It was always nice to get back to Germany; the bomb proof
walls of operations gave some comfort and the madness subsided. We would have to gently wean ourselves off
the Mediterranean lifestyle, so for a good few evenings after our return you
could identify where squadron members lived as the barbeques would have been
sparked up on the balcony of their flat.
You might have been able to replicate the taste but you could never
recreate the atmosphere. Each block of
flats had eight flats. They also had a
basement. One side was given over as a
drying room for inclement weather while the other side was split into eight
cages, one for each flat, where you could store your packing crates and anything
else you wanted.
A lot of the drying rooms had been turned into bars and every
Christmas the Station Commander would visit and have a drink in each bar and
then declare which block bar was the best.
It was crazy. The drink was so cheap
I actually found myself putting tequila in my windscreen washers on the
car. For me it was quite a practical
approach although I hoped the police would never pull me over if I had just
washed the windshield. The German police have an image of being very strict
although in my experience they were flexible to say the least.
It would have been a Saturday. Irene and I had been shopping and were driving
back to Erkelenz. We were driving
through the countryside when I approached crossroads. I would have been crossing the main
road. I slowed down as I approached the
junction and could see no other traffic in the vicinity, only a motorbike some
distance away. As there was no need to
stop I simply drove across and continued on my merry little way. The motorbike followed me and as it got
closer I could see that it was a motorcycle cop.
He came alongside and instructed me to pull over. He came up to my window and asked why I hadn’t
stopped at the stop sign. I explained that
as I approached the crossroads I could see no other traffic in the area, apart from himself who was a
fair old distance away, so I could see no need to stop. His reply was, “In Germany stop means stop! I fine you forty deutschemarks.” At that time forty deutschemarks was ten
pounds so not a lot really. He proceeded to fill out his paperwork. “Erm! Excuse
me,” I said, as Irene and I had pooled all the cash we had with us. “We’ve just been shopping. Here I point to all the shopping on the back
seat of the Beetle. “We’ve only got twelve
deutschemarks.”
Without any hesitation, and having a quick gander at the bags
on the back seat, the policeman says, “Okay, I fine you ten deutschmarks.” And that was that. I quite liked their style of traffic management
as the fine was dealt with there and then at the side of the road and it was forgotten
about, whereas in the UK they would have engaged a whole process involving all
sorts of overpaid professionals, resulting in you getting points on your license
and a much heftier insurance bill. Although
a month or two later I was to learn that the Germans could be as pedantic at the
Brits if they so wanted.
We had an appointment at the hospital, RAFH Wegberg. We were driving towards Wegberg when I found
myself stuck behind a huge tractor and trailer.
As my little Beetle was left hand drive, overtaking was no problem. I could see that there was a build-up of
traffic behind me so knew I would have to lead off. The tractor driver could see the problem he
was causing so pulled over as far as he could to allow us all to pass. With the road ahead clear I overtook and
seeing that the car behind me, a Volkswagen Passat estate, was positioned in such
a way that indicated he wanted to overtake me, I pulled over as much as I could,
like the tractor driver had done, to allow him past.
He did overtake me but as he drew level I saw a hand come out
of the window and the old lollipop wave at me.
This was a hand held police badge that indicated you were to pull over. I hadn’t realised that it was an unmarked police
car. The officer came up alongside and
asked for my papers. He then began to
fill out his paperwork and I wondered how much he would sting me for. He then took the usual police approach
telling me that if the tractor driver had wanted to turn left I had blocked his
way. The tractor driver had not indicated
that he wanted to turn and there were no turns for him to turn into. But there was more, in order to overtake I
had broken the speed limit.
I knew that I should keep my mouth shut and pretend that everything
he said was gospel. He then ripped the
sheet from his pad and handed it to me. “How
much?” I asked. “No,” he says. “This fine is too big for the side of the road. You will go to court.” I can tell you that my heart sank. I wasn’t worried
in the least about the German court, I was more worried about the RAF and how
they would react. This would be seen as
bringing the good name and nature of the RAF into disrepute. It would be inaccurate to say that I was in the
shit again. I was always in the shit,
for me it was only the depth that varied.
I told my boss on the squadron who shrugged his shoulders and
said that all we could do was wait until the court responded and we could only
really deal with it then. When I had
arrived on the squadron I had explained to my boss that the bank in England had
stitched me up by bouncing a cheque for a barrel of beer. I was quite worried as the RAF took cheque bouncing
very seriously indeed, but I was quite surprised that even then bankers were
regarded as the lowest form of life as they rightly are today. I was worried about a thirty pound cheque
when my boss explained that in his case they had bounced a cheque for over one
thousand pounds for a removal firm.
Even the chief clerk, who I had to report to, acknowledged the
fact that bankers were a useless bunch and accepted the cash from me, thanked me
and the issue was over. I was so happy
that the normal officialdom had allowed me a get out of jail free card on that
one. This one was different. I could see myself being photographed outside
the courthouse, the newspaper headlines, the magazine and television interviews,
the book deal, the movie, oh the horror of it all. It was always at the back of my mind but thankfully
the Germans were a very efficient lot and with a couple of weeks I was summoned
to the chief clerk’s office.
I hadn’t been to court, which was good as with legs like mine
the movie would have given me more publicity than I could handle. The incident or the paperwork had been through
the court system and I had been fined one hundred and twenty deutschemarks. Again, thirty pounds, which wasn’t too
serious, what I needed to hear now was how serious the RAF were going to take
it and once again the chief clerk smiled at me.
“You do realise why this fine is so big?” he said. “No,” I said, wondering when I would be
placed under arrest. “Well; he said,
with the air of a person who had seen it all before. In the three weeks before Christmas and the
three weeks after Christmas all traffic fines are doubled and the extra money
raised is given to the local orphanages.
I couldn’t believe that the incident was over and forgotten
about. Well, I suppose I now had a
German police record and could theoretically call myself an international criminal. But
even though I had been fined, and fined through the courts if you don’t mind, I
didn’t really feel that bad about it. In
fact I felt good that I was buying some orphans Christmas lunch, sure hadn’t I
been one myself once.
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