I SAY, I SAY!
TERRY DAVIES ADMITS TO NOT-SO-PETTY LARCENY
The distant bark of dogs, the wauling of cats, a child’s wail all conspired to add to my already-heightened sense of tension. I strived to make my movements look decisive but I was sure, in truth, that I must have seemed suspicious. Disconnected concepts surged through my mind: can someone who replies immediately, without thought, be taken seriously; someone whose actions and notions were spontaneous rather than carefully considered; someone with predetermined ideas not open to discussion or flexibility? I could recall every detail of the group captain’s conversation, of his no-nonsense approach, of how his mulish mentality had appeared to be stuck in the 1940s and 50s. Yet this was the 1960s; we had moved on; the world had changed for goodness sake. My one-sided talk with the senior officer had caused a small knot of apprehension to form in my stomach. I had even begun to feel a little sick. Wearied with the wait, though, I knew that I had to act.
Flight Lieutenant Terry Davies by a 29(F) Squadron Lightning in Cyprus, October 1968.
A mosquito buzzed across my face while I continued to stride towards the hangar. I glanced up to see the moon’s disapproving glower behind shrubs and olive trees. A ceaseless motion of autumnal leaves cast shadows upon a nearby wall. Through the gentle chill of the Cypriot night I heard the sound of voices. I could not stop or hide or turn around, that would have been absurd. I had to press on, to brazen it out if challenged. At a curve in the road I felt a hot needle of angst when I spotted some far-off figures. Then I thought I saw a person’s shadow nearby as it moved in the darkness behind a wall. However, I still did not falter, though when I passed a row of huts with drab windows that obscured fearfully dark interiors, my instinct was to try to conceal, as if misdemeanour had been committed already, the specialist tool that I clutched in one hand: a long, flexible tube with a plunger that controlled a grab mechanism – like a fairground snatch device poised above kids’ toys and sweeties. Although, just now, still technically innocent, I was nevertheless bent on skullduggery and perhaps this had stirred a guilty conscience.
The cause of this subterfuge, a recent fire-in-the-air suffered by a 29(F) Squadron Lightning aircraft, seemed to have produced problems of ever-growing complexity. The squadron, currently detached from RAF Wattisham in Suffolk to RAF Nicosia in Cyprus (the runway at Akrotiri, the usual base for Lightnings, was being resurfaced), was set to return home to Wattisham quite soon. As the squadron’s junior engineering officer I had to oversee the serviceability of all the detached Lightnings for the flight home. However, the fire-in-the-air situation had thrown, one might say, a hefty and vexatious spanner in the works.
I thought again of my interview with the group captain. Aged in my mid-twenties, I was a qualified engineering graduate recently promoted to the rank of flight lieutenant – achievements for which I had worked hard and felt quite proud. Yet the group captain’s voice had reduced me instantly to a bogey-nosed five-year-old.
29 Squadron Lightnings at RAF Nicosia, Cyprus, October 1968.
“That’s not the way I do things, flight lieutenant,” he had said. His eyes had flickered darkly.
“It’s just that…sir…” the five-year-old’s retort had petered out pitifully.
“This modern habit to rob or cannibalise parts from a serviceable aircraft in order to fix an unserviceable one merely creates long-term difficulties,” the group captain had tiresomely, if correctly, pointed out.
“Under the circumstances, sir,” the five-year-old had bleated, “could we not make an exception?” I had felt vulnerable to his disapproval.
“That’s the trouble with your generation,” the group captain had rattled on before I could marshal additional defences, “you just skate over the surface of things. You fail to grasp the long-term implications, to get to grips with underlying issues. Tutch…” like a policeman at a road junction he had held up his hand to thwart any further foolish response from the five-year-old. His big eyebrows had seemed to quiver. “Anyway,” he had continued with a black look, “the answer is ‘no’ and that’s final.” Five-year-old had come to attention, offered his best military salute and retreated.
