The morning after the ‘Birthday Party’ and I’d decided against heading for the nearest docks. Instead, I found myself picking up a newspaper and wandering into the Airmens Mess, still full at 7.30. Company of any sort was the last thing I wanted so I poured a coffee and sat myself in a quiet corner. As soon as I’d walked in it was obvious that the events of last night were common knowledge.
So there I sat, head down, contemplating my imminent posting to Nuclear Chipmunks at Royal Air Force Wherethe++++isthat. Movement close by caused me to look up and there they were. Two engine fitters (names??) one with a white dish cloth over his left arm, directing his companion on precisely where to place the cutlery, and my Full English.
‘Is Sir contemplating any work today or would Sir be riding to hounds?’ ‘Sir’s copy of the Telegraph appears to be ever so slightly creased. Would Sir allow one to arrange for ironing?’ You get the picture? I did, it was ‘kin hilarious, and the gloom lifted.
Anyway, thinking through these events caused me to ponder on a more serious note; crew selection for nuclear bases. Aircrew were, at least we’d hope they were, subject to deep and meaningful psychological tests. But what of ground crew? There must have been some ‘system’ that selected a certain type of personality for Vulcans and Victors. It may have been no more than a ‘tick in the box’ assessment by instructors during this or that course.
Whatever it was, it worked in putting together hundreds of people with at least one guaranteed thing in common – a world class sense of humour. If you didn’t end up with a belly aching laugh every thirty minutes or so, then you weren’t listening - or watching.
I’m convinced there’s something in this. Whinging gits were so few that, practically, they didn’t exist. And that’s what kept the Vulcans flying. Who’d you rather have with you on a snowed in airfield at 3 in the morning with a fifty knot gale from the North, glycol running down one raised arm from sticking ECM coolant valves, and blood from the other thanks to the ever lurking locking wire. I’d take one of my p’ss taking engine fitters. The glycol would keep him amused for a moment or two and, like some simpleton, I’d be amused by his amusement.
Whatever the system used to select 60’s V Force ground crew, if anyone has any old Manuals around then you’ve got the basis for world beating group personnel assessment. And I’ll bet there’s not the slightest whiff of PC.
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PS. Samuel, How’s Windy Wellington. I witnessed, on a blue skied morning some years ago, one of aviation’s most magical sights. A Bristol Freighter tracking across the city with, at least, 45 degrees of drift on. Never to be forgotten.
Last edited by forget; 8th Jan 2004 at 02:15.