When I was first posted to RAF North Creake I felt like ‘a fish out of water’. It was difficult to adapt to accommodation consisting of a ‘bed space’ in a Nissan hut shared by NCOs of many trades and having my meals in the Sergeants’ Mess. My job was Sergeant in charge of Station Signals Section, only remotely connected with Radio Countermeasures, but I found the new radio commitments and challenges quite absorbing.
I spent a lot of time at the Section to gain as much knowledge of what was completely new equipment to me and gained the confidence of most of the lads, so much so that when a new operational channel was required in the Control Tower, I decided, in order to gain experience, to do the job myself with back-up from a couple of tradesmen from the Section. Existing equipment could not be re-channelled, so a complete installation was necessary with cables to be run from Equipment Room to Control Desk and to roof for aerial. All was going well with only the coax to run from roof to Equipment Room to be completed. I was used to this type of work, so wearing my forage cap and khaki dust coat over my uniform, cleated the cable down the side of the building working from a ladder with its foot on the pathway. The job finished, I was lowering the ladder and trying to manoeuvre it clear of the path when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an Officer in full flying kit approaching. Thinking he was interested in what we were doing and had just come down from the Control Tower to ask, I waited to give him the details, completely forgetting that I should observe the, unfamiliar to me, ritual of saluting a Senior Officer … later found to be the C.O. Group Captain Bray! Using the full authority of his rank, he really ‘went to town’ on me. I just stood there while, using the full extent of his vocabulary, he slated me for not saluting and not standing to attention.
It all started again when he found I was a Senior N.C.O. wearing a dust coat with no distinguishing marks. By this time, all my assistants and others were enjoying the spectacle of an N.C.O. being ‘torn off several strips’ and I never lived the incident down. I had to report to the Senior Signals Officer for what turned out to be a much milder admonishment, ending in a few laughs, but I wished I was back on the ‘friendly’ Units I had known so well.
Soon after, I thought I was ‘for the high jump’ again!
I was driving the mobile D.F. (Direction Finding) van, an ungainly vehicle with its lattice aerial mast in the lowered position, but useful as transport for the Signals Officer to visit other RAF Stations in the area and for me to visit the D.F. Hut outside the Camp area, which is where I was going on this occasion. To get there, I had to go on a little-used road out of Camp and through a barrier controlled by a guard in a sentry box. Usually, the guard saw me coming and had the barrier raised before I reached it, so I did not have to reduce speed. On this day, the guard must have dozed off and did not hear me coming. Too late to stop the vehicle, I hit the barrier full square, smashing the wooden structure complete with supports. The guard was speechless, more worried about sleeping on duty than the damage to the barrier. I gave him my details and left him to report the incident, fearing the worst.
After a few worrying days and sleepless nights, during which I heard nothing, and the ‘grapevine’ was silent; I realised as there were no witnesses, the guard must have produced a story which did not involve either of us. Possible ‘an unidentified vehicle’ which failed to stop, hitting the barrier. However, I always took a different route for future visits to the D.F. Hut so never saw the guard again, but doing a reconnoitre one day by cycle, I saw that the barrier was just a temporary arrangement and it remained so for the rest of my stay at North Creake.
This incident involving the D.F. Hut leads me to my first and only involvement with the WAAF Wireless Operators. My simple request for more Wireless Operators to maintain a 24-hour watch at the D.F. Hut produced ten new WAAF Operators instead of the RAF Operators I had expected. I am sure the ‘Powers-that-Be’ had no idea what they were required for, and neither did the WAAF Officer i/c until the duties were explained to her and she was shown the D.F. Hut where they would be required to work. It consisted of one circular room with the equipment in the middle (due to its construction of many hollow plywood sections filled with shingle, it was called a ‘Bullet and Blast Proof Hut’). There was no privacy and the toilet a chemical closet in a small hut a few steps from the entrance door. Like me, the WAAF Officer was not very happy and insisted that there must always be more WAAF Operators than RAF on Watch at the same time. Transport must always be provided for WAAFs to and from the Hut for every change of duty at shortest intervals, constant with good watch-keeping procedure, and I must make regular inspections at frequent unannounced times over 24 hours!
At first, I found these visits very embarrassing to both me and the Operators, but soon it was obvious no matter at what time I left Camp on my cycle to pay a visit by whatever route, advance warning had been given; so naturally I found everything in order. However, from rumours around the Camp, I knew that was far from the truth! I felt that even under ‘Conditions of War’, RAF and WAAF should not be working together under such unethical and unsupervised conditions. I made my feelings known, but have no knowledge of any change, for soon after I left North Creake.
