour had it that we were to be ‘sworn in’. It was just that; raise the right hand and swear allegiance to Queen and Country. I signed on the dotted line to complete 12 years service and became 686106 Aircraft Apprentice Barker. I was nearly seventeen and I’d just signed almost half my life away!

I made a lot of new friends that week, but there were also a few I just about tolerated. I can remember most of them in my room. Clockwise around the room there was ‘Ginge’ Allen, the youngest of the armourers. Stuart Allen slept in the bed next to me, and on the other side was Keith ‘Dixie’ Dixon, a Geordie from Durham. In the next bed was David ‘Mac’ Macdonald, who became a great friend of mine. Nick Aldridge a Londoner was next and then Eli Pearson and ‘Alma’ Keegan, who were always ribbing each other. Alma had a really heavy Geordie accent and I had a hard job understanding what he said - Dixie usually translated for me. Then there was Roy Hill, ‘Nell’ Gwynn and Dave Cole, three Londoners. Colin Leary was next. He came from Kendal in the Lake District and always took orders for Kendal Mint Cake when we went on leave. On the other side of the room was Ray Edmonds. Then ‘Rocking Boy’ Edwards - he was a strange lad and didn’t last the distance. I think he got slung out for stealing. I could never understand why he was selected for training in the first place; he seemed so unsuitable to RAF life. Then there was Tony Dapre, who was another strange lad. Nobody liked him because he was so self opinionated - but you soon get cut down to size in the RAF. One Saturday evening he came back to camp to find that someone had left a condom on his bed. Worse still it had been filled with a few gallons of water. Not the easiest object to remove from a bed. Needless to say it exploded and he ended up with a very wet mattress. Later that year he was off sick for a long time and lost so much training that he was repatriated to the 95th. Barry Petterson was next in line and then Trevor ‘Jock’ Hamilton. Barry came from Penzance and always kept a seat on the train for me. Jim Quigley was in the next bed. He was another Geordie but we never really became friendly. Opposite me was Colin ‘Foz’ Fosberry, from Hayling Island. His father was one of the last master thatchers in the country. There was still one bed empty and it would remain so until the middle of the second week when Bill Mead arrived. He was yet another Geordie. Someone had failed to arrive on the first day and Bill was his replacement. There were also some more armourers in one of the other rooms: ‘Westy’ Westrupp, Dave Sturgeon, Barry Stiles and ‘Birdy’ Wright. I think there were also a few that I can't remember.

RAF Halton was a sprawling camp, straddling the A4011 between Wendover and Tring. To the south was Queen Alexandra's hospital complex. The apprentice accommodation comprised three wings, of which, No 3 Wing was allocated to first year 'brats'. It faced west under the imposing amphitheatre of the Chiltern Hills, which meant that the sun never shone on our billets until mid morning. It was bitterly cold most winter mornings. No 1 and 2 Wing were a little to the north. They housed the senior entries. We were segregated from the more senior apprentices, but not so long ago, apprentices of all years had been mixed among the wings. It became sheer hell for the juniors, who were regarded as nothing more than servants for the seniors. The act of “bulling” for senior entries still went on, although it was generally frowned upon. Across the road were the engineering workshops and beyond that the education blocks. Still further to the west were firing ranges and a small grass airstrip and a couple of aircraft hangers.

We became the 94th Entry, a name that would soon ring with pride wherever we went - except of course when more senior entries were present. Your own entry was, naturally enough, always the best. Our entry was the last of the large intakes and the first to spend its entire first year in 3 Wing. That first morning we were introduced to our Officers and NCO's. The entry was split into two flights, Airframe Fitters would occupy Block 2 and become 'B' Flight and all the other trades would be in Block 1 and Become 'A' Flight. Squadron Leader Hancock would be in overall charge of the entry with two Flight Commanders. Our Commander was Pilot Officer Saloman, who had come up from the ranks. Under him were two Sergeants, 'Noddy' Troward and Ted Myers, and a Corporal, who was actually billeted in our block. There was also Flight Sergeant Bettell (The Beatle!) to instil a little more terror and discipline among the ranks. We were always very careful to call him “Flight” rather than “Chiefy”, otherwise we got an earful of, “Who do think I am? A f*ckin’ Red Indian!” All the NCO’s had one thing in common …. to a man they were fatherless!

The quiet civil instructions now turned into sharp military orders. We were considered to be "Orrible little men" and it was their intention to change us into a "Disciplined force". The next three weeks became one short step from hell, while they instilled unswerving military discipline into our minds. Reveille would be at 06:30 and lights out at 22:00. In between those times our feet hardly touched the ground. In groups of a dozen we were marched down to the barbers shop. I’ve never seen so much hair on the floor, and as the pile got higher there were great cheers as someone else lost their thatch. Afterwards we continued with the incessant drill, PT and lectures. The next morning we were inspected and Noddy pronounced that the barber hadn’t taken enough off, and we were all marched back for another mow. The haircuts were repeated again two days later.

