My Driffield (1973 to 1978)
My personal association with RAF Driffield began with a car journey. In February 1973, my dad was posted to RAF Staxton Wold (a radar site near Scarborough) and we joined him in a new life in the East Riding of Yorkshire. We had left our previous home at RAF Benson in glorious sunshine, and as we travelled north, it became gradually colder and darker. My last recollection of Oxfordshire was one of a tethered parachute balloon (similar to a wartime barrage balloon) used to train parachutists. Its silvered profile glistened in the sun over some airfield (possibly RAF Bicester). Thereafter we joined a motorway and headed towards “The North”. Everything we owned was crammed into our Morris 1100, including our two cats, Josie and Mosey.
We arrived in Yorkshire after dark.
I remember passing a stationary fire engine, whose blue lights flashed in the dark. Apart from this distraction (possibly a road traffic accident), there were few signs of life – just a darkness that stretched on forever. After many hours, we turned into a housing estate, not too dissimilar to the one we had just left in Oxfordshire. I can distinctively remember the smell of a hundred coal fires. Despite the street lighting, it was very gloomy, with no signs of life. It was February 1973, and this was RAF Driffield, in the East Riding of Yorkshire.
Our new home, 211 AMQ (Airmen’s Married Quarters) was cold, damp and empty, save for the odd piece of furniture. Build around 1960, it is likely that no one had lived in the house since the days of the nuclear-tipped Thor missiles, which themselves had departed RAF Driffield in 1963 – some ten years before.
We explored our new home and then gathered in the living room. I can still remember mum sitting on a chair, head in hands, sobbing. Until that day, we had been lucky. We had lived the life of Riley in both Cyprus (where I was born) and Singapore, and then we had lived for nearly two years at RAF Benson, which was renowned for its high standards of family accommodation and amenities. But now, we had arrived in Driffield.
We were too tired to even attempt to unpack, and so my sister and I were sent upstairs to bed. Frightened and confused, we tried to sleep in the back bedroom, our predicament made worse by the presence of a large, black, hairy spider that reduced us to tears. And that was that. There were raised voices of concern and reassurance that emanated from downstairs, but we were too tired to take much notice. This was not a great start to our new life.
I was seven years old and my sister (Diana, who still lives in Driffield) was nine.
The following morning brought with it a chilly start to our first day in our new home. As I wiped away the condensation that trickled down the window, my first view of Yorkshire consisted of a field, dissected by a power line. As I ventured around the house, I bagged a bedroom located at the front of the house and with it came another view – that of our housing estate, known to some as Coronation Street. In the far distant was an airfield – long since abandoned.
That day, we unpacked our belongings and rearranged the furniture. Mum discovered that the cooker didn’t work properly, and so we urgently requested a replacement. Weeks later, and with no sign of a new cooker, an exasperated housewife marched into the guardroom demanding action. It made no difference that dad was only a humble corporal, nor did it occur to mum that one simply didn’t talk to the RAF Police or Duty Officer in that manner, she simply presented the powers that be with an ultimatum: either supply a new cooker, or she would buy the most expensive model available in Driffield and present the Royal Air Force with the receipt. We received our new cooker within a few days.
My job was to fill the coal bucket from the bunker located opposite the back door – this for five long, hard years. Of course, it would have been easier if someone hadn’t decided to steal our coal and indeed a number of households became victim to this “coal crook”. But before long, RAF Driffield became our home, and what had gone before was a distant memory. Our first visit into Driffield itself brought with it a new supply of Airfix models – bought in Sokells, the local book, toy and gift shop.
Mum found a job working in a factory making pushchairs, while we kids were enrolled into the local Junior School. That first day we waited for the school bus, and were shocked to discover that mum wasn’t going to come with us. We had to make our own way, not knowing where this bus would take us. As things turned out, we arrived safely at the Driffield Junior School, a large Victorian edifice dedicated to knowledge and discipline.
Driffield Junior School
I can still remember the smell of polished wooden floors; the high ceilings and cast iron radiators that baked dry drenched coats and gloves. I remember the small wooden chairs and matching desks, set in rows. I remember the classroom opposite, whose teacher had filled with an assortment of Airfix models. To illustrate the difference between front and back, he had cut in half a number of model aircraft and stuck them onto boards. There were display cases filled with dioramas of the Roman Empire, the Wild West and the Battle of Waterloo.
