Alexandra Wolfe

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.

Well, to begin with, as it turned out, we weren’t allowed to actually use the runway in this particular event and ended up on a taxi way in front of one of the squadron who were on stand down that weekend.

What the hell am I talking about? I suppose I better start at the beginning … charity work. We weren’t forced to participate but it was, to put it mildly, expected, seen as part of our contribution to society. On each base I was stationed I always volunteered to joined in (you see a pattern here?) Why? Well, because I actually enjoyed the social aspects, never mind the rewards of taking part in some fun activities our small groups use to get involved in.

The Admin Officer tasked with taking care of us on any given base was responsible for any number of welfare tasks, one of them, to get us young ladies involved in charity work. It was something I had done as a kid, as my mother was very active in this kind of on-camp events wherever we were posted with my father. So it wasn’t too much of a stretch to continue being involved.

We would be asked to do a handful of things throughout the year to raise money for this or that charity or event on camp or locally. This particular year, while based in Germany, our office gathered together a few of us to brain storm events to hold on the camp open day to raise money for a local children’s hospital. At first we came up with the usual boring stuff. But then, some bright spark put forth the idea of doing an obstacle race, which got us all excited.

It was during the discussion on how we would organise this event, and then, exactly where it could take place, that our Admin Corporal said, why not on the runway? Which is when I quipped, “Oh, like doing an ascent of the runway?” An idea we ran with till that is, the Group Captain reminded us we were a front line base and that part of the runway could not be cordoned off to accommodate an obstacle course. But then, coming up with a solution, arranged for us to do it on the taxi way in front of one of the squadrons.

And so, the stage, eh, as it were was set. All these talks had started somewhere around mid March with a view to this being an event at our Summer open day, on camp, in the middle of July. So we had plenty of time and man-power to get it organised. And while we had ambitiously hoped to have a course that was going to be about a hundred yards long, this was shortened to about half that.

All in all, this was one of the most fun projects I ever worked on and yes, before you ask, I was one of the participants. Of course I was. And regardless of whether I came first, or last, which me and my partner did, it was the most tiring fun I ever had.

Imagine several teams dressed as mountaineers, complete with big boots, knapsacks and climbing rope, scrambling on our hands and knees through assorted cargo netting, traps, large rubber tires and cleverly designed obstacles, to make it to the end, and you get an idea of just how exhausted we all were when we crawled across the finish line.

The beers afterwards were much deserved let me tell you.

Well, maybe not like a bird, I don’t have wings but, during my time in the military, despite suffering with air sickness my entire life, I made a point of flying on every available aircraft I could. Even if that meant throwing up for take off and landings. Even if that meant a 12 hour flight over the north sea in an antiquated Shackleton that vibrated like an old rust bucket. Hell yeah, I was there clutching not my string of pearls but a collection of sick-bags.

I didn’t miss one flight, or one plane. I got to fly from mere minutes to hours, and, at one point, held a record for the most flights as an observer. I even received a coveted phantom squadron badge from my bestie, Group Captain Harding, weeks before he—and the 4 flights of phantom jets—left Bruggen for the UK.

It was and will always be one of the highlights of my career in Germany. And a privilege extended to me and two others who had worked closely with and for the Group Captain. He took each of us up and around the base for a couple of circuits and then, landed. After which, at a presentation for the departing flights, the three of us were presented with our squadron patches.

Yes, I still have it. It’s in my treasure box.

What was the flight like I hear you ask? Terrifying.

Of course I had to go through a week of training—and isn’t there always training?—before I could go up. I had to go through suiting up procedure and be fitted, learn about the process of ejection, should the unthinkable happen, and be certified by not just a stuffy sergeant, but by the Safety Officer in charge. Apparently I asked all the right questions and was signed-off on.

Sitting in the actual aircraft, suited up? I have a vague memory of constantly telling myself, “_don’t be sick, don’t be sick_ …” I wasn’t. But it was a close thing and very lucky that the blur of take off, my single circuit and landing came and went with chattering teeth and a sense of absolute awe at being up there.

