Chapter 18

Alan led the way down the corridor until he stopped at a door. Robert recognised it. It was Dave Robinson’s old Office. “We’ll get you a new signboard.” Alan said as they entered.

“Have you heard from Dave since he resigned?” Alan asked. “He’s flying as first officer on 747’s and hoping to get his captaincy in the New Year.” Robert replied.

“Good for him!” Alan said, “I’m afraid the next few months are going to be hectic for you” nodding to the pile of folders on the desk. “In two days you will leave for America, Arizona actually. They have a dedicated ground attack base there. You’ll be with Tim, Tom Bell and Bill O’Neil. One of those folders spells it all out for you. You’ll have four weeks to learn all you can about the A10, how it flies, its strong points and its weak ones. When you return, Dave Hardy, Dick Winter, Jim Robbins and Bob James will go out for the same course.

I’m hoping that soon after your return we will be getting our own A10’s. Then we can start flight training. There will be civilian engineers from Rolls Royce and BA Systems along with the electronic boffins deployed here. Mainly to familiarise our ground crews, but to also sort out any bugs that crop up during the flight training. I hardly need to tell you Robbie that speed will be crucial. The brass want you out there by July at the latest.” “I understand sir.” Robert said. “Well I’ll let you get started.” Alan said as he closed the door. Robert sat at the desk taking a long look around the office, and then picked up the first folder.

It was after nine by the time he closed and locked his office door and made his way to his bedroom two floors up. The one good aspect of his rank meant he had a bedroom to himself.

His valise and laptop were already there, and someone had unpacked for him. He unzipped the laptop bag taking it out he plugged it into the wall. After Skype came up he connected through to Terry.

The next morning he rounded up Tim, Bill and Tom and they went to draw desert warfare uniforms. After which they collected their travel documents from admin.

Tim had a three series BMW, his pride and joy that he would be taking them to Brize Norton in and leaving it there until they returned. They were scheduled to leave at eighteen hundred hours in a C-17. Knowing they would have to be there two hours early due to the red tape that seemed to exist at all airports, both military and civilian, they left at two.

On the flight over the Atlantic Robert briefed them. They were going to a Fort Call that was situated in the middle of the Arizona Desert. The Fort was quite small compared to other American Bases so the file had said. Its main claim to fame was that it controlled a dedicated air to ground firing range. American units came there to practice air to ground skills, not only fixed wing but even attack helicopters. The other main point was an A10 simulator that would allow them to practice everything that could be done in a real A10 in the air while safely on the ground.

They would report to a Colonel Raymond Swartz, call sign Stingray, the Base Commander. Finally Robert distributed some sheets that displayed rank insignia of officers and non-commissioned personnel, while the officer insignia was pretty straight forward, the non-commissioned was bewildering.

They landed at a base in Maryland, and transferred to a C-130 for the final leg of their journey to Fort Call. The heat of the desert hit them like a fist as the ramp of the Hercules slowly lowered. The sky was an impossible light blue with not a cloud in it. They grabbed their valises and walked down the ramp.

A Hummer ground to a halt just behind the ramp. A young man in his early twenties jumped out and approached them, stopping a few feet away he saluted Robert, who returned the salute. “I’m to conduct you to Colonel Swartz office Sir!” he said.

On the drive from dispersal over to the main administration block, he told them that theirs was the only unit on the base for training.

From what Robert could see the base seemed to consist of three large hangers. Built at the side of one was a wide single story brick building. Beyond that was a two story white building, he glimpsed the roofs of others behind that.

The Hummer stopped in front of the white building where an American flag hung listlessly against a tall pole, since there was no breeze to move it. “If you go through the doors there Sir” the driver nodded his head in the direction of the door, “Murph will show you to the Colonel.”

The four pilots climbed from the vehicle and grabbed their cases, perspiring in their serge uniforms. On opening the door cool air hit their faces. “Thank God for air conditioning!” Tom Bell muttered.

A man with a name tag which read Murphy wearing S/Sgt stipes came forward and introduced himself. He told them they could leave their cases there and asked them to follow him.

He stopped at a glass panel door and knocked. “Enter!” was heard. “The British Officers Sir!” S/Sgt Murphy announced. He stood to one side of the door to allow the four to enter, then closed it as he left.

The four lined up before the desk, came to attention and saluted. The Colonel sat back in his chair and gave a half-hearted salute back.