Looking back, I realise how opportune that Posting was, for I had never settled to life on an Operational Airfield, despite several good N.C.O. friends in the Main Stores, Armoury and Workshop. I shall never forget illicit early morning trips carrying an empty sandbag in which to put the pheasant and rabbits my marksman friend bagged ready for his weekend Leave. He prided himself that only one shot was needed, straight through the head! I picked the mushrooms which were our excuse for the early trip. With my experience of Radio Countermeasures, it was hard to accept the main Operational Workshops were out of bounds, but this did not prevent me from acting as assistant when my friends had to work overtime on a special job. As a practical man myself, my ideas always seemed welcome.
My Armourer friend with his .22 rifle was always interested in anything for the pot and this one time, he had heard that duck shooting on the marshes around Brancaster, not far by cycle from the Camp, was popular among the locals. So, one evening, we met a chap in a pub who was to take us out and introduce us to the sport. I was very apprehensive from the start because we were taken along narrow paths with seawater and spray either side; and when we came to one point when I thought we were surrounded by sea, the guide kept pressing on until we heard shots, bird cries and flapping wings. We kept close to our guide, getting quite wet from the spray, but breathed a sigh of relief when we made the shelter of the bar again. Once was enough. We never attempted it again.
My Store-Keeper and I used to frequent a pub about a mile from the Camp called ‘The Swan’? It was a cycle ride and popular with Servicemen and women shown by the number of cycles piled on top of each other along the walls of the pub. This particular evening, I put mine on the top and it was quite noticeable because it had a brass G8QM call-sign badge, made in my workshops, on the lamp bracket. I was a pre-war radio amateur and thought that one day I would meet up with another if I advertised the fact. When my friend and I came out of the pub, my cycle was nowhere to be seen. We tried to return to Camp on my friend’s cycle, but I slipped and badly cut my in-step on the pedal, which then needed attention from Sick Bay on the Camp.
I needed my cycle, so worked out a plan that, whoever had taken it would bring it back. We returned the following night and lay in wait. Sure enough, along came a village lad who carefully put the cycle back from where he had taken it, to be confronted by two angry RAF N.C.O.s. He desperately tried to justify his action by saying on the spur of the moment he needed to follow two WAAF girls on cycles who were off to a pub in the next village. We intended to accept the proffered drink, but a fight broke out, as often happened, and we parted company.
My story does not end there. By an amazing coincidence, we were destined to meet again twenty years later. After the war, I started working for the Home Office Directorate of Communications. I was based at a Wireless Station at Cheveley near Newmarket in Suffolk, where we were providing radio communication between cars and Police and Fire Headquarters throughout East Anglia. Norfolk County was one of the Police Forces and they were asked to provide Police cover for the grounds and local area of Holkam Hall for a special event at which Royalty were to be present. Another technician and I were assigned the job of providing good radio coverage, which needed an aerial as high as possible on top of the Hall. In order to gain access, the Manager allocated me as an employee who knew his way around the large Mansion to give help when necessary. I told him I was stationed at North Creake, RAF, during the war, and used to cycle around the area when off duty. He told me, before he was Called-Up, he worked for a farmer in South Creake and often saw RAF lads as one of the roads went through the Camp. Then, out of the blue, he said:
‘Were you the chap whose bike I took from outside the pub?’
I must admit I was not completely surprised for there was something about him which was strangely familiar, but although I tried to get him as an escort when the time came to remove the aerial and equipment, I never saw him again.
My friend Alf, the Sergeant in charge of the Equipment Section and myself used to take an occasional afternoon break and set off on our issue cycles to explore some of the places of interest within reasonable distance of North Creake. On a sunless day in the late Summer of 1944, we found ourselves in Binham, three miles away, where, on a previous trip we had noticed the interesting ruins of a Priory. We entered the ruins, picking our way over pieces of fallen masonry which had become overgrown with moss and weed. At the end of what seemed like a passage was an opening about three feet above ground level through which we could see a clear area. Climbing through, we were obstructed by debris and the base of a thick wall. Not wishing to give up for something seemed to be driving us on, we got over this obstacle and, when straightening up, we saw a woman in front of us about twenty-five feet away, bending over a piece of ground close to the wall. In her left hand, she held what appeared to be a basket and in her right hand, a sprig of some kind of plant. She was dressed in a black coat buttoned down the front, and on her head was a small black bonnet. We both felt guilty at intruding on this lady’s privacy and called out our apologies, with which she stood up, looked straight at us, and smiled. We walked towards her to explain our presence in the ruins and, as we did so, she turned and walked towards a piece of arch where we lost sight of her. When we went up to the arch she had disappeared. Until this point, our meeting seemed quite normal, although we thought it strange to find a woman dressed as she was in the ruins. Then the realisation struck us both. We felt completely drained of all energy and, after examining the area close to where she’d been standing which consisted of stony soil and weeds, we returned to Camp very subdued, sure she was flesh and blood even fifty years later. I can still see her in the ruins of the Priory before she left us. We had both seen the same thing. We did not share our experience with fellow N.C.O.s, nor did we visit Binham again. We thought we had experienced something often read about, sometimes ridiculed, and for which there seemed no logical explanation.
