May to June 1954
I anticipated that after Staff College I would almost certainly go to a staff appointment, but had hoped that it might be at a command or group headquarters. I dreaded the thought of three years commuting up to London to a boring job and far removed from any flying. However, having called at Gieves and bought my bowler hat, the accepted uniform for the Air Ministry, I reported to Whitehall and was introduced to the three other members of the ‘office’ of Air Staff Policy 3 situated down the corridor from the Planners, with whom we would work hand in glove. I was to cover the Far East Area of Interest, and the task of the ‘office’ was to prepare briefs for the Chief of Air Staff for his guidance at the Chiefs of Staff weekly meetings with the Air Minister.
I was thrown in at the deep end, and had barely settled into my chair when I was told that the Chiefs would be discussing the future of General MacArthur at their meeting the next day and the CAS would require a brief by 9 o’clock in the morning. Frantic scanning of the files and discussion with my colleague in Plans produced very sketchy material for a brief, particularly as it had to include a recommendation at the conclusion. By ten o’clock that evening I had managed to put together enough material to arrive at the conclusion that General MacArthur, by his deliberate involvement in the politics of the Philippines, had far exceeded his military brief and should therefore go. With some trepidation I sent the brief down to the CAS’s office and went home. The next day, the day of the Chiefs’ meeting went without incident, but that evening, on my way home, I grabbed an Evening News as I clambered onto my train, and braced in the corridor, as usual, I opened my paper and was shocked to see the headline in inch-high letters: ‘MacArthur Sacked!’ Good God, what have I done? I thought to myself.
There was very little interest in my job after that first excitement, and the days, months and years went by all too slowly. I quite enjoyed being in London for a time, and spent my lunch hours exploring and visiting the famous sites, museums and art galleries. Happily my American friends from Staff College were also in London, and we frequently lunched together at one of our clubs. Many other friends came up to London visiting the Air Ministry from time to time, and provided a welcome diversion from the daily boredom. The job became more frustrating, and if the truth be known I really did not have enough to keep me occupied. I must have got through fifty novels while sitting at my desk waiting for a briefing task, but the Far East was fairly quiet at this time. The famine of flying niggled me as much as anything, and when I hadn’t flown for six weeks I decided I must get out of the office and into the air again. I discovered that there were aircraft at RAF Hendon that staff officers were permitted to fly to keep in flying practice, so it was not long before I was at the controls of an Anson after a quick check by an instructor. However, I was lucky if I could get in more than two or three trips a month, and the road out to Hendon was a nightmare. Even when I got airborne it was a tedious business to get clear of the air routes and controlled airspace round the capital’s airports, before I was in clear air where I could carry out unrestricted flying practice. Before the end of the year the Air Ministry moved into part of the new Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries Building, and our new office on the fifth floor gave a fine view of the Embankment, which relieved the tedium a little.
Two things occurred at the beginning of 1952 that were of note. Firstly, I was promoted to substantive wing commander, and secondly, my family moved from our small rented house in Radlett to the directly opposite side of London, where we took a very pleasant house on a common south of Dorking. Here we had a few acres where we became keen gardeners and raised chickens and children. The journey to London was equally tiresome, but at least we were out in lovely countryside. On 5 February I took the Americans to Twickenham to see the rugby between England and the Springboks, and they were amazed that the players didn’t get killed without the armour customarily worn by American footballers. We returned from the match to hear that the first of the ‘V’ bombers, the Valiant, had crashed, apparently having broken up in mid-air. The aircraft subsequently had a very restricted service life compared with the other two, the Vulcan and the Victor, which played a significant part in the game of bluff of the Cold War.
