The first time I met Nixon was at Glasgow Central Station. He was from Rutherglen, and I was from Mauchline. We were about to embark on a journey that was to change our two young lives forever. Our destination, Newark, from where we would be transported by bus to RAF Swinderby to begin our basic training. We became friends instantly and stayed pals until he died a few years ago. I can’t remember what we talked about, but it was reassuring to know I had another Scot with me. I can just remember being chuffed to have made a pal.
Budding physiotherapists
We enlisted to be trained in the Medical Branch as physiotherapists, but first there were six weeks of ‘square bashing’ to get through. To be honest, I didn’t think I would settle in the RAF as I was very prone to homesickness. My mother had come and rescued me from Scout camps several times. But something clicked for me, and I think Nixon was a big part of my feeling at home in the RAF, and ultimately for my career success.
I left school with quite good qualifications and tried selling office equipment – I sold one typewriter in six months! Typewriters were obviously not for me! And then, one day, I was in Ayr, walking to the seashore, when I saw the RAF Careers Office. In the window was a picture of a handsome young man in a white coat talking to some nurses and I thought, “That’ll do me!” So I joined up, swore my allegiance to the Queen and that was beginning of my 12 years service in the RAF.
An oddly perfect fit
Nixon and I sailed through basic training loving the routine, the exercise and the people we shared a 12-man room with. Luckily for us, Flight Sergeant Kennedy was also a Scot, and I suspect he made sure we kept up the Scottish side throughout basic training. It’s a funny thing that someone like me settled into a strict military regime. It just wasn’t expected. Certainly, my pals back in Mauchline thought I would either get thrown out or end up in the clink!
Nixon and me
The vagaries of military life meant that Nixon and I were posted to different hospitals. But we often met up in rugby or football matches where we kicked lumps out of each other – but that’s what pals do in sport. We didn’t always keep in touch, but whenever we did, it was easy to pick up where we left off – usually by taking the mickey out of each other.
Many years later, long after leaving the RAF, my phone rang, it was Nixon.
“Hi, Barbour. How you doing?”
“Oh, did somebody give you money for the phone?”
“Cheeky bastard! Hey, listen I’ve got some news for you.”
“Oh aye?
“I’ve got cancer.”
The next day I travelled back to Glasgow where Nixon was in hospital. It was terminal cancer originating in his back and had spread throughout his body. As per usual for two Scottish guys, we didn’t talk about his condition, but spent more time laughing, interspersed with memories of fellow RAF people and that six weeks of basic training. I was able to visit him a few more times until he passed. It ripped a bit of my heart away. I owed him so much.
The meaning of remembrance to me
So, when Remembrance Sunday comes around, I buy my poppy and think about the men and women who fought, and all they did for this country. Nixon also comes flying into my mind as I realise that the friendship we shared was as the camaraderie shared by those ‘brothers in arms’ on the battlefield. Friendships that were often ended brutally in the blink of an eye. Such friendships might also have continued for a lifetime, only to be cut short by war, yet never forgotten.
Sacrifice is often talked about at this time of year, but these men and women didn’t see it as such. Rather, they saw it as their duty for Queen and country, for their families and their friends. So, come Remembrance Sunday, I’ll raise a glass for Nixon. My dear pal.
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