Out of the Blue is the well considered title for an Air Force autobiography. The working blue and best blue uniforms of the RAF airmen symbolise their everyday events and the social and adventure highlights of RAF life, not forgetting of course the blue of the sky.

Written in an easy style the book charts the progress of George Edwards from ‘erk’ to experienced airman and SNCO and latterly an Air Cadet squadron commander. In all ranks and in his many different employment and social experiences his enthusiasm and commitment shines through. I knew the author as a clean cut, equable, sporting young man. I did not appreciate the depth of his life experiences then and could not imagine his subsequent career and altruistic attainments; culminating in the award of the British Empire Medal on completion his RAF service. It is a fascinating portrait of the man and his first career and will stir memories for servicemen/women everywhere. It will make civilians who thought about enlisting wish they had 'Taken the Shilling' and with his revelations about sand, sea and sex I would expect armed forces recruiting offices to be inundated with enquiries.

In common with the author I served as a Fireman in the Royal Air Force. However, a bit prior too and a bit after (1953-1990). We were both stationed at RAF Brize Norton but never met and were stationed together at RAF Gutersloh. I now know he passed through Aden on his way to Masirah and later Mombassa. When I was up to my neck in muck and bullets at RAF Khormakser (Aden) he was on his way to Mombassa for a period of "rest and recuperation" (booze and debauchery more like it).

Reading this fascinating tale I recognised many mutual places, people and postings. I did a spell on recruiting duties, tours in Germany and the Gulf and the almost mandatory Falklands detachment. I also did my recruit training on the Wirral (RAF West Kirkby) not a million miles from the authors Liverpool home. George refers to the Grafton Rooms where he met the future Mrs Edwards. Together with the Tower Ballroom in New Brighton, the Grafton Rooms was a regular haunt for servicemen of the day. It was the start of the Teddy Boy era and because of the bad reputation for trouble the door keepers at the Grafton measured the length of their drape jackets to decide if they were a Teddy Boy and therefore unfit to enter. In any case, I suspect the velvet drain pipe trousers and thick crepe sole shoes (brothel creepers) were a dead give-away. The other essential ingredient was the hair, slicked back into a centre parting at the back called the DA (Ducks Ass). RAF recruits were not allowed to wear civilian clothes so the Best Blue and short back and sides always gained us entry.

I undertook my recruit training during the winter of 1953/54 and I remember it being very cold. As I headed back to camp one evening, to keep out the bitter Mersey wind, I turned up my collar on my greatcoat uniform. No sooner done than I was accosted by two 'Snowdrops' (RAF Policemen) and promptly charged with being improperly dressed. Two days later I was ‘arraigned’ before my Flight Commander. He accepted my plea that I did not know that turning up my collar was wrong but he was duty bound to punish me, in some way. I was quite a good cross country runner in those days and to teach me a lesson he said I would not be allowed to run for RAF West Kirkby against RAF Bridgnorth on the coming Saturday. As intimated this was a bitter winter and the punishment was timely in the extreme. Instead of turning out in running kit I was able to attend a football match, at Anfield, (complete with greatcoat) and I remember Liverpool were playing Blackpool, Stanley Matthew’s and all. As a neutral I remained strictly unbiased and chanted throughout “Come on the Pool”

Unlike George I never played sport to an appreciable level but I thoroughly enjoyed watching service sport and supported my colleagues in sport were possible. When I was the WO in charge of RAF West Drayton Fire section, I supervised a Welsh Corporal fireman who was of national standard in throwing the discus. I managed to change rosters and arrange cover for his duties whilst he participated in sport. I noticed one day that his hair was very long and told him to get it cut. “But Sir my long hair helps me blend in to the civilian environment at the sports events”. “Get it cut” I said but he countered in his rich welsh accent “but Sir if I get it cut my Yers stick out”. I told him I could live with sticky out ears and off to the barbers he went. Talking about barbers in my youth barbers used to be the only source of condoms or French letters, as they were known then. However, newly married and returning home on leave to Hull I had not got anything for the weekend. I had a long wait for a train in Birmingham and was delighted to find a large Boots Chemist open. As I waited nervously in the enormous queue my turn came to step forward and I blurted out, “a packet of durex please”? The sales assistant, a rather prim woman, was not impressed and obviously full of disdain or envy for my prospective licentiousness and said rather grandly and loudly, “Boots the chemist has a catholic ownership, which does not condone the sale of such items” and off I slinked. In those awkward days there was a young man who said to a lady chemist, " A packet of three please Miss". "Don’t you Miss me young man" she replied icily. " OK" said the young man, "a packet of four please".

