Cyprus, Island of Love

Well that’s what it said on the embroidered souvenir I bought my Nan. But it was far more exciting for a young lad just turned eighteen who had not left England before. I mean, if you squint at the old school atlas in a certain way it’s almost in the Middle East, flying carpets, Kasbahs, Turkish Delight and all that.

We were late arriving (dear old RAF) but played it cool for a few days, reconnaissance, acclimatise and then it’s the weekend. Bolstered by lurid tales of the infamous Spitfire Club in Farmagusta Dave C and yours truly hit the strip determined to uphold the honour of Signals Platoon, out-numbered as we were by MT Pltn and these B Coy fellows. Like thousands of Brits before us we first put our toes gingerly in the water - at the Andy Capp Bar - egg, beans and chips just like home!

Fortunately, a squad of Irish Rangers took us in hand and we spent the rest of the night topping-up our pints of Keo under the table with Paddy Whiskey courtesy of their NAFFI. I can’t speak for Dave C but I woke up in the early hours, crawled from under the table and manfully commenced round two. About four in the morning the Rangers’ bus arrived and we helped load the bodies on board and for that act of kindness their driver went out of his way and took us back to Dekhlia. It was light as we negotiated the gate guard. As Dave C and I crawled into our pits we were both very grateful it was now Sunday.

Some twelve hours later we were both in the WRVS canteen waiting for the outgoing bus but our hearts aren’t in it. Faced with death by liver failure we decided to heed the MO’s earlier warnings about extravagance and stay on base. That could have been such a good move but what went wrong? Was the impromptu table tennis marathon too energetic or did that matronly “Weaver” with the roving eye spike my orange squash?

Whatever abuse had been performed on my body the reckoning arrived mid Monday morning on the training range in some particularly high temperatures. First my skull shrunk two cap sizes and then my knees refused to take my weight. I can only remember a series of “interviews” with various NCOs and Officers of increasing rank and indignation culminating with a dressing down from a RAF type in Akrotiri hospital followed by 48 hours light duties confined to barracks.

Wednesday arrived. Still confined to barracks but today is the amphibious assault. Do they really think they can stop me throwing myself ashore from a landing craft like Sean Connery? No way. Kit on. Get in the middle of the crowd and down to the quay. There it is, my first vessel of war - a rusty drop-ramp ferry complete with ice-cream chiller, cold drinks and a section from the Army Kinematic Corps filming for Midlands Today!

Well the ferry might be old but the skipper knew his business, we eventually rammed the beach and a hundred or so warriors disembarked off the ramp at speed and deployed inland. But what’s this? Kinema types and Officers are in a huddle; murmurs of insufficient drama, do it again? And so we re-embark, the ferry backs off 100 metres and sluggishly creeps forward again. This time the ramp is lowered early and we glide to a halt before we hit the beach, ah now it’s clear, the film boys want us to splash ashore - much more dramatic. Unfortunately, no-one checked the water’s depth beforehand and we front guys threw ourselves into chest-high saltwater while the guys at the back launched themselves into a threshing melee of near drowned squaddies…

I don’t think that news-reel was shown on Midlands Today but I may be wrong.