I had decided to return to the squadron via the officers’ mess to mull over what to do next. The staff members in the mess, who spoke a curious mix of Greek Cypriot-English or Turkish-Cypriot English, had been outwardly pleasant though some had appeared to eye me with distrust. Maybe this was in my imagination, another twinge of guilty conscience sparked by the plot that had started to formulate in my head. A spare part, a hydraulic pipe, was needed for the fire-in-the-air Lightning, a part that was not available through normal channels in time for the squadron’s return to Wattisham, a part that was specific and difficult to obtain. Another option, to be authorised to rob the required hydraulic pipe from a serviceable aircraft owned by the resident Lightning squadron, had been firmly ruled out. A further, more drastic, option – to ignore the good group captain, break into the appropriate hangar at night, locate the necessary pipe and make off with it – was now, as far as I could see, the only one open to me.
Oh well, I thought, what the hell? Some things had to be done the hard way.
As a first step, I decided to befriend the chief technician in charge of RAF Nicosia’s deep maintenance unit. It did not take me long to locate him in the MU (maintenance unit) hangar. “Nice day,” I said amiably as I walked up to him. He looked at me and frowned.
“Something you need, sir?” he asked.
“Yes…no…hmmm…what if?” I could hear my voice getting shrill.
“Sir?”
“I was wondering…” The chief technician’s eyes lost focus then refocused. His jaw started to twitch. I was making him nervous.
Placed on the spot, I decided to explain all. As I began to relate details of the predicament, the chief technician warmed to the situation. At least, I thought, here’s someone who remained open-minded. I managed to elicit the information that, as part of a modification programme, the adjacent Lightning was being stripped down, the part I needed had been removed and, indeed, I was probably standing close to it at that very moment.
“Any chance…?” I stared at him hopefully.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “No can do. The Groupie here has firm ideas about robbing aircraft parts.”
“If you say so,” I sighed peevishly.
No doubt looking glum, I judged that further dialogue was unlikely to be productive. I therefore thanked the chief technician for the information, made my excuses, and left.
Ha! I thought as I walked away from the MU hangar, time for the scheming to begin in earnest. In the shadowy kingdom of childhood, five-year-old was about to come up trumps. Either that or get himself court-martialled.
But the plan I had in mind offered no room for doubt. I would have to be resolute, innovative; recognise that this would be no easy ride. I was about to play a different game, an adult one with serious consequences.
I appreciated the need to try, as far as possible, to act and behave routinely. I dined in the officers’ mess as usual, chatted with others, read the newspapers. The hour was therefore quite late when I departed from routine and left the mess to head for the hangar allocated to our squadron for the duration of the detachment. The heavy weight of potential hazards bore down on my shoulders like a storm cloud.
At the squadron hangar I sought out the night shift supervisor, a chief technician who I knew well. We talked about this and that until, to the chief technician’s considerable surprise, I made for one of the specialist tool boards. I removed the mechanical fingers (the fairground grabber) plus a torch, placed appropriate ‘tallies’ over the shadow outline to indicate that the tools were in my possession, nodded a farewell to the ongoing amazement of the chiefie, then set off into the night.
Just now, with the mechanical fingers still thrust under my arm, worries about possible dangers persisted to swirl through my head. Ubiquitous crickets clacked away in Turkish/Greek Cypriot ciphers as if to add to my mental anguish. Invisible in the night hours, I could imagine the 6,400 feet towering, reproachful presence of Mount Olympus way off to the south and west of Nicosia. As I walked along and as moonlit shadows started to stress a sense of the surreal, irksome butterflies created havoc within my stomach. For Pete’s sake, mid-twenties, qualified engineering graduate told himself, get a grip.
The maintenance unit hangar loomed. The bulky building, ominous-looking in the moonlight, was the object of my focus – the point of prospective success or disaster, and it lay ahead of me now. With each step I felt the butterflies intensify their antics. I was, at least, confident of one thing: I had checked that the maintenance unit team did not operate a night-shift; I had been assured that no personnel would be on duty. I should have the hangar to myself.