The PT wasn’t too bad for me as I was reasonably fit, having only just left school, but some of the entrants had been working for a couple of years, others were overweight and unused to exercise. Everyone was expected to reach a certain standard before the three weeks were up. On the parade ground we were introduced to marching in columns of three and taught how to do rifle drill with the Lee Enfield 303. Fortunately they didn’t expect fixed bayonets at this stage so nobody got stabbed in our clumsy attempts at marching with a rifle. I can honestly say that we didn’t have time to feel homesick, and even if we were, we were probably far too macho to admit it. I learned a lot in that first week. I had never ironed a shirt in my life but I soon found out how to put razor sharp creases in trousers. There were kit and room inspections most days. The only time we had to ourselves were a few hours in the evening, when we were expected to write home, telling our family how 'bloody marvellous' it all was. We learnt how to make bed packs - a sort of sandwich of sheets and blankets, and how to lay out kit for inspections - it all had to be done with immaculate precision. There was a roster for cleaning - showers, wash basins, toilets etc. The lino in the room was polished at least once a week - you could almost see your reflection in it at times and we spent hours ‘bulling’ boots to a mirror finish with good old spit and polish. This really wasn't what I'd had in mind when I decided to join up, but it would get a little better as time progressed. At least we were being paid to undergo this torture. My first weeks pay was 30 shillings (£1.50); I felt like a millionaire, as at home I had only got 5 shillings a week pocket money. To cap everything, twelve days after arriving it was my 17th birthday and my pay rocketed up to £3.50, and it would go up to £6.00 when I got to 17½.

At the end of the three weeks there was a room inspection and a parade in front of the Wing Commander. It all went off pretty well and we congratulated ourselves on getting so far. As a reward we were allowed off camp for the first time. We all swarmed into Aylesbury - freedom at last! I went with Foz and I remember walking in the park and meeting two girls - one of them was absolutely beautiful but neither of us had the nerve to ask her for a date. Aylesbury was a pleasant country town, about the size of Truro. It had all the amenities associated with a town - a park, a cinema, plenty of pubs and a good shopping centre. It also had girls, but they seemed suitably unimpressed with smart uniforms - I suppose they had seen them all before. We were allowed out until. 22:30 and woe betide if we were late back. We had to sign out of the guardroom before we were allowed off camp and sign in before we were allowed back.

Life settled down to a routine now we had finished basic training, but there were always daily inspections outside the block before we marched to the workshops and our rooms were inspected while we were away. Brass buttons and buckles still had to shine like gold and creases in uniforms had to be in the right places. We were also expected to shave every day - whether we needed to or not. I had such a light beard that I didn’t bother shaving every day and that got me into trouble.

"You didn't stand close enough to the razor this morning, Barker!" Noddy said one morning. I was lucky that he didn’t take it further than a good telling off.

Saturday morning was reserved for a parade, usually in front of the Wing commander or even the Station commander. The rest of the weekend was our own - except once a month, on a Sunday, when there was a church parade - whether you were religious or not! C of E’s and Catholics had their own churches but the rest of us were grouped under Church of Scotland, whatever our denomination. I was brought up as a Methodist, which was fairly close to C of S, but I think one of the Ceylonese was a Hindu. I don’t know what he thought of the proceedings.

We were not allowed to wear civilian clothes off camp for the first year. For now our 'civvies' were to be locked away until the first opportunity to take them home. There were other things not allowed, there were to be no radios or record players. Our only entertainment in the room was the local ‘steam’ Tannoy system that transmitted orders around the camp. After a few months I had saved enough money to buy a small, battery run tape recorder. I could only use it at weekends, when there were no prying eyes and ears around. The rest of the time it was hidden in the loft. If we wanted to hear records there was a room in the NAAFI that had a record player; it was sometimes quite crowded.

We spent hours queuing up at the stores to collect our uniforms and all the other kit we needed. We seemed to queue for everything - meals, hair cuts, inoculations, and all usually outdoors in the freezing cold. Being used to reasonably mild Cornish winters hadn't prepared me for the biting easterly winds and frosty mornings, and consequently my health suffered. I'm sure it was in one of these queues that I contracted influenza. I went to the MO and was immediately sent to the sick bay. The RAF had a cure for everything. It involved inhaling Menthol under a towel. It was disgusting stuff, but it certainly cleaned the sinus’. It seemed that it didn’t matter what you had wrong you had to endure the Menthol dip at least once a day. I was in the sick bay for a week and still felt so weak afterwards that I was given 1 weeks sick leave at home.

“You haven’t been there 5 minutes and now you’re on leave!” all my friends said when I walked into our club room. The truth of the matter was that I really didn’t feel that well, but I didn’t want to miss anything and spent a lot of time at the club. The seven days flew by and before I knew it I was back at Halton queuing up for some more injections in the snow. This time I went down with pneumonia. I don’t think I have ever felt so ill, before or since. The first seven days in the sick bay I drifted between sleep and semi-consciousness, and really couldn’t have cared less about eating. My temperature reached 106 one morning and I felt as if I was going to die. It wasn’t helped by the MO, who used the alternate cheeks of my backside for a dart board. I had two injections of penicillin every day and they really hurt. I was there for two weeks before returning to 3 wing. It was this time in sick bay that probably spelt doom for me ever successfully completing an Ordinary National Certificate in Engineering. I had never studied Mechanics before and somehow I never caught up with the course.

