Chapter 10

1959 - 62

RAF Feltwell

After a few days leave at our 'home' camps, we were given our postings.  Mine was at Feltwell in Norfolk, close to the borders of Cambridgeshire and Suffolk, along with the same group I had trained with in the States.  During our stay in America I had been sending extra money home and Kath had saved this and we bought our first television, nine years after seeing our first one.  This was in the period when many people were still not convinced that it would replace the radio and, rather pompously, refused to have one in the house.  Anyway it was a new toy for Kath and the children to play with whilst we awaited accommodation at Feltwell.

There were very few married quarters at Feltwell and Arthur Hewitt and I started looking for accommodation.  There were caravans close to Feltwell but we had hoped to get something a little better.  However, 'digs' were difficult to find and many were going as far afield as Ely, Bury St Edmunds and Newmarket where Arthur found a small flat.  Although we would soon be looking forward to winter, I hoped that with my seniority and family adding up the 'AMQ points' a married quarter would soon become available and opted for a caravan next door to the camp.  It proved a good move as a few quarters became available a couple of months later, many with just one bedroom and those waiting were asked how few bedrooms we would be willing accept.  Again, being a bit canny we opted for one with the single bedroom, which we were given.  We had two single beds in the one bedroom for the children and we bought a bed settee for the living room and slept downstairs.  At least we had a warm house on camp before the winter of '59.  By the spring of '60 the builders were beginning to plot out the new married quarters and because we had accepted a lower standard quarter we stood a good chance of getting one of the first finished.

There were fifteen missiles in each area; three at Feltwell with three more at each of four more sites within a thirty mile (50kms) radius as satellites of Feltwell.  As the senior MSAT (Also first operational MSAT in Britain) I was stationed at Feltwell but was often called out to the  satellite stations, usually at night or weekends!  Because of the odd hours and minor emergencies it was impossible to book any shows outside the camp although there were a few around the quarters for friends and neighbours. 

Instead of puppetry I became involved with the Station Amateur Dramatic group but backstage as Stage Manager and scene painter.  It was difficult for airmen to get the acting parts which always went to the officers and their wives.  We claimed that it was because they had not the talent to be 'lighting', 'sound', ,scene painters', etc. they only had the 'restaurant voices'.  

You may have the impression that we did not respect our officers, just because we would make such statements as, "You can teach apes to ride bikes but never to mend them".  We had the utmost respect for most of our officers, especially the fliers.  In the Army it is the Squaddy who is usually at the sharp end but in the RAF it is the 'flying' officers, mainly, who take the risks and so we always took the servicing of aircraft very seriously to give the fliers the very best possible chance (During the WW2 the RAF lost a greater proportion of 'Front Line' personnel than any of the services).  Many of the Technical Officers came up from the ranks so, from our point of view, had better training than most as did our doctors, dentists and educators.  It was just some of the admin. staff for whom the title Zobbit was reserved! 

But back to the Am-Dram. The Director, a zobbit, of course, even ruined my carefully sight-lined set by making me open it out, thus ensuring that half the audience could not see their side of the staging.

There was tension at Feltwell.  We were at the coldest, sharpest, honed edge of the Cold War.  Had the poker game failed we would have been the first in action and the first to be vapourised along with most of East Anglia.  A lot of nonsense was spoken about the two keys being required, one each controlled by USAF and RAF officer on the ends of the two Red Phones.  They merely operated switches in series that, in turn, closed a relay, which could be easily 'fixed', by me or a couple of other tradesmen.  No single person could fire a missile illegally but there were simply too many ways to stop it.  Much more likely was the scenario of our missiles not taking off in anger.  The almost unspoken philosophy among most of us was that if we knew enemy missiles were coming to blow us apart, why retaliate?  "Would you rather be red or dead?" was an Americanism and not necessarily a universal concept (As a puppeteer I would have done quite well under the communist regime!). Nevertheless, the press continued to write laughable articles and we kept up the pretence for the sake of the game. 

