Learning to Glide at the historic Hendon aerodrome
(By Rob Taylor, 1958-1965)
Anyone with more than a passing interest in the history of aviation and the pivotal role of the RAF in its development will sooner or later pay a visit to the peerless Royal Air Force Museum situated in Hendon, North London. Here upwards of 100 complete aircraft ranging from Blériot’s monoplane to the latest Eurofighter Typhoon are exhibited in five great display halls dedicated to the important milestones in the first century of flight.
At the end of the Great War Grahame-White sold the Hendon aerodrome to the Air Ministry, and so began the RAF’s long association with the site. From 1920 to 1937 the RAF staged annual Air Pageants to showcase their role as the nation’s youngest military arm. Thus at the 1931 Hendon pageant before an audience of 250,000, a highlight was an immaculate aerobatic display by a pair of Gloster Gamecocks from 23 squadron, one of them piloted by the soon-to-be legendary Douglas Bader. At Hendon in 1936 the prototype Spitfire was first unveiled to the general public, and on the outbreak of WWII in 1939, fighter squadrons were for a while based there. In May 1940 Winston Churchill was flown in great secrecy from Hendon to Le Bourget to plead with French army commanders to hold out a little longer against Hitler’s onslaughts, but it was already a lost cause culminating in the evacuation of Dunkirk by the beginning of June. At the end of the war a Spitfire was allocated at Hendon for the personal use of the US civil air attaché in recognition of that nation’s incalculable wartime support for the UK. The latter, nervous of Hendon’s short runways, called upon the services of his good friend Lettice Curtis (veteran of the Air Transport Auxiliary and the first woman to fly a four-engined bomber), to ferry the Spitfire from Hendon to a larger airfield when he required to fly it. Lettice later went on to use this very same Spitfire in several post-war air races.
In later years as increasingly powerful aircraft requiring longer runways were developed, the triangular Hendon field which was now surrounded by housing on two sides and a mainline railway embankment on the third, became a less practical proposition for the RAF, and the final powered flight took off in 1957. Until the land was sold off for housing development ten years later the site was used as a stores and transit camp. The RAF museum was officially opened in 1972. Today the mile-long Grahame Park Way, which scythes across the former airfield from the end of Colindale Avenue, site of the original main entrance, marks the new boundary between museum and housing. Almost completely hidden in the warren of cul-de-sacs which form the modern Grahame Park Estate, a paltry few token reminders of its historic association with the RAF remain: Kenley Avenue; Tangmere Way; Trenchard Close.
However, there was one final glorious aerial activity which took place at Hendon between the years of 1957-67: air cadet gliding!
So it was that, at the end of the Summer term 1963, five RAF/CCF-uniformed Woodbridge schoolboys climbed the steps from Colindale tube station, walked the hundred yards or so down Colindale Avenue, presented themselves at the guardroom, and then entered the hallowed turf of RAF Hendon. They had been sent for a week’s residential gliding course to earn their ‘A’ & ‘B’ solo gliding badges. They were: Mark ‘Archie’ Andrews, Andy Bowie, Roger Harper, Tim Mahony, and myself.
The sun shone every day throughout that week, enabling maximum gliding time for the twelve cadets on the course. On the first morning, the chief flying instructor took us to the hanger which housed the gliders of 617 Volunteer Gliding School (today at this very location the theme of ‘Wings Over Water’ is displayed, in a corner of the ‘Historic Hangars’ - the core buildings from which the RAF museum was developed). Here, using chalk on a blackboard and easel, and with the bright July daylight streaming through the open hangar door, he refreshed our knowledge of the theory of flight, flying controls and instruments. He then introduced us to the two types of glider we would be using: both were two-seat wood and canvas open-cockpit types made by Slingsby from about 1950. They gleamed invitingly in their then-current ‘trainer’ colours of silver with dayglow orange nose, tail and wingtips.
The T21 Sedburgh, of which there were two, was ideal for air experience flights and initial training, as the side-by-side seating facilitated easy communication between instructor and pupil. A slight drawback for the pupil was that, sitting to the left of the centre line, turns and rolls felt asymmetrical, which took a bit of getting used to. In the T31 Kirby Cadet Tandem however, of which there were three, the pupil sat in the front cockpit with the instructor immediately behind. The centre-line seating restored the feeling of symmetry, the instructor’s voice could still be clearly heard, and when the time came for solo flying, the pupil would be familiar with the front seat piloting position.
With the afternoon came our first ‘experience’ flights to give us a feel of the controls and their effects. We soon learned that efficient turns required a coordination of ailerons and rudder (total mastery of which Wilbur Wright himself first demonstrated to an amazed European audience at Rheims in 1906 - until then all European aviators used rudder only, as if steering a boat, which produced a slow and inefficient, upright yawing turn: by contrast Wilbur‘s confident, banking turns in imitation of the birds was an éclat which showed the Europeans how far behind they were in aerial control). We also learned how to judge by feel a correct gliding attitude: slightly nose-down so that flying speed is maintained by the pull of gravity.
For all our flying we wore our normal RAF battledress uniform and beret - no goggles to protect our eyes as was the later practice. Thus we were able to experience a further sensation which aided our gliding efficiency: the feel of the wind in your face! This was normally minimal when the controls were correctly set, but should your rudder not be properly centralised, you would feel the air against your left or right cheek. Another early lesson was how to deal with a stall: stick forward to regain flying speed, check for unwanted sideslip, then apply opposite rudder to counteract any spin.
