Sunday 3rd January, 1971

260 Signal Squadron (SAM)

Shoeburyness

England

It was on this day in 1924 that the British archaeologist Howard Carter made the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings. My more recent discovery, in December 1970 was that my first posting was in the UK, and Shoeburyness was in Essex in the southeast of England.

I arrived on a cold, damp afternoon. Being my first working unit, I didn’t know what to expect, but from my limited experience, Horseshoe Barracks didn’t look like a military barracks, except for the large sign at the entrance and the men in uniform.

I reported to the guardroom on arrival at 18:00. X Troop had no free bed-spaces so I’d live temporarily in a six-man room in the Y Troop block. As it turned out, three of the other occupants were recently arrived members of X Troop.

Phil Jackson, John Allen and Terry Carrington seemed pleased to see another new face. I organised my bed-space then to my new roommates’ surprise I went out into the drizzle and busied myself for an hour with a personal recce of the barracks and the surrounding streets.

Some parts of the perimeter were the high outer walls of the accommodation blocks. The camp boundaries consisted mainly of small sections of high wall and unsecured gates or doors at various points. The feel of the place reminded me more of the Navy than the Army. Apart from anything else, it looked old and weather-beaten. I reckoned that due to its location on the Thames the place might have started its life as a stone frigate.

The main group of buildings within the perimeter formed a large open square with a parade ground in the centre. To the west were the camp entrance and a minor road leading to the A13. The A13 was the main road that led to Southend-on-Sea, five miles away. From there the A127 headed west in the general direction of London, thirty-five miles away.

Eastwards lay a few buildings, but they were mainly quarters for married personnel. Less than a quarter of a mile farther was coastline. To the north was the central part of the small town of Shoeburyness. To the south, the narrow road had fancy looking houses along its quarter-mile length. Some of the homes were semi-detached—others detached.

These houses were officers’ married quarters. In contrast to the accommodation, about mid-way along on the right-hand side was a long low building. It belonged to the Ministry of Public Building and Works. There were small brown trucks and vans and plant equipment all along the front. Each vehicle displayed the yellow MPBW logo. A charming view from the officers married quarters—not.

At the end of this road, I discovered a fenced-in compound with a large sign which read

‘260 Signal Squadron (SAM)’

The print was white as usual, and the three background colours were the horizontal light blue, dark blue and dark green. I’d seen enough. I had an idea where my workplace would be.

* * *

Monday 4th January, 1971

“Do we parade down at the compound?” I asked Phil Jackson.

“Yes mate.” He laughed. “We’re supposed to march down there in squads, but I’ve been here a couple of months, and the guys just amble to work, individually, or in groups.”

Rather than leaving the accommodation alone, I made my way down to the compound with my roommates. The gates were open, and when we arrived in the general working area, large groups of soldiers were milling around.

A sergeant appeared from within the long garage block and shouted for us to “Get on parade”.

In a couple of minutes, the untidy mass of bodies formed into two squads, all standing at ease, in three ranks. I approached the sergeant when he walked off to one side of the parade.

“Excuse me, Sergeant, I’m a new arrival for X Troop.”

“Name?” He glanced at my chest.

“Signalman Faulkner, Sergeant.” In those days we wore green coveralls to work, but not everybody had name-tags. Anybody who’d served in Germany or elsewhere would have had a name-tag.

“Welcome, Faulkner.” He surprised me by offering his hand. “I’m Sergeant Ferry, your Troop Sergeant. Fall-in with the other lads and I’ll let the Troop Staffy know you’re here.”

“Will do, Sergeant.” I headed along the back of the parade to join the troop.

Two staff sergeants strode around the corner from a small office block at the end of the garages. One was tall and slim, with fair hair, while the other was my height, but dark and stocky. The short, dark one I was to find out a few seconds later was Staff Sergeant ‘Dixie’ Dean, the X Troop ‘Staffy’.

Apart from their rank, the two men had other things in common. They both carried a clipboard in the left hand, both were immaculately turned out, and their gaze gave the impression they were already inspecting the men in front of them.

In less than ten minutes from the beginning of the ‘First Works’ parade, we were dismissed to get on with our tasks. I headed to the Troop Office to report in officially.

* * *

I knocked on the man’s door. “Good morning, Staff.”

He turned from the window. “Ah, Faulkner, isn’t it?” Like Sgt Ferry, he extended a hand, and we shook. “Welcome to X Troop, son. Stand easy.”

