Emergency drill practice in the Med (Les Dunnett)	On Christmas morning, the airmen allowed onto the upper deck where there were a lot of activities; including a fancy dress competition for married families and children. It was fun to watch but where oh, where was our beer? (Les Dunnett)	An Arab bum-boat is lifted out of the water in the Suez Canal (Les Dunnett)	View from the deck of Oxfordshire as she crawls down the Canal (Les Dunnett)	One of the few villages to be seen en-route (Les Dunnett)
What better way to spend an evening cruise! (Les Dunnett)	Looking out across one of the Bitter Lakes, the equivalent to a layby for ships passing in the opposite direction (Les Dunnett)	Sporting activities such as basketball were resorted to in order to relieve the inevitable boredom (Les Dunnett)	Exiting the southern-most Customs Point of the Suez Canal (Les Dunnett)	The first sight of Aden and Mount Shamsan. Extremely hot and humid - yes - but dull, drab and overcast. Not exactly what was anticipated (Les Dunnett)
Aden Harbour at Steamer Point as the ship prepares to dock. These were the last clouds we were to see for almost a year (Les Dunnett)

Egypt proved to be great fun and a most welcome break from the daily monotony. Numerous ‘bum boats’ came alongside and a roaring trade was carried out with us all gaining our first experience in bartering. We had been told not to deal with the boats as ‘official’ traders would come aboard but this was totally ignored. The items they had to offer were unseen in England at that time - not like today where goods from around the world are available in the high street. There must have been about twenty traders that came onto the ship along with three or four Egyptian policemen. After a while I watched these so called police officers go to each trader in turn and demand a cut of their takings. After a lot of arguing and shouting they each coughed up - except one. The officer involved called one of his colleagues over and between them they simply threw him over the side of the ship. We were staggered - how it didn’t kill him from that height I don’t know. Welcome to a different world.

With the exception of the ship’s crew the journey through the Suez Canal was akin to an adventure. You need to remember this was at a time before overseas holidays, before documentaries on television and travel programmes. This was our first view of the Middle East. Miles and miles of featureless sand broken only by the odd small village or town that was a small oasis with palm trees and greenery. At some point down the Canal it opened into what seemed to be a minor sea where ships weighed anchor and waited for the north bound ships to clear the southern run of the canal. Then those queuing could continue on their southbound journey. The silence in this lake was eerie and it was possible to hear anchors being dropped by other ships that must have been half a mile or more away. We also had our first sight of flying fish - incredible.

On finally leaving the Suez Canal behind all thoughts were on Aden. Nothing was known of this destination other than vague stories garnered from long serving servicemen, I for one never came across anyone that had actually been there. All I could find out was that it was incredibly hot with an unbelievable high level of humidity. Which I found out to be true. Also that it was possible to spend two years there without seeing rain. In short, I was told that Aden was widely known as the ‘a***hole of the world’. Small comfort for someone who had originally been posted to RAF Eastleigh in Kenya. On returning from leave at home I found that the squadron I was due to join_, 208, was being transferred to Aden. What a bitter disappointment.

And so to Aden

On the morning of 31 December 1961, we arose and went on deck for our first sight of this ‘furnace’ called Aden. Oh my! Extremely hot and humid - yes - but dull, drab and overcast. Not exactly what we expected. But these were the last clouds we were to see for almost a year.

After unceremoniously being just dropped at the ground floor level of a three storey stone tenement block, I found the only empty bed, dumped my kit bag and other gear and went in search of the toilets. Easily found but they were damp and dark. Sitting on the toilet I felt something run across my foot, just above the shoe level. Looking down I was horrified to see the floor was covered with the biggest cockroaches I had ever seen in my life. Imagine ‘big’ and treble it. I quickly learnt that a ‘sit down’ operation in the toilets meant continuously drumming your feet on the floor to keep the blighters at bay - but it made the whole thing extremely difficult. What a palaver.

Returning to the room I found it was still empty - no sign of life at all. Wonderful, all on my own and there it was, New Years Eve. The large ceiling fan barely stirred the air and the perspiration started to drip off me. So, being early evening I changed into my pyjamas and just laid on top of the bed. I didn’t not realising that it was to be the last time I was ever to wear pyjamas or the last time I was to drink Gin for thirty years. I started to doze off when a voice said, “What are you doing there mate, c‘mon upstairs we’ve got a bar up there”. Who it was I don’t know and I don’t recall seeing him again after that night but I followed his instructions to “come as you are” and trailed behind him up three flights of concrete stairs. I was dumbfounded to see the room had been partially turned into an extremely well stocked bar. My new friend explained that each Christmas a bar could be erected in each block and the Camp CO would visit each in turn and award cases of lager to the best. Said ‘friend’ was the barman for that night so having been given three cans of lager I settled in a corner away from all the guys in there that were all fully dressed.