From the outset we were expected to carry out a simple but essential pre-flight drill as soon as we entered the cockpit: ‘CISTRS’ - Controls; Instruments; Spoilers; Trim; Release; Straps. This inculcated a healthy sense of responsibility for the airworthiness of the aircraft and for our own safety. All launches were by winch to a height of approximately 1,000ft. From here there was an average of about 3 minutes flying time to landing, so instruction had to be very fast and very efficient! We were taught how to plan a safe circuit by turning 90º left or right immediately after releasing the cable; turning again at about 800ft for the downwind leg to follow the perimeter of the airfield down to 300ft; a third turn on to the crosswind leg with the eye now on the landing zone; then a final turn at about 150ft to line the aircraft up and prepare to land. Constant checking of the altimeter and airspeed indicators soon became second nature.
As the week progressed we were shown how to deal with a cable-break during the launch: stick forward immediately to maintain flying speed whilst pulling the cable release, then tap the altimeter to get an accurate height reading - if below 150ft land straight ahead; between 150-300ft do an S-turn and land; above 300ft do a complete mini-circuit. The instructors tested us in each of these scenarios by pulling the release-toggle during a launch, to check on our correct reaction, before we were allowed to progress to our solo flights.
When we were not flying there was plenty to do on the ground to help out. Once a glider had landed it was important to clear it quickly from the landing zone and return it safely to the launch area. Two or three cadets would zero in on the lifeless machine, raise the wing on to which it had now dropped, bear down on the tail to raise the front skid from the ground, and propel it on its single wheel back to the start point. If the glider had stopped a fair way down the field, they would pile into a Land Rover fitted with towing strop and perform the same operation with mechanical assistance. The Land Rover was also used to retrieve the winch cable in readiness for each launch.
Another important task we learned was that of launch master. It was imperative that the winch operator did not reel in the cable until it was securely attached and the pilot ready for take-off. Once the pilot had completed his cockpit drill he gave a series of commands to the launch master, who usually also supported one wing until the glider was under way. The launch master then shouted these same commands to the signaller ensconced in his black-and-white chequer-board caravan nearby, who would translate them into Morse signal lights aimed towards the winch man at the far end of the field.
Thus a launch sequence would begin with a helper first attaching the cable to the glider’s towing hook, testing for a positive connection with two sharp tugs, then confirming the same to the pilot with the words ‘Cable secure!’, which the pilot would repeat in acknowledgement. As soon as the pilot was ready to go, he would enquire of the launch master: ‘All clear above and behind?’ From his vantage point at the wingtip, the latter would make the necessary visual check, and if safe, confirm to the pilot: ‘All clear above and behind!’ Then the pilot would call: ‘Take up slack!’ repeated by the launch master at the top of his voice to the signaller, whereupon the winch man would slowly draw in the cable until it was taut. At this the pilot would call: ‘All out!’ again repeated by launch master to signaller, and on this final instruction the winch man would now draw in the cable at top speed to catapult the glider skywards.
Once airborne the pilot would haul the stick right back. This produced, in effect, an almighty tussle between the four forces now acting on the glider, with the two negatives of Gravity and Drag being well and truly trounced by the combined positives of overwhelming Thrust (artificially imparted by the winch cable) and enormous Lift (generated by 50ft of wing), which caused the glider to climb at a very steep 30º - 40º angle. The resulting sensations were initially alarming, but once accustomed to, quite exhilarating! The cable would strain against the towing hook with a dull cracking sound every second or two; the glider would wallow to left and right like a disobedient tethered whale; and the over-stressed wings would creak under the enormous pressure of the air: all to the accompaniment of the wind whistling around any of the less-aerodynamic parts of the glider it encountered.
As the glider reached the peak of its climb, the pilot would gently ease the stick forward to dip the nose momentarily, and on the ground the winch operator would cease hauling in the cable, so that it would not be under tension as the pilot pulled the release toggle. With the cable gone, the pilot now checked his altimeter reading and assumed the correct gliding angle with the nose pointing just below the horizon. All the frenetic cacophony of the climb was now replaced with a wonderfully contrasting silence, with the merest hint of a soft whispering sound to confirm the supporting presence of the mysterious, invisible air.
There was one final skill we were taught before being allowed to ‘go solo’: the side-slip. Each glider was fitted with spoilers. These were like boards set to lie flush with the upper wing surfaces during normal flight, but which could be raised vertically to disrupt ‘lift’ if it was required to lose height rapidly, normally during a landing approach which was too high and therefore risked running out of landing space. Presumably because the spoiler mechanism was vulnerable to failure, we were taught to forego its use in favour of the ‘side-slip’ technique, which simply required an application of left or right rudder to make the glider ‘crab’ sideways without changing its direction of flight. This meant that, looking from the front, a wingspan of 50ft would effectively be cut by something like 10ft or more, causing an immediate loss of lift. This technique was normally used above 150ft on the final crosswind leg, as it was potentially dangerous if used too close to the ground!
