Going Underground

On the hottest 1st October in weather recorded history, 29.9 degrees centigrade,what would be the usual thing to do? Chill out in the garden with a long cool drink, loiter around the deep freeze section in the local supermarket, drive out to the coast with the air conditioning on full before getting the benefit of a refreshing off shore breeze. A fourth alternative was the one I went for. A descent through artificially lit corridors and stairwells to the base level of the Cold War underground bunker at Holmpton. The facility was built in 1951 as a strategic control centre for the RAF, at that time with a full radar array aboveground. Built in a large hole and then buried under a farmers field the now largely mothballed structure covers the area equivalent to a four storey football pitch and in its peak operational mode was the workplace for 120 per shift. Encased in 10 feet thick tungsten reinforced concrete and at a depth of 80 feet the bunker was intended to run the countries response to a Nuclear attack although how much management would be required for a post apocalyptic Britain with a predicted (1951 figures)  43 million dead and with the remains probably condensing into a shoe-box? The tour starts at the guardhouse, cunningly disguised as a chalet bungalow to fool the most sensitive spy in the sky although with a full car park in it's heyday the site will have resembled a very well attended bake sale or coffee morning amongst the local population. The long shallow gradient of the access tunnel leads to the main blast doors of the complex and beyond to a stairwell to the main floors. A tour guide ushered our small group through the dormitory, kitchens, communications rooms and sick bay all retro-fitted for our benefit. The computer room had long since been emptied mainly because the original equipment taking up the space of an Olympic sized swimming pool had an output now inferior to even a basic home PC. Telex and printers including ticker-tape type transcribers looked so cumbersome and dated but will have represented the pinnacle of equipment at that time. There were some strange sights in the bunker. The main officers sleeping quarters had a small table lamp on a bedside table amongst wall mounted white boards for listing megatons of strikes, fatalities and fallout levels. Daily ration packs included packets of dehydrated beef stew, chocolate pudding and chewing gum. Given the fact that the 'lucky shift' on duty at the time of the apocalypse would be entombed for a minimum of one month there was a very good selection of paperback novels but also a number of car maintenance manuals which suggests that the old British Leyland Mini, although stricken with corrosion, would be able to survive a nuclear strike. The main plant room could have doubled up as the engine room on the Starship Enterprise apart from the liberal use of cream gloss paint on the bank of control units and the meticulously labelled and referenced parts of the air conditioning machinery. A small child in our tour group was about to flick the main 'ON' switch when spotted by the guide, ex Observer Corps, of course. This will have stolen his thunder for the actual demonstration of how from a standing start the whole subterranean web was replenished with fresh and filtered air within 10 seconds. The disorientating course through the many rooms and compartments included two short seated sessions in front of TV screens on which black and white government information films were shown. These ,never actually broadcast ,were the usual posh voiced, firm but scary type of production, a bit like your headmaster telling you that your parents had died in a horrible way but your elderly and senile relatives would now be looking after you. Apparently, the best way to survive the initial nuclear flash and subsequent shockwave was to throw yourself dramatically behind the sofa, if indoors, or in a ditch if out on your pushbike or visiting friends. The films were a bit vague about what fallout would do to your metabolism in the following nuclear winter.
The visit concluded with a very gung-ho and propagandist review of 'them Cold War days' , a startling all clear siren and a remotely controlled RAF ensign lowering on a pole in the briefing room. On ascending the tunnel there was half a thought that if solar flares had hit the earth in the duration of the tour  I would have responsibility for marshalling the mixed tour group into a credible survivalist group for the New World Order. The exit through the gift shop was the ideal time to purchase essentials of a couple of bars of fudge, fluorescent orange coloured pencil and a small notebook. I would be prepared for when the balloon went up.