Michael Lowery RAF 1952-55

NATIONAL SERVICE
RAF
1952-55
by
Michael Lowery
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Perceptions
I joined the RAF in 1952 when I was 20 years old, two years older than the usual intake
age, because I had been deferred to complete my National Diploma in Art and Design. I was
given a preliminary test at the Blackheath recruiting office and allocated to the RAF. At my
medical the doctors passed me as A2. (A2/GI fitness equivalent to Air 2nd class/Ground 1st
class) I had had pneumonia at 7 years old and was still liable to bronchial attacks, but
accepted the idea that I should be called up. I half hoped that I would be rejected but received
a letter on New Year’s Day telling me to report to RAF Cardington in Bedfordshire.
RAF Cardington
The camp was dominated by the vast hangars, which had been built for Britain’s
airships the R 101 and R 102. After being allocated a billet as the huts were called, we were
kitted out and took our uniforms back to our billets. It was early January and freezing cold and
there was not enough coal to keep our billet warm, so I conspired with a couple of fellows and
pretending to be some sort of official orderly in charge, marched them to a neighbouring billet
where I ordered them in a loud voice to requisition buckets of coal from their bin. I assured
any questioning onlookers that the coal was needed elsewhere. While the men shovelled up
the coal, I stood discretely hidden in the shadows giving the orders and, as soon as our
buckets were full, smartly marched the men back to our billet. None of the new intakes in the
billet we raided questioned what we did. It looked so official.
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At Cardington I decided to volunteer for three years because I would get Regular
Airman’s pay of £4 – 10s per fortnight against National Serviceman’s pay of 28 shillings per
week. Regulars had the same conditions, but most importantly, Regulars could learn a trade. I
wanted to be a photographer but this involved signing on for FIVE years! …. No thank you!
So, instead, I chose Wireless Telegraphy W/T, the best of 3 options open to 3-year regulars. I
would learn how to communicate with Morse code.
West Kirby and Basic Training
I was sent to West Kirby, a remote camp, stuck out on a peninsula between the
Mersey and Dee rivers. As we approached our destination the countryside became brown and
desolate with the few trees bent to a right angle from the force of the fierce prevalent westerly
sea winds, looking like besoms with bent handles. We arrived under a grey sky at the
desolate station of West Kirby where we were met by lorries to take us the three and half
miles to the camp. Usually new arrivals were marched to the camp headed by an RAF band.
As we progressed across the barren brown terrain, the landscape became ever more remote
from civilization until we were greeted by the depressing and formidable view of the camp at
Larton. The easily recognisable silhouettes of the RAF water towers and lines of low huts
with cold pinpricks of electric light dotted along their side heralding our unwelcome arrival.
As soon as we arrived at West Kirby, life dramatically changed: from being treated
civilly even courteously at Cardington, we were shouted at as if we were cretins and forced to
do everything at the double.
We were shown our billets, 24 men to each, where we dumped our kit bags and were
then directed to the Airmen’s Mess. Our food was served in rectangular metal mess tins with
which we had been issued as permanent items of kit together with so called “eating irons”,
and a 3/8th inch thick earthenware mug with a blue rim, which held 2/3rd of a pint. The RAF
like the army decided that square bashing was the way to instil discipline into ignorant young
male civilians and we were shouted, screamed and sworn at morning, noon and night, a
process, which often reduced men to tears, but this was on the initial arrival. We soon got
used to it! There would be several squads of men being drilled, shouted and screamed at all at
the same time on the huge parade ground.
We had several drill instructors (Fig.1), one looking like a typical spiv of that era. He
had a thin pencil line moustache. Another instructor Cpl. Cormack was a Scot, a demoniacal
man who was barely five foot tall, but with the ability to strike abject terror into the toughest
recruit. One particular concern was that our billets should be meticulously kept (Fig. 2). One
day, after our normal D.I. (Drill Instruction), we learned how to slow march, which involved
keeping our arms vertically still down by our sides. When I thought the instructor was not
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watching, I thought to fool around and slow marched with my arms mockingly swinging back
and forth and suddenly I heard behind me the roar of the little instructor who had not been on
the parade ground, but appeared from nowhere as if by magic. In a flash I pretended I hadn’t
understood that my arms were supposed to be rigid by my side and continued swinging my
arms, realizing what horrendous penalties might arise from deliberately fooling around on the
parade ground! The little instructor seized my arms from behind and in a paroxysm of rage
shouted, “I’ll rip your arms off and beat you to death with the soggy end.” Of course, my
fellow recruits could hardly contain their laughter, and I knew I’d had a lucky escape.
Corporal Cormack struck terror into recruits but noticeably did not resort to swear words, so
commonly used by the other N.C.O.s.
