From 1948 until 1960 all healthy males aged between seventeen and twenty one had to complete eighteen months of national service and, afterwards, remain on the reserve list for four years. This period of service was extended to two years in 1950 when Britain became involved in the Korean War but the reserve period reduced to six months. This instalment of Commando Senior’s memoirs tells of his National Service in the RAF in Iraq. The heat and culture of Iraq must have been quite a shock to the system for a boy from the humble terraces of Southampton but, as with everything he did, he seemed to take to it like a duck to water.
I was five weeks into recruit training at Bridgnorth when the King died. Being totally isolated from any media, I only learned of this when told directly and, leaning forwards attentively to hear what was being said, was mistakenly interpreted as volunteering for funeral duty.
It was thus I found myself on a train bound for Cardington for a crash course in funeral drill. A move called ‘rest on your arms reverse’ entailed rotating a rifle through one hundred and eighty degrees for the muzzle to rest on the toe of ones left boot. This operation sharpened the intellect in ensuring no live rounds were left in the firearm. Otherwise the phrase shooting oneself in the foot could take on a whole new meaning.
So it came to be. I paraded along the processional route, my slot being in Sussex Gardens, in the freezing cold, dressed in my ‘best blue’ uniform, complete with rifle, I had my pyjamas on underneath.
I arrived in Iraq, at RAF Habbaniya, in the late autumn of 1952, prior to spending my first Christmas away from home. Whilst all mail was eagerly awaited none was more so than at Christmas. Imagine my surprise, and delight, to receive, amongst family letters, one handmade card with the envelope franked with Toytown Post Office Stamps. The RAF postal service conveyed and delivered it as though it were correctly stamped. This was a much appreciated gesture.
With Iraq again in the news for all the reasons I postulated some sixty years ago, I am reminded of my visit to Kirkuk. With Habbaniya being a thirty month posting, unaccompanied and with no home leave there were just two choices to take leave ‘off station.’ The first the old redundant BOAC terminal on lake Habbaniya, a staging post left over from the time Southampton to India by air was by flying boat. The second a tented rest and leave centre in the northern mountains of Kurdistan.
Only a very limited number of places were available for the latter but, in the autumn of 1954, I managed to get one. We left Habbaniya by taxi for the fifty five mile journey to Baghdad railway station, passing Fallujah, unscathed for once, and entered Kirkuk. Because the journey was quite long we were allocated four to a sleeper carriage where, at dusk, two shelves were lowered to serve as bunks.
On arrival at Kirkuk the following morning, we piled into open half trucks for the journey through ‘cowboy country’ to the end of the road at Bebadi. The last few miles from the foothills to the camp were by mule, along foot wide paths with sheer cliffs on one side and similar drops on the other. I spent most of the journey with closed eyes.
The camp was cleverly supplied with water from the mountains, through a buried pipe for cold and an exposed pipe, using thermal gain from sunlight, for hot. Sleeping accommodation was in individual tents with food on a mess basis. Everything was supplied.
Two items of interest occurred. Firstly, on an outing, my mule refused to pass the point where its mate had dropped dead the previous day. The mule master led it back one hundred yards or so and made it gallop in the direction required. At the point of refusal it made the neatest ‘handbrake’ turn and continued down the hillside, leaping over a pipe some four feet above the ground until eventually coming to a halt. By this time I had pulled the brass rein ring out of the saddle. The journey continued without further mishap, although trying to contain an air of casual nonchalance was somewhat difficult in soiled underwear.
The other event concerned a WAAF medic, June Fulford, who experienced a tumble from her mule and suffered a broken neck. The camp elevation was above the ceiling for helicopters at the time, so June had to be completely encased in plaster of Paris and carefully manhandled down to Bebadi. There King Faisel’s personal helicopter took her to Habbaniya for onward transit to RAF Cosford hospital in the UK. She eventually recovered, married, had five children and is currently a valued member of our association. King Faisel was, of course, butchered in the 1958 revolution.
One thing that was absent on Habbaniya was the common sausage. That is the one with skin. What passed for sausage came from a tin and was served as rectangular sectioned pieces of ersatz sausage meat, sans skin. One day, after guarding/delivering diplomatic mail to the embassy, I found myself with an hour or so to myself and it was during this time I discovered a branch of Fortnum and Mason, with, amongst other treasures, genuine sausages.
Having little cash with me I made a note of the location and, on my next visit, purchased a kilo. Of course there was only beef, pork being unavailable in a Muslim country. I took these back and prevailed upon the proprietor of the GC or Good Companions, a sort of leisure area/greasy spoon, to keep them for me in his fridge. I intended to use them in entertaining my friends. However, when I came to order the very last one for myself, I found one of my ‘friends’ had beaten me to it. Surprising how often it is the small, inconsequential things in life which become the most missed.
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