Bye Bye…

but who gives a **** 😡

Another airfield bites the bullet… I’ve spent ten years trying to tell people about RAF Driffield and does anyone care about this or in fact any aerodrome? NOPE… 😡

The problem is that we all have an inbuilt sense of proportion. Basically this means I won’t be taking out half the population with AK47 or run onto an F1 race track dressed in a kilt waving a banner in front of some **** scarred driver if RAF Driffield or other gets the chop. No, I’ll just wait for the property developer who wrecks RAF Driffield to drop dead and then I’ll pee on his grave…

Nope, I have my little website (http://www.driffieldaerodrome.co.uk), and a few well intended replies from my MP, English Heritage, Defence Estates, Prince Charles (Pheonix Trust), and a myiad of individuals who have better things to do with their life than lift a finger for one, single aerodrome – one of over 740 build and/or used during the war.

**** knows what the developers have in mind for RAF Driffield. I actually envy the Pro Fox Hunting groups and the Fathers 4 Access because they have the publicity (column inches in newspapers and loads of airtime). What do I have to do to save RAF Driffield?

Ideas on a postcard…

Does anyone know how many turned out for the AeroJumble event? I was planning to sell my prints, but at £65 per table and no means to get to Sussex other than by public transport meant it was a non-starter…

I thought the program was okay, but why did the producers omit the following, taken from http://www.worldwar2database.com/html/britain_40.htm:

Then, the unthinkable happened. An errant German bomber, thinking they were over open fields in a London fog, dropped its payload on the city on August 24. Britain responded by mounting a major raid on Berlin on the night of August 25-26. Causing only minor damage, the RAF Bomber Command raid embarrassed Goering, who said Germany would never be bombed. Hitler, enraged, ordered Goering to switch to London in retaliation. Hitler wanted to see RAF planes going down over their own capital.

If it wasn’t for the crew of this lonely bomber wir würden alle auf Deutsch sprechen

Does anyone know the names of the crew?

Phillip Rhodes

My earliest recollection of things aviation was of parachutists dropping out of a number of Beverley transports over RAF Henlow (1966-70). Singapore was interesting – being frightened by a load of fecking RAF Fire Fighters (my first school outing was to a fire section on some RAF airfield on the island at the age of five or six).

Then…

My Driffield (1973 to 1978)

My association with RAF Driffield began with a car journey. In February 1973 my dad was posted to RAF Staxton Wold (a radar site near Scarborough) and we joined him in a new life in the East Riding of Yorkshire. We had left our previous home at RAF Benson in glorious sunshine, and as we travelled north, it became gradually colder and darker. My last memorable recollection of Oxfordshire was one of a tethered parachute balloon (similar to a wartime barrage balloon) used to train parachutists. Its silvered profile glistened in the sun over some unidentified airfield. Thereafter we joined a motorway and headed towards “The North”. Everything we owned was crammed into our Morris 1100 – including our two cats, Mosey and Josie.

We arrived in Yorkshire after dark.

I remember passing the blue lights of a fire engine that flashed away in the dark. Apart from this distraction (possibly a road traffic accident), there were few other lights or signs of life – just darkness that stretched on forever. After many hours, we turned into a housing estate not too dissimilar to the one we had just left in Oxfordshire. I can distinctively remember the smell of a hundred burning coal fires. Despite the street lightning it was very gloomy – with no sign of life. It was February 1973 and this was RAF Driffield, in the East Riding of Yorkshire. Our new home, 211 AMQ (Airmen’s Married Quarters) was cold, damp and empty – save for the odd piece of furniture. Build around 1960, it is likely that no one had lived in the house since the days of the nuclear-tipped Thor missiles, which themselves had departed RAF Driffield in 1963 – some ten years before.

