Royal Air Force (RAF)

       I have been a military guy from my youngest days. The old saying  ‘it’s in my blood’ I guess rings true a little as my great-grandfather and my grandfather on my mother’s side were both in the Royal Navy and in both world wars respectively. My father was a Sergeant in the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC), but he had a passion for all things air, so why he did not join the Royal Air Force I don’t quite know? His father whilst not in the services, was a senior Aircraft Designer with Avro/Hawker and Folland,  and was instrumental in the design of many famous british military jets, until his final aircraft,  the doomed TSR2 was cancelled mid project by a newly installed labour government. According to my father he put his ‘everything’ into this project and so when it was wrapped up  and the prototype aircraft were broken up in front of him, he spiralled into mass depression which I believe ultimately helped deliver him to his grave.

With a strong military history on my mother’s side complimented by the aircraft thread on my fathers, this is where I likely found my path drawn towards the Royal Air Force (RAF).

I joined the RAF in May 1990 at the age of 18 and in the end decided to opt for the trade of RAF Supplier. Now this was not my first choice, but as I grew up, reality kind of set in and my goal went from wanting to be a Pilot, to an  Aircrew Navigator, then an Engineer until my final choice of RAF Supplier was set in place. I was happy with my choice though and was actually looking forward to my basic training phase at RAF Swinderby and becoming an upstanding member of N0 19 flight, 3 Squadron, Recruit Training School . It was a slight shake to the system, but not a shock, as I had been a member of the RAF Cadets as a teen and was used to ‘military ways’ not least marching drill. None the less, I decided that I would play ‘dumb’ when it came to the marching in my RAF training. My theory was simple, if I deliberately started off marching really badly, but then started to improve my already secret skill, this would please the Drill Instructors (DI) no end, as they would see ‘good solid progression’ from young Aircraftman Gass. However, my brain power at this period of my life seemed to be absent, as I totally missed the possibility that the DI’s might actually read about our backgrounds and would clearly know of my dark secret life in the Air Cadets. Indeed after only 3 days I was’ called out’ by my Flight instructors who made it clear that if I didn’t stop this poor excuse of ‘hoodwinking’ them, they would make my life a hell on steroids. I of course complied with their cast iron request to ‘stop your fuckin’ bollocks Gass, or I will ram this pace stick up your arse, out of your mouth and up your bogey infested nostrils‘ and duly marched my little arse off from that moment on.

I have fond memories of  recruit training; especially cleaning the ablutions for hours and hours with minimal equipment, although the toothbrush was a wise purchase from the NAAFI shop, not to clean my teeth, but instead to use it as a tool to place black kiwi shoe polish in between the vast expanse of red tiling beneth my feet. This task was done every single night and after sorting out our uniforms, bed-packs and personal admin we often only slept for 4-5 hours, and sometimes on the hard barrack block floor, so as not to spoil my inspection ready bed-pack. Inspections were tough, although they are meant to be, but I was a taken aback when my DI shoved one of my flip-flops in my face demanding to know why the hell there was dust on it? I could not see said dust of course, but if your DI tells you there’s dust, there’s dust. If your DI tells you that you’re a woman with man bits or a man with woman bits, you politely agree with these objective conclusions. It was often difficult not to burst into laughter at such lines, but of course only a crazy fool with a death wish would ?  I had my shiny parade shoes thrown out of the window (we were on the third floor of Cheshire Block), my bed pack launched into the next world and my bed upturned, and in the process scratching the lovely polished floor which took the whole previous evening to buff up. Most of us would just make the best of it through a good bit of banter, but some guys would actually sob and were clearly unprepared for this kind of bollocks, most of these guys would eventually leave or get back- flighted because they were struggling to keep up with it all. I never thought this kind of treatment was some evil cult as some would suggest and often found humour in most of it.  I mean when in life will you ever again see a grown man with a hairy, but well groomed ‘tash’ under his nose, throw your nicest work shoes out of the window accompanied with a high-pitched death scream coming out of his vain filled face about 2 inches from yours, and all you do is effectively say ‘thank you Sergeant may I have some more of that please?’ Outside this little military bubble, he would of course have received a good ‘right hook’ for his efforts, but in the bubble I think it was more of a lesson about how to gain some self-discipline and to be able to control your emotions, whatever the challenge placed before you?  At the time though I just thought ‘ fuckin cock’! But if you wanted to pass your basic training, you had to suck this bullshit up, smile and crack on with the next part, that’s just the way it was and still is!