It was not all heavy.  There were lighter moments.

The compressed air trailer was changed regularly and the square sectioned girders of its construction was chosen by a blackbird as an ideal building site for a nest.  For a couple of months a 'nest holder' slid out the nest from the end of the girder while the blackbird "pink, pinked" at us.  Ten minutes or so later with the new trailer in-situ, the nest was slid into the congruent position in the fresh trailer.  This happened two years running.

Unlike rabbits, hares merely make scrapes and in the sandy scrub soil around the site the young leverets would be left singly and virtually invisible in the shallow holes.  The old oil from the various engines on site was simply dumped into such holes.  Following one such dumping, something black, slimy and wriggling was found so muggins took responsibility, cleaned it up with handfuls of grass and Swarfega, took it home later, gave it a bath to the delight of the mini Beresfords (but with some reservation from Kath).  It stayed quiet and trembling in a cardboard box until the middle of the night when it went berserk.  Luckily it was fairly well grown so we simply chased it around until it fled out of the opened front door.

Many hares did not go free, however.  The SPs (Service Police) patrolled the site day and night.  At night they would catch a hare in the moveable spotlight and shoot it with an air rifle.  Knowing that Kath and I could deal with them, we often found a hare the size of a small dog on the doorstep in the morning.  At times we felt like singing the folk song, "All we ever et were Raabit".  The SPs were also into deals for cheap booze from the American PX and had bought, tried and not liked a magnum of champagne.  The Saturday before Christmas we had sausages and champagne for dinner.

One little artistic job that fell to me was the painting of the squadron crest, on the missiles;  a thistle in the usual RAF design.  There was also a competition for a design for a new crest for RAF Feltwell which I won and was of a pheasant, even more prolific in that area than the hares but done in a mosaic style to commemorate the recent discovery of a Roman city not far from Feltwell.  The Roman discovery resulted from the survey for a new waterway of which there are miles in in Norfolk.  One favourite memory of this new canal was due to the fact that the bridge builders went ahead of the waterway diggers.  We found a large pond in the middle of a field crossed by a sturdy, modern bridge; no road, no canal, just a bridge and it was not even April the first!

A small package dropped through the letter box just before Christmas '59.  It was a small blue book, "The Puppetry Year Book,1955". price new, 5 shillings (25p).  It opened my eyes to a wider world of puppets.  So far I had seen the puppets of John Wright, Jack Whitehead, the Hogarths and the Stavordales; professionals who were obviously better puppet makers than me.  The Year book showed  me a wide range of contemporary puppets and puppeteers, including the superb work of Tozer and Wilkinson and although there were none of Whanslaw's, I could guess from his drawings that he probably made a good puppet.  In spite of ten years in the wilderness I seemed to be holding my own with many others in the book. I had recently added a half inch (12mm) flat and a half inch No.3 gouge to my limited tool kit and was now really beginning to produce fair puppets.

The Year Book also indicated that at least 75% of puppetry was with marionettes (not counting Punch and Judy) but did show a rod puppet and a 3D figured model theatre (I had a Pollocks "Tuppence Coloured" card theatre as a young lad) which appealed.  There was also a strong indication that most puppet activities happened in London or its environs with a few exceptions by those who lived in the wider world.  Was this true or was it simply that the Guild itself was very London based in spite of its name?  The most important influence was the fact that there was an association of puppeteers and an address of the secretary.  Anyway I wrote to Vera Pavey but after a short delay received an answer from Gordon Shapley who had taken over the post of secretary.  This was my first contact with the Guild but apart from receiving newsletters I did not meet any other Guild members until a few years later.

