My name is John Williams and this website is about my National Service with the RAF from September 1958 until September 1960 inclusive.
It is written from the viewpoint of an ordinary person reluctantly drawn into something over which he had absolutely no control. I have therefore concentrated on what it actually felt like to be conscripted and how I reacted to the things that were thrust upon me. Although I rose in rank only to the dizzy heights of LAC (Leading Aircraftsman) I nevertheless consider that the things that happened to me, together with the results, may be of interest to others. Technical details are sparse because such data are rather cold impersonal facts and can always be ascertained elsewhere, although there are details which I wish I could remember. My focus throughout is principally on what happened to me and how these events affected my life, thoughts and attitudes.
As I look back at those two years from the age of 71, I am forced to admit that something which I desperately hated at the time was, in reality, a very good thing - apart from the four shillings a week pay, of course!
After being deferred until the age of 21 so that I could complete my 6 years electrical apprenticeship, the authorities swiftly caught up with me. So swiftly in fact, that I was compelled to attend for my medical in Gloucester on my 21st birthday (April 1958). I thought this was a bit of a liberty at the time, especially as a lot of my friends had already completed their National Service, and the general verdict was that it was a total waste of time. It seems that they had very little to do and they found it all rather boring. I was to find it the exact opposite.
I can honestly say that never, before or since, have I ever had to work so hard for so little pay. It was, without exception, the hardest two years work of my whole life.
Initially, I had to report to RAF Cardington to begin my National Service. Across the entrance was a large banner saying, "Welcome to RAF Cardington." As we were ushered through the gates, I looked up at the back of the banner, expecting to see some such words as, "Now try and get out again!" I laughed and joked about this with those around me until I was told to shut up by the RAF sergeant who was marching us in. This later gave rise to an interesting event which has stood me in good stead ever since.
It happened one day that this same Sergeant told me to stay on after he had dismissed everyone for the day. He was very friendly and cheerful and he said that he wanted to show me around the camp. He proceeded to lead me around the internal roads and paths which were nearest to the boundary. As we walked he chatted away, remarking at each relevant spot how easy it would be if anyone wanted to leave unofficially. I must admit that desertion was on my mind because the thought that I had now entered on what promised to be two wasted years of my life was already beginning to rankle. I was, therefore, very interested in all this information. When I asked about guard dogs and boundary patrols he said that there were none.
I thought that all this sounded too good to be true so I asked him what would happen if someone actually did desert. He replied that such a person would be hunted down, arrested and jailed. Although capture might be evaded for a long time, it was for all practical purposes certain in the long run.
We continued to walk as I continued to think. Then I asked him how long the jail sentence was likely to be and he said two years. After a little more thought I asked what the difference was between that and National Service, surely they were the same thing? He then explained that after serving the two years in jail, such a person would still have to do the two years National Service, making four years in all!
After a bit more walking and thinking I said, "Well, in that case, the best thing such a person could do would be to buckle down, work hard at it, and get it over and done with."
He stopped dead when I said this. His face lit up and he said, "I've been waiting to hear you say that! He then patted my shoulder and said, "You can get back with the others, now!" and off he went.
From that time on I put my heart and soul into everything that I found myself obliged to do, starting with polishing my footwear and brass buttons so that they really gleamed. And I kept them like it, too, throughout my service. There was opposition from my mates (especially the regulars) as I was sometimes picked out on parade as an example. This was uncomfortable for me as well as them but I didn't care - I had made up my mind and that was how it was going to be!
This basic principle has been invaluable to me throughout my life. Whenever I find myself (as everyone does) having to do something I don't want to do, I remember that Sergeant and just get on with it, even when I have to pretend that I am enjoying it. I have a lot to thank him and National Service for. Surprisingly, I have many times been complimented on my enthusiasm for tackling a thankless job of work. Oh dear! If they had only known what my real feelings were! After all, we all have to do something each day, so we might just as well choose to tackle it enthusiastically and try to enjoy whatever it is.