I had arrived at Halton with very few personal belongings. My guitar actually belonged to Uncle Charlie, and it didn't seem right to bring it with me. I missed playing it terribly. While I was home on sick leave I saw Robin Pharoah and found that he wanted to sell his guitar. I parted with £7 and became the proud owner of a steel-strung acoustic. I would take it back to Halton and be damned. If it wasn't allowed, that was tough! I could always hide it in the loft. As luck would have it nobody said a word.

Our training was split between the Workshops and the Education block. The latter was almost like being back at school. We were taught Maths, General Studies (which included World history), Engineering Science and Mechanics to ONC standard. To keep morale boosted we saw lots of films about the 2nd World War, mostly the "War in the Air" series and "The Dam Busters". They showed them so many times that we eventually knew the script! Our initiation into engineering began with a months worth of Workshop Practice. We were given an exercise to make a 'T' shaped piece, and a 'U' shaped piece in mild steel. The two pieces had to fit together to make a square. That seems easy enough, except it had to be finished to an accuracy of 1/1000th of an inch. To do this we learnt how to use bastard and smooth files, and to check our work with vernier micrometers and depth indicators. Our instructors in this phase were civilians, and generally very helpful. One of them was a Scot, who could run his fingers over a piece of metal and almost tell you what needed to be filed off.

After that we got on to the serious stuff. Learning how to strip and repair small arms weapons - the Lee Enfield 303 rifle, Bren gun, Sten gun, and Smith and Wesson .36 pistol. Over the following months we gelled into the system and the technical jargon became second nature before we had ventured on to bigger guns like the Hispano 20mm and Aden Cannon. To show us what they could do we were allowed to fire them on the range. The worst gun was the Sten. It had a tendency to pull to the left if it was not kept in check while you fired it. It made it difficult not to fire it over the top of the range if you weren’t careful. There was an apocryphal story of a person walking their dog about half a mile away while firing was in progress. The dog suddenly jumped into the air and fell down dead - it had been shot by a stray bullet from a sten. The demonstrations of the Hispano and Aden were the most impressive though, and extremely noisy. The Aden Cannon had been developed from a gun used in the German Junkers Ju 252 from the Second World War. It was fitted to all the modern fighters. The English Electric Lightning had a pod of four. The barrel wasn’t very long so the weapon was not at all accurate, but it was the shear fire power that could knock enemy aircraft out of the air. Each gun was capable of firing 22 rounds a second - that meant 88 rounds leaving the aircraft in a cone of fire. The force generated by prolonged firing slowed the aircraft almost to stalling speed. For all its potential devastation I don’t think an Aden cannon was ever fired in anger by the RAF..... but I may be wrong about that!

There were also electrical systems to learn about, like the 12/24 way bomb release gear used in the Shackleton and the 90 way system of the V-Bombers. We learned about the bombs themselves, and the fuses that operated them. Some fuses reacted on impact, others were delay fuses, activated by the breaking of a glass phial of acid which then ate away a washer to release the spring loaded firing pin. They were used for nuisance purposes in the last war, as there was no way of knowing when the bomb would explode. There was also a VT fuse that we were told was used in the atomic weapons, but not a lot was said about those.

The previous summer, on the beach at Agnes, I had met a couple of girls from London and had been writing to one of them. Joyce asked me if I could get down to London to see her and her friend, Mary. There was a slight problem, London, although only 30 miles down the railway line, was completely out of bounds to all apprentices in term time. Rumours abound that Venezuelan apprentices had been caught in a brothel in the city. Other rumours suggested that they might actually have been running it! The Venezuelans always seemed to be law unto themselves. Their hair was always that much longer than other apprentices. Yet another rumour made out their families to be millionaires; they certainly weren't short of a bob or two. Permission could be granted to go to London but there had to be a good reason. I invented an ‘Aunt’, who had asked me down to see her, and presented an application to PO Saloman. I'm not sure if he believed me but, giving a wry smile, permission was granted and I even managed to get Colin Leary to keep me company, so as not to be led astray! The next Saturday we made our way down to the big city, dressed in best blue uniforms. I don't remember where we met, but we spent a gloriously hot summer afternoon sitting in Regents Park. It was nice to get away from the usual haunts of Aylesbury.

When it was rumoured that Barnes Wallis was coming to address the Halton branch of the Royal Aeronautical Society, a few of us decided to join ….. well actually, we were told to join, to make the numbers up! Among other things Barnes Wallis had been the inventor of the Bouncing Bomb, used in the Dam busters Raid, and the designer of the Wellington bomber. We thought it would prove to be an interesting lecture, and we were not to be disappointed. He spoke very little about his past achievements, and concentrated instead upon his latest project, a jet fighter/bomber with variable sweep wings. It would be more controllable at low speeds. One of the big problems with the Lightning fighter was its lack of aerodynamics when landing. It was nothing less than a ‘controlled crash’. If the wings could have been swept forward there would be more surface area for the air to flow over. He showed us a film of a working model that he had built and tested. Unfortunately he was finding it hard to convince the Government of the day that this was the way forward, and seemed a little bitter at their rejection of his idea. The future would prove him right though. He eventually sold the idea to the Americans, who then went on to develop the F111 fighter/bomber. The British finally woke up to the fact in the late 70's and produced the Tornado, with German and French assistance.

