Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  To myself: “Well at least somebody in this room is.”

  To the audience: “So if I had walked in with a pencil stuck up my nose and singing songs about goblins (thanks Blackadder), the detachment may have been postponed?”

  “Indeed airman—now if you don’t mind...”

  Moving forward to my appeal. Heard on a one to one basis. The British military thinking logically yet again.

  “Please, tell me why you think your detachment should be postponed.”

  This one was a female Army officer. She looked like a late teen, but also highly ranked. I couldn’t tell the rank but she had so many spots on her shoulder I thought she had runaway acne.

  “Not postponed ma’am…that suggests an alternative date…binned.”

  I think I may have lost all hope with that comment…that said, her mind was probably made up before she walked in.

  RAF—nah—send him anyway.

  She listened to my rationale. Or at least she gave the impression she was listening. That powerless feeling when her acting skills weren’t quite up to the mark.

  Then about half a second before my last line left my voicebox, her reply…

  “I was leaving the Army a week from now. They have extended my time due to shortages in my field…if I’m going…so are you!”

  Don’t you just love decisions where there is clearly no bias involved?

  So the end of the line for me…on to the Falklands.

  And that was all before I met Cat. My luck had to get better, right?

  Well, maybe.

  The car picked me up mid-afternoon from RAF High Wycombe. The base itself is in a pretty area of Buckinghamshire known as Walters Ash. It’s very leafy, close to Gerrards Cross, which at the time was the most opulent town in England outside the M25 in terms of wealth per area.

  Now try plonking a military base in a leafy suburb. It’s the type of thing that gave Swampy a nightmare back in the day. It looked so out of place. Historically the architects always submit a built-in green cover to mask the environmental hole they create, to make it look more like a snooker table. The Teletubbies estate for those still unsure.

  “Good morning airman.”

  “Eh-oh,” said Tinky Winky

  I dragged my case into the back of the car. I was in for a nice leisurely drive to RAF Brize Norton, famed for the repatriation of the souls lost in so many conflicts over the last 30 years.

  I had a good chat with the driver. For the first time, I had a driver whose mission wasn’t to end my days early. They normally get into the “let me show you what this can do” mode of driving before the first hairpin. Mostly, it’s mid-hairpin. Their sole purpose in life seems to be covert murder. After the first few bends, not so covert…but this driver was different and I enjoyed his company…perhaps he sympathised as he knew I had a sixteen hour flight ahead.

  I remember thinking, “This isn’t the way to Brize Norton!” but I didn’t want to spoil the ambience that our all too brief acquaintanceship had created. My thinking was, questioning his knowledge of the route would have been interpreted as “please show me what this vehicle can do” (see note about speedy hairpins above) and I was quite happy to avoid that relationship. The accepted rules of the armed forces are:

  Never upset the chef.

  Never upset the storeman.

  I’ve always thought there should be an extra rule as if we are being honest, it’s a simple case of my: life in his hands and all three are of equal importance.

  But I was very confused as he parked alongside the moorings of a canal. Perhaps our relationship wasn’t going as smoothly as I had assumed. Perhaps this was to be his final journey. Perhaps roadside services weren’t of a high standard in Oxfordshire and he just wanted to relieve himself in the canal. Or maybe he just enjoyed the wilder side of life and was about to defecate in the nearby undergrowth…like the furniture delivery where the driver was caught on camera…he was supposed to deliver a table and matching chairs but only managed a stool.

  All these thoughts were flying through my head…then like a boomerang lost in the evening sky, suddenly it hit me. We were here for a pickup.

  My soon to be fellow passenger emerged from a canal boat. Well if this doesn’t introduce a hundred different ways to start a conversation!

  We were barely there for thirty seconds. He called his canal boat “The Silent Kitten.” More opportunities to “question” him. I was sure he had heard them all before but still we ribbed him. Even more when we found his name was Stephen Catman, but “everybody calls me ‘Cat.’”

