After the Falklands War - why it was called a war I shall never know. As far as I was aware, no one in HM Government had actually declared one; however we did have one hell of a Conflict. However, after the end of Operation Corporate, as I knew it, our Sqn Cdr graciously thanked us all for our untiring effort to thwart the Argentinians in their attempt to take over our Sovereign Territory by force. He intimated that as a gesture of thanks he would personally go and lobby the Chief of Air Staff in an effort to get his Squadron (44 Sqn) abroad for what we all truly hoped would be a jolly to enjoy Mezedes, Keo Beer, Kockinelli and Haggipavlu Brandy on a beautiful Mediterranean Island, with the absolute minimum of flying. We wished him luck. After all, hadn’t we single-handedly (almost) countered the threat with aircraft designed in the 1940s? Though he was apparently received rather royally by his Airship for keeping the RAF’s end up, so to speak, he was advised resolutely that he would not, under any circumstances whatever, be allowed to take ‘‘that drunken lot” to such a haven of delight - ever. So there.
It could all have ended there and then, but as our much-loved Boss (and us) had seen off the Argentinian hoard, he was made of sterner stuff and this was a mere hiccup. He valiantly pursued his line of request and eventually came away with the cheerful news that we were to be allowed to go to RAF Goose Bay, Labrador. Oh Dear - like El Adem with snow, I hear you say. For the record, we flew countless hundreds of sorties over forbidding territory overcoming ice and snow, adverse weather, unserviceabilities, lack of sufficient spares, continual de-icing and many terrible hangovers. That was in the first two days.
We were gathered as a Squadron in a hangar one morning and believed this was the point where we all were going home for tea and medals. I am supremely grateful for, and felt honoured, that I was about to witness the announcement of the award of not one, but two Distinguished Flying Crosses for duty carried out on the Vulcan.
Black Buck raids. A moment in time which I shall savour and will most likely never be repeated.
Another sight and sound witnessed in the very same hangar was a group of some 25 Gurkhas, in full Arctic warfare clothing, sitting quietly and cross-legged on the floor whilst being briefed (well, shouted at to be more precise) by a very large USAF Loadmaster, describing the routine to be followed for their first airborne jump. As it was to be their first jump, it would be conducted at low level, for safety(!). He explained that upon the green light they were to exit the aircraft (a Starlifter) smartly and in quick order, whereupon they would be in the air for only 10 seconds before hitting the frozen ground, hopefully missing the stunted, frozen-solid trees en route. The aircraft would be flying slowly, at only 145 Kts, as this was their first practice jump into ‘hostile’ territory. Those very, very tough little men sat quietly paying rapt attention to the gospel as delivered. After a 15 minute tirade of instruction, the ‘Loady’ asked if there were any questions. No one flinched when, after a brief pause, a single Gurkha soldier asked the one and only question: “Do we get parachutes Sir?”
Thank Heaven they’re on our side.
