I’m sure that it will come as no surprise to you, to learn
that routine is a big part of forces life.
One routine at Valley was the weather ship. Every morning an experienced pilot, normally
one of the instructors, known as a QFI, a qualified flying instructor, would take
a jet off for a spin around the local area to check out the weather, especially
in the mountains. Ergo; the weather
ship. As with all routines, now and again,
they are broken. If the QFI was about
to be posted and if this was his last flight at Valley, then tradition demanded
that he beat up the airfield.
The pilots would always try to outdo each other, so that as
well as swaggering into the bar, with the top button undone, they could lay claim
to some maniacal sortie. A buzz would
flitter around the station everyone passing on, in whispers, the fact that so
and so was taking his last jolly. Normally
they would just beat the airfield up and give a fine demonstration of their skill,
one fellow I remember came in as low as a train and scared everyone witless. We shall not mention the crazy fecker who
flew under the Menai Bridge and frightened a train load of passengers, who were
passing over his head, en route to Holyhead.
We shall not mention that, heads will roll.
Another good day for flying would be the station open
day. Everywhere had to be polished and
ironed and the local population would be invited on to the base to enjoy some great
flying and of course, see the people who had been scaring the local sheep. Aircraft from all over the RAF would arrive
as would aircraft from the USAF or other visiting squadrons. There would be helicopter displays and if lucky
the Red Arrows would arrive and thrill the crowds. The children could climb all over the fire engines,
or hold a gun and shout bang, and a great day would be had by all.
We of course would be under great scrutiny, not from the public
but the failed fast jet pilots. As the air
traffic squadron was known as Queens Flight throughout the station we would be expected
to be turned out very well indeed. This
year, the year that I am thinking about, the air traffic lads decided to go to
the Trearddur Bay hotel for a few scoops of beer. It was a good turnout; I think it would be
safe to say that there would have been twenty to twenty five of the boys there.
As I mentioned before Tim Lort was quite an accomplished rugby
player and you know what happens when you pour beer down the throat of a rugby
player. That’s right, he starts to sing. The bar was heaving, I mean really, really,
full. But it was summer and we were all
youngish, say around twenty years of age.
There must have been fifty Welsh lads who responded to Tim’s rugby song
by singing back at him.
Tim fired up another song and we joined in, as best as we
could, supporting him. The Welsh lads
then came back with another song and so it continued. I was with a young fellow called Peter
Browne. Peter would have been the best
turned out fellow at Valley, he even ironed his fecking underpants. Peter, I know, reads this blog every day and
is fine with me telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about
him. He runs a bombing range in Saudi Arabia
these days, so if you would all like to turn towards Saudi Arabia and wave to
Peter. Hello Peter.
Anyway, Peter and I sensed that the mood of the local Welsh
chaps was changing and getting rather dark.
We knew that there was going to be trouble, well; we couldn’t be sure,
but we decided to move our chaps out of there.
Peter agreed to move among our fellows and get them to leave their beer
and get outside. I went into the toilets
and dark corners to make sure we didn’t leave anyone behind. Peter waited for me in the centre of the
bar. I came out and was pretty sure that
there was going to be trouble.
Peter and myself guided all of our chaps out and were
confident that no one had been forgotten about.
Luckily there was only a single doorway so I remained in the doorway to
slow down the growing gang of Viet Taff who were most definitely coming after
us and who were most definitely looking for trouble. I turned to face them and knew that my training
would see me through. I remained calm,
as I had been trained, and tried to pre-empt the first strike.
What I wasn’t aware of was that the Viet Taff actually had their
own form of Martial arts. It is known as
Yakidaa, pronounced Yack-e-da. It is a
very complicated process but basically what happens is they shout things at you
in Welsh. This surprises you and as you
try to, not just understand what they said, but translate it, the victim is disorientated
and the first blow can be struck. A very
clever ruse on their part
I held my own, as you would expect. I mean there was only about thirty of them. Peter Browne was encouraging all of our guys
to get in their cars and get away. He
says that he turned to see me exit the doorway like a cork from a champagne bottle. He probably won’t admit it, but I most probably
did it in a most graceful way, well; with legs like mine what else would you expect. As I was in a heap on the floor, which is a
technical term we use in martial arts, I probably haven’t got the time to explain
it. If you’ve seen the film, The Karate Kid,
then you will be aware of the move he executes at the end, the crane, well
lying in a heap on the floor is an ancient Irish martial art move.
Luckily for me the Viet Taff went after the main body of
guys. I can remember seeing Vince giving
a good account of himself in the car park as I lifted myself off the ground,
sorry, as I sprang back to my feet and adopted a fighting stance. I decided to go into the reception area of
the hotel and ring the police to see if they would like to come along and sort
this mini riot out. I went in to the
reception area and was quite surprised to see that none other than Norma, my
ex, was the receptionist.
I didn’t have the time to have a little chat with her, but
did manage to call the police who assured me that they would come along. Unfortunately the following morning the head
failed fast jet pilot, the SATCO, was quite disappointed for not one of us
could walk in a straight line and as for marching, forget it. There was a decent collection of black eyes,
busted lips, missing teeth, skinned knuckles and a general air of weariness from
the chaps, but you know, I think it brought us all together as a team. Ah, I know, okay big group hug.
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