One morning, in the bitter cold with snow on the ground, we were paraded stripped to
the waist for a medical. Shortly after I suffered a bronchial attack and was admitted to
hospital. I had two such episodes and half expected that I would be given a medical discharge
out of the RAF and given a disability pension. How naive I was at that stage! But no, I
recovered. I was what they called re-flighted, which meant that I continued my square bashing
from that point with a new squad until I completed a full eight weeks training.
On one occasion we were sent on a circular cross-country run and I noticed from
watching an earlier squad that the track on the way back was very close to the track we were
to start out on. I alerted my friend and when I saw a ditch in which we could hide, we tumbled
into it and the squad disappeared into the distance. We then made our way across a field to the
track the squad would return on and unnoticed, rejoined them to finish the run in good shape.
Travelling was very cheap and we were able to get passes and I went to Liverpool and
went round the Walker Art Gallery and during my 16 week stay at West Kirby was able to go
home once.
Compton Bassett No 3 Radio School to learn a trade
I had been assigned to Wireless Telegraphy W/T for an 18-week course to learn how
to transmit and interpret Morse code for ground-to-ground communication. Required
transmission and reception rates for ground crew were18 words a minute and 25 words per
minute for air crew. Our instructors were able to watch our progress by Morse Creed, a small
machine, which punched out holes representing ‘perfect’ Morse in a continuous half-inch
wide white tape for transmitting. We could follow our progress by Morse transcription, which
printed out horizontal and vertical lines for the MC dots and dashes.
---
|___|---|_|--|_|--|___|--|_|--|___|
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During the 18 weeks, we were tested weekly and at the end passed out with the
requisite 18 words a minute, by which time I could recognise simple words from the sound of
the high pitched signal. There was a Welsh bloke on the course who could send and receive at
an amazing speed, and yet he did not have the ability to tune into the proper bleep signal and
would try to read ’clicks’ over other broadcasts. He was as thick as two planks in every other
way, but had an amazing ability to transmit and interpret MC immediately recognising
numerous words.
By the time I arrived at Compton Bassett, the Air Ministry had decided that all
aircrew should be officers so I applied at once because I could read at the 25 w.p.m. aircrew
standard to train for aircrew, but was turned down because of my A2 medical grading
Life after West Kirby was quite agreeable at Compton Basset. There was a room for
listening to jazz or classical music. Huge speakers had been cemented into brickwork to limit
resonance and enhance their performance. I joined the jazz club run by Sgt. Tate with whom I
got on very well and when he left, he handed over the running of the club to me. We played
wax 78 records, and arranged talks for our colleagues in the unit and generally exchanged
ideas. Sgt. Tate gave me a lift home one day and on the way we were driving along the A4
towards Hungerford when there was a horrendously powerful engine noise and we both
instantly thought that something dreadful had happened to the car engine. Happily it turned
out to be the famous Grand National jockey, Gordon Richards (knighted in 1952) taking off in
his De Havilland Rapide from his private airstrip, which ran beside the A4 hidden by a hedge
near Hungerford.
When we arrived at Compton Bassett, the new recruits were paraded by a sergeant
who wanted to know what sports activities we were interested in. My friend and I decided we
weren’t at all enthusiastic about field sports and decided to claim an interest in angling. The
men took it in turns to call out their names and their preferences with the sergeant taking
notes: Evans - Rugby, Smith - football, Miller - tennis, Cameron – cricket, etc. Then it was
my turn, “Lowery - fishing,” I called.
“Fishing,” exploded the sergeant, “That’s not a sport. It’s a bloody pass time!!”
Pass time or not I and my friend Bill Garrard were permitted once a week to go
fishing at Bowood House, a nearby estate some way away in Wiltshire. It was too far to walk
and we aimed to hitch a lift and worked out the following strategy. We took it in turns each
week when one of us would wear his uniform and the other “civvies” and carry all the gear.
The uniformed one would walk slightly ahead of his pal and signal the passing cars for a lift.
When the car stopped, the uniformed one asked if he could have a lift for his friend too. On
one occasion a spanking brand new SS Jaguar stopped and the usual question followed,
“Could you please give my pal a lift?” The Jaguar driver got out of his car when he espied me
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and eyeing me up and down went and opened up his boot where he pointed to where I should
put the gear. As I was getting into the car, the man suddenly saw my dirty Wellingtons and
asked me to remove them.
When I had taken them off, the man put them in the boot and
covered everything with a tarpaulin. He then drove us to our destination concentrating on the
route and not speaking a word. I think his silence and terse remarks were due to his annoyance
at being conned into admitting a rather muddy and bedraggled character into his pristine,
clean, new and expensive limo.
Fellow servicemen
Among my fellow servicemen was the son of a wealthy Armstrong Sidley director
whose newly designed car, the AS “Saphire” of 1951, was a Festival of Britain award winner.
