Danny is Up Creek w/o Paddle.
In the terminal we learned the worst. There would be no aircraft for us that day - or ever. Shoestring Airways (or whatever it was called - a man and a boy affair, with one Viking) had gone bust that day. It was a defunct airline, an ex-airline, a non-airline. We were on our own, thirty-plus strangers in a strange land, with not the price of a cup of coffee between the lot of us (for we'd all got rid of our francs - as we'd be back in the UK in a couple of hours). Someone rang the Consulate.
To the end of my days, I will not hear a wrong word said about our Consular Service. They were splendid. Within an hour they'd got us a coach to Geneva rail station. There they'd booked us all, via Paris, to Calais, and on a British Rail ferry to Dover. And even booked couchettes for us on the midnight train ! And their generosity didn't end there. They stood us a slap-up dinner in the station restaurant, then (as in many places on the continent at that time), the best eating place in town. The one thing they couldn't do, apparently, was to advance us any currency (because of the restrictions).
It wouldn't cost us, or the British taxpayer a penny, they assured us: they'd get their pound of flesh back from the Liquidators. I wished them luck with it. I don't think there was any ABTA or ATOL in those days. It was said that: "the only thing an airline owns is the pilot's cap badge". The aircraft would be on lease; marketing, maintenance and all the other services contracted out; there would certainly be no money in the bank.
The next part was surreal. An attaché rang his opposite number in the Paris Embassy; he told his wife; she told the Ambassador's wife; things started to happen. They immediately rounded up all the staff and embassy wives they could get hold of. These then sallied out and raided the surrounding boulangeries and épiceries within easy reach. Then they made dozens of cheese, ham and egg croques-monsieur. They gathered all the vacuum flasks they could find in the embassy, brewed coffee and filled them.
By the time we pulled into the Gare du Sud (or was it the Gare St. Lazaire, or somewhere else ?), we were no longer surprised to find a coach waiting to take us across to the Gare du Nord. And then it was breakfast time and we were feeling a bit peckish after the overnight journey. We needn't have worried. A group of embassy staff and wives was waiting for us with the coffee, and the baskets of provisions under snowy white cloths. Our train to Calais didn't leave for an hour, so we'd plenty of time to eat all the food they'd brought.
I'm glad to say that when we got back, the W/Cdr wrote to the Foreign Secretary to express our gratitude, and to congratulate our Ambassador in Paris, the Consul in Geneva (and all their people) on a splendid effort.
Now, back to Blighty,
G'day, folks,
Danny42C.
Home, Sweet Home !