For those of you who read John Macrae-Hall's true romantic story, Posted to Pembrey, I wanted to add photographs of John and Babs. The posts are available in the August archives. The color photo is as they are today.

As promised, The Proposal and the Wedding. The picutre isn't Babs as our hero and heroine never sent me a photo as requested! I hope you enjoy the final installment.

Again, in his own write, John Macrae-Hall, RAF pilot:


The Hunter 7 two-seat trainer was not in service at this point and the new pilots landings could only be monitored from the ground. To aid this endeavour a Duty Instructor was installed in the Runway Caravan to fill a similar role as the Deck Landing officer on an Aircraft Carrier. One fine day I found myself so employed. One sat high up in the little greenhouse on top of the caravan with a 360-degree vista and was accompanied by the normal Runway controller. The Flt Sgt on duty this day was a rather excitable Irish gentleman. He had descended into the body of the caravan, to brew tea, leaving me with the Very pistol "On watch'. One aircraft had reported a red undercarriage light so I had a Red Very Cartridge loaded, ready for action, with the safety "off ". Poised for action, with my elbow resting on the ledge and the window open, I monitored the scene.

Down below, behind the Night Flying Curtain the Sgt dropped the teapot. My hand slipped from the supporting framework, my elbow remained elevated, my finger, on the trigger, jerked and the gun fired with an almighty bang! The Very Cartridge Flare is a large piece of Ordnance and in a confined space quite alarming. It struck me on the knee and then bounced around the interior issuing forth dense clouds of Red Smoke, in the process, setting fire to the curtain and scorching my trousers. In the ensuing confusion I jumped down from the high stool and dashed for the door. The Sgt. passed me going back toward the greenhouse where he had left his Fags! Outside, bleeding extensively from the knee and with smouldering trousers, I surveyed the scene. Atop the smoking caravan, leaping about like a Dervish, was the frantic Irishman screaming that the IRA were upon us! The Fire and Rescue crew, who arrived at that point, simply fell about laughing. The Flt Sgt was later sent away for Re-habilitation. I paid yet another visit to my Tailor.

Proposal and The Wedding

As time passed I found that I was in that strange human condition, a state of "Being in Love", which effects us all at some time. Accordingly I determined to ask Babs to many me. DD was U/S at the time and I pleaded with Curly Smith to lend me his Standard 10 Coupe for the trip to Solva. With some misgivings he very kindly did so, touched by the romance of it all, if only for a moment! On my way down, passing through the hamlet of Newgale, one is confronted by a very formidable hill. Half way up, the engine died. I then peered at the fuel gauge, reading empty.

These were the days of post Suez petrol rationing, and very little traffic was about. Recalling other Auto-fuel systems I thought I'd try reversing up the hill. Just behind me was a convenient farm entrance, into which I rolled back. Then, rolled out again, pointing nose downhill. As the car accelerated gently, the engine burst into life. I reversed back for the remainder of the climb. At the summit I made another reversal. The rest of the trip to Solva was mainly downhill and on the final descent into the village the engine died once more and I rolled to a stop with dry tank just outside the garage in the main street.

Upon my return, Curly, some while later, complained that he didn't mind me borrowing his car, but he did object to me eating all his Mintos! Oh yes, by the way, the love of my life did accept my proposal and we were now officially engaged.

After all the adventures and ensuing excitement Babs and I decided we should marry in June, and on Wednesday, June the fifth, 1957 we did so, in St Aidans Church, Solva. A great crowd of my family, friends and relatives descended upon the village the previous weekend, and commenced a weeklong party in which the whole village enthusiastically took part. It is remembered to this day!

Appointed time of 11 o'clock, as I anxiously waited at the Altar, the only missing component was Herself and her Father! Of course it is a Bride's privilege to be a trifle late and some 8 minutes later, they arrived and the ceremony commenced. Just as she said, "I do", with a deafening crash and thunder, Four Hunters in close formation flew over the church at about 50 feet and 500 knots. Roy Watson, my flight commander, and some of the lads had timed the fly past to take place as we left the church, but because of our delay, the timing didn't work. However everyone thought it was marvellous!

After the usual pause for Photo ops, Babs and I departed for the Reception at the Ship Inn. Upon arrival, Babs tripped in the doorway and fell into the arms of Officers Colston, Gribble and Bowley, clad in best Blue's and already well into the Champers!