Towards the end of the week, the time finally arrived when, one by one, our instructors deemed us sufficiently competent to undertake the three solo flights to qualify for the ‘A’ and ‘B’ gliding badges. I recall the mixture of nerves and anticipation as I completed the pre-launch procedure and awaited the abrupt acceleration of the winch cable. Suddenly the glider bumped and juddered along the grass for about 20 yards, and all at once I was airborne, solo, for the first time! Without the extra weight of the instructor the glider seemed to leap skywards, and it was soon time to release the cable. I turned left and kept a careful check on flying speed and altimeter, making all the turns at the recommended heights. Rather luckily, this brought me to an ideal position for the landing run. I lined up the glider at a point on the old LMS railway embankment on the far side of the airfield, and remembered to pull the stick back gently at about 10ft to avoid diving into the ground. Then the rumbling of the single landing wheel on the grass quickly succeeded by the sudden deceleration as the glider nosed forward on to its front skid and slithered to a halt. Once stopped, the air ceased to support the wings, and the glider lazily keeled over on to one wing tip, reverting in this final involuntary motion from soaring eagle to earthbound, inanimate object.
My second solo followed much the same pattern as my first, with another left-hand circuit following the line of the housing estate which marked the perimeter; but this time, possibly because I had launched to a greater initial height, I noticed on the final cross-wind leg that I needed to shed altitude in order not to overshoot the landing zone. Unhesitatingly I applied left rudder as I had been trained to do, instantly feeling the wind against the left side of my face and watching as the glider appeared to slide down its own left wing toward the ground: quite an exhilarating sensation when apparently so low! After about 5 seconds I centred the rudder once more, checked the altimeter and turned in at the correct height for a final approach and successful landing.
The time came for my final qualifying solo. I decided as this might be my last flight of the week, I would endeavour to savour every single second of those three short minutes. I had already proved to myself that I was competent to fly solo, and I consciously relaxed in order to heighten every sensation of that final flight. During the take-off I relished the steep angle of the climb as I watched the houses on the airfield perimeter rapidly shrink to Monopoly size. I found that my lighter touch on the controls appeared to encourage the glider to wallow less and to climb more. Easing the stick forward at the top of the climb the nose dipped momentarily, and as I pulled the cable release toggle I caught sight of the tiny winch machine, now almost directly below me. Resuming the gliding angle I listened to the soft whisper of the air which told me all was well. This time I chose a right hand circuit which brought me round by the hangars where now the RAF museum is housed, with a downwind leg towards the main airfield entrance, a route now echoed almost exactly by the modern Grahame Park Way. Across to my left, seemingly the whole of the London skyline was thrown into sharp relief by the crisp late afternoon sun. Ahead I could see the twin white towers of Wembley stadium. I tried to imagine the pioneer aviators and their successors who would have seen these same sights; the great Air Pageants and the thronging crowds below: and I made a conscious effort to capture that moment in my mind for ever. All too soon the flight was over, and for my last act of defiance I used the ailerons in the dying breeze to hold the glider upright for as long as possible. “Congratulations!” said my instructor as he shook my hand, “You are now a fully-qualified glider pilot.”
So if you should visit the RAF Museum at Hendon, and I hope you do, just pause before you enter or as you leave: take time to conjure in your mind the unique aviation history which took place over many years at this very location; then cast your eye skywards and hear the faint whisper as a Woodbridge School air cadet of the ‘60s glides silently over you.
Cold War Spy was pupil at Woodbridge School!
(or how Norman Stevens helped me forge a tiny link in history)
by Rob Taylor, 1958 - 1965.
The sight of Norman Stevens arriving at school in the late ‘50s was unforgettable. Sitting astride a battleship grey BSA Bantam motorcycle, back angled purposefully, he wore a tightly belted off-yellow trench coat buttoned to the neck, collar upturned in line with the point of his nose. Beneath a shepherd’s check flat cap, peak set to the rear (crash helmets were not yet compulsory), he stared fiercely through pilots’ side-lens goggles, jaw set grim. Travelling at all of two-and-a-half miles per hour, man and machine would daily scribe the same perfect arc from the open corner of the quad to a final resting place precisely one yard from the door to the corridors that led to the staffroom. Refusing to deviate either handlebars or face more than two degrees off centre, woe betide any schoolboy foolish enough to stray into his line of fire. As the machine slowed to a halt, lanky grey-trousered legs would materialise from behind the shin guards, beating frantically at the ground to maintain balance during this critical final phase. Here in front of our eyes was the veritable reincarnation of Lawrence of Arabia.
‘Stevo’, as he was affectionately known among the pupils, had three great passions. (In our time we called him 'Snevets' - Stevens backwards! - Ed) They were, in descending but closely contended order: cricket, history and the RAF; and his post at Woodbridge School enabled him to indulge all three. He coached the 1st XI cricket team, he taught history, and he was C.O. of the RAF section of the school’s Combined Cadet Force. His official title was ‘Head of the History Department’, but he was in fact that department’s only member. The consequence was that if you were a pupil during Stevo’s tenure, it was he and no other who taught you history.
But what a presence! He would stalk into the room, gown flailing in his airstream, tall and lean but with the merest hint of a stoop as if permanently on guard at the crease. His thinning, grey hair was almost sufficient to hide a bald patch, and possibly for this reason was always worn slightly long. Generous ears were his twin radar receptors, which when combined with a hawk-like vision, honed on the cricket pitch, meant that the slightest classroom disruption would be instantly detected. Then his whole head would swivel owl-like toward the offending pupil, a surprised frown would outline his widening eyes, nostrils flare indignantly, chin and lower lip push forward while the upper curled into a rigid M; the whole mesmerising effect accentuated by a vertical smoker’s crease carved into the hollow of each sandpaper-rough cheek. This was the infamous ‘Stevo Stare’ and it was a rarely used, but supremely effective weapon of last resort.
