alexandra

There were times, some of them quite comical though serious, that happened during my tenure in the military. Point in case, the day we had an emergency diversion—due to bad weather—of a USAF Galaxy cargo plane. Which was 3 hours out and would be landing on fumes by the time it got to us—the only base it could divert to due to it’s size and weight.

While our runway was rated to take the weight, we nonetheless had to have a 3 month closure in order to redo and resurface the runway after this single plane diversion. An unforeseen consequence which made me wonder, just who footed the bill for that one?

That aside, and with only 3 hours notice and due to the really shitty weather elsewhere. We, that is, the base, had to somehow accommodate this behemoth.

The comical part to this situation was the fact that, because of the sheer size, never mind weight, of this plane, it’s wingspan alone was going to take out two small buildings on landing unless …

Unless said buildings were either moved, or dismantled for the landing. Moving was, at that time, in that timeframe, obviously out of the question. As to demolishing them? Nada. They both housed delicate radar equipment. But, regardless, somehow, in that 3 hour window, engineers and crews figure out a way to take off just enough of the side and top to both units in order to accommodate the Galaxy’s wingspan.

I’ve never seen people move so fast and yet, so precisely in order to achieve this herculean feat. And, as this huge plane started on it’s final approach, nearly all of the base personnel, including most of the Americans station on-base, were lining every available safe spot they could in order to get a good view and or take photos of the landing.

It was quite the achievement let me tell you. I’ve never witnessed anything like it since and probably never will. And I sure as hell will never forget being in the air traffic control tower watching this monster land.

And yes, there were more than a few beers to celebrate at various parties later that night, all across the base.

One of the hardest things about being in the military was dealing with loss. And I don’t mean the sporting kind, I mean, the loss of life. And while it didn’t happen all that often, a single event could bring us all to our knees physically and mentally.

My first loss was an abstract loss, in that, while I participated in the on-going situation—the rescue of a young child who had floated out to sea on a lilo (an inflatable pool raft)—it was from a distance and on the periphery of the event that, sad to say, ended in the loss of life. The child drown before either the helicopter or lifeboat launched could reach him. That loss, nonetheless, hit all those involved, from the rescue crews to those on-scene at the holiday beach, to us at the rescue centre when we heard the awful news. It was heartbreaking.

The second time I was involved in loss, was so much more painful and real as I knew those involved, even if they were officers. This loss hit the whole base I was stationed at, in Germany hard. It involved two front line jets colliding while on a joint exercise training mission within restricted airspace. The jets were simulating a dog fight, one playing the good guy, Blue Forces, and the other, the invading Orange Forces. When, in a split second of what must have been absolute terror, something went wrong and the two planes collided mid-air. And while one pilot was lucky enough to eject, the other was not so lucky.

I was on duty in Operations during this exercise, manning the mission comms following the dog fight, as were personnel in Ops, Eng Ops, Intel and the other departments within the Ops building at the time. The shock that reverberated through that building when the collision happened was one of sheer devastation. Only once in my life time to that point had I ever seen a grown man cry, that day I saw more than a few openly sob.

To add to everyone’s grief, as most of us knew the deceased pilot, was the fact his fiancé, a pilot officer working in Ops that day, collapsed. Yet, worse was to come.

The planes collided over an area set aside of these kinds of training missions for a reason, it was rugged, rough, covered in peat moss and scrubland. A difficult terrain on every level.

Teams were assembled who had the delicate tasks of going into this terrain to not only collect body parts, but the remains of the plane. While a number of teams were sent in to put out—or at least try too put out—the subsequent fire.

Not only did the station go into lockdown, but into mourning as well.

Sad to say, this wouldn’t be the last plane crash I was involved in one way or another, there were others, each as devastating emotionally, as physically to all involved.

I still remember you Flight Lieutenant John Reed, you were one of the good ones, so funny, and so full of life and promise.

One of the highlights of being stationed in Germany, on a front line base, was that during a major exercise we were issued with fake guns. Yes, fake as in wooden, because, if we were really at war certain female members within the operations block would be able to carry a sidearm.