We were eventually "kitted out" with uniforms, knife, fork, spoon, cup, sewing materials,etc. etc. but for some strange reason which I have never understood, I was issued with two "best blue" uniforms instead of a "best blue" and a "battledress." This was to cause many problems throughout my RAF service. Angry NCOs or officers would yell at me on parade for not wearing battledress (or working blue) as circumstances dictated. When I could eventually get a word in, I simply said that I had been issued with two best blues and that I did not know why. In fact, I would have quite liked a battledress but I never got one. The angry officer would disappear and come back later saying that it was all right. But why? Wouldn't it have been easier to simply issue me with the correct uniforms?
From Cardington I was sent to RAF Bridgenorth for basic training. After a few weeks of marching endlessly around learning all the basic drills, I was looking forward to the part where we had to live off the land and go camping out in the country. This was not to be. Along with several others, I was temporarily posted to RAF Uxbridge where we joined the RAF Queen's Colour Party to do route lining for the Queen in London on two separate days.
At Uxbridge we were housed in temporary accommodation. This meant that we had no heating at all and it was now nearly Winter. To shave, we had to walk a long way to the nearest water tap (cold of course) and shave there in freezing conditions. How we ever attained the required standard I do not know!
For part of each day, the RAF Queen's Colour Party arrived with the flag, great pomp and much ceremony. They watched us, marched with us, shouted at us and then left us. In their absence we did more drill and were taught to stand for very long periods of time without moving or fainting or scratching anything that might start itching. We also had to learn to "Blanco" (Blanco was a white chalky paste in a tin) our rifle straps, belts and I don't know what else. Even worse, we had to buy the Blanco ourselves with our own money. We also had to learn how to care for the wicked-looking ceremonial bayonets we were issued with, to march in step along the route through London in spite of being positioned between two bands who were not in step, and to mark time in our heads so that we could carry out all the movements for positioning ourselves correctly without shouted orders.
The first of the two great days finally arrived and we were taken by RAF bus to Horse Guards Parade where we all assembled. At the given time we marched out and past the cenotaph ("eyes right") to our positions. My position was right in the middle of the road outside of Westminster Abbey and I felt very vulnerable and alone, although only a dozen or so paces from the next man. We had been told not to move under any circumstances once we were in position. Imagine my horror then, when a large post office van came straight at me at high speed. I was about to jump out of the way, in spite of orders, when the driver suddenly braked, grinned, and then slowly drove around me.
The second of the two great days was much the same as the first but in a different location. The two days impressed me in a rather strange way because until then, I had been something of an anti-royalist. However, when the Queen came by in her State Coach with all the trappings in front and behind, and we "presented arms," I really felt that there was something almost tangible and definitely worthwhile about all of this.
On one of the two days, a comical thing happened to the man next to me. We had been waiting "at ease" for a long time when we suddenly had to come to attention and order arms. He had already told me during training that he tended to seize up when inactive for an extended period. On this occasion he straightend up violently and practically threw his rifle (complete with ceremonial bayonet) over his shoulder in an effort not to be left behind the others. At this point there was a yell from the crowd behind him - "Hey, he nearly had my bloody eye out!" How I kept a straight face I do not know.
Back at RAF Bridgenorth we were officially "passed out" on the basis of what we had done, so I missed out on all the fun stuff like camping out in the country.
I was interviewed by an officer whose main aim in life appeared to be to get me to "sign on" for a minimum of nine years. He explained that if I did this, I would be able to continue with my electrical trade as an Aircraft Electrician, otherwise, the only choice I had was to become a Cook or an Aerodrome Fireman. Well, I knew what a Cook was, so I asked what an Aerodrome Fireman was. He told me that I would, amongst other things, have to learn to drive all the vehicles on an aerodrome. This got my attention because I did not have a car driving licence at the time and I thought that I might be able to get something useful out of all this.