We explored our new home and then gathered in the living room. I still remember mum sitting on a chair, head in hands, sobbing. Until that day, we had been lucky. We had lived the life of riley in both Cyprus (where I was born) and Singapore, and previous to Driffield, we had lived for nearly two years at RAF Benson – renowned for its high standards of family accommodation and amenities. And now, we had arrived in the back of beyond.
We were too tired to even attempt to unpack and so my sister and me were sent upstairs and to bed. Frightened and confused, we tried to sleep in the back bedroom, our predicament made worst by the presence of a large, black hairy spider that reduced us to tears. And that was that. There were raised voices of concern and reassurance that emanated from downstairs, but we were too tired to take much notice. This was not a great start to our new life.

I was seven years old and my sister (Diana Rhodes, who still lives in Driffield) was nine.

The following morning brought with it a chilly start to our first day in Yorkshire. As I wiped away the condensation that trickled down the window, my first view of our new home consisted of a field, dissected with a power line. As I ventured around the house, I bagged a bedroom located at the front of the house and with another view – that of our housing estate, known to some as Coronation Street. In the far distant was an airfield – long since abandoned.

That day we unpacked our belongings and rearranged the furniture. Mum discovered that the cooker didn’t work properly and so we urgently requested a replacement. Weeks later and with no sign of new cooker, and an exasperated housewife marched into the guardroom demanding action. It made no difference that our dad was only a humble corporal, nor did it occur to Mum that you simply didn’t talk to the RAF Police or Duty Officer in that manner. She simply presented the powers that be with an ultimatum – either supply her with a new cooker, or she would buy the most expensive model available in Driffield and present the Royal Air Force with the receipt. A few days later and we received a new cooker.

My job was to fill the coal bucket from the bunker located opposite the back door – this for five long, hard years. Off course it would have been easier if someone hadn’t decided to steal our coal – indeed a number of households became victim to this “coal crook”. Before long RAF Driffield became our home, and what had gone before, was now becoming a distant memory. Our first visit into Driffield itself brought with it a new supplier of Airfix models – bought in Sokells, the local bookshop/toyshop/giftshop. Mum found a job working in a factory making pushchairs, while us kids were enrolled into the local Junior School. That first day we waited for the school bus and were shocked to realise that mum wasn’t going to come with us. We had to make our own way – not knowing where this bus would take us. As things turned we both arrived at the Driffield Junior School, a large Victorian edifice dedicated to knowledge and discipline.

Driffield Junior School

I can still remember the smell of polished wooden floors; the high ceilings and cast iron radiators that baked dry drenched coats and gloves. I remember the small wooden chairs and matching desks – set in rows. I remember the classroom opposite, whose class teacher had filled with an assortment of Airfix models. To illustrate the different between front and back, he had cut in half a number of model aircraft and stuck them onto boards, to identify the difference. There were display cases filled with dioramas of the Roman Empire, the Wild West and the Battle of Waterloo.

School dinners were a memorable experience not to be forgotten. No matter what was on the menu, the odour of spam fritters always drifted across most of Driffield. The dining hall was a elongated brick-built hut, filled with eight-sided tables. On each was placed a metallic coloured aluminium water jug and enough plates, cutlery and drinking cups for all. Unlike modern times the food was brought to each table – enough for everyone – JUST! On each table a pupil was chosen to share out what we were about to be made truly grateful – “amen”.

The teachers themselves were dedicated, [mostly] friendly, but [always] firm. This was the 1970s and corporal punishment (wooden ruler edge across the knuckles) was still in use and used when needed, but for those of us unlucky enough to experience such punishment, there was no lasting effect. I also remember the caretaker – an avid beekeeper. Periodically, during playtime he would bark out an order for every child to seek out even the smallest piece of rubbish from the playground. The girl’s playground was off-limits to the boys, whose own playground backed onto the school’s sports field. It was here between these two that I spent most of my time – daydreaming of another world – filled with Airfix models made real. I was a loner, locked in my own little world. During my time at this school I made no friends, yet I was content. I was never bullied and because of a medical condition I was exempt from PE – albeit for the first year.

