Saint Athan is a huge base in South Welsh Wales, in the Vale
of Glamorgan. It’s a lovely part of the
world and quite close to Barry Island, a very popular seaside resort. Unfortunately Saint Athan was a large
training depot. Anyone who needed to
drive, as part of their standard trade duties, would be sent to St Athan. This meant that the place was heaving with
baby policemen, rock apes, clerks, and store men and women.
It was a bit of a let-down to arrive and see hundreds of
military type people marching about. My
accommodation was in a huge room with perhaps twenty men in it. I decided to keep my head down and get
through my six weeks as quickly as possible.
I wasn’t impressed as it was announced we would be having block
inspection ever two weeks. I noticed one
fellow, who like myself had a rucksack, same make and model. I remarked on their likeness and he informed
me that he was from the Stafford mountain rescue team. We shook hands and relaxed a little, as to
have an ally in such an environment was a definite bonus.
The first morning we were quite amazed to see all these fellows
running about and being very military.
With my new friend we approached the day in a more relaxed mode and
sauntered over to the mess. We had
hardly sat down with our meal when the majority of guys were racing outside and
lining up in ranks of three. A Corporal
appeared.
“Are you two here for a driving course?”
We both nodded but continued eating.
“Then why aren’t you outside lining up with the rest of the
guys?”
“Cause we’re eating our fecking breakfast!”
He wasn’t a very tall person, so he leaned in. “If you don’t put your knives and forks down
this very moment and get outside, I will call someone over here who will make
you get outside.”
We ignored him and he called his friend over. The friend was too a Corporal but quite thick
set, unlike the first chap. The little
fellow left and the large chap leaned on the side of the table, we of course
had continued to eat.
“Get outside now, or after I’ve finished with you, I’ll send
you back to your unit and you won’t be able to become proper little policemen.”
“Policemen!” we both
shrieked. “We’re mountain rescue.”
“Why didn’t you say lads,” he laughed, as he sat down and
offered to shake our hands. “Have you
just arrived?”
We both explained that we had arrived the day before and had
been told to contact the St Athan team.
“Right!” he says. “There’s
no way mountain rescue men are living with fecking students. I’ll get in touch with the Saints team and we
will move you over there this evening.”
We did finish our breakfast in a leisurely way and then sauntered over
to the main training unit, enjoying a cigarette as we went, because life seemed
to be getting better
First of all I had to join the Highway Code class. This was a class room where men and women sat
studying the Highway Code. It was a
revolving situation; you find an empty desk, sat down and read the Highway Code. At the head of the class sat a civilian. When you felt ready you could approach him
and he would quiz you. If you answered
his questions correctly you had passed the Highway Code section of the course.
I went and sat at the civilian’s desk.
“You haven’t studied your highway code sonny!” he said,
showing his keen powers of observation.
“I began reading it the moment I knew I was coming on this
course.” I said. I think every person in that room nodded to themselves
and thought ‘Oh that would have been a good idea.’ He asked me about a dozen questions. As I waited for him to ask the hard question,
he announced that in his opinion I could move on, I had passed.
Next was the Calculation and Navigation class, here each desk
had a large UK map on the desk which was covered and protected with a large
sheet of Perspex. There was a series of
questions printed on a couple of sheets of paper that you had to answer. Once you had managed to answer the questions
correctly, you would have passed this section of the course and could proceed
to the next section.
The instructor was amazed that I didn’t ask to use his
calculator. The questions were basic mathematics,
if point A is sixty miles away from point B how long will it take to drive
between the two points at thirty miles an hour?
If you consumed one gallon of fuel every thirty miles how much fuel
would you use? Before first morning tea
break I had passed through both sections, but now must proceed through the driving
simulators.
I know I said that I had found air traffic embarrassing but
this was horrific. Imagine if you will a
large room, I was going to be flippant and say imagine ten large cardboard
boxes but, it’s true, just make them grey.
It was like an all in one school desk, except this had a steering wheel,
oh yeah, and a gear stick. All the desks
faced the large screen at the front of the room on which was played a film, from
a driver’s perspective, of a motor car moving along a road.
Instructions were shouted, prepare to stop, indicate left,
double de-clutch. All that was missing
was us vibrating our lips and making motor car noises like six year olds. After lunch on the Monday I was ready to be
allocated an instructor. Some of the
trainees thought I had been cheating as on average it was taking two, to two and
a half, days for a trainee to get through the first three stages.
I was given the name of an instructor. I can’t really
remember it, but I was told to go out to hanger number two where I would find
my new instructor. There must have been
one hundred land rovers parked up in lovely neat rows inside the hangar. I could only see one person, who was checking
the oil on a land rover. I went over and
having established that it was the correct person introduced myself, to my new
civilian instructor.
“Ah!” he says. “You’re
an Irishman?”
“Yes.” I said.
“Good,” says he. “I’m
sick of these moaning English bastards.”
I could see we were going to get on very well.
Each instructor was given two trainees. One trainee would drive in the morning while
the other sat in the rear of the land rover, observing. After lunch you changed places. So for six weeks I drove around South Wales
with a local Welsh chap given me a fantastic account of the area and its
history. It was really a very pleasant
time.
My test date came and we drove into Cardiff to the test centre. We used a café that was close by to have a
brew and a final pep talk. It was
leaving the café that I nipped a light off a parked car but it didn’t unsettle
me. I took the test and returned to St
Athan. Of course I passed, what did you
expect?
At St Athan I was told to go and have my tea and report back
at eight o clock that evening. “What for?”
I asked, impatient to get away. “Oh, now that you have passed your test, you
can move on to the advanced part of the course. Tonight you will be given
instruction in motorway driving, convoy driving and night driving.” So that evening a convoy set off from St
Athan to Brize Norton. It was just over
one hundred miles away and a great bit of fun.
The next morning I was allowed to leave and return to Valley. I managed an event free return trip. I stowed my kit in my new room and was about
to go over to headquarters when Chris Burrell stopped me as I came out of the accommodation
block.
Chris was a large fellow and quite a senior member of the
team. “You owe me fifteen quid, he said
holding out a set of keys. “How or why
do I owe you fifteen quid?” I asked, aware that I hadn’t broken anything and
would never have placed a bet.
“You’ve just passed your driving course?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well I’ve been posted to Cyprus and you are now the proud
keeper of the team car.” He jingled the
keys. “You owe me fifteen quid.”
The team car was a Rover 2000. Basically any car on camp had to be
registered to one person. Anyone on the
team could use it, the keys were left in it, and the only rule was, that if the
fuel was low, you put some in.
I handed over the money and Chris gave me the keys. Somehow or other Rochdale had suddenly got
a lot closer.
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