(*delete as appropriate)
At midnight tomorrow, my commitment to the defence of the realm comes to an end. How I came to accept the Queen’s shilling is quite convoluted, but then, most decisions we take in life are. I ended up joining the RAF in the autumn of 1990 because, mainly, my friend had joined the year before, and he joined because his friend joined some time before that.
I guess I wanted to see more than the refrigerated walls of the chicken factory. I mean, there had to be more to life than that, right? I was earning barely enough to keep myself in records/football tickets/camera film and all the other stuff I felt that I should be doing with my life.
So, when my parents left for their summer holiday in the summer of 1989, I went up to Norwich to meet with the careers people in the RAF and try to join. Seems simple now, but the wait dragged on for months, and the thought of being a driver had to be changed, and in the end I agreed to follow my friend as an armourer.
I say I agreed, the RAF decided for me, I could have said no, but this seemed like the last, only chance I had. The MOD decided they had enough drivers, and I had to choose another trade; I mentioned armourer, and the sergeant made some notes. It came as a surprise to receive a letter from the MOD confirming my joining the RAF on July 4th 1990 as an armourer. Somehow I had skipped the testing, the interviews and all that should have happened.
So, I began to plan in joining, I would hand my notice in with the factory a week before joining up, so they had better not find out. All was well until the wee small hours driving back from a Price concert in London, I manage to crash my car breaking my thumb, two weeks before my joining date. Although I didn’t know it was broken at the time. So I did not tell the RAF. I had a week on the sick, watching the world cup in Italy and sun-bathing, with a cast on my left arm.
A week later, I went to have the cast removed and an x-ray; unfortunately, it was broken, and my plans for my bomb-building future was laying in ruins. I had to call the RAF and explain that I could not join as the break would take six weeks to heal. Don’t panic they said, we’ll do some ringing around.
And in an hour some guy in Norwich was asked, and accepted my place to join in 10 days, and I got his slot in September. Time enough for my thumb to heal. Watch the world cup. Go and see the Rocky Horror Show in London. Madonna live in London at Wembley Stadium. Sunbathe. Watch the start of the football season. Hand in my notice, take all the holiday due to me, and not do a stroke of work until the middle of September. It was one of those win/win/win/win/win situations, really.
The summer passed, and the cast was removed. It was healed but weak. I had to pass the medical, which was me squeezing the doctor’s hand whilst he looked into my eyes for a grimace of pain. I passed that and was clear to enter the RAF.
As September slipped through my fingers the date of when I would sear my allegiance got ever nearer. Panic gripped me as I went round buying the stuff I needed. Mainly arranging for name tags to me made so I could spend the long autumnal evenings sewing them into every item of my kit. There would be little else to do, other than the cleaning, ironing, polishing, mopping, marching and general bulling.
And then the day arrived; Tuesday the 18th of September. I went up to the RAF careers office in Norwich with my Granddad. We went up on the train as I had sold the car, or what was left of it after the crash that had broken my thumb. We got a taxi to the office, and along with the others who were joining that day in there, we swore our oath to HM the Q, received our certificate and our travel warrants for the morning. As we were to travel to deepest Lincolnshire to RAF Swinderby for our 6 weeks of basic training.
We went back to Lowestoft, Granddad went home and I met my then friend, Richard, for beer and pool. We met at his local, The Fighting Cocks, and drank Stella all afternoon and into the evening, until nine o’clock came and I really had to head home. We shook hands and he wished me well and we made promises about keeping in touch.
I walked back home, and climbed into my bedroom walking round my packed bags.
Next morning at five, Mum woke me up. I had the shakes and a stinking hangover. The taxi picked me up, and took me to the station and I collapsed into a seat and watched the Norfolk countryside roll by. On Norwich station I met the others once again who were joining with me, and we travelled up together. The enormity still had not hit me, and I was in good spirits even with the hangover.
Once at Newark, our instructions was to go to the front of the station and make our way to the bus that would be waiting. The only bus waiting was an old thing, which was smoking slightly as the engine ticked over it. As well as the driver, many young men and women with short haircuts sat looking pensive. That must be it.
We put our bags in the hold, and climbed on the bus and did some more military waiting. The first bout of military waiting I had done; but not the last, oh no.
In time all expected passengers had arrived and we left, through the suburbs of Newark, and into the Lincolnshire wolds, and then on the right we saw the low hangars and water towers which marked where our homes for the next six weeks or so would be.
THEN it hit. I had joined the RAF, and there was no escape.
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