My home life was spent in my bedroom – from which I made (though rarely finished) an endless stream of Airfix models. I played on the floor, which was my battlefield or aerodrome. No television, computer or video games – just my imagination. I would also explore the locale – playing in the playground – a collection of worn-out swings and slides, which remain to this day. I remember once, another kid came up and told me that he had found a wrecked DH Vampire – dumped on the airfield. My imagination ran wild, but alas I was forbidden to explore beyond the perimeter fence. I never did confirm the existence of this airframe.

Despite my childhood passion for watching war films or making Airfix models, I was forbidden to explore the abandoned aerodrome, which was separated from our housing estate by the former A163 road. It’s easy to believe that this was the good life. But I remember the arguments my parents had over my upbringing. I remember the bouts of truancy that brought with it a visit from the school inspector. Then there were the tantrums – not wanting to go to bed, while it was still light – too young to comprehend the complexities of the change over to British Summer Time. The 1970s were also filled with power cuts and industrial action, though I don’t remember any real effect on our own lives. Actually, looking back my childhood was probably as mundane as anyone else’s.

One Summer’s Evening

Back in the 1970s and one day after school – probably in the summer months of 1973 – I ventured out of our housing estate, and walked towards the open expanse of the airfield. Walking past the guardroom and firing range, I walked on the grass verge towards the Four Winds Café that overlooked the abandoned aerodrome. Passing the first hangar I looked back and saw the control tower – nested amongst the hangars – bathed in the glowing beam of a setting sun. For someone brought up on a diet of Airfix models and war films, not to mention the ever-popular Dad’s Army, the sight (and even site) before me sent my imagination into overdrive. I could well imagine what this place would have looked like in busier times.

In the distance I could make out what was once the Thor Missile site. Although overgrown, part of the main runway and apron (a concrete platform for parked aircraft) were also visible. I returned home and although forbidden, it was not long before I started to explore the empty hangars and deserted control tower. It was also not long before I was caught.

The focal point of any RAF camp was the main entrance and guardroom. It was here that I endured the humiliation of being caught on my own camp, as by the mid 1970s it was widely acknowledged (by me, anyway) that I owned RAF Driffield. Being an inactive airfield, under “Care and Maintenance” meant that no more than two or three personnel (all of whom resided in the guardroom) staffed the site. There were no patrols as such, and it was potluck if you were caught. Each time you were frog-marched to the guardroom and given a stern lecture about trespassing on government property. During this lecture, the powers that be, usually some corporal would try his best to put the fear of god into you – anything to relieve the boredom on his part.

The problem was not the Royal Air Force and what they could or rather couldn’t do to you. The problem was what the Royal Air Force could do to your father, especially if he himself was later frog-marched into the very same guardroom – this after getting off the nightly crew bus returning from RAF Staxton Wold. Yes, the threat of being charged could do wonders to the father-son relationship. When I was caught it was the wrath of dad that put the fear-in me and not the RAF. Despite these awkward moments it was not long before the camp beckoned and I found myself exploring another part of the camp – usually with Tony Clayton, a new friend.

In 1977 the MoD announced that both RAF Driffield and RAF Leconfield would close. It was further announced that both sites would be taken over by the British Army. With change came a new friend – Tony, whose father was a Warrant Officer in the Royal Corps of Transport. He was responsible for turning RAF Driffield into Alamein Barracks – a new army training base complete with a new cross-country vehicle track. Despite these radical changes, the exploration continued.

The Thor missile site was especially attractive to the young explores of RAF Driffield (or Alamein Barracks). Complete with blast protection walls and large assembly building (once used to house the nuclear war heads), the site must have been very impressive when active. On one occasion we discovered this normally deserted building was full of army vehicles, while another visit we were caught by an off-duty RAF servicemen who was shooting rabbits. In the end, he let us go without informing the guardroom – I guess he might have had problems trying to explain why his own son was with him.

RAF Driffield’s Firing Range and Hangar Two – both of these buildings were magnets for us adventurous. Although the door to the firing range was always locked, the wire fencing which ran along one side of the concrete structure was movable and one could easily squeeze under the loose wire. So, why would a half-frozen adolescent want from a deserted firing range?

