Memoirs of a Space Cadet
How was it that I found myself in the greatest youth organisation in this country? More precisely, how was it that I lasted four years – coming out the other end a lesser person, being despised by some for being different?
Perhaps I joined the Air Training Corps because I was obsessed with Airfix models and aeroplanes? Or perhaps it was my parents, who thought it would be good for me to get out and meet other, likeminded individuals? Twenty-eight years later, and the how, or even the why, have long since faded from memory. But on the evening of February 9th 1979, I found myself in the company of dozens of other “air minded” teenagers and several adults, who made up my local ATC squadron.
To join the ATC proper, you had to be 13 years and ten months old. Any younger and you were deemed a probationer – not quite a cadet, but someone who was just old enough to be kept on.
My first confession is that I wasn’t a brilliant cadet. For example, I could not march to save my life. I was also not confident enough to face up to what the ATC had to offer, and as a result I didn’t take part in some activities, such as attending the annual summer camp or .303 shooting competitions. I would even admit not to being that keen on flying. I’m probably the only cadet from my era not to have fired a Lee Enfield rifle or flown in a “Chippie”. After all these years, I wish I could go back…
Why I was tolerated is a mystery. There was some resentment and the odd confrontation. Once, my bicycle lights were tampered with (the dynamo wires being cut), resulting in me being stopped by the police one night on my return from parade. I once volunteered for orienteering – until someone explained what that entailed. Not known for being athletically minded, my about-face was predictable. Perhaps I just wanted the company?
Most youngsters joined to satisfy the need for adventure. They were fearless, open minded individuals who shared many traits, such as the need to get involved, and to make new friends. However, I was different and an enigma. My only redeeming feature was an ability not to greatly offend or get into trouble. I was never a star cadet, nor was I one of the others. I could neither be promoted, nor easily merge or blend in with the others. I was neither extrovert nor introvert.
Keen to wear a uniform as soon as possible, I pestered one Dave Birks into issuing me with one. Sadly, our Detached Flight was short on some essential items, and I ended up being issued with probably the last Battle Dress uniform in the entire ATC. This itchy icon of the long-suffering British serviceman had long passed its best. I looked and felt ridiculous and my fellow cadets didn’t let the event go unnoticed – the cruel, vicious little sods.
Ridiculed by others, I wore the uniform only once, to a parent’s evening in Bridlington. It was returned thereafter, and although I was later issued with a contemporary uniform, I never really became a big fan of wearing RAF blue.
My hair was also a problem, being too long and unmanageable. During the early 1980s, The Hair Bear Bunch was a popular American TV cartoon series, aired on ITV. The star of the show was a talking bear, resplendent in a large Afro haircut. It is not recorded who bestowed on me the nickname Hair Bear, but my inability to manage or cut my hair was a constant concern to Dave Birks, and henceforth the nickname stuck.
During the 1970s, Driffield’s ATC unit was a Detached Flight of No.252 (Bridlington) Squadron. Our Flight was located in the old stores at Alamein Barracks (former RAF Driffield). Twice a week, we would gather on a Wednesday and Friday evening at 7.30pm. Some of us walked or cycled to camp, while others, like me, often sought a lift from our parents. We would arrive in ones and twos, until it was deemed time to start proceedings. We would pay our subs (around 25p), and then gather in the main room for first parade.
Lined up in three or four rows, with the senior cadets positioned at the back, the senior cadet would take the parade, who would in turn hand over to the Adult Warrant Officer (Dave Birks), who would in turn hand over the proceedings to our CO or Commanding Officer. We were given news of forthcoming events and activities, and then told what the night would entail. Initially, we were located in two large rooms located at the back of the stores, with additional offices and classrooms allocated to us. Over the years, we moved from one room to another, until years later, the building itself was condemned, which forced the ATC to move out in the early 1990s.
Smell is something we take for granted, more so after you lose this sense. It is further acknowledged that to describe a smell can be difficult at the best of times. However, I would describe the smell on entering our ATC home as a warm, dusty and musky odour, unique to that time and place. I would add that this smell has become as important a fleeting memory as the events that took place in this decaying building. Periodically, we were ordered to sweep the concrete and lino corridors and rooms. A mini dust storm would billow up from the floor, thick enough to set off anyone’s asthma, until some bright spark suggested that it would be better to “water down” the dust. This before we killed off another chesty cadet.
The floors were lined in lino, and the concrete walls were painted in two shades of a greenish grey. The cast-iron radiators were fed from the camp’s central heating station, which kept our building warm during the coldest of winter evenings. The walls were spartan and the bare lighting added to the atmosphere, which was that of a military building built in austere times and destined for war. I would imagine that some of the furniture was also from this era.
My second confession is that I can remember few names, and even fewer faces. This is my problem, and must not in anyway reflect on the character (good or bad) of those, who twenty years later, I’m buggered if I can remember. I do recall some of the senior cadets, those corporals, sergeants and flight sergeants who I respected more for their model making abilities than for their dress making skills! Joke!
There was Cawthorne, who would later become a pilot in the RAF. Smith, the most senior of cadet NCOs, who despite making the grade to become a navigator in the Fleet Air Arm, would later retrain as a graphic artist. Another cadet, surname Bradley, also joined the RAF and according to friendsreunited.co.uk is now a civvy airframe fitter, working on helicopters. Then we have those cadets whose names and faces have simply faded from memory. A number also joined the RAF, while another, Edward Peacock, not only manages the family farm, but is also the proud owner of his very own airstrip. Several other cadets have also learnt to fly, independently of the Royal Air Force.
