The point of friction then became the officers club, a very pleasant facility with an open-air dance floor and a small club-house and bar, where officers and their ladies (if they were lucky enough to have one) could dine and dance outdoors under the stars and see film shows. All very civilised until one night there was a big brouhaha, when a Landrover arrived on the dance floor driven by an officer of 208 Pursuit and with just about all the squadron pilots draped over it - all a bit scruffy and very well lubricated.
There was a formal taking of names and next day a summary of evidence was ordered against the putative driver. Of course, none of the witnesses, including all those on the Landrover, could remember who was driving, nor who were the other passengers. Not much evidence to summarise! Nevertheless poor Peewee (Bush) got done for driving an over laden vehicle and had to do the Axminster Shuffle for the AOC.
We ticked our monthly night flying boxes on the night of the full moon, as befitted a Day Fighter/Reconnaissance squadron, which at least enabled some to take their wives or lady-friends for a highly illegal ride in a T7. On one such night we were pounding the circuit doing our statutory number of landings, when we were told by Air Traffic that a Group Captain at the Club had ordered us to leave the circuit because we were disrupting the film show. So Jack Fryer, my fellow flight commander and great friend, led us on a delightful tale-chase along the canal until we found a P&O liner in transit. We pulled up into a tight box and started doing aerobatics to entertain the passengers. The next few minutes were some of the most sublime moments of my flying career. It was a gorgeous night; the horizon was pin- sharp, the visibility was such that you could see every rivet on the neighbouring aircraft, the air was smooth as a babe’s bum and there was no dazzle. We had a message from Abu Sueir that it had not been the Station Commander who ordered us away from the circuit, so Jack took the show back over the station and the pooh hit the fan. From the brightly lit club all that could be seen was the constellation of nay lights gyrating accompanied by the rising and falling howl of the famous Meteor “Blue Note” (which came from the cannon ports, not the engines). On landing we were met by our revered Stationmaster Pat Hanafin who, as usual, took the flack; he took Jack aside and said “Jack, I think I dreamt just now that some Meteors were doing aerobatics over the station. Don’t let me have that dream ever again!” Luckily. no law could be found against night formation aerobatics. These confrontations heightened our sense of being a beleaguered minority and reinforced our squadron solidarity.
