The incident that was to focus the Station Commander's mind and his ire, had occurred the previous day, miles away from the confines of the base and right in the heart of the city.
Inside vast halls, hundreds of elaborately built stalls fronted by pretty girls had provided samples of food and copious amounts of drink to any who wished to try them.West Berlin's premier event was in full swing - Grunewoche. Visitors carried brightly coloured plastic bags containing souvenirs of each country or region they had stopped at for a drink or nibble. Mostly it was the former. Beer and schnapps glasses bumped and chinked against thin champagne flutes and wine goblets.

Like a huge flock of starlings caught in indecision or ambush by a predator, the crowds swarmed from hall to hall, scattered and reformed en route to the next boozy stopover. Here and there, individuals who had arrived early wandered the floors talking gibberish or clutching bags of broken glass to their sides. Others, defeated at last by alcohol or fatigue, slumped silently in corners waiting for the army of cleaners to sweep them away.

Lurching with great care and deliberation through the crowd was a representative of the Royal Air Force, Junior Technician Robson. His short fair hair, jeans and red and white Adidas T-shirt advertised him to the watching security staff as a Brit. Normally staid and reliable, his personality had undergone a change, fuelled by the large amount of Aquavit, Pernod and Czech beer, which was now sloshing around inside him.

His glazed eyes scanned the crowds as he bumped and stumbled his way through them. Deep inside, he knew that it was time to get home but couldn't fathom the direction in which he should be heading. The group of friends he had arrived with early that morning had split up and now he found himself alone. Feeling frustrated by the slowly shuffling masses that impeded his progress, he began to push rudely, attracting glares and mutterings from his fellow travellers.

Without warning a hand gripped his elbow firmly and began to steer him up the steps of the hall to the emergency exit. Instinctively he tried to pull away from the man but got little result. Simultaneously, his other arm was grasped by a second person and he was propelled to the top of the stairs with a speed that left his legs trailing behind him.

Now in full view of the masses below, he tumbled across the top step banging his knees on the concrete. The pain penetrated his dulled brain and adrenaline filled his muscles. Enraged by what he took to be an unprovoked assault he staggered to his feet and swung wildly at one of the people he held responsible for attacking him. The man dressed in green and yellow uniform quickly stopped his arm in mid air. He felt cold metal on his wrist and stupidly glared at the bracelet that had now appeared.

Before he could make sense of what was happening, he saw the other end of the bracelet swiftly and securely dropped over the end of the steel railings alongside which he had been dragged. Caught like a wild animal in a snare he began to tug frantically at the handcuffs with no appreciable result. His free arm flailed wildly at the grinning faces of the German Police who were astute enough to stand just outside the arc of his swing.

The radio in the policeman's hand crackled and he spoke into the mouthpiece without taking his eyes from Robson's face. This smirking enraged him further and spurred him onto greater efforts. As a demented, gibbering monkey might perform when goaded beyond care by his organ grinding master, Robson lunged and kicked and shouted abuse as he danced around his unwelcome berth.

Humiliated but now calm, he watched as the Royal Military Police corporals approached through the staring crowds. He hated the worthless idiots with a passion shared by all of his RAF colleagues. Stupidity and officiousness combined in a brown uniform. The first evidence of this stupidity was, to the amusement of the interested voyeurs below, demonstrated within a few seconds of them arriving on the scene. Assuming that he was a squaddie and therefore in awe of the Red Cap of justice, the first Corporal stepped unthinkingly into the danger zone. Pugnaciously he leaned toward his intended arrest staring him full in the face.

'Name, rank, number. Dickhead.'

His notebook flew into the air and his hat spun through the air to land alongside Robson's feet. The Corporal collapsed onto the floor with a look of utter surprise on his face. A size twelve trainer had connected full on with his balls. He avoided the next kick, aimed at his head, as his colleague dragged him out of range. Some people in the crowd clapped. The other Corporal bellowed his best effort to intimidate.
'Stand still!'