Without doubt, the most respected person within our squadron was Dave Birks, our Adult Warrant Officer, affectingly known as Birksie. He was a former soldier, who later worked as a civilian driving-instructor at Leconfield. We all looked up to him and many cadets, I feel, owe their careers in part to this man. He nurtured and fostered those cadets who were destined for higher things, while at the same time, he more than accommodated us lesser mortals; those cadets who turned up week in, week out, in need of something to do. He worked tirelessly behind the scenes with our CO and civilian committee to provide us with a wide range of activities.
He worked closely with the Army Cadet Force in establishing parascending on the airfield, which was offered to cadets from both organisations. Another accomplishment was the change in status from detached flight to full squadron status in 1982, when we became No.873 (Driffield) Squadron, Air Training Corps. Dave Birks was also keen on new technology and his car was equipped with the latest in CB radio – useful when one cadet (Cawthorne?) tripped over rough gravel and knocked himself out. Before you could say something witty or intelligent, Dave Birks dashed to his car and radioed for an ambulance. Some cadets brought along with them their hobby – be it a radio controlled model aeroplane or air rifle – sadly, not on the same day!
Our squadron was like any other. There were times when our numbers were running low, which no doubt brought with it a communiqué from on high threatening disbandment or reverse in status, back to detached flight. Cadets would come and go, and come back again. Sometimes this truancy would last for months on end. From personal experience, it was difficult to be enthusiastic when you knew you were never going to make the grade and be promoted, a problem I shared with many. But then again, if I had actually applied myself…
No matter, things would soon pick up again, as we continued twice weekly to congregate; taking part in a wide range of activities.
There were lectures held on a myriad of subjects, some of which were indoctrinatory in nature, including a discussion about the need for a Nuclear Deterrent. There were model glider competitions and kite building, not to mention the very odd night exercises held on the airfield, when our Squadron was split into two teams, and we were tasked with finding the enemy HQ without being caught. We were also treated to a 16mm training film on weapon safety shown in “glorious Technicolor” as Dave Birks would add – a grisly and macabre film on what can go wrong if you didn’t take care when handling a firearm. With limited funds and facilities, it was a credit to the staff of Driffield’s ATC that cadets kept on coming back for more. Even when activities were thin on the ground, there was always the spring-cleaning – more dust, spit and polish.
On one occasion, we cadets were ordered to dump some rubbish on the far side of the airfield. For this, Dave Birks managed to borrow an army lorry and we all clambered onboard for a trip across the airfield. That evening, as the sun was setting on RAF Driffield, we passed one of the giant machines that was being used to remove the concrete runways. Even then, I felt it all terribly sad. I wonder if my fellow cadets felt the same way?
Then there was drill or marching, with commands familiar to millennia of old soldiers and those equipped with two left feet: “Attention”, “Right Dress”, “About Turn”, “Stand At Ease”, and “Stand Easy”. Easy, unless your name was Jones or Hair Bear. The problem started when you moved – “By the Right, Quick March” or was it: “By the Left, Quick March?” To some, drill came easy, to others it took time and patience. Then there was me, for whom time and patience had long since buggered off down to the pub – never to return. Even the words still bring on a cold sweat. And although I was not blighted with the aforementioned two left feet, no matter how patient or caring those who tried their best to help, I was a lost cause.
Keen to do well in the annual, regional Drill Competition, we cadets gathered one cold, Saturday morning in the sheltered environs of Hanger No.2. Here we were put through our paces. We were tasked with remembering a sequence of moves, which were impossible to replicate if you were me, and as every other cadet wasn’t me, most were well adept. When it was time to pack up and go home, it was unanimously decided to continue for another hour or two. Not me, as I was more than welcome to depart. Ironically, we didn’t come first, though on one occasion we came highly placed, when we put forward a drill team of just three cadets.
Referring to my 3822, the first copy of which saw the inside of a washing machine on more than one occasion, we visited RAF Cowden, a coastal bombing range located near Hornsea. This establishment started my love affair with small RAF camps or enclaves – those sites that are rarely mentioned in the RAF News or on the internet. Another visit was to British Aerospace’s Flight Test Centre at former RAF Holme-upon-Spalding Moor. This site was one of the best-preserved wartime airfields left in the East Riding of Yorkshire. By the early 1980s, it was also the only active airfield for miles around. After a short film show (a 16mm corporate showreel on the Blackburn Buccaneer), we were shown the flight hanger. This Type “J” structure was filled with an assortment of aircraft, including the Phantom, Hunter (painted white) and the aforementioned Buccaneer. At the time, they were testing a JP233 runway attack weapon.
We took it in turns to be shown around the cockpit of an F4 Phantom. This aircraft was still in its late 1960s green/grey camouflage scheme – complete with now redundant red/white/blue roundels. For whatever reason, I wasn’t that interested; took one look inside the cockpit and started to climb down the ladder, when the chap whose pride and joy I had just rejected pulled me back up and forcefully pointed out what was what. What did excite me was the control tower. Modernised with attached radar, this structure was home to those who brought the airfield to life. As the tour progressed, a civilian executive jet landed in the dark – aided by the runway lights, which were quickly extinguished.
Indicative of the poor state of Britain’s aviation heritage, British Aerospace closed Holme-upon-Spalding Moor by the mid 1980s, and the runways were subsequently removed.
