FINDING A PLACE
Okay, you’re 20 years old and full of life. You actually live in one of the most beautiful, serene places on the planet, but that’s boring. You’ve already gone off to the big city in search of adventure, but that was a dead end.
That was how I felt at 20. I had to get away. I remembered an ex-girlfriend – a forces kid, staying in the area – and she spoke of an interesting life. So I made the decision. I, Tony North, was going to join the Royal Air Force.
I’d seen all the films.
It seemed such an exciting life. See the world, and all that. So off I went, to York, my local city, to find the Careers Information Office, where I knew you had to go to join up.
Now, I know York quite well. I’d been there a lot. But it is such an ancient city that, although small, it is a rabbit warren of tiny streets. So could I find the place? Afraid not. I searched high and low, asked plenty of people, but to no avail. So what was I going to do? How was I going to realize my dream?
I decided to phone them up.
Exiting the phone box, I felt good. I’d used my initiative. They’d like that. And armed with the information, I found it easily.
For a time, I hovered outside, just like a jump jet. Was this what I really wanted? Of course it was. I needed the adventure. So I took a deep breath and walked inside.
The sergeant behind the desk looked an interesting fellow and I was sure we were to get on. He offered a wry smile. Said: ‘Are you the fella who just rang to ask where we are?’
Great. He’d appreciated my initiative. ‘Yes,’ I said, beaming.
He leaned forward. Grinned. ‘You’re not wanting to be a navigator then.’
Oh well. The initiative would come, I was sure.
ME AND THE COLD WAR
I was in the RAF from 1975-84, and my trade was in administration – i.e. I flew a desk. But for five of those years I worked on two of the 20 or so air defence bases that protected UK air space. And sometimes that got very interesting.
At least once a month the siren would go off.
When this happened, we knew it was exercise time. My blue uniform was swapped for combats, beret for helmet, and pen for 7.62mm SLR. Because, when that siren went off, I was part of the defence of that thin blue line.
How important was that line? Well, British forces contributed 4 divisions to the effort in Germany, whilst the rest of the forces were responsible for UK air space and keeping the Atlantic open for re-supply from America.
The unsinkable aircraft carrier.
US forces first called Britain that during World War Two, and it was a fact that had the Cold War gone hot, Britain’s importance would have been just as great. For if British air space fell, then no American reinforcements or supplies could ever get to Europe, and the Soviets would have won.
Hence, that thin blue line of the RAF would have become crucial. Those bases would have become among the most violent places on Earth, constantly attacked by bombers, missiles and infiltrated Soviet SPETZNAZ special forces.
I was only a very, very, very small cog in all this, but that was what we were training for in those exercises. And they often got scary as well as very, very funny.
THE INVINCIBLE LAND ROVER
We knew it was going to get hectic as soon as the message came in. It was a normal RAF Land Rover that pulled up at the checkpoint at the far side of the airfield. But as it stopped, the top came off and machine gun fire wiped out the guards.
Over a mile away, I was defending the fighter dispersal. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, the few low, dark green buildings were surrounded by the dispersed Phantom fighters. The call came in. Stand To.
We saw the Land Rover come racing down the airfield.
The Army loved fancy dress when they attacked RAF bases during exercises. Usually, they pretended to be guerillas, complete with bandanas, and I could have sworn one had a huge cigar in his mouth.
I saw the first post fall. They fought back with rifles and GPMG (bloody big machine gun), but were overwhelmed amid the sounds of gunfire and thunder flashes. And it went on and on as that damn Land Rover approached the dispersal.
I was taken out close to the entry point.
I put up a good fight but was outflanked and caught in the crossfire. As I laid there ‘dying’, I saw them gain entry, the last pathetic defence being when a dozen fighter pilots rushed out waving their little pistols in the air.
This part of the exercise was, of course, to check out our firing positions, and the reality was, that Land Rover wouldn’t have got past the first checkpoint. Indeed, we could realistically say it was wiped out at least 20 times - which meant, of course, that our defence had taken out half a company.
That felt good. But you always had the mouth of inexperience amongst you. ‘It’s not fair,’ he protested, wiping dirt from his combats. ‘They wouldn’t play dead.’
GET IN LINE
I did some strange jobs during my time in the Royal Air Force, and few were stranger than when the call came out from the local police for help. This usually concerned recruiting ‘bodies’ to appear in an identity line up.
Much has been said about the practices of detectives during the 1970s in the UK – Life on Mars fans will know what I mean – so maybe these activities can offer a personal insight.
I was based just outside London at the time.
When a line-up was required at the local police station, the call would come in, and a rough description of the suspect given so that those chosen would in some way reflect what he looked like.
I remember once getting the instruction, small and scruffy. So it was obvious I’d be in the line. However, scruffy, in the RAF, meant ‘casual’, and if we were scruffy haired or unshaven, we’d be in trouble.