The snarled reply was not quite what he was expecting. 'I'm Air Force. And, you can't bloody touch me, I'm 26 SU.'

This meant nothing to the RMP apart from the mention of the RAF. To add to his confusion the sound of his colleague bringing up his lunch noisily distracted him.

As if to emphasise his confidence that he was indeed untouchable, Robbo began to perform a jig on the spot. Even with his arm still fixed to the railing he was able to spin fully around in his favourite style, a la Northern Soul.. The performance was energetic and borrowed elements of the Mexican Hat Dance. It involved the total destruction of the Red Cap lying on the floor and occasionally he whooped to add what he thought might be a folksy element to it.

The German Policemen tried hard not to allow their amusement to become too visible to their military colleagues. Once the Corporal on the ground had regained his breath and had adjusted his creased balls they conferred about tactics. The one who had been kicked had to be calmed down a little.

'You can't kill him. There are too many witnesses. Wait until we get him in the van and we'll see if he can't stumble or trip or something.'

The light dawned in his head. Grinning now, his colleague nodded. 'Yeah p'raps he'll bang his head on the door '.

The calm one smiled and nodded. 'That's right. You're getting the picture now.'

'Or break his fucking neck'. What about his bollocks?'

'Steady on. It's got to be believable.'

'Yeah. Ok. Ok I've got the idea.'

'You go round the other side and we'll rush him together. Sort of pincer movement.'

Accompanied by booing and whistling from the watching crowd and with the help of the German police, Robson was swamped by bodies before being transported horizontally, kicking and shouting into the back of the RMP wagon. His struggling brought him little reward and his nose began to pour with blood after he hit the floor of the wagon with his arms still restrained behind him. There were no witnesses to that part of the incident. Outraged, he shouted and bellowed at his gaolers without response as the Kombi sped through the streets back to the RAF base.





The large windows in the equally large office allowed bright sunlight to envelope Group Captain Warren's desk bathing him in a beatific cloud of bright gold which in turn caused a smile to crease his face. It amused him to imagine that the scene could be a metaphor for his place in the pecking order. Golden Boy. The stint in the embassy had proved very fortuitous indeed and if he made good here, he could expect to return to UK with promotion to Air Commodore. He mused upon the twists and turns of fate that had propelled him through the ranks. Of course, Moscow had been a highlight and the first major step on the road to the higher echelons of power. He'd made some good friends there.

As he swivelled on his large comfy chair, the sunlight entering the room picked out the many grey highlights in his brown hair and cast the shadow of his lean body against the wall behind him. Reflected light bounced from the glass of the photograph in a frame on his desk hiding the picture of Angela in front of St Basil's in Red Square.

In a small, glass fronted cabinet in the corner, a flyblown, thick tome sat under lock and key. That key was squirreled away in the Station Commander's safe ready to be used only in the presence of VIPs. Inside this historic album the first photo was that of Hermann Goering's vast bottom disappearing through the doorway of a Luftwaffe transport aircraft. Even in black and white it was clear that behind the aeroplane, stood the very building in which Warren was now sitting. His posting seemed to have been preordained and he was taking full advantage of privilege. In this very room Goering may have taken coffee. Perhaps even Hitler. He sat quietly, savouring the thought before his telephone rang, shaking him back into the present.

'Warren.'

His PA in the outer office apologised for interrupting him. 'Station Commander, it's your wife.'

The line crackled before the voice began. 'Darling. I wondered if you would be home early this evening?'

'I hadn't planned on it. Why?'

'It's just that I wanted your opinion of my dress.'

'Angela I've got a Station to run. Anyway, your taste is always perfect and you've been to the Opera before.'

'I know Darling it's just that I didn't know whether the blue or the red would be best.'

'Blue.'

'Are you sure? You said that a little too quickly.'

'No. Blue is best I think. Air Force and all that.'

'I had been thinking the red.'

