RAF ABU SUEIR 1947-48

As Remembered By Terry Haynes

'THOSE RIFLES & GUARD DUTY AT ABU SUEIR'

When my name appeared on orders to report at the armoury at 9 am one morning for a spot of rifle instruction I decided to attend the morning parade. It was handy to the armoury, it would be over before nine and I would be sure to be in time.

It may have seemed straightforward enough but taking the parade was an officer who did the RAF no credit whatsoever. His appearance should have warned me – podgy face, steel-rimmed glasses and shaven head from what we could see of it – Sqdn/Ldr Saunders would have looked more at home in a quite different uniform. Having walked along the ranks he chose the one I was in to have everyone’s name taken for a haircut, so when the parade was dismissed twenty or thirty of us were delayed for that process.

My day had hardly begun. Arriving at a new school, place of work, or RAF station you very soon learn the names of persons to avoid if possible. At Abu Sueir that reputation had up to now been shared by two sergeants – Gane and Russell. So far I had met neither of them.

Outside the armoury when I eventually arrived was a sergeant with half a dozen lads who had already been issued with rifles. My excuse for being late wasn’t believable – he knew the parade had finished some time ago and could see I didn’t need a haircut, and said “Go and get a rifle and see me afterwards”. I think I was aware that this was Sergeant Gane – a real veteran in appearance, bronzed and about 35-40 years of age.

What happened next could have been right out of a Will Hay sketch. An airman approached from the direction of the parade ground in no apparent hurry. As he neared us Sgt Gane stopped talking and we all waited for the newcomer. Without a word he passed us by – just a casual look that said he’d done all this before, and all eyes followed his progress to the armoury. There was a time bomb ticking away in our midst but it waited until he had drawn a rifle, sauntered back to us and joined our little circle. He seemed genuinely surprised and rocked back on his heels when Sgt Gane asked him what he thought he was playing at. To my relief he did manage to blurt out under the onslaught about the haircut nonsense, so backing up my story.

We could now begin with the rifle instruction. Our Sergeant was going to demonstrate the correct way to remove the magazine from the rifle. We watched closely – the correct grip, pressure applied at the right place and “on no account let it get dirty”. I knew what was coming next. He looked around his pupils and I was invited to step into the circle and show how it was done. There was no worry – nothing could go wrong – I had watched too closely for that. The correct grip, etc …. but that magazine just wouldn’t budge. I had been given a faulty rifle – and it would not be the last time. I tried hard enough but it was jammed. I lost patience, put the rifle across my knee and tried my own method. It worked a treat – the magazine suddenly came free; flew out of my hand and landed several feet away. I picked it up, emptied the sand out of it and gave it a clean with my handkerchief. I didn’t dare look up.

But Mr. Gane was out of words. Speechless, he held out his hand for my rifle. The magazine back in place, he would go through the process again. Was there no end to the fun today? Our Sergeant’s face went through all the shades of greens, reds and blues as he struggled as I had done with that reluctant magazine. He did at last succeed according to the book but I don’t think we learned much about the rifle that morning.

After handing in the rifle I went up to him. By this time he had his thoughts on a quiet half hour in the sergeants mess and he knew I had been an innocent victim of the gremlins. “That’s all right, off you go” he said. Despite the reputations I found both Sergeants Gane and Russell in my dealings with them to be decent enough chaps.

“Halt, who goes there?” It was not long after lights out and most of us were still awake. The challenge came from the guard on number five beat which included the Station Flight grounds. It was not unusual to hear the occasional challenge but what came next was. It was quickly followed by “Halt, or I fire”. Several voices in the billet supplied their own sound effects but simultaneously came the sound of a real rifle shot. There was an uneasy silence for a minute or two and then someone ventured out to see what was going on. As far as we could find out the officer on his rounds hadn’t heard the challenges but they had been very loud and clear. It was an odd business.

No doubt about that rifle being in good working order. I seemed to have mixed fortunes with the ones I drew from the armoury. One evening we guards had assembled and armed ourselves and were waiting in our three ranks for the orderly officer to come and inspect. He was a young fellow on that occasion and as usual we had to “port arms for inspection” which meant holding the rifle diagonally in front of us and pulling back the bolt. As he passed by the bolt rattled a few times and then pushed home. This was where my second duff rifle came in – the bolt would not go back in place. I kept trying and the orderly officer was leaving the rear rank and returning to his place at the front …. he was turning to face us. One last desperate shove and I brought the rifle down to my side. The bolt fell to the ground. Someone behind me laughed as I stooped quickly and put it into my trouser pocket.

