It was close to one o’clock the following day before the hangover had subsided sufficiently for me to lift off for a planned refuel stop at Lydd Airport in Kent. On board with me were two Micks. Mick, the new captain and Mick the aircraft engineer who had agreed to come along, mainly to keep me company on the return journey. Engineer Mick would also be needed to help me load up the large amounts of contraband we were going to pick up from the duty-free store in the Royal Air Force station at Gütersloh. What wine and spirits we didn’t drink we planned to sell, along with the cigarettes, and finish up by making a handsome profit.
It was a beautiful summer’s day as we took off from the east coast after refuelling. We crossed the English Channel and coasted in abeam Le Touquet in Continental Europe. Shortly after transiting France and entering Dutch airspace, I noticed that things were not quite right. I was having to progressively apply more collective pitch than was normal, almost certainly meaning that the engine was not producing the optimum amount of power. The engine oil pressure was gradually decreasing and the oil temperature starting to rise. There was little doubt in my mind as to what was going wrong. All the indications were pointing towards an imminent engine failure. I looked across at ‘Engineer Mick’ and pointed towards the instrument panel. After studying the instruments for a few seconds, he looked back at me with a frown on his face and shook his head slowly. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. We both knew that we had to land without delay or risk falling out of the sky.
The Royal Netherlands Airforce base of Deelen was about five miles off to our port side. I selected the international distress frequency of 121.5 Mega Hertz and transmitted. “Pan Pan Pan, Deelen this is British Army two four zero, Imminent engine failure, request clearance to land immediately.” A ‘Pan’ call is an urgent message rather than a ‘Mayday’ call which would indicate a dire emergency. “Roger, British Army two four zero, you are cleared to land directly on the main runway,” came the reply.
The engine continued to run, albeit with diminishing power, until we were safely on the ground. But the oil pressure was by then seriously low and I decided to close the engine down without carrying out the normal run-down procedures in an attempt to minimise any further damage.
Before any military aircraft can land in a foreign country, diplomatic clearance must be applied for and granted. I, of course, had no such clearance to land. There was now every chance that my unauthorised entry into Holland was going to be reported, via the British Embassy, to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and a complete shit-storm was going to descend upon me.
The fact that we were all in civilian clothes certainly didn’t help matters at all, since that left us wide open to being arrested as spies. Despite Captain Mick now being a higher rank than me, it fell on my shoulders, being the aircraft commander, to try to talk our way out of the politically embarrassing situation.
I decided that I would have to play the NATO card, which would allow me to focus on the fact that the United Kingdom and Holland were close allies. Both of us facing up to the nasty Russian hordes preparing, right now, to come storming across the river Rhine. I explained that since we were merely transiting through Dutch airspace, I hadn’t considered it necessary to acquire diplomatic clearance. The exercise we were taking part in required us to be dressed in civilian clothes and that if we could just be allowed to contact our unit in Germany, then we could arrange transport and be on our way.
The airforce officers formed a huddle and began chattering away in their native tongue. Despite not understanding a word of Dutch I found it impossible to stop myself from eavesdropping. I managed to pick up the words ‘leugenaar’ and ‘spionnen’ which sounded very much to me like ‘lying spies’, leading me to the conclusion that our troubles were about to get worse. But the old blarney must have had the desired effect. We, or at least I, was still going to be in trouble, but when the senior officer approached us with a smile I felt certain we were not going to be arrested. He not only offered us any assistance we might require, including accommodation, but he also invited us to dine with them once we had made the necessary arrangements to be picked up, enabling us to carry on with our very important work on behalf of NATO.
I rang the commanding officer of the Army Air Corps in Detmold, Germany and told him who I was, where I was from, and what I needed. I had to get one passenger from Deelen to RAF Gütersloh by mid-afternoon the following day, and I also required a low-loader vehicle to transport the unserviceable helicopter to Detmold for a replacement engine to be fitted. I was somewhat surprised when he didn’t question me as I expected him to. Instead, he said “Ok, Mr Riley, need to know eh, don’t worry, leave everything to me”. The fact that he had said ‘need to know’ could only mean that he thought we were on some sort of, officially sanctioned, clandestine Special Forces mission, so I thought it might be prudent to leave him in his blissful state of ignorance.
The following morning a helicopter arrived to pick up ‘Captain Mick’ and he was safely dispatched, in good time for his appointment at RAF Gütersloh. At least the main objective of the sortie had been achieved. All I needed to do now was get back before ten-thirty on Wednesday morning and I would have nothing much to worry about. That didn’t happen.
We low-loaded the stricken aircraft back to Detmold and a new engine was fitted and ready for flight testing on Tuesday. Everything was looking good until the new engine failed to meet the standards laid down in the Flight Test Procedure and a second engine had to be fitted.
We were eventually ready to head back to the UK, but by then it was Wednesday afternoon. In a phone-call back to base I had been told that my absence from the weekly prayers had been noted, not only by the adjutant but also by the C.O.
Meanwhile, there were rumblings in the corridors of power. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office made an enquiry to Group Headquarters in London asking why British soldiers, in civilian clothes, had flown into a foreign country without the mandatory diplomatic clearance. Group Headquarters, of course, had no idea what the fuck was going on. The commander of the Special Forces Group, Brigadier Peter de la Billiere, handed the enquiry down to the C.O. of 22 SAS, Colonel Mike Rose, to provide some answers.
The next morning, I was summoned to the adjutant’s office and told to be prepared for an interview with the C.O. The adjutant, Captain Sam Mallard, was a regular squash partner of mine and a good friend, but today he had his serious head on. “Red. What the fuck have you been up to now?” he said. “On second thoughts don’t bother telling me, you can save it for the boss. He’s rather looking forward to seeing you.”
Officers in the SAS are always referred to as ‘boss’. Anyone other than a commissioned officer is referred to by their Christian or nickname.
The boss spoke. “Morning Red, no bullshit, just tell me what happened.”
I told the boss the story just as I have told it to you.
“Do you have any regrets?” asked the C.O.
Thinking that I was about to get the sack, I gave him my reply. “I do regret putting you in an embarrassing position but, to be honest, if I thought I could get away with it I’d probably do the same again.”
The boss looked thoughtfully at me and pushed the papers in front of him to one side. “You’ve just saved your skin Red by being truthful with me,” he said. “Now fuck off out of my office and get on with your job, while I try and clear up the mess you’ve created.”
“Thanks, boss,” I said, as I left, giving Sam a big smile and a thumbs-up on the way out.
It would turn out to be far from the last time Mike Rose would save my skin.
Back at my desk, I pondered about just how fortunate I had been. I felt sure that any other C.O. would have had me sacked. I was determined that things were going to change and I made a promise to myself, right there and then, that from that moment on I would start to behave like a mature and well-disciplined warrant officer. Deep down inside me though, I had a nagging inkling that there was little or no chance that I would be able to keep that promise.