He used to park his splendid coffee and cream limousine beside the Wing Cmd’s. ‘32 vintage
Austin 7 “Biscuit Box” outside Squadron Office! He was a great character who always
appeared to be immaculately dressed. Even making his. RAF uniform look like a Saville Row
tailored suit. He always packed the car out with his billet colleagues who had a W/E (48 hr.)
pass and took them to drop off points for their homes.
Not all my fellows were as charismatic as he was. National Service Call Up was a thorough
catch all-net. Surprisingly a few men were barely able to write and constantly sought help to
write their letters home. On one bizarre occasion, a fellow received a letter from his girl friend
who had finished her letter on the back of the envelope with a message of endearment, using
the popular initials S.W.A.L.K. (sealed with a loving kiss). This for some reason annoyed the
recipient and in replying wrote,
‘In future we will conduct our correspondence inside
(underlined) the letter, not out. He then addressed his reply and sent it back to the girl. He
didn’t hear from her again.
Lectures
We were always attending lectures and there was one given by a Pilot Officer on
poison gases, which we never forgot. The lecturer was a clever bloke and very witty who
made a great impression on everyone and even on such a horrible subject as poison gases, we
all learnt and remembered about them through his personality, his gestures and his style of
delivery.
When at the end of our training Compton Basset the permanent postings were read out,
I was posted to Pembroke Dock overlooking Milford Haven, Wales. One unadventurous and
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geographically illiterate type, also posted there, emitted a gesture of delight thinking
Pembroke Dock was one of the Surrey Commercial docks 5 minutes from where he lived in
Rotherhithe. His elation was somewhat short lived when he was laughingly told that it was a
town 250 miles away at the end of the Welsh Peninsular
Pembroke Dock
We were billeted in Georgian styled barracks, part of an old Napoleonic Defence
complex, surrounded by a high, 30-foot, defensive wall. Though the accommodation was bare
it was comfortable. Each room had in the middle a large one-yard cube coke-burning stove.
We were allocated in turn to man patrol launches, an observation base located in a
requisitioned coastal cottage and to act as Wireless operator on Sunderland flying boats. We
had to apply to fly with the Sunders. We spent a week with one or other of the above and
during the 24 hours our watches were from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m., 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. and 6 a.m. to
2 p.m.. Our responsibilities were to listen to and transmit weather forecasts from the Air
Ministry from ground to air and ground to sea exercises. Two of us worked under the
supervision of an N.C.O.. Work was pretty unhurried and at night times there was very little
to do, so we read a lot and listened to music or just chatted to pass the time.
The launches were used for air sea rescue. Some of the boats were ex-motor-torpedo
boats from which the torpedo gear and gun turrets had been removed. They were beautifully
crafted with teak decks, 75 foot long. They were powered by three Rolls Royce Napier
engines with nine-inch diameter heavy copper exhaust pipes. When at full power the engines
were unbelievably noisy and lifted the prow 30 degrees out of the water, creating a deep well
in the sea at the launch’s stern. The launch was skippered by the Ship’s Master, a flight
lieutenant or Pilot Officer, with a navigator, two engineers and two W/T personnel. There was
a dinghy which held all the crew and which we used after anchoring offshore for landing on
the several islands we visited
The experience on the launches depended on the officer in charge. The older officer,
the Flight Lieutenant, was an enlightened man and we visited several islands with a picnic
atmosphere. We visited Skokholm, and Skomer and on one of excursions went to Lundy
Island. The junior officer, a P.O. was a pompous young man. He insisted that on the launch
we only used nautical terms, so we intentionally referred to the galley as the kitchen or the
heads, the toilets, and when we did, he would shout, “ Galley, galley,” or “Heads, heads.” And
when we said up the pointed end at the front, he’d shout, bows.
As W/T operators we were taken along for weather reports and for receiving
instructions. There was obviously not very much for us to do and I was never on duty when an
emergency rescue was called.
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The launches took on 300 or so gallons of high-octane petrol, which was thought to
be so inflammable, the launches were not allowed to moor back at Pembroke Dock, unless
their tanks were practically empty, for fear of fire. So if for any reason, a mission was aborted,
the petrol had to be emptied out into the sea. Thoughts on waste and pollution were not high
on the agenda. Another familiar precaution was that we always had, when on board, to carry
life jackets.
On my week on the Sunderland flying boats, again for receiving weather reports and
instructions. The pilot flew us over Chesil Beach for target practice. We flew at an altitude of
1300 feet or so. On the way to Chesil Beach the skipper invited me to sit besides the pilot so I
could get a better view. While I was sitting there, I realised that the co-pilot had fallen asleep
and wondered what on earth I should do. Should I wake him? For God’s sake, I thought, we
might crash, but the plane continued evenly on its way and eventually the skipper came
forward and explained that “George”, was an automatic pilot, which was flying the plane on a
previously set course.