Within our ATC Squadron, the adult staff were few in number, though very dedicated. Apart from those in uniform (our Commanding Officer and Adult Warrant Officer), we had our fair share of Civilian Instructors or CIs. Although most have faded from memory, one character remains.
David Whitley was a practical man, from an earlier generation, who found it difficult to gain the respect of some of those he was trying to help. Although we ridiculed his overtly practical, two-tone blue Volkswagen camper van and his practical mindset, he never gave up helping. I could do with his help now. He was a keen photographer and as such, was on hand to record life in the ATC at various events. I think he was also instrumental in introducing air experience flights through the Search and Rescue Flight at Leconfield. Initially, this was a one-off visit, when on November 29th 1981, a coach load of cadets visited RAF Leconfield. Each cadet was individually winched onboard a hovering Westland Wessex helicopter (XT680) before flying off on a short round trip over Kingston upon Hull.
One cadet, not known for his outgoing personality or voluntary heroics, grasped the initiative and agreed to be winched up first on the second flight of the day. While the other cadets gasped in disbelief, I found myself being winched up into the bowels of a yellow painted rescue helicopter. The noise was deafening, and only the roar of the rotors drowned out my thumping heartbeat. Oh, very theatrical, I know…
On being winched up, the winch operator grabbed hold of me, before removing my harness and directing me to the back of the cabin. Clad in pale green plastic, the interior was fitted out with an assortment of rescue equipment. I found a seat and securely strapped myself in. Another bemused cadet soon joined me, and before long we set off on an aerial tour of Hull with a cabin full of bewildered youngsters.
It took three separate sorties to take a coach load full of cadets on their first experience of flying in a Wessex. Not many forget their first flight in a chopper, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Afterwards, we were shown around the hangar and flight offices.
During the following months, numerous cadets from our squadron were given exclusive access to this unit, with cadets and staff flying most weekends. In the end, we became the envy of many an ATC squadron, until it was decided to share these flights with other Air Cadet units across the region. Although not the only Civilian Instructor, he is the one I remember with most affection and respect. He never gave up on the underdog: the cadet who was never going to make it big. Sadly Mr Whitley died in 1991.
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Mr Whitley was also instrumental in encouraging me in establishing a project to recover the remains of an aircraft wreck which had been lost during the war. One evening, a cadet brought along a book on Bomber Command, and I was fascinated by a series of wartime photographs of a local crash site. The victim was a Handley Page Halifax BIII that was based at Driffield during the war. Flown by No.466 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force, Halifax LW172 had flown 96 missions, when on April 8th 1945, it was returning from a raid on Hamburg. Named G.U.T.S., the aircraft was on its 97th mission, when it crashed into a wooden area adjacent to Kirkburn Grange Farm, some three miles West of the aerodrome.
At the time, RAF Driffield was fog-bound and its returning aircraft were ordered to land at the nearby emergency airfield at Carnaby – located just outside Bridlington. For whatever reason, the pilot of LW172 decided to attempt a landing at Driffield and subsequently overshot the runway, and while attempting a go-round he hit high ground. As a result, the seven crew onboard were killed instantly.
We wrote to the Ministry of Defence asking for permission to recover what remained. We were successful and, with the blessing of the farm owner, one evening several cadets and Mr Whitley gathered to start a yard-by-yard search of the woods that bordered the Kirkburn Grange Farm. Although most of the airframe had been recovered along with the crew in the days that followed the crash, smaller items lost in the undergrowth remained hidden for nearly forty years. Shortly after work commenced on recovering what remained, we gained two more helpers in the shape of John Walker and Kris Dunham, two adults who took the lead and would ultimately become stalwarts in preserving Yorkshire’s aviation heritage.
Among the items collected were a wristwatch that had stopped at 1.12am (the time of the crash) and a cigarette case, both of which were returned to the next of kin. We also collected nearly a full set of fuel gauge faces – void of their bakelite cases and inner workings. Probably the best find, which we were able to keep, was a rescue whistle that belonged to one of the crew. This would have been clipped onto the battle dress lapel. Along with hundreds, if not thousands of other items, these were cleaned by hand. After we returned the personal effects and deposited the small quantity of recovered ammunition with the police, the remaining artefacts were placed with the newly formed Yorkshire Air Museum.
The time it took to recover the remains of LW172 has since long been forgotten – what hasn’t left me is the sacrifice. One month before the end of hostilities in Europe, seven men lost their lives. No doubt they knew the war’s end was near. I’m not sure why, but we never erected a memorial to these young men. At the time, it was thought fitting to erect memorials to squadrons, and those who flew from certain airfields, but not to individual aircraft or crew members.
On April 24th 1982, our squadron offered up a dozen or so sacrificial lambs to a coast guard exercise. One Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves being precariously lowered down a rope from the high cliffs at Flamborough Head and onto the slippery rocks below. Along with several straw dummies (lifeless casualties), we gathered in a cave; victims of a hypothetical shipwreck. Once we were safely positioned in our watery grave, the plan was to notify the emergency services, who would come to our rescue. The premise was that we wouldn’t even get our feet wet. When lowered down, I ended up being deposited feet-first in a rock pool; two wet feet being only the start. The tide was coming in, and doubts started to creep into my mind. We were cold and wet and “why did I volunteer?” Frightening though this was, there was no cause for worry: someone had spilled the beans, and the emergencies services (including the RNLI) were already on their way, even before the exercise had even started.
