As I had driven towards Pitreavie Castel I had
noticed an air cadet building, a pretty easy thing to do as there is usually a
big five feet square sign announcing the fact outside the building. On our way back to Turnhouse I saw that the
air cadet building was open and noticed cadets running around. I stopped and went in asking if we could pop
in for a cup of tea. They were very
welcoming. I went in with the staff and
the cadets did whatever cadets do, which was probably go around the back of the
building for a smoke and to chat up members of the opposite sex. All of the staff members were in uniform and
it didn’t take long for me to work out that none of them were ex forces. It was interesting to watch and listen to
them as they went through the motions.
Despite the fact that my main reason for being
with the air cadets was to get my two eldest boys, out and about involved in outdoor
pursuits, I was constantly questioning whether or not the cadet movement,
including the army and navy cadets, was in fact a good thing. Yes it was good to get them involved in
community activities, helping the elderly and infirm. It was good to encourage them to participate
in activities that they would not normally come across. It was the military aspect of it that grated
most with me, not the marching about and playing at soldiers but teaching young
people how to use weapons. I would have
been using a shotgun from the age of six or seven; I respected the weapon and
tried to follow all the safety aspects.
I was killing game, which I would then skin and eat, so for me it was a
natural thing to do, but was it right to teach a young person how to use
weapons that were specifically made for killing their fellow man?
I can still not get my head around it. I spent an enjoyable hour chatting and joking
with the staff at Rosyth air cadets. I made
my excuses and began to prepare to leave, to discover that my cadets were
marching up and down with the Scottish cadets.
I smiled as they seemed to be enjoying themselves and I remembered that at
their age I was using a slingshot to fire stones at passing British army
patrols. I still think attacking an army
patrol is far more fun than marching up and down, but that’s just me. It certainly had been a long old day and I
was looking forward to downing one or two beers in the Sergeants mess, once I
had returned the cadets and settled them down.
Thankfully almost everyone was tired out and they all seemed to settle
down quite quickly, I made my way over to the mess bar, glad that the marching
and bullshit was over for the day. How wrong
I was.
As I came in to the Sergeants mess bar I found
two visitors, in full orange lodge regalia, marching up and down the bar while
singing the sash. Two drunk fools, in
their white shirts and orange sashes, complete with bowler hats, were trying to
march around the mess bar. Some people were
clapping hands in time with their chanting and trying to sing along. You may think that I was disgusted that such bigoted
behaviour would be allowed in a Sergeants mess, but I wasn’t. I was used to meeting idiots in all walks of
life and you have to accept that some people have been well and truly beaten
with the stupid stick. It was soon pointed
out to them that I was an Irishman and was invited to join in with their
celebrations. I don’t know what they
were celebrating as it wasn’t the twelfth of July. I think they had been to some local Orange
Lodge and drank themselves silly while burning effigies of the pope, it’s their
culture. I excused myself and went off
to my room allowing them to freely express themselves without fear of upsetting
anyone, which actually is their only goal in life.
The next day we were off for a visit to RAF
Leuchars. It was only about one hour
away and I was looking forward to the trip.
Leuchars had two phantom squadrons and one mountain rescue team so there
was a good chance that I would know up to thirty percent of the people
there. I was looking forward to the
chance of bumping in to old mates but at the same time I didn’t want to meet
anyone I knew, as my connection with the air cadets would have them unmercilessly
rip the piss out of me. Normally our squadron
was supplied by RAF Sealand, but they would only supply us with standard items,
we were not entitled to, or allowed to ask for, technical items such as tools
or bodge tape or even para cord. This was
all operational equipment which was specifically for the real air force. My job for the day was to scrounge anything
and everything that wasn’t nailed down at Leuchars
I had a large brown leather briefcase with me
and if the truth be told I should have worn a stripy jumper, eye mask and
written ‘swag’ on the briefcase. I went
with the squadron into flight planning where the ops guys began to give the station
brief. It was interesting to see someone
do the job that I used to do, not a patch on me you understand, no panache. I suppose I could have stood up and given the
brief myself, all I would have to have done was change the squadron names, although
for a Cobra to stand up and talk about the Fighting Cocks and the Tremblers, I
would have to point out their inferiority to the best squadron in the air
force. After the station briefing the
cadets were taken off to be shown around air traffic control. I explained to the Squadron Leader that I was
breaking off from the squadron and would catch up with them later. He knew exactly what I was up to, even when I
explained that I was keeping two cadets behind.
