Tangler's Tales


Last Post at the RAF Station


My last posting was down in Southern Germany, the better bit actually, to be stationed at a workshops attached to a field artillery regiment.  The Gunners, or Plankies as we affectionately referred to them, were equipped with Abbot 105mm self propelled howitzers.  The Plankies in good humour referred to us as Bluebell, a nickname derived from the colour of our berets – all units in the army have some nickname they are known by.  With six guns to a battery and eighteen in total for the regiment, they made a hell of a noise.  When in their usual groups of six and shooting a rapid firing pattern on the ranges, they made a hell of a bang together, maybe why I am somewhat deaf thirty years on.  Many a good hangover recovery has been ruined by having to attend these shoots in my capacity as gun fitter!

Our barracks, on the outskirts of a small town called Gutersloh, had an archway over the main entrance with the word Luftwaffen inscribed in the stonework, so it was obvious who had been in residence before us Brits, at least it was not the SS!  I had been allocated a family quarters beforehand so the family and I moved in straight away, settling in quickly once we found where the local NAAFI shop was and other facilities.  After doing the right thing and redecorating the flat to the missus's liking, getting used to the place and making new friends I decided to unpack my fishing gear and find out what was available locally.  Unfortunately there was no angling club running  there or at the nearby RAF stationed at the aerodrome, just a few individual enthusiasts like me.  I found out that there weren't too many venues open to us locally, but apparently there was a large pond containing fish at the airfield.  We phoned their sports officer and after a while he issued us with passes so that we could gain entry and fish the place.

Eagerly we set off  to give the place a try. It was said to hold good numbers of small to medium sized carp; in fact really it turned out there were too many, as a result the fish had become stunted in build, but it was still fishing so who cared.  At the gatehouse the RAF sentry examined our passes then gave us directions on where to find the officers’ mess. It turned out to be less than 60 meters from the end of the main airstrip. Fortunately the pond was on the leeward side of the building and so we got a little respite from the noise of jet engines. One other drawback for us squaddies was having to mind our language because of the sensitivities of the officers in their club, and as you know anglers are prone to expressing their feelings when losing the odd fish etc. As we were in civvy clothing and indulging in an officially sanctioned sport we fortunately were excused from saluting both the male and female officers to and fro-ing during the day.  Because of these WRAF female officers it meant we had to take care when taking a leak, a careful lookout and a dive into one of the rather small bushes had to suffice, they would not have appreciated a 'general salute' of this type I thought.

The pond had room around its perimeter for about 20 fishermen, but no actual pegs were set out, just gaps here and there where the undergrowth was worn down by us.  It was quite shallow with a maximum of three and a half feet, when you could find an open area to cast to as there was loads of surface weed about.  Only a very few lads stationed with the RAF bothered to fish, there weren't enough of them to put up a team to fish against so we had to be satisfied with little knock-ups between ourselves.
The biggest problem with fishing the place was the excruciating noise of jet engines revving just before takeoff. The fish seemed to be used to it but we weren't, and landing planes make just as much din as they use reverse thrust to help in braking!  Now we fisherman have all had the experience of some aircraft or another appearing overhead out of nowhere and blasting us with noise, making you clasp both hands over your ears to block out the sound.  Now imagine this occurring throughout the day, just when you are concentrated on that delicate bite, or just slipping the net under a fish on the surface! So that's why the RAF lads wouldn't fish it, they couldn't stand the racket after a days work, or maybe we were made of sterner stuff?  The truth was we resorted to wearing our ear defenders while fishing, which did reduce the noise to a bearable level, though conversation was rather a waste of time.  Sundays were the best day to fish the pond, as the flights were much curtailed then to improve Anglo-German relations, especially with the people attending local churches.

Not too many choices of bait were obtainable in those days so it was mostly bread, and the most successful method was to float it on the surface, waiting for those large lips to emerge and suck it down greedily.  We did use corn and lumps of luncheon meat as well and these were ok for the smaller carp to grab. I suppose that the fish went from about a pound up to about a maximum of 7-8lb, this would be a specimen fish for that pond, a bit like an average commercial fishery today I suppose.

One other venue available to fish was a rather strange one, a man-made small lake lined entirely with concrete and shaped like a jelly mould.  I cannot for the life of me say for what purpose it was constructed other than that it may have been a small water reservoir for the local village.  The water was extremely clear and you could see down into the water for a considerable way out from the margins. There was no weed to speak of and no muddy bottom either.  You had to pay a small fee to fish it, so it had to contain some variety of stock, though because of the language problem we were unable to get precise details from the owner.  If and when he came round to the pond he would ask you for 5 Deutschmarks, around about 75 pence at that time, so cheap at the price. The pond was between a quarter and a half acre in size and had a narrow path all round, with tall trees sheltering it from any winds.  It was a bit spooky at times because the trees kind of made it feel a bit enclosed especially as the
sun went down it soon became chilly and dark too. Depths varied from a good 4 foot at the edge to at least twelve feet in the middle area, the bottom rapidly sloped down in a curve from under your feet, so it was difficult to know for certain where the bottom was close in.

