One member of my syndicate was a woman of the female variety. She was pretty worn out at the end of the
exercise, as most of us were. Being a
gentleman I took her rucksack and dumped it on top of my own. We jammed her hands into the straps on my
rucksack and I pulled her off the battlefield.
The moment I realised that there was no transport whatsoever I hoped I
would make it back to Hereford with my extra load. Thankfully she found her second wind and was
able to power herself along, although I still carried her rucksack for her. The further you move away from the exercise area
the more you begin to focus on yourself and the state that you are in. Aches and pains begin to have a life of their
own.
Back at the accommodation there would have been about one
hundred of us, all stinking to high heaven, and about six showers. There was commotion in the shower rooms, which
I stayed well clear of. I dumped my kit
and lay on my bed. I was too tired to even
consider taking my boots off. Everyone
faced the same procedure now. First off
would be a nice warm shower and then we would have to clean our kit and then we
would have to clean the barracks. After
all that we had been told that there would be an end of course party that
evening. I don’t think any of us were in
the mood for a party; we simply wanted to rest, to be warm and dry. I can remember lying there, staring blankly
into space when a movement caught my eye.
One of the toecaps on my boots had slid off, just the enamel paint; it
must have been the dampness.
Because I waited until the shower rooms were free before I
went and had my shower I was late getting to the party in the evening. I know, not my usual style at all. It was in a huge ballroom and most people sat
with half a pint of weak shandy and stared at it in silence. No one was in the mood for being jolly or
even had enough energy to get seriously hammered. The following day was the final day and we
would be told if we had been successful or not and would then be allowed to leave. I gave my pillow a good talking to that night
and warned it that I was not in the mood for any funny business. It seemed to work as the following morning I
was hangover free.
Despite the fact that the senior instructor had told me that they
thought I was a natural leader I still wasn’t over confident about my
de-briefing. There was the attacking the
sandbag incident, which I could hopefully explain away as a combination of physical
exhaustion and poor light conditions.
What I couldn’t explain away was the raunchy marching songs I had forced
my syndicate to sing. Knowing the air force
I wouldn’t have been surprised if some of the complainers on the course would
have reported me to the instructors on the occasions we tried to get the whole
course to join in. Even though the GST staff
had impressed me with their ability to recognise my natural talents and
abilities, I still wasn’t convinced that they had any grasp on man management
or leadership.
It was a strange morning and we all sat about waiting as we
were called in and de-briefed on our performance. There were five areas that they had focused
on. Again; it would have been nice to
have been told these beforehand. One of
the areas was the video we had to watch of the scuffle in a bar after which we
had to write a report and prepare charge sheets for the individuals
involved. Many of us had rushed this
part of the course as, well; I suppose I can only speak for myself, but the fellow
at the bar, getting into trouble, would have been me. And I had no intention of
putting anybody on a charge, ever. I had
been on enough of them myself. Plus, we were
told that once completed we could nip outside for a smoke.
My Sergeant sat there like a chorister, holding a file in
front of him, which he read from. If the
top grade had been one, and the lowest grade five, I was told I had achieved
two ones and three twos. Not a bad performance
I thought, could have been worse. It was
nice when he lowered the file and actually handed me my new rank, shook my hand
and congratulated me. I was then allowed to put my new rank on, much better that
simply walking over to clothing stores with a chitty. It was after my de-briefing, when I came
outside, I met the girl off our syndicate who was quite pleased that she had
passed. As we walked away she told me that
she had achieved five ones. That cemented
my belief that they didn’t really know what they were doing.
I wasn’t looking forward to Monday morning when I would have
to report to Wattisham and air traffic control.
Before then I had to go to Liverpool and collect Irene and the boy
child. I was looking forward to that as
I enjoyed going for a drink with my father in law and listening to his stories
about his days on bomb disposal during world war two. He was a very funny man. We were back at our little house on the
Sunday and I began to get myself ready for the following day. One thing I still hadn’t done was check out
the local club. The village we lived in
was known as Shotley Gate. It used to be
a Royal Naval training station known as HMS Ganges.
The unit had been closed for some time and was now known as
Eurosports. The married quarters
remained and that is what we were living in.
Half of the houses were populated by American service personnel and the
remainder by air force personnel from Wattisham. Two houses had been given over to the
community, one was used as a nursery school and the other was known as the Families
Club. This was a huge house which had a
bar and had even been extended to include a dance hall. Dance hall may be a bit grand to describe the
two portacabins that had been attached to the rear of the house, but that is
what it was used for.
Dave Magee in Germany had told me about this place. It was a real drinking den and he was very proud
of the Families Club as he had been one of the founders. On the Sunday evening I wandered over and
found a nice little compact bar. The beer
was good and very cheap, so I settled in and had a good night of it. I met a fellow in there who was an air
trafficker. He was also a member of the committee
that ran the Families Club. I think his
head was so far up his own arse he suited the term ‘pretentious,’ but then he
was air traffic. At one point in the evening
he suggested that I should not swear as there were ladies in the club and it
really wasn’t the done thing. Dave Magee
would be ashamed at the attitude of this fellow although he would have been
proud of my reply, before I walked out of the club advising them where they could
stick their membership, their pompous attitudes and their club.
The following morning I drove to Wattisham and went to headquarters so that I could begin my arrival procedure. Headquarters was exactly the same as every
other unit in the UK, so I went straight to admin and reported. I was a little taken aback when I was told that
the chief clerk wanted me, immediately.
I hadn’t really done anything that wrong that I could remember, and chief
clerks were not known for welcoming people with a cup of tea and a
biscuit. The only thing I could think of
was that he was in some way connected to the Shotley Families club and my fellow
air trafficker had dropped me in it. If
he had, he could guarantee that his life would be miserable from that day onwards.
I knocked and when instructed went into the chief clerk’s
office. “Ah,” he says, when I had introduced myself. “I’ve got a signal here about
you.” He rummaged about on his desk and produced
the signal. “You’ve been accepted for aircrew
training. Your course starts in February
and I have two questions for you. Do you
still want to be aircrew?” “Yes,” I
stammered. “Of course.” “Secondly, are you aircrew fit?”
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