In complete contrast to meeting Princess Anne, while stationed in Germany our base was graced with a royal visit from Princess Margaret. The two visits couldn’t have been more different. This one was on a grand scale and involved a military parade, a band, lots of flags, a fly-by of fighter jets, and an afternoon Garden Party in the Officer’s Mess grounds. It certainly didn’t involve Margaret meeting the ordinary service personnel except for those unlucky enough to be picked to be on parade for her arrival.

Not that I got away unscathed. I was volunteered by my Admin Corporal to do door duty on Margaret’s arrival. They wanted a number of well presented young women to open and close doors, rather than a bunch of men. Not sure why, but that’s how it went down. So, like those other poor volunteers I spent the week before the arrival doing “door practise”, as if we needed practise on knowing how to open and close a door. But, apparently, there’s a protocol for everything.

Two weeks before the arrival the whole camp was given a facelift. New paint everywhere, and I mean, in places this women would never see in a million years. Including the women’s block, for which there was a general consensus that we didn’t need to spend a week breathing in paint fumes for Margaret. By the day of the actual arrival I think she might have been the most unpopular royal on base, with everyone muttering under the breath about the extra cleaning and work.

The royal flight arrived to a full dress parade with the military band playing approved music, where this tiny diminutive woman stepped off her plane, did a meet and greet with the senior officers, walked a couple of lines of military personnel who, like me, had been stood on the tarmac for a good 2 hours by this time trying not faint in the heat of a summer day. So, by the time she reached me stood by her limo, door open at the ready, I was lightheaded and think I forgot to smile let alone do a smart salute. Suddenly the door was closed and the limo pulled away.

And that was it. She was gone, while the rest of us stood there a further few minutes waiting to be dismissed. My little bit was over, as was that of those assembled, with some of us lucky enough to go back to barracks to change and rest up, while myself and others then had to be on duty. I arrived at air traffic control to find everyone, like myself, sweltering in full dress uniform.

Altogether, a very unpleasant visit that was moaned and gripped about for many weeks afterwards.

I was lucky enough or, depending on who you speak to, unlucky enough to meet a few royals during my time in the military. The first time was at RAF Mountbattan, in Plymouth, UK, when I had the chance to see and shake hands with the now Princess Royal, Princess Anne. Who, at the time, was doing a number of royal visits to Plymouth and, as it happened, chose to stop in for afternoon tea with us WRAFs in the women’s block sitting room.

Which, of course, meant that days before the planned event, that was to be only about an hour in length, we all had to clean the entire block, top to bottom. And yes, paint stuff outside that included hydrants, and white boarder stones around the two tiny pieces of front garden. I think I was probably the only person there, other than maybe the two WRAF admin staff excited about the prospect of meeting a royal. I had seen Princess Anne, at a distance, on two other occasions as an air force brat. But to meet her in person? I was kind of in awe.

The prep, however annoying, was worth it in the end. Even though this royal would never see anything beyond the front door, hallway, and our sitting room, which suddenly got decked out with a lot of new plants and flowers. It didn’t matter. Officers will find any excuse to make us all clean something. That aside, the fancy china from the officer’s mess was loaned for the occasion and, along with our WRAF admin officer and corporal, we all lined up outside like something from Downton Abby to greet the pennant flying car as it cruised the 30 yards from the officer’s mess down to our building at the bottom of the hill.

Earl Grey tea was served inside with scones, cream and jam, and finger sandwiches the like of which most of us were unfamiliar with. And to which, Anne, taking a droll moment to break the ice and get us all relaxed and chatting said something along the lines of “why do the always starve us with tiny sandwiches?” Making the room erupt in nervous laughter.

It was a fun hour that stretched into 2 and, by the time this down to earth Princess left, turned into something memorable for all present. I know I still remember this woman for her kindness, droll wit, and arching eyebrow.

