MY U.S. AIR FORCE FIREFIGHTER’S LIFE AT RAF UPPER HEYFORD, 1992-94
I STOOD FROZEN, ON THE CURBSIDE, WAITING FOR AN ETERNITY…
I waited for my cousin’s husband (and longtime friend) Derek to appear in his white Ford Transit van over the crest of Camp Road, to save me from certain hypothermia. On the pavement with the south gate to my back, I faced the north gate on the opposite side of the road. Both gates were open at this time of evening.
The north gate wound its way past the post office eventually to a secure gate that accessed my future home away from home, the RAF Upper Heyford flight-line.
I watched, hands in jacket pockets, as Air Force personnel and civilians went about their lives on this cold, damp, October evening, 1992. British and American cars, punctuated by olive drab colored U.S. Air Force vehicles, emitted exhaust plumes as they passed the small shop and gate side building across the road. Evenings darkened early in the autumn, and the British street lights bathed the puddles and road in a yellow wash. It was cold. It was damp. It was intoxicating.
THE FORD TRANSIT CHARIOT
The van finally appeared. Leading the charge of evening traffic, Derek swerved left into the south gate and turned as he positioned himself alongside as I was losing feeling in my feet. Without word, Derek popped out of the van with purpose, walked over to me standing ram rod, opened the back Transit doors, threw in my “A” Bag, then lifted me bodily into the back of the vehicle. I stood frozen directly between thousands of pounds worth of kitchen fitters’ tools, as he slammed the doors shut on me. I stood thawing, staring at his 1992 calendar of Kylie Minogue.
These are my first memories of my arrival at Royal Air Force (RAF) Upper Heyford, in Oxfordshire, England, on that autumn evening in 1992. I had stepped off a chartered flight into RAF Mildenhall, and took a bus to Heyford, then walked to the phone box aside the south gate.
I phoned my British cousin Mandy in Eastcote, west London, who phoned Derek who was finishing a kitchen install in Bicester, Oxfordshire. “Stay warm…” she advised, “he will be there in a few hours. He will pick you up at the south gate.”
I had two free days before I was required to “check in” with my “A-Shift” Station Captain Master Sargent Johnson. So, with prior approval, I found myself in a van, with Derek, hurtling south west on the M40, through the Chilterns, reaching their semi-detached home, nestled in the west London suburb, 1 hour later. My arrival wasn’t typical of 99% of Air Force personnel at that time. There was a reason for this.
My mother was British, I was half British – I’m now a dual citizen – and I grew up in Hillingdon, west London, with my British family, including Mandy, from age 4 to 13. I had connections. However, my assignment back to my “mother country” was an act of pure serendipity.
THE LAMENTING CALIFORNIAN
He walked in the room, I glanced up, and in a California twang he lamented, “I can’t leave my girlfriend and dog!” We were the only two that had met that morning to receive our daily base clean up assignments. It was Thursday, in a day room, at the now closed Chanute Air Force Base (AFB), near Rantoul, Illinois.
As two newly minted Airmen fresh from Basic Military Training (BMT) at Lackland AFB, we were not scheduled to begin our Firefighting Academy class until the following monday morning. To keep us busy we were waiting to be picked up by base detail. I naturally commiserated and questioned the poor lad as to why he lamented so. I couldn’t believe his answer.
He had received early orders for his first assignment after Fire School. “They are sending me to ENGLAND” he whined, “I’ll never see my girlfriend, or my dog!” I faked genuine concern, trying to hold back my internal dialogue.
“You got England?” I verified.
“Yes…”
“And that’s bad?” I inquired.
“YES…” He wailed. “RAF Upper Heyford in Oxfordshire, in…ENGLAND.”My mind spun. I had filled my “dream sheet” at Basic Training, with all bases in Great Britain, but my chances as an Airman of a first posting in Europe was slim to none. He didn’t realize the golden opportunity he was dreading.
“I can help.” I reassured the wee man.“If I get an assignment anywhere in the United States, I’ll swap with you. You give me England and you can stay near your girlfriend and dog.” I was on fire. My negotiating skills peaked.
“You would do that?” He blinked unbelieving.
“Absolutely.”
