1957 "Brand New Was I!"

The Royal Air Force had made me into an aircraft mechanic remarkably quickly. Well, so it seems in retrospect. Perhaps twenty weeks earlier, I'd been a seventeen year-old civilian on a train headed, very nervously, for basic training. That had been January of 1957.

Now it was perhaps July of the same year and I was newly arrived at R.A.F. West Malling in Kent in south-east England. I was eighteen years and three months and probably of the opinion that I was the apex of human evolution ..... well, we all know what eighteen year old boy-men are like!

West Malling was a bit of a coincidence. My mother had been there as a WAAF driver in perhaps 1941; a mere 16 years earlier when World War two had been in full swing, and being fought from and over West Malling.

Doesn't time fly? 1941 is 67 years ago and my time at West Malling is 41 years into history!

My entry into the world of real flying machines wasn't as I'd have liked. I'd no sooner arrived and joined 85 Squadron than I was told the base was closing and the squadrons were to move elsewhere. They didn't even know (or probably care) whether I'd go with the squadron or stay and await my fate.

I didn't make a very good impression on the aviation world in those early days. I remember three minor disasters which did my reputation no good at all.

No. 1 involved a wheel /tyre change on a Meteor. Myself and another mechanic were reinstalling the mudgaurd when I suceeded in shearing the head off one of the attachment bolts! It was Friday afternnon and everybody was anxious to be away on their 48 hr passes. A corporal, I think it was, was given the job of drilling and extracting the remains of "my" bolt while I sat and watched and no doubt apologised too often. He was late away and wasn't much pleased.

(Surprisingly I found this picture of an identical 'mudguard' on a Meteor - www is amazing!)

No. 2 incident came soon enough. One job on the Meteor was draining the oil and water trap. This device extracted oil and water from the compressed air coming from the engine driven pump for the aircraft's pneumatic system. The idea was to unscrew the drain plug from the bottom and let the goop run out. I fitted a box spanner over the plug and began unscrewing the plug. Sadly the whole trap was turning, but it didn't notice and kept 'unscrewing'. Soon enough the trap came away, complete with two twisted, broken pipes protruding from the top. Mortified, I slunk into chiefy's office and tried to explain. No doubt many young erks like me had uttered the workds: "It come away in me 'and Chief." My Air Force carreer wasn't going well!

No. 3 wasn't my fault but no doubt my reputation made the Flight Sergeant assume it was "me again." This time I appeared to have lost an aeroplane. Lost a whole Meteor night-fighter!! It all went something like this:

It was morning and the pre-flight checks were being done by the mechanics. I'd been allocated an aircraft, they had numbers - lets call mine 567. I picked up my tool bag and set off for the flight line of perhaps a dozen aircraft. Reaching the end of the line I realised mine wasn't there. I walked back down the parked aircraft and took a look in the hangar, no 567 anywhere it seemed - perhaps I'd misheard the number? Back to the flight office to announce my failure. No doubt the reception was brief and to the point. I was to pre-flight 567 and I was to go and find it.

Another walk up and down the flight line and still no 567 - my aeroplane was missing! Back to the flight office to assure the Flight Sergeant that the aircraft in question was nowhere to be found.

Such was his disbelief that he escorted me back for another look. We toured the aircraft and looked in the hangar and (thankfully) found no Meteor numbered 567. We even walked down to ASF (Aircraft Servicing Flight) just to make sure it hadn't been moved there for maintenance or repair - it hadn't.

I think Chiefy was beginning to realise as I had, that one of his aeroplanes was missing. Even so, I think he in some way blamed me.

I played no further part in the saga. The engineering officer apparently pedalled off around the airfield's perimeter track and found poor 567. It had been towed away during the night by neighbouring 25 Squadron and hidden behind the blast walls at the far side of the airfield.

(Blast walls? Concrete walls built in pairs at agles to each other to limit damage to aircraft in the event of air attack - the Cold War was on and it was a nervous world then too)

Although blameless in this third career mishap I think I was under a cloud for the rest of my short time with 85 Squadron. ............................. such is life.

1965 Martin ... Whence cometh he?


Well, biologically we know the answer to that. So mayhap, why cometh he?

The five year gap betwixt him and his brother Mitchell might suggest he was an accident but the facts are different. Given that we (certainly I) were/was such poor parent(s) makes his appearance doubly improbable.

I don't recall the details but seemingly, Glennys was visiting her doctor and in some womanly codition as women are inclined to be. Depressed etc., etc., etc. (after all, she was married to me).

Out of the blue this wise member of the medical profession opined that, "The best thing that you can do Mrs. Batten (as she then was), is to have another baby."

So we did and she did and that's it/him: Martin!

No regrets in retrospect but whether or not young Martin was the "cure for all her ills" is open to question.

1966 I leave the Royal Air Force

Many blog entries ago, there's a heading: "1957 I Join the Royal Air Force."

So, here are the reasons I left.

I signed on initially for five years but later, wanting to progress, I applied for a Fitter's Course.
Seemingly this required that I sign on for a further 4 years. Suddenly, I wasn't due out until January 27th 1966.

Demob is the slang abbreviation of demobilisation. For reasons now forgotten the RAF let you out, or "demobbed" you, a month early.

Number two son Martin had arrived on November 21st 1965 and a month later I was due for the above mentioned demob. A new baby and looming unemployment must have been a little unnerving but doubtless neither was a complete surprise.

The prospect of getting out of the Air Force must have been very appealing. It hadn't been a particularly happy nine years after all. I'd been posted to six different bases in that time. Of those, four had been on the point of closing or moving when I joined them; one had been the 2½ years posting to Singapore and the sixth and last had been where my time ran out. I think there was very little feeling of "belonging" in the RAF for me. Including training, I spent time on eleven bases in nine years, not to mention a number of 'detachments' from two of those bases.

But, with a five year old and a new-born, the prospect of being out of work, leaving the world we knew, must have had our little family in something of a turmoil.

As it turned out I wasn't to get a choice. At that time the Air Force was going through a period of contraction. Perhaps the cold war had warmed or cooled and world tensions had eased, or maybe the government thought it was short of cash ....... anyway, "they" weren't letting anyone "sign-on". When your time was up: you were out.

An engine fitter who was due out the same time as me had his problems too. Newly married and a baby on the way he pretty well begged to stay in and was turned down. Bowing to the inevitable I went into the interview with my commanding officer and meekly quit.

As the old WW1 saying had it: "by Christmas, it was all over."

I was out. Twenty-five years old and out into the cold world of "civvy street", a new chapter for our little group had begun.