I would hope that by now you would all be feeling very sorry
for us. It was quite an endurance test
having to live tax free in Germany, just so most of you could sleep safely in
your beds, but to have to endure further hardships such as up to six weeks
every summer in Cyprus was asking a bit much of us. Unfortunately the Ministry of Defence had
faith in us and our capabilities so would send us to Sardinia for a couple of
weeks, again, during the summer as we needed good weather to make the most of
our time there. And that is something I
can assure you that we did.
Decimomannu was a huge NATO(ish) base on the beautiful island
of Sardinia. We referred to it as ‘Decci’
and went there for ACMI (Air Combat Manoeuvring Instrumentation). Basically fighter pilots had to engage in dog
fights to improve their skills.
Debriefing was often viewed as slightly unfair as the stronger argument may
win the dogfight, rather than what actually happened in the air. The phantom aircraft was equipped with a
camera so that when the weapons trigger was pressed the camera was engaged and
the manoeuvre could be more accurately dissected during the de-brief. However some crews were still not happy with
this method as the stronger argument, or higher rank, could often win the dog
fight.
Decci put an end to all this.
A computer pod would be attached to the aircraft, on one of the missile
slots, and this would feed back all relevant information to a ground control
unit. The information was fed into a
huge computer, housed in what looked like four huge metal containers you would
see on the back of a lorry. The result
was displayed on an enormous screen and as every parameter that could affect the
engagement would be taken into consideration; there was no arguing with a
computer. I remember watching my first engagements
on the huge screen and if you were killed, or the computer determined you were
not the winner, a small coffin flashed around the aircraft, which you then had
to request leave the area for a short period of time before coming back in and
re-engaging.
The flight line at Decci was about two miles long and for anyone
interested in military aircraft it would have been heaven. If you can imagine first thing in the morning
climbing up the air traffic control tower and looking down along a two mile
long line of military aircraft. There would
be French squadrons, Italian, German, Turkish, Spanish, even Israeli, American
and of course 92 Squadron. It was a
lovely sight, even for someone like me, and yes some of the aircraft weren’t
there, so cameras were restricted. As you
can imagine on your arrival briefing an Italian officer would be informing us that
there was a ‘No cameras pleeze,’ security
policy, which would be interpreted by us as challenge number one. We would then be advised not to go near the
mountains of Sardinia as bandits still operated there, capturing and robbing
tourists. Thankfully we never got drunk
enough to follow up the suggestion, often made after a few scoops, that we go
up into the mountains and capture a couple of bandits for ourselves.
The first thing I saw when I entered operations at Decci was
a statement on the ops room wall saying, ‘Decimomannu, not quite the end of the
world, but you can see it from here.’ My
first duty was to load up with cartons of two hundred Benson and Hedges cigarettes
and go visit the fuel bowser drivers. They
had to be bribed, on a regular basis, to perform their duty and refuel our aircraft. To ensure that we were always ready to fly this
was quite an important task to stay on top of.
We couldn’t afford to hang around as we never knew when they would open
or close the range. All we could do was
wander about shouting, in the most comical Italian accent we could muster, “The
range, she’s a close-ed.” Next most
important duty was to make sure that there was plenty of, clean and hygienic, fluid
for the guys to drink. This wasn’t because
of the heat but because of the social life which I can assure you was hectic.
Each nation had its own club or mess at Decci and I can
assure you the NAAFI was normally empty as it was your basic warm beer, metal
ash trays and formica tables. We felt
more at home in the German club or the Italian mess. Decci was the sort of place where you made a
lot of friends who couldn’t speak your language. It was quite common to sit down for breakfast
with four or five buddies and not be able to effectively communicate with them
as they would be French or German, Spanish, Turkish or even Israeli. The other nations had their own version of
squadron songs which they would launch into but Decci is where I learned the
squadron dance. Now with legs like mine,
and my penchant for jiving, you would think I would be in good standing for the
squadron dance, but no. It had
undertones of the rugby club and was in two parts.
The first part was known as The Dance of The Zulu Warrior. One person would volunteer or be nominated by
the squadron and would then have no choice but to perform the ritual. You might be sitting there enjoying a beer,
or flaming Sambuca, when thirty guys point at you and start chanting, I shall
not say ‘sing’ in case I offend anyone with vocal ability, they would start chanting.
‘Aye igga zumba zumba zumba, aye igga zumba zumba eh’ This would be repeated once or twice, it all
depended on who was master of ceremonies, and then the line, ‘Get em down, you
Zulu warrior, get em down you Zulu chief, chief, chief.’ would be added. The squadron members would now continue repeating
the first line a couple of times and then punch in with the chorus again. Not exactly Mendelssohn. As this was going on you were expected to
stand on the table, minding the bottles and glasses, or clearing the lot with a
sweep of your feet, and strip off all your clothes.
Some would simply strip off in order to get the ordeal over
and done with as quickly as possible whereas some, and I think the differentiation
hovered on the amount of drink that had been taken, some would try to give the event
a certain level of entertainment value.
Once naked, although socks would be permitted to remain, the Zulu
Warrior would now move on to the more dangerous and final part of the squadron
dance which was The Dance of The Flaming Arseholes. This is where the now naked Zulu Warrior would
clamp a rolled up newspaper between the cheeks of his arse and the newspaper
would be set alight.
Sometimes the chaps would have laced the newspaper with Sambuca
which would produce a more vibrant although entertaining flame. This now became a test of bravery as the Zulu
Warrior had to continue prancing about while the squadron would continue to chant. When the guys decided that the flame had
drawn close enough to the skin, to indicate a certain level of braveness, the
flame would be extinguished, in much the same way as the flaming engine during the
Shackleton song, with the guys hoofing their beer over the Zulu Warrior and his
blistering derriere. I wouldn’t advise
any of you to try this, as even after all those years I still have flashbacks of that
very long table and that newspaper being prepared.
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