Karl's Kolumn

Last week’s Karl’s Kolumn was the first part of my quest to be a contributing member of the U.S. Air Force, continued after sitting close to a week in a busy transit terminal.

PART 2… Every day I would check with a terminal clerk. Every day a clerk would say, “Take a seat Airman, be ready to go. Are you still waiting to transit to England?”

I’ve been waiting for nearly a week, I replied.

“Don’t move. You’re going today!”

Awhile later the clerk told me I was traveling as an escort for an airman returning to the UK. With that he handed me a large envelope containing the Airman’s orders and mine. “There’s an U.S. Embassy driver outside ready to take you to a BOAC flight to Heathrow Airport. There will be someone there to pick up your companion.”

What about me, I asked. This refrain appeared, nearly daily, every time I went near a military operation.

“Don’t worry. There will be somebody to deliver you to RAF Alconbury, your new assignment.”

That was the first time I heard the name of the air base where I would be cooking.

Outside was a limousine to take us to a train station; me to RAF Alconbury and the airman to the U.S. Embassy in London.

The driver said in answer to my unanswered question, where’s Alconbury? “Don’t worry there’ll be someone there to meet you.”

Geez, I had traveled thousands of miles and nobody could (or would) tell me my destination.

Maybe my traveling companion was a spy or something, I thought.

I wish.

Finally I’m at the train station. I didn’t even ask where I was going when the limo pulled up to the train station.

“Hey guy, don’t you want to hear where you are going?”

“The airman is going to the American Embassy. And you, my friend, are taking the train to Huntingdon. Once there an U.S. Air Force vehicle will transport you to RAF Alconbury, just a few miles down the road.”

The train ride was uneventful, but for a lot of shaking and bumping going on.

Soon enough, I was at the train station in Huntingdon.

But for us handful of train riders and its crew the train station was dark and vacant. The engineer’s banging on the door finally woke up the station operator.

“Where are you going buddy? No matter, our last stop is here. You must be going to RAF Alconbury. The cabbie taking a nap over there will take you to the air base real soon.”

Quick as it was I was showing my I.D. card to the main gate guard. In a handful of minutes it got me to the transit front door.

“The barracks is nearly full; you will find a cot to sleep on. There’s no blanket or pillow. Take that heavy wool coat, put it on and try to get some sleep. It won’t be much, chow opens at 0600. Your first meal is free. You pay for everything else.

“After chow, report to the Clerk at the First Sergeant’s office. He will check you in, assign you to a barracks and update your I.D. card.

“You will get ration cards for smokes, booze, and gas later today. If someone offers to buy any of your ration cards, report to me immediately. I’ll take care of them for you. Black marketing is illegal on base and off base.”

After a week of travels and travails, I can hardly believe RAF Alconbury will now be my home for the next three years.