The Sunderland flying boats were used for various missions including dropping sixfoot high, cylindrical yellow sonar buoys, as well as air sea rescue work. The aircraft were
among the oldest in use with the RAF and were mechanically very unreliable though they had
a good safety record. The mechanics often complained that things were going wrong. I once
saw oil streaming across the wing in little rivulets from a starboard engine during the whole
flight!
We had a lot of time on our hands, especially at night, when we were at the cottage on
surveillance and listening watch. We found that Radio Tass Russia broadcast their English
propaganda programmes with the greatest clarity in easy to read Morse code and was
therefore an excellent way of improving our reading at speed.
Detachment to RAF Mountbatten
I was fortunate to be sent on a three month posting to RAF Mountbatten near
Plymouth. It was a busy centre stuck on the end of a peninsular. We were based in a semisubterranean building from which we transmitted and received a lot of coded
communications. Q code was for International exchange and Z code for secretive military
defence messages. A number of officers had their own communications office where they
would work on coding and decoding messages. They would come back and forward picking
up our print outs or giving us material to transmit. I never learned what was in the messages.
Our lives were enhanced by WAAF (Womens' Auxiliary Air force) girls who shared the
watch with us. I remember one particularly large lass to whom we sent a message using the Q
code. Identify yourself. Are you a battleship?’
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Plymouth was a lively city with some excellent pubs. The N.A.A.F.I. was in a welldesigned new building in the City centre and there were some excellent pubs. “The
Melbourne” run by an Irish landlord was very popular. There was a lot of singing and during
the evening one of the staff, often a woman, went round with a microphone to the tables
inviting drinkers to sing at the first Karaoke!
At Pembroke Dock I was kitted out to go on a voluntary expedition to Greenland,
but as I was all ready to go, the administration discovered I was due to be posted overseas and
that was the end of Greenland.
Posted to Germany September 1953
My first posting was for a week at Bückeburg from where I was sent to RAF
Ahlhorn. Here I was allocated in a billet in the next bed to “Nobby” who was to become a
good friend. While there I learned to drive a three-ton Bedford lorry and what remains clearly
in my mind was the threatening voice of the Sergeant Instructor: “This is one of Her
Majesty’s vehicles and if you should happen to crash it, you will have to sign on in the RAF
for 50 years to pay for it.” I learned to drive in a very short time on a long drive to Oldenburg
just south of Bremen. I obtained a 1629 licence entitling me to drive military vehicles. At this
airfield 1953 were the NF 11 Gloucester Meteors, a night fighter development of the earliest
commissioned jet fighters. The Russians had the higher performance Migs flying up and down
the border between British and Russian zones less than 50 miles away.
Meteor NF11 and Vampires flew from Ahlhorn, but it was discovered that our
ground-to-ground W/T communications were interfering with ground-to-air communication
with the Meteors and Vampires so we were moved to Geilenkirchen.
While I was in Bützweilerhof (Cologne District), all W/T drivers had been ordered to
learn to drive. It was feared that the Russians would advance west of Berlin. In 1954 it was
leaked to the Press that Montgomery had been sent a message from Churchill in 1945 to
prepare to stop the Russian advance across Europe. As the Cold War was at crisis point at this
time, such information made public did nothing to allay the situation. As fears grew of
renewed hostilities, this time with the Red Army, everyone who could drive and those who
could not were ordered out one day for driving instruction and experience, so that the entire
signals unit could be mobile at a moment’s notice. Getting my experience, avoiding the
craters, on a disused German airfield that had been heavily bombed by the RAF, added to the
hazard for the learners in particular.
Airmen were allowed cameras but for security reasons were not allowed to use them
on camp. The Germans however had cameras and photographed the highly “secret” Meteors
taking off and landing at this time and no one stopped them or took any notice!
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When it was necessary to move a plane by road, the wings were taken off and the
fuselage was wrapped up in a shiny brown paper, which was taped into place to hide the plane
from view!
Every now and again we were involved in military exercises and on one of these, code
name “Grand Repulse” August 1954, we were all issued with blank cartridges for our Lee
Enfield .303 rifles. Some fellow found that the 30 amp fuses we used for our transmitters
would fit the 303 rifle barrels perfectly and we’d shoot them off at bottles and tins and lamp
bulbs. They were potentially lethal and close up could kill.
RAF Alhorn 1953
The RAF regiment were a separate unit and were responsible for giving us a course
on airport defence. The course went on for a week. We had a stupid corporal who insisted on
talking to us at the end of a runway where planes were taking off 100 feet overhead and we
couldn’t hear a word he said. The corporal got agitated when we looked up at the planes and
he thought we weren’t paying attention to him and punished those who were caught by
making them run round the airport with full kit and rifle.
