Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

But everyone got through the training and I actually enjoyed it in the end. It was a tri-service course, so it brought Army, Navy and RAF together. We’ve all got the same ethos, and it was great socially too.

I began my work in December 2008, and by the end of January 2009 I was back at RAF Odiham as a QHI on ‘B’ Flight, 18 Sqn – the Chinook OCF.

Monday March 2nd looked like being a pretty crap day. I was at my desk in the OCF preparing for the day ahead and I was pretty pissed off because aside from it being a Monday, I’d been given a really shitty job to do. The Flight had gone to RAF Leeming and I’d been told I had to stay behind and sort out some statistics that were going to take me hours. I was not a happy bunny, although – as I was to learn – there was an agenda at work behind my being kept at Odiham. My mood wasn’t improved when Squadron Leader Geary, the Squadron 2i/c, came to see me and said, ‘Frenchie, you need to go and see OC 27 Sqn at 11:00hrs.’

‘Er… okay. What have I done now?’ I ask, laughing.

‘Dunno,’ says Geary, ‘but he wants to see you. 11:00hrs sharp. Be there!’ and with that he was gone. As he shuts the door my brain goes into overdrive trying to work out what on earth the OC could want with me. I’d officially left 27 Sqn on July 14th 2008 when I went off to Shawbury to do the QHI course, and although Dom Toriati was still in charge of the Squadron, he wasn’t my boss anymore. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good. I wrack my brain, and slowly a thought comes to mind that makes my heart sink.

Three days previously, on the Friday night, there’d been a ‘dining-in’ night at the Mess. It was a big one and I’d got properly shit-faced. I still had some issues surrounding what had happened in theatre on my last Det at the time – I was quick to anger and was also having trouble sleeping. I’d sleep, but it felt like I wasn’t resting, so whether I slept ten hours through or one hour I’d still feel like I hadn’t been to bed at all. It was really starting to get me down. I was tired and irritable and probably drinking more than was good for me. So now I’m sat there thinking, What did I say? Did I tell anyone a few home truths?

All these things are racing around in my mind and I put two and two together and make four. Obviously I’ve offended someone, it’s gone right to the top and I’m in for the mother of all bollockings. I have no idea what I’ve done – how could I? I can barely remember going to bed that night. ‘Oh God, I’ve probably been rude to Dom Toriati or one of his guests and I’m about to get my ass chewed,’ I decide.

So, 10:50 comes, and by 10:55 I’m standing outside his office – five minutes early so I can prepare myself for the gathering storm. Also I won’t be out of breath, sweating or otherwise uncomfortable as I stand before the boss. I check my watch and at 10:59 and 55 seconds, I knock smartly on his door.

‘Come in,’ he says, the sound muffled through the barrier between us. I open the door and march through. He’s on the phone and he looks serious. I’m thinking, ‘Oh shit the bed! This isn’t good.’

I have a lot of respect for Dom; he’s a great bloke and he’d been a really good boss when I served under him, but my God he could deliver a bollocking! I’m looking at him and I can see he’s winding the phone call up and as he bids farewell to the person on the other end of the line, he begins to stand. That’s when I decide the best form of defence is attack and launch my pre-emptive strike.

‘Sir, if it’s about Friday night, I must say that I have no recollection whatsoever of what I said or did after 23:00hrs, so if I’ve been rude, I am really sorry. I probably said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have said. It’s no excuse, and anything I say now is going to sound like I’m trying to justify it, so all I’m going to say is sorry.’

The words are pouring out like water from a dam; I’m delivering them at machine-gun pace. As I look for a hair shirt to don or a whip for some self-flagellation, he holds his hand up like a police officer halting traffic.

‘Frenchie, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but you might want to stop there before you incriminate yourself.’

His face is a picture of seriousness. I’m still digesting what’s he’s just said and then he deals the hammer blow. The words come from his mouth with meaning and sincerity, but as crisp and flowing as if he’s reading from an Autocue.

‘Frenchie, it is my great honour and pleasure to inform you that you have been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for your actions in the skies over Afghanistan.’

As soon as he finishes, the seriousness is gone; his mouth widens into a big beaming smile.

I’m poleaxed. Dumbstruck. My chin actually drops, my mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ – and I thought that only happened in the movies. There’s a chair behind me. I literally drop into it as my legs buckle under me. That came completely out of left field. I don’t know what to say.

He sits beside me and he’s grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat now. He’s delighted and proud because this is the first DFC for 27 Squadron since they reformed with the Chinook. He told me that Group Captain Mason, the Station Commander, would be coming to see me and that although it was his job to tell me of the award, he’d very kindly given that privilege to Dom.

Ten minutes later, Group Captain Mason arrived, congratulated me and told me how delighted he was that the Chinook Force at RAF Odiham had been recognised thanks to the efforts of me and my crew in Afghanistan. Once everything had calmed down and I’d taken it all in, I asked Dom Toriati if there were any others and he told me, ‘Yes, there’s another one.’ I was delighted because I was pretty certain it would be for Morris. It was obvious – if I’d got one for what I’d done, Morris must be odds on to get one too.

Sadly it wasn’t the case, and for all that I’d been riding high when I was told of the award, that really brought me down to earth again. I was gutted for him. Obviously you wonder in the run-up to the operational awards whether you’ll be in line for anything, and Morris had been geeing me up, telling me that he thought I’d get one and I him; I really believed he would. I’m ashamed to say I avoided him in the immediate aftermath of my finding out. Aside from the fact that I’d been sworn to absolute secrecy for twenty-four hours by the Station Commander and the boss, I just didn’t want to have to tell him.

I was truly gutted, but that’s the lottery of the whole thing. And it is a lottery. So many people deserve awards, but the way it’s done is so political – who gets what, when and why. I was recognised for two of the missions I flew in my 2008 Det – the one in ZD575 when we were shot down, and for Op Oqab Sturga six days later. I feel enormously proud and privileged to have been awarded the DFC for those ops, but I couldn’t have done them alone. My crews on the two missions – Alex, Bob, Coops, Andy and Griz – were as much a part of what happened as I was; so to me, the award is for them too.

Fortunately, the crew was acknowledged by the Guild of Air Pilots and Navigators, which awarded Black Cat Two Two its coveted Grand Master’s Commendation for 2008/09, at a lavish banquet in London’s Guildhall. The Guild had earlier recognised all of us by granting the Grand Master’s Commendation for 2007/08 to everyone at the RAF Odiham Chinook Force. The Chinook Force as a whole was also fortunate to receive the award for Best Unit in the inaugural Sun Military Awards in December 2008, beating off stiff competition from 2 Para and HMS Iron Duke . The award was presented by the then Prime Minister Gordon Brown, but we didn’t let that spoil the occasion.