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.