As soon as we had settled in our new home, we were led to safety and another free ride in the back of a Wessex helicopter (this time XR501). That was day one of the exercise. Day two consisted of spending the morning in bed. After 25 years, I am finally able to admit that I chickened out. I can’t remember the excuse I gave, but it was believed by no one. What is still a mystery is where were the Sea Scouts or Sea Cadets? Perhaps they were the victims of an earlier exercise.
Model-making was my forte, and some might argue my only redeeming feature. I’m not admitting to be the best model-maker, that accolade went to Smith, whose creations were (and I am told still are) a work of art. But at the end of the day, I did impress some. On one occasion, we came second in the regional model competition with a diorama of a camouflaged Harrier hideaway; the combined work of three cadets. The metre square base featured a wooded area, where three 1/72nd scale Harrier GR3 aircraft were positioned in various stages of flight readiness. Model vehicles and plastic soldiers added the final touches. Our diorama came second. Our prize? We were each given a Matchbox HP Halifax model kit.
Airshows were another treat. My first was RIAT ’79 held at Greenham Common – which was later to house cruise missiles. We travelled down the day before, spending the night in a wooden hut, which was home to a nearby ATC Squadron. We slept on the wooden floor and the following morning travelled to the airshow. These were the days of the cold war, before defence cuts and base closures that are today as common as equipment shortages.
There was the familiar: an international parade of Hercules C130s and the cavernous C5 Galaxy. Although historic airframes were thin on the ground (and in the air), the trade stands were an eye-opener, selling everything from fast food to oodles of aeronautical bric-a-brac. Another aircraft on display was RAF Phantom XV424, resplendent in colourful markings celebrating the 60th anniversary of the first transatlantic flight in 1919 by Alcock and Whitten-Brown. The Phantom aircraft survives today at the RAF Museum Hendon.
Another excursion was the 1979 RAF Finningley air display. The RAF showed off its new Chinook helicopter and I believe Concorde also landed? By all accounts, a good time was had by all and was memorable, as much for the inability for one cadet to make it back to the coach on time. After waiting half an hour, the cadet turned up and was quickly chastised by his fellow cadets. Afterwards, I made a point of not being late again.
Out of all the airshows attended, probably the most enjoyable was the 1982 International Air Fair, held at Humberside Airport. Instead of travelling by road, a number of us cadets flew by helicopter from Leconfield. We arrived in style and after an excellent, well-balanced display, we returned to the Wessex and home. On the return journey, we were diverted to scour the River Humber. Someone had spotted what he or she believed to be a distress flare, and although we didn’t spot anything, we did add a few minutes to our flight time, dutifully entered in our 3822s.
The aircraft was Wessex XR588 and the flight time was one hour and fifteen minutes. Add another flight, and my total on Wessex helicopters was just over three hours.
Despite my misgivings and own failings as detailed herein, my time with the ATC was a magical mix of Aeronautica (in all its forms) and a series of events and quirky incidents that made growing up in Thatcher’s Britain so memorable, if not bearable. Be it listening to Blondie for the first time on a return trip to Bridlington, or overloading Michael Whitley’s (David’s son) mini pickup with a salvaged aero engine, a tyre-bursting lump of scrap brought up by fishing nets off Bridlington, on a day-to-day basis, life in the ATC was sweet, as long as you didn’t offend anyone by your presence.
Twenty-five years later, my only regrets are not having taken up gliding, and that I was not promoted to corporal. Although my 15 minutes in a Venture (ZA656) powered glider were ever so brief, it was the only time I ever really enjoyed flying. The place was RAF Linton on Ouse, and the date was July 18th 1982. My other disappointment was not being awarded two strips. This probably had something to do with my dad being a corporal himself. I’ve always felt that it matters not what you do in the armed forces, as long as you play your part. For me, the two strips (not three or a crown) symbolised respect and accomplishment, without having to battle through an endless series of objectives, goals and targets. Not everyone wants to start at the bottom and fight his or her way to the top. Sometimes it’s better to stop and just appreciate the view.
Back to reality, and in the early 1980s, our cadet NCOs even had their own room, complete with mural, an English Electric Lightning, painted on one wall by Cadet Sergeant Cawthorne. The wall painting is still there – just – signed and dated. To be honest, most of the cadet NCOs were caring. They knew that with promotion came responsibility, and rarely did it go to their heads. Only once did I ever feel intimidated or bullied, and this was the reason why I decided to leave in early 1983.
One of my final recollections (apart from being told that girls would shortly be allowed to join our exclusive club) was being given permission to clean up the aforementioned aero engine, and then being counter-ordered by a cadet NCO who, that evening, took pleasure in making my life hell. He was out of order, though no one remarked on the confrontation. The tide was turning, and I felt more and more isolated: a problem cadet, whose only offence was his presence. Being a space cadet was no longer fun. Like every other cadet, I was given the opportunity to excel and I failed, not only myself, but also those cadet NCOs and adults above me, and I was made aware of this. It’s one thing being different; it’s another thing when others feel you’ve let the side down.
One day, I turned up with my uniform neatly folded in a carrier bag, and that was that. There were a few bemused, smiling faces and guarded comments, mostly from the other cadets. I don’t think I even stayed for the final parade. No doubt my critics had something to celebrate behind my back, but I was history. My contribution to the squadron and its history was probably negligible: an administrative blot on the landscape, and a name…
…Hair Bear.