It was not long before everyone started to drift off to pastures new and my friend the barman and I were the only two remaining. He took two bottles of gin off the shelf, grabbed some tonics in the other hand and brought them over to my table. So, with a bottle of gin each we started chatting and drinking. No doubt the conversation became more meaningless as the evening wore on but eventually both bottles were empty and two more were taken from the bar shelf. I have a vague memory of seeing the second bottle well eaten into and then ... nothing. The next thing I was awake on my own bed at 05:00 and feeling incredibly ill. How I got back from the upper floor remains a mystery. Anyway the end result was I that I was so ill I ended up in hospital for two days. Alcohol poisoning they said. It was only the fact that I was a new arrival and it was the New year that saved me from being charged with ‘self inflicted injuries’. An ignominious start. ‘Welcome to Aden’. Little did I know that the squadron I was due to join had a reputation for its drinking prowess and binge drinking was to be a way of life for the next two years.

My first two weeks at Khormaksar was spent in the ‘bomb dump’ waiting for the arrival of 208 who were being transferred from Kenya to Aden. I was stunned at the rows and rows of 1,000 lb bombs. They seemed to stretch out of sight. When I questioned the NCO in charge he informed me that we were bombing villages in Yemen on a daily basis. What truth there was in that statement I still don‘t know but certainly bomb trolleys were loaded up daily and taken to the Shackleton Squadron. It was said that the Shackletons could stay up for close on 12 hours so they would first do a leaflet drop warning those in the area that they were going to be bombed and to vacate the area. Some hours later they would return and carry out the operation. I was staggered as there was never any mention of hostilities in the British press at the time.

The two weeks soon sped by and my new squadron duly arrived and I had company in my room at last.

Thinking back I seem to recall that at some stage we moved to one of the upper floors of the block and that did have air conditioning. Very useful for stacking cardboard cases of lager in front of it to keep it cool. It is all so long ago now and I can‘t be too sure why and when we moved upstairs. I do remember that for many nights we were all kept awake by the howling of a wild cat - the place was over-run by them. We tried everything to frighten or chase the miserable creature away but the howling went on and on. One night one of the chaps in my room leapt out of bed and went out onto the balcony and minutes later a long howl suddenly stopped mid-stride. When the lad returned and climbed into bed we asked him how he had managed to do it. It turned out that he had dropped a fire bucket of sand over the top and scored a direct hit. The cat was no more, I suppose it sounds pretty cruel but the cats were wild and mangy and covered in sores so in a way he did it a favour. We certainly slept peacefully after that.

Wild dogs were another problem - they roamed in packs. Every so often there was a call for volunteers to go on a dog shoot. It was the only way to keep the numbers down. If it seems unkind or cruel I clearly remember leaving the mess one lunchtime to see a large pack of dogs fighting over the remains of a cat that they had obviously cornered and killed. Aden wasn’t kind to man nor beast.

During our two month stints at Khormaksar each landing on the block had its own ‘Dhobi Wallah’. This was a young Arab lad who would take your laundry each day and return it the next - all neatly pressed. He would also clean the rooms and make cheese and tomato rolls when wanted. For this we each paid one shilling and six pence per week. Value for money.

The Dhobi Wallah didn’t actually do the washing himself, he took it to the wash rooms where it was duly washed and ironed. The washroom comprised a large concrete sloping block with water continuously running down it. The clothes were soaked in water and then repeatedly swung down onto the slab. Our underwear, that we had to buy on the local markets, was of poor quality and didn’t stand up to many washes like this. So pants were always referred to as ‘shreddies’ - as that’s how they came back after a few washes, in shreds. But the clothes always came back damp, everything was damp due to the humidity. Even cigarettes were damp. Showering at least once a day was a necessity but then one had to put damp clothes on. Not nice. Temperatures ranged well over a hundred degrees with humidity close behind it. But we got used to it. Sort of.

Steamer Point had forbidden back streets where the abject squalor had to be seen to be believed. With the almost total lack of rain most of the ‘housing’ was made of flattened out cardboard boxes which stretched from the back streets well up the side of the extinct volcano, Shamsan. There were a few of us that frequently wandered into the ‘forbidden zone’ and I recall a cafe (for the want of a better description) that we used from time to time. Our favourite meal was a mixed grill which had two meats of the most unusual but not disagreeable flavour. What they were I shudder to think now but I suspect it was goat and possibly camel.

For those unfamiliar with the region, when ex-airmen talk of being stationed at Bahrain they are strictly referring to the adjacent island of Muharraq. The main island of Bahrain was accessed by us in taxis via a causeway. Each two months the whole squadron would fly up to Bahrain whilst 8 Squadron returned from there to RAF Khormaksar. This was a permanent cycle that certainly prevailed during my two-year tour. Whilst at Bahrain we would then fly down to Sharjah, further down the mainland coast, for a week or maybe two, I cannot recall which. But more of Sharjah later. Bahrain had a kinder climate than Aden certainly. Still extremely hot in the summer months but not so humid. The winters could be quite cold with even a touch of ground frost some mornings but this would soon clear and by late morning we could strip off our cold weather gear and relax again.