I had been standing to attention. I lifted my left leg and drove the foot to the floor a short distance from my right foot, making a loud noise in the small room.

“Okay, son. Not so aggressive with the foot-drill on my office floor. Relax—you’re not in Catterick now.”

Judging from his tone and expression I wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or relieved. I kept my feet as they were and interlocked my open hands behind my back. I tried to calm down.

Staff Dean gave me a short welcoming briefing and explained I was to spend my first morning getting the official stuff out of the way. After lunch, I should then be ready to join my detachment. 

He handed me a clipboard which had a printed sheet attached. “Take a couple of minutes to walk around the compound and then start your arrival form across in SHQ.”

I nodded, and he continued.

“While you’re doing the squadron sheet, the clerk in RHQ will give you another sheet to complete—a regimental version.” He grinned. “A lot of people need to know you’ve arrived.”

“Right, Staff.” I gripped the clipboard down by my left side as I’d seen it done.

“Any questions, son?”

“Not yet, Staff.”

“Good answer.” He smiled and nodded. “Leave the door open on the way out please.”

* * *

From the office block, I looked left towards the compound gates. On my left, the long line of garages were open. Land Rovers and trailers were now outside and parked line abreast on the wide forecourt. Some of the crews were checking under the raised bonnets of the vehicles while other guys worked on equipment in the garages, and I noted a few standing in pairs or small groups having a smoke and a chat.

Across the road and on higher ground was a small building to the right. It had large windows all around and outside a sign proclaimed it as ‘Squadron Headquarters’. Along the grassy bank to the left was another building that only had three small windows and looked more like a red brick hut. Down below the cabin and close to the compound gates at road level was a concrete vehicle ramp.

I turned right to check out where the road went from the offices. It continued to an area where there were several more garages, another vehicle ramp, and two large grass areas. There were several Bedford 4-tonners. I noted that three of them had canvas canopies while the others had box-bodies of various types fitted.

It came back to mind from my driving course that there was a dispute between a military instructor and a civilian instructor. The NCO said the Bedfords were 4-tonners, and the civilian said they were 3-tonners.

I waited until the heated discussion was over and asked the reason for the difference in opinion. The NCO explained the change of status was due to the payload the vehicles were capable of carrying, although they had never changed in actual design. I could drive Land Rovers, but I wondered how the old Bedford-RL 4-tonner trucks handled on the road.

I was still pondering the trucks when I arrived at the embankment opposite the garages. I went up the stone steps to the Squadron Headquarters (SHQ). While I waited for the clerk, I moved to the window to see that the SHQ overlooked the entire compound.

I set off back along the road out of the compound to the main barracks and all the departments I’d be locating. The clerk in Regimental Headquarters (RHQ) signed my form and gave me the regimental equivalent.

I spent my first working morning wandering from one department to another with my new arrival forms, gathering signatures from places like the Medical Centre, Dental Centre, Clothing Store, and a few others besides.

Immediately following the post-lunch parade at the garages, I was called into the office. Staff Dean and Sgt Ferry were there together and explained Cpl Coleman would be my detachment commander. According to Sgt Ferry, Cpl Coleman was one of the most respected detachment commanders in X Troop. He was working on his Land Rover when I turned up in the garages to be introduced by Sgt Ferry.

Dave Coleman took me around the Land Rover and trailer to give me an idea of the storage of radio equipment, accessories, tools and radio batteries. I was baffled by the use of Land Rovers for our radio equipment until I realised the squadron only used one of the radio types I’d been trained to operate.

“The lads in my room told me we used a thing called the B70, which has two huge dishes on the front, and it stands on a metal tripod. I thought they were taking the piss.”

“Get ready.” Dave pulled a large green wooden box from the cargo section of the Land Rover. 

I watched as he followed this with a few cables and a couple of canvas holdalls.

Two minutes later Dave laughed at what must have been a look of bewilderment on my face. “When assembled, it’s called a B70, and it is obsolete—except for this unit. I’ll explain more about the whys and wherefores later.”

When I realised I would have to get to know yet another radio, it didn’t faze me. Dave told me the radio used for the main task in the unit wasn’t taught in Catterick. I thought that was unusual—until I set eyes on the radio.

During the afternoon, Dave gave me a rapid tour of the garages and introduced me to some of the guys in the troop. I had a lot to take in, but fortunately, there was no great pressure. My crew commander had been around for a while, and I noticed he had a rapport with every person we met.

