I could, of course, start with this
"I HAD SOME BAD LUCK, REALLY,
My troubles started at the October half term, when we were
coming back from Baker Street (a London railay station) on the Sunday evening. As usual, one or two of the more enterprising souls had bought some fireworks (we celebrate Guy fawkes in Bovember) nwith which enliven the journey. It had been a long hot summer/autumn and there were soon plenty of embankment fires blazing merrily to mark our passing. In addition all the tube and suburban stations we sped through had been liberally bombarded with all sorts of semi–lethal devices, much to our amusement, and the consternation of the recipients.
On this particular occasion, the transport police decided they had had enough of this (I think
London was running out of fire engines and ambulances for the heart attacks) and decided to
pull the train in at the next station. Since, you may recall, we were not due to stop, there were
about 200 fireworks, blue touchpapers glowing nicely, ready to be hurled from windows when
suddenly the running boards were full of Old Bill. (the police)
I swear by all that it most precious to me that up until then I had not touched a firework, but
the thrice–damned fool beside me, gave me his firework and said, “Get rid of that.” Like an even bigger fool I took it, knowing full well that the door beside me was blocked by a very large person (who later turned out to be a Detective Inspector). I failed in my attempt to get it past him, and it rolled down the door jamb and exploded on his right foot.
Now I know he had scorch marks on his trousers (but who wears light coloured trousers in
October?), and that his foot probably tingled a bit (bangers being bangers in those days —
they’d take off a hand. let alone a finger!) but the only real damage was to his bootlace (which
disintegrated and filled the compartment with little black fibres, which kept us sneezing for
hours) and still I maintain that 14 days in the cooler5(the Stockade) and the equivalent of £1,000+ at today’s prices was out of all proportion.
After this I was a marked man of course, and despite being keen and determined to keep out of trouble (as I always was) before I left Halton I had managed make another two trips to the guardroom (stocjade) carrying my bedding.
I then moved to south west Wales, bright eyed, bushy tailed and determined to make a fresh start.
On my first day I was taken out to be shown over an aeroplane, (I was in the RAF) and as we got there I was given the key to open the door. Unfortunately the aircraft and I were moving in two different directions and in two different planes and at two different speeds, as it was a flying boat. and I managed to drop the key in 40 feet of water. Since this key was on the Coxswain’s personal charge (i.e he had to pay for it) there was an awed silence and everybody looked at him while guiltily trying to avoid catching his eye, if you know what I mean. For those of you unfamiliar with the species of RAF Cox’n suffice to say that two of
them having a quiet half together make an RAF Regiment thrash look like a bunch of Brownies
out buying Christmas presents.
This fearsome creature did not say a word; he laboriously dug down through about 20 layers
of clothing and produced the key to his tool bag. He laboriously dug through his tool bag and
produced a brand new aircraft key, still in its original wrapping. He laboriously unwrapped the
key. He then dug once more into his toolbag and came up with some lockwire, and laboriously
tied one end of this round the key, and the other, ever so gently (which made it worse), round
my wrist. I quickly opened the door and shot inside, but only as far as my arm, plus the
lockwire, would let me, since the key was still firmly in the lock.............
I was saved from a broken wrist and/or a watery grave by crashing into the chap behind me
who was already half way through the door. He fell back into the boat, and knocked down
three other guys, one of whom broke his wrist (you have remembered this is my first day, nay
my first hour, haven’t you?). We did not know about the wrist at the time of course, and I
hurriedly removed the key from the lock and once again shot into the aeroplane. A hand that
would have been more at home on the end of a jib at an opencast mining site descended on my shoulder, and I once again fell into the bottom of the boat while the Cox’n retrieved his key.
It would– be an exaggeration to say that the whole station had turned out to watch my arrival
back at the Wet Dock when we returned to shore, but there were certainly many interested
spectators watching as I climbed warily (or was it wearily) up the very slippery, seaweed
covered steps. Word always went round very quickly when a “live one” was posted in. I later
found out that the Cox’n was threatened with court martial for refusing to come back and pick
me up.