After going through this same routine for half an hour or more, the officer reluctantly accepted my decision but warned me that he was not guaranteeing even that, unless I signed on for three years. I continued to refuse and the interview was brought to an end.
Eventually everyone assembled in a hall with a Tannoy (loudspeaker) system to wait for our service numbers and names to be called out, followed by an announcement as to where we were posted to and why. When my turn came, I was astonished to hear that I was to report to RAF Melksham for six months training as an Aircraft Electrician!
RAF Melksham was hard work. Exams were set at the end of each week and if you failed twice you were "back-flighted" to the course coming up behind. Most of the people on my course were regulars, some of whom had signed up for 12 years.
At the beginning we were all paraded outside the hut allocated to us, and a Sergeant informed us that he was going to say, amongst other things, who the "Senior Man" was to be. To my horror, he read out my number and name and, because he did not know who was who at this stage, he said that the selected person should step forward. I hesitated for a moment and at that instant another airman, a dead keen regular who had signed on to get this training, stepped smartly forward. Surprisingly, there were two John Williams' on the same course! I kept quiet, did not point out the mistake, relaxed and heaved a sigh of relief. My relief did not last long because after a few weeks he just could not keep up with the coursework and was "back-flighted." Our sergeant then said that although we had lost our Senior Man it wasn't a problem because it so happened that there was someone else with the same name who could take over and save him having to change his paperwork! I was lumbered anyway.
So I had the irksome (to me) task of having to go and collect the mail while everyone else ambled off for their dinner. We were supposed to march everywhere, for instance to meals and then back again to the classroom, and the Senior Man was supposed to be in charge of this. All this marching irked me because I was the only National Serviceman on the course and all the others were regulars. Consequently, I took great delight, whenever we were out of sight, in giving my own order, "OK we can walk now!" and we would all shamble along. Some of the regulars thought this was amusing but the others were quite miffed because they were keen RAF types and they thought it was undignified. I suggested that I would be only too happy to relinquish the post of Senior Man but they were not that keen!
I have always disliked most forms of sport and a compulsory Sports Afternoon was designated each Wednesday. I therefore joyfully took up "Motorcycling" and promptly made my way home to Swindon, which was quite near, until the next morning. Eventually I was found out, Motorcycling was banned, and I was forced to choose something else instead. I chose Archery.
After successfully completing the course I was ordered to report to RAF Marham which was in a county I had never been to before - Norfolk.
RAF Marham too, was hard work, what with the Cold War, Duty Electrician, Duty Fire Piquet, 12 hour shifts, 18 hour shifts, a variety of alert states and I don't know what else. I can't remember much about actually arriving at RAF Marham so everything must have been uneventful. My main memories of the early stages are of the Electronics Section where I worked to begin with and of always being hungry. They didn't feed us very well and I had to buy beans on toast (all I could afford) in the NAAFI whenever I could get there. Sometimes I went to The Mission to Military Garrisons for a snack. Another memory is of being visited fairly regularly by a variety of officers who wanted me to sign on. They kept up this hassle until I was eventually discharged in September 1960. Because they were officers I could not tell them to get lost but instead I had to smile and be polite!
One of the tasks of the Electronics Section was to service the DC generators from the Vickers Valiant V-bomber. This involved running them overnight on a test bench to bed the brushes in, with frequent inspections to ensure that they were bedding-in correctly. No one else wanted the job and I found that by saving them until the Thursday I could volunteer to work on all through the night, after which, I was free for the weekend. If there was no outstanding work, or any alert states affecting us, I would then jump on my Lambretta scooter and make for Swindon and home, 163 miles away. All this ended when I was posted to 207 Squadron to work on the V-bombers.
So it was that I found myself installed as the latest member of 207 Squadron's Ground Crew. Of the three V-bombers, the Valiant, the Victor and the Vulcan, I much preferred the majestic look of the Victor. I have worked on all three from time to time but the Valiant was my steady job and I liked the aircraft itself. The others were just pre-flight or after-flight servicings and odd jobs as they arose on visiting aircraft.