Unlike some of his contemporaries for whom the cane was still a normal method of discipline, Stevo never saw the need to lift a finger against anybody. He had a natural gravitas, but this was balanced with two great assets which enhanced his stature in the school. The first was that most underestimated teacher’s gift, a sense of humour; the second was a thorough knowledge of his subject. Not only did he seemingly know every inch of history, he had the amazing storyteller’s ability of bringing it vividly to life before your very eyes. When Caesar exclaimed: ’Alia iacta est!’, you could see the waters of the Rubicon rippling in the sunlight behind him; when Alfred burnt the cakes, you smelt charcoal; when Harold looked into the air at Hastings, you could feel the pain as the arrow entered his eye; when Charles I faced the executioner‘s axe wearing two silken shirts that he might not be seen to shiver in the cold Whitehall air, you admired his courage as you jumped clear of his spurting blood; and when the Iron Duke said ‘That was a damned close-run thing’, your sigh of relief was heartfelt as you surveyed the hundreds of dead and dying lying about you on the field of Waterloo.
Stevo’s very first history lesson resonates with me now, 50 years on, as with a thousand former pupils. “What ish hishtory?” he intoned, in his characteristic deep Churchillian voice. Not waiting for an answer, a smile crossed his face and his raised eyes glistened, anticipating the next five years of captive audience we represented. “Hishtory ish like a long long chain of many many linksh, and the latesht link is shtill in the proshesh of being forged today.” Thus enlightened, the chain with its unfinished final link was duly depicted on the front page of our history notebooks, accompanied by the vividly explanatory quotation.
My problem was, much as I enjoyed the subject, and in spite of many hours spent learning the homework, I never seemed able to produce the correct answers to the twenty questions Stevo selected for the Saturday morning history test, with the result that I continuously languished near to the bottom end of the class. Stevo found this hard to reconcile with my word-perfect renditions in the Speech Day drama performances, and it is a measure of his magnanimity that he alone among the staff would come backstage afterwards and personally congratulate me; but he didn’t seem to understand that I had a whole year to learn these. Consequently relations between Stevo and myself were always rather strained, and by no means mitigated by my complete failure to shine on the cricket field.
We now fast-forward to Easter 1962. At the age of 15, and after a long day of travel by train, I have excitedly arrived with the Woodbridge contingent for my first annual camp at an RAF base, St Mawgan in Cornwall. To the background din of a dozen Rolls-Royce Griffon engines being run up in preparation for imminent sorties, we are ordered to report to the canteen for a welcome meal; then we must return to our huts to stash our kit and tidy our bedspace. After this we are free to relax for an hour by writing letters or taking the air in the immediate vicinity. Then to bed in good time, for in the morning we shall be addressed by the station commander and taken to see the Shackleton maritime reconnaissance aircraft of one of the operational squadrons.
Having completed the first two chores, I decided to take a short walk to get my bearings, and as it was still light, why not bring along the precious Kodak 127 camera my parents had reluctantly allowed me to borrow, in case I got a chance to snap an aeroplane or two? Outside, I followed a service road up a gentle slope towards the mesmerising sound of the still-revving engines. At the top, the road turned right by a grassy bank which marked the edge of the operational area of the airfield. There, not 100 yards distant, stood a gleaming Shackleton, parked at its dispersal bay!
By comparison with its swept-wing jet-powered contemporaries, such as the Vulcan, Victor, Hunter, Javelin, and the supersonic Lightning then entering RAF service, the Shackleton (once described as ’10,000 rivets flying in close formation’) seemed a somewhat dated design. But it was capable of cruising for long hours over the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, keeping watch over the sea lanes and helping to locate and rescue many victims of accident or disaster. It also represented a link, by direct line of descent, with that most famous wartime bomber, the Avro Lancaster.
Emotionally assaulted by these sounds, sights and thoughts, I decided to capture the moment. I raised the camera to my eye, looking for the best vantage point from which to photograph this glorious machine. Having selected a position at the edge of the road, with the grassy bank in the foreground, I clicked the shutter, and wound on the film in preparation for another photo.
Just then I became aware of the whining note of a different type of engine behind me, and the squeal of urgently applied brakes. I turned to find an RAF Land Rover, still apparently rolling towards me, both front doors opened wide as two figures jumped out and hit the ground running. My first impression was of two gorillas in uniform. Both wore polished black boots with white gaiters, and a white cap whose shiny black peak descended almost vertically to their eye-line. Each rested his right hand on the button of a white holster attached to the white webbing belt at his waist. Study of the area around the ears immediately beneath their caps revealed that they wore their hair close-cropped. The only way to tell them apart was that one sported an extremely flattened broken nose, and the other a two-inch horizontal scar complete with stitch marks on one of his ruddy cheeks. It dawned on me that this was the RAF Police, and they looked, to use the vernacular, ‘hard’.
