The promotion to I/C watch was made official, and I was now in-charge of the men I had been working with; always a tricky situation. They knew I had not sought the position, and accepted it without malice. For my part, I resolved to act as reasonably as possible; to balance the rigid requirements of the RAF with those of the team. I counted myself extremely lucky to have no 'spiky' characters in the team; those who always find something to carp at. The senior NCO had a talk with me, and it was obvious the status quo was to continue; I was to operate without him. He airily mentioned that he would arrange promotion to LAC, should all go well. He lived off camp, and gave me his phone number in case of emergency.
I now had to arrange routine matters like, guard roster and transport schedules to meet watch operation times. I maintained the Bard Hill station log, and found time to read those written during the war. The Lancaster crash was mentioned, and the fact that a German aircraft had been claimed as 'shot down' by Bard Hill. The station had a Lewis Gun emplacement which had fired on an already crippled aircraft as it flew eastward close to the station.
We settled together as a happy team, and made life as pleasant as circumstances allowed. One severe drawback at this time was the shortage of cigarettes. The NAAFI had to ration them, and even the pipe tobacco had been consumed manufacturing cigarettes. We all wrote imploring letters home, and when some arrived they were shared out. When you had been deprived for several days, Capstan Full Strength, unfiltered, really found the tender spots in throat and lungs; not to mention the dizziness! Evening watches, or 'night binds', as they were known were the most convivial. Though eggs were rationed, one of our number would go down the hill directly to the back door of a farmhouse in Salthouse, and purchase enough ducks eggs for making omelettes to see us through the evening. A warm guardroom, tea, omelette and AFN provided a pleasant half-hour away from that rotating trace. One drawback with night-binds was that we never knew what time they would finish.
It seemed the whim and fancy of the filter-room controlled it. Sometimes 22.00hrs, sometimes 02.00hrs; whatever time, back at West Beckham we were always getting into cold beds. Commercial airlines were not yet developed to present day volumes, so plotting was at a minimum in the evenings. Sometimes we were asked to pass plots on a specific aircraft at every revolution of the aerial. We knew then, that Royalty or very top brass was aboard. One curious circumstance was never resolved. Every time we were on night-bind, an aircraft appeared at the extreme top periphery of the PPI tube, and showed on the range tube at about 90 miles from the station. It was usually around 23.00hrs, and mostly with an otherwise blank screen. We, of course, duly passed this plot to Watnal, but always got an X-Ray indentification which meant 'pending'. This indicated to us that it was a regular flight of some sort that the authorities knew about, but of which they didn't want identity recorded. Strange! One theory was that the RAF was using this aircraft, at this time of night, to check that radar stations were still transmitting. Apparently it had been known for stations to anticipate the order to close down, and get an early move back to base.
This form of checking was actually used, as I nearly found to my cost one pleasant sunny afternoon at Bard Hill. We had been placed on 'five minute availability', which meant that all operators, except he on the line to Watnal, could stand down, but be back in position within five minutes of a call. The mechanics were supposed to wind-down the transmitter voltage so that the station was operating at much reduced power. The aerial had to be stopped pointing out to sea. As previously mentioned, the transmitter variac was a swine to control, so although we complied with all other regulations, the transmitter voltage wasn't touched. We were all outside on the grass sunning ourselves, shirts off, watching freighters out to sea plying to and from Boston, when, to add interest to the scene, a Short Sunderland flying boat hove into view, flying East to West about two miles away. I sat up to admire this seldom seen aircraft, and realised that there was something odd about its shape. It didn't register immediately, I simply noted a line of short vertical aerials all along the upper fuselage. Then it hit me; this aircraft was monitoring the transmissions of all the radar stations along the coast which were on five minute standby. I leapt up, yelling for a mechanic to come from the guardroom and follow me to the block. I didn't wait, but ran to the block and began winding down the transmitter, strictly against regulations of course. The mechanic followed me in, and took over as I explained what had happened. I was on tenterhooks for several days waiting to be admonished. Either I had acted just in time, or the operators on board the aircraft were feeling lenient, for no admonishment came.
