Another Military story gang, seeing as so many of you ex-squaddies comment so nicely about them.
Another apology though. As I've stated before, I was a quarter brat and have at least lived in the Late Great 'British Army of the Rhine', BUT was never anything to do with the Royal Signals, so no grief from you Bleeps and Scaley Backs about incorrect times, dates, procedures or history. Another thank you to the literary gods for Google and the ARRSE website, where so much of the background comes from.
So put on your DPM, grab your 58's and a yellow handbag, and read on...
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After nearly three years in the army and my first stripe, I figured I was done with being shafted for the shitty Christmas shifts.
That year I'd finally been promoted to Woman Lance Corporal and seriously hoped I might be one of the few that got to go home a few days before Christmas, to drive back in my new British Forces Germany car I'd bought almost tax free and hadn't been driven further west than an old school friend's place in Munster.
I had a feeling I wouldn't get away scot-free over the holiday period, but wasn't best pleased when I read on Part Two orders for the duties over Christmas;
'Communications Centre Watch: W L/Cpl Fry E (WRAC R-SIGS).'
OK, I wasn't stagging on at some miserable gate guard standing in the wind, rain or snow for an hour then warming up for two, or worse, wrapped in every piece of clothing I had and walking the exterior fence line with a rifle and a magazine of ten rounds in whichever horrible weather the Rhineland winter might wish to throw at us.
My Christmas day was going to be sat in a comfortable chair, listening for radio messages or phone calls from units that wouldn't be on exercise for another ten days at least; an entire Division that had switched everything off at half past three the afternoon before.
Not only would me and two other unfortunates be clocking on at twenty-two hundred hours on Christmas eve, we wouldn't clock off until ten hundred on Boxing day.
So, no Christmas eve celebrating with my friends, no Christmas day at all, and Boxing Day would be no late breakfast, a shower then a curry lunch or cold meats and a mash of yesterday's leftovers. Yo-ho-fucking-ho.
I looked and saw that another three-person crew was taking over from us for another 36 hours stint, which would get the Divisional HQ through to the weekend with minimal disruption and only six squaddies messed about rather than the twelve it would have been ordinarily.
But my half-sad-half-pissed face was noticed by the Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant, who we were told had first come up with the idea.
"So, Corp' Fry, you think you should be off for the Christmas while some of the other lads and lasses with families have to work?"
"Would it make a difference Mam?" I said, stomping to attention with as much of a cheery smile as I could manage.
"Not really," she returned the smile with just as little feeling, "You went home last year, didn't you?" as if I was being ungrateful.
"No Mam," I said, "nor the year before. Last year I was in Ireland, and it was the same thing, the people with families had first go."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Well, I wasn't here last year so..." she cleared her throat in some evident discomfort, happy that the previous years hadn't been her fault.
"No Mam," I said quick to agree with her.
"More time off in the summer," she said, with a hopeful smile.
"Yes Mam," I was quick to agree again, but also conscious that if I wanted a few weeks off in the summer to go home, God forbid to go visit my parents and younger brother during the college holidays I'd be bottom of that fucking schedule as well -- 'what about the people with families Lance-corporal Fry'...
I was a very proud member of the Women's Royal Army Corps, badged to the Royal Corps of Signal, and trained in all aspects of radio communications, playing around with various kit that was quite top of the range, or so we were told.
We were a Signals Regiment supporting an armoured division, and while we weren't literally waiting with bated breath, I didn't feel that my absence would leave Western Democracy in dire fear of imminent invasion from the Russians.
"I'm trying something new this year," she said, "there's just going to be three of you, on a 36-hour shift each so it's less disruption all around, would have been double that, but," she took a deep breath, "Doesn't take twelve people to sit in a dark room for three days waiting for nothing to happen, when we can minimalize it," She smiled, a quite genuine one I thought, "and, it won't be forgotten, trust me!"
"Thanks Mam," I said, thinking about the extra portion of cold Christmas pudding, or half-a-day off they'd give me, when it suited them of course.
I stopped fretting.
This was what I signed up for of course. I was in the army, and I had no right to bitch about it.
In those days, a minimum of 85% of any operational unit had to be on station constantly, and an 'Active Edge' called at 'any time' would have us out of our beds at stupid o'clock in the morning to pull on our uniforms and equipment, draw weapons and clamber into our vehicles and head out to areas we trained and exercised on.
