Blacksheep. We had a similar thing happen at Cottesmore. The airmen’s mess grub wasn’t particularly bad but in 66/67 I went on a Mickey Finn to Leuchars, where it was sheer gourmet.
By coincidence, when I got back to Cottesmore the Hangar Warrant Officer asked me to join the Mess Committee. My first meeting, later that week, was also attended by a shifty Corporal caterer. Bearing in mind that the V Force messing allowance was the highest in the Air Force I asked why Leuchars grub was so much better than ours. Not getting an answer I suggested that shady business was going on and that some toe-rag was creaming-off the goodies. This was long after I’d rejected a career in the Diplomatic Corps.
At this point our shifty Corporal caterer showed signs of severe distress, which was immediately picked up, without comment, by the WO Chairman.
Lo and behold - two days later I’m walking past the mess and there’s old shifty flanked by two RAF plods. Turns out that the Warrant Officer (impressive chap of the old school) was a student of human nature and shifty’s severe distress had rung an alarm bell. The Plods had then dug up his married quarter back garden and unearthed, amongst other stuff, hundreds of chickens old shifty hadn’t been able to flog on.
A month later the unused upper floor of the mess was opened up and a switched on Corporal caterer, recently returned from Changi, was given carte blanche to open a world class Chinese Restaurant. Anyone remember the Cottesmore Cantonese?
A quick follow on from the Cottesmore Cantonese. In the early hours a gang of us would frequently roll up back at Cottesmore after a Brains Trust evening spent in the Blue Cow, South Witham, or the Fox on the A1. Johnny Sharpe was a fairly accomplished rock climber and the vertical brickwork of the airmen’s mess was, to him, a doddle.
We’d sit quietly watching and burping on our several pints of Ruddle’s Best while Johnny ascended to the upper balcony, the door of which was never locked - there no reason to.
Once inside Johnny would creep down to the front door and let us all in, re-securing the door after us.
Quietly into the kitchen where the night shift cooks would see us, for the third time that week, and go ballistic, again. All threats to call the Plods were countered with an explanation of what would happen to the cooks for leaving the mess ‘unsecured’. A truce would be called and the huge joint of roast beef, just out the oven for tomorrow’s lunch, would be requested and produced. My claim was the slightly burnt bits on the edges. Never tasted meat like it since!
Cooks never did find out how we were getting in. The upper floor was still closed then so it never occurred to then that this was our access.