fruity sheriff

Fruity Sheriff

That's the plane down, now for me. The heart rate's dropping and the sweat glands are going into reverse. Now I'm off the plane I'm full of confidence. "Nothing to it really, is there?" I get a sideways glance from Yorkie that says something like "you aint seen nothing yet".

We casually make our way into the terminal building to be met by US Customs and Immigration.

"Passport", no please or thank you. Bloody Drongo, Dressed up like a Japanese Admiral, gold braid everywhere, he obviously wasn't too keen on Brit squaddies.

"Got any fruit onya?". This is where I sadly made my first mistake. "Fruit Sheriff, why's that, feeling peckish?" Thank goodness he wasn't armed. If the look he gave me could be converted to calibre, I'd have got a .45 right between the eyes.

Here I was, not more than 15 minutes on the ground and I was putting Anglo-US relations on the line. Don't push it Chatty, just give him what he wants.

"Got any fruit? If you have it's gotta be handed over". 3 oranges and a banana, are they really worth an International incident? I still wonder whether he had a market stall outside somewhere which was stocked by incoming flights.

We were overnighting in New York and outside we were ushered into a stretch limo, not quite as stretchy as the ones you see now, but it was still bigger than anything I'd seen before. "Where we going?" I asked the driver in my best pigeon American accent.

"Skyways Hotel".

Not your actual Hilton, but definitely an improvement on the Union Jack Club.

Yorkie and I were sharing a room, two singles thankfully, I didn't know him that well.

My first American Hotel. TVs in every room, phones in every room, there was even one in the loo. Don't ask me why, but there it was. Maybe just in case the paper ran out.

My stay at the Skyways was so uneventful that the only two things I can recall are the noise that woke us in the morning, and the food. The noise was the "Garbage Trucks". 05.30 and I thought we were under attack. Look out of the window and there they were. Huge monsters grabbing enormous bins and devouring the contents in milliseconds. As with anything else American, these trucks were bigger than life, and the engines sounded as though they'd been stolen from a front line tank.

The food, what can I say? and it was all free. I thought an English breakfast was the ultimate. Eggs anyway you could imagine, Ham cooked to perfection, Potato waffles and on and on and on. The list was endless. As much as you wanted. I ate like a man possessed. I hope they don't weigh me at the Airport again.

Suddenly it hits me. Airport. I've got to go through all that agony again. Perhaps I shouldn't have eaten so much. If you throw up on a plane doing 500mph would the bits be like shrapnel and wipe out the crew and passengers. Perhaps a seat near the chemical ejection seat would be a good move.

At least the Stretch Limo was no problem, it looked even bigger in daylight.

Soon we arrived at Idlewild and I was going to keep a lookout for a market stall outside. As long as I don't bump into General Custer again we should be OK. Boarding passes at the ready, we shuffle along to the gate leading to the aircraft. I do my quick inspection of the plane as we cross the bridge. It looks alright, No rivets visibly missing, 4 engines, shame I couldn't check the tyre pressures.

I wonder if it's the same plane. One way to find out. Check all the arms rests. There's one Boeing 707 with my fingerprints embedded into an arm rest. Could this be the one?

Again we go through the process of what to do when we hurtle into the ground, sea, or on this leg, the Grand Canyon. Really cheerful lot these cabin crew. Is it really worth going through all that crap? Have any of those tried to put on a lifejacket at an angle of 45 degrees doing 550mph heading towards a granite canyon? They've got to be jesting.

15 minutes later we are airborne. I won't go through the stress routine described in my Heathrow departure. But when I make out my next Will I'll be leaving my body to medical science. My production of Adrenaline must be abnormal, I was going higher and faster than the plane.

A few bumps, banks, climbs, descents, food, drink, fags, fags, fags, later the pilot informs all aboard that we are making our approach to San Francisco International. Again we go through the routine of noise, shudders, bits going in and out.

This time it's daylight so I'll watch things happening as we come into land. If only I'd known what I was in for I would have put on a blindfold. A couple of quick circuits round so the pilot can point out some local land marks while he's hunting for the runway. San Francisco Bay area, the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz.

Suddenly we're heading out to sea again. He's lost his way and we're going somewhere else. We start banking, we carry on banking. Between panic attacks I calculate that one more bank like those last two and we'll have performed a complete victory roll. Level out, start descending, I say to Alan that the sea's getting a bit close. Down, down, down. Even the blokes in the boats are staring up wide eyed. Feel under my seat to make sure my life jacket is there. As if from nowhere we are suddenly above the runway. Thump, screech, (not me, the wheels) and we are down.

Why, when they are talking doom and gloom, don't the cabin staff mention that our next runway reaches out into the sea. Why should they? By now the word has very likely got round that there's a paranoid Squaddie on board. Let's see how far we can push him before he breaks.