Kisses From Nimbus Page 3
In those days, it was quite acceptable to smoke in classrooms, so the following morning I popped around to the NAAFI store and bought myself twenty Embassy filter-tipped cigarettes and a box of Swan Vesta matches, they were in the largest packets I could find, and size was going to be important. In the tiniest of manuscript, I wrote as many facts and cribs as I could on the insides of the packets. Only by lighting up fag after fag and studiously gazing into the cigarette packet and match box was I able to pass the exam, and subsequently the whole Pilot Selection process. I was lucky, and I succeeded only by the skin of my teeth and, of course, resorting to rather unethical methods.
It was then that I adopted the mantra, ‘Win if you can. Lose if you must. But cheat at all costs!’
CHAPTER FIVE
In November 1972, I started my pilot’s course. I had hardly any problems with the flying side of the course, and what troubles I did have with the ground school were easily overcome with the occasional packet of Embassy filter tips. Out of the initial intake of twenty-two that started the course, a total of seven students made it through to the Wings Parade. Throughout the twelve months of training, there was very little leeway given to anyone not achieving the required flying standards on target, and the course gradually diminished in size. One poor bugger got the chop on the very last day of the course! At the Wings Parade, not only did my parents and wife attend, but I was also honoured to have the presence of my illustrious father-in-law. I couldn’t be certain, but he did seem to be almost beaming with pride as His Royal Highness, Prince Phillip, stuck the Army Flying Wings on to my chest, and he made a big effort to muscle his way into the conversation between the prince and I during drinks after the parade.
Over the next three years, I consolidated my flying skills and my annual flying assessment improved from ‘proficient’ to ‘average’ then ‘high average’ and eventually ‘above average’, the highest grade of evaluation it was realistically possible to achieve.
I completed operational tours of duty in Northern Ireland, jungle flying in Belize and Brunei, and Arctic warfare training in Norway. I flew in the deserts of Oman and the vast prairies of Southern Canada. At least once a year I took part in mountain flying in the Alps, the Pyrenees or the Troodos mountains of Cyprus.
By now, I was considered to be a very experienced and competent military pilot who could be deployed with confidence to any part of the world. After an interview with the Army Air Corps Senior Flying Examiner, I was strongly recommended to become an instructor and was subsequently allocated a slot at the Central Flying School in the summer of 1979. But instructing was not what I wanted to do. I had my sights on, what I considered to be, the best job in the British Army – the flight commander of the Special Air Service Flight in Hereford.
And there was every chance I could get the job since I was sufficiently well qualified and my flying assessment was as good as you could get. Everything was looking good as far as my career was concerned. Only an almighty fuck-up could, not only put my chances of wrangling the plum job I so desired in jeopardy, but also risk me being stripped of my flying status and sent back to The Royal Signals – and an almighty fuck-up it really was!
It was during a very simple task in the UK that things suddenly started to go wrong and my career was about to take a nosedive.
CHAPTER SIX
Running out of fuel in a military aircraft is a serious offence and no excuses whatsoever can be tolerated. Any pilot who runs out of fuel and survives can expect to be permanently grounded at the very least, and thrown out of the Army in disgrace as a more likely outcome.
I was based in Netheravon, Wiltshire when I was given a very straightforward task – pick up two passengers from London Battersea Heliport and drop them off at the United Kingdom Land Forces Headquarters in Wilton near Salisbury.
The forecast weather chart indicated extensive fog across the southern part of the country, which was expected to hang around until late afternoon. Fog is only a problem for a helicopter when taking-off and landing. It tends to be only a few hundred feet thick, so my plan was to fly at about two thousand feet to stay well clear of the top of it. All I needed to do was to confirm that Battersea was not fogbound and I could be on my way. I rang the Heliport in London and Barbara, the air traffic controller of the day confirmed that, from where she was sitting, the weather looked perfect; clear blue sky and very little breeze. She also stressed that she was very much looking forward to seeing me since we had been having an affair for some months; an affair which was destined to continue over the next five years.
I took on only enough fuel to get to the Heliport since I was determined not to waste time refuelling. Instead, I decided that it would be a nice idea to get there well before the passengers, in order for me to spend as much time as possible with the new love of my life. Having got confirmation from Barbara that the weather was clear I considered that it was a pretty safe bet that it was unlikely to deteriorate over the next hour or two, so I was good to go. Someone with my flying experience should have appreciated that occasionally the weather deviates from the script on the forecast. Bad weather has a habit of catching nonchalant pilots off their guard. On this particular day, I would have been far better off spending a little more time taking on fuel and less time thinking about how I might impress the air traffic controller.
I climbed away from Netheravon and levelled off at fifteen hundred feet, well clear of the top of the cloud. With an estimated time on route of fifty minutes, and about seventy minutes’ fuel on board I would be on the ground at Battersea in plenty of time for me to order a refuel and sit in the tower for an hour or so laying on the charm – I might even get a chance to take my flying boots off!