Fish were spotted swimming out toward the middle so I decided to loose feed over the top with some of my precious maggots and after twenty minutes or so I began to catchy some chub ranging from about twelve ounces to one and a half pounds.  It was quite a productive venue for these chub but I would often get through my meagre supply of maggots, which as I mentioned before were expensive baits in Germany, you couldn't buy them in half pints either, just in small pots.  So I had to experiment with other baits and methods to fish them, bread seemed an obvious choice and this worked reasonably well until the fish became a bit too aware of the danger.  Nothing ventured I decided to fish out to the centre but this time fish it over depth with maggot and then worm, to see what else the pond contained.  I soon found out that the water was alive with medium sized skimmers which ran from 8ozs to 2 pounds; they must have been stocked more or less at the same time.  With these to go at and perch up to a pound it was pleasant fishing and whereas the quality remained at a low average, you could make decent catch weights there.  It was never matched fished, I think that too many anglers at once would certainly have put the fish down.

I found out about a third venue from one of the RAF anglers I made friends with. He told me there was a man-made series of large ponds situated in the middle of a small forest around ten miles away on a huge potato farm, which could be fished for a small fee. I drove over to the place and after losing my way once or twice up strange lanes reached the right farm, to be greeted by a snarling German Shepherd dog. I stayed in the car until the farmer came out of his house to see what I wanted.  He swore a command at the dog and it backed off and lay down quietly, thank goodness, so I got out and shook the man's hand and began to explain what I was doing on his property.  I managed with the universal sign language to ask permission to fish there and he invited me into the farmhouse and opened two large bottles of beer to clinch the deal, as it were. He was only too pleased to have Britishers come to fish his ponds and would either accept a packet of our country's superior cigarettes or about 10 marks to fish for the day.

He had two large rectangular ponds about 400metres by 120metres each, both around a maximum of 4 foot deep, with little growth around them. At the rear of them ran a small stream which held quite a few small stocky trout in the clear waters; you could see them dart to and fro as you crossed a little footbridge to get to the ponds. Also, behind one lake was a group of small ponds which were used to breed stock in, carp and bream in one and trout in two others. Water flowed from the stream and then interconnecting pipes fed each pond in turn, ensuring a good clean quality of water flowed throughout the complex. I started off fishing the larger of the two main ponds, which proved slightly shallower than the other one, a mere 2 and a half to 3 foot deep, but boy it had a good mixture of fish in it. It was a place you had to yourself most days, even at the weekends when a few locals came along – they seemed to prefer the other pool.  Later on I found out why that was, it contained a good number of trout, and Germans like to fish for the pot as we all know. Fishing a small float near to the margins worked best, as I discovered quite by accident. I would encourage the fish to come in close by feeding small balls of ground bait, then try maggots, corn, meat or bread over the top. It did not seem to matter which bait you used, the fish went mad for virtually anything, carp, tench, ide and tons of skimmers came quickly to your offerings. One golden evening in early September I had been catching steadily all afternoon when the chub bullied the other fish out and went crazy. I started to catch good samples of 2-4lbs. It felt like it was my birthday, the sport was really fantastic. I was fishing a mere metre out from the bank and about a rod length to my right, facing towards the glow of the dying sunset. I was just about to drop in once more when a huge fish slowly rose to the surface and did a lazy roll. It was the biggest chub I have ever seen up to that moment or ever since, well over 7-8lbs I could only guess.  Trembling all over I dropped my sweet corn baited hook exactly on the spot where he disappeared, the float cocked and I sat transfixed on my float tip. Within two minutes it gave a shudder then shot under: I was into the big fish. I was grimly hanging onto my rod as the chub powered out towards the middle of the lake. It ran me all over the pool, but I knew I must not try and bully it in too quickly. Eventually it rolled at my feet and I gently steered it carefully to my net As its huge head came over the rim of the net: disaster, the small hook pinged free of the gaping mouth and with a quick splash the Chub swam free. I was completely shattered by what had happened, I was so near to catching this beautiful fish, but curse my luck.  It was too much to bear, I packed up all my gear and went home in silence.

When I managed to get over this I decided to give the other pool a go, and on arrival I found I had it to myself once more. I studied the water for a while, looking for signs of fish moving. There were a few trout rising but I was not too bothered to try for them just now. Standing over where the water feed pipe came into the pool via the stock pond behind, I noticed that fish were topping just a few yards out. I had no idea what species these were; they were not large fish but appeared in good numbers. I sat just to the side of that pipe and trickled in some dry ground bait and some loose maggots into the flow created by the outflow. I plumbed the depth and set the float rig at just off the bottom in three foot of water. I did not need to cast, I just dropped the rig into the flow and left the bail arm off, allowing line to peel off from the spool. A bite first dip in resulted in a nice skimmer of about 10ozs, which was quickly slid into my keep net. After re-baiting I lowered the float into the water, and before it got two metres away it slid under at a good pace, another good skimmer a little better this one! Continuously feeding a small pinch of loose feed I was able to keep those skimmers going for nearly four hours, I was smiling  by the time it ended I can tell you.  I struggled to pull my net out, it was too heavy to lift out on my own, besides  I had no decent scales to weigh my catch, so I simply had to tip the fish back a few at a time. Never mind how much it might have weighed, to me it was the most fish I had ever caught and had in my net at the end of a day’s fishing.

This about rounds off my fishing out in Germany, for I was coming to the end of my 9 years service contract and shortly afterwards I returned to Blighty for my demob. So once more I had to pack all the fishing gear into packing cases, not to be opened for a fairly long period.

Good times and good memories to take with me…