Facing Armageddon: With the RAF on Christmas Island 1961–1962

By Chas Hall

After being called up for National Service in July 1960, twenty-year-old Chas Hall joined the RAF and signed on to extend his time for an extra three years becoming a regular serviceman. Following initial training, he became a wireless operator and served at RAF Mildenhall. It was shortly after this that he got his first foreign posting in late 1961 to Christmas Island. It was on this island, that Chas encountered the horrors of nuclear testing. In an operation codenamed ‘Brigadoon’ by the British government and ‘Dominic’ by the Americans, Chas experienced 25 atmospheric nuclear tests. This he describes as his ‘12-month sentence’ alongside over 300 British and 10,000 American servicemen who were posted to one corner of a remote coral island. Facing Armageddon reveals the true extent of the controversial nuclear testing and how it affected servicemen; with 25 men dying during Chas’s time on Christmas Island and many more suffering mentally as they continued serving on the island. With the British government announcing medals for nuclear test veterans in November 2022 to recognize their contribution in the tests after a four-year campaign by participants and The Mirror newspaper, Chas’s story gives insight to why these servicemen deserve the recognition for their part in these tests. This book will contain a number of unpublished photos from the author’s personal collection and is an essential piece of work in understanding the tough conditions servicemen faced during their time on Christmas Island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781911714569

Chas Hall

Born in London, Chas Hall lives in rural Essex, UK with his wife Jacqueline. Since retiring from his motorhome business, and apart from playing boogie-woogie piano, he has found a penchant for writing. Chas has published three fast-moving thrillers and a western trilogy. Facing Armageddon is his first non-fiction piece of work. Over the years, he has occasionally given after-dinner talks on his nuclear experiences.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T

HE SOUND SCRATCHED AT MY

brain and made me stir reluctantly. It was to be the last time, and then, it would finally be over. Patches of sweat clung around my neck and lay on my chest. An all-consuming lethargy anchored me to the narrow bed. Even before heavy eyelids flickered slowly open, I became aware of the hot greyness of the tropical morning which surrounded me with its clammy presence.

The sound intruded once more: This is Mahatma. This is Mahatma. D minus ten minutes. D minus ten minutes.

I turned over. A shaft of diffused light from the lamp outside the billet outlined the lifeless shapes of my four companions. They were not yet stirring. I rolled over onto my back once more, closed my eyes and lay still. Thoughts struggled to surface as the mind hovered between waking and sleep. D minus ten minutes, a few minutes to detonation. It must be nearly 6.30 in the morning – an hour before dawn.

I lay and waited. The source of the tormenting sound was a loud speaker fixed on a pole just beyond the billet’s window. There were many others scattered throughout the populated areas. It continued to bark out its message at one-minute intervals before changing to seconds. Then it stopped abruptly.

With eyelids clamped shut, my head was tucked below the thin sheets of my bed. Suddenly, the darkness became patterned with blood red. I did not move. I did not open my eyes. I knew already what it would be like outside; I had seen it too many times before. In seconds, the harsh flash of light always expanded from blinding speck to monstrous ball of violent white. The island moved from night to instant day. The Pacific waters surrounding the island lapped uneasily as they bathed in the light from a man-made sun. They lay cowed, licked by unnatural energy which radiated from high above; as from the wing of some death angel covering the sky. I wanted no more part of it. It was, after all, the ultimate horror of death and destruction.

My body tensed involuntarily. My clammy hands shot to either side of the narrow bed; maintaining a tight grip on the steel frame. The 25th hydrogen bomb had just been detonated, and it was the last one for me. I was one of many, who shared this experience with thousands of Americans, together with 300 other members of the British forces: the Royal Engineers, Royal Navy, and Royal Air Force. I tried to force tense muscles to relax before the onslaught of sound and movement which came with the inevitable deafening crack of an earth-shattering blast. It would be finished soon. As the seconds ticked away, the question that always came to mind insisted on being asked again. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’

CHAPTER 1

GOODBYE CIVVY STREET

P

ACIFIC PARADISE, THAT IS WHAT

the sergeant had called it. But then, that was back home in England, and he had never been to the island. I was amongst the last to be conscripted when the Royal Air Force dragged me into its all-powerful embrace. The government call-up grabbed hold of fit, healthy youths of 18 years of age, and randomly placed them in the navy, army or air force. They would be demobbed, after serving two years; in and out of military service by the time they reached the age of 20.

At the age of 20, based upon hearing the rumours that were being spread around, I began to feel confident that I had missed the ‘call-up’. So much so, as the days passed into weeks, and months, it became common knowledge that the idea of conscription was coming to an end – but not quite. The infinite wisdom of the powers that ruled, in those days, decided to gradually bring it to an end without giving out too much information. A cut-off point was introduced, and men born after 1 October 1939 were not eligible. With a final date of 31 December 1960, for ending National Service altogether. And for those who had their call-up deferred, for reasons of university education etc. beyond that date; well, they were the lucky ones. My birth date was 9 August 1939, six weeks prior; and one morning in early April 1960 my conscription papers arrived in the mail.