School dinners were a memorable experience. No matter what was on the menu, the odour of spam fritters always drifted out across most of Driffield. The dining hall was an elongated brick-built hut, filled with eight-sided tables. On each table was placed a metallic-coloured, aluminium water jug and enough plates, cutlery and drinking cups for all. Unlike now, the food was brought to each table – enough for everyone. Just. On each table, a pupil was chosen to share out what we were about to be made truly grateful, “amen”.
The teachers themselves were dedicated, mostly friendly, but always firm. This was the 1970s, and corporal punishment (a wooden ruler across the knuckles) was still in use, and used when needed. That said, for those of us unlucky enough to experience such punishment, there were no lasting effects. I also remember the caretaker, who was an avid beekeeper. Periodically, during playtime, he would bark out an order for every child to seek out even the smallest piece of rubbish from the playground. We would then run up to him to show what we had collected. The girl’s playground was off-limits to the boys, whose own playground backed onto the school’s sports field.
I spent most of my playtime – daydreaming of another world – filled with Airfix models made real. I was a loner, locked in my own little world. During my time at this school, I made no friends, yet I was content. I was never bullied and because of a slight medical condition, I was exempt from PE – albeit for the first year.
My home life was spent in my bedroom – from where I made, though rarely finished, an endless stream of Airfix models. I played on the floor, which became my battlefield or aerodrome. Without a television, computer or video games, I used my imagination. I would also explore the immediate locale, playing in the playground on a collection of worn-out swings and slides, which remained intact until only recently. I remember once, another kid came up and told me that he had found a wrecked DH Vampire, dumped on the airfield. My imagination ran wild, but sadly I did not manage to confirm the existence of this airframe until years later.
Despite my childhood passion for watching war films and making Airfix models, I was forbidden to explore the abandoned aerodrome, which was separated from our housing estate by the former A163 (now the A614) road. It’s easy to believe that this was the good life, but I remember the arguments my parents had over my upbringing. I also remember the bouts of truancy that brought a visit from the School Inspector. Then there were the tantrums – not wanting to go to bed while it was still light and too young to comprehend the change over to British Summer Time. The 1970s were also filled with power cuts and industrial action, though I don’t remember any real effect on our own lives. Looking back, my childhood was probably as mundane as anyone else’s.
One Summer’s Evening
One day after school, probably in the early summer months of 1973, I ventured out of our housing estate, and walked towards the open expanse of the airfield. Past the guardroom and firing range, I walked on the grass verge towards the Four Winds Café which overlooked the abandoned aerodrome. Passing the first hangar, I looked back and saw the control tower nested amongst the other hangars, and bathed in the glowing beam of a setting sun.
For someone brought up on a diet of Airfix models and war films, not to mention the ever-popular Dad’s Army, the sight (and even site) before me sent my imagination into overdrive. I could easily picture what this place would have looked like in busier times.
In the distance, I could make out what was once the Thor Missile site. Although overgrown, part of the main runway and apron (a concrete platform for parked aircraft) were also visible. That walk started a love affair with an abandoned aerodrome, rich in history. I returned home and although forbidden, it was not long before I started to explore the empty hangars and deserted control tower. It also wasn’t long before I was caught.
The focal point of any RAF camp was the main entrance and guardroom. It was here that I endured the humiliation of being caught on my own camp, as by the mid 1970s, it was widely acknowledged (by me, anyway) that I owned RAF Driffield. Being an inactive airfield, under “Care and Maintenance” meant that no more than two or three personnel staffed the site (all of whom resided in the guardroom). There were no patrols as such, and it was potluck if you were caught. Each time, you were frog-marched to the guardroom and given a stern lecture about trespassing on Government property. During this lecture, the powers that be, usually some corporal, would try his best to put the fear of God into you – anything to relieve the boredom on his part.