When we got back to our detachment, he demonstrated how to clean and service the radio batteries, and we chatted about our backgrounds and from where we hailed. He was from Leeds, was single, and I had already learned he was a quiet, business-like individual. At that time, Dave had served nine years and two of those years were with 260 Signal Squadron.

“What happened to your previous crewman?” I asked.

“He got posted. He’d been with this unit for about three years, and asked for a posting back to Germany.”

My tasks for the afternoon were simple enough. I was pleased to have finally arrived in a unit, and I was getting on with things. It was while I was tidying up the trailer I had a visitor.

“Hi, Jim.” We shook hands.

“Kev.” I instantly recognised the smiling face from my driving course. He was from Portrush on the north coast of Northern Ireland, and I couldn’t remember seeing his face without dimples. “How long have you been here?”

“I finished the driving course, and once I had my HGV license, I went on to do the generator side of the trade. I went home for a week and then came here on posting.”

“So you’re an E.D. then—not a Driver?”

“Yeah, the trade is Electrician Driver, but I don’t know why they don’t just call it Generator Operator, which would make more fuckin’ sense.”

We chatted for five minutes and agreed to meet later for a pint.

I was pleased to already feel a part of it all. Being in a working unit meant I was now with people whose training theory was, train for war—to keep the peace. The basics were behind me. This unit was the real world, and as if to reinforce the point, there were rumours of personnel training for duty in Northern Ireland.

* * *

Tuesday 5th January, 1971

Immediately after our morning parade, I helped Dave hitch up our trailer, which he’d loaded with all of our radio equipment. We drove off to a sports field a few hundred yards away to lay the equipment out so that I could learn more about it—and how to use it.

“Don’t try to remember everything in one go,” Dave said. “It may look simple, but you’ll have a lot to learn.”

“Okay,” I said. “How much of this stuff do we carry?”

“Two full sets, plus a few spare cables, a generator and batteries.”

I helped lift out the heavier items, and Dave lay the first set of equipment out a few yards from the truck. He next placed the individual parts alongside the boxes or canvas holdalls in which it came stored.

It all looked strange to me. “What’s the best way for me to learn about the equipment?”

“One of the first things to remember is that these containers are duplicated because we’re carrying two identical sets.” He indicated how he’d placed the equipment boxes and bags in two long lines. “Learn to associate the equipment with where we store it onboard. If I open a box or storage bin on the truck, I expect to find the correct item in there.”

My first lesson on this new equipment was easy enough for somebody like me because I was tidy by nature. On the detachment, there was a place for everything, and everything should be in its place. The second lesson was a slow and steady session on how to set up the B70 radio on a tripod.

By the time we’d been on the sports field for an hour, I was happy to strip, pack away, and then reassemble the equipment. When we reached the end of my first day learning about the radio, I was delighted. We’d set up both sets and operated to each other over twenty yards.

Dave told me we’d be performing maintenance tasks on the detachment, but he’d wanted to put my mind at rest with the radio before doing anything else.

I ended my day with a feeling of accomplishment.

* * *

Saturday 16th January, 1971

The sky was a cloudless bright blue, and the air was crisp and clear. Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond was playing on the jukebox. The song was one of a selection by four of us sitting at a table near the window in Carol’s Cafe. It was a small, well-kept place, which overlooked the Thames estuary.

Carol, the owner, was about forty, and a handsome woman. She stood five-foot-eight and kept her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She had a remarkable bust, and I wondered if she intentionally wore her blouse a size smaller than required. I wasn’t complaining.

At the table apart from me were Ashley Lyndsay, Jeff Cummings and Terry Carrington—all fellow members of X Troop.

Ash was smiling. “What did you think when you first saw the B70, Jim?”

“I was bloody astounded.”

All three of them laughed.

I joined them, briefly. “I suppose when you’ve done a course where all the radio equipment is inside a box-body on a Bedford, it throws you to arrive in a squadron full of bloody Land Rovers.”

Ash was grinning as he reached for his John Player Specials. “I’m a Radio Op—not a Radio Relay Op like you guys.”

“How many of your trade do we have in the squadron?”

“There are two of us in X Troop, two in Y Troop, and two in SHQ.”