A week passed, we started our Firefighting class, and I received my orders one lunchtime. I opened them with bated breath. I read, Mountain Home AFB, Idaho, USA! I practically yanked him from the dining hall and led him to the Central Processing building.
We sat down with an Administration specialist and signed our assignments over to each other. We officially swapped. The Air Force allowed this because we were identical rank and occupational specialty – Fire Protection Specialist. I couldn’t believe my luck.
I have always believed things happen for a reason, and boy did they. I called Mandy in the United Kingdom. She picked up, I blurted, “I’m coming home for four years!” I called my then wife. “You are going to live in England.”
That’s how I found myself, one month later, an Air Force Fire Protection School Graduate, freezing curbside at the south gate, RAF Upper Heyford.
HEYFORD DAYS, LONDON NIGHTS
A few days later I “checked in” at the base and met my future shift members as I had a flightline Fire Station tour. I met with the Fire Chief; sleeves heavy with stripes – he was an enlisted Chief Master Sargent – I also attended numerous required “briefings” at the North gate headquarters building.
For a week, I commuted with Derek back and forth as he was luckily working nearby. My days were filled with in-processing on base, and evenings cozied up with Mandy and Derek in their home, drinking tea, ordering Fish and Chip take aways and watching television like the classic sit com “One Foot In The Grave” and the then Saturday night British football classic “Match of The Day.” Eventually my wife arrived at London Heathrow, and a few days later, we rented a vehicle and arrived together at the Upper Heyford Housing Office.
FREEZING IN CHARNDON
The housing office posted photographs and rental descriptions on the wall by rank. The base housing list was long and according to rank, so we were allowed one of the listed rentals, approved and paid for by the Air Force, we just needed to visit and choose. We wanted to live in a village off base, so it didn’t take too long for us to find our first British home.
A small ranch style brick house in the tiny village of Charndon, Oxfordshire. We backed onto a field full of sheep and lambs, I had made it. I was living in the British countryside working on an American base. Best of both worlds.
My commute to RAF Upper Heyford Fire Department every 24 hours was idyllic. I drove 30 minutes through Bicester, then the gold-colored Cotswold villages of Middleton Stoney, Caulcott, and Lower Heyford. It was like driving through a movie set.
Every season had its beauty. And my commute took place prior to or after shift change at 6am. So, I pretty much had the country roads to myself. I had recently picked up our American vehicle from the docks at Ipswich, and the small and nimble Dodge Omni was ideal for the British country lanes.
Our house in Charndon was cozy, and adequate. We were young and carefree. A massive iron arga stove in the kitchen warmed the entire house – or was supposed to – and we layered up and endured the British winter. I walked the village on my days off with “Buster” my rescue mutt, and we shopped in Bicester, Argos, Tesco, and if we felt fancy, Waitrose.
We also loved the Base Exchange, the Commissary, and the Airman’s Attic, a one stop “thrift” shop for young Airmen, with free clothing, furniture and more. We had massive lunches at the dining facility for under $3 each. We loved it.
24 ON – 24 OFF – MY FIRE PROTECTION SHIFTS
A typical shift at the main station lasted 24 hours. From roll call to roll call at 8am. We would arrive, park, then situate ourselves, visit the dayroom, and prepare for roll call. If we were finishing a shift, we would get up at 5am, dress, clean bunkroom, brush our teeth, then assist with station clean up. At 6am, after joking and bonding with the opposite shift we would gather in the truck bay for roll call. A shift one side, B shift the other. Two lines facing each other, station captains in the middle.
After daily kudos, taskings, info pass on, and reminders, roll call was dismissed and the shifts went their separate ways. One shift to the trucks for daily checks, the other to their cars to head home for a glorious 24 hours off.
Every two weeks you would have what they called a “Kelly Day.” Mine was Friday. So, every time an A-Shift landed on a Friday, I alone was off. It was incredible. One day on, one off, with three days off every two weeks. We were off more than on in a 365-day period. But we worked holidays, weekends, and were subject to emergency “recall” by telephone at any time, which happened very rarely.