Earlier, I referred to the job I gave myself at the Control Tower which required a cable being cleated down the side of the building from an aerial on the roof. This was for a new radio frequency to enable the Wireless Operator on an aircraft to obtain ‘up to the minute’ information for the pilot. Very accurate frequency and timing was essential together with a pre-determined code. I provided a Wireless Operator and set up an operating position in Flying Control. The system was ‘one way only’, the Wireless Operator on the aircraft did not transmit any acknowledgement so Control did not know if the message had been received, but it was obviously worth the trial.
The main reason for including this is, in Laurie Brettingham’s book: ‘Even When the Sparrows are Walking’, on page 132 is a picture of the Briefing Room at North Creake where we had to go to get our information on frequency and times to transmit. Wireless Operators on a mission would take note as well. The coded message would be given nearer to the time by an Officer in the Control Tower. I remember the same Briefing Room, standing just inside the door in company with crews taking part in a mission, to be given our information, only nothing else was heard and we left immediately. Our services were only required on one other occasion, but it did give me the feeling we were actually taking part in a major operation with airborne countermeasures.
I have referred to my inability to arrive for an inspection visit to the Direction-Finding Hut, but without the occupants having been pre-warned, I assume from the only place to witness my departure which would be the Guard Room or Guard Post. This day, I arrived and was checking the Daily Log Book when an aircraft came up on the radio asking for a bearing, giving his location. Not getting a response, he called again. I could see the Operators were inexperienced, so I took over. But it soon became obvious that the aircraft was taking no notice of the first bearing and instead was flying around in a circle making it impossible to provide or need one. It was at this point I realised it was a put-up job. I was the target! On my way back, I saw an Anson aircraft, usually kept at one of the dispersal points, land after being airborne on certain tests?
I shall end my North Creake story by explaining the ‘final straw’ which I felt I had no means of dealing with, nor had anyone to turn to, in which ‘fate’ came to my rescue in the form of an overseas Posting.
The Direction-Finding Hut was in a farmer’s field, well away from the road and vehicle traffic. A farmer’s tractor working in close proximity could have been a problem. The Hut had one door and no windows, ventilation was basic, the toilet was a chemical closet-type located in a small wooden shed in the opposite direction to the access path and by the side of a large blackthorn bush. I can still see the used contraceptives (condoms) tied to the branches, hanging down. I was disgusted and embarrassed to think that this had been going on in an RAF compound under my responsibility. I could well imagine the ridicule and Barrack Room humour it would create if generally known. Fortunately, I left shortly afterwards – not even telling my good friends. As a raw N.C.O. new to Squadron life, I felt my time at North Creake had been well spent and I had achieved all that had been asked of me. I did, however, feel sorry for my replacement and the legacy I was leaving him!
Forty-five years later, in 1991, I received the Air Efficiency Award Medal in recognition of Wartime Service with the Civilian Wireless Reserve, Royal Air Force Voluntary Reserve and Royal Air Force.
NOTE: Vic Flowers passed away early in 2018. A further piece of his writing will be included in the Summer magazine in remembrance of him, telling the story of the Civilian Wireless Reserve, nicknamed ‘Early Birds’ of which he was a valued part. These final words belong to his true and faithful friend David Lang who visited him until the end, and who shared so many special memories:
Hi Janine,
Thanks for your email and yes, I think Vic would have liked to be included (in the magazine) and to that end, I am attaching a couple of his stories and photographs.
I have a small collection of all his stories about his life before and during the war. He was certainly in the forefront of the RAF’s need to get radios into planes and the use of them before Dunkirk. I think his saddest story was about his efforts to get back to the French coast at the beginning of the war and, in particular, his story about the sinking of the ‘Lancastria’. He almost got on that ship, then saw it being attacked, sinking with all that loss of life … and it could have been him.
Anyway, he is gone now, and the world has lost one of the real gentlemen of our Time.
Yours,
David Lang
In Memory - Vic J. Flowers
This article is from the Spring 2019 issue of Confound and Destroy