As Christmas approached it was decided to put on a show in the camp theatre. A succession of budding entertainers were auditioned and I became one of them. There was another singer/guitarist there as well and it was suggested that we team up together for the evening. ‘Miff’ Smith was in the 95th ( well, someone had to be! ) but we got on famously, in spite of that, and the show was a roaring success for both of us. I introduced Miff to the music of the Kingston Trio.

After Christmas leave 1960 we moved over to No 1 Wing and changed our orange cap band for a red one. We joined the 92nd and 90th in this wing. Across the parade square, No 2 Wing housed the 89th, 91st and 93rd. I don't remember too much inter-wing rivalry, but inter-Entry rivalry was rife. The 90th tried all the ‘big senior entry’ tricks but they were frowned upon by our NCO's. One of the perks of moving to No 1 Wing entailed being allowed to wear ‘civvies’ at weekends off camp. The rules and regulations that governed what we were permitted unfortunately assured that it was nothing short of another uniform, and we still couldn’t fool the local girls. A black, double breasted blazer and grey flannel trousers with 16 inch bottoms. This to be complimented with a white shirt and RAF tie. Whenever we went to Aylesbury we still stood out in a the crowd.

I have never been a very good letter writer, so it was fortunate that we had a phone box on the far side of Henderson square. We take it all for granted now that we can call anywhere in the World and get through almost instantly. In those days I put my money in the slot and dialled 100 to ask for the operator to connect me to St. Agnes 2479. After about 3 minutes all the jack plugs had been placed in their right sockets throughout the country to enable me to speak to Mum.

“You can press button A now.” The operator would say. If there was no reply I would press button B to get my money back.

We occasionally got a 48 hour pass - if we had been good boys. It seemed such a long journey for a short time at home, but most of us went home. I caught the night train from Paddington on the Friday, invariably having to sleep in the corridor. I got home in the early hours of Saturday morning and then had to catch the train back Sunday afternoon. It was always worth the effort as there was usually a party in the club on the Saturday night. It was there one evening during Christmas leave that I met Gloria Thomas. I thought she was really pretty and longed for a date. She was at college in Clacton, Essex. I don’t quite remember how or where I got her address from but after I had returned to Halton I wrote to her asking if she would like to meet me in London. The ban on visiting London during term time had been lifted by then. We met at Liverpool Street station and went to the pictures at the Leicester Square Odeon. I even remember what we saw that day - ‘Spartacus’, starring Kirk Douglas and Vivian Leigh and there was also a short film entitled ‘South Seas Adventure’ in Cinerama - a 180 degree screen format that made you feel like part of the picture. We had a great day together, but I felt a little sad seeing her off on the train back to Clacton.

One of my friends had sold me an LP of Duane Eddy; ‘The Twang’s the Thang’. I wasn’t a great fan of his, but there was one tune on it that I played over and over. Duane’s sleeve notes on the cover told me that it had been written by one “Chet Atkins” and that he played this piece in a little club in Printers Alley in Nashville. During the week day evenings when there wasn’t a film to watch at the cinema we often listened to Radio Halton, broadcast on the Camp Tannoy system. The ‘Steam radio’, as it was known. One evening my whole concept of guitar playing was turned completely upside down. One of the DJ’s played a complete LP of Chet Atkins. He stressed that there was no over-dubbing and what you heard was one man playing one guitar on his own. I was hooked. I had never imagined being able to play tunes with simultaneous bass, rhythm and melody. I hadn’t a clue as to how it was done but I vowed to find out. In those days you were lucky to find a decent book that showed how to play chords, let alone something as advanced as what Chet was playing. I found that there were no records of him available in the UK at the time, but that would soon change. Chet had recorded a tune called ‘Boo Boo Stick Beat’, a rocking tune that had become immensely popular in the states. RCA decided that perhaps it might just be successful over here and released it as a single, (it made number 49 in the British Hit Parade) and also his latest LP, ‘Teen Scene’. At the first opportunity I rushed into Aylesbury and bought it. In retrospect it wasn’t one of Chester’s best but for the next month or so I played one track, ‘The Third Man Theme’, over and over again, trying to decipher what Chet was doing. I could hear what he was doing, but I’m damned if I could play it. Getting the thumb to work independently of the index finger seemed quite impossible to me.

One evening I met up with a 91st entry guitarist called Duane Kane. He showed me the rudiments of Chet’s style and from that moment on I was on the right track. I practised for hours in the lounge, sometimes playing for 10 hours a day at weekends. It was difficult but eventually I got the hang of the style and could play a simple version of ‘The Third Man’. My only problem was that it never sounded right. I didn’t realise at the time that Chet was actually playing it in a ‘dropped D’ tuning. For that reason he had a couple of bass notes on his guitar that I couldn’t possibly get in standard tuning.