How was it that I found myself in the greatest youth organisation in this country? More precisely, how was it that I lasted four years – coming out the other end a lesser person, being despised by some for being different?
Perhaps I joined the Air Training Corps because I was obsessed with Airfix models and aeroplanes? Or perhaps it was my parents, who thought it would be good for me to get out and meet other, likeminded individuals? Twenty-eight years later, and the how, or even the why, have long since faded from memory. But on the evening of February 9th 1979, I found myself in the company of dozens of other “air minded” teenagers and several adults, who made up my local ATC squadron.
To join the ATC proper, you had to be 13 years and ten months old. Any younger and you were deemed a probationer – not quite a cadet, but someone who was just old enough to be kept on.
My first confession is that I wasn’t a brilliant cadet. For example, I could not march to save my life. I was also not confident enough to face up to what the ATC had to offer, and as a result I didn’t take part in some activities, such as attending the annual summer camp or .303 shooting competitions. I would even admit not to being that keen on flying. I’m probably the only cadet from my era not to have fired a Lee Enfield rifle or flown in a “Chippie”. After all these years, I wish I could go back…
Why I was tolerated is a mystery. There was some resentment and the odd confrontation. Once, my bicycle lights were tampered with (the dynamo wires being cut), resulting in me being stopped by the police one night on my return from parade. I once volunteered for orienteering – until someone explained what that entailed. Not known for being athletically minded, my about-face was predictable. Perhaps I just wanted the company?
Most youngsters joined to satisfy the need for adventure. They were fearless, open minded individuals who shared many traits, such as the need to get involved, and to make new friends. However, I was different and an enigma. My only redeeming feature was an ability not to greatly offend or get into trouble. I was never a star cadet, nor was I one of the others. I could neither be promoted, nor easily merge or blend in with the others. I was neither extrovert nor introvert.
Keen to wear a uniform as soon as possible, I pestered one Dave Birks into issuing me with one. Sadly, our Detached Flight was short on some essential items, and I ended up being issued with probably the last Battle Dress uniform in the entire ATC. This itchy icon of the long-suffering British serviceman had long passed its best. I looked and felt ridiculous and my fellow cadets didn’t let the event go unnoticed – the cruel, vicious little sods.
Ridiculed by others, I wore the uniform only once, to a parent’s evening in Bridlington. It was returned thereafter, and although I was later issued with a contemporary uniform, I never really became a big fan of wearing RAF blue.
My hair was also a problem, being too long and unmanageable. During the early 1980s, The Hair Bear Bunch was a popular American TV cartoon series, aired on ITV. The star of the show was a talking bear, resplendent in a large Afro haircut. It is not recorded who bestowed on me the nickname Hair Bear, but my inability to manage or cut my hair was a constant concern to Dave Birks, and henceforth the nickname stuck.
During the 1970s, Driffield’s ATC unit was a Detached Flight of No.252 (Bridlington) Squadron. Our Flight was located in the old stores at Alamein Barracks (former RAF Driffield). Twice a week, we would gather on a Wednesday and Friday evening at 7.30pm. Some of us walked or cycled to camp, while others, like me, often sought a lift from our parents. We would arrive in ones and twos, until it was deemed time to start proceedings. We would pay our subs (around 25p), and then gather in the main room for first parade.
Lined up in three or four rows, with the senior cadets positioned at the back, the senior cadet would take the parade, who would in turn hand over to the Adult Warrant Officer (Dave Birks), who would in turn hand over the proceedings to our CO or Commanding Officer. We were given news of forthcoming events and activities, and then told what the night would entail. Initially, we were located in two large rooms located at the back of the stores, with additional offices and classrooms allocated to us. Over the years, we moved from one room to another, until years later, the building itself was condemned, which forced the ATC to move out in the early 1990s.
Smell is something we take for granted, more so after you lose this sense. It is further acknowledged that to describe a smell can be difficult at the best of times. However, I would describe the smell on entering our ATC home as a warm, dusty and musky odour, unique to that time and place. I would add that this smell has become as important a fleeting memory as the events that took place in this decaying building. Periodically, we were ordered to sweep the concrete and lino corridors and rooms. A mini dust storm would billow up from the floor, thick enough to set off anyone’s asthma, until some bright spark suggested that it would be better to “water down” the dust. This before we killed off another chesty cadet.
The floors were lined in lino, and the concrete walls were painted in two shades of a greenish grey. The cast-iron radiators were fed from the camp’s central heating station, which kept our building warm during the coldest of winter evenings. The walls were spartan and the bare lighting added to the atmosphere, which was that of a military building built in austere times and destined for war. I would imagine that some of the furniture was also from this era.
My second confession is that I can remember few names, and even fewer faces. This is my problem, and must not in anyway reflect on the character (good or bad) of those, who twenty years later, I’m buggered if I can remember. I do recall some of the senior cadets, those corporals, sergeants and flight sergeants who I respected more for their model making abilities than for their dress making skills! Joke!
There was Cawthorne, who would later become a pilot in the RAF. Smith, the most senior of cadet NCOs, who despite making the grade to become a navigator in the Fleet Air Arm, would later retrain as a graphic artist. Another cadet, surname Bradley, also joined the RAF and according to friendsreunited.co.uk is now a civvy airframe fitter, working on helicopters. Then we have those cadets whose names and faces have simply faded from memory. A number also joined the RAF, while another, Edward Peacock, not only manages the family farm, but is also the proud owner of his very own airstrip. Several other cadets have also learnt to fly, independently of the Royal Air Force.