The problem was not the Royal Air Force and what they could or could not do to young trespassers, the problem was what the Royal Air Force could do to your father, especially if he himself was later frog-marched into the very same guardroom, and all this after getting off the nightly crew bus, returning from RAF Staxton Wold. Yes, the threat of being court-martialled could do wonders for the father-son relationship. When I was caught, it was the wrath of dad that put the fear in me and not the RAF. Despite these incidents it was never long before the airfield beckoned again and I found myself exploring another part of the camp, usually with Tony Clayton, my new friend.
In 1977, the MoD announced that both RAF Driffield and RAF Leconfield would close. It was further announced that both sites would be taken over by the British Army. With this change came Tony, a new friend, whose father was a Warrant Officer in the Royal Corps of Transport. Tony’s dad was responsible for turning RAF Driffield into Alamein Barracks – a new Army training base, complete with a newly constructed cross-country vehicle course. Despite these radical changes, the exploration continued.
What I also remember is feeling rather conspicuous walking across the main runway, a 150ft wide ribbon of concrete. It somehow acted as a natural barrier against further exploration.
The Thor missile site was especially attractive to the young explorers of RAF Driffield (or Alamein Barracks). Complete with blast protection walls and large assembly building, (once used to house the nuclear war heads), the site must have been very impressive when active. On one occasion, we discovered this normally deserted building was full of Army vehicles, while on another visit, we were caught by an off-duty RAF servicemen who was shooting rabbits. In the end, he let us go without informing the guardroom – I guess he might have had problems trying to explain why his own son was with him.
RAF Driffield’s Firing Range and Hangar Two were magnets for us adventurers. Although the door to the firing range was always locked, the wire fencing which ran along one side of the concrete structure was loose, and we could easily squeeze under. So, what would a half-frozen adolescent want from a deserted firing range?
Spent shell-casings, of course! Not everyone was meticulous in collecting their spent cases, and over the years, collecting these brass cartridges became a frequent event, and was as much a part of our lives as collecting conkers from the trees that lined the former A163 road during autumn.
Next to the Firing Range was one of two Bulk Fuel Installations – a large fuel tank, buried by an earth mound. Sitting on this one day, we were surprised and ever so slightly concerned when a British Army staff car passed by. What could we do? Run? Surrender? No, we just stood to attention and saluted the officer who was riding in the back. He simply grinned broadly and saluted back.
From every direction, and from every angle, the four concrete aircraft hangars dominate RAF Driffield’s skyline. Although the hangars were locked most of the time, on one occasion we discovered that someone had forgot to lock a side door to Hangar Two, and so we decided to explore inside.
During the late 1950s, this hangar was converted into a maintenance facility for the Thor Missiles. Half of the interior of this hangar had been rebuilt into a warren of small offices and workshops, which by the 1970s were vacant and devoid of lighting. With no torch, it was too spooky to venture beyond the vast expanse of the main hall, which was now full of old furniture. In one corridor that lead to this interior, we discovered an old “Keep It Under Your Hat” poster, left over from busier times. Unfortunately, it was stuck fast and ripped when Tony tried to remove it. It might still be there, as the annexes were bricked up when the hangars were converted to store grain in the 1980s.
Now derelict and unwanted, it is the officer’s mess which holds my fondest memories. It was here that I once managed to convince the local Doctor that I wasn’t feeling too well, and it would be in my best interest to stay at home for at least a day, maybe two. The camp’s surgery was located in the east wing of the officer’s mess. Being only a small community, we were served by doctors from the nearby market town, who held surgeries on most days.
The almighty must have frowned upon my efforts to avoid a good state education, because in 1977, I contracted measles and subsequently became covered head to toe in spots. Not a pretty sight. Due to this distraction, I missed out on most of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee celebrations held in town. Across the country, children were presented with commemorative Jubilee Mugs. At my school, each child was summoned to the front of the class and presented with his or her mug by the class teacher. This was, by all accounts, an exciting time and I was sorry to miss the presentations, as well as the school's Jubilee party. Weeks later, and on my return to school, I was unceremoniously directed towards an almost empty box and told to help myself. That was Civvy Street for you. In the Royal Air Force, and in my imagination, we did things differently.
All the mums on camp were tasked with making a huge and gastronomic amount of food for us kids. The Officer’s Mess was still in use in 1977, and although showing its age, and in dire need of repair, it was here that we gathered for a party. With thoughts of finishing an Airfix model of the Avro Anson, me and my sister Diana arrived to be greeted by portraits of the Queen and Prince Phillip. To the right of the entrance hall was the main reading room. This was where we had our party, and from where we were later to retire to the bar to watch a magic show and the obligatory film show, Jungle Book, from an old 16mm cine projector.
