COLD WAR TALES- THE CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS By Denis Price

The piercing insistent wail of the siren woke him. `For Christ`s sake now what!` Over the tannoy the smooth expensive voice intoned languidly that this was only a drill and that all personnel should continue with their normal duties. He groaned and thought, this is my normal duty, sleeping for six hours after a night shift. Not that that pompous prat would know or care, his lot were as rare as rocking horse shit after five o`clock but this was RAF Bomber Command Bawtry, and the Reds were under every bed ! Now fully awake he propped himself up on the coarse pillow, fumbled for a cigarette and took stock of his surroundings. His was the standard two man room, he was lucky to be its only occupant. It was a room fit for Noah he thought, two beds, two small tin lockers, two large tin lockers, two lamps, two chairs. The floor was covered with the brown lino so beloved of service disciplinarians because of its reluctance to concede a shine. The walls were cream, not the cream on the beckoning head on a pint of Guinness, more the cream of the well used cabs plying their trade from his home town railway station.

The end of his musings coincided with the end of his cigarette, time to consider the evening `do`. He was arranging a booze up at the Anvil, a send off for the last two National Servicemen on the unit to be demobbed. Old George the landlord and former pilot put on a good spread and held their respect , if not their liking. With the cynicism of the true survivor he`d often remark, `The real war ended twenty years ago and I wouldn`t feed you lot rice`. Still, he kept a good pint and flexible closing hours! Acknowledging the nonchalant wave from the duty policeman he left the camp, and made his way to the Anvil to confirm the evening`s `do`. The pub was just off the main street, all the street lacked was tumbleweed and a Frankie Lane voiceover. Until recently it had been part of the A1, now by-passed` it reminded him of a Western prairie township the railway had forgotten, with its empty café`s, stopovers and garages. It was Klondyke without the gold.

Business complete he returned to camp and wandered into the darkened TV room. `You`ve just missed the news`, said a disembodied voice, `Kennedy`s a bit peeved about these missiles`. `What about `em?` He asked. `What about `em!` said the voice,`Where `ve you been the last couple of days? They`re on Cuba pointing at the Yanks` backyard, the shit`s really gonna hit the fan soon`. He responded, `Sod that, are we missing University Challenge, over to you Jesus your starter for ten`. His walk with the others to the Anvil that evening was more confident than usual. The law of self-preservation dictated that group travel was the order of the evening on Fridays. It was pay-day at the local pit and it was well known that the men with the blue scarred knuckles and faces looked unkindly on liaisons with their women, real or imaginary. A `good kicking`could often be the result.

The `do` was well under way, the token officer presence had disappeared following photographs for the RAF News and serious drinking was taking place, when suddenly a bemused George took a phone call. It was immediate recall to camp. He booked in at the guardroom and entered the main operations bunker to be met by the Aussie Signals Officer.

`Here`s your codes, we`re moving into level red so sharpen up, Kennedy`s told the Russians to remove their missiles , or else!` So that was it, all our bombers were on the tarmac ready to go, each carrying its little parcel of instant sunshine. From his position he looked around the room, he`d never seen so many medals, the atmosphere was electric, the constant babble of voices, the ringing of telephones interspersed with the crackle of communications equipment and the rapid chatter of teleprinters. Above it all the Air Marshal attempted to make a speech, it was a `why we are here and why we are doing this` kind of speech. It wasn`t exactly Sir Larry doing Crispin`s Day but we knew what he meant, or thought we did. One thing was for sure, as always, God was with us.

His job was to communicate with the bombers, he checked codes and callsigns and peered across the room to the massive wall chart clearly indicating primary and secondary targets. The enormity of the situation was beginning to register with him as he scanned the chart with its concentric lines clearly drawn around each target.

One bomb with its initial fireball, they`d been told, is followed by blast and radiation fallout which permanently contaminates a vast area. The lectures had not lingered too long on the effects of all this on real people although a large piece of brown paper was recommended as effective protection in the early stages.

In the early hours there was a lull in the activity, he`d carried out his radio checks with the bombers, thank God they were still on the ground. The clocks showing times in various time zones, ticked in the near silence like hammer blows. At approximately seven o`clock the Air Marshal`s Red Telephone shattered the morning, was this it? Every face sought out another, he stared at the sallow, stubble- strewn face of the Aussie.

Later he`d laughed about it, was this the last face on earth he`d ever see? Couldn`t it have been Susannah York ! The Air Marshal spoke, slowly replaced the receiver, and smiled. `Good had triumphed over Evil, the missiles were going home and so were we. The cheering and backslappings were endless but he knew what would happen now. The Air Marshal would get another medal, his underlings would get promotion and he`d miss the early breakfast.

On his way to the Angel café he walked down the main street and looked around. Everything was in focus, sharper and better defined, people with morning faces were animated and,smiling. Children were shouting and laughing, even the street was alive, he paused and drank it all in,and thought, you poor lucky buggers, you just don`t know!

Copyright © Denis Price. 2004

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