It would seem the party, which ensued, was monumental. Babs and I departed for the
Lake District early in the afternoon, while the going was good. The village street outside the Ship took on a surrealist aspect as we made our getaway.

In the small hours of the night the Gallant Officers from Pembrey lurched back to Base with only one minor mishap en-route. Passing through Carmarthen a sudden stop was called for and the sleeping Officer Gribble on the rear seat, slid forward, catching his arm on the door handle. The door opened and he fell out onto the roadway. Startled but unharmed. That so amused and enlivened the others it kept them awake for the remainder of the journey!

I'd like to introduce the hero of our tale in a little more depth (showing not telling): In his own write - John Macrae-Hall:

Hunters!

In December 1956, Hunters of the Hawker variety made their appearance at Pembrey. These were the Mkl, the first of long line of variants of latter-day fame and much loved by everyone who flew them. They became a legend. I very often did the early morning "weather check". To the west lay the Royal Navy at Brawdy with their Sea Hawks. The west also was where the weather generally came from. So it followed, we met!

First morning it was a lone Sea Hawk, dispatched with ease. I took some good tine camera footage of it squarely in the gun sight. By way of a gesture to our Naval brethren I sent them the film. A few days later they put up a section of two Sea Hawks to greet me. The Hunter dealt with them with almost contemptuous ease. The Navy did not give up easily, on my next foray the following day a flight of four lay in wait at 30,000ft. However I spotted them, well below me, from my "perch" at 45,000. A few "Yo Yo's" later I managed to capture each one on film. Tiy as they might, the Hunter, with its superior performance, eluded them. The photographic evidence was duly dispatched.

The following weekend I journeyed down to Solva to see Babs. In the Ship Inn I overheard two Naval gentlemen discussing the offending Hunter. Obviously I had caused some considerable distress and misgivings in their ranks! One of the local gentlemen, also listened to their dialogue and piped up "If you want to know who had you, talk to that Bloke over there", pointing at me) as he spoke! They sallied over and several drinks later we called a truce. The locals of Solva were joy-filled as the Legend of the Naval defeat rapidly spread, amply embellished with great Celtic hyperbole, fervour and enormous glee.

In those early days of the Hunter, in common with most aircraft, it had some imperfections. One such problem I can remember well. Two Hunters, elsewhere, had lost their Canopies shortly after takeoff. On both occasions the aircraft had crashed and the pilots, who had not ejected, were killed. The "Bubble" cockpit canopy slid To and Fro on rails attached to the Fuselage by 4 catches, one forward and one rear, on each side. The rear catches could only be checked for correct locking by standing on the entry ladder and peering behind the ejector seat. This was an item on the pre-flight check and was carried out religiously by all pilots.

On the 24th April 1956 the Wingco, "Ching" Coulthard led a practice formation aerobatic sortie in practice for an Air Display. Jock Colston was number two and I was number three. Very shortly after takeoff, at about 400 ft and accelerating through 350kts, my canopy parted company. I was struck by assorted debris and recollect little of the events that followed. It seems that I slid under the formation toward Jock who had seen it all, then my aircraft started down toward the sea below. Jock apparently was yelling, "Pull up Johnny! !" and I did so as the aircraft almost became a seaplane. Somehow I staggered back to the Airfield and landed and taxied back to the flight line where a crowd of rescuer's awaited. My "Bone Dome" (manufactured by Cromwell & Co. whom I wrote to later with thanks) had sustained severe damage and I only sustained a bit of a scalp wound needing a few stitches. However, scalp wounds bleed profusely and I had leaked quite a lot. The slipstream had spread it around effectively. I was later told that the poor Airman, who mounted the ladder to assist me, took one look at my face, fainted and fell off the ladder, breaking his arm in the process! I woke up in sick quarters the next day!

Determined to discover the reason for the accident and aware that the two previous losses had been attributed to "Pilot Error" I went out onto the beach below the take off flight path and actually found the detached canopy right hand rail.