So, many casually dressed airmen stood to attention next to …
… well, scruffy wasn’t in it. He seemed to come from a different planet to us, and I remember thinking, even if he was innocent, he’d be picked when compared to the rest of us.
Would this system lead to possible miscarriages of justice? Quite possibly. And the fact that witnesses were in the same room as the line-up in those days, tapping the chosen person on the shoulder, didn’t help.
But our good detectives were always appreciative. ‘Right, come on fellas,’ they’d say after the job. And off we’d go to the pub next door, whether open or not, safe in the knowledge they’d make sure we’d never remember leaving.
WORKING MY TICKET?
I came down with chronic fatigue syndrome is 1982. I was 27 years of age and had two years left to serve of my nine years in the Royal Air Force. And I can tell you, it was quite an upset to my previously active life.
Regularly I would try to do too much and end up unconscious on the floor. Of course, the condition was almost unknown, and the doctors scratched their heads. Life, I knew, would never be the same again.
But it was different in many ways. One of those ways was an inability, by many, to admit that I was ill. Rather, they accused me of ‘working my ticket’ – a term given to a waster who wanted out of the forces, but couldn’t afford to pay, as was then required.
There were many stories of ticket workers, often pretending to be mad to get a medical discharge. One was said to refuse to salute officers, saying: ‘If I salute one of you, I’ve got to salute you all.’ It is not known what happened to him.
Then there was the one who pretended to be a monkey.
He would jump about from time to time on his haunches, making funny noises. It is said he was once tested on his monkeyness by being tossed a bunch of bananas. He ate them, skin and all. It is said, when he finally got out, he really was mad.
But I was not working my ticket. And to prove so, I completed every last day of my service – medically downgraded as I was. Of course, by doing so, I no doubt missed out on a medical pension.
I was not working my ticket, but I think I ended up mad.
HILLS OF FIRE
I’d only been
in the Royal Air Force a few months in 1975. I was beginning to think, this is boring. My basic training was great, but now I was in trade training, and I hoped my career would be more exciting than this.
Then, just before end of class one afternoon, a Sergeant ran in and ordered us out, and quick. Double marched to a number of trucks, we were thrown overalls and told to get in, and off we sped as fast as the trucks would go.
We reached our destination in an hour.
This was some nearby hills, part of which had caught fire, and if it managed to crest a hill, a town would be put at risk. Issued with shovels and pick axes, it was the beginning of a 12 hour fight with nature.
It was a bit precarious on the slopes of that hill. We were there to dig a fire break. It was a long way down, and the heat, smoke and dust made it look like the pit of hell down there. But there was a job to do and we did it.
The heat went under our feet.
That was the scariest bit – and for a while, it caused undergrowth to ignite behind the trench, and we had to start all over again. There were regular breaks – there had to be. We hadn’t been issued goggles, and we had to have our eyes chemically cleaned regularly.
There was a vision of heaven at these moments. Somehow, the Salvation Army had got a field kitchen up there, and their brews were marvellous. But finally, at 4 o’clock in the morning, we beat it.
Filthy, pained and full of pride, I remember marching down a path to the trucks, our picks on our shoulders, singing ‘hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to work we go’.
As we entered the town, I recall a window opening and a voice saying: ‘Shut up, I’m trying to sleep in here.’
Oh well. I knew I’d made a difference, even if he didn’t.
Life – Pt. 2
(9) I Wasn't Lazy (10) Finding Peace (11) The Quest (12) Fate or What? (13) The Name's Bond (14) Born To Be Wild (15) The Moment (16) Optimistically Speaking
I WASN'T LAZY
When I was in my teens I was often accused of being lazy. I worked in my father’s newsagent shop – a business I was eventually supposed to part inherit, but decided I didn’t want it. But it seemed I was rarely in it.
In actual fact, one week out of two I wasn’t in the shop during normal working hours. I was up at four o’clock in the morning, working on the paper rounds, and then from five o’clock in the evening until we shut.
But this wasn’t all I was doing.
No, I was lead guitarist in the best rock band in the area – well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? Apart from the occasional gig, we also practiced three times a week in a hay loft above a barn behind a pub in a sleepy village.
There was no heating in the loft, so in winter it was rather cold. I used to argue I learnt my manic stage antics here as a means of keeping me warm so my shaking fingers could feel the fret board.
And then those awful ladders.
Entry to the loft was via a vertical, fixed ladder and through a small hatch, or opening the hay doors and leaning ladders up to them. Going to and from a gig involved sliding drum kit, heavy speaker cabinets and the rest up and down these ladders.
It was a tiring affair, especially at two o’clock in the morning, in the dark, after a gig. And finished, I’d often get home just in time to open the shop and begin the paper rounds.
Lazy? I don’t think you CAN be lazy over something you love.
FINDING PEACE
Looking back on my life I can see certain crossroads that led to the person I am today. And one such crossroad began on a lovely Sunday afternoon in the early 1980s when I lived in Norfolk.