But I stayed in the reading room, eating plate after plate of wonderful jelly and cream. Mums, too busy to bake, brought along masses of jelly and instant whipped cream. So, there I was, happy as could be, celebrating Her Majesty's 25 year reign by stuffing myself silly. Pure bliss!
I don’t remember Tony being present, although we usually did everything together. We explored the airfield and the general locale. We found an Allen Williams turret. This was a metal pillbox, similar to the turret of a tank, which was hidden near the camp in some woods; I think it’s still there? We even found the remains of an Austin K2 ambulance, a vehicle made famous by the film Ice Cold in Alex. When not exploring or collecting blank .303 cases from the airfield, we made things.
We made a raft and a go-cart. We even made our own cannon from a length of metal pipe mounted on a pair of pram wheels. We bashed down one end of the “barrel” and drilled a hole for the fuse. Our gunpowder was made by carefully scraping off the ends of matches using a sharp craft knife. Now, the barrel was too wide for a marble – what to use? Ah, the plum tree in Tony’s Garden!
We found a small plum and rammed home the projectile. We then wheeled the cannon out and onto the only part of the airfield we were technically allowed to explore, that part situated in front Tony’s house. We aimed the weapon down-range. Now, I was never really keen on playing with matches, which is probably why I positioned myself several yards away from the contraption, while Tony lit the fuse.
The anticlimax was palpable. Apparently there was a slight fizzing sound, but I had pushed my fingers into my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. The plum had only just managed to reach the end of the barrel. Luckily, the design and construction of our WMD didn’t coincide with the boyhood discovery to end all boyhood discoveries. Each year, the Driffield Rugby Club (egg chasers) put on a November 5th fireworks display. One year it rained, and it rained, and hardly any of the fireworks worked. Now, guess what we found in the bins outside the Driffield Rugby Club the following day? Go on, have a guess?
Luckily, or unluckily (depending on which side of the father/son divide you stood), Tony’s dad discovered our hoard of explosives – collected from dozens and dozens of dud ‘n’ damp fireworks. Pity really. When not trying to blow ourselves up, or get caught trespassing on MoD property, we played at being NAZI tank commanders, as we both secured radio controlled Tiger tanks for our birthdays.
On that same field (our test range), we watched transfixed as the local farmer went round shooting rabbits. On another occasion, we took it in turns to wear an old gas mask as we ran through smoke and flames from the annual straw burning. Years later, and I read somewhere that wartime gasmasks were fitted with asbestos filters. Oh well, I guess you live and learn.
When not playing silly buggers, we’d settle down in our den – one of the few air-raid shelters to have survived the arrival of the British Army (I believe it still survives to this day?). We managed to remove most of the rubbish and weeds that blocked the entrance, and for a while it became our battle HQ.
I remember how we argued about Lego. I would be exacting, making sure all the bricks used to make something were all the same colour. Tony didn’t mind what colour brick went where, which I found strange and sometimes irritating. I never really got on with Tony’s dad. I thought it was because my own dad was in the RAF and inferior in rank, but with hindsight, I think it was mainly due to my immaturity. The fun lasted for only two summers. In 1978, Tony’s dad was posted to Cardiff and although we kept in touch, as friends we drifted apart.
My close association with RAF Driffield also came to an end in 1978, when we decided to buy a house in Driffield. After we moved, most of our belongings to Woldholme Avenue (a new housing estate off St John’s Road), it was revealed that we would be staying the night – the first in our new home. I was devastated – no wonder our parents had decided not to warn us. The following day, we returned to collect the last of our belongings, and with a final farewell, we left RAF Driffield.
Thirty five years ago, we moved to Yorkshire, initially a move full of trepidation and much disappointment. But as I grew up on this former wartime aerodrome, my interest developed into a keen appreciation of both the history and fabric of this site. Although I was only a child, the nostalgia of what went before, both good and bad, remains a strong sensation, one that endures to this day. In 1978, I left RAF Driffield, but RAF Driffield has never left me.
