RAF Basic Training 1991

It was simple enough, leave school, join the Royal Air Force, become a fire fighter, play Volleyball until full pension at around 40 then retire to somewhere nice and warm, I wish. Life has a habit of kicking plans in the balls and then laughing in your face, that's exactly what happened.

I joined the mob in January 1991 two days before the first gulf war broke out, I was not prepared for it in the slightest, my sights were set on the fire fighting, not the six weeks of bullshit that is recruit training, sat in the recruiting office at RAF Swinderby two questions were asked "War is going to break out in the Gulf very shortly, how do you feel about going out to fight?" I thought to myself, no problem, bring it on! my reply was somewhat more muted "If I get sent out, I get sent, theres not a lot I can do about it". The next question arrived, "How do you feel about picking body parts up out of a field after a plane crash?" Fuck I don't want to do that! "if its got to be done, its got to be done."

That was that, it was next into a room to take an oath to the Queen, oath said, I had officially taken the Queens shilling. Things moved very quickly after that, up until taking the oath, everyone had been calling me sir, now it was airman! how quickly the mighty had fallen. I originally wanted to be in the RAF Regiment, that part of the air force that's Army but without being a target, unfortunately either my eye sight was too poor or my IQ to high for the apes, so that was a no no, next best thing was being a fireman, still part of The Apes but with Volley Ball and Ice Cream and best of all no living in fields (for fields, read garden, next to the pool at the hotel) for months on end.

The next two weeks just passed in a blur, hair cut, marching, uniform, marching, eat, marching, iron, marching, classroom, marching, pt, marching, marching, marching, marching, sometimes a bit of sleep was thrown in. I should have taken that opportunity to quit smoking, 20 fags lasted nearly two weeks! I will give the instructors all credit with what they did, they took an 18 year old numpty like me and turned said numpty into a proud, happy small cog in a big machine. I learnt how to iron, sew, run, fire a rifle, drink, square bash and how to have a real good time unwinding!

Half way through the course, I failed an exam and had to go back a week, that was fine by me, next time round I put a little more effort in, I didn't see eye to eye with the drill instructor, in fact he was a complete arse! but to this day I have a huge amount of respect for that man, he thought and said very vocally that I was cruising through the course. The fact that I was, is neither here or there, I found the entire six weeks rather easy, it was all about team work, that's a lesson I've never forgot.

Getting to fire a real life good for nothing shit firing cannon on a firing range was the dogs dangly bits! back in those days it was the SLR (Self Loading Rifle), the damn thing was huge! stood up the barrel seemed to be level with my chest, to say it was powerful is an understatement, fire it at a wall two miles away and the bullet would pass through the bricks. Well that's what we were told, I have my doubts. Hitting the wall in the first place would be an issue, anyways we turned up at the firing range, were given one mag  with 20 rounds of live ammo. Best fun I've had with my clothes on, the adrenalin got flowing good style, stood facing the target with this cannon resting on the shoulder, slowly pull the trigger, hold your breath and squeeze a little more.....boom! the barrel lifts up, the used shell gets kicked out the barrel comes back down and....boom! it goes off again. Single shot its like firing a pea shooter, on auto though, damn, fuck! boom!boom!boom! I enjoyed firing those rounds to the max.

Another distraction was learning how to survive in a chemical environment. Issued a gas mask and a special suit, we got taught how to use the equipment over a couple of weeks between marching and PT! really basic stuff but it was a good experience. After learning how to use the gear we had to put it to the test, we got trucked out to a hut on the airfield, put the suit and gas mask on and went into this hut, it was full of tear gas! We went through all the drills no problem at all. Well one problem, the sadistic instructor! The bastard would not let anyone out of the hut without them sampling the tear gas, I watched the unlucky ones going first, they would take the mask off, breath in, and that was it, the gas got em! coughing crying, poor buggers, this was not going to be good. It got round to my turn, I knew what to expect, but nope didn't happen, I took the mask off, started breathing the gas in, nothing happened, well not quite true, my nose started to run a little bit. The instructor thought I was holding my breath, he wouldn't let me out! I have no idea why the gas didn't have any effect on me, the instructor finally gave up, and screamed to get out the hut! 

The big test was next, Military Field Training or MFT, three days out in the sticks, putting everything we had learnt into practise, basically a bit of shooting, a small romp with pack and rifle, sleeping in a tent, inside an old aircraft hangar, proper rough and ready stuff, but not to demanding or difficult, the hardest part I found was cleaning the rifle properly afterwards.

That was it, basic training over and done with, just the passing out parade to deal with. Get dressed up in the number one uniform, blues head to toe, march into a hangar, line up so some brass could walk past looking important, the sky pilots did their thing for what seemed an eternity, just spouting off about some god or other, march out the hangar again, after just 6 weeks, a half paid up member of the Royal Air Force.

On that same day it was off to Newark railway station with a travel warrant and a one way ticket to RAF Manston for trade training.

Making RAF uniform look scruffy. 1991