Some of the scariest things happen without our knowledge, as happened to me one time that, until a few days later, I didn’t know how lucky I had been. The anniversary of this incident is on May 23 (1977).

Let me start at the beginning. I was about to take a break back home, to the UK. Had booked my passage right on through to my parent’s home town: train from our local station Roermond to Hook of Holland in Amsterdam to catch the overnight ferry to Harwich, where I’d catch the early morning train into London. And from there, a train up north. It was all organised thanks to a chance meeting.

A few weeks earlier I had been sat with friends in a bar in the Dutch town of Roermond, enjoying a beer and a guy sat down next to me and likewise, ordered a beer. He turned to me, smiled and, from that point on, we started chatting. And before I know it, a couple of hours had passed and I was making arrangements to meet Jan, a few doors down from the bar, to book my trip back to the UK. Turns out, he was a travel agent.

At that point, till I sat down an hour later at his desk in the business he owned and ran, I had planned to get a very early train into Amsterdam to spend as much time as I could sightseeing and or shopping before making my way to the ferry terminal. As it turned out, Jan persuaded me I really didn’t need to get up with the birds to get an early start and I could take a later train, go via Eindhoven, and still be in Amsterdam to enjoy most of the day there, as the boat didn’t sail till 8pm. So I’d have plenty of time to do whatever I wanted and still make it with time to spare.

So I changed my plans thanks to this charming talker who was as interested in travel as I was and who was fascinated by all the places I had visited. We hit it off and quite often from that point met at the bar for a drink and a chat. By the way he was married, it wasn’t like that. He became a really good acquaintance and I booked all my future travel through him, from there on in.

The result on this particular day I took a wholly different route and went off to enjoy my week’s holiday with family never knowing that, if I had stuck to my plan, and taken the trains I was supposed to, I would have been on the wrong train, at the wrong time, and could have found myself literally in a life or death situation.

What did I miss by meeting Jan and changing plans?

This!

By sheer luck or divine intervention? Who knows, I’ll take both and consider myself one of the luckiest people alive.

One of the best things about the military is that whether you worked days or shift work, you could guarantee that at any time of the day or night, you could get a meal. There was no excuse for missing a meal as far as I was concerned, and even though I might be brain dead when coming off a night shift, I made a point of staggering to the mess hall and chowing down on at least an egg and bacon butty before bed. Though I’m not sure either my waistline or cholesterol levels appreciated my hearty appetite.

I especially loved night shift and yes, you guessed it—and this is where I learnt how to cook—I always volunteered to collect our overnight rations and be a part of the cook team, which was usually a two person job. Night shifts could be long and boring and while on some nights you could wrangle a few hours sleep in between, the seemingly endless hours of night were filled with cards, debates, endless cups of coffee and supper.

During my time in Germany and, depending on the two officers you got stuck with on night shift, supper was between 10:30 and 11 pm. Never earlier and never later. What supplies you picked up and ate depended on the duo who were tasked to do the supply run, and cook. If the consensus was for a breakfast style meal—anything from steak and eggs, to a bacon butter—someone would always be out on the airfield doing a maintenance check of the runway lights from a land rover so they could forage for mushrooms. And boy did we get some fantastic mushrooms on base. Some as big as saucers.

I took what I learnt from my mother and aided by a particular Corporal who fancied himself a chef in the making, we would try to cook up a different dish each night shift. This sometimes involved pilfering herbs and spices from the mess kitchens and experimenting.

I have to say, in all that time I think we only ever made one BIG mistake when, one night, we over did it with the curry powder trying to make our version of a quick curry. We nearly put the entire night shift in the medical centre. After that we calmed our recipes down just a smidgen, and reigned in the ambition.

Regardless, I learnt a lot about throwing together quick, easy, delicious meals in a tiny cramped kitchen space using only one hob, mini oven, and a toaster. By the time I was posted to Scotland, I was a dab hand and using a frying pan and wok.

Maybe I should have opened my own cafe when I left the military. I guess I’ll never know.