I was glad that Watton was top heavy with air traffickers as
it was embarrassing to meet anyone from the real air force and have to tell
them that you were in air traffic control. In fact I never thought I would ever
experience a job as humiliating as height finding until I worked in the abattoir
and realised that there were many more rungs below the career Hell that I was
in. Andy Swetman had gone off for
sergeant aircrew, Tim looked as if he had entered self-destruct mode and I was
too stupid to give up.
It was one evening Irene and I had gone to a local pub, the
Willow House, for a meal and a few scoops.
It was quite funny as rumour control stated that The Willow House was posh
and should only be used by officers and those on good behaviour. The oiks, like me, were confined to The Crown
Hotel or The Kings Arms. I didn’t like
the Crown Hotel anymore as many of the younger abattoir workers would drink in
there and they usually became quite antagonistic. I was a natural target for their aggression as
I was not only a foreigner but in the RAF too.
Thankfully I never had to show any of them how to walk on the rice paper
without leaving any marks. Although, I
have to admit, I wouldn’t have minded leaving a couple of them with marks.
Well; Irene and I are happily ensconced in a comfortable comer
in The Willow House when in comes a failed fast jet pilot and his lady. As drink had been taken by all concerned the
gentleman, failed fast jet pilot, and his lady joined me and my wife. I still hadn’t grasped the difference between
officers and airmen. Respect for me was something
you earned. This fellow and I got on
quite well, we swopped jokes, shot the breeze and generally had a laugh. But the conversation then veered over towards
the future and careers.
My tongue had probably been loosened by the drink so I gave
him what for, told him what I thought of his air force. The failed fast jet pilot seemed to actually
care. He may have been showing off in
front of his lady but he suggested that if I could prove to him that I had what
it takes. Once again, this fellow
thinks he is better than me because he has successfully been through the
officer and aircrew selection centre, then at Biggen Hill. So too have I, why do I have to keep proving
myself to failed fast jet pilots?
At that time there was a big hoo haa in the press about a hefty
pay rise for the armed forces. One
failed fast jet pilot who had had his legs blown off in a bomb attack in Aiden
had used his compensation money to buy a Lotus, he was asked to park it around
the rear of the buildings as it wouldn’t be a very good idea to plead poverty if
some of us were driving Lotus cars. I
can’t remember that fellows name but I do remember playing squash against him.
I knew, well; everyone knew that he walked with some
difficulty and rumour control stated that the legs had gone below the knee,
above the knee, at the hips, so no one knew for sure the true extent of his
injuries and no one would have the temerity to ask. I was progressing well up the station squash
ladder when I saw that he was the next person I had to challenge. Suitably togged out I went to the squash
courts and couldn’t help but notice his heavily bandaged knees and it was most
obvious that the lower legs were plastic.
He won the game before the first service for I couldn’t help imagine if I
sent him a difficult return that he would go one way and his legs the other.
Anyway, back to The Willow House and the failed fast jet
pilot. He suggested that I write him a
two and a half thousand word essay debating the pros and cons of the proposed pay
rise for the armed forces. If I could present
him with such an essay, of a decent standard mind you, he would help me get
past the boss and off to Biggen Hill.
Well; as you can imagine the midnight oil was burned, the scribe was
scribbling and words were smithed. I
completed the essay and not only was it factually correct, exactly two and a
half thousand words long, written by a well serviced fountain pen, on unlined
paper, it was funny too.
I gave it to him at work in a sealed brown envelope and never
heard another word about it. As you can
imagine my faith, or trust, or even the slightest respect for any failed fast
jet pilot had gone, not that there had ever been very much there in the first
place. The air force was constantly letting
me down, the locals were getting more hostile, something had to happen and that
was Taff Pope. Taff was the only person
I knew who was quite comfortable sitting in the bar smoking a huge spliff.
Now drugs, the use of or possession of, were deeply frowned
upon in the armed forces. We would be
marched in, once a year, to view a movie about drug taking and drug takers. It was quite uncomfortable viewing and never
showed a group of people laughing their heads off at nothing, but did show a
procession of hopeless individuals injecting themselves and collapsing with the
needle still stuck in their veins. It
was a blood, guts, gore and veins in your teeth type of production. It certainly worked for me, I would never
consider injecting myself but I could never believe the tales they told about marijuana
use.
Taff apparently didn’t either and it was quite pleasant to
sit with him now and again, smoke a spliff and just relax into laughter and
dreams. Had we consumed a bottle of whiskey
each, then smashed the bottles over each other’s heads and set fire to the bar,
this would have been viewed as high spirits but laughing at nothing was deemed
to be highly irresponsible and dangerous.
In fact Taff completed his service at Watton and needed to return to his
home in the valleys of South Welsh Wales.
He hired a car for the weekend and asked me to drive him
home. Irene and I jumped at the chance
of a mini adventure. Taff was a friend, so you had to help him out. Despite all his bravado and his ‘couldn’t care
less attitude’ I’ll never forget glancing in the rear view mirror, as we left
Watton, to see Taff in the rear of the car crying his eyes out. I wondered if I would feel the same on the
day that I left.
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