I didn’t want to join the RAF, army, or navy. I was very happy and content with life as it was. I had a steady serious girlfriend, Jacqueline Doubleday, and we had talked about getting married. Also, I was fortunate to have had several good friends, some of whom had been called up earlier and served their time; in and out by the age of 20.

Shortly after getting over the initial shock, I learnt the sad news concerning my grandfather, George ‘Pat’ Clarke; a World War One veteran. He lay terminally ill with cancer, at Whipps Cross Hospital in Leytonstone. I managed to stall things with the powers that be for a couple of months. I had very fond memories of him; amongst them, when as a six-year-old, without warning, I became very ill with acute appendicitis. He carried me on his back for more than two miles, all the way to Connaught Hospital in Leyton.

At the age of 69, he passed away on 9 May 1960. With a degree of optimism somewhere in the back of my mind, and fingers crossed, I neglected to inform the conscription office of his passing. Nevertheless, they did not rest on their laurels, and I soon became aware that there was no way that I could delay or get around the situation.

I was forced to leave behind my fiancée Jacqueline; after which, I learnt the true meaning of the old adage, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’. As a rock ’n’ roll pianist, I also said goodbye to a very successful local group, ‘The Red Diamonds’, together with a steady well-paid day job. It took a while, but eventually I had to accept my destiny; there was no point in whinging, and so I resolved to try and make the best of it. On 4 July 1960, I was ordered to report to RAF Cardington in Bedfordshire, where I was given the quickest medical ever, kitted out, and given an aptitude test for training. In my case it was for Morse code; to see if I would be suitable for training as a wireless operator (WOP).

Strangely enough, at that point in time, I was not overawed by what fate had presented. Everyone seemed so friendly, a kind of instant camaraderie. The intake was a mixture of men being called up for National Service, together with a number of volunteers. In a moment of weird aberration, I found myself signing on for an extra three years and became a ‘regular’ on that very day, at the age of 20 years and 11 months. Back in those days, National Service pay was one pound eighteen shillings (£1.90) per week, and you were obliged to salute the paying officer for that meagre sum. By signing on, for the extra three years, my pay was increased to five pounds a week. Certainly not comparable to my civvy street job of ten pounds ten shillings (£10.50) a week, plus gig money, however, as we were reminded, this included being fed, albeit mass catering; and clothed; standard issue uniform, a hairy fabric for National Service men which was known as ‘working blue’ or number two. An extra uniform, using far superior material, known as number one, or ‘best blue’, was only issued to regulars. After five days at RAF Cardington, I was transferred to RAF Bridgenorth in Shropshire, where I managed to ‘celebrate’ my 21st birthday ‘square-bashing’ (performing drills around the barrack square).

After eight weeks of hard labour – intensive training, call it what you like – and now regarded as an AC2, I was able to salute an officer, and jump to the attention of any NCO and carry out their orders without question. After a few days’ leave, I was posted to RAF Compton Bassett in Wiltshire, to endure an 18-week training course as a wireless operator.

A few weeks into the training course, I was talking to Derek, one of the men, who, like myself, had also signed on for an extra three years, and also, like myself, was beginning to regret his decision. As aforementioned, to that end, we were now no longer regarded as National Servicemen. By signing on for the extra time, the status quo had been changed from compulsory to volunteer. He became excited after discovering that since becoming a regular, the rules for entry into the service were quite different; there was a brief window for an escape.

As a regular serviceman, an opportunity of buying himself out of the RAF for the sum of £50 was permissible. However, this had to be carried out within 16 weeks from the initial day of signing on. This information coincided with my second, third and fourth doubts, about the wisdom of signing my life away for an extra three years. Being in a similar position, the notion greatly appealed to me. Images began to run through my mind of re-joining the rock ’n’ roll group; together with getting my old job back and returning to my previous way of life in ‘civvy street’, enthused me even further. And so with baited breath, I followed his progress. Within 48 hours, he duly paid his money, cheerily waved goodbye to all and sundry at the barrier gates, but within a week of his release from the RAF, he was drafted straight into the army. My interest in that idea instantly waned.

Shortly after this, another airman tried to ‘escape’. As far as I know, he was successful. Only this time around, he began by acting out weird impersonations: i.e. a German U-boat submarine captain, using an imaginary periscope barking out orders to an imaginary crew, together with various other acts. He was very good at it. At first it was somewhat entertaining, however, things came to an abrupt halt after he offered to drive three fellow airmen back to camp late one Sunday evening, following a long weekend pass.

