Travels in my head: Viva Las Vegas.

Or, do you remember your first time.

It was autumn 1996, I had just been posted to RAF Kyneham in Wiltshire, and had been promised a detatcment (det) to Vegas on Red Flag.

Red Flag is a series of war games based at Nellis AFB just outside Sin City, and the det would involve two weeks over there on rates (extra pay) for meals and high jinkx.

As I wrote before, America is a dream destination for most Europeans, having been fed on a diet of American culture through films and TV. I thought I would never get to go.

I was a lowly SAC, on OK money, but recently married for the second time with an adopted son (not officially) and so with mortgage on our house in Suffolk, there would never be enough money to go.

Unless I could go with work.

As I was to work in the armoury, I had to go on a small arms course back at RAF Cosford, and was good to get there and see old friends, learn new skills. But no Vegas trip, which despite being promised, the det had been cancelled.

About a week into the course, I get a call over the official phone in the hanger, it was my SNCO, Rog the Dodge. Orlright Boy? he said. Still wanna go to Vegas? We leave on November 4th if you agree.

Of course I agreed.

I went back to class and told everyone on the course, and the instructor, I was off on Red Flag. They all knew the craic.

So, a few weeks later, packed for a couple of weeks away, and a list of items for the rest of the guys left behind to get from the BX, the climbed aboard a VC10 at RAF Brize Norton for the long flight to Nevada.

Being the RAF, in flight catering was packed lunches with no brand crisps, no brand (small) chocolate bar. And a piece of fruit (no banana).

We had to stop to refuel at Goose Bay in (checks map) Newfoundland. I have no real memory of the stop, except we were shown to a bar and I was able to use a US $5 bill to buy two beers. One for me and one for Rog.

Back on the plane for the long leg to Vegas.

As we were travelling with the military, we had NATO travel orders, so flashed those with our passports meaning we did not have to explain why we were coming to the US. Did we want our passports stamped with an entry visa?

Hell yeah!

We were told to get on one of the military buses outside the terminal. A green version of a school bus we had seen from everything from Starksy and Hutch to Charlie Brown. The driver even closed the doors by pulling on a lever. I was looking out the windows at the huge cars.

As big as bars.

And overhead signs pointing to the exit and freeway.

Like being in a movie.

We were driven to our accommodation: The Budget Suits behind the Stardust Casino, where we would have a three dollar breakfast each day before going to work.

Rog put himself forward for every Red Flag trip, so he knew his way round Vegas, he took us to the buffet in Trasure Island, watching the pirate ship show out front first before going in for prime rub dinner and everything else.

We had been up the best part of 24 hours, and we were dragged to a nightclub called Party Party. Girls in skimpy bikinis poured spirits down punters throats from bottles, music thumped out.

My head spun.

I left, and walked, walked along dark back alleys, finding my way back to my room.

Viva Las Vegas.