My steel strung acoustic wasn’t much good for doing Chet Atkins Style and whenever I went down to London I would look, longingly in music shop windows in Shaftsbury Avenue at the Gretsch guitars that carried Chet’s name. They were far too expensive for my meagre wages. If I couldn’t afford a Gretsch I would buy something cheap that vaguely looked like a Gretsch and fit it with a Bigsby tremolo arm and a pick-up. One Saturday, after I had saved up enough cash, I went down to London and visited the Ivor Mariants Guitar Centre. Ivor was one of the finest guitarists in the country, and I felt quite honoured to be served by him. At that time his shop was just a dusty, cramped room up a flight of stairs in Denmark Street. I bought a Hoyer Arch top guitar for £15, second hand. It played beautifully, far easier that the acoustic. The Bigsby tremolo arm, as fitted to all Gretsch Chet Atkins models, was going to be a problem though. I had seen them on sale for £36, which seemed an awful amount of money for what was basically a length of stainless steel and a car valve spring. I could have bought one third of a Gretsch guitar for that. Fortunately Bigsby Tremolo arms weren’t selling too well and the next time I saw an advert for one, the price had been halved. It didn't’ take me too long to save up for one, and a De Armond pick-up for £12. Now all I needed was an amplifier. In the mean time Chet had made two more LPs, ‘The Other Chet Atkins’, a collection of Spanish style tunes and ‘Workshop’, a sophisticated electric set that showed him at his very best. I longed to be able to emulate that. I had also managed to find some of his American releases at Imhofs, a record shop just off Tottenham Court Road. They were expensive (44/-) but I had to have them. The records were my only tutor, as there were still no books to show me what to do. After a while my collection of Kingston Trio records began to gather dust and were rarely played again. Chet recalled playing guitar in a tiled bathroom at school, and I found I liked the echo sound that it produced too. Soon I seemed to spend all my spare time in the shower. The sound got even better when I bought a small amplifier.

We usually got a 36 hour pass once a month. After the Saturday morning parade there was a mass exodus from Halton, everybody making for Wendover Station. It was too far to go home so I usually went to stay with Betty and Tony (aunt & uncle) at Billericay in Essex. While Tony slogged away in the garden I would play guitar. They were very good to me and I felt like the son that they never had. Tony corresponded by tape to a lot of people around the world. He had one in America who sent him a Chet Atkins recording that I didn’t have. He tried to get me interested in taping, but I always felt very self-conscious of speaking into a microphone. There was a young girl - about my own age, who lived in Hawaii. She had Polio and was paralysed from the head down. Her link with the world was her tape recorder and I did manage to send her one tape, but it took me a long time to compose myself about what I was trying to say, and I never made a second one.

I tried to keep out of trouble as much as I could at Halton, but it was almost impossible not to commit a ‘faux pas’ now and then. One morning I left some dust under my bed. It was the strong sunlight streaming through the window while the room was being inspected that found me out. I got hauled before the flight commander at dinner time and ‘awarded’ three days jankers. It felt like a jail sentence - that would have been a lot cushier! For the next three days I had to report to the guardroom at 06:30, 12:30, 8:30 and 21:30. The evening session we got inspected by the duty officer. Most of them were human, but the odd one or two we thought had been indoctrinated by the Waffen SS. Boots had to be shiny, brass belt buckles and buttons gleaming and all webbing blancoed. If you were picked up on parade for anything you could get ‘awarded’ a few more days jankers. At 20:00 every day we had to clean the Wing HQ for an hour. We were only allowed in the NAAFI for half an hour and certainly not allowed off camp. I was fortunate not to spend a weekend on jankers, as the Saturday afternoon was also taken up with drill on the square.

During the winter months Tuesday afternoons were allocated to sport. I naturally played football. I was voted captain of the flight 1st team, not because I was any good at being a captain, but some mug was needed to pick up the kit and the ball from the sports stores. That mug was always the captain. The best side on the station was 'B' Flight 94th, as they had 7 players in the station side. They always won the inter-squadron cup. They always beat us resoundingly, but I did once score a goal against them, a solo effort, dribbling the ball from the half way line. I have a niggling feeling that they might have let me score it! When the game was over the kit had to be returned to the stores; that was always the hardest part, trying to get shirts and shorts from people to return them before the stores closed.

For the Summer term a few of us decided to play golf. Halton had a 9 hole golf course at the back of the hill behind the living quarters. There were only enough clubs in the stores for four of us to play and even then we only got a wood, an iron and a putter each. It was a bit of a "skive" as none of us knew how to play the game. I had the slight advantage of having had one lesson, when I was at school, and of course, I always had a putting green on the lawn at home. In many respects the course was an easy one, but it had a major headache at the seventh tee. Here you needed a sand wedge to lift the ball about a hundred and fifty feet into the air to clear a grassy cliff and gain the seventh green. Naturally we didn't have a sand wedge and, what seemed like a reasonable score up to the 6th hole, always became a disaster from the seventh onwards. As the summer went by we learnt to leave the 7th hole out and only play 8 holes, which made our total scores look remarkable.

