Former Vulcan pilot Bill Turnill recounts how hectic life was as a flight commander on the mighty delta between 1969 and 1971
It was the end of a year at the RAF Staff College at Bracknell in Berkshire, and students queued up at the notice board listing the future postings for the eager candidates. With my name being at the end of the alphabet, I had to flick though the pages of other students. As I did I noted the prevalence of staff appointments handed out to these clever clogs at the beginning. But there I was, one of the lucky few with a flying appointment – I’d been posted to a Vulcan squadron. Although it wasn’t to sunny Cyprus, where one Vulcan squadron enjoyed the privilege of defending that delightful island, it was instead 50 Squadron at dear old Waddington, deep in the heart of Lincolnshire. Not only was it the county in which I was born, it was where I had spent the majority of my Royal Air Force career so far – first at Cranwell, then Waddington with 44 Squadron, back to Cranwell as a flight commander, and now back to Waddington with 50 Squadron. There were other advantages: my wife and…