The Hawker Field representative was "Mac" McKay. He removed the right hand rear catch from the Aircraft and discovered that with a hard tap it would release. Furthermore, the latch had some free movement on the rail pin. One taxied the Hunter with the canopy open. On a bumpy taxiway, with high-pressure tires, the aircraft shook considerably and the rear catches could unlatch. Of course the pilot had no way of seeing them at this stage. As one lined up for take off, the canopy was closed and the take off commenced. After lift off the undercarriage was retracted and the cockpit pressurized. As airspeed increased, aerodynamic lifting on the canopy took effect. This, combined with the pressurization build up, blew the canopy away from the released latch, shattering the canopy and hitting the pilot in the process. To this point no one had survived to tell the tale and the deceased Pilots were blamed for the accidents. As a result of my incident a modification took place. The front and rear latches were joined by a rod. Some of the covering panelling cut away, exposing part of the front latches. Suitable red and yellow markings were painted on. This effectively took care of the problem.

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TOMORROW -- The Proposal and The Wedding -- Stay tuned!

A continuation of John's adventures in Wales -- Part I posted yesterday, below.

Note: The photo with yesterday's post was the aircraft "Vampire" mentioned.

Settling in.

The OCU was initially equipped with Vampires and included a Target Towing flight equipped with Mosquitos, Tempests Vs, a Balliol, a Chipmunk and the last Oxford in the RAF. I had previously flown the "Mossie" at Sylt and lost no time in getting checked out on the Balliol, Tempest & Oxford. Soon after arrival I acquired a young Labrador Pup and a 1927 Austin 7 "Chummy" for a set of wheels. The Dog was named Pernod and the car, painted yellow and black, became "DD". I normally carried a case of Double Diamond around to prop up the passenger seat back rest, and in case of dire emergency on a Sunday (the pubs in Wales did not open on Sundays in those days).

The next show was on the 22nd of July 1955, for an Air Day at RNAS Brawdy. Their Commander Air was the legendary Commander "Winkle" Brown who was a very feisty wee Scot. The RAF, having suffered a spate of Air display accidents, had placed severe restrictions on such activities insisting upon nothing under 1500 ft etc, and we were restricted to a 3 aircraft formation. Arriving at Brawdy (nr. St Davids) we went through our practice for an OK from "Winkle". At the de-brief his terse comment was, "That was very nice RAF, now if you'll just bring it down to where you can be seen, we'll all be very pleased!" We did the display from "deck level" and this pleased all concerned.

Whilst waiting for our slot in the programme two events took place. A Naval Aircraft doing its thing suffered a lapse of judgement and ploughed in. Strangely enough it didn't appear to be very serious, just a cloud of dust and a small amount of smoke. The Announcer/ Commentator paused for a moment and then, after an obvious prompt from Winkle, said "We shall now have a demonstration by our Fire fighting and Crash Crew"!

On a rather happier note, whilst waiting for our display, I saw an absolutely stunning young lady with gorgeous Titian Red hair sitting alone on the grass nearby. Summoning up courage I wandered over to introduce myself Trying to appear nonchalant and debonair I managed, somehow, to trip over my own foot and fell at her feet. Apologizing profusely and feeling completely stupid I said "Look, I have to dash off and do my thing just now. Please don't go away. May I see you when we've landed?"

After landing I dashed over, only to find her gone. In desperation I ran over to the control tower nearby and persuaded the announcer to broadcast an appeal to the crowd for "The young lady with red hair and wearing a yellow dress to report to the Control Tower for a very urgent message". She appeared soon after and I stumbled an apology, and asked if I could meet her that coming Weekend. And so I met my future wife, Babs.

Going West.

Babs lived in the picturesque Village of Solva adjacent to Brawdy and situated between Haverfordwest and St Davids, some 65 miles west of Pembrey. I had arranged to meet her in Haverfordwest on a Saturday morning outside a Dentist's surgery after her appointment there. Upon arriving I parked "DD" behind a very large and shiny new Bentley R type. Shortly thereafter the surgery door opened and Babs, looking impossibly beautiful, emerged. Greeting her I said " Hello, I have the car over here." gesturing toward the Bentley which totally obscured the tiny Austin 7. Her eyes lit up as she moved toward the front passenger door of the Bentley.

"No! No!" I cried as I gestured behind the Bentley, "We're parked here!"

