Part 7. The boys in blue.
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Alan led the way down the corridor, until he stopped at the door.
Robert recognised it; it was Dave Robinson's old Office.
"We'll get you a new name board," Alan said as they entered.
"Have you heard from Dave since he resigned?" Alan asked.
"He's flying as first officer on 747's, and hoping to get his captaincy in the New Year." Robert replied.
"Good for him," Alan said, "I'm afraid the next few months are going to be hectic for you," nodding to the pile of folders on the desk.
"In two days, you will leave for America, Arizona actually. They have a dedicated ground attack base there. You'll be with Tim, Tom Bell and Bill O'Neil. One of those folders spells it all out for you.
You'll have four weeks, to learn all you can about the A10, how it fly's, its strong points, and it's weak ones. When you return, Dave Hardy, Dick Winter, Jim Robbins and Bob James will go out on the same course.
I'm hoping that shortly after your return, we will be getting our own A10's. So we can start flight training, there will be civilian engineers from Rolls Royce and BA Systems, along with the electronic boffins deployed here.
Mainly to familiarise our ground crews, but to also, sort out any bugs that crop up during the flight training.
I hardly need to tell you Robbie; that speed will be crucial; the brass want you out there by July at the latest."
"I understand sir." He replied.
"Well I'll let you get started," Alan said as he closed the door.
Robert sat at the desk taking a long look around the office, and then picked up the first folder.
It was after nine, by the time he closed and locked his office door, and made his way to his bedroom, two floors up. The one good aspect, of his rank, meant he had a bedroom to himself.
His valise and laptop were already there; someone had unpacked for him. He unzipped the laptop, bag taking it out, he plugged it into the wall. After Skype came up he connected through to Terry.
The next morning he rounded up Tim, Bill and Tom, and they went to draw desert warfare uniforms. After which they collected their travel documents from admin.
Tim owned a three series, BMW, his pride and joy, and he would be taking them to Brize Norton in it, and leaving it there until they returned.
They were scheduled to leave Brize at eighteen hundred hours in a C-17.
Knowing they would have to be there two hours earlier, due to the red tape that seemed to exist at all airports, both military and civilian, they left at two.
On the flight over the Atlantic, Robert briefed them.
They were going to Fort Call that was situated in the middle of the Arizona Desert. The Fort was quite small compared to other American Bases, so the file had said.
Its main claim to fame was that it controlled dedicated air to ground firing range. American units came there to practice air to ground skills, not only fixed wing, but even attack helicopters.
The other main point, was that it had an A10 simulator; they would be able to practice everything that could be done in a real A10, in the air, safely on the ground.
They would report to a Colonel Raymond Swartz, call sign Stingray, the Base Commander.
Finally Robert distributed some sheets that displayed rank insignia of officers and non-commissioned personnel, while the officer insignia was pretty straight forward, the non-commissioned were bewildering.
They landed at a base in Maryland and transferred to a C-130 for the final leg of their journey to Fort Call.
The heat of the desert hit them like a fist, as the ramp of the Hercules slowly lowered.
The sky was an impossible light blue with not a cloud in it. They grabbing their valises then walked down the ramp.
A Hummer ground to a halt just behind the ramp... A young man in his early twenties jumped out and approached them, stopping a few feet away, he saluted Robert, who returned the salute.
"I'm to conduct you to Colonel Swartz office Sir," he said.
On the drive from dispersal, over to the central administration block, he told them that theirs was the only unit, on the base for training.
From what Robert could see, the base seemed to consist of three large hangars. Built at the side of one was a wide single story brick building. Beyond that was a two story white building, he glimpsed the roofs of others behind that.
The Hummer stopped in front of the white building; the American flag, lying listlessly against the tall flagpole, there was no breeze to move it.
"If you go through the doors there Sir,'" the driver nodded his head in the direction of the door, "Murph will show you to the Colonel."
The four pilots climbed from the vehicle and grabbed their valises, perspiring in their serge uniforms.
On, opening, the door cool air hit their faces.
"Thank God, for air conditioning," Tom Bell muttered.
A man came forward; a name tag pinned to his chest, S/Sgt Murphy it read. He introduced himself; he said they could leave their valises there, and asked them to follow him.
He stopped at the glass panel door and knocked.
"Enter," was heard.
"The British Officers Sir." S/Sgt Murphy announced
He stood to one side allowing the four to enter, once in, he closed the door as he left.
The four lined up before the desk, came to attention, and saluted.
The Colonel sat back in his chair and gave a half-hearted salute back.
Colonel Swartz had been in the air force for thirty-one years.
He had served his country, all over the world. He had flown sixty-four missions during Operation Desert Storm, in the first Iraq war.
A devout believer, in the air to ground war fare, he ran his base on a tough, no nonsense basis.
He looked at the officers before him, noticing the perspiration on their foreheads. His eyes dropped down to the medal ribbons on their chests. These guys have been in at the sharp end he realised.
"Relax gentlemen," he said, in his drawling Texas accent, "Welcome to Fort Call, all we are going to do today, is get you squared away. I'm sure you are ready for a shower," he smiled. "Sergeant Murphy will show you to your quarters and sort you out with something more wearer friendly. After you have cleaned up he'll show you where to get chow, and the Offices Club room. You will begin your training tomorrow at 0900 hundred hours; he'll show you where. Any questions, No, well I'll see you later tonight in the Clubhouse."
Sergeant Murphy showed them their quarters.
All would have their own room, consisting of cot, lockers, drawers, bedside table and a small washstand. A telephone was on the side table, but was only connected for base communication, he warned.
After showing them the bathrooms, he took their measurements down in a small notebook.
Robert gratefully peeled of his uniform in his room, his shirt underneath his jacket black with sweat beneath his armpits, stripped to his shorts he grabbed his wash bag and headed to the showers.
He was hanging his RAF uniform in the locker when Sergeant Murphy returned; three other enlisted men were with him, each carrying a large pile of clothes, shoes and boots.
The sergeant deposited his pile on Robert's bed.
"You should find them more comfortable to wear Sir, dress of the day is shirt and slacks like mine," he said. He reached into his pocket and removed a plastic nametag.