Spent shell-casings, of course!

Not everyone was meticulous in collecting their spent cases, and over the years, collecting these brass cartridges became an annual event – as did collecting conkers from the trees that lined the former A163 road.

Next to the Firing Range was one of two Bulk Fuel Installations – a large fuel tank buried by an earth mound. Sitting on this one day, we were surprised and ever so slightly concerned when a British Army staff car passed by. What could we do?

Run?

Surrender?

No, we just stood to attention and saluted the officer who was riding in the back.

He grinned and saluted back! – Another fine escape!

From every direction and from every angle, the four concrete aircraft hangars dominate RAF Driffield’s skyline. The hangars were locked most of the time, though on one occasion, we discovered that someone had forgot to lock a side door to Hangar Two, and we decided to explore inside.

During the late 1950s, this hangar was converted into a maintenance facility for the Thor Missiles. Half of the interior of this hangar was rebuilt into a warren of small offices and workshops, which by the 1970s were vacant and void of lighting. With no torch, it was too spooky to venture beyond the vast expanse of the main hall, which was now full of old furniture. In one corridor that lead to this interior we discovered an old “Keep It Under Your Hat” poster (that featured the outline of a Gloster Javelin) – leftover from busier times. Unfortunately, it was stuck fast and ripped when Tony tried to remove it. It might still be there – as the annexes were bricked up when the hangars were converted to store grain in the 1980s.

Now derelict and unwanted [by Defence Estates], of all the buildings located on the main camp, the officer’s mess holds the fondest of childhood memories. It was here that on more than one occasion, where I managed to convince the local doctor that I wasn’t feeling too well, and it would be in my best interest to stay at home – for at least a day – maybe two. The camp’s surgery was located in the east wing of the office’s mess. Being only a small community, we were served by doctors from the nearby market town, who held surgery most days.

The all-mighty must have frowned on my efforts to avoid a good state education, as in 1977 I contracted measles, and subsequently became covered head to toe in spots – not a pretty sight. Due to this distraction I missed out on most of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee celebrations held in town. Across the land children were presented with a commemorative Jubilee Mug. At school each child was summoned to the front of the class and presented with his or her mug by the class teacher – an exciting time by all accounts. I believe there was even a school’s Jubilee party, which I sadly missed. Weeks later and on my return I was unceremonially directed towards an almost empty box and told to help myself. That was Civyy Street for you. Now in the Royal Air Force, we did things differently.

All the mums on camp were tasked with making a wide, varied and gastronomic amount of food for us kids. The officer’s mess was still use in 1977 and although showing its age and in dire need of repair, it was here that we gathered for a party. With thoughts of making a Airfix model of the Avro Anson, me and Diana arrived to be greeted by portraits of the Queen and Prince Phillip. To the right of the entrance hall was the main reading room. This was where we had our party and from where we later retired to the bar – to watch a magic show and the obligatory film show – “Jungle Book” shown on an old 16mm cine projector.
Not me, however! I stayed in the reading room eating plate after plate of wonderful jelly and cream. Mums, too busy to bake brought along masses of jelly and instant whipped cream. So, there was me, happy as can be celebrating Her Majesty’s 25 year reign, stuffing myself silly – pure bliss!

The end came in 1978, when we decided to buy a house in Driffield. After we moved most of our belongings to Woldholme Avenue (a new housing estate off St John’s Road), it was revealed that we would be staying the night – the first in our new home. I was devastated – no wonder our parents had decided not to warn us. The following day we returned to collect the last of our belongings, and with a final farewell we left RAF Driffield. Thirty years ago we moved to Yorkshire, initially a move full of trepidation and much disappointment. But as I grew up on this former wartime aerodrome, my interest developed into a keen appreciation of both the history and fabric of this site. Although I was only a child, the nostalgia of went before (both good and bad) was a strong sensation or passion, one that endures to this day. In 1978 I left RAF Driffield, but RAF Driffield has never left me.

Phillip Rhodes
8th December 2003