The Evacuation of RAF Nicosia 1974

Before the Invasion

My name is Colin Augustus, and only a year before I had finished my apprenticeship at RAF Locking near Weston-super-Mare as an Electronic Technician Ground Communications with the rank of Junior Technician. My main trade was working in comms and navigational aids on the airfield and in the air traffic tower. It was June 1973 and I was at RAF North Luffenham in Rutland when I was told that in July I would be posted to RAF Nicosia in Cyprus. Now of course all this was new to me, and all I could see was an adventure on an exotic island.

In early July 1973 I landed in the burning sun, and was picked up for my journey from RAF Akrotiri to Nicosia which was a couple of hours away. When I arrived at camp I was taken to my quarters. This was a single building which housed the 16 single servicemen, eight on the ground floor and eight upstairs. My room was on the first floor, which had a wraparound veranda so we could catch the sun in different places.

The camp was a very small with fewer than 100 servicemen and their families. The airfield and the air traffic tower where I worked was about a mile away. Work started at 06:30 until 13:30 to avoid the effects of the sun, and we would walk to work or get a lift if someone picked us up on the way. The NAAFI where we ate, drank and socialised was only five minutes away from our barracks, so we spent the evenings there often with a beer or two.

Everything seemed perfect, relaxing in the afternoons in the sun or going to the city of Nicosia a few miles away to visit the shops or pubs. When I arrived one of the boys in my lodgings had a motorbike and another had a car, while the rest of us would get around by getting a bus or a lift to explore the island. Then another of the boys got a motor bike, and then a third got one and a fourth. After five months there were about six boys from our single servicemen quarters with motorbikes, and I was thinking it was my turn now.

As I said earlier, this was something totally alien to me, and I had to be convinced that I could learn to ride one, and actually buy one as well. Eventually after being on the island for six or seven months I did buy one, a Yamaha 125, and struggled to learn to ride it so that I could also enjoy touring around the island and seeing the sights, beaches and scenery, but things did not go as I planned.

It was now the turn of the year, January 1974 and where I worked at RAF Nicosia, a situation was developing. There were only about eight men in our section and there was a shift system where one man worked alone overnight. He would have to drive to the various remote outposts which had the transmitters, receivers or navigational aids around the airfield when it was necessary, or if there was an emergency.

One of the outposts was a couple of miles away, which involved driving along a civilian main road. Because of this I was unable to do shift work, which my boss wanted me to do because of the shortage of staff. If this road was not there, I could have trained for a class C licence which was to drive on camp only and drive around the airfield. But due to the civilian main road, a full driving course was organised for me at an army camp at Dhekelia in the south-east of Cyprus.

This involved about 30 Army students, seven Land Rovers and seven driving instructors – and me from the RAF – for 28 days. My boss was very keen for me to go on night shift, and was organising his work roster for when I got back. However, things did not go to plan. As I said earlier, I knew nothing about driving and struggled again (as well as my motorbike, now it was the motor car) and when the course was finished nearly all the other students passed, but not one of the five men in my Land Rover passed. But that is another story. Suffice to say I was not welcomed back with open arms.

It took 12 weeks for me to go on another course and pass it. This driving licence was also a full British Licence, so now I was in possession of a new Yamaha 125 and a driving licence, and everything in the world looked rosy. It was now about May 1974 and I was expecting to stay in Cyprus and explore the country for another 18 months with extra time off with my different shift routines.

The Day of The Invasion

For the next six weeks or so things went along in a fairly mundane and routine way. There was the normal cycle of work, days off and short trips locally. But while I was getting to grips with my new Yamaha I did not go very far, thinking I had 18 months left to explore the far off reaches of the island.

Nicosia is in the centre of Cyprus while most British camps are scattered in all points of the compass on the coastline. Nicosia was also a main international airport, so it was strategically very important.

There is a saying in the military that if you want to attack the enemy, do it after 5pm on a Friday because everyone has knocked off for the weekend. One Sunday morning in July we were asleep in bed maybe around 07:00 when we were all awoken by thunderous explosions that most of us had never heard before. After getting dressed I ran downstairs to see what the commotion was only to see all the other single servicemen standing by our barrack block looking up to the sky.

There we saw a fighter jet coming directly towards our home, about 100 feet above and releasing a rocket from a mile away so that it passed overhead and over our camp towards the airfield and air traffic tower. Then a second fighter jet, then another. They were not dropping bombs from high; they were just shooting missiles from low level and we could hear the explosions when they hit the airfield.

