Unlike Swinderby, none of us was killed at Valley although I don't know why. At this stage, with only about 100 hours solo to our names, flying together in two-seat Vampire T11s the temptations were countless. On one sortie I was accompanied by Barrie Tonkinson who later tested Harriers for HSA at Dunsfold. At 40,000 ft he spotted a Valley instructor leading a pair of students - not real pilots like us, you understand - as they popped up through the cloud tops at 15,000 ft. To a pair of fighter-pilots-in-waiting they were just asking to be bounced.

The dive plus the flash past underneath and pull up in front of them, doubtless achieved the aim of startling the formation, but it also overstressed our aircraft, broke an engine bearing and left the poor old DH Goblin with no alternative but to shake and quit. Being above total cloud cover, over the Welsh mountains, and with limited standby instruments and no means of navigation, in a gliding jet might have bothered an experienced crew. But we just got some steers towards base, established ourselves in the overhead, spiralled down, broke cloud on the downwind leg, kept our speed up on the runway, cleared neatly on to the taxiway and got out to await a lift. Clearly there was a Being of greater ability that Duncan Sandys looking after the future of RAF pilots. Not surprising when you think about it.

After a short while the Wing Commander Flying drove up in his Landrover. He asked what the trouble was and we replied "The engine, sir." He did not say a word, got a broom out of the back of the Landrover and pushed the handle into the air intake. When he found the engine would not turn he remarked "Well done chaps" and without further words gave us a lift back to the squadron offices. Later the "well done chaps" was retracted when the instructor we had bounced returned in quite an unpleasant frame of mind.

However, some of us did eventually make the Hunter conversion course at Chivenor. We went straight on to Mk4 Hunters as there were no two-seaters in those days. After the Vampire it seemed like a space ship to us. With hindsight it was akin to passing your driving test and then being given a Formula 1 racing car to drive. Three months later six of us were told we had passed the course. Then things really went wrong.
    Nine months after the White Paper the RAF had decided that only permanent commission (PC) pilots would be posted to the 'dying' fighter squadrons. There were two PC chaps among our six so off they went to Hunters, while the remaining four of us were posted to ground jobs. I cannot begin to describe just what a blow that ground posting was to us. For two years we had struggled. against seemingly impossible odds, to satisfy our instructors only to be grounded by a politician. We had studied, we had marched, and we had flown; we had done everything asked of us. That even included walking through a village knocking on doors and getting permission to enter people's gardens to pick up pieces of wrecked Vampire after one of us was killed on a solo sortie. We did not deserve this ground tour. We had been good enough and determined enough for anything the RAF had asked of us; we deserved to fly.

Our posting was to the Royal Radar Establishment (RRE) at Malvern. In those days Fighter Command, to whom we now belonged, was struggling with the problem of how to defend the UK from supersonic dash bombers using subsonic Hunters. One idea was to fly a Hunter towards an incoming bomber on a parallel track, offset to the side of the threat, then, when the bomber was still some miles away, turn the fighter in towards its track and hope to get a shot at it as it momentarily crossed in front. For such a manoeuvre to succeed the fighter had to be displaced to the side by just the right amount and turn in at just the right moment along a very precise curved path. Only then would the target pass across the fighter's nose within range of its guns; say between 100 and 500 yards. Furthermore, the interception pattern depended on the bomber's speed and altitude.

To see if this would work a trials unit was set up at Malvern using an experimental ground controlled interception station called Z Block. In one room was the fighter controller with his radar display and lots of transparent sheets (called overlays) on which were drawn various combinations of bomber and fighter tracks for different speed and height cases. In another room was a technician able to 'fly' a simulated bomber across the controller's screen.

When the controller saw an incoming 'raid' he had to select and alert a UK fighter base so that a fighter, 'flown' from that location by another technician in another room, could be scrambled. When the fighter blip appeared on his radar the controller had to choose the best overlay, slap it on his screen and talk the blip along the path given on the overlay.