My personal association with RAF Driffield began with a car journey. In February 1973, my dad was posted to RAF Staxton Wold (a radar site near Scarborough) and we joined him in a new life in the East Riding of Yorkshire. We had left our previous home at RAF Benson in glorious sunshine, and as we travelled north, it became gradually colder and darker. My last recollection of Oxfordshire was one of a tethered parachute balloon (similar to a wartime barrage balloon) used to train parachutists. Its silvered profile glistened in the sun over some airfield (possibly RAF Bicester). Thereafter we joined a motorway and headed towards “The North”. Everything we owned was crammed into our Morris 1100, including our two cats, Josie and Mosey.
We arrived in Yorkshire after dark.
I remember passing a stationary fire engine, whose blue lights flashed in the dark. Apart from this distraction (possibly a road traffic accident), there were few signs of life – just a darkness that stretched on forever. After many hours, we turned into a housing estate, not too dissimilar to the one we had just left in Oxfordshire. I can distinctively remember the smell of a hundred coal fires. Despite the street lighting, it was very gloomy, with no signs of life. It was February 1973, and this was RAF Driffield, in the East Riding of Yorkshire.
Our new home, 211 AMQ (Airmen’s Married Quarters) was cold, damp and empty, save for the odd piece of furniture. Build around 1960, it is likely that no one had lived in the house since the days of the nuclear-tipped Thor missiles, which themselves had departed RAF Driffield in 1963 – some ten years before.
We explored our new home and then gathered in the living room. I can still remember mum sitting on a chair, head in hands, sobbing. Until that day, we had been lucky. We had lived the life of Riley in both Cyprus (where I was born) and Singapore, and then we had lived for nearly two years at RAF Benson, which was renowned for its high standards of family accommodation and amenities. But now, we had arrived in Driffield.
We were too tired to even attempt to unpack, and so my sister and I were sent upstairs to bed. Frightened and confused, we tried to sleep in the back bedroom, our predicament made worse by the presence of a large, black, hairy spider that reduced us to tears. And that was that. There were raised voices of concern and reassurance that emanated from downstairs, but we were too tired to take much notice. This was not a great start to our new life.
I was seven years old and my sister (Diana, who still lives in Driffield) was nine.
The following morning brought with it a chilly start to our first day in our new home. As I wiped away the condensation that trickled down the window, my first view of Yorkshire consisted of a field, dissected by a power line. As I ventured around the house, I bagged a bedroom located at the front of the house and with it came another view – that of our housing estate, known to some as Coronation Street. In the far distant was an airfield – long since abandoned.
That day, we unpacked our belongings and rearranged the furniture. Mum discovered that the cooker didn’t work properly, and so we urgently requested a replacement. Weeks later, and with no sign of a new cooker, an exasperated housewife marched into the guardroom demanding action. It made no difference that dad was only a humble corporal, nor did it occur to mum that one simply didn’t talk to the RAF Police or Duty Officer in that manner, she simply presented the powers that be with an ultimatum: either supply a new cooker, or she would buy the most expensive model available in Driffield and present the Royal Air Force with the receipt. We received our new cooker within a few days.
My job was to fill the coal bucket from the bunker located opposite the back door – this for five long, hard years. Of course, it would have been easier if someone hadn’t decided to steal our coal and indeed a number of households became victim to this “coal crook”. But before long, RAF Driffield became our home, and what had gone before was a distant memory. Our first visit into Driffield itself brought with it a new supply of Airfix models – bought in Sokells, the local book, toy and gift shop.
Mum found a job working in a factory making pushchairs, while we kids were enrolled into the local Junior School. That first day we waited for the school bus, and were shocked to discover that mum wasn’t going to come with us. We had to make our own way, not knowing where this bus would take us. As things turned out, we arrived safely at the Driffield Junior School, a large Victorian edifice dedicated to knowledge and discipline.
Driffield Junior School
I can still remember the smell of polished wooden floors; the high ceilings and cast iron radiators that baked dry drenched coats and gloves. I remember the small wooden chairs and matching desks, set in rows. I remember the classroom opposite, whose teacher had filled with an assortment of Airfix models. To illustrate the difference between front and back, he had cut in half a number of model aircraft and stuck them onto boards. There were display cases filled with dioramas of the Roman Empire, the Wild West and the Battle of Waterloo.