We moved on with the conversation, our mid-morning brew and sandwich as we put the world to rights. As we listened to the music in the background, we discussed everything from sport, fashion, cars, girls, and Carol when she was out of earshot. The next song on the jukebox was Montego Bay by Bobby Bloom, and when it finished, we headed back to the accommodation.

The other guys laughed at me because I was forever asking questions. I did the same with Dave when I was at work, but he was quite happy to feed me with information.

Within ‘260’—X Troop and Y Troop were the two Radio Relay Troops, W Troop was tech support, and SHQ dealt with admin. We had an old radio system, but we still required a cross-section of our Corps’ trades, and enough rolling stock and manpower to get it into the field.

I said, “Why haven’t I noticed the technicians or the EDs on parade?”

Ash shook his head. “They have a small parade of sorts around at the workshops beside the garages.”

Some of the Land Rover detachments were two-man crews, and some three, but the crews on the Bedfords varied according to the task of the detachment. Not all of the Bedford 4-tonners with box-bodies were fitted with the same equipment, as I would discover in due course.

* * *

Sunday 14th February, 1971

I tackled my first-weekend duty since arriving at the unit, and I didn’t mind, although I was a bit peeved at not being able to visit Louise on such a special day. There had been times before arriving in Shoeburyness when I had second thoughts about carrying on with my chosen career, but by this time I felt settled.

On each shift of my duty, I wandered around the barracks carrying a pick handle. The uniform for guard duty and fire picquet was No.2 Dress—another of those things which baffled young soldiers.

Apart from looking smart, I couldn’t think of reasons to wear a parade uniform for patrolling around the barracks. If I were carrying a pick handle and saw anything resembling a fire, I’d have a device for breaking the glass on a fire alarm, but as for wearing parade uniform?

If I wanted to move quickly to sound the alarm and help people, No.2 Dress was the last thing I would choose. On this particular evening, it was pouring with rain, so on most shifts, I was also wearing my beige, Army-issue raincoat, (or, flasher Mac).

My flasher-Mac soaked up the rain very nicely, thank you.

I strolled around on each shift, occasionally thinking back to my civilian life. One person, I had always felt close to was my grandmother, and thus far, I had been sure to locate a call box and call her every month with an update.

She was glad to hear about my new life. I was her first and favourite grandchild, and I was doing something useful with my life. When I went back to Glasgow on leave, I made a point of going across the city to Toryglen to visit her. It entailed using two buses and a trip of two hours, but it was no hardship.

During my early teens, there had been a night I would never forget which involved my Gran. My siblings and I found ourselves being dumped on her doorstep at short notice, following a ride across the city in a police Land Rover. I was eleven years old. That night and the days that followed, I learned a lot about people—especially relatives.

The sound of drunken squaddies singing brought me back to the present. The lads were returning from a night-out in Southend-on-Sea. They’d had so much to drink they didn’t notice the rain. The two guys were dressed in Ben Sherman shirts, Levi jeans, training shoes and stinking of Brut aftershave. It was the off-duty attire of the average squaddie.

Their clothing was sticking to them, and their shoes were saturated. When they found a small area of shelter nearby, their only concern seemed to be lighting a cigarette. This situation reduced the pair to fits of laughter. They gave up on the soaked and bent cigarettes before singing again as they headed to the accommodation—not a care in the world.

As I watched them saunter off across the parade square, I smiled and carried on with my patrol, mind wandering once again.

Since I’d been on a decent wage, I’d taken Louise out on our last weekend together and bought her another new outfit. Apart from Louise’s mother arguing that I shouldn’t be spending so much money on her, the weekend went well. We enjoyed each others’ company, so the Munro parents let us get on with it.

It had felt strange that more than once the conversation between mother and daughter ended when I entered a room. Like any young man in love, I’d ignored the warning signs.

To be honest, I didn’t recognise them.

A flash of lightning brought me back to the present. I wiped the rain from my watch to see it was 21:50. I started ambling back towards the guardroom. The shifts worked so that I would be on patrol for two hours, off duty for four—throughout the task. I would finish at 08:00.

During working hours, the job was done by the Regimental Police (RPs). Saturday or Sunday duty was tedious because it was a twenty-four-hour duty. Thankfully, weekend duties didn’t come around too often.

* * *

Jeff Cummings and I had hitchhiked to Nottingham more than once before we found out about Ray Logan. Ray like Jeff, was from Nottingham. He was a Radio Relay Op in Y Troop. We worked in the same compound but didn’t realise Ray went home to Nottingham most weekends—in his car.