MORNING CHECKS
First, we would check vehicles out. We had a few ancient P-2’s, around 3 P-19 crash vehicles, a Tanker, Rescue vehicle, and 2 Pumpers, First Run and Second Run. Then the Station Captain and Chief had suburbans of their own.
We checked fluids, lights, controls, and more. Then water and firefighting foam levels. Each shift you were assigned a position and vehicle. Rookie Airmen would be on the Pumper tailboard, or crewmember on the massive P-2 crash firefighting vehicle.
Senior Airmen and Sergeants would drive the vehicles, Staff Sergeants would ride shotgun as vehicle lead. Technical Sergeants and above would work a regular 9-5 existence in Administration, training, supply, fire inspection, and more.
Each shift had a Master Sergeant for Station Captain, the Assistant Fire Chief was usually a Senior Master, and the Fire Chief a full-on Chief Master. Usually, a Senior Airman with a Staff supervisor from each shift ran 12-hour shifts in the “Alarm Room” as dispatchers. A task I later performed and enjoyed, for a year at RAF Lakenheath.
After vehicle checks, we would take the pumpers and crash trucks out for a quick functionality test. Spray water, ensure everything was working and also checked fire hydrants, released water pressure, then ensured water draft tanks were topped up and ready if needed.
The rest of the mornings were set aside for individual and or group training. Vehicle operation, tool familiarization, ropes, equipment maintenance, emergency medical skills, Hazardous Materials, and rank required Air Force technical level task completion.
Lunch in the afternoon, then group training. Formally in the training room or outdoors with smoke machines, at the fire pit, or the fire training tower. If we were lucky, we had the opportunity to “familiarize” ourselves with parked visiting aircraft, like the C-17, C-5, various fighter aircraft, including the Stealth.
DOWN TIME
We had unofficial “down time” starting at 4pm promptly. This was an opportunity to work out but stay busy. Dinnertime around 6pm was officially down time. Most of the time all flying on base stopped, unless night operations were scheduled. This was real relaxation time. We were ready to respond for anything within minutes, for the entire 24 hours, but enjoyed our evenings.
Prior to cell phones, we were a real brotherhood or family. We watched TV, played cards, hilarious word play games, cooked meals, performed practical jokes on one another. If you just wanted alone time, you could go to your bunk room and lay back, relax, read, and chill. Movie nights were a staple. Each evening the wife calls started to flood the announcements.
If you were manning the small First Run fire station by the south gate, you might take the pumper and visit the enlisted club or bowling alley as a crew, to “pre-fire” check and grab take away food. Good memories.
If you were lucky not to be woken at 2am for a structural emergency or alarm bells, you were up at 5, cleaning, roll call, and away home.
Emergencies happened in cycles. During scheduled flying we would respond to F-111 hydraulic leaks, hot breaks, and in-flight emergencies. Kitchen and car fires were common, sometimes a dumpster or two, and occasionally a car accident or medical emergency occurred.
Two weeks prior to my arrival at Heyford an F-111 had engine failure, and to avoid a local school, crashed at the end of the runway killing both pilots. My colleagues attended the site. It stuck with them forever. See my other roll call, I cover the incident in more detail.
OUTSTATION SHIFTS
Your shift could also take place somewhere other than “main station”. I can still hear our Master Sergeant track us down in the station, “Dude…you’re at Rizz next shift.” Which meant a shift on the remote housing base and airfield, attached to Heyford, at RAF Little Rissington, far out in the gorgeous Cotswolds.
One of the most memorable drives I have ever taken was Christmas morning 1992, as I headed home from Rissington, on the empty country lanes for Christmas with my British family. The frosted morning Christmas day countryside was breath taking.
You could also be scheduled to man the communications hub and housing base at RAF Croughton. Still active today, even though Heyford closed in 1994. Those assignments were for 4-6 months and were coveted as you all formed a close knit family away from main base and the flightline.
The one drawback was the station ghost we grew to know and live with. You have to remember, the land in England, had a vast history, and had life on it since prior to Medieval times. We even formed an indoor soccer team and reached the base finals. More of that in my other roll call.
DAYS OFF
I would get home around 730am. Cook a big breakfast with tea, do my dumbbell workout in the spare room, then bathe – as we had no shower – play with my newborn son, and prepare to go out shopping in local Bicester, the base, sightsee, or visit my family in west London.