Of course, at this time we knew nothing of who was fighting who, or what the actual targets were. After a few minutes we realised that we were not the intended target, so things were not as bad as they could have been. It appeared that the Turkish Air Force knew that there was a British RAF camp here in Nicosia so they flew directly at us and released their rockets so that the missiles would fly over our camp to their targets and miss us, instead of coming from a different direction, overshooting and accidentally hitting us.

Sometimes in life you make decisions without thinking too much about them, and this was such a time with me. With the recklessness of youth, and thinking that I could get a better view from higher up, I went back upstairs to the first-floor veranda and waited until the next jet headed directly towards me, although 100 feet higher. He released the missile from a long way away. Unexpectedly, as well as the explosion I felt the shockwave hit me instantly and push me back – and it was a long way out when he fired his cannon, I think it was about a mile, but I did actually feel the blast hit me. It was then that I thought retreat was the better part of valour, so I headed back to safety on the ground.

Only at a later date did we hear that Turkish paratrooper had dropped on the island the previous day and started taking over key positions, with the airport being one of them. After a period of shock and amazement, and not knowing what to do, someone told us to all go to the NAAFI building and barricade ourselves in there with chairs and sofas, and await further instructions. About 30 of us stayed there all morning, listening to sounds of gunfire and explosions, not knowing what was going on or what the future held for us.

Several hours later an officer told us that tomorrow we would be evacuating the camp for the army camp at Dhekelia, somewhere I knew very well from previous outings. We were told to pack our kit bags and be ready to leave in the morning. Then I was hit with some shocking news. While everyone else who owned a car or motorbike would travel in their own vehicle, I would have to leave my Yamaha here. After protesting that it was a brand-new motor bike, the biggest purchase that I had ever made in my life, it fell on deaf ears. I was told to obey my orders, and that they needed all the drivers available to move all the military transport vehicles away from Nicosia and carry what equipment it could. Since I had been given a full driving course to qualify as a driver, I was indebted to the RAF to rescue one of their vehicles.

I put my bike under a metal hard-standing near our quarters with the keys in the ignition, in case someone could move it at a later date. So, there I left it, abandoned and alone wondering if I would ever see it again. Then I was given a small RAF car to drive in the morning, it was a Morris 1000.

I had never driven a car like this, or been alone driving a car, so I got inside it and tried to familiarise myself with all the controls, lights, indicators and wipers. We went back to the NAAFI and spent our last afternoon and evening waiting to see what tomorrow will bring.

The day of the evacuation

Next day when we got up everything around us was in chaos, although it was a lot quieter than the sound of guns and explosions of yesterday. Nobody knew what was happening or what we were supposed to do. We just waited for instructions, while behind the scenes negotiations were in progress with just about everybody. Politicians from UK, Greece, Turkey, United Nations peacekeepers, our commandant, convoy commanders, local soldiers from both sides and everyone necessary to be able to transport about 100 vehicles and their personnel across several Greek and Turkish checkpoints, and to have all the correct paperwork and authority to make such a move in safety without getting stopped.

Eventually, we were given the orders to start our cars and form an orderly queue to leave. I turned my ignition to hear a loud click, then nothing. I tried again to no avail. I told an RAF policeman that my car would not start. He came along with his Land Rover, tied a rope to it and bump started me. What had transpired was that yesterday when I was trying out the controls of my car, I had accidentally switched the lights on. Not noticing this in the full Cyprus sunshine, the battery had slowly drained. Not a very good start to the day, and I was beginning to wonder what more could go wrong in my first day of solo driving.

We were finally ready to leave our home of the last 12 months to who knew where. There was still a lot to do. The convoy commander at the front was a UN peacekeeper in an armoured car. He had to organise behind him a whole mish-mash of vehicles, from battered old cars belonging to the servicemen and families, to a fleet of motorbikes (mostly the single servicemen) and the RAF vehicles ranging from small cars to Land Rovers and three-ton lorries. There were also some locals and civilians who were coming on the convoy.

Once we had all queued up, the last vehicle was also a UN armoured car with the UN flag. The signal was sent to start the journey, and we were told to keep all our windows fully closed and to follow the vehicle in front. In the event of car trouble, we were to beep the horn for assistance.