He gazed at the architrave over the thickly panelled door while his pen moved over the leather bound calendar on his desk.

'No. You're absolutely correct Darling. Red it is.'
'Are you sure?'

'Yes. Red will be marvellous.'

'Oh I don't know now. The blue might be more suitable as you suggested.'

He paused as he finished off the doodle; alarmed to see it was a dagger. 'Darling. I've really got to go now. I'm very busy.'

The petulant pause on the other end of the line sent a guilty thrill through him. He relented.

'How about I try very hard to clear my diary and get back a little earlier than usual. Will that be alright?'

'Marvellous Darling. I knew I could count on you. I get in such a state about these things I know. Do you forgive me?'

'Of course sweetness. Bye for now.'

Once the line had gone dead he called through to his PA. 'Mrs Paterson. Please hold all non-urgent calls for the rest of the afternoon.'

A voice answered from the other side of the door. 'Does that include Mrs Warren?'

'Most certainly.'

A flicker of shadows across the window brought a frown to his face and caused him to glance up. Two airmen appeared across the second window as they walked along the path outside. The frown turned into a scowl. Airmen. Of all the unknown permutations that could halt or impinge upon his career aspirations, there was a good chance that an airman would be at the root of it. Apart from a very short tenure as the Officer in Charge of a barrack block back when he was a Flight Lieutenant, he had managed to avoid responsibility for managing airmen and that was the way he liked it.

However, as Station Commander, that was now very much part of his role and secretly, it filled him with dread. If he could have been at a small bombing range, or some tiny, insignificant unit stuck in the middle of a potato field, he would have had only a handful of airmen to look after. But of course, such a posting would not have given him the visibility his career needed. This is why he had bitten the bullet and accepted the job when it was offered to him. His comfort level had been raised by the thought that the personnel at Gatow mainly staffed the Signals Unit and, by all accounts, were a fairly intelligent bunch.

He looked sideways at the files in his tray, reluctantly picked one up and opened it. His eyes scanned the notes inside and he grunted in approval at the title. Discipline was now a subject very close to his heart and he settled back in the chair as he read. Moments later, Mrs Paterson was startled to hear a roar of fury from inside her boss's office. She rushed in to see him staring red faced at the police report of the arrest. He was not at all prepared for the shock of having one of his airmen arrested, nor for the catalogue of the injuries inflicted upon the Military Policemen involved.

'Get me the Security Officer.'

Head honcho Flight Lieutenant F.O Bull looked at his watch impatiently. The crocodile leather strap was highly polished. It had been a present from his proud parents on the day of his graduation from Officer Training. That graduation was probably the highlight of his career so far, although he did recall with almost equal fondness his first arrest. The summit of pleasure for him in that incident was the opportunity to sign with aplomb and flourish, the charge sheet. With satisfaction he remembered that there had been not one mistake in the form filling. Perfect. He had refrained from saying 'you're nicked' though deep down he longed to.

Flight Lieutenant Bull was a policeman. A policeman serving in the Royal Air Force. Some uncharitable people would argue that the term policeman and RAF did not sit easily alongside each other. Others would even cross the road if they so much as saw one of these creatures. But Bull was pleased with his lot. He had power and a high profile position and the fantasy that the position he held was one of real importance.

He was one of those ruddy faced, square jawed products whose self-belief overrides appeals to reasonableness or any differing points of view. Now at thirty, and still bearing the boyish enthusiasm of his prep school, he'd embraced his position of power with unbridled joy and wholly swallowed the induction propaganda he'd been fed at police school.

The only real cloud on his horizon was that there was very, very little for him, actually to do. This frustrated him and also annoyed the airmen on the station. They all knew that an officer without anything to do was a very dangerous thing and a number could bare witness personally to this.