Day trips involved sightseeing or family. The Uffington Horse, Oxford University and shops, Warwick Castle, Stratford Upon Avon, and even Wales. We would drive the hour to spend weekends with my cousin, see my family, and visit Derek’s old home the city of London. I loved seeing the Imperial War Museum, along with sights further afield like the Royal Air Force Museum at Hendon, or the fantastic Duxford Air Museum in Cambridgeshire, my next assignment area from 94-96.
We enjoyed all kinds of basic but great food. A few chosen local Chinese Take Aways were outstanding, as were the authentic Fish and Chip shops. Sandwiches from Tesco’s, and a myriad of Tea and Cake shops and Cafes dotted allover the countryside. And you get a real pot of tea, nice and hot, along with fresh cream eclairs and cakes. Pastries are fantastic. I still buy milk chocolate McVities biscuits in bulk form Canada.
I bought my CD singles at Woolworth’s in Bicester. Oasis, Blur, The Cranberries, Meatloaf, East 17, Tasmin Archer, New Order, and I can’t forget my summer of 92 killer track, Ebeneezer Goode by the Shamen. Metallica toured the U.K. that summer too, Nothing Else Matters was loved by all.
Cell phones were not common, and the internet new, so magazines still ruled. I could buy my Muscle and Fitness at the base newsagents, along with my favorite muscle car, British classic auto and football magazines.
On an evening, and at weekends we would relish in the British television. One Foot In The Grave, Keeping Up Appearances, Noel’s House Party, Blind Date, Heartbeat, Vicar of Dibley, Match of The Day, and more.
Weather was moderate and yearly events were etched on our calendars. The Spring came early, the summers were gloriously hot, the autumn colors beautiful, and the winter’s mild. Throughout the year we visited Village Fetes, Classic Car Shows, air shows, church sales, car boot sales, football matches, and so on. I used to attend Watford football games with Derek when able.
THE COUNTRY WAS DIFFERENT THEN
The country was indeed different even then. Less cars on the road, less people, less congestion. No faces stuck in cell phones, more pubs, more a feeling of a national connection through shared television, music, and pre-internet and social media life in general. And we as Americans got to be part of that family.
I’m sure anyone who served at RAF Upper Heyford can agree. While we were there, we many times griped about how much greener the grass was at home, how the drab rainy winter weather sucked, the winter daylight scant, the roads small, and no mega malls or restaurants. We counted our days to the next PCS. It wasn’t until we moved on to other bases, and grew older, we would be triggered by a smell or a photo, or similar weather front that our minds went back to our time spent at RAF Upper Heyford.
On 15 December 1993, the flight line at RAF Upper Heyford was closed and on 1 January 1994, the 20th Fighter Wing at RAF Upper Heyford was transferred without personnel or equipment to Shaw AFB, South Carolina, United States.
I was part of a mass transfer of Firefighters upon the closing of Heyford that January. Because I was a Senior Airman, I was able to grab the last slot for a move to RAF Lakenheath in Suffolk, England. A 2-hour drive from Upper Heyford, and another 2-hour drive from my family in London. A straight shot down the M-11 Motorway.
The Air Force like everything took care of my entire move to a sleepy Suffolk village called Swaffham Bulbeck, where I lived while I served at RAF Lakenheath for the remainder of my enlistment 1994-1996.
Much of RAF Upper Heyford life has remained with me. The tree lined roads, the cigar box housing, Lorde’s Walk, and numerous red brick World War Two era structures mixed with temporary huts and permanent base facilities. The Brown signage everywhere, the white TMO Office, the base Theater, the Commissary hidden around the back. The Base Exchange off of Camp Road near the tall brown iconic water tower.
Massive, hardened aircraft shelters, white and slate hangars, the weapons storage area, the tarmac, and our beloved home the Fire Department main station bedecked in typical RAF Upper Heyford butter white, with brown trim and slate roof, sitting next to the original control tower and aircraft training burn pit. With large truck bays, a bunkroom, kitchen day room, workout area, bathrooms, training room, I can still see it all.
