The Band and the Staish

The Band and the Staish.

When a civilian signs on the dotted line and becomes a member of Her
Majesty's Armed Forces, the Queen expects that the new recruit will be
available for duty twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes of every
day.

The acceptance of other paid employment whilst a serving
member of the armed forces is not pleasing to her Majesty. Despite her
wishes, however, many military personnel find that their generous
off-duty time can be utilised for alternative employment.

Early in my RAF career, I discovered that the provision of
music for the masses provided a useful, if somewhat unimpressive source
of additional income. Shortly after I had been posted to my first
fighter squadron I joined a local band whose function appeared to be
the ritual destruction of the popular music of the day. Due, no doubt
to the shortage of bands in the area, we were remarkably active and
played frequently in the local area.

Although the RAF was, by
comparison with the other services, quite relaxed about command
structure, there were certain boundaries that were inviolate. Junior
ranks did not tread the sacred ground of either the sergeants' or the
officers' mess. It was with some trepidation that I discovered that we
had been booked to perform at the officers' mess monthly dinner dance.

Despite being a relative newcomer to the base, I was
concerned about the possibility of the discovery of my identity and
decided to adopt measures aimed at concealment. A false moustache and
sunglasses would probably suffice, I thought. The majority of attention
would most probably be attracted to our lead singer, a posturing,
strutting local man who considered himself to be the natural successor
to the recently departed Eddie Cochran and few people would even notice
the shy, retiring lead guitarist skulking behind the maestro.

Thus prepared, we played softly throughout the dinner. All was well. I
had not attracted so much as a second glance from my squadron commander
whom I assumed would recognise me were I to be recognisable. As the
alcohol flowed more freely, both on and off the stage, the tempo of the
music increased and very soon, dignity decreased in direct proportion.
Squadron Leaders and Wing Commanders threw caution to the winds and
displayed remarkable agility as they enthusiastically tackled the
incomprehensible popular dance movements demanded by the music of that
period.

Every RAF base has, at its helm, a senior officer,
usually a Group Captain. In the parlance of the air force, this
gentleman is generally referred to as the 'Staish', the word being an
abbreviation of Station Commander. The Staish, as a general rule,
retains his dignity and composure at all times. Not for such
dignitaries is the traditional hurling of bread rolls after dinner. Not
for them is the abandonment of personal standards of behaviour by
excessive consumption of intoxicating beverages.

The astute
reader will probably surmise that, as the hour grows late, the Station
Commander is probably going to be the most sober of those present. A
sober senior officer will realise that in order to keep his good lady
contented he will have to ask her to dance. Patently, a dance such as
the twist would necessitate a sacrifice of dignity. A nice waltz would
be just the ticket and a junior officer was despatched to the bandstand
to make the request.

"We don't do waltzes, mate." Our leader was totally unskilled in any
form of social grace.
"Well then, anything a bit slow. The Staish wants to have a dance with
his wife."

To the somewhat shaky strains of 'Unchained Melody' the station
commander gathered his amply proportioned wife in a fond but dignified
embrace and together, they sailed around the dance floor. As they
passed the stage for the first time I managed to avoid his glance by
concentrating on my guitar. I started to perspire freely, thereby
loosening the glue that retained my moustache. To my horror, the
confounded thing came adrift at one side just as the happy couple
approached the stage on their second circuit. The great man favoured me
with a puzzled stare. I was spared further embarrassment as his partner
wheeled him into a complicated manoeuvre known to the exponents of
ballroom dancing as a reverse turn. Mrs Staish squealed as his full
weight descended on her foot. In the resultant confusion, I was able to
take advantage of a four bar rest and rip off the offending
appendage.

Barefaced, I waited with some apprehension for the
pair to complete another circuit of the floor. Happily, the band ran
out of steam and the song came to a blissful but rather messy
conclusion. His husbandly duty performed, the Staish took no further
part in the proceedings and shortly afterwards made an exit. To my
intense relief, the remainder of the evening passed without further
mishap.

Some months subsequently, I had decided to apply for training as a
pilot. My initial interview with the Squadron Commander passed without
comment and my request was forwarded for the mandatory consideration of
the Station Commander. I was fairly sure that I would not be recognised
and presented myself on the appointed date with shoes gleaming and a
fresh haircut. The meeting went reasonably well and at the conclusion,
he wished me well as he signed his approval of my request. I favoured
him with a salute that would have gladdened the heart of my old drill
instructor and turned to go.

As I reached the door, he spoke
again.

"Are you still playing guitar, corporal? That was just about the worst
version of Unchained Melody that I have ever heard in my life!" He
smiled benignly. "I see you shaved off the moustache. Good thing too.
It didn't suit you."