The NAAFI van was late this morning and Bull's tummy rumbled. Tuna rolls were his weakness. He thought about telling Corporal Toogood to go and join the queue for him, but the last time he did, the tuna had tasted odd. Anyway, Toogood's acne was really off-putting, as was the smell of TCP, which frequently drifted and trailed behind him. No. Today he would take a stroll. He might even catch an airman in a state of untidiness. Perhaps there was some litter around. He put his hat on as he stepped out of the door, pausing only to look behind him at a noise he thought he heard. All he could see was Toogood, with his head buried in a file.

'I'll be back shortly Corporal'.

'Sir'.

He paused again wondering if Toogood was in pain.

The NAAFI van chugged into view blowing its horn as he moved down the steep concrete steps to the road. Doors opened in the neighbouring building and airmen came running. With eyes averted from his direction they waited in a noisy queue. They straightened up reluctantly as, purposefully, he marched toward them. Reluctantly, eyes shifted to look at him as the line went silent.

He paced along the row, scrutinising each one in turn while they looked into the distance or shuffled uneasily, jangling their change. At the very end of the line stood a junior technician. His black, curly hair hung on his collar despite his attempts to stretch his neck and Bull knew he was watching him from the corner of his eye. Shifty looking. He scanned the man's uniform for signs of deshabille. It was only when he reached the shoes that his heart took an extra beat. The socks were green. They should be black.

He strolled behind the man and leaned confidentially, toward his ear.

'What colour socks do they issue at the stores nowadays?'

The airman considered his options.'Black sir?'

'What's your name?'

'Martin'.

'Junior Tech Martin. Why are you wearing green socks?'

'Cook Sir'.

'I'm pretty sure that even cooks don't wear green socks'.

'No Sir. Junior Tech Cook. My first name's Martin'.

Bull paused. 'Why would I want to know your first name Cook?'

'Erm, '¦not sure Sir. Thought I was being helpful.'

'Where d'you work?'.

'C Flight, I'm a linguist'.

'Your officer man. Your Officer'.

'Flight Lieutenant Connolly Sir.'

'Cook. I want you to go now to your Flight Commander and tell him you're wearing green socks.'

'Sir.'

The airman turned and walked away from the enthralled listeners. Bull glanced sharply at them and all fell silent again. Self consciously proud, he removed himself from the line and returned to his office. Toogood sat down quickly as he entered.

'Sir the Station Commander would like to speak to you.'

'Did he say what he wanted?'

Toogood shook his head but added that he sounded a bit mad about something. Bull entered his office and closed his door.

In a glass-fronted office overlooking the operations room, Flight Lieutenant Drew Connolly sat working. Head down he pored over a document. His fleshy, upturned nose exposed his nostrils from which dark, black, nasal hair sprouted. Black hair swept down across his forehead and a dark shadow gave tone to his pudgy, pale cheeks. His thick rimmed spectacles, perched on the end of his nose gave him a bookish appearance. It detracted from any slight air of authority he'd once possessed and early on in his posting discovered that his flight of linguists and intelligence workers were sometimes a difficult bunch to manage.

The importance of the job they did and the environment in which they had to operate generated a casual camaraderie that was refreshing to some observers but anathema to disciplinarians. The nature of the job seemed to attract some odd characters and Connolly's way of dealing with oddness was simply to try and ignore it.

There was a knock on the door and it opened. Junior Tech Cook walked in and, in an effort to appear airman-like; he took up something resembling the attention position in front of Connolly's desk. Connolly ignored the interruption hoping it wasn't happening.

'Yes Cook?' Sighing, Connolly finally raised his eyes.

'Excuse me Sir.'

'What is it?' He peered at him with alarm bearing in mind his previous dealings with the young airman.

Without hesitating and seemingly oblivious to the absurdity of the situation Cook spoke again.

'I have got green socks on.'

Connolly paused as he considered his response.

'Piss off Cook.'

'Sir.'

Cook turned awkwardly and tick-tocked his way out of the office. Not until the door had closed behind him did Connolly look up again just to check he had indeed left.

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