Note: Although the events described in this RAF story
are all true, the characters are composites of people I knew while serving.
Cpl John Spicer placed
the receiver of the telephone back onto its cradle and let out a long forlorn
sigh. He’d just had a call from Cpl Jones at RAF Coningsby who had just told
(warned) him of the imminent arrival at 16MU Stafford of SAC ‘Sugar’ Spooner.
“He’s a complete wanker,” said Jones,
“and he can’t be trusted to do anything.”
“He can’t be that bad,” replied Spicer,
“No-one’s that bad.”
“Honestly mate, he’s a fucking
idiot. He’s just been given a twenty-four hour posting. He’ll be with you
tomorrow.”
A twenty-four hour posting was
usually reserved for an airmen or officer who really should had known better,
but had all the same become inextricably involved in an undesirable sexual relationship
that, once out in the open, could seriously
affect his performance (at work) or bring the RAF into disrepute. Examples of
this are:
1. Shagging the Station Commander’s wife,
2. Shagging your Squadron Commander’s wife,
3. Shagging your Flight Commander’s wife,
4. Shagging your colleague’s wife,
5. Shagging your best friend’s wife,
6. Shagging the wife of a local dignitary, or
7. Shagging a local girl and getting her pregnant.
These were, of course, not offences unless the culprit perpetrating
any (or all) of these deeds was caught, as it were, with his pants down. Most
airmen who indulged in these nefarious activities never got caught and after
seventeen years in the RAF they were awarded the Long Service and Good Conduct
Medal, affectionately referred to by its recipients as the Undetected Crime
Medal.
Sugar Spooner’s twenty-four hour posting did not fall into any of the
categories above. His transgression was of a non-sexual nature and therefore
much more serious. He had been found out and held responsible for an almighty
fuck-up at work.
The morning after he had been on duty, Sugar was asked by Sgt Evanson
in charge of the Receipts & Despatch (R&D) Section if all the items for
the Early Bird had been picked up and
if there had been any problems. Different areas within the UK had their own Early Bird, which was a large container
lorry that travelled from unit to unit in the early hours of the morning
picking up any packages that were for onward transportation to other units
within that area.
Sugar gave Sgt Evanson a gormless, confused look before asking, “What
items?”
“What items? What do you mean what items?” said Sgt Evanson, beginning
to lose his temper, “The fucking big pile of boxes that were over there last
night!” He pointed over to an empty area of floor where the boxes he and his
staff had spent the day before packing and raising the paperwork for.
“Errmm,” said Sugar.
“So, let me get
this straight,” said Cpl Spicer as he showed Sugar to the Crew Room, “you
unpacked all the boxes the day staff had packed and put everything that came
out of them back into stock and raised receipt paperwork for every
item?”
“I didn’t know,” whined Sugar.
“But didn’t you check the labels on
the boxes?”
Sugar didn’t say anything. Spicer
shook his head and said, “Well OK, we’ll leave it there. You’ve got a new start
at a new unit – just don’t fuck it up this time.”
“I won’t, sir. I won’t let you
down.”
“You’d better not. And don’t call me
sir. I’m a Corporal, not a fucking officer. I work for a living.”
16 Maintenance
Unit at RAF Stafford was the main Depot for the whole of the Royal Air Force
and was spread over an area of about five square miles. It was made up of six
satellite sites, each containing different types of equipment and a main site
where the Density Activity Centre (DAC) was situated. The DAC was a massive
building that housed a huge Receipts & Despatch area, along with several
offices and approximately seven miles of racking within its three storeys. Everything
that was going anywhere eventually came through the DAC.
Most jobs in the DAC were boring,
repetitive and soul destroying – especially those on the second and third
floors which had low ceilings and no natural light. During the long winter months
the staff who were employed there came to work and went home in darkness. They
all wore brown dust-coats and had wild hair and mad staring eyes and after a
few months they began to bear more than a passing resemblance to the
inhabitants of the TV series Fraggle Rock.
Fortunately for Sugar, he was
working on the first floor.
Unfortunately for Spicer, Sugar was working for him.
And unfortunately for both of them there was a Station Commander’s
inspection on the following day.
The floor had recently
been painted with a new coat of red oxide paint and everything that the CO
would find offensive had been hidden away. The only thing that needed to be
done in preparation for the next day was to tidy up the pipe rack.
The pipe rack was, as it’s
description suggested, a rack full of pipes that were moulded in such a way as
to fit directly into the area of an aircraft where they could perform the tasks
they had been designed for. They were used to carry different products
throughout the various systems of the aircraft – fuel, oxygen, nitrogen, hydraulic
oil – and were very delicate, so when Spicer showed Sugar the pipe rack and
asked him to straighten up the pipes it was probably, in retrospect, not the
best choice of words to have used.
When Sugar returned an hour later
after completing his task, Spicer asked him if everything was all right.
“Well it was until they started
snapping,” Sugar informed him.
“Sorry, Sugar, they started what?”
“Snapping – you know, as I was
straightening them out they started snapping.”
Spicer felt his heart begin to race as the blood rushed to his head. “They started to what?” he yelled.
