As we stepped off the Royal Navy SeaKing Commando helicopter into the Anglesey twilight, five young British beauties in summery party frocks were gathered on the drive of the manor home to greet us. Although built to drop off Royal Marines into battle, this time the SeaKing was dropping off four Royal Navy officers and one U.S. Marine Officer for a dinner party at country home in Wales. Instead of battle dress, we all wore coats and ties, but then coat and tie might be battle dress on these occasions. Nothing like arriving in style, eh, Commander Bond?

How does one arrive in such an enviable position? First, one either joins the Royal Navy and completes all the events needed to become an officer and helicopter pilot or, alternatively, be, like I was, the U.S. Marine Corps exchange officer. Of course, I had gone through a long, difficult process to become a Marine Corps officer and a Naval Aviator, but that’s another story.

My duties as an exchange officer from the Marine Corps to the Royal Navy required me to complete aircraft transition training into the SeaKing MK IV Commando helicopter. A British-built version of the Sikorsky H-3, the Commando fulfilled the same mission as the Marines’ medium-lift helicopter, the CH-46, i.e., carrying up to 24 Marines into battle and providing them with ammunition, food, and everything else they need to fight. Specially trained Royal Navy aviators, called the “Junglies” in honor of their actions in Borneo in 1962 in transporting Royal Marines to fight an insurgency, fly the Commando SeaKings. To keep familiarity with operations between allies with similar missions, the U.S. Marine Corps, and the Royal Navy each keep an exchange officer with their opposite number. I drew the lucky straw and in August, 1983, joined 846 Squadron for a two-year tour.

Among many other tasks, Junglie pilots must complete as part of the transition syllabus to the SeaKing MK 4 helicopter is mountain flying. The closest mountains to the Junglies home station, Royal Naval Air Station (RNAS) Yeovilton in Somerset, are the ones found in Snowdonia National Park in Wales, so in due course we were on our way, flying the hour and a half from Somerset to Wales. While flying there, we would be based at Royal Air Force (RAF) Air Station Valley, a lovely little base on the island of Anglesey. Flying with me on that leg was a fearless (and since he was one of the original founders of the adventure school Outward Bound, I mean truly fearless) friend, Andy Jeffry. He was at the flight controls when I saw up ahead one of those vast British – not English, since we were in Wales – country homes. Just looking at the massive structure, I could imagine it had, oh, at a minimum, 100 rooms. Probably owned by the National Trust, I thought, since most are now days. I expected Andy to turn away and bypass the estate. Instead, he said, “Watch this”, and pointed the aircraft directly at it.

I always hate it when I am flying with a pilot who says the words “Watch this”. You know he is going to scare the hell out of you momentarily, if not kill you outright in a very messy crash. We had been flying at 1,000 feet above the ground, but now Andy put the helicopter into a dive, flashing low and loud right over the manor at 200 feet.

“Oh, man, you are going to get us in soooo much trouble”, I said, but my friend just laughed and turned back for another pass. I was on the verge of taking the controls away from him when I saw a young woman run out the front door and onto the estate’s drive. She was waving at us and as we got lower I could see she was jumping up and down and smiling. Andy did a third pass, not so low this time, waggling our rotors as we went by. He rolled out on the right heading for RAF Valley and in fifteen minutes we were on the ground. After we shut the aircraft down, we walked over to base operations to make sure our flight plan was closed and join up with the other crews who had arrived ahead of us. As we entered, the phone was ringing.

“Are you Lieutenant Jeffry from 846 Squadron?” the duty officer asked. When my copilot nodded yes, the duty officer handed him the phone.

“Hello. Yes, it’s me. There will be five of us. Seven-ish? Of course, we’ll see you then. Cheers!” my friend said. Turning to me, he said, “Coat and tie at six thirty. Dinner party, see you in a bit.” No further explanation offered, none asked for.

Andy had everything, including our transportation to the estate, planned. At 6:30 five of us, all wearing the requisite coat and tie, were gathered in base operations. Ten minutes later, one of our squadron SeaKings taxied up in front of the building. The crew was headed out for night flying and would be dropping us off on the way. We boarded, the helicopter lifted off, and in short order we were landing on the lawn in front of the manor house we had buzzed earlier.

It seems that the daughter of the lady of the house was dating one of the officers in 846 Squadron and had been warned that we were on the way to RAF Valley for a few days, hence the low passes to let her know we had arrived. As soon as she knew the number of officers in our party, she called the appropriate number of girlfriends. Now they were all gathered to greet us as we made our grand entrance. As the departing helicopter climbed into the evening sky we walked across the grass to meet the waiting young women. Like I said, there is nothing like arriving in style.