The first thing that impressed me deeply was watching the Vickers Valiant V-bomber take off. Each aircraft always seemed to be heavily laden with a full load of fuel and equipment. Consequently, the engines were run flat out with the brakes on for some minutes at the start of the runway. The brakes were then released and the aircraft slowly inched forward, still roaring fit to burst. It trundled along the runway, very slowly picking up speed, and would disappear over a hump, engines still screaming. My last sight would be of the tailplane disappearing from view. I then listened to the engines until the tailplane appeared in view again, which meant that it was airbourne at last. It all seemed pretty dodgy to me and I determined that I would always consider the aircrew when I carried out my work. I suppose it may sound strange but I felt really sorry for them because I thought they had a rotten job. At that time I had never flown and it didn't seem a very sensible sort of thing to do. By the way, I never did fly while I was in the RAF because I was always too busy working! Electricians were in very short supply for some reason.
On one occasion we watched an experimental Valiant from another Squadron fitted with rocket-assisted take-off. What a difference! After the usual crawling start along the runway, the rockets cut in and the Valiant virtually stood on its tail and was gone. This too, looked pretty dodgy to me but it was very impressive.
Oh, the joys of the Valiant dispersal pans at RAF Marham in the Winter! I think there is nothing so cold as an East wind in East Anglia. During a compass swing the aircraft is towed through 360 degrees while the Instrument trades calibrate and check the compasses. As an Electrician I had to be there to supply power and I could sit inside to do that. This provided some shelter, but the door had to remain open, of course. When the aircraft came around at right angles to the wind, you really knew it!
Ground runs were much the same except that the noise was a severe problem. We had no such things as ear-defenders in those days and I have always had trouble since then with hearing high-pitched sounds such as grasshoppers. Also, depending on the pitch of the caller's voice, I can sometimes only understand part of the conversation. Listening to one person in a crowded room is also a problem. Ear-defenders were issued to us shortly before I was demobbed and it was a chargeable offence not to wear them. It was too late for me by then.
One night during the Winter of 1959 I was on the night shift and just about to jump up into the rear hatch of a Valiant to change, I think, a faulty Inverter. It was bitterly cold and there was a thick, freezing fog. All at once I heard a Valiant roaring at the end of the runway before taking off. I paused to listen and I could imagine the by now well-known take-off sequence. As I listened, it became airbourne according to my reckoning, and then suddenly went deathly quiet. I thought at first that the thick fog had muffled the engine sounds but an instant later there was a tremendous roar and the fog lit up bright orange. I found out later that a Valiant from another Squadron at Marham was acting as a tanker. It had lost all power as it became airbourne and simply came down and exploded. There were headlines in the newspaper next day, "Death of a V-Bomber" and an aerial photograph showing the path the Valiant had made through a plantation of pine trees before it exploded. I have tried to track down this report since without success. I think the newspaper was the Daily Telegraph but I am not at all sure.
The Valiant engine start circuit was fitted with a large HRC (High Rupturing Capacity) fuse rated at (I think) 1,000 amps. As an Electrician I supplied power to the aircraft from a massive Rolls Royce petrol generator. The Crew Chief would signal to me when the aircrew were about to start an engine because the aircraft took so much power the generator could easily stall. My role was to set the throttle flat out and "tickle the carburretor" furiously to keep it from stalling completely. Each of the four engines required a double start so I had to carry out this procedure eight times. So far so good but the trouble was that the HRC fuse had eight chances to blow. When it failed, I had to go in under the already running engines (no ear defenders at that paricular time), undo a panel, change the offending fuse, do up the panel and get back to the generator to try again. I hated this particular job and I always carried spare fuses about although they were so massive. Talk about stress, not so much from changing the fuse as from expecting it to fail at each try! I wonder if the 1,000 amps rating I remember is correct? Was it more or was it less? I should have kept a duff one as a souvenir!