In 1961 we took one of our missiles to America to make sure they worked.  One of the 'moving' problems was the gyroscopes of the guidance system.   The  moving parts were floated in a liquid, 'flourolube', which made the parts 'weightless' and imparted a precise 'drag'.  When unheated flourolube is a sort of solid wax which would ruin the gyros.  In order to maintain this material in liquid form it was kept hot, I think, about 50 degrees C.  In order to ensure power to the heaters (as well as other equipment) there was plenty of back-up.  Normal power was from the National Grid, backed up with a small power station to run the whole site.  Each missile had its own power in the EET (Electrical Equipment Trailer) generators.  Then if that failed, the gyros. had their own own mini-generators with a two hour run time.  During this two hours we had plenty of time to hook up the mobile' Put-Put' generators. 

Moving a missile was fun.  'Put-put' power got it from its pad onto the trailer, then the trailer power took over.  Once loaded aboard, the aircraft's supply took over.  Feltwell to Mildenhall is not 80ft.(24 mtr) trailer country.  In the Norfolk area the roads and the drainage channels (not ditches, think Suez canal!) ran parallel so the bridge approaches include two very sharp right angles.  Apart from the steering wheel in the traction motor there was a seat and steerage on the rear end of the trailer to control the back wheels.  Then there were the narrow Suffolk lanes.

This time the RAF had its own Britannia aircraft route to McGuire USAF airbase just south of New York.  Then from there to California by USAF flights.  Unfortunately, Vandenberg AFB was all fogged in (Not, apparently, unusual in sunny California) so we had to land at Bakersfield airfield 50 miles away.  This was only a small 'drome; it was six in the morning and the snack bar was just opening.  Sixty hungry airmen; and we were all served with ham and eggs, et al, within half an hour.  The Americans do many things well but none so well as the preparation of excellent food.  We may sneer at McDonalds, 'Dunkin' Donuts' and 'short order' take-aways but few of us remember the food situation here in the '50s and 60s.

Let us return for a while to McGuire AFB near New York.  As it was in the New Jersey area - a sort of up market version of Harlem - it was a mainly black camp.  At the NCO club on our evening there we watched a sexy, slow, close body dance which I picked up quite quickly when dancing with the rather nice coloured wife of our USAF escort.  Asking what it was it I was told they called it 'Twistin', the latest thing from New York, meaning Harlem not the white area.  On arrival at Vandenberg I was 'demoing' the dance in the NCO club; it had not yet arrived in California!  I therefore claim to have carried the Twist across the States!  Unfortunately, by the time we arrived back home it had already got there but had been emasculated and metamorphosed into a speeded up, leg tangling version of what was originally a very erotic dance, somewhat in the style of a slow Lambada or Dirty Dancing.  I think I blame Chubby Checker; he just did not have the figure for it! 

Freddie and I went to see if Mel and Betty and the children still lived at 124 North D Street.. They did, so a BBQ was quickly arranged; a packet of burgers and a bag of buns from the corner shop whilst the 'barbie' was fired up and we were away.  Typical non-healthy American food.  Fatty burgers dripping onto hot charcoal soon had a pall of smoke rising into the Californian air.  We heard the fire engine and turned to follow the sound.  It seemed to be coming our way so went out front to see who was on fire just as the engine stopped and its crew prepared to do heroic things.  It was then that we realised that a helpful neighbour had thought Mel and Betty's bungalow was on fire.

I had already painted RAF crests on two of our three Feltwell missiles and we had to pick the unpainted one.  The powers that be wanted this one 'crested', so I spent some time painting yet another pair of sideways crests - I wasn't going up a sixty foot ladder to just to paint them upright! 

It was not all fun and games.  Our pre-launch training was thorough.  Tricky malfunctions were thrown at us, unusual situations were set up, much of our work was at night and twice we were kept going all day and well into the night.  The following day after one such session, I wrote;

We'd worked all day on the missile.  Our tempers were failing fast.

The very last screw had been tightened. The 'bumph' had been filled in at last.

"What, Ho!" was the shout as we all rushed out of the MCOT and double E T.

"Let's get a six pack and a bottle to crack and have us a hell of a spree."

