|
Recaptured! 1971 - 1982 |
By October 1970, after months of soul searching, I decided
it was time to move on again. My two long term friends were both in the armed
forces. John Greenbank was in the Army, Peter Clegg was in the Navy, so naturally
I signed up for the Royal Air Force. (Rum, bum and baccy wasn't my scene,
neither was travelling the world, meeting lots of interesting people - and
killing them). I took the Queens shilling and agreed to turn up for duty in
the following January. Finally a clean break? No chance! A telephone call
from Frank Fenn, and a lingerie party, put paid to that idea. (I know what
you're thinking and don't go there!)
Frank's wife was holding a lingerie party, he needed an excuse to get out
of the house so I dutifully rang back a few minutes later and invited him
out for a drink - pure coincidence! When we arrived back at his house in 
the
late evening the place was still full of females, thankfully they had packed
away all the lingerie. They were all ready to head back to Burnley when some
bright spark (I still can't remember who it was) suggested that I could give
them a lift. That would seem quite an innocuous suggestion except that there
were nine of them. Somehow, I managed to shoehorn all of them into a Cortina
Estate car and even close the doors. Two on the front seat, four on the rear
seat and three in the luggage compartment. The car struggled all the way to
the taxi rank at Burnley bus station where a bemused taxi driver watched as
I unloaded my human cargo. Two days later, Frank called me again. "One
of the girls took a fancy to you so I've arranged a blind date" (I found
out later that he used the same line on the girl in question). Unbeknown to
me, that blind date was to be my future wife, Joyce.
In
January, bags packed, I set off into the unknown again, this time RAF Swinderby
and training camp. (Sadly the guitar would be replaced by a rifle for the
next six weeks). Within 30 minutes of arriving at camp I, along with the rest
of the intake, was escorted to the barber for a haircut. I explained how I
wanted it, he nodded sympathically then shaved it all off! The next six weeks
were a constant round of "bulling" shoes, pressing uniforms, marching
everywhere, learning to kill and, oh yes, learning how to fill in leave forms
- that part had my full attention! We then had 48 hours leave before setting
off for the next stage of technical training at RAF Cosford. I think I spent
the entire 48 hours with a hat on to cover up the fact that I still looked
like I'd fallen under a lawnmower.
RAF
Cosford was a complete change and it was here that I met up with a crazy Scotsman
Chris Nicholl, Ray Foyle, and "Mac" (I don't think I ever knew his
real name). Our paths would cross again and again throughout our air force
careers, although sadly we have now lost touch altogether. Wednesday afternoon
at Cosford (as in most of the air force) was sports afternoon, and when we
weren't playing badminton we could be found in the pubs around Bridgnorth.
Of course, as in all of my life to date, I was hitch hiking up to Burnley
at every opportunity to see Joyce - some things never change! Sixteen weeks
later, initial technical training completed, I headed off for RAF Valley in
Anglesey and Chris headed north of the border.
The
air force is simply brilliant at placing people in the position where they
will be of most use - so naturally as a Radar technician I was promptly placed
on the Gnat line refuelling aircraft! Here I met Graham Webster who refined
my skills in drinking Guinness, doing the Daily Telegraph crossword, reading
JRR Tolkien and seeking out places to drink on a Sunday. (It's the reason
the Conservative Club in Holyhead was so popular amongst Labour supporters).
Other names to mention, Dave Wall who introduced me to the delights of fondue
and fillet steak, and Gary Roberts - together we played at the local folk
club each week - a very underrated lead guitarist.
To cut a long story short, a year later I was back in training at RAF Newton,
then Cosford again - amazingly Chis Nicholl and "Mac" were on the
same course and had arranged that we all be billeted together. During this
time I decided to make an honest woman of Joyce, so asked her father if I
could take his remaining daughter off his hands. It didn't go quite as planned.
For those of you old enough to remember, it was the era of Ted Heath and the
three day week. Desperate to make some conversation to break the ice, I launched
into a tirade of criticism of the power workers and how they should lock them
up and throw away the key. Ever felt you've dug a hole for yourself that there's
just no way out of? It never occurred to me why her father was at home on
a weekday when he should have been working!!! By some miracle, by March 1974
we were married and back at RAF Valley - but not for long.
Within three months I was back on another years training - this time on Flight
Simulators, first at RAF Newton again and then RAF Locking. It was here that
I was led astray by Bob Cremer who thrashed me at badminton on more occasions
than I can remember and, somehow, always managed to be first in the queue
at lunchtimes, pinching the last of the Danish Blue cheese. (The two occasions
where longer legs are an advantage - sod). There were two notable events at
RAF Newton, the first involved Doug Marshalls car. Now Doug had a Reliant
Robin - you know the sort - Trotters Independent Traders, London, Paris and
Peckham. One night six of us lifted it from the car park, through the reception
hall and placed it on the grass quadrangle in the centre of the accommodation
block. He wasn't best pleased! It was academic - three months later a light
breeze flipped it over on the motorway, did a brief impression of a bobsleigh,
and then wrote itself off. The second event involved hoisting a pair of used
"shreddies" up the flagpole on our last night before leaving for
Locking. No clues were left save that they may have belonged to someone called
"St. Michael". (No rank given).
The year at RAF Locking was somewhat blurred by "Scrumpy" (the place
being too close to Somerset), and the shock of becoming a father for the first
time. Tony was born in Truro hospital amidst a raging thunderstorm, reminiscent
of a scene from "Omen". We resisted the temptation to call him Damien.
At this point I have to mention a local hero (he insisted!) - Bob Cremer.
We will forever be in his debt for rushing Joyce to hospital at some ungodly
hour in the morning, and not complaining too much when her waters broke all
over the back seat of his Ford Cortina. I was still at RAF Locking, blissfully
unaware that his car was rusting rapidly! (You've all seen Alien so you know
what I mean). There was one other instance when he came out to rescue me when
my Mini broke down late at night in the middle of Bodmin Moor (as Minis do)
- however in this instance he assures me that he was simply trying to get
away from his mother-in-law. Thanks mate!
The
next seven years were spent at RAF St. Mawgan in Cornwall. Sun, sea, sand
and a daughter, Kate, to act as a sparring partner for Tony. I extended my
service to twelve years (they told me that if I did then I would definitely
get an overseas posting - conned again). The list of names from this time
are endless but to name a few - Jay Nair, Gordon Petrie, Bob Cremer, Brian
Avery, Geoff Storrs, John Humphries (Colombo), Geoff King, Dave Carey, Paul
Hicks and Phil Dix. By 1982, realising that if I wanted to travel overseas
then I'd better find another way of doing it, I decided to leave the RAF.
They tried hard to keep me in. On one of my final interviews I was asked why
I wanted to leave. "Because I have to grow up sometime" was my reply.
If that was the reason, it didn't work!
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