School dinners were a memorable experience. No matter what was on the menu, the odour of spam fritters always drifted out across most of Driffield. The dining hall was an elongated brick-built hut, filled with eight-sided tables. On each table was placed a metallic-coloured, aluminium water jug and enough plates, cutlery and drinking cups for all. Unlike now, the food was brought to each table – enough for everyone. Just. On each table, a pupil was chosen to share out what we were about to be made truly grateful, “amen”.
The teachers themselves were dedicated, mostly friendly, but always firm. This was the 1970s, and corporal punishment (a wooden ruler across the knuckles) was still in use, and used when needed. That said, for those of us unlucky enough to experience such punishment, there were no lasting effects. I also remember the caretaker, who was an avid beekeeper. Periodically, during playtime, he would bark out an order for every child to seek out even the smallest piece of rubbish from the playground. We would then run up to him to show what we had collected. The girl’s playground was off-limits to the boys, whose own playground backed onto the school’s sports field.
I spent most of my playtime – daydreaming of another world – filled with Airfix models made real. I was a loner, locked in my own little world. During my time at this school, I made no friends, yet I was content. I was never bullied and because of a slight medical condition, I was exempt from PE – albeit for the first year.
My home life was spent in my bedroom – from where I made, though rarely finished, an endless stream of Airfix models. I played on the floor, which became my battlefield or aerodrome. Without a television, computer or video games, I used my imagination. I would also explore the immediate locale, playing in the playground on a collection of worn-out swings and slides, which remained intact until only recently. I remember once, another kid came up and told me that he had found a wrecked DH Vampire, dumped on the airfield. My imagination ran wild, but sadly I did not manage to confirm the existence of this airframe until years later.
Despite my childhood passion for watching war films and making Airfix models, I was forbidden to explore the abandoned aerodrome, which was separated from our housing estate by the former A163 (now the A614) road. It’s easy to believe that this was the good life, but I remember the arguments my parents had over my upbringing. I also remember the bouts of truancy that brought a visit from the School Inspector. Then there were the tantrums – not wanting to go to bed while it was still light and too young to comprehend the change over to British Summer Time. The 1970s were also filled with power cuts and industrial action, though I don’t remember any real effect on our own lives. Looking back, my childhood was probably as mundane as anyone else’s.
One Summer’s Evening
One day after school, probably in the early summer months of 1973, I ventured out of our housing estate, and walked towards the open expanse of the airfield. Past the guardroom and firing range, I walked on the grass verge towards the Four Winds Café which overlooked the abandoned aerodrome. Passing the first hangar, I looked back and saw the control tower nested amongst the other hangars, and bathed in the glowing beam of a setting sun.
For someone brought up on a diet of Airfix models and war films, not to mention the ever-popular Dad’s Army, the sight (and even site) before me sent my imagination into overdrive. I could easily picture what this place would have looked like in busier times.
In the distance, I could make out what was once the Thor Missile site. Although overgrown, part of the main runway and apron (a concrete platform for parked aircraft) were also visible. That walk started a love affair with an abandoned aerodrome, rich in history. I returned home and although forbidden, it was not long before I started to explore the empty hangars and deserted control tower. It also wasn’t long before I was caught.
The focal point of any RAF camp was the main entrance and guardroom. It was here that I endured the humiliation of being caught on my own camp, as by the mid 1970s, it was widely acknowledged (by me, anyway) that I owned RAF Driffield. Being an inactive airfield, under “Care and Maintenance” meant that no more than two or three personnel staffed the site (all of whom resided in the guardroom). There were no patrols as such, and it was potluck if you were caught. Each time, you were frog-marched to the guardroom and given a stern lecture about trespassing on Government property. During this lecture, the powers that be, usually some corporal, would try his best to put the fear of God into you – anything to relieve the boredom on his part.
The problem was not the Royal Air Force and what they could or could not do to young trespassers, the problem was what the Royal Air Force could do to your father, especially if he himself was later frog-marched into the very same guardroom, and all this after getting off the nightly crew bus, returning from RAF Staxton Wold. Yes, the threat of being court-martialled could do wonders for the father-son relationship. When I was caught, it was the wrath of dad that put the fear in me and not the RAF. Despite these incidents it was never long before the airfield beckoned again and I found myself exploring another part of the camp, usually with Tony Clayton, my new friend.