I can hear the fire trucks backing into the bays, smell the exhaust, hear the doors slam shut after air brakes sigh. I can hear the station intercom, hear the laughter, see the bunkers all laid out to jump into and hear the doors to the day room creak.
AARDVARK HANDLERS
And who will ever forget the mighty General Dynamics F-111 “Aardvarks” we attended to and supported daily. Entered into service in 1967, our green and brown cammo scheme aircraft were like old war horses. Ageing, big, tough, experienced, a little creaky, but still dependable and deadly.
Seventeen feet tall they lumbered past as they taxied, all 70,000lbs of military muscle, with a wing span of 63 feet, they shook the tarmac as they trundled by. The Fire Station windows rattled. As they took off great plumes of black exhaust swirled in their wake, with pilots’ side by side underneath gull wing type doors, nestled in the antiquated “escape pod” cockpit, they commanded attention as they climbed into the Tupperware British skies. If you drove past the fence perimeter as one landed overhead, it was like a dragon was swooping down upon your car.
It was awe inspiring. Even for an aircraft commissioned in 1967, it still had a ceiling of 57,000 feet and a top speed around 1450 miles per hour. As a 25-year-old fresh-faced firefighter, they made my job both exciting and adrenaline fueled.mo scheme aircraft were like old war horses. Ageing, big, tough, experienced, a little creaky, but still dependable and deadly. Seventeen feet tall they lumbered past as they taxied, all 70,000lbs of military muscle, with a wing span of 63 feet, they shook the tarmac as they trundled by.
The Fire Station windows rattled. As they took off great plumes of black exhaust swirled in their wake, with pilots’ side by side underneath gull wing type doors, nestled in the antiquated “escape pod” cockpit, they commanded attention as they climbed into the Tupperware British skies. If you drove past the fence perimeter as one landed overhead, it was like a dragon was swooping down upon your car.
These Dinosaur swing wing bombers, commissioned in 1967, with a flight ceiling of 57,000 feet and a top speed around 1450 miles per hour, they made my job both exciting and adrenaline fueled.
STAND BY FOR A STRUCTURAL EMERGENCY
And I’ll never forget the 2am emergency responses. Woken from a dead sleep by lights and warning sounds, we were in our gear and strapped in to the tailboard of our Olive Drab colored, KME P-22 Fire Engine within 5 minutes. I can still see the road side and markings flash past with cool evening air flowing over us as the heavy pumper accelerated down the tree lined, darkened base roads.
As I sat rear facing, the emergency lights dancing off of the hose bed in front of me, I would glance over at my fellow Firefighter in the left jump seat. Like my twin he too is buckled in and strapped to our recessed Self-Contained Breathing Apparatus (SCBA), chin buried into his bunker jacket, Nomex hood pulled up to his nose.
The engine roars, the rear window to the cab between us is open to the driver and crew chief, the radio chatters, we are relaxed, we are ready. We are doing what we love, tomorrow we are off. Life is good. It’s all still with me.
The base is now a housing and community development. It saddens me to see it today. I visited a few years ago and my heart ached a little. Camp Road with the water tower at the time centered me, but to see masses of modern new housing seemed out of place. The flightline was full of stored vehicles and the Fire Station, now painted blue, and overgrown with weeds hugs the crumbling old control tower, at the flightline’s edges, like two elderly birds huddled together to weather the storm.
I’m happy that the RAF Upper Heyford Heritage Center has opened, and I plan to visit it next trip to the U.K. I’m still finding it hard to believe that my old base is reduced to a History Center and my old Commander’s F-111 now sits in an air museum. It’s sobering to say the least.
NEVER FORGET
I moved on to serve at RAF Lakenheath and loved it. However, we can never forget our time together serving and living in that small slice of America, nestled in the Cotswold countryside landscape.
Never forget your work colleagues, where you worked, the smells and sights of the flightline, the good and bad experiences, the laughter, off base life, sightseeing, the food, the pubs, the people, the roads, the villages, the shops, the television, the music, the Upper Heyford life in the early 1990s. Always keep it firmly placed in the corner of your mind.
I could only cover the small slice of Heyford life that was mine. I welcome any comments, stories, or memories you may have.
Shift dismissed.
See you at the next Roll Call.