If memory serves me correctly the Air Traffic Control Centre and Terminal buildings, that were only a few hundred yards away from our ‘ops’ tents, also served as the civilian airport for both islands. I can’t recall there being much traffic at that time, mainly visiting aircraft from the armed forces. On my first visit to Bahrain I pulled the short straw and was given over night guard duties. Some months earlier some dissidents had apparently managed to get on to the base and damage two of the huge Beverley transport aircraft with explosives. So guards were scattered around the airfield to ensure security. For some reason I recall that endless night quite “clearly - squatting under the wing of an aircraft, head leaning on my rifle and dozing on and off without meaning too. Fortunately I was awake each time the patrolling landrover came round with the duty NCO.

Whilst I can mentally recall most of the camp at Bahrain there are only two anecdotes that I can bring to mind that didn’t involve boozing binges. One was the old Arab that was employed to clean the toilet blocks that were separate to the huts in which we lived. When not cleaning he would squat outside leaning against the wall. This unfortunate chap had the most horrific varicose veins one could imagine and he would find it amusing to literally pull them out and release them letting them twang back rather like a harp. Quite revolting looking back on it but he would chuckle away watching our reactions. The other was a walk I took solo a round part of Muharraq outside of the camp. There were no villages near the camp but it was known that they were strictly out of bounds due to possible hostility. Despite this rule I set off on my own one afternoon with my new Pentax camera to see if I could get some interesting photographs. It was incredibly hot and it took me some time trudging across featureless flat sand to reach the first village. On reaching the outskirts a number of young boys appeared and ran around me laughing and smiling, calling out “baksheesh, baksheesh”, the recognized begging call. I had a fair number of coins on me so I spread them out as far as possible between them. To me the coins amounted to peanuts but I suspect to them they had quite a value. It was at this point that I was aware that quite a number of teenage and young men had joined the crowd and the mood was changing. Two of the older lads made lunges at my camera which I managed to avoid. Next thing another lad lunged at me and pushed me hard in the chest. Stepping quickly backwards to the shove I went flying over backwards not realising one of the youngsters had come right up behind me with his bike. It was no longer amusing - I was getting seriously worried. I wasn’t so much worried for my personal safety but I could see my precious camera disappearing for good. Talk about cavalry to the rescue, about a dozen lads turned up on cycles, all wearing red blazers. I can only assume they attended a good school in one of the larger villages nearby but at that time I was just relieved when they all started shouting at the crowd around me. Things got pretty heated between the two groups but I just gripped my camera firmly and got the hell out of there - hopefully with some dignity. At least I didn’t run. A salutary lesson that when areas are designated ‘out of bounds’ it is for a very good reason. Needless to say that was my last excursion into the wilds.

There is one other incident that comes to mind. I considered myself a ‘good’ drinker in that no matter how much I drank I would always walk steadily back to my room and fold my clothes neatly before climbing into bed. However one morning I awoke to voices above me laughingly enquiring if it was a “good night last night?”. I had trouble opening my eyes and more and more voices passed over me as I lay there in bed each asking questions on the same theme. When I finally opened my eyes it was to find that I certainly wasn’t in bed - I was spread-eagled on the path midway between the NAAFI and the billets. The voices had come from the lads stepping over me on their way to the mess for breakfast; it may have been a ‘good night’ but it wasn’t a good morning.

Of all the flights we made backwards and forwards to Aden, Bahrain and Sharjah, we only had one that was hair raising. It was on a return trip to Khormaksar. As the Britannia gathered speed down the main runway on take-off, a window panel actually blew in. How nobody was injured I don’t know as it hurtled back through the cabin bouncing off the tops of the seats as it went. As this was happening a quick thinking chap near the front dashed up and entered the flight deck shouting to the pilot. It was all over in seconds. Lift off was aborted, just in time, and we turned and taxied back to the starting point again. The co-pilot calmly entered the cabin, retrieved the window panel and reinserted it in the main frame. “We’ll test it on take off” was his only comment as he returned to the flight deck. I’ve never known such silence from the guys as we once again took off. No problems that time. We were well on the return trip when they started handing the coffees round. As they got to about the fifth row back we hit an air pocket - a big one. We, complete with plastic cups, went down - the coffee stayed up. Surprisingly nobody was scalded as the coffee came down. Then another air pocket even bigger than the first dictated the end of the coffee round - it was orange juice or nothing. We had flown into a tropical storm - and what a storm it proved to be, I have continued flying pretty well around the world until I was around 58 years of age and nothing compared, even remotely, to that flight. We were tossed around and the air pockets came one after another, each seeming worse than the one before. Outside, the sky was a continual blaze of forked lightning. At one point lightning was actually dancing along the starboard wing. It was pretty hairy for quite sometime. One could say ‘squeaky bum’ time. Eventually we cleared the storm and everything calmed down again. That was until we were actually touching down at Khormaksar. We all saw that we were being followed by fire and crash tenders both sides with lights flashing. But the landing was OK - no problems. It wasn’t until we finally left the aircraft that we saw the pilot with a team around the front wheel. Hydraulic fuel smothered the wheel assembly. We were later to find out that we were an ace away from landing without a nose wheel. Some trip that was. It is said that events always happen in threes, they certainly did that day. One to remember!