Sometimes it would be for hours, sometimes longer. I remember the feeling of dread for the first couple as it did all seem extremely real. The old sweats just bitched and grumbled about messed up family lives, and surely, they'd have given us real bullets and we'd have heard the bangs by now.
I'd learned to drive a car before joining up, but with that useful piece of paper in hand, I'd been put forward for my HGV licence to drive the Big Bedford MK radio relay trucks and it was completely brilliant. As a lance corporal I was normally responsible for making sure mine was working, fuelled up and ready to roll at a moment's notice. I was next on the list for learning to drive a FV439, the Royal Signals tracked armoured vehicle that carried Ptarmigan, and lots of other cool battlefield computer kit. We were an armoured regiment, but it was decided I need a heavy goods vehicle licence first, this was of course the British Army and it didn't surprise me.
And of course, an HGV licence was something I could take out into Civvy Street with me, as the regimental driving examiner told me after I passed the test.
So, with a small daysack loaded with a toothbrush, deodorant and some other girly essentials, at twenty-one forty-five on a cold Wednesday Christmas eve I reported to the communication centre -- the Comcen - and met with Lieutenant Swan the orderly officer, on duty until eight the next morning.
Once there we were greeted by six of my colleagues, wearing Christmas party hats, carrying what looked like gifts and having a real smell of booze around them.
Lt Swan pursed her lips, but said nothing, it was Christmas after all.
"There you go Babe," said the departing sergeant with whiskey breath and a sideways leer at me, despite the officer, "ComCen is all yours; radio checks are all done, you'll need to do them at first light tomorrow, then shift change."
"No shift changes sarge," I said, "I'm here until Boxing Day, with another guy, Lance-jack from 14 Troop. Sergeant Martin was supposed to be here but there was some confusion, and he wasn't warned and is already on his way to Dover in his car."
"Oh yeah," said the sergeant with a giggle, "I heard. Poor bastard will have messages waiting for him everywhere, including at his girlfriend's parents' place; if he keeps his head screwed on and keeps it down, we won't see that twa..." he remembered the officer, "fella again much before New Years!" He giggled, "sorry 'bout the language Mam!"
So, it was just me, trying to work out where the other Lance Corporal was. I'd been told that Lance Corporal Tyler was going to be spending this long 36-hour shift with me, and as far as I was concerned, he was late!
I'd checked and I was senior to him by three weeks, and unless they found another sergeant to stand in for the one that hadn't been warned, I was going to be in charge!
The five signallers coming off duty stepped back to allow the officer and I in, snickering quietly to themselves like they had some guilty secret, while the sergeant handed me the appropriate books and signed over everything, following the inspection I'd only observed before, the officer signing next to me.
I stepped into the main signals room and checked everything was switched on, charged, plugged in, glowing or not glowing, depending on what I was looking at. From behind a bank of monitors and equipment came a tall guy, short dark hair and striking green eyes and carrying two mugs of tea.
"Mam!" he said trying to come to attention without spilling his tea, "Can I get you a brew Mam?"
"Not for me, thanks Corp' Tyler," she smiled back at him. For some reason I felt a pang of jealousy! "Right," she continued, "I'll be back for the checks at 0600!"
"We'll see you then Mam," I said, closing the big duty books, and seeing her out of the ComCen.
When I got back, the good-looking, green-eyed man was there, still holding two mugs.
"Corp' Fry?" He said chirpily.
I nodded; hmmmm, nice.
"Ellie, please." I said smiling back. Suddenly any concerns I had about who was in charge disappeared.
"Steve Tyler," he handed me a mug and I took it by the cooler top, reaching out to shake his extended hand, "Pleasure."
"Yeah," I said, "seems you and me both got shafted for the most boring shift in Military history."
"Surely did," said Steve with a sigh, "I reeeeeally upset Major Snow's wife a couple of weeks back, what about you."
"What?" I all but screeched.
"JHQ chess championship, I beat her in the quarter-final."
Major Snow was an old sweat, a savage Squadron Sergeant Major promoted from the ranks, but popular and well-liked. His wife was infamous. Having lost the power and status over an entire battalion of wives and children via the Sergeants Mess, the former SSM's wife had to moulder in the obscurity of the Officers Mess and posher and more remote married quarters, but she still had friends.
"I can see that would make you ideal to work Christmas shifts."