Meet A Royal Day
I was lucky enough or, depending on who you speak to, unlucky enough to meet a few royals during my time in the military. The first time was at RAF Mountbattan, in Plymouth, UK, when I had the chance to see and shake hands with the now Princess Royal, Princess Anne. Who, at the time, was doing a number of royal visits to Plymouth and, as it happened, chose to stop in for afternoon tea with us WRAFs in the women’s block sitting room.
Which, of course, meant that days before the planned event, that was to be only about an hour in length, we all had to clean the entire block, top to bottom. And yes, paint stuff outside that included hydrants, and white boarder stones around the two tiny pieces of front garden. I think I was probably the only person there, other than maybe the two WRAF admin staff excited about the prospect of meeting a royal. I had seen Princess Anne, at a distance, on two other occasions as an air force brat. But to meet her in person? I was kind of in awe.
The prep, however annoying, was worth it in the end. Even though this royal would never see anything beyond the front door, hallway, and our sitting room, which suddenly got decked out with a lot of new plants and flowers. It didn’t matter. Officers will find any excuse to make us all clean something. That aside, the fancy china from the officer’s mess was loaned for the occasion and, along with our WRAF admin officer and corporal, we all lined up outside like something from Downton Abby to greet the pennant flying car as it cruised the 30 yards from the officer’s mess down to our building at the bottom of the hill.
Earl Grey tea was served inside with scones, cream and jam, and finger sandwiches the like of which most of us were unfamiliar with. And to which, Anne, taking a droll moment to break the ice and get us all relaxed and chatting said something along the lines of “why do the always starve us with tiny sandwiches?” Making the room erupt in nervous laughter.
It was a fun hour that stretched into 2 and, by the time this down to earth Princess left, turned into something memorable for all present. I know I still remember this woman for her kindness, droll wit, and arching eyebrow.
#weblogpomo2024
What Could Have Been
Some of the scariest things happen without our knowledge, as happened to me one time that, until a few days later, I didn’t know how lucky I had been. The anniversary of this incident is on May 23 (1977).
Let me start at the beginning. I was about to take a break back home, to the UK. Had booked my passage right on through to my parent’s home town: train from our local station Roermond to Hook of Holland in Amsterdam to catch the overnight ferry to Harwich, where I’d catch the early morning train into London. And from there, a train up north. It was all organised thanks to a chance meeting.
A few weeks earlier I had been sat with friends in a bar in the Dutch town of Roermond, enjoying a beer and a guy sat down next to me and likewise, ordered a beer. He turned to me, smiled and, from that point on, we started chatting. And before I know it, a couple of hours had passed and I was making arrangements to meet Jan, a few doors down from the bar, to book my trip back to the UK. Turns out, he was a travel agent.
For the Love of a Bacon Butty
One of the best things about the military is that whether you worked days or shift work, you could guarantee that at any time of the day or night, you could get a meal. There was no excuse for missing a meal as far as I was concerned, and even though I might be brain dead when coming off a night shift, I made a point of staggering to the mess hall and chowing down on at least an egg and bacon butty before bed. Though I’m not sure either my waistline or cholesterol levels appreciated my hearty appetite.
I especially loved night shift and yes, you guessed it—and this is where I learnt how to cook—I always volunteered to collect our overnight rations and be a part of the cook team, which was usually a two person job. Night shifts could be long and boring and while on some nights you could wrangle a few hours sleep in between, the seemingly endless hours of night were filled with cards, debates, endless cups of coffee and supper.
The Day I Climbed the Runway
Well, to begin with, as it turned out, we weren’t allowed to actually use the runway in this particular event and ended up on a taxi way in front of one of the squadron who were on stand down that weekend.
What the hell am I talking about? I suppose I better start at the beginning … charity work. We weren’t forced to participate but it was, to put it mildly, expected, seen as part of our contribution to society. On each base I was stationed I always volunteered to joined in (you see a pattern here?) Why? Well, because I actually enjoyed the social aspects, never mind the rewards of taking part in some fun activities our small groups use to get involved in.
Fly like a Bird
Well, maybe not like a bird, I don’t have wings but, during my time in the military, despite suffering with air sickness my entire life, I made a point of flying on every available aircraft I could. Even if that meant throwing up for take off and landings. Even if that meant a 12 hour flight over the north sea in an antiquated Shackleton that vibrated like an old rust bucket. Hell yeah, I was there clutching not my string of pearls but a collection of sick-bags.