Bahrain Xmas - 1962

Without doubt my most vivid memories of Bahrain was of Christmas 1962. Following tradition we scoured the camp for timber, boards, nails, screws - anything that would build a bar in the billet. Areas or buildings that were under construction were raided at night. Nothing was sacred. Everyone mucked in and whilst the end result was nothing to shout about we were pleased with it. During Christmas morning the camp CO visited all bars in all the billets to judge them. We didn’t win of course but we were given several crates of lager to swell our already significant stock. We were well pleased.

Sharjah and sick again

On my first visit to Sharjah I was to be taken into hospital with ‘Sand Fly’ fever within twenty four hours. Memories of that week are very vague - I had a raging fever and was pretty delirious most of the time. I do recall that they were unable to bring my temperature down so was stripped and bathed over and over again with iced water. The feeling was that of having a red hot iron applied to your skin. Very unpleasant. I was finally released from hospital in time in time to join the lads and return to Bahrain. On my second visit - same again. Within a day I was again admitted into hospital with the same infection. This time however it was far less severe and I was out and about four days later. I had obviously built up my immune system as there were to be no further problems over the next two years.

While at Sharjah, our Hunters flew practice strikes at a nearby firing range. I still carry a scar on one finger from lifting a rocket off the trolley to load onto the wing with a fellow armourer, when he let the concrete head slip and the tail fin that I was holding shot out of my hand and then came down trapping my finger on the trolley. The fin neatly sliced my finger through to the bone. At the medical centre the wound was stitched without an anaesthetic of any kind. Very painful.

Thinking back, the runway at Sharjah must have been extremely short as the aircraft always used their tail chutes on landing. We did have one incident where a pilot activated his chute before actually touching down. Fortunately he landed OK but there was damage to the undercarriage due to the heavy impact. The pilot concerned left the squadron within days and it was rumoured that he had lost his nerve. I don’t think that was the only incident involving that particular pilot.

As with Aden and Bahrain, each day was an early working start which finished around lunch time due to the heat. The afternoons were generally spent dozing on our beds after a few lunch time beers in the YMCA - ready to start in earnest in the evenings. There were the occasional ‘outings’ via a three-ton open backed truck. One such trip was to a medieval fort some way out into the desert. En-route we came across an Arab with his young daughter wanting a lift to some further point on the sand road. We picked them up and they joined us in the back of the truck. We had a local Arab with us (a guide?) who talked with our new passengers. After a few minutes the conversation became quite animated and eventually the guide shouted down into the cab for the driver to stop. Having done so he then shouted at the father indicating that they were to get off. We all sat there totally bemused. When we finally set off again without them he explained that the father was on his way to sell his daughter at some town. Some of the chaps were all for going back to lynch him. Some miles further on we came across a village of sorts along side a small hill with a stone tower on top. The village seemed to be totally deserted - just numerous goats wandering around. We then spotted someone at the base of the tower so made our way up the hill. It turned out to be an extremely old and totally toothless villager complete with an ancient blunderbuss-style rifle. Our guide talked with him and it appeared that all the women and children were in the mud huts hiding from us whilst the men were away fighting some timeless feud with another village. Unbelievable but apparently true. Welcome (again) to another world.

Air display - Khormaksar

The display concept was to start with two Hunters from 8 Squadron virtually nose diving towards one end of the runway, opposite to where we were standing, breaking the sound barrier as they came down. A further Hunter was to streak along the runway from the opposite end also breaking the sound barrier on its run. The three aircraft would then pass each other as they travelled in opposite directions. We stood and watched as the two Hunters descended at high speed from quite some altitude. Both broke the ‘barrier’ providing the desired effect but for some totally unknown reason, whilst one aircraft pulled out of its nose dive the other did not. It crashed in an appalling fireball on an Arab army camp on the opposite side of the runway. A young, twenty-one year old pilot lost his life. Absolutely tragic and a sight I hope never to experience again in my life. The show went on but nobody really had any heart to watch it properly.