How the Cold War drove me to drink

THOUGH I didn’t have the most illustrious of careers in the RAF, I did have some laughs. It was the time of the Cold War, when we would take part in exercises based on a theoretical war with the Warsaw Pact. During one exercise, a siren alerted us to an air attack, and a group of us ran to a slit trench. We were encumbered by our helmets and the oversized NBC (nuclear biological chemical) suits we were wearing. Another airman, nicknamed Doberman (after the Sgt Bilko character), was beside me. We joined hands and continued running, our faces still set in determined expressions. We heard the siren for the next exercise, but my friend and I decided to sneak off camp, only to return a couple of hours later much the worse for wear after a visit to a nearby pub. We were singing at the front gate when we were bundled over by the guards, with a sergeant telling us we were in big trouble. Face down on the ground, feet and hands holding me still, I could just call out to my mate: ‘Vladimir, hide the vodka!’ Of course, he was empty-handed!