In a fascinating look back at the life and service of a National Service Signals Operator, our very own Bob M0RAW recalls his early training and deployment with the RAF

I awoke to find myself in a long wooden hut with about thirty other men. I was just twenty years of age.

I had my “calling up” papers some weeks earlier. As a matter of fact I had two letters that day, one from Police to say I was being “nicked” for riding my motorbike without lights! I was subsequently let off as it was my first offence. Courts were a bit more lenient in those days. The other was from Air Ministry telling me to report to RAF Cardington on the 3^rd August 1954 for a three year engagement. This was to encompass the two years National Service plus the extra year to enable me to join the Royal Air Force. My father had been in the Royal Flying Corps at the end of the 1^st WW and was subsequently one of the first to transfer when it became the Royal Air Force on the 1^st April 1918.

I didn’t want to become a “Pongo” that’s what we called men that had joined the Army but don’t ask me where the name came from. At that time the Korean war was on and my mate, Len, who was doing his 2 years national service found himself going to war.

Having joined the RAF where did I end? Spending two hot years in the RAF hell-hole posting of Aden, Yemen, one of the worst postings one could get. However I did meet up with Len whilst on his way home by troopship. Here I’m jumping ahead of myself…..

Upon waking up in this wooden hut at RAF Cardington I was asked politely by a nice Corporal if I would care to take breakfast in the dining room, I had the day before been issued with “irons” (Knife and fork and spoon for the uninitiated) and a “housewife” which consisted of needles and thread etc. plus a uniform consisting of “Best Blue” with a peak cap and “Working blue” with a beret. We were also issued with a brown overalls because there were times when the RAF thought we should do chores. Another article was a Lee Enfield 303 rifle and a piece of material measuring two by two. The sergeant would insist that we poke the piece of material measuring two by two down the barrel with some very thin oil so that it wouldn’t go rusty. There were times when the sergeant didn’t agree with me when I thought I hadn’t poked the oily rag down the barrel and told so in no uncertain words!

There was something else we had to wear this was called “webbing” there was one problem with the webbing it was very mankey, dirty and the sergeant at our next camp told us to go to the NAFFI and buy some blue Blanco and some Brasso, Blanco is a foreign word for white but ours was blue but they still called it BLANCO. It took nearly all night to get that webbing shining blue and fit for inspection and the brass ends on the webbing and buttons on our uniforms.

On our greatcoats was a button hidden under the collar, our naughty sergeant thought he could catch us out on parade the next day, as he had with so many other airmen before us but as luck had it we had one man who had been in the ATC and new about this hidden button and good fellow that he was informed us of it. The sergeant’s face was a picture when he walked down the ranks bending back our collars to find all of them shining very bright.

We had left RAF Cardington where they had treated us or so kindly, not realising they wanted us to sign on for yet more years not shouting at us like they do in the Army. What a rude awaking when we arrived at our next camp RAF Wilmslow, Cheshire. I was there eight weeks and I had never been shouted at or spoken to like that in all my twenty years. “Getting some discipline into yer” you’re going into the Tin Room, shouted the DI Corporal. This was where the food had been cooked and the horrible baking tins had all stuff baked onto them, we had to get them clean and shining bright, just like our buttons. I couldn’t understand this as I had only dropped my rifle once!

Outside the cookhouse stood this huge tank of boiling hot water into which we had to immerse our irons after we had eaten our dinner. There was no washing up liquid, in those days, just the hot water which we had to hold on for all we were worth, if you dropped them in you had to wait until the end of the day when they would empty the tank to retrieve your knife, fork or spoon whatever you had dropped into it.

On the range they would show me how to fire my Lee-Enfield .303 rifle at a great big target some distance away. “Push into yer shoulder airman” shouted the sergeant It was surprising how many men couldn’t close one eye to look down the rifle’s gun sight. I certainly wasn’t a dead-eyed-dick all I knew is I had this bruise in my shoulder as that .303 had one hell of a kick. We were also shown how to fire a Bren gun, strip it down and put it back together again. I never used either gun again after basic training’