We’d just moved to the area, and at that time I was an unthinking person, living the material life. However, I often took the family out for a Sunday drive. It wasn’t planned, and we just decided to go where the mood took us.
At about four o’clock we decided it was time to eat.
I stopped the car on the outskirts of a village. We got out and decided to explore and find a café. However, it soon became clear that we were being affected by this place. I think both my wife and I noticed it at the same time.
A feeling of absolute peace settled upon us, and I can honestly say I was uplifted in mood. But more than this, it was the first time in my life that I had experienced a spiritual connection. I suddenly felt a deep belonging, and the whole thing was surreal.
As we advanced into the village we began to see Catholic imagery.
This surprised me, and as we neared the centre, quiet religious music was playing. We noticed a hospice, and a ruin in the centre of an open space. And it was at this point we realized it must be an important Catholic shrine.
It was, infact, a place I’d never before heard of called Walsingham, site of one of the earliest visitations of the Virgin Mary, and place of Catholic pilgrimage. And for the first time in my life, I realized there was more to existence than the material world.
THE QUEST
I left school when I was 15. Since then I haven’t undergone any formal education at all, and have never gained an academic qualification in anything. Neither have I ever read a ‘how to’ writing book, or attended a writing class.
For many years I was quite happy with my lack of education. I could read, write, do sums, and a good memory meant I remembered a lot of ‘facts’ from school. This, along with common sense, seemed to get me through life quite adequately.
It all changed when I came down with CFS.
I belonged to the ‘school’ that thought too much education was not required for normal life. I had managed to hold down jobs, advance in a career, hold a conversation on most subjects, and was generally considered ‘intelligent.’
Becoming ill with CFS, and the experiences that followed it, caused me to change this view. And this was based on a realization that, if no one could tell me what was wrong with me, I should find out why.
For this I needed knowledge, and that meant self-education.
Suddenly I found myself, at the age of 27, devouring books of all kinds in an attempt to educate myself. And the more I delved into learning, the more I realized that much of our knowledge was a con.
Basically, knowledge, today, is based on specialization, but the more I studied these specializations, the more I realized that it was just one type of knowledge. Modern learning had little to do with ‘holism’, or seeing things as a whole.
I suppose it began a quest. And I’m on it still.
FATE OR WHAT?
When I was about 10 years old I walked into a shop one day and the lady behind the counter asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without thinking, I replied: ‘A writer, a soldier and a Dad.’
Now, I hadn’t really thought about any of these prior to this statement. Yet it was a fact that, as life panned out, I became, to a certain extent, all three. Is it possible that we can instinctively know our future at such a young age?
We could put it down to fate.
But I don’t like this word. It suggests that there is no free will, and whatever you do in life, it is inevitable how it will go. It makes me ask: what is the point of it all if we’re slaved to the inevitability of life?
I could take an existentialist view and argue it was my choice to do these things. But even here, it doesn’t work. Things happened later in life that led me in these directions, and cannot be related to the statement I made as a kid.
In this sense it’s a social thing.
We can claim to make choices, and be satisfied that they are our own. But the reality is we are categorized by our society and culture. Whatever choices we make are based on events in society, and interpretations of how society sees us.
But we can stack the odds in our favour; we can follow a certain path out of the multiple paths that open up to us. But I think we do this unconsciously. Deep inside, there is a real ‘you’ who knows better than ‘you’ what you want out of life.
I think the real ‘me’ was active early, making me say things such as ‘a writer, a soldier and a Dad.’
T
HE NAME'S BOND
The Name’s Bond – James Bond.
That’s what I used to say. After all, I was just a little kid. The Bond movies had just begun to appear, and I was that man. Every day was an adventure as I tried to save the world from the bad guys.
I’d find bad guys everywhere, and with my spud gun I was invincible, finding them in gardens, on the streets, all over the place. But I was never appreciated. Usually I was just told off as people removed potato pellets from their clothes.
That’s the thing with secret agents. In the real world they’re never thanked.
But why did James Bond become so successful?
That was a question I asked myself many years later, when I’d begun to write. What was it about Bond that made him rise above all the other fictional heroes? Was it his sense of Britishness, or his daring-do?
It was learning a bit about Ian Fleming, and later reading Carl Jung that the answer came to me. And it begins with the ‘archetype’.
Bond gets under your skin and jumps into the mind.
This is because he is the archetypal ‘stranger’ – a mythological being in the modern world, appearing to vanquish evil, and then disappearing just as swiftly. It is a story as old as mankind, and it seems we are wired by culture to be attracted to such ancient stories the most.
This, I discovered, was one of the central tools of the successful storyteller. It was not enough to communicate through words. You also had to tamper with the mind by placing ancient symbols that filter into the deep unconscious.
Fleming, and the later film makers, understood this, too. Bond was the stranger entangled in a battle between good and evil. That evil was SPECTRE, with all its supernatural connotations. And Blofeld, the arch villain?
Just look at the pictures of infamous occultist Aleister Crowley when he was older, and you’ll see Blofeld staring back.