  He hadn’t named the boat himself, he won it at an auction. In his own words, why would anybody want a boat with that name. No men would go near it as it was too feminine. Women likewise as it gave potential suitors the wrong idea. He even claimed he didn’t have an obsession with cats and had never owned one. He did however claim that some people said he often showed traits of catlike behaviour but he didn’t understand what they meant. We didn’t push him here—it was odd enough without that.

  What would soon become apparent was that he was a ladies’ man. If you believed his stories, he would always invite them back to his boat early on and hope they didn’t think he was an arse when they saw “The Silent Kitten.”

  The bargepole jokes and other innuendo soon became tedious and we explored other territory.

  Three young military men in a car, headed to the airport. You can imagine the banter.

  On arrival at Brize Norton, we launched our kits onto the carousel and were rushed through customs. Our flight was due at 11pm. I sat with Cat and downed the liquids I had brought for the journey. We weren’t allowed alcohol—it was classed as an “on duty” journey so any trace of alcohol would be met with a heavy fine. I always thought this was a bit stupid as we were on the only flight that night and there were no civvies in sight. We could have been bladdered and no one would have cared. But, no. Rules is rules. Blinking (bleeping, blinding) jobsworth.

  The flight was delayed by a couple of hours. We took off around 2am for the first leg. The body goes through a strange dilemma en route to the Falklands. Ascension Island, the first stop on our journey, is in the same time zone as the UK. However, it’s in the Tropics which means—it’s bloody hot; around mid to high 20s all year round. So we had two hours there in the ferocious heat. While we sweat and swear about the weather, the aircraft was cleaned and refuelled before heading for the Falklands, which is not mid to high 20s all year round.

  They fed us on the plane. I mean, it’s nothing to write home about and I wouldn’t usually mention a rubber chicken meal on a flight, but there was one notable diner in our midst. A few of us asked for coffee, tea, water to pop our ears. Cat asked for milk. He also left all vegetables from his meal and just ate the meat…this was the bloke who claimed he had no idea why people said he behaved like a cat!!!

  Anyway. I digress.

  Flying into Mount Pleasant Airport was a humbling experience. I woke up just as the air pressure was beginning to argue with my head. I looked out of the window and saw a Tornado flying right on the tip of the wing. I wasn’t really with it at all and had to admit I was startled and more than a little concerned. This, in military terms, means we were landing in a warzone. That much I knew. What I didn’t know was the Falklands was still officially a warzone in theory, but in practice was anything but, which meant they were just keeping with tradition.

  So when Cat explained that it was more symbolic than a true escort—“not war, not getting shot down, no fire in the sky, all fine”—I calmed and enjoyed the landing. To be honest, he may not have said those exact words, but his face was a mask of terror and his body language no less contorted. Poor bloke. He wasn’t having a good time of it.

  I looked away from the self-proclaimed ladies’ man (he who enjoyed a saucer of milk) and stared out the window. The Tornado’s pilot, wearing a black hat and black gloves, gave me a little wave…maybe he could read the fear on my face. In spite of Cat’s soothing words
, I still thought he was going to shoot me down. So yep—I enjoyed the landing enormously…

  Time to disembark, alight. Or for those less well read, we got off. The island is permanently almost solely for military personnel; thirty men to every woman approximately.

  The first thing we saw was the sign between the plane to the terminal that reads, “Welcome to the Falkland Islands—making ugly women beautiful since 1983.” Don’t shoot the messenger. Could have just as well said, “Welcome to the Falklands: Making bored, desperate men wearing beer goggles say and do stupid things…” I didn’t write it.

  “I’ll be here all week.”

  I was collected by two men, one of whom I knew from other postings, one of whom I didn’t. They took me to my room, a total hole, my safety net for the next four months. It had a couple of drawers, a wardrobe, sink, and a bed. No TV. It was mid-afternoon and I had effectively missed out on a night’s sleep but it wasn’t a holiday, yet the adrenaline kept me going.

