Love is an Action

You want to cut a good impression when it’s your first day on the job. …

My ego armour was strong and I felt an air of impenetrability hanging around me. My inner critic allowed me a little slack so that pride and autonomy could float to the surface. Not for too long though; it turns out that my rope wasn’t that loose.   

Oct 1981 hosted not only the first day on the job, but my first day to mark a brand new sixteen year career as one of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force Pilots. It was never going to go well. 

This is when one wants to cut more than a good impression, one wants to make an impression that sets the standard for over a decade of impenetrably high standards and professional acumen. One needs to make a good name for oneself in order to reach promotion and the heights of fame. 

However …  My Royal Air Force career faltered not in its first year, or in its first month, or in the first week,  or even in the first day.   

It faltered in the first hour. And never really recovered. 

I like to think that it was nothing to do with my blasé approach to rules and regulations or to the importance of appeasing those in higher places. However, in hindsight it’s a difficult argument to defend. 

On my side of the argument is innocence borne out an inbred necessity to always fudge the rules whenever possible.  Not necessarily to break them outright, just to fudge them a little in order to survive and have some lighter moments when out of the spotlight.   

On the other side of the argument are a number of protagonists that provide the hard facts of why this behaviour might be a little errant.

The first was held in general RAF Station Orders that upon arrival on the RAF Station every Service persons’ car must be registered,  passed as having correct documentation and be in a fit state to drive on the camp and display a current pass.

The second protagonist was yet more rules that to drive on the airfield a driver must hold a current Airfield Driving Permit AND read/sign the rulebook.  

The third lay in the generally accepted but unwritten “Squadron Rules of Survival “that one should always turn up on time for the morning Squadron Brief also known as “Morning Prayers”.

The next one was probably contained somewhere in the Queens regulations that would have stated that every squadron or organisation had to to reserve a special parking place for the sole use of the Station Commander . 

The final one was probably hidden somewhere in the highways section in UK law about a vehicle that is designed to have doors (ie most cars) should actually have doors. Kind of be fit for road use without running the risk of turning corners and loosing the kids, or dogs, or shopping etc.

Each one, in itself, I didn’t consider a major threat to my career if I got found out. My excuses were ready. However I hadn’t prepared sufficiently for the eventuality when my list of minor incursions compiled into one singular 10 minute horror story.

I was a fresh pilot just out of training having completed three years of a fairly gruelling pilot training schedule. I had been on camp at RAF Odiham for almost 3 months completing my operational conversion unit training, being taught to fly and operate the Puma helicopter.  

Being a penniless pilot officer at the time with three children and less income then I would have received on state benefits, I needed a car. I needed a big, cheap, car. So I ended up with an old Granada estate that wasn’t in the best of condition, but was repairable. Having tried to work on the severe rust on one door I discovered that it was easier to remove all doors and conduct the repairs in the garage whilst the car remained under protection outside.

The operational conversion unit (OCU) that I was attending initially wasn’t too far a trek around the perimeter of the airfield so I used my bicycle to get to the training unit whilst my car remained a skeleton without doors.

Having successfully passed the OCU I was given my start date at 33 Squadron. I had made some acquaintances there already as we all lived on the married patch outside the station boundary and near the village of Fleet. 33 Squadron came with a bit of a warning though, it was a squadron that had a reputation for being a bit of a bunch of cowboys with a wicked sense of humour. The world-wide and sometimes dangerous military tasks that the squadron fulfilled needed strong personalities with a dark sense of humour so japes and general wickedness become a way of life to manage this way of life. It was commonplace in the military at that time and in my naivety I didn’t know I was about to fall foul of the humour of my nearest rivals, the junior pilots.  

The message was passed to me by them to turn up at around 9 o’clock as that was when they started work. They said I would be welcomed by my new flight commander, shown around the squadron and introduced to staff. As this was a big start to my new career that had taken almost four years to get to, I needed to be sharp, tidy, aware, and on time. I failed on every count; little did I know I was being set up to be an hour late for my first interview, and there was worse to come.

My new squadron lay more than 3 miles by road around the perimeter track. On the day in question, a Monday, I expected to get a lift in from one of my colleagues that lived on the married patch.  “Just wait by the main road and someone will pick you up” was the advice. 

At  8:45 by the roadside I looked around myself in horror. I was at a road junction on the married patch looking for any one of the 60 also cars that were driving to the squadron to give me a lift. There wasn’t a single one and it soon dawned on me that I had been set up.

Whatever I needed to be there at 9am prompt to at least survive the first crucifixion. I only had one option, and that option had no doors on it. 

I ran back to my quarters and jumped in the car. Having no doors made for easy getaway and I drove off at high speed, shot past the guard room, slipping in behind a truck that was just ahead of me. The barrier was up, and me being in my officers uniform I got a quick and smart salute as I passed the guard and drove onto the perimeter track. thankfully, at this stage, no one noticed my lack of a pass.

I knew I was in trouble, so I hoofed it, cursing all the way at the buggers that had set me up.  There wasn’t a car in sight on the perimeter track where there should have been an entourage of various Squadron staff tootling around the peri track. An impassioned 60 mile an hour drive around a very empty and never ending gentle right hand curve of the peri track meant that my cargo of tools and papers and flying clothing wanted to depart through open doors and onto the airfield. To this day I don’t know how I kept hold of everything with one hand and still drove like a maniac. It wasn’t easy.

