Dignified Dining by Bob Sword
During the height of the Cold War, my crew and I frequently passed through the Mediterranean on our way to and from operations much further afield. As the bomber-navigator of our Vulcan, it was my responsibility to be alert to sudden changes to our flying orders. At any time, we might be ordered to divert to any of a number of airfields around the world.
Our crew was delighted if we were ordered to divert to RAF Luqa, on the island of Malta. Malta was a rocky jewel in an azure sea. After challenging exercises, evenings in the officers’ mess there were entertaining and sophisticated.
The well-appointed mess could be temporary home to a wide array of air crews engaged in missions ranging from routine maritime patrol to more clandestine work. During the early ’60s, our Vulcan could carry Britain’s nuclear deterrent. From time immemorial, Malta’s critical location between warring civilisations had given it an importance in excess of its size. In addition to its strategic importance, Luqa was renowned as a scintillating centre of formal dinners and informal parties attended by resident officers and their wives as well as the social and political elite of Malta. Such evenings gave crews like ours, on their way to and from simulated war games around the world, something to look forward to.
In anticipation of last-minute invitations to such evenings, we Vulcan aircrews never failed to pack our dress uniforms in hopeful anticipation.
On one memorable occasion, we were returning to England from a demanding exercise that had taken us across the Indian sub-continent and beyond, when I received instructions to divert to RAF Luqa. Though exhausted, our crew were delighted. An evening in the company of fellow officers and wives and a variety of sophisticated civilian guests from Valletta would allow us to decompress. Such were the rewards for days and nights of concentrated and sometimes clandestine flying.
“You’ve brought only dress uniforms?” The mess secretary, Flight Officer Dick Turpin, was known to us from previous visits. His question puzzled us.
“Are you telling us that this evening demands full ceremonial dress?” I asked. Our crew looked dejected at the risk of being excluded for reasons of attire.
“No, no! Nothing so demanding.” Dick smiled at us brightly. “Tonight, we’re holding an extra special fancy dress party.”
“We’ve brought no fancy dress!” I said. Our crew nodded.
He waved away my objections. “The theme’s simple. Ancient regional history with a humorous twist.”
“Greeks, Romans, Phoenicians?”
“It can be people. Also wild animals – bears, wolves. Domestic animals too. The funnier the better.”
“Funny?”
“Create a laugh!”
“Like a horned Minoan bull sipping a glass of sherry?”
“Or Romans tripping over their togas?”
“Yes! That’s the kind of thing!” Dick nodded. “Give the officers and the guests from Valetta a touch of English humour.”
“So where can we lay our hands on togas and olive branches?”
Dick shook his head. “That stuff’s already been taken by senior officers.”
“But we’ve brought nothing with us except our dress uniforms.”
We looked at one another, vainly seeking inspiration. We turned to Dick. He scratched his head. We looked glum. A fun evening slipping from our grasp.
Then Dick smiled. “Maybe, just maybe, I can help.”
“Please!” We appealed.
“Of course you’ll have to ham it up a bit.”
“We’re good at that!” Anything to join the fun, we were thinking.
“In fact, do it right and you may win first prize for the wackiest dress of all!”
“Then tell us what to do!”
“No!” Dick’s smile disappeared. He shook his head. “No. It’s too outrageous.”
“We love outrageous!” Our pilot looked desperate. “Don’t we?” We nodded. Our pilot was right – we’d donned scandalous disguises in the past.
“You’re sure?”
“We’re sure!” We nodded.
“I can find you a few sheepskins from a previous entertainment. Should just about cover your nakedness.”
“Nakedness?” Uncertain, now, we looked at one another.
“Just a manner of speaking.” Dick’s smile reappeared. “Keep your underpants on. Just don a sheepskin or two. Pretend you’re sheep returning to the fold with your shepherd after a day’s grazing.”
“Doesn’t appear too outrageous to us!” Our pilot sounded disappointed.
“I’ll find a few rams horns to make you more aggressive looking.”