“What are you doing?” demanded Broken-nose harshly. I threw a nonchalant glance at the incriminating camera still clutched between my now-shaking hands, and it crossed my mind that it ought to be fairly obvious to the average observer. “I’m photographing the Shackleton,” I answered helpfully. “What is your name?” barked Scarface. “I am Cadet Taylor from Woodbridge School CCF.” “You are under arrest. Give me the camera and get in the vehicle.” I climbed into the back seat of the Land Rover, which then whined up to its break-neck cruising speed, returned down the hill and past the billets, and finally arrived at the station guardroom to the piercing shriek of its still protesting brakes.
I was marched into a room and told to sit down, and Scarface positioned himself at the door while Broken-nose went outside to use the telephone. Long minutes ticked slowly by as I sat and pondered my fate, clinging desperately to the concept of freedom represented by the limited view, now fast fading with the onset of dusk, offered through the tiny guardroom window.
Then, eventually, that familiar whining sound and the squeal of brakes. Doors slammed, and, walking past my window and just perceptible in the day’s final light, came - Stevo! I heard him enter the outer room, and then the low murmur of voices as he was briefed on the situation. By now a ghastly white and sweating profusely, my eyes fixed despairingly on the door. Soon enough, the door opened and in swept Stevo, although to my surprise he did not immediately return my gaze. The second gorilla accompanied him. I stood to attention and saluted my commanding officer, and as he returned my salute his eyes met mine for the first time. It was then I realised his look was not of accusation as I had expected, but of compassion, and this gave me heart to face the coming ordeal.
It is only now, many years later, that I understand the true genius of Stevo’s handling of a tricky situation. He had to appear to be giving me the nth degree to the satisfaction of the two gorillas, but without actually causing me to commit hari-kiri in the process.
He sat me down, then took a nearby chair, reversed it, placed it in front of me and sat astride it, leaning his elbows on its back and stroking his sandpaper chin. He looked deeply into my eyes. I once more saw Lawrence of Arabia. Beyond him I perceived the gorillas exchanging smirks. The only thing now missing was a spotlight pointed at me. He began the inquisition:
“Cajet Chaylor, are you now or have you ever been, a member of the Communisht Party?”
In that split second, I thought of my father, who had fought against Hitler in Africa and in Italy, narrowly cheating death on more than one occasion, and whose present job in a small electronics factory in Woodbridge involved the manufacture and quality control of a small but vital piece of equipment, the IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) aerial, carried by every single RAF aircraft to protect it against ‘friendly fire‘.
“No sir!” I replied indignantly.
“How many photographsh have you chaken?”
“One, sir.”
He turned to the gorillas. “May I shee the camera?” Broken-nose clicked his heels and proffered the offending instrument. It was immediately obvious that I had indeed spoken the truth, and that any photograph produced by this camera would scarcely be capable of furnishing information likely to benefit an enemy.
Stevo now dismounted from his chair, and focussed his attention on Broken-nose and Scarface. Saying not a word, he looked first directly and deliberately at the one, and then the other. He was giving them the Stevo Stare! With satisfaction I watched them flinch with embarrassment.
He turned once more to me. “I am confishcating your camera for the duration of the camp. Subject to good conduct it will be rechurned to you at the end of the week. Now get back to your billet and I’ll shee you tomorrow.”
I hastily returned to my hut and slept the sleep of the just. The remainder of the camp was uneventful, but enjoyable. And at the end of the week, true to his word, Stevo returned my precious camera with the single photograph of the Shackleton.
“And, Chaylor,” he added.
“Yes, sir?”
“Well done for holding up under incherrogation.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A MEMORY OF THE O.T.C. – IN HISTORIC, NOT PRE-HISTORIC TIMES
by The Rt Hon Sir Edward du Cann KBE
I became a boarder in the Junior House at Woodbridge School in 1933, the year that Hitler came to power as a result of a General Election in Germany. I was there and in School House for 8 years until I went to Oxford University in 1941. I volunteered to join the Navy and was called up in 1943.
At mid-morning break time all the boys, about 120 of us – Woodbridge was a smaller school then – formed up in fours like an army section. We drilled and marched for 15 minutes. It was good corporate exercise. Not that there wasn’t plenty of that on the playing fields. Compulsory games twice a week was the norm. The half-term holiday was just a half-day’s compulsory games – not the several days vacation that seems to be the current practice.
Most of the boarders and a lot of the day boys joined the O.T.C. We drilled once or twice a week. We wore British Army uniforms of the type current in the 1914-18 War – breeches, boots, puttees and a jacket with brass buttons which we polished assiduously with a tin of Brasso until our reflection became obvious (none of the contemporary, rather sloppy, battle dress).
We learned how to fire a rifle. We began firing .22 calibre bullets on our own range which was just outside Marriott House and one of the old school buildings. Thank heavens we never managed to hit anyone in the Eton Fives courts abutting the school hall. No one had heard of health and safety in those days.
Then we graduated to firing .303 bullets from an army issue Lee Enfield rifle on an open air army range. For those of us who took our turn marking the arrival of shots, this was good training for learning what it feels like to be under fire.
We took examinations in military business. Certificate A was the qualification. One wore a red star on one’s sleeve with some pride. We went on manoeuvres and we went to camp, sleeping in old fashioned bell tents which (I well remember) let the rain in. I recall in particular one camp at Barnsley shortly after the beginning of the War. We had our first encounter with women soldiers, the A.T.S. Alas, we were a little too young to take advantage. It was embarrassing to be mistaken on occasion for real soldiers. We learned that the northern girls all drank port and lemon. For us schoolboys half a glass of mild beer was enough to start us having ideas beyond our station.