An experience that was a huge privilege and earned by hours of endless babysitting and being available to the GC and his wife, when asked to step up. It always pays to cultivate the right people in our lives. And I was lucky to have had these opportunities presented to me without a second thought.

There were times, some of them quite comical though serious, that happened during my tenure in the military. Point in case, the day we had an emergency diversion—due to bad weather—of a USAF Galaxy cargo plane. Which was 3 hours out and would be landing on fumes by the time it got to us—the only base it could divert to due to it’s size and weight.

While our runway was rated to take the weight, we nonetheless had to have a 3 month closure in order to redo and resurface the runway after this single plane diversion. An unforeseen consequence which made me wonder, just who footed the bill for that one?

That aside, and with only 3 hours notice and due to the really shitty weather elsewhere. We, that is, the base, had to somehow accommodate this behemoth.

The comical part to this situation was the fact that, because of the sheer size, never mind weight, of this plane, it’s wingspan alone was going to take out two small buildings on landing unless …

Unless said buildings were either moved, or dismantled for the landing. Moving was, at that time, in that timeframe, obviously out of the question. As to demolishing them? Nada. They both housed delicate radar equipment. But, regardless, somehow, in that 3 hour window, engineers and crews figure out a way to take off just enough of the side and top to both units in order to accommodate the Galaxy’s wingspan.

I’ve never seen people move so fast and yet, so precisely in order to achieve this herculean feat. And, as this huge plane started on it’s final approach, nearly all of the base personnel, including most of the Americans station on-base, were lining every available safe spot they could in order to get a good view and or take photos of the landing.

It was quite the achievement let me tell you. I’ve never witnessed anything like it since and probably never will. And I sure as hell will never forget being in the air traffic control tower watching this monster land.

And yes, there were more than a few beers to celebrate at various parties later that night, all across the base.

One of the hardest things about being in the military was dealing with loss. And I don’t mean the sporting kind, I mean, the loss of life. And while it didn’t happen all that often, a single event could bring us all to our knees physically and mentally.

My first loss was an abstract loss, in that, while I participated in the on-going situation—the rescue of a young child who had floated out to sea on a lilo (an inflatable pool raft)—it was from a distance and on the periphery of the event that, sad to say, ended in the loss of life. The child drown before either the helicopter or lifeboat launched could reach him. That loss, nonetheless, hit all those involved, from the rescue crews to those on-scene at the holiday beach, to us at the rescue centre when we heard the awful news. It was heartbreaking.

The second time I was involved in loss, was so much more painful and real as I knew those involved, even if they were officers. This loss hit the whole base I was stationed at, in Germany hard. It involved two front line jets colliding while on a joint exercise training mission within restricted airspace. The jets were simulating a dog fight, one playing the good guy, Blue Forces, and the other, the invading Orange Forces. When, in a split second of what must have been absolute terror, something went wrong and the two planes collided mid-air. And while one pilot was lucky enough to eject, the other was not so lucky.

I was on duty in Operations during this exercise, manning the mission comms following the dog fight, as were personnel in Ops, Eng Ops, Intel and the other departments within the Ops building at the time. The shock that reverberated through that building when the collision happened was one of sheer devastation. Only once in my life time to that point had I ever seen a grown man cry, that day I saw more than a few openly sob.

To add to everyone’s grief, as most of us knew the deceased pilot, was the fact his fiancé, a pilot officer working in Ops that day, collapsed. Yet, worse was to come.

The planes collided over an area set aside of these kinds of training missions for a reason, it was rugged, rough, covered in peat moss and scrubland. A difficult terrain on every level.

Teams were assembled who had the delicate tasks of going into this terrain to not only collect body parts, but the remains of the plane. While a number of teams were sent in to put out—or at least try too put out—the subsequent fire.

Not only did the station go into lockdown, but into mourning as well.

Sad to say, this wouldn’t be the last plane crash I was involved in one way or another, there were others, each as devastating emotionally, as physically to all involved.

I still remember you Flight Lieutenant John Reed, you were one of the good ones, so funny, and so full of life and promise.