The Fabulous Biker Boys

One of the best bits about Squadron life is the detachments - or at least, it was then before the world became a bit more serious with its Iraq, Kosovo and the like.  In those days, for sure there was work to be done but there were also nice times to be had and for those with an adventurous frame of mind Sardinia provided a fine playground when off-duty from our annual visit to drop bombs and fire guns at the Weapons Range up the road from the NATO base at Decimomannu, known to all as "Deci".

So it was that some of us with recreation in mind had taken our bicycles as part of the Squadron pack-up - incidentally, even now whenever I see a Hercules pass over, I wonder if it is carrying as much non-service junk as we used to stuff into our provided transport.  The bikes were taken primarily for getting around the Deci Ramp but come the weekend a bunch of us decided to pedal over to the west coast of the island - some 40 miles away - and to sleep rough under ponchos and bivouacs.

Our bikes were hardly the touring variety but, no matter, we cobbled together panniers made from discarded ammo boxes and these were tied to mudguards and racks with lashing tape and even took along a briefcase thereby having the space to carry our spare socks, toothbrushes, horse liniment, etc.  The cookhouse generously provided us with cans of beans, packs of bacon, loaves, tea, coffee, etc. and so loaded we brave souls set off toward Carbonia.  Brave, that is, until the rain started.

We sheltered a while in an old Cow Shed but this was hardly Des Res so when the rain abated we sprinted toward the nearby coast and there to find what seemed to be a row of deserted Boathouses.  Even in their dilapidated state they suggested they might be a lot better proposition than sleeping in a smelly Cow Shed or out in the open under a poncho and so an investigation was begun.

As we poked around, the door of one of these dilapidated structures was flung open and a fiery-looking character (a real Bandit-type) furiously asked us in a gruff voice what we were about - at least that’s what we presumed we were being asked.  Not being able to provide a satisfactory answer he then demanded (in pidgin-Deutsch) to know if we were German.   Without knowing the basis of his question we assured him that we were English, not German, and so informed his attitude changed to one of benevolence and our bedraggled bunch was invited inside the Boathouse.  (We had no idea what this nationality question had to do with anything and given his demeanour we didn’t like to ask.  Perhaps a Herman owed him rent or maybe had left a towel on his beach chair).

Once through the door we discovered our host was the ringleader of a bunch of locals who sat within the Boathouse surrounded by flagons of wine.  By the varying wine levels within the bottles it was clear that they had been there for sometime and indeed one did not need to speak Italian (Sardi?) to know the root cause of their collective "speech impediments".  They were sloshed!   However, not so much that they had forgotten their manners for we were further invited to help them drink the remainder.  We added a bottle of Duty-free whiskey to the cocktail cabinet as a contribution.

International conviviality soon developed - amazing how liquor aids translation of unknown tongues - and we learnt that they were a bunch of work mates and neighbours who every weekend took themselves off to these sheds to do exactly what we had disturbed them doing.  That is, to get away from wives and family and to enjoy the company of their friends - much like us being on detachment, I suppose.   Once our intentions were properly understood and they were assured we posed no threat it was then suggested - no, insisted - that we stay the night in the shabby but waterproof Boathouse.  It would have been churlish to refuse, especially given that the rain had returned.

They returned the following morning with even more mates (but no women) and with the sun shining brightly we were left in no doubt that the order of the day was to have a Barbeque as a form of friendship feast.  Odd shaped pieces of meat were produced from various paper bags - is that the discarded bit of a castrated donkey I see there? - and we felt moved to share with them our own provisions, the Baked Beans and Bacon.  They thought this was wonderful and seemingly regarded our contribution as exotic fare the likes of which had not been seen in these parts before.  Indeed, we were urged to eat their grilled meat ( which tasted rather good) at the expense of letting them devour our cans of beans and rashers of bacon of which they clearly could not get enough.  It seemed like a good deal to us and we were pleased to have overdosed on our provisioning.

More wine and beer to lubricate our joints and with the prospect of a tough ride home we left mid-afternoon with the beach party in full swing behind us.  However, before we departed we had to promise to return the following weekend, for we had all been invited to the wedding of one of the Boathouse mates.

The following day given that my legs wouldn’t work - a combination of over-exercise and over-drinking, methinks - it was decided that a motorised vehicle of some type would be a preferable mode of transport rather than bikes if we were to make the invitation.  As we had no chance of liberating a Squadron vehicle a deal was struck with the NAAFI Manager to borrow his Transit van (I don’t recall what we "paid" him) and the next Saturday we retraced our route making sure we were well stocked with complimentary cans of Baked Beans!

The pattern of our stay was much as the previous week albeit this time around that we had taken along a few blankets and sleeping bags to make the sleeping more comfortable.  Our newfound friends were delighted to see us and to convince us of their goodwill toward us we were provided with more local delicacies - I declined the live Black Snails.   We reciprocated and duly handed over the cans of beans.

The wedding was an experience inasmuch as we were regarded as honoured guests and the six of us were sat at the Top Table.  After the meal we had to sing a song - don’t ask what we sang; I can’t remember - and for our efforts we were applauded and each presented with a little net bag of sugared almonds.

Our Wedding present was four bottles of Duty-free Scotch, which was gleefully received and liberally shared between the guests.  Whether this was the catalyst that prompted the knife fight between the families of the Bride and Groom is a matter for debate but we felt at this stage with tables being overturned and chairs being thrown that it was a signal for us to be thanking our hosts for a lovely party and to be discretely making our exit and our way home!

On the following year’s detachment a few of us returned to see if our Sardinian friends were still around but the Boathouse was found firmly locked.  By chance as we drove away we saw one of the mates outside the village shop.  After the recognition of who we were he informed us that their gravel-voiced leader had recently died from throat cancer.  It didn’t seem to be appropriate to ask if they still held their weekend Boathouse parties and so we returned to camp a little saddened but happy to live with the memories of that fun time we had spent the previous year.

Rest assured Ladies; Detachments aren’t all Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll.  Leastwise, it wasn’t then!!

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