So we all piled in Mal Hay's big Chevvy; four up front and six in the back.

There was Mal, Billy, Jim, Ted and Robby; Bunny, Ron, Fred, Don and Mac.

It didn't hurt much as Mal let in the clutch and shot down the road with a roar.

'Though the crowd in the back (who were sitting on Mac.) All ended arse up on the floor.

The nine arid miles we soon covered, in about ten minutes I think.

With ten up that isn't bad going but by God, we needed that drink.

"Come on", said Don, as he hurried us on into 'Martin's' - "This one will do".

We stood at the door and gazed 'round in awe at the wonderful drink laden view.

"Give us ten tots of Scotch", said Mal Hay, as up to the barman we came.

"Ten tots of Scotch is what I want and the boys here will all have the same".

It didn't seem long 'fore they sounded the gong that turned us once more to the road,

But ten in the car plus the contents of bar was a little too much of a load.

It rocked and it rolled and it rumbaed from Lompoc right back to the site

But Mal said, "Let's leave it 'til morning". so we 'kipped' for the rest of the night.

Now as I sit here with me head in me hands, I think if I do it again,

I won't let the drink pass through me; this time it goes straight down the drain!

The above is, essentially, a true record of the occasion.  Names have not been altered so as to indict the guilty.  Mal Hay was a civvy rep.  Sorry, I forgot to warn you about the 'A' word.  Those who know me see an inconsistency here.  They know that I do not drink.  I used to but never really liked it and only drank to be sociable; alright then, to get as drunk as the rest of them!  Fortunately it took very little to get me going; one pint would go to my head, two would get me slurring the words and after three I would either be dancing on the table or asleep under it.

Naturally, we opened a book on the success of our own 'bird' which, unlike the one we saw blow up, ours had not only to fire up and lift off but hit a spot in the Pacific within a mile or so after a thousand mile flight. 

We had two complete launch crews and I was the MSAT for the team who were to do the launch.  Private cameras were forbidden on the site but I had been seen on the site many times with a small bag with a few tools sticking out.  In this I intended to sneak a camera onto the pad for the actual launch.  On the final dress rehearsal we had to go through the full count down working from the countdown book, flicking switches, checking readings whilst being watched by a senior USAF inspector (Certain precautions had been taken to prevent an actual lift off, of course).  At the debriefing later we held our breaths.  The chief inspector summed up the result.

"Unfortunately a mistake was made."

We looked at each other aghast.  I looked around at our team.  Surely not.  We had done this so many times.

"The MSAT made one mistake."

I could have crawled down the nearest small hole - how? - I knew the system backwards; done it dozens of times.  There was one switch that prevented the actual completion of the countdown and thus the take-off.  Instead of following the book exactly I had gone into automatic and flicked the switch as I had done so many times before.  This was virtually the real thing and I should not have flicked the switch.  I apologised profusely and fully expected to be replaced by the standby MSAT but it was decided that I should continue.

Lesson learned.  Read and learn the script, do what the director says and do not ad-lib.!

Checking readings and setting up the system in the various trailers was only part of the job.  All this had to be done with me in the full LOX suit because once the missile was filled with fuel and liquid oxygen I had to crawl into the rear end with 'me little rubber torch' and check for leaks of either of the liquids (or worse, the explosive mixture of both).  Clear memories of pad two flashed before my eyes as I checked every valve, pipe and union.  After half an hour of checking, stopping, double checking, restarting and with me taking the odd illegal picture whilst hiding from the security cameras, the four of us pad workers hopped aboard the jeep that took us to the blockhouse and safety.  Launch control officers twiddled their keys and the final countdown started.

She flew; up, up and away.

Later we heard that we had hit the right bit of water in the Pacific within 1.3 miles of 'ground (water?) zero'.  No flash, just a splash. 

It was some party that night; and time to go home again.

Learnt: Don't be such a bloody cocksure know-it-all!

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