The story goes at a pre-arranged spot, somewhere in London, they found him standing by the kerbside pretending to be a car. They looked at each other, and back at him in disbelief as he said: Don’t just stand there, get in then! All three men stood and watched dumbfounded, as he began imitating ignition sounds and doors closing, before trundling off down the street. Apart from rumours of a psychiatric report, it was never discovered whether his malady was genuine, and that was the last anybody ever saw or heard of him. Well, that was another way out of the service, but I guess it would literally be a hard act to follow.

I heard of no other brief windows of opportunity to leave the service; apart from dying, and I wasn’t that desperate, (unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely unknown for some men to top themselves during basic training at Bridgenorth) so from then on, I just resolved to get on with it and serve out my five years.

Towards the end of the 18-week course, I managed to get permission for a long weekend pass, to marry my fiancée Jacqueline. We had a few days honeymoon in the village of Compton Bassett, around which time I sat and passed my exams. Shortly after, my rank was automatically raised to AC1. I now became useful to the RAF, which meant that I could send and receive Morse code, at the minimum required speed of 18 words per minute together with being familiar with military and civilian procedures. The powers that be politely enquired where I would like to be posted.

In the firm belief that the choice was actually mine, I blurted out eagerly, Hornchurch, Weathersfield; I’ll make it easy, let’s say anywhere in Essex, near home.

I was sent to HQ 3 Group Bomber Command, at RAF Mildenhall in the heart of Suffolk. There were only around 90 RAF personnel amongst hundreds of Americans who used the base as a transit camp to and from Europe. I didn’t know it then, of course, but it was to be a kind of grounding for my future posting with the Americans.

However, I was confident that before long I would be awarded an interesting overseas posting, and began to look forward to it with relish, enthusiastic optimism, and some excitement. What seemed like exotic territories, such as Singapore and Hong Kong, together with many other attractive outposts, seemed to beckon temptingly.

In fact, to join Her Majesty’s service and see the world seemed a good proposition then. Whilst looking at a long list of counties that were set before me, I found there were many overseas postings to which I could take my wife, Jacqueline. So, when it came to being presented with a form to fill with my choice of preferred overseas destinations, I naturally ticked the ‘ANY ACCOMPANIED POSTINGS’ box, again in the misguided belief that I actually had any influence or choice about my future overseas postings that would include my wife. Having done this, I sat back thinking life was very sweet; convinced that the world lay before us. Nevertheless, it was true that the trade of wireless operator attracted the most remote and desolate places on Earth, but there were plenty of single men who wanted those crap postings. Trusting and confident about my choice, I felt at ease. During the one year and three months into my service days, I had obtained the automatic promotion to LAC, and was living with my wife and baby daughter Corinne, in the small village of Beck Row. We had rented a delightful cobblestone cottage that was conveniently sited opposite the camp airfield.

One day during October 1961, after the short walk to work, I entered the main building and made my way towards the communications centre. As usual, I bypassed the notice board, which displayed station routine orders. Its regimented lists were updated regularly. They gave information about all station activities, rosters for parade or guard duty, promotions and punishments – as well as overseas postings. It was an offence not to read the notices daily, but there was always an avid notice-board reader who would be eager to inform anything of interest to anybody. One of the world’s natural organisers was always around.

It was one such helpful, conscientious individual, a skinny LAC, who informed me of my new overseas posting when, one day, I happily entered the W/T communications centre. He stood up to my aggressive questioning. He was unnervingly positive, absolutely sure. Disbelief shot through me. This was one place I had not thought of. I moved rapidly, skidding out of the room and broke into a run down the corridor. Then my brain caught up with my legs and sent them back to the communications centre.

Where’s the bloody board? I demanded belligerently.

The composed LAC looked slowly up and gave dispassionate directions. His tone made it clear that his role was not to care, only to inform. I charged down the narrow passages once again. I came to the board and leaned against it trying to regain breath, at the same time scanning the mass of printed matter. Panic gradually gave way to feelings of frustration and a sense of futility. There it was: ‘LAC Hall, posting – Christmas Island, November 1961 – day to be confirmed later.’ I felt gutted. This was certainly one place I had not thought of.

After signing off duty at midday, I hurried over to the administration office. An age passed waiting at the end of a short queue to see the sergeant in charge. Eventually my turn came. I put on my best smile, and said in a calm and casual manner, Christmas Island, Sarge? Unaccompanied posting? Surely there must be some mistake? I’m married. A few minutes passed while the elderly sergeant, no doubt looking forward to his well-earned retirement, sifted through some papers. He was still looking down as his reply came back. There is no mistake son. That is the posting allocated to you.

He looked up, his eyes a steady gaze beneath unflickering lids; the strong square look of those in control. The unblinking eyes seem to say ‘tough shit’. The mouth boomed unconvincingly, Pacific paradise, before he looked down again, adding quickly, it’s only a year anyway.