Without doubt, the most respected person within our squadron was Dave Birks, our Adult Warrant Officer, affectingly known as Birksie. He was a former soldier, who later worked as a civilian driving-instructor at Leconfield. We all looked up to him and many cadets, I feel, owe their careers in part to this man. He nurtured and fostered those cadets who were destined for higher things, while at the same time, he more than accommodated us lesser mortals; those cadets who turned up week in, week out, in need of something to do. He worked tirelessly behind the scenes with our CO and civilian committee to provide us with a wide range of activities.
He worked closely with the Army Cadet Force in establishing parascending on the airfield, which was offered to cadets from both organisations. Another accomplishment was the change in status from detached flight to full squadron status in 1982, when we became No.873 (Driffield) Squadron, Air Training Corps. Dave Birks was also keen on new technology and his car was equipped with the latest in CB radio – useful when one cadet (Cawthorne?) tripped over rough gravel and knocked himself out. Before you could say something witty or intelligent, Dave Birks dashed to his car and radioed for an ambulance. Some cadets brought along with them their hobby – be it a radio controlled model aeroplane or air rifle – sadly, not on the same day!
Our squadron was like any other. There were times when our numbers were running low, which no doubt brought with it a communiqué from on high threatening disbandment or reverse in status, back to detached flight. Cadets would come and go, and come back again. Sometimes this truancy would last for months on end. From personal experience, it was difficult to be enthusiastic when you knew you were never going to make the grade and be promoted, a problem I shared with many. But then again, if I had actually applied myself…
No matter, things would soon pick up again, as we continued twice weekly to congregate; taking part in a wide range of activities.
There were lectures held on a myriad of subjects, some of which were indoctrinatory in nature, including a discussion about the need for a Nuclear Deterrent. There were model glider competitions and kite building, not to mention the very odd night exercises held on the airfield, when our Squadron was split into two teams, and we were tasked with finding the enemy HQ without being caught. We were also treated to a 16mm training film on weapon safety shown in “glorious Technicolor” as Dave Birks would add – a grisly and macabre film on what can go wrong if you didn’t take care when handling a firearm. With limited funds and facilities, it was a credit to the staff of Driffield’s ATC that cadets kept on coming back for more. Even when activities were thin on the ground, there was always the spring-cleaning – more dust, spit and polish.
On one occasion, we cadets were ordered to dump some rubbish on the far side of the airfield. For this, Dave Birks managed to borrow an army lorry and we all clambered onboard for a trip across the airfield. That evening, as the sun was setting on RAF Driffield, we passed one of the giant machines that was being used to remove the concrete runways. Even then, I felt it all terribly sad. I wonder if my fellow cadets felt the same way?
Then there was drill or marching, with commands familiar to millennia of old soldiers and those equipped with two left feet: “Attention”, “Right Dress”, “About Turn”, “Stand At Ease”, and “Stand Easy”. Easy, unless your name was Jones or Hair Bear. The problem started when you moved – “By the Right, Quick March” or was it: “By the Left, Quick March?” To some, drill came easy, to others it took time and patience. Then there was me, for whom time and patience had long since buggered off down to the pub – never to return. Even the words still bring on a cold sweat. And although I was not blighted with the aforementioned two left feet, no matter how patient or caring those who tried their best to help, I was a lost cause.
Keen to do well in the annual, regional Drill Competition, we cadets gathered one cold, Saturday morning in the sheltered environs of Hanger No.2. Here we were put through our paces. We were tasked with remembering a sequence of moves, which were impossible to replicate if you were me, and as every other cadet wasn’t me, most were well adept. When it was time to pack up and go home, it was unanimously decided to continue for another hour or two. Not me, as I was more than welcome to depart. Ironically, we didn’t come first, though on one occasion we came highly placed, when we put forward a drill team of just three cadets.
Referring to my 3822, the first copy of which saw the inside of a washing machine on more than one occasion, we visited RAF Cowden, a coastal bombing range located near Hornsea. This establishment started my love affair with small RAF camps or enclaves – those sites that are rarely mentioned in the RAF News or on the internet. Another visit was to British Aerospace’s Flight Test Centre at former RAF Holme-upon-Spalding Moor. This site was one of the best-preserved wartime airfields left in the East Riding of Yorkshire. By the early 1980s, it was also the only active airfield for miles around. After a short film show (a 16mm corporate showreel on the Blackburn Buccaneer), we were shown the flight hanger. This Type “J” structure was filled with an assortment of aircraft, including the Phantom, Hunter (painted white) and the aforementioned Buccaneer. At the time, they were testing a JP233 runway attack weapon.
We took it in turns to be shown around the cockpit of an F4 Phantom. This aircraft was still in its late 1960s green/grey camouflage scheme – complete with now redundant red/white/blue roundels. For whatever reason, I wasn’t that interested; took one look inside the cockpit and started to climb down the ladder, when the chap whose pride and joy I had just rejected pulled me back up and forcefully pointed out what was what. What did excite me was the control tower. Modernised with attached radar, this structure was home to those who brought the airfield to life. As the tour progressed, a civilian executive jet landed in the dark – aided by the runway lights, which were quickly extinguished.
Indicative of the poor state of Britain’s aviation heritage, British Aerospace closed Holme-upon-Spalding Moor by the mid 1980s, and the runways were subsequently removed.