I managed to hold on to most things. I even negotiated a singular slow moving SKoda car as I crossed the main runway. If I had only known at the time that driver I was about to overtake at high speed was SATCO, the Senior Air Traffic Control Officer; higher than the Station Commander and who considered himself higher than God when it came to people driving on HIS airfield,  I would have exercised more caution. Apparently, the speed limit on the airfield was 10 mph when crossing a runway, not 60 mph.    And overtaking wasn’t allowed.  Obviously, as I didn’t have a Station Permit or an Airfield Permit, and hadn’t read or signed any rules, I was well and truly set for disaster.

When I finally arrived at the squadron and looked up and down the rows of cars and double parked cars, I saw nothing available … apart from one, right in front of the Squadron entry.  Thinking that the gods were smiling on me, I hastily pulled into the parking spot, yanked the handbrake on, pulled my hat from between my knees, jumped out of the car, and nipped into the crew room.  

It took about a second for the jibes to start, but I took it on the chin. In the end I thought I thought I had averted a tragedy because the crew room seemed quite a congenial place to be.  I was offered a coffee and told that my Flight Commander would see me soon. 

He didn’t 

It took ages. 

What I didn’t know that my poor Flight Commander, who didn’t know me from Adam, was in the process of receiving a lengthy bollocking himself on my behalf from SATCO and OC Admin. Mine was yet to come; in spade-fulls.

When a member of the admin staff shouted “King” I thought my welcome was about to start. “Sqn Ldr Woollacott wants to see you, now.”  

“Cool” I thought. “I’ll get a nice welcome, can get my feet under this job and get a. “Well done matey for getting this far”. Nice chat, coffee, how you doing, arm around the shoulder stuff. “

I put my hat on my head, knocked, got the “Come In” and went in.

I expected him to be at his desk or at least looking at me with a welcoming hand gesture, but instead he was looking out of his window. 

I waited.  Nothing.

I took my hat off and sat down.

Still he said nothing.

I was a bit nonplussed, wondering what was going on with him.  I started to think it was weird, almost rude, until he said

“King”

“Yes sir”

“King?”  he paused for a while.

He tapped on the window.

“Is THAT YOUR CAR outside”

“Erm”

“Black estate. No doors.”

My heart sank. I knew from his tone he was a bit narky”.

He didn’t look at me. In time I discovered that was actually quite a nice guy, but had just been thrown into a bit of a tizz for that time in the morning.  I was his new charge and to be honest I don’t think he really wanted me at this stage. 

“You know, I”

He repeated emphatically 

“I”

“I …. have just had SATCO on the phone and he has just been drilling ME about YOU” 

I had the feeling that bad was about to happen. It wasn’t going as I expected. 

He turned round and slowly vented his story without ever moving an inch towards me. 

“King, let me tell you” he started, a finger still in the air.

“SATCO, well, you can guess I’m sure KING, was pretty dam angry at being overtaken, high speed on his airfield and worse whilst CROSSING THE RUNWAY, KING. Despite you blistering past him he memorized YOUR registration so he could track YOU down.”

His finger was now jabbing at the table.

“He said the car was easy to spot because it was a big black car that had no f***ing doors on it. 

“So what did he do, KING?”  

I was still sat down, sitting on the edge of the chair, probably wide eyed

“He went to the airfield rule book and looked for your number.  What did he find?… KING”

“mmmmmm” I said feeling a very uneasy, knowing the answer, just not wanting to spit it out in case he was pointing out a different sin.

“He didn’t find your registration there because you haven’t signed them have you?…KING!”

He was almost spitting my surname by this time. 

“So he looked in the passes book and what did he find …….. KING?”

“Your name isn’t there either …….KING ….because you haven’t read the rules have you?

I slowly shook my head in that way that you look one way and freeze, then look the other way and freeze again. Kind of silently saying “Yes I know, I know, I know”, then “bugger I cant believe I did that” then “F**k I’m right in the shit now?” 

“So he rang the guardroom to find out who owns the car, and guess what.  You’ve been here three months and never f***ing registered your car on the station, either, have you? ….. KING!

His finger just kept on jabbing the table. It was all I dared look at. I was surprised how far it bent over and the way red and white bit kind of merged together when he pressed hard.

“Christ KING what am I supposed to do with you.  This is your first day on the squadron and not only are YOU right in the shit, I’m taking bollockings for you and I haven’t even met you yet!”

I raised my gaze from his finger to his eyes.  He didn’t look happy at all. And the words that followed haunted me the rest of my career,

“It’s hardly an auspicious start to your new career is it … KING  Dear God, I hope you improve.“  He said, shaking his head. And with that I knew I knew once and for all that my aspirations of cutting a good impression were, ironically and so to speak, out of the window. 

It still didn’t finish

“And why were you late”

There was no point in giving an excuse.  I shrugged my shoulders.

“And WHY .. why on earth … why has your car got no doors on it”

He didn’t stop for my answer. Instead he turned around and jabbed at the window again.

“And finally, why … KING …  why have you parked that monstrosity of yours, that heap of junk, in the Station Commanders slot”

I hung my head in shame.  It had just taken ten minutes to end the prospect of a great career.

I walked out of his office with my hat, head hung low.  Never got the handshake. Never got the welcome.

But unbeknown to me, there had been ears pressed to the walls and my downfall in the eyes of my superiors became joyful grist for the mill in the crewroom. Its was day one of what could be considered an alternative career of gloriously doubtful fame in the RAF. A nightmare for the aristocracy, but a joy for the working man. Always in trouble; always fighting against my adventurer and risk-taking nature to be good and wholesome, but never quite making the grade. 

My RAF career started the way it continued; downhill and fast. The rope was often tightened around my neck, but the spirit of adventure was too strong to be shackled for long. It got me into endless trouble. I look back on it with pride and horror.