Half way through training we were given a 48 hour pass, by this time I was becoming a reasonably smart airman, good enough to chat up the girls. My mum and dad were certainly pleased to see me again. But as for chatting up girls there really wasn’t any time. 48 hours soon passed and then I was heading back to Wilmslow for the remaining four weeks of basic training. Those weeks went by quite quickly and by this time we weren’t being shouted at so often and was getting on quite well with our drill instructors The passing out parade came and went and then we were considered to be very smart airmen. This was after we had done square bashing, marching up and down how to salute an office by hand or with a rifle bumpering up the billet, a mop sort of thing only bigger with a big piece of cloth covered in polish to make the lino covered floor so that the Office in charge could see his face in it so the billet corporal would tell us. This was a called a “Bulled up” floor and we had to walk about the billet with dusters on our feet so that we wouldn’t muck the floor up. We called it something else! Then there was the kit inspection and the correct way to fold up our blankets. If a sergeant didn’t like the way you had spread your kit out on the bed he would come along and tip the whole lot on the floor and you would have to start again until it was just right. The other time consuming thing was getting the toes of your boots shining, this was done with the end of a spoon by spreading boot polished and forcing it into the leather to make it more supple that alone would time up some hours.

Basic training finished I was sent home for a week’s leave after which in September I was posted with some other airmen to RAF Compton Bassett, Wiltshire where I was to do my trade training of a teleprinter operator arriving from London via Swindon where we were to board the “Calne flyer” as we called it as it was so slow. On arrival at Calne there was a pungent smell in the air, this turned out to be Harris’s sausage meat processing factory. At the station we were met by the usual RAF transport, a truck to take us to RAF station. I remember on arrival it was quite dark and there was some kind of exercise going on. There were fire crackers being thrown and some airmen charging about with blanks in their rifles. I duly found the right billet and started unpacking my kit when all of a sudden the airman playing soldiers ran through my billet. I asked what was going on? “You tell me” was the reply. I gave up and went to bed. When I woke the next morning the “war” was over but don’t ask me who won!

Back to trade training at the Radio School where they taught me to type on an all upper case typewrite and RAF signals procedure, this was quite a lot to learn in eight weeks, nine in my case as I was put back a week as I couldn’t type fast enough. This was a pity as the whole of the previous class was posted to Singapore and where did I end up the worst RAF posting one could get Aden!

Another chore we had to do at trade training was guard duty, four hours on and four hours off and then we were expected to do some more training the following morning needless to say most of us fell asleep at our desks.

On Saturday mornings there was no training but we were expectd to do a bit of marching. Just to keep our hand in! The NCO would lead us out of the camp get round the corner out of sight of the camp the NCO would then shout “Halt” we would all fall out sit on the grass bank and have a fag, cigarette. About an hour would go by then we would all march back to camp making out we were all exhausted!

On those uppercase keyboards we had a metal cover so that we couldn’t see the keys but had to look at the blackboard where the keyboard were displayed, we had to feel for the keys ASDFG HJKLM etc. This would go on for days until we had mastered it. The instructor was an old Navy man with a wooden leg. When he thought we were more proficient he would play an old gramophone with the recording of the “Sailors hornpipe” on it, as the music got faster so we were supposed to type faster

From those old typewriters we went onto the three bank Creed teleprinters The keys were sort of button type, not unlike the modern computer keyboard but you needed a bit more pressure. I couldn’t get the hang of them for some time and the training sergeant told me in no uncertain words from time to time. So I was put back a week until they were satisfied that I could. I was now a fully fledged teleprinter operator with a Sparks badge to show I was in Signals sewn on my sleeve and now trade rank of AC1 (Aircraftsman first class).

I left Compton Bassett in March 1955 having found my first posting to be Aden! Half the class went by troopship whilst the other half flew, including myself it was just as well as I am a lousy sailor.

We took off from RAF Lyneham in a four engine Hastings bound for Khartoum. On arrival the first thing that struck me was not only the heat of the Sudan but the smell similar to what dates taste like. I can’t really explain it but I’ve never experienced that smell in any other country I have visited since that day.

I had taken my little Vest Pocket 127 camera with me and was busily taking photos all over the place, this was the first time I had been abroad so I wanted to photograph everything but unfortunately we had changed into khaki drill and I had jammed the little camera into the pocket of my trousers and I think whilst climbing into the back of a truck that was taking us back to the airport It must have fallen out so I never saw the camera or the photographs of Khartoum ever again.

To be continued…..