Apache

Just to show the Army Air Corps wasn’t sexist, Apache XZ204 was renamed Ron Jeremy (the fastest dick in Hollywood). We didn’t want the female Groundies to feel left out. It opened up a hundred more elbow-nudging double entendres.

The second of the Boss’s morale boosters was the ordination of every pilot’s tactical callsign. We used the Ugly callsign to talk to each other over a secure military net when we were airborne. To summon each other around the camp, we had insecure personal walkie-talkies. Broadcasting our real names over them was a massive no no, as anyone with a cheap Motorola radio could be listening in.

On the first tour, we just used the acronyms of our official job titles: OC, EWO, QHI, etc. The Boss decided to have some fun. He called a meeting of all the pilots to come up with more amusing tactical callsigns.

It took place one night in the Tactical Planning Facility, a soundproof metal Portakabin round the back of the JHF tent where we went if we needed to discuss something securely. A five-foot-square screen was rigged up in it for viewing the gun tapes during the sortie debriefs. The only problem with the place was temperature control: like our thunderbox rims, its metal shell turned it into a sauna in the summer and a freezer in the winter. But in November it was great.

There were five or six comfy chairs in the TPF – not enough for sixteen bums. There was always a race to get them whenever a pilots’ briefing was called. If you were too slow, you had to sit on a hard chair or just perch. We all made a brew and sat round in a big circle.

‘Right,’ the Boss announced, playing master of ceremonies. ‘These are the rules: the name has to be relevant to something you’ve done or are famous for. It has to be funny, but it can’t be offensive because we can’t go around shouting obscenities over the radio. Most importantly, it has to sound reasonably polite – so I can explain it away to a visiting VIP. I can’t have the general staff thinking we’re all twats. Okay Billy, you’re first. Out you go.’

The pilot being named wasn’t allowed to play any part in the process. Billy’s was quite quick. As soon as someone opened up with the A-Team theme tune – ‘Dur, da, dur, duuurrr, dur duuuuurrr’ – we all got it.

The Boss called Billy back in. ‘Okay Billy. You are “The Face”. Can you work it out?’

Billy just looked puzzled, so Carl helped him out.

‘You’re The Face for two reasons. First, because you always get the face time with the visiting big cheeses.’

‘No, that’s not always true.’

‘Yes it bloody well is,’ the Boss retorted. ‘Do you want me to give you a list?’

Billy grinned. ‘Well, you’ve either got it or you haven’t.’

‘Well said. That’s the polite reason. The real one is because only you think you’re a pretty boy.’

Billy had kippered himself. Carl was ejected next. Billy slipped into the comfy chair he had just vacated, blocking two other pilots. ‘Too slow, gentlemen.’

Carl took longer. Unfortunately for him, there were quite a few suggestions.

‘I’ve got one, but I can’t remember his name,’ the Boss said. ‘Borat’s producer from his Kazakhstan film. You know, the great fat bloke who puts his horrible hairy arse in Borat’s face?’ Despite raucous laughter, it was rejected as too cruel.

‘Okay, what about Cartman from South Park then?’ suggested Geordie, a member of 1 Flight and the squadron’s Combat Search and Rescue Officer. He adopted a cod American accent: ‘Why the fuck not? Fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

But Tony had had a bolt of inspiration. He was a back-seater on 3 Flight, the team with whom we worked closest. We sometimes doubled up on missions, and our tents were next door to each other.

‘I’ve got it! Ewok out of Star Wars. He’s small, strange and hairy, and he’s the EWO – the Electronic Warfare Officer.’

It was perfect. Then it was Nick’s turn.

Nick was another very talented young captain, like Charlotte. They were close friends, having gone to university together, and they flew alongside each other as the two front-seaters on 3 Flight.

Devilishly good looking, with blond hair and blue eyes and a mouth full of Hollywood teeth, the Army Air Corps had never had more of a pin-up than Captain Nick. He’d won the Sword of Honour at Sandhurst, went on to become the first pilot ever to go through training directly onto the Apache, and won the Corps’ own highly coveted Sword of Excellence while he was at it. Not a bad CV. He’d become a general one day, if he stayed in the army. He had the talent. More importantly, he had the luck.

Women melted in front of Nick’s charm and old-fashioned chivalry. He left a string of them utterly broken-hearted wherever he went. He was always good humoured, never swore, and didn’t like pornography.