The forecast was right. The fog was very extensive and I could see nothing of the ground. The smoke rising from the Didcot Power Station and the top of the Stokenchurch television mast sticking up through the sea of white were the only visible landmarks I had. As I approached London Heathrow controlled airspace I was still unable to see anything but fog in any direction. Listening in to the air traffic radio it seemed to be unusually quiet for that time of day.
“Heathrow this is Army two four zero, request clearance to enter controlled airspace inbound to Battersea Heliport. Over,” I transmitted.
“Army two four zero this is Heathrow; Battersea is closed due to dense fog. Over,” came the reply.
‘Bollocks,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Only twenty minutes of fuel left at the most, and nothing but dense fog in every direction.’
“Roger that,” I replied as calmly as I could manage. “Can you tell me the nearest airfield that is clear? Over.”
“Birmingham is the nearest diversion but Oxford are just reporting an improvement with six hundred metres visibility.”
“Roger. Diverting to Oxford,” I said, as I started a steep turn back towards the west.
I couldn’t possibly make Birmingham but I had a reasonable chance of making it to Oxford, and, even though the visibility there was far from good, it was my only realistic option. With five miles to run the fog was breaking and I was getting occasional glimpses of the ground.
With two miles to run the cockpit burst into life with warning lights and audio alarms as the engine, starved of fuel, flamed-out. I immediately pressed the radio transmit button.
“Mayday, Mayday! Army two four zero engine failure two miles east of Oxford forced landing!”
By pure chance, I was directly over an open field and I carried out a perfect engine-off landing, something I had practised many times during training but this was my first one in earnest.
Now I had to think quickly if I were to avoid facing disciplinary action and, at the very least, the sack. Sitting in silence in a misty field, I made my next transmission which I hoped would save my career.
“Oxford, Army two four zero cancel Mayday. I had a spurious warning and I intend to make a precautionary landing and get things checked by speaking to engineering once I have landed. Over.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I wandered over to the nearby farmhouse. But my deception was far from over and I realised that I still had a fair bit of work to do before I could relax.
I told the friendly farmer that I had had a problem with my fuel gauge and that I intended to pick up a few gallons of diesel from the nearest garage, just to get me over to the adjacent airfield, which was now clearly visible as the weather continued to improve. The farmer couldn’t have been more helpful. He went into his barn, dusted the straw and cobwebs off a couple of old Jerry Cans and threw them into the back of his tractor. He then drove me down to the local garage where I filled up the cans. Once we were back at the helicopter he even held the funnel for me as I filled up with enough diesel to get me over the fence to the airfield refuel facility.
Upon arrival, back at base, I reported to Operations that the passengers had resorted to road transport due to the extensive fog, and the inaccuracy of the weather forecast.
“By the way,” I said, “during the sortie, I had developed a fault with the fuel gauge, which had required me to make an unscheduled landing”. (Not too far from the truth I suppose.)
I also made it clear that I would be completing a detailed report of the possible defect to the engineering officer.
Tom was the chief engineer on duty that day, which was great since we got on well together. We were long-term friends and had both recently been promoted from sergeant to staff sergeant. The celebration drinks in the Station Sergeants’ Mess had started after lunch and continued until well after breakfast time the next day. I explained to Tom that the fuel gauge had got stuck when indicating about twenty minutes’ endurance remaining. This had caused me concern since I felt uncertain as to whether I may be about to run out of fuel, and I had considered it prudent to land, just as a precaution. (That was definitely, quite a long way short of the truth). Tom fell for it hook, line and sinker and decided that the incident had serious flight safety implications. He was genuinely concerned and said that he intended to recommend that the fuel gauges across the whole fleet, regardless of where they were in the world, should be checked immediately.
A few weeks later I was summoned to the commanding officer’s office. Being invited to the C.O.’s office for an interview was a little out of the ordinary. The commanding officer of a regiment, which generally consists of four squadrons, would hold the rank of lieutenant colonel. As a staff sergeant, subject to any disciplinary action, I would, under normal circumstances, be required to appear before my squadron commander who would hold the lesser rank of major.
The fact that I was being ordered to circumvent the established chain of command didn’t bode well and I had to admit to being more than a little worried. I really didn’t cherish the thought of being sent back to the Royal Corps of Signals as a corporal or, worse still, joining the dole queue back in Accrington.
‘Good morning, staff,’ said the C.O. as I stood to attention in front of his desk. ‘Please take a seat and relax. There are three things that I would like to talk to you about today,’ he said, as he began thumbing through the paperwork on his desk.
Fuck! Don’t tell me he knows about Barbara, and the ration storeman’s wife, as well as the fuel-gauge fiasco, I thought to myself.