My first objective, to gain access, now presented a few possibilities. I scrutinised likely-looking windows, side doors and the great sliding doors at the building’s front. I decided to concentrate on a side door. A smart push, a quick clout, and a shoulder, however, failed to budge the thing. I glanced up and down, left and right. Everywhere seemed quiet. There were no signs of the folk I had spotted earlier. I tried the door again. I fiddled with the handle, examined the surrounds, tinkered with the door lock. Get a grip, I remonstrated once more with myself, you’re a non-five-year-old recently-promoted engineering genius. Suddenly I found a point of weakness: the lock looked rusty and somewhat ancient. Some persistent gentle persuasion, not to mention a less-than-gentle application of one size ten boot, and – hey presto! – the door gave way. I had gained access.
Aircraft hangars possess particular auras. Even in calm winds, doors and windows rattle incessantly as if in conversation. Perhaps they warned each other of impending peril, of an intruder within the premises. I switched on my torch and pointed the beam in different directions. The stripped-down Lightning remained on special jacks. Wires and pipes protruded, the engines lay to one side, panels had been left open. I sniffed the familiar odour of aircraft and associated machinery – a distinctive blend of fuel, rubber, oil, hydraulics. As far as practicable, I cupped one hand to conceal the torch beam; a light seen flashing through a window might cause an observer to raise the alarm.
My visit earlier in the day now proved useful. I had made a mental note of the maintenance unit’s system to label and stow parts as the Lightning was dismantled. In typical air force style, the method and efficiency of this system was admirable. It certainly made my task easier. The hydraulic pipe I sought had a distinctive shape and, along with other items, had been locked inside a special cage protected by a wire mesh which, luckily, was of fairly open design. Judiciously, I shone the torch at an attached label and confirmed that this was, indeed, the part needed and that it had been classified as ‘serviceable’. Brilliant, I thought, now for the mechanical fingers.
As any fairground user can testify, mechanical fingers will challenge the operator. Despite the most dextrous of efforts, the desired object, whether sweetie, cuddly toy or hydraulic pipe, can prove deceptively hard to grasp. I let out quiet curses of frustration while I struggled. With every move the wretched thing tried to slip this way and that – talk about get a grip, I mused. I was aware of the over-anxious thump of my heartbeat as I worked away. I listened out for extraneous sounds of danger but these were masked by my own heavy breathing and the hangar’s perpetual, eerie rattles.
When, at last, I managed to gain a good grip, I eased the long pipe gently through the wire mesh. I placed the desired object carefully on the ground, rearranged the remaining pipes to make them appear untampered-with, had a last, hasty glance around the hangar, then made for the side door as I grasped my prize. When closing the door behind me, I took trouble to leave the impression that, rather than intruder interference, the last person out had failed to lock-up properly.
It was not until I had returned to the mess for some much-needed sleep that the full significance of my actions struck me. A heady mix of exhilaration and exhaustion caused me to toss and turn in bed as the night’s shenanigans replayed through my mind in slow motion, in rapid motion, then in dreadful, distorted dreams. The squadron would remain in Cyprus for a few days yet – time enough, I reckoned, for the proverbial to hit the fan.
At work the next day I quietly, quickly retrieved and adjusted relevant paperwork to transfer the priority demand for a new hydraulic pipe from 29 Squadron to the maintenance unit. I kept my profile low as preparations for the squadron’s homebound flight progressed. I was especially keen not to cross paths with a certain group captain.
But I heard nothing more. As time went by, I retained, nonetheless, strong memories – even many decades later – of that fateful night. For one thing, I would recall with satisfaction the reaction of our squadron shift supervisor when I entered the hangar, strode up to him and handed over the hydraulic pipe. In turn, he gazed at me, at the hydraulic pipe, at the mechanical fingers, at the torch. We remained silent until, surreptitiously, I pointed towards the maintenance unit hangar. At this, he let out a long, low whistle of astonishment. “My God, sir,” he breathed, “that’s blatant daylight robbery.”
“Not really,” I replied with a shrug of the shoulders, “just a little night-time larceny.”
He continued to stare at me for a moment or two but it was not long before a gleeful grin started to spread across his face.
(The fire-in-the-air mentioned in this chapter links with
The Lightning Boys Chapter 7 – ‘Ulp!’)