Life at the dispersal huts was anything but dull. At this stage I was "living out," having bought a caravan at Kings Lynn on hire purchase. How did I do this on four shillings a week? I didn't! My wife was a teacher and her pay allowed us to cope. Even so, we didn't meet much during that time because I was on a variety of shifts, other duties and the all-powerful alert states.
The shift I most remember was the night shift. This started at 4PM and finished at midnight - at least, that was the theory. In practice, our Valiants usually returned around midnight and then we had to carry out the after-flight servicings. If there were no faults we could go home! This rarely happened because any faults reported by the aircrew or found by us on our servicings had to be rectified before we could go. As an Electrician I often had to remain behind when my own slate was clear because other trades with faults to rectify needed me to supply electrical power for them. It seemed unfair to me because when their faults were clear they could go.
Faults were common With such complex aircraft, especially electrical and/or radar faults. So it was that my shift pattern was mostly from 4PM until 8AM the next morning when any remaining faults were handed over to the day shift. It was then home to sleep until 4PM came round again.
One bright spot on this shift came about when I boarded the returned aircraft to carry out my after-flight servicing. As I said before, I was as thin as a rake and always hungry in the RAF. My first action therefore was to see if the aircrew had eaten all their sandwiches! If any were left it was like manna in the wilderness to me. I remember that one particular aircrew member took pity on me from time to time and he would hand me his meal unopened. I wonder if he brought his own to see him through the long flight? The Crew Chief would look at me with amusement and something akin to disgust as I went about my duties munching happily.
A scary incident took place on my first and only attempt at marshalling a Valiant. On this occasion the Valiant in question had been directed to the wrong dispersal pan and was speeding on its way around the perimeter track during which procedure it was due to pass us. Only the Crew Chief and I were in the vicinity when an urgent phone call came through to try to intercept it and redirect it into our dispersal pan.
The Crew Chief pushed the two orange wands into my hands and said, "Quick! Get out there, get his attention and see him in here!" I ran out towards the perimeter track waving the wands madly but the pilot didn't spot me at first. When he did, he made a last minute turn and came towards me, still at high speed. I held my ground for a second or two until I realized that he wasn't slowing down fast enough and I started to run. The trouble was, I did not have time to turn to run so I found myself running backwards, faster and faster, wands still held high because I had not had time to drop my arms either. Just as I thought I wasn't going to make it, the nose of the Valiant dipped sharply as the pilot braked hard and everything was OK.
When I got back into the Crew Room everyone (they weren't there when I had left) was rolling about laughing, saying that they had never seen anything so funny. Although the pilot apologised he obviously had difficulty controlling his amusement and simply said, "Sorry about that, I thought you were going to move out of the way!" I felt very small, insignificant and a right Charlie. It was all so undignified!
In addition to the regular Valiant sorties we were involved in practising what was known as a "Two-minute Take-off." The crew would be in position inside the aircraft, with all pre-flight checks done and all four engines running. The Crew Chief was plugged in at the front of the aircraft, the chocks were in position and the external power supply was still connected. At this point we had to wait until a flare was fired signalling "Scramble." The timing started from the time the flare went up and then it was all arms and legs. The chocks were dragged away, I dashed in to remove the power supply lead and shut the panel, the Crew Chief disconnected his lead and ran for it, as did everyone else. I was usually last because I had to run towards the aircraft to disconnect the power lead before I could run back out of harms way.
Why all this running? Well, at the instant the flare was spotted the aircrew opened the throttles flat out and released the brakes as soon as the chocks were removed. The Valiant surged forward with a mighty roar and everything was blown all over the place as the exhaust blast caught it. Not having time to get clear as the others usually could, I made for the "sheltered" side of the massive power generator and watched events as I crouched there, wondering whether it was going to blow over and crush me this time. It was astonishing to see fire extinguisher trolleys, large chocks and all sorts of other stuff being blown across the airfield while the generator shook and rattled behind me. This could be worse or not so bad depending on which way the aircraft swung round as it progressed from the dispersal pan to the runway.