We were digging trenches as some protection against potential air raids in 1938, the year before War broke out.
The officer in charge of the O.T.C. was Captain Curtois. He had a fair sized moustache and looked like a Frenchman. He did his best to make us learn French. He was very quick to rouse to anger. It was his habit to swing his open palm really hard on a boy’s cheek and knock him off balance. This done, his equanimity was quickly restored. I’m sorry to admit that there were times we deliberately provoked him, hoping to enjoy an explosion. For all his eccentricities he was an excellent teacher. Everything I learned at his hands I was able to turn to good use as a young Sub-Lieutenant in the R.N.V.R in Motor Torpedo Boat operations off the cost of France and Belgium after D-Day.
One other ex-World War I officer also was a master at the school, Captain G B Riddell. He was the mathematics master with the neatest handwriting I ever saw. He was besides a brilliant teacher. He had won a Military Cross in the War. I only saw him in uniform twice. All of us admired the deep purple and white ribbon of his M.C. None of us dared ask how he had won it.
The highest rank in the O.T.C. was Sergeant. I am happy to say I became a Sergeant just before I left the school. We Sergeants were allowed to carry swagger sticks – as senior N.C.0s in the British Army still do. They were not only a sign of rank but since corporal punishment was the norm they had a second use.
Early in the War the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry were stationed near Woodbridge. They brought, I remember, a Bren Gun carrier, a tracked vehicle to the school. We had fun driving it and ploughing up the ground through our lack of skills – but not the first XI cricket square.
The school was proud of its O.T.C. We marched through the town on one occasion. We had a band with drums and bugles. I blew a bugle, though not very expertly. I used to have a photograph of one of these parades. Looking at it years later I was struck by the smartness of the contingent. I wish I still had it.
Every year the O.T.C. paraded in front of the school War Memorial. I cannot re-visit the scene and read the names of my contemporaries who fell in an honourable defence of freedom in Europe and the East without some emotion.
I suppose Woodbridge School’s O.T.C. was typical of its kind. A small group preparing for the inevitable replicated in hundreds of similar schools up and down the country. When I joined the Navy I found that the earlier training I had had at school gave me a great advantage. The habit of promptly obeying an order and the ability to command a group of men are characteristics which have stood me in good stead, not only in war time, but throughout my life.
THE ARMY CADET FORCE DURING THE WAR
Russell Ling Remembers
The CCF was then called the Junior Training Corps, it had previously been known as the Officers Training Corps as the Public Schools provided the officers for the First World War in 1917. Captain G.B.Riddell and Captain Bill Curtois were in charge of the corps and gave instruction on drilling and ways of attacking and defending positions.
When I first joined the JTC battledress was not available to all the members and we were issued with WW1 breeches, puttees, tunics, belt and peaked cap. The Quartermasters Stores were situated in a room on the right hand side of the entrance hall to the School Hall. In this room all the uniforms were kept including the carbines that were used for drilling plus four .22 rifles, these were for target practice on the rifle range situated on the right hand side of the pathway leading from Marryott House up to the School Hall. The rifle range has now been filled in and landscaped, all the cadets carried out target practice once a term during the war years.
The old uniforms had brass buttons on the tunic, which had to be cleaned with ‘duraglit’ an impregnated type of cotton wool this was kept in a sealed tin. The belts were required to be blancoed with a khaki coloured liquid. Boots were of course expected to be clean and polished. The School Band was issued with battledress and their belts and puttees were blancoed white and when there was an important parade through the town these items had special attention. Bugles were polished until they shone and the ropes on the drums were whitened, the band was always very smartly turned out on these occasions.
Every summer term the JTC went on manoeuvres, the army provided transport to a site that had been previously selected, here the group was divided into two sections and one took up defensive position and the other had to capture it. The senior members of the corps decided on the way it should be attacked and defended. Captain Riddell and Captain Curtois acted as umpires. In order to give some reality to the proceedings we were issued with a five sectioned cracker which was tied to the end of the rifle and fired by means of a piece of string. The more senior members were given thunderflashes that exploded with a very loud noise; these replicated hand grenades and were thrown at the opposing side. On one occasion when one was thrown it was picked up and rather unsportingly thrown back much to the consternation of the owner who had his battledress badly singed. Fortunately he didn’t suffer apart from a ringing in his head due to the loud bang.
I don’t suppose this would be allowed now due to health and safety regulations but it did give a more realistic feel to the operation and I do not believe anyone was seriously hurt.
OW REMINISCENCES OF THE CCF
Richard Ambrose 1956 - 1961
No doubt you will be (have been) inundated with reminiscences by many OWs regarding their CCF days. I put this down to ‘old men’s nostalgia’. At the time it probably was fun and certainly, with the passage of 50 years or so, one tends to forget the less pleasurable aspects of cold and wet uniforms.
A few random thoughts for you:
The Band
Leaving the Scouts at 13 (a bit sissyish) and joining the CCF. Wanted to go into the RAF section but wanted even more to be in the Band so had to join the army lot. Got accepted as a bugler and eventually rose to the dizzying heights of back rank with Allen Jones as solo bugler. Can still remember most of the bugle tunes even though I doubt I could get a note out of one now.