As she finally saw DD I expected a crestfallen look, but instead she merely appeared bemused. I suppose that the little car, with its recent coat of fresh yellow and black paint had a charm of it's own. After seating Babs carefully into the seat, I slipped into the drivers seat attempting to appear nonchalant and hoping that the wretched self- starter would engage and I would be spared the indignity of having to leap about, twirling the crank handle etc. etc.

"DD" was on her best behaviour and sprang into life. Determined to make a stylish departure I slipped into 1st gear. Now the Austin Seven had a "sudden death" clutch action with all of a quarter of an inch engagement travel. In my nervous condition my foot slipped and DD shot forward like a thing demented. To my horror my lovely passenger was rapidly rotated backwards as her seat back collapsed. She was wearing, that day, the then current fashionable Dirndl skirt and frilly petticoat beneath. I remember, very clearly, the vision of a beautiful pair of legs up in the air, terminating in lacy white panties.

To be very fair, Babs took it all very well as I stumbled my tortured apologies. In order to create a good impression I had removed the usual case of beer that supported the passenger seat back and substituted it with a metal tube. The sudden acceleration had caused the bar to slip out of place, allowing the seat back to assume the fully reclined position! Full credit to Babs, she maintained her composure throughout, in fact a wee while later she was laughing about it. Later in our lives our friend, the poet Sean McCarthy, always referred to Babs as "The beautiful Welsh princess". He was not wrong!

TO BE CONTINUED, OUR FINAL INSTALLMENT TOMORROW.

The following was written by John Macrae-Hall, my son's Godfather and a prince of a man, married as you will see to a Welsh princess. John and Babs live in Westminister, South Carolina, near the green cemetery owned by their daughter and son-in-law, which was written up in People Magazine.

The plane is a Vampire T11. John was a dashing Royal Air Force pilot.

The romance took place in Pembrey, Wales. The beginning now John's words:


145 Squadron, had been the most wonderful tour a young and enthusiastic Fighter Pilot could have wished for. Having had the honour to serve on the Squadron since September 1952. on Feb.15th 1955, I completed my last flight in Venom "S". On my dparture from Celle on the rather tedious trek to UK upon the "Blue" train and the ferry to Harwich, I pondered my wisdom in turning down a posting to Sylt as a Staff Gunnery instructor. Perhaps some strange instinct told me that my abused liver would not hold up to the continuous partying environment of Westerland. Ahead lay "Postings" at Air Ministry.
Upon entering the room wherein awaited my future, I was met with a very hearty gentleman who informed me that my presence was urgently needed at the OCU at Pembrey. I was to be an instructor there and furthermore he added with a knowing wink "You'll be going onto the Hunter Flight - When they get them!". Little did I know then that eventually that flight was to become 145 Reserve Squadron prior to Pembrey closing and the Squadron moving to Chivenor where I was to serve as an instructor on the Hunter Simulator unit.

All this lay before me in the unknown future, more to my immediate interest leave lay ahead with a bit of the late Hunting season in the Midlands complete with its parties, banquets and balls! What a Life! I felt on top of the world.
The 7th of March 1955 was a cold, dark Sunday evening, raining heavily as the local stopping train pulled up to the lone platform at Pembrey/Kidwelly halt at about 7 o'clock. I disembarked with two large suitcases, the lone passenger. A small shelter and one flickering Gas Light formed the total passenger amenities, nothing more.
As the tail light of the train receded toward Kidwelly my spirits sank, the rain was coming down sideways. Save for the lone flickering lamp, there was no sign of any other habitation, no friendly red telephone box, no Taxi, nothing but darkness, wind and rain! I stood for a while in the lee of the shelter assessing my situation. This had to be the proverbial end of the earth. Had I actually been mad enough to pass up a posting as a Staff P.A.I. at RAF Sylt to come to this Godforsaken place?

After some 15 minutes of pondering my situation the headlights of a car wove into sight, turned toward the platform. Salvation had arrived in the form of a RAF Standard Vanguard and Driver. A short drive later the camp gate came into view, passing through we turned first left and pulled up in front of an old Wartime wooden building, the Officers Mess no less. The whole setting resembled nothing less than a scene from a bad movie about a prison camp!

RETURN TOMORROW WHEN OUR DASHING PILOT MEETS HIS WELSH PRINCESS. Maybe I can find a picture of our hero and heroine.