The Prowler

George Blyth

1941

The year was 1941 and I had volunteered for ground staff duties in the Royal Air Force. After training, my posting was to a Spitfire squadron in the north of Scotland situated in a small village called Castleton, a few miles east of Thurso in the north of Scotland. I was quite a raw recruit and, at the tender age of 19, I had a lot to learn!

One of the duties was night patrol of the RAF premises in the village. I had not been with the squadron very long before it was my turn for this duty. I was required to report to the RAF police office for fire picket patrol. My shifts were from 8 to 10pm and 12 to 2am. For this duty, it was necessary to wear a fire picket armband and carry a small torch.

The first shift was soon over - the time passing quickly with casual conversation. However, I would soon find out that the second shift would be entirely different. The village was very peaceful with nobody about - it was however, extremely dark. After giving the NAAFI canteen another careful look-over, I made my way back to the main road. Then, suddenly, from behind the trees at the side of the road, two dark figures appeared right in front of me out of the gloom. Unable to make out who they were, I was about to challenge them when, to my horror, a revolver was thrust into my stomach. Scared out of my wits, I dropped the torch and raised my arms above my head. German parachutists had landed was my first thought, and that the camp must be surrounded! With the revolver painfully prodding my ribs, I thought my time had come. Suddenly, I was blinded by the strong beam of a torch. However, as my sight adjusted, I could just make out the familiar pale blue of RAF uniforms and I recognised two sergeants from our own police force. A loud, demanding voice shouted, What do you think you are up to at this time of night prowling around here? You are under arrest! Relief that they were not Germans was my first instinct but it was soon followed by anger - I was after all doing what I was meant to wasnt I? Nevertheless, nervousness lent an edge to my voice: Fire picket patrol is what I am supposed to be doing-look at my arm-band! The instructions are to check the NAAFI for fires. I was met with complete silence. The revolver was slowly withdrawn and returned to its holster. A quiet voice then said, Carry on with your duties soldier, and the two figures disappeared back into the darkness. There was no apology or any further comment.

I was to learn later that the lady supervisor living in the NAFFI, had earlier reported a prowler.

Relating my experiences to an older airman resulted in much hilarity! He informed me that, when on picket duty, the best option was to visit the cook-house and keep the cook company who would provide an early morning breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs and plenty of buttered toast and marmalade. I found on future occasions that my stomach found this immeasurably preferable to being prodded with a revolver!