Open Writing

Around one week in five would see me confined to the station, always within earshot of the tannoy. If I was not engaged on my normal duties, I would have to spend most of the time in the fire section. Such was the bind of being on fire piquet duty. In addition, about one day in ten was given over to being the station duty clerk.

I was on duty the night of the infamous Suez incident. The teleprinter, the forerunner of today's computers, sprang into action. Fighter Command Headquarters in Stanmore, Middlesex, printed out a long list of names of personnel on the station who were posted with immediate effect to various locations overseas.

What a night that was, fixing them up with rail passes to destination in the UK from where they would be rapidly flown out to stations in Cyprus, Malta and Aden. All the time wondering if my own name would pop up on the printout.

My life revolved around working in SHQ Monday to Friday 8.30 to 10, coffee break in the NAAFI 10 to 10.30, work 10.30 to 12 noon, lunch 12 noon to 1.30, work 1.30 to 4.30.

Most Wednesday afternoons I had off for cycling, either training or racing. If I was competing in an RAF event at another station, I took the whole of Wednesday off. Occasionally, I took two days off if the station was outside East Anglia.

In September 1956 I started to keep a diary. Reading it fifty years later for this book I am struck by the routine life I appeared to live for much of the time. Playing darts in the common room, visits to the NAAFI during the day and in the evenings visits to the Galleon or the Ferryboat Inn for something stronger. Both pubs were accessed by a ferry across the River Orwell.

My diary was a reminder of how much time I devoted to my education. I decided early on in my service life that I was going to make the RAF work for me as much as possible. I embarked on a twin track strategy. Firstly, to get as much time off as possible to pursue my cycling, both touring and racing. Secondly, to enrol for educational courses.

I started with GCE English. My tutor was a national service commissioned pilot officer. I assume he had a degree from a university. Such a level of attainment was stratospheric at that stage in my life. Me, a failed 11 plus secondary modern school product boasting a single GCE Ordinary level pass in Geography.

Many entries in my diary refer to my studying times of 30 minutes, 45minutes, one hour. I appear to have been fairly disciplined. The class was held on a Monday morning. I attended until the end of November 1956 when I sat the examination. Two months later I received the result. Success.

I immediately enrolled for GCE mathematics, the other subject which was the key to opening doors, then as now. This was less advantageous from a skiving viewpoint, a one-hour lesson during the working day but another two-hour lesson on Thursday evenings. Still, it was time well spent. I attended regularly, although there were occasions when I had to miss owing to station duties, and sometimes the officer taking the class had to cancel owing to his own duties.

I continued to attend until November 1957 according to my diary. No reason for finishing is given but it was probably down to demob happiness starting to take hold. I never did secure a pass in GCE Maths. I had always been pretty solid on arithmetic, not too bad with algebra, modest with geometry, pretty awful with trigonometry.

My diary also states that I spent quite a lot of time playing Victor Silvester records of ballroom dancing on the recreation room record player and watching his weekly 'TV Dancing Club' programme on the sole BBC channel of the day.

My enthusiasm for ballroom dancing was also reflected by the dancing school in Ipswich, where I went for lessons. I also went to dances in Felixstowe.

On one occasion I rode my bike to Ipswich for a dance by way of Woodbridge. I had made prior arrangements with a night watchman to look after my bike and cycling clothes whilst I travelled into the centre of town in appropriate clothing. This involved a round trip of thirty miles.

Men sitting all through the hours of darkness in a makeshift tarpaulin shelter on a stretch of road where repairs were being carried out is a thing of the past, at least in rich countries. You still come across them in Africa and Asia.

The names of a few girls appear from time to time in respect of the odd date, but this was not an important part of my life at the time. The only exception was a young student nurse by the name of Ann Rayner. She worked at Westminster Hospital in London. Born and bred in Ipswich, she used to come home every couple of weeks. I met her at a Saturday night dance and we continued to meet whenever possible. We corresponded for several months.

It eventually petered out. In October 1957 I met a girl named Beryl Smith at a dance in Nottingham whilst home on a weekend pass. The relationship survived for some months after my demob into the summer of 1958, but I called it off as I began to realise she was not my type.