Travelling regularly from Shoeburyness to Nottingham was expensive on petrol even for an Austin 1100, so Ray had put a small notice on the squadron noticeboard.

‘Car to Nottingham at the weekend.

Space for three passengers.

Must be willing to share costs.

Contact: Ray Logan, Y Troop.’

To two young hitchhikers, this news was heaven sent, and the three of us got on well. I wondered if I should go to Nottingham every weekend, or ration myself to one trip every fortnight. I was love-struck and wanted to have a routine that allowed me to get away but also occasionally relax at the barracks.

Did I want it all?

Yes, I suppose I did.

* * *

Sunday 14th March, 1971

It was an unusually sunny afternoon for the time of year, and after a relaxing weekend in the company of the Munro family, I found myself walking along the road alone in Calverton, trying to work out what I’d said or done to affect things with Louise.

We’d become engaged on Saturday, and I thought everything was going well. As I sauntered to the bus stop, I knew I only had to go a couple of hundred yards, but it seemed strange that Louise decided not to accompany me. Over the weekend, we’d enjoyed two sessions of passion, and we had made a commitment to each other.

At one point in the afternoon, Louise’s mum had cornered me in the kitchen to have a quiet word. In a nutshell, she told me that I shouldn’t have put a ring on Louise’s finger.

“You’re a lovely young man, Jim,” Mrs Munro said. “You have to realise that our Louise has a very active social life when you’re not here.”

I thanked her for her concern, but I thought she was trying to protect her daughter.

Women ….

I reached the lane and followed it left along to an adjoining street. I tried to shrug it off, but I had the feeling all was not as it should be.

I’d be meeting Ray and Jeff in the city. The bus journey from Calverton into Nottingham didn’t take too long, but it did go through other areas of the city. I eyed-up the seemingly endless numbers of mini-skirted girls.

What was the ratio that Andy had quoted about Nottingham?

Eight females, to every male.What a place to live.

Something I couldn’t get out of my head was seeing Louise crossing the road in Calverton. She’d been a few hundred yards ahead of the bus. To have reached that point, and be crossing into the park she must have left the house immediately after me.

Why was she going to the park anyway?

Had she and her mum had an argument?

* * *

X Troop personnel were to move from one block to the other so all X Troop’s unmarried soldiers would be living in one block, and Y Troop in the other. The idea pleased Phil, John, Terry and me because we were all in the wrong accommodation block.

Unfortunately, at about this time there was a new Officer Commanding (OC), posted in to take over the squadron. Major Alan Noble would be arriving from a training unit according to rumours. One of his favourite routines in the training unit had been to have regular inspections of the single soldiers’ living accommodation. Not surprisingly, this news did not go down well.

The lockers, like the beds, were made of metal and were a drab Admiralty Grey colour, so most of us had a few pictures of girls, cars or loved ones on the outside of the locker doors, merely to brighten up our bed-spaces. As this was a working unit and not a training unit, it was unusual to have more than one accommodation inspection in a month. The thought of inspections meant we would have to work hard to bring the place up to a decent standard.

After a brief discussion, those of us in our ground floor room decided we would put in an hour’s effort on the dull wooden floorboards before we got ready to go out on the town. When we polished up the floor, it would look terrific. We took turns at buffing it up with the heavy manual hand bumper.

Paul, Terry, Sam and I were all new to the alcoholic weekend, but we enjoyed a good time. We went out with the group of guys who were known to hit the town every Friday and Saturday evening.

Towards the end of the Saturday evening, Sam could tell he wouldn’t survive a taxi journey, and he mentioned this to me. I suggested that the pair of us could walk back along the seafront. I wasn’t overly keen on a swift taxi journey back.

The only other person interested in the walk was Terry. The three of us headed back on our drunken zig-zag stagger to Shoeburyness and the barracks. Sam made it all the way to the barrack room without a hitch. He made it to the middle of the barrack room to be precise. He then projected the contents of his stomach all over the polished wooden floor.

“Nicely done.” I shook my head.

“You dirty Welsh bastard.” Terry’s vocabulary wasn’t extensive.

John, who didn’t go out with us, had been in bed sleeping until then. He got up onto one elbow to view the scene. After a brief look at us and the revised condition of the floor surface, he lay down again pulled the sheets over his head and muttered obscenities.