In 1977, the MoD announced that both RAF Driffield and RAF Leconfield would close. It was further announced that both sites would be taken over by the British Army. With this change came Tony, a new friend, whose father was a Warrant Officer in the Royal Corps of Transport. Tony’s dad was responsible for turning RAF Driffield into Alamein Barracks – a new Army training base, complete with a newly constructed cross-country vehicle course. Despite these radical changes, the exploration continued.
What I also remember is feeling rather conspicuous walking across the main runway, a 150ft wide ribbon of concrete. It somehow acted as a natural barrier against further exploration.
The Thor missile site was especially attractive to the young explorers of RAF Driffield (or Alamein Barracks). Complete with blast protection walls and large assembly building, (once used to house the nuclear war heads), the site must have been very impressive when active. On one occasion, we discovered this normally deserted building was full of Army vehicles, while on another visit, we were caught by an off-duty RAF servicemen who was shooting rabbits. In the end, he let us go without informing the guardroom – I guess he might have had problems trying to explain why his own son was with him.
RAF Driffield’s Firing Range and Hangar Two were magnets for us adventurers. Although the door to the firing range was always locked, the wire fencing which ran along one side of the concrete structure was loose, and we could easily squeeze under. So, what would a half-frozen adolescent want from a deserted firing range?
Spent shell-casings, of course! Not everyone was meticulous in collecting their spent cases, and over the years, collecting these brass cartridges became a frequent event, and was as much a part of our lives as collecting conkers from the trees that lined the former A163 road during autumn.
Next to the Firing Range was one of two Bulk Fuel Installations – a large fuel tank, buried by an earth mound. Sitting on this one day, we were surprised and ever so slightly concerned when a British Army staff car passed by. What could we do? Run? Surrender? No, we just stood to attention and saluted the officer who was riding in the back. He simply grinned broadly and saluted back.
From every direction, and from every angle, the four concrete aircraft hangars dominate RAF Driffield’s skyline. Although the hangars were locked most of the time, on one occasion we discovered that someone had forgot to lock a side door to Hangar Two, and so we decided to explore inside.
During the late 1950s, this hangar was converted into a maintenance facility for the Thor Missiles. Half of the interior of this hangar had been rebuilt into a warren of small offices and workshops, which by the 1970s were vacant and devoid of lighting. With no torch, it was too spooky to venture beyond the vast expanse of the main hall, which was now full of old furniture. In one corridor that lead to this interior, we discovered an old “Keep It Under Your Hat” poster, left over from busier times. Unfortunately, it was stuck fast and ripped when Tony tried to remove it. It might still be there, as the annexes were bricked up when the hangars were converted to store grain in the 1980s.
Now derelict and unwanted, it is the officer’s mess which holds my fondest memories. It was here that I once managed to convince the local Doctor that I wasn’t feeling too well, and it would be in my best interest to stay at home for at least a day, maybe two. The camp’s surgery was located in the east wing of the officer’s mess. Being only a small community, we were served by doctors from the nearby market town, who held surgeries on most days.
The almighty must have frowned upon my efforts to avoid a good state education, because in 1977, I contracted measles and subsequently became covered head to toe in spots. Not a pretty sight. Due to this distraction, I missed out on most of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee celebrations held in town. Across the country, children were presented with commemorative Jubilee Mugs. At my school, each child was summoned to the front of the class and presented with his or her mug by the class teacher. This was, by all accounts, an exciting time and I was sorry to miss the presentations, as well as the school's Jubilee party. Weeks later, and on my return to school, I was unceremoniously directed towards an almost empty box and told to help myself. That was Civvy Street for you. In the Royal Air Force, and in my imagination, we did things differently.
All the mums on camp were tasked with making a huge and gastronomic amount of food for us kids. The Officer’s Mess was still in use in 1977, and although showing its age, and in dire need of repair, it was here that we gathered for a party. With thoughts of finishing an Airfix model of the Avro Anson, me and my sister Diana arrived to be greeted by portraits of the Queen and Prince Phillip. To the right of the entrance hall was the main reading room. This was where we had our party, and from where we were later to retire to the bar to watch a magic show and the obligatory film show, Jungle Book, from an old 16mm cine projector.