When I got back to the section the Warrant Officer (the most senior of all senior non-coms)was waiting for me OUT OF HIS OFFICE.
Disaster upon disaster. You will recall that Warrant Officers in those days did not speak to
anyone below the rank of Wing Commander (the grunts they gave grudgingly to lesser beings
could no way be described as speech), and never ever left their offices during working hours.
He never said a word, just crooked one finger and then pointed it down in front in front of
him; I quaked over in what I hoped was an airmanlike manner, and he just looked me up and
down for about 2 hours. Well actually it was about 30 seconds, but it felt like 2 hours. He then
went back in his office and closed the door. Jock Campbell, you’re probably dead and buried
these many years, but forgotten you are not!
I wish I could say that that was the only time I saw him out of his office, but it was not to be.
Some weeks later I was doing my first stint as Duty Armourer. and I had to sleep in the armoury(weapons store) with a guard.
He stayed awake and telephoned the HQ every hour to report all was well. We had a panic
button connected to a siren and a huge red flashing beacon on the roof of the Armoury. We
also had a phone which triggered the siren and beacon automatically when lifted.
One morning, at about 0200, I was woken by the airman guard, who told me he could not raise HQ. I got out of bed and tried it myself, and he was right — the phone was dead. I
then picked up the trigger phone, which was not only dead, but which did not trigger the siren
either! This was it, they’d cut the phone lines and the alarm, quick, hit the panic button! That
worked — did that work! I forgot to mention that while the phone just triggered the siren and
beacon, the button alerted the police, coastguard, customs and for all I know immigration and
the Min of Ag & Fish as well.
That’s how I came to see Jock Campbell, not only out of his office again, but in his pyjamas! I
still maintain that HQ guy was asleep and not out the back making a cup of tea as he
claimed, and that someone should have cleaned the contacts on the phone, but I was unable to get anyone to agree with me at the time. We stood down the police, coastguard, customs etc (and I did hear that some cruiser was told to resume her original course) and then the CO
wanted to come in for a look around.
There was no way that anyone was going to get into that armoury with Jock standing there
getting more and more purple by the minute, and not just from the cold either. I knew him a
little better by this time; he was a straight as a die and his standing orders were that no–one
but the 2 duty personnel was to be allowed in the armoury between 1700 and 0800. For once,
probably the only time, I guessed right, and when I let him in the morning he simply said,
“Quite right, everything you did”, and I never heard another word on that incident from him. I
wish I could say the same for the Flt Sgt, Sqn Ldr, 2 Wing Commanders (Ops & Eng), Station
Commander and Chief Constable.
I had that siren going again before I left (and I was only there 8 months!) but this time it was
just for OC Regt Flt who was on Orderly Officer and decided to try and get in the ammo
store. He ended up with a pick helve in the ribs as the silly sod put a civvy jacket on to make
it more realistic. Golden opportunity for a national serviceman that was, once he was
recognised!
That was the start of my Royal Air Force career; not all my postings were the same as that —
some of them were worse, and I could go on to tell you about how I managed to get a 1,000 lb
bomb dropped into the local doctor’s garden. I also managed to drop a (full) 400 gallon fuel
tank in Northern Ireland (Arthur, I’ve got a feeling we were together at St Mawgan when that
happened!), and send a 60 lb rocket three miles into what is now Yemen (John Beauchamp
should remember that), but those stories must remain untold, as must the time when I
grounded a whole, fully serviceable, squadron with an electrician’s screwdriver, how I wrote an
aircraft off using only a GS and how I put an aircraft AOG for eighteen months with only a 6
BA spanner!
Did somebody say Happy Days?!!"
Anyway, I mention this to tell any of you who want to self publish, you can go through some places that only print the books as you sell or order them, even one at a time. It's quite affordable that way and they sell through Kindle too. I might do that eventually but I don't think my life has been interesting enough so I'd have to get off track and put in a lot of fiction if I had any hopes of selling anything. I have also been writing my dreams in a notebook since 2006 and one of my grandson's has really enjoyed reading those and oddly enough, so do I. After 5 or 6 years I'll read a dream I had and think "Wow, I don't remember that". 