The journey was very long and very hot. We kept passing local villagers on the roadside who looked dazed and confused, with no sense of direction or purpose, most of whom had just lost all their possessions, their homes and their livelihoods. The journey was very slow, and this was made worse when the convoy commander had to keep stopping and getting new orders and information from higher command every time we reached a check point, and to have our papers checked for authorisation to move all these people.

However, I was starting to have problems of my own. The temperature inside my car was getting extremely hot, and I did not want to disobey the order to keep the window closed. But, since I had never driven this (or any) car before I did not know where the fan controls were or how they worked. After about 30 minutes I was sweating and my uniform was dripping wet. I do not mean damp, I mean soaked, and I still had hours left to drive. The only thing that saved me was the fact that I had been in Cyprus for a year already and was acclimatised to the heat, otherwise I would have passed out.

On the way many of the cars, which were mostly old, overheated and broke down. This was mostly because they were not used to long journeys, or to going so slow. The reason for this was to keep the convoy close together and not to lose any stragglers. When cars did break down they were abandoned, and the occupants and luggage would be moved to any car with space. Later it became known that the local radio station had got wind of our evacuation and convoy, and sent reporters and camera crew to see us. One of the things they reported was that the convoy had picked up a chapter of the local Hell’s Angels gang, which was, of course, made up mostly of the single servicemen from my quarters. Another thing we also heard later was that they found out that our camp commandant was named Squadron Leader Jack Spencer, and they gave us our own theme tune for the journey – ‘Hit the Road Jack’.

Finally, we arrived at our destination: the army base of Dhekelia. I don’t know how long it took or how many vehicles we lost on the way, but we were all glad to have reached there safely.

Our first refuge

When we arrived at Dhekelia the first thing we noticed was the hundreds of people milling around; inside and outside the camp. They comprised British Army servicemen, civilians, locals, tourists and other unknown people, and they were all looking for somewhere to stay in these troubled times. When we arrived, the families were taken to whatever lodgings were available, while all the RAF servicemen were taken to a large room with camp beds. This was where we would spend our time while here. In the evening we went to the bar to see if we could get some beer. Since it was packed with dozens more people than normal, we would order two beers per person during each round to save queueing twice.

The next day the commandant decided to make use of this extra manpower, and found jobs for us. The biggest problem on camp with hundreds of extra people was the latrines. They were all gradually getting blocked, and they needed a latrine clearing team. I was one of the lucky ones on this team. We had a team of five RAF men and one qualified plumber. Our job was to go to all the toilets that reported problems and unblock them, as you would expect.

In general, we had to open the next manhole in line and view the pipes to see if it was blocked and then push a brush down it, pour water to see if it flowed and then move to the next manhole in line and repeat. However, in fine detail this involved getting a bamboo cane with a brush on the end and screw another cane to it, and a third and fourth screwed on until we had enough length to reach our blockage. Now in those days we never had such things as PPE or rubber gloves that we could use. So, when we pulled out the dirty canes, we were holding these rods with the tips of our fingers and unscrewing them very gingerly due to, shall we say, ‘contamination’. Then we would have to repeat this process at all the following manholes. This went on for about a week, but by this time when we pulled out the canes we were not so fussy, and we were just grabbing the whole stick without thought of contamination.

Many years later a film came out about with the theme: ‘Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!’. Well, we were the precursors to that, with: “Who you gonna call? Blockbusters!’.

The road to Troodos Mountains

We had been at Dhekelia for about a week when we were given the news that we would be leaving the next day for an RAF camp in the Troodos mountains, which lies roughly in the centre of Cyprus. I don’t know how far it was, but it was going to take all day to get there. So, we gathered again to go on another expedition. This time it was more orderly, with less fuss or commotion. I still had to drive the Morris 1000 and we still had nearly 100 servicemen and their families to move. We had the statutory UN convoy commander, because we now knew we would be crossing both Greek and Turkish checkpoints, and we would not have been allowed to travel without him.

This journey was very long, not only because of the distance but because we would be climbing up steep mountain roads to get to our destination. As expected, a lot of the older cars struggled, and many had to be abandoned. There was always a cheer if one of the cars did manage to restart and continue onwards. By this time the local radio station had got news of our second evacuation, and we were given the name ‘the Nicosia Nomads’ which we would continue to use in the coming months.

The Troodos mountains are famous because in winter they turn into a ski resort, with many international tourists heading there. Since it was July the place was deserted, so the camp we were going to was had plenty of space for the servicemen and families of RAF Nicosia. The last part of our journey was very scenic, trees, mountains, valley views and everything you would expect from a picture postcard.

