Recently I joined the RAF Linguists Association officially after years of following the Bulletin Board from afar.  My decision to enrol was governed chiefly by a desire to keep in touch with news of colleagues from that important time in my life, my 12-year period in the RAF.  

I was also guided by wishes to find out what the outcomes could have been for me, had my 25-year service term not been curtailed unexpectedly half-way through, plus an interest in discovering if others - like me - had used their military-gained language skills in post-service employment. 

Cut adrift suddenly in 1978, one of the first decisions I had to make was what kind of work I would seek.  I knew that I wanted to use my RAF-gained skills in some way, but languages per se do not offer many opportunities in employment.  

They are however useful adjuncts in other occupations. At the time it seemed to me that the natural fit lay in sales.  Having been an apprentice mechanical engineer prior to service, this was the likely choice of industry to return to.   

Within eighteen months I had made the first step on the sales ladder, finding a job selling industrial valves back in my native Yorkshire.  This desk-based position - advertised for a German-speaker with an aptitude for engineering - was located in the precursor of what would now be described as a call centre.  The job showed me that my desire for sales work was correct (although I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times my German language abilities were needed) but also brought the realisation that further qualifications would be needed to make any advancement up the ladder. 

In 1982 my hand was forced on the further education question when my employer was bought out by a competitor and, in the resultant restructuring of both companies, my position was declared redundant.  Armed with a relatively generous redundancy package I took the plunge and - having turned down an offer to read Russian & German at Leeds University - signed up for a BA (Hons) marketing course at my home-town Huddersfield Polytechnic. 

  

On my first day there as a mature student I bumped into another RAFLing, Brendan “Buddy” Wynne, who was starting a BEd course at the same establishment. It’s a small world.  We met up weekly for the next couple of years, reminiscing and generally putting the world to rights. 

Even before sitting my final exams in 1985, I had the great fortune of already having a firm job offer, this time highly dependent upon language skills.  A local engineering company, which manufactured machinery for processing carpets, was just starting a large installation project in Kishinev in the Soviet Union (now Chişinău, Moldova).  They advertised for a Russian-speaking member of their sales team to work on this and participate in the negotiations for another, larger project at Lyubertsy, Moscow District.  The last question put to me by the managing director at my final interview was “If I put you in a room with Russians, could you tell me what they are saying?” Well, I wasn’t going to say no.

   

Within a couple of months of starting in the position, I was in Kishinev getting to know the equipment and how the company operated. I was brought back to Huddersfield to sit in on the final negotiations for the Lyubertsy contract, for which a buying team had been sent from the ministry in Moscow.  Our agent/translator was a former Royal Navy Intelligence Officer, whilst the Soviet team contained representatives from the Soviet Trade Delegation in London.   

I soon noticed that a couple of the Moscow ministry team sat silent, taking everything in.  I wondered if they too had the same task as me, just to listen and report. I heard the question “19 khvatit?” in their conversation, which I reported back literally as “Is 19 OK”?  When the negotiators later shook hands on a 19% discount on the offered package price, my position at the company was safe.   

Later in the day, I discovered that one of the ministry representatives spoke German, so we started to converse in that language.  Over the next few years he and I used to be in regular contact about the contracts, dropping all pretences when we met; he would talk to me in English and I would answer in Russian.  This act would often bring puzzled looks from bystanders, but it was our private joke of recognition of the silent roles both of us had played during the negotiations. 

  

The completion of the projects coincided with the breakup of the Soviet Union.  If asked “What was your greatest achievement in your working life?”, it would have to be that I got handover signatures for both projects at a time when no-one in authority wanted to take responsibility for decisions.   

Both factory directors said to me “We do this out of respect for you and your company” when signing the documents, which I took to be an endorsement of the honest and reliable way we conducted our business against a background of increasing corruption.  This modus operandi stayed with me throughout all later work in the area, sometimes bringing initial problems but always being beneficial in the long run. 

By the early 90s, it was clear to all that our textile engineering company was in a market where improvements in technology had delivered the situation when potential output from existing machinery was already greater than foreseen global demand.  All textile machinery manufacture could have stopped immediately without severely affecting the production of textiles worldwide.  The company investigated making new products, but without a possible repetition of the Soviet/Russian £4million projects, things were looking bleak. 

Around this time there was a weekly newspaper called “The European”. In an advert on the back page in August 1993 were details of an opportunity for an individual who spoke English, Russian & German; had a business degree; had experience of working in Russian-speaking markets; had an active interest in sport, particularly football.  The potential employer? UEFA. 

I applied for the position and within days was contacted by a representative of the Swiss recruitment company which was handling this opportunity.  By chance it transpired that he and I would be in Moscow within a couple of weeks, so it was arranged that my interview would take place then.  I was to meet him in the evening at the Metropol Hotel in Moscow. 

I made my way to the hotel as planned, only to find that the way to the entrance was blocked by hundreds of youngsters.  I asked what was happening and received the reply “Michael Jackson”.  He was on tour in Moscow and his party had taken up the top two floors of the Metropol.  I managed to make my way through to the entrance, only to be stopped by a policeman who insisted that if I wasn’t a resident, I couldn’t go in.   

