the telephone when important matters arose. Speaking in a foreign language when one can't see the person to whom one is talking is not easy, it is surprising how much one relies on facial expressions and body language when conversing face to face. The gardens were prospering. The many formal displays were a blaze of colour, the three Messes were well supplied with fresh vegetables, and there was plenty, both of bedding plants and vegetables, for sale in the PSI shop. A gardening trick Herr Goldbaum taught me was that where there was trouble with moles (particularly in the garden by Station Headquarters), the best way to deter them was to bury empty beer bottles up to their shoulders in the margins of the displays. When the wind blew across the necks of these bottles a low sound was generated. This the moles could not tolerate and so would leave the area. With now working on the opposite side of the airfield from the gardens, I had a transport problem, but was able to solve this by signing for a bike from the Station Bicycle Store. The first time I got on the thing I rode off along the wrong side of the road! Driving on the right was second nature yet when mounted I had unwittingly reverted to English ways. No harm came to me, but it did seem very strange for the first few days. A cycle ride to the gardens on a warm summer's afternoon was a very pleasant affair and legitimately took me away from the office for an hour or two.
One morning a new RAF Regiment Officer wanted to see me about Tug-of- War. I was lucky, he was keen to set up a team and wanted to know if I minded letting him take over responsibility for the sport. Trying not to show how relieved I was, I thankfully acceded to his request. I phoned Les Knell and told him of the proposed change. He agreed and the matter was promulgated in the next SROs. My dormant Officer i/c Visits by Air Squadrons and Summer Camps job suddenly came to life. I was told of a forthcoming week-long visit by a University Air Squadron. On seeking guidance from Les Knell he quickly informed me that everything was already in hand. A full programme of events had been drawn up, and all I had to do was to introduce myself to the visitors and to be on call should any snags arise during their stay. I am pretty sure that had I still been a Squadron pilot, and not the Flying Wing Adj. with a full-time responsible job, my duties in that respect would have been far more onerous. As it happened, one of the students was Derek Needham, an old school chum of mine. We were able to have a couple of good chats about what we had both been doing since our Birkenhead School days. Although neither of us could possibly have known it, we were destined to meet again in the RAF.
One of the recently arrived RAF Regiment Officers was a lad called Mark Embry. He was a Pilot Officer and son of Air Vice Marshall Sir Basil Embry. Sir Basil, in his position, was able to fly in to see his son from time to time. The first time this happened Air Traffic phoned me to tell of his imminent arrival. I at once phoned Les Knell, Station Adj. so that he could tell the CO and, apparently, all hell broke loose as to how to handle his Sirship. In the event I had nothing to do regarding that visit. Afterwards, and now knowing that this could happen again without notice, a plan was drawn up so that, at any given time, Mark's approximate whereabouts would be known so that his father could be taken to him. Additionally, I would be the backup for meeting Sir Basil in the event of a more senior person not being available. It so happened that on two occasions I had to drive out to Sir Basil's aircraft, collect him and take him to his son. As one can imagine, I was very nervous in the presence of such a high ranking Officer. On the second time the Air Vice Marshall told me with a chuckle that he knew my nickname was 'Pod', and 'Pod' he called me. Mark had told him. He was a man who wanted no fuss and in no way wanted to disrupt the Station routine when he visited. These visits were unofficial and private. It was a privilege to have met him.
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