Like the author and all those who are aspiring to be or are fire fighters, there is a vision of ‘Going to Blazes’ everyday, but that is not the case. Serious incidents, thankfully, are becoming increasingly rare in the RAF but, during the 1950/60’s, aircraft crashes were quite frequent. This was in part due to the age of many of the aircrew who were mainly ex wartime and still a bit Gung Ho. Modern technology, flight safety, health and safety and the myriad of bureaucracy was in its infancy. There was also still an attitude of, ‘Kick the tyres and Light the fires’ and aircrew tended to press on regardless if the aircraft was unserviceable or the weather was unfit to fly.

I can relate to the author’s experiences of mind numbing routine and listening to old firemen as they related horrible details of ‘Prangs’ they had attended and of mangled and charred human remains they had removed from crashed aircraft. Perversely, it was with some relief to be blooded in this gruesome experience. The memory of my first prang still remains vivid in my memory, fifty years after the event. A Vampire crash in a paddy field in the Hong Kong hinterland and lifting the remaining body parts out of what was left of the cockpit is something I shall never forget. In those days, of course, we were not allowed to be traumatised.

However, George’s book is not about prangs its about the humour and the reality of the airman’s way of life. Comradeship, sense of belonging and responsibility that brings out the best in the individual. Throughout the chapters the humour prevails and with each chapter comes a that reminds me. George makes reference to RAF Gutersloh and one of his old crew chiefs, Tom Dolman. Tom was a very good friend of mine and one fine day Tom, Warrant Officer Jack Morrell, the Senior Air Traffic Controller (SATCO) and myself were on the top floor of the RAF Gutersloh fire section looking across towards the airfield. Tom was a Derbyshire man and an ex farmer I believe. He had lived in face and forthright manner; human sensibilities were not part of his management style. A very likeable man and truly one of the most unforgettable characters you would ever meet. Tom noticed a fire vehicle on the far side of the airfield, which, as crew commander, he should have been aware of, but obviously was not. “What’s that poxy fire truck doing over there”? he exclaimed. “What truck”? asked the SATCO. “That poxy Mk7” replies Tom and continues. “Your eyesight must be bad Sir if you can’t see that, you must have played with yourself when you were a boy”. All present, except of course Tom, stood agog as he continued. “Do you know sir I never played with myself till I was twenty-three, I used to get my brother to do it for me”.

The book has caused me to look back and recall the many deeds and the many characters that have contributed to the development and history of the fireman trade, in the RAF. Years ago RAF firemen were called upon to undertake a host of unrelated tasks. I remember for instance being called upon by the station Warrant Officer at RAF Wellesbourne Mountford (circa 1958) ordering me to bring my ladder place it against the station 'Flag Pole' and measure its height from the ground. I pointed out that there was a mechanism to lower the flagpole and it could be lowered to the horizontal position and then measured. He looked at me as if I was out on day release from the local Funny Farm and rasped “Corporal I want to know its height not its bleeding length”. It was rumoured that the same SWO was present at a Sergeants’ Mess meeting where it was proposed that the mess purchase an expensive chandelier to enhance the Mess entrance. Its all very well spending all this money he declared but who can play one.

Nowadays, as so aptly recorded in George’s story, the RAF Fire service has moved on. Its men (women as well these days) and machines are amongst the finest to be found in any fire-fighting organisation. I suspect that similar situations to those experienced by the author continue to this day, in fire crew rooms, around the world. As for me, I was back in the crew room again, picturing all the disparate characters, which make up any fire crew. Each with there own hopes and aspirations, abilities and failings yet all able to change from dormant inactivity to controlled action in an instance.

All this is so aptly encapsulated in the author’s description of working on the short landing strip that was RAF Stanley in the South Atlantic. Imagine operating in the dark with a face numbing Antarctic wind chill recovering jet aircraft with the engines running (speech impossible) from ice clad runway arresting cables. Speed and accuracy are imperative if the aircraft is to be removed and the cable prepared for the imminent landing of another fast jet or transport aircraft; both at the limit of their endurance, with no diversionary airfield. Only this dangerous situation could give you any idea of the essential mutual support and team work that bonds a fire crew.

I always said I would write a book but George has beat me too it and well done for doing so. I am sure the book will bring pleasure to many, not just firemen, but all those who have an interest in military life or just enjoy a good read. Read on and in parallel with the author recall your own adventure

Steve Davey Warrant Officer RAF Fire Service 1953 -1990