One afternoon every now and then was allocated to GDT - Ground Defence Training with the ‘Rock apes’ (RAF Regiment). We were taught how to use rifles and Bren guns, but our most scary experience by far was in the gas chamber. At that time it was rumoured that if there was a war the enemy would use poison gas. It was no idle threat as mustard gas had blinded thousands in the first world war. Technology had advanced since then and now the threat was from sophisticated nerve gases. Although we were never subjected to them we were told how to counter them. It involved injecting a four inch needle (spring loaded) into the thigh. Not a thought to relish. We were, however, given a demonstration of the effects of Tear gas. We were given gas masks and told to sprint round a field for a hundred yards and then herded into a small bomb shelter. By now we were thoroughly out of breath. One of the NCO’s then set off a tear gas canister. It was shear hell, our eyes and noses ran and we choked on the thick smoke. After what seemed like an age we were allowed to don the gas masks, which certainly alleviated much of our suffering. It’s an experience that I do not wish to repeat, but I can see how effective it must be in crowd control.

A big feature of our second summer at Halton was one week spent on Dartmoor. It consisted of a day at a firing range, another day at the commando training centre at Bickley and three days hiking over the moors. We were based off the moor at the wartime RAF Station of Collaton Cross. The journey from Halton to Dartmoor seemed to take an eternity. Our train was repeatedly shunted into sidings to let express trains through. Our first task when arriving at Collaton Cross was to erect the 6-man tents we would be sleeping in over the next week. With true military precision all the tents had to be pitched in a straight line. Most of us hadn't got a clue as to setting up a tent, so to get them all to align precisely was verging on the ridiculous. We were placed in teams of six. I found myself in with 'Petters', 'Foz', 'Mac', Ray and Errol Bennett, a Rhodesian apprentice, who would be our leader. It was a good team and we would get on well over the proceeding days.

One morning we spent on a firing range. Being an armourer I was used to handling the Lee Enfield 303 rifle, but purely from a maintenance view. When it came to firing one I had a slight disadvantage, I was left handed. It could be fired left handed but being a bolt action rifle it meant taking your left hand off the trigger to draw the bolt back after firing. The second problem occurred as the bolt came back, an immensely hot spent cartridge case was ejected, which usually hit you on the cheek. I learnt to fire it right handed but I was never very accurate with it. On the range we had to fire five rounds at a target 400 yards away and then sprint 200 yards and fire 5 more rounds. I'm not sure if I even saw the target, let alone hit it!

The climax of our week was the three day hike over Dartmoor, covering 60 miles along roads, tracks and open moorland. We mostly lived off 'compo' rations during the day. After a tough walk across moorland some of it was quite palatable, even the hard tack biscuits, when accompanied by cream cheese. The hike meant spending two nights on the moor at rendezvous points, but certainly did not entail sleeping in tents. We each had a waterproof groundsheet, which would have to keep the elements at bay during the day and provide warmth and shelter to sleep by night.

Early one morning we were all ferried to Cadover Bridge, on the edge of the moor, where teams would leave at 10 minute intervals. I'm not sure if we were all to take the same route, but we didn't seem to meet any of the other teams on our travels. Initially we skirted the moor to the southeast until we got past Lee Moor, where we left the road and headed onto the moor. We had started in dry overcast conditions, but before we had ventured too far the mist descended and it started to rain heavily. We had been given a map reference of a check point, where the NCOs would tick off our safe arrival, but the deteriorating weather now meant that we would need some pretty good navigation skills. We had been given some very rudimental map reading instructions before setting off and I was at least familiar with Ordnance Survey maps so with the combined skills of the rest of the team we eventually found our way to the chosen spot. Unfortunately for us there was nobody to meet us and book us safely in. Visibility, by now, was almost down to 10 yards. We were not the only team trying to find the checkpoint. After about half an hour we decided that we were definitely in the right place and the NCOs must have got lost. Time was pressing on and we were getting wetter and colder by the minute. It was just the sort of condition when accidents might occur. We decided to press on for our evening camp site at Cross Furzes, in a small field overlooking Buckfastleigh. The NCOs had realised that we would be wet through and had built a big bonfire in the field. We huddled round it trying to dry wet clothing. The hot meal that night tasted magnificent. By now the rain had stopped and the clouds had lifted sufficiently to see the village in the valley. It had been a long day but we still had to erect some sort of shelter for the night. We rigged three groundsheets for overhead cover, with some lengths of timber and then used the other sheets to sleep on. The hedge gave us some cover from the wind but it was cramped and I didn't sleep too well, and I don't suppose the others did either.