On reaching the runway there was none of the normal stop and check procedure before taking off. The Valiant just kept going at full belt. The timing ended just as the aircraft wheels left the ground. The fastest time we ever achieved was 1 minute 58 seconds.
We became well practised with this two-minute take-off and consequently had to give regular displays at RAF Marham for the high-ups of the RAF, Army and Navy. We were issued with white overalls for this but they never actually fitted any of us! I enjoyed this because we worked well as a team and we had a grand position for seeing the rest of the display.
The Black Arrows (thirteen black Hawker Hunters) gave their very impressive display as did various other aircraft. I think my favourite would have to be the lunatic in a Lightning who would suddenly appear at very high speed at near ground level along the runway. Just as you thought "Wow! That really is fast," he would switch on both afterburners and stand the aircraft on its tail. It disappeared vertically with a mighty bang and the glow from the afterburners was all that could be seen as it was lost from sight within seconds. The forces acting on that pilot must have been phenomenal. Imagine doing a right-angle turn at near the speed of sound! A suppose such things would not be allowed these days.
As my release date approached, 207 Squadron was scheduled for 6 months detachment to Malta, and we were issued with sunglasses, shorts, shirts, socks, etc. and salt tablets. We had to parade wearing all this kit to make sure that we had everything which was neccessary. Although I protested that I was to be demobbed in a few weeks time, I was told that I would have to go to Malta and that I would be demobbed when my Squadron returned to the UK. I just couldn't believe that this was happening to me but they kept the pressure up for a week or two and then suddenly relented, much to my relief.
This reminds me of a dream I had one night. I said before that an officer would sometimes suddenly appear on the scene to try to get me to sign on. I knew when it was coming because the officer would always be unusually friendly and I would think, "Oh no! Here we go again." This dream was different. In my dream I was inside the jetpipe of a Valiant where I had been changing a thermocouple, or something similar. I finished the job and began to slide down towards the exhaust end which I could see as a circle of light beyond my feet. As I approached the circle, a face obscured it and a voice said, "You're not coming out until you've signed this." So saying, he pushed a clipboard with a sign-on form and a pen towards me while he remained blocking the exit. I said I would not sign it and he simply kept on insisting that I would stay in there until I did. Being tired and hungry I did eventually give way and signed the wretched form. He snatched the clipboard, form and pen and rushed off laughing like a maniac and shouting out that I had signed on for a further 25 years. Out on the ground, as it dawned on me that they had got me at last, I came over all hot with horror and woke up. Yes, I had been dreaming and what a relief it was to realise that. I really was sweating when I woke up, though!
So it was that I eventually became a civilian again. My uniform and everything else was taken from me and I was put on Reserve until the age of 43. Why 43? No idea - I was leaving right now and that was the only thing that mattered to me at that time. My discharge Certificate (which I still have) simply says, "L.A.C. Williams is a first class tradesman. He is keen, efficient and always looking for work. In appearance he is neat and tidy. In general he is a credit to the service." Sounds great, doesn't it? I wonder what they would have written if they had known the actual truth?
In closing this narrative I would like repeat what I said at the beginning: "As I look back at those two years from the age of 71, I am forced to admit that something which I desperately hated at the time was, in reality, a very good thing." How good a thing was it? The following two paragraphs are two examples.
In 1965 my wife and I were considering emigrating to Australia under the £10 scheme. To qualify for this, one of the requirements was that we had to agree to stay there for a minimum of two years or repay our passage money. Friends and family objected to this on the basis that we had to sign away two years of our lives. My response was instant. "Huh! I was forced to do two years National Service and I hated it. At least this two years is something which I can actually choose to do and I will have some sort of control over things." We went.