The only other thing that struck me was that some trees were growing horizontally. Apparently the weight of the winter snow affected their growth. When we finally made it up the mountain, we gave a loud cheer to all the cars that had made it, but I do remember that one car had just crossed the finish line when it died. It had done its duty.

The next day, after settling into our sleeping quarters and recovering from our voyage, we were given our duties. We had up to 200 men, women and children to take care of and the only real task was feeding everybody. So, a roster was made up with everybody helping out with the meals. With the number of workers available, the roster to work was not too frequent. There was just the preparation of the dinners and the washing up afterwards, so we really had a relaxing time there with plenty of time off to walk nearby, see the local sights and socialise in the evenings with a few beers. Once again life seemed idyllic.

For a few short weeks we stayed at this camp while the powers that be discussed what to do with us. Then we were told that the families of the servicemen would be repatriated back to the UK. So, the Nicosia Nomads were to begin another trek, to the RAF camps at Akrotiri and Episkopi in the south-west. This journey passed without incident. Over the coming days we would go to either or both camps to rest, sleep or board an aircraft to go home. Goodbyes were said and we waved off the women and children.

At this point the RAF servicemen were told that we would be going back to RAF Nicosia. So, we undertook yet another journey back to our starting point, not knowing what we were going to find when we got back. This was our fourth convoy across Cyprus, so things were run of the mill as far as we were concerned.

Back at RAF Nicosia

We arrived back at RAF Nicosia to find many homeless people around the camp. Despite this, we were all very pleased to have arrived in one piece.

The first thing I did was to seek my Yamaha at my billet where I lived. Under the tin roof, all alone, there it was – and it was soon joined by another half dozen motorbikes arriving back. It had survived the invasion without mishap and eventually I managed to go for a short spin on it.

The next few weeks were very hectic. The first job was to go to all the married quarters and check the kitchens. Every householder had just abandoned their house and switched off the electricity. Every fridge contained raw, rotten meat and vegetables. Everything stank to high heaven. All the contents had to be removed meticulously and disposed of using the correct procedure for this type of contaminated waste.

This was a very big job because of the number of married quarters there were. Another team, which I was on, had to go to the library and collect and pack all the books into crates to be moved to safer places. These books were very numerous and heavy, so it took a long time. Otherwise, we were all going around camp doing clean up work and making the place generally looking presentable. Nobody went to our original place of work on the airfield or the air traffic tower. They were overrun with Turkish soldiers. We never knew what had actually happened on the day of the invasion or what the state of the runway was.

After a few weeks we had the news that RAF Nicosia would also be permanently closed down, and we would all get new postings back to England as the information for each serviceman came through. Gradually our numbers dropped and we each had to fill in forms so that our motorbikes and cars could be transported from the compound whenever there was space in the cargo aircraft. Before we left, we had a commemoration tie produced to buy with a record of our time at Nicosia. I bought one, and I still have it fifty years later.

Finally, it was my turn to leave Cyprus for home. I had given details for my motorbike to be sent to England and I was hoping for a quick reunification. I was then taken to RAF Akrotiri again to board a Hercules. As I boarded, I noticed that my fellow passengers comprised only about six men and the crew, with the rest of the aircraft taken up with three civilian cars, a motorbike and other pieces of luggage. Our seats were of canvas, strapped to the sides of the aircraft, and we had to make do with stretching our legs when we could and trying to avoid going deaf from the noise of the four large propellor engines. After about four hours we landed at RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire, and I caught a train home for a few weeks’ disembarkation leave.

Finally, after a few weeks I got the message that my motorbike had arrived in England, and I was given the address in Wiltshire where to pick it up. I drove home with my motorbike under me and a full motor car driving licence in my pocket.

It was some adventure in Cyprus, one that I would not have liked to have missed, well, most of it, and it gave me experiences that I may have never had anywhere else or anytime in my life. I think the whole time period from the day of the invasion to returning home was only about eight weeks, although it seemed like a lifetime.

I was posted to RAF Bicester in Oxfordshire, and while I did not keep in contact with many of the troops from Cyprus, one day while at work an officer walked past my window and I recognised him as my previous commanding officer, Squadron Leader Jack Spencer. I rushed out to say hello. After a few words we said our goodbyes. That was the last time I saw any of the Nicosia Nomads.

Soldiers of the 1st Battalion Royal Scots guard a check point in the western part of SBA Akrotiri. © IWM