I’m not sure how this came about, but, once the decision was made (and not rescinded by subsequent Group Captains) wooden replicas were issued in our mock invasion exercises. All of which meant one thing. That while we might not be allowed to be issued with the real thing during said exercises, we still had to have training on the actual real weapons. And so, on a given day, I was sent along with a handful of other women to the range up by the armoury for weapons training.

You would think they would start us off with the actual hand guns we were going to use, but no, after going through over an hour of training films and an armoury sergeant showing us the various weapons; pistols, rifles, machine guns, and how to handle each one, we finally got out on the range to shoot.

The first weapon?

A machine gun. Why you may ask? Which is exactly what I did, my mouth working before my brain. The instructor explained he wanted us to understand how dangerous these weapons were, and just the kind of damage they could do. And proceeded to talk us through, step by step, one at a time, to fire one. No, not at a target as you might imagine. We had to take up an awkward stance, gun almost on hip, and spray the contents of the clip, left to right, across a series of sandbags piled about 20 feet high some distance from each of us.

Let me tell you, not one of us knew what the hell we were really in for. Those of us who manage not to fall over and kill everyone assemble, hidden behind a barrier, felt like we’d been hit hard, by a car.

These weapons are extremely heavy, they buck, recoil, and are notoriously difficult to control. A few of us manage a quick squeeze, a few fell backward on our arses. A few even hit a sandbag or two. But none of us really controlled the weapon for longer than a heartbeat. Thankfully, the offending weapon was gently taken from our cold fearful grip and made safe before the next victim stepped up to take her turn.

At the end of that session we were all fully cognisant of what it meant to shoot a weapon. And by the time we were handed a handgun, were respectful, alert and utterly focused on the targets at the far end of the range.

The whole course from beginning to end was over 4 hours, and by the end, I for one had a healthy respect for handling weapons. Oh, we also received a nifty certificate of weapons training that, still to this day, I have stashed safely away in a briefcase somewhere.

Following on from my post about my introduction to shift work, the reason most of us survived and, quite possibly flourished on night shifts, was nothing to do with the copious amounts of thick, treacly black coffee we all consumed, but the fact we all played cards. A game called Bastard Whist, to be precise.

It didn’t take me long to find out where the card games were being played throughout each night shift. All I had to do was stumble into the Comms room and there they all were, staffers from every department; sergeant, corporal and junior airmen alike, rowdily playing this crazy fast game where, I suspect, everyone, including myself (eventually) cheated. As that was all part of the game and what made this mad-cap game so much fun, never mind, an addiction.

Each session could be played with between 3 to 7 players. No less no more. Not 2, not 8. I’m not sure I can explain just what the game involved, you would have to play it. It took me a few hands to understand not only the game play itself, but the strategies involved. It was simple and yet, it was as complex as the people playing it.

Playing this game kept us all sane and, for the most part, I guess, gifted us a sense of camaraderie. It was these people outside of shift who we usually sat with at meals, or at the NAAFI bar of an evening, and celebrated milestone events with, like birthdays, postings, births and weddings.

Even today, I still wonder what happened to some of these people who, over time, became good friends, and those who I stayed in touch with for a long time, over the years. Certainly long after we had all left the military. I still think of them fondly, along with the game. And wonder if service personnel still play Bastard Whist in the wee small hours on night shift, on bases around the world?

I didn’t join the military thinking I’d have a life of adventure but, as it turned out, adventure found me anyway.

I was too young to sign up for myself and had to have my father sign the papers allowing me to join the Woman’s Royal Air Force — I was 17 years of age. A decision he had a huge part in suggesting given, at the time, I was in a constant battle with my menopausal mother. And, let me tell you, had I stayed, one of us would have ended up strangling the other.

So a solution was found. My father told me there was a way I could keep my sanity, have a job, and get paid to do my studies. A dream my mother had quashed with, “if you’re going to live here you have to contribute to the household,” meaning, get a job you’re not going to university.

