Dans la Merde......
In the early 70s, a 46 Squadron Andover would occasionally come in to Manston to do some circuit training on Friday afternoons. During one of its full stop landings, a certain ex Squadron member on a ground tour would get a lift out to it in the ATC Land Rover, and hop on board.
Strangely enough, another aircraft would turn up on the following Monday or Tuesday calling for a practice diversion!
Strangely enough, another aircraft would turn up on the following Monday or Tuesday calling for a practice diversion!
When Topcliffe Varsities supported the V Force deployments to Maccrihanish the return flights were laden with boxes of kippers, and all and sundry [even lowly Met] pre-ordered. I expect the middleman made a few bob, but kippers and price were good.
One of my very best friends (who is sadly no longer with us) spent a lot of time on the Hastings. The basic story is this:
He got called out to do a special flight to Singapore. The load was a set of Victor (or Vulcan) bomb doors which were urgently needed in Tengah - the originals had "come off" in flight - for whatever reason. The deal was that they had to bust a gut outbound but could take their time back to UK.
On arrival in Tengah, my friend was informed that he would be taking a VSO's Mercedes back to UK "Indulgence Freight" and that he was to present himself in front of VSO at 0800 next morning.
This he did, expecting to receive some thanks for taking said car back to UK but instead he received a severe "pre-bollocking" that he would be held responsible for any scratches etc and that he was not to allow anyone to use said Mercedes as a crew rest bunk.
On the way to Gan, the AQM gave the paperwork a good inspection. VSO had not owned the vehicle for over 1 year and so it was liable for import tax if they could get it back to UK very quickly.
So, they busted a gut on the way home also and took great delight in pointing out to UK Customs that the vehicle was subject to import tax and to please go ahead with imposing the duty.
The vehicle did not have a scratch on it and it had not been slept in.
It always pays to be polite.
He got called out to do a special flight to Singapore. The load was a set of Victor (or Vulcan) bomb doors which were urgently needed in Tengah - the originals had "come off" in flight - for whatever reason. The deal was that they had to bust a gut outbound but could take their time back to UK.
On arrival in Tengah, my friend was informed that he would be taking a VSO's Mercedes back to UK "Indulgence Freight" and that he was to present himself in front of VSO at 0800 next morning.
This he did, expecting to receive some thanks for taking said car back to UK but instead he received a severe "pre-bollocking" that he would be held responsible for any scratches etc and that he was not to allow anyone to use said Mercedes as a crew rest bunk.
On the way to Gan, the AQM gave the paperwork a good inspection. VSO had not owned the vehicle for over 1 year and so it was liable for import tax if they could get it back to UK very quickly.
So, they busted a gut on the way home also and took great delight in pointing out to UK Customs that the vehicle was subject to import tax and to please go ahead with imposing the duty.
The vehicle did not have a scratch on it and it had not been slept in.
It always pays to be polite.
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A week after the mighty 'rods left SMG, we planned a pd during an Ops CT in order to drop off the late John Gill's bicycle and kit to his wife, as he was shortly posted back down south. On landing, an 'o'ring seal on the red system brakes split and we dumped the fluid all over the pan. Now, you would think there might still be a rubber seal left in stores and someone to sign off the work but alas, no joy. Rumbled! Seal and a Chief Tech had to be flown down from Kinloss to fix it.
Being Friday night, we repaired to the bar where, as old friends and kipper mates, we were treated to beers by all and sundry. Imagine my surprise when at about 2200, our trusty crew chief phoned the mess requesting help to jack up the jet. The recently appointed (grumpy) Sqn Ldr Ops had insisted we do it instead of using any of the VASF guys, so I can honestly say, its the only time I've jacked up an aeroplane while completely ****ers but it all went perfectly well so there must be a moral in that somewhere...
Being Friday night, we repaired to the bar where, as old friends and kipper mates, we were treated to beers by all and sundry. Imagine my surprise when at about 2200, our trusty crew chief phoned the mess requesting help to jack up the jet. The recently appointed (grumpy) Sqn Ldr Ops had insisted we do it instead of using any of the VASF guys, so I can honestly say, its the only time I've jacked up an aeroplane while completely ****ers but it all went perfectly well so there must be a moral in that somewhere...
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Years ago I was in Perth to be best man for a mates (RAAF) wedding. Was having a beer in the garden at my cousins place a few miles from Perth airport smack under approach path. Almighty noise, looked up to see an F111 fly over the top. Saw my mate the next day and mentioned I hadn't realized how noisy F111's were. He replied, yep they're mates coming over for the the wedding. How did they organize that?! NAVEX was his reply! Amberley, Queensland to Perth, WA in an F111 for a wedding! That's got to be a bit of a record for a "Jolly"?!
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Dans la Merde,
I submit this entry as being literally relevant to this Thread (culled from my Post on "Pilot's Brevet Page 153, #3047):
Danny42C.