We were given instructions in hand grenade throwing. The corporal pointed out in a
drawling North Country accent with emphasis on every syllable that the grenades were “sega-mentated to cause frag-a-mentation”.
This corporal didn’t like me at all and one day caught me reading a book hidden in
my battle dress and afterwards always called me, “fookin” librarian. We’ll have “fookin”
librarian have first throw to put a dummy grenade into an ammunition box. I, to my surprise
and everybody’s’ amusement got my lob into the box on first throw. My pals, knowing how
hopeless I was at ball games, roared with laughter.
He always picked on me and asked me demonstrate how to fire a Bren gun. I was lying
on the ground and did something wrong and the corporal came and kicked the gun out of
reach and told me he knew I wasn’t fooking paying attention.
I had my first 21-day leave and went on a free pass across Austria to the Italian
frontier and went to Trento north East of Milan. It was an interesting city and we explored the
castle and from there I took a train to Venice and met an Italian chap who got me a student
card issued by Ministro Della Pubblica Istruzione to give me free entry to any museum or art
Gallery. In Italy, “Nobby” the fellow I was with wasn’t interested in art and so we had this
arrangement that we would always be under the station clock in the next town en route at 8
o’clock each night until the other arrived. He went off on his own during the second day to
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Florence. We met as arranged by the station clock, but he had seen all he wanted and went off
to Rome and we eventually met again in Rome and spent four days there.
We were able to use the subsidised Communist restaurants. We selected vouchers for
what we wanted to eat, paid and the presented the vouchers at the servery. We then took what
we purchased and pushed in between the noisy Italian patrons to share a space standing at a
shelf running all round the wall of the establishment to eat our meal. It was very basic but
cheap and the food was good and plentiful. We went on to Naples and then to Capri.
Here we found accommodation in an ancient dwelling with an elderly Italian gent
who told us Mussolini had imprisoned him in the war. He was still able, despite arthritic
hands resulting from his imprisonment, to make beautiful carvings for cameos on conch shell.
He made one for my mother and later sent me one to England for my girlfriend who later
became my wife.
On the 3rd of December, we went midnight bathing with some students we had met, one
of whom was Norwegian, a most interesting fellow. He had done many unusual things,
including time as a cook on a whaling expedition. He invited me to stay in his flat in
Copenhagen.
“Nobby” Clarke had become a good friend. He was a scruffy colleague who drank
Russian stout out of the bottle before he got up in the morning. He turned out to be multiqualified with numerous “A” levels, 1st and 2nd class PMG qualifications and God knows what
else. He always amused us by speaking in a deliberately slightly simple way so as to appear a
bit dim in the presence of officers and then turning the tables with some seemingly innocent
one upmanship. He once watched his superior struggling to repair a transmitter, eventually
suggesting the fuse should be changed, which he knew to be the solution all along! On one
occasion Chess champs came to challenge players on the camp. “Nobby” did not volunteer for
the championship, but as some of the visiting contestants were billeted in our hut, he
challenged them to a “blind” game calling out the moves in the dark after lights out. And
won! He had chosen not to apply for a commission because he didn’t want the responsibility.
Geilenkirchen 1954
I was posted to join 537 Mobile Signals Unit forming up at Geilenkirchen near the
Dutch and Belgium frontiers where we hung around for six months while the RAF decided
what to do with us. The airfield was shared with the Belgium Air force that flew American
Sabre jets. I can remember the places I visited from there. I went with different friends to
Heerlen and Maastricht, which had a cheese market and fair with street organs. I went to
Amsterdam with Bill Garrard. I went into a sweet shop to ask the way to a youth hostel the
IYHA, which I had joined before leaving the U.K. The Dutch couple loaded me with sweets
and ordered a taxi at their expense to take me to the youth hostel. While there went on a
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narrow gauge tramway to Marken, which had all the citizens dressed in National costume and
all the houses were wooden painted in bright colours. The trams were early nineteenth century
trams with open verandas at the back and front. On another occasion we went to Cologne to
the Rosen Montag carnival, early evidence of Germany returning to pre-war traditions. There
were floats of all kinds, a lot of them appearing to be beer-sponsored. We all got very drunk.
Free samples of brandy were being given out and I was given a bottle. My friend and I helped
a mother and her young daughter to stand on a parked VW roof so we could all overlook the
passing carnival. At one stage the roof started to cave in and we all slid onto the bonnet. We
weren’t too worried about any damage we might be doing to the car. We got back to the camp
somehow and I woke up the following morning with the brandy bottle in one hand and an
RAF issue mug in the other. A friend of mine took a photograph, which my mother promptly
confiscated when she found it in my uniform pocket.
