It was a standard grey day in Germany, winter was still
holding on but spring beckoned. The days
seemed lighter. John Zammo was on his
usual mail run around the squadron and on passing through operations mentioned
that J R wanted to see me. I left whatever
I was doing and made my way up to J R‘s office.
Normally, he would tell me what he wanted but this time he invited me in,
asked me to close the door and then to take a seat. Something out of the ordinary was
happening. J R had a signal in front of
him and he was smiling. “Biggen Hill
have accepted you for selection, we’ve just got to wait for a date.” Well; I can tell you my spirits were flying higher
than any phantom ever could.
J R then made sure that I knew what I was in for. He explained the importance of being on the
ball as far as current affairs were concerned and emphasised the importance of
physical fitness. From that moment on
every member of the aircrew made a point of conversing with me, asking me
questions about current affairs and explaining the role of the air force. It was a lovely time, even J R took time to
chat to me about his role, the role of the squadron, even the future of the air
force. I was quite surprised one evening
when the station commander came over for some night flying that he mentioned
that he had noticed I had been accepted and wished me luck.
I had a very simple plan which was to complete training as
sergeant aircrew air electronics. This was
a relatively new branch in the air force so the upper echelons were still quite
fluid. Prove myself and after a couple
of years take a commission and aim for the top.
As long as I had the correct attitude and worked hard it was very
achievable. There was one slight problem
standing in my way which of course was Biggen Hill. I had to pass the selection process. This was no morning of tests and some half
arsed interview; this was a week-long selection process from which most other
personnel selection processes in the UK had stemmed from.
There was of course the elephant in room, which was me. My weight would never stay still and I
suppose I was to become a yo-yo dieter for the rest of my life. I began training in earnest because although
I had a plan for my career, I suppose I secretly wanted to prove all those air
traffickers, who had messed me about for years, I wanted to prove them wrong. However now I felt a new force coming in to
play, for I felt obliged to J R and his aircrew. They had so readily given me their support
and encouragement I felt that I had to pass Biggen Hill to validate their backing.
We all knew that Biggen Hill could ask for me at any time
they pleased so I was to be ready at a moment’s notice to get back to the UK. So to add a little bit of pressure to the
equation the squadron left for Cyprus. I
had been placed on the advance party and on the rear party, again, so I was
facing six weeks in the sun. It was
strange that many of us found the little things so important. On arrival I discovered that there was no
running water on our dispersal. My main
worry was how would J R get his morning coffee?
J R drank coffee so strong the spoon, as they say, could have stood up
in it. Added to that the man constantly sucked
on a foul smelling pipe and I don’ t think he could have faced the day without
his nicotine and caffeine hit first thing.
When the birds arrived I drove out on to the pan and
collected their G suits and bone domes, how there happened to be a crate of ice
cold beers in the truck as well I will never know but the guys enjoyed it. Operations had been set up, the engineers put
the birds to bed and the aircrew settled in to their accommodation. The next morning J R arrived to work and came
in to operations. “Any chance of a coffee?”
he asked, I was about to leave ops and get him his coffee when one of the navigators
chirped, “There’s no water Boss, and it won’t be back on for a week.” I had made sure that I had secreted away a gallon
of fresh water so that J R could have his morning hit.
It was quite funny when I came back in to operations with his
coffee, the navigator didn’t really know where to put himself and J R just
smiled a knowing smile. But then he took
my seat behind the ops desk and passed me the keys to his car. I was to go back to my accommodation, collect
my training kit and return to the squadron. I wasn’t aware but there were certain established
jogging routes in Cyprus and J R had selected one for me. I was to continue opening the squadron in the
morning, however, J R would come in and I would, having given him his coffee,
change into my training kit and complete an eight mile jog. Oh, and by the way, he was timing me, so he
wanted to see an improvement over the coming days.
I felt a bit strange leaving the squadron but in a very short
space of time I was away from the dispersal and on my own. Just me, my breathing, my heartbeat, and the sunshine. I would say that the first third of the route
was uphill, across the domestic site, through married quarters and onto the
cliff tops. The cliff tops curved around
and dropped away, so the following third was a gentle descent to the harbour
and then the final third would have been uphill again, but not as severe as the
first third. I promise you it was
perfect. Once past the married quarters
and on top of the cliffs I would take off my shirt and just enjoy the sunshine.
Initially I was concerned as snakes would be slithering about
in front of me. My pounding along would have them skitter across my path and it
was quite disconcerting, especially for an Irishman, where was Saint Patrick
when you needed him? I couldn’t really
enjoy the view for the first couple of days as I was more concerned with the
snakes but after a while I got used to them and I suppose they got used to
me. My efforts had been quite successful
as my uniform was hanging off me. A couple
of the guys, Brian Henwood and Jim Smith wanted to put wire coat hangers in the
cuffs of my shorts as they were so big they were comical. It really would have made me look like one of
Spike Milligan’s characters or someone from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, but then
Brian Henwood, a Squadron Leader fighter pilot, was the fellow who would skip
across the ops room singing. “I’m walking backwards for Christmas across the Irish
sea.”
Nothing fitted me and clothing stores would not exchange my
kit for something smaller. I had to pull
it all together and hold my trousers up with a belt. Someone had the great idea of stapling my
shorts to my shirt, which was grand as long as you didn’t sit down. Of course being in Cyprus helped greatly not
just the great weather but the diet which was heavy on the salad, so no one minded
if I rewarded myself with the occasional brandy sour and the odd bout of
squadron madness.
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