“Snap,” said Sugar, “you know, as I was strai . . .”
“I heard what you fucking well
said – I just can’t believe you just said it. How many did you snap?”
“Well, I don’t really know, but . . .”
“A rough estimate – just give me
a rough estimate.”
“Ermm, well I think almost all of them snapped.”
Spicer grabbed hold of Sugar’s collar and dragged him over to the pipe
rack. The carnage that greeted his eyes was unbelievable. Sugar’s estimation
was pretty much accurate - almost all of them were snapped into pieces,
creating thousands of pounds worth of damage – but they did at least look tidy.
“Christ on a fucking bike,” Spicer said, “surely something must have
told you to stop after the first one or two snapped in your hands.”
Sugar gave Spicer a blank look.
“Well?”
“You told me to straighten up the pipes.”
“It was a figure of speech, you fucking moron.”
“Oh.”
“How the fuck am I going to explain this to the boss?”
“Ermm,” said Sugar.
“He did what?” yelled FS Gray, almost knocking
over the cup of coffee on his desk as he sprang out of his chair.
Spicer was about to repeat what he
had just reported when FS Gray said, “Don’t answer that. Is he a fucking moron
or something?”
“It appears so, sir. He was sent
here because of a huge balls-up at Coningsby.”
“Christ Almighty, what kind of
people are they allowing in the Air Force nowadays? This wouldn’t have happened
in my day.”
“It shouldn’t happen at all. The guy’s obviously mentally deranged.”
“Obviously. Right, send him in to see me in five minutes.”
“Are you an idiot?” asked FS Gray.
“Sir?” replied Sugar.
“I asked you if you were a fucking
idiot.”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Oh, you don’t, do you. Well I think
you are.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“And stop calling me sir. I’m a Flight Sergeant, not a
fucking officer. I work for a living.”
Sugar smiled. “That’s what Spicy
said, sir.”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“What did I just tell you?”
“When, sir?”
“When? What do you mean when? Just now – what did I tell you?”
“Ermmm . . .”
“I told you to stop calling me sir.”
“Yes, that’s right, sir.”
“Well, stop it then.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Sugar Spooner
had been the worst recruit RAF Swinderby had ever seen in its entire history as
a basic recruit training unit. New batches of basic recruits arrived at RAF
Swinderby every week to begin an intensive six-week course that taught them how
to march in formation (square-bashing), how to shine shoes until they gleamed
(bulling), and how to obey all orders without question (brainwashing). As one
course left to go to their respective trade training units another one arrived.
It was known as the sausage factory.
No one had ever been as inept and unaware of his surroundings than
Sugar. He was useless at everything. He couldn’t even grasp the basic concept
of rank structure and took to referring to anyone who was of a higher rank than
him as sir. Parades were also a
problem for Sugar because he was never able to march properly (putting the
right foot forward whilst swinging the left arm shoulder high and vice versa) and
instead he tick-tocked (putting the
right foot forward and swinging the right arm shoulder high and vice versa) and
was therefore constantly bellowed at by his Drill Instructors until they were red
in the face with apoplexy. After three weeks they unanimously agreed to excuse
him from all parade ground activities. They couldn’t work out if Sugar was very
intelligent or inordinately stupid. They decided he was the latter. It didn’t
matter either way – intelligent or stupid – he was the only member of his (or
any other) Training Flight to be excused parades.
He spent twenty-four weeks at RAF Swinderby before the Drill
Instructors eventually allowed him to go to his trade training unit after completing
his six week course. It wasn’t because he’d passed – on the contrary, he had
failed in every aspect. It was because they were sick of the sight of him and just
wanted to palm him off to another unit rather than go through the complicated
and traumatic procedure of discharging him as unfit for service.
They didn’t call RAF Swinderby a sausage factory for nothing.
Sugar had somehow been selected to be an Electrical Engineer. No one
at RAF Swinderby was quite sure how this had happened, but when he arrived for
his trade training he lasted two days before he was taken out and sent to a
holding unit where he could be reassessed and re-mustered into another trade,
one which would be far less demanding and dangerous to anyone in close
proximity to him than that of Electrical Engineer.
He arrived at the Guard Room of the holding unit on a Friday at around
1800 hours and was informed by the Orderly Corporal that the Airman’s Mess was
closed, but if he wanted something to eat he could go to the local chip shop
which was only a short walk from the Camp Gates.
He was given some bedding and shown to his accommodation, after which
he walked to the chip shop.
On Monday morning he was collected by a sergeant who was to be his
assessor and taken to Station Headquarters to determine what trade he was
suitable for. Throughout the assessment the sergeant was amazed at Sugar’s
total lack of any modicum of intelligence or lateral thinking and after an
exhausting interview he had all but decided that he would be a suitable
candidate for the Supply trade. He instructed Sugar to go to the Mess for
something to eat and he would inform him of his decision in the afternoon.
“I can’t sir,” said Sugar.
“What? Why not?” said the sergeant.
“I can’t. The Mess is closed.”
“No it isn’t. Who told you it was closed?”