I met up with a RAF mate who was half Belgium and whose aunt lived in Liége. She
invited us to stay for the weekend. My friend and I were travelling on a two-car tram and a
girl sitting near us peeled an orange and threw the peel at her friend but missed her and it went
down a man’s neck. He took the orange peel out and threw it back and suddenly there was a
frenzy of throwing. It was spontaneous hilarious fun. When the tram stopped the conductor
came into our car and was met by a hail of orange peel and the like. He told everybody to
behave or he’d throw them all off. My friend and I thought how impossible it would have
been to behave so irresponsibly in Germany. The Germans don’t go in for spontaneous fun
and if anyone had misbehaved like this in they would have been reported.
In a clearing in the forest there was a disused quarry where there was a mineral wagon
on rails which seven or eight of us used to push up the hill and then we would all jump on and
hurtle down the hill (3. 6). It abruptly ground to a halt when the rail gave out, and it was wise
to have jumped off before it reached that point.
On one occasion I was put on guard duty with Belgian soldiers to protect the airfield.
The Belgians had rifles with five rounds of ammunition, whereas we were issued with
chestnut fence palings.
We shared our mess with Belgian airman and I was amazed by the way the Belgians
added bread and jam to their coffee filled mess tins. A language barrier prevented us from
mixing with them too much.
It was a heavily conifer forested area and one day the forest caught alight and all
personnel were called out to assist in beating out the fire. The Germans used bulldozers to
drop the conifers in an attempt to isolate the fire. Civilian fire engines from the town started
arriving in addition to the camp fire-fighting equipment.
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We met up with some of the Germans who worked for the British. The RAF in the
GSO (German Service Organisation) employed Paul Grosse. He had a BMW motorbike,
which he powered up and hoped everybody was watching. He said the Germans made the best
motorbikes. There was a German woman, Hannah, too who always had a sour face and
equally felt everything German was superior. She resented working for the RAF and yet was
pleased to have the job.
One night out when the chaps were coming back on foot singing raucously and
generally disturbing the peace past a lone house, the window flew open and a shotgun was
fired followed by a lot of German invective. Fortunately nobody was hurt, but everybody
scattered P.D.Q.! (Pretty Damn Quick).
Trip to Denmark
At the invitation of the Norwegian, Finn Aug Skarstein whom I met in Capri, I went
to Copenhagen. Where he lived in a very modern styled apartment in a very exclusive district,
Ørdrup. His father owned a large cable laying company in Scandinavia. He was planning
another whaling trip. He gave me a place to sleep and while he was busy I spent the day
exploring Copenhagen.
Butzweilerhof
Butzweilerhof was on the outskirts of Cologne and had once been a German airfield,
which was heavily bombed during the war and put out of action. We were under canvas on the
airfield while the permanent staff was in proper buildings. We could go into the camp at night
to the N.A.A.F.I. and the mess for lunch. We worked from mobile vans specially equipped for
W/T communications (Figs. 3, 4 & 5). There were about a hundred of us in 537 SU (signals
unit). I was here for the best part of the year where we practiced Morse code ground-toground. We had nothing really important to do.
Bonus leave to Crete
The temporary nature of our camp at Bützweilerhof plus the inadequate
accommodation for office equipment (and probably) poor administration meant there was
chaos most of the time, so I deemed it worth submitting for a bonus leave, so to speak. This
worked until the 11th hour when I was rumbled. However, as I pointed out to the Squadron
Officer, it was a “genuine” mistake on my behalf and the squadron office had sanctioned the
leave and I pleaded, with my tongue in cheek that I had made all sorts of travel and hotel
bookings – which fortunately I didn’t have to prove! I did however have a valid visa for
Yugoslavia I had purchased for the purpose.
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“In the circumstances then,” the Squadron Officer said, “I feel we have no
alternative than to let you go, but you might lose your de-mob leave.” And so saying, the
warrant was duly signed and with a smart salute I departed. My trip took me from Germany
through Austria to ~Slovenia, down the Dalmatian coast on ship from Rijeka to Dubrovnik
and then by various transports to Monte Negro, Macedonia and Greece, as far as Athens. It
included another sea journey to visit Crete where I was able to visit Sir Arthur Evans great
archaeological excavations at Knossos. I returned via Skopje to Belgrade and Serbia to Trieste
by train.
At the time we were waiting to go to a permanent site at a place called Borgentreich
much joked about as the “Promised Land”. I, however, was never to get there as my demob
was due. I recall hearing that 537 did eventually get there long after I was repatriated.
Paderborn
We were stationed and shared facilities with the army at Paderborn in barracks, which
during the war were occupied by a German Panzer division. In the N.A.A.F.I., which we
shared with the army, there was an army fellow who played the piano and he had a selfappointed army guardian who used to tell all and sundry to shut up if he felt they were making
too much noise.