With that particular dream in tatters, my father steered me towards somewhere I was very familiar with: the military. I was after all, a military brat, and had travelled across the planet with my parents, going from one country to another. And, knowing that life already, readily agreed with my dad here was the answer to all my problems.

So, rather than murder my mother or go insane, I signed up, took the oath, and left home to pursue a different path. And, in doing so, had a whole other set of adventures than those I had originally imagined, all the while earning my BSc along the way.

Life sometimes take us down a different path than the one we envisioned. And, to be honest, I’m very happy with the way things turned out in the end. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t be here.

As a child growing up I use to tell friends, “… my dad kicks bombs for a living.” when asked the inevitable stupid question, ‘what does your dad do for a living.’ One because I was never sure at first what it was my dad did actually do and had overheard him talking to someone, one time, and say, “I kick bombs…” and giggling to myself though, oh, that’s cool. Never once, at whatever tender age I was at the time, realising what kicking bombs for a living actually meant or, entailed. And two, because I loved the look on the other kids faces when I told them that.

It wasn’t till much later it all made sense when one of my older brothers explained to me and, having a half ass explanation, had gone and asked my dad what exactly it was he did. By this point I was about 8 years old and we were living in Singapore, and I vaguely knew he worked putting bombs on planes. Though why they needed to carry bombs in the first place was still a little beyond me.

My dad had laughed for a good five minute when I told him what I told my friends. Yes, it was true that at one point he had kicked a single bomb, a dud he told me, when being pranked in his early career in Bomb Disposal just after the war. It turns out this was a phrase they guys used to pull the ladies in with when dating just after the war. Not that my dad mentioned this at the time, this was again, something I learnt from my mother much later as an adult teenager about to join the military myself.

Still, I have fond memories of grinning when I told other kids that my dad kicked bombs for a living and seeing their faces light up in glee and then, fear, seconds before one or two might call me a liar. But those kids were mostly civvy kids who didn’t know any better. Kids in the Air Force all knew their fathers could be doing some sort of scary job involving weapons and explosives. And, for me, as a kid, it seems wild and exciting, as I grew up, I began to understand the humour people like my father used when talking about some of the work they did, because it was far from exciting or glamorous.

My dad had the physical and metal scars to prove it. A three inch gash along his scalp to start with, when a missile fell on him from the undercarriage of an airplane during load-up.

He never did tell me if that was when he had his first heart attack. I often wonder.

My mother, by all accounts, had quite the life, especially in her younger years. Though some of what I know I only know from stories my sister told me much later, after my mum passed. What I did get to hear from my mother, firsthand, was how, despite being in a loveless marriage and an arranged marriage at that. And despite still only being a teenager (18), she ran away from home.

Let me tell you I was as surprised as anyone, knowing not only had my mother been married before she met my dad, but that it barely lasted a year before she knew she was suffocating, and left. That’s how she put it. From somewhere deep inside, she found the courage to not only leave a man she didn’t love. But in doing so, defied convention, this was back in the early stage of WWII. A number of women, she told me, were doing the same, signing up for service.

Why? Well, for the obvious, but also, because, at the time, the military were desperately recruiting as many young women as they could into the services. And, like many, my mum knew she wanted a better life. A different life, and one that gave her opportunities. She left to join the WAAFs and trained as an MT driver. Her first posting was to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides. She served as a driver for the aircrew of squadrons patrolling the North Atlantic for U-boats, flying Avro Ansons under Costal Command.

She told me a story about how one night she was called up to drive out to the runway, in the dark, with no lights on, in order to help a troubled aircraft land. She had to guide the plane in by driving, still in the dark, but pumping her breaks to flash out a small red light for the plane to see and follow.

Can you image? I know I can’t fully grasp doing what she did, out there on her own, being guided by people in the tower to effectively slow drive her way up the runway for the plane to know when said runway was. All in the middle of the night in the pitch black of night.

For her, even terrified, she said it was one of the most exhilarating things she’s ever done in her life, and never once regretted escaping her family and marriage to create a life for herself. And for that, I salute her courage.