It was quickly established that I was married and therefore a fifth wheel, but one to be tolerated graciously. All sexual tension removed, at least in my case, we proceeded to have a wonderful evening.

Once fully staffed with servants and other retainers, only the young woman hostess and her mother lived in the country house now. They had cleaners and helpers come in during the day, but none lived there full time. The manor would pass from the family when her mother died, since, given inheritance taxes and maintenance costs, the daughter would no longer have the means to keep it. Nor, from what they both said, did the two women have any interest in keeping it up any longer. The way of life it was created for had passed, so it was time for the manor to become National Trust and the remaining family, in the sole person of the young hostess, to move on in life without it. In the meanwhile, it was party time!

As we came noisily into the entrance hall, the hostess said we really must say hello to her mother, so we passed on through the entrance hall back to what had been a staff breakfast room off the kitchen, where her mother sat playing bridge with friends. She laughed as she saw us and said, “Have a nice time, all” before going back to her cards.

We proceeded to the “Elephant Room”, so called because it was decorated with ivory tusks and elephant feet table legs. It had been her father’s study, what would now be called a “man cave”, but perfect for young ladies to entertain young Naval officers on a lovely Welch evening. Drinks were poured, a small buffet had been put out, and laughter sounded. The young women and young men were having a lovely time together and being polite to me, but I left them to themselves and went exploring. It was the first time I had been in a “country house” without the velvet rope, so I could pull down the books in the library to see if they had ever been read (they had) and examine the photos on the tables. After an hour or so, I re-joined the group to see them sitting on the floor of yet another room, this time playing with the model train set that had been the pride and joy of our hostess’ father. I reflected on how this was the second time I had seen a rich man’s toy train set, the first had been in France some years before.

All things end, even evenings in the company of British beauties. At the end of this very pleasant evening, the four young ladies departed alone in their cars, leaving only the lady of the house, her daughter, and five rather tipsy aviators. At that point, it occurred to all that Andy’s planning hadn’t been quite complete. We five had no way to get back to the base, since the helicopter that dropped us off wouldn’t be returning. Calling two taxies was proposed, but the lady of the house just laughed and said, “I’ll drive you back”, so we all trooped out into the night to climb aboard her car.

She had a BMW, a big one by British standards, but still a four-passenger vehicle. Again, she laughed and motioned us all to get in. Being the senior officer, I called shotgun and took the front passenger seat. With three officers squeezed into the back seat we were still short one place. Never at a loss, our hostess/driver just smiled and opened the sun roof. The last passenger was the most junior pilot, so he got to sit on the center console and stick his head up through the sunroof. It was, of course, being the United Kingdom, raining a bit at this point. At the last moment the daughter of the house decided she would go with us, so she climbed in the back and stretched herself out across the laps of the three officers in the back, much to their mutual delight.

The lady of the house started the engine and gave the car a little rev, even though it was hard to hear the engine over the giggles, female and male, coming from the back seat. Just before she put the car into gear, she looked over at me and said, “I like BMWs much better than Mercedes.” “Why”, I asked. “Because they are faster”, she said, before roaring off into the night, shooting out of the drive into the narrow two-lane road bordering the estate. As we tore down the skinny, Welch road back towards RAF Valley, the giggling and laughter coming from the back seat got louder, eventually becoming nearly loud enough to cover the sound of the screams from the pilot with his head sticking up through the sunroof. It’s not all that comfortable being exposed to rain hitting your face a 60 plus miles per hour. Every now and then the car would nearly become airborne as we hit a rise in the road before it slammed back down, bottoming out the shock absorbers.  

The Irish Republican Army (IRA) was in the middle of one of their periodic bombing campaigns, so security on all British military bases was at a very high level. Only specially cleared civilian vehicles were supposed to be admitted to the bases and then only in the daytime. The RAF sentries at the gate came to attention, weapons ready, when the BMW with a head sticking out through the sunroof came to a stop at the barrier in front of the gate. After shinning a flashlight into the back seat and seeing the three officers with a girl across their laps and into the front seat at the distinguished looking lady driver, the wet, red-faced officer with the rain beaten face, and the innocent looking American in the passenger seat, the sentry just shook his head as he motioned the barrier to be raised and for us to proceed. As we passed, I heard him say to the other guards, “They could not possibly be IRA.” We exited the car in front of the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters and waved goodbye as the ladies drove off into the night. Thus ended the Dinner Party. Truly, a good time was had by all.  

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