The crew had warmed to the idea.
“You’re the navigator, Bob,” our pilot looked at me. “You’re the only one of the us who ever knows where we’re going, so you must be the shepherd leading us home.” It was true, as bomber-navigator I received sealed instructions for our destination to be opened only after we were airborne. This meant that if we ran into difficulties, I was the only one who knew the target upon which we were to release the bomb. Indeed, I was the natural shepherd. I nodded.
“Fine!” Happy now, we looked at Dick. Smile gone, he held up his hands. “No. It won’t work.”
“We can make it work.” Our pilot insisted.
Dick shook his head. “It lacks humour.”
“We’ll invent humour!”
“We’ll crawl into the mess on all fours!”
“We’ll cavort like lambs.”
“Or randy rams pursuing ewes.”
“No! Too brazen!” Dick censored that idea. “But the horns are OK.”
“We crawl into the mess on hands and knees, baaing.”
Dick nodded. “In sheepskins you crawl in behind your shepherd.” He looked at us encouragingly. “Might you add to the spectacle?”
“We sure can,” said our pilot. “Find us bunches of black grapes!”
“As many as you like. What for?”
“On all fours, we drop the black gapes one at a time behind us.
“Brilliant!” Dick nodded. “Better than grapes, black olives!”
“More realistic!”
“A trail of black olives behind us as we crawl towards the commanding officer and honoured guests.”
“What a riot!”
Dick beamed. “Brilliant!”
Together, we laughed at this preposterous image.
“First prize for sure,” said Dick. “The stewards will deliver sheepskins and black olives to your rooms. Be ready for 19:00 hours. I’ll escort you. My role is to open the doors and announce each batch of guests. I’ll arrange for you to be the last group to enter.”
“We’ll have them in fits!”
We slept in our quarters until the steward woke us to dress for the party.
“Ever see sheep fleece this small?”
“More like rabbit skins.”
“At least there are enough of them!”
“Cover that bit! Too much showing!”
We laughed as we dressed. Then the steward led us downstairs to wait at the door of the officers’ dining room. All other guests had preceded us.
“When we win, we refuse to share the prize with you, Bob!”
“Why?”
“You look too respectable! A fully dressed shepherd! You’ll get no laughs! But us! We’ll bring the house down!”
I regarded them in their semi-nakedness, left hands full of black olives.
“It’s pretty quiet in there!” We could hear little through the heavy wooden doors except the hum of muted conversation.
“Obviously nobody has set them off the way we will!”
Erect, I stood in front of my crouching crew, shepherd’s crook in hand.
“We’ll follow your feet, Bob. We can see nothing down on our hunkers pretending to be sheep.”
“Don’t forget to drop a great black olive every few feet!” Dick reminded them.
He flung open the double doors.
Was that a wink he gave me? Puzzled, I raised my crook, then boldly led my sheep inside.
“A Vulcan Bomber crew from Lincolnshire!” Dick’s confident voice rang throughout the mess as he introduced us.
I took but one look at the elegant dining room, the assembled officers, their wives and important guests from Valetta and immediately knew why Dick had winked. But as bomber-navigator, I was used to unusual orders, used to being the only one who was privy to them, and used to keeping my own counsel.
Valiantly, I led four crouched, barely-clad figures wobbling along on one hand and two feet while baaing pitifully and, with their free hand, scattering behind them a wake of black olives.
Unable to raise their heads or see anything but my ankles, they hobbled behind me till I reached to the head table. There stood the commanding officer, his wife, senior officers, and special guests.
All officers were in number 5 uniform. All women in evening dresses. Male guests in dinner suits and black tie.
I stopped before the commanding officer and saluted. To a shocked silence, my motley crew rose to their feet. But not to the laughter, applause, and cheers they’d been led to expect by double-crossing Dick Turpin!
As a part of the V-force, the Vulcan was the backbone of the United Kingdom's airborne nuclear deterrent
during much of the Cold War
during much of the Cold War
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