When we returned from Australia in 1971, my Aircraft Electrician background enabled me to get a job with aircraft again, work which I had missed since leaving the RAF. I have since worked on many types of aircraft as an Electrician, such as the Hunter, Gnat, Bulldog, Jet Provost, Red Arrows and many more, including the Spitfire, Hurricane and Lancaster of the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. Unfortunately, I was rather pushed into promotion and left the real work on the shop floor for paper-pushing and planning. I put on weight, of course but I am not so hungry these days!
These examples are of things that just would not have happened without the experience of those two dreadful years of forced labour and a monetary pittance in return. The real returns have not been monetary but long-lasting life-skills benefits. What a pity that National Service has been done away with!
This is located at RAF Cosford in Shropshire along with a Victor and a Vulcan. It was with great interest therefore when I went there with my wife in March 2008. I had not seen a Valiant since September 1960 and I wondered how it would measure up to my expectations e.g. was it really as large as I remembered it to be? No it wasn't - it was bigger! The sheer size of it impressed me all over again and many memories came flooding back. Unfortunately, it was not possible to access the inside. I had the curious feeling that I was meeting an old friend after 48 years.
My wife said, "So this is what you were at when I saw so little of you!" Of course, at the time I had had enough of V-bombers all day and I certainly didn't want to talk about them when I did manage to get away. Happy days!
The colour thumbnails below lead to some of the pictures I took during our visit. Click on any picture for a larger version.
Click on any of the pictures below for a larger version.
| The 2-minute take-off crew on a display at RAF Marham. June 1960. That's me, third from the right and Chief Tech Webber (I think) on the extreme left. The other faces are all familiar but I can't put names to them. |  |
| A rare open day at RAF Marham. I was only allowed to walk around because my relatives attended. Me on the right, my wife, her sister and my mother. My brother was also there but he took the photograph! |  |
| The same Open day at RAF Marham. My brother asked me which of the three V-bombers I liked the look of best because all of them were there. When I told him it was the Victor he took this picture for me. Unforunately it was the last on his film and he pressed the shutter just as the Vanguard passed by! |  |
| Hardwick Bridge caravan site in Kings Lynn. This picture was provided by the site shop on the left. |  |
| Our caravan, the first home of our own. Taken on moving-in day. |  |
| RAF museum Cosford. The only 'complete' Vickers Valiant, XD818, now in existence. I'm glad they managed to save at least one of them. |  |
| RAF museum Cosford. XD818 front section. |  |
| RAF museum Cosford. XD818 head on. This is the view I had of the speeding Valiant I was trying to marshall (see "An Almost Fatal Attempt at Marshalling a Speeding Valiant" above.) |  |
| RAF museum Cosford. XD818 port undercarriage. |  |
| RAF museum Cosford. XD818 port droptank. I had forgotton how huge these were. |  |
| RAF museum Cosford. XD818 tail section. The tail lights frequently failed because they took the full blast of the engines. That was my theory, anyway! |  |
I have other web sites you may like to visit:
For that neglected British classic car the Standard Vanguard visit The Standard Vanguard
For the remarkable 1957 Morris Oxford De Luxe visit The 1957 Morris Oxford
For Robin Hood visit Robin Hood, Sherwood Forest and Edwinstowe
For my early life visit Life in the Swindon Railway Village 1937-1958 (or the Memoirs of a Swindon Nobody)
For thoughts on the meaning of life visit God's Viewpoint
The Royal Air Force Museum Cosford Real ex-service examples of the Valiant, the Victor and the Vulcan V-bombers plus lots more. Well worth a visit.
www.207squadron.rafinfo.org.uk/ The 207 Squadron Website.
RAF Marham home page RAF Marham home page.
National Service memoirs More memories of National Service.
Home address of this page: http://www.johnw55.freeuk.com/vbomber
Page updated 21 July 2008