John Nichol - Tornado Down

The desire to be with others undergoing it, who ‘understand’

Flashbacks and nightmares brought on by reminders of the trauma.

Turnbull told us the danger is that when the symptoms appear, and in most people they invariably do, the sufferer thinks that he or she is going ‘mad’ or has a psychiatric problem. That person then tries to ignore or hide the problem, which can lead to more trouble, and can sometimes become very damaging.

He said the most important thing was to talk about our experience and not to bottle it up or ignore the feelings. In the weeks, months and years to come, it was possible that some of the features of PTSD would appear. He asked us to bear in mind that expert help would always be available. We spent a number of sessions going over the whole affair and how we felt about our captors and ourselves, if we harboured any hatred towards them for our torture. Being military aircrew, we were sceptical about baring our souls. But in retrospect, everyone agrees that the whole thing was necessary.

John Peters: During the rehabilitation programme, they told me that if I needed more time, or if they found anything wrong with me, they would fly Helen out to join me.

‘Gibber a bit at the medics,’ Rob joked, ‘and we can all get a free holiday in Cyprus!’ Unfortunately, I was pronounced physically and mentally fit enough to return home.

When it did come to going back home, there were some major surprises in store. One of the biggest was the HS125 jet laid on by the RAF as my personal transport to Laarbruch. This just doesn’t happen to junior Flight Lieutenants. The Base Commander at RAF Akrotiri was there to bid me goodbye. He shook my hand. As I mounted the aircraft steps, the RAF Corporal on the door snapped to attention, executing a textbook salute. That doesn’t happen to the likes of me very often, either!

On the flight to Germany, with the whole plane to ourselves, Rob Woods and I were like a couple of small kids in their Daddy’s new car, working the seat mechanisms to see how far we could recline, clicking the ashtrays, badgering the indulgent steward for extra goodies.

When we reached RAF Laarbruch, there was another shock: Air Marshal Sir Roger Palin, Commander-in-Chief, RAF Germany, and the Station Commander, Group Captain Neil Buckland, were waiting for me. The latter looked as though he had been in the wars himself: he was supporting a broken ankle. They were saying things like ‘Whatever you want, we will organise it…’

‘The press are after you,’ they told me, ‘but we will attempt to keep them at arm’s length. What do you need?’

One great advantage to living inside the perimeter of a front-line military base like Laarbruch is that the media can, if necessary, be kept firmly outside, or at least controlled when they are allowed in. We walked towards the cavalcade of black cars. Rob had done the hard work of seeing me through virtually the whole process of release and return, and had been forced to listen to my endless chatter all the way back home. Now we parted company. It struck me that certain people are singled out and hyped to the skies, regardless of their worth; others, perhaps more deserving, are ignored.

We reached the car. There, the Station Warrant Officer, Mr Hogan, saluted me, holding open the car door and shaking my hand firmly. He made me feel very proud.

On the way to the Ops Wing where Helen was waiting, the Station Commander said, ‘When you’ve had half an hour, or however long you want, with Helen, would you mind if we came and shared some champagne with you? We’d like to celebrate your release.’

Having gone through the long emotional reunion with Chris Lunt, and having already spoken to Helen on the phone, I assumed I would be fine. But as I walked up the path that led to the Operations Wing, the ground began to quiver and dissolve. I looked up. Helen was there, at the top of the steps, holding Toni in her arms. Guy came toddling out from behind her, down the stairs towards me, his thick mop of hair shining.

‘Daddy!’ he shouted. I gathered him into my arms, hugged him a long, long hug. I had worried so much in prison that he might have forgotten me, it was fantastic that he still recognised me. In his busy little world, where everything was new all the time, I might have been gone for only a few days. I was overwhelmed.

Then Helen was in my arms and we held one another, long and close. It felt like forever since we had parted. In a little while, we went inside together. Toni, who had been only two months old when I left, a little baby, now looked completely different, a diminutive grown-up, her character emerging. She looked completely adorable, so pretty. My happiness at being with them again was almost unbearable. Helen and I chatted for a while, about this and that, keeping it light, then there was a knock on the door. A woman came in, very well dressed and very friendly. I had never seen her before.

‘Hello,’ she said, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Shall we have a little champagne?’ This was Lady Palin, Sir Roger’s wife. When the champagne had been drunk and we were all feeling bubbly we climbed back into the car to go and meet the press. They shouted questions, endless questions, which I could never have answered. There was nothing I felt up to saying. But they took a library of photographs. When they had finished snapping, we drove round to the base married quarter that had been our family home for the past two years, one in a street full of identical houses. The whole community had turned out to meet us, all our friends. Balloons and banners with the words ‘Welcome home John’, ‘Welcome home Rob’ were everywhere, along with a huge crowd of people. It looked like half the base was there. It was incredibly moving. Lots of people were crying; we were all hugging one another. Disregarding the suggestions that we would want to be alone, we went straight on to Rob’s house, next door, and began a party. We wanted to put ourselves back on the map. Having a drink on base with friends and family, that was when it began to feel like being back home. I felt very much a part of it all again – the Squadron, the Air Force.

Helen Peters: I didn’t actually see John coming down the steps of the aircraft. The RAF didn’t want John and me to have this big meeting at the foot of the runway in front of the world’s press, like we were Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman or something. We didn’t want that either. Some things have to remain private. Still, it was odd to be told that the C-in-C Germany and Station Commander would be welcoming John back publicly, but that I would not. After I thought about it for a minute, I decided they were right. It was better, for John, to have that time alone. So I waited in the VIP lounge with the Senior Medical Officer and the children.

A black car drew up at the door, and John got out. I could see that he was near the edge. I was on the edge of tears myself. ‘I mustn’t,’ I thought, ‘not if he’s going to.’ Guy was getting upset. If he saw both his parents in tears, he’d be bound to start crying too, Toni would join in, and then where would we be – all weeping, collapsed in a wet little heap!

John just needed a few minutes to collect himself. He was painfully, impossibly thin.

John Nichol: Throughout the whole process of release and repatriation, the Royal Air Force treated us absolutely magnificently. They asked us what we wanted to do, and then did it for us. What we wanted, not surprisingly, was the speediest possible reunion with our families and friends.

My parents had never left the shores of Great Britain before. The first time they ever did leave the country was to welcome home a son they thought had been killed. Not bad for your first trip abroad. The RAF detailed a VIP jet to pick them up in Newcastle, served them coffee on board from the VIP china, which thrilled my mother, whisked them over to RAF Laar-bruch, put them up overnight in VIP accommodation, and provided a private room for our first reunion. We could not have asked for more, and we would certainly have expected less. For my parents, it was the trip of a lifetime.