'Survival 101 - NOT the Bear Grylls Way' by Brian Mollan

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Prior to commencing Royal Naval flying training, prospective aircrew were required to undergo –

 

Dunking, where you are strapped into a dummy chopper fuselage, dumped into a pool,

turned upside down, and you need to unstrap, escape through an open ‘window’ and make

your way to the surface.

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Survival training. Part of this is classroom theory, and part is practical in the field. Briefing for the practical part advised us that we would be strip searched down to our 'sox and jox' for ‘contraband’, before re-dressing and being taken out to a remote area of the New Forest. On the first day, our task was for each team to build their shelter. On the second day, each team would be given a dead, feathered chicken to eat.

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Unsure about how much Dabtoes could teach Bootnecks about survival, and pursuant to the Bootneck mantra that ‘ any fool can be uncomfortable ‘, I hatched my plan.

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Bear in mind that this took place in the early 1960s, long before mobile phones and other modern gizmos. In those days it was rotary dial phones, and there were plenty of public, un-vandelised telephone boxes, where, to make a phone call, you pushed three ( old ) pennies into a slot and pushed button ‘A’ when the person you were calling answered.

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So the first part of my survival plan was to have the cost of a call, in the form of three pennies, secreted in my socks under my feet. These went undetected in the stip-search. Building the shelter was quickly achieved, leaving me ample time to sneak off and scout for a public phone box. I then called my girlfriend, gave her my ‘ shopping list ‘, and named the rendezvous point and time for the next day.

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The RV went to plan and I snuck back into camp with my ‘ comforts ‘. The chicken was soon stripped, gutted and cooking in a pan in our team’s shelter, emitting a most appetising smell. Our course officer was Royal Navy Lieutenant Ron Gent, ‘ in another life ‘ a very talented artist and cartoonist. Unbeknownst to us, some top brass had decided to conduct a snap inspection of how these potential aircrew were roughing it. As our team were consuming the perfectly cooked chicken, on plates with full cutlery, around the corner came Ron Gent accompanied by the top brass, who were somewhat taken aback by this level of ‘ survival ‘. To this day Ron, now a good personal friend, always blames me for the fact that he never made admiral.