In March, determined to improve the flying situation, my enquiries came up with the information that an Air Experience Squadron at Redhill were all too willing to have pilots help with flying Air Cadets in Tiger Moths to give them air experience. I could now easily get over from my home to Redhill on days off, and the airfield was situated in a more open area as regards controlled air space, so that my flying would be less restricted. However, although the Tiger Moth was fun to fly, there was a limited amount of flying practice that could be achieved, and it was not even fitted with radio. However, from time to time I continued to fly an Anson from Hendon when there was a useful task to be done, like collecting spares or taking staff officers on their periodic visits.
On the morning of 6 February the country woke up to the sad news that the King had died during the night. On the 16th we reported for work in our best uniforms and black armbands on our sleeves. From the window of our office in the Ministry of Ag. and Fish Building we watched the funeral cortège move slowly down Whitehall accompanied by the tolling of the great bell of the Abbey, one stroke for every year of the King’s life. Later the muffled roar of the salute fired by the guns of a troop of the King’s Own Fusiliers echoed up from Hyde Park, resounding from the walls of the tall buildings around as though issuing from every street. As the sound died away an uncanny silence followed, pregnant with the deep sorrow of the London people grieving for the king who was one of the most beloved sovereigns of modern times, remaining, as he did, among them to share the perils and horror of the German air bombardment.
In the middle of May I flew an Anson from Hendon to Aldergrove in Ireland, and returned as the beginning of a thunderstorm broke over London. I had an unpleasant drive back to Dorking, and the storm increased in intensity during the night. The next morning there were widespread floods all over the home counties, and in our garden the little stream that came down from Leith Hill was a roaring torrent and had swept away my recently built dam, but luckily the water had not come into the house.
On 16 July I left my office at lunchtime and took the train to Southampton and thence by ferry to Cowes. After a night and breakfast in the Gloster Hotel, Desmond and I joined the crew of Treve Holman’s 40-foot yacht and sailed out of Cowes as a competitor in the Ocean Race to Dinard, France. After passing the Channel Islands and the Casquettes during the night, we crossed the line at Dinard, not among the first three, but not disgraced. After a drink and meal ashore, Desmond and I had to get back to the Air Ministry before we were missed, and so caught the night ferry, Falaise to Southampton, and arrived back in London at 9. 30 a.m., having achieved my object of qualifying for membership of the Royal Ocean Racing Club.
At the end of the month I was pleased to hear that the Air Experience Flight at Redhill had re-equipped with Chipmunks, and I lost no time in getting a trip in the new aircraft, which I found much more versatile than the Tiger, and more useful for keeping in flying practice. In August I did two flights in the Anson – one to St Athan near Cardiff, and the other to Shepherd’s Grove to collect radio spares for Hendon.
In September my two colleagues and I visited the SBAC Show at Farnborough, and the next day went to a cocktail party with the Burmese Mission at Carlton Terrace, where we met Anthony Eden, who was trying to promote the sale of British aircraft and equipment to Burma. The Air Show at Farnborough that year was unfortunately marred by the crash of the de Havilland 110, which broke up in the air after a supersonic run and crashed on the airfield, killing John Derry, a friend of mine, and Tony Richards, his flight-test observer. The two Avon engines from the aircraft fell among the watching crowd, and several were killed and many injured. This accident raised fears in some quarters that supersonic flying might have some unknown dangers that had, so far, not been detected, as these were the early days of supersonic ‘bangs’ over Farnborough. Such fears were not substantiated, and the bogey was soon dispelled, although the design of high-speed aircraft was modified considerably to alleviate the onset of ‘compressibilty’at the speed of sound, mostly by sweeping the wings. This accident was caused by rapid flutter due to the lack of torsional friction in the wing as Derry pulled the aircraft round in a very high G turn at high indicated airspeed, one wing breaking off, followed by the tail.
On Battle of Britain Sunday that year, Eve and I went to the commemorative service at Westminster Abbey, and this marked the beginning of a few days’ leave. We set off by car to South Wales and booked in at the Rhosili Hotel on the Gower coast. We knew the village well, and had explored the surrounding sandy beaches and the splendid three-and-a-half-mile-long Rhosili Sands several times during previous holidays.