* * *

Major Noble had arrived from a training position at Harrogate Army Apprentices College (AAC), where he had set high standards for instructors and recruits. The more senior members of 260 Squadron knew the problems associated with a man of any rank coming from such a  background. Those of us who didn’t know would find out soon enough.

The new OC walked around the accommodation on his first inspection accompanied by an entourage, headed up by the Squadron Sergeant-Major (SSM) WO2 Phillips. It reaches a point where more people are inspecting than there are people who live in the rooms.

In came the OC and the SSM, closely followed by the X Troop Officer, and then the X Troop Staffy, and finally the SQMS. We’d managed to clean our floor, but it wasn’t as good as the first time. Sam did a lot of the work, but there were still some dubious-looking patches.

Major Noble glanced at the various posters and photos adorning the walls and lockers, nodding, sometimes even smiling, and saying very little. He made some pointless comments about the furniture not being as good as he’d like us to have.

It was common knowledge it would be a long time before the metal furnishings were replaced. This would mean somebody in government asking to spend money on us. We were hardly a priority—only the country’s defence force.

Having seen the pictures of cars that Paul favoured, the pop groups that Terry liked and the other mellow decor that was the choice of my room-mates, the OC was speechless when he finally arrived at my bed-space.

I thought he was impressed. On reflection a few minutes later, I realised that my first instinct was entirely wrong. The officer stared at the eight pictures that decorated the general area of my bed-space. They were all studies of the female form, finished in painstaking detail, in pencil. All were naked or semi-naked, but in the eyes of this new officer, they should not be on display.

“Where did these things come from—Faulkner?”

“I drew them, Sir.” My response was bright and cheerful.

Major Noble levelled his gaze at me, had one more look at the sketches and turned to the SSM. “Sergeant-Major, I don’t want to see these again.”

“Understood, Sir.” The SSM replied to the OC, and then looked directly at me. When the officer had turned to walk away, the SSM used his forefinger to indicate the drawings. Once he was sure he had my full attention, he closed his fingers into a fist, then used his thumb to suggest removing the pictures. He left it at that and followed the OC.

That apparently was to be the end of the matter.

Not fucking likely.

I had worked on those drawings for many hours to produce work that I liked, and all the lads complimented. The semi-naked females in themselves were not disgusting. I looked at them again and wondered what could be unsuitable for a soldier’s bed-space. Most of them were merely scantily clad girls.

What’s wrong, I thought, with a well-developed female figure dressed in fishnet stockings and stilettos?

Everybody loved the sight of two beautifully-shaped females in minimal lingerie with their arms wrapped around each other. The girls were looking longingly into each other’s eyes, but that was still relatively innocent. I wondered if it might be the girl in school uniform with the very short skirt, or the woman in the leather outfit, thigh-length boots, brandishing the whip?

It seemed to me that this new Squadron Commander must be a right bloody prude.

He could piss off.

Up until that time I had only looked at my artwork through the eyes of the artist. This artist was perhaps slightly more adventurous than some people might like. That was too fucking bad. I looked at the sketch that had taken me about three hours of hard work and decided that I knew the offending article.

If it were indeed only one drawing that had offended, it could well be the detailed drawing with the four women enjoying themselves—and each other. If it were that particular sketch, he should have said so. I was more than a little put out by this pompous shit-head making, decisions as to what was okay to decorate my bed-space.

Once the OC and his entourage had gone on to another room, the lads all asked if I would take my drawings down.

“No. They’re staying up. It’s my fucking bed-space, not his.”

* * *

One week later, there was another inspection of the accommodation. I felt that I should make a stand, and decided to buck the system, I made up a neat sign. When I was satisfied with the content, layout and the style of handwriting I made up enough of the signs to cover each of my works of art.

I produced each notice on A4 drawing paper so that it would fit neatly over a drawing, and then I attached each one using a piece of clear tape along the top edge only. The signs were all done in different colours, and having been connected in the style of a flap, they were just asking people to view underneath.

I did make a mental note that it was less experienced soldiers who thought this was tremendous, and a couple of older soldiers who strongly advised against it. It seemed to me that I had to do this thing my way and see the result.

While we were at work, the inspection went ahead. Within an hour, a sergeant found me and explained that as a result of what I’d done, I was to be marched in front of the Squadron Commander and charged with various offences.

I had a sneaking suspicion that I was about to see ‘the system’ at work.

I was right.

***