Tales from Halton

Stories and anecdotes from the 69th's time at RAF Halton, between 1951 and 1954. Dates shown refer to when the story appeared in the 69th Association's newsletter.

Rat of the Week, by Barrie Curtis (Engines) - July 2004

Aircraft Apprentices from 91st Entry, 1st School of Technical Training at RAF Halton work on rebuilding a Messerschmitt Me 163B 'Komet' rocket-powered aircraft for the Science Museum © IWM (RAF-T 2663)"Who wants a pork pie?" I enquired. A nervous digit or two poked the atrocity before heads were shaken. "I think its gone critical", suggested the ginger item, "it definitely twitched". "Throw it at somebody" piped up the tough in the corner.

It was end of term for the 69th. We had marched down to Wendover's little station and embarked on the train to London. In the mad scramble for a seat I tumbled into the last compartment already infested with the sturdy 69th. As was traditional since probably before Mafeking, we unwound toilet rolls and Christmas decorations so they now streamed from the train and made a brave and tasteful show as we chugged through the beautiful Bucks countryside. A caring Air Force had issued each of us with a brown paper bag from the cookhouse containing apples, oranges etc, and of course a large pork pie of leathery but suspect composition.

"He couldn't hit a barn door" someone scoffed. Well this was a challenge that the Curtis pride could not ignore.

We approached a station. In the distance, on the platform end across a long curve, we could see a railway employee leaning on a broom and probably dreaming of his Hornby train set. "He will do" exclaimed the tough, "throw it at him". The window was lowered, space made for my mighty throwing arm, and rapidly calculating triangle of velocities, the wind and very possibly a few Cartesian co-ordinates, I let fly.

The pie flew in an impressive parabola to land squarely on the chest of the dreamy toiler. He vanished behind a cloud of pork pie fragments.

As I leant out of the train with my jaw sagging in disbelief, he emerged from his meaty miasma, to be seen jumping up and down and vigorously shaking his fists. My back was pummelled in congratulations by my colleagues.

Soon however I considered my position. It is my sad experience in life that retribution follows such occasions. I imagined telephone lines going red hot and cars pouring out of Scotland Yard with bells ringing (in those days).

At Baker Street station I shot out of the train like a cork from a well shaken champagne bottle and doubled back over bridges and through dark, damp passages before emerging into daylight. If ever you saw the old film "The Third Man"; where Harry Lime was chased through the Vienna sewers to his death, you can imagine the scene. It was just like that. I hurried off to Charing Cross Station with a haunted expression on my chops.

A popular Sunday paper had a feature at the time entitled "Rat of the Week", recounting questionable deeds that had come to the public notice. On my return to Halton, my bedside locker had a number of newspaper cuttings stuck to it. I peered at them. It was just as I feared.