Being one of three buglers standing by the War Memorial on Remembrance Day Parade waiting for ages to play Last Post and Reveille - and finding it very difficult with frozen lips and mouthpiece.
The complete Band doing a marching display on Ipswich Town football ground prior to the visit and inspection by HM the Queen (nearest I shall ever get to HM) and being cheered enthusiastically by a full house - heady stuff for a 16/17 year old.
Signals Course
Was sent on a signals course for a week in January to Crowborough Camp, Sussex. The snow was feet deep and it was bitterly cold. The hut we were in had one of those old round cast iron stoves and for four days we couldn’t get it to light. When we eventually did get it going there was no way we were going to let it go out and the stove was glowing red hot as far as half way up the metal chimney. Night-time was purgatory. We all slept in as many clothes as we could, including great coats, and still were frozen.
Annual Camp
The last annual camp I remember was at Shoebury Barracks, Southend-on-Sea (just down the road from where I now live). Here we were exposed to tear gas and a most unpleasant experience it was too. The regular soldiers had to practise gas drill so were doubled 100 yards (to get them breathing heavily), then they donned gas masks and were sent into a gas chamber to prove the masks really did work. When they came out and the gas had dispersed a bit, we were sent in WITHOUT masks just to get a taste and feel for tear gas - wouldn’t be allowed these days!
While at Shoebury Barracks, the Band put on an evening display of beating the Retreat. The barracks had a lovely square (still there) that made a super surface for marching on. When it was all over we were congratulated by the then Commandant but it was pointed out to us that we played the wrong final tune - nobody had told us the correct one to play and CSM Morgan was not amused.
One day, I was moving through the barracks at lunch time and stopped to watch two squaddies in full uniform and weighted packs being doubled for an hour on the square. The resident RSM barked at me and told me if I didn’t move on sharpish I could join them. Another valuable lesson learned - never watch discipline being administered.
Major Buisseret was CO while I was at Woodbridge and he was ably supported by Capt. Gooden and a chemistry master we called ‘Pinky’ (can’t remember his proper name) (The name was Pinky Bannister, the PE Master - Ed) but we were mightily impressed that he was a genuine paratrooper.
I hope these thoughts are of some use. I remember being inordinately proud of my shining bugle and white webbing - such is the naivety of youth.
CCF MEMORIES
David Ward 1968 - 1978
Coming from a Royal Air Force family, I initially felt inclined to continue the family tradition and I joined the RAF section of the CCF. One had to sign on for a minimum of three years; I don’t really know why since I don’t recall that much commitment on the organisation’s part was entailed. I found the aeronautical theory quite interesting, but the Grasshopper was nearly always out of action for one reason or another, and we seemed to drill endlessly. The prospect of Saturday morning activities soon palled. The Army boys had more fun: exercises in Rendlesham Forest and running round the Valley with guns. They had better uniforms too – green jerseys and cotton trousers instead of our itchy blue woollen battledress.
Waking the Dead
However, annual camp usually proved rather more diverting. I remember a ‘camp’ at RAF Catterick (subsequently an Army garrison) in Yorkshire, where one of the exercises was to undertake the Lyke Wake Walk. This is a forty mile hike across the North York Moors, from Osmotherley to Ravenscar on the coast, which is supposed to be completed in under twenty-four hours. At the time we were told that the Walk had originated with a particularly enthusiastic group of 19th century mourners who had carried the coffin of their dead friend along this route, whilst partying the whole way! Wikipedia suggests this is entirely apocryphal and that the Walk was first proposed by a local farmer in 1955, who took the name from a local dialect verse – but I prefer the former story!
We set off at 1800 hours and walked until midnight, when we camped, had a meal and got some kip. Some of our Catterick hosts were acting as a support team, so we only had to carry our ‘compo rations’ and waterproofs. At 0400 we emerged sleepy-eyed from our tents and set off again, ‘bog hopping’ from tussock to tussock through the dark. We didn’t have proper boots, only RAF shoes, and Nick Crisp temporarily lost one of his – sucked off by the bog – when one leap didn’t quite reach the intended destination! Watching the skies redden into a glorious sunrise, as we meandered our muddy way across the moor, is an experience I’ll never forget.
As time wore on, the terrain became firmer and the day got hotter. By the time we passed the ‘golf ball’ radomes (since replaced) of the Fylingdales Early Warning Station in mid-afternoon, lunch was a distant memory and all that was left from my 24-hour ration rack was some coffee granules and sugar. Being up against the clock, we didn’t have time to stop for a brew so I tried eating a mixture of the two – not a recipe I can recommend, I’m afraid!
Each walking party of about eight or ten cadets was led by a reservist officer, ours being a teacher from one of the other schools attending camp at Catterick. By the 36-mile point, he – like the rest of us – was exhausted and declared that he couldn’t continue and that we would therefore have to abandon our attempt. We all looked at one another and suddenly developed a collective case of deafness! Although hardly in the best military traditions of teamwork, we decided that having come this far we were jolly well going to finish the walk and if our leader couldn’t make it, then too bad! With his imprecations ringing in our ears we strode off for the final few miles. We completed the walk with a full fifteen minutes to spare.