Colonel Swartz had been in the air force for thirty-one years. He had served his country all over the world. He had flown sixty-four missions during Operation Desert Storm in the first Iraq war. A devout believer in air to ground warfare, he ran his base on a tough no nonsense basis.

He looked at the officers before him, noticing the perspiration on their foreheads. His eyes dropped down to the medal ribbons on their chests. These guys have been in at the sharp end he realised.

“Relax gentlemen, welcome to Fort Call. All we are going to do today is get you squared away. I’m sure you are ready for a shower.” He said with a smile in his drawling Texas accent. “Sergeant Murphy will show you to your quarters and sort you out with something more wearer friendly. After you have cleaned up, he’ll show you were to get chow and the Offices Club room. You will begin your training tomorrow at 0900 hundred hours, he’ll show you where. Any questions? No? Well, I’ll see you later tonight in the Clubhouse.”

Sergeant Murphy showed them their quarters. Each would have their own room, consisting of cot, lockers, drawers, bedside table and a small washstand. A telephone was on the side table, but was only connected for base communication, he warned. After showing them the bathrooms, he took their clothes sizes down in a small notebook.

Robert gratefully peeled of his uniform in his room, his shirt underneath his jacket black with sweat beneath his armpits. Stripping to his shorts he grabbed his wash bag and headed to the showers.

He was hanging his RAF uniform in the locker when Sergeant Murphy returned with three other enlisted men, each carrying a large pile of clothes, shoes and boots. The sergeant deposited his pile on Robert’s bed.

“You should find them more comfortable to wear Sir. Dress of the day is shirt and slacks like mine.” He said while reaching into his pocket to remove a plastic nametag. “I hope that’s the way you express your rank sir.”

Robert looked, Sqd/Ldr Barlow. “Its fine Sergeant thank you.”

Later that evening the four officers were sitting in the Officers Club each with a bottle of Budweiser, or a Bud as they were more commonly called, the bottles freezing to the touch.

Two American Captains came over and introduced them self’s, Chuck Connors and Pete Harding, both were A10 instructors. After Robert had introduced them to his officers, they began talking about what lay ahead for them in training.

At one point Chuck turned to Robert, “Didn’t you get an award from your Queen for that Afghan op?”

“You mean the VC?” Bill interjected. “It’s the highest military award we can give!” “So, it’s on par with our Congressional Medal of Honour?” Chuck asked. “Yes, I think so.” Robert replied. “I have to admit I don’t know a lot about the award.” Chuck added.

“Well” Tim took over. “It was founded during the Crimea War, the metal for it is supposed to come from the Russian guns we took at Sebastopol. To date about thirteen hundred and fifty have been awarded to all ranks and services belonging to the Commonwealth.” Bill took over explaining to Robert’s embarrassment, how he had won his.

When he had finished Chuck turned to Robert with a newfound respect in his eye. “That’s the gutsiest move I’ve ever heard of!” Shortly after they turned in. It had been a long day!

The next morning was a repeat of yesterday’s weather. They reported to one of the hangers wearing the American shirts and slacks that had been given to them, but with their RAF rank tabs slid onto the shirts epaulets.

They were introduced to Master Sergeant ‘Gus’ Green line chief for the base’s A10 fleet.

After the introductions he took them into the hanger where two A10’’s were lined up. For the next four hours they climbed over them, under them and along them as Gus explained the aspects of the aircraft.

When the four men were all together again, he said “This is a pilot’s aircraft. It lacks a lot of the refinements that are present in fast movers.” Referring to the term used for modern fighters and fighter-bombers. “You have to fly it. Some say it’s an ugly son of a bitch, perhaps so, but in the kind of work it’s designed to do it will survive when others would crash and burn.”

Back in the mess hall having dinner, Bill commented that it was an ugly brute and that the ground crew called them Warthogs or Hogs for short. “Does that mean they’re a pig to fly?” Asked Tom. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” Replied Robert ruefully.

For the next ten days they attended lectures and saw gun camera footage of the havoc the A10 could inflict on a target and spent hours on the simulator.

The first problem was getting used to taxiing. The A10’s nose wheel was offset to allow for the length of the cannon mounted in the nose of the aircraft. That meant it had two different turning circles, dependant on whether you turned left or right. Tom Bell discovered this when he tore off the tail of a C130 (on the simulator) and as a result he had to buy the ‘Buds’ that night in the Officers Club.