“The man in the Guard Room told me that the Mess was closed when I
arrived here on Friday night.”
“When did you arrive?”
“On Friday night.”
“I know you arrived on Friday night. But when on Friday night?”
“At six o’clock.”
“Well of course the Mess was closed then. The Orderly Corporal didn’t
mean the Mess was closed permanently. He just meant that it wasn’t open at the
time of your arrival.”
“Oh.”
“Where have you been eating all weekend?”
“At the chip shop.”
“All weekend?”
“Yes sir.”
“And what’s with all this sir
malarkey? I’m a sergeant, not a fucking officer. I work for a living. Call me
by my proper rank.”
Sugar thought about this for a moment. “Yes, sir.”
The sergeant rolled his eyes and sighed. “Look, just go to the Mess.
It’s that building there,” he said, pointing to the large building that had
AIRMAN’S MESS emblazoned over its entrance. “You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sugar to the sergeant as he left the office.
“Jesus Christ,” whispered the sergeant to no one in particular.
Sugar arrived at
RAF Hereford a week later to begin his basic Supply training course. He spent
eighteen months there before completing his eight week course. The Trade
Training Instructors eventually allowed him to go to his unit. It wasn’t
because he’d passed – on the contrary, he had failed in every aspect – it was
because they were sick of the sight of him and just wanted to palm him off to
another unit rather than go through the complicated and traumatic procedure of
discharging him as unfit for service.
They didn’t call RAF Hereford a sausage factory for nothing.
“Give him
something simple to do,” said FS Gray to Cpl Spicer.
“I thought straightening up the pipe
rack was simple.”
“Obviously not. In fact, give him
something that doesn’t actually involve touching any equipment at all.”
“Well, there’s a set of racking at
the back of the store that needs painting.”
“Perfect. That’s should be easy
enough. There should be no chance of him fucking that up.”
What FS Gray and Cpl Spicer were about to discover was that Sugar
could fuck anything up. Any task, no matter how uncomplicated, was ripe for
fucking up if Sugar was in any way involved. When he was at RAF Coningsby he’d
applied, for reasons known only to himself, to do a distance learning course in
Chemistry and after setting fire to his room and almost burning the entire
accommodation block down he was charged with wilful destruction of property and
given three weeks Jankers (petty restrictions). He should, given the
circumstances, have been fined, but after receiving several furious letters
from the manager of Barclays Bank in Hereford regarding Sugar’s account and in
particular the plethora of rubber cheques that had bounced their way to his
desk, the Squadron Commander discovered that Sugar was under the
misapprehension that as long as he had cheques in his cheque book he had money
in his account.
Spicer provided Sugar with a tin of grey paint and a brush and showed
him where the rack that required painting was.
“Right, Sugar, I’m trusting you with this. I’m going to Clothing
Stores but I’ll be back in about half an hour to see how you’re doing. So don’t
fuck it up.”
“No, sir.”
Spicer was not
in the best of moods when he arrived back in the DAC and his mood was about to
get much much worse.
“What
the fuck is this!” he roared, when he saw the grey footprints on the newly
painted floor. “Spooner! Where the fuck
are you?”
Sugar appeared from behind one of
the racks. He was covered from head-to-toe in grey paint and was leaving a
trail of wet grey footprints as he walked towards Spicer.
“Stop!”
Spicer yelled. “Take your shoes off now!”
Sugar looked at Spicer in
bewilderment.
“Take
your fucking shoes off, you moron!”
Sugar did as he was told, although
he didn’t understand why. Nor did he understand why Cpl Spicer was so angry
with him. Until he looked at his surroundings.
“Errmm,” Sugar said.
Spicer
discovered that Sugar’s method of painting the racks was to paint the base
first, then stand on the base and paint the struts and the underneath of the
rack above. Paint dripped from his brush and onto his head as he did this and his
shoes left footprints on the newly painted base. As he stood back to admire his
handiwork he left grey footprints on the red oxide of the floor. Ten minutes
into the job he decided to make himself a cup of tea, leaving a trail of grey
footprints from the euipment racks to the tea room.
FS Gray went
beserk.
An hour later, when he had calmed down after punching several holes in
the plasterboard wall of his office, he told Sugar to go to his accommodation
block and not to come back into work until he was sent for – which would most
probably be never.
It was raining heavily when Sugar
left the building and he tramped off back to his block with his head down and
his hands in his pockets.
On his way there the Station
Commander’s car drove past him. The car stopped suddenly and began to reverse.
The flag was flying at the front of the car which indicated that the Station
Commander was within. The car stopped and the Station Commander opened the door
to forcefully remind Sugar that it was customary to salute the car if the flag
was flying, but before he could say anything Sugar, thinking he was being
offered a lift, climbed in and sat beside the Station Commander.
“Thanks,” he said cheerfully, “You can drop me off at the NAAFI, if
you’re going that far.”
The Station Commander could barely contain his anger at the ignorant oaf
covered in grey paint who was now sat beside him. “Do you know who I am?” he bellowed.
“Errrmm,” replied Sugar.
