Either Valley had changed or I had changed, or perhaps both
of us had changed. The job was still the
same, answering a telephone and writing things down. The best position to work in, local control, seemed
to have a thicko sitting there permanently, requiring extra training. I was still drawn to the night flying shed,
where the bullshit levels remained close to zero. Unfortunately I had a plan, a simple plan,
get back to being sergeant aircrew air electronics, throwing stones at submarines
from Nimrods, then switch on the dazzle button, take a commission, and zoom up
into the high level officer’s ranks.
Had I known then that I would never be allowed to get a
commission, I would have walked there and then.
It would appear that people with strong accents, like myself, would
never be able to lead people, make decisions or even do their job
properly. Sort of reminds you of the
sign that used to hang in the windows of English boarding houses stating ‘No
blacks, no dogs, no Irish. Always pissed
me off that they rated me lower than a dog.
Anyway at that time I still had hope and wasn’t aware of ‘the rules.’ If you remember what I said before, one
function of the British armed forces is to sustain the class system, so you
would never find one of the good ol boys sitting at top table. Talk about glass
ceilings.
The old hands, the warrant officers and flight sergeants were
always friendly and helpful so I was able to access their experience and find
out exactly what I should do to get ahead.
I learned that it didn’t matter how good you were at your job, you could
only get promoted by taking on secondary duties. These duties would be engaged outside working
hours. You could play sports or join
entertainment committees, charity committees or join one of the many club
committees each camp would host, such as a drama club or a families club.
I was rubbish at sports, except hurling, but the air force didn’t
play that one. It was quite strange that
we would complain about people who were good at sport. They would get every Wednesday afternoon off
and for away matches and training would have even more time off. If the individual was really good at sport
then they could progress from representing the station to playing for a command team or even representing the air
force itself. Had I any sense at all,
rather than complain about the footballers and cricketers, I should have taken
up a sport myself.
One such fellow at Valley was John Lewis. John was a lovely, pleasant, average, English
guy. I think he came from somewhere in
middle England. John was brilliant at
football and cricket and we hated him because he was always away playing
sport. When I say hate him, I don’t mean
that we actually hated John, he was a lovely fellow, but we were perhaps jealous
of the skills he possessed that got him so much time off.
John actually organised a cricket match once for air traffic control. It was supposed to be an evening event with
beer and a barbeque but the assistants would be against the controllers, so there
was a competitive edge to the match. I
remember standing at the wicket. I mean
come on; I was the original big, ruffie tuffie.
The bowler lined up and then began to run towards the crease. He unleashed the ball, which up until now, I
was convinced that I would just swipe away into the middle distance.
I think this is where my dancing skills came into play, for I
found myself side stepping out of the way as the ball whizzed past to be expertly
caught by the wicket keeper. I am not
sure how fast the cricket ball had been travelling at but I was sure that if I
had remained where I was, my head would have come clean off. I dropped the cricket bat and left the pitch
never to play cricket again. I couldn’t care
less what they said about me, they could call me what they wanted, but the one
thing I could safely say I wasn’t, was daft.
Cricketers have my full respect.
It is a very dangerous game however it could bore the buttons of a
shirt. John Boy did try to get me to attend a cricket
match once explaining that the bar was open throughout the match, even that wasn’t
enough of a temptation to get me through the turnstile.
As for John Lewis, he married a local girl and we were all
invited to the wedding. John cornered me
a couple of days before the event and asked if I would do a favour for
him. As I said before John was a lovely fellow
so I agreed. He explained that he had
certain friends and family attending the wedding and would like me to escort
his cousin, an RAF nurse, female flavoured of course, for the evening. This would mean picking her up from her hotel
and returning her there at the end of the evening.
It was a fantastic evening and I do remember that the young nurse
and myself decided that Docker would be sleeping in the bath that night. I do remember this because we came back to
the domestic site on the bonnet of a car.
Don’t worry we didn’t look out of place on the bonnet, as there were
three of four others on the roof. I made
sure that the young lady was returned to her hotel the following morning,
bright and early, so that no one would suspect that she had been out all night
viewing my etchings.
John was very happy with my behaviour and declared that his
cousin had had a fantastic time. The incident
was forgotten about. Well; when I say forgotten about, I had accepted the evening as a brief encounter, ships that
pass in the night and all that. Which is
probably the best way to describe it, as there was a sort of nautical edge to
what happened next. You’ll know exactly what
I mean if you’ve ever been stood standing in front of a medic with your
trousers and shreddies around your ankles.
With the medic inspecting your bits and pieces, moving your John Thomas around
with a wooden spatula. Your heart sort
of sinks when he announces that you must shave from your nipples to your knees,
burn all your sheets and blankets and apply some foul smelling ointment to your torso twice a day. The humiliation is only
complete when he says ‘Oh and by the way you must inform the other person.’ I had no contact details for the young lady
so had to ask John to pass the information on.
I don’t know who was the more embarrassed me or John. But true to form, he was a dammed good sport
about it all.
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