But I stayed in the reading room, eating plate after plate of wonderful jelly and cream. Mums, too busy to bake, brought along masses of jelly and instant whipped cream. So, there I was, happy as could be, celebrating Her Majesty's 25 year reign by stuffing myself silly. Pure bliss!
I don’t remember Tony being present, although we usually did everything together. We explored the airfield and the general locale. We found an Allen Williams turret. This was a metal pillbox, similar to the turret of a tank, which was hidden near the camp in some woods; I think it’s still there? We even found the remains of an Austin K2 ambulance, a vehicle made famous by the film Ice Cold in Alex. When not exploring or collecting blank .303 cases from the airfield, we made things.
We made a raft and a go-cart. We even made our own cannon from a length of metal pipe mounted on a pair of pram wheels. We bashed down one end of the “barrel” and drilled a hole for the fuse. Our gunpowder was made by carefully scraping off the ends of matches using a sharp craft knife. Now, the barrel was too wide for a marble – what to use? Ah, the plum tree in Tony’s Garden!
We found a small plum and rammed home the projectile. We then wheeled the cannon out and onto the only part of the airfield we were technically allowed to explore, that part situated in front Tony’s house. We aimed the weapon down-range. Now, I was never really keen on playing with matches, which is probably why I positioned myself several yards away from the contraption, while Tony lit the fuse.
The anticlimax was palpable. Apparently there was a slight fizzing sound, but I had pushed my fingers into my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. The plum had only just managed to reach the end of the barrel. Luckily, the design and construction of our WMD didn’t coincide with the boyhood discovery to end all boyhood discoveries. Each year, the Driffield Rugby Club (egg chasers) put on a November 5th fireworks display. One year it rained, and it rained, and hardly any of the fireworks worked. Now, guess what we found in the bins outside the Driffield Rugby Club the following day? Go on, have a guess?
Luckily, or unluckily (depending on which side of the father/son divide you stood), Tony’s dad discovered our hoard of explosives – collected from dozens and dozens of dud ‘n’ damp fireworks. Pity really. When not trying to blow ourselves up, or get caught trespassing on MoD property, we played at being NAZI tank commanders, as we both secured radio controlled Tiger tanks for our birthdays.
On that same field (our test range), we watched transfixed as the local farmer went round shooting rabbits. On another occasion, we took it in turns to wear an old gas mask as we ran through smoke and flames from the annual straw burning. Years later, and I read somewhere that wartime gasmasks were fitted with asbestos filters. Oh well, I guess you live and learn.
When not playing silly buggers, we’d settle down in our den – one of the few air-raid shelters to have survived the arrival of the British Army (I believe it still survives to this day?). We managed to remove most of the rubbish and weeds that blocked the entrance, and for a while it became our battle HQ.
I remember how we argued about Lego. I would be exacting, making sure all the bricks used to make something were all the same colour. Tony didn’t mind what colour brick went where, which I found strange and sometimes irritating. I never really got on with Tony’s dad. I thought it was because my own dad was in the RAF and inferior in rank, but with hindsight, I think it was mainly due to my immaturity. The fun lasted for only two summers. In 1978, Tony’s dad was posted to Cardiff and although we kept in touch, as friends we drifted apart.
My close association with RAF Driffield also came to an end in 1978, when we decided to buy a house in Driffield. After we moved, most of our belongings to Woldholme Avenue (a new housing estate off St John’s Road), it was revealed that we would be staying the night – the first in our new home. I was devastated – no wonder our parents had decided not to warn us. The following day, we returned to collect the last of our belongings, and with a final farewell, we left RAF Driffield.
Thirty five years ago, we moved to Yorkshire, initially a move full of trepidation and much disappointment. But as I grew up on this former wartime aerodrome, my interest developed into a keen appreciation of both the history and fabric of this site. Although I was only a child, the nostalgia of what went before, both good and bad, remains a strong sensation, one that endures to this day. In 1978, I left RAF Driffield, but RAF Driffield has never left me.
