January 1982. Minus 26 Degrees – Gate Guard Duty RAF Hereford – Tony Harte (Non Member)

Britain is in the grip of a vice-like winter not seen since 1963, with snow and ice squeezing the country’s tiny testes tightly. Before storms were given names like ‘Dennis’, this was simply known as Britain’s ‘Big Snow 82′. And it was bloody awful.

A new recruit begins his 12 hour night shift on the main gate in the depths of western England. Yes sir, twas -26 C degrees that sundown, and I was losing my extremities. The record books still confirm that it was the lowest temperature ever recorded in England, and – on that particular day – colder than the North Pole.
Purely co-incidentally, and with iceberg-sized irony, the RAF Station Credenhill, Hereford prepares that evening for the planned visit of the resolute mountain climber and intrepid explorer, Sir Chris Bonington. We were all jolly excited to welcome a British hero of such derring-do and distinction. The Happy and Glorious bunting (albeit frozen stiff) told us so.

Like a Snow Angel (2nd Class), I, the spotty bum-fluffed 18 year old trainee is told to climb into Sir Chris’s old car on arrival, and escort him down through the camp to the Station Theatre – where the latter is to give a Presentation on his recent pioneering conquest of Mount Everest.

In the moonlight en route from Main Gate to Theatre, the big hit of the time ‘Don’t You Want Me’ by The Human League comes on his car radio.
“This ’synthypop’ is the future of music, dear boy” declared big bearded pathfinder Sir Chris to this bemused young airman. Then, barely as the song had confirmed she was indeed ‘working as a waitress in a cocktail bar’, the fearless top trekker lost control of his icy back-end and we slid down a steep slope – becoming firmly stuck in an almighty snowdrift.

Well, our hero’s stoic resilience and enduring fortitude stand for very little when you’re trapped in a frozen 1974 Volvo Estate .. sans crampons and a Tibetan Sherpa.
I looked across at his all askew glasses and ruddy cheeks as I fumble in the foot-well for my blue beret; my face pressed against the window.
“Well this is a tiresome pickle” said the stalwart Sir Chris. The 2 of us have to be rescued by 4 very grumbly freezing cold airmen tugging a big rope.

Yes, life’s fickle frostbitten finger meant that although Sir Chris had recently conquered the mighty Kongur, ‘China’s elusive summit’, we had somehow come a cropper at less altitude; .. under a cider apple tree, just outside the NAAFI, in Hereford!

Mr Bonington’s reputation as a heroic trailblazing explorer (and gold Blue Peter badge holder) took a swipe; although his balding-tyred Volvo should carry much of the blame.
Having been tormented by the tundra, we warmed with a mulled local cider and Cornish pastie. Our hero’s beard – recently covered in Chinese ice crystals – now carried crumbs of Ginster’s finest.

Living to fight another day, as the juke box played ‘Tainted Love’, good old Chris tapped his foot and broke into a smile. Whilst I, his giddy AC assistant – still shivering and shaking uncontrollably like a defecating whippet – couldn’t wait to tell my tale. .. Although, I expected no one would ever believe me!