After around five minutes of argument, he asked for my passport, saw my nationality and suddenly his demeanour was completely different.  He asked if I was a veteran - I am - and then escorted me to reception, saluting as he left.  He apologised that he thought from my accent that I was from the Baltic States. Yorkshire + Russian = Lithuanian + Russian is an apparent equation I have come across several times over the years - even in Vilnius - and the British nation was still highly respected in Russia in those days for wartime cooperation. 

My dealings with things Michael Jackson did not end here.  On the BA flight back from Moscow a few days later, Business Class was taken up by me (on the back row in smoking) and a group of six or seven late arrivals.  It was immediately obvious who they were - the Michael Jackson entourage from the Metropol top floors.  For the next four hours I was regaled loudly all about Michael Jackson; the subject never waned.  Even the stewardess raised her eyes at one of their statements, whilst I endeavoured to block everything out with the aircraft’s music selection.   

One fact in my favour - my end destination was Heathrow.  There would be others on the connecting ten-hour flight from London to LA who would also probably have to seek refuge in the on-board entertainments system. 

Within the next few days, I received a follow-up to my Moscow interview.  The Swiss recruitment consultant rang to say I had been invited for a final interview in Geneva.  I was given the details and date of an all-expenses-paid trip to meet UEFA officials a couple of weeks later.  The only problem for me was to take two days’ holiday at short notice without alerting my employers to the real reason for my absence. 

I arrived at the central Geneva hotel to meet the UEFA representatives in a rented office there.  I was taken aback when I was introduced to the two interviewers: The General Secretary of UEFA Gerhard Aigner and the former Chief Executive of the Scottish FA Ernie Walker.  Up to then this had been an adventure for me; somehow it wasn’t real, just a path to follow to see where it leads.  Now it was serious. 

  

I don’t really remember the full conversations during our hour-long meeting, only that I attempted to keep my answers truthful and not to overstate my capabilities.   It’s easy to be wise in retrospect, but I should have done more preparations for the interview.   News of UEFA’s plans to bring the former Soviet Union countries into their fold were available to research at the time.   

It was however noticeable that my language skills were not tested, save that when Gerhard searched for the English for “Säule”, with which I couldn’t immediately help him.  (Considering the “Siegesäule” Victory Column in Berlin, I should have recalled the translation of “column” without problem). 

We did discuss my connections with sport, to which I admitted that I played rugby for many years, although any professionalism was limited to a couple of expenses-only games in my youth for Bramley and Batley Rugby League clubs.  At this point I mentioned that I knew a former England football player, Trevor Cherry.  Trevor, from my home town, was a close friend of the managing director of the company for which I worked.  He was also a director of the company from which I obtained business gifts for exhibitions, so I knew him personally.  Otherwise, I couldn’t offer direct connections with professional football, although they both insisted that this was not vital. 

On leaving the meeting, I had the instant feeling that things had not gone well.  Consequently, it wasn’t a surprise a week later when the Swiss recruitment specialist rang to say that I had been unsuccessful in my application.  This was what I had expected.   

However, my Swiss contact was not so sanguine.  He was livid that, having gone out of his way to find the only candidate who could meet all their given criteria - me - UEFA had given the job to a German ex-international footballer who reportedly neither spoke Russian, nor had a business qualification. It was “advantages of the old boy network” in action, but not in my favour this time.  He apologised profusely, but such is life. 

As a footnote to this, a couple of years later I was asked by my board of directors to compile an economic forecast for the business.  Armed with this report and other indicators, the company made a third of the staff redundant, including me.  In explaining their decision, the managing director said to me “Anyone who is good enough to be considered for a job with UEFA will not have problems finding other work.”  He had known all along. 

  

Apparently, before my flight from Geneva had landed back in Manchester, UEFA had called Trevor Cherry, who in turn had phoned my MD with full details.  He added “I would have taken the job too, if offered”.  The next time I saw Gerhard Aigner was on television, presenting the Champions League Trophy in his new role as the Chief Executive Officer of UEFA. 

It’s never worth dwelling on the question of “What would have happened, if...?” but in this instance it merits the odd moment of reflection.  Nevertheless, if I had been hired by UEFA, I would probably not have been able to do all the other interesting things that I have been able to experience in subsequent work in Eastern Europe & Central Asia.  But that’s a topic for another day. 

 

 

 

A typical example was to be found at Ust’-Ilimsk, a town I visited in 2007 after a memorable stopover in Bratsk.  

 

I landed at Bratsk to receive the message that my colleagues were delayed on the road.  I’d have to wait until they reached the next area with a mobile signal (a typically Siberian problem) for an update, so I had plenty of time to look around.  The airport building had one long glass façade, constructed of numerous large rectangular panes in discoloured metal frames, displaying all the charm of a neglected industrial greenhouse.  And the internal fittings had obviously seen better days. The atmosphere was tolerable on a warm August afternoon, but I couldn’t help thinking “how does this ramshackle structure cope with mid-winter temperatures down to minus 30 degrees”?  As soon as passengers from my flight had left, the building was emptying.  The only café bar was closing when I got there.  “The next flight is this evening. I’m going home to cook my family’s dinner” was the given explanation, although the attendant took time to serve me tea and cakes without charge before she departed.   Once I got used to it, I found this fundamental approach to life a most endearing quality of those Russians living outside major conurbations.