There I was, an infantile 28 years old and aspiring to eventually become as good an Ukkers player as the rest of the ‘Fairy’ team. I was morbidly announced to visitors as the Avionics Trade Manager (apparently!) on 44 Squadron at RAF Waddington. I had gathered from the Above Top Secret avionics hotline, which consisted of probably 6 of us like-minded trolls and was of course how we got to know important gossip on the V Force, that there was about to be a detachment to northern Norway.

Now Norway, and in particular Bodø (Buda), is a place that everyone should see and enjoy before the sight and legs fail, so do not delay if you haven’t done so yet. I absolutely love cold climates and equally, detest hot ones because I tend to lose interest rapidly (as my Primary school teacher constantly noted when I was age 7) and fall asleep after a good luncheon in the sun. Cunningly an ex-111 Entry Apprentice colleague on 101 Sqn, who just happened to enjoy the reverse persuasion, and I hatched a plot to swap appointments such that I could go instead of him. Both bosses agreed almost straight away and so it was to be. Bodø 4th-15th September 1978 for Exercise Northern Wedding.

We were greeted at 12,000ft on arrival by OC 331 Skv RNoAF in his Starfighter, which I thought was a gentlemanly and decent way to be welcomed above the Arctic Circle. I noticed his missiles were only training rounds but I guess the gun was loaded!

A Lockheed F104 Starfighter

I was appointed head of ‘getting the off-duty shift and their baggage to the accommodation’, which was on base and situated a stone’s throw from the edge of Salt Fjord. Being faced with a green military amphibious- looking four wheel drive vehicle, whose controls and displays were all in Norwegian and having no licence either, other than an RAF Waddington Land Rover licence, was a bit daunting but hey, get on with it! All went well until on the 3rd journey. Returning to the dispersal I was waved down by a few of the detachment’s off-duty erks who had already started fishing and one of them had suffered a casting accident which had resulted in a rusty old treble hook becoming firmly embedded in his right leg, which was already beginning to swell up. As I was not as practised in severe wound treatments as Florence Nightingale, I threw him into the vehicle and shot off around the base looking for the Medical Centre. There wasn’t one on RNoAF Base Bodø.

Quick as a flash and with Dick now groaning in pain whilst smoking his pipe, I decided to head straight for downtown Bodø. Was the vehicle allowed off base? Was I to be arrested on sight? Did they drive on the left or the right? What did those strange signs mean? And moreover where the hell was Bodø hospital? This was exciting as it was only about 1 hour since arrival, the vehicle and I were in huge demand! I duly dropped the casualty off on the steps of the hospital and told him that under no circumstances was he to say who he was and where he came from. We had been told there were local spies who would be very interested in the sudden presence of 4 nuclear bombers. He was to say he was just an unfortunate fisherman who had to get back on board his vessel asap. I told him that I would return in this green thing to these steps at 1500 so be there as no one, least of all the Shift Boss (yet), knew what had just happened and I was to be off-shift for the meet and greet in the Mess at 18:00 - got it Dick? He looked slightly confused as he was clearly unused to being the star of a home made Bond movie.

Back at the dispersal after zooming back along the now familiar streets to the Base on my clandestine mission, I was asked why this journey had taken so long. I lied saying I was halted by taxying aircraft. I had to drive on the airfield perimeter track where you could rapidly find yourself in a losing race with an F104 Starfighter closing in on you in your 6 o’ clock.

Come the hour, cometh the man in the green van. There sat Dick with his leg bandaged, sitting on the steps calmly smoking his pipe, just where I had left him. As we sped back I asked him how it had gone. After describing the lovely Nordic nurses in some detail, he said they were intrigued by his fluent command of the English language and was he here at the base? “Oh yes” he had replied, a detachment of 4 Vulcans of 101 Sqn RAF Waddington for 11 days. We had arrived.