About three times a year, the 'Selsyn' aerial turning gear would break down, placing another duty on the roster, 'hand turning'. As previously described, a handle shaft protruding vertically from the gear box on the roof could be engaged, but needed much manual labour for what seemed like a hundred revolutions of handle to one of aerial. Some persevered with this method, but the rest of us preferred to sit with back against the supporting tubular strut-work behind the rotating structure, and turn the aerial by gently walking backwards on the gantry floor. Definitely and totally against regulations!
This produced about four revolutions per minute, and the aerial structure being well balanced required minimum physical effort. All this was, of course, quite pleasurable in good weather. In winter however, driving rain borne on gales off the North sea, not so good. Selsyn break down once caused another incident which threatened to put me behind RAF prison bars. It was a colleague named Melbourne's turn on the roof. I happened to be on the PPI at the time, and the trace on my tube was stationary as changeover took place. The trace started to rotate and gradually reached the usual 4rpm. Instead of maintaining this speed, it steadily increased until obviously exceeding the usual motor driven 6rpm! I was beginning to be alarmed, wondering whether somehow the motor drive had reconnected and mangled A/C Melbourne in the superstructure when the aerial stopped dead with a hell of a bang from overhead!
I checked that the Selsyn drive was at 'off' and called everybody, except the Watnal man, outside to investigate. I was first onto the roof and up the next ladder to the gantry platform. The aerial turntable was bolted to two channel irons reaching right across but above the planked floor. If walking on the floor in a circle pushing the aerial structure round, you had to lift your feet four times per revolution to avoid the channels. A/C Melbourne, who prided himself on his fitness, had this day decided to prove that he could beat the usual motor revs, and give us downstairs a shock! In this he succeeded, but with extremely painful result. He was standing to push the aerial structure round, and to begin with, walking. Having attained usual speed, he increased it further by running. The best position to push, was with your legs operating inside the turntable frame which rotated with the aerial, which only cleared the stationary channels by about one inch.
With everything going at maximum speed, the toe of a boot caught a stationary channel, and the moving frame caught up with the heel. The whole inertial energy of a structure weighing about two tons was instantly dissipated in bending boot, and foot, the wrong way with toes under. When I reached him he was sitting up, white faced, clutching his ankle, and near to passing out from pain. The upper stitching on the heavy leather boot was completely ripped open, and the leather lace snapped in several places. The toe cap had parted from the sole, and it seemed just like the boot had exploded! I had to get the aerial rotating again as soon as possible, or Watnal would be wanting to know why no plots were being passed. We had to get Melbourne down from the gantry before rotation could start. Though still in great pain, he managed to negotiate the ladder alone. We all stood by, just in case, but he managed. We eventually got him into the guard room and administered hot sweet tea. Although he was still in great pain, and with the foot now swelling such that it was outgrowing the boot, we were forced to take stock of the situation. If he reported sick, he would have to explain how such an injury was received while on watch. What if he didn't report sick, and there were bones broken, which seemed likely. The injury could not be hidden; he coudn't put his foot to the ground. At the base of all this, I was in charge of the watch and therefore totally responsible for what had happened. I had condoned operators using the gantry level, strictly against regulations; indeed had done so myself. I could almost hear the cell door slamming!
I could only abide by his decision. He was the one in pain, but he knew that although I was ultimately responsible, he would face an automatic charge of 'self inflicted injury'. He decided that desperate measures were necessary, and that we should first do what we could to lessen the pain and reduce the swelling. Aspirins were produced, the leg elevated and cold water applied from our meagre supply. He refused to have the boot removed. I think he was afraid to see just how big the swelling would get. I couldn't blame him. Even with the boot shredded as it was, that blue sock was straining to get out.
The watch finished, our lorry arrived and we got Melbourne into the back without the driver noticing. We had to get out of the lorry at West Beckham to book-in, but we all managed to stay close so that his limp wasn't too obvious. His hut-mates continued his treatment with elevation, intensive cold compress and aspirins. I visited during the evening, but it seemed pretty bad.
Luckily, by next morning, pills, rest, and youth had combined to produce a considerable improvement. Swelling had reduced such that he could just get into his other pair of boots. His foot was still bruised and painful, but with only the limp showing he would say he had sprained his ankle. He was in pain for several days, but as the proper shape returned, he didn't think anything was broken. The subsequent bruising was massive and covered the whole foot. I believe he purchased army surplus boots, and the RAF were none the wiser.