“Firstly. regarding the situation with the fuel gauges, I can tell you that every single unit across the fleet has now been checked. Thanks to your diligence and professionalism, several faults have been found, and it is my considered opinion that your actions could have saved at least one, and possibly more, potential accidents. I would like you to accept this as a formal commendation which will be included in your record of service. Very well done indeed.”
I was speechless.
“Secondly, as from now I will no longer refer to you as ‘staff’ but will be addressing you as Mister Riley, since you are forthwith promoted to the rank of warrant officer. Many congratulations.”
I was gob-smacked. What the fuck could be coming next? Surely, he couldn’t be about to tell me that I had come up on the Littlewoods Pools, but then again, the way things were going why not?
I hadn’t won the Pools, but what he did tell me was even better. My course at the Army’s Central Flying School had been cancelled and I was to be appointed as the flight commander of the Special Air Service flight in Hereford as from November 1979.
Getting away with running out of fuel came as a huge and pleasant surprise. Being commended, promoted, and given the best job in the Army all on the same day called for an outrageous celebration in the warrant officers and sergeants mess. It was made even more outrageous when I was joined by Tom, the engineer, who had also received a commendation for his professional conduct and been told that he was to be promoted later that month.
Anyone thinking that I had been extremely lucky and would be wise to tread carefully, and apply myself to my new job with measured professionalism and dedication would be absolutely right.
Anyone thinking that that was what I was about to do would be absolutely wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Strict radio silence has been imposed, which is normal just prior to a planned assault. The elements of surprise and timing are vital and radio silence must only be broken if any member of the team comes under direct attack from the enemy. Otherwise, the next voice we hear will be the operational commander. He alone will decide when the strike will be launched.
We wait in silence, like coiled springs, only the breathing of the five of us on board the helicopter can be heard over the aircraft intercom. We are on the ground, a little over a mile from the Embassy building, which we are about to attack with as much fire power and force as is necessary to save the hostages. It has been drummed into every member of the team, time and again, that the aim is not to kill the terrorists, it is ‘To save the hostages’. Always said twice for maximum emphasis, ‘To save the hostages.’
We are part of the United Kingdom Counter-Terrorist Team based in Bradbury Lines, Hereford, and have been tasked to deal with an ongoing hostage situation in the Embassy building just seconds away from our location.
As the pilot, my job is simply to deliver the four members of the assault team onto the Embassy roof as quickly as possible after the order ‘Go Go Go’ is given. The SAS team members are standing on the skids on the outside of the aircraft. Short ropes with quick-release devices are attached from their waistbands to the helicopter cargo hooks acting as umbilicals. Dressed completely in black, they are carrying Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns. Their chests and belts are dripping with an assortment of explosives and grenades. Respirators are strapped to their heads, ready to drop into place over their mouths once the attack gets underway. Respirators are necessary so as not to be overcome by the debilitating gas released from the stun grenades which will be used as an opening gambit.
A minute passes but it seems to be an awful lot longer.
‘Standby,’ says the commander almost in a whisper.
The tension on board now becomes palpable.
I raise the collective control lever with my left hand just enough to start to break contact with the ground. The guys on the skids drop their respirators into place in almost perfect unison.
“Go Go Go!” shouts the commander.
We are up from behind cover in an instant, like a cork out of a bottle. I pull as much power as I can without over-torqueing the gearbox and ram the cyclic control forward to gain as much speed as possible.
A huge explosion erupts from the front of the Embassy building and we disappear into the billowing smoke. Only metres to go now so, getting only intermittent glimpses of the rooftops, I flare the aircraft to slow down by pulling back on the cyclic and reducing power. It’s as if I have flown into the middle of a New Year’s Eve fireworks display and I have to concentrate intently on focusing on the Embassy roof, the chimney-stacks and
the array of aerials.
Less than forty seconds after take-off, I establish a four-foot hover and the guys leap off the skids, tossing stun grenades as they go. The intense flashes of light given off by the grenades is intended to disorientate the enemy, and it’s only with intense concentration that I manage to lift off safely, and fly away from the mayhem.
The training exercise is over and back at base we discuss the finer points of what went wrong and what went right, when we stormed the purpose-built Embassy building in our training facility, in Pontrilas Army Training Area, just outside Hereford.
In my new role as commander of the Special Air Service Flight my responsibility was to provide helicopter support for the UK Counter-Terrorist Team, usually referred to as the S.P. Team. We spent most of our working days developing and practising tactics to deal with the ever-present threat of national and international terrorism. Repeatedly we rehearsed storming buildings, planes, buses, trains and ships alongside. Ships that were not alongside, in other words out at sea, were the responsibility of the Royal Marines Special Boat Service who were based in Poole in Dorset.