For some reason our behaviour at Decci was quite ridiculous
and often veered towards the extremely dangerous. I of course would never participate in the shenanigans
but would casually observe. I’m not sure
why this alcohol fuelled madness occurred but it seemed to be standard behaviour for
Decci. I do remember one detachment when
Squadron Leader Keith Mac Burney was in charge.
We had quite an evening in the German club enjoying schnapps and beer. Decci could be a dangerous place so we tended
to move around in groups, when we remembered.
Most of the squadron set off for the accommodation block.
Unlike RAF stations with their manicured grassed areas, it
appeared that the Italians couldn’t care less what their units looked like,
which is why Decci probably resembled a scrapyard, on a good day. Many of the lowest ranks in the Italian
forces would have been conscripts so would be given mostly guard duties or
simple manual tasks. The building behind
our accommodation housed a bank, which was guarded, permanently, by two armed conscripts. The unit was criss-crossed with a series of
bondoo ditches. These were about three
foot deep and three foot wide and were to clear the area of heavy rain during storms;
they were also our biggest obstacle in getting back to your pit. The grass, weeds, bushes and occasional piles
of rubbish were a good three feet high.
Quite often chaps would appear with cuts and bruises having
fallen in to a bondoo ditch the previous evening on their way back from some
club. Sometimes the guys would spend the
night there. Part of the fun was to
actually get into a bondoo ditch, sneak up on the bank guards and shout at them
or throw things at them. These guys were
so nervous that they would more than often fire a couple of warning shots. So with about twenty of us in a bondoo ditch,
we were popping up like targets at a fun fair, while the guards showed how inaccurate
their marksmanship could be.
It was quite a giggle and when we arrived back at our accommodation
block we noticed that the RAF police had left their mini outside the
block. As most squadrons were boisterous,
some bright spark thought that if they positioned the RAF police office in the RAF
accommodation block, it might calm the troops down. Dave Magee was master of ceremonies that
evening. The mini was lifted and set into
an alcove so that on three sides there were only inches to spare. If anyone wanted to get it out they would
have needed a fork lift truck or twenty drunken squadron members.
As you may imagine our spirits were quite high, and I'm not talking schnapps here, we all fell
into one room, these were four, or six, man rooms, someone produced half a dozen
crates of beer. I remember I was sitting
on a window sill watching. I was
probably holding a bottle of beer, pretending that I was drinking, for appearances
you understand. Dave Magee was holding
court. He was sitting on a sink, which decided
to come off the wall. I’m not saying that
Dave was a big fellow, well; he was, but as he is a dear friend I would have to
say the accident was probably because of poor Italian craftsmanship. I can remember Dave turning and looking at the
two streams of water that were now gushing freely into the room.
What we were not aware of was that the Italian military
police had reacted to the shooting and had, eventually, come out to investigate. I think their ‘modus operandi’ was to give it
five minutes, think about it, give it another few minutes and then react, probably
hoping that whoever was being shot at had gone.
These guys gave the area a thorough search, which means they probably looked
about a bit, in the dark, and then hearing the commotion at our block wandered over.
They probably thought that wearing a police uniform gave them
some authority, so noticing the mini parked as it was, came on it to investigate
the commotion. Dave was next to the main
door of the room which swung open and showed us the two Italian policemen. They saw us and the room which was filling up
quite nicely I have to say. Perhaps sensing that they were on a sticky wicket,
they reacted very cleverly, or as Italian military policemen do. They drew their weapons. Now none of us lacked bravery but we knew that
Italian military policemen were rather casual with how they dispensed justice,
or their version of it. Dave was
handcuffed and led away.
I managed to get the troops to believe that their best course
of action was to block the broken pipes, stop the water flow and clear up a bit,
I would get Dave out of the guardroom. I
went over to the officer’s mess and luckily found Squadron Leader Mac Burney
outside, by the swimming pool. I could
see that some of the aircrew had been a tish boisterous as an irate Italian, presumably
from the golf club, was wanting to know why one of his golf buggies was in the
swimming pool, imitating a submarine. It
was quite common when on the rip in the golf club to take a golf buggy for a
spin rather than attempt to walk back to your accommodation, I mean look at the
dangers of walking.
Keith told me to get the squadron warrant officer, Slim, and
come back with both of us in uniform, as he hoped the golf buggy incident would
be sorted by then. I got my uniform on
and met up with Slim. Keith had sorted
out the golf buggy, well told the aircrew to get it out of the swimming pool
and was dressed in his uniform so the three of us set of for the guardroom. Like most military units the guard room was
by the main gate. It was somewhere we
all knew well, not because we were always getting locked up in the cells but because
one of the things you simply had to witness, when at Decci, was the lowering of
the flags in the evening.
All units at Decci would have their national flag hoisted at
the main gate. In the evening the Italian
guard would lower each flag while that nation’s national anthem would be
played. This was Decci so please don’t expect
a military band. In the guardroom was a record
player. They played each national anthem
on well-worn records, sometimes getting the wrong tune, and sending it out over
the PA system, scratches and all. There
was no sharp pomp and ceremony but in their own very lackadaisical way they
tried.
As we approached the guardroom we wondered how to present ourselves. Should Keith march Slim and myself, or should
Slim march me and Keith could….. Sod it,
we thought, it was dark. We ploughed in
to the guardroom and as the Italian officer in charge seemed now to be saluting
everything that moved we reciprocated, giving the event a sort of Monty Python
feel. I could see that all three of us
were a bit squiffy and wondered how Keith was going to handle this. I had explained to Keith what had happened, well;
I lied my arse off and had explained that poor little Dave Magee was completely
innocent of whatever charges the pesky Italians would make up against him.
I couldn’t believe it when Keith smiled at the Italian officer,
pulled out a bottle of Scotch and asked if he could have his man back,
please. Dave was immediately released
and we make a hasty retreat. We walked,
as quickly as we could, away from the guard room into the darkness and eventually,
when we felt far enough away to be safe, began to laugh about it. Slim wanted to know if they would come around
the following day looking for Dave. Keith
didn’t think so, but Dave said it didn’t matter if they did, for he had given
them the wrong name anyway, he said his name was Pat Magroin. Dave had been wearing a fake name patch, which we
all did on most detachments.
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