Alexandra Wolfe

I’ve always viewed being in the military the ‘safe’ option, which, when you really stop to think about it, seems either stupid or naive given what’s required of most personnel in the military. Though it’s true, I worked on what was called a front-line base, meaning our squadrons were considered not defence but an attack option. You’d think we’d be one of the first bases bombed in any invading scenario that involved the Russians, or, as they were at the time, Soviet Union. The wall hadn’t come down while I was still serving.

So you would think that I was less safe on a military base than say living in any city in the UK. But, not so. In terms of violence and crime, assaults on women, and yes, they did happen, even on a military base. We, women and personnel in general, were more protected than most civilians going about their daily lives.

We were afforded a lot more than most. And, having been brought up in the life, I was accustom to that sense of safety. Nonetheless, one day, all that that came crashing down when one alarming incident occurred out on a taxi way in the north side of the camp.

Just outside the restricted American enclosure nestled away from the rest of the base.

I had heard the rumours, we all did on arrival on camp. But I got a little more acquainted with the truth early on, as I was assigned to work in the Ops building, in Flight Operations, when I arrived on base in Germany. Part of our night shift routine was to deliver a night time package, across the airfield to the north side, where Big Ears, the American listening post had it’s own base of operation. Complete with triple barbed wire fencing with two inner rings. One patrolled by dog handlers, the second inner ring supposedly had landmines. Though I never knew the truth of that rumour, and, I’m sure, no one was ever going to ask. 

I did, however, know about the barbed wire fences and dog patrol, first hand. And while we were never allowed beyond the gate where the “package” was signed for every night, I could see enough out the window of the Landrover to know that there were a lot of buildings on site that probably had a lot more to do with secret things, than this place being <i>just</i> a listening post.

After all, my father was a master armourer and, as a kid, I had been to his place of work more than once during my childhood. I knew what hardened bunkers for storing munitions looked like. And was more than familiar with bright yellow and red hazardous material warning signs. Not that I ever said anything about my suspicions to anyone else. 

So when we had a secret plane come in, overnight, to sit in the dark on the far side of the airfield, up by Big Ears, for an early morning take off. I knew something was up. The base was on a quiet lockdown, a select crew was on in both Operations and the Tower for this event, hand-picked. And while I was working in Ops that night, we didn’t do our nightly delivery to the north side like we did every night. We were told not to go anywhere near Big Ears that night. And, as it turns out, for good reason.

What was about to take place up there was way above our clearances and pay grade. 

What did happen in the wee small hours was myself and my duty corporal did a run up to the tower, just before first light. No one was phoning in notams or the weather. We were told to be off comms. So signals were being ferried all over camp all night long. Hence our trip to the tower. Something on the north side was going down as we arrived upstairs in the fishbowl, and saw most of the staff stood outside, on the walkway, all looking north through binoculars, including the station Group Captain, not normally up at this hour. The tower was full of officers.

My corporal and I stayed inside, barely able to see what the others were watching, but had no intention of leaving once we realised the secret plane was probably getting geared up for departure. At this point it was only gossip between us about why it was here and exactly what its mission was. But, as the minutes passed and we listened some terse conversations over the radio we got it.

The aircraft was being loaded with something that was, strictly speaking, not allowed on our base. 

It was at this point that the world stopped turning and something extraordinary happened that froze the entire world in a moment of sheer terror.

The carrier moving said heavy munitions to the plane toppled in the semi gloom of dawn, and the large weapon of mass destruction rolled off and hit the ground with, apparently, such a force as to make at least two of the four armourers in attendance wet themselves.

The delay between this happening and the people upstairs in the tower’s fishbowl, watching, was seconds. When the incident was relayed, it took a few heartbeats by all to realise we all might about to be blown to kingdom come along with half of the countryside surrounding the base.

I’m not sure what happened next in the tower, as my corporal grabbed my arm and hauled up both back to operations which, I should point out at this juncture, was inside a hardened purpose build shelter supposedly capable of surviving a nuclear blast. 

All I can say is, I was glad we didn’t have to put that theory to the test, and find out whether we would, in fact, survive, along with all those inside taking shelter. The bomb in question, while frightening the literal shit out of everyone involved that night, wasn’t armed, and no, didn’t start ticking or anything like that. But the scare nonetheless, brought about a new found awareness of just how dangerous life on camp could be. 

To this day I quietly thank the careful diligence of the armourers in charge that day. We all survived to live another day and were told to never speak of the incident, ever. You won’t tell anyone, will you?

When I was a very young child, my dad had an affectionate term of endearment for me. He called me Dandelion. Well, dandelion head. But mostly I was his “little dandelion.”

Why?

Because I have ultra fine, fly-away baby hair. Hair that, even on the best of days, forms a static-induced halo that obviously resembles a dandelion when it’s gone to seed. And so, for most of my formative years I was a dandelion to my father and, occasionally, when I was behaving, a little angel to my mother. A mother who spent countless hours spit-smoothing my hair into place. Or, dampening a small wooden comb she carried, in order to try tame my wild hair.

Yes, my hair is still short, blond, and prone to floating around my head in a halo of fluff.

I am and will always be, the dandelion kid.

In complete contrast to meeting Princess Anne, while stationed in Germany our base was graced with a royal visit from Princess Margaret. The two visits couldn’t have been more different. This one was on a grand scale and involved a military parade, a band, lots of flags, a fly-by of fighter jets, and an afternoon Garden Party in the Officer’s Mess grounds. It certainly didn’t involve Margaret meeting the ordinary service personnel except for those unlucky enough to be picked to be on parade for her arrival.

Not that I got away unscathed. I was volunteered by my Admin Corporal to do door duty on Margaret’s arrival. They wanted a number of well presented young women to open and close doors, rather than a bunch of men. Not sure why, but that’s how it went down. So, like those other poor volunteers I spent the week before the arrival doing “door practise”, as if we needed practise on knowing how to open and close a door. But, apparently, there’s a protocol for everything.

Two weeks before the arrival the whole camp was given a facelift. New paint everywhere, and I mean, in places this women would never see in a million years. Including the women’s block, for which there was a general consensus that we didn’t need to spend a week breathing in paint fumes for Margaret. By the day of the actual arrival I think she might have been the most unpopular royal on base, with everyone muttering under their breath about the extra cleaning and work.

The royal flight arrived to a full dress parade with the military band playing approved music, where this tiny diminutive woman stepped off her plane, did a meet and greet with the senior officers, walked a couple of lines of military personnel who, like me, had been stood on the tarmac for a good 2 hours by this time trying not faint in the heat of a summer day. So, by the time she reached me stood by her limo, door open at the ready, I was lightheaded and think I forgot to smile let alone do a smart salute. Suddenly the door was closed and the limo pulled away.

And that was it. She was gone, while the rest of us stood there a further few minutes waiting to be dismissed. My little bit was over, as was that of those assembled, with some of us lucky enough to go back to barracks to change and rest up, while myself and others then had to be on duty. I arrived at air traffic control to find everyone, like myself, sweltering in full dress uniform.

Altogether, a very unpleasant visit that was moaned and gripped about for many weeks afterwards.