Page 73 - Demo

71dreaming about was %u2013 in reality - a camp bed on the floor of a 40-foot ISO container. It was June, but this was the Falkland Islands in 1982. There was snow on the ground outside.%u201cYou can call me Paddy,%u201d the man repeated. His voice suggested patience, as though dealing with people who were slow on the uptake. I could see now that, although he was wearing fatigues, they weren%u2019t exactly what you would describe as a uniform. I could sense that he might have a military connection although there was nothing to indicate a rank or affiliation. A few pennies started to drop ... %u201cOh, right!%u201d I said cheerfully and thrust out my hand in greeting. %u201cI%u2019m Alan Harris.%u201d I tried to retrieve the situation, %u201cI%u2019ve been expecting you.%u201dThis was the guy my boss had told me about, although I had expected him at a more social hour. But such hours were hard to find in our small camp site on a small island some 8000 miles south of the UK in the middle of a war. Paddy had come to discuss passwords and protocols so that he could give us some early warning in the event of an enemy aircraft heading our way. We had a very useful and friendly meeting. Paddy left more quietly than he had arrived: just drifting away into the night; into some unknown transport to take him back to his temporary home, which was a foxhole at the threshold of a foreign military aerodrome on the South American mainland some 250 nautical (around 290 statute) miles west.I never did get to find out what his full name was.Alan Harris