It could have been a lot worse though and likely was in the other branches of HM Forces. The Royal Air Force basic training turns you into a very basic soldier-airman, but that’s all that it needs to do. As long as you could march straight, remember some basic military history, know who is Sir/Ma’am and who is Sergeant, be relatively fit (where did that go?), shoot a weapon (sometimes straight?), inhale some CS Gas during your NBC (Nuclear, Biological  & Chemical) training, be able to man a road block and shout ‘bang bang’ during a final exercise, you were good to go and you could then show off in your graduation parade in front of proud family and friends. I graduated on the memorable date of the 4th July 1990 inside a WW2 Hangar, because of rain. However we still had a USAF F111 bomber do the fly past, and although we did not see this beast of war, we heard it because the drill hangar rattled to near to destruction. On reflection my graduation parade was all a bit ironic considering where I now find myself living. Maybe it was a sign? So with a job well done and a bit of extra guard duty added for good measure, I said a fond farewell to Swinderby and  headed to a new RAF station for my Supply trade training, via home and my mothers washing machine.

I spent 3 months at RAF Hereford (formerly RAF Credenhill), home of Supply Trade Training. It was a great posting and I enjoyed every moment there, even if there were some extra challenges thrown at me. My fondest memories included; the friends I made, the rugby club, the social club, the Cpls’ club, the Kerry Arms, the Orange Tree, the Crystal Rooms (wait these are all bars/night clubs), the City of Hereford, the Credenhill chinese and local area. My not so fondest memories were being on holding flight and painting a dry/dead patch of grass with green paint (well if it wasn’t dead it will be now) for the Annual inspection. 3 guard duties including a fence breach by some undesirables, getting my first ‘charge’ for having a female in the male block and  cost me 100 GBP, a bit harsh for a low paid recruit who needs beer money I thought. Going into a boxing ring with a pumped up PTI (Physical Training Instructor) thinking I could ‘take him’ and getting knocked on my arse twice in a matter of moments. Doing an impersonation of our Instructor to the rest of the class, not knowing he was standing behind me….our relationship was never the same after that! Getting caught a second time with a female in the block … she was just wanting a beer, expensive beer it turns out. Anyway, having left my mark in Hertfordshire and successfully passing my training, I ventured onto my RAF Career proper.

RAF Northolt was where I spend most of my days to be fair, with a good number of detachments sprinkled in for good measure such as , RAF St Athan, RAF Waddington (as part of upgrade program for Nimrod AEW aircraft), RAF Mount Pleaseant- Falkland Islands (Ground & Tac Fuels) and Sailsbury Plain with some Army types. But always ended back at RAF Northolt. I had a blast there, met some top folks discovered Rugby care of my good friend Chas, I was a founding member of the legend that was the Sports and Social Club, good times in the RAFP dog section’s Dog and Whistle club, flights to Germany with 32 Squadron, Skiing in the French Alps, a legendary holiday with the lads on a barge in the Norfolk Broads, rugby tours to RAF Germany x2, Isle of Man and Newport, Wales??? Rugby game with the locally based US Marines (got tackled out of the game by 3 million marines in first 10 minutes), great times at the USN base up the road in West Ruislip, local areas of Ruislip, Uxbridge, Pinner and of course a tube ride away from London town. So there was always something to do socially. Work wise I spent much of my career in the Fuels Section (POL) but also worked in R&D, Tech Stores and SCAF. Learnt to drive, got my truck license, forklift license, Liquid Oxy specialist, Hazardous handling quals an a few other bits and bobs.

The closest I came to serving in an operational theatre would have been the Falklands, but that was pretty tame to be described as such and so was downgraded before I got there, still a great place to see stuff for sure and one of the most satisfying working roles I have done. In 1991 we had the first Gulf War, ‘Op Granby’ and at that time the RAF was a pretty large outfit, so newbies like me fresh out of training were not actually allowed to go out there until we got some time in. I applied, but was flatly turned down. But I do recall that period being nuts in the UK as so much stuff was sent out there and on several occasions I was sent to assist at the two major airheads  of RAF Brize Norton and RAF Lynham. so did my little bit for the effort,  But that was it.

I did 7 years over all. did I change the world, no of course not. I am considered a service veteran, but did not serve in a hot war zone. But you know I am proud of every minute I served for Queen and Country and  doing my small bit. I made a commitment to a way of life that many would not choose and which may have ended up me being deployed  into a spicy area of ops, but I didn’t. Those that have been deployed into the front teeth of an operational theatre have my total and utter admiration for their efforts and while I don’t have first hand experience they do, I can gain a certain understanding of things by talking to many who were out there. But for those who go right into the bullets or IED’s, I will never really know what it was like for them. But what is unique for me and my relativity short time in the service is the life long connection with others who have served in the Armed Forces, an automatic sense of acknowledgement to each other and a certain understanding that perhaps the everyday joe may not quite get and let me be clear, I don’t look down on everyday Joe for that by the way. What bonds you, is maybe the uniform, certainly the comaradary and friendships you make, for me also was the sense of pride, honour and dignity that comes with serving ones country be it for a year or 22 years. Time does not matter all that much, but the fact you committed to something bigger then yourself does matter. I loved serving in the RAF and will always until the day I die consider myself a part of the military community, as a veteran of one of the most unique ways of life there is.