It was the night of our Aircraft Salvage & Transportation Flight Christmas party.

Aircraft Salvage & Transportation Flight — though most people just called us Crash & Smash. 

We were at the Bystander Pub, and we’d taken over the lounge for the evening. Food had been eaten, drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was exactly what you’d expect from a group of RAF lads finally allowed to relax properly.

After the meal, one of the team left early to take his wife home. She was epileptic and needed to avoid the flashing lights that were about to start once the disco flashing lights kicked in. He dropped her off and came back shortly afterwards.

I saw him walk in through the front door.

There was something about his face.

He came straight over to me and said quietly,
“A Jumbo’s gone in.”

In simple terms — a Boeing 747 had crashed.

I laughed and said, “Wait until the crash crew are properly drunk before you start telling them that.” Yes, we always had a a Crash Crew on stand by in case any Airforce or Civilian aircraft needed to be recovered due to an accident or aircraft failure.

But he didn’t smile.

He just repeated it.
“It’s true. A Jumbo’s gone in. Up in Scotland.”

We went into the main bar of the pub and asked the landlord if he could switch the television on for the nine o’clock news. As the screen flickered into life, we saw flames. Wreckage. Houses burning.

It was at that point I realised that he wasn’t joking.

A Jumbo had gone in!

The mood shifted instantly.

I went next door to find the boss and the Warrant Officers so they could see it for themselves. We stood there watching the early reports on the news — confused, absorbing with what little information was available.

Even then, none of us understood the scale of what had happened.

In what I now realise was a slightly naïve moment, I said something along the lines of:

“You’ll probably need more than one Crash Crew and Gang Boss. I’m happy to go if you need me. I’ve got no kids, and I’m not exactly Mr Christmas.”

At the time, it felt like volunteering for a job.

We had no idea we were volunteering for history.

The following day, the whole section was told we were going north.

Some of us would fly up in a Hercules C130. The others drew what we jokingly called the “short straw” and they drove the vehicles and whatever equipment we thought we might need.

We still didn’t really know what we were heading into.

But we were going.

And just like that, Christmas stopped being Christmas.

To be continued!