Apart from the humiliation and embarrassment I felt at being
an assistant air traffic controller anyone could see, at that time, that it was
a dead end trade. On average people were
waiting ten to twelve years to get promoted.
The next rank we could achieve was Corporal and the existing Corporals
at Valley didn’t really enthuse anyone to want to follow in their shoes.
We had every flavour of Corporal possible; there was a local
Welsh fellow who had his initials in gold lettering on each door of his
car. The letters were only about two
inches high, but come on, I mean would you?
There was the Scottish Corporal.
A wiry little man that smelled like a well-used public house. He always, no matter where, or when, you met
him, stank of beer. I would normally
meet him at midnight and try and persuade him to go back inside his house, for
when drunk he was always found stripped to the waist, in his front garden, screaming
insults at passers-by. It was felt that with
my particular set of skills I was most suited to restraining him and
encouraging him back inside his house.
There was an English Corporal, Peter. He was a nice fellow. He lived in a private house in a local village
that was next to the sea. After a night
shift we would go to Peter’s house and go out fishing in his boat. We were actually bombed one morning by a
couple of friends messing about in a chipmunk, which is a tiny two seater
training aircraft, who thought it hilarious to chuck all sorts of rubbish at us
from one hundred feet above. However
there was never a finer meal to be eaten than a couple of mackerel you’ve just
caught yourself, grilled lightly, with a fresh, soft, bread rolls and a decent lump
of real butter.
There were two Irish Corporals, Paddy O Reardon and Larry Power. Larry was a bean stealer, which is a term we
used for a married person who lived in single accommodation. Larry’s wife and children lived in Dublin so
he was always nipping off to see them.
Paddy however was a different bucket of mackerel altogether. Not many people wanted to work with Paddy and
I am sorry to say this, but he was the sort of chap who encouraged Irish jokes
to be told in the first place. For God’s
sake even I thought he was thick.
Valley was known as a military emergency diversionary
airfield, a MEDA. Roughly translated that
means that it was open twenty four hours a day and was able to accept any type
of aircraft. A skeleton crew kept the airfield
ticking over during the night and over weekends and public holidays. Certain people took this duty very seriously
indeed. All of air traffic control, in
fact the whole bloody station, would curl up in a suitable corner and go to
sleep. One person would be detailed to remain
awake and alert throughout the night. Usually
someone who was always in trouble.
It was a horrible duty, not because you would have the met
office call you on the hour, every hour, with an update of the weather, which
of course would involve answering the phone and writing stuff down. You would be left in a tiny room where the
horrible clock ticked every minute, like someone hitting a snare drum. Paddy would actually check on you through the
night and make sure you were awake, and if you weren’t. Guess what?
You’re on a charge me lad.
You couldn’t make a brew, because two people would be
sleeping in the kitchen area. You couldn’t
go to the toilet because the phone would be unmanned. And if they caught you trying to have a pee
out of the window, guess what, yes, you’re on a charge me lad. Paddy was not just useless he was completely
mad as well. Or at least we all thought so. If there was a quiet period Paddy would be
writing letters and God help you if you asked him what he was doing, for he
would only be too glad to tell you.
Paddy was convinced that there was enormous potential in harnessing
the power in the waves on the sea. He
was writing to every government department he knew in Ireland encouraging them to investigate and
research the potential of wave power. He
suggested that some sort of devices could be anchored around Ireland; he was particularly
interested in the Bantry area and was convinced that this was the way forward. In fact he was so convinced of his plan that
he was writing to the British government and Prince Charles suggesting that such
a project could be set up in Cardigan Bay that would provide free electrical power
for all of Wales, for ever. You may
think that I might now look back and scold myself as Paddy would appear to be a
bit of a genius on the side. But you
would be wrong. Why I hear you ask, well,
I bought Paddy’s car.
The vehicle in question was a Vauxhall Victor. It was an old vehicle and had been modified
by Paddy. I’m not talking about standard
modifications like go faster stripes or whip lash aerials. Paddy would have viewed those as show off
stuff. The first modification he showed
me was the ball compass on the dashboard.
Not very advanced but Paddy assured me a necessity in the wilds of Wales
should you get lost. I preferred
signposts and maps myself, but each to their own.
You didn’t need a key to start this particular car. The ignition slot was so worn you could have
started it with a lollipop stick, and a
blunt one at that, however these were the days when cars had a choke. This was a device used in cold weather to
help get the engine started. Basically the choke delivered more fuel to the
engine and which warmed the engine up more quickly. The choke cable on this car had broken so
Paddy, rather than replace it had attached a short piece of white electric cable,
so you could see it.
On a cold morning you
would have to place a house brick on the accelerator then open the bonnet to give you access to the engine
compartment. You would flick the fuel
feed, a couple of times, pull the white electrical cable, the choke, and push
the starter button. With a bit of luck
the engine would start. Not the sort of
actions that you would enjoy carrying out on a cold Welsh morning with the wind
coming in sideways off the Irish sea and the rain by the bucket load from the mountains.
With the bonnet open you could begin to see other modifications
that Paddy had installed. The brass
water tap would have been one. A
radiator hose had burst so rather than get a new one Paddy decided to cut away
the burst section of pipe and put a brass, cold water tap, in its place. There was no rhyme or reason for this, the
tap was lying around his garage and looked as if it might fit. The tap was held in place with two jubilee
clips. The only problem was that I never
knew if the tap was open or shut.
Should it be shut then the car would overheat and
explode. But this was another modification
that Paddy had installed in the car. He hated
being caught in long queues especially during hot summers, one which was the cause
of the burst radiator pipe in the first place, so he had installed a kitchen
extractor fan in front of the radiator, which you could operate from the driver
position if you were ever overheating.
And then things began to change. For the better, we all hoped, for a new Corporal
arrived. He was young, well; he was somewhere
around his mid-twenties, Rod Shackelton.
Most of the chaps though ‘hello we don’t have to wait for someone to die
before we can get promoted anymore’. However
I wasn’t so sure, for Rod rattled when he walked. The poor fellow was on quite a high daily dose
of valium and I wondered if the effort of getting promoted would be worth it.
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