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This is a true story.

A story about a box of matches.

Most fast military jets have what is called survival equipment, and this is to be used in emergencies, as part of kit available when the crew has to eject or bail out.

In the kit there can be things like emergency rations, signal flares, thermal blankets and matches.

This is about matches.

All equipment on an aircraft has a "service life", and when that expires it either is inspected and recertified or replaced.

In RAF srivivl kits there could be one of three different matches:

1. Safety matches. Like the ones we use at home.

2. Windproof matches.

3. Waterproof matches.

The latter two come in plastic containers, on te lid of which is a surface for striking the matches, and these will light in either very windy or very wet conditions.

This is a story about a pack of ordinary common or garden. Or kitchen, safety matches.

It was December 1993. I had been posted to RAF Laarbruch in Germany, where two squadrons flew Harrier jets. I worked in the bomb dump, and our job, mostly, was to get exposive stores, including matches, but could include bombs or missiles, ready for issue.

One of our jets had landed at RAF Gatow in Berlin, and the aircrafts survival equipment had gone life expired, or the safety matches had, and the jet could not take off until the box of matches were replaced.

As we were transporting explosives into the shared occupied zone around Berlin, certain regulations had to be followed. An RAF MT driver was needed for the vehicle, someone traned in handling exposives (me) was needed to be responsible for the matches, and an armed RAF Military Policeman had to accompany us on the six hour drive across Germany to Berlin.

I was tasked, at short notice to get an overnight bag and kit, and report back to the dump in half an hour.

When I returned, a red locked metal ammunition box was waiting, I signed the paperwork and took responsibility for the box and its content. The MT driver arrived with a high spec Austin Montego, which had been the station commander's car at RAF Gütersloh.

The car came complete with a mounting on the bonnet for star flags. A set of star flags. These were used when one of the occupants was an Air Commodore or higher, and so anyone in uniform who sees a car with a star flag showing, had to salute it.

The car also came with at least three sets of numberplates, which could be exchanged when needed. It had a set of UK BFG plates, a set of civillian German plates, and I think Dutch as well. When on official business, it had to have the BFG plates on.

These were fitted.

The Policeman with sidearm arrived, and we were briefed on our route, which had been agreed with German authorities, which we were not to stay from. And we could only stop in the case of an emergency.

Remember, this was to transport a single box of safety matches.

We set off in a light blizzard that did not let up, but the driver put his foot down and went to over 160km/h all the way, as we were on official business, and that was one of the perks of the job for a driver. At the time there were very few places on the German autobahn netowk that had any speed limits anyway.

I sat in the passenger seat, and the approaching snowflakes was like the stars whizzing by on Star Trek. I was pretty scared. Of his driving.

But he was having none of it.

We arrived at the Berlin Ring Road in amazing time, but he took the wrong exit of the main east-west autobarn and straight into the Russian zone, where the Russian Army was still there even in 1993.

And ther we were, driving past in a vehicle clearly identifiable as British military and clearly breaking the agreed rules with the Russians and the route specified before we left. This was the short period between the Wall coming down and Putin gaining power, so things were relaxed, and we found our way to Gatow without incdent.

I deposited the matches in the Station Armoury, the policeman checked in his sidearm at the same place.

And as Germany's biggest Christmas Market was under way a 15 minute drive away, the driver swapped the number plates on the car to German ones, and we went hunting for bier and gluhwein.

We found a place to park, spent two hours eating and drinking. Or at least the policeman and I did, as the driver had to drive us back. And as we were told it was Supply Squadron's last ever Christmas party at the base that night, and we were invited, we made tracks and went back to camp.

I remember little of the evening, except at the end, the base's RAF Police took us back to our transit accommodation in their VW Van, classic shape.

And went to bed, tipsy fart.

And in the morning, drove back at warp factor nine in another blizzard and so had been away just over 30 hours.

Thanks to a box of matches.