I was near the end of the middle rank and the orderly officer and myself had an unobstructed view of each other and I swear a smile flickered across his face. When we reached the guard hut I tried the bolt again and found that by moving – I think it was the safety catch – the bolt would stay put – not correctly but at least it wouldn’t fall out. The problem was – should I report it and quite likely find myself on a charge or keep quiet about it. So, of course, I said nothing. When we dismissed at six in the morning, I handed in the rifle and disappeared rapidly in the direction of breakfast. I wonder if they tried it on anyone else or whether it was a genuine mechanical fault.

Fifteen of us shared guard duty in any one night. The perimeter fence was divided into five beats and we drew lots for first (6-8 and 12-2), second (8-10 and 2-4) and third 10-12 and 4-6) shifts. I never seemed to mind guard duties – there would be usually someone new to chat with. We no longer had the German POW’s with us but sometimes one of the villagers would accompany us – armed with a stick, but as more often then not they were elderly it was probably to help them get along.

On this particular night I had completed my first tour round and was dozing on my bed in the guard hut. Somewhere through the haze of sleep came a sound very much like a rifle shot. Take no notice, all part of the dream. Then there came the sound of running feet and the guard room door was flung open. “Turn out the guard” came the shout. My thoughts at that moment were on the lorry that took us to and from our beats. We would be “sitting” targets under the lights; standing in the back of it. Someone shook me, “Come on, turn out”, so I grabbed my rifle and followed the others. As we emerged into the night the guard sergeant had a sudden thought “Somebody had better stay behind with the telephone”. I had come through the door last and was strategically placed. “Right sergeant”, and before anyone could move I was behind the desk.

The lads come back after 20 minutes or so. It seemed that a trainload of trigger-happy Egyptian soldiers moving up to the front had fired on our searchlight as they passed. No damage was done but with Israel’s Arab neighbours all moving in to attack her these were not the happiest of times in the Middle East.

There had been a change tried out in the guard system with the camp being divided into five sections and not patrolled along the perimeter. We soon knew all the best hiding places in each sector and the orderly officer on his rounds was never able to find anybody, so the old way was soon reverted to.

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NOVEMBER 5th 1947
BONFIRE NIGHT AT ABU SUEIR

We are celebrating the 5th of November once again this year. Last year I was on guard that night and only saw everything from a distance as we leaned on the airfield gate on number five beat watching the show with my German companion who asked me what it was all about. I explained to him about Guy Fawkes and the plot to blow up parliament and, as the story unfolded, he was interested but certainly bewildered.

This year I am taking part in the celebrations. There are prizes for the best “Guy” of each section. The prizes are a football, free seats for everyone at a play, and, third, a crate of beer. There’s going to be a grand firework display and a torchlight procession lead by the station band.

We have made out “Guy” and what a guy!! If it doesn’t take first prize it will be a good one that does. Nobody has failed to recognize it yet, not even the flight commander (it’s a dead copy of him so he should). I shall be glad when the thing is burnt, it’s far too lifelike! We took a selection of snaps of it and even got his nibs to pose with it. He didn’t say anything when he first saw it but we got twenty minutes drill from him early yesterday morning, doubling round the hangar and all. It was certainly worth it.

The “Guy” won second prize and we got a football. The first prize winners chose the crate of beer so we didn’t have any choice. The other guys were all very good, there wasn’t much to choose between any of them but ours got the most laughs, it was recognized by all.

They did one stupid thing and that was lighting the bonfire before the guys were on it. With 100 gallons of oil on it the fire went up so fiercely it was impossible to get near enough to throw the guys right on it. We didn’t burn the plane part of it – it didn’t seem right to destroy it so we gave it to some of the kids, and were they pleased!

It was unlikely that there would have been any harsh retaliation from Flight Lieutenant Panter regarding the guy, but only my friend Les and myself were in a position to feel really confident about that. Les had use of a studio and our flight commander occasionally made us of it to entertain his lady friends, obtaining the key from Les. I was the only one who Les told about this but we regarded it as a useful piece of insurance

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