I didn’t miss one flight, or one plane. I got to fly from mere minutes to hours, and, at one point, held a record for the most flights as an observer. I even received a coveted phantom squadron badge from my bestie, Group Captain Harding, weeks before he—and the 4 flights of phantom jets—left Bruggen for the UK.
A Galaxy of a Problem
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 exactly footed the bill for that?
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, before you ask, there were more than a few beers to celebrate at various parties later that night, all across the base.
#weblogpomo2024
Accidental Fatalities
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.
Out on the Range
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.
Playing with the Card Sharks
Following on from yesterday’s 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. Bastard Whist, to be precise.
It didn’t take me long to find out where the card games were being played through out 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, 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?
#weblogpomo2024
Get A Move On
In the military there is no such thing as weekends off. As I have said, you are, to put it bluntly, on call 24/7. And in my line of work, trained as an assistant air traffic controller, I was expected to work shifts whether that was in the Controller Tower itself, or in Flight Ops, or the Operations building.
Shifts was not something I was ready for, not on any level. So when I got my first posting to Plymouth, in Devon (UK) I was in for a rude awakening at just how demanding a boring job could be. While my childhood had prepped me for so many aspects of military life, these kinds of working conditions were a whole other ball game, and one I wasn’t prepared for.
Gas Attack, Gas Attack
Because Lou Plummer asked whether or not, as part of my training, I had to go through the “gas tent” — a process where newbies on receipt of fancy new NBC gear had to test it and our skills at putting it all on, in the correct order, and walk through a large green tent filled with CS gas — I thought I better recount my experience.
This was a test no one got out of doing. Funnily enough on the day I had to do my training with a couple of other newbies, we had the newly arrived Group Captain and a couple of high up officers there for training. Our little humble group sat on the same benches with the higher ups listening to the same training sergeant drone on, while watching a very graphic projection of soldiers and airmen dealing with fake injuries that included, would you believe, disembowelment.
Sporting Chance
I was never thought of as being a sporty type by build and, in fact, was probably in that group picked last for any sporting event based on looks alone. Not tall, willow, thin or fit looking. But, as it turns out, given ample opportunities to prove everyone wrong, was quite good. I got to join in on just about ever sporting event going, on camp, by virtue of the fact they always needed the numbers. They needed warm bodies to make up any kind of team, whether it was netball, field hockey, or fencing.
Also, I got picked because I volunteered. As I said in my previous post, I was young, naive, and eager to be involved and volunteered for everything. As a result, I found out I wasn’t half bad at a lot of sports that would never, under any other circumstance, have been available to me to participate in. Take for instance, the fencing.
Living the 24/7 life
Even though I had a vague understanding that I might be asked to work at any and all hours of the day and night, as a service member, it wasn’t really till I was posted to Germany on my first overseas assignment that it hit home exactly what that truly meant. Being in the military is a 24/7 commitment come rain or shine. There are no lie-ins, not taking a sick day because, no skiving off because you’re playing hooky with a buddy.
When the shit hits the fan you better be dressed and stood in front of it, ready for anything.
Taking a Leap of Faith
Within weeks of arriving at my first posting to RAF Mountbatten, in Plymouth, Devon, I was being encouraged to sign up for, well, everything, including participating in helicopter rescue training exercises. Which wasn’t a stretch, given where I worked, at the RCC (rescue and coordination centre) Plymouth, an Air Force detachment working along side the Navy. They got all the new arrivals to sign up for this in the same way we were encouraged to be dead or injured bodies during Exercises, among other things. But those are a whole other post.
Signing up to do the helicopter rescue was made to sound wildly exciting and something we would receive a badge for doing. A fancy patch made especially for such exercises. Not that anyone told me it was entirely fictitious and a patch we’d never get to wear on our uniform. Nonetheless, wide-eye, I went into this endeavour, like ever other endeavour I got talked into or volunteered for in the next several years, eager as only youth can be.
Now you would think I would have grasped exactly what I was being asked to do, not so. I was completely and utterly unprepared for the reality of being a volunteer.
Taking the Plunge
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 young, too young, and had to have my father sign the papers allowing me to join the Woman’s Royal Air Force at 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, had I stayed, one of us would have ended up strangling the other.
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 my dream in tatters, my father steered me towards putting me 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, I signed up, took the oath, and left to pursue a different path. And, in doing so, had a whole different set of adventures, while earning my BSc along the way.