It rained again during the night and my feet got wet, but morning broke to a cloudless sky, one of those mornings that makes you glad to be alive. It lifted our spirits and after breakfast we were on our way again, making for Dartmeet, and a liquid refreshment lunch. Drinking was frowned upon, but most officers would turn a blind eye. We were told that if we spotted the Squadron Leader's car in a pub car park we should find another pub. When we got to Dartmeet we saw his car and duly went in the other pub, only to find that they had decided to have a drink here as well. We did a quick ‘about turn’ to the other pub. One of the specialities of a Devon pub is Scrumpy Cider. None of us had ever tasted it before and so 6 pints were ordered. Now this drink is not to be confused with the commercial rubbish they sell in modern pubs. It was usually brewed on the premises, probably to a secret recipe, and had a bite as vicious as an viper. It was so good we ordered another pint. Only when we came to leave did we realise that our legs had turned to jelly. It took some time before we recovered our senses to continue on our way. It was a hard slog up to Two Bridges, our camp for the night. We hiked in our normal RAF boots, which were not really intended for this sort of terrain. Well before we reached camp I was limping badly from blisters on the heals and soles of my feet. When the rest of the team stopped for a brew I decided to carry on. I was slowing the others down and I also felt that if I stopped, I might not be able to get going again. Medics were on hand when we arrived at Two Bridges and I was only too glad to get some assistance, but I should have realised what was in store when two burly medics sat on top of me. A third medic burst the blisters and cut away the dead skin. That wasn't too bad, but the Iodine soaked dressing that followed almost sent me screaming into orbit. I was glad I only had blisters on one foot.

We camped in relative comfort that night, in an old quarry building, called Powder Mills, where they had once manufactured explosives. It had no roof but provided far better shelter than the previous night. We nicknamed the place 'The Alamo', after the ruined mission chapel near San Antonio in Texas, where Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie had been killed in the famous siege against General Santa Anna's Mexican army. John Wayne had recently starred in a film about The Alamo and it was a courageous story which intrigued me greatly. We chose the position of our ‘bivvy’ wisely, taking the high ground in the building. Some of the other teams decided to camp in a small gully outside the building. It provided excellent shelter and warmth, until later in the night, when it rained and water poured through the gully. Once again we suffered a restless night.

The third morning dawned cold, but at least the sun was shining. I eased aching feet into my boots with some difficulty and tried to forget about the pain as we set off towards Princetown. Dartmoor Prison loomed into view with the tall mast of North Hessory Tor providing us with a good landmark. We soon left the road and headed south onto the open moor once again. It was far easier on my feet, but following the valley route south we encountered very wet and boggy terrain. The 3-ton trucks waiting at Cadover Bridge to ferry us back to the relative comfort of our tents at Collaton Cross were a welcome sight after three days of roughing it. That evening we all limped into the pubs of Newton Ferrers to celebrate our safe, if somewhat blistered return. One of the other days was spent at Bickley, a marine commando training area. We were assigned a task to get across a river without getting our feet wet. We were given a couple of oil drums, planks and rope to build a raft. One member of the team then manoeuvred it across the river. As you might imagine a lot of people got wet just getting across on the rafts. Once there we had to build a rope bridge between two trees for the rest of the team to get across.

All too soon the week was over and we were on our way back to Halton - back to the drudgery of workshops, schools, parades and more bullshit. There was one highlight that summer though. Every year there was a sports day at Halton; much the same as any school sports day. I entered for the pole vault as nobody else in the entry wanted to do it. We got some points just for entering. There were three of us in the competition. The bar was placed at five feet. I used to be able to high jump five feet at school, and to top that I had pole vaulted seven feet six inches, so I felt rather confident. We all failed to get over five feet and after three attempts the bar was lowered to four feet six inches. Everybody watching roared with laughter, then the guy from the 93^rd entry won the competition by being the only person to jump that height.

The only aircraft that usually took off and landed at Halton's tiny airstrip were Chipmunk trainers and gliders. Most of the other aircraft in the huge hanger had arrived there by road on the back of trailers. There would be one notable exception in the summer of 1962, and it was deemed so important that we were marched down to the airfield to witness it. It's not often that you will see an aircraft as big as a Vickers Vulcan V-Bomber land in a small grass field, and there can't be too many pilots that would relish the thought of doing it. Ex-Group Captain "Catseyes" Cunningham was just that man. As Chief Test Pilot at De Havillands he had done a lot of the development flying on the Comet. It would be a precarious task though, no room to overshoot and little time to achieve a landing, for the aircraft would have minimum fuel on board to keep the weight down. Weather and wind conditions also had to be just right. As the huge delta wing approached from the direction of Aylesbury we had serious doubts that it could be achieved. The aircraft roared slowly towards us, black smoke belching from all its engines. The first approach was a little awkward and he pulled the throttle back and went round for a second attempt. The noise was deafening. This time he would need to be perfect as he had little fuel for a third attempt. Once more the ‘big bird’ roared towards us, descending slowly. It missed the boundary hedge by a few feet, dropped gently onto the grass and rolled to halt. In the end it had taken no more than half the length of the airfield to stop this huge aircraft; quite an amazing achievement.

Early one Sunday morning we were awoken by a huge explosion. When we looked out of the window smoke was billowing from the workshop site. It later transpired that an acetylene cylinder had exploded. It not only destroyed one of the workshops but also the C of E Church, that was next door. Years later it was rebuilt near to the Schools site and the windows around its entrance were adorned with the badges of a lot of the entries that had passed through Halton.

Summer leave in 1962 was, as usual, spent on the beach at St Agnes. Christine Roskrow was down on holiday and we started going out together again. She was very keen, which was unfortunate because I was waiting for Gloria to come home. When she did, Chris had to take a back seat. I felt a bit of a rotter, but I thought I was in love. The weather was great most of the time and cousin Ian came down from Hoddesdon with Grandma’s car so we managed to get out quite a lot which helped me to avoid Chris. All too soon, September had arrived and it was back to Halton for our final term. It was all going very smoothly when, one morning we woke up to find that the Sycamore helicopter that should have been in the workshops was proudly adorning the Henderson parade square. As I can remember it, all hell broke out that morning. We were paraded in front of the block and vigorously inspected. It was like a scene from “The Great Escape”.