  They said they had blagged me three days off so I wasn’t due in until Monday. Three days of what? I was given a tour of the barracks. The shower was the worst I’d ever seen. It had a mechanical timer but to this day I didn’t know what that controlled. A mechanical ticking timer in a warzone—perhaps somebody’s idea of humour. I had to stand on a wooden pallet. I’d seen more hospitable toilets in less hospitable places. Oh and the toilet paper rule. If you see a roll, it’s yours. Luckily they gave me one to get me through until I spotted one. Then as I was on three days off I managed to catch the cleaners dropping a pack off—that pack was mine. Little did I know how valuable that training would become in 2020.

  Then we continued my intro tour. I was taken to the closest bar. I was told there were around thirty bars on the base. Those were the official bars…and close to 100 unofficial bars. This one was next to the bowling alley and cinema. The bowling alley was impressive. I was told we had a meet there tonight if I was interested. Sure, if only to get me involved.

  So I was told 7:30–7:45 for an 8pm start. I have never understood this concept. I sort of understood the 8pm start—and also that I had to be there early to type in names of the bowlers, etc…but then 7:45 for 8pm start would suffice…or “should” suffice…but no, in the Falklands they threw in another time just to confuse me…and that’s exactly what it did.

  I turned up at 7:30 as I didn’t want to upset anybody on day one. If you’re an “on time” person, “7:30 for 8:00” is very irritating. When does the thing START? Is 7:30 for pre-prandials? What?

  So, you turn up at 7:30pm, but all the poshoes don’t turn up until MUCH later. Why tell me 7:30 if you were still going to be taking your curlers out when you open the door and scowl at me?

  Not that there were any hair curlers in the bowling alley, you understand. Just me on my todd with a glass in my hand.

  When I say turned up, I arrived at the bar well before. The bar was called “38 Squadron.” I was concerned…what had happened to the other 37? Had they been shot down by the pilot who had waved at me earlier in the day? I was drinking because there was nothing else to do, and I was tired. Which means by the 7:30–7:45 cut off point, I was mullered.

  Some people turned up at 7:40…does that mean they were late as that was after 7:30...or early because it was 7:30 to 7:45? Nineteen years later and that still wakes me up. Bloody social niceties; they’re designed to ratchet up your anxiety and nothing else.

  I bowled 136 whilst off my tree. That often wakes me up too, because I’ve never been able to replicate the score when sober. I’ve tried everything. Last time I went bowling, I made sure I had a skinful and approached a bloke wearing a black hat and gloves—was this the same person who had given me the lucky wave in the skies above the Falklands all those years ago? I asked him if he had parked his plane in the Tesco car park behind the bowling alley—but alas, I left disappointed. He did give me a little wave though. Every Little Bit Helps.

  With no war and only the usual things to do when you’re on deployment “hurry up and wait” for example, I spent four months drinking Stella and Becks—drinks I didn’t like but it got me where I wanted. The lack of cider was simply something I had to endure.

  Then on the final week of my seventeen week stay, somebody next to me at the bar asked for a can of Woodpecker Cider. I stood there laughing at him and he gave me one of those looks that only a person in the know can give.

  The barman shifted a few cans along and revealed a whole crate of Woodpecker at the back. Sixteen weeks down, one to go, and this is the day I find out they served Woodpecker. I think that was the first time a lot of the people in the bar had seen a grown man cry.

  It didn’t last long though, there were other things to snag my attention: Cat was at the bar laughing at me, drinking his drink of choice he had nicked from the mess earlier. There are no cows or goats out there so they have to import a lot of stuff on long haul flights…yep—in a bar with his UHT!!!

  And that was life. I walked, bowled, drank beer I didn’t like and tried not to think too hard about my life back in Blighty. “What life?” isn’t the kind of cheery thought that helps you sleep at night.

  Cat, who had grown on me since we landed in hell, ran, didn’t bowl, and lapped milk. I can’t tell you what he thought about. The man was a law unto himself.

  Life wasn’t too bad. I mean, if you’re going to serve a sentence it might as well be with people who make you laugh.