Deutsche Girls
As I neared the end of my three-year term in the cadets I discovered that the annual camp that summer would be at RAF Brüggen in Germany. My family had recently returned to the UK from Brüggen, where my stepfather had been OC Operations, and this was an opportunity to return and visit friends. A British Forces Germany posting was heaven for teenage ‘service brats’ at that time, with a weak Deutschmark, ready access to alcohol, and married quarters with large cellars which were great for parties – I couldn’t wait to get back!
I must have been thoroughly unpopular with the reservist officers leading the camp. Having lived at Brüggen for two and a half years, albeit only during school holidays, I knew far more about the base than they did – and I probably let them know it. Each cadet was meant to be allowed two late passes during the course of the camp, but a friend’s father got them to give me extra passes so that I could go out most evenings.
One such excursion found me with friends at a disco in the camp’s Youth Club, where I spent the evening chatting up a couple of girls I’d known only vaguely when I lived at Brüggen. A bottle of vodka from the NAAFI made the soft drinks available at the Youth Club rather more interesting – and at some point my recollection of events becomes rather hazy! However, I evidently got on like a house on fire with one of the girls, because when I returned to the barrack-room where we were quartered, my fellow cadets took great delight in pointing out the places where this vampish female had left her mark. I had to wear my collar buttoned up for a couple of days, even when out of uniform!
An Inspector Calls
Each year the CCF had to have an inspection by a regular serving officer. Imagine my horror when I discovered that the officer appointed to inspect us that year was one Group Captain T D Ward! To this day my dad swears that he had nothing to do with this assignment, and I suppose this is plausible since at the time he was commanding a training station and would probably have been a natural choice for such duties.
Of course, once ‘Norm’ Stevens found out that the Inspecting Officer was not only the father of one of his cadets but an OW as well, then preparations went into overdrive. A special Guard of Honour, including your correspondent, was duly selected and a frenzy of drilling, polishing and blanco-ing initiated. Come the day, buckles and cap badges gleamed, white gaiters and belts were pristine, and one could see one’s face in one’s toecaps! I stood stiffly to attention but squirmed inside with teenage embarrassment as my father swept down the ranks of our parade outside School House.
Neither he nor I remember much about events after that except that lunch in the Dining Hall (now the Tuckwell Room) was involved, where he was entertained by Norm and others at the ‘top table’. I think (although I’m not sure) that amongst these others was Cadet Warrant Officer Stuart Black – the most senior cadet in the school at the time. I later came across Stuart as a serving Group Captain when he was in MOD as DDOR(Air)CCIS or some such other impenetrable acronym. His younger brother Ian was also a cadet and he too went on to join the RAF, becoming an acclaimed pilot and aerial photographer.
About Turn!
After three years of tucking my lengthening hair behind my ears every Saturday morning I decided that it was time for a change. I therefore ‘put in my papers’ and left the establishment of the CCF for the more subversive attractions of the Progressive Music Society. Saturday mornings holed up in the Music Room (then a side room to the Hall), playing guitar and listening to the likes of Hawkwind, Genesis and Man seemed infinitely preferable to marching up and down the school drive again!
It’s somewhat ironic then that I’ve since had twenty-five years in the defence industry and a large proportion of my time is spent with military customers and users. Funny how things turn out!
JON BARBER REMEMBERS THE EARLY 1960s.
Apart from the usual spit and polish we were shown how to appreciate the old .303 Lee Enfield – both as a weapon with up two miles accuracy as well as fire it with live ammunition on the ‘BUTTS’ on field day - or if we were lucky attack some course ground, with woods, where the blank cartridge case on firing had sufficient blast – possibly up to a foot – to hunt rabbits or anything else that moved.
On a bad day with the wrong N C O if the ‘brasses’ were not cleaned properly for inspection or your boots polished to the correct sheen then you could have a nice run in front you . If really unlucky, and I did see this, you had the pleasure of running the length of the nearest probably the First team rugby pitch, with a Lee Enfield held high above your head as a suitable punishment, wonderful way to keep fit and healthy apart from cross county runs and playing rugby.
Parades were famous – including the normal Thursday ritual inspection when the NCOs had full reign on proceedings. These were even more fun when an ‘OFFICER’ was present. Being some six foot at twelve and a bit lanky I was always right marker so perhaps that made it easier as everyone had to line up on me.
The ‘Butts’ were enjoyed because not only was it a day out but you also had a few live rounds of ammunition to fire at a target. Not so popular, when it was your turn at the rear of the butts you moved the targets up and down after clearing all the debris.
For the Tercentenary Speech day 23 June 1962 apart from the address by Field Marshall Sir Claude Auchinleck and a vote of thanks by Edward du Cann there was a flypast by a cadet Blackman.
During my time with the wonderful ‘voluntary but compulsory’ CCF , I was eventually allowed to join the RAF section, and eventually saw the beast itself – kept in a special shed, to be opened only on corps day –Thursday afternoon. I cannot accurately recall how many times we opened the lair to explore the beast, let alone actually, how long it took, but many a Thursday afternoon was enjoyed by its sheer presence. Another benefit was rather than going to the Butts or on exercises with the other fellows, which perhaps I did enjoy, we had the pleasure of flying in a DC3 care of McDonald Douglas design, that certainly improved my appreciation of aviation and air travel. Although never a pilot two of my good friends are.
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