“Who is responsible for this outrage?” The NCOs bellowed.

We hadn’t got a clue. If it had been our entry, it had certainly been a well planned secret exercise that only a few people knew about. The real culprits, the 95th, were incensed that after all their hard endeavour the 94th had got the blame. It had somehow backfired on them.

As a postscript to this episode, Dusty Miller (ex 95^th) told me at the 2007 Triennial that they had been spotted on the way up from the workshops by a “snoop” doing his rounds of the camp. Everyone froze and the “snoop” only saw the helicopter. He radioed in to the guardroom and said. “There’s a Sycamore on Chestnut Avenue.”

“Yeh, yeh, very funny.” Said the sergeant in the guardroom. “There’s Oak and Ash and Elm and Chestnut there as well!”

By October 1962 we were well into the last phase of our studies. Final exams, both practical and written, were less than 6 weeks away. They almost didn't happen. Far across 'the pond' the Pentagon officials were studying the latest photo-recce shots of the military build up on Cuba. Missiles on the doorstep of the USA threatened the whole Western Alliance. The Americans threatened invasion of Cuba if they were not removed, the Russians threatened all-out nuclear war if they did invade. The World held its breath while politicians and generals played a dangerous game of bluff. Back at Halton it was all a bit nerve racking. “Chiefy” Lewis reckoned that we would be packed off to operational stations immediately any hostilities broke out. It didn't seem worth revising for exams that might not happen. I wasn't too sure which of the two evils was worse - final exams or an all-out nuclear war! I almost preferred the latter! Finally, on the 28th October the World politicians stepped back from nuclear brinkmanship and everyone heaved a sigh of relief, except for me, I still had to take my final exams! The Russians promised to dismantle the missile bases on Cuba for an American promise to lift the blockade and not invade Cuba. No one quite knows how close we came to nuclear war during that time, but it must rate as one of the chilliest months of the Cold War.

The final exams were not as bad as had been predicted but I didn’t do as well as I should have in the oral side of it. I missed getting automatic promotion to corporal in one year by 1.5%. It would mean taking another written trade test in two years time. Around that time we all put in requests for a posting to the RAF station of our choice - it usually meant some sadist in HQ sending you somewhere on a completely different side of the country. I also applied for Aircrew Training and went through another medical while we eagerly awaited the list to be put up on the board. When it arrived I found I had been posted to RAF St Mawgan, only 15 miles from home. Barry Petterson, ‘Taff’, Williams-Peck and Barry Stiles, among the armourers, would join me there. I was delighted to be so near home, but on reflection it might have been better to have been a few hundred miles away.

The Christmas concert in 1 Wing NAAFI would be the last time I would entertain my fellow entry members. I had learned to play ‘Tuxedo Junction’, a jazzy blues. I was still trying to get to grips with fingerstyle guitar and I wasn’t very fluent with it at all. While trying to concentrate on the next chord change I could hear sniggers coming from the audience. I didn’t think my playing was that funny, but when I looked down at my feet I could see I was wearing one black RAF sock and one bright green fluorescent sock ( I had another pair like it in my room!). There had been a power cut earlier that evening and I had got dressed in the dark.

A few nights before graduation there was a ‘Ball’ in Dunstable for the entry. I was disappointed that Gloria couldn’t come - perhaps she didn’t want to. There were a few girl friends there on the night but most of us drank and listened to the strains of Duke d’Amond and the Barren Knights. The only real excitement of the evening occurred when Eli Pearson tried to walk through a plate glass door and was rushed to casualty. He would miss the graduation parade – some people get all the luck!

The 94th graduated on the 19th December 1962 to the strains of ‘The League of Gentleman’. All the armourers had passed the final exams and we were all promoted to Junior Technician, except poor Colin Leary who had failed one of the practical exams; he became a senior aircraftsman. It was to have been a family reunion, Christmas at Dunmow with Grandma, but at the last minute my younger brother David had gone down with measles and Mum had to stay behind in Cornwall. I was disappointed but at least Dad had come to see the parade. Mac’s parents couldn’t come either so he tagged along with us as I showed Dad around Halton. In a way it was just as well nobody else came as we almost filled the van with all my belongings. I had three guitars, a Hi-Fi, Tape recorder and Guitar amp, as well as all my clothes. I would never have managed it all on the train.

A new and exciting chapter in my life was about to unfold. At the time I thought it couldn’t possibly be as bad as the last three years. I was not the slight bit disappointed to be leaving Halton and all its discipline and bullshit, but I would miss a lot of the friends I had made there; some of them I would never see again. There had been some very good times as well, only at that particular time I just couldn’t remember what they had been. In retrospect though, my three years at Halton was a life changing experience that I would not have missed for the World and all the entry members I have met since those times have said the same thing. We can't all be wrong!