  Nobody ever saw “social hand grenade Cat” drink any alcohol but we all saw him drink an absolute diary full of milk during his time there. Some suggested he had somehow sneaked his own herd onto the island. One night I decided to try to find his mysterious source—surely they couldn’t have that much milk in the mess. I saw him sneak out of 38 Squadron, and thought I would be detective for the night. I wasn’t very subtle as it wasn’t long after I’d done my calf in, but I was determined—and of course a little drunk.

  Cat appeared, as usual, to be a little unsteady on his feet. Did he have some bizarre strain of lactose intolerance? Was he secretly stashing alcohol away in one of his pockets? Or did he just like to pretend to be drunk for the attention? I was close enough to hear him mutter to himself and hear people talking as they went past him—everybody thought he was a little strange but it didn’t bother him. He was always a bit of a loner.

  THWACK!!!! Cat received a punch to the nose from a passer-by as they walked past each other in the corridor. I was still close enough to hear and I swear I heard no preceding conversation between the two of them. Cat then turned and started fighting as only he knew how. A swift left, left, left and then the other handbag. Then a streak of The Devil seemed to come from nowhere. He started punching properly—we had a real fight on our hands and had no idea who this other guy was, but this was no one punch wonder. He was seriously inflicting damage.

  People trickled out of their rooms and watched the ensuing carnage. It was like a darts match. You throw three, then I’ll throw three. This seemed to go on for a couple of minutes before they hit the fire extinguisher. They both had the same idea. The extinguisher could be used as a weapon. It became a wrestling match to see who could get the extinguisher free from the bracket. Funny how the human mind works in ‘fight or flight.’ Had any of them thought, they weren’t defending themselves at all—the CO2 red cannon was suddenly the common enemy. They were both leaving themselves so wide open defensively, a toddler could have walked in and taken the both out with a switch elbow to the family jewels. Yet here they were behaving like they thought a piece of fire appareil was the Crown Jewels. Somebody near the back of the crowd asked, “What the hell started this off?”

  The stranger, still grappling for the extinguisher said, “He asked me why I was an arsehole.”

  Cat suddenly gave up the battle and struggled to speak through blood, sweat, and whatever else was crawling out of his facial orifices, “No, I didn’t—I asked if you were from Bampton Castle!”

  He’d been stationed there for months. To
see a familiar face on this strange little rock must have been…well, who knows what it was for Cat? He scrapped like he’d been brought up in the alleyways of who-knows-where but, being boys and bored, we took what amusement we could get.

  They wiped the blood from their faces, shook hands, and went their separate ways.

  Boxing: the sport of gentlemen.

  Or so they say.

  On another occasion, nearing the Islands’ celebrations of the end of the conflict, word got round the gossip columns that Simon Weston was going to be visiting. If you’re not from the UK, not my age, or not involved in military history, you might be forgiven for not knowing who Simon Weston is. On the other hand, if you’re any of the above and don’t know, shame, shame, shame.

  Simon was badly burnt when his ship, The Sir Galahad, was hit by a bomb. He had rebuilt his life and was known as an ambassador for several groups and charities. Simon is known to be a very respected speaker and one of those people you never hear a bad word spoken of. We were discussing this very subject in the queue for chips in the bar when in walked Simon.

  Somebody unfortunately pointed him out to our group and we all took a quick look and then carried on with our lives.

  “I’m going to go over and introduce myself,” said Cat.

  We all looked at one another in the same “oh no he isn’t” sort of way. We’re Britons. We might come from different places, drink different beverages, like different sports, but there are unspoken rules about how you comport yourself in public.

  You Do Not Talk To Someone Famous. Especially not if you respect them. If you’re a massive fan, you may nod, or a small smile, MAYBE. But not more. The end.

  Cat put his glass of milk on the bar and rubbed his hands down his trousers. Readying for a handshake, maybe. It was going to be bad. Like, really bad.

  “Why would you do that?” somebody asked.

  “Because I want to tell him he was my inspiration to join the RAF!” explained Cat.