Extra Title: Danny and matters scatologigal: - The Deep Trench Latrine.
In response to a total lack of interest in the subject, but having a while back promised an article on this indelicate (but quite essential) component of our daily life in the forward areas now behind us, here is my recollection - (and those who remember Louis de Bernières' novel: "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" may remember a similar, amusing description of Italian troops).
I cannot do better by way of description than to recount an enduring sad tale that I must have heard a score of times - but never with exact details of time or place - (I believe it was current in the Middle East, too).
First, to set the scene: In a basha is dug a narrow trench, straddled by a long narrow timber box, This has an open bottom and is provided with a row of suitable holes on top. There are no doors or partitions - such civilised conventions have long been discarded in our life at the sharp end.*
Of course the normal military distinctions still had to be observed: separate DTLs for Officers and ORs (British), another set (of modified design) for the Indian Officers and ranks. (How did they manage with the Muslim/Hindu divide, and the Caste problems with the latter ? - No idea - Anglo-Indians ? I think they counted as British for this purpose.
Consequently, these places hosted convivial gatherings. Here was a forum for the discussion of important military matters; the latest rumours were disseminated (hence the term: "Latrinogram"), and the topics of the day given a good airing (no pun intended). Hinged lids were provided to try to abate the fly nuisance. Pretty well every visitor (even non-smokers) took a cigarette in with him (as a deodoriser - now you can see the advantage to "Stew" Mobsby of losing his sense of smell !) It was forbidden to throw a lighted butt down the hole, but there was always someone who forgot.
Our hero was one such. He picked himself up some fifty feet away, with a badly scorched bottom, surrounded with shattered timbers and covered all over with - well, not exactly with "sweet violets" ! He was not alone, his companions (in a like state) were not well pleased with him, and were making the fact loudly and abundantly clear. The "netty", "dunny", call it what you will, had (to use a common expression in "babu" English): "Gone from that place, Sahib".
What had happened ? Methane in the trench had built up to the point where, mingled with air, it had reached the "stoichiometric ratio" at which the mixture became explosive. The dog-end provided the detonator.
Is the story true ? Well, it could have happened, couldn't it ?
Note *: And not only at the sharp end. In the Basic and Advanced flying schools of the US Army Air Corps (which were 100% military units), I recall the same companiable arrangement with rows of gleaming mahogany and porcelain thrones in the washrooms (so there was no chance of a quiet break with cigarette and newspaper). Primary Schools were basically civilian-run: more customary standards prevailed there).
I promise you that is the last word on the subject.
In response to a total lack of interest in the subject, but having a while back promised an article on this indelicate (but quite essential) component of our daily life in the forward areas now behind us, here is my recollection - (and those who remember Louis de Bernières' novel: "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" may remember a similar, amusing description of Italian troops).
I cannot do better by way of description than to recount an enduring sad tale that I must have heard a score of times - but never with exact details of time or place - (I believe it was current in the Middle East, too).
First, to set the scene: In a basha is dug a narrow trench, straddled by a long narrow timber box, This has an open bottom and is provided with a row of suitable holes on top. There are no doors or partitions - such civilised conventions have long been discarded in our life at the sharp end.*
Of course the normal military distinctions still had to be observed: separate DTLs for Officers and ORs (British), another set (of modified design) for the Indian Officers and ranks. (How did they manage with the Muslim/Hindu divide, and the Caste problems with the latter ? - No idea - Anglo-Indians ? I think they counted as British for this purpose.
Consequently, these places hosted convivial gatherings. Here was a forum for the discussion of important military matters; the latest rumours were disseminated (hence the term: "Latrinogram"), and the topics of the day given a good airing (no pun intended). Hinged lids were provided to try to abate the fly nuisance. Pretty well every visitor (even non-smokers) took a cigarette in with him (as a deodoriser - now you can see the advantage to "Stew" Mobsby of losing his sense of smell !) It was forbidden to throw a lighted butt down the hole, but there was always someone who forgot.
Our hero was one such. He picked himself up some fifty feet away, with a badly scorched bottom, surrounded with shattered timbers and covered all over with - well, not exactly with "sweet violets" ! He was not alone, his companions (in a like state) were not well pleased with him, and were making the fact loudly and abundantly clear. The "netty", "dunny", call it what you will, had (to use a common expression in "babu" English): "Gone from that place, Sahib".
What had happened ? Methane in the trench had built up to the point where, mingled with air, it had reached the "stoichiometric ratio" at which the mixture became explosive. The dog-end provided the detonator.
Is the story true ? Well, it could have happened, couldn't it ?
Note *: And not only at the sharp end. In the Basic and Advanced flying schools of the US Army Air Corps (which were 100% military units), I recall the same companiable arrangement with rows of gleaming mahogany and porcelain thrones in the washrooms (so there was no chance of a quiet break with cigarette and newspaper). Primary Schools were basically civilian-run: more customary standards prevailed there).
I promise you that is the last word on the subject.