Within our ATC Squadron, the adult staff were few in number, though very dedicated. Apart from those in uniform (our Commanding Officer and Adult Warrant Officer), we had our fair share of Civilian Instructors or CIs. Although most have faded from memory, one character remains.
David Whitley was a practical man, from an earlier generation, who found it difficult to gain the respect of some of those he was trying to help. Although we ridiculed his overtly practical, two-tone blue Volkswagen camper van and his practical mindset, he never gave up helping. I could do with his help now. He was a keen photographer and as such, was on hand to record life in the ATC at various events. I think he was also instrumental in introducing air experience flights through the Search and Rescue Flight at Leconfield. Initially, this was a one-off visit, when on November 29th 1981, a coach load of cadets visited RAF Leconfield. Each cadet was individually winched onboard a hovering Westland Wessex helicopter (XT680) before flying off on a short round trip over Kingston upon Hull.
One cadet, not known for his outgoing personality or voluntary heroics, grasped the initiative and agreed to be winched up first on the second flight of the day. While the other cadets gasped in disbelief, I found myself being winched up into the bowels of a yellow painted rescue helicopter. The noise was deafening, and only the roar of the rotors drowned out my thumping heartbeat. Oh, very theatrical, I know…
On being winched up, the winch operator grabbed hold of me, before removing my harness and directing me to the back of the cabin. Clad in pale green plastic, the interior was fitted out with an assortment of rescue equipment. I found a seat and securely strapped myself in. Another bemused cadet soon joined me, and before long we set off on an aerial tour of Hull with a cabin full of bewildered youngsters.
It took three separate sorties to take a coach load full of cadets on their first experience of flying in a Wessex. Not many forget their first flight in a chopper, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Afterwards, we were shown around the hangar and flight offices.
During the following months, numerous cadets from our squadron were given exclusive access to this unit, with cadets and staff flying most weekends. In the end, we became the envy of many an ATC squadron, until it was decided to share these flights with other Air Cadet units across the region. Although not the only Civilian Instructor, he is the one I remember with most affection and respect. He never gave up on the underdog: the cadet who was never going to make it big. Sadly Mr Whitley died in 1991.
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Mr Whitley was also instrumental in encouraging me in establishing a project to recover the remains of an aircraft wreck which had been lost during the war. One evening, a cadet brought along a book on Bomber Command, and I was fascinated by a series of wartime photographs of a local crash site. The victim was a Handley Page Halifax BIII that was based at Driffield during the war. Flown by No.466 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force, Halifax LW172 had flown 96 missions, when on April 8th 1945, it was returning from a raid on Hamburg. Named G.U.T.S., the aircraft was on its 97th mission, when it crashed into a wooden area adjacent to Kirkburn Grange Farm, some three miles West of the aerodrome.
At the time, RAF Driffield was fog-bound and its returning aircraft were ordered to land at the nearby emergency airfield at Carnaby – located just outside Bridlington. For whatever reason, the pilot of LW172 decided to attempt a landing at Driffield and subsequently overshot the runway, and while attempting a go-round he hit high ground. As a result, the seven crew onboard were killed instantly.
We wrote to the Ministry of Defence asking for permission to recover what remained. We were successful and, with the blessing of the farm owner, one evening several cadets and Mr Whitley gathered to start a yard-by-yard search of the woods that bordered the Kirkburn Grange Farm. Although most of the airframe had been recovered along with the crew in the days that followed the crash, smaller items lost in the undergrowth remained hidden for nearly forty years. Shortly after work commenced on recovering what remained, we gained two more helpers in the shape of John Walker and Kris Dunham, two adults who took the lead and would ultimately become stalwarts in preserving Yorkshire’s aviation heritage.
Among the items collected were a wristwatch that had stopped at 1.12am (the time of the crash) and a cigarette case, both of which were returned to the next of kin. We also collected nearly a full set of fuel gauge faces – void of their bakelite cases and inner workings. Probably the best find, which we were able to keep, was a rescue whistle that belonged to one of the crew. This would have been clipped onto the battle dress lapel. Along with hundreds, if not thousands of other items, these were cleaned by hand. After we returned the personal effects and deposited the small quantity of recovered ammunition with the police, the remaining artefacts were placed with the newly formed Yorkshire Air Museum.
The time it took to recover the remains of LW172 has since long been forgotten – what hasn’t left me is the sacrifice. One month before the end of hostilities in Europe, seven men lost their lives. No doubt they knew the war’s end was near. I’m not sure why, but we never erected a memorial to these young men. At the time, it was thought fitting to erect memorials to squadrons, and those who flew from certain airfields, but not to individual aircraft or crew members.
On April 24th 1982, our squadron offered up a dozen or so sacrificial lambs to a coast guard exercise. One Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves being precariously lowered down a rope from the high cliffs at Flamborough Head and onto the slippery rocks below. Along with several straw dummies (lifeless casualties), we gathered in a cave; victims of a hypothetical shipwreck. Once we were safely positioned in our watery grave, the plan was to notify the emergency services, who would come to our rescue. The premise was that we wouldn’t even get our feet wet. When lowered down, I ended up being deposited feet-first in a rock pool; two wet feet being only the start. The tide was coming in, and doubts started to creep into my mind. We were cold and wet and “why did I volunteer?” Frightening though this was, there was no cause for worry: someone had spilled the beans, and the emergencies services (including the RNLI) were already on their way, even before the exercise had even started.
