Marlborough News Guide to Christmas 2016

The Christmas I flew to Yemen in a Hercules, by Bob Holman
I was eight years old. It was the
end of Christmas term 1963 at
Millfield School, Somerset. I had
to get to Aden, Yemen.
My parents were stationed
there. Dad taught the Aden
Protectorate Levies - a military
force raised for local defence
and armed and officered by the
British military.
My first task was to get to
London. This was easy, as my
school hired a train each term to
transport many from very sleepy
Castle Cary to Paddington
Station. Not dissimilar to
Hogwarts Express - thinking
back on it – hundreds of boys
and girls, all wearing ‘house’
scarves, ladened down with
sports equipment, metal trunks
and tuck boxes. Out of chaos
we somehow embarked on a
majestic huffing steam train.
Hours later, we finally arrived in
London, piled out of the train
to be met (well most were met)
by parents or guardians. Lots of
hugs and tears from mums.
I wandered off to find a bus
to take me to RAF Northolt –
another long journey, and three
bus changes away, I discovered.
I arrived in torrential rain, to be
faced with a fully camouflaged
Lockheed Hercules – the
tactical transport aircraft and
the workhorse of the RAF’s air
transport fleet.
And mostly asleep, in a windy
hangar, were men of two
armoured car squadrons, plus
their vehicles, ready to board
the same aircraft. I found the
squadron leaders, who seemed
to know about me, who asked
me to join them for a cup of tea,
as the plane was being readied
for flight.
Two hours later we took off. I say
‘took off’ in the loosest possible
way. A Hercules isn’t built for
speed. We seemed to be on
the runway for hours. And the
noise. Oh gosh. Four enormous
turboprops make a whopping
sound at full pitch, straining to
defy gravity. At least it would
be quieter when we finally get
airborne.
Wrong. The brain shattering
noise, and the rattling of
every single rivet
on the plane,
lasted the entire
journey, making
any dialogue
impossible.
If you’re unfamiliar
with this aircraft,
the interior is
designed primarily
for cargo, with
humans being
accommodated
rather reluctantly.
The cargo was parked two
abreast in the middle of the
cavernous inside, with webbing
seating attached along the
entire length of each side of the
fuselage.
Food was handed out in
cardboard ‘comporation’ boxes.
It was not tasty, but it did a job.
The flight was not comfortable,
but this didn’t seem to bother
my fellow RAF passengers
who seemed capable of going
comatose at will.
So, three days later – yes, it took
that long – we arrived at our
destination. After many landings
and take-offs, repairs and
pilot change-overs, we finally
bumped into a very dusty Aden.
I’d hardly slept all journey, but
with blinking eyes due to the
scorching sunshine, I staggered
down the unloading ramp at the
back of the plane, before the
vehicles were driven off.
I made my way to a little hut with
a hand-painted sign: ‘Welcome
to Aden’. Still with trunk and
tuck box I went into the tin
building – to see a crowd of
people huddled around a prone
body.
My mother had passed out from
the heat! And so my Christmas
holiday started.