Luckily the guy in charge of flight planning
was a decent enough bloke. I didn’t know
him, but managed to take most of the maps from flight planning and had my two
cadets take them to the coach and store them, before re-joining the squadron in
air traffic control. I managed to
scrounge a load more stuff from flight planning and then made my way over to
the ground radio flight. In flight
planning I had said that I was ex air traffic so was seen to be one of their
own and allowed to help myself basically.
In the ground radio flight I explained that I was an ex electronic
fitter from Locking and once again was allowed to stock up on solder and flux,
even getting two soldering irons into the bargain. From there I made my way on to the main technical
site and aimed for the parachute bay.
I knew there was no point in going to the main stores
building as most stores facilities were run by civilians who actually though
they owned what they were responsible for issuing. The parachute bay was run by a Flight Sergeant
and I noticed that on the cuff of his jacket he wore a mountain rescue
badge. Over coffee we chatted and
laughed and spoke about people we both knew like Pib, Louis, Docker and Tom. I explained what Tom had done to me the
previous evening at Pitreavie and although we had just met, it was as if we had
known each other for years. He knew I
was ‘on the scrounge,’ so took me over to his secure metal cabinet where all
the important and expensive stuff was kept.
In the air force this was known as ‘V and A,’ valuable and attractive, and was
rightly kept under lock and key. The Flight
Sergeant swung both metal doors open and invited me to help myself.
I was now faced with the little boy in the
sweet shop dilemma, I didn’t want to appear to be greedy but at the same time
this was a golden opportunity. I took
two spools of parachute cord; well; you never know when your coach will break
down. I then took four rolls of bodge tape
and hesitated. I think he saw that I was
reluctant to follow his instruction and help myself so he started chucking stuff
in to my case. It was at this point the
Squadron Leader and cadets came in on their tour of the unit. The moment the Squadron Leader saw me and realised
what I was up to, he turned the cadets around, stating that they shouldn’t
interfere with the Warrant Officer when he was attending to business. I asked for three cadets to remain and he
knew I meant three cadets that wouldn’t ask questions and do exactly what they
were told and when.
I closed the case and thanked the Flight Sergeant. I called one of the three cadets over, gave
him the case and told him to take it to the coach. The Flight Sergeant looked at me and I think
he knew what I was going to ask for. He had
been really generous and only because we were both mountain rescue men, like
Tom had at Pitreavie we would always help each other out, as and when we were
in a position to. I was now about to
test this theory to the limit as I asked him if there was a spare parachute
lying about. Parachutes were the rocking
horse shit of the air force world. You
could use them as awnings for barbeques or outside parties. You could cut them up and make cushions as we
used to. You could even sleep in them
and have that silk bed sheet experience, not that Irene and I would ever do
such a thing, especially when I was running the guard room at RAF Watton.
To prove that the bond between rescue men was
stronger than any rules or regulations the air force could dream up, the Flight
Sergeant walked over to another cupboard.
With no indication that he was aware of, or even cared about, how many
rules he was breaking, he opened the cupboard and called the two cadets over. He gave each of them one parachute each and
then suggested that they follow the other fellow and get them safely stowed on
the coach and if they had any sense to remain with them and guard them. Unfortunately the day was almost over which
meant that I had no time to get myself over to the mountain rescue section
which was probably a good thing, for their store room would have been empty and
our squadron would have the best outdoor equipment of any squadron on
Merseyside. It was a good day scrounging
and as we left Leuchars and drove back to Turnhouse I realised that I would be
leaving them soon, for wasn’t I about to head home for my new job.
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