When the interception was a success that was fine, but when it failed the RRE boffins needed to know why. Had the controller used the wrong overlay, scrambled the fighter too soon or too late, or issued the wrong instructions to the fighter? Perhaps the fighter pilot had not 'flown' accurately enough or the bomber pilot had not kept to his brief. These matters were left for an observer to judge. After watching a few interceptions it was easy to spot what had gone wrong and any junior NCO could have done the task. The trouble was Fighter Command had none of those to spare, but it did have plenty of new Pilot Officers without a job. Like Ken Cooper, Maurice Harvey, Mac McLaughlan and me.

We lived in a local hotel; the Hornyold Arms. Because the trial had a high priority we worked shifts involving weekends, evenings and nights, which meant we often had time off during the day and in the middle of the week. None of this luxury lifestyle was the slightest compensation for not flying; not the slightest.

One day Mac had to go to Barnstaple Magistrates Court to sort out a little matter involving his Austin Healey 2000 car when we were in Chivenor. After his court business was done he paid a visit to our old instructors and found the station had 84 Hunters and very few students, so clearly all the flying one could wish for awaited anybody posted to Chivenor. When Mac got back we talked long into the night about how such a posting might be arranged. I can't remember who first mooted the idea that our salvation lay in the offices of Fighter Command Headquarters at Bentley Priory, but the more we considered this the more certain we became. It was time to plan.

We needed to nose around Headquarters but having no invitation what would be the best time? On RAF stations Wednesday afternoons were traditionally taken up with sport - a perversion as far as real aviators were concerned - and so the number of people minding the shop was greatly reduced. Wednesday afternoon had to maximise our chances.

The next Wednesday Mac and I set off for Bentley Priory in his Austin Healey. As we drove I don't think either of us had a clear idea of what we were looking for, but what we found was an office that contained two Flight Lieutenants, one responsible for day-fighter postings, the other for night-fighters. From there on it was all down hill. While the day fighter guy was busy getting an early lunch before playing sport (ha!) we listened sympathetically to the night-fighter man explaining about his awful ground job and how he had to spend his hours filling in terrible posting forms - like these - when he really should have been flying. When he left for lunch we bade him farewell in the car park. As his car disappeared round the corner it took only a moment to pop back to the now empty office, put four names on the appropriate day-fighter paperwork, and leave a deserted building.

The following week our boss at Malvern came to see us. He was very cross. He would never understand the RAF; we had been posted. Just as he had got us trained and doing a useful job. Posted. It was ridiculous. We pulled long faces and muttered "Oh no, not really sir!" and added how much we loved working for him on such an important job, to say nothing of living in the Hornyold Arms. The 1957 batch of RADA students could have done no better. Ten days later we were airborne at Chivenor.

Three weeks after that the Wing Commander flying stood up at the end of Met Briefing, read out our four names and said "Together in the Station Commander's Office at nine o'clock, and don't take your caps off." What followed was just like a scene from a 'B' movie. We stood in line, at attention, while the Station Commander continued to work, head down, with papers on his desk. He gave no indication that he even knew we were in the room. Eventually, after what seemed an age, he looked us up and down and reading from a piece of paper slowly spoke our names.

We stood in silence - going sixpence, half a crown and dustbin lid - while he stared at us. "Well, is that YOU?" We each just managed a "Yes sir." He intoned that he had reason to believe that we had interfered with Her Majesty's posting process and finished by barking "Have you got anything to say for yourselves?!" "No sir" came out four times, followed by more silence and more staring. Finally he spoke again. "Well I have......It's the best thing I've heard of since the war. Would you like to go to Hunter squadrons?

We all owe that man. It happened for us because the Group Captain behind the desk was a WW II commander, a man who understood that what matters above all to a fighting service is the motivation of its troops; and we were motivated.    
The rest, as they say, is history. Mac eventually finished up training British Airways 747 Captains; Maurice went on to become the one-star in charge of the whole RAF air traffic control system; Ken did his time on Hunters and was last seen in Hollyhead with a collection of old MGs and young Welsh dolly birds; while I got a day job testing for Hawkers.