Every now and again the guardian said to the pianist: “Play the ‘orse and
cart music. The pianist at first couldn’t think what piece of music he was asking him to play
and suddenly it dawned on him that he meant “Hora Staccato.” We all laughed like mad but
the guardian wasn’t amused.
Every now and again fights broke out. We used to meet in a gasthof and one night we
got talking to a big German and somebody bought him a drink. As he had more and more to
drink, the RAF lads started to take the Mickey. The German said he’d show them how to do
the goose step and began to demonstrate. We all started to make fun of him. He said he’d
seen a crack division of storm troopers marching down the Unter der Linden and one storm
trooper goose-stepped and stamped in a puddle and the puddle was splashed over the people
on either side, all of 15 metres. We all started laughing and imitating and inventing fanciful
goose step marching. It started a punch up and my mate and I climbed through a lavatory
window and escaped back to barracks. We were told later that the military police and the
Deutsch Polizei arrived and arrested a lot of blokes, civilian and military.
Sharing the army barracks, plus having to be transported to another small town, Bad
Lippspringer, 10 kms. away everyday, where our worksite was parked in a field, made
Paderborn only a temporary posting for the whole unit. Once again we were on the move.
This time to Bückeburg Airfield about 4 kms NW of Cologne and only about 20 minutes on
the tram from the City Centre.
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Leave entitlement
An important part of our lives was our leave time. We were entitled to 52 days leave
a year: two 21 day UK (free travel) leave and one 10 days continental, but if you went home
for this you would have to pay for your travel.
My particular friend Johnny Johnson and I took all our leave on the continent and
eventually other chaps used to come and ask our advice to where they could go. We collected
maps and information. We became an official travel agent and I made a wooden sign outside
our tent: Nomads Reisebureau (Travel Agency).
I ran out of money in Trieste while on the 21 days leave to which I wasn’t entitled
and so went into army headquarters to report my misfortune and seek advice. Almost at once
upon entering the splendid renaissance style edifice, a high-ranking army officer saw me and
told a sergeant to find out what I was doing there.
On being told I was in the RAF and had run out of money, he said in a blustering
pompous voice, “Get that man out of here,” asking me. “What do you think we are, a bloody
tourist agency?”
A sergeant took me outside and said; “We’re leaving Trieste in a convoy tomorrow
because Yugoslavia has come to an agreement with Italy over the division of Trieste. We’ll
give you a lift to Klagenfurt. You can kip in our barracks and I’ll find you something to eat.”
Next morning I set off in a lorry with the retiring convoy to Klagenfurt where the
same friendly and accommodating sergeant found me a bed for the night. After breakfast and
due thanks I set off again for Butzweilerhof by train from Klagenfurt.
My free return travel warrant started in Bregenz and to get there before the expiry
date I needed to take the first train from Klagenfurt and change at Villach for Schwazach St
Veit. Unfortunately I arrived as a train was just leaving. I called to a station attendant, “”St
Veit?” “Ja Ja” was the reply and I leapt aboard. I was soon to discover that Austria has two St.
Veits, Schwarzach St. V. and Grad St. V. the latter being over an hour away in the wrong
direction. This turned out to be my A.W.O.L. saviour, however because the return train to
Villach from Klagenfurt arrived late and so I was able to have my leave warrant endorsed to
that effect at the R.T.O. on the station
Because of lost time, I failed to exchange my military warrant for a German train
ticket at the Austro/German frontier town of Bregenz, and after 150 miles of argument with
the conductor was unceremoniously put off the train at Heidelburg, which was in the
American occupied zone of Germany. I went to the RTO, but the Americans weren’t at all
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helpful but two WRAC officers in mufti overheard my predicament and offered to lend me
the money, which I gratefully borrowed and returned to them later.
Weekend pass to Trier
On another occasion I got as far as Trier, which was used by French and German
trains, and I missed the last passenger train and approached the stationmaster who had
been on the Russian front. I explained my predicament and that I’d be late back from
leave. I said I’d have to say the train was late. “The German station master said you
could say that but make sure it’s clear it was a French train but not a German train that
was late.” The kindly man signed a note to that effect and put me with the guard on a
goods train and I made my way back to the W/T Wireless Telegraphy course. I also
learned about electronics, which I found interesting and useful. During my three years, I
came across a great mixture of human types giving me wide perception of every facet of
human emotion and behaviour in all sorts of circumstances.
There were fabulous opportunities for extensive travelling in Europe with occasions to
explore the main capitals and their amazing architecture and visit the art galleries that I knew
about from my arts degree. It was as near to being on an 18th century Grand Tour that a
virtually penniless aircraftsman could get.