Well, it wasn’t his fault. He had seen it all before, including World War Two. However, his words resounded in my ears. Like a punch in the stomach, I felt the breath had been drawn clean out of me, engulfing me with frustration. It was the last thing I expected or wanted. A year, a whole year without my wife and baby daughter! My worst fears were realised. Christmas Island – it was barely visible on the map, and from what I knew a coral rock. A rock surrounded by a wide sea; in the centre of the Pacific Ocean, miles from anywhere. To my way of thinking, the posting seemed reminiscent of the French penal colony of Cayenne, commonly known as Devil’s Island; it appeared to be more like a prison sentence than an opportunity to see the world. Also, as nobody on this RAF station had been there, it was impossible to gather any reliable information about the place. There was a little fourth-and fifth-hand speculation, such as atom bombs had been tested there a few years ago, but it was generally agreed that it must be, ‘a pisshole of a posting’.

If I could have made time stand still, in the weeks that followed, I would have done so. But somehow the days and nights slipped by. Time did what it had to do; it stopped for nobody anywhere, and certainly not for us. After abandoning our delightful rented cobblestone cottage and prior to my departure, I had been able to spend a few days with Jacky at her parent’s home in Benfleet Essex; she would stay there whilst I was away.

It all came too soon; the day when I faced Jacky on the platform at Benfleet railway station not quite knowing how to say goodbye. We remained silent for most of the time. There was no need to say much; the grey rain, drizzling jagged curtains around us, spoke for Jacky and me.

England is well suited for sad departures. Rain was meeting damp mist from the Thames Estuary, which stretched in veins across the marshland, and Canvey Island, lying beyond the railway station. The place wept quietly in the dusk, and the dull orange street lamps blinked through a haze of wet monochrome. Survival was bred into both of us. We were two, among many, of a generation born in war, who knew it was lucky to survive; our fathers had come home from prisoner-of-war camps and service overseas.

The black shape of the steam train loomed up and hissed its clumsy way into Benfleet station. Look after my baby, I said as I bent to kiss her. You mean your babies, she corrected softly; her words hardly audible against the sound of the rain on the umbrella held over us. She was certain now that we were to have another child.

Along the station, carriage doors slammed and whistles screeched. Bursts of steam screamed wildly as the train lurched forward. How many times, for how many people this scene? Leaning from the carriage window to touch as long as possible; the train a jailer who breaks lovers from each other.

So, like all true warriors and heroes, I went from her; she who is supposed to stand and wait, to face a journey to the other side of the world. I was leaving paradise behind in England and in the rain. So, what was this sunny island, lying in the middle of nowhere, in the shadow of the atomic bomb?

CHAPTER 2

PREPARING FOR PARADISE

F

EELING GLUM, WAITING IN THE

informal airport lounge at Stanstead Essex, I looked around, casting envious glances at some of the men who were with their wives and children, including babies in carrycots. I thought of Jacky and the baby I would not see for a year, and of the one that would be born whilst I was away. The men surrounding me had been allowed home to collect their families so that they could travel together on accompanied postings. Everyone, like myself, was dressed in civilian clothing as was customary when travelling on non-military aircraft. The whole scene resembled a package holiday; cases and kit bags were scattered about, and large Singapore labels flapped loosely from their handles.

* * *

I had spent the previous 24 hours or so being kitted out at RAF Gloucester, along with many other servicemen en route to the Near East and Far East postings. Here, men were led around in batches of about 20, and groups were constantly on the move between various rooms, buildings and areas.

Shorts for the use of three pairs, the civilian storekeeper had chanted in standard forces jargon. Khaki trousers for the use of three pairs.

Civilians were the most dictatorial and unbending of storekeepers. They were beyond the control of military discipline, and even an officer could not order them to issue anything from their stores without proper documentation. They seemed to see themselves as having sole power and control. This was a trait that we had quickly turned to our advantage and approached them accordingly.

I don’t suppose it’s possible for you to issue me with an extra pair of sunglasses, is it? I mean I don’t want to get you into any kind of trouble. The feigned innocent concern invariably conjured up the desired response: I’m in charge here – it’s up to me what I give out. Here you are son. And the spare items would be slapped firmly down on the long counter in front of us.

My feelings of satisfaction at the ability to manipulate storekeepers had turned to smugness when asked to produce current vaccination and inoculation certificates. I had already suffered these at the previous station and was in no mood to feel sorry for anyone. I even began to feel uncharacteristically sadistic, as the unfortunate queue of mixed shapes and sizes shuffled an uneven, apprehensive way to meet with protection against yellow fever, typhoid and tetanus, smallpox and so on. With this number of men, the needles were discarded only when they became so blunt that they failed to penetrate the next arm reluctantly offered. The degree of discomfort built up in waves, from fresh needle to battered discard.

Then, after a thorough medical had pronounced a number of us fit for overseas