#WeblogPoMo2024
I think I was probably destined for a life in the military. Though, judging by the face I’m making in this photo with my dad, maybe I wasn’t convinced. I was, after all, only 3 ½ years old at the time.
We’re down to our last couple of days of April, and I was still wracking my brain last night about what topic or theme I should write about for Weblog Posting Month 2024 and …
I had a couple of weird dreams overnight that left an impression on me this morning. Dreams about my time in the military. It was when I was brushing my teeth I had my epiphany moment and thought why don’t I write about those experiences. Not sure how interesting those times might be to others but, still, they were a very important few years in my life were I grew up. And grew up fast.
I figured they may provide either insight, or a moment or two of humour, about who I am (was?) and how I got here. Or not. One thing is for sure, I do have a lot of weird ass stories and others that, well, maybe are just for a moment or two of happy nostalgia. Either way, I’ve finally figured out my theme/topic.
Alex in the military!
#WeblogPoMo2024
Weblog Posting Month
I’ve been looking for another post to write over on my Marginalia micro.blog and then saw over on Michael Burkhardt’s blog that he was thinking of participating in Anne Sturdivant upcoming Weblog Posting Month. And ping, I had an ah-ha moment. Here was my opportunity, I thought, to pick a theme or topic and commit to writing a post a day throughout the month of May.
Of course, the question then becomes, what theme, what topic, and can I sustain said theme or topic for a whole 31 days?
I mean, after all, that’s quite a commitment.
I could be specific and choose:
- The Life and Times of Winnie the Pooh
- What Alice Said
- The natural life cycle of Bugs
- Science Fiction Movies of the 50s
So now, I have a couple of weeks left in which to decide what to write about. Any suggestions?
#WeblogPoMo2024
By Any Other Name
In a recent post Pete Moore asks us, What’s In A Name, in which he talked about his struggles with his first name. Wondering if, at this stage in life, he could start (legally or otherwise) using his middle name. A name he’s always preferred because of the brutalisation of his given name, while growing up.
So many of us suffer due to our parent’s name choices.
I knew a fellow military colleague that suffered daily at work from an insensitive form of bullying by a handful of sad minded people. His name was Denis Petrie, a name he despised because these particular bullies always referred to him as Penis Detrie. Childishly transposing the capital letters of each name, and finding it funny. He always swore that, when he left the military, he was going to change his name.
After reading Pete’s post, I wondered if Denis ever did. I know that I was subject to similar bullying during my own military service due to my then name at the time. One I changed several years after I left the military, and not because of the bullying per se, more but because I fell out with my family.
My change of name was the ultimate form of protest.
And while it started as a protest, it also became apparent that I should have done it long ago, when I realised how liberating it was to chose not only my own name, and identity, but the fact it freed me from a set of mental chains I never knew were there.
People change their names for any number of reasons. From personal reasons, like Pete, where his given name has never felt his to begin with. To those getting married (for legal reasons) or divorced, to those transitioning to the people they were always meant to be.
Maybe society needs to change the way we are all named at birth. And that, on the age of majority (whatever that age might be), we should be allowed to chose our own names.
What say you, have you changed your name to reflect the person you feel you are?
Striking a Chord
Music has and will always been a huge part of my life. It’s been with me from such an early age, helping me escape (like books) into another world, where I could be myself. Away from others and, at times, with others. From huge venues with tens of thousands to small hall concerts in intimate settings that made the music all the more powerful and moving.
I’ve enjoyed it all. From nobodies starting out, to big name groups like Pink Floyd and Abba, to Emerson, Lake and Palmer, to the Rolling Stones before they were mega rock stars. Through the 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s, I’ve transitioned, changed and grown, along with my choice of music. But have never lost the love for all music be it classical, opera, or middle of the road pop to heavy death metal. I’ve listened to it all and found something that has touched me at every level, whatever the source. Be it the actual melodies, or lack thereof, to lyrics that struck a chord with my then sensibilities.
Music is always there. Be it playing a vinyl record on an old box player I have, to shoving a CD into an antiquated boombox, to these days, digitally on my iPhone. I don’t even shower without singing and yes, still whistle when I think on one is listening.
I can’t imagine a day without music playing. It is so ingrained in our every day lives. I think the colour would drain from my life if music were to stop playing tomorrow. And, like books, no only do I not want to live without music, I don’t think I can. Can you?
Footnote: A big thank you to Lou Plummer for the inspiration to write this one.