ADVENTURES IN WESTERLAND. Pt1.

By Mike Stanley.Armourer


For those of you who have not experienced the delights of air firing at RAF Sylt here are some facts about that Fantasy Island. It is situated at 54°.54N 8°.20E, and is shaped like the letter T tilted on its side, with the shank of the T pointing towards the mainland of Europe, to which it is connected by the Hindenburgdamm, a 11km causeway with a railway line on top. The rail link brings vehicles across to the island on flat wagons to the main town of Westerland. In the winter the shallow water between Sylt and mainland often freezes, and vehicles are able to drive across the frozen ice. At least that is the story, probably an urban myth.

My first visit was during January/February of 1959, when accompanying No 256 Sqn and their rather elderly Meteor NF11s. I went by rail, a long boring journey that Ive almost forgotten, other than being told to get a haircut by the snotty nosed pipsqueak of a Pilot Officer who was in charge of the rail party. I remember we changed trains at Hamburg, and were told that we would be feasting on steak and chips when eventually, at about 3 am, we arrived at our destination.

No one can accuse me of being a faddy eater. I spent several years at a boarding school where, if served, I would have eaten a scabby cat, but even I couldn't eat the food given us on arrival. I will admit that the steak, which had probably been hewn from the flank of a cart horse well past its prime, was well cooked, extremely well cooked. I could have used it to sole my boots if called on to march back to Geilenkirchen. The chips beggared belief. They were slightly brown, well more of an off-white rather than slightly brown, and in a bundle, so they resembled a ball of knitted worms - I can't remember what they tasted like but certainly not Cordon Bleu, probably more like Gordon Bennett!

This was an introduction to the level of culinary expertise as practised in the RAF Sylt cook house, which I believe was shared between RAF and Belgian Army cooks. More of this anon. Sylt had been used as a seaplane base by the Luftwaffe during the Second World War, and the accommodation dated from that time. It was the first, and so far the only, time I have seen triple glazed windows; for although Sylt is on a similar latitude as that of Hartlepool (where they hung the monkey) it is at least 3 overcoats colder - especially in winter, and is the only place where I have experienced the phenomena of freezing fog co-existing with a keen, very fresh, biting wind. The island is little more than an overgrown sandbank, with no trees to shelter from the wind that comes sweeping in from the North Sea, and as previously mentioned in an earlier article in the Journal, Michael Q and I nearly expired with the cold when we foolishly walked into Westerland the second day we were on the island.

Whoever it was who sent the squadron to Sylt in the middle of winter for air-to-air firing must have had a sense of humour, or no sense whatever. The freezing fog was a permanent weather feature for the first week or two of our stay; however, before being dispatched from Geilenkirchen to face the rigours of the sub-Arctic temperatures, I had been issued with a pair of Wellington boots and matching sea-boot socks. A white stick, a seeing dog, and a fog horn might have been a better choice of equipment.

Eventually the fog cleared and air-to-air firing could commence.

The target drogues were towed by aircraft (Meteor MK 8s I believe) of the Belgique air force. There was, probably, a base rumour that because Belgian pilots were such awful shots no other air force would tow the drogues when the Belgian Air Force arrived for air firing, and so the Belgiques had to tow for their own squadrons, and were subsequently nominated to be the target towers for all visiting squadrons. Of course it could be that the Belgians were so brave they were the only ones willing to be shot at.

A target drogue accommodated, if that is the correct word, two pairs of aircraft per sortie - I can't remember how many other RAF sqns were at Sylt at the same time as 256, at least one other I would think, and there was definitely a German squadron - which gave me a quite a turn when I saw an aircraft with iron crosses on the fuselage taxi past the squadron pan - the Luftwaffe!!

Each of the four aircraft firing at the drogue had their rounds tipped in a different colour so that hits could be recorded against each individual aircraft/squadron. There was a prestigious award; the 2nd Allied Tactical Air Force Duncan Cup for Air-to-Air Gunnery, presented to the sqn with the highest percentage of hits, so you can see how vitally important it was that the person given the awesome task of painting was up to the job. Step forward AC2 Tedder, Armament Assistant, or Ted the Tipper as he was known. The NF11 carried 4 guns, and for air-firing each gun was loaded with a belt of 50 rounds of 20mm ball ammunition. Ted would paint the tip of each of the 200 rounds per aircraft in the colour allocated. Armourers are not colour blind, which is why such an important task was allocated to a lowly gun plumber, and not a painter and doper.

After all those days of sitting on the deck doing nothing, other than chanting that well known Viking plea to the Gods: "Odin, send the wind to turn the tide -- and blow this effing fog away", the Sqn flew extra sorties to catch up on the time lost, which made the turn round time of rearming and refuelling critical.

I am not going to bore you with the intricacies of rearming a Meteor NF11, mainly because I can't remember all, or any, of the details. Suffice it to say that the plumbers would leap onto the wings, as the aircraft taxied into the squadron pan, and open the ammo tanks and gun bays (both situated in the wings) before getting to work with our plumber magic to have the aircraft fully rearmed by the time the aircrew had got out of the cockpit - I don't recall there ever being a gun stoppage during that detachment.

Ted the Tipper's abilities encompassed more than just his artistic skill. He was the only man on the squadron, well at least in the squadron armoury, who could light and operate a 5 pint brazing lamp, which was crucial for the most important job on the line - that of brewing tea for the armourers. He carried out the brewing in the back of a Magirus Deutz 3 tonne vehicle, as there was nowhere else suitable. Unfortunately one morning Ted caught the vehicle on fire; nothing too serious, just charred and smoking wooden flooring. Well it wouldn't have been too serious if he didn't also do his tipping in the back of the same vehicle, and had upwards of 1000 rounds of 20mm ammo stored alongside his tea making apparatus. As can be imagined, when the powers-that-be discovered the juxtaposition of Ted's two skills the proverbial hit the fan. Great consternation, and no more brewing up in the back of a vehicle - the plumbers had to queue for the NAAFI wagon like the rest of the squadron.

A short discourse on the grub served us at Sylt:

If we thought the abomination presented to us on arrival was a one off - it was an ungodly hour to expect the duty cook to serve up something that Egon Ronay would slaver over - we found that it was par for the course (an unintended pun). If I put my hand on my heart I cannot actually recall what the food was really like, I just remember that all those posted to Sylt, and all those detached to Sylt, complained about it. I also recall that there was always a pile of Danish cheese, and fresh bread, on the tables at lunch, which was consumed in preference of having the cooked meal. It may have been a Service myth that during an AOC's inspection at Sylt the great man arrived in the airmen's mess to find it empty, and piles of plates with uneaten food on the servery. Heads rolled, and the food improved - but as I say it maybe just one of those stories that did the rounds.

I headed this article 'Adventures in Westerland' but on that first trip I made to Sylt, except for the walk down to town that nearly ended the same way as Scott of the Antarctic for Michael and me, I don't recall ever taking the risk again. I do remember that a trip to Hamburg was organised. I was looking forward to experiencing the cultural highlights of the city, but was taken to the cleaners in a card game a few days before the trip, which left me 'brassic', and disappointed. It was probably just as well as I was assured that the Reeperbhan would have been too great a shock for someone having my sheltered and cosseted upbringing.

The rail journey back to Geilenkirchen was as memorable as the outward journey, and even had the same snotty nosed pipsqueak Pilot Officer again ordering me to get a haircut. We had been at Sylt for the best part of six week - my hair grew swiftly in those days.

To be continued.