The RAF’s revenge

The RAF’s revenge

RAF Broadwell was one of the major glider launch sites for the DDay and Arnhem landings. It’s a place that’s pivotal in the history of the country. 512 and 575 squadrons were based here.

This is one of the many stories I’ve read about Broadwell. It’s about a paratrooper called Harry Lingard:

No. A few derelict buildings. A few on the edge of a stoneworks, screened away from sight. Fields. Now that’s fine, but wouldn’t some recognition for men like Harry Lingard and the thousands of other men who flew as pilots, aircrew and troops from there be appropriate? Now, there are Health & Safety signs and steel shutters, wire fences blocking anyone’s view of the old guardhouses and barracks, where men left, in vast numbers, in rickety wooden gliders to get shot at. Kind of hazardous. But nowadays it seems a few tipper trucks pose more of a threat to life and limb. Bit of perspective, anyone? Trespassers will be, yeah, whatever. The remaining barrack buildings on the north side of the site are used as a dump for the quarrying firm behind the wire gate and HSE notices. “Harry Lingard’s story, like many of his war time colleagues, has remained untold. He was in the 1st Airborne Air Landing Light Reg. R.A and was a Dispatch rider and Signaler. On 18th September 1944 along with four other men, a jeep, a motor bike and ammunition he was loaded into a Horsa glider at R.A.F. Broadwell and towed off behind a Dakota to Arnhem where they had a perfect landing in the dropping zone. On about the third day at Arnhem Harry witnessed the Dakota that was being used to drop the provisions was on fire, nevertheless continued to carry out its mission until the damage was so great it crashed. Harry later learned that for this completed mission the pilot, Flt Lt Lord, was awarded a posthumous V.C. for his bravery.” The bravery of the pilots flying out of Broadwell was quite incredible. So, as a major historical site, at Broadwell today there must be plaques, memorials, signs, that sort of stuff? So I thought I would go and take a look. 21 More than relics left behind at Broadwell

22 The runways in the pictures intersect on the road that now cuts the airfield in two.When I visited first, that’s where I parked my bike –right at the heart of the site. Not a good idea as it turned out. Looking at Broadwell today, it’s hard to believe this is where we launched the most crucial attack of WWII.Now the control tower just stands in the middle of a field while it falls down. Bloody gets in the way of the ploughing – got to go round it, haven’t you? The view over the principal runway is now just the view over a field. Standing in the old tower, you can see the lime in the mortar leeching out, creating stalactites and calcifying the window ledges too. But the RAF still have a few tricks up their gold-braided sleeves, and it’s a brave (stupid) man who wilfully rides a German motorcycle right onto the heart of one of their key bases… If one has any sense. one doesn’t mess with the spirits of a few thousand RAF servicemen. One doesn’t, particularly, thumb one’s nose at them by riding one’s German through-andthrough R1100GS onto the middle of one of their airfields, even if they did technically “leave” in 1947. Sorry, chaps. I suppose I had it coming. So, there I was, parked up and getting in no-one’s way. I took a wander round part of the old peri track, took some pictures and wandered back to the bike. Out to supper with some friends for a birthday that evening. It’s 5 o’clock now and I need to ride home, get a shower and meet them for drinks first. We’re off to Allium in Fairford too, so I’ve been looking forward to it for a while. So it’s with a happy heart at the prospect of a good evening stuffing my face and drinking decent wine that I stroll back to the bike. Key in. Swing leg over saddle. Key to “on”. Press starter. Click. Rats. Somewhere, the spirit of an old LAC was leaning against a hangar, mug of sweet tea in hand, quietly sniggering behind his hand. Click. Sod. Click. Now he was joined by his mates, and they’re all stood around collapsing in gales of laughter. “German bloody engineering – not much bloody good, is it mate?” They had a point. And I was going to be late. So I do what any chap as lucky as me would do in the circumstances. I ring The Fragrant Pip, who’s at home (fortunately), and she comes to rescue me with a set of jump leads. She’s there in quarter of an hour, and so I break out the toolkit (still doubtless watched by sniggering groundcrew from on high somewhere) and set to.Saddle off, side panel off, allen key out, tank up…They must have really started wetting themselves when it began to hack it down with rain. Jump leads on, The Fragrant Pip’s car connected at the other end. Thumb the starter button. Click.

I’m sure I heard sniggering from somewhere, turning into proper belly-laughter. He’s gone and found more of his mates, hasn’t he?

Click.

Damn.

It’s now nearly 6pm and that meal, the enticing bottles of red, are looking less and less likely. So I call the RAC instead, and in ten minutes they send a mechanical angel in the form of one Robert Smith in his van.

What an absolutely TOP bloke. He looks at the bike, does what I’d done again and says,

The ideal place to break down. On a German bike!

“You know what it is mate, don’t you?”

“No, no idea,” I reply.

“S’knackered, innit?”

Superb. We laugh. Really.

He then sets about the bike with a will. I now have the sense that the LACs are enjoying watching a fellow pro at work, nodding approvingly.

Rob decides it’s the starter motor, which is getting pretty hot. So, not one to be beaten, he takes it off and tries to fix it:

Sadly, the Allied starter motor (French, by Valeo) ain’t playing. The magnets are completely shot away. So Rob sticks the knackered starter in a carrier bag and we stash it in one of the panniers.

It’s six forty five. Supper’s looking more remote by the minute.

“Let’s bump it. If we can get enough pace up it’ll fire. You ride – I’ll push.” So that’s what we try to do, heading into the sunset. Bear in mind this is a bike that weighs 243 kg (540 lb). We discover, too, that Broadwell’s west/east runway has a slope. An upward one. So we turn round and try again.

Rob stops after the third attempt – it’s nearly catching, but not quite. And try again, and again, this time with me pushing.

Assembled spiritual groundcrew now rolling around, clutching their sides and weeping with laughter. They’ve got the entire squadron out watching this one and they’re loving it.

Finally, we flag down a passing bloke in a 4×4 who helps us push and the bike catches.

The LACs cheer – they’ve had their laugh and are decent sorts.

Rob follows me home to make sure I get back OK, and a couple of bottles somehow find their way into the cab of his van. Top bloke.

We even make it just in time for drinks and supper… And I make a point of raising a glass to the men of Squadrons 437, 512 and 575 and Rob

23