From the moment of my first arrival at the depot I perceived immediately the
unintentional funny side of the lives we were to lead. During my three years, I was always
amazed how in so many ways the officers who ran the RAF were often pompous and
unimaginative and some singularly lacked any sense of humour. There was always a sense of
class: a distinction between “them” and “us’. This was marvellously illustrated when on my
arrival at the depot, we were identified for our backgrounds looking for potential officers:
First the boys who had done Higher certificate and those with 5 credits in their GSCE exams,
next were the apprentices and lastly and rather incongruously the officer asked, “Does anyone
play golf and were there any gentlemen who had been to the following schools such as Eton,
Harrow, Sherborne? And he called their names in a suitably sonorous manner.
Another sublime example of our class driven society was when disembarking from the
“Empire Pakistan”, the Hooke to Harwich troopship, the following directions were
announced over the loudspeakers: “Officers and their ladies will proceed to the gangway first,
followed by non-commissioned officers and their wives and lastly by Airmen and their
women!”
All three services were obsessed with ritualistic cleaning and the idea that the men
should have shiny boots was one of those strange obsessions that have led to many thousands
of wasted hours being frittered away by the boot wearers trying to obtain the requisite gleam
to satisfy their masters. What is particularly absurd about boot polishing is that in many
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countries, nobody wears shoes yet alone boots. Nobody suggests that their feet should be
polished or their toenails painted.
The leather of military boots when new is mottled all over. In order to get a really high
shine, polish is put thickly on the toecap and set alight. This stretched the leather to a smooth
finish. One new recruit put his boots on the stove and then forgot them. The tops of the boots
came away in his hands leaving the soles smouldering on top of the stove. The heat had burnt
through the thread that had secured the sole to the boot.
Another ritual obsession was the cleaning done in preparation for a visitation from
officers on high. The camp was smartened up and nothing was overlooked. The absurd
extreme I recall was the doing up the muddy path across the grass to the billet at West Kirby
for the A.O.C. inspection.
During the days prior to an official inspection, it had been noticed men had taken a
short cut across the grass near the main entrance to the camp and in doing so had worn away
the grass and created an unsightly track. Orders were given for the path to be painted over,
care being taken to match the remaining grass colour and obtain the right texture. Paint was
sprayed with a spray gun from a huge pressure cylinder on wheels.
One of the things that I discovered was that it did not follow because an officer spoke
with an educated voice that he was necessarily intelligent. And of course the opposite was
equally true. Particularly memorable was my friend “Nobby” Clark who had a fistful of
qualifications and who was deeply knowledgeable person and an expert in several fields.
Despite the limitations imposed by Service rules and regulations, there was a
paradoxical sense of freedom because “everything was found” for our everyday living freeing
us from the routine of providing our own clothing, food and accommodation.
Conclusion
After my three years of service, my RAF Certificate of Service on the Termination of
Service, records that my Civilian Occupation was Art Student that in the RAF, I was a
wireless operator. My conduct was ticked as exemplary, my ability as a tradesman was good,
as was the quality of my leadership. My Commanding Officer, SQN. LDR. J. W. Garner
Smith signed me off, writing that Lowery wishes to teach art when he leaves the Service. He
is intelligent and forthright and should do well in the teaching profession.
It is difficult to know how I may have helped my country, but I had had by courtesy of
the RAF a thoroughly interesting and enjoyable three years.
31st October 2005
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Glossary
S.U.
Signals Unit
W/T
Wireless Telegraphy
R/X
Receiver
T/X
Transmitter
S.R.O.
Station Routine Orders
Fig. 1. The N.C.O.s i/c January 1952
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Fig. 2. Our operational headquarters in a Bedford 15cwt. Lorry.
Fig. 3. Morse transmitting and receiving equipment crammed into our Bedford lorry.
Fig. 4. Author operating W/T equipment to listen to BBC Light Prgramme.
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Fig. 5. Our interpretation of what was deemed to be a genuine sport in S.R.O.’s “Sports
Afternoon”!
1st November 2008.
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Subsequent career
After demob in November ’55, Michael Lowery returned to Art College to take the
final degree course and qualified in July 1956 in painting and graphic art work. His first job
was in a L.C.C. school for children placed in care. He was in charge of an enormous studio
for art work and discovered his true vocation was in ceramics. He later worked for several
years in the art department of a London Comprehensive school and, as well as working in
ceramics, assisted with scenery painting for the annual Christmas pantomime and later
designed sets and costumes for the Drama Department.
He moved with his family from London to Sevenoaks and taught in a fine Public
School until he retired in 1996. He still teach classes there that are offered to local children
during the main school vacations. He has continued his voluntary involvement with designing
sets and scenes for the local theatre productions.
He spends his remaining free time travelling, cycling and generally becoming
engaged in all sorts of things which appeal to him
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