As soon as we had settled in our new home, we were led to safety and another free ride in the back of a Wessex helicopter (this time XR501). That was day one of the exercise. Day two consisted of spending the morning in bed. After 25 years, I am finally able to admit that I chickened out. I can’t remember the excuse I gave, but it was believed by no one. What is still a mystery is where were the Sea Scouts or Sea Cadets? Perhaps they were the victims of an earlier exercise.
Model-making was my forte, and some might argue my only redeeming feature. I’m not admitting to be the best model-maker, that accolade went to Smith, whose creations were (and I am told still are) a work of art. But at the end of the day, I did impress some. On one occasion, we came second in the regional model competition with a diorama of a camouflaged Harrier hideaway; the combined work of three cadets. The metre square base featured a wooded area, where three 1/72nd scale Harrier GR3 aircraft were positioned in various stages of flight readiness. Model vehicles and plastic soldiers added the final touches. Our diorama came second. Our prize? We were each given a Matchbox HP Halifax model kit.
Airshows were another treat. My first was RIAT ’79 held at Greenham Common – which was later to house cruise missiles. We travelled down the day before, spending the night in a wooden hut, which was home to a nearby ATC Squadron. We slept on the wooden floor and the following morning travelled to the airshow. These were the days of the cold war, before defence cuts and base closures that are today as common as equipment shortages.
There was the familiar: an international parade of Hercules C130s and the cavernous C5 Galaxy. Although historic airframes were thin on the ground (and in the air), the trade stands were an eye-opener, selling everything from fast food to oodles of aeronautical bric-a-brac. Another aircraft on display was RAF Phantom XV424, resplendent in colourful markings celebrating the 60th anniversary of the first transatlantic flight in 1919 by Alcock and Whitten-Brown. The Phantom aircraft survives today at the RAF Museum Hendon.
Another excursion was the 1979 RAF Finningley air display. The RAF showed off its new Chinook helicopter and I believe Concorde also landed? By all accounts, a good time was had by all and was memorable, as much for the inability for one cadet to make it back to the coach on time. After waiting half an hour, the cadet turned up and was quickly chastised by his fellow cadets. Afterwards, I made a point of not being late again.
Out of all the airshows attended, probably the most enjoyable was the 1982 International Air Fair, held at Humberside Airport. Instead of travelling by road, a number of us cadets flew by helicopter from Leconfield. We arrived in style and after an excellent, well-balanced display, we returned to the Wessex and home. On the return journey, we were diverted to scour the River Humber. Someone had spotted what he or she believed to be a distress flare, and although we didn’t spot anything, we did add a few minutes to our flight time, dutifully entered in our 3822s.
The aircraft was Wessex XR588 and the flight time was one hour and fifteen minutes. Add another flight, and my total on Wessex helicopters was just over three hours.
Despite my misgivings and own failings as detailed herein, my time with the ATC was a magical mix of Aeronautica (in all its forms) and a series of events and quirky incidents that made growing up in Thatcher’s Britain so memorable, if not bearable. Be it listening to Blondie for the first time on a return trip to Bridlington, or overloading Michael Whitley’s (David’s son) mini pickup with a salvaged aero engine, a tyre-bursting lump of scrap brought up by fishing nets off Bridlington, on a day-to-day basis, life in the ATC was sweet, as long as you didn’t offend anyone by your presence.
Twenty-five years later, my only regrets are not having taken up gliding, and that I was not promoted to corporal. Although my 15 minutes in a Venture (ZA656) powered glider were ever so brief, it was the only time I ever really enjoyed flying. The place was RAF Linton on Ouse, and the date was July 18th 1982. My other disappointment was not being awarded two strips. This probably had something to do with my dad being a corporal himself. I’ve always felt that it matters not what you do in the armed forces, as long as you play your part. For me, the two strips (not three or a crown) symbolised respect and accomplishment, without having to battle through an endless series of objectives, goals and targets. Not everyone wants to start at the bottom and fight his or her way to the top. Sometimes it’s better to stop and just appreciate the view.
Back to reality, and in the early 1980s, our cadet NCOs even had their own room, complete with mural, an English Electric Lightning, painted on one wall by Cadet Sergeant Cawthorne. The wall painting is still there – just – signed and dated. To be honest, most of the cadet NCOs were caring. They knew that with promotion came responsibility, and rarely did it go to their heads. Only once did I ever feel intimidated or bullied, and this was the reason why I decided to leave in early 1983.
One of my final recollections (apart from being told that girls would shortly be allowed to join our exclusive club) was being given permission to clean up the aforementioned aero engine, and then being counter-ordered by a cadet NCO who, that evening, took pleasure in making my life hell. He was out of order, though no one remarked on the confrontation. The tide was turning, and I felt more and more isolated: a problem cadet, whose only offence was his presence. Being a space cadet was no longer fun. Like every other cadet, I was given the opportunity to excel and I failed, not only myself, but also those cadet NCOs and adults above me, and I was made aware of this. It’s one thing being different; it’s another thing when others feel you’ve let the side down.
One day, I turned up with my uniform neatly folded in a carrier bag, and that was that. There were a few bemused, smiling faces and guarded comments, mostly from the other cadets. I don’t think I even stayed for the final parade. No doubt my critics had something to celebrate behind my back, but I was history. My contribution to the squadron and its history was probably negligible: an administrative blot on the landscape, and a name…
…Hair Bear.
